Thursday, September 24, 2009
I totally got lost in my shower today.
Not "lost lost" obviously - I mean, I don't have that big a shower.
I got lost in the aroma of lavender, thanks to my shower steamer.
I stayed in the shower so long I emerged with more wrinkles in my skin than a Shar Pei.
These little balls of smell-good turn your shower into heaven on earth.
You unwrap one, put it in the corner of your shower and as the water splashes it, the aroma of whatever scent you choose floods your bathroom.
I was amazed at how well it worked.
There was still half a steamer left after I took my shower, so I left it for Apes and didn't tell her.
She just came downstairs raving about her shower.
Guess we'll be buying more.
You can get 6 for $25 or 1 for $5.
I found mine in a novelty bookstore in Atlanta, but you can order them HERE if you wanna smell good shower!
ps. This is not an advertising post. I am seriously SO stoked about my shower steamer I wanted to write about it.
I'm not getting paid to advertise the place I've linked to - in fact, I've never used them. However, I'll likely buy from them soon since I don't think I could ever return to my OLD way of showering - sans steamer.
If I ever receive a free sample of something or am getting paid to review an item, I'll let you know. Scout's honor.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I miss it.
Work has been crazy, Apes pulled her back out and we've got a flea infestation problem that is making us more than a little grumpy (and itchy).
Needless to say, Apes and I have been on edge.
Regardless of how crazy it gets, how irritable we are with each other, I always know she loves me.
Because she sends emails like this one which I just got a minute ago:
Just checking on you.
I wanted to tell you how much I adore you and appreciate all you do.
38 IS great!
She's the best.
I know how lucky I am.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Long story short - she pulled her back out this morning...who knew putting on shoes could be so dangerous!
This lovely photo was taken moments before heading in to get an Xray.
She's in a lot of pain but I'm pretty sure she'll try to pull her back out again next weekend...the doctor's office has Direct TV and the NFL Package....
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Monday, September 14, 2009
As a young child, I used to daydream Madonna was my mother. Not that I didn't love my own mother, but come on...it was MADONNA. In fact, I distinctly remember feeling jealous when her daughter Lourdes was born.
I'm not so jealous now. I mean, I could have given birth to Madonna's new boy toy and that's just awkward. No one wants to be older than Mommy's boyfriend.
Whenever the month of September rolled around, I'd feverishly fan through the pages of any celebrity magazine I could get my hands on, desperate to find out which famous actor or actress shared my birthday.
Year after year, I was disappointed.
Guido Verweyen (huh?)
Carmen Kiss (what?)
Faith Ford (okay, I know her, but surely it gets better...)
Kimberly Williams (slightly better, but not iconic)
Patrick Garcia (*hangs head*)
I was looking for Tiffany, or Belinda Carlisle or Soleil Moon Frye.
And before you begin mocking me, I was a kid a looong time ago. These were my icons. Shut it.
I don't know why it was so important to share a birthday with a celebrity I adored.
Somehow, in my frizzy-headed, brace-face, pre-pubescent world, sharing a birthday with a celebrity meant validation for me.
It meant one day I too might be famous.
Year after year, I'd scour celebrity birthdays, certain the newest crop of actors or musicians would include someone who shared my big day.
While she couldn't be bothered to be born on my birthday, at least Brittany Spears had her first son on September 14th.
Not really iconic though.
I won't lie, even today, at the ripe ol' age of 35, I still hold out hope.
Which is why my feelings got hurt this morning.
In my annual search of celebrity birthdays, a new name popped up.
Um, apparently the greatness I'm destined for is crack addiction and rehab.
In an attempt to make myself feel better, I shared my misfortune with my friend Gary when he called to wish me a happy birthday.
After laughing heartily, he hurt me. He hurt me bad.
"I hate to tell you this," he said, "but I share a birthday with DOLLY PARTON."
Of course he does.
He got my icon.
I got Amy.
Monday, September 7, 2009
For a second, I thought I'd set my alarm to "potty in your pants" volume, but before I could become too irritated with myself, the WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP was followed by a recording:
"There is an emergency on your floor. Attention, there is an emergency on your floor. Please exit the building and do not use the elevators."
The recording was so calm, it took me a moment to realize she wasn't informing me about brunch or the outcome of the NASCAR race.
I shot out of bed, visions of fireballs chasing me down the stairs. As the recording and WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP continued, I did my best to gather myself together.
This was an emergency. I needed to keep my head.
With no idea how much time I had, I covered the basics. I'd been asleep, so I'd long since taken off my bra. I couldn't go out bra-less, so I threw my hoodie sweatshirt on - killing two birds with one stone.
I covered my bits and gave myself pockets.
Frantically, I searched for and found my wallet - I wanted to have ID on me in the event something bad wrong happened to my body. If nothing happened to my body, but the hotel burned down, I wanted to have my ID so I could catch my flight home. I actually thought that through - acknowledging I'd look hilarious boarding a flight in my blue boxer shorts and bright orange hoodie sweatshirt.
I also grabbed my diepod (my Ipod that I'm certain is suicidal) - it wasn't its time. I shoved it in my sweatshirt pocket just as the alarm sounded again.
I caught myself in the mirror and realized the error of not washing my face before bed. My cheeks were wearing my mascara - but no time to correct the situation. For all I knew, I'd have to crawl on my knees to the door.
I began running through all my childhood drills.
Stop. Drop. Roll.
Make a rope out of your bed sheets.
I was sliding into my flip flops when I noticed my laptop. I grabbed it, thinking of the act of Congress it took for work to issue it to me. It was worth dying for - waiting to get another would kill me if a hotel fire didn't.
I opened the door and remembered the book I'm reading. "The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club" by Laurie Notaro. My friend Sharon sent it to me and it's a riot. I had to take it with me. I raced back to my bedside, curled the book up and stuck it in my pocket along with my wallet and diepod. I re-tucked my laptop under my arm, grabbed my room key and nervously opened the door.
I looked down the hallway.
No fireball in sight, but I saw the movie Backdraft - I know that shit can sneak up on you.
Other pajama'd people were trying to find the stairs - apparently its a good idea to actually read those evacuation plans on the back of your door - particularly if you are on the top floor of your hotel, carrying a laptop and wearing a sweatshirt that weighs 700 pounds.
Eventually we found the stairs and began our descent, nervously chattering and trying not to look at each other's night time attire. I'm certain my goth eye makeup startled more than one person.
Sweating by the time we'd made it down the stairs to the third floor, a teenager popped his head out into the stairwell and said:
"It's all clear. We burned popcorn in our room and set off the alarm. They can't turn it off once it's triggered and they have no way of telling folks they can stay in their rooms."
Burnt popcorn caused me to have to Sophie's Choice all my belongings and stress about leaving April with four dogs and a full case of Diet Coke I never got to drink?
Grumbling, I began the walk back up seven flights of stairs, the laptop threatening to slip right out of my sweaty hands.
By the time I got back to my room I FELT like I was on frickin' fire.
I put my laptop down, peeled off the sweatshirt and acknowledged the night's emergency drill would have been easier on me had I not consumed the entire bag of kettle corn I bought at the Decatur book festival today.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Sunday, September 6, 2009
I had the best time with Shannon and Melissa at the Decatur book fair - they are the best for making sure I don't get too lonely.
Fantasy Football draft tomorrow!
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Eight Habitat for Humanity families purchased homes that were built in FIVE days by 250 volunteers.
In addition to providing a range and refrigerator to EVERY Haibtat home built in North America, Whirlpool sponsors this weeklong event, showing they are more than a donor, they are a true PARTNER in Habitat's mission to eradicate poverty housing. Their commitment to Habitat is why, when Apes and I remodeled our kitchen last November, we chose to use all Whirlpool appliances.
I spent the week running around, interviewing volunteers and writing up stories for the daily newsletter. Fortunately, the weather cooperated for the build and it wasn't until yesterday the sun came out and was hot. REALLY, REALLY HOT.
The HOTNESS of the sun is crucial to my story.
So is the fact people kept bringing candy, chocolate and Twizzlers to the media house.
I have no will power, particularly when faced with a bag full of Reeces Peanut Butter Cups.
There they sat, on top of the mini-fridge, daring me to pass without gaining weight.
Not wanting to be rude - I mean, after all, someone DID have to go to the store, pay for them, bring them back to the media house and put them on the fridge - I grabbed three mini-cups and put them in my pants pocket.
I grabbed my lime green Ipod, hit shuffle and be-bopped out the door to conduct some interviews.
Arriving at House 6, I put my Ipod in my pocket, chased down some volunteers and checked out the progress of the house.
Feeling completely inspired and in awe of what was being accomplished, I took a seat on the street to take it all in. The slam of hammers, the sound of saws, the chatter of volunteers, the smiles of homeowners.
Needing to get back to the media house to transcribe my interviews and write my articles, I walked back up the hill and through the door.
Absentmindedly, I reached into my pocket and it was like someone hit PAUSE on my life.
Because what I was feeling was not at all what I should be feeling.
I mean, I felt my Ipod, but not JUST my Ipod.
It took several seconds for me to put it all together.
'Member those peanut butter cups I threw into my pocket before traipsing into the hot sun for an hour?
Not only did I have a pocket full of goo, this is what my Ipod looked like:
I took a LOT of grief from my coworkers, but eventually got my Ipod cleaned up and usable again. Several hours later, I found myself outside helping move some landscaping wheelbarrows, when Tami, a coworker and great friend, walked up to me and said:
I looked at where she was pointing and apparently, when putting my Ipod in the pants pocket NOT filled with chocolate goo, I failed to make sure my headphones made it in. I'd been dragging them through muddy puddles for some time - but that's not all. At the moment Tami pointed to them, my headphones were seconds from being run over by a truck.
I rescued them just in time, but wondered, aloud, if my Ipod was suicidal.
Now everyone is calling my Ipod my Die-pod.