Would you like some parking lot with your queso?

I thought crockpots were supposed to be one of this century's finest inventions. Sure they are easy to use - you throw in all of your ingredients, turn the dial to either high or low, put the lid on and let it do it's magic. That's precisely what I did.

But the inventor of this kitchen masterpiece never thought about the ease in which to LUG THIS THING AROUND!

I told you before, and I'll tell you again, funny stuff finds me, no matter where I am or what I'm doing.

So today we are having a food day at work to honor a long-time employee who is leaving us for the sunnier skies of Florida. My contribution to today's feast is chili con queso. A simple concoction really, cheese, ground beef, ground sausage, salsa, etc. - all thrown in the crockpot to warm into a melted heart attack. I decided to pack my crockpot and chips into a two-handled wicker-like basket to aid with hauling it into the office. I decided to pull around to the back door of our building, drop it off in the hallway, and retrieve it after parking my car down in the lower lot. Well, when I pulled the basket out of my car, the handle gave way, and conqueso spilled all over the place, especially on the blacktop.

By the back door.
Where many people, including students, walk by.
Conqueso on blacktop.
A rather large mound of it.
Picture that.

It was all over my hands and splashed on my pants on shoes. I didn't know what to do except use foul verbage. Which I did. A lot. I put the basket mess inside the back door in the hallway and proceeded to park my car, one handed, as my right hand was covered in what appeared to be cheesy vomit. After parking my car, I retrieved one of Joonya's dirty baseball shirts from the back of the trailblazer and used it to wipe off my hands. I then went up to the building, passing the mound of conqueso now oozing all over the parking lot, and started to laugh. Like a crazy person.

I carried the basket o'mess into my office and was greeted by Techtard, who saw what I was bringing in and started with..."Oh no, oh no..." followed by full blown laughter. I told her what happened and the first thing out of her mouth was..."Can you see it from the window?"

More laughter.

We ran to the window just above where the incident took place. We're on the second floor so we had a birds-eye view of the mess. You could see it, clear as day. More laughter, and now an audience gathered because everyone in our office wanted to see what we were howling over.

Then one of the maintenance guys appeared. He was strolling into work with his coffee mug in tow, looking down at this hazmat site, shaking his head in disgust. We all lost it. It couldn't have been funnier. I was laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face. We watched him come back with a cardboard box and a flat piece of cardboard, using it to scrape the mess off the pavement and into the box. I sincerely owe him an apology. I'm sure he had no idea what he just scooped up. He had to help me one other time during an ACT testing day when one of our examinees decided to shit themselves in the hallway while leaving the test. I'm not kidding. It was, by far, the worst smelling excrement I've ever been privy to. I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Who, in their right mind, shits themselves while walking down the hall, in a sea of 200 high school kids? I was dumbfounded. I still am. That was one of the most bizarre days I've ever experienced.

But back to the queso incident. It took me a half-hour to clean up the crockpot and myself. It smells like a Mexican fiesta in my office. I bagged the basket up in a trashbag and threw it out. There was no way it was salvagable. The remaining queso is now warming on the counter in the back of our office. The other half is stinking up the trash room in a cardboard box.

My Evening at the Jake

Yesterday morning, my husband and I decided we were going to go to the Indians game that evening. It was a good choice, despite the Tribe losing 5-4. Cleveland is, by far, a sports town. Through thick and thin, (mostly thin) we hang tight in support of our local heros.

I'm not a Browns fan. I'm sure I gave that up after Modell sent the team to Baltimore. I remember the days of the Cardiac Kids, and even though I was young and didn't know all that much, I did know that my heart was broken one too many times. Besides, I don't really like football anyway.

But baseball is a different story. Maybe it's the atmosphere. Maybe it's the fans. Maybe I don't have a clue what I'm talking about. I'm sure it's the latter.

My husband, who is an Oakland Raiders fan, dragged my sorry ass to Buffalo in January for a playoff game back in 93 or 94, when the Raiders were the L.A. Raiders. Buffalo in January is brutal. Sitting up there in an open stadium right off of Lake Erie with a wind chill of -30 and a temperature of -3. I thought I was going to die. And even though we were in the end zone with a bunch of other Raiders fans, I feared once again for my life because the Bills fans were scary. And we were clearly outnumbered. I couldn't have run to save my life. When the game ended, with the Raiders losing, we finally made it back to our car where I started to defrost. When I took my boots off, I literally had to pry my toes apart because they were frozen together. I'm not kidding. Ice crystals on my little piggies. I was horrified.

I ventured to one other football game after that, the Raiders were playing in Cincinnati. It simply sucked from the minute we arrived to the minute we left. I swore off football for good. I've been to Browns games before, way back in the old Cleveland Stadium. There usually was a giganton of a pole right in front of my seat so I saw very little other than rust and grit. (fitting for Cleveland) I'm sure things are much different in the new stadium but I haven't yet wanted to go to a game. I'm sure my husband is cooking up ways in which he can get me to the Browns-Raiders game in Cleveland. Joy.

But back to baseball. The fans are fun, not raucous and raw. Last night's game was rather dull until the last two innings when the Boys of Summer really kicked it up a notch. We took our 7-year old son. We were in the lower box on the third base line, closer to left field. Joonya had his mit poised and ready for every foul ball that didn't come our way. During warm-ups, the boys went down to the field and were able to watch their heros - up close and personal. Although, they did have to fight their way through a gaggle of young women all wearing pink t-shirts sporting "Mrs. Sizemore" across their chests. Grady sure does have a following. And rightfully so.

All in all, it was a great night. I'm looking forward to the playoffs. I'm glad everyone else lost last night too. Especially the Yankees. Boot losers!

Uninspired

This week, my blog entries may be few and far between. I'm uninspired to write. Maybe it's because I'm feeling a little overwhelmed at work, or maybe I'm just in a slump. In any case, I'm about as exciting as rubber cement.

I will say that I'm geeked about Sunday night's TV lineup. I'm glad that the West Wing moved to Sunday nights at 8 p.m. EST. Nothing like a little brain food before my guilty pleasure, Desperate Housewives. The West Wing vindicates my need for Desperate Housewives. It's like a dose of NPR before a dose of Howard Stern. As long as I have one, I can have the other.

In case you care, which I'm sure you don't, these are my favorite TV shows.

The West Wing
Law and Order - the original and SVU. Criminal Intent is fair but not one of my favorites.
Rescue Me - love Denis Leary but man, this show can be such a downer. It's pretty raw.
Boston Legal
Grey's Anatomy
Desperate Housewives
CSI: the Vegas original
That 70s Show
Good Eats - Alton Brown on the Food Network. I dig his quirkiness and his beef map.
City Confidential, Cold Case Files, American Justice - A&E - I'm a total junkie.
E True Hollywood Story - You can do a THS on a piece of lint and I'd watch it.

Perhaps later this week I'll find some inspiration to write about something of substance. Right now the most exciting thing I'm doing is flipping through Pantone's Formula Guide for Solid Uncoated color builds. Anyone want to play "Spin the Color Wheel?"

I'm "Font"astic now

Just thought y'all like to know I conquered my font problem. It's amazing what the Internet and the campus credit card can do.

Shocking.

What the FONT?!?!!!

I need a font.

I can't get a font.

I'm going to font someone up, and soon.

I hate roadblocks in my work flow.

Birthday Shout Outs

My little sis turns 31 today. Happy Birthday, Sis. This is us a few years ago at a family gathering at the "compound" just before she polished off a bottle of wine and threw up outside of her tent.

Other birthday well wishes go to Willy Brand who turns a ripe ole 25. You're a pup, my man.

Gobbily Gook in the Brain Pan

I've got a lot of things going on in my head.

1. The tortilla.
This is a fabulous invention. You can put anything on a tortilla and it's going to taste good. Today's lunch involves a tortilla, cream cheese, sandwich pepperoni, American cheese and lettuce. Wasn't sure about the concoction when I put it together today but it's earning my vote. Yum.

2. Rob Zombie - Never Gonna Stop
This song needs more air play. Sure it had it's day, but it's time for this song to be standard issue on mainstream radio. Why? Because I think so. Period. I even like the dance remix. So there.

3. Noshavepits
Willy Brand of Beverly Hills had his SUV keyed yesterday. Not only was it keyed, it was keyed to make a statement. Apparently some noshavepit in CA doesn't like Willy driving an SUV so they keyed his gas tank cover, and only his gas tank cover. Man, that's just wrong. Destruction of personal property does not get your point across. Destruction of personal property puts a bounty on your head. I'm sure if we were to examine the said culprit under a microscope, we'd find all sorts of hypocricies such as nonorganic milk in his fridge or an armoire made of teak. I mirror Willy's sentiments. The criminal keyer is, by far, an effin asshole.

4. Cliche
As I was leaving work to come home for lunch, I noticed something in our parking lot. A moderately-handsome 40-something professor was getting out of his black Mazda Miata convertable. His license plate read "Cliche." That's beautiful. It pleases me that he sees the humor in his consumer behavior.

5. MacFucker returns home
A good friend of mine who is in the army from Virginia recently returned home from a two week stint in Louisiana. He's a helicopter pilot and spent some of his time in LA repairing the faulty levees in New Orleans. He has a different take on the disaster that struck this region. He doesn't blame big government or even FEMA for dropping the ball. He says the fault lies within local goverments. He quoted local officials saying, "Sorry guys, you aren't bringing those refugees through my Parish," and so forth. He couldn't believe the brazen attitudes many local officials had. He felt that it was local governments who brought the recovery efforts to a grinding hault. It's another perspective to ponder, I suppose. He also told me about Drop Dead Fred. Fred was a floating body that was near one of the levees he was repairing. The guys in his unit were not permitted to pull Fred out of the water. It was the responsibility of some other aid and rescue unit. Fred bobbed, well, what was left of him, for five days until the President came, then, and only then, did someone bag him up.

6. While I'm on the topic of Katrina
Not many good things have come out of the aftermath of Katrina, except one: face time with Harry Connick, Jr. The man is hot. Scrumptious. Deeee-lish. The only thing that could make Harry Jr. hotter is if he was delivered to me on a silver platter wrapped in a tortilla.

Attack of the Unwanted Lunchtime Magazine Salesdude

I left work early today to head home for lunch because I was feeling a bit off and felt like resting. I have this nagging ache running across my shoulder blade so I assumed a couple of Aleve and a Diet Coke chaser, followed by a short nap, might do the trick. The verdict is still out on that.

As I pulled on to my street, I noticed this cute boy, perhaps in his late teens, early twenties, walking down someone's driveway. He waved to me like he knew me and I waved back, being the cordial neighbor that I am. It didn't hurt that he was a cute young man smiling and waving at me either.

I popped my Aleve and took a 20 minute coma nap and realized that, because I left work so darn early, I had better eat something quick before I headed back to work. The last thing I need is a bout of hunger around 2 pm. I opened the fridge and opted for some leftover fajita meat from last night's Mexican extravaganza hosted by none other than, me, myself and I.

I plopped down in front of the TV and watched a quick blurb on E recapping last night's Emmys. Yawn. Just then the doorbell rang followed by a loud knock. Sigh, I hate being interrupted at home. I peeked through the window and sure enough, it was cute young boy from down the street. Now that he was in front of me, he wasn't all that cute. Whatever could he want?

This kid started spewing on about points and all this garbage that I could hardly understand. He handed me a poorly laminated card with his credentials that looked like a six year old had written it. He was yammering on about Cancun, Cozumel and St. Thomas. Finally I stopped him and said, "Dude, what are you selling me?"

More song and dance. Literally. He asked me to touch my nose twice and then hop on one foot and repeat some ludicrous saying that ended with "cutie." My patience had run out. I'm all for people making a living. I'm all for the creative way in which he presented himself. But he went a little too overboard. He talked too fast and never point-blank said what he was there for. He started to give me the creeps. After handing me yet another poorly laminated card with about 100 magazines listed, I finally figured out what he was doing.

Sorry, dude, not interested. He tried again, this time coming at me from a different angle. He tried to play the "cute mom" card but fumbled on the 2 yard line by calling me ma'am. He wasn't getting anywhere. Finally, I patted him on the upper arm and said, "Sorry, guy, just not interested. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."

I turned and shut the door on him, abruptly locking the door. I kept mumbling explicatives under my breath as I was preparing to return to work. Touch my nose twice and hop on one foot. You've got to be kidding me. I'm getting a "NO SOLICITORS" sign for my front door. Crikey.

Helter Skelter, the Sequel

If you haven't noticed, the last couple of posts have been blood themed. This post won't deviate from that, so if you are squimish, you may want to refrain from reading. Dave, that means you, you big wuss.

The title of this post is Helter Skelter, the Sequel. First, I must fill you in on the original Helter Skelter so that you are adequately educated to understand the second Helter Skelter scenario.

Ready? O-K.

On Sundays, I cook. I don't just cook for my family, I cook for our neighbors and friends, so on any given Sunday, I'm feeding between 8-10 people. Sometime after last Thanksgiving, my neighbor went to our local grocer's one-day-only meat sale and came home with a trunk full of meat. Hamburger, pork, steaks, prime rib...and a whole lot of it. He had at least five prime rib roasts. Well, the guys got the brilliant idea that we were not only going to have a prime rib roast for Sunday dinner, we were going to deep fry that prime rib roast. Enter the turkey fryer.

So it's early December and out here in Ohio, it gets cold. The guys were working feverishly outside to get the $60 worth of peanut oil up to the proper cooking temperature. It took a long time, but it got there - or so they thought. That bad boy went in the oil and was only supposed to fry for about 30-35 minutes. All proud and happy, they brought the blazing, crackling slab of meat into my kitchen.

I asked: "Hey, did you guys check the internal temperature before pulling it out?"
Manbeasts: "Nah, we cooked it long enough. Look at it, it looks great."
Me: "Um, ok, but don't you think..."
Manbeasts: "It's fine, it's fine...let it sit for a sec and then we'll cut it."

So the meat rested. I got out my heavy duty knife and waited.

When the time came to carve this masterpiece, the manbeasts puffed up, waiting for the women to praise their hunting and killing skills. There was no hunting, nor killing, but all the testosterone in the room was clouding their better judgement. As I began to slice through the crusted outer layer, horror overcame the room.

Blood raw. The outside was done to perfection, but the inside, well, it hadn't even cooked. After grilling the manbeasts over oil temperature, they finally confessed that the oil was about 25 degrees less than it should have been. So they get the bright idea to "throw it back in."

To everyone out there who ever wants to deep fry a prime rib: Do not throw it back into the oil, especially after it's been sliced open. Why? Read on.

After another 20 minutes of frying, they brought it back in. The outside was now burnt to a blackened crisp, and when we cut back into it, it was still completely raw. Now what do we do? We decided to slice it and put it under the broiler in my oven. This prime rib was huge, each slice took up an entire plate. As I was cutting this thing, bloody meat juice was all over my kitchen as we were scrambling to find enough plates to fit all this meat on. It was like Helter Skelter had just taken place in my kitchen. At one point, I stopped, washed my hands, turned to my friends and said, "Ok guys, you're on your own. I'm going to pass out from all this blood." I was lightheaded and woozy.

I went upstairs, showered the Rick Baker nightmare off my person and laid down. I came downstairs a short while later and everyone was attempting to gnaw on their meat. The broiler had done the trick, but because the manbeasts decided to "throw it back in", the oil seaped into the meat. You could have taken a match to your cut of prime rib and it would have burned for three hours. I refused to even try it. My female friends were green. The manbeasts were doing their best to choke it down, God forbid they had to admit that they goofed up. And my kitchen was still bloody. All in all, it was an experience - an expensive experience - and one we still joke about today.

Here is where the Sequel comes in. So Wednesday evening, after giving blood at work and throwing up in Pav's trashcan, I picked up Joonya from his after school care and we went home. My husband had Open House that night so I was in single mother mode. I had removed that tourniquet that was my bandage on my right arm because it was cutting off my circulation. As I was preparing a gourmet dinner of grilled cheese and Pringles, I felt something warm against my arm. I looked down and not only was I bleeding, I was gushing. Blood was covering my arm and dripping all over the floor. I sprung a leak.

I called for Joonya, my 7-year old, and requested that he go find Mom some cotton balls. I grabbed a kitchen towel and used it to stop the bleeding. Just then, Cody, the neighbor from next door walks in with Ryan, his one year old, in his arms. He couldn't have come at a better time. Cody was calm while I was swaying back and forth and hanging on to the kitchen counter, trying not to pass out. He instructed Joonya, again, to find some cotton balls while he went to the bathroom and retrieved some bandaids. I rinsed off my arm and Cody proceeded to bandage me back up. Joonya, in the meantime, had located the cotton balls and proceeded to place them all over the kitchen, covering up each droplet of blood. I just love the innocence of kids. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with those cotton balls but he was going to make sure I couldn't see the blood. It looked like it had hailed in my kitchen.

I laid down for a few minutes and collected myself while Joonya tended to me, making sure I was still coherent. I laughed at the cotton balls that were now stuck to the kitchen floor. It was an eventful night. When I finally reached a level of normalcy, which was no small feat, mind you, Joonya and I read books on sharks and watched the Sandlot.

It was a good day, despite all the blood. Like I said before, funny stuff finds me.

JMR battles the Bloodmobile - and loses (cookies!)

The hell with surviving Hurricane Katrina, I survived GIVING BLOOD! Ok, that was tasteless, but I needed to make a point. I'm extremely lightheaded now so anything I say, can, and will be used against me at a later date, I'm sure.

I aced the usual medical history paperwork, blood pressure, iron and weight checks. Funny, weight, like me pushing 110 lbs. was going to be an issue. Ha! The one thing that always trips me up is temperature. Apparently, to give blood, you must have a body temperature of 99.5 or under. Today, I temped at 99.4. I've tried to give blood three times now and each time, my temperature has been 100 or better. I must just naturally be one hot mama. (stop laughing) The one nurse gave me a grape juice box while I was doing my paperwork to help bring my body temperature down in case I was close. He was right, I was close. Or the temperature nurse lied and let me slide in under the radar at 99.4. In any case, I was a mosquito's wet dream. I was ready.

The initial drain was easy and quick. I've got a good flow. I filled my unit in less than 5 minutes. I squeezed the little world stress ball and was feeling pretty damn proud of myself. I was helping mankind. I was a giver. Yay me!

When all was said and done, I left the blood bus and sat at the table, resting for the instructed 5 minutes, picking through the bowl of Oreos, Nutter Butters and Lorna Doones. I grabbed a bottle of water and was on my way. As I was making my way up the slight incline to the campus center, I was getting short of breath and a little lightheaded. No problem, JMR, this is normal. As I entered the building, I was experiencing tunnel vision and was for sure going down if I didn't find a place to sit, and quick! Enter Pav's office.

I b-lined to his office because it was the closest, and for me, the most comfortable place on campus for me to do what I was about to do next.

Pav: Hey, you ok?
Me: Give me your trashcan, NOW!
Pav: Uh oh. (pulls can out from under desk)
Me: Braaaaarrraallllffffffffffffff, ack, ack, rrrrraallllffffff
Pav: Uhhhhhh, oh, oh.
Me: Ack, you might want to leave.
Pav: I think I will. (shuts door behind him)

Three minutes later he comes back in while I was clutching his trashcan like I had just found a long lost beloved pet. I was soaking wet, white as a sheet and shaking like a heroin addict in rehab. So much for my grape juice box. It now covered any and all papers that were in Pav's trash. Thank God for Pav. I couldn't have done what I did in just anyone's office. Only Pav's office would suffice. He's such a good sport and gave me the added humorous anecdotes to make the whole experience worthwhile. He even drove me across campus back to my office so I wouldn't have to walk.

So there you have it. I was able to give blood, somewhat successfully. Pav, on the other hand, got the short end of the stick. Fortunately for him, he was leaving work early, thus giving ample time for the regurgitated grape juice smell to dissipate from his office. At least I tied up his trashbag for the maintenance crew.

Stella! Stella!

So here I sit, ripe for the picking, or drawing, as the case may be. We're having a blood drive today on campus and I scheduled my "draw" for 12:30 but the busses are chock full o'donors so I'm going back later this afternoon. I'm anxious about donating too, which is causing my blood pressure to rise as I wait. I'm not wiggy over needles or anything like that, but I am nervous about passing out or being woozy afterwards. As I get older, I notice that medical procedures have an ill effect on my psyche.

Case in point. After Christmas this past year, I had Stella removed. Stella was this rather large ganglion cyst that took up residence on my left wrist. Large is an understatement. Stella used to come and go but within the last year of her life, she grew to enormous proportions. Look down at your wrist. Yes, right now. Imagine a golf ball under the skin on the top of your wrist. That's just about as big as Stella got. She got so big we had to name her. And what a conversation piece she was! I used to freak my boss out with her all the time. I'd simply bend my wrist, exploiting Stella as best I could, and just stick her in Techtard's doorway, no body, no face, just my hand and Stella. Techtard would scream in horror. Stella was my conjoined twin. My wrist cyst. My friend.

I finally decided it was time for her to go when I caught some students staring at her from across my desk. The look on their faces was hilarious. Shock, horror, disgust, humor, it was all there. I realized my conversation piece was becoming a spectacle so I visited my orthopaedic surgeon. Even he was in awe of Stella's proportions. Apparently she had rooted deep down and it was going to take a healthy amount of digging to remove her.

So on December 29, 2004, Stella was removed. I woke up in the middle of the procedure and remember asking the doctor if he would save Stella in a jar for Techtard. I was quickly given more medication to knock me out. I can't imagine why.

Three weeks later I returned to have my cast and stitches removed. What an ordeal that became. The physical therapist began by cutting off my cast, then unwrapping some bandages, and as she was doing so, I was cracking jokes and making light banter, until the final bandage was removed and there was this black and blue scar from where Stella once resided.

I passed out. And when I came to, I started sobbing.

I was deformed! Scarred! UGLY! It was one of the strangest feelings ever to overcome me. I felt so violated and disfigured. And all it was was a one inch incision! How pathetic was I?

So with good reason I sit here stewing over what is going to happen to me once I'm finished giving blood. I don't know when I became such a lightweight. Giving birth was easy. I never felt a labor pain. Labor was induced and because I have some freaky spinal curvature, I was poked a dozen times in the lower back before receiving my epidural. Once the line was in, I was juiced up for about 12 hours. I never felt a thing, until, of course, the damn thing wore off and not only did it feel like my innards were now outtards, I had this wicked back pain that felt like, well, being poked a dozen times with a 6 inch needle. Birth seemed like a picnic compared to my Stella ordeal.

I'll keep you posted, my three faithful readers, on how I weather the blood storm. As with many aspects of my life, I'm sure there will be something of epic comedic proportions to report on. Funny stuff finds me, no matter where I am. Usually it lands in the form of a ketchup stain on my shirt, showcased nicely by my shelf (aka big bazoongas).

It never fails.

Whining, Will Robinson. Whining!

Imagine this.

You've been running uphill for about 45 minutes. A steady climb, nothing too steep, just consistent uphill running, and your body is tiring, quickly. You're handed a cup of water every 100 yards or so, which you graciously accept. But your body is revolting against you. You feel the cramping start to begin in your abdomen. You double over in pain. Feel it? You can't stand upright. The pain moves to your lower back. You're crippled.

Guys, this is what the first few days of our periods have in store for us. At this moment, I can hardly sit upright. It feels like a small demon has set up shop in my abdomen and he's having a midget-throwing party against my lower abdomen walls. When I stand, there is an audible groan that erupts. No amount of medication (legally) subsides the pain. It sucks. Tenfolds Five.

I know my blogging has been sparce due to time restrictions and I actually feel a bit guilty for blogging about something perceived as so trivial. But damn it, I'm in pain and the world should know about it. Menstrual cramps are no joking matter. They turn normally jovial women into seething monsters.

Unless you've got a heating pad and a shot of Chivas, stay the hell away.

Shimmy and a shake, uh huh

We bring the bump to the grind, uh huh...

These are just a few lines from my own personal anthem, "On Top," from the Killers. This is the track I listen to when I need to psych myself up, usually while driving to work. It gives me a sliver of gumption for the day. Unfortunately, I'm killing any good vibe I'm having by listening to X&Y from Coldplay.

One word: Melancholy.

It's such an outstanding CD though, despite it's tendency to bring me down - and surprisingly, that's a good thing. I'm a pretty high strung person (not to be confused with bipolar) and when I get wound up, X&Y is just the ticket to soothe me back into reality. I started out my morning pretty hyped up about some projects, so I popped in X&Y and it lulled me down to a mood that's much more productive and clear thinking.

But wow, it can be heavy. And I'm kind of bumming because a good friend is hurting and there is not a whole lot that can be done from my end, so I feel like I'm wallowing in some bad sea of garb and guck. I should probably yank X&Y out and replace it with a shimmy and a shake.

Bring the bump to the grind, uh huh.

Bungee Bull Wrangler

Some days I can't believe I get paid to do some of the things I do. Other days, I believe I don't get paid enough. Today is the former. Ride'em cowboy!

As part of our "welcome back to school" extravaganza, we're hosting a wellness event today. I just finished pulling the bungee cord on the Bungee Bull Ride and let me tell you, it's a miracle that I can even type. Looking at my right hand, I'm counting six, no wait, seven blisters that are forming as I write this. My hands are swollen and sore, blistered and battered, but it was a good time yanking on that cord and watching the students ride - and fall.

I'm one of those people who laugh when other people fall. I am especially fond of America's Funniest Home Videos when they showcase that segment called 30 Falls in 30 Seconds or something like that. Seeing people fall is just hilarious. Yeah, yeah, say what you will, but I also laugh like crazy when I fall. I can't help it, it's just funny.

So today I worked the bungee bull while watching students climb the rock wall, jump on the 30 foot bungee trampoline and fall off the rotating ladder climb. Yesterday I wore a straw hat, sold burgers and dogs and pimped carnival games. Tomorrow I'll be a dealer in a Texas Hold'em Tournament. And Friday, well, we're hosting an all day concert on the campus grounds. These are the good days. Next week, it's back to reality. And deadlines. And stress. But blister-free!

Photoshop Phlunky

I went to Cincy yesterday for an all-day conference for Photoshop users. I was a bit disappointed that it wasn't a hands-on conference and that we were forced to watch demonstrations on a very poor lit screen in a sometimes noisy conference center ballroom - and that there was no food for grazing, not even stale danishes. Other than that, it wasn't bad and I witnessed some very cool bling, and the coffee was damn good.

But today, I'm frustrated and sad that I can't put all of this really cool stuff to use. If you've never used Photoshop, count your uncreative blessings because holy mother of God, it's a difficult program to master. But if you got skeeeeelz in Photoshop, I bow before your greatness. I'll never look at a magazine cover the same way again.

I wish I had the time to mess around and perfect my abilities in Photoshop. I could be putting out some really stellar work, but it takes time to learn this program, and it takes a lot of practice to get it right, neither of which I am able to do right now. I'm equating this scenario to buying a really fabulous pair of boots in the spring. You find this smashing pair of Italian leather boots that will look choice with your favorite fall skirt, but it's spring and you can't wear them yet. So you have to wait.

Looks like I'm going to have to wait on Photoshop. Grrrrrrrrr. But hey, fall is coming!