Let's Save Some Money at the Grocery Store

Hey everyone! It can be a bit challenging to adapt to the increasing costs of groceries while at the same time adjusting to increased living expenses. I have picked up a few helpful tips that will save some money on your grocery bill and over time. 

• Use a shopping service like Instacart or pick-up service at a grocery store near you. I am sure this is a shocker because you pay a fee for this service and the cost of the groceries is increased if you use a service like Instacart. So, exactly how do you save money? Well, when you are shopping this way, you aren’t impulsively buying things on the shelves. These marketing ploys work, and they increase the cost of your overall grocery bill. So, while per item you may pay a slight increase, overall, you are likely to save money because you aren’t impulsively shopping. This also increases your chances that you will stick to a healthier eating pattern as those YUMMY OREO COOKIES won’t be pulling at your heart strings. You also save time and gas by not traveling to the store. 

• Plan your weekly meals. This goes hand in hand with using a shopping service. When using a shopping service, you want to get the most bang for your buck so planning makes sense. This also eliminates just buying “stuff” that might make it into a meal.

• Use bouillon cubes in place of buying canned broth. Y’all. Why haven’t we thought of this before? A typical container of bouillon cubes has 25 servings and costs about $5. If you buy canned broth, it’s about $1 can….do the math. Also, as an added bonus, it saves on pantry space (more room for Oreos). If you don’t know how to use a bouillon cube, you simply dissolve the cube in a cup of boiling water. 

• Quit buying plastic single use water bottles. Not only are we destroying our planet and oceans, but there is also a more cost friendly way to get the same flavor. I love my filtered water but what is even cooler is that you can buy a rechargeable water pump on Amazon for $15.99 that affixes to the top of any 5-gallon bottle making it easy to dispense into your glass or water bottle. Want it cold? Buy a plastic juice jug from the Dollar Tree and pump the water into it and refrigerate. Just to math this out….there is 405.6 oz water in a 24-pack of water bottles at 16.9 oz each. This equals about 3 gallons of water for about $3 (average cost). So after 3 jugs of water, you have more than paid for your pump and you still have all that use left! 

• Spice up your life in the bulk section! This one has been a bit problematic since the pandemic as bulk items have been pulled from a lot of places, but! If you can buy your spices in small amounts when you are first trying them, you won’t have a ton of waste. I like to save my used spice jars and refill them with bulk spices. Just slap a post it on the outside and you’re good to go! Another tip is to purchase your spices in the specialty stores or aisles. Check out the Mexican food section of your store the next time you need Cumin – the bagged spices are less costly yet so full of delicious flavor! 

• Buy frozen or canned produce. This is so helpful! I can’t tell you how many times I have thrown out veggies or fruit because we didn’t get to them in time. Buy frozen. They are picked at the peak of freshness and flash frozen. You can pull what you need and leave the rest without throwing stuff out. We all have great intentions to eat healthy and when we have that week of pizza and burgers instead, at least we don’t have the added guilt of throwing out rotten produce. Added tip for fresh produce – don’t rinse them until you are just about to use them. They spoil faster when you rinse them. 

• Freeze fruits or veggies that you don’t think you’ll use. One tip for preserving berries (summer is upon us), is to freeze them in a single layer on a cookie sheet with parchment paper. That way they are all individually frozen and won’t mush together. When they are frozen, just dump them into a freezer Ziploc bag and you are good to go. 

• Quit buying dryer sheets! I know, I hear the gasps now, but there is an alternative for static. Wool dryer balls are on the market, and you simply reuse them in every load. They are natural and won’t build up dryer sheet film on your lint trap. (Safety tip: You should wash your lint trap with hot soapy water every so often if you use dryer sheets to get rid of this film. It also increases the effectiveness of your dryer using less time to dry your clothes.) These are also great for those with sensitive skin and babies. If you do encounter static on your clothes, dry them with an added foil ball (aluminum foil balled up) and decrease your dry time. Static is caused by friction and when we over dry our clothes, it increases static. This is a double savings – less on the electric/gas bill, AND no more paying for dryer sheets. You’re welcome.

• Bring your own bags to the store. At eight cents a bag, those costs do add up over time. However, those eight cent bags can always be reused for a garbage bag, or a shower cap, or to carry other stuff. Bonus – produce bags make the best trash can liners for the bathroom. 

• Buy reusable K-Cup Coffee Pods. They’re a thing and they are a beautiful thing. I love my Keurig, but the K-Cups do get expensive. If you are not in a hurry, it’s easy enough to refill the reusable cup and still enjoy the ease of K-Cups. This is also a more environmentally friendly approach by reducing waste.

I hope there are some tips in the above article that are helpful to you. There are lots more ways to save money at the grocery store and I welcome the sharing of your ideas! 

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Ahh….the classic question every grade school age child is asked:

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I remember when I was asked this question. I was in Mrs. Hopkins’s kindergarten class and I was sat upon a high stool in front of a VHS Camcorder and was filmed as I gave my answer to this and other absurd questions. I replied to the camera, “I want to do what my mom does…but I don’t really know what that is.” My mom was employed at the hospital at that time and I assumed she was either a doctor or a nurse (she was neither) but I didn’t want to sound stupid not knowing what my own mother actually did all day so I gave a stupid answer. I was 6 years old.

Now, when you watch that tape, my dad was clearly in charge of getting me ready that morning as I was wearing a pink sweat suit with a panda on the front of the crewneck and a low pony – which I realize both are in style (sort of) now, but let’s just say my dad was “ahead of the fashion curve” when I was his responsibility to get ready in the morning. As a side note, I always liked when he combed my hair better than my mom because he wouldn’t comb all the way through the tangles and that was way better than my mother yanking that damned brush through my waist length hair.

Anyhow, what I really wanted to be was a doctor. I wanted to be a doctor because even by kindergarten I knew that doctor’s made a lot of money and I liked money. In 1987, the only professions you were allowed to choose as a child was a doctor or lawyer (for the money of course) or a fireman or police officer (public service/people helper). I didn’t really want to help people that much so my choices were law or medical. I naturally chose medical because I had never actually seen a real live lawyer and didn’t understand the whole concept anyway. Besides, doctors had TOOLS and I found those to be deeply intriguing. I kept this notion of wanting to be a doctor alive until some ass-wipe in the fourth grade blew my dream out of the water by telling me that you have to deal with blood. What. The. Hell. No one told me that before! So I was out of ideas for the next few years. (Shout out to Wyatt Sewell who destroyed my doctoral dream!)

I thought about becoming an artist, but heard they starved and besides – I had fellow sixth graders that were better than me anyway. I contemplated being a teacher and other random professions and the heat was really on by 1997 when I entered high school. Teachers were asking me to REALLY consider what I wanted to be. What?? Why? I have loads of time! My life plan by my sophomore year was to go off to UW, be a barista and mooch off my parents. Well, fast forward one pregnancy, failed marriage and a budding career later and I signed up for college!

With no major whatsoever in mind.

After attending classes for 2 years, I decided to major in Business and boom – here we are in 2016! Now, if I could go back to panda crewneck wearing little Dacia, I would have slapped her cute little self off that stool and said – “HEY! Don’t cut yourself short cupcake --- the internet is just around the corner!”

If being put back in kindergarten today and asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said that I wanted to work for the Travel Channel flying all over the globe as a food connoisseur while writing my own series of travel guides. Like hello! They make WAY more than a doctor and you don’t have to work as many hours. And let’s not forget – no blood.

I wish that kids were given options when they are asked this life altering question at such a young age instead of being prompted by their society to be whatever society wants them to be. I believe everyone should have a goal and be self sufficient, but also should be doing something they are passionate about. I love food, writing and traveling. Those 3 things blend together so much more beautifully than Dacia being a doctor who doesn’t like blood. So the moral of the story:

Choose a goal, any goal, and work towards it. Make some money along the way but just make sure you are banking just as many smiles.

Plenty of Tinderly Hamonizing Fish: Professional Edition

Have you ever wondered why some people get stuck with crappy bosses when others flourish in their professional relationship? The majority of people get their jobs by applying, interviewing and accepting a position within a company. Very little effort is put into seeing if the personalities between the boss and subordinate will work.

A few weeks ago, I was on yet another job interview (yeah I know, if you follow my blog, this isn’t a spoiler alert!) where the hiring panel did not have a single person from the workgroup represented. This panel was responsible for selecting this new “team member” who would never be a part of their team. It floored me that they did this. If I was hiring a person to work with me, I would at least want to meet them, shake their hand and ENSURE they brushed their teeth regularly.

In comparison, I have seen people who have essentially dated strangers. With the introduction of internet dating about 15 years ago – suddenly people filled out a questionnaire about things as nit-picky as whether or not they eat fast food and then were matched with other people that they had a good chance of meshing with.

So this begs the question: why aren’t working relationships also based on not only skill but personality? Assuming that a person works 10 hours a day – commute and lunch included - and sleeps 8 hours a day, a person spends 62.5% of their waking (read: LIVING) hours at work. Why isn’t more done to make sure that the boss and the employee at least LIKE each other?

INTRODUCING:

PLENTY OF TINDERLY HARMONIZING FISH: PROFESSIONAL EDITION

That’s right folks. I am totally suggesting a merge of dating websites with job applications. Not only does a person have to have the skills, they also have to have the personable qualities. In my new app, employers can swipe left to dump you and right to keep you. So if you’re professional photo isn’t up to the par it’s like a Beyonce song --- to the left, to the left…..exit stage left with your terrible profile pic with your government issued politician hair. Ew. (That is another post entirely.)

I think this new app will accomplish a few things:

#1. Personal Hygiene will come back in style. In the Pacific Northwest, I can’t tell you how many people I have seen in professional settings who have just so clearly given up on life. By submitting a profile pic, you can better ensure the potential new employees will have taken the time to get a haircut, brushed their hair and teeth and have bothered to get out of their pajamas. At the very least, you will know their filtering techniques are on point and you can at least put their ugly ass in the IT department.

#2. Employees will be matched with their employer. Meaning, less HR issues due to personality conflicts. Humor or lack thereof will be similar, eating styles will be similar and water cooler conversations will flow more easily.

#3. Employees can also choose their employer! An employee will know in advance of accepting a position whether or not they are going to be working for an asshole. They can actually check with relative certainty if the grass is greener.

And many other fascinating things for sure!

So, next time you want to see if you would be a good fit, just look up Plenty of Tinderly Harmonizing Fish: Professional Edition and give it a go.

I told my friends I would be there

I am 34 years old and you would think by now I could manage my friends and peer pressure a little better. But I can’t. There are certain people in my life that I just refuse to say no to. They could probably offer me drugs and I would do it just to fit in. Also, if they jumped off a bridge, I would too. I love these people. As to not further give them any power, I will not disclose their names.

Last month tickets went on sale for Watershed 2016. Watershed is a 5-day country music festival at the Gorge Amphitheater in George, Washington. Alongside this music festival there is also camping – for an additional cost. Now, from what my friends tell me, there are two different kinds of camping – General Population (coined Gen Pop) and Big Rig (for trailers, RV’s and Fifth Wheels). The night before tickets went on sale my friend Randy* coached me that I needed general admission tickets and Big Rig camping. That – and I quote directly – “If you don’t get Big Rig camping, people are going to piss on you, force you to join a temporary Harem, party for days on end and you will have to go to the bathroom in what they call the grumpy dump. You don’t even want to know what the grumpy dump is! Make sure you get Big Rig camping.”

(Please note readers, I do not own a “Big Rig” I have the equivalent of a covered wagon that I camp in. My boyfriend likes to rough it in the great outdoors, so when I yowl and cry about the bathroom situation or the temperature inside said covered wagon, he gently reminds me how wonderful nature is. In my humble opinion, nature can bite me. I like microwaves, heating, AC and my stereo. But I digress… I don’t like the payment of a Big Rig.)

So the next day, I take an hour of vacation time at work so that I can log onto the Watershed website from my phone and get these tickets. Now, I will just note here that this whole experience, of a lifetime no doubt, is going to run me about $700. So instead of dutifully making my house payment, I logged on. I told my friends I would be there – damn the mortgage! As the countdown begins for tickets to go on sale, I can feel my palms getting sweaty and I am shaking. I hear Eminem’s song lyrics about mom’s spaghetti on a repeat loop in my mind. This is the real deal. Get the tickets. Get Big Rig camping. Avoid the Grumpy Dump. I told my friends I would be there.

10:00 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. Damn.

10:05 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. Shit.

10:10 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. F*ck!!!  This is a lot more effort than I thought.

I message Randy: “This isn’t working. Maybe they are sold out.

Randy: “Keep trying. Don’t you want this??”

Me: “Yes”

Randy: “Then keep trying!”

I wipe the sweat from my palms and mop my forehead. I try again.

10:15 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. Double F*CK!!!!.

10:20 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. So over this. Do I really want to go? Yes, I do.

10:25 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

Twenty minutes later it gives me two tickets but BIG RIG CAMPING IS SOLD OUT! How can that even be?? In a panicked state of not wanting to lose my tickets, I purchase festival tickets and Gen Pop camping. I am going to get pissed on and my 34 year streak of being drug free is going to come to a screeching halt. 

I feel so humiliated and disgusted with myself that I can’t even look at Randy’s text without putting my iPhone face down in shame. I couldn’t even secure Big Rig tickets. What sort of concert attendee was I anyway? I finally worked up the nerve to text and it goes something like this:

Me: I got the tickets!

Randy: Oh good! You’ll love camping with all of us in Big Rig land. Gen Pop is so gross. Only losers camp in Gen Pop.

Me: Yeah totally gross. I only plan to be there to sleep.

Randy: What?

I then tell the tale of woe, how Big Rig was sold out and I couldn’t understand why. She just replies with “Its fine.” Which I know it’s not. I told my friends I would be in Big Rig.

Later that night, after I have obsessed about this dilemma all day, I have come to a conclusion: I am going to buy a trailer and park it at the very edge of Gen Pop so I can still be somewhat near my friends. When I propose this idea to my boyfriend he looks at me like I have lost my mind.

Boyfriend: So you’re going to buy a $20,000 to go camping with your friends, but not really, for one weekend?

Me: Yes.

Boyfriend: What about our tent? It works just fine.

Me: But I want a trailer!!!! Everyone has a trailer but me!!

I would like to note that my boyfriend is 19 years my senior and yes, sometimes, I act like a complete child and he has to “parent” me. He also doesn’t seem to care very much whether I am popular or what my friends want me to do. Which is weird I think. In hindsight, I think he wants me to be a nerd so no one else wants me. I’ll have to look into that… So basically the trailer idea is thrown out of the window.

Since the ticket buying day, Randy and I have been scheming like a set of Mean Girls on how to get me into Big Rig camping. The price has been inflated to $650 for a spot on StubHub (Still better than a new trailer!) so I think my best bet is to start a Go Fund Me for my next camping spot, and my extra house payment.

Please donate! Thanks!

*Real name withheld to protect identity

The Most Awful Interview – Ever.

I had long believed that the worst interview I had ever witnessed was when Britney Spears sat down with Barbara Walters shortly after her split with K-Fed. (Poor guy, does anyone else think it’s slightly rude to only refer to a man by his Hollywood made-up nickname?). Anyhow, I thought that was bad - until I did my very first phone interview. Then I, lowly Dacia, took the crown from the princess of pop, or whatever they call her.

For those of you who are professional interviewers who never get chosen for the position (like me) you don’t get overly excited or anxious about an interview. How hard can it be you ask yourself. You have done a zillion of them. In fact, you could probably recite your “Tell us about yourself” elevator speech backwards because you know it so well. You can theatrically represent the best customer service you ever provided when you heroically saved the day – and the baby from the 10^th story of a burning building – and righted all wrongs. This was me prior to the one phone call that destroyed me.

It was a lovely winter day and I was plugging along at my desk. My phone rang and when I answered it, a kind woman asked if I would like to interview for a position I had applied for a few weeks earlier. I eagerly replied that I would love to and opened my calendar. The only days I couldn’t do it were the following Wednesday thru Friday as I would be out of town on vacation. Of course, since I put that thought out into the universe and I clearly have some terrible karma coming my way, the only day that was available for me to interview was day 1 of my vacation. FML. There goes airplane shots and trap music. In sort of a panicked state, I tried to get the phone lady to reschedule me for a different time. Due to more terrible karma, the day and time stuck with me – I had to do my interview over the phone.

The position I applied for was a level higher than where I currently am. It wasn’t a giant leap by any stretch but it was a position that I couldn’t pass up. It was a great next step in my career. I had met with the manager before applying and of course he was smart as a whip (did that phrase just age me by 20 years?!) and a total doll. I kind of really wanted the job. The only catch was that while I met the qualifications, I had no real direct experience in the job. I had actually worked in a similar job but really I watched my co-workers perform this job. Let me put it to you like this…..I figured since I could strut my stuff down my hallway at home, a catwalk as a model would be a slam dunk.

So like any college try, I studied my ass off and even wrote out answers to imaginary questions. I practiced in the mirror and I even thought of a few interview jokes. I learned who would be interviewing me and I had diagrams of their work printed off from the internet. I was prepared! I even took it so far to practice my “phone voice” with my friends (note: sex phone operator jobs are no joke! You really have to have a knack for it!). 

Some of the advantages of phone interviewing (which are VERY few) is that I didn’t have to get into my hair stylist to have my roots touched up, no power suit or crash diet needed, no sitting with a ramrod straight back uncomfortably for an hour or more and my hair wouldn’t go flat. Outside of that, Screwedville was straight where I was headed – without a margarita or airplane shot.

When I got to my destination and checked into my accommodations, I settled into my interview mode. I shoved my boyfriend into a dark closet (I needed privacy) and sprawled all of my materials around me. When the phone call came I realized that they were putting me on mute while I answered their questions. Dead silence doesn’t lend itself to comfort! I panicked and answered their questions with a bunch of “um….ya know……uh…” After about 10 minutes of that, I was ready to have an accidental disconnect and then promptly die. Instead, I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and continued to fight the good fight. This is when they decided to lighten the mood and ask some personality questions. Great.

Personality Question 1: If you could be any animal, what would it be?

Now, Facebook quizzes have pointed to my spirit animal being a buffalo, but I am not sure how I would creatively work this into an interview piece. Instead I announce (loudly mind you. Too loudly.) a Cheetah. Now, why on earth would I pick a Cheetah? Well in some cases, I could say that I very closely resemble a cat. A domestic cat that sleeps 12-16 hours any given day and only wakes to sleep and shit. Yep, sounds a lot like me. I could also spin the Cheetah choice into something like “Oh I picked a cheetah because they are the fastest land mammal and they live in sunny places!” (which is what I said). But the real reason I chose a cheetah? Because I did a 5^th grade report on them and at the time of the interview question, that was the only animal I could think of.

Personality Question 2: If we were celebrating our successes as a team in a year from now, what would those successes be?

My answer: A job well done and accomplishing our goals. They should have replied: Duh dumb shit, that is why we are celebrating. Honestly, the only thing that came to my mind with this question was, what bar was said “celebration” being held at, what was I going to wear to my imaginary celebration, and was it a Mojito or Coors Light kind of night. I successfully turned this question into a conversation about cupcakes and the importance of food in my life so hopefully I gained a point or two.

Personality Question 3: What is your favorite quote and what does it mean to you?

The only thing buzzing through my brain at this moment are 2Pac lyrics that are in no way shape or form appropriate for the office or anywhere really. I couldn’t really pop off with something along the lines of gang violence and food stamps. But honestly NOTHING came to mind. Instead, I went for half a Bible verse, couldn’t remember the rest of it, and ended with hakuna matata. I quoted the damn Lion King.

Needless to say, it was a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” situation and I ended the call. I let my boyfriend out of the closet and our vacation began.

Moral of the story… DO NOT EVER INTERVIEW OVER THE PHONE!

Update: The super cool manager called me a week later to tell me that I did an amazing job and that I was the most genuine and friendly person. This is manager talk for: “Girl, you have got the mind of a jelly bean.” They didn’t hire me. Onto the next.

Working Sucks.

Ahhh…..It’s Tuesday morning. The morning following a holiday, 3-day weekend. There is nothing like having a bunch of time off to realize how much working sucks. I have often thought about the amount of time I spend at work and it is really a catch-22. Like most people, I didn’t choose my profession per se, I sort of fell into it, started making enough money to qualify as working poor and BOOM! Suddenly I am over a decade in and now it seems silly to change. Out of all the lovely people I work with, I am willing to bet that only 10% of them actually chose to work in the field they do. I honestly can’t see a bright eyed eight year old saying “Mommy, when I grow up, I want to be a public servant.”

So, back to the amount of time it takes to work full time. Forty hours a week doing something that you didn’t necessarily choose, and then are told through team building and whatnot to feel passionate about – well, that’s almost like trying to sleep with an ugly person. It just isn’t going to happen. Either that passion is there or it’s not, and no amount of lipstick on a pig is going to make it look any different than a pig. Work is just that, a four-letter necessary evil in life.

Then there is the flip side – finding love, quitting your job and being domesticated. If this lifestyle doesn’t scream “closet alcoholic” it should. I am sure there are plenty of satisfied stay at home parents or partners out there who are not alcoholics, but I think one of two things, a.) What’s the fun and/or point in that? b.) These people are liars. I never ever could stay home full-time (unless of course someone can invent calorie free vodka)…. Then we might be onto something.

To further my point, my mom stayed home with me. She did an amazing job keeping house, cooking, dealing with me that even on my best day; I would look like an epic failure. Even to this day, my DOG is excited when my mom comes to visit. I think he gives her this secret look that says, “Grandma, please take me away from this filthy pit.” Of course I smile, lightly nudge his face with my toe and say, “Oh it’s so hard when you’re working all the time.” Pah-leeze. My mom knows a liar when she sees one. She knows that I don’t care that my house looks like a cotton candy factory when I turn on the ceiling fan because the dust bunnies and dog hair take flight. But at least she lets me lie and get away with it. Perks of being an adult.

So since I am not passionate about my profession and I can’t stay home, what’s next? Here is a list (not exhaustive) of careers I have considered:

·         World famous author

·         Dog walker

·         Stand up comedian

·         Gas station attendant

·         Hair dresser

·         Famous pop singer

·         Costco receipt checker

·         Famous guitar player

·         Stripper

·         Walmart greeter

·         Waitress at a diner

Most of these are a bit lofty, I’ll admit, because I don’t exactly have the body of a stripper and that seems to be a prerequisite for most of these occupations. I also don’t know that I would like to be in the limelight all the time like the Costco receipt checker or Walmart greeter. I do like a bit of alone time at work. A gas station attendant would be almost perfect but maybe in a location like Mobile, Alabama (where the fun happens).

Anyhow, enough day dreaming. This future Author/Comedian/Waitress/Guitarist has to keep her day job for now and go to work.

Please message me if you ever do see zero calorie Vodka. I know it’s coming!

Airplane Etiquette

(Authors note: This was meant to be a funny post that sort of turned into a rant. So basically, I want you to take it seriously and laugh.)

I just returned home from jet-setting to one of my favorite places – Los Angeles, California. It has such an eclectic vibe from Hollywood hopefuls, to the extremely wealthy of the 90210, Venice beach bums, regular city bums, and tourists. ­­­­­The trip itself was a fabulous time and I can’t wait to go back. Unfortunately, I wish there was a way to teleport myself rather than fly.

I will be the first to admit, no matter how much I travel, the minute I see my name printed on a boarding pass (which I will then promptly lose and panic – I really should switch to electronic boarding passes) I get a case of the butterflies in my stomach. I love to fly. I like the uninterrupted me time that it affords. I can finally knock out a few hours of reading, napping, watching a movie, or staring down the aisle (I don’t do window seats). However! I still do not understand how travelers still fail to follow airplane etiquette. Below is my list of airplane etiquette do’s and don’ts.

Security Check-Point

The reason for a security check-point is to make sure you aren’t a lunatic terrorist. Additionally, this check-point also highlights the narcissistic jackasses that may be on the same flight as you. Every person should know by now that when you go to the airport EVERYTHING goes into the plastic bin to be scanned. Basically, if the airport could get you down to your roos, they would. They scan everything. Read that again, everything. Shoes, wallets, purses, belts, jackets, cell phones, iPads, laptops, you name it – if it can come off of you without causing you to be naked, it is coming off and being scanned. There is no use in asking if you should take it off – just do it. This process takes so long because people are idiots and believe they are above the scan. You are not. Additionally, after you have asked your 20 “clarifying” questions, do not re-dress on the other end of the conveyer belt after you have been scanned. Grab your crap and hustle out of the way. Nothing is more annoying than a fashion plate diva taking her time to put on her clothes and jewelry and then continuing to wait while she reorganizes her purse. Don’t be that girl (or guy)! And really, who needs to be that dressed up for a flight?

Carry-On Bags

Notice that this subheading didn’t read carry-on luggage? Nothing irks me more than someone trying to shove a 75lb bag that is bulging at the seams into the overhead compartment. They have measurements and protocols in place because that is what comfortably fits in the overhead compartment! I realize with the increase of fees in the airline industry that people are trying to get away with only packing a carry-on, but if you simply can’t fit your two weeks’ worth of ensembles into a small carry-on bag, then please check it. Listen up – even if you miraculously make it past the airline stewards, you are being a complete asshat to your fellow traveling mates by standing there trying to shove an elephant into a mouse hole. CHECK YOUR BAG.

My Seat, Your Seat

Remember that line in Dirty Dancing, “This is my dance space; this is your dance space. I don’t go into yours, you don’t go into mine”? The same is true on an airplane. Please do not use the back of the seat in front of you to haul your butt up to use the restroom. This is what an arm rest is for. Additionally, don’t be an armrest hog – you only get one and the other person next to you gets the other. Keep your elbows in when it isn’t your armrest. However, should the person sitting next to you curl up in the fetal position and zonk out (presumably hung over), you are more than welcome to use their arm rest until they wake up. Also, do no­­t ask someone to switch seats with you. They picked their seat when they booked the flight and so did you. Too bad your friends didn’t wait for you to agree to the trip before booking their flights – this is a friend problem, not a stranger-in-the-seat-you-want problem.

Also, about your seat…if you are a person who needs to use the restroom a lot more than usual, DO NOT book yourself for a window seat. Window seats are reserved for sleepers, those with known and chronic hangovers, people who do not want to interact and those who can hold their bladder. Aisle seats are for those more active travelers who constantly need to get up. Middle seats are for those who didn’t book their own flight (spouses, kids, etc). So please, choose your seat according to your pre-assessed needs.

Safety is a MUST

This message should be clear – SHUT UP during the safety briefing. If you fly frequently this may be hard to do, but first time flyers need to know what to do in an emergency. Really. This is a big deal, shut up and listen. The whole song and dance goes for a whopping 2 minutes (believe me, I timed it) so please, shut your trap and watch the pretty lady point to the illuminated strips on the floor that lead to the exit.

Eat this, Not that

I am not talking about a diet here. There is an appropriate time for certain foods and an inappropriate time. For loud crunchy people, flight is about the only time you can crunch without annoying anyone so go ahead and chomp away. However, there are certain foods you should never eat within close proximity of people who can’t get away from your smelly self:

·         Corn Nuts

·         Doritos

·         Corn Nuts

·         Funyuns – think, “Fun for No one!”

·         Fritos

·         Flavored Potato Chips

·         Corn Nuts

·         Cheetos

Did I mention Corn Nuts? Never fails that someone on the flight just happened to pick up a 10 pound bag of those damn things. Gross. Don’t make people smell your food.

Smelly Cat

In relation to Eat this, Not that, please – PLEASE – shower, wear clean clothes, wash your hair and use deodorant the day of your flight. No one wants to sit next to the stinky person and believe me, EVERYONE can smell you.

De-Boarding

Getting off the plane is just as important as the rest of the flight. Here are my tips:

1.       Wait for the rows ahead of you to disembark before you. Meaning: don’t bum rush up the middle aisle hoping to jump ahead in the cue. Wait your turn.

2.       Gents, if a lady is sitting across from you – or ladies, a person who is your elder – let them out first. Common courtesy.

3.       If you were the jackass that shoved your oversized luggage in the overhead compartment, it would behoove you to wait for others to pass you before you start your struggle with your bag.

Note to the airlines: Why can’t people without any carry-on bags exit the aircraft first? Seems to me you would clear out a lot of the congestion and give the carry-on folks room for their bags to come out of the overhead compartment. Brilliant, yes??

Some final thoughts, I know it is allowable to have children and small animals on airplanes, but if you can’t legally drug them and they are feisty at home – please leave them at home. I didn’t just pay a ton of money to hear you argue with your kid for six hours on my way to Mexico. Besides, what terrible parent brings their young children to Mexico? Are you a glutton for punishment?? No need for your “all-inclusive”….

Anyhow, next time you get on a plane headed somewhere, please dig deep into your etiquette pockets and do everyone a favor by not being an asshat.

 (Authors note: Rant Over. Seriously.)

Adventures at the Vet

My dog Chunk is an 80 lb. black Labrador retriever. While away on a business trip my wonderful boyfriend offered to keep him so I wouldn’t have to pay for a kennel. My boyfriend has two large dogs as well – Zoey an Aussie Doodle; and Zephyr a Scottish Deer Hound – so it made sense that Chunk would have a fun time vacationing with the Z’s while I slaved over work in Spokane.

My boyfriend called me when I was away to say that Chunk seemed to have an ear infection because he was shaking his head and his ears smelled bad. I told him that I would make a vet appointment and take him in when I got home. I had been home just a day and realized Chunk was also likely constipated. After a quick Google search, I learned that pumpkin would remedy the pooping situation but I still would need to take him to the vet. I called the vet once more and bumped his appointment up by a day.

We left for the vet a little early and was greeted by the receptionist where I was asked to have him stand on a scale. Now, anyone who has ever encountered a lab knows that they are made of all springs and fluff. Getting this big oaf to stand on the scale – with all body parts on the scale at the same time – was no small feat. We weighed the back end of him, the front end of him, the both of us on the scale but with one paw off and finally after a lot of coaxing with a treat he didn’t even want; we got him on the scale. He had lost 2 pounds since January which proved to me that our recent running regimen would also work for me if I could just stick to eating bland food.

Anyhow, the nice reception lady ushered us into exam room 4 where we would just have to wait a few minutes for the vet and technician. Ten minutes later a very nervous looking veterinarian entered the room. Chunk walked over to greet him and I extended a slobbered hand in salutation. He spoke in a very kind way and had a general look of concern for my dog but I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that this man might be afraid of the Chunkinator. I thought, if you can’t make it past a Labrador, what do you do with the other larger more aggressive dogs? Little did I know that his chart indicated he was that large aggressive dog. Apparently there is a doctor/patient privacy act when it comes to K-9 behavior with veterinary staff. Had I known ahead of time he was a jack-ass I would have sent my boyfriend. But I digress…

Dr. Nice Guy bent low to the ground and held out a tentative hand for Chunk to sniff. Chunk got really still and then leaned into me. The vet reached for Chunk’s big black lips and attempted to examine his teeth. They were somewhat orange looking based on the pumpkin I had been feeding him so I made a mental note to purchase a Sonicare toothbrush and cruise the internet for some doggie white strips. As Dr. Nice Guy tried to get a good look, Chunk let out a warning growl (much to my amazement and somewhat pride) and the vet immediately backed away. As a courtesy, I apologized for Chunk.

Next he decided to try and feel Chunks belly and tail. I thought to myself, I am not a veterinarian but my instinct tells me that if someone doesn’t give you access to their face, their rear end has got to be off limits. But I wasn’t the professional here, so I kept my mouth shut. As soon as the doctor reached for the rear end of my dog, Chunk let out this awful growling snarl and nipped his hand. I didn’t think it was an actual bite because I didn’t see blood but it was enough to startle Mr. Nice Guy. The doctor again stood up and stated that he would need to take my dog in the back room to be able to examine him. I figured this is a nice way of saying, We need to beat your animal into submission so that we can then heal him. So I handed over the leash and away Chunk went.

I sat in exam room 4 for about 10 minutes by myself and there was absolutely nothing to do in there and the cell service was spotty at best so there was no updating my Facebook status or Words with Friends games. I decided to count ceiling tiles in case there was ever a trivia question about this topic and then started on the floor tiles. I was almost done counting the Q-tips in the jar on the counter when the door opened and the vet technician led the team through the door.

Excited to have company in exam room 4, I enthusiastically greet them with, Oh, did it go a lot better back there? The tech looked at the floor tiles*, and then I saw Chunk – with a smiley face printed muzzle around his snout. That asshole. Doesn’t he realize what a terrible owner I look like when he acts like a frickin animal? I raised him better than this.

“What happened?” I asked the doctor.

“Well, he got a bit aggressive with us back there so we had to muzzle him.”

“I’m so sorry!” I look down at Chunk. Then I start thinking about this muzzle situation. This could really benefit me. I wouldn’t have to keep food off the counters at home, he wouldn’t bark when I was on the phone, and he certainly wouldn’t do that weird heavy breathing thing in my face while I was driving. Maybe I needed to look into one of these contraptions. But then, why stop there?? You know how many annoying people I encounter when I go out? I could just muzzle them up and slip a straw in between their lips and they can drink their beer and I can enjoy my night out without listening to them. This thing has endless possibilities!

I rearrange my face so that I am looking less excitable and more sorrowful.

“So what’s next doctor?” I try sound like one of those worried pet owners that you see on Animal Planet. I don’t want to look like a complete dick that I think the muzzle is cool.

“Well, he needs his shots still.”

Damn it! Why didn't they do that while he was in the back and they could muscle him around? The vet then instructs me that I am to “hold” this beast while he shoots practical arrows into his rump. I really want to know how many Q-Tips are in that jar now. Why can’t these people take my dog, go away and bring him back new? I straddle Chunk like the moose he is and brace for impact as I know this to be a bumpy ride. I wonder, how buck can you get with your own dog before they would think about calling the equivalent of Child Protective Services on you? I know from experience I can body slam him into submission – I have bathed him a time or two.

The first shot is attempted. I can practically hear Chunk yell obscenities at the doctor as he bucks and huffs and puffs through his muzzle. He is jerking like a bull at a rodeo and I am holding on for dear life. Then I hear the doctor say, I missed. What?? We have to do this again? The doctor is standing there with a wild look in his eyes and a needle in his hand. He eyes Chunk and Chunk’s brown eyes widen in fear. I tighten my grip once again and bury my face into his neck. Again, the rodeo bull is bucking and thrashing and in a finale of bucking he rears his head and knocks me straight in the jaw. I see stars and an instant headache starts pounding in my head. I reach for my chin and I can already feel a lump forming. Neat. My dog just totally chin checked me.

The next two shots are less eventful and the doctor gives me instructions for Chunks care. After all the commotion I forget that he can’t poop and both of his ears are infected. I buy every prescription imaginable and some treats to hide the pills in and after paying a grand total of $236 to have my dog beaten, molested, stabbed and have my jaw crushed, we head back out to the car. I need a coffee, a nap and an ice pack.

*Probably trying to out-count me, but I already committed the number to memory. 55.

My Burning Curiosity with Bikini Baristas

I decided to resurrect Adventures in Dacialand after a long hiatus due to a Bikini Barista stand by the name of Blendz Girls moving into my little Podunk of a town in Nowhere Western Washington. I would like to start this article by clearly stating that I, in no way shape or form, care whether or not scantily clad ladies are hanging out in a box on downtown street US of A. However, I would also like to state for my readers out there that I am rather Fascinated by these businesses and I will tell you why. My only hope is that some lovely lady at one of these stands would read this and answer all of my burning questions.

In a past life I worked as barista – one which required me to be fully clothed. What I really want to know is when these girls wake up in the morning to go to work, are they really arriving at 5 a.m. in lingerie? Now; as a young(ish) woman, I can’t tell you a time when I was actually excited – nor looked good – nor felt comfortable – wearing lingerie. In the past if I actually felt the need to wear such clothing, I would wait until evening (when it was pitch black outside with no chance of light for hours), there were no chance of guests dropping by my house to visit, I had had a few boxes of wine and after evaluating the garment for a long while – mind you this stuff sat in its Victoria’s Secret* bag for months if not years before its “big reveal” – I would finally muster the courage to adorn it only to yell at my partner to shut the damn light off and to quit looking at me while I dove under the blankets only to take the lingerie off and fall asleep due to the wine. So really – 5 a.m. with daylight around the corner, strangers and coffee (not wine)?

Secondly, I like my co-workers. They are decent human beings. We all work together because we don’t have a choice and we are all committed to the long haul. However, all of that being said – I don’t ever want to see ANY of them in anything less than a bulky turtleneck sweater, trousers, and more layers of clothes due to the excessive air conditioning in my office. I don’t even really want to be able to differentiate between male or female co-worker. So, when these girls go to work, and their box partner is wearing, let’s say a thong and pasties – where do you look? Do you compliment her choice in blue pasties rather than red because they bring out the color in her eyes? I just wonder how awkward that is. I would like to note here that I also have a phobia of naked people who walk around gym locker rooms for the sake of it being a gym locker room and they are allowed to be nude. I agree their nudity is slightly more appropriate; however I stress the word slightly.

Staying on the topic of clothing…I live in Western Washington. It isn’t a part of the country that I would necessarily consider “balmy”. In fact, I wear *yawn* office attire to work and most of the time I am wrapped up in my wool dress coat and Snuggie, shivering in fingerless gloves while I type. Tomorrow morning, the temperature outside is supposed to be 34 degrees at 6 a.m. How do these girls not freeze when they go to work in fishnet leotards and go-go boots? Are the boots that insulating? If so, I would like someone to post a link to where I can purchase a pair for my own wardrobe – seriously.

Still on the costume kick – how much are these ladies spending on these get-ups? They are like mini-celebrities in that they can’t be caught twice in the same outfit. As any woman knows, lingerie is ridiculously expensive (which baffles me, but that could be another post entirely). So are they able to write that off on their taxes or does their employer supply the costumes? I can hear it now, “Bambi, tomorrow you are going to be a sailor and Buffi, you are going to be red riding hood – but a slutty red riding hood.” And my biggest burning question, do they stop by the store on their way home for a gallon of milk in their crotchless teddy? If so, I have some single guy friends that would like to know which grocery store they frequent. (Bambi and Buffi, if you are reading this, you can PM me.) J

I understand that you can earn really good tips by showing some skin. I am totally not that out of touch with reality. In fact, if my employer offered that, I might ditch the Snuggie. (Heavy on the might.) However, what kinds of men are tipping that money? I am venturing a guess that women don’t frequent these barista stands as their hate messages clearly imply they won’t be taking their mini-van and ten snotty children for a stroll in the drive-thru lane, so we are left with men. I would also like to remove men who respect (fear) their angry mini-van wives, gay men, and you’re left with single men before 8 a.m. and then bums and criminals for the rest of the day. Do these women really want to interact with this type of clientele? I would guess the answer is no, considering they are attractive women and have “bubbling personalities”**. If I were them, I would rally for a bodyguard and/or bouncer.

As a customer, I would like it advertised better when there is a bikini barista in the area. I am a total lookie-lou and would love to do a drive-by of these establishments and then tell all my friends about them. However, the name “Blendz Girls” doesn’t tip me off to what the business actually is. Just as there is a male bikini barista stand in Bremerton named, “Banana Hammock”. I was disappointed that these men didn’t sell bananas or hammocks and instead I got stuck with a crappy cup of coffee that was overpriced. Please, to anyone who is operating one of these businesses, name them appropriately. Edmonds, Washington was smart with theirs and named it “Java Jugs”. I get that nomenclature.

Finally, I would like to end this post on a serious note, I hope all these ladies are safe, don’t burn their pretty body parts with scalding hot water, and enjoy the crazy career that they have started – Go get those dollars naked ladies! You earned it!

*Ross

**Direct quote from an adoring customer on Facebook.

Self Image

I was out shopping today looking for new work clothes. For the first time, I figured I would venture from the junior section and try out the women’s department. Upon my arrival to the dark side, I realize with such resounding clarity why women have such terrible self images. It totally starts at the department stores!

I first went to the petite department. This is apparently where little people buy their clothing. I swear, Santa’s elves would have a tough go trying to find clothes in that section – they are so small! This section is dedicated to doll clothes – complete with frills, bows, lace and many other intricate details. I tried on a pair of slacks and they were perfect. As shorts. This was clearly not the Dacia department. I wandered a little further.

The next department was the WOMEN’s section. I capitalize because unlike the petite section, the WOMEN’s section has nothing frilly or intricate about it. The word WOMEN is prominately displayed on the biggest wall. Apparently, you are not a WOMAN until you have shopped in this area. It’s all about getting your WOMAN ass into some clothes. Period. The junior department is just looking friendlier by the minute. I decide to try on some pants.

I find my size, on sale, and head to the dressing room. Now, I am a junior size 7 so I choose a WOMAN size 8. Junior sizes are odd and WOMAN sizes are even numbers. I round up to give myself beer drinking room. Now, in the junior section, I think they assume all juniors are around 5’5”. Well, in the WOMEN section, they assume after 7th grade you’ll hit another growth spurt and shoot up about another 15 feet and therefore your pants need to be extra long. I am not a tall woman, but I’m not a little person either. These pants must have had a good extra two feet tacked onto the end of them. Great, I think, not so much of a “sale” when I have to pay to have the damn things tailored.

I decide to buy the long pants because I need them. As I make my way to pay for my find, I realize that in the front of the store is the plus size section. Now, I am sure that every woman who is overweight just loves to go to the front of this effing store to go through the tents that they have displayed on hangers. The clothing in this section isn’t even pretty! Do these idiots think if you’re overweight you don’t want to look good? I tell you, only a man would come up with this marketing strategy. To top it off, the women in the life size displays are about a size 10. When did a 10 become a plus size?? Isn’t this America? I thought we were all overweight?

I pick my jaw up off the floor where it fell and pay for my incredibly long pants. I then contemplate my adventure outside of the junior department. I see how women learn to hate their image and it all starts in the department store. I am never shopping in the WOMAN section again. I am going to hang on to being a junior as long as I can.

Cha-Cha-Cha Changes

I was having a conversation with my vodka cranberry and decided it was time that I start to make some changes in my life. Of course, my glass of yummy-ness made me promise not to switch to whiskey and I promised I wouldn’t. Besides, do I look like a middle-aged man to you? What kind of woman drinks whiskey? Probably the same kind of woman who wears tree camouflage and has Copenhagen stress marks in the back pockets of her Carhartts.

First things first, I needed to hit the gym more often or quit eating cookies on the half-hour marks. I already spend an hour a day at the gym so it must be the cookies that make my physique look more meatball-ish. Time to scratch the cookies. Damn.

Next were the clothes that I seem to just jam myself into on the weekends. I don’t know why, but I hate getting dolled up on days that start with ‘S’. It is true that sexy starts with S but so does slob and being a slob is so much easier than sexy. Besides, my boobs need a rest from being jammed up to my chin all week. The poor girls are so scared to come down Friday night that it takes them until Sunday to finally relax. Nevertheless, I need to start paying more attention to my clothing choices on the weekends. That’s really the only time the outside world sees me. Time to get a credit card.*

Next, my brain needed some more intelligent activity. My chick lit novels and rag magazines are doing me no favors in the brilliant department. I need to start watching the news and occasionally pick up a newspaper. I was so shocked when just last week I figured out that Osama Bin Laden died. Like where the hell was I when that went down?! I hope to God I was doing something important like feeding orphan children. Based on my normal routine, I was probably tanning or getting my nails done. Time to subscribe to a newspaper.

Finally, I need to make some new friends. My old friends are fabulous but they’re tired of my lazy ass not returning calls, failing to show up at events and overall being a crappy friend. However, new friends won’t have a clue as to how slothful I truly am so I’ll have a clean slate. I don’t really know where to find new friends and the last time I was at Trader Joe’s, no one seemed particularly interested in getting to know me. Add, ‘Become a more interesting person’ to my list.

As I re-read over this blog, I thoughtfully chew my double chocolate chip cookie and wonder if maybe everyone else is changing and I refuse to grow up. I couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Maybe after I get my new credit card, I’ll pick up a few self-help books and check things out.

In the meantime, I should probably just stay who I am and start drinking double vodka cranberries instead of singles. That seems like a healthy enough change to me!

*I hope like hell that my dad isn’t reading this. I may be 29 years old, but he told me that I wasn’t allowed to have credit cards and I’ve stuck it out this far…maybe he’ll let me use his…hmm….

Trader Joe's and PMS

PMS is a crazy place. Men could probably equate this to 90% of the cazy things they get involved in. Strange things happen during this hormonal hot spot in the month and I never seem to escape it. It’s like this super human force takes over my brain and suddenly I’m a hot mess and can’t figure out why I hate everyone and find them all so annoying. Then, as soon as I realize that I’ve been taken over, I cry profusely and beg forgiveness from everyone I know. This is probably the only unattractive aspect about me – and I mean only.

Needless to say, on Sunday, I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed starving for cornbread. It couldn’t be just any cornbread either. It had to be from Trader Joe's. So after much deliberation, pacing the kitchen floor and a bag of cookies later, I decide that it’s high time I jump into my best track suit and head into the city. Well... Olympia... but you get the idea. I’m in a TRACK SUIT for crying out loud – and it’s not even 1970.

During my 20-minute drive I mentally map where I need to go while I am in town. I knew I needed to go to Trader Joe's, the tanning salon, and Office Depot to have some scanning done. The only real ‘chore’ that I enjoy doing is anything that makes me more attractive. (For a brief listing of these services please see footnote.*) So I decided I would save the best for last – tanning! Yay!

I pull into the parking lot of Trader Joe's and as I am locking my vehicle, I notice that Mr. and Mrs. Granola and their two kids - Trail and Mix - are starting at me. I give myself the once over in the reflection of my car. Best black track jacket? Check. Sweats to match with a bedazzled leg and bottom? Check. Make-up caked on so no one realizes it was leftovers from last night? Check. Cross necklace? Check (um, hello Granola family…It’s Sunday! Represent some Jesus wouldja?). Platform Guess flip flops? Check.** Hoop earrings and bling ring? Check!+

I couldn’t understand why that odd little family looked at me so strangely until I crossed the threshold of Trader Joe's. Almost instantly everyone turned to look at me - I was the Snooki in the land of organic eating dirt worshippers. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks and my bronzer melt from my forehead. I needed to get out of this place and quick! Who knew what crazy ideas they wanted me to try. I quickly scanned the isles and as my nerves rose, so did my frustration. Where was this damn box of bread already?!

Finally a kind woman with wonderfully flowing armpit hair rustled up a gentleman who would go into the depths of the backroom farm to fish out my box of heaven. He was back behind the double doors for minutes too long. The stares kept coming and at one point, a little girl tugged on her amish mother’s skirt and whispered, “Why is she so orange?” I couldn’t hate on the little one until her beastly mother replied, “that’s what happens when you do drugs – you turn orange.” I would have loved to have stepped into that conversation and tell the little munchkin and her witch mother that what really happens when you do drugs is that you have the time of your life, flying high, dancing like it’s nobody’s business, and you wake up pool side to a plastic flamingo with your best girlfriend heaving chunks of Jack in the Box in a bush. But! I clearly was scary enough for these two little angels…they walked away quickly after my menacing stare.

Finally DJ Quick decided to come back out…empty handed. “I’m sorry miss. The truck won’t be in until this afternoon.”

Before I let the tears cascade down my little bronzed face and mess up my eyeliner, I said, “What does that mean exactly?”

He told me they were out of cornbread. Remember, this was my only reason for living on Sunday.

I quickly left the strange land of naturalists and was so saddened at the travesty our grocery stores have come to. Really, what is the purpose of even having a Trader Joes when there’s no cornbread or two buck chuck? I drug my track suited self to the tanning salon and quietly shed my tears as the heated lamps dried the saddness away.

*Facials, waxes, manicures, pedicures, massage, tanning, weight lifting, cardio, clothes shopping, shoe shopping, bikini shopping, car shopping, haircuts, colors, foils, extensions, buying push-up bras, high heel shopping, make-up…I think you get the general idea here.

**My track pants are too long so it was either platform flops or stilettos and it was church day.

+It was my lucky ring and I was definitely gonna hit some slots on the way home.

Damaged Merchandise

My husband, Mitch*, really likes new things. I mean, who doesn’t? However, he takes it to a whole new level. I have never met anyone who purposely ruins perfectly good products just so he can buy new. Yet, when it comes to clothes, they practically rot off the hanger before he shops for new.

Today, I woke up to the sun shining in my face and the sound of the sprinkler watering the back yard. Oh shoot! I was supposed to turn that off. Hold please! Alright, I am back. That really irks me. I am the one who pays the water bill. Anyhow…As I was saying, the morning was tranquil. I felt a warm body next to me and as I closed my eyes, I rolled over to snuggle into my lover. As soon as I felt the dog licking my face, I was suddenly transported back to reality. There was no lover in my bed. It was my lab, waiting for me to get up. Hung-over, I padded into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Mitch is moving about the house at break-neck speed which can only mean two things:

• He wants to get out of the house to go buy something before I wake up;
• Or, he hooked up with the friendly neighborhood dope dealer and is hopped up on coke.

Since he has random drug testing at work, I assume shopping. I ask where he is going and the following dialogue ensues:

“Goin’ to Sears to take back the patio umbrella.”

Let’s pause here and reflect to an earlier part of this story where I state that he “purposely ruins perfectly good products just so he can buy new”. This is the case with the umbrella. We purchased a new patio set last summer at the end of the season**but waited to buy the umbrella. This year, at the start of summer, we bought the umbrella and promptly brought it home and opened it above the patio set. It’s never been closed or brought inside. I told Mitch on several occasions that we needed to take it down when it got windy so that it didn’t take flight and leave us for the neighbors house. On one such occasion, the umbrella did take off and took the table and all of the tiles down with it. I reminded him yet again that it would be wise if we stored it.

I am sure that most of you who are reading this think, why don’t you do it? Are your arms broken? Indeed they are. Enough said. I don’t do anything that involves the outdoor work of home ownership. This is why I am married. It was cheaper to marry than hire a landscape architect.

So during the last minor windstorm we had, the open umbrella snapped in half and is now broken because he neglected to care for it properly. Now that you know the back story, we return to the dialogue:

“Mitch, you can’t take back an umbrella when it’s our fault that it’s broken.”

“The hell I can’t! It’s defective!”

I ponder this comment. It’s defective? Against wind? I am shocked at this statement. My husband, the landscape architect, is one of those people. He is a customer service employee’s nightmare person who doesn’t employ common sense when they purchase a product. I say nothing and drink my coffee. Off he leaves for Sears to be one of those dreadful people. I am thankful I woke up late and am too queasy to be asked to ride along.

An hour later, he calls. He is triumphant that he has a new umbrella in his possession. He tells me that the guy at Sears agreed with him that the umbrella was defective even after Mitch tells him the truth of what happened. It is during this phone conversation that I realize why he is such an outstanding salesman. He knows how to get his desired outcome, while still telling the truth, and getting his listener to be in agreement with him.

My new question is this: Why isn’t he running for President?

*Name changed to protect the innocent and salvage my marriage.

**Surprise, surprise, he already wants a new BIGGER set this year. I think I have made my point.

What's a running watch?

I have known my friend David for a long time. One recent evening, out of the blue, David instant messages me on Facebook. The following is the conversation that ensued. I found it ridiculously funny and for you who know Mr. Brotche, you will also see the humor…

David: How you doin?

Dacia: I'm good. Just shopping online and hanging out on FB. How are you?

David: I’m hanging in there...what are you shopping for?

Dacia: I'm trying to decide if I really need a running watch or if I am just fascinated by the buttons. Garmin watches are pretty expensive.

David: what is a running watch?

Dacia: It measures your distance, time, pace, and heart rate. BUT! Apparently they can also walk your dog, cook your dinner, and change your oil for only 10 easy payments of $59.99...

David: holy butt f*cker buy me one

Dacia: Agreed. Aiight. Why not? Would black be ok by you?

David: well I would prefer silver...but black would work. Does it still work if you’re a lazy ass and don't want to run?

Dacia: I think it works like a Wii remote. You just wiggle the damn thing and push a button and it does all the work.

David: lmao thats great

Dacia: I agree. Perhaps that's why they are so expensive. You can brag to all your friends that you just broke the one-mile running record and you really didn't have to do nothing but sit on your ass and play Buck Hunter while twirling a watch. Amazing self esteem builder.

David: in that case I gotta have one

Dacia: In camo or hunter orange to match the plastic gun?

David: camo....hello

Dacia: I figured so. You wouldn't want anyone to SEE the watch being twirled.

Rabbit Food

On the evening news the other night, one of the anchors was presenting a national health report. I always perk up during this segment always interested in what the latest trends in health are. I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that smoking rates were at an all-time low (as they are almost $10/pack now). But the shocking part of this report was when the woman announced that obesity is at an all time high and researchers couldn’t come to a consensus as to why.

Now, for those of you who are non-smokers, I don’t expect you to understand this. However! It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that people who quit smoking gain weight. I think that next time they have an opening for the Executive Director of the APHA — I might throw my name in the hat just to see what happens… Based on what I’ve heard, it can’t be that difficult of a job. Hell, I might even be successful!

I just reached eight months of non-smoking status and keeping the fork out of my mouth is the most difficult part of quitting. If you can’t tell by my cynical writing— I am not thrilled with the weight gain. I’ve gained 12 pounds. I would like to think that it’s muscle (and most good people will lie and say that it is) but I know it’s not. Since when did potato chips and Starbucks contribute to muscle gain? They don’t. Bummer.

So instead of complaining about this gain I decided I had two options: A.) Start smoking again (YAY!!!) or, B.) Work out and watch what I eat. I crunched the numbers and unless I get a substantial pay raise, I don’t think I can afford to smoke again. I really don’t know how I would pitch an increase in salary to my supervisor either. So, I really am only left with option B.

Here I am. The end of week one. I just went grocery shopping with my husband and it wasn’t pleasant for either of us. I put Cheetos in the basket, he took them out and replaced them with rice cakes. Cookies – out. Vegetables – in. I was thoroughly irritated that by the time we left I promised I would go home and make a huge breakfast of greasy food. That would sure show him!

I watched as he put away the normal food and my rabbit food was put in special places by itself to make it easily accessible. I was chastised by my husband to quit pouting and that I would thank him this summer when I would once again rule the backyard in my tiny bikini. I doubted that I would ever be thankful that I was living off granola, rice cakes and veggies and continued my glare-down as he made himself a pepperoni pizza for breakfast.

I only perked up when he said that he would need to start exercising soon because he too, would like to trim down before summer. Wicked thoughts flashed through my mind of making him do push-ups and sit-ups with me. Jumping jacks and squats…. VUAHHH HAHAHA!!!

Misery truly does love company.