President of My Weekend

Silly scrapbook challenge, sopping up my free time. (Team Orange came second place last week - yay!)

Updates and hints of updates and whatevers:

There's a new grocery chain in town, straight out of Britain and spreading east from California, that has - seriously - changed our lives. It needs its own post. We've been, and I'm probably underestimating, at least 10 times in the past 10 days. (The frequent visits will someday be explained in their own post, suffice to say that shopping there is like being on a game show, and the more stores you visit, the more you "win.")

In our one trip to the traditional store, somebody and somebody's spouse went a little nuts in the 75% V-day aisle. There's probably a photo coming of the debris.

All trips are more pleasant now that the car's engine warning light is no longer on. What, you didn't know about this stress injection I've been receiving? Well, I didn't want to worry the internet. According to the manual, fresh gas (eventually) salved all wounds. (This is such a nice and easy explanation that we all ought to get behind it, no? None of this, "You really ought to get it checked out anyway" talk, okay?)

I figure one of the students who hates me may have slipped in some pixie stix since after it came on I checked the gas cap and it was completely loose. (Yet the "CHECK FUEL CAP" light did not come on. Hrmph.) It could only be one student, though, because if it were all of them then there wouldn't be any car left. Still not a good year. I've made calls. Unreturned calls, but it's early days yet.

Digital scrapping ended up being pretty fun and even inspiring, but ultimately it did nothing to ease the piles of souvenirs or stacks of scrapping supplies. I'll have to push myself now to cut the pretty paper. CUT-CUT-CUT. If I ruin it, well, the world was going to end eventually anyway. Better it be from the collective disappointment of my failed ambitions than from that spy satellite. Better a sigh than a squish.

The AC is doing its annual stupid "where'd all the freon go?" thing early this year, and the office is being equally stupid about getting it fixed. I was going to explain here why we need AC in February and why I don't like opening the windows when there are high pollen-bearing winds outside, but it's just going to make me kernurgly so, shhh, quiet, girl. It gets stuffy in the late afternoon even with the windows open, but we'll be okay until Monday (when we can sit here all day and wait for the guy who was supposed to be here a week ago but SHHH SHHH SHHH nottalkingaboutitokayshuttingupnow).

In brief: not a fan of the current apartment management. Very much missing the A-team that opened the place. But, of course, they keep moving on to open the newer properties. We've gone from "call anytime you need anything, even if you just want someone to unclog your drain at 10 p.m." to "what's an air filter?" No, really. I think they're just copying and pasting the "come get your complimentary air filters every month" blurb from old newsletters because - I'm really not kidding - the staff really doesn't know what we're talking about. We forgot to get the fancy kind at the store, so Mike went down to get a comp filter to tide us over. He described its squareness and use in the air system and everything. Nope, the office had never heard of them.

A letter is probably in order. Would you write it for me please? Please? I'll not complain next time you're smacking your way through a pear just SMACK SMACK SLURP SMACK then blaming the pear for being exceptionally crisp and delicious. And I'll also not put the SMACK SMACK SLURP SMACK video on YouTube. (Well? It works on Mike.)

Plus side: a couple of Mormon missionaries have moved in a few units over. We saw them AFTER both separately encountering one of each in the Albertson's lot and having explicit (pleasant, but explicit) go-arounds on the likelihood of embracing the hat of Joseph Smith. Now when we park at home we have to wait for them to pedal by, lest it suddenly turn into a Tron-like doubles round. I don't know what we're scared of - we have the advantage of being willing to discuss Big Love for hours.

And yet having Mormons in the neighbourhood cheers me up, property values wise, so I'll probably stay sweet. I hate politely shutting down the hard sell, but I feel like I know enough Mormons now to know they do at least mean it when they ask if you need any help with the groceries, unloading the car, whatever. I do respect that. From a 10 yard nod-and-keep-walking distance.

No recent dining experiences because of the new grocery store (you can't turn around a pat of butter in our fridge right now) and because we won't talk about falling for the regular Bally's buffet again (summary: MEDIOCRE MAXIMUS), but we did visit the cupcake district once more. I think we got a bum batch, though, because they don't seem to be lasting as long as last time.

OH! THE DOCTOR! Hey, this is actual news. So, I went to Mike's Cool Doctor for the follow-up, and I think it's right to call him that because he was by his receptionist when I walked in and he said, "Look, it's Michael P____'s wife." That made me laugh. (Of course I had to tease him. "What? MP's wife? It's all about him?!") Since I kept my own name, I'm rarely called Mrs. P_____. If anything, Mike gets called Mr. S______. (The grumbling is so worth it.) Mike calls me "Goody P_____" sometimes, but that's because of all the hot Pilgrim role-playing we do. Mmmm, big buckles and stockades. (I'm KIDDING. Toss all images from your head NOW please. You can keep the one of Gary Oldman swimming naked in The Scarlet Letter, but only because I'm willing to make telepathic copies.) But having the masses point and say "there goes Mike's wife!" - it's still surreal. And fun.

But that's not what the doctor said that mattered. So, I was only visiting for the follow-up to the "where's that hole in my throat go? the one leading to the lungs and stomach?" issue from a couple of weeks ago. Blood pressure? Fine. Heart? Fine.

Lab results? FINE! Yes, fine. All the off-the-charts numbers for my liver from 18 months ago are back in the normal range. Woot! I've only had one attack since then, and it was cut off with codeine, so "for now" I'm okay. (He was very clear about the "for now.") I was grimly steeling myself for news that I'd damaged my liver in my Troubled Youth, but no. Now I'm free to ironically die in a preventable household accident just after receiving (more) good news.

He even asked if I'd like my own copy of the lab results, something he didn't offer Mike, which makes me think he's been Googling me and creating an eerily accurate psychological profile. Maybe next week's Club Scrap challenge will be "medical, auto, and whatever stupid papers you have in your accordion folder, like the fifteen-year-old installation receipt for satellite TV back in Texas," and I can put the happy printouts to good use.

(If he is Googling me, HI!!! Thanks for being so cool. And thanks for succumbing to my quick change of subject when pap smears were mentioned. Hah. After all, twelve years without one is just irresponsible and not worth discussing. Now, fifteen years? That might get me some Oprah time. I have to think of my future and stay strong.)

Oh, and my cholesterol is low. Yipyip. Mike's is the same and we both have low/normal blood pressure. It's certainly not what you'd think to look at us. (If "you" = "person who makes silly assumptions.")

So now we're joking about writing a bestseller that shares the secret of achieving good health through obesity and coach surfing. (And then won't my good relationship with Oprah pay off? I think the woman might be relieved to know she can stop worrying and learn to love the chocolate cheesecake bomb.)

This may all change, though, if Mike doesn't stop buying handfuls of British bacon at a buck-something each at the new grocery store. Which brings us back to the beginning, which means it's time to hop off. Splat!

17 February 2008 |






Carnival Elation (2009)
Carnival Splendor (2009)
Carnival Spirit (2010)
Carnival Spirit (2011)
Carnival Splendor (2011)
Norwegian Pearl to Alaska (2012)