Still scratching my head

A post in two parts, again.

Part I
(Which I had all worked out in my head this morning with the intent to post it tonight after work)

In the event you were wondering about the first grade teacher, well, after a few text message volleys, the ball was left with him to find a time to meet up. One week later, not a word out of him. Because in our last interaction he had mentioned that his schedule was up in the air with the end of school and everything that we should play meeting up by ear, and because I just wanted to know--it's not like I can't take a hint, but for crying out loud, I don't think I should have to, just be up front and honest--I sent the following text:

"Are we still playing it by ear, or is that code for not interested?"

It's been another week of radio silence, so I can only assume that I've cracked his code and that he really isn't interested. I'm just going to have to take that hint and like it. One more time, onward, ladies, onward.

Part II
(Which I promptly started to revise in my head this morning immediately after I thought about how this post would read)

Out of the blue incoming text message.

It reads: "Good morning to you. How about happy hour tonight?"

Are you freaking kidding me? Even after I sent the snatchiest of all text messages? Maybe the snatchiness was lost on him?

Well I said yes. So, tonight, after a few weeks of puzzlement about the entire series of interactions with the first grade teacher, I met up with him for a sunny patio happy hour. It was good. I think. Gosh, I don't know. We had good conversation, I think we were both fun and funny. But yet when we went to leave he was all like, "that was fun. I learned some new stuff."

Um, okay. Learned some new stuff. Yeah, okay.

He's heading to Thailand for a month on Saturday to do some mission work (see, he's not a bad guy), so I definitely won't see him again soon... but maybe never? I said that he had my number and if he wanted to meet up after Thailand and share some of his stories I'd be game.

Frankly, I've put in all the energy I can right now. He'll be gone for awhile and if he comes back and wants to meet up, then it's going to need to be on his energy dime.

So, don't be surprised if you hear about him again in the future--he has a tendency of surfacing just after I give up. In the meanwhile, don't fret. Little Ms. Notetaker is expecting plenty of fun dating stories to recount to the Internet. It's summer, and I'm bored with the kitchen, and may go back to online dating... just because I need more blog material. Funny because it's true.


Hit-and-slowly inch away

I was jolted awake this morning at 5:30 to the sound of screeching brakes, crumpling metal, and deflating tires. I sprang out of bed, fingers crossed that my car was not on the receiving end of that cacophony of destruction.

Huge sigh of relief, my car wasn't hit. But the two cars parked in front of mine were and the perp--as in perpetrating vehicle--was fleeing the scene, albeit rather slowly as his passenger tire was flattening by the millisecond.

Watching the scene transpire in slow-motion, I tried to wake myself up fully and think about what I should do.

Of all of the voices of morality in my life (parents, teachers, nuns, priests, Charles Barkley), one rang out above the crowd and nudged me, in my head, to call 9-1-1. Yeah, that one? Mm-hm, it was the Liberty Mutual insurance ad announcer person. For a minute, I weighed my options of calling or not calling and what ultimately made me reach for my phone was the replay of a commercial in my mind where the voice states, "every day, millions of people choose to do the right thing."

So a freaking insurance company ad campaign held my feet to the fire; I did the right thing. And because of that, they found the driver, and because of that the owners of the two cars may have some insurance relief (ooh... insurance! Holy cow! It just came full-circle right before my very eyes. Put a fork in me, I'm done).


Like buttah

This one's for all the do-it-themselvers out there.

Note to self: If a screw is ever giving you fits going into the wall, just head to your fridge for a little lubrication.

(And just so you know, there is not a single euphemism in that note, so get your mind right out of the gutter!)

I just had to let all of my faithful readers in on this fantastic little trick. All credit goes to the Commish, who was helping me install my pantry today. We were attaching the suspension rail to the wall the Man of Iron and I built, and it just kept getting stuck halfway.

Suddenly the Commish had an idea:

He lubed up the screw and it worked. Here it is with the spreadable butter nice and melty, oozing itself all over the rail--it's bleepin' HOT in Seattle.

(Oh, and I was trying to be all artsy-fartsy with the photo and thought this one came out, but it's still blurry. Drats. But you can still see the butter)

I'd say that's a win, right? Three cheers for the Commish--a few more tricks like this and I may have to start calling him MacGyver.


Who has the button?

Note to self: It all boils down to perspective.

Second grade field day. Shoe kick, water balloon toss, three-legged race. It was my first field day at my new school--my old school didn't have a field day, well, we had a "day at the park" which was where I had one of my most embarrassing moments in life, but that's another story.

One of the field day events was a race that had kids run down the field to a plastic bag filled with crazy old man clothes. I remember a tie, vest, sport coat, business socks, and big dress shoes. When my "heat" was up, competitive little me ran my little heart out down the field, but I had quite a time getting dressed, such a time that I ended up dead last. I have always hated losing. Hated it. And any loss is followed by me beating myself up for what I could-have-should-have done. But on that day, during that race, even though I was very last, very last by a long shot, I won a prize. One of the teachers running that station gave me a "You're looking at a winner!" button reserved for the person she thought was the best sport during the day. I remember she gave it to me because I was laughing so hard trying to run back in the over-sized shoes, pants, shirt, etc. and that instead of being upset that I was in last place, I had a huge grin on my face.

I remember that moment very clearly, but I can't remember why I wasn't beating myself up for coming in last. I'd like to think that it was because the situation was so ridiculous, how could anyone expect to be the "best" at running around in dad's old size 12 dress shoes? All you can do is laugh.

After last weekend's mini-series which ended in me promptly beating myself up, I had a fantastic talk with Coach A and it really got me thinking. Something that stuck with me from our little chat was my propensity toward the defeatist, beat yourself-up, self-critical view of things. And that maybe, just maybe it would be a good experiment for me to try and pick out the the positive wins in each situation.

And what does this have to do with elementary school field days? Well, maybe there are certain events that I am good at--like laying subway tile--and then maybe there are those events I'm not the "best" at, the ones that are like running around in dad's old clothes, say for instance going up to a stranger eating his dinner with a friend and chatting him up. Who is good at that? And instead of beating myself up for not talking to him, maybe I should be going after that elusive button, and just keep smiling and laughing, take the small victories, and stay in the race.

I'm going to try this new perspective on for size, because dear Internets, you're looking at a winner!


Wanting to be a Van Winkle

Exhausted. I'm exhausted this week. I've been working nearly non-stop on the kitchen. And when I've taken the time to stop, I've started posts in response to the saga I shared at the beginning of the week, but each night I find myself too tired to finish them and post.

In the event I'm losing you, have no fear, I'll be back to my regular posting self soon--as I'm really close to being finished with the kitchen. But I'm typing this with my eyes half closed and with sleep beckoning. Spell check and then it's bedtime.


What I said

STOP! Before you read this post, make sure you read this one, and this one, and then this one. Okay, you may proceed.

Me: So can I ask you a random question?

Him: Sure.

Me: I noticed you walked in with a book and I'm doing a little bit of a social study and am wondering if you came in with the intent to read the book, or did you bring it so that you have something to do sitting here at the bar alone, so that you don't look alone, or desperate, or anything?

Him: (Looks at me quizzically)

Me: See, I came here alone and brought my laptop, because I normally bring something--laptop, book, magazine--to kill the time and so that I look like I'm the single girl who's so self-assured she can come out to eat alone and do her own thing because she's an independent woman, she's got it together, she doesn't need no stinking other person there! So, I'm sitting on my laptop, pontificating about that very point when you walked in the door and saddled up to the bar with a book, and I thought to myself, I should see what happens and should also see if other people think like I do, or if maybe they have pure intentions to read or whatever, which they could do in the quiet comforts of their own home.

Him: (Laughs). You are so right. What did you say your name was?

Yes, friends, that's how the conversation went... in my head.

As I was leaving the pub, I ran to the bathroom and got my courage up to talk to him on the way out. I looked cute, smelled good, and knew what I was going to say. I headed back up to the front, took a deep breath, gave myself one last cheer (You can do this, Little Ms. Notetaker! Make your readers proud), took one step in his direction, course corrected and walked myself right out of there.

I chickened out.

And I already know what most of you are thinking. And don't worry, I've already given myself a talking to. I can't believe I didn't go talk to him, 1.) because I think he actually would have been receptive, and 2.) because I clearly need the practice. But I didn't. I just hopped in my car and came home. And I know why I didn't, but that's a topic that I'm not delving into in this post.

Suffice it to say that I'm feeling a little exposed now. I mean, normally I go through this whole process in my brain. But this time, I put it out there--in pseudo real-time--for all to read about, and now the Internets knows that I'm chicken.

That, in and of itself, may be enough for me to change my typical behavior.

Get off it and go talk to him

Lenny's still alive... barely. Must type fast.

If you're joining this blog already in-progress, let me catch you up to speed:

Me; lonely; head to local spot to grab dinner and take laptop with me so as not to appear as lonely as I am.

Guy; enters local spot; cute and flying solo; carrying book which in my mind is so that he doesn't appear as lonely as he is.

He just had a friend join him, which makes it harder for me to go talk to him, and I was actually going to muster up the courage to go do it.

All of the sudden this place has become Dude Fest '08. Oh, and I think I like the bartender, too.

Note to Self: Hopvine is hopping on Sunday nights.

Forget everything I said about wanting to cook on Sunday nights, I think I found myself a new tradition!

I'm not the only one with that M.O.

Still Sunday night. Still in my favorite pub. Still with Lenny.

In walks someone, someone meaning a cute, tall, and solo fellow. But he’s not solo, he has a book (I don’t know if he’s a freak like me and has a name for his book).

Well, wouldn’t it be something if Little Ms. Notetaker got over her extreme shyness and talked to him? But maybe he’s not of the same mindset, and he brought the book because he wants to read, not as the item-that-you-bring-with-you-when-dining-alone-so-you-appear with-it-and-cool-and-not-at-all-pathetically-alone.

Lenny, no! Lenny’s running out of juice. Which means I have to end this date early and you’re just going to have to wait, on the edge of your seats I’m sure, to see what I do next (don’t hold your breath, I probably just pay my bill and leave).

Table for one

It’s Sunday night. In my former life, the one where I had a kitchen, I used to love to cook on Sundays, have an impromptu dinner party or just have lots of leftovers for myself. When I had my first apartment in grad school, the Link and I started a Sunday night tradition of having each other over for dinner on Sundays. We’d take turns hosting and had one rule: each time we had to try a new recipe. I miss those days.

Being the kitchenless Little Ms. Notetaker that I am (although I am only about a week away from having a working kitchen, check out the progress I’ve made in the past week), I find myself at my favorite Seattle pub, dining alone, well, me and my laptop. Yep, I’m on a date with my laptop—heretofore the laptop will be known as Lenny. I’m not going to lie, I’m lonely, sorry Lenny but it’s true. Now, it’s not all the time and it’s not all that bad, but I’m getting tired of dining solo. My life is extremely full of cool activities and amazing friends, and most nights of the week I’m busy, but that busyness is just a front to the fact that I’m a little bit lonely.

Take for instance this weekend; I was a hermit (granted I was working on the kitchen pretty much non-stop). The only contact I had with the outside world were the trips I made to Home Depot and Lowe’s and then the few hours when my plumber stopped in. So tonight, after completing the HUGE task of tiling the kitchen, I forced myself to shower (yes, hermits don’t necessarily see personal hygiene as a priority), put on some cute clothes, and join world of the living.

So here I am, looking Seattle-cute, at my favorite place, with Lenny. Lucky for you, I have him here and am cranking out this, and future, posts. But unlucky for me, Lenny’s not much of a conversationalist. However, without Lenny (or a book, or magazine, or something) I cannot handle the solo dinner. I get so bored just sitting there eating, just me and my thoughts (hello, that’s what it’s like in my house so why bother going out to pay for that experience?). And I kind of hate the fact that I have Lenny here, because it makes me seem like I’m completely self-absorbed (okay, which I am), but nobody’s going to talk to me with Lenny here, and I’m PAINFULLY shy (it’s very true), and even though it would make my week if someone came up and talked to me, they won’t because I’m keeping them at bay with Lenny, and I’m keeping them at bay because I don’t want to be seen as that poor lonely girl eating out on her own. Ah, the vicious cycle.

So until I’m not solo, and/or until I can start hosting those impromptu dinner parties, looks like it’s me and Lenny.


And then the next moment

Now how do you feel about your kitchen, Little Ms. Notetaker?

I do love my counter top. I don't love the fact that the company didn't tell me that the holes for the faucet and fixtures were going to be partially obstructed by part of the cabinet. Now I have to figure out how I'm going to fix that one with drill? saw? file? sheer will power? But I'm surprisingly calm about it.

Thanks for putting up with my temper tantrum.

In the moment

How do you feel about your kitchen, Little Ms. Notetaker?


Yeah, that about sums it up.


Regret numero uno

Note to self: When taking family portraits, limit it to FAMILY. Legitimate family. Practically family never counts.

While I was packing up my bag in a back bedroom at my grandparents' house over the weekend, I heard my mom call my name from another room. Actually, what she said was, "Come here, I want you to see this," and it was said in a way that made me think I had done some thing wrong. Little did I know that, although innocent, I really had.

I found her in the living room with a framed picture in hand. Tilting the frame my way, she asked me to take a look at it and let her know what it was. Simple. It was a picture from my cousin's wedding last year in May. As with all of the family weddings, we always take a family picture, and as we are a large family there were around 40 people crammed into this one.

Then she asked me where I was, I had to look really hard to find myself as I was stuck behind one of my uncles, at an angle where you could only see half of my face peering around his head. And just as I was beginning to question why she had dragged me out here to ask me these obvious questions, she asked, and who is that next to you?


Marinara jar.

Not only is he in the family picture (which by the way, I had NOT suggested, but someone else in the family had coaxed him in, saying, well, you're practically family. Yeah, we broke up three weeks after this), but you can clearly see him. In fact he has space all around his head. And then there's me, looking like I'm struggling to be seen in the picture--hey guys, look I'm back here, farther left, up a little, yeah there, it's me, see, here I am--and I am family!

Needless to say, I won't be making that mistake again.


Better than therapy

Posting was a little sporadic last week, as I was back in the Midwest for a family reunion (in the town where my mom and her 11 siblings grew up, where my grandparents still live, and where I—make a fool of myselfput on a show each Thanksgiving).

I love that town. Moreover, I love my grandparents’ house in that town. Whenever I’m in a situation where I’m taken through a guided visualization (and for some reason in my life, that’s been a lot of times, quite possibly more than the average person) and I reach the part after the deep, calming, relaxing breathing, the part where they say, “Now picture yourself in a place where you feel calm and relaxed,” I always, always, always end up in my grandparents’ house. Always. I’ve tried to end up on a tropical beach, or next to a peaceful mountain lake, but I can’t ever fool myself, and end up in Wisconsin, usually on the screened-in porch, casually lazing on the porch swing.

When I was a kid we’d pack up the car and trek across the middle of America to get to Grandma and Grandpa’s. We’d usually spend a couple weeks there, riding bikes, buying 10 cent candies at the stuck-in-time variety store uptown, squishing pennies on the railroad tracks, wading in the Mississippi river, catching lightning bugs, and just being carefree kids. And while the activities have changed, somewhat, whenever we pull up the road approaching the house everything melts away and I can just be carefree.

My senses are in a heightened state whenever I’m there. I particularly notice the sounds and smells. Like the smell of Grandma’s house (each room so distinct), the smell of the river just a block away (closer if it’s flooded), the smell just before a thunderstorm rolls in, the smell of the yard (combination of the trees, the garden, the grass, and the general “Midwest” smell in the air), and funny things like the smell of Bactine, cedar closets, or Folgers coffee brewing. I have all of those smells committed to memory and if one of them ever pops up elsewhere in my life, I’m immediately transported.

I was struggling to fall asleep last night in their house. The night was very still, but anything but quiet. I crept out to the kitchen to get a glass of water, hoping not to wake anyone and I was overcome with the sounds that are so signature of Grandma and Grandpa’s place: the creak in the kitchen floor; the symphonic rhythm of the crickets, the tree frogs, and bull frogs; the murmur of trucks on the county highway off in the distance. It was the perfect early summer night, not too hot or humid, so the windows were all open letting in the concert along with the fresh air. I found myself mesmerized standing in the sun porch off the kitchen soaking it all in.

That town and that house are definitely my happy place. And while I’m happy in my place, here I lie with the windows open and the sounds of sub-woofers in the trunks of a teenage neighbors’ cars rattling my room and the musty smells of an old house having been closed up for a few days, and all I can visualize is getting back.


You can exhale now

[FYI: This is a post in two parts. Part one I wrote on the plane the other night and part two is from 2 minutes ago, as I was waiting to get online in my Grandparents' house]

Part I

In the event you were holding your breath, you can let it out now. No word from the first grade teacher, and I'm guessing there won't be any.

Onward, ladies. Onward.

Part II

Note to self: Start beefing up your lung capacity, because maybe you need to learn to hold your breath just a little bit longer.

HOLY CRAPOLA! I'm sitting here at my grandparents' house in small town, Wisconsin, when what do I see on my phone? A text message from a somewhat familiar number. Yes, that somewhat familiar number. The text came in last night while I was hanging out with my mom, grandma, aunt and cousin. Here's what it says:

"Thanks for message yes I like the beer idea too next week maybe"

Now, let's analyze this shall we? Overall I'd say he's an efficient man, why use four words when three will do the trick, so long as you throw sentence structure out the window. And while we're at it, forget punctuation that just slows us down right doesnt it I mean who needs punctuation its honestly just a timesuckbutreallyweshouldgetridofspacestooeverythingjustflowsbetterwtihoutspacesandpunctuationdontyouthink

Okay, I'm not going to begrudge him is text messaging grammar. The fact is he responded and responded with a counter offer to meet up for a beer. At this point I still don't know if it was a fake number or if it was an honest mistake. I'm leaning toward fake number followed by an overwhelming sense of guilt (or maybe it's fear, fear of the notetaker) of what he did. Ooh, maybe he's Catholic too. I'm also leaning toward meeting up, one, to find out and two, because I like beer.


Didn't I tell you, I never quit?

First, thank you, Internets. Everyone with their kind thoughts and words--heck even my mom threatening gather up my aunts and beat the guy up--really makes a girl feel loved.

After I finished my rant-filled post the other night, I went off and wrote the DJ for the radio station a little e-mail. That one is for my dad, who always asked me what I was going to do with an English degree; well, Dad, someday I will have a blog and I'll also send very eloquent flame mails. Thank you, private education.

It just so happens that DJ has a little schtick called "Injustice Man," and if ever an injustice occurs, Injustice Man is on the case to right the wrong. Could there be any greater injustice than that which was done unto me? I took the angle that I was shocked and dismayed that this had happened so blatantly and that he needed to be held accountable (or in the event that it was an honest mistake, have a shot at that missed opportunity).

The next morning, I flipped on that radio station and heard a few people calling in and talking about their experience, which got me thinking. Rather than vilify the guy through Injustice Man, maybe I could soften the blow by calling in directly and either, a.) getting the sympathy of the early morning Seattle listening public, or b.) give him the chance to call in and clear up the mistake that I'm so hoping this was. Never one to shy away from calling radio stations, I dialed the number.

One of the on-air personalities answered, off-air, and I began to tell him my plight. He had been at the event and was shocked about the situation too (I was starting to collect people in my corner). I told him what didn't add up for me was the fact that he gave me his number and then told me to call it, right there, with him standing in front of me. Why even do that if your doling out fake digits? He agreed and then asked me his name and what fake number he gave me. I was a little suspicious that he was going to do some crazy antic on the show, but instead he told me that the number he gave me was really close to his real number (you see, in order to go to this party, you had to provide the station with a lot of information--phone number included).

Then our conversation became very serious and very hushed. I'm not going to incriminate anyone, but let's just say, I hung up the phone with the guy's actual phone number.


And I sat on that puppy all weekend.

Note to self: It's not really psycho if you are just using the resources available to you, right?

I went back and forth on what I should do. Ultimately it came down to my intent--I needed closure on this. Just writing him off wouldn't satiate my need to know if he was rude to my face, or if it was an honest mistake and opportunity is just sitting right out there.

So I called tonight; it was definitely the right number. It went to voicemail--as I suspected it would. I think I left a cute, fun, unassuming message, but if he really did give me a fake number, there was probably nothing cute or fun about me randomly popping up in his voicemail. At any rate, I'm not worried what he thinks--either he's thankful I finally called and someday we'll laugh about how I went to such lengths to track him down, or he's sitting at home soiling himself because how the heck did I do that (hello? Once a Singing Detective, always a Singing Detective!).

I've thrown it out to the universe and we'll see what comes back. Either way, I'm going to bed tonight knowing that I've done all that I can, or ever need to. I'm still holding out hope that he's a good guy, but if he's not, now I'll know definitively.

Now I can completely channel my emotional energy into good things... or maybe just finishing my kitchen.


I quit.

I do. I really do.

I am so flustered and perturbed right now. I am certainly in no state to be blogging, but I'm going to anyway.

Dating bites. And I quit.

A (married) friend of mine heard about a structured singles party being thrown by one of the local radio stations and I grabbed a few of my single girlfriends to check it out. Safety in numbers, right? We didn't go in with particularly high expectations, which was good, and admittedly I thought, well, I'm sure I'll come back with something to blog about. And boy, howdy did I.

I am really not going to bore you with the details of the majority of the event, suffice it to say that the people there were not really what we are looking for and the number of women there was exponentially higher than men.

So there we are, meeting other cool women when a guy in a blue shirt walks by. I barely catch sight of him, but I turned to a friend and said, whoever that blue shirt guy is, he's the only one I'd be interested in talking to here.

Well low and behold, 10 minutes later he is standing behind us and we are talking to him and the two women from work he came there with. After a short while, his friends leave and my friend and I are chatting him up. At this point, I don't really care which one of us leaves with his number, the goal is that one of us does because he is quite attractive, sincere--I mean he teaches first grade, swoon, right?--and probably the most eligible person there.

The time comes for us to leave. By now his friends have returned and one of them blurts out, "So which one of you is leaving with his number."

Awkward pause.

I break the silence by offering that we could give him our phone numbers and put the ball in his court, he could call or not call whomever he likes. He act like this is too much pressure and says, I'll just give you my number. So he gives it to me, has me program it in my phone, and then call it so it will be programmed in his phone. Some weirdness ensues when I call his number, but he assures me he has the number. So we leave.

In the car we get to talking about it, and my friend and I cordially exchange the" who wants to date him more" thoughts, when I look at my phone and realize he's already called. That's odd. My other friend joked that maybe he thought he didn't have my correct number and was calling to check. I decide to call him back and I get a voicemail. Of a woman. Talking about how she and her family can't answer the phone right now.

Oh no, he did not!

I hang up. That number immediately calls me back, which forces me to utter the following statements to the woman I heard on the recorded voicemailbox: "Oh, hi. Yes. Yeah, I did call you, because you see, I was at this bar, and this guy I met gave me this phone number saying it was his. Yeah, then he told me to call it right away so he'd have my number. Right. Right. It's not his number. Okay, sorry. Have a good night."

Oh yes he did.

I really truly want to believe that I programmed the number in wrong. Really I do. But there's just something weird about it all. That's just Pollyanna me, really hoping for the best in people.

But come on. You are in your 30s. You may teach first graders, but that doesn't give you the freedom to be one. If you're not that into me, just say it. That is so much easier to take than calling some woman at home and humiliating myself. Or if you're not even a little brave, just take the out I give you, take my number and don't call. Sure it's chicken, but it's so much better than making me look like a fool and seriously, seriously consider giving up dating for good. I don't have the time for this.

There's a little more to the story, but I'm too tired for that now. Plus there may be updates to come on this. Don't worry, nothing bad. Let's just say I value accountability and think punishments should fit the crimes. Let's also remember, that this event was sponsored by a well-listened to local radio station...

Note to all the men out there that think they can casually jerk women around: Think twice before messing with Little Ms. Notetaker.


Brid Flu, here!

Okay so not the bird flu, literally, but here, literally.

A sign outside of my building at work today read, “National Pandemic Planning This Way.” I found this fascinatingly funny. And I know there isn’t anything funny about pandemics, but upon first glance, I only saw, “National Pandemic... This Way.” And I couldn’t help but think: Note to self: Don’t go that way!


All hail the mighty Cheeto

Oh, Cheeto, how I love thee? Let me count the ways,
You are orange and keep the scurvy at bay?

Maybe not so much, but I do love me some Cheetos. I indulged my inner-child at lunch today (don't worry, I also had an orange, too).

Winter has returned to Seattle, well at least non-summer weather has become an unwelcome visitor and it invited rain along with it. Dreary, rainy, and cold. Yuck. One plus about that weather is that it makes me yearn for comfort food--like soup. Today was the perfect soup day, and the soup du jour was split pea with ham. Split pea soup is one of my favorites and reminds me of being a kid, only we had Campbell's version, the kind that plops out of the can as a mushy form in the same shape of the can. The cafeteria serves Au Bon Pain soup, so I imagine it doesn't come out of a can with ridges molded into it.

At some point as a young kid, my mom made my brother and I split pea soup for lunch and somehow the Cheetos we had along with it that day ended up in the soup. Whether by accident or intent, Cheetos in split pea soup is fantastically yummy. And ever since that day, we'd always put Cheetos in the soup.

I was delightedly giddy with my cup of soup today as I headed back to the office, keeping my fingers crossed that the vending machine had crunchy, cheesy goodness. And it did! Au Bon Pain split pea and ham soup, classy. Me dumping Cheetos into my fancy soup, not-so-classy, but oh-so-wonderful.

Note to self: Simple indulgences can make the rainiest days sunshiney.

And no, Cheetos have no vitamin C in them, but they do have eight percent of your daily recommended intake of riboflavin! Riboflavin, people. Cheetos--putting the "flav" in riboflavin.

Thank you, Cheeto.


Swedish Fish are not a good source of Vitamin C

A trip down to IKEA this weekend elicited my Pavlovian response. You see, a trip to IKEA always ends with two bags of Swedish Fish. One for me at home, and one for me in the car ride home.

This past weekend's trip had me even more excited for the treats than ever. Ever since I became kitchenless a month ago, I may be a little bit on the malnourished side. I'm trying to eat well, heck, I'm just trying to eat, but it's really hard. I've been eating out a lot--and a few friends have taken pity on me and are forcing me to eat items other than cereal, toast, hummus and chips. Let me tell you right now, carrots are pretty freaking exotic additions to the diet. So the thought of fruit flavored candy made me feel like I was doing something good.

I was joking with friends that I may end up with scurvy--I mean seriously, do people still get that. But then I actually got nervous that I may. Yes, tell me more about these things you people call "oranges"...

At any rate, I looked up the symptoms of scurvy and I'm pretty sure I'm going to live. Although, I did have some massive nosebleeds when I was back in Colorado, but I blame that on the altitude; and my gums have been a little puffy lately, but I blame that on my laziness in not flossing. And now that I think about it, I have been bruising all over the place, but I blame that on my clumsiness and having cabinets, appliances, and power tools strewn about my whole world.

Note to self: Floss and take your vitamins daily.

Have no fear, I'll ward off the scurvy starting tomorrow. But if you do happen to notice me bleeding into my muscles or if I start to complain about having loose teeth, just shower me in OJ. And after that, let's sit around and laugh about the time I almost died from a pirate's disease. But if I do die, bury me in this shirt. That would be funny and not at all inappropriate.