Note to self: Next time maybe go for 10 fewer jalapenos.
Wednesday is Taco Salad day in the cafe at work, ole! Love me my taco salad, but I was a little too eager to load it up with hotness today. Aye-yaye-yaye! (Does anyone know how to spell that? My mad high school French skillz are not helping me out here, "Ooh lala" does not produce the desired effect.)
My entire digestive system might be "en fuego" (ha ha, muy bien Espanol, no?).
5.07.2008
Friends friends, or Facebook friends?
I'm overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by social networking. I'm LinkedIn, Meeting Up, Facebooked, Ninging, and was seriously contemplating twittering. But it's just too much. I had to pare down the networks and realistically am only giving limited attention to Facebook.
Here's my beef--or rather, beefs--with Facebook. It came out while I worked as an university administrator. The original audience was for college students, and when you worked in a role like me, the goal was to NOT be on Facebook. But then it opened up, and suddenly now everyone is on it. E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E. One thing I do like about it is the fact that I have the opportunity to stay in better contact with a larger circle of friends more frequently. However, to take advantage of that opportunity one needs to log-in more frequently and actually make the effort to reach out and make contact.
Which leads me to my second beef, the levels of friendship. I feel like Facebook has taken the good ol' junior high love note: "Do you like like me, or just like me like friends?" and made it appropriate for adults: "Do you like like me, just like me like friends, or just say that you like me on Facebook so you can look like you are Ms. Popular with a long list of friends?"
There is this phenomenon out there--and I'll admit I'm fascinated by it too--that you can find almost anyone, old high school friends, long lost college roommates, exes, you name it. I've been amazed at the number of people who have found me, or who I have found. But then there's the person, who maybe has a network in common with you (say maybe one of your former schools), and they friend you. And you open up your request and think, who the heck are you?! Do I even know you? And the next thing you know, they are sending you a message using a nickname for you that you know you never gave them permission to use (not now, and certainly not when you may or may not have known them in the past) asking you how you've been. And then worse yet, they start throwing things at you. I'm sorry, I don't even know who you are, I'm just being nice--you certainly don't know me well enough to shorten my name, let alone huck a vampire at me. Seriously?
I have to admit, I have been a Facebook b#$ch. On another occasion, a guy I went out on one date with about three years ago (he liked me too much... which, if you know what I'm talking about can be a major deal breaker) found me and proceeded to comment on how my profile status listed me as single and was just wondering if we could rekindle something. And he casually asked me "what's new?" It had been a long week, I was tired, and regretting the fact that I finally got on Facebook, a "not much" would have sufficed, but I proceeded to tell him what was new. I mean we had one date. ONE DATE. Everything is new. I said something to the effect of, "Well, since we had our one date, I fell in and out of love, I got a new job, bought a house, moved into another new job, turned 30, took up soccer, ran two other marathons, and am living a pretty full life right now. Considering we don't really know each other, what's new with you?"
Is it any wonder I never heard back from him? Well, at least he got the hint and is keeping his vampires to himself.
Here's my beef--or rather, beefs--with Facebook. It came out while I worked as an university administrator. The original audience was for college students, and when you worked in a role like me, the goal was to NOT be on Facebook. But then it opened up, and suddenly now everyone is on it. E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E. One thing I do like about it is the fact that I have the opportunity to stay in better contact with a larger circle of friends more frequently. However, to take advantage of that opportunity one needs to log-in more frequently and actually make the effort to reach out and make contact.
Which leads me to my second beef, the levels of friendship. I feel like Facebook has taken the good ol' junior high love note: "Do you like like me, or just like me like friends?" and made it appropriate for adults: "Do you like like me, just like me like friends, or just say that you like me on Facebook so you can look like you are Ms. Popular with a long list of friends?"
There is this phenomenon out there--and I'll admit I'm fascinated by it too--that you can find almost anyone, old high school friends, long lost college roommates, exes, you name it. I've been amazed at the number of people who have found me, or who I have found. But then there's the person, who maybe has a network in common with you (say maybe one of your former schools), and they friend you. And you open up your request and think, who the heck are you?! Do I even know you? And the next thing you know, they are sending you a message using a nickname for you that you know you never gave them permission to use (not now, and certainly not when you may or may not have known them in the past) asking you how you've been. And then worse yet, they start throwing things at you. I'm sorry, I don't even know who you are, I'm just being nice--you certainly don't know me well enough to shorten my name, let alone huck a vampire at me. Seriously?
I have to admit, I have been a Facebook b#$ch. On another occasion, a guy I went out on one date with about three years ago (he liked me too much... which, if you know what I'm talking about can be a major deal breaker) found me and proceeded to comment on how my profile status listed me as single and was just wondering if we could rekindle something. And he casually asked me "what's new?" It had been a long week, I was tired, and regretting the fact that I finally got on Facebook, a "not much" would have sufficed, but I proceeded to tell him what was new. I mean we had one date. ONE DATE. Everything is new. I said something to the effect of, "Well, since we had our one date, I fell in and out of love, I got a new job, bought a house, moved into another new job, turned 30, took up soccer, ran two other marathons, and am living a pretty full life right now. Considering we don't really know each other, what's new with you?"
Is it any wonder I never heard back from him? Well, at least he got the hint and is keeping his vampires to himself.
5.04.2008
Run, Little Ms. Notetaker, run
I've spent almost the entire weekend working on the kitchen. In fact, almost every minute I've been at home for the past week has been spent on the kitchen. As I type this, I'm half-asleep and drooling on myself. I know that when I finally close down and drift off, I'm likely going to be dreaming of drywall and taping and mudding up the seams (if you don't know what that means, don't worry until a few days ago, neither did I and now I'm haunted by it).
But not quite every minute of this weekend was spent on the kitchen. Late this afternoon I had to step away from it all. It was a gorgeous day in Seattle and I went for a run. It was the best thing I could have done for myself--clearing my mind, getting in some fresh air (it was one of the few times I was without a dust mask over my nose for the past week) and ultimately just being. It was so needed and it made me realize it's something I squeezed out of my schedule recently. And even though I returned home to climb right back on the ladder to slather another coat of mud onto the drywalls, I climbed up that ladder feeling a little bit better about things. It definitely gave my batteries the boost that they needed.
Note to self: Trust that what needs to get done will get done when it needs to get done--and will probably get done better if you're recharging yourself along the way.
But not quite every minute of this weekend was spent on the kitchen. Late this afternoon I had to step away from it all. It was a gorgeous day in Seattle and I went for a run. It was the best thing I could have done for myself--clearing my mind, getting in some fresh air (it was one of the few times I was without a dust mask over my nose for the past week) and ultimately just being. It was so needed and it made me realize it's something I squeezed out of my schedule recently. And even though I returned home to climb right back on the ladder to slather another coat of mud onto the drywalls, I climbed up that ladder feeling a little bit better about things. It definitely gave my batteries the boost that they needed.
Note to self: Trust that what needs to get done will get done when it needs to get done--and will probably get done better if you're recharging yourself along the way.
4.30.2008
Hitting me with my best shot
Note to self: Just because you are in possession of a sledgehammer, it does not give you free reign to go swinging it around demolishing stuff.
I got my first battle wound tonight.
And I know that I have this whole other blog to talk kitchen renovation, but tonight's note was a very important one. Be ye not so ignorant to do as I did.
The Man of Iron and I did most of the demolition over the weekend, however the more that was uncovered, the more it became crystal clear that I needed to take one of the walls completely down to the studs. When I got home from work today (after taking a little cat nap, and drooling over my boy, Stanley--reading up on how to install and finish drywall), I got to cracking on round two of demolition.
I started out trying to remove the wooden slats with my little hammer and crowbar, but it just wasn't cutting it for me. So I went downstairs to get my sledgehammer (don't picture something ginormous, a la Peter Gabriel, but rather a medium sized one, hefty enough to do the job... and maybe a little bit of damage).
With the sledgehammer in hand I thought, who needs the crowbar, I'm just going to take this puppy directly to the slats. After I realized how hard I had to swing the hammer to actually do anything I started to think, this could be a great way to get out some pent up aggression. And that's when it hit me. Not a revelation or anything, but a piece of wood; it literally flew off the wall and hit me in the face. [EDIT: After rereading this post, I realized the wood didn't literally fly off the wall, my house is special, but not that special. So it flew off the wall, and literally hit me in the face. I decided to leave it in, because the visual is a good early morning funny. Note to self: Reread your work more carefully before you post...]
I got it right across the cheekbone. It's a little swollen and a little scraped, and looks a lot like someone took their pent up aggression out on me--maybe it was the walls giving me my comeuppance.
Kitchen=1
Little Miss Notetaker=0
--
On another note... this is my 100th post. I am beside myself that I ever made it past the first week. And honestly, this is not what I intended my 100th post to be, but it's oh-so-fitting. because I didn't intend to have this episode of "domestic violence, " but the absurdity of life prevails. At any rate, my humble thanks for reading my little notes. I hope you are loving reading them as much as I am living and sharing them (okay, I'm not going to lie, I'm not loving living with the self-inflicted shiner I gave myself tonight, but it's so great to know that I have a little forum where I can tell that story, and where I think a couple people will read it and laugh along with me. Without the blog, I just would have had to laugh at myself alone in my wall-less kitchen). Thank you, Internet!
I got my first battle wound tonight.
And I know that I have this whole other blog to talk kitchen renovation, but tonight's note was a very important one. Be ye not so ignorant to do as I did.
The Man of Iron and I did most of the demolition over the weekend, however the more that was uncovered, the more it became crystal clear that I needed to take one of the walls completely down to the studs. When I got home from work today (after taking a little cat nap, and drooling over my boy, Stanley--reading up on how to install and finish drywall), I got to cracking on round two of demolition.
I started out trying to remove the wooden slats with my little hammer and crowbar, but it just wasn't cutting it for me. So I went downstairs to get my sledgehammer (don't picture something ginormous, a la Peter Gabriel, but rather a medium sized one, hefty enough to do the job... and maybe a little bit of damage).
With the sledgehammer in hand I thought, who needs the crowbar, I'm just going to take this puppy directly to the slats. After I realized how hard I had to swing the hammer to actually do anything I started to think, this could be a great way to get out some pent up aggression. And that's when it hit me. Not a revelation or anything, but a piece of wood; it literally flew off the wall and hit me in the face. [EDIT: After rereading this post, I realized the wood didn't literally fly off the wall, my house is special, but not that special. So it flew off the wall, and literally hit me in the face. I decided to leave it in, because the visual is a good early morning funny. Note to self: Reread your work more carefully before you post...]
I got it right across the cheekbone. It's a little swollen and a little scraped, and looks a lot like someone took their pent up aggression out on me--maybe it was the walls giving me my comeuppance.
Kitchen=1
Little Miss Notetaker=0
--
On another note... this is my 100th post. I am beside myself that I ever made it past the first week. And honestly, this is not what I intended my 100th post to be, but it's oh-so-fitting. because I didn't intend to have this episode of "domestic violence, " but the absurdity of life prevails. At any rate, my humble thanks for reading my little notes. I hope you are loving reading them as much as I am living and sharing them (okay, I'm not going to lie, I'm not loving living with the self-inflicted shiner I gave myself tonight, but it's so great to know that I have a little forum where I can tell that story, and where I think a couple people will read it and laugh along with me. Without the blog, I just would have had to laugh at myself alone in my wall-less kitchen). Thank you, Internet!
4.28.2008
Dust Bowl 2008
Was Steinbeck writing the plot line of my weekend? I realize my own personal dust bowl from Saturday's demolition derby does not make me an honorary member of the Joad family, but I feel like I have just a smidgen of empathy for all those families driven batty by the dust, the dust, the dust that's everywhere.
As unsettled as I was with all of the dust on Saturday, everything was settled on Sunday as I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned some more. After the dust cleared, I was checking out the now partially exposed kitchen floor and I found something Steinbeck-ish. On top of the floors under the old cabinets were newspapers. I'm not exactly sure why these clippings were laying on the floor, but it was such an unexpected find under the pile of plaster. Sadly, I can't find any trace of the date on these papers. But the advertisement for a sale on "Summer Sport (?) Dresses and Evening Dresses regularly for $25.00" tells me that these weren't laid in the age of Vera Wang bridesmaid dresses... at least I didn't get mine for $25.00.
As unsettled as I was with all of the dust on Saturday, everything was settled on Sunday as I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned some more. After the dust cleared, I was checking out the now partially exposed kitchen floor and I found something Steinbeck-ish. On top of the floors under the old cabinets were newspapers. I'm not exactly sure why these clippings were laying on the floor, but it was such an unexpected find under the pile of plaster. Sadly, I can't find any trace of the date on these papers. But the advertisement for a sale on "Summer Sport (?) Dresses and Evening Dresses regularly for $25.00" tells me that these weren't laid in the age of Vera Wang bridesmaid dresses... at least I didn't get mine for $25.00.
Note to self: When your house talks to you, make sure you listen. Finding these relics from the past have got me thinking about the story of my house and the chapter I'm adding to it. I think I'm going to assemble a "time capsule" to hide behind the wall that I'll (and when I say I, I mean the Man of Iron and I) will be drywalling on Friday. Maybe I'll include Macy's weekly pullout from the paper to show how times have changed using the little known economic evening dress indicator.
4.25.2008
Yellow and blue make green... it's sealed!
Apparently I'm a crazy bag lady.
While I was cleaning out my kitchen the other night I came across my secret stash--okay, I'll be honest, not one, but a few secret stashes--of Ziploc bags. Throughout my childhood I can remember my mom washing Ziploc bags by hand and reusing them for our packed lunches, leftovers, etc. She would always say they are perfectly good bags and expensive to boot, so we were supposed to save them from our lunches and bring them home. And dutifully, I did.
I'm happy to report that's a habit I've continued, well, the saving and bringing home of the bags. It makes perfect sense, they are expensive and can be used many more times than just once. Saving the bags is another step in living more sustainably, which despite my showering habits, is actually really important to me.
So as I'm emptying drawers and cupboards, I came across two secret hiding places for my bags. You see, as good as I am at saving bags and bringing bags home--I'll even bring home other people's bags for myself--I am absolutely terrible about actually washing the bags. And, I've been known on one or seven occasions to take the pile of bags waiting to be washed on my counter and jam them into nooks and crannies of my kitchen before having guests over. I always have the same thought, as soon as they leave I'll pull them out and wash them. Ah, the cleaning habits of a lazy Virgo.
But apparently, I forgot about a couple of stashes of probably four dozen bags. When I hit the Ziploc jackpot the other night I found myself faced with a very challenging decision. I could either a) wash and dry the handfuls upon handfuls of bags, or I could b) do what normal people do and throw them away. Horror of horrors, I tossed them. With limited time of sinkdom left in my life before demolition derby, I didn't want to spend it hunched over my sink desperately turning baggies inside out making sure all the suds wash away.
So as I tossed the bags away, I made a little promise to them that when I get my new kitchen I will start over with new bags and a new commitment to washing them out... although I can't help but think that I'm nearly doubling my drawer and cupboard space, just think of the nooks and crannies.
While I was cleaning out my kitchen the other night I came across my secret stash--okay, I'll be honest, not one, but a few secret stashes--of Ziploc bags. Throughout my childhood I can remember my mom washing Ziploc bags by hand and reusing them for our packed lunches, leftovers, etc. She would always say they are perfectly good bags and expensive to boot, so we were supposed to save them from our lunches and bring them home. And dutifully, I did.
I'm happy to report that's a habit I've continued, well, the saving and bringing home of the bags. It makes perfect sense, they are expensive and can be used many more times than just once. Saving the bags is another step in living more sustainably, which despite my showering habits, is actually really important to me.
So as I'm emptying drawers and cupboards, I came across two secret hiding places for my bags. You see, as good as I am at saving bags and bringing bags home--I'll even bring home other people's bags for myself--I am absolutely terrible about actually washing the bags. And, I've been known on one or seven occasions to take the pile of bags waiting to be washed on my counter and jam them into nooks and crannies of my kitchen before having guests over. I always have the same thought, as soon as they leave I'll pull them out and wash them. Ah, the cleaning habits of a lazy Virgo.
But apparently, I forgot about a couple of stashes of probably four dozen bags. When I hit the Ziploc jackpot the other night I found myself faced with a very challenging decision. I could either a) wash and dry the handfuls upon handfuls of bags, or I could b) do what normal people do and throw them away. Horror of horrors, I tossed them. With limited time of sinkdom left in my life before demolition derby, I didn't want to spend it hunched over my sink desperately turning baggies inside out making sure all the suds wash away.
So as I tossed the bags away, I made a little promise to them that when I get my new kitchen I will start over with new bags and a new commitment to washing them out... although I can't help but think that I'm nearly doubling my drawer and cupboard space, just think of the nooks and crannies.
4.23.2008
Bitter Betty bids bye-bye to beloved boxes
So I know that I can get set in my ways, so set that I may appear inflexible, but sometimes my ways are just the best way so there's no other way to be but set.
I also know that I'm PMSing like nobodies business--sorry I just made it yours--which tends to make me a little more stubborn, and in the case of tonight, a little more bitter than normal. But I don't care, I'm holding on to that for a little bit.
Note to self: Next time someone you know asks to borrow boxes to pack up their kitchen either a.) absolutely insist that you get them back, no matter what, even if you break up and you just want to be done with him, or b.) don't give him the good boxes.
Tonight was "pack up the kitchen night" in preparation for this weekend's demolition derby. On my list of things I don't like to do around the house (second to mowing/edging the lawn) is packing. However, I've moved enough in the past seven years that I have it down to a science, or at least I did. For every move I'd use the same boxes, and the same wrapping, for the same content. I had this perfect box for all of my glasses and inside of that box were the perfect little brown paper bags from World Market that wrapped each glass... perfectly. But when I went downstairs to find that box, and all of the boxes I normally use for my kitchen supplies they were nowhere to be found. That's because they are sitting in a basement one mile away, filled with someone else's crap that was never unpacked after their kitchen was remodeled a year and a half ago. See, I told you I was bitter.
When we broke up and had the final drop-off of each other's belongings, I asked him for those boxes. I was anticipating my remodel and my set science for packing up my kitchen. But when he hemmed and hawed about getting me the boxes, I just didn't want to deal with it. I thought to myself, I can get new boxes and pack up the kitchen just fine. But somehow tonight, it wasn't just fine. I was cursing his name, damn you marinara jar.
And now, as I'm getting ready to turn in for the night, I'm sitting here thinking do I really need to be such a negative Nancy about this whole thing? Why am I holding onto these boxes? And where is this bitterness coming from--and will it go away before morning? And aren't I creating a new science? And shouldn't that be exciting? But really I loathe packing, so I know that I won't fool myself into thinking that. Really, I think it's just that I dislike packing so much, that making the excuse that I don't have my perfect boxes and my perfect wrappings because of the ex is much more gratifying to bitter ol' me than actually getting the packing done.
At any rate, I did get the glasses packed in different boxes. And that's not so bad. I also managed to save a couple of boxes to finish tomorrow night. I'm hoping that maybe then I will be a little less bitter and a little more open to possibility of the new.
A second note to self: If the bitterness remains, take yourself to World Market and buy fun worldly stuff that comes in those perfect little paper bags so you can start stocking up for next time.
I also know that I'm PMSing like nobodies business--sorry I just made it yours--which tends to make me a little more stubborn, and in the case of tonight, a little more bitter than normal. But I don't care, I'm holding on to that for a little bit.
Note to self: Next time someone you know asks to borrow boxes to pack up their kitchen either a.) absolutely insist that you get them back, no matter what, even if you break up and you just want to be done with him, or b.) don't give him the good boxes.
Tonight was "pack up the kitchen night" in preparation for this weekend's demolition derby. On my list of things I don't like to do around the house (second to mowing/edging the lawn) is packing. However, I've moved enough in the past seven years that I have it down to a science, or at least I did. For every move I'd use the same boxes, and the same wrapping, for the same content. I had this perfect box for all of my glasses and inside of that box were the perfect little brown paper bags from World Market that wrapped each glass... perfectly. But when I went downstairs to find that box, and all of the boxes I normally use for my kitchen supplies they were nowhere to be found. That's because they are sitting in a basement one mile away, filled with someone else's crap that was never unpacked after their kitchen was remodeled a year and a half ago. See, I told you I was bitter.
When we broke up and had the final drop-off of each other's belongings, I asked him for those boxes. I was anticipating my remodel and my set science for packing up my kitchen. But when he hemmed and hawed about getting me the boxes, I just didn't want to deal with it. I thought to myself, I can get new boxes and pack up the kitchen just fine. But somehow tonight, it wasn't just fine. I was cursing his name, damn you marinara jar.
And now, as I'm getting ready to turn in for the night, I'm sitting here thinking do I really need to be such a negative Nancy about this whole thing? Why am I holding onto these boxes? And where is this bitterness coming from--and will it go away before morning? And aren't I creating a new science? And shouldn't that be exciting? But really I loathe packing, so I know that I won't fool myself into thinking that. Really, I think it's just that I dislike packing so much, that making the excuse that I don't have my perfect boxes and my perfect wrappings because of the ex is much more gratifying to bitter ol' me than actually getting the packing done.
At any rate, I did get the glasses packed in different boxes. And that's not so bad. I also managed to save a couple of boxes to finish tomorrow night. I'm hoping that maybe then I will be a little less bitter and a little more open to possibility of the new.
A second note to self: If the bitterness remains, take yourself to World Market and buy fun worldly stuff that comes in those perfect little paper bags so you can start stocking up for next time.
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