Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Google Me This, Google Me That

Just checked my stats and discovered three searches that led to my blog:

confused red panda
the elder wand
cinnabon addicted

I love google.

How to Feel Like You're Exercising Without Exercising

I know this seems stupid--why would I want to feel like I'm exercising while I'm not really exercising and therefore not getting any of the benefits?

Because I think I should get some emotional credit for doing useless, hard things, like the following:


1. Take a cold shower. You just feel tough while you stand under a stream of frigid water. Just as good as running a 5k, I think. For wimps: shower before your husband and baby on Sunday morning. And a google search just led me to this. Maybe it isn't useless suffering.

Oh how I love the tiger/belly dancer mural inside!!

2. Eat spicy food. Oooh it burns so much but it tastes so good! Just like sweat in your eyes, the cramp in your calf! Glory! For Nathan: Order a "ZERO" when the man in the turban at Bombay House asks for your tikka masala spice level, on a scale of 1-5. I sure likert Indian (nerd alert on myself!).

Let's not talk about the requisite hair bow ... sick. We should talk about my beyond awesome fuschia Frankenstein water bottle.

3. Sleep on the ground. When I was semi-little, the night before a soccer game I got it into my head that I should sleep on my bedroom floor, believing it would give me an edge the next morning. I don't remember the train of thought that led to such dorkiness, but I do remember waking up several times in the night, thinking, "This is so tough and awesome; I'm going to play so well tomorrow."    ??????

So when you want something like that runner's high but you don't want to, you know, run ... just do something useless and uncomfortable.

Now, if you'll excuse me while I go walk on cold concrete; I need to feel like I'm losing a couple pounds.
 

Friday, January 27, 2012

I'm an Educated Woman with Presents on My Mind

If you're female, chances are you've read or heard of The Five Love Languages. If you're male, chances are some girl or your mom has gushed to you about them.

For spouses, teens, businessmen, apologies, and--coming soon--pet rocks.

If you are a marriage and family studies major, you know it's all pop psychology with no real scientific basis.

See that fancy tassel? It means I'm an expert on truth, glory, and when the Subway line in the Cougareat is shortest.

But science shmience! The idea sounds great and if it helps our relationships, who cares if it hasn't been properly validated in an unbiased study with an adequate sample size and statistically significant results?! Go ahead and sell millions of the books without something silly like evidence.

Academic snobbery aside, I think his heart is in the right place.

I acknowledge that just because it hasn't been studied doesn't mean it can't hold some truth or benefit. What I don't like is people talking about this theory like it's fact that we're all born with a love language just like we're all born with an eye color. I don't like people thinking this is the solution to all their marital problems. It oversimplifies relationships and doesn't address other vital areas--like how to communicate about your problems. I think I'll write that book: The Five Hate Languages: Whining, Passive-Aggressive Notes, Confrontation, Anger, and Telling Your Parents Too Much About Your Marriage. Automatic bestseller.

I do like the idea of each of us having one (or more) of five (such a convenient number) languages of love--it fits so nicely in a cute, sparkly little pop psychology package ($6.95 on Amazon). And the theory has been beneficial to me as well. For example, I love presents--something I would never had realized if I hadn't taken the Five Love Languages quiz last night with Nathan during our work and family life class (he's taking it through the MBA and spouses are invited).

Presents! Who would have known?

Graham loves presents, too. Nom nom nom.

Apparently (self-reportedly would be more accurate) I feel loved when I receive gifts. Gifts represent thoughtfulness, sacrifice, and love to me. A gift says, "I was thinking about you even when I wasn't with you, I know what you would love because I pay attention to you, and you're worth the sacrifice it took to get/make you this gift."

Papa Gremlin and Little Gremlin--both plotting all the presents they'll give me.

Nathan, my dear husband, finally armed with this vital information, brought me home a gift today:

Ooo! Venetian glass bead drop earrings! Love!

Now there's a sparkly package. It's almost like we both speak English.
 

Thursday, January 26, 2012

A Fortuitous Collard Greens Errand, or How I Met Kacy the Blogger

Today at Macey's, while purchasing a butternut squash and collard greens (my first time), I ran into one of my favorite bloggers. Literally ran into. You know when you awkwardly try to push your cart past someone else's through a narrow passage? And there's the chilling squeak of cart metal on cart metal? And you mutter a noncommittal "excuse me," but really you're regretting trying to go through in the first place because carts are always bulkier than you thought they were--kind of like my hips in a Target fitting room.

Eat your greens!! You will meet your favorite blogger if you do.

Then the owner of the other cart turns--her profile reminds you of someone--then her face is that someone: Kacy. This is embarrassing, but her old blog url was kasm.blogspot.com, so in my head her blog and somehow her name was "kasm" to me.

Anyway, I was starstruck and said something stupid like, "You have a blog."


Then she was nice and friendly and for the life of me I couldn't remember the real name of her blog (Every Day I Write the Book) and I didn't want to just yell, "Chasm! You write Chasm!" I just blathered on about how her blog is my favorite and I feel like a stalker because I'm like "Hi, Ellen!" (her little daughter's name--the daughter who was in the plastic car attached to the front of her cart) and I've always wondered what I would say if I ever met a blogger and now I know I would just have nothing intelligent to say .... on and on I went. She was very cool, told me about going to Alt Summit, asked me my name (Kimber--I remembered that at least), if I'd commented on her blog (maybe once or twice--I'm a bit of a lurker), if I had a blog (Poodle Writes--then later I worried she might think it was Poodle Rights like I was a PETA freak--I'm not! Poodles are for eating!).

Broccoli poodle: I love the internet.

She said she would look up my blog, so Kacy, if you find my little patch of internet, please know I'm not as weird as I was at Macey's today. But I really do wear gray sweat lounge pants with my brown ski coat liner all the time. In public. With my boat shoes.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Graham, Eat That Stinkin' Avocado!!

This is how I feel about three times a day. These feelings usually coincide with trying to cram something down Graham's throat.


The Gremlin won't eat ... unless I give him chocolate, strawberries, or black beans. The kid loves black beans.

Eat? Pshaw, can't you see I'm doing chair parkour?

He did eat when he was smaller ... but he's since developed something dreadful ... some call it a "will." I call it "the end of my reign."

How do I get him to eat? His one year check-up is approaching and my self-worth as a mother is inextricably fused with his percentiles. His weight at the 9 month day of judgement? 9th percentile. NINTH. His head was above average, though, and the motherly smugness of having a baby with a big brain (because that's all a big head can mean, duh!) helped me feel better about the motherly shame of having a scrawny kid.

A rare sighting of the creature feeding. BTW, nursing is never a "feeding"--sickest word ever.

I try to feed him, I promise. Nathan accuses me of only giving him healthy food and that's why he doesn't eat, so in desperation I gave him a cookie for lunch last week ... which of course he loved. Curses.

It was Thanksgiving, he humored me. And who can say no to Pillsbury crescent rolls? No one with Hamson genes.

Can I blame him for his palate? While pregnant my diet consisted mainly of Panda Express egg rolls and Costa Vida (this explains the black beans). How can I expect him to devour my offerings of quinoa and agave-sprinkled acorn squash?

Starving artist: working on the installation art on my kitchen floor. (Untitled, various plastics)

Short of tube feeding, do any of you sage parents out there have any advice? I have two weeks until weigh-in.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

How a Pigeon Named PayPal Scammed a Little Princess Out of $4,000

PayPal has this lovely fairytale they've been spreading around for years, and it goes something like this:

Once upon a time there was a little princess who lived in a cinder block castle. Sometimes she had to order goods from faraway merchants, and she paid them with the help of a little messenger pigeon named PayPal. That little pigeon was paid for his services with plenty of yummy french fries; in return he promised to deliver the princess's authorized payments safely, and to alert her if the merchant on the other end of his route was actually a scalawag. A 100% guarantee of protection, the pigeon had explained when he first met the princess on a windowsill in her highest tower. They lived happily ever after.

EXCEPT THAT'S NOT WHAT REALLY HAPPENED.

Evil.

The true tale of woe:

They lived happily ever after. One day, an evil witch (email "collegeminx188@hotmail.com") broke into the princess's tower, disguising herself as the princess with a cleverly made wig and a steady makeup hand. She snatched some of the princess's golden coins from their hiding place behind the commode.

Before the disguise.


After.

Little PayPal arrived on the windowsill just then, ready to pick up any payments the princess had. He noticed something was different about the "princess," but because he was still a little boozy from a morning spent at the pub (called Corporate Greed by locals), he didn't act on his suspicions. Nor did he bat a buggy little pigeon eye when the "princess" ordered a computer from an Asian merchant she'd never dealt with. Even worse--when the pigeon delivered the funds to the shifty-looking basement dweller (the witch's brother and uncle--yes, this is one person), instead of noticing the pile of car stereos and marijuana plants in the corner, little PayPal just ogled the nightingale in the neighbor's tree. But the very worst was that PayPal allowed such transactions not this once, not twice, but a dozen times.

Needless to say, when the princess found that her savings had been plundered, she was ticked off. She uncovered the scheme, gathering clues and evidence that she'd been a victim of fraud. She presented her case to the pigeon--the very same pigeon who had sworn to protect her transactions and never hold her liable for unauthorized usage of her funds.

What did that stupid little pigeon do?

He shrugged his shoulders, and twittered, "We have completed our investigation of your case and, as there is insufficient evidence in support of your claim, we have denied your Unauthorized Account Use Claim."

The princess was even more ticked off by the pigeon's impertinence and refusal to abide by the terms of their agreement.


Uhhhh ... I don't know what identity theft is, even though that's, like, my job.

Then the little pigeon, who had grown fat off the french fries of his numerous, naively trusting customers, called in a favor from a group of thugs--he wanted to collect on the fraudulent debt he'd allowed the princess to incur due to his negligence and greed.

And the princess cried, for her kingdom was small and the thugs were large.

To be continued ...

Amen, graffitist.

Monday, January 23, 2012

All I Really Need to Know I Learned From My Cinnabon Addiction

First off, did you know that humming is essentially singing through your nose? I learned that tonight while humming a lullaby to Graham.

Second, I have a great nutrition tip. If you're trying to be healthier and there's something sinfully delicious like, oh, let's say a homemade imitation Cinnabon (the last of the batch), and it's lounging seductively in its Pyrex on your stove, oozing its siren song--a duet of butter and refined flour--you know how these things go, how the cinnamon goo pulls you in, the tub of cream cheese frosting a willing accomplice to the whole scandal  ... JUST SMASH THE WHOLE THING ONTO YOUR KITCHEN FLOOR.

crapslice.

Broken glass has a funny way of destroying even the most intense cravings. I think I've solved our nation's obesity crisis.

Silver lining: I don't have to clean the dish.

Pyrite lining: A couple months ago, in a foolish frenzy of "simplifying" my life by getting rid of "excess" "crap" "I'll never need," I gave away my two extra Pyrex dishes in this same size.

Golden lining: We finally cut off Graham's double mullet.

Pass the pomade, please.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

To Symbiotic Relationships

Waiting for my massaman curry to arrive.

I don't want this blog to die. I like writing. I feel affirmed when people comment. I like the poodle on my whatever the top of my blog is called. Headboard? I enjoy showing off my cute baby. I love all the free stuff I get from my posh sponsors ... oh wait, didn't I tell you, dear reader? I HAVE A SPONSOR. That's why I'm back to blogging, baby. I've got to keep the money rollin' in and the page hits high.

Who's my sponsor? The manufacturer of the sweat lounge pants I wear all day? Close, but no.

My first ever sponsor is ...

Coming to a piece of old bread near you.

... the mold in my toilet bowl. Who even knew that was possible? Initially I just thought the couple who lived in the apartment before us (an old visiting teaching companion, coincidentally ... maybe there's some symbolism there? Except she was so nice!) had some serious toilet cleaning handicaps. But ten minutes of scrubbing and a subsequent Google search revealed otherwise. Mold. In my toilet bowl.

You know how sponsors are supposed to help me justify the time I spend on the internet? Toilet mold is a great sponsor that way. Every morning it greets me, then intimidates me into not trying to kill it AGAIN, so instead I use that time to read the internet and blog again starting now.

I resisted destroying the artistic integrity of my blog by cheapening it with capitalism and free swag ... but this mold WON'T DIE. I bleach it. It lives on. I bleach it and then I scrub it off. It regenerates. I leave my pee in it overnight (I don't want to wake Graham up, give me a break) and it magically flakes off the bowl! And then it comes back with a swift vengeance. I think I'll name it Ron Paul.

May as well be Kool-Aid.

Then today, I realized what the mold has been trying to tell me all along: "Give up, mediocre housewife. Surrender to my robustness. If you will stop trying to kill me--a mere nuisance to my immortal colony, mind you--I will let you blog."

So I made a deal with the devil in my toilet (what harm is it doing, really? It's not like Graham drinks out of there, though he does drink his bathwater ... ), and now I just have to awkwardly explain the scuzz in my toilet to people who use my bathroom.

In happier homemaker news, I made a teepee for an avocado I recently adopted.


It wasn't ripe, yet, and I wanted to speed up the process, so Google told me to put it in a paper bag with an apple or banana. Problem: I don't have paper bags. Didn't you know I hate nature? Plastic all the way, every time. Maybe the baby seals should sponsor me and then I'll stop trying to kill them. Anyway, I did have a bunch of bananas (shipped from Guatemala! I think they taste better the farther away they're from), so I figured this would be just as good, with all their ripening gasses oozing into my adolescent avocado. WORKED. Take that, Heloise.