Thursday, December 23, 2010

Barbara Walters ain't got nothin' on you

Alright. Here's the deal. This is a BIG reader participation entry. Actually, without any participation, this won't work at all.
I want you, Dear Readers, to ask me any questions you want. Anything.  I'll give you a week, and then I'll pick ten or so to answer in a new post.
I'm hoping this will spark some memories and help with the inevitable writer's block that is sure to plague me again.
I need at least 10 questions - which means post away, Dear Readers! Post away!

PS - I'd love to hit 30 followers....! I know you can make it happen!

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Remind me to take my Boniva before going to Wal-Mart

There's this really charming little cashier at the Wal-Mart we patronize. He's an older man, with very little hair and the cutest pair of eyeglasses, who takes his sweet time as he rings up every item that's on the belt. And by that I mean I once went through his line with a gallon of milk, a nasal aspirator, a pack of diapers, and a box of wine (Don't judge me.) and by the time he handed me my receipt I was hunched over with osteoporosis.
Whoa. I'm sorry. Is that mean? Is making fun of calcium deficiencies off-limits now? I'm asking only because I just had the thought that someone might leave comments about how It's not just a calcium deficiency, Stacey. Yeah, yeah. It's so much more than that, I know - I've seen Sally Field's Boniva commercials. But seriously, by the time he has scanned the damn wine my pelvic bone had snapped in two.
Naturally, I now avoid his line like the plague. Always on the lookout for another line - but today - oh today, was my lucky day. His was the only one with less than 3 people in it. Maybe because everybody else is avoiding him, too. And I suddenly felt so sorry for him that I walked right up in the line, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, today he'd had a B12 injection or was experimenting with doses of Adderall.
Wrong. 
I watched as the baby in the cart of the lady in front of me, grew up, got his driver's license, went to college, got married, had babies...okay, maybe not. Poor thing. His mother had no idea. She missed it all because she was too busy unloading her cart. It was taking him several minutes to choose which item he wanted to scan first. When he grabbed the bag of apples, I was all Oh, fiddlesticks! (I'm working on this whole not-cussing-in-front-of-hoodlums-thing. Humor me.)  Because whenever he scans anything like that, or something that requires a memorized numerical code for him to punch in, he stops, inhales a deep breath as if it is his last, looks over his shoulder in the direction of the produce section, and then closes his eyes for as long as it takes one of my bones to break. It's as if he thinks the produce section is going to yell, "Hey, Harold! Six four two! Six four two!" 
I'm not going to lie. It's really freaking adorable. 

Thursday, December 16, 2010

I may need a twelve-step program

Hello, my name is Stacey and I am a Facebook Stalker.  While I should probably be embarrassed to admit this, I know every single one of yous is guilty of this, too. And I take comfort in knowing that I'm not the only out there sitting in front of my computer screen trolling random people's Facebook pages.
I am an extraordinarily analytical person, sometimes (okay, most times) to a fault. Without even knowing I'm doing it, I read into everything about a person to try to "figure them out."  If someone says something that I find even slightly askew, it goes into my mind's filing cabinet - and everyone has a file.  I can retain information like a mofo. Let me clarify, I can retain useless information like a mofo.  Like, I can recall conversations that I've had with people years ago about what kind of toothpaste a friend's ex-boyfriend bought - but I can't remember what time I drop Grayson off for Mother's Day Out every freaking week.  It's true. I'm not perfect.  I'll let you absorb that for a minute.
*
*
*
Back to it. Yes, I am a stalker. I am nosy. But, I do have a vagina and that makes it okay that I'm curious. Right? Right? I don't gossip about it, I just like to know. That's just my personality, I guess and why I went into psychology. That's why I love my stat tracker. It provides me with information about you, Dear Readers. It's awesome. But also maddening since it doesn't tell me your names, or if you're married, or the color of your hair, or what kind of car you drive or if you have kids or pets and what their names are, and where you work and what you do there, or what kind of music you like, or what you had for lunch today..... But, that's why I like Facebook. All of these things are harmless little tidbits.  They're little things of no consequence. Little harmless little tidbits that I'm desperate to know.  I'm just nosy, I admit it. But most of these innocuous things can be found on a Facebook profile. And that's why I lurk. It's a gamble when I log-in. Cheap thrill. Is the lucky stalkee's page going to be set on private?  And if it is -  ARGH! That really gets my knickers in a knot. Which is ironic, since my profile is set to private. Funny thing is, is I don't care who sees my stuff on there - I'm really not that interesting to tell you the truth. It's mainly private so certain people that I do know and have evicted out of my life cannot see it and have no access to me. (Apparently, it's bizarrefor a person to like their spouse and want to spend time their your family. Who knew? But, that's a whole other blog in itself. Yes, I'm still bitter about it.)
Anyhow, I have devised a simple plan of action to help remedy this problem.  I posted a poll over there ----> regarding our Facebook friendship or lack thereof.  And then underneath it, I posted a little icon that takes you directly to my page where all you have to do is request friendship. So, if you answered that you're not my friend but want to be...(I know, I'm awesome)...just a few clicks and voila! Your access is granted! Your dreams will come true! Easy as pie. (But not pecan pie. It's not so easy. It can get soupy.) I want to know my readers, I really sincerely do. I'm also hoping that by you befriending me it will help get the word out about my blog so maybe I can get more readers.
I don't care who you are. I don't care if I don't actually physically know you. It's not weird. Seriously. You've come this far to read my blog, so just do it... just click click click.... Consider this your invitation.

Now, let's see how many of ya aren't too chicken....

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Hail Mary

So, the husband has trumped me again with his "I'm gonna post a poll to get readership involvment" thing he's doing on his blog. Yes, dear husband, it is a competition in case you wondering.
I'm kidding.
I love you. Your blog is fantastic and I look forward to reading it everyday. No, seriously. I'm not being snarky. Now, don't tell anyone I said that. Or else.
Moving forward...
Dear readers, I check my stats on my blogs every day. And I get readers from all over the world. (Thank you, Aleah - barring Vlad hasn't pushed some big red button and the Koreas are still there - and Christina and Ashlee)  What I don't get is comments. Or followers.  And I know you're out there, so it just bumfuzzles me. Both of which you can do anonymously if you want to be mysterious. 
So - 
This is my Hail Mary.
Hail Mary, this is my blog.
Blog, this is my Hail Mary.
I feel much better now that those formalities are out of the way.
I am going to post 20 random things about me. I know you are just dying to read it. And I am going to encourage you all - you read that? - ALL of you out there in the blogosphere - to post 20 random things about yourself as a comment - or even in your blog if you have one.  If I read your blog and see it, I'll post a link about it - which might just increase your readership as well.  I have anonymous comments enabled, so anyone can leave their random facts.  Ha! There is no excuse for you now!


Ready? Go.


 1.) I can pop all of my toes out of place.
 2.)  I must have a cup of coffee in the morning in order to function the rest of the work day.
 3.) I have titanium clamps on specific nerves to keep my hands from sweating. I had to go to Miami to have the surgery done. 
 4.)  I am probably one of the most open-minded people you will ever meet.
 5.) I love the smell of laundry.
 6.) If I could afford it, I'd buy a horse in a heartbeat.
 7.) Two words: Hot showers
 8.)  I am a firm believer in karma.
 9.)  Metal coat hangers infuriate me. I get mad just thinking about them.
10.) I could read the newspaper before I was in kindergarten.
11.) I have the best luck and can win almost anything off the radio. I'm not so good at the lottery. 
12.) I hate pastel colors. 
13.) I get stressed out very easily, but hide it in hopes that if I don't think about it it will go away. That never works.
14.) I'm very spoiled, but I know exactly where I came from and am grateful for everything that I have now.
15.)  I worked as a 911 dispatcher for a minute. Totally not the job for me.
16.)  I met my husband off Myspace.
17.)  I second-guess everything I do. (Even this blog entry)
18.)  I hate cotton candy.
19.)  I like to hit up Goodwill stores when I'm out of town. I enjoy the t-shirts.
20.)  I have a weakness for ugly shoes. I have a closet full of hideous kicks.


Alright. That's it. There you go. Post away, dear readers! Post away! 


Monday, December 13, 2010

Hey, look what I did!

Look over there. To your right. I mean look to the right of this blog on the computer screen.
You see that, kids? That there is a poll. It's where I'm going to ask questions in hopes to get some more reader involvement - and hopefully more readers altogether. (Weird thing is that I have quite a few readers - quite a bit more than are actually following me - which is strange. If you're going to read it, you may as well follow me. Just sayin')
Now, go vote!

Friday, December 10, 2010

The Boob Tube Blunder

I love love love electronics. Specifically, I love new televisions. I'm the type of person who's always wanting to upgrade to a bigger, better television. You know those women that go see a Chippendale's show that have a little too much to drink and end up dancing on their tables throwing their underwear on stage and begging for a lapdance? That's me in Best Buy. I ogle. My eyes glaze over. Sometimes I drool. If I knew a television set would like my underoos, I might throw them at it. I'm kidding. I wouldn't throw them. 
A couple of years ago, around tax time, Chris and I decided that after we paid off my last credit card, we were going to blow use what was left over to buy a new tv with our refund. Oddly enough, it didn't take much convincing for my husband to agree that we were in dire need of a bigger, better television set.  
My husband, being the electronics guru that he is, had been looking and price shopping for several months prior to our purchase. Remarkably enough, he found the best deal on our new box o' happiness at Wal-Mart.
On the day the IRS graced us with a big ol' deposit in our checking account, we employed the services of Matthew to come along with us to help get the tv and get it hooked up. They  painstakingly measured the entertainment center and the trunk of Chris's car apparently using their own eyes as a tape measure to make sure everything would fit. (This was pre-SUV.) After the Nascar race (Hello, this is Kentucky), we all loaded up - cranky baby Grayson and all. (I told you it was a few years ago.)  
I had left my purse - along with our checkbook - at home, which was no big deal since Chris had his debit card on him.  We shopped for a few minutes grabbing chips, sodas, cookies and other essentials we would need while we gathered around our new entertainment box. We saved the best for last and headed to the electronics department to make our family complete television selection. And then we saw it. The heavens opened up and a beam of light lit up our bounty as the angels sang the "Hallelujah Chorus." Okay, so maybe I made that part up. But, nonetheless, the guy brought our glorious new tv out on of those giant awkward carts and rang it up. Chris pulled his debit card out of wallet and with a flick of his wrist, swiped the most perfect Hell-yes-I'm-buying-a-new-tv-today swipe.  The little gadget flashed and dinged and beeped. He looked back at me with a smile that seemed to say I have the best wife in the whole world. Here we are, spending money on a television set that we don't really need. That she encouraged me to buy! And then it flashed the "d" word. 
DECLINED.  
The smile was gone. It's okay. No big deal, I say. Just run it as a credit instead of debit. After a once again flawless swipe, the same message appeared again. DECLINED. Now he was scowling.
F-BOMB
Realizing too late that we had set up our debit card with a pre-set limit for a single purchase, I reached for my checkbook. Which was in my purse. Which was at home. I could see the thought processes in my husband's mind change as it went from elated to exasperated. 
MOTHER F-BOMB.
We paid for our all the other crap items, begrudgingly loaded up, and hit the road back home. Empty-handed. Except for the little Keibler elf cookies that had since lost their appeal since there was no new television to accompany them. Being the obstinate and impatient type, we figured we had come too far to have our hopes and dreams crushed by a tiny little plastic card. We would get the checkbook, go back to Wal-Mart and by god, purchase our new television that we had dreamed about. We dropped Grayson off at my mom's this time, and headed back to Wal-Mart. Again. We made our purchase uneventfully with our handy-dandy checkbook. Thank you, Lamb of Hosts.
We pushed it to the car, and readied the trunk. I watched as my husband and brother-in-law lifted it and placed it in the trunk. Except they didn't place it. Because it wouldn't fit. Not even close. Not even a little bit.
F-BOMB.  
won't say how I had anticipated this happening and had tried to convince my husband of borrowing my mom's SUV. And I also won't say he assured me over and over that "it'll fit just fine." I'm just not that type of person.  
So, there we were. The three of us. Standing in the freezing cold Wal-Mart parking lot playing engineer and attempting to get the damn tv in the damn car. 
Let me put this into perspective for you. There's my husband, his brother and me and a ginormous tv. Somehow, after a little sweet talk, baby oil and I'm assuming fairy dust, Dos MacGuyvers get the thing in the backseat which left me about 6 inches of seat left to sit on. Oh yeah...Did I mention I had just had a baby? You could see my butt from space. I squiiiished in the backseat between the tv and the door. Chris had to literally shut the door on me to keep me from falling out. On a scale of awesome, this measured just below the DVR not recording Glee and above realizing there's no toilet paper in the bathroom stall you've decided to use. We drove home, the guys unloaded,and I went to pick up G-Man. 
I had hoped that by the time I made it back home, the boob tube would be out of the box and on it's merry way to satellite connection. Instead, I watched in horror as the damn thing would not fit into the entertainment center - that, once again - my Handy Manny has measured - once again obviously using the congenital measuring tape in his eyeballs. (Perhaps we should calibrate that thing.)  A measly quarter of an inch is all we needed. Obviously frazzled by the chain of the events that had already occurred that night, Chris suggested we use the coffee table as a tv stand. Um, no. I vetoed that idea and this is probably where I made the mistake of saying something idiotic like "I thought you measured everything?! Were you using the metric side? Are you sure?" I heard him mumbling under his breath while I took the Grayson to bed. 
WHHHHIIIIIIIIRRRRRRR! What the hell is that? WHHHHIIIIIIIIRRRRRRR!  Oh no. It dawned on me that the noise had come from the living room. Panic set in and I raced through the house. MY TEE-VEE! MY PRECIOUS BABY TEE-VEE!  I rounded the corner from the kitchen like Secretariat at the Derby.  And then I saw it. Handy Manny stood in the middle of my living room floor donning a reciprocating saw. Oh. My. God.  I swear he laughed maniacally while he hacked into the top of our entertainment center.  You know that scene in Christmas Vacation where Clark uses the chainsaw to lob off the loose handrail for their stairs?  This is that moment.
"Uhhhh....."
"I got it, Stace. It's under control."
"You are sawing into furniture.  This is control? Did you even meas--  Nevermind. Do what you're gonna do."
And he did.
And it worked.
I KNOW, right? 

There have been talks of a new, bigger, better television purchase in the near future....

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Why I Screen my Phonecalls

I work as a receptionist at a busy veterinary hospital. I talk to all kinds of people. Everyday. And I mean, a very wide variety of people. Animal people are crazy. I'm not talking, "Oh-she's-so-funny" crazy I'm talking "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury" crazy. 
I was working late on a Friday evening when the phone rang.. I always hate these phone calls because they're all the same. People call with 5 minutes until we close with a pet that has been sick for weeks and now it's an "emergency."  When I answered the phone, there was a lot of noise and yelling in the background. I hear the woman presumably with the phone yell to the lot of people "Shut up! I got the dog doctor on the phone! Shut up! I cain't hear nothin!" 
Me: Hello, Companion Animal Hospital. This is Stacey. How can I help you? (yes, I know it's a mouthful)
Her: Is this that Jaggo guy?
Me: Yes, this is Dr. Jaco's (pronounced jay-coe) office. Can I help you?
Her: I hope you can. *small laugh because she thinks this is the first time anybody has ever said this to me. I hear this line about 50 times a day.* Well, now, I got a wierd question for you.
Me: Oh, this will be good. What's that?
Her: Well, can a dog see, like, you know, spirits of dead people and stuff? A dog barks and she yells: Shut him up, Frank! Hellfar! I cain't hear the nurse on the phone!
Me: Um, well, what's going on with your dog?
Her: Well, it ain't my dog that's doin' it. It's our neighbor's dog. See, there was an old Indian man killed on this property about 400 years ago to the day. 
Me: Is this for real? Is someone filming this? Uh-huh....
Her: And now their dog is just barkin all the time an' he won't never shut up. His ears stand straight up on the top of his head. Like he's lookin' at something. But there ain't nothin' there. 
Me: Uh-huh...
Her: An' I just wondered if you knew if they saw spirits or not?
Me: Well, uh, I've always heard that dogs can sense things like that, but there is no actual evide--
Her: (yelling to Frank) He can see that Indian! The nurse said he's seein spirits. Like he's psychic or something! (back in the phone) Do you know if a preacher will do one of them exorist things on a dog? I mean, this is really freaking us out here. 
Me: No ma'am. Im not sure. Seriously. Where are the damn cameras?
Her: Oh. So, you wouldnt know who to call about something like this?
Me: At this point, I'm amused. And I decide to play into this woman's request. I know it' was probably wrong, but ya know. I'd had a long day and quite frankly, I wanted to see what would happen. No ma'am. But, if you attend church you might call your pastor and ask them. They would know how to lead you in the right direction for something like that.
Her: Yeah! (to Frank:) Hey, you got Brother Terry's phone number? The nurse said we can call him and he'd come out and do the exoricist on him! (Back to me): Thank you, miss. Have a good weekend.
*Click*
I am left in awe. And Brother Terry, whoever you are, I'm so sorry.