shoesonwrong

We're leaving for my parent's house today, and of course there is a snowstorm. There's always a snowstorm. My only consolation is that the rest of the nation has crappy weather, too. (I don't require happiness, I just require everyone else to have a similar level of misery. MERRY CHRISTMAS.) Normally, it's just us, driving hours and hours through a blizzard while the rest of the country complains about not having a white Christmas.

I'll be back on Saturday, a minimum of twelve pounds fatter. Have a great Christmas, and if you don't, keep in mind that Momo sympathizes.

Day Twelve: Here's Where I Was On Days Eight Through Eleven

Day Six: I Will Not Be Going To Dollywood

On Saturday, I am embarking on a road trip with my mother to Tennessee to go real estate hunting. Well, technically, she's real estate hunting and I'm just going along for the ride because I haven't seen a blade of grass or leaf of tree in months. Also because going anywhere with my mother is hilarious. While extolling the virtues of the upcoming road trip, she excitedly told me how much she loves driving through Cinncinnati at nighttime because it looks just like New York City.

I don't ever have to make up things that my mother says because they're gems of absurdity all on their own.

I'm up and around. MAKE THE HOURS COUNT.

I had a good time in Louisiana prior to catching The Black Ebola Bird Plague, and I want to recap my (brief) time there but first we need to cover two gems:

1. Uh, where is her hoo-hah? Never mind WHY someone would wear that awful thing.
2. This book. When I was pawing through the clearance bin at Barnes & Noble yesterday (in an attempt to find someone to keep me entertained while I am couped up and recovering), I first thought it was some sort of how to book rather than a novel. Like, 5 Easy Steps to Marrying Your Baby Daddy or something. Sadness when I realized it was not.

Anyway. I'm recovering. So far I have about 2 good hours out of the day when I am actually up and doing stuff because the rest of the time I am swooning or fainting or nearly overcome with the vapors. I hadn't been that sick in so long, I had forgotten that there's a recovery period where you're sort of weak and woozy. It's compounded by the fact that the antibiotics they have me on are so strong, I have to take three different medications just to control the side effects. The side effects of THOSE medications, however, well, I'm just out of luck. I'm plagued by this strange feeling that I am not exactly flying or floating, but that my feet just can't reach the ground when I'm standing up.

In the day and a half of my vacation where I wasn't worshipping at the porcelain throne, I took these:

A service dog in Detroit. SO. CUTE.




The clouds looked less like clouds than they did snow, so I had the feeling of flying extremely low over the North Pole or something.




Katy's baby.

Eating at a restaurant with Katy where she covered him with her napkin because she kept dropping food on him.

My trip to Louisiana to see Katy was cut short by a stomach virus. That allowed my body's natural bacteria to get all out of whack and spread to places it shouldn't. Which, in combination with the vomiting from the stomach virus, made my blood sugar freak out and my kidneys swell up like balloons. I ended up flying home a day early and meeting my mom at my apartment so she could drive me to the hospital. I filled up 4 airsickness bags on take-off and landing alone. It was so awesome.

By time I got to the hospital, I was so sick and dehydrated that I couldn't stand under my own power anymore and had to be wheeled around. They couldn't find a vein for either the IV or blood tests, so it took 3 nurses and one pathologist a grand total of 8 different stabbings in order to even get a saline solution started. By the time they got my blood drawn, I was sobbing hysterically and had to be partially held down because I was so dehydrated, exhausted, and just completely out of my mind.

They gave me antibiotics for the bacteria and anti-nausea to help me keep food and liquids down (which I hadn't for about 48 hours at that point). One of the medications caused some sort of allergic reaction that made my jaw clench up and become hard as a rock.

I'm home now, with aching muscles from all the tensing up, a headache from exhaustion, and a swollen and bruised hand where the IV was accidentally ripped out of it at one point. A better update later when I feel more human.

Christmas Debacle of Ought Seven, Part Une

Vegas was wonderful, but I don't want to post about it until I have some pictures fished off the camera. I mean, I don't think you can really appreciate my vacation unless I bust out a full-on slide show, Patty and Selma style. Instead, I will regale you with tales of my Christmas!

After my last post, we got stranded in the Phoenix airport for 8 more hours. The weather in Chicago was crap, and so we couldn't fly out until the situation lessened. Now, I'm not a fan of delays, but since I have yet to invent a consistently effective device to control the weather, I accept that they happen.

The problem that arose was that our pilot and flight crew appeared to be a ragingly incompetent doofuses. Not being an expert in flyingology, I am not sure on the technical details, but what I do know is that they somehow gave up our landing time slot at O'Hare altogether. This was after they boarded us at 2:15 when they were supposed to board the plane at 2:50. Fifteen, fifty -- those are two distinct words, people. Then, we sat on a taxiing plane for 2 hours until the pilot said that we weren't flying out that day and we had to get off the plane. Two hours on that thing, and I only ended up going 6 gates down. I could have walked faster than that. A koala bear that was paralyzed from the waist down could have gone faster than that.

Eventually, they ended up switching out the pilot and entire crew, and a mere 8 hours after we were supposed to take off, we were finally in the air. The flight attendants blocked up the center aisle for over an hour, dispensing drinks, and then when they were done, one of them got on the intercom and said in a peevish voice, "We would like to remind all economy class passengers that the first class bathroom is for FIRST CLASS PASSENGERS ONLY." Um, yeah, I would have gladly used my common-folk bathroom back here in steerage class, lady, if you hadn't taken for-freaking-ever to pass out cans of Sprite. So just shut it.

After we landed (a landing so rough several passengers actually screamed), our luggage took an hour and a half to arrive, and showed up on the Jet Blue carousel. Which was perplexing, because we flew U.S. Airways.

Like I said before, my problem wasn't the delay (though, I assure you I wasn't thrilled by it or anything). It was the complete lack of communication between the airline and the passengers. Whenever someone tried to ask an employee for an update, they got snapped at in return. It's my opinion that when a family of 4 spends well over a thousand dollars to fly with you, your customer service should probably be better than that of Taco Bell's.

while at the top of bridger bowl in montana

Ryan: This is just so incredibly beautiful. Like something out of a video game.

[extremely long pause]

Me: You know, you could have said almost ANYTHING else to avoid my taunting. Seriously. A painting. A magazine. Literally, ANYTHING.

Ryan: That actually occurred to me as I was saying it.

Davinci Code

I saw The Davinci Code in Washington because after walking and walking to every conceivable important building*, monument, museum, and metro-rail stop, I was too tired and cranky to do anything except sit in front of a giant screen. Also, I had been dealing with irritating tourists all day, so I wanted to see a movie that nobody else would want to see. Ultimately, it was narrowed down to The Davinci Code and some movie called Kinky Boots. Upon reading the description for the latter and seeing the words, "A brassy cabaret singer," and "His effort to save his father's shoe factory," we opted for The Davinci Code.

I read the book one night in 3 and a half hours; once I started, I was glued to the pages as if they contained the recipe for some magical way to ace the LSAT and fix stretch marks. I was on a flight from Bozeman, Montana to Chicago, and my only excuse is that I don't think the cabin was pressurized correctly during the flight.

In retrospect, the book was tolerable -- an interesting premise struggling to rise above the lukewarm writing. It was also one of those books that is embarrassing to read because at any given time, if you are in a room with more than 2 people, half of them will be in the middle of reading it. Reading the Davinci Code in public is, essentially, like proudly proclaiming membership to Oprah's Book Club to the person next to you while buying a Richard Simmon's workout tape in Wal-Mart. I treated the book like it was a one-night stand, and when it was over, I told it to never call me again.

The movie is just so much worse. Tom Hanks and Audrey Tautou have no chemistry. Instead of taking the chance to make a mediocre book into a great movie, Ron Howard managed to make an even MORE mediocre film. It's neither good nor bad enough to be enjoyable. I think that the NYT review sums up the most memorable part in one sentence: "Silas... who may be the first character in the history of motion pictures to speak Latin into a cellphone."

*(Except, ironically, the White House -- which I missed the last time I was in Washington, too. This time, however, I did see the President's car and entourage go speeding by. I kept looking for a big monkey-like head with satellite dish ears, but I did not manage to spot our Fearless Leader.)

Here Nobody Makes My Bed For Me or Leaves a Mint on My Pillow

We did not die, and we are home now.

I'm trying to decided on a new look for el-Blog here. I'm jonesing for something more colorful. Something that's warm and inviting, but you know, doesn't look like crap. Sleek, colorful, easy to navigate, memorable. Not asking for too much, is it?

Also, my landlord: he is such a horrible, horrible man. His family recently bought our house from a hip, wonderful young couple who had to sell the place because one of them got transferred to Hong Kong for work (even that's cool). He is a carbon copy of my step-father-in-law (who is the biggest tool I have ever met), short tempered, misogynistic, and incredibly dull. What's even better is that he lives about 200 miles away, and has his son manage our apartments. His son is in college, under 21, insists on meeting female tenants in the local bar to sign a lease for the year, and talks like he has the intelligence of a box of hair. Whether or not he truly is a twit, I don't know because he never actually stops by the building to fix any of the things on the long list of complaints that everyone here has.

When the hip, young couple owned our apartment building, there was whole pre-approved list of people we could call if we had a problem: the owners, the maintenance people, the back-up maintenance people, etc. Problems were always attended to within 2-3 hours, and everything was nice. Now that The Grinch owns our house, nothing ever gets done, he (illegally) schlepps* work onto tenants, and our apartment manager has GONE HOME FOR THE SUMMER. Meaning that he can't come fix our broken wi-fi router because he's too busy mowing his daddy's lawn, working at Dairy Queen, and watching cartoons.

So, to sum it up: home safe and sound, blog redesign, no internet available at home because landlord went twiddling with router settings, landlord = insufferable man who won't admit he did something wrong and refuses to fix a problem that couldn't possibly be there.

I have a case of the post-vacation blues, I think. Thank God it's not Monday.

*Been reading the Yiddish Primer

I Am the Best Smelling Worst Friend

I bought some of these for Kate & Beth as DC souvenirs, and then I realized that they probably wouldn't hold up real well if I tried to ship one to Okinawa -- since I understand it's akin to living directly on the sun, except with smaller cars. So I used Kate's to take a bath. No, let me rephrase that: I used Kate's to take THE bath. The ultimate bath that exposes all the other baths for the wannabes they are.

Then I thought, well, if I can't send Kate's, it's probably not fair to send Beth's to her. I really ought to just use it myself. See! Look at me being all fair and stuff!

Sorry old friends that your bath products won't be arriving, but I used them, and you can take comfort in the knowing that they were HEAVENLY.

Today, we leave Dee See for home. If an enraged Memorial Day motorist (MDM) kills us, this post will contain my final words.

Froot Loop velvet cellar door!

This DC Stuff Practically Writes Itself

Children and I are not on exactly on speaking terms right now. That's right. All children, everywhere. After being elbowed, pushed, punched, and made into a HUMAN SNOT RAG for children I don't even know, I am considerably less than delighted. So much so that when I saw a baby in a stroller on the Metro wiggling it's tiny feet in the air, I didn't even want to eat them up whole. Not one little bit. Well, maybe ONE little bit.

It's like the earth in DC itself is birthing these little urchins. They are everywhere, and always seemingly without parents. Today, I counted 89 kids under the age of 15 go by without a single adult to be seen. My theory is that they finally turned on the wretched parents who allowed them to turn into hellions, killed them, and ate them.

I'm not asking for much here, people. I realize your young spawn will make noise, spill things, and likely spray crumbs every which way, while the older ones will think they unbelievably hip wearing clothing that makes them look like they snorted some coke and then got dressed blindfolded. Hey, I been there. I was one of those loud talking toddlers ("Did you see the butterfly mom? What kind of butterfly was it? Why are they called butterflies? What do butterflies eat? Mom? Are you listening? Because you don't look like you're listening.") and there are pictures as evidence of my tragic yin-yang and bell-bottom phase. However, are manners really that hard to teach?And when did it become acceptable to just let your children wander DC with a complete lack of supervision just because it's easier to do that than, I don't know, taking a family vacation? Stop kidding yourself that school trips are educational (unless buying bookmarks and astronaut ice-cream in the gift shop is educational), and (if you can afford it) just buck up and take your own offspring to tourist destinations yourself.

What's that? You don't want to spend a whole day dealing with your whining, ill-mannered child who thinks the world revolves around them? Guess what -- I don't really either.

I can actually hear myself becoming old. Pretty soon I will use the word "Whippersnapper" in a non-ironic way, mark my words.

Annie Goes to Washington

We pulled into DC a day and a half ago, and have since visited 2 museums, eaten the most amazing steaks in the world, seen the Washington Monument, gotten stuck in no less than three roundabouts, and almost ended up stepping in some vomit spewing out of an unhappy looking college kid in front of Lucky Bar whilst en-route to Dupont Circle.

That last item reminds me that we also went to The Brickskeller for a delicious lunch of crispy French bread and a plethora of cheese as well as to peer at the frillions of beer bottles, cans, and labells they have. The waiter kept trying to get me to try one beer after another, at which point I made the mistake of expressing my immense dislike of beer. We had to leave pretty fast after that.

I have vigilantly been keeping watch for Amalah since our arrival. Of course, by "keeping watch" I really mean "whipping my head around like an idiot while trying not to stare at people or make eye contact because MUGGERS CAN SMELL WEAKNESS and occasionally furiously poking Ryan and hissing, 'IS THAT HER?! No, wait, she's not Asian. Or male.'" Here's to hoping that I don't bump into her, as I don't really want to be remembered as That Creepy FanGirl Who Runs Up to Amalah and Then Cries Right There in Front of the Metro Station Because She's Doesn't Know What to Say and Feels Stupid.

That Dog Has Been More Places Than Most People

I'm currently sitting in a cafe in Bozeman, Montana, drinking the biggest hot chocolate I've ever seen in all my life, surrounded by crunchy hippies, budding artists,  and tired looking skiers, while using the wireless internet on my iBook. It would all be so unbelievably cool and hip if I didn't have to keep leaning in and drinking from my hot chocolate like a dog because it's too big and hot to lift. And if that guy sitting 3 seats down from me didn't keep screaming profanities at his computer.

In the time that we've been here, we've driven through Ted Turner's (owner of TNT, TBS, CNN, etc.) ranch, seen 2 moose, swam in a hot spring in Yellowstone, and soaked for hours on end in the spa down the road from our cabin. Much to my sadness and dismay, Ted Turner's property looked exceptionally normal and boring; there was not a single unicorn to be found. NOT A SINGLE ONE. What is the point of being that rich if your ranch isn't packed with unicorns and you're not wiping your butt with hundreds? Huh?

To all of you people who scoffed at me when I said I was going to Montana for spring break, I have only this to say: NEENER NEENER NEENER! I even have a tan!

I Hath Broken His Spirit

Currently, we are en route to Chicago, where we were catch a plane to Montana for spring break. Ryan is driving, which makes me navigator/map holder by default. Only, with Annie, you always get more than you bargained for, so I am the navigator/map holder/fake directions giver/"Leaving on a Jet Plane" singer/are we there yet?-er

And I think Ryan has become resigned to this, because every time I tell him to make a left at the black hole and shoot through the rip in the space time continuum he says, "Annie, you know how hard that is on our car."

Don't Drink and Derive!

Being up at Michigan Tech again was great; we saw old friends, and there was actual snow on the ground. We intended to stay with the lovely and beautiful Rachel, but ended up at our friend Nathan's house -- which meant three nights of 6 boys and myself all trying to coexist peacefully in a house with one 1 bathroom. And I use the term "bathroom" very loosely, because it implies civilized indoor plumbing -- and I'm not entirely sure something covered in that much dirt and scum can qualify as such.

Creepy bathrooms and enough testosterone to fill a kiddie pool aside, it was really a lot of fun. I'm actually quite sad to return to a university where half the population hasn't heard of Star Wars and none of them get my jokes about calculus.

I'm Skipping Half a Week of Class and I Don't Even CARE

Between moving, medical problems, and packing to head to The Great White North for Winter Carnival, blogging has fallen on my priority list to somewhere between brushing my hair and remembering to put on pants. Which is to say that none of those things happen as much as they should.

The moving has been going great. 403 trips up the steep, long, stairs later, I'm developing freakish thigh muscles and most of our stuff is up here. The windows in this apartment are super low to the ground, so Dog just runs from window to window to window in order to spy on the neighbors. She's pretty much just a dog version of my mother, come to think of it.

Medical issues have been walloping me in the face left and right. I am trying to think of some funny way of describing diabetes and possibly polycystic ovarian disease, but am not doing very well on that front. Maybe some sort of knock-knock joke?

I am so incredibly pumped about Winter Carnival. Staying up all night, giggling at the drunks, the smell of Southern Comfort coming from every single thermos and nalgene on campus. Mmm. Good times.

We're Not Fancy

As we were packing to head up north for a weekend of skiing and food I don't have to cook, I realized that we didn't have any extra duffle bags or suitcases in our apartment in which to pack our stuff. Ultimately, we decided to do what the pilgrims did before journeying to the New World -- pack our stuff in plastic bags from the local grocery store.

One step closer to being that crazy hobo lady who screams about the squirrels.

All Roads Lead to Dog Poop

First of all, I wanted to say thanks to everybody who left me comments (both on the typepad and the livejournal) and sent emails. I appreciate it more than I can say.

Beth was here Saturday through Monday. We watched episode after episode of Freaks & Geeks and, well, I have no idea what else. The weekend was a blur of laziness. And it was good. (I tried to tie her up and keep her in the closet, but Ryan said I had to let her go home.) Wait, I DO recall going to a movie and making fun of the dog. The latter happened a lot. Mainly because Dog is, let me think about how to put this nicely, an idiot.

Speaking of The Wrinklebag, she is not so happy with the being home thing. My parents house was fun, then we took a road trip, then Beth was here, and yesterday... she ate a leaf. That was pretty much the highlight. She's been expressing her distaste for us, the apartment, and life in general by holding in her poop. She just WILL NOT GO. Essentially, she holds it in until she simply cannot anymore, which is usually about 10 minutes after both Ryan and I have passed out from the smell of the poop-being-held-in-too-long farts that she charmingly emits every few minutes.

Why do so many of my posts degenerate into dog poop?

That Toad Was Very Rodent-Like. I Swear.

The weekend was fun. We went camping at Brevoort Lake campground, and in less than 48 hours, we managed to take multiple hikes, swim twice, photograph the Cut River bridge from every conceivable angle, climb Castle Rock, bike around Mackinac City, and get freaked out by a toad that looked a lot like a giant killer mouse. I think that last one was mainly just something I did.

I was also the only person who came THIS CLOSE to passing out on the top of Castle Rock. The whole way up, I kept getting dizzy and shaky; turns out I'm not an out of shape lump (although I certainly am a little bit of that), I was just so scared of the height that I almost lost my lunch AND passed out. Kind of reminds me of the time that we were trekking through the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. I'm not sure what was worse: the steep drops right next to the walking path, the stairs that were made of metal grating (I. Could. See. ALL. The. Way. Down.), or the fact that it took my parents several minutes to notice that I wasn't walking beside them anymore because I was clinging to a guardrail and feebly bleating, "Mom? Dad? Someone?" while shivering like a chihuahua.

Besides freaking myself out several times, I really enjoyed the camping trip. I didn't brush my hair once the entire trip, so the fact that it looked like it had been combed with a twig was quite lucky, if you ask me. Also, Ben & Jerry's did it again. They are just too dang clever for me, because they make these teeny tiny little cups of ice cream with spoons like thimbles included in the package. It cost 1.25 for the ice cream. Normally, I'd feel pretty gypped, you know, if I were being RATIONAL. Instead, I found myself going, "It's so little and cute! And only a 1.25!" Those Ben & Jerry people, they ought to be selling something more expensive than ice cream, because I would probably buy that too. "Oh, look honey! It's an teeny tiny car, and it only costs 70 thousand dollars! And it runs on SNAKE OIL, isn't that wild?! TEENY TINY!"

I'm sitting here, warming up my camera batteries in my armpits while typing this post. I can't find the battery charger or any extra batteries or the dang camera cord... thingy. You know. Don't pretend like you don't know. Because I'm too brain dead to figure out what I'm trying to say tonight. So, like I was saying, warming batteries up in my feverish armpits so that I can upload pictures from the camera so you can see my teeny tiny Ben & Jerry ice cream cup. Oh forget it. I keep moving my arms and the batteries keep falling and you people don't give a crap about my teeny tiny ice cream cup. I imagine you're more than ready for me to stop using the words "teeny tiny," though. TEENYTINY TEENYTINY!

When we weren't on the go, we were sleeping. I slept 10 hours a night and still needed daytime naps. It's getting worrisome how much I sleep. Or where I can sleep (anywhere). Or how I can sleep (any conceivable position). I swear, I went in to the tent to just make the bed and maybe flop down for a second. 2 hours later, I emerged bleary eyed. My mom used to always talk about how she could go on 4 hours of sleep when I was younger. "Oh yeah," she'd say, "I would get home from work around 3 a.m., and sleep till 7 or so. Now I need SEVEN hours of sleep. Guess that's what happens when you get older."

Geez. Um, I need like 10 hours right now. When I hit my forties, I'm going to be comatose 13 hours a day. And that's not counting naps. Between the napping and the passing out when I stand on my tip toes (I'm 5'9" ish... That makes it better, right? RIGHT?), wow. I'm just a ball of fun.

(untitled)

Clean house? Check.
Pack luggage? Check.
Pack books? Check.
Learn to repress all hostile emotion while dealing with extended family? Erm... Well...

If DON'T kill anyone or have an anuerysm out of frustration, then I'll be back Friday. If I'm not back Friday, well, then you know what happened. Feel free to tell yourself I ran away to Aruba to make yourself feel better.