Julia f'ing Child, here.

First of all, stop looking so surprised when I make something FREAKING DELICIOUS. I'm skilled, just generally lazy. And I don't do animal preparation.
How I made garlic bread:
One stick of butter (to every 1.5 loaves of french bread)
Three tablespoons of parmesean cheese (approx.)
Garlic salt (Some; not a lot. Enough so you can smell it 1.5 feet above the bowl.)
Mix ingredients in a small dish and unintentionally melt them together. The important thing here is that you do it by accident: you combine these items and put them in the microwave to soften and end up turning them into buttery magma.
Slice the bread every 1.5 inches (I happen to like this increment), but don't cut all the way through. Put the bread on aluminum foil and spoon some of the liquid into each crevase. Wrap the bread in an aluminum foil cocoon and bake for 10 minutes at 350 degrees.
Eat.

The best thing you've ever done. Athletically.

If there's one thing that will warm your heart, it's hearing about the triumphs of my Winter Weekend.
I skied and lived to tell about it.
Complete with eyeballs intact.
Matt graciously instructed me and accompanied me up the chairlift (fear nearly conquered) to the big bunny hill. As he glided down the first few feet, I realized that all the terrors in my life could not match this instant (except possibly skiing with clowns, which will now surely give me nightmares). I was to experience that moment and that feeling over and over again all during our ski day.
Like when I ran into the trees in slow motion.
Like when I was going down a blue hill because (though I was certainly only a green-level) Matt suggested we follow this caution sign to see where it would lead.
Like when the operator had to change the speed of the lift to accomodate me and I still tipped off the seat.
I alternated between anger and tears when I began to feel threatened, spouting such explosive phrases as, "But I don't trust the inside leg," and "JUST GO ON WITHOUT ME," or the favored "I'm ready to go home! I hate this sport!!!"
But...I skied.
Thanks for not giving up on me, Matt. And thanks for letting me go home at noon.

YOUstress.

I am so ashamed.
I just had an email returned to me with the phrase (I HAD WRITTEN): "who want it there way or nothing at all."
THERE?!
I just had an "I'm going to die early due to distressing minutiae" epiphany. Maybe this is what you were talking about last night. I will convert this nasty distress into eustress by not being careless or dumb or SUCKING at writing.

Little Sister at the Laundromat

As dictated to me, this is her all-time low (which happens about once a week):
She put a $20 bill into the change machine without regard to the fact that it ALL comes out in quarters.
She opened the box of detergent which flipped itself over, spilling its contents onto the ground.
She wasn't sure what to do with the oxy-clean, so she put it in the machine, unwrapped (why read directions?).
The elderly samaritan who helped her watched her get out of her seat every 5 minutes to check on the progress of the washing machine said, "You know there's a timer on these, right?"

From the horse's mouth:
"Well I suppose that really sums up my first experience at the laundromat. Did I mention that the rug went from a 6'x9' to a mere 4'x6'? Sad day in the life of me. If anyone in the future needs help with their trip to the laundromat, make sure to bring along someone with experience...and I am not that someone."

Better luck next time.

Another story about pants-wetting fun

Went tubing on Monday. As I strained to hold on to my friend's ankles while flying down the hill, I realized helpless shrieks were coming from my mouth.
Tubing involves snow (preferred), a bloated inner tube (bigger is better), a rope tow (fricking awesome), and a sense of adventure (optional). Best of all, it can be done safely. SO MUCH SAFER THAN SKIING.
When you ski, there are long, pointy poles which could be haphazardly stuck into your eyeballs. Tell me that's not scary, and you lie.
Going to a ski resort this weekend. Will sip cocoa in the chalet, enjoying my eyeballs.

Do Read This

Luckily, my office is only three floors up; I don't take the elevator. However, I must appreciate the creativity of these "DO" advertisements. I really won't take the elevator now. And I'll totally walk the five pound weights around the city.

You ever have that?

This weekend my family began the long process of ridicule and alienation that I like to call "now we guilt you because you've aren't spending enough time with us."
My darling sister decorated a chair at the table with my photo and allegedly addressed it while I was out last night.
She then taped the photo to her shoulder and was still talking to it when I got home three hours later.

Maybe if I were FIVE

"Oop! I almost hit you!"
"Sorry," I say. I moved out of the way in time thanks to some cat-like reflexes and the ability to look forward.
The old woman chirps after me: "It's dangerous to walk by closed doors. I almost hit a lot of kids and I tell them it's dangerous to walk by closed doors."
In my mind, I tell her that since it's a Monday morning, I'm much more likely to walk myself AND OTHERS by closed doors.

I have nothing against the hearing impaired

It's just that old ladies who can't hear should not be phone people. Here's how my conversation went (again, names are changed to avoid implicating specific elderly as being bad operators). "Her" refers to the unnamed aged woman:
Me: Susan Osterson, please.
Her: Sorry?
Me: Susan Osterson, please.
Her: I didn’t catch that.
Me: Extension 118, please.
Her: Ok, just a moment.
[pause]
Her: Hello?
Me: Susan?
Her: Just a moment...

Things I Love

1. The victory-fisted arm pump.
2. Dooce.
3. The word "face" used as a nickname.
4. Bad wheel alignment.
5. Forgetting how slick the roads are as I'm driving to work, and then plowing into the decorative rock on my neighbor's front lawn when I take a curve too fast. Dang. I love that.