Microsoft Word Diva vs. Microsoft Word Acolyte

Actual conversation between me and my retired-extremely-capable-software-teaching-diva Mama working on my holiday envelope addresses on my envelopes:

Me: just give me your list in excel. I'll pull the addresses I need and print the envelopes.

Mama: ok. Let's make a database for a quick mail merge. What size are your envelopes?

Me: um.... Hm. The size isn't listed on the box. Where's your ruler?

Mama: ruler? Let me see it. I can get the address on by eye.

Me: (horrified silence) ... You don't.... MEASURE your envelopes?

Mama: NO. Lemme look... That looks like.... 5 by 7. (Opens envelope options and starts trying to find this match)

Me: DO YOU HAVE A RULER? (Mama casually opens drawer and tosses me a ruler while she continues to find  rough envelope sizes online)

Me: AH-HA!!! This envelope is 5.75 by NINE inches! Find that envelope!

Mama: (bored, now scrolling looking for a new size match)

Me: YOU DON'T USE CUSTOM ENVELOPE??!!!

Mama: (casually) Yeah, I do...

Me: click options. Custom envelope is on the bottom. Scroll down.

Mama now morphing into Microsoft Word Diva: *cuts me with a glare I have never witnessed from my saintly mother*

Lesson learned: never attempt to school the Microsoft Diva in any things Word. Acolyte chastely resumes her reverence.

I may or may not have eaten a worm.

Actual conversation with the Roomstress while walking around campus:

Me: Hey look at that sign! They're serving pizza for Thanksgiving dinner. What is the world coming to?

Roomstress: It's being served by a turkey, see? That's where the Thanksgiving part comes in.

Me: No way I'd eat something made by a turkey. Have you not heard of the avian flu?

Roomstress: Well... what if the turkey didn't really MAKE make the pizza. What if it just like.... I dunno, got a frozen pizza and put it in the oven? Would you eat it then?

Me: Hell, no! Turkeys don't have thumbs. It would have to really get in there with his... what do you call turkey feet? Talons? Claws?

Roomstress: Wait.... would it use its turkey feet or wings? Because wings are more like where arms and hands would go.

Me: EVEN WORSE. I bet feathers would have like.... nits in it or something. They sleep in trees for Pete's sake. If it washed its turkey feet and THEN wrestled the pizza into the oven, then I'd consider eating it. MAYBE.

And don't get me wrong. I'm not totally squeamish. In fact, just today, I accidentally ate a worm. Maybe. LIKELY. And didn't throw up or anything. In fact, upon discovering the worm, I very calmly and quietly showed the worm to my neighbor then dumped the contents of the trail/worm mix into the trash.

extra protein in trail mix

In other news, I really have been super disappointed lately about the items on the stairs. It's mostly just more Hurricane bottles and poop, and well... once you see one Hurricane bottle and pile of poop, you pretty much have seen them all. Not a lot of variation. A lot of poop, though. I wonder who the hell is pooping on the stairs? I am trying to tell myself it's a dog, but... frankly I'm just not convinced.

However, this was on the ground near the stairs yesterday and I thought it was fascinating:

a squished mouse

How did that mouse get that squished? That is seriously perplexing.

Let's refer to this as "genealogy."

So recently my cousin Sam and his wife Jenna came into town for a pre-Thanksgiving visit with the family. They stayed at the cabin with Mama and the Dipper and the rest of the family popped in for a brunch get together last weekend. And, as Sam and Jenna hadn't been to the cabin before, naturally some of my grandmother's quilts were taken out and admired, and many pieces of Grandpa Steinie's woodwork were brought out for viewing.

And we got into the photo albums. Oh... we got INTO the photo albums. And one photo in particular caught my eye.

And buddy. Now I've got some questions.

aloha.

Dear Random Polynesian Man,

Hi there. I'm Megan. That's my grandmother you have your left hand on. WHERE IS YOUR RIGHT HAND? Sorry. That was rude. Let me start with another question: WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR SHIRT? And are you wearing the Brady Bunch's kitchen wallpaper as a skirt? And I think you missed a spot shaving. But your necklace(s) are totes awesome. And will you please tell my grandmother that I think she got into too much poi and lost all sense of judgement because that outfit is loud. And rather tablecloth-esque.

Sincerely,

Megan

P.S. I know it's balmy on the Big Island, but seriously - in the continental states we typically wear shirts. No, really. Look into upper body wear.

P. P. S. I'd also like to point out that this pic serves as a record of the first photo bomb. Well played random lady.

Eating at the grownup table

Being a grownup is a funny thing. Because I can't really pinpoint when it happened. I think back to a few years ago when I was president of a board and in the middle of a production thinking who's in charge here? WHERE ARE THE ADULTS? Then, shockingly.... I'm in charge. I'm the adult.

Ever since I split up from the Ex Mr. Smith, I go through this ritual once a month. I get my pay check and I set out all the bills, and I very nervously start paying them, one by one. And every month, when I pay my bills and there's enough money to pay them - and sometimes for heaven's sake a little left over! - I am surprised at how relieved I feel. I'm a grownup for Pete's sake. I'm a grown-ass woman with a J-O-B. Why does this surprise me?

The other day I was invited to, and attended a party. And while I was there a friend of my parents' came up to me and asked in a very kind but very surprised tone what I was doing there. No one was more surprised than me when I told her that I'd been invited - and it hit me like a bolt of lightening. I'm eating at the grownup table now. When did this happen?

I joke about this often when someone relays an anecdote about something my father has done or said about me - I respond to the tale very seriously with "He doesn't know I'm a grownup yet. Please don't be the one to tell him." But now I feel like someone hasn't let me in on the secret - when did I get put in charge? Did I agree to do this? I listen to NPR. I read the news. I vote. I eat healthy and I exercise. All grownup things to do.... but I'm not sure how I feel about being a grownup.

Until I figure this out, I'm going to need to find some immature activities to romp around in. This outta help.

Beer pong, anyone? Over and out.

And that's why I'll never be a Sherpa

Actual e-conversation I had the other day:

Anonymous Friend (names have been changed to protect the innocent): You haven't posted a blog in over a week. What the hell?

Me: You sir, are INCORRECT. I posted last week! Oh wait... on like a Monday or something.... I'm working on it - I had a work lunch today and couldn't write during lunch!

AF: All is forgiven. Just don't go all J.D. Salinger on me!

Me: Hmm.... OK. I know who J.D. Salinger is, but why don't I want to do that to you?

AF: After J.D. Salinger wrote Catcher in the Rye, and it went all super ginormous biggest book ever, he stopped publishing and started locking up everything up in a vault he would share with no one. Except a Yale co-ed he started banging for a few years.

ME: AWESOME. Actually I already pretty much already lock up everything I own and carry it with me all the time - and I call it my PURSE. It's practically made of anti-matter it's so heavy.

AF: You're one of those woman that rocks the Sherpa look 365 then?

Me: I practically AM a Sherpa! Well... except that whole "afraid of heights" thing. I once climbed on a roof to clean the gutters and got so freaked out all I could do was cry for 30 minutes before getting up the courage to climb back down. And the Ex-Mr. Smith wouldn't call the fire department for a ladder truck to get me off. THEY ARE RIGHT DOWN THE STREET, YO. They get cats all the time, why not me?

AF: I had another question I was going to ask, but then it occurred to me, what the fuck was his ass doing on the ground while his scared of heights wife was cleaning gutters?

Me: Well, in his defense, he had tried to get up there and said it was too high and the roof was too steep. So, naturally, I called him a pussy and said it wasn't too high or too steep and to move and I'd do it myself. Then I climbed up... and well.... you know the rest of the story.

AF: As long as you called the ex a pussy at some point in the story, that's what really matters.

Serious concerns about things for sale these days....

Actually conversation between DJ Smith and myself:

Me: (casually eyeing the various and sundry items on his dining room hutch) Whoa. WHOA. What the hell is that?

DJBS: What?

Me: THAT. And why have I not noticed this before now?

DJBS: WHAT?

Me: That bottle on the hutch that's shaped like a woman's foot in a high heel?

DJBS: Oh, that. It was a Christmas gift some time ago. I think it has moonshine in it.

Me: (unscrewing lid) WHOA. Yup, that's moonshine. HOLY CRAP. Seriously, how have I missed this? OH MY GOD. The foot has an anklet around it. Why is there a foot with an anklet in a high heel bottle of moonshine in your house?

DJBS: I told you, it was a gift.

Me: But, but... but - WHY? Did he buy the bottle and put the moonshine in it? Where do you think he got this bottle? BECAUSE IT IS AWESOME.

DJBS: These are questions I cannot answer.

Me: YOU SHOULD CALL A MUSEUM ABOUT THIS BOTTLE.

i know what i want for christmas! the anklet really brings the whole piece together, n'est pas?

I still have no idea where this came from. All I know is that I need this foot wearing an anklet in a high heel bottle of moonshine in my life.

Speaking of items I covet, I met a man wearing quiet possibly the boss-est letter jacket in the history of letter jackets the other day:

featuring none other than the king of the wild frontier himself, one mr. davy crockett.

Lastly, a few years ago I was walking downtown just before Christmas, and this little beauty in the window caught my eye:

ms. kristina canan! i had no idea she was for sale.

So please imagine my surprise when I was walking downtown today and THIS little beauty caught my eye:

mrs. monty howard! dammit kristina! quit monkeying around in store windows!!!

And that's all I got for today. Over and OUT.

Oh dear... I've done it again...

Dear Roomstress,

I'm sorry. I'm so so so so sorry. I realize that in the past I've been a bit of a... how you say? A... trial, let's say, but I completely understand your justly earned wrath this time.

Remember how when we first talked about moving in together? And I very seriously and candidly told you that I had a Santa collection that I was terribly fond of? And that I put it out around Halloween and keep it up for two months? And how you were like "Pfffft, that's not a deal breaker." Well... I think now you understand.

I'm very sorry about all the Santas. I really am. If I didn't love them so much I'd just as soon leave them in the boxes all year long.

Additionally... I'm very sorry about the whole "injury" thing. And making you load all the Santa boxes from my car up to the loft. I really hate it for you. But I hurt my leg and couldn't lift anything! How was I supposed to move all those very many very heavy boxes on my own? It just wasn't possible. I'm so sorry you were the one who had to tote them all upstairs. Then tote the empty boxes down to storage. It's a shame. But couldn't be helped.

While we're on the subject of injuries, let me please apologize to you again for making you steal from a church. I needed that rosemary! And I couldn't walk down to the church to cut it myself! Just think of it as "pruning" their rosemary. They'll never miss it! Besides, it really is overgrown so honestly you were really doing them a favor. And didn't that meatloaf taste delicious with the nice addition of some lovely rosemary? Hmmm? But again... sorry to ask you to sneak down with scissors and surreptitiously cut some rosemary.

And while we're on the subject of apologies, let me also apologize about No Pants Nights in the loft. So sorry. But how am I supposed to heat, exercise and ice my hamstring wearing dumb pants? YOU CAN'T, that's how. I guess me shrieking "No pants night!!" every night when I come home doesn't help much either.... sorry. I'll really work harder on that.

In conclusion, let me sum up with: I'm very sorry about all the Santas. But aren't they festive? And if you'd like I can give you a walking tour of each one of them - where it came from, who gave it, etc. No? Ok... well, when you're ready, we'll talk.

In the meantime, allow me to wish you a very Happy Holidays. I don't think this is the best time to discuss renewing our lease? No? Ok... I'll come back later.

Very truly yours,

Megan

P.S. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

P.P.S. Here is a very funny picture that will probably make no sense to anyone but me and Sharon:

Over and out.