Mar 202013
 

Apparently Rice Krispies have decided to accompany me on this last half of my life, making up for being horribly neglectful during the first half.

Snap likes to party under both kneecaps mostly when going up stairs, but sometimes when turning corners on flat surfaces.

Snap, Crackle and Pop loves them a challenge

Snap, Crackle and Pop loves them a challenge

Crackle is lower key, preferring to be the designated driver for Snap during stairway sojourns, quietly grinding away under both kneecaps and most noticeable to the kneecap owner. He likes it that way. He’s an introvert.

Pop is the most obnoxious, loudly proclaiming his presence any time he pleases, often scaring passersby. Stairs? His favorite pastime. Walking on any surface, smooth, bumpy or indifferent? Why is this even a question? Not moving at all? A challenge he rises to. Anybody can Snap up the stairs. Try Popping when standing still.

Whenever Crackle introduces his siblings as “this is my brother Snap and my other brother Snap”, Pop protests as loudly as possible, often eliciting several SHHHHH’s from nearby librarians. After all, he has perfected the “standing perfectly still Pop” and he’s damn proud of it.

When did Snap, Crackle and Pop take up residence?  According to the learned osteopathic doc, they started as microscopic embryos during my long and vigorous trampoline career as a child, growing during my bicycling and softball years, then lying quietly in wait while I spent my adulthood gaining er…weight, providing much needed pressure to really take root.

The denouement for Snap, Crackle and Pop came the day their 44 year old host fell directly on to her left kneecap for no discernible reason. It took them a few weeks to get organized, but then WHAM! They got the party started, complete with a blazing bonfire otherwise known as searing stabs of pain..

They now present a unified front in the form of severe arthritis developed over years of painstaking work.

Don’t worry. I’m sure Snap, Crackle and Pop will get back to their day jobs as soon as they are all partied out and that searing pain, also known as the blazing bonfire, has died down to coals. Who knows when the next big party will happen.

Gosh.

I can’t wait.

Mar 132013
 

In recent years, there has been a huge surge in DIY television programs: Bath Crashers, Kitchen Impossible, and Sweat Equity. That list is probably only .263 % of all the programs out there in DIY land. They come to your house and fix it.

I’ve made up my mind. That’s what I want. In half an hour, I would like my entire insert-room-here completely remodeled by an expert hunk (I can dream) all the way down to paint and accessories somebody else pays for.

OR…I can have my wonderful husband and my pathetic self take on a ¾ bathroom remodel in only a month and a half, complete with 13 coats of paint, 21 trips to the hardware store and accessories I have to pay for – or purloin from other parts of the house, whichever seems easier and less expensive.  I see no reason why a hand-me-down 70’s orange trivet from the kitchen can’t work in my yellow and green spring-y bathroom as some kind of decorative accessory.

I'm just an innocent looking hammer

I’m just an innocent looking hammer

Don’t burst my bubble. I’m on the edge.

So here we are gazing at the DIY light at the end of the home improvement tunnel of pain. The best husband in the world cannot get the bathroom door that has worked fine since 1981 to hang properly. Nope. And the door handle that has been in working order since, yes, 1981 won’t install correctly either.

What’s a wife to do in this circumstance? Any of us with wife experience in these kinds of situations knows to invoke the WCC, or Wife Code of Conduct. It simply states that at no time can you loudly suck in your breath in horror at the impending calamity, whatever it is, nor can your face show any sign of dismay. The husband knows what he is doing.

Dear husband is making trip number 22 to the home improvement store even as I write this to purchase new hardware for the door. When he comes back, the WCC dictates that I will simply continue with whatever task I am doing, listen intently for any crashes, cussing, or other concerning sounds, and wait until summoned to help.

Home improvement  or a sharp stick in the eye.

Let me think…

Mar 062013
 
  • craft supplies

    A few craft supplies I own

    You’ve ever frantically yelled “Don’t throw that away! I can make something out of it.”

  • You spend an undisclosed amount of money every month on all things crafty.  To disclose it might give your spouse a heart attack.
  • You know precisely where the clearance wall is in Hobby Lobby and how long it takes you to walk back there.
  • Every piece of cardboard, old jewelry and well-worn clothing sets your mind ablaze with possibilities.
  • You’ve gone crazy with the glue gun and glued stuff to picture frames, cupboard doors, desks, planters, mirrors, your dog’s collar and computer monitors.
  • You cut buttons off all clothing bound for the trash can.
  • Large bags and boxes of miscellaneous items frequently appear on your doorstep. Everyone knows where the crazy craft lady lives.
  • You think nothing of going in to work with paint under your fingernails and glue on your elbow.
  • Every time you decide to clean and organize, you discover craft items you didn’t know you owned.
  • You don’t mind when you spill paint. It’s like floor art.
  • All folding tables in the house become permanent craft room additions.
  • Your spouse learns not to ask when how long you’ll be gone when it’s craft fair season.
  • Anything is fair game to become a piece of jewelry: bottle tops, tire rims, twist ties.
  • Others don’t understand why you need 15 different types of glue.
  • Your husband buys you a 100 pack of gel pens complete with stand, without batting an eye.  You’ve trained him well.

 Copyright © 2010 Melody Jones

 

Originally published as a blog post on Melody’s Musings.  If you love crafts, read The Craft Lover’s Success Guide:  Simple Ways to Nurture Your Creativity and Actually Finish You Projects by Melody Jones, available at www.mycraftebooks.com.

 

Mar 012013
 
This is, like, 3 feet long or something.

This is, like, 3 feet long or something.

I avoid doctors.  I avoid needles.  And I try to avoid doing anything that causes me to need either one, like breaking my leg or stepping on rusty nails or developing an IV drug habit.

Unfortunately, there does come a time where one can be forced into the doctor’s office, at which point they inevitably discover that a) you have been avoiding medical attention for years; b) you have a list of ailments, but don’t want to discuss them; and c) you have no idea when your last tetanus shot was.  “Sometime in the 90’s” is – apparently – not a valid answer.

A few weeks ago, I had occasion to visit the doc, but first I had to find one.  My insurance had changed since last time I sought medical attention.  If I’d had my psychic with me on this journey to find a doc, it may have been easier to pick out one that’s right for me, but I was forced to rely on criteria I just invented.

First criterion:  is their office close by?  I believe in decreasing stress by traveling the shortest distance possible.

Second criterion:  are they female?  No offense to male docs, but I don’t want to discuss females issues with you, like the fact that I might cry at a Hallmark commercial or how bad cramps can be because let’s face it – you don’t REALLY know, do you.

Third criterion:  are they young?  This is a tricky one.  If you get an older one, they’ve been around the block, seen it all, and don’t get too excited if you carry a few extra pounds.

On the other hand, they die. Then you have to choose another one using your criteria.

If you go with a younger doctor, they know all the latest and greatest since they are more recently graduated.

On the other hand, they tend to get a little excited over things like slightly elevated blood pressure (white coat syndrome, people!) and not excited enough that age has brought an enormous amount of hair growth on my, ahem, chin.  Because let’s face it – they don’t REALLY know what’s that like, do they.

Also, I have reached an age where I am now older than the young ones. (what?).

Fourth criterion:  there isn’t one.  Now I just have to randomly choose from my list.

So I did and I met Dr. Lori.  Not only did I get to discuss the weight issues I’ve been battling for as long as she’s been on this planet – yes I have tried it all, doc, except that whole “drink your own urine and lose weight” thing – I got to talk about things that involve needles, like tetanus shots that now come with a chaser of pertussis because whooping cough got tired of being invisible and has returned with a vengeance.

And then the talking stopped and the needling started.

A week later when I went in for a follow-up visit, I pointed out to the doc that I still have a huge discolored bump on my arm from that damn shot.  She says well, at least you have a good immune system heh heh heh.

I showed it to the phlebotomist.  She said “OMG it’s hot to the touch and hard as a rock.  I can’t believe it a week later.  That’s kind of weird.  Put a compress on it.”

I showed it to the other nurse.  She said “Wow, I can’t believe it.  Put a heating pad on it.  Oh, and are you allergic to flu shots?”  Do you mean emotionally, because YES. YES I AM.

Okay, she says, now don’t tense up.  We don’t want an enormous discolored flame-hot bump on your arm for five more weeks, do we.

No.  We don’t.

Copyright © 2010 Melody Jones

Feb 162013
 
Remember when they made pink toilet paper?

Remember when they made pink toilet paper?

I think by now everybody is aware I am pursuing a full time freelance writing career. This dream, that I have mentioned – ahem – 102.5 times (or so), allowed me to give notice to my former employer recently. This changes my daily habits.

In my new life, I no longer have a total one hour commute plus any lunchtime driving brought on by a sudden need to visit Michael’s or go out to lunch.  This has cut down significantly on gas consumption, reducing my daily costs. Happy dance.

I notice I also no longer have free continuous access to company toilet paper.

Let’s just be clear. I am female. Females visit restrooms more often than males. It’s probably proven in a study somewhere. It’s also proven at numerous large events every weekend in cities and town across the United States when the line at the ladies room is consistently 9 times longer than the line at the men’s room (if there is a line at the men’s room). I have seen desperate women crash the men’s room, scaring some nearby men while thrilling certain others – but I digress.

So now I AM the company. Apparently, I am also in charge of company toilet paper. I have to stock it and I have to buy it. And….I am still female (see paragraph above). Also, I am a coffee addict. I may have forgotten to mention that part.

Female + coffee addiction = increased number of bathroom breaks per hour which = substantial increase in toilet paper consumption which also = substantial increase in the purchase of toilet paper.

What I saved in not commuting an hour day is now made up in the purchase of toilet paper.

Nobody mentioned that in all my “what it takes to be a freelance writer and work from home” research.

Originally posted in June 2010, but worth a repost.

Copyright © 2010 Melody Jones