Category Archives: On Me

Where am I supposed to put my ChapStick?

After five years of working from home, I’ve reentered the workforce. I’ll be honest, it’s taking some adjustment. Gone are the days of rolling out of bed at 6:45 a.m. in order to be in front of the computer by 7:00 a.m. I’m now getting up at 4:45 a.m. so I can get to the gym before I clock in at 8:00. I’m learning how to divvy up household chores throughout the week instead of tackling them all on one day as in the past. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the crafty projects on my to-do list are now probably destined to languish there for all eternity.

chapstickBut the toughest adjustments all revolve around the fact that I’ve been forced to ditch my daytime pajamas for a real work wardrobe.

  • The pile of ironing, formerly comprised of the hubby’s dress shirts, has become a mountain. I foresee the swift development of a close and continuing relationship with the local dry cleaner.
  • Dress shoes suck. They pinch my toes. They cut my heels. And those are the comfortable ones.
  • In the five years since I’ve last had to buy them, manufacturers have adjusted the size chart for panty hose. My height has had me firmly in the “B” size since the 8th grade, but in the new and not-so-improved chart, I now find myself to be a “Q.” Thanks for that ego killer, Hanes.
  • Far and away, the most distressing aspect of working outside the home: Skirts and dress pants rarely have pockets. I am a ChapStick addict. I. NEED. A. POCKET. I’m going to have to carve some time out of my new schedule to find/make a holster that I can attach to the lanyard of my ID badge.

Otherwise, the new job is great. It’s great to dust off skills I haven’t used in a while and to learn new ones specific to my new organization (I had made it this far in life without using Microsoft Outlook, but I can’t avoid it any longer). I am enjoying being around people again, who, unlike the four walls of my home office, tend to answer questions I ask of them. And I really like the fulfillment of a paycheck automatically landing in the bank account every two weeks.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be stalking the halls, observing my coworkers to see if warmer weather brings a transition from nylons and heels to bare legs and sandals. If so, I’ll be convinced that the decision to reenter the workforce was the right one. As long as I have a ChapStick holster.


Posted by on March 30, 2014 in How It Is, On Me


Six Word Saturday

record player

Photo by avern, posted on Flickr. Licensed under Creative Commons 2.0

Trying to find my new groove.


Starting this week, The One Minute Writer is bringing back its most popular weekly event, in which participants sum up their life or current situation in only six words.


Posted by on March 22, 2014 in On Me, Six Word Saturday, True Life


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Why didn’t you just say ‘eulogy’?

panegyric def

I’ve never heard this word pass a human’s lips until Monday night. I think I’ve seen it written, once, years ago, in some mediocre novel that had long since lost my attention due to the author’s vain attempts to make it more literary than it had any right to be by using impossibly stuffy, archaic language. I was tired of having to use context clues (and too lazy to use a dictionary) to figure out all the unfamiliar words in his mind-numbingly boring dialogue, so I just skipped right over “panegyric.”

I should have put forth more effort.

I heard “panegyric” spoken aloud for the first time Monday night. Unfortunately, it was spoken in the final round of a grown-up spelling bee in which two teammates and I were participating for charity. None of the three of us had ever heard the word. No wonder, looking at its rate of usage since 1800.

panegyric use

I don’t think the emcee had heard it either, seeing as he pronounced it three different ways in the fifteen seconds we had to write it down. None of his pronunciations brought to mind that mystery word I had skipped so long ago. So we made our best guess p-a-n-a-g-e-r-i-c. And were promptly eliminated.

The knockout word...panegyric.

Only one team knew how to spell panegyric…and it wasn’t mine!

Although we lost the spelling bee, I like to think that we served a higher purpose, helping panegyric step out of the shadow of its better-known synonym, eulogy, at least for a few days. Usage will subside again to pre-bee levels once the Caffeinated Hyphens quit bragging about their win and the Spellcasters and They’re Highnesses finish lamenting their elimination.

panegyric use over time


eulogy use


Posted by on February 26, 2014 in How It Is, Observations, On Me


There will be drool

At our six-month one-year check-ups in October, the dental hygienist told the hubby we should get electric toothbrushes. I have never used an electric toothbrush and know nothing about them. Trying to get specifics about the brand and features that she recommended was like pulling teeth…all he’d tell me was “Oral-B” and “look at Bed Bath & Beyond because they’re often cheaper than Walmart if you use a 20%-off coupon.” So out of defiance for research purposes, I head straight to Walmart.

Holy dental hygiene, Batman! Do you know how many different kinds of non-manual toothbrushes there are? I had no idea—I blame my ignorance on being out of the country for five years. Lots of technology happened in my absence. I stand there blocking up the dental aisle for twenty minutes, examining package after package, trying to discern any significant differences that would make this battery-operated one $4.88 and that rechargeable one $189.95. I could buy a whole lot of batteries with the $185.07 I’d have left over if I purchase the cheap one. Paralyzed by indecision, I return home empty-handed. Further questioning of the hubby (“get a spinny one” and “she said it has a two-minute timer”) and subsequent browsing at Bed Bath & Beyond, Kohl’s, Target, and lead me no closer to the mysterious toothbrush of the hygienist’s recommendation, so I put my quest on the back burner for a few days weeks months.

Tool of the devil?

Tool of the devil?

Finally, a couple weeks ago, the hubby is with me when we happen to venture down the small appliance aisle at Costco. Being Costco, there are only about six different electric toothbrushes in stock, so there is very little opportunity for indecision. Fearing the hygienist’s wrath for non-compliance at our next appointments, I force him to choose a toothbrush, any toothbrush, and we head home with a two-pack of Oral-Bs, complete with spinny head and two-minute timer. Mission accomplished.

With the hubby at work the next day, I dutifully unwrap and assemble the new toothbrushes as directed by the instruction booklet, thinking I can sneak in a trial run before he gets home. But no. There is no life at all in my toothbrush, and it is not a quick-charge piece of equipment. Following the guidance of the little booklet, I plug in the charging bases and settle in to wait…for seventeen hours. What? Why seventeen hours? Immediately, I distrust this toothbrush. Why not twelve hours or twenty hours? Who designs a battery that requires such an arbitrary charge time? I don’t like it. Not one bit. And guess what? It takes exactly seventeen hours.

Fast forward to the next afternoon. The charging light has finally stopped blinking, and trying not to be put off by the little booklet’s somewhat dire warning that “some bleeding of the gums is to be expected” I put a dab of toothpaste on the tiny little spinny head and prepare to face the unknown.

At this point, I should probably mention my distrust strong dislike hatred fear of spinny dental implements. In the dentist’s chair, I suffer through the horrible probing of my gums with sharp instruments, the dreaded scraping of metal blades against enamel, and the tortuously sharp corners of the bite-wing X-ray films. But by the time the hygienist reaches for the spinny tooth polishing tool, arguably the easiest part of the semi-annual cleaning, my heart is racing and my palms are sweating. It’s a mixture of fear and loathing. I fear something whirling at such incredible rpms near sensitive lips, cheeks, tongue, and gums. I loathe the mind-piercing sound of something spinning at such incredible rpms. And I absolutely detest the thick, gritty, foul-tasting toothpaste they must use in something that rotates at such incredible rpms.

skydiving face

Photo courtesy of via Ron Malibu

So I angle my new electric toothbrush toward my left lower molars, push the button, and am immediately suffused with the fear I feel in the dentist’s chair. I am afraid that this toothbrush is going to catch the inside of my cheek and wrap my entire face inside out around its spinny head, so I’ve got my cheeks puffed out and lips peeled back as far as they can go, doing my best impression of a skydiver’s face. I’m afraid the same fate awaits my tongue, so it is wedged up behind the upper molars on the opposite side of my mouth. Drool, a normal physiological response to fear, is flooding my mouth. FYI, Crest does not stand up to this liquid assault like the thick, gritty, foul-tasting toothpaste my dental hygienist uses. Within seconds, minty spittle is flying around the bathroom, and I have no idea how to contain it, because I’m convinced that as soon as I close my lips around this instrument of the devil, they are going to be ripped off.

After an interminable 30 seconds, the toothbrush gives me the secret signal to move to a new quadrant, and I struggle to reposition it while keeping cheeks, lips, and tongue away from the whirling head. My lips are numb, so I don’t feel the globs of drool that are running out of my mouth until they plop onto my chest. My cheeks are quivering from the strain of being puffed out so far by the time I get the second secret signal—one minute down, one to go.

 photo drooling.gif

Drooling gif courtesy of Rick Bush

I’m resigned to the fact that I’m not only going to need a clean shirt at this point, but that I’m going to have to scrub the counters, the mirror, and the floor, and I begin to ponder the cumulative implications of these new toothbrushes. The hubby and me, brushing twice a day, usually at different times in the morning and together before bed. If we don’t remember to brush before dressing, that’s two extra shirts in the laundry twice a day, and at least three bathroom cleanings per day. These toothbrushes are going to cause a whole lot of extra work.

It seems like forever since the last secret signal, so with the toothbrush pressed against my upper molars, I glance at the digital clock on the counter and immediately wonder if we’re having an earthquake. The numbers on the clock are dancing wildly, to the point that I’m getting dizzy. The magic signal comes, and I find that moving the toothbrush controls the movements of the digital numbers—inside the upper incisors invokes a slow waltz, and against the upper molars incites an all-out boogie. Concentrating on this experiment, I forget where my tongue is, and it accidentally touches the spinny head of the toothbrush. Oh. My. God. This is the end.

Remarkably, nothing bad happens. A slight tickle from the bristles, but my tongue is not twisted around the brush or ripped out by the roots. Feeling brave, I relax my cheeks so that they, too, touch the spinny head. Again, nothing bad happens. Okay, maybe I can do this after all. But the drool. What to do about the drool?

I’m happy to report that after two weeks of practice, the volume of drool has decreased in direct correlation to the subsidence of my anxiety. I no longer have to brush while naked from the waist up to avoid having to change shirts, and I no longer have to keep a bottle of Windex in a holster on my hip to repair the damage I’ve done to the mirror.

I expect my hygienist to be pleased with the cleanliness of my teeth when I see her in April. I don’t expect that my adoption of this electric toothbrush has lessened the fear I’ll experience when she comes at me with her own spinny tooth polishing tool. But I do expect she’ll be impressed by just how far I’m able to move my tongue out of its way these days.


Posted by on February 5, 2014 in How It Is, On Me, True Life


Domestic near-disaster

Not the best way to make tea...

Be careful where you drop the tea bags…

In the south, nothing says welcome home like a tall glass of sweet tea. So I cranked the stove to high, set a pot of water on to boil, and got ready to welcome.

Do you have any idea how quickly a Lipton teabag will combust when dropped onto an electric burner?


Do you know how big the flames are if ten teabags are tied together when they hit said burner?


How do I know this?

Because I nearly burned down the house in that attempt to make some sweet tea. Not just any house. The brand new, paint-is-still-pristine, boxes-are-still-packed, townhouse of my then-boyfriend (now hubby, miracle of miracles). Nothing ruins the ambiance of a new home like soot stains on the ceiling and the aroma of scorched black tea layered over the fumes of just-laid wall-to-wall carpeting.

Luckily, there was no irreparable damage, and after a quick call to the insurance company to be sure his policy was up to date, the then-boyfriend (now hubby, miracle of miracles) was ready to forgive and forget.

Well, maybe not forget. The incident has come up each time I’ve unpacked the tea pitcher in a new house in the past ten years.


Everyone has some kind of domestic disaster story, whether it’s a kitchen fire or a DIY project gone horribly wrong. If you’d like to laugh at commiserate with other people’s misfortunes, please, please check out the hilarious Domestic Disaster Diary. A slew of talented bloggers share their own near misses, creating a community of sympathy and solidarity for those of us who have good intentions but not always the best results.

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Posted by on December 16, 2013 in How It Was, Memoirs, Monday Mix, On Me, True Life


WestJet waterworks

A couple months ago, I posted about things that bring a tear to my eye. It’s already a long list, but today I’m adding to it. I saw a WestJet video on Facebook this morning and got all choked up. I watched it again with the hubby after dinner and bawled again. And, moments ago, when Brian Williams featured just a clip of it on the NBC Nightly News, I cried over it for a third time.

I’d like to believe that WestJet pulled off this huge surprise simply because Christmas is the season of giving, but I know they had ulterior motives…they’re using the footage in advertisements designed to attract more customers and boost their bottom line. But I do think that thanks to their generosity, a lot of happy passengers received gifts they might not have received otherwise–the expectant parents probably weren’t going to splurge on a big screen TV this year (I’ll save the debate about the materialism and commercialism surrounding the season for another time). It is my genuine hope that as recipients of such kindness, every one of those passengers, no matter how young, will find some way to pay it forward in the true spirit of Christmas.




Posted by on December 10, 2013 in How It Is, On Me, True Life


No, I have no idea where all our forks have gone

photo 1-001And I believe that the best learning process of any kind of craft is just to look at the work of others.
~Wole Soyinka

I should know better than to go to any kind of craft show. Or rather, I should just give myself permission to burn up the credit card buying one of everything that catches my eye. Because I’m gonna end up spending at least that much trying to recreate all the cool things I saw when I get home. Probably closer to double, because in addition to materials, I can guarantee I’ll have to buy at least one weird tool per project, and before all is said and done, I’ll have to go back for extra materials because the thing didn’t turn out quite like I remembered on the first try.

So, dearest hubby, if you notice one of those Victorian warming pans you were planning to sell at the antique fair has disappeared from your inventory, and we are running out of forks faster than usual, then you’re probably also going to find a new soldering iron in the tool chest. And hopefully a cute turtle garden ornament in the front flower bed. You’ve been warned.


Posted by on December 6, 2013 in On Me, True Life