Tuesday, January 30, 2007

On why I felt justified going into work today...

So, after spending Saturday, Sunday and Monday sick in bed (more than a little convinced that I was dying), I returned to work today. I did, against RR’s better judgment, also go to work on Friday. This had a lot to do with the following:

1) I thought I was getting better.

2) I had a lunch meeting that took two months to schedule.

3) I’m stubborn.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure that Saturday and Sunday were payback for being so active on Friday, so no discussion of “how stupid I was” is needed here. After all, I had a lot of time to consider this as I lay (dying) in bed over the weekend.

My family is unique in the sense that we are all highly unsupportive of illness. I know what you are thinking: Whose family IS supportive of illness? Let me explain. When a family member falls ill, no one goes out of their way to help the sick one. The reason is simple: no one wants to catch it. This is okay, though, because when you happen to be that sick family member, you don’t want to give said illness to anyone else in the family, either. It almost sounds selfless of the sick person, until you consider that the MAIN reason they so shun aid and support is in an effort to avoid having conversations that begin with “Remember that time you gave me the chicken pox/stomach flu/cold bug” for the next decade or two. This is especially true of my father.

None of this applies, of course, if a doctor deems any ache, fever or illness “non contagious”. If/when such a diagnosis is given, all family members are immediately supportive and/or willing to wait on the sick one hand and foot. No problem.

However, if there is any question as to your level of “contagious”, this is how you can expect to be treated:

1) Communication with the sick person is limited to a phone call and/or email. Any other method of contact may result in contamination.

2) People are willing to bring you things (i.e. food, medicine, etc.) presuming, of course, that the brought items can be left on the doorstep. Once deposited, the deliverer will ring the doorbell before sprinting back to the car, climbing inside and shutting the door. It is understood that the deliverer will wait for visual confirmation of the sick person before driving away.

3) If the sick person does not respond to the doorbell promptly, than a phone call may be necessary to establish that the sick person is, indeed, still alive. (Note: no protocol has yet been determined in the incidence that the sick person does not respond to either the doorbell or a phone call. However, I’m guessing it would involve breaching the perimeter and calling Mom).

4) Numbers 1, 2 and 3 do not apply to Trevor or Auntie Mimi. Trevor isn’t related, so it is up to him to decide whether “exposure” is a risk he is willing to take or not (generally, though, I won’t allow him near me if I’m sick out of fear that he’ll catch it and then give it back to me later on). Auntie Mimi, on the other hand, is very sweet and will actually hand the sick person any necessary deliveries (instead of the more popular drop-and-run method). Granted, she won’t actually come inside the contaminated dwelling, but she will get within mere inches of the sick person and talk to them face-to-face. This is always very much appreciated.

5) Most of these rules were initiated by my father, and no one follows them more strictly than him. The only difference is if/when HE gets sick. Then, it is expected that everyone will be at his beck and call all day, every day. This includes entering his house, making soup and delivering it to his bedside. If he happens to contaminate everyone in the process, oh-well.

So, as you might expect (now that you are privy to my family’s eccentricities), I spent the majority of the past several days with no one but my dogs for company. Not that my dogs aren’t entertaining, mind you. In fact, Gypsy Kitty went well out of her way to “make Mommy feel better”. This included staring at Mommy for hours, fetching the entire contents of the toy basket for Mommy (to make Mommy happy) and trying ever-so-often to climb onto the bed (when Mommy was not watching) in an attempt to help keep Mommy warm.

Haskell, on the other hand, seemed much more preoccupied with the fact that Mommy appeared to be dying. This caused him to worry and “squeak” much more than usual. It is also, as far as I can tell, the only reasonable explanation why I discovered every bone, Kong and uneaten rawhide (all formerly located in the aforementioned toy basket) inside his crate while putting him to bed Sunday night. Apparently, Haskell was preparing for the worst.

Anyway, after a weekend of absolute misery, I finally made an appointment with my doctor for Monday afternoon. This had nothing to do with ME thinking it was finally time to see the doctor (oh, no. The last thing I ever WANT to do is see the doctor. I HATE going to the doctor, and will make many excuses in an effort to avoid GOING TO the doctor). Instead, I was tricked into thinking convinced a doctor’s visit might be a good idea following a heartfelt plea by dear Auntie Mimi and a phone call from my coworker, Diane (who actually phoned me from the office yesterday morning to make sure I had made a doctor’s appointment for that afternoon. And I thought my coworkers didn’t care!).

Well, apparently, the appointment was justified because I have, according to the doctor, “a nasty sinus infection”. Apparently, judging by the “severity” of said infection, I could have started medication on Thursday or Friday of last week and spared myself a lot of misery over the weekend (coulda’, woulda’, shoulda’). Thanks, doc. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind for next time. Maybe.

Technically, I probably should have waited another day to go back to work. However, I was just too stir-crazy (sick or not) to stay in bed another day. I know, I know…“doctor’s orders”, but I had my drugs (as well as a school tour and an important lunch meeting today). Consequently, I decided last night that – barring feeling worse than I already felt – I’d be at the office by 9 AM.

In preparation, I decided to take a hot bath and curl up in bed around seven last night. The plan was to relax and watch some TV while the antibiotics started to take effect. Well, apparently I became a tad bit too relaxed because I completely passed out. In fact, I might have slept through the entire night – and work tomorrow – if it hadn’t been for Haskell’s squeaking (he does this when he needs to go outside). However, I might have slept through even this had the little guy not been so persistent. This was because I vividly remember associating his squeaks with a bizarre dream I was having.

Anyway, I finally pulled myself back to reality in time to realize that Haskell was near the popping point. Immediately, I jumped out of bed and headed to the back door – Haskell eagerly leading the way. I don’t think I fully grasped the extent of Haskell’s bathroom emergency until I saw the little guy’s paws hit the lawn just in time for his body to be doubled over with the…uhmmm…“Hershey Squirts”.

It took awhile for him to be done, but afterwards I went through the entire “good boy for waking me up” routine. After all, I want to reward such behavior (I’ll take awake-by-squeaking any day over major-bathroom-on-the-carpet). Plus, I was feeling a little guilty. I was pretty sure his tummy troubles were a direct result of him worrying all weekend about whether or not I was about to die.

After praising him, I stumbled back to bed (now more tired than ever) and discovered that my comforter had partially fallen on the floor. This was really no surprise to me because I tend to be a very “active” sleeper and thrash around a lot. However, it didn’t take long for me – upon touching my blanket – to realize that something was very wrong with it. Specifically, my blanket was soaking wet. At first, this confused me: why is my blanket wet, I wondered? Then, it became more than obvious that Haskell had indeed reached his popping point BEFORE I was able to get him outside. That’s right. My dog peed all over my king-sized comforter.

Now, before I go any further, I would like to note that Haskell is generally a very good dog and rarely has “accidents”. In fact, I can name each and every time he has had one:

1) A couple of days after I had him neutered, I had to take him back to the vet for a check-up. On the way home, a thunderstorm hit and the rain was so heavy that driving became very difficult. So, in no hurry, I decided to pull over at the PetSmart that is about halfway between my house and the veterinarian’s office. I needed dog food anyway, and figured it was best to wait out the storm inside PetSmart than on the road with the rest of the rush hour commuters. Anyway, Haskell had never been inside a pet store before, and it was obvious that the storm coupled with a new, strange place was making him nervous (not to mention the fact that he was still wearing his post-operative “lamp shade”). I had just gotten him down the dog food aisle when a bolt of lightening hit a telephone pole just outside the store. The thunder associated with it was deafening. When I turned to see how Haskell was dealing with the noise, I found him both pooping and peeing at once. He wasn’t even squatting. He was so scared that his bowels simply released while he was standing up. Pardon the cliche, but my dog was literately scared sh*tless.

2) A couple of weeks after his neuter, Haskell wet the bed. His bed (not mine). The vet said that this was probably due to some incontinence he was experiencing post surgery (it isn’t normal for a dog to wet their own bed while they are still sleeping in it, after all).

3) A couple of days after I returned from Africa, Haskell up and lifted his leg on the dinning room table. This was the first time he “intentionally” wet inside the house. It was rather odd. I think it was his way of punishing me for being away for so long.

4) About a month ago, I was over at my dad’s house with RR. It was cold and rainy outside and Haskell hadn’t had the opportunity to go out in quite awhile (correction: He WON’T go out when it is raining outside. He just looks at me like I’m crazy or something). He was doing a lot of squeaking, but I just figured he was afraid of the thunder. Well, that was until I discovered that Haskell had made a deposit on the floor.

5) He wet my comforter last night.

Now, I don’t know how many of you have raised a puppy, but they generally have lots of “accidents” before they catch on to the whole no-mess-in-the-house thing. When I first found Haskell back in June, he was only about eight months old. Not to mention the fact that he was a stray (i.e. never been in a house, much less peed in one), and had been hit by a car. I actually find it near miraculous that he’s ONLY had five accidents since I’ve had him. Gypsy definitely wasn’t that easy when I first adopted her.

Of course, NONE of this made the fact that HASKELL PEED ON MY BEDSPREAD LAST NIGHT any easier. To be honest, it mattered very little.

Upon making the “discovery” my ability to cope with the situation was completely nonexistent. So, not knowing what else to do, I called Trevor and burst into tears. Dogs have routinely peed on his bed over the years (yes, even DOLLY), so I figured he’d be supportive. However, it had always been rather comical when it happened to him, which was SOOOooooo not the case now that it was happening to me. Despite that, Trevor immediately came to my rescue, and spent the next hour with me and my trash-bag-encased-comforter driving around Dallas looking for an all-night Laundromat.

We found only two that were open past 10 PM. The first one had a broken change machine – although it is important to note that we would have otherwise washed the blanket there had that not been the case. I mention this for two reasons:

1) The only other people inside the Laundromat were small children with their parents (yes, after 10 PM), a middle-aged woman clearly high on something, a drunken homeless man trying to get warm and a so-called “lady of the night”.

2) The second Laundromat was too sketchy to even consider going into after dark.

So, yeah. That was fun.

Since it was more than obvious that getting the blanket washed last night was going to be easier said than done, I decided to cut our losses and call it a night. Translation: I came to my senses (i.e. tired) and realized that it would be much easier to take the darn thing to the dry cleaners the next morning. This seemed even more logical once I remembered two things:

1) I wasn’t even sure if the comforter was washable (it isn’t. The label clearly says “dry clean only”).

2) It suddenly occurred to me that I had already decided that I was going into work today. As a result, it would be a lot easier to drop the blanket off on the way into the office than spending the next two and a half hours washing it myself (at some seedy all-night Laundromat at that).

Anyway, Trevor had me back at home around 11 and I promptly climbed into bed (using a spare queen-sized blanket as a substitute for the one Haskell peed on). I recall thinking that – even after all the excitement – I was still going to get eight hours of sleep before my alarm went off at 7 AM.

Or so I thought…

Haskell woke me up “squeaking” every two hours or so. The fact I had punished him for peeing on my blanket (i.e. put him outside in the backyard while I drove around looking for a Laundromat) only further upset his already troubled tummy. Fortunately, for all parties involved, Haskell woke me up in plenty of time to get him out of his crate, outside the door and onto the lawn (Thank God!).

In other news, my blanket will be ready for pick up either late Friday night or early Saturday morning. Yes, that's right: king size comforters take three to four days to dry clean. Boo. At least, all this past weekend's germs will be washed away along with Haskell's urine.

Oh, and speaking of dog pee, I could not bring myself to tell the nice Asian lady at the dry cleaners this morning that my dog had wet my bedspread. Instead, I lied and told her that my four year old nephew "had an accident" while sleeping over. Yeah. I don't even have any nieces or nephews (much less a four year old bed wetter). Why I couldn't tell the truth to a complete stranger (who probably could have cared less), I have no idea.



Thursday, January 25, 2007

Ick. I'm sick...

Well, they got me. They finally got me. I knew I couldn’t dodge it forever. Plus, I was long overdue. Not since my first calendar year working with children at the museum have I fallen victim to it, but (*alas*) it was unavoidable.

That’s right. I’m sick. At-home-in-bed kind of sick. It sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks (don’t expect much in terms of vocabulary today. It just ain’t happening).

As always, whenever I get sick, I immediate blame those disease-ridden cesspools, otherwise known as: 4th graders. This is because they are the age/grade I am most often confronted with at the museum. However, due to the various academic schedules of the local ISDs, I do not see the little boogers frequently enough to ever build up an immunity to them. Yes, THEM. Have you dealt with a 4th grader recently? They are uniquely disgusting. I think it is an age thing. They are constantly coughing and sneezing all over each other with no regard to hand-washing, personal space or, say, the wild, wild world of Kleenex. They are also the grade that, in my opinion, has the most problem with projectile vomit, but that is altogether another issue.

I can always tell when a group of 4th graders has entered the museum. I might not be able to see or hear them (surprising, I know), but I can smell them every time. A gaggle of 4th graders smells a bit like a bag a stale Cheetos. I’m convinced that is what SO MANY bugs, viruses and bacteria smell like in close proximity to one another. Don’t believe me? Visit your local elementary school. The smell of 4th graders can be faintly detected simply by opening the front door.

Anyway, I did venture into work this morning, if only to complete a single task that I had promised my boss I’d finish by lunchtime. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have even bothered. My head is so congested that if I stand up too quickly I get rather dizzy. That and I apparently don’t look or sound so hot either. Cases in point:

- I ran into one of my coworkers while entering the building this morning. Upon seeing me he stated: “Wow. You look pathetic.”

- I was sitting at my desk typing on my computer when I was interrupted by another coworker. She said: “You look really bad! I take it you still aren’t feeling well, huh?”

- Calling RR to cancel working on a museum-related project this afternoon: “You sound horrible, Deals!”

- Calling my crackjass boss to let him know I was going home early, he replied: “Thank God.”

Of course, my reaction to all the above commentary was: “Gee. Thanks.”

So, feeling rather unwanted, I left the office and headed to the grocery store for some meds to alleviate the symptoms. This, thanks to Methamphetamine abusers everywhere, was much easier said than done. In order to get a “good” (i.e. effective) over-the-counter decongestant, I had to elicit the help of my local Tom Thumb pharmacist. However, getting through post-911 airport security is easier than obtaining a box of Sudafed. First, two (yes, two) pharmacists had to observe me to make sure I actually needed the medication. Luckily, I looked and sounded terrible, so this was relatively easy. Then, I had to produce a photo-ID and watch the pharmacist enter my drivers-license number into a computer to make sure I hadn’t been hitting up all the local pharmacies for similar drugs that morning. Finally, I had to sign a book stating I had received the medication and it was for my personal use. Only at that time was I allowed to take my box of Sudafed (stapled tightly inside a prescription box with my receipt on top) out of the store with me.

Now, I understand why these strict policies are in place, but when you are ill the last thing you want to deal with is stuff like this. I just wanted to scream, “LOOK AT ME! I’M DYING HERE! AGGHHHH!”

Anyway, life is marginally better now that I’m medicated and back in bed watching Animal Planet. But it still sucks. Boo. I hate being sick (stupid 4th graders).


Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Monster, Milk and a little about "Jebus"...

This morning we had a very large group of 150+ 4th graders visit the museum. Since it was cold outside, they asked if they could eat indoors (normally we do not allow food or drink inside the building, but we do make the occasional weather-related exception). While they were eating, I stopped by periodically to make sure that everything was going okay, remind the teachers when their next tour of the museum was scheduled to start, ask the kids to use "their inside voices", etc. During one of these visits, I came across a group of 4th graders drinking:

Not half an hour later, said 4th graders were seen sprinting up and down the aisle of the lecture hall carrying imaginary weaponry (namely automatic rifles, bazookas and long range canons). Their parents, who were chaperones, didn’t seem surprised (or, for that matter, called upon to do something about their child’s bad behavior). Apparently each of the kids had been diagnosed with ADHD. This, at least in my mind, begs two questions:

1) Are you sure your kid has ADHD? Is it possible that their symptoms are, say, more of an effect of you (i.e. the parent) allowing them to drink the equivalent of 4 ½ cups of coffee at lunchtime?

2) If your kid does indeed have ADHD, why would you let them consume something that would only exacerbate their issues with attention deficiency as well as hyperactivity right before an educational event which requires them to be both attention efficient and relatively quiescent?! I mean, call me crazy…!!!

Around the same time, I was firmly reprimanded for the museum’s lack of a “breast pumping facility”. Had this particular mother asked me beforehand, I would have gladly shown her to the much more private staff bathrooms. However, she didn’t and insisted on pumping in the public ladies room with, “twenty-some-odd 4th grade girls as witnesses” (her quote, not mine). Because, you know, that’s somehow MY fault.

I was further chastised for the absence of an ice machine in the women’s room. Not only that, but ice wasn’t accessible anywhere near the bathroom. Therefore, the Lactating Lady had to come out into the lobby and ask me for ice (which, by the way, I gladly provided for her from the staff lounge). Now, I’ve never spawned or breast fed, but I can’t say that it has EVER occurred to me that I was iceless whilst utilizing the public facilities at my local history museum. Maybe you have to be a Mammary Momma (don’t worry, I also got the lecture which started with, “Well, one day you’ll understand…”)?!

However, the best shake-your-head moment came at the end of the second tour (which, by the way, I had to lead). I should start by mentioning that the 150+ 4th graders came from a large CHRISTIAN school in North Dallas. Anyway, in the last exhibition room on the tour, I lead the group past a display case full of antique artifacts that date back to the time of the first European explorers that landed on the sandy beaches of modern day Texas. Included among these items is a crucifix. Here is the conversation that transpired:

BOY: “Ma’am, who is that man there?”

ME: “You mean Jesus?” (I almost said “Jebus”, though, because I thought the kid HAD TO BE KIDDING ME).

BOY: “Was he fighting for Texas independence, too?”

ME: “Uh…”

BOY’S MOTHER: “That’s Jesus, honey. Remember? We’ve talked about Jesus. [Turning to me] Don’t worry. He knows about Jesus.”

ME: “Oh. Okay.”

Is it just me, or should a kid receiving a CHRISTIAN education at a CHRISTIAN school know who Jesus is? Maybe my expectations are too high?


Anyway, that was my morning. And WHAT a morning it was! I spent the rest of the day wishing it was appropriate to take a mid-afternoon nap in my office. Maybe I should invest in some of that Monster stuff? It definitely perked those kids up!

Sunday, January 21, 2007


On reading:

“And then the pony said, ‘I’d like a drinky’. Oh, wait. Not ‘drinky’. It’s the word ‘drink’ with a question mark at the end.”

(Poor Trevor…)

No touchy my cookie...

Saturday, January 20, 2007

A new spin on an old shot...

Dog versus Duck...

My cousin, a computer and photography expert, took THIS picture of mine and tweaked the coloring a bit (more of a sepia tone to it now). I think it really changes the look and feel of the entire image.

Thanks, Rusty!! I love it!!

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Auntie Mimi's backyard...

(Note: Hold your mouse cursor over the images to see my commentary)


First, the pretty pictures:

Foggy morning in Auntie Mimi's backyard…
Photo by Deals

Down by the creek…
Photo by Deals

Why doesn't my backyard look this beautiful?…
Photo by Deals

Seriously!  Her yard looks like an oil painting!…
Photo by Deals

This is what winter looks like in central Texas (at least at Mimi's house)…
Photo by Deals

I love the reflections in the water…
Photo by Deals

Now for the silly (if not downright nonsensical) storyline:

The perp…
Photo by Deals

The usual (unwitting) suspects…
Photo by Deals

Can you find Gypsy Kitty and Haskell (they are being 'stealth')?…
Photo by Deals

Dog versus duck (doesn’t this look like the cover of a hunting magazine?)…
Photo by Deals

So close (yet, so far away)…
Photo by Deals

Haskell versus duck (he didn’t understand why the 'bath toy' didn’t come to his series of squeaks)…
Photo by Deals

Ah, life is good (even if the duck got away)…
Photo by Deals

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Fun with Haskell...

(Yes, another stupid dog video...)

Friday, January 12, 2007

Well, almost...

Station wagonThe following conversation was overheard during a tour of the museum this morning...

TOUR GUIDE: “Who can tell me what the frontier families rode in when they came west?”

4TH GRADER: “Oh, oh, oh! I know, I know!”

TOUR GUIDE: “Yes, sir?”

4TH GRADER: “Station wagons!”

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

How Trevor and I spent the last few days of 2006...

The horrible storms on December 29th, 2006 building over the ranch house…
Photo by Deals

Photo by Deals

Lots of thunder and flashes of lightening, but hardly any rain…
Photo by Deals

Looking off towards Austin…
Photo by Deals

Light breaking through the darkness…
Photo by Deals

Photo by Deals

'Yard Art' central Texas style…
Photo by Deals

Sunset over a stock pond…
Photo by Deals

Returning home after a long hike…
Photo by Deals

I love this image…
Photo by Deals

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Beautiful. Inspirational. True.

(The horse lover in me gets all teary-eyed...)

Sunday, January 07, 2007


The following "Trevorisms" were overheard at Matt's on Friday night...

Ordering drinks at the bar:

"I'd like a frozen margarita on the rocks, please."

On eating salsa:

"Wow! (cough, cough) They must have put something hot in there!"

Oh, Trevor...

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Caught BLACK handed...

Today I had to go to a luncheon.

(“Ug,” said the tomboy…)

In preparation for the event, I decided to polish my black boots. It had been so long between polishings that they had started to look all scuffy and grey in places (especially around the toe). Since there would be lots of older women (including my mother) at this luncheon shindig, I decided to make an attempt at looking presentable. Therefore, last night, I got out some black shoe polish and an old sock that had lost its mate (my substitute for a general lack of rags or cloth) and proceeded to “polish” away.

I was concerned about getting the polish on my hand, so I decided to stick my hand into the sock and wear it like a boot-polishing glove. At the time I thought this was a brilliant idea. That was until I removed my hand from said sock-glove and discovered:


That’s right. I dyed three of the four fingers on my right hand BLACK. The sad thing is that this picture was taken after a thorough scrubbing in the shower, two nail polish remover treatments and a somewhat lame attempt to exfoliate my hand.

Le sigh.

Unfortunately, the condition did not “clear up” overnight. Instead, my hand matched my black, shiny knee-high boots at the luncheon. I thought briefly about doing the whole glove thing, but decided that wearing gloves would only draw more attention to the fact that I am (alas!) an idiot.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Like ANIMAL PLANET but different...

In the words of the Emergency Broadcast System: "This is test".

I've been thinking for awhile now that I'd like to learn how to make movies on my computer, but have never gotten around to it (that whole "learning something new" thing can be intimidating). Well, on Monday night I finally decided to bite the proverbial bullet and open Windows Movie Maker.

Below are my first two attempts at making a movie. I must warn you, though: my short films are incredibly stupid and are not in the least bit sophisticated. In fact, they star my dogs (good actors are expensive, but Gypsy Kitty & Haskell work for kibble and the occasional treat).

Therefore, without further ado, I hereby submit the following for your viewing pleasure:



  • Tuesday, January 02, 2007

    New Year's and a towel rack…

    Trevor and I spent New Year’s Eve at a party hosted by Trevor’s mother and her husband. It was a lot of fun. There were about 30 to 40 people there, of which Trevor and I were the youngest by (at least) two or three decades.

    Despite the fact that we were very much junior to the rest of the crowd, Trevor had a particularly hard time making it to midnight. The older folks were all bright-eyed with excitement and anticipation for the New Year (as well as tipsy, I’m sure, from an evening of red wine, champagne and caramel-coated brie). Not my man, however. If 60 is the new 30, than Trevor must be 85.

    True to form, Trevor welcomed 2007 with a yawn, a kiss (for me), a blinky-eyed smile and the words, “Ready to go now?”

    I didn’t mind, though. After all, it was after midnight and Trevor’s compulsive yawning was becoming contagious.

    So, I began the process of saying our “goodbyes” while Trevor ran ahead to claim my purse in the master bedroom.

    I had just finished thanking Trevor’s mom for the wonderful evening, when I noticed Trevor trying to get my attention out of the corner of my eye. At first I thought he was motioning for me to wind up the conversation with his mother, but then I realized how excited he seemed to be about something. He was literately bouncing with anticipation (if he was a little kid he would have been pulling on my pant leg). This was definitely an interesting development - seeing as though Trevor had been about three seconds away from falling asleep standing up when I saw him just moments before.

    “What’s the matter,” I asked?

    “You need to see this! It’s awesome,” exclaimed Trevor!

    “Alright. What is it?”

    “You’ll see. Come with me.”

    I followed Trevor into the master bedroom and watched as he eagerly pointed at the so-called “awesome” item in question.

    “What,” I inquired?

    “This,” he said and pointed at it again.

    “It’s a towel rack.”

    “Yeah, I know! Isn’t it great?! Wait! There’s more!”


    “Touch it.”

    “It’s a heated towel rack.”

    “How awesome is THAT?!”

    “I dunno’, Trev. Pretty awesome, I guess?”

    “You don’t sound too excited.”

    “Well, I have a heated towel rack, that’s all.”

    “Yeah, but is it made out of wood?!”

    Yes, that’s right. My boyfriend could care less about the start of a new year, but goes bananas over a heated, WOODEN towel rack. That, my friends, is what they call, “unique”.

    Monday, January 01, 2007