I like to be free from unpleasant odor. It's true. My (nearly) daily shower routine and complete lack of exercise are a living testament to my desire to avoid smelling like an actual human being. I also like other things that smell good. Flowers, cookies, clean laundry, and Glade Plug-In Air Fresheners. These all get a high-five in my book.
Why it does not occur to me that I, too, can not only be free from unpleasant odor but that I can actually smell delicious is a mystery.
While packing up the bathroom in preparation for moving just over a year ago I discovered a veritable cornucopia of body sprays under my sink. Over the years I'd amassed at least 9 bottles and I judged the oldest to be at least 10 years old. Some were nearly full and some were more than half-empty but it got me thinking, "Have I EVER finished up and thrown away an entire bottle of body spray?" I could not conclusively answer in the affirmative.
I guess I thought of body spray as something to be saved for a special occasion so it wasn't part of my daily routine. I just kept collecting and collecting them (almost all were given to me as gifts) and never using them. Sure, a new scent would keep me interested for a week or two then I'd forget about it and never use it again. They were all dusty but seemed otherwise unharmed by the years of neglectful storage.
When we moved I followed my traditional pattern:
Me (packing the first box): Yay! Moving and packing rocks! An opportunity to go through all my junk! I'm not moving a single item that I don't intend to keep! I will go through every single item that I own and decide its fate!
*three boxes later*
Me (dejectedly): Moving and packing sucks. This is so much work without going through every single item I own and deciding its fate. (brightening) I know! I simply will move all my junk and when I unpack it in the new house I will go through every single item I own and decide its fate!
*one move later*
Me (unpacking the first box): Ugh. I'm so tired from moving and there are boxes everywhere. I need to clear some space so I can function. I don't have time to go through every single item I own and decide its fate. I'll just find a spot for this stuff and later when I have time I will go through this cupboard and decide the fate of these items.
*10 years later*
Me: How the heck did I end up with 9 partially used bottles of body spray? I should throw this out.
It was at this point that I decided to spare the lives of these brave body sprays and begin to use them for their intended purpose. To make me smell delicious.
It wasn't easy. Some days I forgot to spritz. Some days I was too tired. If I missed a day I wanted to quit because I was so discouraged. I could be a perfect spritzer for a week and still not see any change in the level of liquid in the bottle. I seemed to reach a plateau and I threw my hands in the air and shouted to the heavens, "I'm trying so hard and you are not cooperating! I'm going to throw you all away right now!" But then reason returned and I would began again the next day, fresh and eager.
I sought out support groups on the internet and was frustrated by the lack of people going through what I was experiencing. I realized that I needed to be the change I was seeking. Maybe there was someone just like me out there, struggling with unused body spray.
Eventually, silently and almost imperceptibly, a change happened. It took discipline and dedicated effort but I did it. I finished one bottle. I remember it well. It wasn't a full-size bottle, just a little one that came in a gift pack at Christmas many years ago. It was almost a shock that morning when I spritz, spritz, sprit... hold on... nothing is coming out. THIS BOTTLE IS EMPTY! *cue Hallelujah music* If I can knock down one tiny bottle of Bath and Body Works Sweat-Pea Body Spritz, I can do anything! Watch out world! Here I come! Who knows what is next? The half-empty Warm Vanilla Sugar? Black Raspberry and White Tea with matching body cream? The three ancient and nearly full bottles of Cucumber Melon?!
Because I want to be accountable I'm reporting today I've managed to rid myself of 6 of the original 9 bottles. It's taken a whole year but I've taken them out and kept them out. I like to think of it more of a gradual lifestyle change rather than a gigantic purge.
Don't get me wrong I LOVE smelling nice. Especially around the holidays. And I know body spray is a popular gift. It's my goal to be down to one bottle left by Christmas so that when temptation comes, gift-wrapped in crinkly cellophane, I can confidently accept it.
Because I know... I can do it.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
The ants go marching
We've been having a little bit of an any problem in our bathroom lately. Every morning when I get up and see a couple dozen of the little critters marching purposefully across my counters and walls. It's enough be be irritating but not enough to take any drastic action again. Brett set out an ant trap which has had exactly ZERO effect on the ants. They crawl around, under, and over the trap but never go through to the delicious poison-laced peanut butter flavored goo in the middle. In theory, they would take the poison back to the colony and the whole lot of they would die off but like I said, one would have to actually ENTER the trap for that to happen.
But I'm lazy so I've done nothing other than just wash them down the sink in the morning and wipe the counter with soap (which they seem to hate... not enough to keep them from returning though).
But last night, A MIRACLE! Brett shaved his beard! Wait, no that's not the miracle. Brett shaving his beard is A Very Big Deal but not a miracle, especially since he really just trimmed his goatee and didn't shave anything.
Side note: Brett wears a goatee regularly. I prefer him cleanshaven but he is SO MANLY that the smooth cheeks that I love do not last more than about 2 hours. And when he shaves off the goatee he breaks out on his chin. So I do not require a facial hair free face very often, if ever anymore. The funny part is that when there is some sort of coefficient of density multiplied by length of time worn for the goatee that reaches a maximum, suddenly and without warning. The maximum tolerance can be reached at any point and during any activity. We might be watching a movie on the couch or having dinner and Brett will rocket out of his chair and hurl down the hallway to the bathroom, hollering, "I can't stand it anymore!" This was shocking and distressing the first few times it happened, but I'm used to it now. End side note.
So Brett trimmed his goatee and left the whiskers all over the counter and sink in the bathroom. Normally this would irritate me but amazingly there was not a single any in the entire bathroom. Not just near the whiskers, but anywhere. It's like the ants deemed our bathroom a condemned site or a nuclear fallout zone.
Maybe Brett's whiskers have super powers. Perhaps I should sprinkle them around outside to keep the feral cats away. Or wear an itchy little pouch around my neck for good luck.
Whatever the power is, it only last as long as the whiskers are present because after I washed them away the ants returned. Now they are in the kitchen and bathroom.
Good thing Brett is manly enough to provide me with a fresh supply of whiskers every couple of hours.
But I'm lazy so I've done nothing other than just wash them down the sink in the morning and wipe the counter with soap (which they seem to hate... not enough to keep them from returning though).
But last night, A MIRACLE! Brett shaved his beard! Wait, no that's not the miracle. Brett shaving his beard is A Very Big Deal but not a miracle, especially since he really just trimmed his goatee and didn't shave anything.
Side note: Brett wears a goatee regularly. I prefer him cleanshaven but he is SO MANLY that the smooth cheeks that I love do not last more than about 2 hours. And when he shaves off the goatee he breaks out on his chin. So I do not require a facial hair free face very often, if ever anymore. The funny part is that when there is some sort of coefficient of density multiplied by length of time worn for the goatee that reaches a maximum, suddenly and without warning. The maximum tolerance can be reached at any point and during any activity. We might be watching a movie on the couch or having dinner and Brett will rocket out of his chair and hurl down the hallway to the bathroom, hollering, "I can't stand it anymore!" This was shocking and distressing the first few times it happened, but I'm used to it now. End side note.
So Brett trimmed his goatee and left the whiskers all over the counter and sink in the bathroom. Normally this would irritate me but amazingly there was not a single any in the entire bathroom. Not just near the whiskers, but anywhere. It's like the ants deemed our bathroom a condemned site or a nuclear fallout zone.
Maybe Brett's whiskers have super powers. Perhaps I should sprinkle them around outside to keep the feral cats away. Or wear an itchy little pouch around my neck for good luck.
Whatever the power is, it only last as long as the whiskers are present because after I washed them away the ants returned. Now they are in the kitchen and bathroom.
Good thing Brett is manly enough to provide me with a fresh supply of whiskers every couple of hours.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
The Fox and the Hair
A couple of years ago, I visited Coolest Family Ever in Utah for Christmas. Coolest Sister-In-Law Ever was finishing up her residency at cosmetology school and I scheduled myself for a cut and color. There is no one on earth I would rather have cut my hair than Coolest SIL Ever. She has given me the ONLY cuts that I've actively liked rather than just "Eh, it'll do." (It may also have to do with her words of encouragement. "Andrea, you have to style it. You can't just roll out of bed and expect it to look good." But anyway...)
We're finishing up the process and it's time to rinse the color out. I guess it had been a particularly busy day and the school and, with the exception of one other stylist and her client, we were the last ones to leave. Apparently, the high traffic of the day in combination with the arctic temperatures outside had depleted the hot water supply in the building. Did I mention it was December? Did I mention the freezing temperatures? Did I mention that the water and the aforementioned lack of hotness thereof was going to be applied to my SCALP? Did I mention I had no choice if I didn't want to walk around dripping haircolor?
In the words of Sheldon Cooper upon finding himself in Bozeman, Montana: That is a bracing cold, an invigorating cold. Wow, is it cold!
The serious injury of having my frostbite on my scalp was lessened to a small degree by the delicious shampoo which accompanied the washing. (Joico, I think it was?) It was lessened to an even further degree when we heard the following exchange from the only other people still at the school:
Stylist: Oh... uh... wow.
Client: How does it look?
Stylist: Uhhh... I'm not even sure how I did that.
Client: How does it... wait, what?
Stylist: It's uhhh... I'm so sorry...
Client: Let me see!
Stylist: *turn the chair to face the mirror*
Client: OH MY G*D!!!
Stylist: I just... I just don't know how... what went wrong... I mean, I've never, ever.... I don't even know how it...
Client: I HAVE A DATE TONIGHT!!
Stylist: Really? I just... I can't really redo it... it's too late now... and I'm not even sure how... what...
Now you can't overhear a conversation like this and not at least try to look at the train wreck. But we didn't want to be obvious. So CSILE and I craned our necks, stretch our arms, and acted like I was inspecting my (perfect, btw) new do in the mirror while actually trying to peek around.
I only caught a glimpse but it seemed to be a hot mess of black and gray and lavender. Like this, only... not.
Stylist: I'm so sorry. I can try to fix it tomorrow.
Client: I'm going to have to cancel my date.
That seemed a little extreme to me. I think showing up on a date with totally whacked out hair (provided it wasn't your fault) would be an excellent conversation starter. What's better that a first date story that you tell your grandkids that starts out with, "So I accidentally dyed my hair purple the day your grandpa and I met..."
Or just wear a hat. It is December. In Utah. Something my scalp will never forgive nor forget.
We're finishing up the process and it's time to rinse the color out. I guess it had been a particularly busy day and the school and, with the exception of one other stylist and her client, we were the last ones to leave. Apparently, the high traffic of the day in combination with the arctic temperatures outside had depleted the hot water supply in the building. Did I mention it was December? Did I mention the freezing temperatures? Did I mention that the water and the aforementioned lack of hotness thereof was going to be applied to my SCALP? Did I mention I had no choice if I didn't want to walk around dripping haircolor?
In the words of Sheldon Cooper upon finding himself in Bozeman, Montana: That is a bracing cold, an invigorating cold. Wow, is it cold!
The serious injury of having my frostbite on my scalp was lessened to a small degree by the delicious shampoo which accompanied the washing. (Joico, I think it was?) It was lessened to an even further degree when we heard the following exchange from the only other people still at the school:
Stylist: Oh... uh... wow.
Client: How does it look?
Stylist: Uhhh... I'm not even sure how I did that.
Client: How does it... wait, what?
Stylist: It's uhhh... I'm so sorry...
Client: Let me see!
Stylist: *turn the chair to face the mirror*
Client: OH MY G*D!!!
Stylist: I just... I just don't know how... what went wrong... I mean, I've never, ever.... I don't even know how it...
Client: I HAVE A DATE TONIGHT!!
Stylist: Really? I just... I can't really redo it... it's too late now... and I'm not even sure how... what...
Now you can't overhear a conversation like this and not at least try to look at the train wreck. But we didn't want to be obvious. So CSILE and I craned our necks, stretch our arms, and acted like I was inspecting my (perfect, btw) new do in the mirror while actually trying to peek around.
I only caught a glimpse but it seemed to be a hot mess of black and gray and lavender. Like this, only... not.
Stylist: I'm so sorry. I can try to fix it tomorrow.
Client: I'm going to have to cancel my date.
That seemed a little extreme to me. I think showing up on a date with totally whacked out hair (provided it wasn't your fault) would be an excellent conversation starter. What's better that a first date story that you tell your grandkids that starts out with, "So I accidentally dyed my hair purple the day your grandpa and I met..."
Or just wear a hat. It is December. In Utah. Something my scalp will never forgive nor forget.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
This is why we can't have nice things
When life is handing us lemons, my husband and I turn to each other and say, "Well, at least we have the Kirby." No joke. When the cars break down, the washer and dryer fail, the a/c needs to be repaired, and the kids have peed on the furniture one too many times, we can always trust that our indestructible Kirby G5 will be there for us.
It was a sad day last week when I realized that our Kirby was no longer performing at its full capacity. Like, it wasn't sucking at all (in a good way). It was blowing the stuff on the carpet out of the way and into places where it would be much harder to reach later on. So with a heavy heart I set about trying to discover the malfunction. Would this be the end of reliable vacuuming as we knew it?
I checked the bag. Yes, the bag was full to overflowing. It was so heavy I needed two hands to carry it out to the trash. Surely, the installation of a new bag would be an acceptable sacrifice to my faithful vacuum. But alas. The sucky non-suction continued.
Brett suggested I change the belt. Reasonable, since I'd never done it in the 8 years we owned the vacuum. No improvement.
When consulted, the internets suggested I check and clean the fill tube. I guess over time lots of tiny pieces of dust can congeal into a massive tube-clogging monster.
I removed the appropriate pieces of the machine and hesitantly gave it a little shake over the garbage can. Some dirt, a few chips of wood, and a penny fell out. Another shake yielded more of the same. Surely this can't be keeping my all-powerful Kirby from doing its job.
I tried to hook out some more goop with the end of a wire hanger without any luck. Then Brett suggested I run the entire length of wire through the tube for better results. Success! The hook snagged on a fluffball roughly the size of my dog and dragged it kicking and screaming into the light. A few more passes with the wire and I had enough dingy fluffballs to start my own petting zoo.
At last the tube was clear with the exception of one item still rattling mischievously around in there. I gave it a whack and this little guy landed on my carpet.
It was a sad day last week when I realized that our Kirby was no longer performing at its full capacity. Like, it wasn't sucking at all (in a good way). It was blowing the stuff on the carpet out of the way and into places where it would be much harder to reach later on. So with a heavy heart I set about trying to discover the malfunction. Would this be the end of reliable vacuuming as we knew it?
I checked the bag. Yes, the bag was full to overflowing. It was so heavy I needed two hands to carry it out to the trash. Surely, the installation of a new bag would be an acceptable sacrifice to my faithful vacuum. But alas. The sucky non-suction continued.
Brett suggested I change the belt. Reasonable, since I'd never done it in the 8 years we owned the vacuum. No improvement.
When consulted, the internets suggested I check and clean the fill tube. I guess over time lots of tiny pieces of dust can congeal into a massive tube-clogging monster.
I removed the appropriate pieces of the machine and hesitantly gave it a little shake over the garbage can. Some dirt, a few chips of wood, and a penny fell out. Another shake yielded more of the same. Surely this can't be keeping my all-powerful Kirby from doing its job.
I tried to hook out some more goop with the end of a wire hanger without any luck. Then Brett suggested I run the entire length of wire through the tube for better results. Success! The hook snagged on a fluffball roughly the size of my dog and dragged it kicking and screaming into the light. A few more passes with the wire and I had enough dingy fluffballs to start my own petting zoo.
At last the tube was clear with the exception of one item still rattling mischievously around in there. I gave it a whack and this little guy landed on my carpet.
Yes, that is a Star Wars action figure. (And yes, that is the actual color of my bedroom carpet, but that's a post for another day.)
The point is that my Kirby is SO FREAKING AWESOME that it sucked up a whole action figure at some point in the last 8 years and I didn't even know it!
And of course, the combination of Star Wars and vacuums made me think of this straight away:
I'm pleased to report the actionfigurectomy was a wild success and the Kirby is back in business!
Monday, September 10, 2012
I'm only a few years behind the masses
But...
Here were my thoughts a few days ago:
I'm reading "Twilight" for the first time. (I got it for free at a swap meet.) So, Bella falls down a lot. And if she's not falling down, she's worried about falling down. She's practically in tears when Edward suggests they go for a hike in the woods, not on a trail. I have to wonder what kind of high school experience the author had to include SO MUCH falling down. Is this more of an issue with kids these days than it was in my youth? More drugs, more peer pressure, more... falling down?
Now that I'm almost down with the book I have discovered at the clumsiness that is mentioned 786 times in the prior pages actually has a point. If you haven't read it *SPOILER ALERT*: When Bella is attacked by an evil vampire her mother is told that her injuries were sustained by falling down two flights of stairs and through a window.
So there. Maybe mentioning Edward's beauty 257,596,809 times will have point eventually, too. One can always hope.
Here were my thoughts a few days ago:
I'm reading "Twilight" for the first time. (I got it for free at a swap meet.) So, Bella falls down a lot. And if she's not falling down, she's worried about falling down. She's practically in tears when Edward suggests they go for a hike in the woods, not on a trail. I have to wonder what kind of high school experience the author had to include SO MUCH falling down. Is this more of an issue with kids these days than it was in my youth? More drugs, more peer pressure, more... falling down?
Now that I'm almost down with the book I have discovered at the clumsiness that is mentioned 786 times in the prior pages actually has a point. If you haven't read it *SPOILER ALERT*: When Bella is attacked by an evil vampire her mother is told that her injuries were sustained by falling down two flights of stairs and through a window.
So there. Maybe mentioning Edward's beauty 257,596,809 times will have point eventually, too. One can always hope.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Discovering a new fee
Yesterday when I opened my Discover Card statement I was shocked to discover they had charged me a $19 late fee. Since I hadn't made any late payments I called them forthwith. The following conversation ensued: (let's listen, shall we)
Me: I'm calling about the $19 late fee on my statement.
DC: Yes. What do you need to know?
Me: I need to know what I was charged a $19 late fee on my statement.
DC: Well, our system shows that you didn't make a payment last month.
Me: I didn't make a payment? How odd. What was my balance last month?
DC: Let's see. It looks like you had a zero balance last month.
Me: ...
DC: Is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: ...
DC: Ma'am?
Me: ...
DC: Oh! I see your point! Let me take care of that for you right away...
I was glad I didn't have to spell it out for her.
Me: I'm calling about the $19 late fee on my statement.
DC: Yes. What do you need to know?
Me: I need to know what I was charged a $19 late fee on my statement.
DC: Well, our system shows that you didn't make a payment last month.
Me: I didn't make a payment? How odd. What was my balance last month?
DC: Let's see. It looks like you had a zero balance last month.
Me: ...
DC: Is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: ...
DC: Ma'am?
Me: ...
DC: Oh! I see your point! Let me take care of that for you right away...
I was glad I didn't have to spell it out for her.
Monday, August 23, 2010
I got something to say...
Yesterday, while we were sitting in church, Brookey hollered out in her best big-girl voice:
"GOU!"
Brett tapped her lightly on the mouth and murmured, "Shhhh..."
She looked questioningly up at him and then whispered:
"Gou?"
"GOU!"
Brett tapped her lightly on the mouth and murmured, "Shhhh..."
She looked questioningly up at him and then whispered:
"Gou?"
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