This week I learned that 102 degrees is REALLY F’ING HOT! That was our official high temperature in Adrian, Michigan for both Friday 7/6 and Saturday 7/7, according to the National Weather Service. My homemade deodorant could not even stand up to that. (I don’t think any deodorant could.)
I also learned that too much texting leads to sore thumbs (and wrists and arms).
Also, it is highly embarrassing when you are hanging out at Walmart just to suck up the A/C, and you drop a camp toilet on your foot.
My camp toilet bruise, above my big toe
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This picture was part of an email that popped into my inbox from Sanrio. I totally think I need the dog carrier for my dog, what do you think?
Do you think my sweet little furry girl will fit?
My baby Dave.
I think she only weighs about 55 pounds. HAHAHA.
Happy 4th of July everyone!
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I don’t know all the rules and regulations, but I am pretty sure that even slot machines in a casino win sometimes. Or the casinos just set them that way to keep people pumping in their change. Either way, you get my point.
A typical crane “claw” machine
So then, what the fuck is up with toy crane (also known as claw) machines? They NEVER let you win. The crane is always adjusted so that it is super loose. The stuffed animals are always packed into the machine extra tightly. With these conditions, it isn’t a matter of skill or luck to get a toy out of it. It is just a rip-off. A guaranteed failure. If a machine implies that you could get a stuff animal (or candy, etc.) out of it for $1.00 by using a claw implement, shouldn’t you be able to say, once out of 10 times? 20 times? 100? Have any lawmakers ever actually looked into this? Proposed regulations? Probably not, as kids can’t vote. Although in my experience, youth in their 20’s sink a lot of money into these machines as well. And they are old enough to vote. But probably don’t.
In all my life, I found only one machine that would actually give up it’s goods. I have always figured that the man who set it up was probably new to his job. It was at the local movie theater. And for something like $10 or $11, my husband and I walked away with like eight animals that night. I did feel a little guilty. But, ya know, considering they make the plush animals in China for cheap and buy them in uber-bulk, they probably pay less than a $1 an animal for them anyway. And if a company advertises something at a price, someone should be able to collect on that. Not everyone, but someone at the casino should be able to say “I got $5,000 for a nickel.” Not everyone, but someone should be able to play the lottery and say “I got $25 million for my $1 ticket.” I am not sure that the crane machine operators can claim that anyone is getting a stuffed animal for a single dollar.
We should all stand up and be outraged by this heinous misuse of children’s amusement products! Crane machines are stealing our children’s happiness and innocence just as terminators from the future wish to steal our lives. Where will this travesty end? Food and beverage vending machines that take your money but give you no change? Or no product? OR BOTH! Carnival games that are rigged in favor of the house? Arcade video games that take your quarter and give you absolutely nothing to show for it?
Watch out world. Someday I will put this sort of passion into a real issue, like the right to gay marriage or getting President Obama re-elected. Then I will be unstoppable in my mission!
Or, what if I lobbied to get all the stuffed animals in the machines “Made in the USA”? I bet that would drive the price up at least five fold!
Maybe I should train my son to do this
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This week I learned that my husband can build a swing set (well, there is only one swing for now, so I guess it isn’t a set so much as a swing frame) with no plans or measurements except for what was in his head. I think it came out awesome. My son loves it. Our backyard now looks very kid friendly. And if the weather ever cools down, my son can use it some more.
I am very proud of my husband and his manly building skills. I think he may have even surprised himself.
I also learned the best gift a girl can give a friend is homemade deodorant. I have had problems with deodorant giving me a rash for years. For the last few years, I have used Dove Invisible Solid for Sensitive Skin. It was kinder to my skin than most, but still contains the ingredient that gives me a rash (Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex GLY), albiet in a lower percentage, so that it never quite kept me dry either. Plus, I believe it is widely known that that ingredient probably helps people develop cancer. And I used to have to put Hydrocortizone cream in my pits to help with the rash. That probably doesn’t help the situation either.
Then Lazy Hippie Mama made me some homemade deodorant (see this post for recipe). It rocks! She made it from coconut oil, baking soda, and cornstarch. It doesn’t seem to give me a rash. It works. I don’t feel guilty and worry that I am poisoning my body. It did burn a little after shaving, but so does the Dove. It held up alright on the 102 degree day we had this week, although I got scared and reapplied halfway through. And the Dove didn’t do well at high temperatures either. But I would say, all in all, that is a pretty good review for something you can make out of ingredients from your kitchen (and wherever the hell you buy coconut oil at).
If you love your friends, give them the gift of homemade deodorant.
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I was out to eat with some ex-coworkers recently at a nice restaurant someone had spontaneously suggested. I had no chance to research the menu online ahead of time, as I normally would. It turned out it was a seafood place. The typical conversation ensued as I looked at the menu.
CO-WORKER: You should try the seafood blah-blah. It is really good.
ME: I don’t eat seafood.
CO-WORKER: Aren’t you a vegetarian?
ME: No, I don’t eat vegetables either.
CO-WORKER: Then what do you eat?…You’re a picky eater.
I should have ended this exchange with “Pop Tarts”. But I didn’t. I admit, it is a little paraphrased. But I know how the conversation goes. I have had it a ton of times over the course of my life. And “You’re a picky eater” is always said as an accusation. I wonder if it is the same way people react when they find out someone is gay.
Mmmmm…
I EAT:
well done steak
pizza (just cheese or with green pepper or onion or ham)
cherry poptarts (strawberry* and brown sugar are
acceptable, but not preferred)
corn
potatoes
carrots (cooked)
yogurt
mac & cheese
bacon
pork
chicken
turkey
chocolate
ice cream
cole slaw
lettuce (but it hurts my stomach)
hot dogs
well done hamburgers
white rice
white or wheat bread
banana
apple
pre-peeled oranges
strawberries
pre-cut melon
pop
lemon
lime
select kinds of cheese (NOT KRAFT)
honey mustard
honey
eggs (but not a big fan)
pancakes
waffles
oatmeal
raisins
grapes
nutella
celery (cooked)
ketchup
BBQ sauce
I DO NOT EAT:
pineapple
coconut
seafood
mushrooms
cottage cheese
American cheese (unless it is from McDonald’s)
salads
chives
mayonaise (unless in Deviled Eggs)
potato salad
macaroni salad
butter
coffee
all fruit and vegetables not listed in the “I EAT” column
sausage
brown rice
olives
tea
oreos
walnuts
beans (except jelly beans)
mustard
ranch
red onion
foreign food of any kind, except tacos and quesidillas
* delicious strawberry flavored death!
Now, I realize my “I EAT” column looks like it belongs to a toddler. But in truth, my toddler eats a more well-balanced diet than I do. But I have stayed alive all these years on this fine American processed food. And I grew another being while eating this food.
You have to realize, being a picky eater isn’t a choice. I was born this way. It is a curse. It is a burden I must bear. Some of the foods I don’t eat I have tried and hate, like pineapple and coconut. Some smell so bad, I would never want to put them in my mouth, like seafood and coffee. Some I have never even tried and have no desire to, such as tea.
Actual conversation outside Teavana at the Franklin Park Mall:
SALESMAN: Would you like to try a sample of blah-blah tea today?
ME: I don’t drink tea.
SALESMAN: Oh, then you should try blah-blah. It has a very un-tea-like taste.
ME (thinking): Um, if I don’t drink tea, then obviously I don’t know what it tastes like then, do I?
Think of all the social situations that food plays a part in. I always had packed lunch at school because I wouldn’t eat the school lunch. The entire four years I commuted to college, I never ate in the dining hall. (I used to get nachos from the snack bar occasionally, that was it.) At work, I rarely bought anything from the cafeteria. Potlucks are their own minefield. It is amazing how many dishes have hidden sausage or mayo or cream of mushroom soup.
Chicken nuggets, anyone? Yummers!
Recently, at a family event, I had the following exchange with an Aunt who is the most prim and proper person. She would believe she has excellent manners.
AUNT: (looking at my plate) Is that ALL you are going to eat?
ME: Yes.
AUNT: Are you a picky eater?
ME: Yes.
AUNT: You don’t want any this or that?
ME: I’m good. I found some things. Thanks.
Isn’t it bad manners to make a guest feel bad about what is on their plate?
Why no green pepper? I can’t ask. Heart racing, breath quickening. Photo: mlive.com
Cici’s Pizza is a nightmare for a picky eater with anxiety issues. Cici’s is a pizza buffet. They put out like 20 kinds of pizza at a time. But, of course, nothing for a picky eater. You can ask for any kind of pizza and they will make it for you and add it to the buffet. Except you have to be able to get past your anxiety and open your mouth and ask for it and not fear the rejection you expect to come.
As a life-long picky eater, I worry the rest of the world wants to reform me. (I know, I worry too much.) That they want me to broaden my horizons. I feel like the world thinks if I am forced to eat something, I will like it and eat it forever and ever. It is another way I feel that I am different. That I am wired wrong. But I should stop thinking that way. Because everyone else has their issues.
Some people overeat. Some people undereat. Some people smoke. Or drink. Or do street drugs. Or prescription drugs. Or run marathons. I don’t judge those people. (Well, I do judge the ones who run marathons. I judge them to be crazy.) Being a picky eater is my thing. Hey, I know. Let’s start calling it “selective eating”. That sounds more politically correct.
Yes, I am not wired THAT much different than everyone else. I am just a selective eater. And addicted to caffeine. And I mis-match my socks. And I have issues with tissues.
If I was a character on a sitcom, I could write great jokes about myself. *sigh*
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