Just for fun

Yesterday I mentioned that I have a touch of the writer’s block and I think part of the issue is that I am so tired. I think it may be a combination of staying up until 1 a.m. and having a mild case of insomnia. It certainly doesn’t help that I have someone who wants to wake me up at 5 a.m. to tell me they need to go to the bathroom and then I have to remind P that he can go to the bathroom anytime he wants and doesn’t have to tell me.

Part of what’s been keeping me up until 1 a.m. is my obsession with Pathwords. For those of y’all who don’t know what that means, Pathwords is a game on Facebook that’s basically crack for nerds.

About a month ago, I had the highest score among all my Facebook friends and I’ll admit that I struggled with some pride over the whole thing. I had to restrain myself from leaving comments on my high school friends’ walls saying, “Who cares what Jimmy Buffet song most represents your personality? Check out my Pathwords score!”

They may remember me as the girl who couldn’t pass Algebra II without resorting to bribing the teacher with apple fritters and excessive flattery, but I am a genius when it comes to anything involving letters that don’t represent arbitrary math equations And, sure, a guy I know from high school has a laboratory research facility at Harvard that’s named after him, but I bet what everyone will really be talking about at our twenty year reunion this summer will be my Pathwords proficiency.

Then, two weeks ago, a guy who was in my church youth group in high school surpassed my high score and I am obsessed with beating him. (Let me state again that I have NO IDEA where Caroline inherited her competitive nature.) It’s a sickness and I’m planning to quit cold turkey. Tomorrow.

So I’ll admit that I took a nap while Caroline was at school yesterday. At least I say it was a nap. I spent the morning cleaning our bathrooms so it’s entirely possible that I just passed out from the Tilex fumes, but the important thing is I caught up on a little sleep.

When she got home from school we pulled out the paints again and watched the newest episode of Planet Earth which was all about caves and has singlehandedly caused me to develop a huge cave phobia. I googled “phobia of caves” because I wanted to impress y’all with a big word, but all it gave me was “claustrophobia”.

Hey Google, tell me something I don’t know. I’m well aware of my claustrophobic issues because they are all that kept me from hiding in the trunk of my car in an attempt to get some sleep when Caroline was a newborn. I would prefer an exotic word for my new fear of caves.

I also found this helpful piece of advice on a website regarding cave phobia:

If the mention of ‘Caves’ by someone sends chills down your spine then it’s time for you to consult a trained psychotherapist as quickly as possible.

Risky Career Options for People with the Fear of Caves
– Jobs where Caves are involved or anything which resembles or is connected to “Caves”.

Good Career Options for People with this Phobia
– Jobs where Caves are not involved or anything which resembles or is connected to “Caves” is not present.

Seriously, what did we do before the internet?

I guess that means I should tear up this job application for Spelunkers, Inc.

Even though they really wanted me because they heard about my high score on Pathwords.

On Monday I decided it was time to get serious about my workout regimen.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. I spent most of Monday morning doing anything but exercising, including organizing all our tax information for our accountant. So, what I’m basically saying is I’d rather write a check to the IRS than work off all the Grande Peppermint Mochas that I drank over the winter.

But, eventually, our checkbook was balanced, our junk drawer was organized and I’d played so many games of Pathwords that I’ll never be able to use my right hand to point at anything ever again. I thought maybe I had some T.V. programming on the DVR that I needed to catch up on, but all that was left were a few episodes of “The Spirit of the Wild”.

I was left with no other option than to put on my workout clothes because I’d rather exercise than watch Uncle Ted talk about killin’ it and grillin’ it.

After donning my workout apparel, I decided I needed to do something other than the elliptical machine. It’s not that the elliptical isn’t a good workout, but it’s more of a cardiovascular thing and, last time I checked, my heart rate didn’t have cellulite.

I searched for my “Fat Burning Pilates” DVD, but couldn’t remember where I left it when I last used it in March 2008. Then I had a vague recollection of opening the drawer of the armoire last December, seeing the “Fat Burning Pilates” DVD case, and feeling that I was being mocked by the smug look on the instructor’s face.

Sure enough, there she was in the drawer. Smiling from ear to ear in her yoga pants and kicky green sports bra, as if she’d never dealt with the temptation of eating a pound of cheese in one sitting. I don’t trust a woman who looks as though she never enjoys some cheese.

I put in the DVD and ostensibly began to burn fat with all the perky girls and their six-pack abs. Since it had been a year since I last attempted and failed to complete this workout, I forgot that the musical accompaniment is a shady-looking guy playing the bongos. Clearly, they are all high. How else do you explain all the joy and the bongo-playing? It’s not like they’re at a luau.

So I grabbed my iPod because I knew the only person that could get me through this was Justin Timberlake. Sure enough, JT and I got into a pretty good rhythm until I got a little too enthusiastic with one of my side lunges and fell over the ottoman, which served as confirmation of my decision to never exercise in public.

Anyway, I finished the workout through sheer determination and the thought of how good it would feel to tell that guy what he could do with his bongos if I were in the same room with him.

My feeling of accomplishment lasted all the way until the next morning when I sat down to go to the bathroom and couldn’t stand back up without using the toilet paper holder for leverage. I thought about calling for help, but, while I may no longer have functioning thigh muscles, I still have my dignity.

Of course, it took my dignity and me the better part of three and half minutes to get up.

 

**On a totally different note, if you have a great original product that you’d love to market, the Dallas Market Center is holding an awesome contest called the Next Big Thing.  Click over to my Daily Links page for all the information.**

Words really can’t express the stress I experienced yesterday when I realized that on tap for evening television was not only a special two-hour episode of “24”, but also two glorious hours of “The Bachelor” finale followed by a one-hour “After the Rose” special.

For those of y’all who struggle with the math, that adds up to FIVE HOURS of quality T.V. viewing packed into one evening. It’s a burden I didn’t take lightly.

It’s times like these that I give thanks for the inventor of the DVR because no way could I entrust this kind of abundance of viewing riches to a VCR that was known to warp a tape and leave me wondering how various episodes of “E.R.” ended. Of course who knew then that I would still have the option of watching “E.R.” sixteen years later?

An option I decline, by the way. If there was ever a show that needed to be put out of its misery, then “E.R.” is it. Well, and “Caillou”. But that’s more about my misery.

So last night I knew P and I would watch “24” while it was actually on. It’s one of the few shows that we both enjoy, primarily because it’s one of the few shows he watches that isn’t called “Tracks Across Africa” or “Where the Wild Boar Grows”.

But here’s my problem with “24”. Every season there will come a point where they push the limit from believable to completely unbelievable and P will say a few words he probably shouldn’t, get up off the couch, and announce he’s done with “24” FOREVER. In fact, there was a point last night when I believe he actually said, “Jack Bauer is dead to me”.

Most of the time, by which I mean ALL OF THE TIME, I am not really aware of all the tactical and weaponry flaws committed that make the show so utterly unbelievable. The plot points that tend to stretch my imagination are usually things like the President’s wife stabbing him with a kiwi knife or the fact that I’m pretty sure I wear jeans in a bigger size than Keifer Sutherland so how can he be all that tough?

The bottom line is that due to some ludicrous plot lines that took place on last night’s episode, we have reached the point where we’re done with “24”. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure we’ve ever actually seen the end of any season. It’s just what we do.

Thankfully, after “24” was over last night, P flipped through the channels and happened to catch the end of Ted Nugent’s hunting show entitled “Spirit of the Wild” and was blessed to see Uncle Ted (as Ted Nugent calls himself because don’t we all call ourselves Uncle) playing the National Anthem at Texas Stadium. It was the only thing that could have restored his faith in the power of television.

In the meantime, I knew I had three hours of “Bachelor” viewing just waiting for me on the DVR, but there isn’t enough money or curiosity in the world to make me watch it while P was still awake. He’d just ruin it with all his mocking and eye-rolling. So I completely avoided email, Twitter and Facebook because I was afraid someone would spill the beans.

It was like a 45 minute media fast and I was beginning to feel a little faint.

Thankfully, P went to bed and I was able to watch the entire train wreck with the benefit of fast-forwarding through all the gratuitous walks down memory lane that are the hallmark of any “Bachelor” finale.

I believe my feelings about the finale are best summed up in a letter to the ABC network.

Dear ABC Network,

You are walking a very thin line, my friend. First, there was Sunday night’s episode of “Brothers and Sisters” that had been repeatedly touted as featuring a “SHOCKING DEATH!”. A character flat-lining for two seconds and then being revived doesn’t constitute a shocking death. If so, there would be a SHOCKING DEATH every week on “Grey’s Anatomy”. I feel completely betrayed.

And speaking of betrayed, now you give us this whole “Bachelor” debacle.

It’s as if television isn’t even real. If you can’t count on two people finding lasting love and commitment during a six-week period of time that includes trips to New Zealand, multiple hot tubs, and Goodyear blimp rides, then I don’t know what’s left to believe in.

Sincerely,

Uncle Melanie

P.S. “The Bachelor” is dead to me. For now.

P.S.P.S. Please let Melissa know she’s better off. She’d be wiping that Nancy boy’s tears for the rest of her life and sometimes you need a man to be the strong one. Maybe you could introduce her to Jack Bauer.

If you don’t watch T.V. and spend your time reading books and seeking actual knowledge, then I apologize for this entire post. It’s just that when you spend five hours (really just three hours because of the marvel that is the DVR) then it’s pretty much all you have to talk about.

My deepest apologies go out to Mac Davis. Apparently, he isn’t dead.

I don’t know why I thought Mac was no longer with us, but I made the same mistake with Ed McMahon about two years ago. I guess it’s true what they say; out of sight, out of mind. And I am so glad that Mac isn’t gone because it means there still might be a chance that I’ll get to hear him sing “Tequila Sheila” in person.

They just don’t make songs like that anymore.

Yesterday I committed myself to cleaning the house and I decided I might as well start in the bowels (no pun intended) of hell, otherwise known as the master bathroom. As I cleaned, I spent a lot of time deep in thought. I thought about how nice it used to be when we had Cata clean the house even though her abuse of Pledge Grab-its almost drove us to the poorhouse and I thought about how people that are overly dramatic about inconsequential things get on my nerves.

And then I realized I was about to die from the fumes of all the cleaning products and laid on the bathroom floor and wept for the years that Cata came on a weekly basis. Why is my life so hard? How long, O Lord, must I clean my own toilets?

In all reality, I think I almost died at the hands of Tilex. I sprayed the entire shower stall liberally with the Tilex and forgot to turn on the bathroom vent. When I felt my throat begin to burn, I knew something was amiss and rushed to air out the bathroom. Because when my time on this earth is through, I don’t want to be wearing rubber gloves and holding a scrub brush.

Anyway, every time I clean the shower I can’t help but think of Jose. When P and I added on to our house six years ago, Jose was the man who tiled our new shower stall in our new master bathroom. We had originally hired a man named Mr. Baldo of “Baldo and Son Construction” to tile the shower and other various jobs, but Mr. Baldo took off with our money before he ever completed all the work we’d hired him to do.

Of course, we shouldn’t have been shocked by this turn of events considering that he’d already admitted to us that he didn’t actually have a son, even though his business was named “Baldo AND SON”. I guess he just felt that the “AND SON” gave him an air of legitimacy, much like Fred Sanford.

We found ourselves without a tile guy and with a shower that desperately needed to be tiled. One of our sub-contractors mentioned that his brother-in-law, Jose, might be available to do some tile work, so we called him. He was more than happy to do the work, his price was reasonable and, best of all, he could start the next day.

Jose showed up promptly the next morning with his bucket of grout and began laying tile in the shower. He turned out to be quite a chatty fellow and while he was working began to carry on a conversation with P. They talked about the neighborhood and our construction project and then Jose said, “You know? I didn’t even know how to install tile until last week, but I bought this video at Home Depot and now I think I know what I’m doing.”

Well.

That certainly is comforting, Jose.

You would think he might have wanted to keep that bit of information to himself, but I think Jose was a firm believer in being transparent. And, as it turned out, he was also a firm believer in something else.

P returned to the job site the next morning and could tell that Jose had left in a hurry. His tools were strewn about the bathroom and he hadn’t covered the bucket of grout. When Jose showed up that morning, P asked him what had happened. Jose informed P that our house was haunted by ghosts and we needed to have some sort of exorcism.

Okay, sure. Let’s get that scheduled.

When pressed further, Jose based this suspicion on the fact that he’d heard voices after everyone left. Never mind the fact that we live in a corner house where people are constantly walking by and every window in the house was left open. The logical conclusion was that we had us some ghosts.

We never did have the house exorcised and, shockingly, we’ve never had any more ghost issues. However, there is something in our house that’s extremely frightening. The tile job in our shower.

It’s painfully obvious that we didn’t need a priest as much as we needed someone with more tile experience than an hour spent watching a video from Home Depot.