Candy and common sense

Working in television is a bit like being sucked into a black hole for eight hours. Once you step foot in the door it is a very real possibility that you will not leave -- not even for a moment -- until the beast decides it is time to spit you out, broken and defeated, at the end of the day. Lunch is something few people get to have away from their desks and usually scrounged from the vending machine in the break room. A package of Pop Tarts is considered a balanced meal. That is why when the candy machine is broken -- all hell breaks loose.

It started out innocently enough -- an editor posted a note that said every time he put a quarter into said machine it did not fulfill the promise of a handful of hot tamales. No harm, no foul. But this was just the beginning.

The next day a second note was posted and this time something more important was at stake -- Mike & Ikes.
The note poster mentioned the strange similarities between the two events -- joking, but also alluding to a
possible candy conspiracy and a breakdown of the vending machine system as we know it.

Feeling that the candy empire was about to crumble others began piling on. Those who got candy began to complain about the quantity they had received. 12.5 cents per peanut M&M was not seen as reasonable. Not only that, they were both yellow. And then the inevitable jesters got into the act -- trying to make light of a truly serious situation. Their comments were accepted as well as a Mark Russell song about Granada.
After all, THIS WAS NOT FUNNY. Kids getting eaten by bears, the war in Iraq, genocide -- those are things to joke about. Not candy.

And then, as quickly as the notes had arrived -- they were gone. A single piece of tape now advises people to call a certain extension if they lose money in their search for candy. The hot headed note writing has been branded childish and unnecessary. The man has won.

At least until the Pepsi machine breaks...

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Spring cleaning

It has finally happened. Ryan and I have lived so long in our house that it is officially cluttered. I first noticed there was a problem about a week ago when I went to put groceries away -- and there was no where to put them. The kitchen and bathroom cabinets were both so stuffed full of, well, stuff that the counters were the only place to set new items. I was glad I had nothing that needed to be frozen -- since the freezer was packed full. Under the kitchen sink was full of cleaning supplies and a cloud of plastic grocery bags. Then, when I was putting away laundry I found that if I didn't slam the cabinets quickly the clothes would coming pouring down on my head. And I noticed that our dining room table had become a holding area for frequently used items -- like bags, magazines and clothes. Something had to be done. I had to clean.

For the past few afternoons I have been tackling the problems one at a time. I started with the kitchen cabinets. I pulled out every dry good in every corner -- and discovered we had about 15 boxes of Rice-a-roni -- because I would buy more when I couldn't see the other boxes. I also found the mandatory eighth of a bag of hard brown sugar and three cans of baking powder. Oh, and the hot chocolate mix people insist on giving at Christmas that I find repulsive. I was actually surprised how little I threw away from the cabinets. It isn't that it was stuff we didn't want -- just things we didn't know we had and so bought more.

The bathroom cabinet was same song, different verse. We had SEVEN half-full boxes of band aids, TWO almost full packages of pink disposable razors that I don't even use any more, and THREE bottles of Motrin with less than ten pills. Not only that but I found a little shampoo or lotion from every hotel Ryan or I have stayed in pretty much since we met. When I was done I found we not only had room in the cabinet -- we had two whole empty shelves. That should last us at least two weeks.

I had to work fast with the freezer -- or make a huge dinner that night. Going through the food I remembered my propensity to just throw uneaten fresh vegetables in the freezer to save them for later. But a pound bag of baby carrots really doesn't look all that appetizing after accumulating a year's worth of freezer burn. Also, I realized that every time I go to the grocery store I buy chicken and stick it in the freezer. I see a lot of chicken and rice dinners in our future.

While I was doing all this organizing, Ryan was in the basement -- swearing and assembling Ikea shelves. Most of the swearing was due to the fact that the shelves are just a little too tall for the ceiling. But after lots of turning sideways and maneuvering he managed to get them upright and lodged between the low hanging beams. Of course, we will have to leave them when we leave. I then put all of the cleaning supplies and plastic bags under our sink on the shelves -- creating a place in the kitchen where I can hide and jump out to scare Ryan. He just doesn't know it yet.

The worst part of organization was the closets. I just couldn't convince myself that I will never again fit into a size 4, or that I really don't need 70 slightly stained white v-neck t-shirts. Finally I just closed my eyes and windmilled. Anything I touched got thrown in bag to go to charity. I might not have any underwear left, but dammit my closets are less cluttered.

The only clutter that remains is on our dining room table. I ran out of steam before I got to it. I guess it will have to wait until next year. Dinner guests can think of it as a "conversation starter." Or we can always go out...

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I have sand in my shoes.

Warning: This is a long post. Bring snacks.

If there is anything I hate more than anything else in the world, more than world hunger, more than intolerance, more than that insipid song "I hope you dance," it is getting sand in my shoes. I can walk on a beach --- barefoot. But once sand, shoes and feet become one if there is any little particle of grit it makes me as crazy as Ann Coulter at a gay wedding. Not rational, but adamant and angry. So, then you may wonder why this past weekend I agreed to go camping in the desert -- a place known for sand. One word: Ryan.

Ryan loves camping. He has all the stuff and has no problem just throwing his tent in the back of the truck and going. His motto is "if you didn't pack it, you don't need it." My motto is "if I didn't pack it, there better be a Target near by." It isn't that I haven't been camping before, I went several times in high school. I also went backpacking once, even though I have flat, flat feet and ended up walking bow-legged for a couple of days. The way my friends got me to go was by telling me that after we went backpacking we could go to a bar in Idaho where THEY DIDN'T ID!!! To this day I don't regret it. If I had lost a toe I wouldn't have regretted it. Ahhh, Molson... But I digress. I do that a lot.

Ryan had pretty much given up camping since he met me. I think he's gone three times in the past six years. That's like me only eating pizza three times in six years. That is how much Ryan loves camping and hasn't been able to do it. So, last Thursday, we packed up the truck and headed south.

When I saw the packed truck it reminded me how much I love my husband. He had packed everything I could possibly need -- and some things we would never need unless we decided to live outside. He had gotten all of our favorite salty and sweet and partially hydrogenated snacks and packed a dozen Diet Pepsis in ice. He even had gotten camping bowls and filled them with food and water for Sally in the back. I felt I was in good hands.

We got on the highway and I fell asleep. Really. Two miles out I was gone. It just happens to me in the car. It's why we can't live any farther than we do from my office. But Ryan was just so happy I don't think he even noticed my only response to any question was "mountain" which, surprisingly, I seem to say a lot in my sleep. Weird.

My camping family.

By the time I awoke we were almost to our destination. Zion's National Park. Ryan had told me tales of their wonderful campgrounds with running water, showers, toilets and perhaps water slides. I was more than ready. However, we both forgot one thing -- other people like to go camping too. By the time we got there all the spots were gone. We tried a commercial campground that looked like something out of Disney -- but they wouldn't let us camp with Sally. Dog fascists. So, that left one place -- outlaw country.

Outlaw country is technically National Forest Service land set aside for this type of thing. They have fire pits and roads -- just no toilets. But when we pulled in Ryan asked another camper "do you know if we can have fires here?" His response? "I think this is pretty lawless country." I was finally the bad ass I always wanted to be.

Camp went together better than I ever imagined. Did you know they have tents that just pop up? Or sleeping bags that fit two people and a mangy dog? Or that you can drink wine while camping? I was delirious with wonder. And then something amazing happened -- I built a fire. Fuck you, Jack London. I had no idea I had this talent. I might actually change careers and become a professional arsonist. I mean -- check it out.


Ryan cooked steak, potatoes and corn. It was quite possibly the best meal I have ever eaten. Of course, I was hyped on sugar and a little weirded out -- so don't hold me to that. Sally even got her own steak -- which actually led to problems later -- but I don't want to get ahead of myself. We drank wine (out of a jug, after all, we were camping) and peed in the trees and laughed and told stories that no one else would think were funny, but we found them hilarious. I don't know what time it was when we crawled into out sleeping bag with our dog and went to sleep looking at the stars through the flaps in the tent. However, I do know it was one of the best night's sleep I have ever gotten. Of course, then I woke up -- and realized I had sand in my shoes.

I had purposely brought tennis shoes to avoid this situation. But the sand in our campsite was so invasive it had seeped it. And in the cold light of day with no wine and no stars I felt it acutely. I am a little ashamed to admit this -- but I actually went and sat in the car cleaning my shoes out while Ryan made breakfast. Yes, I will never win Mrs. America. But that's also because I like immigrants.

My mood was appeased when Ryan brought me bacon and rolls that had been fried in the bacon grease. It was like a bit of cholesterol soaked heaven. However, this was where the Sally problem came into play. There was no plate for her that morning -- just a bowl of dog food. She took one look -- and tried to bury it in the sand. After all, she was a steak dog now.

We packed up camp and set out towards the park to see the sites -- and to wash our dishes and selves. We pulled into a campground on the premise of "looking around" and then jumped out of the car at the nearest spigot and turned to washing. After ten minutes and half a bottle of Dawn we felt brand new. Really, I felt like grease couldn't stick to me if it tried.

Our options in the park were limited because we had the dog. We could only go on one loop -- and even there hikes were limited. Still, it was beautiful and we got in a bit of hiking. I saw three lizards, two rabbits and a chipmunk on one hike. How much better can it get than that? I'll only bore you with one picture of Zion's majestic scenery -- for now.


We went to lunch someplace totally forgettable and then decided to head out into the back side of the park -- up towards Kolob reservoir. Here the hoards of tourists disappeared and a winding back road took us up to a gorgeous body of water. I asked Ryan as we were leaving if he wanted to bring his fishing pole, but he didn't think there would be anywhere to fish. When he saw the huge Rainbow Trout he realized he should always listen to me. They were huge. They were so big there were signs advising fishermen to throw back anything under 18 inches long. After a short time sitting on the rocks and looking at the water Ryan decided it would be fun to go skinny dipping. I thought it would be too cold. He thought the water felt just fine. Oh, yeah, until he hit it. He emerged red faced and panting and ready to come out. And then he tried to convince me that it really wasn't that bad and I should try it. Yeah, right.

Before. Don't ask about after.

On the way back to camp I admitted to Ryan that I was dreading going back -- because of the sand. After he stopped laughing Ryan asked me why I could walk on the beach if I hated sand so much. And then it hit me -- I didn't have to wear shoes at camp either! I mean, really, who was going to care if my webbed toes were on display. Ryan has seen them -- and Sally has nothing to talk about with her wonky feet (she has six toes). Once that problem was solved I could relax.

For dinner that night everything was shoved on a fork and stuck into the fire. So, basically we had sausages and marshmallows. We offered Sally some of both, but she instead decided to find the one camp where steak was being served that evening and beg off of them. They did comment though on how polite she was as she gazed at them with her big puppy eyes and tried to suck her stomach in to show her ribs.

Steak couldn't touch the delicious invention Ryan and I cooked up though. Think of S'mores -- and now imagine them made with chunk Chips Ahoy cookies. Even better? Two marshmallows instead of one. In our sugar induced delirium we eve considered hitting the road to spread chocolate treat madness across the country. They were that good.

Overall, I had a really good time. Hitting the road with my husband and my dog, seeing beautiful sites and only brushing my teeth once were experiences I would welcome again. And next time, I just won't bring shoes. Problem solved.

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A phone call with my Dad

Him: Why aren't you at work?
Me: I called in sick.
Him: What's wrong?
Me: I have killer cramps.
Him: Wuss. You'll never hear a man complain about cramps.

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Getting older ruins everything

When I was in tenth grade I had a major crush on my math teacher. And I mean major. I would flirt and kid and I EVEN DID MATH in order to get his attention. He was tall and blonde and broad shouldered and had a moustache that suprisingly wasn't creepy. He and his brother both taught at the school -- and it was pretty much a rule that every girl would have a crush on one of them. Really, I think the guidance counselor actually asked at the beginning of the year "John or Gabriel?" I was a John girl all the way.

I hadn't really thought about my high school crush in years -- until I saw Gabriel in the newspaper today -- and he looked awful. I thought it had to be a bad picture, so I went to the school's website to check it out. He still looked awful. And then, horrors of horrors, I saw John's picture. And he looked worse. I mean, so bad I thought there had to be a mistake. Maybe this stooped shouldered balding man had killed my high school crush and taken his place and no one had noticed. That had to be it. The moustache was gone, the cocky grin was gone and I couldn't tell from the picture -- but I bet he got shorter. I couldn't believe it. But then I realized it has been 17 years since I was in his class. He looks old -- because he is. So, if time has marched all over his face -- what's going to happen to mine?

I'm too depressed to go on. I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a bottle of Botox and my 1990 yearbook.

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I-Krazy

When it was first announced Ikea was building a store in Utah I was so excited I swear my heart did a little dance. I had only been to the magical store once before in Virginia -- but all I could remember was the glory. 79 cent plates! Couches named Flouborg! Cheap mass produced art work that looked sophisticated, but was most likely done by chimps! I couldn't believe I was going to have to wait a whole 13 months to send my money to Sweden. I thought about starting a savings I-ccount to fund all of the functional and sleek items that would call my name.

The Promised Land

The store finally opened on May 23rd. People actually slept out for days to be the first ones in. Now, I was excited, but those people were I-diots. There is only one thing I will ever sleep outside to get tickets for -- when Alan Wilder finally comes to his senses and reunites with Depeche Mode so they can take over the world. That is also when I will be leaving my husband. Don't worry, he knows, it was in our vows. But I digress. My mother, sister and I put off the pull of the big blue box until TWO WHOLE DAYS after it opened. I thought I was going to explode. We pulled in and were guided to a parking spot right in front of the entrance. I swear little birds sang and pulled at our clothes to get us through the doors. It was everything I had hoped for. I didn't mind the crowds, we were all there to worship European ingenuity together. We strolled through the aisles, we discovered novel ideas -- like a lamp shaped like a person, we ate Swedish meatballs. I found a rug, a bedspread, a throw pillow, a set of cups and a bed. But I couldn't just pick up the bed -- not without Ryan seeing it and giving his opinion. So, he and I decided to go back out once graduation was over and things weren't so crazy -- i.e. today.

It was a very different Ikea.

First of all, there was no one to guide us to our parking space. We had to do it by ourselves. And because I was with Ryan that meant we had to park the farthest away possible. I don't know what it is about him. I think he just wants to be the first one out in case of alien invasion. As we were walking in I was getting up my Ikea fever when Ryan said "Doesn't this kid of feel like were entering a theme park?" And I looked around and realized that was exactly what it was. Disneyland -- but instead of Mickey the mascot was an Allen wrench. Still, I pushed forward. After all, I love Disneyland and I have never bought a high quality, low price bed there.

When we got inside all of the smiley, happy people I had encountered on my first visit had been replaced with snarling, nasty jerks. People would stop in the middle of the aisle and hiss if you asked politely to get past. Ryan and I moved as quickly as possible to get to the bedroom furniture. There we found a couple sitting on the bed -- and not ready to move. When I tried to move past them to write down the item number they both acted as if I had walked into their bedroom and caught them en flagrante delicto. It really made me wonder -- were people living in Ikea?

We skipped bedding, we skipped lighting, we skipped glassware. We wanted to get our bed and get out. I was starting to get annoyed and Ryan was about to melt down and recreate the nasty mall scene from Dawn of the Dead. After all, these shoppers were like zombies -- moaning "brains and college apartment furniture." We moved into the self serve aisles. As we we moving down aisle 30 to our beloeved bed a woman came up behind Ryan. "Will you get out of my way" she said.
"We're both going the same direction, we'll both get where we're going" Ryan replied.
"What a fucking asshole" her husband said. He was wearing a t-shirt with an AK-47 on it.

We got our bed, we got it in the car (Ryan even helped another couple with their stuff) and made it home. That is where the real battle started.

Ikea includes very limited instructions for all furniture assembly. It involves counting the holes in a piece of wood in order to decide which piece is which. For ten minutes Ryan and I yelled about which one of us had counted the correct number of holes. It was like remedial sex ed. Finally, we started working together and were putting together the bed at a good clip -- until we got to the small screws.

The support system of the bed is made up of metal arms, which all have to be put together with extremely small screws -- from the bottom up. That's right, we were putting in screws smaller than a hummingbird's dong -- without looking at them. Ryan thought I was using the wrong screwdriver or positioning the rods wrong. I thought he should shut up if he ever wanted to see me naked again. We both kept dropping the damn screws -- and made up some new obscenities during the process.

After FOUR HOURS the bed was done. I suddenly realized why Ikea treats their employees so well -- they all have to put together the displays with this shit. I think they must have a very high turnover -- even with the great healthcare. I mean, who wants to spend their lives yealling at tiny screws? Besides my friend Murphy that is.

At the end of the day all was well. The cats were freaked, Sally didn't know where she was going to sleep and Ryan and I were about to stab each other with Phillips head screwdrivers. But the bed (and a small foot locker) were put together and done. We had a new room. It was glorious.

Ikea-d

We laid back on the bed for a victory stretch. And at the same moment both of us turned and asked the same question "How many Ikea related murders happen in a year do you think?"

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