I fell in love with a cute 60s chiffon cocktail dress. It was love at first sighte, despite a rather sizeable stain on one sleeve. It looked like coffee, but it came right out when it was cleaned. I just loved the robin's egg blue, and the flirty lettuce hem. It was adorable.
Too bad it's cursed.
I bought it, cleaned it, and photographed it. Had it hanging over a chair at my house, ready to take to my rental space. I walked into the dining room, ready to go, just in time to see dd's dog, Boo, running around the dining room table with the dress in his mouth. I had more than a few choice words for him, sure that he had destroyed it, but only one button was misshapen. That dilemma was solved pretty easily by just moving the remaining buttons around -- they are just for decoration, after all. Listed it on ebay, and it sold. To someone in Japan -- which is a good thing, as it is rather small. The buyer never paid, so I relisted it in my store, and was happy to let it sit for a while, cause I enjoy looking at it.
Finally thought, ok, spring's here, and the robins are home, so let's just list this little number and see who loves it like I do. Sold it again.
The buyer never paid. ::sigh::
About this time, I started wondering -- is it possible that some things are just cursed, and will never sell? I stuck it back into my store for a month or so, then relisted. Sold it again. Payment never arrived. No responses to emails, so I relisted it, against my better judgement, one more time. At this point, I'm thinking I'm gonna have to call a priest to exorcise either the dog or the dress.
The day after I relist it, I got an email from my buyer, about how he was "out of stamps" and that's why he hadn't paid. He had "gotten the post office to open, just for" him, and now it was on its way. Pulled the auction and waited. Finally the money order arrived, and I packed this sucker up and out the door it went.
And in the door it came, about a week later, with writing on it saying that the address didn't exist. Emails bounced, so I just waited -- till two weeks later, when my bank informed me that the money order he had sent was false or stolen. And, while they were happy to inform me of this, they also said P.S.: we're gonna charge YOU twenty bucks for HIM being a jerk and bouncing your deposit.
The dress stayed in the box it was returned in for a good long while -- marked "Damn Dress," with a Sharpie because it's making me angry. (See --- the evil spirits are at work.)
I suggested to friends that perhaps the dress is cursed, and was told that perhaps I should give it to Boo, since he apparently wanted it badly enough to steal it. I don't think so.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
You know what gets my goat?
My daughter has expressed dismay at how many field trips her teachers at the homeschool co-op want to do this year. She calls it "annoying." I'm not sure why, because we always liked field trips -- it meant you didn't have to do real work. Plus, we got to ride the bus, which was cool, considering most of us walked to school.
The first field trip I can remember was in kindergarten. I lived in St. Charles, Missouri, and my teacher was Mrs Denton, a nice lady with a good perm. I loved kindergarten except two things: naptime -- which I never understood, because we went for a half day -- and writing my name.
I know that most kids think that handwriting is tedious, but it REALLY annoyed me to write my name. Everyone else could write their names as Tommy, Delilah, or Cheryl, but I had to write Lisa M., because there were always at least three Lisas in my classes in school. The teachers couldn't keep us straight without those darn last initials, which seemed grossly unfair to this 6 year old.
Our first field trip was to Grant's Farm, near St. Louis. Grant's Farm is owned by the Busch Family, of Budweiser fame. It's a wonderful animal park -- and it's free. Grant's Farm features animals from six continents, including the Budweiser Clydesdales, and it's interactive. You can see the animals, touch the animals, feed the animals, take a tram to ride around the animals, and then have a free beer. There's something to be said for the park who realizes that parents (and maybe teachers) need a free beer after a day out with the kids.
We got our little nametags on, climbed on the bus, and arrived at Grant's Farm to see the sights. We ended up toward the back of the park, where they had about a bazillion baby goats that you could feed with little baby bottles. I'm not sure who was more excited: our class or those darn goats.
Being six, of course I wanted to feed one, so I angled my way up to the front, bottle in hand, and proceeded to empty the contents of said bottle into the first goat to grab it. That little zealot got so excited over that milk that he decided to see what else he could plunder -- and promptly came right over and ate my nametag right off the front of my dress, Lisa M and all.
I've never felt quite so violated as when that goat stole my identity.
About five years ago, we decided to take a trip to St Louis, and took the kids to Grant's Farm. Post Traumatic Identity Theft Disorder kicked in right around the goat pavilion. I searched in vain for a guilty looking goat, but never did find the offender -- he's probably long since gone to his grave, but I'll bet his progeny were there. Having a laugh, at my expense, I'm sure.
The first field trip I can remember was in kindergarten. I lived in St. Charles, Missouri, and my teacher was Mrs Denton, a nice lady with a good perm. I loved kindergarten except two things: naptime -- which I never understood, because we went for a half day -- and writing my name.
I know that most kids think that handwriting is tedious, but it REALLY annoyed me to write my name. Everyone else could write their names as Tommy, Delilah, or Cheryl, but I had to write Lisa M., because there were always at least three Lisas in my classes in school. The teachers couldn't keep us straight without those darn last initials, which seemed grossly unfair to this 6 year old.
Our first field trip was to Grant's Farm, near St. Louis. Grant's Farm is owned by the Busch Family, of Budweiser fame. It's a wonderful animal park -- and it's free. Grant's Farm features animals from six continents, including the Budweiser Clydesdales, and it's interactive. You can see the animals, touch the animals, feed the animals, take a tram to ride around the animals, and then have a free beer. There's something to be said for the park who realizes that parents (and maybe teachers) need a free beer after a day out with the kids.
We got our little nametags on, climbed on the bus, and arrived at Grant's Farm to see the sights. We ended up toward the back of the park, where they had about a bazillion baby goats that you could feed with little baby bottles. I'm not sure who was more excited: our class or those darn goats.
Being six, of course I wanted to feed one, so I angled my way up to the front, bottle in hand, and proceeded to empty the contents of said bottle into the first goat to grab it. That little zealot got so excited over that milk that he decided to see what else he could plunder -- and promptly came right over and ate my nametag right off the front of my dress, Lisa M and all.
I've never felt quite so violated as when that goat stole my identity.
About five years ago, we decided to take a trip to St Louis, and took the kids to Grant's Farm. Post Traumatic Identity Theft Disorder kicked in right around the goat pavilion. I searched in vain for a guilty looking goat, but never did find the offender -- he's probably long since gone to his grave, but I'll bet his progeny were there. Having a laugh, at my expense, I'm sure.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Sticks and stones won't break your bones, but granny panties will
Sometimes a caller just makes me laugh. One night, I answered the phone, and heard a girl's voice on the other end of the line. She can't be more than twenty, tops. "I think," she says, "my roommate just broke her toe." The caller is giggling whilst giving me name, age, and serial number of her friend. I'm wondering what the heck is going on, till she tells me the story.
Turns out the roommate can't come to the phone, because she can't walk. Half an hour or so before, she fell, went crashing into the dresser, and hurt her foot. She is now on the bed, foot up on a pillow, in severe pain. They've iced it, elevated it, you name it -- but it still hurts like you know what. (Truth be told, they may have had a shot or two of tequila, trying to squelch the pain, but I didn't ask. Don't ask, don't tell, you know.)
So I ask the caller, how did she manage to fall into the dresser? "She was getting dressed," she replies. I'm trying to get a visual on this, when the roommate says, "you know, she wears granny panties. I keep telling her, wear a thong, they are so much better, but she insists on wearing those granny panties. So tonight, she's getting dressed, and gets her foot caught in those panties, loses her balance, and now she has probably broken her toe. She's gonna have to tell them in the ER that she broke her toe cause she wore granny panties, and that's just wrong."
I couldn't agree more.
Turns out the roommate can't come to the phone, because she can't walk. Half an hour or so before, she fell, went crashing into the dresser, and hurt her foot. She is now on the bed, foot up on a pillow, in severe pain. They've iced it, elevated it, you name it -- but it still hurts like you know what. (Truth be told, they may have had a shot or two of tequila, trying to squelch the pain, but I didn't ask. Don't ask, don't tell, you know.)
So I ask the caller, how did she manage to fall into the dresser? "She was getting dressed," she replies. I'm trying to get a visual on this, when the roommate says, "you know, she wears granny panties. I keep telling her, wear a thong, they are so much better, but she insists on wearing those granny panties. So tonight, she's getting dressed, and gets her foot caught in those panties, loses her balance, and now she has probably broken her toe. She's gonna have to tell them in the ER that she broke her toe cause she wore granny panties, and that's just wrong."
I couldn't agree more.
Monday, September 11, 2006
We remember
Five years ago today, my husband's car would not start. It was halfway in the driveway, blocking the sidewalk -- and a lot of people walk in our neighborhood. Hubby picked up the phone to call his dad, to see if we could use his AAA to get it towed. The kids were watching TV in their jammies, and not so anxious to start their schoolwork.
School never started.
Hubby's dad told us to turn on the TV. We did -- just in time to see the second plane plunging into the tower. We knew instantaneously that life as we knew it had ended, that those moments would burn forever in our memories. That a part of everyone's soul died that day.
My friend at work had been at the WTC ten days before, and recounted her memories. At work, we answered calls for a call center in Manhattan, who couldn't function because their people couldn't get to work. DD's piano teacher was in the WTC the night before -- and was in the airport when the attacks happened. Her story of coming home was surreal -- piles of luggage just thrown on the airport floor, being grabbed up frantically by passengers trying to get out of the airport, but not knowing where to go. Grabbing one of the few available cabs with her friend and a young girl who, terrified, went with them. They didn't realize until hours later that they didn't even know her name. Calling her sons in Indianapolis, who were already driving to New York, with no idea where to find her. Standing in a Walgreens parking lot in Jersey and breathing a sigh of relief when she saw their truck come over the hill. The nameless girl, who was from Denver, riding as far as Indianapolis with them, where she got a rental car and drove home.
On that day, I was glad that my children were homeschooled, when all of the schools went into lockdown. I remember calling the Y to tell them that DD wouldn't be at soccer, and the lady saying "honey, NO ONE is coming today," then having to explain that no, she really wasn't coming at ALL, because she had broken her toe, and wasn't going to be able to play for six weeks. It was probably the one light moment of the day.
I remember the realization, about ten minutes before it happened, that the towers were going to fall. But the one memory hold closest is my husband. As the first tower fell, he fell down on his knees, then went facedown on the carpet, totally engulfed with grief. It was heart wrenching to watch, and still difficult to remember.
I know that I am not the only one who looks up now, whenever a plane passes over, and remembers the events of that day.
May we never forget.
School never started.
Hubby's dad told us to turn on the TV. We did -- just in time to see the second plane plunging into the tower. We knew instantaneously that life as we knew it had ended, that those moments would burn forever in our memories. That a part of everyone's soul died that day.
My friend at work had been at the WTC ten days before, and recounted her memories. At work, we answered calls for a call center in Manhattan, who couldn't function because their people couldn't get to work. DD's piano teacher was in the WTC the night before -- and was in the airport when the attacks happened. Her story of coming home was surreal -- piles of luggage just thrown on the airport floor, being grabbed up frantically by passengers trying to get out of the airport, but not knowing where to go. Grabbing one of the few available cabs with her friend and a young girl who, terrified, went with them. They didn't realize until hours later that they didn't even know her name. Calling her sons in Indianapolis, who were already driving to New York, with no idea where to find her. Standing in a Walgreens parking lot in Jersey and breathing a sigh of relief when she saw their truck come over the hill. The nameless girl, who was from Denver, riding as far as Indianapolis with them, where she got a rental car and drove home.
On that day, I was glad that my children were homeschooled, when all of the schools went into lockdown. I remember calling the Y to tell them that DD wouldn't be at soccer, and the lady saying "honey, NO ONE is coming today," then having to explain that no, she really wasn't coming at ALL, because she had broken her toe, and wasn't going to be able to play for six weeks. It was probably the one light moment of the day.
I remember the realization, about ten minutes before it happened, that the towers were going to fall. But the one memory hold closest is my husband. As the first tower fell, he fell down on his knees, then went facedown on the carpet, totally engulfed with grief. It was heart wrenching to watch, and still difficult to remember.
I know that I am not the only one who looks up now, whenever a plane passes over, and remembers the events of that day.
May we never forget.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
I Married a Teenage Polygamist
My dd is married. Actually, she is married three times. I don't mean was married, I mean she currently has three husbands.
She's 15.
Lest you think that we live in Kentucky, let me explain. Her idea is that she needs at least three husbands: a hot one who loves horses, a hot one with an accent, and one who is just plain hot.
Her first husband is Jensen Ackles. He's on a TV show, which shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say, we just call it "The Hot Guy Show" at our house. Matter of fact, most days, I don't think anyone knows its real name. I'm pretty sure even the hubby calls it that now. DD sits glued to the TV for her weekly visitation with her #1 hubby, and making disparaging remarks about any female cast member who happens to show up.
#2 husband currently is the guy from Ella Enchanted. I can't remember his name, and I'm not sure she can pronounce it, but "when the guy has an accent that hot, who cares?"
#3 husband changes from time to time. It was the guy from 16 Candles, who is, as she says, as old as dirt. After all, "he is as old as Dad." Sometimes she dumps him for the guy from Pride and Prejudice, or for Matthew Fox, from LOST. Gotta keep the options open. She is only 15, you know.
Then, of course, she has the infamous Andrew Day. He is generally known as Andrew Day at our house, not just Andrew. (One time last summer I tried calling him Andrew, and she didn't know who I was talking about.) He's the neighborhood hottie that she has pined for every summer for the past three years. Of course, this is the first year they've had a real conversation: the first year, she just looked at him. Last year she stood there whilst he talked to me. This year, she actually spoke -- and he spoke back. For about five full minutes. At this rate, I tell her, they'll be married when they're 90.
But then again, she may have to drop a husband or two to fit him in -- unless he has horses or a hot accent. He probably wouldn't want to be #3, lest he be voted off the island. Unless he asks the dd if she will cook meat for a carnivore husband, she look at him like he's nuts and says "I'm not cooking. He will cook for ME."
My kind of girl.
She's 15.
Lest you think that we live in Kentucky, let me explain. Her idea is that she needs at least three husbands: a hot one who loves horses, a hot one with an accent, and one who is just plain hot.
Her first husband is Jensen Ackles. He's on a TV show, which shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say, we just call it "The Hot Guy Show" at our house. Matter of fact, most days, I don't think anyone knows its real name. I'm pretty sure even the hubby calls it that now. DD sits glued to the TV for her weekly visitation with her #1 hubby, and making disparaging remarks about any female cast member who happens to show up.
#2 husband currently is the guy from Ella Enchanted. I can't remember his name, and I'm not sure she can pronounce it, but "when the guy has an accent that hot, who cares?"
#3 husband changes from time to time. It was the guy from 16 Candles, who is, as she says, as old as dirt. After all, "he is as old as Dad." Sometimes she dumps him for the guy from Pride and Prejudice, or for Matthew Fox, from LOST. Gotta keep the options open. She is only 15, you know.
Then, of course, she has the infamous Andrew Day. He is generally known as Andrew Day at our house, not just Andrew. (One time last summer I tried calling him Andrew, and she didn't know who I was talking about.) He's the neighborhood hottie that she has pined for every summer for the past three years. Of course, this is the first year they've had a real conversation: the first year, she just looked at him. Last year she stood there whilst he talked to me. This year, she actually spoke -- and he spoke back. For about five full minutes. At this rate, I tell her, they'll be married when they're 90.
But then again, she may have to drop a husband or two to fit him in -- unless he has horses or a hot accent. He probably wouldn't want to be #3, lest he be voted off the island. Unless he asks the dd if she will cook meat for a carnivore husband, she look at him like he's nuts and says "I'm not cooking. He will cook for ME."
My kind of girl.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Hey, check it out, I got the clap
I work as a nurse, taking calls from people with medical questions. I have realized, after all these years of doing this, that people will not hesitate to tell you anything when you're on the phone.
Every once in a while, I'll get a caller who prefaces the call with "well, I have the weirdest question you'll get all night." I look forward to those, but inevitably, they usually end up being something inane. The ones that are the most fun are the ones who don't realize they are funny.
I picked up my phone one day, greeted my caller with my heartfelt (aka canned) response, which was met with "hey, check it out, I got the clap." Mind you, no "hey, how ya doin'," no "good afternoon," not even "I have a question," just "hey, check it out, I got the clap." Turns out said gentleman happened to be a member of the armed services, had found some tainted love, and he was afraid he would get court marshalled if they found out.
Like he's the first Navy guy to get the clap. Yeah, right.
As he said "I was on a ship for six months. After six months at sea, I got leave and went to this party. The chick was pretty ugly, but man, after six months at sea, you'll have sex with anything." Kinda had to agree with that one. Anyhow, she apparently gave him the gift that keeps on giving, and he was afraid to get treated, lest the CO find out. I told him to go get his pills, take 'em till their gone, and he'd be fine, and that I doubted they'd throw him in the brig for that one. Much relieved, he toddled off to the clinic for his script -- and hopefully the condoms I suggested.
Moral of the story: if you're gonna have sex with anything, cover that puppy up.
Every once in a while, I'll get a caller who prefaces the call with "well, I have the weirdest question you'll get all night." I look forward to those, but inevitably, they usually end up being something inane. The ones that are the most fun are the ones who don't realize they are funny.
I picked up my phone one day, greeted my caller with my heartfelt (aka canned) response, which was met with "hey, check it out, I got the clap." Mind you, no "hey, how ya doin'," no "good afternoon," not even "I have a question," just "hey, check it out, I got the clap." Turns out said gentleman happened to be a member of the armed services, had found some tainted love, and he was afraid he would get court marshalled if they found out.
Like he's the first Navy guy to get the clap. Yeah, right.
As he said "I was on a ship for six months. After six months at sea, I got leave and went to this party. The chick was pretty ugly, but man, after six months at sea, you'll have sex with anything." Kinda had to agree with that one. Anyhow, she apparently gave him the gift that keeps on giving, and he was afraid to get treated, lest the CO find out. I told him to go get his pills, take 'em till their gone, and he'd be fine, and that I doubted they'd throw him in the brig for that one. Much relieved, he toddled off to the clinic for his script -- and hopefully the condoms I suggested.
Moral of the story: if you're gonna have sex with anything, cover that puppy up.
Friday, September 08, 2006
I'll have a Scotch
We are petsitting. Our dear friend Janet, has gone to Scotland for a month, leaving us with her Westie, Colin. Now mind you, I'm still not sure if it's Colin, or Cullen, because with Janet's brogue, it's hard to tell. And the silly dog won't come unless you call him with the brogue, so I'm not sure even HE knows what his name is. He's not the brightest lightbulb in the bunch, but he sure is cute.
Janet grew up in Scotland. She was the youngest child of 8, and tells wonderful stories of family life there. She always says that, since it wasn't proper for women of the day to discuss their delicate condition, Janet's dad wasn't told that her mother had a bun in the oven till the day she was born. Imagine that! Of course, he probably knew, but then again, some guys ARE pretty clueless about the female stuff.
Mondays were washday, so it was customary for the oldest child to take the younger ones to school with them, so Mom could do the laundry unencumbered. Janet's oldest brother carried her to school in a laundry basket, put her next to his desk, then carried her home at the end of the day. I can't really envision that happening today, but hubby did take our oldest to classes at IU, for a while. He'd plop him in his carseat, where Thomas would happily entertain himself for the duration. That is, till the day in developmental psych, when the professor was discussing infant development. Suddenly, Thomas let out a babble of glee (he was ten months old at the time and who knows, maybe he could relate to the topic). The professor stopped talking and asked "is there a baby in here?" Hubby replied, "that'd be me," and made a quick exit. Thomas never went to class with him again. We have the whole thing on tape.
Janet grew up in Scotland. She was the youngest child of 8, and tells wonderful stories of family life there. She always says that, since it wasn't proper for women of the day to discuss their delicate condition, Janet's dad wasn't told that her mother had a bun in the oven till the day she was born. Imagine that! Of course, he probably knew, but then again, some guys ARE pretty clueless about the female stuff.
Mondays were washday, so it was customary for the oldest child to take the younger ones to school with them, so Mom could do the laundry unencumbered. Janet's oldest brother carried her to school in a laundry basket, put her next to his desk, then carried her home at the end of the day. I can't really envision that happening today, but hubby did take our oldest to classes at IU, for a while. He'd plop him in his carseat, where Thomas would happily entertain himself for the duration. That is, till the day in developmental psych, when the professor was discussing infant development. Suddenly, Thomas let out a babble of glee (he was ten months old at the time and who knows, maybe he could relate to the topic). The professor stopped talking and asked "is there a baby in here?" Hubby replied, "that'd be me," and made a quick exit. Thomas never went to class with him again. We have the whole thing on tape.
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