I'm a cotton-headed ninny-muggins

I go to a lot of trouble to come up with thoughtful Christmas gift ideas.  Even with the little things, like stocking stuffers, I go to I make an effort to assure they stay a surprise until the big day.  Obviously, that’s easy to do with friends and relatives who don’t live with me.  With hubby, it’s a lot harder.   We live in a tiny little condo and we’re practically on top of each other all the time and there are very few places to hide things. 

Not withstanding, usually I do a pretty good job of it, though . . .  with the exception of this year.  I amaze myself at depths of my battiness; sometimes.  Thankfully, it wasn’t the BIG gift but it wasn’t a minor gift either.  And, it surely would have been a surprise.

I was all clandestine and being sneaky about getting this one particular gift and I know he had no idea.  Until I sent an email to the person I bought it from.  It went to a distribution list that included hubby.  Stupid stupid stupid.

But I didn’t even realize it until he accused me from buying this thing out from under him.  And he was all snotty about it, too.  What?  It was supposed to be a surprise for him.  What was he talking about?  Why was he angry?  Ah! You see . . . he was going to buy it for me.  Go figure.

So I cried . . . kicked myself . . . pouted.  Whatever.  Surprise hunny!  Merry Christmas!

And yes, even I am an asshat occasionally.

Spiders really put my "all creatures great and small" creed to the test.

I’m not particular afraid of spiders but I admit that they creep me out.  Spiders have their place in this world and I appreciate very much the job they do.  That being said, they do not . . . I repeat . . . do not belong on my desk at work or, in fact, any place that I might come in actually physical contact with them.

It is my boss’s assigned task to dispose of said creepy crawlers by whatever means necessary whether by shooing them outside or stomping on them.  I don’t care, just make them be gone.

So, several days ago there just so happened to be a spider . . . a rather large spider, indeed. . . that somehow made his way onto my desk.  My boss wasn’t around in my moment of need so I promptly put a cup on top of it until such a time that he could be properly gotten rid of.

Well, that was a Thursday.  The spider was contained under the cup that night, Friday over the weekend . . . as a matter of fact I forgot all about the hair-raising critter until a full week later when I was abruptly reminded of its presence.

You see, I was straightening up my desk and moved the cup that had kept it captive without the slightest thought.  A few minutes later I saw the little creature scurrying across my desk.  I called my boss who duteously came hither to rescue me.  I handed him a paper towel and he went to work.  When he attempted to squish the spider it darted under my keyboard.  My boss cautiously lifted the keyboard.  

He thought he was ready for it but the thing made a mad dash for safety . . . the spider took a flying leap off my desk to the floor . . .  or worse into my bag.  We don’t know where he went but now I was thoroughly cootied up. 

I vowed to keep a sharp eye out for the beast and my boss promised to rush back at the first sign of him. 

Shortly thereafter a co-worker was dropping off some paperwork to me and spotted it.  She promptly smooshed it under her shoe.  Crisis averted and the day was saved.

Going to hell in a hand basket

Going to hell in a hand basket . . . in interesting phrase that I’ve used offhand with nary a thought most of my life.  Unless you’ve lived under a rock your entire life, I’m sure you’ve heard the expression . . . but just in case you’ve not ventured from beyond the boulder, going to hell in a hand basket means to go from an extremely bad situation and to a worse one.

We all know what hell is . . . so examine the handbasket; a small, lightweight means of conveyance.  Picture Dorothy of Wizard of Oz fame traipsing along with her faithful companion Toto in a little basket.  There is nothing sinister about it.  Is there?  Now that I think about it, everyone is trying to stuff that poor little doggie in a basket . . . from Dorothy to Miss Gulch to those creepy flying monkeys to the Wicked Witch of the West.  Hmmm.

'Going to heaven in a wheelbarrow' is a much older phrase from the 15th century which was a euphemistic way of saying 'going to hell'. It evokes imagery of sinners being carted off to hell in a barrow . . . . an ancient concept.

This could easily be switched around to give us the expression ‘going to hell in a handcart’ and then, thusly, ‘a hand basket’. 

Interestingly, around the same time that these idioms came into common usage, carriages that prostitutes used for transport were regarded as hell-carts . . . sending them and their patrons off to purgatory.

I could be wrong but ‘going hell in a hand basket’ brings to mind the image of a guillotine and a head thudding into the basket below after the fall of the blade. 

That, to me, is certainly going to hell in a handbasket most expeditiously.

I judge people on how they smell, not how they look.

Anyone who knows me even moderately well knows that I HATE to go shopping . . . especially at Christmas time.  I hate the crowds, I hate the people, I hate the looking for stuff, I hate the pushing, shoving and shuffling.  The whole experience, for me, is generally sucky. In short, I don’t enjoy myself.

 

A subset of this hatred goes under the heading of both crowds and people.  People  . . . not all people, mind you, but a scary big number of them . . . stink.  Bathing seems to be a concept so alien that it’s literally unfathomable.  

And, possibly, just as bad if not worse are the people who immerse themselves in perfumes.  Just a little while ago I was following someone out of a store who had on so much cologne that not only did it singed all the hairs out of my nostrils but I could actually taste it and now my throat is burning.  Suffice to say that it tasted worse than it smelled and I’m not a happy camper.

So now, nearly 45 minutes later, I can still smell that wretched scent . . . which, by the way, was the same stinky fragrance my ex-husband used to wear.

Arrgggghhhhhh!  Here is sit forced to think of the one man on earth I detest more than shopping with a sore throat and the onset of a headache.  In a word . . . I’m miserable.

Let that be a lesson to you.

Just sayin’.

  

I judge people on how they smell, not how they look.
Jennifer Lopez

Simon's Cat in 'Fowl Play'

A morning without coffee is like sleep

Yesterday morning, in my infinite wisdom, I decided that I did not need a cup of coffee.  I was, in fact, too tired to make myself a cup.  You would think that that would have been fairly good indicator that I did, indeed, need a dose of caffeine but, whatever, it didn't happen.

Later in the day I was at work in a meeting with our $200/hour software developer consultant.  He was showing me and my boss how to make modifications to a form; very interesting and informative, I assure you.  Really it is . . . well, for me it is.

Anyhoo, I’m sitting there paying attention to his demonstration and suddenly I start fading.  Pretty soon it became a struggle to keep my eyes open.  He looked in my direction to explain something and he said, “Whoa, you’re sleeping.”  

I wasn’t actually asleep, but I was fighting it hard.  “I am.” I replied, “You can tell?”  He said, “You look dazed and you’re eyes are practically crossed.”  He proceeded to give me a dollar and insisted I go get a cup of coffee.  I balked.  He said, “No, really.  I insist.”  Okay.  Albeit for me to refuse free caffeine.  It was the best cup of coffee I’ve had in ages.  He said, “Free coffee is always the best coffee.”

Lesson learned . . . make coffee in the morning even if you’re too tired to make it.  Now, if I could only remember what he was trying to teach me . . . that was a lesson not learned, apparently.