Merry Christmas right back at ya, but I'm still not going to eat your cookies.

I am probably the most festive/excitable person I have ever met in my life, so I'm all about decorations and celebrating.  During the holidays people always feel extra nice and make cookies and other treats for their friends and neighbors.  This is one part of the Christmas celebration that I am not overly excited about.  For me, this is a time when it is the thought that counts.  If you had any idea about all of the questionable leftovers I eat, you’d think I would devour these cookies without thinking twice. 

That is not the case. When I receive cookies I say "thank you," but in my head I’m totally suspicious.

Sure they look nice and pretty, but I can’t eat them no matter how pretty and delicious they look.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve had one too many cookies with hair baked into them.  How do I know that you’ve properly sanitized your workstation before handling these cookies you have given me?  How do I know you don’t have a cut finger?  You probably got your cut finger all in the dough.   I don’t want your cut-finger-sugar cookies.

When you make baked goods, you use timers.  Sometimes you forget about your timer.  As a result, when the forgotten timer goes off you are thrown into a panic and rush to get your treats out of the oven.  What if you were using the bathroom when the timer went off?  You probably rushed to get the cookies and forgot to wash your hands.  I don’t want your pee cookies.

I am well aware that it is impossible to put icing on anything without licking the spoon.  What if you don’t have any self control and can’t wait until you’re done icing the cookies before you lick the spoon?  

You probably licked the spoon and stuck it back in the frosting and smeared it all over my cookies.


Aw, did your little kids help you make these?  That would be cute if you weren’t expecting me to eat them.  You have no idea how much finger dipping and spoon licking went on
while you were bent over putting cookies in the oven.   When I look at your tastefully arranged tray of cookies, all I see is dirty, children-saliva cookies.


The 5-second rule might apply or the 10-minute rule might apply.  I don’t know, it’s not my house.  I don’t know your rules.  Are you giving me these cookies because you dropped them on the floor? Even if you follow the strictest of sanitation rules, unless I’m there with you making these cookies in a clean room, I’ll pass on your cut-finger cookies laced with your kid’s spit and pee.

On the other hand, I’m always grateful when I can re-gift them to someone I don’t know well enough to buy a gift for.

Gnat Smacking Leads to Malaria

For a while my apartment was gnat-infested. There were suddenly dozens of gnats in the living room and no one had a clue how they got there or how they were able to survive in our living room. Since we didn’t know where they were coming from we didn’t know how to stop them from reproducing and taking over. Squashing them one by one was the annihilation method of choice.

Gnat Smacking quickly became a respected sport in our home. It was second nature to smack a gnat between our hands as soon as the obnoxious creature made its presence known.

Occasionally guests were confused by our seemingly random clapping mid-conversation.

As our Gnat Smacking skills grew, we came up with new, more difficult ways to make the kill. My specialty was catching a gnat in one hand. The first time I did this, I declared that if I opened my hand and had indeed captured the gnat, I would eat it. As if that was some sort of prize?

This became a new rule. If you were to catch a gnat with one hand, you had to eat it. I have yet to remember why this seemed like a good idea. It was almost like a rite of passage. I told Johnny about our new rule.

That rule has been eliminated.

Eventually, we realized our big, giant tree/plant named Brian was a gnat-haven, and he was promptly moved to the porch. The gnats are no longer an issue, but malaria could DEFINITELY be an issue. If I die or get very sick in the near future, it’s probably malaria.

In case you were wondering, Johnny’s Pseudo-Nigeria living environment is also still an issue.

For Real This Time

I got really busy and turned into a real person for a few months... but I'm ACTUALLY striking back this time. For real.

Fishing

The third or fourth time I went fishing I was about 5 years old. I only went fishing off the dock into the sound, none of that serious business middle-of-the-ocean stuff. I had my own pole and tackle box. The pole was bright green and the tackle box was purple. I had artfully personalized the tackle box with paint pens. 

My dad spent all morning sitting with me on the dock teaching me about fishing… even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t really know about fishing. But that was okay because I probably wasn’t listening anyway.

He mercilessly skewered worms so I could dangle my bait in the water and say I was ‘fishing.’ I didn’t have the heart to kill an innocent worm but I was willing to watch someone else do it for me.

I had just gotten the knack of casting out the line when my dad needed to take a bathroom break. He left me sitting on the dock with my fishing pole and assumed I would be fine while he took a few seconds to use the facilities.

If you think you know what is going to happen, you are wrong.

I wasn’t getting any fishie bites. I reeled in my line, absentmindedly turning to face the side of the dock. The bait was still there so I didn’t have to wait for my worm-murdering father to return to continue fishing! This would have been perfect if I had been paying more attention to my change of direction.

My hook ended up on a neighboring dock. That would be okay if a seagull was not also on that neighboring dock.

I caught a seagull. My wimpy arms had quite a bit of trouble keeping the fishing pole in my grasp when an enraged seagull was attached to the other end.

My dad cut the line. I was done fishing for the day.

BMW Golf Cart/Motorcycle Thing

....what? This looks like something that would eject from a space ship.

Lack of foresight

I was pushing the ripe old age of five when I had my first direct encounter with fire. 

Ironically, I was in a church. We went to a big fancy church and that day the service was a particularly fancy service where everyone held a candle. I was sitting with the Callisons because my mother sang in the choir and my father was an usher. The Callisons made a big mistake – they allowed me to hold a candle like everyone else. 

I vividly remember my hair falling into my face as I looked down at the candle. This inspired the game I created for myself to pass the time. The rules were simple: get the flame as close as I possibly could to my hair without having them come into contact with one another. It seemed like a fantastic idea while it was happening. Maybe I didn’t understand that I may lose my game, or maybe I didn’t understand that hair easily catches on fire.

My nose began to realize that there was something wrong.  "Burning, rotting death is not a normal church-y smell..." it thought to itself.

I looked around for the source of the odor, thinking that maybe it was bad incense.  Bad incense can sometimes smell like burning plastic, probably.  In a matter of seconds, my theory about the bad incense was discredited based purely upon the raw strength of the smell. At this point, I was thoroughly confused.

Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be my hair.

I jerked the candle away from my face. I thought I had the problem solved. When I realized the hair itself was on fire, I began to grasp the severity of the situation. 

The rest was a blur of confusion and terror. I’m told that Cleave Callison valiantly put out the fire by smashing his sweater against the side of my head and carried me out of the sanctuary.

It's probably NOT the thought that counts.

Lately I’ve been involved in many situations where it’s the thought that counts. I began to think “Wow, it’s the thought that counts with everything lately… when is it not the thought that counts?” 

There are a lot of times when it is absolutely not the thought that counts. Here are a few examples:

Turning in assignments

Getting gas

Paying the bills

Putting on clothes

Showering and other basic hygiene

Making an arrest

If you're looking for a new philosophy to live by, a good one would be "it's the action that counts."

Bear Trap

Repost from the O.G. Bloggity Blog

Have you ever found yourself trying to shove your arm into a painfully small space? The other day I dropped my phone behind my bed. I knew it would be an uncomfortable and challenging rescue mission, so I left it there. A shelving unit around my bed (perhaps my best impulse buy… IT HAS A CUP HOLDER!) would make the phone rescue particularly difficult. Here is a crappy drawing of the arrangement of my bed and surrounding furniture:

About an hour or so passed when my roommate asked if I would accompany her to Chic-Fil-A. For some reason an outing to Chic-Fil-A requires the presence of my cell phone. My options for reclaiming my phone from the dark depths of under my bed were as follows:

A) Slide my hand between the bed and one of the bars that supports the over-the-bed shelving.

B) Remove the drawers from under my bed and crawl under it.

Neither of these options were appealing. My extreme laziness told me that even though sticking my hand between the bed and shelving unit would be more painful, it would take less time and effort. Option A it is.

Reaching my phone was easier than expected.

Getting the hand/phone combo out was quite another story. With the phone, my hand was much too large. Without the phone, my hand was just large enough that it wouldn’t fit back through the space. I don’t think my hand grew while it was down there, but I could be wrong. After my feeble attempts to get my hand out of the under-the-bed bear trap, I admited defeat and even though it was mildly embarrassing, I desperately needed assistance.

It was like the time in kindergarten when you stuck your legs through the stair banister bars and were happily swinging your legs about until you realized your knees had grown while you were doing your leg swinging making it impossible to get them out and then you had to call for help because if you didn't you would waste away stuck on those steps, so your mom had to use lotion and butter to free your legs from their hand railing prison and it left your knees smelling like Johnson & Johnson and disappointment.

After taking her sweet time instead of rushing to my aid, Miyuki (pronounced me-you-key) was not of any assistance. When she walked in to my room she was probably not expecting to see me in such distress, but I am positive that laughing instead of helping was not the most effective reaction. Eventually she was able to use her super-human, manly strength to hold the leg of the shelving unit away from the bed long enough for me to slip my hand (complete with cell phone) out of harms way.

  

Once I had my Chic-Fil-A my hand didn’t hurt anymore.

I bet I can fit in that.

Every time I find a small space I am consumed with an overwhelming desire to fit my entire body in it.   Suitcases, dryers, Rubbermaid crates, etcetera.  When I discover that I am able to fit into these places, it suddenly becomes imperative that I know just how many positions I am able to put myself in while squashed in the small space.  And then for some reason I’m surprised when I get stuck… which is most of the time.

If it’s a larger space, I desperately want to know how many people can fit in it. 

Not everyone is as excited as I am about shoving seven people into a bathtub or under the table.  My junior year in high school I convinced 17 girls that we should all shove into the smallest bathroom stall.

There are seriously 17 people in there.

Guess what else? Turns out bodies are effective measuring tools.

That's true.  Five people will fit in the trunk of a Nissan Altima, just in case anyone was wondering.  

If you were to ask me how big my suitcase was, I would respond with "it's about one person big."