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12:00 PM
A Must Read On E-Bay
Ok, so I'm lazy today and don't really have anything particularly witty or funny to talk about (not really much of a change). But I did find this hilarious E-bay item, which is long but well worth the read:
E-Bay Hilarity
Take a look I promise that it will make you smile, if not laugh out loud.
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Monday, April 26, 2004
5:47 PM
On my way home today, as I came down the ramp into Dana Point it was 93 degrees. Bear in mind that this is the ramp that is about as close to the ocean as you can get without actually being in the water. 93. Right. By. The. Ocean. It must be a new record for a day in April. Then, when I got home, I checked the pool temperature - 84. (Ok, we did heat the pool over the weekend, but we turned the heater off more than 24 hours ago. Unbelievable. It was like this pretty much all weekend, but today was the hottest.
Meanwhile my poor kitties do not seem happy about theat waveave. Mostly they are just laying around in either the laundry room or the bathroom where there are cool tile floors. Petey seems to have mastered the full-body flop onto the tile. Then he sprawls out as much as possible to maximize his contact with the tile. All while Little Girl glares imperiously down from the counter as if to say that such silliness is beneath her. But I've seen her doing it too, so I know better.
Other than the heat, not much to report here. Maybe I'll go take advantage of the warm pool water. Or maybe I'll just go join Petey on the tile . . .
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Thursday, April 22, 2004
4:48 PM
Yes, we have a replacement for Martha Stewart - Me! After all, we'll need one when Martha spends her time in the pokey. And based on my pictures below, I think I am the obvious choice. (Warning: this post really nothing more than me gloating about my kitchen skills. If you don't have the stomach for my blatant self-promotion, please go visit Dana, Laura or Erin's sites through the links on the right.)
As many of you know, I have just about every cooking gadget known to man (even though I am rarely home to cook). But I do use them when I can. One of my most recent items was a gift I received for Christmas: a tool from Williams Sonoma to make lattice topped pie crust. Yes, I know it's silly and I freely admit that I have baked something like 2 pie crusts from scratch in my entire life (including the one below - actually, it might have been my first). But I had to have it. And I think it was entirely worth it.
Here is my Beautiful Pie before baking. Just look at how perfect the lattice top is!!
Here is my Beautiful Pie after baking - Still beautiful!!
And here is the not so Beautiful Pie after we got our hands on it:
Even though the lattice maker thingy really is sort of cheating, I think my Beautiful Pie came out fabulously. And I must admit that the crust was quite flaky and yummy. Plus the dough was tasty raw. All in all a very good thing - oops! I'm already acting like Martha.
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Tuesday, April 20, 2004
3:35 PM
It's been a while since I've posted any sort of update about the New Lexus. So far, nothing really new to report about the car itself. I've made my peace with both the automatic lights and the wipers (the French Lady and I are sort of at a stalemate). But dealing with the Lexus dealership is definitely a new experience unlike anything we've dealt with in the past. It is generally a good thing, but I must admit that I feel like we've joined some sort of bizarre cult of car happiness, which is really more than I need. After all, it is just a car.
In the past, my experiences with having a car serviced have not been good. Usually you pull in to the dealer, wait about a million years for a service writer to come talk to you, wait another gazillion years for them to write up your service order, and then wait yet again for them to get you a quote. Then about 3 years later, after spending several hundred dollars for something that should have cost about $27 and that should have taken 4 hours, you get your car back. The odds are only 50/50 that they actually did what you told them. Plus, you have to ignore their empty promises to call you when it's done. Instead, you have to call them periodically to check the status and the ever growing price tag. Can you tell that my car repair experiences have been less than stellar? (My personal favorite was when we had a problem with our Jeep. We took it in, they found the problem, but said that they couldn't fix it for several days because they didn't have the right tools. Huh? I guess my standards are just too high in expecting a dealership to actually be able to fix its own cars. But I digress . . .)
So the New Lexus was due for servicing. Mark was kind enough to deal with it, so he made an appointment, took the car in at the designated time, was checked right in and even given a loaner car. So far light years ahead of other dealerships. Lexus Dealer said the car would be ready around 10 am the next day. They will call us when it is done. Great. Believe that when I see it (both the call and the finish time).
The next day, shortly after 10 am, the phone rings, car is ready. Pretty amazing. We go and pick it up. Not only is there no charge for the service (still haven't figured that one out but when it comes to free I generally don't ask too many questions), but they have washed the car. Doesn't get much better than that! So far so good. Off we drive in the newly serviced and sparkly clean New Lexus.
And then the stalking began.
Later that day, after running errands, we get home and there is a message on the machine from our service representative at the Lexus Dealer just checking to see that our service experience was good. Isn't that nice? But we're lazy so we don't call back. I figure that it's safe for them to assume that they would hear from us if we were unhappy. Hence, no need to call. Then on Monday, Mark gets an e-mail from the Lexus Dealer, again asking if the service was up to our expectations. Again, we don't respond. He's at work after all and has more important things to do than to not complaint about the New Lexus to the Lexus Dealer. After receiving no response to the e-mail, I then get a call at work from the Lexus Dealer. Service rep, again. How was our service? Man they are relentless! I tell her everything was great. No complaints. And I think that will be the end of it.
A couple of days later when we get the mail there is card from Lexus thanking us for taking the time to speak to the service rep about our recent servicing. Honestly.
I'm still waiting for the customer service survey asking us to rate their thank you card. Or for a call thanking me for opening their card. I'm sure one is coming any day.
In short, Lexus service is really good, perhaps too good. I don't need a stalker in the form of my car dealer. I'm afraid I'm actually living in the Seinfeld episode where Jerry's mechanic steals his car because he isn't taking good enough care of it. The Lexus Dealer is really not far behind. . .
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Monday, April 19, 2004
4:17 PM
As are many in my family, I'm fair skinned. Add to it several medications that increase sun sensitivity and it's a recipe for disaster. I've had second degree burns from the sun. In short, generally the sun and I do not mix. As a result, I am good about wearing sunscreen most of the time, at least in the places that really burn, like on my face and chest.
To help me win my battle with the sun, I have a whole variety of sunscreens with varying SPF numbers. There is a veritable cornucopia of sunscreen choices under the bathroom sink. But every time I go to buy sunscreen the numbers have invariably crept up more and more and I get concerned that I need the newer higher numbers. Pretty soon, the SPF available will be something approaching Avogadro's number, as will the number of bottles of sunscreen that I own. Until yesterday, I was never convinced that higher really is better. On the one hand why not? Same expenditure on my part and instead of 15 SPF I get SPF to an infinite degree. On the other hand I've heard of studies that say anything over 15 really isn't any better but just has more chemicals in it. And more chemicals really isn't my goal.
Unfortunately I learned the hard way this past weekend that those numbers really do matter. Imagine that! Who knew?
After a day of rain on Saturday, Sunday was beautiful. Sunny, clear, not too hot. So out we went to enjoy the Fabulous Yard. I grabbed the bottle of sunscreen Mark had used - a nice and healthy SPF 15 - and applied it all over my face. I usually go for the 30+ stuff, but because I didn't plan to spend much time outside, I figured 15 was more than enough. Big mistake. I spent a mere half-hour with my face in the sun. That fleeting half hour taught me that the higher the SPF number the better. Period. End of story. It also taught me that while one SPF may be perfect for my easily-tanning, olive-skinned hubby, it probably isn't going to do squat for me.
By 8 pm last night, my nose and parts of my cheeks were flamingly red. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Red. Glow-in-the-dark-like-hot-coals red. Really really red. And painful! And my face was only marginally better this morning.
Which leads me to the next phase of the lesson of "When More Is Better". More is better when it comes to makeup and you are trying to cover an extremely burned nose. I tried foundation (3 different types), undereye concealer (2 different ones), powder, etc. I think a putty knife would have come in handy this morning in applying my makeup. And in reapplying it periodically throughout the day. All in all, I think I've covered it pretty well, but when I get sunburned I get itchy. So my nose itches but I can't scratch it for fear of cracking the carefully crafted veneer of makeup and revealing the extreme blinding redness.
So as you read this, take pity on poor itchy-nosed-but-I-don't-dare-scratch Sarah. I'm sure I'll be suffering for several days to come.
And learn from my mistake. More is better. At least with sunscreen.
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Wednesday, April 14, 2004
11:22 AM
That may overstate it a bit, but I am less than happy right now.
Most of my faithful readers know that we have become sort of gardening fanatics. We love to landscape and re-landscape our various yards (and by now, we have had a lot of yards to work on). But in the past couple of years I've developed a new gardening fixation - roses. Roses seem to be the sort of plant that either you dismiss entirely because they are rather high maintenance or you decide to try and then get sucked into hook, line and sinker. I fall into the latter category. We now have two dozen rose bushes, not counting the long rows that flank our driveway. And I'm completely hooked. "Hello, my name is Sarah and I am a rose addict." I am constantly proposing new locations for new roses, most of which are vetoed (after all, I do have a designated rose garden). I have particular roses that I am always looking for at the nursery. I have at least four different rose foods that they get and two different sprays that I apply. I understand that this is bordering on obsession but somehow it has happened (ok, perhaps I have crossed the border solidly into obsession but there are worse addictions).
Notwithstanding my mania or perhaps as a result thereof, I have very pretty and wonderful smelling flowers in my yard. Or at least I did.
This morning, after we took out the trash barrels, I decided to take a quick rose tour because they are all starting to bloom. I do have one early bloomer that has been faithfully pumping out huge orangey colored, incredibly fragrant flowers for weeks now. The bush has had 2-4 blooms on it at all times for ages. But as I looked as my roses this morning, something just didn't look right. All the plants were there (I have heard stories about entire bushes being stolen - seriously. Apparently some are even more obsessed that me!). They were all healthy and green. Wait a minute - that was the problem. They were all green!! No color at all. And I suddenly realized that there were no blooms left on my workhorse!! At all! I looked closer - no sign of fallen petals or broken stems. It seems that someone came and actually stole my roses! And must have brought a clipper with him/her to do it because the stems were not broken.
I am not happy. Mark is not happy. We are not happy. We like our neighbors, but could they be the culprits? Are they just pretending to be nice so they can steal our roses and avoid suspicion? Should I go door to door looking for my roses in a vase? I could probably smell them from a ways away, so this plan just might work. What about the workers still ever-present in our neighborhood? Are they closet rose buffs who wait until I leave to pillage my flowers? Is it people from the bordering neighborhoods who are still mad that our houses were built? Are they taking it out on us? So many suspects. So few clues.
I suppose I could take it as flattery that someone thought the flowers were pretty enough to commit larceny over, but I'm just not that forgiving. But for now I have no solution.
Let me know if you want to be my Rose Garden Guard. Benefits are negotiable!
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Tuesday, April 13, 2004
12:04 PM
On Saturday we had visitors. Dad & Barb had to have the house fumigated and had to stay out for at least 4 hours. Which left the family homeless for the afternoon. Pooooor family. Luckily, we had no plans so after making them beg, plead and cry, we agreed that they could come pass the time at our house. But only if they agreed to be our slaves for the afternoon (rich fantasy life I have isn't it?). Actually, there was no real begging or slavery, but visit they did.
So there we were, all prepared to host when the phone rang. It was Barb in a slight panic. She was originally told that she could just leave the animals in the backyard, but when the actual exterminator showed up he said no, animals had to be gone. Period. So then the actual begging did start because we hadn't bargained for cats and dogs. But what could we do? So up they came. Dad, Barb, Grandma, Alex, Connor, Pepper, Spice, Sasha and Chester. Luckily the birds stayed in the yard covered in their cages. And the fish were absolutely out of the question. In any event, it was quite a car full (I still can't comprehend how they got both cats into one not very large animal carrier).
Chester and Sasha were stashed in the garage. Chester proceeded to yowl virtually non-stop the entire time. Sasha spent the entire time in the carrier. She just decided to wait it out (or she was just trying to shield herself from Chester's yowls).
The dogs were in the back yard which was working out great until . . . . Pepper fell into the pool. (This was about 20 seconds after Mark asked Barb " He won't fall in the pool will he", to which she replied "Of course not!") Allow me to point out that we haven't been in our pool but now my parents' dog has. Barb had to fish Pepper out, dry him off, etc. All was well. Until Pepper fell into the pool again. Seriously. Like 2 minutes later. Actually, he didn't really fall in, he sort of walked in. Barb was on the other side of the pool and Pepper wanted to go to her so he just started walking - right off the edge into the pool. This time Pepper swam to the shallow end and climbed out himself. I would praise the dog's intelligence for finding his own way out, but he did after all, fall in not once, but twice, so intelligence might be too strong a word.
I didn't get any pictures of the Great Pepper Pool Fiasco, but I did take a few of my cats' interaction with the dogs. Eventually we leashed the dogs to the table outside and they hung out outside of the living room. Petey spent most of the afternoon staring out at them. No hissing or growling, just fascination.
Here's Petey waving at Spice.
I think I heard Petey say "You stupid dogs, stuck out there while we are in here! Ha!"
I'm not sure if this was Petey or LB, but again, mocking Spice:
One more with both dogs:
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Monday, April 12, 2004
9:07 AM
As most if not all of my readers already know, Grandma's sister, Aunt Kate, passed away yesterday morning. It was not a huge surprise but is still a major loss to the whole family. I didn't know Kate well, but have heard all the stories about what a fabulous person she was. She will be missed.
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Thursday, April 08, 2004
5:58 PM
No, this will not be a gross post about any sort of bodily functions. It's about a topic that I'm sure is near and dear to all of my readers - the ridiculous price of gas these days and the painful experience we all bear when going to the gas station.
I remember when . . . (here I go again, this really is something you do more and more the older you get, but back to the story). I remember when gas was under a dollar a gallon. And no, I wasn't 4 at the time. I was of driving age. I think about those times every time I have to pay close to $2.25 per gallon for the lowest octane gas at the station. But I'll spare you a rant about how ludicrous prices are and how they go up by leaps and bounds but only come down in a slow trickle, never quite getting as low as they were before the hikes. That isn't the point of this rant (though it is indeed worthy of a rant).
No, my current complaint is with the gas pumps themselves. Picture this - I pull into the pump, have my credit card ready and even pop the gas cap cover in one quick movement as I get out of the car. I swipe the card, select the grade, remove the gas cap and insert the nozzle in yet another fluid move. I am a tribute to economization of effort. Poetry in motion. I really have this down to a science. Then I depress the lever to start filling. And I swear the gas begins dispensing no more than a drop at a time, maybe two. I double check to make sure the lever is 100% fully depressed. After all, it might just be on the first of several automatic fill notches. Nope. It's absolutely fully depressed to the fullest extent possible without me holding it constantly. And yet the eyedropper method appears to continue as gas dribbles into my tank.
I look at the numbers that show how fast the money is being sucked out of my account. Shockingly, it appears that in fact the money is flying out of my account at breakneck speed but that the gas is going into my tank at a snail's pace. What is up with that?? So I have two options: (a) try to manually hold the nozzle in a slightly more fully depressed state in hopes that the tank will fill marginally faster; or (b) resign myself to the complete lack of speed and find something else to do. I go with plan 'B'.
I climb back into the car. Check my cell phone voicemail (even though the little envelope is not on the screen - but what the heck, I've got time). Check my work voicemail (even though I left work only 3 minutes ago). Check the home voicemail (Hey! A message! The Arrowhead delivery person is coming tomorrow). Make a mental note to put the empty bottles out when I get home (I'm confident that I'll forget nonetheless). Then I check on the fill status - 3 gallons so far. So then I call Mark. He's busy and can't talk (naturally, because he is at work, duh!). Call my parents. They aren't home yet. Chat with grandma a few minutes. Glad she is doing well, though she is tired. Check the progress - 5 gallons. I clean out my wallet and purse generating a little pile of stuff to get rid of. I give myself a complete manicure (well, no polish, but I do get to clean my nails, push back my cuticles and file them into nice shapes). 7 gallons.
Do you see my point?? If they are going to charge us out the wazoo for gas, they really should make it as painless as possible! Why does it not only have to be expensive but time consuming. I honestly think I could siphon gas out of someone else's tank and put it in my own faster than the pump can fill my tank.
I think that the gas stations need to update their pumps to be about a million times quicker. I might even be able to stomach the overall price of gas if I didn't have to spend soooo looong staring at the pump that is imposing the price on me.
Who's with me on this????
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8:16 AM
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Wednesday, April 07, 2004
11:51 AM
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Monday, April 05, 2004
5:22 PM
Finally finally finally we are reaping the real benefit of the Great Girl Scout Cookie Debacle of 2004. This weekend I made a batch of chocolate fudge ice cream with crushed thin mints mixed in. And it is goooood. Really really good.
But now we are also bearing the burden of the Great Girl Scout Cookie Debacle of 2004 - we have yummy ice cream in the house. Which is really really bad. It's something we avoid like the plague. Especially because the ice-cream beckons constantly. "I'm here! I'm good! Eat me!" Constantly. And it's impossible to just forget about it. In fact, here I am at work, thinking about the fact that I have this ice-cream in my freezer. See? It has a very loud voice.
As a result of the addition of the ice cream to the freezer, I am constantly stuck choosing between listening to the voice of the ice cream and that of the scale (see my earlier posting about the scale obsession). Obviously I can't eat the ice cream and then get on the scale - that would clearly not go well. And I can't get on the scale and then eat the ice cream because I would just feel compelled to re-weigh. So I am stuck.
But I am proud of myself. This unresolved conflict has resulted in me (1) not eating any ice cream and (2) not weighing myself - for nearly 2 whole days. Unheard of. I even managed to resist eating even a bite of the ice cream when Mark had a whole bowl. I guess my best bet is for Mark to finish the evil ice cream and thereby remove the temptation. I'm sure he'll have no objection to that plan.
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Thursday, April 01, 2004
9:47 AM
As you might have guessed, I am not a millionaire. But lucky for me, no one else is either. And I already have my ticket for Saturday's $51 million drawing. So please keep sending out those lucky thought!
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9:43 AM
As most of my readers know, last year I gained a big chunk of weight as a result of the steroids I was on for my RA. Luckily, once you get off the 'roids, the weight generally does come off and I've been slowly but surely taking the weight back off since last summer (in fact, as of this morning, I'm 5 pounds below even my pre-steroid weight - Yay me! Skinny B must be rubbing off on me).
The problem is that I have a scale at home. And being obsessed with losing the weight, I use it a lot. A lot. I know that I shouldn't be weighing myself all the time, but I can't resist. The scale seems to call to me and it really would be rude not to respond. But last night nearly pushed me over the edge.
There I was staring at the scale, trying to convince myself that weighing myself twice a day really is foolish, but, after all, the scale was right there so who am I not to step on. (I think I was motivated to check because my weight was really low that morning and I wanted some more positive reinforcement - I know, excuses, excuses). Onto the scale I go and indeed the number is still nice and low. But I am fully clothed in yoga pants, socks, a t-shirt and a sweatshirt. So I do what any self-respecting dieter would do - I strip off nearly every stitch of clothing figuring that my clothes must weigh at least a couple of pounds and that then I'll be really really low. There I am, virtually au naturel, and back onto the scale I go!
Unchanged. Whaaat? How is that possible?? Off the scale. Back on. Same. Now I'm actually starting to get mad (not sure if I'm more angry at myself for being so silly or the scale itself for it's obvious falsehoods). By then I'm starting to get cold. Funny how that happens when you are mostly bare. And the cats are looking at me like I'm nuts (actually, LG was starting to settle down for a nap on my sweatshirt). Back on with the clothes (sorry LG). And then, to add insult to injury - you guessed it - I get back on the scale. Again. Care to guess the result? Still the same as the starting number.
I am still a bit stumped by both the scale's behavior and mine. After all, I know that my clothes had to weigh at least a pound or two and the scale is pretty precise. But I also know that I really shouldn't have so many meetings with the scale in the first place.
Hopefully I have learned my lesson. Doubtful. But from now on, if I see a number I like, I'll do my best to just embrace it and move on. I'll save the stripping for when the number is higher than I can tolerate.
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Frappé
Welcome Back!!
Work in Process
Bananacam
Bananarama
Yes, We Have LOTS of Bananas!!
The Three Stooges
Thing You Can't Learn From Food TV
New Job, Day 22
