So Much For Saving The Planet

Did you know Compact Flourescent Lightbulbs (you know, those little swirly "environmentally-friendly" lightbulbs) are full of mercury?  Yep, I did.  Which is all fine well and dandy as long as you take your burned out bulbs for recycling and you don't break one.

Wait, what?

Crap. 

Last night I was really tired but I was really grumpy and sick of sleeping in the same bed with Hitter (long story...) and I was full of beer and margaritas (who thought mixing the two would be a good idea?!?) so I sent Hitter to his bed and I headed to the guest room to read for a while (aka, stay awake until he falls asleep, and then I sleep in the guest room and am happy)

And then I tipped over my reading lamp. 

And then my CFL broke.

Have I ever mentioned that any small tiny little bit of logic I have during daytime hours turns into a mass of paranoia in the middle of the night?  It's really not pretty.  That's why I always go to bed with my ipod ear buds in, but that isn't the point of this story. 

Well considering this was midnight, so my freak-out-brain was in full freak-out mode, I decided this one broken bulb meant that I was going to die of mercury poisoning.  I searched the internet, which is also a bad thing for a paranoid hypochondriac at midnight.  Remember the triple-cancer-plus-AIDS episode?  Right.  I really shouldn't be allowed to be on the computer between sundown and sunrise.  There are conflicting reports left and right on the interwebs... and not even tree-hugging-hippie pages vs I-just-can't-be-bothered-to-care websites.  I mean one state's EPA vs another state's EPA.  Some were all "well, yes mercury is bad but as long as you ventilate the room for 15 minutes and wear gloves while you remove all the broken glass, using sticky tape to pick up any remaining shards, you'll be okay" but others were "OMG WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!  You need to remove the carpet, you need to get a HEPA mask, you need to not use that room for like months, maybe even call in an environmental disaster clean up crew to your house" *eye roll* 

Did I mention I get paranoid in the middle of the night?  Well I didn't tear out carpet or call the EPA disaster response crew.  But I did open the window in the bedroom all night... and it was 14 degrees out.  Somehow I think the furnace having to run extra canceled out any possible environmental benefits of using the CFL.  (I would like to point out though that I was smart enough to close the door to that room... I didn't just have random open window straight to the thermostat.  I'm only half stupid.  In fact I even closed the floor vent and taped over the cold-air-return and stuffed a blanket under the door.  I'm thorough like that)

And then I remembered that when I was a little kid, I bit the end off an old-fashioned mercury thermometer.  Yeah, in my mouth.  And then when I was a slightly older kid, I broke another thermometer in my mashed potatoes.  (I didn't want to go to school the next morning so I thought "hey I'll stick this thermometer into my steaming hot food so it'll look like I have a fever!  too bad the taters were about 3000 degrees and I exploded the thermometer)

So I think I'm either already a mad hatter, or I'm immune. 

(Did you know that the phrase "mad as a hatter" came from mercury poisoning?  no joke.  I'm a veritable fountain of useless knowledge) (also, my great-grandma was a milliner.  that might explain a lot) 

Oh, and another symptom of mercury poisoning is mood swings.  I told Hitter today on the way home from church that I've been pretty steadily pissed off for the last 3 days, so a mood swing would be a welcome change.  There's nowhere to go but up.

I don't think I'm poisoned.  I'll let you know if I start trembling violently.  My drawings will get worse.  Or better, I'm not sure.

And I'm going to stockpile old-fashioned lightbulbs.

Sam & Ella, who are they?

It's time for Salmonella Chicken, round two.  Designated Hitter thought he'd try putting another chicken on his fancy dancy smoker grill thingiemahooper.  (technical term)

He managed to not let the thing run out of hampester-shit-pellets this time.  And he didn't go away and forget about it.  However, we did get an answer to the "did he use the meat thermometer correctly" question.  Short answer: no.  Long answer: he never does.  I swear to god he stuck the probe of the thermometer into the chicken's BACK.  And like maybe a quarter inch in.

It's done!

Fuck.

I'm gonna die.

The Ultimate in One-Stop-Shopping

Designated Hitter and I are on vacation this week.  Fishing vacation.  Last night we went for a little drive, and I was super pissed I didn't have the camera along because I saw this sign:

That's the best Dairy Queen ever.  Food, ice cream, booze, and bait.

So get this.  We're staying in this little bitty cabin that was built in the 19-teens.  The doors and windows don't really line up with the door/window frames anymore.  I was trying to lock the door but broke the key off in the lock because of how much the door doesn't line up anymore.  When it rains we just kind of pull the windows towards the cabin but they don't actually close all the way.  Plus the glass is all warpy too.  And there's a total funhouse mirror in the bedroom.  It makes me look like a retarded midget.  I'm probably going to hell for saying "retarded midget" but that's okay with me.  Anyway, back to the cabin.  The floor slopes in a lot of different directions.  No air conditioning, no tv.  We do have electricity thank goodness.  And running water.  A real kitchen and a functional indoor bathroom and everything.  But that's kind of the end of the amenities.  Except we have wi-fi.  I love the digital age.

And a bug bit me on the foot and I'm pretty sure I'm dying.  The bite area swelled up as big around as a silver dollar, and it doesn't just itch - it hurts!  And it's turning purple.  I think I have blood poisoning.  Two nights ago I was laying in bed sweating, wondering if I was dying.  Then I remembered it was like 85 degrees out and humid and we have no air conditioning.  Hitter thinks I'm a hypochondriac.  Okay so I am, but that doesn't mean he shouldn't be sympathetic when my foot turns gangrene and has to be cut off. 

Only a few more days in the north woods, then back to reality.  *sigh*

I knew that was wrong

Quote of the week (from last week):  All I could think of was necrophilia and I knew that was wrong.

Wait!  Don't go away!  I'm not saying I was into necrophilia.  Come back, let me explain.

I've been just dragging-ass tired for a good 5 days now.  Ridiculously tired.  Fall-asleep-standing-up tired.  I'll sleep for 8 hours, wake up, and want to go back to bed.  I took a 3 hour nap today, after sleeping 7.5 hours last night, and I could still go back to sleep right now.  I was trying to explain to Designated Hitter how I felt, and what I wanted to say was "maybe I'm developing a case of narcolepsy" (which I don't think you develop, but you know what I mean) but I couldn't remember the word "narcolepsy" and what I ended up saying was the quote of the week above.  And then he gave me that look that I interpret as "I wonder if I can get her in a straight jacket and lock her away without her kicking me in the nuts or possibly infecting me with whatever mental disease she has"

I get that look from him a lot.

*possibly Designated Hitter's fantasy... 
in more ways than one...

I thought I had a lot more to talk about here, but for some reason I seem to be drawing a blank.  So you can just enjoy my word snafu and I will go to bed and there will hopefully be more funny in the future.

And So, Goodnight

I might die.

Designated Hitter ever-so-graciously offered to cook ALL WEEKEND.  So Friday night I had to cook because he had been working.  Then Saturday we went to a Memorial Day Weekend BBQ and the host did all the cooking, except I made chocolate caramel bars AND homemade ice cream.  In his defense, I offered to do that cooking because it was that or yard work and it was about 3 degrees cooler than the surface of the sun here so I opted for the inside activity.  Anyway, yesterday I made the decision on what meat he should grill and then I went to the basement to dig it out of the freezer (and I think I did side dishes too, but I really don't remember and I might be unfairly accusing him of something to make my story better)  And today I made the homemade potato salad and he shoved the beer can up the chicken's ass and put it on the grill.  Also I made rhubarb crisp on Saturday. 

This is actually one of the least annoying versions of that old story.  There have been much worse weekends.

So this afternoon while said beer-can-up-the-ass chicken was sitting on the grill, I took a nap.  Hitter was in the basement not paying a damned bit of attention.  Grill ran out of fuel.  I have no idea how long it was out of fuel.  Oh, and before you make fun of me for calling it "fuel", we don't have a gas grill.  We have some fancy damned pellet smoker thingy.  So technically it ran out of pellets, except I get a little weirded out about referring to pellets because it sounds like we're burning hamster food to cook our food.  Wait, where did I go just now?  Oh yeah.  So he gets the grill going again and then tells me that supper will be about a half hour later.  I couldn't help but wonder how long the chicken sat there in the salmonella danger zone.  But, whatever.  We all gotta take out our immune systems for some exercise once in a while, right?

Chicken comes in and he starts cutting it up to eat.  I take one look at the dark meat that he sliced off and I go "seriously, is this chicken even done?"  No shit, it was still that kinda milky-translucent color.  He insisted it was, because his meat thermometer said it was 170.  And he was starting to get that tone of voice where if I kept pushing, he may never even pretend to "cook everything all weekend" and that would be the beginning of the end of us because I already think we don't go out to eat often enough but he keeps me from bitching too much by cooking for me on the weekends.  Sometimes.  At least the meat anyway.  Partially.  So I didn't bother to ask if he had used the thermometer correctly (short answer: no.  long answer: he never does) because I knew it would lead to World War III only we'd be using semi-cooked chicken as biological warfare and potato salad as hand grenades.  I just picked some of the most-done-looking chicken from the very outer edges of the bird and tomorrow when he's at work I'll put the rest of the chicken in the oven for a while.

Then I got on WebMD to see what the symptoms of salmonella poisoning were, and guess what?  Apparently I have three different kinds of cancer and also AIDS.  Really, WebMD?  You could go to WebMD and type in "I picked up a piece of paper and then got a little cut where the edge of the paper touched my finger" and WebMD would be all "you have triple-cancer-plus-AIDS"

But now I have a tummy ache and I'll spare you the details but lets just say I might spend some quality time in the bathroom.  But I don't know if that's from the bioterrorist chicken or if it's because of the three bowls of ice cream I had today.  Seriously.  What was I thinking?  I have that milk-makes-me-sick thing.  (I'd look up what it's really called on WebMD but they'd tell me it was triple-cancer-plus-AIDS.  Which I got from a paper cut.  Nice try, WebMD, but I'm not falling for that one again!)  I MADE that ice cream, I know it has milk in it.  But somehow three bowls seemed like a good idea.  Not all at one time, I had one of them for breakfast and one after lunch and one as a mid-afternoon/pre-nap snack.  I really gotta lay off the morning sugar.  And not just because I don't want to have a serious discussion with Wilford Brimley about diabeetus, it's more because I think it's making me stupid.  Except I did beat Hitter at a game tonight that's for ages 12-and-up.  But then he totally kicked my ass at a different game for 8-and-up.  I am happy that my story did give me the opportunity to say I beat Hitter.  Which is really weird and either violent or kinky or both.  And also sometimes "Hitter" looks like Hitler and that's not working for me.  But typing out Designated Hitter all the time is annoying.  Maybe I'll just nickname him Desi but then I'd have to change my name to Lucy and that ain't happening. 

I have no idea where I was going with this post.  Except to say that I'm really sorry I didn't become a famous blogger before I die.  Of course maybe tomorrow I'll wake up not-dead.  I doubt I'll become famous overnight though, especially writing messes like this.

*I think I need to create a new tag for this one... "Hypochondria" implies that it's irrational.  I think your husband trying to poison you with a salmonella chicken is totally justified hypochondria.  And also maybe evidence for the prosecution at my murder trial.  

**Update from the next morning: I am still alive and I'm even feeling pretty good.  Yay immune system!  I'm still going to cook the chicken more.  

Living in the woods

I wanted a house in the country.  It was all my fault.  I'm not cut out to be a city person.  The very first night we were here, I looked out my front window and I saw trees... and trees... and deer.

and I was all excited because "ooh how pretty!  I love living in nature!"

Shortly thereafter, a groundhog was discovered undermining the integrity of the cement floor in our shed.  Then the Designated Hitter started freaking out because our yard is full of moles and gophers.

The next spring, I wanted a garden.  The beans were happily climbing their poles, and then:

(it's awfully hard for a bean plant to live if the top is no longer physically connected to the bottom)

Last week, in the middle of the afternoon I looked out my window and saw the following:

that's a raccoon, in broad daylight, eating out of a bird feeder, less than 20 yards from my back door.

And then there was this morning.

only much less friendly (and amorous) and much more stinky and diabolical and probably rabid.  Okay I have no reason to believe he's rabid except for the fact that my paranoia/hypochondria also covers rabies.  After I saw the raccoon last week I started researching symptoms of rabies in humans to find out if I was going to die, even though the raccoon was showing no signs of being rabid and I did not come in any contact with it.  I'm afraid to let Muppy outside now!  (Although he has a rabies shot.  And Frontline, so I get ticks and he does not.  Why are dogs so well protected and I am not?) 

P.S. I also saw two toads humping on my back step.  That was funny though.  It was all legs in all directions.  I felt a little dirty for watching them, but I was not in fear for my life.  My soul, maybe, but not my life.

Morning Person = Evil

Why exactly are morning people vilified?  What did I do to deserve this?  I wake up at 5:00 no matter what time I go to bed.  No alarm clock.  3 hours of sleep or 9, doesn't matter.  (Although do you have any idea how hard it is to get 9 hours of sleep when you wake up at 5:00?  You have to go to bed when it's still light out)

Why is it that society loves these people

who are all grumpy and irritable and worship their coffee pot?  (those are steaming coffee mugs)  They stand around and compare notes on who is more sleepy like it's a badge of honor.  Yay!  I'm sleep deprived!  Except I'm way too tired to say yay or use exclamation points!  I'll just go pretend to work for a few hours until I can go home and stay up all night.

And then there's me.

I don't know what my legs are doing.

I didn't know what my legs were doing last night either.  The Creepin' Heebie Geebies are a real bitch.  I think it's probably technically Restless Leg Syndrome, but I have White Coat Phobia so I don't know what I really have, nor do I have medication to fix the problem.  I'm also a hypochondriac and love disorders with funny names.  Restless Leg Syndrome = not funny.  Creepin' Heebie Geebies = somewhat less not-funny.  Also fictitious.  Did you know I have something that is truly and honestly called Exploding Head Syndrome?  It's not nearly as cool as it sounds.  I have never had to scrape my brains off my headboard.

But I digress...

You know, now that I look at that picture, I kind of hate morning people too.  I really want to tell myself to sit down and shut up!  I started at the wrong end of the story.  Fast forward to about 8:30 that evening.  Night people are all "woo hoo!  Let's go out!  It's time for a party!"  And I'm yawning because I'm sleepy and ready for bed.  And they call me a loser.  And I'm sad.

So let's recap: in the morning, the "normal" people are sleepy and the annoying people are awake.  In the evening, they are partying and the losers are getting ready for bed. 

Anyway, I'm awake and perky.  Even though I only got 4 hours of sleep last night.  I'll be ready for bed before the Designated Hitter is even ready for dinner tonight.  I'll never be popular.  You have to be tired in the morning and love coffee to fit in.  I'm an annoying loser.