I never knew my kitchen window could look this good.
One Picture A Day Features My House
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Monthly Archives: March 2008
Not Intended For The Dinner Table.
It never fails that the moment I say something about how Scout is doing a knock-out job in the world of potty training, it all gets shot to hell.
Every time, I think I’ve learned my lesson. I say something, she goes to the bathroom in the house. It’s like a law of physics. But I have apparently NOT learned my lesson. Take today for example, when potty training karma was working at top-speed. I told my dad on the phone today that Scout always goes to the bathroom outside when she’s at home. (This is a stark contrast to this weekend, when we were at Zack’s parents house and she NEVER NOT ONCE went to the bathroom outside, instead always choosing to go to the bathroom on the ONLY CARPET IN THE HOUSE, my in-law’s living room rug. SERIOUSLY. HOW DO THEY KNOW? Now, my mother-in-law is both a gracious woman, and a total dog-lover, and so she didn’t mind that my “wittle puppy doesn’t know better, does she? nom nom nom.” But. I know better. But that’s beside the point.)
The point is, that I told my dad about our weekend with the dog, oh, about 3:30 this afternoon. At 5:00 when I got home from work, Zack was carrying the dog blanket from inside the kennel to the backyard, to remove the rather large deposit that she’d left in the cage. The still warm, steaming deposit. The deposit that I’m so very sure she deposited because the little dog-devil landed on her furry left shoulder and told her that I’d told my dad about how awesome she was doing at home, and THEREFORE, she MUST go to the bathroom in the ONE PLACE that dogs are supposed to NEVER GO. There is no other explanation for why she went to the bathroom in her cage. No reason outside her obviously overwhelming need to prove me wrong in every possible instance.
Heaven help me, I will only complain about my dog from now on, lest we have to clean up steaming piles for the REST OF OUR LIVES.
In other semi-related news, we have approximately 10 squares of toilet paper left in the house. Last time we went to the store I said, “Do we need TP?” “No,” responded Zack confidently. He was Confidently Incorrect.
Forgive Me Internet, For I Have Sinned.
It has been 43 years since my last work out.
I did, however, tell Zack that he could create a new work out plan for me, though. That’s basically the same thing as penance, right?
RIGHT?
Plank Position, Here I Come.
Tulips ala Good Friday
Good Friday, I headed over to Dallas via the TRE/DART rail systems (I’m so public transportation savvy!) and went to the Dallas Arboretum with my dad and Grandma. Even though it was one of the Arboretum’s record setting days in regards to attendence, it didn’t feel too crowded, and we had a fantastic time. Occasionally I had to stay crouched for a good while, waiting for people to file out of the background of my shots, but it was well worth it.
Dallas Blooms was breathtaking–Dad and I walked around with jaws agape at the number of flowers, the color of flowers, and the time, design and planning that went into the landscaping. Our jaws stayed agape as we realized that my 85 year-old Mema could easily give us the scientific name for about 97% of the flowers in the 67 acre garden. I can only hope that when I’m 85, I am as mentally and physically sound as my haus of a Mema.
More flowers at my Flickr.
wah-wah-ing.
I hate how sometimes my tongue tickles the roof of my mouth. It creates such a devastating combination of tickle and itch. Very bothersome.
Here are other things I hate:
Unfinished wood scraped against teeth.
NumbButt.
That twinge I get when I turn my neck the wrong way and it violently disagrees with me, voicing its anger by sending a shooting pain through my neck and shoulders and sometimes my jawline. Zack has no idea what I mean when I describe this, as he’s never experienced it. Some people DO know what I’m talking about, though. RIGHT?
JINGLE.
I have this jingle stuck in my head: “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.”
It’s playing over. and over. and over. And it WON’T STOP.
I AM GOING CRAZY.
I find that a lack of upper-body strength is appealing to men.
After a 5 month hiatus, I went climbing yesterday. Zack and I headed to the climbing gym for an afternoon of what could only be described as medieval torture. I assure you that my seemingly rock-filled forearms have not been in this much pain in a long time.
I don’t think I’d be hurting this bad if it wasn’t for the simple fact that there was another girl at the gym. A climber girl, and a good climber girl, at that. So, although I hadn’t attempted to climb anything more vertical than my staircase in almost half a year, I was fairly determined that I needed to out-climb my new found mortal enemy, The Climber Girl–The Climber Girl Who Has Been Climbing A Lot And Was Way Better Than Me Whose Name Happened To Be Sarah, Also.
After the first climb, I thought I was going to pass out. I had unwittingly started on a “harder” route, thinking that I could climb a crack all the way up. As it turned out, the “crack” was mostly for “display” and I wound up climbing the whole route barely hanging on with the tips of my fingers. Nevertheless, I got all the way up, and I was feeling really proud of myself. Proud of myself in an obvious and physically visible kind of a way. I was strutting around like a Peacock with my tail all hoisted up into the air like, “HA! Look at ME! I am a BADASS. Who can CLIMB THINGS.”
Or at least that’s what I wanted to be doing. Instead Zack lowered me to the ground and I laid there while I asked him to please untie me from the rope because my hands seemed to have stopped working for me. Also, could you please take off my shoes? As another crippling blow to my ridiculous pride, the 15 year-old girl that we took climbing with us (a former camper we hang out with occasionally) then climbed the exact route that I had climbed, but did it faster than me, and then didn’t look like a steaming pile of death afterwards. Suh-weet. Aren’t I just a beam of physical health and sound mental processes.
I swear, typing hurts today.
flower girls
the best part of spring break
Though you might assume that the best part of my week was all the never-ending peace in the office (read: nothing to do at all for 5 days), you would be wrong. The best part of this week, hands down, was that every time I went to the bathroom down the hall, I got my choice of bathroom stalls. Making greatness even better: I proceeded to use my favorite stall (third down) without ever having to shut the stall door because NOBODY IS HERE. Week long break from claustrophobia!
Aaaah.
You might have correctly assumed by this point that I’ve been doing more surfing. Here’s two more lists for you: Rarely Used Parenthetical Statements and The Lesser-Known Slogans of Political Moderates. Fantastic.
surfing
I’ve been spending a lot of time on the internet here at work this week. It’s spring break, and we have Nothing To Do. Literally, we’re so out of work to do, I brought crafting supplies to work yesterday and made cards all day long. And nobody said one word to me about it. I take it back. They said, “Oh, those are so cuuuuuute.”
So here are some of the things I’ve been checking out on teh interwebs:
- I could spend hours digging through www.mcsweeneys.net. In particular, I’ve been laughing at these two lists: Cowboy Deaths in Decending Order of Degree of Dignity and Other Things There Will Be, In Addition to Blood.
- The Flickr pool for Creative Spaces especially loving the_mayfly, and photografik and Cherry Tomato ‘s rooms; they are inspiring me to do some rearranging. As if I need inspriation to do such a thing.
- Been appreciating the styles (and frequency of posting) over at Design*Sponge.
- I’ve been learning about the things that I like over at Stuff White People Like, namely Sushi, Dogs, Apple Products and The Idea Of Soccer.
