Scrapbooking projects

I haven't updated my blog in almost a year. Most people who read the blog regularly know that is because I had a stroke in October. I still have enough trouble remembering to eat food regularly let alone string together enough coherent thoughts to create a whole blog essay. So why am I posting now: My scrapbook teacher, Tresa Black, is hosting a blog hop in which participants show off their artwork based on an assigned theme. I've alweays wished my art was good enough to post on one of her hops, and with my brain charting new pathways and territories in my noggin, I've found that my artwork has actually gotten a lot better post-stroke. It's still not up to the level of the other blog hop participants, but I had fun creating these cards.

If you're interested in scrapbooking, cardmaking, or other paper crafts, check out Tresa's always-inspiring website, www.fabulouslyartsy.com.

Rocky Recounting

I share pretty much anything that pops into my brain. This sharing can be my thoughts on today's top news stories, my opinions on the relative lack of merits of popular culture, or a funny or neat thing I learned.

Usually my dog is the lucky recipient of my stories. The other evening, it was my parents who were sitting, riveted, (immobile?) by my newfound knowledge of Catholicism.

"So I'm reading this murder mystery," I began. "It's about this crazy guy who kills catholic school girls based on the Rosary. So, I asked Annette (resident Catholic in my life) about the Rosary."

"And what did you learn," mom asked in between bites of dinner. She knows if she just asks, my story will get over quicker, thus with less pain.

"The beads each stand for a 'decade.'"

"What's a decade?" My dad asked.

Great. He's always got to poke holes in my newfound knowledge.

"I don't know," I said. "I thought it represented each decade of Jesus's life, but he apparently died at the age of 36, according to Annette. And she's old enough that she would probably know. Anyway, there are five decades, and some of the beads are bigger than other beads, and on the bigger beads you pray one thing, and you pray something different on the smaller beads. On certain days, like Mondays and Wednesdays you say one prayer on the small beads, then on Tuesdays and Thursdays you say a different prayer."

"Wow," my mom said. "That's really..."

"Confusing," I supplied. "Then, you get down to the wooden cross, and you say The Apollo Creed."

My parents' silverware stopped. They looked at me. I looked at them.

"That sounds wrong. Apollo Creed," I said to myself. I brightened. "Wait, that's 'Rocky'!"

I learned yesterday that the thing you say when you get to the cross of the Rosary is the Apostle's Creed. The creed probably has nothing to do with eyes of tigers, but beyond that, you'll need to look it up for yourself.

Baby 1, Cat 0

Dearest (friend who shall remain nameless due to the embarrassment that 1)I am actually a friend of hers and 2) I actually sent this card to her on the occasion of her baby shower):

I am so terribly sorry I cannot be there today to share in the joy of
your impending loss of all independence, peace, and quiet. You should
take solace in the fact that the baby will not make her appearance
through your sternum as in "Alien." And while you will be busy soon
cleaning up bodily functions that will make you think you are,
actually, in "Alien," rest assured knowing that you now have an
insurance policy against ending up in an old folks' home. There are
some people such as myself who have all the independence, peace, and
quiet in the world, but a child is a much better way to go. Teaching a
cat to empty a bedside commode is going to be difficult.

You are going to make an excellent mother. Your baby is lucky to have
you. Take a good look around this room - you are looking at a support
system that will be available for advice, support, and free babysitting.

I, on the other hand, am in no way, shape, or form offering to babysit
as these selfless people have. I will babysit your dogs, however. If
you need any advice on babies, don't hesistate to ask! I was one
myself not 28 years ago.

I miss you, and have FUN! I am far more excited about the idea of you
and Brett multiplying rather than a 15 year-old crack whore and her
baby daddy bringing more people into the world.

Katie

Say it with Assuredness

I love the movie "Catch me if you Can." The book is even better (isn't it always?) Frank Abagnale Jr details his exploits as a pilot, pediatrician, and lawyer, all professions usually requiring a licence, none of which he had. The key to his success was good old-fashioned panache.

I usually speak in such a way that I sound like I know what I'm talking about.

This is a ruse.

(For the record, I make a mental note to look up my assertions later.) Once, my family and I were driving through flat acreage of farm land known locally as "the Palouse." My grandfather asked me what the word meant. Without missing a beat, I said, "It's a Native American word for 'rolling hills.'"

My father almost drove off the road. "You are so full of bullshit. It's a French word!" he said, laughing.

"Wow. She really sounded like she knew what she was talking about, too," my grandpa said. I couldn't tell if it was reverance or disgust I heard in his voice. (For the record, I was sort of correct: "Palouse" is an offshoot of the French "pelouse": land with short, thick grasses.)

I'm not much of a salesperson, which is unfortunate. I could harness my evil for good. Or more evil, depending on your position on acquiring filthy wealth.

The other day, a coworker approached me at the copier. "Hey, Katie, catch!" she said, miming like she was about to toss a foodstuff toward my mouth.

"Oh my gosh, don't!" I said, slapping my hands protectively over my mouth.

"What's the matter? It's only an M&M," she said, confusion clouding her face.

"Do you have any idea how many people die each year from choking to death on M&M's?" I said. "Seventeen. Google it."

Her eyes grew wide, having fallen awestruck under my spell. "Wow. How do you know all this stuff?"

(For the record: M&M's lawyers seem to have gotten to Google, as I am unable to double-check my educated-guess statistic. HOwever, it seems that thirty people die in elevators each year. So while you might choke to death on an M&M, you're more likely to die in an elevator. So take the stairs.)

Knock, knock - Destiny calling! Oh, wait. Just kidding.

Yesterday at about 11am, my cell phone rang.

Exhausted from trying to scale the wall of Validation for my writing, I sighed to myself, "Let it be an agent, please...even if they're calling to personally tell me 'thanks for wasting my time.' I need something..."

I dug in my purse and fished out my phone. The screen was blue, not a picture of my dog (Mom's caller ID photo) or my cat (Doug's caller ID). Instead, there was writing on the screen. "Call from...N..e..w..Y..o..r..k."

Holy crap.

I flicked the phone open and steadied my voice. "This is Katie."

"Oh. I, um...you said 'Katie'?"

"I also go by Elizabeth," I said. "Elizabeth, Katie, one and the same."

"Oh. I think I must have the wrong number."

"Who are you looking for?" I asked, hoping that by keeping the staffer on the line an extra five seconds, he'll realize that he was looking at the wrong name on the Excel spreadsheet in front of him and it was in fact Katie that he was looking to tell that his agent boss wants to buy the rights to every word that ever comes out of her head.

"Tessa," he answered.

"Tessa what?" I asked. (I have no idea why I kept pressing this.)

"Um, Pina..."

"Oh. Well, I guess that's not me."

"Nope. Sorry for wasting your time," the guy said as he hung up the phone.

"That's okay," I said. "Maybe next time." For all I know, he was calling on outstanding warrants and was looking to make sure Tessa Pina kept her standing reservation at Riker's.

I do know one thing, which is slightly disturbing - I was more shaken up by this mistaken-identity phone call than I am when I'm offered receipt of collect calls from Geiger Corrections Center. And they say television isn't desensitizing.

Purchase Power

I had to go to Walmart the other evening after work. Already drained from a day of, well, work, I had to make some serious withdrawls from my reserve bank of energy to make it through the crowded cesspool of humanity that is Walmart.

A quarter of the way through my shopping trip, I exited an aisle, purchase in hand.

My cart was no where to be seen.

I looked up and down the rows, and finally spotted my cart, being pushed with a baby in the front basket. I didn't recall having a baby while at Walmart, nor did I bring one along for a fashion accessory. I walked up to the cart and faced the woman.

"Hi," I said.

She began to blush furiously. "Is this your cart." It was a statement, not a question.

"It is."

"I'm so sorry," she said, as she started to pull her purchases from it while fumbling for aforementioned baby.

Humanity kicked me in the groin. "Don't worry about it," I said. "I'll get another cart. But if it's okay, I'd like my sweatpants back."

I trekked back to the entrance to get another cart, sweatpants rolls tucked underneath my arm. (When did they start packaging clothing like sushi rolls?) I grabbed an empty cart rather than an unattended cart, and retraced my steps.

My route led me past the prescription and first aid section. An idea dawned on me.

I know exactly how to prevent my cart getting stolen again. I strode down the "feminine needs" aisle and plucked a box of Vagisil from the shelf with the self-confidence of someone not in personal need of the product in question.

I positioned the package front-and-center in the now baby-less front basket and resumed my shopping.

Eggs, yogurt, rice, enchilada sauce, corn tortillas, gluten free Bisquick, necktie for cat, strawberry jam.

I unloaded my cart and paid for my purchases. Once home, I put away all my groceries. I spied a stray bag on the floor. Picking it up, I could tell that there was still something in there.

I don't really need to finish this story, do I?

Money does grow on trees!

Side note here - I italicized the word "does" in the title using HTML! I am so proud of myself! I didn't use the "italics" key or anything (mostly because it doesn't exist for the title, only for the body of the post). Hah. My $17,000 Masters' brain isn't worthless afterall!

As I was saying, I made the discovery this past week that money does, in fact, grow on trees. I retrieved my mail one evening to find in there a rebate check from our local energy company. It seems that my energy use in the past year was so frugal that I had been overpaying into the "comfort billing" cycle. (I have a sneaking suspicion that overcharging, and resulting overpayments, are built into their billing system. That way they get a steady stream of revenue off of which they can collect interest before returning the original overpayment to its rightful owner each fiscal year. But that's just a suspicion.)

Oh well. I got my $200 back. How exciting!

I went back into the house. Setting the mail on the kitchen table with one hand, I opened the back door with my other. "Go on, Truman. Go forth and annoy thy neighbors."

I joined him outside, taking in the fresh air and beautiful evening sun. I looked to my right. My neighbors across the way were barbequeing dinner. I looked to my left.

There is a gigantic 15-foot tree laying across my yard. I stared at it for several seconds. Tree=upright.

I finally regained enough composure to call an arborist to give me a bid to remove the fallen tree. He came out the next day to survey the damage.

"Yep, you've got bores, that's for sure. All four trees are going to need to come out. See that saw dust piled around the base of the trees?"

I looked.

"That's obviously been building for some time. You haven't noticed it?"

"I thought that was just bark sloughing off or something," I said meekly.

"Bark." He looked at me skeptically. "You have realized that the trunk flakes off in paper, not bark, right?"

"So, how much for all four?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Fifty per tree, so that's...two hundred dollars."