Freebies

So this woman that I work with, Beth, comes in today with 3 boxes. She stops in and lets us know that after a recent visit to her allergist, she has figured out that she is allergic to everything in her house and we can help ourselves to the chemical ridden products that she can no longer use. Curious, I go to her desk downstairs and look to see what she has to offer. Some of the contents were

Lotions
Bubble Bath
Hair Products
Clorox Wipes
Lysol
Makeup Remover
Beauty Products
Bathroom Cleaners
3 slightly used chapsticks

And Lots, Lots more. So I helped myself to a few of the items, including an economy sized container of Lysol sanitizing wipes, a brand new lotion from Bath and Body Works, and some bubble bath and went back to work. Later, on the way to the coffee room, I noticed the remnants on the table that people set stuff on that they want to get rid of. In it set a half used bottle of shaving lotion, an almost empty Lysol spray can, and a bajillion hotel samples.

Why didn't she just throw this stuff away to begin with? Where does one draw the line between "stuff that someone used that is still okay to take" and "stuff that someone used that makes me uncomfortable to put in my bathroom"? I think that for me, if it is used for shaving, is half empty, or was used while the other person was potentially naked, then I don't really care to own it second-hand. Which explains why all the things I took were brand new. Except the lysol wipes, but they are just so handy!

I think the best part of my day will see what is left from the reject box.

The little things

So, it would be kindof an understatement to say that work has had me down lately. But I'm trying to be positive about it and suck it up and all that, so rather than rant about it, I'll share the highlight of my afternoon, which brought about a minor epiphany. I was asked in early January to organize a meeting for a post-conference poster session thing and I was really anxious about it going over well. It all went down yesterday, and I'm happy to report that NO catastrophies of any magnitute happened. Which was a reward all on its own.

But one (of the 9 or 10) of my bosses came in this afternoon with a little pot of daffodils for me and my coworker. They are now on my desk beside the picture of David and me in sunny Dallas that was taken the summer before we got married and make my whole desk as sunny as the petals.

And that got me thinking that it really is the little things that make a difference.

David made me a surprise dessert Sunday that was like a reeses cup/icecream sandwich. And he made it from scratch. So sweet. Literally.

I found a recipe for tomato florentine soup like I used to love to eat when I worked at Fox. I used to get so excited when that was the soup of the day.

Clean sheet days (in fact, I may wash the sheets tonight just to have one. Even though they aren't even dirty!).

Waking up on saturdays without an alarm or a noise or anything. Just opening my eyes and it's sunny and quiet. And remarkably, it isn't even noon yet!

When David and Jack jump all around the living room being crazy.

Remembering I have an episode of the Office saved that I haven't seen yet.

Having a long phone call with Tiff, or Susan, or Lizzy, or any of my friends from College and High School that are now light years away.

I should really turn things around so that the whole day is just full of these wonderful little things. Or maybe they are great because they are so simple and still infrequent enough to be special.

For the Dogs....

So I just shared with David a memory that I didn't even know I had. For those of you who would like to know MORE random little facts about me, here's a little story for you.

My mom used to have these friends in Little Rock named Rusty and Lois. Rusty had a ton of fish tanks all over his living room and Lois was bleached blonde and hopelessly thin. We spent a lot of our time there for about 6 or 8 months, then I never heard anything else about them.

I was probably only 10 or 11 when all of this took place, and my mom and Rusty and Lois would sit around the living room, talk a lot, and smoke a joint together. In heinsight, I should have been somewhere else, but I usually found myself in the middle of the room watching tv and catching hints of adult conversation here and there. We spent one fourth of July there and I almost caught their house on fire by lighting a roman candle (the one that shoots bright balls of fire) and aiming it upside down toward their bushes.

Anyway, one day we were spending time at their house and Rusty begins to talk about the "Dog Pound" club, or something like that. And they all had these incredibly cool nicknames, like TopDog and BigDog and BadDog. I wanted to be part of this club so bad. I also have no idea why I thought that this was cool, but again, I was 10 or so. I had badly permed hair and puffy bangs, and I coordinated green fold-down socks with green keds.

So in order to be part of the "Dog Pound" you had to eat dog food. I don't know how much, or why...but my mom told me that we could be so cool as some female-dog-name and "Pound Puppy". And we ate Milkbones as part of the initiation. I just ate a little piece, but my husband just found out that I have eaten dog food before. His response?

"Don't worry, I've tried one too."

"WHY?!" (I wanted to be cool and part of a group of middle aged stoners. What's his excuse?!)

"Just curious I guess...my dad did it first."

Parents are really bad influences.

Charred, silver linings

Praise the Lord that it has actually been above freezing for TWO DAYS IN A ROW. I still can't see grass in my backyard, but I know that it is just a matter of time before that groundhog doesn't prove he's a total punk.

To treat myself, I bought a lovely candle on sale last Friday from Urban Outfitters. I put it on my desk and try to drown out the smell of my coworkers favorite lunch, tuna and mayonnaise, as much as possible. This morning I cought some poor girl's application to the summer program that my department offers on FIRE. Again, this is something that only I can manage to do. I put it out with another important paper and now my desk is smeared with soot. Luckily I have some of those Lysol wipes in my drawer so I was able to hide most of the evidence. But the burned paper was a little undeniable. So I cut off the burned part (Luckily it was just the corner) and made copies. An obvious gray spot in the corner showed up in the copies. So I swallowed what little pride I hold on to and confessed to the mean German guy thatI work for that I cought it on fire. He didn't seem to care, but I think he suspects that I'm borderline retarded.

An Alternate Universe....

One where they advertise sonic to tease me. To mock me.

You see, sometimes I have these days when a pick-me-up is in order. It doesn't take much to do this for me. During college, my roommate Suzy showed me the endorphin releasing magic of Cherry Vanilla Coke (and only the sonic kind will do). I would have a monster final schedule, a bad hair day, and a 12 hour shift as a hostess to look forward to, but a quick trip to sonic would bring things back into perspective. Its like a rainbow in a styrofoam cup.

There are commercials for sonic, but I haven't seen one since I've been in Michigan. So I thought, "I'll just look at their website to find the nearest location." I would drive 45 minutes to go to an outlet mall on Saturday, and a trip to sonic would make it all the better if there happened to be one along the way.

But there isn't. In fact, there isn't a sonic for 15o miles. at least. The nearest one I found was in Indiana. I can't justify a trip to Indiana for any reason. I've tried.

There are great things about Michigan. They sell hard alcohol in grocery stores (Margaritas are now a one-stop option). There is snow consistently for Christmas. They sell soup everywhere. Lots of coffee and hot chocolate. Lots of diversity. Cool Music venues. Antique theaters. Beautiful scenery.

There are things I hold personally against Michigan. Like never closing down for snow. No HEB. No sonic. No mexican food. I can't ever wear flip flops. Or skirts. Or go sans-parka. No parking. Rediculous rent. I mean, this isn't California. It isn't New York. The closest major Metropolitan area is DETROIT. I don't want to pay $1000 a month for a one bedroom 45 minutes from Detroit. I want to be paid to live that close to Detroit. I'm scared to even visit Detroit. David went for a car show and said it was like stepping into a third world country. People are constantly getting shot.

Location, Location, Location?

Whatever

Cupid always lurks up...

So I blinked and Christmas turned into Valentine's Day, even while the month dragged on with sub-zero weather and snow everyday. And I realized the same thing I realize every Valentine's day.

I am a non-creative, sad excuse for a girl.

This is what I get for being romantically linked to the same person for 7 valentine's days in a row. So every year gets a little harder than the one before it. How do you let a guy know that he makes you a little bit better of a person every day? Chocolate? Unfortunately-this magical food doesn't do the same thing for boys that it does for girls, and to be honest, it only does it for me about once a month. It's delish, but doesn't quite do the trick. Flowers? Um. No.

I wrote letters a couple of years.

I made a book with illustrations (well, stick figures) one year.

I pretended I didn't care about the commercial holiday one year. I also happened to be lying that year.

Because Valentine's day is the one year when you are expected by everyone to publicly announce how amazing the person that you chose to be with actually is. Every other day, people think Oh just go get a room. Eliciting gagging isn't exactly what I'm going for, but lately I realize how rediculously much more considerate my husband is than I am.

Like if I am exhausted after being a peon at work for 9 hours straight, he leads me upstairs, tucks me in bed, and hands me the remote. Then he kisses my forehead, turns off the light, shuts the door, and leaves me alone until I emerge, two hours later, with sheet marks in my face.

On saturday mornings, he wakes up consistently at 9:30. He also consistently pulls the covers around me and lets me sleep until I feel guilty enough to drag myself out of bed. Then when I come down stairs, 50% of the time he is making something delicious for me.

5 days a week, he goes outside and starts the car so it is warm when I get in it. Even when it is negative nine degrees outside. Usually, these are the same mornings that he sweetly reminds me to go to work so that I can keep my job.

What says, "Thanks for letting me be a total sloth and still treating me like I'm worthy of being pampered"?

I mean really, sometimes I wonder why he doesn't send me back where I came from. I have good moments too, but I can be an utter brat. Lately, I don't really feel like doing anything unless it doesn't interfere with me sitting on the couch and watching 4 consecutive episodes of Friends. All of which I've already seen. At least twice. I also don't feel like going to work. I also think he should stay home from school and be a sloth with me. I also scatter all of the crafts that I have started on all over the area that was supposed to serve as an office. For now, I think of it more as a fabric/bead/yarn catcher. With a computer in the corner. See. He needs his head checked.

Maybe that's what I can get him for Valentine's Day...

I'm sure I won't get a multitude of responses, but do you have any suggestions?