I May Be a Victim of Evil Mind Attacks

I recently downloaded a half hour-long guided meditation onto my iPod. I listen to it in bed at night to help me relax. For six nights in a row, I have made it about ten minutes into the meditation before falling asleep. Thus, I have no idea what the last twenty minutes sound like.

This troubles me.

I am prone to bad dreams, and a string of disturbing nightmares has lead me to feel very concerned about those elusive final twenty minutes of the meditation. Last night I was determined to make it through the whole thing but, approximately ten minutes in, I passed out. Once again twenty minutes of talking went into my ears, in stereo, while I was unconscious.

What is happening in my ears while I'm sleeping?

Party Games Not Improved by Adding Yogurt

The other day I was contemplating a recurring dream of mine: the hilarity that would ensue if I brought a piñata to a party.

Not impressed?

Well, did I mention that the piñata is SECRETLY FILLED WITH YOGURT?

Yes, this is the kind of thing I actually dream about.

On this particular day, though, my dreams got even bigger. I began to wonder - what other party games would yogurt be a terrible addition to? Here are a couple of things I came up with:

Pin the Yogurt on the Donkey

Bobbing for Yogurt

If you have any more ideas, please share them in the comments section. Everyone who leaves a comment will be invited to my yogurt party.

Quiz Time!

View the following photo and then choose the correct answer to the question below.

This warning label, photographed near my place of work, is attempting to convey what message?

A) Keep off of dumpster.
B) No dancing chimney sweeps permitted on rooftop.
C) Fairies prohibited from practicing karate near shoeboxes.

It Takes a Village

At my coffee shop job today, as I was busy brewing coffee and ringing in orders, a woman wandered back behind the employee-only area. She was pushing our wheeled kids chair in front of her. Her five year old daughter, it seems, had been amusing herself by climbing all over the chair.

"I need you to put this away somewhere," the woman informed me. "I'm afraid my baby is going to hurt herself on it." Apparently, simply telling her daughter to stop climbing the chair wasn't a viable option.

I apologized and wheeled the chair into our storage room.

Ten minutes later, I saw another customer chastising the little girl for rearranging a display of biscotti. The customer asked me where the girl's mother was and I answered that I honestly wasn't sure where the woman had gone.

"Keep an eye on this one," the customer said. "She's taking everything."

Taking everything? I stepped out from behind the counter to see exactly what was going on. The little girl, it turns out, had been doing some redecorating: A few dozen gift cards had been taken from their display and arranged in random piles all over the shop.

I collected all the cards I could find and searched for the mother. When I found her, sitting at a table that faced the window, I showed her the stack of gift cards in my hand.

"Excuse me," I said. "Could you please keep an eye on your daughter? I just found these cards spread all over the store."

The woman looked up at me, annoyed, and snapped, "Well, you can tell her too."

I was baffled. This woman was actually angry at me for not watching her daughter for her while she was relaxing in the corner with her latte. Clearly, she had taken the phrase, "It takes a village to raise a child" to mean that the child's parents are thus relieved of all responsibility.

Then I began to wonder... the mother had said, "Well, you can tell her too." I had assumed that she meant that I could tell the little girl, "Excuse me, don't run around tossing gift cards like confetti," but maybe that wasn't it.

What, exactly, was the mother suggesting I could tell her daughter?

"Excuse me, little girl, don't get your heart set on trying to get your mom to notice you. Your chances are really not looking good."

"Excuse me, little girl, but I have to say that you've got the right idea collecting all those gift cards. Money isn't a substitute for a mother's love, but it's certainly a good start."

"Excuse me, little girl, but you don't have to feel invisible. Your mother may not be monitoring your every move, but the government probably is."
 
Sadly, the woman collected her daughter and left the shop before I had a chance to ask her to elaborate.

#4,841 on the List of Things That Confuse Me

I don't get some of the attitudes and terminology that are directed toward cosmetic surgery.

For example, a person might  say, "I don't believe in cosmetic surgery." That same person might see a lady with excessively large breasts and say, "Those aren't real."  But I just can't agree with a person like that. Know why? Because a friend of mine got breast implants a few years ago and showed me the results.

I can say with confidence that I was definitely not imagining those things.

Additionally, I don't feel like I have any right to judge because I secretly want to get cosmetic surgery. There's one type of implant in particular that I dream about all the time...

The Winner

Sunday's contest winner was Dan Pattee, who correctly guessed that I was referencing Tales from the Darkside in the photo caption.

Here is a picture of Mr. Pattee receiving his prize - his very own bunny-breathing dragon:

Enjoy!

Lazy Sunday Hasty Photo - Gargoyle Attack!

Identify the following scary movie reference. First person to correctly answer in the comments section wins an awesome prize - or at least a drawing of one.

After coming to life and brutally dismembering my agent, this gargoyle agreed to let me live only if I promised to never tell anyone that I'd seen him.

Day Ten of the Twitch

It's official: I have developed a nervous tic.

For nine days in a row, I endured the onset of a regular and involuntary twitch. The muscles around my left eye would spasm every few minutes, causing my eyelid to flutter weirdly. While the twitch itself was probably unnoticeable to the casual observer, my distressed behaviour was anything but. For days, my coworkers at both jobs had been assaulted by me, pointing at my left eye, shouting, "Did you see it? Did you?! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MY FACE?!"

People have suggested a number of likely causes: vitamin B deficiency, dehydration, potassium deficiency, lack of sleep, etc. But today, day ten of the twitch, it was confirmed: the culprit is nerves.

I had a rare opportunity to sleep in today. I took the lunch shift off from my restaurant job. I got out of bed around noon, ate some cereal, drew a picture of a gallbladder. It was great. My eye didn't twitch once. Then, an hour later, as Jason and I were doing some much-needed cleaning of our bedroom, Jason found something among the clutter.

A little backstory: Jason and I have two cats, Spike and Mina, who are in temporary foster care. Our awesome friends Kolleen and Jeff agreed to care for the cats when we moved into Jason's parents house in an effort to save money for our upcoming move to Texas. I know Spike and Mina are in excellent, loving care, but I miss them all the same.

So, what did Jason find? I was putting some sweatpants in a drawer when I heard Jason say, "Aw..." I turned and saw it: a tiny cowboy hat. Spike's tiny cowboy hat.



Spike: Always Ready for a Showdown or a Hoedown
(by Jason Dubinsky)



Twitch. Twitch. Twitch-twitch-twitch-twitch. My eye went crazy.

Now I'm simply praying that the tic doesn't get worse or spread. I'm comfortable with my current level of quirkiness; I don't need the whole left side of my body erupting in crazy, electrified-marionette-style spasms every time I feel anxious.

Only one thing keeps me serene: the soothing knowledge that Spike's little head isn't going cold. Kolleen and Jeff have made sure of that, and I will be forever grateful.

Spike Gets Ready For the Big Interview
(by Kolleen Carney-O'Brien)
"Make sure you mention how he didn't get the big job because he fell asleep at the bus stop. He has narcolepsy." - Jeff O'Brien

A Loss in the Family

On Wednesday, my sister underwent emergency surgery to have her gallbladder removed. She seems to be recovering well, but I wanted to express my condolences for her sudden and unexpected loss.

In the spirit of sympathy, I made a drawing inspired by the following popular quote:

"If you love something, set it free; if it comes backs it's yours, if it doesn't, it never was."

Peach Has Got It!

Ooooh... Halloween is coming up!

This year I am going to be Princess Peach of Mario Bros. fame. The costume may not be very scary, but you know what is? The fact that I'm making it.

I've yet to sew a single stitch, but I do have the fabric all cut out. I have also made Peach's signature blue earrings and front-of-dress gemstone out of Fimo modeling clay.

Let's hope I don't get too into character and begin punching bricks in search of gold coins.

Lazy Sunday Hasty Photo: When Fruit Snacks Fight

A battle for the ages - between tyrannasaurus and brachiosaurus, between orange and lemon...

Mmmm... dinosaur fruit snacks: Vicious and delicious!

My Flawless Plan

Imagine that you are walking across a frozen lake. Suddenly, you feel a crackling beneath your feet. The lake is not as frozen as you had thought - the ice beneath you seems to shudder, threatening to give way and shatter into a million crumbling shards.

That's the sensation I get in my wrists when I lift heavy objects.

My wrists are tiny. I have trouble finding watches or bracelets that don't simply slide right off. I've fractured my left wrist twice. If my skeleton put out a yearbook, those fragile little wrist bones would definitely be honored with the title, "Most Likely to Get Horribly and Irreparably Broken." Recently, I suggested to a co-worker that an x-ray might show that I don't have bones in my wrists at all, but flimsy little crackers instead.

My arms are no real prize either. They're long and skinny, like noodles - much more suited to flopping uselessly at my sides than doing heavy lifting.

My hands? Ridiculous. I think they stopped growing when I was three. I have, on numerous occasions, referred to them as my "tiny little hamster hands."

So those are the cards I've been dealt: noodle arms, cracker wrists and hamster hands.

My main concern with my pathetic appendages is self-defense. If I'm attacked by a mutant ninja assassin, overpowering my assailant is clearly not an option. What's a weakling to do?

Here's the plan I've come up with: 

When MegaBadGuy gets close enough (did I mention he's also a fire-breathing robot?) I will let my arms go limp. I will then swiftly drop my shoulders and snap them back up. In this way, my arms should act as powerful Indiana Jones-style whips that will stun and temporarily disable even the most imposing of fire-breathing-mutant-robot-ninja-assassins.

I'm fairly certain that my plan is flawless. However, should you have any ideas for better improving my plan, I welcome your advice.



Quiz Time!

View the following snapshot from my mother-in-law's calendar and then choose the correct answer to the question below.



On the dates shown, Wendy has marked:

A) Days that she is scheduled to work as a substitute teacher.
B) The type of sandwich she plans to eat on those days.
C) Her preferred method of water travel on those days.

Ooh La La... La Bella Placenta Shampoo!

Good call, Kolleen. Good call.

The Bloodstained Pillow Case

When I was a little kid, my family and I went on a trip to Washington, D.C. We toured a number of historically significant spots, including the house that President Lincoln was brought to after being shot in the head at Ford's Theatre: the Peterson House. Within the house, on display, was the bloodstained pillow case that Lincoln's head had rested on.

Years later, when I was in seventh grade, I went on an extended school field trip to D.C. When I found out that we would be touring the Peterson house, I excitedly told my classmates about the bloodstained pillow case that we would be viewing. My classmates were thrilled. History was boring, but blood was awesome.

When we entered the bedroom in the Peterson House where Lincoln had lain, everyone crowded toward the bed to get a glimpse of the infamous pillow I had told them about.

It wasn't there.

I had no explanation for the absence of the morbid artifact, and a nearby tour guide looked mystified when I asked about it. My classmates were understandably disappointed and took their anger out on me by accusing me of being a crazy liar with a sick imagination. I began to doubt the accuracy of my memory. For many years I had no choice but to accept my classmates prognosis; I was obviously crazy and ought to be ashamed for having such a creepy imagination.

Then, not long ago, I was sorting through some old photographs and I came across a stack of images from my family's original trip to the capital. Among them, I found this picture:

Blood. Stained. Pillow.

Ever since I found this photograph, I've fantasized about bringing it to the next class reunion. In my fantasy, I push the photo in the face of every person who went on that trip, jabbing my finger at the faint image of the bloodstain and screaming, "Blood! See? Blood on the pillow! There is BLOOD on the PILLOW!"

Then they'll all feel like fools for calling me crazy. Ha.

Oh, So That's What My Foot Tastes Like...

The coffee shop that I work at recently introduced a new extra-large sized cup for iced coffee.

A few days back I was restocking the pastry case when a customer came in and ordered one of our giant iced coffees. One of my coworkers, Ryan, discussed the merits and disadvantages of the new cup with the customer.

"It's pretty cool," Ryan said, "but I don't know if I would ever order one for myself. It's so big that it's almost awkward."

"No kidding," I called over, chuckling, "that thing's so big, you need two hands to carry it!"

Then I looked up at the customer.

Yup. Only one arm.

Great job Lola.