smells and such

dear friends,

as you may know, i am very affected by smell. the wrong smell can make me nearly double over with discomfort. this is usually produced when i smell a woman wearing too much cloyingly sweet perfume, the worst smell in all the world, i think .

so, anyways, being someone who is so affected by smell, it is really painful to me that my car has taken on an odor. i think the smell is dead mouse. i'm not sure how i came to this or why it strikes me as a logical conclusion. in fact, that it strikes me as a logical conclusion causes me no small self-doubt. i mean, who assumes dead mouse?

i have not yet fully investigated the smell, but i plan a full-on exploration of the car. i will keep you apprised.

until then, your smelly friend,

sara

beware the stalker...

i'm a stalker.

yeah. a stalker.

okay, i got on friendster. i looked up people, including the girl my high school boyfriend started dating right after we broke up (yeah, i'm a total weirdo, but why not?). they actually broke up years ago, so we’ll refer to her as ex-GF of ex-BF from here on out.

so, i read her profile and realized that i would have been friends with her. now i plan to date men, break up with them, and then befriend the women they start dating. why not? chances are we'll have things in common, and chances are their relationship won't work either.

it's a plan.

here's the stalker part. i got an email showing me who'd been checking out my friendster profile. i thought, “weird. ex-GF of ex-BF checked me out.” so, my next thought was: "that's so weird that she checked out my profile because...i…just...oh my word...she knows."

so then i ducked away from the computer as if she could see me looking at her. the creepiest part is that i really did just want to check out friendster, so there is no info about or picture of me, no identifying markers, just a blank screen that gives my name and location. so i really am a friendster stalker of sorts.

okay, so now you know that i'm a stalker. but aren't we all in this high-tech age? i say that we are.

damn.

a stalker.

compulsive dieting=boyfriend

if you haven't gotten it yet, everyday food is a fun, tiny magazine that has yummy recipes. my mom sends it to me, but i don't really make any of it. they're the kind of recipes i like--yummy yet light with not too many ingredients or directions. so, they're perfect to look at and think about making, even though i know i never will.

the only thing that offends me is that they don't give nutritional info for all the recipes--just the single-serving recipes. like they're saying, "hey, single girl, you must be a real fatty!"

yes, that's why i'm single. i'm not single for the fact that i, like most third graders, still believe in taunting and physical violence as acceptable forms of flirting or that i strongly favor challenging and then beating men at competitions (or that, if said competition ends in a tie, i insist on telling them how i will kick their asses next time). no, those qualities aren't what's keeping me single, it's the fact that i haven't given everyday food's light-yet-tasty flounder a try!

that said, i think it's a fantastic little magazine, and you should definitely pick up a copy!

shower disaster!

okay, i've been doing some reading and some goofing around on the internet tonight...so i decided to wash my face to prepare for bed. i really like how clean my face gets when i shower, so that's the plan. in shower, faced washed, decide to use those scrubby gloves i got from miss cutie-B (not use them on my face, mind you, that would hurt).

anyways, you know that three-tier shelf system at the end of my bathtub? well, the gloves are hooked onto one of the metal prongs. i try to un-hinge them gently. barely a tug. not working. the tiniest, i swear, movement to unwriggle them.

and then it happens. a crash greater then the pre-depression stock market crash. the ENTIRE three-tier shelf system crashes into my bathtub with me showering in it. product goes everywhere. mario badescu is completely askew.

now for the element of human tragedy. those shelves are not light. i got pegged by one right on my lower shin. within a few seconds (seriously, not even a minute) it had swelled up and turned a weird color.

i had said to hell with it and left the mess for the morning, but i couldn't stand the thought of the one line of metal prongs that are still in the wall just smirking at me in the morning, so i took a screwdriver out and got rid of them.

It's Fall...Let's COOK!

Having never lived in a place that had seasons, I still get a little giddy with all this Midwestern change of seasons type stuff. You know--leaves on the ground in fall, cherry blossoms blooming in spring--that kind of stuff.

So, earlier today, I decided to embrace the fall-ness that surrounds me by cooking a squash. You heard me. Cooking a squash. That's fall-like, right?

The other day I purchased an acorn squash, and I've been pretty eager to put that puppy in the oven (wow, that sounded terrible). Anyways, today's delivery of this month's Real Simple got me all the more eager to cook up the squash, brown sugar and clove style.

Please don't let the subscription to Real Simple fool you. I am not at all domestic. By that, I mean that I can bake, but I'm pretty much a trainwreck at any other household chores. I basically had to suspend any disbelief I had in my domestic capabilities to even attempt hacking into the little acorn squash.

With the squash split open and scooped out, I commenced seasoning, tenting with tin-foil, and placing in oven to bake at 400 for 45-60 minutes. (All while carrying on a conversation about the CCCCs selection process and bathroom graffiti. You envy my life now. Just admit it.)

A few peeks and pokes with the fork later and I was ready to scoop out some squash guts and started mashing, all while adding a little pinch of this and a little dash of that. Now for a little taste...and...BLEK!

I'm not sure if was the this or the that. Whichever it was, my beautiful little acorn squash was a disgusting bowl of squish when I got through with it. Horrible.

That said, I'm not deterred from giving squash another go. Afterall, it's fall, and I've just gotta cook!

Little Dagger-Type Thing (A Front Porch Update)

Today, as I took my trusty terrier outside for her morning romp, I made note of the coffee table on the front porch.

Yesterday, the pumpkin had been sitting near the little dagger-type thing. Today, the little dagger-type thing was propped up against the pumpkin, point up.

Does the little dagger-type thing want to carve the pumpkin? Is that what's going on?

I'm not sure, but I'm keeping an eye out. If that pumpkin becomes a jack-o-lantern, I will be very perplexed. Surprised but perplexed.

The Front Porch (No Song Involved)

There's something odd about my front porch. This is not a new thing, as the front porch has been an oddity for sometime. Remember, dear friends, that the front porch is where I may or may not have been asked out by my downstairs neighbor in what was one of the oddest exchanges of all time.

Him (looking at grill on front porch): Maybe we could grill sometime?
Me (also looking at grill): Is that your grill?
Him (a bit crestfallen): Um, no.
Me: Oh.

And that, folks, is how one English major may or may not have been asked out by another English major. Awkward. Truly awkward. (And, for those keeping count, that's officially 752 odd exchanges I've had with members of the opposite sex. And, perhaps, 376 times I've thought to expand my horizons far beyong Liberal Arts.)

But, anyways, the oddities of late concern the coffee table that's on the front porch. Yes, we have a coffee table on the front porch, which puts us in the ballpark of white trash (though not so much as a deep freeze would).

So, this coffee table has been here the whole time I've been here. Until lately, it hadn't seen much use. Then, a couple of months ago, someone must have entertained on the front porch because I saw some candles on the coffee table. Three yellow candles sitting on magazine subscription cards, to be exact. Nice.

The next to appear on the table was a stick that had been fashioned into a little dagger-type thing. Very odd.

Just now, I went outside, and there's a big pumpkin sitting on the table. It's fall, so I understand the whole jack-o-lantern thing. But it's not a jack-o-lantern. It's a giantish, schlumpy pumpkin that doesn't even stand up straight. And it's sitting right next to the little dagger-type thing, near the three yellow candles sitting on magazine subscription cards.

I just wonder when this will end. Or, better yet, if it ever will. I mean, the coffee table is not very big and seemingly not very stable, so I'm not sure how much it can sustain. I will track this and make note for future entries...

Anyways, that is my front porch. It's weird, but, for now, it is home. Though I surely don't feel like singing about it!

In which I ask, "Should I be allowed to speak?"

Current Condition: Disgustingly overcome with nasty allergies

Current Responsibility: Going to school, trying not to break into spasms of coughing, wheezing, tearing up like my date on prom night after I informed him that I was, indeed, a nice girl

Current Desire: A nice, hot bath followed by some good, deep sleep

Okay, so the desires and the responsibilities are pretty incompatible right now. In addition, I'm beginning to wish that I would just lose the power of speech at moments when I'm about to say something weird or socially awkward.

Example:

Yesterday in class, having left briefly for an attack of coughing, wheezing, (etc, etc), I came back knowing that I shouldn't talk. As in, if I did, I would just begin the coughing/wheezing/crying cycle all over again.

Apparently, my look said otherwise. Apparently, my look said, "I have much to say on this subject. " Which, in truth, I did. But, well, you know what because I just told you. I knew I shouldn't.

So, of course, I got called on. Of course.

"I don't really have anything specific to say. Nothing specific. At this time."

Yeah, that's my reply. I've become John Cusack in Say Anything when he's asked his plans for the future. I mean, really, that's pretty much my response when I'm asked my plans for the future, too, but that's another subject.

Professor seemed surprised, saying that I looked like I really had something to say.

"I'm really just hoping I don't start coughing again. I just thought, 'Shit. I can't talk for another hour.'"

Honestly. That's what I said.

So, I ask you, should I be allowed to speak? Should I just spend classtime hiding under my desk?

I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to decide.