"Don't even get me started on the J word." -- Cills

Yesterday, I set out to write a blog post bemoaning the fact that I was sure I had elephantitis of the pinky finger, as it has been mysteriously swollen for the past several days. I mean, I did accidentally strike it pretty hard against the refrigerator a week or two ago, but that's kind of a long time after the injury for the swelling to show up.

And then I googled elephantitis to make sure I spelled it right (I hadn't -- it's actually elephantiasis) and inevitably, some pictures of individuals afflicted with such a condition popped up. Immediately, I regretted my decision. Because there are some images you just can't un-see.

Kind of like the time I read an article about the "Tree Man*" in Indonesia, who has wart-like growths resembling tree trunks all over his body.

Suddenly, the swollen pinky doesn't seem so bad. Jibblies.



*I cannot be held responsible for any emotional scarring of individuals choosing to google either the Tree Man or elephantiasis. You have been warned.

This counts as dinner, right?

In less than an hour, I will be attending our ward's Relief Society Chocolate Appreciation Night.

Win!

What dreams are made of

When my sisters and I were tiny tots, we had a hard time thinking of suitable gifts to get my mom for her birthday and Christmas. My dad, helpful guy that he is, gave us a few suggestions of things she might need.

On one such occasion, we chipped in to buy her a new toilet bowl scrubber. On another, we bought her a broom. Let me assure you, she needed these new items -- her old broom had a wooden handle and the poor soul unfortunate enough to have to sweep was prone to getting a palmful of splinters, and the previous toilet bowl scrubber was an unpleasant shade of orange. But still.

She feigned delight with these gifts, but I'm sure she was inwardly dismayed at opening cleaning supplies on Christmas. If my memory serves me well, she also told my dad to "never get [her] cleaning supplies ever again" as a present.

Naturally, a couple of years ago Heather and I decided to buy her a toilet scrubber for Christmas as a joke. But don't worry, we got her a real gift as well.



Pity you can't see the whole scrubber.

That being said, here is a short wish list of cleaning supplies that I would like (but not for a holiday):

1. A dust pan. The dust pan we currently have came with the broom and unfortunately has a curved edge so it doesn't lay flat on the floor. It makes disposing of floor crumbs tricky.

2. Granular deodorant. The brand we used at BYU was called Pur-o-Mint, and apparently if you sprinkle it on vomit it absorbs the moisture so you can vacuum it up. I never had the opportunity to use it, but it sounds pretty spiffy. And I'm sure it would come in handy once we have children.

3. A washer and dryer. These are items I wouldn't mind getting for a holiday. St. Patrick's Day surprise, anyone?

Confession

Even though I am 22 years old and therefore considered an "adult" by a majority of the population, the sound of the wind whistling through the window (akin to a screaming banshee) unnerves me just a little.

"I'm all chocolate-d out." "You haven't had any chocolate today." "What about those cookies?" "Those were yesterday!"

I just heard an ad on Pandora stating that the average person will have 28 first kisses.

Twenty-eight?! Seriously? I don't think I've even gone on 28 first dates in my life.

* * *

Our light bulbs in the bathroom have burnt out one by one, and for quite some time we were getting by on the light of one lone bulb. We finally bought some new light bulbs a few days ago, and Jacob replaced them. It was awesome for about ten seconds -- and then I looked around and was mildly horrified about how dirty the bathroom was.

Spots on the ceiling! Grime on the baseboards! And our white shower curtain -- did I detect a hint of orange tinge on the bottom?

Today, I buckled down and scrubbed the bathroom till it shone like the top of the Chrysler building. It made me feel like a custodian at UOP again, minus the sweltering heat, the hideously orange t-shirt, and the Spanish speaking coworkers.

Now if only I could muster up the motivation to clean the rest of our apartment as thoroughly (or at all) . . .

This just in!

We're getting a sweet tax refund this year.

Happy Valentine's Day!

"Is rutabuga a baby food flavor?" "It's rutabAga. And no."

Saturday evening I was minding my own business when Jacob walked in with a plate stacked high of cookies.

Me: Jacob. We can't just eat cookies for dinner. We need something healthy.
Jacob: Like what?
Me: . . . Chips and salsa?

And this is why I need to remember to take my vitamins more often.

(And Mom, don't worry, we ended up having a lovely salad in addition to our artery-clogging snacks.)

Random tidbits

Conversation between Heather and I at our former roommate's baby shower:

Me: What do you even use baby oil for?
Heather: I don't know. To oil the babies?
Me: In case they get rusty?

* * *

On the drive home from the baby shower, my feet were itching something fierce. There are few things more woeful than being unable to scratch your itchy feet as you're cruising down the interstate during a 45 minute drive.

Also, if any small children (or small adults, for that matter) were playing Road Trip Bingo and they were looking to check off "Woman singing her lungs out like a crazy person," they should've been able to do so had they sidled on up next to my car. Just sayin'.

* * *

In our apartment, we currently have three man-shaped cardboard cutouts with a bunch of bullet holes blasted through them. In about an hour, I'm sure we'll add another one to our collection. I'm thinking of taping them to the wall to add to our decor in the living room. Go Police Academy.

* * *

Yesterday, I was reminded of just how much I dislike teaching first grade. Well, not that I needed to be reminded, necessarily. It just reaffirmed my belief that I should never ever ever teach anything lower than second. Or maybe third.

* * *

I received my first paycheck from this new job yesterday. First, I rejoiced because it was my first paycheck in about five months. Then, I wept when I realized that I made more money per hour as a custodian. What a blow to the ol' ego.

* * *

Just in case you were concerned about me being able to cook anything properly (thanks to the popcorn post), let me assure you that I made some delicious chocolate chip cookies for the baby shower and I still have a good two dozen or so left over. I'm willing to barter in exchange for other delicious baked goods. Or cold hard cash.

* * *

Six people voted that we should name our unconceived firstborn son Leif, and six voted for Dmitri. This forces me to come to one of two conclusions: Jacob paid off some of my friends to vote that way, or Leif isn't as horrible a name as I think. Dmitri is kind of growing on me, though.

". . . And then you could decorate your second bedroom, hereby called the nursery, all in pink." -- Heather

Last night The Husband and I were feeling a little peckish. After perusing our inventory of foodstuffs, we bemoaned the fact that we didn't have anything delicious to eat. We debated going out for fast food, but nixed that idea because we had to "save our dollars" and, more importantly, because that would require venturing out into single-digit weather.

We rummaged through the cupboards again. I ate a sugar cone (without any ice cream) that we had purchased for the Olympics. You know, the ones that happened a year ago. The Husband ate some cereal.

We were still hungry.

I suggested making some popcorn. We had, after all, four bags that I had been stashing away ever since before we got married.

It turns out that neither The Husband nor I have the knack of popping corn. We burned not one, but two bags.

We gave up and went to bed.

And the worst part about knowing that we will never be World Famous Popcorn Chefs? Our apartment still reeks.