The can opener saga continues

Remember that time I warned the Internets not to purchase an 88 cent can opener? Apparently, we didn't learn our lesson, because shortly after writing that post, we purchased the exact. same. one. For some reason, it didn't work out any better than the first time. Shocking, no?

So after Jacob resorted to mutilating another Costco-sized can of peaches with a pair of scissors (those poor scissors have been through so much), we decided enough was enough. Time to break out the big guns.

So we moseyed on over to Bed Bath and Beyond and picked up this sucker:

Oh yes. We forked over the dollars for an electric can opener. I used it once, and it was magical. So effortless! So convenient! I don't know if you realize this, but there is a shortage of left-handed can openers in the world. I myself have never seen one. So if you're left handed like me, and need to open a plethora of cans for dinner, your arm and wrist get mighty tired after a while. (And in case you were wondering, I have tried using hand held can openers with my left hand, but it gets all sorts of tricky and awkward.)

So you can see why it was pretty exciting to have an electric can opener. And then I checked out the reviews on Bed Bath and Beyond's website. (Which, admittedly, we probably should've done before making the purchase.)

This product received a whopping 1.3 stars.

I suddenly feel a sense of foreboding. . . .

Odds and Ends

A few days ago, Jacob and I went out for milkshakes. When we received our receipt, I had to laugh at how the cashier spelled Jacob's name:

I'm going to start calling him Jakeup. "Wake up, Jakeup!"

 * * * 

To the extent of my knowledge, I've never had allergies. But I'm starting to think I might slowly be dying in an allergic reaction to the great outdoors. Or the heat. Or something.

Allow me to explain.

On Memorial Day, I spent the afternoon outside at a birthday celebration for one of my old rooommates. While there, a couple of mosquitoes bit me on my arms and legs. This was a bit of a nuisance, but whatevs. However, the palms of my hands also started itching furiously. I thought maybe a mosquito had bitten those as well, but I couldn't detect any bites. After we left the party, the itching eventually ceased.

Then, last Saturday I went to the park for our library's Grand Opening Celebration/Summer Reading Kick-Off! I was outside for maybe an hour, and again, my hands started itching. This time, the fingers on my right hand began to swell. This was slightly alarming, and once I came home, I held a jar of frozen chicken broth in an attempt to reduce the swelling. Again, my hands eventually stop itching and my fingers shrunk back to the usual size.

Now, on Tuesday Jacob had the day off and we spent the morning going to various stores to shop (and get ideas for his birthday presents). In those few minutes we were walking from our car to the stores, my hands -- you guessed it -- started to itch and swell. This time, it was my left hand that was afflicted. And the swelling was worse than ever. My wedding ring is usually fairly big on me -- to the point that if my hands are cold, I might be afraid of it slipping right off my finger. But at this point, I could barely even twist my ring around, much less remove it off my finger.

You can actually see my ring digging into my skin.

 The moral of the story is, I think I'm doomed to spend the rest of my days inside.

* * *

 Earlier this week, it was so hot in our apartment that I was literally sweating through my shorts. Literally! (After sitting at the computer for awhile and then standing up, a sheen of sweat was left glistening on the chair. [Aren't you glad you just read that?])

The very next day, it was cold enough to warrant wearing slippers and a sweatshirt. And I thought about drinking hot chocolate. Good ol' Utah.

Lolly, lolly, lolly get your adverbs here

Sometimes, when I look back on the things I put Jacob through, I realize that he really must be some sort of saint.

You may remember the time he hefted a couch in response to an emotional breakdown I had because I thought my phone was lost forEVER (keeping in mind that this wasn't a smart phone or even a nice phone).

Anyway, last Sunday I was in a bit of a foul mood, due to various unrelated events. I was cooking dinner, already somewhat down in the dumps, when Jacob dared innocuously ask, "Oh, dinner's not ready yet?" when he came home from visiting some families in our ward.

This was NOT the question I wanted to hear, and I fumed. Silently. I'm good at that, much to Jacob's chagrin. Wisely, he began washing dishes as I stirred the foodstuffs vigorously.

And then I set the spoon down so its handle was resting on the edge of the skillet. As I grabbed some paper towels to wipe up the splatters on the stovetop, the spoon tumbled onto the ground. Perfect.

I shoved the spoon into the sink, retrieved a backup spoon, and began wiping the aforementioned stovetop. Which, in retrospect, is a really foolish thing to do when it's on and you have a very hot pan taking up quite a bit of space. So I suppose it's no surprise that I ended up burning my hand on the edge of the skillet.

As I left my post to run some cold water over my burn, the second spoon took a nosedive to the ground, taking a fair amount of vegetables and sauce with it.

And that, dear readers, was the proverbial straw that broke this camel's back. I lost it.

I rushed to the bathroom, full out sobbing. And when Jacob came in to check on me a few minutes later (you know, after he cleaned up the mess on the ground I left and turned the stove off so we wouldn't accidentally burn our house down), he found me sitting on the toilet seat, hand submerged in a sink half full of water, tears dripping dangerously close to the toilet paper. Just allow that visual image to sink in for a little while.

Bless him, he retrieved some tissues and pressed them into my eye sockets to "stop the tears." And then he lifted the tissues off my face and proceeded to repeatedly blow in my face to, um, dry off my face? Evaporate the tears? Force the moisture back into my eyeballs? (Picture that!)

Now, this is not the first time he has employed this technique. And really, it's quite effective. YOU try crying when somebody is acting like your face is a trick candle that they urgently need to extinguish*! In fact, I think you should try employing the method yourself the next time you see somebody crying. Let me know how it goes.




*On a side note, my mom used to get my sisters and I to stop crying by pressing a cup against our face. She said if we ever filled the glass to the top with our tears, she would buy us a goldfish. Shockingly enough, we never earned that goldfish. It may have had something to do with the fact that we would start laughing as soon as she pulled the cup out. 

"I need to sanitize my whole body."

If you've known me for any length of time, you are well aware that bugs are not my friends. You should also already know that we keep a fly swatter in our bathroom that we use to viciously attack any creepy-crawly intruders. (And by "we," I mean "Jacob," clearly.)

Now, rewind to last Monday evening. Jacob was at work and wouldn't be back until the following morning. I was getting ready for bed when I noticed some sort of winged insect crawling all over the wall next to my side of the bed.

We certainly couldn't have this. It's true that I occasionally refuse to enter certain rooms if I see a spider or other insect until Jacob gets home and disposes of them (just a few weeks ago, I opted out of breakfast because that would've required entering the kitchen, and a spider had staked its claim on the kitchen ceiling), but I couldn't very well stay up all night just to make sure the insect didn't eat me in my sleep.

I grasped the fly swatter, took aim, and smacked the insect -- right before I leaped back to make sure it didn't fall on my feet. And then when the insect was on the ground I doled out a few more beatings just to make sure it wasn't just playing dead.

When Jacob kills bugs, he usually flushes them down the toilet. I had thought about doing so, but then my conscience would've felt guilty for wasting water -- and sometimes bugs can be tricky and just float around in the toilet, requiring multiple flushes for proper disposal. And I don't know about you, but there's something very unsettling about exposing your nether regions to an insect carcass.

This is my very lengthy way of describing my thought process when I tossed the bug into the (admittedly full) trash can in the bathroom instead of the toilet.

All was fine and well until the following evening. I was in the bathroom when I thought I spotted a toenail clipping on the ground. I picked it up to toss it in the trash can.

YOU GUYS. It wasn't a toenail. Do you see where I'm going with this? It was the bug. I PICKED UP A DEAD BUG WITH MY BARE HANDS. (It was so harrowing that I need to WRITE IN ALL CAPITALS.)

Jibblies!

But you don't want to eat 'em now

How to Completely Ruin Roughly A Pound and a Half of Strawberries

1. Go on a massive shopping trip to both Walmart and Costco, purchasing four pounds of strawberries from the latter.
2. Upon unloading the groceries, shove the strawberries to the back of the fridge, which is the only place they'll fit.
3. The next day, use a little over half of the strawberries to make some delicious homemade strawberry ice cream.  Be sure to tell the Internets about this so everyone can be jealous.
4. Notice that some of the strawberries have frozen solid, which is a peril of all food that ends up too close to the back of the fridge. (Frozen salsa, anyone? How about sour cream?)
5. Hope that only a few berries were affected, and rotate the carton so the remaining strawbs are closer to the front of the cooling receptacle. 
6. Two days later, decide to cut up some strawberries for a little snacky-snack. Realize to your horror that ALL of the remaining strawbs had frozen and then thawed out, resulting in a mushy mess. 
7. Contact your friends with small children to see whether they're interested in purchasing the latest all-natural strawberry baby food at a low, low cost!
8. Rake in the dough?

The times we've shared

Once upon a time, when I was a wee lass of somewhere between six and nine years old (the details are hazy), my sister Heather and I had the same music teacher in elementary school. Said music teacher asked us to call her Mrs. DoRae (or some variation of spelling thereof), as in Do Re Mi. Har, har, har! So punny. (In case you were wondering, her real name was Mrs. Doris.)

Now, Mrs. "DoRae" was an aspiring singer/songwriter. And while I can only remember snippets of the song "Strawberry Ice," Heather and I still fondly sing the classic hit "Pickles in the Snow." Allow me to share the lyrics with you, as we sing it.

Pickles in the snoooooow
But you don't want to eat 'em now.
Nooo, you don't know what they're doing in the snow,
What they're doing on the grooound. ("Ground" is sung in a gravelly, rather unattractive voice.)


Pickles in the snooooooow
But you don't want to eat 'em now.
Something something something something
'Cause they're not green, they're brooooowwn. ("Brown" is sung in an even throatier voice, if possible.)


While for some shocking reason, Mrs. DoRae's songwriting career never picked up off the ground, I'm sure she would be thrilled to know that "Pickles in the Snow" is sung, sometimes daily, not only by two of her former students, but by many of those students' former roommates and (current) husbands, as well.

The holiday special

Back in the day when I lived with five other girls instead of one handsome man, our apartment was known for celebrating even the most obscure holidays in the most fantastic ways.

For Earth Day, we made "dirt" dessert (in very non-biodegradable plastic cups).

For Cinco de Mayo, we served chips and salsa and hit a piñata.

For Mexican Independence Day, we decorated my sister's car in red, white, and green streamers, and threw candy out the window while driving around playing Mexican music and shouting "Viva, Mexico!"

And so forth.

In the past couple of weeks, I've attempted to recreate some of the joy in celebrating holidays with Jacob. Unfortunately, he doesn't get quite as enthusiastic about said celebrations as I do.

For Leap Day, I practically had to beg and plead for him to play a rousing game of leap frog with me. We leap frogged our way from one bedroom to the living room, for a grand total of five leaps. Also note: It is very difficult to leap over a 6 foot, 5 inch individual, even when that person is crouching on the floor.

Pi(e) Day holds a special place in my heart. One year, my roommates and I threw a fairly impressive Pi Day party, with numerous varieties of pies for the taking:

Last year, I made a solitary chocolate pie. This year, I was even lazier than that:

Thank you, Hostess, for manufacturing individual pies a girl can use to celebrate Pi Day in a pinch.

Last year, I blogged about how I celebrated St. Patrick's Day a day late with some frightening green fettucine alfredo. This year, I celebrated in a more timely manner, with results that were much more pleasing to the eye.

I promise, the rice and milk are green. And for some reason, Jacob wasn't too terribly thrilled about taking the leftover green rice to work for his dinner tonight. I can't imagine why.

Also, remember my dilemma about this shirt? In honor of St. Patrick's Day, it made its first appearance since I purchased it almost a year earlier.

I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it.