My Pet Monkey

It has been awhile since blogging. It turns out that grad school is a little more time consuming than summer vacation.

I have had the privilege to work on a writing study, and I have been grading at least a hundred writing samples. One particularly awesome essay extolled the virtues of getting a pet monkey.

"I had a monkey and I loved him because he scratches my butt and it feels good."

The next time you are trying to decide which pet to bring home, remember this second grader's advice. Everyone needs a pet monkey.

It's DiGiornos!

My lovely husband is not that good in the kitchen. From the Valentine's dinner that was too spicy hot to eat and burnt cookies to the rubber glove pan fire of 2007, my husband has a way with destroying food, pans, and kitchen utensils. Tonight on my way home from a late class, I called him suggesting we go out to celebrate my first day of work/school. The husband stated that he had a lot of work to do, but he would put a pizza in the oven, providing for his starving wife.

We went over the instructions together. Yes, I normally put it on foil on a cookie sheet. No, I don't wait for the oven to preheat. No, 6-8 minutes doesn't seem like the right amount of time. Oh... 6-8 inches from the bottom, yes, that sounds better. 19-21 minutes to bake is probably accurate. By the end of this conversation I was sure I would have dinner waiting for me when I got home.

Well, I did have dinner. Unfortunately, I left out an early detail in the process, how to remove the pizza from the box. He forgot to remove the cardboard piece from under the pizza, so every slice was cooked onto the cardboard. After scraping, prying, and sawing, we finally had dinner ready to consume. It wasn't delivery.

Chinchillas v. Alicia

Alicia Sacramone had a rough night in the gymnastic team finals. She fell off the beam and stumbled through her floor routine. At the end of the evening, she was being interviewed. Her beautiful brown eyes filling with tears as she explained how she cost America the gold. The reporter was relentless asking more questions than a trampled gymnast should ever have to answer.

At the end, the satisfied reporter sent it back to the anchor woman in the studio. She said that Alicia's parents had a really tough job tonight, trying to reassure their daughter of her inherent worth. Then she said this is probably when her parents wish they were raising chinchillas.



I am sure many chinchilla owners can be overheard saying, "Thank goodness I don't have an Olympic gymnast daughter. I have my chinchilla."

Likewise, I am sure Alicia's parents can be overheard whispering, "If we would have only given birth to chinchillas..."

Thank you anchor lady for such insight.

Peace to the World

I have heard people say not to marry someone thinking they are going to change because they won't. I thought they were just talking about BIG things, but as it turns out, they were also referring to the spouses' wardrobes. When the husband and I were dating, we would sometimes go running together. One day he showed up at my dorm wearing pink and brown plaid shorts with an elastic waistband. It was hard to focus on the jog when all I kept thinking about was the shorts.

We got married, and I semi-secretly gave away his prized shorts believing that I had indeed changed him. He stopped wearing the shorts, and he even stopped donning socks with scandals. Then he found it, a trophy shirt that perhaps rivals the shorts. I had to lay the ground rules. You may only wear this inside the apartment when we have absolutely no guests. Yes, other family members count as guests. This shirt says, "Peace," which I approve of, but the word is spelled out in rainbow letters that look like they came straight from the seventies. The only consolation is that he can't simultaneously wear both the peace shirt and the plaid shorts.

Yesterday, I was antsy to take Watson for a walk, and the husband wanted to come along. The only problem was...his attire. The peace shirt. I love his company, so I made an exception. As we were walking down the street, I was waiting for someone to take our picture for a fashion don't spot. At least my eyes would be covered by a thick black line of secrecy. Then an older lady walking in the opposite direction passed us. She started, "I like..." I was thinking the ending of this statement was going to be, "I like your dog." This is the most uttered statement when we go for a walk, but she surprised us both when she finished it by looking at the husband and uttering, "your shirt." I guess I will have to give peace a chance.

Olympic Proposal For Equality

The Olympic Spirit has swept through my household. The rafters no longer look like indispensable structural centerpieces; they begin to resemble the parallel bars that will enable my husband and I to begin our gymnastics careers. The love seat that once held movie-watchers now appears to be a vault daring us to sprint, catapult, twist, turn, and stick the landing. I, like most, have dreamed about being an Olympian since I can remember. I recall the thought that if my parents only built an ice skating rink in our back yard, I would without doubt be the best figure skater ever seen.

As I grew older, I began to fall in love with other sports. Most events have certain body types that are better suited for these contests. The inequality of this has struck me as un-American, so I believe that I have a solution that has already been instituted in part within several progressive sports. In wrestling and boxing, participants weigh-in and are only asked to compete against those who share their physical characteristics. What if in volleyball participants measure-in? Those who are short then can play against other short people, and perhaps, they could have a net that is proportional to their height. This could be instituted in basketball, volleyball, and the high jump. Think of all the short people who could finally become what they were meant to be.

Internet, Cell Phones, and Their Untimely Deaths

I have never been a huge fan of technology. In fact, when I was in eighth grade, I declared that I would never need to use a computer. I would like to amend that statement to, "I am lost without my computer." (Unfortunately, I mean that figuratively and literally.) Not only do I need a computer, but I also need it connected to the internet. Since moving into our new apartment, these past 38 hours have been the longest consecutive hours our internet has worked. I have talked to at least 7 different operators, 6 different cable guys, and 1 DSL provider. I really don't think I have ever been closer to yelling at complete strangers.

Recently when the husband was off cavorting with other yeast biochemists in Toronto, the internet was not working, so I needed to call him for our daily updates. He kept saying he couldn't hear me, but I could hear him. It had to be his phone; mine was practically new! Frustrated by not being able to communicate with him, I called the internet company again, hoping to coerce them into coming earlier. The cable operator said that he couldn't hear me. I admit that sometimes I will cry over insignificant moments, but this was a crisis that warranted tears.

Nothing seemed to have happened to this phone. Sure I have dropped other phones into toilets, onto cement, and occasionally into my labrador's mouth. (That is the story he tells at least.) This one was different. It just died. One splitter, several wires, one modem, and one new pink phone later, I am now connected again. I may not be a fan, but I am an addict.

Wise Counsel for Adventurers...Mostly Me

Today my adventurous spirit hit an all-time high quickly followed by an all-time low. Watson, my black lab, and I set off for our first hike out of our new book, 50 Hikes in Connecticut. We were going to see Hublein Tower, Reservoir 6, and the barbecue pit that once cooked General Eisenhower's dinner. Impressive. We actually did accomplish all of that (the aforementioned high); it was the return trip that seemed a little more challenging (the low).

I learned a few lessons:
1. Even if you think you know where the trail should take you, continue to follow the trail markers. I thought a saw another trail that was going more the direction I wanted to head, but the results were quite muddy not to mention a little bloody. Watson and I ended up tangled in a mess of sharp bushes and marshy water when he looked at me with an I-told-you-so glare.

2. When you see a trail marker you are supposed to follow and the next one doesn't match, turn immediately around. I continued on just thinking the trail-blazer must have gotten lazy when he/she forgot to put the two red dots with the blue line on the next couple trees. We pressed on (in error).

3. Bring as much water as you can possibly carry. You would think I would have learned this from my parents when we went on a 26-mile hike and ran out of water about half way, but alas, I did not. I brought two big water bottles for Watson and me. He "accidentally" knocked his bowl over and proceeded to lay down in his mess. Our Adam's ale did not last much longer in the heat.

4. When you end up at another state park, call for help. I actually did this one. Poor Watson was no longer bounding in front; rather, it was almost as if I was pulling him onward through hot molasses. That is when I decided to humble myself and admit to my husband that the direction goddess was indeed fallible.

Fortunately, the husband located us. We crawled toward the car hoping it was not a mirage, whispering agua, agua. I hope I learned my lesson. Watson and I were sitting on the couch resting and recuperating when I started reading about the Ragged Mountain Trail. I can just see my next post; "1. If the word ragged is in the title of the trail, normal unragged people should not attempt to traverse."