So. I’ve ranted about pod-people only to become one. And now, I fear, my technology addiction may only get
This is what my new baby looks like. Can you show me how to work it?
worse. You see, last night, I got a Blackberry Crackberry.
I didn’t set out to get one. In fact, I wasn’t going to get one. Our 2 year cell contract was finally up, and Jon especially was in dire need of a new cell phone. About a year ago, he washed his nice LG flip phone in the washing machine, and had been using a 5-year-old Motorola since then. Not only was this phone 5 years old, complete with walkie-talkie-style telescoping antenna, but Olive had gotten ahold of it and chewed the crap out of it. The battery was held on with duct tape. Now, considering what it had been through, the Motorola was holding up pretty dang well. In fact, if we hadn’t recycled it, we probably should have sent it to Motorola to use in ads, like Timex– takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’. Pretty impressive considering cell phones are basically DESIGNED to break within a year so you have to buy a new one (talk about Planned Obsolescence!), and there’s no one out there who will actually repair a cell phone. They think you’re nuts. Just go get a new one seems to be the attitude. Continue reading “i bet president obama doesn’t whine about HIS blackberry”
Last night, we spent about an hour sitting on the back porch, enjoying the weather once the sun sank behind the trees
Bessie thinks Olive was the best Christmas present we ever got her.
and the temp sank to a level that seemed downright nice compared to the sweat-pooling-in-my-bra-while-standing-at-the-bus-stop it had been at 5 when I spent about 10 minutes standing on a sidewalk in the blazing full sun. We also swatted at mosquitos (curse you South Carolina marshes which are apparently heaven on earth for the lil bloodsuckers), wondering why our geraniums weren’t doing a better job repelling bugs– seriously, we were sitting with a giant geranium in between us, ruffling its leaves periodically to release whatever it is that supposedly makes geraniums repel bugs. We even lit our citronella torches and wondered how in the world they managed to have such insanely huge flames. Guess Jon’s going to have to spray the yard with poison again.
But we endured the bugs because it is such fun to watch our two dogs playing together. They chased after tennis balls, chased after each other chasing after tennis balls, and just plain wrestled. Sometimes they paused to graze. Yes, graze– I’m starting to wonder if my dogs are either watching their ladylike figures by munching on salads, or perhaps suffering from some sort of nutritional deficiciency, as they munch on our grass like it’s the best snack ever. Anyone know what’s up with that?
Anyway, as we sat their watching our hilarious puppygirls romp and play, tails wagging and tongues hanging out, just enjoying their lil puppydog lives, Jon said, “You know, most people who have one dog say they don’t want another because they don’t have enough time for the one dog as it is. But really, two dogs are way less work than one.” It’s totally true! When we just had Bessie, we were the be all and end all of Bessie’s social life. We were, aside from the scoundrels who dare to pass by our house and must be barked at like the bad people they are– HOW DARE THEY PUSH THEIR STROLLER PAST OUR HOUSE, THOSE ROGUES!– her only source of stimulation. We finally had to cave and install a doggie door because we couldn’t get through a 30 minute TV show without Bessie wanting to be let in and out at least 3 times. We had to throw balls and tug ropes and take walks all the time. We’d take her to the dog park, where she’d have so much fun playing with other dogs, and we’d talk about how we really needed to get her a buddy, and we’d wonder if we had the time to devote to such a buddy. Surely two dogs would be twice the work, right? Continue reading “two dogs are better than one”
Today campers are arriving at the summer camp where I was a camper and where I spent one very memorable summer as a camp counselor. It has me reminiscing.
6 summers ago, I had just graduated from high school, and I got a job I didn’t even apply for. On the day before I was supposed to leave with my family for a Disney World vacation, I got a phone call from the camp, asking me if I had plans for the summer and could I please consider working as a counselor? Yes, I was a year too young according to the rules, but they were short on staff, and I was an experienced camper. Not looking forward to spending the summer at home with my parents, I said, of course, but I can’t be there until I get back from Florida, which would cause me to miss the first week of staff training.
On the day I arrived, one other counselor was also arriving a week late, because his sister had just gotten married and he couldn’t make it to camp until after the wedding. We were introduced in the dining room and I immediately thought he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen. I schemed to sit next to him for CPR training, during which time we got into trouble with the instructor for talking too much. That evening the staff had a cook-out in the Outback Adventure Area, where we would be spending the night in cabins and learning how to do cook-outs as we would with our own campers each week of the summer. I remember that we tossed a frisbee. I remember that I loved his laugh. We started chatting around a campfire with several other counselors, but before too long, we were the only two still up. I saw three shooting stars, which he claimed were really just fireflies, but they couldn’t have been. Because I made three wishes. And they came true. (I KNOW! Totally cheesy and ridiculous but absolutely true!) Continue reading “summer lovin’”
Much has been said about a recent study (.pdf) that shows that womens’ happiness is actually trending downward,
I think Mrs. Marge Sutton, Ideal Housewife, makes a great illustration for this post. Via the Google LIFE archive.
rather than upward as time, and presumably society, progresses. To conservatives, it’s proof that feminism and liberation are contrary to nature and naturally lead to unhappiness. To progressives, it’s proof that feminism hasn’t gone far enough. To environmentalists, it’s proof that consumerism just makes us less happy.
I’ve been wondering about a different angle. I’ve mentioned that we recently got rid of cable, and are now relying on the internet and Netflix (both DVDs via mail and streaming via our Xbox 360) for our televised entertainment. And while I’m not generally one to blame problems on the ominous “The Media,” I “can’t help but wonder” (to pull a Carrie Bradshaw) if maybe it isn’t all our media connectedness that is making us unhappy. Continue reading “what if “what women want” isn’t what we want?”
THIS is what my husband ordered and received in the mail yesterday. Photo via uddercovers.com
I have a feeling that this is ALSO the product of being married to a pediatrics resident: Yesterday my husband got a package from a company called “Udder Covers.”
Me: Um, I’m a little curious about this package you got? From “Udder Covers?” What the heck?
Him: It’s a thing you wear to cover up while nursing! They’re supposed to be awesome. And they’re usually like $30 but I found it for $4! It was a great deal!
Me: Oh. Why’d you get this light blue one, they come in lots of cute colors and stuff. Oh, nevermind I’m sure you’re all BUT IT WAS $4!!
Him: Exactly! $4!
Me: Is this a gift for someone? Or are you planning to save it until we’re ready to have kids? OH MY GOSH IS THIS SOME SORT OF HINT?
Him: It’s not a hint. I’m going to save it. I’m ready to have kids whenever you are.
I mean, I know we need to have kids pretty soon so he’ll know what the heck he’s talking about with parents at work every day…But at the rate I was planning, he’s going to be saving this “udder cover” for the next year at the earliest! Though I guess I should never underestimate this man’s susceptibility to a “really good deal!” A man after my own heart!
Those readers who know me are probably already confused. But Ernie Bufflo, you only have two dogs, you’re already saying. Ah yes, physically I have two dogs, but psychologically, you see, I have three. I guess I should start at the beginning…
Our Bessie girl at the beach.
One of the things I was most excited about when we moved and bought a house with a yard was the chance to get a dog. After all, for a year of studio living, I had been dreaming of the day I’d have a dog of my own. I always had a dog or two growing up, and I just love having a dog in my life. As soon as we could, we went to a local shelter to find the newest member of our family. We took many dogs out into a little yard to play and get a sense of each other, but we ultimately settled on our gal Bessie, a catahoula/lab mix who was around 3 months old at the time. Bessie came to us already potty trained, and, for the most part, was a great dog from the get-go. She had a bit of a puppy chewing phase, with a particular taste for electronics– Xbox cords, remote controls, cell phones. She also hated throw pillows with a fiery passion and loved nothing more than to rip their guts out, leaving pillow-innards strewn about the living room like a blizzard’s aftermath. Still, she quickly grew out of all of that.
Two years later, Bessie is the perfet loyal labrador. Sure, she has her quirks, as I’ve blogged before, but for the most part, she’s a mellow, sweet girl. She just wants to lie at our feet, catch a few tennis balls, and will eagerly let us know when mealtime is approaching. So, having had such a great experience with our first dog, I began dreaming about a second. Ok, Ok, more like obsessively checking The Daily Puppy and Craigslist and begging Jon to get another puppy.
When we went home for Christmas, we had the perfect opportunity– a stray pup was staying with my parents in search of a permanent home or a place in a rescue. She had been found so starved in the woods that the friends who found her thought she was dead. They nursed her back to health but couldn’t keep her because they had a new baby on the way. My parents thought she’d make a good companion for my grandmother, but the poor dog was scared to death of Memaw, who was, I must admit, a little harsh with the dog. So, by the time we met her, the poor little black pup was on at least her third home and looking for a fourth (my parents had their hands full with Roxanne the airdale and my littlest sister who has autism). The dog played very well with Bessie, and after watching them romp and wrestle for a week, we had fallen in love and agreed to bring her back home with us.
Pretty Olive.
And so she became Olive, a member of our family. At home with us, Olive is a great dog. Bessie had never been to fond of my snuggling and cuddling schemes, but Olive will savor and enjoy every bit of affection we give. She’s a true snuggle pup, and she couldn’t be sweeter. She is also heartbreakingly cute, and a tiny bit mischievious. Ok, a lot a bit mischievious. For a while there, she escaped from our yard every. single. day. Jon did a LOT of work on our fence, and between his Olive-thwarting and her finally feeling comfortable enough with us to decide to stick around, she’s finally decided she likes it here enough not to try to run off every single day. Continue reading “a tale of three puppies”
I’m married to a medical resident, which explains most of the circumstances of the following conversation, had with Jon who is a bit of a zombie after working a 30 hour shift.
Scrubs. By wenzday01 @ Flickr.
Jon: “I hate the PICU.”
Me: “I thought you liked it? Just the other day you were telling me how much you like it!”
Jon: “That was before this week. Can you think of anything you’d still like to do if you had to do it 80 hours a week?”
Me: thinks for a moment. “Um, nope. Probably not even sex.”
When encountering rude, staring people, my mother used to mutter, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” I think I’m having the opposite problem. I’ve begun to notice strangers taking my picture…perhaps because it’ll last longer.
Now, maybe this is one of the hazards of living in a well-known tourist town. People flock here to take
I think this campaign is why they are flocking here... What do you think?
carriage tours of historic homes and gardens, to see Spanish moss hanging from gnarled live oaks, and to dine on shrimp and grits. During the spring and summer tourist season, as I stand at my bus stop on one of downtown’s main drags after work, I am often approached by tourists. “Does this bus go to the visitor’s center?” (yes). “Which way to the battery?” (that way). My personal favorite is to watch them photographing the building immediately across the street from my bus stop. It’s a cool looking building, I’ll give them that, but as far as I know, and according to the walking tour book we bought for entertaining out of town guests, it has no real historical significance. More than once, eager be-fanny-packed tourists toting large cameras have stopped to ask me, “What is THAT building? Was it a school?” I usually smile and say, “Well ma’am, I’ve only lived here a couple years, and I don’t know. Right now it’s just an apartment building.” I mean, I don’t want to let people down on the Southern Hospitality portion of their experience, but, WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE, A TOUR GUIDE? I’M JUST STANDING HERE, PROBABLY HOT, AND IRRITATED THAT THE EFFING BUS IS LATE FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME.
And then, one day, as I was boarding my bus, one of the be-fanny-packed socks-with-sandals tourists snapped my picture. AIN’T NUTHIN’ SCENIC BOUT MY SKINNY ASS GETTING ON A CITY BUS. MOVE ALONG. I have no idea what they’ll say about THAT photo when showing folks their photos from their lovely vacation down South. I mean, I didn’t even tell them that I’m a real live curtsey-ing debutante or anything, so as far as they know I’m just some random girl who rides the bus.
I just basically assumed that the bus-stop photographer was an anomaly until I was on my lunch break, shuffling my lil flip flops down one of the main shopping drags immediately adjacent to my work, having made a quick run to The Body Shop for my favorite hair product (Cottonseed Curl Boost— thanks to it, I no longer blow dry). I was passing the Louis Vuitton store and trying not to covet when a man leaned out of his carriage tour and snapped my picture again! I think I scowled at him. Now, I’ve been on plenty of vacations in my life, and Lord knows, anyone who’s seen the number of photos I took in England alone knows I like to document my experiences. But never have I ever snapped random photos of people on the street. What is WITH that? I feel sorta like my privacy has been invaded. Who were those people who thought getting your picture taken stole a little piece of your soul? I feel them.
Late breaking update: as I stood at the bus stop after work today, waiting for a 10-minutes-late bus, some guy hanging out the window of his car took my picture. Pretty sure he wasn’t a tourist, just a creep. Such weird things always happen to me, usually involving my time on the bus.
Having written a post yesterday involving all the ways I’m turning into my mother, I am now taking the liberty to scold myself for some teenage style-stupidity.
I should probably begin this story in the cold, sunless land where long ago, my ancestors surely lived and breathed, probably nocturnally, as their fragile fragile skin surely couldn’t have handled any exposure to ultraviolet radiation. Over time, this fragile
The view from my seat today.
skin was handed down through the generations, until, through some wonder of biology that this English major can’t understand, it found its way to me. Through the years, on float trips and beach vacations, this skin has managed to ruin countless fun times by about day two. It seems that at the very sight of sun, first, my skin thinks, ooh, this feels nice, and shows its enjoyment with cute little freckles, popping up across the bridge of my nose. Freckles I can live with. Freckles remind me of Lucy Liu. Freckles remind me of Sawyer from Lost and his Southern drawl. If this whole thing could just end with some freckles, my skin and I, we’d be just fine.
But no, after some freckles, my skin begins to realize what’s going on. WAIT, WE’RE IN THE SUN? I HATE THE SUN! Then it’s suddenly like I’m a naked mole rat, exposed to the light of day for the very first time. My skin starts to turn a little red, and by then it’s already too late. The damage is done. Even if I go inside, within an hour, it feels like every cell on my legs is individually swollen and throbbing. As a kid, I would get so badly burned that I’d be physically sick. Has anyone else ever had a sunburn so bad that it made you throw up? My mom would take pity on me and knock me out with a Benadryl so I could sleep until the worst was over.
Fast forward a few years and now I’m living in a beach town after years of landlocked living. After two summers with at least one day of every weekend spent at the beach, slathered in waterproof SPF 55, I even got the first tan of my life. I thought maybe my skin had adapted. That can happen right? Maybe my skin can adapt?
Well, it didn’t. Today was our first beach day of the year, and though sunny, it was a windy, slightly chilly day. For some boneheaded reason, I only put sunscreen on my face. I mean, you can’t get a sunburn if it’s not HOT, right? (Yes, even I know how stupid this sounds, as I’ve managed to get sunburned while skiing, too.) I felt fine when we left, just a little sun on my shoulders, but after being home for an hour, the tell-tale every-cell-swollen-and-throbbing appeared right along with the redness. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m glowing in the dark. If you’re chilly, you could warm yourself by the heat of my shiny red skin. I guess on the bright side I’ve learned my lesson on the first beach day of the year… it’s all sunsceen all the time for me from here on out.
I know spontaneity is supposed to be a desirable thing, but I’m realizing I’m a creature of habit with a tendency towards hermitness (hermitage? what is a word for “the condition of being like a hermit” that would fit here?). Every day I wake up and go through the same routine. The dogs wake up about 30 minutes before my alarm goes off and I stumble out of bed, open the bedroom door, and lock them out.
we can haz breffist?
Then my alarm goes off, and, after a 15 minute snooze, I can hear them prancing outside my door. Sometimes I even see little puppy paws and tails in the gap between door and floor. Now, I make no illusions, they’re not happy to see ME. They’re happy that the person who scoops the kibble into their bowls and opens their doggie door is up to serve them. While they scarf their breakfast, I grind coffee beans. While I put the ground coffee into the coffee pot, I watch them out the window. After a quick shower, I sip coffee while listening to the previous night’s podcast of either Rachel Maddow or Keith Olbermann, getting dressed and made up and lunch packed and to-go mug of peppermint tea prepared. I even eat the same thing for breakfast almost every morning: frozen whole grain waffle with extra crunchy peanut butter.
And on non work days? There’s still a routine. I call it The Great Puppy Hair Round Up. Usually on Saturday mornings, Jon, if he isn’t at work, is up long before me and is doing some sort of work in the yard. After I’m caffeinated and caught up on my blog reading, I sweep and start loads of laundry and round up the clutter all over our house. Usually at some point we either make breakfast burritos, go out to brunch, or, in the summer, head to the farmers’ market for the best crepes in the world.
It’s Friday night, and, though I have no real plans (working on it, though), I’m more excited about my Saturday morning. I’m thinking French toast, maybe 2 cups of coffee, a little reading and then a thorough housecleaning. Maybe at some point I’ll even make cookies. Sometimes I even look at mySELF and think, how did you turn into an old fogey at age 24.5? Even more importantly, how did you turn into your MOM? What’s that quote, by Oscar Wilde or someone? About how all women become their mothers and that is their curse, but no man ever does, and that’s his? I must say, I don’t feel cursed at all. I never knew I could be so happy turning into a hermit (and my mother).
Edit: Now that I think about it, there are a lot of ways I’ve turned into my mom. I stock my fridge with home made sweet tea instead of soda. I have an herb garden. I compost. I’m big on my reusable lunch bag– despite the fact that I found them humiliating when I was in high school and forced to reuse the same brown bag (all the cool kids carried brown bags instead of reusable bags) every day for a week for both thrifty and environmental reasons. I listen to NPR, despite having hated being forced to listen to “A Prarie Home Companion” on car trips. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg….
erniebufflo's south & west kitchen 