Watch Out for Falling Objects

Last night, Tim and I were goofing around and before I knew it we were speeding down the road going to the Emergency Room. OK, I wasn't knocked and do remember the details - so I'll tell you just how stupid this story begins.

We were just about to head downstairs with our Nalgene bottles in tow (we always bring our water with us wherever we go - I guess we are just the thirsty kind). In a fit of childishness, I picked up the green rubber exercise band that lays over my doorknob, turned back and gave Tim an evil little smile, and flicked the band with all my might back at him. It landed on his shoulder and he went to throw it back at me...only the hand he decided to throw it back at me with also had his Nalgene bottle looped around it...well...who knows if the exercise band ever hit me or not - but one thing is for sure - the Nalgene bottle sure did. And that evil little smile would be my last for quite a bit.

"You're bleeding!" Tim exclaimed as he nervously ushered me to the bathroom shouting expletives along the way. I wasn't too sure what was going on until I looked in the mirror and saw my face covered in blood.

"We have to get you to the ER immediately," Tim said as he grabbed a towel for me to put over my face. I kept splashing my face with water and the water below had turned a steady stream of red. "Let me look at it," Tim demanded as I said something like "Oh, I'm fine, no need to go to the ER." I removed the washcloth and noticed a nice gash that went right through my upper lip. My knees went weak at the prospect of being able to see through my upper lip.

"Time to go," Tim commanded. Moments later, I was being ushered down the steps and out the front door. Tim was grabbing my belongings along the way and asking where this was and that. I slowly started to grasp what was unfolding before me and with each new revelation my nauseau increased. Tim gently folded me into the passenger seat of my Jetta. I found the hand crank and gently laid my body back in the car hoping that would help soothe some of the woozy feelings.

Moments later, Tim was back with a huge bag of ice for my face (courtesy of our roommate Adam) and the cold helped to ease the spins and threat of vomit. Destination - George Washington University Emergency Room.

The entire ride to the ER, Tim said over and over and over, "Honey, I am so sorry." "No worries Timmy," I would reply in hopes of soothing the man next to me. A thousand sorries later and we landed at the ER. Tim helped me out of the car, put his hand on the small of my back as I balanced the bag of ice and the rag on my wound and we walked inside. First stop, triage and paperwork - Tim was answering questions and explaining what happened while I slouched in one chair and then the next trying desperately to convey that I was not a battered woman but rather the victim of a ridiculous incident.

"Are you the lip Lac?" a gentleman came over to me and asked. "Huh?" I replied. "Are you the one that was hit with a Nalgene bottle," asked the doctor again as I replied, "Yes." Wow, our story sure traveled fast. I had been diagnosed (can you say that with a wound?) with a lip laceration. Lovely.

"Cleland," a nurse called and she ushered Tim and me back to the Emergency Room. It wasn't your typical TV Emergency Room with nurses and doctor's rushing around tending to this critical patient and that. It was busy, nonetheless, but busy with a lot of non-life threatening injuries.

Another fit of nausea washed over me, and I slouched further into the hard waiting room chair. A nurse spotted a ghostly version of me and beckoned me to one of the reclining chairs. And that's where I curled up for the next 3 1/2 hours (Tim stood, paced, or leaned on a stool meanwhile) while we waited ever-so patiently for our turn.

Finally, Doctor Amy came over and led me to curtain 6. I changed into a hospital gown and hoisted myself up on the plastic bed while Doctor Amy laid out all the necessary instruments. Tim came back into the room with me and pulled up a chair so he could watch the events unfold and tell me all about it later.

Amy inquired as to how the injury occurred - so Tim lunged into the ridiculous story one more time. Amy asked, "Was it one of the bottles with a number 7 on the bottom?" referring to the recently proven fact that #7 plastics have been added to the long list of cancer causing products. "Yes," I reluctantly answered, "We've been meaning to buy new ones."

"Did you know that if you're hit in the face with one of these Nalgene bottles you can get cancer too," Amy said. The look on my face must've have shown that I didn't get her joke, so she said, "I was just kidding - come on, let's get you patched up."

Amy explained what she was about to do and how the first step - injecting the Novocaine into my mouth - was going to be the most painful part. And boy, was she ever right. The longest, thinnest needle I have ever seen was placed inside of my mouth and stuck up through my gums almost into my nose. One, two, three injections later and an eternity later - it was over. I most definitely needed a few moments to regain my composure before the next step could begin.

Sterile gauze was laid over my body and my head - save for a little opening that exposed my wound and isolated the area for Amy to perform her magic. From then on, I watched the scene unfold through a tiny sliver of reality. Sutures, scalpels, and a million other tools went this way and that tying this line and then that line. I seriously never thought it was going to end.

10 stitches later and it was finally over. Amy lifted all of the gauze off of my body and I sat up just like a new toy being unveiled for the first time (save for this toy was a little broken). Tim looked at me with sympathy and compassion written all over his face. I was exhausted and ready to go home. Amy went over the care instructions and I signed the necessary discharge papers. We waved our goodbyes, and Tim all but carried me and my puffy, bruised upper lip out to the car.

On the ride home, I glanced at my discharge papers, "Final Diagnosis: Lip Laceration; Additional Diagnosis: Struck by Falling Object." Goodness.

Absolutely Gorgeous

The life of a cashier can be both rewarding...and well, not.

Luckily, today was one of those rewarding days. Every single H&M guest was very polite, friendly, and patient. Surprisingly, people were generally upbeat - even with the long lines at the ever-popular Swedish store.

One guest, however, was uber friendly.

"I can help the next guest," I said to the couple next in line.

As, they approached the counter I took in their appearances. The man was covered in tattoos, hair in dreads, and was the poster-child for the punk style of dress. The female, on the other hand, was a bit more hipster-like and gave off a friendly vibe.

While I rang up their items, the three of us chatted away - naturally, we covered the high points of the typical sales chatter (weather, busy mall, etc.). Apparently an item of clothing caught the man's eye, and he walked away from the registers to investigate further, leaving his lady companion and me alone.

I finished ringing up the sale, the lady paid for the items, we said our thank-yous and then...it happened.

"In case nobody has told you yet today, you are absolutely gorgeous," the lady said.

Stunned by her comment I replied, "Why, thank-you."

She smiled and walked away. Just like that.

Apparently I am "absolutely gorgeous." A compliment I can definitely live with.

This two-second interaction got me thinking. Compliments are truly amazing things.

To the lady in the H&M store earlier today, I say thank-you. To everyone else, I encourage you to compliment those around you often - you'll help make their day and feel better knowing you are helping to make the world a happier place.

Ahhhh..... :)

Dirty Movies

Tuesday nights are "dirty movie nights."

DISCLAIMER: It is dubbed "dirty movie nights" in regards to the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of the theaters, not for the other reason.

Sorry, continuing on...

Every Tuesday, my brother* Judd and I both fork out $1 to see the latest and greatest movie at the cheap theaters across town (every other day of the week the price is inflated by 100% to see the same movie - us cheapskates opt for the thrifty day, always).

Before I begin to tell the story of this evening, let me first give a little background on these lovely establishments we call home on Tuesdays.

The first is the "dirty" movie theater, aka Brookdale 8 in Brooklyn Center. It is thus named due to the fact that it is a very, very, very, very, very dirty theater. There is no other word to describe it but dirty. In it's hey day (before stadium seating) it was once a grand movie establishment in a respectable part of town. Now, it's not.

The best thing about the "dirty" theater is the fact that I have yet to pay the whopping $1 ticket price for a movie there. My little buddy behind the counter just waves me in. Nice.

The second theater, located in the great strip mall on Larpenteur and Lexington in Roseville, is the "rice" theater. I honestly don't know why we call it the rice theater other than the fact that that is what Judd calls it. Huh.

At the end of each movie Judd and I have a rating system - worth a buck...or not. Last week's feature, "The 40 Year Old Virgin," received two "worth a buck" ratings. This evening's pick, "The North Country," received one "not worth a buck" (Judd) and one "worth a fitty cent" (me -hey, it was filmed in Minnesota - ya gotta give it that, don't ya know).

My bedtime story for this evening is not one of warm fuzzies, but rather a horror story. If you continue reading this, you are doing so on your own merits and cannot blame me for any nightmares or he-be-jeebies that may occur.

At the end of the movie, Judd and I discuss the flick, announce our ratings, join the throngs of people walking out of the theater, and stop in the adjoining Rainbow for groceries (don't ask why, it's just tradition).

This is only our second venture to the "rice" theater. Upon our first encounter we noticed the people who frequent this fine establishment are a bit odd. Tonight's activities confirmed that these people are more than just a bit odd. They are zombies.

Judd and I trampled over the popcorn strewn about on the floors, following the folks in front of us. Then Judd said, "look at their eyes." I glanced around into the eyes of the people around and immediately felt a bit out of sorts - their eyes were all glossy and glazed.

I shrugged it off thinking to myself "we are all just walking out of a dark theater into the light, I'm sure my eyes are the same."

I stopped in the bathroom on the way out (something I NEVER do at the "dirty" theater - you can only imagine why) and looked into the mirror. My eyes were perfectly fine.

I joined Judd in the hallway and we meandered over to Rainbow.

This cold, fluorescent lit, warehouse of a grocery store is straight out of the 1970's. In no was does it even compare to the warm, inviting, updated Rainbows we know in other parts of the cities. This is the original Rainbow. And nothing has changed since day one. The mylar balloons from the grand opening celebration are still clinging to the vents on the ceiling, trying to escape from this horrible time trap.

Judd and I bravely ventured to the bakery section and my eyes darted around the section while my brother claimed an old-fashioned donut (naturally) for his breakfast. A lady with tapered, stone washed jeans and her son, sporting a rat's tail, sorted through the oranges a few rows down.

"What is this place," I thought to myself.

I grabbed Judd and we rushed to the one check-out lane, where a pale young man was very-so slowly checking out the guest, two people in front of us.

And then, it happened.

All of the people who had been shopping throughout the store, slowly made their way to the front. Their eyes, glazed and glossy just like those in the theater, stared straight ahead. No sounds were heard. No eye contact was made. Ten, fifteen, eighteen people made their way to the front and stood in line directly behind me and Judd.

Judd repeated over and over in disbelief, "look at their eyes, look at their eyes..."

I let out a little squeal of terror.

Who are these people? What do they want? Where did they come from?

Zombies.

There was no other explanation.

The "rice" theater is the heart of Zombie-land.

My paranoid thoughts were broken when the check-out man remarked in a mono-tone voice to the stoic lady in front of us, "I-would-call-for-back-up-but-the-other-cashier-is-in-the-john-that'll-be-fifty-five-cents."

The zombie clerk was staring at us. Eye contact was made. Judd and I both froze.

"Why is he staring at us?" I whispered to Judd.

Oh. It's our turn.

Judd handed over a $10. Change was received. We bolted through the door, thankful we made it out of the store alive.

In fear of losing my life to zombies, I asked Judd if he'd drive me to my car parked at the end of strip mall land. He agreed.

But as we made our way to his car, a jumbled mess of metal (i.e. a rusty old clunker) pulled out of thin air and attempted to take over the empty spot we were walking through.

I looked around - a million empty spots surrounded us. "Why must you park in this space?" I shrieked to no one in particular. We were obviously not welcome in Zombie land. The Zombie driver just wanted to run us over.

I turned away from the stare of the Zombie driver in the clunker and spotted Judd's Passat a mere 20 feet away and started to make a dash for it. But another car appeared out of nowhere, zooming diagonally through the lot, heading straight for me.

Luckily, I have cat-like reflexes and darted around the car just in time to safely reach the VW.

"GO!" I screamed when Judd finally got his clunky work boots into the car and planted them on the accelerator.

We were both in shock. Zombie town. We must leave. Now.

Judd peeled out of the parking lot and dropped me off at my Jetta.

"Next week?" he reluctantly questions.

"Of course," I squeaked. "But maybe we should stick to the 'dirty' theater instead."

"We'll see," Judd laughs in a scary sort of way.

We said our good-byes and parted ways. But my story does not end here folks, oh no, it does not.

My gas tank was near empty and the local SA's price for gas was $1.07 - the cheapest I've seen in a long time. I was not going to let this opportunity slip by.

I pulled up to pump #7 and looked over at the car opposite me. A tan, harmless Ford Taurus was being fueled. And then, there she was. The cell-phone talker. Pumping gas and talking on her cell phone. I thought about yelling at her to hang up and fuel or maybe even let out a loud cough while pointing to one of the 80 "Cell Phone Use prohibited During Fueling" signs that plastered the station.

Instead, my mind was filled with newspaper headlines like "Crowd Murdered at Local Gas Station Due to Cell Phone Talking Brainless Chick." Hmm, not the way I'd like to go.

I finished fueling and zoomed out of the parking lot, gazing into my rear view mirror at the cell-phone talker now attempting to fill her windshield washer fluid while unsuccessfully cradling her phone between her head and neck.

Honestly. Stupid people and zombies.

What is this world coming to?

Until next week's real-life scary story, I bid you, my friends and Zombies of Roseville, adieu.

*Judd is actually my cousin Mindy's, whom I often refer to as my sister, husband. So officially, he'd be my cousin-in-law...but what is that title anyway? It's much easier to just call him my brother than explain that twisted relationship every time.

Dog-Sitting Re-Deux

Apparently I have a knack for dog-sitting.

My roommate, Michelle, and I are currently the lucky caretakers for a little, scroungey mutt named Magirtz. She arrived on December 7th (the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, mind you) and will return to her rightful owners on February 7th. A little less than a month to go until she's no longer our third roommate (not that I'm counting down or anything).

Magirtz, like my dear, beloved Zoe, has many lovable characteristics. She readily greets me the moment I walk in the door, she affectionately curls up at my feet while I relax on the couch, she's very well behaved and every now and then likes a good game of fetch.

However, she's a bit odd - in both character and in looks.

Clearly, she is a mutt. Michelle and I believe Magirtz is a mixture of a rat, cat, and bat. She has a cute little face like that of a cat (her only complimentary feature). Her stalky mid-section is supported by stumpy, spiny legs like those of a rat. And her ears are a bit oversized for her miniature face - hence the bat. To top it off, her shaggy off-white fur covers her body and her beady black eyes complete her unique (for lack of a better word) appearance.

Our little mutt wanders aimlessly throughout the house all day and all night. Perhaps she's searching for something (like her real owners) or perhaps she's doing this to annoy Michelle and me (we believe it's the latter - especially when she incessantly follows us around).

You see, her claws make this ever-so delightful clip-clop-rackity-rack noise on the wood floors as she moves about. Oh, and her collar. It clinks and clanks with any and all movement she makes. In the middle of the night, both Michelle and I will awake to this combination of noises - at first it sounded as though the ghost of Christmas past had come to pay us a visit. Now, we know it's the little white ghost of our present.

The funny thing is, whenever Magirtz does something to annoy me, or whenever I go to yell her name (mostly to command her to stop her annoying behavior) - the first name that comes to mind and out my mouth is "Zoe." Hmmm...

Then, there's the debacle with her food dish.

For the first month of our doggy adventure, Magirtz barely ate. Concerned, both Michelle and I decided we needed to get to the bottom of this issue. Turns out, she's afraid of her dog dish. She'll carefully approach the metal bowl filled with her delectable dog food, take a sniff, lean in to take a bite, and then jump back like something bit her. She'll repeat this behavior until either Michelle or I stand next to her and command her to eat.

She now eats off of a plastic plate like it's the most common thing in the world for a DOG. Well, except for the occasional relapse when she resorts back to her metalbowlaphobia (definition: fear of metal bowls filled with dog food).

Right now she's curled up in her little doggy-bed, only her face is visible amongst the ball of fur that surrounds her, and she almost looks cute. Almost.

Thankful

Things I am thankful for...

Colorful scarves to wrap around my neck to keep me warm during the bitter cold.

Friends who happily sing and dance to songs while walking in, out, or even during movies in theaters.

The little bubbles that float into the air after I set the dishsoap down on the back of the kitchen sink.

Socks. Tall ones. Mismatched pairs. Ones with little toes. And most importantly, slipper socks.

My guitar - an instrument that allows me the chance to turn my feelings into music.

The ability to write and share my mundane and random thoughts with those who care.

Laughter. At any time of day, night, or in the middle of a moment that calls for tears.

Smiles returned.

Volkswagens. Or more specifically, my 1997 black VW Jetta (with a V6 engine & butt warmers).

Time spent floating in the ocean, arms outstretched, staring up into the blue, blue sky above.

Hugs. From anyone at any time (well almost anyone!).

Chocolate milk, hot chocolate, and well, just chocolate.

Stars. All of those millions of twinkling little lights.

Every single second spent at the feet of my 94-year-old Grandma, listening to her tell stories from her past and my present.

Prayers.

Unexpected visits, calls, letters, and nowadays, e-mails from those I love.

Compliments.

And condiments. Especially Ketchup (the Heinz variety).

But most of all, I am thankful for you - those who support me unfailingly - regardless of what crazy adventure I may be embarking on.

For your constant love, insight, challenges, hugs, high-fives, giggles, words of encouragement, comfortable silences, time spent listening to me rant and rave, I could go on forever...

Happy Thanksgiving to my friends, family, and those I have yet to cross paths with.

You are my happy thoughts. Always.

Centipede II

Tonight, I had yet another centipede encounter.

Except this one was a tad bit different than the one in Hawaii. This one, I could handle.

Michelle and I spent All Hallow's Eve watching "Most Haunted Live," an English TV show dedicated to revealing haunted sites across England. Tonight's episode was, well, rather freaky (fitting for Halloween). After three hours spent huddled together on the couch, in complete darkness, we decided we had had enough.

We turned on all the lights as we moved from room to room together, making sure no ghosts, ghouls, or spirits could harm us the way they had the folks on the TV show. After brushing our teeth, Michelle remembered her laundry. In the basement.

Together, we crept through the kitchen, turning on every light switch along the way. We made it safely to the stairs leading to the basement, turned on the basement light, and slowly moved down each step. Once in the basement, all was good. Until I spotted the creepy-crawly on the floor.

Michelle screeched. But I, being the experienced Hawaiian centipede wrangler, bravely stepped up to the challenge.

Michelle, being the ever-helpful one she is, handed me a dryer sheet to scrunch the poor little fella.

I, on the other hand, grabbed the paint scraper, bent over, and sliced the skinny little devil in half. Oh, yes, it still wriggled. But in no way did it even begin to compare to the centipede of the summer of 2005. This one was barely visible to the naked eye.

After the sucker was in two, I asked my lovely assistant for the dryer sheet. She handed it to me (still crouched in the corner far from the creepy crawly), and I scooped it up and proudly tossed the Minnesota centipede in the garbage can.

This centipede encounter I could handle.

After spending a night watching real-life supernatural, mind-numbing experiences, the thought of the Hawaiian centipede still freaks me out more. Oh yes, yes it does.

Good night, and Happy Halloween.

Avoidance

I've been a blog avoider the last few months.

My reasons for this aversion are simple.

1) Blog aversion due to work, life, and well, work.
2) How can my post-Hawaii life stories compare to those from my summer in Hawaii?
3) I'm still recovering from the centipede incident.

Yes, I miss my beach bum summer lifestyle, that's a given. I returned home tan, relaxed, and happily lacking those dark circles under my eyes.

Two months later, I'm slightly stressed, porcelain white, and those darn bags have returned. All of which I blame on the ever-changing Minnesota climate (i.e. not Hawaii weather) and my new job.

Yes, after six months of little-to-no-work, this girl has a job.

I am now a proud employee of the Swedish based company, H&M. The "Ikea of clothes" opened at the Mall of America a little over two weeks ago. The same day the stored opened, my new career as a H&M sales associate began.

The past two weeks have been spent learning the H&M lingo, the proper way to fold a sweater, and how to survive a whole eight hours on my feet. I've also spent a great amount of time mixing and mingling with the New Yorkers who were sent to Minnesota to help open the newest H&M.

It truly has been an entertaining time. And yes, a lot of stories will need to be told...but at a later time. I guess you could say I'm taking baby steps to get back into the blogging world. More steps later...