| It's time to set the record straight on bridezilla-ness. |
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
A 'zilla in us all
Friday, October 9, 2009
Moving it along
There is simply no way to move from one home to another without drama.
Through the limber-fingered talents of Fast Eddie and the deceivingly strong Larry the packing guy, my mountain of boxes and tubs were packed neatly into the trailer within an hour. They were likewise unpacked in less than 15 minutes.
But Fast Eddie - the guy who got his hands on my DVD player and Grey's Anatomy Season 5 DVDs while I was practically still watching and packed them so fast it'd give you whiplash - he was the key. With Fast Eddie on my team, I was sure moving day would be a smooth run.
And then DirecTV got involved.
The day before the big move, I set everything up. What I thought was an easy conversation on the phone about cable and Internet service through AT&T was apparently one big joke.
"We have a package for $59.99 that includes all the channels you've said you need."
Great, sign me up.
"Does you fiancé watch sports, because NFL Sunday Ticket is included in that package."
Sure, he's a guy, sign me up.
"You'll get a mail-in rebate for three months of cable for signing up today."
Super, let's get on with it.
"We have four Internet packages, dial-up at $19 a month and Elite at $35 a month, that's our fastest."
Give me the fastest, done and done.
"The installation team will be at your apartment between noon and 5 p.m. Saturday to install your dish."
Whatever, of course you're going to make me wait around all day. I'm moving my entire life into a 4 bedroom-less living space and hoping to do it in two days so I can avoid taking off at work so as to save my PTO for the honeymoon I desperately want, but that's fine. I'll make sure I do nothing but sit at the door and wait for your scrub installation guys to grace my new home with their so-called expertise. Are we done?
Of course, I was all roses on the phone, which I deeply regret now because that broad didn't get a thing right.
Package deal at $59.99 a month? Yeah right, she signed me up for $79.99 a month. NFL Sunday Ticket included? No, an extra $5 a month. Did I order HD DVR? No, but they sure thought that's what they were supposed to install.
I thought I heard something about a rebate? Shyeah, no. Not that I know of.
And the Internet? She didn't even put in an order for it.
So when the fellas arrived to set up my cable, nobody knew what was going on. And of course, it was on me to make the call. Swell, I sure do love those customer service calls.
The first "customer service representative," explained what cable package I was signed up for. After explaining about three different ways that the order was all wrong, she "fixed" it.
Then I was sent to a guy for the Internet installation, where I learned that there was no Internet service order in existence.
During all of this, the anxious group of men waiting to hear the outcome of my conversation kept following me from room to room to outside to inside to anywhere else I went to get away from all their loud guy chatter.
"The installation guys need to know if the cable order is right now so they can finish."
Got it, I'll ask.
"Make sure you ask if there are three receivers. There shouldn't be any HD any more."
Got it. Asking.
"Do you..."
No! I'm on the phone, I'm doing it, go away before I wring your neck!
The third service rep I talked to was supposed to confirm my new cable order, but she obviously didn't have a brain, because she couldn't figure out what I meant by, "what is my current cable order?"
Before I could launch my cell phone across my new lawn, the installation guy took it.
And after about five minutes, he hung up on her. I guess I was right about that one.
While silently considering my newfound admiration for installation techs everywhere, he was getting on the phone with yet another service rep. And she fixed it all. Cable, Internet, my sanity. She even explained all the cable packages and how much they cost. It was like a dream. Good thing, since I was moments away from attempting a Matrix pull through the phone line to strangle each and every person I could.
To-do list - Find out that installation guy's name and have him install anything else I need. Cable, phone, washing machine - I don't care, he'll obviously get farther than anyone else. And whatever phone number he called to reach the heavenly world of real customer service agents who do their job, I want it, too.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Through the limber-fingered talents of Fast Eddie and the deceivingly strong Larry the packing guy, my mountain of boxes and tubs were packed neatly into the trailer within an hour. They were likewise unpacked in less than 15 minutes.
But Fast Eddie - the guy who got his hands on my DVD player and Grey's Anatomy Season 5 DVDs while I was practically still watching and packed them so fast it'd give you whiplash - he was the key. With Fast Eddie on my team, I was sure moving day would be a smooth run.
And then DirecTV got involved.
The day before the big move, I set everything up. What I thought was an easy conversation on the phone about cable and Internet service through AT&T was apparently one big joke.
"We have a package for $59.99 that includes all the channels you've said you need."
Great, sign me up.
"Does you fiancé watch sports, because NFL Sunday Ticket is included in that package."
Sure, he's a guy, sign me up.
"You'll get a mail-in rebate for three months of cable for signing up today."
Super, let's get on with it.
"We have four Internet packages, dial-up at $19 a month and Elite at $35 a month, that's our fastest."
Give me the fastest, done and done.
"The installation team will be at your apartment between noon and 5 p.m. Saturday to install your dish."
Whatever, of course you're going to make me wait around all day. I'm moving my entire life into a 4 bedroom-less living space and hoping to do it in two days so I can avoid taking off at work so as to save my PTO for the honeymoon I desperately want, but that's fine. I'll make sure I do nothing but sit at the door and wait for your scrub installation guys to grace my new home with their so-called expertise. Are we done?
Of course, I was all roses on the phone, which I deeply regret now because that broad didn't get a thing right.
Package deal at $59.99 a month? Yeah right, she signed me up for $79.99 a month. NFL Sunday Ticket included? No, an extra $5 a month. Did I order HD DVR? No, but they sure thought that's what they were supposed to install.
I thought I heard something about a rebate? Shyeah, no. Not that I know of.
And the Internet? She didn't even put in an order for it.
So when the fellas arrived to set up my cable, nobody knew what was going on. And of course, it was on me to make the call. Swell, I sure do love those customer service calls.
The first "customer service representative," explained what cable package I was signed up for. After explaining about three different ways that the order was all wrong, she "fixed" it.
Then I was sent to a guy for the Internet installation, where I learned that there was no Internet service order in existence.
During all of this, the anxious group of men waiting to hear the outcome of my conversation kept following me from room to room to outside to inside to anywhere else I went to get away from all their loud guy chatter.
"The installation guys need to know if the cable order is right now so they can finish."
Got it, I'll ask.
"Make sure you ask if there are three receivers. There shouldn't be any HD any more."
Got it. Asking.
"Do you..."
No! I'm on the phone, I'm doing it, go away before I wring your neck!
The third service rep I talked to was supposed to confirm my new cable order, but she obviously didn't have a brain, because she couldn't figure out what I meant by, "what is my current cable order?"
Before I could launch my cell phone across my new lawn, the installation guy took it.
And after about five minutes, he hung up on her. I guess I was right about that one.
While silently considering my newfound admiration for installation techs everywhere, he was getting on the phone with yet another service rep. And she fixed it all. Cable, Internet, my sanity. She even explained all the cable packages and how much they cost. It was like a dream. Good thing, since I was moments away from attempting a Matrix pull through the phone line to strangle each and every person I could.
To-do list - Find out that installation guy's name and have him install anything else I need. Cable, phone, washing machine - I don't care, he'll obviously get farther than anyone else. And whatever phone number he called to reach the heavenly world of real customer service agents who do their job, I want it, too.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
The ABCs of ABCs
There's nothing more frustrating than word block.
Despite my submersion into the complex and extensive realm of the English language at a very young age, despite watching Shakespeare with my mother on those old-fashioned tapes while other kids were romping around town, despite my meticulous and incessant examination of every conversation of which I am a part or a subject - an unfortunate habit of scrutiny that involves my ears pricking at the slightest reproach or affront, whether cleverly hidden or cleverly obvious - I continuously come across word block.
As I write almost daily, you can imagine the annoyance.
"Who sings this song?"
"It starts with an 'S.' I just know it starts with an 's,' or maybe a 'c.'"
Unfortunately, Billy Idol does not start with an 's,' or a 'c.' It doesn't include either letter - anywhere.
I'd like to attribute my forgetfulness to age, but I'm not ready to begin that battle quite yet. I proved my internal struggle with jumping on Age Avenue just weeks ago, after suffering a mini-stroke following the premature discovery of a gray hair.
In my defense, very blonde looks very gray in the right light.
"What's another word for, 'a citizen who isn't in any form of the military?'"
"Uh..."
The answer I was looking for? Civilian. How long did that take? About two days. How many brain cells did I kill stressing that I couldn't think of that word? Countless.
The real problem lies in that I obsess about mostly everything. I'm a natural born stresser. When I can't get something done quick-like, it will haunt everything I do.
Thus, when a normal person can't think of a synonym to citizen, they move on to another word, satisfied they can finish whatever they are working on.
When I can't think of a synonym to citizen, I can't do anything else right until I remember what I'm looking for, because I know nothing will work as well as that word will.
"Did you remember to get the milk?"
"No, can you think of another word for citizen?"
"Can you get the mail on your way in tomorrow?"
"I know it starts with a 'c.' You know what I'm talking about, what is it?"
Or, "what time did you get to sleep last night?"
"Oh, about 2 a.m. Couldn't sleep, thought of every word known to man. Nothing."
Sometimes when I've thought so hard for so long, if I actually get the synonym I wanted, it doesn't sound right.
Is my brain not working? Am I going crazy? Can I just make up a word that sounds right? Colbert did it, after all. Why can't I?
The situation tends to get a bit frightening when my enlisted help gives up their search before I'm satisfied there's either no way either of us are going to think of it, or it just doesn't exist.
"Come on! Haven't you thought of that word yet?"
"No, I can't think of anything you haven't already said."
"Oh, whatever! Just try harder, you're not trying hard enough! Would you just concentrate and quit messing around?! Ughhh!"
My mom will recognize that exchange more than she'd like to admit - she's been an unwilling participant in it several times.
It's her own fault, really - she's the English teacher. I would expect her to carry a dictionary and thesaurus with her at all times for such moments of desperation.
And although nine times out of 10, she comes through, there is the occasional word that completely stumps us both. And then I'm in a bad mood for about a week. Until I come up with it myself. Or drive myself cuckoo trying.
I'm beginning to think my ABCs stand for aggravatingly bipolar crackpot.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Despite my submersion into the complex and extensive realm of the English language at a very young age, despite watching Shakespeare with my mother on those old-fashioned tapes while other kids were romping around town, despite my meticulous and incessant examination of every conversation of which I am a part or a subject - an unfortunate habit of scrutiny that involves my ears pricking at the slightest reproach or affront, whether cleverly hidden or cleverly obvious - I continuously come across word block.
As I write almost daily, you can imagine the annoyance.
"Who sings this song?"
"It starts with an 'S.' I just know it starts with an 's,' or maybe a 'c.'"
Unfortunately, Billy Idol does not start with an 's,' or a 'c.' It doesn't include either letter - anywhere.
I'd like to attribute my forgetfulness to age, but I'm not ready to begin that battle quite yet. I proved my internal struggle with jumping on Age Avenue just weeks ago, after suffering a mini-stroke following the premature discovery of a gray hair.
In my defense, very blonde looks very gray in the right light.
"What's another word for, 'a citizen who isn't in any form of the military?'"
"Uh..."
The answer I was looking for? Civilian. How long did that take? About two days. How many brain cells did I kill stressing that I couldn't think of that word? Countless.
The real problem lies in that I obsess about mostly everything. I'm a natural born stresser. When I can't get something done quick-like, it will haunt everything I do.
Thus, when a normal person can't think of a synonym to citizen, they move on to another word, satisfied they can finish whatever they are working on.
When I can't think of a synonym to citizen, I can't do anything else right until I remember what I'm looking for, because I know nothing will work as well as that word will.
"Did you remember to get the milk?"
"No, can you think of another word for citizen?"
"Can you get the mail on your way in tomorrow?"
"I know it starts with a 'c.' You know what I'm talking about, what is it?"
Or, "what time did you get to sleep last night?"
"Oh, about 2 a.m. Couldn't sleep, thought of every word known to man. Nothing."
Sometimes when I've thought so hard for so long, if I actually get the synonym I wanted, it doesn't sound right.
Is my brain not working? Am I going crazy? Can I just make up a word that sounds right? Colbert did it, after all. Why can't I?
The situation tends to get a bit frightening when my enlisted help gives up their search before I'm satisfied there's either no way either of us are going to think of it, or it just doesn't exist.
"Come on! Haven't you thought of that word yet?"
"No, I can't think of anything you haven't already said."
"Oh, whatever! Just try harder, you're not trying hard enough! Would you just concentrate and quit messing around?! Ughhh!"
My mom will recognize that exchange more than she'd like to admit - she's been an unwilling participant in it several times.
It's her own fault, really - she's the English teacher. I would expect her to carry a dictionary and thesaurus with her at all times for such moments of desperation.
And although nine times out of 10, she comes through, there is the occasional word that completely stumps us both. And then I'm in a bad mood for about a week. Until I come up with it myself. Or drive myself cuckoo trying.
I'm beginning to think my ABCs stand for aggravatingly bipolar crackpot.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Money isn't the root of all evil - chocolate is.
And it's everywhere. Every store is filled, every gas station is plagued, every school-aged child is peddling it on a street, or better yet, bringing it right to my door.
You can't escape chocolate.
And yet "they" say we're one of the most obese nations. I say in a rather annoyed, yet dramatic fashion, "duh."
How can I possibly expect to lose weight with the existence of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds?
I think the man that invented chocolate must have been an evil genius - there's no other explanation for such a temptingly delicious and destructive creation. He obviously wanted to destroy all of mankind, and although his plans might take many, many years, he's winning, one bag of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds at a time.
As most other women, I'm on a perpetual diet. My diet is great at work - diet bars, diet drinks, diet everything. But there's nothing like loved ones to murder a diet, cut it up into little pieces and wag it in your defeated face.
What is my significant other's food of choice, you ask? Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Sure, with genes like his, he can eat a bag of peanut butter cups a day and not gain weight for six months. If he gains any weight at all.
If I eat three peanut butter cups (the small ones mind you), I can feel my pants instantaneously tighten.
Not to mention the guilt I feel. Three peanut butter cups, and I am bludgeoned with horrific images of myself as the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man, griping incomprehensibly as I throw gobs of sticky chocolate at innocent bystanders and knock over New York City skyscrapers.
I shudder while thinking of the chocolate-covered carnage left in my wake.
So I don't even buy the stuff, and yet, it finds it's way into my life. Like the bowl of Hershey nuggets at the desk next to me - the ones with which I avoid eye contact, so as to maintain my sanity.
Or the Reese's wrappers lying casually in the trash that I seriously consider excavating the moment I'm alone. Just to make sure there isn't any chocolate left. Of course, I'd hate for the trash bag to be sticky.
Even the dog treats, carob chocolate as they may be, bring about the devil's sweet playground. I think he's as addicted to fake chocolate as I am the real stuff. I'd hate to see the day he sneaks a piece of real chocolate - he'd probably never be the same dog again. After all, I've seen his crazed antics while receiving post-bath time treats. If he got a Hershey's Nugget, he'd probably follow me around the entire day with wide eyes, all strung out for "just one more fix."
I fear for those around him that day, as he will most likely run about in a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, tipping over trash cans, attacking anyone in his way while searching for the smallest trace of cocoa.
At least that's what I did during my chocolate detox.
But alas, why lie to myself? I go through detox about every three weeks, because I'm weak and, eventually, Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds breaks me. Breaks me like a frozen Hershey bar in a cold, cold Siberian blizzard.
And if it's not Hershey's nuggets, it's Twix, or Milky Way Midnight. And without Twix or Milky Way Midnight, there's always Cadbury, the creamiest chocolate of them all. What would I do without Cadbury Cream Eggs?
I rue the day Milton Hershey first laid his hands on a cocoa bean as I pop a PB cup, yet another chocolate fix to quiet my craze for the day. Week ... I meant week.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
And it's everywhere. Every store is filled, every gas station is plagued, every school-aged child is peddling it on a street, or better yet, bringing it right to my door.
You can't escape chocolate.
And yet "they" say we're one of the most obese nations. I say in a rather annoyed, yet dramatic fashion, "duh."
How can I possibly expect to lose weight with the existence of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds?
I think the man that invented chocolate must have been an evil genius - there's no other explanation for such a temptingly delicious and destructive creation. He obviously wanted to destroy all of mankind, and although his plans might take many, many years, he's winning, one bag of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds at a time.
As most other women, I'm on a perpetual diet. My diet is great at work - diet bars, diet drinks, diet everything. But there's nothing like loved ones to murder a diet, cut it up into little pieces and wag it in your defeated face.
What is my significant other's food of choice, you ask? Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Sure, with genes like his, he can eat a bag of peanut butter cups a day and not gain weight for six months. If he gains any weight at all.
If I eat three peanut butter cups (the small ones mind you), I can feel my pants instantaneously tighten.
Not to mention the guilt I feel. Three peanut butter cups, and I am bludgeoned with horrific images of myself as the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man, griping incomprehensibly as I throw gobs of sticky chocolate at innocent bystanders and knock over New York City skyscrapers.
I shudder while thinking of the chocolate-covered carnage left in my wake.
So I don't even buy the stuff, and yet, it finds it's way into my life. Like the bowl of Hershey nuggets at the desk next to me - the ones with which I avoid eye contact, so as to maintain my sanity.
Or the Reese's wrappers lying casually in the trash that I seriously consider excavating the moment I'm alone. Just to make sure there isn't any chocolate left. Of course, I'd hate for the trash bag to be sticky.
Even the dog treats, carob chocolate as they may be, bring about the devil's sweet playground. I think he's as addicted to fake chocolate as I am the real stuff. I'd hate to see the day he sneaks a piece of real chocolate - he'd probably never be the same dog again. After all, I've seen his crazed antics while receiving post-bath time treats. If he got a Hershey's Nugget, he'd probably follow me around the entire day with wide eyes, all strung out for "just one more fix."
I fear for those around him that day, as he will most likely run about in a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, tipping over trash cans, attacking anyone in his way while searching for the smallest trace of cocoa.
At least that's what I did during my chocolate detox.
But alas, why lie to myself? I go through detox about every three weeks, because I'm weak and, eventually, Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds breaks me. Breaks me like a frozen Hershey bar in a cold, cold Siberian blizzard.
And if it's not Hershey's nuggets, it's Twix, or Milky Way Midnight. And without Twix or Milky Way Midnight, there's always Cadbury, the creamiest chocolate of them all. What would I do without Cadbury Cream Eggs?
I rue the day Milton Hershey first laid his hands on a cocoa bean as I pop a PB cup, yet another chocolate fix to quiet my craze for the day. Week ... I meant week.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The complexities of firsties
I'm beginning to find that many people either don't understand the concept or firsties, or choose to ignore it.
Maybe it's a generation gap-thing. My parents probably didn't play firsties in their younger days because older meant wiser, and wiser meant, "I do what I want and you deal with it."
But my generation ... we play firsties. Which means that everyone else should follow suit, naturally.
And the first rule to firsties is that you don't talk about firsties.
The second rule is you don't mess with the person that calls firsties. Like when I'm watching something you find laboriously boring - Grey's Anatomy for instance.
I'm a die-hard Grey's fan - I can't help but absorb every dirty detail of Meredith and McDreamy's love affair, Christina's ongoing conquest for the title of "Heart Surgeon Extraordinaire" at Seattle Grace while she treads upon every man she possibly can along the way, and the general smut that is McSteamy's life.
When it's that time, I've readied my snacks, the remote for those quiet moments, the lights are dimmed for effect; I've even laid a blanket on the recliner so my dog can sit comfortably with me for the next hour.
I don't want to be bothered.
But say, I happened to forget to visit the restroom before the show, or I need to make a quick call to ask my friend just why that narcissistic woman, once again, told McDreamy to hit the bricks, and philosophize on what idiotic thought process the producers have undergone for the next episode and why they are ruining my show.
This presents the golden opportunity for which all anti-firsties wait in the wings. Sneaky as they are, they snatch up the remote once I'm out of earshot. Quick as a wink, they turn to a favored channel, hoping to find something even slightly interesting.
And you know what happens next.
"Hey, I'm watching that!"
But no, the anti-firsties don't care. They simply pull the five-minute rule - five minutes away, and I apparently "didn't want to watch anymore," acting all the time like they've been watching their show for at least 20 minutes now, and shouldn't have to change the channel because they're now "invested" in the plot.
"But I was here first!"
That doesn't matter to anti-firsties, though. They just look at you like you've spoken an ancient Egyptian dialect, and continue on with their woodcarving, deer hunting, and/or stockcar snorefests.
Thus begins the epic remote war.
Because, of course, I'm going to lunge at the remote rather than go straight to the television set to resolve my dilemma.
In the midst of the clawing and punching fray, my sixth sense begins to kick in - Grey's will return from those paid announcements from their sponsors soon.
It's panic time, as I begin to understand that grappling for the remote is useless. My only choice is to use any bargaining chip I have in the cable television arsenal.
It's time for some womanly prowess.
"If you let me watch the rest of Grey's, I swear I will never again make you watch a second of 'Charmed.' Ever."
As the thought of what Mr. Anti-firstie likes to refer to as "feeble women trying desperately to perform the physical feats that should be left to a man" crosses his mind, the remote is slowly relinquished unto my possession.
The third rule of firsties - firsties may sometimes fail, but a woman's scorn is always victorious.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
Maybe it's a generation gap-thing. My parents probably didn't play firsties in their younger days because older meant wiser, and wiser meant, "I do what I want and you deal with it."
But my generation ... we play firsties. Which means that everyone else should follow suit, naturally.
And the first rule to firsties is that you don't talk about firsties.
The second rule is you don't mess with the person that calls firsties. Like when I'm watching something you find laboriously boring - Grey's Anatomy for instance.
I'm a die-hard Grey's fan - I can't help but absorb every dirty detail of Meredith and McDreamy's love affair, Christina's ongoing conquest for the title of "Heart Surgeon Extraordinaire" at Seattle Grace while she treads upon every man she possibly can along the way, and the general smut that is McSteamy's life.
When it's that time, I've readied my snacks, the remote for those quiet moments, the lights are dimmed for effect; I've even laid a blanket on the recliner so my dog can sit comfortably with me for the next hour.
I don't want to be bothered.
But say, I happened to forget to visit the restroom before the show, or I need to make a quick call to ask my friend just why that narcissistic woman, once again, told McDreamy to hit the bricks, and philosophize on what idiotic thought process the producers have undergone for the next episode and why they are ruining my show.
This presents the golden opportunity for which all anti-firsties wait in the wings. Sneaky as they are, they snatch up the remote once I'm out of earshot. Quick as a wink, they turn to a favored channel, hoping to find something even slightly interesting.
And you know what happens next.
"Hey, I'm watching that!"
But no, the anti-firsties don't care. They simply pull the five-minute rule - five minutes away, and I apparently "didn't want to watch anymore," acting all the time like they've been watching their show for at least 20 minutes now, and shouldn't have to change the channel because they're now "invested" in the plot.
"But I was here first!"
That doesn't matter to anti-firsties, though. They just look at you like you've spoken an ancient Egyptian dialect, and continue on with their woodcarving, deer hunting, and/or stockcar snorefests.
Thus begins the epic remote war.
Because, of course, I'm going to lunge at the remote rather than go straight to the television set to resolve my dilemma.
In the midst of the clawing and punching fray, my sixth sense begins to kick in - Grey's will return from those paid announcements from their sponsors soon.
It's panic time, as I begin to understand that grappling for the remote is useless. My only choice is to use any bargaining chip I have in the cable television arsenal.
It's time for some womanly prowess.
"If you let me watch the rest of Grey's, I swear I will never again make you watch a second of 'Charmed.' Ever."
As the thought of what Mr. Anti-firstie likes to refer to as "feeble women trying desperately to perform the physical feats that should be left to a man" crosses his mind, the remote is slowly relinquished unto my possession.
The third rule of firsties - firsties may sometimes fail, but a woman's scorn is always victorious.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Garmin me
Lately, road signs for me have become bright highway décor.
They obviously can't be for real people who need adequate warning to make good decisions that won't end in a five-car pileup.
For instance, my significant other and I tripped down to Kansas City this weekend. A new baby, three softball games and a sparkling diamond ring - there was a lot to get in.
I've always been proud of my cardinal direction prowess, but there are only certain parts of KC that I can easily navigate; otherwise, I'm a fish out of the water. With no burning desire to find myself on Troost Avenue again, I always print directions.
Of course, in my excited rush, I forgot to print said directions.
Getting to Grandview - easy. Getting from Grandview to the ring shop - not so easy. But after some verbal instruction from my brother, we were on our way.
And then we hit construction.
Kansas City is like a never-ending construction zone, and thus, I believe, the problem.
"We're supposed to stay on 35 South. Is that an exit coming up?"
"Looks like one."
"Well, which way do I go?"
"Which one is 35 South?"
"I don't know! I'm asking you!"
(I'm getting a bit distressed here, with the lane splitting into two just yards away and jam-packed traffic surrounding me.)
"Which one is it? Which one?!"
"I have no idea, where's the signs?"
"I don't know! You're the cartographer, you tell me!"
"I read maps, not road signs!"
And off we go onto an exit, I-35 South gently slipping away.
Was there a sign for the exit I mistakenly took? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around an eastern bend in the road.
Was there a sign telling me which lane remained I-35 South? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around a western bend in the road.
Was there a sign at the exit, clearly marking both highways? No.
Frustrating, but not a big deal. Just turn around, get back on 35 North and take 35 South.
Wrong.
I turned around, but I couldn't get back. Why? Construction cones were blocking my way onto the ramp. And of course, the road crews didn't have the decency to make a detour path for out-of-towners who don't know every single road and where it leads.
Now we're in downtown Kansas City, and I kind of know the area, but not the exact street we're on. So I drive northbound for a mile - housing districts.
Backtrack - same ramp, still blocked off, still no detour. I believe in my frantic state I was hoping a detour would magically spring up and save my sanity, but ... no.
Heading back south, I know I can get onto 35 somewhere, although I'm feeling the desperation set in.
So we drive ... and drive ... and I'm getting antsy, until finally I see a glorious sign for I-435, a road I know well.
"We want 435 North so we can intersect with 35 South."
"OK, you want this exit. On the right ... on the right, watch that car!"
Mere seconds pass as I finally make it into the exit lane and quickly scan the signs overhead.
"This says 435 South! I want North!"
"Well I don't see a North, OK?!"
"Oh #$@#!"
As I see I-435 North rapidly approaching on the other side of the trafficway, I make my hasty move.
Do I need a turn signal to cross five lanes of traffic? Not by that point.
Several moments of gargling sounds from my throat passed in the otherwise silent truck.
Was there a sign warning me that the exits would be on opposite sides of the interstate? Of course not - that would make my life easier, and who wants that?
A couple more wrong exits, a call to the highway patrol about an almost-wreck with a guy obviously suffering from his own ego and a bad case of road rage, and one migraine later, and we headed home.
Top of my Christmas list this year - the most expensive Garmin in existence.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
They obviously can't be for real people who need adequate warning to make good decisions that won't end in a five-car pileup.
For instance, my significant other and I tripped down to Kansas City this weekend. A new baby, three softball games and a sparkling diamond ring - there was a lot to get in.
I've always been proud of my cardinal direction prowess, but there are only certain parts of KC that I can easily navigate; otherwise, I'm a fish out of the water. With no burning desire to find myself on Troost Avenue again, I always print directions.
Of course, in my excited rush, I forgot to print said directions.
Getting to Grandview - easy. Getting from Grandview to the ring shop - not so easy. But after some verbal instruction from my brother, we were on our way.
And then we hit construction.
Kansas City is like a never-ending construction zone, and thus, I believe, the problem.
"We're supposed to stay on 35 South. Is that an exit coming up?"
"Looks like one."
"Well, which way do I go?"
"Which one is 35 South?"
"I don't know! I'm asking you!"
(I'm getting a bit distressed here, with the lane splitting into two just yards away and jam-packed traffic surrounding me.)
"Which one is it? Which one?!"
"I have no idea, where's the signs?"
"I don't know! You're the cartographer, you tell me!"
"I read maps, not road signs!"
And off we go onto an exit, I-35 South gently slipping away.
Was there a sign for the exit I mistakenly took? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around an eastern bend in the road.
Was there a sign telling me which lane remained I-35 South? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around a western bend in the road.
Was there a sign at the exit, clearly marking both highways? No.
Frustrating, but not a big deal. Just turn around, get back on 35 North and take 35 South.
Wrong.
I turned around, but I couldn't get back. Why? Construction cones were blocking my way onto the ramp. And of course, the road crews didn't have the decency to make a detour path for out-of-towners who don't know every single road and where it leads.
Now we're in downtown Kansas City, and I kind of know the area, but not the exact street we're on. So I drive northbound for a mile - housing districts.
Backtrack - same ramp, still blocked off, still no detour. I believe in my frantic state I was hoping a detour would magically spring up and save my sanity, but ... no.
Heading back south, I know I can get onto 35 somewhere, although I'm feeling the desperation set in.
So we drive ... and drive ... and I'm getting antsy, until finally I see a glorious sign for I-435, a road I know well.
"We want 435 North so we can intersect with 35 South."
"OK, you want this exit. On the right ... on the right, watch that car!"
Mere seconds pass as I finally make it into the exit lane and quickly scan the signs overhead.
"This says 435 South! I want North!"
"Well I don't see a North, OK?!"
"Oh #$@#!"
As I see I-435 North rapidly approaching on the other side of the trafficway, I make my hasty move.
Do I need a turn signal to cross five lanes of traffic? Not by that point.
Several moments of gargling sounds from my throat passed in the otherwise silent truck.
Was there a sign warning me that the exits would be on opposite sides of the interstate? Of course not - that would make my life easier, and who wants that?
A couple more wrong exits, a call to the highway patrol about an almost-wreck with a guy obviously suffering from his own ego and a bad case of road rage, and one migraine later, and we headed home.
Top of my Christmas list this year - the most expensive Garmin in existence.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Monday, April 20, 2009
The other side of stink
Ferrets are the epitome of society's bum rap.
Sure, they steal just about everything, and they wouldn't poop anywhere but exactly where you don't want them to, and of course, the granddaddy of all complaints - they smell.
My dad maintains the ferret musk is reminiscent of rats on the old farm, and is therefore revolting. I, however, believe he's exaggerating - trying to keep a safe distance so he doesn't feel all mushy inside when he sees those little black, beady eyes.
He's a man's man though, so I'll let the charade play on.
That doesn't mean, however, that I think they deserve his condemnation.
Here's an example - Marcellus the ferret, bless his little heart and rest his soul, was my number 2 during college.
When I first got him, he pooped on everything. The only place he didn't relieve himself was the special corner-fit litter box, made just for the 15 or so daily trips to his little ferret office. I think his spastic little nut brain thought the litter box was mostly for cage décor, so it went largely unused.
Ferrets are corner creatures though, so he hit up most of the corners in my apartment, and definitely all the ones in his cage.
But once he picked his favorite corners, where he could gaze lazily out the window, there was nothing I could do to change it.
Ferrets are very stubborn, didn't you know?
So he pooped wherever he wanted, and I constantly dogged after him with paper towels and fresh newspaper. (Secretly, I did amuse myself while sounding off the oh-so cliché "beep...beep...beep" when he backed up into poop position.)
I'm sure editors at The Kansan wouldn't appreciate knowing that my ferret was making use of their front page - and every other page - as his personal poopy pads. I was smart enough not to bring that up as a conversation item, for the sake of my grades.
And as for the bandit reputation, sure, I had a few things lifted in the apartment.
I think the most upsetting theft involved an old friend that came visiting one night.
I didn't witness this, so I remain skeptical as to a possible framing, but apparently he "stole" a wallet.
Now, the jacket was on the couch, and we were watching TV right beside the jacket. I didn't see Marcellus ever sneak into the pocket that contained the wallet. No rustling noises, no gleeful sounds during the big escape - nothing.
We searched for a good 30 minutes before Nate looked suspiciously at the fuzzy body lying on the floor, fatigued from romping about, I was sure.
I knew he took immense pleasure in hiding things inside the couch, so begrudgingly and without placing blame, I offered to make a quick once-over.
How he so quietly got the wallet out of the jacket and into the couch, and with so few bite marks, I have no idea.
Marcellus was the one wronged, though. Once claimed, that wallet was his, and he certainly didn't appreciate its being excavated. He hopped around the room, mouth agape, teeth half-heartedly bared, making hasty darts at Nate's feet. As the situation looked to become bloody, I had to split them up.
I think Nate still holds a grudge.
Marcellus also enjoyed a good escape in the middle of the night. I used duct tape, cardboard, clothes, the couch legs I removed so he couldn't get under the couch and tear it up anymore ... anything I could find to secure the various weak points in his cage.
I finally had a breakdown one night as I lay in bed listening, dreading the sounds of him furiously tugging at the cage walls, just seconds after I returned him from the previous prison break. I think he escaped a total of six times that night. That's also the night that he won his "while she's in the house" freedom to roam.
But aside from the clever escapes from his cage, sneaking into my bed at dawn to bite my feet until I got up or shut him out, scratching at the door until I let him back in to continue biting my feet, digging all the dirt out of my houseplants and rubbing it into the carpet, destroying the lining inside my couch, destroying the filter inside my heater, destroying the carpet near any door that was shut, destroying my sanity - aside from all that, he was a good little ferret ... when he was sleeping.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com
Sure, they steal just about everything, and they wouldn't poop anywhere but exactly where you don't want them to, and of course, the granddaddy of all complaints - they smell.
My dad maintains the ferret musk is reminiscent of rats on the old farm, and is therefore revolting. I, however, believe he's exaggerating - trying to keep a safe distance so he doesn't feel all mushy inside when he sees those little black, beady eyes.
He's a man's man though, so I'll let the charade play on.
That doesn't mean, however, that I think they deserve his condemnation.
Here's an example - Marcellus the ferret, bless his little heart and rest his soul, was my number 2 during college.
When I first got him, he pooped on everything. The only place he didn't relieve himself was the special corner-fit litter box, made just for the 15 or so daily trips to his little ferret office. I think his spastic little nut brain thought the litter box was mostly for cage décor, so it went largely unused.
Ferrets are corner creatures though, so he hit up most of the corners in my apartment, and definitely all the ones in his cage.
But once he picked his favorite corners, where he could gaze lazily out the window, there was nothing I could do to change it.
Ferrets are very stubborn, didn't you know?
So he pooped wherever he wanted, and I constantly dogged after him with paper towels and fresh newspaper. (Secretly, I did amuse myself while sounding off the oh-so cliché "beep...beep...beep" when he backed up into poop position.)
I'm sure editors at The Kansan wouldn't appreciate knowing that my ferret was making use of their front page - and every other page - as his personal poopy pads. I was smart enough not to bring that up as a conversation item, for the sake of my grades.
And as for the bandit reputation, sure, I had a few things lifted in the apartment.
I think the most upsetting theft involved an old friend that came visiting one night.
I didn't witness this, so I remain skeptical as to a possible framing, but apparently he "stole" a wallet.
Now, the jacket was on the couch, and we were watching TV right beside the jacket. I didn't see Marcellus ever sneak into the pocket that contained the wallet. No rustling noises, no gleeful sounds during the big escape - nothing.
We searched for a good 30 minutes before Nate looked suspiciously at the fuzzy body lying on the floor, fatigued from romping about, I was sure.
I knew he took immense pleasure in hiding things inside the couch, so begrudgingly and without placing blame, I offered to make a quick once-over.
How he so quietly got the wallet out of the jacket and into the couch, and with so few bite marks, I have no idea.
Marcellus was the one wronged, though. Once claimed, that wallet was his, and he certainly didn't appreciate its being excavated. He hopped around the room, mouth agape, teeth half-heartedly bared, making hasty darts at Nate's feet. As the situation looked to become bloody, I had to split them up.
I think Nate still holds a grudge.
Marcellus also enjoyed a good escape in the middle of the night. I used duct tape, cardboard, clothes, the couch legs I removed so he couldn't get under the couch and tear it up anymore ... anything I could find to secure the various weak points in his cage.
I finally had a breakdown one night as I lay in bed listening, dreading the sounds of him furiously tugging at the cage walls, just seconds after I returned him from the previous prison break. I think he escaped a total of six times that night. That's also the night that he won his "while she's in the house" freedom to roam.
But aside from the clever escapes from his cage, sneaking into my bed at dawn to bite my feet until I got up or shut him out, scratching at the door until I let him back in to continue biting my feet, digging all the dirt out of my houseplants and rubbing it into the carpet, destroying the lining inside my couch, destroying the filter inside my heater, destroying the carpet near any door that was shut, destroying my sanity - aside from all that, he was a good little ferret ... when he was sleeping.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com
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