The Junk Drawer

Trust me. This post title will make some sense in a minute.

We’ve got something new for the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection. This little guy was discovered in a pack of chicken fingers from Wegman’s in Bethlehem, Pa.

Taken on the whole, this looks like a sleeping dog to me. I’ve decided it’s a Basset Hound, though sadly, front legless.

Because I like to get second opinions when I’m not sure I’ve got a food that looks like something, I sent it to my sister Ann to examine. Here’s her response:

Is that God’s face on the right?! Or Zeus?  Full head of hair and full longish beard?!  OMG!

Do you see the face?

Taking a poll. Who thinks it’s a dog and who thinks it’s God/Zeus? Who thinks we’re seeing things?

Sleeping Basset Hound-God-Zeus Chicken Finger

Addendum, 4/29: OK, folks. Here’s where I see the face. Please don’t mock my graphic design skills. I have none.

There are two numbers I’m obsessed with: One, my weight, which never makes me happy. And, two, the amount of readers who’ve subscribed to my blog’s feed. Smiles all around. I’ve finally cracked the 100 mark!

Actually, I have three separate feed counts that total almost 150, but I don’t count the older feeds because I’m not sure there are active readers behind those numbers. I’m only eying the current feed, which sits nicely at 103.

I want to take a moment to thank everyone who subscribes to the Junk Drawer, or who comes in from a bookmark. Thanks also go to those who added me to their blogrolls. I appreciate the links that lead people here.

I’ve said on more than one occasion that it’s really my readers who make my blog what it is today. Yes, I write this thing, but something amazing happens when I click the Publish button. A party breaks out in the comments section.

People have asked me how I achieve such a high number of comments each post. Honestly, I don’t know the formula, but I know dumb luck is a big part of it. Somehow I’ve attracted the right mix of people who leave the funniest comments after every visit.

During a birthday party last weekend, my family was sitting around talking about things that go on in The Drawer. We remembered some funny stuff left in the comments and someone said “Huh? What are you talking about?” and another said “Oh my God! You’re not reading the comments? You have to read the comments! It’s a goldmine in there!”

Bottom line, if you’re reading The Junk Drawer, hugs and kisses. If you’re not reading the comments, you must change your ways because you’re missing out on a key element of the blog. You might chuckle at something I’ve written, but you’re going to snort something out your nose if you dig further and read what people dropped in the drawer.

Thanks again, everyone! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Blogging has been some of the most fun I’ve had in my life, and you’re responsible for that. Toast yourselves and have a great weekend!

Ahhh, bathroom issues at work. We either hear something we don’t want to hear, or see something we don’t want to see.

The two bathrooms nearest my office are single-use. You have to lock the door behind you because the only toilet inside has no privacy wall around it. The room has just the toilet, a chair, a sink and a trash can. And the toilet is at the farthest point from the door.

If you forget to lock the door, you’re in serious trouble. If someone comes in, unless you can cross the space-time continuum, there’s no way you can slam it shut before they see you.

Someone forgot to lock the door.

Here’s a run-down of the voice mail I got from a colleague who walked in on some poor sap.

Kath, the opposite of my worst fear happened to me. I walked in on a dude in the bathroom who didn’t lock the door. He was totally exposed, man. Just an island out there. He was an older dude. I don’t know who it was.

As I’m shuttin’ the door, I’m like “You gotta lock the door, dude!” He’s like “I know! I’m sorry!” Usually I’m scared I’m on the opposite end of that, totally prone! Dude. It was crazy. God! I have a 2:00 meeting. I gotta go. God!

When I met up with him later, he told me that in the split second he was witness to the horror, he could tell the guy was hunkered down for a long visit. He had the chair pulled up in front of the bowl and was reading! On the toilet! At work? The hell???

I will never understand why a man will take reading material into a bathroom at work, plan to stay a while, and forget to lock the door. Maybe he was so excited about the latest Wall Street Journal, locking the door slipped his mind?

When I use the ladies room, I probably check the lock four different times before I’m sure I’m safe. If someone walked in on me, I’d have to find a new job. I could never go back.

And let’s not forget there were two victims here. The obvious one, but also my colleague, whose eyes are still burning from the vision. No matter how brief the encounter, he’ll probably never forget it.

For the love of God, check the lock once, twice, three times if you have to. I’m not sure post-traumatic stress disorder is covered under my benefits plan.

Every few months, I go to my doctor to get an injection that must be administered at a ventrogluteal site. What’s a ventrogluteal site, you ask?

My big ‘ol smiling butt, that’s what.

I’ve gotten quite used to getting injections this way. It’s not painful at all, and subjects me to only a mild amount of embarrassment. Pants down. Inject. Band-aid. Pants up. Done.

Not the last time I went.

This time, I got Nurse Rached who was either in a terrible hurry to get me over with, or never got the instructions for making her patients feel comfortable in a vulnerable position, or both.

I got myself in position, leaning at roughly a 60 degree angle against the examination table. Pants down. Cheek in position. Knee bent. Ready.

I could hear Nurse Rached prepare the various paraphernalia necessary to give the injection.

Typically, the nurse will toss out the syringe plastic wrap, cotton ball and Band-aid behind her on a counter. Nurse Rached apparently felt it was too time-consuming to turn around and lay the items down behind her.

So she piled everything up in a heap on my butt. Yep, there I stood. Me and my ass table.

Plastic wrap. Check. Needle cap. Check. Syringe!!! Check. Used cotton ball. Check. Band-aid wrapper. Check. Got anything else you wanna throw on there? Your coffee cup? A phone, stapler and tape dispenser and you’ve got yourself an office.

Needless to say, I was mortified. Um, you almost done back there?

Listen, I don’t go around leaving garbage on her butt, so I’d really appreciate not getting her again for my next injection. Besides, I hope to lose 20 pounds by my next visit, so it’s possible there won’t be enough room for disposables.

Lady, check the nurse manual. I’m pretty sure it says exposed butts are embarrassing enough.

For those of you who think my junk drawer is too neat and clean, you haven’t seen my refrigerator.

Not that anyone would care, except for Lee, who wanted to know what’s in my real junk drawer — here ya go! Just the usual suspects: batteries and more batteries, scissors and tape, checkbook, address book and a few other things I may or may not ever need again.

I suppose the stupidest thing we have in here is our old doorbell. My husband Dave showed his handyman prowess last summer when he installed a new doorbell. What should we do with the old one? Why, of course! Put it in the junk drawer. You never know if the new one will fail and we won’t have $8 to buy a new one and will have to re-install the old. Um. Yeah.

Every now and then Dave makes us sift through all this junk and clean house. We’re due for another sweep, don’t you think?

So, what’s the dumbest thing you’re holding onto in your drawer?

I’m doing lousy with my diet, but my husband Dave’s doing just great. He’s well into a double-digit weight loss and I’m thrilled for him.

But I wonder if what he’s eating has altered his brain chemistry a bit.

He said this yesterday and meant every word of it: “God, this celery is so freakin’ good!”

I’ll call a doctor in the morning.

Another delicious submission from Heather Simoneau for the Food That Looks Like Stuff gallery. She’s the same reader who brought us Bagel #9.

I believe Heather’s working on an entire Grand Slam Breakfast That Looks Like Stuff. We’d love some bacon next time if you could swing that. Oink.

Part of a Heart-y Breakfast

I’m always happy to post reader submissions. In case you see a food that looks like something, here are my two simple rules:

1. The food must not have been deliberately constructed to resemble stuff. Heather was very clear about the circumstances under which this heart came to be. She insists she only tapped the yolk once or twice after it went in the pan, without any thought as to its food-looking-like-stuff qualities. But then the heart appeared suddenly and she ran for her camera.

I’m glad Heather has her priorities straight. Her kids were starving, but instead she held a photo shoot. That’s the spirit!

2. The object must not display male or female “appendages.” A Junk Drawer reader recently emailed me an X-rated tomato. It took me quite a while to figure out how to tell her I couldn’t accept it on the blog.

I think it’s obvious I have almost no limits for what I’ll put on the blog about myself, but I must use care not to offend naked fruits and vegetables. Can’t be too careful. They may not have thought those pictures taken early in their careers would ever see the light of day. Yeah. Those kinds of pictures.

As you all know, lots of stuff bothers me. What’s killing me now? This bag.

It got caught in a tree outside my office almost three weeks ago. I can’t help but notice it every time I pass a window that faces it. When I point it out to others, expecting shock horror, I just get “Yeah? It’s a bag in a tree.”

OK, so I’ll admit that I’m the only one in my building who’s bothered by this. I’m going to be seeing it for days, weeks and months to come, so we might as well have some fun with it.  I’ve decided to turn this into a little contest.

If you can guess closest to the day the bag escapes its branchy prison, you’ll win a prize! Simply leave the date in the comments box. You must give an exact date (month, day and year — yes, year, because it could be that long). The prize will be a set of magnets or mousepad with the Junk Drawer logo on it (your choice).

p.s. To my sister, Ann of the Shampoo Bag, the bag is from your favoritist store in the whole wide world! Another reason to hate “The Big W.”

Addendum, 4/18: If you’re interested in knowing how the bag got here, check out the back story over here. Just a warning — it’s heartbreaking.

Tonight I had to run to the store to pick up a birthday card for my niece, Amy. I may be seeing her tomorrow and I didn’t want to come empty handed. Of course it’s last minute, because I haven’t learned to use a calendar yet and things like sending birthday cards on time are the stuff of nightmares for me.

So I’m in the card aisle and I spot a couple standing near the birth announcement section, talking to a store employee. Together they’re trying to find the right card for their needs. I admire the woman’s beautiful white sari, looking so dressed up for a trip to the store. And then there’s me in my stretchy pants. Lovely.

The employee walks away after a few seconds and then I hear it.

“Ma’am?”

Oh, no. They mean me.

I turn around, shaking off the fact that being 40-something makes you a bonafide ma’am, and smile. “Yes?”

“Can you help us find a card for a baptism?” The couple is having a hard time because no cards have the actual word baptism on them and they’re clearly not familiar with certain rites and ceremonies. The woman shows me one card that reads “On your Bat Mitzvah…”

She asks, “What’s a Bat Mitzvah?”

Oh, God. We’re going to have Religions of the World 101, right here in the store.

“Well, it’s for a boy, about the age of 13. It’s a rite of passage that people in the Jewish faith celebrate when a boy becomes …  a man, well, a young man … when a boy comes of age. Nevermind. It’s not a baptism card. You don’t want that.”

The woman thanks me and puts the card back.

The man leads me over to the birth announcement section to get a closer look. A quick review turns up nothing in the baptism department. Crap.

I see more Bat Mitzvah and Bar Mitzvah cards, and quickly realize I had told the woman the wrong thing about the Bat Mitzvah. I point at the Bat and the Bar and say “I was wrong. The Bat Mitzvah is for girls and the Bar Mitzvah is for boys.”

They thank me for explaining the difference and probably think “Thanks, lady. Still doesn’t help us.”

We all keep poking around and the man spots one that reads “For your christening…”

He says, “What’s a christening?’

I’m excited. “Yes, yes! That’s another name for a Christian baptism. You can use that one!”

He’s glad, but now we have a new problem. He needs two baptism cards and doesn’t want to give a duplicate card to the same family. I’m guessing they’re attending a baptism for twins. Would have to be, right? But then, do babies even know they get cards? Can’t he just write on one card, “For your beautiful babies on their christening…?” These are too many thoughts for me in a grocery store on a Saturday night, my head hurts now, and I still have to find the card I came for!

So now we’re looking for another christening card or some other suitable Christian card for the occasion. I was just about to suggest they get a generic flowery card that’s blank inside, so they can write their own “Way to go on your baptism!” message, when he finds one in a slot labeled “Religious.” It’s not a baptism card, per se. But it just might work.

We look it over and I read him the contents. It’s got all the goods:

New baby, check. Bundle of joy. Check. Wishing you all of God’s blessings. Jackpot!!!

“Yes, you can use this one. It has God in it. God is good.”

They thank me profusely and go on their merry way, too fast for me to ask them if they’d help me pick out the card I came for. Sorry, Amy. I had to go it alone and there were no cards that gave me so much as a chuckle. You’re getting a very plain one, but I’ll put a lot of money in it.

I don’t do birthday cards very well, but I’m totally awesome when it comes to baptisms. All you have to do is ask.

The bunnies requested blindfolds, but were sadly denied.

Sorry, bunnies. I don’t like looking at me either.

Addendum: For full-frontal nerdage, see Poindexter in a Dress.

One of the places I went to as a kid on a class trip was Ringing Rocks Park in Upper Black Eddy, Pennsylvania. The park features a huge boulder field made up of rocks that, when tapped lightly with a hammer, will emit a pleasant ring.

It doesn’t seem that geologists have determined exactly what makes the rocks ring, but kids don’t care. They just want to take a hammer to them and play rock music!

Here’s a short sample of how it sounds. Cool, huh?