The Junk Drawer

I drove to work yesterday funkin’ out to this song. I guarantee it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it is the basis for something I learned about my father and so you should really just roll with it.

My dad is an awesome dancer. An awesome polka dancer, and so is my mom. When they take to the floor, they’re stunning and mesmerizing and everyone wants to be like them. But they never will because they all suck at it and that’s why polka has a stigma. You’ve only seen it done badly.

The above song, Hot in Here by Nelly, played at a family birthday party some years ago and everyone under 40 stood up and rushed the dance floor.

And then my 80-year-old dad followed us. Oh no. No, no, no. He does polka. He doesn’t do hip-hop. He shouldn’t do hip-hop.

Ask me how scared I was.

But Dad put us all to shame. We watched in utter awe of his moves. He had the rhythm down perfectly, gyrating arms and legs appropriately – no embarrassing spasms of any kind – every move in time with the beat.

We were blown away by the sight of my Dad funking out and doing it right. And that’s when I realized what I thought was my God-given funkaliciousness wasn’t divine at all. Clearly it was my Dad who gave me the gift.

Oh, yeah. I got the funk in me. And so it was, on the way to work with this song blasting, I started feelin’ it. Small movements at first, but then it overcame me.

I would car funk dance for the next six miles.

How is car funk dancing done, you ask?

Crank the music and follow along.

Sway left and right, shoulders moving forward and back. Tilt head two beats on the left, one on the right, one on the left, then two beats on the right. Rinse and repeat.

Bob your head forward and back at a 45 degree angle. Go ahead. Try it now.

Jut the chin forward in time with the bass, like the Mick Jagger chicken dance, but without the flapping wings part.

You may alter your shoulder activity after a while, such that you are “shrugging” them in tandem while bobbing the head about.

You may or may not involve the arms and hands as part of your funk driving. There is the safety issue, but that’s what knees are for. Drive with them if you must.

Bring your hands forward, clench them in fists, arms raised as if you were boxing. Now continue to bob the head, left and right shoulders alternating forward and back.

How do you look now? Are you feelin’ it?

Remember, funk driving rules state that you ignore other drivers staring at you. You must car dance uninhibited. Live a little.

And thus concludes today’s lesson. Dad, thank you for giving me the funk. And Nelly, thank you for starting my day off right, even though an hour later it turned to crap.

Have a funky weekend, peeps!

I have a bone to pick with the people who write up instructions you’re supposed to follow before having a medical test. What’s that bone?

Be more specific than you think you need to be.

A few years ago I was scheduled for an ultrasound and was given a leaflet with instructions on what to do beforehand. The only real requirement was this:

Drink plenty of water.

OK. I can do plenty. Hmmm, but what’s plenty? Most normal people might call the office and ask how much is plenty, but not me. I prefer to wonder and guess and be stupid, and for that I almost drowned myself.

For two hours leading up to the test, I guzzled an entire gallon of water (3.8 liters). I did wonder if all that water could fit in my bladder, but I’m nothing if not compliant. I was always a good student. Do as I’m told. Don’t question the teacher. Drink.

And drink and drink and drink I did.

By the time I got to the doctor’s office, I was a little queasy. No problem. They’ll call me soon. They can get the test done and I can go empty out.

Um. No.

I waited five minutes, then ten. My eyes began to cross and tear up and the pain in my lower region was indescribable. My toes curled in agony.

I stopped fidgeting in my seat because fidgeting was likely to break the dam. I did not want to trigger the mighty Hoover.

At the fifteen minute mark, I started to see little green men. I’ve heard of water intoxication and I’m pretty sure this was the start of it. Mercifully, the nurse called my name and I mustered all my strength to stand and not empty my bladder on my shoes.

I immediately notified the nurse of my predicament and to my horror, she scolded me. Me! The good student who follows instructions!

She said "You shouldn’t have done that. You can’t have a full bladder for this test. You have to empty….."

and this is the part that made me want to scream if I didn’t think screaming would trigger a flood

"… only some of your bladder. We need it about half full."

Eep!

Do you know how hard it is to stop midstream when your bladder wants desperately to do what it does every other time? Emptying is what it does best. Stopping short of empty is not in the manual.

My confused bladder and I did our best to estimate half full. I apologized to my bladder numerous times and promised it that as soon as the test was over, we’d scurry back to finish the job.

Only half-satisfied, I waddled out to the exam room, had the test, found out it was fine and then off my bladder and I went to enjoy the other half of my cruelly-truncated ahhhhhh moment.

And so, as a Junk Drawer public service announcement, in the context of vague medical instructions plenty of water means a lot less than a gallon. You’re welcome.

My husband Dave loves him a good horror movie. Bring on the gross, the gory and the gruesome.

But what makes him run screaming from the room whenever I take it out and use it?

This.

I’ll spare you any pictures of my dead foot skin. But I will tell you that it looks exactly like finely grated parmagean cheese. Buon appetito!

The fact is the thing works and I’m on my way to smoother, sandal-wearing feet. My piddies are probably the least cared-for part of my body, until now. Hey, if it takes a cheese grater to do it, it’s all good.

Have you eaten breakfast yet? Are you eating it now? Sorry.

OK, boys and girls. Put your thinking caps on. Today we have a What’s That? item for you to mull over.

How to play:

1. The photo shows a small portion of a larger object.

2. First person to guess the object it’s a part of wins either 500 Entrecard credits or a Junk Drawer magnet, your choice.

Go!

What the heck is that?

UPDATE: CONTEST CLOSED

OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! Who has pencil sharpeners like this anymore? You guys really surprised me. I don’t even use regular pencils. They make ones you can click like a pen, you know. And the last sharpener I used was electric. So how old are you people?

For the record, this sharpener came from my childhood home. It was mounted on a half wall in the kitchen. The day my parents moved out of their house, I unscrewed that baby, still full of shavings, and stuck it in a bag, where it remained until today when I got the idea for a post.

Congratulations, Anne! I’ll contact you shortly about your prize.

If I can find another object today, I’ll put up another one. A harder one. Geesh.

Seriously. We’re gonna do this now?

We had wind gusts over 60mph today. Three more bags joined Windy and New Guy (look on the left for the brown bag that’s a bit hard to see).

I’m out of my mind at this point. I never thought we’d have more than Windy to look at. I cannot bear to watch five bags hanging onto branches for months to come.

As for the poll to name the new bag, I hope you won’t be too mad if forego the poll and pick a favorite right now. Ben Barden knocked it out of the park with "Gusty." I think a lot of you liked that name, too.

Thank you for all your fun suggestions. I especially liked that many of you were happy for Windy because she got a date for Valentine’s Day. Now she has a posse.

As for naming the others, let’s just call them "The Others," mmm-k?

How weird would it be if I called our Facilities Services department and asked them to get the four they can reach out of the trees, leaving only Windy behind? Do you dare me?

I’m still in shock. Another bag flew up into a tree at my building.

All fresh and new and STUCK.

So which one of you put it there? I know you’re all trying to make me insane. You know this means war.

At least our Windy has a friend now. FOREVER.

I’m serious. If I find out one of you put it there, I’ll hunt you down and make you climb up and get it out. And I don’t care if you break all your bones when you fall out.

You know what this means now? New bag needs a name. Drop your suggestion in the drawer and I’ll run a poll after I’ve picked a bunch that I like.

I wouldn’t have believed this if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. Windy got a mate.

My mom celebrated a birthday this weekend. I think when it’s my birthday, I should celebrate her again.

Why?

Because I weighed 10 lbs, 8 ozs. (4.8 kg) at birth.

And she didn’t have a C-section.

Yeah.

For the record, my mom was, is and always will be rail thin. I’m guessing I stole everything she sent down the chute. She must have thought she was eating for six.

Oh, and if anyone was born fatter than me, there’s a Junk Drawer magnet in it for you. And sympathies to your mother.

Yesterday a colleague asked if I wanted to attend a panel talk he was giving on the campus where we work.

Sure. Where is it?”

It’s in Whitaker Lab.

Is it in the auditorium next to the front door?

No. It’s near the back door on the parking lot side of the building.

OK, I’ll be there.

You may or may not know how directionally-challenged I am. How bad is it? Real bad. I got lost in my own neighborhood once, two tenths of a mile from my house.

Whenever I go anywhere I haven’t been a million times before, I always have reason to worry. Let the games begin.

I drive to the Whitaker building and go through the back door on the parking lot side, as instructed. No auditorium. Just a long corridor. Then classrooms. And no people. Of course, no people.

I can’t find anything that looks like a place a talk would be held. I dart into a computer lab to login and check the university event calendar hoping to get the room number. Nothing. Of course, nothing.

I look at the time. I’m going to be late.

I run up steps and down halls and make my way to the only auditorium I know in that building. It’s dark and deserted and clearly not the place.

DAM. MIT.

Sweating now, I ride elevators, travel more steps and more halls until I’m about to give up. I see doors that lead to a courtyard. If I cross it, I can go into another section of the building. Maybe it’s over there.

As soon as I exit, C-L-I-C-K. I am locked out. Of course I am.

I cross the courtyard and when I get to the opposite set of doors, I can make out a sign that reads “These doors kept locked at all times.”

Of course they are.

FRACK!

So there I am, standing in the freezing cold, sweating icicles straight from my body, having just locked myself out of the building. Stupid building!

The only way to re-enter is to walk through snow and ice around a neighboring building and come back in through the front door, which is two floors up and really far from where I entered.

At this point I’m muttering to myself that I can do this. You’re not an idiot. It’s not that hard! Where did he say to go again? Did I get it right? Where am I???

But then the muttering turns into belittling: You? You of all people want to fly alone this summer? How you gonna do that if you can’t even find a room in a building? You suck!

Ten minutes late, I’m completely broken, resigned to the fact that I’ll always be a lost person. I started to hear sad violin music in the background. I half expected a dog to walk up and pee on my leg. I work my way back to the parking lot. I’m going home a loser.

But then I have a flash of recognition. I once attended a lecture in a building adjacent to Whitaker. Yeah. The Sinclair building has an auditorium. And it’s right by the door.

BINGO!

The coffee and cookies I see outside the room are my first indication that I’m at the right place. I poke my head inside and see my colleague standing down front about to begin the talk.

What I wanted to do was yell down there “Dude! You gave me the wrong building! I hate you!”

But I didn’t. Instead, I mentally patted myself on the back, took a seat and thought I am not a doofus. I was just given bad information. And that, my friends, makes me a little less of a forever lost person.

And that makes me very happy.

Note to self: When you’re hopped up on Benadryl and half asleep during a Super Bowl party wherein your sister-in-law asks you if you could make 150 chocolate-covered strawberries for an event she’s running because she knows you make ’em real good, next time — Just. Say. No.

One hundred and fifty.

Plus a few or twelve carefully planned rejects. You know, for the chef.

So anybody free Saturday?

UPDATE: I finished! And guess what? She gave me not 150 strawberries, but 250! Nearly killed me. If you’d like to see some of my work, click here. I didn’t get all fancy because I realized how many I had to do and sometimes "good enough" is good enough.