This is another one of those items that could be really easy to guess or really hard. I’m sorry if you find it terribly difficult. No I’m not.
Good luck. That’s all I’m sayin’. Don’t hate me.
How to play:
1. The photo shows a small portion of a larger object.
2. First person to guess the object wins a Junk Drawer magnet and your choice of either bacon or eyeball bandages.
What is that?
I have eyebrow OCD.
No, I’m not one of those women who plucks her eyebrows until there’s no hair left and then have to pencil in new ones. That’s just freaky and wrong.
I will, however, obsess over a wayward, disobedient hair and won’t be able to function until it’s plucked and gone.
You know that hair, right? The one that sticks out so long it starts to curl like a question mark, when all the other hairs are lying down flat like good little hyphens? Yeah, that one.
Yesterday I found a question mark.
At work.
Where I don’t have tweezers.
I did find this, though. It’s a Swiss Army card. I think you use it if your office gets hit by an avalanche and you have to MacGyver your way out.
Lookie here. We have scissors, a letter opener/blade, a pressurized ballpoint pen, a magnifying glass, an LED light, four screwdriver tips and TWEEZERS.
Score!
Since I didn’t have a mirror, and a coworker who likely had one wasn’t around, I headed to the ladies room and got working on my hairy question mark.
I had problems immediately because there was barely any tension in my cheap Swiss Army tweezers. Over and over, they kept slipping off the hair.
Then I heard a very faint rustle coming from a nearby stall. That was the “I’m here, wish you weren’t” rustle of someone trying to take care of business.
The #1 rule of bathroom etiquette? You exit the room if there is someone thinking really hard in there. They don’t need you loitering any more than you want to hear them thinking.
So I leave disappointed. The hair will have to wait. GRRRRR!
As soon as I get in the hallway, I’m ambushed by a student who frantically asks me the time.
When I tell him it’s 9:30 he says "Oh, man. That’s late. I’m really late for class, like 20 minutes late. I overslept! I never oversleep! I don’t want to go in now. Should I or shouldn’t I?"
I’m thinking "Dude, do you NOT see this question mark growing out of my head? I got bigger problems. Outta my way, Jack."
I wish him luck with his decision and leave him standing frozen in his tracks. I feel a little sorry for him, but not sorrier than I am about my errant hair. Priorities, people.
I head to a different ladies room upstairs. Good, no one’s in here.
Now. Let’s get to work.
I figure out how to pull hair easier by positioning my fingers at the tip of the Swiss Army tweezers and putting all the pressure there. Except, I keep pulling the wrong hairs.
Every time I think I have the question mark in my grip, it’s not. It’s a hyphen.
I’ve now pulled at least five hyphens and still have the question mark. And now the left brow is looking a little thinner than the right. Uh-oh.
Come on, Kath. Question mark! Question mark!
I’m also getting red and puffy under the hairs because I’m over-plucking hyphens and they scream on the way out and leave a mark.
Worried now that I’m going to have to spend the rest of the day looking like a cross between Rocky Balboa and Bozo the Clown, and also scared someone will walk in on me during my hair surgery, I retreat and return to my office.
Luckily, my coworker is back at her desk and loans me a compact. Hunched over the mirror, I fluff up what remains of my left brow so the question mark stands out. Again. There it is, still taunting me. Oh, I’ve got you now.
With a steady hand, expert precision and perfect pressure, I grab hold of the question mark and yank away. I’ve got it! Yes, I’ve got it! Oh, sweet relief.
When I get home to a normal pair of tweezers, I even out and shape up my brows like I should have done sooner.
I make a mental note to buy a spare pair of tweezers so I can keep one at work because I’m pretty sure I’ll see another question mark – or worse, an ampersand – and I want to be ready for that bad boy.
&
Yeah. It could happen.
I had a nightmare last night. One of the sweaty, high-anxiety, glad-I’m- awake-now variety.
It wasn’t about being chased by an ax murderer. It wasn’t about finding myself taking a college exam that I hadn’t studied for. It had no vampires, ghouls, ghosts or zombies. Nothing monstery.
It was far, far worse.
It was about accounting.
Bookkeeping.
Ledgers and missed deadlines.
Yeah. I know. It was that bad.
I haven’t worked in a university accounting office for twelve years, and yet last night I found myself back there and freaking out about a month end close.
At the end of each month, I ran a report that automatically redistributed the months’s utility and maintenance charges to all the fraternity and sorority building accounts.
A percentage of the services bill was allocated to each building based on its square footage. It was a pain to do because the data entry was tedious and time-consuming.
Plus, one wrong number and the program would fail. If the percentages didn’t equal 100%, the whole thing would explode and you didn’t have enough time to recover. You’d have to fix it the next month.
In my nightmare, I realized I went eight months with old percentages. Incorrect ones meant nobody was billed correctly and now I’d have some ‘splaining to do.
THE HORROR!
In my dream, I told my boss about the problem and started crying. There’s no crying in accounting! Luckily, she was understanding and I could dab my tears away.
The nightmare ended well, but still had me in a tizzy. That I could even be thinking about that job after 12 years away is horrifying and probably something for which I still need therapy.
I’m debating whether to contact the person who replaced me in that office. To warn him or her that a decade from now, they’re going to find themselves still worried about numbers. Scary, screwed-up, blood-thirsty numbers.
My advice? If you see a giant, ax wielding calculator leering at you from the shadows of a dark alley, RUN!
So do any of you ever have nightmares about things or places that stressed you out a hundred years ago, but that can’t possibly hurt you now?
Anyone who’s been to the Junk Drawer before knows I have a special place in my heart for delicious bacon.
So I was over the moon when a friend sent me a link to a blog documenting the adventures of Bacon himself.
I love, love, love this blog!
Bacon’s owner, Devon Boatwright, graciously agreed to an interview so I could learn more about my new fatty best friend.
I’m Bacon’s #1 fan, possibly in a Kathy Bates/Misery sort of way. I just love him so. Where did you get Bacon and how did you get the idea for Bacon to have his own blog?
Bacon was actually kind of an accident! My mom ordered Bacon for my sister but accidentally ordered two Bacons. Not knowing what to do with the second one, she decided to give it to us as a family gift. She kept joking that it wasn’t a big deal and we could open it before Christmas and it was just a silly gift. Well, I opened up the box and completely freaked out even more than my children.
Since I opened Bacon before Christmas and my sister was also receiving a Bacon, I was not allowed to post pictures of Bacon. Despite my begging, I posted no pictures of Bacon for 3 days! Then Christmas day I managed to wrangle Bacon from my children and was inspired to pose him with the turkey. Then I thought it would be funny if he helped Ray with the dishes. And it just went from there.
When I posted all the photos, people on my Facebook loved them and someone told me I should start a blog. I figured I would do it and make a coffee table book out of it when I was done. I didn’t realize how many people would actually think Bacon was as cool as I did!
Bacon has ridden the subway, crowd-surfed on a dance floor, gone grocery shopping and helped make home brewed beer. Does Bacon realize he’s a Renaissance Man?
Bacon is most definitely an “out and about” fatty meat. He does not like to sit around at home. I had to convince him to get out on the dance floor, he was scared to get stepped on. And sometimes I’ve had to give him a pep talk (seeing all his kin packaged and eyeless was like something from a horror movie). Bacon is really open to trying new experiences no Bacon has ever tried before.
What is the reaction of people in places you visit (restaurants, museums, stores) when you ask them to hold Bacon and have their picture taken? Do you get strange looks? Also, does your family think you’re insane?
MOST people think it’s kind of funny and definitely think I am weird. Honestly, I am a little weird but I am relatively shy in real life. Asking people to pose with Bacon is really a challenge for me sometimes. I haven’t had anyone say “no” outright. Though, there was the one guy who handled Bacon like he was covered in disease. I don’t even know why he agreed to allow me to take Bacon’s picture. But his lack of humor is the minority. Many people have actually approached me asking about Bacon and what he’s doing.
My husband and kids already knew I was insane. Bacon just takes that insanity into the public. I mean, my husband and I went to Italy with my parents for our anniversary and took pictures of the toilets with the insane plan of making a book entitled “Toilets of Rome.” I sometimes wonder if Ray knew what he was getting into when he married into my family. Hee hee. Luckily, he embraces Bacon and has actually come up with Bacon ideas.
Bacon can say only two words: “I’m Bacon!” Can he express himself in other ways besides speech, where he is clearly limited?
I think Bacon can express himself in the way he stares pointedly and blankly at things. And I think, depending on the context, the words “I’m Bacon!” can have a variety of deep meanings.
I’ve seen Bacon eat soft pretzels on two occasions. Is that his favorite food? Does Bacon understand he is a food?
Bacon does realize he’s a food and it makes him really nervous in certain situations. Being in the kitchen at Counter Burger terrified him. Sometimes when I cook bacon for breakfast, he hunkers down and hopes I don’t eye him ravenously. He also realizes he’s a lovely stuffed thing and hopes the dog won’t decide to drool all over him.
To make matters even worse.. Bacon’s favorite food is actually bacon. He doesn’t care if it’s cooked or raw. He’s even been known to cook little bacons for himself on occasion.
One of my cats has a favorite spot on the back of the couch where she hangs out when she’s not doing cat things. Does Bacon have a favorite spot in your house where he likes to chill when he’s not going on Bacon adventures?
Personally, I take issue with Bacon being left around like a toy. He’s very much a family member. When he is not going on adventures, he generally sits at the 6th chair at the kitchen table. There he can see everything going on. Yes, he sits in the chair properly. I have the same thing with dolls, too. It bugs me if the girls’ American Girl dolls are laying on the floor. I always have to pick them up and put them in a proper, more comfortable position. 
One question about mechanics: How do you position him to, say, sit in seats, hang onto larger objects or bend over? Does he have special innards that allow for this malleability?
I don’t know if I should say that! It’s a secret! Hee hee. Really, Bacon has this wire along the sides of him that make him poseable. His mouth also moves when he says “I’m Bacon!” so that actually allows me to use the mechanics of his mouth to hang him on something. I have a thing about people handling Bacon for photographs so I try to make sure as much as possible that no one is touching Bacon when I photograph him.
If someone has to be propping him up, then I try to cut their hand out of the picture. Sometimes I snap really quick pictures as Bacon slowly slides down whatever I have managed to prop him on. I probably look like a weirdo posing Bacon in public. Especially at our night out where I took like 20 photos of one of my friends holding Bacon up on the pool table to play pool. I kept saying “I can see you in the picture and I can’t crop that!” So we’d repose. Heh.
Where does Bacon see himself in five years?
Bacon definitely sees himself in a coffee table book. He hopes he’ll have to wear sunglasses and a fake mustache when he goes out so people won’t recognize him because he’ll be so famous. He also hopes he won’t have been eaten or become a dog toy for an oversized canine.
I think we can learn a thing or two from Bacon. What is Bacon’s philosophy on life?
I asked Bacon what his philosophy on life was. After all, he’s read many books and must be quite brilliant by now. I waited with bated breath as Bacon thought long and hard about my question. Finally he answered, “I’m Bacon!” So there you go.
Bacon believes everyone should be like him. We could interpret that to mean he thinks everyone should live life to the fullest and go on many fabulous adventures and take lots of pictures. Or we could take it to mean that Bacon has a bloated self image and thinks everyone should be him.
—-
Devon, thank you for taking the time to help us get to know Bacon better. Also, if you get that coffee table book published, I want a signed copy (and I wouldn’t be disappointed with a Toilets of Rome book either!) I just hope Bacon remembers me when he gets famous.
Adventures of Bacon blog
Author, Devon Boatwright’s Facebook page
This week, the Internet went all knee-slappin’ hysterical when a video of a woman who fell into a mall fountain while walking and texting was posted on YouTube.
Yes, she was embarrassed and, of course, she’s suing because that’s what people do in this country when they should just walk away and laugh at themselves.
And that is this woman’s problem.
She does not know how to laugh like a hyena at her own stupidity.
Let me show you how it’s done, you silly woman.
I lunched with some blogger friends a few weeks ago at a very fancy shmancy restaurant. I’m more of a cheeseburger and fries kind of girl, so I was totally out of my element.
After our meal, we decided to order some dessert. The only thing on the menu that sounded exciting to me was fried ice cream.
Who doesn’t like ice cream, and holy clogged arteries, who doesn’t like it fried?
All three of us ordered it and when it was delivered to the table, the waiter approached each dish with a small serving boat, which I was hoping was full of hot fudge.
It was not.
It was full of something that set my dessert on fire when the waiter touched a flame-tipped lighter to it.
OK, so now I’m hip to the dessert. I’m getting flambéed here.
I dig it.
It’s pretty.
When my dessert flames out, I start eating. It’s good and decent, but not fabulous, as I prefer my desserts to be.
Why? Because at the bottom of my dish lay a puddle of cream mixed with alcohol.
Alcohol? Why is there alcohol in my dessert? Who puts alcohol in ice cream? I didn’t ask for it and I’m not at all pleased.
But I continue eating because my lunch mates are infinitely more refined than me and not the kind of people who go around freaking out about alcohol in their desserts.
After we say our good-byes and I get home, I immediately Google “flambé” and am surprised to learn that it’s alcohol that makes a flambéed dessert shoot up in flames when you light it.
Oh.
Oh, wait.
I knew that, didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I knew that. I think. No, I didn’t. Did I? No. I did not.
What I’m sure of is that I’m a dumbass and my blogger friends who are just now reading about this will never invite me to lunch again because I’m just that stupid.
So, lady who fell into a fountain while texting, that is how you laugh at yourself. You do not sue someone. Instead, you realize how dumb you are and then you blog about it for other people’s enjoyment.
That should be the new American way.
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