A Dangerous Place to Sit

If you have come to visit our little haven you know that, until recently, we had been harboring a dangerous item. Though unassuming in appearance (I did buy it some camouflage after all), it was only a matter of time before our couch turned on us.

We got the couch for free through some wonderful friends of ours. Only time, and coincidence, revealed that its possible previous life included years of abuse from college-aged boys, and it showed. Still, it was doing its job, and being tight on cash, a couch cover was the best fix for the moment. The heinous fabric and dubious stains were covered up and almost forgotten. Almost. I knew that as Ethan got bigger and more mobile the couch could prove a hazard, but I tried to be content. Finally, the time for action came. The other day we found a scratch on Ethan's arm we couldn't account for. We looked everywhere for what could have caused it. I even interrogated the cat until she was reduced to a whimpering ball of fur (to bad that part's not true). Then Derek looked under the couch to find weapons hidden in the dark that seemed related to the goedendag or morningstar. All of the support beams had fallen to the ground and each one was studded with more nails than thought necessary for an essentially peaceful piece of furniture. While Ethan took a nap Derek flipped the couch to see if he could replace the beams, or at least, remove the danger of the nails. It looked like similar repair jobs had been attempted way too many times before (the image of a cheap landlord comes to mind) and the more Derek tried to make things better the faster the couch started to fall apart.

Necessity demanded a newer, safer couch. I cannot say that I was surprised, or upset for that matter, but as these things generally do, it came at a financially inconvenient time. I won't bore you with the details of our shopping exploits; but I will tell you that, after much debate, I was able to talk Derek out of buying one from D.I. I won't lie, it was a close one. Not too long after, we found a quality couch we both liked and that fit into the low end of our budget. So, I got accent pillows! How cool is that! It's like we're grown-ups! We were even blessed with Ben and his great moving know-how that got it from Idaho Falls to here without a single blemish! Sweetness! I took a couple of pictures so I could show it off a bit. Fabulous isn't it?!





Warning: Instead of being taken to the dumpster like I'd hoped, I've been informed that our old, very dangerous, couch (maybe at no fault of Ben's or Derek's) was taken to, and accepted at, D.I. Beware!

Trying Something New

Inspired by Derek's new film blog, I've decided to try something new. While I will continue to update this blog as much as I ever have, I've also started a blog for me called "Run-off Words." Thankfully, its not biographical. Its just a simple blog where I can practice my writing skills. I would love feedback on my writing, but I understand that may be asking too much at the moment, from a blog especially. This is more of a creative outlet. I'll be posting soon so take a look, there's a link in the right column.

No-Bake, All Bite

Thank you, Derek, for the title. :) Those of you who know me have been privy to the sad fact that I, very rarely, have suffered from injuries resulting from odd circumstances. You have been supportive and caring while laughing your heads off and telling as many people about them as possible. You know who you are. You will be glad to know that I now have another black stain on my record. As with the past, I again have been a victim of someone else's bad karma. Let me explain.

In years past I was involved in an incident, barely worth mentioning, in which I encountered an ill-tempered, furry harbinger of death and disease. I see this as a result of my standing in the way of someone else's bad karma. During a certain trip to Colorado, a squirrel was 'done in.' I was later shocked out of a pleasant after-shower experience by the body of said squirrel being dangled right outside the second-story bathroom window. A member of the guilty party was inside of my apartment during my infamous encounter some time later. Karma, apparently being confused (or worse, not inclined to differentiate but instead punish by association), came after me.

My latest stain is yet another example. For years, Momma and I have argued about the right way to make Preacher cookies. I can see the spark of recognition slowly igniting as you read this. Momma loves them hard, or 'well done.' I love them warm and gooey; a melty, sticky concoction infused with joy and only edible with a spoon. My roommates were seduced to my side by its glorious goodness. Oh yes. There is nothing like a good Preacher cookie. They're not just No-Bakes, they're euphoria. My opinions, being somewhat ridiculous, lead me to have rather high standards when I make them; and sadly, lately I've been losing my touch. The last batch I made was disappointing. This, added with the renewed desire to eat less junk food and lose weight, helped me decide to limit myself to only one or two. The rest were left for Derek. Bless his heart; it takes him forever to eat anything sweet. Cookies, that usually wouldn't last the day, sat on the counter for at least three days in the open air. When you leave Preacher cookies out like that, they become hard as cement; and it finally got to the point that Derek gave up on them. I was attempting to clear them off the counter and into a garbage bag (unheard of, tragic, and unthinkable - I know) when one, feeling a strong desire for retribution, dive-bombed off the counter and nearly cut off the end of one of my toes. It felt like a former Clogger with spike-studded military boots sauntered in just to jump on my toe.

I reacted in the classic style: grabbing my toe and hopping about the kitchen while muttering spells of small words (as if that was going to make anything better). As I calmed down and let go of my foot, I realized I was bleeding. That's right; the falling cookie had sliced a small, but deep, cut on the corner of my toe. I was bitten by a Preacher cookie. Take a moment and enjoy the irony. It took Derek a minute to realize I was serious and get something to clean the blood up and bandage my toe. What's the first thing you do after such an experience? Call your mom. So I did. She couldn't really say anything, but that's probably because she was laughing so hard. She did manage to tell me that this would never have happened if I made Preacher cookies the right way. Why? So I would know they're dangerous? Yes. I have pictures to prove it, but who wants to post a picture of their foot on their blog? Yikes.

Now, I could blame Derek for karma-dodging since he left them out, but it’s more fun to blame my mom. So, after years of arguing, battling, and general disputation; I was felled by an overly-hard Preacher cookie because of my mother's bad Preacher cookie karma.

Was that dramatic enough?