My DUI

Earlier this month, I decided to celebrate return your shopping cart to the supermarket month.

Not on purpose. And yes, this is a bona fide hollerday. Don't believe me? Well, take it up with brownielocks, you doubting Thomas.

Anywho, upon a recent visit to the market of super, I decided that instead of procuring a wagon from inside, I would retrieve one from the parking lot, or more specifically, the curb. The resulting injury may be explained according to the following equation:

Rotator Cuff + Shopping Cart = Sling-a-Ding-Ding

In order to expedite the healing of my injured cuff, my doctor recommended that I get a massage. And really, who am I to argue with a medical professional?

The night before my massage, my body, which was traveling from Downtown Asheville toward the West Side at a speed of 55 mph, was struck by a freight train traveling from Mucus Membrane to Nasal Passageway at speed of 90 mph. Suffice to say, I did not survive the impact of the word problem.

The day of my massage, I lay face down on the table and attempted to breath through my mouth as the therapist, a former baker, kneaded me like a loaf of Jewish Rye.

I arose from the massage to discover a solid string of snot that began at the tip of my nose ended...when it hit the floor. If that were not enough, I felt crazier than Vince Clortho Keymaster of Gozer. I was keenly aware of my own inability to operate heavy machinery, but lacking a designated driver, I climbed into my zippy little Civic and swerved homeward.

Although I arrived home reasonably intact, as I stumbled up the stairs of mi casa pequena and stared at my front door, a simple thought managed to permeate my drunkin' sailor stupor: I, Little Miss Naturally Organized Home, had lost my house keys. I lay down upon my front porch, wondering if this is what pregnancy brain would be like, and called the Gatekeeper, aka my husband.

What have I learned from all of this? Two things: 1. There is a very fine line that separates those who have a place for everything from those who throw everything all over the place, and on that fateful Friday, mine hung from my schnoz to the linoleum. And 2. Frig brownielocks and get your shopping cart from inside the grocery store like a normal person! Selah.

Nudists with raging bouts of indigestion and balding canines

Within our countries borders, there exists an inordinate number of nudists with raging bouts of indigestion and balding canines.

You've probably seen one today.

But you feel certain that you would recall a pantsless belcher toting a hairless hound.

Ah monsieur, it is not so easy. Yet, not only have you seen them, you may live next door to them, work with them, and have, like, totally sat behind them during the worst movie ever made ever.

But, you might not have recognized them...until you got into their car.

I'm not saying that the moment you established contact with their passenger seat they simultaneously stripped down to their skivvies, plucked their dog bare, and downed a Boneless Variety Bucket from KFC.

I'm saying the car looks like that is exactly what happened five minutes prior to your arrival, as their car overfloweth with dog hair, food wrappers, and an Imelda Marcos equivalent of wadded up clothes.

The scariest part is that the odds are pretty decent that you would find a similar fare were you to open their purse, or tour their office , or accept an invitation into their home.

So, here's the tough love question: Are you a nudist with raging bouts of indigestion and balding canines? In other words, are you (or should you) be embarrassed about the current state of your car, your house, and your purse? Pick a corner...

Parting thought: Do you remember the kid you went to school with that smelled funny, and then when you slept over his house, his house smelled funny, too?

Don't be that kid.

Uni-tasking

Last summer a local news station called my museum.

They wanted to do a piece on the (insert shameless plug here) science day camp that my museum has each summer. As we were talking, I was also attempting to cut and paste something within a Word document. As the conversation came to a conclusion, I said something to the effect of, "Great - we look forward to seeing you there. Paste!" And I hung up the phone.

PASTE?!

What could they possibly have thought I meant by that?

Now I realize that, as a female, I am supposed to be good at multitasking. We've spoken of this before, you and I.

But truth be told, if you try to engage me in a conversation while I am watching the little-people-who-live-in-the-box in our entertainment center, and you fail to say my name before you begin your monologue, you might as well not even be talking, toots, cause I won't hear a word.

And it's not because I don't want to. What you say is valuable and worth hearing (husband of mine); it's just that I physically/mentally/emotionally/spiritually can't.

This used to make me feel bad. But I've concluded that I'd rather do one thing right than do two things wrong.

So friends, please don't choo-choo-choose to buy into the idea that you HAVE to multitask to be a productive member of society. If your version of multitasking is like mine, it involves filing and buffing your husband's nails during long distance drives, listening to Chicken Pop Pod while making an ice cream cake, and doing lunges while the photocopier collating.

Okay, so maybe I am the only one who does those particular things at the same time.

The point is, I call it uni-tasking. And it is the Ice Cream of the Future.

Soundtrack

I have a soundtrack.

It's called "Tidy Up," and I regret that you can't buy it at your local FYE or on I-Tunes because it's freakin' awe-some.

"Tidy Up" is my personal compilation of rock 'em sock 'em songs that help me bust a move as I clean me casa pequena in a fashion muy rapido. My lucky ball and chain was good enough to burn it for me, much like a disco inferno.

Why? Oh, Peter Cotton Tail, we've been down this bunny trail before: Because I'm down with ADD, and I struggle to focus on the job to be done without being distracted by objects both bright and shiny.

Thankfully, my dear mother figured out something when I was a wee lass that helped me to tune in to the task at hand: If she turned everything into a game, I did it - Fast! Be it brushing my teething or making my bed, it was all a race, which mysteriously I somehow always won.

As I no longer live with my parents, I have determined a means by which to harness my power of competition by trying to beat something else:

Songs.

Can I get the bed made and the random pile-o-clothes folded and put away before Justin Timberlake's Sexy Back is over? There is only one way to find out...

Here are some of the greatest "Tidy Up" hits:

Holiday by Green Day
Hey Ya by OutKast
Beating Hearts Baby by Head Automatica
Dancing with Myself by Billy Idol
Your Love is Better Than Life by The Newsboys
Here it Goes Again by OK Go (still one of the cleverest music videos ever!)
Lump by The Presidents of the United States of America
You Spin Me Right Round (Like a Record) by Dead or Alive

My suggestion? Make yourself a cleaning CD and crank that baby up. Can you get your dishwasher loaded before the Spice Girls finish singing "Wannabe?"

There is really only one way to find out.

Substitutions, please

Prepare for jealousy.

I have a Tupperware Citrus Peeler.

It's true. It's the only tupper I ware. And I love it. It does the job and it's super sturdy, too.

I know this because I accidentally dropped mine in the parking lot behind the Double Decker Coffee Coffee Co in downtown Asheville...and then ran over it with my car. When I found it the next day, it was a bit dinged, but totally intact. Take that, Nalgene!!!

Anywho, thanks to its peel-piercing goodness, I no longer have to use my claws to dig trenches in citrus skin. That's right - no more residual rind residue beneath these nails, Nancy - I've got the tool to kick any pomelo's peel!

You see, I'm not one of these die-hard "if it wuz good enuf fer my momma it's good enuf fer me" types. Being a teachable gal sans a southern twang, if I find something that works better than what I have been using, I will totally make a substitution.

So, in honor of the 43rd Bowl of Super and Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl, here is a listy list of some o' my favorite substitutions:

-E-cards for paper cards : saves you money, saves the planet, & saves your butt when you forget someone's birthday.
-Canvas bags for plastic bags : tests the skills of your grocery bagger & are sturdier to boot.
-Binder clips for chip clips : office supplies with culinary skeeells.
-Real maple syrup for (insert syrup name here) : just better in every way.
-Spinach for romaine : contains calcium, something my body needs any way. . . I like that.
-Correction tape for white out : addictive without the sniffing.
-One part hydrogen peroxide/one part water for whitening strips : whitens teeth & freshens breath on the cheap. Jus' swish and spit!
-Microfiber dish clothes for sponges : easier to clean with & easy to clean.
-Butter for margarine : yet another way to avoid eating plastic.
-Scour pads for steel wool: no more dishwashing induced rust splinters.
-One classic purse for twelve trendy bags : Lasts for-ev-er & no more outfit dependant content swappage.
-Hankies for tissues : okay, so maybe what was good enough for my mother IS good enough for me.

And, unlike the Super Bowl/Puppy Bowl, I managed to do it without advertising specific brands. Unless, of course, you count my one piece o' tupper.