Whatever makes you feel more like a man after you borrow my girl bike.

Every once in a very long while, I say something that might sound stupid TO SOME PEOPLE. It happens. And the DNB feels so triumphant in the possibility of being right FOR ONCE that he matches me over to the computer and forces me to sit down and blog about it. And even though I could totally throw down an awesome UFC move on his ass, I go ahead and post about it because it makes a marriage better when a husband can hope that maybe he's not actually wrong about everything.

+ + +

We watch, many weeks late, the season finale of the DNB's favorite show, "So You Think You Can Dance." As the group number to "I Know You Want Me (Calle Ocho)" finishes, the DNB tries to decide, as he does every week, whether Cat Deeley's outfit is absurd or awesome. I'm still captivated by the performance.

"That dance was really amazing," I comment. "It reminded me of the, you know, the Roaring 40's and Prohibition."

The DNB interrupts his fashion critique to stare at me. "Really? Really baby!? When was Prohibition?"

His strong response makes me rethink my knowledge of American History. "I know, I know," I hesitate. "It was during the 1800's, but I'm just saying..."*

"Baby, when was Prohibition!!??" he shouts.

"I don't know!"**

"Baby, during the 20's," he says smugly. Lest you think that the DNB's frequent use of the term "baby" is part of his lovely collection of unicorns and rainbows -- LET ME JUST DISPEL THAT MYTH. The more incredulous he becomes at something I say, the more frequently the word appears. "And it's the Roaring 20's, not the Roaring 40's."

"The 20's? You mean during the war?" I reply. "Prohibition wasn't during the war."***

"Oh baby, really?" he's nearly all Tom-Cruise-Jumping-On-The-Couch by now. "Which war? Really...?? Oh I'm SO telling your dad!"



* Obviously my knowledge of history is so expansive that I was factoring in the very start of what would later become the "official" Prohibition Era: the 1840's dry movement begun by a variety of religious groups, which blossomed into the Temperance Movement in the late 1800s.

** Clearly I did know, but I hate to embarrass my husband.

*** I was speaking, of course, of the Turkish War of Independence, which lasted from 1920-1923.

It's Not a Frog in Your Throat. It's Much, Much Worse.

I begin to get sick!

I have a headache, my stomach hurts, and it feels like I have a pill lodged in my throat.

"Oh my god," I say loudly to the DNB at midnight. Loudly enough that he wakes up, but not loudly enough that it's obvious I'm trying to wake him up. "I think I have a pill lodged in my throat."

"Mmmmm-hmmmm," he mutters. "It's okay."

I've been paranoid about getting a pill lodged in my throat ever since I was at a party and a woman told me how she actually had it happen to her. As she was running out the door to go to work, she took an aspirin and dipped her head under the kitchen faucet to wash it down. A few hours later, she kept feeling like she had something caught in her throat. She tried coughing and making weird choking sounds, but nothing helped. Everyone thought she was crazy for insisting the pill was stuck, which is interesting because EVERYONE THINKS I'M CRAZY TOO.

A few days passed, and her throat started to hurt. Each day it got worse and worse, until she finally called her doctor. The doctor told her she probably just had a sore throat and to wait it out, which is just proof that doctors have no idea what they're talking about, and by "doctors" I mean "my husband." A week later, it still wasn't better, and she finally convinced her doctor to drop a scope down her throat to check things out. And she totally DID have that aspirin stuck in there, and it had somehow eaten away at her throat and formed an ABSCESS that the doctor had to DRAIN, which is both disgusting and fascinating.

And I know that many of you are eating breakfast right now, and that the graphic nature of this post may have caused you to lose your appetite. But it's clear that people have to be SHOCK-'N-AWED in order to understand just how serious this Pill-Lodging thing can be. This pretty much makes me the Howard Stern of blogging, except with fewer naked women and a cause.

"You're going to be sorry when it forms an abscess and we have to pay hundreds of dollars to have it drained because my insurance company will insist that the puss-draining of an abscess is a 'routine' procedure when you have an abscess and that they don't cover 'routine' procedures," I tell him, clearing my throat with purpose.

"Mmmm-hmmm. It'll be awful," comes the DNB's muffled reply, as he clenches his specially marked pillow to his ears.

My Idea of Heaven

I label!

I've been feeling a little scattered inside, lately. A little off, a little stressed. Since I already have plans to go to my Happy Place (Nordstrom) later this week, I decide to do the next best thing: organize.

I read somewhere, and I can't for the life of me remember where, that a hanging shoe organizer makes a great catch-all for the downstairs. So I buy one and yes, yes it does. The compartments are perfect for random camera cords, address labels, envelopes, and ipod cables. Even better, I have ample labeling opportunities. If there were no shoes to buy, I have no doubt I would spend all of my free time labeling. "Safety Pins." "Curry Mix." "Husband."

I hang my fantastic organizational specimen on the back of the basement door, right by the kitchen. It makes me a little sad, to be honest. The whole thing is so calming and orderly that it really deserves to be seen. I sigh peacefully.

A Crappy Situation

All joking aside, this Consumerist story about a five year old girl denied a restroom at a Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory store is appalling.

Provide your feedback to the company here, or to the store "hosts," Todd and Bonnie Overturf, by emailing CA.HuntingtonBeach50710@rmcf.com.

A Public Service Announcement

My merge-related indignation is misplaced!

According to this article from the Star Tribune, when a construction zone causes a road to narrow, drivers should use the "Zipper Merge" to reduce traffic and delays. Using the Zipper Merge, as explained by the Minnesota Department of Transportation, means that "drivers should use both lanes all the way to the designated merge point and then take turns merging." And in case you still aren't sure what that might look like, because maybe you aren't entirely familiar with zippers, here's a video demo.

Let's just pause to recognize that this is not what we were taught in grade school.

If you aren't familiar with the merge method, perhaps you know it as the Dynamic Late Merge System? Anyone? It's been around since 2004, with Minnesota one of the first states to adopt it. Apparently MNDOT occasionally puts out signs directing motorists to use the system, but I've sure never seen one.

Instead, I sit with clenched fists, muttering obscenities at the drivers zooming past, pushing their way into line at the last minute. NO CUTS NO BUTTS NO COCONUTS, bitches. I find it incredibly unfortunate that those douche bags who wait until the last second to merge are, actually, doing what they're supposed to. If you do too, your indignation may take solace in the fact that superior knowledge of traffic merging systems is clearly not why they do it.

So, drive carefully. Zipper Merge. Don't be a douche bag.

What other irritating errands can we make into a game?

Until a few weeks ago, I had never clipped a grocery coupon. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and I decided that I could maintain my shoe habit only if I managed to save money elsewhere.

I found a site called The Grocery Game. Hmm. Groceries? Games? Sounded interesting, so I signed up for their trial membership. And OH MY GOD I am hooked. It's shopping with coupons for people who hate shopping with coupons.

The Grocery Game folks track your local grocery store sale trends (which occur in 12-week cycles), matching them with the coupons in the Sunday paper. It's like a "Buy/Sell" rating for groceries; each week The Grocery Game tells you which sale items to combine with which coupons to get the best price.

I was pretty excited for someone else to do the comparison shopping for me. And then I realized I completely overlooked all of the possible ORGANIZATION! And PLANNING! And LISTS! Lordy I do love a good list.

Several weeks later, I am not only a Grocery Game devotee, but I am also THAT WOMAN. The one who marches up to Customer Service because my $0.50 coupon didn't ring up. The one who argues with the cashier about exactly what type of stewed tomatoes the coupon specifies. The one who scoops up discarded coupons from the aisle floor. It's a long way from having everything delivered (although there are still crowded Saturdays at the grocery store when I'm sure my cost-benefit analysis was accurate).

It's becoming frighteningly clear to me that my shoe obsession is slowly being replaced with a saving money obsession. Eh, it could be worse.

I am inadequately stimulated!

I check my bank account.

It is not as full as I had hoped. Fearing that the DNB has gone on another kitchen-supplies bender and returned with some much needed 2 1/2, 2 1/3, and 2 1/4 quart saucepans, I investigate further.

Blast! The media, it seems, has focused less on the "up to" portion of the economic stimulus amounts and more on the "$1200 per couple" part. I was drawn in! I believed the hype! It was on television!

Instead, we get a paltry $600 for the both of us. There go the expensive pasta-makers, the 7.6" santoku chef's knife/paring blade combo, and the designer shaving cream the DNB had his eye on.

As it turns out, the amount of money you get is directly related to your 2007 tax liability. Since I used every Fancy Legal Method I could to reduce our liability and increase our refund check, we got more then and less now. Would have been good to know, guys, before the DNB got his heart just positively set on a new blender attachment.

If you haven't gotten your deposit yet, you can check here for the amount you'll be stimulated, and here to see when. Chances are, it won't be quite enough or exactly when you need it. AMIRITE, LADIES?