Find the Smoking Toaster

First and foremost, a big sloppy wet welcome to my 9th follower, Jessica! Hola Hessica! One person closer to double digits. Feels good.

Anyway, if there was a theme for this week it would be....fire. Why? Indulge me to explain.

I was toasting an English muffin in our toaster oven on Monday when I suddenly noticed smoke building inside. Not inside our house, but inside the toaster. It had only been going for a few seconds, but still I turned the timer to 0. I was disappointed, as I hadn't anything else to eat for breakfast and I was already running late. I peered inside to see if a random crumb was on the heater bars when I noticed something that looked like burnt cheese on them instead. I suddenly recalled Joe saying he heated up some pizza the other night and assumed some of it's cheese had dripped off without his noticing.

I considered just going to work without breakfast, but worried I'd get into trouble with food the rest of the day. Quick side note: I heard someone use an old adage that said, "Breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, dinner like a pauper." It does make sense as a diet plan, sort of. If you are full in the morning you are less likely to overeat the rest of the day. However, when I think of eating alot in the morning my mind goes to making things like eggs and bacon; surely not what dietitians had in mind. So then what constitutes a big meal? A really big bagel? Two bowls of oatmeal? It's almost an oxymoron: eat alot of not alot. The only way I could reason in my head was by having a small bowl of cereal with a bread of some kind. Not sure if I'm getting any fitter, but I do find my mealtimes require less binge-eating.

Anyway, back to my toaster and English muffin. I didn't want it barely touched by heat, but I also didn't want to waste it. In the end, I popped it back in for a shorter amount of time and just watched. Sure enough, within a few seconds, the thing started smoking again. I waited as long as I thought safe and then turned it back off again. It had just crossed the not-toasted to toasted line, albeit barely. I slathered on some butter and peanut butter and made do. For the rest of the day I would get a dry charcoal taste in my mouth that reminded me of hamburgers. Not really a pleasant taste at 9:45 a.m.

The next day I opted instead to just buy a bagel from the kiosk in our office library. The guy behind the counter asked if I wanted him to heat it up for me.

"No thanks," I said. "I'll just pop it in the toaster oven in our office."

Back in our communal kitchen I broke the two halves apart and set them in the toaster. While I was getting some water I looked back and noticed the same exact smoke starting to billow. Although I was surprised at the odds of two toasters in my life starting to smoke, I was more panicked at getting in trouble with my co-workers. I could see the forwarded CC message now...

"To whoever was the dumbass who set fire to the kitchen: Can you go ahead and NOT do that? We here at ******* appreciate an unburnt kitchen but don't appreciate irresponsible temps using bagels as charcoal briquettes."

I quickly stopped the timer again, and waited till the smoke had seeped and slipped out before pulling out my, once again, barely heated breakfast bread.

Finally, today, as I decided to neither use my own toaster nor test the toaster in our office kitchen, I stopped at your favorite neighborhood McDonalds for my breakfast. A few hours later as I sat at my computer desk we were suddenly overcome by piercing buzzes and flashing lights. An unexpected fire drill was sounding, and as we all listlessly gathered our belongings and dared each other to take off for the rest of the day, I couldn't help but imagine some poor schlep was inside trying desperately to put out the flames of their Toaster Strudel.

I'm off to a wedding tomorrow night, folks, so have a good one! See you back on Monday!

Boo X 2

Jeez, I was just rereading what I had written back on Monday to realize where my story left off, and was taken aback by all my typos. For shame, me! What would other half-assed-barely legitimate-former English teachers like you say? I apologize to the actual English teachers out there for my glaring inaccuracies. Anyway, let me bang the rest of this story out...

So there I was, on the line, with no looking back. As we climbed onto the bus and found some seats, the same guy with the elaborate make-up stood up to tell us the rules.

"Please do not touch the monsters as they are not allowed to touch you.." I heard the word "monster" and I suddenly slipped down into my seat, shaking. I know this probably sounds a little melodramatic, but I couldn't help my reaction. I was silent for the whole 45 seconds we were on the bus, and as we started to disembark I briefly considered making a run to the nearest bar to wait for the rest, calling my apologies out over my shoulder. Instead, I knew I was in it. I'd have no choice but to go forward.

Thankfully, the girls were great about calming me down, although I had a slight panic when they led me over to sign a waiver. Yeah, a waiver!? I barely put my pen to the paper, suddenly terrified. Carly led me back towards the line, and as we waited to get in I noticed a girl of about 7 or 8 coming out of the attraction. She was talking excitedly to her family members or friends, and seemed overall unharmed.

I suddenly jolted back in my memories, recalling the time my sisters and I were in Magic Kingdom the last time and they were dragging me onto the Haunted Mansion ride. I was quite literally pitching a fit, when they beseeched the man at the door of the ride to simply tell me it was ok, and not that scary. He looked us over, with his pale made-up face, and said in his spookiest voice, "I wouldn't go in there, if I were yoooou." Thanks alot, Casper. Way to earn that theater internship and complimentary Disney stock.

I was still freaking out, until we noticed several kids, much younger than I, talking about how they had been on the Haunted Mansion ride a bunch of times. Suddenly, one of my sisters turned to me and said, "Really? These kids could be on an elementary school trip and YOU'RE freaking out?" That shut me up. Save a few whimpers, anyway.

I felt exactly as foolish then as I did now on that line. Except I was much older. And the kids looked even younger. I tried to compose myself, but the characters, noticing my fidgety hands and quick screams, found in me an ideal patron: gullible, blind, and already a barrel full of a fear. As we finally made our way into the actual penitentiary, I swear I could hear them whispering to each other in their headsets...

"Glasses, ponytail, and blue sweatshirt. Go go go!" They loved to get right in my ear, breathe on my neck, and wait for me to turn the corner before popping out. Finally as we headed for the last section, the others reminded me to simply avoid eye contact, and then they'd leave you alone. I was glad to listen to this advice, as it did keep them from attacking me full force, as they had on the other three sections.

When we finally made it out, I screamed a sigh of relief. Later on as we were making our way back, the braver and more experienced haunted-house visitors gave their critique.

"That was ok. But if you thought that was scary, you don't want to go to Field of Screams..." You're right, I really don't. I was glad I didn't totally wuss out and make myself an even bigger coward in front of the group. But I'll also be happy to never go to another one of those things again....Which way to the Spinning Teacups and Flight of Peter Pan??

Town-haunted-house?

So that was weird. Maybe I've been watching too much X-files, or maybe it's just the spirit(s) of the season, but I got all kinds of freaked out last night. I'll give you the quick recap and then continue with my description of my trek to Eastern State Penitentiary...

As I was typing last night's post, I was sitting in my living, towel tightly wound around my wet hair, with just the tall living room lamp on. Joe and Georgia had gone up to bed not long ago, and I was on such a roll I figured I'd get up to bed soon myself.

Suddenly I heard what sounded like papers dropping to the floor. I quickly glanced up, and realized it had come from the kitchen. Whereas usually an odd sound will come and go so quickly your mind reasonably dismisses it, the sound lasted a good few seconds. So long in fact, that it freaked me out enough to holler up to Joe a few times. He didn't answer and I was so immediately afraid I quickly finished my sentence and closed down my comp and headed upstairs.

I walked into the bedroom, trying to not wake Joe, but because our floors are all creaky hard wood, it was hard not to. When he told me to come to bed, I asked if he had heard me calling him. He said he didn't though I thought I said it pretty loud. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth when suddenly I heard what sounded like heavy footsteps walking up our stairs. Wanting to finally confirm that I was not crazy I yelled to Joe again.

"Did you hear that??" I asked, with a mouth full of toothpaste.

"I was cracking my ankle," he yelled back.

"No, it sounded like footsteps!"

"I didn't hear anything, but it was probably just the neighbors."

I spat out the foamy paste and rinsed my mouth. "No, it definitely sounded like it was right inside. Right up here."

He said again he didn't hear anything but when I finally came to bed he asked if it sounded like the bed moving. I said it did sound like creaking, so he recreated the motion he had done to crack his ankle. Sure enough, it sounded like creaks I had heard. Although it seemed that the mystery was solved, I still held a smidgen of doubt.

Besides, we've had other kinds weird things happening. Now, it might not seem like much, but all our light bulbs seem to be going out the same time. I guess you could imagine, rationally, that whoever installed the lights might've done so around the same time, so it would make sense for them to go out around the same time. But, as Joe pointed out, we aren't using them all the same amount. Probably nothing, but still kinda weird.

Another kinda scary thing happened yesterday as well. I have a route that Georgia and I take for our run around town. I actually don't mind it, and in some instances look forward to it; there always seems to be something new to see or people to meet. Anyway we were just about winding down when we decided to do a final loop around our block. As we were coming back around all of a sudden a big junkyard-looking dog jumped out, barked and began chasing us. My instincts told me to run, but I recalled something I had seen on "It's Me or the Dog" where Victoria Stillwell said that if a strange dog is coming after you you must remain still. (See, television CAN be educational) Luckily the advice worked like magic; as if broken from a spell the dog suddenly stopped dead in its' tracks and trotted away. I quickly scooped Georgia up and dropped her into the safety of our yard. When I relayed the story to Joe, I suddenly became nervous all over again. I thought I had met all the dogs in the neighborhood, all of which have proven to be quite tame and friendly, and this one looked neither familiar nor friendly. In fact, I didn't even spy a tag on it, so the very presence of a strange dog in a very dog-prevalent neighborhood struck me as unusual.

One of the nice things about living in apartment complexes is that you never really fear the presence of ghosts or lingering spirits, because apartments, for the most part, are for people in transition or in need of temporary lodging. But now that we are living in a townhouse, not to mention one that has been around since the 50s, I guess it's more likely that connections could exist. I dunno, but I do hope that whatever freaky stuff is happening quits it soon. Or, at the latest, November 1st.

Sorry I didn't get around to finishing the Penitentiary story. I'll make that priority numero uno for manana. Until then, g'nite!

Boo Time

Not sure what the hell I did to my format. I was looking at other people's blogs and love how unique they made them so I tried tinkering with it back on Thursday. Unfortunately, I couldn't really figure it out before I decided to close down for the night, so I guess it save whatever changes I made. If anyone has any insight or (the better option) wants to design mine for me, I have a crisp $1 with your name on it. Ok, enough business, onto the blog...

So much happened this weekend that it would probably require multiple posts to get it all, so instead I'll simply recap one momentous and (hopefully) amusing experience.

In case anyone was not aware, Joe and I took a small overnight trip to Philly with our married friends, Shawn and Carly, to experience the Eastern State Penitentary. This came about a few weeks ago while the four of us were out in our yard having a few beers and shooting the shit. Shawn and Carly were discussing their love of a "good scare", especially in the form of local haunted house-productions. You know the kind where people dress up and appear around the corners or pop out of the walls?

They encouraged us to come along with them sometime, at which point I thoroughly, but politely, declined. Moments later they mentioned how they were planning to see the Penitentary at night with a guided tour. For that, my ears pricked up.

"I'd do that!" I exclaimed, trying to regain some bravery-points.

They looked a little puzzled, and asked why I'd be willing to do something based in reality, but not something fake. I tried to rationalize it for them and myself. I guess because I have a profound fascination with history. I love hearing stories and then traveling to those places to see and touch them. Plus, I enjoy the comforting bubble a guided tour offers you. No matter how scary something appears, you can still remind yourself that your in good hands...even if those hands belong to a barely pubescent 17 year old wearing a plastic badge and carrying a cheap flashlight that probably came from a Happy Meal.

They seemed satisfied enough, and with that Carly booked the trip.

As we stood in the long line waiting for our turn to ride the bus that would take us over to the Penitentary, I suddenly noticed an employee walk by wearing some elaborate face-makeup. My heart skipped a beat. All I had kept saying in the car that day was "I really hope it's not one of those pop-out and scare you things...."

Ok, more tomorrow

After School Special Blog

Hum, this stuff on my teeth feels weird. Kinda reminds of when I had my braces and they gave me this clear waxy stuff I used to have to put on my teeth whenever I'd get those sores or blisters inside my mouth from the metal rubbing against my cheeks. It feels like a mix of that and when you stuff gum inside your lip. Anyone else ever do that?

Anyway, I had another visit to the dentist today. Don't worry, I won't bore you with yet another dental-recap. Suffice it to say I was reminded about two things today: 1.) What getting a cavity filled feels like. 2.) I have a small mouth.

The latter was something I never really noticed as a physical trait, but today Dr. Baig was the second dentist to acknowledge. The first was the oral surgeon, who asked me to open up as wide as I could, and when I did so, he said, "Wow, you have a small mouth." Thanks, I guess?

And then today, as Dr. Baig asked the same of me, she mentioned it again.

"Open wide. Ok, that's a wide as you go." It wasn't like a question; it was more stated as a fact. The sky is blue. The economy sucks. Your mouth is small.

But I'll take having the feeling I have gobs of crap on my teeth, so long as it helps the sensitivity. And speaking of sensitivity (call me Sally Segue)...

I am such a whiney pain in the ass. I absolutely can not stop myself from comparing myself to other people, even when it really doesn't matter. Allow me to explain.

So my fremp Alex sent me a link to another blogger's site that she said was really funny. Actually, it was because of Alex and another blog she sent me a link to that got me thinking that I ought to try blogging, myself. I ended up not reading it anymore though. I became paranoid that I'd start to model this thing just like the other one's. But she sent me another one today.

I read it, enjoyed the cartoons that I assume were created by the blogger, and enjoyed the stories as well. Then I happened to look to the side of the blog, and noticed she had over 2,000 followers! She even had some stupid writer's copyright crap that I'm pretty sure was done FOR her.

Don't misunderstand. I freaking literally love ANYONE who bothers to take the time to read this b.s. I blather on about everyday. I am grateful to every last one of you, follower or not.

I don't really know why it bothers me so much. I guess because I like the idea of blogging as a pretty neutral playing field. Anyone who wants to can have a blog and write about anything. There's no real pressure because you aren't competing with anyone. But you are. And I SUCK at competitions. I was so the "thanks, but I think I'll just watch" kind of person growing up, but when you start to do something you like and really want to succeed at it, you are bound to be thrown into competition, because chances are, someone else out there wants your dream for themselves. So I guess the competition is supposed to help you improve and rise to the occasion, or some other after-school special sounding crap.

Anyway, thanks for letting me have my bitch-out. Please, please do not feel the need to soothe my lame ego, but instead leave comments about how you deal with feeling inadequate at times.

Tomorrow's post- "What I Use as a Tissue"

The Maine Event

Holy crap, I completely missed my centennial! Can't believe it's been 100 posts. What the hell have I been talking about all this time? Hopefully something entertaining.

Anyway, I'm on a tight time-restriction. Joe's on his way home from the studio and he insisted that since I used the excuse that I was too tired to watch x-Files last night, I couldn't use it again. I've therefore been ordered to write in the blog right now so we can watch an episode when he gets home.

So what to talk about? Well, I hate to keep beating a dead horse with this whole weddings and marriage thing, but Beck had a good suggestion for tonight's post. I was at work, hardly working, when I decided to check my email. Low and behold I had almost 13 new messages, all from the same 5 cousins. Apparently Beck had sent out a mass message to all of us asking what we were going to wear to our cousin Graham's wedding (which is taking place next weekend).

You ever see My Big Fat Greek Wedding? I know they are Greek, but when it comes to family matters, Greek and Irish are quite similar, especially when it comes to big events. Among the girls in the family, the question always comes around to, "what are you going to wear?" However, since I pretty much cashed in my femininity check a looong time ago, I was satisfied with just reading what everyone else was saying. (Seriously, I looked at pics of me at my cousin Kristen and Evan's wedding. Why I had opted for the pink, puffy, short dress, (at 25) I'll never know. Even my younger cousins looked more elegant than me, while I looked as awkward as a hippo in a tutu.)

In any event, Beck mentioned I should describe some of our family's past weddings as tonight's blog, but since time is a factor I shall relay my memories of the first wedding I really recall, a.k.a. Why I Don't Drink Midori Sours Anymore. Enjoy.

The first wedding I really recall was my cousin Rachel's. Hers was pretty momentous, as she was the first of all the cousins to make that big adult step, so we were thrilled. What was even more exciting was that she and her now husband Chris decided to do a destination wedding in Maine, a favorite family vacation spot for all of us. Linds and I joined Hill and her boyfriend in his car for the drive up, where we were given a full lesson on early Police songs. We all booked rooms in the same hotel in Portland, so we felt as if the hotel was all ours. Unfortunately there was some maintenance being done in some areas, so besides the occasional wall stain and odd buckets here and there, it was very charming.

Months earlier all the Dempsey sisters were a buzz with phone calls and long discussions on the beach consisting of who was wearing what to the wedding. So when the day finally arrived we were all running around each other's rooms, borrowing these earrings or that perfume (again, like My Big Fat Greek Wedding). This was also very momentous because this would be the first social gathering with my family in which I'd casually (and carefully) have a drink or two. But since we didn't want to piss the caterers off, we snuck a few small beverages in our hotel room after the ceremony. I was still a rookie in the drinking game, so I told my sister's boyfriend that I wanted something "easy". He brought out some Sour Watermelon Pucker, which we mixed with handy dandy Sprite. It tasted awesome, actually...in a super-sugary-yank-your-teeth-outta-your-head kinda way.

Anyway with our Pucker buzz goin we hit the reception. Everyone was dancing and laughing, having a wonderful time. At some point a waiter asked us what we'd like to drink. I'm pretty sure Beck and I exchanged glances. What were we supposed to say? We wanted something, but didn't want to suggest the wrong thing. We asked just for something sweet, at which point he brought us these Ecto-cooler neon Kermit green drinks. We took a sip and were relieved that it tasted similar to our Pucker drinks. We paraded around the reception feeling like such big shots, although I'm pretty sure we were deservedly mocked by our relatives.

The next day I felt like a hammer was being chucked out of my head from the inside. I stumbled over to the bathroom and noticed my face creased with makeup and my eyes bloodshot. I didn't recognize her at first, but I had just been introduced to Hungover Me. I felt the sickening sweetness of watermelon in the back of my throat and wanted to vomit. It was then that I vowed never to drink Midori Sours again.

We wished Rachel good luck with her future, sending off one of our own. And as I sat in the back of my sister's boyfriend's car, listening to "Canary in a Coalmine" for the 11th time that trip, I reflected on how quickly time goes by. If there ever was a moment when you can physically point to and say you've officially grown-up, marriage must surely be it. It was strange to see a direct cousin of ours make it to that particular moment. I could barely comprehend it, although what did I know? I was still a teenager, nursing my very first hangover, and vowing never to do something so stupid again. I stuck to that promise too...for a few years anyway.

Marriage Whoas

I might need a ruling on this, but I've been watching episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 online...is that cheating? Technically the show's been off the air for years, so it couldn't be a show I'd normally watch. Besides, since the majority of the show is a movie, does it really count as television-watching? I'm not sure, but seeing as how the colder months are coming up fast, I'm going to just say they don't. But speaking of MST3K...

If you aren't a fan and have never heard about it, it's basically a show about this guy and his robots (puppets) in space that are being chased by an evil woman named Pearl Forrester who forces them to watch bad movies. The fun part? You get to hear their hilarious riffs while you suffer through the movie with them. Such a genius show, I don't know why it got cancelled.

Anyway, they also sometimes show some "shorts" in addition to the movie. I caught one, which must've dated back to the early 50s, and was a sort of PSA meets after-school special about marriage. I was amused at the outdated-ness of it (as were the guys on the show), however it made me think about marriage as a whole.

I know I haven't been the biggest supporter of marriage; in fact, I've been downright terrified and critical of it. I've often tried to pin down where all this fear stems from. Theoretically, I should be delighted at the thought of marriage; my parents are still married, Joe's parents are married, and most of the people in my family are still married. So why the fear? I guess because there is such pressure to maintain a marriage. And anyone who knows me knows I'm not big on the whole "pressure" thing.

And I guess I'm critical because I've seen people get married for the wrong reason (and hence, divorce). I could never understand these girls that married right away, after barely knowing the guy. It seems they are more doing it for the novelty and not the real commitment. They don't think, as they look around at their multi-million dollar wedding, and take John Doe's hand, look into his eyes, and say the overly-rehearsed vows....I'm going to be with this man for the REST OF MY LIFE. Not just as he is now, strapping and confident, but later on...when he's shuffling about and incontinent, mumbling on about which diner sells the best scrambled eggs and telling you the same story for the 34th time...that day.

I've been to several weddings and there are more still to come. And here I sit on the bench, clutching my hesitation like a glove to my chest, and watch. Luckily, these weddings consisted of people who really did see the person for who they are before taking to the alter, like my cousins and Joe's family and friends.

Meanwhile, as I watch more and more so n' so hyphen so n' sos appear on Facebook, I've been with Joe as long if not longer than these people, I have to ask myself why do they not feel the fear I do?

Maybe because they know something I don't. It's like going into the deep end of the pool for the first time. You take what you know, close your eyes, hold your breath, and take the plunge...and then just hope you made it through alive.

Wow, sorry if this was a lame duck, folks. What can I say? They can't all be winners. I'll bring the funny tomorrow.