Mr. Happy Dinosaur's Day on the Town

Mr. Happy Dinosaur? He doesn't get out much. It's not that he's scared of the big, bad world. On the contrary - he's a fucking dinosaur. Nothing scares him.

No, he just likes human companionship. And to be perfectly honest, that Lamby Lamb character gets on his nerves once in a while. You see, Mr. Happy Dinosaur has been through so much - meteorites falling from the sky, the age of mammals, Woodstock... And Lamby Lamb is only a few years old and therefore just doesn't "get it."

In happier times...

So Mr. Happy D tagged along with me (and later Mike) for the day. There were places to go and people and things to see! Food to eat and things to drink!

First off, he accompanied me to my brother's house, and realized that the passenger seat was a pretty sweet place to be.

Watching the Detroit Lions lose - again - was too much for him to bear. He needed a beer.

Later that day, he accompanied me and Mike to dinner. As we drove past the construction site of a Walmart going in near Mike's house, he could barely contain his disgust:

I think that he felt more comfortable in Mike's new car:

At Dos Pesos, it was clear that all he really needed was a Coke:

Oh, and some jicama:

But really, he was most interested in Mike's enchiladas:

On the drive home, he got a hold of the iPod:

All in all, it was a banner day for Mr. Happy D. He got good food and drinks, lots of time in the car, and time away from Lamby Lamb. A good day.

WHY Do I Not Own This?

Okay, so this is just a little too expensive to buy for myself, but seriously? I want it. I really want it. Maybe I'll give up coffee for a week or something.

It is a magnetic birdie paperclip holder, and when you add or remove a paperclip, IT FREAKING TWEETS. And you can make the paperclips look like wings. And it TWEETS.

Oh my gosh. Excuse me, I have to go have a conniption.

First Harvest

Step One: Plant a plant in the ground.

Step Two: ...

Step Three: Profit.

The first harvest is looking good, I must say.

I Took Some Pictures of Wildlife You Should Look At Them

I think that the bee might be visiting this particular plant because it is across the street from the Honey House. I don't know if that's what its residents call the place, but that's what I call it because the man sells jars of honey off of his front porch and has multiple hives in the backyard.

Only in Ann Arbor, I'm telling you.

I've heard that eating local honey does wonders for people with allergies, because the bees visit the local flora and make honey that helps to build up allergen resistance.

Long story short, does anyone find this strange?

Backseat Dinosaur

I got into a University van the other day to head down to the medical campus and he was in the backseat. He made my day.

But he was such a backseat driver.

Evil Genius Cat Has Discovered a Loophole

The funny thing is that you think that I am just sitting here next to your ridiculously large basil plant, staring into the backyard below, contemplating which bird is chirping and how to get it to shut the hell up.

What you don't realize is that I am silently planning on hand-ramming the screen in your screen door in order to gain access to your apartment.

I think that it is funny that you don't realize this.

I also enjoy the fact that your landlord's handyman has yet to fix the broken screen in your door and has instead placed several slices of computer paper over the square. A square that is more than ample in size to admit my svelte form.

I find it amusing that you do not believe me. That you do not realize how deathly serious I am about ramming that flimsy paper with my powerful head of POWER.

ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME NOW? ARE YOU?

Socks. Boo-urns.

Today I wore shoes and socks for the first time in months, and it wasn't pleasant.

I mean, I knew that this day had to come. It just happens around this time of year. It wasn't that it was going to be frigidly awful outside. On the contrary - it was going to be sixty-something degrees. But... it was supposed to rain all day.

Now, wearing flip flops is one of my favorite things to do. Ever. I love flip flops that much. I have several pair of Reefs, and they are comfortable and arch-supporting, and completely the opposite of the plastic three-dollar pairs at Old Navy. I wear them into the ground (I still have a pair purchased in 1996, and I am totally serious about this). They are amazing!

But wearing flip flops - any flip flops - in the rain? Not fun. It's fine for running to your car, or for short errands, but when it comes to walking two miles home in the rain? That is a difficult, slippery, enraging walk. One that I would not wish on my WORST ENEMY.

So when the day comes when I must throw my Reefs in the corner and put on actual socks and shoes, it's... well, it's a little depressing.

So there I was, running late for work (because... do you know me? It's pretty much my m.o.), and lo! By looking outside, I determined that flip flops are simply not an option. For the first time in months, I dug in the closet for a pair of sneakers, freeing them from their solitude (but hey, at least they had each other, right?), and prepared them for their big day.

As I walked to the bus, things got irritating. My feet were hot. The laces were constricting. My feet were getting angry, and there was nothing I could do! The socks were a foreign fabric, enveloping my feet, and all they wanted was to burst from the shoes and run around as nature intended.

So it was a rough day, is what I'm saying.

Butterfinger Pumpkin: A Review

I don't know if I could ever pick my favorite candy bar, because it seems to change all of the time, but Butterfingers and Kit Kats will always be competing for the top spot.

Imagine my delight when I saw a Halloween-themed Butterfinger treat at the drugstore on campus:

OH WHAT LIES WITHIN.

Now that I had a Butterfinger Pumpkin in my possession, I could just sense that it was going to be a glorious day.

Well, it wasn't. And it was all Mr. Butterfinger Pumpkin's fault. Assface.

First off, what do you think should have happened when I eagerly took my first bite? I think that there should have been a mixture of happiness and fulfilled longing, crunchiness and chocolatey-ness. ELATION.

But no! Instead, there was a mixture of chocolate and Butterfingery goodness inside. A MIXTURE. A mixture that was more chocolate than anything else. BOO!

When I buy a Butterfinger, it's because I want the delicious peanut butter crispiness within. If I want chocolate, I will buy a Hershey bar or perhaps a Kit Kat (you know, to mix it up). You raise my expectations and then make me sad, Butterfinger Pumpkin!

And now that I think about it? I think that I fell for this around Eastertime with a Butterfinger egg. DAMN YOU, Nestle!

Now That I'm Realizing How Much Money I've Been Wasting, I Want to Throw Myself Off Of a Building

I hate admitting that I am wrong. That I was wrong. That I will possibly be wrong at some point in the future. The whole idea of giving up the infectious power of BEING CORRECT makes me nauseous.

It's bad enough when I am wrong... having to admit it? Gah.

So here goes, "Jill, I was wrong. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG."

And now you're all, "OMG, what was Heather wrong about?" and "My stars, who the hell is this Jill person?"

You see, I was lucky enough to meet Jill last summer, while temping at the Medical School. She hated her real job, and I hated my temp job, and eventually she transferred out to another department, and I got a real, actual job that paid me benefits. Which was awesome for the both of us, except that we were now working miles apart. MILES.

So because she drives to work and stays there all day, she has a parking permit. I work there in the mornings only, and then have to get my ass to Central Campus, where a good parking spot is more valuable than 77 virgins. So I hadn't gotten a parking pass because lo! Buses exist! And I could take one in the morning and then when that job was over, I would take another to my main job! Of course, that would mean an hour of bus riding each day, but that's what books are for!

So that happened. For about three weeks. Then I started getting lazy. Hitting snooze repeatedly. Staying at Mike's. Staying at Mike's and hitting snooze repeatedly. And I started driving to the A.M. job.

For someone like me, without a permit, it costs $1.10 per hour to park in the visitor lot. I work for four hours, give or take fifteen minutes here and there. That's ... almost five dollars a day! And I've been doing this for... way longer than I would like to admit.

So Jill told me, pretty much every time I talked to her, that paying for visitor parking was completely retarded and that I should get a parking pass. I may be a temp employee up here on North Campus (making me ineligible for a pass), but I am a salaried employee on Central Campus. BEATING THE SYSTEM IS FUN.

Yet, I ignored her. It would be silly to have a pass! There are many gradations of permits, and the one I would need to park up on North Campus was practically nonexistent on Central Campus.

But the other day, when waltzing into work, I noticed a sign about parking permits and how "easy!" it was to order one! So I checked out the site.

Basically, I can park up here for less than twelve bucks each month, and the fee is taken out of my paycheck before taxes. So six dollars every two weeks, or five dollars A DAY?

So I ordered a permit.

And I wonder why I never have money to like, buy food. God, I'm an idiot.

It Could Have Happened on Saved By the Bell, I'm Sure

Me: "Oh, fantastic. I have a huge zit between my eyes."
BF: "Oh no! And the prom is tomorrow!"

(Actually, didn't Kelly get a zit before some contest that involved a tiara? And she was convinced that no one would vote for her since she was "hideous?" And all of her friends put on fake zits or something to mend her self-esteem (which apparently wasn't very high, even considering she was pretty and popular and a cheerleader AND a singer in a girl group called Hot Sundae?) I'M so excited, Kelly! And I just can't hide it!)

I'm Old Now... Apparently I'm Just Now Realizing This

I knew that thirty was going to hit me eventually, but I had no idea when. Would it be this past week, when all of the freshmen moved into the dorms? Would it be earlier this week, when I realized that incoming college freshmen were born in 1992?

(Seriously, they were BORN in 1992.)

No, it was Tuesday, when I was at the mall spending my birthday gift cards.

I hit up Ann Taylor, Banana Republic, and JCrew (which never fails to remind me of awesome old roommate, Jenny. Hi Jenny!), as well as The Limited and Williams Sonoma. I know that this sounds excessive, but trust me, this is not how I usually shop. Gift cards, peeps. Gift cards. I roamed about a bit before aimlessly strolling into H&M.

I soon realized that I needed to get the hell out of there. Fast. You know, before someone mistook me for a narc or something. It's not that I can't wear some of the clothes in there, I can. But most of the things in there? I wore them in the eighties. And doesn't the rule state that if you wore a trend once, you can't wear it again when it rolls back around? Much like technology, fashion is cyclical. You can't escape leggings! You can't! They'll be back in 2030!

So I'm totally fine with not being able to wear the majority of the styles in that place, but what happened to the basics they used to carry? V-neck sweaters and cotton t-shirts? I couldn't find them. Appropriately-lengthed skirts and fitted shirts? Nowhere. Everything there is horribly hideous and the worst part is that I know that I am going to be seeing most of it on campus.

But what I find really strange? All of the plaid flannel shirts. I was completely unaware that grunge was making a comeback. Yay for Stone Temple Pilots and Nirvana!

Wait. I already did grunge. In eighth grade. Dammit.

Pandas

I don't remember when Mike found this on the internets, but every few days or so, I manage to watch it. Again and again. My favorite part is near the end - the pandas. If you're easily insulted, especially about religion-y stuff, I'd skip this one...

Mr. Happy Dinosaur Makes a Friend and Builds a Pillow Fort

That's Lamby Lamb. MISTER Lamby Lamb to you. He is a lamb, but thinks he's a ram. He rams everything. EVERYTHING.

Mike says that ramming people in the FACE is his way of saying "hello," and also, "I love you."

But let me tell you - he KNOWS that it hurts when he rams me in the face when I am wearing my glasses. Oh, HE KNOWS.

A Little Help Here

Oh my GOD, I think that I am going to go insane.

Microsoft Office Suite. Hello. I know that you think that you are quite slick by "helpfully" including formatting shortcuts, but guess what? YOU CANNOT READ MY MIND. No, you cannot! So stop "anticipating" what you think that I want, because even I don't know what I want 93% of the time. QUIT IT.

I use excel for the very, very basic reason for which it was envisioned. I create mailing lists. But OH MY GOD, somebody explain to me why excel hates me so much? (Maybe it's because I think that all excel can do is make mailing lists?)

When I enter an email address, I'm usually not finished with the document, and I have more information to enter like a helper monkey. So I move to another cell. I accomplish this by clicking something else or hitting the return or tab key. Immediately, the fucking email address changes to a different, ugly, stupid font, turns blue, and becomes a fucking hyperlink. HOW DO I MAKE THIS STOP??!?!?

I swear to GOD, if I had money, I would send it to anyone who would tell me how to make this stop. But since I do not have money of any kind, I will send you a thank you card. I WILL.