Tall Curly Biscuit

Hi Dear Ones,

What have you been up to? I was just researching online about how to fix a leaky outdoor faucet. Then I realized that if I had time to think about doing something like that just so I could have bragging rights over my husband (along with the superior attitude), then I had time to blog.

A couple of weeks ago, I got the coolest t-shirt! It says, “Last Night A Blogger Saved My Live.”

Find your own at JC Penny’s

How awesome is that? I’m pretty sure that other bloggers have saved my life a few times, so it’s true.

AND, when I wore the shirt on Saturday, I happened to save my newborn nephew’s life. Maybe. Possibly. And let’s not get tied up in semantics about I’m the blogger and who saved my life and whatnot. The point is that I wore that shirt and then did a good deed. Basically, I suggested that my sister-in-law, who was 39 weeks preggers, go into the doctor when she experienced some unusual symptoms. She thought it wasn’t anything to worry about, but I insisted. I drove her to the hospital, and it turned out she needed an emergency c-section. It all worked out; everyone is healthy now. Thank God. And blogger t-shirt magic.

The new baby’s name is Logan. (Should have been named Angelo after me, or perhaps Baby Biscuit, but whatever.) I posted pictures of him on my personal Facebook page. Then I posted a photo of the nurse holding him up like the daddy lion does in The Lion King, and I captioned it “Baby Simba.” A friend thought I posted two babies — twins, since the names were different: baby Logan and baby Simba.

That made me laugh so hard. There is only one baby, but what a name combination for twins! Logan and Simba. How about Isaac and Jin-Choo? Or Thurman and Seamus? Destiny and Edna? Biscuit and Pita Chip?

Do you have funny name combination suggestions just in case any readers are having twins? Or stories of life-saving bloggers? Please post them in the comments!

Oh my goodness, Dear Readers.

I didn’t mean to offend you. I realized today that my last article was about ruthless prioritization and then I didn’t post in a month. Skeptics would say that my readers are not important to me, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

The reality is that I’ve been very busy with the only things that take priority, which are mainly family and work. Here’s a true illustration of my commitment to you:

I have fire ants in my bed. Every few nights or so, one or two mysteriously appear on my side of the bed, deep in the sheets. This has been going on for a couple of months. The fire ants seem near death when I find them every morning because I destroy them in my fitful sleep, but still.

When I first found a few ants in my room, I deep cleaned and had the pest control guy out and whatnot. My mattress is new, and I wash my bedding vigilantly. The ants went away for a while, but now they’re back to get me. The only explanation I can come up with for the new ants is that there’s an air vent over my side of the bed, and one fire ant at a time drops down from the ceiling occasionally.

Every day I forget to call my pest control company about the new ants. The owner goes to my church, and I told him about this issue on Sunday. He asked why I hadn’t called, and I shrugged. I’m too busy with other things to worry about fire ants biting my legs in the middle of the night. On Monday, he called me to follow up. I still haven’t returned the call.

Because of the the ants — and possibly the wine — alligators, snakes, piranhas, and more snakes visit me each night in my dreams and snap at me.

But here I am, posting on this blog when I could be taking action against the things really causing the bites on my behind.

So, the blog ranks here: God, family, work, the hit TV series Homeland, blog readers, urgent fire ant problem.

I hope you know how much I appreciate you all.

Love,
TCB

Ruthless prioritization: This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. I heard the specific phrase used by Yahoo.com CEO Marissa Mayer.

With a huge company to run and a newborn baby, that’s how she determines how to spend her precious minutes. I’ve been trying to run my life with ruthless prioritization because it’s the only way I can stay on top of things. It’s not super fun, but I’ve become quite an efficient machine. Plus, with only a few Christmas-related exceptions, I haven’t stepped foot into TJ Maxx or Michael’s in a couple of years, which has saved me hours upon hours. Those stores make my blood run warm and sweet… oh gosh, the self-control makes my body ache. I need some unneccessary craft products NOW!

But ruthless. I love the word ruthless. It implies an unmatched level of sharp, logical decisions that might hurt feelings and make people mad, depending on where they rank in your priority ladder. It’s not personal. Ninjas and CIA agents are ruthless—all the cool people, you know. I love the word because I romanticize it, and I romanticize it because I’m the opposite of ruthless. I’m a softie people pleaser who cries at the drop of a hat and is distracted by fun and interesting things. Usually.

The only exception is when it comes to Santa Claus. I’ve always gotten pleasure from telling children that there is no Santa and then laughing at them when they cry. I tell them with laser-like focus and intensity. Then I laugh.

What can I do for you today?

Are you ruthless? How? And most importantly, why? I think it’s important that you enjoy it.

*I had lots of wine while writing this and thought it was hilarious. My bad. Also, I haven’t spilled the beans on Santa since I was five or six, but the thought of those kids’ faces still makes me laugh.

***Here’s an update from my last blog post, where I freaked out a woman I don’t know by recognizing her as the owner of a yellow submarine belt buckle she had worn two months earlier and matching her to a lost set of keys with a yellow submarine keychain: Two days after the night at the movies, I had something to return to that very customer service department where she worked. My husband was with me, and we joked about how funny it would be for me to go up to the counter and tell her in an intense, serious voice, “I blogged about you last night.” Thank goodness for all of us that she wasn’t there that day.***

The submarine belt buckle reminded me of the somewhat questionable clothing I’ve recently worn.

Me, in a bright green blouse and purple coat, ready for a party: How do I look? Is it too colorful?

Andy: Uhhh… good. Kinda like the Joker, but in a good way.

How is that good? Do I need to change?

Andy: It’s the Joker’s colors. Just like if I had on all black you’d say I looked like Batman.

No. No, I wouldn’t say that.

My husband and my best friend both criticize my clothing choices on a regular basis, but as long as they hurl creative insults, I’m okay with it. I recently brought home a fitted leopard print dress. I was a little unsure about what to wear to a special event, and I thought it was a safe move. Wait… I thought a full-body animal print was safe? Gosh, there’s a strong possibility I have horrible taste.

Do you like this dress?

Andy: Mmm, no. You look like a New Jersey mob wife. It fits well, but it’s too much. What’s with that gold chain on the neck? Is that part of the dress?

Yes, it’s part of the dress. This is a nice brand. You really don’t like it? Would you be embarrassed to be seen with me?

Yeah, I would. You look like a cougar at a Holiday Inn bar. I don’t like it at all.

What??? The Holiday Inn bar? I don’t even get the Hilton?

No, not the Hilton. This is definitely more of a Holiday Inn look.

My friend, who came over later to give an opinion: Mmm, I don’t know. Are those the shoes you would wear with it? (pointing to the black bootie heels I had out)

Yes… (slipping shoes on so she could get the full effect)

(snickering turning to outright laughter) You look like Stifler’s Mom.

Regarding Stifler’s mom from the American Pie movies: It’s not what I was going for.

So that was a solid no on the leopard print dress with extraneous gold chains.

A couple of weeks later these two told me that my new scarf looked like a Bill Cosby sweater. They advised that wearing the scarf and matching hat sent me over the edge into African Diplomat territory, but the scarf on its own was acceptable because Bill Cosby sweaters are still in the midst of a comeback. It was a risk I was willing to take. I looked Cosby-tastic on my recent trip to NYC and got preferred parking at several United Nations sites.

Check out these Bill Cosby sweater cookies:

You know you’ve reached the pinnacle of pop culture success when you’ve been embodied in sugar cookie form. Photo from kscakes.blogspot.com

What odd trinkets/ belt buckles/ scarves/ general weird clothing are you a fan of right now? Do you receive any entertaining insults?

In other words, how will I know what set of keys to match you up with? You probably need to read my last post for this to make any sense whatsoever.

I went to the movies and saw Les Miserables last night. Have you seen it yet? I love the debates about it flying around the internet. It’s more fun when we debate Les Mis, Shades of Gray, Twilight, and Elf on the Shelf instead of politics, guns, and sports, although I think people get equally worked up about all those subjects. (Have you ever hung out with a Twi-hard?) Overall I liked Les Mis, but I got distracted halfway through by an astonishing coincidence. Here’s what happened:

It was already dark when some friends and I got out of the car to go into the theater, but a set of keys on the ground in the parking lot caught my eye. I picked them up and looked around; the owner was nowhere in sight. The keychain had a yellow submarine on it. In the back of my mind I knew I had recently seen another yellow submarine, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. Hmm. I turned the keys in at the theater desk hoping that the owner was in the movies and not at one of the several surrounding restaurants or shops.

Once we were settled with our popcorn and drinks, I recognized one of the people sitting in front of me. She works in customer service at a store I frequent. She’s easy to remember because she has a very alternative look, but there was no reason for her to know me so I didn’t say hello.

Halfway through the movie, it dawned on me. The last place I saw a yellow submarine (besides on the keychain) was on this woman’s belt buckle when she helped me in customer service about two months earlier. I just knew that the keys had to be hers. I couldn’t concentrate on the movie anymore because 1) Marius sounded like a frog (in the movie), and 2) I could not wait to tell this chick that I found her keys that she probably didn’t even know were missing.

So, as soon as the good part of the credits were over, I tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she happened to be missing her keys. She replied, “Do they have a yellow submarine keychain?”

YES! Oh my gosh! Yes, they do!

Excited and breathless, I told her how I found them in the parking lot and I recognized her from the store and I knew she had a yellow submarine belt buckle so I figured they were hers and OH MY… She started to get a really creeped out look on her face.

I tried to pretend like this wasn’t weird by joking that everyone should have matching keys and belts so we’d know whose stuff belonged to who, but it didn’t help. Then I started explaining how amazing this was. Frankly, I expected her to be a little more in awe of the coincidence and my sharp observational skills. However, she pretty much mumbled thanks, looked at me like I was a stalker, and then promptly got up to get her keys from the front desk. I wonder if she suspected foul play. There I thought I was used by God to make her day better, and she thought I was sent from Satan to freak her out.

On the way out of the theater, I explained the whole story to my friends who had only witnessed part of the conversation, and they were appropriately amazed. THANK GOODNESS they were because I was gonna be really disappointed if nobody thought this was remarkable. They laughed about how she must have thought I was so weird, but the whole situation was a series of cool coincidences. I found the keys, the owner happened to be sitting right in front of me in in the same movie in a huge theater/restaurant/shopping complex, I recognized her, and I remembered she had a yellow submarine belt buckle.

Tell me that’s not cool. Oh, and I’d like to go by Sherlock from now on. (Have you seen that new show Elementary about Sherlock Holmes? It’s a fun show! I highly recommend.) But I’m actually not like Sherlock at all. I read Les Mis the book, listened to the soundtrack repeatedly in college, saw the play, and still couldn’t remember the story. It was all new to me. In my defense, I’ve read several books by French and English authors about Paris; it’s like a French prostitute stew up in that part of my brain. And I think I’ll end with that statement.