The nose doesn't know

In case you were concerned for my health after my lengthy bout of travelers' ailments, I am pleased to announce that it has improved greatly...in some respects.

For the past couple days, instead of hacking my lungs out every hour on the hour, I content myself with a little conservative wheezing at bedtime and a hearty amount of messy throat-clearing coughs when I get up. Then I'm more or less good for the rest of the day.

But if you thought I was in the clear, oh ho no! How naive!

The day I returned to Maryland from Hawaii, I felt my nose begin to get stuffed up. At this point, I'm pretty certain that late May in Maryland produces some kind of allergen that apparently only affects me. It seems like my worst stuffy noses always appear around this time. But most of the time, I'm either traveling or returning from travel, so I'm never quite sure if it's just the change of environment that sets it off.

In any case, this time, aggressive treatment with nasal steroids and antihistamines and decongestant pills kept my nose from ever getting completely blocked (thank heavens; usually I have to resort to the oxymetazoline spray, but I guess I got it early enough this time!), but I've been drug-dependent for almost a week now.

On Sunday night, the first day I felt confident enough to stop taking decongestants, I was eating my favorite food – cookie dough – when I noticed it tasted like nothing at all. I realized something unusual that has never happened to me before: while I could still breathe through my nose, I had lost my sense of smell!

Monday morning, upon waking, I still couldn't smell a blasted thing, so I reluctantly took another decongestant and soon was smelling the roses again (and the strawberries, and the flour, and all the other ingredients I put into my cookie batter that I was actually, for a change, going to cook!).

However, by evening, again sitting down to eat cookie dough, I found it utterly flavorless—again!

This morning, still experiencing the world in a state of olfactory blindness, I decided to try out my neti pot again (it's never seemed to help much with my congestion) and zapped my nose with a new bottle (not expired, as have been the last two I used) of fluticasone.

And then I could smell – sort of – for most of the day.

I bet you can guess what happened next—I couldn't smell anything again. And then I could. And then I couldn't. And then I could. I believe my sense of smell will eventually return to its pre-infection state of virtuosity (I've actually become quite proud of my sense of smell in recent times, since I spent my formative years with chronic congestion barely ever smelling anything), but in the meantime, I'm pretty excited whenever I get to smell anything. The scent of baking asphalt? Woohoo! A fart? That's great! Any terrible smell is better than being deprived of the most underrated of senses!

Trouble Traveling: The Exceptions and the Rules

Some of my friends call me Grumpy Cat because I can cop an attitude like you wouldn't believe (but underneath it all, I'm still adorable...right!???). Complaining about vacations is just one of the many services I offer, and with three vacations in the past 3 weeks (plus another one to Boston a couple weekends before that), I've had plenty of opportunity to complain...and also plenty of opportunity to be pleasantly surprised!

A good somebody-or-other admits when they're wrong, and I'm going to be that somebody-or-other and take back some of the nasty things about vacations I've said in the past, because on the whole, this series of holidays went relatively smoothly.

For instance: You might not know this, but if you're around me when I'm on vacation, you'll know that I am convinced I have the worst luck with respect to weather. One of my pet peeves is being cold, so naturally when I want to get away from it all, I want to go somewhere where it's warm. But whenever I travel, it always seems to be to a colder climate in the winter (Iceland, anyone?). Or to a warmer climate in the summer (Indonesia, I'm looking at you!). On those rare occasions when I travel to a warm clime while it's still cold in Maryland, it seems to inevitably suffer a cold snap right when I arrive. Or else my home area becomes unseasonably warm right after I leave. But my last two trips debunked this phenomenon—I left for New Orleans when Maryland was on something like its 15th straight day of rain, but the weather in New Orleans was delightful almost the whole time I was there. Meanwhile, the weather in Maryland barely topped "tolerable." The day I returned, the temperatures rose, seemingly just for my benefit, but stayed cloudy and chilly for about a week after that—just in time for my trip to Hawaii. The day I returned from Hawaii, however, the temperatures in Maryland rose into the 80's. Lesson learned: Traveling doesn't always mean the weather is going to suck.

Another thing I've come to expect as a general rule of thumb is that if you bring an umbrella, it won't rain. However, one day in New Orleans, I read the weather forecast for rain and put my umbrella into my bag. And voila! It rained! It actually poured somewhat torrentially. Just goes to show, one can never be too prepared.

Speaking of being prepared, on every trip, there is inevitably something I need that I forgot. It becomes one of the things I hate most about traveling when I'm forced to fork over the big bucks to buy new what I already own...and this vacation, it was kind of a doozy. I forgot to pack any shorts. On a trip to Hawaii! Of all places! (At least I didn't forget my entire suitcase, as another of the wedding guests somehow managed to do). I did have to buy two new pairs of shorts at a sub-optimal price: 7$ and 8$ respectively, but I can't actually be too mad. They fit great, and both provide a somewhat needed addition to my wardrobe, enabling me to get rid of an older pair that I don't much love.

Although I dropped the fashion ball a few times in packing for New Orleans, by the time I got to Hawaii, I'd caught my stride (also having had time to sort through my newest summer clothes helped). Shorts shortage notwithstanding, I only twice regretted my choice of outfit—once when I wore my gym clothes all day in anticipation of a hike that never happened, forcing me to wear the same outfit the following day, and once when a new shirt I'd packed started fraying all over the place and I didn't have anything to cut it with because my pocket knife had bitten the dust the day before I left for New Orleans. Most of the time, I felt proud of what I was wearing, proving that living out of a bag doesn't have to mean looking like a bag lady.

Lastly, flying in an airplane (which I did 4 times over the past 3 weeks—more if you count each connecting flight) turned out to be less of a horrifying experience than I was anticipating. While turbulence still fills my heart with dread and my arteries with adrenaline, I never once felt the urge to shed tears out of terror, as is usually the case. On the way back from Hawaii, I even was able to sleep for most of the 6-hour flight, which is usually unheard-of. For that, I credit 3 weeks of inadequate sleep, plus the assistance of my ReLeaf neck pillow, which I recommend to any traveler who has trouble sleeping sitting up.

There was, however, one yucky thing about traveling that held as true as ever: I got sick. In fact, my body seemed to be so ready to get sick that it didn't even bother to wait until I'd started traveling—I got two illnesses back-to-back the week before I left. I like to think that was my body's way of facing the inevitable and getting it out of the way before it could be too much of an inconvenience—I recovered from both illnesses before I even got on a plane. But that wasn't enough to protect me from my curse. While in New Orleans, I contracted another infection that caused me great pain and forced me to spend my last day in the city alternately crying and visiting the CVS Minute Clinic for some antibiotics. I was going to give you the blow-by-blow of all the illnesses I suffered and all the symptoms, but I decided that might be too much information for polite company. Let it suffice to say that one of the illnesses came with a lost voice that plagued me throughout New Orleans, a sore throat that started in Hawaii, and a cough that followed me through all three trips (the second was Richmond, only a day) and still persists after three weeks—meaning that there was no point during my travels that I was not sick!

Vertebrae

When you do a lot of yoga, you hear a lot of anatomical terminology, some of which is scientific and some of which is far from it. For example, yoga instructors like to refer to your "sit bones," which I had never heard of before my first yoga class. A scientist would call these bones the ischial tuberosities, but I guess we can't all be scientists. If you want to use common language for an anatomical part, that doesn't bother me any.

What does bother me is when you use the wrong anatomical term for an anatomical part--the most frequent culprit being vertebrae. 

The vertebrae, collectively, are the bones that form the spinal column. Because the term comes from Latin, and latin plurals are wack, it should surprise no one to find out that vertebrae is a plural form of the word vertebra. Therefore, each individual bone in the spine is called a "vertebra."

So every time a yoga teacher tells you to rise from your forward fold "one vertebrae at a time," an ancient Roman grammarian rolls over in his grave. Probably most modern medical professionals would do so too, if they were not still alive.

So my advice to all those who, in their line of work, need to refer to the bones of the spinal column, is to either stop that and say something sensible like, "Rise to standing starting with your head and working your way down your back," or else get your Latin plurals straight. It's "one vertebra at a time!"

How to pronounce caramel

An anonymous commenter on my last language post made the insinuation that I incorrectly pronounce the word "caramel." An interesting allegation, since one of my friends constantly criticizes my pronunciation of that same word. Surely the commenter could not have been my friend! Surely a friend would own up to their identity when making such an outré claim! Right?

Regardless of who dropped the controversial comment, I think it's time to set the record straight. What is the right way to pronounce "caramel"?

Before I delve into the reference material, let us consider the two sides of this argument, which basically boils down to the pronunciation of the first A. Is it the A of a sigh of relief, such as in most of the Romance languages, the A of words like "car" and "far," (and represented by "a" in the International Phonetic Alphabet, which will come in handy as you read the rest of this post)—the way I've always pronounced it? Or is it the particularly English A of words like "ass" and "bad," (represented by æ in the IPA)—as my friend insists is the only right way?

To get a balanced perspective on the issue, I consulted one of my favorite reference tools: Onelook.com, which searches over a thousand dictionaries when you ask it for a definition.

When I perused several dictionary entries returned by my search for caramel, I found that every dictionary listed several alternative pronunciations. So one thing became immediately clear: there is no single "correct" pronunciation.

However, let's assume that any person who feels so strongly about the superiority of their pronunciation will, much like any fanatic in any other arena, rabidly attempt to create a conflict where there is none. So let's explore the issue further. 

Although all dictionaries surveyed allowed multiple varying pronunciations of the word caramel, every dictionary, by default, has a preferred pronunciation—whichever one is listed first. So I surveyed the results of my OneLook search to ascertain which pronunciation was more commonly preferred in the dictionaries.

After weeding out duplicate entries, links which went nowhere, and entries with no pronunciation listed, I found 13 entries. If the dictionary included a sound clip of the pronunciation, I used the first listed sound clip as their default; otherwise I chose the first phonetic pronunciation listed. The Oxford, Collins, Macmillan, Wikitionary, Wordsmyth, and Dictionary.com references ruled in favor of the "æ" sound; while the American Heritage, Vocabulary.com, Merriam-Webster's, YourDictionary, Infoplease, and Free Dictionary entries leaned toward the "a" sound. The Cambridge Dictionary stated that the "æ" version is a British pronunciation while the "a" one is American, but since the debate over whether American or British English is "better" is an anthill best left undisturbed, I'm leaving those results out of my survey. That leaves us with a six-to-six tie.

If that's not enough to unambiguously conclude that neither pronunciation is any more correct than the other, then I'll be a dirty bird...but, as it happens, I do have one other test that we might use to determine a clear winner. Let's consider the origin of the word!

Words and their pronunciations are constantly developing and changing, but whenever there is a conflict regarding how to pronounce one, I would defer to the earliest origin. For that, I refer to the Online Etymology Dictionary, which states that the word caramel is derived directly from the identical word in French. In French "caramel" is pronounced with a decidedly æ-like first vowel, which would seem to give the win to that pronunciation. However, the French word caramel came from the Spanish word caramel, which would be pronounced with the Spanish "a" sound, lending some heft to my side of the argument. But wait! Looking further, we see that the Spanish caramel derives from the Medieval Latin "cannamellis." At this point, I'm out of my league, not knowing the first thing about Medieval Latin pronunciations or where to look them up, and in fact, no one can know for sure how a language was pronounced in the distant past, so I think it's high time to give up this chase!

Considering the overwhelming number of resources that claim my pronunciation is quite acceptable, I'm going to go right on calling a caramel a caramel (and pronouncing it the way I always have). Anyone who wants to tell me I'm wrong will have to produce a native speaker of Medieval Latin!

They hear we got swag

I work on a college campus and I go to a lot of conferences, so getting free stuff is a regular part of my life.

I am not sure how free gifts with corporate logos on them became known as "swag," but I do know that I've received quite a lot of them over the years, and I consider myself quite the authority on what makes them good or not. I'm here to share my opinions on some of the promotional gifts I've received over the years. I intended to include photographs with this post, since a picture is worth a thousand cheap pens, but since I am in Hawaii and have neither my collection of conference goodies with me nor a speedy internet connection, you will just have to settle for this large amount of text.

My least favorite conference swag includes stickers and temporary tattoos. These items are a cheap and easy way to promote your company, except no one wants them. I struggle to find places to stick my stickers. Usually I feel that they make any surface uglier, though I tend to use them to decorate the covers of my work-related notebooks. Temporary tattoos, though, are almost a complete waste. No one wants to walk around with someone else's logo affixed to their skin. The day I wear a corporate temporary tattoo is the day someone pays me to do so.

Pens are also a total let-down as far as free gifts go. When I used to work in retail, pens were always disappearing, and I would have been glad for a free conference pen or a dozen...but now that I work at a job where I actually get free pens on the regular, well, I've been using the same 2 pens since I started 4.5 years ago.

T-shirts are one of those gifts that you get really excited about until you actually own them...and then they sit in your closet taking up space for months while you reject them in favor of clothes that actually fit and are fun to wear. Finally you donate them, unused, hoping some poverty-stricken recipient will just be glad to have a shirt at all.

Somewhere in the middle ground are things like sunglasses. They were a cool novelty when I first started getting them for free, but now they are ubiquitous, and my Cheap Sunglasses collection is getting a little unmanageable! At least, though, when you go to a conference, you can usually count on getting some free eye protection if you ever need to step outside into the glaring light of day.

Gifts that I usually find useful are quality reusable water bottles. I'm not talking the cheap squeezable bottles with sport tops that always seem to leak, but good, durable bottles that go the extra mile. Somehow my water bottles are always going MIA, so it's nice to have a constant stream of replacements. My current favorite is a lightweight clear plastic, reasonably sized bottle with a wide opening and leak-proof screw-off lid. Steel bottles are another favorite, though they are not often dishwasher-safe.

Once upon a time, my life was so devoid of lip balm that when my lips got dry, I would put hand lotion on them (rather than buying a tube of balm, naturally!) Nowadays, I have so many promotional lip balms, I keep one in my purse, and one at my desk at work, and another next to the bed at home, and I still feel I will never run out! However, despite my excessive supply, lip balms are one of those conference gifts that I continue to appreciate. I think businesses could be on the right track if they just expanded their reach with other types of small personal care items that people constantly need to replace—things like sunscreen tubes, nail clippers and files, dental floss and toothbrushes. I'd add shampoo and lotion to this list as well, but people who go to a lot of conferences probably also go to a lot of hotels, which means a free neverending supply of those items!

Currently topping my list are the large spring-action clips. These usually have magnets on the back, so they are probably intended to hold reams of paper to your refrigerator or antiquated steel filing cabinets, but for me, they make perfect food-storage clips. Although I have a sizeable collection already, one can always use another clip to hold a bag shut! 

The winner for the best corporate swag ever is one that I haven't found yet: pocket knives! Perhaps we don't see these because they could be deemed dangerous, but a little one-inch pocket knife isn't going to kill anyone, and they're about as handy as tools come. You can get these for like a dollar (I know because I'm constantly having to replace the ones I lose or abandon at airport security!), and if you stuck a logo on one and gave it to me for free, I can guarantee it would rarely be out of my sight.

Why I hate to travel

If you haven't noticed yet, my boyfriend and I travel a lot. Probably 3 times a year, we're jetting to some far-off locale for a week or a weekend. The most common question I receive when small-talking with one of his friends is "So where are you heading next?" followed by "Are you excited?" Which always leads to an awkward spot in the conversation, because the only honest answer I can give is "No."

I hate traveling.

Don't get me wrong. I like adventuring. I enjoy exploring. I love seeing new places and sights. And I'm happy for every break from work and responsibilities I can arrange. But I hate the actual process of traveling. And since I can tell (from the puzzled expressions I get whenever I tell people how little I want to go on my next vacation) that no one understands, I am going to attempt to explain why.

I hate living out of a suitcase, not having all my stuff at my fingertips. At home, no matter what horrible thing may happen to me, I'm prepared. On a trip, no matter how much you prepare, something inevitably happens that you're not ready for. Every tiny forgotten supply causes a major ordeal, and usually the resolution is to purchase an expensive replacement that you'll never use again because you already have 3 backups at home. 

If that's not enough, I'm sure you can understand why living out of a suitcase is especially painful for someone who loves her extensive wardrobe as much as I do. Not only do I have to limit my packing in quantity, but I also have to limit it in practicality. Everything must be wrinkle-resistant, must be layerable in case of unexpected weather, must be comfortable for long walks and long trips in a vehicle, must frequently be conservative and plain so as not to mark me as a stranger in a strange land, and, if space is especially tight, must match everything else in the suitcase so I can re-wear them in different combinations. With all these restrictions, there are only a poor few garments that pass muster for travel, and consequently, I have to wear the same old things every time I go on a trip.

I also despise flying. I would hands-down prefer to drive 16 hours to get to my destination than spend 2 hours on an airplane, but sometimes, you are forced to fly. When I fly, I have to agonize over what to pack in my carry-on, beat up my conscience over the amount of fossil fuels I'm wasting, spend hours sitting in a germ-infested airplane cabin trying to avoid disturbing my seatmates, die of boredom going through security, die of boredom waiting for the flight, die of boredom waiting for layovers, and spend the first hour of every flight in a state of abject terror (seriously, the more I fly, the more I am convinced I'm going to die in a fiery crash).

I hate being the foreigner. Traveling within the U.S. is not so bad, but whenever I'm in another country, I know I stick out like a sore thumb. I'm looked down on for being American and preyed on for supposedly having money. I hate speaking another language badly, and I feel like a lazy snob when I default to English. Even something as simple as having to ask for directions to a landmark, or where I can find a supermarket, is terrifying. For someone with crippling anxiety even in relatively familiar social situations, being in a different country is enough to send me back home with a case of hypertension.

Traveling always makes me sick. Being around a slew of new people harboring a slew of new viruses is a sure recipe for infection. Almost every time I go somewhere new, I come back home with the worst kind of souvenir: a cold.

This Friday, we're off to New Orleans for a week, followed by a Saturday's rest, then I'm heading to Richmond for my brother's Monday wedding, then on Wednesday it's back into the air for a week-long trip to Hawaii for another wedding. If that's not too much travel for a travelphobe, I don't know what is! You could wish me a bon voyage, but I think it would be more appropriate to send me your condolences.

Li'l Language Lady again admits to being wrong.

Recently I boasted about the list of words that I, unlike the author of the article that inspired me, have always pronounced correctly. Not to make you think I'm some kind of linguistic egomaniac, I am now here to list some words that I have had the wrong idea about.

Quite a long while ago (long enough that I should have forgotten, but I didn't, because it was embarrassing!), I claimed quite adamantly that "informatory" was not a real word. After all, we already have "informative" and "informational"—why would we need yet another variation of the same adjective? But sure enough, according to Webster, "informatory" is legit. This reminds me of the time that I smugly (and wrongly) believed that "problematical" was a made-up word.

Now onto a topic that is only related in the sense that it's also a word I had no idea of the meaning of—crudités. I knew it's a food, because I read it in stories where fancy people are serving finger food. It sounds like a food that would be fried, or at least crispy, but not very tasty really, just a bland cracker-like thing. Turns out it's really raw vegetables. Bonus! It's always spelled in the plural, even when used with a singular verb! I only learned that last year.

 

And lastly, here is a word close to my heart. It has become so familiar to me that I hardly believe I was once so wrong about it's nature, but indeed I was—Serif. 

 

This word is used extensively throughout the design (and web development world) but I had been confused about it for a long time before I was finally set straight. While I was aware of which fonts were serif fonts (those like Times New Roman, for example, with the little crossbars at the tops and bottoms of vertical lines) and which were sans serif (those like Arial, without such ornamentation), I could not wrap my head around their names. Why would serif fonts — the ones that were all fancy and covered with extra fiddly bits – have such a simple name, while the simple ones have the longer, more complicated name? Finally, all was made clear to me: serif is the word for the extra fiddly bits, and "sans serif" means "without serif(s)." At this point in my life, I had yet to figure out that "sans" is the French word for "without." I don't remember when I learned this valuable tidbit, but I do remember that it was quite a revelation to me, since I'd been so confused for so long. And it doesn't stop there. At the same time that I learned the proper meaning of serif, I also learned I had been pronouncing it wrong in my head (fortunately I'd never had cause to pronounce it out loud) as "sir-EEF" when it's actually pronounced "SARE-if."

 

So there you have it. We all make mistakes, but when I learn I have made one, I'm probably going to share it on my blog so no one else can make the same one!

Bosty Tea Party Cookies

You didn't think that, when I went to Boston, I would content myself with cookies from just one establishment, did you? Oh, no! I found giant cookies at the café at the Boston Tea Party site, so naturally I had to give them a try!

Peanut Butter Cookie 

It was love at first sight when I laid eyes on this gem of a cookie. Just look at those huge chunks of Reese's cup strewn all over the top! Fortunately, the taste lived up to the hype, and I had a pleasant time eating this bit of candy-coated eye candy.

The texture was wonderfully soft and chewy, with the perfect amount of crispiness just around the edges!

Peanut butter cookies do tend to run on the cloyingly sweet side, and this one did as well, so I knock off one minor point for flavor.

And of course, the price, as with any truly wonderful product, was far from a bargain at 3.50$ a cookie or 2.92¢ per gram.

The Bottom Line

Taste:
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Chocolate Chip Cookie

Unlike the peanut butter cookie, this classic confection didn't blow you away with sweetness at first bite. Its taste was more subtle, bordering on dull even, as it tasted just about like any other chocolate chip cookie I've ever eaten.

It was a nice touch to include two different kinds of chocolate pieces (chunks and mini cups) for my intellectual pleasure, even if they all tasted the same.

As far as the texture, it was chewy in the middle like the peanut butter cookie, but the edges, rather than going crispy, just got even more chewy, to the point that they were almost too tough. This didn't combine well with the chocolate, which despite being recently removed from a refrigerator, were still too soft and almost melty.

On the whole, this was a perfectly acceptable chocolate chip cookie, even though it didn't quite blow my mind.

The Bottom Line

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Cookie Monstah Cookies

I did not know this until I traveled to Boston a weekend ago, but people from Boston supposedly have an accent. I hardly heard anybody actually speak in this accent, but all the souvenirs were emblazoned with words that were spelled in ways that I suppose represent the accent. Apparently in Boston, the word monster would be pronounced "Monstah." Hence the name of the "Cookie Monstah" food truck that I ran across just outside of Boston Common.

I bought two cookies and carried them around with me very carefully in my purse all day, finally eating them a few days later at the office.

Sugar Cookie 

Oops, I forgot to photograph it before I started eating it!

On the simple side of things, I purchased a sugar cookie for 2$ and ate it a few days later at work. You would think, with my "more is more" mentality, I would find sugar cookies boring, but I actually usually enjoy them for their rich buttery flavor. This sugar cookie was no exception—it tasted delightful!

Despite crumbling a bit more than I prefer, it also possessed a decent texture that was chewy in the middle and a bit thin and crisper on the edges. The sugar crystals on top gave it that extra crunch  that I love, which means the rest of the cookie could have afforded to be a little less crunchy and a little more chewy, but I guess that's splitting hairs.

The worst thing about this cookie was the price. Barely qualifying as giant at only 75g, it was quite a costly purchase,  2.67¢/gram. I probably wouldn't buy it again unless I were desperate.

The Bottom Line

Taste:
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Stuffed Oreo cookie

Now here's a novel concept—a chocolate chip cookie with an Oreo cookie inside. I was sold on the idea alone, but sadly the actual experience was less of a treat than I had been expecting.
The chocolate chip portion of the cookie was too dry and crumbly, and the taste wasn't anything to write home about. It was strangely salty, and while I like salt in my sweets, this was too much even for me.

Costing 3$ but having slightly more mass than the sugar cookie, the stuffed Oreo cookie was a marginally better deal at 2.61¢/g. But marginal doesn't cut it, and this cookie was definitely not worth the price!

The Bottom Line

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In the dog house

For someone who never wanted a dog in the first place, I sure have a lot of dogs.

When I last brought up the issue, my attention was focused mainly on Bubalou, as he was a new addition to our family and so neurotic and needy, he was as much work as 3 dogs all rolled into one. Now, however, we actually have 3 dogs! We'd only had Bubalou for a few weeks before Jack Jack mysteriously reappeared at our apartment. And of course, my roommate has always had a dog. For the most part, I avoid the worst of dog ownership, but my boyfriend has left me home alone with the dogs for the entire weekend! Which is just serving to remind me of how crazy life is  when you have three dogs and one apartment.

On Barking

Imagine you have one dog who likes to bark. A lot. Now imagine you have two other impressionable dogs living with it. I'm not saying who's the instigator here (because they seem to have agreed to take turns), but once one starts, the others always have to follow suit. When one dog gets tired of barking, he'll stop for a second, but if another dog is still barking, he'll start right up again. Three dogs together bark exponentially more than three dogs separated. 

On Feeding

Bubalou is still on his special urinary diet, so he's not allowed to eat the same food as Jack Jack and vice versa. But both of them are spoiled little buggers from receiving too many table scraps, so when you feed them, they will just wait around, not eating, until someone gives them human food. They won't hesitate to starve themselves for their cause of a more  luxurious diet. Jack Jack hates his own food the worst, but, if driven to desperation, will eat Bubalou's. Bubalou will do the same with Jack Jack's. And that's of course exactly what they do when we're not around and we leave their food bowls out. Since their indulgent dad is out of town, I have put them on an eating schedule. They will get fed when I do (but not what I do). If they choose not to eat their assigned dog food, tough luck. They'll have another chance the next time mealtime comes around.

On Bodily Functions

Taking the dogs to do their business (we tell them to "Go busy," which I think is a phrase unique to Al's family) is only slightly easier than herding cats. You have Ralph, who is basically a good boy who comes when called and stays close, but likes to pee multiple times on every vertical surface in sight. Then you have Jack Jack, who (being lazy and also very independent-minded), doesn't want to move until you're ready to go back inside, then he suddenly needs to find the absolute perfect spot to take a dump. Bubalou recently completed his obedience training...but none of it seemed to stick. When you take him outside, he immediately runs for the bushes and becomes selectively deaf. Only copious amounts of yelling and angry stomping will get him to even look at you, let alone come back to you. Technically, we're supposed to keep the dogs on leashes when we take them out, but handling three leashes attached to even one extremely excited dog (Bubalou) is a recipe for entanglement and getting nowhere fast.

On Walks

My boyfriend bravely lets the dogs go off leash when walking them, but for me, that turns a physical exercise into a purely vocal one, consisting mainly of shouting things like, "Bubalou! No! Bubalou! Come! Bubalou! Heel! Bubalou!" over and over again until you get hoarse. You could substitute Jack Jack's name for a little variety. So despite the perils of entanglement, I choose to walk the dogs on leashes. This means another kind of exercise in which we mimic a suspension bridge, with the Eager Beaver Bubalou prancing along at the front, the lazy Jack Jack trailing sluggishly behind, and their leashes rising up to the pillar in the center – me – who must stop every dozen steps or so to extricate a leash from under someone's leg.

On Abandonment

Neither Bubalou nor Jack Jack takes very kindly to being left home alone. Bubalou has improved somewhat from his early days in that he no longer succumbs to hysteria as long as you don't lock him in a small space, but he does still pee frequently and everywhere if unsupervised (even in another room), so he has to wear a diaper whenever we leave him. Jack Jack knocks over all the garbage cans and eats everything he can find (I still haven't decided whether he's just really that hungry, or if he's being vindictive about being left behind), so we have to put all the trash cans on tables whenever we go anywhere. Leaving the dogs at the house is such a huge pain that we tend to take them  with us wherever we go. Which is a hassle in itself, as I'll leave you to only imagine.

On the Value of a Pretty Face

As you might have gathered, life with a pack of dogs is not usually what I'd call a charmed one. But there is one thing about the dogs that makes me happy—looking at them. They are so obnoxiously cute that even though they are the most annoying creatures on the earth, I still like them. They are my favorite photographic subject and almost certainly the focus of most of my posts on Facebook. Here are some recent favorite pics I haven't shared anywhere yet.

One dog, two beds!

It's too late, Bubalou. I already ate it.

At least someone enjoyed the blizzard we had in January!

Yes, he's licking his dad's head.

The life of a dog is so hard...

But Bubalou thinks life on a lap is just fine!

For someone who never wanted a dog in the first place, I sure like these guys a lot.

...Just don't tell my boyfriend that!

Lazy-girl spinach quiche: an Adventure in Cooking!

Let the fanfare begin; it's time for the annual occasion on which Valerie makes food from scratch that isn't a dessert, and lives to tell about it! What is it? It's one of my famous Adventures in Cooking!

Ingredients:

• About a pint of cooked baby spinach that's been in your freezer since October 
• About a cup of pie crust dough that's been in your freezer since last March 
• 1 egg 
• A few handfuls of shredded mozzarella cheese that's been in your freezer since summer 
• Don't forget the salt!

Prep time: 3 days

Oven temperature: 350° F

Cook time: 22 minutes - 6 minutes + 5 minutes + 5 minutes + 5 minutes

Serves: 1—no, 2, and possibly 1 more if that person subsists on cooked spinach

Begin by looking in your freezer and getting really tired of seeing that half-empty quart container of spinach taking up space in there. After the last time you used it to make the worst spinach cheese squares you ever ate, you've kind of lost interest in spinach, but you really have to get that container out of there and make room for some Ben & Jerry's!

Wonder what you can make with about a pint of frozen spinach...obviously not spinach cheese squares!

Notice that you also have about a half-pint of pie crust dough that's been sitting around for ages, and realize you have most of the makings of a fabulous quiche! Find a bag of mozzarella cheese that was left by one of your Airbnb guests back when you had Airbnb guests, look in the fridge for eggs, and realize you have all the makings of a fabulous quiche!

Prepare by putting the spinach and pie dough in the refrigerator to thaw, and wait two days. On the designated baking day, be so hungry at 4:00 from skipping lunch that you cannot possibly wait around for a spinach quiche to cook, so wait one more day.

On the second designated baking day, preheat the oven to 350°F.

Remember how stringy and gross the spinach was when you used it in a spinach-and-garbanzo dish, so decide to chop it into smaller pieces. Spoon the majority of the spinach into your blender's chopping cup. Don't use all of it, because that looks like it will be too much to fit into the mini pie plate that you'll be using.

Blend away! When the spinach looks evenly chopped, remove it from the chopping cup to find you have accidentally pureed it completely. Wow! What a blender!

Dump the pureed spinach into a small mixing bowl. Instantly regret it, realizing you could have just mixed your quiche filling inside the chopping cup and saved yourself one dish to wash. Oh, well. Can't hold onto the past!

Most quiches are egg-based, which would indicate the use of several eggs. Since you don't much like the texture of baked eggs and you prefer to get your cholesterol from cheese anyway, you will only be using one egg. Mix the egg into the spinach with a fork.

Next, add the cheese. Feel free to add as much as you want. Mix it in until there's a good bit of shredded cheese interspersed with the spinach. It probably would be a good idea to use all of the cheese remaining in the bag, but you're trying to eat somewhat healthy here, so I won't be surprised if you leave an insignificant amount to clutter up your freezer and cause you infinite distress for the next 6 months.

The filling done, it's time to turn your attentions to the crust.

A traditional pie crust would be rolled out on a floured board and placed neatly into the pie tin. But this is lazy-girl quiche, so you should just grab small hunks of the dough and press it into the pan at about 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick, until the whole surface of the pan is covered.

Pour the filling into the crust. 

You definitely have more filling than will fit in this crust, but fortunately, you have extra crust! So prepare a second pan just like the first.

Realize you don't have quite enough filling to make a second full-size mini quiche, so line the bottom of the second crust with some of your leftover un-pureed spinach. Pour the remaining filling into the second crust, then top it off with some filling that you've skimmed off your first crust.

When the two pies look approximately equal in size, pop them in the preheated oven.

It is crucial to be very indecisive about the baking time. Start with 22 minutes, but then decide that most brownies cook in that amount of time, and they are cooked in much bigger pans, so surely you won't need quite as much time. Change the timer to 16 minutes. After the cook time is almost up, realize your quiches aren't even close to finished. Add 5 minutes. When the timer goes off, find your quiches to be still as watery as a swamp, and add another 5 minutes. Do this as many times as necessary until the edges look brown and the top looks dry.

Remove quiches from the oven and allow to cool for 5 minutes, then eat.

Guess what! You forgot the salt! Sprinkle salt onto the top of your quiche, making sure to overestimate the amount you need. When you have successfully converted your healthy dinner into hypertension on a plate, you are ready to consume it! You will find that the crust is still undercooked and there is not nearly enough cheese, but you won't mind, because you happen to be watching the pilot episode of Fringe, and that will surely help you work up a hearty appetite!

Enjoy your meal!

Meme

Today, I was perusing a list of words you're pronouncing wrong—I like to read things like this because they make me feel intellectually superior (though I did miss one word on this particular list: "mauve"), and I found the word "meme" on it.

I remember the first time I encountered the word "meme." It was probably around 2010. One of my friends kept saying it on Facebook, using it to refer to those once-ubiquitous surveys where you answer random questions about your yourself and post them on social media.

I puzzled over the meaning of the word but didn't look it up (because needing a dictionary is a sign of weakness!) and so came to the conclusion that "meme" was a survey one shares about oneself. And it was pronounced "Me me" because it was all about me!

Well, after some time passed, and I read of other things being referred to as memes (things that were far from personal surveys—LOLCats come to mind), I eventually had to admit my weakness and consult a dictionary.

Dictionary.com defines meme as 

1. a cultural item that is transmitted by repetition and replication in a manner analogous to the biological transmission of genes.
2. a cultural item in the form of an image, video, phrase, etc., that is spread via the Internet and often altered in a creative or humorous way.

Once I looked up the definition, it became clear that any resemblance it had to the word "me" and any narcissistic implications of such were completely coincidental. 

At this point, I also learned that the word is pronounced "Meem," and I never looked back.

Until I read that list today and was reminded of my past stupidity. My misunderstanding of the word meme is probably one of the more amusing linguistic mistakes I've made in my life, but I'm glad that chapter is over. Here's celebrating 6 years of knowing the meaning and pronunciation of meme!

The Plan

Since yesterday's rant about my struggles with housing, I have had some time to settle my thoughts and come to some conclusions.

Fact 1: Much as I would like my boyfriend to contribute to the rent, I don't think it would be the best course of action for either of us. He does, after all, pay all the utilities (I asked him to take on that responsibility when we moved to the apartment, since he's so fond of running electronic devices 24/7), so it's not like he's just dead weight. He also finances most of our entertainment and food budget. I'm slightly peeved that he would rather spend his money improving a house he doesn't live in than on helping the two of us live more comfortably, but, I don't feel it's an important enough issue that I have to pick a fight about it. Our current situation is working for us, and we might as well keep it that way. 

Fact 2: I'm actually in a very good situation now, as far as it comes to being choosy. I have a place to live, a roommate to help with the rent, and, as of the end of this month, a month-to-month lease (that may come back to bite me as it did with my last place, should my landlord decides he wants his condo back...but probably won't because most landlords don't want to go through the bother of finding a new tenant when the current one pays their rent on time). So I can afford to bide my time.

Fact 3: I have been reluctant to commit to renting a new place, since my first priority is to buy one and be done with it. However, I've come to realize that just as bringing an umbrella ensures that it won't rain, committing to a year-long lease and going through the hassle of a move is probably the surest way to make buyable homes pop up like mushrooms. If I lose a month's rent because I have to break my lease, that would still be preferable to living forever in a place I hate.

These three facts have led me to a solution, an eminently promising one. Here's what I'm going to do about my miserable living situation.

Step 1: I will hold out for an affordable and convenient freestanding house, either to purchase or to rent, until the end of May/early June. At that time, college students will be moving out, and the options may be more plentiful. 

Step 2: If I haven't found the house of my dreams by the beginning of May, I will put in my application for Belcrest Plaza. This is an older apartment complex in Hyattsville, a far cry from the luxury apartments that are popping up all around the area. It is probably infested with roaches, but it has 3 things going for it: 1) It's within walking distance of a Metro station, 2) It has doors that open right out onto the sidewalk, making it easy to bring a bike in and out, and 3) It is cheap. I could get a 1-bedroom unit for under a thousand dollars, and a 2-bedroom for under 1400, which means I won't have any trouble affording a unit that's big enough for two humans and two dogs. 

And those two simple steps are the plan! I always feel better when I have a plan.

Houses and the lack thereof

In case you missed the memo, in the fall I was kicked out of my rental house and obliged to take up residence in a condo, which I hate. I keep shopping for alternative abodes, but it seems I either have to choose between living at an apartment complex and all the trials that come with that, or paying 1800+ a month for the privilege of living in a house. Since the majority of my readers live in Ohio, where rents this high are still inconceivable, let me assure you that this is standard for the DC suburbs, but still about 500-900 dollars a month more than living in a 1-bedroom apartment. Financially, the choice between the two is an obvious one, but I really, really, really can't stand the inconvenience of a communal laundry machine. I go back and forth with myself about the equally undesirable options pretty much constantly...so yes, I'm a little bit irritable about my housing prospects.

In case you missed the other memo, for approximately the last year of my life, I've been trying and failing to buy a house. I started out around this time last year sort of casually poking around the housing market, thinking "well, I've been half-heartedly shopping for houses for the past 6 years; I can wait another 6 until I find the perfect place." And over the next 12 months, graduated from patient disinterest to extreme desperation. Now, when my bids get rejected or a house fails inspection, it means hours of crying and days of depression.

It doesn't help that somehow I have landed myself in a social circle where everyone already owns a home. Among the people I talk to most often, 3 out of 4 are homeowners. My boyfriend, who lives with me but owns the house his parents occupy, is obsessively formulating a plan for remodeling said house. On an eerily similar note, the 4th of the four aforementioned friends lives in an apartment but is inexplicably interested in demolishing his parents' home and rebuilding it.

It's nearly impossible for me to escape the talk of home maintenance and remodeling. And while I can't begrudge any of these people their interest in their homes, I simply can't understand it. Why would you want to remodel a house you don't even live in? Why not take all the money you're throwing away on fixing up someone else's home, and instead invest it in making your own living situation a little less crappy? Why are you making your girlfriend pay all the rent for the two of you and your two dogs (who incidentally make your housing options a lot fewer and more expensive) while you fritter away your own money on vaulted ceilings for your parents who clearly couldn't care less whether or not they have vaulted ceilings, or they would have added them themselves? Hmmm... perhaps my boyfriend and I need to have a conversation about our fiscal priorities, but in the meantime, back to the subject of home-talk.

Being the only person who doesn't have a house (whilst being a person who arguably needs to live in a house more than anyone else!) means you get stuck listening to a lot of conversations that make you jealous. (You also, somehow, got a free subscription to Traditional Home, which is like a kick in the butt every time you receive an issue.)

And so I've realized, after several years of finally not being single, that Love and the Lack Thereof has been supplanted as the single most distressing issue in my life. It's now housing (so much so that I'm creating a new tag for the blog)! I think Public Display of Homeownership (PDH) is my new Public Display of Happiness in a Relationship. It doesn't matter if you're boasting about your newest addition or complaining about your plumbing—you have what I've been struggling to attain, and that ticks me off.

This might sound like complaining. It is complaining. But in the midst of my frustration, jealousy, despair, self-loathing, anger, and the rest of the negatives, there is one thing that makes me smile.

I didn't really need to write this blog post, because blatant PDH is not something I often have to face.

Most of my friends got both of the aforementioned memos. Most of them now preface any kind of discussion about housing with an apology. They understand it's a sensitive issue for me and don't want to remind me. Unlike before, when it seemed like the whole world was trying to rub my relationship non-status in my face, I feel like my failings in this matter (admittedly trifling compared to world hunger and true homelessness, etc.) are being treated with compassion. So while I will never go so far as to say I've been lucky, I can at least say that I have some pretty cool friends.

Saturday, Sunday, and Monday Night Fever

Last week, I was on a vacation to Mexico to visit the overwintering monarch butterflies. I'll be sure to tell you all about it, but you'll have to wait until I have recovered from my cold. 

I knew, even before I left, that I was destined to catch a cold on this trip, since I had miraculously escaped any type of respiratory infection all winter, and I tend to get sick disproportionately often when I'm traveling. Sure enough, on the flight back home on Friday night, I noticed a faint pain in my throat. I chalked it up to having choked on my spit earlier in the flight, but in retrospect, I probably choked because my throat was already irritated from being ill. 

Saturday morning, I woke up with a fever and a steadily increasing sore throat, and I knew it was for real. My healthy streak was at an end.

Colds are no uncommon occurrence for me—I usually get one every season, almost like clockwork, and my illness is usually relatively violent for what should be "just a little" cold, but this one might have been my worst cold yet.

From the moment I woke up on Saturday morning, I was in terrible pain. I don't know for a fact that I had a fever, since I don't have a thermometer, but I do know that I was racked by chills, and every joint and muscle from my lower abdomen to my calves ached mercilessly.

Normally I prefer to leave a fever alone, since the elevation in body temperature is supposed to help you fight the infection. But I was in so much pain, I seriously considered taking some anti-inflammatory drugs. I consulted Dr. Google about whether it really is harmful to do that, and naturally got mixed messages. But by the numbers, consensus seemed to be that people who did not treat their fevers recovered faster than those who did. I took this statistic into deep consideration and then chose to disregard it. I decided that a week or more of sniffing and coughing would be better than even a few more hours of this terrible torture chamber that my body had become. 

So I popped 2 ibuprofens and soon felt well enough to sit up and (with lots of breaks) unpack my luggage from Mexico.

Ever before when I've had a fever, the discomfort has lasted for a few hours at most until I could succumb to an exhausted sleep, and then it would be gone. But not this time. This time, every time the ibuprofen wore off, I was back to writhing in pain and shivering with the chill of a lifetime. For three straight days this went on, with me trying varying doses of aspirin and ibuprofen, until finally I woke up on Tuesday morning not feeling like death. I took an aspirin anyway, just in case, and went to work, popping a single aspirin every 3-4 hours, because I felt a little sickly in between doses.

Unfortunately, I have also developed a stuffy nose, and I forgot to bring my Benzedrex inhaler, which is my nasal remedy of choice for daytime. I usually take a few hits before a meal and then suffer through the rest of the day with my congestion.

So at lunchtime, I had to decide whether to choke down my food without being able to taste it or breathe (when I say "choke," I mean that literally) or to walk to the shopping center just off campus and hope to find a suitable replacement drug. There was a risk that the latter might be a futile undertaking, but I opted to do it anyway.

In a frustrating catch-22, the walk there conveniently cleared up my nose, but also made my throat burn like fire.

CVS was out of Benzedrex, so I was left to choose between 12-hour oxymetazoline sprays (quite effective, but too powerful and risky to overuse) or the CVS brand inhaler with levmetamfetamine as the active ingredient. The word didn't sound familiar to me, so I wasn't sure if this was a generic version of the Vicks inhaler, which I had already established to be ineffective, or if it was some new product I had never tried. It was half the price of the out-of-stock Benzedrex, which wasn't a good sign, but lacking any better options, I decided to try it. Only after I had checked out, walked back to work (almost crying from my aggravated sore throat, I'll add), and taken several more sniffs of it than the recommended 2, to absolute zero effect, did I notice the words on the package: "Compare to the active ingredients in Vicks VapoInhaler." Sigh.

However, in the interest of always looking on the bright side, at least I learned something—two things actually. I can now say for sure that I'd rather endure a longer illness than a longer fever, and I can now add Levmetamfetamine to my list of worthless stuffy nose remedies.

And so the struggle continues. My sore throat is slowly, in its very leisurely way, getting better. The stuffy nose is probably at its worst today. I am already starting to feel the incessant tickle in my throat and uncontrollable coughing spasms that will probably last for a week. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll be free. After an ordeal like this, I feel like I should be exempt from any more respiratory infections for at least a year!

7-11 Chocolate candy cookie

What happens when your boyfriend suddenly develops a passion for buying lottery tickets?

You spend a lot of time staring down giant cookies at the gas station.

Frequently, you are tempted to buy them because you are just so bored! 

I got this two-pack of cookies for 99¢ at 7-11 during a lottery ticket run. Four ounces for under a dollar makes these cookies only 87 cents a gram! But of course, you get what you pay for, and these cheap cookies were possibly the worst I have ever consumed.

They were dry, so dry! Although I have heard people say food tastes like cardboard so often, it's basically a throw-away, this cardboard taste was literal. There was this horrible bitterness with every bite, which adhered to my mouth in a gummy, starchy coating that I couldn't scrape off my teeth even after I brushed them.

The texture was similarly disappointing. Crumbs scattered everywhere with every bite. There was no chewiness or variety or airiness — really any texture that anyone enjoys about food — to be found.

The cookie's one saving grace was the chocolate candies sprinkled liberally on top. Given the price of the cookie, I was rather astonished that they were real mini M&M's (not just a generic knockoff).

There were 2 good-sized cookies in this package, but after finishing one of them, I was sure I'd had enough, and I left the other one to languish. In the end, I scraped the M&M's off the top and ate them, leaving the rest of the cookie for the birds..

The Bottom Line 

While the price was pretty much the best I've ever encountered for a single pack of giant cookies, I had to reduce it to just 4 stars, because the value relative to the (disgusting) cookie was not worthy of 5 stars. Similarly, the two stars for taste are very reluctant and only because I enjoyed the M&M's.

Taste:
Texture:
Price:

A noise Annoys: An interesting homophone that doesn't quite make sense in context.

In keeping with the spirit of my last post, I'm going to have a positive attitude and talk about something that could annoy me, but doesn't! 

It always kind of puzzles me when a coworker stomps up to my office, frown imprinted on their face, and grumbles, "Could that sound be any more annoying?" I'll be thrown for a fraction of a second, thinking, "What sound?"

Until I hear it. It's usually some repetitive pounding noise. They are doing a lot of construction outside our building, and the building itself is usually falling apart in some way or another, so industrial noises are a common occurrence around my office. And apparently I'm very good at tuning them out, because I never notice them until someone else complains!

This is odd, because other kinds of noises can easily drive me bonkers. Any amount of speech, even low or foreign enough that I can't make out the words, distracts me to no end. I can't sleep when the TV is on, no matter how tired I am, and there have been entire mornings I've been unable to work because of a conversation going on in a nearby office. But as long as the sound is not too deafening and relatively meaningless, it doesn't bother me at all.

I don't really have any more to say on this subject. I'm not trying to boast, and I certainly don't have any advice for those who do find these sounds annoying. (Maybe this is why I rarely write about positive topics: they just kind of peter out anticlimactically.) I guess it's just nice to realize that (since I sometimes worry that my innate irritability is downright pathological), there are still a few things about which I can be easygoing!

Little Miss Sunshine peeks out

Sometimes, when reading over my blog, I get the feeling that a better name for it would be "Valerie Complains About Things." 

While I admit it's easier for me to see the cloud than the silver lining (besides – duh! – If clouds actually had silver linings, people would have ravaged the sky long ago to mine them!), I'm really not on a grinch-like mission to spread pessimism and bad cheer throughout the world!

It's just that I think writing is more interesting when it has a bit of bite. No one really wants to hear about how I followed a recipe to the letter and it turned out fine. There's no reason to write about a decision I didn't have any trouble making. Nobody is entertained by the tale of a good date that turned into a long-term relationship. At least I don't think so. Those aren't the things I like to read, so I don't bother to write about them.

But in case there are people out there who have been disheartened by the sheer number of gripey posts in my blog as of late, let me remind you that I'm not all bad moods and sarcastic observations. [Disclaimer: This post was started several weeks ago, so the good things mentioned in it are old news by now] I have, in fact, recently cooked something (not to a recipe, just with the dump-it-and-tweak-it method) that came out edible and almost delicious! Yesterday, I spontaneously chose to pick up and throw out this plastic bag that had been sitting on the lawn outside my apartment complex for days on end. That decision only took me a second, and it felt pretty good! I am, in fact, rounding out Year 3 of my relationship with my boyfriend (my longest streak ever!), which just goes to show (in spite of his taste in dogs), we are a happy couple.

Speaking of dogs and good things, last weekend, I organized all of the dog supplies into a new drawer unit that I got for free out of the garbage, which felt immensely satisfying. I had a really great yoga session. The Slime company sent me a new inner tube for free to replace one I'd gotten that was defective! I'm working my way up to 30 push-ups at a time (this time I'm doing it for real, all the way from the floor and back) and I'm in the home stretch! There is this melted candle in my craft supplies that smells so good, I can't help but smile every time I open the drawer! My boyfriend's mom says I take good care of him.* My landlord wrote me an email to tell me thanks for being a good tenant!

There are plenty of things to be happy about; I just don't necessarily think they are fascinating things to read about. But I wrote about them anyway. So there. I hope that makes you happy.

*My boyfriend, on the other hand, was offended that she thinks he can't take care of himself.

My least favorite way to dry my hands

It is time for an important discussion. A discussion about a matter that affects us all—the hand driers in public restrooms.

As you all know, there are certain kinds of faucets that are surely the devil's own invention (also, the ones that are so short that your hands bump the back of the sink when using them—ugh!) But not much discussion has been given to the topic of hand dryers.

The environmental community is pretty much of a consensus that electrical hand dryers are more eco-friendly than paper towels, (although I will remind you that it's more eco-friendly to use neither, if you can stand to go around with wet, frozen hands for a few minutes after washing, which I personally, environmental advocate though I am, cannot), so when I'm at a public restroom that gives me a choice, I always go for the electric dryer. Even when it's a ... [insert ominous music here] ... Dip-style dryer! (I was going to use a specific brand name here, but I decided since this is a highly critical post, other brands are also producing the same style of dryers, and the brand in question has since come out with other styles of dryers, I would cut them a break.)

There are many kinds of electric dryers out there, from the ancient wheezers that aren't worth the bother, to the supersonic wind tunnels. But the dippers take the cake. The brand I'm not naming calls its product the "fastest, most hygienic" hand dryer. What it doesn't mention is it's also the most uncomfortable. It's the only electric hand dryer I've found so difficult to use that I've actually stopped to note their name.

In case you're not familiar with these torture devices, they look like this:

 

 

You're supposed to turn your hands parallel to the wall, then dip them down into the dryer and back up until they are dry. Has the designer actually ever tried this motion? It is awkward and clumsy, and since there's very little clearance between the front and back of the cavity, you're almost guaranteed to bump your still-wet hand into it—somewhat belying the "most hygienic" claim. 

Ah, well, what is a poor public-restroom-user to do? Start using paper towels? Perish the thought! Or maybe just complain about it in her blog, and hope that hand dryer manufacturers read it and learn of their folly.... Now there's an idea!

Handcrafted liquor bottle

Anyone who knows my boyfriend knows he loooooves his liquor.

When we were snowed in for four days last month, his favorite pastime rapidly became inventing new mixed drinks and forcing me to take a shot of each one. His goal (yes, a thing he actually anticipated eagerly) for his last birthday party was to drink until he puked (fortunately for all of us, he didn't succeed).

But anyway, if it involves alcohol, it's pretty much guaranteed to be a winner with him.

So when I found this gift box of a hip flask and two steel shot glasses on Choxi, I knew that was a Valentine's Day gift with his name on it. Except, it didn't actually have his name on it!

 

Having seen plenty of decorative flasks in the world, I knew this plain steel one wasn't quite enough. So I decided to monogram it for him with my Dremel! 

 

Fortunately, a week before V-Day, I came to my senses and realized that I've never engraved metal before, and my first attempt probably shouldn't be on someone else's gift.

So what could I do to personalize the bottle? Some of the flasks I've seen have been wrapped in little sleeves (like the one to the left, except, camouflage? Really?), so I decided I'd make one of those and put the monogram on that! That way if I messed up, the bottle would still be unscathed.

To make the sleeve, I used an old suede coat that was gifted to us by a former housemate. It was too big for Al, and a little worn and stained, so I didn't feel too bad cutting off the end of one sleeve.

I thought the buttons at the end of the sleeve would make a great accent!

I was just not sure how I was going to make this soft leather conform to the concave side of the bottle without gluing it on (and I didn't want to do that because it would make washing the bottle nearly impossible), so finally I decided I'd give the sleeve a bottom, which would help it keep its convex shape down there, and then just allow the top to take whatever shape it will.

Lots of measuring ensued. I measured and drew and wrapped and re-wrapped, and tried to get the slightly angled scrap of leather to line up parallel to the top of the bottle, and...I don't even want to describe how much work that was.

Creating the bottom was relatively easy, as I just traced around the bottom of the bottle. But then attaching the bottom to the rest of the sleeve was torture! The leather was too thick for me to push a needle through, so I had to run it through the sewing machine, laboriously hand-cranking it stitch by stitch and then repositioning everything to ensure the curve was sewn right. At first, I attached the wrong sides together, so the seam would be on the outside, so I had to take it all apart and re-sew. Then, even after carefully examining the pieces and putting them back together, I made the same mistake! 

The third time, I finally attached the pieces the right way, but there was so much curvature and so much leather bunched up under my machine, I couldn't quite sew the short sides neatly at all. In the end, I got a rather sloppy looking sewn seam at one edge, and glued the remaining pieces together at the other.

 

<--Don't try this at home, kids!

Things got a little hairy at this point, since it was approximately the day before Valentine's Day. I am absolutely certain I took some photos at this point, but I can't find them now. Anyway...

 

I had positioned the top layer of leather so I could use the original buttonholes, but I needed to move the actual buttons. More slow hand-cranking of the sewing machine got this accomplished. Since the leather around the buttonholes is so thick, I used a toothpick to separate the button from the leather below it and create shank. The buttons are sewn with love and actually functional; however, it's easier just to slide the sleeve on and off the flask without touching the buttons.

The last steps were just a few strategically placed drops of glue to keep the whole thing together!

I finished the whole project the day before Valentine's Day, boxed it up in the original packaging, and wrote some sappy notes on it (fortunately I forgot to take pictures of those!) On the weekend of its arrival, my boyfriend proceeded to carry the flask with him to get his taxes done and drank from it every night whilst watching TV, which I guess means he likes it. One of my rare (these days) non-clothing crafting projects, and it was a success! Phew!

 

Here it is in its place of honor on our liquor shelf