Missy's

A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place

There are tidy, well organized people in this world for whom a pile of clutter is akin to nails on a chalkboard; who relish compartmentalizing their office into a highly functional workspace, complete with labels and plastic bins; people who would rather gouge out their own eyes than allow the accumulation of plastic water bottle tops or coffee cups on their desk; people who would die of shame to find sunflower seed shells on the floor around their wastebasket. 

I am not one of those people, but I have tried to be. Really, I have.  

I have drooled over the pages of glossy magazines featuring pictures of perfect offices; pictures that showed the late morning sun casting its rays over pristine orderly workspaces where neat and tidy people do neat and tidy work. Beautiful offices that looked like showpieces, both stylish and functional. I wanted an office like that, so I purchased organizers and letter holders and plastic bins so that there would be "a place for everything and everything in its place."  I put up an "inspiration board" (this was pre-Pinterest days) I even went so far as to buy an honest to God label maker, reasoning that if I had a visual of where things should go, I would be more inclined to put them there. Kind of like Label Guilt.  But that purchase quickly went south as I found it more fun to label the chair, the phone, the children, and the dog than to actually use it for its intended purposes. 

And then it hit me: I am not a neat and tidy person-I am someone who would rather label the dog, than organize her office. I mean, no matter how beautiful that magazine office is, I simply couldn't be creative in it until a couple of Post-Its were on the floor, a drawer was semi-open and my phone was lost under a pile of paperwork. It's how I roll, and although I know I will never be an Ikea poster girl, I'm okay with that. 

Now, excuse me while I try to find my stapler.


Give Me My Bacon

As I type this, I am trying my best to remain calm. My nerves have been shaken to my core; I feel myself breaking out in a cold sweat and I hear an odd buzzing in my ears. Why, you ask? Am I getting the flu? Oh no, although I wish it was something as simple as that.

No, my friends, my heart palpitations are over the disturbing news I read today courtesy of the LA Times. It seems the world is bracing for a...for a...for a...PORK SHORTAGE! Yes, according to the news report, drought conditions have lessened the pigs food crop, resulting in a decline in herds. A decline in herds? What is this nonsense? We can put a man on the moon (well, not anymore, but we used to) but we can't prevent a shortage in the Best Meat of all time? How can this be? We can talk to someone across the world 24 hours a day, but we can't provide bacon? This is a travesty of unspeakable proportions. (I have always wanted to say that.)

My friends, however, aren't buying the story. I mean, they believe there could be a shortage, but they don't think it's drought related; they think it's Missy related. In my defense, all I can is this:

Transient

I've Failed as a Parent

As parents, we want the best for our children. 

We want to raise them correctly, teaching them right from wrong. We want to develop their ability to problem solve and strengthen their sense of logic and reasoning. We want them to tackle tasks, both new and mundane, with vigor and confidence, knowing that upon completion they will bask in the warm glow of accomplishment.

Like all parents, I want these things for my children, but it has become altogether evident that somewhere along the line, I have failed in my parenting skills. It is now clear that I am raising children who, when faced with a simple task, become perplexed and confused. As tiny children, they were so quick to stack the little plastic rings on their toy that I felt I had prodigies.

But I see now that something has gone terribly wrong. I might need to seek help.

They had NO problem with the baby toy

They had NO problem with the baby toy

But somehow, this eludes them.

But somehow, this eludes them.

Don't Make Me Open Up a Can of Whoopie-Pie On You

Dear Starbucks in the Old Navy Shopping Center,

I appreciate you.

I appreciate that when I am doing some Old Navy shopping, filling my bag with “Fleece for the Whole Family,” you are there on the corner to meet my caffeine needs. And because I am a whore for convenience, and usually opt for locations with drive-thrus, it is unusual for me to actually park my car and walk into a Starbucks. You are my exception.

With that in mind, let me say that I am very, very disappointed in your behavior as of late. I drove to your store last Sunday evening. I was bone tired and in need of a little Starbucks cheer. I had Whoopie Pie on the brain and could almost taste that creamy red velvet treat. As I pulled up to the store and glanced inside, I saw the chairs turned over onto the tables. Anticipation turned to dismay as I wondered if you were closed. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the hours on the door read that you close at 7pm. It was only 6:15.

As I entered the store, the two employees behind the counter seemed less than thrilled to see me. As did the guy leaning on the counter, drinking his coffee, and conversing with said two employees. I placed my order. It was only for a coffee. Why no pastry delights, you ask? Let me think…oh, yes, I remember…

BECAUSE YOU HAD ALREADY PULLED THEM ALL FROM THE PASTRY CASES.

6:15 and you had de-pastried the cases. I felt violated. I was as though I had slipped into some alternate universe where coffee cakes and whoopie pies are dangled just out of reach.  And because I COULDN’T have them, I wanted them even more.

To make matters worse, when my Amerciano was ready, the barista handed me a a 1/2 gallon jug of cream. A JUG, I say! It seems they had already cleared out their standard silver dairy pitchers and, instead, were handing customers a big ass jug of half-and-half, instead. I’ll bet had I arrived later, they would have thrown a canister of powdered non-dairy creamer at me.

Now, Starbucks by Old Navy,  I don’t expect you to be open when want you to be open. That would be lovely, but I am sensible enough to realize that the world does not revolve around me and my Coffee and Whoopie Pie needs. I do, however, expect you to offer your customers  the same experience and products 45 minutes before closing that one would find earlier in the day.

I was nice about it THIS time, but I make no guarantees if it happens again.

Nobody stands between me and a Whoopie Pie.

Plaque City

Nobody likes to go to the dentist. 

I don't care how kind and compassionate he or she may be, nobody relishes the moment you helplessly recline on a dental chair and surrender yourself to a man or woman with sharp metal objects destined for your mouth. 

It had been a year since my last check up and cleaning.  Me, of the every-six-months-like-clockwork-cleaning had waited a whole year and I'm not going to lie...I was worried. Would they find cavities? Would there be massive amounts of plaque? Would they believe that I really do floss three times a day? All these thoughts and more were running through my head as the hygienist smiled and instructed me to have a seat in the chair, open my mouth, and relax. 

She was a sweet lady, brown curly hair and warm brown eyes, but I swear to God she must have graduated from the Indiana Jones School of Dentistry, 'cause she attacked my mouth like an archeological dig. To say she was thorough would be a gross understatement. She delved into every nook and cranny and even when her sharp pointy hook thing nicked my gum and the warm copper taste of blood trickled down my throat, she did not stop. She was undeterred in her quest to eradicate every last trace of plaque from my mouth. I tried to yell out, but the two blue gloved hands in my mouth made sound impossible. Only once was I able to speak and that was simply in reply to her question of what flavor tooth polish I preferred. I asked if she had anything in the Happy Hour flavorings: vodka, margarita, chardonnay...but, alas, it was not to be. She dived back in with the gritty polish, which bore a striking resemblance to Comet Cleanser, and polished away. For my part, I gripped the chair arms, closed my eyes, and prayed to sweet Jesus that it would all be over soon. 

And it was. After the last bit of plaque was removed and the last tooth polished to a shiny brilliance, she patted me on the shoulder, gave me my goody bag filled with toothpaste, toothbrush and floss, donned her brown fedora and was off on her next Cleaning Adventure, whip at her side.  

I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew I was home free, for all I had to do know was wait for the dentist to do his evaluation and really...how bad could that be?

Transient

I Was Hoping for a Little Faux Latin

I had intended  my very first "Here-n-There" blog post to be nothing other than the original faux Latin that the website puts in as placement text. You know, this kind of stuff:

Unfortunately, someone whose name rhymes with Wadden decided to delete it, leaving me with the need to actually put fingers on keyboard and submit my first entry...which is what I'm doing right now. 

Consider blog entry number 1 completed! I promise I shall be a good girl and write often. I make no guarantees as to where I'll go...much like our podcast.

xoxo, Missy