There are a lot of things that irritate me. In fact, I have a whole category on Junk Drawer devoted to “Stuff I Hate.” That doesn’t sound healthy, does it?

Anyway, fewer things annoy me more right now than the jingle at the end of the Empire Today carpet commercial that runs in my area. For all I know it may run nationally and everyone else’s ears are bleeding, too.

Or maybe it doesn’t bother you and I’m the only one who needs to sign up for crankiness management classes.

Mind you, it’s not the whole commercial I hate. It’s just the jingle at the end.

The saving grace is that I can see or hear the commercial coming on and have ample time to dive for the remote to change the channel or mute it.

So what’s wrong with the jingle?

It’s a singing phone number jingle and I hate those so much that I want to cry. I know. That’s not a sane reaction. I shouldn’t be this bothered.

But I am.

What’s worse is that I still have a problem when I’m visiting my mother and it comes on her TV.

There, I’m in a Remote Control Unawareness Zone.

It seems to move a lot. At any given time, I don’t know where her remote is, so I can’t get to it fast enough to change the channel.

And then I have to hear it against my will.

I have to hear this.

And I hate it.

Hate.

It.

So.

Much.

The singing phone number jingle:

Also? Empire people? You think you’ve won by writing a singing jingle? You think that phone number of yours will get stuck in my head and you’ll be the first ones I call when I need carpeting?

No. I specifically avoid you, avoid hearing your number, and now you done gone and made me blog about how annoying it is.

It’s a wonder you can sleep at night.

Now where do I sign up for those Cranky McCrankster classes?

My husband left me a love note this morning.

Translation: I love you and your ten fingers. Please don’t stick your hand in the dishwasher and slice one of them off with the machete I used to cut vegetables last night.

He knows I have a problem with knives.

Thanks, dear. I like all my ten fingers, too.

Dear Homeowner and Servant,

I wish to inform you that the new food you’ve been serving me is not at all to my liking.

Yes, I know the [claw air quote] vet [claw air quote] said you should feed me that nasty wet venison and dry food so I have better poops.

But you see, I’m not really fond of either selection.

Therefore, this is what you can expect to find in the morning, afternoon and evening. The ones you found on Monday and Wednesday were just the beginning.

Nice trick bringing one downstairs for you to find, eh?

Whatever roll you leave out gets the treatment. I have all day to work on it. And my claws and teeth go deep. Just sayin’.

Please refrain from all attempts to encourage me to eat this new food. I know what it is. You know what it is.

I miss my old stuff.

Yes, I understand you are very happy with the state of my poop situation with this new diet, but you would be wise to give into my demands, lest you find more than toilet paper destroyed.

You have a whole walk-in closet full of clothing I haven’t even touched yet.

Regards,

The Cat

So I was talking to a client at work today. I had just reconfigured her laptop and mentioned that for her to connect to her home wireless network again, she’d have to remember her network password.

Uh-oh. No one ever remembers that.

We joked that it’s good for at least one person in any household to be the Rememberer of Passwords and other impossible things.

That person in my house is me. I’m also tech support for all our equipment, except the monstrous TV setup that only my husband understands.

If he goes, I’m screwed, because I can’t understand how to work the controls for that bastard.

But for home computing, I’m your man.

Which means if I go first, this is the ad my husband will place on Match.com to find a new mate:

WANTED: SWF with tech support skills. Must be able to disinfect viruses, keep all software up-to-date, troubleshoot problems big and small, install all new systems as needed and remember passwords for everything. Mac skills a plus, because I’m thinking about getting one. It helps if you have a Barbie doll figure, but seriously, if you can manage my home network and answer all my techy questions, your hardware doesn’t matter.

So who’s the tech support in your house?

Dufus sumo erratum vehiculum: informally, Latin for “idiot picks the wrong car”

Definition: to walk up to a car you think is yours, stick your key in the door, only to realize it’s just a car that looks like yours, and happens to be parked in a space you normally use, then try to figure out how you can look like you meant to do that and walk a block away to where you really parked your car and hope that no one saw you do it.

I’m looking forward to buying a new car one day. The kind where you point and shoot a device that makes your car scream out “Over here, moron.”

Yeah, I need that.

Meet Shadow.

Shadow has a habit of pooping when she rides in a car.

Every. Single. Time. It’s all we’ve ever known.

In fact, the day my husband and I picked her up from her foster mom, she dropped a bomb a mile out.

We had 20 more miles to go.

At some point we pulled over so I could clean her up a little and toss the smelly offense.

Dogs may like sticking their heads out the window doing 65, but that’s not a good look for humans.

Wednesday she had to go to the vet.

I explained to Shadow that we were going to try a new thing.

We were going to diaper her so that she doesn’t mess in the carrier and so we don’t have to choke to death when she poops.

Shadow said “Sure, silly woman. You can give it a whirl, but I wouldn’t count on anything.”

She miraculously allowed me to slip her tail through a hole in the diaper, wrap it around her butt and tape it at her belly.

Feeling all smug about how easy it was, I placed her in the carrier and off we went.

Things went well for the first three of four miles, save for her relentless I’m in a car, in a diaper and you’ll pay for this meowing.

And then.

And then we smelled it.

She pooped. Like clockwork, at mile four.

Huh. I wonder why we can smell it so much. Shouldn’t it all be contained in the diaper? Or most of it?

We get to the vet’s office and soon discover that Shadow was right. We shouldn’t have expected this to work.

Because at some point she must have busted out of her diaper and pooped all over herself anyway.

And that’s how a cat lets you know diapers are for babies and pet parents may be well-intentioned, but they are also quite stupid.

My husband found me reading a book this weekend, something I’m mortified to say I haven’t done in about a year.

“Oh, a book! Nice to see you reading again,” he said.

I told him that my friend Julia sent it to me as a gift.

He asked, “Murder?”

“No. ER stories,” I replied. “Written by doctors and nurses in the trenches.”

He wasn’t surprised. “You do love your death, disease and disaster.”

I’ve always been a fan of non-fiction. The more incredible and hard-to-believe, the better.

Someone once told me “You read non-fiction? How boring!”

To the contrary.

I’ve always found true stories about courage, overcoming adversity and survival more compelling than any fiction. Throw in a true crime story and the occasional freak medical mystery and I’m happy.

So do you have a favorite genre? Or do you read anything you can get your paws on?

It’s official. My husband and I are quitting our day jobs.

Why?

Because we need more time in the day to play Facebook games.

It’s extremely hard work trying to squeeze in three hours of game play every day when you have to work eight hours at something else.

We’re addicted – like morphine addicted – and need to find a way to play for 20 hours a day.

Because we still have a house to pay off, we’ve decided to look for sponsorships to keep us financially afloat.

We’re thinking of tattooing Pop Cap Games on our foreheads and then streaming our game play live over the Internet.

We might play naked. You need a hook to keep people viewing.

As for the cats, we sat them down for a family meeting and explained to them that they’ll be seeing more of us now.

BUT.

They cannot expect us to spend an inordinate amount of time petting them, playing with them, or checking to make sure their food trough is full.

We might need to get a live-in assistant.

We have game play to deal with. We’re professionals, you know. You can’t rack up points and coins just lookin’ at the screen.

You have to forego all of your daily chores like cleaning, laundry and why do we have to shower every day?

All of it takes away from game play.

This blog? Jury’s still out on that. While writing this post, I played six games of Solitaire Blitz.

It’s my morphine drip and I pressed the button.

The button ……

The button ……

The button ……

Really, Ordinary Sarah? Seriously?

Within minutes of my posting a What’s That object, you are the first to respond and you get it correct?

Are you a robot?

Do you have magic powers?

Did you hack my email account and read about me telling my friends and family what a great stumper this was gonna be because no one would know it was an eye glasses cleaner?

I’m watching you now.

I’m also sending you a prize package! Good for you, oh wise one.

Here are the partial and full views of the item in question:

I love how this object even exists. Who knew? Clearly, they make something for everything.

Let’s hope the next What’s That item is way harder than this one. Or, that I post it when Ordinary Sarah is sleeping and you’ll stand a chance against her!

Springtime means beautiful flowers and lush greenery, bursting with enthusiasm, return to my long-slumbering yard. Welcome back, color and life!

What else is resurrected? The What’s That Wednesday brain-stumper contest!

Today’s item comes from my friend and yours, JD of the I Do Things blog.

When she sent me the picture, I had no idea what it was, and that was with the benefit of seeing the object in its entirety.

You’re in trouble because, as is the tradition with these things, you only get to see a bit of it.

How to play:

1. The photo shows a small portion of a larger object.

2. First person to guess the object wins a Junk Drawer magnet and your choice of bacon bandages, Jesus bandages, or glow-in-the-dark skeleton keys covers.

If you think you know what it is, drop a comment in the drawer.

If you give up, head over to my friend Bill White’s blog for his version of What’s That? For the record, I have no clue what his item is, so don’t ask me for clues.

Bill is a columnist for my local paper, and also an adjunct professor at the university where I work. I’d like to thank him for inviting me as a guest speaker in his Journalism class to talk about blogging on Monday.

I’m honored for the invite and grateful that his students were so attentive and asked such probing questions. What a great group of kids!

Now put on your thinking caps and get crackin’.

I generally avoid writing posts made up of a stream of random thoughts, but you know, sometimes you just have to write anything.

So here goes, the brain dump:

1.  2011 was the year I ate a PBJ for the first time in my life. 2012 is the year I ate scrapple for the first time ever.

Liked it, didn’t love it. I wanted it to be more like sausage, but it wasn’t firm enough. Little crispy on the outside, loosey-goosey in the middle. Made much better when lying in a pool of maple syrup, though. That is all.

2.  Today while leaving work I spotted a student practicing walking on a tightrope pulled taut between two trees, only inches off the ground. Wanted to ask “What for?” but was too lazy to walk over and probe. Cool, though. Rock on, Sidewalk Wallenda!

3.  On the way home from work, a tiny piece of plastic bag blew into my car and settled on my dash. Then it blew out the other window. I thought of Windy and smiled.

4.  The other day I freaked out when I found what I thought was some kind of mutant curly worm behind the toilet bowl. So I let it sit there until I got the courage to investigate closer.

It wasn’t a worm. It was a large shaving from my eyeliner pencil. Why was it there? Because I sharpen the pencil over the toilet bowl so the shavings can go down a pipe instead of shaving it over my trash basket, which has open slats in it and I’m always thinking the shavings are going to fall through the slats and onto the floor where I’ll have to clean them up later.

So instead of shaving the pencil over a trash can, I’m shaving it over a toilet, where debris falls on the floor, I still have to clean it up, but now I have the added stress of thinking it’s a bug that will jump on my face and burrow a hole through my eyeball.

Also, how does one miss a target the size of a toilet bowl? Oh, wait. Men do it all the time. Never mind.

5.  For all you cat owners, I just read a post on a pet website that claims to sell an “unbreakable” plastic pooper scooper. You know what’s unbreakable? A slotted metal spoon you’d use for spaghetti. Seriously. Plastic always breaks, and unless your cat leaves 10lb deposits, a metal scooper will last you forever and then some. You’re welcome.

6.  After watching an interview with a very pregnant Jessica Simpson yesterday, I had a pregnancy dream last night. I was close to delivery and the only thing I could think of was “We don’t have any diapers.” So in my dream I went on Facebook and asked all my friends whether I should buy Huggies or Pampers. The winner was Pampers.

7.  Expired Greek yogurt has the consistency of regurgitated oatmeal. Discovering you’ve eaten expired Greek yogurt is scary and keeps you close the bathroom. Just in case.

8.  I hate whistlers. There is nothing fun about hearing a person whistle. It doesn’t make me think “Oh, what’s he so happy about? I would like to feel happy too, so I shall whistle as well.”

It makes me want to roll up an old sock that my cat plays with, encrusted with kitty spittle, and shove it in said whistler’s mouth.

The end.

OK, bees, wasps and any other flying things that try to hitch a ride in this….

Your lives will end in a very bad way ……

Yesterday I went outside to enjoy the balmy weather we’re having, and took a short walk around the courtyard of my building.

Within seconds I was hit in the head by a directionally-challenged wasp. Peripherally, I saw it coming in for a landing, and then heard it pierce my wall of curls.

Then silence. Did it die on impact? Is it still in there, wondering why what he thought was a shrub is so soft and smells like Pantene?

I flicked and fussed and shook my head until I was sure it was out.

I walked back into my office and met up with a student assistant who had just started his shift.

Trailing behind me was a client who followed me into the office and started chatting with the both of us.

I turned away from them to log into my PC and heard the client ask “Is that a wasp up there?”

Oh, for crying out loud.

I knew instantly I hadn’t gotten it out of my hair and that it must’ve hitched a ride with me to my office. It was clinging to the ceiling, surely perplexed by his new surroundings.

Big mistake, buddy.

It took ten minutes of my student’s merciless swinging, swatting and smashing to finally get it injured enough to stay on the floor.

A fighter, he was.

After a few pitiful wing waves, it gave one last gasp under my bookcase, where it shall remain. Because me no likie bugs, dead or alive, and I ain’t touchin’ that thing. I can barely even look at the picture of it.

Incidentally, killing wasps and photographing them is now considered “other duties as assigned” to my work study student. Thanks, Chris.

Wasps should really consult with the bees in the neighborhood, since they too have been victims of my Venus Flytrap head.

Bugs, fly with caution. Just sayin’.

A part of me died today.

It happened at exactly 1:12PM.

I recall glancing at a digital clock in my mother’s apartment before announcing that I was hungry and would make a sandwich.

“Do you want me to make you some tuna fish?” Mom asked.

“Yeah! Would you mash it up good like you did when we were little?” I asked.  “And mix it with a ton of mayo?”

“Sure,” she replied.

And then it happened.

We went to the kitchen and she began to prepare the tuna fish.

I went to the fridge to grab the mayo.

‘Mom? What’s this?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” she replied.

“What do you mean what do I mean? What is this?” I asked, holding up a jar of Hellmann’s mayonnaise.

“It’s mayo.”

“It is not mayo. It’s the wrong mayo. Where’s the Kraft?”

She gave me a shrug.

A shrug, from the woman who raised me on Kraft. Kraft, the best and only worthy mayo on the planet.

“Mom. Now you hear me and you hear me good. This isn’t mayo and I want to know when you started buying it,” I demanded. The inquisition begins.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she answered.

She scrunched up her nose and rolled her eyes. And then she gave me what she thought would be a conversation-ending Mom wave-off.

But no.

We’re not ending this conversation! Oh, no we’re not.

“How can you say that? You bought Kraft forever. You raised me on Kraft. I have Kraft in my bones for crying out loud. I don’t understand how you can do this,” I cried.

I’m sick about this discovery, trying to process it all. Meanwhile, my mother is still mashing away at the tuna, ignoring me completely.

“Mom, really? How can this be? Tracey used to always come over the house for the good sandwiches because we had the good mayo,” I reminded her.

See, my best friend Tracey lived in a Miracle Whip house, poor thing. Not even mayo. She was livin’ the high life at my house with tuna sandwiches made with real mayonnaise for years and secretly wished she lived in The House of Kraft.

“Stick with us. We’ll always have Kraft. We’ll take good care of you,” I assured her.

But evidently we won’t always have Kraft.

We’ll switch and we won’t tell anybody.

I’m still in a tizzy, as I set the Hellish mayo down on the counter, then walk away in utter bewilderment. Mom continues mashing the tuna.

I’m faint.

What will people say, Mom?

How can you even look at me?

How can I look at you?

The sad truth was sinking in. Mom was on the other side now. I don’t know what it’s like to be on that side. The world is all wrong and weird and backwards on that side.

I mull over when this could have happened. There was no announcement. No vetting of new mayo. No mayo caucus.

This is the stuff of family meetings. We should have had at least a phone conference about it. A newsletter. Something!

Maybe she’s been buying it for years and I never noticed. Maybe she switched when she had a coupon for ACK, BLEH, I can’t even say it – Hellmmm……..

Whatever the reason and whenever it happened, I know one undeniable fact.

My mother obviously never had a preference because once you have Kraft, you never switch. You just never switch!

Tonight I lick my wounds. My childhood will still be filled with Kraft memories, but I can never make a sandwich at my mother’s house.

Not unless I bring my own mayo.

And don’t think I won’t.

My friend and co-worker Jason finally finished a bathroom renovation last weekend and that’s how he came to receive this from me.

Toilet paper is the perfect congratulations gift, wouldn’t you say?

He took the renovation plunge almost two years ago, which is about twenty three months longer than I could stand to wait. I’d rather the job just whiz right by.

Sometimes the work would happen in explosively productive sessions, sometimes he would only get tasks done in a trickle.

Some days he’d strain to get the smallest job done.

Many times he was too pooped to keep going.

But keep going he did.

If something didn’t go right, his motto was always “No worries.” He’s not the kind of guy to make a stink about anything.

Now that he’s done, he’s flush with pride and bowled over by the results of his hard work.

And that’s why we shower him with gifts to wipe away the memory of such a crappy project.

Today I helped a client, a Professor Emeritus, troubleshoot his email.

I often have to take my glasses on and off because I’m near-sighted. While working on his PC, I took them off so I could do close-up work.

When I finished fixing his problem, I stood and gave him his seat back.

He tested sending an email message, expressed his satisfaction on the fix and I prepared to leave.

I picked up the glasses on the desk and motioned to put them on.

But they wouldn’t go on because at some point between fixing and standing, I had already put glasses on my face. My glasses.

It’s really hard to put a second pair of glasses on top of another.

And it’s worse when you do it in front of someone who would rather like to keep his.

So there sat one of the smartest gents in my college looking quizzically at the stupidest woman on the planet.

I said good-bye, nice to see you and went running back down to my office, where I realized I would now have to avoid him forever.

The end.