Geesh. It’s not like this restaurant was the epitome of fine dining. Actually, it’s more a bar than a restaurant. Whatever.

For the record, I ordered from the weenie drink selections with pride.

Some of you might know that one of my biggest fears was to fly on a plane all by myself. I managed to show that fear who’s boss last summer when I attended a blogging conference in Chicago. Let me tell you, I felt like a superstar getting that behind me. Kathy, 1. Fear, 0.

Unfortunately, I’ve got other fears, one of them heights, which was triggered when I walked over a bridge with my husband Dave in the Bahamas circa 1995.

We walked along just fine, until Dave exclaimed “Look! The water is beautiful!” I turned my head to take in the view and promptly lost my mind. I had to run over to the other side of the bridge and take a cab ride back.

There were to be no more walks over bridges for me.

Until today.

For years I avoided joining some of my coworkers who would take walks over the bridge for exercise or to enjoy their lunch hours at a summer music festival held every year on the other side of it. I simply could not fathom walking across that bridge. No how, no way.

But it bugged me that I couldn’t — wouldn’t — do something so simple as to walk across that thing. I mean, it’s just a sidewalk, albeit a sidewalk high in the air.

So I made a decision today to join my coworker Heather for a walk around town and a stroll across The Bridge. I’m pleased to report that I made it without crying in hysterics or having a panic attack.

Were there challenges? Yes. Did I sweat like a pig, even though it was only 20 degrees out? Yes. Oink.

If I looked to the left, there was fear of being so high up. Sure, there’s a railing there, but still. It’s the only thing between me and DYING.

If I looked to the right, I felt the closeness and rush of cars whizzing by and worried that I’d somehow fall over the guardrail, get hit by a car and DIE.

I had two choices: either look straight down at the sidewalk or look way, way off to the distance so that I didn’t have either death threat in my peripheral vision. I alternated between both methods until I reached the other side.

And thanks to my trusty co-pilot Heather, who gave me words of encouragement the whole time and notified me when we were and weren’t over water, it was almost a piece of cake.

If any of you have fears that keep you from enjoying life to its fullest, there’s pretty much only one way around it. You have to stare down that fear and kick its ass to the curb.

I know it sounds easier said than done, but I’m here to tell you that I thought I might die today and I didn’t!

Not dying is awesome, but living with one less fear feels even awesomer.

Our Windy is alone for the winter now. All the leaves have gone. No protection from the elements.

*sniff*

For those who’ve lost track of how long she’s been stuck in her tree, it’s 1 year, 8 months.

Is it too early to start planning her second birthday party? There will be cake again and I might rent a reception hall and hire a band. Too much?

For those who wandered into this blog and don’t know about the Windy saga, check out the Windy archive of posts.

Here’s a video of her I filmed this morning, marking yet another successful photo shoot wherein I do not fall off the roof of my building to my death. Yea for me!

OK, peeps. Some of you might remember when I wrote a post asking you about your firsts (first kiss, first car, first job, etc).

I had such a blast reading your responses. And now I’m going to ask you to dig deeper. I mean really deep.

Here goes. What was your very first memory?

I doubt any of you can remember when you were babies. I’m guessing the earliest age where one can remember anything clearly enough was around two or three years old.

Maybe your first memory was clear as day, or maybe it was only a hazy recollection. Maybe what you remember stuck with you for its seriousness or for it being funny. Whatever it was, think back and tell us!

As for me, my very first memory is of sitting in the living room, playing with toys, and looking at little dust particles dancing around in strong sunlight. My mother’s probably going to worry you’ll think I lived in a pig sty, but trust me, our house was antiseptic clean. I expect I was jumping around on the couches stirring up the dust bunnies.

I don’t know why I remember that. I do know I felt content at that moment, and curious about the fuzzy air I was seeing.

So let’s have it. What was your very first memory?

It snowed and sleeted and poured last night and this morning. I was concerned a bit about how well the sidewalks would be cleared around my building at work.

Icy sidewalks can be such a hazard.

But so can perfectly dry indoor steps that are pretty easy to navigate if you just pick your feet up as you ascend.

Not if you’re me. That’s right. I fell up the steps. I do not recall once in my lifetime falling up steps. Down, yes. Up, no. To me, there’s a big difference. The ego hurts more when you fall up.

(Note: Actual Steps of Death pictured above.)

I am currently nursing a very sore shoulder and a pretty ugly kneecap.

There is blood.

I ripped through skin when my knee stopped the fall.

The worst part? I fell in front of a colleague. He was terribly sympathetic and concerned, but if I were him, I’d be laughing all the way to wherever he was going.

I’ll be avoiding him forever.

Also, I’m getting a new husband because this is the email exchange we just had:

Dave,

I hurt myself pretty bad just now. I fell UP the steps in the back stairwell. I’m bleeding on my kneecap. I don’t think I need to get anything checked out, but I will have one hell of a bruise tomorrow.

His response?

Kath,

Way to go. 

—-

p.s. Since I started writing this, my knee is now softball-esque. Is that bad?

I’m helping a friend out by trying to find a Forever Home for two adorable cats in the Chicago area. Rather than repeat the information about them here, I’m going to send you over to JD at I Do Things, who is on the hunt.

There is a HUGE incentive, besides getting to be a fabulous human being who can save kitties from a shelter.

The owner is offering a full year’s worth of kitty litter and food for the cats, PLUS a cash incentive.

Please help us by getting the word out: Stumble, Tweet, or Facebook this (or JD’s post).

Thanks!

UPDATE FROM JD:

A final thank you for all the good wishes and button-pushing and retweeting.

LUCKY AND MINNIE HAVE FOUND A FOREVER HOME!!!!

Remember when your TV had twelve channels, 2-13, and that was enough on the dial?

Yeah.

And then we thought it was all cool and progressive to have channels that went up to a hundred or so?

Uh-hmmm.

My cable service just sent some hocus pocus through our receiver and suddenly my favorite channel is 1,129.

Discuss.

My good friend Babs wrote a post yesterday about how she named her blog, Beetle’s Memories ‘n Ramblings, or Beetle Blog for short.

I thought some of you might be interested in the evolution of my blog and how it came to be named The Junk Drawer.

I say evolution because that wasn’t the first name for it, at least not for the URL.

When I first started blogging in July, 2007, I joined up with Google’s Blogger publishing system and chose a name for my Blogspot address. For some reason, I picked my real name. My old URL used to be kathyfrederick.blogspot.com.

While I strangely chose my real name for the URL, I had to come up with a name for the blog itself. At the time, I planned to blog about miscellaneous items that interested me or topics that could be of help to readers or at least entertain them.

1. Computing tips

2. Language and linguistics

3. Humor

Based on having a mish mash of topics I wrote about, my first choice for a blog name was Miscellanea. Now. Look at that word and how it’s spelled. Even the editing software I use to publish doesn’t think it’s a word. Could you spell it correctly with a gun to your head?

I quickly realized that it would make a bad name.

So where’s another place you throw miscellaneous things? Why, The Junk Drawer. Of course!

And so the name was born.

Over time I stopped writing about the first two topics, computing and language, and stuck to what readers seemed to enjoy more, the humor stuff.

When I moved off the Blogger platform in December, 2007, I had to register a new domain name and forward my old Blogspot address to the new one. After dropping two of three topics, I wasn’t really blogging miscellaneously anymore, but I still liked The Junk Drawer name, and so the hunt was on for that domain name.

Initially, I wanted JunkDrawer.com, but that was already taken and I wasn’t prepared to spend almost $2,000 to buy it from the owner. TheJunkDrawer.com was also taken. Strike two.

So I risked choosing a domain that was a little longer than those and settled with JunkDrawerBlog.com.

My suggestion for anyone thinking of starting blogging is to think long and hard about a name. Think of it as your brand name. And try to get the easiest-to-spell and shortest domain name possible. You never know how successful your blog will become, and so you want it to be memorable.

I’m interested to know how you came up with your blog names. Are you happy with what you chose? If you had to do it over, would you have chosen something else?

No one stood a chance.

Since Wednesday’s What’s That item posed such a challenge, I decided to post another picture on Saturday that revealed more of it. Within five minutes of doing so, Grace of Hugz Before You Go entered the winning guess.

Here are the two images I posted:

Grace guessed correctly that this is a cigar cutter. Here are some alternate views:

For the record, I caught heat from my sister at the Thanksgiving table that this object wasn’t mine (it belongs to my brother-in-law). My sister thought I’d always claimed the What’s That items were items found in my house.

And then she punished me by making me prepare the mashed potatoes, corn, dinner rolls and gravy.

Tough crowd.

So, for all future items featured for What’s That?, I’ll disclose whether the object is mine or borrowed.

Congratulations, Grace! I’ll have your prizes in the mail soon!

Hey! For all my friends who aren’t busy preparing for their Thanksgiving tomorrow, here’s a What’s That? item to mull over.

How to play:

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

2. First person to guess the object it’s a part of wins a Junk Drawer magnet and a mystery prize.

I may not get to pop in and see your guesses much tomorrow, as I will be busy shoveling turkey, fixins and pie in my face for most of the day.

I hope everyone has a Happy Gorgefest tomorrow. Don’t forget the Tums!

What’s that?

UPDATE: OK, looks like you’ll need a little hint. No one has guessed correctly so far. Not even in the ball park.

Here’s a picture that reveals a bit more of the object:

Now do you know what it is?

mo·ron  (môr‘?n’, m?r‘-): idiot: a person of subnormal intelligence.

The date: Circa 1971.

The location: Family doctor’s office.

The injury: Smashed fingertip.

My mother had taken three of us kids for an annual checkup at our family doctor. After my sister and I were checked out, we retreated to the waiting room while my mom stayed with my brother and the doctor.

With nothing to do and time to kill, little Kathy Simpleton became mesmerized by the opening and closing of the front door as other patients came and went.

Every time the door opened, a one inch crack opened between the door and its hinges, revealing bright rays of sunlight.

Open, sun, close. Open, sun, close. Mesmerizing indeed.

Curiosity set in. Kathy wondered if she could stick her finger into that sunshine-filled crack and …. do what? See if it fit? And then what? Cheer and bet her sister couldn’t do the same thing?

We will never know why. Asking why just makes it worse.

What we do know is that stupid is as stupid does.

When that two hundred pound metal door came to rest in its closed position on the finger of the dumbest child ever born east of the Mississippi, she learned in an instant that sometimes it’s best to be satisfied with imagining instead of doing.

Yeah.

Of course, one might think this qualifies as my most moronic kid moment, and yet, if you think about it at least I had the sense to do it right in a doctor’s office.

It is unclear whether my mother asked the doctor to examine not only the crushed finger of her whimpering child, but the brain that thunk up such a senseless idea.

Care to share the least thought-out stunts of your kiddom? Extra points if you needed a cast, crutches or a wheelchair as a result.

I don’t get it. My husband Dave refuses to keep lighting this pumpkin in our front yard.

I’ve been bummed the last few days it’s gone unlit. Dave gets home from work a little before me and would always light the little guy. When I drove up the block in the dark, I could see Mr. Pumpkin Head waiting for me. He was my beacon to home.

I asked Dave why he doesn’t light him anymore.

Um. Because his skull is crushed in and it looks like he’s in pain?

Still. You can get the scalp off enough to light a candle in his brain. And all you’d need to do is wear protective clothing. And hold your breath. And pray nothing’s living in there.

What. is. the. problem????

Meet Shadow. She’s a sweetheart, but she’s got a problem.

She only wants to drink water directly from the faucet.

Since she developed this little habit, it’s become near impossible to function in the kitchen.

Whenever my husband or I walks into the kitchen, she follows.

Whenever we’re washing our hands or rinsing a dish, she’s there.

Whenever she hears the garage door open, she’s on the counter. Waiting.

At 5:00AM, like clockwork, she’s nudging us out of bed. When I get up, she runs downstairs to sit in the sink.

I oblige her. Again.

We figured it’d be easy to break her of the habit if we never turned the water on for her. Or so we thought.

All that does is make her smash her face, over and over, into the spigot and give us that wanting look. And so we give in. She once got an eye infection, we assume because of this smashing behavior. The tip of the faucet can’t be that clean.

I know they make pet water dishes that produce a steady stream of water, but we don’t think that’ll be good enough for her. When she does decide to drink from a bowl, she pushes it all over the floor and dumps half of it.

Must go. I feel eyes burning a hole through the back of my head. She’s in the sink again.

So let’s hear it. In what ways do your pets rule your household?

Doesn’t everyone want nipple cupcakes? I mean, come on. They’re awesome.

Step 1: Pour too much cake batter in the cups. No, not bra cups, silly. Cupcake cups!

Step 2: Don’t shake down the batter like apparently you’re supposed to do.

Step 3: Bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.

Viola!

Nipplicious cupcakes!

Step 4: Pile icing high, high, high and no one will notice!

Good grief. I can’t even make a normal cupcake. Don’t even try to help me. There is no helping me. But I’ll take pity. Pity’s good.

As a lot of you know, there was some question about our beloved Windy’s survival over the summer. Over the last few weeks many of her tree’s leaves fell away and I knew it would be soon that we’d either see her or we wouldn’t. I’ve been bracing myself.

A few days ago a colleague at work came bouncing into the office to say she thought she saw a glimpse of her.

Today I got the evidence. She’s looking pretty tattered, but she is most definitely still there.

Let us bow our heads and give thanks.

Behold, Windy! A stripped down version of her former self, but no less loved!