And so it came to pass that yesterday I came across a giant daddy long legs on the bathroom wall while washing my hands. I normally kill spiders without discrimination; daddy and mommy spiders, grandma spiders, spiders who have just sprung forth from their mommy’s womb (translation: egg sac), as well as anything that looks like a spider, such as ants, centipedes, ladybugs, butterflies, hamsters, puppies, and small children.

But as it came to pass that I faced off with this daddy long legs (to be henceforth referred to as DLL, or Dell, but not the computer), it came to me the fond memory of a fairy tale that I read as a small child (who looked like a spider) and the story went a little something like this: “Daddy long legs prey on small insects and also scavenge dead or dying insects.” (Fairy tale or webpage: You Decide.) Recognizing that Dell was actually my partner in crime by killing off other, smaller, weaker insects in a fine show of evolutionary brilliance (Dell is so superior to other arachnids he in fact had NINE legs), I decided to spare Dell’s life. I went and collected a small tupperware container from my kitchen cupboard and returned to the bathroom to place my good friend Dell in the container. Dell didn’t go willingly, and as I coaxed him with words of encouragement, “Stop fighting me….I’m not going to hurt you….we’re a team, you and I…..&*%…@#$%&&…AAAAGGGHH….@#$*%%”) I had no idea that Dell, being a spider, has no ears, and that while he hears with very tiny hairs on his legs that allowed him to localize to the soothing sound of my voice, he may not be familiar with the English language or the soothing words which I spoke.

Much like a small child, Dell did not know what was good for him, and much like a parent, I forced him into the small tupperware container anyway. (What?? Your parents didn’t force you into small containers as a child?? Huh….) We walked together, Dell and I, to the backyard, where I courageously removed the container’s lid and courageously flung Dell spiraling into the yard, where he could continue his important life of preying on small insects. (Did I mention how courageous this act was?)

While saving Dell from myself (after all, had I not saved him, I would have inevitably flushed him), I was happy to have rescued the life of something that was equivalent to myself in value and importance . (I know what you’re thinking, “Troi is as VALUABLE as an arachnid?? How does she know for certain?!”) Well, Loyal Blog Reader, in fact God does point out in the Bible that “Not even a sparrow, worth only half a penny, can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it” (Matthew 10:29, New Living Translation). I have often translated this verse as follows: “Not even an arachnid, worth only the small insects he eats, can be flung into the yard without your Father knowing it.” God then continues on to say, “So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” (Matthew 10:30, NIV). I have often translated this verse to mean, “So don’t be afraid, you are worth more than many sparrows, or equal in worth to one arachnid.” You see? God loves us both.

However, after reveling in the glory of Dell’s new chance at life, I found a website that stated the following and experienced considerable distress. “The venom of the daddy long legs is one of the most poisonous.” Luckily, upon further investigation I learned that this is likely an urban legend. Although their venom may be poisonous, the fangs of daddy long legs such as Dell are too small to penetrate the skin, rendering them mostly innocuous to humans. The venom of daddy long legs has never been scientifically tested on mammals, although Wikipedia helpfully points out that testing this legend would involve the simple process of milking the spiders and injecting the venom into humans. (I just milked Dell and I’m just waiting for a human subject to step up and let me inject his venom into you….any takers??) At any rate, those of us who are of the paranoid persuasion (me) hate to take any chances with anything that contains venom, unless its name is Tobey Maguire. For the safety of the paranoid, the neurotic, and even the normal, I have developed the following motto when it comes to protecting yourself from arachnids, “When in doubt, or in a rush, save yourself, just flush flush flush.”

–Troi out

What follows is my review of the Bagel Biter, a product gifted to me after a recent incident in which I inadvertently lopped off small, I daresay insignificant, portions of the cutaneous regions of my left thumb while slicing a bagel on Monday. And then proceeded to—-really, it’s hardly worth mentioning—-slice off minimal cutaneous sections of my right thumb while slicing a bagel on Tuesday. My mother, fearing for the life of her only child, decided that the Bagel Biter might be a useful addition to my kitchen accoutrements. The Bagel Biter acts as an intermediary by slicing the bagel for the victim/hopeful bagel consumer.

At least, that’s the claim of the Bagel Biter manufacturer.

After firsthand contact with the Bagel Biter, however, my concerns regarding its safety run deeper than my concerns regarding weapons of mass destruction overseas. That is, I suspect that weapons of mass destruction have not been found overseas because they are here in the United States, and they are called Bagel Biters, and one was just shipped to my house. It caused massive destruction to me personally when I attempted to remove it from the box, and suffered a third cutaneous stab wound as its blade hurled itself uninvited at me.

After which I thought I’d observe the warning label on the box, which, to my great dismay, announces: CAUTION: Sharp Blade Handle With Care!

Which begs the question: Why would a company make a bagel slicer that requires such a warning on the label? Wouldn’t you think that an invention tailored specifically to the person so inept—-me—-that she can’t so much as slice a bagel without also slicing off valuable appendages in the process should protect against similar hemorrhaging by providing a safe, blade-free alternative? Shouldn’t it sense when invaluable extremities, like the middle finger, are nearby and feature technology that repels anything that doesn’t take the form of a bagel?

Of greater concern, perhaps, is that the Bagel Biter is billed on the packaging as “The Original Bagel Guillotine.” Again, I must voice my displeasure at coming face to face with a product that bears the name of a device historically used for carrying out executions by decapitation. Now not only are my fingers threatened, but also my head, which I use from time to time when all else fails. My body also relies heavily upon my head to promote its overall aesthetic appeal. Why would I invite a guillotine into my kitchen? How will that look to guests*??

*Guests: (Plural Noun) People I would invite over if I knew how to cook.

Finally, the Bagel Biter features a multitude of fancy parts featuring big words (polycarbonate safety shields, non-stick coated serrated blade, removable stainless steel fasteners, etc), which is greatly disappointing to the consumer who has little time for (translation: cannot understand) big words like polycarbonate, serrated, and safety. Similarly concerning are the “directions” regarding how to use the suspicious weapon. Obviously the consumer who couldn’t coordinate knife and hands sufficiently to cut a bagel in the traditional manner will be overwhelmed by these instructions, and will disregard them in favor of more hands-on, tactile-kinesthetic approaches to learning (such as the ever-popular cutting oneself in the process of removing the product from the box, and then cursing oneself for having shredded the instructions with the big words).

Based on the aforementioned concerns I have brought to your attention regarding the safety and efficacy of the Bagel Biter, I am awarding it one star out of five. It has earned one star because it sits proudly on my counter, and is distinguished by its singularity as the first and only cooking utensil that I own.

–Troi out

So this morning I decided that after four years of not making breakfast*, it was time to do so. (*This depends on your definition of “making breakfast.” I have always felt that unwrapping my energy bar and placing it carefully into my mouth constitutes “making breakfast.” Others disagree.) At any rate, today’s breakfast was to be a nutritious delicious creation of pancakes, smoked salmon, and, most importantly, coffee. After obtaining most of my items at Trader Joe’s, I danced to the Safeway dairy case to purchase International Delight White Chocolate Raspberry creamer. In horror I witnessed the absence of all White Chocolate Raspberry creamers. I said a prayer for their passing and whispered a small curse on the Coffee gods (big mistake) before settling for Coffeemate’s Chocolate Raspberry.

I came home and set all of the optional ingredients (pancake mix, salmon) for breakfast aside and immediately prepared to brew the single crucial necessity. I happily reached into my cupboard for a paper filter and came to find that…..they were ALL GONE. That’s right, the Coffee gods stole my LAST paper filter! What was I to do?

Now I know what you’re thinking….Troi, is there REALLY such a thing as Coffee gods? And to that I respond, How would Starbucks be the powerhouse it is today without the support of the Coffee gods? Do you really think that Starbucks singlehandedly ran so many of the smaller coffee shops in Portland into the ground all of its own accord? Certainly not without the Coffee gods! And now you’re asking me, Troi, are they Coffee gods, or Coffee devils?? And to that I answer, I guess it depends on who you’re working for.

At any rate, these Coffee gods exist. God created the world in seven days, which was an impressive feat that to this day has not been exceeded. However, the Coffee gods have made their own place in history by creating the Coffeemaker, the espresso machine, coffee beans, foam, chocolate syrup, half and half, styrofoam cups, all-nighters, ulcers, and the omnipresent Starbucks that is ten steps in any direction you might be headed. I daresay the Coffee gods have outdone themselves.

That is, until this morning when my ultra uncaffeinated self cursed the Coffee gods and they plundered my final precious paper filter. You can imagine my panic as I tore through the cupboards looking for any object that could possibly double as a paper filter. And then I found it, right under my eyes, the glorious thicker quicker picker-upper: A Bounty Paper Towel. I gratefully tore Bounty from his roll and explained to him that today he was not a picker-upper but a filter. Bounty misunderstood, and my thicker quicker picker-upper tore a bit in the filtering process, leaving grounds and a curiously strong paper taste in my Chocolate Raspberry coffee.

But it didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that I’d lost all motivation to make the rest of my breakfast and that it could perhaps be another four years before the motivation strikes me again. What matters is that I could use my brains and Bounty’s braun to enjoy a cup of coffee despite unforeseen circumstances. And even the Coffee gods are smiling on me again. My second cup of coffee was definitely less papery than the first. And I think the third cup will be perfect.

–Troi out

I’ve noticed of late you spend an inordinate amount of time using the new baby in your family as an excuse not to engage in our normal schedule of activities. While I understand that any new toy may serve as a temporarily enjoyable distraction, the novelty should generally wear off after 5-7 days. I am concerned that, on day 8, you continue to derive such pleasure in New Baby. Allow me to present my argument here.

New Baby, who I have not yet met, is rumored to exhibit the typical characteristics of new babies everywhere. New Baby cries, poops, and burps. I can do all these, too, if that’s what you’re looking for in our friendship, but frankly, I thought you wanted better.

New Baby, I’ve heard, rarely weighs in on the more important matters facing our country today, including our political and environmental climate, and she is also increasing our health care costs without putting anything back into the system except dirty diapers. I, on the other hand, am a contributing member to society who votes, recycles, and hasn’t dirtied a diaper since at least the third grade.

New Baby, so I hear, needs a prepared bottle wherever she goes. In contrast, I require a bottle only on the weekends, at the bar.

FWSJHaB, I would hate to have to start crying and pooping in public just to retain our friendship. I am confident that if you share the sound arguments presented here with New Baby, she will agree that I am the superior friend. She will agree by crying and pooping, but I think the message will be clear.

–Troi out

p.s. Congratulations Clare!!

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but you’re not in Kansas anymore. You’re on Facebook instead. And anybody who’s anybody knows where you are, who you are, and apparently now, who you’re dating.

I check my personal email while on break today and I notice that immediately following the spammer who wants to enhance my sex life (so thoughtful!), my faithful friend, Facebook, has also emailed me.

“Your friend, Boshua, (not his real name; real name has been withheld to protect the identity of those who may or may not wish to be associated with the writer of this blog), has alleged on facebook that you are in a relationship. We need to confirm that you are, in fact, actually dating again after hundreds, nay, thousands, of failed relationships [damn facebook....they know SO much about you]. We at Facebook find it hard to believe that you actually want to attempt to date again given your astronomically low success rate with relationships. You might want to consider taking up a new hobby instead. Or perhaps you could buy a new pet. Although, since we at Facebook own all of your personal information, we know that you were also astronomically unsuccessful at keeping your last seven fish alive, and you even managed to kill off your sea monkeys, who existed quite comfortably in their freeze-dried eggs for several decades until you managed to get your hands on them. Does anything that passes through your life actually survive??

“To confirm this relationship request, follow the link below. We promise we won’t laugh at you (out loud).”

I am absolutely panicked. I beckon a colleague. In the professional way, by hollering across the hall to her office.

“Colleague (not her real name),” I yell, “Facebook is stalking me! They know everything!!”

Colleague (not her real name) comes right over.

“Oh no!” she exclaims, “Did you KNOW you were in a relationship?”

“Yes. I was there when it happened.” And apparently, so was Facebook.

So I decide to confirm my virtual relationship request. Despite Facebook’s misgivings. Because while my dating success rate may be low, I am pretty sure that so far I have accidentally killed off more fish than men. Therefore, dating is probably safer than getting a new pet.

–Troi out

As we enter into ever more strenuous economic times, we find that the nickels just don’t stretch as far as we would like. And that’s expected, since they’re made from copper-nickel alloy, a material that does not stretch. We even find that no amount of penny-pinching will turn our pennies into a hundred dollar bill.

But, Readers, this is no time to invest in a giant magical money-changing machine invention that turns your pennies into impressively realistic counterfeit currency. (That was a bust.) Instead, try saving money on your next grocery trip, using a little something I like to call “free samples”–because that’s what they’re called.

That’s right, Readers, visit your nearby Trader Joes, New Seasons, and Whole Foods, and you’ll find a delectable variety of foods to meet your every food group need. All you need is to master the use of those itty-bitty plastic sample spoons, and you’ll be eating in (free)style in no time!

I learned this trick at a young age, when my parents would take my friend and I to Costco on the weekends, since we didn’t have the time or money for a real family vacation. But who needs one, because that giant warehouse is a little taste of Disneyland magic all by itself! Around every turn there was a new packaged food just moments from fulfilling its life’s mission of pleasing my mouth.

Even at a young age, my friend and I intrinsically knew that if one sample was good, multiple samples were even better. We needed to avoid potential detection on return trips to the same sample cart. So we disguised ourselves. We would switch it up with a quick hairstyle change, colored contacts, or a limp. Sometimes we even exchanged clothes until we were reported for streaking.

Now obviously, Readers, that stuff’s for amateurs. These days, if you’re going to do this right, you need to invest in the hard stuff. I’m talking wigs, multiple pairs of sunglasses (but don’t wear them all at once–that looks suspicious), and a trenchcoat in every neutral color.

Just remember, Readers, don’t fall prey to the classic decoy; that is, the apparently innocuous discourse with the provider of the samples. Once the provider connects your face to your voice, the threat of exposure surges exponentially. I committed this faux pas during my fourteenth trip—-in a day—-to Whole Foods during their recent annual coffee tasting event.

“Gee, this looks good,” I ventured innocently, “Can I try some?”

“Oh, I remember you,” the enemy replied, “You were just here! You sure you want more??”

As a person of integrity, I believe–much like the last administration–in coming clean, and acknowledging our more unscrupulous acts. So, with our former leader as my shining example, I did what any respectable person in my shoes would do.

“I’m a member of an elite central coffee consumption intelligence agency (CCCIA), dedicated to halting the practice of introducing harmfully addictive yet delicious substances into society. Our covert coffee company received a leak we had to investigate. Turned out it was the plumbing. We also received inside information that your coffee—-which is delicious, can I have another?—-contains caffeine, a highly addictive substance. I must now perform an official coffee confiscation procedure–an exorcism for the addict, if you will–and remove all traces of this coffee from the premises. And let me grab another sample for the road–I mean, to test for further caffeine contamination.”

I downed my sample, donned my wig and mustache, and was on my way.

Keeping my suggestions in mind, you can rest easy, Readers, knowing that your food supply will always be plentiful. You may lose your job, your house, your car, and your savings, but you will be well-fed and highly caffeinated as you contemplate your next sample stop.

–Troi out

What is up with the sadness lately?! Everywhere I look, there are single women mourning the absence of life with a man, or what they deem the Better Life. You’ll notice, Readers (if you can count), that SINGLE is NOT a four letter word! If it were, it would be “sing.” *

*Which might be considered a four-letter word if you heard my version of “Material Girl” at the last Karaoke night.

Ladies, here are some four-letter words for you:

Boys.
Date.
Ring.
Life.
Trap.

Ladies, do you see the word “single” on that list? I didn’t think so. Because “single” is a six-letter word. Here are some more six-letter words for you:

Superb.
Relief.
Simple.
Joyful.
Gerbil.

As you can see, all of the above words denote just how fulfilling the single life can be. I’m not speaking from a position of ignorance here. I also once felt incomplete without a relationship. I had just undergone a breakup and lost the very person to whom I wanted to give everything. And as you can see from my first four hundred and eighty three blogs dedicated to that relationship and breakup, it may have been marginally difficult for me to let that life and love go. I even boycotted the first Girls Night hosted by my girlfriends just a few short weeks after that breakup (I’m totally lying. It was months. That’s just between us), feeling alienated by the fact that every other girl who would be there was happily married.

Missing Girls Night is generally not considered acceptable in my circle of friends. So a few weeks later when I saw the Girls at the Superbowl party, I was cornered and criticized for my transgression. Under duress and with the only alternative being to actually WATCH the Superbowl, I confessed to the girls that my absence was due to the fact that I was painfully aware that I was the only Single Lady left.

“Are you kidding me?” said one of my best friends. “You’re our portal into the exciting single world! We’ll never have another first date; we’ll never have another first kiss. We live vicariously through you–We love** your stories about dating!!”

**They may have said “love,” they may have said “laugh at.” Hard to remember.

So they loved my stories. I had in effect become my own “Sex & the City” (minus the Sex, and minus the City). And it’s true, I do have an impressive knack for drawing the affections of freaks, geeks, stalkers, gawkers, and general maniacs. And I can apparently now engage audiences with these amusing tales, and they can go home and share with their loved ones my latest amusing dating escapade, neatly encapsulated into its own 30-minute disastrous episode, minus the nudity and New York backdrop. I should get paid for this service.

But telling tales so you can laugh at my expense is not the real reason to embrace the single life. (Although it IS the real reason to embrace my blogs.) The real reason is that we have to rid ourselves of the mindset that we accidentally slipped into the wrong life. Unless you’re Gwyneth Paltrow on Sliding Doors, you didn’t narrowly miss your one opportunity for a happy life by missing the red line and having to wait for the blue. (If you don’t live in Portland, that reference may not make sense. Move to Portland.) You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. (Unless you don’t live in Portland.) And as I found out with my friends that night, just as I was longing for the security and stability of their life, they just might have been reminiscing about the zany unpredictability they saw in mine. So stop longing and start living. Because whether we catch the blue line or the red, we can still enjoy the ride.

–Troi out

I’ve always wished there were just one day in the world where we could just make a joke out of everything. Where everything we say could be sarcastic, and we would be celebrated for the outrageous pranks that we pull at work, instead of getting fired for them, like that one time.

I’ve always wished that this day were in the springtime. Perhaps in April, around Easter, so that the shenanigans could offset that Catholic guilt that soars around the Lenten season.

Early April would be best, because by the second day of April, jokes just get stale.

I’ve decided to call this day April Fools Day.

Readers, if you research the origins of April Fools Day on the Internet (which, incidentally, I also invented), you’ll find that I’m not always given my due credit for having invented April Fools Day. You’ll often find tales of its invention back in the 1500s, at the time of the switch to the Gregorian calendar, when January 1st replaced April 1st as the New Year. Forgetful people still attempted to celebrate the New Year on April 1st, and their minor oversight was allegedly met with innocuous teasing, such as flogging, hanging, burning at the stake, and other friendly jests.

These days, however, April Fools Day is more widely, and accurately, regarded as created by me. After all, I have a mind like a steel trapeze artist, and I had to do something to occupy my time after I invented the lightbulb, and before my invention of the telephone.

You don’t have to thank me for creating this day of joy you’ve come to know and love as April Fools Day. However, you do have to pay me. Due to recent approval of my April Fools Day patent, every time you utter the words April Fools Day, or any combination of those words, related words, words that start with those letters, or words containing one or more of those letters or letter combinations in any order, you will need to deposit money directly into my bank account.

And, of course, [happy] April Fools Day!

–Troi out

Dear Readers,

My name is Troi, and I have a leak. (”Hi, Troi.”) The location of my leak is under my bathroom sink. Like you, I experienced the melange of expected emotions as I peered underneath the bathroom sink one evening. Below is my journey through this tumultuous time.

DENIAL
There is no leak. There is another reason that the bathroom items in my cupboard beneath the sink are soggy. I will place this single Bounty paper towel on the floor of the cupboard, which will soak up this sea of water. I will then close the cupboard door, removing all evidence of that which I just witnessed.

ANGER
When I can no longer go without the items under the cupboard, I am forced to reopen the doors. I am angry that my items have been reduced to soggy shadows of their original selves. (Is that a roll of toilet paper, or a can of hairspray? I can’t even tell.) I finally give in, and fill out a work order at the apartment office downstairs. I return to my apartment to find black goo creeping up out of the sink drain.

BARGAINING
“Go away, black goo,” I negotiate gently but firmly with my assailing sludge. “If you go away, I will start cleaning the sink every week. Maybe even the whole apartment!” My sludge doesn’t leave, and I am only distracted from it by the water seeping steadily but swiftly from the cupboard underneath the sink to my bathroom floor.

DEPRESSION
I come home from work to a receipt alleging that my sink leak has been fixed. I celebrate by turning on the faucet to brush my teeth (as celebrations are best undertaken with clean teeth and fresh bresh), and water surges down the drain, gurgles, and starts spraying the inside of the cupboard, and all of my newly purchased bathroom items, with more fervor than ever before. I HAVE BEEN DECEIVED. This is very depressing.

ACCEPTANCE
I will live a life of waterlogged solitude with my new friend, Black Goo.

–Troi out

**After Troi moved out and became a squatter in the apartment stairwell, the workers returned to her apartment and fixed the leak. She asks that you send any (stair)well wishes to her at the intersection between the 3rd and 4th floor stairways.

Perhaps you’ve heard that we’re in a recession. As a professional who works at a school, I can educate you on the meaning of recession; since “recess” is a time of play, and “ion” is a positively-charged atom, quite obviously a recession is a time when people can more positively engage in playtime activities, since they’ve all lost their jobs.

The recession is being felt across the nation, from the airlines, to the oceans, where shark attacks worldwide in 2008 decreased to their lowest level in five years (Really! I couldn’t make up stuff like this!), suggesting that Americans are forgoing trips to the beach in favor of watching beach scenery on their computer screen savers, which is cheaper and carries less risk of limb loss.

But nowhere is the recession felt more than at Portland’s local Dollar Tree, where I went yesterday to stock up on motivational prizes for my students.

The items I’ve purchased during past Dollar Tree excursions (where I go on vacation in lieu of the beach to avoid shark attacks) haven’t exactly been of Toys-R-Us caliber. They’re generally what I call “quasi-crap,” which is 1-3 steps above being actual crap. However, they’ve always been disguised as decent prizes. The box of magic tricks boasts flashy images on the outer cover, and it is not until students open the box long after leaving my room that they discover several nondescript misshapen pieces of plastic along with instructions that are only in Chinese.

But on this trip, I couldn’t even find the facade of a passable prize. On this trip, it was evident that the recession has turned the Dollar Tree into the Dollar Sapling. I found light-up yo-yo’s that didn’t light up; matchbox cars with only three wheels, and even the candy had expired in the early 1980s.

Yet after six weeks of promising my students that I would buy them prizes “tomorrow” (which has now created a lifetime of semantic confusion for my students with autism who take me literally), I had no choice but to purchase the shoddy items. I would even have to pretend that they were cool.

As my students chose their prizes today, it was clear they weren’t fooled.

Anonymous student: “Really? This is it?? Where are the good prizes?”
Me: “Gee, whatever do you mean?! These High School Musical erasers look positively perfect! Or how about this Hannah Montana mechanical pencil?! Or, I know! This regulation-size, yet non-aerodynamic flimsy foam frisbee looks to be just the thing!!”

My students’ reactions were akin to a shark attack, the kind that took place prior to 2008 when people could still afford to take vacations to the coast.

I like playing positively, but this recession has just got to stop.

–Troi out