Pickles & Dimes

Signs it is a Monday after a nice long holiday weekend:

The cat wakes you up at 4:23 a.m. by sneezing directly into your face.

You hit the snooze alarm *six* times before scraping yourself out of bed, which you have thoughtfully provided with new flannel sheets and a freshly washed comforter for maximum “I don’t want to leave - ever” appeal.

You hit every.single.red.light on the way to work. This is a record.

Your boyfriend cracks his hard-boiled egg open for lunch to discover that it was not, in fact, a hard-boiled egg.

I just experienced my own personal Hell this morning.

What happened, you ask? Oh. Traffic - traffic happened.

I had stupidly scheduled a doctor’s appointment for 7:30 a.m., half chiding myself for the ungodly hour, but half clapping myself on the back because I would be done with it before I had to be at work.

The hospital is 10 miles away. Located right off a major freeway. After consulting with Jason, and thinking of all the times we’ve driven this route in the past, even allowing for early morning commuters, we concurred that 30 minutes was reasonable. (That’s a little foreshadowing there, folks.)
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Lately, it seems that my verbal communication skills have vanished. Oh, I can write just fine - big, grand sweeping verbose stories and literary limericks with the benefit of an easy-access delete key, but when I find myself talking, that’s another thing altogether.

Words that aren’t even words come tumbling out of my mouth like a stampeding mass of verbal hysteria gang-rushing the exit sign during a fire, pushing and stomping until they make it to freedom, which results in me saying such things as, “Ooh, sloppy joe’s for dinner? That would be graat.”

[silence for about 3 seconds]

Jason: “Did you just say, “GRAAT”?
Me: “What?…no. No, I don’t think so.”

Jason: “Yeah, I think you did. You said graat.”
Me: “No, I di-Hey, I like this song on the radio.”

Jason: “Don’t change the subject. I want to know what the heck “graat” means.”
Me: “Uh, I guess it’s the combination of ‘great’ and ‘grand.’ You know, ‘Dinner at the Palace? That would be GRAAT.’”

Jason: “OK…Why would you even consider using the word ‘grand’ in the first place?”

That was this weekend. This morning driving to work a woman cut me off, and in my fury, I managed to shout at her that she was a “chirk.” I’m not even sure the meaning of that one - maybe “jerk” and “chick”? I don’t know.

All I know is that I need to either think things through before speaking, or I need to get some more sleep.

Mmmm…sleep. That would be GRAAT.

Dear Brad Johnson,

I love you. You rock and I know this is mean-spirited, but I hope Daunte Culpepper doesn’t finish his knee rehab in time for 2006. I hope you understand that even though I think you’re awesome, I still cannot break my rule of putting Vikings players on my fantasy team. Due to past performances, I cannot afford to get burned. I know you understand.

- From The Girl Who Owns 3 of Your Football Jerseys and a Boatload of Your Football Cards, But is Totally Not Obsessed With You

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Dear Michael Vick of the Atlanta Falcons,

A guy who runs for more yardage than passing for it is nothing more than a glorified running back, NOT a quarterback. When your first instinct is to immediately take off running, it means you haven’t matured enough to the point to find a secondary receiver when your first option is covered. When you pass for 300+ yards in two consecutive games, maybe then I will stop bitching about you and your lack of passing ability. Also, try getting your passer rating position above #30 before you start talking trash.

Sincerely,
Someone Who is Sick of Hearing all of Your Unearned Hype, Dammit

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Dear Mark Brunell of the Washington Redskins,

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that after having your piss-poor 65-yard throwing performance last week, that maybe, if it wasn’t too much trouble, you might be able to do better for me this week. I didn’t realize that after weeks of being a great player, you’re now going to suck. My mistake.

Signed,
The Person Who is Now in Second Place in her Fantasy Football League and Not Happy About it

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Dear Mike Tice,

I have two words for you: flea flicker. This play is the best play in the world, and yet you steadfastly refuse to implement it. Come ON - it’s even fun to say! FLEA FLICKER. If you do not do this on Sunday, I will be forced to write you a scathing letter. With bad words. C’mon, it’s easy: Johnson to Bennett back to Johnson to Williamson. I’m telling you - it’s GOLD!

- Armchair Coach Wannabe