one of those days

This morning was going perfectly. I woke up to an exciting e-mail, my head was spinning with nervous/excited energy about going out of town, and most importantly, I was having a great hair day.

And then it turned into one of those days.

I'm sure you have them. Everything you pick up falls down. Everything you touch is knocked over. Everything that can get dirty will. Etc.

5 minutes before I needed to leave for work, I made my lunch: a big bowl of Greek yogurt with fruit and granola. The lid on my plastic container wouldn't close right. I pushed. And pushed. I started sweating. The window of leaving the house and getting to work on time passed. I gave the plastic container one more hard push to snap the top into place.




Bad idea.

I'm not going to lie, I may have cried for a minute. Then I looked in the mirror and realized the ridiculousness of having yogurt on one's head. Like, a lot of yogurt. I may have smiled. A tiny bit.



At that point I did what anyone in my situation would have done: collapsed on the ground and let the dog (Chobani's number 1 fan) lick the CRAP out of my face and hair. I may have laughed. Hysterically.

The moral of the story: it's impossible to be sad when you have a dog.

Especially one who poses for you.

(FYI, I took a shower after my Ike bath. Then my car wouldn't start. Then I drove 10 minutes to the hair salon and forgot my wallet. One of those days.)

WAH WAH WAH


Well, it's here: summer. We pretty much skipped spring, and this weekend it was close to 90 degrees and humid. Do you mind if I whine for a minute the next five months?


I get it -- most of you wait the entire year for warm weather. But see it from my perspective for a second. To you, warm weather means spending time outside. To me, spending time outside means FRIZZ! so epic it requires capital letters and its own exclamation mark.

Innocent little D did not yet realize the implications of that hair...

To you, summer might mean a fruity drink with an umbrella. To me, it means having to drink an entire river every day to avoid getting dizzy.

dramatic reenactment; paid actor


You're tan after 2 days in the sun... I'll be rocking my un-tannable, freckly ghost legs until October.


You can't wait to go to the beach... I sweat excessively at any mention of sun. And this is what I do when I get hot, apparently:


There you have it. The next time you see me when it's above 70 degrees, and I'm grumpy- that's why. Feel free to avoid me. Especially if I look like I do in that last picture.

Tell me: Is it just me? Does anyone else care to share their sweating issues?
Or a miracle frizz product that costs less than my $20 bottle of oil?

Why didn't I think of that?

Y comes home almost every day complaining about how so and so in his class has never heard of [insert historical political figure here]. I usually nod, agree with him, head straight for Wikipedia, and spend the rest of the night feeling stupid at my lack of knowledge, so humor me for a minute while I pretend like I'm smart:

Anyone who knows me can vouch for my tendency to get bossy when it comes to grammar. It's a random habit -- I'm not really a perfectionist in any other aspects, but stick an apostrophe where it doesn't belong or misuse a homophone and you will most definitely hear about it from me.

And him.

That sounded menacing, right? Right? Well... it's not exactly true. Unless I'm close to you, I won't point out your mistake. I'll probably just post about it on my blog. To be honest, there isn't enough time in the day to rectify all of the spelling and grammar errors on signs and buildings around here. While in DC, staying on Georgetown's campus, I climbed onto a campus bus and saw a sign that said something like this:

To ensure your safety, please watch your step as you climb aboard the bus.


My heart almost stopped -- not only was the sign written in a complete sentence, the ensure/insure homophone had been used correctly! A sign at home (on our not-quite-as-prestigious-as-Georgetown campus) trying to convey the same message might have looked like this:

watch "STEP" on bus


Don't even get me started on the random quotation marks. Y snapped this picture the other day, just because he knew it would make me mad. So romantic:


The reason I bring this up: I just found an article about a guy who traveled around the United States correcting errors on signs, (apparently, he didn't find an excess of mistakes in any one part of the country, which I find hard to believe) and wrote a book about his adventure. I have three thoughts on this:

A) That is awesome.
B) Why didn't I think of that?
C) They'll give anyone a book deal these days, won't they?


Anyone else out there have a pet peeve that they get overly sensitive about? My other pet peeve is the sound of someone eating a banana. GROSS.

north-sick




When we went on our vacation to New York and DC, I realized that other than the constant energy, the H&M on every corner, and the fact that you could eat at a different restaurant every day for the next ten years, there was another reason I loved being out of the South: everyone was rude and no one wanted to talk to me.


Yes, I just listed rudeness as a positive, right up there with the availability of cheap, cute, Swedish clothing and Indian takeout. You have to think about it from my perspective: I am AWKWARD. Every random stranger that asks me how I'm doing is just another opportunity for me to make a fool out of myself -- so I'd actually just prefer if they didn't ask.

Not to mention the pressure I feel, having to ask every single stranger how they're doing. And the disappointment when, time after time, I just hear "fine". That brings me to my next point: why ask someone how they're doing, when no one in the history of time (I've done research) has ever said anything other than "fine" or "good, thanks"?

Also: politeness wastes time. Imagine this scenario, it happens to me daily: you're approaching a 4-way stop. Another car approaches from the opposite direction -- for the sake of accuracy, we'll say it's some kind of large truck with some sort of confederate flag paraphernalia. Perhaps like this:


This vehicle gets to the stop sign a full three seconds before you make your full stop. Even though they have the right of way, they wave you through. This throws you off, since it's not your turn. So you wave them through frantically, because you (okay, fine, me) are OCD and can't handle when the flow of traffic is disturbed.

The other driver is clearly offended that you didn't appreciate their polite gesture, and waves you through again, just as frantically. You both hesitate. Finally you think, "Okay fine, I'll just go" and start to inch forward. Without fail, the other driver has that thought at the exact same moment. You take turns lurching forward until one of you takes the plunge, ending your epic 4-way stop battle, and you (okay, me again) end up being 10 minutes and 7 seconds late instead of just 10 minutes late.

Phew. Can you tell this is a sore subject for me?


I appreciate the effort, South, but I propose we set some rules. First of all, there should be no politeness in driving, other than when I need you to let me in your lane. Secondly, if you don't know me, there is no need to know how I'm doing today because surely you don't want to hear about how my dog rolled around on his back on top of a dead rat in the backyard and then barfed on the couch (true story). And finally -- this one is the most important -- if a girl is wearing heels, you must be within 5 feet in front if you plan to hold the door open for her, because we both lose when you've committed and have to hold the door open for a full minute while I run-walk across an entire room in 3 inch heels and inevitably faceplant.

Dear Samsung,

I've been reading online reviews of your "Magnet" phone. Apparently, you guys are very proud of this phone because it has a qwerty keyboard. Well let me just say congratulations, you made a phone with a qwerty keyboard... FOR CARNIES.


What follows is a text message conversation. The two texters are in their mid to late 20s (meaning they don't typically TyP3 lYk3 d1S) and have had their phones for about a year and send at least ten text messages a day. Oh, and one of the texters is me, and I am confident enough in my typing skills to know that this is not normal.

The scene: Dog swallows a chicken bone.

It wuz delicious, guyz.

I call Y and ask what he thinks I should do, we agree I should call a vet. And the texts begin.

y: my friend josh says it may r may not be vas [bad]. wing or leg?

me: thigh. ive called tree vets. boarding place im waiing on.
y: ricr
me: vet says i should induce vomiting
y: you cab try
y: if you cant, theb bring hi. In.
me: 60 dollars later, no chicken bone. she disnot sound too wirried.
y: great. now what
me: watch his oop.
y: what? happens i there is blod

me: bring him in. surg?


Did you get all that? Because I sure didn't. Neither did my husband. Y spent his day wondering why i would call a tree vet when our dog was the issue. And he did a great job of watching Ike's oop, but later admitted he had no idea what he was looking at all afternoon. And I
still have no clue what "ricr" means.

Later, Y needed to know what time he was picking me up from class so he could start making dinner.

Y: Wheb am i getting you. nt goig to cook till yuo get hurr.

Samsung, you may be wondering why I'm writing you this letter. First of all, it's to tell you that the keyboard on my Magnet is IMPOSSIBLE to type on. Finally, I would like to thank you for getting "Hot in Hurr" stuck in my (and probably, now, all of my readers') head.

Sincerely,
Not A Carnie.

blah, blah, blahg*


You know how people say dogs start to look like their owners?


Well, I think my blog is starting to act like me. It can't decide what genre of blog it wants to belong to: Healthy eating, where the food I consume daily gets listed in hopes of inspiring others to eat like me? Sounds kind of boring, but you should see the free samples Carrots n Cake gets ;) Fashion, where I take pictures of my outfits and list what stores they came from? It may seem shallow, but some of my favorite blogs like Kendi Everyday and The Chloe Conspiracy get it right. Cooking? Where I document the recipes I make so you can, too? Sure, except a) I'm a terrible cook, and b) When I do cook or bake, I get most of my recipes from Annie's Eats or Homemade by Holman, so you might as well just read their blogs.

Okay, so maybe my dog resembling owner analogy wasn't the best. My blog is obviously ADD because it's my puppet, and I'M blog ADD.

Keeping up with the number of blogs I subscribe to is like a second job; I read blogs that review books, in anticipation that someday I'll read The Diary of Anne Frank and can not feel guilty about reading for pleasure. I read the aforementioned (and then some) cooking and fashion blogs. I even read blogs on organizing in the hopes they will make me organized. I read articles that are linked to from the handful of public health blogs I read. And I read Perez Hilton because, well, I'm addicted. My name is Daci, and I'm a blogaholic.

I guess I feel like I my little blog has to keep up with the ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY THREE blogs (on 10 different topics) that I subscribe to. A random sampling from my iPhoto "possible pictures for blog" folder can attest to that.

Pictures taken in case my blog decides to be a cooking blog:


Or a house blog:

Or a fashion blog:


But when it comes down to it, I think my favorite blogs are the ones where totally normal people manage to keep me entertained by sharing their completely normal lives. And since I don't really excel at anything (except maybe owning a cute dog), well, that's really my only option.

All this to say that I hope my little blog audience won't judge the randomness and ADD, because it's not going away. Have I mentioned I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up? More on that later.

*I'm aware that blah, blah, blahg is the name of a blog. I read that one too.

You can't make this stuff up.

It all started with Jenny.

Jenny was, apparently, the most popular Vietnamese woman in America, and it just so happens that she was located in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Unfortunately, one day Jenny had to give up her phone number with no warning. Her friends in Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Dallas, and California continued to call her, leaving long, panicky voicemails in Vietnamese.

I got her old number. And lots of Vietnamese voicemails.

It took me several months of broken English conversations, but eventually I convinced Jenny's friend in Dallas that I was not, in fact, Jenny. And then her friend in Los Angeles. And then her posse in Baton Rouge. And eventually, the Jenny phone calls stopped.

I had forgotten about Jenny until I got my latest cell phone number, which once belonged to The Great Gigi. Who is Gigi? you ask, How is she so great?

Well... let's just say Gigi gets a lot of phone calls at 2 am.

She also gets many a text at that hour; such eloquent messages as "Wut up grl?" and "Say gigi how u doin". Gigi's "friends", who range from California to Phoenix to Galveston, all seem American, but their grasp of simple concepts and the English language are no better than Jenny's Vietnamese friends. I have spoken to a charming young man-friend of Gigi's in Galveston several times, and my conversations go something like this:

Man-friend: Yo Gigi
Me: This isn't Gigi.
Man-friend: Where she at?
Me: I don't know. As I told you the last three times you called, this isn't her number anymore.
Man-friend: You gotta tell me her new number!
Me: I have no idea who Gigi is!
Man-friend: I am soooooo sorry! Please tell me her number!
Me: Please stop calling! I don't know Gigi!
Man-friend: Okay. Thanks.

A few hours later I'll get a text like this: Pleze tull me gigi numbr.

Time out - this post is much too text heavy, don't you think?

Scholarly Ike does not approve.

Anyway, random inconveniences that make great stories have been happening to me my entire life. Like the time a misunderstanding at the salon where I got my hair done before prom ended with a potential warrant out for my arrest. Or that time my bus driver in high school mistook something completely benign that I said for a racial slur and sent me to the principal's office. Stuff like that.

Thankfully, the Gigi phone calls have slowed down and I haven't been threatened with arrest since 2002, but I was reminded of the good old Gigster and my weird luck after my dad called to tell me the latest strange thing that has randomly happened to me: My old credit card, no longer in use, had somehow been charged for a mysterious DVD of the month club that not even Google has heard of.

This month's DVD selection, sent to my house in a timely manner (got to give this mystery company credit for punctuality)? When Women Lost Their Tails. Never heard of it? You'll regret that after you read Yahoo movies' captivating synopsis.


1975: Busty prehistoric women cavort in this silly sequel to WHEN WOMEN HAD TAILS.

I can't wait to see how this one pans out...

they write real good down here.

I'm often asked what exactly there is to do in Shreveport. Well, as tough as it was to narrow it down, my absolute favorite thing has got to be waking up in the morning with a cup of tea and counting the typos on the local news.


All joking aside, this has pretty much become a morning ritual. The very bottom line of the Today Show scrolls local headlines that I assume are typed by someone at the local news station -- someone who apparently has no spell check and no editor.


Like this city needed another reason for people not take it seriously... and by "people", I mean grammar nazis and anyone else who was trained to write for mass publication. MISSPELLING = IGNORANCE.

Okay, local scroll guy. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on this one. You just moved to the area, maybe, and you've only heard the name of this neighborhood, Broadmoor. We can look past this.


Twice? On two different days? About two different "govenors"? This is no longer a typo, my friend, you just don't know how to spell governor.


Dear local scroll guy: http://learnyourdamnhomophones.com/


3 in one sentence?! That takes talent.

(I'm assuming "Car Morris" is supposed to be "Carl Morris" because the only Google search result for "'car morris' + Shreveport" was, imagine that, from this blurb on KTAL's facebook page:)

And yes, this is a real. live. television station.

So, friends, remember my most exciting morning ritual next time you ask what there is to do in Shreveport. And come visit. We'll have lots of fun!

P.S. No, Shreveport is not that terrible. Bad grammar/spelling -- especially when trying to appear professional -- is just my pet peeve. I have no clue how Y "How do you spell hungry" and I get along.


my plight

Some of you may be familiar with this picture, illustrating how hard it is for us to be named Daci and Yoni:

You might laugh, but people, this is a daily struggle for me! It's hard. There's nothing funny about it. And there's certainly nothing funny about this next example, an e-mail conversation with "F"**:









**names and subject matter have been changed, however, the deliberate enhancing of my name and F's continued misspelling of it have not.