My favorite pants

Let's get a few things straight. I'm a runner, I'm Dutch, and I'm cheap. I'm not saying that any of these three things are related, I'm just putting my cards out on the table for those of you who don't know me personally. So make fun of me all you want, but no cracks about how Dutch people are cheap, or I'll make fun of the fact that you use FAR too much hair care product. Uh, yes you do, admit it. Don't try to hide.

So anyway, I have to tell you about one of my favorite experiences, merely because it involves two of the three factors that I've listed above - that I'm a runner and I'm cheap. The fact that I'm Dutch is inconsequential in this particular story. Don't fret, surely it will come up in future blogs. Be patient. So one particular Saturday, I was to attend a housewarming party for a friend. Said friend (let's call him Pierre) wanted to make the party special, so he hosted a retro "prom" theme. Cool enough, I thought. Luckily for me, my favorite store is the Salvation Army (I told you I was cheap - I'm not kidding here people), so I had plenty of butterfly collar retro shirts for the party. Unfortunately, when perusing my closet - horror of all horrors - I had not one pair of polyester pants. Eeek.

Thus begins my trek. Since it was a nice winter day out (read: above 20 degrees), I decided to run to the nearest Salvation Army to buy a pair of pants. And I mean that. I literally ran there. It's only three miles from my house. It's my favorite Salvation Army in town, and they always have the best selection. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but just try to look past the fact that most of the clothing comes from the closets of people who have recently passed away. Yes, I'm wearing a dead man's shirt. Get over it.

So I make it to the Salvation Army (admittedly a bit sweaty and smelly), and there's nothing. The party is hours away, and I have no polyester pants. I was getting so desperate that I would have offered to by the pants off the old man working the counter, if only they were polyester. Faced with this excrutiatingly polyester-free dilemma, I decide to run another two miles to yet another Salvation Army. I arrive and frantically start searching the men's slacks section. As if a gift from God himself, there they are. The most beautiful burnt sienna polyester pants you've ever seen. They matched my pre-selected shirt and jacket perfectly. Well, I couldn't try them on (as by now I had run 6 miles and was far too sweaty) so I trumphantly bring them to the counter.

As if by another gift from God, the woman at the counter rings them up, and says, "That will be twenty five cents". WHAT? HUH? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? TWENTY FIVE CENT PANTS? Apparently it was "yellow dot day", where everything with a yellow dot was only a quarter. I was happier than a hippie at a deadhead concert. I proudly slide my quarter over the counter to her and run my six miles home, with little time to spare.

I get home and promptly jump into a muchly needed shower, then begin to get dressed for the party. I didn't care that I didn't have enough time to properly wash them, and I didn't care that they were about four inches too short in the inseam. They fit, they matched, and they were polyester. So, as I'm just about on my way out the door, I go to put my keys in my pocket, and as I reach in... Fasten your seatbelts... Get ready... THERE WAS A DIME IN THE POCKET! It was like a rebate from beyond the grave. A dead man left me a dime. BETTER YET, I WAS WEARING FIFTEEN CENT PANTS! I was in heaven. Pure heaven.

I'm so proud of my fifteen cent pants. They're so hideous that I never wear them, but I tell everyone I know about them. Oh yeah, Pierre's party was fun, too. The end.

I learned it by watching you!

OK, I'm not sure which came first here... the chicken or the egg. More specifically, I'm not sure if I've become more neurotic since I've gotten my dog, or if he's more neurotic for having gotten me. First of all, let me say this; my dog is broken. I mean it. Broken. If he were a Tonka truck, I'd probably take him back to the nearest Toys R Us. But he's my boy, and I love him - neuroses and all. For any of you that don't know me (or know my dog) Loki is a pure white Alaskan Husky with crystalline blue eyes. His eyes are beautiful, but with beauty comes consequence, such as his horrible cataracts. They don't seem to bother him that much, except for his night driving. So much for my designated driver.

Oh, enough about his eyes and more about his nuroses. So I got him from the local Humane Society (which I highly recommend you support) and I'm guessing he was rather abused in his "past life". I can't say for certain, but it might explain why he thinks the lawnmower is a "toy" while he's scared to death of the Swiffer. It doesn't make sense to me. He wants to play with the tool that will chop him into bite-sized morsels, but he runs screaming from the tool that cleans up his hairballs. (By the way, he really doesn't run "screaming", but he does run to the den and hide whenever the Swiffer rears it's ugly demon head).

So his latest quirk is this. He constantly has to smell my breath. I'm not sure why, but whenever I get home from work or let him in and out of the yard, he has to smell my breath. I guess it's like a retina scan for dogs. He will stand at the gate and won't let me enter until he smells my breath. "You aren't allowed to come into this yard until I have an olfactory confirmation that you are my master - now breathe, human". I don't know. I guess I should be happy that he's not sniffing my crotch like most other dogs. My only concern is that some days (like today) I have to have the worst coffee breath known to man. I don't want to injure my dog with my stanky breath. What if I do long term damage? What if he begins to twitch at the near mention of Starbucks? What if one day he runs screaming from me like I'm a giant Swiffer?

Hmmm...

2.16.05 - I'm not exactly sure what to put out here. I'm not really an official blogger, I'm not really much of anything. Just a goofball with high blood pressure who likes to run and eat ice cream. Oh, and as you can tell from the title, I have a touch of OCD. Just a touch, as my friends will happily tell you. I think the fact that I realize I have a problem and I don't let it own me is a pretty good first step. I freak out if there is any snow on my driveway during the winter, but my bathroom is dirtier than an interstate truckstop. And yes, I separate my M&M's into colors and then eat them in prime numbered groupings. Get over it. Love me, love my nuroses. If you come over to visit, don't leave my milk carton sitting out on the counter. I will freak out and probably have to pour it down the drain, but not after beating you with a wooden spoon. And don't be a clown. Not like a "goofy person who clowns around" clown... I mean, don't be a real clown. I have a paralyzing fear of clowns.

My friends created this blog site for me, hoping that they could read the inner workings of my mind. Well, unfortunately, the internet is only as true as you believe, so believe what you will about this. Consider this blog like a Lifetime made for TV movie starring Judith Light. It's only based in reality. Actually, that's a lot like my life - only based in reality. Most of this blog will be true with the occassional embellishment (or more than occasional depending on my mood).

Well, I gotta' go.

Testing this Out

Just testing this out to see how it works.