I happened across this ad for Sunight Federal Credit Union in the local paper:
I’d rather put my money under my mattress.
Sign of the Times
May 25th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
The Dessert Stoma
April 24th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
Well, I’ve solved the problem of “What do I do because I love to eat but I love being thin, too?” It’s actually quite simple. Instead of dieting (no fun), all you have to do is install a bypass for your belly. So you can eat what you want to, and then simply reach into your digestive tract and scoop it out again before it hits your stomach. Voila! I hereby propose the Dessert Stoma©.
Now, you may think that a hole in your throat would be unsightly, and granted, you’d be right. But think of all the lovely scarves out there! And don’t worry about that semi-inconvenient need to speak through a stoma vocoder. You’ll simply sound like you’re on autotune! Constantly. Keep in mind the greater good: a skinny little waist. Isn’t that worth a li’l neck hole that can easily be camoflaged in silk or pashmina?
The Dessert Stoma© comes complete with a little soft scoop–so you can reach in there and grab the goodies once they get past your mouth. A hand mirror is recommended (but not included) so you can actually see what you’re scooping. I’m told that there are plenty of throaty things that should just stay right where they are, thank you very much. So you’ll want to be careful that you only snag the food particles. Leave muscle and tissue intact. That’s some solid medical advice.
A little note on usage: until people get used to the sight of post-prandial scoopings, you may want to excuse yourself after eating . Now, I know that breastfeeding and stoma food removal are perfectly legal in most states, but society as a whole still needs to get a grip. So for the benefit of your public image, go ahead and take care of your skinny business in the restroom. After all, what good would it do to be both a waif and a social outcast? I shudder.
The waiting list is long, but simply sign up today to reserve your place in line! Operators are standing by. You’ll be stuffing yourself and scooping out the excess in no time. Vive la bonne vie!
The Breath of God Sells Espresso
April 10th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
I’ve been pretty vocal that Sheridan needs another place to hang out. Our only non-Starbucks coffee shop that isn’t a drive-by shack closes before most people get off work.
But this isn’t what I had in mind….
I haven’t been inside. I’m scared to.
The idea of “relaxing” with a supercharged stimulant is funny enough…but the idea of being able to do so surrounded by bibles is something else entirely.
School Spirit
April 4th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
I’m not exactly the cheerleader type, but I have to say: I’m proud enough of my (first) alma mater to rub people’s faces in it, when necessary.
Like tonight.
Granted, Duke still has to beat Butler on Monday night to win the NCAA title. But we’re playing in the championship game. Unlike, say, UNC.
Or anyone else but Butler.
No, I didn’t watch the minute-by-minute, second-by-second, beer-quaffing event with fellow alumni (if you know of any alumni in northeast Wyoming, however, please fill me in). I did eat an apple and kept refreshing ESPN at work to make sure the game really did go the way it was “supposed to.” And then I bragged about it to anyone who would listen. As an English/Drama double major lo so many years ago, I don’t have a lot to do with tonight’s victory. Yet I do have the cojones and vocabulary to pull of a good supportive rant after the fact.
Even without the short skirts and pom poms I feel an almost unreasonable sense of pride in Duke. At times like these, I’m glad I chose a school that’s good at more than selecting smart people from all 50 states in the nation. I feel like my school is a kindred spirit, of sorts. Since I consider myself more than just a smart person. See, I’m good at something, too.
At 5′0″, that “something” isn’t basketball. But I have no doubt that if I am ever as successful in my chosen field as Duke is at basketball, my alma mater will brag on me, too.
Thinking through Jello
March 31st, 2010 by Chris Nelson
I just turned in an application today for a grant I’ve been piecing together for six weeks. In the grand scheme of things, six weeks isn’t a long time. But with a full-time job, working some overnights, trying to wrap up my first play in I-hesitate-to-say-how-long required a lot of emotional energy.
I had no idea how much I had given to this particular project until I discovered I could barely sit up straight once I got back from the post office. Even after basically passing out from exhaustion for several hours (I still call that a nap if it’s less than 8 hours) I couldn’t think straight. I was completely grumpy, irrational, and dulled down. Nouns left me. Everything “sucked.” Especially the play I’d just written. It’s a strange sort of post-partum that hits me everytime I complete a new full-length work. I disparage everything I’ve ever done and then cry for awhile and get on the pity pot and whine some more.
The man definitely wanted to run away. He didn’t.
Hours later, I still can barely function. I know that I just need to give myself a few days to relax…but I’m not used to downtime. It feels strange to take time to heal, to get my nouns back. I have half of the next play roughed out, and I think I should just jump right into it. Maybe I’ll scribble some adjectives and verbs. Hopefully, though, I’ll piddle around, send e-mails, read for fun, watch some Netflix.
Ha.
I feel unsettled without a project to work on. Untethered. Adrift.
Give me 24 hours and I’ll be back in my studio, chasing the dream again.
Well Don’t This Just Sez it All
March 20th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
My new rule: don’t read the local paper while eating. I almost choked on this one:
In defense of my adopted state: it’s a Montana area code. And in defense of Montana: the guy admits he’s a “Dick.”
Bad Math
March 20th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
For a long time, my math skills were comparable to my writing abilities. I never liked math as much, but I was good at it. I still like the idea of math. But not so much the numbers. Or at least, not as they apply to calculating time.
For example, I’ve been having a distressingly difficult time figuring out my hours at work. I was advised to break down the hours I worked each day by the clock. So Monday’s hours would encompass 12:01 am to 11:59 pm. Logical. Except I work overnight shifts. And probably shouldn’t be trying to calculate my hours when I get home in the morning.
Here’s the dilemma: I go to work at 11 on Friday night and get off at 7 am Saturday morning. So that’s 1 hour for Friday and 7 for Saturday. Except I go back to work at 7pm on Saturday and get off at 7 am Sunday morning. OK: So that’s still 1 for Friday, we’re up to 12 for Saturday, and now we’re adding 7 for Sunday. Until I go back to work at 6pm Sunday and work until midnight. OK….1 for Fri, 12 for Saturday, 13 for Sunday. It adds up, but I still feel like I’m working 8 hours Fri, 12 on Sat and 6 on Sun.
And then came daylight savings time. I was almost apoplectic.
Worse: the elliptical dilemma. I was doing 10 miles in 48 minutes, and thought that meant 4.8 minute miles. I should just be able to take off a zero, right? But then I did 10 miles in 51 minutes–a 3 minute total difference from my earlier time. OK, so obviously I can’t have done 4.8 minute miles because the difference between 4.8 minute miles and 5.1 minute miles is 30 seconds each mile. Which adds up to more than a 3 minute total difference.
I still haven’t figured out how fast I was going.
Or why I can’t just subtract a zero. (Damn you, 60 seconds)
Worse, I can’t figure out why I can’t figure, anymore.
I’ll just have to accept that there are accountants and there are unpublished novelists. The dream is that one day I will write all the time and stop having to calculate the hours I work at all.
The Resident
March 13th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
First thing you should know about this story: it’s all true. Second: I am not particularly susceptible to suggestion. I was one of the few kids at sleepovers who couldn’t be put into a trance. I consider myself rational. I am a devout atheist. Yet I am convinced that the house I work in is occupied by an otherworldly presence.
I was told by the weekday overnight guy that there was “a ghost” in the house. Yeah, right. This guy was obviously eating too much sugar. The first night shift I worked, though, I heard it. (Her, him, them.) I heard floorboards creaking and cabinet doors slamming. I distinctly heard footsteps. The good news: I was upstairs, and all of the activity was downstairs. But so was the coffee maker. That first shift, I decided that I would just have to rely on adrenaline to keep me awake. There was no way I was going to interrupt whatever was going on down there.
People asked me “wasn’t it just the sound of the radiator banging?” People. I lived in Brooklyn for a long time. I know from the sound of banging radiators. I also know what creaking floorboards sound like. And the only loose floorboards in the house are in the hallway, right at the base of the stairs.
Last weekend I worked two overnights and didn’t hear anything new. The same banging cabinets. Some footsteps. But it wasn’t really a big deal. I had almost convinced myself that I’d made it all up. And then last night something happened. There is absolutely no way to deny it, try as I may. I heard two very distinct, very unusual sounds between 2:20 and 5:45 in the morning. They repeated on and off thoughout that whole time: I heard a large animal, grunting, rutting. And the persistent sound of dripping water.
I assumed, of course, that one of the sinks was running. There are three sinks on the second floor. But I checked them all. I checked the tub. They were all bone dry. And the toilet wasn’t running, either.
I have no idea what to make of it. But I do know that I felt very afraid.
I can only hope that who or whatever I’ll be “spending the night” with can accept me being here again. After all, I’m willing to put up with a lot for a job in this economy. But the first time I find the chairs rearranged on the dining room table, I’m hauling ass down to the job service.
Tonight the coffee maker is coming upstairs with me.
The Mysterious Case of the Dead Animal in the Manifold
February 17th, 2010 by Chris Nelson
It took me over an hour to realize that the smell was coming from my car.
The first time I caught a whiff of what I assumed was the runoff from a slaughterhouse, I was parked outside Community Health. Naturally, I assumed the rotting-flesh-scent was emanating from the clinic’s parking lot. (Only insured people get to park in the meat-free spaces.) But then I took a quick trip to the store. And the same odor followed me. Worse, it was still there when I got to my office.
Being a child of the Sopranos, I knew right away what had happened. I’d been framed for a murder! I raised the lid of my trunk in terror. The Mafia–in northeastern Wyoming–had certainly slipped a dead body there. A very lightweight one, mind you, since I couldn’t feel any difference in the way the car handled. But there was nothing in my trunk…Except for the cardboard boxes I always mean to recycle. And the blanket I carry because I’m supposed to carry emergency supplies in Wyoming in the winter. As the blanket wasn’t bloodsoaked, I decided I was in the clear.
But the air emanating from the front of my car certainly wasn’t.
My husband, ever loyal, wanted to know what I hit. Because it must be something I did. Karma or otherwise, I’d earned the dead flesh freshener. Well, if I did hit an animal, I didn’t see it. Or feel it. Or skid across the highway on its slippery little bloody body. “Maybe a mouse,” he says. Right. A mouse that flips up and lodges itself into my manifold? A little bunny that doesn’t have the common sense to get smushed flat and instead goes spinning up into the inner workings of my Toyota?
I decided it’s a little woodland creature that crawled up inside the engine to take a nap. Cats do that. But my husband couldn’t find anything (and I wasn’t going to look) so this morning I brought the car to my favorite car place in the world, Jack’s Autobody. They looked for over an hour and couldn’t find anything. No results, no charge. That’s why they’re my favorite car place in the world.
I still don’t know the source of the dead animal smell. Or why it mysteriously disappered. But I sure hope that the little guy who crawled up in there is in cat heaven.
Cubicle Pollution
January 21st, 2010 by Chris Nelson
It took me over half an hour this afternoon to realize that the nasty stench I couldn’t get away from was coming from my own clothing. I didn’t recognize it right away, because I’d only smelled it once before: in my office coat closet. It was the same disgusting b.o. I’d almost passed out from at 8:am. By 1 pm, the nausea-inducing odor had contaminated my favorite winter jacket.
Don’t ask why I hadn’t predicted the outcome of shutting my clothing into a dark, airless space with a smell far worse than feet. It’s the same non-logic I use with a molding box of strawberries: “it’ll never spread.” Personally, I shower twice a day. So the fact that I could possibly smell like someone who’s taken the winter off from hygiene for water conservation seems as unreal to me as the far-out chance of losing Ted Kennedy’s senate seat.
Ahem.
I find it hard to believe that I can’t say the word “cramps” without fearing a sexual harrassment suit, but people can light scented candles and eat tuna fish sandwiches and microwave eggwhites in an office environment and that’s perfectly acceptable. Granted, I expect to be forgiven for my “colorful” language. But c’mon, people: no one’s going to lose their lunch over an F-bomb.
Tomorrow, after I hang my coat from a tree and let the wind pelt it for a few hours, I’m going to crumple my outerwear into my bottom desk drawer. Wrinkles be damned. Then I’m going to eat dates, raisins, tofu and kidney beans all day long.
Your move, candle-lighting-shower-eschewing coworkers.