week eighteen: add water before turn on it!

Nothing says quality electronic goods like a superfluous home appliance with a poorly translated instruction-ish label stuck to the top. With an exclamation point, no less.

I bought this “sonic wave” jewelry cleaner thingie on eBay from some random Chinese importer. It was after I got my engagement ring, and I apparently convinced myself that – for the ONE piece of non-New York and Company jewelry I owned – I needed some weaksauce Sharper Image knockoff to address the ring’s complex cleaning requirements.

When it arrived I wasn’t too impressed. I think I might have even been slightly shocked when I used it for the first time and it didn’t catch on fire. Every once in a while I’ll drop my ring in there, and it seems cleaner when it comes out. I think?

From now on, I’ll use 30 seconds of elbow grease to clean my ring. I’m sure Pinterest has a DIY ring cleaning reference with an adorably illustrated step-by-step manual using reclaimed toothbrushes and a solution made from Windex and cornmeal or something.

Related but separate – took my FIFTH carload of junk to the thrift store today. I was proudest of the giant light blue terry bathrobe husband finally gave up. It took up about 72% of our closet space. Husband kept it because (he thought) it looked like “something Hugh Hefner would wear.” Which makes me think “how does husband NOT realize the difference between a puffy bath towel robe and some slick red satin smoking jacket?!”

I mean COME ON! Hugh Hefner wouldn’t be caught dead in that.

Really, husband. I’m disappointed.

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week seventeen: I really, really suck at snowboarding

High up on the list of things I would have once thought impossible: Giving yourself a black eye with a snowboard.

Now wait – I don’t mean RIDING a snowboard. Of course that’s possible. Wipe out trying a gnarly jump or cut an edge too close to a tree, totally possible. Nor am I talking about some sort of Three Stooges-esque accident where you roll up on a snowboard chilling on the floor without noticing it there, step on it and launch the other side up at your face in a hilarious vaudeville salute.

No, I mean giving yourself a black eye WITH the board while said snowboard is bolted to your feet. Exactly. Just how the fuck does that happen, anyways?

In my early twenties, while being a superhip San Francisco city girl (ha), my then-boyfriend now ex-boyfriend and I decided to take up snowboarding. All the techy Bay Area types were jumping on the boarding bandwagon in the early 2000s, and, being a surprisingly OK athlete for a petite blond girl who owned a Hello Kitty toaster, I thought it sounded like great fun.

A tiny bit of backstory: I grew up in SoCal, about five miles from Mexico and eight miles from the beach. I saw snow for the first time when I was 19. I think I may have slid on a trash can lid down a hill sprinkled with hail once. But again, I can throw a baseball without embarrassing myself. Golf in mixed company without eliciting impatient eyerolls from boys. (I fucking hate it when they do that, by the way. Assholes.) Shit, I even have an aight backhand.

So I wasn’t worried. I’d fall down a bit, pick it up and be swooshing down the mountain shortly, looking all cute and snowboardy and getting hit on left and right.

HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!

Instead of that, I discovered I was the worst snowboarder ever. Awful. Spent the whole day falling on my ass. Mean teenagers laughed at me. I ate shit for about five hours and took my last ride up the lift to the doofus beginner area for a final attempt. I think ex-boyfriend told me I couldn’t go have a cocktail until I gave it one more try. Damn ex-boyfriend!

I hadn’t really mastered the lift. And this time, instead of gracefully tumbling off and dragging myself on my elbows (the fucking indignity!) out of the flow of traffic as I had been doing, I tripped and fell face first into the hard-packed snow. It sort of took me by surprise and I just laid there for a little bit, until the mean teenagers began shouting and I noticed I was smack in the middle of the steady stream of jerkoffs coming off the lift.

In my haste to scramble out of the way, I – to be honest, I’m not entirely sure how I did this – managed to flip the free side of the board (when you ride the lift, you only secure one boot to the board, the other is free so you can kinda walk) 180 degrees and spin it around  so it smacked the shit out of my face.

What a fucking pathetic sight. First I skid on my face trying to get off the lift, then start waving my arms all crazy, hurrying out of the way of oncoming traffic, probably making some wimpy scared girl noise, and then I just about knock myself out with the board. I think I ended up in a heap just to the side of the lift, while five-year-olds jumped off and poked me with sticks.

Next thing I knew, some cute medic guy was wiping a cut just beneath my eye while the snowboard police or whoever were asking me what happened. No one could understand how I hit myself with the board. They kept asking me how I did it over and over again.

Later on, when the shiner started to appear over dinner in town, I got approving looks from snowboardy types and I realized everyone thought that I earned that black eye in a super cool way, like trying some badass trick in the pipe or something. Haha! Joke’s on them! I’m just some loser who couldn’t get off the lift.

After my first snowboarding adventure, I tried really hard to be a big girl and keep at it. I think I went about four or five more times, even buying a board and boots. I refused to believe I could suck at it so hard. But every trip I came back with a bruised tailbone and ego. I just couldn’t get it together. I think my last trip I kept screaming “FUCK YOU!!!” really loud into the snow while pounding it. Then I realized I had to give up the cute snowboarder girl dream. Ah well.

Anyways, that was the long version of why my best friend can have the snowboard that’s been sitting in my garage for eight or so years.

week sixteen: big stupid pillows

No, those aren’t pillows from the psych ward. They’re the “decorative” pillows I bought for our bed – you know, extra pillows that go behind our “real” Tempur-Pedic (boss playa) pillows. The extra pillows we don’t actually sleep on, but rather remove from the bed prior to sleeping and then… I don’t know… throw on the floor? What the fuck else do you do with decorative pillows? Then in the morning, if I don’t make the bed (IF! HAHA!), they just stay there, giant cushy wrinkly hazards to step over and trip on. Fun times. I especially love the misshapen, lumpy, thrift-store-chic look they’re working, too. WTF?!

I tried using these on the bed for oh… four days. Then husband started bitching about how dumb and pointless they were so I put them in the closet. For two years. Then I started cleaning out the closet and told husband to get on it, as his side was all messy. Then he was all, “Damn ho, there be bigass ugly pillows on my side of the closet SO THERE,” and I was all I HATE IT WHEN YOU’RE RIGHT.

So now they’re in the donation pile – wheeee! I can’t believe the space they cleared up in the closet. I also can’t believe that I didn’t SEE them for like two fucking years. And finally, I can’t believe I had to admit husband was right. ARRRTGHGHGHGHGHHHH!