The News Today Is Brought to You by Sonic

Okay, I know I do this a lot, but since I’ve recently decided to start updating more frequently, and since I didn’t have enough material for a full post…here is a hedgehog. Er, hogshead. No, hodgepodge.

This morning my roommate made coffee, and I wanted to take a cup with me for my commute. However I realized that all my travel mugs were either in need of washing or in my truck, and I was running short on time. So, I came up with what seemed like a brilliant solution, at least in my rushed state of mind. I grabbed a pint glass and filled it ¾ of the way, figuring that this way the coffee wouldn’t slosh out and that the glass should be the right dimensions for the cup holder. As I walked out to my truck parked out on the street, with numerous cars whizzing by, I made an observation that I would have made much sooner if the coffee was already in my system. It was this: coffee in a pint glass looks far more like beer than I am comfortable with, especially considering that I was carrying it in an open container to a vehicle that intended to drive…at 7:45 in the morning.



The organization of my netflix queue probably says probably more than I’d like it to about my personality. Recently the order was such that I ended up exchanging Care Bears: Adventures in Care-a-Lot for Full Metal Jacket.



Regular readers of this blog may recall that despite my youthful exterior, lately I seem to have been visited rather regularly by the geriatric fairy. You know, the one who drops in on the unexpecting during their forty winks and sprinkles them with a special fairy dust that ages random portions of their personalities by forty years. I have recently discovered affinities for Murder She Wrote, Consumer Reports and talking openly about how I don’t understand what the kids today are wearing. Yet, I really wasn’t worried about it until last Friday night, driving home from work, I realized that the fogy dust is permeating my taste in music.

Normally, I will check in on KOST in my station-scanning routine, just to see if they have some old Amy Grant or The Police playing – and currently, to hear that new Nick Lachey song that I have an unhealthy fascination with. Still on the whole I am not, or at least was not, a fan of “easy listening” music, and am a diligent enough channel changer to switch stations song by song, determined to always be listening to something I like among my 14 presets. But Friday, my changing finger stayed dormant for an entire “soft rock with less talk” set. And here was the line-up:

1. Huey Lewis and the News – Stuck with You
2. Elton John – Rocket Man
3. Natasha Bedingfield – Unwritten
4. Diana Ross – Upside Down
5. Barry Manilow – Can’t Smile Without You
6. Wilson Phillips – Release Me

And I didn't even think about changing the station. I was spending my Friday night KOSTing!! Eeek!! Somebody please stop me before I spend next Friday night standing outside a club with an armload of sweaters begging girls to put one on.



Please note that Sonic the Hedgehog's sponsorship of this blog post has not be officially authorized by Sega or any entity of Sega. I wouldn't have authorized it either, but he threatened to repeatedly run over my fingers if if I didn't cooperate.

I Can't Bike 55

On Saturday, I took my new bike out on its first errand. I know it sounds very exciting, but really all I did was go Autozone to get a new windshield wiper blade for my truck. Let me tell you, people look at you weird when you try to buy car parts when your only visible form of transportation is the bike you brought into the store with you. The store clerk seemed highly skeptical, like somehow he didn’t believe me. Obviously I look like the kind of shady individual who gets her joys in life by going around buying random single wiper blades for cars she doesn’t own. One would hope that if I did decide to do that, I’d ask for a blade for a Maserati, not a 98 Ford Ranger.

Of course, maybe he just looked at my weird, because I chose to go desert-style on the cool factor by wearing my helmet in the store.

867-5309 Kari

Okay, stop me if you’ve heard this one before. Nevermind, just keep it to yourself, since I’m sure somebody, somewhere has already blogged to great extent about my impending topic for today, but I don’t care. Get in your car, drive to a field, step out on to the grass and sit on it.

Anyway…the thing I have decided I hate about Caller ID is that it can create a false sense of excitement. Let me explain. I generally only answer my cell phone when I recognize the person calling, because I tend to get sales calls that I don’t want to waste minutes on. It’s not a fool-proof system obviously, but normally if the person calling is someone I want to talk to, they will leave a message. But there are times when I don’t recognize the number, but it isn’t an 800, 888, 866 number and I get overly curious as to who is calling. I still don’t generally answer the phone, but I may do a reverse look-up to see where the call is coming from.

See, I have an overactive imagination, and I start going through the possibilities of who this unidentified caller (uc for short) could be. Maybe it’s a friend I haven’t talked to in so long they jumped the state without my knowledge, maybe it’s a friend of my parents who wants to offer me an exciting job in underwater hotel management, or maybe, just maybe, it’s a secret admirer. He has been pining from afar, but just has finally gotten up the courage to ask a friend of a friend for my number so that he can profess his deepest feelings and secrets to me, despite never having spoken to me before…actually, that’s kind of creepy. Even in my fantasies I set myself up with weirdos. *Sigh*

Sometimes, like today, after the same phone number has popped three times on my phone with no message (after I have looked up the number and found it’s based out of a state in which I do actually know someone), I break down and let my need to satisfy my curiosity win out over my better judgment. My heart races, my hands clam up and my voice shakes ever so slightly as I pick up the phone and say, “Hello, this is Kari.” And the caller tries to offer me a free weekend getaway in exchange for sitting through a sales presentation for a timeshare where the yearly maintenance fees cost than my car. To which I say, “I’m sorry, I’m not interested.” And the caller asks how old I am and if there might be a Mr. or Mrs. Minor that they could talk to instead, because apparently I’m not qualified to speak for the household that “we” are not interested. (I hate sounding like a five year old with a helium buzz.) After getting so worked up, the payoff is more than a little annoying and the more times this scenario occurs, the more irritable I get about caller id and it’s lack of interference with my love life.

Still, I must admit that caller id is by far a lesser offender than the call screening service operated by mom back in high school. True story: One afternoon my mom comes jogging up the stairs with the cordless, enters my room giggling like a school girl and whispers excitedly, “Kari…it’s a boy!!” Well, as it turned out, that “boy” was an Army recruiter, but it’s much the same thing, right?


On a side note I have decided that I should stop answering the phone after eating ice – it numbs my tongue and I end up sounding like I just had minor oral surgery and washed it down with a bottle of Boone’s. Not so cute during work hours. Or ever for that matter.

I'm still here...somewhere.

“Earth to Kari. Come in. Over.”

“Kari to Earth. Wha’ d’you want? Over.”

“Haven’t received your periodic report. Concerned that you might have fallen off the face of...well, me. Over.”

“No complaints for 4 months is a reason for alarm? Over."

“So, no news is good news? Over.”

“Or the first sign of sanity. But most likely I've just been lazy. Over.”

"What's the estimate on the ETA of crazy hitting the fan? Over."

"Soon...very soon. Over and out."