4 posts tagged “idiocy”
My long-time readers may recall Ekauba, "my strange and elusive alter-ego". Little did you know how far the rabbit hole goes, and how thick a web of deceit Ekauba has used to shroud the truth. Today, my eyes were opened when I...
- Sent a client email.
- Had an incorrect email address in the distribution list.
- Got a bounceback.
- Sent an immediate fix to the entire distribution list, and in my haste, signed it... "E;aoma".
E;aoma.
Why, Ekauba? Why?
#4360 I tried to change my name on my one of frequent flier accounts today. Except, of course, no one wants to call it "frequent flier" anymore. It, like everything, has to be all sexy and branded now (iFly?), so you get to refer to it by some awful, bovine program name instead.
#4361 The "iFly which shall not be named" insists that I send a photocopy of my marriage certificate in order to change my name on my frequent flier account. Now... at least they don't want an "official" copy (like everyone else seems to), but WTF? Is a faxed photo of, I dunno, my state-issued driver's license not good enough? I mean... how many MariaElainas can there be? What are the odds that this is some kind of fraud? And what, pray tell, might the less-than-honorable intentions be that they feel they need to nip in the bud? In what highly destructive flight-related mischief might I indulge? Book some tickets and/or earn some miles using my very clever new secret identity? Or perhaps sneak into the first class restroom posing as someone else? I'm sure there's some perfectly craptastic compliance reason for this requirement, but I still hate their faces.
*hisses*
Last night at approximately 9:00 PM, I set my kitchen on fire.
Well... almost.
It all began back in June. I received some potted herbs as a housewarming gift: sweet basil, oregano, and Italian parsley. Given that I have "the black thumbs of death", it would be a miracle if these little guys lasted a few weeks. I told the gift-givers as much.
Inexplicably, the herbs flourished (with the exception of the Italian parsley, which has been pathetically languishing on my windowsill since the day it entered into my care). The basil all but took over my kitchen. It kept getting taller and taller, fuller and fuller. I tried instituting a basil requirement for all meals cooked in my kitchen, but A) I didn't really enforce it, and B) even if I had, we would need to cook 50 excessively-herbed meals per day to put the slightest dent in it. Richard and I gave the basil frequent trims to no avail. This greedy little plant wasn't going to be satisfied until (à la the much-feared baobab trees in The Little Prince) it took over my entire home.
Yesterday, in a stroke of sheer Elaina brilliance, I decided to trim off nearly all its leaves and dry them for later use. Better still, I thought, I'd dry them and take them into work to share with my coworkers.
*enter delusional images of the accolades, love, and praise of her office-mates raining down upon her as they gratefully snatch up smart little plastic baggies of perfectly-dried basil*
Not so much.
Once I'd recovered from the startling genius of my idea, I asked Richard (who is perpetually online) to look up how to dry basil. A quick Google search yielded several results:
R: You can place it on a paper towel and microwave it for up to three minutes...
E: Perfect [runs to the kitchen]
R: You can freeze it...
E: No... I like the microwave idea.
R: You can bake it in a 350 degree oven...
E: I like the microwave thing.
R: You can hang it upside-down in bundles in a shady spot...
E: Listen... I dunno how else to say this. I like the microwave idea, okay?
This story would be a lot less humiliating if that conversation
weren't a near-verbatim transcription of the actual conversation that
occurred just before the dread event.
*and now, for full dramatic effect, I'll switch to the present tense*
I lovingly distribute the basil across a double-layer of paper towels, and then place a double-layer of paper towels on top. How are you supposed to burn down your kitchen, after all, without ample kindling? I hit the *one-minute-cook* button three times and head back into the bedroom.
R: You know, honey, it says up to three minutes.
E: Well of course I was going to go check on it!
I go check on it about a minute in. Upon opening the microwave door, a steamy cloud of basil assaults my eyes and nose. I comment to Richard that it smells like marijuana as I peel back the top layer of towel. So far, so good. Bits of it are shriveling, everything looks green, nothing is burning. Excellent. Back in you go. *start*
E: Wow, that smells really bad.
R: I'll bet!
E: And uncannily like marijuana.
R: So honey...
But I'm not really sure how that sentence ends, because I hear a *pop* coming from the kitchen. Uh-oh, I think. I dash back into the kitchen to check on things and sure enough, tiny little flames are licking the top of the paper towel, which is now upright and no longer covering the also-sparking basil.
Shit!
Without thinking, my finger jumps for the button that opens the microwave door. "Don't open the door,"
I think a split-second before actually opening it, but too late for my
brain to tell my finger to stop. All that delicious flame-fueling
oxygen washes over the mildly-burning (and extremely stinky) contents
of the microwave and then WHOOSH. I have myself I fire.
Shit!!
"Close the door, close the door," I think, but the little flames are leaping about, threatening to jump out and lick my tender little fingertips.
E: Honey... I set the kitchen on fire!
I hear Richard leap up off the bed and suddenly remember the probably-been-there-since-1962 fire extinguisher next to the stove. I grab it. I pull the pin. I deploy.
After a few seconds of gray smoke, white dusty stuff, and really unpleasant odors, the fire is gone. I turn to look at Richard, who is standing to my right with a decorative pillow clutched at-the-ready above his head. And then I absolutely crack up.
*end dramatic present tense*
He didn't have to say anything, because we both knew. We both knew that I was an idiot. We both knew this was all my fault. And we both knew that all of this was even more true because of my insistence that I had to do the microwave thing.
I'm a disaster.
E: Sorry, baby. I set our house on fire.
R: I know you did, baby.
Holy crap. My fiancé just pointed out to me that both my profile name and my blog name (and, consequently, my blog URL as well) weren't my name! All this time I've been marielaina instead of mariaelaina.
How did I not notice this?! It's my name, for God's sake! I've had it my whole life! I come to this site every damn day!
*shakes head*
*entirely ceases to trust brain*
Granted, I have a tricky name. MariaElaina is a mouthful, and an eyeful. Smooshing it together into one grand statement instead of breaking it into a two-name first name doesn't help matters much. The whole reason behind this was so that folks wouldn't insist on calling me Maria, which is simply not my name. Sadly, I think the solution has caused more/bigger problems than the original problem itself would have caused.
Anyway, I digress. I can't
believe I made the mistake to begin with, much less missed it for so
long. Now I've fixed my username and my blog name, but I can
never ever fix my URL. So sad, so sad.
