A Real Shot in the Arm

I just rented the cutest little two-bedroom apartment in the world to be my very own bachelorette pad. I’m really excited to have my own space. No more roommates with their ever-accompanying kleptomania, rogue drunken boyfriends, and late night Cinemax splurges. Oh yes, my friends, I’ve had some real doozies. I’ve had some great roommates too, but at this point in my life, the risk just isn’t worth it to me. And I really don’t mind being alone. I’m a solitary person. Isolation is my default state. Lonliness. It’s underrated.

There are some cons, though. I’ll miss my family excruciatingly, even though I’m only moving 25 minutes away from them. I just really like them a lot. And then, of course, there’s the whole safety issue. Being solo means being easier to pick off by a crazy man or a gang of thugs. We are just talking about the depths of Utah Valley here, but people have problems everywhere, so you never know. I asked the last tenants when I went to look at the place if they’d ever noticed any dangerous behaviors from the neighbors or groups of loitering hoodlums. They assured me it was a very safe place and the neighbors were great and thoroughly normal. Well, good! No worries then, right?

Wrong! My sense of security about the area was almost immediately tested. There I was with my brother. We were taking some of my fabulous new furniture (and by fabulous, I mean IKEA) to my apartment. As we drove down the quiet street, we noticed a haze of flashing, colored light glowing above the buildings ahead. As we drove past a side street a mere block away from my apartment, I counted 7 police cars surrounding an apartment complex. “Well, that’s slightly unsettling,” I said as we pulled into my building’s parking lot. From my parking spot I could see clear as day the surrounded building and police cars. We ran up to my apartment as quick as we could in case there was a shoot-out. About 45 minutes later, my brother went out to get something out of the car. When he returned he said that news vans and reporters now lined the whole street. Hmmmmm. I’m beginning to second-guess my decision.

By the time we left, the situation had mostly cleared up. There were a few bystanders here and there. There was no caution tape to be seen or white chalk outlines on the ground, which I took to be a good thing. As soon as I got home I got on ye olde intranets and started searching for the story. Another positive: it was only a 3-paragraph blurb. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. I read on. Some 17-year-old kid got in a fight with his friends. Apparently, one of them had a firearm. This dude shot his friend in the arm! Right through the shoulder! Fortunately it was an in and out kind of thing and the kid is fine. But, man! Who shoots their friends? What an awful idea!

I’m really hoping this was an isolated incident. Only time will tell. In the meantime, I think I’ll have bullet-proof glass, iron bars, and 3 more dead bolts installed.

Consider Me Illuminated

If I ever happened to casually bump into Josh Groban, I would immediately begin calling him Joshy Woshy. Or Honey Bunny. Maybe Tweetums. I love him THAT much and I don't care who knows it!

The Secretary Files: Highlight of the Day

Take a good look at this picture. This is a picture of my desk at work. This particular section of my desk almost always looks just like this. I want to point out to you, though you’ve probably already noticed, the peculiar arrangement of my highlighters. Let me explain. I may or may not have some slightly obsessive tendencies. Fortunately, these tendencies only manifest themselves selectively, usually with trivial things like the highlighter phenomenon you see above. I use all of these highlighters on a daily basis to color code things. I have assigned each person in my office a different color. When someone is going to be out of the office for a few days, I mark those days on my calendar in his or her color. I also use them to code different types of materials that I inventory and manage. So I have to have them easily at my disposal. I need to be able to grab exactly the color I need exactly when I need it. At least that’s what my brain tells me. And how did I choose the order of the colors? Pretend the pink one is red. And pretend there’s an indigo-colored highlighter. Roy G. Biv. In this case, I guess it would read Poy G. Bv. Close enough. It satisfies my neurosis.

While we’re looking at this picture, take a moment to notice the bottom right corner. You’ll see I have two rolly white out thingys. That’s pretty much a metaphor for my life. Just one will never be enough.

Also, take a quick look at the staple puller. Oh, that staple puller! You’ll be hearing more about that. It deserves a post all it’s own! A hateful one. A dark and bitter post of despair.

Well, I guess that wraps up today’s tour of Lacey’s craziness. Thank you for joining me.

Super Sonic

So I went to the Sonic for lunch today. I was craving a foot-long chili-cheese hot dog. Woohoo! I’m classy like that. Anyway, I said my favorite sentence of my life. “Can I have a small tots?” I laugh to myself every time I think it, say it, or in this case, type it. “A small tots”. There are so many things wrong with that phrase besides just sounding ridiculous. Of course, the gal at the window knew exactly what I was talking about. What a wonderful world! Say it with me now. A small tots. A small tots. Sigh. It’s the simple things! In other news: My wildest dream has come true.

Dear Prudence

I like walking in cemeteries. They’re quiet. They’re pretty. They’re peaceful. What’s not to like?

This one time I went for a walk in a cemetery on my lunch break to prevent myself from becoming completely sedentary. I was moving from the old part of the cemetery towards the new, which was on the other side of a small hill. As I walked, a distant, echoing, rhythmic ringing broke the silence. It grew louder as I sauntered up the lonely path. I realized the ringing I heard was guitars now joined by a tambourine. Then there was a voice on the air. Was that… John Lennon I heard interrupting the quiet of this hallowed place? I looked all around me, searching for the source of the melancholy tune. I appeared to be alone. The music grew louder still as I approached the top of the hill, when the words “Dear Prudence, open up your eyes” sent a chill through me. Desperate to understand, I hurried to the crest of the hill and looked down. There stood an old gardener in coveralls working in a flowerbed. The door to his light blue, rusty old truck hung open and the music rang out over the whole place. I smiled to myself. It was simultaneously charming and eerie. Whatever it was, I liked it.

It instilled me with a new life dream. When I grow up, I’m going to be a cemetery caretaker and I’m going to listen to crazy cool music while I work and give a little thrill to inhabiting spirits and passers by. The End.

The Secretary Files: Dedicated Employee

It was Friday, late in the afternoon. I was counting the minutes till the whistle would blow and the clock would strike five. In my office there is neither a whistle nor a clock that audibly rings on the hour. It’s all in my head. I had finished my tasks for the day, so the only thing left to do was to pretend to be busy. I began typing aimlessly on an inventory spread sheet in a row I created for an imaginary computer. This is what came out in the “Includes” column:

“keyboard, mouse, monitor, tower, wires, a fan, cords, electricity, science, probably something purple, michael jackson, software, I'm starting with the man in the mirror!”

Some of which could be true.

A Fake Halloween Mystery

It was a dark and stormy All Hallows Eve Eve. Children were running about in their various costumes soliciting neighbors and strangers alike for treats of all kinds. Dry leaves crunched underfoot as I walked up an old friend’s walk towards his front door, a cold wind sending a chill up my spine. My eyes adjusted as I entered his brightly lit front room. I set my purse on the couch beside me as we made small talk for a couple of minutes. Just then I remembered that I had not checked my cell phone in the hour it had taken me to drive to my destination. I reached inside my deep purse and began feeling around when my fingers brushed something unfamiliar. It felt long, smooth and flat. I grasped it and drew it from the shadowy depths of my purse into the light.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Desperately, I reached in again to find the dismembered pair of sunglasses, and to my utter horror I pulled out the other one, also detached.

It was then that I found the lenses, rendered completely useless by this disturbing turn of events. How could this have happened? These $8.00 sunglasses had been fully functional only hours before! Now, suddenly and without ceremony, they were completely destroyed.

There’s only one explanation. It must have been the malicious ghouls of faux Halloween, stealthily entering my purse and wreaking havoc upon the effects therein.

With sadness, I bid farewell to my old friends, the sunglasses. We shared truly remarkable experiences together. I will never forget them.

My sunglasses and me in Moab.

My sunglasses and me in Hawaii. And my best bud, Annie.

I close with a warning! Beware the day before Halloween when the real Halloween lands on a Sunday in Utah! The ghosts will find you. Their mischief knows no bounds!

Abject Humiliation

I will now strip myself of all dignity and pride. My life has been a long series of humbling events. Try as I might to appear poised and confident, intelligent and capable, to look like someone people can take seriously, inevitably the truth comes out in the most humiliating ways. The truth is I’m clumsy, awkward and weird. Every time I take a misstep, someone is there to witness it.

Case in point: Last weekend I was helping my aunt by watching some of my younger cousins while she was out of town for a few days. Saturday morning I took the youngest to his primary program practice (an alliteration for your reading pleasure).

Before I go any further I need to discuss my relationship with weekend mornings. We’re not friends. If I’m up before 9:00am there’s something seriously wrong with the world. Before 8:00am- forget about it. I might as well be dead. I’ll be tired and grumpy for days because I didn’t get to catch up on my beauty sleep. I just know any mothers reading this right now are either a) pointing and laughing hysterically at me or b) rolling your eyes and saying swear words in your heads at me. I can’t help it. I’m a chronic sleepy head.

So these kids were up bright and early, bless their hearts, and I dragged myself out of bed to take my cousin to his practice. When I got back to the house I felt too lethargic to do anything with myself. I didn’t even eat breakfast. I was THAT tired. Before I knew what had happened, the time had come for me to go pick him up. I was still in my pajamas. Not a cute little sweat suit or fun scrubs or anything acceptable like that. Oh no. I’m talking about my men’s extra large sweats and a shapeless 500 year-old t-shirt. I basically looked like a blob. The only shoes I had were little black ballet flats. But it didn’t matter. I would just drive up to the door, he’d jump in the car, no one would have to be exposed to my grossness, and we’d be no worse for the wear. Well, I drove up to that door, and he didn’t come out. Waves of children were running out, but not him. By this time it was pouring rain, the dark clouds a perfect similitude of the fogginess in my brain. I thought, “He’s such a timid little guy, maybe he’s thrown off by the fact that his mom’s not here and he’s too nervous to come out.” I’d have to go in for him. The horror! “Get a grip!” I thought. “I’m never going to see any of these people again. They don’t know me. They’ll just notice the gross girl with stringy hair and puffy eyes, then forget me completely.” So, I did what anyone would do. I tucked the baggy bottoms of my sweats into my little black shoes so as not to get them wet. I was, after all, planning on wearing them for a few more hours at least. They turned from just being humungous sweats to being humungous Aladdin/MC Hammer sweats. I ran through the rain and up the church steps towards the glass doors. I raised my eyes, and to my horror stood one of my bosses from work! He looked up just in time to lock eyes with me! If I could have, I would have turned on a dime and run away, but it was too late. He’d spotted me. I don’t really remember what happened next. I think I said something stupid about not looking very professional, which is ridiculous. You don’t have to look professional on a Saturday morning, just not disgusting. Apparently he was in charge of the program. I ran up the hall and found my cousin eating a popsicle with his friends. I grabbed him and jetted out the door with a “See you on Monday!”

The most awkward thing of all: I’ve seen him every work day since the incident. I’ve spoken to him several times. But I haven’t addressed the encounter at all! I don’t know how to bring it up. There’s this weird tension between us. It’s the big pink “I saw you in your pajamas” elephant in the room. This is my plight. I accept your pity.