I’b Got A Code in By Dose

Can I just complain for a minute that being sick sucks?

Actually, it’s not that bad. I’m not a bad patient. It’s hard to be a bad patient when all you do is snooze away the day. I sleep, medicate myself, sleep some more, medicate myself some more, maybe try to watch a DVD, sleep, sleep, sleep.

I’m also lucky (sort of) in that I’m not sick in the cold or flu sense. I have a pretty annoying case of tonsillitis (I hope – the last time I was convinced I had tonsillitis I actually had been infecting my office with strep), caused by sinus drama. It hurts to talk, and when I do, I sound like a grizzled chain-smoking alcoholic. Swallowing feels like my diet consists of razor blades. My neck and shoulder muscles ache, and I want to fall over from exhaustion, because you don’t sleep too well unless you’re heavily medicated. All this because some doctor, back when I was five, didn’t think my tonsils were bad enough to have them removed. That is laughable, because now you pretty much just sneeze and they remove your tonsils.

The biggest problem with being sick in any fashion is that it’s so incredibly inconvenient. Sickness should revolve around my schedule, not vice-versa. Really, my time is precious enough as it is. Why would I want to lose some of it to being stuck in bed being bored all day? Wouldn’t it be great if you could arrange when you got sick?

Imagine it: (cue flittery dream sequence music)

Tonsillitis: “Hi there Mindy, this is Tonsillitis. I was just calling to see if you and I could arrange a little time together.”

Mindy: “Well, if I must. What does your schedule look like?”

Tonsillitis: “Well, I’m pretty clear for the most part. How does Monday look?”

Mindy: “Well, I have a lot of important meetings at work. Plus, I have class on Mondays. I’m graduating in May, so I really shouldn’t miss class. Tuesday maybe?”

T0nsillitis: “No, not unless you’re free in the morning. I’ve got to stop by your sister’s house.”

Mindy: “Nope, that wouldn’t work. What else do you have?”

Tonsillitis: “Wednesday I’m having my hair done. Thursday?”

Mindy: “Nope, that’s trivia night. I should really play with a clear head.”

Tonsillitis: “Friday?”

Mindy: “Oh, sorry. I’m off to Ohio this weekend to see Joey. You wouldn’t want to make a girl sick the weekend she sees her boyfriend, would you? Especially when she only gets to see him once every three weeks?”

Tonsillitis: “You’re right. I couldn’t do that to you. You deserve a special weekend. What about the first week of February?”

Mindy: *thinks* “Not good. Work is still pretty hectic….And before you ask, Super Bowl Sunday’s no good either. I’ve got to work. Hmm…how does summer look?”

Tonsillitis: “You sure you want to get sick when it’s so nice out?”

Mindy: “Oh, you’re right. Can you predict the weather? What about some time when we get like 5 feet of snow? I wouldn’t go to work or school, so I wouldn’t miss out. Plus, I’d probably want to camp out in bed anyway due to sheer boredom.”

Tonsillitis: “Deal. I’ll be in touch.”

*sigh* That would be sweet.

TV – My Inspiration

A throwback from June 2007 for your amusement. Enjoy!

Oh mighty television, my sweet motivator. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know many things: the enjoyable dreams of Abe Lincoln shooting paper footballs at a sarcastic, tech-savvy groundhog; wish that my doctor had the gruff but brilliant bedside manner of Dr. Greg House; learn how to torture my office’s version of Dwight Schrute; or imagine that by saving a cheerleader, I could save the world.

But television is oh so much more than that! Yup, TV has served to inspire me in my career ambitions. Without my good ole boob tube buddy, I wouldn’t have considered such lofty aims as:

  • Crime Scene Investigator (nope, blood makes me queasy)
  • Sarcastic world traveler/chef (me eat half-developed duck eggs? *vomits*)
  • Ghost hunter (Queen of the Mega-Weenie Association of America)
  • Home renovator (accident prone + power tools = disaster)
  • Psychic detective (sweet…except my mind-reading skills are non-existent)
  • Chef (Mindy + knives = ER visits)
  • Crab fisher (me no likey cold)
  • FBI profiler (my only knowledge of psychology comes from “Sybil,” Hannibal Lector and Pavlov’s dog)
  • Doctor (not McDreamy or McSteamy…more like McSqueamy)
  • Robot chicken (sadly, not clay animated)

But there is one slight (very slight) possibility.

Last night Mom said, “Guess what came in to my work: five gallons of fondue.”

Do what???

“You got what?”

“You know, fondue, that stuff you put on cakes.”


“Yeah, five gallons of it.”

“Mom, you do know fondue’s the stuff you dip like bread or fruit in, right?”

“You know what I mean! I almost bought it, but then I was like, ‘What would I do with five gallons of fon-dant?'”

“Um….make cakes? You should have bought it!”

You see, thanks to the awesome power of Duff Goldman and his pals at Charm City Cakes, my ambition du jour is cake decorating. But, seeing as how I change ambitions as often as I change the channel, who knows how long that will last. Maybe next week I’ll want to travel about with my regenerative time lord friend and his sonic screw driver in his TARDIS.

Slave to Fashion

They say it’s the shoes that makes the man. When it comes to women, shoes make them…uncomfortable.

We truly are slaves to fashion. If we want to look good, it generally comes at the sake of our comfort. Women wear the weirdest and sometimes painful things simply to look good. Thongs, stiletto heels, girdles, strapless dresses, heck even panty hose are insanely uncomfortable. Wearing these items usually leave us limping, tugging, pulling, stressing, feeling as though we’re going to be cleaved in two, yet we keep wearing them.

Why? Because they’re cute!

About two years ago, I purchased the cutest pair of espadrilles. I’ve always wanted a pair, so when I saw this pair of hot shoes, combined with their sale price tag, I couldn’t pass them up.

So, for the record, I will present Exhibit A: The Shoes.

The most painful shoes on the planet.

Having purchased my lovely new shoes, I couldn’t wait to strap them on and wear them to work with the outfit I had purchased during the same shopping expedition.

As Monday morning rolled around, I hopped out of bed, did my daily morning routine, then slid my feet into the adorable shoes. I wound up the straps, leaving them a wee bit loose so that I could do things like walk, and took my first steps in those gorgeous espadrilles.

I noticed the shoes pinched a teensy bit in the toes but put that down to new shoe awkwardness. (In my 30 years of wearing shoes, I can honestly say that I’ve never owned an open-toe dress shoes. The only shoes where my little piggies ever had freedom were my chunky Sketcher sandals or my gadzillion pairs of flip flops.)

At work, everyone noticed the sexy shoes, commenting on how much they liked them. I felt awesome, not only did I personally love my shoes (and the fact they put me at my favorite height of 5’9″), but so did the entire School of Education! I was on top of the world!

But then tragedy began to form. But with me being the aloof goddess that I am, I didn’t have a clue of what was going on.

I noticed that my feet kept sliding forward in the shoes, causing a wee bit of pressure on my toes. I’d slide my feet back in the shoes and press on with whatever I was doing. But when I had to climb to the third floor of the building three times in an hour, things just started breaking down. The bottoms of my feet, just below my pinkie toe, started to ache a bit. Whenever I sat, I’d readjust my feet, alleviating the pain.

It was okay; I had things under control.

While things started to go wrong with the shoes at 7:15 a.m., when I strapped them on my feet, I didn’t get the message until noonish. As I walked over to meet Liz in Scofield Hall, tragedy struck.

Liz works down in the building of the basement, and as you all are well aware by now, stairs are my mortal enemy. They’re evil, I tell you!

But I digress.

Anytime I walk down stairs, I use the utmost caution. When you have a sordid history of falling down stairs, you grab hold of the railing for dear life. But just as I stepped down that solid marble staircase and thought to myself, They really need to have a railing to hold on to for people walking down the right side of the stairs, my shoes hit the skids and I hit my butt, sliding down a flight of stairs on my tush.

Say it with me kids: OUCH!

As I always do when laying it agony at the bottom of a flight of stairs I’ve just fallen down, I giggled (I can’t help it, because I seriously will not cry in public if at all possible). Sitting there, I took a quick inventory of the damage to make sure we didn’t have to go to the emergency room as opposed to Muddy’s during our lunch break. I bruised my forearm and smushed the middle toe and ring finger toe (it’s back!) on my left foot. In other words, I’d live.

Pulling myself back to an upright position, I slowly (snails were blowing me away) hobbled down the final flight of stairs then rounded the corner to Liz’s office. And wouldn’t you know it, she didn’t even hear the crash that was Mindy falling down the stairs.

Heading to Muddy’s for paninis and Cokes, I had to walk awkwardly to accommodate the bruised muscles I had hurt and my toes. The top of the pads of my feet began to ache in protest. We needed to get there quick so I could take the weight off my feet a bit, but walking fast only further enraged the blister gods gathering on my feet.

After lunch, my feet took further offense in the idea that I could walk back to campus in those beautiful shoes. So I ripped them off, forcing myself to endure scalding hot sidewalks all the way back to the School of Education. Back at the office, I gave myself a treat, keeping those espadrilles off until I was forced to trudge back up to the third floor two more times.

By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, my feet were pissed off. I rushed home and into the loving comfort of my flip flops but not before enduring six blisters.

Not such cute shoes anymore.

My feet went from looking like human feet to something like what you’d expect to see on a zombie whose been shuffling around on his undead, decaying feet for three years. Okay, not really, but they really hurt.

Needless to say, those shoes, while super cute, have not been worn since. I haven’t yet given them away. I keep them on with the deluded belief that one day I’ll give them another shot and things won’t go as bad. But honestly, I’m scared. Scared of those super cute shoes.

A History of Falling Down

Inspiration comes from the most interesting of sources. In this case, it came from an early morning incident back in 2007 in which I tried to rearrange my face.

I woke up at 5 a.m. having to use the restroom. In the house I lived in at the time, we NEVER closed the bathroom door unless someone was inside making a deposit at the First Porcelain Bank.

Knowing the door was open, whenever I would wake up and have to use the facilities, I would  leave my sleep mask covering my eyes, shuffle out of my room directly across the hall into the bathroom, do my business and walk back to bed.

I was all set to do just that on that fateful morning…until I walked face first into the bathroom door, nearly breaking my nose. Apparently, Allen didn’t realize that Mom and I didn’t close the door, and though I had been contemplating have my deviated septum surgically fixed, I didn’t mean that morning by my own hand!

I was sure that my face coming into such close quarters with the door woke the whole house, but that was usually par for the course for anyone who lived in the same quarters as me.

Laying in bed afterward, my pride only slightly wounded, I began thinking of how I have a major falling story for nearly every single year of my life. You know I’m accident prone, but did you ever realize that I could be that bad?

Don’t believe me? Well, I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest Condensed version:

Age 5

My brother and I get into a fight, and I, for whatever reason, kick him in the stomach. Pissed off at being attacked in such a brutal fashion, he kicks me back…while wearing cowboy boots. I pass out from lack of breathing. One problem though: I was walking when I passed out, and I continued to walk across the lawn until I tripped over a decorative brick in our yard.

I fell on my face and proceeded to tear open my chin, causing me to have a chunk of my chin muscle removed and stitches inserted in my chin. (The kicker of that was that, immediately after I got the stitches, my mom bought me a hot dog, which I had to turn to mush just to fit inside my mouth.)

Age 8

The day before our Sports Day at school, I was riding my bike to my great-grandmother’s house. I came down this big hill to a four-way stop, and it was as I sped down the hill at more than 20 miles an hour I realized that the brakes on my bike were toast.

At the four-way ahead of me, cars were stopped, waiting for their turn to go. There was no way I could stop, and I didn’t dare speed into the intersection to die at the front end of whichever car hit me. So what did I do? ABANDON SHIP! Yup, I jumped off the bike and ended up gashing open my leg.

To this day, when I tan, you can see this massive circular scar on my left shin. Lovely.

Age 9

During a visit to Puddle Jumper Days, our local festival (yes, that is the real name), I had an opportunity to climb inside my first Humvee. As I went to climb out the back, I smacked my head on the top of the door, causing me to tumble out onto the pavement. I’m fairly certain that if I were to ever shave my head you could see where I had my run-in with a Hummer.

Age 10

This is one of my brighter moments. Having just taught myself how to do a handspring, I decided to show my friend during a visit to her house. We hadn’t even been there five minutes, and I just ran and jumped. As my arms hit the ground, I found the one hole in the entire yard. I fell to my left, and when I hit the ground, I could no longer feel my left arm.

Petrified that I had somehow managed to rip off my arm, I didn’t want to look, but I knew that I had to. So I turn, and instead of seeing no arm at all, I see my arm taking a 90-degree u-turn about four inches below my elbow.

Yup, broke my arm in less than five minutes doing a handspring. To make matters worse, my mom tried to reset it on the drive to the hospital. Then, when we get to the ER, we must have found the only blind nurse in the place, because even though I’ve got a clearly broken arm (since when do we have joints mid-forearm??), she asked why we were at the hospital. Being the ever-faithful smart ass that I am, I plopped my arm on the desk and was like, “I don’t know.”

Age 15

You can call me Ms. Genius with this one.

Standing atop the largest hill in Oak Grove, wearing my roller blades, I decided on a little physics test.  I wanted to see how fast a normal person could travel on roller blades without having to push off at the start. So, I just started rolling.

About the time I hit 30 miles an hour, I realize I have two options: Die a brilliant and bloody death at the bottom of the hill, making myself a martyr in the name of science OR find some flipping way to stop myself without grievous bodily harm.

So what do I do? Scream like a little bitty girl.

Mom heard my cries, which I’m sure sounding more like the nearing wail of an every emergency vehicle in the great Kansas City region, and rushed into the streets to find me barreling in her direction. She knows of my two options and would also like to save me from dying for science. She steps in front of the magic blur that is me and proceeds to stop me…sort of. She proceeds in slowing me down as we begin tumbling down the hill. Finally, we stop, and I’m amazingly unscathed. Mom, however, probably should not have shrugged off visiting the doctor to bandage her many wounds.

Age 17

It’s Senior Night, a few nights before graduation, when the kids got all dressed up in their prom dresses and suits and the school recognizes all the students for their achievements, scholarships and all sorts of whatnot. I’m called up to the stage for something (come on, I’ve slept since then), and as I step onto the stage, in front of my classmates and their families, my shoe flies off and I stumble nearly falling. Come on, you have to go out in style.

Age 18

It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I’ve just lost my job. I’m depressed and decide to seek solace by feeding Bandit, our wubbable black Lab. As I stepped off the porch and onto the sidewalk, things made my day go from pretty damn bad to flippin’ awful. I somehow manage to fall off the sidewalk, tearing EVERY SINGLE tendon in my poor ankle. Yup, I’m that good.

Age 20

Had a little run-in with a treadmill.

My friend and I went to the gym at our university to work out our school stress. I plugged in my Discman (it feels so weird typing that), turned up the treadmill and started running. I thought listening to Backstreet Boys was a great idea, but in retrospect, it was not, and not just because the band was a boy band.

I started dancing to “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)”, just the hand movements. But then I got a little too into the song.

As my feet started dancing, my foot stepped off the treadmill. I shot off that machine like a broken rubberband and landed across the room, doing the splits on the floor.

The entire football team, who just happened to be practicing behind us, laughed so hard.

Age 21

I had just started at UTSA, and Suzie and I were walking down from the second floor of the University Center. I had on these really cute, but really high heels, and wouldn’t you know it, my heel caught on the step. I fell down an entire flight of stairs in front of EVERYONE. Luckily, I only scraped up my right shin and slightly bruised my entire body.

Age 22

This is one of THE best stories. Suzie and I were hosting our first-ever Ladies Lunch Out events, and we went rushing out of our judicial meeting. As we ran across the lobby at Chisholm Hall, I stubbed the toe of my sandal and slid face-first across the carpet. As I stopped, I realized my skirt was up over my head, showing off my tightie-whities to EVERYONE in the office. Seriously, who wouldn’t laugh after flashing an entire office?

Age 24

I’m back in Missouri, stuck with my mom and her boyfriend. In the garage, which the laundry room was in, Mom’s boyfriend and his friends were hanging out pretending to work on the clutch of my car. I walked down the stairs with my laundry, when all of a sudden, my legs flew out from underneath me.

I wouldn’t have minded so much, as I’ve slid butt-first down many a flight of stairs, but suddenly it began raining Mindy’s undies. Bras and panties were everywhere. Fortunately, Mom saved my embarrassment by rushing over, telling me to go upstairs and lie down while she finished my laundry. I should do that more often to get out of household chores!

Age 26

Yet another case of when laundry attacks. Mom and I were in a different house that had the world’s most dangerous basement steps. Not only were they incredibly steep with incredibly narrow steps, but they were covered in the plastic floor covering you tend to see lurking underneath desks in offices.

Walking down those treacherous stairs in my socks was probably the dumbest part of the equation, as it all but turned that floor covering into a skating rink. I slid down those stairs hard, leaving my body purple afterward.

Age 27

Mom and I had received our new trash container from the company that hauled our garbage away. At about 9 p.m., she asked me to bring it up alongside the house. Of course, I complied, because I needed to stretch my legs…and you can’t tell my mother no unless you have a death wish. I put on my flip-flops and headed outside.

I pulled the container up to the door, not fully paying attention to the path I was taking. And so it is only fitting I fell into the black bog of stinkiness the decorative pond in front of the house.

My foot stepped behind me, and it just kept going and going. I thought a black hole had suddenly opened up in front of the house – that or that one of my nieces had successfully dug a hole to China. I kept falling backward until I realized that my foot was now soaking wet and covered in a goo that was once water and leaves.

The sad part about falling into the pond was that my uncle had done it three times in the week preceding my fall into it. I laughed so hard at him. Thank you, Karma.

Age 28

You know you’re going to have an awesome day when you fall face-first out of bed.

At the bright and early time of 5:20 a.m., when NPR began spewing forth from my alarm, I shot up on one arm and reached over to turn it off. I seriously misjudged the angle at which I needed to lean, and the next thing I know, I fell face-first onto the floor. My alarm clock shot off my nightstand, as did the remote to my TV, DVD player and my iPod radio. Somehow, on the way down, I managed to jam my wrist, and I smashed my left shoulder against the table. My knee whacked the floor rather hard. Poor Nevaeh shot out of the room, thinking I was going to squish her (smart kitty!).

So far, 30 has been kind. But it’s only a matter of time. My balance giving out is like a ticking time bomb laying in wait. It will happen, and until then, I can’t wait for my next trip.

Behind the Wheel

I don’t do much driving anymore, what with living in the same building where I work. Yet though my time on the road is brief, I still manage to encounter some of the world’s biggest idiots. In honor of these dipsticks, I have written a few rules for the road. Pay close attention, you may not realize that some things you do are driving others crazy.

  • I know that $84,000 Mercedes has a blinker. Use it.
  • If the sign says right turn only, it probably means that going straight or to the left is damn near impossible. So don’t waste the time of me and the 80 other people behind you by trying.
  • If the light is red, STOP! Unless you drive a nice, expensive car you don’t mind me owning.
  • Just because that slick cycle of yours goes 180 miles per hour doesn’t mean you should do that while weaving in and out of busy traffic.
  • If you insist upon going five miles under the speed limit, ride the bus.
  • If you’re so old that you forgot why you’re stopped and continue to sit there, tear up your license and call OATS (Older Adult Transportation Services).
  • Just because parking lots resemble smaller, slightly squared race tracks, that doesn’t mean you should drive through them like Dale Earnhardt Jr.
  • If you insist upon going 10 or more miles under the speed limit, why not just splurge and get that kickin’ Amish buggy you’ve been eyeing.
  • If you insist upon driving while chatting on your cell, don’t be surprised when I punctuate your sentences with my honking because you can’t do two things at once.
  • Women do not find car exhausts that sound like farts sexy. So stop buying them!
  • Just because your car costs more than I make in five years does not mean that traffic laws do not apply to you.
  • If it’s icy out, and you’re driving a four-wheel drive, do not force me into the ditch unless you really want me to run a search on your license plate, get your home address and then begin with the egging and the flaming bags of dog poo.
  • To women, loud stereo systems with the bass and subwoofers do not equivocate sexy. There is nothing sexy about that Miracle Ear you’ll be sporting at the tender age of 20.
  • Women also are not going to be proud of the massive system you’ve installed in your primer colored P.O.S. That’s not exactly a sign that you’re going to wine and dine a girl.

Just a few things to mull over.

The Best of Mindy 2009

I had meant to have this up yesterday, but…well, it was a rough day. It may be a day late, but I hope you still find it funny.

I have come to learn that apparently I’m kinda funny. Sure, I have hilariously bizarre situations that have occurred throughout my life that entertain people the world over, but I just thought the situations were funny, not myself. But then, every so often, I find something that even I can make funny. Thus, a few years back, I came up with The Best of Mindy. This is the 2009 edition.


  • I smell like an April Fools’ prank.
  • This dream’s so good I just know my alarm clock will go off any second and spoil it all.
  • Should I take the middle-aged guy in the minivan pacing me and flirting as a compliment?
  • Oh don’t say that. That means I’m going to sob like a five-year-old who just found her bike hanging from a tree. (That really happened. Story to come later.)
  • Mom, Yanni put porn on the computer!
  • I’d Sing Cold Shower Tuesdays as I took a cold shower, but I don’t find them as funny as I do the song.
  • Oh Twizzlers, why must you be so addictively tasty.
  • Just tried saying, “Please feel free to show up…” But instead said, “Please feel free to throw up.”
  • Somebody get me a shovel.
  • I just seriously bruised a bruise.
  • Sign I should be in bed #1: Instead of putting on foundation, I tried spraying my leave-in conditioner on my face.
  • Stupid Aztecs cursing my chicken wraps!
  • Kitteh alarm clock says that I should get up now to give noms.
  • I want an adult milkshake. Only adults though. Kids are a little gamey.
  • They’re opening a Food Safety Institute in Olathe, Kans. If you visit, you get a meal then get to learn about e-coli and salmonella. Irony?
  • Saw a semi with a cowbell hanging from its trailer. Where’s Christopher Walken when I need him?
  • The cornbread tastes like lies!
  • Ran over my foot with a Coke cooler. It’s true, what you love will hurt you.
  • Just saw a car driving around with 2 large scarecrow dolls seatbelted in. Well…safety first, I guess.
  • Sno cones are great and all, but I’m stickier than super glue on duct tape.
  • Got two bites of banana. Thanks for sucking, gravity.
  • Can’t even form coherent sentences, and I’m going to try to do laundry?
  • Why do I always wake up feeling like morning has punched me in the face?
  • So, if you’re already a pirate, is today talk like a regular person day?
  • I wish I could share the bizarre sounds I hear in my office with you. It currently sounds like someone’s hiding in my ceiling tiles farting.
  • We decided today there should be an alert level for Mindays. Today is an orange…especially when I dump spaghetti on the salad bar.

Happy 2010 everyone!