Tuesday, March 29, 2011

The Suspicious Package (a.k.a. How to Psychologically Unhinge Mrs. Bizzle)

It started out innocently enough...

When I was at work on Friday afternoon, Mr. Bizzle called.  We had our usual exchange - said our hellos, he asked what was for dinner, I told him to bite me, the usual.  But right as we were about to hang up, it happened.  Mr. Bizzle said, "Oh, by the way, a package came for you today."  A package?  For me?   "Who is it from?"  I asked.  "It doesn't say, but there's a return address in Tampa, Florida", he responded.  "Were you expecting a package from someone?"  Nope, I wasn't.  I immediately scanned my brain for anyone I know in Tampa and came up blank.  Then I scanned for anything I might have ordered online, which of course, I rarely ever do because of my fear of identity theft.  Blank again.  I said, "Are you sure it's for me?"  After 17 years together, he felt pretty certain of my name and address.  "Well, then what does the package look like?"  He paused for a moment and said, "It's a package, not a box, but it's big and it smells weird."  Smells weird?  Smells WEIRD???  Did I have a faceless enemy who sent me something terrible in the mail (like a flaming bag of dog poo)?  No, I think I'd know if someone hated me that much.  Could it be a terrorist plot involving anthrax?  If so, would I know what anthrax smells like?  Did it even have a detectable odor?  But why would someone send me anthrax?  I can't imagine that I'd be a high-value target, like a senator or Britney Spears.  So, I asked him to define "weird".  He responded, "it smells like that foo-foo flowery crap that girls like."  Ah, well I doubted anthrax smelled like that, so I ruled out a terrorist plot and continued to scan for possible senders.  Was it a really belated birthday gift?  An anniversary of sorts?  Had I done something that warranted an award to be sent to my home (like the "major award" that was the leg-lamp in A Christmas Story)?  The suspense was KILLING me!  But, it was only 3:30 p.m. so I had to wait a couple of hours before I could find out.  Sure, he could have opened the package for me, but that would have ruined everything.

When I came home, I didn't bother with pleasantries.  I brushed past everyone and made a beeline for my mystery package.  I smelled it first.  Mr. B was right, it did smell weird.  It had a faint, sweet vanilla aroma, similar to a Cabbage Patch Kid from the 1980's.  Now I was really intrigued.  I opened the package and pulled out two rustic-looking drawstring bags that appeared as if they were made on Gilligan's Island.  The Cabbage Patch Kid aroma was really kicking in now and I was starting to get a little bit freaked out.  I carefully opened the first drawstring bag and pulled out what appeared to be 3 recyclable shopping bags with a palm frond pattern.  I opened the next drawstring bag and pulled out three more.  WTF???  What were these?  Who were they from?  Why were they sent to me?  WHY?

The fact that I was mysteriously sent a total of six weird bags stuffed inside two other weird bags that reeked of my childhood was simply more weirdness than I could handle and my psyche began to crack under the pressure.  I looked at Mr. B and started firing questions at him.  He lowered his head and muttered, "Here we go."  He knew I was on a high-speed, neurosis-fed  freight train and I wasn't getting off until I had some answers.  Then Mr. B said, "Give me the package."  He walked over to his laptop, Googled the return address on it and said, "It looks like it's the headquarters for People Magazine.  Did you recently renew your subscription or something?"  Oh.  Why yes, yes I had.  And come to think of it, I believe there was a free gift involved in my renewal.  So, I looked at Mr. B and said the first thing that came to mind.  "So what did you say you wanted for dinner?"  

MORAL OF THIS STORY:  There are some free gifts that are better left unsent.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

The Brain Cell Strike Continues...

It's been quite a while since my last post, so I thought it best to check in and let my vast audience know that I'm still kicking (albeit in a very uninspired fashion). You may now all breathe a collective sigh of relief.  I'll wait....

So, I've decided that I'm suffering from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), which has somehow replaced my usual spunk and candor with a ravenous appetite for chocolate and the need to watch The Real Housewives.  In all honesty, lately I've had a hard enough time coming up with status updates on Facebook to even think about posting on the blog, but I owe it to myself, and most of all, my adoring fans to at least try to break through this mind-numbing funk.  Did George Washington decide not to cross the Delaware because there was a Jersey Shore marathon on the telly?  Heck no!  He got out there and did it!  Did Orville and his brother (whose name escapes me, so let's just call him Bob) Wright decide not to take flight because they didn't feel like it?  Not a chance!  They took the bull by the horns and flew the hell out of that construction paper and popsicle stick contraption for at least a hundred feet!  Did The Artist Formerly Known as Prince decide not to record Purple Rain because he just didn't feel "purple" enough?  No way!  He sang and danced his heart out in those adorable, purple little lady boots.

Ok, that's really all I've got, but here's a pic of my awesome dog.  And yes, that's an empty bottle of Canadian Club next to her.  Someone told Mr. Bizzle that empty 2-liter soda bottles are great dog toys. He doesn't drink soda.

And here's a pic of the killer chicken I made for dinner tonight.  If you want the recipe, just ask in the comments section, but I will tell you that my secret is putting a halved lemon and some fresh rosemary sprigs in the chicken's hoo-ha.  It makes for a delicious, herby and lemony bird.  I seriously love roasted chicken and I hope you do too.  Unless, of course, you're a vegetarian.  And that's ok, too.

Bizzle out.