Yesterday my cell phone beeped to inform me that I had a voice message. It's a very spiteful phone, and it had stayed in its usual character by not informing me of this voice message that was sent Wednesday until Friday. It was a lady from church informing me of the church anniversary gathering after the service at our new facility, and she said, "I've been told you make great cookies, so I was wondering if you could make some for the occasion." I wasn't sure I heard the message correctly at first. The only cookies I've made as an adult have been the pre-made pillsbury kind, where the difficulty lies in remembering to preheat the oven and space the chunks of cookie out correctly on the sheet. So I figured that she must either have me mixed up with someone else, or was saying she'd heard I made great cookies as a way to flatter me into making more. Either way, I figured I should probably make the cookies from scratch, as some people claim they can tell the difference when they aren't.

So tonight at Borders while Brandon poured over books about the happy ancient greek people, I searched for a good cookbook. A simple cookbook. Something that spelled out plainly how to cook the simplest items for undomesticated people like me. I found one recipe that included packed brown sugar, white sugar, vanilla extract, chocolate chips (of course), flour, eggs, a handmixer, and I think some parsley and maybe fresh salmon or something. And they had the nerve to begin the recipe by saying, "Cookies are a perfect treat to prepare with children because cookies are oh so easy to make." Sigh. Rub it in.

I'm thinking I'm not the only one in my generation who is completely useless in the kitchen. I'm really not sure when I was supposed to learn to cook. My parents had to work, I never really had time to learn to cook through high school and then ended up getting married before the magical moment when I learned how to be the perfect housewife who balances a job and college. To this, I expect little sympathy. "If it's important, you'll make time for it." I really hate that saying. And if anyone knows of a cookbook with simple recipes, a book that spells things out for you in a nearly infuriatingly meticulous way, let me know.

A lie bump got me thinking about superstitions earlier today. If you're southern, perhaps you've heard the saying that if you have a bump on your tongue, it's because you've been telling too many lies. Personally I think it has to do with biting my tongue or burning it on food recently, but hey, you never know. This site lists old superstitions which are pretty humorous because they just aren't logical. I know, silly Wendy, that's why they're called superstitions. Anyway, here are some of my favorites:

• If 3 people are photographed together, the one in the middle will die first. (Come now, how many pictures have been taken where the people rotate who is in the middle? And what about that picture in Brandon's family where the Christmas tree was included? It died first out of the group.)
• Dogs that howl on Christmas Eve will go mad before the end of the year. (All dogs are mad.)
• Don’t hit anyone with a broom, or it will make him or her lazy. (Quite the opposite.)

So there you have it. Fun with superstitions.

Actually I'm pretty glad that convertibles aren't popular anymore. I always hated trying to look like I was having a good time while squinting, holding my hair down and getting sunburnt. Plus, they provide little to no protection against killer deer. But then, what're the odds of me being forced into a convertible again anyhow? All I'm saying is, you never know.

So someone found our site by searching for the phrase "what does as cavity feel like?" They found this post from last November, where I had been paranoid that I was getting a cavity. As an update, so far, so good, I haven't had any more pain. Other sites came up for their request, and I seriously hope they didn't pass this one up. That's so what a getting cavity looks like. I just know it.

Okay, I've been through El Paso, and I'm not surprised that it was named the sweatiest U.S. city. Brandon and I barely dared to leave the truck when we drove through the city with my father. And I'm not shocked that most of the top five sweatiest cities are in the South, either (if you count Texas as the South). What did annoy me what that on this morning news show when they announced this same study's results, an annoying cohost laughed and said, "I bet it would help if they wore deodorant." Oh, silly lady. She apparently has not been to the South. It doesn't matter if you wear deodorant, or just showered, or that you're standing in the shade. If it's summer, you'll be drenched in sweat. Mmm, pretty.

So one day I was eating lunch alone at work because Brandon had a class and had to leave early. A coworker walked into the kitchen and noticed that I was eating McDonald's. I remember him saying something like, "Eating McDonald's and eating alone, that's pretty sad." Then he went on to talk about how there are so many options other than McDonald's, how yucky McDonald's is, and so on. So the other day when I walked past his office close to lunch time and saw a bag of McDonald's sitting on his desk, I smiled.

Is it just a trendy thing to say that McDonalds is nasty? So many of the people who say that it's gross eat there, when there are more convenient, equally-priced fastfood places to eat at in the vicinity of where they work/live. You know what? I like McDonalds for what it is. It's cheap, fast, and as good as or better than other fastfood places.

I called a friend a few days ago who lives in Alabama. She had just gotten her wisdom teeth out, and she said her face was all swollen and bruised like she'd taken a pretty good beating. I told her it was a shame she wasn't married so she could blame it on her husband, but I suppose that would be wrong or mean somehow. Anyway, we talked about when I had my wisdom teeth out. This was back when I was 15. Unlike my friend, I got to stay awake during the ordeal even though two of my wisdom teeth had not broken through my gums yet. It was a great experience, though. (I hope this isn't one of those stories that I've blogged before. If so, I'll just have to look senile because I love talking about this so very much.) Also, for those who get grossed out by talk of blood, you may want to sit this one out.

After they had deadened my mouth and had gotten me nice and drugged up, I began to feel like I was floating. I'd almost reached the ceiling when the nurse/dental hygienist said my name and I came crashing down. They had nice ceilings, too. I remember Prince's song, "Kiss" was playing on the radio, and for some reason I thought that he wanted my teeth. I can't remember if I asked why he wanted my teeth or not, but I was sure thinking it. As the dentist cut through my gums and pulled my teeth, I remember saying, "This medicine tastes awful!" To which they replied, "Oops!" and used the sucker machine to suck up a good bit of blood. After it was over, I tried my best to smile, but as numb as my face was, I wasn't able to manage anything that didn't make me look at least partially handicapped. My mom drove us home (it was a 45 minute drive) and on the way I began to notice people staring as they drove by. The gauze they had put in my mouth had failed to stop the blood, and I was drooling blood down my chin. Lovely. Once home, my sister came in my room to check on me, and laughed at me a bit before explaining that I looked like a chipmunk with my swollen cheeks. But with the help of gauze and strong pain pills, my mouth healed just fine. I can't imagine having the procedure done while you're unconcious. You miss so much of the fun that way.

I don't mean to sound cruel, but ever since The Dane admitted he had cancer, he's been sooo needy. It's just all about him. He's just all like, "Me! me! me! I'M sick from the chemo, MY hair is all gone, I wish i could live another 6 weeks." Gosh! What a whiner.

And since his vision is bad, he keeps asking, "Has anyone missed my blogs? Have they said anything?" I don't care! I just say, "No, they didn't notice you stopped," and he starts pouting again -- after getting sick. What an attention hog! I'm so glad this is going to be over soon. Cruel or not, no one likes a crybaby.