We got dry ice packed in with a shipment at work today.

Apparently I'm rather odd, in that as soon as I saw it, I claimed it. "Oh, I am taking that home!" My coworker looked at me oddly. "You know, you can freeze fruit, shatter it. You can make a spooky cauldron. You can even make root beer!" He gave me that look; you know the one. It says, Okay, sweetie. I'm glad you're excited. You're weird for it, but hey, I'm happy that you're happy.

This is the same reaction I got from a second coworker.

Then, as I was walking out of the building, I passed Kevin. I do so adore Kevin. He gave me the curious look: You have a box. That's not one of our normal boxes. The box has frost on it. Tell me about the box!

I had just the slightest hesitation before telling him about it. Twice bitten, whatnot. But this was Kevin! He did not let me down.

"Ohmygod, dry ice is. so. cool! You can do so many things with it! Like a spooky cauldron. Do we get this in a lot? Where can you even buy dry ice?*"

I love Kevin. But he was not getting my dry ice. He can have the next batch, though, I swear.

I'm gonna stand on this side of the normal line, with Kevin. Life's always more fun over here.

Me, enjoying one of those cool things you can do with dry ice. This is kind of in real time because Sam is taking this photo while I'm writing this post. Also, my husband is a kick-ass bartender.

See the fog? See the frozen lemons? See the tequila?

*Dear those closer to the west coast (okay, mostly Utah). You cannot buy dry ice in supermarkets in the east. I know, this is odd to you. It is, nonetheless, a fact.

I'm mixing my beer and my sudafed tonight. Is this why they card me when I buy each of them?

I think the proof of this fact is that I published this post before I actually wrote it. Score one for the beerdafed. I've never had to retract a post and it took a few minutes to figure out how to do so.

I've got a cold. Whine, whine, bitch, moan. Normally, I just take a sickness like a woman. That is to say, I've got shit to do, I've got to keep moving. This time, I am whining like a total man. You know how they get when they're sick. Life must come to a sudden and painful halt. He is suffering, you must too.

Well, that's me right now. This sucks. I'm talking head-down-on-the-table-at-Connor's-hockey-practice, Ramen-noodles-for-dinner, please-don't-take-too-much-advantage-of-me-kids sick. And it's just a cold.

I did it to myself. Two days before this hell cold came on, I thought, "Gee, I've made it through most of this winter without being ill." I've told you before that I am Murphy's Law's bitch. I am fully aware of this fact. So I immediately followed up this thought with, "For which I am super grateful, god, or gods, or Murphy. Whomever. I am thankful. I am not thinking of this hoping for any sort of irony."

I am also fully aware that it is extraordinarily odd that I talk like this to myself. At least it wasn't out loud.

I've spent approximately 19% of my day at work, these last few days, wiping down things I've touched with lysol wipes. Phones, keyboards, mice, pens, door handles. I even considered anti-virusing customers' credit cards before handing them back. Then I decided that was a lot of work for little payoff. You should all probably avoid aisle 4, though. I had to rearrange that whole bitch today, it's probably all plaguey.

But she had the mask off her mouth and around her chin, so I'm back to "crazy bitch".

A customer came in today wearing a surgical mask. I have to admit, my first reaction was, "Boy, she is one crazy bitch." So then I kinda beat myself up for being a judgmental asshole. "Let's give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she is sick and doesn't want to infect us." And that thought led to, "Fuck. What a selfish bitch! Why would she even come into public if beyotch is contagious?" (Yes, I swear this much, even in my own head.) And then I thought about my friend in high school whose father was battling cancer and could not go out in public without a mask for fear of the tiniest contamination from a simple cold, and people treated him like some sort of leper. And then I felt like shit again.

This is my constant internal monologue.

Oh, wait. Here's my wine!

So, my kid. The oldest one. He turned twelve recently. Twelve. What the hell? I'm not sure how all that happened, but it did. My friend, Cassie, passed along birthday greetings:

Flutterby: your kid!
had a birthday
happy birthday to your kid!
me: didn't we already talk about his birthday?
Flutterby: we talked about that he was going to have one!
and then i forgot
me: oh
okay!
Flutterby: and i don't wanna lose my place as favorite online flutterby/cassie
me: happy it's-been-12-years-and-you-still-haven't-lost-the-weight to me!
Flutterby: woohoo!

It's been a very long and a very short dozen years. I was reminded of just how long the journey has been when a customer came in today, close to tears. It seems that she had just had to ditch the grocery store because her two year old terror angel had refused to sit in the cart. She was, at that moment, still in desperate need of food because the cupboards were bare- all young-mother-hubbard-esque. And also he refused to get dressed for twenty minutes this morning- what she was waiting on him for, I don't know.

Poor woman was at the end of her rope. I did not ask where the kid was, at this point, or why he couldn't be wherever the hell he was now while she ran to the grocery store. I also did not point out that the terrible-twos are far outawfuled by the terrible-threes. (No one ever mentions this to first-time parents of two year olds because we're all afraid they might decide to just cut their losses now.)

Talking the woman off the edge made me grateful to be past those early stages, but it also reminded me... oh shit, y'all, I'm about to have a teenage boy. I am so screwed- where's my wine?

Update (for Andy*) I have a lot of sympathy for the crazies. And I say "crazies" in only the most respectful way. The psychos kinda scare me, though.

So, hi. I'm Sarah. I haven't been around in a while, I know. Eeeehhhneeewaayyyy... I had a couple of interesting conversations at work. This is pretty much all you're getting out of me.

Customer: Hello.
Me: Hi. Can I help you with anything?
C: No. How are you?
Me: I'm fine, thanks for asking. How are you?
C: I'm fine.
Me: That's great.
C: Did you go to college?
Me: I did indeed.
C: Oh. I did, too. I graduated from Yale in 1963.
Me: Wow. That's very impressive.
C: Thank you.

And he walked away. That's it. In its entirety. That was last night. The night before? This:

Me: How can I help you?
Different Customer: *blah blah pertinent to my job questions followed by:* You look very intelligent. Did you go to college?
Me: I sure did. (What? They both asked if I went to college, not graduated.)
DC: You look like you did. I bet it was an ivy league school.
Me: Nope, not a chance.
DC: Oh, but I bet you could have. So gorgeous and you don't look a day over nineteen. (Because if you didn't know he was crazy before this, you do now.)
Me: Thank you?
DC: Okay, thanks for your help.
Me: Have a good evening.
DC:Do you go to church?
Me: I do not.
DC: Do you believe in God?
Me: Yep.
DC: Do you read the bible?
Me: I have. (No, really. I have.)
DC: Do you believe in Jesus?
Me: Sure, there's a lot of evidence to support his having existed. (Honestly, it didn't really matter what I said; he was only listening to him anyway.)
DC: Do you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ who died for your sins so that you might live in heaven?
Me: Yes, absolutely.
DC: Do you repent for your sins and ask for forgiveness in confession?
Me: Okay, then. You have a good evening.

Update: *Because that crazy beyotch went and shut down her comments and I'm far too lazy to go emailing people... Andy! I'm totally with you. I've been talking to a friend online for well over two years (friggin' 696 conversations in gmail alone), and I'd probably crawl into a corner and rock back and forth and mutter to myself if she ever visited my area. Take comfort, Andy, in that I am (potentially) as effed up as you. Oh, and you're not one of the crazies. It's just coincidence that this is the "crazy" post. Really. No, really.