Archive for the ‘Funny Things That Happen To Me’ Category

Hey jerk, that’s my credit card, not yours

I woke up Saturday morning to an unpleasant email alerting me to “fraudulent activity” regarding my credit card.

Sure enough, some punk got a hold of my info and tried to buy about $500 worth of merchandise from NewEgg.com, which appears to be a tech/gaming site I’ve never heard of because I’m a devout member of the Apple Cult.

The second purchase, which totaled $10, simply appeared on my statement as “Roman Catholic Church.”

Now, I’ve never tried to purchase anything with a stolen credit card, so I’m not familiar with the logic used when one attempts to do such a thing. But it appears the perpetrator figured dropping $500 in someone else’s money on sweet games, like Plants vs. Zombies: Garden Warfare, wouldn’t look quite as suspicious if he also made a donation in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

Or perhaps the guilt of stealing someone else’s credit card kicked in right away, so he did what he thought Jesus would do, but he confused Jesus with some douche who takes other people’s stuff without asking and then gives a tiny bit of it to someone who already has a shit-ton of stuff.

Pretty sure Jesus would think stealing someone else's credit card info is a real dick move.

I’m no scripture expert, but I’m pretty sure Jesus would consider stealing someone else’s credit card a real dick move.

asdf

Whatever his reasoning, the jig was up before it really even started, since the company caught him in the act and canceled my card. Sorry, dude, but you won’t be pitting the undead against Venus fly traps or buying your way into heaven on my dime.

asf

It's good to know the plants will be on our side when the Zombie Apocalypse commences.

A scene from Plants vs. Zombies: Garden Warfare. It’s good to know the plants will be on our side when the Zombie Apocalypse commences. That was keeping me up at night.

If you invite me to your wedding, there’s a .009 percent chance I’ll ruin it with my face

One of my bestest friends got married a few weeks ago, and she graciously asked me to be in her wedding. The ceremony and reception were beautiful, and we had a blast taking fun photos before the celebration began.

I haven’t seen the official photos yet, but I really hope they turn out better than the ones I took in the photo booth with my husband and other bestie:

New photo booth with text

Sadly, because I’m not drinking right now, I truly have nothing to blame but my own face for this. And possibly my apparent confusion as to how photo booths operate. Yeah, let’s go with that.

I mean, I can take a decent photo when I need to, but I’m not going to claim to be the most photogenic person around. I’ve definitely taken my fair share of unflattering photos. But man, this … this should be deleted from the files immediately. (EDITOR’S NOTE: Then why are you putting it on the Internet?)

Or …

break

Or …

break

BLOWN UP AND SIZED TO FIT THE COVER OF THE OFFICIAL WEDDING ALBUM!

Ben and Lindsey: I can finish this up and have it shipped overnight in no time. You're welcome. So, so welcome.

Ben and LD: I’m finishing this up and will have it shipped overnight.
You’re welcome. So, so welcome.

If that doesn’t say “cherished keepsake documenting the happiest day of our lives,” I don’t know what does.

And since wedding season is coming up, I’ll give the engaged folks out there fair warning: If you invite me to yours, there’s at least a .009 percent chance that I’ll make this face again and ruin the whole thing.

Celebrity sighting in Idaho!

Well, consider the Coca-Cola Polar Bear a celebrity, anyway.

Coca-Cola bear

This was at Schweitzer Mountain Resort, which is near Sandpoint, in northern Idaho. My husband saw an actual celebrity there while staying at our friends’ friends’ condo sometime last year:

Ben Stein

(Photo: Hark.com)

Yep, Ben Stein, aka the “Bueller” guy. Kind of jealous of that one.

Anyway, when I wasn’t hob-nobbing with the rich and famous, I was hitting the (bunny) slopes, mowing down any and all small children in my path. OK, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I managed to swerve out of the way before plowing into them. Most of the time. But there were definitely more french fries than pizza this ski trip. Zoe would be proud.

In which I school a small child at my beginners’ ski lesson. Kind of.

When you've forgotten how to ski, they start you off with the wee ones.

When you’ve forgotten how to ski, they start you off with the wee ones.

Sometimes, I’m a bad Montanan and forget to go skiing for 15 years. Which is mostly my loss, because it’s one of the few ways to actually enjoy the five-month-long mini Ice Age known as “winter” here.

So, for the first time since an eighth-grade field trip, I decided to unforget how to downhill ski one weekend and took a beginners’ lesson up at the local mountain. I assumed the other people in my lesson would be first-timers — kiddos, mainly — and I planned to totally school these pint-size fools on how to pizza and french-fry.

Skiing basics, courtesy of this site. Which probably got it somewhere else.

Skiing basics, courtesy of this site. Which probably got it somewhere else.

I got to my lesson though, and it was just some punk-kid instructor, “Landon,” and Zoe, a 7-year-old girl who had apparently been abandoned by the rest of her family so she could learn how to ski while they gallivanted across the mountain.

Now, I’d like to say I schooled Zoe in our lesson. But after “Landon” had trouble hiding his frustration and impatience with her as she struggled to master the basics after our first run, which prompted her to start crying because she missed her mommy … well, that would just seem kind of mean.

Things started out all right. I was pizza-ing and french fry-ing like a pro in no time. Zoe did fine on the bunny hill, and we went up on the lift after just two practice runs.

This is when Zoe fell apart. Her french fries led to speed she just couldn’t handle. Speed she just couldn’t handle led to falling. Falling led her to point her skis down the mountain instead of across it. Pointing her skis down the mountain instead of across it led to her to slide down it instead of pushing herself up. Sliding down the mountain instead of pushing herself up led to her scarf falling off and her coat coming unzipped, which I helped her reassemble after it became clear “Landon” wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it.

(I use quotes not because that wasn’t his real name — it was — but to help convey the appropriate amount of disdain you should feel for  him. It’s not that he was mean to her on purpose, per say; more that his tone was better suited for one of his brahs than a first-timer tyke.)

We got to the end of the run, and it was clear “Landon” was not particularly impressed with either of us, and was downright fed up with Zoe and her pizza-french fry issues. So we decided to take a break in the lodge to warm up. We sat down, and I tried to make conversation with Zoe to help her feel more comfortable. (“Hey, want to see a picture of MY BUNNY?!” — my go-to conversation starter with every child I encounter).

This is the point when she burst into tears (which I hope doesn’t reflect poorly on me or Pancake). I ran over to her side of the table, asking what was wrong. She missed her mom, who was God-knows-where on the mountain. Luckily, shortly after she started to cry, an adult she knew (I think) came by and consoled her. “Landon” took this as a cue to head back up on the lift, and that was the last we saw of Zoe on the slopes.

(Moments later, it occurred to me that I may have just let Zoe get kidnapped by a sexual predator. Don’t worry though! I saw her with her family as we were leaving the mountain, and she looked happy as a clam and had apparently moved on from any lingering abandonment issues.)

(It just now occurred to me that the man from earlier could have been some sort of weirdo cult leader who led Zoe away to join him and his cult brethren in the woods, and she’s probably performing  some bizarre marmot-sacrifice ritual as I type. Zoe’s family, if you’re reading this: I’m really sorry about the cult thing. I should have seen that coming.)

So, yeah … considering she started crying for her mom and may or may not be sacrificing a marmot in the woods right now, it seems a bit harsh to say I “schooled” Zoe at beginners’ skiing. But I since I didn’t start crying for my mommy, I think it’s fair to say I had the better time.

Sadly, Zoe could have used this info, "Landon."

Sadly, Zoe could have used this info, “Landon.”

I won an award! (not really) (at all)

The local paper I work for has a “Young Professional” article in the Business section each Sunday. It features a short profile on a younger working lad or lass in the community, who is typically nominated by the area chamber of commerce. Sometimes we don’t have any submissions though, and a staffer has to step up. And, lucky me, I was The Chosen One this past weekend.

So, really, my Young Professional profile is more of a “we didn’t have any submissions so you have to do it” kind of thing than “an honor,” but I tried to have some fun with it. Check it out if you feel so inclined.

Pretend

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