Squeaky Clean

So last night I'm doing my laundry. Which by the way doing the laundry in the comfort of my own home is a fabulous luxury I can now enjoy since I bought my first washer and dryer last Christmas!

I run 4 loads of wash with the same normal, regular, everyday detergent. Two loads on normal; one colors and one whites. Then two loads on delicate; one colors and one whites. Then for my last load, I need to wash the smelly, sawdust-covered sneakers that I not only work out in but also wear when working in our un-airconditioned scene shop...in August...in Texas...for the past 2 weeks...so needless to say, even the strongest stomach might keel over about now. So I put the sneakers in the washer. I put the exact same detergent into the washer as I used for the last four loads. I decide to try the "catalyst" setting, which is the heavily advertised feature of this particular washer. I believe it's labeled on the knob "heavy duty, wash-the-words-off-your-t-shirt, cleaner-than-your-mama-could-get it" setting, which I feel is appropriate for these particular sneakers. I decide to give it a try, close the lid, and leave the washer to work it's magic and return to the couch.

A few minutes later I get up to throw away a piece of trash in the garbage can, which happens to share a room with the washer. This is what I find...


Like me, at first glance you may wonder to yourself, "hmm, maybe that's just what the inside of the washer is supposed to look like in the middle of a cycle...?" but what you don't see is all the soap bubbles that were overflowing around the closed lid and beginning to spill down the sides...so no, that is not what the inside of the washer is supposed to look like in the middle of a cycle.

Apparently what the "catalyst" setting failed to mention is that it also cleans your floors, too.

Cricket...Cricket...

Ok, so it's been forever since I've posted. Some of you have written nasty emails. Some of you have wondered if I'm dead. Most of you haven't noticed. But that's ok, I've always said this is all really for my own amusement anyways...here I am, typing and giggling away, and there you are, just shaking your head at your computer.

Well, if you're one of those who haven't noticed, you won't be reading this anyways so why am I even talking to you. If you wondered if I'm dead, never fear, the sarcasm is alive and well. And if you've complained...well, write your own blog, dangitt!

But in all honesty, I've needed a bit of a blogging break. But I do miss the weekly rants and dorky adventures so I'm going to try to get back into swing of things here. Unfortunately, no mutant spiders have invaded my truck, nor have any random FBI agents come knocking on my door, so I don't have any fabulous stories right now but I will be on a mission to lock myself out of my apartment for find some other equally retarded move that you've come to expect from the Crys McDonald Show.
Stay tuned!

...how....I mean...how?

Some people lock themselves out of their cars. Me, I lock myself out of my apartment. You might be asking yourself how this is possible...

So I'm in my apartment Monday night relaxing in front of the tv. The phone rings, and as I'm talking I walk outside on my porch. I close the sliding glass door behind me because it's raining and I don't want Duncan to go outside and get wet. I talk for a few more minutes and realize I left my glass of water sitting on the counter, so I start to go back inside to get it. That's when I realize the charley bar on the sliding door has fallen down into the locked position, thus locking me outside on the porch!

Flabbergasted as to how this has happened, I realize there are actually a few upsides to my situation. First of all, I live on the bottom floor, so I'm not stranded 2 or 3 stories in the air, requiring some valiant prince to come by and shout "rapunzel, let down your hair" in order for me to be rescued. Second, I happened to be on the phone, so I can easily call someone for help (and text my friends so they can laugh at me).

Now, you would think the simple solution would be to just call my mom, have her bring over my spare key, and let me in. Unfortunately, it's not that simple. If you are an avid blog reader, you may know about my paranoid fear of someone coming into my apartment at night (yes, despite the knowledge that if they did, I would destroy them like a cock-a-roach), resulting in a compulsive need for all the doors and windows to be locked at all times. This would include the inside deadbolt that has no keyhole on the outside. So, having a spare key does me no good. Neither does calling a locksmith. So my options are now break a window, or have a locksmith come over and drill through my door at 9pm at night. Or, I could just give up and deal with it all in the morning, except my car keys are also mocking me from the counter.

Fortunately, God was smiling on me and the apartment maintenance man arrived (laughing, might I add...good thing I was laughing too...). He happened to have some excellent sliding-door-jimmying skills and we were able to pry it open enough for me to slide through and lift the bar.

I'm not sure who else this kind of thing happens too.

Random Moments of the C-Mac Show

You may have noticed in my more recent posts, the benefits of my fabulous new digital camera. Thought you would like to enjoy a few more of the spoils.



You can't tell me that's not cute.



Grapevine Lake


Todd and Adelita's Wedding








New Years Eve

The Plight of Mr. Lizard

The animal kingdom doesn't seem to understand the fact that my apartment, or whatever shelter I so choose to temporarily dwell, is a virtual deathbed for all intruders of the pest and rodent variety...which brings us to the latest casualty.
Here I was, minding my own business on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The porch door was open so Duncan could enjoy the weather, and he was snoozing in the sun when he discovered one of these aforementioned pests. He pursued, and naturally said pest took flight...right into my apartment (surely I had raised Duncan better than to chase something like that into our house??). I looked up just in time to see something scurry across the floor and into my recliner. I later learned it was a lizard...and I'm not talking about one of those teeny gecko things. This was a real, 4 inch long, slimy lizard. Ok maybe not slimy.
Now let me start my saying I am not afraid of lizards, nor was this any komodo dragon. But that doesn't mean I want it in my recliner, patiently waiting for night to fall when he can emerge from the depths of the chair springs and roam free in my apartment. So, Mr. Lizard as we will call him from now on, had to go.
My first thought was to get a bowl to trap him under once he escaped the chair. But, not willing to simply stroll out from the recliner and into my bowl, I needed to fashion some sort of poking device in order to drive him out. I started with a pen...definitely too short. I settled on a ruler. So I spent a good 30 minutes attempting to force him out of the nooks and crannies of the chair with my ruler...pretty much doing nothing but chasing him deeper into the chasms that I never noticed before within the depths of my recliner.
I paused. Found it necessary to document the occasion.

Refreshed, I decided to call Ross, who I consider a pretty good wrangler of wildlife. I don't know what I expected to get from him knowing he was already out of town, but I guess I was hoping he would have some great lizard-hunting tip like "lure it out with a piece of cheese" or something. No such luck. As I began to gain some important foresight, I realized if I suceeded in getting Mr. Lizard out of the chair, it was entirely possible he would escape my lighting-fast reflexes and foil my complicated bowl-trapping plot, and end up taking refuge under something else like the refrigerator, and I'd lose him forever.
So, I spent the next 10 minutes hauling the recliner outside onto the porch, lizard in tow, where I began the ruler-and-bowl game again. No dice. He was on to my plot. I needed a new plan of attack.

Not willing to simply close the footrest and crush him in the recliner, thus requiring me to clean Mr. Lizard guts out of it later, I slowly but methodically began a pattern of closing and opening the footrest, turning the chair upside down, turning it right side up again, and leaning it back to a reclined position. Gaining some ground in the battle, I found it necessary for more documentation.

My plan was working. The footrest mechanisms were forcing Mr Lizard toward the middle of the chair, and when it was leaned back he was being wedged out where the backrest met the seat. I was getting close, but I still needed something to pry him out the rest of the way, something more technical than a ruler.
I decided on a spatula.
Being able to wedge it into the folds of the seat right underneath him, after a few tries (the first with the spatula facing TOWARDS me...bad idea) I was able to get under him, slide him out and fling him across the porch. Not surprisingly, in the general direction of Duncan's teeth.
Somewhat dazed from his ordeal, Duncan had a good time playing with Mr. Lizard. Thus, victory was ours.

Looking at this picture, it kindof makes me wonder if it was all just Duncan's elaborate plan to get me to do all the hard work first...