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Pants of Shame
Dear Internet,

This is a story of shame.

I am a girl who likes to select her outfit for the next day ahead of time, but due to my tendency toward procrastination, "ahead of time" typically means 2:30 AM the night before.

So there I am, 2:30 in the morning, looking in my closet, wondering what clothes to wear, knowing full well that they have to be "clinically appropriate." It dawns on me that I've mainly been wearing a pair of grey corduroy pants on days when I have SLP-related business to do. However, at that very moment, I am wearing those grey corduroys, which means they are out of the running for the next day. I panic.

Why? Because my mid-section is slightly larger in circumference that it was last month. (Sidenote: I am not pregnant, though if you were to take a look at my eating habits over the last few weeks, you may question that statement.)

I pull a pair of pants off a hanger to see if my panic is warranted and find out it is. Pair after pair, I'm pulling pants from hangers and tossing them aside.

Oh God! What now?

Well, being that it's nearing 3:00 AM, there are two options, but I've already made a stop at Meijer earlier that evening to pick up some vegetables, and everyone knows that only crazy ladies visit the same store multiple times within a 24-hour period. Looks like I'm heading to Wal-Mart.

So there I am in the women's clothing section at Wal-Mart, quite possibly one of the most depressing places in the world, a little disappointed at the turn my Monday evening/Tuesday morning has taken.

No wait! Go back about 20 minutes. Before I leave the house, but after I've put on my coat, scarf, and gloves.

I walk into the bathroom, and as I grab a hair tie off the counter, my foot ever-so-slightly nudges the scale sitting next to the toilet. Our scale is a tempered glass affair from IKEA that I recently moved from the slightly roomier half bathroom near the kitchen to the slightly cramped full bathroom where I'd be likely to use it more often. In retrospect, that decision to make the move to the cramped quarters of the full bath was questionable, to say the least.

So my foot ever-so-slightly nudges the scale, but the scale hits the bottom of the toilet. And shatters. Here stands Heather, too fat to fit into any of her pants, and she literally just broke her scale. I just about lose my shit, when Joe walks out of the bedroom, half asleep, wondering what the noise was. It is at this point, I determine, I have totally failed at life.

Back to Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart has approximately two styles of pants that are not jeans, and they are both awful. One is so tapered that I'm not even sure how you could get your foot through the leg hole, and the other is a papery feeling pair of khakis. Being that I hardly need to emphasize the width of my midsection by decreasing the width at my ankles, I grabbed a pair of the khakis and walked over to the fitting room.

You find out interesting things at Wal-Mart at 3:00 AM. Things like the fitting room is closed until 7:00 AM.

I walk back over to the rack of khakis, grab the next size up, walk to the register and pay for my pants of shame.

I get home and find out that at least the smaller of the two pairs is enough to contain the vast expanse of my hips. It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Heather Schmidt

Originally published at sleepygirl.org.
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Danny the Champion of the World
About a week ago, mteson wrote an entry suggesting Roald Dahl's Danny the Champion of the World. I haven't done much reading for pleasure since I started grad school, but I was at the library last night in the children's section looking for books that contained /k/ sounds, and decided to pick it up.

I'm about halfway through so far and it made me realize how much I miss reading.

Anyhoo, so I just wanted to share this small excerpt, a conversation between Danny and his father, because I thought it was endlessly adorable.

On this Thursday, on this particular walk to school, there was an old frog croaking in the stream behind the hedge as we went.

"Can you hear him, Danny?"

"Yes," I said.

"That is a bullfrog calling to his wife. He does it by blowing out his dewlap and letting it go with a burp."

"What is a dewlap?" I asked.

"It's the loose skin on his throat. He can blow it up just like a little balloon."

"What happens when his wife hears him?"

"She goes hopping over to him. She is very happy to have been invited. But I'll tell you something very funny about the old bullfrog. He often becomes so pleased with the sound of his own voice that his wife has to nudge him several times before he'll stop his burping and turn around to hug her."

That made me laugh.

"Don't laugh too loud," he said, twinkling at me with his eyes. "We men are not so very different from the bullfrog."

Attention, please.
Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org.

Dear Readers,

This is no longer the website of Heather Schmidt, midwesterner extraordinaire.

No, it is much more than that now.

Instead, it is the website of Heather Schmidt, soon-to-be Masters student in speech-language pathology at the University of Illinois. Yes. In a few short years, I will be able to affix all sorts of letters to my name. MA. CCC-SLP. In short? I will be awesome.


PS - I’m admitted with limited graduate student status for the fall, since I didn’t major in Speech and Hearing Science as an undergraduate and have quite a few additional pre-requisites to take before I start on my actual graduate work. Still though, I get to be in school again! Yay yay yay yay yay!

Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org.

For Valentine’s Day this year, Joe and I decided not to spend a whole lot of money on gifts. Instead, we set rules that whatever we gave each other had to be handmade (by us, not someone else) and the supplies couldn’t cost over $20. We both wound up making each other things out of sculpey. This was my first foray into making anything with sculpey, but I like to think it went well. Below, you will see the fruits of our labor.

These are mine. The hippo because I love hippos, and the yeti because Joe loves yetis. And Valentine’s Day is all about love, right?

These are Joe’s. The yeti because Joe loves yetis, and the spaceman because he has become my little mascot, according to Joe.

Last weekend, while Joe was visiting, we decided to break out the sculpey and make a couple more little guys. We both made yetis to act as companions to our first yetis.

The boy yeti just needed a girl yeti to do his business with.

Joe made a taller, possibly more intelligent companion for his shorter, more mischievous yeti.

In other news, I am now a full-time civil service employee at the University of Illinois. I have an appointment with Personnel Services tomorrow to get my benefits in line. The idea of having health, dental and vision coverage are making my heart flutter.

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January 17, 2007
Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org.

My application for graduate school is complete, thanks to a last minute letter of recommendation from my boss. One of the professors who I had planned on getting a recommendation from is currently in Ireland and althought I hunted down his email address at the university he’s teaching at, I didn’t hear anything back from him. I still feel okay about it, though. I think I wish I had applied to more schools, but we’ll see how it works out.

Last night, I went to dinner with my parents at the Ribeye. While we were sitting there enjoying our meal, the gentleman at the table next to us got up to leave and as he did, he said “Thanks for buying me dinner, Heather!” and before I even knew what he said, he had left. I had seen them sitting there while we were eating, and I didn’t recognize the guy, so I kind of feel really bad. I especially feel bad about the fact that I felt the need to check my purse to make sure my credit card was still there.

But if you think about it, it’d be pretty suave to steal someone’s credit card from their purse, then be all like, “Hey [credit card holder’s name]! Thanks for dinner!” as you walked out of the restaurant.

Not that that’s what happened. I kind of figure it was someone I know from work, but I’m usually really great with names and faces. It drives me nuts that I had no idea who that guy was.

SO! If for some odd reason the gentleman that thanked me for buying his meal at the Ribeye is somewhere out there in Internet world reading this, who are you?

Dancing Queen
Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org. So, LiveJournal sucks butt, which means that instead of having all the awesomeness embedded here where it should be, you'll have to click on this link instead to experience the supercoolness. Post links to your own!

Meet the Kitties
Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org.






That is all.


Useful Things
Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org.

I would like to think that Harley is cuddling with my Course in Phonetics book because she has a secret crush on Peter Ladefoged or is perhaps a budding linguist. However, I know that it is only because she likes to flop down on things that may at some point in the near future be useful to anyone within a mile radius. This includes any papers, clean clothes, or open duffles or suitcases. I present for your consideration, exhibit B.

The moral of the story is: Move your fat ass, Harley.


They Say Dogs Resemble Their Owners
Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org.

Last summer, Joe and I went to Milwaukee for a weekend getaway. It was pretty fun and I got to see some hippos. Some time during the trip, Joe developed a tiny sore on his arm. It really looked like a scratch or a bug bite. Nothing serious. A day later, there was another one a little further up his arm. It was the summer, we’d been walking around outside, any sane person would chalk it up to bugs. But not Joe. Instead, Joe started doing research. The Internet is the enemy of any hypochondriac.

A few hours later, he was convinced he had somehow encountered flesh eating bacteria and would soon lose his arm. He continued on to tell me that it spreads under the skin and manifests in small sores to begin with. Flesh eating bacteria has a 25% mortality rate.

I told him to shut up.

Over a year has passed and Joe still has his arm. It did not fall off, it did not have to be amputated. He made a miraculous recovery from his self-diagnosed bout with flesh eating bacteria. A modern medical marvel, my boyfriend.

This past summer, Joe got a new laptop. His old laptop, lovingly known as the Firestarter, had developed a keen ability to create enough heat to cause blisters on a user’s leg. Yes. Blisters.

Now, I realize this may not seem to be heading in any sort of logical progression, but just stay with me.

Joe’s new laptop is named Bucephalus, after Alexander’s horse. Joe has a thing for Alexander the Great. I think it has to do with all the gayness. Anyway, Bucephalus is an apocryphal tablet PC, a Toshiba Portege M400 that, for whatever reason, insisted on calling Joe “SONY_USER.” We’ve since gotten that mess cleared up, but Joe still has his doubts about the laptop’s legitimacy.

In the week before his finals at ISU, out of nowhere, the fan on his new laptop just up and quit. As soon as it did, an error message appeared. Now, I’m paraphrasing here, because I wasn’t there to witness the message, but I think it went something like this: “OMG, I AM TOTALLY GOING TO DIE!!!!!! PLS GET ME SOME HELP! TURN ME OFF AND GET ME SOME HELP BEFORE I TURN INTO A PILE OF MOLTEN COMPUTER GOO! OH SHIT! I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE! OMGOMGOMGOMG! I’M MELTING!!!!!”

Being that he was in the middle of a paper, Joe was quite disconcerted. He saved his paper, shut down, and headed up to Lansing (a two hour plus drive) to fetch the Firestarter. Even with its penchant for being, well, a Firestarter, it was always pretty reliable. When he got up to Lansing, he powered up Bucephalus to clean it up just in case he had to send it in to customer service. It powered up just fine. Hell, the fan worked. Flawlessly even.

A week later, and there have been no other problems. The fan continues to work just fine. You see, hypochondria runs in the family.

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Just a Quick Update
Originally posted at Sleepygirl.org.

So I took the GRE on Monday. It went OK, I guess. The upside of the matter is that I am, indeed, still alive. And I know the definitions to 310 more words than I did two weeks ago. Three hundred ten words that I will likely never use. But that’s alright, I suppose.

Anyhoo, keep an eye out in the next couple of days. I’ll be writing a little something about how hypochondria has a tendency to run in the family. Hopefully it’ll be somewhat entertaining.


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