Blahg

I blame Erin for this.

Sarah's been home sick for the past two days. Yesterday I got my new glasses in, so she asked me to stop by after work so she could insist that they don't make me look like a lesbian.

I walk in, and there's Sarah, looking sad and pathetic on the couch. And in the chair next to her? Her roommate, Erin. I'm a fan of Erin. She's pretty, she's funny, she laughs at all my jokes, and she got a fantastic spray tan yesterday, which gave me an opportunity to reminisce about the time I went to get a spray tan. I told them I didn't want anything too drastic, because in case they couldn't tell, I'm practically an albino. Fact: I have to use tinted moisturizer because they don't make foundation light enough to match my skin. So when the girl behind the counter said, "Oh - I'm gonna make you dark," I probably should have run screaming. I recently stumbled across a picture of myself from that period of my life...let's just say it was a dark time. A dark time indeed.

I sat and chit-chatted for a few minutes before insisting that I needed to get home to Brutus and away from the sick child. My boss had given me very specific instructions to stay far, far away from her while she was sick, and to wash my hands thirty times after being in the same room with her. 

Enter Erin. 

"Oh, come on!!! Hang out with us!!! You never hang out with us!!! I hardly see you!!!" 

Why does she have to be so darn lovable? So I consented to watch the pilot episode of The O.C. (She owns all the seasons on DVD.) 

Eh, one episode, what difference could it make? It'll only be an hour so there's no way I could catch whatever stomach bug Sarah has in that amount of time. 

Wrong.

Also, I'll totally be able to watch the pilot of this show without wanting to watch every other episode. I hear it sucks, and I am impervious to things that suck. 

Oh, so wrong! Have you met you? You love every show. Especially the ones that suck. That's why you don't have a tv. 

Anyway, as you might have deduced, today I stayed home sick from work and have been watching episodes of The O.C. between naps. 

Manbearpig

That's my husband: Half man. Half bear. Half pig.

I’ve already told you about the man part. Hunting, fishing, fighting, spitting, etc.

The bear component is pretty easily explained as well. He gives fantastic bear hugs. He has copious amounts of fur about his face and neck. (I’d rather believe he was part bear than accept the fact that he just refuses to shave the neard.) Once, when he was faced with what he thought was a bear (but which was actually just a mean old work crew boss in a gorilla suit), instead of cowering or running away, he bowed up like he was going to punch that bear in the face. That in itself deserves honorary half bear status.

I’d like to take the rest of my allotted time to address the pig portion.

Last night, Gary and I went to Texas Roadhouse because we had a gift card. We don’t eat there often, but the gift card was (surprise!) a gift from someone who knows we’re from Texas. We didn’t have the heart to tell her we’d never eaten at a Texas Roadhouse until after we moved to Colorado. Why would we when we were in such close proximity to Love & War in Texas? (If you live in the DFW area and you’ve never eaten there, please stop what you’re doing, get over there now and order the Presidio, TX Poblano. Also the ribs. Oh and the chicken fried steak. You’re gonna have a big dinner.)

Ok. I’ve been watching Gary eat for almost seven years. He ate dinner at my parents’ house nearly every night while we were dating. I later found out that he was also eating dinner at his parents’ house every night.

You would think the fact that I knew he was consuming two full meals each night (not to mention all the second and third helpings I witnessed him scarf down) might have prepared me for our life together. Even still, there are times when his ability to inhale food like oxygen still amazes and, let’s be honest, scares me a little.

We got to the restaurant after what had been, at least for Gary, a very long day at work. He had worked up a considerable appetite, which explains the following: We ordered a Baby Blossom (I had to shout Gary down because originally he wanted to order the regular sized Cactus Blossom...which feeds 4-6 people). Gary ordered Chicken Fried Chicken; I ordered Portobello Mushroom Chicken. Each of our meals came with two sides.

So here’s what Gary ate last night: 5/6 of the Baby Blossom, his gigantic Chicken Fried Chicken, ½ my cup of chili, an overflowing side of loaded mashed potatoes, about a cup of green beans, and 1/3 of my sizable piece of chicken. Oh and two rolls with cinnamon butter. When he asked me if I wanted dessert, I found myself unable to formulate a response. I just sat there gaping at him with my jaw on the table.

Gosh. Writing it all out like that doesn’t really seem to do it justice. It was a freakin’ lot of food, okay?

Shower Scene (Of the Crime)

I committed a murder this morning. I feel no remorse. In fact, I can almost guarantee I’ll do it again if I ever get the chance.

Here’s how it went down: I was taking a shower. I felt something on my lower calf. I looked down and saw an unidentifiable dark mass, roughly the size of a quarter. As I reached down to brush it off, it FLEW AWAY. I cried out – not in a ladylike scream, but in an awkward, poorly executed yell that kinda sounded like, “wha-AAAAAAH” because I didn’t realize until halfway through my exclamation that the thing touching me had been a moth. Buh-h-h. I loofahed the dickens out of the spot where it had made contact with my skin, but not before I trained the shower head on that little monster and ensured it had been washed securely down the drain and was well on its way to a watery grave.

As I scour my childhood memories for anything related to moths, all I can come up with is the smell of mothballs up in the old shed we used to store extra clothes in when I was really small. (This triggers another memory: the time when my ten year old cousin took me up there and forced me to smoke a cigarette on threat of being kicked out of the Big Girls Club. I’m pretty sure I started coughing uncontrollably as soon as it touched my lips, so I ended up getting out of it.) Even without the cigarette smoke, it smelled terrible up there, and I remember thinking it was highly unlikely that moths could do much damage, since they don’t have any scary teeth or claws or anything. Rats, possums, angry kittens, sure, but moths? Give me a break. Even as a six year old, I was surprisingly cynical.

Around the same time, another insect attempted to make the trek up my leg, resulting in its untimely death and a memory that I fear will haunt me for a lifetime. I was sitting in the tall chair usually reserved for Sarah (I assume because she was the cutest. Cute kid always gets the tall chair. Story of my life.) when I spotted it. The biggest cockroach I had ever seen, scuttling over my kneecap. If my six year old brain served me right, I believe it was about a foot long. We lived next to a corn field, and they had just cut down all the crops. Hours later, after the screaming had stopped, my parents explained that lots of little mice and bugs, like this one, had been living in the field and were now homeless. They saw how nice we all looked so they wanted to come live in our house with us. This story, although touching, was not enough to move me to grief for having squashed the contents of its fragile exoskeleton with one of my dad’s shoes.

Those were the days. When large bugs were a rarity only to be endured during harvest time. Nowadays, moths have become an unfortunate fixture in my summer life. We rarely turn our porch light on, because I’d rather risk stubbing a toe on my way to the door than have to “1..2..3..RUN!” into the house, slam the door shut behind us and prop a heavy dresser against it to keep out the horde that’s gathered around our porch light, just waiting for a chance to sneak in and munch on all my favorite outfits. For example, there is at least one small hole in each of the two tank tops and the skirt I’m wearing today. I keep telling myself I should throw them out, but then I remember that if I were to get rid of every piece of clothing I had with a tiny hole in it, I’d be coming to work naked 4 out of 5 days a week, which I’m pretty sure is in violation of our dress code. Sorry, HR, you’re gonna have to take it up with the moths.

Last summer was the worst, and the reason all my clothes are ruined. Apparently it happens every year. Hundreds of thousands of miller moths come in and run this town for a few weeks, after which half of them clear out. (A cleverly titled article from Colorado Springs Independent explaining the phenomenon can be found here.) The rest choose to live out their remaining days on my front porch, spending the bulk of their time sipping Mojitos and taunting my dog.

I’ve never considered myself a cruel person, but I can’t deny the sadistic pleasure I feel whenever I catch Brutus playing with one on the floor, tossing and catching it in his mouth a few times before dropping it on the carpet and slowly beating it to death with his paws.

Talkin' Trash

It happened this morning, like so many other Tuesday mornings.

Gary and I both whined and complained our way out of bed and groggily set about getting ready for work. We took turns brushing our teeth, riffled through the pile of clean laundry on the bathroom floor (which, of late, is coming dangerously close to joining forces with the dirty pile as a part of its maniacal plan to overtake the entire house), Gary tried to leave, I locked my arms around his torso and let him drag me around a little before I let him leave, and then as soon as the truck pulled away I cranked up the old iPod and gangster rapped my way through the rest of the morning. I have to wait until he leaves to do this because he hates everything that I love. JUST KIDDING! He just hates rap music, and I think he hears enough of my sad attempts at it to deserve not to have to hear the real thing. Much.*

Suddenly, right in the middle of the first verse of All I Do Is Win, I was gripped by a sudden panic. It went a little something like this:

Hold up...what’s today? PIPE DOWN, LUDA, I’M THINKING! What day is this?! I went to work yesterday....CUSS! IT’S TUESDAY!

Why is the fact that it’s Tuesday so upsetting? You might be thinking it’s because the last time I washed my hair was on Sunday, making it extra difficult for me to put my hair into a ponytail without that one spot on my head looking like a patch of gnarly seaweed, but no – this is even more pressing. Tuesday is our trash day.

We have tried everything. Gary used to set an alarm for every Monday night at 6, but we would invariably be away from home when it went off, so he’d just turn it off and we’d forget about it. I used to write it on the dry erase board on our fridge, but we rarely have time to eat breakfast during the week, so all it was good for was evoking a few expletives on Tuesday nights when I’d go to make dinner. I considered writing it on the bathroom mirror instead, but I’m sure we’d get used to seeing it there and forget what it meant. It seems that we are doomed to have an overflowing trash bin. It’s actually pretty disturbing to consider the amount of garbage two people and one dog can generate in a week’s time. Maybe registering for five years’ worth of Styrofoam dinnerware was a mistake after all.

I managed to get it out to the curb before 7, so we’ll see what happens. The one thing you can all be sure of is that Gary is going to bake me a nice big German chocolate cake tonight as a reward for performing what was clearly a boy job.

What’s that Gary? This is the first you’ve heard of this? Well, the cake mix and frosting can be found in the cabinet above the dishwasher. I suggest you get to bakin’.



*I can't be held responsible for those nights he comes home earlier than I expected to find me in the kitchen wearing a wifebeater and a bandana tied around my head, shouting Eminem into the handle of a bread knife. I'm just that hard.

Eye Eye Eye

I went to the eye doctor today because last week I received a postcard in the mail featuring Garfield (the cat, not the president) pointing at an eye exam board and reminding me it was time for my yearly visit.

This was my second trip to Citadel Vision. The first took place approximately one year ago. I remember thinking my optometrist was, for the lack of a better description, sorta creepy. He was probably in his mid forties, and maybe I’m the only one who feels this way, but I find that the combination of a difference in gender and an age gap of around twenty years tends to make conversations awkward always. He’s also one of those doctors who has the lady at the front desk put some notes about your family/pets/hobbies in your file so he can check it before he comes into the room and then act like you’re besties.

My regular doctor also does this. He comes in after I’ve been sitting on that crinkly paper for half an hour and asks me how my husky's doing, if I’m still singing, and whether I’ve been home to visit my family in Dallas recently, followed by a look that screams, “Ba-doom CHING! Eh? Eh? Eh? Ya see what I did there?”

“Oh my gosh you remembered all that stuff I watched you write down the first time I came in?!?!?! I can’t BELIEVE it!!!”

The difference is that my regular doctor is an old man, so it’s kind of cute in a looks-like-grandpa-found-the-key-to-the-liquor-cabinet sort of way. My optometrist, on the other hand, is a good ten years younger than my dad, which really just makes the idea of us being “buddies” a little repulsive. It’s not his fault. I know he wasn’t being a creep on purpose. Here’s what I imagine happened: His game plan from the get-go was to talk to me as if I were a high school student, but things started to fall apart after the following exchange took place:

Doc: Emily Gray, huh? That’s a good name. Sounds like a writer or an actress. Your parents really knew what they were doing.

Me: Uhh...I’m married, so...my parents...didn’t have much to do with it.

Doc: Oh...yes, of course, it says that right here...

Crickets: CHIRP...CHIRP...

Aaand that’s about how things went for the entire visit.

So this morning as I sat in the waiting room trying desperately to avoid eye contact with the other patients, I geared myself up for Round 2. But wait! My normal eye doctor was out sick today, so instead of Hairplugs McGee, I was greeted by none other than Doogie Howser, Boy Optometrist!

It was kind of like anticipating a bee sting and instead being presented with a strawberry milkshake.

Since we were probably only ten or fifteen years apart in age, he didn’t try to talk down to OR joke with me. He just did his optometrological duties in a professional manner and got the heck outta there, which is pretty much exactly what I’m looking for in a doctor.

YA HEAR THAT, DOCTORS? UNLESS YOU’RE A LADY, I WANT LESS YAPPIN’ AND MORE ZAPPIN’ (assuming you’re performing some kind of laser procedure. Otherwise I’m interested in neither yappin' nor zappin'.)

Smoking Out

It’s just something we like to do to unwind after a long week.

I started to write some stuff about dry mouth and the munchies, but then I realized I might be a little too white bread for anyone to believe I was talking about weed.

We’re smoking our first brisket today! And by that I mean Gary is smoking our first brisket and I’m sitting here blogging about it. Supportively. I am contributing though. I’m making some buttered rosemary rolls in a skillet thanks to Pioneer Woman. Have you met her? She’s living my life. 4 really cute kids – 2 boys, 2 girls. Lives on a giant ranch. Gets paid to cook all day and blog about it. I think I’d hate her if it weren’t for two things: One, she’s helped me convince Gary I’m a good cook, and two, her ranch is in Oklahoma. Yuck. You know the joke. Maybe you don’t.

Q: Why doesn’t Texas fall into the Gulf of Mexico?

A: ‘Cause Oklahoma sucks.

Hard to be jealous when I think about that.

I’m just teasing! I’m sure Oklahoma’s just fine. It’s practically Texas. But that being said, why don’t people just move a few more miles south so at least they can have bragging rights? These are the questions that keep me up at night…

Anyway, back to the smoking. I love it when Gary smokes stuff because it usually involves two things: beer and country music. I don’t drink beer ‘cause I’m a lady and I have to be in a very special mood to listen to country music because I spent a few years singing backup for twelve year olds in sequined cowboy hats screaming Carrie Underwood songs at an opry back home. To this day I can’t hear Jesus Take the Wheel without becoming physically ill. But something about the combination of the two (I like to call it “boozic”) makes Gary extra fun. He walks around the house doing this kind of bouncy shuffle that I can’t accurately describe and singing George Strait and Clint Black at the top of his lungs. Those are a couple of guys I can get behind, because they come from a time when country was actually good, long before Rascal Flatts came along and destroyed the genre forever. Did anyone ever hear the word “badonkadonk” in a country song in the 90’s? No. They didn’t. (Ok, maybe Rascal Flatts isn't responsible for making it trashy, but they sure made it annoying.)

So now I’m off to spend the rest of the evening relaxing and enjoying some delicious barbecue with Alan, Garth, Dolly, Dwight, Johnny, Tracy, Randy and whatever Brooks & Dunn’s first names are.

PEACE.

Eyeballing It

I’m suffering from foggy eyeball. I wonder if this is what having cataracts is like.

Contacts: I love slash hate you. Sure, you come in handy when I want to go out in big sunglasses because my eyes are too weak to handle direct sunlight (plus they make me feel like a celebrity trying to hide from the paparazzi), but then when people start to assume I have a twitch because they see me blinking my right eye over and over in an attempt to clear whatever semi-translucent gunk has made its way onto my lens, suddenly I’m not so keen on you.

Quit snickering over there, Glasses – you’re not much better. It seems like you’re always filthy, no matter how many times I clean you with your special cloth. Is it too much to ask for you to stay grime-free for eight hours together without the help of that little brown rag? Can we say security blanket?

I’ve always said I’d like to wait until my mid thirties to have Lasik done. It just kinda freaks me out, to be honest.

“What’s that? You’re gonna peel off a layer of my eyeball and then put it back on?” Nobody else thinks that’s weird?

My main concern is that the procedure hasn’t really been around long enough for anyone to know what the long term effects are. Like, nobody who’s undergone the surgery in their twenties has made it into their 80’s or 90’s yet, so who’s to say after 50 years your eyeballs don’t just spontaneously combust?

Recently though, I feel my resolve starting to crumble. The idea that I could wake up and instantly be able to see is just so gosh darn enticing. No more excruciating pain because I failed to rub a new set of contacts long enough before putting them in, leaving my eyes on fire and my entire face splotchy and red. (Seriously, what do they store those things in? Gasoline? ) No more glasses fogging up every time I lean over a pot to check whether the noodles are done. No more taking out my contacts at night and then realizing I have no idea where my glasses are and that my chances of finding them just got about 50% slimmer.

So I think I’ll do it. Just as soon as we have the money...meaning I might be waiting until my thirties after all.

Also, Feline AIDS is the number one killer of domestic cats.

Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

It's happening. My wildest dreams are coming true. 

We still don’t have any money or an extra car or a big house or anything, but I can’t seem to care less about all that when I consider the marvelous gift that’s been laid out in front of me.

Gary is finally starting to get in touch with his inner nerd.

Before I go on, I want to make one thing perfectly clear: Gary Gray is a man. He’s a biiiiiiig man. He enjoys doing manly things like fly fishing, smoking a pipe, sleeping outside, shooting guns, and knocking back the occasional PBR. He builds things with his bare hands, squashes bugs with his work boots, lifts heavy objects, smokes meat on a charcoal grill, drives a big black truck, flies helicopters, wears Wranglers, and bites back when Brutus gnaws on his tree trunk of an arm. He’s chivalrous – he respects his mama, opens doors, helps ladies at the grocery store get things down from the top shelf, sacrifices his body to shield Sarah and me from rogue fly balls at Sky Sox games...you get the picture. He’s a man’s man’s man.

All that being said, I’m not sure why he likes me, ‘cause I’m a chick flick loving show choir nerd with glasses and braces. (Ok maybe that was more me in high school, but that’s when we started dating, and even at age 16 he’d already built up the sturdy foundation of manliness that helped grow him into the beast he is today. The only major difference is that back then he was rocking the original Justin Bieber ‘do, long before J Biebs first became acquainted with the dangers of revolving glass doors.)

My latest dweebsession is The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. While Gary has grudgingly agreed to sit through every Harry Potter movie that’s been released so far, I accepted long ago that he has absolutely no interest in reading the books. The whole “magic” thing really isn’t his bag, since he’s always been more of a Mark Twain – Life On the Mississippi type of guy. But after reading The Hunger Games and its sequel, Catching Fire, I started to think Gary might enjoy the series. The protagonist is a female, but she’s not the helpless, sulky whiner that can be found in a certain other popular series I could mention...this girl is a badass. She takes care of herself and her family and might actually make a decent role model for all those impressionable young girls out there. There is somewhat of a love story, but it’s not the main focus. It’s about survival against all odds and it is awesome.

When I first told him about the storyline, he seemed less than mildly interested. I have only myself to blame for years of gushing over Jane Austen novels and “vampire smut,” as he so lovingly refers to the Twilight series. I understand why my stamp of approval doesn’t hold much weight with him anymore. But I persisted, and over several weeks of relentless pestering, he said he’d think about reading them.

If, like most people, you’ve been taking diligent notes on my blog posts, I’m sure you’re aware that thanks to my favorite mom ever, I am now the proud owner of the audio versions of the first two books in the series. A couple nights ago, I convinced Gary to listen to “just one chapter...and if you don’t like it we’ll turn it off and I’ll never bring it up again.” This was most likely a lie...but I’ll never know for sure because we ended up listening to two chapters. While he wasn’t jumping up and down with excitement, he also wasn’t disgusted or annoyed, so I allowed myself a tiny victory dance.

Last night he consented to listen to a little more while we made dinner. After we ate, he casually asked if I wanted to listen to some more. I assumed he was just being nice to me because he knows I’m a tad obsessed. I kept glancing over at him to make sure he was still awake, and found to my tremendous delight that he never drifted off even for a second. 10:30 rolled around and I suggested we come to a stopping point and call it a night. He responded with a, “What? Why? It’s only 10:30!” I tried to mask my triumphant jubilation by chuckling and agreeing to listen to one more chapter. I repeated the suggestion that we turn in at the end of each successive chapter, and time after time I was shot down.

Finally, a few minutes before midnight, I insisted that we go to bed so I wouldn’t turn into a zombie at work today, and he reluctantly agreed.

E: You’re really enjoying the book, aren’t you?

G: Eh, it’s ok I guess.

E: Really? We just listened to it for over 4 hours.

G: Go to sleep.

And go to sleep I did, but not before I spent a little time basking in the glory of the almighty I Told You So.

Status Quo

I’m just gonna jump right in here. Tell me if this looks familiar.

Tracy Jones thinks it's nice to find out who your TRUE friends are and who's just waiting to STAB YOU IN THE BACK THE SECOND YOU TURN AROUND. I'M TALKING TO YOU, GINA, YOU BACKSTABBING HOOKER.*

Now Tracy, let's think about this for a second. Aren't you Facebook friends with your second grade teacher, Mrs. Bingman? And your elderly neighbor, Mr. Fouts? Your mom? And, I don't know, your boss and all your coworkers?

Listen Trace...I don’t know how to say this, but I think maybe it’s time you and Facebook took a break. Tried seeing other people for a while. I don’t know what happened with Gina, but I’m sure Facebook feels really, really bad about it. You both need to heal before you can make this relationship work.

Love, All Your Friends Who've Hidden You From Their News Feed

Really, is this what our generation has come to? I mean, I know that back in high school I spent a ridiculous amount of my free time on AOL Instant Messenger talking trash to all my friends about how much I hated Dianna because she STILL hadn’t given me back the fifty cents she borrowed at lunch last week and hoping that cute boy from the football team would talk to and eventually marry me (so I guess in the end, it worked...even though I never did get that fifty cents back) but aren’t we supposed to be adults now?

Take my little cousin. Ten years old. Better at Facebook than most twenty-somethings. She puts up cute little age-appropriate statuses that say things like:

Peighton is going swimming! Yay!
or
Peighton would like a cookie!

Well who wouldn’t, Peighton? Who wouldn’t. P.S. You’re adorable.

What’s not so adorable is when I open up my home page to find that

A Random Girl I Went to Junior High With and Haven’t Spoken to Since GOT SOOOOOOO %$(@*& DRUNKK LST NIGHT! I CN’T RMEMBR NETHNG!

First of all, for Pete’s sake, turn your caps lock off. Secondly, get yourself a shower and a cup of coffee, and maybe stay away from your computer for a few hours, because in your current state I fear you’re likely to spill the coffee on your keyboard and open up another 99 Problems for yourself. Lastly, when it comes to updating your Facebook status, let’s operate on the theory that your mom was right when she told you that nothing good happens after midnight.


*I don't know why, but my initial reaction to things like this is always, "This ain’t MySpace! Facebook is where the classy kids hang out, so I’ll thank you to take your glittery hot pink background, that Nickelback song and those pictures of you posing half naked in front of your bathroom mirror somewhere else.”

Grammar Check (It's Kinda Like Curb Check, Only Different)

I think I can safely say that I’m a fairly intelligent person. When I’m writing, I try my best not to end any sentences in prepositions or use the wrong form of to/too/two.

Sometimes though, my intelligence might not necessarily come across in an everyday conversation. Maybe I like to downplay my extensive vocabulary in an effort to keep from alienating people...maybe I just don’t feel like thinking all the time.

My 11th grade English teacher’s name was Mrs. Anderson. Although she was not a personal favorite of mine (‘cause come on, nobody holds a candle to Susan Fajardo), she did give me one of the best compliments I’ve ever received. I think the only reason I even remember it is that I was so shocked that she would compliment me at all, since I wasn’t under the impression that she had been especially keen on me. I was even more surprised that instead of saying it to my face, she had chosen to tell a class full of people who are not me that I was “very intelligent...but not an egghead.”

This might not seem like much of a compliment, because essentially she’s saying I don’t seem as smart in person as I do on paper, but that’s actually pretty much what I’m going for. Here’s why: I like to make people smile, laugh, and generally feel warm and fuzzy inside. I do not like to make people feel like idiots.

Case in point: Someone asks you how you’re doing. You say, “I’m good, thanks! How are you?” They reply, “I’m well, thank you.”

In my professional opinion, they might as well have said, “I’m well bred, thank you...at least I’m obviously doing better than you are, you brainless Neanderthal. Did you even finish high school?” And all of a sudden, you don’t feel like you’re doing quite so well.

Here’s the deal. If your automatic response when someone asks how you’re doing is “well”, then good for you! Looks like one of us wasn’t utterly failed by the American school system. I have no problem with people using proper grammar. I’m just saying that there is no need to make other people feel stupid for responding otherwise.

Some might argue that I’m advocating the deterioration of the English language. I'm not! Really. I'm not saying we should all slip into bad speech habits just because it's popular. I am merely suggesting that maybe we should all lighten up, cut each other some slack, and instead of making a fellow human being with feelings and a family feel like a worthless moron, try holding our tongues and inwardly congratulating ourselves on being super smart.



Post Script

This is unrelated but equally worthy of note.

I was walking downtown with a couple of friends from work on my lunch break today because all three of us think Chipotle is delicious and worth strolling three blocks in the hot summer sun to pick it up.

We had come to a point at which only one block stood between us and the roasted chili-corn salsa that so often invades my dreams when I heard Samantha groan. When I asked what was wrong, she said, “Those people are gonna try to talk to us.”

Lo and behold, I looked up to see a couple of moderately clean looking hippies wearing Greenpeace t-shirts and deliberately making eye contact with us as we crossed the street toward them.

Awesome.

“Hey, you look like someone who cares about the planet you live on!”

Crap! I knew wearing this Captain Planet t-shirt out in public was a bad idea!

Sam and Erica took the sensible route by smiling and not slowing down. I, on the other hand, seemed to be having a bit of a conscious-attack, so I slowed down ever so slightly – just long enough to throw an apologetic “we-do-but-we’re-in-a-hurry” over my shoulder.

My reward? Hearing Hipp-ette reply loudly, “Time is a concept of society...” which was followed by fits of snorts and giggles from Samantha and Erica. I guess I brought this on myself.

Needless to say, we walked back on the other side of the street.

That Was Close.

Today’s post has a theme. Ten American dollars to the last person to guess what it is!

(I should probably mention that I never come through on my promises and I don’t have ten dollars...and the theme is close calls.)

Close Call #1

I came very close to spreading a fair amount of negativity around the blogosphere yesterday afternoon (this was a couple of hours before I posted that little ball of sunshine I trust you all read and shared with your friends and family.) Luckily, before I was able to publish the original post, Gary swooped in, shook me by the shoulders and screamed, “EMILY, THIS ISN’T YOU! I KNOW THE LIGHTHEARTED, UPBEAT GIRL I MARRIED IS STILL IN THERE SOMEWHERE! Now you erase that post and YOU ERASE IT GOOD.”

So I did. And along the way I learned a valuable lesson. For whatever reason, it seems that when I’m going for brevity, I tend to overshoot and land somewhere around another “b” word.

Alright. Lesson learned. ON TO THE NEXT!

Close Call #2

Gary called to tell me he wouldn’t be able to make it home for lunch today and to ask if I’d go let Brutus out. Usually he stays outside on his running line while we’re at work, but he’s confined to the indoors except to “eliminate” for ten days, doctor’s orders. I’m a good wife and dogmother, so I said I’d do it. I grabbed Sarah’s keys from her and set out to deliver some relief. (Oh you all know Sarah, right? My unpaid personal chauffeur? She’s been hauling me around everywhere since Gary and I became a one truck family. I wanted to get her one of those little hats, but she threatened to break my legs and make me walk. By the way Sarah, THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE ANY SENSE.)

Anyway, as I was pulling out of the parking lot, I noticed the gas light was on. I thought to myself, “Maybe it just came on. I’ll be fine.” That’s when I remembered a little conversation Sarah and I'd had earlier this morning about how, “we’ll be lucky to get to work without stopping for gas, and we definitely won’t make it back home.”

Now I’d like to take you on a little tour of my brain for the twenty or so minutes that followed.

Well, at least I have my wallet. I’ll just stop and fill it up myself – oh.....wait.

Well, at least I have my cell phone. If I run out of gas, I’ll just call someone to come get me – oh.....shoot.

Well, at least I have my drivers license so that when Sarah’s car stops in the middle of a busy intersection, I won’t get a ticket for driving illegally – ohhhhhhhh..............eff.

Come on car. Come on. Just let me get home.

Oh also if I could get back to work that would be great.

MADE IT TO MY HOUSE! WE'RE HALFWAY THERE!

There you go Bru, go on about your business.

Ok come back inside! No, no don’t run! DON’T RUN! YOU’LL RIP OUT YOUR STITCHES!

Alright Em...no need to panic...Brutus is in his kennel, and the distractions seem to be working. He’s too busy with the milk bone to realize you’re leaving yet...now all you have to do is close the gate as quietly as possible, tiptoe across the living room, lock the front door, and....RUN! RUN! GET OUT OF THERE BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! You know if he starts crying you’ll never escape with your conscience in tact!

Alright car. We can do this. It’s only 6 blocks.

We just have to make it over this hill. WE’RE SO CLOSE!!!

(Squinting) What does that bumper sticker say?

“PRAIRIE DOG TOWN – Oakley, Kansas”

Huh. Of all the hundreds of thousands of bumper sticker choices available – I Hate the President, Make Love Not War, Jesus Was A Liberal, My Pit Bull Is Smarter than Your Honor Roll Student – you chose to go with PRAIRIE DOG TOWN.

By the time I'd finished wondering what that person’s life must be like, I realized I had pulled safely into a parking spot at work. SUCCESS! I jumped out of the car, kissed the ground, and did cartwheels all the way back to my desk, where I googled Prairie Dog Town and subsequently vomited in my hand.

Super Short Sunday Post

I just want everyone to know that right now, I'm experiencing my ideal moment.

Gary and I went to Walmart today to do our grocery shopping for the week, so naturally I felt like I needed a shower when I got home.

Now I'm clean, I'm sitting in a recliner, my hair is wet (with no plans to dry it in the near future) and there's a rainstorm outside, making the breeze coming in through my window extra cool and good-smelling.

Brutus is sitting in the chair next to me (turns out he still likes us after all), Gary's sprawled out on the other couch, and we have absolutely no plans for the rest of the afternoon.

This is the life.

The Boys Are Never Coming Back In Town

This morning I took Brutus to the vet. He got so excited when he saw me holding his leash. No running line today! No sir! He beat his little tail against the floor in anticipation of the exciting adventures on which he knew we were about to embark...and his enthusiasm did not diminish upon arriving at the vet’s office. So many smells to smell! So many butts to sniff! So many shoulders to rip out of sockets! (Oh, wait...there was just one of those.)

The vet’s assistant checked us in and weighed him. A measly 42 lbs. Really, buddy? You’re embarrassing me. You’re supposed to be a big, scary man-dog. And unfortunately, what’s about to happen to you is not exactly going to help you out in the man department.

Poor kid has no idea what’s in store for him. All the time he was acting so excited this morning, I couldn’t help but think that if he had even an inkling of what we were signing him up for, he’d probably be knocking down our neighbor’s door and begging Sergio to let him move in and never to grant us visitation rights.

Last night was the worst. He got up in between Gary and me in our bed and flopped down right up next to me, little spoon style. I just about died of happiness and wondered for a moment if we were indeed doing the right thing.

We are. I know. I read an article written by Cesar Milan, Dog Whisperer (I swear I’m a normal person, not one of those freaks who dresses their dogs in clothes or cooks them gourmet meals – even though I do receive an unsolicited dog food recipe every month from Rachel Ray, which is just one more reason I regret buying her magazine) talking about how dogs don’t plan for their puppies’ weddings or hope for grandpuppies or really care at all when they lose their...mojo. He went on to say Brutus won’t be mad or resent us for taking away his manhood, but I still can’t help feeling a little guilty.

The process actually went much more smoothly than I expected it would. Our vet's office is downtown, just a few blocks from our house, so I guess they’re used to less affluent people bringing their pets in. My friend Sam, however, lives out East where all the rich folks live, so her vet’s office is proportionately more pretentious. She told me about her experience when she took her Mastiff in to be neutered, and it sounded an awful lot like every experience I’ve ever had at the mechanic’s.

Snooty Vet Lady: Would you like us to hook Rooney up to an IV?

Sam: Um...no, I don’t think that’s necessary.

Snooty Vet Lady: WHAT KIND OF A MOTHER ARE YOU???

Sam: A rational one?

Snooty Vet Lady: Well how about food? Would you like us to feed him?

Sam: I can feed him when he gets home...he only eats once a day.

Snooty Vet Lady: YOU’RE A MONSTER!!!

Sam: I’m sorry...am I being punk’d?

Snooty Vet Lady: Well would you at least like him to have a Swedish Hot Stone Massage after the surgery? It’s only 400 extra dollars. Is that too much to ask?

Sam: Uh...yes. That’s too much to ask. He’s a dog.

Snooty Vet Lady: Well I don’t know why you didn’t just grab a pair of rusty scissors and do this yourself! Do you even like your dog??? Also, you’re going to need a new air filter. Look. This one’s brown.

Sam: What??? Where am I?

Comparatively, I feel like I got off pretty easy. All they asked me was if I wanted to get some take-home meds for him for the next 4 days for 16 extra dollars (why not?), and whether or not I wanted an Elizabethan collar. I must have looked confused, because she went on to tell me it’s the lampshade thing that keeps him from licking his stitches. I like things that are hilarious, so I’m sure you can all guess what my answer was.

Tune in next week to find out if Brutus is still speaking to us.



UPDATE: In a not-so-surprising turn of events,  Gary and I both feel like huge jerks. Brutus looks absolutely pathetic. Heartbroken. Betrayed. He's got tear tracks etched deep in the fur on either side of his sweet little face. We are monsters!

They told us he had to stay in his kennel for 24 hours and that he couldn't go outside except to use the bathroom for ten days. Upon hearing this, Gary, overcome by neuterer's remorse, ran out to Petsmart and bought Brutus a brand new extra large crate and about $70 worth of treats and toys.

If you think I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect, you're wrong. I mean, we won't be able to afford groceries next week, but I'll sleep better knowing our dog is happy. (Ok, maybe just a little bit on that last part.)

Thursday: A Two-Part Saga

I hear these things are all the rage, so I thought I’d get in on the action.

Really I just couldn’t decide which one of these things to write about today, and then I thought, “Hey, why not both? Why, it’s so crazy it just might work!”

Part I: So I Married a Superhero

Last night I came home to find the power cord for our Mac rolled up on the couch. I thought it was strange, since it’s usually plugged in and stretched across the living room floor – all the better to trip you with, my dear. I figured Gary must have had some reason for doing this, so I didn’t really think twice about it...that is, until I opened the computer to obsessively check for comments on my blog and found that the screen was totally black. Gary strikes again! He is notorious for not plugging the computer in ever. I swear, every time I open it, it looks up at me with its sad little sunken face and begs me to feed it some juice. Poor thing. I sighed, picked up the power cord, and then cursed loudly because I realized I was holding two severed halves of the $80 cord in my hands.

I called Gary and asked him if I should go pick up a new one before or after I murdered our dog. He laughed and told me he had actually pulled too hard on it on his lunch break and forgotten to tell me, then said he’d fix it when he got home. I try to be supportive in situations like these, so I said ok, but I’ll admit I had my doubts. It was one thing when we dropped that half ton desk down our basement staircase and the bottom two steps were destroyed, because all that took was a little hammer-and-nailing, but for some reason fixing electronics kinda seems like it should require a degree in rocket science.

But much to my shock and amazement, Gary did just as he said he would. He busted out the soldering iron and forced the two halves to kiss and make up. I woke up this morning and ran in to the living room to see if it had all been a crazy dream, but the electrical tape band-aid stood as proof that my husband had, indeed, performed a medical miracle at our kitchen table last night, making it possible for me to Facebook stalk people to my little heart’s content.

Well I’ll be darned if that last sentence doesn’t make for a ridiculously convenient lead-in to my next story.

Part II: First Come, First Smug

I have this friend whom I love dearly. She is smart and funny and cute and sometimes has colorful hair, which is really all I’m looking for in a friend. Her name starts with an E and ends in a couple of other names. She married another good friend of mine and Gary's last June, and one month ago they welcomed a beautiful baby girl into their lives.

I enjoy Facebook stalking my friend because she is interesting. So over the past year or so, I’ve really started to notice that people are douchebags.

How are these things related, you ask? I’ll tell you how.

Like I said, in the past 2 years, she’s gotten engaged, married, pregnant, and had a child. So for the past 2 years, I’ve been reading certain people’s douchey comments all over her Facebook wall. Which people? Mostly the ones who’ve gotten engaged, married, pregnant, or had a child in the past two or more years.

“Ohmigosh you’re engaged?!?!?!? You are just gonna LOVE LOVE LOVE IT! I know I did when I got engaged last week! You don’t even know how excited you’re gonna be in one week, when you get to where I am now. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW!!!”

“OHmigosh your wedding is this weekend!?!? EEEEEK! Gosh, remember how awesome MY wedding was??? ‘Cause I sure do! Hey, is it cool if I wear my wedding dress to your wedding? I’d love the chance to wear it again, ‘cause going to weddings always makes me think about MY WEDDING.”

“OHMIGOSH YOU’RE PREGNANT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!? You just don’t even know. You don’t know. You do not know. How could you? You couldn’t possibly know.”

“OH MY SWEET LORD YOU HAD YOUR BABY?!?!?!?!? You’re gonna love being a mom sooooo muuuuch. Just look at that baby! She’s almost as cute as my 3 month old, but don’t worry! I’m sure you’ll learn to love her nearly as much as I love myyyyyy babyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy”

“Oh, your baby’s a month old? Didn’t the month just FLY BY? I know that’s how I felt when MY baby turned one month old! Oh, the memories. Gosh, it just feels like forever ago that my baby was a month old, since I had a baby suuuch a long time before you did. I’m actually surprised you even bothered posting anything about your baby on Facebook, ‘cause I mean, the whole 'baby' thing’s kinda been done. By me.”

I can only hope to heaven that the girl who’s responsible for most of the comments that inspired me today never, ever, ever, ever, ever stumbles across my blog. If she does, I guess there will finally be a person out there who doesn’t like me (first time for everything, right?), and maybe it’ll teach her that if she doesn’t want me to talk smack about her all over the internet, maybe it would be a good idea to stop being such a one-uppity douche.

Everybody Likes You When You're 23

Huh. Two references to the same song in one week. It just goes to show you that as long as you live, you will never be able to get Blink 182 out of your head.

This is a super special blog post, because today is my sister’s birthday! Look how pretty she is!



I know! Right now you’re probably wondering, “How on earth is this stone cold fox still single???” (Sarah - I’m sorry if that you find that statement awkward.)

The only reasonable explanation I can come up with is that there are no men in Colorado. (Anybody else suddenly feeling the urge to break out in a chorus of “There Are No Cats in America”? No? Just me? Hm.)

In case any of you are wondering what to get her for her birthday, I’ve prepared a few guidelines that you might find helpful.

-Sarah loves sports. Playing sports, watching sports, talking about sports...especially soccer and football.

-Wanna cook Sarah dinner? Maybe try a little tuna/mushroom/alfredo sauce casserole.

-Sarah’s favorite musicians are Justin Bieber and Jessica Simpson.

-Sarah hates babies and they hate her back.

-Sarah enjoys being kicked in the mouth.

-Sarah only likes boys who wear JNCOs and listen to techno. (This one’s for those of you who were planning on getting her a man for her birthday.)

-Sarah’s favorite movie is Material Girls starring Haylie and Hilary Duff.

-Don’t bother getting her books; Sarah can’t read.

Oh SHOOT! Sorry, that was actually the list of guidelines for buying ME a birthday present. Everyone please hold on to this until January 17th. (It says Sarah so many times because that's my nickname for myself.)

Here’s Sarah’s real list:

-Sarah is too cool for sports.

-Sarah is also too cool for casserole.

-You’ve never heard of Sarah’s favorite musicians because they just came out like this morning.

- Babies and animals love Sarah. She’s kinda like Snow White, but with small children instead of dwarves.

- Sarah does not enjoy being kicked anywhere.

- Sarah likes boys who are awesome and wear vests.

- You’ve never heard of Sarah’s favorite movie either because it’s so deep underground.

- Sarah can read.

- Sarah = Awesome.

That pretty much sums it up.



Happy birthday sister. I love you the most.

Super Awkward Market

I think Colorado's getting to me.

When I lived in Texas, it was pretty much standard procedure to talk to the person next to you in line at the grocery store, the bank, Taco Delite, etc. Say what you will about the Lone Star State, but you can't deny that people are friendly there, even if you're never quite sure whether or not they're being genuine.

Now I'm not saying people aren't friendly here. I'm just saying that I've become accustomed to making a round trip through the grocery store without speaking to or making eye contact with anyone. I'm also saying that when the lady behind me in line at the grocery store today asked me if the juice I was buying was good, I had to fight the urge to jump back and yell, "BACK OFF WEIRDO! GET YOUR OWN JUICE!" Luckily I was able to reign it in and reply with a polite laugh and a "Yes, it's kinda sour."

That is exactly the second time someone has talked to me in the grocery store since I moved here almost 2 years ago*. The first time was just after Sarah had moved up here. We were buying some apples and we dropped one. It rolled toward this young-ish married couple and the husband bent down to pick it up. This was a bit of a shock in itself, because for some reason I can't explain, I expected him to kick it as hard as he could across the floor and tell us to go fetch, or maybe just smash it into a juicy pulp with his heel and then yell for grocery store security to apprehend us. Instead, he handed it to Sarah and whispered, with one hand covering the side of his face, "Just put it back." We both laughed out of sheer surprise, mumbled a thank you, and stared in disbelief as he and his wife smiled kindly at us as they walked away. I might be making this part up, but I feel like the wife winked at us, and if I remember correctly, they both had wings and halos.

*This is not including the ridiculous number of times women have stopped Gary in the middle of an aisle to ask him if he'll get something off the top shelf for them. Seriously? Why don't you bring your own strapping young man with you when you go shopping? This one's taken.

What I've been talking about here is strictly confined to my fellow grocery shoppers. Store employees are a completely different story. It seems like a trip to the grocery store just isn't complete until you've had an awkward conversation with the checker or been stared down by that blonde kid with the fohawk at Safeway who has a not-so-secret crush on your sister. Here are some excerpts from a few of my favorites:

Checker: Would you like to donate a dollar to prostate cancer?
Sarah: Oh, no thanks.
Our Friend Samantha: You don't wanna donate to prostate cancer???
Checker: I know, she's killing me.
Sarah (inwardly): Does this checker have prostate cancer?

Why she didn't actually ask him out loud, I'll never understand.

---

I'll set up the scene for you on this next one: I was buying tomato paste and potato chips because we were having hot link sandwiches for dinner and Gary makes his own barbecue sauce...out of tomato paste. Enter the kid who I'm pretty sure lives at the corner market down the street because he is ALWAYS there.

Action!

Kid: So what are you making?
Me: Hot link sandwiches.
All: (Awkward Silence)
Me: My uh.....husband makes really good barbecue sauce.
Kid: (Wondering what the hell that has to do with potato chips and tomato paste)
Me: That's what the tomato paste is for...we're just gonna eat the chips.
Kid: Oh, cool. What's in it?
Me: Uh......tomato paste.....brown sugar....I don't know, just take my money and let me get out of here because I'm too stupid to talk to you.

---

This last one's my personal favorite. I didn't actually include the most awkward conversations, because most of them involve creepy, middle aged men being creepy, and I don't find that funny in blogs or real life. What I do find funny is what the little boy who just got promoted from bagger to checker at King Soopers asked me the other day.

Little Boy: Did you check your eggs?
Me: Yeah.
Little Boy: Did they look like eggs?

Baha. Hah. I just wanna pinch his little cheeks.

Editor's Note: Gary says I'm not old enough to refer to a 16 year old as a "cute little boy" until I'm at least 35, so I changed it to just "little boy", but you all know what I'm really saying.

Regarding the Editor's Note: When he read the Editor's Note and got fake-upset, I assured Gary that that boy is a child and therefore he needn't worry. He then reminded me that he was 16 when I met him. The difference is that I was also 16 when I met him. I guess what I'm trying to say is I don't think I'm quite ready to become a cougar at the age of 24.

What's My Age Again?

Oh that’s right; it’s twenty four and a half. Almost exactly.

So here’s my next question: WHY is my body suddenly behaving like it’s been walking around for twice that long? Act your age, body.

Exhibit A: Premature heartburn

Yesterday I purchased a very large, very expensive box of Prilosec OTC. I’m still not sure what I’ve done in life to deserve this, apart from maybe loving hot sauce too much. I am sure that I can’t consume a coke, a bowl of ramen noodles, or even a saltine cracker without feeling like I just chugged a bottle of paint thinner.

Exhibit B: Pain in the...shoulder

A couple months ago, I worked out with Tony Horton for five days in a row. (No, it wasn’t P90X, just regular old Power 90. I am not operating under the delusion that I am or ever will be in good enough shape to tackle anything that requires me to do a pull up.) I was feeling good, drinking lots of water, and thinking that this might be the year that I finally get it together and get in shape. So I worked out for five days, like I said, and then rested on the sixth day, just like it says in the P90-No-X instruction manual.

Since the sixth day happened to be the Saturday after Cinco de Mayo, I attended a party. I pinned the tail on the donkey, whacked a piñata without a blindfold (in an effort to avoid hitting Leah in the face), and allowed my friends to toss colorful rings at an inflatable parrot I happened to be wearing on my head. (Why are there no pictures of this on Facebook, you ask? Well...a few of us may have gone a little too far in our efforts to pay homage to the Mexican culture by way of our attire...and therefore thought it best that we not spread those pictures of my sister wearing a sombrero and a mustache made of real human hair all over the internet, in case anyone should see them and be mortally offended. Things might have been different if Hailey hadn’t been out of town, because then we could have had an actual Latina there to give us the necessary street cred, but she claims it couldn’t be avoided, so what are you gonna do.) It was awesome – that is, until the end of the night, when I started to experience a dull pain in my right shoulder. I shrugged it off at first, but as the night went on it just seemed to be getting worse. I decided I’d had it around 11:30pm, so I drove to the nearest 24-hour Walgreens and picked up a heating pad and a box of Icy Hot patches.

Sunday, I sat on my couch all day and cried to Sarah every time I accidentally moved. She spoon-fed me painkillers and changed out the patch on my shoulder every few hours. (Gary missed out on this joyous occasion because he was in Houston sweet-talking some oil companies into considering him for a job.)

Monday morning I went to the doctor. He gave me a cortisone shot and about forty prescriptions. I remember thinking to myself, “Ok, I’ll take these every day and then be back to the workout routine in a week or two.”

Ohhh, two-months-ago-me, you have soooo much to learn. You’ll understand when you’re a little older and you STILL haven’t worked out again because you have yet to fully regain the use of your shoulder. I’d also be willing to bet that, when you’re older, you’ll be seriously considering a brain transplant into a new body who’ll appreciate you, because you’d really like to hit at least 30 before you break a hip.

So Lonesome I Could Cry

I miss my husband. He’s off in the wilderness somewhere without cell phone service for 6 days being manly and teaching a bunch of impressionable young boys how to be manly too.

Whenever he’s about to go out of town, I always try to psych myself out and convince myself it’s gonna be fun. I’ll eat vegetarian meals for dinner every night! I’ll watch Jane Austen movies and eat gummy sharks all week! I’ll let my laundry pile up so it’s spilling out of my closet onto the already tiny strip of visible carpet between the bed and the wall, making it impossible for Gary to get into bed without wading through a sea of business casual separates. Oh, you know what, I actually do that when Gary’s home. The only thing different about this week is that he won’t be annoyed that I never do laundry ever. Or at least I won’t hear about it. But like every other time he’s gone out of town, as the days go by, I realize more and more how much work he usually does around the house.

Excuse me dirty dishes, what are you still doing in the sink? Aren’t you usually hanging out in the dishwasher getting all sparkly around this time of night?

Oh, and trash receptacle to which I always incorrectly refer as a dumpster because I can never remember what you’re actually called? The garbage truck came two days ago, so what are you still doing on the curb, making it extra difficult to parallel park in front of my house?

Am I supposed to be checking our mailbox? I thought our mail got delivered directly to our kitchen table.

What’s that Brutus? You haven’t eaten in three days? Well how should I know where we keep your food?!

Then there’s the fact that there’s no voice with a crazy, unidentifiable accent coming from the next room asking me what I’m “doueing” every so often. (I'm not sure if it translates across the web, but believe me, if you ever hear it, you will laugh uncontrollably.)

I guess the worst part is how vulnerable I suddenly feel to things like murderers, vampires, and the occasional reformed drug addict who’s at the door asking me if I’ll buy two years’ worth of Rachel Ray magazine for $60 so he can be one step closer to completing the program that’s helping him turn his life around. Sounds great to me! I mean, for sixty bucks, I get the satisfaction of knowing I’m helping a young man improve his quality of life, even if it means I have to endure twenty four months worth of a magazine whose pages are mostly covered with cute little dresses and sunglasses that Rachel thinks are “just perfect for those summer weekends on the yacht!”, followed by ten or twenty recipes that don’t look all that appetizing in the first place (Oh, yum! Tripe and black eyed pea tacos with pureed beet salsa!) and whose ingredient lists are a mile long and include a garlic-jalapeno hybrid that can only be found on the Tijuana black market and some distant relative of Parmesan cheese that is apparently so delicious it’s worth paying nine dollars a wedge, even though I've never really been able to tell much of a difference between that and the three dollar plastic canister of powdered stuff...

I forgot what I was talking about. Time for a glass of wine and a nap.

My Mother and Your Mother Went Out to Hang Clothes. My Mother Punched Your Mother Right in the Nose.

You know that old rhyme you used back in the third grade to decide who had to go kiss the nosepicker on the playground?

No? Hmm.

My mom visited over the weekend. Since she’s pretty much the most awesomely awesome mom ever, she took me on a $200 grocery shopping spree to kick off the long weekend. I stocked up on the basics, like hand soap and toilet paper, as well as a few things you never need ever, like Nutella (which I’m sorry to tell you I found in the fridge later that night, hard as a rock. I don’t know who put it in there, but I do know that a few seconds later I found myself in the throes of a spectacular temper tantrum which led to my taking a butter knife to the jar and eating the shavings with my fingers.)

Besides refusing to let me pay for anything the entire time she was here, she also replenished my dwindling supply of new audio books, without which I might die. I love my job, but most of what I do involves some form of data entry, so I have to occupy the other ninety-nine percent of my brain somehow. I know what you’re thinking. No one uses that much of their brain. Well you know what I say? Speak for yourself...unless you’re me, in which case you already know that you use your entire brain, which is what enables you to be so much smarter than everyone else. Also, you look super cute today.

On Sunday we went hiking. We brought Brutus because I like it when people compliment me on my dog as if I had given birth to him myself.

“Oh he is just beautiful!”

“Thanks. That’s probably why he cost so much.”

I know, I know. They’re just trying to be nice. But I’m just trying to be funny.

We went over to Helen Hunt Falls. It’s just like Seven Falls, except there’s just the one Fall and it doesn’t cost a zillion dollars a piece to get in. As we hiked, I became more and more astonished by some of the wardrobe choices people had made that day. I’d like to take a moment to give a few of them some advice.

To the Heiress of the Aqua Net Empire: I’m really not surprised that you fell down. Maybe next time you decide to explore the great outdoors, you’ll leave the kitten heels at home. If you had to scrape up your knees, at least you’ve still got your Jan Crouch impersonation going for you. (Google her; I’m begging you.)

To the Polyester Posse: I’m ok with the fact that each of you are wearing two full faces worth of makeup and spent over an hour of quality time with a curling iron this morning even though you knew you’d be doing a physical activity that would probably cause you to sweat. Your boyfriends are there, you want to look your best, whatever. I am not ok with the fact that your purple tube dress covers neither your front nor your back. People walk up AND down this trail...and there are children here for goodness sake. Speaking of which...

To the Adorable Little Girls Who Parked Next to Us and Stopped to Pet My Dog and Be Extra Lovable Each Time We Passed Each Other on the Trail: Keep on keepin on. Give me a call if anything ever happens to your parents and you need to be adopted.

Sunday night we tried to go to a fireworks show but it got rained out. It ended up being ok though, because we came home to find that the little punks across the alley who enjoy setting off fireworks regardless of the time of night, day, or year saved the good stuff for our own personal firework-viewing pleasure. So we all sat in my kitchen/on my back deck and enjoyed the free show while Brutus hid under the porch and peed himself because he thought the world was coming to an end.

Monday we pretty much just hung out and loved each other because we knew she had to leave Tuesday morning. My campaign to get her to move up here doesn’t seem to be going as planned, considering my dad refuses to visit between September and June in case it snows. But I’m not giving up.

This is where all of you come in. I need everyone who lives in Texas to start being really really mean to my parents so they’ll have no choice but to leave town. My mom won’t take much convincing, so you’re gonna need to focus on my dad. His weak spots are fishing and his flat screen. Maybe tell him that in an attempt to make some cutbacks, Texas has decided to cancel all professional sporting events indefinitely or that every lake in the DFW area has dried up due to a lack of life-giving snowfall as a start. I can’t afford to pay you, but I can afford to badmouth you all over the internet should you refuse to do my bidding.

In conclusion, I love my mom and I wish she lived closer to me. The end.

I Have Something to Say.

I am not going to be breaking any new ground here. In fact, you’re probably not even going to want to read this when you realize what I’m talking about because you’re so sick of hearing about it, but try to bear with me.

I saw Eclipse on Saturday. What I’m not going to talk about is how much makeup Robert Pattinson was wearing/how bad Taylor Lautner’s acting was/Kristen Stewart’s whole-body stutter. I am going to talk about the people who were there with me.

I feel like I need to lead off with the fact that I am generally a cool kid. People like me. So it sorta pisses me off that every weirdo tween girl in this country is obsessed with the Twilight series, because it has, at times, caused me to doubt my own awesomeness. I like the books, and I would love to be able to go see one of the movies in the theater without feeling like I need to be wearing some sort of disguise, lest I be recognized and banished from the popular table for all time.

So anyway, the movie started at 10:15 Saturday morning. We stopped for coffee and arrived at the theater at about 9:30. (I feel like I should specify that “we” includes myself, my mom and my two sisters, one of whom was there against her will. Gary neither promoted nor took part in this particular excursion, and I thought he’d appreciate my pointing that out.) The theater hadn’t opened yet when we arrived, so we got in line behind the hundred or so people who had gotten there before us. They all looked fairly normal. I mean, I noticed a Twilight t-shirt here and there, but I decided to give those people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was an ill-chosen birthday present from a great aunt who thought, “Hey, you’re a girl between the ages of 5 and 50, you must love Twilight.” And then maybe they thought, “Hey, thanks for disregarding my request for gifts in the form of cash or check so I wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of disposing of whatever embarrassing refuse you sent 6 weeks early, but I guess since I have this, I might as well wear it while I’m in the one public place where it might be considered acceptable.” Regardless of whether or not this was the case, the people in front of me were the least of my worries. It was the people behind me who left me so deeply, deeply disturbed.

I never got a good look at any of them because I have a crippling fear of awkward eye contact, but from what I could tell there were three or four of them. One of them was youngish, maybe about my age, maybe a few years younger (I’m hoping for the latter, because at least that would give her some shred of an excuse for her behavior) and then there were at least two ladies with her who were a bit older. I remember thinking this was probably a mother-daughter-grandmother situation. I don’t remember what order I saw/heard these things happen, but here is what I do know:

1) One of the older ladies (I’m assuming the grandmother) was holding a New Moon umbrella with Edward Cullen’s giant face on it. It was not raining.
2) The younger girl mentioned that she had the same umbrella, as well as a life-size cardboard cut-out of Edward, which was like, the best Christmas present everrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
3) I overheard the lady holding the umbrella say, “When we went to see the Twilight, we got there at two o’clock in the afternoon. We waited like 9 hours, but we were the first people in line!”

I almost don’t even know what to say. But I’m sure I’ll think of something.

Okay first of all, umbrella lady, you’re a grown woman, and you’re just embarrassing yourself. This behavior is unacceptable for someone at your stage of life. You’re not thirteen, and this is not the premiere of Blue Hawaii. Secondly, since you’re probably the one who purchased the Greatest Christmas Present of All Time, I’m just curious to know what on earth you’re thinking. You think it’s a good idea to encourage your granddaughter to be obsessed with a fictional character against whom she’ll undoubtedly compare every young man who attempts to date her for the rest of her life (assuming that even happens, since she never leaves her bedroom, which is wallpapered with posters of shirtless man-boys, and has completely lost the ability to communicate face to face with the opposite sex, because she finds that there's less pressure in flirting via myspace and instant messenger since it gives her time to formulate a witty response and then pretend the only reason it took her so long was that she's having thirty other conversations and she "almost forgot she had even been talking to him"), only to be disappointed again and again because he can’t read minds or save her from the army of vampires who are trying to kill her? Or maybe you think she’ll go the other way and think it’s okay for her boyfriend to sneak in through her window so they can make out on her bed every night, trusting that he’ll never try anything because although he’s a vampire, he's got old-fashioned morals?

I’m not even going to comment on point number three, as I feel it speaks for itself.

I just wish dorks would stop liking the same stuff I like. First Harry Potter (although to a far lesser degree of crazy), now this. It’s funny, because I could actually kind of understand if people were this fanatical about Harry Potter, because it is awesome, but those guys seem to be able to keep their heads. You don’t see Daniel Radcliffe being hit by cabs because he was chased into the street by a crazed mob of teenage girls begging him to bite their necks. Harry Potter fans are cool. Especially the ones named Emily Gray.

Time Warp (Alternate Title: I Hope You're Not Confused or Angered by the Overuse of Parentheses)

Because I work at the happiest place on earth, once a year during the week leading up to our company picnic, we have a spirit week just for the heck of it. Basically we all come to work in a series of ridiculous outfits each day, depending on the theme. (Well, not all of us, but all the cool kids.) One of the themes this year was “Era Day.” Instead of choosing a specific decade, they just told us to dress in the style of whichever era we chose. (That explanation was for any of you who just couldn’t quite wrap your minds around “Era Day”. You’re welcome.) The costumes were pretty evenly distributed across the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s and 80’s.

Personal note: I am generally repulsed by anything made in the 80’s - including all music and clothing; excluding babies and Molly Ringwald movies. Please don’t come whining to me in a state of huffy indignation or ask me what’s wrong with me or try to talk me out of my abhorrence. Just discussing it makes me want to vomit pink and turquoise.

Something that struck me was that not one person out of the near 200 employees in our building chose to represent the 90’s. I saw one girl with a Walkman and a Coca-Cola t-shirt and started to congratulate her on what I considered to be a great representation of the 90’s, only to be informed that she, like most other people, was going for the 80’s.

I guess I get it. The style of the 90’s was definitely a little more ambiguous than the four preceding decades (although it’s a lot more easily defined than whatever the decade is called between 2000 and 2010. It’s like we didn’t even try. We just spent ten years copying ideas from the past seventy and then doused ourselves in glitter and called it fashion.) Or maybe it just didn’t seem like enough of a challenge. Maybe not washing your hair and throwing on an oversized flannel shirt just doesn’t seem like as much fun as pin curls and red lipstick or bell bottoms and a water bong. Or maybe - and this is what I feel must be the most rational explanation - for some people it wouldn’t have been enough of a difference from their everyday wear.

I’m not trying to insult anyone in particular. I’m trying to insult Colorado Springs as a whole.

Alright, so I ♥ the 90’s almost as much as VH1, but WHAT IS IT with this town? It’s like I drove through 800 miles of flat land and meat processing plants and suddenly I’m in some kind of alternate universe in which everyone still travels by skateboard and uses the word “duuuuuuuuuude” in place of phrases like, “I can’t believe I passed the 10th grade,” or, “I’m so sorry to hear that your mother died.” I am aware that flannel is sort of “in” right now. That’s fine. But mark my words, if I see one more exposed belly button while I’m eating lunch downtown, I’m like, totally going to kill someone. Okay and don’t even get me started on that floor length denim jumper/tennis shoes combo that just walked past my desk. That’s a whole different ball game.

I had a conversation with my sister right after she moved up here during which we both just sat there wondering, “Where are all the cute people?” It’s not like we’re snobby, ok, but we came from the land of deep brown tans, shades of blonde that can only be achieved through extensive peroxide therapy, and teeth so white they’re kinda see through. What I’m saying is, we’re used to looking at pretty people (furthered by the fact that we both own mirrors.) So you can imagine the culture shock when we entered the Land of the Great Unwashed. There are like, real hippies here. Lots of them. I hear it’s worse up in Boulder, and that is why I plan never to go there.

Maybe it’s the economy. There are not a lot of jobs here. So the question is: Has that tie-dyed-heart baby tee really lasted you fifteen years? Or - I shudder at the thought - are there actually retailers out there still selling this garbage?

Colorado Springs, it’s time for a makeover. I’m not asking you to purchase a whole new wardrobe. I’m just asking you to take a shower, and maybe wear something that would make it a little easier for me to distinguish you from a homeless person. There’s nothing that irritates me more than handing someone a ten dollar bill out of the goodness of my heart, only to realize later they were a student at the extremely expensive private college downtown who was just waiting outside of Chipotle for their classmates to find a parking spot big enough to park the Jag.