I said goodbye to a dear friend last night.
This one's for you, Old Mustard Yellow Purse.
I still remember the first time I laid eyes on you - it was my birthday, and you emerged from that gift bag like a breath of fresh, mountain air.
No longer was I forced to carry all my worldly possessions on a carabiner attached to my belt loop. I'm not sure why I ever found this method appealing; it was loud, it was heavy, and I looked like a giant tool.
You really changed my life, Old Mustard Yellow Purse.
Remember how you used to suck down Tide To Go pens like they were Capri Suns? You used to love that joke.
I could always count on you to hold my stuff. It wasn't your fault there were always random pills strewn about your insides; those bottles just couldn't keep it together quite like you could.
Sure, you got a little sloppy in your old age, but I didn't care. I was never ashamed to be seen with you, even when you started moulting your pleather outer layers all over my house and car.
No - I would have continued to cart you around until there was nothing left to you but a cheap, muslin carcass.
It wasn't until you began to lose your structural integrity that I even considered parting with you. Once that started to go, I knew we had precious little time left to be together, but I tried to make it special for you.
I'll always cherish the memories of those last few days...trips to Walmart, letting Brutus lovingly sniff you for food, and stuffing you full of useless paper after useless paper until neither of us could find the grocery list if our lives depended on it. (I can see now that was a little insensitive, seeing as your life was already in jeopardy without worrying about whether or not I needed mayonnaise.)
I tried to make your transition out of this life as painless as possible. I started setting you down only on the recliner so you wouldn't have to suffer on the cold, hard floor.
I didn't bring you with me to Target last night because I didn't want you to have to watch me pick out your replacement, New Mustard Yellow Purse. Don't worry, she'll never replace you. (Well, I guess technically...she will.)
I wrapped you tenderly in a grocery bag before gently depositing you in the trash can, so as to protect you from experiencing the humiliation of getting all sticky and gross. You know why? Because you deserve better than that.
You were a great bag; a loyal companion; an occasional emergency pillow substitute - and I just want to say thank you for everything.
Goodbye, Old Mustard Yellow Purse.
I'll miss you real bag, I mean bad.
You were tote-ally awesome.
I'll do my best to carry-on without you.
You were a wonderful purse-on.
I'm so satchel never get to meet my children. (That one's kind of a stretch...but swish it around a little; it'll come to you.)
P.S. I hope you can forgive me for flagrantly exploiting your death for the sake of a string of what may be the worst jokes of all time.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
This Job Is Bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S!
THIS JOB! IS BANANAS! B-A-N-A-N-A-
You get the drift.
So Gary's new job? It's awesome. (You thought I was gonna say bananas again. Heh.)
Here's the general breakdown, and I swear I'm not making this up:
The job he originally applied for was deicing airplanes at the Colorado Springs airport part time.
His first day of training, they asked if any of the trainees knew anyone who might be interested in a full-time mechanic position (with considerably higher pay than the deicing position) that had just opened up. Gary's been working on cars his whole life, so naturally he started jumping up and down with his hand in the air.
The interview process went a little something like this:
Interviewer: (Pointing at something on the deicing truck) What does that look like?
Gary: A wiring harness.
Interviewer: You're hired!
When Gary asked what time he should come in his first day, his new boss replied, "Eh, we'll have breakfast around 8 or 9."
Even though he worked approximately 10 hours his first week, it is considered a "full-time" position, which means he will still be paid for 40 hours of work. If he should ever work overtime, they'll still pay him time and a half, which if you ask me is pretty ridonkulous.
He has worked six days so far. His boss has bought him breakfast and/or lunch five of those days.
His boss is taking us both out to dinner tonight to "welcome us to the family."
TEAM GRAY FOR THE WIN!!!
You get the drift.
So Gary's new job? It's awesome. (You thought I was gonna say bananas again. Heh.)
Here's the general breakdown, and I swear I'm not making this up:
The job he originally applied for was deicing airplanes at the Colorado Springs airport part time.
His first day of training, they asked if any of the trainees knew anyone who might be interested in a full-time mechanic position (with considerably higher pay than the deicing position) that had just opened up. Gary's been working on cars his whole life, so naturally he started jumping up and down with his hand in the air.
The interview process went a little something like this:
Interviewer: (Pointing at something on the deicing truck) What does that look like?
Gary: A wiring harness.
Interviewer: You're hired!
When Gary asked what time he should come in his first day, his new boss replied, "Eh, we'll have breakfast around 8 or 9."
Even though he worked approximately 10 hours his first week, it is considered a "full-time" position, which means he will still be paid for 40 hours of work. If he should ever work overtime, they'll still pay him time and a half, which if you ask me is pretty ridonkulous.
He has worked six days so far. His boss has bought him breakfast and/or lunch five of those days.
His boss is taking us both out to dinner tonight to "welcome us to the family."
TEAM GRAY FOR THE WIN!!!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
This Is How We Do It
And by "we"...I mean me.
Several of you have asked me recently, “Emily, how do you continue to come up with hilarious blog post topics, day after day, without ever sounding stupid or offending anyone?”
Oh, my dear, sweet fans. You have no idea how often I sound stupid and/or offend anyone. Also, the gifts are great, and I love Faberge eggs as much as the next guy, but if you insist on sending me gifts, please stick to cash. Nothing says “I love your blog” like cash.
But as to the rest, I’ll tell you how.
I start by doing whatever I want.
Then I write a hilarious blog post.
That was the condensed version. Now I’ll add a little water to fatten things up.
Unless there was a fire at my house the night before, most days I have no idea what I’m going to write about.
Back when I was new to the blog game, I used to get super stressed out when I couldn’t think of anything to write about. People won’t think I’m funny anymore! Which means no one will like me! AND THEN I’LL NEVER BE PROM QUEEN!
See, that didn’t even make any sense, but you laughed.
Over the course of the past three months, I've learned a thing or two about blogging, the most important of which is that NOBODY CARES what you write about, as long as it’s funny.
I could blog about eating pencil shavings as a fiber supplement and people would still read it. You know why? Because everyone is bored at work, that’s why.
So instead of stressing, I’ve come up with a new and exciting way of finding inspiration: doing whatever I want.
Maybe I’ll bubble spin* for a few hours, or maybe I’ll sit in my dark living room and watch three consecutive episodes of Felicity with my face way too close to the computer screen, because if I’m going to pay thousands of dollars for Lasik surgery someday – and I am – I might as well earn it by completely destroying my eyesight beforehand.
And then suddenly, an idea will just come to me.
Uh oh, looks like Felicity’s acting like a crazy stalker again...what else is new...STALKING! As in Facebook stalking! Oh I am gonna blog about that SO HARD.
Wow, these bubbles I’m spinning are really making me crave some Sixlets. Candy. Candy. Candy candy candy candy candy candy candy candy...maybe if I blog about candy, someone will give me some candy.
Cat appetizers?!?Well that's just blogdiculous!
Other days I cheat and just post a hilarious video I found on The Daily What. I try not to do this often, but what can I say? Some days you gotta dance. Or throw up. Neither of which are conducive to using a keyboard.
So now you know. I urge you to use your newfound knowledge for good, and not to start writing a blog that is funnier and/or cooler than mine, because then I’ll probably feel like a big ol’ dummy for telling you all my secrets.
P.S. I have a confession to make. I made that first part up about people asking me how I manage to stay so hilarious. But this is a prime example of what I’m talking about here! I was bubble spinning as usual, and I thought, "Hey, wouldn’t it be great if I pretended that lots of people think I’m awesome? Maybe if I can trick enough people into thinking that other people like me, they’ll like me too! I LOVE GROUPTHINK!"
And while we're being honest...I should probably also tell you that the closest thing to a Faberge egg I’ve ever received in the mail was a mailbox full of ants at my parents’ house. I thought my mean ol’ drug dealer of an ex boyfriend and his thuggish ruggish friends had done it as a cruel joke, but then I remembered that not a one of them would have been smart enough to figure out how to transport that many ants without incurring hundreds of ant bites. (Also, I’m sure they all would have realized that my shiny new football player of a boyfriend slash future husband was strong enough to take them all at once.) In truth, the ants were the smart ones. They built somewhat of a high rise ant-partment complex in our mailbox. Although we were all impressed, my dad eventually drowned them all in a sea of Raid.
The End
(Sometimes I think writing The End is the funniest thing about my blog. I always imagine it being spoken in a long, slow manner, as if I were reading my blog to a large group of attentive children. I think my sense of humor might be broken.)
*Do you know how good I am at bubble spinning? You have no idea. I dare you to click here and try it, because you will fail, and then you will be absolutely dumbstruck by the fact that as Gary Gray is my witness, I once made it to Level 15. Don’t feel bad about yourself; it took me six months hard time at the front desk to get to where I am today.
Several of you have asked me recently, “Emily, how do you continue to come up with hilarious blog post topics, day after day, without ever sounding stupid or offending anyone?”
Oh, my dear, sweet fans. You have no idea how often I sound stupid and/or offend anyone. Also, the gifts are great, and I love Faberge eggs as much as the next guy, but if you insist on sending me gifts, please stick to cash. Nothing says “I love your blog” like cash.
But as to the rest, I’ll tell you how.
I start by doing whatever I want.
Then I write a hilarious blog post.
That was the condensed version. Now I’ll add a little water to fatten things up.
Unless there was a fire at my house the night before, most days I have no idea what I’m going to write about.
Back when I was new to the blog game, I used to get super stressed out when I couldn’t think of anything to write about. People won’t think I’m funny anymore! Which means no one will like me! AND THEN I’LL NEVER BE PROM QUEEN!
See, that didn’t even make any sense, but you laughed.
Over the course of the past three months, I've learned a thing or two about blogging, the most important of which is that NOBODY CARES what you write about, as long as it’s funny.
I could blog about eating pencil shavings as a fiber supplement and people would still read it. You know why? Because everyone is bored at work, that’s why.
So instead of stressing, I’ve come up with a new and exciting way of finding inspiration: doing whatever I want.
Maybe I’ll bubble spin* for a few hours, or maybe I’ll sit in my dark living room and watch three consecutive episodes of Felicity with my face way too close to the computer screen, because if I’m going to pay thousands of dollars for Lasik surgery someday – and I am – I might as well earn it by completely destroying my eyesight beforehand.
And then suddenly, an idea will just come to me.
Uh oh, looks like Felicity’s acting like a crazy stalker again...what else is new...STALKING! As in Facebook stalking! Oh I am gonna blog about that SO HARD.
Wow, these bubbles I’m spinning are really making me crave some Sixlets. Candy. Candy. Candy candy candy candy candy candy candy candy...maybe if I blog about candy, someone will give me some candy.
Cat appetizers?!?Well that's just blogdiculous!
Other days I cheat and just post a hilarious video I found on The Daily What. I try not to do this often, but what can I say? Some days you gotta dance. Or throw up. Neither of which are conducive to using a keyboard.
So now you know. I urge you to use your newfound knowledge for good, and not to start writing a blog that is funnier and/or cooler than mine, because then I’ll probably feel like a big ol’ dummy for telling you all my secrets.
P.S. I have a confession to make. I made that first part up about people asking me how I manage to stay so hilarious. But this is a prime example of what I’m talking about here! I was bubble spinning as usual, and I thought, "Hey, wouldn’t it be great if I pretended that lots of people think I’m awesome? Maybe if I can trick enough people into thinking that other people like me, they’ll like me too! I LOVE GROUPTHINK!"
And while we're being honest...I should probably also tell you that the closest thing to a Faberge egg I’ve ever received in the mail was a mailbox full of ants at my parents’ house. I thought my mean ol’ drug dealer of an ex boyfriend and his thuggish ruggish friends had done it as a cruel joke, but then I remembered that not a one of them would have been smart enough to figure out how to transport that many ants without incurring hundreds of ant bites. (Also, I’m sure they all would have realized that my shiny new football player of a boyfriend slash future husband was strong enough to take them all at once.) In truth, the ants were the smart ones. They built somewhat of a high rise ant-partment complex in our mailbox. Although we were all impressed, my dad eventually drowned them all in a sea of Raid.
The End
(Sometimes I think writing The End is the funniest thing about my blog. I always imagine it being spoken in a long, slow manner, as if I were reading my blog to a large group of attentive children. I think my sense of humor might be broken.)
*Do you know how good I am at bubble spinning? You have no idea. I dare you to click here and try it, because you will fail, and then you will be absolutely dumbstruck by the fact that as Gary Gray is my witness, I once made it to Level 15. Don’t feel bad about yourself; it took me six months hard time at the front desk to get to where I am today.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Calgon, Take Me Away
Last week I had my first massage.
Ok, that’s a lie. I had one the day after my first (and only) attempt at snowboarding, but it was more of a “hey, my whole body feels like it got punched, can you please gently rub my back so I’ll stop crying” type of thing.
Last week was my first real massage.
It.
Was.
TERRIBLE.
Hey! Switched it up on ya! That wasn’t what you were expecting to hear, was it?
Me either. I was so excited for my appointment, but once the time finally came, it didn’t quite meet my expectations, which mostly involved a lot of me feeling super relaxed and pampered.
First of all, the girl told me to “undress to my comfort,” and I was like, “...so...I’ll just leave all these clothes on then? Yeah?”
She laughed like I was joking and left the room.
I tried my best to ignore the feeling that somewhere beyond that soothing music, mood lighting and the mini-waterfall they had going on in there, someone was watching me, and they were laughing.
The girl came back in, and I was suddenly super anxious about whether or not I was supposed to talk to her. I didn’t want her to think I was rude for not trying to make small talk, but after about five seconds I decided it was best to just lie there with my eyes closed, because it occurred to me that looking up into someone’s eyes while they’re giving you a massage is just about the most awkward thing you could do.
Before I go any further, I should tell you that this girl was tiny. She looked like she could maybe bench press a large handbag. Maybe.
She started out on my collarbone area. It hurt so badly. Sooo badly. It was like she was finger-punching me with her little child-sized hands. Besides being shocked and confused by the sheer strength of my elfish woodland fairy of a masseuse, I felt I had been bamboozled. I had been completely taken in by the soft lighting and dreamy Asian music they had playing, so I was not at all prepared to suddenly feel like someone was walking on my chest while wearing soccer cleats.
Also, the collarbone area ended up being the worst part of the whole experience (punishment for having a desk job) but I had no idea things weren’t going to get progressively worse throughout the massage, so not only was I in severe pain; I was faced with the very real possibility that if things got much worse (and I had every reason to believe that they would, considering my reasoning that a person would be prone to ease another person into that sort of torture if they ever wanted that person to return to their place of business – meaning that this was her idea of starting out slowly) I was going to lose my mind and end up running (almost) naked through a heavily populated building just to escape.
The rest of the massage wasn’t as bad, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get the distinct feeling this chick’s main objective was to bruise as much of my body as was possible in the span of an hour.
Two thoughts kept running through my head. The first was, “I wonder if this is what it feels like to be embalmed.”
The second was whether masseuses (spellchecker didn’t tell me it was wrong...so that must be the plural of masseuse) operate on the theory that the reason people feel so great after a massage is that they experience an overwhelming sense of relief...which is best achieved by beating each part of the body within an inch of its life, and then setting it free. This creates the illusion that the body has been “born-again” in a sense, and that the masseuse in question is a kind and merciful ruler. (All these feelings occur on a sub-conscious level, of course; otherwise, why would ANYONE voluntarily return for another full-body massage?) Now I’m not so paranoid-delusional as to think she was actively trying to hurt me...but I’m close.
My momma didn’t raise no fool, so when I got home, I drank a half gallon of water.
The next day, I threw up.
The End.
Just kidding! Gosh. I wanted to end it there so badly. Sometimes I don’t understand my own sense of humor.
I was confused as to why I was so sick. Sarah’s gotten two massages in the last couple of months from the same girl, and she hasn’t been sick at all, even though I double checked with her on her level of fluid intake the night after her first massage and made sure to drink twice what she had, just to be safe. She wasn’t sore either, which made me seriously start to wonder if I am just a huge weenie with absolutely no threshold for pain.
The general consensus among my friends and coworkers is that “I just must have a lot more toxins floating around in my body than Sarah does.”
It’s the little things people say that can really make you feel good. Or like you’re a giant walking heap of garbage.
FYI, the Hazmat crews have asked that if you’re going to stand within thirty feet of me, you would wear a surgical mask as well as protective eyewear.
NOTE: I feel compelled to mention that I'm mostly just trying to be funny and that the girl who gave me my massage was very professional and just doing her job. It's not her fault I'm a giant baby.
Also her hair was pretty.
Ok, that’s a lie. I had one the day after my first (and only) attempt at snowboarding, but it was more of a “hey, my whole body feels like it got punched, can you please gently rub my back so I’ll stop crying” type of thing.
Last week was my first real massage.
It.
Was.
TERRIBLE.
Hey! Switched it up on ya! That wasn’t what you were expecting to hear, was it?
Me either. I was so excited for my appointment, but once the time finally came, it didn’t quite meet my expectations, which mostly involved a lot of me feeling super relaxed and pampered.
First of all, the girl told me to “undress to my comfort,” and I was like, “...so...I’ll just leave all these clothes on then? Yeah?”
She laughed like I was joking and left the room.
I tried my best to ignore the feeling that somewhere beyond that soothing music, mood lighting and the mini-waterfall they had going on in there, someone was watching me, and they were laughing.
The girl came back in, and I was suddenly super anxious about whether or not I was supposed to talk to her. I didn’t want her to think I was rude for not trying to make small talk, but after about five seconds I decided it was best to just lie there with my eyes closed, because it occurred to me that looking up into someone’s eyes while they’re giving you a massage is just about the most awkward thing you could do.
Before I go any further, I should tell you that this girl was tiny. She looked like she could maybe bench press a large handbag. Maybe.
She started out on my collarbone area. It hurt so badly. Sooo badly. It was like she was finger-punching me with her little child-sized hands. Besides being shocked and confused by the sheer strength of my elfish woodland fairy of a masseuse, I felt I had been bamboozled. I had been completely taken in by the soft lighting and dreamy Asian music they had playing, so I was not at all prepared to suddenly feel like someone was walking on my chest while wearing soccer cleats.
Also, the collarbone area ended up being the worst part of the whole experience (punishment for having a desk job) but I had no idea things weren’t going to get progressively worse throughout the massage, so not only was I in severe pain; I was faced with the very real possibility that if things got much worse (and I had every reason to believe that they would, considering my reasoning that a person would be prone to ease another person into that sort of torture if they ever wanted that person to return to their place of business – meaning that this was her idea of starting out slowly) I was going to lose my mind and end up running (almost) naked through a heavily populated building just to escape.
The rest of the massage wasn’t as bad, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get the distinct feeling this chick’s main objective was to bruise as much of my body as was possible in the span of an hour.
Two thoughts kept running through my head. The first was, “I wonder if this is what it feels like to be embalmed.”
The second was whether masseuses (spellchecker didn’t tell me it was wrong...so that must be the plural of masseuse) operate on the theory that the reason people feel so great after a massage is that they experience an overwhelming sense of relief...which is best achieved by beating each part of the body within an inch of its life, and then setting it free. This creates the illusion that the body has been “born-again” in a sense, and that the masseuse in question is a kind and merciful ruler. (All these feelings occur on a sub-conscious level, of course; otherwise, why would ANYONE voluntarily return for another full-body massage?) Now I’m not so paranoid-delusional as to think she was actively trying to hurt me...but I’m close.
My momma didn’t raise no fool, so when I got home, I drank a half gallon of water.
The next day, I threw up.
The End.
Just kidding! Gosh. I wanted to end it there so badly. Sometimes I don’t understand my own sense of humor.
I was confused as to why I was so sick. Sarah’s gotten two massages in the last couple of months from the same girl, and she hasn’t been sick at all, even though I double checked with her on her level of fluid intake the night after her first massage and made sure to drink twice what she had, just to be safe. She wasn’t sore either, which made me seriously start to wonder if I am just a huge weenie with absolutely no threshold for pain.
The general consensus among my friends and coworkers is that “I just must have a lot more toxins floating around in my body than Sarah does.”
It’s the little things people say that can really make you feel good. Or like you’re a giant walking heap of garbage.
FYI, the Hazmat crews have asked that if you’re going to stand within thirty feet of me, you would wear a surgical mask as well as protective eyewear.
NOTE: I feel compelled to mention that I'm mostly just trying to be funny and that the girl who gave me my massage was very professional and just doing her job. It's not her fault I'm a giant baby.
Also her hair was pretty.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Cast of Characters
Just wanted to alert the media that I added a little something to the blog!
It's right there on the right! Down a little...there you go! Isn't it wonderful?
It's called Cast of Characters, and it includes a brief description of the people I mention most often in my daily ramblings.
It's a special gift for all you stalkers out there who don't really know me that well. Consider it my way of saying I encourage and condone your behavior.
If you think you should have made the list and you didn't, I guess we're not really friends.
JUST KIDDING!
Please don't be sad; I'm going to try my best to add people as they are mentioned.
It's right there on the right! Down a little...there you go! Isn't it wonderful?
It's called Cast of Characters, and it includes a brief description of the people I mention most often in my daily ramblings.
It's a special gift for all you stalkers out there who don't really know me that well. Consider it my way of saying I encourage and condone your behavior.
If you think you should have made the list and you didn't, I guess we're not really friends.
JUST KIDDING!
Please don't be sad; I'm going to try my best to add people as they are mentioned.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Hair of the Dog
Well, as all you Colorado Springsians may have noticed, I own the weather now. The very day after I wrote the post about wishing it would hurry up and be fall already, BAM. It was fall.
Last night, to celebrate, I had a little party and all my sweatpants were invited. We talked, laughed, drank hot chocolate with way too many marshmallows, and had ourselves a merry ol’ time.
I’m excited not only because it’s finally jacket weather, but also because the arrival of fall means the end of shedding season!
Don’t get me wrong, I love my dog. Sometimes I have dreams that he died or ran away and I wake up crying. (That’s how I know it’s real love. There is a direct correlation between how much I love someone and the frequency of their being bloodied or killed in my dreams. Gary pretty much dies on a nightly basis.) He lights up my life and I wouldn't trade him for anything.
When we decided to get a Husky, I knew we were going to have to deal with some shedding. People would be like, “Oh, a Husky, eh? Hope you’re ready for shedding season!” and then I’d be like, “Yeah, a Husky! Hope you’re ready to shut up and mind your own business! I am awesome at everything, and last I checked, that includes owning a dog.”
This attitude was only to be expected, as I have never failed at anything ever. (Except for high fives.) I figured dog hair would just be one of those little things that might bug me at first, but that I eventually wouldn’t even notice anymore...kinda like Gary doesn’t notice the mountain of my laundry that lies directly in his path to our bed or the fact that I seem to be physically incapable of taking out the trash or that we have so many condiments in the refrigerator door that the little barricades keep breaking, spilling bottles and jars out all over the kitchen floor. (I tried to think of an example of something that used to bother me about Gary that I’ve learned to live with...but there’s nothing. The dude doesn’t even smell bad. It’s ridiculous.)
Anyway, much to my surprise, I was not prepared for the amount of hair I had to deal with. I didn’t understand! It’s not like I’ve never lived with a dog before...but the dog I lived with was this dog:
Ohhh the hairmanity!
All those years of having no idea what Dashboard Confessional was talking about are over.
"Your haiiiiiiiiiiiir is eeeveryyywheeeeeeeeeeeeeeere."
I find it on my clothes, in my mouth, on our furniture, in our food, in Gary’s beard, covering our houseguests...everywhere.
But this weekend, everything changes. I will not rest until every single hair has been expelled from my dwelling place.
You tell that hair I’m comin’. AND HELL’S COMIN’ WITH ME!
Last night, to celebrate, I had a little party and all my sweatpants were invited. We talked, laughed, drank hot chocolate with way too many marshmallows, and had ourselves a merry ol’ time.
I’m excited not only because it’s finally jacket weather, but also because the arrival of fall means the end of shedding season!
Don’t get me wrong, I love my dog. Sometimes I have dreams that he died or ran away and I wake up crying. (That’s how I know it’s real love. There is a direct correlation between how much I love someone and the frequency of their being bloodied or killed in my dreams. Gary pretty much dies on a nightly basis.) He lights up my life and I wouldn't trade him for anything.
When we decided to get a Husky, I knew we were going to have to deal with some shedding. People would be like, “Oh, a Husky, eh? Hope you’re ready for shedding season!” and then I’d be like, “Yeah, a Husky! Hope you’re ready to shut up and mind your own business! I am awesome at everything, and last I checked, that includes owning a dog.”
This attitude was only to be expected, as I have never failed at anything ever. (Except for high fives.) I figured dog hair would just be one of those little things that might bug me at first, but that I eventually wouldn’t even notice anymore...kinda like Gary doesn’t notice the mountain of my laundry that lies directly in his path to our bed or the fact that I seem to be physically incapable of taking out the trash or that we have so many condiments in the refrigerator door that the little barricades keep breaking, spilling bottles and jars out all over the kitchen floor. (I tried to think of an example of something that used to bother me about Gary that I’ve learned to live with...but there’s nothing. The dude doesn’t even smell bad. It’s ridiculous.)
Anyway, much to my surprise, I was not prepared for the amount of hair I had to deal with. I didn’t understand! It’s not like I’ve never lived with a dog before...but the dog I lived with was this dog:
Don’t be fooled by the unbearable cuteness. This dog is the bane of my existence. It’s too small to need training, it never sheds, and my mom loves it more than any of her children. (Don’t believe me? Last year, my parents’ Christmas card featured a picture of two dogs in front of a Christmas tree. In the 22 years I lived at home, they never once sent out a picture of their actual children.) On top of everything, it’s so lovable that you can’t really stay mad at it ever.
My main problem with this dog is that I feel it left me shockingly underprepared for having a real dog with real-dog sized poop, a real-dog sized ability to knock my friend Jenny flat on her ass when she least expected it, and most of all, real-dog sized piles of hair.
Ohhh the hairmanity!
All those years of having no idea what Dashboard Confessional was talking about are over.
"Your haiiiiiiiiiiiir is eeeveryyywheeeeeeeeeeeeeeere."
I find it on my clothes, in my mouth, on our furniture, in our food, in Gary’s beard, covering our houseguests...everywhere.
But this weekend, everything changes. I will not rest until every single hair has been expelled from my dwelling place.
You tell that hair I’m comin’. AND HELL’S COMIN’ WITH ME!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Syrupy Brain
My brain is not working properly, but I know your lives revolve around whether or not I post something daily, so here's an awesome video my awesome mom sent me.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Too Hot to Samba
My efforts to trick the weather are not going as well as I had hoped.
As you may have noticed, it is mid to late September. I’m pretty sure at this time last year, there was at least a slight chill in the air. But apparently, Colorado thinks experiencing fall weather in September is like sooo 2009.
I thought maybe if I wished hard enough or wanted it badly enough, eventually it would just happen; I would just magically walk outside one day to find an abundance of crunchy leaves, patiently awaiting the arrival of my stomping feet, as well as their imminent destruction. (They don’t know this last part of course, or else they’d be running for their little multicolored lives.)
Apparently wishing really hard and wanting it badly wasn’t enough, so I decided to take it one step further.
Ever heard the phrase “fake it ‘til you make it?”
I figured it was at least worth a shot, so I started wearing my cool weather clothes even though the average temperature was still in the 80’s. It's all good; I pretty much work in a giant refrigerator, complete with a crisping drawer. (That's where Samantha sits.)
After a week went by with no change in the weather whatsoever, I decided it was time to take this experiment to the next level.
Let me put this into terms you can more easily understand.
Your whole life, you’ve been desperately in love with Devon Sawa. We’re not talking about the disturbingly old manish version you may have seen in pictures that recently surfaced on the internet; no, your heart belongs to that sweet little boy who kissed Christina Ricci in all those movies in the 90’s. This largely contributed to your pattern of alternately hating and wishing you were Christina Ricci, because it seemed no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t stay mad at her.
Now, if you want to get Devon Sawa’s attention, do you think quietly hanging out in the back of the large crowd of people surrounding him, hoping to get a glimpse of that magnificent gap in his teeth is going to get you anywhere? No! You need to make a statement! You need to find out his address and camp out on his lawn until he agrees to marry you!
Okay, no offense, but I think you have a problem.
Anyway, let’s try to forget for a moment that you’re a bit of a crazy stalker, and pretend that Devon Sawa is more than a washed up teenage heartthrob. In this new scenario, let's say that Devon Sawa represents the weather.
I am crazy about the weather. I love slash hate every girl with whom the weather has ever shared an on-screen kiss, and I will do whatever it takes to get the weather’s attention and convince it to do my bidding. (This should be right up your alley, since you’re kind of an obsessive weirdo.)
I needed to get the weather not only to notice me, but also to realize that it wanted to do whatever it could to make me happy – which is GET TO ACTING LIKE AUTUMN ALREADY! Summer’s over! It’s time to move on! Don't you realize how much cuter I look in winterwear?!? SWEATERS LOVE ME!
So now that you all know why I’m wearing a full parka, a ski mask, three pairs of long underwear and my boots with the fur (WITH THE FUR!) I would appreciate it if you would stop asking me.
As you may have noticed, it is mid to late September. I’m pretty sure at this time last year, there was at least a slight chill in the air. But apparently, Colorado thinks experiencing fall weather in September is like sooo 2009.
I thought maybe if I wished hard enough or wanted it badly enough, eventually it would just happen; I would just magically walk outside one day to find an abundance of crunchy leaves, patiently awaiting the arrival of my stomping feet, as well as their imminent destruction. (They don’t know this last part of course, or else they’d be running for their little multicolored lives.)
Apparently wishing really hard and wanting it badly wasn’t enough, so I decided to take it one step further.
Ever heard the phrase “fake it ‘til you make it?”
I figured it was at least worth a shot, so I started wearing my cool weather clothes even though the average temperature was still in the 80’s. It's all good; I pretty much work in a giant refrigerator, complete with a crisping drawer. (That's where Samantha sits.)
After a week went by with no change in the weather whatsoever, I decided it was time to take this experiment to the next level.
Let me put this into terms you can more easily understand.
Your whole life, you’ve been desperately in love with Devon Sawa. We’re not talking about the disturbingly old manish version you may have seen in pictures that recently surfaced on the internet; no, your heart belongs to that sweet little boy who kissed Christina Ricci in all those movies in the 90’s. This largely contributed to your pattern of alternately hating and wishing you were Christina Ricci, because it seemed no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t stay mad at her.
Now, if you want to get Devon Sawa’s attention, do you think quietly hanging out in the back of the large crowd of people surrounding him, hoping to get a glimpse of that magnificent gap in his teeth is going to get you anywhere? No! You need to make a statement! You need to find out his address and camp out on his lawn until he agrees to marry you!
Okay, no offense, but I think you have a problem.
Anyway, let’s try to forget for a moment that you’re a bit of a crazy stalker, and pretend that Devon Sawa is more than a washed up teenage heartthrob. In this new scenario, let's say that Devon Sawa represents the weather.
I am crazy about the weather. I love slash hate every girl with whom the weather has ever shared an on-screen kiss, and I will do whatever it takes to get the weather’s attention and convince it to do my bidding. (This should be right up your alley, since you’re kind of an obsessive weirdo.)
I needed to get the weather not only to notice me, but also to realize that it wanted to do whatever it could to make me happy – which is GET TO ACTING LIKE AUTUMN ALREADY! Summer’s over! It’s time to move on! Don't you realize how much cuter I look in winterwear?!? SWEATERS LOVE ME!
So now that you all know why I’m wearing a full parka, a ski mask, three pairs of long underwear and my boots with the fur (WITH THE FUR!) I would appreciate it if you would stop asking me.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
This Is What I Get For Mocking the Elderly
Last weekend I went to a leadership retreat at a camp out in Buena Vista, CO.
Going out there always makes me feel like I wanna move to Colorado.
I know, I know, I already did that! But sometimes I think I live on the wrong side of Pikes Peak. This weekend for example, all the aspen trees on the west side had already turned a fiery yellow, welcoming and inviting me in to explore the great outdoors and what I consider “real” Colorado.
I should have known it was a trap.
Right off the bat, I was bitten by a spider. I can only assume it was a black widow, but thanks to my superhuman immunities, all it did was leave a large red welt in the middle of my back.
The majority of the weekend was spent in meetings. They were inspirational and informative. The only downside was that they were a tad long, which was exacerbated by the fact that we were all sitting on the floor.
The average age of the leaders at the retreat is about 20 years old, so as someone who’s on the cusp of their 25th birthday, I think I may have been feeling those hours on my backside a little more tenderly than some of the other youngsters in attendance.
I’m not saying 25 is old...I’m just saying it feels old. So to all you parents and coworkers of mine who might be described as being of the elderly persuasion...don’t take it personally. And even if you do, I’m not that worried. From the looks of you, I expect the Alzheimer’s will be kicking in any day now, so the chances of you remembering to be mad at me aren’t looking too good.
I KID! If that made you mad, read on, because this next part that involves me experiencing a high level of physical pain in conjunction with a healthy dose of public humiliation.
The camp we were staying at has a little thing called the Screamer. It’s basically a giant swing that consists of a bar with three swing set seats attached so that three unsuspecting victims can have the sensation of being hurled off the side of a mountain with little to no actual threat to their lives.
The entire process is terrifying, whether you’re leaning off the edge of the 30-foot platform to get hooked in or actually taking the step off the platform that you’re sure is going to lead to a very violent and painful death, but those were actually the least of my concerns. My predicament very poetically began at the end.
After a few exhilarating minutes of swinging over the side of the mountain, it was time for us to return to solid ground. We were instructed to slide down through our swing-seats to get down. Gary and our friend Whitney slid down with poise and elegance. I started to slide and felt something catch on my harness. Gary assured me that he’d help me the rest of the way down, so I should just keep going.
Of course, when you’re me, nothing is that easy.
I should have known I’d be the one whose harness would, in a freak act of nature, somehow get irreversibly tangled up in one of the chain links on the actual swing, suspending me in midair by my upper left thigh.
Doesn’t that sound pretty?
I tried to pull myself back up onto the bar, but then I remembered that I’ve never successfully done a pull-up in my life. So I was just hanging there, desperately trying to hold myself up onto the bar in an effort to alleviate not only the excruciating pain in my left leg, but also the difficulty Gary was having in his attempts to free me.
I imagine it looked a little something like this, only a lot less cute and a lot more pathetic, with a lot more of two dudes holding me up by my butt and a lot less of an inspirational slogan above my head.
Finally, Whitney had the presence of mind to just undo my harness instead of trying to get it out of the chain link, and I was released – but not before I’d had the pleasure of crying upside down while wearing a goofy helmet in front of a large group of strangers.
Needless to say, I woke up the next morning feeling like someone had tenderized me.
Then again, maybe that wasn’t needless to say. Maybe many of you would have been able to withstand all these circumstances with some degree of resilience and grace, and are now wondering why you’ve been wasting all this time reading a blog written by such a weenie.
If anybody needs me, I’ll be in the nurse’s office tending a particularly life-threatening nosebleed.
Going out there always makes me feel like I wanna move to Colorado.
I know, I know, I already did that! But sometimes I think I live on the wrong side of Pikes Peak. This weekend for example, all the aspen trees on the west side had already turned a fiery yellow, welcoming and inviting me in to explore the great outdoors and what I consider “real” Colorado.
I should have known it was a trap.
Right off the bat, I was bitten by a spider. I can only assume it was a black widow, but thanks to my superhuman immunities, all it did was leave a large red welt in the middle of my back.
The majority of the weekend was spent in meetings. They were inspirational and informative. The only downside was that they were a tad long, which was exacerbated by the fact that we were all sitting on the floor.
The average age of the leaders at the retreat is about 20 years old, so as someone who’s on the cusp of their 25th birthday, I think I may have been feeling those hours on my backside a little more tenderly than some of the other youngsters in attendance.
I’m not saying 25 is old...I’m just saying it feels old. So to all you parents and coworkers of mine who might be described as being of the elderly persuasion...don’t take it personally. And even if you do, I’m not that worried. From the looks of you, I expect the Alzheimer’s will be kicking in any day now, so the chances of you remembering to be mad at me aren’t looking too good.
I KID! If that made you mad, read on, because this next part that involves me experiencing a high level of physical pain in conjunction with a healthy dose of public humiliation.
The camp we were staying at has a little thing called the Screamer. It’s basically a giant swing that consists of a bar with three swing set seats attached so that three unsuspecting victims can have the sensation of being hurled off the side of a mountain with little to no actual threat to their lives.
The entire process is terrifying, whether you’re leaning off the edge of the 30-foot platform to get hooked in or actually taking the step off the platform that you’re sure is going to lead to a very violent and painful death, but those were actually the least of my concerns. My predicament very poetically began at the end.
After a few exhilarating minutes of swinging over the side of the mountain, it was time for us to return to solid ground. We were instructed to slide down through our swing-seats to get down. Gary and our friend Whitney slid down with poise and elegance. I started to slide and felt something catch on my harness. Gary assured me that he’d help me the rest of the way down, so I should just keep going.
Of course, when you’re me, nothing is that easy.
I should have known I’d be the one whose harness would, in a freak act of nature, somehow get irreversibly tangled up in one of the chain links on the actual swing, suspending me in midair by my upper left thigh.
Doesn’t that sound pretty?
I tried to pull myself back up onto the bar, but then I remembered that I’ve never successfully done a pull-up in my life. So I was just hanging there, desperately trying to hold myself up onto the bar in an effort to alleviate not only the excruciating pain in my left leg, but also the difficulty Gary was having in his attempts to free me.
I imagine it looked a little something like this, only a lot less cute and a lot more pathetic, with a lot more of two dudes holding me up by my butt and a lot less of an inspirational slogan above my head.
Finally, Whitney had the presence of mind to just undo my harness instead of trying to get it out of the chain link, and I was released – but not before I’d had the pleasure of crying upside down while wearing a goofy helmet in front of a large group of strangers.
Needless to say, I woke up the next morning feeling like someone had tenderized me.
Then again, maybe that wasn’t needless to say. Maybe many of you would have been able to withstand all these circumstances with some degree of resilience and grace, and are now wondering why you’ve been wasting all this time reading a blog written by such a weenie.
If anybody needs me, I’ll be in the nurse’s office tending a particularly life-threatening nosebleed.
Monday, September 20, 2010
...Well I Feel Sheepish
Apparently, this is what happened in my brain last week:
Hmm...what is the best way to express my gratitude and relief that Gary finally got a full time job? I KNOW! A blog post riddled with bitterness, anger, disappointment, hopelessness, and a little bit of malicious face-punching thrown in for good measure.
Luckily for me, I have an amazing friend who is not afraid to call me out on my crap.
Forgive me; it’s about to get serious.
Here’s what I know:
God loves me and Gary (hey, and YOU!), created us on purpose, cares what happens to us, and has all this stuff under control.
We have not starved.
We have not been evicted, even though we have an illegal dog.
We are going to be ok, even if some other bad thing DOES happen, ‘cause guess what? The worst thing this world can do to us is kill us, and in that case, we’re going to Heaven.
God never said things would be easy or that we would always have everything we wanted, but here’s what He did say:
I promise to be back tomorrow with something so hilarious it’ll make you pee your pants, but even I need to be serious every once in a while.
Hmm...what is the best way to express my gratitude and relief that Gary finally got a full time job? I KNOW! A blog post riddled with bitterness, anger, disappointment, hopelessness, and a little bit of malicious face-punching thrown in for good measure.
Luckily for me, I have an amazing friend who is not afraid to call me out on my crap.
Forgive me; it’s about to get serious.
Here’s what I know:
God loves me and Gary (hey, and YOU!), created us on purpose, cares what happens to us, and has all this stuff under control.
We have not starved.
We have not been evicted, even though we have an illegal dog.
We are going to be ok, even if some other bad thing DOES happen, ‘cause guess what? The worst thing this world can do to us is kill us, and in that case, we’re going to Heaven.
God never said things would be easy or that we would always have everything we wanted, but here’s what He did say:
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 6:25-34)
I promise to be back tomorrow with something so hilarious it’ll make you pee your pants, but even I need to be serious every once in a while.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Reality Rules
I’m not ashamed to tell you that I dabble in watching reality TV.
Ok, I’m slightly ashamed.
I try to stick to what I consider to be the classier variety, which includes Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model and So You Think You Can Dance. None of that For the Love of Ray J or Double Shot at Love nonsense. (Although, some girl I went to high school with was on that show once. Way to produce a star, Wylie, Texas!!! And when I say “star”, I mean “girl who claimed to be a model, added a couple extra x’s and y’s to her name to make it more ‘interesting’ and competed with a bunch of other girls and guys for the affections of a pair of bisexual twins – and lost.”)
Basically, I’m not big on watching a bunch of strangers make out in a hot tub.
But I really feel like for as long as reality shows have been coming on, these people should have learned a thing or two about how to behave by now. Sadly though, most of them haven’t.
Me to the rescue! I’ve prepared a short list of guidelines for anyone on a reality TV show.
Rule #1: Your grandma could be watching. Keep this in the back of your mind at all times.
Rule #2: Talking crap to the camera about every other person on the show will not improve your chances of winning. It will improve the chances that 10 million Americans will want to trip and/or spit on you as they pass you on the street.
Rule #3: What happens on TV stays on TV...forever! Sooner or later, your boyfriend IS going to find out you cheated on him!
Rule #4: Fight to win. Only get into a physical altercation if you’re 100% sure you can win. Nobody likes a wuss.Also make sure you don’t think you’re going to need a job ever again, because you won’t be able to get one. What am I saying? You’ll be famous! That girl from that one season of that show about making out in hot tubs! You can totally ride that out forever.
Rule #5: Stay out of the hot tub. I can’t stress this enough.
Now get on out there and make those wildly unrealistic dreams come true!
Ok, I’m slightly ashamed.
I try to stick to what I consider to be the classier variety, which includes Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model and So You Think You Can Dance. None of that For the Love of Ray J or Double Shot at Love nonsense. (Although, some girl I went to high school with was on that show once. Way to produce a star, Wylie, Texas!!! And when I say “star”, I mean “girl who claimed to be a model, added a couple extra x’s and y’s to her name to make it more ‘interesting’ and competed with a bunch of other girls and guys for the affections of a pair of bisexual twins – and lost.”)
Basically, I’m not big on watching a bunch of strangers make out in a hot tub.
But I really feel like for as long as reality shows have been coming on, these people should have learned a thing or two about how to behave by now. Sadly though, most of them haven’t.
Me to the rescue! I’ve prepared a short list of guidelines for anyone on a reality TV show.
Rule #1: Your grandma could be watching. Keep this in the back of your mind at all times.
Rule #2: Talking crap to the camera about every other person on the show will not improve your chances of winning. It will improve the chances that 10 million Americans will want to trip and/or spit on you as they pass you on the street.
Rule #3: What happens on TV stays on TV...forever! Sooner or later, your boyfriend IS going to find out you cheated on him!
Rule #4: Fight to win. Only get into a physical altercation if you’re 100% sure you can win. Nobody likes a wuss.
Rule #5: Stay out of the hot tub. I can’t stress this enough.
Now get on out there and make those wildly unrealistic dreams come true!
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Secret Agent Man
I know what you're thinking. This post needs to get in line behind this post, this post and Part I of this post.
Don't think I'm not aware that we've been down this road before. But far more likely than my having accidentally married Mark Wahlberg, a one-third man, two-thirds wild animal mutant, or a superhero is the fact that I may have actually married a secret agent.
Last night, Sarah and I were sitting in my living room quietly discussing M-theory when there was a knock at the open screen door. I immediately assumed it was someone from our rental company come to confiscate the dog they're not supposed to know we have, but for the first time in recorded history, I was wrong.
It was some guy who's running for Colorado State Senator or House Representative or any number of other government positions about which I couldn't care less, and he asked for me by name. I honestly don't remember becoming a registered voter in Colorado, but apparently when I did it, I did it good, because this is at least the fourth time I have been solicited at my home by some democratic nominee or other begging for my vote.
Here's the deal. I'm all for politicians –
Wait. That came out wrong. Never mind.
Every time it's the same. They ring my doorbell and I reluctantly open it because I haven't washed my hair in five days and wasn't planning on having anyone see me in the light today. I awkwardly stand in the doorway so as not to let Brutus escape while the guy tells me that his name is Blah Blah and he's running for Colorado Blah Blah, and he's just stopping blah to blah blah blah and so can he count on my vote?
And every time I say, "Oh, absolutely!" because I'm sure this is the quickest way to get him off my porch, and three times out of four, I've been right, but this time – this time was different.
"Oh, before I go, I couldn't help but notice that you guys have got some prime advertising space here...would you mind if I put up one of my signs?"
Oh no. Think. Think think think. Whyyy can't you put up his sign? Because you're not a Democrat, that's why! Then again, you don't really consider yourself much of a Republican either, since the last person you voted for was George W. Bush, and look where that got you!
You were planning to vote for McCain in 2008, but SNL seemed so supportive of Obama, and when has SNL ever steered you wrong before? That Seth Meyers is just so gosh darn convincing! You were so upset and confused by this Demo-curious lapse in judgment that you deemed yourself unfit to vote at all. BUT THAT'S BESIDE THE POINT! THE MAN NEEDS AN ANSWER!
Suddenly, my crazy-train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a stealthy superspy who had been strategically placed in my house to protect me from just such a sticky situation and who looked remarkably like the man I married. I didn’t even hear him walk up behind me; one moment I was drowning in a sea of uncertainty, and the next, he was suddenly standing there, shiny and glorious and perfectly ready to come to my aid.
“Actually, this is a rental, and unfortunately they’ve told us that we are not to put up signs of any kind in the yard.”
I tried my best to look disappointed, smiled, and waved as the man retreated.
As soon as the door was closed, I rounded on Gary.
Me: Is that true???
Gary: No, that was just the best thing I could come up with.
Me: I think you could argue that that’s the best thing anyone could have come up with! You’re a genius! AND IT WORKED!
So now I’m choosing to be grateful for my husband’s heroics while trying not to be too disturbed by the ease with which he just lied to someone’s face.
Don't think I'm not aware that we've been down this road before. But far more likely than my having accidentally married Mark Wahlberg, a one-third man, two-thirds wild animal mutant, or a superhero is the fact that I may have actually married a secret agent.
Last night, Sarah and I were sitting in my living room quietly discussing M-theory when there was a knock at the open screen door. I immediately assumed it was someone from our rental company come to confiscate the dog they're not supposed to know we have, but for the first time in recorded history, I was wrong.
It was some guy who's running for Colorado State Senator or House Representative or any number of other government positions about which I couldn't care less, and he asked for me by name. I honestly don't remember becoming a registered voter in Colorado, but apparently when I did it, I did it good, because this is at least the fourth time I have been solicited at my home by some democratic nominee or other begging for my vote.
Here's the deal. I'm all for politicians –
Wait. That came out wrong. Never mind.
Every time it's the same. They ring my doorbell and I reluctantly open it because I haven't washed my hair in five days and wasn't planning on having anyone see me in the light today. I awkwardly stand in the doorway so as not to let Brutus escape while the guy tells me that his name is Blah Blah and he's running for Colorado Blah Blah, and he's just stopping blah to blah blah blah and so can he count on my vote?
And every time I say, "Oh, absolutely!" because I'm sure this is the quickest way to get him off my porch, and three times out of four, I've been right, but this time – this time was different.
"Oh, before I go, I couldn't help but notice that you guys have got some prime advertising space here...would you mind if I put up one of my signs?"
Oh no. Think. Think think think. Whyyy can't you put up his sign? Because you're not a Democrat, that's why! Then again, you don't really consider yourself much of a Republican either, since the last person you voted for was George W. Bush, and look where that got you!
You were planning to vote for McCain in 2008, but SNL seemed so supportive of Obama, and when has SNL ever steered you wrong before? That Seth Meyers is just so gosh darn convincing! You were so upset and confused by this Demo-curious lapse in judgment that you deemed yourself unfit to vote at all. BUT THAT'S BESIDE THE POINT! THE MAN NEEDS AN ANSWER!
Suddenly, my crazy-train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a stealthy superspy who had been strategically placed in my house to protect me from just such a sticky situation and who looked remarkably like the man I married. I didn’t even hear him walk up behind me; one moment I was drowning in a sea of uncertainty, and the next, he was suddenly standing there, shiny and glorious and perfectly ready to come to my aid.
“Actually, this is a rental, and unfortunately they’ve told us that we are not to put up signs of any kind in the yard.”
I tried my best to look disappointed, smiled, and waved as the man retreated.
As soon as the door was closed, I rounded on Gary.
Me: Is that true???
Gary: No, that was just the best thing I could come up with.
Me: I think you could argue that that’s the best thing anyone could have come up with! You’re a genius! AND IT WORKED!
So now I’m choosing to be grateful for my husband’s heroics while trying not to be too disturbed by the ease with which he just lied to someone’s face.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Florence + The Washing Machine
Gary had an interview this morning for what could potentially be an extremely lucrative business opportunity. In other words, WE’RE RICH!
Just kidding. But if he gets it, I won’t have to steal shoes for work off sleeping hobos anymore! And not a moment too soon, because I’m starting to suspect a couple of them are on to me. They’ve been looking a little extra paranoid schizophrenic of late, if you know what I mean.
Before I got married and annexed the word “budget” into my vocabulary, I used to spend money like there was no tomorrow. I would drop $100 at Target almost monthly like it was nothing. During that time, Gary also had an extremely well paying job at an architecture firm, which is why we have such an exorbitant amount of high end camping gear. Sometimes when I think back to those days, I cry a little...partially at the thought that we used to have that much disposable income, but mostly because we didn’t save a dime. Maybe if we strike it rich, I’ll buy a time machine so I can go back a few years and kick myself in the shins.
I’m glad we’ve had this period of minor deprivation – I say minor because, contrary to what I may have led you all to believe, we are not actually destitute or starving – because now that we’ve both become accustomed to a more conservative style of living, maybe we’ll actually be able to save some money! Ok who am I kidding...when I say “we,” I just mean me. I’m pretty sure Gary could survive on nothing but uncooked rice and one pair of pants for a year. He’s a survivor; he ain’t gon’ give up.
I, on the other hand, do not possess the superhuman frugality he seems to have been blessed with from birth, so I’m just proud to be able to say I don’t have any big plans to spend all his money as soon as he gets it. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my house will probably never look like a page out of an IKEA catalog and that I’ll never own a Cadillac that says my name whenever I get inside (even though I TOTALLY know someone who has one of those. I’ve got a few friends at the top...which you’ll do well to remember should you ever attempt to cross me.)
The one lofty ambition I haven’t yet been able to pry from my steel death grip is that some day we’d be able to afford to pay someone to do our laundry. I hate doing laundry with every fiber of my being. If laundry had a face, I would punch it repeatedly. If laundry had a car, I would slash its tires. If laundry had a kid, I would tell my kids to throw rocks at that kid.
From the way he laughs and lovingly pats my head whenever I mention the idea, it seems that Gary thinks I’m kidding. I assure you, I’m not. I will happily do the dishes, sweep, mop, dust, vacuum, brush the dog, cook dinner and clean up after our four strapping young boys; all I ask in return is that we pay someone a reasonable fee to come in and wash our unmentionables.
Just kidding. But if he gets it, I won’t have to steal shoes for work off sleeping hobos anymore! And not a moment too soon, because I’m starting to suspect a couple of them are on to me. They’ve been looking a little extra paranoid schizophrenic of late, if you know what I mean.
Before I got married and annexed the word “budget” into my vocabulary, I used to spend money like there was no tomorrow. I would drop $100 at Target almost monthly like it was nothing. During that time, Gary also had an extremely well paying job at an architecture firm, which is why we have such an exorbitant amount of high end camping gear. Sometimes when I think back to those days, I cry a little...partially at the thought that we used to have that much disposable income, but mostly because we didn’t save a dime. Maybe if we strike it rich, I’ll buy a time machine so I can go back a few years and kick myself in the shins.
I’m glad we’ve had this period of minor deprivation – I say minor because, contrary to what I may have led you all to believe, we are not actually destitute or starving – because now that we’ve both become accustomed to a more conservative style of living, maybe we’ll actually be able to save some money! Ok who am I kidding...when I say “we,” I just mean me. I’m pretty sure Gary could survive on nothing but uncooked rice and one pair of pants for a year. He’s a survivor; he ain’t gon’ give up.
I, on the other hand, do not possess the superhuman frugality he seems to have been blessed with from birth, so I’m just proud to be able to say I don’t have any big plans to spend all his money as soon as he gets it. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my house will probably never look like a page out of an IKEA catalog and that I’ll never own a Cadillac that says my name whenever I get inside (even though I TOTALLY know someone who has one of those. I’ve got a few friends at the top...which you’ll do well to remember should you ever attempt to cross me.)
The one lofty ambition I haven’t yet been able to pry from my steel death grip is that some day we’d be able to afford to pay someone to do our laundry. I hate doing laundry with every fiber of my being. If laundry had a face, I would punch it repeatedly. If laundry had a car, I would slash its tires. If laundry had a kid, I would tell my kids to throw rocks at that kid.
From the way he laughs and lovingly pats my head whenever I mention the idea, it seems that Gary thinks I’m kidding. I assure you, I’m not. I will happily do the dishes, sweep, mop, dust, vacuum, brush the dog, cook dinner and clean up after our four strapping young boys; all I ask in return is that we pay someone a reasonable fee to come in and wash our unmentionables.
Friday, September 10, 2010
I Hate Everything
Just kidding! But you know what I sorta do hate? People who hate everything.
Are any of you perpetual haters out there reading this? No don’t leave! Could you just stick around for a second so I can ask you a few questions? Thanks. I promise not to throw food at you when I find out you told all your hipster friends how dumb my blog is. I just wanna know, does being too cool for school really work for you? Does it make people like you? Do you enjoy anything ever? How many nights per week would you say, on average, you cry yourself to sleep? Did somebody pop your balloon animal as a child?
You know what I do not hate? People who like stuff. Even more so when they venture so far as to get excited about stuff. The other day one of my Facebookquaintances put up a status about how much she enjoys reading the Twilight series. My gut reaction was to run across Facebook and throw my arms out in front of her to protect her from the onslaught of insults that was surely about to come her way. She should know better than to be telling people she liked those books! It’s embarrassing! But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I should be trying to be more like her. Didn’t I once enjoy reading that series? Yes, before I decided it wasn’t cool, I genuinely did. I think I spend so much time trying to be normal that I sometimes find myself being almost ashamed of the things I like. So at that moment, I made a decision to start being really honest with everyone about the things I like, and I felt really good about it. It was like I was entering a new frontier! I felt unique! I felt brave! And then this happened:
Me: I really like smiling.
Hater: SMILING IS STUPID.
Me: Well, I disagree...obviously...because I just said I really like it.
Hater: PEOPLE WHO LIKE SMILING ARE IDIOTS.
Me: Gosh, don’t you think that’s a little harsh?
Hater: PEOPLE WHO THINK THAT’S A LITTLE HARSH DESERVE TO BE BEATEN TO DEATH.
Me: Come on now, we’re friends; can’t we just respect each other’s opinions like adults?
Hater: NO! ONLY MY OPINION DESERVES RESPECT! RRRRAAAAAAGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
...and I remembered why I started trying to pretend I was normal. I just want people to like me, and maybe not to get yelled at or called names for expressing my opinion.
But guess what haters! Are you still here? Oh there you are, brooding in the corner and pretending not to notice that I’m speaking to you. I’ve got some news for you: talking about how much everything sucks does not make you cool! In fact, it is far more likely to make someone want to punch you in the neck than to make them think you have superior, discerning taste. But all hope is not lost! You can still establish yourself as a person of impeccable taste; all you have to do is, instead of dumping on everything you think is bad, start pointing out things that are good...like this blog, for example. Tell all your friends how awesome this blog is and they will read it and see that you are right!
In short, telling people about my blog will probably result in the multiplication of the number of people on this earth who think you are awesome and the drastic decrease of the number of people who want to punch you in the neck.
Are any of you perpetual haters out there reading this? No don’t leave! Could you just stick around for a second so I can ask you a few questions? Thanks. I promise not to throw food at you when I find out you told all your hipster friends how dumb my blog is. I just wanna know, does being too cool for school really work for you? Does it make people like you? Do you enjoy anything ever? How many nights per week would you say, on average, you cry yourself to sleep? Did somebody pop your balloon animal as a child?
You know what I do not hate? People who like stuff. Even more so when they venture so far as to get excited about stuff. The other day one of my Facebookquaintances put up a status about how much she enjoys reading the Twilight series. My gut reaction was to run across Facebook and throw my arms out in front of her to protect her from the onslaught of insults that was surely about to come her way. She should know better than to be telling people she liked those books! It’s embarrassing! But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I should be trying to be more like her. Didn’t I once enjoy reading that series? Yes, before I decided it wasn’t cool, I genuinely did. I think I spend so much time trying to be normal that I sometimes find myself being almost ashamed of the things I like. So at that moment, I made a decision to start being really honest with everyone about the things I like, and I felt really good about it. It was like I was entering a new frontier! I felt unique! I felt brave! And then this happened:
Me: I really like smiling.
Hater: SMILING IS STUPID.
Me: Well, I disagree...obviously...because I just said I really like it.
Hater: PEOPLE WHO LIKE SMILING ARE IDIOTS.
Me: Gosh, don’t you think that’s a little harsh?
Hater: PEOPLE WHO THINK THAT’S A LITTLE HARSH DESERVE TO BE BEATEN TO DEATH.
Me: Come on now, we’re friends; can’t we just respect each other’s opinions like adults?
Hater: NO! ONLY MY OPINION DESERVES RESPECT! RRRRAAAAAAGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
...and I remembered why I started trying to pretend I was normal. I just want people to like me, and maybe not to get yelled at or called names for expressing my opinion.
But guess what haters! Are you still here? Oh there you are, brooding in the corner and pretending not to notice that I’m speaking to you. I’ve got some news for you: talking about how much everything sucks does not make you cool! In fact, it is far more likely to make someone want to punch you in the neck than to make them think you have superior, discerning taste. But all hope is not lost! You can still establish yourself as a person of impeccable taste; all you have to do is, instead of dumping on everything you think is bad, start pointing out things that are good...like this blog, for example. Tell all your friends how awesome this blog is and they will read it and see that you are right!
In short, telling people about my blog will probably result in the multiplication of the number of people on this earth who think you are awesome and the drastic decrease of the number of people who want to punch you in the neck.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Obsessed at First Sight: A Cautionary Tale
Now that I’ve earned your trust and become someone you look to for guidance in all areas of life, I think it’s high time I start handing out some free advice.
Today I’d like to share a little piece of wisdom that I wish someone had told me earlier in life: Tread carefully when making new friends. Maybe just stick your toes in at first to see how the water feels...then wait a full 48 hours before diving in, just in case you have an allergic reaction or there are waterborne amoebas in there, invisible to the naked eye.
Let me go ahead and make a preemptive disclaimer here: if you and I have recently become friends, don’t worry, I’m not talking about you. Probably.
Now I’m going to present a scenario that is totally made up and not real. It most certainly did not happen to me in the spring of 2005 while I was attending Collin County Community College.
Let’s say you meet someone and you seem to hit it off instantly. You both love to sing! You both think smiling is good! You’re both embarrassed that you go to a community college because you know you’re smart enough for a real university, but lack the drive and stick-to-itiveness to pick a freaking major already! YOU WERE MEANT TO BE BESTIES!!!
But as time goes on and you start spending way too much time together, you start to notice little things that you don't love as much as you expected. You do have a lot in common...but something’s not quite right. Then one day it hits you: the only things you have in common are all the most annoying parts of yourself. You introduce her to your other friends to get their opinions, and all your suspicions are confirmed. This chick is possibly the most annoying person on the planet. Overzealousy strikes again! (Yes, I just made that word up using the grammatical rules one would usually apply to the same form of the word jealousy.) Your eagerness to get out there and have the “college experience” even though you don’t go to a real college has completely backfired, and now you have to dispose of her somehow. (Tangent: Where exactly you got the idea that strangers were automatically going to be better than the friends you already had, I’ll never know. I can only assume you read it in a college catalog, right underneath that paragraph where they told you how important it is to pay thousands of dollars for a piece of paper that would “open doors to the career of your dreams.” You’ll later find out that even though you decided to quit school after three and a half years because you realized just in the nick of time that being an elementary school teacher was likely the quickest way to land you in a mental institution and that you were really sick of not being married to Gary Gray, you’ll still make the same amount of money for doing the same job as the girl with the very expensive engineering degree next to you, but the difference is that she will be paying off those student loans for the rest of her life and YOU will be rich. Not really. But you won’t be suffocated by crushing debt. Probably.)
The situation is made stickier by the fact that when you met her other friends, you actually got along with them, so not only are you trying to figure out ways to hang out with her friends without her actually being there; you are now being forced to face the fact that you are operating inside one of two possible realities:
1. This girl is an expert at tricking cool people into being friends with her, or
2. You are just as annoying as she is, if not more so.
In an effort to make yourself feel better, you add “make sure you’re cool and not lame” to the pile of things you’re trying to accomplish. You ask your much cooler younger sister if she’d mind burning you a couple CDs with some of her cool kid indie music on them so you can try to pass yourself off as a normal and non-annoying person, but this only causes you to feel less cool and more lame because you had to ask someone for tips on how to act cool and are now listening to some dude whose voice reminds you of a whiny sheep who, from the sound of things, is in the process of dying a slow and painful death.
Eventually you become disgusted with yourself for trying so hard, and it becomes clear what you have to do. You have to break it off, and you have to do it now.
Friendvorce is always messy, but this one proves to be particularly gruesome because you forgot to take into account that you lent her 10 of your favorite CDs a couple weeks ago. You hold a quiet memorial service for your Ace of Base CD in your bedroom, because you’re so Young and Proud that you just can’t bring yourself to talk to this girl on the phone ever again.
Don’t despair; the healing will come – it just takes time. Some day you’ll pirate back each and every song on those lost CDs and won’t even feel bad about it because you know you paid for them at one time. And then one day, perhaps about five years later, you’ll be in a place where you can talk about it again, and at that time you’ll be able to use your tragic story to help others.
The moral of this story: Downloading music on LimeWire is ok if you have purchased those songs at some point in your life but lost them as a result of committing to a friendship with too little consideration for the fact that the friend in question might have the capacity to destroy your reputation for life.
Today I’d like to share a little piece of wisdom that I wish someone had told me earlier in life: Tread carefully when making new friends. Maybe just stick your toes in at first to see how the water feels...then wait a full 48 hours before diving in, just in case you have an allergic reaction or there are waterborne amoebas in there, invisible to the naked eye.
Let me go ahead and make a preemptive disclaimer here: if you and I have recently become friends, don’t worry, I’m not talking about you. Probably.
Now I’m going to present a scenario that is totally made up and not real. It most certainly did not happen to me in the spring of 2005 while I was attending Collin County Community College.
Let’s say you meet someone and you seem to hit it off instantly. You both love to sing! You both think smiling is good! You’re both embarrassed that you go to a community college because you know you’re smart enough for a real university, but lack the drive and stick-to-itiveness to pick a freaking major already! YOU WERE MEANT TO BE BESTIES!!!
But as time goes on and you start spending way too much time together, you start to notice little things that you don't love as much as you expected. You do have a lot in common...but something’s not quite right. Then one day it hits you: the only things you have in common are all the most annoying parts of yourself. You introduce her to your other friends to get their opinions, and all your suspicions are confirmed. This chick is possibly the most annoying person on the planet. Overzealousy strikes again! (Yes, I just made that word up using the grammatical rules one would usually apply to the same form of the word jealousy.) Your eagerness to get out there and have the “college experience” even though you don’t go to a real college has completely backfired, and now you have to dispose of her somehow. (Tangent: Where exactly you got the idea that strangers were automatically going to be better than the friends you already had, I’ll never know. I can only assume you read it in a college catalog, right underneath that paragraph where they told you how important it is to pay thousands of dollars for a piece of paper that would “open doors to the career of your dreams.” You’ll later find out that even though you decided to quit school after three and a half years because you realized just in the nick of time that being an elementary school teacher was likely the quickest way to land you in a mental institution and that you were really sick of not being married to Gary Gray, you’ll still make the same amount of money for doing the same job as the girl with the very expensive engineering degree next to you, but the difference is that she will be paying off those student loans for the rest of her life and YOU will be rich. Not really. But you won’t be suffocated by crushing debt. Probably.)
The situation is made stickier by the fact that when you met her other friends, you actually got along with them, so not only are you trying to figure out ways to hang out with her friends without her actually being there; you are now being forced to face the fact that you are operating inside one of two possible realities:
1. This girl is an expert at tricking cool people into being friends with her, or
2. You are just as annoying as she is, if not more so.
In an effort to make yourself feel better, you add “make sure you’re cool and not lame” to the pile of things you’re trying to accomplish. You ask your much cooler younger sister if she’d mind burning you a couple CDs with some of her cool kid indie music on them so you can try to pass yourself off as a normal and non-annoying person, but this only causes you to feel less cool and more lame because you had to ask someone for tips on how to act cool and are now listening to some dude whose voice reminds you of a whiny sheep who, from the sound of things, is in the process of dying a slow and painful death.
Eventually you become disgusted with yourself for trying so hard, and it becomes clear what you have to do. You have to break it off, and you have to do it now.
Friendvorce is always messy, but this one proves to be particularly gruesome because you forgot to take into account that you lent her 10 of your favorite CDs a couple weeks ago. You hold a quiet memorial service for your Ace of Base CD in your bedroom, because you’re so Young and Proud that you just can’t bring yourself to talk to this girl on the phone ever again.
Don’t despair; the healing will come – it just takes time. Some day you’ll pirate back each and every song on those lost CDs and won’t even feel bad about it because you know you paid for them at one time. And then one day, perhaps about five years later, you’ll be in a place where you can talk about it again, and at that time you’ll be able to use your tragic story to help others.
The moral of this story: Downloading music on LimeWire is ok if you have purchased those songs at some point in your life but lost them as a result of committing to a friendship with too little consideration for the fact that the friend in question might have the capacity to destroy your reputation for life.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Cookie Monster
For those of you who thought I was kidding when I said I didn’t know how to make boxed macaroni and cheese when I got married...I wasn’t. But I was determined to learn, because somewhere in the back of my strange little mind was a tiny voice telling me that becoming a good cook was crucial to the success of my marriage.
After the first month or so, I was sure Gary was going to leave me at any moment. Do yourselves a favor: when you come across a recipe for goat cheese and asparagus pasta and you think it sounds delicious and interesting, run. Run for your life. It is the opposite of delicious, and in the immortal words of my beloved cousin Eric, “You should never eat something because it looks ‘interesting’.”
Since then, I’ve managed to get a few passable meals under my belt. Unfortunately, in the process of trying to learn to cook lots of different things, I think I inadvertently set the dinner bar a little too high. I had learned how to make all these awesome recipes, so I fell into a pattern of making a big meal every night of the week, which is expensive and exhausting. Little did I know at the time that the Great Lasagna Fallout would change everything.
It happened last week. Gary and I went to the store to get stuff to make dinner for some of our friends for his birthday, along with a couple other things we needed around the house. When the cashier told us our total was $200, we both fell to the ground, shaking uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth. We usually spend between $100 and $150 for an entire week’s worth of groceries, so we sort of died a little inside at the thought of spending that much for one meal. Granted, it was a giant meal, but it was still unnerving. (Speaking of which, would you like some leftover lasagna? Anyone? Please? We’ll pay you...in lasagna.)
In an effort to balance things out, I planned the cheapest meals I could think of for this week, and whaddya know? Our grocery bill was $62. Egg based meals, where have you been all my life? You’re so cheap and delicious! I love you, and I’m going to keep you forever.
Another thing I’ve discovered this week is that apparently, Gary and Sarah are both willing to eat food that hasn’t been sautéed in truffle oil! I just wish I would have figured this out earlier, 'cause then we might have been able to keep our electricity on last month.
After the first month or so, I was sure Gary was going to leave me at any moment. Do yourselves a favor: when you come across a recipe for goat cheese and asparagus pasta and you think it sounds delicious and interesting, run. Run for your life. It is the opposite of delicious, and in the immortal words of my beloved cousin Eric, “You should never eat something because it looks ‘interesting’.”
Since then, I’ve managed to get a few passable meals under my belt. Unfortunately, in the process of trying to learn to cook lots of different things, I think I inadvertently set the dinner bar a little too high. I had learned how to make all these awesome recipes, so I fell into a pattern of making a big meal every night of the week, which is expensive and exhausting. Little did I know at the time that the Great Lasagna Fallout would change everything.
It happened last week. Gary and I went to the store to get stuff to make dinner for some of our friends for his birthday, along with a couple other things we needed around the house. When the cashier told us our total was $200, we both fell to the ground, shaking uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth. We usually spend between $100 and $150 for an entire week’s worth of groceries, so we sort of died a little inside at the thought of spending that much for one meal. Granted, it was a giant meal, but it was still unnerving. (Speaking of which, would you like some leftover lasagna? Anyone? Please? We’ll pay you...in lasagna.)
In an effort to balance things out, I planned the cheapest meals I could think of for this week, and whaddya know? Our grocery bill was $62. Egg based meals, where have you been all my life? You’re so cheap and delicious! I love you, and I’m going to keep you forever.
Another thing I’ve discovered this week is that apparently, Gary and Sarah are both willing to eat food that hasn’t been sautéed in truffle oil! I just wish I would have figured this out earlier, 'cause then we might have been able to keep our electricity on last month.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
I Wanna Hold Your Hand
My sweet, sweet Grandma Howrey had surgery this morning. It wasn’t necessarily a major surgery but she’s 93 years old, so I was still nervous about how she would respond. I’m happy to report that everything went smoothly and she’ll be going home tomorrow.
I’m not sure what I was worried about, because now I remember that my grandma could probably beat you up. Here are a few reasons why:
1. My Grandma Is Stronger Than You. She pretty much has bones of steel, thanks to a lifetime of taking gigantic calcium doses to fight off that pesky osteoporosis.
2. My Grandma Is Better Than You. She has never smoked a cigarette or tasted beer. She thinks she might have had champagne once at a wedding.
3. My Grandma Is More Popular Than You. She has more grandkids than you have Facebook friends, and she is everyone’s favorite.
This post is kinda short, but so is my grandma, and that's the way I like it.
Monday, September 6, 2010
GOTCHA!
That title is for those of you who thought I'd actually be writing a full blog post today.
It's Labor Day, which means I'll be spending my day napping*/recovering from the raging** party I attended last night.
*I'll probably do some other stuff too.
**It wasn't raging. Or a party. More of a gathering of a few close friends. But we DID go swimming, so I'm still allowed to be tired.
It's Labor Day, which means I'll be spending my day napping*/recovering from the raging** party I attended last night.
*I'll probably do some other stuff too.
**It wasn't raging. Or a party. More of a gathering of a few close friends. But we DID go swimming, so I'm still allowed to be tired.
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Gary Gray Way
My husband is 24 today!
Traditionally, I’ve used birthday blogs as a platform for singing the birthday boy or girl’s praises, but I feel like I’ve pretty thoroughly covered the bases of how awesome/manly/good looking/much of a hoss Gary is. Also he gets a little uncomfortable when I say stuff like that (probably because he's tired of beating all those other women off with a stick*) so today I’ve decided to take a different route and tell you what we’re doing for his birthday instead.
If you’d gotten a chance to peek into my kitchen last night, you might have assumed that we were planning on filling one of those plastic baby pools with homemade spaghetti sauce and going for a little swim. As fun as that sounds, it is not the case.
Gary’s family has a tradition that on your birthday, you get whatever you want for dinner. That means that every year of his life, Gary has had his mom’s amazing homemade lasagna on his birthday. This became a source of some concern after we got married and I realized that even though we had moved 800 miles away, he still expected lasagna on his birthday. No problem, I thought, I’ll just get the Stouffer’s kind and it’ll be just as good.
The day Gary got wind of this plan was the first and last time I’ve ever seen him cry.
Apparently nothing, not even the fact that when we got married I didn’t know how to make boxed macaroni & cheese, was going to get in Gary’s way of eating an entire pan of homemade lasagna on his birthday.
Luckily, not only is Gary’s mom a great cook; she also writes easy-to-follow directions that even I could understand, so I managed to get through the four-hour process of making the sauce relatively unscathed.
When I asked Gary what he wanted to do for his birthday this year, he said he didn’t care as long as there was lasagna. I decided it’d be fun to invite a few friends over and just have a laid back dinner together. I invited all our closest friends, and one by one they said they’d love to come. One by one...by two...by three...until nearly every person I’d invited had confirmed that they’d be coming. Before I continue, let me make one thing perfectly clear: I love our friends. It is always fun when we get together. However, as I was getting a final headcount, I’ll admit I started hyperventilating when I realized I was gonna have to make lasagna for twelve people.
It’s been almost two years since we got married, and I’m comfortable saying that in that time I’ve grown into a pretty decent cook, at least compared to where I started. Even still, the idea of making three pans of lasagna gave me a tiny heart attack. I managed to get all the sauce made last night, but it wasn’t easy. To give you a frame of reference, it included three pounds of Italian sausage, 42 oz of tomato paste and 96 oz of tomato sauce.
(Pause for applause.)
Now all that’s left to do is put everything together and hope to God I don’t drop a full pan on the floor...if that does happen, Gary’s birthday is cancelled.
In other news, I can FINALLY tell you what I got him!
ONE OF THESE!
Traditionally, I’ve used birthday blogs as a platform for singing the birthday boy or girl’s praises, but I feel like I’ve pretty thoroughly covered the bases of how awesome/manly/good looking/much of a hoss Gary is. Also he gets a little uncomfortable when I say stuff like that (probably because he's tired of beating all those other women off with a stick*) so today I’ve decided to take a different route and tell you what we’re doing for his birthday instead.
If you’d gotten a chance to peek into my kitchen last night, you might have assumed that we were planning on filling one of those plastic baby pools with homemade spaghetti sauce and going for a little swim. As fun as that sounds, it is not the case.
Gary’s family has a tradition that on your birthday, you get whatever you want for dinner. That means that every year of his life, Gary has had his mom’s amazing homemade lasagna on his birthday. This became a source of some concern after we got married and I realized that even though we had moved 800 miles away, he still expected lasagna on his birthday. No problem, I thought, I’ll just get the Stouffer’s kind and it’ll be just as good.
The day Gary got wind of this plan was the first and last time I’ve ever seen him cry.
Apparently nothing, not even the fact that when we got married I didn’t know how to make boxed macaroni & cheese, was going to get in Gary’s way of eating an entire pan of homemade lasagna on his birthday.
Luckily, not only is Gary’s mom a great cook; she also writes easy-to-follow directions that even I could understand, so I managed to get through the four-hour process of making the sauce relatively unscathed.
When I asked Gary what he wanted to do for his birthday this year, he said he didn’t care as long as there was lasagna. I decided it’d be fun to invite a few friends over and just have a laid back dinner together. I invited all our closest friends, and one by one they said they’d love to come. One by one...by two...by three...until nearly every person I’d invited had confirmed that they’d be coming. Before I continue, let me make one thing perfectly clear: I love our friends. It is always fun when we get together. However, as I was getting a final headcount, I’ll admit I started hyperventilating when I realized I was gonna have to make lasagna for twelve people.
It’s been almost two years since we got married, and I’m comfortable saying that in that time I’ve grown into a pretty decent cook, at least compared to where I started. Even still, the idea of making three pans of lasagna gave me a tiny heart attack. I managed to get all the sauce made last night, but it wasn’t easy. To give you a frame of reference, it included three pounds of Italian sausage, 42 oz of tomato paste and 96 oz of tomato sauce.
(Pause for applause.)
Now all that’s left to do is put everything together and hope to God I don’t drop a full pan on the floor...if that does happen, Gary’s birthday is cancelled.
In other news, I can FINALLY tell you what I got him!
ONE OF THESE!
(Not this one exactly, but we don’t own a camera so you’ll have to use your imagination to picture something that looks pretty much like this stock photo I found on the website, but slightly different. Also, by no means could I have afforded this by myself, so I feel I should give credit to my parents and Sarah for pitching in three fourths of the cost.)
Alright, enough disclaiming! His name is Beary Gray. (Get it? Eh? Eh?) Gary has big plans to strategically place him in our guest bed anytime we’re expecting visitors to see if he can get someone to scream or pass out.
Happy birthday Gary! A bear carved out of a log with a chainsaw was pretty much the manliest present I could think of...here’s hoping you can use it to make someone pee their pants.
*Gary has never hit a woman with a stick in real life...this is just a figure of speech.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Not Russ
So I know I’ve mentioned our awesome neighbor Sergio a couple of times – super sweet Spanish accent, refills our dog’s water bowl while we’re at work...ring a bell? Well what I haven’t mentioned is the dude who sort of lives in Sergio’s backyard.
The yards on our block are roughly the size of a football field, so lots of people opt to put work sheds or cottages back there. We just use ours to play really official-feeling football games. We have painted end zones and everything. We dress Brutus up in a little striped referee outfit and Gary and I pick teams. My team is called Awesome, and Gary’s is called Slightly Less Awesome but More Likely to Win Because We Have Played Football Ever.
A few months ago during the fabled Canine Cover-Up of Oh-Ten, a friend of Sergio’s was visiting from Dallas. As they were helping Gary get the half ton dog house into the back of his truck, our friend Levi and Sergio’s friend got to talking and discovered they had some mutual friends from high school. During this conversation, Gary and I heard the name Russ, and instantly plastered it to Sergio’s friend’s face in our brains.
“But Emily,” you might be wondering, “didn’t Sergio’s friend introduce himself before agreeing to do heavy lifting for a couple of complete strangers?” Well, yes. I’m sure he did. I’m also sure that Gary and I both have a problem remembering people’s names the first time around. Here’s why: I have a little problem with social anxiety. I know I may seem effortlessly cool and socially non-retarded, but the truth is that’s all just a ruse to get people to read my blog and like me. In that order. So when I’m being introduced to someone, I’m usually focusing so hard on not mispronouncing my own name that I totally miss the other person’s name.
It goes a little something like this:
Stranger: Nice to meet you, my name’s –
(Meanwhile) Me: Extend hand for handshake. Be firm but gentle. For the love of Pete, do not short shake them. ‘What’s up, I’m Emily.’ No, you’re not a gangster in real life! That sounds disrespectful! ‘Hi, nice to meet you, my name’s Emily.’ NO, THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT THEY JUST SAID! OH NO! IT’S MY TURN!
"Emahah."
Way to go champ. Just nod your head and smile. Just keep up the nervous laughter until they turn to talk to someone else so you can go inside and stick your head in the oven.
I’ve never asked Gary what his problem is...maybe he’s just too busy being manly and looking like Mark Wahlberg to bother with things like remembering names.
Anyway, the point of this story is that we spoke to Levi later that night and discovered that Russ was actually the name of one of their mutual high school friends, not Sergio’s friend. Unfortunately for us, Levi didn’t manage to catch his name either, so for the past few months we’ve been referring to him as Not Russ. It wouldn’t be a big deal if he had just visited the one time, but he liked it here so much that he decided to buy a fifth wheel trailer and set it up in Sergio’s giant backyard and split his time between Dallas and here. So now for two weeks at a time, Not Russ is our neighbor, and we run into him a lot. We’ve managed to scrape by with a lot of ‘hey...man’s and ‘how ya doin’...buddy’s, but we’ve always known if we didn’t do something soon, we were going to end up with a very embarrassing situation on our hands.
My first thought was that we should take someone back there and introduce him by saying something like, “Hey, you guys haven’t met yet! This is my sister Sarah...” and then hoping that he would fill in the gap by telling Sarah his own name. Gary pointed out that this plan had the potential to end badly if Not Russ was even close to as socially awkward as the two of us are, so I decided to scrap it. It also occurred to me that with Sarah being as young and cute and single as she is, such an introduction might give Not Russ the wrong idea.
We feared this dilemma would plague us for the rest of our days, but last night we were miraculously granted pardon for our social crimes. Gary was talking to Sergio about some new tools he just got, and he mentioned that Sergio ever needed to borrow them, he was more than welcome.
Then, in a stroke of pure genius, he added, “Oh yeah, and I know you guys have been working on that fifth wheel, so if um...*snap* uh...*snap, snap*...”
“John?”
“YEAH! John!!! Good ol’ Johnny boy! Not by the hair of my Johnny John John! If JOHN ever needs to borrow any tools, you just let him know he’s welcome to whatever we have.”
And that is the story of how the west was won.
The yards on our block are roughly the size of a football field, so lots of people opt to put work sheds or cottages back there. We just use ours to play really official-feeling football games. We have painted end zones and everything. We dress Brutus up in a little striped referee outfit and Gary and I pick teams. My team is called Awesome, and Gary’s is called Slightly Less Awesome but More Likely to Win Because We Have Played Football Ever.
A few months ago during the fabled Canine Cover-Up of Oh-Ten, a friend of Sergio’s was visiting from Dallas. As they were helping Gary get the half ton dog house into the back of his truck, our friend Levi and Sergio’s friend got to talking and discovered they had some mutual friends from high school. During this conversation, Gary and I heard the name Russ, and instantly plastered it to Sergio’s friend’s face in our brains.
“But Emily,” you might be wondering, “didn’t Sergio’s friend introduce himself before agreeing to do heavy lifting for a couple of complete strangers?” Well, yes. I’m sure he did. I’m also sure that Gary and I both have a problem remembering people’s names the first time around. Here’s why: I have a little problem with social anxiety. I know I may seem effortlessly cool and socially non-retarded, but the truth is that’s all just a ruse to get people to read my blog and like me. In that order. So when I’m being introduced to someone, I’m usually focusing so hard on not mispronouncing my own name that I totally miss the other person’s name.
It goes a little something like this:
Stranger: Nice to meet you, my name’s –
(Meanwhile) Me: Extend hand for handshake. Be firm but gentle. For the love of Pete, do not short shake them. ‘What’s up, I’m Emily.’ No, you’re not a gangster in real life! That sounds disrespectful! ‘Hi, nice to meet you, my name’s Emily.’ NO, THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT THEY JUST SAID! OH NO! IT’S MY TURN!
"Emahah."
Way to go champ. Just nod your head and smile. Just keep up the nervous laughter until they turn to talk to someone else so you can go inside and stick your head in the oven.
I’ve never asked Gary what his problem is...maybe he’s just too busy being manly and looking like Mark Wahlberg to bother with things like remembering names.
Anyway, the point of this story is that we spoke to Levi later that night and discovered that Russ was actually the name of one of their mutual high school friends, not Sergio’s friend. Unfortunately for us, Levi didn’t manage to catch his name either, so for the past few months we’ve been referring to him as Not Russ. It wouldn’t be a big deal if he had just visited the one time, but he liked it here so much that he decided to buy a fifth wheel trailer and set it up in Sergio’s giant backyard and split his time between Dallas and here. So now for two weeks at a time, Not Russ is our neighbor, and we run into him a lot. We’ve managed to scrape by with a lot of ‘hey...man’s and ‘how ya doin’...buddy’s, but we’ve always known if we didn’t do something soon, we were going to end up with a very embarrassing situation on our hands.
My first thought was that we should take someone back there and introduce him by saying something like, “Hey, you guys haven’t met yet! This is my sister Sarah...” and then hoping that he would fill in the gap by telling Sarah his own name. Gary pointed out that this plan had the potential to end badly if Not Russ was even close to as socially awkward as the two of us are, so I decided to scrap it. It also occurred to me that with Sarah being as young and cute and single as she is, such an introduction might give Not Russ the wrong idea.
We feared this dilemma would plague us for the rest of our days, but last night we were miraculously granted pardon for our social crimes. Gary was talking to Sergio about some new tools he just got, and he mentioned that Sergio ever needed to borrow them, he was more than welcome.
Then, in a stroke of pure genius, he added, “Oh yeah, and I know you guys have been working on that fifth wheel, so if um...*snap* uh...*snap, snap*...”
“John?”
“YEAH! John!!! Good ol’ Johnny boy! Not by the hair of my Johnny John John! If JOHN ever needs to borrow any tools, you just let him know he’s welcome to whatever we have.”
And that is the story of how the west was won.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Grocery Shuffle
I remembered the other thing I’m not good at: buying the right amount of groceries for the week.
I try to only go to the store once a week. We’re forced by a combination of poverty and low, low prices to buy the bulk of our groceries at Wal-Mart. I’m too poor to support a social/political objection to the soul-sucking megamart, but that certainly doesn’t mean I’m a fan of physically being there. In fact, Sarah and I make a habit of rewarding ourselves with a candy bar each time we manage to make it out of there alive.
Last week, I’ll admit I got a little ambitious with my grocery list. I planned six dinners, so of course we ended up not eating at home four nights that week. The third night out was when the panic started to set in. So much raw chicken in my fridge! If I don’t cook it we will surely die! (We did not die, because I’ve been blessed with a Hungry Hungry Husband who often cooks himself meals at random times of the day. “Hey honey, what’s that you’ve got there? An entire box of pizza rolls? It’s 3:30 in the afternoon...”)
On the other hand, there are those weeks when I try to anticipate the number of times we’ll be eating away from home. Say I plan four meals for the week and then patty-pat-pat myself on the back for being such a good little meal planner...I’ll be darned if all the tentative plans we’ve made to go out don’t fall through, meaning I have to go to the grocery store on a Thursday, which is just plain unacceptable. I can deal with Wal-Mart exactly one time per week, and there’s a reason that one time always falls on a Saturday or Sunday: because I do not enjoy working all day and then fighting my way through the monster truck rally that is the Wal-Mart parking lot only to have to wrestle some little old lady to the ground over who gets that last wilted bunch of asparagus. Of course I have to let her win, because I know as soon as the sparring’s over and people start looking, she’s gonna hunch herself back over the walker she was just beating me with and pull the sweet little old lady card, making me look like a disrespectful punk. Whatever, old lady, you win this round, but the joke's on you because there's about a 50/50 chance that asparagus is gonna make your pee smell terrible!
One of these days I’ll get it exactly right, and then I’ll probably die because my work here on earth will be done. So if we’re hanging out some day and I suddenly drop dead, check to see if it’s the end of the week and whether or not there are still uncooked groceries in my fridge. If it is and there are not, then you know why I’m dead. If, however, it’s a Tuesday and my fridge is full of food, feel free to suspect foul play and avenge my death as needed.
I try to only go to the store once a week. We’re forced by a combination of poverty and low, low prices to buy the bulk of our groceries at Wal-Mart. I’m too poor to support a social/political objection to the soul-sucking megamart, but that certainly doesn’t mean I’m a fan of physically being there. In fact, Sarah and I make a habit of rewarding ourselves with a candy bar each time we manage to make it out of there alive.
Last week, I’ll admit I got a little ambitious with my grocery list. I planned six dinners, so of course we ended up not eating at home four nights that week. The third night out was when the panic started to set in. So much raw chicken in my fridge! If I don’t cook it we will surely die! (We did not die, because I’ve been blessed with a Hungry Hungry Husband who often cooks himself meals at random times of the day. “Hey honey, what’s that you’ve got there? An entire box of pizza rolls? It’s 3:30 in the afternoon...”)
On the other hand, there are those weeks when I try to anticipate the number of times we’ll be eating away from home. Say I plan four meals for the week and then patty-pat-pat myself on the back for being such a good little meal planner...I’ll be darned if all the tentative plans we’ve made to go out don’t fall through, meaning I have to go to the grocery store on a Thursday, which is just plain unacceptable. I can deal with Wal-Mart exactly one time per week, and there’s a reason that one time always falls on a Saturday or Sunday: because I do not enjoy working all day and then fighting my way through the monster truck rally that is the Wal-Mart parking lot only to have to wrestle some little old lady to the ground over who gets that last wilted bunch of asparagus. Of course I have to let her win, because I know as soon as the sparring’s over and people start looking, she’s gonna hunch herself back over the walker she was just beating me with and pull the sweet little old lady card, making me look like a disrespectful punk. Whatever, old lady, you win this round, but the joke's on you because there's about a 50/50 chance that asparagus is gonna make your pee smell terrible!
One of these days I’ll get it exactly right, and then I’ll probably die because my work here on earth will be done. So if we’re hanging out some day and I suddenly drop dead, check to see if it’s the end of the week and whether or not there are still uncooked groceries in my fridge. If it is and there are not, then you know why I’m dead. If, however, it’s a Tuesday and my fridge is full of food, feel free to suspect foul play and avenge my death as needed.
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