The Toy Who Lived

Now about that squeaking.

Brutus was pretty much in heaven while we were at my parents' house. There were lots of people to pet him and scratch his head and a whole new backyard full of freshly planted flowers to pillage and destroy.

The little dogs had to be put in their pen whenever he was inside because they kept trying to pick fights with him. I really felt bad for them; they're used to being the figurative "big dogs" around the house, and then suddenly in walks this young punk who's ten times their size and he thinks he owns the place. They looked on helplessly through their brass prison bars as this uppity usurper ran free and chewed up all their favorite toys.

Those poor little stuffed animals didn't stand a chance. They just weren't built to undergo the kind of strenuous torture that Brutus is accustomed to inflicting upon his playthings. I'd find a plush carcass here, a disembodied eyeball there...my mom's dogs must have been in a living hell, watching all their fluffy friends being gutted and their cottony insides discarded all over the house.

The one survivor was a little rubber frog with a squeaker inside. It seemed Brutus had found his chewy, green soulmate. There was so much squeaking. I can't even begin to describe how much. In the beginning was the squeaking, and the squeaking was with Brutus, and squeaking was Brutus. Time lost all meaning; there was only squeaking. The very word squeak began to lose meaning.

Squeak.

Squeak.

Squeaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueak.

See what I mean?

Sunday morning as we packed up the car, I sent up a grateful prayer that the squeaking was finally over. We gave Brutus a rope bone to play with in the backseat and set of on our merry, squeak-free way. It wasn't until we were just outside of Raton, New Mexico that we heard it: The Sound Who Must Not Be Named.

Sarah nearly drove us off a cliff in a fit of squeak-induced rage, but we managed to make it out of there alive. I roughly deposited the stowaway in the glove box until I could clear my head and decide what to do with it. One thing was certain: My dad was behind this. He'd been making jokes all week about sending that wretched thing home with us, but I never imagined he'd be heartless enough to actually go through with it. I guess I should have known never to trust a man who thinks Beanie Weenies should have their own food group.

Everything in me wanted to cut off the little green legs one at a time, fry them up in a pan and feed them to a feral cat, but one look from those sad brown eyes in the backseat and I knew my fate was sealed. I could never destroy the frog, because with the frog goes the happiness of my second favorite guy ever. I'll just have to learn to live with the squeaking. Heck, maybe someday the squeaking and I can even be friends.

You win this round, Dad.

AND WE'RE BACK!

Did ya miss me??? No? Oh. Well I sure missed you guys!

Texas was good. Here are the highlights:

-I went to a wedding and a funeral in the same week. I feel like I should say something about the circle of life or how one story's ending is another's beginning, etc...but to be honest it really just felt like a bit of an emotional overload.

-I got to have Thanksgiving with my family for the first time in two years. My poor mom thought she was having a quiet Thanksgiving with just my dad, brother, and sister this year, and then SURPRISE! Fourteen people came! It was so great to be home. My family is the best family.

-I finally ate THE sandwich. I'm somewhat embarrassed to tell you that somehow I made it through 23 Thanksgivings without ever eating a leftover Thanksgiving sandwich. I mean, I'd made a sandwich with leftover Thanksgiving turkey, but I've never been big on food mixing. (Those bowls from KFC? My worst nightmare.) It wasn't until Thanksgiving #24 that I decided to make the leap. I spent a full two weeks planning out the structure, and on Friday, November 26th, I had the best sandwich of my life: a rosemary roll with cranberry sauce on BOTH SIDES, turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, and stuffing. It was everything I ever hoped for.

-On an unrelated note, I gained two pounds in a week.

-Texas kicked me in the mouth. Or, rather, the nasal cavity. Why, Texas? No matter how much your weather messes with my sinuses, I just can't stay mad at you. I wish you could hear me try to say "good afternoon" when I answer the phone at work. It comes out sounding more like "gun ufderdud."

-Gary and I met our new nephew James! Well...newish. I knew he was six months old, but for some reason I was expecting an infant, so I was a little surprised when I walked into Gary's brother's house to find a burly manchild in a La-Z-Boy eating steak with a fork and a knife. Chunky blonde perfection itself.

-Speaking of perfection...I saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I. Twice.

That's about all I can remember...the rest of the week is a cough-syrupy haze of food and emotions. And squeaking. More on that tomorrow.

Cuppycake!

For any of you who may be growing tired of reading birthday posts about people you don't know, I have three suggestions:

1. Make friends with my friends, because they are all awesome. 

2. Worm your way into my inner circle so you too can have a birthday post. 

3. Get get get get get over it, because...

IT'S SAMANTHA LYN KELLY'S 25th BIRTHDAY!!!

No, that is not a professional supermodel; that's my cuppycake! That's right! I'm friends with her and she likes me too! She has even consented to be seen with me in public on several occasions!!! I'm the luckiest.

Let's take a little stroll down memory lane as I recount the story of our friendship.

November 2008: We meet at work. I think she's real pretty and automatically assume she's too cool to talk to me ever. This continues for approximately six months, until...

June 2009: A position opens up in Samantha's department, and she encourages me to apply for it! I secretly wonder if she's participating in some elaborate, long term Boy Meets World style nerd party. Whoever brings in the least competent applicant gets a raise!

Later that June: I discover I was wrong. That or she won and no one ever let me in on the joke. Either way, I got the job.

December 2009: I got very sick with scarlet fever, and she stayed by my side. She took good care of me. For the first time I appreciated her. Then the appreciation grew to respect...respect grew to like...then like grew to love; a deeper love than I could ever hope for.*

January 2010 to Present: Our love is like the Sword of Godric Gryffindor; it only imbibes that which makes it stronger. But instead of basilisk venom, our love has been impregnated with bad tv and pictures of fat babies in costumes.

Samantha,

You put up with my crap all day long. You have big eye teeth, and you know how I feel about that.** You give the best autism hugs. You make me wish I was more Mexican***, and I can't even explain why. This is a weird compliment, but you describe food really well. Sometimes I think I gain weight just listening to you talk. You are probably going to become a famous photographer someday and leave me crying alone in the dust, but until that day comes, I will forever remain your faithful honeybunch, sugarplum, pumpy-umpy-umpkin. 

Smoochy-oochy-ooch,

Emily

*This didn't really happen...it's a quote from a Jennifer Lopez movie. That's how you know it's good.

**If you don't know how I feel about that...I love big eye teeth.

***That is, more than...none...Mexican.

Goodbye

My sweet, sweet grandma went to be with the Lord yesterday.

She was an amazing person and there will be lots of us down here missing her. If anyone ever got into heaven, you can bet she did. She's with her husband now, with a new body that works, probably getting some hugs from Jesus because He thinks she is so precious.

I'm heading to Texas tonight after work for her funeral, and I'll probably be there all next week, so happy Thanksgiving if I don't see you guys!

Expelliarmus!

In honor of the newest Harry Potter movie opening tonight (and because I'm a nerd) here are some HP-related videos. Feast your eyes.

Movie Trailers - Movies Blog

YAWELCOME!

So here's what happened: my own mention of Mariah Carey's Christmas album has ultimately become my downfall.

I swore I was going to wait until after Thanksgiving this year...but instead of doing that, I spent a good part of my day compiling the classiest and least embarrassing Christmas playlist of all time.

I'd also like to retract my previous statement that Mariah Carey made the best Christmas album of all time...because I'm pretty sure that was actually Bing Crosby. They just don't make 'em like that anymore.

In fact, there's not even any Mariah Carey ON this playlist, because I didn't quite find her classy enough to make the "Classy Christmas" playlist. What did make the playlist are 86 of the finest, Christmasyest Christmas songs that ever Christmassed.

Why am I telling you this? Mostly so you'll be jealous and wish YOU had the best Christmas playlist of all time.

Did it work? Do you wish that?

Well WISH GRANTED!

Merry Early Christmas, Everybody.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I feel like it's high time for another numbered list...so here are ten reasons why winter in Colorado is the best.

1. You can leave bottled beverages out on the back porch. This is first on the list because it is hands down the best thing about Colorado winters. No more 30 packs of PBR crowding your condiments and making you look like an alcoholic! (Although now it appears I've cancelled out the benefits of this by mentioning it first...)

2. The hope of a snow day. Sure, it'll probably never happen. But just the knowledge that there's even the slightest chance I might get a free day off work is enough to keep me going through the entire winter. (Not that I even mind coming to work. I love my job, but until I can work in my pajamas or while sleeping, given the choice I'd always choose staying home.)

3. Everyone is a terrible driver. Oh, not you. Just everyone else on the road. The joy of discussing how all Colorado drivers are idiots is both fun and reassuring, and it only gets better when you add ice. (Nevermind the fact that ninety percent of the population is made up of transplants, which would suggest that a) no accurate generalizations can be made concerning the driving aptitude of native Coloradans, and/or b) there are idiots everywhere. Even in Colorado.)

4. Buttershot Chocolate. This time of year it just feels right. Every night. I swear I'm not an alcoholic.

5. The lone wolf. Watching Brutus play in the snow feels like watching a wild animal in his natural habitat.

6. I look exponentially cuter in the winter. It makes sense, because with so many extra clothes to be worn - hats, jackets, earmuffs, facemasks, gloves, scarves, etc. - you're bound to end up looking cuter than you did when you woke up. (Wait, facemasks? How did that get in there? Well, might as well show you a few of my favorites...here, here and here.)

7. Ice dancing. Oh not like sequins on ice skates. I was referring to the impromptu performances that are always to be enjoyed whenever you step outside. Careful though, 'cause chances are, if you're not some sort of super-graceful mutant species, you'll become the entertainment at one time or another.

8. It's prime dieting time. Trust me on this. If you start dieting now while everyone else is packing on the holiday pounds, you will not only look better by comparison, but you'll also send all your friends and family into a jealous rage, which after all is what the holidays are all about. Go on, little piggies, that's right. Have another piece of pie. You take those extra inches of insulation and I'll take my sense of personal triumph, and we'll just see who stays warmer at night.

9. It's so dark out, I have an excuse to sleep 12 hours a day. This one pretty much speaks for itself.

10. Mariah Carey's Merry Christmas. Stop judging me. Just stop. I will forever consider this the best Christmas album of all time. It makes me feel alive. If you happen to be standing next to me when I hear it, prepare to be hugged. Hard.

I Am a Murderer of Love

Well, if you love mice.

THE END

Haha j/k, j/k everybody. MAN I kill me. Also mice. 

(This is where I'd really, really like to end this post, but Gary says people will stop reading my blog if I continue to use my "special" sense of humor. I just thought you should all know that there are times at which elaborating goes against every fiber of my being, and this is one of those times.)

So Gary and I were sitting on the couch, quietly discussing religion and politics when the air was rent with a piercing gasp. (Mine.) I saw a tiny gray animal flit out of my bedroom and behind Gary's toolbox.

Gary, being the man that he is, got up and spent the next twenty or so minutes searching for the beast. I spent those minutes cowering on the couch, too afraid to let my feet touch the floor lest they be tread on by four tiny, scurrying paws. His search was fruitless, and I had chicken cooking on the stove, so eventually I did have to get up and brave the carpet, but not without the reassurance of carrying an aluminum baseball bat. Sure, it made it a little harder to make dinner, but it made me feel better and that's all that matters.

My fearless protector had to run an errand after that, meaning I was left to fend for myself. He was just supposed to be dropping something off a few blocks away, so after half an hour had passed, I started to worry that something might be wrong. I did not call him freaking out, because I want him to keep loving me. My patience paid off, though, because a few minutes later he arrived home with a large gray grocery bag in his hand...and it was full of mouse traps. My hero.

He sat at the kitchen table and assembled the traps, cursing ever so slightly when one of them snapped closed on his finger, and within a few minutes our house was fully armed and dangerous. Just knowing the traps were set sent a feeling of security and peace washing over me...that is, until about five minutes later, when I heard a sickening SNAP!

I didn't have the stomach to look for myself, but Gary confirmed that we had caught and brought our first victim to justice. My conscience squirmed uncomfortably as he disposed of the broken carcass, but in the end I think we did the right thing. That mouse was clearly breaking and entering...the punishment for which is death. In our house, anyway.

This morning Gary left for Minneapolis for work. It did not occur to me before we set the traps that I would be alone in the house with several deadly killing machines for three days, but I suppose now it's too late. I just hope Gary doesn't expect me to respond to any loud snapping noises I might hear while he's gone, because thanks to the hot pink earplugs I invested in this morning, I don't plan on hearing any.

Also I'd like to apologize in advance for not answering any phone calls for the next three days.

Oooh, Sick Burn!

Was. It. Ever.

We went over to our friends' house for dinner Saturday night. The theme was Mexican food. All I wanted to do was make some pico de gallo.

I'm no stranger to the wrath of a jalapeno scourned, and neither is my darling husband. We became well acquainted this past summer...I don't remember the recipe, but boy, do I remember the aftermath. I'll spare you the gory details and just tell you that Gary and I somehow both managed to transfer the deadly jalapeno oils from our fingers to our noses. It was horrible. (By the way, should you ever find yourself in this grievous state, fill a shot glass with milk and dunk your schnoz for several minutes. [Then if you're Gary, drink your nosemilk, sit back, and watch your wife gag.] You will look and feel like an idiot, but it works.)

Ever since that fateful night, I've kept a box of latex gloves in my kitchen so as to guarantee my skin will never make contact with another jalapeno...but alas, in the process of getting everything together to leave for our friends' house, I forgot to grab them - a slip of the mind for which I would pay dearly.

I seeded and chopped exactly one jalapeno Saturday night. Then I rubbed my nose. Then I died in a fiery haze of pain. Then I was dragged back to life because the pain was not finished with me. It wanted me to see how it had turned the backs of my already dry hands a nice, splotchy, fire engine red color. It wanted to laugh as I attempted to put my contacts in the next morning, only to have to throw them away as a result of the irreparable damage caused by the oils on my fingers. It wanted to hang around and torture me as long as possible.

Last night I soaked my fingers in a bowl of ice cold milk for about half an hour, seemingly to no avail, but this morning I woke to find that the pain had ebbed considerably. Touching things with my fingers, for example, no longer makes me want to drop dead.

I've heard that cows know not to touch the electric fence ever again after they've been shocked, so I guess what we can conclude from all this is that I'm dumber than a cow.

CILKARAMO!

For those of you who just tuned in, CILKARAMO stands for "Children I'd Like to Kidnap and Raise As My Own." It just makes me feel like less of a creeper to use the initials.

Without further ado, here's a cute kid dancing to Florence + The Machine. YAWELCOME.

Let the Hibernation Begin!

So I'm pretty sure Gary and I went to bed at 8:30 last night.

Just kidding! It was 8:25.

Gary at least has an excuse, because he gets up at 3:45 every morning for work and then refuses to take a nap in the afternoon for some reason that is beyond my comprehension. Me? I just like sleeping. A lot.

I blame Colorado winters. Sundown at 4:30? That's cheating. We'd have a little more daylight if we weren't directly east of Pikes Peak, which has robbed us of seeing sunsets ever - numero uno on the list of things I miss about Texas - but maybe I shouldn't complain, because living right up against the Rocky Mountains is alright I guess.

Along with the early darkness comes colder weather, about which I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, snow is magical, yadda yadda, but on the other hand it greatly increases the chances of me falling on my ass. Hard.

Yesterday morning, for example, there was some lingering frost on my back steps from the night before, but I was too busy being late and trying to coax Brutus onto his running line as quickly as possible to be bothered with something as trivial as inspecting the steps for ice...so the steps and I made a compromise: they'd keep on being icy, and I'd do a ridiculous, arm-flailing dance on one leg for all my neighbors to see in hopes of keeping myself upright. So really, it was a win-win. For the steps.

The commencement of winter also ushers in the Era of Disappointment. Every morning before I get out of bed, I will send up a little prayer that there will be so much snow on the ground that none of us could possibly make it into work, meaning they'll have to give us a snow day. And 99 out of 100 mornings, I'll rush to the front door to look outside, only to find it appears we've been granted an early spring.

So bring it on, Winter, you saucy minx. (MAN that woulda sounded better if I were British.)

Codswallop

Last night it snowed for the first time this winter, meaning Gary had to be at work to make sure those planes got de-iced. Sarah also had somewhere to be, so I found myself at home with no one to talk to but Brutus. (He's a surprisingly good listener.) Once the conversation had run dry, I decided to watch a movie. I let Brutus pick (since he never gets to) so of course we ended up watching Love Actually. It's his favorite, little softie that he is.

As I was watching it, I had a revelation. My life would be so much more interesting if i had a British accent.

Can I get an amen? Think about it! Everything I said would automatically carry more weight and come out sounding about ninety-five percent wiser.

It would open up a whole world of phrases that would just sound awkward if I said them now. I'd be able to say things like "kipper" and "bugger off" and "I think I'll pop over for some tea," but the thought of me saying those things now in my increasingly Midwestern accent* just makes me feel like a weirdo.

It couldn't hurt my popularity, either. Think about it. Renee Zellwegger in Bridget Jones' Diary > Renee Zellwegger in anything else. The difference? British accent. Also the fact that she never married Kenny Chesney in Bridget Jones.

Don't worry though, I'm not about to start faking one, because there's nothing I can think of that I find more irritating than a poorly executed fake British accent. Other than maybe a poorly executed fake southern accent. I just thought I'd let you in on the kind of ridiculous crap I tend to think about when I'm left to my own devices.


*A couple of months ago someone asked me where I was from, and I said Texas. They said they would have guessed Minnesota. I cried for a week.

Reasons Why I Love eBay (And So Should You)

Eww, not the online auction site! I was referring to E. Bailey Sterling of course because it's her BIRTHDAY!

1. I don't just love her because it's her birthday.

2. She is extremely good looking. Don't take my word for it; see for yourself!

3. She's married to the first man Gary Gray ever loved - and the flame still burns on.

4. Together, she and her husband have manufactured what might be the most adorable baby I've ever seen...who is sometimes dressed as a chicken.

Also this.

5. There are 23 pictures of Bailey and me on Facebook, the most precious of which is this one:

6. She does an amazing Russian accent. I can't even tell you how amazing.

7. When we met, I thought for sure she was too cool to love me. I was right, but then she went ahead and loved me anyway.

8. She taught me how to make sushi, which is why I am and forever shall be in her debt.

9. She loves animals.

Just kidding! That wasn't a real animal! But this is.

10. She also loves The Cosby Show.

11. She's smarter than me. Also probably you. But you won't even care once you meet her because you'll be too busy thinking about how awesome she is.

12. One time this happened.

13. Also this.

14. Also all of these.

15. Not only will she not be disturbed or horrified that I Facebook stalked the CRAP out of her in order to obtain all these pictures; she will probably be flattered and/or deeply touched because she understands that Facebook stalking is the new imitation. (In that...it's the...sincerestformofflattery. Get it? Get it???)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAILEY!!!

I hope you move here so I can kiss your baby.

That's the only reason.

Et Tu, Brute?

Well, it's happened. What we thought was nothing more than the innocent naming of a new pet has evolved into an ominous foreshadowing of things to come.

Our neighbors got a dog and named it Caesar.

Now I suppose there's nothing left to do but prepare ourselves for the events we so unwittingly set into motion to take place.

How could we have known? When we got Brutus, none of our neighbors even had pets. (Well, apart from the three-legged Dachshund I assume belonged to the crackheads. I'll never be sure, but when he wasn't out wreaking havoc on the rest of the neighborhood, I would spot them playing with him occasionally in the usual way - kicking him, yelling at him, giving him beer, etc. - so I always guessed he was theirs. I also guessed that they probably stole him from a small child, and I wouldn't be surprised to find out that he had four legs when they first got him.)

But now, here we are, faced with the very real possibility that our beloved canine is or will soon become a traitorous killer.

It pains me to even consider it possible, and yet...I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed the signs.

Perhaps the most unsettling is the way he's always kept us at arm's length - literally. He often stands just close enough for us to touch him with our fingertips (but far enough away that we have to work for it) and insists that we pet him with a great amount of difficulty.

Then there's the way he'll climb into our bed and snuggle with me just long enough to melt my heart, only to jump up and leave for no apparent reason. It's as if he's trying to remind us that however much we may adore him, his need for us does not extend past our daily provision of his food and water.

And don't even mention dog parks...we gave up on that dream long ago. The moment we let him off his leash would be the last we ever saw him. You may say it's just the nature of his breed, but I think we both know the truth. He doesn't love me and he never has. Perhaps he's incapable of love, which in a way would be a small, strange kind of consolation, but I guess we'll never know.

Now don't get me wrong - we haven't given him up as a lost cause just yet. We're doing everything we can to prevent the impending tragedy. We've removed all sharp objects from the yard, tried to instill in him a firm sense of right and wrong through a series of extremely low-budge one-act plays co-written by and starring Gary and me, and tacked up a picture of a cat vomiting on someone's new carpet in his doghouse in hopes of reminding him who the real enemy is.

You never think it'll be your kid until one day he up and murders his close friend in a desperate, conspiratorial attempt to preserve the Roman Republic.

Heartbreaking CILKARAMO

This kid is killing me.

UPDATE: All is right in the world!!!

Word Up

You guys know Sarah, right? That cuter, cooler, altogether more likable version of me?

I'd like to share with all of you an email she sent me this morning.

Hey,

I just got another list of words I may or may not want to send to Microsoft to be added to their vocab. Here are my favorites:

1. Helluvalot

2. Ladyfriend

3. Floppyyyyy

4. Lohohot

5. Dysfunctionally (yeah that’s a real word, Word. Waytagooo.)

6. Meganot

7. Adorbzzz

8. Douchebag

9. Assless

10. fahhhhhREAL

P.S. Being your sister is a marvelous gift from God. I want to be you when I grow up. I am forever indebted to you for showing me the ways of the cool kid.

Your adoring sister and faithful servant,

Sarah

And before you ask, no, I did not tamper with this email at all. Especially not the part at the end.

Fancy, Don't Let Me Down

All my dreams have finally come true.

Well no, not the one about being the first female in MLB.

And no, not the one about being a really, really rich stay at home wife with no kids yet.

And okay no, I have not been offered a recording contract for my sweet rap skills. Yet.

Despite your efforts to be a total downer and remind me of all my shortcomings, I'm still excited! And here's why: I've finally found my very own wealthy benefactress.

THAT'S RIGHT! I'M SET FOR LIFE!

By the way, when I say "I'm set for life," I actually mean "I inherited lots of nice clothes."

Oh, and when I say "wealthy benefactress," I mean, "a lady I work with who has really good taste."

Today, for example, I'm wearing a sweater from Banana Republic. Don't act like you're not impressed.

Okay, you might really not be impressed. But oh, if you only knew that I've only been inside a Banana Republic once in my life, and that was only because I was shopping with my fashionably gay friend at the fashionably gay mall in Frisco and I spent the entire time staring at the floor so I wouldn't be able to see all the rich people in there judging me for daring to wear sweatpants to the mall...yes, perhaps if you knew that, you'd understand how EXCITED I am to own something from there.

My angel of mercy has no idea how much she's changed my life, since she didn't necessarily give the clothes directly to me; she gave them to my friend, who then gave them to me because they weren't in her color palette. But lucky for me, my magnanimous patroness just happens to wear my exact size and be of my exact coloring. (Well, almost...she's not quite as pale as I am, but who is?)

So now I'm just hoping I don't run into her at the office. I can see it now...

Wealthy Benefactress: "Hey, I used to have that exact sweater!"

Me: "...yes. This...exact...YOU CAUGHT ME! IT'S YOURS! I TOOK IT! I WENT THROUGH YOUR GARBAGE, I'M SO SORRY! I KNEW I LOOKED TOO POOR TO BE WEARING THIS!!!"

...because when I'm nervous, I have a tendency to confess to crimes I never committed.

Sore Loser

That's me.

So I'm trying to get in shape, mostly so that I can beat up Taylor Momsen should I ever run into her. I don't know what it is about that girl's face that just makes me want to punch it...probably all the hookeresque eye makeup.

I've been eating healthier for the past couple of weeks, and it's been going really well so far...but yesterday I decided it was time to take this relationship to the next level and start working out.

My personal trainer, a.k.a. Gary "Hasn't-Worked-Out-In-Years-And-Somehow-Still-Looks-Like-A-Hoss" Gray, was a little worried about the shoulder issue I developed earlier this year, so he lovingly suggested I do the weight lifting routine without any weights.

I laughed.

He didn't.

"So, let me get this straight...weight lifting...minus the weights...equals..."

He must think I'm the biggest weenie ever made.

Maybe that's my fault. Maybe I should have made less of a production of my lower back pain the one time he asked me to pick Brutus up some dog food. (But that bag is like forty pounds, okay? And awkwardly shaped. And I'm short. And no, I don't know what being short has to do with not being able to lift forty pounds.)

UPDATE: I've just been informed that the bag only weighs thirty pounds. Whatev.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so dramatic in my efforts to move our couch that one time. I pushed and pushed, but my tractionless, socked feet just kept sliding across the carpet until I ended up flat on my face/stomach, utterly defeated and completely unable to move. Any more furniture.

Maybe I should have been a little more conservative with the whole "you're such a big strong man" card...but you know what, no. I can't bring myself to regret that. Thanks to my flagrant overuse of that card, I haven't lifted a heavy object in almost eight years. And to all you judgers out there who think I'm disgracing the name of woman: the next time you need a big manly man to bring over his big manly biceps and his big manly truck to move your couch/fix your faucet/mow your lawn...don't call my husband. He'll be busy doing my dirty work while I paint my toenails and think about babies.*

So anyway, last night I was forced to face the fact that I had made my proverbial bed, and it was time for a really embarrassing nap.

I did the weight lifting my-own-arm-lifting routine just like Gary said, and about halfway through I realized it wasn't as easy as I thought it would be...in fact, could it be? Was I actually breaking a sweat?

This morning, all my suspicions were confirmed. My entire upper body is sore, which can only mean one thing...

My name is Emily Gray, and I am the biggest weenie ever made.


*Please, please, pleasepleaseplease don't take me seriously.** I'm not actually helpless...I just don't mind not lifting heavy objects.

**Ohhh, double asterisk within the asterisked footnote! It's crazy down here! Okay, now what was I going to say...oh yes. I was going to say in fact, it might be best not to take me seriously ever.

Why We're Terrible Americans

We were tired. Dead tired. (Which I found oh-so-appropriate since it was Halloween, after all...)

We took a three hour nap in the middle of the day, so sue us. We didn't realize how late it was until we heard a tiny fist knocking a tiny knock on our front door.

"Twick or tweat!"

I shot Gary a panicked look, and then the following conversation took place using only our eyes:

Gary: Don't. Move.

Me: Why is this happening?!? Our porch light is off!

Gary: It's only 5:30, so it's not dark yet...

Me: Who starts trick-or-treating at 5:30???

Gary: This kid, apparently.

Me: What do we do?!?

Gary: We're just gonna have to wait it out.

"Should I wing the doowbew?"

BING!

"TWICK OR TWEEEAT!!!"

Me: Gary! You know I'm powerless against little kids with rhotacism!

Gary: Hold yourself together woman!

Me: We could give them one of those Weight Watchers brownies...?

Gary: First of all, no. Second of all, I'm in my boxers and both my shotguns are visible from the front door. Trust me, we're doing that kid a favor by not opening the door.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the poor little kid gave up and tromped off our porch empty handed.

As soon as I was confident he wouldn't be able to see me, I ran over to Sarah's house to "borrow" some of their Halloween candy to ensure we wouldn't be ruining any more lives that night.

To make matters worse, we didn't get any more trick-or-treaters for at least an hour. Sarah even saw one kid walk past our house in costume, which of course sent me into a paranoid spiral of thoughts involving that poor little first kid running up and down the street telling all the other kids not to go to our house because a pair of "depwaved, candywess monstews" live there.

Eventually, we did get to see some cute kids in costumes...but as punishment for the crime we'd committed, we also had a few older kids show up in extra-disturbing clown masks. I sent them away with no candy and a firm kick in the trousers on principle. (Just kidding, but I did only give them each one piece of candy instead of the two I'd been giving everyone else for coming to my house and knowingly scaring the tar out of me.)

And that's the story of how we ruined some little boy's Halloween.

The End.


P.S. For those of you who are Facebook-fasting, here's how the ninja turtle costumes turned out: