- Grocery store brand diet soda is not an acceptable alternative to Diet Coke.
- When my family gets together we will always make too much food.
- Tylenol PM will not make me drowsy, no matter how much I wish it would.
- Trivial Pursuit books and literature questions are 75% unknow-able.
- Tyra Banks is a judgy bitch and watching her talk show just makes me angry.
- Finding out that your ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend is less attractive than you is Make My Day material, no matter how over a relationship you are.
- Scotty dogs that smell like pumpkin pie are also Make My Day material.
- Finding out that your Fiance and your brothers ate the last of the fudge covered oreos you were hoarding is Definitely Not Make My Day Material.
- I don’t know the appropriate amount to tip a hair dresser.
- Having pictures of your friends and loved ones on your newly acquired desk in your newly rearranged dining room will make you happy.
- Turkey Sandwiches are one of the few foods I could eat daily for an almost infinite amount of time.
- A good portion of my belongs still smell like smoke and have charing on them from the 2006 house fire.
- Some days are writing days, some days are thinking days, some days are communicating days.
- There should always be reruns of House or SVU on the television at all times on weekends. It is my royal decree.
- I will miss my family minutes after they/I leave.
- Brandy’s Monday posts make Monday’s better.
Truths November 23, 2009
Have a Molehill? Need a Mountain? I’m Your Girl. October 12, 2009
Every so often I get all out of whack.
I get unhappy to a point where any little thing can plunge me into the “depths of despair”* or the “mean reds” if you’re a devoted Golighty fan.
I start to feel like a toddler. All I want to do is play with my toys and the big mean world has informed me that it’s dinner time. And it doesn’t matter that I like what’s on the menu; I’m going to stomp my feet and cry because I JUS’ DON’T WANNA.
What bothers me the most is that I can feel myself becoming unrational and crazy. I can predict that if The Boy pinches me playfully one more effing time I’ll snap on him. And yet, I can’t seem to do anything to stop it. And what’s worse is that after I’m pushed over the edge, after I’ve succeeded in making us both miserable…I feel better.
Misery loves company? Perhaps.
Or maybe I’m just a closeted drama queen? I don’t know. What I do know is that everything will be going fine, better than fine, exceptionally well even, and then I’ll decide that Something Is Missing or Something Is Wrong or I Just Want to Be Miserable and that’s when I stir the coals.
Usually it’s little things. Little day to day infractions that get pushed aside until I’m settled into this brooding period. Then they pop up, like dandelions in my relationship’s lush green yard (I am aware this is a horrible simile, but I refuse to remove it). And then I can’t stop focusing on them. I hyperanalyze and over think, I begin a downward spiral because the inflection on a sentence came off as overly critical and soon I’m convincing myself that long-time love isn’t in my cards. “It’d be ok, really,” I tell myself, “You could become a nomad and be ‘Crazy Aunt Shaba with The Cats,’ it’s not so bad.”
Then I remember that cats are not all that into travel.
And that, really, 99% of the time I’m ridiculously happy.
And I apologize to my fiance.
And he tells me to look at the tv, which of course, has a big scary whale on it.
And I cringe, but know I deserve it.
And within a few hours things go back to normal.
And I fall asleep cuddled next to him.
And things go back to normal.
And have the most gorgeous sleep of my life.
And things go back to normal.
* ten points if you know what classic literary character uttered that dramatic phrase.
Jay Leno Ruined My Tuesday Nights October 6, 2009
Seriously.
I call foul.
I understood when ABC moved Grey’s from Sunday night to Thursday night. They wanted to compete with ER. Which drove me crazy because having to pick one hospital drama over another is blasphemy in my humble opinion. “Really?! Really?! You want me to CHOOSE between a show I’ve been watching since I was eight and one that has ultra cool music and water cooler appeal?! AHHH”
But, I got over it. And I chose Grey’s and the time slot was moved to 9pm and life was returned to normal. Back to back hospital drama I could totally get with.
And now, Jay Leno has successfully screwed me out of my carefully arranged weekly television viewing schedule.
Tuesdays at 10 is SUPPOSED to be SVU. It was a perfect end cap to an otherwise “meh” weeknight line up. I mean, 2 hours of The Biggest Loser is enjoyable but following it up with SVU was like having The Good Ice Cream after meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It made the night satisfying.
Now Chinsy McChin Chin is on EVERY NIGHT at 10pm and SVU is pushed to Wednesdays at 9 where, of course, it has to compete with the breakout hit….Glee.
I bet no one expected the choice between rapists and musical numbers to be so difficult.
Also, My Crush on Old Richard Gere-No Apologies October 5, 2009
I once read that the biggest mistake a blogger could make is falling victim to explaining away absences. Readers don’t really care why you were absent, they just want to know what’s going on with you now. And for god’s sake, don’t apologize for being gone. It’s boring, self-important, and unnecessary.
So, I won’t.
But it did make me think of a few other things I refuse to apologize for. Like my love of Raisin Bran. I’m enjoying a bowl presently and I really don’t care if it makes me an old person, I LOVE bran! And Raisins! And I will defend my enjoyment to any naysayers that dare to insult my cereal choices. Nom.
Another thing I won’t apologize for loving? Madonna. More specifically Madonna’s Immaculate Collection. Vogue is one of my favorite songs of all time. It was also the track the majority of my backyard gymnastics routines were choreographed to. And if Cherish, or Like a Prayer or, god help you, Holiday comes on the radio don’t you dare touch the dial. Make fun of me all you want, I won’t care. I’ll be busy singing into a hair brush and rocking a side pony tail.
A few other things I refuse to apologize for:
- Watching reality television
- Putting bbq sauce on a few too many things
- Allowing the laundry to reside in the baskets
- Not smiling at work (um, hello, I’m WORKING, not PLAYING)
- Breaking every What Not to Wear rule on errand days
- NEEDING to brush my teeth before bed, no matter what.
- Feeling superior to those “bakers” who buy their pie crusts
- Still wearing and loving a pair of light wash jeans
- The monthly bag of chocolate covered pretzels
- Untagging unflattering pictures on Facebook
- Simultaneously loving the Disney Princesses and realizing they are horrible female role models.
- Turning down the check out clerk who asks for a donation to some charity I’ve never heard of
- Loving Thursdays
- Not liking The Office, Will Farrell, or Tucker Max
- Happily enjoying twitter, tumblr, facebook, and 20sb.
What do you refuse to apologize for?
My Job Is More Uncomfortable Than Your Job September 14, 2009
Because I bet you don’t have to say the word “anal” an average of fifty times a day like moi’. You see, getting your pet’s anal glands emptied is a service my new veterinary employer offers for a minimal fee. And thus, I get to ask owners of all colors and creeds about their pet’s butt fluids. I also get to calculate dosages and dispense pet medication, which is both fun and scary. While I enjoy playing pharmacist without having to ever take Bio Chemistry, I’m paranoid I’m going to give out the wrong medication. I take an inappropriate amount of time behind the pharmacy counter, triple checking my math because I’m terrified I’ll give some puppy too strong a dosage
Such is a day in my life.
I’ve just realized that I can truthfully give the following response to inquiring, judgy people who ask, “So, what do you do?”
“Oh me? I work with a stripper*, talk about anuses, and dole out drugs.”
Shaba=WIN.
*Whom I adore and respect, just so we’re clear.
That Time I Was Fake Hit-On At Work August 31, 2009
So I’m working this dinky part time job at a discount retail store with a bunch of high school kids and retirees.
It’s not a career move or very challenging, except when I’m playing the role of cashier and I forget to actually look at what the little numbers on the money say, but it’s a job. It’s a minimum wage, give me some cash while I find something better, name tag required job.
On the plus side I get to play with the markdown machine a bunch and I enjoy it much more than I should. Maybe it’s a throwback to my favorite stickerbooks when I was little, but scanning and beeping and stickering stuff is my idea of a good time.
Anyway, I was marking down purses one day (which ALL Virginians seem call “pocket books,” not just the old ladies like in NEPA) and a tall, handsome black man walked up to me. He smiled, said something about me looking “fine,” and asked for my help. He lead my over to shoes and picked up two pairs of almost identical black sneakers.
“Which do you like better” he asked me.
I pointed to the ones on the right.
“I like those better.”
“Oh really? Well, see, I had to ask because I wanted to know what I should wear when I take you out.”
I admit, I probably blushed. I’ve never been hit on much and I doubt it will change anytime in the future since I’m sporting a very noticeable diamond on my left hand. So, of course I was enjoying the momentary attention, though had he continued with much persistence I would have called a manager.
Then he noticed my ring.
“Damn girl, you married?”
I always lie. It’s easier than saying “No, not yet. Just engaged.” And, I mean, for all general purposes I’m basically married so whatev.
“Yea. Sorry.”
“It’s ok. Damn, you are fine though. Well, in any case, here,” he pulls out a square sheet of paper from his pocket. It’s a flier to a restaurant, “take your husband out to this place one night. I’m the cook there. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
And then I realized, that I was not being hit on. I was being advertised to.
And suddenly I felt like the naive girl in Teen dramas who thinks The Jock who was doubled dogged dared to ask her is out is actually interested in her. It was kinda a blow to the self esteem.
But, then I went home and had Kevin Bacon sex with The Boy.
Esteem restored.
I Win.
Scenes from Co-Habitation* August 28, 2009
The Boy swears to me that in the above video Mary J Blige is saying she’s “constipated”
I, along with the rest of the free world, know she’s saying “custom fitted.”
He occasionally walks around the house singing “da da da da da constipated!” and mentioning that “That Constipated Woman” should eat the “Poop Yogurt” (Activia).
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Every Sunday we watch Bridezillas (because we watch a lot of MythBusters and Dirty Jobs when he holds the remote and there’s only so much science and dirt I can take) and he’s really great about it (I have yet to get him to watch Toddlers and Tiaras…he seems to draw the line at crazy southern pageant moms, “This is like watching child abuse for fun.”)
While we watch Bridezillas we’ll cuddle on the couch and make fun of the Crazy People and every week, without fail, he’ll hug me and say “You’re my ‘Zilla!”
It makes me all squishy feeling inside.
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A week ago I made cupcakes. Funfetti cupcakes with sprinkles and deliciousness. The Boy said, “What are we going to do with all the cupcakes? I’ll only have one or two.”
I said, “I’ll give them to the neighbors, I only want one or two too, so I’ll take the rest over tomorrow.”
The cupcakes have been gone since Wednesday.
The neighbors never got any.
We’re fat kids.
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This past week we went to see District Nine, rented “Knowing” On Demand, and watched “The Predator” last night.
After District Nine I spent an hour looking out the bedroom door and making sure the laundry basket and dresser which looks mysteriously like E.T. in the moonlight, did not come to life.
Now require The Boy to go upstairs and turn on the lights before I set foot on the stairs and I make him shut the bedroom door before we get in bed.
Because I’m eight years old and aliens freak me out more than axe murders and SVU-quality rapists COMBINED.
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Yesterday I misspoke and called my boobs my “butts.”
Today The Boy looked at my chest and told me shirt makes my butts look nice.
I will never hear the end of it.
*or alternately titled “Shut Up, I’ve Been Deprived Of The Internet For Eight Days And That Is Entirely Too Long For An Addict Like Myself”
Bridesmaid Cards and A Job Related Update August 6, 2009
I’d just like to say, I have great friends.
Yesterday, in the mail, I received two cards from two of my best girls.
They were accepting my “Will You Be My Bridesmaids” cards.
I made each one a little different, and mailed them out a week or so ago with the “Go Choose A Dress” paint samples. Soon after I got an excited phone call from one, and days later the above cards from two others. I’m getting so excited! I know it’s months and months away, but each little task I check off my list brings me closer to June. Catering is still proving to be a bitch, but I’m hopeful that I’ll get that taken care of this weekend while I whine to The Boy about it while we drive back to PA to see my family on Saturday and attend his cousin’s bridal shower on Sunday.
Changing gears a little bit, let me tell you all about where I am in The Great Job Hunt of 2009. I’m officially employed part time at a dinky little job that is menial and mind numbing but lets me play with the scan guns and price stickers. I’m also awaiting an offer from a higher paying part time job working with people I clicked with right off the bat. Finally, I dropped off a stack of paperwork to a local private school and will be entered into their substitute pool (apparently) provided my background check comes back clean. I thought I was applying for a full time position, and there’s a slight chance I could be called for an interview for that as well, but I’m not holding my breath.
Now it’s back to laundry and my daily 30 day shred.
Check tomorrow for our first Proposal Project submission!
Storms July 24, 2009
I have had one previous serious long-standing relationship before I met The Boy.
My experience disagreeing with significant others is laughable. Normally two or three disagreements have me running for the hills. I think the problem for me is I don’t have a real example of a healthy relationship, one that includes fighting and making up. Most of my family have these Fairytale Romance stories that make it incredibly difficult to hash out “Normal Healthy Relationship” qualities (I think I’ve seen two fights out of the entire extended family and they were quite tame). And, I’ve always been a little bit of a perfectionist and if my relationships fall short of my romantic comedy ambitions, I cut the cord. I say goodbye and move on because the world is full of men and I’ve never been the type to “need” a man to feel like my life is complete.
That’s what I’ve done in the past. That’s my status quo. So, obviously, when The Boy and I fight over ridiculous things like a snappy statement made at an ice cream shop (Him: Are you ready to go? Me: Why do we always move according to YOUR time line? *Grumble grumble* Him: WTF? Cue ridiculous hour long crappy-feeling fest) my mind immediately goes to We -Aren’t-Good-For-Each-Other-I-Should-Get-Out-Now-Before-We-Start-Putting-Down-Deposits Land. I start to doubt us. I get all worked up and my heart races and I feel like I’m walking through an aquarium filled with whales. I get all teary and I hate to talk through crying so I don’t say anything (which obviously doesn’t help the whole “communicating” thing) and The Boy is left shaking his head and talking me down off the ledge before I jump out of the best relationship I’ve ever been in.
Later, when we’re into the debriefing stage of our outbursts he reminds me how trivial these seemingly World-As-I-Know-It arguments are. And I know they are trivial, they’re like the five minute summer thunderstorms–heated and scary, but soon forgotten. We have a little tiff at an ice cream parlor and I’m rigging up my lifeboat. I’m ridiculous. I ask a lot of him, I make a lot of demands. I expect him to live up to the vision of him I create and a lot of the time he does. And he does it without complaining or asking much, if anything, of me. I’m a rather spoiled brat when it comes to relationships. I know nobody is perfect, so why do I demand it of my fiance? Eventually it will come back to bite me in the ass, I’ll tell him he’s not walking the right way (because I’ve over thought the fact that he’s a super fast walker and always ends up in front of me to mean that I’m somehow subordinate and, hello, I am NOT interested in following you like a puppy!) and he’ll smarten up and realize that this girl he wants to marry is a complete nut job and that he needs to run FAST, FAST AS YOU CAN*away from the crazy lady.
Every time we have a minor storm, it sucks. It throws off my balance and I hate it, but within a few hours we’re back to normal. We’re squishing each other on the couch and laughing and being ridiculously us. And, I do feel better about us. I kinda like the fact that our disagreements weigh so heavily on me. It’s much better that I care so strongly than I not care at all. The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. And while sometimes I may get so mad at him I want to scream, I’ve never once felt indifferent. When I stop to think about it, in the grand scheme of things our relationship is strong. It’s healthy. We don’t always agree. We don’t always have rainbows and butterflies, but we also never have screaming matches. We fight nice. We don’t let each other walk away. We talk it out, until we’re comfortable and we remind each other how much we care.
And I think, with each fight, we get better. We get stronger.
With each little storm we add another brick to our foundation.
So if a hurricane ever comes we’ll be ready.
We’ll be ready.
*Hi Fiona Apple fans.
Small Happy November 19, 2009
A house. A car. A 401k. A white picket fence. 2.5 children. A “worthwhile and fulfilling career.” A designer bag. A vacation fund. Organic groceries. Furniture that matches. A bi weekly manicure and on time hair appointments. A patio. A marriage. A wedding. A nursery. A before baby, before college, before gravity body.
Big Happy. Big, impossible, happy lies in the collection of these things. It’s hard not to get sucked into the list of things we self-impose on ourselves. This check list of happiness for our lives. Every check mark brings with it a momentary pleasure and then a void. What next? What can we concentrate on now? What do we set our sights on? What goals can we strive to achieve?
And while I want a good number of the things on that list, I don’t think I want that happy. I want Small Happy. Healthy happy. I want warm bath on a cool night happy. I want “novel you sink into” happy. I want warm cookies, baby laughter, fresh lilacs happy. I want money to pay the bills and keep me in six dollar wine happy. I want matinee movie happy. I want one expensive dinner a year with The Boy happy. I want I don’t hate my job and I get my weekends off happy. I want christmas newsletters about little league games and ballet recitals happy.
I want library card happy.
I want small, quiet, happy.
And to be content with it.