The Real Housewives of Seattle

If you're not into scripted, trashy reality TV shows, then we might not be able to get along because there are few things that I love more than a new episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. The southern hospitality mixed with the ghetto-fied Louis Vuitton bags is like a dream come true.

Kim Zolciak? I need to meet you and your wig, mostly because I want to know if your lips have been surgically enhanced or not.

Is Atlanta not your scene? Maybe The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, New York, Jersey or Miami get recorded on your DVR every week or maybe none of these shows meet your television standards. I'm honestly perplexed as to why Bravo has not included the city of Seattle in the mix.

As someone who has lived either in the heart of the city or the surrounding Seattle area for most of her life, I think I have a pretty good idea of what the housewives cast of Seattle would be like.

Let's meet them!

Skylar
As a former dot-com entrepenuer in the early 2000's, Skylar sold her online company for a cool 1.5 millions dollars and now lives in the perfect, pleasantville-esque, neighborhood of Magnolia with her young family. She opened a hot yoga studio last year in order to "have something to do" but her husband's salary at Boeing is enough to pay for her Range Rover, their kids' private school educations, and all the debt that her yoga studio is accumulating. Skylar considers herself to be very liberal and does her part to help the environment by bringing her own mug to Starbucks for her non-fat, no-whip, sugar-free, decaf mocha every morning.

Emma
Born and raised in the tiny bubble of Mercer Island (a.k.a. Millionaire Central), Emma had been living the high life. She met Skylar at University of Washington where they both majored in Communications and were sorority sisters at Tri Delta. Recently divorced, Emma has been down on her luck because she only receives forty grand a month in alimony, so she is a frontrunner in the local Occupy Wall Street movement here in Seattle. As an activist, Emma spends a lot of time baking cookies and creating care packages from her three-story, waterfront home on the Montlake Cut for her OWS brethren who stay outside in the cold night after night.

Maddie
After dropping out of college twice, Maddie spent her early twenties bar-hopping and cocktail waiting at various restaurants and clubs in the Belltown area hoping to land a rich man. While maxing her dad's credit card at the downtown Nordstrom last spring, a pro-football athlete for the Seattle Seahawks mistook her for a model, and the rest, they say, is history. Right now, she is planning her 650+ person wedding, but she has to hurry because there is already a baby on the way for the engaged couple!

Linda
If you're in need of some relaxing lamaze classes or you need to find an amazing midwife/doula, then you only need to give Linda a phone call. After having a traumatic hospital experience with her first child's birth, she has made it her goal in life to provide Seattle women with natural and therapeutic baby care, that is, for those who can afford her services and products. She invented and patented an eco-friendly baby sling, and has since opened three different birthing centers in the local area. Skylar and the expecting Maddie are just some of her many high-profile, big-bank-account clients.

Nicole
Originally from Spokane, Washington, Nicole is a gun-owning, deer-hunting, mountain-climbing Republican OB/GYN who is married to a Microsoft programmer. As an outspoken doctor who is confident in the power of medicine and science, Nicole has a hard time believing that the natural, pre-natal care that Linda provides is medically safe and sound. Even though they are complete opposites, Nicole is a close friend and neighbor to fellow housewife, Skylar, probably because they both drive Range Rovers without any gas-guzzling shame.

Maureen
While she has never been married and tells everyone that she is happy being single, Maureen is still looking for love in the Emerald City. Unfortunately for her, this liberal tattoo artist lives on Capitol Hill: the gayest, most-rainbow-lovin' neighborhood in the area. An avid bike rider and No-Shave-November participant, Maureen is not your typical housewife, but as a true Seattle native, her colorful personality is just what the other housewives need.

Will Maureen find love on this season of The Real Housewives of Seattle?

Will Maddie be able to have her grandiose, NFL-star-studded wedding before she has her baby?

Will Nicole convince Maddie that Linda's birthing center is not safe enough for her delivery?

Will Emma get her head out of her ass and realize how filthy rich she really is?

Stay tuned!

My Ho-Bag Was Retired in 2008

I want to explain the definition of a "ho-bag" because I don't want you to be confused with similar variations of the term. First of all, a "hobag" or "ho bag" (no dash - see that?) is a term usually used by women who are referring to other women, typically their female friends.

It's a way of saying, "Hey, you kiss and do hanky panky with a lot of different people, and I'm judging you, but it's OK, so let's go shopping."

Women are strange creatures, I know.

(And I also know that women should not call other women derogatory names because if men aren't allowed to say those things without being offensive, then how can it be OK for women to say it nicely to each other? And most of the time sometimes, we don't say those names very nicely anyway, but let's not get into the politics of this right now.)

So, a "ho-bag" is a noun too, but rather than referring to the woman herself, the word refers to her bag of tricks that keeps her prepared for, uh, slumber parties and similar one-night activities. Toothbrush, toothpaste, change of underwear and/or clothes, makeup, prescription medications, and a stick of deodorant are the basic essentials that are necessary for a lady who is staying the night elsewhere.

Maybe she has her bag packed because her boyfriend has space issues. Or, you know, they just started dating and she doesn't want to overwhelm him with the products.

Maybe it's packed because she is spending the weekend with a friend.

Maybe she is a gypsy.

Maybe she just likes to bed hop.

WHO KNOWS?! The reasons and possibilities for a woman to have a ho-bag are virtually endless, but I think it's obvious that the ho-bag is an essential morning-after recovery tool.

I have not been utilizing a ho-bag since 2008 because that is the year I started dating my then-boyfriend/now-husband. After being taken off the market officially in 2010, I have put my ho-bag in complete retirement.

When I spent the night at a friend's house this past weekend to have some much-needed girl time, it became very apparent that I am severely out of practice in the packing of a ho-bag.

How in the hell am I supposed to fit all these essentials in one bag?

How did I do this ever?

Have my beauty and hygiene routines become so out of hand that they require multiple bags?

Apparently, yes.

I brought FOUR different bags with me like a crazy bag lady. I had a bag for toiletries and makeup; another bag was for my clothes; a different bag was for some snacks because WHAT IS A SLUMBER PARTY WITHOUT SNACKS?

Not a party, that's what.

One of my friends really out-packed me in the ho-bag department. Not only did she have the one ho-bag with all of her overnight essentials, but she also managed to pack her laptop, camera, and chargers in there. She only had to make the one trip to and from the car with her one bag. I, on the other hand, looked like a disgruntled Christmas shopper with bags criss-crossing my body every which way.

I just needed a mini-van, and my look would have been complete.

I have never really noticed the different between being married and not being married because my husband and I have always been so happy together, but you guys, I cannot pack for shit anymore. For the first time ever, there was a great divide between me and my friends because of my inability to pack for one evening.

Is this why so many moms have cargo-like diaper bags?

Let Me Talk About Harry Potter, Thank You

I don't remember the exact day, and considering how important Harry Potter is to my life I really wish I could remember, but it was in the Autumn of My Sixth Grade Year-eth when I came across Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling tucked away on a bookshelf in the young adult section of Ye Olde School Library.

Hey, 13 years ago is a long time for us spritely folk.

My school was undergoing some serious budget cuts, so I was surprised to find a new book on the shelf, especially one that wasn't covered in a suspicious sticky substance resembling hot dog vomit. It looked extremely out of place with its shiny, colorful dust cover and clean white pages. I was instantly drawn to it, and I quickly grabbed it from the shelf before that one kid in my class licked it because, uh, he licked everything.

There's always one in every class.

Anyway.

You know how Moses found that burning bush in the desert and it was blindingly beautiful and frightening and he was in awe and God was there and was all, "What's up, Moses?" from His place on high? It was kind of like that for me, but I was in my school library and I didn't hear any voices.

Yet.

But seriously, people, this book changed my life. It was like Lumos! up in my head with my imagination running wild across the Hogwarts greens and Quidditch field. I don't think I put it down the entire weekend. I would say that that is a challenging feat for a 12 year old in the middle of the school sports season, but I was an extremely pale and nerdy kid with bad allergies and I was in band, so staying inside and reading a book was not very unusual for me.

Harry Potter isn't just about spells and charms and chocolate frogs though. It's about love and friendship and doing what is right all the time. I know that sounds OH SO TOTALLY BORING ZZZZZ AM I DROOLING, but it's not, I promise. It's easy for us to dismiss the HP series as a bunch of children's books, and while children have enjoyed reading this beloved story about their favorite wizard, these books aren't just for kids.

I re-read all seven tomes virtually every year, and I think I enjoy them more and more every time with my increasing accumulation of wisdom and life experience. If that makes me a little bit of a loser, then I don't want to know what your idea of winning is because YOU ARE SO COMPLETELY WRONG.

Supposedly, scientists and the celebrity fragrance makers have discovered that scents trigger memories and nostalgia and other mind stuff. So that bottle of Britney Spears' Curious that I have about 3.9 drops left inside of? Middle school rages through the VCR of my brain and I see myself in braces and itchy wool sweaters at top speed whenever I spritz some through the air. It's like a yearbook for my nose.

Well, the Harry Potter books? Totes do the same thing, but better because I don't have memories of my bad dental and frizzy hair, and no spritzing is involved.

Instead, I remember a kid who was extremely happy and book-ish and excited about libraries. Waiting for each additional book to be released was more difficult than waiting to open my presents on Christmas morning, and whenever I crack open the worn out spines, I have the same holiday rush of anticipation.

It doesn't matter that I know what's going to happen (SIRIUS DIES EVERY TIME). It doesn't matter that the last book was published in 2009, and Rowling swears that there are no sequels or Hermione spinoffs in the future (sob).

None of that matters because the books are like some of the dearest, oldest friends in my life. And while we learn that friends come and go, it is wonderful to know that there are seven of them that will always be there for you waiting on some shelf and ready to give you advice, make you laugh and cry, and remind you that love and loyalty are all you'll ever need.

OK, that might seem a little esoteric and, quite possibly, rather sad because books as friends?

Really, Shasta?

But I have never felt such a powerful connection to any particular story until then, and while many books have come close, the Harry Potter series will always be closest to my heart.

I didn't care and I still don't care if that's not very "cool" of me. I will gladly be a nerd or a geek or a dork or whatever for this series. If my daughter comes across a book that gives her happiness and makes her not care about being "cool" then I want her to love that story for her whole life as well.

Would it be wrong of me to re-read the series twice in one year? Because I'm thinking about it now.

I Was Not Ready to Rumble

Originally, this post started about gluten-free foods and how I hate them because I ate a slice of gluten-free cheese pizza last week, and I just about died on my way to the bathroom. As it turned out, though, I must have contracted a stomach bug because gluten-free foods might be disgusting, but they are not responsible for ripping open my digestive tract for the last six days.

But they are responsible for the longevity of this season's NBA lockout.

If you can't already tell, this post will be about bodily functions, so if you're squeamish or can't handle these kinds of discussions, then please enjoy another blog post at this time!

I really thought that pizza was what did me in because about two hours after lunch, I felt a rumble in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. An additional hour later, I was writhing on my office floor trying not to throw up on my pregnant boss. I was doing the nausea mambo - dry heaving and butt cheek clenching simultaneously.

I know that sounds like a good time to you weirdos out there, but I do not have such inclinations. I usually have a pretty strong stomach, and I have been known to eat entire cartons of ice cream without so much as a burp, so this was miserable.

Once we were done for the day, I bolted into my car and started to head home, but in my nausea-induced panic, I forgot that you can't get anywhere in a timely manner in the greater Puget Sound area between the hours of 4 and 7pm.

I spent the next hour suffering through my 10-mile drive home trying not to shit myself in the car. If you haven't had to endure this, then consider yourself lucky because that was definitely in the Top 5 Worst Experiences of my life. I was frantically calling everyone on my iPhone (Bluetooth - what's up!) trying to distract myself from the pain, but no one was answering and I WAS ABOUT TO POOP MY PANTS from the stress of it all.

When I finally made it home, let's just say that hell hath no fury like a simmering stomach of indigestion because what happened thereafter is probably illegal in most states. For the rest of that evening, I crawled between my bathroom and couch like some sort of broken ass snake. I was cursing that pizza like you would not believe.

Wednesday was no better, and while everyone was enjoying a work-provided turkey lunch, I was sipping on Gatorade like it was the best damn thing I ever sipped!

But it wasn't.

There was hope on Thanksgiving. After picking up my husband from the airport, we made a ham and some mashed potatoes, thanked the Pilgrims, and ate a late lunch. At this point, I was positive that the pizza was the culprit for my digestive troubles because I was cleared out by then! I was enjoying solid foods! The toilet rested quietly in the bathroom!

Then Friday happened, and I have a new reason to call this day Black Friday. It just was not a good day for me and the plumbing. It started with some paralyzing stomach cramps that rendered me immobile and clammy, and it ended with a lot of whining and Googling "death from stomach problems."

Saturday was more of the same. We tried our best to enjoy the long weekend and attempted some eating out and Christmas shopping, but even though I hydrated with water and ate only different varieties of breads, I still felt like there was a time bomb in the seat of my pants.

During one of my quests for an empty ladies restroom, I ran into a friend who was out shopping AND OH MY GOD, PEOPLE, I never wanted to see her less. I mean, she's great! We've known each other for years! We both hate our jobs! But I was thisclose to either throwing up on her shoes or exploding out of my jeans, so I really, really didn't have time for small talk.

I wish I could say that Sunday was better, but it wasn't. I spent most of the day alone because my dear husband went back on an airplane to his work, and while I loved, loved, loved having him home with me because he is the most wonderful man ever, it was really inconvenient running to the bathroom and worrying about whether or not he could hear everything that was happening in there.

Because he could.

Now I'm on Day Six of this ordeal, and I don't know how stomach bugs work - bacterial, viral, magical, I just don't know - but I'm pretty sure I'll never be the same after this.

And neither will my toilet.

A Disclaimer Would Have Been Helpful

Long story short (though I will inevitably make this long anyway), our lease runs out in March, and we are considering not renewing it. We really do like our apartment, and the location isn't that bad. The neighbors are quiet; we don't have a long commute; everything is set up just the way we like it; we are the perfect distance away from Seattle without making me feel like a country bumpkin.

But, you know, it could be better. We would like less traffic, more grass, and maybe a bigger closet so that I can hide more clothes, err, I mean, have more storage. So, with that, we're slowly scoping out some other living situations, and by "scoping" I mean that I am trolling real estate websites for houses that are way, way out of our budget.

"We don't need a 6-car garage and 3 master suites and a giant, swan fountain in the driveway, Shasta."

"But it's A MILLION DOLLARS LESS than when they first put it on the market!"

"I thought we were thinking about renting again since we might move out of state soon?"

"But this is obviously our dream house! You've been saying how much you want a garage!"

"We don't have six cars or six cars worth of stuff for this garage though!"

"Oh, well, I thought you liked swans."

"...."

What can I say? I love looking at crazy houses, and for the most part, I can see myself living in one, but I have a normal husband who deserves to live in an area where we aren't known as The Basket Cases With the Swan Fountain.

And you thought I couldn't compromise...

After browsing apartment complexes and living communities in the neighborhoods of Not Ghetto and No Vandalism, I found a potential place. The description was perfect. Like, seriously, read this:

"Life is about making big plans but keeping things simple. That's where we come in. [Our apartment community] has the comforts of the home you know and love without the maintenance or headaches of ownership."

That sounds bomb diggity, right? All of the reviews were like 5+++ stars with sprinkles on top, and the surrounding neighborhood is a great part of Washington where there aren't any meth labs or police officer shootings. We would be a bit further from work, but for granite countertops? I think I'll drive the extra 15 minutes.

I need to see it to believe it, though, so I decided to call their leasing office yesterday to schedule a viewing and, you know, get more information...and this is what happened:

"Hello, my name is Shasta, and I was just looking through your website, and I was wondering if you had any available units next March?"

"Why, yes, we will have some vacancies by then, and we can reserve a unit for you as early as January."

"That's great, and when can we schedule a viewing and discuss your policies?"

"Any time next week - we are available whenever, as I am sure you are too these days! Ha ha!"

"Uhhhh..well...no, I have a very busy work schedule, so do you have any morning or lunch openings on Monday or Tuesday?"

"You're still working at your age? Ha ha! That is very proactive of you! But yes, Monday at 8am we would be happy to meet with you."

"Wait, what do you mean at my age?"

"Most of our residents stopped working years and years ago, but there are still a few of you spritely ones with that gung ho spirit!"

I couldn't tell what she was talking about for the longest time, and her upbeat, cheery attitude and little laughs were starting to get to me. Maybe you're already picking up what the receptionist was laying down, but I was a little slow on the uptake.

Was this a rehabilitative center for homeless people or something?

Why don't these residents work?

Was this a Charles Manson type thing?

Would I have to be a sister wife?

Then, finally, the truth surfaced.... 

"So that we know what you and your husband are looking for, how would you describe yourselves? Outdoorsy and athletic or more meditative and artistic?"

"Uhhhmmmm, well, he's athletic...and I'm an aspiring writer of sorts..."

"OK, we can work with that! We offer tons of activities for active adults with different interests!"

Active...adults? What......?

Wait.

ACTIVE ADULTS? LIKE OLD PEOPLE? I'VE BEEN LOOKING AT APARTMENTS IN AN OLD PEOPLE COMMUNITY? OH MY GOD, WHAT THE WHAT?

I felt like I got slapped in the face by some crazy bitch with a bad weave and acrylic nails who I originally thought was from Beverly Hills but is more like Compton material once I got a good look at her roots. Unexpected and disillusioned.

What kind of old people community doesn't SAY that they are for the SENIOR POPULATION? Their
website has no stipulation about resident age - I just thought it was awesome that they offered knitting courses and shuffleboard game nights in their community areas! And while all of the pictures of the (fake actor) residents were all of a, uh, mature age, I didn't really think anything of it because paid models deserve to be of all ages, not just those young twiggy girls you see in magazines. I figured they weren't discriminating, that's all.

It probably wouldn't be such a bad deal being the youngest folks there. We would be doted on like grandchildren with fresh baked cookies and milk all the time. Maybe they even have a complimentary, lifetime supply of prune juice and those little butterscotch candies that grandmas always have in their carpet bags.

But I don't know if I could really live in a place where the primary reason residents leave is because they died.

A swan fountain doesn't seem so bad now.

Britney Spears is Turning the Big 3-0...How Old Does That Make You?

Listen, Brit Brit's birthday is on December 2nd. She hasn't invited me to her party yet, but I think that's because she's still on the Femme Fatale tour down in Mexico, and she knows I don't have time to renew my passport, so I forgive her.

I have been a vehement Britney fan ever since "...Baby One More Time" premiered on TRL.

Yes, TRL? Remember that show? I always wanted to call and vote for my favorite video ("TOXIC!") but I was usually in school still when we were supposed to cast our votes because, unlike MTV, I was on Pacific Standard Time, so imagine my disappointment whenever I came home to find Britney in the number two spot.

WHAT IF MY VOTE COULD HAVE BROUGHT HER TO NUMBER ONE, YOU KNOW?

WHAT IF SHE WAS COUNTING ON MY PHONE CALL?

WOULD MY VOTE HAVE SAVED HER FROM MEETING K-FED?

Now I'll never know...

I just can't believe she is turning 30. Like, THIRTY. When my brother turned 30, oh, I don't know, a hundred years ago, I was like, "Damn, you are old. Your life is over."

But I do not feel that this is the case for Brit Brit. She is getting better and better with age. Her weave has been looking really good and less janky, and whoever spray-tans (sprays tan? I don't know.) her has obviously concocted the perfect shade of orange to match that weave. Both of her little boys are super duper cute and look just like her. I don't see trucker hats or grizzly stubble or pathetic stints on Dancing With the Stars in their future, if you know what I mean.

My only issue is that I am a little hesitant about accepting this Jason Trawick guy as her official boyfriend because:

1) She didn't tell me about him prior to Making It Official, just like that one episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Kim ambushes her sister, Kyle, into meeting her ugly ass boyfriend, Ken, whom she has kept a secret FOR OVER A YEAR! I am so Kyle in this situation.

2) He is not Justin Timberlake.

Yes, I still have hope in my heart that the love between JT and Brit Brit will be resurrected because they should be together forever xoxo.

ALLEGEDLY, she cheated on him with some dancer guy who was not K-Fed, but we have no proof because that happened in 2001, and if we don't have Facebook pictures or an iPhone video of this unfair allegation, then we obviously can't fault Britney. Innocent until proven guilty.

For all of you JT fans who think that he is just "so much better" than Britney and that he "deserves more" and whatever, I just want to remind you of what he looked like back in the day:

Bleach fro, beige turtleneck, and lavender shades. Yeah.

If he is able to bounce back from that visual situation and be this "awesome" movie star circa now, then really, our girl Britney deserves another chance too.

I don't know, maybe she is too good for him, OK? I mean, if by being "too good" we mean the person who still creates pop music and dances her ass off and performs amazing concerts for her legions of MUSIC fans because her background is POP MUSIC and NOT STARRING IN MOVIES WITH MILA KUNIS, then Brit is the clear winner.

Clearly.

So, I'm definitely trying to give Jason the benefit of the doubt because he seems to make her happy and less crazy and JT is a Hollywood poser to the extreme (WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS, JUSTIN?) but if they ever got back together, I would be 100% supportive and I would be the first in line (online on iTunes?) to buy their inevitable joint-album that announces his return to music (finally!) and their future child of pop music royalty.

But until then, I guess I'll just have to wish our Brit Brit a very "Happy Birthday!" on December 2nd from my corner of the Internet.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

When I am in the mood to clean, I am a force to be reckoned with, no-joke, poker face.

Like, think of the Tasmanian Devil from those cartoons with the wiley wabbit and that Fudd guy, put my face on it, fill my hands with Windex, and BOOM, that's me. I become a tornado of sanitation and domesticity, and if cleanliess is godliness, then I am the Goddess of Detergent.

Don't mess with me when I'm cleaning beause I will throw your ass into my washing machine, line dry you by your hair, and bleach the shit right out of you.

I'm a Filipina, partial and proud, and that's just how we roll.

To say that I am critical when I walk into other people's homes is an understatement of epic proportions. When I walk into your house, I'm looking at the dust on your lampshades and the scratches that you didn't polish off your table, and people, I have x-ray vision, so I can see the unfolded clothes in your closet from the front door. You cannot hide your dirty secrets from me because I will find them, and we can chismis all you want, but I will still be able to see that coffee ring under your mug.

If I walk into your guest bathroom and you have that gunky spittle spattle on your mirror, I will clean it. I will look under your sink to grab that Lysol that better be there, and I will clean your bathroom. That splish splish splish that you hear going on around or near your toilet is me working that brush wand in a counter-clockwise motion to scrub that iron residue down your pipes.

You're welcome.

I would like to walk into a house and not be all Judgey-Mc-Judgester because I know you are all busy, and when you got one/two/three/ten kids and their friends over after school, I bet that it gets messy really quickly because they all got those sticky hands. I get it. I feel for you.

But when you walk into my home, and you tell me that it's too clean, I don't even know what you're saying. It's like you're not speaking English to me, and despite my vernacular of attitude going on here, I know my language, so you really have my head spinning on that one.

I've actually been told this many times before about my bedroom and then my dorm room and then my apartment and now my real, grown-up-married-woman home. When I was growing up with my Filipina mother, my friends and their moms told us the same exact damn thing too.

"It's like nobody lives here it's so clean!"

Bitch, are you kidding me? Of course somebody lives here! How else do you think it got so damn clean? Mice?

My mama scrubbed this floor with her perfectly manicured hands, fool! And she didn't even chip a nail!

Take off your goddamn, Payless shoes before you walk all over it, but keep your socks on so I can watch you slip and slide on the tile!

Here is a towel that can sit between you and my mama's pristine couch, and yes, it's a white motherfucking towel, that way I know how dirty your ass is when I bleach the hell out of it later!

That was me then, and that is still me now.

That is how I feel when you tell me that my home is too clean for you, and depending on how long it took me to vacuum that diamond pattern onto my carpet, I'll probably tell you how I feel because this? All this cleanliness you're gesturing at and complaining about took a lot of skill and practice, practice, practice! This is my Olympic sport, so you can look at my gold medal but you better not touch it.

Is my home like that all the time? No. My husband can vouch for that with certainty. I do not like to make the bed or wash the dishes right after breakfast/lunch/dinner, and if I have to take out the trash, it's like a journey to the great beyond.

But if I have guests coming over, the bed is fluffed and tight-cornered and the dishes will dance themselves into the cabinet all squeaky and sparkle-like and the trash? What trash? I don't have trash in my home. You trippin' girlfriend.

In my mind, it's not even a common courtesy to clean your house for guests, it's The Law. I don't mess around with the law because I don't have the time or money for a good lawyer since I'm so damn busy cleaning my bathrooms and making the bed. When I'm scrub-scrub-scrubbing, it's a solo effort. I don't want your help because you will do it wrong and leave water marks, so let me do it myself.

I know that this might seem crazy, but when I'm mopping the floor where my refridgerator just was because, yes, you bag of lazy bones, I moved that big ass thing to clean underneath it, I'm in the zone. That is my element. That is where I belong, and you better believe that I'm cleaning this place with my eyebrows drawn and my diamonds on because you have to look good to make good.

Maybe I'm succumbing to a sexist tradition against women, but I own it/live it/breathe it/love it because there is nothing better than smelling that lemony fresh scent of an immaculate household and watching your eyeballs bulge as you try to search for a speck of dust.

Because there ain't no dust in here. I killed it, and it went on the endangered species list, didn't you know?

Saying Goodbye...to Pants

No, this is not about me giving up on a daily wardrobe staple and going pants-less for the rest of my life.

However, that is not a half-bad idea.

Mental bookmark.

But back to pants and my farewell.

What I am saying goodbye to is a particular pair of jeans that I bought back in late 2007. These are my Skinny Jeans. If you are a woman, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and if you're a woman who doesn't know what I'm talking about, then you and I can't be friends because I'll throw my tampon-laden purse in your face if you order another salad in front of me because I'll be TOO BUSY EATING BREAD STICKS to say anything else.

Ladies, really? You have to know what Skinny Jeans are, and I'm not referring to those matchstick jegging situations or those pants that the hipster boys wear in crazy ass colors.

But let's get rid of those jeans too because men should not wear pants that might potentially castrate them.

Anyway, my Skinny Jeans represented hope for me - hope that my body could get back into them. I think every woman owns a pair of pants just like this. They are the pre-pregnancy jeans or the pre-mid-life crisis pants or the pre-love-chub jeans or whathaveyou jeans. They are the pants you want to fit into forever because you think they're going to do shit for you, like get you laid or erase your stretch marks, but NEWS FLASH, no pair of pants is going to do that for anyone.

There's even an episode of Sex and the City where Miranda is able to fit into her own Skinny Jeans after she lost all of the baby weight, and I know every woman who has watched that thought about her own pair of skinny jeans hiding in her closet. I saw that episode, and I was like, "Girl, those are nice jeans, but you don't need them."

No one needs these Skinny Jeans malingering in their closets.

When I tried on my Skinny Jeans in the dressing room, I was in the best shape of my life in terms of lung capacity and shit, but I absolutely hated my body. Every inch was too big. Where I curved, I wanted to be flat. Where I was already flat, I wanted to be invisible.

These jeans had potential to be great on me, or so I thought. They covered what I wanted covered and the little size tag validated all of my hard work, or so I thought.

They were already tight, and when I say tight, I mean like, they were plastic wrapped around my legs, but I bought them anyway because I wanted to lose more weight to fit into them.

Let me repeat the ludicrousness of that one more time: I BOUGHT PANTS THAT DIDN'T FIT SO I COULD LOSE WEIGHT AND FIT INTO THEM LATER.

Who. Does. That?

Women across this country that's who.

When I did fit into these jeans, it was like victory, but not really. I gave up bread and pasta and chocolate to fit into those pants, and I ran myself into the ground to make sure that zipper could zip up. I just couldn't let them not fit because not only were they $200 (WHY, SHASTA, WHY?!) but they also represented my youth/my peak/the best years of my life/etc, or so I thought.

What I've come to realize is that every year is the best year of my life, and I am never going to tap out at the top of the mountain, and I am too damn busy to worry about what the hell kind of pants I'm wearing. Life is a crazy ass uphill battle that is both fantastic and terrifying, and regardless of where you are in that battle, the way your ass looks in an overpriced pair of jeans IS NOT IMPORTANT.

I know that magazines and celebrities and witch doctors and those bitchy girls from high school promote these conflicting ideas about loving yourself and your natural figure while simultaneously wearing only pants in the 0-2 range, and it's confusing and hurtful and entirely unnecessary.

Ladies, that is some bad juju, and our womanly butts do not need that sort of energy.

Don't be friends with people who tell you should look a certain look and weigh a certain weight. Don't look at pictures of objectified models and want to look like them. Don't treat other women like objects just because they have some junk in the trunk. Don't buy a stupid article of clothing you can't fit into with a psycho ambition to become small enough in order to fit into it later because that is kray-kray.

Eat that extra cookie. Spend your money on clothes that fit. Exercise. Don't exercise. It's all good so long as you don't have a pair of pants holding you back.

I'm all about being healthy and living a balanced life and whatever, but sometimes, I want to eat a whole package of Double Stuf Oreos while watching episode after episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians because I have to see the hot mess that is Kim's 72-day marriage.

And then after that, I usually open a bag of chips because you know what? I got a man, he put a ring on it, and since he prefers my pants off anyway, who cares what the calorie count is on these damn chips?

And even if you don't got a man or a woman or whomever you like to sleep over, and your ring is rusty or broken or nonexistent, you should eat some chips too because no pair of jeans is worth your favorite snack.

I know there is a lot of capitalization and girl power going on here, but what I'm trying to communicate is sort of a big deal. It's one small step for womankind, but it's a giant leap of epic proportions for me and my butt.

That One Time I Read Romance Novels for 4 Months

I have an English degree. Sometimes, this is a cool thing, like when people ask if they need to add a comma somewhere (no) or what Shakespeare meant in Sonnet 116 (no idea) and, you know, that sort of English-major-y type stuff.

Most of the time, though, this is a trivial thing.

I majored in English because a bunch of books by a bunch of dead white guys seemed interesting to me, and I wanted to know what they had to say, and then I wanted to know what old white professors had to say about the dead white guys.

I might sound like I'm joking, but that is a fairly accurate summary of what happened during my four years of college.

I also majored in English because other than writing, I'm not very good at many other subjects. If I could have written more papers about math instead of doing math, I might have a different story to tell you, but I gave my TI-83 calculator to my brother during my senior year of high school (and I haven't seen it since), so allow me to feign ignorance when you talk to me about balancing my checkbook BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. NUMBERS? HUH?

Don't get me wrong - I loved being an English major! I didn't have class before 10am. I could find my books for fifty cents a pop at used bookstores. My classes never required full attendance (Mostly because I avoided the professors who took attendance....) so I spent a lot of class hours sleeping in my bed every quarter. Other than reading and writing papers, I didn't even have homework.

It was awesome.

When I actually went to class, I studied a lot of wonderful literature. John Milton, Anne Bradstreet, John Donne, and Sherman Alexie are some of my favorite writers, and had it not been for my major, I would never have picked up any of their works.

Reading English lit books day-in and day-out can take a toll on you, especially when you can't find the Cliff Notes versions, so I decided to stop taking English classes for a little bit. I wanted to read books that weren't assigned and discover authors who weren't Pulitzer prize winners. I started reading personal blogs more regularly. I picked up the occasional magazine and newspaper. I wanted to read fluff and enjoy reading fluffy stuff again.

That is when I decided to read romance novels, and those, my friends, are the fluffiest and some of the best damn books I've ever read.

When I say these books were of the romance variety, I'm talking, like, England regency era novels with, like, horse-drawn carriages and butlers and parasols and shit. There were rogue bachelors with family fortunes and scullery maids with hidden, royal lineage and a lot of cravats and corsets. The woman was always beautiful and free of love handles, and the man was dashing or daring or devilish, and they always ended up married after a lot of courting and riding in carriages and going to balls, etc.

I don't even know why I'm telling you this because that is sort of humiliating to admit, but then again, I am that girl who wrote a paper about sparkly vampires and spoke on that very same subject in front of a group of English literature smartypants-types in a giant auditorium. Had it not been for me, they never would have known about Edward Cullen and his impossibly perfect hair.

You're welcome, Stephenie Meyer.

But yeah, the one quarter that I decided to take a "break" from my English courses and register for a bunch of "fun" courses (SCI-FI FILM? NOT FUN! NOT FUN!) was the same quarter I reserved every Lisa Kleypas and Julia Quinn novel at my city library to balance my brain against the upcoming tide of Beowulf and Paradise Lost.

Despite what you might think of my college experience, I have never done drugs, so I don't know what that's like, but I think that the addictive quality that makes, uh, drugs addictive must have been sprinkled onto all of their books. I have read everything those women have ever written, and that's like 50 corset-ripping novels apiece because romance novelists? PROLIFIC TO THE NTH DEGREE!

Because there are so many romance novels and romance writers out there, I can see why The People Who Decide What is Good English Literature turn a blind eye toward them and ignore one of the biggest sections at any Barnes & Noble. There is just too much to read, and after awhile, all of the novels start to bleed together into one giant MidnightKissofStolenEmbracesForeverandAlwaysTheSequel. I get it.

But romance novels are happy, and they make for happier readers and happy people don't kill other people, so really what is so smutty and awful about reading a fluffy romance novel and believing that it is a legitimately good book?

Now that I'm all graduated and not around my  English major peers, I have the confidence to give a voice to my fellow romance novel aficionados and tell the rest of the world to not judge a book by its airbrushed, mustachioed and bicep-bulging cover because it is probably better than that one book about a bunch of random people going on a pilgrimmage to visit a shrine.

Actually, any book is probably better than The Cantebury Tales.

I have a degree in this sort of stuff, so I have the authority to make such claims.

It's November? And I'm Still 11 Years Old

I know. I know. Where have I been? What happened? Did I stop blogging? Did I die?

No. I'm not dead, and don't worry, this blog has already lasted longer than Kim Kardashian's fake marriage.

I was gone for most of October. It was a, uh, work thing, but it was also kind of like camping, and definitely a lot like prison (so I've heard from other people). I don't even want to get into it because the important thing is that I'm back, and my cats didn't kill anyone while I was away.

But what I really want to write about is something for the fifth grader that's still inside of me. Let us focus on the word "get" actually. When I was a wee fifth grader, my teacher was named Mrs. Keller. Her first name was Georgiana, and she was the first woman I had met with a pseudo-man-name.

Sure, there are female name counterparts to male names. Michael/Michelle, Alexander/Alexandria, Christopher/Christina - good examples. Even some unisex names are OK - like Riley or Morgan or Skylar.

But Georgiana? Are you kidding me? The female George name was not meant to happen.

My eleven year old self commented on this one day to a friend, and to reinforce my point, I thought of another horrible female/male name situation.

"Georgiana is a weird name, but at least it's not, like, Franktwina! Francis is terrible too, but Franktwina is AWFUL!"

"....My mom's name is Franktwina."

"Oh of course it is."

And on that day, Emily and I stopped being friends, not because she hated me for hatin' on her mama's name but because I couldn't look at her in the face anymore without seeing hot franks, Frankensteins, and the French franc floating around her head.

But this isn't about Mrs. Keller's name, this is about how she didn't understand the word "get" and my usage of it. Now, "get" is a verb about receiving something or coming into possession of something else. You get presents for Christmas. You got presents for Christmas. You are getting presents for Christmas. Etcetera, etcetera - it is verb-tastic.

You also can use the word "get" when you understand something that isn't physical, like you received knowledge or came into possession of the knowledge to understand a concept. Most people, aside from psycho English majors, don't think about the word "get" in this way because you JUST GET IT ALREADY and you don't need to put this shit into words!

You see what I mean? You guys getting it?

Mrs. Keller did not understand the word "get" in all its many definitions. We were writing these papers wherein we pretended to be children locked inside a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and we were supposed to communicate how awful it was and how much we wanted to escape and live like Americans.

It was kind of a messed up assignment that reinforced arrogant patriotism, but whatever.

I wrote a complicated, long-drawn escape plan in complicated code-speak that was way cool, and at the end of my letter, I wrote, "I hope you get my point and find the spotted dog."

By "spotted dog" I was referring to the opening that I would have cut out in the fence-lined perimeter of my fictional concentration camp.

Subtle.

I was marked down on my shining example of genius and asked to re-write it because, according to Mrs. Keller, I didn't use the word "get" correctly. In fact, my homework that night included writing the definition of "get" from the dictionary.

Also, I may have had to re-write my assignment because I wasn't grasping just how tough it must have been for a child in a concentration camp because, you know, I was a healthy American child in the 1990's. Since when does an eleven year old have the empathy to actualize the traumas that the Nazis inflicted on an entire population of people anyway? SINCE WHEN, MRS. KELLER?

I came home that night fuming, and in a teenage fashion that was well beyond my years, I locked myself up in my room to finish my damn homework. I re-wrote everything, and if you think I hate re-writes now, it's because of this first re-write in my young career.

Without a second glance, I turned my crappy story back into the "Additional Homework" box the next morning. After recess, I came back to my desk to find a smiley-face sticker on my paper and a note from Mrs. Keller that read:

I think you really got the story right this time!

...........

........

.....

...
She thought I really GOT the story right?

Thanks, Georgiana, for proving that fifth graders are smarter than their teachers.

Babies Are Nice From a Distance

I like the idea of human babies. They are small and precious and smell nice (sometimes) and they are very, very easy to love in a single heartbeat.

Or so I've been told.

Pretty much all of the women in my office area are pregnant with spawn. In fact, I'm in the minority because I'm not expecting a little bundle of joy in the next 2-7 months. This doesn't bother me because while I might not be glowing in the family way, at least my feet aren't swollen and I don't feel compelled to dry heave in the middle of meetings.

Actually, sometimes I do want to dry heave, but it has nothing to do with being hormonal and pregnant and everything to do with WHY AM I STILL IN THIS MEETING WHEN IT'S EIGHT O' CLOCK AT NIGHT?

The baby showers have already started, and if there is anything I love more than babies, it's probably baby-things like wee little socks and fuzzy blankets and unscented shampoo. When I'm browsing through these endless registries, I actually get a little wistful, and I wonder if it's time for us to have our own baby.

But then I remember the crying. and the poop. and the spit up. and the crying. crying. cryingcryingcrying. DID I MENTION THE CRYING?

Similarly, all of my "maternal instincts" are of the crazy Asian lady variety.

My kids will play the piano.

They will take their SAT prep classes every Saturday.

Bad grades? No drive!

I also don't know how to, uh, handle babies. The only real-life baby I've ever been around is my niece, and she is already 2.5 years of age, and I've seen her maybe five times in her life.

When she was a couple months old, she was thrust into my arms rather unexpectedly, and I thought I was holding her like the way babies on TV are held, but honestly, it was like holding a bomb. A giant bomb of gurgling poop ready to wail and scream at the bat of an eyelash.

I cannot handle that right now. I would lose my shit and need my own diaper. I think I would cry more than my baby.

And no one puts this baby in the corner.

Brain Dump

I know that I've been quiet on this blog lately, but I've just had way, way too much on my mind, and there is nothing worse than an overloaded brain. As my ninth grade English teacher once told me, too much on your mind just means you need to empty your cup. You know, because your brain is like a teacup and the knowledge is like tea that can flow in and out and WHATTHEFUCKWHOCARES that is the worst analogy ever, and why the hell did you give me a B in your class, Mr. Linn?

Anyway, here are some snippets of all the sort-of-connected anecdotes that have been running through my head these days:

Why can't I find an actual bottle of Taylor Swift's new perfume Wonderstruck? Don't even attack me about wanting to try yet another celebrity perfume because I. don't. care.

Have you seen this bottle on the internet or, perhaps, in real life? It's cute and sparkly with little gold charms, and when it comes to perfume, the packaging is, like, 89% of the product so GOOD JOB, TAYLOR SWIFT, I want to smell like you.

Speaking of celebrities, since when am I older than Selena Gomez and Taylor Lautner? Did the world stop turning or something? The whole point of famous people is for them to be older than the rest of us so that we will be comforted by the fact that they will die first, even though they have smoother skin, bouncier hair, whiter teeth, and tighter bodies.

Selena Gomez needs to kick the bucket. Now.

I actually decided that I am not aging anymore, at least not until I'm ready to be another year older. I mean, birthdays are so superfluous, and if age is supposed to be "just a number" then we need to start treating it like the meaningless piece of crap that it is.

So, yes, I'm still 23 this year.

Did anyone else buy "Jump" by Kris Kross from iTunes after watching the movie Friends With Benefits? Or maybe dust off the walkman and insert that cassette tape single?

Oh, you didn't see that movie because it had Justin Timberlake in it? I was thinking the same damn thing, but seeing him rap along to "wiggitywiggitywiggitywhack" was worth it.

But you saw the movie Drive with Ryan Goslin just because he was in The Notebook? What a double standard. I hope you fell asleep in the theater because I know I did.

My husband's car viciously attacked my thumbnail about four months ago, and only now is it long enough for me to paint it with nail polish. FrankenThumb is back in business and ready for that manicure.

You would think that after living in the Great Northwest for as long as I have that I would be used to the onslaught of autumn with its continual rain. If you think that, then you are very, very wrong. I will never get used to this dreariness or the bone chilling mist that greets me every morning. I don't know what the fuck Stephenie Meyer was thinking, but Twilight should not have been set in Washington. This place sucks. The Cullens could have sparkled in Las Vegas, Nevada and no one would have said a damn thing because everything is sparkle-tastic down there anyway.

Speaking of youth fantasty fiction, I am re-reading the Harry Potter novels, and I don't CARE WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THAT because Harry Potter is awesome and nothing will change my mind on this subject. I don't understand people who don't read the books or watch the movies (or, in my case, do both).

Like, what is your problem? Do you really hate magic that much? What a hater.

Don't even talk to me.

Thirteen on 9/11

Normally, I don't like to post about serious stuff because I try my best not to take myself too seriously, but 9/11 is not something I can make very funny, and honestly, I don't want to make it funny because it changed me and everyone I know.

When I was 13, I woke up at 7:00am right on the dot during the school week. My parents carpooled with another family, and that morning, Mrs. Fernando was supposed to pick me up. Usually, she was running a little late because she was both a teacher and a mother, so her mornings were very busy and frazzled. Sometimes we would make it to school by 8:00am, and sometimes her son and I would be racing the clock to make it to Mr. Canfield's door before he locked it for first period.

On September 11, 2001, Mrs. Fernando and her son, were already waiting outside my house by 7:45am. The car was turned off. When I got in and said good morning, they didn't acknowledge me right away. I was confused by their behavior, and then I realized the radio was on and they were listening very intently, but it wasn't music we were listening to - someone was crying on the radio.

They were talking about the people of New York City in between sobs.

Mrs. Fernando turned around and asked me if I heard what had happened in the news. I didn't watch TV in the mornings, and my parents were always at work by the time I woke up, so I didn't have contact with the outside world until I stepped out of my house. I had no clue what she was talking about.

I felt stupid, a feeling I usually didn't experience that early in the morning, and she told me very slowly and kindly that the Twin Towers in New York City were attacked by two hijacked American airplanes.

I looked over at her son, Kevin, in the front seat, and he simply nodded and asked his mom if we still had to go to school that day. I didn't understand why we wouldn't go to school that day because I still didn't believe that this had happened slash/ was happening still slash/ would affect us for the rest of our lives slash/ be a moment in history that we would never forget.

At some point, we went to school. I don't remember the drive or anything until we got to school. Instead of dropping us off at the curb, Mrs. Fernando parked and walked us over to the main parking lot where students, teachers, and parents were already gathering.

First period had started by then, but no one was inside of the buildings.

I found my best friend and her mom standing in the middle of the crowd. They were waiting for me, and before I could stop it from happening, her mom pulled me into a hug.

I did not realize that I needed a hug until that moment.

It was a weird day. Our principal made it clear that anyone who wished to leave that day to be home with their families could do so. Some students left with their parents immediately because they were so upset. Though, I'm not sure if "they" were the students or the parents.

I don't think it matters.

My parents did not pick me up early, nor did I call them from the school secretary's phone like so many of my classmates did. I wanted to go to school that Tuesday because I didn't understand what was happening, and school was something I could understand.

At some point that day, I realized that my dad might leave because of these events. I knew my dad had an office, computer-type job, but he wore an Army uniform every day, and that was his job first. I don't remember when I realized that exactly, but until my dad got out of the Army a few years later, I was scared that he would leave and be part of this war like so many other parents and brothers and sisters and friends and sons and daughters were a part of already.

Other than the first few hours of that morning, I don't remember how the day progressed.

I don't remember if it was my mom or Mr. LaRose who picked me up from school that afternoon.

I don't remember if my teachers gave me homework on that very dark and different day.

I don't remember if my parents talked to me about it all, or if I even talked to anyone about it all. It was actually the first day I skipped in my journal because I didn't know how or what to write about at 13 years old.

What I do remember, though, is feeling insanely proud to be an American. Even though our country had just been attacked, and we were experiencing a national crisis, there was no other place I'd rather be.

Even now, 10 years later, our country might be trillions of dollars in debt and we might still be engaged in one of the most exhausting and confusing wars we've ever faced, there is still no other country I'd rather live in because this is the greatest country in the world.

I know some people would disagree with me. Many Americans would even disagree with me, but I don't care. I've witnessed so many people give up their native citizenships so that they can fight this war as Americans that it would be an insult to their dedication (and their memory for those who have lost their lives) if I thought anything less of my nation.

On 9/11, I felt like I was 13 going on infinity because it was the first time in my life where I was connected to millions of other Americans in a more profound way than I could fathom. Regardless of what has happened since or what will happen later, we are all still connected.

VS Pajama Tirade

(It might not start out this way, but I swear I have no idea what I'm talking about in this post. Evidence of sleep deprivation.)

I wear Victoria's Secret PINK brand, and normally, I am not ashamed to admit that even though I've been out of school for longer than I like to admit, and I've since upgraded the size of my butt. This goes without saying, but just so we're clear: I am not one of those teenage girls who runs around town with PINK in neon-puke-colored letters emblazoned on her ass.

You need more than a four-letter word to cover the size of that geographic space, OK?

But anyway, I wear it. You can't beat their reasonably priced cotton underwear and lacy thongs - all of which are actually quite comfortable. (Cheapskate side note: Remember when the running deal was 5 pairs of underwear for only TWENTY dollars? What is with this $25.50 business, VS? Just make it a round 30 already...recessions...shiiiit.)

Only recently have I started wearing legitimate pajamas to sleep. Like the flannel-jersey-knit-variety situations that come in various patterns of plaids, pinstripes, and polar bears. Growing up, I just dropped dead when I felt like sleeping. It didn't matter what I was wearing. I don't know how many times I fell asleep with jeans and shoes on still.

It didn't matter if there was still makeup on my face (And there usually wasn't any because I wasn't allowed to wear makeup until I was 18. Sephora has since made a fortune in my attempt to regain those lost years of cosmetic experimentation.)

It didn't matter if I it was 8pm or 3am. When I was sleepy, I slept.

Nowadays? I can't just sleep like that. I have to prepare for sleep. There is a bedtime ritual that I do my best to abide by because if something feels off, I will not sleep well, and you can ask my husband to verify this: I am my absolute worst when I am sleep-deprived.

It's a cranky, terrible ordeal that involves a lot of crying on my end and lot of bewilderment on his part.

I can't have any lights on whatsoever. Bedside lamp? Forget it. Open curtains with moonlight? Blinding. The little red dot on the television screen that lets you know it is turned off? Waaay too bright.

I must brush my teeth, remove all my makeup, wash my face, and tweeze/groom my eyebrows prior to bedtime. This can take up to 30 minutes if I'm feeling particularly indulgent after a long, hard day at work (which seem to be occurring in a higher frequency...more on that later) and it's a very Clinique-oriented process. I'm a big fan of all overnight masks and spot treatments.

There are a couple more things I could mention, but I don't want to be too boring honest. The most essential element, however, is comfortable pajamas. They can't be ugly. They must be soft. They have to be very comfortable and loose, but I can't look like a total homeless person (I'm married after all. Ahem.)

Until recently, Victoria's Secret PINK hasn't led me astray into itchy, ghastly pajama lady territory. Bright colors and cute patterns in breathable fabrics? Awesome! If you're not sure what to get me for my birthday (September 22nd....) or Christmas, you can always rely on pajamas in some shade of pink.

For real.

But for the love of soft skin, skip the rhinestones. Who thought that glued-on, plastic crystal thingies would be GREAT on sleepwear? Tyra Banks, was that you? If so, WHAT THE FUCK?

Rhinestones are hideous. I hate them. They are like glitter, but worse. At least with glitter, you don't really know that it's on you because it bears no weight or particular shape. But rhinestones? They are like hard rocks of annoying-ness that pucker your pajamas in odd places and leave you feeling bedazzled in a bad way. They also fall off at the drop of a hat so you're left with glue circles on your pajamas and rhinestones all up in your lint tray.

I didn't know that this last pair of pajama pants that I purchased had rhinestones on them because they were hidden very sneakily in the pant cuffs. I put them on and noticed that something was amiss near my ankles, and lo and behold, I found the rhinestones! This has happened to me before, so I thought I had found the one set of PJ's in the PINK collection that didn't have rhinestones or other plastic decorations glued onto them, but alas, I was foiled.

But for the last time, damnit. I'm severing my relationship with VS PINK as of today. This pushed me over the edge!

//End Tirade

Things I Say to My Husband

I'm a little crazy. I know that might be hard to pick up on here on the interwebz, but it's a fact.

My husband married me knowing this. He knows that I do not possess a filter between my brain and mouth, and that I like to debate the uses of the word racket v racquet, and that I can't sleep at night knowing the toothpaste cap has not been screwed back onto the tube.

He also knows that I won't use towels that aren't white unless it's at the gym, and I can't function through life without Double Stuf Oreos.

Living with all that and then some? That is love, people.

Sometimes, I'm a little surprised he can put up with me, but then I remember all of the endearing things I say to him throughout our days together. Here are some gems:

Exhibit A (usually said while combing my hair):

"I think my hair has stopped growing. Where's a ruler?"

Exhibit B (daily question):

"Where did I put that thing I had in my purse yesterday that had the number to the place I need to go to next week about the whatever?"

Exhibit C (weekends for us):

"Let's go see a movie."

OK, what movie?

"I don't know. You pick."

But you suggested the movies.

"But I asked you first."

You didn't ask. You said let's go see a movie.

"No, I asked, let's go see a movieEEEeeE? Like as a question."

Captain America.

"Pick a different one."

Exhibit D (when he proposed):

"Remember that one time you asked me to marry you, and I said, "Are you serious?" ha ha."

Exhibit E (that time-of-the-month comment):

"Would you still find me attractive if I stopped shaving my legs? Because I'm considering this."

Exhibit F (since I started couponing):

"If I stopped working at the office, I would have all the time I need to coupon and save us more money."

But then we wouldn't have as much money in the first place.

"But I would coupon the shit out of those fruit snacks you like."

Exhibit G (...every 4 days):

"Should I take a shower? It's been 4 days."


Exhibit H (this is why we don't do chores together):

"Why didn't you put the towels away?"

I did. They're in the bathroom.

"They aren't folded though.

I did fold them!

"But they aren't folded like hotel towels."

We don't live in a hotel.

"...why not?"

These Are My Pet Cats

I can't believe that I have yet to mention my cats in any of my blogging endeavors. My husband and I spend many, many hours a week cleaning up after their incessant disasters, so they are a daily fixture in my life and inspire a lot of angst-like feelings that are best expressed in free-form prose.

Or in a lot of curse words.

I guess I'm subconsciously trying to forget about them whenever I can because they are thismuch closer to pushing me over the edge into the realm of Psycho Crazy Cat Lady (not to be confused with my Psycho Coupon Lady moniker), and I need the break from their feline festitivies.

Without further ado, these are my insanely stupid cute cats:

Luna Lovegood (She rarely sleeps, so this isn't the most accurate photograph of her daily behavior.)

Taken with my ghetto 3G iPhone.

Yes, I named her after a character in the Harry Potter series. No, I don't care what you think about that.

We knew she was the one for us because she took a big, stinky cat poop right there inside the adoption center in front of the whole world for anyone to see. She was all, "What now, bitch? You gon' scoop that shit or what?" and we still brought her home with us.

She doesn't like to be ignored, and when you get home, she will let you know just how much she missed you by jumping onto your lower leg with her claws in full force. Her tail is the most fascinating thing EVER, and she spends a lot of time chasing and grooming it...little weird. She is our "special" one.

Hermione Granger (This might have been before she jumped onto my face.)

She is pretty cute.

Yes, there is a Harry Potter theme going on here. No, I didn't consider Twilight character names at any point.

Originally, we just wanted the one kitten, but the horrors of single kitten syndrome (or whatever it's called) convinced us that bringing another one home would be a good idea for their health and happiness and for most of our furniture. (We were wrong about the furniture bit.)

Hermione is definitely the sweeter of the two. She rubs her head against your legs, and she meows ever so softly for food, like "Oh, hi, would you mind sparing me a few kibbles?" But she is the mastermind behind all of their death-defying antics.

In order to deter our cats from clawing their way up the curtains or from disassembling the couch with their expert digging abilities, we squirt them with water. If you think that is animal cruelty, you must have had a pet rock and know nothing about animals, especially cats. They are conniving and vindictive creatures. When they want revenge, they get it, so I don't think a squirt of water to the face is that bad.

When faced with the squirt bottle, Hermione will immediately stop what she is doing and scurry away when she sees you grab it. She knows you mean business, and while she likes water, she doesn't like her precious, kitten fur to get wet.

Luna, on the other hand, will try her best to swat the squirt bottle out of your hand, and when you do squeeze the trigger, GAME ON. You best be prepared for a fight to the death where you will end up in human flesh ribbons on the floor.

For the most part, they are cute and cuddly (from a distance). Whenever they fall asleep, I will lightly pet the tops of their sleepy heads so that it feels like I have sweet kittens and not furry monster felines. It's a coping mechanism.

They still haven't figured out how high they can jump exactly, so I will often see them jump onto the top of a chair or the countertop, lose their bearings, and slide off in a fury of claws. It's pretty hilarious...until I see that they also ripped off the top of the upholstery to our couch.

Sigh.

An Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,

I was clipping coupons the other morning, and I came across a $1.00-off 5 boxes of Hamburger Helper. This is a really good deal because they've been marked down to just ninety cents a box, and there is also a store coupon that we can use to double stack on the deal. I'm pretty sure the store coupon is for a $1.50-off/5 boxes which would make it just forty cents a box, and if we don't get a leg up on this deal now, we'll be left with all the gross flavors at the store.

Like Beef Stoganoff.

But OK, let me be more specific, the Hamburger Helper coupon reminded me of all the nights you used to cook dinner for just me and you. Your son was already grown up and out of the house, and Mom didn't eat American food, so at least six nights out of the seven, it was just us at the dinner table.

Remember when we used to have to fend for ourselves like that back then? Or, rather, when you had to fend for the both of us because I wasn't tall enough to reach the microwave until I was 14. Those were the days. Now that I'm trying to do the whole dinner thing in my own kitchen (where I can reach all the appliances...) I keep thinking about the dinner culture at our house.

I always appreciated the fact that dinner wasn't at a set time. Like, ever. We ate when we were hungry, and if that was around dinner time, then so be it. I also liked the fact that dinner was up to us based on our mood. Spaghetti? No? OK, how about sandwiches? Cool.

(But damn, Dad, did you really need to add green peas to EVERYTHING? I haven't eaten those since I moved out. Seriously.)

When I would go over to one of my friend's houses, I would always be thrown off by their so-called "dinner times."

You mean, dinner is at a specified time every night?

Yeah. My mom never misses a meal.

And that is when you must eat dinner?

Yeah. It's dinner time.

But what if you're not hungry?

But it's time for dinner.

What if you don't want tuna casserole?

But that's what's for dinner.

Why don't I have a choice? What are you, the Crazy Dinner Gestapo?!

I don't think you can come over anymore.

Not only did it feel like I was intruding on some awkward scheduled family time, but these people never seemed to have cookies in the pantry. Freaks.

I know family magazines and child rearing books and parenty-type people go on and on about the benefits of family dinners made from wholesome, natural foods and using that time to bond and decompress and yadda yadda, but that's just not how we roll in our clan.

Word up to my sistahs and bruthas.

Except I only have one brother, and he is as white as a box of baking soda.

But anyway, I get it now. I don't know how you managed to come home after 12+ hours at work and cook us Hamburger Helper on the stove without burning it to pieces. How did you even remember to defrost the hamburger that morning? I always forget to do that shit, and I have to defrost it in the microwave like a rookie every time.

I also really appreciated the fact that you didn't care if I didn't eat dinner because I was a colicky kid, and sometimes, I didn't feel like eating dinner. Now, here I am, night after night, forcing myself to eat dinner at my own house when I'm not feeling it and wondering what is my problem? Why I can't I be chill like my dad and NOT force feed this meal into my stomach?

It's funny, you know, when I first got to college, I was so pumped to be out of the house. I was like "WOO! IMMA MAKE MAH OWN RULEZ!" but then that feeling disappeared when I went to the main campus cafeteria at 8:30pm to find out it was closed because I'm only allowed to eat dinner from 5 to 7pm here in this Dinner Gestapo from HELL.

Then I went back to my stupid little dorm and my drug-addicted roommate (Remember her? I lived with her for about 2 months. That was interesting.) would be making pot brownies in our microwave, and I was starving because my dad wasn't around to heat up some Hamburger Helper with me.

I never told you that I missed those days because I wanted to (and still want to) seem cool and independent, and while I am cool and independent, I still miss eating dinner with you whenever we felt like eating dinner.

Good times, homie.

Sincerely,
Your Daughter

Last Night, I had a Dream about Halle Berry

If you think this is about some kind of bizarre lesbian fantasy, how dare you! My blog has class, you fiend!

Maybe the sudden death of Amy Winehouse, the totally expected surprising engagement breakup between Kat Von D and Jesse James, the yawn-worthy wedding of Nick Lachey and Vanessa Minnillo, and Lindsay Lohan’s renewed friendship with Paris Hilton has left my mind spinning into such a tornado of celebrity gossip that I can’t tell what’s real and what’s fake anymore.

Because obviously everything I read on Perez Hilton and X17Online is real.

I had a truly horrific dream though. Here's the summary: Halle Berry was driving in Los Angeles with her little daughter, Nahla, in the front passenger seat and she got T-boned by a semi-truck, and they died.

$#@*&%;!!!

What in the…? Who dreams that?

I feel like such a bad person for having this dream that I'm almost ashamed to write about it, but then I remember I don't have a Catholic shame complex, and I'm over it.

Even so, I was panic-stricken and completely distraught in my dream (evidence that I'm a good person). I was so upset that the photographers were taking detailed pictures of the accident that I was ready to bust all of their cameras with the dream sledge hammer in my dream backpack. There was a huge crowd, and we were all crying, and some people even bought flowers to display at the crash site in their memory.

It was horrible, and I woke up very startled and immediately ran an inventory in my head of all the over-the-counter medicine that I've taken in the last 24 hours to decide if this was a drug-induced dream. 

Negative.

I searched the headlines on my iPhone to make sure it really was a dream, and even now, I’m a little shaken up about it because I don't know what this means. Usually, I can figure out why I'm dreaming of particular things.

Flying dreams? I need to pee.

Dreams about food? I'm on a diet.

Crazy rapist dreams? I watched True Blood.

I’m not even that much of a Halle Berry fan, so I don't know where this is coming from at all. She would not have been my first pick for Storm in the X-Men trilogy, you know? But that doesn’t mean she deserves a dream death!

What is going on here? Is my mind that saturated with celebrity gossip that I'm starting make shit up in my sleep?


....


Perhaps I'm becoming a clairvoyant, and I need to warn Halle Berry about driving! Maybe suggest a driving accident prevention course or something. I need to research baby car seats and tell her what I think is best for baby Nahla, you know, depending on their type of vehicle. 

Obviously I have to get in touch with Halle Berry and save her from this perilous fate! God, why didn't I see this from the beginning? I have been wasting so much time! 

HALLE BERRY, LET ME HELP YOU!


(Is this how stalking begins?)

I Wrote a Paper About Twilight Once...

While most of my peers wrote about Harper Lee or Sylvia Plath and their various works, I decided to write about sparkly vampires. It was a legimiate college research paper with citations and shit for English 493: American Women Writers. Fifteen pages, people.

Yeah.

I bashed Stephenie Meyer for ruining the American vampire archetype that so many better writers worked hard to create before her. I don't even know what that means anymore, but it was a good paper that saved my grade from all the damage I did for skipping class every week. (Sorry, Dr. Roberts. It wasn't you - it was me my alarm clock.)

But I love the Twilight series. Like, no-joke-don't-hate-you-best-step-off-right-now variety of love.

I started reading Twilight in 2008 when my husband was just my new boyfriend. I'm not sure how or why I picked the book up, but I did not put it down until Edward and Bella went to the prom because, you know, that's the end of the first book.

It was like I got slapped in the face because there I was, an English literature major, having just read a glorified romance novel about virginal vampires complete with cheesy dialogue, and totally loving it. If my professors and peers could have seen me then, I'm pretty sure they would have disenrolled me from the English program right away.

Vampires? Werewolves? Long, drawn out descriptions about clothes and hair? I'm in!

As soon as I finished the first book, I actually insisted that my then-boyfriend-now-husband take me to the nearest Barnes & Noble (in Billings, Montana...let me tell you what, that was quite a scavenger hunt) so that I could buy New Moon and Eclipse because I needed to read them, like, yesterday.

I'm not sure what he was thinking, but I must have looked crazed and dangerous enough to convince him to take me to the bookstore right then and there. It's the same look I have when I am bringing Double Stuf Oreos home from the grocery store.

It means I'm fucking serious.

OK, yeah, the books are little on the fluffy side, and there are some smutty moments here and there, but what's the crime in that? I know that I hated on Stephenie Meyer for being the Worst Writer Ever in a 15-page-long research paper, but I'm really not one to judge considering how frequently I throw unnecessary adjectives and adverbs around this place.

I honestly wrote a paper about Twilight because it gave me an excuse to re-read the series, and I didn't read any of the books on the reading list for that course. Woops.

Team Jacob.

The Day I Broke the Machine...

I have already confessed my coupon habit here, but I need to make another confession now. OK, here it goes: I broke a fucking self-checkout register last week.

Who does that? Only homeless people and me. Awesome.

Let's rewind to last Tuesday when my boss and I left the office early. You see, I don't really like my job, but I do have a great boss because 1) She loves to shop with coupons too, and 2) She can be easily persuaded to leave the office for anything coupon-related.

Bless her heart.

Anyway, we both had rather long lists of items we wanted to scope out at the store to see if they were priced low enough for us to utilize our personal coupon treasuries. As fortune would have it, pretty much everything was on sale that day. It was kind of a great day for any coupon mavens out there.

Except for me.

Now, we have a very particular strategy when we are ready to checkout and purchase our groceries. Rather than going to an actual cashier's lane, we prefer to head to the big self-checkout lanes where there isn't an item limit, nor is there any person (like a cashier or a bagger) to judge us about the weird shit we are buying.

When one of us has finished scanning all of our items and begins scanning the coupons, the other person will start bagging the groceries and putting them back in the cart. It's total teamwork. Because she is my boss, I always let her scan her items first because that is what underlings do, right? On that particular day, it wasn't like I had 4 things of ice cream (ON SALE!) melting in my cart or anything - except I did. But whatever, it's the price I pay for having a cool enough boss to let me coupon to my heart's content.

As I started scanning my items through the little red-light-laser-thingy, I noticed the machine was a little sluggish, but no big deal. I would just give it a moment or two in between scans, and everything seemed to be going well until I got to the eggs.

The motherfucking eggs.

Not only would the eggs not scan, but the entire screen froze. It was completely and utterly frozen at $164.80. I hadn't even scanned my coupons yet! My stomach dropped because there was already another coupon-crazy woman waiting in my lane, and my groceries were already bagged and inside my cart.

At this point, I started to sweat profusely, and as I waved down the self-checkout lane cashier lady assistant person, I felt my non-waterproof mascara pooling under my eyes.

"Yes, ma'am, how can I help you?"

"The machine seems to be frozen. I'm not sure what happened."

"Oh, you can pay the total at my computer right back there."

"OK, great, but, um, I have some coupons I'd like to use."

"That shouldn't be a problem. How many do you have?"

"Um, a lot."

"Like how many?"

"Like this entire gallon-size Ziploc bag."

"...oh."

Quite a few people were looking in my direction by now.  I was definitely panicking a little bit because my boss clearly wanted to leave since all her groceries were scanned, discounted, and paid for, and there were now distinct murmurs of my idiocy floating around the store.

I'm just not the person who random strangers hate on in public, you know? I always keep my voice down when I'm talking on my cell phone. I don't have screaming children hanging off of me in the dressing room. I don't cut people in line (Except that one time at a McDonald's drive-thru window, but he was a punk.) Why did that all have to change for me? Why did I have to become the cheap ass crazy lady who broke the machine at the grocery store?!

"Well, ma'am, we can wait for the machine to re-boot, and then re-scan all of your items."

"Um, and how long will that take?"

"About 30 minutes."

"30 MINUTES?!? What are my other options?"

"You can go to a cashier's lane, and she'll adjust the total."

Even though I really didn't want to do that, I went to a cashier's lane because holy crap, I just spent 3 hours shopping for all this shit, there was no way I was coming home without it. This new cashier was not happy to see me in the slightest, and when I showed her the coupons that I would like to use, I'm pretty sure she fainted and died on the inside.

With all that said and done, I saved $96.50 on my groceries, but I don't think I'm going back to that store any time soon. I will also never use a self-checkout lane again.

Ever.

I would rather face the humiliation of having my cashier witness my purchase of 14 boxes of tampons than break another one of those pieces of crap registers.

Needless to say, the first thing I did when I got home was insert my face into my melted carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream because that is how adults handle this sort of shit.

I Live Here, But You Aren't Invited, Except on the Internet...Part One

I spend a lot of time looking through old Domino magazines, home design books, and DIY websites (I love YHL. LOVE!) to muster up some inspiration for our own apartment.

Now, don't get me wrong, we don't live in a super swanky place by any means. I hear the garbage truck every morning, and I'm pretty sure there is some kind of stray cat fighting ring going on in the night.

But, this is our first home together, even though we have been married for over a year. I know, that's weird, right? We know. Even still, I really wanted to make our temporary apartment a nice place to be inside of because that is what wives do.

Just call me June Cleaver.

Now, I know we won't live here forever (less than a year, ha) but I don't think that means we should live amongst boxes of stuff and rooms full of unpacked crap for the entire time. I need shiny, pretty things to look at.

Master Bedroom...the bed is usually NEVERrrRR made.

This is my favorite room because it's primarily mine, and it is extremely relaxing to be in what with the dark furniture, subtle colors, and the best mattress EVER. Seriously, our mattress is heaven.

The TV cabinet to the left was a BITCH to carry up the stairs (according to my husband). And yes, I left some random shit under those pictures. Woops.

While I do share the room with my husband, of course, I have a wonderful vanity while he has, uh, a lamp. And no, our room is not usually this yellow tinted or blurry. I only have a little point and shoot camera, and the "natural" light bulbs in all of our lamps just came off as super yellow. Our room is definitely soft whites, blues, and dark woods and other fancy design words.

Yes, that is a little penguin pillow pet in our bed. He is my BFF.

I guess I like this room so much because it's not kiddish or juvenile in any way (minus the penguin). It's like real grown-ups actually live here. Ha ha ha, oh optical illusions.

I know it might seem like I totally did not let my husband pick anything out, and that's because I totally did not let him pick anything out. He doesn't have bad taste or anything; I just have better taste, so everything is now our taste now. It wasn't even a compromise; just an acceptance of fact.

This is my side of the room. That sweet little vanity? A gift from my husband because he knows I have a Sephora habit.

 There is still a long way to go when it comes to finishing up the room. Here is list that I have come up with so far:

1) Figure out what to hang over the bed - a headboard? a painting? arrangement of interesting art?
2) Find a better way/place for us to drop our work clothes - a storage ottoman? a mini dresser? a chair?
3) Hide the TV/cable/lamp cords. I HATE seeing cords.

Next time, I'll show you the living room where most of these posts are written from because I still have yet to find a desk that I like! Yeah, I have some very particular criteria about desks, so that search may never end.