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.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, September 9, 2011
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 tooboring 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
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
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
Thursday, August 11, 2011
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?"
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?"
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
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 insanelystupid cute cats:
Luna Lovegood (She rarely sleeps, so this isn't the most accurate photograph of her daily behavior.)
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.)
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.
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
Luna Lovegood (She rarely sleeps, so this isn't the most accurate photograph of her daily behavior.)
 |
| Taken with my ghetto 3G iPhone. |
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. |
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.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
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
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
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
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.
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.
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?)
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?)
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