I Fought the '09 Swiney and Other Minor Accomplishments

Even though I hate year-end wrap ups, even I am not immune to the charm of kissing the old year goodbye by recapping the highlights.

* I fought the Swiney, and I won: Late October had me up to my elbows in haunted house work, and then had the haunted house staff up to their bloody limbs in H1N1. Over the course of the week, 80 percent of the crew was hit by the Swiney. But with Airborne and surgical masks in hand, we still got the job done. Way to pirate up, staff:)

* Grad school? Eh, why not: Three years after getting my undergrad diploma sent to me in the mail, I decided I couldn't live with myself if I didn't get a Master's in something. Library Science, it is. Hopefully the degree (which I actually start in January) teaches me...something.

* A little less wise: After putting it off for the better part of a decade, I caved and had my impacted wisdom teeth pulled. Good drugs plus a diet of mashed potatoes and ice cream? Can I do it again in 2010?

* Crotchety crochet: About two weeks before Christmas, I got the genius idea to teach myself to crochet. Which was a perfect compliment to my mad jewelry-making skills that I have been tediously putting to use...look for more new projects and items up on my other blog sometime this winter.

* It's only a quarter-life crisis if you buy a new car: This year, I got my nose pierced, chopped off my hair into a fab mod 'do and put purple streaks in it, completely re-vamped my wardrobe and re-evaluated what I want my sense of style to be. For me, it was a big deal. Let's see if I can keep being a little bit fabulous on a daily basis in 2010... I also bought a new car.

* Life has approved your friend request: I made a conscious effort this year to both be a better friend and require better from my friends. I've been blessed to discover some wonderful people in my life, both old friends and new, and I've learned that if a friendship is so fragile that it can't stay standing when the boat is rocked, perhaps it's not strong enough to withstand the test of time, either.

Auld lang syne, everyone. Stay safe and have a happy 2010.

Roll, (Yule) Tide, Roll

Christmas spirit doesn't really settle in to our house until we've viewed our favorite Yuletide classic. No, not It's A Wonderful Life.
The holiday season starts at our house with A Very Brady Christmas.
Don't get me wrong. I love me some Christmas movies - and TV specials, and cartoons, etc. I even count White Christmas among my favorite movies of all time, regardless of the season. And it's not like I am a particularly big Brady Bunch fan, because I'm not. I just really, really dig AVBC.
Fortunately for me, I married a man who both understands and appreciates this. Unfortunately for me, the rest of the world still has yet to discover the magic. The movie is not available on DVD, and unless you catch it when it airs during the holiday season (which is usually at an absurd time like 9 a.m. on a Wednesday or something), you, too, will miss the enchantment of one of America's greatest TV families, reuniting in the spirit of the season (unless you DVR it and save it for a year....just a suggestion).
After the annual Brady bash, I can fully delve into the shopping and wrapping and other Xmas-y festivities.

So do yourself a favor - check in with Carol, Mike and the gang. See what old Alice is up to. Get a glimpse of Peter (before he went off and married that Joliet model). Pay particular attention to his questionable choice of nightwear...Yule be glad you did:)

What Is It About Birthdays, Anyway?

It's 10:30 p.m. the night before my birthday. It's a Friday. I don't work tomorrow. And yet, here I sit at home, Lola happily laid out at my feet. Should I be out celebrating the big 2-6? The hubbs is out catching a flick with some friends, and I hear we have a big day planned tomorrow, but for now I think I'm actually pretty content to be here with my thoughts.
I spend a lot of time worrying about things, like money, work, etc. It's just my nature to be always prepared for the worst. But this year, I know I have a lot to be grateful for on this birthday.
Maybe I don't lead the kind of lifestyle that the average 20-something would long for, with mortgage payments taking precedent over fun weekend trips, and Friday nights at home with the dog are preferable to crazy nights bar or club hopping.
But I look around me at my beautiful home, see the early birthday wishes posted by friends on Facebook, feel a cold, wet nose prodding my foot and know that I am blessed.

May 26 be just as good as 25. Cheers.

More Like Octo-blur

I love me some October. You'd be hard-pressed to find someone who enjoys Halloween, or really all fall activities, as much as I do. But as much as I enjoy it, by November 1 I am usually wiped out.
For the past few years, I've been helping to coordinate and run a haunted house through my church. Wait, don't think that it's one of those "We'll scare you straight into the arms of Jesus" haunted houses, full of burning gays, botched abortions and the like.
We're an actual just-for-fun, fundraising haunted house. With *real* haunted house things, like mazes and dark rooms and pop-outs, oh my!
A lot of people are surprised that we do this, but we're a pretty liberal group, and all of the money raised goes to missions in Kentucky and Honduras. Plus, there's a bunch of repressed theater folk, and whenever we repressed theater folk come together, magic happens.
So, prep for the haunted house usually starts in July or August, with a meeting to pick a theme and start throwing around ideas for a script, which I then write up for our first September meeting. After that, it seems like mere hours later it's Halloween, and we've spent weeks building and creating and costuming and writing. But it's always a blast.
So, long story short, I've been a bit, uh, absent in my blogging, but truthfully, I doubt anyone has noticed:)

The Spinning Nail File of Doom

The hubbs and I, hardly impervious to the charm of As Seen On TV! labels, recently bought one of those spinning pet nail trimmers to use with our squirming, grooming-phobic dog. Lola was suspicious of it, but then, she's pretty much afraid of everything, so we didn't push. We put it out a couple times, like the instructions recommend, letting her sniff at it. But the second we turned the thing on, she was up the stairs and under the bed in a whirl of white fur.

So this morning, tired of her falcon-like claws tearing up my legs, arms and sofa, I sneakily got out the trimmer and coated it in peanut butter, hoping her love of snacks would outweigh her fear of the machine. She circled it a few times, then cautiously lapped all the peanut butter off. I put some more on there, and turned it on. She hesitated for a moment, then went to town on the stuff, licking the trimmer clean. The buzzing must have thrown her off though, because when all of the peanut butter was gone, she started barking like crazy. For like 10 minutes.

I get her calmed down, pick her up and *gently* grab one of her paws to trim. She lashed out with her back claws so hard, I dropped her on to the couch. She tore off like a mad woman out of the living room, and I had to seek some antiseptic help for the wounds she left on me.

Next time, I'm sending her to the groomer.

Totally Awkward Tuesday

For those of you not familiar with TAT, pay a visit to Tova's great blog for the rules.

Hello, my name is Alissa, and I'm awkward. Not just once a week, not on the rare occasion, I pretty much snafu my way through life. And that's okay, because mishaps make for the best stories...

In honor of my youngest sister starting high school this month, today's TAT moment is a flashback to MY first day of high school.

Going from my small grade school to the large high school was a big jump. I am the oldest in my family, so I had no big sibling to shadow around. My first day was basically the first *real* time I had exploring. Which wouldn't have been that bad if the layout of the school wasn't like something out of an M.C. Escher painting. The trickiest part is that on the second floor, a wing suddenly dead ends. You have to either go up or down the stairs to get to the rest of the classrooms with a 200 number.

I was flustered from trying to get from one end of the school to the other in the allotted time, and it was almost the end of the day. I was heading into what should have been a freshman honors biology class. As the bell rings, I duck into the classroom, take the first seat I could find and look around. Some of the faces looked familiar, but I didn't really recognize anyone, which is strange because there aren't THAT many honors kids, and I had been in classes with mostly the same people all day. The teacher stands and welcomes everyone to ... sophomore chemistry. Oops. Blushing furiously, I tried to nonchalantly head to the door, when the teacher stops me. My cheeks were hot pink as I, mumbling, told him I thought I was in the wrong class. I heard someone mutter "freshman" under their breath, and I could feel several sets of eyes rolling. I was off by one number on the classrooms. I should have been next door.

To make matters worse, as I slunk in the next room, obviously late because I got lost, trying to slump in the first seat. But this teacher had alphabetical ordered seating, and he had to "place" me where I belonged. I think he was pissed that I was wasting his time, because for the rest of the year, he blatantly mispronounced my name EVERY DAY while taking attendance. I corrected him for the first few weeks, but then gave up. I'm sure that now, more than a decade later, people still think my name is something entirely different.

Anyone else got any first-day-of-school TATs to share?

The One Where I Find Eternal Happiness

Covet. I didn't just want the patchwork Coach tote. I needed it. I stalked it.

I remember the first time I saw it, about a year ago, encased in a glass display to keep the grubby-handed general masses away from it. With its smooth suede, funky animal prints and classic-but-hip shape, I was smitten instantly. I looked. I longed. I ... moved on. The $500 price tag was more than an obstacle. My first car was worth less than that bag.

My *ahem* fiscal conservativeness is fairly well known (read: I'm cheap), but even if I wasn't always budget-conscious, I don't think I could justify that kind of money for a bag. Heck, I didn't pay that much for my (designer) wedding dress.

So I watched and waited, scouring the Coach factory outlet store seasonally, hoping it would be marked down to a reasonable price. Mind you, at this point in my life, the most I'd ever paid for a purse was $30.

Fast forward to a month ago. After another disappointing trip to the local outlet mall, we stopped at designer discount store. There, hanging on the rack was my bag. Same shape, same design, not a replica, not a knock off, MY BAG. Authentic Coach. The price was dramatically less than it originally had been, but still more than I could justify. So, after clutching it adoringly for a couple of minutes (probably much to the chagrin of the sales clerk), I hung it up, waved goodbye and moved on.

Then, a couple weeks ago, I had a HIGHLY successful garage sale. After using a portion of the funds to replace the dining room table that we sold, I had about a little bit left over. I planned the ways to spend it - send more on my student loan? Maybe a nice dinner with the hubby? Save it for a rainy day? In the back of my mind, though, the plan was hatching. A couple days later, I *accidentally* stopped at a different branch of the discount store, thinking it would be a sign if the bag was here, in a different location, almost a month later. I knew, going in there, that if that bag was on the rack, it was leaving with me. Responsibility and rationale be damned! I was going to splurge. On something for myself. That I'd wanted for almost a year.

It was with a quiet reverence that I carried it to the register. It was with a gentle force that the clerk had to pry it from my hands to scan the tag. And it was with sheer euphoria that I carried it to my car.

When I got home, I kind of dreaded the hubb's reaction, seeing as I rib him pretty incessantly about his video game/fantasy sports spending. I took the purse out of its protective dust bag.
Me: Isn't it beautiful? *breathes in smell*
Hubbs: It's okay...please tell me you didn't pay $500 for that bag.
Me: Of course not. I'm obsessed, not stupid.

I lovingly placed the bag back in its protective home, stashing it high up in my closet, so not to provide temptation for the dog, or the dust, or, well, anything destructive-like.

It took me two weeks to work up the nerve to carry it. For one, I was afraid. What would people think? It's sad, but I hoped others would think it is a knock-off, rather than think me the sort to spend that kind of money on a bag. We have several friends who are going through rough times with unemployment right now. I just bought a new car, we have a wonderful house...I didn't want to be the sort to rub my good fortune in my friends' faces.

Plus, what would I do if something happened to it?

But once I carried it out, the world just looked brighter. I felt thinner. And more fabulous. To me, it feels like I'm carrying a piece of artwork on my arm. It's beautiful, and luxurious, and it reminds me that life is too short to only think about the bad. Sometimes, it's okay to buy something just because you want it. And if it's got leopard print somewhere on it, even better.

Selling Out

Every year (apparently) my subdivision has a garage sale. They do all the advertising, and anyone who wants to have a sale can piggyback on, instead of having to get permits, make signs, etc. themselves. Plus, since it's a multi-home sale, it's bound to grab more action.

Last year (less than two months after we moved into the new place, mind you), I seriously toyed with the idea of setting up shop, only to find that the date was a Saturday I was working at my real job. I pushed the notion aside, thinking that I'd do it this year.

One of the bad things about my homeowners' association is that they have a problem with getting information out in a ...timely matter. So, I got the notice about this year's sale date about 8 days before the sale. To confound matters further, I got the notice in the mail the same day I had my wisdom teeth out, meaning, I was not in the right mind when I thought a week was more than enough time to throw a garage sale together.

By "throw" I mean strategically place, price and design a layout that would rival many of the second-hand shops I frequent, with specially printed signs, a beverage stand and leather fanny pack that I have proudly sported on several occasions (including, but not limited to, a bar crawl celebrating college graduation).

We brought in a decent amount, got rid of the dining room table we hated and cleaned out some other random junk we had either accumulated since the move or brought with us. And I had several bags of clothes, shoes, purses, etc. I wanted to get rid of (if only to make room for new...more about that in another post).

Bottom line - I'd totally do it again. Maybe not while recovering from surgery, maybe not with the assistance of codeine, but certainly again.

Drugs, Not Hugs

So for about a decade I had been putting off getting my wisdom teeth pulled, a) because of my deep-rooted hatred of the dentist, b) my fear of getting sick from anesthesia and c) my lack of quality insurance to cover the costs. But I had to bite the bullet finally and get all four taken out recently.

I've never been put to sleep for anything before, but I tell you what, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. It helped that my anesthesiologist reminded me of a flamboyant Tony Shaloub, and he let me talk myself to sleep about my distaste for McDonald's (they gave me happy gas first, and apparently it went to work right away).

Next thing I know, I'm being awakened by a blond nurse I'd never seen before, and I've got a craving for Twinkies and a mouth full of cotton. I think I may have been in the best mood of my life.

My mom was cracking up at me the whole ride home. She has video on her phone of me trying to tell her of my "fabulous" anesthesiologist (which she has shown to every person she has seen since that day). I was numb, drooly and bleeding pretty profusely, but boy, was I jolly. I even tried to go in Walgreens with her to pick up my pain meds.
Me, grunting: Ont oo in, oo.
Mom: You want to go it?
Me: *nods*
Mom: You sure about that? *flips down visor mirror*
Me, noting the streaks of blood and drool ALL OVER MY FACE: Uhhh, uh uh.
Mom: Didn't think so.

Spent the rest of the weekend popping pain meds and eating mashed potatoes and milkshakes. Not a bad life, I tell you. Didn't get sick, didn't really swell up, wasn't the worst weekend I've ever had by far.

Totally Awkward Tuesday

-Or-

Reason #1,378 I do not have a career in athletics

I've been lurking around Tova Darling's fabulous blog for a while now, but have never done a TAT.

The awkwardness of this one is still a little bit fresh...but at least the wounds have healed.

So, the hubbs and I are constantly trying to relive our childhoods in some manner or other, be it in hunting for all the marshmallows in a box of cereal or quoting "Saved by the Bell" with the vigor usually reserved for religious texts. So when the hubbs suggested we go go-carting one fine spring day, I jumped at the chance...having never actually BEEN go-carting. We headed to this entertainment-mecca type establishment (that I clearly remember as being far less tacky) and took our turns on the course. It was a blast, and riding the high of a successful outing, I suggested we hit up the batting cages, too.

Perhaps I should not have been so literal in my wording.

The hubbs takes his turn in the slow-pitch first, doing pretty well. In typical me fashion, I get the idea that it can't possibly be that hard, so I pop my tokens in the machine, take what I think is perfect batting stance, smile at the six-year-old in the cage next to me, and get ready to swing. First one, miss. Not surprising. I gear up for pitch two. I see the ball. I tense up, ready to swing...and am blinded by white-hot pain in my hand. You know, the sort of pain that kind of makes you think you're going to puke a little bit? Before any more balls could whiz past my face, I step out of the cage, trying to keep my composure and NOT cry in front of the first-graders waiting in line.

Turns out, the slow speed of the ball probably saved my hand. As it were, the ball busted up my fabulous diamond engagement ring, bruised the bone of a couple fingers and somehow caused a decent amount of bleeding. A trip to the ER and two more to the jewelry store, and all was fine. But it was certainly the last time I'll try my hand at the cages.

Because It Was a Dentist's Favorite Time...

So I've basically been avoiding my old dentist for a year now, after he not-so-subtly issued a warning that I'd better have my wisdom teeth out before I saw him again. Since I'm basically terrified to do that whole thing, I figured it would just be easier to find a new dentist. Which I was totally going to get around to. Eventually.

But eventually came yesterday when I busted a tooth on seedless watermelon (nope, you read that right). After weighing the options of leaving it or going to see a dentist, I begrudgingly checked out the insurance Web site to find a guy who could get me in soon-ish.

I rank going to the dentist somewhere just above having my eyelids stapled shut on my list of things I dread, so I was already out of sorts when I went in before work today. After the initial x-rays, exam, small talk, etc., New Dentist tells me the same thing Old Dentist did. Wisdom teeth need to make like a chain and get yanked. He (nicely) helped me set up a date and time with an oral surgeon, patted me on the head and sent me on my way.

I was tweaking about having to go under the knife, or the wrench, or whatever the heck it is that they pull teeth with, so I stopped at my friendly local chain grocer to pick up some comfort food. Keep in mind it is barely 9 a.m., I'm decked out in my not-so-finest sweats and the only make-up I'm wearing is leftover eye smudges from the night before. I select my (albeit soft) sweets, and head to the cashier, who is the real-life twin to the Simpsons' Ned Flanders. I expected a Hi-Diddly-Oh from this guy. But he must have gotten his TV-alter-ego wires crossed, because Faux Flanders had the personality of horny used car salesman.

FF: Hey, I've been waiting all day for a beautiful girl to get in my line.
Me: It's still early, don't give up yet.

I go to punch in my debit card pin, and he notices the rings I'm sporting on good ol' lefty.

FF: Aw, man, why is it that all the hot girls are married?
Me: Maybe because you are a skeevy 50-something Jewel cashier?
Yeah, I wish. Instead, I grabbed my receipt and bolted. Dental pain and skeevy dudes are far too much to handle before 10 a.m.

Meltdown - Literally

Riddle: What's black and blue and red all over?

Answer: This kid right here.

Friday I had the unfortunate luck of spending all day lounging by the pool. I know, poor me. I toted Lola along for the day, and instead of hanging out in the shade, she decided she wanted to be up on the deck where all the people were. Seeing as it was something like 212 degrees, I wanted to keep her cool, so I thought she'd enjoy a swim...except Lola hates water. Apparently, all water. Even when it is cool and refreshing. So though she's only 30 pounds of pup, she reacted with the force of a Bull Mastiff, and now the front of my legs look like I've been beaten by a very large bat. So there's the black and blue. As for the red...

As a member of Pasty White Girls anonymous, I was diligent about the SPF allllll day...until I fell asleep for 2o minutes. Since no one bothered to wake me up, the back side of my body got a very lobster-esque hue. Hurts like the dickens, too.

I think it's safe to say I'm a hot mess at the moment. Sucks. But at least I've got some color(s)...

Hot, sticky and not-so-sweet...

Sweat + dog hair = disaster.

We've been without AC for four days. The hottest four days of the year. It's been pretty bad, and not only for the Hubbs and I. Poor Lola has been shedding like crazy, and any hair that puffs off of her lands on one of us. The people at Jewel yesterday must have thought I was some sort of lapdog-werewolf hybrid when I ran in for groceries.

Hoping the problem can be fixed soon :(

Worse than getting rained on

The Hubbs and I are parents to an adorable dog, who we admittedly treat more like a child. Her name is Lola (go ahead, you closet Fanilow, start singing, you know you want to), and other than being an affectionate, shedding ball of love, she's also petrified of water. We learned early on to send her to a groomer for baths, to take her out before rain starts to fall, and that a squirt bottle is the best weapon against bad behavior.

A few weeks ago, we took her to a dog park by our house. She ran, she frolicked, she...got peed on pretty extensively by a Great Dane.

Trust me, yellow urine really stands out on a white coat. And the stupid thing kept standing there.

We tried to hose her off in the parking lot with one of the various bottles of water I always have around (not fun) and then took her home to give her a real bath.

I'm hoping the scratches heal eventually.

Double-blogging

So if you are interested in cool jewelry, or if you want to see what I do with my time, check out my other blog, Bejeweled Bliss. It's kind of a work in progress, and I'm still working on my etsy store, but there's a link there.

Anyway, enough shameless promotion for today.

No longer newlyweds

The Hubbs and I celebrated the big 1 year this past weekend. This means several things:
1. If we split, I don't have to return any of my gifts, including my cherry red Kitchen-Aid that has basically become a status symbol/paperweight due to my lack of kitchen prowess.
2. Those of you who owe us wedding presents (and we know who you are) are now officially late and will have a 10 percent fee added to your gift (clock's ticking, people).
3. No one can ooh and ahh at us, asking us how it feels to be married (answer: depending on the day, either freakin' cool or what-have-I-done?).

Happy Anniversary, dollface. Here's to six or seven more:)

Awkward conversation = my specialty

I stopped in to get a hot cup o' joe and my local coffee spot the other day, and while I was chatting with the barista/owner, an older guy sitting at one of the tables compliments my fabulous engagement ring.

Strange Dude: That's a really sparkly ring.
Me: Thanks. I like it.
SD: Looks a lot like the one I gave my girlfriend last week, the one that she gave back to me.
Me: *Giggles nervously*

The conversation spiraled downward from there, and I soon found out things they'd only shared with their therapist (which I also heard all about).

One more reason perhaps I should give up coffee?

Public servant = no ears?

So I'm sitting at work today, hanging out at the reference desk, and all is fairly quiet. Usually, there's the sound of kids shrieking, but it's oddly silent, except for these two moms who are sitting at one of the little mini-tables, loudly discussing the ins and outs of their sex lives. Graphically.

Because even though I'm three feet away, I have no ears.

If I wanted to hear the pitter-patter of little feet...

I'd hire a dwarf to tap dance in my kitchen.

Seriously. The hubbs and I are nearing the 1-year mark, and I still haven't figured out the best response to the "when are you guys going to have children?" question.

Normally, I'll demurely smile, bat my eyes and reply, "When it becomes socially acceptable for me to leave the little hellspawn in a crate while I am at work."

That typically ends the conversation pretty quickly.

Not that I have anything against kids. I mean, geez, I work around them all day long. Usually, I don't end up wanting to punch them in the face. Nor do I harbor any ill-will to people who have had children. I mean, my parents did, and I'm pretty glad of that.

But there are some folks who just assume you can't wait to start poppin' 'em out as soon as the ring is on your finger. And to them I say: Eff that. I would much rather spend my money on shoes and fancy coffee beverages than diapers and formula, and old-ladyish as my cardigans are, I'd really rather they not be covered in baby regurgitation.

So to answer their question, we will have a child when the Hubbs can carry it, nourish it, and most importantly, deliver it. As soon as we win the lottery and can hire a full-time nursery staff. As soon as infants start being born potty trained. As soon I can trade a baby for Manolos. As soon as they make babies with "off" buttons, and as soon as I stop wanting to throw wadded up balls of wrapping paper at ever gurgling babe I see.

Spring-ish cleaning

Shopping with my 21-year-old, 5-foot-8 and 110-pound sister is often more like a lesson in self-esteem destruction than a fun afternoon out. But every now and again, I subject myself to the resulting self-loathing, in hopes that either her skinniness, her height or her style will rub off on me.

The good thing about hitting the shops with Dear Sister is that I usually get pretty good advice about what to try. The bad thing is no matter what it is, I either end up looking like a pregnant milkmaid, an out-of-work stripper or the ultimate in soccer mom chic, and resort to buying my 35th cardigan or my 410th plain tank top.

Keeping this in mind, I was more than a little apprehensive when Dear Sister offered to help me clean out my closet.

Dear Sister: Come on, it will be fun. And you will look like you are 26 again.
Me: I'm only 25.
DS: But you're still pushing 30.

I tried on every. article. of. clothing. I. owned.

DS: Um, you need to get rid of all the Mr. Rogers sweaters. You look like a librarian.

M: I am a librarian.

DS: But you don't have to look like it.

It was an uphill battle, and needless to say, I now have a half-empty closet. At least she couldn't touch my shoes.

Marriage is compromise #1

This is a sign that I need to brush up my cooking skills.

Hubbs: What should we have for dinner, macaroni and cheese or pizza rolls?

Me: I was just going to have cereal.

Hubbs: Ooh, let's have Golden Grahams.

Me: Done.

The sad part is, it is not the first time we had this conversation. This week. And it's only Wednesday.

Nostalgia? Maybe just gas...

Every Thursday afternoon, this guy comes in toting a camera and notepad, and observant lady that I am, I eventually figured out that he was coming into the library to do his "Man on the Street"-type assignment for a local paper.

For you non-newspaper types, that means your editor gives you a completely lame and idiotic fascinating and compelling question to ask randoms on the street. Typically, this is greeted with dismissal, annoyance and one time even blatant rage (story for another time...).

Wistfully, I remembered my days as a reporter, the rush of seeing my bylines, of scooping the competition...and just as suddenly remembered the frustration of difficult sources, the typos I wish I would have caught on the 345th read through, the slave labor modest paychecks, the constant fear of losing my job because of budget cuts....

Today, as I watched him scurry about, being ignored and declined by patrons, I couldn't help but smile with relief.

Gah, I'm glad I'm not in the newsroom any more. Suckers.

How I almost came to hate shopping

If the Hubbs had it his way, he would wander through life in the same pair of pants, held up by the same ratty belt, day in and day out. Unfortunately, he a) exists in the *real world* and thus needs to be dressed appropriately, and b) has lost almost 30 pounds in the past few months.

So, begrudgingly, he agreed to make a trip to a local department store Saturday afternoon.

I have been out shopping on Black Friday every year since I can remember, spending 15 or more hours hitting the shops. My sister and I can spend a whole day just wandering through stores on a given Saturday, and yet, this hour and a half at Kohl's felt like The. Longest. Shopping. Excursion. Ever.

And we only walked out with one freakin' pair of pants.

Rationalization

Somehow, in my mind, eating four scoops of ice cream is negated by the boring tedium strenuous workout of doing laundry.

Is that wrong?

On being a bad wife, #1

I'm probably in the minority on this one, but I actually like cleaning. It's therapeutic, it makes me feel productive, and it keeps us from having our home condemned by the health department.

Since I work fewer hours than the Hubbs, (and since I know the difference between glass cleaner and laundry detergent) I usually do a once over during the week at some point, but the past month little while I haven't really felt up to it, between two sinus infections and a ton of excuses.

I knew it was bad though, today, when I get a phone call from the Hubbs while I'm at work, asking where the cleaning stuff was.

That's right, kids. I have become so negligent in cleaning habits that my gross, lived-with-four-guys-in-college, it's-okay-to-eat-that-the-dog-licked-it-clean husband was disgusted by our bathroom.

A new high, I tell you.

Nothing strange about that...

Recent conversation with my boss, about having a glam program for the kids:

Me: I can bring in a few pairs of opera length gloves and Pretty, Pretty Princess.
Boss: *Looks quizzically at me*
Me: Oh, and four...no, five...feather boas. I think I have a few tiaras, too.
Boss: I'm not going to ask why.
Me: Some of them light up.
Boss: *shakes head and walks away*

I can't help it. I'm fancy.

More Sesame Chicken...why not?

One of my BFF is getting married next month, despite my tales of married life and I'm so excited for her. I'm excited for me, too, since this will be my first appearance in a bridal party other than my own.

Unfortunately, because of schedule/location problems, I wasn't really involved in the bridesmaid-dress-picking process (or perhaps fortunately, since picking my own bridesmaids dresses almost resulted in jail time), so I was really intrigued to see what the bride came up with.

Since the BFF is such a thrifty doll, she found some great dresses, in her color of choice, on clearance -- only problem was, they only had a few sizes. What the heck, I figured, even if I do get it a couple sizes up, it will have to be altered anyway.


But not nearly as much as I hoped it would.

Marriage equals moo?

I've never been a beanpole, and no one would ever accuse me of being anorexic, but I was pretty proud of the fact that I squeezed in to a size 8 designer wedding dress that fit off the rack, no alterations needed, thankyouverymuch. I tried for months to keep from gaining any weight, and to some degree I was pretty successful (although, let's not count the fact that I had to take my corset off during dinner because I couldn't sit down, let alone eat).

So imagine my shock and awe when, weighing in at a doctor's appointment, I discovered that I had gained 15 pounds since my June wedding. Fifteen. That's like half an Olsen twin.

Later that night, as I got ready for bed, I asked the hubbs if he had noticed a weight gain.

"You look beautiful," he replied, which of course, I interpreted as "get to the gym you fat, fat cow."

So to the gym I went, huffing and puffing along with the slender, blonde-ponytailed she-devils, terrified my arm flab would knock one of them clear across the room if I so much as lifted a finger to wipe the sweat off my brow.

That was the end of January, and now I'm about 10 pounds down. So why do I still feel like I should belong to Heifers International?

With a rebel yell

I get grand ideas all the time, usually that I pursue with ardent passion for about a week before I either get bored or find something I like better. Whenever I stay on one thing for longer than a few weeks, it's a pretty big deal. So a few months ago, when I decided I wanted to get my nose pierced, I did all the research, surveyed friends and family and found a "good" place to have it done. I even went so far as to buy eyelash glue and rhinestones to model what my new bling would look like.

I told everyone I knew that I was going to get this done, and for the most part was greeted with an eye roll. I asked the hubbs why people would respond that way.

Me: I just don't get it. I'm hip. I'm cool. I can pull that look off.

Hubbs: Um, you're not that cool.

Me: What do you mean, I'm not that cool?

Hubbs: People who are cool enough to get facial piercings don't announce to everyone that they are, in fact, hip and cool.

Me: Whatevs, I'm going to do it and I don't care.

Hubbs: Sure.

Fast forward a couple of days, and the hubbs and I are out running some errands. I'm fighting an internal battle over whether I'd rather go for pizza or burgers for dinner, when the hubbs makes a detour and we stop in front of a pretty popular tattoo parlor. Apparently, sick of my talk, my darling husband decided today would be the day I would walk the walk.

Never one to back down from a challenge, I summoned my nerve, held my breath and got stabbed through the face with a giant needle.

It freakin' looks awesome.

A foray into the blogosphere?

I've been toying with the idea of starting a blog for a while. I like to write, I like to be witty, and nothing makes me happier than reading witty things I've written. So even if it ends up that this is only for my amusement, well, at least one person's laughing.

To start it off, here are five totally random things about me:

1. I love cherry flavored anything, but I HATE cherries.

2. I'm really good at guessing what time it is, usually within five minutes.

3. I love to talk, but I am not a phone person. At all.

4. I own at least four feather boas.

5. Even though I've been married for almost a year, I still sometimes forget to sign my *new* last name.