But You Forgot the Magic Word

I need, need, need to stop uttering the phrase "how hard could it be?".

This go-getter attitude has go-gotten me seeking medical attention on more than one occassion (hello, Great Batting Cage Incident of 2009), as well as cost me buttloads of money fixing my attempts at easy home repair (and also got me quite intimately acquainted with the backside of my washer and dryer ... saving that little gem for a later post). It led to a very Marshall Erickson, cool-guy tips freakout in the bathroom in March when I decided if the high-school dropouts at Great Clips can cut blunt bangs, so can I.

But this week, I hit a new low.

Bathing suit season is upon us, and certain, um, preparations need to be made before hitting the pool. Instead of seeking the council of my fair Lady Schick, or paying a professional douse me in hot wax, I simply though, "well, how hard could it be?" and purchased an at-home kit for such personal grooming situations.

Sparing the most intimate of details, let's just say the wax is not sticky enough to be effective, however, wouldn't come off despite fervent, Lady Macbeth-esque scrubbings. Not only did I waste money on the kit, I sacrificed two razor blades, one of the few decent washcloths we have left, half a roll of paper towels and one scrubby kitchen sponge and was still looking like I belonged in Madame Tussaud's.

Lesson learned? Probably not.

Let's Play Pretend

First, let's pretend that I didn't just disappear for like a year. Oh, wait, we can't do that? Well, can we at least pretend that something interesting happened, like maybe alien abduction, world travel, being sold into a foreign prince's harem?

No? Not that either?

Fine.

I guess that just means I am a deadbeat dad of a blogger. But, since you apparently didn't get that card I sent you with $5 for your birthday and don't want a Happy Meal right now, I guess the only thing I can do is try to be around more. It might not happen, you say? No matter. I am here now, and that's what counts. Oh, it doesn't? Hmm. Well, regardless, I've got the somewhat lofty goal of posting regularly again about the truckloads of excitement that is my world. It's a new blog name, new address, so on and so forth, but the old posts are still there. So if you've been reading Sassy Suburbanite, you might be experiencing deja vu. But there will be fresh content soon. Maybe.

We'll see.

What happens in Mexico, stays in the UK

Multiple choice question - which of the following did not happen to me in Mexico?
A) Someone in the UK played stealy stealy with my credit card number
B) Hubby's identity thieved and credit card automatically cancelled
C) Jellyfish got kinda friendly with my legs
D) Nose re-piercing incident stemming from some (unsuccessful) boogie boarding
E) All of the above happened. Cheers.

Ding, ding, ding. If you guessed "E," you've won the big prize, which is the satisfaction of realizing that these things can only happen to yours truly.

Not that the vacation was bad by any stretch of the imagination. It was a much-needed almost-week of laying on the beach, gorging myself on beverages that contained both rum and the moniker "Especial," and more food than should be humanly possible to consume. But these few ... we say ... glitches came up and made things a little more stressful than a beach vacation should be.


Fortunately, all was straightened out with the two credit card companies (although not until we were back stateside), though it was a bit un-nerving to be stuck in a foreign country with nothing but a checkbook linked to a meager account. Especially when the jellyfish struck and we thought for a while I'd need to seek medical treatment. Mainly we were disappointed about not having our credit cards to use at the duty free (which was a moot issue because our connecting flight was closed to purchases by the time our first plane landed). Basically, instead of stressing, we just drank more rum. And pineapple juice. Lots of pineapple juice. And coated ourselves in sunscreen like it was nobody's business. As a result, no burns...and also, no color.


In truth, though, the resort was beautiful, the ocean was calm and friendly (a little too friendly there, Mr. Jelly McGee) and we had a great time just chilling, hanging out, and watching Alf creepily dubbed en espanol. We also tried sushi for the first time (and second time, talk about deeeelish). Also, we discovered that peacocks are awesome, and free-range peacocks are exponentially more awesome, and that ostriches are always angry. I also re-established my love of hermit crabs and Canadians. Go figure.

On This Day of Mothers...

Since I am on a plane, bound for paradise and rum and all-inclusive wonderment, I found it fitting to pay tribute to the reason I am here (literally, she dropped me off at the airport): my mom.

I don't even think she knows this blog exists, but I do, and in honor of the holiday, I felt it only fitting to honor her appropriately. So, Mom, if you ever read this, or know that I have a blog, or what a blog is, this one's for you.


Thanks for instilling in me early on a love of bargain-hunting that is worthy of its own show on TLC. My retail-therapy engaging self appreciates that you taught me early on that 30% off is NOT a clearance, and that paying full price for anything is for suckers.


Thanks for letting me be brave enough to embrace my nerdhood through all those awkward pre-teen/teen/okay still now years that had voices from everywhere telling me that what I liked was uncool. You made it okay for me to prefer the History Channel to E! and libraries to dance clubs. Rock on.


Thanks for thinking that you still want me around and even hanging out with your friends, even though I'm a total dweeb. I realize that I think I'm awesome, but it's nice to have backup.


Thanks for teaching me that politeness is always important, but if someone is doin' you wrong, from salespeople to friends to family, you best be willing to defend yourself.


Thanks for instilling in me the value of an education, and for insisting that I could be a pole dancer if I wanted to, but I'd better dang well be a college-educated pole dancer.


Mostly, thanks for just being awesome. You rule.

Shop-cceptance

Lately, my shopping mojo has been revving like nobody's business. Funny, my desire to buy, buy, buy is inversely proportionate to my income. Mi madre thinks it's because I've spent most of my life being Extremely Responsible Finance Girl, and that I'm starting to rebel. I think it's that I've discovered the joy of buying things that I love. Either way.


Once a year, I do a major weed of my closet, mostly because of size restrictions: My closet's too small and my...everything else is too big. Plus, I have an unhealthy love of thrifting, and sometimes I end up with some ... interesting stuff that needs to make its way back to the local Goodwill. This year was harder than most, because I had to tank a lot of my college and immediately-post college stuff. But there is something invigorating about both liking and fitting into everything in your wardrobe. It makes getting dressed more fun when you aren't taunted by clothes from two sizes ago, sitting there with their single-digit numbers, laughing at you.

Plus, if you've got hoodies that have wear holes bigger than the one you put your head through, it may be time to retire them.

Library Land Isn't Lunch Lady Land

In the library world, I hear a lot o' things. For the most part, I maintain composure and keep on typing/cutting/pasting/etc. But sometimes, a giggle escapes. Or a snort. Or an eyeroll. Geez, I'm lucky no one has called 9tothe1tothe1 yet, thinking I'm having some sort of seizure.

* A high school girl came up to me last week and asked me for the book Heroshemia. I thought maybe it was some manga-ey thing, so I asked her what it was about. This is how that conversation went:

Me: Okay, what was that one about?
Girl: It's a made-up story like about when the Americans thought they were going to have a bomb.
Me: Oh, you mean Hiroshima. You're looking for a book about Hiroshima.
Girl: Yeah, that's it.
Me: Okay, do you need a specific book, or just any old book?
Girl: I need a pacific book. It has a Ferris wheel on the cover. And it's a made up book, like with chapters?
I was able to find what she needed (neither made up nor featuring a Ferris wheel), but it wasn't in, so she left disappointed, and I, once again, became disenchanted with these youths of America.

*There's this a-plus-dorable little girl that comes in with her mom on Tuesday nights. She's about seven, really sweet, and tells me all the time that I am her favorite because I have fun shoes and jewelry in my nose. Loves her. But she also has an issue, just a teensy one, with passing gas. It's actually kind of hilarious. She'll be talking, then mid-sentence, you'll just hear a "toot," and she keeps on going. Happens several times a night. Haven't snorted yet, but I have had to leave the area to keep from giggling. You go, non-self-conscious girl. May you never be embarrassed by bodily functions.

*There's this older guy that comes in with younger kids. They are very well behaved, they just sit on the computer and play games. But the dad, well, he has the most fun of them all, because he builds these epic structures with the giant blocks we have in the preschool area. The kids are all, "hey Dad, come help me find Winnie the Pooh," and the dad's all like "hold on just a second, let me finish this tier." Awesome.

*One of my favorite storytime kids is an absolute doll, and really well-spoken for being barely three years old. She comes up to me today and asks me why I look like Ariel now. "Ariel?" I asked. "Yah, the Little Mermaid." I've heard worse.

* This gruff sounding guy calls in, and he's looking for a book called The Very Cranky Bear. "Okay," I tell him. "Let me see if we have it." We don't. I check a few other local libraries. No one's got it. So I tell him that I'm having a hard time tracking it down. He sighs this big, awful "you're ruining my day" sigh and asks me if I am spelling it right. I told him, yes, I'm sure that my second-grade spelling skills can handle Very. Cranky. Bear. Would you believe that he hung up on me?

Things I Love...

...just because.

The weather has gotten to be downright springy here in Chicagoland, which leads me to believe Apocalypse is coming because spring doesn't exist in Chicago - we go right from parkas to swimsuits. But warm weather has perked me up, and as such, I felt like sharing the love of some new finds:

*Arrested Development. Yeah, I know I am a few years behind the curve here, but someone bought it for the Hubbs to entertain him while recouping from surgery, and I just loves it. Also, Jason Bateman is my new TV boyfriend. Sorry Alton Brown. It's smart, and funny, and I want to watch it all day.

* These rain boots. I ordered them a couple of weeks ago, and I've worn them several times. Without rain.

* These wedges in yellow. Angels sang when I pulled them out of the box. And I cried, for the beauty was so great. One of my storytime kids told me they were the best, and that she couldn't take her eyes off them. Win. Plus, I love Steve Madden like a fat kid loves cupcakes, except, you know, I haven't really tried to eat them. Yet. But these may tempt me, with their little perfect rosettey goodness. Omnom. Nom.

* Marshmallow Peeps. Only yellow chicks or pink bunnies, thankyouverymuch.

* Crystal Light Lemonade. I always get a hankerin' for lemonade when it gets warm out, and combined with my increased consumption of Peeps and my desire to not look like a beached whale in Mexico, I've started drinking this stuff like it's water. Because, well, technically, it is.

* Hot boys sans shirts. Yummo. I mean, I only have eyes for my husband and never look at the scenery. Because that would be wrong, righ?

* My new bike. Guess who can ride it like a big girl with no training wheels? This kid right here. I am a few handlebar streamers away from full-on lurving it.

* The History Channel. Shut up, I'm a nerd. I get it.

* Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith. Oh. My. Word. If this book was a guy in a bar, he wouldn't even have to buy me a drink to get me to go home with him. Its awesomeness probably deserves its own blog post, but alas. I heard the movie rights were optioned by Tim Burton. If that actually comes to fruition, there will be much swooning. Loves.