My Pawpaw was stubborn and ornery and difficult and never had an opinion he didn't share. He thought he was doing you a favor by sharing that opinion. His opinion. The only opinion that really mattered. He was also big. So tall and strong and big you could never imagine him no longer existing. Until one day he was diagnosed with cancer. And then the tallness and bigness and strongness lessened little by little until one day it wasn't there anymore at all. And I realized how much I needed, wanted, craved those opinions. His opinions. The only opinions that really mattered.
The tallness, bigness and strongness faded out four years ago today. I knew then and I know now that no one, no one, will ever be as proud of me as my Pawpaw was. I miss his sweet brown eyes and the way they would light up when someone he loved walked into the room and the way he would greet me with a "hey babe" or call me "little Kathy" after my mom. I loved that everyone was afraid of him until you realized there was a soft, sweet teddy bear under that gruff exterior. I loved that he would tell you what's what whether you felt you needed to know what's what or not. I loved his honesty and his laugh. When you made Pawpaw laugh, you felt like you'd really accomplished something pretty great. I miss his black and white sense of right and wrong. No gray areas, just clarity. I just miss him. Everyday.
But I know he's in heaven, lounging on a couch, his bald head pressed against the armrest making a permanent indentation, beer in his hand, a Randy Travis song playing softly in the background, watching Sanford & Son reruns. And one day I'll get there and I'll come running and jump on his belly and he'll tickle me until I scream with laughter and it'll be just like it was when I was seven. But in the meantime, I'm taking his pride in me, his love, his belief that I could do or be anything and I'm going to run with that. And try to become the person my Pawpaw believed I was. I love you. I miss you. You're in my heart, always and forever.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Life Is Good
You know how when something's been bothering you for a while and you go on with your life and you're mostly happy but that thing is constantly in the back of your mind eating at you incessantly and it won't go away but then suddenly you get the balls to deal with it and dealing with it isn't nearly so bad as you thought it was going to be and the gnawing goes away and the birds sing and the clouds part and all is right in your world again? I really, really love that feeling.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Blog Life
I've been asked a few times now what other blogs I read or recommend. There are lots to choose from, but a few I read pretty regularly are:
The Bloggess
Mighty Girl
Mighty Goods
Finslippy
Design Sponge
Smitten Kitchen
Dachsies & Design
The Lobster Life
Those last two are written by my very dear friend from college, Laura. She's the one that turned me on to this whole blogging thing.
So go check them out. I think you'll like them. Since you have plenty to do, I think I'll take the day off. Maybe nap. Or read. Probably nap.
The Bloggess
Mighty Girl
Mighty Goods
Finslippy
Design Sponge
Smitten Kitchen
Dachsies & Design
The Lobster Life
Those last two are written by my very dear friend from college, Laura. She's the one that turned me on to this whole blogging thing.
So go check them out. I think you'll like them. Since you have plenty to do, I think I'll take the day off. Maybe nap. Or read. Probably nap.
You So Owe Me
Friends, family, countrymen: Trader Joe's Belgian Chocolate Pudding. Buy it. Eat it. Tell your friends. You're welcome.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Oh, Harry.
It's hard to imagine me loving anyone more than I love Tony Bennett. My love for him is firmly rooted. But it's a grandfatherly kind of love that has grown out of respect and admiration and how completely awesome his music is. Sometimes a girl needs a little something more. Enter Harry Connick, Jr. He picks up right where Tony leaves off and provides that little extra oomph, a little bit of the lust factor, that sometimes a girl needs in her music. He's gorgeous and sings that old-fashioned, swoon-worthy music that I love. So, if Tony's not availble, you can substitute/supplement with Harry and I won't mind a bit. But if you could bring me both of them, well I might love you forever.
Singing my favorite song:
Singing my favorite song:
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Determined Fun
Four months ago, three girls clinked together their glasses and vowed that this year we would have a lot more fun. Tonight, those same three girls clinked glasses again and agreed that fun would commence every other Thursday night from here on after. No excuses. No getting out of it. And we all seem to be on the same page regardng the consumption of drinks. There should be a lot of it. We're going to have fun, dammit, and law school will no longer be allowed to have its way with us. I could not be more thrilled. Here's to a lot more glass clinks every other Thursday with my two favorite law school buddies, Ashleigh and Heather. Yay!
A Favor
I am not very good at taking pictures, other than on my cell phone, which if you read this blog, you know takes crappy pictures. I'd like to put a new picture up for the header of this website, so if some of my friends have digital pictures of us or pretty pictures of scenery or skylines or whatever and you think it would be a cool picture to post, by all means email it over, and if I use it I'll make sure you get a special mention. I'll also put you on my "good" list, which is a lot like Santa's, except you don't get presents.
Lies, Basketball, the "F" Word, and Me
Sometimes I tell people I was on the high school basketball team. I do not tell them it was the Freshman B team. There was Varsity, Junior Varsity, the Freshman A team and then me. I’m pretty sure it was one of those no one gets cut sort of deals. I had no business playing basketball. I suckity suck suck sucked. Probably because I don’t run. I’m anti-running. As I see it, there is no reason to run. Ever. Should a fire break out in your domicile, you would be much better off exiting in a calm and orderly fashion rather than running and stirring up a panic. Should you spot Brad Pitt at a convenience store, you would be much better off slowly sneaking up on him rather than running at him and scaring him off before you can get your arms around him. Should an ice cream truck overturn on the freeway…no, wait…yes, in that case you are much better off running. Free ice cream! But other than that rare instance, I never opt for running. The fact that my boobs are huge and no sports bra has yet to properly contain them also has something to do with it. Although now that I mention it, two black eyes would probably distract from my huge boobs. Something to think about.
Anyway, basketball. I wasn’t very good and I didn’t take it very seriously. One of my best friends at the time was on the team with me. We’ll call her MC since that was her nickname. She didn’t take basketball very seriously either. We used to have sleepovers the night before games, and stay up all night giggling, even though our coach had expressly forbidden pre-game sleepovers since she was worried we would be up all night giggling and then we wouldn’t be able to focus. Since MC and I had no intention of focusing on the game anyway, we didn’t concern ourselves with this silly rule. So we would wake up late, haul ass out to the car, and then we would remember we were supposed to have breakfast, but there wouldn’t be time, so one of us would grab a box of graham crackers. MC and I very rarely were put into the game seeing as how we’d been up all night and also were not very good so we would just sit on the bench and munch on our graham crackers, very content to not be running.
Then, inevitably, I think because we were only on the Freshman B team we were all supposed to get some play time, the coach would put me in. Fuck I would think. Only I didn’t think “fuck,” I probably thought damn and felt pretty bad ass about it because I was only 14 and hadn’t lived in New York yet. I didn’t hear, think, or say such naughty words until New York. I probably heard the F word more times in one day in New York than I’d heard it in my entire life before. That’s because in New York, people use the F word as a space filler, the way normal people say “um” or are silent. It sounds like this: “So, yeah, fuckin’, I asked him what he wanted to fuckin’ do tonight, and, fuckin’, he was all fuckin’ go out, and I fuckin’ said fuckin’ okay, so we’re going to fuckin’ meet at the fuckin’ diner and then, fuckin’, go out to see a fuckin’ movie or some fuckin’ shit like that. Fuckin’. Oh, also, fuckin’.” Right now, the New Yorkers reading this are thinking, “Haha, fuck yeah!” In New York, fuck is not a word, it’s an attitude, it’s a fucking lifestyle.
So, yeah, when I was 14 and on the Freshman B team there were no f-bombs when I was made to run, but you can be sure I was annoyed as heck. And also a little sick off the darn graham crackers. So now you know the truth. I was a graham cracker eating, non-cursing, non-running, non-superstar of the Freshman B basketball team. I think the person who will be most shocked by this news is a personal trainer I once had who I wanted to impress so I told him I played high school basketball and he told me he was going to work me harder since my body could handle it since I used to be an athlete and since I’d lived in New York by then, I very appropriately and very loudly in my head thought FUCK.
That was also the same personal trainer who asked me for my social security number because he had bad credit but wanted to start a business, but that’s another story for another time. Here’s a hint to how it ended though: I didn’t give it to him and I got another trainer and I did not tell the new one I used to play high school basketball. The end.
Anyway, basketball. I wasn’t very good and I didn’t take it very seriously. One of my best friends at the time was on the team with me. We’ll call her MC since that was her nickname. She didn’t take basketball very seriously either. We used to have sleepovers the night before games, and stay up all night giggling, even though our coach had expressly forbidden pre-game sleepovers since she was worried we would be up all night giggling and then we wouldn’t be able to focus. Since MC and I had no intention of focusing on the game anyway, we didn’t concern ourselves with this silly rule. So we would wake up late, haul ass out to the car, and then we would remember we were supposed to have breakfast, but there wouldn’t be time, so one of us would grab a box of graham crackers. MC and I very rarely were put into the game seeing as how we’d been up all night and also were not very good so we would just sit on the bench and munch on our graham crackers, very content to not be running.
Then, inevitably, I think because we were only on the Freshman B team we were all supposed to get some play time, the coach would put me in. Fuck I would think. Only I didn’t think “fuck,” I probably thought damn and felt pretty bad ass about it because I was only 14 and hadn’t lived in New York yet. I didn’t hear, think, or say such naughty words until New York. I probably heard the F word more times in one day in New York than I’d heard it in my entire life before. That’s because in New York, people use the F word as a space filler, the way normal people say “um” or are silent. It sounds like this: “So, yeah, fuckin’, I asked him what he wanted to fuckin’ do tonight, and, fuckin’, he was all fuckin’ go out, and I fuckin’ said fuckin’ okay, so we’re going to fuckin’ meet at the fuckin’ diner and then, fuckin’, go out to see a fuckin’ movie or some fuckin’ shit like that. Fuckin’. Oh, also, fuckin’.” Right now, the New Yorkers reading this are thinking, “Haha, fuck yeah!” In New York, fuck is not a word, it’s an attitude, it’s a fucking lifestyle.
So, yeah, when I was 14 and on the Freshman B team there were no f-bombs when I was made to run, but you can be sure I was annoyed as heck. And also a little sick off the darn graham crackers. So now you know the truth. I was a graham cracker eating, non-cursing, non-running, non-superstar of the Freshman B basketball team. I think the person who will be most shocked by this news is a personal trainer I once had who I wanted to impress so I told him I played high school basketball and he told me he was going to work me harder since my body could handle it since I used to be an athlete and since I’d lived in New York by then, I very appropriately and very loudly in my head thought FUCK.
That was also the same personal trainer who asked me for my social security number because he had bad credit but wanted to start a business, but that’s another story for another time. Here’s a hint to how it ended though: I didn’t give it to him and I got another trainer and I did not tell the new one I used to play high school basketball. The end.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
How to Catch a Mouse
The title is rhetorical because I have no friggen idea. Mickey’s back. With a vengeance. And the bastard has some balls on him. The lights can be on, the TV on, people in the apartment making noise and it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. He’s been spotted two more times, both times by Lauren, who has suddenly changed her tune about not being bothered by mice. Apparently, what she meant before was, she’s not bothered when I see mice. She’s very bothered when she sees mice. Lauren and I have been reduced to turning on the kitchen light and scanning the floor calling, “here Mickey,” before we step foot in the kitchen. We also discovered that we can reach the dishwasher without having to step into the kitchen if we just bend over far enough. That's called survival instincts.
Joe was here visiting this weekend and we went to a movie, during which I received a text from Lauren, informing me that she had just seen Mickey by her laundry bag which was on the kitchen floor in front of the laundry closet. When Joe and I got back to the apartment, Lauren and I sent him in to assess the situation while we peeked from behind the kitchen doorway. He picked up the laundry bag and shook it out and when he turned around Lauren was standing upright on top of a bar stool. It’s safer up there. Joe, being a take charge kind of guy, did some research online and found a highly recommended method for trapping mice without a trap.
So he built this contraption.
The idea is that the mouse runs up the ramp and into the empty toilet paper roll which has a dollop of peanut butter on the end. The mouse goes for the peanut butter and the weight of the mouse causes the toilet paper roll to fall into the trash can and the mouse is trapped in the trash can. Seems reasonable. The trap has now been set for three days. No mouse. We want to catch the mouse but we also don’t have any idea what we would do if we actually found a mouse in the trash can. I’m certainly not going near it and we all know “I can see just fine from way up here on this stool” Lauren isn’t going to touch it either. So we’ll probably have to call the maintenance guy, which will be lots of fun since he already loves us from that time Lauren and I both locked ourselves out of the apartment within 30 minutes of each other after hours on a Sunday. But such are the predicaments we find ourselves in when man and nature mix. Which is also why I have long been an advocate of only experiencing nature via the Discovery channel.
Joe was here visiting this weekend and we went to a movie, during which I received a text from Lauren, informing me that she had just seen Mickey by her laundry bag which was on the kitchen floor in front of the laundry closet. When Joe and I got back to the apartment, Lauren and I sent him in to assess the situation while we peeked from behind the kitchen doorway. He picked up the laundry bag and shook it out and when he turned around Lauren was standing upright on top of a bar stool. It’s safer up there. Joe, being a take charge kind of guy, did some research online and found a highly recommended method for trapping mice without a trap.
So he built this contraption.
The idea is that the mouse runs up the ramp and into the empty toilet paper roll which has a dollop of peanut butter on the end. The mouse goes for the peanut butter and the weight of the mouse causes the toilet paper roll to fall into the trash can and the mouse is trapped in the trash can. Seems reasonable. The trap has now been set for three days. No mouse. We want to catch the mouse but we also don’t have any idea what we would do if we actually found a mouse in the trash can. I’m certainly not going near it and we all know “I can see just fine from way up here on this stool” Lauren isn’t going to touch it either. So we’ll probably have to call the maintenance guy, which will be lots of fun since he already loves us from that time Lauren and I both locked ourselves out of the apartment within 30 minutes of each other after hours on a Sunday. But such are the predicaments we find ourselves in when man and nature mix. Which is also why I have long been an advocate of only experiencing nature via the Discovery channel.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Busy
Today I made my life more complicated. I now have a part-time job. So to recap: I'm in law school, work three days a week as an intern for a trial court judge, am on the board of the Pro Bono Society and am co-director of our Know Your Rights program, and I now have a part-time job. This new addition to my schedule was completely necessary as I have been completely reliant on student loans, which only go so far, if "going so far" is synonymous with going nowhere. I have no idea how or when I will study or do homework, but on the bright side, this job is not in any way law related. Thank goodness. I am also concerned about when I will have time to go to the gym. Luckily, that will probably no longer be an issue since I will most likely not have time to eat. But mostly, mostly, I am concerned about how this will affect my TV watching, since I have a rather robust fall line-up beginning this week and I cannot neglect my hobbies. They're called priorities, people. Also, I'm a little concerned that this new job means that there is not a single day during the week that I can get away with wearing sweatpants or just jeans and a T-shirt all day. I have entered a phase in my life that requires decent clothing and, quite frankly, I am deeply uncomfortable with this development. To illustrate, my usual outfit for the day decision-making goes like this: 1) jeans or sweatpants?; 2) Fordham or Villanova T-shirt?; 3) Old Navy or J. Crew flip-flops? Done. But now there is not a single day during the week that doesn't require decency. That is unsettling. Hopefully though, this job will mean more money which will mean less stress. It will also be a welcome relief to do something that does not require a book or a computer or a legal theory or a hypothetical situation with no answer or hours upon hours of mind-numbing consideration that only leads to the only answer that exists in law school, which is "it depends..." That is definitely a good thing. Even if it does mean I miss an episode of Grey's every now and then.
Update: Apparently nowhere in the above did I mention that the new job is working at my favorite children's clothing store in a shopping center about 2 miles from my apartment. So I get to play with kids and look at adorable clothes and there is little to no chance that I will blow my paycheck on things for myself. In theory. It's also possible my unborn children will have complete wardrobes years before their births.
Update: Apparently nowhere in the above did I mention that the new job is working at my favorite children's clothing store in a shopping center about 2 miles from my apartment. So I get to play with kids and look at adorable clothes and there is little to no chance that I will blow my paycheck on things for myself. In theory. It's also possible my unborn children will have complete wardrobes years before their births.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Nothing
I'm having writer's block. I got nothing. Nothing to write about. Nothing really going on this week. Just my internship. Oh hey, there's something. Did I tell you I'm doing an internship this semester? I'm working for a trial court judge in Chester County. So, yep, there's that. Yep. That. And there's school. Nothing going on much there either. It's going fine. Lauren deferred last year so she's starting her first year and she's in her room every night studying her ass off. I'm usually watching TV. I have priorities. Oh hey, speaking of TV, why are there like three channels of good stuff on Wednesday nights and NOTHING on Monday nights? Why is there never anything good on Monday nights? What do the networks think we're doing on Monday nights? A whole shitload of nothing, networks. PUT SOMETHING GOOD ON!
Let's see, what else? Oh, Joe has had a string of bad luck the last 3 years, forever months and just recently, in the last two weeks, all the shit he was dealing with suddenly seemed to resolve. All the weight and stress has been lifted off of his shoulders and it's like I'm dealing with a completely different person. I mean, he's downright chipper. It's kind of freaky. I'm used to him being sort of a miserable SOB, to the point that even his tone would just drip with disdain, and exhaustion and misery and I would say, "Dude, what is with your tone?" and he would say, "what tone?" and I would say, "that tone," and he would say, "I don't know what you're talking about" and I would say, "seriously, what is with the tone?" and he would say, "I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING TONE!" and honestly, we had that conversation A LOT. But lately, it's like he has his life back and everything is all sunshine and rainbows and he's acting like his shit is pink. He deserves some happy and I'm so glad it seems like his time has come. THANK GOD. So that's awesome. Really, really awesome. Yay!
Also, my mom has informed me that her assistant now reads this blog. Hi, Amanda! My mom says we're not allowed to swap stories about her, but if you need to write a guest post so you can get it all out of your system, you just let me know. Oh by the way, she also told me that you will be the one informing her of what's going on with me because "it's not like I'm going to read this everyday." I feel the love. It's a good thing I like her. Also, she should give you a raise.
This is rather long for being about nothing. I gotta go, someone's about to be eliminated from Top Chef. Lauren is still studying. She better knock it off soon, I'm starting to think something's wrong with my method.
Update: She just came out of her room and started unloading the dishwasher I haven't bothered to touch all night. Seriously, who the hell does she think she is? Geez.
Let's see, what else? Oh, Joe has had a string of bad luck the last 3 years, forever months and just recently, in the last two weeks, all the shit he was dealing with suddenly seemed to resolve. All the weight and stress has been lifted off of his shoulders and it's like I'm dealing with a completely different person. I mean, he's downright chipper. It's kind of freaky. I'm used to him being sort of a miserable SOB, to the point that even his tone would just drip with disdain, and exhaustion and misery and I would say, "Dude, what is with your tone?" and he would say, "what tone?" and I would say, "that tone," and he would say, "I don't know what you're talking about" and I would say, "seriously, what is with the tone?" and he would say, "I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING TONE!" and honestly, we had that conversation A LOT. But lately, it's like he has his life back and everything is all sunshine and rainbows and he's acting like his shit is pink. He deserves some happy and I'm so glad it seems like his time has come. THANK GOD. So that's awesome. Really, really awesome. Yay!
Also, my mom has informed me that her assistant now reads this blog. Hi, Amanda! My mom says we're not allowed to swap stories about her, but if you need to write a guest post so you can get it all out of your system, you just let me know. Oh by the way, she also told me that you will be the one informing her of what's going on with me because "it's not like I'm going to read this everyday." I feel the love. It's a good thing I like her. Also, she should give you a raise.
This is rather long for being about nothing. I gotta go, someone's about to be eliminated from Top Chef. Lauren is still studying. She better knock it off soon, I'm starting to think something's wrong with my method.
Update: She just came out of her room and started unloading the dishwasher I haven't bothered to touch all night. Seriously, who the hell does she think she is? Geez.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
You Have One New Voice Message
My mother is very, very terrible at leaving voicemails. For starters, she has the annoying habit of calling me from noisy locations where I cannot make out a word she is saying and this location is very often her car or her living room because she doesn't feel the need to turn down the radio or the TV so I might actually be able to hear a single word she is saying or actually be able to hold the phone to my ear while listening without wincing from the volume.
It is not unusual for me to get messages like this and before you accuse me of it, you should know I am not even exaggerating a little bit:
"Hey Chris, I was just driving down Central and thinking about you. The weather is so gorgeous today and I was wondering what it's like up there. Are the leaves changing yet? Probably not. It's about 77 degrees today, the sun is shining, there's a nice breeze, it's just so nice. Yesterday was gorgeous too. It's so nice that it's not so hot anymore. What's it like up there? Your brother is doing well. You'd be really proud of him. I'm on my way home right now. I just left work. I worked out today. It's going really well. How's school going? Hold on, the guy next to me is being a jerk. [Pause. Pause. Pause.] Okay, well, I'm getting another call so I guess I'll let you go. Call me back if you want, you don't have to, I have nothing important to tell you. I love you. [Pause. Pause. Pause.] OH! Hey! Let me know what you want to do about Christmas."
All this while talk radio is blasting in the background and I'm holding the phone an inch away from my ear waiting for the point.
Other times I get this:
My mother talking to her receptionist in the background: "I don't know where it is. [Pause.] You can just give it to me tomorrow. [Pause.] Did he come back? [Pause.] No way! Huh. [Pause.] Oh, Christy. Call me. Bye."
I know by now to keep listening because she didn't dial my number by mistake. She's multi-tasking and she'll get around to remembering she called me in a minute.
My all-time favorite message she has ever left me came two days ago. It went, and I kid you not, like this:
"WHERE ARE MY KEYS? [Pause. Pause. Pause.] Christy, hey, I was just wondering if you want to go, I think the tickets from Philadelphia are only like $200 so not too bad, it would be the weekend of the 24th, to go to Milwaukee or Madison, either one, if you want, you don't have to, so yeah, that's it, let me know."
I called her back and left a message of my own that went like this: "Hi, yeah, um, as a general note and for future reference, when you invite someone to WISCONSIN for a weekend, you should also include in that message why the hell anyone would want to go to Wisconsin! Okay, love you, bye."
So this has all been a roundabout way of making the point that these loving complaints will no longer fall on deaf ears because my mom now reads this blog. Welcome, Mom! Please note the above. Also, I love you!
It is not unusual for me to get messages like this and before you accuse me of it, you should know I am not even exaggerating a little bit:
"Hey Chris, I was just driving down Central and thinking about you. The weather is so gorgeous today and I was wondering what it's like up there. Are the leaves changing yet? Probably not. It's about 77 degrees today, the sun is shining, there's a nice breeze, it's just so nice. Yesterday was gorgeous too. It's so nice that it's not so hot anymore. What's it like up there? Your brother is doing well. You'd be really proud of him. I'm on my way home right now. I just left work. I worked out today. It's going really well. How's school going? Hold on, the guy next to me is being a jerk. [Pause. Pause. Pause.] Okay, well, I'm getting another call so I guess I'll let you go. Call me back if you want, you don't have to, I have nothing important to tell you. I love you. [Pause. Pause. Pause.] OH! Hey! Let me know what you want to do about Christmas."
All this while talk radio is blasting in the background and I'm holding the phone an inch away from my ear waiting for the point.
Other times I get this:
My mother talking to her receptionist in the background: "I don't know where it is. [Pause.] You can just give it to me tomorrow. [Pause.] Did he come back? [Pause.] No way! Huh. [Pause.] Oh, Christy. Call me. Bye."
I know by now to keep listening because she didn't dial my number by mistake. She's multi-tasking and she'll get around to remembering she called me in a minute.
My all-time favorite message she has ever left me came two days ago. It went, and I kid you not, like this:
"WHERE ARE MY KEYS? [Pause. Pause. Pause.] Christy, hey, I was just wondering if you want to go, I think the tickets from Philadelphia are only like $200 so not too bad, it would be the weekend of the 24th, to go to Milwaukee or Madison, either one, if you want, you don't have to, so yeah, that's it, let me know."
I called her back and left a message of my own that went like this: "Hi, yeah, um, as a general note and for future reference, when you invite someone to WISCONSIN for a weekend, you should also include in that message why the hell anyone would want to go to Wisconsin! Okay, love you, bye."
So this has all been a roundabout way of making the point that these loving complaints will no longer fall on deaf ears because my mom now reads this blog. Welcome, Mom! Please note the above. Also, I love you!
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Engagement Chicken
It has come to my attention that a recipe exists that is surreptitiously named “Engagement Chicken.” The idea is that if you make this chicken for your boyfriend, he will propose a short time after. Apparently, this has worked for several people. My interest is piqued. However, I will not be testing out Engagement Chicken because I currently have no desire to get engaged. Oh, also, Joe and I aren’t even together. Mostly. That’s an even better point to make. Probably. So he really shouldn’t be expecting chicken and I really shouldn’t be expecting a ring. Also to consider: what if I do make the chicken and nothing happens? Then what? Then I’m just the gullible girl who stuffed two lemons up a chicken’s butt for nothing. Then the realization of that will hit me and Joe will hear me crying myself to sleep and he’ll ask what’s wrong and I’ll say “the chicken didn’t work, you don’t love me” and he’ll be all “what the fuck?” and I’ll have to explain that the chicken was just a ruse and he’ll say “but I thought you didn’t even want to get engaged right now” and I’ll say “you don’t know me at all” and then we’ll probably break up break up or at least not talk for some time. I suppose I could make it just for me and call it “I Like Chicken Chicken” as some sort of pro-strong single girl statement. What then, Glamour magazine? What if I don’t even want your stinkin’ Engagement Chicken? This chicken’s clearly an asshole and also I have issues with marriage. But not chicken. I do really love chicken. There, we’ve all learned something.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I Think Someone's Pissed
On my last birthday before my grandma passed away, she gave me a sweet little figurine of a woman with angel wings hugging a little girl. It's musical and when you wind it up it plays "Wind Beneath My Wings." As you can imagine, after my grandma died, it became one of my most treasured possessions. This morning I was opening a perfume bottle and somehow the bottle flew out of my hand and smashed into the figurine, completely decapitating the little girl the angel was holding.
I am not as in hysterics and devastated as you might expect after this accident because the break is completely fixable and with some super glue, Angel Grandma and I are good as new.
However, this was such a freak occurrence that I cannot help but wonder why this happened. All I was doing was uncorking a perfume bottle when the entire bottle went flying out my hand. And instead of smashing the figurine all to bits or knocking it over, it just cleanly took my head off. I think my very conservative Grandma and Paw-Paw are trying to tell me something. And I think it could possibly, maybe, probably have something to do with the fact that their granddaughter tweets now. And she uses that power for evil:
Aw, snap! Booyah! Shortly after that tweet, he apologized. I'm not saying the two events are related but they probably are.
So I think Grandma and Paw-Paw are pissed. I may have also tweeted the White House and told them I was grateful and proud of my President. Good thing they're dead because that might have killed them. And the next morning my head was cleanly taken off in a freak perfume bottle accident. Coincidence?
I think I'm going to tweet Bill O'Reilly and tell him he has a lovely speaking voice before this thing escalates any further.
I am not as in hysterics and devastated as you might expect after this accident because the break is completely fixable and with some super glue, Angel Grandma and I are good as new.
However, this was such a freak occurrence that I cannot help but wonder why this happened. All I was doing was uncorking a perfume bottle when the entire bottle went flying out my hand. And instead of smashing the figurine all to bits or knocking it over, it just cleanly took my head off. I think my very conservative Grandma and Paw-Paw are trying to tell me something. And I think it could possibly, maybe, probably have something to do with the fact that their granddaughter tweets now. And she uses that power for evil:
Aw, snap! Booyah! Shortly after that tweet, he apologized. I'm not saying the two events are related but they probably are.
So I think Grandma and Paw-Paw are pissed. I may have also tweeted the White House and told them I was grateful and proud of my President. Good thing they're dead because that might have killed them. And the next morning my head was cleanly taken off in a freak perfume bottle accident. Coincidence?
I think I'm going to tweet Bill O'Reilly and tell him he has a lovely speaking voice before this thing escalates any further.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
And, Lo, There Was Joe and He Was Found Good.
Joe was born 29 years ago today. I'm pretty glad that happened. If it hadn't, I might have no one to take my passive aggressive rage out against. I also would not have found the last 8 years nearly so colorful. The poor boy puts up with a lot, which is even more impressive given that we aren't even technically still together. It's complicated. Like Denise Richards. Where was I? Oh, right. Joe. He's pretty great. I love him a whole lot and he's a pretty great human being to know and be around, with or without titles. Just wanted to spread that message throughout the land.
Next year? 30. Holy crap.
Next year? 30. Holy crap.
Wherein I Contemplate My Demise
I would like to take this opportunity to clear up some confusion. Some time ago, I tweeted that I would like to be buried in the middle of a Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream bar. I believe my exact instructions were to lay me out on the popsicle stick and cover me with chocolate. Recently, I also sent an email to various family members relaying the recipe for brownie pudding and instructing them I wanted to be buried in the middle of said brownie pudding. I also seem to recall mentioning to a friend at some point that I want to be buried in the middle of the Cheesecake Factory’s Godiva chocolate cheesecake. Now the last thing I want is to unexpectedly pass and have my family and friends taking sides and battling it out over which delectable dessert to insert me into. So, for clarification, and since I really cannot choose which is my favorite, here are my wishes, which I trust you will all respect: I would like the bottom third of my body (feet to mid-thigh) to be buried in brownie pudding; the middle third (mid-thighs to lower half of boobs) buried in Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream bar; and the top third (top half of boobs to head) buried in the Cheesecake Factory’s Godiva chocolate cheesecake. To further clarify, I would like for my body to remain in tact so you will have to figure out some way to pour each dessert over me so it only covers each designated part of my body. Perhaps some sort of wooden divider made of popsicle sticks? I don’t know, it’s really not my job to figure that part out. I’m dead.
Actually, truth be told, and not to confuse you further, but I really don’t want to be buried at all. I’m not crazy about the idea of being lowered into a hole and having 6 feet of dirt thrown in on top. Also not thrilled with the whole burning my body down to ashes concept either. I’m a bit incredulous and disappointed that after thousands of years, we still really only have these two crappy options. Way to suck, science. How about a little less time studying the mating habits of wombats and a little more time figuring out how to freeze me in chocolate so I’ll wake up in 200 years once you’ve finally cured my disease and be able to chew my way out? What a glorious way to wake up!
While I’m complaining about crappy post-death options, how about the fact that I have to die at all (note that I said “I” there, not “you” or “we”, let’s not forget this is about me)? Can’t something be done about that? I’m absolutely terrified over the idea that one day I will just not exist. There will be no me left going on about my business in the world and monitoring things. I’m pretty sure I won’t be allowed to check Perez Hilton 17 times a day in heaven because something about that just doesn’t seem right. I don’t think God is going to care that I care that Miley Cyrus’ shorts are too short. I guess I’d be more okay with it if I knew God had a sense of humor. I’d be much cooler with dying if I knew God said “cockandballs” when he stubs his toe. But then why would God stub his toe? Seems like he should know where all the furniture is. So then I guess I just hope he says “cockandballs” sometimes. Hopefully in context though. Otherwise it would be weird. Also, while we’re on this, has anyone actually seen any kind of indication that God has toes? Seems like Jesus is the one always getting painted and I can’t recall at this moment if I’ve ever seen any artist’s rendition of God, other than being depicted as light, and it’s hard to get from that if there are toes. If he does have them, I’m sure they are magnificent. Especially since he likely never rams them into anything.
This post has gotten a bit out of hand, so, in conclusion, I like chocolate and God but not death. Thank you for listening.
Actually, truth be told, and not to confuse you further, but I really don’t want to be buried at all. I’m not crazy about the idea of being lowered into a hole and having 6 feet of dirt thrown in on top. Also not thrilled with the whole burning my body down to ashes concept either. I’m a bit incredulous and disappointed that after thousands of years, we still really only have these two crappy options. Way to suck, science. How about a little less time studying the mating habits of wombats and a little more time figuring out how to freeze me in chocolate so I’ll wake up in 200 years once you’ve finally cured my disease and be able to chew my way out? What a glorious way to wake up!
While I’m complaining about crappy post-death options, how about the fact that I have to die at all (note that I said “I” there, not “you” or “we”, let’s not forget this is about me)? Can’t something be done about that? I’m absolutely terrified over the idea that one day I will just not exist. There will be no me left going on about my business in the world and monitoring things. I’m pretty sure I won’t be allowed to check Perez Hilton 17 times a day in heaven because something about that just doesn’t seem right. I don’t think God is going to care that I care that Miley Cyrus’ shorts are too short. I guess I’d be more okay with it if I knew God had a sense of humor. I’d be much cooler with dying if I knew God said “cockandballs” when he stubs his toe. But then why would God stub his toe? Seems like he should know where all the furniture is. So then I guess I just hope he says “cockandballs” sometimes. Hopefully in context though. Otherwise it would be weird. Also, while we’re on this, has anyone actually seen any kind of indication that God has toes? Seems like Jesus is the one always getting painted and I can’t recall at this moment if I’ve ever seen any artist’s rendition of God, other than being depicted as light, and it’s hard to get from that if there are toes. If he does have them, I’m sure they are magnificent. Especially since he likely never rams them into anything.
This post has gotten a bit out of hand, so, in conclusion, I like chocolate and God but not death. Thank you for listening.
Monday, September 7, 2009
I Try to Make Every Experience a LEARNING Experience
After some reflection, I realized that pole-dancing wasn't the only lesson-packed part of Holly's bachelorette party. Here's what else I learned:
1) By the time you’ve tripped in your heels the 7th time, your friends will begin to think that you’re either drunk or can’t walk in heels. You will try to convince them neither is true. They won’t believe you.
2) You know your boobs are huge if during a game of drunken Truth or Dare at the last dive bar of the evening, you wisely choose truth because you’re not that drunk, and the only thing your friends of 5+ years want to know about you is “seriously, how big are your boobs?”
3) If you’re called the R Bar because you play Rock and Roll and you’re on Bowery which means you should be cool and you tell someone making a reservation that they will have a table and won’t have to wait in line and then our bachelorette party gets to your bar and you DON’T Play Rock and Roll and you’re NOT cool because everyone in your bar looks like they’re celebrating their 19th birthday and you DON’T have a table for us and we DID have to wait in line, then that means you really fucking suck.
4) Pole dancing with someone you’ve never met is really great way to break the ice and pole dancing with someone you’ve known for a long time is a really great way to learn something new about them. I didn’t know you could do that. Also, I’ve never seen you from that angle.
5) “Baby Got Back” is still the all-time best song to dance to.
6) I hope I never get too old to dare Kel to do the Boot Scootin’ Boogie in the middle of a bar where no one is dancing and I hope she never gets too old to hop right up and do it. Even if she has no idea what the hell the Boot Scootin’ Boogie is. Here, Kel, for next time. (Holy crap, you should watch that all the way through because, boy, does it get good. Ruth is my favorite and is that a whistle in the instructor’s mouth? Do you think they intentionally color coordinated? Does anyone else think poor Ruth is a stand-in for someone that didn’t show? I digress.)
7) Staying up ‘til 5 am giggling with your girlfriends is still as much fun now as it was when I was 16.
8) Joe, Holly’s fiancé, is one pretty crazy lucky guy. And she’s one pretty crazy lucky girl, because he’s pretty awesome too. I’m so excited for their wedding. Even if it is at 10am which means I’ll probably have to stay up all night to be up early enough to make it. I WILL be there on time, I WILL.
The other participators should feel free to leave your favorite moments and lessons learned in comments. Don’t worry about no one else getting what you’re talking about. Because here’s a secret: you’re the only ones that read this blog.
1) By the time you’ve tripped in your heels the 7th time, your friends will begin to think that you’re either drunk or can’t walk in heels. You will try to convince them neither is true. They won’t believe you.
2) You know your boobs are huge if during a game of drunken Truth or Dare at the last dive bar of the evening, you wisely choose truth because you’re not that drunk, and the only thing your friends of 5+ years want to know about you is “seriously, how big are your boobs?”
3) If you’re called the R Bar because you play Rock and Roll and you’re on Bowery which means you should be cool and you tell someone making a reservation that they will have a table and won’t have to wait in line and then our bachelorette party gets to your bar and you DON’T Play Rock and Roll and you’re NOT cool because everyone in your bar looks like they’re celebrating their 19th birthday and you DON’T have a table for us and we DID have to wait in line, then that means you really fucking suck.
4) Pole dancing with someone you’ve never met is really great way to break the ice and pole dancing with someone you’ve known for a long time is a really great way to learn something new about them. I didn’t know you could do that. Also, I’ve never seen you from that angle.
5) “Baby Got Back” is still the all-time best song to dance to.
6) I hope I never get too old to dare Kel to do the Boot Scootin’ Boogie in the middle of a bar where no one is dancing and I hope she never gets too old to hop right up and do it. Even if she has no idea what the hell the Boot Scootin’ Boogie is. Here, Kel, for next time. (Holy crap, you should watch that all the way through because, boy, does it get good. Ruth is my favorite and is that a whistle in the instructor’s mouth? Do you think they intentionally color coordinated? Does anyone else think poor Ruth is a stand-in for someone that didn’t show? I digress.)
7) Staying up ‘til 5 am giggling with your girlfriends is still as much fun now as it was when I was 16.
8) Joe, Holly’s fiancé, is one pretty crazy lucky guy. And she’s one pretty crazy lucky girl, because he’s pretty awesome too. I’m so excited for their wedding. Even if it is at 10am which means I’ll probably have to stay up all night to be up early enough to make it. I WILL be there on time, I WILL.
The other participators should feel free to leave your favorite moments and lessons learned in comments. Don’t worry about no one else getting what you’re talking about. Because here’s a secret: you’re the only ones that read this blog.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
See the Rockies
What I love about Coors Light cold activated cans with the Rocky Mountains that turn blue when the can/bottle is cold is that some guy in a marketing meeting had to say, "Dudes, I'm telling you, Americans would rather see than feel." That guy, whoever he is, was absolutely right.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Me Likey
Today is Lauren's birthday so I had to face my fears and step foot in our kitchen to make her a birthday treat. I was all set to make a chocolate cake but I didn't know (or forgot) that she's not a huge cake fan. This brings the list up to four reasons why she's a weirdo: 1) she only thinks I'm funny sometimes; 2) she's ridiculously loud and often shrill and usually boh at the same time; 3) mice don't really bother her; and 4) she doesn't really like cake.
So I had to come up with Plan B and I remembered that I've been dying to make a brownie pudding I saw Ina Garten make on her show. Ina Garten and I are kindred spirits. I feel like she gets me. I think things like "Brownies = good. Pudding = good. Someone should combine them." Then she makes it happen. It's like she's the patron saint of things Christina thinks are tasty. And if anything can get me to brave the kitchen again after yesterday's horrifying events, it is BROWNIE PUDDING. Honestly, have two words in the English language ever been more beautiful together? It's right up there with "foot massage," "sleeping in," and perhaps "buttercream."
So I made it and it was as rich and delicious and brownie pudding-y as it sounds. I piped Happy Birthday in pink frosting across the top, stuck in a couple candles and made her blow them out ASAP so I could dig in. I may have forgotten momentarily that this was her day and her dessert but quite frankly, let's get real honest, and just admit that brownie pudding was really for me. A point that should be quite clear when she finds me in the morning face down drooling in the empty pan.
Should you want to try it yourself, you can find the recipe here. The only thing I might change is the amount of sugar. It's a bit too sweet and I think cutting back on the sugar by about 1/2 cup might be better.
So I had to come up with Plan B and I remembered that I've been dying to make a brownie pudding I saw Ina Garten make on her show. Ina Garten and I are kindred spirits. I feel like she gets me. I think things like "Brownies = good. Pudding = good. Someone should combine them." Then she makes it happen. It's like she's the patron saint of things Christina thinks are tasty. And if anything can get me to brave the kitchen again after yesterday's horrifying events, it is BROWNIE PUDDING. Honestly, have two words in the English language ever been more beautiful together? It's right up there with "foot massage," "sleeping in," and perhaps "buttercream."
So I made it and it was as rich and delicious and brownie pudding-y as it sounds. I piped Happy Birthday in pink frosting across the top, stuck in a couple candles and made her blow them out ASAP so I could dig in. I may have forgotten momentarily that this was her day and her dessert but quite frankly, let's get real honest, and just admit that brownie pudding was really for me. A point that should be quite clear when she finds me in the morning face down drooling in the empty pan.
Should you want to try it yourself, you can find the recipe here. The only thing I might change is the amount of sugar. It's a bit too sweet and I think cutting back on the sugar by about 1/2 cup might be better.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Mickey
I was unloading groceries in the kitchen, minding my own business, living my life without harming anyone. I turned around to grab something and saw a black fuzzy blur dart across the kitchen floor and disappear in a miniscule crack between the dishwasher and the cabinet. I did what came naturally: screamed bloody murder and ran into the hallway by the bedrooms and cowered while whimpering. Lauren came running out of her bedroom and saw me doubled over bouncing from one foot to the other, squealing. "Was it a bug?" she immediately asked understandingly. "No. WORSE, so much worse!" "What?!?" I hesitated, not sure if I should tell her and devastate her world as mine had just been. "Mouse." "That's it?" What the hell do you mean "that's it"? Mouse. MOUSE! IN OUR KITCHEN!
Lauren kindly followed me back to the kitchen so I could blabber and shake and squeal some more. She then proceeded to get down on her hands and knees and clean our kitchen floor of any dropped crumbs. I watched her from just outside the kitchen where it was safe. "How can you be in there right now?" "Mice don't really bother me. As long as it wasn't a bug..." Lauren, you are my hero. Tomorrow is her birthday. She's getting a cat.
In order to convey how horrifyingly awful this is for me, you must understand that I love to be in the kitchen. I love to cook and bake. I often stand in front of that very dishwasher, chopping vegetables and mixing things up. Our kitchen is laid out so that the biggest area of counter space is directly over the very crack where said mouse disappeared. Unfortunately, I can no longer stand there ever again. Or be barefoot in my house. Or leave things on the floor. ("Hey Lauren, mice can't climb, right?" "Sure they can, how do you think they crawl around inside walls and stuff." "DON'T TELL ME THAT!" "Sorry.") Or continue to sleep in a bed that touches the wall.
UGH UGH UGH UGH! I'm so grossed out and disturbed. Yuck, yuck, yuck. Did anyone else see that episode of Sex & The City where Carrie was sleeping and a mouse crawled in her hair and she woke up screaming? I DID! That's my worst nightmare. I'm going to try to be strong, go on living my life. But for the record, I made tuna salad for dinner tonight and everything was chopped and mixed on the dining room table. And you can be damn sure my feet weren't touching the floor during the making. Now please excuse me because I have to go drag my bed to the middle of my room and tuck my hair into a shower cap so I can go to bed. This is so not going to help my insomnia problem.
Lauren kindly followed me back to the kitchen so I could blabber and shake and squeal some more. She then proceeded to get down on her hands and knees and clean our kitchen floor of any dropped crumbs. I watched her from just outside the kitchen where it was safe. "How can you be in there right now?" "Mice don't really bother me. As long as it wasn't a bug..." Lauren, you are my hero. Tomorrow is her birthday. She's getting a cat.
In order to convey how horrifyingly awful this is for me, you must understand that I love to be in the kitchen. I love to cook and bake. I often stand in front of that very dishwasher, chopping vegetables and mixing things up. Our kitchen is laid out so that the biggest area of counter space is directly over the very crack where said mouse disappeared. Unfortunately, I can no longer stand there ever again. Or be barefoot in my house. Or leave things on the floor. ("Hey Lauren, mice can't climb, right?" "Sure they can, how do you think they crawl around inside walls and stuff." "DON'T TELL ME THAT!" "Sorry.") Or continue to sleep in a bed that touches the wall.
UGH UGH UGH UGH! I'm so grossed out and disturbed. Yuck, yuck, yuck. Did anyone else see that episode of Sex & The City where Carrie was sleeping and a mouse crawled in her hair and she woke up screaming? I DID! That's my worst nightmare. I'm going to try to be strong, go on living my life. But for the record, I made tuna salad for dinner tonight and everything was chopped and mixed on the dining room table. And you can be damn sure my feet weren't touching the floor during the making. Now please excuse me because I have to go drag my bed to the middle of my room and tuck my hair into a shower cap so I can go to bed. This is so not going to help my insomnia problem.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Just Sayin'
You know, Twitter isn't that fun when all your friends are on Facebook. Since I have very deeply ingrained moral reasons for not joining Facebook, I think all of you should join Twitter! It'll be fun! We can send messages to each other! It'll be like texting but...not. Oh, but, hey, we can text/tweet Oprah! That's exciting. Tweet me if you're in!
Lessons Learned On The Pole
Being an expert pole dancer, having once taken a private lesson with 5 other lovely ladies to commemorate Holly's bachelorette status, I can say that those girls don't play. That is some seriously hard work. Um, excuse me, stripper lady? Am I supposed to be sweating so profusely? Because that is not sexy. Also it's causing me to be unable to securely grip the pole. Securely gripping the pole is a very necessary element of pole dancing. I learned that in pole dancing class. The other things I learned in pole dancing class are as follows:
1) You need significant upper body strength to pole dance. I do not have upper body strength. None whatsoever.
2) Grunting while trying to lift yourself is decidedly unsexy.
3) Whatever that muscle is that allows your butt to move seemingly independently from the rest of your body? Yes, I do not have that muscle. (But boy is that muscle impressive!)
4) When the only discernible talent you have worth remarking upon by your pole dancing instructor is your ability to stand pigeon-toed, you are not good at pole dancing.
5) It is okay, normal and natural to develop a girl crush on your instructor. Just don't touch her.
Moments after learning those very important and not to be ignored lessons, this is what we looked like:
Well, actually, it was more like this:
A lot like that actually. Except for the violence.
1) You need significant upper body strength to pole dance. I do not have upper body strength. None whatsoever.
2) Grunting while trying to lift yourself is decidedly unsexy.
3) Whatever that muscle is that allows your butt to move seemingly independently from the rest of your body? Yes, I do not have that muscle. (But boy is that muscle impressive!)
4) When the only discernible talent you have worth remarking upon by your pole dancing instructor is your ability to stand pigeon-toed, you are not good at pole dancing.
5) It is okay, normal and natural to develop a girl crush on your instructor. Just don't touch her.
Moments after learning those very important and not to be ignored lessons, this is what we looked like:
Well, actually, it was more like this:
A lot like that actually. Except for the violence.
Sleep: So Not Overrated
I am a champion sleeper. If there's one thing I do really, really well, it's sleep. I usually fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow and stay blissfully asleep for 9, 10, 12 hours without waking. If I do wake up, all I have to do is roll over, get comfortable, and I'm out again like it's nothing.
Until now. I suppose like any person with a considerable talent, sometimes that talent is blocked. Sometimes the writer is without inspiration, the artist is without a muse, the singer is without a note, and the sleeper is WITHOUT FUCKING SLEEP!
There is no sleep to be had lately and other than the two nights I wasn't feeling well so I medicated with some PM cold medicine, I have been lying awake staring at the ceiling. There is no reason for this. I'm not stressed, I'm not anxious, I'm not unwell. The last two nights I've probably gotten about 4 hours total. TOTAL. Somebody please hit me upside the head with a brick, I need to sleeeeeeeeeep.
I just want to put Sleep on notice: you can't run, you can't hide, I will track you down and I will have my way with you. Just kidding, Sleep. Please come back, I miss you. We had such good times. I promise to be less needy. Maybe not take you so much for granted. Just come over tonight, say around 11:00? Please. For the love of Christ and all that is holy, please.
Until now. I suppose like any person with a considerable talent, sometimes that talent is blocked. Sometimes the writer is without inspiration, the artist is without a muse, the singer is without a note, and the sleeper is WITHOUT FUCKING SLEEP!
There is no sleep to be had lately and other than the two nights I wasn't feeling well so I medicated with some PM cold medicine, I have been lying awake staring at the ceiling. There is no reason for this. I'm not stressed, I'm not anxious, I'm not unwell. The last two nights I've probably gotten about 4 hours total. TOTAL. Somebody please hit me upside the head with a brick, I need to sleeeeeeeeeep.
I just want to put Sleep on notice: you can't run, you can't hide, I will track you down and I will have my way with you. Just kidding, Sleep. Please come back, I miss you. We had such good times. I promise to be less needy. Maybe not take you so much for granted. Just come over tonight, say around 11:00? Please. For the love of Christ and all that is holy, please.
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