- Remember when I was all, "My friend Brent broke his leg on the first day of kindergarten. I talked about it for weeks?"
Yeah. About that?
BFF cheerily corrected me. "Dude," she said. "We're still talking about it now. It shouldn't be, 'I talked about it for weeks.' It should be, 'We talked about it for decades!'"
It's true. I apologize for the inaccuracy. Keep in mind that BFF and I weren't even in the same elementary school, and yet she, too, still talks about Brent breaking his leg on the first day of kindergarten. Because it was the first day of kindergarten! And then he got to wear a cast! Which was awesome! - I was remiss in posting an incomplete list of things that made me feel old while on vacation. Missing from that list? I plucked an inch-long hair from my jawline.
Yeah. Just go ahead and let that sink in for a moment. An inch.
It's 1 of those things where you are mostly amazed and think, "OMG, I must show this to my husband! It's incredible!" And then you remember that your husband is the person you try to trick into having relations with you, and so if he doesn't like to acknowledge that you use the bathroom, perhaps he would also like to not know about the freakish hair that occasionally spouts up in unexpected places.
But seriously. It was an inch long. So cool. And so gross. - You may have noticed that the sidebar of this here blog is looking a little different. That's because I'm awesome. And, by "awesome," I mean "inadvertently deleted my blogroll because I have spent the last several weeks putzing around my house instead of interacting with any sort of computer and therefore have obviously let any computer skillz I may have ever had atrophy horribly to the point that I will do dumb stuff like delete my blogroll."
Yay.
So ... if you'd like to be listed on the new and improved Blogroll 2.0: Now With Actual Blogs, leave the name and complete URL of your blog in the comments. Be a pal and list me on yours. And we'll see if I can figure out this new-fangled Internet business without deleting, oh, 5 years of blog posts.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Corrections and addendums.
I try to be as thorough and accurate as possible in my blogging. However, the fact checkers at Noodleroux World Headquarters do occasionally - much like the fact checkers of the RNC - make mistakes. Like not doing their jobs at all.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Vacation hangover.
We are back from the beach. It's good to be home.
I have SARS.
Well, or I have pneumonia. Or bronchitis. Or a chest cold. Or invisible weights in my bra that are causing my chest to feel all smooshed.
The lady next to me on the plane yesterday was really nice, so surely she didn't get me sick. I mean, I gave her my magazine and everything. I think my lung malaise must be due to my sudden fall from pampered grace. So far today, no one has offered me a perfect bloody mary. And while it's nice to see my own backyard, said backyard does not feature a beautiful beach.
Obviously, there's an adjustment period.
I'm also trying to come to terms with the fact that there were a few things about my vacation that made me feel like an old biddy.
1. I missed my dogs. Like, really, really missed my dogs. I did not call the dogsitter and insist on speaking to the dogs. This is positive. Also, I managed to stay married. This is also positive. And, since I hoard dogs, not cats, and own no housecoats? No worries. Right?
2. One of the waiters around the pool recognized me from years past. He was welcoming. However, my gut reaction upon seeing him was, "Dave? You still work here after 4 years? What are you doing with your life? Do you have any retirement savings at all?"
Luckily, I had this conversation in my mind, not out loud. But when your first impulse upon seeing a cute, tan pool waiter is to question his 401k or lack thereof, you are well on your way to middle age. And being the buzzkill at the few social events to which you manage to get invited.
3. An adult beverage or 2 no longer means blissfully falling into a peaceful slumber. No. It means that Old Lady Cha Cha has a bloody mary at lunch, a beer at dinner, and then is wide awake until 2 a.m., reading Wikipedia and wondering if her husband's snoring is a sign that he needs a sleep mask and, if so, if she could borrow it and go as Darth Vader for Halloween. Or Arbor Day. Or any day she felt like dressing as the dark lord. Or maybe she could take the Darth Vader mask and call or sneak up on Dave the Pool Waiter and terrorize / coerce him into saving for retirement. You know, like how Marty McFly used his Walkman and hazmat suit to scare his dad into asking his mom to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance?
Yeah.
I have SARS.
Well, or I have pneumonia. Or bronchitis. Or a chest cold. Or invisible weights in my bra that are causing my chest to feel all smooshed.
The lady next to me on the plane yesterday was really nice, so surely she didn't get me sick. I mean, I gave her my magazine and everything. I think my lung malaise must be due to my sudden fall from pampered grace. So far today, no one has offered me a perfect bloody mary. And while it's nice to see my own backyard, said backyard does not feature a beautiful beach.
Obviously, there's an adjustment period.
I'm also trying to come to terms with the fact that there were a few things about my vacation that made me feel like an old biddy.
1. I missed my dogs. Like, really, really missed my dogs. I did not call the dogsitter and insist on speaking to the dogs. This is positive. Also, I managed to stay married. This is also positive. And, since I hoard dogs, not cats, and own no housecoats? No worries. Right?
2. One of the waiters around the pool recognized me from years past. He was welcoming. However, my gut reaction upon seeing him was, "Dave? You still work here after 4 years? What are you doing with your life? Do you have any retirement savings at all?"
Luckily, I had this conversation in my mind, not out loud. But when your first impulse upon seeing a cute, tan pool waiter is to question his 401k or lack thereof, you are well on your way to middle age. And being the buzzkill at the few social events to which you manage to get invited.
3. An adult beverage or 2 no longer means blissfully falling into a peaceful slumber. No. It means that Old Lady Cha Cha has a bloody mary at lunch, a beer at dinner, and then is wide awake until 2 a.m., reading Wikipedia and wondering if her husband's snoring is a sign that he needs a sleep mask and, if so, if she could borrow it and go as Darth Vader for Halloween. Or Arbor Day. Or any day she felt like dressing as the dark lord. Or maybe she could take the Darth Vader mask and call or sneak up on Dave the Pool Waiter and terrorize / coerce him into saving for retirement. You know, like how Marty McFly used his Walkman and hazmat suit to scare his dad into asking his mom to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance?
Yeah.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Gift from the sea.
Today at the pool, I was completely taken with a particular kid. He was 8 or 9 and horsing around and playing catch with his older brother / cousin.
I nudged My Guy. "Babe, I've totally found your spirit animal," I said. "Look at that little boy! You guys are obviously bonded on a spiritual plane!"
Spirit Animal was a solid, energetic kid with dark brown hair. He was a bit squirrelly, and his joy at playing catch in the pool was just intoxicating.
He wasn't loud or obnoxious. He was just ebullient.
He reminded me so much of my sweet husband, who loves nothing more than playing ball, who can be so squirrelly-yet-sweet that I refer to this common state as "monkey on a trampoline."
Our kid might have looked like this boy. Except we aren't going to have a kid.
This made me momentarily sad. Oh, woe is me! Lounging around a pool at a posh, beach-side resort! My poor barren self is so tiiiiiired after reading a book a day and having bloody marys delivered to my chaise louuuuuuunge! Bloody marys I can down with abandon because I'm baaaaaaarren!
Sigh.
I love the beach. There's something about the ocean that's so soothing and centering. And all the walks on the sand and pool time has helped my brain - and My Guy's - clear a bit.
Yesterday, he turned to me out of the blue and said, "This summer has really sucked."
Boy howdy. You speak the truth.
But we've also had many conversations about how blessed we are to be here, and how wonderful our life together is. As 2 people who had each, individually decided that we were destined to be alone forever, the blessing of a best friend spousal unit is especially sweet.
We don't know what's next. But we know it's all OK.
I nudged My Guy. "Babe, I've totally found your spirit animal," I said. "Look at that little boy! You guys are obviously bonded on a spiritual plane!"
Spirit Animal was a solid, energetic kid with dark brown hair. He was a bit squirrelly, and his joy at playing catch in the pool was just intoxicating.
He wasn't loud or obnoxious. He was just ebullient.
He reminded me so much of my sweet husband, who loves nothing more than playing ball, who can be so squirrelly-yet-sweet that I refer to this common state as "monkey on a trampoline."
Our kid might have looked like this boy. Except we aren't going to have a kid.
This made me momentarily sad. Oh, woe is me! Lounging around a pool at a posh, beach-side resort! My poor barren self is so tiiiiiired after reading a book a day and having bloody marys delivered to my chaise louuuuuuunge! Bloody marys I can down with abandon because I'm baaaaaaarren!
Sigh.
I love the beach. There's something about the ocean that's so soothing and centering. And all the walks on the sand and pool time has helped my brain - and My Guy's - clear a bit.
Yesterday, he turned to me out of the blue and said, "This summer has really sucked."
Boy howdy. You speak the truth.
But we've also had many conversations about how blessed we are to be here, and how wonderful our life together is. As 2 people who had each, individually decided that we were destined to be alone forever, the blessing of a best friend spousal unit is especially sweet.
We don't know what's next. But we know it's all OK.
Monday, September 10, 2012
How we're paying for our new HVAC system.
Last week, between heat-induced crazy dreams, I had an epiphany.
Actually, "epiphany" is too strong a word. How about "acknowledgement of something super obvious?"
I had this, erm, acknowledgement at about 2:15 in the morning as I laid drenched in sweat in our sweltering, broken-HVAC-having house. The acknowledgement was that I damned well better get - and accept - the job for which I was interviewing in a few hours.
I did and I did. And so, I will go back to the corporate grind on October 1.
I have mixed feelings about this.
Superficially, it makes that giant check we just wrote to the HVAC folks hurt a little less. It's a lot easier to do stuff like, oh, replace your entire HVAC system when you aren't going to be living off of 1 income soon.
Big picture?
Well ...
I liked the manager, and he offered me the job on the spot - breaking the rules of the contractor (me) / contracting company (my new pimp) / end manager (this new boss guy) etiquette. The work sounds interesting. And it's a 6-month contract, so if it's really horrid, I can bail. And really? It could be working with a pack of rabid hyenas and still be better than my last contract.
It does, however, somewhat inhibit my dream of being a housewife, stay-at-home lady who lunches, or whatever you want to call it.
We have new neighbors, and during our initial meet-and-greet in the the driveway, the woman of the couple sheepishly admitted that she currently stays home ... and they have no kids.
I was all, "Me too! And I love it!" Because there's something embarrassing about not really wanting to work, to be rather jazzed about getting yourself and your household in order. A generation ago, it would be normal. Now? Not so much. You better have an excuse for your lazy-bum ways.
I feel like I'm still detoxing from my burnout at Corporate Behemoth, and my emotionally scarring stint at Mega Corporate Behemoth. But I was surprised that I felt energized after my interview - it was refreshing to use that part of my brain again. And that gives me hope.
I haven't quite figured out the part of my brain that's itching to start something creative and bold.
For now, My Guy and I are on vacation, at the beach. It's been a full day of sitting by the pool and walking along the water. We just returned from lounging in a hammock and debating the finer (and not-so-fine) points about Rebecca Black's "Friday" video. Obviously, the days are just packed.
Actually, "epiphany" is too strong a word. How about "acknowledgement of something super obvious?"
I had this, erm, acknowledgement at about 2:15 in the morning as I laid drenched in sweat in our sweltering, broken-HVAC-having house. The acknowledgement was that I damned well better get - and accept - the job for which I was interviewing in a few hours.
I did and I did. And so, I will go back to the corporate grind on October 1.
I have mixed feelings about this.
Superficially, it makes that giant check we just wrote to the HVAC folks hurt a little less. It's a lot easier to do stuff like, oh, replace your entire HVAC system when you aren't going to be living off of 1 income soon.
Big picture?
Well ...
I liked the manager, and he offered me the job on the spot - breaking the rules of the contractor (me) / contracting company (my new pimp) / end manager (this new boss guy) etiquette. The work sounds interesting. And it's a 6-month contract, so if it's really horrid, I can bail. And really? It could be working with a pack of rabid hyenas and still be better than my last contract.
It does, however, somewhat inhibit my dream of being a housewife, stay-at-home lady who lunches, or whatever you want to call it.
We have new neighbors, and during our initial meet-and-greet in the the driveway, the woman of the couple sheepishly admitted that she currently stays home ... and they have no kids.
I was all, "Me too! And I love it!" Because there's something embarrassing about not really wanting to work, to be rather jazzed about getting yourself and your household in order. A generation ago, it would be normal. Now? Not so much. You better have an excuse for your lazy-bum ways.
I feel like I'm still detoxing from my burnout at Corporate Behemoth, and my emotionally scarring stint at Mega Corporate Behemoth. But I was surprised that I felt energized after my interview - it was refreshing to use that part of my brain again. And that gives me hope.
I haven't quite figured out the part of my brain that's itching to start something creative and bold.
For now, My Guy and I are on vacation, at the beach. It's been a full day of sitting by the pool and walking along the water. We just returned from lounging in a hammock and debating the finer (and not-so-fine) points about Rebecca Black's "Friday" video. Obviously, the days are just packed.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
The object of my affection.
All of the comments about dream jobs made me laugh and laugh. Folks, if you need a fact checker? Rainbow Motel is your gal. Looking for spot-on ear piercing? Kelley will hook you up. Gift wrapping? Dorrie. Fair barker? Oh, Jessie. Oh, yes. Spanish-language annnnnnnnnnnnnnouncer? Ilyannaaaaaaaah! And friendly critiques about beachwear? Little Miss Sunshine State. Yes.
These dreams of ideal jobs got me to thinking.
First of all ... when I was young and adorable? I told my dad I wanted to drive a street sweeper. Being the supportive pop he is, my sweet daddy said, "Well, whatever you want to do, we'll go along with it."
Except that I was a 3-year-old firecracker. "No, dad," I said. "You can't. It only has 1 seat."
Bwah ha ha. But as an adult, this makes perfect sense to me. I love interesting tools and appliances, and I adore tangible, immediate results.
This is why I love power washers.
Seriously.
Need your deck powerwashed? Call me! Tough mildew on brick? Got it.
So, this affinity leads me to be insanely jealous of guys who work for GumBusters. They use special power washers to blast dried gum off of sidewalks. I saw it on Dirty Jobs, and I actually saw it in action in New York City. Uh-mazing.
Look at this thing. How kick-ass is it?
Some folks dream of ruling the streets with a souped-up ride, or watching the game on a ginormous, fancy-pants teevee. I fantasize about randomly busting gum off the sidewalk with this bit o' awesomeness.
Yes, I need to get out more. No, I have not transferred this desire to clean sidewalks to cleaning my own house. Don't judge me.
Image courtesy of bostongumbusters.com.
These dreams of ideal jobs got me to thinking.
First of all ... when I was young and adorable? I told my dad I wanted to drive a street sweeper. Being the supportive pop he is, my sweet daddy said, "Well, whatever you want to do, we'll go along with it."
Except that I was a 3-year-old firecracker. "No, dad," I said. "You can't. It only has 1 seat."
Bwah ha ha. But as an adult, this makes perfect sense to me. I love interesting tools and appliances, and I adore tangible, immediate results.
This is why I love power washers.
Seriously.
Need your deck powerwashed? Call me! Tough mildew on brick? Got it.
So, this affinity leads me to be insanely jealous of guys who work for GumBusters. They use special power washers to blast dried gum off of sidewalks. I saw it on Dirty Jobs, and I actually saw it in action in New York City. Uh-mazing.
Look at this thing. How kick-ass is it?
Yes, I need to get out more. No, I have not transferred this desire to clean sidewalks to cleaning my own house. Don't judge me.
Image courtesy of bostongumbusters.com.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Awesome things I've learned this week.
1. I should not be allowed to use super glue.
Being the high-maintenance doxie about town that he is, Lil' Frankfurter cannot use a plastic food dish. He demands a ceramic dish because anything else is just uncouth. And Lil' Frank shows his displeasure by chewing any and all plastic dishes that might disgrace his kennel.
So, when his ceramic dish broke, it was a dire situation. But, being a DIY diva, I can fix this, right?
I washed the 2 pieces of the bowl ... and sliced my hand open on the jagged edge. Then, after some serious blood loss, I bandaged the carnage and opened my new tube of super glue ... which promptly exploded all over my hand and the kitchen counter.
I managed to glue the dish, realizing as I pieced it together that 2 of my fingers were glue to each other, and the side of my hand was glued to the counter top.
I am a winner. I also should not be a spokes model for super glue - unless the super glue people have a sense of humor and would welcome me saying stuff like, "Super glue? That shit sets fast" while I was glued to, you know, my kitchen.
2. Lack of air conditioning causes insane dreams.
You know what's neat? When it's still 90-some degrees on a daily basis, and your gajillion-year-old HVAC system completely dies. Like, gonna-replace-the-furnace-and-the-AC-and-some-duct-work kinda neat. Like, gonna-eat-ramen-for-years kinda neat.
But in my feverish attempts to sleep in the heat, I have had some amazing dreams.
Evidently, I am auditioning for American Idol.
And, evidently, My Guy and I went on a cruise, but didn't actually have a cabin on the ship. And so he abandoned me for a family that had a big cabin.
He refuses to apologize for this. He keeps saying something about dreams not being real, or some such nonsense.
3. SNL has rotted my brain.
All through the PBS coverage of the Democratic National Convention, I look at Gwen Ifill ...
... but I see Queen Latifah.
I blame Tina Fey.
Images courtesy of google.
Being the high-maintenance doxie about town that he is, Lil' Frankfurter cannot use a plastic food dish. He demands a ceramic dish because anything else is just uncouth. And Lil' Frank shows his displeasure by chewing any and all plastic dishes that might disgrace his kennel.
So, when his ceramic dish broke, it was a dire situation. But, being a DIY diva, I can fix this, right?
I washed the 2 pieces of the bowl ... and sliced my hand open on the jagged edge. Then, after some serious blood loss, I bandaged the carnage and opened my new tube of super glue ... which promptly exploded all over my hand and the kitchen counter.
I managed to glue the dish, realizing as I pieced it together that 2 of my fingers were glue to each other, and the side of my hand was glued to the counter top.
I am a winner. I also should not be a spokes model for super glue - unless the super glue people have a sense of humor and would welcome me saying stuff like, "Super glue? That shit sets fast" while I was glued to, you know, my kitchen.
2. Lack of air conditioning causes insane dreams.
You know what's neat? When it's still 90-some degrees on a daily basis, and your gajillion-year-old HVAC system completely dies. Like, gonna-replace-the-furnace-and-the-AC-and-some-duct-work kinda neat. Like, gonna-eat-ramen-for-years kinda neat.
But in my feverish attempts to sleep in the heat, I have had some amazing dreams.
Evidently, I am auditioning for American Idol.
And, evidently, My Guy and I went on a cruise, but didn't actually have a cabin on the ship. And so he abandoned me for a family that had a big cabin.
He refuses to apologize for this. He keeps saying something about dreams not being real, or some such nonsense.
3. SNL has rotted my brain.
All through the PBS coverage of the Democratic National Convention, I look at Gwen Ifill ...
I blame Tina Fey.
Images courtesy of google.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Showin' some skin, granny style.
Since it's the very last day of summer, I went to da poo (or, "the pool" for those of you who are unfamiliar with my brother's nekkid Barbie behest).
It was lovely. I lounged in the zero-entry area with my friend and chatted it up as we watched her twins swim themselves into exhaustion.
The first time I went to this pool, I was nervous. I was just sure that it would be packed with moms who spend half their lives at the gym and have the rockin' bodies to prove it. Sure, there are some of those. But mostly, this city pool provides a nice representation of all body types. I'm a little sad for the moms who feel the need to wear those little bikini skirts when really, they have nothing to hide. But other than that? It's kewl.
Today, though, I found myself absolutely confounded. There was a grandma there, playing with her grandkids and donning a rather chaste, almost knee-length grandma swim dress.
Except Chaste Grandma? Had giant tattoos on her back and upper arms. Giant. Tattoos.
Now, I am down with some skin art. But what killed me was the thought that people have grandmas with big ol' tattoos ... and I cannot imagine my own grandma with a tat.
My sweet grandma was of the June Cleaver ilk. She could prepare a huge meal for her extended family and never need an apron, because she never spilled or splattered. She wore pearls. She never cussed or drank or was anything besides in control.
So, if my grandma had a tattoo ... what would it be?
My imagination has been running wild on this one. Some options:
It was lovely. I lounged in the zero-entry area with my friend and chatted it up as we watched her twins swim themselves into exhaustion.
The first time I went to this pool, I was nervous. I was just sure that it would be packed with moms who spend half their lives at the gym and have the rockin' bodies to prove it. Sure, there are some of those. But mostly, this city pool provides a nice representation of all body types. I'm a little sad for the moms who feel the need to wear those little bikini skirts when really, they have nothing to hide. But other than that? It's kewl.
Today, though, I found myself absolutely confounded. There was a grandma there, playing with her grandkids and donning a rather chaste, almost knee-length grandma swim dress.
Except Chaste Grandma? Had giant tattoos on her back and upper arms. Giant. Tattoos.
Now, I am down with some skin art. But what killed me was the thought that people have grandmas with big ol' tattoos ... and I cannot imagine my own grandma with a tat.
My sweet grandma was of the June Cleaver ilk. She could prepare a huge meal for her extended family and never need an apron, because she never spilled or splattered. She wore pearls. She never cussed or drank or was anything besides in control.
So, if my grandma had a tattoo ... what would it be?
My imagination has been running wild on this one. Some options:
- A heart with my grandpa's name in a banner across it. They were married for 69 years, so I think a tattoo would be OK - none of this "you know that's permanent, right?" business. Yeah, they knew it was permanent.
- Her best dog, Skipper. I am crazy about dogs, but Grandma totally was, too. And Skipper was the dog to beat all dogs, and is still spoken of reverently. If Grandma wanted to go all ASPCA with her tat, Skipper might be a good skin-art choice.
- A family photo. This would be more of a full-back tat, not just an arm piece. In honor of my grandparents' 50th anniversary, we had a giant family portrait with them, all the kids, and all the grandkids - 16 people total. And nothing was more important to Grandma than family. This would be a big tattoo. However, I'm not sure how I feel about her showing it off - as you might imagine, I did not have a grandma who wore tube tops.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
