fancy notion

Begendings.

2011-10-10T23:03:00.000-04:00

Guess what - I'm moving! In fact, I've already moved.

I'm talking about my writing space. (There might be other types of moving in my future, but for now...)

...it's time for me to head in a different direction. I've been struggling with Fancy Notion over these recent weeks - material has seemed just outside of my reach. I've heard an insincerity in my voice. My haphazard post about blogging actually started me thinking about: what am I doing here, really? But most of all, I started to resent the time I spend searching my mind for interesting topics, because it has left me less time for the other writing that I'm doing, the creative, painstaking, for-publication kind that takes a shit-ton of practice and a great deal of time set aside for failure.

(Which I'm rocking at, by the way - the failure! Apparently this is normal for the new writer. Unless the Internet is just full of lies, which it simply cannot be. Right???)

But, I don't totally want to leave. I enjoy writing for an "audience," as far-flung and mysterious as it may be. And then I read this post by the lovely Alice Bradley,who blogs at Finslippy and Babble and is one of my favorite voices on the Internet, and - excuse my lame earnestness when I say this - it inspired the hell out of me (to say nothing of her tremendous follow-up to that post).

So on October 1 I started a new website. A real one, that I bought with cash money, and everything! Okay, okay, with credit... you got me. It's quite different from Fancy Notion - simultaneously more and less structured. More structured in that it consists of a limited few "types" of posts that will all be creative writing based - think posting less for the relevance of the topic, but for the writing of it. Less structured in that it isn't a linear march through my life - what I'm dong now, and what I'm doing now, and what I'll be doing tomorrow. Of course, I will try to cover any big events that happen to pop up (see possible move, above) - but what I've learned here is that I can write such better stories when I have the luxury to properly mull over them first. And there are a lot of scenes in my life that occurred way before there was ever Fancy Notion that I'd like to paint. And I want the freedom to fiddle with fiction, without Oprah getting all James Frey-tastic on my ass someday. And there are already so many friend-blogs that I read and love, bloggers who write about the same events and puzzles and life oddities that I experience, but write them, well, better. (At least that's my opinion. You guys are a bunch of stinking geniuses. Yes, you).

So...thank you for reading me here. It's been more fun than I can tell you, really, so I won't try. I don't expect you all to like the new website - but if you'd care to join me there, I will be the first one jumping up and down to give you a hug when you walk in the door. Just don't bring me a plant, because I will kill it. Bring vodka.

Forwarding address: http://www.spottytypewriter.com/

...and a good time was had by all.

2011-10-05T16:17:00.001-04:00

Please allow me to play "wedding blogger" for a day - I just can't keep this gorgeousness to myself.

Photos from Doni (Craig's bro) and Sara's (my very dear friend) 's wedding. Shot by Calynn Berry out of MI.

I mean, come on. Right?

Interlude.

2011-10-03T11:04:00.001-04:00

It's a few weeks past the fact, but I'm still mourning the tiny chip of my heart that broke off when I heard that R.E.M. gracefully ended their career. I listened to Nightswimming on repeat in my high school boyfriend's bedroom, the summer before we went away to college. Talking, dreaming, kissing, fighting - embarrassingly intent on planning out a future that I'd later learn had no chance at all. I wish that relationship had ended as sweetly as the band's. I'm no Michael Stipe.

When I was young these types of songs helped me think about the future. It's that piano baseline, you know - it moves the brain to create. Now when I hear them, my mind hands me scenes from my past. What does that mean? Sometimes I worry that my nostalgia muscle is so much stronger than my anticipation muscle. I'm a reminiscer. A rememberer. A protector of dear snippets. A worrier. A dissatisfied optimist prone to wallowing contentedly in that which is done.

Writing this post has made me sick of my own face.

2011-09-28T14:14:00.004-04:00

Hey, commenters on my previous post: I fucking love you guys. The most. Forever, and ever, Amen.

It has been brought to my attention (via you steel-trap bitches on Twitter) that I never showed you my new hair color. And since I'm apparently on borrowed time before it disappears completely, I owe you pics! So I snapped this one on my way out the door this morning:

Why yes, I did don pinkish earrings and stood right in front of our orangey fence for full clash-a-bility! I would re-take, but I'm afraid I will get into perfectionist-land if I start playing Glamourshots for this post. You get what you get, and you don't get upset, even if your eyes bleed.

...by the way, have you ever let a friend look at your camera right after a embarking on a long session of "time for a new profile picture" photoshoot? And then they're flipping through, la-di-la, until they come to 250 straight pics of your face, and you have to be all, "I'm not obsessed with myself, I swear! It's for LinkedIn! I just want to present myself in my best possible light?"

No, this hasn't happened to you? Oh. Me neither! HAHA! Moving on.

The details:

What I said to Stephen the Stylist:"I want it red, but not like, crazy, you know? Normal red. Like it could have grown out of my head. A red known to nature. Not blonde-with-a-little-strawberry, not brown-with-a-little auburn. Red. Reddish? I don't know. I'm scared."

Stephen the Stylist's Interpretation: "So, you don't want to look like an angry teenager sticking it to her parents. And you don't want it to look like a mistake. Irish lassie. Confident copper."

How it went down: 5+ hours at the salon. Single-process, wash, cut, blow-dry, (very scary at this point, omigod), a second single-process, toner, wash, blow-dry. $150 out the door.

Number of hours I spent crying afterward: Roughly 12. Tips for you who want to dye your hair: you might think it's a great idea to to it over that weekend when your spouse and all your friends happen to be out of town, because you'll be bored, right? Do NOT do this. Without any friends to tell you it looks good, you will stare in the mirror for two days, drink way too much wine, and cry.

Eyebrow situation: My brows were a dirty blonde - much like the actual, unhighlighted color of my hair - and didn't look quite right with the red. So I bough an at-home facial bleaching kit and bleached them up just a tad (left the product on my brows for about 4 minutes). The resulting color was a strawberry blond that looks fine untouched - for work and nighttime I lightly brush them with cream taupe eyeshadow for definition/a hint of darkness

The reaction: Mostly positive. Although I will tell you, I get a real kick out of the people who tell me point-blank that they don't like it. Like my mom! And my boss! It's refreshing, really! Craig came home from LA and was afraid to kiss me. He said it felt like he was kissing a stranger, and I said "Enjoy it while it lasts, my friend." He likes the color, and I think he wishes that I would stop asking if it looks red (I can't help it. Sometimes in certain light I SWEAR it's brown.)

Percentage of my closet that now clashes with my hair: 90% Who let me buy so many pink and orange colored tops?

The upkeep: Brutal. Blond roots growing into red hair = a new giant part that looks like you are, in fact, going bald. Red fades notoriously fast, so after 3 weeks the color is totally different. The best way I've found to combat this is to use Aveda's Madder Root color-depositing shampoo and conditioner (that wrecks our white shower and white towels and oh yeah, costs a million dollars) and Pureology Colourmax leave-in conditioner with UV protection. YOU GUYS. NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WAS SPF FOR YOUR HAIR. I would have been using it years ago, had I known! I'm considering just moving in with Stephen. It would work perfectly - he could do my hair every 2 weeks and will happily answer my "Is my hair red?" question 3 times a day with "oh hell yes, gorgeous, it's perfect!" Despite a great deal of practice I cannot for the life of me get Craig to say that with the right inflection.

And now, a word about my mental state.

2011-09-26T09:52:00.003-04:00

So remember a while ago? Why yes, of course you do, dears. But more specifically, remember how crazy and insane I was back then? Here is where I would provide linked evidence of some of the more depressing and woeful posts that I wrote in the past year, but I deleted them (see previous post for explanation). They included a lot of sighing, and asking of advice, and dumb story-telling because I wasn't doing anything in my life to write about.

Now, before you tsk-tsk me and say, "Honey, you were never insane, that's just life! A little sensitivity and female response to stress! If you want insane, let me tell you about the time I packed all my belongings in trash bags and walked to California, stopping only to shave my head and go on a hunger strike on the corner of Michigan and Ontario when I hit Chicago..." I have to step in and tell you how bad it was, how terrifyingly upset I was earlier this year, all the time. I wrote a lot of manic posts around then and I wrote a lot of sad posts around then and mostly it was all drivel because I was constantly typing through tears. You know, when I wasn't screaming and throwing things around my house. I kid you not.

From, oh...July 2010 until May 2011? I think I cried every single day. About something. Sometimes I would cry over things that made sense, like failing to emotionally support my mother or my best friend through their breakups, but sometimes I would enter a violent sob-fest over the color of the pillows on our couch and how much I hated them and WHY DID I BUY THEM and THIS FUCKING HOUSE and my life is SO HARD AND GETTING HARDER FOREVER. I cried at work, sometimes in front of my co-workers, over stress that I couldn't articulate but was somehow preventing me from getting projects done. I cried when Craig came home from work, sometimes because I had missed him, sometimes because I was angry that he had things to do that night that didn't involve soothing his mean wife's mystery unhappiness.

(and oh yes, you're right - we did indeed get married in the middle of this stretch of acute "blah." the wedding, and the majority of the honeymoon were stars in the night. they were perfect. the crazy took a backseat to the indescribable joy my life contained that week. i had actually convinced myself that it was all wedding stress-related, until the blahs picked up again right after we got back to the states - with the most vengeance, since this is when my mom got dumped and called me every day asking me to come back to her in chicago)

I raged over the tiniest things. I remember a particularly bad day when we had friends coming in from out of town and they called to say they were running a half-hour early and would be at our house sooner then I'd thought, and I felt unprepared and had a meltdown. I was so angry I felt like I couldn't move. I said horrible things. It was such a weird feeling - crying over something that at that moment, I knew was not cry-overable. But I couldn't prevent it - there was a connection missing, from my intelligent mind that knew what was normal behavior, and the emotional mind that needed to decompress. I had to get in my car and leave the house because the look on Craig's face made me afraid - his understanding was reaching its limit. Friends who read this blog are probably confused, reading this, because I did my best to keep most of this unhappiness at home. This meant that often I stayed at home, too. I only raged around Craig, only cried on the phone with my sister. I considered seeing a therapist, looked into my insurance coverage to find out about it. I grew intensely jealous of my friends (real and internet) who were helped by mood-altering drugs.

The idea of getting help brought on a sense of power, and I started to be able to think forward, to make a plan: Before spending the dough and time with a shrink,I'd start with the obvious and work from there. My moods seemed like a hormonal issue, and - oh hey! - by this point I'd been on hormone therapy (i.e. birth control pills) for going on 9 years. Straight. Never a break. So Craig and I talked about it, and decided that before I started seeing a therapist,and before he'd trade me in for a wife with all of her marbles, I would stop the birth control pills. And oh my god.

This post is not a bash against birth control pills. I feel it's undeniable that The Pill has been a historically, unbelievably positive invention. I LOVED being on birth control - for the first 8 years. They let me have the life I wanted. But I honestly think now that there is a limit to how many years of trickery one's body can handle. I can't explain to you, how just 7 days off of that pill, I felt like I had removed some sad-tinted contacts from my eyes. Everything seemed lighter, brighter, clean. Frustrating and upsetting things still happened in my life, but instead allowing them to define every day as a bad day, I could understand how they were just bad moments in a good day. Duh! I had the best summer I can remember. I've wanted to do things, and see people, and make plans in a way I haven't in quite a while.

But of course, as with all things, there are consequences to change. Craig and I are living in condom hell right now. Yeah, sorry to those who don't mind them (or those who just don't want to hear this - hi family!) but it we are beyond annoyed by this situation - but we're working on it. My skin, which has been sickeningly clear and beautiful for a decade, is rebelling a bit with some curious pimplage. And oh, just this week I've started to notice that my hair is falling out. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I just spent good money making it a fun new color and now I can only admire it on my bathroom floor. I feel great otherwise, just noticing a lot of hair in the drain and on my brush, so I did a little online diagnosis (always the best idea, of course) and lo and behold: there it is - Women who are predisposed to hormonal-related hair loss, or who are hypersensitive to the hormonal changes taking place in their bodies, can have hair loss to varying degrees while on the Pill or, more commonly, several weeks or months after stopping the Pill. Well, shit.*

So yeah. Right now I'm weighing being a thick-haired, clear skinned sex-loving homicidal maniac vs. an acne-riddled, bald but totally functional and happy human who occasionally has to go for a 2-am condom run to Walgreens. These are my choices. These are my choices? Good Lord.

Which would you pick? Which would you want your friend, or your spouse to pick?

*and yes, if this continues I will go to an actual doctor and have my thyroid checked, among other things. don't worry.

So yeah, about that...

2011-09-23T09:08:00.003-04:00

It appears as though apologies are in order. Sowwy.

(ew. why did I just say it like that?)

For those of you late to the party, I had a little creative writing prompt up on my blog yesterday, asking friends and foes alike to describe a very good moment in their day in explicit detail. Since many of us here are writers (either formally or informally) and all of us are readers, I thought it would be kind of fun/terrifying to write for feeling instead of for update, and to share it and support one another's craft.

But then for the first 4 hours when no one trampled over each other to get to my comments to say "This is the best idea ever I love love love it, I'm writing it RIGHT NOW, I'll be back! (PS You're the best blogger ever!)" I grew tingly with fear at my little ditty moment hanging out there all alone and I deleted it and put up a lame post about expensive baby toys. Meanwhile, a handful of very sweet people were actually looking forward to this exercise, and working on it, and apparently, had other things to be doing in the middle of the workday and were going to get back to it later. What?

So yeah, sorry. I will be revisiting this prompt, promise.

But that leads me to a little explanation about how I blog, and why things like yesterday tend to happen over here at Fancy Notion.

I am a severely, cripplingly private person. I keep 95% of my thoughts in my head, always. I don't like to reveal them to anyone, not my best friends, not my husband, not my co-workers or strangers on the bus. It's not that they are bad thoughts (well, some of them are. let's be real some of them are really, fucking wacko - just like yours) just that they are mine, fresh and untouched and clear and original, and I like to treasure them without others' opinions transforming those thoughts. I am a very...porous... individual. I absorb other people's thoughts and comments to the point of insanity. Once I hear someone else's opinion on a song, on a book, on fashion or the taste of cilantro, I can't not remember it and take it into consideration. This makes me very sensitive, and obviously, very confused much of the time.

So then, why in god's name do I blog? And publicly, without anonymity, at that?

The fuck if I know, really. I came here during the wedding planning to find people to keep me sane, and then stuck around because I made friends and I didn't want to lose them, and then I learned how much I loved writing - producing something, seeing it before my eyes, sharing the craft. I didn't know about anonymity when I started, so it became impossible to change that halfway.

Everyone has a different system to blogging, and personally I follow the "scream and then run away" method. When I write a post, I write it all at once in about 10 minutes - bam, diarrhea of the fingers - and then slap it up there on the internet without even reading it through once -as evidenced by my frequent typos. I'm not an idiot, I just don't proofread, because if I proofread I'd give the fear time to kick in and I would end up NEVER hitting post. Most of the time this works for me. Some of the time I make bad choices, or embarrassing ones, or boring ones, and I've learned to live with that.

So anyway. Just wanted to let everyone know (mostly the non-bloggers because I think the other bloggers know this already) that keeping up this page is hard for me. It requires a lot of thought and more guts than I think I sometimes have, and a skin that doesn't tear like paper, as mine tends to do from now and then. And total, complete, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pantsness is the only way I've found to handle it. And when one is flying by the seat of one's pants, one will occasionally have a panic attack and run around screaming, tearing down all of the blinds and knocking over chairs and pull out the couch cushion stuffing (that's my description of yesterday.) in craziness.

I want to know - if you are a blogger, what system do you follow to create posts? Do you agonize, or hit-and-run?

FINE.

2011-09-21T21:40:00.020-04:00

It has come to my attention that no one wants to play "Creative Writing Class" with me.

This reminds me of when I was eight and draged my six-year-old neighbor into my basement every day in the summer to make her play "school" - during which I would instruct her to copy penmanship from a book about different breeds of horses, while I watched. What can I say, I've always been a fearless leader that way.

So instead, let me share with you the AMAZING THING I found last night (thanks to Liz) during a Twitter conversation about the love/hate relationship I have with Restoration Hardware.

Please note that this was found on RH's "Baby and Child" site, under "toys."

Vintage Schoolhouse Play Table, with chairs and easel

How. Amazing. Not only did I need this when I was a grouchy 8-year old schoolma'rm (?), I need it now. Just because it's fucking awesome. (Naughty schoolboy roleplay, Craig?)

And, the whole set can be yours for the low, low price of $1,050 plus tax. You're welcome.

Curious.

2011-09-20T10:02:00.010-04:00

I passed this driving through my town the other day. I got really excited and almost crashed my car looking for other giant herbs and spices to appear down the road, but sadly there were none. Just the garlic. No one else was taking pictures of it out of their car windows but me.

I'm a little concerned that I've been left out of a good joke.

C'mon guys. I like garlic. I love garlic. Let me play...

Nine months.

2011-09-19T08:51:00.007-04:00

= The time it takes some people to grow a baby*

Also = the time it took me to get around to making a wedding photo album.

I'm probably the last person on earth to use Shutterfly to make a tactile photo album, but in case I'm the second to last person, allow me to extol the virtues of the Shutterfly photo album service. C'est magnifique! Super easy for the type B person who wants to just throw pictures on a page and have it mailed to them so grandma will quit bitching, super easy for the type A person (moi) who will spend three entire days moving one picture a 1/16 of an inch to the right, and then to the left, agonizing which way looks better.

My particular album is 12x12, 31 pages and a padded photo cover, and was $73.00 out the door, including shipping. This sounds like a lot until you compare it to what your photographer will charge you, which is, undoubtedly, > a lot.

Plus, then you can even post your album to your blog and Facebook page, and sit back and enjoy the groans of all those who thought they were done hearing about your damn wedding nine freaking months ago, you know, when it happened. Surprise!

If you want to check it out, I recommend clicking on the link below, as the embedded album is tiny, and slow to load. All those wonderful things I said about Shutterfly? REDACTED.

Click here to view this photo book larger

*Subtle, false baby references are the #1 way to get people to visit your page. This is science, people.

Random good deal of the day.

2011-09-15T09:03:00.002-04:00

Why yes, those are metallic ballet-flat penny-loafers! And yes they are awesome.

Stumbled across these for $19 yesterday and decided they were so geeky-cute that I had to have them for work. Looks like they are sold out online, but could be hiding at your local DSW.

P.S. Penny loafers will always make me think of my dad, who I believe has worn them every day of his life. That is, when he is not wearing plain white running sneakers. Growing up I remember that every year for his birthday, my mom would get him one pair of pennys, one pair of white sneakers. EVERY YEAR. THE SAME GIFT. AND HE LOVED IT. I remember thinking that was hilarious, but now I know it was genius, because we all know guys are a bitch to shop for. Especially married guys. Although...they aren't together anymore. Maybe the repetitive gifts were the real reason, oh my god! I had no idea! Blogging is amazing, it brings out all of your latent memories, and gives you brand new insights. Penny loafers destroyed my parents marriage. But wait - I just bought some! I'm doomed to repeat their mistakes! **shakes fist** I have to email Craig right now, and interrupt his morning meeting to let him know that our marriage is over, on account of cyclical footwear. He will understand.

I've had too much coffee, I think.

Why I read the printed word.

2011-09-13T15:20:00.005-04:00

(ed note:. this post might make you want to barf. i read it over after posting and it made me want to barf. you've been warned.)

I just picked up a book to re-read, and some sand fell out of its pages.

It sprinkled across my thighs; white dot pinpricks on black cotton. As I brushed the sand away I remembered the three days it took me to read those 400 pages, on a soft, endless Waikiki beach in 2007.

Craig was by my side, sick as a dog with the flu. He slept every afternoon, for hours, waking occasionally to drag himself along with me to try surfing, to go to dinner and eat food for which he had no appetite, to walk the beach at night, shoes in one hand, each other's hand in the other yearning for bedtime. I remember the delicious feeling of being so far away from home with him, just the two of us where we couldn't be reached. He slept and I read, devouring that book because I loved it so, stopping every now and then to slap some SPF on my entire person and his sleeping face, the only time he wouldn't put up a fuss about my constant badgering to reapply. I got drunk next to the pool alone, realizing that this was, strangely, the perfect kind of trip. I didn't have to entertain or be entertaining. I could sit in the shade and read over lunch and look out at the ocean and feel the weight of someone I loved leaning on me.

This was Back Then, when we were long-distance lovers, unsure of what would come of it. The things we didn't know back then make me breathless: we didn't know I would leave my home just for him, we didn't know he would become a dog person just for me, we didn't know that we would say "forever, just for you." But I did know, suddenly and for the first real time, that just being around that particular person, not doing much of anything but watching him be sick and boring but yet there, could make me happy - happy enough for (fingerscrossed) a lifetime.

Today we've been quasi-fighting via email at our respective workplaces, which is always a great idea, right? I'm annoyed at Craig and I can say he probably feels the same about me.

But that damn sand kind of made me want to just shut up about it, already.

Little houses, for you and me.

2011-09-08T17:28:00.019-04:00

link

Do you watch HGTV's Design Star? I do, and after this week's episode I have become completely obsessed with the concept of the tiny house movement. Not so much the political ideology of living small (although really, I can see the intelligence behind it), but just because it seems so damn cozy. Simple. Uncluttered. Clean.

link

Craig and I live in a...not tiny house. A whole slew of people once lived in it but then I kicked them all out (nicely! I said "please" and "thank you" and "I do") and now it's just Craig and Tabitha and me. We use approximately 45% of our home on a daily basis, but have to clean 100% on at least a monthly basis. Unfair!

link

I've made it no secret that I cannot wait to downsize, chuck the majority of our stuff at Goodwill, and snuggle back into apartment-style living. I want to feel like I need less stuff. I want to leave TJ Maxx home goods without an unnecessary chair or table that I bought just to fill up that one empty corner that's been driving me CRAZY. I want everything in my home to mean something and be there only because I need it there. That's much easier when you start with a small template.

link

link

Apparently you can only have a tiny home in the middle of the woods. In the city, they are just called homes.

A Request in Two Acts: Act II

2011-09-07T09:59:00.006-04:00

For the numbers people...

Believe it or not, the Holocaust Unsurvivor story doesn't touch everyon'e soft squishy place. Some of you need the cold, hard, black-and-white facts to bring the message home. I know it, you're not all melty bleeding hearts like Ms. Social Worker here. You probably make actual dollar bills at your job.

Speaking of those dollar bills...if you make a lot of them - want to hang on to them? Pass them onto you kids someday? Use them to visit all those romantic destinations you said you'd see when you are older?

Then you better hope you aren't one of the one in five people over the age of sixty-five who will start heading down the path of memory loss. You also better hope your spouse isn't -that money will be gone faster than you can say Medicaid Spend-Down.

But maybe you can do more than just hope. Maybe you can watch this video. Maybe you can say something. Maybe you can get involved.

...and if you are so inclined, here is the link to my personal Walk to End Alzheimer's donation page.

Just plane rude.

2011-09-01T09:00:00.002-04:00

Calling all etiquette experts!

Recently Craig and I have had separate instances of being shunned for bad plane behavior.

On a flight back from San Francisco (about 5 hours) I had the joy of getting the middle seat with strangers on either side. Once we were cruising altitude I settled in to daydream to my ipod playlist the whole way home. Not two minutes into it, the young, thirties-ish guy next to me tapped me on the shoulder and said "that music is awfully loud, you know." The music in my headphones, guys. In my ears. With a plane engine roaring in the background. And also, passive-aggressive much?

Being the ex-Catholic that I am, the guilt overcame me and I instinctually apologized, and spun the dial to turn it down. My cheeks burned red the whole flight and I willed myself not to have to use the bathroom because I didn't want to interact with a guy who was, for all intents and purposes, sitting in my lap. He also stole the whole of the armrest the entire flight - but that's neither here nor there.

***

Last week Craig flew back from LA alone and purchased the in-flight Direct TV for his 5-ish hour flight. He was happily enjoying an episode of Tosh.O when the guy behind him tapped him on the shoulder and requested he turn it off. The guy's 8-year old daughter, sitting in the row behind Craig, could see the screen and the father didn't want her viewing the adult content. If you've never seen the show: it's lewd humor, but it's on basic cable at 10:30 at night. Craig changed the channel, but was not happy about it- if there is one thing you should know about my husband, he don't take kindly to the authori-tay. There are teachers all over the state of Ohio that will attest to this fact.

So, what would you all have done? Were Craig and I appropriate in giving in, even though we were annoyed enough to bitch about these instances for days afterward? Did it make a difference that Craig had paid money for his right to watch whatever the plane offered on their Direct TV system? Should I have said "The flight attendant will give you earplugs if you want them, this is not your private jet and jesus christ, get the stick out of your ass? Have you been unfairly shamed lately?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Writing. It's Hard.

2011-08-30T11:41:00.004-04:00

For all of my dearest blogger and writer friends. For those who have published and those scribbling on napkins, typing it into the phone. For those who aren't "writers" but whose comments sound so beautiful they should copyright that shit. For those who are just starting out and for those who are quitting. For those who hate writing and have never written anything good and who cry because it's all just trash, absolute rubbish but you CAN'T STOP. For those who will start writing, perhaps tomorrow. And for me.

Writing. It's Hard.
By Becky Tuch

What is the point? You sometimes ask yourself.

You brew your second cup of coffee and carry the mug to your writing desk. You stare at your computer screen, type a sentence. Delete it. Sip your coffee. You write a new sentence. Pause. Take off your glasses, rub your eyes. Sigh.

What is the point?

For years, you’ve been waking up at six-thirty, brewing coffee, sitting at your desk and pattering out whatever thoughts come into your head. Sometimes they’re in the form of a story. Sometimes they’re solipsistic ramblings, stream of consciousness stuff that you would rather die than let anyone ever read. Sometimes you are writing a novel.

Often you feel as though you’re failing. At the novel. At the short story. At writing, period. Your characters are in their heads too much. Or else they don’t pause and reflect enough. They’re unlikable. Or they’re not flawed enough. The story doesn’t go anywhere. The story goes in too many directions at once. You need less description. The characters need to be described more clearly. You don’t know what you’re doing.

Often, you want to give up. You ask yourself: what the hell is the point?

Why work so hard at this ineffable thing called writing? There is never a guarantee of publication. And if you do publish a novel, there are so many other things to start worrying about. Refrigerator magnets with your name on them. Business cards with a picture of your book. Hiring a publicist. Getting reviewed. Planning a book tour. Responding constantly to emails, Facebook messages, Twitter messages, connecting with other writers, managing your website, starting a blog. Not to mention selling copies of your book.

And if you don’t publish a novel, you will continue to feel obscure, unappreciated. Who will recognize your hard work? Who will acknowledge all that you’ve done? Who will experience the characters that you’ve created with your bare hands?

Plus, there are other frustrations. You never have any money and you’re paying way too much for private health insurance. You’re forever hustling for teaching gigs. Your crappy car is always breaking down. You worry each year about your landlord raising the rent. You’ve fallen entirely out of step with your peers. They are all having kids, getting great jobs that pay well, investing in condos and nice houses in pretty neighborhoods. Meanwhile you continue to wait tables at a local restaurant, occasionally mopping up a Harvard student’s vomit from the bathroom.

Or else, it’s something different. You have a full-time job and you have kids, so you are constantly trying to find time to be alone and think about your work. You feel selfish. You hate that you’d rather be writing than taking your child to the playground. When you do write, you can’t concentrate because you know that at any moment your kids will interrupt you. You can’t think with their video games blaring. Your house hasn’t been cleaned in so long it’s like a swimming pool, filled not with water but with dust.

Maybe your wife is getting impatient. She can tell that you’re thinking about your novel during dinner, during your child’s birthday party, during sex.

Or else you don’t yet have children and your husband doesn’t like that you’re a writer. He doesn’t like it because he wants kids and you keep saying, “Let’s wait, let’s wait,” because you want to savor all the time you have for your writing, and he just doesn’t understand. He’s not a writer.

But you do it anyway– endure your marital difficulties or your financial concerns or falling asleep at your day job because you’ve been up all morning writing. You endure the cold air biting into your fingers as you shiver in front of your computer at the wee hours of morning, while the kids are still asleep. You drive the crappy car. You slurp your coffee and even hold in your need to pee just so you can get this last sentence down and not forget it.

Why do writers do what they do? Sometimes it feels like trying to uproot the Earth from the galaxy. And yet, you keep working at it, keep pushing. You just keep showing up.

Even if your work ends up in a heap in your closet. Even if no one you love fully understands it. Even if your parents wish you would do something else. Even if you are riddled with guilt. Even if your novel gets published and it gets the world’s worst reviews. Even if it’s all wonderful and you are afraid of spoiling it with a bad day’s work. Even if this is your last day on Earth.

You just keep showing up. With your doubt, your despair, and your anxiety. With your questions, your uncertainty, your anger. Your longing, bitterness and hope. Your fear and confusion.

You may be hungry, tired, sad, happy, present, absent, eager, humble, nice, obnoxious, distracted, focused, employed, jobless, full of joy, full of anger, full of wonder, full of pain, terrified, cold, in a wheelchair, on the beach, uncomfortable, rich, poor, compassionate, resentful, Democrat, Republican, Communist, Socialist, old, young, single, married, confident, self-conscious, awkward, hostile, fat, skinny, gay, straight, bisexual, inspired, proud, wrong, right, unsure.

You show up. And you bring it all to the page.

Because, in all honesty, the point of it all is not really the point at all.

You do it because there is no alternative. You are a writer.

You show up.

Find this here.

Satisfaction.

2011-08-28T20:01:00.007-04:00

via weheartit

Reclaiming Wife fans - remember this post from a few weeks back? I adored the notion of "Married Lady Slumber Parties" - (a phrase that is most likely the name of an adult film and will bring all sorts of quirky traffic to this site) and planned one immediately.

This weekend I had a two, count them two, married lady slumber parties with my sister-in-law, since our husbands were away on a golf weekend together. There were possible outfits and NSFW makeup, curling irons in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, this song on the ipod, dinner and drinks, a roaring fire with twinkle lights strung above, discussions about boys and families and clothes and jobs and vacations and how-did-we-get-here-exactly? and last calls and cab rides. There were homemade nachos and Gatorade and "I can't remember the last time I stayed up until 3:30"s, coffee and magazines out on the deck and deer grazing in the backyard. There were breakfast burritos and a pancake dinner and two girls-who-aren't girls-anymore lounging in the living room on their computers, not talking and not having to, while two dogs joyously chewed on each other's neck skin, wrestling on the floor. There were "good nights" and "good morning!"s and the comforting feeling of someone else in the house, The Tudors on TV and secrets and confessions and laughing until tears.

I'm pretty sure when I was eight years old this weekend was exactly what I believed life would be like as a grown-up. All the time.

Amid all of my daily sluggishness, of the panic and the bills and the fatigue and the watching what I eat and the just-wanting-to-be-left-alone, and the knowing I can do anything (but I really cant, you see, because insert-reason-here), it was so gratifying when Sunday night came around to think about that eight-year old girl-me and know she'd be really fucking proud.

Song that makes me...

2011-08-25T08:50:00.004-04:00

...detest the "radio edit."

I've been enjoying this tune on the radio for months now, but it wasn't until I recently bought the album that I realized I was only hearing half. What gives, radio? Why have you been keeping the last 3 minutes of delicious shoegazy face-melting from us? You don't think your listeners can handle it? Some of us are tired of the buttoned-up 2:50 verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus-wind-down. This is such a refreshing throwback to my beloved 90's epic alt rock - I invite you all to jam on.

A Request in Two Acts: Act I

2011-08-23T12:46:00.007-04:00

For the words people:

Recently I was working offisite at the Cleveland Clinic and a man came in for an appointment with me to discuss his wife's dementia. He had aged beautifully and wore a handsome custom shirt and pants with suspenders, sleeves rolled up. When he sat across from me and we began chatting, I noticed the faded tattoo on his arm. A straight line of numbers, running up his forearm. I noticed his slight accent when he asked me not to record any identifying demographic information in our database. My heart knocked loud in my chest.

He was a Holocaust survivor, as was his wife. They were both rescued at the end of the war and moved to America, where they found one another through the informal survivor network that exists in any city with a significant number of Jewish residents. They have been married for decades and decades. His wife has been slowly dying from Alzheimer's Disease for about three years.

This man had come to see me because he needed counseling on how to handle his wife, whose disease had progressed far enough to land her brain firmly back in her childhood days. In the concentration camp. Where she saw her mother murdered before her eyes. These are the memories she has left, the life she believes herself to still be living. She cries for her mother for hours each day. She often fails to recognize her husband and lashes out at him verbally and physically, believing him to be a variety of men who did god only knows what to her, long ago. She cannot be comforted.

This couple has survived more pain and heartache than almost any other I can think of. They escaped a certain death and then were lucky enough to find romantic love. They built a new, extremely successful life in a different country and enjoyed a slow progression into great wealth and status in their community. They had children and worked and built a lovely home and advocated for those who had been in their same devastating situation. They did all of these things to get away from a past that deserves no memory.

And this woman is back there again, unable to leave. Unable to accept that it all turns out okay in the end - because it doesn't, after all, not for her. She has no recollection of what came after. Because there is no prevention for Alzheimer's Disease, her mind is a loop of unnecessary fear and panic. Because there is no treatment for Alzheimer's Disease, her husband has to keep an arsenal of heavy anti-psychotics on hand and 9-1-1 on speed dial. Because there is no cure for Alzheimer's Disease, he has to simply wait until she dies of it, hoping against the norm for random moments of lucidity when the woman he loves, his oldest friend, looks at him with anything other than hate or indifference. There are no survivors of Alzheimer's Disease. There is no remission. For now, it never surrenders.

This is just one caregiver. I currently work with over 250 caregivers - and while not all of them experience such profound sadness, each family has its own story of loss. There are 14.9 million other caregivers of dementia and Alzheimer's Disease in the U.S., each with their own story. They all matter.

This fall, show them that you care by Walking to End Alzheimer's Disease in your community. Tell Washington that you care about them by signing up to become an advocate. Promise the future generation of caregivers - our generation - that we refuse to allow this disease to continue by finding the guts to say the words. Please send this post to someone who needs to know about Alzheimer's.

Contact your local chapter of the Alzheimer's Association for more ways to fight.

(edited to add: read about college basketball's winningest coach, age 59, receiving a diagnosis of early-onset AD and speaking out about it. please note that though she mentions "managing" the disease through medication and brain exercises, these are not effective at halting the progression of AD)

Luckily, I kept my Irish name.

2011-08-22T14:21:00.004-04:00

A full photo might be forthcoming, once my husband gets home from vacation* to see it first.

*Oh yes, I did.

Notions sans tulle.

2011-08-18T09:46:00.002-04:00

I'm honored to be blogging over at Sharon's site today while she is not-blogging in Italy, yay!

By the way, I've known like 234,756 people who have gone to Italy in the last month. What, are you all having a big pasta-and-Limocello party over there without me? You are, aren't you! You bitches! Whatever, I don't like Limoncello anyway. I hope all your scooters break down and your fingers puff up like balloons from too much cured meat. Look, just look at all the intensely researched details I know about Italy. I am a woman of the world.

Anyway. Go to Bride Sans Tulle where I talk about how overrated it is to be a functional human being.

Popular song of the moment that I absolutely cannot stand, v.2

2011-08-17T09:38:00.010-04:00

v.1 was here

I try not to listen to the radio. It is a consistent exercise in futility that ends up with me jabbing buttons with my fingers and groaning, nearly wrecking my car trying to reach the CDs I've strewn hither and yon, and telling Craig that I HATE this STATE because the RADIO is SO BAD I want to go HOME to CHICAGO. Needless to say, he adores when I do that. It's kind of our thing.

I try especially to avoid the Top 40/dance station because I always come away offended and feeling like some part of my insides had rotted and turned black. But sometimes, perhaps on a Friday night driving downtown to a party, a girl needs a little Britney to get her going. Maybe a little Lupe Fiasco. And so in these instances I've been known to pop on the Kiss FM. And you know what I really don't want to hear on ANY of my stations, be they alternative, classic rock, or Top 40?

Fucking country music, that's what. Particularly country music about dead people.

Alrightalrightalright, you country music freaks, relax. I'll allow you to go enjoy your country music without waxing rhapsodic on how terrible I think it is. You like it, I don't. It's cool. This is America (and if you forget that, country music will remind you). But I don't appreciate the Country Creep, which is when I turn on a station hoping for some Nicki Minaj raunch, and instead get this:

It is just. so. bad.

Okay yeah, death is a popular topic in music. It's mysterious, inescapeable, emotional, and creepy. Lots of artists sing about death. But I've never heard an artist sing about it so...literally. I mean, come on. Make us work for it! Make us sit on the couch with our eyes closed, passing a bowl, wondering "hey....hey wow, you hear that? She's talking about a life that never reaches its pinnacle. She's talking about dying a virgin, and how no one really appreciates you until they can't have you...that's some deep shit."

Think Queen's The Show Must Go On. Modest Mouse's The Ocean Breathes Salty. Make it all slippery-like. And if you must to go literal, aim for Norman Greenbaum's The Spirit in the Sky, and add some hand-claps and tambourines in that shit and turn someone's funeral into the best dance party since Cousin Ned's 1998 wedding reception.

(I'll give you a few minutes to groove on that. It's just. so. good.)

Some specific lyrics that puzzle me:

If I die young, bury me in satin
Lay me down on a, bed of roses
Sink me in the river, at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song.

Does she want a casket, and a Viking sea burial? I would think you'd either choose one or the other - have you seen the price of caskets lately? Also, we are entering an era of freshwater scarcity here, folks. We're gonna need that river water pretty soon and I'd rather it not be tainted by little girl corpses.

And I'll be wearing white, when I come into your kingdom
I'm as green as the ring on my little, cold finger

Does she mean "green" as in young and fresh? Or as in dead and rotting? Now is not the time to get all mind-fucky with us, chicken. But I commend you for taking this very public opportunity to dis whoever it was who gave you that fake gold ring that turned. No worries, we've all been there.

A penny for my thoughts, oh no, I'll sell them for a dollar
They're worth so much more after I'm a goner
And maybe then you'll hear the words I been singin'
Funny when you're dead how people start listenin'

Really? We've got bored, disenfranchised, wealthy high schoolers offing themselves all over the place in this country. Have some respect and forward thinking - perhaps this is not the best lesson to present to junior high kids listening to Kiss FM. They're so much better off singing along to subversive messages about the sexiness of rape.*

HOWEVER: Points for the piano accordion. And the mullet-tude.

*While reading the Wiki page for this song I caught a quote from some idiot from Entertainment Weekly comparing the style to Trent Reznor, and a I got, well, really mad.

Elephant + Dog + Love = Tissue Emergency

2011-08-15T09:00:00.002-04:00

I'm in the clutches of the dreaded summer cold (is there a more pitiful illness in life?) and my brain has morphed* into a giant marshmallow with non-thoughts and annoying song melodies bouncing around inside its padded walls. Thus, this post right here.

You may have seen this video a few years ago when CBS first aired it, but I was reminded of it by my morning radio show today and had to re-watch. Still lovely.

The narrative gets a little sachharin at the end, but who cares.

*I turned to my trusty Thesaurus.com** for a more appropriate word than morph and Thesaurus.com tried to trick me into thinking that the word morph does not exist, as it kept insisting that very fact. It suggested perhaps I actually meant oomph, or possibly moolah. I had some words with Thesaurus.com and then turned to Dictonary.com to make sure that I wasn't going crazy and made that word up in my marshmallowy-brained state. I did not. It exists. Thesaurus.com, I think you need to spend some quality time with your older, wiser mentor, Dictionary.com.

**A while back I had my actual tangible Thesaurus out on my desk and Craig spotted it and asked me "Is that a...a...thethorus?" and I said "Dearest darling heart, what the fuck did you just call it?" and he sheepishly repeated "Thethorus." I set him straight that it was actually a thesaurus, and he said "I thought that, at first, but it sounded too much like a dinosaur."

$.02

2011-08-10T08:54:00.006-04:00

It's about to get all Ladies' Home Journal up in here, because I'm declaring today to be: Tip Day!

I love tips. Got anything good? Any secret discoveries that have made your life easier? More delicious? Less frustrating? Have you any tidbits that have amazed and astonished those far and wide? Send them this-a-way!

Here are some of my favorites:

*The best way to check if your nail polish has dried is to touch your nail to your bottom lip. You will feel if it's still wet but your lip won't smudge or leave behind any fingerprints.

*It's almost football season, and the best way to enhace that bloody mary is by ditching the lame celery and substituting a stick of beef jerky from your local farmer's market (or a Slim Jim from the gas station if you must).

*To easily dispose of bacon fat, tear off a strip of tin foil and form it into a little bowl. Pour in the fat and stick it in the fridge - but make sure to place it up high or your dog will have a field day when you reach in to get the juice.

*Anyone out there getting married? Once you are in the dress, the easiest way to pee is by entering the stall the opposite way, and use the toilet facing the back wall. This way people can hold your dress without having to squeeze in there with you and there's fewer worries about dunking expensive fabric in the water.

*Before donning a red lip, coat your entire mouth in nude pencil first and the red won't bleed or show lines, and it will last way longer (this one's courtesy of Beth Hallberg!)

And from Craig:

*Make your egg sandwiches look like McDonald's by cracking an egg into the bottom of a coffee mug and microwaving for 30 seconds. You get a fluffly, round egg that fits perfectly on an English muffin.

*When you car gets stuck in the snow, before you wear yourself out digging under the tires try using the floor mats to get traction - jam them up under the tires and then hit the gas.

Your turn!

This is Marriage.

2011-08-08T09:25:00.008-04:00

It was just the two of us, plus the skyline.

For a whole day we stood together, holding hands, holding beers, holding joints; flicking open lighters, fist pumping, headbanging, creating a canopy of open palms for the crowd surfers. Take 'em and toss 'em.

We sat in damp grass and sweated and got knocked over, covered in clay, we picked up other people who got knocked over, we got all kinds of not-sober and yelled things to each other that we couldn't hear, and then yelled back "WHAT?!" until we just laughed and waved it away, "I don't even remember!"

We giggled because we were some of the oldest people there and no one told us to wear neon, there was so much neon we looked like total squares even though I did my best to be ridiculous in a romper. We looked at the sky when we got claustrophobic and down at the ground when sunglasses went flying off our sweaty noses.

We sang along to the singalongs and licked the breeze off the lake and had to walk home 20 city blocks after being on our feet all day; but because we were 90,000 people strong the honking cars and the stoplights blinking red had to just go to hell because we made up a giant snaking animal; total strangers dancing and singing and stumbling home through the city that I love the very very best with the man who makes my days into my life.

*all photos taken by my crappy phone camera unless noted*

official Lolla photo

Look who we found!

Foster the People - official Lolla photo

Inside the gay man's mecca otherwise known as Perry's tent.

courtesy of Swimfinfan

Shrillex

MUSE - courtesy of swimfinfan

MUSE - official Lolla photo

Listen up!

2011-08-03T10:36:00.004-04:00

I'm trying to kick ass at life this week, and ass-kicking has the nasty side effect of low blog postage. However, here's the playlist I'm rocking at work to get psyched for Lolla on Friday. Play it, and you can meet me in the subconscious realm of tunes where we can jam happily together-but-apart as our most perfect selves.

Selves. Selves....

...is a weird word. Selves. Yuck.

Once I went to Kentucky, where everything was green.

2011-08-01T09:11:00.005-04:00

This weekend I attended a wedding at the Richwood Plantation Home in Milton, KY. The place was absolutely crawling with my favorite people.

We slept in little cottages behind the main house which we learned were the former slave quarters (Hm.)

We swam and threw bags; we drove too fast on winding country roads and drank from mason jars. There were mint juleps and mojitos and potato salads and trees as far as the eye could see.

I made some new friends and wore some hot pink shoes and I sweated buckets and buckets of water for days straight.

The band played our first dance song. I laughed so much.

I love this summer more than any I can remember.

Don't you Ever go Down to the End of Town Unless you go Down with Me!*

2011-07-27T21:32:00.004-04:00

My dad doesn't read this blog. If he did, I would dedicate this post to him.

This afternoon I went to the movies. I saw Winnie the Pooh.

I went to the 6:15 show, by myself. I was the only person in the theatre. I ate a dinner comprised of buttered popcorn and Airheads. It was nice that I was alone, considering the opening score made me cry, and not quietly. "Here in the Hundred Acre Wood..." It's sung by Zooey Deschanel now, but it was so wonderfully, blessedly the same.

My dad read me all of A.A. Milne's storybooks when I was a little girl. He kept them in a beautiful set; leather bound books on the lowest shelf where I could reach, all a different jewel tone with a gold ribbon page marker: Winnie the Pooh. The House at Pooh Corner. When We Were Very Young. Now We Are Six. I thought they were so fancy, so sophisticated. I'd show them off to visitors.

Those books changed my life, they changed the actual chemistry of my brain, made synapses spark, made tissue swell and grow, caused messages jump from cell to cell and like magic suddenly I could read. Suddenly I wanted to read forever. No matter what else my dad has done to upset me or hurt me since, he gave me the best gift.

I watched the movie - the original - repeatedly. I was terrified of the Heffalumps and Woozles. I felt bad for Pooh, having to worry about them all the time. What a nice life I had, with no Heffalumps and Woozles around.

My best girlfriends were Pooh fans, too. We each adopted a character for ourselves, the way children tend to do while they form their personalities; to copy, identify, to claim. Beth had Tigger, Cate had Pooh. I had Eeyore.

Eeyore, Eeyore, everything Eeyore. I was drawn to the gloom, the burden, the downtrodden - and now I'm a social worker. Armchair psychologists out there, have at it.

I collected Eeyore stuffed animals for years - every birthday, each Christmas, I'd get "something Eeyore." I had the old-fashioned Eeyores, all muted colors and black expressionless button eyes, the new, uber-purple Disney Eeyores with a detachable velcro tail. I loved them. I hugged them and piled them around me in bed, clutched them when some Heffalumps and Woozles crept into my life - my parents yelling in the room next door, my sisters leaving me behind for College.

My mom still has all my Eeyores lined up on a shelf in the basement - boyfriend kryptonite.

Before the movie I caught a preview that got me excited - "It's time to play the music. It's time to light the lights..." The Muppets! I loved the Muppets, too. The Rainbow Connection, you know? Talk about a tearjerker. But these Muppets looked different. They looked new. They were living in 2011. They were dancing with Amy Adams and that guy from Forgetting Sarah Marshall.

Winnie the Pooh wasn't like that, thank goodness. It was the same as before (except for the Zooey Deschanel which I thought was cute). It was old-school animation, the still background jumping from the page of book, only the characters moving on top of it, letters and sentences marching along and playing a part in the story. Christopher Robin's Hunter boots (who knew?) by the door of his room.

The characters were still refreshingly flawed: obnoxious Tigger, pussy Piglet, mean OCD Rabbit - although I kind of identified with Rabbit this time around; why is everyone always messing up his house and wrecking his garden? Those little shitheads. The stories were the same - Eeyore loses the tail, Piglet gets his head stuck in the beehive, Pooh's got the munchies. There's something scary out there and they've got to fucking deal with it, only it's less scary because all their friends are around.

The story was short - they take it a day at a time, in the Hundred Acre Wood. There's enough in a day to make a great adventure.

***

When I was looking for readings for our wedding ceremony the first thing I searched for was a poem by A.A. Milne in Now We Are Six called "Us Two." I remembered it being lovely. It still was. The ending goes:

Wherever I am there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh
"If it wasn't for you?" and Pooh said "True,"
It isn't much fun for one, but two
can stick together" says Pooh, says he.
That's how it is," says Pooh.**

I didn't choose to include it, because when I hear this poem I hear it in my dad's voice. Clear as a fucking bell. Doing all the voices. Making a memory. "Us Two" is about love, but there's no room in that poem for mine and Craig's love. It's too full of someone else's.

*A line from another Milne poem, "Disobedience." My dad loved to say this line to me whenever we parted - in a store, on vacation, wherever.

**The cadence of this poem is hard to get. It sounds much sweeter when you know how the sing-song-iness goes, if you'd like to search the audio.

Fencepiration - part II

2011-07-25T22:31:00.003-04:00

I know.

I've neglected to keep you posted.

Please don't take offense. (meh)

I hope you don't picket me in retaliation.

They say the heat finally got to her. July always did take its toll and lead to whining, sniveling, and ceaseless sweating, but it was the ghastly summer of '11 that did her in for good. Story has it she started speaking solely in puns and then vanished in the night. While the townfolk mostly agree she fled to northern Copenhagen, there are still a few who believe that she's a permanent resident at the W Chicago Lake Shore with the A/C set at 65, and have sworn to see her appear on a cloudy, high-sixties evening, walking the streets in an aura of whiteness clutching a can of bug spray...

Behold the amazingness of my husband and his kin. Fence at 90% completion, circa early June.

I interrupt your Thursday for a wee moment of glamour.

2011-07-21T13:08:00.004-04:00

Looking up to celebrities is silly.

I know it. I try not to go there too often, given all the incredible "everyday" people there are in my life, from whom I could pinch a little wisdom.

via Vogue

Still, when I saw this picture in Vogue it made me smile - as did the accompanying interview. I like them. They seem like a strong, even keel couple. For some reason I appreciate that they didn't have children until they were in their late thirties, forties. I welcome the fact that they used an alternative procreation arrangement (yes I just made that phrase up) and didn't give a shit what anyone else thought about that.

I wish there was more media attention given to successful couples.

It's Confession Wednesday! (part II)

2011-07-20T09:30:00.006-04:00

OK people, your amazing response to my hangover question has made me want to resurrect one of my favorite posts ever. Here we go!

1) I judge books by their cover. You know, like literally. I won't buy or even check a book out of the library unless the cover is appealing. I think this is because I often read in public, while waiting in line or eating alone at a restaurant, and I care what other people think of my reading material. I also think this is why I've never read the Stieg Larsson series. I don't like the book jackets.

2) Craig and I did not go through any sort of marriage counseling before we were wed, opting instead to buy this book called "1001 Questions To Ask Before You Get Married." We only made it to page 5 before calling it quits.

3) I never in my life actually went on a real date. The kind where someone picks you up and you go out to dinner and you decide over dinner whether or not you like this person and want to see them again. I had two serious relationships in my life - the first started in high school where no one really "dated," my friends just hung out in groups until people eventually paired off. The second started in college, where I found myself waking up in the same bed with someone often enough to start to say "Hm. Maybe we should make this thing official."

4) An acquaintance of mine has a very strange-looking baby and it kind of makes me nervous about ever having a baby of my own.

5) Whenever I see one of those ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan and the abused animals, I start screaming and cover my eyes while searching for the remote to change the channel before I catch a glimpse of a dog with only one leg and no tail. No matter how fast I get the remote I always end up crying anyway. But I never think about sending them money.

and for the bonus round...

6) I still haven't had my wedding dress cleaned. It's still hanging on a hook in the basement. Sometimes I give it a hug when I walk by it to do laundry because I'm convinced it has some magic left. You know, behind the sweat, and the dirt.

Alright folks, don't let me down. Bring the shame.

Can I Have Some Remedy?

2011-07-18T09:59:00.012-04:00

Help.

I just finished up a Gchat conversation with a friend that could have gone up word for word on Reddit's First World Problems . I lost the transcription but basically it went like this:

Her: How was the wedding?

Me: ... ... ...What? I'm sorry, are someone talking? I'm hearing something. I can't...I don't... UGGGHHHHHHHHHHH (*silence. whimper*)

Her: Um...?

Me: Sorry. Wedding was amazing. So amazing in fact, that I'm on day 2 of a hangover.

Her: Good times, it sounds like.

Me: Good times indeed. But it was 100 degrees and I figured the best way to fight off heat stroke was by drinking Bell's Oberon on tap for 6 consecutive hours. Yesterday I believed death to be imminent. Today I think I'm going to live, but I don't necessarily want to...

Her: I know the feeling. I think I'm getting old. The severity of my hangovers lately is unacceptable.

Me: You know what else is unacceptable about getting old? The Magical Hangover Cure (two straight meals of Mexican food, preferably via a drive-thru) now only makes me feel worse.

Her: Oh how I miss those days when we could eat our weight in burritos. Now I can't even eat my weight in something light, like three-cheese quesadillas, without feeling awful. What kind of life is this, I ask you? What is the point?

Me: I wish I could have as much fun sober as I do not-sober.

Her: ME TOO.

Me: As I typed that last sentence, my fingers seized up, asking me "Are you sure you really want to say that? You might consider keeping that sad yearning to yourself." I typed it anyway. Take that, fingers. You judgemental assholes.

Her: Are you sure you aren't still drunk?

***

So. Since in 11 days I'm heading out to another damn-its-hot wedding weekend, and to an outdoor music festival the weekend after that, it's time to solicit some advice: What's your best hangover prevention/cure?

(Ed: If you tell me "I think maybe you shouldn't be drinking so much" I will tell you "I think maybe you shouldn't be reading this blog.")

Plus One.

2011-07-13T10:52:00.014-04:00

I'm headed to Michigan for a celebration.

photo by calynnberry photography

Craig's brother is getting married...

photo by calynnberry photography

...to one of my best friends...

sara's personal photo

...who will now be my sister.

How lovely is that?

photo by calynnberry photography

It's true you can't pick your family.

But you can get really, really fucking lucky.

Happy wedding and merry, merry life to Doni and Sara.
I've always been your biggest fan.

Love the love.

Kids These Days

2011-07-12T09:20:00.003-04:00

Have you heard them yet?

If not, you absolutely must. Straight-up high-schoolers making unbelievable music (with horns!) and rapping about the good stuff in life - drinking, crushing on girls, farts, smoking weed, and being legitimately cool. I can't wait to see them at Lollapalooza in August.

Happy Birthday Tabitha.

2011-07-10T14:06:00.003-04:00

about to enjoy some Frosty Paws, and looking thrilled, as usual

Alright, kiddo. The back of the food bag says you're officially an "adult." Now get out there and find yourself a job. Momma needs some new dog-walking shoes.

PS - As I was posting this the USA Women's Soccer team pulled off their epic victory over Brazil (*coughCHEATERScough*) You go ladies! Ms. Wambach in particular I want to kiss your face.

Raves.

2011-07-07T10:27:00.007-04:00

I read three books this past weekend. I enjoyed each of them so much that whenever I begrudgingly set one down to have a sandwich or acknowledge the existence of my fellow travelers, I had to drag my consciousness kicking and screaming back into reality.

In case you are looking for some good summer reads I thought I'd share. NOTE: none of these are sparklingly hot off the presses, so you may have already devoured them.

I always find it hilarious to read the Amazon reviews of books that I love. It's a refreshing, side-splitting reminder that there are people out there with whom I would really, really hate to be trapped in an elevator. It also reminds me that life is just to fucking funny to be taken that seriously all the time. I've included their reviews so that you know what you're getting yourself into with this filth-florin-filth (a million gold stars if you can tell me where that phrase is from...think red leather outfit) and you can't say you weren't warned...

The 19th Wife

"...This book had so many horrible curse words I had to throw it away!!!! I wouldn't read anything that has the F word in it a million times. I was so upset that I wasted my money on a book that had so many curse words in it. Heads up if u don't like books with horrible words in it DONT READ THIS..." - Jo

"...Wow! No one seemed to like my last review! Let me try again! I did NOT like this book AT ALL! It was boring, had horrible language, took me forever to make it through and I got very tired of how it jumped back and forth between two story lines. The whole gay storyline just had to be thrown in there too!" - Angie "the queen of lit", Idaho

Mrs. Kimble

"...Yes this book was well written, but I really don't enjoy reading about down-trodden women. I found this book very depressing..." - A Reviewer

"...I can't even finish the drivel! Honestly as a woman I cannot understand how another woman could find this interesting or worth her time. Yes, there are horrible men in this world, but you don't simply bend over and allow them to destroy your entire life! You realize that you have made a terrible mistake, you dump the bastard, you grieve, and you move on. Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! Yes, the story is well written but I was nauseated by the pathetic behavior of these women!" - Happeeface, Maryland

The Imperfectionists

"...Very sad book a out a bunch of pathetic losers whose lives are interwoven through employment at a newspaper. Mainly unlikeable characters ruining their own lives. What is to like here? Not funny, not inspiring, you learn nothing. If you think your life sucks, I can guarantee that there are numerous characters in this book whose life sucks worse. Why would I care about them?" - "Dr." Lisa, Fort Collins

"...His writing is choppy and peppered with foreign phrases relating to food, places, etc. So Rachman is well traveled -- good for him. But gratuitous foreign phrases, especially when they aren't appropriately contextualized, don't read well. Adding that his sentences are very simple -- which is fine, but they never seemed to mend together gracefully -- I felt like impaling my head at times." - J Tyler

"...Chapters individually were well written, but I was so frustrated by the end of the book. I'd get attached to characters, but then after their one chapter, you barely hear of them again, you only get a sentence at the end to find out what happened to them! And to top it off by killing a dog a the end, YUK!!! I immediately took my book out and dipped it in my backyard pool to ensure no one would be tempted to pick it up out of the trash and read it, then of course i threw it in my TRASH!!!" - Laurel, Charlotte

I need to meet this Laurel in Charlotte who drowns books to save the world from unhappy prose. I absolutely must.

Facts about Moms.

2011-07-05T11:00:00.002-04:00

(gleaned on my recent vacation with my mom, Craig's mom, and someone else's mom)

No matter how well-traveled they are, moms will get a little frantic going through security at the airport. They will throw things hither and yon, and will scream, panicked: "Where is my Passport? I LOST MY PASSPORT!" when in fact they are holding it in their hand. They take the recommendations and instructions from airport officials very seriously, as if there is some sort of Valedictorian of Airport Etiquette up for grabs.

Moms' fingers and fingernails will always look more womanly and elegant than your fingers. Looking at the beauty and maturity of a mom's hands will make you feel like you will always be a little girl.

Moms will stalk a complete stranger's wedding with the single-mindedness and guts of Seal Team Six. They will stand for hours watching employees set up chairs on the beach and skulk around waiting for a glimpse of the wedding party. If they happen to run into the bride in the restroom they will come out of that restroom with her phone number and address to send a gift and will be able to tell you how the couple met and how many children they'd like to have.

Moms always pack the right things and never seem to stress about what they are going to wear that night. They already decided, two weeks ago.

Moms are the best at waking quietly three hours before you and puttering about a hotel room without ever waking you up. I'm guessing this is related somehow to infant rearing.

Moms can spend hours reading a dinner menu and dissect every single ingredient on the thing. They can ask the waiter to describe in detail every dish on that menu. Then they will order the same meal you've seen then order at ever single meal you've shared with them. They do not care to hear your opinion on why they should branch out.

Moms wear the cutest pajamas. They actually are pajamas, like a set. They are not just the same shorts and t-shirt they threw on earlier but now sans bra, like yours. They often include a tiny, subtle ruffle at each hem.

Moms don't let you pay for anything, for the most part. Your humble appreciation for this grows exponentially as you age.

Moms are interested in the way you do your hair. They like your jewelry, and express a desire to be able to wear the clothes you wear. You wonder when this shifted, because wasn't it just yesterday that they were refusing to let you out of the house wearing that, and wrinkling their nose at Abercrombie & Fitch (the music and the perfume)? Moms had the right fashion advice all along.

Moms will discuss a detail, any detail, until they have obliterated any interesting gristle left clinging to the emaciated bones of the fact. See that older woman over there with the younger man, making out in the waterfall (moms will call this necking, by the way)? Moms find that relationship utterly fascinating. They will give a running play-by-play on what that couple is doing for the next five hours. Moms will talk and comment for talking and commenting's sake until they make you want to wade into the ocean and beg for the tide to take you away from the misery.

After a few drinks moms can jokingly insult you better than anyone you've ever met. The amount of material they've got on you will leave you breathless. Don't get upset - they will laugh at you for being too sensitive. They've earned the right to poke at your soft places. You were a teenager once, after all.

Moms have been through more difficulties and hard times - hard months and years, hard decades - than you can imagine. They make you awed and fearful at the same time on how they are still standing, and gracefully at that. It makes you want to throw rocks at every person who has ever been mean to them.

Moms don't lose things, like you. They manage to carry around a bag full of snacks, paper and pens, lipstick, floss, an extra change of underwear and four sets of glasses (readers, shades, reader-shades, and a backup pair) without trailing important items behind them through life, like you.

Moms have the unique ability to be the person you miss the most and the hardest when you're away from them, but to annoy you to insanity after the first thirty seconds of sharing breathing space. I believe this phenomenon forms in utero, right after your toenails.

Moms know the words to a lot of songs that you don't. The songs they sing make your generation's songs seems really gross. All moms want in life is to have someone to dance with.

Moms always remember to bring a plastic bag for packing wet bathing suits.

"I love you warthog. I love you too, warthog."

2011-07-01T09:00:00.001-04:00

Anyone else wondering how the f*ck it got to be July already? The miserable weather cometh. The end is near.

Oh well. You Americans have a good holiday weekend. Be safe. Get drunk like these animals. (link lifted from dooce via kottke) That guy needs to narrate my life.

Guess what I'll be doing over the 4th...?

If you guessed leaving the country to hang in Mexico with three sixty-something ladies, two of whom are my mother and my mother-in-law, then you're right!

And I can guarantee that I will still be the first one of the group to want to go to bed.

Whoops.

2011-06-29T17:43:00.004-04:00

I know I promised you some words but...I think I may have lied. I'm running crazy this week and my mind is all kinds of places that are not here. A few things, though:

1) My first piece of creative writing was accepted for publication! It's a tiny little postage stamp sized bit of microfiction (a story told in under 300 words - not as easy as you might think) for an online journal, but still, after six months of form-email rejections, it felt damn good to open something that didn't say "You Suck!" (they say that. they really do. in other words, of course, but that's what they say)

2) I watch entirely too much T.V. I have my mother's syndrome of needing the T.V. on in the background to feel less alone and I need to cut it out and get a life. If you watch too much bad T.V. as well, these tips might help you. Number 9 is my new mantra.

3) Odds are there is a relationship in your life that's not as stable as you think. Go have a conversation you are dreading, to fix it. I did. I wish I had been the one with the guts to bring it up - but I wasn't. Luckily the other person had them. Be the one with the guts today.

Best of the rest of SF.

2011-06-27T09:17:00.006-04:00

Sorry if you hate picture posts. I'm trying to learn how to take/edit better shots and putting them up here is good motivation. I'll be back later with words.

Lunching in Tiburon

This is Buster

On the Golden Gate Bridge, 12:30PM

...and then at 12:35

Just a giant chair

Champagneheads

Too bad the weather was so crappy, hm?

Cheese curd soup.

Day drinking + hills + camera = this

And now, a story about a different kind of snake.

2011-06-22T20:46:00.006-04:00

The other day I tried to make my apartment-dwelling readers feel content. Now it's the homowners' turn! The following was a kid-you-not conversation I had yesterday with a caregiver and her husband with dementia whom I met on a work-related home visit. We were chatting about movies and I mentioned that I had recently watched True Grit* and that I really enjoyed it except for the snake parts. The caregiver's face got all cloudy and then we had this exchange.

"Oh...We don't like snakes. We had a bad experience with a snake once."

"Oh...really?" (Is there ever a good one?)

"Yeah...you see once we lived in (apartment complex that will remain nameless) and our oven went kaput, and so the landlord brought us an oven down from an empty apartment a few stories up, you see. And one night about a week after that new oven moved on in, we were sleeping sound as babies...right Gary? ("Uhhuh, that's right")..and right then in the middle of the night I heard the salt and pepper shakers rattlin' on the floor. So I got up and went to the kitchen and flippped on the light and right there on my For-Mica counter, slip slidin' it's way toward me is a seven foot python! It came right out of that oven, the same oven that I cooked Hamburger Helper on that very afternoon! They say those snakes like the heat, don't they Gary? ("Uhuhh they do") And so after screaming and carrying on, we called The Police and they said they couldn't do anything, and we called The Animal Control, and they said they couldn't do anything, it being 2AM and all. Meanwhile that snake is just comin' and comin' at us, looking like it thought we might be prime for squeezin'. So Gary grabbed the grill tongs and grabbed up that snake and shoved it right in a pillowcase, didn'tcha Gary! ("Uhuhh, right with those tongs you see over there") And then we called our landlord and asked him what to do, and he said to go ahead and just set that pillowcase outside out door and he'd get it later. And I said 'over my dead body you piece of shit,' and so we took that pillowcase that was jumpin' and wrigglin' like all get out, and we tied it right around the landlord's office door. And that's why we own our own place now because I don't like snakes, and I don't like landlords."

Sweet Dreams!

*If I had known how hilarious that movie was, I would have seen it in the theatre. Probably ten times. If you would like to sleep in a coffin, it would be alright...

Song that makes me....

2011-06-22T09:29:00.003-04:00

...think of the grudges I've held in my life.

Minutes or hours, days or years spent not speaking to you. Car rides in silence, thank god for the radio. Excruciatingly polite brunches. Nights slept with backs turned toward one another, waiting it out until morning. Times when the only words we exchanged were on the soccer field, calling each other off the ball. Tight smiles in the hallway, in passing. Dialing your number to the last digit before hanging up, many times. Not tasting the food that we ate together because of all the words stuck in my throat. Asking around how you are. Waking up in tears of frustration because you appeared in my dream, again - I'm pretty sure I'm not in yours.

Snaking the Drain is not a euphemism for anything remotely sexy.

2011-06-20T09:00:00.005-04:00

This post goes out to any readers who wish they own a home instead of an apartment.

(Apparently it's adventures in amateur plumbing week on the blogs!)

The Facts: Further proving my long-held belief that god is a middle-aged American man, Craig has been blessed with a lovely head of crazy, thick and curly hair, My hair is the texture of a newborn baby's, but there is a lot of it on my head, it is long, and it has been falling out of my scalp at slightly alarming rate since I turned 25. We shower. Our house and its plumbing system are old, and in my mind resemble one of those pipe-mazes on the back of a children's menu at your local Denny's.

The Result: Roughly every six months our shower has a temper tantrum and turns against us; locking itself in it's room, blaring its music and refusing to drain correctly. Midshower Craig or I might discover that the water feels a little..not right...and then we look down to find it creeping over our ankles, making furious splashy noises. This causes the bather in question to panic, bang on the glass shower door for help and eventually grab a Sharpie to write on their hands: "Not Penny's Boat!" (Oh dear Charlie, it's still so damn sad).

As Craig and I stand there, solemnly watching the water not drain, we share a look of resigned understanding: It's time to snake the drain. In case you've never had the joy of this event in your life, here is a comprehensive and 100% universal set of instructions:

1) Announce "Okay, let's go snake that drain!" It is imperative that you choose a random, inappropriate time, so as to make the stress and annoyance of the task even worse. Right after you find a ticking Jack-Bauer style bomb in your basement that needs diffusing, perhaps. Or an hour before Home & Garden arrives to photograph your bathroom for their special Wonderfully Working Water Closets issue (bestseller!).

2) Have a short flare fight about whether this is the best time to tackle the job. Raise voice, stomp feet, waste precious minutes that you wish you could have back later, because (spoiler!) you lose.

3) Assemble the tools. A long metal cable attached to a hand crank auger, gloves, and paper towels. So many paper towels...

4) Remove all clothes down to your underwear. Briefly discuss how you really shouldn't have had all that Vietnamese food in San Francisco and look dejectedly at both of your brand-new spare tires. Play that fun game where you ask "If I weighed x lbs, would you divorce me?" until you reach an x so gross that your spouse gives in and says "yes." Get angry at him for being shallow.

5) Smash two people into a shower that only fits one person comfortably. Give the end of the cord to your spouse and hold the hand crank, all the while whispering "Ew. Ew ew ew ew what's on here oh God..." while he shoves the cord down the drain, sending up splashes of sitting-drain-water. Dodge as though it is acid and whine until your spouse points out that he is the one with his hand in the bowels of your home, not you, actually.

6) When he says "okay, turn it Right." turn it right for a while until the cord gets all twisted on itself and he swears and says "LEFT. NOW LEFT" But you didn't hear this because you were trying to crane your neck as far out of the shower to breathe non hair-moldy air, thus ensuing one of those 90's comedy movie moments of "Left? Right. Right? No, left. Left? You said right! I'm five seconds from strangling you with this hand towel TURN IT."

7) Repeat steps 5 and 6 until the drain is unclogged, it's 2 a.m., or one of you uses the word "divorce."

8) If you didn't remove the clog, while dressing for bed bring up that Augusten Burroughs story in Magical Thinking about how a rat can crawl up into your shower head and then die in there, so that you are showering in dead-rat water without knowing it. Flip a coin to see who has to go take the shower head off and check for vermin, because you can't sleep until you know.

9) When you wake up in the morning, repeatedly touch your hair and try 8,000 different versions of a ponytail until you successfully create one that makes it look like maybe you showered sometime in the past lunar phase. Use more sprays of perfume than are socially appreciated and bring your lunch.

10) When you get home repeat steps 1-6. Upon finally pulling out the clog, scream in horror and throw an entire roll of paper towels over it. Jump around, scream some more, and shake your head until the image fades (don't worry, it will revisit you in your dreams!)

11) Crack open a beer with your co-plumber and sit on the porch congratulating one another as though you just performed successful brain surgery on an innocent albino kitten.

12) Adamantly argue that yes you WILL find a way to make this into a blog post. Told-you-so.

Reason #3697657234 why you should refrain from checking email while on vacation:

2011-06-16T08:57:00.003-04:00

Dear Kerry,

For the last several months, thousands of patriotic Americans encouraged me to run for President of the United States. After many weeks of prayer and thoughtful discussion with my family and friends, I have decided to take the next step forward in seeking the Republican nomination for President of the United States.

Yesterday we filed papers with the Federal Election Commission to create a new committee, Bachmann for President!

We will plan on making a more formal announcement and entrance into the race later this month from my hometown of Waterloo, Iowa but I feel so strongly about what is happening to our country that I couldn't wait even one more day to begin this campaign!!

And the fact remains that our country is headed in the wrong direction under President Obama's leadership. Our federal government has grown far beyond its constitutional boundaries. Our economic recovery is in shambles, our standing with our international allies is strained and our core American values and freedoms are under constant threat.

We cannot risk giving President Obama four more years to dismantle our nation. We must act now. That's why I've made the decision to get in this race. As a mother, wife, small-business owner and public servant, I believe I can offer the leadership and passion our Party needs to win the White House.

In this critical, early stage of my campaign I need trusted supporters like you to help me raise the money needed to defeat Barack Obama. That's why I ask that you take a moment today to make a special contribution of $25, $50, $100, or any amount up to the $2,500 legal limit to get my campaign started.

President Obama's campaign team has been working for months to build his billion-dollar campaign war chest. We have to show we can compete with him not only on a grassroots level, but on a fundraising level.

Raising the money to defeat President Obama begins today, and I hope you will pitch in by following this link to donate. No amount is too small. Remember that small donations add up to big dollars- all being put to use to make President Obama a one-term president.

Our country is in desperate need of a leader who will restore constitutional conservative values to our federal government. President Obama must be held accountable for the far-left agenda he has implemented while in office. I intend to hold him accountable, and if elected I pledge to dismantle Obamacare, reduce our growing debt, provide the private sector with the resources needed to create jobs, and strengthen our national defense.

If you agree that our country is in need of new leadership - that we cannot risk four more years under President Obama's left-wing policies - then I hope I can count on your support as I build my presidential campaign.

In order to defeat President Obama and get our country back on track, we have to build a national grassroots effort larger than any Republican candidate in history. We're officially building this team today and I hope you will step up to the plate and join my campaign.

Your involvement is absolutely crucial to my ability to win. That's why today, I hope you'll show your support for my candidacy with a generous donation of $25, $50, $100 or any amount you can afford to give up to the legal $2,500 limit.

I cannot thank you enough for your support and I look forward to working with you as we launch a new campaign to put a constitutional conservative in the White House.

Sincerely,

Michele Bachmann

P.S. I am running to be the next President of the United States. If I am going to make Barack Obama a one-term president, I need your support. Taking on the Obama machine's billion-dollar campaign war chest is a tall order and we need to raise money right now to be able to compete. Please follow this link to join my campaign from the very beginning with a contribution of any amount. Your generous support is appreciated at this critical stage in my campaign.

Paid for by Bachmann for President

***

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

Never trust a candidate who encourages her PAC to buy random email addresses, uses double exclamation points, or is plain batshit crazy.

Summertime, and the living's easy.

2011-06-13T19:58:00.008-04:00

It's June, and it's on.

I'm at the get-go of a jam-packed couple of months, full of weddings and overnights and hopefully lots of barbecue and Pacifico, lightening bugs and necessary ponytails.

Currently we're in San Francisco, visiting one of those rare double-friendhappiness couples - you know the ones - where you're friends with her (or him) and your partner is friends with him (or her) and you make the friend Punnett squares of awesomeness? Magic.

I'll post and comment more when we're back. For now, everyone have a nice week, and wear your SPF.

SSB.*

2011-06-08T21:36:00.012-04:00

*Yep, title and post content blatantly stolen from the plotline of a random Sex and the City episode.

This week Craig is in Chicago for work and I had a few boring weekday nights to spend alone...

(Hey... does this blog make it seem like people are always abandoning me? Well, they are! I don't know why - I think I'm very likeable. I make lots of puns, and complain about the weather, all the time. Wait, where are you going? Please stay!)

...and since it's been too hot here to do almost anything, and all the current projects around our house require tremendous upper body strength and brothers and because my laziness is beyond belief, I have found myself engaging in some Secret Single Behavior. The things you do that make you feel groovy and calm and fulfilled, but would seem so lame to the rest of the world that you can't even do them around your favorite person in the universe.

Here's mine: last night I chugged 2 glasses of wine, laid in my bed, in the dark, in the only air-conditioned room in our house, and listened to music on headphones*as loud as possibly stand it. I stared at the ceiling and daydreamed about things neither important nor meaningful for over 2.5 hours.

(Except for the brief interlude when Craig called and said "Guess where I am right now?" "Um...Sable?" "No - the lions' den at the zoo. I'm watching a leopard sleep on her back with all four paws in the air. She's got a fan blowing on her." Since it was 9pm and he was on a business trip in Chicago, it would have taken me a lot of guesses to get that one.)

I used to do this all the time. Starting in high school, when this angst-y solitude was definitely a more acceptable way of spending time. But I continued in college, during grad school, even in my first apartment after I started working - evenings when nothing sounded better than to tune out to life and squeeze realistic thoughts out of my mind via dangerously high volumes of Nine Inch Nails, Queen, Rage Against the Machine, etc.

I daydream about all kinds of stuff - attending concerts I've never been to, picturing life events in my future, living that secret second-life, doppelganger shit that everyone has in the back of their mind - the imaginary person that will never be you, but you still kind of feels like you (or maybe I'm the only one that does this?).

It's a relaxation technique that doesn't work as well when you live with someone. There's nothing stopping me - it's just that unless I'm alone, there are so many excuses why I shouldn't blow an entire evening doing absolutely nothing. We have that show to watch. If there's no show on, there's always sports. There's a house to clean, a dog to play fetch with, plans to make, each other to talk to. If I holed up in our bedroom not speaking to him, earphones in, under the covers for upwards of a few hours, Craig would be weirded out, and maybe a little lonely. Plus, it would make me self-conscious - if I had to explain it, the satisfaction would be diminished.

What's your secret single behavior?

*particularly exciting because I just bought tickets to a concert that I'm inappropriately amped about. TBA.

Song that makes me...

2011-06-08T09:07:00.005-04:00

...want to buy a tambourine.

And maybe one of those washboard-instrument-things. We could call up our friend who wails on the piano and rent out the local VFW hall, and drink G&T's while dancing - I will do the hand-flap-shaky-fingers move, if you'll do the chicken arm.

Needed: one Breast Psychologist. Because apparently mine have problems.

2011-06-06T12:43:00.007-04:00

I tried so hard to work in some sort of shrink pun in the title, I couldn't pull it together. It's Monday, after all.

Someday I'll go to the tailor and not leave completely humiliated.
Today was not that day.

Scene: Kerry is visiting her tailor who routinely hems her pants. The store is not air-conditioned, and she is sweating already. She's trying on the gorgeous bridesmaid dress that she will wear to Sara's wedding in July for her tailor - It's too big and she needs it taken in. She is having a low-to-moderate self-esteem day, and hasn't eaten lunch yet so her stomach is making crazy noises.

Tailor: Okay so I pull up straps here (yank)...and hem here (yank yank)...and that is all. You done.

Kerry: Hm, okay...but what about here, the empire waist? (points) It's kind of...baggy. Don't you think? Can you take it in around the ribcage?

Tailor: No. Cannot do. If I take in around ribcage (yank) then see here? (points at the neckline) It does not lay straight. Cannot be done.

Kerry: But it doesn't look right. It's too big...I just...can't you... (looks helplessly in the mirror)

Tailor: That is not my problem, not dress's problem. That is your breasts' problem.

Kerry: My...what? (looks nervously at the complete stranger sitting in a chair 3 yards away, waiting for her turn at the mirror)

Tailor: Your breasts! They are not right! (throws up her hands in exasperation)

Kerry: What?!

Tailor: They are not there! Nothing to fill in the top! (yank, yank) This dress is made for lady, with breasts!

Kerry: But I'm a lady! I'm getting ma'amed, all the time! I just have a flat chest. You're the tailor, you're supposed to fix that, and make it look good.

Tailor: (shakes head solemnly) Nothing can fix that. You need something to put breasts where they need to be. You need something to fill up the space. Plus, this bra is terrible.

Kerry: But... this is my favorite go-to-work bra. I only bought it 2 months ago.

Tailor: It's horrible. Throw it away. You need to start all over. You need expensive push-up bra, but even that might not work. Say a Hail Mary, and go to Nordstrom. And you need to pay me $50 too, (points to a giant sign on the mirror) pre-pay or no work. Thank you for your business.

***

Since I'm already making myself sound ridiculous, I have to share this embarrassing picture. I make a lot of jokes about my chronic, genetic ghost-whiteness and I'm sure you all think I'm exaggerating. Sometimes I am. But when I saw this on Facebook even I gasped out loud. Can you find me?

From Sara's bachelorette party in Miami. Bathing suit pictures, ugh. I look way better in the snow, so scroll down a couple posts if you feel the need to admire me :)

An update on Shane.

2011-06-03T10:10:00.005-04:00

Oh, Shane...

We're so onto you. We know about the hair gel. And the pinky ring. And the "favorite" strippers. And the car with the flames on it.

Maybe you received my less-than neighborly emails to your store's manager (C'mon people, you know I sent them. I live for that shit) and they touched a tender place in your misogynistic heart. Maybe you just got a clue. Or laid.

No matter what caused you to take down that awful billboard and replace it with a kinder, gentler one RE: getting her some "studs," I do appreciate it.

But what I really appreciated was the tons of extra traffic my blog received after I published a post with the words "tiny dick" in the title. The amount of people Googling this - ailment? phenomenon? - is staggering.

P.S. If you're wondering about the "ingredients of happiness" over there in my sidebar, these are for my favorite summer-weather drink, the Dirty Sheehan.

2 oz Bourbon
1 oz Grand Marnier
.5 oz fresh lime juice

shake together, pour over ice, top with coke

Cheers!

The Honeymoon (Litigation) 's Over.

2011-06-01T11:42:00.012-04:00

Hey, remember when Craig and I went on our honeymoon? You do?! Of course you do, because you remember in specific detail everything that I do. Because my life is a neverending thrill ride! And you love me more than your first dog, and hang on every bit of wit and tomfoolery that is typed by these magical fingers!

Oh, and probably because I was being a very memorable, whiny bitch.

At the time, it was a big deal. It had been, um, kind of a crazy week - my emotions were understandably amped. We'd spent a great deal of money to lose one entire day to being on hold with an airline, blowing through phone cards, unable to leave our hotel room.

Caveat: Being unable to leave your hotel room on a honeymoon is supposed to be a good thing. but when you've got leftover Austrian-Chinese takeout from the previous night in the trash and no chance to let the cleaning staff in to evacuate it, if there's nothing on the TV in your language save the same BBC report of the snowstorm stranding your asses on loop, if you've lost interest in the sexy, cool, ubermodern bathroom at Vienna's le Meridien that thinks it is hot to do away with the shower door altogether so that you find yourself mid-lather screaming "FOR GOD'S SAKE WE HAVEN'T SPOKEN TO ANYONE BESIDES EACH OTHER IN A WEEK AND I CAN'T EVEN TAKE A SHOWER WITHOUT SEEING YOU?!?! " - some fresh air might be just the thing you need.

Follow that by another day blown standing in a line at the airport, missing Christmas, and spending approximately $8 million on last-minute hotels and meals during 4 unplanned, frozen days in two of the most expensive cities in Europe, and you can see how I was a bit...irked.

Why am I dragging you through all this shit again, you ask? (Jeez. Do you kiss your mother with that filthy mouth, you?) Because...Six months later...guess who just got an email from the British Airways complaint department!?

Well, no, not me. But Craig! Close enough! Practically me, by legal standards! Better than me, according to people who mail me shit for Mrs. Craig Hisname! He/me got an email asking for receipts from all lodging charges, plane tickets, and the routing information for our bank account. Hallelujah! Jesus motherfucking loves me, this I know, screw you British Airways.

In celebration, I'm going to post some honeymoon pictures, because now it's hot here and I need some snow in my life. Because 2 days after one season begins, I'm deseperate for the complete opposite. And because I need a vacation. And because I really did love that trip. Not at all, mind you, because I'm so terribly, terribly boring and have nothing else to say right now.

Here's a fuzzy picture of said shower - yes, I took a picture of it because I hated it so, and because of its general weirdness: Stripper pole? Check. Old-person stool? Check. Door for privacy and to keep everything else in the bathroom from getting soaking wet? NEGATIVE.

I call this my "Guess if I'm wearing any pants" outfit. It was a honeymoon staple.

Craig and his, ahem, weiner.

P.S. I have this picture on my desk at work and someone asked me the other day if this was in Cleveland.

Running Sucks.

2011-05-30T18:07:00.010-04:00

This is my friend Meg. Running makes her cry, too! Except that she was crying because she just finished a marathon in under 4 hours. If you like to run, you will like her blog. See, there's something for everyone here...

When the hell did everyone start running?

It seems like just yesterday we were all riding high on our post-college metabolisms that hadn't quite failed us yet. We could spend a 4th of July, a Memorial Day, an insert-generic-music-festival-here drinking from morning until the next morning, and not only did we manage to stay vertical beyond 8PM, we didn't see the proof of overindulgence right there on our jowls the very next day.

Now? Notsomuch.

Enter the age of required exercise - I get that. And let it be said that I love to exercise. I work out nearly every day of my life when I'm not traveling; on our elliptical machine in the basement, or with OnDemand videos, yoga and guided cardio or weight training. I'm in decent shape. I can do lots of weight reps. I can do lots of push-ups. I can do plyometric training.

But I. Can. Not. Run. And this never used to be a problem! I (mistakenly) thought we had an agreement. You know, that running is really boring and lame? and with all of the Crossfits and Cardio Stripteases, the Hot Yoga and the Yoga/Cycling Combos, the Piloxing and everything else under the sun, that we didn't have to do the boring old running thing anymore?

But something shifted and you all turned against me, and running suddenly became the thing to do. My life is full of people who are doing 5Ks and 10Ks and 12Ks and 7Ks and marathons and half-marathons. I can't log onto Facebook on the weekend without scrolling past half a dozen status updates about people doing triathlons and Races for the Cure of Thisaorthat or a Run for the Border or a Turkey Trot or a Shamrock Shuffle and holy shit, what is wrong with you masochists?!?

This weekend Craig and I were at my mom's house in Chicago and since it rained every single minute of the three days, we were all kinds of cooped up in that house. While this didn't disappoint me too much (since I was reading this book and holy hell it's hard to put down), it did make me feel pretty sloth-like and disgusting because I was also eating my weight in hot dogs and baked beans (yay, Memorial Day!). So, without my workout gear and without being able to play around outside, I was condemned to using...the treadmill.

::shudder::

The situation is that, instead of lungs, I have two miniature hamsters running on wheels in my chest cavity; a condition that, mysteriously, has been overlooked by the handfulls of physicians I've visited in my life. Seriously, this is the only explanation I can think of to justify what happens when I run for more than 5 minutes: I can't breathe. I get a stitch in my side at minute six that makes me feel as though I'm being stabbed with my favorite Kai Tan Ren paring knife. I'm sweating so much by minute 10 that I feel like my shirt has turned traitor and is now weighing me down, trying to make me fail. I have to slow to a walk at minute 14 because I can feel vomit building in my throat. And by minute 22 I quit, declaring imminent death, having run two twelve-minute miles. This weekend, I did this three days in a row, convinced that the next time would surely get easier. It did not.

I know, runners, what you're going to say! You're going to tell me "Psh, treadmills are no good. Run outside. It's more natural, you'll be distracted, you will breathe more normally." Wrong! Do you know what happens when I run outside? First, I have to spend 25 minutes applying the appropriate amount of sunscreen,which then sinks into my open pores and stings like I am bathing in a wok of oil. Then I trip on every third sidewalk slab because I don't pay attention to anything besides how many seconds of this godforsaken disaster are left. Then I catch a break between two songs on my iPod and realize that I'm making this horrendous wheezing noise when I breathe that makes it sound like I'm evacuating a burning building and might not make it. No wonder gigantic, menacing teenager boys are crossing the street to avoid walking past me. Then I realize I'm so slow that I'm being passed by women who are running while pushing triplets in a stroller and walking their dog and talking on the phone. And then, when I have to quit and declare imminent death, I have to walk my sorry ass home a mile, and my face stays a frightening shade of "bad runner" red for the next 36 hours.

So yeah, running sucks.

Does anyone else identify a trend that they just can't get with? Something all your friends are doing but makes you want to claw your face off? Growing their own basil? Juicing vegetables? Having babies? Writing blogs?

Song that makes me...

2011-05-25T09:00:00.000-04:00

...dance in the kitchen while I'm making dinner. Or dance in my room getting dressed in the morning. Or dance in the bathroom while brushing my teeth.

Seriously, just try NOT dancing to this song, especially around the 1:10 mark. C'est impossible.

Also, between prince Harry and Brett I'm finding myself drawn to the sexiness of the ginger man. Especially 6'4 ones who use the lyrics "you better come correct."
(so...Brett, you WIN.)

Fencepiration: Part I

2011-05-24T09:00:00.000-04:00

Facts: Our dog has four very fast legs and a brain the size of a pea. Her ability to understand and respond to traffic patterns is pathetically repressed. We feel badly watching her repeatedly clothesline herself on her tie-out when she goes after a bird. We're kind of lazy and don't go to the dog park as much as we should. Our neighbors have small children that wander into our backyard and bother me with their existence. Our other neighbor recently brought home two pit bull puppies.

Conclusion: We need a fence.

Naturally, we called in a fence company and asked them to quote us. They did, and we laughed and laughed and said " That can't be right!" We called in another company and they quoted us, and then we stopped laughing and started weeping into our fists.

So, after some tentative Googling, we decided to build our own fence. Or, if we're being all honest about it, we decided that I would bring our fence permit to city hall to have it approved and pay the fee, and Craig would actually build it. I would have the important job of bringing him glasses of water and holding 9-1-1 on speedail (when I wasn't reading blogs and taking a nap).

It is not easy to build a fence in one day - who knew? Ergo, this project will be broken up over a few weeks. The first step was to dig post holes on one-and-a-half sides of the yard - the other side and a half are covered by a pre-existing fence and our garage.

Enter: The Motorized Wine Opener of Doom:

Craig and his dad, after digging hole #1 and emerging with all limbs intact. Success! Only 14 more to go...

My brother-in-law Doni generously gave up his Saturday to come dig holes in our yard for 12 hours. I'm pretty certain we owe him our firstborn child, because this job was no joke. I watched out the window, certain that someone was going to fall down dead from exhaustion at any moment.

Craig and his brother accidentally wore the same outfit, which was kind of cute. (This happens all the time.)

Tabitha conveniently chose this day to act like a dog who would has zero interest in being vertical, let alone try to escape a yard and warrant fence production. Tabitha, no gold stars for you. You make us look stupid.

Once the holes are completed the post goes in, followed by concrete.

Doni's fiance-slash-my friend Sara came over and we made cocktails and pulled up some chairs to watch our menfolk in action and discuss the sexiness factor of guys who can do physical labor (am I right?). Here I am, looking off into the sunset, contemplating life and why I look so awful in white clothes. My husband in the background appears to be somewhat less relaxed.

Done! You guys are spectacular! Now go take a shower. Seriously, like right now.

We have postage...

I thought I didn't have anything to say but then it turns out I did.

2011-05-20T08:46:00.006-04:00

Big seasonal milestone today, folks: this morning when I blow-dried my hair I had to stop several times and take a break, go in the other room, take off my shirt, and stand in front of a fan because I was sweaty and miserable. Hellooooo summer!

***

I've been getting "Ma'am-ed" a lot lately. This is making me sad, and more than a little annoyed. I don't care for titles in general, to me they are useless outside of being a method to establishing your social height against the person to whom you are speaking. I'm technically a Ms., but I'd rather you just leave that out altogether, if you wouldn't mind. If you absolutely cannot address me without a title because you are just so fancy pantsy, or because you will get fired, please oh please for the love of god use Miss. I already admitted to loving the accordion. If you keep on "Ma'am-ing" me I might start keeping extra Kleenex shoved up the sleeve of my crewneck sweater (My grandma did this. Did yours?)

***

I have a co-worker whom I love dearly, but who is so pushy-religious that I want to punch her in the face. She is always telling me to pray on things, and once wouldn't come in my office because I had a Dan Brown book on my desk that I was loaning out to another co-worker. A few weeks ago there was some very strange weather in Cleveland, a dark, dark greenish sky with wind that says bad things, they are a-coming. We were discussing her fear of a tornado and I assured her that we don't live in a high-tornado area and it would be fine. She looked aghast at me and said "Kerry, you are just asking God to send a tornado right here to fall upon us because you think you know the weather better than He does." And then all that shit happened in Alabama right afterward and I couldn't resist telling her that God totally missed on that one.

***

I think I'm developing a rage problem. Tell me if these things that have happened recently are my fault or (really, let's be honest much more likely) someone else's fault:

ONE) I went to Sephora on my lunch break the other day specifically to pick up some Lorac eyebrow filler and Lorac tinted moisturizer. Upon getting ot Sephora I realized that the entire Lorac section had disappeared. I was sad, but eventually found some different products that would work. When checking out, I asked the saleswoman what happened to Lorac. She said "We don't carry it any more."

I said "Yes, I see that, but can you tell me why? It was my brand. Were you not selling enough products or something?" And then she said "We got a map from the company in the mail, with stars on all the stores that would continue selling the line. We weren't starred. So we don't carry it any more."

I tried again: "Yeah, but why weren't you starred?" And she said "Because they didn't want us to see the line here anymore." This conversation went on for 10 more minutes and by the end I don't think she liked me very much.

TWO) I sent some pictures to Walgreens for printing via their online ordering system. They were some wedding pictures from my CD given to me by my photographer, which I own per our contract. I've sent them to Walgreens for successful printing several times in the past 5 months. This time when I arrived to pick up, the saleswoman told me "I can't give these to you." I asked why. "They're wedding pictures, right?" I concurred. "I need a fax from the photographer stating that we can print them."

I told her that I have no fax - they came from my own private CD of pictures and there is no watermark, I own them. She wouldn't believe me. I tried a different approach. "What if I told you that it wasn't my wedding, it was just me in a white dress for the hell of it?" She answered that in this case she would have to give them to me. "It wasn't my wedding," I said. "You already told me it was, so I can't accept that answer," she said. Damn, fooled again! I thought.

And then I yelled a lot, and asked for a manager. And yelled some more, and ended with "I realize this is your policy, but that means that every other time I printed these pictures out here someone wasn't doing their damn job and so you aren't a very good manager, manager, have a lovely evening, goodbye!"

THREE) In Miami this past weekend we ended up at a club and by the time we got there I was completely smashed and so I didn't want to drink anymore because I prefer that my food stay in my stomach after I've consumed it. So I ordered two waters from the bar, one for me and one for a friend. The bartender told me "We don't serve water unless you want to buy it." And I sighed and said "Fine" (that's a lie. I was drunk and said a lot of things before getting to "fine."), and fished a $5 out of my wallet. She put two bottled waters on the bar and said "That will be $15." At which point I may or may not have insulted her thigh-high rubber boots and thrown my $5 in her face, and then asked for it back, and then drunkenly repeated this story to anyone who would listen for the next 24 hours and again right now.

How to re-fall in love with Your Person and sound totally crazy in 8 simple steps.

2011-05-18T10:39:00.006-04:00

1) Try to accidentally time the following events during the most emotionally disastrous days of your hormonal cycle.

2) Go to your local library or bookshop and rent or buy "20 under 40: Stories from The New Yorker." Or, if you have an active subscription to The New Yorker online, go here.

3) Turn to page 139 and read "Here We Aren't, So Quickly," by Jonathan Safran Foer. No matter what you think of him, or his books, or his writing style, or his politics, or his eating habits. Read it. It's 7 fucking pages, you have the time.

4) Die over the beauty of this love story. Die over phrases that remind you of yourself and pains of an easy life going so fast:

"I was always in need of just one good dress shirt, or just one something that I never had. You were too injured by things that happened in the distant past for anything to be effortless in the present. I was always struggling to be natural with my hands."

"You were always copying keys and looking up words. I was not afraid of quiet, I just hated it. So my hand was always in my pocket, around a phone I never answered."

"We went to London to see a play. We tried putting aside time to do nothing but read, but we did nothing but sleep. We were always never mentioning it, because we didn't know what it was. I did nothing but look for you for twenty-seven years."

"I'm not twenty-six and you're not sixty. I'm not forty-five or eighty-three or being hoisted onto the shoulders of someone wading into any sea. I'm not learning chess, you aren't losing your virginity to me. Everything else happened, why not the things that could have?"

"The more I remember, the more distant I feel. We reached the middle so quickly. And after everything it's like nothing. I have always never been here."

"But come. No explaining or mending. Be beside me somewhere..."

5) Cry in your office for a half hour over how much real there is in this story, how it makes you think of all of the tiny, insignificant things you know about someone else and they know about you, and how that creates significance. Cry about how fast life goes by and the frantic scary feeling of nothingness that sometimes accompanies being still and content and happy - isn't that what we're supposed to try for? Why does it feel so frightening sometimes? Because then the story eventually ends?

6) Go home and force your loved one to read this story even if he'd rather be watching the NBA lottery. Wait for a reaction that doesn't come, and wonder why it doesn't hurt his heart the way it hurt yours, a searing, clean hurt that feels like you weren't alive yesterday, only today. Cry about it some more, and hug him so hard he get a little concerned, but he lets you keep going because her understands you like no one else.

7) Write a blog post about it that makes you sound totally insane. Don't worry about it, because of step 1.

8) Make the most of reaching your middle, so that your own story would make someone cry with the thousands of tiny details that mean so much.

Ten days.

2011-05-17T10:05:00.008-04:00

I've drifted through a curious amount of good stuff lately.

My past week was bookended by two polarized weekends - the first I spent alone, speaking to no one and being thoroughly unproductive by choice. I dusted off my old skills of solitude that I haven't used too much in the past years, and although they were a bit rusty it was comforting to know I still posses them. Going to bed before the sun has completely set and getting up at dawn, eating on a schedule determined only by my body, treating free time as time that is free instead of a perversely open schedule that must be filled - these things made me fresh; they gave my life a thrumming clarity and wellness that I didn't realize had been missing.

It also gave me the energy for last weekend, for a trip to South Beach to celebrate my good friend's upcoming marriage. I used my tenets of happy introversion, and managed to mold a weekend of events solidly outside of my comfort zone into a playful romp. It felt like an education, to have happy moments even in a place I don't necessarily care for, to embrace a brief connection with people who might not become forever friends. I returned drained but not emotional, tired but not exhausted. (And yes, I wore my new one-piece and it received positive reviews.)

If there's a happier way to end a weekend than attending a small, sweet, Sunday night champagne and dessert reception wedding, I'd like to know what it is. This was the first wedding in memory that Craig and I have gone to where we weren't part of a large group of friends/guests - in fact we didn't know anyone besides the bride and groom. It was like the best date imaginable; a blue dress, a grey suit, talk of love, delicious nibbles, a guitar and drums, dark corners of a sprawling mansion in which to catch a quiet kiss, a tired and tipsy drive home holding hands.

I've got a fever and the only prescription is more accordion.

2011-05-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

I mean, come on. If Joan Holloway plays it, it must be cool.

At least 2 pop/hip-hop songs getting current play on the radio feature the accordion. This one, and this one. I don't even like those songs very much, but I'm a damn sucker for the accordion. And for the record, if that isn't the dorkiest statement I've ever made, well I'll eat my hat. (Except that I might have just made a dorkier statement right there, by mentioning the eating of a hat. Am I a 75 year old man stuck in a 27 year old woman's body?)

It's just so happy, the accordion! It's so French bistrot, let's-have-a-glass-of-wine-at-nine-AM jovial! It makes me want to put on my red lipstick and a stripey shirt and walk down the avenue chomping on a giant baguette in a paper sleeve.

And hey, did you know I'm going to Miami tonight? Oui oui. For a bachelorette weekend celebrating my soon-to-be-sister-in-law. I'm a little nervous about how my accordion-music-loving self is going to make peace with the dancing-in-5-inch heels self. I am a walking contradiction.

Meet Shane. He has a tiny, tiny dick.

2011-05-09T09:00:00.003-04:00

A billboard on 80/94 en route to Chicago that I have to endure every time we visit my family:

This billboard tells me so much about Shane! Like that he most definitely compensating for a small penis. And maybe he wears shirts with silver dragons emblazoned across the back shoulders.

What else can you tell me about Shane?

*Having trouble dealing with the fact that it's Monday again? This article on Living your Life in the No Bullshit Zone is a great read for a fresh new week.

Pants on Fire

2011-05-07T08:45:00.004-04:00

Three years ago on this first Saturday in May I woke up early, packed my Chicago life into a U-Haul, and moved to Ohio to be with Craig.

It rained all day, as we drove and then carried my furniture up the fire escape of my apartment. Exhausted, we dumped everything in the center of the room to be sorted out later and drove the mile and a half down the road to Craig's house to crack open some beers to watch the Derby. That was the year that they had to put a horse down right there on the track after the race and I just sobbed and sobbed and couldn't catch my breath.

I remember that night so clearly -after 3+ years of making a long-distance relationship work, after thousands of dollars spent on plane tickets and anguished holidays spent wishing one another merry via phone - I remember thinking "This is enough for me. To just be with the person I love, to be able to walk down the street and see him, to be able to ask him to come over when I'm feeling sick, to make going to the airport a happy occasion again, this is enough to make me happy for life. I will never forget how good this feels."

It wasn't an easy decision for me to make, to move for him. It was a struggle, a years-long stalemate that eventually broke by way of financial realities for our future. Craig had the more stable job, Craig made a great deal more money than me, I could do my work anywhere. That happy feeling after the derby, that I promised myself never to forget, was worth the concession.

But of course I do forget that feeling, much too often. I get caught up in imbalance of friends, in homesickness, in the petty fights about leaving the dryer door open or which grocery store to patronize. And that's not to say that these things are small or inconsequential - they are real problems and deserve consideration (okay maybe not the dryer thing). But when compared with the attending a grandparent's funeral without the person who makes you strong to hold your tissues, they seem entirely manageable.

So this weekend, since I'm alone in the house and playing a smaller-scale version of that waiting game, counting down days and hours and minutes until you get to see your favorite person, I will be happy, and be content - a testament to that first-arrived feeling. And I will cheer for Pants on Fire in the Derby because, come on, how can you not?

Flattered.

2011-05-05T08:54:00.002-04:00

Hey, do you know what the Internet really needs? A little more ME.

Wouldn't you say?

A Practical Wedding has solved that problem by running our Wedding Graduate post today, which details how I sucked at being a bride-to-be.

APW was a pivotal website in my living through the wedding planning process without ending up in the women's area of the Painesville violent offenders detention prison, and I have the utmost respect for all of the graduates there. I'm so glad to be among them.

Go read it!

Colonel Mustard and Miss Scarlet, in the Billiard Room, with a can of paint and lots of bottles of booze.

2011-05-02T21:11:00.010-04:00

Did you all enjoy the game Clue as much as I did? Did anyone else read the book series, or see the movie? I did all three, quite often. If you didn't read those books when you were a kid, I suggest you do so now. They are like Encyclopedia Brown with a hint of British scandal. And the movie is like National Lampoon, with a hint of British scandal. Awesome.

Moving on. Who wants to see some remedial home improvement?!

In our house we delegated a billiard room where other, more lame-o couples might put their dining room (*yawn*). Actually Craig did this, before I moved in, and I'm fine with it mostly because I never want to have more than 4 people over for dinner in any sort of highfalutin' fashion. If a bunch of people come over to eat everyone has to fight over one small table and a few couches and coffee tables and the dog will snatch away half their food, so therefore it is no longer a "fancy party" and I get just get wasted and not have to worry about "hostessing."

It was the last unpainted room in our house and here is what it looked like before:

And so then I said: "Hey let's paint that room purple." And since I have the coolest husband in the world Craig said "Okay." And so we did.

We repainted the walls Behr's Plum Shade and repainted the trim and the cabinets Oyster. We purchased a new wine rack and another plant (and yes, Judith is still alive! And yes, the following picture inlcudes drawers and cabinets left slightly ajar for your viewing discomfort):

Then we re-stained the billiard cue holders and racks a dark cherry to match the wood on the table:

Then we randomly found this fun chair that matched and so we bought it on a whim. We brought it home and discovered that it wasn't as big as we thought so now it makes us laugh. Tabitha does not approve:

(Actually she just got her lip stuck in her teeth. Girlfriend should take that Elvis impersonation on the road)

Craig managed to re-wire electricity from 1900 and put in a new light fixture while I sobbed in the corner, sure that at any moment he would light up like a skeleton the way electrocuted people do in cartoons:

Hey, see those green panels? I painted those, using this awesome tutorial on Lizzie's blog (thanks lady!) Took 2 nights and about $50 if you're interested in making your own:

And the whole project only took, er, about 4 months. Hey, what can I say. It's way more fun to watch your 999th episode of House Hunters international than to hang that last frame on the wall.

Addendum: If you ever purchase a pool table, make sure you spend a ton of money on the rug that goes under it. And don't ever let cats in your house. Or else you will end up looking at something like this for the rest of your life:

Now excuse me I just realized that I need to go dust that foot immediately. Yowza.

Operation Help Me Kill the Silence

2011-05-02T08:38:00.008-04:00

Why, hello there!

I figured after taking a week off from posting I would be positively exploding with stories to tell. I was going to smother you with the millions of witty, thought-provoking insights that bombarded my mind over the past seven days, and you all were going to beg me never, ever to leave you for for the rest of eternity.

But (sigh) a week just isn't what it used to be (grumble grumble) in ye olden days. Now any free time that I can rustle up after leaving my soul-crushing day of employment seems to slip right into laziness and glassy-eyed snacking. Add to that a royal wedding and you've got yourself a gen-u-ine sloth of a woman.

Sadly, I have no great stories to tell. I'm sure I had thoughts (I think?) last week but not any spectacular ones. And all I really want to talk about is Mamma Joyce's Soul Food which Craig and I patronized for the first time Saturday night. I can't even link you to their website because they don't have one, it's that cool of a place. You order off a sloppily written chalkboard in this shoebox sized storefront, and then stand around listening to your items popping and crackling in vats of lard. Best Chicken and Waffles I've ever had.

But anyway. Here's the situation:

This coming weekend I somehow arranged to be the only person that I know* in the Cleveland area - everyone else is vacating to Wondrous Places of Great Interest. Add to this the fact that I've randomly got Friday off of work, so I have three full days of nothingness and no oneness. Originally I had planned to take a little me-only trip this weekend up to Toronto but GAS PRICES OH MY DEAR LORD GAS PRICES. Normally I might take this opportunity to go visit my family and friends in Chicago but GAS PRICES OH MY DEAR LORD GAS PRICES.

So yeah. If you had 3 days on your own, a moderate budget, and terrifying lazy sloth memories fresh in your mind, what would you do?

*clearly, go get some more friends might be an obvious answer. i'm aware.

Do you have a wardrobe nemesis?

2011-04-20T12:34:00.009-04:00

(apparently it's fashion week on Fancy Notion)

Disclaimer: Bathing suits don't count.

I equate bathing suits with Halloween costumes - every year there comes the time when you have to buy one for a specific activity, like attending your friend's stupid party where she won't let you in the door unless you're wearing a costume (i.e. swimming). And so you go and pick one out and it always ends up being more expensive than you thought such a thing could be, and you feel kind of dumb in it, and then you get to the party (i.e. the beach) and everyone else is in costumes too, and you look one another up and down and say "what a great costume!" (i.e."cute suit!) even though most people look just okay and some people look really scary. Except for the one girl who for some reason looks awesome and sexy as the Bride of Frankenstein (i.e. the entire female population of Brazil) and you kind of hate her a little. And then eventually everyone stops talking about the costumes and moves onto discussing their taxes and American Idol like they aren't wearing pounds of flammable material and fake moustaches (i.e. falling asleep on a lounge chair and frying oneself to a crisp in spandex).

So yeah, bathing suits are pretty universal in their ridiculousness so no one should worry about them. Yay!

My wardrobe nemesis (nemesises? nemeses?) are shorts. Although can something be a nemesis if you refuse to interact with it or acknowledge its existence? I haven't worn a pair of shorts since I graduated college that don't belong to my husband or weren't part of my soccer uniform in high school - the latter of which I stole from Mother McAuley and will forever claim that it was my revenge for denying me from AP English my senior year even though I tested out of having to take one single writing or literature class at a fancy college you f*cking Catholic school morons. I'm totally over that, by the way.

I see things like these and want to wear them, badly. In particular that romper at the end, I want to live in that:

first 2 Urban Outfitters, last 2 JCrew

But people, let me tell you, this body of mine was just not made to wear shorts. And this is not where you all jump in and say "yes, yes it is you will look great!!!!!" No. No no no, I'm not looking for any cheerleading in this department. It's not a confidence thing, it's an aestheics thing - shorts just look silly on me.

You see, I have a very strange body type. I'm petite and athletically thin, but the proportions of my body are all kinds of screwed up. For some reason someone made a mistake and all of the flesh that was supposed to be delegated to my boobs somehow ended up in my butt (I'm looking at you, God), and all of the muscle that was supposed to be in my arms ended up on my thighs. So when Craig and I do our yoga practice in which we hold chair pose for like 5 hours, he is weeping in pain and I'm yawning and checking my watch. But after 10 seconds of downward dog I fall on my head and he laughs at me while doing sets of push ups after we're done. Moral of the story is that I got me a strong trunk.

Add to this the fact that I'm also extremely, dying-of-consumption-looking pale. Just today I picked up some more foundation in color "Siberia", which I've written about before - and people, that is my face, which sees the sun almost every day. Can you even imagine the state of these pasty legs which are hidden 9 months of the year? You cannot. They are so pale you would swear you can see the veins doing their job inside my leg. Ew.

So yeah. I only wear skirts and dresses in the summer and you won't believe it but as I was typing that last sentence I got an email from Anthropologie with the subject line "Shorts with Sass." OH MY GOD THEY HEARD ME AND THEY AREN'T HAPPY.

What are your wardrobe nemesissessees?

Can I rock a one-piece?

2011-04-18T11:27:00.005-04:00

Tell me if I'm going to embarrass myself with this new swimsuit I bought yesterday:

suit by Jantzen

Personally, I love it - although I'm nixing that halter strap. I'm a sucker for a maillot (what they are calling one-pieces these days. It's just French for bathing suit. I know, I don't get it either). I wore a one-piece suit one summer a few years back and it always made Craig laugh. I told him - wait and see. They are making a comeback. Hey, I had a 50% chance of being right.

But anyway. What do you think?

With a big pair of white sunglasses and waterproof lipstick, right?

A Good Year.

2011-04-14T09:20:00.005-04:00

Fancy Notion is now one year old.

I started this blog last April after going through a few months of crazy, ridiculous, blog-reading obsession. About a year and a half ago I read an article in the New York Times about Dooce.com and headed to her site to see what it was all about. I ended up reading the whole thing from beginning to end. I found Finslippy and read that whole thing from beginning to end. Then I went searching for blogs that weren't about babies and since I was engaged I stumbled upon A Practical Wedding and...well you know. I was a very boring person at this point in my life, but I was amazed at what I had found on the internet. I followed comments on those "big" blogs to smaller, sweeter spaces full of people I fell in love with. I found writers who sounded like me, who lived like me, who had a lot of the same concerns and worries and secret dark ugly places and happy little triumphs as me.

So I started this blog - for myself. To practice my writing, to keep my thoughts in order, to create memories in type that I could look back on.

I still remember getting my first ever comments on this blog, on my 4th post about our "dining room" table. I was over the moon that there were actual people out there, people who somehow found me and thought that what I had to say was worth taking the time to type something in return. Seeing comments in my inbox felt like the future. Since then I've written about losing my last grandparent, and about my love of wine in a box. I've shared with you ridiculous stories of my childhood of crime and people at work who suck and my wedding gown seamstress who thought I needed a tan. God knows I've written about my mother.

I wrote about becoming a wife. I wrote about yucky days, and here's where things got kind of awesome because you all helped me through those crappy times. Every single time my phone makes that little jingle jangle noise alerting me that I have an email or a comment from something I've written, I rush to read it and feel like a million bucks. The fact that this blog has let me spill a little of my new life in a different state over to my friends and family that I can't see as often anymore is such a gift.

A lot of people start blogs during their engagements and the trend seems to be that readership and comments die down after the wedding. This has definitely been the case with Fancy Notion but I try not to be too bothered by that, because this wasn't meant to be a wedding blog in the first place. It's just a teensy tiny life blog, I guess. Which means that it won't really ever have a niche following or be a place for money-making advertisements. I started this blog as a place to make myself laugh with stupid haikus about ice cream and be ridiculous, and I'm happy to see that it's still that kind of place. For me. And maybe for you too.

I'm sorry that I don't write as often as I did in the beginning. I'm working on writing actual stuff that could hopefully one day lead to an actual writing job, and sometimes I have to preserve the words for that arena instead, and sometimes I'm burnt out as all hell at typing, and sometimes I'm just so boring that I literally have nothing of interest to say. For those of you who still come here to read every now and again, even when I'm dull or in a drought - I kind of love you a whole lot. Thanks for being part of a really, really good year in my life.

Onward, ho!

What we're up to...

2011-04-12T10:31:00.008-04:00

Tonight I'm going on a proper date! Details at the end of this post.

About 2 months ago Crag and I felt ourselves becoming Boring People, and thus began an initiative to become more cultured individuals (i.e. make an effort to leave our house and eat fewer Girl Scout Cookies). One of the tenets of said initiative is to take advantage of the small-budget/independent movie theatre down the street from us that offers $5 movies and free popcorn on Mondays. We've seen a movie every week since then, and I must say I feel much more Up On Things since doing this, and I've also substituted my Girl Scout Cookie weight for Free Buttered Popcorn weight (Oh, and Alcohol Weight since it's one of those movie theatres that offers booze).

Usually the movie we choose is something we both want to see - Black Swan, Cedar Rapids, The King's Speech, etc. However last week we saw Kill the Irishman, about the Cleveland mob and car bombs in the seventies, and it wasn't exactly my cupa'tea. So last night I picked Jane Eyre.

Now, let it be said that I offered what I thought would be a good compromise. There is a movie playing at the Theatre called Cleveland vs. Wall Street which I have no desire to see.

So I said: "How about we go together and I'll see Jane Eyre and you can see Cleveland vs. Wall Street?"

And Craig replied "What, like in separate theatres?"

"Well yeah, watching a movie is really an independent activity when you do it correctly."

I don't go to movies alone."

"You wouldn't be going alone, we'd go together, just - oh never mind."

So he kindly said he would see Jane Eyre with me. Which is a very nice thing for a husband to do for his wife. So then walking to the theatre we had this conversation: Craig: "So, what's this movie about?"

Me: "Didn't you read the book in high school?"

"No."

"Oh. Well... it's about a girl. And she has a hard life, and it's about...um...her life. It's a period piece, you know? About old-timey things."

"Huh. Is there any excitement in it?"

"Like what? A war? I don't think there's a war, or anything. I think there's a murder...oh wait no, that's Wuthering Heights. An there's a love story...but I don't think there's any sex...well, it's just a good story. And there will be elaborate costumes!"

So yeah. The costumes were good and the story was good and I liked the movie because I'm a period piece junkie and I think Craig was bored out of his mind, poor dear. But you know what, he's just going to have to work a little harder at the Get Cultured initiative because he doesn't even like Romeo + Juliet, the Leo version that has murder and sex so what can I do but throw my hands up in exasperation?

Anyway - Tonight we're going on a proper date! I'm going to put on a dress and everything and I refuse to wear tights even though it's still zero degrees (I'm done with tights for the year. DONE. I'm also done buying socks, and the dryer ate all of my brown socks so now I wear Craig's brown socks when socks are required, and have noticed that his socks are all much higher quality than mine. I suck.) We're going to dinner here and then we're going to see Les Miserables which has come to Cleveland and we sprung for tickets even though they were expensive because I'm trying to learn how to spend out.

An aside: Growing up in Chicago I was spoiled for musicals. It was second nature to me to see productions repeatedly, every single time they came to town. I distinctly remember attending Miss Saigon at the tender age of holy-shit-my-parents-thought-it-was-appropriate-to-let-me-see-that? and then memorizing the scores about whores and illegitimate babies and suicide. On vacation with my friend Beth we'd perform the songs in front of strangers who had to be quite flummoxed by the seven-year-olds singing "The heat is on in Saigon/The girls are hotter than hell/One of these sl*ts here will be Miss Saigon/God the tension is high not to mention the smell..."

Craig didn't grow up as a musical dork like me, so this will be his first encounter with Les Miserables. After Jane Eyre he worriedly asked me what the play is about and I excitedly told him: "It's a period piece! About a girl! And love! And the costumes are elaborate! And there's a war and murder!"

It's going to be an awesome night.

Impermanence.

2011-04-06T11:34:00.006-04:00

via we heart it

A woman whom I know well and see often is eight months pregnant and due in the beginning of May. She is the same age as me. I am attending her baby shower next Monday.

Two weeks ago her husband (of four years) told her he does not want to be married to her, does not want to be a father, after all. He packed up all his things and left the home that they bought together six months ago.

Love is so precarious. It's so intertwined with luck and happenstance and pace and work, that sometimes I'm amazed by my belief that it can remain intact at all.

Kids Today... (an unprovoked, pro-youth rant)

2011-04-03T20:39:00.035-04:00

via we heart it

Of all the overused, stock opinions that people tend to throw around without giving them much thought - you know, like "family values are disappearing," or "everyone's in it for the money," - one that is most infuriating to me is when people get down on "kids today."

We hear it/say it all the time. Kids today are rude. They have no manners. They are spoiled and soft and expect too much to be given to them. They are oversexed and don't speak correctly and use annoying shorthand for everything. Kids today don't know how to work hard. They have terrible taste. Kids today look up to the wrong people.

Now, this post is not to say that today's teenagers don't occasionally frustrate the patience right out of me. I live by a high school, and I can't tell you how many times I have given fifteen-year-olds the finger on my drive to work in the morning because they refuse to walk anywhere near the sidewalk, and can sometimes take over 25 minutes to cross the 3 yards of space in front of my car. Sometimes I'm the crabby old lady that yells at them, but honestly it comes from a place of protection/fear, from a place of not wanting to have to scrape them off of the grill of my Honda with a spatula.

I think my resistance to this rhetoric comes from working with and for older adults. I spend the majority of my day talking to baby boomers and the oldest members of Generation X, and seriously, sometimes I just want to kick them in the shins for the ease with which they put blame and the inevitable death of society's future in the hands of today's junior high students, high school kids, college age men and women.

Like many of us out here, I'm a card-carrying member of Generation Y. We're a cool group of folks. Pepsi thought so when it created those hip commercials in our honor - remember "Generation Next?" We're group-oriented but also technologically savvy, because we were the lucky few to grasp both the before and the after of the Internet. I think a lot of us still view ourselves as young people, even as we hit life landmarks such as marriage and procreation, that's kind of our M.O. as the "Peter Pan generation."

But enough about us. We have reached the age where we're old news. Now there's a generation which follows us, one that is identifiably, obviously, solidly different from we are - Generation Z, a.k.a Generation I a.k.a Generation @. We're at that point where we can do as all generations have done before, and start identifying them as "wrong" where we were "right," and labeling their preferences as frivolous because they have more information than we do and maybe they choose to engage with different sectors of it than we did. Every generation does this, the blaming of "kids today." And I think we should be the ones to cut it out, for a couple reasons.

The first is that whatever foibles Generation Z might have - and there are definitely a handful - the majority of them are a direct result of current adults treating kids as consumers. This concept is centuries old, but still gets buried in the conversation about youth. They will only buy what adults sell to them. The kids wear sexy clothing too young and are giving each other blow jobs on the bus? They weren't the tween store that decided to market a padded swimsuit top to 8 year olds, nor did they give Jersey Shore the green light on a basic cable station. I'm not saying we should aim for a repressed or conservative society - just that it's unfair to speak as though children come out of the womb asking for anything other than what they see the rest of us enjoying the hell out of. Don't make them feel bad for their choices. Show them the other choices and then have faith that they'll work it out eventually. These kids have more information presented to them than their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents ever did, and sometimes it's hard to weed through that information to find out what matters. It takes time.

The second thing about this that bothers me is that people who "tsk tsk" kids today are completely ignoring their own power to project a self-fulfilling prophecy. As a generation Y-er, I saw this work in a positive way. Yeah, older adults sometimes got down on us for being indoors playing video games instead of getting fresh air, but this was balanced by a genuine respect for our talents with technology. I distinctly remember feeling very cool teaching my parents what an email was - I felt necessary, and feeling necessary propels you to take responsibility. Generation Y was commended for our high levels of education, for sending more women to college, and that made me want to succeed and live up to that standard. People often do as they are perceived to do. The message that's out there, that today's kids don't have anything worthwhile to say, will not inspire them to say anything worthwhile. Keep repeating to a 15 year-old today that she isn't grateful for anything and see if she replies with a "thank you." I sure as hell wouldn't.

Kids today are cool, and their worlds are fascinating. My nieces and nephews are some of the most exciting people I know. Kids today are more invested in long-term social goals such as the environment than any other generation, even young people in the 60's. Kids today are going to be more racially, sexually, and religiously tolerant than any previous generation. Kids today will endure some of the hardest shit that's coming our way, nationally and globally, with crises looming everywhere you turn - financial devastation, lack of natural resources, international weaponry - which you, baby boomers, have teed up for them. If they'd rather Facebook for a while and LOL with their friends and sing along to some auto-tuned music that happens to be catchy and loud until they are kicked off of their parent's health insurance and life gets tough, I don't' see anything wrong with that.

Everyone is brave for getting up every morning in an unpredictable world. They'll grow up and deal with it eventually, just like the rest of us did - hopefully better than the rest of us have. I have faith in kids today.

Film festival fallout, and BOOKS!

2011-03-31T13:06:00.006-04:00

Um, no. You were so very incorrect in your assumptions of my glamourosity yesterday, I cannot even begin to tell you.

Do you know what type of people attend a movie at 1:50 PM on a Wednesday (Well, people other than me, when I play hooky from work, that is)?

Old people.

Do you know what old people HATE thinking about, talking about, or even acknowledging the existence of?

Alzheimer's Disease.

It was bad, folks. Not the movie - the movie was actually pretty awesome. The fallout was bad. I had to stand there as people exited the movie with their walkers and canes and white hair and other ancient human accoutrements, with my materials and my marketing boards and my business cards and listen to people spit invective (and sometimes just spit, like saliva) in my general direction and grumble about how that was just a bunch of depressing trash (it wasn't) that wasn't realistic at all (it was) and they thought they were attending a different sort of movie entirely (a happy one, about a retired GoGo Dancer, perhaps) and then say "there's that girl, the one who works for the blah blah Association, let's go scowl at her and say mean things about the film where she can overhear us and thank her for completely putting us off of our supper."

Sigh.

On a positive note - do you like to read? Well, if you don't already read Meghan's blog, you need to right now because she has put up one hell of a spring reading list compiled by nous, le communite des bloggers. Go look at it. Scram.

And read that shit in an actual book, would you? FUCK KINDLE, NOOK, AND EVERYTHING ELSE LIKE THOSE. That's another post for another day and oh, it's coming, watch out.

The Movie Business.

2011-03-30T10:33:00.001-04:00

Don't you love it when you get to shake things up a bit at work?

This morning I had to bust out the eyeliner and foundation because I'm heading to the Cleveland International Film Festival, where I will be introducing the Icelandic hit "Mamma Gogo" to the masses. Yes, you heard right - Icelandic! Subtitled! About Alzheimer's Disease! At 1:50 in the afternoon on a Wednesday!

If you never hear from me again, it's probably because I was trampled by the crowds waiting in line for their tickets to this cinematic masterpiece.

All jokes aside, it will be a pleasantly different way to spend the afternoon. My nonprofit is partnering with the film festival for this movie due to its focus on dementia and I get to stand up there and itroduce it, Billy Walsh style. Plus, since the event is in Cleveland city proper Craig's taking me to lunch first at Greenhouse Tavern.

It's a good day.

This Too Shall Pass

2011-03-28T09:00:00.002-04:00

After my post the other day about a terrible song, my sister and I got into a discussion about terrible music videos, which we agreed is mostly any music video made after 2005. It was a very depressing conversation.

But then OK Go's song "This Too Shall Pass" came up on my Spoon Pandora station and I remembered that some bands still take videos seriously, and make shit that people want to see. Rembember this gem from last year? It never fails to make me happy.

You can read about the making of this video here.

Our new addition.

2011-03-24T13:53:00.010-04:00

So yeah, with all the baby making, baby incubating, and baby raising that is taking place in the blogosphere lately I've been feeling a little left out. *pout*

You procreating nincompoops, giving your lives all of this meaning. I thought we had a deal! We'd all get married and have adventures and document every second of our completely self-absorbed days in the internet and blogging is all we need to be happy and now you're going to love your dang drooly babies more than you love ME, DAMMIT!

So...

We bought Judith:

Judith is a Clivia Miniata (I know, I think that sounds kind of dirty too!) the second most expensive living thing that I've purchased in my life (after Tabitha) and so I'm sure that you can see how this life change requires a level of commitment nearly equal to having a child. I'm back in the game!

Right now I'm doing my best to keep Judith alive. It's a big deal because usually all I have to do is breathe in the direction of a plant, and it will shrivel and die on the spot. I am flower Kryptonite.

The biggest issue we've been having at this point is Tabitha's interest in Judith - she's taken a few curious sniffs and even a nibble or two. Our plan is to refrain from punishing Tabitha when she does this - which would only increase her inquisitiveness - but rather ignore it altogether and let her get the sniffing and nibbling out of her system. That means that at any given time in the evening you can find me sitting on my hands on the ottoman, whimpering and tapping my foot like a maniac while Tabitha chomps on one of Judith's petals and then spits it on the floor.

And working moms - I totally understand now why going back to work can be so devastating.* It is practically impossible to concentrate on spreadsheets when one is constantly fearful that right at this moment her older baby right is eating her new baby for lunch.

Oh, and I can't wait to introduce Craig's parents to Judith when they come over for dinner on Saturday! They will be so proud: first a grand-dog and now a plant. They love me, I am the daughter-in-law of their dreams! (Seriously though, they are coming over specifically to see Tabitha. They called and said "It's been a while since we've seen that dog, can we come over?" How adorable is that?!)

*you know I'm joking, right? i'm joking :)

Popular song of the moment that I absolutely cannot stand:

2011-03-22T13:09:00.006-04:00

(Nope. Not that one. I'm not touching that one with a 10-foot pole)

*Sigh.

I really hate to do this, but I must.

It's too bad really, because it's been a while since an incorrect spelling of my name has been used in the form of musical adoration.

What? When was that, you ask? Are you saying you don't remember this song, performed by the Swedish rock sensation Europe, on their 1987 album titled after its smash hit (later popularized by one G.O.B Bluth "they're illusions. Tricks are something that whores do for money. Or candy!") The Final Countdown?

I'll give you a second while you go listen to that tune. It's magical, really. If it doesn't make you want to slow dance with your hands in someone else's back pockets then you are dead inside. Dead.

But alas, it is not 1987, and the song is not "Carrie." It is 2011 and the song is "Pretty Girl Rock," by Keri Hilson. And I know that I don't need to explain this to you because I'm sure you've heard it, but the song opens with girlfriend stating "My name is Keri" and at this point I am usually lunging across the front seat of a car to manically beat the radio knob into silent submission because it is just so awful. Because you see, to an untrained ear, "Keri" sounds a lot like "Kerry," and the idea that this song could be about someone with such a lovely and sweet name is just insulting. Let's examine some of the lyrics, shall we?

Revisiting the opening verse:

"My name is Keri, I'm so very
Fly oh my it's a little bit scary
Boys wanna marry looking at my derri-
erre, you can stare but if you touch it I'ma bury

Pretty as a picture
Sweeter than a swisher
Mad cause I'm cuter than the girl that's with ya,
I don't gotta talk about it baby you can see it
But if you want I'll be happy to repeat it"

Okay first of all: were the people who wrote this song charging Keri Hilson $1000 a pop for pronouns or something? "Boys wanna marry..." Want to marry whom? Other boys? Yes we know. This is a big issue in Congress right now. "If you touch it I'ma bury..." Leaving alone the fact that "I'ma" isn't actually part of the English language, bury what? Who? Keri, the people enjoying this song most likely aren't Rhodes Scholars. Give us a little clue.

On two side notes: you cannot just stop a word in the middle to make it rhyme. That's cheating. And I don't know what a swisher is, although I probably will soon when I ask my friend Beth, who knows these things. A while back she kindly explained to me what "sizzurp" was.

Now let's get to the meat here, the message of this empowering tune, if you will:

"Girls think I'm conceited cause I know I'm attractive
Don't worry about what I think, why don't you ask him?

Get yourself together don't hate (never do it),
jealousy is the ugliest trait (don't ever do it)
I can talk about it cause I know that I'm pretty
And if you know it too then ladies sing it with me

All eyes on me when I walk in
No question that this girl's a 10
Don't hate me cause I'm beautiful
Don't hate me cause I'm beautiful
My walk, my talk the way I dress
It's not my fault so please don't trip
Don't hate me cause I'm beautiful
Don't hate me cause I'm beautiful"

Honestly, what the f*ck. What the f*ck is this? Girls probably think your conceited because you know you're attractive and because not only did you say it that one time, but you also say it three lines down, and then again in another two lines, and then over and over for the next 2 minutes. And when you say "ladies sing it with me," are you asking us to sing about us being attractive or about you being attractive? We're confused! We're standing here nodding our heads and lip synching because your lyrics are so esoteric, Keri, it's blowing our minds.

Lastly - and I'm going to be a little snarky here, forgive me. Everyone is beautiful in their own way, and all that, blah blah blah. I Google imaged this chick crossing my fingers that she was Giselle-esque or else it was going to just be too easy. And of course, Keri Hilson is a great-looking girl. She's very pretty. I'm just not sure if the "Gayle King" is going to be the next "Rachel," is all.

The worth of low-profile employment.

2011-03-20T19:45:00.007-04:00

Last week I saw the movie Cedar Rapids, a comedy starring Ed Helms and John C. Reilly and - most importantly to me - Senator Clay Davis from The Wire (shiiiiiiiieeeet) - which recently arrived at our neighborhood theatre. It was a funny movie, but one that included that sweet, quirky streak that I appreciate in a comedy - where I can laugh without feeling like I need to take a shower afterward or fearing that someone is going to hear me and request that I turn in my feminist card. I’m much more Little Miss Sunshine than The Hangover, you know?

A lot of the jokes in the movie were based on the obvious dork-dom of the characters’ jobs and location: middle-of-the road insurance agents working at small-time companies in Nowhere, Iowa. They scout out other agents in their area to keep tabs on the competition – haha! They’re fighting tooth and nail to win the “Two-Diamond” insurance sales award at a conference at Cedar Rapids – hehe! ! These things are funny because they show people taking themselves extremely seriously in a profession that no one else takes seriously at all. But behind the jokes was a sentiment that the writers clearly wanted to convey to the audience – what’s really so lame about these insurance people, after all? They seem kind of like your friends. They seem pretty cool.

There’s a scene in the movie where Ed Helms’ character is sitting on a swingset talking to Anne Heche’s character, and she asks him how he got into the insurance business in the first place- insinuating that it’s, well, not the most glamorous of lifestyles. He tells her that when he was a little boy his dad died, and that he saw their insurance agent doing all of the work to make sure he and his mom got everything that they were entitled to of his dad’s finances, property, etc. - and to him that insurance agent was a hero. And so he wanted to be a hero to other people, and so he went into the insurance business.

Call me a bleeding heart, but this part of the film made my insides go a bit mushy and I'm still thinking about it a week later. It was a joke, but at the same time it clearly begged the question - why is this a joke? The idea that a job so outside of the realm of "American Heroism" (which, if you go by what the media says, includes citizens serving in the armed forces, firefighters, high-level political figures, an occasional teacher, surgeons, and of course Oprah. I think that’s it.), even something vaguely connected to anti-heroism which is the way that we have learned to view insurance companies, can be an inspiration to the right person at the right time?

The point was, it's not a joke. Not to the people who fall outside that small parameter of heroes but still do necessary work. We all count. We all contribute in some way. Even if we aren’t pulling on hero tights to fight the bad guys, that doesn’t have to mean that we can’t be the hero of someone’s breakfast, or their commute, or even their day. Let’s acknowledge people who make our life a smidgen better, and maybe they will acknowledge us, and all feel better about that for which we drag ourselves out of our comfy beds, day after day.

Some people I’d like to call a hero today:

The guy that answers the phone at my favorite Chinese food restaurant. He’s not a cook and not an owner – he simply takes the orders and collects your money when you arrive. But this one dude always, always makes me laugh on the phone when I place my order. He talks in a purposefully funny voice and tells me everything I rattle off is “such a great choice, great great choice!” He tells me to be careful driving if it’s raining. Chinese food guy, you are one of my heroes. You make me laugh even when I’m hungry, and that is not an easy feat.

Flight attendants on turbulent flights. I am a very seasoned flyer but I get terribly, awfully freaked when there is turbulence. I grasp my armrests and bite my cheek and keep the plane aloft with my mind, all the while staring down the flight attendants, who are inevitably standing in the aisle laughing and gossiping and having a little party while, hello! we are all clearly about to die. Except we can’t be dying, because these men and women are having so much fun! They don’t look worried at all, and they are offering me snacks! Flight attendants who reassure me by your actions (not to mention the application of your makeup, it is freaking impeccable), you are my heroes.

Authors who churn out pedestrian, unsung, comfortable and predictable juicy books. I’m talking to you, authors who continue to publish books about my favorite historical figures whose stories have already been written hundreds of times. I’m talking to you, authors who write unauthorized “prequels” and “sequels” to Pride and Prejudice. I’m talking to you, authors who write frothy, delicious sultry fiction that I read in the dentist’s waiting room because I’m terrified or on the beach because I am shallow and don't feel like paying attention. You will never win any awards and your books don’t make any money but you are my heroes.

The pharmacist who fills my birth control prescription accurately. You could put anything in there – Lipitor, Xanax, Viagra - and I would take it and have no freaking clue! I put my bank account, self-centeredness, figure, and sanity’s fate in your hands every month and thus far you’ve never let me down. That’s some everyday hero shit for sure.

I'd love to hear about your own everyday heroes. Or, have you ever been surprised by someone's appreciation for the work that you do?

Competition For a Cause. Buy a bracket to help the citizens of Japan!

2011-03-15T11:26:00.006-04:00

Updated to add those playing so far:

Claire

Jeannie

Beth

Meghan

Petitechablis

Craig

Ashley

Hey everyone!

After yesterday's post I heard from a handful of folks who are interested in filling out a bracket for March Madness. Since people seemed to be more into the healthy competition, makes-watching-the-games-whith-thy-male-counterpart-fun aspect of it instead of winning cold hard cash GIVE ME MONEY NOW I NEED STUFF $$$$$! aspect (like me) I changed things up a bit.

If you would like to buy a bracket via paypal for $5, $10, whatever you want to spend, your money and all the money collected will go to relief efforts to help the citizens suffering in the wake of the recent natural disaster in Japan (help me out and let me know if you know of a particularly good organization as I am researching them today)

To keep things competitive, the winner will receive a little championship care package from me. (You're on pins and needles, I know!)

So, come on. Let's play. Email me at Fancy.Notion@gmail.com if you are in. Even if you aren't in, feel free to link to this post on your blogs to see if your friends might be.

Gooooo team!

Who wants to play in the Fancy Notion March Madness pool?!

2011-03-14T08:46:00.002-04:00

You do! I know you do.

I'm that person at work that runs our NCAA men's basketball March Madness pool and can only talk about basketball for the next 3 weeks.

So, given that fact, I thought it might be fun to do a pool with the readers of this blog, if enough people are interested. Are you interested? Be interested, it will be fun! Or, I guess if you don't like fun, then you don't have to play, you boring, boring lump of cells and tissue, you. See how I did that? Don't you want to play with me now?

Here's a rough outline of how it could work:

We could play for a small amount of money, $5 or $10 a bracket, via paypal.
We could include our significant others or other family members that we talk about here.
Brackets would be emailed to me by Thursday morning, the 17th and I will do all the work.
FUN, FUN, and more FUN, and possibly a little cash in your pocket.
If you don't know how to play it is SO EASY and I will tell you all about it.

So if you want in, comment or email me today, and we'll see if we can get this going!

P.S. you don't have to be a blogger. You could just be one of my friends or family who read this.

Strange childhood photo Wednesday.

2011-03-09T09:04:00.003-05:00

Confession Wednesday will be back someday, I promise. I have to give you all some time to go off and be mildly horrendous human beings so that you can come here and blab about it.

My apologies for the lameness of this site recently - I've been working on some other projects so my writing energy reserves have been depleted. I will hopefully be back with actual content next week.

In the meantime, enjoy this picture of me from my first day of first grade in 1990:

I tell you, the years before that kind doctor successfully completed my lamppost-removal surgery were tough on the whole family. (WTF dad, Mr. Awseome Photographer Man with your fancy camera and its gigantic lens that you would adjust for no less than 8 minutes before snapping a single photo and you couldn't just tell me a little to the left, Ker?)

Wherein I detail weekend happenings of shockingly little importance.

2011-03-07T09:20:00.010-05:00

Two weekends ago I traveled to Chicago alone to visit with some family and girlfriends, and celebrate my niece Maddie's thirteenth birthday party. It was a nice weekend sans husband and dog, which I mean in the most loving way possible, and left me looking forward to spending some time home with Craig and Tabitha this weekend. And holy hell did I get my wish.

Craig is suffering from a sinus infection that threatens to take his life with every passing minute, and so the majority of my last few days were spent handing him boxes of tissues and repeating myself so that my messages could get through his clogged up ears, and holding onto one of his feet during the night so that the mucus could not drag him away into a miserable abyss of a phlegm filled afterlife, and pretty much stayed within 1,000 square feet of earth's space for 3 days.

Friday night I decided that I was going to make Chicken Pot Pie (in honor of my girl Carla) from scratch, like the crust and everything! Great idea!

Except, I didn't make this decision until 8pm, and thus failed to anticipate the length of time such a dish takes to prepare if you haven't made anything beforehand. I also failed to build in fluff time for crises such as when I sliced my finger open removing the dough from the Cuisinart, which bled in a very over-dramatic and disgusting fashion for a half-inch cut. So the pot pies weren't actually done until 10:30, by which time Craig and I were ready to eat our couch. But! Then! we remembered that pot pies take a long time to cool enough to eat safely without burning off your entire mouth, so we had to sit for 30 minutes staring unhappily at our pot pies and being hungry and crabby. In the end though, they turned out phenomenal, if I do say so myself. I used her recipe and you should try it.

While I waited for the pies to cook I thumbed through this book, have you seen it?:

I picked it up from the library the other day because it looked like the kind of thing I need in my life at this moment and it didn't disappoint. In it I read break-up letters that made my face burn with someone else's shame, I laughed over silly rejections like one woman's collection of 3 separate documents informing her that she failed her "Level Happy Frog"(or something like that) swim class over and over as a child (who keeps these things?), and I got really angry at F. Scott Fitzgerald for writing a horribly nasty letter to his daughter detailing how she sucks at life. I'll never look at The Great Gatsby the same way again. Note to everyone: don't put anything down on paper. Ever. Just don't go near a pen and shut your computer right now. Especially if you plan on getting famous.

Hm, let's see. Right now 4 of my 10 fingers are covered in Band-Aids because, in addition to the Cuisinart incident, this was the weekend when my skin finally declared its defeat to the neverending winter and our radiator heat, and proceeded to crack and split in various locations on my hands. I'm hoping that people at work think I'm in a fight club.

Yesterday we visited Craig's parents to celebrate his dad's birthday, and we gave him a beautifully framed 8x10 wedding photo of Craig, his parents, and me. The year after you get married is the best year ever for gifts - wedding pictures for everyone! No thought needed! That in itself is a good enough reason to get married, I think.

Oh, and for any skeptics out there...hard evidence that Blog friends are Real friends.

Dearest Husband, now that my birthday is a mere 11 months away...

2011-03-03T09:07:00.007-05:00

Magically, thankfully, by the grace of the marriage gods in the sky, I found Anthropologie's new bridal line BHLDN to be solidly underwhelming.

(pop quiz! "I know you can be overwhelmed, and underwhelmed, but can you ever just be 'whelmed?'" "I think you can in England." Guess the movie and you get a gold star!)

I mean, duh, I love this gown (for an anniversary or all those galas I attend, notsomuch for a wedding) but I am smart enough to know that you need to be one tall skinny bitch - I'd say at minimum 6'5" - to pull that baby off.

However. The lingerie line is a. different. story. I love these:

And if I owned this, I believe I would contract consumption on the spot and spend the rest of my days gliding from drawing room to the parlor, penning letters to my many gentleman callers telling them please do not not to pine for me, for I'm not long for this world:

Those things rattling on the floor? They are my teeth. Having fallen out of my head.

2011-02-28T12:00:00.005-05:00

Just when I thought it couldn't get any better than this:

which you may remember from this post, Ghirardelli threw their hat into the ring with THIS:

As the young folks say, snap.

(thanks to my sister Jeannie for gifting me this!)

Confession Wednesday Wrap-Up

2011-02-26T11:37:00.007-05:00

(I just stared at the word "Wednesday" in the title for about 2 minutes, thinking I spelled it wrong. What a strange, ugly word)

Yowza!

Two important lessons from Wednesday's post:

1) Gilmore Girls is possibly the best show in the history of the universe and Lauren Graham and Alexis Bledel probably own an entire country somewhere that they purchased with revenue from their DVD sales and

2) people have...opinions...about cats. There is no middle ground when it comes to the domesticated felines. If you put pictures of your cat up on your blog you damn better slap a disclaimer right there in the title pronouncing that this is one of those kinds of blogs, so that you don't piss people off. And if you don't have a cat, well, what in the hell do you do with all of that free time? Who do you talk to when you are lonely?? Where is the beauty in your life?!? You must live a dark, dark existence.

Moving on.

I have a few Honorable Mentions to acknowledge in several different confession categories:

The winner of the "Really? That's all you got?" Category was Claire with:

I spend approximately 30 minutes to an hour everyday at work day dreamingabout what job I'd like to have next.
Now Claire, I appreciate this confession, coming from such a good little accountant such as yourself. But being someone who thinks about another job, any other job really GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW I CANT TAKE IT ANY MORE for 95% percent of her day, I know you can do better. Start practicing.

The winner of the "Let's be glad we're only Internet friends and not real friends because you might not like me very much" category is Lizzie, with:

I'm obsessed with hygiene and shower at least once, usually twice, everysingle day. I'm positive it's the reason i'm completely dependent on moisturizer.
Twice a day? Holy cow. As as maybe-once-a-day-maybe-not-and-only-wash-my-hair-twice-a-week-because-it-is-the-texture-of-straw-plus-I'm-lazy person, you've got my sniffing my armpits over here. I think they're okay, but you've definitely freaked me out.

Winner of the "Now that is some juicy stuff for real tell me more" category is Sarah with:

I seriously dislike a popular blog and have written several posts about it thatI will never publish because I like my blogger friends and don't want to be that person.

Dude. I NEED TO KNOW.

Winner of the "Everyday acts of rebellion are what make the world go 'round" category was Ashley:

I used to switch the organic banana stickers with the regular banana stickers sothose "nature freaks" overpaid for pesticide ridden bananas. Suckers.

I love it. Now I kind of want to go to the grocery store and black out "peanuts" in the ingredient list of various items to show those "peanut allergy" crybabies that they can just shut up and deal with it. No? Not the same you say?

And finally the grand prize winner! This goes to Lyn, with a comment that sent a chill through my bones and put the fear of god into me in respect to all things hostess-y. Everyone out there? You are all NOT invited to stay at my house, because how do I know you aren't one of these people?:

I have actually cleaned the bathrooms of friends I’ve stayed with beforeallowing myself to shower or use the toilet. I also cleaned a friend’s kitchen once because it was giving me the willies. You’re welcome, friends.

This is just all kinds of crazy and awesome. I want to know, do you bring our own cleaning products when you visit? What do you friends think you're doing with that mop and bucket sticking out of your overnight bag?

Lyn, email me your address and I'm going to send you a prize including the best chocolate chip cookie recipe you've ever had in your damn life.

You people are all hilarious! (and weird. and a lot like me.) I heart you.

It's Confession Wednesday!

2011-02-23T09:02:00.002-05:00

(See how I did that, make it sound as though I do this every Wednesday, or at least maybe one Wednesday a month? So not true! I've never done this before! I may never do it again! It could totally suck! My throat hurts so badly I can't speak above a whisper so I'm getting all of my exclaiming out via type. !!!)

Welcome to Confession Wednesday.

Today I grant you the opportunity to unload the immense 25cent airport-cart necessitating baggage of guilt that - if you were lucky enough to be raised on 12 years of Catholic schooling like moi -you drag along with you through every single personal encounter in your life and ensures that you never really experience a solid REM cycle. Or, maybe you are a normal person and just have a little something on your chest. (Aren't you lucky.)

Anyway. Let's do this! Feel free to comment as Anonymous if you wish. I will award a prize to be the best one only I haven't decided what that prize will be yet. That might interfere with the anonymity part, but oh well whatever it will be just between you and me, and I don't think people are going to confess to murder here, or anything. Disclaimer: Please do not confess to murder here, or anything.

(Now my blog will show up when people search "confess to murder." Sweet. This community is about to get a whole lot more badass.)

I'll start, and I will confess FOUR things:

I watch reruns of Gilmore Girls on the ABC Family channel every.single.day. I've been doing this for a few years now, so I've seen the entire series through about 5 times. If I'm not home, I DVR them. A lot of the time I don't even watch, just have it playing in the background while I make dinner, for comfort. If Craig and I have children our first girl will be named Lorelai and now you all know why.

Craig keeps a piggy bank of quarters on the desk in his office. He puts all his loose change in there and converts it into bills when he goes to Las Vegas. I take quarters from it all the time. For stamps, or parking, or coffee, or candy. It's been at the exact same level of change for over 2 years now.

I think less of adults who tell me they like the Twilight book series. Usually these people can recover their equal status if they work really hard at it (say, by being able to quote from Arrested Development), but oftentimes the damage is already done.

My wedding dress is hanging from a hook in the ceiling in our basement. I have not had it cleaned. The bottom 4 inches of it is completely black with Chicago street-filth and it smells like sweat. I am too cheap to take it to be cleaned and honestly don't really care about it anymore.

Aaaaand: go!

Wedding Recap The Third (Where things start to get a little fuzzy)

2011-02-20T20:30:00.015-05:00

Let me begin this post by calling you all a bunch of dirty liars. Liars, I say!

(Hi, happy Monday!)

Remember in my first wedding recap I mentioned my annoyance that nearly all of the wedding photographs featured me mid-laugh, in all of my open-mouthed hilarity? And you all assured me that these are the best photos, the greatest photos, the most BEAUTIFUL photos of all time?

Liars. Check this one out (please cover the eyes of any innocent children who may be nearby):

Oh, dear. Who is that crazy person that they let into our reception?! I can't help but admire the amazing dental work on her seventh molar back there, and just look at those healthy tonsils!

As embarrassing as it may be, I have fallen a little in love with this picture because no joke, that absolutely sums up the way that I felt that night. I have never been so happy.

The cocktail hour was a wee bit crowded, but our guests made the best of it:

Even in the middle of December I managed to have a body temperature nightmare, so Craig and I went up to the roof to cool off in the rain:

Our cake and the ballroom carpet had a competition over which could be more insane and cause more grand mal seizures. And while I did not taste the floor, I'm going to have to give this one to the cake solely on the deliciousness factor:

I danced with my dad (to Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Pride and Joy") and with Craig (to Bob Marley's "Is This Love?") and to my knowledge, no one booed us. I spent an extraordinary amount of energy worrying about these dances. I am possibly the worst dance partner in the history of the universe - unless you grab me by my shoulders and plant me in a spot, I will inevitably try to lead. It drives Craig crazy. The dances were a bit awkward, but not as bad as I had expected:

On our pyramid of wedding priorities, music was solidly positioned at the very top, above even the food. We wanted our reception to be a rock and roll dance party that was not cheesy and kept our guests of varying ages out on the floor all night. We were incredibly lucky to find a band that helped us do just that - the Mike Dangeroux Band - Chicago natives who play classic rock, Motown, reggae, Caribbean, and jazz.

At one point our friend Jared, who had read during our ceremony, was dancing so ferociously that he split his pants. (His wife Meg reads this blog - I hope you don't mind that I put up this picture, Meg, but it was definitely one of my highlights of the night!) Naturally, we made sure not to tell him about the rip before we alerted the photographer so he could snap a picture.

There are so many things to love about that picture - Jared is wearing Christmas tree boxers, which was fun fact not only because they were seasonally appropriate but because they were religiously inappropriate, seeing that he is Jewish. Also, it looks like my sister and her husband (on the right) are ghosts who are crashing our wedding. And of course you have the guy on the floor taking a picture of someone's ass. It was that kind of event.

After the reception officially ended and the band packed up and went home, all of my friends and I sprawled on the floor of the ballroom, talking and laughing. The catering manager brought us the bottles of champagne and liquor that hadn't been used and we passed them around, drinking out out of them and catching up with all of the out-of-towners. Considering all of that champagne and liquor, it would have behooved us to turn in, but Craig and I were determined to keep our wedding night going as long as possible. Some friends went to a bar down the street so we joined them, running around the city (through the blizzard which had just arrived and would later cause all of our guests' flights out to be cancelled) in my gigantic dress. I tripped and scraped my arm on a brick wall and it later scarred, and boy do I love that scar. I ate two orders of jalapeno poppers and somehow lived to see the next day (wedding magic!).

Oh and hey, I made things! Two things! Out of the seven hundred crafty things I had originally planned on making, which all either dissolved into my tears or were crumpled up and set on fire in frustration months prior to the wedding.

This is our photo display. I printed out Polaroids of all of the people at the wedding because...well I don't know why. I guess I thought people would find endless amounts of amusement in admiring outdated, grainy pictures of themselves during the cocktail hour? Whatever, they were there.

And here was the seating chart-display-thing. After attempting and rejecting a million adorable escort card ideas I finally went with this simple table number route. (NO FAVORS *GASP*) We actually got a lot of compliments on this so I'd recommend the laziness to anyone.

And that, as they say, is that.

Merci, mes amis. Merci beaucoup.

2011-02-16T11:13:00.007-05:00

Seriously.

I am so very honored that you could all take a break from your regularly scheduled crying (because if I've learned anything it's that we're a bunch of weeping, sniveling emotional wrecks) to chime in and offer me your assistance.

And I'm going to take every single piece of advice - today! I'm going to walk outside in the sun to the mall to buy a whole new wardrobe (no pants!), lipstick, flowers, and the book "What If" and go home and read that and all my other favorite books while drinking tea. And then I will get in a quick tanning appointment before my salsa dancing class where I will make funny faces in the mirror. After which I will have a massage to work out those salsa dancing muscles and drink lots of water before I have a marathon sex session followed by a little midnight baking. And the exercise! People, I am going to exercise SO MUCH! It is clearly the hidden door to happiness and damn you must all be in great shape. I'm kind of afraid of you. You could probably beat me to a pulp.

In the meantime I bought you all a pony because I love you so. Isn't he fabulous?

All jokes aside, I loved reading all of your comments. That was one of those posts where 10 minutes after I wrote it I was already on my way to a happier place so then I felt crazy guilty about vomiting those feelings all over you. Oh my god they are going to think I'm such a loser and unhappy all the time and I'm really not, I'm only unhappy like 27% of the time and why oh why didn't I consult a calendar before I wrote that post? Of course I'm collapsing on every couch I pass in tears, there are hormones at work here! You dumbass. But the comments validated what I was feeling and allowed me to be okay with that feeling, address it and own it instead of sweeping it under the rug. Thank you.

One thing that I've been trying is something I used to to in high school and grad school when I would have panic attacks and make myself sick at night with worrying about all sorts of stupid shit: I allow myself one half-hour of worrying a day. I schedule it. Between 5 and 5:30 I'm going to sit there and worry my freaking ass off. I'm going to cry and be upset and shake and let my mind go to horrible places. BUT, after 5:30? No more being upset. I can do anything I want but it can't involve being sad. If I'm starting to panic during the day? I have to move on and tuck that feeling away until it's appointed time, it has to wait.

That might sounds like a really weird and counterproductive thing to do - make time for being upset? - but it works surprisingly well for the control freak in me. The sadness is going to be there anyway so I might as well give it a specific start and end time just like everything else in my life.

Alright, so enough of this crap. It's fifty freaking degrees outside and the weekend is almost here and Justin Bieber suddenly has an opinion on a woman's right to terminate her pregnancy. Clearly I'm needed elsewhere. Bisous, tout le monde!

"Dysphoria." Use it in a sentence today.

2011-02-15T12:47:00.009-05:00

this post has been removed.

Happy Birthday(s).

2011-02-14T08:51:00.004-05:00

Do you know how difficult it is to take a picture of three people and not have A SINGLE ONE look at your camera? That is what we call stealth, people.

Today is Valentine's day, which also happens to be Craig's birthday. Which also happens to be his two brothers' birthdays, which pretty much cancels out the Valentine's Day part. Which is really okay because I don't care for Valentine's day that much, except for the Reese's Peanut Butter hearts and their superior peanut butter to chocolate ratio, am I right Ashley?

But there was one commercial on the air this Valentine's season that I thought nearly made it into the non-nauseating ballpark - the one where the voice over said something like "Valentine's Day isn't about saying 'I love you,' it's about saying 'I love us.'" And I was thinking about that during the triplets' birthday party this Saturday night, and spent a few moments appreciating the non romantic, happy and comfortable love that I have for the collective us.

The unique situation of Craig and his brothers being so close has been an incredible gift in my life. Doni and Tom are such splendid people - sometimes I nearly convince myself that they are friends I chose on my own, as they are so compatible with the type of personalities that I enjoy, but then they exhibit traits crazily similar to Craig's and I get the added bonus of his humor and thoughtfulness x 3. Doni's fiance Sara and Tom's girlfriend Emily have become my closest girlfriends, and I treasure them as the most understanding confidantes (not to mention a built-in team of stylists and pop culture sounding boards). The six of us are a little family-within-a-family. Even the most mundane Saturday afternoons, the family reunions and baby showers and long drives here and there across the Midwest are entertaining when we are together. There are always running jokes and years' worth of favorite stories - or at the very least a delightfully unnecessary screaming match - to fill the void.

Happy 28th birthday to you guys, and thank you for accepting me into such a fun family.

And happy first Valentine's Day to my husband.

(And thanks to you readers for putting up with this sappy post. I just re-read it and kind of want to barf. Although that may be the 5-ish Reese's hearts I had for breakfast.)

Untitled. (Terrible, thats-really-a-strech pun intended.)

2011-02-11T10:26:00.007-05:00

Remember when I wrote this post about being all crazy about the whole name thing? Freaking out and being all self-righteous and alarmist and a general pain in the ass?

Why didn't you all just tell me to "shut the f*ck up already, it will be fine and life will go on and quit yer whining?" Oh wait, you did! (Nicely, of course. You all are nothing if not nice. It makes me want to pull your hair)

Anyway, we've been married for two months today, I have the same name that I did two-months-and-a-day ago, and guess what? It's fine! Life goes on! I will now climb gingerly off of my soapbox, pick it up, and walk away, giving you all a little embarrassed wave as I depart.

I'm guessing that my pre-married self thought that my post-married self would have all of this time to worry about what people were calling me. Little did I know that I would be way too busy worrying about other things, such as successfully getting my car out of the driveway without marooning it in a giant ice pile by the sidewalk, which I did on Tuesday. And let me tell you, if a friendly neighbor would have walked by and addressed me with "Hello Mrs. Craig Hisname, Obedient Wife and Servant to the Man of Your Household Who Rules All Things, might I assist you in freeing your vehicle?" I would have fallen upon them with kisses of gratitude and goodwill and then baked them cookies.

(Alas, this did not happen, and I had to call a co-worker to come and pick me up and it was humiliating)

Anyway. I'd say that 70% of all of our wedding gifts were addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Hisname," 29% were addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Craig Hisname," and one fabulous, incredible gift was addressed to "Mrs. and Mr. Kerry Myname." (Let me say that that card came from Claire, and that I may or may not sleep with it under my pillow every night, and that I will now address every wedding gift I ever send that way in tribute to its awesomeness.) I didn't even come close to having a stroke when I opened them. I didn't even care! And while that may have been because I was preoccupied with rolling around in the piles of cash and checks, publicly I'm sticking with the story where in my old married woman state I become calm and understanding of others.

Right after our wedding the majority of our God-fearing relatives celebrated the Christmas holiday (we did not because we look down upon spiritual idolatry of consumerism and maybe also because were were stuck in travel hell around that time) and we came home to millions of Christmas cards and this is where Craig's family WINS and my family LOSES. As in, Craig's mom put a beat-down on all of his family to make sure they respected my individuality and all of their cards were addressed to my accurate name, and my family was all, later, we disown you now, have fun with your new family! and addressed them to Kerry Hisname. Say wha? But again, it really didn't bother me, probably because this time I was too busy searching through the mail for late wedding cards filled with cash and checks to roll around in.

So, the moral of this story is that everyone can relax and stop spending restless nights unable to sleep over your concern regarding my self-esteem and identity issues connected to the patriarchal tradition of surnames. It's cool. And the other moral of this story is that if you are a bride-to-be and you are worrying over which name to take or not take, your time is much better spent cooking casseroles for your burliest neighbors. Because even if you are the most raging feminist in the world and would never consider adopting a name because it has a penis attached to it while yours doesn't, names with penises attached are nearly always better at pushing cars out of snowbanks.

On introverts and living a small life.

2011-02-09T08:55:00.014-05:00

via we heart it

I'm a quiet person. I grew up as a pseudo-only child (long story) in a quiet house, and have always been happiest working independently and have tiptoed around conflict, cringed at raised voices. I prefer small groups under 5 people, and I like hanging with people that I've known for a long time. I don't like to "start over" with new friends and I hate small talk. I like being home, and I like a clean, fresh, open schedule. I'm fascinated by reality TV because I know in my heart that if I were on any show I would happily sit on the couch with my book and a bag of Doritos, dodging the furniture being drunkenly thrown through the air around me, wondering don't these people realize that they could be taking the best nap right now?

Throughout my life I've realized there are many negatives associated with being an introvert. Because I am quiet sometimes people get the impression that I'm mean. Or snobby. Or boring, or lacking an opinion or self-esteem. In group activities I am often left out or left behind. I've been in relationships with people who think that I am being manipulative with my sensitivity, because I cry easily and quickly, and they feel guilty when it happens. I don't speak in public often, so when I do it takes a while for me to warm up - my first few sentences are always wobbly and rushed and make people uncomfortable.

So for years, I have been working on changing my homebody tendencies. I can't tell you how many mornings I've woken up and laid there in bed thinking today I will try harder. I will talk to my co-workers more, I will make conversation with a random passenger on the train. I will call that friend that I haven't talked to in a year and make a date for drinks. But so many days, I'm unable to make these things happen and I feel defeated. I feel kind of socially broken. Sometimes I make myself go out and do things that I don't really want to do, because I'm afraid of being whispered about as the boring (wife girlfriend friend) that is absent.

I think this is the way we are lead to judge people in a world that is ruled by extroverts. Google "introvert" and you will come up with a zillion entries on things like "how to go from being an introvert to an extrovert" and "how to learn to be more confident," "how to be a better public speaker." Clearly, being an introvert is something that you are supposed to overcome, not accept.

But is that even possible, to change something so fundamental about yourself? What if you are happy with yourself as a quiet person? And hey, doesn't it take all kinds to make this world go around, anyway?

Lately I've been working on reducing my obsession with change, with trying to make my life go in a certain direction. I want to be more content with where I'm already taking it. This isn't easy. On tough days when I am lonely or nervous that idea of "starting over" is really enticing. The concepts of "going outside my comfort zone" or "putting myself out there," sound like the right thing, but might that only be because those phrases have been pounded into my brain for years, by the big life people?

It's time for me to let go of some of my fears about having a small life, and here is what I want to work on:

Remembering my history truthfully. Sometimes we label ourselves or accept a label that's been put upon us, and then change our memories so that everything fits it. I'm an introvert, but there's also a lot in my past that doesn't jive with that characteristic. I need to remember all the things I've done that have been big and important - dating, traveling, interviewing for jobs, standing up for myself, going nuts at a party, even if it was only once - in order to have confidence that I am, in fact, pretty well-rounded.

Stop trying. There are so many nights when I get sucked into plans that I'm not interested in, and then get mad at myself for being stuck someplace I'd rather not be in the first place. There are nights that I stay home when others go out because I'm just not "into it," and then I'm so happy to lounge around, get things done and not have to fake it. I need to be content with acting on my feelings and stop repeatedly trying things I already know I don't care for.

But also, keep trying. Yeah, I know about a lot of things that make me happy or unhappy, but there's infinitely more activities that I don't know about at all. I can't write off things or people without giving them a fair shot. Life doesn't ever stop surprising you. Having a small life should never equal having a boring life. Even if I'm home I need to do something - write a short story, cook something difficult or new, read the paper. It's easy to become a couch potato when you have homebody tendencies, and I need to fight this urge.

Value my personality. Yeah, there's the negatives to being a quiet person, but there are also positives: I am not afraid to be alone. I am a great listener. I rarely say things that I regret. I am creative and wacky inside my mind. I'm a vivid daydreamer, which makes it easy to look forward to the next day because anything could happen. I am emotionally open to those close to me.

Stop being afraid. I often get scared that I won't have company when I'm older. Why do I worry about this, when I've never been that bothered by being alone? Or when I consider that even though I only have a few close friends, they are always there for me? I need to assume that I will make my life work out, because I always have. I'm afraid that I will float through life and not "be" something. I already "am" something, to a lot of people.

There's a great blog I just found, written by the author of a book on introverts that comes out next year, called Quiet. Its new but I've found it to be incredibly empowering. Susan has interesting, controversial thoughts on how quiet people fit into the world. One of the most important things I've taken away so far is this: if even a fraction of people hear you, that's still a lot of humans.

And I think that's the point behind this post. I've been happier than ever since last April when I started blogging and subsequently connecting with all of you "out here." I'm quiet but I'm also heard - it makes me feel involved in a way I never have before. Thanks for being my tiny, important fraction of humans.

Now tell me - blog readers, blog writers - are you extroverted or introverted? How does it make you feel? Do you ever worry about the "size" of your life?

Thanksgiving in February

2011-02-07T09:19:00.004-05:00

What are you grateful for right now?

I woke up in a fog of blah this morning. I'm tired. I have a pain when I swallow that can only mean disaster is ahead. I'm allowing the few sad things in my life to consume all of the emotional space in my brain. The color of the world outside is just so encompassingly grey - I feel like a grey monster. I can't think of a single interesting thing to write about.

However, I do believe in the power of positive thinking. One of the easiest ways to begin the climb out of a gloomy rut is to be grateful. For the little things, the tangible things that you can look at in your life and say "Wow. How lucky I am that that is there."

Hearing what other people are grateful for can also make us realize things in our life we've been overlooking and deserve a little more appreciation.

Right now I'm grateful for:

1) The show Planet Earth. Every time I catch an episode I am left completely in awe of something - our world, the animal code, evolution, the unfathomable dedication of its filmmakers, the list goes on.

2) The library. Someday I will give my love of the library its own post, but for now let me just say that the fact that public libraries exist make me feel like I'm dreaming. I'm sure that one day I'll wake up in a world where there's no such thing as a building in every city where they give you books for free. And hardcovers, none the less.

3) Bananas. They are a punchy color, they fill you up, and they are so cheap.

Sock it to me, people. What deserves some gratitude right now?

Fenwick.

2011-02-02T11:19:00.008-05:00

This past Saturday Craig and I left the house around 1PM to go run some errands. We stopped by the library to drop off books, and as we were pulling out its parking lot Craig slammed on the breaks and said "oh God, don't look." Which of course never works so I looked, and there in the middle of a 4-lane busy street was a dog, dodging cars as it ran from sidewalk to sidewalk. I immediately covered my eyes with my hands and started hyperventilating.

We sat there for a minute, watching. Cars were slowing down and weaving out of the dog's way but no one stopped to do anything. So I got out of the car, waited for there to be a break in traffic, and whistled for the dog. She ran right up to me, tail wagging, all dog-smiles. There was a collar around her neck attached to a rope that was frayed and broken at its end. No tags. She sat down next to me and looked up, grinning. I looked at Craig "Get her in the car," he sighed.

She jumped in the backseat and we started driving around. We stopped every person out on the street (which was hardly anyone, since it was severely cold and snowy) and asked them if they recognized the dog. No one did. She did her best to help us look:

Eventually I got out of the car with her and let her lead me by the rope, to see if she would pull me toward home, with Craig tailing us in the car. No luck, she just wanted to frolic in the snow.

We called the APL of Cleveland -there was no one we could talk to on a Saturday, and they were closing before we would be able to get there. We called our vet - closed. The emergency vet could only recommend calling the police. We went to the police station in our city and I talked to one of the officers. "We can take her," he said, "But she will go right to the Cleveland pound." Cue tears. We got back in the car and drove around some more. She was starting to get antsy. "Sit" I said. "Lie down." She obeyed, looking at me expectantly (maybe for a treat?). She sighed, and licked my face.

We thought about taking her to our house, but we had no way of being sure she had her shots, and maybe she wouldn't get along with Tabitha.

We went to the police station one town over. This time Craig went inside to talk to them - she sat in his seat and cried for him at the window, and then curled up in a ball, eyeing me. Practically begging "please don't leave me here. I have a home and it's not here."

Craig came back out. This police station would hold her for 72 hours before sending her to the pound. It was getting late. I let him take her rope, he lead her into the station. I sat in the car, sobbing.

We had plans that night, a fancy birthday dinner for me. Craig gave me a beautiful gift. We got drunk and ate a great meal. Sometimes we laughed. A few times I thought of the dog in the police kennel and had to wipe away tears. We talked it over seriously. We wanted a second dog - not at the moment, but eventually. This dog was sweet, and female, and trained. The right size. I named her Fenwick, for the street on which we found her. Craig said it was the perfect name.

The next morning I called the police station. "Her owners came last night and picked her up," the officer told me.

I cried the hardest yet, I was so thankful. We would have probably added her to our family if no one claimed her, but that wouldn't have been right. It wasn't the right time for us, and she already had a family - a stupid, idiotic family who didn't tag her, but a family all the same. I hope she gets lots of treats this week, and maybe gets to sleep under the covers. It's cold out.

Notes on getting older.

2011-01-31T09:00:00.000-05:00

Today is my birthday - I think I'm now officially in my late twenties.

Everyone tells me I look younger than I am. Personally, I don't see it - what do you guys think?:

Tangentially, I'm almost certain that is the coolest outfit I've ever worn in my life. I peaked too early. Sigh.

Craig and I are celebrating our birthdays (his is around the corner on Valentine's Day) by going back to our Alma Mater this coming weekend. Nothing like hanging around with a bunch of 18-year olds to make you feel old and rusty and perpetually tired. Hey, at least we will feel comparatively rich! If anyone asks me what year I graduated I will throw a wad of twenties in their face and ask them how their job search is going (That was mean. But funny, so f*ck it).

Does anyone else out there sometimes forget how old they are? I do, alarmingly often. This started happening after I turned 25. People will ask me how old I am and for a second I blank out and have no idea. I think part of this has to do with the fact that Craig is one year older than me, so sometimes I mix us up (yes I do realize just how pathetic that sounds) and also because the numbers 26 through 29 are just so boring. What difference does it make, anyway?

But really, people do often tell me that I "am" young. This happens all the time at work, and it never fails to irritate me. I sit down in a family meeting with people who come for advice on how to take care of their loved one with dementia, and the first thing they say is "oh wow, you are really young!" It immediately makes me defensive, and instead of trying to make a connection with these families I spend the first 20 minutes trying to justify my knowledge and position. It's exhausting and inefficient for everyone. I do realize that being viewed as young does not carry the same negative stigma as various other labels, but I'm constantly shocked that people find it so easy to remark on someone's age in a professional setting.

And this has been happening for years now. When I first started working at age 22 people remarked on my age. When I moved to Ohio at age 25 and started at a new job they remarked on my age. Now I'm 27 and people still comment on it. When do you reach an "acceptable" age to be a professional in a counseling field?

Have a happy Monday, everyone!

P.S. Hey, are you desperately thinking of the perfect birthday gift pour moi? I really like comments and emails, especially from people who read the blog but haven't told me yet. I won't bite, swear!

Wedding Recap 2: You...can make it last... forever...

2011-01-27T09:09:00.011-05:00

Last year I spent a considerable amount time worrying over our ceremony.

I worried over the ballroom in which it was taking place - would it look like a prison cell? Would the carpet give people seizures? Would the light be awful in there since it would be dark outside by 5PM?

I worried over the thing we were supposed to stand on - what to call it? How to decorate it? How long is too long to stand in 4" heels and a 30 lb dress?

And I worried over the content, oh did I obsess about the content. I fixated on the wording and pace, I scoured the Internet to find readings that actually made us feel something, I imagined myself walking down the aisle thousands of times to different songs, judging their goosebump factor. I tried to imagine every wedding I've been to and what parts made me impatient for a shot of tequila, what sexist language and gender stereotypes made me squirm in my seat, what simple and heartfelt words made me actually become part of the couple's love. And then I tried to mash up my favorite things into thirty minutes that would completely change my and Craig's life status forever.

my niece abby, loving life. one of my favorite wedding pictures ever!

I already mentioned that I loved seeing Craig and all the guys before the wedding. While guests entered the ballroom all of us -the wedding party, parents, bride and groom - sat in a room one floor above it, shooting the shit and laughing, trying to avoid having the photographer catch us making ugly makeup-application faces or succumbing to the occasional yawn.

The wedding planner came to round us up when they closed the doors, and we all clomped and swished down the stairs to the reception area. I gave Craig a kiss and a hug and then he walked down the aisle alone, to our musicians - a classical guitarist and cellist - playing John Lennon's "Imagine." The rest of the wedding party entered to Jon Hiatt's "Have a Little Faith in Me."

this is my maid of honor beth, quite possibly the most beautiful woman on the planet.

There was a little break between the wedding party and when my dad and I entered, and I must have been looking a deathly pale (opposed to my normal shade of near-deathly pale) because the bartender rushed over to me with a glass of water and said "drink this." "I can't drink that!" I hiss-screamed. "I'll have to pee." "But no, really you need it," he insisted. "No you don't understand, I have to pee more than the average person, ask anyone in that room next door," I countered. We continued to argue about this until my dad was finally like "Um, I hate to sound like a jerk, but I believe our presence is requested elsewhere."

I walked in to "Thirty-Three" by the Smashing Pumpkins.* Everything was a blur. The happiest, safest, sweetest blur you could imagine.

We found our officiant online (through Yelp, obvs) and lucked out big-time. He did everything I thought a good officiant should do: provided structure, told us where to stand, let me do everything I wanted, and never once used the word "submit" (a few years ago we witnessed a horror story of a wedding homily gone positively medieval). He opened with some comments about "why marriage?" that were particularly appropriate for a cohabitating, secular couple, and explained our ring-warming ceremony to the congregation.

My 12-year old niece Maddie read an excerpt from "I Like You," by Sandol Stoddard Warburg, which had a large number of people in tears - most notably me. I kept wiping my runny nose throughout, and then would think "Yeah Kerry, that's going to look awesome in the pictures. How pedestrian." Then at the end, during the lines:

"On the 4th of July I like you because it's the 4th of July, On the 5th of July I like you too. Even if it was the 999th of July, even if it was August, even if it was way down at the bottom of November, even if it was no place in particular in January,I would go on choosing you, and you would go on choosing me. Because I like you,"

I made one of those gasping, breath-catching sobs that sounds like you are about to choke on your own mucus. It was very elegant.

We did a candle-lighting remembrance for all of our deceased grandparents that nearly burned the hotel down, since there are eight dear grannies and gramps that are no longer with us (hey, blended families!) and then our lovely friend Jared read "Union," by Robert Fulghum. Then came the short vows which we wrote ourselves-

I (me) take you (you)
to be my lifelong companion.
Through tears and laughter,
In sickness and in health
During work and play
I will love you faithfully and happily
Today and for the rest of our days -

and the rings, and then the kiss. I was very nervous about the kiss. Our "rehearsal" kiss was so bad that it actually drew jeers from the crowd, and there may have even been tomatoes thrown at me. I'm just not a public kisser, I tend to pull away. Craig nailed it though, and gripped my head with a vice-like hold so that I couldn't go anywhere, and I retaliated by getting highly pigmented lipstick all over his face.

My very favorite part was the end of the ceremony, when the officiant closed with a quote from Brian Andreas' "Traveling Light." I'm not sure if people in the congregation were into it, or even heard it - their minds may have already been working on what they were going to drink next and I wouldn't blame them - but I picked this quote to close the ceremony because Craig and I are the product of a successful long-distance relationship, many times over. Four weeks (!) after we started dating I moved to France for 5 months - we made it through. The next year I was still in college and he was 5 hours away working at his first job - we made it through. The next 3 years I lived in Chicago and he lived in Cleveland - we made it through. Nearly 5 years of being separated by a plane ride and we never second-guessed it, we worked so hard to get to this point.

"You may not remember the time you let me go first,
Or the time you dropped back to tell me it wasn't that far to go,
Or the time you waited at the crossroads for me to catch up.
You may not remember any of those but I do, and this is what I have to say to you:
Today, no matter what it takes, we go home together."

It. Was. Awesome.

*The title of this post is a nod to the Pumkins' song.

All photos courtesy of Kuehl Studios.

Sleep on it! Or, lay awake on it and whatever you do, don't think of lice.

2011-01-25T09:23:00.014-05:00

Last night on the way to run some errands Craig and I were sitting in the car, quiet, kind of unconsciously glum. To lighten the mood, I turned to him and asked brightly, "Remember that time we went shopping for a new mattress?" And with that, we both enjoyed gales and gales of laughter all the way to the Verizon House of Expensive Wares and Confusion and Screaming Children.

Have you ever gone shopping for a mattress? It is one completely legal act that is guaranteed to leave you feeling clinically insane.

First of all, I don't really know how I got to be 26 years old and never shopped for a mattress before in my life. Not only that - I didn't know anyone else in my close circle of friends who had either (yes, I asked around). Where do the mattresses in our lives come from? Are they all handed down like great grandmother Alice's cocktail rings, packed in large safe deposit boxes at the bank for future use? Is there a large, sweaty, bulky-armed Mattress Fairy that visits a home every time a child is born, driving by the house in a pick-up truck, heaving wobbly foam rectangles onto driveways?

But I digress. A few years ago Craig and I moved in together and bought the most gorgeous new queen size platform bed. We entered into this new bed-phase of our lives lugging our respective mattresses - his an unacceptable full size (no offense to two-person full size users out there, but we're kind of violent sleepers and elbows and chipped toenails can often make contact with defenseless eye sockets and delicate ankle skin), mine a queen size with the softness quotient akin to a metal bus station bench. I prefer a firm sleeping surface - whenever we are on the road with friends crammed into hotel rooms, I'm the person gleefully jumping up and pushing loved ones out of my way to get the not-at-all-coveted floor spot. Craig, on the other hand, is an ancient old man who, after having slept a night in my apartment, would spend the first 8 hours of the day griping about aches and pains and shaking his cane at impertinent schoolchildren.

So, we planned a day of mattress shopping. Strangely, all of the mattress stores in our city are crammed into two blocks of strip malls near the highway - there's 4 or 5 of them all in a row with antiquated, primary-colored signs announcing "Mattress Heaven, " and "Heavenly Mattress," and "Mattress Madness," and all kinds of depressingly earnest slogans. We started at one, "Mattress Mania," perhaps, and quickly realized what a f*cked up day we were about to have.

Testing mattresses is just weird. There is no other way to look at it - lying down fully clothed on a bed with your coat and hat on, change spilling out of your boyfriends pockets and feeling terribly guilty about your slushy shoes while some stranger stands over you, watching and judging your facial expressions is weird. Even weirder is when the eager, commission-based employee (usually an overweight middle-aged man with a very questionable tie and a high-pitched titter-y laugh and skittery eyeballs) asks you what you "want" in a mattress. We stood there, glancing at each other in apprehension, thinking does this guy really need details? There's only two things you do on a mattress and let's face it, the more important one likely happens while you're conscious. Does he really want us to say we're in the market for a comfortable, durable place to screw?

Then, as we lay down on bed after bed, the salesman would remind us to "move around a bit, see how it feels when you're active. Lay how you would if you were actually about to try and fall asleep, be realistic." Really? That's just not practical, because for that we would need a few cocktails, a 45 lb dog stretching out prone diagonally across us, Stephen Colbert, and a gigantic pile of clothes to throw on the floor before climbing into the thing. And must we really practice all of the tapping on the shoulder of our partner and the responses of "Ugh...not tonight, I'm exhausted and the Buckeyes game is in overtime" and "Don't you dare touch me, it's like 6:30 AM you've got to be out of your mind."*

Plus, you have the added icky-ness of laying on something that other...questionable...people have been laying on. At the entrance of each store I would do a quick glance-around and occasionally declare: "No way. There's a chick over there wearing a halter-back tank top and shorts and a guy with a mullet and a NASCAR bandana. Next store." There is only so much of strangers' sloughed-off skin and hair grease in which I can accept coating my body during the near future before I put my foot down. Dejected, we trudged from store to store, learning more about coils and memory foam and backing-per-inch that I ever wanted to know, glazing over and nodding complacently, accepting grand-opening balloons and enough business cards to wallpaper our living room.

We didn't buy a mattress that day, but we did come away with some memories that consistently coax out a smirk on the bluest of days. Along with some dermatological unpleasantness necessitating treatment by topical ointments and new gratitude for the Mattress Fairy.

*We're married now so I felt compelled to put that joke in there. Sorry. We still have lots of great sex that sometimes we don't even have to bribe each other into. Feel better now, close friends and family, that I made that clarification? What's that, now you feel uncomfortable? Prudes.

After much scientific observation I have conluded that it is decidedly NOT tropical outdoors at this point in time.

2011-01-24T10:35:00.014-05:00

And my brain doesn't operate in this kind of weather, it is too busy desperately trying to direct blood flow to my pinky toes (they have been tingly for a week now!)

So here, enjoy this Tabitha photoshoot from last weekend at my mom's house featuring my Maggie, my mom's Gordon Setter.

play. play. play with me now. now. play. play now. PLAYYYYY or else...

i will attack you! hi-YA!

this piece of ice is SO AWESOME i bet you wish you had it, you old lady!

no, i am NOT ready to go inside, mom. stop ruining all my fun! god!

Cheers!

2011-01-22T19:51:00.004-05:00

Q: What's even better than a stock-the-bar party?

A: A clean-the-bar-because-we're-repainting-the-room party.

"Okay here's a really old bottle of tequila from when we made margaritas last summer. It's kind of sticky and there's only a couple shots left."

"Cool let's just drink them and we can throw out the bottle."

"And this fifth of whiskey only has about a half-inch left in it."

"Here, fill me up I needed a refresher anyway."

"Wow, there's a really dusty bottle of espresso vodka back here that I didn't even know we had! Almost gone though."

"Hand it over."

Worth it.

2011-01-21T09:26:00.005-05:00

via we heart it

Last night while I was cooking dinner I decided I needed some flowers. Right then - it simply could not wait. I shouted to a puzzled Craig to pull my remedial chicken Parmesan out of the oven when the timer sounded, put on my coat, and drove to Whole Foods in the middle of a blizzard. I bought irises and tulips. I separated them into bud vases and juice glasses all over the house and enjoyed the best night's sleep I've had in weeks.*

Do you ever feel a need for some "instant happyfication?"

*I sneakily omitted the part of the night when Tabitha grabbed an iris stalk, ran with it into the living room and used it to knock over an (open?) litre of Smartwater into an (open?) drawer in our coffee table holding all of our electronics, causing Craig to spout several less-than-gentlemanly exclamations into the ear of the customer service representative who was on the other end of his phone call. Joy and calm, quiet and light - that is our home!