A little over a month ago I came home from work to find this in my e-mail inbox:
Bonjour,
Just wanted to let you know that my friend Stephanie and I think you are HILARIOUS. We've decided to spend the rest of our work day reading your blog instead of being productive.
Thanks for being funny.
Taylor K
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Taylor took the time to write me the above note to tell me how much she liked my blog and frankly, it made my whole day. I love when the blogosphere sends me new friends because I believe you can never have too many.
This month, Taylor has been featuring posts from guest bloggers called "I Believe." I was honored that Taylor asked me to participate. You can read my list of things I believe in and discover Taylor's awesome blog at Totally Tay.
Thanks for letting me play Taylor! You are awesome :)
Tracey
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
This is what happens when the Hawkeyes play before noon
Dave and the offspring and I have been watching a lot of Hawkeye football this season. We especially like when the Hawkeyes are playing at night because we can get together with friends and neighbors and have a few drinks while we enjoy the game.
On Halloween, the Hawkeyes played at 11:05 AM. We invited a few neighbors over to watch with us and thought we'd make a day of it. We had already been trick or treating the night before because, here in Des Moines, we call it Beggar's night and we go out on the 30th. I have no idea why and I didn't make up the rule. But I'm glad we had already gone trick or treating because it left us an entire day to watch football and hang out. It was beautiful here on Halloween, sunny and unseasonably warm which meant the offspring and the neighbor kids could play outside while we watched the game. Following is a semi-detailed account of how much fun we had.
8:00 : Offspring wake up and start stuffing their faces with Halloween candy. I take away the candy and serve them an appropriate breakfast because I am a good mother.
10:30: Go to grocery store for last minute items before neighbors arrive. Mention offhand to Dave that I probably wouldn't drink during the game because it was so early and alcohol didn't sound appealing. Plus, I really wanted to go to the library after the game and maybe run a few errands. But, when I am in the liquor aisle buying beer for the guys, I am mesmerized by all the champagne with sparkly, pretty labels. Maybe one mimosa would be kind of fun and maybe my neighbors will want one too. Can't decide which champagne to buy so I purchase three different kinds with the rationale that I can always save them for another time if no one wants a mimosa.
11:05: Neighbors arrive and Iowa game starts.
11:10: Finish setting out hot wings and vegetables. Remind offspring to eat their veggies. Commend them for choosing broccoli. Am totally a good mother. Encourage them to go outside and play because fresh air and sunshine is good for children.
11:15: Ask Brooke if she wants champagne. She definitely does.
11:20: Cannot believe I forgot how much Mimosas kick ass!
12:20: First bottle of champagne gone. How did that happen? Ask Brooke if I should open another bottle. She says yes. Go outside and point exploding cork toward Yeti and Smokey's house. Laugh maniacally.
1:00: Tipsy.
1:40: Make sandwiches for kids. Use Halloween cookie cutters to make bats and ghosts. Am like perfect Martha Stewart type mother except totally buzzed.
1:45: Dave and the offspring and I morph into completely obnoxious Hawkeye fans. Convinced that our cheering may influence outcome of game. And that players and coaches in Iowa City can hear us.
2:00 Take small break and re-locate to Brooke and Spence's house next door so they can put their kids down for a nap.
3:00 Cork number three? See ya!
4:00 All football games are over. Brooke breaks out her ipod. Appoint myself DJ and look for songs to play that are not sung by 80's hair bands or Lady Gaga. Play all three repeatedly and refuse to let anyone else control ipod.
5:00 Serve everyone crescent roll wrapped little smokies. Decide that they are awesome and wonder why I don't make them all the time.
6:00 Lauren asks if we can make a cake tomorrow. "Of course we can!" I respond.
7:00 Start flirting with Dave. Point to him and mouth the word "You", point to myself and mouth the word "Me" and then make several additional gestures in case he doesn't know what I mean. He totally does. And so does everyone else.
7:15 Tell Dave he can stay for a while longer and that I'll take the offspring home. Read books to Lauren which shouldn't be as difficult as it is considering they are written for the first grade reading level. She accuses me of skipping pages. Finally get her in bed. Matthew asks if he can eat Halloween candy. I tell him yes but advise him that eating a bunch of candy, drinking a big glass of water, and then puking will not be appreciated at all. Lauren comes back out of her bedroom because if Matthew is still up, she's not going to bed either. Lauren sees Matthew eating candy, grabs her trick or treat basket and joins him. Finally wrestle candy away from them and tell them to go to bed. They tell me they aren't tired now. Tell them I will give all their Halloween candy to less fortunate kids if they don't go to bed immediately. Watch them fly up the stairs and go into their rooms.
9:00 Climb into bed to watch TV.
9:01 ZZZZZZZZZZZ..........
11:00 Dave crawls into bed and whispers, "Tracey, I'm home." "Leave me alone," I mumble (followed, according to Dave, by something that sounds like "don't touch me!" but probably was just sleepy gibberish).
11:01 Halloween comes to a close in our household.
The next day, while baking a cake with Lauren, I reflected back on the previous day's activities and thought about what a fun time we had had. I also realized that there are windows of opportunity in our home. Lauren is good at identifying when the windows are open and I'm grateful that she only asked for a cake and not, say, a pony because I do try hard to keep my promises. And even though Matthew ate a ton of Halloween candy, he didn't throw up so I guess everything worked out okay there. Usually Matthew is pretty good at utilizing windows of opportunity to his advantage.
Despite our 17 years together, Dave is still learning.
On Halloween, the Hawkeyes played at 11:05 AM. We invited a few neighbors over to watch with us and thought we'd make a day of it. We had already been trick or treating the night before because, here in Des Moines, we call it Beggar's night and we go out on the 30th. I have no idea why and I didn't make up the rule. But I'm glad we had already gone trick or treating because it left us an entire day to watch football and hang out. It was beautiful here on Halloween, sunny and unseasonably warm which meant the offspring and the neighbor kids could play outside while we watched the game. Following is a semi-detailed account of how much fun we had.
8:00 : Offspring wake up and start stuffing their faces with Halloween candy. I take away the candy and serve them an appropriate breakfast because I am a good mother.
10:30: Go to grocery store for last minute items before neighbors arrive. Mention offhand to Dave that I probably wouldn't drink during the game because it was so early and alcohol didn't sound appealing. Plus, I really wanted to go to the library after the game and maybe run a few errands. But, when I am in the liquor aisle buying beer for the guys, I am mesmerized by all the champagne with sparkly, pretty labels. Maybe one mimosa would be kind of fun and maybe my neighbors will want one too. Can't decide which champagne to buy so I purchase three different kinds with the rationale that I can always save them for another time if no one wants a mimosa.
11:05: Neighbors arrive and Iowa game starts.
11:10: Finish setting out hot wings and vegetables. Remind offspring to eat their veggies. Commend them for choosing broccoli. Am totally a good mother. Encourage them to go outside and play because fresh air and sunshine is good for children.
11:15: Ask Brooke if she wants champagne. She definitely does.
11:20: Cannot believe I forgot how much Mimosas kick ass!
12:20: First bottle of champagne gone. How did that happen? Ask Brooke if I should open another bottle. She says yes. Go outside and point exploding cork toward Yeti and Smokey's house. Laugh maniacally.
1:00: Tipsy.
1:40: Make sandwiches for kids. Use Halloween cookie cutters to make bats and ghosts. Am like perfect Martha Stewart type mother except totally buzzed.
1:45: Dave and the offspring and I morph into completely obnoxious Hawkeye fans. Convinced that our cheering may influence outcome of game. And that players and coaches in Iowa City can hear us.
2:00 Take small break and re-locate to Brooke and Spence's house next door so they can put their kids down for a nap.
3:00 Cork number three? See ya!
4:00 All football games are over. Brooke breaks out her ipod. Appoint myself DJ and look for songs to play that are not sung by 80's hair bands or Lady Gaga. Play all three repeatedly and refuse to let anyone else control ipod.
5:00 Serve everyone crescent roll wrapped little smokies. Decide that they are awesome and wonder why I don't make them all the time.
6:00 Lauren asks if we can make a cake tomorrow. "Of course we can!" I respond.
7:00 Start flirting with Dave. Point to him and mouth the word "You", point to myself and mouth the word "Me" and then make several additional gestures in case he doesn't know what I mean. He totally does. And so does everyone else.
7:15 Tell Dave he can stay for a while longer and that I'll take the offspring home. Read books to Lauren which shouldn't be as difficult as it is considering they are written for the first grade reading level. She accuses me of skipping pages. Finally get her in bed. Matthew asks if he can eat Halloween candy. I tell him yes but advise him that eating a bunch of candy, drinking a big glass of water, and then puking will not be appreciated at all. Lauren comes back out of her bedroom because if Matthew is still up, she's not going to bed either. Lauren sees Matthew eating candy, grabs her trick or treat basket and joins him. Finally wrestle candy away from them and tell them to go to bed. They tell me they aren't tired now. Tell them I will give all their Halloween candy to less fortunate kids if they don't go to bed immediately. Watch them fly up the stairs and go into their rooms.
9:00 Climb into bed to watch TV.
9:01 ZZZZZZZZZZZ..........
11:00 Dave crawls into bed and whispers, "Tracey, I'm home." "Leave me alone," I mumble (followed, according to Dave, by something that sounds like "don't touch me!" but probably was just sleepy gibberish).
11:01 Halloween comes to a close in our household.
The next day, while baking a cake with Lauren, I reflected back on the previous day's activities and thought about what a fun time we had had. I also realized that there are windows of opportunity in our home. Lauren is good at identifying when the windows are open and I'm grateful that she only asked for a cake and not, say, a pony because I do try hard to keep my promises. And even though Matthew ate a ton of Halloween candy, he didn't throw up so I guess everything worked out okay there. Usually Matthew is pretty good at utilizing windows of opportunity to his advantage.
Despite our 17 years together, Dave is still learning.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Google Apps Can Suck It! (Not Jolly Though)
You may have noticed that funny in the 'hood was missing for awhile. If you typed in www.traceygarvisgraves.com, you saw this chick. I have no idea who she is.
What I found even more troubling was the completely random collection of words to the left of the photo of the chick I don't know. It appears to be a list of topics about baby names but then about halfway down it says IRA and I don't know if they mean the Irish Republican Army or the money in my retirement fund, neither of which has anything to do with naming babies.
What you didn't see when clicking on www.traceygarvisgraves.com was a picture of me FAH-REAK-ING out because my domain name had just expired and I couldn't get it back.
To be fair, some of this mess was my fault. My billing info was incorrect because my bank is all willy-nilly with my account info and keeps sending me letters that say ambiguous things like "your account information MAY have been compromised so we're sending you this new debit card just in case." This means that every time I want to buy something online where I have a customer account (which Dave says is everywhere) I have to edit the card number. But I can't edit it if I'm not given the opportunity to purchase something and that's why this current snafu is mostly the fault of Google Apps and it's because of them that I got all screamy and psychotic. Also, their customer service department is make-believe because every e-mail I sent them asking for help fell into a big black hole in cyberspace, never to be seen again.
I switched my blog from a blogspot domain to a custom one last November, shortly after I started blogging. I'm not sure why I did this because all it did was make me super googleable to prospective employers and my dad and step-mom (who I hope still don't know about this blog because I use the f-word a lot and even though it's not the case, my posts make it seem like I'm drunk all the time).
It costs $10 a year to host a blog on a custom domain name and I knew I was coming up on my renewal. Because we recently changed our e-mail address, I updated my Google Apps account accordingly and waited to receive the renewal link e-mail which would allow me to continue to host this blog on my custom domain address for another year. For some reason, the link was not sent to me and that's when the trouble started. And it turns out that it's almost impossible to get the link once your domain has expired.
I contacted enom.com, the third party that Google Apps partnered with for the original domain name registration. Unfortunately, they only handle the initial registration so they referred me to Google Apps for the renewal. And they were very nice and answered their phone when I called. They also sent me an e-mail so obviously their services are not make-believe and their employees actually exist.
Next, I tried to contact the Google Apps support team. It's like they were hiding from me because I had to spend 15 minutes on my Google account page just trying to find their phone number (which doesn't exist by the way). I finally found an icon I could click on to send them an e-mail so I typed the whole saga out and waited for help. I got an e-mail almost immediately. Apparently, if you e-mail their support team, you will get an e-mail from them with a bunch of help topic links, none of which will help you because they all pertain to domain renewals that haven't expired. Every time I sent Google Apps another e-mail, I got the same computer generated help topic links e-mail. It was at this point that I considered flying out to California, marching into Google Apps headquarters, and kicking everyone's ass.
After I realized no one at Google Apps was going to help me, I decided to switch back to hosting this blog at the blogspot address. I figured maybe I could switch and then just register for my domain name again in a few days. But when I clicked on the "host on a domain name" tab, this is what I saw.
Okay, I get it. Since my name is Tracey Garvis-Graves, and a "grave" is something you bury people in, Google was just being "helpful" when they suggested alternative domain names for me (FYI - www.traceygarvisDEATH.com is still available if anyone wants to snap that one up).
Anyway, I was starting to think my blog would just have to stay at its blogspot address and there wouldn't really be any way to let people know it had moved from my custom domain. But then some dude named Jolly, from Google Apps customer service department, sent me an e-mail so I should probably admit that they aren't really make believe, just incredibly slow at responding to their customers.
Jolly sent me the link to renew my domain name and then helped me transfer my blog back. But since Jolly livesin India in another time zone, he was sleeping while I was awake and vice versa which meant that I had to wait 24 hours between our e-mails which also meant that it took over a week to get my blog up and running again. And I don't know what happened but I lost every single comment anyone has ever left me and that really bums me out because some of your comments were so funny I had actually planned to make a blog post out of them and now I can't.
I thanked Jolly a million times for his help and thought about telling him I loved him but that would have been weird, right? At least I have his e-mail address saved so I feel like my link to Google Apps support is slightly less tenuous and you can bet Jolly will be hearing from me if I ever have another technical clusterfuck of this magnitude.
Now that I'm done spending all my free time getting my blog back, I can start writing and posting again. And that means that I'm pretty jolly too.
Happy Holidays everyone, I've missed you!
Tracey
What I found even more troubling was the completely random collection of words to the left of the photo of the chick I don't know. It appears to be a list of topics about baby names but then about halfway down it says IRA and I don't know if they mean the Irish Republican Army or the money in my retirement fund, neither of which has anything to do with naming babies.
What you didn't see when clicking on www.traceygarvisgraves.com was a picture of me FAH-REAK-ING out because my domain name had just expired and I couldn't get it back.
To be fair, some of this mess was my fault. My billing info was incorrect because my bank is all willy-nilly with my account info and keeps sending me letters that say ambiguous things like "your account information MAY have been compromised so we're sending you this new debit card just in case." This means that every time I want to buy something online where I have a customer account (which Dave says is everywhere) I have to edit the card number. But I can't edit it if I'm not given the opportunity to purchase something and that's why this current snafu is mostly the fault of Google Apps and it's because of them that I got all screamy and psychotic. Also, their customer service department is make-believe because every e-mail I sent them asking for help fell into a big black hole in cyberspace, never to be seen again.
I switched my blog from a blogspot domain to a custom one last November, shortly after I started blogging. I'm not sure why I did this because all it did was make me super googleable to prospective employers and my dad and step-mom (who I hope still don't know about this blog because I use the f-word a lot and even though it's not the case, my posts make it seem like I'm drunk all the time).
It costs $10 a year to host a blog on a custom domain name and I knew I was coming up on my renewal. Because we recently changed our e-mail address, I updated my Google Apps account accordingly and waited to receive the renewal link e-mail which would allow me to continue to host this blog on my custom domain address for another year. For some reason, the link was not sent to me and that's when the trouble started. And it turns out that it's almost impossible to get the link once your domain has expired.
I contacted enom.com, the third party that Google Apps partnered with for the original domain name registration. Unfortunately, they only handle the initial registration so they referred me to Google Apps for the renewal. And they were very nice and answered their phone when I called. They also sent me an e-mail so obviously their services are not make-believe and their employees actually exist.
Next, I tried to contact the Google Apps support team. It's like they were hiding from me because I had to spend 15 minutes on my Google account page just trying to find their phone number (which doesn't exist by the way). I finally found an icon I could click on to send them an e-mail so I typed the whole saga out and waited for help. I got an e-mail almost immediately. Apparently, if you e-mail their support team, you will get an e-mail from them with a bunch of help topic links, none of which will help you because they all pertain to domain renewals that haven't expired. Every time I sent Google Apps another e-mail, I got the same computer generated help topic links e-mail. It was at this point that I considered flying out to California, marching into Google Apps headquarters, and kicking everyone's ass.
After I realized no one at Google Apps was going to help me, I decided to switch back to hosting this blog at the blogspot address. I figured maybe I could switch and then just register for my domain name again in a few days. But when I clicked on the "host on a domain name" tab, this is what I saw.
Okay, I get it. Since my name is Tracey Garvis-Graves, and a "grave" is something you bury people in, Google was just being "helpful" when they suggested alternative domain names for me (FYI - www.traceygarvisDEATH.com is still available if anyone wants to snap that one up).
Anyway, I was starting to think my blog would just have to stay at its blogspot address and there wouldn't really be any way to let people know it had moved from my custom domain. But then some dude named Jolly, from Google Apps customer service department, sent me an e-mail so I should probably admit that they aren't really make believe, just incredibly slow at responding to their customers.
Jolly sent me the link to renew my domain name and then helped me transfer my blog back. But since Jolly lives
I thanked Jolly a million times for his help and thought about telling him I loved him but that would have been weird, right? At least I have his e-mail address saved so I feel like my link to Google Apps support is slightly less tenuous and you can bet Jolly will be hearing from me if I ever have another technical clusterfuck of this magnitude.
Now that I'm done spending all my free time getting my blog back, I can start writing and posting again. And that means that I'm pretty jolly too.
Happy Holidays everyone, I've missed you!
Tracey
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Are You There Santa? It's Me Again
Dear Santa,
I hope there are no hard feelings about all the mean things I said about you after you did not bring me anything I asked you for last year. It's not my fault because I think I have Tourette's syndrome and f-bombs and rude comments fly out of my mouth uncontrollably sometimes.
So, sorry.
But anyway, if you're not still pissed at me, I have a few more things on my list this year.
I deserve lots of presents because I have been sorta good. I did get in one fight with a lady that works at my dry cleaners but she started it. Because I am so conscious of saving our planet I gathered up 573 wire hangers because there's a sign on the door of my dry cleaners urging its customers to bring them back so they can recycle them. I was about to throw them all in my garbage can but remembered the sign and brought the hangers to my dry cleaners instead because I am all green that way. The lady at my dry cleaners, who actually looks like a man, was all "Well those hangers are just a big mess" and I was all "Do you want them or not" and she was all "Well I guess I have to take them" and I'm thinking that my environmentally friendly efforts are not at all appreciated and eventually me and man/woman are probably gonna scrap. But I don't care because they aren't a restaurant and no matter how much they don't like me, they can't spit in my food so I win.
Oh, and Santa? I have a job now so that should entitle me to way more gifts. And not just a job Santa. I'm assisting teachers at a junior high which means I am helping 8th and 9th graders learn important things. Mostly it's relationship advice about how to land a decent boyfriend but that's a subject that should have been taught when I was in 8th grade because then I might not have dated so many douchebags before I met Dave.
I'm not sure if you're aware of this Santa but my twenty-five year high school reunion is this summer and I am going to need a lot of help in order to look my best. First of all, I'd like better boobs. I want them to defy gravity and I want to be able to skip wearing a bra if I feel like it. This is a gift you will need to outsource because I don't want any of your creepy elves thinking that they will get to see me without a shirt on. However, if that one elf Hermie is still interested in dentistry, he can assist with some teeth whitening and/or porcelain veneers because that's on the list too. I alsoneed want a nutritionist, a personal trainer, and someone whose only responsibility is to pry the wine glass/donut out of my hand and then yell at me.
Then I want to have all the skin on my face lasered off because I understand that once all the bleeding and peeling has subsided, and my skin heals, it will feel and look as soft as a newborn baby's ass. Next on my list is about a squillion units of Botox above each eyebrow and also a little Restylane for the vertical lines above my lip because Dave is tired of me asking him once a week if he can see them. He says he can't but that's only because he's looking over my shoulder to see what's on TV and not looking closely enough. Probably he just doesn't want to get killed if he actually admits he can see the wrinkles I am freaking out about.
And Santa? This next request might be kinda hard but can I have a werewolf? I mean, you're a mythical creature too so maybe you have some connections. I used to think I wanted a vampire but I have decided I want my make believe boy-toy to be hot with totally ripped abs. If you bring me a werewolf I can hide him in my closet and take him out when I feel like playing with him and by playing with him I mean making out with him. And because I already have a dog and dogs are kind of like wolves the werewolf can play with Chloe's toys if it gets bored when I am at work. And Dave said it was okay if I asked you for a werewolf. Actually I didn't ask Dave at all but probably he won't mind.
I know it's kind of a long, expensive list Santa but I totally need all these things. Don't check your list though, K? Just take my word for it that I've been nice.
Signed,
Tracey (Don't blow me off dude, I'm desperate)
P.S. I will leave a bottle of Stoli and some crack dip on the hearth of my artificial gas fireplace. Knock yourself out.
I hope there are no hard feelings about all the mean things I said about you after you did not bring me anything I asked you for last year. It's not my fault because I think I have Tourette's syndrome and f-bombs and rude comments fly out of my mouth uncontrollably sometimes.
So, sorry.
But anyway, if you're not still pissed at me, I have a few more things on my list this year.
I deserve lots of presents because I have been sorta good. I did get in one fight with a lady that works at my dry cleaners but she started it. Because I am so conscious of saving our planet I gathered up 573 wire hangers because there's a sign on the door of my dry cleaners urging its customers to bring them back so they can recycle them. I was about to throw them all in my garbage can but remembered the sign and brought the hangers to my dry cleaners instead because I am all green that way. The lady at my dry cleaners, who actually looks like a man, was all "Well those hangers are just a big mess" and I was all "Do you want them or not" and she was all "Well I guess I have to take them" and I'm thinking that my environmentally friendly efforts are not at all appreciated and eventually me and man/woman are probably gonna scrap. But I don't care because they aren't a restaurant and no matter how much they don't like me, they can't spit in my food so I win.
Oh, and Santa? I have a job now so that should entitle me to way more gifts. And not just a job Santa. I'm assisting teachers at a junior high which means I am helping 8th and 9th graders learn important things. Mostly it's relationship advice about how to land a decent boyfriend but that's a subject that should have been taught when I was in 8th grade because then I might not have dated so many douchebags before I met Dave.
I'm not sure if you're aware of this Santa but my twenty-five year high school reunion is this summer and I am going to need a lot of help in order to look my best. First of all, I'd like better boobs. I want them to defy gravity and I want to be able to skip wearing a bra if I feel like it. This is a gift you will need to outsource because I don't want any of your creepy elves thinking that they will get to see me without a shirt on. However, if that one elf Hermie is still interested in dentistry, he can assist with some teeth whitening and/or porcelain veneers because that's on the list too. I also
Then I want to have all the skin on my face lasered off because I understand that once all the bleeding and peeling has subsided, and my skin heals, it will feel and look as soft as a newborn baby's ass. Next on my list is about a squillion units of Botox above each eyebrow and also a little Restylane for the vertical lines above my lip because Dave is tired of me asking him once a week if he can see them. He says he can't but that's only because he's looking over my shoulder to see what's on TV and not looking closely enough. Probably he just doesn't want to get killed if he actually admits he can see the wrinkles I am freaking out about.
And Santa? This next request might be kinda hard but can I have a werewolf? I mean, you're a mythical creature too so maybe you have some connections. I used to think I wanted a vampire but I have decided I want my make believe boy-toy to be hot with totally ripped abs. If you bring me a werewolf I can hide him in my closet and take him out when I feel like playing with him and by playing with him I mean making out with him. And because I already have a dog and dogs are kind of like wolves the werewolf can play with Chloe's toys if it gets bored when I am at work. And Dave said it was okay if I asked you for a werewolf. Actually I didn't ask Dave at all but probably he won't mind.
I know it's kind of a long, expensive list Santa but I totally need all these things. Don't check your list though, K? Just take my word for it that I've been nice.
Signed,
Tracey (Don't blow me off dude, I'm desperate)
P.S. I will leave a bottle of Stoli and some crack dip on the hearth of my artificial gas fireplace. Knock yourself out.
Monday, November 16, 2009
A strange little tale about my new "old" fridge
In 2005, Dave and I decided to build a new house. We had a difficult time deciding what kind of house we wanted to build and spent approximately eighteen months walking through a million spec houses only to find that each one lacked something on our wish list. Just when I thought we'd never find what we were looking for, we found a house plan that we loved and a great lot we thought would be perfect to build it on.
But we still couldn't pull the trigger. Even though the housing market was strong, we had never built before and had the same concerns most people have when deciding to build: What if we can't sell our old house? What if we have to put all our crap in storage and move to an apartment if our current house sells before our new one is ready? And a small part of us wondered if we should move at all. We had lived in our house for eight years and were quite attached to it. We ultimately decided to quit over analyzing and stuck a For Sale By Owner sign in the front yard.
We sold the house four days later. The buyers, Jennifer and Brandon, liked the house as much as we did so we finalized the purchase agreement and worked out the details. We were ecstatic. Because we sold the house ourselves, we saved thousands of dollars and were able to make a twenty percent down payment on the new house. And even more importantly, Jennifer had a townhouse to sell and didn't mind waiting approximately five months until our new house was built to take possession of our old house since it would give her plenty of time to find a buyer for her property. We were grateful that Jennifer and Brandon didn't mind waiting. The thought of moving twice, once into an apartment and again when our new home was finished was a scenario we desperately wanted to avoid. Thanks to Jennifer and Brandon, we did (Hi Jennifer!). Meanwhile, Jennifer put her townhouse on the market and everything worked out pretty much the way we had planned.
Shortly before we all closed on our properties, Jennifer called me and mentioned how much she appreciated dealing with me and Dave. I think we were both pleasantly surprised that we were all able to remain cordial and accommodating throughout a process that could just have easily been filled with tension and conflict, especially as there was no realtor to buffer our negotiations. Unfortunately, the buyer of Jennifer's townhouse wasn't as accommodating and she and Jennifer weren't seeing eye to eye on a couple things. Jennifer had installed custom hardware in her kitchen and wanted to take her cupboard and drawer knobs and handles with her and the new buyer was not happy about it. Communication between them went a bit downhill from there.
Everything worked out in the end and we all closed on our new properties. Jennifer and I still talk or e-mail occasionally and the offspring always insist on driving by our old house if we're in the neighborhood.
A little over two and a half years after we moved into our new house, my twin sister Trish found herself having a rough time and was in dire need of jettisoning everything in her life that wasn't bringing her happiness, namely her douchebag fiance whose sole ambition in life was to grow hydroponic pot in the spare bedroom of her townhouse. She was also an out of work mortgage loan officer in a industry that had just imploded so the time was right for her to make a few changes. With the encouragement of her family, Trish made the decision to move back to the Des Moines 'burbs. She put her townhouse on the market and my dad and stepmom, and Dave and I, started looking at townhouses for sale here. When we found one we thought she'd like, we'd go look at it and then send her pictures and details about the property. Dad and Debby finally found the perfect townhouse in a suburb about thirty minutes away from where Dave and I live. Even though I love my sister, we fight like a couple of nine year olds so being separated by a thirty minute drive is not a bad thing.
Once her townhouse sold, Trish loaded her furniture, her 8th grade sweater collection, and a whole bunch of shit I would have purged from my home a decade ago into a moving van and watched it drive away. She got into her car with her CD's, her cat, and a Texas drawl as genuine as Madonna's British accent and followed the moving van back to Iowa.
A couple of days before Trish arrived, my dad asked me if I wanted to see her new place. He already had the keys and wanted to go over and make sure the heat was on and take care of a few things Trish had asked him to do. When I arrived, I gave myself a tour. The first thing I noticed was that the living room wall was painted chocolate brown and the paint looked like it had been rag rolled on. That's weird, I thought to myself, when Jennifer bought our old house we had had a conversation one day about paint colors and Jennifer mentioned that she and her mom had rag rolled a deep chocolate brown onto her living room wall. Then I noticed that the fireplace had some additional stone work that someone (my dad maybe?), had mentioned was not present in any other units in the townhouse complex. Hm, Jennifer mentioned she and her mom had done some stone work on her fireplace.
Then I looked into the kitchen. Every single cupboard and drawer was missing its hardware.
"Dad, you are not going to believe this," I said. "But I think this is the townhouse that Jennifer used to live in before she bought our house. The buyer she sold it to must be moving already."
"Are you sure?" my dad asked.
"I'm pretty sure. I'll look it up on the assessor's site when I get home." When I plugged the address into the assessor's site later, it confirmed that Jennifer had been one of the previous owners.
This may not seem that weird to you but this townhouse complex is large and it's in another city. It's located about fifteen or twenty minutes from my old house and, as I've already mentioned, about thirty minutes from where I live now. I called Jennifer and said, "You are not going to believe who is moving into your old place." She thought it was freaky just like I did.
Anyshizzles, I'm getting to the part about the fridge, I swear.
One of the things Trish mentioned she wanted to change about her townhouse was its appliances. Everything was white and she eventually wanted to switch to stainless steel. I told her we'd buy her old fridge because Dave and I wanted an extra one to put in the basement. We entertain a lot and every time we do, I wish we had more room for all the platters of food and extra beer and pop we buy.
When Dave and I bought new furniture this summer, we gave Trish our old couch and over stuffed chair and, in exchange, she told us we could have the fridge for free as soon as she bought the new one. Her new stainless steel fridge was delivered last week so Dave rented a truck and drove over to her house to pick up the old one.
This is the second fridge Trish has offered us but only the first one we've accepted. I've already blogged about it here but if you don't feel like clicking over to that post, I'll give you the quick scoop. In 2004 I flew down to visit Trish in Austin after she'd kicked the hydroponic pot growing douchebag out (he was like a loser boomerang though and kept coming back for the next four years). While I was there I cleaned her entire place and spent hours scouring and disinfecting her fridge. I was horrified to find a dead fly in it. In her post-breakup fog I don't think Trish noticed or cared.
Several months later, Trish's beloved cat died. Since it would be a few days before she could bury it, she put it in her fucking freezer dudes. Then, shortly before she moved back to Iowa, she asked me if I wanted her fridge because it wasn't included in the sale of her townhouse.
My answer: Oh, hell no. I declined her offer in a nicer way than that of course. Probably. Okay, actually I think my answer was something like "no fucking way do I want that fridge." The nice thing about Trish is that she was okay with my answer and decided it was my loss.
Trish may not be the tidiest girl on the planet (and her housekeeping leaves a lot to be desired), but she rarely has a mean word to say about anyone and seldom holds any kind of grudge. And lest you think I don't love my twin sister, I do. Seriously. But, as I've mentioned before, she truly is the Oscar to my Felix.
Trish came over the other day. I told her that Dave had started cleaning out her fridge and that he said it was kinda gross. I told her I hadn't even started cleaning it "the Tracey way" yet. "Guess what I found in it when I was taking everything out?" Trish said.
"I'm afraid to," I answered.
"Another dead fly," Trish said cheerfully.
"You do know most people store food they are planning on eating in their refrigerators, right?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"And just to clarify, you haven't put any dead pets in it, right?"
"Not this time," Trish said.
I bought a big box of Arm and Hammer baking soda to put in the fridge after I make sure it is no longer a level five bio-hazard.
When I talked to Jennifer a couple months ago, I mentioned her old fridge would be moving to our house soon. "Be good to the old girl," she said. "We will," I replied.
Just as soon as I clean her up.
But we still couldn't pull the trigger. Even though the housing market was strong, we had never built before and had the same concerns most people have when deciding to build: What if we can't sell our old house? What if we have to put all our crap in storage and move to an apartment if our current house sells before our new one is ready? And a small part of us wondered if we should move at all. We had lived in our house for eight years and were quite attached to it. We ultimately decided to quit over analyzing and stuck a For Sale By Owner sign in the front yard.
We sold the house four days later. The buyers, Jennifer and Brandon, liked the house as much as we did so we finalized the purchase agreement and worked out the details. We were ecstatic. Because we sold the house ourselves, we saved thousands of dollars and were able to make a twenty percent down payment on the new house. And even more importantly, Jennifer had a townhouse to sell and didn't mind waiting approximately five months until our new house was built to take possession of our old house since it would give her plenty of time to find a buyer for her property. We were grateful that Jennifer and Brandon didn't mind waiting. The thought of moving twice, once into an apartment and again when our new home was finished was a scenario we desperately wanted to avoid. Thanks to Jennifer and Brandon, we did (Hi Jennifer!). Meanwhile, Jennifer put her townhouse on the market and everything worked out pretty much the way we had planned.
Shortly before we all closed on our properties, Jennifer called me and mentioned how much she appreciated dealing with me and Dave. I think we were both pleasantly surprised that we were all able to remain cordial and accommodating throughout a process that could just have easily been filled with tension and conflict, especially as there was no realtor to buffer our negotiations. Unfortunately, the buyer of Jennifer's townhouse wasn't as accommodating and she and Jennifer weren't seeing eye to eye on a couple things. Jennifer had installed custom hardware in her kitchen and wanted to take her cupboard and drawer knobs and handles with her and the new buyer was not happy about it. Communication between them went a bit downhill from there.
Everything worked out in the end and we all closed on our new properties. Jennifer and I still talk or e-mail occasionally and the offspring always insist on driving by our old house if we're in the neighborhood.
A little over two and a half years after we moved into our new house, my twin sister Trish found herself having a rough time and was in dire need of jettisoning everything in her life that wasn't bringing her happiness, namely her douchebag fiance whose sole ambition in life was to grow hydroponic pot in the spare bedroom of her townhouse. She was also an out of work mortgage loan officer in a industry that had just imploded so the time was right for her to make a few changes. With the encouragement of her family, Trish made the decision to move back to the Des Moines 'burbs. She put her townhouse on the market and my dad and stepmom, and Dave and I, started looking at townhouses for sale here. When we found one we thought she'd like, we'd go look at it and then send her pictures and details about the property. Dad and Debby finally found the perfect townhouse in a suburb about thirty minutes away from where Dave and I live. Even though I love my sister, we fight like a couple of nine year olds so being separated by a thirty minute drive is not a bad thing.
Once her townhouse sold, Trish loaded her furniture, her 8th grade sweater collection, and a whole bunch of shit I would have purged from my home a decade ago into a moving van and watched it drive away. She got into her car with her CD's, her cat, and a Texas drawl as genuine as Madonna's British accent and followed the moving van back to Iowa.
A couple of days before Trish arrived, my dad asked me if I wanted to see her new place. He already had the keys and wanted to go over and make sure the heat was on and take care of a few things Trish had asked him to do. When I arrived, I gave myself a tour. The first thing I noticed was that the living room wall was painted chocolate brown and the paint looked like it had been rag rolled on. That's weird, I thought to myself, when Jennifer bought our old house we had had a conversation one day about paint colors and Jennifer mentioned that she and her mom had rag rolled a deep chocolate brown onto her living room wall. Then I noticed that the fireplace had some additional stone work that someone (my dad maybe?), had mentioned was not present in any other units in the townhouse complex. Hm, Jennifer mentioned she and her mom had done some stone work on her fireplace.
Then I looked into the kitchen. Every single cupboard and drawer was missing its hardware.
"Dad, you are not going to believe this," I said. "But I think this is the townhouse that Jennifer used to live in before she bought our house. The buyer she sold it to must be moving already."
"Are you sure?" my dad asked.
"I'm pretty sure. I'll look it up on the assessor's site when I get home." When I plugged the address into the assessor's site later, it confirmed that Jennifer had been one of the previous owners.
This may not seem that weird to you but this townhouse complex is large and it's in another city. It's located about fifteen or twenty minutes from my old house and, as I've already mentioned, about thirty minutes from where I live now. I called Jennifer and said, "You are not going to believe who is moving into your old place." She thought it was freaky just like I did.
Anyshizzles, I'm getting to the part about the fridge, I swear.
One of the things Trish mentioned she wanted to change about her townhouse was its appliances. Everything was white and she eventually wanted to switch to stainless steel. I told her we'd buy her old fridge because Dave and I wanted an extra one to put in the basement. We entertain a lot and every time we do, I wish we had more room for all the platters of food and extra beer and pop we buy.
When Dave and I bought new furniture this summer, we gave Trish our old couch and over stuffed chair and, in exchange, she told us we could have the fridge for free as soon as she bought the new one. Her new stainless steel fridge was delivered last week so Dave rented a truck and drove over to her house to pick up the old one.
This is the second fridge Trish has offered us but only the first one we've accepted. I've already blogged about it here but if you don't feel like clicking over to that post, I'll give you the quick scoop. In 2004 I flew down to visit Trish in Austin after she'd kicked the hydroponic pot growing douchebag out (he was like a loser boomerang though and kept coming back for the next four years). While I was there I cleaned her entire place and spent hours scouring and disinfecting her fridge. I was horrified to find a dead fly in it. In her post-breakup fog I don't think Trish noticed or cared.
Several months later, Trish's beloved cat died. Since it would be a few days before she could bury it, she put it in her fucking freezer dudes. Then, shortly before she moved back to Iowa, she asked me if I wanted her fridge because it wasn't included in the sale of her townhouse.
My answer: Oh, hell no. I declined her offer in a nicer way than that of course. Probably. Okay, actually I think my answer was something like "no fucking way do I want that fridge." The nice thing about Trish is that she was okay with my answer and decided it was my loss.
Trish may not be the tidiest girl on the planet (and her housekeeping leaves a lot to be desired), but she rarely has a mean word to say about anyone and seldom holds any kind of grudge. And lest you think I don't love my twin sister, I do. Seriously. But, as I've mentioned before, she truly is the Oscar to my Felix.
Trish came over the other day. I told her that Dave had started cleaning out her fridge and that he said it was kinda gross. I told her I hadn't even started cleaning it "the Tracey way" yet. "Guess what I found in it when I was taking everything out?" Trish said.
"I'm afraid to," I answered.
"Another dead fly," Trish said cheerfully.
"You do know most people store food they are planning on eating in their refrigerators, right?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"And just to clarify, you haven't put any dead pets in it, right?"
"Not this time," Trish said.
I bought a big box of Arm and Hammer baking soda to put in the fridge after I make sure it is no longer a level five bio-hazard.
When I talked to Jennifer a couple months ago, I mentioned her old fridge would be moving to our house soon. "Be good to the old girl," she said. "We will," I replied.
Just as soon as I clean her up.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The post where I point out how much I'm helping the 8th graders
Hi blogosphere!
I know, I suck. I wouldn't blame any of you for never clicking on my blog again. But I'm glad you did because today we are piling into Marty McFly's Delorean and heading back in time to 8th grade (oh how I used to ♥ you Michael J. Fox).
Now that I've been working with 8th graders on a daily basis, I can't help but compare how different things were back in 1980/1981 when I was in 8th grade. And if you were not even born in 1980/1981 this post probably won't make any sense and you should just skip it. Oh, and I hate you.
* 8th grade girls in 2009 like to sing really loud, especially any song by Taylor Swift.
When I was in 8th grade, we sang songs by Air Supply, Pat Benatar, and Queen.
* If Taylor Swift is the official singer of the 8th grade, The Twilight books are the official book series.
When I was in 8th grade, Flowers In The Attic by V.C. Andrews was the most popular book in school. Cathy and Chris! Locked in the attic! Evil grandmother! Incest! A daring escape! I spent eight hours one Saturday reading Flowers in the Attic from start to finish (and of course I also read Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, and Seeds of Yesterday).
* 8th grade girls in 2009 love their Uggs. I wonder what they will think when they notice me wearing my fake Uggs from Target (henceforth known as Fugg's).
When I was in 8th grade Nikes were a really big deal. I had a royal blue pair with a yellow swoosh and I thought they were the coolest tennis shoes I'd ever owned.
* 8th grade students are so technologically advanced they could undoubtedly lock me out of my own cell phone, computer, and Facebook account.
When I was in 8th grade we had to use pay phones to call our parents, consult an encyclopedia to look shit up, and use a fucking abacus to help us with our math (after walking five miles to school, in the snow, while being chased by rabid dogs!).
Anyway, enough with the comparisons.
Now that the students are starting to get to know me, they're getting friendly. They know that I carry a big tote bag with me and that I always have band-aids, extra pencils, and hand sanitizer. I also gave my 7th hour class Blow Pop suckers so I'm probably their favorite person in the whole school. I think I am also becoming the de facto guidance counselor for all boy-related problems. The following is an actual conversation I had with an 8th grade girl the other day (all names have been changed to protect the identity of innocent school children. And me. Mostly me. So I don't get canned, you know).
Setting: Study Hall
Her: Miss Tracey?
Me: Yes?
Her: I have a problem
Me: Sure, what is it? Do you need help with your homework? Do you want me to help you review for the science test?
Her: No, I actually need advice about something. You see, I like "Billy" but so does "Susie" and if I go out with "Billy" then "Susie" will beat me up so now I'm trying to decide if I should just get back together with my old boyfriend. Or his brother. I can date either one of them.
Against my better judgment I asked for some clarification on a few things.
Me: Who do you really want to go out with.
Her: "Billy."
Me: Does "Billy" even want to go out with "Susie?"
Her: No.
Me: Then he's fair game.
Her: Thanks Miss Tracey!
Me: You're welcome!
Really I'm just being helpful. It's in my job description. Probably.
Shortly after this conversation another girl came to me with a similar dilemma.
Her: Miss Tracey, I really like "Bobby" but when I said hi to him in the hall just
now he ignored me.
Me: I'm going to give you some important advice. From now on, I want you to ignore
"Bobby". Pretend that from now on, "Bobby" is invisible. Got it?
Her: What????
Me: Seriously, this is how you land yourself a boyfriend.
I am now drawing a small crowd of 8th grade girls. I swear they have bionic ears or something.
Her: But if I ignore him, he'll think I'm being mean or that I don't like him!
Me: No he won't.
Her: But Miss Tracey, what if you're wrong?
Me: I'm not. But you have to trust me on this. If there is one thing I can teach
you this year it's that you must ignore the boy you like. Boys are all about
the chase. Never forget this.
Her: Okay Miss Tracey. I promise.
I think I am qualified to dispense this advice considering I managed, through a series of small yet manipulative maneuvers, to land Dave back in 1992(actually I got drunk on keg beer and let him spend the night way, way, way before we'd gone on ten dates. Or any dates actually. Or quite possibly it was the night we met. Huh. I'm not sure I should be dispensing romantic advice at all but whatever). Then, after a few years, I managed to convince Dave to buy me a shiny diamond ring (that I picked out) and marry me. And we've been together ever since so, hello? I am kind of a romance expert.
And who are we kidding? School is all about the four R's: Reading, Writing, Arithmetic, and Romance. Duh. Just being helpful again. I wonder if the school district realizes just how much I am going "above and beyond" my regular responsibilities?
I did manage to help another student make a decision that did not involve boys. The students are studying memoirs and were instructed to select a book from a list of acceptable titles.
Her: Miss Tracey, can you help me pick out a book?
Me: Sure, I love to read. I especially love memoirs.
Her: Well, I've picked out this memoir about ADHD and this one about a teen
model but I still need to choose one more from this list.
Me: Oooooh, Stori Telling, by Tori Spelling. You have got to read this one.
Wait a minute. Why the hell is this title on the accepted memoir list? And to clarify, I only went oooooh because I want to read the memoir so I can make fun of it.
Her: *blank stare*
Me: You know who Tori Spelling is, don't you?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Beverly Hills, 90210? Brenda and Brandon? Kelly and Donna?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Oh my God, The Peach Pit?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Okay, okay, how about this? Aaron Spelling, his wife Candy, they lived in a
big mansion with a separate room just for wrapping presents.....
Her: Who is Aaron Spelling?
Me: He's Tori's dad. And he was the producer of The Love Boat and Fantasy Island!
Her: *blank stare* Are there any other books Miss Tracey?
Me: Yes, yes there are.
Okay so maybe that whole exchange did make me feel old (and I actually do plan on grabbing Stori Telling out of the big box of books so I can read it on my lunch hour and then make fun of it).
Then again, Tori Spelling is a published author and I'm not.
Ditto Lauren Conrad of The Hills.
So basically I am an old, unpublished author.
But the 8th graders? They don't care about that.
They like me anyway.
I know, I suck. I wouldn't blame any of you for never clicking on my blog again. But I'm glad you did because today we are piling into Marty McFly's Delorean and heading back in time to 8th grade (oh how I used to ♥ you Michael J. Fox).
Now that I've been working with 8th graders on a daily basis, I can't help but compare how different things were back in 1980/1981 when I was in 8th grade. And if you were not even born in 1980/1981 this post probably won't make any sense and you should just skip it. Oh, and I hate you.
* 8th grade girls in 2009 like to sing really loud, especially any song by Taylor Swift.
When I was in 8th grade, we sang songs by Air Supply, Pat Benatar, and Queen.
* If Taylor Swift is the official singer of the 8th grade, The Twilight books are the official book series.
When I was in 8th grade, Flowers In The Attic by V.C. Andrews was the most popular book in school. Cathy and Chris! Locked in the attic! Evil grandmother! Incest! A daring escape! I spent eight hours one Saturday reading Flowers in the Attic from start to finish (and of course I also read Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, and Seeds of Yesterday).
* 8th grade girls in 2009 love their Uggs. I wonder what they will think when they notice me wearing my fake Uggs from Target (henceforth known as Fugg's).
When I was in 8th grade Nikes were a really big deal. I had a royal blue pair with a yellow swoosh and I thought they were the coolest tennis shoes I'd ever owned.
* 8th grade students are so technologically advanced they could undoubtedly lock me out of my own cell phone, computer, and Facebook account.
When I was in 8th grade we had to use pay phones to call our parents, consult an encyclopedia to look shit up, and use a fucking abacus to help us with our math (after walking five miles to school, in the snow, while being chased by rabid dogs!).
Anyway, enough with the comparisons.
Now that the students are starting to get to know me, they're getting friendly. They know that I carry a big tote bag with me and that I always have band-aids, extra pencils, and hand sanitizer. I also gave my 7th hour class Blow Pop suckers so I'm probably their favorite person in the whole school. I think I am also becoming the de facto guidance counselor for all boy-related problems. The following is an actual conversation I had with an 8th grade girl the other day (all names have been changed to protect the identity of innocent school children. And me. Mostly me. So I don't get canned, you know).
Setting: Study Hall
Her: Miss Tracey?
Me: Yes?
Her: I have a problem
Me: Sure, what is it? Do you need help with your homework? Do you want me to help you review for the science test?
Her: No, I actually need advice about something. You see, I like "Billy" but so does "Susie" and if I go out with "Billy" then "Susie" will beat me up so now I'm trying to decide if I should just get back together with my old boyfriend. Or his brother. I can date either one of them.
Against my better judgment I asked for some clarification on a few things.
Me: Who do you really want to go out with.
Her: "Billy."
Me: Does "Billy" even want to go out with "Susie?"
Her: No.
Me: Then he's fair game.
Her: Thanks Miss Tracey!
Me: You're welcome!
Really I'm just being helpful. It's in my job description. Probably.
Shortly after this conversation another girl came to me with a similar dilemma.
Her: Miss Tracey, I really like "Bobby" but when I said hi to him in the hall just
now he ignored me.
Me: I'm going to give you some important advice. From now on, I want you to ignore
"Bobby". Pretend that from now on, "Bobby" is invisible. Got it?
Her: What????
Me: Seriously, this is how you land yourself a boyfriend.
I am now drawing a small crowd of 8th grade girls. I swear they have bionic ears or something.
Her: But if I ignore him, he'll think I'm being mean or that I don't like him!
Me: No he won't.
Her: But Miss Tracey, what if you're wrong?
Me: I'm not. But you have to trust me on this. If there is one thing I can teach
you this year it's that you must ignore the boy you like. Boys are all about
the chase. Never forget this.
Her: Okay Miss Tracey. I promise.
I think I am qualified to dispense this advice considering I managed, through a series of small yet manipulative maneuvers, to land Dave back in 1992(actually I got drunk on keg beer and let him spend the night way, way, way before we'd gone on ten dates. Or any dates actually. Or quite possibly it was the night we met. Huh. I'm not sure I should be dispensing romantic advice at all but whatever). Then, after a few years, I managed to convince Dave to buy me a shiny diamond ring (that I picked out) and marry me. And we've been together ever since so, hello? I am kind of a romance expert.
And who are we kidding? School is all about the four R's: Reading, Writing, Arithmetic, and Romance. Duh. Just being helpful again. I wonder if the school district realizes just how much I am going "above and beyond" my regular responsibilities?
I did manage to help another student make a decision that did not involve boys. The students are studying memoirs and were instructed to select a book from a list of acceptable titles.
Her: Miss Tracey, can you help me pick out a book?
Me: Sure, I love to read. I especially love memoirs.
Her: Well, I've picked out this memoir about ADHD and this one about a teen
model but I still need to choose one more from this list.
Me: Oooooh, Stori Telling, by Tori Spelling. You have got to read this one.
Wait a minute. Why the hell is this title on the accepted memoir list? And to clarify, I only went oooooh because I want to read the memoir so I can make fun of it.
Her: *blank stare*
Me: You know who Tori Spelling is, don't you?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Beverly Hills, 90210? Brenda and Brandon? Kelly and Donna?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Oh my God, The Peach Pit?
Her: *blank stare*
Me: Okay, okay, how about this? Aaron Spelling, his wife Candy, they lived in a
big mansion with a separate room just for wrapping presents.....
Her: Who is Aaron Spelling?
Me: He's Tori's dad. And he was the producer of The Love Boat and Fantasy Island!
Her: *blank stare* Are there any other books Miss Tracey?
Me: Yes, yes there are.
Okay so maybe that whole exchange did make me feel old (and I actually do plan on grabbing Stori Telling out of the big box of books so I can read it on my lunch hour and then make fun of it).
Then again, Tori Spelling is a published author and I'm not.
Ditto Lauren Conrad of The Hills.
So basically I am an old, unpublished author.
But the 8th graders? They don't care about that.
They like me anyway.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
My Health Insurance Company Is Afraid I Might Jump Off A Bridge
I got a letter in the mail the other day from my health insurance company that basically said, "We are all scared shitless here because we noticed your aren't taking your Prozac anymore."
What.The.Fuck.
Technically I have a prescription for Prozac. It is one of the few antidepressants approved by the FDA for the treatment of severe PMS (I read a shitload of magazines and I've actually self diagnosed myself with PPMD which is way worse than just the regular PMS). And the reason those yahoos at my health insurance company think I've stopped taking it is because, per my prescribing doctor, I'm only supposed to take it for the 5-7 days before my period, not every day. So one bottle lasts a really long time. And some months I don't have to take it at all. If I start thinking about picking up a fork and stabbing Dave in the head with it then I know I better go over to the cupboard where we store our drugs and take one of those little pills. So that's like my litmus test for determining whether or not my PMS is indeed severe enough that I need to medicate myself immediately. If I don't feel like stabbing Dave in the head with a fork in the 5-7 days before I get my period, then I don't need any Prozac.
My PMS started to get really bad when I was about thirty-eight. I noticed I was becoming less tolerant, bitchier. Then it got worse and now I pretty much want to kill people during certain days of the month. I went to my gynecologist and my regular doctor. They both immediately suggested birth control pills regardless of the fact that my husband has had the "snip-snip." Supposedly, the pill would regulate my cycle so that my hormones would be "evened out" and I wouldn't be so psychotic and mean to people I actually love. I think my gyno and my doctor are both getting outrageous kick-backs from their pharmaceutical reps because I can think of no other reason why they would pimp these birth control pills all the time (am I right, Pfizer??) However, since I was having a lot of "fork stabbing months", I decided to at least try the pill to see if it would help.
Remember that chick who was on the Yaz commercial and she's sitting around with all her girlfriends at some club and they're drinking and she's rattling off all these Yaz statistics and then she's all "I didn't go to medical school for nothin'" but you know she's not really a doctor and instead is probably a struggling actress whose resume lists a deodorant commercial and an episode of Fear Factor under "experience?" That's the pill my doctor put me on. Within six weeks I lost the desire to ever have sex again and my boobs exploded. I have a pretty good rack to begin with so I really don't need bigger boobs and hello? if I have no sex drive what good are big huge boobs? Dave was super bummed considering he now had to choose between a psychotic hormonally unbalanced bitch on wheels or a hormonally regulated woman with ginormous boobs and no sex drive. Plus Yaz gave me really bad headaches.
I informed my doctor about the exploding boobs and the lack of sex drive and she pretended not to have ever heard of either of these side effects. She then said if I was not willing to be on birth control pills, she could prescribe something called Sarafem which is really just Prozac that has been marketed under a different name and FDA approved for the treatment of severe PMS. And the little pills are pink. You know, for girls. She also mentioned that because my prescription was for Sarafem, and not Prozac, no one would think I was crazy which does not sound like a very doctor-y thing to say at all.
The first time I went to fill my Sarafem/Prozac prescription, the pharmacist asked me to pull up and over (like they do at McDonald's when they don't have enough nuggets to fill your order and you have to sit there and wait for your fast food while everyone drives around you and glares). Then, when the pharmacist came out to my car she was all "We don't have any Prozac and we can't fill your prescription until tomorrow" and I'm thinking, "What the fuck do you mean you don't have any Prozac, you're a pharmacy" (and it's Sarafem, remember?) but I was all "Oh, that's okay, no big deal, I can come back tomorrow" and she's all relieved looking because I think she thought I might stab her in the head with a fork but that's ridiculous because I don't even keep forks in my Explorer.
I used to be envious whenever I'd hear about someone having to have a hysterectomy because I thought that maybe removing the whole "kit and caboodle" would offer some relief but apparently I am experiencing issues that are not related so much to the hardware (girly bits) but the software (the monthly hormonal shitstorm).
I will say that the Sarafem/Prozac DOES work when I take it. But it also makes me very tired and I kinda don't give a shit about anything. I also don't have the energy or desire to commit manslaughter though so I guess you have to take the good with the bad.
Anyway, if your periods make you bat shit crazy and evil like mine do, consider taking Sarafem/Prozac/Fluoxetine(generic Prozac) for 5-7 days each month. It does help.
But if you do accidentally/on purpose kill someone during PMS? Call me.
I will so totally testify on your behalf. Or bake you a cake with a nail file.
Whichever.
Peace out.
What.The.Fuck.
Technically I have a prescription for Prozac. It is one of the few antidepressants approved by the FDA for the treatment of severe PMS (I read a shitload of magazines and I've actually self diagnosed myself with PPMD which is way worse than just the regular PMS). And the reason those yahoos at my health insurance company think I've stopped taking it is because, per my prescribing doctor, I'm only supposed to take it for the 5-7 days before my period, not every day. So one bottle lasts a really long time. And some months I don't have to take it at all. If I start thinking about picking up a fork and stabbing Dave in the head with it then I know I better go over to the cupboard where we store our drugs and take one of those little pills. So that's like my litmus test for determining whether or not my PMS is indeed severe enough that I need to medicate myself immediately. If I don't feel like stabbing Dave in the head with a fork in the 5-7 days before I get my period, then I don't need any Prozac.
My PMS started to get really bad when I was about thirty-eight. I noticed I was becoming less tolerant, bitchier. Then it got worse and now I pretty much want to kill people during certain days of the month. I went to my gynecologist and my regular doctor. They both immediately suggested birth control pills regardless of the fact that my husband has had the "snip-snip." Supposedly, the pill would regulate my cycle so that my hormones would be "evened out" and I wouldn't be so psychotic and mean to people I actually love. I think my gyno and my doctor are both getting outrageous kick-backs from their pharmaceutical reps because I can think of no other reason why they would pimp these birth control pills all the time (am I right, Pfizer??) However, since I was having a lot of "fork stabbing months", I decided to at least try the pill to see if it would help.
Remember that chick who was on the Yaz commercial and she's sitting around with all her girlfriends at some club and they're drinking and she's rattling off all these Yaz statistics and then she's all "I didn't go to medical school for nothin'" but you know she's not really a doctor and instead is probably a struggling actress whose resume lists a deodorant commercial and an episode of Fear Factor under "experience?" That's the pill my doctor put me on. Within six weeks I lost the desire to ever have sex again and my boobs exploded. I have a pretty good rack to begin with so I really don't need bigger boobs and hello? if I have no sex drive what good are big huge boobs? Dave was super bummed considering he now had to choose between a psychotic hormonally unbalanced bitch on wheels or a hormonally regulated woman with ginormous boobs and no sex drive. Plus Yaz gave me really bad headaches.
I informed my doctor about the exploding boobs and the lack of sex drive and she pretended not to have ever heard of either of these side effects. She then said if I was not willing to be on birth control pills, she could prescribe something called Sarafem which is really just Prozac that has been marketed under a different name and FDA approved for the treatment of severe PMS. And the little pills are pink. You know, for girls. She also mentioned that because my prescription was for Sarafem, and not Prozac, no one would think I was crazy which does not sound like a very doctor-y thing to say at all.
The first time I went to fill my Sarafem/Prozac prescription, the pharmacist asked me to pull up and over (like they do at McDonald's when they don't have enough nuggets to fill your order and you have to sit there and wait for your fast food while everyone drives around you and glares). Then, when the pharmacist came out to my car she was all "We don't have any Prozac and we can't fill your prescription until tomorrow" and I'm thinking, "What the fuck do you mean you don't have any Prozac, you're a pharmacy" (and it's Sarafem, remember?) but I was all "Oh, that's okay, no big deal, I can come back tomorrow" and she's all relieved looking because I think she thought I might stab her in the head with a fork but that's ridiculous because I don't even keep forks in my Explorer.
I used to be envious whenever I'd hear about someone having to have a hysterectomy because I thought that maybe removing the whole "kit and caboodle" would offer some relief but apparently I am experiencing issues that are not related so much to the hardware (girly bits) but the software (the monthly hormonal shitstorm).
I will say that the Sarafem/Prozac DOES work when I take it. But it also makes me very tired and I kinda don't give a shit about anything. I also don't have the energy or desire to commit manslaughter though so I guess you have to take the good with the bad.
Anyway, if your periods make you bat shit crazy and evil like mine do, consider taking Sarafem/Prozac/Fluoxetine(generic Prozac) for 5-7 days each month. It does help.
But if you do accidentally/on purpose kill someone during PMS? Call me.
I will so totally testify on your behalf. Or bake you a cake with a nail file.
Whichever.
Peace out.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Tracey's Shit List
1. McDonald's. I'm not talking about those 'tards at the McDonald's up the street from my house (which, if you remember, is why we no longer have McDonald's Monday). I'm talking about a different McDonald's and the d-bag who thought it would be a good idea to have double drive thru lanes that require hungry and/or stoned McDonald's customers to take turns and merge. Implementing a system that the general public has to self administer is just asking for trouble. How long before the drive thru reaches riot levels and someone goes all "Reginald Denny" on some annoying blinged out milfy mom in a giant SUV who is yammering into her cell phone and trying to cut in line? *****This McDonald's location never fucks up my order though so yay!
2. People who post five or more Facebook status updates in one 24 hour period. Set up a Twitter account, you losers! And I won't be following you. Also, I don't need to know that your kids have homework, it's bunco night, or everyone's! eating! tacos!
3. The duggar's. Okay, we get it. Michelle and Jim Bob like to put the penie in the pie. A lot. And they don't like birth control. But seriously Duggars, stop reproducing. Michelle your uterus is just going to fall out and land on the sidewalk someday. Thankfully, Michelle has made some much needed improvements to her hairdo. If you want to see it, click here and head over to DG's World by Big D. She's got a bitchin' picture of Michelle's new 'do.
4. In the last three weeks, I have seen no fewer than three dudes scratch their balls while they are talking to me. Here's the thing guys, your hands and/or genital area are not, in fact, invisible. I can see you scratching. Just because you keep on talking to me doesn't mean I didn't notice. Plus, now I'm not only grossed out, I'm creeped out too. You don't see chicks walking around scratching down there, even if we are dealing with the outgrowth of a bikini wax/trim/shave/whatever. Seriously, girls don't scratch in public (unless maybe they have crabs or something which at least helps us identify who the whores are. Am I right?)
5. Old Navy. I think I'm going to have to write Old Navy a letter. It will read like this:
Dear Old Navy,
I recently returned to the work force and had to buy a whole new wardrobe (at least that's what I told my husband). Because I am working at a junior high, and will probably come into contact with sweat, puke, general 8th and 9th grade funk, and the H1N1 flu virus, I wanted to purchase clothing that was cute, inexpensive, and possibly disposable. Your retail establishment offered everything I was looking for.
However, I ordered four pairs of chinos online, and not one pair fits me the same (and in the case of the navy blue pair, not at all). Since I'm tall, I love your web site because I can order my pants and jeans in a longer length. The drawback, however, is that I cannot try anything on. When I get a big box in the mail, full of new Old Navy clothes I get very excited. But when I received my last order and started trying everything on, I wanted to march into your headquarters and stab people with a screwdriver. Kindly fix your pants sizing clusterfuck immediately. The employees working in your corporate headquarters will be very grateful. Or dead. It's really your decision Old Navy.
6. Walk in clinic. Last week, I had to pick up Matthew in the nurse's office because he was burning up with fever and complaining of a sore throat. I knew it was strep because I've been down this road with him a few times before. I only had 35 minutes to get him to the doctor and then get back home before the bus dropped Lauren off. I chose the walk in clinic, a decision I now regret. First of all, the nurse practitioner ripped me a new one for not "filling out the waiting log correctly." Apparently, writing down my time of arrival, AND the number of the beeper assigned to me (Jesus, walk in clinic, do you think you are Outback Steakhouse or something?) was not good enough. As I am standing there with my poor child who is ON FIRE with fever and whimpering she pointed out that I had not written down my name. Even though we were the only people waiting. And some A-hole had scribbled out the column that said "name" so I didn't even know there was someplace to write it down (in case the beeper and/or visual scan of the waiting area did not help her to identify that THERE WAS A MOMMY AND A SICK LITTLE BOY WAITING TO GET SOME MEDICAL ATTENTION AND BY THE WAY THE BUS IS GOING TO DROP OFF MY OTHER CHILD IN 25 MINUTES SO GET DIAGNOSING YOU BITCH). *I'm very sorry about all the yelling*. Anyway, I shot her my best dirty look and let out a little "ugh" under my breath. I also gave very curt little answers to her questions because her attitude made me all passive aggressive. Luckily, we did manage to make it home before the bus dropped Lauren off. However, the nurse practitioner did not prescribe the right dose of antibiotic for Matthew, he got much sicker, and I had to take him to his pediatrician to get the right drugs as well as an oral steroid to reduce the swollen tonsils that were so big he couldn't even enunciate words properly. And yes, the walk in clinic did receivea piece of my mind some constructive criticism.
7. Dave. I love my husband (97.6% of the time) but the other night, Dave said "Chloe has some poop hanging off her butt." I'm all "okay, then deal with it." I mean, if you see it, shouldn't you just be the one to take care of it? And haven't I been almost 100% responsible for attending to all the shit (and I mean that literally people) that has come out of the offspring's you-know-whats from the time they were born until they were potty trained? So why in God's name is the shit hanging off the dog's butt my sole responsibility? Man up Dave. If you see a dingleberry, do something about it.
8. Chloe. I don't know what the hell you rolled in when you were in the back yard but I'm pretty sure it was poop. And then I had to wrestle you into the tub and scrub something stinky and brown off your fur. And then I had to completely change my clothes which required ironing an entire new outfit and selecting new shoes. And then a little while later you insisted on climbing onto my lap and I thought you still smelled like shit but I wasn't sure if I was just being paranoid and since I'm lazy I decided to just febreze my lap because I am not made of ironed outfits plus I didn't feel like going upstairs. ****If you see me today and I smell like shit blame Chloe.
2. People who post five or more Facebook status updates in one 24 hour period. Set up a Twitter account, you losers! And I won't be following you. Also, I don't need to know that your kids have homework, it's bunco night, or everyone's! eating! tacos!
3. The duggar's. Okay, we get it. Michelle and Jim Bob like to put the penie in the pie. A lot. And they don't like birth control. But seriously Duggars, stop reproducing. Michelle your uterus is just going to fall out and land on the sidewalk someday. Thankfully, Michelle has made some much needed improvements to her hairdo. If you want to see it, click here and head over to DG's World by Big D. She's got a bitchin' picture of Michelle's new 'do.
4. In the last three weeks, I have seen no fewer than three dudes scratch their balls while they are talking to me. Here's the thing guys, your hands and/or genital area are not, in fact, invisible. I can see you scratching. Just because you keep on talking to me doesn't mean I didn't notice. Plus, now I'm not only grossed out, I'm creeped out too. You don't see chicks walking around scratching down there, even if we are dealing with the outgrowth of a bikini wax/trim/shave/whatever. Seriously, girls don't scratch in public (unless maybe they have crabs or something which at least helps us identify who the whores are. Am I right?)
5. Old Navy. I think I'm going to have to write Old Navy a letter. It will read like this:
Dear Old Navy,
I recently returned to the work force and had to buy a whole new wardrobe (at least that's what I told my husband). Because I am working at a junior high, and will probably come into contact with sweat, puke, general 8th and 9th grade funk, and the H1N1 flu virus, I wanted to purchase clothing that was cute, inexpensive, and possibly disposable. Your retail establishment offered everything I was looking for.
However, I ordered four pairs of chinos online, and not one pair fits me the same (and in the case of the navy blue pair, not at all). Since I'm tall, I love your web site because I can order my pants and jeans in a longer length. The drawback, however, is that I cannot try anything on. When I get a big box in the mail, full of new Old Navy clothes I get very excited. But when I received my last order and started trying everything on, I wanted to march into your headquarters and stab people with a screwdriver. Kindly fix your pants sizing clusterfuck immediately. The employees working in your corporate headquarters will be very grateful. Or dead. It's really your decision Old Navy.
6. Walk in clinic. Last week, I had to pick up Matthew in the nurse's office because he was burning up with fever and complaining of a sore throat. I knew it was strep because I've been down this road with him a few times before. I only had 35 minutes to get him to the doctor and then get back home before the bus dropped Lauren off. I chose the walk in clinic, a decision I now regret. First of all, the nurse practitioner ripped me a new one for not "filling out the waiting log correctly." Apparently, writing down my time of arrival, AND the number of the beeper assigned to me (Jesus, walk in clinic, do you think you are Outback Steakhouse or something?) was not good enough. As I am standing there with my poor child who is ON FIRE with fever and whimpering she pointed out that I had not written down my name. Even though we were the only people waiting. And some A-hole had scribbled out the column that said "name" so I didn't even know there was someplace to write it down (in case the beeper and/or visual scan of the waiting area did not help her to identify that THERE WAS A MOMMY AND A SICK LITTLE BOY WAITING TO GET SOME MEDICAL ATTENTION AND BY THE WAY THE BUS IS GOING TO DROP OFF MY OTHER CHILD IN 25 MINUTES SO GET DIAGNOSING YOU BITCH). *I'm very sorry about all the yelling*. Anyway, I shot her my best dirty look and let out a little "ugh" under my breath. I also gave very curt little answers to her questions because her attitude made me all passive aggressive. Luckily, we did manage to make it home before the bus dropped Lauren off. However, the nurse practitioner did not prescribe the right dose of antibiotic for Matthew, he got much sicker, and I had to take him to his pediatrician to get the right drugs as well as an oral steroid to reduce the swollen tonsils that were so big he couldn't even enunciate words properly. And yes, the walk in clinic did receive
7. Dave. I love my husband (97.6% of the time) but the other night, Dave said "Chloe has some poop hanging off her butt." I'm all "okay, then deal with it." I mean, if you see it, shouldn't you just be the one to take care of it? And haven't I been almost 100% responsible for attending to all the shit (and I mean that literally people) that has come out of the offspring's you-know-whats from the time they were born until they were potty trained? So why in God's name is the shit hanging off the dog's butt my sole responsibility? Man up Dave. If you see a dingleberry, do something about it.
8. Chloe. I don't know what the hell you rolled in when you were in the back yard but I'm pretty sure it was poop. And then I had to wrestle you into the tub and scrub something stinky and brown off your fur. And then I had to completely change my clothes which required ironing an entire new outfit and selecting new shoes. And then a little while later you insisted on climbing onto my lap and I thought you still smelled like shit but I wasn't sure if I was just being paranoid and since I'm lazy I decided to just febreze my lap because I am not made of ironed outfits plus I didn't feel like going upstairs. ****If you see me today and I smell like shit blame Chloe.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Is anyone wondering where the hell I've been?
Dear blogosphere in general and my readers in particular,
Hi. I'm not dead!
If you've been wondering why I seemed to have disappeared it's because:
A) I was carried off by a dingo
B) I fell down a well (a big one, not a little one like baby Jessica fell into in 1987). Obviously.
C) My Internet connection exploded
D) I got a job.
If you picked D, you're the big winner!!!!!
Let me be the first to say, I'm not totally sure how this happened. I mean, I remember the general process. A friend told me about some available jobs, I went to the website, filled out a lengthy application and uploaded my resume, had an interview, passed the reference and background checks (I know!), and was offered a job. Which I accepted.
I am now working in our school district as a Paraeducator which is just a fancy way of saying teacher's associate which is also just a fancy way of saying teacher's helper.
I'm working with older students. It's like the universe sucked me in and then crapped me back out right into a John Hughes movie. I'm pretty sure I spend 7th hour with the kids from The Breakfast Club except now they're all wearing Abercrombie.
I won't be able to blog about my job. Frankly, I'm surprised funny in the 'hood didn't get me dooced before I even started. And I certainly don't want to get canned for violating student confidentiality guidelines.
You're probably wondering how I ended up working at a school (because God knows I am). It's not for the money, although I was formerly making zero dollars an hour and if you look at it from that perspective, I just got a nice raise. There are two main reasons I accepted the position. First, if the offspring are at school then I am too. If the offspring are home, so am I. I also have all the holiday breaks, early outs, and snow days off so Dave and I never have to worry about someone being home with the kids. Dave puts them on the bus in the morning and I'm home when they get off the bus in the afternoon. It's taken a little adjusting but Dave assures me "It's not hard at all Tracey, it's really going quite well." I imagine it is going smoothly considering I have every single thing organized and ready for every living person in this house, including Dave, before I walk out the door at 7:00AM. The second thing I like about this job is that it is somewhat temporary. I'm technically unemployed again when school gets out next May and if I don't want to go back, I won't. If the job market ever fully recovers I wouldn't mind finding a part-time job in my field which is/was Human Resources and Information Technology recruiting. But for now, things are going okay. I am fortunate to be able to choose what I want to do and what I think is best for my family.
Now that I have a job, I am feeling very productive which is something I was lacking in last year when the offspring were at school all day and I was home alone. I'll be the first to admit that I had acquired a pretty severe Internet addiction, one that kept me online for hours each day. I wasn't as bad as those people you hear about that sit on a stool in front of a slot machine for so long they pee right in their pants but that's probably only because there's a bathroom ten steps away from my computer and I didn't have to worry about anyone sliding onto my stool and stealing my triple 7's jackpot.
I'd rather spend all day writing on my blog, reading other people's blogs, and leaving lengthy comments on them. Ditto Facebook and e-mail. But the time has come to get off my ass and do something and so far, I'm feeling pretty good about my decision. My only regret is that I may not have as much time to write and blog. Hopefully, as I become even more efficient and get used to my new schedule, I will still be able to post a couple times a week.
So, even though my job is low paying, there are often BAD SMELLS, and it's pretty much a given that I'll come down with H1N1 at some point, I'm pretty happy right now. I may change my mind in November when I'm in the death throes of the flu.
When that happens, please send Kleenex and wine.
And don't forget about funny in the 'hood either.
Sure I'm busy. But I'm not dead.
P.S. Have a wonderful Labor Day weekend! We are going to Tom and Amy's lake house for one last hurrah.
P.P.S. They only reason I was able to write this post today is because I'm home taking care of Matthew. He has a raging case of strep throat and I feel sorry for my little buddy. We went back to the doctor for the second time and he should be fine by tomorrow.
P.P.P.S. Children's illnesses = blog posts.
P.P.P.P.S. Cold and flu season is just around the corner so perhaps blog post volume will actually increase?
P.P.P.P.P.S. Will be spending meager paychecks on doctor co-pays and not designer purses.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Curses, foiled again.
Hi. I'm not dead!
If you've been wondering why I seemed to have disappeared it's because:
A) I was carried off by a dingo
B) I fell down a well (a big one, not a little one like baby Jessica fell into in 1987). Obviously.
C) My Internet connection exploded
D) I got a job.
If you picked D, you're the big winner!!!!!
Let me be the first to say, I'm not totally sure how this happened. I mean, I remember the general process. A friend told me about some available jobs, I went to the website, filled out a lengthy application and uploaded my resume, had an interview, passed the reference and background checks (I know!), and was offered a job. Which I accepted.
I am now working in our school district as a Paraeducator which is just a fancy way of saying teacher's associate which is also just a fancy way of saying teacher's helper.
I'm working with older students. It's like the universe sucked me in and then crapped me back out right into a John Hughes movie. I'm pretty sure I spend 7th hour with the kids from The Breakfast Club except now they're all wearing Abercrombie.
I won't be able to blog about my job. Frankly, I'm surprised funny in the 'hood didn't get me dooced before I even started. And I certainly don't want to get canned for violating student confidentiality guidelines.
You're probably wondering how I ended up working at a school (because God knows I am). It's not for the money, although I was formerly making zero dollars an hour and if you look at it from that perspective, I just got a nice raise. There are two main reasons I accepted the position. First, if the offspring are at school then I am too. If the offspring are home, so am I. I also have all the holiday breaks, early outs, and snow days off so Dave and I never have to worry about someone being home with the kids. Dave puts them on the bus in the morning and I'm home when they get off the bus in the afternoon. It's taken a little adjusting but Dave assures me "It's not hard at all Tracey, it's really going quite well." I imagine it is going smoothly considering I have every single thing organized and ready for every living person in this house, including Dave, before I walk out the door at 7:00AM. The second thing I like about this job is that it is somewhat temporary. I'm technically unemployed again when school gets out next May and if I don't want to go back, I won't. If the job market ever fully recovers I wouldn't mind finding a part-time job in my field which is/was Human Resources and Information Technology recruiting. But for now, things are going okay. I am fortunate to be able to choose what I want to do and what I think is best for my family.
Now that I have a job, I am feeling very productive which is something I was lacking in last year when the offspring were at school all day and I was home alone. I'll be the first to admit that I had acquired a pretty severe Internet addiction, one that kept me online for hours each day. I wasn't as bad as those people you hear about that sit on a stool in front of a slot machine for so long they pee right in their pants but that's probably only because there's a bathroom ten steps away from my computer and I didn't have to worry about anyone sliding onto my stool and stealing my triple 7's jackpot.
I'd rather spend all day writing on my blog, reading other people's blogs, and leaving lengthy comments on them. Ditto Facebook and e-mail. But the time has come to get off my ass and do something and so far, I'm feeling pretty good about my decision. My only regret is that I may not have as much time to write and blog. Hopefully, as I become even more efficient and get used to my new schedule, I will still be able to post a couple times a week.
So, even though my job is low paying, there are often BAD SMELLS, and it's pretty much a given that I'll come down with H1N1 at some point, I'm pretty happy right now. I may change my mind in November when I'm in the death throes of the flu.
When that happens, please send Kleenex and wine.
And don't forget about funny in the 'hood either.
Sure I'm busy. But I'm not dead.
P.S. Have a wonderful Labor Day weekend! We are going to Tom and Amy's lake house for one last hurrah.
P.P.S. They only reason I was able to write this post today is because I'm home taking care of Matthew. He has a raging case of strep throat and I feel sorry for my little buddy. We went back to the doctor for the second time and he should be fine by tomorrow.
P.P.P.S. Children's illnesses = blog posts.
P.P.P.P.S. Cold and flu season is just around the corner so perhaps blog post volume will actually increase?
P.P.P.P.P.S. Will be spending meager paychecks on doctor co-pays and not designer purses.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Curses, foiled again.
Friday, August 7, 2009
I Regret To Inform You That Flashback Friday Will Not Occur Today
I'm in a big ass hurry to get out of town before my brother and sister in law change their minds about watching the offspring and I can't find any funny pictures for Flashback Friday but to make it up to you I am working on a post about my horrible PMS which I will publish no later than Sunday night. Or Monday if I am still kind of drunk hungover on Sunday. Which is quite possible.
So no Flashback Friday+drunk/hungover=everything you ever wanted to know about my monthly hellish hormonal psychotic episodes.
I know.
Awesome.
So no Flashback Friday+drunk/hungover=everything you ever wanted to know about my monthly hellish hormonal psychotic episodes.
I know.
Awesome.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Crack Dip Recipe
Some of you have recently asked for my crack dip recipe (originally given to me by my friend Wendy) so I thought I'd post it again. Everyone in the world loves it except for my friend Shellie and her friends but I'm pretty sure it's just because they made it wrong (just kidding, I love you Shellie!).
Here's what you need:
1 - 9 oz. jar of Archer Farms Habanero and Roasted Pineapple Dip, available at Super Target. It is in the pickle/olive aisle and sometimes it's hard to find.
2 - 8 oz. bricks of cream cheese (please do not use the fat free crap). The cream cheese should be left out to soften for at least four hours.
1 - 8 oz. bag shredded sharp cheddar cheese.
1/2 of a small red onion, finely diced. Be careful because too much red onion will overpower the dip. You can always add more later.
Here's what you do:
Mix together cream cheese and habanero dip until combined. Add shredded cheese and diced onion and mix again. Refrigerate for at least one hour so the cream cheese can firm up again.
Serve with Ritz crackers. You can use other crackers but Ritz taste best with the dip.
Enjoy!
Here's what you need:
1 - 9 oz. jar of Archer Farms Habanero and Roasted Pineapple Dip, available at Super Target. It is in the pickle/olive aisle and sometimes it's hard to find.
2 - 8 oz. bricks of cream cheese (please do not use the fat free crap). The cream cheese should be left out to soften for at least four hours.
1 - 8 oz. bag shredded sharp cheddar cheese.
1/2 of a small red onion, finely diced. Be careful because too much red onion will overpower the dip. You can always add more later.
Here's what you do:
Mix together cream cheese and habanero dip until combined. Add shredded cheese and diced onion and mix again. Refrigerate for at least one hour so the cream cheese can firm up again.
Serve with Ritz crackers. You can use other crackers but Ritz taste best with the dip.
Enjoy!
I'm So Behind On Blogging I'm Just Getting Around To Posting About July Fourth
Dave and I are going to Tom and Amy's lake house tomorrow, for the whole weekend, without the offspring. We managed to coerce, beg, convince my brother and sister-in-law to come to our house and take care of our dog and kids while we are gone (and we will be leaving big, black skid marks in the driveway as we get the hell out of dodge, people).
I can't wait. We are going to be celebrating Dave's birthday at the lake house and I'm packing so much liquor the bottles are going to be clank-clanking as we roll down the highway. I'm also making a double batch of crack dip even though I only have one more pair of shorts I can fit into and if I grow out of them over the weekend, I will have to shop for all new clothes next week but whatever.
Anyway, I thought I'd better finish and post the entry I started last month about our Fourth of July weekend at Tom and Amy's lake house because I am all about chronological order. Sort of.
Probably no one cares what I did on July 4th but here it is anyway.
We spent the holiday weekend with Tom and Amy at their house on Twin Lakes. I told Amy we'd be there by twelve thirty but that was a lie because at noon, we hadn't even left Des Moines (and you may have noticed I totally blew off Flashback Friday that day). Although we started packing at 7:00 AM, it still took us approximately six hours to pile all our crap so high in the back of the Explorer that Dave couldn't even see out the back window. Must.Get.Better.System.
I might be slightly to blame for some of the delay in getting out of town. I tend to overpack and include things like sundresses and strapless bras. I don't know why I bother because the reality is I spent the whole weekend schlepping around in either a wet swimsuit, shorts, or an Iowa Cubs t-shirt and grey polo sweat shirt.
We also had to drop off Chloe at the place we were boarding her. I had a slight nervous breakdown leaving my puppy behind. But I might not have to deal with my pet separation anxiety issues ever again because the people at the pet boarding place told us that Chloe has some "aggression" issues and "doesn't play well with others." Because of her behavior she was not allowed to participate in all aspects of the doggy daycare curriculum (um, like snacks and crafts? I mean, what are we talking here?). Apparently Dave and I are going to have to find another option for Chloe if we ever hope to take a vacation again.
Once we got on the road out of town we noticed that even though it was bright and sunny in Des Moines, the closer we got to our destination the cloudier the sky became. And Dave was in a big snit because he thought he'd try a new route to the lake and it was taking a really long time for us to get there because it was mostly two lane roads and we got behind no fewer than three cars who refused to go faster than 49 miles per hour. Plus, one time we got stuck following some sort of farm machinery thing (combine?). The offspring had started asking "when are we gonna be there" at thirty second intervals. My husband, who is usually calm and even tempered realized that the route he's chosen sucks and he started to get pretty fucking snippy with me.
He compensated for our slow progress by putting the pedal to the metal. We got pulled over by the highway patrol approximately fourteen seconds later and Dave was busted for going seventy-nine miles an hour. I started to text something snarky to Amy and Dave said, "I bet you're texting some sort of funny and clever remark to Amy right now, aren't you?"
"No!" I said (Gah! Yes, totally). I hit the clr button on my phone and erased everything I just wrote. By the time Dave got his ticket and a warning to slow down, his eyes had turned demon red and I swear I could see smoke coming out of his ears. It did not help when the offspring started yelling "I can't wait to tell everyone that dad just got a ticket."
We finally got to the lake (it was raining a little by then) and unloaded our enormous amount of shit. Dave took a little walk by himself and when he returned we sent Tom and Dave to the store. They went to a bar first which was an excellent idea as Dave returned in a much better mood. The rain stopped so we were able to grill our dinner, light a crapload of sparklers, and make s'mores.
The fireworks at the lake were scheduled for Friday night so at dusk we all piled into the pontoon and headed out.
Shortly after the fireworks display ended, we headed back to the house in the pouring rain. We all changed into dry clothes and went to bed.
Tom's sister in law Rita woke us up the next morning by knocking on the sliding glass door around 9:00 AM. We were participating in the fourth of July boat parade contest and we needed to get the boat decorated and be at Muddy Bay by 10:30. The theme for the contest was Around The World and we put the kids to work hanging up flags from different countries all around the outside edge of the boat. We also had globe beach balls, signs, and everyone wore a costume. We had an assortment of hats including viking, German Oktoberfest, and Irish, plus sombreros. We boated down to Muddy Bay in gale force winds and pouring rain (sleet?).
Because of the weather, there was not a huge turnout for the boat parade and we figured our odds of winning the contest just shot up due to lack of participants.
There was one other boat that looked like it might be a contender. It was a pirate ship complete with skull flags and a cannon. The captain of the boat fired the cannon every five minutes or so and I thought it was kinda cute the first time but by the time Johnny Depp had fired it fifty five thousand times I just got annoyed. Plus everybody jumped whenever we heard it because it was so loud.
Here I am representing Mexico in my sombrero and Mexican blanket thingy (which is the only reason, quite frankly, that my core body temperature did not plunge to hypothermic levels).
The boat parade finally ended and we headed back to the house to put on dry clothes and warm up. The kid's lips were blue by the time Tom motored the pontoon boat back into the lift.
We spent the rest of the day inside, reading and playing games and trying not to get in each other's way. It rained continuously.
Finally, at around 5:00 PM, we headed out for dinner at a local restaurant. This was an excellent idea because it got us all out of the house and gave us something to do (which basically meant consuming lots of wine with dinner). We also asked the hostess to seat the kids at a different table. We could see them, but we couldn't hear them. We ordered drinks and had a great dinner.
We headed back to the house and were happy to see that the rain had stopped and the sky was starting to get blue. Matthew fished, the rest of the kids played, and the adults sat on the patio.
Later, Amy stayed back at the house with the kids and Dave, Tom, and I took the boat out for a ride. We drank beer, listened to the radio, and Dave drunk dialed and texted everyone in his Blackberry.
We headed home on Monday morning, tired, mosquito bitten, sunburned, and with enough dirty laundry to keep me busy for days.
I can only hope this weekend is as awesome.
P.S. Kids were ecstatic because we won 2nd place in the boat parade! The prize was $20 dollars so the four kids each got a five dollar bill.
I can't wait. We are going to be celebrating Dave's birthday at the lake house and I'm packing so much liquor the bottles are going to be clank-clanking as we roll down the highway. I'm also making a double batch of crack dip even though I only have one more pair of shorts I can fit into and if I grow out of them over the weekend, I will have to shop for all new clothes next week but whatever.
Anyway, I thought I'd better finish and post the entry I started last month about our Fourth of July weekend at Tom and Amy's lake house because I am all about chronological order. Sort of.
Probably no one cares what I did on July 4th but here it is anyway.
We spent the holiday weekend with Tom and Amy at their house on Twin Lakes. I told Amy we'd be there by twelve thirty but that was a lie because at noon, we hadn't even left Des Moines (and you may have noticed I totally blew off Flashback Friday that day). Although we started packing at 7:00 AM, it still took us approximately six hours to pile all our crap so high in the back of the Explorer that Dave couldn't even see out the back window. Must.Get.Better.System.
I might be slightly to blame for some of the delay in getting out of town. I tend to overpack and include things like sundresses and strapless bras. I don't know why I bother because the reality is I spent the whole weekend schlepping around in either a wet swimsuit, shorts, or an Iowa Cubs t-shirt and grey polo sweat shirt.
We also had to drop off Chloe at the place we were boarding her. I had a slight nervous breakdown leaving my puppy behind. But I might not have to deal with my pet separation anxiety issues ever again because the people at the pet boarding place told us that Chloe has some "aggression" issues and "doesn't play well with others." Because of her behavior she was not allowed to participate in all aspects of the doggy daycare curriculum (um, like snacks and crafts? I mean, what are we talking here?). Apparently Dave and I are going to have to find another option for Chloe if we ever hope to take a vacation again.
Once we got on the road out of town we noticed that even though it was bright and sunny in Des Moines, the closer we got to our destination the cloudier the sky became. And Dave was in a big snit because he thought he'd try a new route to the lake and it was taking a really long time for us to get there because it was mostly two lane roads and we got behind no fewer than three cars who refused to go faster than 49 miles per hour. Plus, one time we got stuck following some sort of farm machinery thing (combine?). The offspring had started asking "when are we gonna be there" at thirty second intervals. My husband, who is usually calm and even tempered realized that the route he's chosen sucks and he started to get pretty fucking snippy with me.
He compensated for our slow progress by putting the pedal to the metal. We got pulled over by the highway patrol approximately fourteen seconds later and Dave was busted for going seventy-nine miles an hour. I started to text something snarky to Amy and Dave said, "I bet you're texting some sort of funny and clever remark to Amy right now, aren't you?"
"No!" I said (Gah! Yes, totally). I hit the clr button on my phone and erased everything I just wrote. By the time Dave got his ticket and a warning to slow down, his eyes had turned demon red and I swear I could see smoke coming out of his ears. It did not help when the offspring started yelling "I can't wait to tell everyone that dad just got a ticket."
We finally got to the lake (it was raining a little by then) and unloaded our enormous amount of shit. Dave took a little walk by himself and when he returned we sent Tom and Dave to the store. They went to a bar first which was an excellent idea as Dave returned in a much better mood. The rain stopped so we were able to grill our dinner, light a crapload of sparklers, and make s'mores.
The fireworks at the lake were scheduled for Friday night so at dusk we all piled into the pontoon and headed out.
Shortly after the fireworks display ended, we headed back to the house in the pouring rain. We all changed into dry clothes and went to bed.
Tom's sister in law Rita woke us up the next morning by knocking on the sliding glass door around 9:00 AM. We were participating in the fourth of July boat parade contest and we needed to get the boat decorated and be at Muddy Bay by 10:30. The theme for the contest was Around The World and we put the kids to work hanging up flags from different countries all around the outside edge of the boat. We also had globe beach balls, signs, and everyone wore a costume. We had an assortment of hats including viking, German Oktoberfest, and Irish, plus sombreros. We boated down to Muddy Bay in gale force winds and pouring rain (sleet?).
Because of the weather, there was not a huge turnout for the boat parade and we figured our odds of winning the contest just shot up due to lack of participants.
There was one other boat that looked like it might be a contender. It was a pirate ship complete with skull flags and a cannon. The captain of the boat fired the cannon every five minutes or so and I thought it was kinda cute the first time but by the time Johnny Depp had fired it fifty five thousand times I just got annoyed. Plus everybody jumped whenever we heard it because it was so loud.
Here I am representing Mexico in my sombrero and Mexican blanket thingy (which is the only reason, quite frankly, that my core body temperature did not plunge to hypothermic levels).
The boat parade finally ended and we headed back to the house to put on dry clothes and warm up. The kid's lips were blue by the time Tom motored the pontoon boat back into the lift.
We spent the rest of the day inside, reading and playing games and trying not to get in each other's way. It rained continuously.
Finally, at around 5:00 PM, we headed out for dinner at a local restaurant. This was an excellent idea because it got us all out of the house and gave us something to do (which basically meant consuming lots of wine with dinner). We also asked the hostess to seat the kids at a different table. We could see them, but we couldn't hear them. We ordered drinks and had a great dinner.
We headed back to the house and were happy to see that the rain had stopped and the sky was starting to get blue. Matthew fished, the rest of the kids played, and the adults sat on the patio.
Later, Amy stayed back at the house with the kids and Dave, Tom, and I took the boat out for a ride. We drank beer, listened to the radio, and Dave drunk dialed and texted everyone in his Blackberry.
We headed home on Monday morning, tired, mosquito bitten, sunburned, and with enough dirty laundry to keep me busy for days.
I can only hope this weekend is as awesome.
P.S. Kids were ecstatic because we won 2nd place in the boat parade! The prize was $20 dollars so the four kids each got a five dollar bill.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Help Me Decide Who Would Be a Better Vampire Boyfriend, Bill Compton or Edward Cullen
Recently I went to Target to buy a bunch of shit we don't really need and I threw season 1 of HBO's True Blood into my cart. I've read all nine of the Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris, upon which the HBO show is based, and since we don't have HBO, I've been anxiously awaiting the DVD's release.
Dave and I started watching the series last week. He's kind of mad at me because I accidentally blurted out who the killer was when we were only three episodes in (hint: it's not a vampire). Sometimes I have Tourette's with secrets and I couldn't help it. Anyway, we are enjoying True Blood but I am disappointed at how unattractive the main character, vampire Bill Compton, looks on screen sometimes.
Part of my fascination with Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, both the books and the movie, is that Edward Cullen is so fucking hot (even though technically he's ice cold because he's dead). Edward is so gorgeous that I just want to stare at him without blinking until my eyes cross but Bill Compton looks all swarthy and ungroomed but I think HBO is trying to make him look all brooding and deep and stuff. But if the producers of True Blood want my opinion (and hello? why wouldn't they) I would tell them that they can drive their ratings through the roof by making Bill Compton look way more gorgeous because even though a vampire could kill me on a dime I'm willing to overlook that if the vampire is super hot. Like Edward Cullen.
Exhibit A:
I have no desire to bone Bill Compton when I see this picture.
Might bone if I was drunk.
Would definitely bone, regardless of blood alcohol level.
Would bone all day and night.
I'm still confused about who would make the better vampire boyfriend because I am not shallow enough to make this decision based solely on physical attributes. I find, in these situations, it's best to simply pro and con it out.
Pros: Bill Compton
1) Closer to my age so I would not be seen as slutty cougar type, rawr!
2) I could bring him home to meet my dad and I'm confident dad would be totally oblivious to the fact that Bill is an old, dead vampire.
3) Strong enough to lift me no matter how much weight I gain eating crack dip.
4) Bill would spend all day in his coffin thus leaving me free to do whatever I wanted, i.e. shopping with the girls, manicures, etc...
5) As vampires don't eat food and/or have digestive systems, I imagine Bill would not fart in bed and hold my head under the covers.
Cons: Bill Compton
1) Technically dead.
2) Would not be able to eat crack dip with me.
3) Could accidentally kill me.
4) Could kill me on purpose.
5) Cold rock hard body could make post-lovemaking snuggling problematic.
Pros: Edward Cullen
1) Gorgeous, sexy, fast, strong, beautiful, rich, vampire.
2) See item #1.
3) See item #1.
4) See item #1.
5) See item #1 infinity.
Cons: Edward Cullen
1) Way prettier than me so no one would ever notice I was standing there. Would be like invisible girlfriend.
2) Even though Edward has been around for 107 years, he is technically seventeen which means I would look like a total cougar (rawr!).
3) Is not bothered by sunlight and might start to bug me if he hung around 24/7.
4) Might not agree to have sex with me unless we were married first.
5) Can be a bit of a controlling jackass, especially if I wanted to have a beer with one of the werewolves of London.
Now I'm more confused than ever. I mean, they both have their good points, and their bad points. It's clear I'm going to have to do more research and possibly set up a spread sheet to help me make my final decision.
Last night, Dave was on the computer for a while (hijacking my Facebook page, again).
Dave: "Gah! Why is our screen saver a picture of that vampire?"
Me: "Do.Not.Remove.My.Boyfriend.Edward."
So, has anyone else wondered who would make the better vampire boyfriend? No? Just me again.
Okay, maybe no one else haswasted taken the time to ponder this very important issue and provide compelling reasons for, or against, Bill or Edward. But I have.
You're welcome.
Dave and I started watching the series last week. He's kind of mad at me because I accidentally blurted out who the killer was when we were only three episodes in (hint: it's not a vampire). Sometimes I have Tourette's with secrets and I couldn't help it. Anyway, we are enjoying True Blood but I am disappointed at how unattractive the main character, vampire Bill Compton, looks on screen sometimes.
Part of my fascination with Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, both the books and the movie, is that Edward Cullen is so fucking hot (even though technically he's ice cold because he's dead). Edward is so gorgeous that I just want to stare at him without blinking until my eyes cross but Bill Compton looks all swarthy and ungroomed but I think HBO is trying to make him look all brooding and deep and stuff. But if the producers of True Blood want my opinion (and hello? why wouldn't they) I would tell them that they can drive their ratings through the roof by making Bill Compton look way more gorgeous because even though a vampire could kill me on a dime I'm willing to overlook that if the vampire is super hot. Like Edward Cullen.
Exhibit A:
I have no desire to bone Bill Compton when I see this picture.
Might bone if I was drunk.
Would definitely bone, regardless of blood alcohol level.
Would bone all day and night.
I'm still confused about who would make the better vampire boyfriend because I am not shallow enough to make this decision based solely on physical attributes. I find, in these situations, it's best to simply pro and con it out.
Pros: Bill Compton
1) Closer to my age so I would not be seen as slutty cougar type, rawr!
2) I could bring him home to meet my dad and I'm confident dad would be totally oblivious to the fact that Bill is an old, dead vampire.
3) Strong enough to lift me no matter how much weight I gain eating crack dip.
4) Bill would spend all day in his coffin thus leaving me free to do whatever I wanted, i.e. shopping with the girls, manicures, etc...
5) As vampires don't eat food and/or have digestive systems, I imagine Bill would not fart in bed and hold my head under the covers.
Cons: Bill Compton
1) Technically dead.
2) Would not be able to eat crack dip with me.
3) Could accidentally kill me.
4) Could kill me on purpose.
5) Cold rock hard body could make post-lovemaking snuggling problematic.
Pros: Edward Cullen
1) Gorgeous, sexy, fast, strong, beautiful, rich, vampire.
2) See item #1.
3) See item #1.
4) See item #1.
5) See item #1 infinity.
Cons: Edward Cullen
1) Way prettier than me so no one would ever notice I was standing there. Would be like invisible girlfriend.
2) Even though Edward has been around for 107 years, he is technically seventeen which means I would look like a total cougar (rawr!).
3) Is not bothered by sunlight and might start to bug me if he hung around 24/7.
4) Might not agree to have sex with me unless we were married first.
5) Can be a bit of a controlling jackass, especially if I wanted to have a beer with one of the werewolves of London.
Now I'm more confused than ever. I mean, they both have their good points, and their bad points. It's clear I'm going to have to do more research and possibly set up a spread sheet to help me make my final decision.
Last night, Dave was on the computer for a while (hijacking my Facebook page, again).
Dave: "Gah! Why is our screen saver a picture of that vampire?"
Me: "Do.Not.Remove.My.Boyfriend.Edward."
So, has anyone else wondered who would make the better vampire boyfriend? No? Just me again.
Okay, maybe no one else has
You're welcome.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The Post Where I Tell Everyone How Awesome My Husband Is
Remember when I wrote that really nice letter to Santa asking him to bring me a Dooney and Bourke medium chiara bag in black leather? No? Then click here.
And then remember when Santa didn't bring it to me because he's a rat bastard? No? Then click here.
Well last Friday, Dave took the afternoon off and we took the offspring to the mall for a little back to school shopping (this would be between the first visit from the police, and the second).
Dave told me he'd be right back, conveniently sticking me with the offspring who were clamoring to go to Auntie Anne's for some pretzels. After we finished our pretzels he still wasn't back and I was starting to get a little irritated.
Dave finally found us and when I asked him where he'd been, he handed me a Dillard's bag and said, "I was buying you this."
Blogosphere, I'd like to introduce to you the Dooney and Bourke medium Chiara bag in black (patent) leather:
Someone is so getting lucky this month.
And then remember when Santa didn't bring it to me because he's a rat bastard? No? Then click here.
Well last Friday, Dave took the afternoon off and we took the offspring to the mall for a little back to school shopping (this would be between the first visit from the police, and the second).
Dave told me he'd be right back, conveniently sticking me with the offspring who were clamoring to go to Auntie Anne's for some pretzels. After we finished our pretzels he still wasn't back and I was starting to get a little irritated.
Dave finally found us and when I asked him where he'd been, he handed me a Dillard's bag and said, "I was buying you this."
Blogosphere, I'd like to introduce to you the Dooney and Bourke medium Chiara bag in black (patent) leather:
Someone is so getting lucky this month.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Flashback Friday - Safety First or My Parents Were Crazy, You Decide
Yes I know I blew off Flashback Friday last week. It was partly because of my heinous garage sale and partly because I'm running out of pictures. I mean, I can show you snapshots of Stacy's seventh grade slumber party where we're all wearing our "7th graders do it better" t-shirts or pictures from 8th grade science camp but will those be entertaining to you? I'm not sure. And some of my friends promised to send me pictures for Flashback Friday yet I still haven't received anything (losers!) so let's blame them, K?
Anyway, I was looking through some old photo albums that my dad gave me and I found a few pictures I kind of liked:
For example, when the offspring were born, Dave and I placed them, rear facing, in the back seat in infant car seats that required an engineering degree to install. Yet my parents felt comfortable putting Trish and I in the front seat of my mom's Corvair. Even though we are in some kind of car seat, I do not see any buckles or harnesses and would bet money that those seats aren't attached to the car in any way.
"Um, hello? An object in motion tends to remain in motion so if you hit something mom, Trish and I are going flying."
In this next picture, my dad is participating in the ever popular balancing a baby on one hand.
"George, put her down, you're going to drop her!" "Oh calm down Patty, we've got a spare."
"Help, this cat is gonna sit on my head, suffocate me, and then eat me!"
Oh look, someone thought it would be funny to stick buckets on the helpless twins.
This? This right here? Explains a lot. And makes me wonder if alcohol was involved.
My mom died when I was eighteen so I love looking at old pictures of her. My mom would totally love this blog. If she were alive I'd let her guest blog and I'd post pictures of us doing crazy things. I can only hope there's Internet access in heaven and she has read my blog and is laughing her ass off. And if there's no Internet access in heaven then I don't want to go but if there's no wine in hell then I can't go there either so I'll go to heaven after all but if there's no Internet or wine in heaven then I want to be reincarnated immediately as a six foot tall Sports Illustrated supermodel and if that's not possible then freeze my head in one of those cryogenic thingies but someone please put vodka in there with me because when you wake me up I'm going to need alcohol because I'll be a head without a body and that's kinda fucked up.
As always, thanks in advance.
Anyway, I was looking through some old photo albums that my dad gave me and I found a few pictures I kind of liked:
For example, when the offspring were born, Dave and I placed them, rear facing, in the back seat in infant car seats that required an engineering degree to install. Yet my parents felt comfortable putting Trish and I in the front seat of my mom's Corvair. Even though we are in some kind of car seat, I do not see any buckles or harnesses and would bet money that those seats aren't attached to the car in any way.
"Um, hello? An object in motion tends to remain in motion so if you hit something mom, Trish and I are going flying."
In this next picture, my dad is participating in the ever popular balancing a baby on one hand.
"George, put her down, you're going to drop her!" "Oh calm down Patty, we've got a spare."
"Help, this cat is gonna sit on my head, suffocate me, and then eat me!"
Oh look, someone thought it would be funny to stick buckets on the helpless twins.
This? This right here? Explains a lot. And makes me wonder if alcohol was involved.
My mom died when I was eighteen so I love looking at old pictures of her. My mom would totally love this blog. If she were alive I'd let her guest blog and I'd post pictures of us doing crazy things. I can only hope there's Internet access in heaven and she has read my blog and is laughing her ass off. And if there's no Internet access in heaven then I don't want to go but if there's no wine in hell then I can't go there either so I'll go to heaven after all but if there's no Internet or wine in heaven then I want to be reincarnated immediately as a six foot tall Sports Illustrated supermodel and if that's not possible then freeze my head in one of those cryogenic thingies but someone please put vodka in there with me because when you wake me up I'm going to need alcohol because I'll be a head without a body and that's kinda fucked up.
As always, thanks in advance.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
I Think Yeti is Killing Animals in the 'hood
I know, I know, I've been MIA, and a totally shitty blogger (sorry Jules!) but I've been spinning my wheels and getting absofuckinglutely nowhere super busy keeping the offspring from killing each other and I haven't been able to find more than two consecutive minutes to sit on my ass in front of this computer and think up witty and clever anecdotes to publish on the Internet.
First of all, I spent days gathering up all the superfluous crap in our entire house so I could have a garage sale and then managed to lose money on it considering I paid $20 in advertising costs and only sold approximately $10 worth of our shit. Fail. I had hardly any customers which is why I will not have another garage sale until hell freezes over or all the Real Housewives remove their breast implants. And the only reason I decided to have a garage sale in the first place is because not all of our old furniture sold when I advertised it on craigslist and some of it was still taking up a bunch of room in the garage and I thought, "Hey, I'll unload this furniture and a bunch of our other crap and then our garage will be completely empty and sparkly clean and Dave will think I'm a goddess because he loves that fucking garage and will spend 45 minutes right before company is coming sweeping the floor because he totally gives a shit about where we keep our cars and our garbage can." But as of this posting our garage looks like the city dump and Dave's car is still not being parked inside it.
You're probably wondering what the hell any of this has to do with the Yeti, right? I'm getting to it, I promise.
And I know, I said I wasn't going to blog about Yeti anymore. I said I was going to remove all the posts under this label but I haven't. Because something happened last week that made me think being thrown in the slammer for writing about and then going all columbine on my neighbor might be totally worth it. So, yes, I'm going to continue writing whatever the hell I want about the Yeti but I won't be posting pictures because that seems to be more of the illegal part.
Seriously? I am pissed. And so mature that when I passed Yeti in her car today I made a face at her (but did not crash my car into hers on purpose so yay me!).
Here's what happened. The other day, my roving photojournalist in the 'hood's husband (they live on one side of The Yeti) told me they found a dead squinny in their yard (and for those of you who don't know, a squinny is what we call a ground squirrel here in Des Moines. I have no idea why). Then, a few days later, Lauren stumbled upon a dead raccoon in the yard of the neighbors on the other side of The Yeti.
A while ago it came to my attention that The Yeti believes there is some kind of mole infestation in her yard (though no one else in the 'hood, including us, has seen a mole). She set out huge traps that look kind of like mouse traps but bigger. While the traps are certainly disturbing enough, I also thought I remembered my roving photojournalist in the 'hood mentioning that the Yeti was using some sort of poison to killtrespassers moles but she's in Hawaii and doesn't have Internet right now so I have to wait until she gets back to see if the poison hypothesis is true or not. But, I find it unsettling that animals are totally falling over dead so the poison thing is probably true because the Yeti is like the poster child for neighborhood sociopaths, psychopaths crazy people.
Anyway, back to the dead raccoon. My neighbor, whose yard the raccoon was busy rigor mortising in, was not home so I called Animal Control and the Public Works department for her. Unfortunately, they will only remove dead animals if they're in the middle of the road or something. I was all "So what you're telling me is you won't come get it?" and they were all "No, not unless it's in a public area" and I was all "You know this probably encourages people to just throw dead animals in their trash cans" and they were all like "Uh huh." So, anyway, if something dies in your yard you are S.O.L. on disposal assistance. Just sayin'. I also wanted to call the regular police and the fashion police because right after Lauren discovered the raccoon I saw the Yeti lurking in her backyard and she was wearing a fugly pair of red pants and hello? That is just wrong.
Anyway, as soon as my roving photojournalist in the 'hood returns from Hawaii I am going to ask her about the poison and if I can prove that the Yeti is a serial animal killer I will be making some phone calls. I come from a long line of wildlifepreservationists, conservationists, fuck animal lovers! and I will not stand by and watch the crazy Yeti kill everything displaced by our urban sprawl.
And I am thisclose to doing something to the Yeti that might land me in the slammer and I'm going to need someone to bake me a cake with a file in it so I can bust myself out.
Someone? Anyone?
First of all, I spent days gathering up all the superfluous crap in our entire house so I could have a garage sale and then managed to lose money on it considering I paid $20 in advertising costs and only sold approximately $10 worth of our shit. Fail. I had hardly any customers which is why I will not have another garage sale until hell freezes over or all the Real Housewives remove their breast implants. And the only reason I decided to have a garage sale in the first place is because not all of our old furniture sold when I advertised it on craigslist and some of it was still taking up a bunch of room in the garage and I thought, "Hey, I'll unload this furniture and a bunch of our other crap and then our garage will be completely empty and sparkly clean and Dave will think I'm a goddess because he loves that fucking garage and will spend 45 minutes right before company is coming sweeping the floor because he totally gives a shit about where we keep our cars and our garbage can." But as of this posting our garage looks like the city dump and Dave's car is still not being parked inside it.
You're probably wondering what the hell any of this has to do with the Yeti, right? I'm getting to it, I promise.
And I know, I said I wasn't going to blog about Yeti anymore. I said I was going to remove all the posts under this label but I haven't. Because something happened last week that made me think being thrown in the slammer for writing about and then going all columbine on my neighbor might be totally worth it. So, yes, I'm going to continue writing whatever the hell I want about the Yeti but I won't be posting pictures because that seems to be more of the illegal part.
Seriously? I am pissed. And so mature that when I passed Yeti in her car today I made a face at her (but did not crash my car into hers on purpose so yay me!).
Here's what happened. The other day, my roving photojournalist in the 'hood's husband (they live on one side of The Yeti) told me they found a dead squinny in their yard (and for those of you who don't know, a squinny is what we call a ground squirrel here in Des Moines. I have no idea why). Then, a few days later, Lauren stumbled upon a dead raccoon in the yard of the neighbors on the other side of The Yeti.
A while ago it came to my attention that The Yeti believes there is some kind of mole infestation in her yard (though no one else in the 'hood, including us, has seen a mole). She set out huge traps that look kind of like mouse traps but bigger. While the traps are certainly disturbing enough, I also thought I remembered my roving photojournalist in the 'hood mentioning that the Yeti was using some sort of poison to kill
Anyway, back to the dead raccoon. My neighbor, whose yard the raccoon was busy rigor mortising in, was not home so I called Animal Control and the Public Works department for her. Unfortunately, they will only remove dead animals if they're in the middle of the road or something. I was all "So what you're telling me is you won't come get it?" and they were all "No, not unless it's in a public area" and I was all "You know this probably encourages people to just throw dead animals in their trash cans" and they were all like "Uh huh." So, anyway, if something dies in your yard you are S.O.L. on disposal assistance. Just sayin'. I also wanted to call the regular police and the fashion police because right after Lauren discovered the raccoon I saw the Yeti lurking in her backyard and she was wearing a fugly pair of red pants and hello? That is just wrong.
Anyway, as soon as my roving photojournalist in the 'hood returns from Hawaii I am going to ask her about the poison and if I can prove that the Yeti is a serial animal killer I will be making some phone calls. I come from a long line of wildlife
And I am thisclose to doing something to the Yeti that might land me in the slammer and I'm going to need someone to bake me a cake with a file in it so I can bust myself out.
Someone? Anyone?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Questions I'd Like to Ask the Producers at Bravo
You all know I love watching the Real Housewives on Bravo, right? I'm totally a fan and I love to hit play on the DVR just so I can see what those ladies have been up to. But as I watch the show, especially the latest installment (Real Housewives of NJ), I can't help but think of a few questions I'd like the Bravo producers to answer.
1. Exactly how many people will I have to sleep with to secure a spot on The Real Housewives of Dallas County (because seriously, would an Iowa installment be a total hoot or what?) I am comfortable sleeping with two Executive Producers, the head of casting, and maybe someone from craft services. But that's where I draw the line because I'm married.
2. Does at least one housewife per season need to have some kind of cosmetic procedure on camera? If so, I have been planning on having the twins hoisted but will gladly wait and have this done on a future episode. I don't care what you show, I just want new boobies and I want Bravo to pay for them.
3. In The Real Housewives of Atlanta, Bobblehead Kim with the bad weave is seen driving off in her convertible with a glass of chardonnay. If, on The Real Housewives of Dallas County, I decide to take my Ford Explorer for a spin around the 'hood, and I have a cosmopolitan between my legs, will Bravo post bail if I'm busted for DUI or am I "on my own."
4. Speaking of weaves, I have noticed that Theresa Guidice's hair also looks like a bad weave/wig. And have you noticed that she and Fergie have the same exact forehead (or lack thereof, actually). If Theresa is in fact wearing a wig, do you ever worry that it's on too tight and could explode off her head at any time and then land on the ground like a big scary black tarantula? Or is that just me?
5. I was slightly taken aback when Theresa Guidice of The Real Housewives of NJ said "blowjob" in a recent episode. I expect this from Samantha on Sex and The City but that's HBO and you, Bravo, are no HBO (but you are my favorite network, yay!). Does the FCC not care what the Real Housewives say on the air? This could be a real bonus for me as I have the worst potty mouth you've ever heard. Anyway, please explain the blowjob loophole. Also? Lately douchebag has become my favorite word. Can you say douchebag on TV? Thanks in advance.
6. Why in God's name would you send Theresa Guidice to that furniture store and have her buy all that stuff with a big stack of cash? Do you not realize that every single juvenile delinquent in Jersey now has plans to "roll" her when they see her walking down the street after dark? And then I read in People magazine that all the cash Theresa walks around with is fake. That's absurd. Why would you talk Theresa into doing something like that? She has three little girls and another baby on the way. Do you want her to get mugged just so you can promote the stereotype that wives of mafia dudes only carry cash?
7. Why does Bethanny Frankel get to constantly promote her skinny girl margaritas when the recipe is not original and is in fact right on the back of the cointreau bottle? You don't see me running around the 'hood promoting tipsy housewife cosmos now, do you? Yet my recipe for them is exactly the same as the one on the cointreau bottle, too. Is it just that easy to start up a brand? Do the Cointreau people not care? Am I the only one who has made this astute connection?
8. I recently ordered a Happy Wife Happy Life T-shirt from Theresa Guidice's web site (and a blinged out pink baseball cap with the same slogan - I am stylin'!). But, the shirt had a tear down the seam when it arrived so can you tell Theresa the workmanship at her sweat shop is "sub par" and also let her know I'm going to be contacting her to exchange the shirt.
9. Though this post is Theresa Guidice-centric, she is not actually my favorite housewife (although I like her just fine even though her T-shirts are crap). My favorite housewife from OC is Vicki or Jeana, my favorite from NY is Jill, and my favorite from NJ is Jacqueline (I don't like any of the Atlanta housewives because they are all whiny, gold-digging whores). Who is your favorite housewife and why? Who is the biggest pain in the ass? Who drives your ratings through the roof? Is it Danielle from NJ? I bet it is.
10. And finally, have any of the Real Housewives developed rampant alcoholism due to drinking all the time on your show? And do you think Lynne from OC smokes a lot of pot since she's really spacey and didn't know if her home had air conditioning in that one episode? I read that Vicki and Jeana were taking some kind of supplement to try to lose weight but do you think they might actually be dabbling in meth? As I mentioned previously, they are my favorite OC housewives so I hope not.
Anyway Bravo, if you get a minute, maybe you can write me back with the answers to my questions.
Thanks in advance,
Tracey (Bravo's biggest fan!)
1. Exactly how many people will I have to sleep with to secure a spot on The Real Housewives of Dallas County (because seriously, would an Iowa installment be a total hoot or what?) I am comfortable sleeping with two Executive Producers, the head of casting, and maybe someone from craft services. But that's where I draw the line because I'm married.
2. Does at least one housewife per season need to have some kind of cosmetic procedure on camera? If so, I have been planning on having the twins hoisted but will gladly wait and have this done on a future episode. I don't care what you show, I just want new boobies and I want Bravo to pay for them.
3. In The Real Housewives of Atlanta, Bobblehead Kim with the bad weave is seen driving off in her convertible with a glass of chardonnay. If, on The Real Housewives of Dallas County, I decide to take my Ford Explorer for a spin around the 'hood, and I have a cosmopolitan between my legs, will Bravo post bail if I'm busted for DUI or am I "on my own."
4. Speaking of weaves, I have noticed that Theresa Guidice's hair also looks like a bad weave/wig. And have you noticed that she and Fergie have the same exact forehead (or lack thereof, actually). If Theresa is in fact wearing a wig, do you ever worry that it's on too tight and could explode off her head at any time and then land on the ground like a big scary black tarantula? Or is that just me?
5. I was slightly taken aback when Theresa Guidice of The Real Housewives of NJ said "blowjob" in a recent episode. I expect this from Samantha on Sex and The City but that's HBO and you, Bravo, are no HBO (but you are my favorite network, yay!). Does the FCC not care what the Real Housewives say on the air? This could be a real bonus for me as I have the worst potty mouth you've ever heard. Anyway, please explain the blowjob loophole. Also? Lately douchebag has become my favorite word. Can you say douchebag on TV? Thanks in advance.
6. Why in God's name would you send Theresa Guidice to that furniture store and have her buy all that stuff with a big stack of cash? Do you not realize that every single juvenile delinquent in Jersey now has plans to "roll" her when they see her walking down the street after dark? And then I read in People magazine that all the cash Theresa walks around with is fake. That's absurd. Why would you talk Theresa into doing something like that? She has three little girls and another baby on the way. Do you want her to get mugged just so you can promote the stereotype that wives of mafia dudes only carry cash?
7. Why does Bethanny Frankel get to constantly promote her skinny girl margaritas when the recipe is not original and is in fact right on the back of the cointreau bottle? You don't see me running around the 'hood promoting tipsy housewife cosmos now, do you? Yet my recipe for them is exactly the same as the one on the cointreau bottle, too. Is it just that easy to start up a brand? Do the Cointreau people not care? Am I the only one who has made this astute connection?
8. I recently ordered a Happy Wife Happy Life T-shirt from Theresa Guidice's web site (and a blinged out pink baseball cap with the same slogan - I am stylin'!). But, the shirt had a tear down the seam when it arrived so can you tell Theresa the workmanship at her sweat shop is "sub par" and also let her know I'm going to be contacting her to exchange the shirt.
9. Though this post is Theresa Guidice-centric, she is not actually my favorite housewife (although I like her just fine even though her T-shirts are crap). My favorite housewife from OC is Vicki or Jeana, my favorite from NY is Jill, and my favorite from NJ is Jacqueline (I don't like any of the Atlanta housewives because they are all whiny, gold-digging whores). Who is your favorite housewife and why? Who is the biggest pain in the ass? Who drives your ratings through the roof? Is it Danielle from NJ? I bet it is.
10. And finally, have any of the Real Housewives developed rampant alcoholism due to drinking all the time on your show? And do you think Lynne from OC smokes a lot of pot since she's really spacey and didn't know if her home had air conditioning in that one episode? I read that Vicki and Jeana were taking some kind of supplement to try to lose weight but do you think they might actually be dabbling in meth? As I mentioned previously, they are my favorite OC housewives so I hope not.
Anyway Bravo, if you get a minute, maybe you can write me back with the answers to my questions.
Thanks in advance,
Tracey (Bravo's biggest fan!)
Friday, July 10, 2009
Flashback Friday - Shit I Wore That I Thought Made Me Look Really Hawt
Back in my single days, getting ready to head out on the town with my girlfriends was almost as much fun as deciding what bar we'd be trolling around in. We tried very hard to select the perfect outfit to help us land Mr. Right (or at the very least, maybe a temporary overnight boyfriend).
One of my favorite articles of clothing was this red cardigan although I have no idea why since nothing screams "I'm about as sexy as a librarian" quite like a cardigan. My only regret? That I don't have a picture of me wearing the cardigan with my red stirrup pants and red flats. That cardigan was not a man magnet at all but that didn't stop me from wearing it all the time.
Here's a picture of my roommate Janice rockin' the cardigan. I don't think either of us ever picked up a single dude while wearing it.
Next is the off the shoulder black sweater. I wore it no matter how hot or cold it was outside and I loved it. Why I would pair it with black bike shorts and black slingbacks I have no idea. Ditto for posing on a bathroom counter in a bar. Alcohol may have been involved.
I added black wayfarers to the sweater for extra hotness.
After I met Dave I moved on to something I'll call "the blazer years." I swear I had at least ten blazers and you would never see me not wearing one of them. This is the blazer I was wearing the night I met Dave (thus proving that proper outfit selection will in fact eventually land you a husband). I loved this blazer and wore it all the time.
Here I am wearing it again. Dave and I are singing "Afternoon Delight" at Karaoke back when he still used to sing with me.
Next up is the mustard blazer. It was a favorite from approximately 1992-1994. Check out Dave's shirt. I hadn't started dressing him yet.
I still have my favorite outfits although now I tend to choose them based on weight fluctuations and how hot or cold it is outside. I'm partial to black and white worn together and I also like khaki and black. And I love my chunky silver Silpada jewelry although ten years ago I would have worn only gold.
What was your favorite outfit? The one you wore all the time and loaned to your girlfrieds. The one that made you feel HAWT.
I know you had one.
One of my favorite articles of clothing was this red cardigan although I have no idea why since nothing screams "I'm about as sexy as a librarian" quite like a cardigan. My only regret? That I don't have a picture of me wearing the cardigan with my red stirrup pants and red flats. That cardigan was not a man magnet at all but that didn't stop me from wearing it all the time.
Here's a picture of my roommate Janice rockin' the cardigan. I don't think either of us ever picked up a single dude while wearing it.
Next is the off the shoulder black sweater. I wore it no matter how hot or cold it was outside and I loved it. Why I would pair it with black bike shorts and black slingbacks I have no idea. Ditto for posing on a bathroom counter in a bar. Alcohol may have been involved.
I added black wayfarers to the sweater for extra hotness.
After I met Dave I moved on to something I'll call "the blazer years." I swear I had at least ten blazers and you would never see me not wearing one of them. This is the blazer I was wearing the night I met Dave (thus proving that proper outfit selection will in fact eventually land you a husband). I loved this blazer and wore it all the time.
Here I am wearing it again. Dave and I are singing "Afternoon Delight" at Karaoke back when he still used to sing with me.
Next up is the mustard blazer. It was a favorite from approximately 1992-1994. Check out Dave's shirt. I hadn't started dressing him yet.
I still have my favorite outfits although now I tend to choose them based on weight fluctuations and how hot or cold it is outside. I'm partial to black and white worn together and I also like khaki and black. And I love my chunky silver Silpada jewelry although ten years ago I would have worn only gold.
What was your favorite outfit? The one you wore all the time and loaned to your girlfrieds. The one that made you feel HAWT.
I know you had one.
Monday, June 29, 2009
How I've Spent My Last Two Weekends
Remember in this post I said I might not always have time to come up with clever and funny blog entries this summer? That self fulfilling prophecy has turned out to be true because I find it almost impossible to construct a single sentence with all the fighting and attempting to beat the crap out of each other that starts the minute the offspring wake up which forces me to constantly get up off my chair and put the hammer down on one of them (It's also why I had to suspend my "no drinking during the week" rule because if it were not for alcohol, I would slowly go cuckoo insane). So remember how I said I might just post about what I've been up to so my readers (and you seventeen people know who you are) wouldn't click on the 'don't follow' button and leave me in the dust?
This is one of those posts. And just so you know, my behavior and maturity level is sometimes akin to that of a seventeen year old boy (but I have a shitload of fun wherever I go so deal).
We kicked off the weekend of June 19th celebrating my neighbor Lisa's birthday with a bunch of friends from the 'hood.
We started off at Clive after Five which is an outdoor drinking thing in the 'burb where I live. It was kinda lame and I think the turnout was low because there'd been a big rainstorm earlier in the day and maybe people thought they'd melt or something. Wussies. We still showed up and had a great time. Later we re-located to a bar super close to the 'hood where we sang Karaoke for the next several hours. Despite my constant badgering, Dave refused to sing "Afternoon Delight" with me like he used to when we were dating. I sang "Let Me Be There" by Olivia Newton John and then Julie and I sang "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and "Convoy." Yes, really. We pretty much had the bar and the microphones to ourselves because the place was dead. We finished up the night with all of us singing Madonna's "Material Girl."
I took a picture of this girl while we were at the Clive after Five festival because I thought she was a perfect example of what not to wear EVER.
My friend Janice was in town and she came to visit Dave and me the next night. Here's a picture of us after we'd been drinking on the patio for uh, a while. Check out our shiny Chardonnay eyes.
It was super hot here in Iowa so I put together a buffet of cold food and made sure there was a bottle of wine in the ice bucket on the table in front of us at all times. I would have taken a picture of all the empty bottles and posted it here on this blog but there were so many of them I was embarrassed (♫ they tried to make us go to rehab but we said, no, no, no......♪).
Janice wanted me to make crack dip because she had never had it. She loved it so much we actually had it again for breakfast the next day, along with some leftover chicken salad from the night before. Side note: Even though I did reach my goal of losing 25 lbs. on WW (25.5 to be exact) back in April, my diet the last six weeks has included a frightening amount of cream cheese, mayonnaise, guacamole, and alcohol and now I'm too skeered to step on the scale because I'm afraid the spring on it will explode with a big boing! I totally plan on addressing this problem and getting back on track but not until after the fourth of July holiday weekend.
I gave Janice a jar of Archer Farms roasted pineapple and habenero dip to take with her, along with the recipe for crack dip. The following paragraph is an excerpt from an e-mail I received from Janice after she got home:
At least Janice was wise enough not to tangle with the TSA. Trish, not so much.
This weekend we kicked off the night by attending a friend's birthday party at a bar up the street. My friend Stacy has been in town for her annual visit to Iowa to see her family and she, Amy, Trish, Dave, and I headed out to see what kind of trouble we could get in.
Somehow my shoe broke and Amy tried to McGyver a solution out of dental floss and a buffalo wing stained napkin. Fail. I'd rather go barefoot.
They were giving out plastic cups at the bar for everyone at the birthday party to write their names on. Just so you know, we are not grown up enough to have beer and a sharpie at the same time. And if you left your plastic cup unattended on the table when you went to the bathroom, upon your return there would most definitely be some dirty words written in big, black, permanent capital letters (cock gobbler being my favorite). I never let my glass out of my sight but I did write "Princess" under my name because it sounded much prettier than some of the other words.
That's all I've got for today. I'm still working on some other posts so hopefully I'll have something to put on this blog later in the week.
P.S. Sandy the Yeti walked by her sliding glass door while we were out on our patio Saturday night. In a nightgown. Shudder.
This is one of those posts. And just so you know, my behavior and maturity level is sometimes akin to that of a seventeen year old boy (but I have a shitload of fun wherever I go so deal).
We kicked off the weekend of June 19th celebrating my neighbor Lisa's birthday with a bunch of friends from the 'hood.
We started off at Clive after Five which is an outdoor drinking thing in the 'burb where I live. It was kinda lame and I think the turnout was low because there'd been a big rainstorm earlier in the day and maybe people thought they'd melt or something. Wussies. We still showed up and had a great time. Later we re-located to a bar super close to the 'hood where we sang Karaoke for the next several hours. Despite my constant badgering, Dave refused to sing "Afternoon Delight" with me like he used to when we were dating. I sang "Let Me Be There" by Olivia Newton John and then Julie and I sang "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and "Convoy." Yes, really. We pretty much had the bar and the microphones to ourselves because the place was dead. We finished up the night with all of us singing Madonna's "Material Girl."
I took a picture of this girl while we were at the Clive after Five festival because I thought she was a perfect example of what not to wear EVER.
My friend Janice was in town and she came to visit Dave and me the next night. Here's a picture of us after we'd been drinking on the patio for uh, a while. Check out our shiny Chardonnay eyes.
It was super hot here in Iowa so I put together a buffet of cold food and made sure there was a bottle of wine in the ice bucket on the table in front of us at all times. I would have taken a picture of all the empty bottles and posted it here on this blog but there were so many of them I was embarrassed (♫ they tried to make us go to rehab but we said, no, no, no......♪).
Janice wanted me to make crack dip because she had never had it. She loved it so much we actually had it again for breakfast the next day, along with some leftover chicken salad from the night before. Side note: Even though I did reach my goal of losing 25 lbs. on WW (25.5 to be exact) back in April, my diet the last six weeks has included a frightening amount of cream cheese, mayonnaise, guacamole, and alcohol and now I'm too skeered to step on the scale because I'm afraid the spring on it will explode with a big boing! I totally plan on addressing this problem and getting back on track but not until after the fourth of July holiday weekend.
I gave Janice a jar of Archer Farms roasted pineapple and habenero dip to take with her, along with the recipe for crack dip. The following paragraph is an excerpt from an e-mail I received from Janice after she got home:
P.S. That fucking TSA whore took your jar of shit for the crack dip. I knew I was taking a chance but I thought hey, what can they possibly think I am doing with this? But, I also didn't want it breaking in my suitcase since it's glass. She better hope that I can get that stuff at my target!!!!
At least Janice was wise enough not to tangle with the TSA. Trish, not so much.
This weekend we kicked off the night by attending a friend's birthday party at a bar up the street. My friend Stacy has been in town for her annual visit to Iowa to see her family and she, Amy, Trish, Dave, and I headed out to see what kind of trouble we could get in.
Somehow my shoe broke and Amy tried to McGyver a solution out of dental floss and a buffalo wing stained napkin. Fail. I'd rather go barefoot.
They were giving out plastic cups at the bar for everyone at the birthday party to write their names on. Just so you know, we are not grown up enough to have beer and a sharpie at the same time. And if you left your plastic cup unattended on the table when you went to the bathroom, upon your return there would most definitely be some dirty words written in big, black, permanent capital letters (cock gobbler being my favorite). I never let my glass out of my sight but I did write "Princess" under my name because it sounded much prettier than some of the other words.
That's all I've got for today. I'm still working on some other posts so hopefully I'll have something to put on this blog later in the week.
P.S. Sandy the Yeti walked by her sliding glass door while we were out on our patio Saturday night. In a nightgown. Shudder.
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