Phobias, Disorders & Delusions‏

I am a gal who is afraid of many things, and not all of them are rational. My deepest fear of being attacked by leeches is, perhaps, a little farfetched considering I can’t recall a time I ever swam in murky water. My unrelenting belief that I will someday have my throat slit by a serial killer who is hiding in my closet (yes, my fears are that specific) sprung out of nowhere and has hung around for years now. And my terror at seeing a roach is nonsensical given that fact that, except for being gross, I’m not sure they can even harm you. Yes, I am startled easily by a great many things, but one fear I’ve never possessed is that of spiders.

Until now.

This sudden onset on arachnophobia popped up last night when I was home alone (just like that time GAR was out of town and I was left to battle an army of thousands of flying ants all on my own) and I saw something moving across the living room floor. At first glance I thought it was a lizard, they do get into the house from time to time, simply due to the size of this monster. But soon I realized that it didn’t move like a lizard … didn’t have the body of a lizard … and, in fact, it had 8 hairy legs (though, to be fair, the front 2 were significantly more huge … and those bad boys were chomping like crab claws … so to call it merely a “spider” seems like a gross understatement of its abilities). No, until that moment a spider never phased me. But, then again, I had never seen one this large that wasn’t on display in an exhibit next to a sign that reads something along the lines of “World’s Biggest Giant Amazon Spider!!!” And this one was not only on the loose, it was running free in my home (darting beneath my couch to be specific).

I was pretty brave at first. I tried to kill it on my own. But it was too fast. Plus I think my panicked shrieking gave it a good indication that there wasn’t time to stick around and hang out. And the venomous villain ran off to parts unknown. When GAR finally got home (3 painful, me hiding in the “safe zone” spider-free bunker I constructed in my bedroom, hours later) the spider could not be located. Conveniently GAR was able to shirk his main manly fiancé bug-killing duty yet again. And yet, this isn’t over. I will not (and have not been able to) rest since I first witnessed the beast. I tossed and turned all night, and jerked awake with every tiny breeze of air that hit me. After another sleep-deprived search turned up nothing this morning, I managed to have a mini-breakdown when GAR suggested that, perhaps, Hank (that’s what we’ve named the spider) simply slipped back out of the house the same way he came in (this response not only struck me as a ludicrous attempt to pacify my fears, but also begged the question – if a spider the size of my head can get into the house in the first place, isn’t there some sort of security breach we should be solving here?) 

While clearly the size of this spider is growing with each story I tell about him, I still don’t think that GAR is truly grasping what we’re dealing with here. This is a slightly skinnier cousin of the tarantula, who moves at super speeds, was able to get past the heavy duty pest control layer we put around the house a few weeks ago and who, in my mind anyway, can scale tall buildings in a single bound. Finally GAR did humor me by constructing a makeshift “safe distance spider catcher” (pictured here), but I’m sure a mutant beast such as Hank could easily get past such feeble traps (not to mention that GAR used the lid from my cake stand as the “trapping” device – ewww ... I’ll have to throw it away now).

No, GAR is not truly threatened by this 8-legged freak, but he also hasn’t yet seen what we’re dealing with here. Oh sure, he called me today in a panic about a road block he encountered on the way to the house because the cops all were sporting machine guns – “What if the person they’re looking for is in our house?” he cried. “I’m fine with him hiding out in our closet as long as he kills Hank while he’s here” was my reply. And I know that I’m not the only one who’s nervous – our smallest dog, Munchkin, has developed a bad case of trichotillomania. Yes, he’s started pulling out his own hair. His poor tail is practically bald. GAR has diagnosed him (see, this is the beauty of living with a counselor – he has “And how does this make you feel?” therapy sessions with the dogs) with OCD. See, the pup is anxious – and I know why. A giant spider is tormenting him.

It affects us all, and Hank must be killed. And, unlike Osama, I’m going to need to see the body to believe he’s really dead. Thank goodness I’m going to Vegas this weekend because I don’t know how much longer I can stay in this deathtrap of a vermin-infested home. But, until then, I’m making GAR check every chair before I sit down, inspect the shower before I step inside, shake out my clothes before I put them on and repeatedly bang on my shoes before I dare to put my precious little piggies inside. And I’ll just keep typing this with 5 shaky fingers while I sip a glass or Merlot with my other trembling hand … just until I make it to Vegas.

See you next week!

Living With An American Idol

I am not a morning person.

When my alarm goes off in the morning it is a frantic battle to pound it into submission. I’ll do whatever it takes – many times with ruthless, angry force – to stop that incessant beeping. I curse at the world and drag my lifeless body from bed and into the shower in a vain, pointless attempt to wake myself up. Despite my best efforts my eyes remain half open and my movements are slow going as I pour coffee into my “Mornings are Ruff” mug that GAR made for me (it features photos of him and the dogs – he loves bad puns). Generally it takes me a good 45 minutes to really, truly start waking up, at which point I inevitably realize that I’ve been moving too slowly and now I’m going to be late for work. A mad dash to finish up commences and I jump into the car in a cranky mood and already feeling behind.

The same lack of enthusiasm for the morning hours does not apply to my beloved. No, in fact, he’s downright perky in the morning. If I can be so bold I would even say he is too perky. I’ve told you before about his passion for music, despite his inability to get the lyrics right, and most often his chipper morning attitude is expressed through song as well. It is not uncommon for me to be serenaded by all number of musical interludes in the morning, and sometimes he even enhances the songs through the use music, which he provides via guitar, bongos, maracas and even a kazoo. He talks at length about other instruments he would like to add to his collection and, while I do enjoy a nice, melodic lullaby while sipping on a nightcap in the evening, it is these morning jam sessions that I appreciate a little less than I should. 

As I am sluggishly stumbling my way through my morning routine I am constantly aware of GAR’s movements … and his melodies. Sometimes they are original ditties he makes up on the spot. Other times they are popular songs, though more often than not he changes their lyrics and turns them into parodies (his favorite morning singing topics include odes to the dogs, songs about my current activities, a brief rundown of what he has planned for the day, and the days of the week, a-la Rebecca Black “Friday” style, though it can, really, be any number of topics that pop into his head that morning). But, while the singing alone would be cute, charming even, if I wasn’t half asleep and grumpy, the hardest part to navigate is the dancing that accompanies his ditties. Ah yes, the dancing. Dancing in front of me as I try to make my way to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Dancing behind me as I brush my teeth. Dancing like Bill Cosby every time the “Weather on the 1’s” music plays on TV. Dancing kick-line style while holding one of the dogs and moving his paws into a matching kick-line formation. And, of course, his signature move – jazz hands – which he uses to end every musical number (often he spins me around or jumps in my path to ensure that I catch the end of said performance). Yes, it is the dancing that most often blocks my path when trying to maneuver through the house during my morning primping.

I guess this is one of the hazards of marrying a wannabe rock star – for every bit of musical genius I enjoy I endure a few hundred mornings of poorly rhymed, halfway executed, jazz hands accompanied, less-than-masterpieces. And, despite my half-open eyelids and surly a.m. demeanor, I enjoy every minute of it … later … you know, after I’ve left the house and I’m driving into work with a full stomach thanks to the eggs GAR cheerfully made for me while performing his rendition of the “scrambled baby chickens” song (or whatever melody he constructed that morning). And when I wake up enough to appreciate how fun it is to live with him it always make me smile and, of course, laugh.

Keeping It Real In The Land Of Make Believe‏

It’s a good thing our neighborhood doesn’t have an HOA or else we’d be up to our eyeballs in fines and threatening letters by now. Not only did we paint our home and erect a fence without anyone’s approval, we’ve let our lawn stay dead as a doornail. Oh sure, there’s some weeds that have staked their claim on our real estate, but not much else is willing or able to grow in our sandbox of a yard. To be fair though, we inherited it this way. It had terrible curb appeal when we bought it and not much has changed since then. Since we have so many projects to work on indoors – you know, where we primarily do our living – we’ve put off this outdoor endeavor thus far (prioritizing is key when your “to do” list spans several pages and your pocketbook contains only the lint-covered pennies you found wedged between your seat cushions). But now that we’ve redone the pool and (partially) repainted the exterior of the house we’re starting to yearn for a yard that’s more aesthetically pleasing as well.

But it’s not just a simple matter of resodding. Before we can do that we need an irrigation system. Those of you who are sitting in pretty new houses probably think that all homes just come with built-in sprinkler systems (I know I did). But old ones, like mine, are generally devoid of such luxuries. And, let me tell you, spending all day moving hoses and leaky watering contraptions around your yard, hoping you hit all the key spots without getting yourself drenched in the process, is hard enough in northern states where yard care is merely a summertime duty. But in Florida, where the heat is such that you really should do this 3-4 times a week year round, more in the brutally vicious summer months (which last from March-October), it’s downright impossible. My neighbors who have great lawns all spent thousands to install irrigation systems (and they don’t have dogs – the biggest lawn killers out there). The ones who didn’t have one installed have lawns like mine – sandy pits with the occasional tumbleweed blowing through it (okay, maybe not tumbleweeds per se, but you get the old timey Western picture – it’s pretty barren). Plus we have long periods of drought, and the county limits your water consumption. Water on the wrong day and you could get a hefty fine. Water on only the days they allow – your grass won’t make it.

Forget grass – we’ve barely been able to keep the orange tree we plated alive. We lost the avocado tree pretty early on (and with it went my fantasies of coming home to fresh-made guacamole every day. Oh yeah, it’s also important to point out that in my fantasies this tree would have a never-ending supply of avocados. How foolish those hopes proved to be). It’s just too hard to outdo the heat with enough water to keep them going. And our soil is worthless. I’m not sure what grows in sand (other than cactus, and our neighbor does have a nice one of those. It seems a little prickly for my taste though. And, frankly, since I’ve never seen him wear a shirt – Not once …. Not ever – I don’t know how he hasn’t seriously injured himself with those sticky barbs coming so close to exposed flesh). I have a feeling that even if we install an irrigation system we’d need to do some serious fertilizing and tilling (I’ve never tilled but it seems like the type of thing you do to make soil usable) and who knows what else before we could get the sod to “stick.” Not that I don’t think we can do it. We are rather crafty (and really, really good at Googling “how to” guides). Though when Dad suggested installing the in-ground sprinklers ourselves to save money I did laugh at the suggestion. While I’m sure we’re capable, I don’t think any of us has the knowledge required to wire the whole thing up to an automatic timer box – I can’t even teach Dad how to use my DVR, so let’s leave the wiring to the electricians, okay? And having an automated system is kind of the whole point of all this.

And then, ever after we’ve weeded, installed, wired, tilled, fertilized, sodded, and generally toiled for weeks on end (followed by years of mowing and upkeep), we then reach the main problem – the lawns that fare best in Florida have St. Augustine grass.

In my youth I would run barefoot through the yard, letting the soft blades of grass whisk between my toes. I’d lay on my back and run my hands over it, letting it gently tickle my palm. I’d frolic in it, enjoy a picnic, plop down beneath a tree so I could read in it (okay, so maybe I mostly sat inside and watched TV, but I COULD have done these things if I desired). But, in Florida, you can’t do these things. Just try frolicking in St. Augustine grass – it’s like running over sharp blades of … well … blades. One million tiny daggers poke into your feet. It’s not springy or soft – it’s rigid and piercing. And no one – not even the most fearless child I know – wants to get anywhere near it. Instead jungle gyms and playgrounds are built on wood chips or, better yet, rubbery synthetic surfaces. Because, trust me, you don’t want your kids falling and landing on St. Augustine grass – they’ll poke their eye out with it!

The places with the best grass in Orlando are the theme parks. They have lush expanses of expensive, constantly tended to and extensively watered gardens that look gorgeous but are never tread upon (not that you would want to) by human or canine paws. For your average homeowner, even those who spend hours each week dedicated to keeping up with all of their many lawn needs, this is not attainable (or affordable). And, while the land of make believe might be able to keep it real (the grass anyway) I have to admit that I’ve been considering another option – artificial sod. Not exactly the kind you find in ballparks, but the same general idea. Except this stuff looks more “real.” It even has brown pieces mixed in to help with the authenticity factor (though it’s very “green” in the eco aspect of things … it’s like bringing a reusable bag to the grocery store – just on a bigger scale). And why not? You never need to mow it. Or water it for that matter (except maybe an occasional hosing off). And you can walk on it. Play on it. Touch it without fear of needing a band-aid. And while the upfront cost is high, I’m guessing the ROI is pretty decent. After all, how much more expensive can it be than installing an irrigation system, resodding and watering a few times per week (no really – I don’t know. How much more expensive is it? That is the main question I need to answer)?

One of my friends is having some artificial lawn installed now (he’s even having some putting greens put in and, I gotta say, that is pretty sweet) and I can’t wait to check it out in person. If I like it I might be sold (at a future date TBD when I can actually afford it, of course). Our biggest dog, Mustache, sure will miss the dirt we’ve got now though. His new favorite hobby is rolling around in it and then bringing it back into the house with him and depositing it on the path between his dog door and the living room (I’ve considered somehow attaching a Dirt Devil to his tail so he can be at least somewhat self cleaning but I’ve run into some technical issues with this plan). And both the dogs have brought fleas and ticks into the house with them that had been hiding, waiting for prey, in whatever brownish brush is still living in our backyard. Between the nearly daily doggie baths, constant vacuuming and regular flea bombing of our living spaces I’m practically running a full-time grooming salon out of my house. Lemme see that faux grass brochure again – how quickly can they be here to install it?

Here's a sample of what the frass (fake grass) looks like. Not bad for plastic.

Shock and Owww

I’m pooped. Tuckered out. Knackered (as the British would say … but I’m trying to get it to catch on here as well). In other words – Beat.

But, most of all, I’m sore.

The mere strength required to accurately peck at these wretched keys right now is taking the rest of the energy right out of me. So I’ll try to keep this one brief. But, come now, we both know I’m lying – I’ve never been brief a day in my life.

Now, it’s true, I always live a pretty hectic life. Not chasing after 6 kids in addition to working full-time at the rock quarry lifting boulders all day exhausting perhaps, but relatively action-packed for a childless desk worker anyway. But it’s not my normal, fairly active, lifestyle that’s got me so zonked (another word we really should work into conversation more often). No, what’s left me looking like a lifeless rag doll (much like the time I drugged my fiancé, GAR) is my new fitness routine. I’ve already explained that, despite running 40 miles, jumping over fire, slithering under barbed wire, scaling cargo nets, clamoring over top of cars Vin Diesel style, and completing numerous athletic feats a mere 4 months ago, I am not such a fit individual as it may seem like I should be in theory. But, as of late anyway, I’m trying to rectify that.

I suppose it’s a normal thing for a bride-to-be to spend a little more time and effort on getting into shape prior to her wedding, but I actually have a more immediate plan for all this effort – I’m going to Vegas in less than 2 weeks for a girl’s weekend. Now, yes, you are right in thinking that I want to look good for this trip. Of course I do. But my main concern is more financial than physical. Or, to be more accurate, I can’t afford not to be fit for this trip. You see, all my cute clothing was purchased 5-10 pounds ago and I neither have the time nor the money to go hunting for new party clothes that fit my current waistline. Mostly it’s the money. I don’t get all dolled up that often and so buying a whole new wardrobe of party clothes when I’m already on a tight “saving for the wedding and honeymoon” budget just isn’t an option. So I have to fit into the gently used ones I’ve already got laying around, waiting to be worn and loved.

But I clearly left the whole healthy living thing to the very last minute. Not even the prospect of running into Justin Timberlake could motivate me. I have been eating right (mostly) but now I’m having to make up for lost time in the gym. I did try … I met with a personal trainer from Belarus but I don’t think he got it. When I told him I wanted to be toned but not have big, Xena Warrior Princess style muscles he said “I do not know what this means.” Even after explaining, he said “No, I mean, I do not understand why you would not want big muscles. Must have big muscles.” Okay, but I’d rather have a neck … and veins that stay properly underneath my skin without popping out to the surface … and the ability for people to clearly identify me as a woman, even from far distances. And so he didn’t get the job of training me. I left that task to myself. And apparently I’m really bad at this. My workout routine has previously just consisted of running. Long distance running, but still – it’s not getting the job done. My muscles have adapted, conformed, hit a plateau – more accurately, they have muscle memory. Like a 64-year-old man who’s a week away from retirement, my muscles are just going through the motions. They stopped working for me and have reached their resting pace. So I figure the solution is to challenge them. To knock them out of their ho-hum routine and turn them into fighters. I want to transform that muscle memory into muscle confusion.

And so I’ve been working hard to confuse the crap out of them. Cycling, yoga, weightlifting, Latin dance, running, circuit training, martial arts (see I don’t need big Russian muscles to be tough – I just need to learn a good roundhouse kick), swimming – you name it. My muscles have been given a massive jump start out of hibernation, and they are confused. How do I know? Because I can barely walk. They are so kerfuffled (please, if you pick just one underutilized word to bring back into fashion, let it be this one) they can barely keep my legs walking. And forget the stairs (though I take them anyway – it’s all part of the massive mind game I’m playing on my thighs). But no matter how wiped out … no matter how much I ache … I will continue my shock and owww war tactics on my body with the hope that someday (preferably prior to Memorial Day Weekend) I’ll be shocked and awed by how well my clothing fits. And, if not, bring on those oversized Vegas buffets!

The Zebra on the Cul-De-Sac

Sherwin Williams is a liar!

Okay, so really it’s Behr paint I’m using, but I think all those companies could do a better job with those little paint swatches you pick up from the store. Because, come on, that “sage green” we picked for painting our house is anything but – it looks more like a dull tan now that it’s actually up on our exterior walls. And, while that color looks okay, it wasn’t really what we were going for here. But, of course I’ll leave it this way because we’re already 2/3 a 5-gallon bucket into painting this beast and there’s no turning back now – we just have to live with it looking this way for the next 5-10 years (and hopefully by then we’ll have the money saved up to just pay someone to paint it for us … hopefully).

It really is my fault. I did buy a little sample can first and tried it out before I committed to the whole bucket. And, yes, I did think the color wasn’t quite right when I painted on the sample. But it didn’t seem so very different, and it had taken Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) and I ages to agree on that color in the first place so I really didn’t want to go back to the drawing board. Besides, I’m generally so good at this whole color selection thing (the “porpoise”-colored dining room disaster aside).

And, okay, let’s face it – I was eager to paint my house anything, ANYTHING, other than the baby blue and teal it was previously.

So we’ve been forging on – GAR with his bad back and me with my unwillingness to do manual labor (especially in this heat) – and working our way through our bucket o’ paint. And, while we have made some progress, it feels like we still have a lot to do (GAR, on the other hand, keeps saying “we’re almost done!” which I think is simply further proof of the delusion he puts into every task. A week … no, maybe a month … from now he’ll be saying “this is taking longer than I thought.” I’ll try to hold back on the “I told you so” – “try” being the operative word here). What makes things worse is that this weekend has been rainy. Yesterday we made it indoors before the rain hit but, still, GAR spent the whole afternoon fretting that the rain was washing away all our hard work. As if that would really make matters worse – after all, our house is sort of the zebra on the cul-de-sac. Meaning, of course, that right now the whole thing is striped mess. Blocks of greenish tan next to sections that are still baby blue. The doors are still teal but we did manage to paint our shutters charcoal (though you can still see bits of teal poking through – a few more coats are needed). And the trim is a sloppy mess of dirty white and all the other colors mingled in as well. Okay, so maybe it’s not simply black and white (actually, zebras are technically brown and white, or so I hear every time I visit the zoo), so my house looks more like that multi colored zebra from that horrible Chico’s commercial (you know the one? It has, seriously, the worst clothing featured in it. And then it shows this monstrosity at the end – as if some poor, maligned animal a selling point?)

Okay, so that’s not the actual zebra from the commercial, but you get the point – my house is a hodgepodge of colors, and progress is slow-going. And, at some point, GAR has to get up on the roof to paint the chimney and some otherwise hard-to-reach spots. He keeps threatening to do it while I’m off at work one day. Yes, because a guy with a thrown-out back should really be climbing onto the roof without any supervision. I’m picturing a Chevy Chase-style spill that will leave him dangling from the roof’s edge, caught on a hook he hung in December for our Christmas lights, keeping him stranded until I make it home from work that day. Not a good idea. Of course, I guess I could spare him the physical hardship and do it myself. After all, I have no injuries to speak of – yet. But, come on, we all know that’s not going to happen. In the immortal words of Meatloaf, I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that (I’m guessing there are probably a few other things I wouldn’t do as well, but for now these lyrics will suffice).

But I do wish GAR well. Not only in scaling the roof, but also in working on this project without me in general. I’ve got work M-F (unlike him) and then I’m out of town the next few weekends. And, since he thinks this project is nearly done, he should have no problem at all finishing it without me. Piece of cake, right? I look forward to seeing the finished product!

Here's GAR painting. He looks like a total pro. I am confident that he can take it from here! 

I really think the zebra look is working for us ... maybe we should just leave it this way? (p.s. faux columns by the door - I'm coming for you too!)

The “Real” Cupcake Wars

Cupcakes are sooo 2009! Or else that’s what I’d like to say to that snooty cupcake queen sitting on her high horse anyway. And, unlike my other battle-related post about DJ selections, which I carefully altered in order to let the disc jockey we didn’t pick have complete anonymity, I have no problem at all calling this cupcake diva out by name … but I won’t. Still, those of you familiar with popular cupcakeries in the area will likely know who I’m talking about. But let me backtrack a little first.

Five years ago I never ordered dessert when I went out to eat. As delicious as those sugary treats looked, it was hard to imagine finishing off an entire brownie sundae on my own after just completing a full dinner. Splitting with someone also could prove challenging depending on hunger levels and sweet tooth preferences. Plus the inflated price tag left much to be desired. Then came the era of the mini desserts served in shot glasses. Suddenly dessert was not only cheap, but also properly portioned. While those are still prevalent on menus, the emergence of cupcake shops boomed onto the scene a few years ago, taking over bakery retail space and quickly became the new “it” dessert. And they’re still booming, though I would argue that the crest of that wave has likely peaked. In my neighborhood at least the new thing is frozen yogurt. I have 5 FroYo shops within 5 minutes of my house. All with a bevy of flavor selections and make-it-yourself topping bars (which is what distinguishes it from the TCBY craze of the 90s I suppose), and distinct fans and followings for each brand’s taste. Yes, yogurt is the new cupcake. And soon something else will be the new yogurt. And with each new craze I think the cupcake’s popularity will lose a little steam. Because, well, that’s how trends work.

I talked a lot about food trends when it came to selecting our wedding menu. And so it’s no wonder we put the same amount of thought into choosing the cake that would be served at the end of this meal. There’s only one problem – neither my fiancé, GAR, nor I especially like cake (and don’t even get me started on my disdain for pie – yuck). And, while I have had some decent wedding cake, I generally find it to be too dry. After all, it was made in large quantities, sometimes days in advance, and then left to sit out in a hot room for hours on end. But, while I would be fine substituting this fondant covered wedding staple for a dessert of another type, I know well enough that people expect cake. And it’s not enough to just say “Let them eat cake!” No, they also expect it to be on display… to take photos of it… to gawk at it… to see you cut it… to see if you shove it angrily in each other’s face (a tradition that continues to puzzle me).

Initially GAR and I decided to serve one kind of cake we do actually enjoy – cheesecake. But apparently it’s not only too unstable to stack, it also has to stay refrigerated up until it’s served, making it an undesirable option for an event such as ours. GAR then lobbied for a cake shaped like a guitar, which I’m sure would be perfectly constructed by the Cake Boss or some other TV baker. But, after pouring over countless examples featured in the portfolios of our local bakers (who do not have their own reality television shows) we learned just how wrong – terribly, terribly wrong – a guitar cake can look in reality. Still refusing to simply offer up a traditional stacked-layer confection, we explored the concept of a cake buffet figuring that, if you’re like us and don’t enjoy most cakes, perhaps if we offer a wide variety of selections you can find something that suits your palate. And when this idea got a little too messy to serve up we decided instead to consider those trendy individual-size creations known as cupcakes.

Cupcakes are fairly common for weddings today. They offer up variety and, heck, they’re easy. After exploring the options at many local cupcake dealers we were drawn to one popular shop that’s wise enough to combine several recent trends by serving tiny, bite-size cupcakes, as well as frozen yogurt. While FroYo doesn’t travel well, we were drawn to the mini sized cupcakes because we felt it would allow us to get even more choices for our guests, and allow them to sample a whole variety of flavors without getting too full. But without bothering with too many details (which you must know is hard for me to do), I’ll say that our meeting with the current reigning cupcake queen of Orlando (a title that is, as yet, unconfirmed. She was hard to reach when we first contacted her because she was competing in the TV program “Cupcake Wars.” I can only assume by the attitude she gave us when we did speak to her that she must have done well on said program) did not go well. She wasn’t personable or even remotely pleasant, and she certainly felt that deigning to meet with us was a huge waste of her time. And, well, I guess she was right because we won’t be using her services. While some of her cupcakes are quite tasty, overall they are – yes, I’ll say it – too sweet (until now I didn’t know there was such a thing). Cavity inducing actually. And after telling us that the price per cupcake for a bulk order was actually 80 cents MORE than they cost in the store (not to mention an additional 50 cents per on top of that if you want the sprinkles to actually be a color of your choosing, plus delivery fees, set-up fees, cupcake tower rental fees, etc.), we were baffled. Why on earth would you charge more for ordering in bulk? It’s unheard of and, yet, questioning this logic got us some snotty retorts from the shop’s proprietor.

And so she can keep her pint-sized sugary and over-frosted concoctions. And we’ll keep looking for the perfect cake option for us – preferably one that’s not quite so trendy … or on the downward slide from trendiness (remember Miss Far-Too-Sweet Cupcake Queen, you need the same people on your way down as you did on your way up). Besides, we’ve already hatched the new, new, new, new cake plan for our wedding and it’s super cool, completely delicious, very rockin’, and you’ve never seen it before. It’s so good, in fact, that it could be the new trend that will knock the FroYo craze right off the map (though probably not). For now, however, we’re keeping our million dollar (or more like dozens of dollars) wedding cake idea under wraps.

When You’re 64

When The Beatles sang “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I’m 64...” I’m sure they thought that this number – this ripe old age – seemed pretty elderly and far off. But, now that I realize that soon my own parents will turn 64 (and The Beatles – the surviving half anyway – have long since passed that golden number) I can’t help but think that their depiction of people in their mid-60s is now inaccurate for this day and age (mostly anyway … of course everyone ages at a different rate. And, as evidenced by the band members themselves, some don’t live to see 60 at all). Maybe it’s the fact that I see my parents on a regular basis and, so, their aging doesn’t seem so sudden to me. But, I see them as pretty active, spritely, vigorous soon-to-be-64-year-olds. And I truly hope that this will continue to be the case well past 74, 84 and onto 94 (I really don’t think one can maintain much vitality past 100 though … not yet anyway). There you go Mom, there’s your Mother’s Day gift from me – vigor and vim well into your 90s! If only it were so easy.

My 34-year-old fiancé on the other hand is neither spritely nor vigorous nor, at the present moment, mobile at all. Yes, ever since he threw out his back “painting” (the quotation marks are there to indicate that while, yes, we say it was the painting that caused the injury it was, in truth, the mere act of picking paint swatches up off the ground that was the motion that actually snapped it out of place) my Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) has been locked up (literally and metaphorically) in a rigid, prone position that offers him only a limited range of motion. When he stands (or attempts to stand) it’s a creaky, cracking robotic stumble and his gait is both herky and jerky, to put it mildly. He pops so many prescriptions each day that I’ve considered investing in one of those M-Tu-W-Th-Fr-Sa-Sun pill boxes you’re generally inclined to see sitting on Granny’s bathroom counter. And, worst of all, his housework duties (and he does the vast majority of everything around our house) have been nearly impossible for him to perform. Meaning that *gulp* I’ve had to pick up some of the slack (but only some, the rest will sit and rot until he’s well enough to tackle them himself). I’ve even been forced to prepare dinner for us a few times. So help us all!

In addition to being mobility challenged, the medication he’s on makes him loopy and tired. Trying to explain something to him after he’s taken one of his pills is like trying to reason with a toddler. For an entire week now he’s been about as lucid as that time I accidentally drugged him. Oh, I’m sure we’ve all been there before – your fiancé asks you to please get him some Tylenol for his headache and you bring him those plus a few extra, just for safe measure. You then proceed to take him wedding dress shopping, then out to lunch with your sister, and then to three different theme parks all in the same day, staying out well past midnight. And, yet, the entire day he can barely keep his eyes open … struggles to even stand … can hardly speak … and basically becomes a giant, senseless lead weight you carry around with you for 14 hours. And then when you get home he goes to take another Tylenol and realizes that, instead of what he asked for, you gave him a double dose of the drowsiness-inducing Tylenol PM. Well that explains the sleepiness (and, at least somewhat, the drool). In other words, when GAR is medicated he essentially has the capacities of a 64- or, as I said before, 94-ish-year-old man.

In any case, I’m hoping his back snaps (or gently positions itself) back into place soon. I miss my young-ish (despite the sophisticated tufts of gray hair) future husband. But, in the meantime, at least I’m learning how to care for him when he really is an old man. Because, of course, I will still need him (for whatever housework he can still perform anyway). And I will still feed him (though here’s to hoping my cooking has improved by then). And, most importantly, I will still feel good knowing that when he’s a crotchety, crinkly old man at 64…74…84…etc. I’ll always be more vibrant, more dynamic and, of course, a whole year behind him in the aging process myself.

Until then I just have to keep him off the drugs. See how sleepy they make him? I am pretty much holding him upright in this photo from our Tylenol PM theme park outing.

He slept like a baby after accidentally mixing alcohol with the heavy doses of sleeping agents he didn’t know were coursing through his bloodstream.

Topless Dining - More Than Meets The Eye

On all of those television cooking shows – “Top Chef,” “Hell’s Kitchen,” The “This Risotto Tastes Like Cardboard” Hour (why do these aspiring chefs fail so badly at making risotto? It’s just pasta. I burn toast approximately 98% of the time but even I can pull off a mean, albeit boxed, risotto) – you hear judges, taste testers, chefs, etc. mockingly insult contestants’ cooking skills by comparing their culinary creations to banquet food. So often you see chef Gordon Ramsay screaming, spittle flying all about (which seems rather unsanitary in a kitchen), calling someone on his show an “arse” and telling them that their peas are mush and their salmon tastes like wedding food.

Ah yes, at some point “wedding food” became synonymous with things that are bland, boring, poorly cooked and, frankly, an insult to one’s taste buds. In fact, our expectations of banquet-style food are so low that when we actually attend a wedding where the food is decent – adequately seasoned and not over/underdone – we are pleasantly surprised (“Wow, this steak is actually edible and, for once, doesn’t resemble a brick!” is a phrase that is sometimes thrown around at more upscale events). It’s understandable why this happens though. I mean, imagine trying to cook a 4-course meal for 150 people. How good can it be? If you think about it, banquet facilities are really just prettier versions of your school cafeteria. They need to serve a large number of people in short order. And they’re not just doling out greasy pizza and little cartons of milk here – they’re expected to perform feats of delicious extravagance. While a regular restaurant would never seat 15 parties of 10 all at once for fear of overloading the kitchen, that is exactly what happens at a wedding.

Since my Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) and I are somewhat decent foodies (which I have decided is just another term for people who enjoy eating food that actually tastes good – novel idea, I know) we really wanted to offer our wedding guests something to eat that, if not totally fantastic, would at least knock their socks off in an “Okay, that was better than I thought it would be … for wedding food anyway” sort of way. And so, when looking for reception venues, we sought out places that are primarily restaurants that just happen to offer banquet facilities on the side (as opposed to venues that are designed explicitly for hosting catered functions, which generally have more homogenized menus). And naturally we chose to look only at restaurants that we think offer really good food. I was also leery of dining concepts that are “trendy.” Right now the big craze for weddings is customized chef-manned food stations and we were pitched this idea at most of the venues we visited. While I love the idea of everyone having food that’s created just for them, just the way they like it – made-to-order omelet and crepe stations, assorted combinations of mashed potato creations served in a martini glass, you-pick-it pasta selections – I thought that, realistically, doing things in this manner would take too long. I was picturing 100 people queued up for half the reception while they waited for the chef to torch the top of their individual-sized crème brûlée. Sure it’s cool, but is it practical to have to balance half a dozen tiny plates of food back to your table?

In the end we selected a venue with fantastic food, Ceviche. The menu at Ceviche offers more than 100 dishes to choose from (a daunting enough task when you’re in the dimly lit dining room straining to read about each one in Spanish, but even more daunting to sort through when you’re trying to pair together an assortment of dishes to serve at your wedding) served tapas style (if you’re not familiar with “tapas” it’s basically just the Spanish term for appetizers, and when I say it aloud everyone seems to think I'm saying "topless." Generally you order a bunch of different tapas for the whole table to share and sample … and as you sip on sangria you order even more … and then when the bill comes you wonder why you spent your whole paycheck on olives and exotic cheese). Acknowledging that Spanish cuisine is not everyone’s cup of tea I poured through their menu and selected a great combination of items with a good flavor, but which would still please pickier palates. So while items like oxtail and chicken livers may be delicious (I said “may,” I actually have no idea how they taste), they got the axe. As did the items that GAR and I would normally choose for ourselves – squid, shellfish, tofu, anything smothered in a spicy “diablo” sauce, and even the namesake dish of ceviche itself. And when you break it down to the items people are most likely to eat – salad, chicken, fish, potatoes (and, yes, some of those exotic cheeses I mentioned previously) – it does start to look like any other wedding menu. And, heck, we even ordered one of those trendy chef-attended stations, though ours is serving up paella.

That said, we did our menu tasting this week and wow! It sure doesn’t taste like bland wedding food. We sampled so much (for our guests’ benefit, of course) that we practically had to be wheeled out of there due to overstuffing. GAR didn’t even get to enact his plan to try all of the most expensive, crazy items on the menu for free. There just wasn’t any room left for that. In the end we think the menu choices we made will knock it out of the park. Although, once everything is made in mass and placed on a buffet I can’t help but worry that it will still feel a little like dining at Golden Corral. But, hey, at least it will be an exotic Golden Corral … I mean, “El Corral Dorado!”

In the end, what do we care? After all, everyone says you’re too busy to eat on your wedding day anyway. Although, if it’s up to us (and frankly I think it should be), we’ll try to break that silly fasting tradition by continuously shoving patatas bravas and croquetas in our mouths while we do the electric slide (except, of course, there’s no way we’re doing anything resembling the electric slide at our wedding) because, hey, we picked this menu and we’re going to enjoy it.

Bon appetit! (Okay, I don’t know how to say that in Spanish.)

Love Is In the Air … And I’m Furiously Squashing It

My Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) wanted to get out of painting the exterior of our house so badly he “conveniently” threw out his back to avoid it. After spending all weekend lugging around 5-gallon cans of paint, rolling large sections of stucco, contorting and twisting around obstacles in our path, toppling over bushes, reaching up high (and bending down low) to access trim and, above all, sweating it out in the hot sun for hours on end, he somehow managed to twist or pop or pull or strain (or possibly all of the above) his back. And this is bad news for me because, frankly, there’s still a lot to do. About 75% actually. Because, even though 2 full days of work seems like a lot, it’s still a really big house. And in a nation where everyone wants to go big or go home – big SUVs, big paydays and Big Macs – this is one instance where having a house big enough to leave us with at least 3 superfluous rooms we almost never use is a bad thing … because, use it or not, that extra square footage still needs to be painted … inside and out.

The timing of GAR’s medical mishap is all too coincidental though considering that we had just embarked upon this project and, more importantly, he had promised me that he would work on painting it this week while he is between semesters and has lots of extra time … extra time that can now only be put to use sitting on the couch watching “Maury” and “Cheaters” (yes, these are his two favorite daytime television programs and he often calls me at work to tell me about paternity test results and confrontations gone awry). Nonetheless, he has some medically prescribed painkillers, along with a doctor’s note instructing him not to perform any manual labor for 2 weeks, to get him off the hook. Look at him – just lying there propped in awkward positions with stiff pillows as he yelps in pain every time a slight breeze hits him. What a lucky dog!

I know I sound insensitive, but you don’t understand what I’m facing out there alone. Not only is the heat brutal (as always I procrastinated long enough on this project to let the weather get to an unbearable point before I actually set out to make myself miserable doing it), but GAR spent most of this past weekend warning me about snakes he saw in our bushes (and he just happened to mention this fact to me while I was standing waist-deep in said bushes). Still, that’s not the part I hate the most.

You know that scene from “The Birds” where the birds descend upon Tippi Hedren, squawking and pecking relentless as she tries in vain to swat them away? Well that is exactly what it’s like when I step out my front door.

Except it’s not birds who are attacking me – it’s lovebugs. Thousands of them coming at me from all directions. They’re relentless, swarming and buzzing and, worst of all, no matter how much I attempt to push them away they just keep on coming at me. For those of you who have never lived in the Gulf Coast area, let me explain – lovebugs are small pests with a singular purpose: mating. You rarely, if ever, see a single lovebug in flight. No, they fly in pairs – attached and constantly copulating – so that they can produce more of their kind who will, naturally, do nothing but make sweet, sweet love to another lovebug their whole life long. Fortunately lovebug season lasts just a few weeks (though there can be 2-3 “seasons” of this per year including, if the past is any indicator, the week of our wedding), but during those weeks they make a serious impact on outdoor living in Orlando. They don’t cause harm, but they pester you non-stop, destroy the visibility on your windshield, spoil more than a few picnics and (granted I’m just assuming on this one) lead parents to have some difficult “the birds and the bees” (or “the bugs and the bugs”) conversations with their children. And they can’t be shooed away for anything (something more pressing like, I don’t know, continuous acts of ecstasy, seems to distract them from caring about us mere humans). They’ll land in droves on your car and no amount of smacking them with your handbag will force them to fly away (don’t I know it!)

And now, with GAR incapacitated, I have to face these beasts – and the snakes and the heat – all alone. But, so help me, if they keep getting in my way I will squish them. I’ll roll paint right over them if I have to. But don’t think me cruel for causing a crushed ending for these perpetual sweethearts because I do it out of love – love for my fiancé and my desire to keep his back safe so he can heal in comfort … which should be accomplished just in time for lovebug season to be over. How nice for him.

Without A Trace of Grout in My Mind

Tonight I kicked butt at the gym. Or I kinda worked up a sweat. But, either way, I know it’s not enough because I still need to lose 10 pounds by this weekend. Of course I realize this might seem like a slightly unreasonable accomplishment but, you see, I have to find a way to squeeze back into my bikini right away because ...

My pool is officially done!!

Or, it will be done after we do a little last minute touch-up work and whatnot. But the hard part – the re-tiling, the re-surfacing, the re-filling with a garden hose for what seemed like days on end (we’re dreading that water bill) – is over. And, really, the whole thing is already green lit for splishing and splashing immediately. Except I’m not ready. I planned on being much more svelte and significantly less curvy (oh yes, people say they like curvy women but if I’m to believe the images shown in mass media I would be swayed to think otherwise. Perhaps I should try whatever diet turned Kate Middleton’s waif-like figure into pure skin and bones in time for her wedding) by the time this day came. And, as we humans are prone to do, I really fell off the eating healthy wagon … and then continued to stay down on the ground munching on chocolate and scraps of fried goodness for far too long.

And all of this comes after I bought myself so much extra time to get fit too. I mean, I dragged out the tile selection process as long as humanly possible, hemming and hawing … comparing the tile samples I liked to the pool surface color choices … going back and forth mixing and matching colors to achieve the perfect combo … asking for expert (and not at all expert) opinions on what they would do … holding off on getting the work done and claiming I needed to think about whether we should even do it … I mean, the indecision I subjected myself (and GAR … and the pool company …) to was extensive. Surely I could have used that time to also work out and eat some leafy greens, right? And then of course there was Grout-mageddon 2011.

Okay, perhaps I exaggerate a bit, but when I awoke one morning to find the pool guy putting white grout – WHITE – in between my brownish tan and goldish glass tile combo that I had spent weeks fretting over I had a little panicky moment where I knew (and complained to GAR) that it just did not look right. Of course it was my fault … I hadn’t thought to specify a grout color up front. But, being the color combo perfectionist that I am, I knew it had to be undone … but I also had to get to work. And so I left GAR in charge of telling the workers to please cease and desist … oh, and could they kindly remove the white grout, undo all their work and start again with a color of our choosing (which had yet to be chosen). I then had to hurriedly make the final grout color selection via text message images, all the while worrying that the colors I saw on my iPhone were not the same as how it would appear in the water. I was further panicked when told by someone that the original pool surface color we picked would cause the water in the pool to appear greenish, which sent us into a “we’ve changed our mind” tizzy as well.

But, in the end, it all turned out beautifully. Totally sexy and lagoon-y in appearance. There is not a grout – errr, I mean, doubt – in my mind that we made the perfect choices. And, see, I really did so much to buy myself extra time. I don’t know what else I could have done … except, of course, used all that additional indecisive time to actually work out and eat right so that I could enjoy this perfect pool once this day came. Instead I have only enjoyed swimming in it thus far while fully clad – a tradition GAR and I started when we first moved into our home last year and cannonballed, clothing and all, into our pool to celebrate. So, yes, we repeated this tradition again now … to break in the new pool in the same manner. But, let’s face it, next time I’m going to have no excuse not to put on slightly slinkier bathing materials. And now that we finally got around to painting the house I’m going to want to use it as much as possible to cool down. Unless I can find more ways to let my indecision slow things down. Hey, now that I mention it I really should do some swimsuit shopping first … and maybe I don’t really like the color we picked for the house – I should rethink that as well … and this weekend is pretty busy anyway with Mother’s Day and graduation and … and …
But it does look so inviting!

You can really see how our tile and grout decisions paid off in the hot tub.