She’s Crafty

And she’s just your type.

I’ve written before about my general dislike of any arts and crafts-esque project. The idea of scrapbooking gives me the willies, glitter is very strictly banned from our household and the idea of stepping inside Michael’s is enough to give me hives. Even as a child I shuddered anytime a teacher pulled out popsicle sticks, fuzzy puff balls and some Elmers. Oh sure, we bought a glue gun and constructed some of our own wedding décor, but that was really more of a necessary cost-cutting measure than it was a “fun project.” It’s just not my thing. I don’t enjoy homespun things – I just don’t. And I certainly don’t like crafting them myself.

But lately … I don’t know … something has possessed me. Perhaps I’m ill. A strange virus infestation maybe? Well, whatever it is, it’s compelled me to tackle a few home improvement projects that some would classify (myself included) as “crafts.” *Shudder*

It all started because GAR went to Austin a few months ago and brought me back an “Austin City Limits” t-shirt that is completely awesome but is, also, completely suffocatingly (yes spell check, I know it’s not a word, lighten up) tight on me. He tried to see if he could exchange it for a larger size to no avail. But I had an idea to frame it for our music themed home office, along with another concert t-shirt that’s too big on me (if only they could be combined into one perfect t-shirt!), and a simple Google search gave me several options for how best to do this. No biggie, right? I mean, framing something isn’t really a craft project. But ... I didn’t love the color of the frames I had so I decided to spray paint them ... which is really just "painting" ... which is totally NOT crafting. Nonetheless, the whole thing did feel a little like arts and crafts hour in Kingergarten. But I am pleased with the results, so that's fine ... just fine. (Although I do have a major problem actually hanging the items I frame - hence the leaning on the floor shot. Get used to this ... you might see a few similar type shots moving forward as well.)

But, okay, while I was Googling this little t-shirt framing project I might have also seen an idea for how to turn old t-shirts into pillows (no sewing required! Which is good, because home ec was a bad, bad time for me in 7th grade) and thought “Oh, I have another really cool concert t-shirt that I’ll never wear again and wouldn’t this be a nice thing to help cushion my office chair?” (I’m still working on this one though – photos to come.) And then, well, it just kind of spiraled out of control from there.

I was unhappy with the wall full of framed postcards I had in my bedroom. The idea had seemed good in my imagination but it never really looked as good in person as I would have hoped. So I Googled ideas for other ways to display my retro travel postcards in one frame and came up with an idea for a craft project that would look way more kick ass than my current display. And so I did it. All it took was an empty frame, some string and tape. Easy! (Plus I invested in a very manly staple gun - score! - to hold the strings in place. And some day I'll even hang this bad boy too.)

I also revised my fireplace mantle artwork using framed fabric, which meant I had to go a place even MORE evil than Michaels – Joann’s. (Though I can deny ever doing this one since I took it down for the holiday season and put up garland instead.) And then I created two additional pieces of artwork for our office. I took some of our many, many concert tickets and created this (yes, I do know how to use a hammer and nail - get off my back).

And then I Instagramed (yes spell check. I know, I know) photos from these concerts (and a few more we've attended) and created a modern montage of them in Photoshop (before everyone started hating Instagram and saying they're selling our souls, etc., etc.) All I need now is to frame it (and, yes, hang it. Picky, picky)!

Pretty much I’ll never need any more décor for my office again. Or anywhere for that matter because I also created this for our bedroom.

It’s “artwork” created out of a bunch of little paint swatches I had collected at my "favorite" (okay, maybe not "favorite" but most frequently visited) store – Home Depot. But I totally love how it looks like legit art. And the best part? This one is supposed to sit on my dresser and lean against the wall - ha ha! I did that on purpose!

Yeah, okay. I may have a crafting problem. Granted it’s mostly just framing stuff with a little bit of design work thrown in. It’s not like I’ve taken up knitting or anything. But it’s definitely out of my realm of comfort. For the love of Pete I even joined Pintrest – PINTREST! I have clearly been possessed. But I’ll be damned if ever put anything I created up on that site. I am too selfish for Pintrest. Because, while I’m more than willing to look at your ideas and maybe snag a few of them for my own projects, I sure as heck don’t want anyone stealing my ideas. They’re mine. MINE I tells ya. Mwahhahhahhah (evil laugh) … even if I did share them here with you today (because I’m nothing if not a complete and total braggart).

To ease my mental state of affairs I took a breath, stepped away from the bedazzler, and decided to do a cosmetic enhancement that was just a little less "girly" (and I didn't even get hands-on with this one, I made GAR do it while I instructed him on how to do it correctly - natch) – hiding our television and electronic wires behind our new entertainment stand. This was no easy task given that our new stand has a completely open back to it. But I was just crafty enough (errrr ... I meant, intelligent enough) to figure out a way around that (basically it involved massive amount of electrical tape to hold everything into place. Viola!

This is the "BEFORE" shot (messy!):

And here is the "AFTER" (with GAR watching some crazy show about auctions - yawn). As you can see, we did a decent job of hiding the cords behind the shelves and then stuffing all plugs into that basket, which holds a power strip:

                                          

Okay, it’s all good. That last one was toooootttallllyy a macho, not too girly girl, type project. Perhaps I wasn’t a victim of body snatching. I am still “me” after all. Now I just need to find onnnneeee more frame for this uber cute Nirvana painting that GAR got me for Christmas. I'm sure I can find just a little more room on my wall for it ...

                                            

Eating Arachnids

You know how they say you eat some insane number of spiders each year in your sleep? Eight is the number I generally hear (*shudder*). How these disgusting creatures end up in one’s mouth, being chewed up, swallowed and digested, is generally not something I care to spend much time thinking about in my daily life. But, honestly, at this point I think that I’d be at least a little bit okay with the idea (provided I can still go on living in ignorant bliss that it ever occurred) if it means that the Hanks are finally extinguished from my abode for good.

If you don’t remember the “original” Hank, he was a giant, furry, nearly tarantula-esque type spider I found (like I find all evil things that take up residence in our home) one day while GAR was away … well over a year and a half ago. And then I lost him. Then found him again dead, weeks later (after many fearful, don’t touch anything before inspecting it for giant spiders first, moments), squished in the sliding door track. And then I found two of his buddies dead in our unused spare, spare bedroom – proving that he was not a one-time-only freak-of-nature occurrence. And, despite learning that they are actually not poisonous, I got an exterminator … who kindly also pointed out that we had black widows (and their eggs) living around the perimeter of our house (and, as we learned later, also living in our garage) ... and those bad boys are poisonous.

Here’s a photo of a Hank (a.k.a. Wolf Spider) just so you know the source of my nightmares more intimately (no, this is not a photo that we took. We are sane people who do not pick up and hold very scary spiders no matter how seemingly harmless their venom is known to be. However, I would like the man to come live with us since, clearly, he is much less frightened of Hanks than we are).


So, yeah, although I think it would be nearly impossible to chow down on one of those bad boys in my sleep without being aware of it, I would, perhaps, be willing to bite the bullet if I meant I never, ever, EVER had to see one again. But, come on, that would HAVE to count as my sleeping spider eating quotient for the next couple of years at least.

But there’s been no need for all that. We have been living blissfully free of Hank and his offspring for some time now. Oh sure, GAR found this crazy giant spider in the pool and when he tried to fish it out it formed a bubble around its entire body (what the???) and “paddled” away from him. And then another time he found some other spiders on the pool deck whose bodies appeared to be made of spiky, weaponized armor. But there weren’t any IN OUR HOUSE (unless I had accidentally eaten them, of course) and so it was fine … until GAR found a Hank in our master bathroom a few days back. And, yes, he killed him, but how can I ever rest easy again? HOW?

Of course it doesn’t help matters that I’ve been home sick these past few days … which means I’ve spent some significant time alone in the house – which always seems to be prime time for terrifying creatures to make their appearance known to me. So, of course, I wake up this morning in a foggy, congested haze and head into said master bathroom where what to my sleep-caked eyes does appear is some large and possibly eight-legged creature making its way through my in-ground rock garden (I suspect this is why most people do not have rock gardens in the middle of their bathroom floor but, you know, they’re just not as lucky as I am I guess). Of course, I couldn’t be sure what I was seeing since I didn’t have my contacts in, but it was SOMETHING HUGE. But, naturally, by the time I located my glasses it could no longer be found. We even tossed around the rocks a bit in an effort to startle it out of hiding with no success. I crouched on the cold tile for 20 minutes afterwards just staring into the rocks, looking for it (while GAR stumbled back to bed), but it never reappeared. I know from past experience that when you dig down past all the rocks all that you find is dirt, not cement foundation, so it could be lurking somewhere on the earthy bottom of the “garden” (though, despite what my friend Katie believes, no creatures can actually burrow into – or out of - the bathroom through that dirt … this isn’t The Shawshank Redemption and the critter would have quite a long path to dig to freedom), but that means it’s still here … whatever it is … somewhere.

GAR believes it was just my delusion. With my sight impaired, my head in a weird NyQuil coma and visions of Hanks scampering in my head, he believes I dreamt the whole thing. But he is wrong. So very wrong.  I know it.

And so it’s decided – from now until the end of the month I am going to devote myself to finally finishing the New Year’s resolution I made on Dec. 31 (2010 … okay, yeah, I am a little late, I know) and get every nook and cranny of this house organized. I need to ensure that there are no little cubbyholes of clutter where critters could be lurking unnoticed. I will smoke Hank out of his hole. I MUST.

Really there are only a few stones (well, actually, there are still LOTS in the rock garden) left unturned. I organized the laundry room and linen closet last weekend … and I would have gotten farther if I hadn’t stubbed my toe so hard I thought it was broken (which it wasn’t … the only thing broken was my spirit … my spirit). So now all that’s left is the aforementioned spare, spare bedroom – which is where I found the dead Hanks before. And, yes, I’ll admit I’ve saved this room for last because I acknowledge that it’s the most likely to be the source of whatever it is I don’t want to uncover. But I’ve got to face my fears and go in there to finish filling the boxes I’ve stored there with stuff to drop off at the Salvation Army. And today I made that pile just a bit bigger when I tossed an old dish towel I don’t want any more on top … and a giant lizard leapt up and darted away. Of course. Sure. Lizards. Why not? Come and join the party.

But I did make GAR perform a “catch and release” with our new green scaly friend. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I made the right decision. After all, lizards are harmless. And from what I know of them they eat bugs … even big hairy spiders. Perhaps Mr. Lizard really was the lesser of two evils.

Dang it – now I’m going to have to be the one to eat Hank after all.

Tradition. Tradition. TRADITION!

You should be singing the title to this post Fiddler on the Roof style which, I know, is hard to translate into writing but, eh, whatcha gonna do?

Actually, I am not a gal who is so much into tradition. Not that I have anything against traditions, per se, I just think that one should leave herself open to doing whatever feels right in a situation, not simply doing things the way they’ve always been done “just because.” Our wedding was not full of customs that other weddings generally follow, for Thanksgiving we grilled out since I don’t eat meat (no turkey in the household), and next year we’ll probably do something different entirely, and we often celebrate what we call “Christmas” on a day other than Dec. 25, depending on our plans for that year (which always vary).

But, we are traditional when it comes to the holidays in some ways. We do always deck the halls (though I don’t have any balls of holly) – putting up a tree, hanging stockings and (usually, assuming I can convince GAR to do it) stringing up the lights on the front of the house – and we NEVER do it prior to Thanksgiving (that’s sacrilege in our house). We bake cookies, send out holiday cards featuring photos of us and the pups, and wrap presents – every year. And we likely watch a few holiday tv specials too. These are traditions I suppose, though we’re not insistent about how we do them or when … we could let one or two slide without much notice … but mostly they’re just things we do to feel “festive.” However we do have one main tradition in our house, and this tradition can NEVER be broken – our gift giving ritual.

We started this tradition a few years ago when we first bought our house. We wanted to keep our Christmas spending small while still getting each other thoughtful, meaningful tokens of affection. So we made some rules (traditions always have rules, which can sound limiting or oppressive but, somehow, we’ve made our “rules” into such a game that it’s completely fun … and challenging – in a good way).

Rule 1: There is a max spending limit of $100 (including tax and shipping for any items purchased – although GAR will often try to negotiate out of including one or the other of these add-ons in an effort to spend a few extra bucks)
Rule 2: Everything you purchase MUST fit inside the other person’s stocking (at least part of each item anyway, there can be some spillover at the top)

We also sometimes make a Rule 3 to challenge us further. Rule 3 includes specifics for the gift content. For example, this year we must have one gift that the other person can wear, one gift that you made and one gift that is symbolic of something we’ve done together as a couple (you could have three separate gifts to meet these criteria or you could have one or two gifts that serve double/triple duty – i.e. a scarf you knitted out of old vacation t-shirts). But we don’t always have a Rule 3 because, as I said, even our traditions have to be a little bit flexible.

I LOVE our gift giving tradition because we each have to think a lot about what it is that we want to get the other person most. We have to budget our money accordingly, shop wisely, get reeealllly creative about how to accomplish our mission, think strategically, and still manage to surprise and delight the other person with our craftiness and consideration. On numerous occasions I’ve seen GAR taking precise measurements of my stocking, plotting and planning what will fit inside. GAR’s stocking is all misshapen now – stretched out from me cramming as much as humanly possible in there in years past. We get crafty and cunning and downright sneaky about our purchases. And, best of all, we’re not blowing the bank with our perfect little presents. However, we do, frequently, blow each other’s minds with what we’re able to get each other on our tight budgets.

This year’s gifts are already starting to pop up. Every few days I look and there seems to be something new that’s appeared. Here’s where we stand today – Dec. 1. Only 24 more shopping days to go (or, since we’ll actually be celebrating Christmas on Dec. 23 this year, 22 shopping days really)!

I can’t wait to see what this year’s stocking madness brings.

Now if you’ll excuse me, GAR and I are off to do some shipping for another little (fiscally responsible) holiday tradition we have – The Dollar Store Christmas. Each year our friends all get together for a “Secret Santa” style party where the gift you give to your assigned recipient must come from the Dollar Store (or cost no more than $1 + tax, if purchased somewhere other than the Dollar Store). Again, you’d be surprised what you can get for a single buck. I used my $1 copy of Sanjaya’s memoir (from "American Idol" – didn’t you know he has his very own book?) to trap a snake in my house earlier this year, I have a $1 recording of the Michigan State (my alma mater) fight song on CD and, should the need ever arise, I can take a $1 pregnancy test (though I’m not sure I’d trust the results on that one).

So yeah, some traditions really are worth keeping around (as long as they don’t cost me too much moolah that is). Happy holidays!

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A Thanksgiving Ghost Story

GAR thinks our house is haunted.

But, then again, he thinks everywhere is haunted. He’s concocted some crazy story about how the husband of the woman we bought the house from electrocuted himself to death on some exposed wires on our pool filter box. He gleaned all this from when the woman told him at closing to “beware of the wires – you can get shocked pretty bad.” Obviously this meant that they had killed before. OBVIOUSLY.

I blame his overactive imagination on the various ghost hunting television programs he watches each week. They fill his brain with images of ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night (and, most recently, he’s also gotten hooked on zombies. If I hear him say “But what if we go to see ‘Skyfall’ and when we come out of the theater the zombie apocalypse has happened?” one more time…) He believes it and is terrified by it … but he also loves it. We’ve been ghost hunting in Savannah where, he believes, I had an encounter with an “orb” spirit. And we’ve been ghost hunting in Scotland where he very, very firmly believes that we not only encountered a famous ghost known as Mr. Boots in the underground vaults beneath the city, but that said ghost also followed us back to our hotel room where I dreamt of an evil creature chopping off GAR’s toes and, when he awoke the next morning, his feet were hurting so bad he thought he had broken every bone in them. Thankfully Mr. Boots couldn’t follow us all the way to Loch Ness where we totally saw Nessie (I'm waiting for my checks to roll in from the "National Enquirer" any day now) and GAR’s feet miraculously healed.



It’s not that I’ve never had strange encounters before. Growing up I believed there was a man who lived in my closet. He would come out at night if I forgot to shut the doors and hover over me in my bed. He terrified me but I knew he was simply a long-standing delusion of mine. Until, one time in high school, a friend spent the night and upon waking the next morning told me that she saw a man come out of my closet the night before. Okay, yeah, it was a strange coincidence. But I’m a skeptic and, as such, I refuse to blindly believe there’s more to it than that.

And so I indulge GAR with his ghost hunts and his fantasy hauntings and politely busy myself with other activities while he watches “Ghost Adventurers.” And, hey, when a Groupon came up for a “ghost hunt” in an old town just outside of Orlando I even said “Why don’t we do that? It could be fun!” (Spoiler alert: It was not.)

Let me paint a picture of our evening for you: It’s a cold night and we meet up with other “ghost trackers” in front of an ice cream shop (if only I had gotten the ice cream, despite the cold weather. I’m sure it would have been the highlight of the night). If you don’t know this, GAR is a professor and, naturally, we unexpectedly run into one of his students there. No, of course she’s not there for the ghost hunt, but she quickly learns that we are – I figure this knocks GAR’s credibility down quite a few notches in her book. At last our guide arrives. He makes a few jokes in poor taste and doles out some neon yellow vests that he tells the ladies (and only the ladies) that we "have" to wear – sexy. And then he starts (incredibly slowly) handing out some very cheap looking “ghost tracking” equipment that is very obviously nothing but a box with a blinky light on it. Here is GAR with his supposed "K2" device (which looks a heck of a lot like our ceiling fan remote).



Things are not going well for Mr. Ghost Tracker (or “GT” as he calls himself). But then something miraculous happens – GT gets “recognized” by some fans. These girls come up to him in a tizzy screaming “Is it you? Are you the Ghost Tracker?” And suddenly I’m intrigued. This guy is for real? He has fans? But how? GT explains that he has a national ghost hunting television show. What, we haven’t seen it? He’s shocked. After all, it airs at 2:30 a.m. on Sundays. Ah, okay, right. (After I got home that night I searched the tv channels for any sign of his show without avail. I may have to call shenanigans on the whole thing and say he paid these "screaming fans" to pretend to recognize him. My DVR doesn't lie.)

It’s at this point that we get to hear GT’s back story – his “superhero origin story” if you will. In other words, we get to hear about how it is that he came to have a supernatural ability to “track” spirits who are trapped here on Earth. As a young boy GT was in a terrible car accident that caused half of his brain function to shut down. To try to revive the dormant areas of his brain the doctors performed some sort of electric shock therapy on him by prodding his brain with metal rods. This electrocution opened up a portal to the afterworld that allows him to see, hear and communicate with ghosts. You got all that? Good. And, of course, he “proved” his abilities to us by showing us photos of alleged “spirits” caught on film (or digital “film” anyway) that looked like nothing (maybe a vague shadow at the very, very best) and saying “I know you can’t see it, but to me I can make it the whole figure … even what she’s wearing" (which was, shocker, "period clothing." Just once I'd like to see a ghost rocking a Flock of Seagulls haircut and some Hammer pants). "It’s my curse,” he would continuously say (it's also the name of his "book" - I'll be rushing right out to buy that one). Ah yes, the ghost that only you can see … because of your special powers … this should be a fascinating tour …

And that’s pretty much how it went all evening. He told stories about the time he went to the former site of the World Trade Center towers and all he could hear was the voices of the dead and the sound was so overwhelming that blood shot out of his eyes and his cameraman made him leave and find somewhere "safer" (Question: You had a cameraman? He caught this blood shooting out of your eye sockets on film?? Why has this footage not made serious national news ... or at least become a YouTube sensation?) And he showed us a house he bought that was the site of a vicious murder/suicide and how he was planning to restore the home to its former glory so that the spirits of those who were killed there can be set free (How? That part was unclear) and that he would "handle" the ghost of the murderer "in his own way" (no one even asked how on that one). And when his phone would ring he would shurg and say "Fox. They're always calling me." (Yes. I bet they are). But mostly he just showed us random things around town and gave us a history lesson. It wasn't so much a "ghost tour" as it was a "wandering around town and looking at literal eagles’ nests tour."

Oh, but the "equipment" he gave us? Some voice recorders that he told us to turn on but never played back the results for us, and an iPad app that "detects" ghosts in the area (which GAR also has on his iPhone .... he got it for free) - not so helpful. At one point GT asked the ghost of a homeless man who was murdered at a now abandoned bank to say the name of one of the people in our group (ghosts know our names?) and we heard nothing. But, of course, GT heard a name ... but did he tell us what it was? No. Instead he made everyone tell him our names and then at one point said "You said your name is Mike? That's what he said! Mike!" And THIS was the big conclusion to the evening. The giant ta-da! The definitive proof that ghosts exist and that GT can communicate with them.

Well you got me. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. You, GT, are telling the absolute truth (about one thing anyway) – you really DID lose half of your brain function, didn't you?

Thankfully the money from this tour goes to "charity" (don't ask which one, just "charity" – that's all GT would say). But I doubt we're done hunting for the dearly departed just yet. Why? Because even if we don't have special powers that allow us to communicate with the dead, GAR is still convinced that this is Mr. Boot’s face behind the gate in this photo (in Scotland), and that proves to him that some spirits ARE real. And if you don't see the face don't worry, GAR can. And if GT's logic holds up, if one person can see it then it must be true!

Cool As A Nuked Cuke

When I was younger, more immature and, let’s face it, just less in control of my emotions I was known to fly off the handle a time or two (or 100). I like to say that I was simply passionate. That I believed so strongly in right vs. wrong and fought things that I saw as an injustice with a sharp tongue. But in truth I was really just kind of an asshole. I blamed others whenever anything didn’t go exactly my way instead of ever turning that finger around to point at myself. I see this same behavior in some youngsters now (as well as Hollywood starlets, a surprisingly large number of corporate execs - I'm talking to you DONALD TRUMP - and assorted manchild-esque adults) and I find it deplorable and, yet, I know I used to be that much in denial myself. Ahhh … memories.

Of course now I’ve chilled out a bit. I’ve matured (a little anyway, let’s not get too crazy). I’ve found peace and happiness in life. I’ve acknowledged that it’s only me and my attitude and my actions that are responsible for my life. And really very little phases me and gets me riled up like it used to – at least not the little things anyway. I’m the proverbial cucumber that others say they are as cool as.

But God damn it did I lose my shit this week. And though it happens so very rarely in my life anymore, I did what most people do when they blow a fuse – I exploded all over the thing that is very nearest and dearest to me: GAR. (You always hurt the ones you love the most. See, I do it out of love baby. LOVE.)

I should note that last week was simply wretched. And I’m sure the fact that I also decided to pick this week as the time to definitively give up my serious caffeine addiction had nothing to do with my sour mood. NOTHING. AT. ALL. And I had to hobble around work one day with a broken shoe on one foot when the sole fell off … and my skirt flew up over my head in the parking lot and my whole office building got to see my naked thighs and my underpants that say “Sasstastic” across the rear end … and my current book club read is all feminist angst aimed at why men are the root of all evil, etc. etc. But let’s not make excuses here – I am responsible for my own actions … and my own actions led me to completely rip GAR’s head off, eat it for breakfast and then stomp on his heart for dessert.

Or I just got snarky with him a little and blamed him for something that (if I’m being honest here) is kind of his fault. But it felt MUCH more dramatic in my mind (like the time in high school I got in such a impassioned fight with my parents about why I do not believe the television program “America’s Funniest Home Videos” is even remotely funny that ended with me storming out of the house and “running away from home” … because this is how I used to roll when I got angry about something).

But let’s get to the point already, okay? Here’s what happened: Remember our labor intensive door refinishing project? Remember the hours we poured into making those old crappy doors look beautiful again? The blood (or at the very least, some paint splattered clothing)? The sweat? The tears? Well it all went down the drain when I realized that, despite all our best efforts, during the sanding process GAR had managed to also sand the glass in the door, irreparably damaging it with scratches. I hadn’t noticed before because the doors were so dusty from the sanding but now that they’re cleaned it’s clear that they’re ruined. I’M RUINED! Because, let’s face it, we spent weeks repairing those doors … and now we’re back at square one.

Now I know that as novice DIYers we’re apt to make some errors like this. Nonetheless I could help but not-so-calmly explain to GAR that he should have known that paper made out of SAND would scratch glass. But I digress … Let me take a moment to breathe … Settle down … And reach my happy place again. Ah yes, there it is – whew!

Okay, so how are we going to solve this little problem of ours? Well, we’re not. I mean, not unless you have any ideas. Please? I mean, I would love to hear them. LOVE. But until then there’s really only one thing we can do – pretend it never happened. It’s what’s best for our sanity really.

Instead GAR has thrust himself into a new DIY project that he also knows nothing about, is much more complicated than door refinishing and is once again, in our typical spirit of self-reliance, not even Googling directions on how to do properly because, of course, we can figure this out on our own – constructing wainscoting for the dining room. It’s a project that is well beyond our original scope of work for the house, is in no way necessary and generally requires the help of professional millworkers to accomplish (FunFact: My Dad was a millworker by trade for many years. Of course, GAR is starting this project this weekend and Dad will be in Michigan until January and is, therefore, of no help to us so it’s not so much of a “fun” fact as much as it’s just a “fact” that in no way assists us in getting this incredibly ambitious project completed) – what could possibly go wrong?

But damn, I do love me some nice wainscoting … so I’m just going to let him do it and see how this one plays out. And I’ll try to keep my temperature that of refrigerated produce from here on out.

Here's the look we're going for. I'll be sure to post photos of how it actually turns out.

50 Shades Of Grey (Or, In My Case, Brown)

F@$&(@! S&$&%@&!! C&$@)&*$!!!

That pretty much sums up my feelings towards my home at the moment (I mean, my house is not underwater and I have power and all that, so I do have things in perspective here. But still ... not currently a fan of the place nonetheless). Why? Because I’ve spent every freakin’ moment of the past – how many months? Or has it been years now? – painting gawd forsaken doors, the trim to go around said doors and, worst of all, the baseboards throughout the entire house. And we’re STILL not done. So, yeah, I hate those mother $(@&%($&ers!

In retrospect it would have TOTALLY been worth it to hire this work out. But we’ve come too far, done too much, to turn back now. And we’re stubborn as Hell so, you know, we’ll just keep on keeping on … and hating every second of it.

It’s all part of our “do everything we can possibly do on our own ourselves” motto we’ve been following these past 2.5 years of home ownership in an effort to save up our construction dollars for things we really need professionals to do for us – like plumbing and electrical. And it really is a good plan. After all, we’re not made of money here. But, even though I sort of love feeling like Tim Taylor while I’m doing it – grunting and beating my chest with (wo)manly pride – there are some times that I kind of hate doing all this work … especially when it comes to the “non-sexy” parts of home renovations – like installing baseboards. Oh sure, I’ll gladly take a sledgehammer to a hideous bathroom vanity and install a new one because, you know, it’s pretty. But new doors? YAWN! I mean, I want them, and they do improve the overall look of the house, but they just don’t have the pizazz … the panache … that, say, some gorgeous glass tile brings to our kitchen back splash.

Nonetheless, when it comes to painting, cutting and installing trim, sexy or not, it’s something we’re more than capable of handing on our own. We have to do it ourselves. I mean, we HAVE to. It’s not in our nature to hire that type of work out. It’s like hiring a maid – we’d be paying for something we can do ourselves (but that doesn’t stop me from wanting a maid either – desperately).

And so we trudge on with it … for what seems like ages now. Because, frankly, the work never ends and there is just so, so much of it to get done. It’s like an episode of “Renovation Realities” (I realize as I type this that perhaps you are not familiar with this program because you watch actual television programs that are shown on networks other than HGTV, whereas that’s pretty much the only channel we watch. Well let me sum it up for you – people attempt home renovations. They usually do not go as planned) where you THINK something should only take a matter of days but everything drags out much, much longer than you ever imagined and slowly the project consumes your life. Seriously. This trim work IS my life right now. And, while I really wish I had a better project to show you, like a cool new fire pit in the backyard, or the swanky wallpaper I plan to attempt in the laundry room some day, or even a (more boring but functional nonetheless) shower handle to replace the one we have that’s broken despite the fact that we just installed it last week that replaced the we replaced earlier this year (did you follow all that? Basically we’re on our 4th shower handle install in the same year for the same shower) – but I don’t. All I have is some baseboard, trim and doors.

Here’s the latest project – our French doors that separate the front of the house (which we never use) from the back of the house. They’re totally not a necessary feature of the house and serve no real purpose, but we decided to paint them just for kicks (because that’s the kind of crazy, fun-loving people we are). Here’s the “before” shot of one of the scuffed up, cracked, poorly abused doors (the photo doesn't really show how beat up these are).

First we removed them from their hinges (which were brass and got immediately thrown away - the above shot was, of course, taken after they were already off their hinges) and fill all the old holes and cracks with wood putty.

Then we power sanded the patched holes and all of that shiny 80s gloss that covered the entire door. (Admittedly using the power sander does sort of make the whole project worthwhile. Damn, I love me some power tools. And, top of my list of favorite power tools is the sander - grunting Tim Taylor style some more as I type that.) And we taped all those little panes of glass – front and back.

Before applying approximately 1 bagillion (I’m rounding, of course) coats of paint to each side (that manly hand belongs to GAR not, me. I know, you're disappointed but, never fear, you'll see my model worthy hands coming up soon).

Before finally hanging them back in their rightful position in our house (using new, less offensive looking hardware). And we touched up any paint that got dinged up along the way. But, finally: Ta-da!

Aren't they simply a-door-able (see what I did there - eh?? Eh?? Funny, right? RIGHT?) - the doors and the dog, of course. And here's a shot of them closed (which they never, ever are. Remind me again why we spent weeks upon weeks redoing them? Is it because we're masochists? But they do look prettier this way - once we removed the blue painters tape, of course. Oh, and there is all this weird old yellowing glue on each window pane that we still need to exacto off - carefully - and then windex the whole thing to make it nice and clear so we're not really, really done yet. And then there's still the other door like this that separates the dining room from the kitchen ... and the one that's in the guest bedroom that leads out to the pool which we haven't even touched yet. But, see, we're so close! Relatively speaking I guess. Or, like I said before, we might just be masochists ... which, frankly, is seeming like the most plausible explanation right now).

Although we're still deciding if we should paint the front doors this same dark brown color or leave them white (and we'd love your feedback because GAR and I disagree on this issue. Correction: I would like your feedback because I think I'll win this argument because, clearly, I'm right - I just need you to back me up on this one).

So now all we have to do is the trim around these doors which is ... well, it's Hell. Picture the same process all over all again, but with 8 pieces of trim per door. But, hey, at least I get to spend some more QT (quality time) with my power sander (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).

And, even if once upon time I was "discovered" as America's Next Top Hand Model I sure won't be getting any gigs now that my hands perpetually look like they belong to a paint covered weathered old man.

Check out that HUGE life life on my hand (that's a thing, right? It's one of those lines I'm sure). I'll be living for a LONG time to come. Which is good, because I need about another 70 years to finish this work on my house.

But, of course, I also secretly love it. I really AM a masochist, aren't I (GAR could diagnose me sure)? But damn, it hurts so good!

So, if you need me anytime in the foreseeable future you know where I'll be (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).

Pregnant Women Are Smug

You guys (and by "guys" I actually, really, mean "gals"), I have a serious talent – I can tell when you are pregnant. I know it long before you tell anyone about it. Call it my own personal 6th sense if you will, but I am rarely wrong. I place my wager as early as possible and then weeks, often months later, you’ll announce what I already knew. Now, I know this won’t make me any real money. There are no Vegas odds for me to bet on. But I am really damn good at this (and I just got confirmation on my latest bet – pay up … says me to no one because the only payment I ever get is the victory of knowing I’m right. But, hey, I’ll take it. I really, really love being right).

How do I know? Is it your growing belly? Perhaps, though not generally. Despite the tabloids latching onto a celebrity’s “bump” (which was more likely caused by a heavier than usual lunch … which, in a celebs case, probably just means they actually ate lunch at all for a change), that’s not the earliest giveaway. It’s more subtle than that. It’s the way you dress – no, you’re not showing yet, but you are wearing roomier clothing. It’s the way you’re always drinking water when I used to see you drinking Diet Coke. It’s the way I see you touching your stomach more … even though it doesn’t yet “look” pregnant. But, many times, it’s because you’re so damn smug.

Now I know I’m going to take a lot of shit for saying that. Especially given that some of my very favorite people in the world are pregnant right now – at this very moment – including my very own (and very beloved) sister. But hear me out on this anyway (besides, I’m not talking about YOU. I know, you don’t believe me because, honestly, so much IS focused on YOU right now, but I’m honestly not. But you – and everyone else in the entire world that I know right now – being pregnant has got me thinking).

As someone who’s never been pregnant I have to admit that I, of course, don’t really know what happens to you emotionally, on the inside, when you pee on that little stick and some lines pop up or it says “Pregnant” or whatever that little stick does when you’ve got a bun in the oven. But, I do have 35 years experience watching you and seeing how it changes you on the outside. And that change is noticeable almost immediately. Yes, it’s all the things I mentioned above, but it’s so much more. The one thing that’s really the dead giveaway is the way you talk. Within days of getting a positive pregnancy reading (and sometimes even prior to) your demeanor changes. You get a little more serious and reserved without even noticing it. You talk more long term and are more concerned about things you never gave a second thought about before. You don’t find my snarky quips and unabashed sarcasm nearly as funny as you used to (even though I KNOW I’m just as hilarious as ever). You’re more peaceful in a way but often times you’re also much more emotionally charged (hormones, right? Who’s with me?) It’s lots of little changes really, but if you pay attention to them like I do you’ll soon figure it out – this smug chick is pregnant!

Okay, there I said it (and then said it again). You sound smug. All of a sudden you start talking like Mother Theresa. You’re all concerned about what’s right and what’s just and talking about craving a utopian style society even though we all saw you smoke pot and five finger discount some CDs back in college. I guess what I’m saying is this – I know you’re pregnant because you stop acting entirely like “you” (to some degree anyway. Some preggos suffer far worse smugness afflictions than others). But, honestly, and I mean this in all sincerity (and I’m totally not just saying this to avoid a third-trimester lynch mob on my doorstep), it’s not really your fault. You change because you’re preparing for motherhood. You realize it’s time to crack down and be serious. After all, this is another human life we’re talking about here – it’s SERIOUS business. But, mostly, you change because society has modeled for you what it considers to be “appropriate” pregnant woman behavior and, not wanting to stray from the strict norms set forth by EVERY OTHER pregnant woman you’ve ever seen – EVER – lest you be labeled an unfit future mother, you do … and most importantly “say” … all the things you’re supposed to.

What types of things you ask? I find this video (which, okay, you caught me, I stole the title from to create this post) sums it up pretty nicely.

Okay, so you don’t ALL talk in clichés. But we’ve all heard them … a million times … and it’s that sort of gibberish that makes for great pregnant lady fodder. But, hey, what other choice do you have? You can’t really admit to everyone that you’re ONLY having that third child because your husband is crazy obsessed with having a boy this time around, can you? How will that look when it turns out it’s a girl … TWIN girls … after all? Okay, yeah, so sometimes you sound a little smug and self-important but, eh, it’s your right goshdarnit (see how I kept it clean for you – that’s because I know you want your baby to grow up in a nice place, not one that curses at the Lord) – after all, you can’t drink for 9 months (by the way I have some great evidence proving otherwise but it really doesn’t matter, you still can’t do it because you’ll be shunned by every person in America), you swell up to the size of an RV, your lady parts will never look quite right again, the entire world feels like they can butt into your personal business and tell you all the things you’re doing wrong and, at the end of it all, you give birth to a really painful but gorgeous baby who is, let’s be honest here, not at all grateful for what you just went through and will suffer through on their behalf for the rest of your life.

So, okay, fine. Enjoy your 9 months of smugness while you can. I get it. I understand. And I still love you. But, come on, tell me the truth. You kind of hate it that you HAVE to buy an ugly minivan, right? And, fess up, you don’t REALLY believe that a natural childbirth is the best option, do you? But, hear me on this one – I know you can’t tell off that bitchy woman at work who’s always telling you what a horrible person you are if you don’t breastfeed for at least 18 months and puree all your baby food yourself, etc, etc – you know, because that’s not the kind of behavior that’s acceptable for pregnant women. But I’m under no such limitations … and I have nooo problem whatsoever doing that for you.

See ladies. I DO have your (aching) back!

Note to men everywhere: The viewpoints stated here will, no doubt, ostracize me from a good portion of the entire population of women everywhere. But, as bad as saying everything I said here is for me, a fellow woman, trust me when I say that if you were to ever say any of this, as a man, it would be far, far, far worse for you. So don’t. Just don’t. We already know you feel the same way so why dig that hole you’re already in any deeper, okay?

Breaking Pointe (and Breaking My Back)

On my third date with GAR we went mini golfing. He looked so cute and my nerves were high so I did what I always do in these types of situations – I made a total ass out of myself. I flailed my club wildly, fumbled with my brightly colored ball and landed it in some really tricky spots. As I tried to putt the wayward ball back towards the hole I stood on some rocks for better leverage and then, as I’m prone to do, tripped and nearly fell into the water hazard. Thankfully though GAR was there to prevent this from happening and he pulled me back to safety – 3 different times. I’m sure he must have thought it was a fake out move … that I was only pretending to be hopelessly clumsy so that he’d be forced to “rescue” me. Classic early date material. But then we went to dinner and I spilled and entire cup of marinara down the front of my cream colored sweater. And I’m pretty sure that by then he had figured it out: This is not a desperate ploy for attention … this woman is clearly devoid of any and all traces of grace.

And so I did what any gal in this position would do – I never called him again. Somehow, miraculously, this man still wanted to talk to me – he called and emailed and texted … and yet I ignored him … for an entire year. And I thought that would be just long enough for him to forget how completely uncoordinated I am. I could get a fresh start. Try again. Not make a fool of myself this time around.

So 13 months later I called him up and invited him out to dinner again. And it went awesome. Then we went for beers at the bar next door and I spilled all 20 ounces of mine all over GAR … and then I leapt to my feet to get napkins … which resulted in me tipping his over as well – into his lap. I guess he found that charming because now we’re married. The end.

Just kidding – we’re still a looooong way away from the end of this story (and you should really know me better than that by now). But I guess my point is this – while my lack my lack of grace is the often the subject of playful barbs at my expense it’s never really bothered me that I am missing all basic skills of coordination and steady control. After all, I still got the guy, right? So what if I’m spastic and my movements are completely uncontrolled? Other than ruining every piece of clothing I’ve ever owned by spilling something on it, snagging it when I bump into something or just generally scuffing it in a manner that I can’t clearly identify, how does this negatively harm my life? It hasn’t. It doesn’t. It won’t. Unless I want to pursue a career in dancing or something ridiculous like that (cue the waltz, or maybe the tango. Or, I don’t know, what’s another dance? I’m not so familiar with this sort of thing. What music do they play during a ballet? Something Black Swan-ish maybe? But without the bulimia and Natalie Portman cutting herself. Thanks).

Okay, maybe I’ve built it up too much. After all, I’m not really considering dancing on a professional level (I can’t even stomach watching “Dancing with the Stars” so it’s clearly not a passion of mine), but I have been taking ballet classes … or really, to be more specific, barre classes.

At this point you might be asking yourself “Why? What would possess this clumsy awkward woman to do such a thing?” Well I have one word for you – Groupon. I do love myself a sweet deal. But that’s only half of it. The other half is – The CW Network. And if you’re now saying “Aren’t you 35? Isn’t that a little old to be watching anything on CW? Do you have no taste level at all?” You’re right. It’s despicable. And it’s totally GAR’s fault. Over the summer he got hooked on this show called “Breaking Pointe” – the “pointe” being a literary wink at the fact the show follows the professional (but mostly the personal) lives of several ballerinas who are part of a highly regarded company in Salt Lake City. I have no idea what implored him to watch this show in the first place but he quickly got sucked into watching petty people discuss their self-made problems (with the occasional ballet number thrown in on the side) and it became our summer tv guilty pleasure (we have one each summer and I’m less proud of some than others. Worst summer ever: 2009’s “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.” I’m still shaming myself over that one).The “characters” in the show (it’s supposedly “reality” but, honestly, who’s buying that?) were vapid and actually a little boring. But it nonetheless inspired me to get bangs (it turns out they don’t look as good on me as they do on someone who weighs 90 pounds) and gave me the fantasy that I too could try my hand at a plie or two. After all, I do have photos of myself as a child decked out in a tu-tu at recitals. Did I need to quit ballet at age 6? Maybe I could have unlocked some hidden potential … maybe I still can!

Spoiler alert – I can’t. But it goes beyond my lack of ability. Much like many things in life, my barre class is nothing like I expected. I was picturing ladies rockin’ some hot legwarmers while they gracefully bend, dip and twirl – all with the barre as support. I thought that, if nothing else, I could hold onto that barre with a grip stronger than the jaws of life and keep myself from falling flat on my ass. But it’s not that simple … and we weren’t doing any of those things I imagined. Instead I found myself in some sort of twisted fitness boot camp where the barre hardly ever comes into play unless you’re using it to pull your entire body weight up again after you’ve crumpled to the ground in exhaustion as the instructor cries out for 10 more leg kicks while you’ve got a tension band binding your ankles together.

Where are the pretty pink flats? The sequins? The slicked back hair? The tulle? I have never cried out for anything so girly in my whole life but, for the love of all that’s holy, where are the leotards? Talk about false advertising.

Instead I’m suffering my way through another 50 crunches before using the barre as support for some sort of sick modified standing push-up, my newly sheared bangs slick and sticking to my forehead thanks to all the sweat, as I accidentally slide into the person next to me as my palms lose traction … or kick them during our tension band exercises … or fall on them during the lunges. Hey listen - I can handle tough workouts. I'm no stranger to pain. But I wasn't looking for this ... I wanted to feel dainty and lithe and, at the very least, just a smidge sophisticated. But how am I ever going to get more graceful if we haven’t even attempted a single pirouette? Still, unlike 6-year-old me, I’m not quitting yet. Nope. Not until I’ve completed my last 4 classes. Because, let’s face it, I’d rather suffer through this than let a perfectly good Groupon go to waste.

But, damn it, next week I am totally rockin’ some legwarmers. If I'm going to suffer through this I'm going to do it in high ballerina style!

Snakes on a Plain (a.k.a. Snakes. Why’d it Have to Be Snakes?) (a.k.a. Just When You Thought it Was Safe to Go Back in Your House)

I should never, ever be left home alone. I’ve talked at length here about all the bad things that seem to happen when GAR goes out of town – from being attacked by flying bugs in my bathroom to tarantula sized spiders crawling through my living room to certain death by a serial killer (incidentally I can momentarily rest easy knowing that Drew Peterson, my would-be assassin, was recently found guilty of murdering his third wife and is now in jail. I say “momentarily” because his conviction was based purely on circumstantial evidence and the ruling will no doubt be overthrown at the Supreme Court level and then I’ll be ill at ease again. Incidentally to my initial incidental comment, on our trip to Peru we met a man who was also named Drew Peterson and, while he seemed like a perfectly nice chap, I kept one eye on him the whole trip lest he get any funny ideas. I still can’t conclusively link him to my food poisoning but he was there – just like he was there when every other mysterious thing happened on that vacation. Coincidence? Probably. But you can never be too sure … never be too sure). So, when GAR recently left for his annual “All Guy’s Weekend” I held my breath and waited for something terrible to happen. But, to my shock, nothing did (unless you count cleaning all weekend as tragic, which I do, but many adult responsibilities seem downright cruel to me). I even successfully used the hot tub without accidentally turning it into an Old Faithful style eruption like I did last time I attempted it without GAR around (this time he made me a helpful pictorial, step-by-step instruction guide on how to use it. Even I couldn’t screw that up). At last victory was mine!

Or so I thought.

After GAR returned my elder pup, Munchkin, started limping and whining. I had seen similar behavior in him before, when he had seriously injured his back, and so I was concerned. Since GAR was busy with work I decided to come home early one day to check on him and work from home. After checking him out (and loading him up with pain pills) I went to the kitchen to make myself some lunch, and that’s when I saw it – a snake … in my dining room … (in case you’re still unsure where my dining room is located) IN MY HOUSE!!

Okay, seriously, when is enough enough already? Honestly. Flying termites, mold infestations, giant wolf spiders, smaller but even more deadly black widow spiders, wasps, a fire, flooding, possum attacks (oh yeah, did I not tell you that story? Well apparently I can’t possibly fit in all my angry creature stories before the next one pops up so I’ll cut to the chase on this one – a few months ago our yard was infested with an angry possum who dueled Munchkin in a battle to the death … or else the nasty vermin was just playing possum which, really, was likely the more probable outcome), dangerous electrical wiring, and that cockroach that attached itself to the side of my shampoo bottle and then crawled all over me in the shower while I wailed and beat it senseless wasn’t enough? Now I need snakes too?

Well alright universe, if that’s the game we’re playing this week – bring it on! Because, let’s face it, this house has made me a master of dealing with unwanted intruders. So I did what any gal in my position would do – I grabbed a pot from the kitchen, snuck up on the bastard, and trapped him under it … and then I stacked a shitload of books on top of it (the complete works of Shakespeare and Jane Austen, as well as a copy of former American Idol hopeful Sanjaya’s memoir “Dancing to the Music in My Head.” You know, just for variety). Which isn’t to say this was an easy task – snakes are quite stealthy and fast you know … and, naturally, on top of that, I am scared shitless of them. Also, since the dogs follow me everywhere, “sneaking up” on this snake was not really a quiet affair. My bigger pooch, Mustache, just kept laying down right next to him while I whispered/screamed “Watch out!! That’s a snake!” And yet the pups did nothing to help me out here … absolutely worthless. But I managed the capture anyhow … and then I left the snake trapped there for GAR to deal with when he got home many hours later. Ha – take that! Think you can leave me home alone to face another critter in our home? Nope. This one is all yours …

Not that I wasn’t convinced throughout those next few hours that somehow the snake would miraculously find a way out from his makeshift enclosure (spoiler alert – it didn’t). And I spent hours Googling what type of snake this might be to see if I should be concerned. But online snake identification is rather useless. Case in point, here is a sample question: What color is the snake’s belly? Oh yeah, let me just pick it up and find out … Or, how about this one: Is the snake blind? Oh, hmmm … hang on, let me ask him how many fingers I’m holding up and see what he says … before he bites them off. So, yeah, I never did find out the answer.

Eventually GAR came home and devised a plan for getting the creature out of our home. It wasn’t graceful but we slid his enclosure towards the door and then, as quickly as humanly possible, flung him out the door in one giant toss. But oh my was he pissed off! So very, very angry. Apparently I had accidentally clipped the end of his tale when I trapped him and he was in serious angry pain. He lunged at GAR, striking but never making contact, throughout the whole removal process. And, of course, like the total sap I am I’ve felt terrible about injuring the poor snake ever since. Like totally guilty. And I wouldn’t let GAR kill him either

So off he slithered … into our front bushes. Awesome.

But it’s okay. Last weekend I turned the tables on GAR and, for once, I went out of town, leaving him home alone to deal with matters of the homestead … and #1 on his honey do list was finding out whatever keeps snakes away and applying it liberally around the house. Done and done.

So now we are once again protected from every manner of creepy and crawly that we can currently think of (though I’m sure there’s some I’ve forgotten … there always are). But I’m hoping that we’re able to keep the house free of varmints for awhile anyway … if not for my sake, at least for theirs. You see, this weekend we’re heading out of town for our anniversary trip and we’re leaving our house under watch by a renowned toad slayer. That’s right, our friend Sapphire has her own problem with critter infestations and she has quite the method for dealing with them … and her way ain’t pretty. I can assure you, woodland pests, that you don’t want to mess with our abode while Sapphire is in charge because, if there’s one thing I can promise you, there will be no tears shed over your demise … no “catch and release” policy on her watch. You wanna try something lizards? How about you palmetto bugs? Go ahead, make her day …

The Dorkiest Day of My Life

I have never been “cool.” In fact, I have no idea if it’s even “cool” to use the word “cool” anymore. For awhile during my high school years I tried to embrace this fact but I went too far the other direction, trying too hard to be counterculture that it just looked sad – you know, sort of how hipsters look now. Until, finally, I just learned to be “me,” who, it turns out, is a gal who rocks a lot of t-shirts from the college she hasn’t attended since the 90s, still thinks boot cut jeans are perfectly acceptable, wears the same sneakers she’s been wearing since age 12, and continues to listen to grunge on the radio while acting confused when they refer to it as “Friday flashbacks” or “old school hits” because, wait, isn’t this still what everyone is into? Explain to me again who Devi Lovato is? Wait, never mind, I don’t really care and I’m not going to remember.

Not that I don’t occasionally buy into something that’s trendy … or read the “it” book of the summer. I do. But only if it sounds appealing to me. And it’s very freeing to just feel comfortable with not pretending for everyone else’s sake.

But, as you can likely imagine, my life has been filled with many a geek out moment. Many times where I have been “outed” for the lame person I really am. And while many people turn beet red or look down or embarrassedly apologize for these moments I am not one of them. Perhaps the sheer volume of embarrassing situations I’ve been in have made me immune … or I was born with some gene that made me just more naturally inclined to roll with anything humiliating that happens … but, in any case, I’m the type of person who not only accepts this dorkiness, I embrace it. And, furthermore, I not only admit to it, I go one step further I call attention to it. I shout it from the rooftops in fact. And then I tell all of you about it on my blog.

And so here it is – the dorkiest day of my (adult) life: February 15, 2009

I had spent the evening prior to this – Valentine’s Day – at the county fair with my friends. We rode the rickety Ferris Wheel, ate deep friend Twinkies and I won (and by “I” what I really mean is that I got my friend who’s better than me at carnival games to win for me) a stuffed koala for GAR, who I was not yet dating “officially,” to help cheer him up since he was bedridden after throwing out his back at the gym. But, in reality, I got him the koala so that he’d still like me the next day because I already knew – KNEW – that the dorkiest day of my life was just about to happen – after all, my friend Wizard had been planning it for months – and I wasn’t sure how GAR was going to respond to the major geekfest that is my life.

On the morning of Feb. 15, three friends and I set off on adventure. The goal was easily stated but not so easily accomplished – visit all 7 Orlando theme parks in one day. No, not just “visit,” also ride one roller coaster at each park and (though this last bit was perhaps just my own personal addition to the challenge) consume at least one food or beverage item at each park. And while the four of us were all geeky enough to be excited about our planned expedition, we also understood the immense dorkiness that comes along with planning such a feat. Thus our emotions were strained somewhere between secretly knowing that what we were doing was totally awesome, but hiding that feeling of glee deep down inside so that the rest of the world would not expose us for being complete and utter losers.

And thusly we began our quest with coffee and Dueling Dragons (now known as Dragon Challenge, which is part of the new Harry Potter World – a geek lovers paradise to be sure) at Universal’s Islands of Adventure park.



Before making a jaunt next door to the original Universal Studios park to ride the Mummy and enjoy lunch at the park’s Irish pub.



Next up was SeaWorld, where we tamed the Kraken and cooled off with some drinks.



Then the Disney leg of the trip kicked off, starting with Disney’s Animal Kingdom.



We were supposed to climb to the top of Everest, but this is where we suffered our first “setback.” The one and only coaster at this park had an incredibly long wait, something we had feared might happen due to the fact that we were visiting during President’s Day Weekend. While the holiday had caused Disney to adjust park operating hours, keeping the parks open much later than usual and, therefore, making our ambitious endeavor possible in the first place, it also meant that we were facing some crowd control issues. With three parks yet to complete after this one we knew we’d have to alter our course and instead headed for an attraction that could still have been categorized as “thrilling” (to some), even if it wasn’t a coaster – Dinosaur. The wait here was also long but we secured FastPass tickets, played some more carnivaal games for some reason, sucked down some frozen Yak Attacks, and then let the ride shake us all about while we tried not to throw it all back up.



But it was lots of fun. We were all laughing and smiling and joking about what good times these were.



At Disney’s Hollywood Studios (or was it still Disney-MGM Studios at that time, I’ve forgotten) we were supposed to Rock and Roll with Aerosmith but, once again, faced long lines and had to improvise.



Instead we got more FastPasses, this time for Star Tours (Star Wars come to life! Another geek dream). We enjoyed a greasy pizza dinner before hopping onboard.



Darkness was looming as we made it to Epcot and that’s when it happened – we ran into someone Wizard knows. And we were cutting time too short to stop and chat. So, rather than be rude, Wizard quickly told him what we were doing … that we were on park #6 out of 7 … and that we didn’t have time to delay. And suddenly the weight of our ridiculousness hit us like a ton of bricks. We were exposed, and now we felt silly – especially since Epcot doesn’t even have a roller coaster … so we had to ride the Maelstrom instead, a ride that is not even remotely “thrilling” other than some trolls threaten to throw you (back, back) backwards over some waterfalls. And it was a little deflating. I could barely suffer through my margarita (and no one else even drank anything at all).

We were running out of steam as we boarded the monorail for our last stop – the Magic Kingdom. But, seeing our final destination in sight, we rallied and prepared ourselves for victory.


Upon entering this happy place we were greeted with fireworks. We stopped. We watched. We danced dorkily while old ladies cursed us for stepping on their toes.



And we once again embraced our adventure, suiting up with cheesy matching buttons that declared to the world that we had made it to 7 parks in 1 day. But it was late and our mission was not yet accomplished. And, worse yet, we hit another snag at Space Mountain … and Splash Mountain … and Big Thunder Mountain – more long waits. But this time we did have another coaster to chose from – The Barnstormer (now relocated to New Fantasyland, another place that will no doubt become a paradise for dorky women who, despite being far too old for this sort of thing, will dress themselves in full blown princess ensembles and line up to meet Ariel). Granted it’s technically a “kiddie coaster,” but it’s a coaster nonetheless. And, at long last, geeky victory was ours!



We even had leftover time for an additional ride here - Pirates of the Caribbean.



And I scarfed down a Dole Whip I didn’t even want just to complete that part of the challenge too. But it was totally worth it – we had conquered 7 parks in 1 day. And on the boat ride back to our car we reminisced about what a great time we had and how we should do it every year!



False promises that of course we didn’t keep because, while we may be dorks, we do have a life, and this bout of geekdom was more of one-time thing … an alignment of the stars when we all happened to have easy, free access to each of these theme parks that now is no longer possible without shelling out big bucks for tickets. No, this moment of geeked out glory was meant to be just that – a single moment in time to look back upon and smile (but not too much lest anyone actually call us out on what lame people we are).



Just a few days later I went out on my first date with GAR (well actually it was our fourth date, but since it had been more than a year since our third date I guess you could call it our second first date) to see a local production of “A Midsummer’s Night Dream.” Then two days later he took me to see “Paul Blart: Mall Cop” and I knew, right then and there, that I never really needed to worry about what a dork I am for clearly, I had found an equally geeky mate.

A Beautiful Mind (is a Terrible Thing to Waste)

My husband hates Michael Buble so much that simply being in the same room with him makes him physically ill. Two years ago we attended one of his concerts and my beloved GAR spent the entire time puking in the bathroom, no doubt the result of his hatred for smooth crooners with a voice like liquid velvet. Or it could have been because he had a terrible migraine and perhaps a touch of food poisoning. I suppose that’s also possible.

Nonetheless, I blame it on the music and his immense desire to avoid the concert in the first place. While GAR and I generally have the same taste in music, and even had a rock & roll inspired wedding due to this commonality, there are a few areas where we diverge. For example, his lack of knowledge for, and respect of, the 80s music genre is flat out unacceptable. But his distaste for Michael Buble? Well that I do understand. I have no idea why I like him myself. But knowing that I wanted to see him in concert regardless my GAR was generous enough to buy us tickets for the show and surprised me with them as a Christmas gift. And I THOUGHT this was a sweet gesture … a real sacrifice on his part … until I learned the truth.

For months we planned to attend the show, which was in Tampa. When finally the night of the concert arrived we made our way to the arena. When the door guy scanned our tickets this terrible buzzing went off and he informed that we, in fact, did not have tickets to the Tampa show but, instead, had tickets to the show in Ft. Lauderdale … which had already taken place the night before. Ah-ha! The truth comes out! GAR’s scheme had fooled me good – he only made me THINK he was taking me to see Michael Buble when really he planned to “forget” which concert he bought tickets for, leaving us SOL due to the fact that the Tampa concert was sold out. Well played GAR, well played. And he would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for the fact that the box office manager offered to sell us tickets in a skybox that was otherwise empty that evening, which we did.

So GAR had to suffer through it after all. And as soon as the music started the puking began as well. He only emerged from the bathroom long enough to catch the end of the encore – which featured such lovely tunes that the other people in our skybox stood up and sang along, angering the people in the skybox next to us who threw bottle caps at us and, eventually, dumped water all over one poor lady in our box who screeched at the top of her lungs “My cashmere!!! She ruined my cashmere!!” It was, all in all, an unforgettable evening.

Which leads me to the point of this post (What, those other four paragraphs before this one weren’t part of the point of this freaking long post? No. No they were not.) – My husband is not perfect. I know, you’re shocked. I bet your spouse is totally perfect in every way. But it’s true – he isn’t. And I love him anyway. While it always makes us chuckle, that Michael Buble concert is a perfect example of how, try as he might, GAR can be a pretty forgetful guy. I read recently that being married increases a man’s lifespan. And I totally get that. Because of me (and my incessant nagging) GAR eats healthier, buckles his seatbelt more often, goes to the doctor when he’s sick (sometimes), lives in a house free of mold and other airborne germs that were living in bachelor pad, and, most significantly to this post, shows up at nearly every appointment he makes. How he stayed alive for the 31 years he didn’t know me is beyond my realm of knowledge (though I’m guessing I can attribute his first 18+ years of livelihood to his mother), but I do know that now, in 2012, he is completely dependent upon me for a number of things. And one of those things is being his walking, talking appointment calendar, complete with reminder messages.

Our daily discussions go something like this:
(Him) What have we got going on Wednesday night?

Or …
(Him) I’m going to go golfing on Friday.
(Me) You can’t, you have a meeting with the Dean at noon that day.

Or …
(Him) What day are we going to Atlanta?
(Him, 5 minutes later) What day are we going to Atlanta?
(Him, the next day) I made plans to have dinner with Mike on the 21st.
(Me) You can’t, we’ll be in Atlanta.

You get the point. And, see, as promised – it just reeks of imperfection. I find it both hilarious and completely frustrating. And that pretty much sums up marriage altogether, doesn’t it? But really, who am I to talk about marriage as if I’m an expert? I’ve been married less than a year. Actually, it will officially be one year on Tuesday (Sept. 4). And that time has really flown by. Some people say the first year is the hardest but I don’t think that’s true at all (unless you are really, truly just living together for the first time) – our first year was nothing short of wonderful, flawed husband and all. No, the hardest year is the one where something truly horrible happens – a major death in the family, bankruptcy, serious illness, etc. That is when your marriage vows are truly put to the test (although GAR and I recently realized that our vows, which we picked out ourselves, promised nothing to each other, so ha!)

As we move closer to the end of our first year of marital bliss, GAR and I have spent serious time discussing how to celebrate this inaugural anniversary. Are we really going to eat that year old cake that’s been sitting in our freezer since our wedding day? Are we going to order the same menu items we served our guests a year ago? Are we exchanging gifts? We’ve plotted and planned and got ready to celebrate – just like we did on our wedding day. Except for one little problem – the other night GAR forgot all about it. Well not ALL about it. He didn’t forget that our anniversary was happening, or even that it was happening on the 4th, he just didn’t remember what day of the week the 4th falls on (it’s a Tuesday this year, even though we got married last year on a Sunday – damn that Leap Year really screwed up the calendar with its extra day). And so he says to me: “I moved that interview I was going to do Monday night to Tuesday night instead.” Sigh… oh the imperfection never ends!

And isn’t forgetting your anniversary just such a cliché anyway? And that’s what really irks me. Come on, we’re better than that. We hate clichés. Not that I don’t know his heart is in the right place – he’s been totally psyched about ushering out year 1 and saying “hello” to year 2 with a bang. And I’m sure he would have sorted out the date for himself by the time Tuesday actually did roll around. He’s not a jerk after all, quite the contrary. He’s generally the model husband who goes to great lengths to find new ways to surprise and delight me. In fact, just a few days ago he asked for feedback on how he could be an even BETTER husband. At the time I didn’t mention the fact that he’s “schedule impaired” (and we’re still working on his ability to tell time too … I don’t mean he’s often late, I literally mean his ability to read a clock that isn’t digital. Baby steps), but perhaps I could have offered that bit of criticism. After all, as his wife, I have to say that this is the one time my role as his mental calendar works against him. Perhaps as his anniversary gift I should buy him a nice thick appointment book – that would even fit with the first anniversary theme of “paper” gifts – but I know that won’t help whatever mental block keeps him from knowing what day of the week it is. He’ll still turn to me every Thursday night and say “So what are we going to do tomorrow?” and I’ll keep having to remind him that tomorrow is Friday and I work on Fridays. “Oh right!” he’ll exclaim, 52 times per year, every year for the rest of our lives – calendar or no calendar. And I’ll continue to love how simultaneously infuriating and funny he can be (though I’m guessing that slowly it be less funny and more infuriating each time until finally we’re old and gray and I kick his cane out from underneath him and pretend it’s an accident. Hey, I said that men live longer when they’re married – not that the whole process doesn’t still eventually kill them).

So no calendar, but we are still exchanging a “paper” themed gift (though, really, who adheres to these old fashioned gift giving rules anymore?) – concert tickets. Later in September we’ll be heading to Atlanta (whether or not GAR remembers what date we’re leaving on) for a 2-day music festival full of bands we both enjoy – not a smooth crooner doing old covers in sight. It’s the perfect way to truly celebrate the anniversary of our rock & roll wedding. We can’t wait! And, thankfully I planned this trip, not GAR, so we’re sure to have plane tickets, a place to stay and, of course, tickets to the right concert on the right date at the right venue. Because, of course, unlike my husband I am perfect. And GAR is such a great husband that I bet he wouldn’t even disagree me on that point. And THAT is how I know we’ll make it to anniversary #50 (which will still be held on Sept. 4 darling, which is on a Sunday that year, right at the same time as the next Halley's Comet, in case you need a reminder).