Bad Rep

We are having record (or close to) heat up in these parts. As such, we, along with the rest of clichéd suburbia, bought a pool pass for our town pool. This purchase triggered my EXTREME cheapness gene and I now try to get the family to the pool every day. A nice idea, that when executed flawlessly rocks, but, when executed without perfection say, like yesterday, can result in Public Shame. A very fine Public Shame in front of people I know not so well, and only sort of a little bit.

So. Monday. National holiday observed. No one working. We decided (read: I steamrolled the husband) to go to the pool. I needed to find my swim suit and was hoping to find the one that covers my nipples (two babies and coughcough pounds later, this is a bit of a challenge). During my exhaustive search, Boo was in charge of getting Lady Bean in her pool attire. As I am on my hands and knees looking under the bed for a swim suit (I really should have a better system now that we have a pool pass, no?), I yell out "Put LB in her suit and a swim diaper. The swim diapers are in the box of random diapers. They are the pull-up type in the open bag. The unopened bag are the next size up." I was distracted and not paying close attention to either task and, of course, ended up in the overly boob revealing swim suit. HOT. But whatever. All seemed fine and we made it to the pool as a group and in one piece.

Once we checked in, we meandered over to the kiddie pool and Boo, not knowing anyone, sat between friends of a friend with their husbands and another, not part of that group, friend. It wasn't like we could have sat by strangers anyway as the pool, due to the holiday, was JAMMED. Packed. Insane. You know, filled with tons of people needed for a good public shaming. Anyway, I said our 'hellos,' performed introductions and then pretty much ignored everyone but my family.

Basically I was anti-social and we stayed to ourselves. For the five minutes it took me to notice that LB's drawers looked really REALLY full. I mean, honestly, for a diaper to be that full you need a serious bladder/intestinal problem. Or, as it turns out, a foot or so deep kiddie pool. As I watched, through LB's swim suit, Dora the Explorer's head grow and grow on my baby's ass, I realized what happened. When I was barking orders from under the bed, I was a tad unclear on what constituted a swim diaper. Boo, unfamiliar with the box of random diapers, heard "pulled up" and "in the open pack," and grabbed a regular, non-waterproof, pull-up from the open pack of regular non-waterproof pull-ups.

Did you know pull ups bloat like dead beached whales when emerged in water? It was HORRIBLE (though not as horrible as a dead beached whale, but close). LB had a badonkadonk only it was all diaper. I once described a panicked HOLY SHIT WHAT DO I DO? feeling and that is EXACTLY how I felt at the pool. I looked around and didn't think anyone had yet noticed so I whisper-yelled, "WHAT DO WE DO???" to my husband and he's all whisper-yelling back, "I DON'T KNOW!!" After determining that closing our eyes and willing a swim diaper onto LB did not in fact work and after scouring our resources (limited to none), we decide to slink away discretely. Weird after only being there mere minutes, but still better than the alternative, right? And frankly, I am not sure what we thought that the alternative was other than having people notice, point, and laugh. Which was still, you know, not desirable.

So we are gonna leave. Only, of course, LB doesn't want to leave. So she RUNS AWAY. Well waddles because a diaper that full, it cannot be run in it. Of course everyone takes notice of this turn of events. Which means that alternative 'notice, point, laugh' thing, NOW HAPPENING. So there I am, boobs flopping hither and yon in a suit that had no business being seen in public, oh and did I mention I am peeling from a previous sunburn too, chasing my waddling non-swim diapered kid across the foot deep kiddie pool as she is screaming, "NO! NO! NO!" When I do catch her at the OPPOSITE end of the pool, I have to tuck her flailing squirming self under one arm like a purse so I can use the other arm to corral by boobs. Public. Shame.

There is a woman around town who apparently has a big snarfle tooth and a kid that smears poop on random surfaces and she is known as "The Woman With a Big Snarfle Tooth and the Kid That Smears Poop." I fear I am now know as "The White Trash Floppy Boobed Peeling Freak Who Makes Her Kid Swim in Regular Diapers."

Fifty-seven

There are many reasons I love my husband, but every now and then he does something that causes me to add a new reason to the list. To wit:



I was gone for the weekend and he taught the Bean how to put her cup in the cup holder in the car. Do you realize how much of my life I have spent searching for a random cup that she has dropped while trying to drive? Well NO MORE! I'd like to say that if I knew the back seat had a cup holder, I would have taught her this neat trick, but yah, probably not.

Futility

Isn't there a saying that goes something like, insanity is the act do doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result? Although, as I type that, I feel like that must be wrong because isn't that scientific theory? You repeat the same things over and over and if you don't get a different result, well then, hot damn, you done invented or discovered something sciencey? I'm going to vote science and say that despite my many years of trying to grow herbs and killing them, and again trying this year and having things look, well, bleak, I am a scientist at heart. A cautiously pessimistic scientist who decided to fix her broken herbs by adding more dirt to the pots. My husband had the good idea that we should stake the stuff, but when asked to elaborate and explain how we woulod do this, he gave me a shoulder shrug and said, "I thought you said I only needed to help for a moment, this is taking way longer than a moment." You could say he moved past cautiously pessimistic and into, YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME WOMAN! Anywho.

With my husband's help, I went out to tend my plants and add more dirt to their limp broken stems. I didn't have much more dirt, but I used up the rest that I had and built little dirt mounds around the bases. I also used the white plastic herb/plant labels as counter-weights to prop things the opposite direction of which they were leaning. While I was out there, and much to my was-only-suppose-to-have-to-carry-dirt-I-may-have-been-duped husband's dismay, I decided to also trim back my basil and limp weed dill weed. The tomatoes being are left to fate, and she seems to be a cruel bitch.

I had not planned on trimming back anything, and so I had no vessel in which to transport my bounty. Improvising, I borrowed my daughter's lego box lid. I'd like to say that this, like my dirt mounds, plastic label counter-weights and homemade icepack (water with a little isopropyl rubbing alcohol mixed together in a ziplock, left in the freezer for a few hours, makes a perfectly cold slushy icepack) are ingenious. MacGyver-esque. My husband, he has taken to calling me MacGruber. If I could catch him, I'd show him my MacGruber alright. In the meantime, I am going to feed him homemade pesto and he is going to like it.

Duet

My MiL is here for a visit with her favorite (and obviously best) granddaughter which is quite nice. Said granddaughter is turning one this Friday and having a party to celebrate same on Saturday. Also, quite nice. The house (mine, as in where the party is being held, not say, the house that Ruth built) is not ready for a party, and this, this is not quite nice. In other words, Holy Shit my house is a mess and twenty-five people are going to come over for LB's birthday and find out we live like pigs. Instead of bitching about our sty-like conditions, I should be cleaning them. After all, my child has a playmate which relieves me of that duty (duty ... doodie ... heh, I am seven) and I have time to remove the hairballs gathering under the buffet. Instead of doing this, I am hiding in the office, checking my e-mail (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) and doing everything possible BUT clean. Which is not to say I have not cleaned. For I have. A lot. For example, I removed the nobs from the stove and cleaned underneath them. Now that, THAT is cleaning. Which, I guess is not "a lot" of cleaning. But still. It doesn't explain why I am sitting here, overwhelmed by the wafting stench of the stinkiest cat poop ever (which was really mean of the cat - he saw me in here and was like, Sooooo what? I gotta pooh and this is where my box is suckah). Nothing could explain it. Sheer laziness? I know not. What I do know is that I have killed five whole minutes with this drivel despite the need for gas mask. Go me. And, so as to kill five more minutes, let me tell you about my BRILLIANT anniversary gifts.

As I have mentioned before, we try to do the gift thing in accordance with official guidelines. Which, yah, not so official. But whatever. So this year the things were wood and silverware. In case you were wondering, these things SUCK. I've been married five years and THIS is what the universe deems appropriate. Suck it universe! But, being a sheep, and incapable of developing a thought of my own, I went with the guidelines. Wood? Easy. Toothpicks and matches. Done. Silverware? Now that is hard. Well, I suppose if we didn't have twelve place settings of perfectly fine silverware, then it would not have been hard as I would have just bought silverware. But we do have silverware, fancy and plain, and the last time I checked my husband was a "man's man" and had absolutely no interest in acquiring a new silver pattern, which meant that silverware was hard. I say was because, DUDES, I rock. Drum roll please ... For our fifth wedding anniversary gift, I got Boo some silverunderware. I KNOW. Brilliant. So long as you whisper "under" it is all good! In case you are curious, Boo was much more 'in the box' getting me a nice wooden picture frame and a cheese knife set. He did get creative and gave me a cheap wooden picture frame, with a picture of his friend in it, a friend who's last name is Wood. But I have to say if you put his Wood against my silverunderware, I get the vote for most creative. Granted silverunderware was his "real" gift, so I also get the vote for "cheap ass" and "least exciting anniversary gift ever." But hey, you win some and you lose some. And on that note, I shall shimmy out of here and clean because HOLY FUCK, WHAT DID THE CAT EAT?

Holidays

Last weekend was a weekend of holidays. First, Boo and I celebrated our anniversary, which I guess technically is not a holiday and it wasn't even our actual anniversary, but whatever. I have pictures in my camera, none of which are my finished Clapotis, and I am bored at work, so work with me. Holidays. Us, celebrating, enjoying our four year anniversary with fondue and presents.

For year four the gifts are something like plant/flower, linen/silk, and appliance. We usually try to mix it up a bit and so we decided that the big gift, the real gift, would be the pet hair eating Dyson. I'm sure you've seen the commercials. Basically James Dyson claims that Mr. Vacuum will never lose suction and our house shall become pet hair free mecca. I haven't actually used the Dyson yet, but Boo loves it and swears it is sucking the shit out of some pet hair. Mind you, for the amount of money this thing costs, Boo better love it, this biatch better not lose suction and pet hair better quake in fear. If not, well I am prepared to go all Marsellus Wallace on Mr. Dyson ... if we shelled out hundreds of dollars and still lose suction, well then I'm prepared to scour the the Earth for that motherfucker. If he goes to Indochina, I want a dude waiting in a bowl of rice ready to pop a cap in his ass.

So we bought a Dyson as the big gift (appliance) and then were left to our own devices for the rest.



Which meant that Boo received fresh linen car air freshener and Silk soy milk, which in case you are curious, taste like warmed-over ass. I received an Apple i-tunes gift card and two knitting books with patterns for linen and silk yarns. Needless to say, one of us is a much better gift giver.

The second holiday for which I have pictures was a bit more mainstream as a bunch of people celebrated Easter. As non-believers, we don't really do Easter. I mean, we'll indulge in candy, but that is just because its fun. Not religiously significant to us, and really, I've heard that chocolate is a religious, and sometimes even orgasmic, experience but I can't see the connection between chocolate bunnies and Christ. Anywho, when Easter does roll around, I do like to be sure that the candy we partake in is good candy and over the years I have found the perfect candy blend.



You take a bag of candy coated milk chocolate eggs, and a bag of candy coated peanut butter eggs and you mix them together in a bowl.



Then you leave the bowl in some easily accessible place where you often will walk by. Each time you do, you grab a handful of goodness. Maybe you get all chocolate, maybe you get all peanut butter, maybe you get a mix. It is a mystery. A mystery that can only be solved by eating the goodness!

Steak and Shrimp

Yah, we weren't kidding!


Outback and cards, a combination for the ages.

Also a great combination? Me and my NCAA basketball bracket. Who is currently tied for first place? Yes, that would be me.

Quatre

Not surprisingly, last year at this time Crazy was giving me fits. So basically it's a year later and not one damn thing has changed on the job front. Pathetic. I really should do something about that. I haven't. But I should. Last year I think it was easier to deal with though, since Boo and I were taking a mini-jaunt for our three year anniversary and my hormones were, well, mine and mine alone.

Anywho, today marks year four and um, well we aren't what you would call prepared for celebration. Four years ago we were married in a garden in Las Vegas and held a reception at Morton's. The following year we decide that, in a nod to our wedding itself, we would always celebrate our anniversary either on vacation, with gambling, or at a steakhouse. We've managed to do it too. Until now. Fearful of our baby just randomly falling out of me while we were in Fiji, or Trump's Taj Mahal, neither of which would be ideal, or even pleasant, we put off planning anything. Now that our anniversary is here and I am no more ready to give birth than I was a month ago, we realize we could have gone to Fiji, or at least to a nice dinner out. Since it is a little late to plan something now and we haven't done squat in coming up with a lovely romantic evening, I proposed dinner at Outback. Fancy, huh? Boo upped the ante and said, "Yah, and we'll bring some cards and play poker while we wait for our food." We are all class!

Not to be a total dud, I did go out of my way to do something extra special for Boo. Something so grand, so big, so damn thoughtful, that it would overshadow the lack of other stuff, you know, like a gift, or a dinner reservation. So, for my grand gesture, I had Google give us our very own specialized Google logo that everyone who Googles today will see:


Yep, am I the most awesomest wife ever or what? I am so awesome that I convinced Google to give Boo a very public gift, a personalized Google logo with some pretty "oo" flowers, to help celebrate the greatness that is our marriage.

What? You think this is bogus? You think I am making this up? Go to Google, you'll see. Ohhhh, you think the logo has nothing to do with me or our marriage? For real? Okay. Okay, I confess. Maybe Google doesn't know me from Adam and instead just happened to create a fun logo to celebrate the first day of Spring, a day which (conveniently) coincides with our anniversary. But come on, you have to admit, my version, it is much much cooler and makes me seem like less of a douche.

Bucket List

Lately, or rather, every other night or so, I wake up to pee and then am struck with wicked insomnia. Having been an All-Pro, All-American, All-Star sleeper, this is absolutely HORRIFIC for me. I use to be able to "nap" for four hours, go about my business and then sleep for another eight hours when it was bed time. Now, not so much. It sucks. But it also gives my brain time to percolate over the ridiculous and the sublime. More often the ridiculous. Which is how, I ended up making my own 'bucket list.'

Though it doesn't yet feel quite real, all signs are pointing to "Yes, you will be having a child in three and a half weeks!" Which means that kid-free life is about to kick the bucket. The next logical thought, for the sleep deprived at four in the a.m., is that Boo and I need to create our version of a bucket list. Granted, now is the worst possible time work-wise for him to do anything fun, and I am not exactly at top form. Nonetheless, it seemed like a brilliant idea (which might be why you should never make any important decision between the hours of 2:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. - you are either drunk or sleep-deprived).

In any event, there are a lot of possible items for our bucket list. Well, there were are 4:00 a.m., since then many of those brilliant ideas have filtered out into the ether and whenever I try to think of something I draw a blank, or utter something so silly that Boo just snorts at me and continues on with whatever he was doing. Basically, with the exception of jaunting out to Hawaii for a few days, something that unfortunately isn't possible, all of my ideas are lame and revolve around restaurants we should try or re-visit one last time and things we should buy (including camera number four now that camera number three has died which is why I have no pictures and am just yapyapyapping over here). I'm not sure what this says about my personality. Because, like I said, my ideas, well, they are lame. But, I am one to persevere - or one who has lots of middle of the night insomnia of late - so I kept thinking. And I thought some more. And I thought real hard and BAM, I came up with an idea ... a day trip to NYC. Wild, huh? I know. And, in all honesty, the impetus for a trip to NYC came while watching this so I can't even claim it was truly my idea.

Anyway, Boo use to live in NYC and he proposed to me (as opposed to some other skank) on the top of the Empire State Building, so I thought that between us (or really just based on him) we had a pretty decent familiarity with the city, but it turns out we don't. Neither of us has been to the Top of The Rock. Chu-ching! As soon as he said that he had never been, I knew we had a bucket list worthy day trip.

Now, because I am me, I am not planning the trip. Instead, I have proposed an itinerary that includes the Top of the Rock, some specific shopping, and several food stops. I am the worst trip planner and I have given him all of my ideas and said, "Make it Work!" We'll see what happens.

Worry

I am a bit of a worrywart. I know, it shocks the mind. Most would say that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, but you know what, I TOTALLY DO! As a result, I am somewhat worried, or paranoid, whenever my husband goes away that something horrific is going to happen to him. I understand why I have this particular brand of insanity, and quite frankly I'm okay with it. Usually I keep my insanity to myself, though to hear Boo talk, you would think I am trying to keep him wrapped in bubblewrap and secured to a well cushioned chair in an underground windowless room. For the record, the room does have one window; the human body needs sunshine to make Vitamin D.

In any event, when Boo was leaving for a three day jaunt in to NYC for work this week, I told him to be careful. I might have been a little more adamant than that and referenced things like seatbelts and anti-bacterial hand wipes, but you know what? I WAS RIGHT! Granted, I was worried about some cracked up, drunk, socialite driving the wrong way on the Tapanzee, not some assfuck bombing the military recruiting center in Times Square. But still! Since I knew Boo was okay considering the locale of his hotel, and I knew that all reports indicated that no one was hurt, I have to say I felt quite smug when I called him at 7:00a.m. "just to make sure he wasn't hurt in the explosion." Maybe I was a bit pompous, a bit supercilious, when I called, but I had every right to be because just this once, my worrying was not for not.

Romance

Happy Valentine's Day!

Remember how I was cleaning out my camera, well I never actually finished. I could skip the finishing of the cleaning out of the camera and entertain you with the wonderfully romantic plans the husband and I have made for (presumably) our last Valentine's Day as non-parents, but I suspect as soon as I uttered the words "bi-weekly non-stress test," "town meeting" and "sewer system," you would tune me out. Which quite frankly would be silly, because come on y'all, is there anything that says romance like spending an evening with a bunch of your neighbors and elected officials and talking about failing septic systems, city sewer lines, and environmental impact statements? Nope, I think not. Do you know how hot I will be if my husband convinces these folks to hook us up to the city sewer for less than the Are-You-Fucking-High-$20,000 they want to charge? WAY. HOT. So WAY FRIGGEN HOT that it will have been a good thing that I had the bi-weekly non-stress test. But since I suspect I am an oddball, well, I figured I would share the last of the pictures rotting in my camera instead.

These pictures are all related to the new human being we plan to bring home with us in a little over a month. You would think that it would be around this point, 8+ months, that I would be all, "HOLY SHIT, we are getting a new human in a little over a month!" But actually, I'm still not feeling like this is real. I wonder if that real-feeling will set in at some point before the baby is crowning.

Anywho, without further bumbling, the new stuff which we actually purchased all by our little selves (as opposed to the plethora of new things - some of which I totally do not know what to do with or how to work - that very nice people have given us because 1) they like us and wish us well, or, more likely, 2) they are worried about our level of cluelessness and are giving us subtle help while at the same time memorizing the number to our local social services office).

First up, a glider which is suppose to some how rock my world (no pun intended, but now that it's there, heh) and some lullabies.



In case you are curious about our level of nuts, we are at the level where we will spend $80 on lullaby CD's. This is a little higher than the normal level of nuts as I swore that I would never give Metallica a dime after the whole Napster snafu. I loved Napster and was ticked that Metallica was throwing a wrench in things. So before it became illegal (and not one time since because I am law-abiding, or paranoid), I downloaded every Metallica song I could find. For free. So there. Put that in your pipe and smoke it Mr. Lars-I-am-Already-a-Millionaire-Screwing-the-Regular-Guy-Asshole-Ulrich. Despite my resolve to never give Metallica shit, I couldn't help myself when I saw the CD. There were a lot to chose from but Boo and I compromised, each picking two. I went for the U2 and Metallica lullabies and he went for Led Zeppelin and the Beatles. What this means is that I am going to have to find some 50 Cent lullabies to counter act the damage of The Beatles. Such is my lot in life though.

My lot in life also involves bags, and, I assume, diaper bags. Quite frankly, the diaper bag shopping has been my most favorite part of baby shopping yet. Swaddling swinging things? No clue. Purses? I get it. I know purses. I understand purses. Which is why it is so odd that I am not sure about my feelings on the first diaper bag I purchased.



That is the Mia Bossi Cherry Fizz, in case you were wondering. I like the bag design and the size. But the color is kinda weird. The white bits are actually more bone than white. I am not sure how I feel about this.

Working Out The Kinks

Scene: Completing the questions on the Prepared Childbirth Class Questionnaire.

Me: Okay, question: Who would you like to be present with you during your labor?
Him: Circus clowns. Heeeheee. Circus clowns. Heeeee, I made myself laugh.

Me: Okay, now we're on to Comfort Skills. Question: What comfort skills do you plan to use during labor?
Him: [silence]
Me: Um, domestic violence?
Him: Sounds good.

Me: What are the hobbies/activities/sports you enjoy?
Him: Me or you?
Me: You.
Him: Um, exotic dancers, drinking, gambling. Oh wait, no, not gambling, casino gaming. It sounds better.

Gimme That!

Another year, another successful SnB holiday party/swap.



Only ... new! And improved! With more snow! And more swapping! Seriously. Last year there was no threat of death by steep snowy driveway. Which as the owner of the driveway and a lawyer, I found EXTREMELY comforting. This year, not so much. We got more than a dusting of snow during the party. Enough that I held my breath and chanted "Good Driveway Karma! Good Driveway Karma!" over and over again until every last person left. It seems to have worked. No one fell and I wasn't greeted by a marshal and a summons at my door this morning. I consider this a huge success and another point in favor of invoking karma when need be. For those of you that don't know, one of my law school ladies would chant "Good Parking Karma" over and over as she pulled into a parking lot and inevitably she'd get great parking spots. It was crazy, but I tried it and it worked! You can't invoke the Good Whatever Karma all of the time, but if you use it sparingly, it really does work. I now sound like some new age freak. I'm okay with it. The Good Driveway Karma might have also been helped along by the fact that I forgot to buy some wine. I'm going to assume that it was a fortuitous oversight and not a hostess mishap and move on!

So our swap is of the "Yankee Style" which means you can steal the gifts of the people who have gone before you. None of the Northerners seem to see the slight in the "Yankee" label, so sayeth this very amused Southerner. But whatever, it is great fun. Last year we only had one person loose her gift. Granted, she lost gifts three different times, but she was the only loser. Ironically, she is the only one who didn't lose a gift this year.



Last year's lack of serious swapping made it easy for me to photograph. This year, not so easy. I have forty-four pictures of people losing their gifts and taking another gift only to lose that gift too. I can't figure out who lost what. I know I missed a few picture opps which means that somehow thirteen people swapped gifts about fifty times. There were turns that took ten minutes because there was so much swapping and grabbing going on. It was bedlam.



I will admit to being one of the people who contributed to the bedlam.

+
= a diabolical sushi deprived pregnant woman on a mission

Or rather, a diabolical sushi deprived pregnant woman on a mission to corrupt others to do her bidding! In other words, I created of the Triumvirate of Evil. A triumvirate whose sole purpose was to ensure that its three members got the gifts they wanted when all was said and done. Some might say this wasn't very sporting. I say, pushaw! Cheaters never prosper, but schemers do!



In my defense, I was destined to have the present that I wanted. We were like star crossed lovers. Being preggers I can't have sushi. I LOVE sushi. The lack of sushi in my life makes me sad. And irritable. So, being a bitch, I declared all sushi banned from the party. Well someone was a smart ass and figure out a way around my declaration and the ban and my sushi deprived brain said MUST HAVE! Not only was the wrapping paper me, me, me. The book and the serving dish were too! Speaking of dishes, I again forgot to take a "before" food picture for BeFri, so I only have one of the carnage.



This year I wised up and used paper plates and cups. The china is sturdier and much prettier but the hand washing part is way suckier. I didn't have the pleasure of pain pills this year as an excuse to get my husband to do all of the dishes, so I made sure there were a lot less.

When all was said and done, a fun evening was had. I cleaned up and Cat reclaimed the living room as his personal domain.



My husband helped with the clean-up, but I still ended up going to bed hours after my bed time. In fact, I am so tired that I told my husband this morning that I was the tiredest person the WHOLE WIDE WORLD. And you know what he said? He said, "Baby, I am so sorry. Why don't we both leave work now and meet at home so I can rub your feet until you slide into blissful slumber." Actually that is not at all what he said. It was more like, "Dexter, tonight, 7pm, no excuses." Fucking Dexter. I love that show but it was getting too good. Each episode was giving me arrhythmia. I convinced Boo to wait until we had the final two episodes DVRd and could watch them at once. I figured it would be easier on my adrenal system, kind of shoot my adrenalin wad all at one time and be done with it. It was a great idea until now, when Dexter is DVRd and looming over my head. I'm totally going to have to take a nap.

Which I won't be able to do under my desk this afternoon (goddammit!) since we just had our office holiday lunch and people want to ... socialize. Unlike years past, no one seemed to throw a fit during this holiday lunch. In fact, I'll go out on a limb here and say that this was the best holiday lunch we've had thus far. There were several incidents of people trying to insulate the food and utensils from Mr. Smellypants and for the most part they were successful. He never coughed on the food or licked something and put it back. So yeah office lunch!

And, not apropos to anything else ... Funniest line of last evening: Why does A. have a Pooh hanging from her butt?

>

It Is Contagious

I lie here prostrate, under the demoralizing two game loss of Trivia Pursuit. Somehow the planets aligned in such a way that Pookie and Shorty creamed Boo and me at TP. It was ugly. It was violent. It was an ass kicking of the highest order. Though I later had a flourish of trumpet, bankrupting all of the other players at Monopoly, the victory was hollow since I had already pulled my poor unsuspecting husband into the Trivia Pursuit losers pit and contributed to his "Worst Gaming Night In The History of Forever." I suspect this is why I will not be enjoying impure carnal privileges of marriage, foot rubs, or dinners out for the next week or so. I am used to getting killed at TP. I don't like it, but I am use to it. My husband though, he was unprepared for the trauma. He never loses when it comes to the Pursuit of Trivia. He was so verklepmt, later he wouldn't wheel and deal with me during Monopoly. I felt so bad that I was going to give him two, not one but two properties, for free, so he could have a monopoly. He refused.

Last night was a marquee night, not only because my suckdom at TP spread to Boo, or he who   never   rarely loses at TP, but also because it is the first time I have ever requested "the darkest table in the restaurant please" for dinner. I'm not sure why Pookie was seeking the darkness, but as the hostess with the mostest, I tried to meet his every whim (and that must be why we tanked at the TP, as hosts it was our duty to lose, and it is a duty we took very seriously). In any event, I think it will be awhile before we return to the dinner establishment as I am sure they thought we were drinking goat's blood and swapping kidding porn at our dark table.

With all of this darkness and gaming, I'm sure you think I have not been knitting, nor have I decked our halls. But you'd be wrong. Wrong! WRONG! So very wrong! I have completed the gussets on both socks and now I just need to turn a little heel or two and I will be rolling up the leg. I should be done by Friday. I also have the halls decked but for a tweaking of the fireplace garland. I may suck at TP, but I am on the ball when it comes to ... something. I was going to say the holidays, but since I haven't started my holiday shopping, I shan't say that.

NaBloPoMo, xxv

My husband is flying to Dublin and is staying at one of the nicest hotels in the city. He is doing this all for free since he is going to "work." Taking into account his free accommodations and the fact that he will be gone for my birthday, we've talked about me going with him. Unfortunately the plane fares have been ridiculous and we can't really justify this expense with a bunch of unpaid leave looming in the horizon. That doesn't mean we haven't tried. Boy have we ever ...

Top Ten Reasons Why It Is Totally Cool To Spend $2700 On A Plane Ticket:

10. My awesome negotiation skills could help finalize the IRA disarmament talks and put an end to The Troubles.
9. It's a good reason to explain why The Bean doesn't have a college fund.
8. To research, write, star in, and direct a movie about Veronica Guerin ... oh wait, that was done already.
7. Getting a head start on ideas for a St. Patrick's Day party.
6. I could finish knitting my sweater on the long ass flight.
5. My presence on an international flight will help reaffirm people's faith in the security of the airline industry.
4. I'm a drunk and the beer is just better there.
3. In my husband's absence the animals will bond with me more causing a potentially deadly shift in household domesticity.
2. Spending that much money will stimulate the economy.
1. Fuck it, it's just money.

Fifteen

Today marks the fifteen year anniversary of my first date with Boo. Last year on this date, I waxed poetic about our anniversary and our first date. Okay, that is totally a euphemism as I am not really so poetic. In fact, I am so unpoetic (fuckity fuck fuck) that it might be more of a lie than a euphemism. And yes, I realize it's "an" euphemism not "a" euphemism but it sounds wrong in my head so I am taking poetic license, except, ergh, I am still not poetic so is it really my license to take?

In addition to our years-together anniversary, today is also the four year anniversary of our engagement. Four years ago today, Boo proposed while we standing at the top of the Empire State building looking toward Yankee Stadium, where we had our first date, and toward "the lesbian couch," where we had our first kiss.

So yah, today, big anniversary. We're celebrating with some bookcase staining and some regular old working. But not gift giving. This isn't a "here are some diamonds" kind of big anniversary. Since we aren't doing the gift thing, I decided to ask Boo to provide me a commemorative service. Not that kind of service you dirty perv (though I might reserve that kind of service request for later), I asked him to mail my sockapalooza box for me. And he did. Which makes me very happy. Which is the biggest reason we are still together after fifteen years. Not the mail thing, the making each other happy thing.

After fifteen years, Boo still makes me very, very happy. Yes, he can frustrate me like no other can. He can move me to the brink of violence like no other can. But, he can make me smile like no other can. Laugh like no other can. Blush like no other can. He can move me like no other can. In other words, he's perfect for me.

Thanks for fifteen years Boo! Happy Anniversary!

Good To Know

ME: (Kissing sleeping husband on cheek as I leave for work) Love you.
HIM: Mmmm. You don't smell.
ME: ?? Umm, thanks Boo.
HIM: (yelling) Really. YOU DO NOT SMELL!

Easter Funday

Yesterday was Easter, in case you somehow missed it. I've always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with the day. I mean I love me some chocolate and candy and sugary yumminess, but I hate that everything is closed. For like four years in a row, I found myself at the mall, staring at it in sadness, wondering why in the heck it was closed. There was an extra sense of absurdity as I would sit in the empty parking lot in that I never really went to the mall and the one day I did decide to go was one of the rare days that the place was closed.

Anywho this year, knowing in advance that the mall would not be an option, I made other plans. There was the whole sleeping in thing. Then there was a trip to the park with the husband and the dog. A trip to get some coffee. A plan to watch the brand new Sopranos and Entourage. Oh there was also dinner out. Somehow though, in my planning, I forgot to pencil in "being staked out by the police."* Odd how I missed that. You see, it turns out if two heathens have nothing better to do, and decide to go swing on swings or play on the jungle-gym, and the heathens are "adults" then the police get suspicious. They may first do a couple of drive-bys where the two cops in the car stare at the heathens, hoping to intimidate them off of the playground equipment. If that doesn't work, they may park their car, and stake out the heathens' locale. If the heathens move to a different part of the playground, the cops may move their car so that they can see better.

But don't worry, I, a heathen extraordinaire, did not let the police ruin my fun. No sirree. I swung on the swing (higher than Boo, go me!), I slid down the slide (having my hips wedge me into a sudden stop at the bend of the slide, not so fun, and slightly embarrassing having it happen in front of two cops and your husband), I teetered on the totter, and I even climbed a kid sized rock wall (which, in the future when I retell this story, will turn into a full adult sized rock wall which I scaled with skill and stamina that impressed even the cops who were observing my nefarious actions). I also went on this crazy ass thing that has no name that I know. It is a tall moving pole, that is bent, with a disk-platform thing that is about three feet off the ground. You stand on the disk-platform and your weight makes the pole swing mad crazy fast in circles and back and forth. Should you ever see one of these, you have to get on it. It is awesome. Be prepared for much (slightly hysterical) laughter, and maybe a head injury as you slam your noggin into the pole.

While at the park, but before we were on the police radar, we decided to take Dogbert for a walk. While we were walking we found a random tennis ball. Not one to let a great opportunity pass (despite the chance of the contracting the dreaded "biogerm" something Boo could not define but swore was bad and cause our dog to turn all mad cow), I decide to grab the ball and see if Dogarella would play fetch. Since she never plays with balls, and kind of sucks at the fetch thing, I didn't have high hopes. Turns out, however, that the biogerm makes fetching and chasing the tennis ball great fun. We even managed to wear her ass out:



* You'll also note that I did not plan on any knitting. I thought about it. But I'm at one of those times where I don't know what to do next. I gave up on the sideways socks (I'm convinced that that pattern will never work well for a normal human sized foot) and gave the yarn to my friend. Hopefully, for her sake, the hex is solely with the pattern and not with the yarn. I have the shawl that I dug out from last year that I finished. It just needs some tassels which I am putting off because tassel making? Ick. I have the kangaroo sweater, which I have done a few rows on every now and then. But that is it. I could get out the top down sweater, but it seems too hot for sweaters. That leaves socks. Which is great. But what sock? I can't seem to decide. I've looked at the Anastasia sock and the Mata Hari sock because I think either might do well with very variegated yarn, and women in my SnB are making or have made each, I like them both. But I can't decided. They kinda look a lot alike to my eye so maybe I just need to draw a name from a hat.

It Wasn't Me

You shouldn't ask your husband to check your phone when you hear a beep-beep-beep unless you know who the beep-beep-beep is from. Heh! Fortunately, Boo knows I am more likely to find God and renounce peanut butter M&M's, than to cheat, so we had a good laugh over this wrong number text message.* But it got me to thinking, what a great way to really screw with someone. And by great, I mean truly evil. If you don't like someone, why not text his mobile phone with love messages from unknown numbers so that his spouse can find them and assume the worst?






*I asked Boo to call the number and play the outraged husband wanting to know what skeeze was texting his wife, but he said he was too tired. Granted he had just walked in the door from a thirteen hour work day when the message came through, but still ... how pathetic! I mean, shouldn't he at least give the pretense of being disgruntled? Can I be too trustworthy?

I Heart Brenda

So our anniversary mini-trip rocked. We went to a local casino/hotel/spa for an overnighter. We arrived in time to have a dip in the pool, and a pedicure before a late dinner and some gambling. But, first there were the presents. This year was year three, leather or crystal.

There were leather shoes (for the husband) and a leather briefcase (for me, which is perfect and addresses all of my complaints with my old briefcase). There were also some sugar crystals, some crystal meth, and some Crystal Light. I know, I know, I'm only kidding. We're not into that junk - there was no Crystal Light.

After the presents we checked out the spa facilities and swam in the pool. I was pedicured while the husband cleaned up and went to play the ponies - or something. He met some Russian mobsters who were betting a thousand bucks a hand and a used-up hooker. I had pretty toes, he had an experience. I think he lost his virginity and learned who poisoned Yushchenko and Litvinenko. We met for dinner at Michael Jordan's, where the steak and the scallops were heavenly.

Then there was Brenda. She was our post-dinner blackjack dealer. I can't do math in my head - I need my fingers - and my memory is not so good. For these reasons, I have never played blackjack, or any card game, when we go to a casino. But the husband wanted me to play and promised to tell me what to do, so I agreed. Apparently there are specific things you are suppose to do when certain cards are showing in your hand or the dealer's. The memory thing prevents me from telling you what those things are since I have absolutely no idea. Sometimes I hit on 15 and other times I stayed on 12. Why this makes sense, yo no sé! So, Boo helped me along ("Hit." "But Boo, I have 15, that's a lot." "Hit.") and Brenda, the best dealer in the whole wide world, did the math for everyone saying what they had when she dealt the cards. She also helped me out when the husband was running his yap to someone other than me (no used up hookers or mobsters this time) and didn't answer my alarmed, "Oh my god! What do I do?" Brenda was slick. She couldn't tell me when to hit or stay but she would say, "I have a X and that is typically a bust card." Bust, heh!

I had a blast. And, between Brenda and the husband, I ended up doing well. In fact. I won over $360 using tiny little $10 bets! I can totally see why this could be an addiction. Boo also did well, so in one night we had enough for a milkshake and a little something left over! The next day, after we were rubbed and scrubbed and spa'd out, I lolled around at the pool and Boo blackjacked some more. When all was said and done, our total winnings were enough to pay for our trip! They were also enough to pay for a whole bunch of really nice yarn, or a Louis Vuitton or two, but I was a good girl and the money never saw the light of day. Straight to the bank, temptation be damned!

Hasta Le Bye Bye

Crazy touched me. Twice. I feel dirty and contaminated. But it's okay. I'm off on a jaunt to the spa. Heh! Today is our three year anniversary so the husband has booked us a room at Mohegan Sun and a day at the spa. I'm liking this anniversary stuff. My future holds a pedicure, some gambling, some massaging, hot tubs, swimming pools, pampering, a dinner out, breakfast in bed, and seven more rows of the sideways sock. Bet you weren't expecting the sock thing! Yah well I wasn't expecting Crazy to touch/pet/rub my arm. I wasn't expecting it once, and I sure as shit wasn't expecting it a second time after giving her the laser-beam-death-stare and jumping about twenty feet away. But I am not going to concentrate on the the fact that my arm is gangrenated. Grangrenated, is that a word? Fortunately it was the left arm and that one is shot to hell already. So, moving on.

I have seven more rows of the sock, and then it is time to seam her up and pick up some stitches for a toe. I am looking forward to the toe-stitch-picking-up because this will be the first time I've ever done this correctly. I am thinking I'll be able to get it done on the ride to the hotel. Maybe I can use the sock as a sign of how my gambling karma will go ... sock done, roll the dice; sock still in progress, get another massage.