but I really, really, really love my husband. And today's our seven-year (dating) anniversary*. (You're still allowed to celebrate such things once you get married, right?)
Truth be told, I am not so great at the wordsmithing when it comes to matters of the heart, but man, this guy is just the best. He is a man of integrity, a talented musician, a loyal friend, a gentle soul and a possessor of one sly sense of humor. And have I mentioned his beard? The beard is great.
Bee's knees. That's him.
Anyway, I may threaten him with murder on a regular basis, but I can't imagine my life without him in it. (So tremble in fear no more, honey!)
*Actually, I argue it's actually tomorrow, but Kyle is an unstoppable force in this dispute. Plus, hey, TWO days of romantic presents in a row! Can't complain about that.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
I swear I will return to regular posting soon
But until then, enjoy this, the most amazing news story ever*. (I am SO JEALOUS of the reporter on this 'un.)
*Don't believe me? Here's a hint. It includes talk of "Butt Hole Road."
*Don't believe me? Here's a hint. It includes talk of "Butt Hole Road."
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
My dad wants me to get fired
E-mail from my dad: Yipee! Can’t believe it’s real. Hey – toke ‘em if ya got ‘em!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Thank you, Jungle Jim's
The taste is ... meh ... but the design of this bottle is so much awesome in a small glass package.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Tears were shed
If you ever want to go on a road trip with me, there's something you should know: I can't drive stick.
Oh, I tried once: I was sixteen, and, on the day in question, I was running errands with my dad. We were in a Kohl's parking lot when I felt my blood sugar plummet. I asked if we could get a soda somewhere. Sure, said my dad, but why don't you try driving first? I'm sure there have worse suggestions made then this. I mean, someone had to pitch the concept of Crystal Pepsi, right? But this one had to be up there. Still, I clambered into the Taurus' driver's seat, started her up, and then eased into reverse, slowly backing out into the lane from our parking spot.
At least that was the plan. In reality, I started the engine, moved into reverse, and, panicked about how quickly the car seemed to be moving in the crowded parking lot, hit the brakes. Only, it wasn't the brakes I was hitting, but the gas. FUCK! I yelled, slamming on the not-brakes-but-actually-accelerator again. FUCK! I repeated myself, again hitting what was proving to be the wrong pedal. One last FUCK! escaped my lips before my dad calmly reached over and took the keys out of the ignition. My lesson was over, and, 14 years later, I haven't attempted to repeat it.
All of that should have served as fair warning for me yesterday as I tried to learn just how a person (in my case, me) is supposed to insert and remove contact lenses. I knew it wasn't going to be the easiest lesson. I mean, I have a bit of a thing about eyes. I was never one of those kids who turned their eyelids inside out, and ever since the third grade, when the tip of my pencil broke and it flew into my eye, I have made it a practice to try to keep things out of my eyes, rather than put things in. So, until yesterday, I'd never so much as attempted touching my eye, and here I was, being required by a medical professional (Donnell, my optician for the day) to do it over and over. Ick. Ick. Ick.
If that wasn't hard enough, my appointment was scheduled at 4:20 (heh, heh) p.m. on the Friday of what was proving to be a exhausting week, which itself was on the tail end of another exhausting week. My energy, already at a near-all-time low, was in a freefall when I entered my eye doctor's office. And Donnell, who, it must be said, scheduled my appointment in the first place, didn't seem too happy to have me there either. After confirming around the office that he was the only person there who could do the "teach," he instructed me to wash my hands and meet him at a small station set up in the back of the office.
And so, for the next 1 1/2 hours, we worked at it. Staring at my own reflection in the mirror for that length of time started to make me feel crazy, as I noticed every clogged pore, every errant hair, and a hairdo that was beginning to resemble Cameron Diaz's infamous 'do in There Something About Mary as I reached over my head to grab my eyelid and pull it taut, pushing my bangs skyward in the process. All the while, Donnell noted some challenges: You need to actually touch your eyes to do this. You aren't going to be able to push the contact through your lashes, so you're going to have to open your eyes. You have small eyes so you're really going to have to pull on your eyelashes to keep them open, he said, giving my battered self-esteem another kick in the shins.
Eventually, I got it.
Sort of.
I managed to get the lenses in on my own, but taking them out was yet another challenge. Finally, I popped it one out. It was a fluke, to be sure, but Donnell, taking a not-so-surreptitious look at his watch, was ready to go. After making sure I could insert the lens again, he sent me on my way. My instructions were to wear them for four hours Friday, six or so Saturday and 8-14 on Sunday.
Let me take a moment here to say that my dad tried contacts for the first time a few years ago, and, in an incident that will live in family lore, found himself at the ER, in need of professional help to remove his contacts. Perhaps I should not have mocked him so much for that. Because four hours after I'd had the lenses inserted, I made my first attempts to remove the contacts and quickly discovered I just couldn't do it. Three hours after that, after I punched and kicked our bathroom wall in frustration, after I sent Kyle to my mom's to get a light-up mirror and after Kyle tried to yank the contacts out himself, an effort that led to both of us crumbling into hysterics, I gave my dad a call. Do you still have that suction cup thingy that the ER people used to take out your contacts? I asked. He did not. But, he said, he'd figured out some techniques that he could help me with.
So, that's how I ended up at 11 p.m. last night with Kyle shining a flashlight in my face as my dad hovered over me and plucked the contacts from my eyes. Kyle suggested I give up on this contacts thing altogether. I said I would schedule another "teach" at the eye doctor's. My dad suggested I try again today. And so, against my better wisdom, I'm gonna do just that. But I think I'll have a soda first.
Oh, I tried once: I was sixteen, and, on the day in question, I was running errands with my dad. We were in a Kohl's parking lot when I felt my blood sugar plummet. I asked if we could get a soda somewhere. Sure, said my dad, but why don't you try driving first? I'm sure there have worse suggestions made then this. I mean, someone had to pitch the concept of Crystal Pepsi, right? But this one had to be up there. Still, I clambered into the Taurus' driver's seat, started her up, and then eased into reverse, slowly backing out into the lane from our parking spot.
At least that was the plan. In reality, I started the engine, moved into reverse, and, panicked about how quickly the car seemed to be moving in the crowded parking lot, hit the brakes. Only, it wasn't the brakes I was hitting, but the gas. FUCK! I yelled, slamming on the not-brakes-but-actually-accelerator again. FUCK! I repeated myself, again hitting what was proving to be the wrong pedal. One last FUCK! escaped my lips before my dad calmly reached over and took the keys out of the ignition. My lesson was over, and, 14 years later, I haven't attempted to repeat it.
All of that should have served as fair warning for me yesterday as I tried to learn just how a person (in my case, me) is supposed to insert and remove contact lenses. I knew it wasn't going to be the easiest lesson. I mean, I have a bit of a thing about eyes. I was never one of those kids who turned their eyelids inside out, and ever since the third grade, when the tip of my pencil broke and it flew into my eye, I have made it a practice to try to keep things out of my eyes, rather than put things in. So, until yesterday, I'd never so much as attempted touching my eye, and here I was, being required by a medical professional (Donnell, my optician for the day) to do it over and over. Ick. Ick. Ick.
If that wasn't hard enough, my appointment was scheduled at 4:20 (heh, heh) p.m. on the Friday of what was proving to be a exhausting week, which itself was on the tail end of another exhausting week. My energy, already at a near-all-time low, was in a freefall when I entered my eye doctor's office. And Donnell, who, it must be said, scheduled my appointment in the first place, didn't seem too happy to have me there either. After confirming around the office that he was the only person there who could do the "teach," he instructed me to wash my hands and meet him at a small station set up in the back of the office.
And so, for the next 1 1/2 hours, we worked at it. Staring at my own reflection in the mirror for that length of time started to make me feel crazy, as I noticed every clogged pore, every errant hair, and a hairdo that was beginning to resemble Cameron Diaz's infamous 'do in There Something About Mary as I reached over my head to grab my eyelid and pull it taut, pushing my bangs skyward in the process. All the while, Donnell noted some challenges: You need to actually touch your eyes to do this. You aren't going to be able to push the contact through your lashes, so you're going to have to open your eyes. You have small eyes so you're really going to have to pull on your eyelashes to keep them open, he said, giving my battered self-esteem another kick in the shins.
Eventually, I got it.
Sort of.
I managed to get the lenses in on my own, but taking them out was yet another challenge. Finally, I popped it one out. It was a fluke, to be sure, but Donnell, taking a not-so-surreptitious look at his watch, was ready to go. After making sure I could insert the lens again, he sent me on my way. My instructions were to wear them for four hours Friday, six or so Saturday and 8-14 on Sunday.
Let me take a moment here to say that my dad tried contacts for the first time a few years ago, and, in an incident that will live in family lore, found himself at the ER, in need of professional help to remove his contacts. Perhaps I should not have mocked him so much for that. Because four hours after I'd had the lenses inserted, I made my first attempts to remove the contacts and quickly discovered I just couldn't do it. Three hours after that, after I punched and kicked our bathroom wall in frustration, after I sent Kyle to my mom's to get a light-up mirror and after Kyle tried to yank the contacts out himself, an effort that led to both of us crumbling into hysterics, I gave my dad a call. Do you still have that suction cup thingy that the ER people used to take out your contacts? I asked. He did not. But, he said, he'd figured out some techniques that he could help me with.
So, that's how I ended up at 11 p.m. last night with Kyle shining a flashlight in my face as my dad hovered over me and plucked the contacts from my eyes. Kyle suggested I give up on this contacts thing altogether. I said I would schedule another "teach" at the eye doctor's. My dad suggested I try again today. And so, against my better wisdom, I'm gonna do just that. But I think I'll have a soda first.
Friday, January 2, 2009
2009: good so far
My catchphrase of the year is the o-so-clever "doin' fine in 2009," which is my way of saying that I am cautiously optimistic about this year. It's day 2 of 2009, and so far, so good, but considering I'm employed at a struggling company in an industry that appears to be in a death spiral, it is best to be cautious about just about everything. So cautious I will be.
Anyway, NYE 2008 was spent in the best possible way: with friends (although, sigh, not all of them. Why can't everyone I love live in the same city as me? Why don't people realize that they should base all of their life decisions around how they will impact ME?? I mean, c'mon already!), my hubby (who also falls into the "friend" category, happily enough, but who deserves special recognition) and with a 7-year-old girl serving as bartender. No, really. I heard she made great mixed drinks, if a bit too strong. I was on a champers-only bender, so I did not avail myself of her services, however.
So, yes, it was a night that was spent drinking champagne (that, for once, cost more than $4.99--I'm getting classy in my old age), sitting in a smoky room* and debating the merits of using vintage items and thereby contributing to their inevitable ruin, vs. preserving them for others to enjoy in the future**, and watching our hosts take belts of tequila before setting off rather impressive fireworks. No one lost a finger in the revelry, so I consider it a success. And, because I was wise enough to guzzle some water pre-passing-out--and during periodic incidences of wakefulness throughout the night--I managed to do be hangover-free on Jan. 1. My, how I've grown--it must be because I'm 30, AKA old, now. But as long as it means I don't spend the day with my head in the toilet, praying for the sweet, sweet relief of death, that's fine by me.
Later in the day, the hubby and I headed to Dayton, to spend Christmas part Infinity with his mom and brother's family. (Depending on how you count it, we had, at minimum, seven (!!!) family Christmas get-togethers this season. Crikey.) Good times were had by all. A personal highlight was when my 4-year-old niece, Sophie, asked me for a ride on my shoulders. I wasn't sure if I could do it (I realized I'd never given someone a shoulder-ride before), but I gave it a go, and we made several rounds around the first floor before I put her down. I then attempted to convince her that she should reciprocate and give me a ride. At first she argued against it: "You're too big," but agreed to try, and wouldn't let go of the leg I'd wrapped around her shoulder until I convinced her that in all actuality, were she to try, I'd smash her like a bug.
As you imagine, that--along with the kids trying on the fake moustaches we bought them -- made my ovaries ache more than a little. Later though, trying to sleep last night, I dreamed of leaving my 8-year-old nephew by himself at the beach while I ran errands and of foolishly bringing our cat to a department store changing room (where she promptly ran away), so I'm pretty sure my subconscious is sending me a message about the wisdom of that at this point in my life.
Up next: I head out to the eye doctor's this afternoon for a "teach" on how to insert, wear and remove contacts. I'm pretty sure this whole thing will end in tears (I imagine my optometrist will be weeping in frustration by the end), but hey, I really want a spend a Halloween where I can be _____, not _____-with-glasses. Perhaps the dream will live in 2009.
*Ahem.
**My philosophy is that these items were meant to be used, and it sort of denies them their, I dunno, significance if we just use them as art objects alone. That said, if something I love is nearing falling-apart-ness, I will stop using it so that I can extend its life.
Anyway, NYE 2008 was spent in the best possible way: with friends (although, sigh, not all of them. Why can't everyone I love live in the same city as me? Why don't people realize that they should base all of their life decisions around how they will impact ME?? I mean, c'mon already!), my hubby (who also falls into the "friend" category, happily enough, but who deserves special recognition) and with a 7-year-old girl serving as bartender. No, really. I heard she made great mixed drinks, if a bit too strong. I was on a champers-only bender, so I did not avail myself of her services, however.
So, yes, it was a night that was spent drinking champagne (that, for once, cost more than $4.99--I'm getting classy in my old age), sitting in a smoky room* and debating the merits of using vintage items and thereby contributing to their inevitable ruin, vs. preserving them for others to enjoy in the future**, and watching our hosts take belts of tequila before setting off rather impressive fireworks. No one lost a finger in the revelry, so I consider it a success. And, because I was wise enough to guzzle some water pre-passing-out--and during periodic incidences of wakefulness throughout the night--I managed to do be hangover-free on Jan. 1. My, how I've grown--it must be because I'm 30, AKA old, now. But as long as it means I don't spend the day with my head in the toilet, praying for the sweet, sweet relief of death, that's fine by me.
Later in the day, the hubby and I headed to Dayton, to spend Christmas part Infinity with his mom and brother's family. (Depending on how you count it, we had, at minimum, seven (!!!) family Christmas get-togethers this season. Crikey.) Good times were had by all. A personal highlight was when my 4-year-old niece, Sophie, asked me for a ride on my shoulders. I wasn't sure if I could do it (I realized I'd never given someone a shoulder-ride before), but I gave it a go, and we made several rounds around the first floor before I put her down. I then attempted to convince her that she should reciprocate and give me a ride. At first she argued against it: "You're too big," but agreed to try, and wouldn't let go of the leg I'd wrapped around her shoulder until I convinced her that in all actuality, were she to try, I'd smash her like a bug.
As you imagine, that--along with the kids trying on the fake moustaches we bought them -- made my ovaries ache more than a little. Later though, trying to sleep last night, I dreamed of leaving my 8-year-old nephew by himself at the beach while I ran errands and of foolishly bringing our cat to a department store changing room (where she promptly ran away), so I'm pretty sure my subconscious is sending me a message about the wisdom of that at this point in my life.
Up next: I head out to the eye doctor's this afternoon for a "teach" on how to insert, wear and remove contacts. I'm pretty sure this whole thing will end in tears (I imagine my optometrist will be weeping in frustration by the end), but hey, I really want a spend a Halloween where I can be _____, not _____-with-glasses. Perhaps the dream will live in 2009.
*Ahem.
**My philosophy is that these items were meant to be used, and it sort of denies them their, I dunno, significance if we just use them as art objects alone. That said, if something I love is nearing falling-apart-ness, I will stop using it so that I can extend its life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
