Friday Confessions: In case you were wondering

Update on that crucial situation mentioned last week: The book is finished. I enjoyed it on an entertainment level, but I must admit, those first couple chapters had me in a panic. Dicey I tell ya. I didn’t expect it to take me so long to get in the groove. But by the time Harry was at Hogwarts it was relatively smooth sailing from there. I even found myself reading the book in a British accent, in my head of course. I assume everyone does this though with books set in English territory, and sometimes even when they're not. So nothing strange there. I plan to continue the series, mostly because I hate unfinished business.

I guess this didn’t turn out to be as controversial as I feared/hoped so how about a couple more confessions?

Fine. I confess that when I start reading a book I always begin by reading the first sentence of the book (obviously). Then I turn to the end and read the last sentence of the book. Then I proceed with everything in between. I do this every time. I don’t know when or why this started. I just do it. And will never stop. It has yet to ruin the story or give away crucial info. In fact all it does for me is create a sense of intrigue. I love intrigue!

For example: In 1815 Monsieur Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of Digne . . . La chose simplement d’elle-même arriva, comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s’en va.

See. Magical.

Or how about: I’d never given much thought to how I would die . . . into the fevered eyes of six suddenly ravenous vampires.

I have to read that book! Right?

Anyway. There you have it.

I would also like to confess that I found a sopping wet $7.25 in the washer today, still intact praise be.

 

It doesn’t belong to me I know but I’m drying it most carefully then putting it in my wallet to keep. That’s what cash carriers get when they don’t empty their pockets Husband.

Good weekend to you all! I certainly plan to what with this money burning a hole in my pocket. A big ol' hole.

Friday Confessions: As usual, I'm about ten years behind

Currently there is a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone sitting on my desk. See. Proof.

Some of you may be amazed by this alone but that’s not really the confession part of this post.

More to the point is that I’ve never read this book or any of the other Harry Potter books. It was first published when I was in the thick of high school and I didn’t do much in high school except fret, and sleep, and do homework, and watch Roswell. I was too into hot aliens to even think about pre-pubescent wizards. Jason Behr. Ahem.

So I didn’t know these books were in existence until I was a college undergrad, now in the thick of living on my own and being an English major. You’d think that as an English major I would be all over that Harry stuff no problem. But people were being so annoying about these books. They said I had to read them. It would change my life. I would start having fantastic magical wizardy dreams as opposed to boring dreams. I would be complete.

Well I didn’t much care for people telling me I had to read something in addition to the required Hemingway, Austen, Whitman, Dickens, James, Keats, Milton, Poe, Shakespeare, Spenser, Thoreau, Twain, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Blake, Bronte, Browne, Browning, Burns, Chaucer, Conrad, Hurston, Plath, Dickinson et cetera.

My eyes were blurry enough as is. So no. I didn’t read Harry Potter. I didn’t even WANT to. But this isn’t my ultimate confession either.

What I really want to admit is that I finally told myself just last week that it’s okay to read these books now. My brain is ready and the heart is willing. But this book (thanks library!) has been circling around various surfaces of my house and I just can’t get myself to read it. Even with all the hype. Even with all the acclaim. Even when critics say this is a series for the ages.

Here’s my problem. Besides the fact that I'd rather be sleeping, I think there’s a very real possibility that I will not like them (because I’m a difficult person and I have shifty eyes), that I will be disappointed. Then when anyone asks if I’ve read Potter I’ll have to say yes but I just won’t be able to keep my mouth shut and I’ll holler, “They weren’t that great!” There will be gasps. And awful heart palpitations. Then I will be shunned by all of society.

Well, I don’t need that kind of trouble friends.

I guess I need to go do some soul searching. Will update on the situation later.

Friday Confessions: This might hurt someone's feelings

Come what may, no matter the consequences, I cannot hold this in any longer! Let it be known from this day forth that I hate, with a sickening guttural passion, the sight, smell, and taste of Peeps, those sugar coated evil chick incarnates.

I have no place for them in my life. First you've got the marshmallow, inherently sweet, because marshmallows are just a fancy word for sugar you know. Then you cover that fluffy sugar concoction with a layer of neon colored sugar crystals and dot it with a chocolate chickadee eye. It's all too much!

Too dang much.

So there's that.

And while I'm on the topic of possibly unpopular dislikes, I need to address this particular shoe style (an espadrille I assume) while it's still fresh in my judgmental mind.

Never mind the fact that if I wore these they would go up to my knees (since I'm hobbit-like in les jambes area), but really why I dislike them is because if ever I suddenly did gain the ability to tan, these shoes would leave the silliest of tan lines. For shame! And I just don't need more imaginary worries in my life right now. So I reject these contraptions purely on principle.

But now that I've most assuredly turned a good portion of you peoples away, I have a bit of news that not a one of you lovelies could possibly think offensive. Saturday is this blog's one year anniversary! As Bosco would say, "That's ridiculous. That doesn't seem possible."

Well it is if I'm going off of when my first post was. If I was going off of when I first entered the planning stages, that would have been back in January of last year. That's a long time you guys!

So to celebrate the fact that I've been super dedicated and that you guys sure are Awesome and Really the Best Bunch of Peeps (not the gross sugar kind) That Ever Existed, I want to do a little something fun . . . on Monday.

Come back Monday! For reals! If you miss this you will kick yourself in hurtful areas!

Friday Confessions: Sort of fo' real

Well my friends ‘tis Friday. I’ve actually been a day ahead mentally this whole week. Like on Tuesday I swore it was Wednesday, but the Husband informed me otherwise and then the next day I swore it was Thursday because the previous day I thought the Husband had told me it was Wednesday. Very confusing indeed for all parties involved. But I’m about 98.4% plus a bag of peanuts sure that today is Friday so you can take my word for it.

I don’t have any Friday Confessions to divulge except for the fact that this song has been stuck in my head for a long time, maybe going on weeks or months? I can’t be sure.

Also the Husband spoke to me in his sleep the other night. He does this regularly and he never remembers it the next day, even though in the moment he assures me he is awake and will most definitely remember the conversation. Dear man, he’s optimistic even in his sleep. But alas almost every time I relay this to him in the morning he laughs heartily because he remembers NONE OF IT. This time our late night chat went something like this.

The Husband: “Love you. And I think five seems like the right number.”

Me: “Five what? Five is the right number of what?” Silence. “Five sandwiches? Five monkeys? Five-hundred dollar shopping spree?” Still no answer. Thirty seconds pass.

The Husband: “Five. The number. It’s just a good number.”

Me: “You know you’re asleep right? I bet you a whole lot of money you are not going to remember any of this tomorrow.”

The Husband: “Yes I will. I’m not asleep thanks to you.”

Me: “Oh yeah. Then what did you just say?” Silence . . .

The end

Then I fell into a weird funky sleep and had dreams that left my heart feeling heavy and sagging deep in my chest. I hate that kind of sleep. I think it had something to do with that raspberry soda I had before bed. That stuff always affects me strangely. Then I have dreams about unpleasant things, like that one time in real life I was hiking in the summer and got really hot, like heat exhaustion or heat stroke hot and how I’ve never handled heat very well from that day forth.

Also dreams about wanting to sleep out in a forest by myself, and find nuts and berries for sustenance. Maybe a rabbit for good measure. See? Unpleasant.

I guess what it all boils down to is that my subconscious wants me to know that I may possibly be . . . a wolf, that the gene mutation is finally presenting itself. Not a werewolf or anything. Just your typical wolf that turns into a human when the weather is warm.

That would explain all the hair.

Note: I don’t think the book I read awhile ago influenced my thoughts at all.

Pretty positive this is for reals happening. The heat exhaustion was the trigger and the raspberry soda was the enabler. ??? Well, it made sense in my dream last night.

Friday Confessions: Something that gives me clammy hands

I know today isn’t Friday, according to most of the calendars circulating out there. But if someone can randomly decide that everyone’s astrological sign has suddenly changed, someone’s entire identity has become null and void, then I think I can mess with the days of the week if I so choose.

And according to my mass body index, today is actually Friday. Who knows what it will say next week! It’s sort of exciting to not know what day of the week it is.

And before I forget, I am and forever will be an Aquarius. There is no way I’m giving up claim on one of the most trippy hippie songs of all time. This little video montage sums it up quite nicely. (That’s a link. Click on it my friends. And holy crap did you see the lady riding a unicorn through a rainbow? I mean holy crap! That’s just so like an Aquarius. I dream about doing that stuff all the time).

Anyway, I was going to confess something, seeing as how today is Friday and all.

Well folks, it may come as some or no surprise, but I have a fear of escalators. No joke. I think it stems from something that happened to me as a child. It’s a fuzzy blurry memory, but enough of it remains to cause me anxiety every single time I encounter the Moving Stairs of Death. The memory goes something like this: Me. On an escalator. Minding my own business. Family is also on the escalator. My coat or shoe or something gets stuck. End of escalator is fast approaching. Panic. Panic. Fear. Dad cannot get me loose. Fuzzy.

I assume someone was able to release me from the evil clenches the escalator had because I’m here today to tell my story. But the anxiety lives on.

I also inherently have horrible coordination and balance so you can see why I feel the Moving Stairs of Death have really been put on this Earth to torment me.

Needless to say, malls, airports, large mansions always get my guts in a twist. But I do it. I face that fear. Rather than take the normal Unmoving Stairs or a Semi-claustrophobic Elevator, I step up to that evil thing, pause, hesitate until it’s slightly embarrassing to me and company, then put my foot on that awful contraption. And as I’m being carried up or down, because they go both ways ya know, I feel a little shaky, sweaty, and flustered. And I grip the hand rail like Satan himself is trying to pull me down to hell. Then it’s time to step off. And step off I do.

But you see the whole time I’m facing this fear, I’m having visions of all the horrible things that could happen to me. Like this . . .

 . . . which may make some people laugh. Okay I laughed too, but mostly it just makes me nervous and a little sad and a little that could happen to me and I’m not even an old man.

Well if I do suffer the same fate one day, I'm telling you right here and now, I want the Keyboard Cat to play me off.

Then Jupiter will align with Mars, and so on and so forth.

Friday Confessions: If you can't reach me it's because I'm not in my cave

I can’t believe I’m going to tell y’all this. It sort of makes me feel like a cave woman living with her cave family in a cave, den if you will, snacking on day old dinosaur meat and washing it all down with a hand-scoop of fresh swamp water. Yes, that pretty much sums up how I feel when I tell people I don’t have a cell phone.

You heard it straight from the cave woman herself. My family does not own a cell phone. Smart phone? What’s that? Texting? Sounds creepy? Being able to be reached by cellular technology 24/7? Sounds like a nightmare.

Let me clarify a few things though before you totally think me bonkers.

One: I had a cell phone when I was single and cool. When the Husband and I got married the cell phone went and college tuition stayed. I did however keep that trusty old Nokia of mine as a memento. People laugh when they see it. You're probably wondering why people see it? Well that's because the Husband likes to show it to visitors.

Two: I would like a cell phone. I am not anti-cell phone. The husband is. The thought of wanting to be “reachable” whenever, wherever perplexes him. Probably disgusts him a little too.

Three: The Husband is not unwilling to compromise. When I was preggers with Bosco and birth was imminent, I made requested that we get one of those pay-as-you-go cell phones. He obliged. Turns out though that all I had to do to let him know I was in labor was turn over in bed and tell him my water just broke. Bummer. He did get to use the cell phone a few hours later though to call his parents and tell them their first grandbaby had arrived, which he did right after he spent a few minutes trying to figure out how to use the cell phone. Tee hee.

Four: We still have that very same pay-as-you-go cell phone. I carry it around occasionally in case of emergencies when we are traveling. But you must know that this phone barely qualifies as a phone. It is not smart. It is not even semi-smart. It is only just barely averagely smart. And smart isn’t even the right word for it. Plus it looks like this:

That's a potato.

Only sillier, slightly thinner, and less edible.

Five: So technically I do have a cell phone, but not in the terms a cell phone has come to mean these days. Technology is passing us by, and the Husband usually doesn’t seem to care one bit.

At least this is what I thought until yesterday about 6:08 P.M., when the Husband revealed to me what he is getting me for Christmas/my upcoming birthday. I didn’t even think to measure how far my jaw dropped.

I’ve got to admit I didn’t see that one coming. It’s not a cell phone, but apparently the Husband is willing to go to totally illogical lengths to distract me from that fact. Dag nabbit it worked.

Note: It is absolutely, probably, most likely possible that tiny green alien life forms are currently inhabiting my Husband's body. Has this ever happened to any of you? What should I do?

Friday Confessions: I'm not sure addiction is the right word for it

Friday Confessions time. I admit that I may or may not be addicted to Etsy. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? In my almost always correct opinion, it’s the happiest place in cyber space.

It’s like lemon drops, new car smell, cuddly baby monkeys, the most perfect piece of peach cobbler, freshly shaved (shorn?) legs, and a whole bag of chips just for you, all wrapped nicely together (in handmade paper!), then sprinkled with fairy godmother dust until it’s bubbling over with massive amounts of wonderful. And then all your dreams come true.

But you see, it’s hard for me to say I’m truly addicted. I have yet to compare myself with other people and their Etsy consumption. And comparison is key when trying to figure such things out.

Also there should probably be some more scientific research on the subject before I can make an educated guess. Show me studies, statistics, lab rats, what have you. But this information simply doesn’t exist, yet. This is why I say I may or may not be addicted. I’m leaning towards may, just based on a gut feeling of mine. I’m prone to gut feelings.

But I’ll let you make your own judgments about me. It should be known that I did about 82% of my Christmas shopping through Etsy shops this year. Lovely things for the children, the man attached to me by marriage, mother, sisters . . . myself. Husband it was so thoughtful of you to let me pick something out for myself this year! What a handsome devil you are. I love what I picked out for myself!

Why did I do this instead of go to the blasted mall? Well at some point this year I jumped on the handmade band wagon without really realizing it. Not me personally making handmade things. Heavens I don’t have the patience for that right now. But supporting those who do and have dreamy products to show for it.

Just a snap shot of some prints I got for the kiddies and myself to fill up these sullen empty walls of ours. Remember how I am trying to make my house a home? Bingo.

And this is just what I can show you. I can’t show you gifts for people who might actually peruse this post. That would be breaking Christmas Cheer Rule #4. Never intentionally take away the element of surprise for others on Christmas morning (Perhaps I’ll tell you the other rules another day. There are fifteen after all. Rules that is.) Just know that the other gifts are equally awesome.

So what say you? Am I showing signs of addiction or just a normal amount of adoration?

For those interested, here are the prints I purchased and the shops so you can peruse the magic for yourself. I love them all.

Anything that quotes truth is worth my money. The first one is going right above my stove. And the other is going above my washer/dryer. This is the kind of inspiration I need and want.

Kantan Designs

I sing this song to Bubba everyday. Awwww. Love it.

Sugar Fresh

It's uncanny how well this print portrays my Bosco. He's going to immediately turn into his superhero self when he sees it.

Cinnamon Ink

I love this watercolor print titled Love Birds. It suits the Husband and I quite well. I'll let you decide which bird is who.

ashmae

Happy Christmas shopping!

Friday Confessions: A tryst of sorts

This may seem trivial to some, but it’s time to admit that I’ve been having a sordid affair with my Crock-pot. The Husband doesn’t know the extent of the relationship, but I guess he will now. Sometimes I dream about my Crock-pot. And in those dreams I’m always cooking something delicious in, well, my Crock-pot. It’s the perfect appliance really for someone who suffers from bouts of laziness, such as myself.

The Husband is usually lazy alongside me. This does nothing for putting dinner on the table. That is why I have developed a deep reliance on my Crock-pot. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve used it within the past few weeks. I mean I used it to roast a chicken for heaven’s sake. Who does that when they can just use the oven? Well, I do. The affair runs deep.

I don’t think the Husband is going to hold this against me though because he’s getting delicious dinners in return while I’m also less frazzled at the end of the day. Bonus for him. But if he does truly have a problem with my Crock-pot craze then I don’t know what to do. I already told him that he “completed me” that one time when he reeked of Darcy qualities. I thought that would make him feel special. I just hope it was enough of a compliment.

Let's be honest though. We all know a man cannot complete you. Oprah knows this. So does Jenny McCarthy. They even talked about this with each other. That makes it almost irrefutable fact.

But I think they intentionally side stepped the possibility of becoming whole through the Crock-pot. Not a man. Just an appliance. But possessing the perfect combination of culinary skills to complete you. Fill up all those empty spots in your tired cranky soul.

And surely they had good reason to avoid the power of the Crock-pot because what woman wants to admit dependence on anything other than chocolate? It takes a strong woman to admit a need for slow cooking. I am that strong woman. So there you have it.

Have a lovely weekend dear poopsies.

Friday Confessions: An update and a doozy

I have an important update to make regarding a previous secret I divulged. However as I debrief you, I will also in turn unavoidably reveal yet another skeleton in the cupboard. So be it.

I’m so proud to announce that the horror that once was my recipe collection has now been tamed, even beautified.

In a binder! With tabs! Categorized! With page protection!

My heart is all a flutter just thinking about the organized state of it all. Seriously. I’m having heart palpitations . . . and hunger pains. And I really want to go cook something just so I can find the necessary recipe in perhaps twenty seconds as opposed to ten minutes. And there will be no wailing or gnashing of teeth. It will be as calm and serene as a summer’s morn. The way it should be.

But you see I could not bring myself to buy one of those top of the line pre-made recipe binders that have everything and anything a perfectionist could ever want or even hope for, plus a bag of chips. No I just couldn’t do it. I’d rather spend the money on something more selfish, like jewelry. Nor could I just go out and buy a plain binder that lacked personality. So I was in a quandary.

And this in when that ugly thing lurking inside of me became the Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll. This person only comes out to play every once in awhile, but when she/he does it is chaos. Pure and udder (I like that I just misspelled that word. I’ll leave it like that) pandemonium, of the crafty variety. That’s right. I became a crafting fool. I put the three years I worked in a scrapbooking store (oh yes I did!) to good use. My well thought out plans included scrapbook paper, cardstock, stickers, and Modge Podge. Lots of Modge Podge. How did one craft before Modge Podge? I simply do not know.

But as my explosions of craftiness tend to go, things did not go according to plan. I had to improvise. I hate improvising. It’s stressful and requires quick thoughtful decision making, of which I am not talented in doing.

This is why I hate when Mr. or Mrs. Hyde comes out of their lair. Because as a perfectionist, trying to hand make something myself only leads to me feeling less than superior. I pick and pick and pick and before the day in done, I’ve successfully created something I will always find fault with. Sad really.

But you know, I think I’m really turning a new leaf here. I know it’s not perfect, and it’s not exactly what I was going for, but I saved a ton of money and I’ve got a new necklace (okay maybe three or four) arriving in the mail shortly. Not to mention my recipes are no longer living in sin with the mixing bowls.

If any of you have questions or concerns about the fact that I worked at a scrapbooking store for over three years, I would be happy to continue the discussion with you and provide further clarification. I ask that you email me though in private, it being a sensitive topic and all.

Friday Confessions: Stinkin' fur balls

How’s about another Friday Confession? I’m feeling particularly forthcoming today. That’s right forthcoming.

As such, I’m willing to share with you something so dark and sinister that I promised myself I wouldn’t reveal it, ever. I’m sure to lose readers over it. It will offend someone out there no doubt.

I’ve alluded to it before I know, but always in a very sly way so as you dear readers could not really tell if I was being serious or not. Because really I’m rarely serious. Of course you are right not to take me seriously.

But now listen here. I am being totally SERIOUS when I tell you that I DETEST CATS. Kittens to be specific.  I’ll wait while a few of you now close out of your browser. Okay. Well there’s still a few of you left. Thank you for letting me explain myself. Mature cats I can handle as long as they don’t dart in front of me or give me smug looks. But when does a kitten become a cat? I don't know. I've always gone by the simple rule of when they are big enough to protect me from a skunk. Kittens are wusses.

I know. I know. Kittens are adorable. So are most miniature cuddly things. That doesn’t mean I have to like them. Baby trolls are probably cute too, and then they bite your face off. This is the reality of the world we live in.

There is a deep rooted reason for my dislike though. I haven’t just randomly decided kittens are evil. No. I learned this from being methodically worn down to the point of horror.

Growing up, I had a friend who I spent as much time with as possible. She was also a redhead. It was like two Anne Shirley’s unleashed upon the earth. It was a dangerous pairing. Dramatic, impulsive, obnoxious. That was us. Many a night I slept over at her house. And we did very worthwhile things. Like drop tampons in a sink full of water, watching with pure amazement and a little bit of disgust as they expanded. Then we promised each other that when we finally got our periods and became real women, the other would be the first to know. Pinky swear.

Ah, but this is neither here nor there. What does this have to do with kittens? Well, I’ll tell you. Although I enjoyed spending the night at my friend’s, there was one problem. Her family had cats and kittens galore. Felines, felines everywhere. Outside. In the house. I didn’t grow up with any pets so any animal was a little off putting. But so what? Doesn’t seem like a big deal. They were just cats after all. But at night, when we were sleeping on the floor, those cursed kittens came after me. Pawing me, jumping over me, meowing at me! Meowing!

I spent most of the night protecting my head from being used as a scratching post. I’d wrap a blanket around my face and leave only enough of an opening to breath. Probably something similar to this only with eight year old facial features.

Now that I think about it, I’m sensing this may have also played into my claustrophobic tendencies. See! I can trace back so many of my problems to those wretched kittens.

Fast forward a few years. I am now a teenager. My family somehow adopts a stray cat who has kittens not too long after. Oh yes. Those kittens were adorable. I already admitted that they can be adorable! What else do you want from me? So I tried to put my dislike of the beastly animal behind me. A fresh new start, possibly with cats on the horizon.

My sisters and I named the kittens. My favorite was a warm golden colored one which we fittingly named Butterscotch. It was very nice of me I think to name a kitten after something so perfect, seeing as how I could have also named him after something else cream colored, like Pus or Toe Jam. But I didn’t. I tried to be a better person people. And I thought I detected a sense of pride beaming from the kitten every time I called him by his name. Butterscotch.

Well, I must have been wrong. Because instead of a nice cuddle, all that dang kitten gave me in return was his name scratched into my arm. Etched from his claws of malice.

Never again I told myself. Never again will a kitten receive love or endearing names from me. Never.

I’ve kept my promise. I’m nothing if not dedicated and hard-hearted.

Have a nice weekend. Please remember to spay and neuter . . . your pets.

Friday Confessions: Too shameful for words

Somewhere along the line I abandoned my routine Friday Confessions posts, which is sad because they were all so very compelling. Like the time I confessed to having "carnie feet". Many a Googler has found my blog thanks to that phrase. Astonishing really. Freaky foot fetishers I assume. Anyway. But don’t you think it’s a right jolly good time for me to start up my Friday posts again? No need to answer. I can already hear you shouting yes, by george, yes!

Now before I continue, you must know that what I am about to reveal is probably one of the most embarrassing things I have revealed up to date. Falling off the toilet doesn’t even come close to the secret that I harbor in my kitchen cabinet.

Behold!

. . . the pitiful shocking state of my recipe collection. No order, no alphabetization, no theme, no grouping. My eyes are stinging just looking at it, and don’t get me started on how sick it was to actually take a picture of this. Papers, notecards, printouts. It’s all one big pile of stinking sin.

If you know me even just a tiny teensy weensy amount, you know that I am a perfectionist. Have been since I was fresh out of the womb when I asked them to cut the umbilical cord in a neat manner. Yes I did.

I think my crime is most bothersome because it goes against everything that I know to be right and true, and yet I still do it. Organization-ness is next to godliness. Or so the scriptures say. The scriptures people! I don’t know how I let things get so out of control. Piles of anything are just not in my nature.

It was all so innocent at first, a few recipes here and there to prove to the Husband that we would eat food at some point in our marriage. Then I went through a domestic-goddess-wannabe phase, acquiring recipe after recipe online. Then I went through a homesick phase and asked my mom to write down all the recipes that reminded me of my childhood.

And six years later (because I didn’t cook or have recipes at all before I got married) I’ve got this stack hidden away in my cabinet. I add to it in secret and I refer to it in even more secret, using cookbooks as a cover. Only the Husband knows about this shortcoming of mine. He says he still loves me.

Well now you know too. I wouldn't blame you if you were disgusted beyond recovery.

I do feel liberated though. It's a mixture of feelings I have right now.

Nevertheless, this is a disaster. I can never find the specific recipe I’m looking for. The paper is splotched with oil and whatever else. It’s time consuming and agitating. It’s all just so very unseemly and improper. Not to mention a blight on the perfectionist community I claim to be a part of (I like you right there preposition).

Well, hypocrite no more. This will be fixed. I’m thinking a three-ring binder with page protectors. If you have any better ideas please do share. Share the load (recite this last line out loud slo-mo, in the very same fashion Sam did to Frodo. It will make it a heck of a lot funnier.)

Have a lovely weekend my dear little poopsies.

P.S. I just realized this was my 100th post. What the crazy. Maybe I should have thrown a party or something. Oh well.

Friday Confessions: Who you gonna call? The Husband and/or Delbert McClintock.

Currently it is 88 degrees Fahrenheit in our house, and has been for the majority of this week. Estimated date that our new air conditioner will be installed and working: tomorrow, if all goes according to planned. But when does that ever happen, right?

I’m not complaining, I’m just saying. Ok maybe I’m complaining a little. I know it could be worse. It could be like 98 degrees (and rising) in here and reek of cheese. Pun intended. So while I’m shvitzing away, I’ve thought about removing the food (who needs cold milk or edible sandwich meat?) and the shelves from the refrigerator, then making that small space my own lair of coolness. I can fit. I can make it work. And I will only come out for potty breaks. But before I can start that project I have to finish this post. Just be warned that I’m writing it while in a slight state of delirium.

With that said, on to my Friday Confession. If you’ve ever seen me around the likes of a spider you know that I fear them. I loathe them. I have daggers in my heart for them. The sight of one used to leave me paralyzed and screaming.

I think this phobia dates back to my little three-year old self when I found a spider crawling around in my bed. The devil in disguise is surely what I thought. No wonder twenty some years later my subconscious made be blurt out this. The childhood encounter I had changed the world as I knew it because that’s when I realized spiders were out to get me. And they have been ever since. They seek me out, and find me. And humiliate me. And spit in my general direction. And then, before they are “extinguished,” they have silent telepathic communication with far away spider friends and tell them all about me, and where I can be found. And so the cycle continues.

Photo credit

 

I’m actually a lot better at facing this foe than I was before. I went from being paralyzed, then to just screaming and running away, then to just muffling an Eek! and walking away quickly, then to Oh my gosh there’s a spider. Husband!, then to It’s not so big? Where’s a shoe? Ahhhhhhhhhh! Nevermind. Husband!, then to Die Sucka! Ahhhhhh! I’m actually quite proud of my progression. I still use the Husband for the particularly gnarly looking ones though. That was article #10 in our marriage contract: Husband must be cheerfully willing to kill and dispose of all arachnids, no matter the time, or the place, or the almost- impossible-to-reach dwelling spots of said arachnids.

I do occasionally relapse into spider paranoia. If I think about the crawly creatures too long, then I start to feel itchy. And spiders that I’ve killed come back in ghost form and creep all over my skin. That’s the only explanation for that. Would you like to know the scariest “It Could Happen In Real Life” movie? That would of course be Arachnophobia.

image

This movie can get me into a nervous fit every time I see it. Don’t put your hand in the popcorn bowl folks! Oh please. For the love don’t put your foot in that slipper! Why don’t you just leave the light on dearie instead of touching that lamp! Showering teenage girl! There is a massively huge spider on your wet soapy face! But don’t scream or else your dad will rush in and see you in your birthday suit. Lock the door next time! SPIDERS!

Obviously I still have a few issues to work out since looking for spider images on the internet made me want to vomit, and right now I’m feeling a little itchy. I think I’m going to go work on that refrigerator idea of mine.

Do you fear the evil that is the arachnid? Have any stories that are sure to make my neck hair stand on end? Please, do tell.

Hope you all have a very pleasant arachnid-free weekend my dear little poopsies.

Friday Confessions: My Man

This week I’m going to reveal something spectacularly sentimental. You’ve probably noticed that I much prefer being snarky. It looks better on me. But perhaps it’s time to offer up a little nugget of my softer side lest you start to think I hate puppies, which isn’t at all true. It’s kittens who scare the whoo-ha out of me.

So despite the many many laughs and jabs I’ve taken at that Husband of mine, you know the one I talk about here, here, and here, oh and here, and various other posts, well I confess that I do indeed love that crazy creature of a man, even if I can’t for the life of me understand why he would prefer I not talk about him on this here fabulous blog of mine. Who wouldn’t want all of their oddities, and peculiarities revealed to the entire blogosphere by some crazy redhead? It boggles the mind how some people can be so PRIVATE. Befuddles me completely (Befuddle is a great word. I encourage you to use it more often). Sometimes I think about if he were the one birthing babies in front of complete strangers, and whipping his boob out as needed to feed said babies, I wonder how private of a person he would be on the other side of that experience. 'Nuff said.

But I digress, yet again. I was telling you dear readers how the Husband is the sail to my boat, the cream to my cheese, the chewy to my Starbursts, the looney to my tune. And here are a few endearing reasons why:

*He tells me that my butt looks good in those jeans, even though I know full well there is barely a butt to be had back there.

*Once he rubbed ice all over his lips and got them nice and cold. Then he offered to kiss me so I could have an Edward-esque moment.

*He frequently goes out late at night to get me slushies, In-N-Out, or Wendy’s. He’s more apt to do this when I’m pregnant, or acting so hormonal that I might as well be pregnant. I love me a man who feeds me to shut me up. Seriously.

*I farted one time (once upon a time), and I know he pretended not to hear it.

*He was pretty much the only one who did the dishes for the first two years of our marriage.

* He could totally be a lifeguard, super slow-motion, Baywatch style. In other words, he's hot (he's going to kill me).

*When we were dating we went on a very long tandem bike ride. He had to pedal by himself most of the way back because my crotch hurt so bad (I don’t know how men do it). And he still thought marrying me was a wise decision. He is so wise.

*He was eager to have offspring with me, even though he knew full well the child would be 50% me and my crazy.

*He NEVER lets me win at Uno, which only makes me stronger, and ready for the big bad world out there. Not every Husband would be so concerned with such a thing. Sweet.

*He gives me back rubs even though he hates it to infinity and beyond.

*He reads my blog every single day. I know because he talks to me about the comments I received, new followers I’ve enticed, and when I’ve missed spelling or grammatical errors. Something every former editor loves to hear.

So for all those reasons and many more, I’m glad I can call this man the Husband, the Daddy, and the Cute Hugger of Statues (he's going to kill me again). That’s my kind of guy.

I'm totally getting a slushie tonight.

Friday Confessions: O.C, not the show or the county

Isn’t me confessing weird creepy things about myself so compelling? Yes I think so too. This week is a doozy, so much so that I’ll probably have to break it down into different installments. Here it goes: I am . . . obsessive compulsive. Not to the point where it interferes drastically with my life like I know it does some people. For me, I prefer to call it organized to the hilt. We’ve all got things we feel like we NEED to do in order to keep the universe aligned. Right? But I think I obsess and compulse more than the average bear.

Today I will specifically address laundry. Far be it for me to tell someone how to do their laundry. This is just how I do it, and will continue to do it until trolls come and eat off my hands.

I, of course, do the routine separation of lights, darks, and whites. This has been done since the dawn of time, and I hold true to that tradition where laundry is concerned. I have a top-loading washer so I fill the washer with water, detergent, and love, then I put in the clothes. I know some people do it the opposite way, but that’s not how the bottle says to do it. And I always listen to the bottle.

First go in the lights. Then the whites. Then by that time I’m tired of doing laundry and I do the darks the next day. There are reasons why I do it in this particular order but they are really too crazy and absurd to talk about here. Let’s just say it has been well thought out. As you can see, if there is an emergency washing of toddler sheets etc, this totally throws off my system, and irks me to no end. But I am not unbending. I adjust.

Drying is pretty straight forward; however, the buzzer noise that signals the end of a cycle must always be turned off. If it’s turned on, then I know I’ve got ghosts in my house (or a sneaky Husband). Also the lint trapper is always cleaned so as to avoid the things that happen if it gets too dirty. Things like global warming, bad hair days, and snakes on airplanes.

Then comes time to fold and put the clothes away. This is where the real work begins. The clothes are divided into piles according to which clothes belong to which person. Sometimes this can be tricky, especially when there are certain little people around the house who think things should go in a different pile. The clothes are then folded and grouped into even smaller categories, such as shirts, pants, underwear, socks, mystery pieces of fabric. Again there is the problem of conflicting views on what belongs where. Then they remain in the laundry basket until I have a burst of energy to put them in their proper place, and after I’ve had a good helping of chocolate and/or ice water.

Shirts are hung with the front of the shirt facing left. There is of course grouping of long sleeve shirts and short sleeve shirts. I try to also keep like colors together. With the Husband rummaging through his side of the closet though, these efforts usually end up scattered. Last week I found one of his white Sunday shirts mixed in with his casual work shirts and I about bit off my lips.

Underwear goes in the drawers. And since I do laundry faster than the supply of underwear can be used (thank you very much), I usually rotate the older pairs, and put the freshly cleaned ones on the bottom or in the back . . . because I know the Husband will just grab whatever is closest. Why do I do this? Because each pair of underwear deserves to be worn, and worn in well. Simple as that. I want even wear-and-tear across the board. I wonder if the Husband has noticed I do this or if he just takes his evenly worn unders for granted.

And the most uncanny thing of all: I do not iron. Okay, maybe once or twice a year. That is it.

Now that I’ve said way too much, I’ve got to go fold this basket of darks. It's beckoning me to come hither.

A nice weekend to you all. Rest up.

Friday Confessions: Give me Bayless, or give me death (not really, I 'm just being dramatic)

Alright fine. I’ll admit it. I’m crushing on Rick Bayless. Okay, maybe not so much the man as the chef, if those two can even be separated. And maybe minus the facial hair and necklaces. Is it possible to just have a crush on the food? Infatuated with food? I think that sounds even worse so I’ll just stick with my original confession.

image

When I first stumbled upon Rick’s (we’re on a first name basis now) cooking show, Mexico -One Plate at a Time, I’ll be honest, I thought he was a looney toon. His exuberance over Mexican food just seemed berserk. And I didn’t like how he made my own tacos and burritos seem so un-authentic and goopy. Come on Rick, just slap come beans and taco meat on it and call it dinner for the love of guacamole!

But I’ve slowly changed my opinion after a one-day marathon viewing of his show. Isn’t that the way all crushes go . . . repeated exposure leading to fascination. And now if I notice Rick is on, I get a little giddy. I just want to jump through that T.V. screen and rip that fresh salsa right out of his cilantro covered hands. Come on people! He prefers to use rendered pork fat in his homemade flour tortillas. If that’s not drool worthy I don’t know what is.

Now I know he can be totally cheesy, but at some point in your life you’ve got to acknowledge the power of cheese and welcome it into your life, whether that be manchego, queso fresco, or a man whose shirt says “Bacon is meat candy.”

I don’t want to sound desperately hungry or anything, but I sure wish he would invite me over for dinner sometime. I’ll bring the Husband and the kiddos along. It won’t be awkward at all.

Don’t worry Husband. Your beans and rice will always have sentimental value to me. And since I just publicly revealed to the blogosphere that your wife has cheating taste buds, I will allow you one chef crush as well, as long as it’s not Giada.

Now go out dear readers and have some proper Mexican food this weekend and send me a generous tip.

Friday Confessions: N to the O to the No B.O.

Keeping with my tradition of honesty, I will tell you that I rarely wear deodorant. Now hear me out folks. I don’t stink, and there are many people in my life who would tell me if I did. I find that I just don’t need the stuff. I know there are some who do, men (or women with armpit hair) to be specific, but generally I think deodorant is a big fat farce. I mean we all have our own natural personal smell, a mixture of pheromones, earth, wind, and fire. This scent can’t be covered up with an armpit spread so why even try. I rarely wear perfume too because I think this world is too perfumey as it is. Does this make me a hippie? Did I just confess that I’m a closet hippie?

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a good scent just as much as I enjoy a good piece of chocolate. In fact, I’ve been known to spray my pillow at night with a refreshing lavender vanilla mist. It soothes my weary soul, and drives the Husband nuts (when I accidentally spray some in his face). Deodorant, however, doesn’t really have a pleasing smell, especially when mingled with sweat and body odor. Would that be considered an oxymoron? De-odor = odor. Yes I think so.

When I was younger, early adolescence, around the time a young woman starts to go through changes, starts shaving her legs and armpits, begs her mom for a training bra, notices her sweat smells like salsa or peanut butter or something else you would put on a chip or cracker (that’s not just me was it?), starts sneaking the deodorant from her parent’s bathroom . . . this is when I was first introduced to the wide world of products geared towards making me think I stunk. And maybe I did. I used to sweat a lot in the under arm area. It was insane. Nothing worked. Then a friend suggested this product. It worked. For certain.

Then as I got older I somehow just stopped sweating as much. This could have something to do with the fact that I avoid exercise and hot temperatures like I would Neil Diamond. Or maybe it’s because I’ve become super diligent about keeping my armpits a no hair zone. Or maybe it’s because I weaned myself off deodorant since it was in fact causing the sweat. I’m sure it’s a combination of all three.

I do, however, sweat like the 4th of July if I’m nervous. Public speaking, playing Guesstures, shopping for pants . . . in these situations I will apply a coat of deodorant, just in case I become off-putting. Typically I go for something I’ve used since I was a teenager. Not even sure they make this kind anymore. I've had it for awhile.

But more recently this kind so I can feel more mature and up-to-date.

So go ahead, look in my medicine cabinets. You will find deodorant there, collecting dust. But it’s there just in case.

Hey at least I didn't confess to not brushing my teeth because I don't like them to be all slippery, like some famous person did. Hope you all have a dry and pleasant smelling weekend.

Friday Confessions: Hate is a strong word so I won't use it

I know I’m probably going to lose some readers when I say this, but so be it. Who knows. Maybe I might even gain some. Either way, I have a contract with myself to be totally smack-you-in-the-face honest on this here blog of mine. And if I’m going to do that I’ve got to be able to tell you dear reader that I deeply, gut wrenchingly dislike Neil Diamond. Some may say that makes me anti-American, anti-happiness, and maybe even anti-rhinestones. I say it makes me anti-skeezy. Anti-creepy. Anti-chest hair flowing out the top of your shirt. Anti-trying to undress me with your eyes. Anti-vomit. Anti-unbuttoning your shirt five buttons down.

image

I’m not quite sure when I developed a disdain for this so called stud muffin. It’s just in me, written into my mitochondrial DNA. I know that while I was in college I tried very hard to give this guy a chance so I could prove I bled red, white, and blue. I closed my eyes, listened to his version of Sweet Caroline, swayed back and forth like an entranced groupie would do, and nearly passed out because all this activity did for me was make me dizzy. That and I almost choked to death on my own laughter. 

I was learning who I truly was during those years, and there was no denying that Neil Diamond had no place in my life. I even went so far as to openly reveal my opinion in the workplace. I worked at a Tutoring Center and we had been given the task to film an informational tutoring video that would help the tutors better connect, befriend, and teach their students. I posed as a student whose roommate blasted Neil Diamond day and night, and the student was on the brink of despair because it was interfering with her study habits. It was a fine performance I guarantee you. It didn’t require much acting on my part though because I could just imagine the anguish this fictional student was feeling. If you can understand it, you can be it. Just a little tip into the craft of acting.

Anyway, my mother, Mother Loops, is going to have a few choice words for me I’m sure. But I just don’t understand this sequined Jewish Elvis. That’s the moniker he’s been given. Like he’s akin to Elvis! Inconceivable. Whatever, she can have her forever in blue jeans baby. To each their own. I will continue to avoid all things Neil Diamond. Yes, this even means American Idol if need be.

I do, however, enjoy a good Will Ferrell impersonation now and then. This I can handle.

On that note, have a lovely weekend my little poopsies. Do not let the hairy chesty picture of Neil Diamond lure you in. Do not look into his eyes longer than two seconds. Stay strong.

Friday Confessions: Psycho Killer, Qu'est que c'est

This week’s confession is a doozy. Try not to judge me too harshly, but I must confess that I am a destroyer, a killer of all things lovely, green, and potted. Plants, flowers, cacti, annuals, perennials . . . these things do not last long in my care. And it’s not like I try to snuff them out on purpose because I have a deep seeded hatred of things with roots. No. Actually I try very hard to keep them alive. Water, sun, plant food. Maybe therein lies the problem. I suffocate them until they wither into non-existence.

This is hard for me to admit because it makes me feel like a huge cosmic failure. Somehow I equate this with my ability to raise children. I should be able to help plants flourish in my home, as a mother. Instead my house looks like a greenhouse crime scene. And I must truly be sick because I let the dead things linger in their brown and dried out state . . . then I take pictures of them to post on my blog.

I killed this one in my sleep. When I woke up in the morning the leaves had mysteriously fallen off.

I know I treated this one poorly by placing him in a dark bathroom. He was fine with it for about six months, then this happened. His twin, however, is thriving. It’s the only plant alive in my house right now, and I totally neglect him. Go figure. Statistically he doesn’t have long though. (Why have I given this bamboo plant a masculine identity? I don’t know.)

These beauties died about six years ago and I actually chose to put them in a vase and showcase their lifelessness. I can’t just throw away the flowers the Husband gave me when he officially proposed. I know. I know. All fresh flowers die out. Doesn’t change the fact that they died while in my possession.

See. Sick and twisted. This doesn’t even include half the plants that have died on my watch in the last six years. I guess the Husband isn’t blameless in this either. He lives in this cursed plant zone too. It’s really a sad state of affairs. The Husband has refused to buy any more plants. But I love plants. What to do. What to do. I could go all old lady and buy fake greenery. But that seems like cheating because I’m not an old lady. I need something though. I’ve got an intense desire to water something!

Well, I’m feeling so much better now that I have gotten this off my chest. It still pains me every time I see a plant flourishing in someone else’s house though. Why are they better nurturers than me? Why can’t I kick this unwanted habit of foliage devastation? Why can’t I be one of the lucky ones? One of the lucky ones whose thumb is a lovely vibrant green. I would kill a million plants to have a thumb like that.

Note: For some reason we decided to try and grow our own tomato and pepper plants from seed this year. Take a wild guess at how well that is going. I'd rather just show you a picture of the seed packets if you don't mind.

Friday Confessions: My thoughts. Not necessarily my accent.

I’m about to blow your mind. Ready? Okay. Sometimes I think thoughts. Random thoughts. I guess that’s not all that stupendous. Most people have thoughts throughout the day that would be considered random. But do other people think their thoughts with an accent? Cuz I do. Usually it’s a British accent, sometimes an Irish brogue, or an Australian dialect. Sometimes it’s just simply a Southern twang. And other times it’s an accent unknown to mankind. So here’s a list of 10 random thoughts I had today. I’ll let you choose which accent my inner monologue used.

1. I wouldn’t mind spending all my money on a never-ending supply of massaman curry and pad thai.

2. I heard that every time you blow your nose you kill brain cells. I wonder if that is true. If it is, then that would explain a lot.

3. Amazing how quickly my body can produce snot. Why is it so viscous today?

4. I quite like the word viscous . . . viscous . . . viscous . . . viscous!


5. I think I feed off other people. Not in a cannibalistic way of course.


6. Bosco’s whining makes me feel like wailing and gnashing my teeth. No. That’s too dramatic. It makes me feel like taking a piece of chewed up gum and stretching it to cover his lips. No. He’d probably just start chewing it while he continued to whine.


7. Was that mold or ice crystals on that strawberry? Sure hope it was ice crystals


8. Boo to the filth.

9. Whoever created this Transformers toy needs to be punished to the fullest extent of the law. He or she will also have to come over to my house every time Bosco wants me to put it back together.


10. Aren’t kids supposed to like pizza? It must be a myth that all the pizzerias somehow concocted, and permeated into the minds and hearts of all America. I’m so gullible. Or maybe it's just that kids don't eat anything at birthday parties unless it's covered in icing.