When my answer to a coworker's "Doing anything this weekend?" was "Shampooing the rugs!" I realized that one, I've become my mother and two, I should probably not be so vocal about how glamorous my life is, lest someone be overcome with jealousy.
Why does Heather get to have all the fun? I never get to scrub pet stains out of totally gnarly apartment carpet!
I know, I know, but life just isn't fair.
This is further proof, I say, that my life is perfect for reality programming. It'll be like Keeping up with the Kardashians only with way more housekeeping, fewer names that begin with K and approximately the same amount of backside.
Which is all to say, lordy, I hope your weekend is going to be much more thrilling than mine. I'm afraid mine will reach its apex at putting a check mark next to "Buy New Brita" on my to-do list. Whatever. Domesticity suits me.
Speaking of. My mom called me yesterday afternoon from the middle of the forest. She and StepBob are on three-week hike along the John Miur trail in California. Just checking in, she said. They've seen bears and deer and oh, having such a nice time but they're so dirty. And for a while, I was kind of jealous. I dig the outdoors and hiking and bears. But last night when I climbed out of the shower, slid into fresh PJs and then into a bed that was not made out of something I rolled out on a piece of ground, the selection of which was determined by pine cone population and relative dampness. Then suddenly, I wasn't jealous anymore. Like I said, domesticity suits me. It comes with a down comforter and a coffee maker.
Why does Heather get to have all the fun? I never get to scrub pet stains out of totally gnarly apartment carpet!
I know, I know, but life just isn't fair.
This is further proof, I say, that my life is perfect for reality programming. It'll be like Keeping up with the Kardashians only with way more housekeeping, fewer names that begin with K and approximately the same amount of backside.
Which is all to say, lordy, I hope your weekend is going to be much more thrilling than mine. I'm afraid mine will reach its apex at putting a check mark next to "Buy New Brita" on my to-do list. Whatever. Domesticity suits me.
Speaking of. My mom called me yesterday afternoon from the middle of the forest. She and StepBob are on three-week hike along the John Miur trail in California. Just checking in, she said. They've seen bears and deer and oh, having such a nice time but they're so dirty. And for a while, I was kind of jealous. I dig the outdoors and hiking and bears. But last night when I climbed out of the shower, slid into fresh PJs and then into a bed that was not made out of something I rolled out on a piece of ground, the selection of which was determined by pine cone population and relative dampness. Then suddenly, I wasn't jealous anymore. Like I said, domesticity suits me. It comes with a down comforter and a coffee maker.
Every time I read a news headline that mentions someone by name, and I am not even vaguely familiar with that name, it turns out to be one of the "cast" members from a Real Housewives of Hell on Earth or one of those stupid Jersey kids who live in a tanning bed.That's disappointing. I mean, if I thought clicking a link on CNN was going to clue me into important world events, leaders, movers and shakers, I'd be wrong. Really wrong.
Like this morning, under LATEST NEWS, I read something like, Teresa Guidice files for bankruptcy. And I thought, "Aw, that's too bad," followed by, "Who's Teresa Guidice?" The answer: Just another person who spent more money than they had. Like my dad. He filed for bankruptcy a few years ago, but I guess since he doesn't get into too many cat fights on camera, it didn't really make the news circuit outside of our family.
You guys were super champs at the whole make-up thing; I thank you. There's a general consensus about the greatness that is Bare Minerals (exclamation point, exclamation point) but I have also read many warnings about its shortcomings in photos. This will require further research and experimentation. Now, if you could only help me find the *perfect* MacBook sleeve (thirteen inches, please. Slim but protective) or a garment steamer (mine up and died and I am fresh out of trust for electronic gadget companies) or ballet pink peep toe heels with a bow on the back (that's not too specific, right?).
I totally get why people hire personal shoppers, now. To quote the mean, rich chick (and SJP's arch nemesis) from Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, "Decisions are the worst!"
Like this morning, under LATEST NEWS, I read something like, Teresa Guidice files for bankruptcy. And I thought, "Aw, that's too bad," followed by, "Who's Teresa Guidice?" The answer: Just another person who spent more money than they had. Like my dad. He filed for bankruptcy a few years ago, but I guess since he doesn't get into too many cat fights on camera, it didn't really make the news circuit outside of our family.
Dear CNN,
People Magazine headlines are. not. news.
Love and hugs and stuff,
Heather
You guys were super champs at the whole make-up thing; I thank you. There's a general consensus about the greatness that is Bare Minerals (exclamation point, exclamation point) but I have also read many warnings about its shortcomings in photos. This will require further research and experimentation. Now, if you could only help me find the *perfect* MacBook sleeve (thirteen inches, please. Slim but protective) or a garment steamer (mine up and died and I am fresh out of trust for electronic gadget companies) or ballet pink peep toe heels with a bow on the back (that's not too specific, right?).
I totally get why people hire personal shoppers, now. To quote the mean, rich chick (and SJP's arch nemesis) from Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, "Decisions are the worst!"
Tune out now if a) you were looking for something meaningful to read (this promises to be on the very shallow side of things) or b) you're a dude. Unless, of course, you're Eddie Izzard or something because dudes who wear make up could actually be quite useful in this instance.
Ladies (and Eddie), I need new make up. I'm mostly a tinted moisturizer kind of girl, but sometimes I want to get all gussied up, go all out and that's where the trial and error comes in. The results haven't been pretty. I started by googling this and then realized that you all are MUCH better at this sort of thing than the Interwebs at large. Also, I can generally trust that you're not some cosmetics company's hired gun out there makin' up fake reviews. So. Tell me about a foundation that you just love, love, love. Nothing heavy; I can't deal. Oh, and it has to photograph well (see, there is this wedding thing coming up and I don't want to look like a ghost in those pictures). I don't mind spending a little bit for a really nice product because, like I said, I definitely don't go full face make up all that often.
Help a girl out?
Once upon a time, my friend Tanya introduced me to Spanx. If this turns out anything like that did, well, if it were possible to make out with someone over the Internet, I'd be tempted.
Ladies (and Eddie), I need new make up. I'm mostly a tinted moisturizer kind of girl, but sometimes I want to get all gussied up, go all out and that's where the trial and error comes in. The results haven't been pretty. I started by googling this and then realized that you all are MUCH better at this sort of thing than the Interwebs at large. Also, I can generally trust that you're not some cosmetics company's hired gun out there makin' up fake reviews. So. Tell me about a foundation that you just love, love, love. Nothing heavy; I can't deal. Oh, and it has to photograph well (see, there is this wedding thing coming up and I don't want to look like a ghost in those pictures). I don't mind spending a little bit for a really nice product because, like I said, I definitely don't go full face make up all that often.
Help a girl out?
Once upon a time, my friend Tanya introduced me to Spanx. If this turns out anything like that did, well, if it were possible to make out with someone over the Internet, I'd be tempted.
Now that I once again have an operation laptop at home, you'd think I'd be all clikety clack at the keyboard, telling you all about how absolutely delicious my birthday weekend was. You'd think. But over the last few days, I have found myself with a really disappointing lack of recreational time because of these pesky chore lists I've made for myself. Lives of their own, they have. I'm just trying to simplify - that's my goal - make life easier by reducing the amount of stuff hanging around. Only, the process? It's anything but simple.
Like Saturday. I said, Hey, I'll go through all this paperwork I've accumulated and organize my filing cabinet right quick. Right. Quick. Did I not think I was going to read and reread everything before making the agonizing decision of whether or not to keep a receipt for a PDA I don't even own anymore? Silly girl. A few hours and more than a few paper cuts later, I had a pristine filing cabinet and a totally lost afternoon.
And like last night. After an eleven hour work day, I came home to make a quick dinner (breakfast for dinner - it's the meal that feels like playing hooky) so His Dorkiness could go up to the college to take a math test. Dinner was scarfed and tidied up by 7PM and I thought, Hey, that's great! I'll spend an hour (it should only take an hour, right?) on Task in the First: Organizing My Office Closet and then crawl into bed to rot my brain on the Interwebs.
Notsomuch.
At 10:30, when I finally took the last bundle of crap down to the dumpster, walked the dog and washed the dust off my face, the day was o-v-e-r. Hal was posted on the bathroom counter playing Taps on a tiny bugle. We get up at 5:20, you see.
Tonight's task involves sorting through my bathroom cupboards and drawers for old cosmetics and hair product, so uh, it's not likely I'm going to be communing with the computer because I know there's bound to be an incident with a set of hot rollers. They'll work this time, I swear.
So, in lunch break summary fashion: I managed to stretch the birthday celebrations out over four days to include no fewer than three birthday dinners, a movie, an ungodly number of desserts and so many thoughtful cards and gifts and birthday wishes (thank you, all!) that I had one of those moments where I got all Linda Richman verklempt. It was, in short, delicious.
Like Saturday. I said, Hey, I'll go through all this paperwork I've accumulated and organize my filing cabinet right quick. Right. Quick. Did I not think I was going to read and reread everything before making the agonizing decision of whether or not to keep a receipt for a PDA I don't even own anymore? Silly girl. A few hours and more than a few paper cuts later, I had a pristine filing cabinet and a totally lost afternoon.
And like last night. After an eleven hour work day, I came home to make a quick dinner (breakfast for dinner - it's the meal that feels like playing hooky) so His Dorkiness could go up to the college to take a math test. Dinner was scarfed and tidied up by 7PM and I thought, Hey, that's great! I'll spend an hour (it should only take an hour, right?) on Task in the First: Organizing My Office Closet and then crawl into bed to rot my brain on the Interwebs.
Notsomuch.
At 10:30, when I finally took the last bundle of crap down to the dumpster, walked the dog and washed the dust off my face, the day was o-v-e-r. Hal was posted on the bathroom counter playing Taps on a tiny bugle. We get up at 5:20, you see.
Tonight's task involves sorting through my bathroom cupboards and drawers for old cosmetics and hair product, so uh, it's not likely I'm going to be communing with the computer because I know there's bound to be an incident with a set of hot rollers. They'll work this time, I swear.
So, in lunch break summary fashion: I managed to stretch the birthday celebrations out over four days to include no fewer than three birthday dinners, a movie, an ungodly number of desserts and so many thoughtful cards and gifts and birthday wishes (thank you, all!) that I had one of those moments where I got all Linda Richman verklempt. It was, in short, delicious.
So, it's my birthday on Monday. My coworker asked me if I'm one of those women who "get all weird" about birthdays and getting older and junk. I'm not. I mean, at least for the time being. My thirties have been treating me really sort of awesome overall and maybe this sounds dumb, but there's something authoritative sounding about it. Like, being in your twenties lumps you with the a whole set of folks who aren't expected to have their shit together. But me? I'm thirty something! I'm thirty something and I don't remotely have my shit together but damn, I put on a good show.
Anyway, if I'm not mistaken, around birthday time every year, we get real interactive here and do a Q&A. You get to ask me all the things I avoid addressing in daily posts and I either answer them or cause a mighty distraction (is that a rabbit over there?) and keep on with the avoiding thing.
Topics to avoid: that whole New York musician thing, the baby jesus (that seems to get folks riled up) and the spattering of varicose veins I discovered this morning because, wow is it going to take a while before I'm zen about that.
Have at it!
Anyway, if I'm not mistaken, around birthday time every year, we get real interactive here and do a Q&A. You get to ask me all the things I avoid addressing in daily posts and I either answer them or cause a mighty distraction (is that a rabbit over there?) and keep on with the avoiding thing.
Topics to avoid: that whole New York musician thing, the baby jesus (that seems to get folks riled up) and the spattering of varicose veins I discovered this morning because, wow is it going to take a while before I'm zen about that.
Have at it!
What's that they say on The Real World - something about when seven strangers stop being polite and start being real? That about sums up my experience last week.
Seven of us shared a vendor booth (a first for me. I'm usually a conference attendee and most likely the one really wiggly attendee shifting around in her chair, trying not to fall asleep. Not because it's rude to sleep through exhilarating classes on budget or market projections - well, yeah, that too - but because I'm likely to wake up covered in drool. That's me. Class act).
Anyway, spending eight hours together trapped on a 12x12 piece of blue carpet will get folks acquainted pretty quickly and let's not kid ourselves - I've been sharing overly personal information with strangers for YEARS now. Being inappropriate is my super power.
At one point, we were discussing workout equipment (Precor was also a vendor and they had some crazy complicated machinery on display) and one of the architects mentioned how he just can't bring himself to climb on one of those things and stare at the wall for an hour.
"Gah, me either," I said. "The only indoor thing I can stand is hot yoga, and that's not so tempting when it's 110 outside. Neither is jogging - the other thing I don't hate."
He nodded. He's from Arizona. He gets it.
"I think I gain twenty pounds every summer just because it's too stupid hot to do anything."
At this point, one of the East Coast architects, a brusque, uncensored fellow whose charm was not as lost on me, but who most certainly needed someone with a bit of New York in her blood to appreciate, looked up from his laptop,
"You gain twenty pounds every summer?" The look on his face could only be described as complete horror. "I'd kill myself!"
I can't remember what I said in response. I probably just shrugged because honestly, I'm over it. It gets hot, I get lazy. Fall comes, I trim up. Lather, rinse, repeat. That's just how it is and I'm not going to beat myself up over it. I know. Look at me being so zen!
Conversation moved on, but as soon as that fellow left the magic blue square, the rest of us did a recap.
"Did he really just say he'd kill himself?" One of my new Midwest friends wasn't sure he'd heard right.
"Wait, he said that?" Another warm body had just joined the blue square.
"Yes!" I was having a genuine, deep from the (rather untoned) belly laugh over it. "He's really lucky that I'm not the sensitive type!"
"I think I'm offended for you. Architects say the darndest things, huh?"
By this point we were laughing so hard I was afraid that it was not going to be one of those afternoons I could claim 'not peeing on myself' as one of the day's accomplishments. Like I said, class act.
Seven of us shared a vendor booth (a first for me. I'm usually a conference attendee and most likely the one really wiggly attendee shifting around in her chair, trying not to fall asleep. Not because it's rude to sleep through exhilarating classes on budget or market projections - well, yeah, that too - but because I'm likely to wake up covered in drool. That's me. Class act).
Anyway, spending eight hours together trapped on a 12x12 piece of blue carpet will get folks acquainted pretty quickly and let's not kid ourselves - I've been sharing overly personal information with strangers for YEARS now. Being inappropriate is my super power.
At one point, we were discussing workout equipment (Precor was also a vendor and they had some crazy complicated machinery on display) and one of the architects mentioned how he just can't bring himself to climb on one of those things and stare at the wall for an hour.
"Gah, me either," I said. "The only indoor thing I can stand is hot yoga, and that's not so tempting when it's 110 outside. Neither is jogging - the other thing I don't hate."
He nodded. He's from Arizona. He gets it.
"I think I gain twenty pounds every summer just because it's too stupid hot to do anything."
At this point, one of the East Coast architects, a brusque, uncensored fellow whose charm was not as lost on me, but who most certainly needed someone with a bit of New York in her blood to appreciate, looked up from his laptop,
"You gain twenty pounds every summer?" The look on his face could only be described as complete horror. "I'd kill myself!"
I can't remember what I said in response. I probably just shrugged because honestly, I'm over it. It gets hot, I get lazy. Fall comes, I trim up. Lather, rinse, repeat. That's just how it is and I'm not going to beat myself up over it. I know. Look at me being so zen!
Conversation moved on, but as soon as that fellow left the magic blue square, the rest of us did a recap.
"Did he really just say he'd kill himself?" One of my new Midwest friends wasn't sure he'd heard right.
"Wait, he said that?" Another warm body had just joined the blue square.
"Yes!" I was having a genuine, deep from the (rather untoned) belly laugh over it. "He's really lucky that I'm not the sensitive type!"
"I think I'm offended for you. Architects say the darndest things, huh?"
By this point we were laughing so hard I was afraid that it was not going to be one of those afternoons I could claim 'not peeing on myself' as one of the day's accomplishments. Like I said, class act.
Last week while I was away in Salt Lake for work, I learned a very important lesson about love and sacrifice, courtesy of the Little America Hotel. Love means sharing - this I knew. But it wasn't until I realized that *not* sharing means having a whole king sized bed to yourself and thus, access to a cold side of the pillow AT ALL TIMES, did I fully appreciate the opportunity cost of being crazy about the Dork Lord and dead set on sharing a life - and a bed - with him forever and ever. And ever. I don't know if you've had time to do the math (carry the one) but that's a lot of years of him rolling over and stealing my pillow when I get up to pee in the middle of the night. Eh, I guess I love him enough to put up with it. Besides, I looked into a career as a traveling salesperson and there's no check box for "Four Star Hotels, Please" on monster.com.
If the wireless card on my work laptop hadn't been jacked up, you'd have all been on the receiving end of minute-by-minute updates on just how much I was enjoying solo time at the hotel. Turn down service was my favorite perk. After tossing my nephew around in the back yard all evening, I came back to the hotel to soft music playing, a robe laid out on the bed, chocolates on my pillow and bubble bath on the vanity. BUBBLE BATH. And a tub that filled all the way up without one of those annoying drains that leaks, glurg, glurg, the second you're submerged. Pure, non-denominational heaven.
On Wednesday night, I sat in the middle of that big bed, propped up on an excessive number of pillows, nibbling chocolate, and feeling ninety-nine percent certain that hotel management was going to drop by any second to say they were ever so sorry, but there's been a mix up and my actual, real room was just down the hall next between laundry services and the drill team and don't worry, the cot is really very comfortable and could they please have that piece of chocolate? Thanks. Never happened, though, and I had three lovely bubble baths followed by three very peaceful nights of sleep. During which I missed my honey exceedingly. Naturally.
Nieces and nephew time was, by the way, so exhausting and fun. Abby, the newest, is five weeks old and is the most splendid, perfect thing I've ever tried to fit in my purse. My sister wasn't parting with her, though, but did keep trying to get me to borrow her toddler for an extended period of time because seriously, Owen is effing impossible. If you think it's out of reach, it isn't. If you think you're fast enough, you aren't. And if it's dangerous or gross, he's all over it. Except if it's a spider web, it turns out. Yesterday afternoon, he came to me with wide eyes and an outstretched hand, the thin gossamer of a web, barely visible. In fact, it took me a second to figure out just what was wrong.
"Eew!"
"What's wrong?"
"Eew!" His vocabulary didn't allow for elaboration and it was all I could do not to laugh.
I licked my fingers to pull the web of his pudgy little hand and he stood there for a second wiggling his fingers. Then he smiled.
"Dan due."
"You're welcome."
On Sunday, my brother and his wife left me with nine month old Penny so they could sit through a church service without her practicing her new found vocal abilities. She's not used to babysitters and so they were a little worried that Penny would dissolve into a puddle of tears when they left. The minute my brother's key turned in the lock, that funny little girl looked up at me, grinned with her slobbery, gappy tooth grin and laughed like a crazy person. A little bit like Animal from the Muppets, actually. It was like she knew what kind of mischief we were about to get up to. And then I laughed too, because it's like we both suddenly understood why aunties were invented.
If the wireless card on my work laptop hadn't been jacked up, you'd have all been on the receiving end of minute-by-minute updates on just how much I was enjoying solo time at the hotel. Turn down service was my favorite perk. After tossing my nephew around in the back yard all evening, I came back to the hotel to soft music playing, a robe laid out on the bed, chocolates on my pillow and bubble bath on the vanity. BUBBLE BATH. And a tub that filled all the way up without one of those annoying drains that leaks, glurg, glurg, the second you're submerged. Pure, non-denominational heaven.
On Wednesday night, I sat in the middle of that big bed, propped up on an excessive number of pillows, nibbling chocolate, and feeling ninety-nine percent certain that hotel management was going to drop by any second to say they were ever so sorry, but there's been a mix up and my actual, real room was just down the hall next between laundry services and the drill team and don't worry, the cot is really very comfortable and could they please have that piece of chocolate? Thanks. Never happened, though, and I had three lovely bubble baths followed by three very peaceful nights of sleep. During which I missed my honey exceedingly. Naturally.
Nieces and nephew time was, by the way, so exhausting and fun. Abby, the newest, is five weeks old and is the most splendid, perfect thing I've ever tried to fit in my purse. My sister wasn't parting with her, though, but did keep trying to get me to borrow her toddler for an extended period of time because seriously, Owen is effing impossible. If you think it's out of reach, it isn't. If you think you're fast enough, you aren't. And if it's dangerous or gross, he's all over it. Except if it's a spider web, it turns out. Yesterday afternoon, he came to me with wide eyes and an outstretched hand, the thin gossamer of a web, barely visible. In fact, it took me a second to figure out just what was wrong.
"Eew!"
"What's wrong?"
"Eew!" His vocabulary didn't allow for elaboration and it was all I could do not to laugh.
I licked my fingers to pull the web of his pudgy little hand and he stood there for a second wiggling his fingers. Then he smiled.
"Dan due."
"You're welcome."
On Sunday, my brother and his wife left me with nine month old Penny so they could sit through a church service without her practicing her new found vocal abilities. She's not used to babysitters and so they were a little worried that Penny would dissolve into a puddle of tears when they left. The minute my brother's key turned in the lock, that funny little girl looked up at me, grinned with her slobbery, gappy tooth grin and laughed like a crazy person. A little bit like Animal from the Muppets, actually. It was like she knew what kind of mischief we were about to get up to. And then I laughed too, because it's like we both suddenly understood why aunties were invented.
Wowsers.
Today has been one of those magical days where if something can go wrong, it has. Not like, life ending things - I made it to work in one piece and I've not peed on myself or anything - but Tuesday has been one giant hiccup. My favorite part was getting to the office at 6:45AM to prep for a Really Big Meeting... that got canceled. Oh, ha ha, Universe. You silly. It's gonna be even sillier when I doze off in traffic on the way home.
Tomorrow morning I'm off for a conference in Salt Lake City, home of the Mormons and epicenter of babies, including my three week old niece, Abby Someone. I'm really effing excited to meet her. My sister keeps sending me taunting photographs of Her Preciousness with captions that probably amuse me way more than they should but hey, I am a sucker for this kid.
"Heather is coming and she's not bringing you any presents!"
"I'm not liiiisteniinngg!"
"And she thinks your hair is dumb."
"Noooooo!"
She's a very expressive sleeper, Abby. Also, I know, I know. It's sorta weak, making a blog post out of baby photos, but what can I say? I'm weak.
Today has been one of those magical days where if something can go wrong, it has. Not like, life ending things - I made it to work in one piece and I've not peed on myself or anything - but Tuesday has been one giant hiccup. My favorite part was getting to the office at 6:45AM to prep for a Really Big Meeting... that got canceled. Oh, ha ha, Universe. You silly. It's gonna be even sillier when I doze off in traffic on the way home.
Tomorrow morning I'm off for a conference in Salt Lake City, home of the Mormons and epicenter of babies, including my three week old niece, Abby Someone. I'm really effing excited to meet her. My sister keeps sending me taunting photographs of Her Preciousness with captions that probably amuse me way more than they should but hey, I am a sucker for this kid.
"Heather is coming and she's not bringing you any presents!"
"I'm not liiiisteniinngg!"
"And she thinks your hair is dumb."
"Noooooo!"
She's a very expressive sleeper, Abby. Also, I know, I know. It's sorta weak, making a blog post out of baby photos, but what can I say? I'm weak.
I had Glee on the DVR and forty-five minutes until the Dork Lord came home from work - that right there is what they call perfect timing. The show wrapped up, and as I was turning off the TV and stereo components, in strolled His Dorkiness who took one look at me reclined on the couch and said, "Is there not food to be made?"
My jaw hit the sofa cushions. Is there not food to be made? I looked around for evidence that I'd made some magical trip in a DeLorean to NINETEEN FIFTY FIVE but nope, everything suggested that we were indeed in the most modern of times.
To. Be. Fair: He is used to coming home and finding me in the kitchen conjuring up something for dinner unless there's... you got it... no food to be made, in which case, he takes me out to eat. So his question was, I suppose, based on precedent and meant more along the lines of, "Will we be going out to dinner?" But that's not how it sounded.
The look on my face said everything. Which was good, because for a few minutes, I could say nothing at all. I was so insulted and offended. And strangely, embarrassed. I was a million things I couldn't even figure out. I hit a wall of panic. Holy crap, was this the man I was marrying? He read my face and went upstairs to change.
I sat on the sofa for a minute trying to figure out what to do next. What I'd planned to do next was get up and make dinner - I was really, really hungry - but was that even the right thing to do now after what my stinker of a fiance said? Wouldn't the terrorists win? I got up and headed into the kitchen. And that's where I was when he came down to apologize.
"I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
"I know," I said, not looking up from the onion I was chopping. "But I'm gonna be mad at you for a while."
And I was. Though, coincidentally, my anger lasted precisely as long as my hunger and my the middle of our meal, I was 100% demons out. Funny how that works.
My jaw hit the sofa cushions. Is there not food to be made? I looked around for evidence that I'd made some magical trip in a DeLorean to NINETEEN FIFTY FIVE but nope, everything suggested that we were indeed in the most modern of times.
To. Be. Fair: He is used to coming home and finding me in the kitchen conjuring up something for dinner unless there's... you got it... no food to be made, in which case, he takes me out to eat. So his question was, I suppose, based on precedent and meant more along the lines of, "Will we be going out to dinner?" But that's not how it sounded.
The look on my face said everything. Which was good, because for a few minutes, I could say nothing at all. I was so insulted and offended. And strangely, embarrassed. I was a million things I couldn't even figure out. I hit a wall of panic. Holy crap, was this the man I was marrying? He read my face and went upstairs to change.
I sat on the sofa for a minute trying to figure out what to do next. What I'd planned to do next was get up and make dinner - I was really, really hungry - but was that even the right thing to do now after what my stinker of a fiance said? Wouldn't the terrorists win? I got up and headed into the kitchen. And that's where I was when he came down to apologize.
"I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
"I know," I said, not looking up from the onion I was chopping. "But I'm gonna be mad at you for a while."
And I was. Though, coincidentally, my anger lasted precisely as long as my hunger and my the middle of our meal, I was 100% demons out. Funny how that works.
My e-friend Emily (who has more than once come to my aid in an hour of need) is in need of your help. Emily is chasing her dream to become the host of her very own cooking show and is auditioning for Oprah's new network. In her infinite wisdom, the Big O has put it to a vote and it pleases me greatly to offer up Emily's audition to your very capable, mouse-clicking hands.
Rock the vote!
Rock the vote!
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