On Saturday night, a bunch of us headed out to an uptown bar for a birthday celebration. We knew the bouncer, so while we were waiting for everyone to congregate, we stood outside and chatted. That's when I saw him. On the edge of the patio, white shirt, thin black necktie. Very emotional hair.
"Dudes," I said, turning quickly around. "That's Chace Crawford right there."
"Who's Chace Crawford?" Among my friends, this question was universal. Yes, who is Chace Crawford?
"You know, the one who's not Zac Ephron! Heartthrob of the teeny boppers! Gossip Girl, blah blah."
Blank looks all around. I watch two television shows TOTAL and I knew who he was. Good grief, I thought, these people need to get a little more People Mag in their lives. I yanked out my phone and googled.
"This. This is Chace Crawford."
"Yeah, that's totally the same guy. But I still have no idea who he is."
"His sister dates Romo."
And that's when the lights came on. The boys all nodded and a general murmur of recognition went 'round the group.
"Why didn't you just say that in the first place? She's hot."
Mmm hmmm.
"Dudes," I said, turning quickly around. "That's Chace Crawford right there."
"Who's Chace Crawford?" Among my friends, this question was universal. Yes, who is Chace Crawford?
"You know, the one who's not Zac Ephron! Heartthrob of the teeny boppers! Gossip Girl, blah blah."
Blank looks all around. I watch two television shows TOTAL and I knew who he was. Good grief, I thought, these people need to get a little more People Mag in their lives. I yanked out my phone and googled.
"This. This is Chace Crawford."
"Yeah, that's totally the same guy. But I still have no idea who he is."
"His sister dates Romo."
And that's when the lights came on. The boys all nodded and a general murmur of recognition went 'round the group.
"Why didn't you just say that in the first place? She's hot."
Mmm hmmm.
Long before we discovered Weird Al Yankovic, my brother, sister and I spent a ridiculous number of hours wearing out my parents' Monkees LP. It was silly and accessible (listen to Gonna Buy Me a Dog and try not to sing along. Go on, TRY IT), and it had accompanying TV show reruns. But most of all, it had Davy Jones. Sigh. With his stylin' 60s apparel and his tooth sparkle, Davy Jones was IT. I mean, the be all end all of romantic figures. Grown up me would be much more of a Mickey Dolenz or Mike Nesmith kind of gal, but I was nine and for my age, I had an appropriately underdeveloped man palate.
Anyway.
Yesterday, my brother left two lines of a Monkees song (This Just Doesn't Seem to Be My Day) on my sister's Facebook wall. Reading the lines, I cocked my head to the side and thought for a few seconds. Yes, it was vaguely familiar. And then, it wasn't. It was TOTAL RECALL. It has probably been 20 years since I heard that song but wouldn't you know it, it's like it was encoded in my DNA. I've been singing the damn thing ever since. And yeah, maybe pining a little bit for Davy Jones and his tooth sparkle. Ping!
Care for a spider bite update? It's shrinking, like a good little spider bite should. I will not be sorry when the medications run out, though. Hoo boy, they make me dopey. This week has been really pretty crappy anyway - sometimes work is demanding in a way that does not produce one single ounce of satisfaction even when you meet the demand - and dopey on top of that can make a girl feel stabby. I'm sorta glad I don't keep scissors at my desk during weeks like this. So are my coworkers.
Anyway.
Yesterday, my brother left two lines of a Monkees song (This Just Doesn't Seem to Be My Day) on my sister's Facebook wall. Reading the lines, I cocked my head to the side and thought for a few seconds. Yes, it was vaguely familiar. And then, it wasn't. It was TOTAL RECALL. It has probably been 20 years since I heard that song but wouldn't you know it, it's like it was encoded in my DNA. I've been singing the damn thing ever since. And yeah, maybe pining a little bit for Davy Jones and his tooth sparkle. Ping!
Care for a spider bite update? It's shrinking, like a good little spider bite should. I will not be sorry when the medications run out, though. Hoo boy, they make me dopey. This week has been really pretty crappy anyway - sometimes work is demanding in a way that does not produce one single ounce of satisfaction even when you meet the demand - and dopey on top of that can make a girl feel stabby. I'm sorta glad I don't keep scissors at my desk during weeks like this. So are my coworkers.
I got stung by a bee at the wedding. Because of course I did. In all other ways, the wedding - and the weekend - was just really lovely. The ceremony took place outside, under a tree overlooking Lake Travis and the reception was wonderfully laid back and simultaneously elegant. I'm always amazed when people pull off that combo. I'll admit I got a little choked up during the ceremony. The groom is on my List of People I Like Best and it made me a little verklempt to see him so happy. But then I got stung by a bee and stopped being verklempt and started being, well, puffy.
Earlier in the week, I got bit by a spider. Again, because of course I did. And it wasn't much more than an annoyance until the whole bee incident. And then, after the bee did his thing and it crossed some sort of venom threshold, the spider bite on my inner arm that was the size of a quarter grew and grew until yesterday, when I took my angry red, tennis ball sized owie to my doctor. She poked, prodded and then drew a black line around the red halo on my arm and said, if it gets bigger, call me. Then she loaded me up with antihistamines and antibiotics and sent me on my way. I've been obsessively checking that line ever since. It's a new hobby.
Insects and arachnids aside, we had such a fantastic weekend with Stephanie, Phil and their pint-sized scalawags. Oh, to hear three-year-olds say scalawags! I was endlessly delighted by the things that came out of their mouths. Then there was grown up time, which was mostly about putting things in our mouths - like, wine and bread pudding and this thing called drunken bread. I didn't make it to boot camp yesterday. I'm still recovering. For the Dork Lord and me, it was the perfect way to celebrate our first year together*. You know, minus the bees and spiders and such. Or the part where the Boy left his wallet at home in Dallas. Or where I forgot to pack deodorant. But I guess 'perfect' is sort of a relative thing.
*Warning: you should only click the above link if you are not one of those who are weary of all the gaggy happiness crap. Because that picture, it's pretty damn happy.
Earlier in the week, I got bit by a spider. Again, because of course I did. And it wasn't much more than an annoyance until the whole bee incident. And then, after the bee did his thing and it crossed some sort of venom threshold, the spider bite on my inner arm that was the size of a quarter grew and grew until yesterday, when I took my angry red, tennis ball sized owie to my doctor. She poked, prodded and then drew a black line around the red halo on my arm and said, if it gets bigger, call me. Then she loaded me up with antihistamines and antibiotics and sent me on my way. I've been obsessively checking that line ever since. It's a new hobby.
Insects and arachnids aside, we had such a fantastic weekend with Stephanie, Phil and their pint-sized scalawags. Oh, to hear three-year-olds say scalawags! I was endlessly delighted by the things that came out of their mouths. Then there was grown up time, which was mostly about putting things in our mouths - like, wine and bread pudding and this thing called drunken bread. I didn't make it to boot camp yesterday. I'm still recovering. For the Dork Lord and me, it was the perfect way to celebrate our first year together*. You know, minus the bees and spiders and such. Or the part where the Boy left his wallet at home in Dallas. Or where I forgot to pack deodorant. But I guess 'perfect' is sort of a relative thing.
*Warning: you should only click the above link if you are not one of those who are weary of all the gaggy happiness crap. Because that picture, it's pretty damn happy.
This morning, we're packing up the car and driving to Austin for a much-needed weekend away. The primary purpose of our trip is the wedding (the very one I was sure I needed a cool weather outfit for and here it is, middle of November, and eighty-three degrees. Oh, Texas. You varmint) but spending some time being silly with Stephanie and Phil by no means comes in second on the list of highlights for the next two days. I just hope we don't play Upwords this time. Because, it's not Scrabble, dammit, and Stephanie makes me look like an illiterate, drooling half-wit.
The Dork Lord hasn't met any of my New York friends before. Not that they're so very different from my Dallas friends, but I'm pretty sure that a weekend of air kisses and "lovey!" and "remember that night we double fisted champagne and I fell in a snowbank/had to have the cabbie count my money/got lost in my own apartment" stories will make him wonder just who he sleeps next to at night. The woman he knows has two cocktails and is ready for bed. Yeah, his girl likes to party all the time, party all the time.
And on that note, my most sincere apologies to Butterfly for the apparently vomit-inducing displays of domestic contentment lately. If this weren't a family friendly site, I'd tell you what you could do, and how it would involve certain sunless areas of the anatomy. But as it is, I'll just say, I'm sorry you're so unhappy and I sure do hope your tummy feels better.
Who knew crock pots were so offensive?
The Dork Lord hasn't met any of my New York friends before. Not that they're so very different from my Dallas friends, but I'm pretty sure that a weekend of air kisses and "lovey!" and "remember that night we double fisted champagne and I fell in a snowbank/had to have the cabbie count my money/got lost in my own apartment" stories will make him wonder just who he sleeps next to at night. The woman he knows has two cocktails and is ready for bed. Yeah, his girl likes to party all the time, party all the time.
And on that note, my most sincere apologies to Butterfly for the apparently vomit-inducing displays of domestic contentment lately. If this weren't a family friendly site, I'd tell you what you could do, and how it would involve certain sunless areas of the anatomy. But as it is, I'll just say, I'm sorry you're so unhappy and I sure do hope your tummy feels better.
Who knew crock pots were so offensive?
For our anniversary, the Boy bought tickets to South Pacific at the new Winspear opera house. If I ever find myself doubting his affection for me, I will simply look back at that moment last night, when I opened the card, the blue and white tickets slipped out onto the counter and I realized, the man I love just dropped some serious cash to do something he will hate every moment of. Because he loves me.
I am so smitten with my crock pot. Last year, the Boy and I bought one of those big, fancy ones with the meat thermometer, a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time. Okay, okay, not the compass - it was made by Hamilton Beach or something, not Red Ryder. Anyway, we made stew in it once and it fell apart. And so did my dreams. But then a couple weeks ago, we decided it was time - we'd gotten over our bitter disappointment and were ready to try again. This time, though, we went basic. Very basic. 2 quarts. 2 setting. Just exactly what two people need. And life has never been heartier.
Like right now, it's at home making pot roast, my wee little crock pot built for two. After boot camp, I chopped up some veggies, tossed in some beef, and when I came home at lunch to walk Sir Crapsalot, I opened the door to the most glorious smell this side of Quaker Instant Maple & Brown Sugar oatmeal. Don't pretend you don't know. My coworker eats it. I get a little drooly because it smells like Sunday morning when I was 12, uninformed about such things as carbohydrates and diabetes, and maple syrup was my bitch.
One of the greatest gifts the crock pot has brought is the gift of vegetable variety. The Dork Lord, he is strictly a green bean and broccoli guy. No squash, no asparagus. Spinach? The horror! But since the crock pot lends itself so well to soup-making, I've started throwing all sorts of vegetables in and letting the crock pot do its thing. You know, as in making things soft and mushy and disguising specific flavors under one heavenly broth. In the last week we have added cabbage, zucchini and Brussels sprouts to the rotation with unprecedented success. There's a weird kind of personal satisfaction that comes from sponsoring improved colon health.
That, or the excitement level in my life needs some serious attention.
Like right now, it's at home making pot roast, my wee little crock pot built for two. After boot camp, I chopped up some veggies, tossed in some beef, and when I came home at lunch to walk Sir Crapsalot, I opened the door to the most glorious smell this side of Quaker Instant Maple & Brown Sugar oatmeal. Don't pretend you don't know. My coworker eats it. I get a little drooly because it smells like Sunday morning when I was 12, uninformed about such things as carbohydrates and diabetes, and maple syrup was my bitch.
One of the greatest gifts the crock pot has brought is the gift of vegetable variety. The Dork Lord, he is strictly a green bean and broccoli guy. No squash, no asparagus. Spinach? The horror! But since the crock pot lends itself so well to soup-making, I've started throwing all sorts of vegetables in and letting the crock pot do its thing. You know, as in making things soft and mushy and disguising specific flavors under one heavenly broth. In the last week we have added cabbage, zucchini and Brussels sprouts to the rotation with unprecedented success. There's a weird kind of personal satisfaction that comes from sponsoring improved colon health.
That, or the excitement level in my life needs some serious attention.
After weeks of shoulder pain, I had to break it to the boot camp trainers this morning that I would not being doing anything that involved jerky upper body movements. Jumping jacks? Sure. Push ups? Urgh, I guess so. I mean, I hate them but I'll play along. But these crazy hopping, squat thrust things they call burpies? Um, no. I like having feeling in my pinky fingers. At one point, we were supposed to be "popping out" of a push up position to do shuttle drills (formerly known as 'suicide' drills - though I feel like we should use the old name; call a spade a spade). And having learned that all that popping was what kept me glued to my heating pad like a broken, geriatric spinster, I simply refrained.
Holy cow, after the number of times one trainer yelled, "You're supposed to be in push up position! PUSH UP! POSITION!" while I remained vertical, well, I'd be worried that it made me look a little bit obstinate - if I truly gave a damn. But I've been off muscle relaxers for two weeks now and I'd like to keep it that way. Plus, all that yoga-ing has made me feel very zen about my workout. I do what I can and accept my body and what it has to offer today. Which is so totally un-boot camp.
DEAL WITH IT.
Speaking of yoga-ing. I've been debating about whether to make this an official gripe, but I think I will, in case you're thinking of getting into yoga and need an honest assessment of the studio. If you're not and you don't, feel free to tune out now.
And... non-yoagers, tune back in. One month from today, I'm going to Disney World with the Boy's family. That is all. Eeee!
Holy cow, after the number of times one trainer yelled, "You're supposed to be in push up position! PUSH UP! POSITION!" while I remained vertical, well, I'd be worried that it made me look a little bit obstinate - if I truly gave a damn. But I've been off muscle relaxers for two weeks now and I'd like to keep it that way. Plus, all that yoga-ing has made me feel very zen about my workout. I do what I can and accept my body and what it has to offer today. Which is so totally un-boot camp.
DEAL WITH IT.
Speaking of yoga-ing. I've been debating about whether to make this an official gripe, but I think I will, in case you're thinking of getting into yoga and need an honest assessment of the studio. If you're not and you don't, feel free to tune out now.
A couple weeks ago, I signed up for the 10 days for $10 introductory offer at Sunstone Yoga. I've been a fan of hot yoga since I first tried it in Boston almost... ten years ago. Yes, I gasped when I typed that. Anyway, after your third introductory class at Sunstone, they make it a point to call you up to the desk to go over your "options." You know, for non-introductory price yoga. Which I don't have to tell you is pricey. Now, I'd already read about all of my options online. I knew I didn't want one of their one year, unlimited, auto-deduct packages. I had every intention of continuing my practice there - the room is properly heated, most of the instructors are good - but with boot camp, I would only be up for one or two times a week. I had it all figured out.
After my fourth class (guess I squeaked by the day before), I got called up to the front desk where the yoga instructor/mad dog sales lady proceeded to give me the hard sell - the hardest hard sell I've had to put up with in a long ass time.
I don't know how many times I said, "No thank you. I already know my options, and I will be buying my classes individually," but it was apparently not acceptable. I could feel my shoulders getting tense as I tried to explain time after time that I was simply NOT INTERESTED. When I finally escaped, I went home and shot them a quick email letting them know I appreciate that they have a business to run, but I did not appreciate their very un-yoga approach. I got a call later that morning. Trying to sell me a package. And then an email. And then another call - this one letting me know that it's the responsibility of the instructors to make me aware of my "options." Again with the options.
I've since received two more calls and another email.
Basically, I could not feel any less zen about my experience with them. And this morning at camp, my workout partner mentioned the same thing. They want your cash, and they don't care about much else (except for yesterday's instructor - who was very concerned with sending energy to my lady parts. Which I fully appreciated).
And... non-yoagers, tune back in. One month from today, I'm going to Disney World with the Boy's family. That is all. Eeee!
I own one of those alarm clocks that just knows what time it is. Something to do with magical signals from space or some such. And because of those magical space signals, at 2AM on Sunday, bloop! the time fell back automatically, without a bit of assistance from me. So low maintenance, my little alarm clock! Only, apparently, it decided that once wasn't enough and bloop! the time fell back AGAIN lat night while I was sleeping. I struggled from sleep at 5AM to head out to boot camp, only to learn from the microwave that it was 6AM and camp was going on without me.
Are you sure, Microwave?
The microwave referred me to the DVR box for back up and then to the cell phone, who has a long and storied history of truth-telling. It was indeed 6AM.
Oh, technology, you rogue. Between the Dork Lord and me, it took a good twenty minutes of jabbing at that thing to figure out how to manually reset it and even now, I'm not so sure it won't get crazy ideas about how to pass the time when it's bored again at 2AM. God, I'm glad I didn't end up purchasing a Clocky. By now, that thing would have figured out how to roll right off the night stand, yank my car keys and go joyriding. And something tells me it would not have any respect for speed bumps.
Are you sure, Microwave?
The microwave referred me to the DVR box for back up and then to the cell phone, who has a long and storied history of truth-telling. It was indeed 6AM.
Oh, technology, you rogue. Between the Dork Lord and me, it took a good twenty minutes of jabbing at that thing to figure out how to manually reset it and even now, I'm not so sure it won't get crazy ideas about how to pass the time when it's bored again at 2AM. God, I'm glad I didn't end up purchasing a Clocky. By now, that thing would have figured out how to roll right off the night stand, yank my car keys and go joyriding. And something tells me it would not have any respect for speed bumps.
I found a hair in my salad. At lunch with a potentially very important client. I very quietly removed the offending gag-worthy hair and ate the damn salad. Now I'm waiting for the communicable, debilitating disease to kick in. In three, two, one...
We celebrated the one year anniversary of our meeting, in the same pub, in the same booth. Then we bought a mullet wig at Walmart. Because that is what love is about. The best part of it was, when I suggested dinner Thursday night at The Restaurant Where We Met, his response:
"Sure. What's Thursday?"
"Um, the day we met?"
FAIL. Though, I suppose the Universe is going on just as it should. I'm still not sure he knows my birthday.
My nephew Owen tuned one. If you don't have a reason for not stepping in front of a bus at the end of a long, assy day, you may borrow this one. I nearly died of The Cute.
Penny Jayne had her first sponge bath. And she hated it. My brother sent a bunch of pictures of her tiny, pink pissed off face. But I prefer this one. Where she's clearly telling her mother all about the pony she should receive for having gone through such an ordeal.
"Oooh, or maybe a WHITE pony with PINK ribbons..."
We celebrated the one year anniversary of our meeting, in the same pub, in the same booth. Then we bought a mullet wig at Walmart. Because that is what love is about. The best part of it was, when I suggested dinner Thursday night at The Restaurant Where We Met, his response:
"Sure. What's Thursday?"
"Um, the day we met?"
FAIL. Though, I suppose the Universe is going on just as it should. I'm still not sure he knows my birthday.
My nephew Owen tuned one. If you don't have a reason for not stepping in front of a bus at the end of a long, assy day, you may borrow this one. I nearly died of The Cute.
Penny Jayne had her first sponge bath. And she hated it. My brother sent a bunch of pictures of her tiny, pink pissed off face. But I prefer this one. Where she's clearly telling her mother all about the pony she should receive for having gone through such an ordeal.
"Oooh, or maybe a WHITE pony with PINK ribbons..."
When Penny was born yesterday afternoon, she was scuttled away to the NICU for some special attention, and in the first picture I saw, her sweet round face was covered with tubes and bands and cords. My first thought was a shout out to the Universe to tread lightly with this one, please and thank you. My second was a shout out to my brother.
"Penny looks like an X-wing pilot."
"That's my girl."
His girl. That my brother has a child is so far out, I can hardly stand it. He will be a great, if absurd, daddy. Frankly, I'm a little surprised she wasn't named after a Transformer, but I assume that has a great deal to do with his wife's firm and graceful touch. Still and all, she was (and I report this with glee) middle-named after a character on Firefly, little miss Penelope Jayne.
She is, by the way, out of NICU and sleeping off her birthday adventures (being born is very hard work). I simply cannot wait to gnaw on her cheeks (in stupid MARCH, which is so far away she will probably be doing calculus by then and want nothing to do with her old maid auntie). With her parents' permission, I will try to post a picture of those glorious cheeks later this afternoon.
Oh, and for the curious, I did not die at hot yoga. In fact, I've been back three times. Bow pose will be mine, dammit. Also, I did not die on my bike ride. In fact, our 15 mile ride to the lake and back was 100% incident-free. I'm still waiting for the Boy to take back all that crap about me falling and breaking all my bones. I have a feeling I'll be waiting a long, long time. And maybe by the time I get some satisfaction on the matter, my freaking tailbone will have stopped the ohmyhell aching. Those seats are made for folks who already have trim fannies. Those of us who want them, well, we have to suck it up or learn to pedal standing.
TA DA!
"Penny looks like an X-wing pilot."
"That's my girl."
His girl. That my brother has a child is so far out, I can hardly stand it. He will be a great, if absurd, daddy. Frankly, I'm a little surprised she wasn't named after a Transformer, but I assume that has a great deal to do with his wife's firm and graceful touch. Still and all, she was (and I report this with glee) middle-named after a character on Firefly, little miss Penelope Jayne.
She is, by the way, out of NICU and sleeping off her birthday adventures (being born is very hard work). I simply cannot wait to gnaw on her cheeks (in stupid MARCH, which is so far away she will probably be doing calculus by then and want nothing to do with her old maid auntie). With her parents' permission, I will try to post a picture of those glorious cheeks later this afternoon.
Oh, and for the curious, I did not die at hot yoga. In fact, I've been back three times. Bow pose will be mine, dammit. Also, I did not die on my bike ride. In fact, our 15 mile ride to the lake and back was 100% incident-free. I'm still waiting for the Boy to take back all that crap about me falling and breaking all my bones. I have a feeling I'll be waiting a long, long time. And maybe by the time I get some satisfaction on the matter, my freaking tailbone will have stopped the ohmyhell aching. Those seats are made for folks who already have trim fannies. Those of us who want them, well, we have to suck it up or learn to pedal standing.
TA DA!
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