Ask my husband if he is a sleepwalker. Better yet, ask if he is a REGULAR sleepwalker. I bet you a million dollars he claims not to be, but it's 3:50 in the morning and I am writing this BECAUSE he is a sleepwalker and right now, I would give the world to be doing anything in my sleep.
Before we had kids, it wasn't bad. It was funny even. I remember the first time he woke me up to chastise me for scaring the ducks away. I was embarrassed at first, thinking that perhaps I had been snoring and that early into the relationship, snoring ranked right up there with admitting you pooped. It didn't take too long for me to realize, however, he really thought I had scared the ducks away. I had no idea how to respond other than to apologize for scaring the ducks away (thought I cant imagine why we wanted them in our bedroom in the first place.) and I went back to sleep. We later determined that he was just so excited for duck hunting the next day that this was all he thought about and it obviously carried over into the sleeping hours. We had a good chuckle about it and moved on.
Then there were the times he got really involved in a video game. Let me just say this. Thank God he didn't play something like Call of Duty. When he played his games, I would find him rifling through the closet looking for something he needed on a quest. Had he played something violent, I'm sure I would have found him army crawling under imaginary barbed wire to escape the hand grenade that had just been lobbed into our room.
I finally got to the point where I realized each time when his conversations weren't really looking for an answer from me. The question, "What did you do with my left sock?" at 2 am was generally a sleep question that I could ignore. But then we had kids and as any of you moms out there know, with kids comes our innate ability to wake up the second our child sniffs or blinks too loudly. Unfortunately, that amazing skill set doesn't limit itself to just the kids. We hear everything. The ice maker down the hall, the clicking of the chain on the ceiling fan, the house fan turning on or off, the water heater refilling... I could go on and on, What I'm getting at is that as a mom, sleep is a very precious commodity. I'm not going to get on a soapbox about how awesome I am because I can manage 3 kids and a full time job, but seriously. I got a Jawbone a few weeks ago and this thing tells me I am surviving off of less than 5 hours of sleep per night and that is NOT solid hours. I'm actually impressed with myself that I haven't driven off into a ditch on my way to work or started snoring at my desk yet. We will see if I can continue that streak today as I am doing this on 1.5 hours right now. Of course, the Jawbone, which is supposed to motivate you to move more, apparently realized who it was strapped to and has set goals for me like "get 6 hours of sleep" or "go to bed before 10" or "sleep in on the weekend to get caught up!" Then I fail the goal and it criticizes me for not trying hard enough. I have written a letter to Jawbone asking them to please take children into consideration, but I have yet to hear back from them... I digress. My point is, I don't get enough sleep, so when my husband wakes me up to ask me if I heard that "noise" (which I didn't and let me reiterate, my super sonar mom hearing picks up everything!) I know he's sleep walking.
I KNOW he's sleep walking, but just a few months ago we moved out to BFE. Timbuktu. No Man's Land. The edge of the world. AKA: The country. I have never been a country girl and despite my husband's strong opinion that I would change, it hasn't happened yet. I hate the dark. I hate the silence. It makes all those little noises I listen for THAT much louder. So when all of a sudden my husband is convinced he heard something, and he gets up to check things out, it puts me into hyper awareness. Let me tell you, this sucks at 11:30. Why? Because this is the time of night that my 9 month old and 2 year old are light sleepers. if you so much as look in the direction of their room, they wake up. So of course, my husband scouting the place out, freaking the hell out of me, wakes one if not both of the girls up. Why else does this suck? Because my 9 month old will still wake up at 430 and insist it's playtime/feeding time. If I'm lucky, I will get back to bed around 1230 which will give me a solid 4 hours. However, did you know that sleep walking tends to occur during the period of the sleep cycle where you are most likely to snore? Yeah. That's awesome. SO almost immediately after deciding the house is safe enough to go back to sleep, Hubby is sawing logs.
So now I am wide awake, scared that maybe he really did hear something. Oh and did I also complain about the fact that us moms have the ability to stay sick for like 3 weeks and still function? Yeah. I'll tell ya, these days I see the video feeds of these nurses with Ebola skyping their families from the hospital rooms and for the briefest second I think, maybe that wouldn't be so bad... Then I realize how it would really go down (I get Ebola, pass it to my kids and husband and probably the dogs too i guess, stay home to take care of everyone and clean up the messes and probably end up dying while attempting to do a load of laundry) and I realize that's ridiculous Heather! You don't want Ebola! But so I am sick. I can't recover because I never sleep. Then I can't think straight when my husband wakes up and tells me someone is breaking into the house. It never ends.
I will be honest. It's been a while since I pulled an all nighter, listening to my husband and dog snore, worried that someone was trying to jimmy a window open, and hacking into my pillow when I am just about to doze off. The last time I did this I wrote my open letter to Frigidaire complaining about the troll in the ice maker and insisting that I didn't need that much ice unless I was about to kill somebody. Maybe the lack of sleep does get to me. After all, if I hadn't come out to write this, one of us probably would have ended up with a pillow over their face.
Yikes! Somebody get me some sleep!!
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Why I wont be ringing the bell this year...
The thing about a blog is, for me at least, you use it for the stories that would get a little too long for Facebook or Twitter. So while this one is going to appear to be short, it's just too long to have on Facebook and let's face it, I was a little overdue on the blog posts.
Last week was our charity drive week. We chose to work with United Way and we had activities, auctions and food prepared in order to raise money. The money we raised would be matched by our corporate office and then handed over to United Way to be spread out among local charities.
Sounds good right? Well I went into this with a little bit of an unfortunately less than positive outlook. Why? Because my husband doesn't believe in "corporate" charities like The United Way. When I approached him about the charity, the first thing he did was point out how much the CEO made.
Let me be clear, Dan is NOT anti-charity. He just prefers to know exactly where his money goes. We both understand that large groups like the United Way can cast a much wider berth than a small group can. His concern is the recent uncovering of some less than giving charities that have recently been found to be hoarding a lot more money than necessary. Ultimately, we both decided that while we would not be donating to the United Way, we would instead direct the same amount of money to a local charity that we both agreed on.
While I felt good about our decision to donate to a more personal charity, I still had a week of lots of fun activities staring me in the face on a daily basis... and a recent cash increase thanks to a photo job I had picked up. Dan didn't need to know about that right? Would he be bothered by a couple games of Bingo and team trivia? Nah! Besides- I could potentially win PTO, lunch, gift cards and more! It was more of a calculated risk than anything and on top of it, I was donating with all my peers. Win-win!
As my wallet got thinner, I couldn't help but occasionally hear my husband's voice as he chastised me for "blowing" money on game after game of bingo. So when Thursday rolled around and found myself boarding the elevator with the United Way rep, I couldn't help it. What happened next was beyond my control.
First I held the elevator for her. I was going to maintain civility here!
As she stepped in and smiled her good morning, I let it out. The door hadn't even started to close.
"I'm sorry, but I have to just ask this- how much of our money is actually going to go to charity?"
She pursed her lips and looked thoughtful for a moment. Here it was, I thought, she's trying to make up a number really fast!
"To be honest, I don't know the EXACT number." She started. I was already feeling the smug satisfaction rise up as I planned my move in relationship to this ridiculous answer, but what I heard her say made my blood boil. "I would say it's about two and a half percent."
Without hesitation, I thrust my arm out to stop the elevator door.
"What?? Get out." I said firmly.
Her eyes got big. "What?"
"Two and a half percent." I repeated. "That's it? Get out."
As I said- that's what I HEARD. Obviously, my pregnancy was having an adverse reaction to my hearing, in addition to making me a caped crusader because she just started laughing at me. Like REALLY laughing at me.
"Oh my gosh! No! EIGHTY two and a half!"
If the floor had an escape hatch, I would have used it right then and there. I contemplated exiting the elevator and allowing her to go up without me. Maybe she would forget what I looked like in the thirty seconds it took to get to our floor? Not much hope of that happening. How many pregnant women with with nervous boob sweat could we possibly have in the office? I was mortified. In a split second I had gone from feeling like I was saving myself and my co-workers from wasting their precious dollars, to feeling like the biggest jerk imaginable.
Luckily, this woman was nothing but nice. "I have people ask us that question all the time. Don't feel bad!"
I nodded, allowing the elevator doors to close. "Yes I'm sure, but have you ever had someone try to throw you out for your answer?"
"Nope. That was my first! Thanks!"
I don't think my face had returned to a normal color by the time I got to my desk. I am pretty sure I apologized at least three times throughout the morning. I bought breakfast and played more bingo to help ease my guilty conscious. I just about gutted my wallet in order to feel a little less like a raging lunatic.
I must have done ok, because at the end of the day, before everyone cleared out, the rep I had tried to toss out of the building stopped by and thanked me for everything. Apparently she too noticed my now deflated wallet and the pile of losing bingo cards on my desk.
So, short story longer, I plan to budget better for next year, keep my mouth shut and play along. And this Christmas, when the Salvation Army starts ringing it's bells, I will have cash on hand rather than loose change from my car's ashtray. Not that I still feel bad or anything.
Last week was our charity drive week. We chose to work with United Way and we had activities, auctions and food prepared in order to raise money. The money we raised would be matched by our corporate office and then handed over to United Way to be spread out among local charities.
Sounds good right? Well I went into this with a little bit of an unfortunately less than positive outlook. Why? Because my husband doesn't believe in "corporate" charities like The United Way. When I approached him about the charity, the first thing he did was point out how much the CEO made.
Let me be clear, Dan is NOT anti-charity. He just prefers to know exactly where his money goes. We both understand that large groups like the United Way can cast a much wider berth than a small group can. His concern is the recent uncovering of some less than giving charities that have recently been found to be hoarding a lot more money than necessary. Ultimately, we both decided that while we would not be donating to the United Way, we would instead direct the same amount of money to a local charity that we both agreed on.
While I felt good about our decision to donate to a more personal charity, I still had a week of lots of fun activities staring me in the face on a daily basis... and a recent cash increase thanks to a photo job I had picked up. Dan didn't need to know about that right? Would he be bothered by a couple games of Bingo and team trivia? Nah! Besides- I could potentially win PTO, lunch, gift cards and more! It was more of a calculated risk than anything and on top of it, I was donating with all my peers. Win-win!
As my wallet got thinner, I couldn't help but occasionally hear my husband's voice as he chastised me for "blowing" money on game after game of bingo. So when Thursday rolled around and found myself boarding the elevator with the United Way rep, I couldn't help it. What happened next was beyond my control.
First I held the elevator for her. I was going to maintain civility here!
As she stepped in and smiled her good morning, I let it out. The door hadn't even started to close.
"I'm sorry, but I have to just ask this- how much of our money is actually going to go to charity?"
She pursed her lips and looked thoughtful for a moment. Here it was, I thought, she's trying to make up a number really fast!
"To be honest, I don't know the EXACT number." She started. I was already feeling the smug satisfaction rise up as I planned my move in relationship to this ridiculous answer, but what I heard her say made my blood boil. "I would say it's about two and a half percent."
Without hesitation, I thrust my arm out to stop the elevator door.
"What?? Get out." I said firmly.
Her eyes got big. "What?"
"Two and a half percent." I repeated. "That's it? Get out."
As I said- that's what I HEARD. Obviously, my pregnancy was having an adverse reaction to my hearing, in addition to making me a caped crusader because she just started laughing at me. Like REALLY laughing at me.
"Oh my gosh! No! EIGHTY two and a half!"
If the floor had an escape hatch, I would have used it right then and there. I contemplated exiting the elevator and allowing her to go up without me. Maybe she would forget what I looked like in the thirty seconds it took to get to our floor? Not much hope of that happening. How many pregnant women with with nervous boob sweat could we possibly have in the office? I was mortified. In a split second I had gone from feeling like I was saving myself and my co-workers from wasting their precious dollars, to feeling like the biggest jerk imaginable.
Luckily, this woman was nothing but nice. "I have people ask us that question all the time. Don't feel bad!"
I nodded, allowing the elevator doors to close. "Yes I'm sure, but have you ever had someone try to throw you out for your answer?"
"Nope. That was my first! Thanks!"
I don't think my face had returned to a normal color by the time I got to my desk. I am pretty sure I apologized at least three times throughout the morning. I bought breakfast and played more bingo to help ease my guilty conscious. I just about gutted my wallet in order to feel a little less like a raging lunatic.
I must have done ok, because at the end of the day, before everyone cleared out, the rep I had tried to toss out of the building stopped by and thanked me for everything. Apparently she too noticed my now deflated wallet and the pile of losing bingo cards on my desk.
So, short story longer, I plan to budget better for next year, keep my mouth shut and play along. And this Christmas, when the Salvation Army starts ringing it's bells, I will have cash on hand rather than loose change from my car's ashtray. Not that I still feel bad or anything.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
So your feet feel a little thick? Go see Sara!
Why hello there! Long time no talk! Please accept my sincerest apologies for the weeks of radio silence. You see, I'm terrible at keeping my own secrets. Other people's? Sure! Knowledge IS power right? But my own secrets? Forget about it! So when I was surprised to discover that I would be having a third baby, I had to shut down. If I hadn't, I would have been blabbing to the world about every little "exciting" development in my little embryo's day to day existence. I know many women out there are not fans of the whole pregnancy thing and to be honest, the first month is not my favorite, but after years of losses and missing out on the whole "alien in my tummy" feeling, I enjoy every iota of pregnancy. From the beginning when you feel so bloated and gassy you have to take your pants off the minute you get home, to the very end, when my feet swell up like inflated surgical gloves. It's such an amazing thing that we women do!
So enough of the mushy "I'm so blessed" stuff! Outside of creating a life today, I went out and got myself a little pedicure! I figure, as long as I can still see my feet and they aren't yet overflowing off the sides of my flip flops, I might as well pretty them up a bit. It actually Kerry's idea. I have to admit, it was fantastic timing. Just last night I was soaking each foot in it's own tub of Eucerin cream while I scoured Pinterest to find that "recipe" for the Listerine foot soak that apparently removes the outer layer of skin on your foot. (Sidenote- It makes you wonder doesn't it? Listerine cleans your mouth out and gives you minty fresh breath, but if you put your feet in it, the skin falls off? I didn't realize how serious they were about that 60 second swishing rule!) So her timing couldn't have been any better.
Now, I am going to be honest. I'm kind of a pedicure expert. Kind of. What I mean is, I've been around the block. That is to say, if every pedicure salon in town, were on one block, I would have been around it. Admittedly, a few new ones have popped up here and there, but the main staples in town have all touched my feet. I'm talking high end places like Day Lilly, where they offer you wine in a dimly lit room while your feet soak in scented bubble baths, to the filthiest of places, like JL Nails where the owner uses his overgrown fingernails to exfoliate your legs then has you soak your feet in the same water he has just dumped your dead skin and whatever the hell that was under his fingernails BEFORE he started scraping. If I haven't had it happen to me, I know someone who has had it happen to them. But today is not my day to rant about past stories of these places. (It's much better when I can tell it in person and you get to hear my wicked impersonation of said owner.) I only tell you this so you are aware of my qualifications and agree that I am quite equipped to judge any particular salon. So today, I would like to talk about Sara Nails.
Kerry, Sara (a co-worker who insists she never gets a good pedicure) and I popped in to Sara Nails for our lunch break today. It's a healthy hour long, but when you take into account drive time and the extra five minutes it takes to tell the "nail consultant" you need to be done quickly, you really only have about 40 minutes. I'm not entirely sure that the gentleman sitting at the front door ACTUALLY said that he could fit us in, or even that he ACTUALLY worked there, but we paraded ourselves in anyway, grabbed some polish and plopped down in the pleather "massage" chairs.
Things proceeded very quickly for Kerry and I. The employees must have known we meant business. Our feet were instantly immersed in lukewarm blue water and our massage chairs were cranked up to the same setting the terrorists use to get information out of men. It was less than amazing, but it would do. Sara on the other hand, got the seat with no lady. Kerry got the random guy from up front. At this point, I am assuming he worked there, but really- it could have just been some guy filling in for his wife or sister or something. At any rate, he immediately put on his latex gloves, pulled up his surgical mask and dove in. This guy meant business. Or at least he looked like it. Judging by the look of complete boredom on Kerry's face, the feel of rubber against her skin is not something she enjoys. (Hey Mr Kerry- word to the wise... ) My lady halfheartedly shot some goo on my foot, then lazily slapped the sole of my feet with a pumice stone. It tickled.
Still no lady for Sara.
Kerry's guy brought out his Pampered Chef cheese grater (Ok- to be clear, it's not REALLY Pampered Chef, but we did all debate over whether or not the PC Cheese grater would work on our feet and if it would void the warranty or not.) and began shaving off the bottom of her feet. My lady followed suit and started to grate at my feet.
Still no lady for Sara, but she was thoroughly enjoying watching the mountain of foot skin pile up in the towel in front of me!
At this point, Kerry's rubber handed guy is doing his best to massage her legs. We can tell that Kerry is almost confused, torn by her feelings of disgust, as the little latex covered hands squeeze and push on her legs, and the pleasure she feels in just having her legs massaged for the first time in a while! My lady has asked me to soak again, because my feet are pretty bad and while I couldn't quite understand her native tongue, I think I heard her say something about finding a belt sander...Meanwhile, at Sara's chair, the heavens opened and her lady has arrived!!
This has taken about 25 minutes at this point. Just so you are following along here.
Soon after, my feet are pulled out, rubbed down and the painting process has begun. The same is happening at Kerry's seat. The same is happening at Sara's. Wait- What? Is that right? Yup! Sara got the fastest AND the laziest "artist" in the "salon". We literally all finished within minutes of each other. In fact, as we left the shop, the lady who had worked on Sara was practically chasing after her to put on her top coat. It was almost like getting your pedicure in a drive through. (Now THERE'S an idea!)
I'm not here to put any business down. What Sara Nails lacks in class, comfort and health certifications, it makes up for with it's low cost and high tolerance for my disregard for my feet. Had I walked into Day Lilly with feet like I had earlier, they would have asked me for a doctor's note to ensure the safety of their employees prior to touching my feet. Places like Sara Nails, they don't care. Also- I would like to point out that I firmly believe that the cheese grater does a much better job on my feet, AND lasts longer, then the scented bubble baths and paraffin wax dips. So I totally give credit to places like Sara Nails in that department. All in all, I will go back again. I mean- it's only $25 and when they wear those surgical masks, I can't see the look of disgust on their faces while they work on my feet. :)
Thanks for sticking around folks! I hope that we can get this ride back up and running smoothly. Perhaps next time I will share the story of my progesterone supplements and being forced to take the stairs while the power was out? Or maybe that's too early in our relationship... :) Have a great night!
So enough of the mushy "I'm so blessed" stuff! Outside of creating a life today, I went out and got myself a little pedicure! I figure, as long as I can still see my feet and they aren't yet overflowing off the sides of my flip flops, I might as well pretty them up a bit. It actually Kerry's idea. I have to admit, it was fantastic timing. Just last night I was soaking each foot in it's own tub of Eucerin cream while I scoured Pinterest to find that "recipe" for the Listerine foot soak that apparently removes the outer layer of skin on your foot. (Sidenote- It makes you wonder doesn't it? Listerine cleans your mouth out and gives you minty fresh breath, but if you put your feet in it, the skin falls off? I didn't realize how serious they were about that 60 second swishing rule!) So her timing couldn't have been any better.
Now, I am going to be honest. I'm kind of a pedicure expert. Kind of. What I mean is, I've been around the block. That is to say, if every pedicure salon in town, were on one block, I would have been around it. Admittedly, a few new ones have popped up here and there, but the main staples in town have all touched my feet. I'm talking high end places like Day Lilly, where they offer you wine in a dimly lit room while your feet soak in scented bubble baths, to the filthiest of places, like JL Nails where the owner uses his overgrown fingernails to exfoliate your legs then has you soak your feet in the same water he has just dumped your dead skin and whatever the hell that was under his fingernails BEFORE he started scraping. If I haven't had it happen to me, I know someone who has had it happen to them. But today is not my day to rant about past stories of these places. (It's much better when I can tell it in person and you get to hear my wicked impersonation of said owner.) I only tell you this so you are aware of my qualifications and agree that I am quite equipped to judge any particular salon. So today, I would like to talk about Sara Nails.
Kerry, Sara (a co-worker who insists she never gets a good pedicure) and I popped in to Sara Nails for our lunch break today. It's a healthy hour long, but when you take into account drive time and the extra five minutes it takes to tell the "nail consultant" you need to be done quickly, you really only have about 40 minutes. I'm not entirely sure that the gentleman sitting at the front door ACTUALLY said that he could fit us in, or even that he ACTUALLY worked there, but we paraded ourselves in anyway, grabbed some polish and plopped down in the pleather "massage" chairs.
Things proceeded very quickly for Kerry and I. The employees must have known we meant business. Our feet were instantly immersed in lukewarm blue water and our massage chairs were cranked up to the same setting the terrorists use to get information out of men. It was less than amazing, but it would do. Sara on the other hand, got the seat with no lady. Kerry got the random guy from up front. At this point, I am assuming he worked there, but really- it could have just been some guy filling in for his wife or sister or something. At any rate, he immediately put on his latex gloves, pulled up his surgical mask and dove in. This guy meant business. Or at least he looked like it. Judging by the look of complete boredom on Kerry's face, the feel of rubber against her skin is not something she enjoys. (Hey Mr Kerry- word to the wise... ) My lady halfheartedly shot some goo on my foot, then lazily slapped the sole of my feet with a pumice stone. It tickled.
Still no lady for Sara.
Kerry's guy brought out his Pampered Chef cheese grater (Ok- to be clear, it's not REALLY Pampered Chef, but we did all debate over whether or not the PC Cheese grater would work on our feet and if it would void the warranty or not.) and began shaving off the bottom of her feet. My lady followed suit and started to grate at my feet.
Still no lady for Sara, but she was thoroughly enjoying watching the mountain of foot skin pile up in the towel in front of me!
At this point, Kerry's rubber handed guy is doing his best to massage her legs. We can tell that Kerry is almost confused, torn by her feelings of disgust, as the little latex covered hands squeeze and push on her legs, and the pleasure she feels in just having her legs massaged for the first time in a while! My lady has asked me to soak again, because my feet are pretty bad and while I couldn't quite understand her native tongue, I think I heard her say something about finding a belt sander...Meanwhile, at Sara's chair, the heavens opened and her lady has arrived!!
This has taken about 25 minutes at this point. Just so you are following along here.
Soon after, my feet are pulled out, rubbed down and the painting process has begun. The same is happening at Kerry's seat. The same is happening at Sara's. Wait- What? Is that right? Yup! Sara got the fastest AND the laziest "artist" in the "salon". We literally all finished within minutes of each other. In fact, as we left the shop, the lady who had worked on Sara was practically chasing after her to put on her top coat. It was almost like getting your pedicure in a drive through. (Now THERE'S an idea!)
I'm not here to put any business down. What Sara Nails lacks in class, comfort and health certifications, it makes up for with it's low cost and high tolerance for my disregard for my feet. Had I walked into Day Lilly with feet like I had earlier, they would have asked me for a doctor's note to ensure the safety of their employees prior to touching my feet. Places like Sara Nails, they don't care. Also- I would like to point out that I firmly believe that the cheese grater does a much better job on my feet, AND lasts longer, then the scented bubble baths and paraffin wax dips. So I totally give credit to places like Sara Nails in that department. All in all, I will go back again. I mean- it's only $25 and when they wear those surgical masks, I can't see the look of disgust on their faces while they work on my feet. :)
Thanks for sticking around folks! I hope that we can get this ride back up and running smoothly. Perhaps next time I will share the story of my progesterone supplements and being forced to take the stairs while the power was out? Or maybe that's too early in our relationship... :) Have a great night!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Party like a rockstar... DeZ family style...
While Memorial Day is ultimately a time to honor those that have fought and/or fallen for our freedom, it's inevitable in my husband's family that we will dress up and act like fools. Seriously.
It all started innocent enough. A simple little Luau with grass skirts, tacky Hawaiian shirts and fancy drinks in coconuts. We all had so much fun that the following year we decided to try a Fiesta, then a western theme, then a pirate party, then a circus party (I skipped out on this one after my brother in law, done up in full clown garb, jumped out of the bathroom at me. I wish I had been the one in the bathroom.. Cleanup would have been a lot easier...) then a horror party, finally coming to this year where we went full on Hollywood. For those of you keeping track, you might be sitting at 7 years. Well, you would be wrong. I wish you were right, but unfortunately, you would be wrong.
You see, we had so much fun at the first Fiesta, that we decided to give it another go. We still had the costumes (yes I said costumes. When I said dress up, I didn't mean in our Sunday best. I meant costumes) and who doesn't enjoy some home made Chipotle style food? On top of that, I had recently been introduced to my new friend Patron, so this was shaping up to be a very good party. Little did I know, my sister in law, Chris had brought HER friend Jose Cuervo. I don't know if anyone else knew this, but Jose and Patron have a long standing rivalry with each other. You put the two of them in the same room together and things get very ugly, very quickly.
I went into this party with every intention of proving that Patron was by far the superior tequila. We started off with a friendly group shot. You know what Im talking about. Everybody lines up for that first shot, assuming that by taking the one shot they will not be considered a "pansy" and they can respectably back away from the bar with little or no grief. We started with the Patron. Dan was intent on showing everybody how great this stuff was and I had no problem being the guinea pig. After shot #1, Chris pulls her buddy Jose out. We decided to do an old school Coke/Pepsi style taste off.
Honestly, thats where things got fuzzy.
I vaguely remember telling one of my brother in laws that I loved them just like a real brother and then getting very "huggy" with him. This is the same brother in law who won't read my blog now because he says it's "Too much information". Hmpf.
I have a very foggy memory of sitting in front of a bowl of cilantro lime rice and eating a bite because somebody told me I needed to.
Then I clearly remember waking up in my bed, in a t-shirt, next to a bucket that reeked of something that wasn't supposed to be in my bedroom.
Over the years the story has been repeated so many times at family gatherings, that I feel like I saw it happen myself. Like one of those out of body experiences people have when they almost die.
I guess after we finished the bottle of Patron, we decided it was only fair to finish the bottle of Cuervo. I say "we" very loosely. The group that had started strong at around 15 had dwindled down to 3 of us. Me and my sister in laws, Belinda and Chris.
Normally at these parties, there are games played. In all the versions of the story I heard, nobody has ever mentioned a single game. I am pretty sure that the entertainment was the 3 of us, belly up at the bar, with me barking instructions on how to properly shoot your tequila. As if it mattered at this point. The pictures I have seen show wasted lime wedges strewn about, a salt shaker on it's side, my nephew drinking from a mexican candle and people in the background, pretty much staring in awe. Had you removed the bar scene, you could have easily replaced it with a train wreck or horrible car accident. That's what they were seeing.
The party started at about 2pm. At approximately 5pm, Linda had dissapeared and Chris was helping me stumble down to the house where I proceeded to retch wherever I felt like it.
I have to give Chris props. While my husband dry heaved every time I hurled, Chris was there, redirecting the bucket to catch my wild throws of vomit, hold my hair back and even change me out of my cute mexican dress. While Chris and I have had our not so loving moments, I do look back on this particular moment with some fondness. No matter how old and snarly and bitchy we get, I will always be able to tell her that she held my hair while I puked. Just like a good sister would. :)
Meanwhile, at the other end of the hall, the guy I said was like my brother, was stepping in the barf that his wife left for him on the floor by the bed. Unfortunately, when Belinda sneaked off, she wasn't given the same sister treatment I got, and Greg was left to clean up the mess. I would feel bad, but that's what she gets for sneaking off. At least my dramatic exit got me some cleanup in aisle three.
I haven't heard much more. I am sure that I said some horribly inappropriate things. I KNOW that I humiliated my husband and probably my son. Yeah- my kid was there. Super example. I know that my mother in law spent a good deal of time washing the vomit out of my dress. I also know that nobody has suggested the Fiesta again since then.
So while you are enjoying your barbecues and neighborhood gatherings, be reminded that somewhere, I'm desperately praying that somebody else in the family will pull a "Heather" and get completely annihilated. I thought I was close when a clown tried to Superman down the driveway a couple years ago, but it wasn't enough. That story still runs a distant second to when Heather forced Belinda to get so drunk they both puked all over everything.
I'm optimistic though. At this very moment, my husband is wearing a wig in his baseball uniform and getting drunk with a bunch of newly 21 year olds. My fingers are crossed that this might be my year.
It all started innocent enough. A simple little Luau with grass skirts, tacky Hawaiian shirts and fancy drinks in coconuts. We all had so much fun that the following year we decided to try a Fiesta, then a western theme, then a pirate party, then a circus party (I skipped out on this one after my brother in law, done up in full clown garb, jumped out of the bathroom at me. I wish I had been the one in the bathroom.. Cleanup would have been a lot easier...) then a horror party, finally coming to this year where we went full on Hollywood. For those of you keeping track, you might be sitting at 7 years. Well, you would be wrong. I wish you were right, but unfortunately, you would be wrong.
You see, we had so much fun at the first Fiesta, that we decided to give it another go. We still had the costumes (yes I said costumes. When I said dress up, I didn't mean in our Sunday best. I meant costumes) and who doesn't enjoy some home made Chipotle style food? On top of that, I had recently been introduced to my new friend Patron, so this was shaping up to be a very good party. Little did I know, my sister in law, Chris had brought HER friend Jose Cuervo. I don't know if anyone else knew this, but Jose and Patron have a long standing rivalry with each other. You put the two of them in the same room together and things get very ugly, very quickly.
I went into this party with every intention of proving that Patron was by far the superior tequila. We started off with a friendly group shot. You know what Im talking about. Everybody lines up for that first shot, assuming that by taking the one shot they will not be considered a "pansy" and they can respectably back away from the bar with little or no grief. We started with the Patron. Dan was intent on showing everybody how great this stuff was and I had no problem being the guinea pig. After shot #1, Chris pulls her buddy Jose out. We decided to do an old school Coke/Pepsi style taste off.
Honestly, thats where things got fuzzy.
I vaguely remember telling one of my brother in laws that I loved them just like a real brother and then getting very "huggy" with him. This is the same brother in law who won't read my blog now because he says it's "Too much information". Hmpf.
I have a very foggy memory of sitting in front of a bowl of cilantro lime rice and eating a bite because somebody told me I needed to.
Then I clearly remember waking up in my bed, in a t-shirt, next to a bucket that reeked of something that wasn't supposed to be in my bedroom.
Over the years the story has been repeated so many times at family gatherings, that I feel like I saw it happen myself. Like one of those out of body experiences people have when they almost die.
I guess after we finished the bottle of Patron, we decided it was only fair to finish the bottle of Cuervo. I say "we" very loosely. The group that had started strong at around 15 had dwindled down to 3 of us. Me and my sister in laws, Belinda and Chris.
Normally at these parties, there are games played. In all the versions of the story I heard, nobody has ever mentioned a single game. I am pretty sure that the entertainment was the 3 of us, belly up at the bar, with me barking instructions on how to properly shoot your tequila. As if it mattered at this point. The pictures I have seen show wasted lime wedges strewn about, a salt shaker on it's side, my nephew drinking from a mexican candle and people in the background, pretty much staring in awe. Had you removed the bar scene, you could have easily replaced it with a train wreck or horrible car accident. That's what they were seeing.
The party started at about 2pm. At approximately 5pm, Linda had dissapeared and Chris was helping me stumble down to the house where I proceeded to retch wherever I felt like it.
I have to give Chris props. While my husband dry heaved every time I hurled, Chris was there, redirecting the bucket to catch my wild throws of vomit, hold my hair back and even change me out of my cute mexican dress. While Chris and I have had our not so loving moments, I do look back on this particular moment with some fondness. No matter how old and snarly and bitchy we get, I will always be able to tell her that she held my hair while I puked. Just like a good sister would. :)
Meanwhile, at the other end of the hall, the guy I said was like my brother, was stepping in the barf that his wife left for him on the floor by the bed. Unfortunately, when Belinda sneaked off, she wasn't given the same sister treatment I got, and Greg was left to clean up the mess. I would feel bad, but that's what she gets for sneaking off. At least my dramatic exit got me some cleanup in aisle three.
I haven't heard much more. I am sure that I said some horribly inappropriate things. I KNOW that I humiliated my husband and probably my son. Yeah- my kid was there. Super example. I know that my mother in law spent a good deal of time washing the vomit out of my dress. I also know that nobody has suggested the Fiesta again since then.
So while you are enjoying your barbecues and neighborhood gatherings, be reminded that somewhere, I'm desperately praying that somebody else in the family will pull a "Heather" and get completely annihilated. I thought I was close when a clown tried to Superman down the driveway a couple years ago, but it wasn't enough. That story still runs a distant second to when Heather forced Belinda to get so drunk they both puked all over everything.
I'm optimistic though. At this very moment, my husband is wearing a wig in his baseball uniform and getting drunk with a bunch of newly 21 year olds. My fingers are crossed that this might be my year.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
It's 430 in the morning so I wrote a letter to Frigidaire. What did you do?
Dear Frigidaire-
First let me start this by saying that I truly love the looks and aesthetics of your Gallery series. When my husband first purchased your Gallery series refrigerator without my knowledge, I was very concerned that the stainless steel would be yet another thing in my house that gets covered in fingerprints and grime from unknown sources and being stainless steel, I would be unable to hide the grubby fingerprints under bills, homework, notes, photos and any other random piece of paper I found due to the fact that stainless steel didn't support magnets. I was pleasantly surprised to find that this is not the case and while I still find the occasional handprints in varying sizes, not only is it pretty simple to clean up, but I can actually still use my magnets to conceal said handprints with coupons I will never use. Yay Frigidaire!
I wish I could end my letter there. A nice solid "atta boy!" and be done. However I cannot. It's 4:30 in the morning and I had to get this off my chest.
Why the hell must the evil troll in your 10 pound capacity ice maker make all 10 pounds of ice at 4 in the morning? Trust me, I can appreciate having 10 pounds of ice available to me at the drop of a hat, but I am a grown mother of 2, not some 21 year old party girl. It's called the Gallery edition. Not the Club Scene edition. If I require 10 pounds of ice at 4 in the morning, it's not for another round of margaritas. It's because I have murdered someone and need to put their body on ice. At that point, I think a good lawyer could make a valid argument that Frigidaire is now aiding and abetting a crime.
I know what you're thinking. It's not THAT loud. A normal person should be able to sleep through it!
Ah yes. There you would be right, however, have you ever tried to GET to sleep with that thing making all it's noise? Let me paint the picture for you.
For the past few weeks, I have gotten very little sleep. We have a new bed that I despise. It's too soft, it's too hot, it's too high. The only positive to it is that it forced me to clean our bedroom and we have managed to maintain that for the few weeks. That's it. Every night is an exercise in patience as my husband assures me, it will get better. Every morning I wake up bleary eyed and sore and he assures me- it will get better. Well it hasn't. In fact, it has gotten worse. I wake up probably 5-7 times a night on my own and if my daughter is feeling like it, she will wake me up a few times as well. With every flip to the opposite side, I have to work. Because, like most people, I am heavier on top than the bottom, I constantly feel like my legs are up in the air. And not a good up in the air. I lay on my side for about an hour, then flip when I get too hot or my arm goes numb. If I attempt to lay on my stomach, which has been my preferred sleep method for 30+ years, I am arching my back like a performer for Cirque du Soleil. I am not a performer for Cirque du Soleil, so this is NOT my preferred sleep method.. Sleeping on my back is the equivalent of playing dead for me, so it creeps me out. The only way I have managed a heavy sleep is if I use my husband as a body pillow, but then I sleep so hard that I snore right in his ear and of course that doesn't last long. If God forbid I should get out of the bed, getting back in is a disaster. for every time I wake up, I get progressively weaker and clawing my way back to bed takes longer and longer each time. I'm 5'3 and my bed is about 4 feet off the ground. You do the math. It's miserable. So that is how I found my self tryong to get some much needed sleep on my 15 year old couch, in my living room, 10 feet from the ice maker. Every time I would start to doze off, that damned troll with his pick ax would decide we needed more ice.
I suppose some people would take a sleep aid to knock themselves into a comatose state, but I can't do that. I have a teething toddler and a husband who doesn't want to be physically assaulted in his sleep. Do you know what that is like? Just when I was getting comfortable with the idea that she would sleep through the night and I could try something mild like a Tylenol PM, she decides she needs more teeth. So last night I was up at midnight, 1 am, 3 am and 5 am. Tonight I was up at 10pm, midnight, and 3 am. Every time I would get her back to sleep and make my way back up the mountain my husband calls our bed, I heard that damned ice maker.
Let's be honest Frigidaire, I shouldn't have to take a prescription drug to sleep through the noise your refrigerator makes. I shouldn't have to be grateful when my husband's snoring is so loud it covers up the ice maker. That will only get me so far and when I have reached the end of the rope, I will begrudgingly need those 10 pounds of ice until I figure out what to do with his body.
It's a vicious cycle. If I want ice during the day, I need to let it run at night. If I want to enjoy my days, I need to sleep at night. I think the latter is probably more important to the general public, so how about you figure out a way to make ice a little quieter? Please? For my husband's sake?
Yours truly,
Heather
(Not yet in the FBI's criminal apprehension database)
First let me start this by saying that I truly love the looks and aesthetics of your Gallery series. When my husband first purchased your Gallery series refrigerator without my knowledge, I was very concerned that the stainless steel would be yet another thing in my house that gets covered in fingerprints and grime from unknown sources and being stainless steel, I would be unable to hide the grubby fingerprints under bills, homework, notes, photos and any other random piece of paper I found due to the fact that stainless steel didn't support magnets. I was pleasantly surprised to find that this is not the case and while I still find the occasional handprints in varying sizes, not only is it pretty simple to clean up, but I can actually still use my magnets to conceal said handprints with coupons I will never use. Yay Frigidaire!
I wish I could end my letter there. A nice solid "atta boy!" and be done. However I cannot. It's 4:30 in the morning and I had to get this off my chest.
Why the hell must the evil troll in your 10 pound capacity ice maker make all 10 pounds of ice at 4 in the morning? Trust me, I can appreciate having 10 pounds of ice available to me at the drop of a hat, but I am a grown mother of 2, not some 21 year old party girl. It's called the Gallery edition. Not the Club Scene edition. If I require 10 pounds of ice at 4 in the morning, it's not for another round of margaritas. It's because I have murdered someone and need to put their body on ice. At that point, I think a good lawyer could make a valid argument that Frigidaire is now aiding and abetting a crime.
I know what you're thinking. It's not THAT loud. A normal person should be able to sleep through it!
Ah yes. There you would be right, however, have you ever tried to GET to sleep with that thing making all it's noise? Let me paint the picture for you.
For the past few weeks, I have gotten very little sleep. We have a new bed that I despise. It's too soft, it's too hot, it's too high. The only positive to it is that it forced me to clean our bedroom and we have managed to maintain that for the few weeks. That's it. Every night is an exercise in patience as my husband assures me, it will get better. Every morning I wake up bleary eyed and sore and he assures me- it will get better. Well it hasn't. In fact, it has gotten worse. I wake up probably 5-7 times a night on my own and if my daughter is feeling like it, she will wake me up a few times as well. With every flip to the opposite side, I have to work. Because, like most people, I am heavier on top than the bottom, I constantly feel like my legs are up in the air. And not a good up in the air. I lay on my side for about an hour, then flip when I get too hot or my arm goes numb. If I attempt to lay on my stomach, which has been my preferred sleep method for 30+ years, I am arching my back like a performer for Cirque du Soleil. I am not a performer for Cirque du Soleil, so this is NOT my preferred sleep method.. Sleeping on my back is the equivalent of playing dead for me, so it creeps me out. The only way I have managed a heavy sleep is if I use my husband as a body pillow, but then I sleep so hard that I snore right in his ear and of course that doesn't last long. If God forbid I should get out of the bed, getting back in is a disaster. for every time I wake up, I get progressively weaker and clawing my way back to bed takes longer and longer each time. I'm 5'3 and my bed is about 4 feet off the ground. You do the math. It's miserable. So that is how I found my self tryong to get some much needed sleep on my 15 year old couch, in my living room, 10 feet from the ice maker. Every time I would start to doze off, that damned troll with his pick ax would decide we needed more ice.
I suppose some people would take a sleep aid to knock themselves into a comatose state, but I can't do that. I have a teething toddler and a husband who doesn't want to be physically assaulted in his sleep. Do you know what that is like? Just when I was getting comfortable with the idea that she would sleep through the night and I could try something mild like a Tylenol PM, she decides she needs more teeth. So last night I was up at midnight, 1 am, 3 am and 5 am. Tonight I was up at 10pm, midnight, and 3 am. Every time I would get her back to sleep and make my way back up the mountain my husband calls our bed, I heard that damned ice maker.
Let's be honest Frigidaire, I shouldn't have to take a prescription drug to sleep through the noise your refrigerator makes. I shouldn't have to be grateful when my husband's snoring is so loud it covers up the ice maker. That will only get me so far and when I have reached the end of the rope, I will begrudgingly need those 10 pounds of ice until I figure out what to do with his body.
It's a vicious cycle. If I want ice during the day, I need to let it run at night. If I want to enjoy my days, I need to sleep at night. I think the latter is probably more important to the general public, so how about you figure out a way to make ice a little quieter? Please? For my husband's sake?
Yours truly,
Heather
(Not yet in the FBI's criminal apprehension database)
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Like a good neighbor...
So I'm sitting out on my deck, enjoying my early Mother's day present of organic Pinot Grigio, freshly chilled in my new "wine cellar", working on my writing, while the sun sets behind me. It was one of those perfect moments that was only slightly ruined by the fact that my Mother's Day gift was alcohol once again. I have never thought of myself as a problem drinker, but as I look back on recent conversations, I do realize that I have asked a few people "Are you a drinker?" Not "Where are you from?" or "So what do you do for a living?" but "Are you a drinker?" Couple that with the fact that I giggled for 5 minutes over the onesie that reads "Mommy drinks because I cry" and I guess I can understand why my husband and 11 year old figured booze was the way to go. In all reality though, the reason I ask is to determine one's tolerance of me. I find that somebody with a mild "buzz" will probably appreciate my humor more than one who has not imbibed recently. But I digress. It was a perfect evening.
I was sitting perfectly to observe my new neighbors comings and goings. Having determined he was not a sex offender, (and that yes, he was a drinker) I was more or less being nosy and just trying to determine how quickly I wanted to put our house up for sale. I had already discovered, he drove a motorcycle, just like the last neighbor, but unfortunately, I discovered this after telling him what an asshole the previous biker had been. I don't want to assume that just because he rides a motorcycle that he too will wake us up at 2 in the morning while he revs his bike up. So i was feeling a little sheepish.
I needed some saving grace here. A way to still be a good neighbor and not that "annoying bitch who hates motorcycles". I needed to be cool.
I did what every red blooded Minnesotan would do. I stocked up the fridge with good beer. I made sure that we grilled good food so if we saw him, we could casually invite him over for a steak or lobster or whatever expensive piece of animal I could hands on. I really felt a strong desire to bond with this new neighbor.
So at 8pm last night, I was finally just relaxing on my deck, when I saw the cat. It was perched in the drivers seat of my neighbors very nice, very new truck.
At that moment, a million ideas went through my head. I could run inside, get shoes on, go over and let him know there was a cat in his truck. Too busybody? Yeah probably, plus the cat could leave while I was getting my shoes on and then I would look like an idiot. Should I run over, barefoot and scare the cat away? No, that seemed a little too intense and very much opposite from the "Cool neighbor" persona I was going for. I could yell for Dan to go get the cat, but that just seemed like the epitome of laziness. So I went for the bottom of the barrel. I unleashed my dog.
Dexter is a good dog, but he hates this particular cat. Running at the speed of light, he shot like a cannon over to the neighbors. The cat made the mistake of poking his head out the window and Dexter went absolutely ape shit, trying to jump into the bed of the truck and, I can only assume, rip the cats jugular out.
As I watch from the deck, praying that Dexter doesn't scratch up the side of the truck, my nice, non sex offending neighbor pops his head out, Im sure to figure out what the commotion is all about.
It's at this moment that Dexter, distracted by the fact that a man he doesn't know now lives next door, runs at the neighbor, teeth bared, barking and growling. I yell-no I scream- for him to shut the door, so Dexter doesn't attack him. I yell for Dexter to "get your ass over here!" (Like he is some disobedient 14 year old boy from the ghetto... yeah- that one always works) I can't chase after him. I'm barefoot and my one year old has gleefully watching all the action, to crying because I scared her with my hollering. Instead, I slam my hand into the deck. I shake my box of crackers like it's a treat. I swear. I ask nicely. Billy comes out and calls for the dog. I yell at Billy to go get him. My dog ignores me, aggressively barking at the bottom of my neighbors front steps. Effectively telling him, "You come out and I WILL rip your balls off!"
Meanwhile the cat slips out of the truck.
5 minutes later, out of breath and completely red in the face, Billy has the dog contained. The neighbor is peering out his kitchen window now.
"Sorry!" I call out with a shrug. "There was a cat in your truck!" I feel like I have just slapped him and told him there was a mosquito on his cheek, so I add- "For real!"
He just looks at me like I'm crazy and shuts his kitchen window.
I haven't seen my neighbor all day now.
I was sitting perfectly to observe my new neighbors comings and goings. Having determined he was not a sex offender, (and that yes, he was a drinker) I was more or less being nosy and just trying to determine how quickly I wanted to put our house up for sale. I had already discovered, he drove a motorcycle, just like the last neighbor, but unfortunately, I discovered this after telling him what an asshole the previous biker had been. I don't want to assume that just because he rides a motorcycle that he too will wake us up at 2 in the morning while he revs his bike up. So i was feeling a little sheepish.
I needed some saving grace here. A way to still be a good neighbor and not that "annoying bitch who hates motorcycles". I needed to be cool.
I did what every red blooded Minnesotan would do. I stocked up the fridge with good beer. I made sure that we grilled good food so if we saw him, we could casually invite him over for a steak or lobster or whatever expensive piece of animal I could hands on. I really felt a strong desire to bond with this new neighbor.
So at 8pm last night, I was finally just relaxing on my deck, when I saw the cat. It was perched in the drivers seat of my neighbors very nice, very new truck.
At that moment, a million ideas went through my head. I could run inside, get shoes on, go over and let him know there was a cat in his truck. Too busybody? Yeah probably, plus the cat could leave while I was getting my shoes on and then I would look like an idiot. Should I run over, barefoot and scare the cat away? No, that seemed a little too intense and very much opposite from the "Cool neighbor" persona I was going for. I could yell for Dan to go get the cat, but that just seemed like the epitome of laziness. So I went for the bottom of the barrel. I unleashed my dog.
Dexter is a good dog, but he hates this particular cat. Running at the speed of light, he shot like a cannon over to the neighbors. The cat made the mistake of poking his head out the window and Dexter went absolutely ape shit, trying to jump into the bed of the truck and, I can only assume, rip the cats jugular out.
As I watch from the deck, praying that Dexter doesn't scratch up the side of the truck, my nice, non sex offending neighbor pops his head out, Im sure to figure out what the commotion is all about.
It's at this moment that Dexter, distracted by the fact that a man he doesn't know now lives next door, runs at the neighbor, teeth bared, barking and growling. I yell-no I scream- for him to shut the door, so Dexter doesn't attack him. I yell for Dexter to "get your ass over here!" (Like he is some disobedient 14 year old boy from the ghetto... yeah- that one always works) I can't chase after him. I'm barefoot and my one year old has gleefully watching all the action, to crying because I scared her with my hollering. Instead, I slam my hand into the deck. I shake my box of crackers like it's a treat. I swear. I ask nicely. Billy comes out and calls for the dog. I yell at Billy to go get him. My dog ignores me, aggressively barking at the bottom of my neighbors front steps. Effectively telling him, "You come out and I WILL rip your balls off!"
Meanwhile the cat slips out of the truck.
5 minutes later, out of breath and completely red in the face, Billy has the dog contained. The neighbor is peering out his kitchen window now.
"Sorry!" I call out with a shrug. "There was a cat in your truck!" I feel like I have just slapped him and told him there was a mosquito on his cheek, so I add- "For real!"
He just looks at me like I'm crazy and shuts his kitchen window.
I haven't seen my neighbor all day now.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Life lessons from Jack Handy- Sponsored by KY Touch Massage
Ok- so in writing this blog, it has occurred to me that I should offer the public something. Anything. A service. An education. An opinion. So far my posts have been storytelling, so I hope that some of you have been entertained at the very least, but I could really roll some type of moral or life lesson in while I'm at it, right? I mean- we all learn lessons everyday, but do we necessarily share them with one another? I think that might be why people think I'm borderline crazy. Because I DO share. Sometimes too much. But I do it with your best interests at heart. I have learned many lessons that the general population hasn't thought about. For instance- did you know that the police will find NO logical reasoning for you driving and changing your shirt at the same time? (Even if you were 19 and pretty cute, in my humble opinion!) Or that you should really listen when your doctor tells you to not mix alcohol with your Ambien prescription? (They should also advise against social networking while taking it as well!) Some people may not even realize that when becoming a manager, there is no math test, so don't let your manager do math for you. (Even if she is your friend! There is no shame in checks and balances!) Maybe some of you knew these things, but I'm willing to bet that a few of you thought about each of those scenarios for a moment, so I've decided that passing along little nuggets of wisdom is really what I should be doing for now. If I can prevent at least one Ambien induced assault, I have done my job.
This evening was much like any other evening in Minnesota, in late April... Oh hell who am I kidding? It was yet another day in the world's longest winter season ever. After a brief thaw, we had yet another 5-6 inches bearing down on us. (Stop snickering, if that's all you have grown accustomed to... well that's another topic.) I was making a valiant attempt to pick my son up from school, but because my husband needed our SUV for some baseball related reason, I was driving his car. (For those of you taking notes- here's lesson number one.) The roads were so bad, heading back to my son's school, that I had to pull over. I literally, couldn't drive another foot, for fear of getting stuck in a ditch somewhere. With my daughter in the back seat, I just couldn't risk it. I'm pretty accustomed to winter driving, but in my husband, Dan's car, I was useless. I pulled over and called him and begged him to come get us. (That's lesson number one- there is NO shame in asking for help. Better to deal with your husband making snarky remarks about how women can't drive than to wind up in the ditch with a 1 year old!)
While I sat in the middle of Nowhere, I realized how incredibly tense I was. I must have been white knuckle driving the whole 15 miles, because as soon as I put the car in park, it was like my entire body turned to jelly. .
After Dan rescued me, I thought it was safe. I told him that my back was still "un-tensing" (Yeah- probably not a real word) and maybe I could get a back massage when I got home? Here's lesson number two. Never ask your husband for TOO much help. You need to properly reward them for each individual task BEFORE moving on to the next one. He unloaded the dishwasher? An emphatic thank you with balloons and streamers falling from the ceiling might be appropriate. He put gas in your car? Plan on sleeping naked. He watched the kids you both created together after he put gas in your car? Well that's going to require a lot of stretching before you can properly thank him. It's all common sense. Failure to adhere to this basic plan can only result in system malfunction... which is what happened tonight.
When we got home, I was ecstatic to find that Dan immediately went upstairs and found the KY Massage oil.
Ok- I'm going to break off here. I know what you're thinking, "Gee Heather, what do you have THAT for??" (Sarcasm dripping from every syllable!) But really! We had bought it a little over a year ago- really for massages! I was pregnant and in pain. I needed to get the knots worked out pretty regularly! Admittedly though, it was a pretty awkward purchase, especially when the pharmacist that my mom had worked with, when I was maybe 13 happened upon me in the "naughty" aisle of Target. "Well hello there!" he had said, before realizing where we both stood. I remember awkwardly searching for any kind of conversation. He was too. I blurted out "Hey guess what? I'm pregnant!" He nodded, slowly. I could see in his eyes that he wasn't surprised. That was generally the end result for girls who hung out in this aisle too much. What could he say? Perhaps- "Well congratulations- and good for you, still keeping things spicy!" No...instead he kicked into professional mode. "Well that's great. Are you finding everything ok?" The moment couldn't have been more awkward. I couldn't say yes, that implied that I knew my way around the condoms, pregnancy tests and lubricants. "Actually- I'm looking for massage oil" He nodded. "Sure sure" (Im still not sure if this was a dead air filler or if he didn't believe me.) He grabbed the KY Touch and handed it to me. "This one's good." Oh god what did THAT mean??? "Tell your mom I said Hi" I am pretty sure he knew that wasn't going to happen. "Oh hey mom- guess who I bumped into while looking for special massage oils?" So that's how I came to be the proud owner of a bottle of KY Touch Bali Moonlight Warming Massage oil. But I digress..
I shouldn't have been surprised that Dan didn't acknowledge my complaints of back pain, because he didn't hear it. His head was wired to only understand the next logical step, which would be for me to thank him for saving my life. He HEARD the words "back rub, but that was it". All I managed to do was put the idea in his head. With a big grin he held up the massage oil and a towel. "You wanna give me a back rub?" It was a very classy moment.
Realizing that this was really MY fault, I sighed and nodded. "Let me just slice up a mango really quick." I told him. He pulled off his shirt and sat at the counter patiently while I cut up my mango. (We are very hygienic in our house.)
Yes, I know. There was no "fault" here. But I have to give Dan credit. He just recently re-joined a baseball team after a 10 year hiatus. That's a pretty big deal and I'm really proud of him. I don't have any problem bragging about this accomplishment and I take a lot of pride in letting people know that my husband isn't just some outfielder. Oh nay nay, he is a pitcher. And not just any old pitcher. He is a highly coveted, southpaw. I am grinning while I write that. I know very little about sports and I couldn't tell you much more than the score at any given game, but I can tell you this- there is no uniform like a baseball uniform. Hockey and football? WAAAY too much padding. Basketball? Puh-lease. Thugs who couldn't manage anything more than saggy shorts and a tank. Golf? Gag- hi Grandpa! But Baseball? Not only does the uniform leave little to the imagination, but they send your imagination running wild by ACCENTUATING what you can't help but notice. Why more girls don't take in a good baseball game now and again is beyond me! So when my husband said he needed a good rub down on his shoulder, I happily complied.
It wasn't a big deal really. Billy and Emily were chasing the dogs around the living room while I worked the kinks out. I was very liberal with the oil. It made things so much easier. The air around us was filled with the scent of sandalwood and mandarin...and I guess whatever else Bali smells like in the moonlight. Not thinking, I reached over to the table and haphazardly grabbed a piece of mango. Now, for those of you who have never enjoyed a mango, I need to give one more lesson. Mangoes have a large seed in the middle that likes to surprise you with where it will actually be located. You can't cut through it, down the middle, so you end up cutting all around it and wind up with a couple big pieces and then some random scraps. I personally hate waste on such a delicious fruit, so I oftentimes cut the large pieces, whittle off whatever I can from the seed and if I'm feeling especially motivated, I will even chew the delicious goodness off the seed itself. The problem with that last part is that the further into the Mango you get, the stringier the flesh gets. It can almost get like corn silk, as was the case tonight. While I rubbed the knot in Dan's shoulder out with my right hand, I popped a mango piece in my mouth with the left hand. Unfortunately, it was the seed section. No worries. I just sort of chewed around the seed, until I started to get the hair like pieces in my teeth. The sensation of hair in my mouth, thoroughly disgusts me.(Yeah yeah- insert joke here i know.) I immediately spit the seed out, stopped massaging Dan's shoulder and used both hands to begin foraging for mango hair in my teeth.
Not only did I introduce the flavors of Bali Moonlight to my tongue, but I had apparently rubbed off a couple of Dan's hairs as well. It was awful. I was spitting mandarin, amber and sandalwood into the sink, gagging and pulling hairs, both male and mango out of my teeth. With every attempt at pulling a hair out, I re-introduced more KY. I frantically washed my hands, but as any good KY expert knows, it acts as a sort of water repellent. The water just beaded up on my hands and rolled down my arm. While I choked out broken sentences like "Dear God that one was yours!" and "It's all over my tongue!" Dan calmly walked over to the fridge and started to make a drink. Really? This was too much.
With my tongue hanging out of my mouth like a dog, I scowled at him. "I just got lube all over my tongue and you're making a drink??" (Well- it sounded more like "I jus god oob aww ober my tun and yo magging a dink??")
He shook his head "It's for you. Alcohol cuts the oil."
I was way to grateful to care where he had learned that little lesson... well until now. How did he learn that??? All of a sudden I'm thinking of ex-girlfriends and wondering which one taught him that! Actually, I should thank her, because the end result was me enjoying a black cherry SOCO while I wrote this blog and Dan ended up looking like a hero.
So the moral of the story here? Don't be reckless when using oils and edibles. Read the instructions, be sure you are ok with the possibility of one item getting where the other one should be, and proceed with caution. Tonight, it was I that experienced a foreign country in my mouth, next week it could be you.
G'night!
This evening was much like any other evening in Minnesota, in late April... Oh hell who am I kidding? It was yet another day in the world's longest winter season ever. After a brief thaw, we had yet another 5-6 inches bearing down on us. (Stop snickering, if that's all you have grown accustomed to... well that's another topic.) I was making a valiant attempt to pick my son up from school, but because my husband needed our SUV for some baseball related reason, I was driving his car. (For those of you taking notes- here's lesson number one.) The roads were so bad, heading back to my son's school, that I had to pull over. I literally, couldn't drive another foot, for fear of getting stuck in a ditch somewhere. With my daughter in the back seat, I just couldn't risk it. I'm pretty accustomed to winter driving, but in my husband, Dan's car, I was useless. I pulled over and called him and begged him to come get us. (That's lesson number one- there is NO shame in asking for help. Better to deal with your husband making snarky remarks about how women can't drive than to wind up in the ditch with a 1 year old!)
While I sat in the middle of Nowhere, I realized how incredibly tense I was. I must have been white knuckle driving the whole 15 miles, because as soon as I put the car in park, it was like my entire body turned to jelly. .
After Dan rescued me, I thought it was safe. I told him that my back was still "un-tensing" (Yeah- probably not a real word) and maybe I could get a back massage when I got home? Here's lesson number two. Never ask your husband for TOO much help. You need to properly reward them for each individual task BEFORE moving on to the next one. He unloaded the dishwasher? An emphatic thank you with balloons and streamers falling from the ceiling might be appropriate. He put gas in your car? Plan on sleeping naked. He watched the kids you both created together after he put gas in your car? Well that's going to require a lot of stretching before you can properly thank him. It's all common sense. Failure to adhere to this basic plan can only result in system malfunction... which is what happened tonight.
When we got home, I was ecstatic to find that Dan immediately went upstairs and found the KY Massage oil.
Ok- I'm going to break off here. I know what you're thinking, "Gee Heather, what do you have THAT for??" (Sarcasm dripping from every syllable!) But really! We had bought it a little over a year ago- really for massages! I was pregnant and in pain. I needed to get the knots worked out pretty regularly! Admittedly though, it was a pretty awkward purchase, especially when the pharmacist that my mom had worked with, when I was maybe 13 happened upon me in the "naughty" aisle of Target. "Well hello there!" he had said, before realizing where we both stood. I remember awkwardly searching for any kind of conversation. He was too. I blurted out "Hey guess what? I'm pregnant!" He nodded, slowly. I could see in his eyes that he wasn't surprised. That was generally the end result for girls who hung out in this aisle too much. What could he say? Perhaps- "Well congratulations- and good for you, still keeping things spicy!" No...instead he kicked into professional mode. "Well that's great. Are you finding everything ok?" The moment couldn't have been more awkward. I couldn't say yes, that implied that I knew my way around the condoms, pregnancy tests and lubricants. "Actually- I'm looking for massage oil" He nodded. "Sure sure" (Im still not sure if this was a dead air filler or if he didn't believe me.) He grabbed the KY Touch and handed it to me. "This one's good." Oh god what did THAT mean??? "Tell your mom I said Hi" I am pretty sure he knew that wasn't going to happen. "Oh hey mom- guess who I bumped into while looking for special massage oils?" So that's how I came to be the proud owner of a bottle of KY Touch Bali Moonlight Warming Massage oil. But I digress..
I shouldn't have been surprised that Dan didn't acknowledge my complaints of back pain, because he didn't hear it. His head was wired to only understand the next logical step, which would be for me to thank him for saving my life. He HEARD the words "back rub, but that was it". All I managed to do was put the idea in his head. With a big grin he held up the massage oil and a towel. "You wanna give me a back rub?" It was a very classy moment.
Realizing that this was really MY fault, I sighed and nodded. "Let me just slice up a mango really quick." I told him. He pulled off his shirt and sat at the counter patiently while I cut up my mango. (We are very hygienic in our house.)
Yes, I know. There was no "fault" here. But I have to give Dan credit. He just recently re-joined a baseball team after a 10 year hiatus. That's a pretty big deal and I'm really proud of him. I don't have any problem bragging about this accomplishment and I take a lot of pride in letting people know that my husband isn't just some outfielder. Oh nay nay, he is a pitcher. And not just any old pitcher. He is a highly coveted, southpaw. I am grinning while I write that. I know very little about sports and I couldn't tell you much more than the score at any given game, but I can tell you this- there is no uniform like a baseball uniform. Hockey and football? WAAAY too much padding. Basketball? Puh-lease. Thugs who couldn't manage anything more than saggy shorts and a tank. Golf? Gag- hi Grandpa! But Baseball? Not only does the uniform leave little to the imagination, but they send your imagination running wild by ACCENTUATING what you can't help but notice. Why more girls don't take in a good baseball game now and again is beyond me! So when my husband said he needed a good rub down on his shoulder, I happily complied.
It wasn't a big deal really. Billy and Emily were chasing the dogs around the living room while I worked the kinks out. I was very liberal with the oil. It made things so much easier. The air around us was filled with the scent of sandalwood and mandarin...and I guess whatever else Bali smells like in the moonlight. Not thinking, I reached over to the table and haphazardly grabbed a piece of mango. Now, for those of you who have never enjoyed a mango, I need to give one more lesson. Mangoes have a large seed in the middle that likes to surprise you with where it will actually be located. You can't cut through it, down the middle, so you end up cutting all around it and wind up with a couple big pieces and then some random scraps. I personally hate waste on such a delicious fruit, so I oftentimes cut the large pieces, whittle off whatever I can from the seed and if I'm feeling especially motivated, I will even chew the delicious goodness off the seed itself. The problem with that last part is that the further into the Mango you get, the stringier the flesh gets. It can almost get like corn silk, as was the case tonight. While I rubbed the knot in Dan's shoulder out with my right hand, I popped a mango piece in my mouth with the left hand. Unfortunately, it was the seed section. No worries. I just sort of chewed around the seed, until I started to get the hair like pieces in my teeth. The sensation of hair in my mouth, thoroughly disgusts me.(Yeah yeah- insert joke here i know.) I immediately spit the seed out, stopped massaging Dan's shoulder and used both hands to begin foraging for mango hair in my teeth.
Not only did I introduce the flavors of Bali Moonlight to my tongue, but I had apparently rubbed off a couple of Dan's hairs as well. It was awful. I was spitting mandarin, amber and sandalwood into the sink, gagging and pulling hairs, both male and mango out of my teeth. With every attempt at pulling a hair out, I re-introduced more KY. I frantically washed my hands, but as any good KY expert knows, it acts as a sort of water repellent. The water just beaded up on my hands and rolled down my arm. While I choked out broken sentences like "Dear God that one was yours!" and "It's all over my tongue!" Dan calmly walked over to the fridge and started to make a drink. Really? This was too much.
With my tongue hanging out of my mouth like a dog, I scowled at him. "I just got lube all over my tongue and you're making a drink??" (Well- it sounded more like "I jus god oob aww ober my tun and yo magging a dink??")
He shook his head "It's for you. Alcohol cuts the oil."
I was way to grateful to care where he had learned that little lesson... well until now. How did he learn that??? All of a sudden I'm thinking of ex-girlfriends and wondering which one taught him that! Actually, I should thank her, because the end result was me enjoying a black cherry SOCO while I wrote this blog and Dan ended up looking like a hero.
So the moral of the story here? Don't be reckless when using oils and edibles. Read the instructions, be sure you are ok with the possibility of one item getting where the other one should be, and proceed with caution. Tonight, it was I that experienced a foreign country in my mouth, next week it could be you.
G'night!
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