If you're one of my family members, you've heard these stories. Fair warning....
1. Once upon a time Rob went to Disney World, because he was a band geek and his HS band was playing in the Disney parade.
side note: If you think about it, that Disney parade is really friggin creepy. Every day? Every day you have a friggin parade like it's a holiday? There is something really surreal and Twilight-Zoney about that. The two movies that come to mind are The Shining and A Clockwork Orange. I can't exactly explain what I mean, but you'll notice that both of those movies involve gory death, so maybe you get my point.
Anyhow, they go to Disney World. And there's this quartet there, I imagine somewhere along the thoroughfare (I imagine this because I've never been to Disney World, but it seems like it would have a thoroughfare), and it's these four women who sing "Mr. Sandman". And the big exciting thing is, they choose someone from the audience who gets to do the 'Yeeeesssssss" part (you know.."Mr. Sandman! Yeeeeeessssssss Bring me a dream!". Anyways, of course they pick Rob. So he's getting all ready and preparing for his part, and when it's time, the guy points the microphone at him... and Rob says "Thank you"
Like this:
Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du
"Mr. Sandman!"
"Thank you"
"Bring me a dream!"
I don't know, I guess he got nervous or something. Can't you just see everyone's face though? Can't you see Rob's really confused face like, "why the hell did I just say thank you?"
I think I like this story so much because it's exactly the type of thing I would do.
2. Our across the street neighbor Mary comes over the other day with this huge pineapple upside down sheet cake. We're all "Oh, thanks Mary, that was so nice!", and she says "Oh, well, I remember that it's your favorite, so I thought I'd better make it and bring it over for you."
Chit chat, chit chat, blah blah.
She leaves and Rob turns to me and says "I didn't know pineapple upside down cake was your favorite.."
And I'm like "... I thought she was talking to you."
We're both pretty curious who that cake was actually for, but it's pretty good. Almost good enough to be my favorite.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
I'm An Idiot and The Pirate Window
You know how when you're waiting for something- like good news, say- every time the phone rings you think it's whatever you're waiting for? So, every time my phone rings the past week or so, I think "oh! maybe Brady's about to be born!"
Then I remember that I'm the one having the baby, and would probably not be getting a call from someone telling me I'm in labor.
In the meantime, while I'm waiting for myself to call myself and tell me I'm in labor, I've been buying baby clothes on eBay. Awesome deals! But this is my pet peeve (there's always got to be a pet peeve, right? I can't just be happy..): Ralph Lauren/Burberry/Roca Wear/Sean John/Nike baby clothes. Someone is going to have to explain to me:
1. Why they even MAKE designer baby clothes
2. Why people BUY designer baby clothes.
What are you thinking?? They're BABIES. They mess stuff up. They can't control their drool!! They grow out of clothing in like 10 seconds! And yet, on eBay, people bid on this stuff like CRAZY! There was a baby Burberry shirt going for $50 yesterday. I just can't figure out why you would even care if your baby was wearing Burberry. Babies are supposed to wear cute stuff, not trendy stuff. The other day I bought a green onesie with a pirate on it saying "arrgh!" and some striped pants to match. The whole thing cost me $1 at the baby resale shop. Here's the thing: people have their whole lives to wear Burberry. But you can only get away with putting a kid in a pirate onesie for a very limited window of time. It's called the Pirate Window. See, right now, kids look absolutely adorable in hats with bear ears attached. Not too many years down the road, however, wearing clothing with bear ears is going to be your first sign of some serious social maladjustments. Embrace the bear ears. Do not waste the Pirate Window on friggin Burberry.
You know how when you're waiting for something- like good news, say- every time the phone rings you think it's whatever you're waiting for? So, every time my phone rings the past week or so, I think "oh! maybe Brady's about to be born!"
Then I remember that I'm the one having the baby, and would probably not be getting a call from someone telling me I'm in labor.
In the meantime, while I'm waiting for myself to call myself and tell me I'm in labor, I've been buying baby clothes on eBay. Awesome deals! But this is my pet peeve (there's always got to be a pet peeve, right? I can't just be happy..): Ralph Lauren/Burberry/Roca Wear/Sean John/Nike baby clothes. Someone is going to have to explain to me:
1. Why they even MAKE designer baby clothes
2. Why people BUY designer baby clothes.
What are you thinking?? They're BABIES. They mess stuff up. They can't control their drool!! They grow out of clothing in like 10 seconds! And yet, on eBay, people bid on this stuff like CRAZY! There was a baby Burberry shirt going for $50 yesterday. I just can't figure out why you would even care if your baby was wearing Burberry. Babies are supposed to wear cute stuff, not trendy stuff. The other day I bought a green onesie with a pirate on it saying "arrgh!" and some striped pants to match. The whole thing cost me $1 at the baby resale shop. Here's the thing: people have their whole lives to wear Burberry. But you can only get away with putting a kid in a pirate onesie for a very limited window of time. It's called the Pirate Window. See, right now, kids look absolutely adorable in hats with bear ears attached. Not too many years down the road, however, wearing clothing with bear ears is going to be your first sign of some serious social maladjustments. Embrace the bear ears. Do not waste the Pirate Window on friggin Burberry.
Monday, March 23, 2009
My Bed
So. Furniture.
We bought this furniture about 2 and half years ago when we moved back from New York. A bedroom set, to be specific. A delightful sleigh bed and matching dresser in an attractive cherry finish. Dazzling.
I won't tell you where we got it, but suffice it to say it rhymes with "Smart Can". Or "Cart Tan". Or "Tart Man", for that matter.
The summer we bought it, they came up to our apartment and put it together.
"How lovely", we thought.
Then Rob sat on it and it collapsed.
When the repair guy came (yeah, we had to pay the repair guy to come, by the way), Rob started to explain to him what had happened. The guy interrupts him and says, "Oh, I know exactly what bed you have, then. This happens with all of them."
Cool. So they sold us a bed they know can't support any weight. He put these little extra support metal things on the wood slats underneath, so they could hold up. We had to pay for those too. Kind of like if you bought a house whose walls wouldn't stay up. So then you paid someone to come out and prop them up with 2x4s.
Anyways, with the exception of the fact that whatever genius put this bed together used nails that were too long, causing me to snag my clothes on the sharp edges poking out through the end of my sleigh, the bed worked fine.
And then it didn't.
The other night, we're sitting in bed.
Just sitting. Watching some TV.
And the bed collapses.
Just collapses.
Upon further inspection, the metal slats that go into the wood have actually torn the wood. From this point on, I will put the word "wood" in quotations. I'd like to have a woodnalysis done before making any further assumptions as to the bed's predominant material.
Anyways, the "wood" is officially torn, and unfixable. Right now, I'm sitting in my bed typing this. Know what's holding it up? A rubbermaid container. Let's do a cost analysis:
Amount paid for bed and dresser set: $2000
Amount paid for rubbermaid container that's actually supporting the bed: $12
"Don't worry!" I tell Rob. "We have a warranty on this bed." A LIFETIME warranty.
I look it up on my receipt, which I have so wisely saved. There it is, lifetime warranty
Oh my God, I am such a genius. I am so WISE for buying a warranty. Look at all the money I saved myself. Probably I'll get a whole new bed. Some days, Suze Orman has nothing on me.
So I call up Smart Can. It's like I can basically see the lady on the other line filing her nails. I say to her "My bed collapsed. But I have a warranty on it."
She looks up my invoice number.
"Nuh-uh", she says. Blowing on her nails. Gotta get that nail dust off.
Do you want to know what that damn warranty is for?
The finish.
I have a lifetime warranty on the finish of my bed.
The cherry finish.
Could someone tell me WHAT THE F IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO THE FINISH OF A BED THAT NECESSITATES A LIFETIME WARRANTY?
Because my finish is fine, people. Stunning, even. You know what's NOT fine?
MY ONE-HORSE BROKEN SLEIGH, THAT'S WHAT.
There's a damn gap between the end of my bed and my mattress big enough for my DOG TO FALL THROUGH.
Lady's like "No, there's no warranty on the bed itself. You want someone to fix that, you're going to have to pay them to come out there."
I will be DAMNED if I'm going to pay someone to come out again and fix what shouldn't be broken in the first place.
SCAM! SCAMSCAMSCAM!
I told her "Oh no, this thing's a piece of crap. I'm not paying anyone to come out."
She's all "Alright. Bye."
You know what I'm going to do? I'm gonna ruck up the damn finish, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going take a nail file to it. I'm gonna do that twice a year for the rest of damn life. Even when we've replaced the bed, I'm gonna call them over, direct them down to the basement where the bed is sitting empty, and I'm going to sit upstairs and have a glass of wine and laugh to myself. I will make you wish your lifetime was over, warranty!
So. Furniture.
We bought this furniture about 2 and half years ago when we moved back from New York. A bedroom set, to be specific. A delightful sleigh bed and matching dresser in an attractive cherry finish. Dazzling.
I won't tell you where we got it, but suffice it to say it rhymes with "Smart Can". Or "Cart Tan". Or "Tart Man", for that matter.
The summer we bought it, they came up to our apartment and put it together.
"How lovely", we thought.
Then Rob sat on it and it collapsed.
When the repair guy came (yeah, we had to pay the repair guy to come, by the way), Rob started to explain to him what had happened. The guy interrupts him and says, "Oh, I know exactly what bed you have, then. This happens with all of them."
Cool. So they sold us a bed they know can't support any weight. He put these little extra support metal things on the wood slats underneath, so they could hold up. We had to pay for those too. Kind of like if you bought a house whose walls wouldn't stay up. So then you paid someone to come out and prop them up with 2x4s.
Anyways, with the exception of the fact that whatever genius put this bed together used nails that were too long, causing me to snag my clothes on the sharp edges poking out through the end of my sleigh, the bed worked fine.
And then it didn't.
The other night, we're sitting in bed.
Just sitting. Watching some TV.
And the bed collapses.
Just collapses.
Upon further inspection, the metal slats that go into the wood have actually torn the wood. From this point on, I will put the word "wood" in quotations. I'd like to have a woodnalysis done before making any further assumptions as to the bed's predominant material.
Anyways, the "wood" is officially torn, and unfixable. Right now, I'm sitting in my bed typing this. Know what's holding it up? A rubbermaid container. Let's do a cost analysis:
Amount paid for bed and dresser set: $2000
Amount paid for rubbermaid container that's actually supporting the bed: $12
"Don't worry!" I tell Rob. "We have a warranty on this bed." A LIFETIME warranty.
I look it up on my receipt, which I have so wisely saved. There it is, lifetime warranty
Oh my God, I am such a genius. I am so WISE for buying a warranty. Look at all the money I saved myself. Probably I'll get a whole new bed. Some days, Suze Orman has nothing on me.
So I call up Smart Can. It's like I can basically see the lady on the other line filing her nails. I say to her "My bed collapsed. But I have a warranty on it."
She looks up my invoice number.
"Nuh-uh", she says. Blowing on her nails. Gotta get that nail dust off.
Do you want to know what that damn warranty is for?
The finish.
I have a lifetime warranty on the finish of my bed.
The cherry finish.
Could someone tell me WHAT THE F IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO THE FINISH OF A BED THAT NECESSITATES A LIFETIME WARRANTY?
Because my finish is fine, people. Stunning, even. You know what's NOT fine?
MY ONE-HORSE BROKEN SLEIGH, THAT'S WHAT.
There's a damn gap between the end of my bed and my mattress big enough for my DOG TO FALL THROUGH.
Lady's like "No, there's no warranty on the bed itself. You want someone to fix that, you're going to have to pay them to come out there."
I will be DAMNED if I'm going to pay someone to come out again and fix what shouldn't be broken in the first place.
SCAM! SCAMSCAMSCAM!
I told her "Oh no, this thing's a piece of crap. I'm not paying anyone to come out."
She's all "Alright. Bye."
You know what I'm going to do? I'm gonna ruck up the damn finish, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going take a nail file to it. I'm gonna do that twice a year for the rest of damn life. Even when we've replaced the bed, I'm gonna call them over, direct them down to the basement where the bed is sitting empty, and I'm going to sit upstairs and have a glass of wine and laugh to myself. I will make you wish your lifetime was over, warranty!
Friday, March 13, 2009
"No, Laura, you know what we're going to to do when we get home? I'm going to thumb wrestle you until you bleed."
I went downtown to meet with this guy. I parked in the parking ramp. Let me just clarify that all of the parking ramps in downtown Kzoo are owned by the same company. They all take debit cards. Except, naturally, the one I parked in.
I'm on my way out after meeting with this grant guy, and I try to give the lady my debit and she's like "Oh, we don't take debit. The other ones do, but we don't."
Because that makes sense.
That's like "Oh, this McDonald's doesn't sell cheeseburgers, sorry."
There is the natural expectation, when all of the other ramps take cards, that this one will follow suit. And when it doesn't IT REALLY KIND OF MESSES UP YOUR DAY.
I'm like "um.. okay. I don't have any cash."
She says "Well, do you have any change?"
Don't you think I would have thought of that?
No lady, I don't have any change.
I owe $2.
She tells me I have to back up, turn around and go get my parking validated. So I turn around and start going back into the ramp, and I hear the lady behind me yelling "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!!!"
Ya think?
As you can see, I have a chip on my shoulder as far as this lady goes.
Anyways, I go back to the office where grant guy works and, don't you know, they don't validate parking.
The nearest ATM is two blocks away. So I start walking.
I'd just like to remind you that I'm 38 weeks pregnant right now.
I get to the ATM and put my pin in, and it tells me it's the wrong pin. Then I remember that, twice in the last four months, my bank has sent me new debit cards with a note that says "there's been a security breach. we have to cancel your card." So, I don't know my pin anymore.
I try a few different things. They don't work.
Now I call my bank. They put me on hold for a decade, and then they come back on and say "you tried too many times. now we have to send you a new pin in the mail." They can ONLY send it through the mail.
Cool. I guess I'll go home and wait for that.
Fools!
I am now stuck in downtown Kzoo because I cannot come up with $2. Rob can't come bail me out because WE SOLD HIS CAR A FEW WEEKS AGO.
I really can't emphasize to you how pathetic you feel when you're stranded somewhere over $2.
Here's how I eventually get out: I remember that the store where I buy my running gear validates parking. So I go there and buy a $20 pack of running socks so that I can ask them to validate my parking. Repeat: I spend $20 to get a $2 validation.
By the time I get out, the shift has changed and someone new is in the toll booth. That lady is so lucky that her shift was over, because I'd had a brisk walk and plenty of time to come up with some choice words for her.
I went downtown to meet with this guy. I parked in the parking ramp. Let me just clarify that all of the parking ramps in downtown Kzoo are owned by the same company. They all take debit cards. Except, naturally, the one I parked in.
I'm on my way out after meeting with this grant guy, and I try to give the lady my debit and she's like "Oh, we don't take debit. The other ones do, but we don't."
Because that makes sense.
That's like "Oh, this McDonald's doesn't sell cheeseburgers, sorry."
There is the natural expectation, when all of the other ramps take cards, that this one will follow suit. And when it doesn't IT REALLY KIND OF MESSES UP YOUR DAY.
I'm like "um.. okay. I don't have any cash."
She says "Well, do you have any change?"
Don't you think I would have thought of that?
No lady, I don't have any change.
I owe $2.
She tells me I have to back up, turn around and go get my parking validated. So I turn around and start going back into the ramp, and I hear the lady behind me yelling "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!!!"
Ya think?
As you can see, I have a chip on my shoulder as far as this lady goes.
Anyways, I go back to the office where grant guy works and, don't you know, they don't validate parking.
The nearest ATM is two blocks away. So I start walking.
I'd just like to remind you that I'm 38 weeks pregnant right now.
I get to the ATM and put my pin in, and it tells me it's the wrong pin. Then I remember that, twice in the last four months, my bank has sent me new debit cards with a note that says "there's been a security breach. we have to cancel your card." So, I don't know my pin anymore.
I try a few different things. They don't work.
Now I call my bank. They put me on hold for a decade, and then they come back on and say "you tried too many times. now we have to send you a new pin in the mail." They can ONLY send it through the mail.
Cool. I guess I'll go home and wait for that.
Fools!
I am now stuck in downtown Kzoo because I cannot come up with $2. Rob can't come bail me out because WE SOLD HIS CAR A FEW WEEKS AGO.
I really can't emphasize to you how pathetic you feel when you're stranded somewhere over $2.
Here's how I eventually get out: I remember that the store where I buy my running gear validates parking. So I go there and buy a $20 pack of running socks so that I can ask them to validate my parking. Repeat: I spend $20 to get a $2 validation.
By the time I get out, the shift has changed and someone new is in the toll booth. That lady is so lucky that her shift was over, because I'd had a brisk walk and plenty of time to come up with some choice words for her.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
All About "He's Just Not That Into You"
In my defense, it was actually kind of Rob's choice. Kind of, because I refused to see Watchmen. I wasn't in the mood for scribbly face and blue man. Anyways.. we go. It was alright.
First of all, there's this part where Scarlett Johannsen says to whoever "The categories are sexy, cute, smart and funny. Which two am I? You can only pick two."
So I say to Rob, "Which two am I?"
Do you know that that boy chose 'smart' and 'funny'?
Okay, it's not brain surgery here. EVERYONE knows that, posed with this question that is clearly a trick, you need to choose one from the 'looks' category, and one from the 'personality' column. If you choose two from the looks column, it means you're vapid, and if you choose two from the personality column, it means that you're ugly. Guys, please prepare yourself for this question. And "you're all four" is not acceptable. He tried that too.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit hormonal. Come on, though. I've got like 3 weeks left, and I've been so good thus far.
Then, there's this other part in the movie where this guy I really liked cheated on his wife, and it really pissed me off. So, this morning, I made Rob spend about half an hour telling me all the reasons he's never going to cheat on me. Just so we're clear, I'm not even trying to pretend that that's sane. Give me a break. Anyways, thirty minutes later, when he's rolling his eyes and just about to kill himself, I let it go. Then I said "We should watch one of our Netflix movies tonight."
Rob says "Okay, what do we have?"
Changeling.
He gives me this look and says, "What is that about?"
So I tell him.
Then he says, "Let me get this straight. After the conversation you just put me through, you now want me to watch a movie with you where the woman's child is kidnapped and then she gets someone else's kid back?"
Then Rob went into the bedroom and got the Netflix movie, put it in its return envelope and hid it. He said I could watch it in eighteen years.
In other news, Ryan and Jen joined a bowling league and I'm completely jealous. If you want to start a Kalamazoo bowling league, please let me know. I want shirts, too.
In my defense, it was actually kind of Rob's choice. Kind of, because I refused to see Watchmen. I wasn't in the mood for scribbly face and blue man. Anyways.. we go. It was alright.
First of all, there's this part where Scarlett Johannsen says to whoever "The categories are sexy, cute, smart and funny. Which two am I? You can only pick two."
So I say to Rob, "Which two am I?"
Do you know that that boy chose 'smart' and 'funny'?
Okay, it's not brain surgery here. EVERYONE knows that, posed with this question that is clearly a trick, you need to choose one from the 'looks' category, and one from the 'personality' column. If you choose two from the looks column, it means you're vapid, and if you choose two from the personality column, it means that you're ugly. Guys, please prepare yourself for this question. And "you're all four" is not acceptable. He tried that too.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit hormonal. Come on, though. I've got like 3 weeks left, and I've been so good thus far.
Then, there's this other part in the movie where this guy I really liked cheated on his wife, and it really pissed me off. So, this morning, I made Rob spend about half an hour telling me all the reasons he's never going to cheat on me. Just so we're clear, I'm not even trying to pretend that that's sane. Give me a break. Anyways, thirty minutes later, when he's rolling his eyes and just about to kill himself, I let it go. Then I said "We should watch one of our Netflix movies tonight."
Rob says "Okay, what do we have?"
Changeling.
He gives me this look and says, "What is that about?"
So I tell him.
Then he says, "Let me get this straight. After the conversation you just put me through, you now want me to watch a movie with you where the woman's child is kidnapped and then she gets someone else's kid back?"
Then Rob went into the bedroom and got the Netflix movie, put it in its return envelope and hid it. He said I could watch it in eighteen years.
In other news, Ryan and Jen joined a bowling league and I'm completely jealous. If you want to start a Kalamazoo bowling league, please let me know. I want shirts, too.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
"Laura. After the baby comes out, I'm going to drop-kick you."
Notes From Lamaze Class
1. The man sitting next to me had redface and reeked of alcohol. Like, the kind of reeking where it was hard to take a breath while faced in that direction. Had someone given me a breathalyzer, I very well may have failed. This did not give me hope for the future of the poor baby in utero.
2. His wife didn't seem to notice? Or at least she didn't act like it. But then again, I guess if you're husband was boozing prior to lamaze, you wouldn't so much bring it up in front of everyone.
3. I want you to get a ruler. I then want you to measure out ten centimeters. I want you to do this because I don't think you quite understand how big 10 cm. is. I sure as hell didn't. Think grapefruit.
4. Do you know what lamaze is? I knew it was breathing and all. But I thought it was effective breathing. Effective how, I don't know. Stupid me and my faith in constructive breathing. Please don't be fooled; lamaze is exactly this: breathing in your nose and out of your mouth while 'relaxing'. THAT'S WHAT YOU'VE GOT FOR ME, DR. LAMAZE? Really? If all you've got is in the nose and out the mouth and 'butterfly massage' (which consists of me fluttering my fingers over my stomach in circles, Winnie the Pooh style), you can just bring on the epidural, fools.
5. Rob would not let us leave early to watch Lost. Instead, he made us stay and watch a movie about a woman who did not get an epidural. So, instead of enjoying my favorite show, I had to watch someone in more pain than I can really fathom. Thank you, Rob.
6. At one point, there was a demonstration. A dad ("coach", if you will) volunteered, and the lamaze teacher 'birthed' him out of a pink turtleneck, which was supposed to replicate the 'effaced cervix'. This experience was surprisingly effective, as it replaced the non-epidural birth video as the most disturbing thing I've ever seen. Then, Rob has to raise his hand and say "Do babies usually come out with facial hair?" Again, thank you, Rob.
Notes From Lamaze Class
1. The man sitting next to me had redface and reeked of alcohol. Like, the kind of reeking where it was hard to take a breath while faced in that direction. Had someone given me a breathalyzer, I very well may have failed. This did not give me hope for the future of the poor baby in utero.
2. His wife didn't seem to notice? Or at least she didn't act like it. But then again, I guess if you're husband was boozing prior to lamaze, you wouldn't so much bring it up in front of everyone.
3. I want you to get a ruler. I then want you to measure out ten centimeters. I want you to do this because I don't think you quite understand how big 10 cm. is. I sure as hell didn't. Think grapefruit.
4. Do you know what lamaze is? I knew it was breathing and all. But I thought it was effective breathing. Effective how, I don't know. Stupid me and my faith in constructive breathing. Please don't be fooled; lamaze is exactly this: breathing in your nose and out of your mouth while 'relaxing'. THAT'S WHAT YOU'VE GOT FOR ME, DR. LAMAZE? Really? If all you've got is in the nose and out the mouth and 'butterfly massage' (which consists of me fluttering my fingers over my stomach in circles, Winnie the Pooh style), you can just bring on the epidural, fools.
5. Rob would not let us leave early to watch Lost. Instead, he made us stay and watch a movie about a woman who did not get an epidural. So, instead of enjoying my favorite show, I had to watch someone in more pain than I can really fathom. Thank you, Rob.
6. At one point, there was a demonstration. A dad ("coach", if you will) volunteered, and the lamaze teacher 'birthed' him out of a pink turtleneck, which was supposed to replicate the 'effaced cervix'. This experience was surprisingly effective, as it replaced the non-epidural birth video as the most disturbing thing I've ever seen. Then, Rob has to raise his hand and say "Do babies usually come out with facial hair?" Again, thank you, Rob.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
How I Made An Ass of Myself Lately- Tuesday Edition
Nurse: Okay, drop your stuff in that chair and we'll get you on the scale.
Me: Okay
Nurse: Have you been getting a lot of movement?
(In my defense, she was just talking about getting on the scale. Train of thought, hello.)
Me: Oh. Yeah. I've been walking on the treadmill everyday.
Nurse: ....I meant from the baby.
Nurse: Okay, drop your stuff in that chair and we'll get you on the scale.
Me: Okay
Nurse: Have you been getting a lot of movement?
(In my defense, she was just talking about getting on the scale. Train of thought, hello.)
Me: Oh. Yeah. I've been walking on the treadmill everyday.
Nurse: ....I meant from the baby.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Calling All Choreographers
This May, Rob and I will have been married for five years. I've informed him that, for my anniversary present, I want him to learn the dance that they do at the end of Slumdog Millionaire and perform it for me. We'll be at a wedding that night, so maybe we can clear the dance floor and he can do it for everyone. He's going to need some help though. If you feel like you're a pretty good dancer, maybe you'd like to chip in and help out Rob. Go ahead and give him a call now.
This May, Rob and I will have been married for five years. I've informed him that, for my anniversary present, I want him to learn the dance that they do at the end of Slumdog Millionaire and perform it for me. We'll be at a wedding that night, so maybe we can clear the dance floor and he can do it for everyone. He's going to need some help though. If you feel like you're a pretty good dancer, maybe you'd like to chip in and help out Rob. Go ahead and give him a call now.
Friday, February 20, 2009
I Am a Disgraceful Blogger
I don't know where I've been. Out. Sorry. I'm back now.
1. Last night we play Boggle, which I bought on Ebay and got scammed over. Anyways, I don't think I've played Boggle in about a decade. Fun! For a while. Why do I play games with Rob? We're having a good old time until Rob realizes that he's losing. Then, he sets in motion the "Rob M. Win-Or-Die-Trying" method of play. This includes stringing random letters together and, when I ask about it, claiming that the word is a character from Lord of the Rings. Like "Oh yeah, Yuzbutu. He was a wood nymph." Which wouldn't work anyways, mind you, since you can't use proper names. Then he starts trying to use foreign words, which he knows is illegal.
Rob: I have 'pon'
Me: What is 'pon'?
Rob: Like that song? Hey Mr. DJ pon de replay?
Me: You can't use foreign words
Rob: Well, it's Americanized.
Me: Oh yeah? What does it mean?
Rob:.... shut up.
I'm am really, really hoping that someone is going to step in and teach our child good sportsmanship, because I am cutthroat competative and Rob is just a friggin LIAR.
2. About Boggle. I buy it on Ebay. The seller claims that it's new. Except that there's tape all over the box, the shakey-dome is cracked in two places, and it friggin says $1.49 on the side in sharpie, a'la garage sale-style. Liar, liar, liar! I want my $8.59 back!
3. Erin's eating a Spinach salad the other night at dinner and Sierra looks across the table and innocently asks "So. How are your leaves?"
4. We're painting the baby room today! Those of your who are familiar with my painting skills will look forward to seeing this, I'm sure.
5. That is all for now. I'm working on building my blogging muscles back up again.
I don't know where I've been. Out. Sorry. I'm back now.
1. Last night we play Boggle, which I bought on Ebay and got scammed over. Anyways, I don't think I've played Boggle in about a decade. Fun! For a while. Why do I play games with Rob? We're having a good old time until Rob realizes that he's losing. Then, he sets in motion the "Rob M. Win-Or-Die-Trying" method of play. This includes stringing random letters together and, when I ask about it, claiming that the word is a character from Lord of the Rings. Like "Oh yeah, Yuzbutu. He was a wood nymph." Which wouldn't work anyways, mind you, since you can't use proper names. Then he starts trying to use foreign words, which he knows is illegal.
Rob: I have 'pon'
Me: What is 'pon'?
Rob: Like that song? Hey Mr. DJ pon de replay?
Me: You can't use foreign words
Rob: Well, it's Americanized.
Me: Oh yeah? What does it mean?
Rob:.... shut up.
I'm am really, really hoping that someone is going to step in and teach our child good sportsmanship, because I am cutthroat competative and Rob is just a friggin LIAR.
2. About Boggle. I buy it on Ebay. The seller claims that it's new. Except that there's tape all over the box, the shakey-dome is cracked in two places, and it friggin says $1.49 on the side in sharpie, a'la garage sale-style. Liar, liar, liar! I want my $8.59 back!
3. Erin's eating a Spinach salad the other night at dinner and Sierra looks across the table and innocently asks "So. How are your leaves?"
4. We're painting the baby room today! Those of your who are familiar with my painting skills will look forward to seeing this, I'm sure.
5. That is all for now. I'm working on building my blogging muscles back up again.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Another Bedtime Story
So, contrary to what you would think, bedtime might be the most stressful time of my day. This is because the minute I lay down, I start remembering all of these time-sensitive things that I didn't do yet, and will probably forget to do if I don't get up and write myself a note right then. Keeping a pad of paper on my nightstand doesn't work, because I never remember that I wrote myself a note. It has to be on my desk, staring at me when I sit down in the morning. Anyways, I would estimate that I get up and write myself sticky notes about three times a night.
Or, I would estimate that I USED to. Then I found the awesomest thing of all time: Jott. It's like this: You call this toll free number and a computer girl comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?". Then you just say whatever it is you want to remember, like "pay the phone bill", and the voice recognition software turns your voice into text and EMAILS and TEXTS your note to you, AND adds it to your To-Do list. This is also awesome because I tend to remember things when I'm driving a lot, and now I just call myself. You can even have Jott send you a reminder at a certain time.
This would all be awesome if it weren't for Rob.
Yes, Rob again, ruining my perfect plans.
Here's what happens.
I'm lying in bed, and I remember something, so I reach over onto my nightstand and call Jott. Computer lady comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?"
Before I can open my mouth, Rob, who is laying right next to me, says "EAT TANGERINES!"
Then Jott lady says "Got it. Do you want a reminder?"
I now have an email that says "Reminder: Eat tangerines."
It's kind of amazing, because you have to talk pretty clearly to get them to hear you, but Rob must be talking loud enough, or he must be close enough, because it works at least half of the time. Okay, maybe only about one in four times, but nonetheless, I have a friggin reminder that says "eat tangerines". One in four is plenty.
It's like I've been cursed, but I'm still on Earth.
Between laughing hysterically and Rob yelling things, it took me 3-4 tries to get myself a note that says "make the car payment". He must have been on a circus theme last night though, because I recall him yelling "Shoot myself out of a cannon" and "Buy really big shoes." Luckily, neither of those things made it onto the list.
So, contrary to what you would think, bedtime might be the most stressful time of my day. This is because the minute I lay down, I start remembering all of these time-sensitive things that I didn't do yet, and will probably forget to do if I don't get up and write myself a note right then. Keeping a pad of paper on my nightstand doesn't work, because I never remember that I wrote myself a note. It has to be on my desk, staring at me when I sit down in the morning. Anyways, I would estimate that I get up and write myself sticky notes about three times a night.
Or, I would estimate that I USED to. Then I found the awesomest thing of all time: Jott. It's like this: You call this toll free number and a computer girl comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?". Then you just say whatever it is you want to remember, like "pay the phone bill", and the voice recognition software turns your voice into text and EMAILS and TEXTS your note to you, AND adds it to your To-Do list. This is also awesome because I tend to remember things when I'm driving a lot, and now I just call myself. You can even have Jott send you a reminder at a certain time.
This would all be awesome if it weren't for Rob.
Yes, Rob again, ruining my perfect plans.
Here's what happens.
I'm lying in bed, and I remember something, so I reach over onto my nightstand and call Jott. Computer lady comes on and says "What do you want to Jott?"
Before I can open my mouth, Rob, who is laying right next to me, says "EAT TANGERINES!"
Then Jott lady says "Got it. Do you want a reminder?"
I now have an email that says "Reminder: Eat tangerines."
It's kind of amazing, because you have to talk pretty clearly to get them to hear you, but Rob must be talking loud enough, or he must be close enough, because it works at least half of the time. Okay, maybe only about one in four times, but nonetheless, I have a friggin reminder that says "eat tangerines". One in four is plenty.
It's like I've been cursed, but I'm still on Earth.
Between laughing hysterically and Rob yelling things, it took me 3-4 tries to get myself a note that says "make the car payment". He must have been on a circus theme last night though, because I recall him yelling "Shoot myself out of a cannon" and "Buy really big shoes." Luckily, neither of those things made it onto the list.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
PUBLIC ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE AWESOMENESS OF RYAN
Okay, so one else even tried to come up with new rhyme-y phrases. But let's be serious- If you had, Ryan would have schooled you. Coming in with a whopping 106 entries (though, I will admit, some of them are questionable, Ryan:) ) Ryan takes home the prize of a $5 Biggby gift card. The judges (me) were particularly fond of "Dumb Quaker". Nothing against Quakers, but that phrase just sounds funny...
Okay, so one else even tried to come up with new rhyme-y phrases. But let's be serious- If you had, Ryan would have schooled you. Coming in with a whopping 106 entries (though, I will admit, some of them are questionable, Ryan:) ) Ryan takes home the prize of a $5 Biggby gift card. The judges (me) were particularly fond of "Dumb Quaker". Nothing against Quakers, but that phrase just sounds funny...
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Fun Game You Can Play At Home
Last night, we're lying in bed (do you get the feeling that this is where most of my stories happen? Not sure what that's all about..), when Rob starts singing the Heartbreaker song, which you have heard many times, though you may not remember. It goes like this:
You're a
Heartbreaker!
Dream-maker!
Love-taker!
Don't you mess around with me.
And then we keep making up new ones, trying to top one another. This goes on for about a half hour. Here's what we came up with:
Bread baker
Rump shaker
L.A. Laker
Cake maker
Goodness saker
Cold faker
Pipe snaker
Snow flaker
Tent staker
Record breaker
Old Quaker
Muckraker
Pattycaker
Test taker
This is an addictive game, I will warn you ahead of time, but you should try and come up with some. Rob and I are committed to giving a $5 Biggby gift card to whoever comes up with the most. Redeemable only at the Biggby where stalker girl works.
Last night, we're lying in bed (do you get the feeling that this is where most of my stories happen? Not sure what that's all about..), when Rob starts singing the Heartbreaker song, which you have heard many times, though you may not remember. It goes like this:
You're a
Heartbreaker!
Dream-maker!
Love-taker!
Don't you mess around with me.
And then we keep making up new ones, trying to top one another. This goes on for about a half hour. Here's what we came up with:
Bread baker
Rump shaker
L.A. Laker
Cake maker
Goodness saker
Cold faker
Pipe snaker
Snow flaker
Tent staker
Record breaker
Old Quaker
Muckraker
Pattycaker
Test taker
This is an addictive game, I will warn you ahead of time, but you should try and come up with some. Rob and I are committed to giving a $5 Biggby gift card to whoever comes up with the most. Redeemable only at the Biggby where stalker girl works.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Rob v. Penny
It's like this: Rob loves the dog. Let me rephrase that: Rob LOVES the dog. Only all-caps can explain it.
He talks to her all the time, throws her little bits of whatever he's making for dinner, even the meatballs which could have killed her being that they were full of onion, takes her on walks every day (where he claims they "talk"), gets up at 5am to feed her every morning, etc. Rob wants the dog to sleep on the bed with us, which I have forbidden. He routinely says "Penny, I just love you. You're an important part of this family." Then I roll my eyes and tell her to get off the bed.
But it's also like this: the dog loves me.
No explanation. I like the dog, but it's nowhere near an all-caps situation. More of a tentative, lowercase italics type of thing. Mostly she pisses me off because:
1. She stinks.
2. She forgets that she's potty trained from time to time
3. She WHINES
4. She stinks.
5. She tries to beat up on dogs 10 times her size.
I yell at her a lot. It sounds like this:
"Penny. You're disgusting. You smell like a trash can."
Doesn't matter. She LOVES me. If she gets up on the bed, she instantly makes a beeline for me and curls up right beside me. I mostly ignore her. If I'm feeling charitable, I'll pet her a little bit. Until she tries to lick me with trash can mouth; then all bets are off. Rob then says "Penny! Penny!" and pats his chest. She stares at him. "Come here, Penny!" She turns her head the other way, lays it on my back, and stares out the window. This morning when I got up from bed, instead of switching over and lying next to Rob, she just decides to get off the bed.
So we're laying there, and Rob has spent the last 10 minutes or so trying to get her to come lay by him when he suddenly just stops.
It should be said that Rob and I have been together for 9 years now, and I know where he's going with something about 2 seconds after he does.
I say "You're trying to ignore her, aren't you?"
Silence
I say "You think that if you ignore her like I do, she'll start loving you."
Rob says "I don't know who you're referring to."
10 minutes go by. Rob says NOTHING to Penny. It's like a world record, considering that Penny is the true love of Rob's life. Penny seems okay with it.
So anyways, there's a stand off now. Rob is not speaking to Penny. Penny doesn't even notice. I know that Rob's serious because he later took out a bag of lunch meat to make a sandwich and DIDNT GIVE HER ANY. I also know how it's going to end, though:
"Penny! Penny! Want to go on a walk? Come here Penny!"
He can try, but you just can't deny all-caps love, even if it's unrequited.
It's like this: Rob loves the dog. Let me rephrase that: Rob LOVES the dog. Only all-caps can explain it.
He talks to her all the time, throws her little bits of whatever he's making for dinner, even the meatballs which could have killed her being that they were full of onion, takes her on walks every day (where he claims they "talk"), gets up at 5am to feed her every morning, etc. Rob wants the dog to sleep on the bed with us, which I have forbidden. He routinely says "Penny, I just love you. You're an important part of this family." Then I roll my eyes and tell her to get off the bed.
But it's also like this: the dog loves me.
No explanation. I like the dog, but it's nowhere near an all-caps situation. More of a tentative, lowercase italics type of thing. Mostly she pisses me off because:
1. She stinks.
2. She forgets that she's potty trained from time to time
3. She WHINES
4. She stinks.
5. She tries to beat up on dogs 10 times her size.
I yell at her a lot. It sounds like this:
"Penny. You're disgusting. You smell like a trash can."
Doesn't matter. She LOVES me. If she gets up on the bed, she instantly makes a beeline for me and curls up right beside me. I mostly ignore her. If I'm feeling charitable, I'll pet her a little bit. Until she tries to lick me with trash can mouth; then all bets are off. Rob then says "Penny! Penny!" and pats his chest. She stares at him. "Come here, Penny!" She turns her head the other way, lays it on my back, and stares out the window. This morning when I got up from bed, instead of switching over and lying next to Rob, she just decides to get off the bed.
So we're laying there, and Rob has spent the last 10 minutes or so trying to get her to come lay by him when he suddenly just stops.
It should be said that Rob and I have been together for 9 years now, and I know where he's going with something about 2 seconds after he does.
I say "You're trying to ignore her, aren't you?"
Silence
I say "You think that if you ignore her like I do, she'll start loving you."
Rob says "I don't know who you're referring to."
10 minutes go by. Rob says NOTHING to Penny. It's like a world record, considering that Penny is the true love of Rob's life. Penny seems okay with it.
So anyways, there's a stand off now. Rob is not speaking to Penny. Penny doesn't even notice. I know that Rob's serious because he later took out a bag of lunch meat to make a sandwich and DIDNT GIVE HER ANY. I also know how it's going to end, though:
"Penny! Penny! Want to go on a walk? Come here Penny!"
He can try, but you just can't deny all-caps love, even if it's unrequited.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
My Pick For Worst Song in Recent Memory
is "Loosen Up My Buttons" by the Pussycat Dolls
Justification:
1. What it reminds me of is the bad jokes that people tell after Thanksgiving dinner, like "Man! I'm about to pop a button!" So then, Pussycat Dolls (WTF is a pussycat doll, by the way?), I picture you all as huge, fat men in overalls. It is a miracle that Weird Al Yankovic hasn't parodied this song yet.
2. How does one loosen a button? It isn't like a screw, my friend. Maybe that's your problem right there. Maybe it's not his fault at all, maybe you just don't know how to use buttons.
3. Lyric: "I'm a sexy mama"
You should know that no one says this with a straight face. Ever.
4. Lyric: "You've been saying all the right things all night long
But I can't seem to get you over here to help take this off"
Again, you're a fat man with overalls, but now you sound like you have limited mobility, which makes me feel like you're also old. Probably you have a cane. That's sexy. Sexy like a sexy mama.
5. Lyric: "You say you're a big boy
But I can't agree
'Cause the love you said you had
Ain't been put on me"
Where to even start? First, "you're a big boy"? There is something creepy and vaguely pedophile-ish about your word choices.
Second, "put on me"? Now I picture your love as a giant anvil in a road runner cartoon.
6. Lastly, I saw you performing on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. How come only one of the five of you sing? What's wrong, other four? (Pussy) Cat got your tongues? I have this feeling the rest of you can't sing. To which I say, how hard is it to find four other attractive girls who can dance and also sing? I don't think it's that hard. It seems like there are a lot of dancer/singers out there.
Banished.
is "Loosen Up My Buttons" by the Pussycat Dolls
Justification:
1. What it reminds me of is the bad jokes that people tell after Thanksgiving dinner, like "Man! I'm about to pop a button!" So then, Pussycat Dolls (WTF is a pussycat doll, by the way?), I picture you all as huge, fat men in overalls. It is a miracle that Weird Al Yankovic hasn't parodied this song yet.
2. How does one loosen a button? It isn't like a screw, my friend. Maybe that's your problem right there. Maybe it's not his fault at all, maybe you just don't know how to use buttons.
3. Lyric: "I'm a sexy mama"
You should know that no one says this with a straight face. Ever.
4. Lyric: "You've been saying all the right things all night long
But I can't seem to get you over here to help take this off"
Again, you're a fat man with overalls, but now you sound like you have limited mobility, which makes me feel like you're also old. Probably you have a cane. That's sexy. Sexy like a sexy mama.
5. Lyric: "You say you're a big boy
But I can't agree
'Cause the love you said you had
Ain't been put on me"
Where to even start? First, "you're a big boy"? There is something creepy and vaguely pedophile-ish about your word choices.
Second, "put on me"? Now I picture your love as a giant anvil in a road runner cartoon.
6. Lastly, I saw you performing on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. How come only one of the five of you sing? What's wrong, other four? (Pussy) Cat got your tongues? I have this feeling the rest of you can't sing. To which I say, how hard is it to find four other attractive girls who can dance and also sing? I don't think it's that hard. It seems like there are a lot of dancer/singers out there.
Banished.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
An Open Letter to the Biggby Coffee Girl
Dear Biggby Coffee girl,
Listen. It's not that I don't enjoy our chats. Even though you've asked me twenty times whether I'm having a girl or a boy, and whether I'm going to have the epidural (which, just for future reference, is a weird and slightly invasive question), I'm still fine with it. But today you took it a step too far. The comments "You're getting bigger every day" (...thanks?), and "You've got three months left? Are you worried your stomach is going to get really huge?" (Well, I wasn't.. but now I'll go home and cry about it. My husband is going to love you.)? Well, they were a bit much.
I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but we don't know each other. Yes, I know your name. I even know how it's spelled, which brings me to the subject of phonetics and how they failed you, but that's a blog for another day. And yes, you've told me ALLLLLLL about your pregnancy, even went so far as to tell me how you found out you were pregnant (missed period.. usually a tell-tale sign). The truth is, I think you would be shocked by how many women get pregnant every year. It's actually not just you and me. This is the way the world repopulates itself, which leads to coffee drinkers, which is why you're employed, which is why you live another day to haunt me with your terrifying questions. But if you feel that your connection with me has to do with the fact that we've both experienced pregnancy, let me tell you, you've got a connection with a lot of other people. What I'm getting at is, I do not want to have confessional time with you simply for this reason.
What you might also not know is that I avoid you. Constantly. Luckily for me, there are about five Biggbys in this town, and I'll often drive out of my way to go to another one. The only way that I go to yours is if I am almost directly in front of it and a mini-sized Al Gore is sitting on my shoulder telling me that wasting gas to avoid you is WRONG WRONG WRONG, Earth-killer Laura! You're really driving business away. A lot of business, as I drink a lot of coffee. Decaf, unfortunately. Remember that time that I came through the drive thru and, even after you gave me my coffee, I sat there for three extra minutes while you told me about your due date, while a line of cars piled up behind me? You should know that, after I finally escaped, my husband, sitting next to me in the car, said "What the hell was that?" And that, Biggby Girl, is when I knew I wasn't insane. That in fact it was YOU who is insane.
In conclusion, I won't be coming in anymore. Based on the trend of more personal questions each visit, I'm afraid that you're going to eventually ask to deliver my baby. I'm uncomfortable with that. It was interesting knowing you. Maybe just stick to brewing the coffee.
Best,
Laura
Dear Biggby Coffee girl,
Listen. It's not that I don't enjoy our chats. Even though you've asked me twenty times whether I'm having a girl or a boy, and whether I'm going to have the epidural (which, just for future reference, is a weird and slightly invasive question), I'm still fine with it. But today you took it a step too far. The comments "You're getting bigger every day" (...thanks?), and "You've got three months left? Are you worried your stomach is going to get really huge?" (Well, I wasn't.. but now I'll go home and cry about it. My husband is going to love you.)? Well, they were a bit much.
I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but we don't know each other. Yes, I know your name. I even know how it's spelled, which brings me to the subject of phonetics and how they failed you, but that's a blog for another day. And yes, you've told me ALLLLLLL about your pregnancy, even went so far as to tell me how you found out you were pregnant (missed period.. usually a tell-tale sign). The truth is, I think you would be shocked by how many women get pregnant every year. It's actually not just you and me. This is the way the world repopulates itself, which leads to coffee drinkers, which is why you're employed, which is why you live another day to haunt me with your terrifying questions. But if you feel that your connection with me has to do with the fact that we've both experienced pregnancy, let me tell you, you've got a connection with a lot of other people. What I'm getting at is, I do not want to have confessional time with you simply for this reason.
What you might also not know is that I avoid you. Constantly. Luckily for me, there are about five Biggbys in this town, and I'll often drive out of my way to go to another one. The only way that I go to yours is if I am almost directly in front of it and a mini-sized Al Gore is sitting on my shoulder telling me that wasting gas to avoid you is WRONG WRONG WRONG, Earth-killer Laura! You're really driving business away. A lot of business, as I drink a lot of coffee. Decaf, unfortunately. Remember that time that I came through the drive thru and, even after you gave me my coffee, I sat there for three extra minutes while you told me about your due date, while a line of cars piled up behind me? You should know that, after I finally escaped, my husband, sitting next to me in the car, said "What the hell was that?" And that, Biggby Girl, is when I knew I wasn't insane. That in fact it was YOU who is insane.
In conclusion, I won't be coming in anymore. Based on the trend of more personal questions each visit, I'm afraid that you're going to eventually ask to deliver my baby. I'm uncomfortable with that. It was interesting knowing you. Maybe just stick to brewing the coffee.
Best,
Laura
All About the Grocery Store
I've discovered my #1 pet peeve of all time. It is this:
If you are one of those people who pick up a refrigerated or frozen item, say milk or cheese, then decide later on in the store that you no longer want said item, but you're too lazy to return it to it's refrigerated environment, and so you just drop it on any old shelf, maybe between the Frosted Mini-Wheats and Cheerios... well.. then I hate you.
Sorry, no two ways about it.
People, that is RUDE. Whatever you just put down is RUINED because you're LAZY. Sometimes I pick up after you! This week I returned a poor, scared thawing bag of frozen corn to my grocer's freezer because someone traded it out for CANNED corn (yes, I can follow your evil little thought patterns, depraved members of society.) First of all- really? Canned corn over frozen corn?? Glad I don't live in your house. Canned corn is salty and discolored. Secondly, RUDE! The canned corn aisle is only two or three away from the frozen vegetable aisle!! I'm sure you're busy and all. So busy you probably shouldn't even be grocery shopping. Also, you're probably missing Jerry Springer. Go home.
In Addition:
Why does all of America feel that it's okay to air marital disputes in the grocery store? I kid you not, if you want to see the scary state of marriages in this country, you should just go to Meijer.
Dear fighters:
I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.
EVERYONE can hear you.
Why don't you tell him what a lousy bastard he is in your six inch voice?
I have a lot of personal space issues, so I guarantee you, I am more than six inches away.
Listen, I'm not talking about a little healthy debate. Personally, I like to debate pretty much everything Rob says to me. Keeps him on his toes. I'm talking PROFANITY and LOUD NOISES!
After careful research: The two aisles that seem to produce the most domestic strife:
1. The beer/wine/mixer aisle
2. And, inexplicably, the frozen food aisle (I don't know..maybe because people are cold in that aisle? I, for one, get much crankier when I'm cold)
3. Honorable mention: There's often a ruckus in the cheese/milk/yogurt aisle.
Hopefully this will help you to avoid some confrontations.
Really, though, please stop. You're making people feel weird. Sometimes, I walk into an aisle where people are fighting and for a second I start to turn around, like I accidentally walked in on something. Then I remember that I'm in a GROCERY STORE. Go fight in an aisle where I'm not shopping. For instance, automotive. I'm never in the automotive aisle. Or, the aisle with all the fish tanks. I hate fish.
Also.
Why do the condoms have to be by the toothpaste in Meijer? Because, see, it makes me feel weird about buying toothpaste. It kind of makes me avoid buying toothpaste, actually. Because the condom/toothpaste/pregnancy test aisle are all in the same far corner of my Meijer, and if you're heading that way, it's kind of assumed where you're going. Look, I get it. I'm 27. I should be over it. For God's sake, I'm pregnant, I should REALLY be over it. Buuuuutttt.. I'm not. And I don't want to sue Meijer for my cavities. So let's move the toothpaste over by the body wash, shall we?
And, in conclusion:
Me: I've been spending a lot of time in the grocery store lately.
Rob: That's because you're finally learning your place, baby.
F.u.n.n.y.
I've discovered my #1 pet peeve of all time. It is this:
If you are one of those people who pick up a refrigerated or frozen item, say milk or cheese, then decide later on in the store that you no longer want said item, but you're too lazy to return it to it's refrigerated environment, and so you just drop it on any old shelf, maybe between the Frosted Mini-Wheats and Cheerios... well.. then I hate you.
Sorry, no two ways about it.
People, that is RUDE. Whatever you just put down is RUINED because you're LAZY. Sometimes I pick up after you! This week I returned a poor, scared thawing bag of frozen corn to my grocer's freezer because someone traded it out for CANNED corn (yes, I can follow your evil little thought patterns, depraved members of society.) First of all- really? Canned corn over frozen corn?? Glad I don't live in your house. Canned corn is salty and discolored. Secondly, RUDE! The canned corn aisle is only two or three away from the frozen vegetable aisle!! I'm sure you're busy and all. So busy you probably shouldn't even be grocery shopping. Also, you're probably missing Jerry Springer. Go home.
In Addition:
Why does all of America feel that it's okay to air marital disputes in the grocery store? I kid you not, if you want to see the scary state of marriages in this country, you should just go to Meijer.
Dear fighters:
I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.
EVERYONE can hear you.
Why don't you tell him what a lousy bastard he is in your six inch voice?
I have a lot of personal space issues, so I guarantee you, I am more than six inches away.
Listen, I'm not talking about a little healthy debate. Personally, I like to debate pretty much everything Rob says to me. Keeps him on his toes. I'm talking PROFANITY and LOUD NOISES!
After careful research: The two aisles that seem to produce the most domestic strife:
1. The beer/wine/mixer aisle
2. And, inexplicably, the frozen food aisle (I don't know..maybe because people are cold in that aisle? I, for one, get much crankier when I'm cold)
3. Honorable mention: There's often a ruckus in the cheese/milk/yogurt aisle.
Hopefully this will help you to avoid some confrontations.
Really, though, please stop. You're making people feel weird. Sometimes, I walk into an aisle where people are fighting and for a second I start to turn around, like I accidentally walked in on something. Then I remember that I'm in a GROCERY STORE. Go fight in an aisle where I'm not shopping. For instance, automotive. I'm never in the automotive aisle. Or, the aisle with all the fish tanks. I hate fish.
Also.
Why do the condoms have to be by the toothpaste in Meijer? Because, see, it makes me feel weird about buying toothpaste. It kind of makes me avoid buying toothpaste, actually. Because the condom/toothpaste/pregnancy test aisle are all in the same far corner of my Meijer, and if you're heading that way, it's kind of assumed where you're going. Look, I get it. I'm 27. I should be over it. For God's sake, I'm pregnant, I should REALLY be over it. Buuuuutttt.. I'm not. And I don't want to sue Meijer for my cavities. So let's move the toothpaste over by the body wash, shall we?
And, in conclusion:
Me: I've been spending a lot of time in the grocery store lately.
Rob: That's because you're finally learning your place, baby.
F.u.n.n.y.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Laura's New Years Resolutions
1. I will cease blatantly staying in the fast lane to piss off the asshole who is riding my bumper, despite the fact that I'm clipping along at 5 miles over the speed limit, as my mom recently pointed out that it could lead to me being run off the road and killed in some unseemly manner. Moms: so smart, so right.
2. I will return library books on time. Or, if they're late, I will have at least cracked the cover, considering I'll be paying the fine.
3. I will mop my kitchen floor more often.
4. [this is the space where I promise not to buy coffee every morning, but I'm taking it out already, since I know it's not going to happen.]
5. I will stop doing things like blogging about New Years resolutions in order to avoid school work or writing.
6. I will stop doing things specifically to irritate my sister, such as saving all the dog trading cards out of Penny's dog food and mailing them to her as if she's collecting them.
7. I will charge my phone.
8. I will try to respect the fact that Rob is a vampire and wants the curtains closed at all hours of the day.
9. I will stop being so anti-social, and I'll make an attempt at not being so sarcastic, but it won't work.
10. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour.
1. I will cease blatantly staying in the fast lane to piss off the asshole who is riding my bumper, despite the fact that I'm clipping along at 5 miles over the speed limit, as my mom recently pointed out that it could lead to me being run off the road and killed in some unseemly manner. Moms: so smart, so right.
2. I will return library books on time. Or, if they're late, I will have at least cracked the cover, considering I'll be paying the fine.
3. I will mop my kitchen floor more often.
4. [this is the space where I promise not to buy coffee every morning, but I'm taking it out already, since I know it's not going to happen.]
5. I will stop doing things like blogging about New Years resolutions in order to avoid school work or writing.
6. I will stop doing things specifically to irritate my sister, such as saving all the dog trading cards out of Penny's dog food and mailing them to her as if she's collecting them.
7. I will charge my phone.
8. I will try to respect the fact that Rob is a vampire and wants the curtains closed at all hours of the day.
9. I will stop being so anti-social, and I'll make an attempt at not being so sarcastic, but it won't work.
10. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I'm Anti-Social and Things I've Grown Tired Of
About the anti-social thing...
Last week I get this idea. I will make cookie trays as Christmas presents. I don't have an money, and we can give them to our neighbors too and blah blah blah. Apparently I was feeling both jolly and domestic. So I make the trays. I make O Henry bars and mint fudge and butter cookies and these.. other cookies. Then I cut them up and put them on plates and put little bows on them and nametags and they look nice. Then I realize that, to hand them out, I'll have to go talk to people. If you don't know why this is a problem yet, you maybe don't know me that well. I don't like talking to people. It has nothing to do with them. It's 100% me and my hermity self. Unfortunately, Rob is also kind of anti-social. I tell him "Go drop off the cookies Rob, I did all the baking." You see I really do want them to have the cookies, I just want them to have them without me talking to anyone in the process. If it were no unbelievably weird, I would stick the plates in their mailboxes. But it is.
Rob and I stand there in the kitchen, making deals. Here's what happens. I eventually have to bribe him. I promise to take him to Qdoba for lunch if he'll take the cookie trays, though I don't really even win that much, because he'll only do it with me, not for me.
And next year everyone will be getting Christmas cards instead.
And things I've grown tired of...
Here was my plan. When I found out I was pregnant, I did some reading up. According to my internet sources, caffeine is pretty much a no-go in the quantities that I drink it. Meaning no more espresso drinks. Okay. But wine.. according to most of the places I went, after the first trimester wine is okay if you drink it in small amounts infrequently. So I look forward to this. I look forward to this for three months as I am drinking absolutely no wine. I am also no longer running, which means that all of my favorite de-stressing things (caffeine, wine, running) are no longer allowed. But then the second trimester arrives. Beautiful, beautiful second trimester. So I start having one glass of wine per week. This is wonderful and satisfying until my doctor says, in no uncertain terms, no. Actually, despite what I've read to the contrary, on the internet and elsewhere, Dr. Doom tries to make it sound like one glass a week is going to result in a retarded baby. So, I stop. No more wine for me. I won't lie to you, it sucks.
But you know what sucks even more than missing all of those things? Coming across articles on pregnancy websites that say ridiculous things like "Instead of having a glass of wine at night, try to find some relaxing alternatives. For instance, take a warm bath or listen to some relaxing music."
I get it. I can't have any wine, or espresso, and I can't do my half marathon training this year. I'm not debating these facts. I'm not even trying to get around them, which is completely unlike me. I've come to grips with it. But don't tell me to go take a #$%^ing bath instead. Really? Have you had caffeine or wine? Have you then, in your little, tiny, full-of-suggestions mind, compared this to taking a bath? One of these things is not like the other, my friend. Your suggestions make me want to punch you. After I punch you, instead of punching me back or seeking medical attention, maybe you could take a nice warm bath. Or listen to some relaxing music. Won't that be nice?
Fool.
About the anti-social thing...
Last week I get this idea. I will make cookie trays as Christmas presents. I don't have an money, and we can give them to our neighbors too and blah blah blah. Apparently I was feeling both jolly and domestic. So I make the trays. I make O Henry bars and mint fudge and butter cookies and these.. other cookies. Then I cut them up and put them on plates and put little bows on them and nametags and they look nice. Then I realize that, to hand them out, I'll have to go talk to people. If you don't know why this is a problem yet, you maybe don't know me that well. I don't like talking to people. It has nothing to do with them. It's 100% me and my hermity self. Unfortunately, Rob is also kind of anti-social. I tell him "Go drop off the cookies Rob, I did all the baking." You see I really do want them to have the cookies, I just want them to have them without me talking to anyone in the process. If it were no unbelievably weird, I would stick the plates in their mailboxes. But it is.
Rob and I stand there in the kitchen, making deals. Here's what happens. I eventually have to bribe him. I promise to take him to Qdoba for lunch if he'll take the cookie trays, though I don't really even win that much, because he'll only do it with me, not for me.
And next year everyone will be getting Christmas cards instead.
And things I've grown tired of...
Here was my plan. When I found out I was pregnant, I did some reading up. According to my internet sources, caffeine is pretty much a no-go in the quantities that I drink it. Meaning no more espresso drinks. Okay. But wine.. according to most of the places I went, after the first trimester wine is okay if you drink it in small amounts infrequently. So I look forward to this. I look forward to this for three months as I am drinking absolutely no wine. I am also no longer running, which means that all of my favorite de-stressing things (caffeine, wine, running) are no longer allowed. But then the second trimester arrives. Beautiful, beautiful second trimester. So I start having one glass of wine per week. This is wonderful and satisfying until my doctor says, in no uncertain terms, no. Actually, despite what I've read to the contrary, on the internet and elsewhere, Dr. Doom tries to make it sound like one glass a week is going to result in a retarded baby. So, I stop. No more wine for me. I won't lie to you, it sucks.
But you know what sucks even more than missing all of those things? Coming across articles on pregnancy websites that say ridiculous things like "Instead of having a glass of wine at night, try to find some relaxing alternatives. For instance, take a warm bath or listen to some relaxing music."
I get it. I can't have any wine, or espresso, and I can't do my half marathon training this year. I'm not debating these facts. I'm not even trying to get around them, which is completely unlike me. I've come to grips with it. But don't tell me to go take a #$%^ing bath instead. Really? Have you had caffeine or wine? Have you then, in your little, tiny, full-of-suggestions mind, compared this to taking a bath? One of these things is not like the other, my friend. Your suggestions make me want to punch you. After I punch you, instead of punching me back or seeking medical attention, maybe you could take a nice warm bath. Or listen to some relaxing music. Won't that be nice?
Fool.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)
