I have spending a lot of time in the library, as of late. I have had an atrocious amount of school projects to complete in preparation for my upcoming stint as a student teacher in the second grade. I have attempted to take advantage of all the local libraries and I can truly say, there is no place like home. The Elk Grove Library is a comfortable study sanctuary. However, it is not always an option and with my, "take what I can get," schedule, I stop in to whatever library I am closest to.
Today, I sit in the Addison Library on this subpar Wednesday afternoon, I am having a difficult time ignoring my growling stomach. Unfortunately, in my haste of dropping Gigi off at school and maximizing my homework time (as I sit here typing a blog instead....), I forgot to bring any form of sustinance. I was daydreaming about my next meal when I was suddenly brought back to reality by the puddle of drool I had formed on the table, as well as my new study-neighbor.
He announced his arrival with a series of belches. He seems like a shower might do him some good, and I'm tempted to point out to him that he forgot to secure a button at the equator of his large gut and thus, I can see inside his shirt. But, before I have a chance to open my mouth, he begins ranting to himself yet aloud about something. I can't make out exactly what he is saying, other than keywords such as, "F*&K and Damn the Man." I didn't even know people really said the latter of the two. Then, he waddled off out of sight, taking with him, his stench, reminiscent of body odor and sloppy joes. I am feeling slightly clausterphobic and immensely unfocused now that my clean study air has been infiltrated by his odor.
When he returns, he is sporting a pair of eye glasses. I'm guessing he had forgotten them elsewhere in the library and that was the reason for his flirting dangerously with falling off the deep end. Now, he is flipping madly throught a newspaper and he catches me observing him. He shifts his eyes nervously side to side, before holding up a hand and saying hello. I return the gesture and we both get back to our respective work.
As I sit here, listening to him mumble, breathe heavily, and separate phlegm in his throat, I reflect upon library etiquette. I'm certainly more used to the old school version of sit quietly and don't cause a distraction. But, perhaps, there is a new age outlook and despite my love of all things mannerly, I am the odd one out....
Needless to say, my embarrassment about my growling stomach has ceased. And, that is probably because now, my appetite has too.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Frederica
I'm not Italian. I'm Danish. However, in my everyday life, I am forced to declare myself a pseudo-Italian 40-50 hours a week in order to keep up with the chaos which is my job. The girls that I nanny for, Isabella and Gigi, do not speak Italian but this family is rightfully proud of their heritage and welcome in, "the white girl," as part of their family.
Today was no exception. Enter....Frederica.....
Frederica is 8 years old, an age which she shares in common with my oldest, Bella. Other than that, not much else was similiar. Frederica is a chubby Italian cookie flown in from Sicily. She is crusing the country on a 45 day vacation with her parents and she doesn't speak a lick of English.
I'm not sure if its a Eurpoean entitlement syndrome, but Frederica's parents (cousins of my boss) took it upon themselves to sight-see the Chicago suburbs today, sans Frederica. Instead, they decided to drop her off in my care while they perused Woodfield Mall.
Now, accepting additional kids to watch isn't something I'm a stranger to (Love you, Ang!) but this was the first time that I was subjected to a foreigner of types. Loving a child knows no boundaries, but communication does! Frederica doesn't speak English and I don't speak Italian.
Enter.....problem....
Since Frederica's arrival was a surprise, I was unprepared for what my day held. Bella, although she doesn't speak English, was a playmate for Frederica in days past; however, today, she wasn't home. So, here we sit on opposite couches just smiling at each other. Gigi (4) is in my ear reminding me that Frederica can't understand what I say. Thanks, Gig.
I figure that I will take the two of them to the park. I tried to communicate this field trip to Frederica but all I got in return was smiles, a nod, and reptition of the word, park. Okay, I will just show her what the park is. We arrive and she sets up camp on the swings and doesn't really move. I mentioned before that she is a bit chubby, and I'm quickly sensing that the park is not her bag. Well, I figure that icecream speaks universally to all children, so we hop in the car once again and sit together in the local old-fashioned ice cream parlor. This is when the conversation begins. Oye.
Bless this sweet little darling's heart, she is a doll. She has wonderful intentions, but conversation was not be had. We sat over melting icecream, desparate to understand each other. Eventually, we made a bit of a break through and using single adjectives and a grandiose game of charades, we were able to "discuss," her trip to America.
Here is what I now know about Frederica: She went to Disney World. She lives in a house. She is going to be in 4th grade. Her school is not pretty. She has not pets but her cat scratched her. She likes vanilla icecream.
I can't be sure about the accuracy of most of those "Frederica Facts." I think she will be in fourth grade this year, but then she kept countingpast four to thirty. (Something we finally had in common, because, I too, can count to thirty). I also think she chose vanilla icecream because it was easier than trying to decide on a flavor.
From there, we reached a cultural understanding. We were going to bond our countries and teach eachother the language. We proceeded to point to things, for instance the washer and dryer and I would tell her what it was called in English and she would repeat it to me and then tell me the name in Italian. This satiated my teaching tendencies, but all good things must come to an end.
Gigi, I think, was stressed out and to dodge all the hardwork it took to communicate, she fell asleep on the couch. That left me and Fred. She wanted to watch tv. YES! Ohh, wait. TV-Disney Channel is in fact, in English. I turned in on anyway and quickly tuned myself out. I was quickly brought back to reality when Frederica showed up in my face, nose to nose, and relayed to me that she couldn't understand it. Oh boy. Finally, she just agreed to basically stare at the tv and admire how "beautiful," (a word in her English vocabulary, also used to describe my car) Hanna Montana is.
Finally, my Italian speaking boss arrives home and bridges the huge gap that crossed two countries. I slinked back onto the sidelines and nursed my tired Danish brain.
Lucky for me...the adventure doesn't stop here...Frederica is in town until next Thursday. Stay tuned.
Today was no exception. Enter....Frederica.....
Frederica is 8 years old, an age which she shares in common with my oldest, Bella. Other than that, not much else was similiar. Frederica is a chubby Italian cookie flown in from Sicily. She is crusing the country on a 45 day vacation with her parents and she doesn't speak a lick of English.
I'm not sure if its a Eurpoean entitlement syndrome, but Frederica's parents (cousins of my boss) took it upon themselves to sight-see the Chicago suburbs today, sans Frederica. Instead, they decided to drop her off in my care while they perused Woodfield Mall.
Now, accepting additional kids to watch isn't something I'm a stranger to (Love you, Ang!) but this was the first time that I was subjected to a foreigner of types. Loving a child knows no boundaries, but communication does! Frederica doesn't speak English and I don't speak Italian.
Enter.....problem....
Since Frederica's arrival was a surprise, I was unprepared for what my day held. Bella, although she doesn't speak English, was a playmate for Frederica in days past; however, today, she wasn't home. So, here we sit on opposite couches just smiling at each other. Gigi (4) is in my ear reminding me that Frederica can't understand what I say. Thanks, Gig.
I figure that I will take the two of them to the park. I tried to communicate this field trip to Frederica but all I got in return was smiles, a nod, and reptition of the word, park. Okay, I will just show her what the park is. We arrive and she sets up camp on the swings and doesn't really move. I mentioned before that she is a bit chubby, and I'm quickly sensing that the park is not her bag. Well, I figure that icecream speaks universally to all children, so we hop in the car once again and sit together in the local old-fashioned ice cream parlor. This is when the conversation begins. Oye.
Bless this sweet little darling's heart, she is a doll. She has wonderful intentions, but conversation was not be had. We sat over melting icecream, desparate to understand each other. Eventually, we made a bit of a break through and using single adjectives and a grandiose game of charades, we were able to "discuss," her trip to America.
Here is what I now know about Frederica: She went to Disney World. She lives in a house. She is going to be in 4th grade. Her school is not pretty. She has not pets but her cat scratched her. She likes vanilla icecream.
I can't be sure about the accuracy of most of those "Frederica Facts." I think she will be in fourth grade this year, but then she kept counting
From there, we reached a cultural understanding. We were going to bond our countries and teach eachother the language. We proceeded to point to things, for instance the washer and dryer and I would tell her what it was called in English and she would repeat it to me and then tell me the name in Italian. This satiated my teaching tendencies, but all good things must come to an end.
Gigi, I think, was stressed out and to dodge all the hardwork it took to communicate, she fell asleep on the couch. That left me and Fred. She wanted to watch tv. YES! Ohh, wait. TV-Disney Channel is in fact, in English. I turned in on anyway and quickly tuned myself out. I was quickly brought back to reality when Frederica showed up in my face, nose to nose, and relayed to me that she couldn't understand it. Oh boy. Finally, she just agreed to basically stare at the tv and admire how "beautiful," (a word in her English vocabulary, also used to describe my car) Hanna Montana is.
Finally, my Italian speaking boss arrives home and bridges the huge gap that crossed two countries. I slinked back onto the sidelines and nursed my tired Danish brain.
Lucky for me...the adventure doesn't stop here...Frederica is in town until next Thursday. Stay tuned.
Marriage Counseling
July 18th of this year offered the official exit for Pat and I from newlywed-dom. We are still new at this game, but the formal title has since expired and we are now on our own, no excuses.
It was just prior to our first wedding anniversary that I was unintentionally subjected to marriage counseling by the unlikliest of sources... my 9 year old nephew, Austin.
Austin was up visiting for the weekend. He loves coming to, "Chicago," so much that he will even settle for just his ole Auntie Ash when Pat is away for work. This was one of those weekends.
Austin and I had just exited a movie and sat down at Buffalo Wild Wings to eat dinner. Being 9, Austin was more intent on the video game at the table and his soon-to-be delivered hot wings than a conversation with me. I felt like I was dining alone. Then suddenly, he interupts my thoughts and offers me some advice.
Austin: "I don't have a girlfriend anymore. I pretty much just like being single."
Me:Really? What about Izzy? I thought you really liked her?
Austin: "Yea, but she always wanted it her way. That's how girls are. I wanted to play football at recess and she always made me chase her."
Me: "Do you think that is how all girls are?"
Austin: "Yea, that is why I don't think I'm going to get married."
Me: "Pat and I are married and we are happy."
Austin: "Yea, but wives nag. They always say you have to take the garbage out or clean up. You can't be like that Ash. It starts with recess and ends with the garbage."
Me:So that's what you think, huh?
Austin: "Yea, if you wanna keep married you can't be nagging. You gotta let Pat do what he wants."
Me: "So, I should say he can play football?"
Austin: "Yea, it's the only way."
My nephew can be a guy of few words, but when he has something to say, he likes to be heard. I definitely heard him that day. I laughed and relayed that story to Pat and my parents, but I never forgot his advice.
From that day on, I was careful to make sure Pat felt he had his freedom. But, for some reason, he still likes to chase me around..... ;)
It was just prior to our first wedding anniversary that I was unintentionally subjected to marriage counseling by the unlikliest of sources... my 9 year old nephew, Austin.
Austin was up visiting for the weekend. He loves coming to, "Chicago," so much that he will even settle for just his ole Auntie Ash when Pat is away for work. This was one of those weekends.
Austin and I had just exited a movie and sat down at Buffalo Wild Wings to eat dinner. Being 9, Austin was more intent on the video game at the table and his soon-to-be delivered hot wings than a conversation with me. I felt like I was dining alone. Then suddenly, he interupts my thoughts and offers me some advice.
Austin: "I don't have a girlfriend anymore. I pretty much just like being single."
Me:
Austin: "Yea, but she always wanted it her way. That's how girls are. I wanted to play football at recess and she always made me chase her."
Me: "Do you think that is how all girls are?"
Austin: "Yea, that is why I don't think I'm going to get married."
Me: "Pat and I are married and we are happy."
Austin: "Yea, but wives nag. They always say you have to take the garbage out or clean up. You can't be like that Ash. It starts with recess and ends with the garbage."
Me:
Austin: "Yea, if you wanna keep married you can't be nagging. You gotta let Pat do what he wants."
Me: "So, I should say he can play football?"
Austin: "Yea, it's the only way."
My nephew can be a guy of few words, but when he has something to say, he likes to be heard. I definitely heard him that day. I laughed and relayed that story to Pat and my parents, but I never forgot his advice.
From that day on, I was careful to make sure Pat felt he had his freedom. But, for some reason, he still likes to chase me around..... ;)
I see London, I see France, I can see your underpants....AGAIN!
As of tomorrow, it will be three months since I posted my last blog. It seems that I have all but abandoned my role as the blonde blogette; but, truth be told, it has simply been a busy summer. This evening, I am out-sourcing my services on the late shift, so I have ample time to catch you up on the latest and greatest news of the sunshine season.
One of the highlights of my summer has to do with my favorite holiday, Fourth of July, and my favorite pair of polka-dot underwear from Victoria's Secret. Underwear seems to be a pretty popular and laughable theme of my adventures, so it is deemed appropriate to share this story with you. Far be it for me to determine what one may find sexy; however I think I jumped to the waayyyyy other end of the spectrum with my granny panties debacle.
Pat's Aunt and Uncle host an annual Fourth of July party that brings together his own extended family, as well other's who are related on the other side. This was my first time attending the much talked about soiree and I was looking forward to seeing my newly married-in famly, as well as meeting the others. In total, I believe 35-ish people were invited.
I didn't think too much into my outfit for the day other than comfort and breathable alleviation from the heat! So, I wore an average white ribbed tank top paired with a navy blue cotton skirt. Very basic yet understatedly holiday-appropriate.
The party was a great time, but the heat was pretty intense so I spent the majority of the time following my very pregnant and very hot sister-in-law around like a lost puppy. I had lost my husband to a grueling volleyball game and the two cocktails that I had drained to ward of "dehydration," instead left a headache probing my left temple, so I sought refuge in the air conditioning (which by coincidence was also closer to the margarita machine). Danielle (that's the very pregnant and very hot sister-in-law) was pretty miserable so we sat inside where she could be more comfortable. I was enjoying bossing her around by making her move to the darker portion of the living room when she decided that she couldn't take it and ran off to the bathroom to lose her lunch. Like any lost puppy, I began to wander around aimlessly. I went upstairs, grazed the food, chatted up a fellow-partier and excused myself to the restroom.
When I returned, the interior of the home was deserted. I went back outside to join the party and stood in a cluster of my new family. I was chatting with Danielle, her husband Mo, and my parents-in-law. There was talk about the party winding down and the dispersing of families to their own dwellings, so my mother-in-law went off to start saying goodbye. Danielle and Mo wandered away as well, leaving my father-in-law and myself watching the volleyball game with our backs to the rest of the party. My father-in-law spotted my mother-in-law's shoes and holds them up to let her know he has them. All of the sudden I hear someone running up behind me. I glance over my shoulder and my mother-in-law is headed full speed at us. I kind of laugh and think to myself that these must really be her favorite shoes, or that her pedicure is suddenly at risk if she is warranting speeds that could challenge a cheetah.
As I turn back around to face the volleyball game, my mother-in-law fakes left and instead of scooping up her sandals she is pulling on my skirt! Um, excuuuuse me? I realize that I am newer to the family and some initiation may be due, but is depantsing me in front of family, strangers, and God really necessary? I spin around with what I imagine to be a horrified look on my face to see her expression mirroring my own. Then she lets the bomb drop. She alarmingly whispers, "Your skirt was tucked into your underwear!" I am shocked speechless. Um, Victoria obviously can't keep a damn secret if she is flashing my polka-dot pseudo granny panties to everyone at this party! Granted, they were bikini underwear, not true to form granny panties, but at this point we are just comparing apples to oranges.
I recover slightly and march directly over to Danielle. If you know anything about my newly-appointed older sister, you know that she wouldn't hesitate to point out my faux pas so I was shocked that I stood next to her for 15 minutes without a peep. I approach her and vehemently say, "I absolutely cannot believe that you didn't tell me that my skirt was tucked into my underwear after I had just you about the leftover vomit in your hair." It turns out, she hadn't seen. As many of the other party-goers hadn't also. I'm not sure why my humility was spared that day, but it turns out the only person that did see, was Mo. He is very conservative and he was embarrassed on my behalf and so instead of calling attention to it, he just walked away. Thanks. A. Lot.
Surprisingly, I wasn't all that embarrassed by the situation. I laughed a lot. But that is probably because it seems as though no one accepted their invitation to my peep show.
I wanted to make a good impression, and instead I made a lasting impression...welcome to the family, Ash!
One of the highlights of my summer has to do with my favorite holiday, Fourth of July, and my favorite pair of polka-dot underwear from Victoria's Secret. Underwear seems to be a pretty popular and laughable theme of my adventures, so it is deemed appropriate to share this story with you. Far be it for me to determine what one may find sexy; however I think I jumped to the waayyyyy other end of the spectrum with my granny panties debacle.
Pat's Aunt and Uncle host an annual Fourth of July party that brings together his own extended family, as well other's who are related on the other side. This was my first time attending the much talked about soiree and I was looking forward to seeing my newly married-in famly, as well as meeting the others. In total, I believe 35-ish people were invited.
I didn't think too much into my outfit for the day other than comfort and breathable alleviation from the heat! So, I wore an average white ribbed tank top paired with a navy blue cotton skirt. Very basic yet understatedly holiday-appropriate.
The party was a great time, but the heat was pretty intense so I spent the majority of the time following my very pregnant and very hot sister-in-law around like a lost puppy. I had lost my husband to a grueling volleyball game and the two cocktails that I had drained to ward of "dehydration," instead left a headache probing my left temple, so I sought refuge in the air conditioning (which by coincidence was also closer to the margarita machine). Danielle (that's the very pregnant and very hot sister-in-law) was pretty miserable so we sat inside where she could be more comfortable. I was enjoying bossing her around by making her move to the darker portion of the living room when she decided that she couldn't take it and ran off to the bathroom to lose her lunch. Like any lost puppy, I began to wander around aimlessly. I went upstairs, grazed the food, chatted up a fellow-partier and excused myself to the restroom.
When I returned, the interior of the home was deserted. I went back outside to join the party and stood in a cluster of my new family. I was chatting with Danielle, her husband Mo, and my parents-in-law. There was talk about the party winding down and the dispersing of families to their own dwellings, so my mother-in-law went off to start saying goodbye. Danielle and Mo wandered away as well, leaving my father-in-law and myself watching the volleyball game with our backs to the rest of the party. My father-in-law spotted my mother-in-law's shoes and holds them up to let her know he has them. All of the sudden I hear someone running up behind me. I glance over my shoulder and my mother-in-law is headed full speed at us. I kind of laugh and think to myself that these must really be her favorite shoes, or that her pedicure is suddenly at risk if she is warranting speeds that could challenge a cheetah.
As I turn back around to face the volleyball game, my mother-in-law fakes left and instead of scooping up her sandals she is pulling on my skirt! Um, excuuuuse me? I realize that I am newer to the family and some initiation may be due, but is depantsing me in front of family, strangers, and God really necessary? I spin around with what I imagine to be a horrified look on my face to see her expression mirroring my own. Then she lets the bomb drop. She alarmingly whispers, "Your skirt was tucked into your underwear!" I am shocked speechless. Um, Victoria obviously can't keep a damn secret if she is flashing my polka-dot pseudo granny panties to everyone at this party! Granted, they were bikini underwear, not true to form granny panties, but at this point we are just comparing apples to oranges.
I recover slightly and march directly over to Danielle. If you know anything about my newly-appointed older sister, you know that she wouldn't hesitate to point out my faux pas so I was shocked that I stood next to her for 15 minutes without a peep. I approach her and vehemently say, "I absolutely cannot believe that you didn't tell me that my skirt was tucked into my underwear after I had just you about the leftover vomit in your hair." It turns out, she hadn't seen. As many of the other party-goers hadn't also. I'm not sure why my humility was spared that day, but it turns out the only person that did see, was Mo. He is very conservative and he was embarrassed on my behalf and so instead of calling attention to it, he just walked away. Thanks. A. Lot.
Surprisingly, I wasn't all that embarrassed by the situation. I laughed a lot. But that is probably because it seems as though no one accepted their invitation to my peep show.
I wanted to make a good impression, and instead I made a lasting impression...welcome to the family, Ash!
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Cop on Top
I enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning to jump-start my day. I enjoy the taste, and the smell, to me, is motivating because I associate it with getting my day started.
However, I am not a self-proclaimed addict that has trouble speaking or functioning prior to that first cup 'o joe. Nope, not me. Some days, I may yearn for it more intensely than others; but overall, I simply find it an enhancement to my morning.
And, on days when I want to up the ante on that enhancement, I drive-thru Dunkin' Donuts and order a medium easy/easy (easy cream/easy sugar). On this morning, in particular, I had difficulty waking up; so, as I neared my job, I decided to use my extra 7 minutes to grab a cup.
I pulled into the parking lot and immediately came upon two individuals accepting donations for the Special Olympics. Now, if you know me or have read my previous blogs, you know that I cannot turn-down the opportunity to help a cause, especially the Special Olympics.
Unfortunately, I came to a stifling realization that I had nothing to offer. I do not carry cash and two weeks prior, I had emptied my ashtray of change into the donation bucket for the fire department. Oye.
I avoid eye contact with the first woman as I am frantically trying to come up with something offer as I approach the second one. Obviously, these people want cold hard cash and the contents of my car which includes: hand sanitizer, bubbles from a previous weekend's wedding, and a pair of tap shoes will not suffice.
But, suddenly I am ripped from my flustered thoughts by a voice "encouraging," the female in the black ford escape to stop and make a charitable donation.
Umm, excuse me?? GOD, is that you?
I slam on my breaks, convinced that I am receiving Divine signals to do big things. I pull up to the lady holding her can showcasing participants of the Special Olympics and my heart tears even more. Yes, I must give her my car. Certainly, they can use it for something for these people, right??
Just as I am about to unbuckle my seat belt I glance over my shoulder and what should I see? A police officer. On. The. Roof. Yea, not The Almighty. I was both silently relieved that I could keep my car and irritated that he had called me out on a bullhorn for not stopping at the first lady.
Still, this does nothing for my fear of having nothing to offer her for one of my favorite causes. I'm flipping through my wallet hoping some cash magically appears, and, IT DOES! I offer up $4 and just as I'm about to pull away, I hear Officer Bull-Horn calling out to me again. This time, requesting that I give him a wave. Well, officer, let's not make this about us or anything, right?
I give an obligatory hi-de-ho and in response receive: "Hey! Be in a good mood, its Friday!" Really?? REALLY? Look, I said that I don't need a daily dose of caffeine to function, but it certainly helps. So, how fair is it to accuse me of being crabby prior to having my first taste of caffeinated bliss. Its not.
And, for the record, I was in a good mood. Forgive me for being a little shocked at being shouted at from the rooftops, literally. All in all, its a good cause and I am thrilled at having contributed to it, even with my measly $4 and near-fatal heart attack.
I drove away and my coffee tasted particularly delicious knowing that it was hard-earned and went toward the Special Olympics. But, I'm not gonna lie....everywhere I go today, I'm looking up so I can be prepared for the next, 'Cop on Top.'
However, I am not a self-proclaimed addict that has trouble speaking or functioning prior to that first cup 'o joe. Nope, not me. Some days, I may yearn for it more intensely than others; but overall, I simply find it an enhancement to my morning.
And, on days when I want to up the ante on that enhancement, I drive-thru Dunkin' Donuts and order a medium easy/easy (easy cream/easy sugar). On this morning, in particular, I had difficulty waking up; so, as I neared my job, I decided to use my extra 7 minutes to grab a cup.
I pulled into the parking lot and immediately came upon two individuals accepting donations for the Special Olympics. Now, if you know me or have read my previous blogs, you know that I cannot turn-down the opportunity to help a cause, especially the Special Olympics.
Unfortunately, I came to a stifling realization that I had nothing to offer. I do not carry cash and two weeks prior, I had emptied my ashtray of change into the donation bucket for the fire department. Oye.
I avoid eye contact with the first woman as I am frantically trying to come up with something offer as I approach the second one. Obviously, these people want cold hard cash and the contents of my car which includes: hand sanitizer, bubbles from a previous weekend's wedding, and a pair of tap shoes will not suffice.
But, suddenly I am ripped from my flustered thoughts by a voice "encouraging," the female in the black ford escape to stop and make a charitable donation.
Umm, excuse me?? GOD, is that you?
I slam on my breaks, convinced that I am receiving Divine signals to do big things. I pull up to the lady holding her can showcasing participants of the Special Olympics and my heart tears even more. Yes, I must give her my car. Certainly, they can use it for something for these people, right??
Just as I am about to unbuckle my seat belt I glance over my shoulder and what should I see? A police officer. On. The. Roof. Yea, not The Almighty. I was both silently relieved that I could keep my car and irritated that he had called me out on a bullhorn for not stopping at the first lady.
Still, this does nothing for my fear of having nothing to offer her for one of my favorite causes. I'm flipping through my wallet hoping some cash magically appears, and, IT DOES! I offer up $4 and just as I'm about to pull away, I hear Officer Bull-Horn calling out to me again. This time, requesting that I give him a wave. Well, officer, let's not make this about us or anything, right?
I give an obligatory hi-de-ho and in response receive: "Hey! Be in a good mood, its Friday!" Really?? REALLY? Look, I said that I don't need a daily dose of caffeine to function, but it certainly helps. So, how fair is it to accuse me of being crabby prior to having my first taste of caffeinated bliss. Its not.
And, for the record, I was in a good mood. Forgive me for being a little shocked at being shouted at from the rooftops, literally. All in all, its a good cause and I am thrilled at having contributed to it, even with my measly $4 and near-fatal heart attack.
I drove away and my coffee tasted particularly delicious knowing that it was hard-earned and went toward the Special Olympics. But, I'm not gonna lie....everywhere I go today, I'm looking up so I can be prepared for the next, 'Cop on Top.'
Monday, April 12, 2010
Gazelles and Guidos
As I mentioned in previous blogs, once my wedding came and went I decided to indulge in all of the things that I had prohibited in my diet prior to the "BIG," day. And, again, as I mentioned in previous blog. I. Never. Stopped. It was a sad sight and now I am most certainly paying for it.
Now, left to my own devices, I have made a peace offering with my arch enemy, CARDIO, by joining my local $10/month gym, and decided to learn to tolerate it. (Really?! Like I'm gonna pay some outrageous membership at a big name gym. I'd rather look like a sausage in cute casing).
That brings us to tonight. After I locked myself in the library for 3.5 hours worth of writing papers, my guilty conscious got the best of me and the next thing I knew, I was sitting in the parking lot of the gym at 10 o'clock at night. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.
I trudged inside only find out that EVERYONE in the entire world, was at the gym. Ugghh, you have to be kidding me. It was almost as bad a Saturday morning! I tend to prefer keeping under the exercise radar. I like to do my business, sweat, watch some muted tv, and head home for a shower.
Unfortunately, tonight, I was forced to take my spot between a guido that obviously had the Jersey Shore: GTL down to a slick science, and a former cheerleader with a pretty face but a severe case of camel toe. In case that isn't enough, the guy in front of me was fighting a serious bout of back-acne that was sprouting out of his wife-beater.
It was at this point that I stopped the cross trainer and checked my heart rate...I was convinced that I must be working too hard because it was not possible that this was my reality. It was. Planet Fitness after dark brings out the crazies. People don't come to work out, they come to be seen and scope out the opposite sex. Eeps! I was used to the 7am geriatric crew who really showed up for the poppyseed bagels provided on the first Tuesday of the month. This made me hang my un-makeupped face even lower. As I did so, I began to examine my movements on this cross trainer device. I was a newbie, I usually stuck to my normal routine but per a suggestion, sought put a cross trainer.
Now, now, don't make fun. I've tried the elliptical before and I am an absolute mess! I get discombobulated and twisted and motion sick. As a result, I have never done much research into it's close relatives, until tonight. I hopped on one, entered my height and weight and, I was off! I suddenly felt very free! Like I was a gazelle, hopping magically throughout the gym.
In reality, the mirror next to me showcased a less graceful blob in all black, chugging along. Oh well, I hadn't lost my footing yet. Oh no, spoke to soon. Just as I was looking down to figure out whether my feet were moving forward or backward on this magical device, I tripped. I was able to recover but not without squeal and death-grip on the handle bars.
Those handles were my favorite aspect. Not only did they save my life, but you could hold them in three different places for your cross training comfort AND they didn't move. This was a stellar addition to my lack of coordination. Once, I regained my composure from my near death-by-gliding, I peeked up to see if anyone had noticed. The unfortunate looking red head to my left had since abandoned his machine, I hope I hadn't scared him away from his 6 minutes of exercising. And, the sassy Latina to my right side was simultaneously text messaging, popping her chewing gum, and making kissy faces at Jose with her frosted pink lips and burgundy lip liner. Jose liked her too, she had an ass for days.
Ultimately, though, my time came to an end. All of this people watching had made it pass by quickly and after my initial hiccups, I mastered the machine. I'm thinking that late-night working out isn't such a bad thing, its good for people watching. Except next time, I'm going to have to do better to develop sports bra cleavage, tease my hair, and get tips from the ex-cheerleader on how to achieve optimal camel-toe in my yoga pants.
All in the name of health and wellness....
Now, left to my own devices, I have made a peace offering with my arch enemy, CARDIO, by joining my local $10/month gym, and decided to learn to tolerate it. (Really?! Like I'm gonna pay some outrageous membership at a big name gym. I'd rather look like a sausage in cute casing).
That brings us to tonight. After I locked myself in the library for 3.5 hours worth of writing papers, my guilty conscious got the best of me and the next thing I knew, I was sitting in the parking lot of the gym at 10 o'clock at night. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.
I trudged inside only find out that EVERYONE in the entire world, was at the gym. Ugghh, you have to be kidding me. It was almost as bad a Saturday morning! I tend to prefer keeping under the exercise radar. I like to do my business, sweat, watch some muted tv, and head home for a shower.
Unfortunately, tonight, I was forced to take my spot between a guido that obviously had the Jersey Shore: GTL down to a slick science, and a former cheerleader with a pretty face but a severe case of camel toe. In case that isn't enough, the guy in front of me was fighting a serious bout of back-acne that was sprouting out of his wife-beater.
It was at this point that I stopped the cross trainer and checked my heart rate...I was convinced that I must be working too hard because it was not possible that this was my reality. It was. Planet Fitness after dark brings out the crazies. People don't come to work out, they come to be seen and scope out the opposite sex. Eeps! I was used to the 7am geriatric crew who really showed up for the poppyseed bagels provided on the first Tuesday of the month. This made me hang my un-makeupped face even lower. As I did so, I began to examine my movements on this cross trainer device. I was a newbie, I usually stuck to my normal routine but per a suggestion, sought put a cross trainer.
Now, now, don't make fun. I've tried the elliptical before and I am an absolute mess! I get discombobulated and twisted and motion sick. As a result, I have never done much research into it's close relatives, until tonight. I hopped on one, entered my height and weight and, I was off! I suddenly felt very free! Like I was a gazelle, hopping magically throughout the gym.
In reality, the mirror next to me showcased a less graceful blob in all black, chugging along. Oh well, I hadn't lost my footing yet. Oh no, spoke to soon. Just as I was looking down to figure out whether my feet were moving forward or backward on this magical device, I tripped. I was able to recover but not without squeal and death-grip on the handle bars.
Those handles were my favorite aspect. Not only did they save my life, but you could hold them in three different places for your cross training comfort AND they didn't move. This was a stellar addition to my lack of coordination. Once, I regained my composure from my near death-by-gliding, I peeked up to see if anyone had noticed. The unfortunate looking red head to my left had since abandoned his machine, I hope I hadn't scared him away from his 6 minutes of exercising. And, the sassy Latina to my right side was simultaneously text messaging, popping her chewing gum, and making kissy faces at Jose with her frosted pink lips and burgundy lip liner. Jose liked her too, she had an ass for days.
Ultimately, though, my time came to an end. All of this people watching had made it pass by quickly and after my initial hiccups, I mastered the machine. I'm thinking that late-night working out isn't such a bad thing, its good for people watching. Except next time, I'm going to have to do better to develop sports bra cleavage, tease my hair, and get tips from the ex-cheerleader on how to achieve optimal camel-toe in my yoga pants.
All in the name of health and wellness....
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Carolina Thieves
Following my latest blog, I noticed that all of my topics seem to follow a similar theme: sleep. I do enjoy catching my fair share of Zzzz's, but perhaps if I think of a new topic, my insomnia will subside. Let's find out...
Today, while Bella was watching a movie and Gigi was napping (shoot! there is that sleep thing again...) my phone rang. It was sitting next to me on the couch and began ringing and vibrating violently against the leather cushion. I scrambled to silence it so that it wouldn't wake up the Gig and instead sent it crashing into the leg of the coffee table before finally landing on the floor. I swooped it up only to see an unidentified number being displayed. Shit. I hate those. It wasn't private, but I wasn't familiar with the arrangement of numbers flashing on my screen.
To answer? Or, not to answer? This 'twas the question and I was running out of time before it went to voicemail and I would risk never knowing the caller's identity. (P.S. I haaaaate when people don't leave messages. If you don't, chances are I just won't call you back. Sorry, but if it was important you would have notified me...) ANYWAY, I finally decide to put my big girl panties on and answer it.
Oh, its Kathy...of course. Oh. Wait. I don't actually know that many Kathys that would actually being calling me. Okay, now I'm intrigued while also frantic and silently ticking off my monthly bills in my head to make sure I didn't miss any payments. Kathy. Kathy, from National City. Oh, that's my bank, now she has my attention. Kathy is inquiring about whether I am currently travelling. Thanks Kathy, that's nice but as much as I would enjoy a vacay about now my location isn't changing anytime soon. Why??? I'm sorry, I visited how many gas stations in North Carolina yesterday? Nine? UM, NO.
Kathy is a lovely woman, but I'm not liking where our phone call is headed. Apparently, my check card number had been stolen from under my nose and this "individual," has been helping themselves to Pat's and my hard earned money. Once we verified that I had absolutely not, under any circumstances authorized these debits we began taking the necessary steps for future prevention. While going through the process of cancelling my card, my mind wandered to the character of this type of, "individual."
Obviously, we are not dealing with someone honest or kind. But, apparently, not smart either. I mean realllly, did they gas-up an entire fleet of vehicles? Was it a one-person attempt at alleviating gas prices for the community by filling up people's cars at my expense? Literally.
Personally, I am not very criminally-astute but I imagine that if I was going to steal someone's credit card and had only a few days to go unnoticed, I'm not going to be hanging out at the local 711. Nordstrom would probably be my first stop for clothes to pack my bags for the vacation that I would be funding shortly thereafter. I don't know about you but, right?!? Not that the amount of money in my checking account would be enough for a lavish get-away, but where is the creativity people?
I hate to judge this person, okay I really don't, but we are probably talking about some redneck from the hills who had to stock up on the latest Nascar travelmugs cigarette lighters, and a case of PBR. Or, twelve. What are those original Jeff Gordon mugs going for these days anywho? Guess we will see when the bill comes in.
Until then, I am forced to hold vigils over my checking account and fill out a form for every. single. mysterious. purchase. Thank YOU, Mr. (or Mrs.) Dishonest Asshole from North Carolina. I hope you gasssed up to your heart's desire, because Karma is a biatch.
Today, while Bella was watching a movie and Gigi was napping (shoot! there is that sleep thing again...) my phone rang. It was sitting next to me on the couch and began ringing and vibrating violently against the leather cushion. I scrambled to silence it so that it wouldn't wake up the Gig and instead sent it crashing into the leg of the coffee table before finally landing on the floor. I swooped it up only to see an unidentified number being displayed. Shit. I hate those. It wasn't private, but I wasn't familiar with the arrangement of numbers flashing on my screen.
To answer? Or, not to answer? This 'twas the question and I was running out of time before it went to voicemail and I would risk never knowing the caller's identity. (P.S. I haaaaate when people don't leave messages. If you don't, chances are I just won't call you back. Sorry, but if it was important you would have notified me...) ANYWAY, I finally decide to put my big girl panties on and answer it.
Oh, its Kathy...of course. Oh. Wait. I don't actually know that many Kathys that would actually being calling me. Okay, now I'm intrigued while also frantic and silently ticking off my monthly bills in my head to make sure I didn't miss any payments. Kathy. Kathy, from National City. Oh, that's my bank, now she has my attention. Kathy is inquiring about whether I am currently travelling. Thanks Kathy, that's nice but as much as I would enjoy a vacay about now my location isn't changing anytime soon. Why??? I'm sorry, I visited how many gas stations in North Carolina yesterday? Nine? UM, NO.
Kathy is a lovely woman, but I'm not liking where our phone call is headed. Apparently, my check card number had been stolen from under my nose and this "individual," has been helping themselves to Pat's and my hard earned money. Once we verified that I had absolutely not, under any circumstances authorized these debits we began taking the necessary steps for future prevention. While going through the process of cancelling my card, my mind wandered to the character of this type of, "individual."
Obviously, we are not dealing with someone honest or kind. But, apparently, not smart either. I mean realllly, did they gas-up an entire fleet of vehicles? Was it a one-person attempt at alleviating gas prices for the community by filling up people's cars at my expense? Literally.
Personally, I am not very criminally-astute but I imagine that if I was going to steal someone's credit card and had only a few days to go unnoticed, I'm not going to be hanging out at the local 711. Nordstrom would probably be my first stop for clothes to pack my bags for the vacation that I would be funding shortly thereafter. I don't know about you but, right?!? Not that the amount of money in my checking account would be enough for a lavish get-away, but where is the creativity people?
I hate to judge this person, okay I really don't, but we are probably talking about some redneck from the hills who had to stock up on the latest Nascar travelmugs cigarette lighters, and a case of PBR. Or, twelve. What are those original Jeff Gordon mugs going for these days anywho? Guess we will see when the bill comes in.
Until then, I am forced to hold vigils over my checking account and fill out a form for every. single. mysterious. purchase. Thank YOU, Mr. (or Mrs.) Dishonest Asshole from North Carolina. I hope you gasssed up to your heart's desire, because Karma is a biatch.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
GIRLS' WEEKEND!
It feels late, but really, it is only 10 o'clock. I'm exhausted, but somehow, I can't seem to fall asleep. Perhaps it has something to do with the incessant purr-like snore that is drowning out my thoughts...or... it could be the arms and legs tangled around me. You're smart. If you read my previous blog, then you immediately think that my husband is keeping me awake.
But alas, the spider monkey is snoozing somewhere in Holiday Inn in Arkansas tonight. Instead, this morning began the 108 hours that I will be spending with my small friends, Bella and Gigi. Generally, we spend every day together, but we are embarking on our first official: "GIRLS' WEEKEND!" It is an extended sleepover of sorts. Like any normal, "girls' night," we gossiped about boys at school over our evening snack of sugar-free chocolate pudding. (Unfortunately for me and my diet endeavors, this meant a clementine, bummer). We swiped away the chocolate-staches and headed upstairs to get ready for bed.
Now, I've slept with my mini-chicks on several ocassions and albeit fun, it never works out very well for me. First, we tried having a sleepover at my house. Being the poor newly-weds that we are, my husband and I still have a double bed post-Ashley's college leftovers. This size bed does nothing for one's personal space, but when you try to cram a 26 year old, an 8 year old, and a 3 year old, it only intensifies that and creates the PG version of WWF. I spent most of that night with one foot on the floor to maintain my balance while playing referee to the small femmes fighting for space. STRIKE ONE.
The second attempt at a sleepover was more successful. It occurred during a semi-recent "business trip," to Florida. My bosses gave me, Bella, and Gigi full reign of the master bedroom ala king size bed. Sa-weet. Somehow, though, in the wee hours of the morning, the three of us were sharing one half of the bed and I was wearing a curled-up Gigi as a hat on my head. STRIKE TWO.
So, that brings us to tonight and the 3 nights following...we have been in bed for all of one hour and there is already a gray rain cloud hovering over my pillow just waiting to pour a healthy dose of STRIKE THREE all over me. Initially, I tried to make this a fun event. I told the girls of my golden secret for the most comfy bed ever. They listened intently as I told them that it is all in the pillows and then they scampered away to collect every pillow upstairs. We made the crown in which I swear by as a solo-sleeper and I prepared to get them settled in. They loved it!
I turn off the lights, get a running start, and jump right into bed with them! I might as well have hit a slab of concrete. What the hell good is a king sized bed if it is made of c-e-m-e-n-t??? I mean reallllly. I do not believe in these, "Tempurpedic matresses." Sorry to be harsh, but I want to sink right in, not wake up feeling battered and bruised. The icing on the cake, or rather: the last slather of wet-cement on the slab, was the matching tempurpedic pillow. Awesome. Whatever, I can deal with this. So, I lay down and by the time everyone has found their niche, the crown of pillows is absolved and thrown haphazardly on the floor. (Remember the hazard part of that, because I'm sure in the middle of the night, they will become just that and I will trip over them and break an ankle. A later blog, I am sure).
As we lay there, I realize how utterly drained I am physically from the fieldtrip we had taken to my bootcamp earlier that evening. Maannn, I can't wait to be asleep! Yea, not so much. There is non-stop giggling and chatting that I quickly put the kabosh on, given that it is a school night. After a few idle threats of sending them to sleep in the bathtub, the talking ceases and Bella is asleep within minutes.
My 3 year old buddy, Gigi has a different idea though. She is decidely not tired and so when my phone chimes a text message alert, her face is right next to mine, "eagerly inquiring about who is typing to us." Obviously, sending SOS's out to my friends isn't going to work so I flip my phone over and try a new tactic to wear her down.
I close my eyes and pretend that I have already fallen asleep. Shortly thereafter, I feel a poking into my cheek, right where my crater-sized dimple normally sits. I open my eyes and she is RIGHT there, nose-to-nose checking to see when I open my eyes. It was hard not to laugh, so I kiss her nose and tell her to lay back down. She does and next time I peek open my eyes to check, she is RIGHT there again, nose-to-nose. There was no preliminary poking this time, she skipped the niceties and went right for intimidation.
Okay, time to get tougher. I close my eyes and flip on my side. She can't inspect my sinus cavity now that my shoulder has formed a wall between us, but its only seconds later before I hear her tiny whisper. I lay silent to hear what she is saying, convinced that she is putting a hex on me. She is reciting her numbers, so I open my eyes only to see the time projected from the clock onto the ceiling. Greeaat, a tempurpedic bed AND a crazy outer-space clock. I flip over to face her and inform her of the real time and that its getting suuuper late for little ladies to be awake and she is staring past me, transfixed on the clock.
Its a good thing I knew the clock was there, because the way she was staring was kind of creepy-kids-have-a-sixth-sense kind of thing and I did not come this weekend equipped to vanquish spirits or exorcise demons. Needless to say, at 10 o'clock, on the dot, I heard her breathing become steady and slow. The arm that she had cupping my ear had gone limp and eventually curled itself under her cheek.
I quietly crept out of bed, suddenly wide-awake, and tip-toed to the next room to facebook stalk, catch up on my celebrity gossip, and blog. As the minutes have worn on, my fatigue has returned but I am fearful about the state in which I will find the bed when I return. Covers will have been stolen, legs kicking mercilessly for space, and my once vacated spot will have been overcome by tiny dreaming angels.
Its all worth it and I'm absolutely sure that is exactly what I will be thinking when 6:15 rolls around and my alarm is blaring in my ear. Oh well, atleast I know I won't be late for work!
Oh, P.S. Who cheats on Sandra Bullock?! I mean really, does Jesse James think he can do better than her?? Pssh....
But alas, the spider monkey is snoozing somewhere in Holiday Inn in Arkansas tonight. Instead, this morning began the 108 hours that I will be spending with my small friends, Bella and Gigi. Generally, we spend every day together, but we are embarking on our first official: "GIRLS' WEEKEND!" It is an extended sleepover of sorts. Like any normal, "girls' night," we gossiped about boys at school over our evening snack of sugar-free chocolate pudding. (Unfortunately for me and my diet endeavors, this meant a clementine, bummer). We swiped away the chocolate-staches and headed upstairs to get ready for bed.
Now, I've slept with my mini-chicks on several ocassions and albeit fun, it never works out very well for me. First, we tried having a sleepover at my house. Being the poor newly-weds that we are, my husband and I still have a double bed post-Ashley's college leftovers. This size bed does nothing for one's personal space, but when you try to cram a 26 year old, an 8 year old, and a 3 year old, it only intensifies that and creates the PG version of WWF. I spent most of that night with one foot on the floor to maintain my balance while playing referee to the small femmes fighting for space. STRIKE ONE.
The second attempt at a sleepover was more successful. It occurred during a semi-recent "business trip," to Florida. My bosses gave me, Bella, and Gigi full reign of the master bedroom ala king size bed. Sa-weet. Somehow, though, in the wee hours of the morning, the three of us were sharing one half of the bed and I was wearing a curled-up Gigi as a hat on my head. STRIKE TWO.
So, that brings us to tonight and the 3 nights following...we have been in bed for all of one hour and there is already a gray rain cloud hovering over my pillow just waiting to pour a healthy dose of STRIKE THREE all over me. Initially, I tried to make this a fun event. I told the girls of my golden secret for the most comfy bed ever. They listened intently as I told them that it is all in the pillows and then they scampered away to collect every pillow upstairs. We made the crown in which I swear by as a solo-sleeper and I prepared to get them settled in. They loved it!
I turn off the lights, get a running start, and jump right into bed with them! I might as well have hit a slab of concrete. What the hell good is a king sized bed if it is made of c-e-m-e-n-t??? I mean reallllly. I do not believe in these, "Tempurpedic matresses." Sorry to be harsh, but I want to sink right in, not wake up feeling battered and bruised. The icing on the cake, or rather: the last slather of wet-cement on the slab, was the matching tempurpedic pillow. Awesome. Whatever, I can deal with this. So, I lay down and by the time everyone has found their niche, the crown of pillows is absolved and thrown haphazardly on the floor. (Remember the hazard part of that, because I'm sure in the middle of the night, they will become just that and I will trip over them and break an ankle. A later blog, I am sure).
As we lay there, I realize how utterly drained I am physically from the fieldtrip we had taken to my bootcamp earlier that evening. Maannn, I can't wait to be asleep! Yea, not so much. There is non-stop giggling and chatting that I quickly put the kabosh on, given that it is a school night. After a few idle threats of sending them to sleep in the bathtub, the talking ceases and Bella is asleep within minutes.
My 3 year old buddy, Gigi has a different idea though. She is decidely not tired and so when my phone chimes a text message alert, her face is right next to mine, "eagerly inquiring about who is typing to us." Obviously, sending SOS's out to my friends isn't going to work so I flip my phone over and try a new tactic to wear her down.
I close my eyes and pretend that I have already fallen asleep. Shortly thereafter, I feel a poking into my cheek, right where my crater-sized dimple normally sits. I open my eyes and she is RIGHT there, nose-to-nose checking to see when I open my eyes. It was hard not to laugh, so I kiss her nose and tell her to lay back down. She does and next time I peek open my eyes to check, she is RIGHT there again, nose-to-nose. There was no preliminary poking this time, she skipped the niceties and went right for intimidation.
Okay, time to get tougher. I close my eyes and flip on my side. She can't inspect my sinus cavity now that my shoulder has formed a wall between us, but its only seconds later before I hear her tiny whisper. I lay silent to hear what she is saying, convinced that she is putting a hex on me. She is reciting her numbers, so I open my eyes only to see the time projected from the clock onto the ceiling. Greeaat, a tempurpedic bed AND a crazy outer-space clock. I flip over to face her and inform her of the real time and that its getting suuuper late for little ladies to be awake and she is staring past me, transfixed on the clock.
Its a good thing I knew the clock was there, because the way she was staring was kind of creepy-kids-have-a-sixth-sense kind of thing and I did not come this weekend equipped to vanquish spirits or exorcise demons. Needless to say, at 10 o'clock, on the dot, I heard her breathing become steady and slow. The arm that she had cupping my ear had gone limp and eventually curled itself under her cheek.
I quietly crept out of bed, suddenly wide-awake, and tip-toed to the next room to facebook stalk, catch up on my celebrity gossip, and blog. As the minutes have worn on, my fatigue has returned but I am fearful about the state in which I will find the bed when I return. Covers will have been stolen, legs kicking mercilessly for space, and my once vacated spot will have been overcome by tiny dreaming angels.
Its all worth it and I'm absolutely sure that is exactly what I will be thinking when 6:15 rolls around and my alarm is blaring in my ear. Oh well, atleast I know I won't be late for work!
Oh, P.S. Who cheats on Sandra Bullock?! I mean really, does Jesse James think he can do better than her?? Pssh....
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Tick Tock, Tick Tock
I was laying in bed, nursing a headache and squeezing my eyes closed tightly in an effort to will sleep to come to me, but it didn't happen. So, per my usual, my insomnia has brought forth a craving to write.
I have a hard time understanding why I must continuously convince Gigi that naps are good and finally compromise that she doesn't have to sleep, just "rest." She usually ends up giving into to the snoozing gods anyway for a good two hours, while I am silently left bartering my first-born child in exchange for the opportunity for my own nap.
However, when the time comes for me to finally crawl into bed at the end of the day, I turn out the lights, rev up my humidifier, place my glass of water and chapstick nearby and wait....and wait...and wait. It seems odd to me on the nights that Pat is away, I tend to sleep restlessly, if at all. When he is home, it is a completely different story and by 10 o'clock on the dot, I am hit with a sledgehammer and out like a light. During times like this, when I am watching the hours melt away until I have to get up again, I try to sort out what exactly I am missing.
I certainly miss his company, but I do not miss his cover-stealing spread eagle spider monkey sleep habits. My big skinny man may appear to exude masculinity, but I am about to out him. He is a cuddle FREAK. When we intially turn out the lights, I enjoy some light spooning for about 5 minutes. I like feeling his warmth next to me, but it isn't too long before I need my space. But not Pat. Ohhh no, once he sticks himself to me, he leech-like ALL NIGHT LONG. Just the other night I recall waking up 3 times.
Time #1: I'm cold. Our bed is the host to a flat sheet, fleece blanket, and down comforter, but at 2am, there isn't a cover to be found. I decide I need to handle this problem with a bit of force based on its frequency, so I stand up, grab the edge of the covers and YANK them to my side. Somehow, to my horror, he comes with the covers and my next feat is to scoot him over, back to his side. I cross the room to his side of the bed and bend down. I try to coax him over with niceties but when he isn't responding to my cooing, I put my hands on my hips (Ashley pouting-pissy style) and yell his name. He jolts awake. Scoots. Problem solved.
Time #2: I'm f-a-l-l-i-n-g! What in the world?! I feel the edge of the bed getting closer and in my sleepy haste, I am frantically grasping at the night stand and my pillow. Apparently, my knight-in-shining-armor has felt the need to claim his territory and x-marks the spot! He is laying on his stomach in the shape of a perfect X. Now, if you will allow me to mentally illustrate this scene for you, I can be found folded in half, having been eaten by the outside portion of his X-clamation of space...
FINALLY, some sleep....
Time #3: It seems as though only mere minutes have passed since the previous debacles and already I find myself awake again. This time the culprit is my husband's effort at a lullaby for himself...snoring. I shove a hip in his direction. Nothing. In fact, its now louder. Okay, fine. I elbow him in his ribs, twice. Still nothing. I pull out my triple threat: hip-check, elbow, and yelling his name all at one time. His response: "What?! What's wrong, baby?" Me (through gritted teeth): "Puh-leese flip onto your side so you stop snoring." Pat: "Oh sure, I'm sorry honey." And so he does, right into a death-grip half nelson for me. But alas, I give in and close my eyes, a prisoner in my own bed.
Now, if you see my husband on the street and confront him about this situation, be assured, that he will deny it. He seems to think that his cuddling addiction is not transparent, but I beg of you...look through his pictures on Facebook and I promise that within the first 20, you will see him wrapped around someone or something...then, you will know the truth.
Apparently though, he is onto something; because as the minutes tick away now, my eyes are not becoming any heavier. I feel compelled to seek out late night episodes of Law and Order or scrounge for a snack. All the while, missing my spider monkey...
I have a hard time understanding why I must continuously convince Gigi that naps are good and finally compromise that she doesn't have to sleep, just "rest." She usually ends up giving into to the snoozing gods anyway for a good two hours, while I am silently left bartering my first-born child in exchange for the opportunity for my own nap.
However, when the time comes for me to finally crawl into bed at the end of the day, I turn out the lights, rev up my humidifier, place my glass of water and chapstick nearby and wait....and wait...and wait. It seems odd to me on the nights that Pat is away, I tend to sleep restlessly, if at all. When he is home, it is a completely different story and by 10 o'clock on the dot, I am hit with a sledgehammer and out like a light. During times like this, when I am watching the hours melt away until I have to get up again, I try to sort out what exactly I am missing.
I certainly miss his company, but I do not miss his cover-stealing spread eagle spider monkey sleep habits. My big skinny man may appear to exude masculinity, but I am about to out him. He is a cuddle FREAK. When we intially turn out the lights, I enjoy some light spooning for about 5 minutes. I like feeling his warmth next to me, but it isn't too long before I need my space. But not Pat. Ohhh no, once he sticks himself to me, he leech-like ALL NIGHT LONG. Just the other night I recall waking up 3 times.
Time #1: I'm cold. Our bed is the host to a flat sheet, fleece blanket, and down comforter, but at 2am, there isn't a cover to be found. I decide I need to handle this problem with a bit of force based on its frequency, so I stand up, grab the edge of the covers and YANK them to my side. Somehow, to my horror, he comes with the covers and my next feat is to scoot him over, back to his side. I cross the room to his side of the bed and bend down. I try to coax him over with niceties but when he isn't responding to my cooing, I put my hands on my hips (Ashley pouting-pissy style) and yell his name. He jolts awake. Scoots. Problem solved.
Time #2: I'm f-a-l-l-i-n-g! What in the world?! I feel the edge of the bed getting closer and in my sleepy haste, I am frantically grasping at the night stand and my pillow. Apparently, my knight-in-shining-armor has felt the need to claim his territory and x-marks the spot! He is laying on his stomach in the shape of a perfect X. Now, if you will allow me to mentally illustrate this scene for you, I can be found folded in half, having been eaten by the outside portion of his X-clamation of space...
FINALLY, some sleep....
Time #3: It seems as though only mere minutes have passed since the previous debacles and already I find myself awake again. This time the culprit is my husband's effort at a lullaby for himself...snoring. I shove a hip in his direction. Nothing. In fact, its now louder. Okay, fine. I elbow him in his ribs, twice. Still nothing. I pull out my triple threat: hip-check, elbow, and yelling his name all at one time. His response: "What?! What's wrong, baby?" Me (through gritted teeth): "Puh-leese flip onto your side so you stop snoring." Pat: "Oh sure, I'm sorry honey." And so he does, right into a death-grip half nelson for me. But alas, I give in and close my eyes, a prisoner in my own bed.
Now, if you see my husband on the street and confront him about this situation, be assured, that he will deny it. He seems to think that his cuddling addiction is not transparent, but I beg of you...look through his pictures on Facebook and I promise that within the first 20, you will see him wrapped around someone or something...then, you will know the truth.
Apparently though, he is onto something; because as the minutes tick away now, my eyes are not becoming any heavier. I feel compelled to seek out late night episodes of Law and Order or scrounge for a snack. All the while, missing my spider monkey...
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Always Remember...
So, today is Valentine's Day. To many, February 14th represents a cliche Hallmark created holiday that causes single ladies to band together, frantic men scurrying off to the nearest Jewel or Dominick's, and the very rare couple that spends the day as an extra reason to show appreciation to each other. I feel lucky to say that I was in the last category and I spent my 1st married Valentine's Day celebrating with my husband and our friends.
Unfortunately, Februray 14th also strikes a large black mark through it's spot on the calendar. It is the 2 year anniversary of the tragic shooting that took six lives at Northern Illinois University. My alma mater. The events that took place that day are horrifying and it strikes a fear in what is familiar. NIU is where I spent the best four years of my life, I met my best friends, and I grew up. Cole Hall was the large lecture auditorium where it was easier to catch a nap or gossip about the weekend rather than pay attention to your professor, and now it will forever be known as a place of terror.
To me, this is heartbreaking. A friend of mine on Facebook said it best when she said, "Our connection to the school and each other really means something to each of us, and it doesn't falter with tragedy or time." The emotion that it conjurs up in each of us as we solmenly change our pictures to the faithful Husky adorned with a black ribbon to remember is an act of unification. Each of us spent our days at NIU differently, but we still all hold a certain affection for our school; particularly on this day when we remember those that were lost.
I was not an undergraduate student at Northern when the shooting occurred. But I was back on campus twice a week for a graduate English class on days that sandwiched that fateful day. When I came to campus when it re-opened it was as though a silence had fallen over our town. There were counselors, and tears, and memorials. In fact, I've still kept the Northern Star, NIU's newspaper, which offered textual support and reassurance that the Huskies could rise above. It solidified my feelings of loyalty and pride in my college and I didn't feel like a stranger in the sea of devestated strangers, everyone was one.
Violence against one another has become an epidemic and it is sickening to me. You feel sad when you hear about it hear about its spread throughout the country, but the feeling of helplessness is overwhelming when it hits so close to home. So today, I reserve a special place in my heart for my school and those who's lives were lost. I also feel appreciative of what life represents and that I am given me another day to kiss my husband goodnight and feel thankful that I have him.
Unfortunately, Februray 14th also strikes a large black mark through it's spot on the calendar. It is the 2 year anniversary of the tragic shooting that took six lives at Northern Illinois University. My alma mater. The events that took place that day are horrifying and it strikes a fear in what is familiar. NIU is where I spent the best four years of my life, I met my best friends, and I grew up. Cole Hall was the large lecture auditorium where it was easier to catch a nap or gossip about the weekend rather than pay attention to your professor, and now it will forever be known as a place of terror.
To me, this is heartbreaking. A friend of mine on Facebook said it best when she said, "Our connection to the school and each other really means something to each of us, and it doesn't falter with tragedy or time." The emotion that it conjurs up in each of us as we solmenly change our pictures to the faithful Husky adorned with a black ribbon to remember is an act of unification. Each of us spent our days at NIU differently, but we still all hold a certain affection for our school; particularly on this day when we remember those that were lost.
I was not an undergraduate student at Northern when the shooting occurred. But I was back on campus twice a week for a graduate English class on days that sandwiched that fateful day. When I came to campus when it re-opened it was as though a silence had fallen over our town. There were counselors, and tears, and memorials. In fact, I've still kept the Northern Star, NIU's newspaper, which offered textual support and reassurance that the Huskies could rise above. It solidified my feelings of loyalty and pride in my college and I didn't feel like a stranger in the sea of devestated strangers, everyone was one.
Violence against one another has become an epidemic and it is sickening to me. You feel sad when you hear about it hear about its spread throughout the country, but the feeling of helplessness is overwhelming when it hits so close to home. So today, I reserve a special place in my heart for my school and those who's lives were lost. I also feel appreciative of what life represents and that I am given me another day to kiss my husband goodnight and feel thankful that I have him.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Over Here, Over There, Oh LOOK! There is Ashley in her underwear!
If you are under 18, turn-around and leave.
If you are faint of heart, find another blog.
If you are newly-related to me, proceed with caution.
This post will prove to be a touch risque. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to take my blog into a vulgar direction, but this story I am about to tell you is actually hysterical and I, myself, will be laughing as I type it.
This is your last chance to turn-around....
SERIOUSLY....
So, as many of you are aware, my husband travels frequently for his job. He is away for days at a time and toward the end of each trip, we are both happy to have him back at home.
Well, at the close of one trip, many many moons ago in January, I decided to plan a special evening for him. I was scheduled to pick him up at the airport around 9:00pm, so I spent the better half of 3 hours primping and preparing myself. I'm not sure exactly what got into me, but I decided to be playful and shock the socks of him when I picked him up.
It was nearing the time in which I had to begin my trek to O'hare, so I slithered on a pair of fishnet stockings that paired perfectly with some carefully chosen lingerie. I shook out my sex-vixen barrel curls, spritzed on some perfume, stepped into my high-heeled tall black boots, and cinched my trench coat. I was ready to go. (This may all sound cliche to you, but that is exactly what I was going for).
I raced down the three flights of stairs and into my car, eager to get to the airport and gauge Patrick's reaction. I sent a text message to my 4 college girlfriends (whom will be referred to as, "THE GIRLS," from here on out), giving them a hint of my quest and telling them to pray that I did not ironically end up stranded on the side of the road. I received electronics giggles and well-wishes in response as I merged onto I-90.
BAH-BUMP-BAH-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP!!!!
Not even 1 minute later, I hit a pot-hole and my tire was down for the count!! Naturally, I am panicked and shouting a slew of curse words that would make my grandma blush. In this moment, I truly did not know how I was going to fix my tire, but, what I did know is that I was NOT getting stuck on the side of Chicago's busiest tollway at 9 o'clock at night in my lacy skivvies. I can only imagine the disbelief of a police officer pulling over to help me as I frantically explain that I was not headed to work my night job....
Nope, not. going. to. happen. So, I put on my flashers and I drive 20 mph with cars whizzing past me. I bump, bump, bump down the interstate with an air of determination. I can feel the pull of my tire as I'm certainly crushing my rim at this point, but I only have to make it 4 miles. And, I did. As I'm sitting at a stoplight at the bottom of the off-ramp, wating to turn into a store parking lot, a lady in the car next to me is waving her arms around and pointing at my tire. I politely acknowledge her and then sever any further eye contact.
Eventually, I make it to a parking lot but amidst many of the obvious problems in this situation, Patrick still needs a ride home. So, I sheepishly call him, give him my location, and tell him that I have a flat. He, as any protective man would do, offers to call his dad to come assist me until he can get there. I practically scream that I don't think its a good idea. His response? "Why, what are you, naked???" Oh, for the love of all things Holy, YES! The jig is up. I had to give myself away because at this point, I'm not calling Triple A, I do not need my future father-in-law to witness this pathetic scene, and I don't think my fishnets offer much by the way of cushioning for me to change my own flat tire in the snow. We settle on that fact that I still sit tight and await his arrival in a cab.
In the meantime, I call my mom. She doesn't answer. So, I call again.
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Hey mom. Whatcha doin?"
Mom: "In the car with your dad, Aunt Brenda, and Uncle Rod. We just had dinner, now headed for a drink."
Me: "Oh neat. I have a flat tire."
Mom: "Are you ok? Did you call someone?"
Me: "Yea. Pat is on his way. Oh, by the way, I'm in my underwear. The fancy kind."
Mom: "Wait, what?"
Me: "Yes, you heard me."
Mom: SILENCE
Mom: long, loud, laughter and her telling my aunt, uncle, and dad the story!
I know your jaws have all hit the floor in shock that A. I told my mom and B. She told my dad. Well, you'd have to know us, but we're that kind of family; hence, her laughter. My dad made some comment in the background about not getting out otherwise my butt cheeks might get frost bite and atleast I left the house wearing clean underwear. At this point, I had to hang up, there was not much left to chat about.
Finally, Patrick arrives and practically has to shoo the courteous cab driver away as he offers to help. Pat opens the door, puts his suitcase inside and just looks at me. I'm still wearing my coat and he catches a glimpse of the fishnets and starts laughing. I glare at him and he proceeds to change the tire.
After all of that drama, we were on our way home within 15 minutes. Pat was driving and he reaches over to put his hand on my knee and I glare at him again, then yank it away. I had temporarily lost the humor of the situation and I didn't find it again until I was at home, warm, and wearing sweat pants.....
I learned a lot that night. I most certainly don't send text messages to my friends that are certain to doom me into jinxing myself incase I do decide to try it again... ;)
If you are faint of heart, find another blog.
If you are newly-related to me, proceed with caution.
This post will prove to be a touch risque. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to take my blog into a vulgar direction, but this story I am about to tell you is actually hysterical and I, myself, will be laughing as I type it.
This is your last chance to turn-around....
SERIOUSLY....
So, as many of you are aware, my husband travels frequently for his job. He is away for days at a time and toward the end of each trip, we are both happy to have him back at home.
Well, at the close of one trip, many many moons ago in January, I decided to plan a special evening for him. I was scheduled to pick him up at the airport around 9:00pm, so I spent the better half of 3 hours primping and preparing myself. I'm not sure exactly what got into me, but I decided to be playful and shock the socks of him when I picked him up.
It was nearing the time in which I had to begin my trek to O'hare, so I slithered on a pair of fishnet stockings that paired perfectly with some carefully chosen lingerie. I shook out my sex-vixen barrel curls, spritzed on some perfume, stepped into my high-heeled tall black boots, and cinched my trench coat. I was ready to go. (This may all sound cliche to you, but that is exactly what I was going for).
I raced down the three flights of stairs and into my car, eager to get to the airport and gauge Patrick's reaction. I sent a text message to my 4 college girlfriends (whom will be referred to as, "THE GIRLS," from here on out), giving them a hint of my quest and telling them to pray that I did not ironically end up stranded on the side of the road. I received electronics giggles and well-wishes in response as I merged onto I-90.
BAH-BUMP-BAH-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP!!!!
Not even 1 minute later, I hit a pot-hole and my tire was down for the count!! Naturally, I am panicked and shouting a slew of curse words that would make my grandma blush. In this moment, I truly did not know how I was going to fix my tire, but, what I did know is that I was NOT getting stuck on the side of Chicago's busiest tollway at 9 o'clock at night in my lacy skivvies. I can only imagine the disbelief of a police officer pulling over to help me as I frantically explain that I was not headed to work my night job....
Nope, not. going. to. happen. So, I put on my flashers and I drive 20 mph with cars whizzing past me. I bump, bump, bump down the interstate with an air of determination. I can feel the pull of my tire as I'm certainly crushing my rim at this point, but I only have to make it 4 miles. And, I did. As I'm sitting at a stoplight at the bottom of the off-ramp, wating to turn into a store parking lot, a lady in the car next to me is waving her arms around and pointing at my tire. I politely acknowledge her and then sever any further eye contact.
Eventually, I make it to a parking lot but amidst many of the obvious problems in this situation, Patrick still needs a ride home. So, I sheepishly call him, give him my location, and tell him that I have a flat. He, as any protective man would do, offers to call his dad to come assist me until he can get there. I practically scream that I don't think its a good idea. His response? "Why, what are you, naked???" Oh, for the love of all things Holy, YES! The jig is up. I had to give myself away because at this point, I'm not calling Triple A, I do not need my future father-in-law to witness this pathetic scene, and I don't think my fishnets offer much by the way of cushioning for me to change my own flat tire in the snow. We settle on that fact that I still sit tight and await his arrival in a cab.
In the meantime, I call my mom. She doesn't answer. So, I call again.
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Hey mom. Whatcha doin?"
Mom: "In the car with your dad, Aunt Brenda, and Uncle Rod. We just had dinner, now headed for a drink."
Me: "Oh neat. I have a flat tire."
Mom: "Are you ok? Did you call someone?"
Me: "Yea. Pat is on his way. Oh, by the way, I'm in my underwear. The fancy kind."
Mom: "Wait, what?"
Me: "Yes, you heard me."
Mom: SILENCE
Mom: long, loud, laughter and her telling my aunt, uncle, and dad the story!
I know your jaws have all hit the floor in shock that A. I told my mom and B. She told my dad. Well, you'd have to know us, but we're that kind of family; hence, her laughter. My dad made some comment in the background about not getting out otherwise my butt cheeks might get frost bite and atleast I left the house wearing clean underwear. At this point, I had to hang up, there was not much left to chat about.
Finally, Patrick arrives and practically has to shoo the courteous cab driver away as he offers to help. Pat opens the door, puts his suitcase inside and just looks at me. I'm still wearing my coat and he catches a glimpse of the fishnets and starts laughing. I glare at him and he proceeds to change the tire.
After all of that drama, we were on our way home within 15 minutes. Pat was driving and he reaches over to put his hand on my knee and I glare at him again, then yank it away. I had temporarily lost the humor of the situation and I didn't find it again until I was at home, warm, and wearing sweat pants.....
I learned a lot that night. I most certainly don't send text messages to my friends that are certain to doom me into jinxing myself incase I do decide to try it again... ;)
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Texting While Driving
Okay, breathe deeply. Let your feet find their balance, blink twice and look again.
Yes! I'm not trying to cause heart attacks, knock people out of their chairs, or make them think they're seeing double. But, YES. I'm writing again, one day later.
Excited to see me? Thought so.
I was sitting on my couch trying to drown out the Neelys on Food Network (save your sugar for another time, Big Daddy!) and I decided that it was imperative for me to talk about a recent law passed in Illinois.
Now, I'm fairly impassive about politics as a whole. I'm not going to pound the pavement for my favorite candidate in the next campaign, and I skip past the slew of channels featuring Bill Maher or Anne Coulter. (Side note, however: having been a journalism major, I was forced to read a lot of Ms. Coulter and I find her repulsive...just saying). My only passions lie in the ability to choose for yourself. You do what you want with your body and you do it with whomever you so choose. The end.
A recent law that has affected me though, is this new "No Texting While Driving Bullshit." That is the full official name for the law. Anyone that knows me knows that my average of 5,200 text messages a month are only possible with an inherent skill that I possess for fast, focused, eyes-free text messaging. I'm that good. I understand the reasoning behind passing the law, and I agree, safety first. I am not in favor of causing accidents, but I'm still perplexed on how to get my "must-know-NOW," messages across to my friends. I tried mind-control, but only ended up looking constipated. I tried smoke signals, but apparently you have to have a permit for such things in the suburbs; and, as of this moment, my pigeon has yet to reach it's destination. And no, I can't just call. That's silly. :)
I think some greater power named, God, from up above, knew that I was going to struggle with this. He realized that if a ticket is to be had, Ashley will have it. For example, right turns on red. For my readers that are not within a 60-mile proximity, Chicagoland thought it would be funny to install cameras at red lights. If you do not stop completely, you will get a letter sent to you via snail mail with an invitation to view a website; once there, you will be offered a slew of pictures and a video showing your incompetence. Along with that, adding insult to injury, a $100 ticket. BEWARE. Anyway, back to my point....tickets find me. So, it could only be Divine intervention that I have suddenly "upgraded," my cell phone to a Blackberry. Sure, it costs more money monthly but it is saving me from getting a ticket for texting while driving because I can hardly control the thing and have never succumbed to so many typos in my life. I think my friend Gigi (age 3) has a better chance of authoring a coherent message.
In the grand scheme of things, I do favor the law if it will save lives. I will do my best my abide by the new rules of the road; but, perhaps this offer for paying better attention while driving should be extended to women who apply makeup behind the wheel, people eating their breakfast during the commute to work, or the man next to me in traffic reading his newpaper.
Now, the true test. I am about to embark in a 24 hour journey to Mahomet. It is 2.5 hours each way and normally, I am vigorously spouting off my most random-thoughts to whomever will answer me, but today....I will keep my phone in the cup holder. My eyes will dodge quickly from phone to road, desparate to pick it up and type. But, I will try not to give into the temptation.
Can I do it?
Yes! I'm not trying to cause heart attacks, knock people out of their chairs, or make them think they're seeing double. But, YES. I'm writing again, one day later.
Excited to see me? Thought so.
I was sitting on my couch trying to drown out the Neelys on Food Network (save your sugar for another time, Big Daddy!) and I decided that it was imperative for me to talk about a recent law passed in Illinois.
Now, I'm fairly impassive about politics as a whole. I'm not going to pound the pavement for my favorite candidate in the next campaign, and I skip past the slew of channels featuring Bill Maher or Anne Coulter. (Side note, however: having been a journalism major, I was forced to read a lot of Ms. Coulter and I find her repulsive...just saying). My only passions lie in the ability to choose for yourself. You do what you want with your body and you do it with whomever you so choose. The end.
A recent law that has affected me though, is this new "No Texting While Driving Bullshit." That is the full official name for the law. Anyone that knows me knows that my average of 5,200 text messages a month are only possible with an inherent skill that I possess for fast, focused, eyes-free text messaging. I'm that good. I understand the reasoning behind passing the law, and I agree, safety first. I am not in favor of causing accidents, but I'm still perplexed on how to get my "must-know-NOW," messages across to my friends. I tried mind-control, but only ended up looking constipated. I tried smoke signals, but apparently you have to have a permit for such things in the suburbs; and, as of this moment, my pigeon has yet to reach it's destination. And no, I can't just call. That's silly. :)
I think some greater power named, God, from up above, knew that I was going to struggle with this. He realized that if a ticket is to be had, Ashley will have it. For example, right turns on red. For my readers that are not within a 60-mile proximity, Chicagoland thought it would be funny to install cameras at red lights. If you do not stop completely, you will get a letter sent to you via snail mail with an invitation to view a website; once there, you will be offered a slew of pictures and a video showing your incompetence. Along with that, adding insult to injury, a $100 ticket. BEWARE. Anyway, back to my point....tickets find me. So, it could only be Divine intervention that I have suddenly "upgraded," my cell phone to a Blackberry. Sure, it costs more money monthly but it is saving me from getting a ticket for texting while driving because I can hardly control the thing and have never succumbed to so many typos in my life. I think my friend Gigi (age 3) has a better chance of authoring a coherent message.
In the grand scheme of things, I do favor the law if it will save lives. I will do my best my abide by the new rules of the road; but, perhaps this offer for paying better attention while driving should be extended to women who apply makeup behind the wheel, people eating their breakfast during the commute to work, or the man next to me in traffic reading his newpaper.
Now, the true test. I am about to embark in a 24 hour journey to Mahomet. It is 2.5 hours each way and normally, I am vigorously spouting off my most random-thoughts to whomever will answer me, but today....I will keep my phone in the cup holder. My eyes will dodge quickly from phone to road, desparate to pick it up and type. But, I will try not to give into the temptation.
Can I do it?
Friday, January 22, 2010
Spare Tires, Pilgrims, and Politics....
In celebration of the New Year, my college girl friends and I each compiled a list of goals for 2010. Our number of goals was to be set at our age for that year and they could be small or vast goals, depending on what we wanted to individually achieve. We then, electronically submitted our goals to one another as both a support system and an opportunity to be held accountable.
Well, #15 on my list was: "write a new blog post atleast once a week and not let that hobby fall to the wayside." Bwhahahaa!! So far, 22 days into the new year, I am well over a month tardy. My husband felt as though his suggestions were falling on deaf ears (he was right, I was well-intentioned, but not following through), SO he took it upon himself to email me.
*DING* *DING* says my (new and yet undecided on how much I like it) Blackberry. Email. From: Husbandido Barrett. I was puzzled. I just talked to him on the phone, what does he need now? Why email? I opened it and felt a strong urge to laugh out loud. He thought email was the best way to get my attention and to encourage me to get online and write a blog, because he predicted that soon I would have no followers. Almost instanteously, I get another alert via the fruity phone to alert me that my sister-in-law has written on my facebook wall, also in demand of my inner-most thoughts.
I have to say, that I am flattered. I have a quaint literary following and I must supply the demand. So far, I have not kept good on any of my promises for a more productive 2010. I have yet to get into the routine of regularly polishing my wedding ring (#19), I have not gotten a haircut in an effort to begin my year split-end free (#17), and instead of abiding by #20 of following up every criticism of a stranger with a compliment, I still proceed cackle about their muffin top peeking through their too-tight shirt. Not that I should be pointing out other people's spare tires....I have a couple of my own intertubes to deflate. However, that is the only goal that I have maintained so far. In honor of #4 and #5, I have been attending every bootcamp and eating healthy.
GO. ME. I know, I will continue after your applause cease.....
My other goals are lofty or academically related. This will be an incredibly busy year for me with school, I have a lot of progress to make in a short amount of time. But, I am pleased to announce that my third, and final, math class is going beautifully. My new nemesis is history, and indeed the inspiration for this blog. I have 1,000 pages to read, absorb, and recite by next Wednesday and I am rebelling. Actually, I've been reading for the past 4 hours and my brain is exhausted. I have to work my way from the pilgrims to today's politics, none of which interest me. But alas, I must forge ahead. If the colonists hadn't forged ahead, we wouldn't have an America in which to study for a teacher's certification online. Right? So, I must retreat back into my swirling mass of words and pay homage to the folks that gave me the opportunities I have today. Like, blogging.
Goodnight.
Well, #15 on my list was: "write a new blog post atleast once a week and not let that hobby fall to the wayside." Bwhahahaa!! So far, 22 days into the new year, I am well over a month tardy. My husband felt as though his suggestions were falling on deaf ears (he was right, I was well-intentioned, but not following through), SO he took it upon himself to email me.
*DING* *DING* says my (new and yet undecided on how much I like it) Blackberry. Email. From: Husbandido Barrett. I was puzzled. I just talked to him on the phone, what does he need now? Why email? I opened it and felt a strong urge to laugh out loud. He thought email was the best way to get my attention and to encourage me to get online and write a blog, because he predicted that soon I would have no followers. Almost instanteously, I get another alert via the fruity phone to alert me that my sister-in-law has written on my facebook wall, also in demand of my inner-most thoughts.
I have to say, that I am flattered. I have a quaint literary following and I must supply the demand. So far, I have not kept good on any of my promises for a more productive 2010. I have yet to get into the routine of regularly polishing my wedding ring (#19), I have not gotten a haircut in an effort to begin my year split-end free (#17), and instead of abiding by #20 of following up every criticism of a stranger with a compliment, I still proceed cackle about their muffin top peeking through their too-tight shirt. Not that I should be pointing out other people's spare tires....I have a couple of my own intertubes to deflate. However, that is the only goal that I have maintained so far. In honor of #4 and #5, I have been attending every bootcamp and eating healthy.
GO. ME. I know, I will continue after your applause cease.....
My other goals are lofty or academically related. This will be an incredibly busy year for me with school, I have a lot of progress to make in a short amount of time. But, I am pleased to announce that my third, and final, math class is going beautifully. My new nemesis is history, and indeed the inspiration for this blog. I have 1,000 pages to read, absorb, and recite by next Wednesday and I am rebelling. Actually, I've been reading for the past 4 hours and my brain is exhausted. I have to work my way from the pilgrims to today's politics, none of which interest me. But alas, I must forge ahead. If the colonists hadn't forged ahead, we wouldn't have an America in which to study for a teacher's certification online. Right? So, I must retreat back into my swirling mass of words and pay homage to the folks that gave me the opportunities I have today. Like, blogging.
Goodnight.
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