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.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
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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