And then there probably would have been cursing

The Huz plays soccer on a club team, and last night I went to watch his team play. He joined his teammates to warm up, and I took a seat in the bleachers armed with a book just in case the game started late. The game that was going on was less like a game and more like 15 little kids running in circles and kicking the soccer ball aimlessly. There were a handful of parents in the bleachers half-heartedly cheering on the doddering children on the field, and there were tons of other kids running around the indoor arena. Let me just say that I don't have a lot of experience with kids, and I find their, how shall I say, bountiful energy, to be overwhelming. There were kids chasing eachother around, bouncing basketballs wildly, running up and down the bleachers, begging for money for the candy machine, and screeeeeeeeaaaaaaming at each other or no one at all, and I had to fight to suppress the urge to choke each one of them.

There was a father sitting a few rows lower than me, and he had a small child on his lap. I'd say she was probably between one and two. The father watched as a little blonde boy ran and leaped off of the lowest level of bleachers, landing on his knees and coming to a skidding halt, at least three times. After each jump, he did a little hopping dance and murmured to himself, "Ouch ouch ouch. That huuuurt." And then he'd go do it again.

The father's eyes seemed to widen as the little boy ran up the bleachers, stomping all the way to the top, and then jumping down each level of bleachers, two feet at a time. With each earsplitting metallic explosion, I imagined how I would ream that kid out if I were his parent. I was so close to jokingly saying the the father sitting in front of me, "See what you've got to look forward to?" But I held my tongue because he probably had a kid tripping over the ball out on the field, and he's probably already living through the intolerable kid madness.

The game on the field ended, and the little kids came pouring out of the arena. The dad started putting coats on the little girl and the boy that had been playing soccer, and then he shouted, "Nolan, come get your coat!" And the little blonde boy, the one that had been terrorizing my ears and sense of reason, came pounding up the bleachers to his father. I was suddenly thankful that I hadn't said anything. But I still cannot believe that that man sat there and watched his kid act inappropriately and hurt himself. Today, I sort of wish that I'd said something. Here is the conversation I just imagined in my head:

Me: See what you've got to look forward to?

Dad: Huh?

Me: I said, see what you've got to look forward to? (and this time I'd point to the blonde kid running amok)

Dad: Oh. Heh heh. That's actually my kid.

Me: OH. (and I'd say it in that way that you say things that imply that the other person is embarrassing themselves)

Dad: What?

Me: I'm just surprised that you'd let him hurt himself and annoy everybody like this. I mean, I figured that no one was watching him or he wouldn't be allowed to act like that.

Dad: Look lady, who the hell do you think you are telling me how to parent?

Me: Whoa buddy, don't get pissed at me just cause you can't control your kid. Maybe next time you can feed him fewer Red Bulls before you go out into public. And maybe put some knee pads on him. Or you know those leashes that they make for kids? I heard they totally work.

I am handing my credit card to the lady across the counter. She announces that the grand total price of my new glasses will be $130. Well that's not actually true, because I'm just replacing the lenses in an old pair, thus saving money. I glance at The Huz, giving him the look of I know you weren't planning to spend this money like this, but I need to see. As we walk out of the store he's being very quiet and so I say, "It needed to happen. Shit's getting blurry. I'm nervous driving."

He replies, "DUDE. One hundred and thirty dollars?!?"

"Is that a lot, or not as much as you thought it would be?"

"That's a fucking ton of money!" he says.

I counter, "Well it would've been more if I'd gotten new frames. I wasn't trying to surprise you. How much did you think it was going to be?"

"Like $20."


If new glasses cost $20, I'd have glasses piled all over my room. There'd be glasses of all different colors stuffed into every drawer and shelf in the bathroom. I'd have a pair of glasses to match every freaking outfit I own. You know how sometimes when you say a word over and over, and it's not a word you say very often, it starts to sound funny? Glasses. Glaaaaasssssses. Glassiz.






Glasses.

It's like how they tell you to eat cheese and drink milk to lose weight

I have three and a half weeks of vacation/sick days accrued at work, and I feel guilty about taking even one day off. Damn this sense of responsibility. I work six days a week, and I barely take any days off from work except for those already chalked up to holidays. How do I learn to take time for myself and not feel guilty about what I "should" be doing at work?

Last week I took the day off on Wednesday, and I already got Thursday and Friday off for the holiday. Though I did put in quite a bit of work making those tarts, and we travelled a little to get to the feast, the rest of my five-day weekend (!) I just wanted to relax. I watched tv, read books, sat on the couch, and napped. It's getting cold here, and I honestly didn't even want to leave the house. The minute I came home from work on Tuesday, I strutted around the house crooning, "I'm on vacay!" And at various times over the next few days, I'd marvel at the situation and think to myself, "I'm getting paid right now." At one point on Friday or Saturday afternoon though, as I read on the couch cozied up under a blanket, The Huz inquired, "So this is what you do on vacation?"

And I thought about his question. He's right about the fact that I was unabashedly lazy for a few days (except for the tarts! They were v. hard!). But I think that the biggest problem is that because I hardly ever take a day off, when I do finally get a day off, I'm so overcome by the opportunity to do nothing that I just can't resist it. It's funny how I've now rationalized that in order to be less lazy, I need to take more days off from work.

Random but necessary

If I had a dog, I would totally dress it up in outfits. I'd probably buy little sweaters and tu-tus and pleather jackets that say bitch or princess. But I don't have a dog because I hate it when the whole house has that dog stink. And I don't like being licked and jumped up on. And the unholy barking. And the freaking mess all over the house. And I don't like it when my hands smell disgusting after petting a dog for one minute. And the neeeeeeeeeediness. Huh-uh.

Probably not a good thing

Someone trip me on the way to the grocery store the next time I plan to make anything involving tart dough

My father-in-law totally deep fries our turkey every year, but not before he injects cajun-flavored butter goo into it.  It's seriously delicious.



I killed myself to make two cranberry and almond tarts, and let's just say they did not go over well. I took a whole tart home with me and left a half-eaten one at my in-laws' house. I guess I shouldn't have underestimated how the midwesterner's palate pulls so hard to the sweet end of the spectrum.



I was looking forward to a few days off of work so fervently, and now that they're almost over, it feels anticlimactic. I mean, I still have the weekend, but vacation days always slip by so quickly when work days drag on. I'm going to try to enjoy what's left...

People love it when I talk about my cats, don't they?

Have you met the frizz? Well, let me do you a favor, because no one should have to miss out on some frizzy bizzy. Ahem. I present Frisbee McMeowington. That is not, of course, his last name, but you know how the internet is.



Frisbee joined the family around Christmas time in 2005. Let me back up. First there was Frank. Frank was lonely, so Napoleon was adopted. Frank died, and then Napoleon was lonely. In a fit of sympathy, The Huz suggested we adopt a cat to replace Frank, and VOILA! Frizzer bizzer. Next up: photo montage of the Frizz.



Oh yeah, happy Thanksgiving.

Highlights from a sushi party

Is there anything better than dinner with friends?

Something to look forward to

When a family member's health begins to fail, it feels more real when people book plane tickets. When children make the decision to fly across the country to see a parent whose aorta is narrowing, you feel the gravity of the situation. One upside to family rallying together and travelling to those that need them is in the moments shared by siblings that haven't all been together at once for years. And it's nice that it's all happening close to me so that I get to see them all.

It's difficult not to become obsessed with the data. Ever since I plugged my blog into Google Analytics, I'm continually curious about how many people are visiting my site. Sometimes I even find myself checking all the stats, like how long the average viewer spends on my page. I did a little redesigning work to my blog last week, adding some features that I've wanted for a while, and now I find myself wanting to just hang around my own page because I like the way it looks. But it's totally fucking with my stats.

Seriously. Don't freak out.

"Well, it could be thing A or it could be thing B, but I don't think it's thing B because thing B is extremely rare and you'd probably be dead by now." Why thank you, doctor.

Awesome. But don't freak out, because he doesn't think it's thing B. I've had this hard little knot on the ligament on the arch of my left foot for a couple of years. Want to get technical? Thing A is plantar fibroma, which is a benign tumor. Thing B is fibrosarcoma, which is scary death death death. He was quick to add that because I've had it for two years, it's probably not fibrosarcoma, which would have murdered me in fewer than two years. So even though it shouldn't kill me, it still huuuuuurts. Who wants to pay for some surgery? Not me, that's who.

Cheer up, because we're making sushi with friends tonight. SUSHI!




Just kidding. I'm going to make mine look like this:



Pardon me while I go buy some red hair dye.

It's been a rough morning

It's amazing to me that someone (not me) will take the time to send multiple e-mails asking someone else (me) to do something instead of just doing it themselves. What's even more amazing is when the e-mails are sent from a computer that is approximately 15 feet away from my computer.

It's a little early, but I'm feeling thankful

Oh hi there. Did you know that I'm famous? No? Well let me show you. Scroll over about nine photos.

Okay, famous probably isn't even close to an appropriate term for getting my picture on the internet. In all actuality, my fame is reduced by how flat and dull my hair looks in that photo, but hey, Maggie freaking Mason put me on her website. I'm going to cheers myself the next time I have a cocktail in my hand.

On to what I originally planned to write about today, before I found out that I was famous. I've never really been a person that cared too much about scenery. While people fawned over the view of mountains and flora, I'm usually more interested in other parts of travel, like history and food and drink. This is the first year I can remember feeling somewhat moved by the exploding color change on the trees. Then again, maybe the fact that I didn't have a camera last year and couldn't document it had something to do with it. In either case, I've felt compelled to take pictures of the quick color pop.



On Monday as I walked home from work, I felt more aware and observant than usual. The color on the leaves was particularly stark against a gloomy sky, and for the thousandth time in a year, I felt so happy about where I am. Before I moved here, I drove 45 minutes one way to work. I hated my job and my boss, and I couldn't even see how unhappy I was. Now it takes me seven minutes to walk to work, and I walk home for lunch every day. I love where I live, both the neighborhood and the community. I hope I will always be aware enough to see when a big part of life like where I work or where I live makes me unhappy (or happy!).

Another motivation to move out of this country, other than cheese

I work in an academic advising office at a university, and so all day long I interact with college students. One of the most frustrating parts of my job is dealing with students who are turning to my school as a last option. I have no idea how or why this is the case, but my school has the second-lowest GPA requirements for admission and graduation of any school on campus. Students who have screwed up in other schools come crawling over here because they can't get in anywhere else. Awesome, huh? That's not to say that there aren't students in my school that are passionate about the curriculum and goals of the school, but I'd say there are easily as many screwups as high achievers.

Yesterday, a student from another school came into my office to inquire about our majors, and with a little questioning, I was able to get out of him that he didn't want to continue with his current major because of the foreign language requirement. He didn't see any reason why he should be forced to learn another language. He said, "I already live in the best county in the world, so why would I want to learn anything else?"

I almost launched into a list of a hundred reasons why he would want to learn something else, but I held my tongue out of respect for his ignorance. He clearly valued it enough to share it around, and I didn't want to burst his safe little 'merica bubble. The truth is that I cannot WAIT to live abroad. We have plans, and plans involve finishing degrees and getting the hell out of here. People like that guy make me even more anxious to leave, but I suppose it's reassuring that I won't have to deal with people like him after I'm gone.

While I'm thinking about ridiculous things, here's something that struck me as so odd that I just had to take some pictures.







I hate it, but I also secretly love it. Maybe I just hate that I secretly love it.

Try to bargain with Bryan Mason on the price of the book; he just might go for it

I think that most people that start blogging end up doing so because of how much entertainment they get out of reading other people's blogs. Well maybe I just made that up. Let me start over. I started blogging because of how much entertainment I got out of reading other people's blogs. I wanted to practice my writing, and I just got so hooked on reading other people's writing in such an easy and navigatable forum. So even though I've only been blogging since March of this year, I've been reading blogs for much longer. There are some that I read nearly every day (or when something new pops into my RSS feed), and then there are some that sort of blip in and out of my regular schedule of online reading. One blog that I read whenever my RSS feed alerts me of new content is Maggie Mason's Mighty Girl. And let me tell you how much fun I had meeting her yesterday.



Maggie lives in San Francisco, and as soon as she blogged about her upcoming presentation at a conference in Indianapolis, I wanted to go. I used to live in Indianapolis, and she was even giving her presentation at IUPUI (the university where I did my undergrad). I only live an hour away, so I headed out the door to see her. I'd never really met anyone else who blogs, let alone someone whose blog I regularly read. And then there she was, getting ready to talk to me about blogging in all of her unbelievably tall and gorgeous glory. After I walked past her to find a seat in the auditorium, it hit me that I was much more excited about it all than I thought I was. I remember thinking before I got there, "She lives in California, so when would I ever have the opportunity to meet her again?" But as she started her presentation, I found myself laughing at her jokes and taking notes about how to blog better. I just loved it. She was a great speaker, and I thought the topics that she covered were really relevant for me.



After the talk, I bought Maggie's book and she signed it, and Bryan made jokes that cracked me up, and I thought Hank might try to take the gum right out of my mouth he was so fascinated by it. I've always thought that BlogHer seemed like a fun time based on all the posts and photos of it that I've seen, but damn, now I get it.



As I left with a huge grin on my face, mumbling apologies to The Huz for geeking out so suddenly and without warning, I couldn't believe that I had had so much fun just listening to her talk about something that I do and care about. And what's big about that for me is that I realized that I care about this writing. Even when I don't post every day or even every week, I think about it often and put it into practice when I'm motivated to, and I'm a better writer because of it.

Keepin it going

You can expect videos and/or lots of photos when I'm running low on nablopomo juice. Maybe I'll come up with something fabulous later. Just you wait. Despite my lack of juice, prepare to be amazed by patience and creativity. And flesh that is probably raw from being scrubbed clean.

It's just like me to criticize but not participate

I didn't dress up for Halloween this year. Unlike last year, there just weren't any parties that sounded like great fun, and I just didn't have the energy to think of a hilarious costume. I hate it when people just put on some random shit to be something boring (cowboy, witch, doctor). Then there's the other popular option, which is to be whatever you want and just add the adjective slutty. Slutty nurse, slutty fireperson, and slutty bumblebee are always popular. Last year I witnessed two slutty bumblebees vomiting at the same party. And they didn't even know each other. I swear to god. Note to 19-year-olds: tequila and orange soda will make you vomit. Honestly, I can't stand costumes that don't make me laugh or bear an unbelievable resemblance to whoever/whatever the person is supposed to be.

Anyhow, despite the fact that I didn't dress up or go to any parties this year, I did get to see my little brother in his costume. I would guess that this is a pretty common costume, but I've never seen anyone do it before, even though I live in a college town. The resemblance is uncanny:






Though there are minor details that could've made the outfit more Belushi-like, it still cracked me the hell up.

I've heard it before

Remember when I told you that sometimes I start a post and fail to finish it? Well here's a little gem I've been saving up.





You: (in the stall next to me, holding your breath and poop, praying I will hurry up and leave)
Me: Poop already. We both know you have to poop.
You: I don't want you to hear me.
Me: I poop too.

And now I can let the cat out of the bag

So, as you may know, yesterday was my third wedding anniversary. Though I wrote a smooshy post about feelings yesterday, I know you want to know what we did. As it happened, I planned our first anniversary activities, and we decided that it seemed like a good idea to alternate who plans the anniversary, so this year was my year again. In the preceding months, I'd pored over the internet, looking for good ideas. I like to pick things that we haven't done before, or atleast not done together. So I planned a few fun things, and I kept it all a secret until we got going.

First we picked up some freshly baked cookies from a store here that will make cookies to your specifications. The Huz love love loves cookies, but we don't usually buy sweet snacky food like that. Last week I'd asked The Huz what his ideal cookie would be. He replied chocolate cookie with chocolate chips and macademia nuts. So that's what he got! Mine were oatmeal cookie with Heath bar bits in them, and I called the order in earlier in the day so they were fresh and awesome and ready to go.

Then we headed over to a local spa where we soaked in a jetted tub and ate our cookies. After the tub I'd scheduled a side-by-side massage, which was so very enjoyable, particularly because I'd never had a massage before. Being rubbed by a stranger was largely as I'd imagined it would be, which is good because I imagined it was going to be the best thing I've done in forever, and it was. My massage therapist (is that the correct term?) was professional and sweet, and she spoke in a hushed voice and asked me how I was feeling and gave me chills nearly constantly.

Then we trotted home to put on some dressier clothing and we went to dinner at Restaurant Tallent, where I've been dying to eat for at least a few months. After reading this, I knew the bar menu was going to be the perfect way to enjoy our anniversary dinner together. Despite my very good intentions of documenting the evening, this is the only memento of our fabulous dinner:



That's right, tawny port and espresso. But when we got home, in a fit of we must take pictures because I am in a skirt and this rare occasion must be documented, here are my favorites from our self-timer session:

Three down, Ninety seven to go

Three years ago today, my friend Annie came over to my house to help me curl my hair and pin my bra to my dress, and The Huz, who was not yet The Huz, came home from work early, and we went and got married. We didn't want a big poofy wedding, and though I was pretty sure I was going to cry when faced with the emotion attached to the day, I didn't want to be a big blubbery mess in front of all the people we knew. I'm not a pretty crier; I get so red and puffy when I cry that you can usually tell that I've been crying for hours afterward. Not a good look for a fancy reception and thousands of photographs. We also didn't want to go into a scary hole of debt for what would ultimately be one day of partying. An important party? Yes. A party that could be worth thousands of dollars? Not in my opinion.

We'd been engaged for a few months, and we just wanted to be married. We planned to get married, run off and spend the weekend together, and then return and tell our families that Surprise! We're married! We had set the date for Friday afternoon at the courthouse, but I started to feel some intense guilt about not telling our parents. I knew our mothers would be so hurt that we didn't include them in this part of our lives, and I decided that having a special secret between us just wasn't worth it. So the Sunday before the big day we spilled the secret to his parents and then mine. At both houses it went something like this:

Us: So what are you guys doing this week? Any plans?

Them: Oh nothing much. Regular work week.

Us: Oh yeah? What about Friday? Are you doing anything on Friday?

Them, starting to get suspicious: Well....no....not that I can think of. Why?

Us: Well we're getting married and we were wondering if maybe you'd like to come.

I am so thankful we made the decision to share that day with the people we love, because parents came to the ceremony, siblings and relatives came out to dinner, and friends went out on the town. We would've had an intimate and sweet wedding weekend if we'd eloped like we'd planned to, but instead we had so much fun with each other and family and friends that it still makes me teary.

So much has happened in three years that sometimes it feels like we've always been together, that the memories of before there was an "us" are distant and confusing. And then sometimes, as we fall down laughing together, or see each other in a new way that renews the spark, or fall speechless when the other is there to lend support and love that we couldn't make it without, it feels like we've just started. It feels like we've got forever in front of us. And I'm glad I'm spending it with him.