Things I Didn’t Realize

Have you ever had a light bulb go off in your head one day that is ridiculous and unfathomable and totally unrelated to anything useful in life and if you voiced it to someone they’d look at you like you had three heads?

I grew up never having eaten Hamburger Helper.  My mom ate it on a weekly basis when she was a kid and she vowed never again and given the chance, I’m pretty sure she’d smack the smile off that stupid white gloved hand on the box.  As a result, it never occurred to me that anyone would eat that for dinner even though I passed it weekly in the grocery store.  When Joe and I met, his cupboard was full of it and I was horrified.  He was equally horrified by my vinegar stash, but I digress.

It’s like when you first go to college and you realize you can have dining hall frozen yogurt for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if you want.  You have this “Aha” moment where you rebel against rules you never realized you were even following but that were just burned into you over years and years of habits and by virtue of familiarity.

(As an aside, Isn’t that terrifying to think about — how many rules am I unintentionally following right.this.minute?)

So anyway, this whole post was inspired by a discussion surrounding spaghetti sauce.  When I was a kid, we had spaghetti from a box and sauce from a jar, which is not all that different from fatty glove helper hand I might add.  It’s just what I was familiar with so to me, it was “right.”  I married into a family where it is sacrilegious to even THINK about buying sauce in a jar.  Prego = NO GO.  You always always make it yourself, even if it takes hours to get it right.  Joe’s spaghetti sauce is my tuna helper.

“You’ve never had hamburger helper cheesy macaroni?!”

“YOU’VE never had sauce from a JAR?!”

I think the sky fell just a bit, Chicken Little.

Another memorable absolute in my previously small little world includes the reliability that Santa wraps presents in your stocking.  There are no labels on any presents, so you’d better pay attention.  Whatever wrapping paper is in your stocking is the wrapping paper all the rest of your presents are in.  Your sibling has the same theme wrapping in a different color.  Layoff opening any of my coveted red micky mouse presents, snot-nosed little brother of mine.

But at other people’s houses, Santa brings an orange in your stocking and NO PEZ.  Oh the humanity!  And just ONE present is from him and is unwrapped and the others are wrapped in a smorgasbord of paper and from your parents with labels.

I’ve got to stop here or my head is going to explode.  The older I get, the more I realize just how much I don’t know.

Talk Nerdy to Me

Today marks the beginning of a blessed season of 5am Swim Team workouts, so please forgive me if I appear in a haze for the next week or five.  I’ve had two cups of coffee, some tea, and a diet coke.  I am wired beyond all measure and have exceeded my usual one caffeinated beverage limit by leaps and bounds.  I’m not bouncing uncontrollably in my desk chair, nor am I asleep at it, so I consider today a success (so far, at least).  We had a great bunch come out and I hope they stick around.  I think I was more nervous than they were at one point.

I had a surprise waiting for me at my desk today — a souvenir from my mom’s recent business trip to DC.  When I thanked her she said she “had to ask someone to explain it but knew I’d appreciate it.”  Luckily stumbling upon this surprise coincided with cup of joe #2 so I didn’t have to pause to wake my brain to interpret the joke.  Fake it ’til you make it, folks!

I can’t wait to wear it on Casual Friday — woo!

Maybe it will garner more comments than this gem of a Fox Trot I have hanging up from a few months back.  Bonus points to the person who leaves a comment with the answer.

Days Are Numbered

The weather has been hit or miss lately — sometimes it’s in the 20s at night and other days it’s crisp and cool and 60.  There’s a standing joke around here that if you don’t like what’s going on outside, wait 5 minutes — it’ll change. So, every time the weather is borderline warm we think “It’s the last nice day of the year!  We must enjoy it!” and then an embarrassingly short time later our predictions are foiled.

Today we just decided to enjoy it instead of playing meteorologist.

The whole gang ventured out.  Joe said “Come on out and blow the stink off ya.”  I think I’ve been dating my humidifier one day too long.

Miraculously, some trees are still green.

The dogs haven’t been on a trail run in a while.  They deserved one.

They are always very enthusiastic in showing their appreciation.

It looks like they are connecting this trail to the bigger park next door.  Very exciting!

Last swim of the season?  Who the heck knows.

The creek was so serene today.

Lovely walk, lovely day.

The Pribe of Lime

I’ve been hanging out with my snuggly dog and humidifier, cursing that my “Oh we just turned on the heat — it must be the dry air” sore throat hypothesis is wrong.

I keep joking with Joe about the scene from Friends where Monica is really sick and she keeps trying to get Chandler to….you know.  I think it’s one of the funniest ever, even when nyquil is not tainting my judgment.

Monica: Are you saying you don’t want to get with this?!

Chandler: I don’t think you should say that, even when you’re healthy.

So here it is, the pribe of lime.

 

 

Trois

Once upon a time, three years and three weeks ago, my husband bought a rock.  He teased me about it and hid it in the spare bedroom closet inside his High School letter jacket.  (Go Greyhounds!)  I found it but didn’t open it and wondered how many weeks years I’d have to wait.  I tried not to let it consume me but I mentally thought of colors in my head.  I know.  I’m bad.

Three years ago today, we went on a walk.  Even though my then boyfriend was acting strangely, I didn’t think much of it because I figured I’d have to wait months years for a certain something to happen.  By then I had thought about flowers, too.  I was giddy with possibility but didn’t want to get my hopes up, because, well, you know how men are with big nerve-wracking life stuff.  If I played up the odds of ending up like Oprah and Stedman, I figured I might get lucky by some magical mental reverse psychology.

We had Bella with us, and she was running around the trail like a banshee.  She and I were both oblivious that soon she’d no longer be an illegitimate doggie.  Sir Beauregard had not yet been rescued.

We walked and enjoyed the leaves and stopped at a stream and kissed by a hollowed-out tree.  Bella got into the tree and tried to eat some bark.  Then she bounced around in the stream and got really wet.  Then she jumped and got ME really wet.   Duchess the golden retriever puppy came to play in the stream, too.  We made small talk with her owner.

We continued walking.  At some point on the trail, about 2/3 of the way through, Joe started down a hill.

Me: You can’t go down the hill.  It’s off the trail.

Joe: Just come with me.

Me: It’s a nature preserve.  We have to stay up here.

Joe: I want to see this part of the stream.

Me: What if the ranger sees us?

Joe: We’re in the middle of the woods.

Me: [Dirty look]

Joe: Just come with me.  Just trust me.

Me: [Sigh.  Pause.]

Me: Ok, fine.  I hope our parents have bail money.

And then on the illegal part of the trail, next to the forbidden stream, he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.

I said yes.  And then I started up the hill because I was nervous.

He said the ring was like me: beautiful, unique, and a little bit square.  Oh how that last part is true. Clearly we were meant for each other.

Almost instantly afterward, Duchess the golden retriever puppy came barreling down the hill towards Bella for WWF Round 2.  Her owner chased after her, oblivious to the recent events.  They played in the leaves and probably killed a few saplings.  Later, when we bought our house, we planted a few to ease the guilt.

And then Bella the legitimate doggie, her rescued little brother, Duchess the golden retriever nutball, the square, and the rock hider lived happily ever after.

Treat (or Trick?)

This past week marked our third Trick-or-Treat in this house (has it really been that long?) and we had more kids than ever this year.  Our neighborhood is small, so thankfully we don’t get too many drive-ins (I cannot imagine driving my kids to a “better” neighborhood for ToT but I digress) and the crowd was relatively young with most being under 5.  There were many frazzled parents running up getting candy for kids in wagons.  I think it should be a requirement that you walk and/or wheel up my unobstructed driveway to my open and well-lit porch to receive candy from me sitting on my (just as cold as you are) bench, but I digress again.

Heck, I’ll even keep Captain Buckeye and the Safety Patrol inside.

Joe’s strategy of saving the chocolate for the end worked in our favor as we only went through a bag and a half of our tootsie roll mix.  There were plenty of peanut m&ms leftover.  I got bored about halfway through with the sporadic costumed little ones and got out my laptop in search of some Halloween music to spice things up.

I was recently introduced to Pandora Internet Radio, which, every time I mention how wonderful it is, am told that I am positively the last person on earth to (a) know about it and (b) realize how great it is.  In an attempt to get rid of those pesky flavored tootsie rolls that kept finding their way to my mouth, I giddily made a Monster Mash Mix and offered kids an extra piece of candy if they danced.

Some looked positively horrified.  So horrified in fact, I was worried I was going to be known as the creepy porch lady whose candy is not worth the embarrassment, so don’t even go there even though her house is lit up like she’s open for business.  One girl turned around and said no to ANY candy freely stowed upon her if EXTRA was going to have strings attached.  Another girl looked at me with wide eyes that practically toilet papered my front tree with her eyes.  Most children of the 2000s do not appreciate dancing in public, even in the dark.  Duly noted.

Some humored me, though, and I got some Rocky Horror bench dancing in before the night was out.  It’s just a jump to the left!

Even though they didn’t agree with me on the dancing, I did get a positive response for my outfit.  Captain Buckeye and the Safety Patrol agree.  Real women don’t date Buckeye fans.  They marry them.

Maize is so not my color.

Happy Halloween!

Who says Astronomy students don’t know how to have fun?

Pick me up

I blew up the coffee pot at work last week.  I was tired, it was early, and somehow I ended up with steam and bubbling grounds everywhere.  I heard it hissing from far away and instantly got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I thought (a) I broke it for good, (b) I wasn’t going to get any coffee and (c) all the coffee fiends were going to be pissed.  That morning it seemed like nearly the end of the world because the funnel filter put up such a fight.  Luckily I was able to clean it up and there was no lasting damage, but it was a mess to think about waiting another 10 minutes for a second pot.  Sadly, I mess up coffee at home too often as well.

My mother-in-law has been in town this week and as a favor to her step-daughter she wanted to go to Trader Joe’s for a list of things not available in Iowa.  It seems there are a shortage of Trader Joe’s out there — oh the humanity!  We don’t go to TJ’s often (though I do love the store) because it’s a bit of a hike.  My lovely husband knows of my coffee pot plight and bought these for me:

Dark chocolate and caffeine — what could be better?  Now, if only I could limit myself to a few at a time…

An Open Letter to Picky Eater Haters

Dear Picky Eater Haters,

I am sorry if being a picky eater offends you.  Really though, I shouldn’t have to apologize.  I’ve been picky all my life and I’ve accepted it as best I can.  It’s just a part of me.  I am not quite sure why you have a problem accepting it or calling me out at a party or continually asking “Do you like this?  What about this?”  I am happy to answer any curious questions but beyond a few and it gets a bit draining.

I don’t mean to be personally offensive by turning my nose up at things.  Truthfully, I try to say no thank you as politely as possible.  But to some, no thank you is never enough.  Trust me — tacos are just as good without sour cream and hamburgers just as fine without cheese that bounces.  If you demand to know why, I cant explain it.  It would be like me demanding to know what it’s like to be 6′8″ tall.  And “Picking it off” is not the same just like “Wear flats” isn’t always practical.

I don’t show up at your door and demand to know why you don’t like the Red Sox.  Is it the green monster?  The beer too stale?  Because they traded Manny?  Do you hate that Varitek has the C on his jersey?  Some wear shorty pants and some don’t — what’s up with that?  Is it the hard seats?  Does the Citgo sign offend you?  What’s so wrong with the Yankees?  *I* like the Red Sox so clearly anyone else near Red Sox Nation surely should like them too.  There’s where your logic is flawed, picky eater haters.

What would YOU say to that?  The same I’d say to “Do you like green tea?  Yes.  Ice cream?  Yes.  Then why not green tea ice cream?” BECAUSE.  Even though you like olives and sausage doesn’t mean you should put them together and it also doesn’t mean I like either.

And please don’t try to guilt me into trying something.  I’ll just secretly seethe at you.  If I get a wild hair, and I do occasionally, I’ll take my vinegar and guard dog and go visit Yankee Stadium.  I won’t have a sausage though.

Signed,

Mando

Wordless Wednesday 10/21/09

Does life get any better than this?