What I Love Today is getting a new home and a fresh start!
When I started this blog I’ll admit I was a blog newbie. I had no idea where I wanted this blog to go or what I wanted to portray, just that I wanted to write. I spent zero time creating the blog, just clicked and posted. Thus the domain name that has nothing to do with the blog and is, let’s face it, boring… the hodgepodge header, no pictures, and no clear theme… the lack of ornamentals, pages, about me, etc...
I could keep going but I’ll spare you the redundancy.
Back to the good news. New page, new name, new blog! This blog is organized and oh so pretty. I’ve spent some time putting this little gem together so there’s no bearing with the new-blog-in-progressness. Yes, I just said progressness.
Read me! Follow me! Love me!
(Maybe I didn’t get enough attention as a child…)
Unladylike Behavior
unladylikebehavior.com
The Final Moral of the Story: Today I love new beginning.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Key Lime Pie
Spoiler Alert: There’s a delicious recipe for chocolate chip cookies at the end of this post. But, wait, this post is titled ‘Key Lime Pie’. Why is there a recipe for chocolate chip cookies? You’ll just have to read on to find out what the two have in common…
When I was in junior high my grandma passed away and my grandpa decided to move closer to his family. He moved into a 55 and older community in our town. Next door to him lived a spitfire of a woman who, despite her old age, could often be found on her roof cleaning her gutters or doing some other physical activity. She and my grandpa quickly became friends. My grandpa, ever proud of his Lincoln, would take her on shopping trips with him. They would cruise down Interstate 80, then on the way back pull over and take a nap – right there in my grandpa’s Lincoln alongside the freeway.
Despite having his neighbor’s companionship my grandpa discovered that, as a retired, single man with lots of time on his hands, he was lonely. He took up baking. He began by baking for my family. This quickly spread to baking for his neighbor, then her neighbor, and so on. In a town where my grandpa knew no one he found that nothing breaks the ice better than a freshly baked pie. His specialty was key lime pie and be began to take these pies everywhere he went – the doctor’s office, church, the bank… I’ll never forget walking into the grocery store one day and seeing my grandpa chatting away with the employees of the produce department while distributing his famous key lime pies.
Today, in honor of my grandpa, I’m posting one of his recipes. While he’s known for his key lime pie, I’m posting his recipe for chocolate chip cookies. These are my favorite cookies, and not just because they remind me of him. They’re delicious… enjoy!
Arnold’s Chocolate Chip Cookies
The trick to these cookies is to make them really, really big. That’s how my grandpa used to make them, so that’s how I make them.
2 Cups of Flour
1 Cup of Sugar
1 Cup of Light Brown Sugar
2 ½ Cups Blended Oatmeal (measure oatmeal before blending)
1 Cup of Butter (2 sticks)
2 Eggs
12 Oz. of Guittard Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips*
1 Cup Chopped Walnuts (optional)
2 Tsp. Vanilla
1 Tsp. Baking Powder
1 tsp. Baking Soda
1/2 Tsp. Salt
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Sift the oatmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl.
In a separate bowl, cream the butter, sugar, and brown sugar.
Add the eggs and vanilla to the creamed butter.
Mix together with the sifted dry ingredients.
Slowly stir in the chocolate chips and walnuts, if using.
Roll the dough into balls and place two inches apart on a cookie sheet. Bake for 15-20 minutes or until golden brown on top.
*Note: I always use the Guittard semi-sweet chocolate chips because I like their large size.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love something that I learned from my grandpa: Everyone loves a fresh pie!
When I was in junior high my grandma passed away and my grandpa decided to move closer to his family. He moved into a 55 and older community in our town. Next door to him lived a spitfire of a woman who, despite her old age, could often be found on her roof cleaning her gutters or doing some other physical activity. She and my grandpa quickly became friends. My grandpa, ever proud of his Lincoln, would take her on shopping trips with him. They would cruise down Interstate 80, then on the way back pull over and take a nap – right there in my grandpa’s Lincoln alongside the freeway.
Despite having his neighbor’s companionship my grandpa discovered that, as a retired, single man with lots of time on his hands, he was lonely. He took up baking. He began by baking for my family. This quickly spread to baking for his neighbor, then her neighbor, and so on. In a town where my grandpa knew no one he found that nothing breaks the ice better than a freshly baked pie. His specialty was key lime pie and be began to take these pies everywhere he went – the doctor’s office, church, the bank… I’ll never forget walking into the grocery store one day and seeing my grandpa chatting away with the employees of the produce department while distributing his famous key lime pies.
Today, in honor of my grandpa, I’m posting one of his recipes. While he’s known for his key lime pie, I’m posting his recipe for chocolate chip cookies. These are my favorite cookies, and not just because they remind me of him. They’re delicious… enjoy!
Arnold’s Chocolate Chip Cookies
The trick to these cookies is to make them really, really big. That’s how my grandpa used to make them, so that’s how I make them.
2 Cups of Flour
1 Cup of Sugar
1 Cup of Light Brown Sugar
2 ½ Cups Blended Oatmeal (measure oatmeal before blending)
1 Cup of Butter (2 sticks)
2 Eggs
12 Oz. of Guittard Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips*
1 Cup Chopped Walnuts (optional)
2 Tsp. Vanilla
1 Tsp. Baking Powder
1 tsp. Baking Soda
1/2 Tsp. Salt
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Sift the oatmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl.
In a separate bowl, cream the butter, sugar, and brown sugar.
Add the eggs and vanilla to the creamed butter.
Mix together with the sifted dry ingredients.
Slowly stir in the chocolate chips and walnuts, if using.
Roll the dough into balls and place two inches apart on a cookie sheet. Bake for 15-20 minutes or until golden brown on top.
*Note: I always use the Guittard semi-sweet chocolate chips because I like their large size.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love something that I learned from my grandpa: Everyone loves a fresh pie!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Mouseketeers and Molly Ringwald
The Best Friend is looking pretty hot these days. Don’t get me wrong, she’s always been gorgeous, she just has a little extra ‘va’ to her ‘voom’ lately. Now that we have a couple hours distance between us we don’t see each other as often. We have to keep up via facebook and the like. I’ve noticed a trend with the pictures she’s posted as of late – her hair keeps getting shorter and she keeps getting prettier. It made me wonder – very briefly – if that theory would work on me.
I’m impressed that The Best Friend had the guts to chop her hair again. I remember when she first experimented with cutting her hair short. We were in the days of The Mickey Mouse Club churning out pop stars. The Best Friend, whose curly hair beats mine any day, excited told me one day that she was going to go to the salon. Her mom had booked her a hair appointment the following day and she would be returning with long, golden locks ala Christina Aguilera. She did, indeed, return with the hair of a Mousketeer. Unfortunately, her short, curly hair with bleach-blond highlights was more along the lines of Justin Timberlake than Christina Aguilera. I can’t help but giggle at the memory, though I, too, have had my fair share of wearing the hair of a pre-pubescent boy.
The first time I cut my hair short I was in junior high and on my way to an ice skating party. I brought a friend with my and swore her to secrecy – I wanted to show up to the party with a chic new haircut, surprising everyone. My mother, who at the time still rocked an 80’s perm, took me to her hair dresser. I should have known that this wouldn’t be good, but childhood innocence left me in the dark. It didn’t dawn on me that I perhaps should have picked a different hairdresser until I was perusing the books in the waiting room… one 80’s cut after the other. I attempted to explain to the hairdresser what I wanted, but, being as young as I was, I didn’t realize that she needed more than ‘cute’ and ‘short’ to get a better picture. I walked out of that place with my curly hair chopped short and angular, then teased to a volume I’ve never seen before – a volume only Molly Ringwald could appreciate. My friend attempted to stifle giggles while I attempted to hold back tears. I spent that ice skating party tugging a hat as tightly over my ears as possible, though I swear my hair was teased and sprayed to the point that the hat stood three inches above my scalp.
The Moral of the Story: Today I Love Mouseketeers and Molly Ringwald. I just don’t want to look like either.
I’m impressed that The Best Friend had the guts to chop her hair again. I remember when she first experimented with cutting her hair short. We were in the days of The Mickey Mouse Club churning out pop stars. The Best Friend, whose curly hair beats mine any day, excited told me one day that she was going to go to the salon. Her mom had booked her a hair appointment the following day and she would be returning with long, golden locks ala Christina Aguilera. She did, indeed, return with the hair of a Mousketeer. Unfortunately, her short, curly hair with bleach-blond highlights was more along the lines of Justin Timberlake than Christina Aguilera. I can’t help but giggle at the memory, though I, too, have had my fair share of wearing the hair of a pre-pubescent boy.
The first time I cut my hair short I was in junior high and on my way to an ice skating party. I brought a friend with my and swore her to secrecy – I wanted to show up to the party with a chic new haircut, surprising everyone. My mother, who at the time still rocked an 80’s perm, took me to her hair dresser. I should have known that this wouldn’t be good, but childhood innocence left me in the dark. It didn’t dawn on me that I perhaps should have picked a different hairdresser until I was perusing the books in the waiting room… one 80’s cut after the other. I attempted to explain to the hairdresser what I wanted, but, being as young as I was, I didn’t realize that she needed more than ‘cute’ and ‘short’ to get a better picture. I walked out of that place with my curly hair chopped short and angular, then teased to a volume I’ve never seen before – a volume only Molly Ringwald could appreciate. My friend attempted to stifle giggles while I attempted to hold back tears. I spent that ice skating party tugging a hat as tightly over my ears as possible, though I swear my hair was teased and sprayed to the point that the hat stood three inches above my scalp.
The Moral of the Story: Today I Love Mouseketeers and Molly Ringwald. I just don’t want to look like either.
Monday, November 15, 2010
A Vicodin A Day
The human body is fascinating. Specifically, how each human reacts in a different way is fascinating. One person may smoke their entire life and never get cancer. Another may be straight as an arrow – no smoking, drinking, and exceptionally healthy person – and be taken by the disease. I, personally, react to medication much different than others.
When I was in high school I underwent surgery. I was sent home with vicodin for the pain and some sleeping pills to take the first couple of nights. The first night my mom, being the worrier that she is, gave me half of a sleeping pill. Instead of sending me into peaceful dreams of rabbits and rainbows, I spent that night watching the second-hand tic… tic… tic... all night long. No sleep for me. These same very sleeping pills will send my father, who carries a good 100lbs on me, into a kind of sleep that takes an army to wake from.
Flash forward to day two post-surgery. I was in a little bit of pain so I took the first of my vicodins and lay back in the couch to watch some trashy reality shows. There’s a lamp next to the couch that is plugged into an outlet wired to a wall switch so whenever you want to turn the light on and off you can simply use the wall switch. I guess I had unplugged the lamp at some point and plugged it back in to the bottom outlet that isn’t wired to the switch. My father came in and, in an attempt to help me out, went to turn the light on. Neither of us realized that the lamp was plugged into the wrong outlet and, to make a long story short, my father asked me if I had broken the lamp.
This is when I discovered my odd reaction to vicodin. It makes me cry.
I sat there, bawling my eyes out, unable to even explain myself to my poor dad. He thought that he had somehow hurt his poor recovering-from-surgery-and-in-pain daughter’s feelings. He asked me a question and now I couldn’t stop crying – and crying hard. I’m talking “I gasp didn’t gasp break the lamp-puh...uh...uh...” crying.
My father tucked and ran. He felt so bad that he went to the kitchen and made me mashed potatoes and gravy, my favorite comfort food. This made me cry even more. I didn’t know at the time that it was the vicodin – it took me a couple more doses to put that together. I still laugh when I think of my poor father, completely bewildered and not understanding how he made me cry, thinking it’s somehow entirely his fault.
The Moral of the Story: Today I Love life's little oddities.
When I was in high school I underwent surgery. I was sent home with vicodin for the pain and some sleeping pills to take the first couple of nights. The first night my mom, being the worrier that she is, gave me half of a sleeping pill. Instead of sending me into peaceful dreams of rabbits and rainbows, I spent that night watching the second-hand tic… tic… tic... all night long. No sleep for me. These same very sleeping pills will send my father, who carries a good 100lbs on me, into a kind of sleep that takes an army to wake from.
Flash forward to day two post-surgery. I was in a little bit of pain so I took the first of my vicodins and lay back in the couch to watch some trashy reality shows. There’s a lamp next to the couch that is plugged into an outlet wired to a wall switch so whenever you want to turn the light on and off you can simply use the wall switch. I guess I had unplugged the lamp at some point and plugged it back in to the bottom outlet that isn’t wired to the switch. My father came in and, in an attempt to help me out, went to turn the light on. Neither of us realized that the lamp was plugged into the wrong outlet and, to make a long story short, my father asked me if I had broken the lamp.
This is when I discovered my odd reaction to vicodin. It makes me cry.
I sat there, bawling my eyes out, unable to even explain myself to my poor dad. He thought that he had somehow hurt his poor recovering-from-surgery-and-in-pain daughter’s feelings. He asked me a question and now I couldn’t stop crying – and crying hard. I’m talking “I gasp didn’t gasp break the lamp-puh...uh...uh...” crying.
My father tucked and ran. He felt so bad that he went to the kitchen and made me mashed potatoes and gravy, my favorite comfort food. This made me cry even more. I didn’t know at the time that it was the vicodin – it took me a couple more doses to put that together. I still laugh when I think of my poor father, completely bewildered and not understanding how he made me cry, thinking it’s somehow entirely his fault.
The Moral of the Story: Today I Love life's little oddities.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Not Quite Ms. Fix-it-All
The Boyfriend has had a bit of a rough patch these last couple of months. It hasn’t been anything drastic, just enough small issues to drive a man crazy. It’s been a lot of the usual… work, car problems, money... it seems like everything is breaking and costing us more money! He had his personal cell phone stolen (again!) and just about gave up on owning a cell phone. He finally gave in and got another personal phone since we don’t have a house phone and his work phone doesn’t get service where we live. He made this decision after my car broke down one morning and I had no way to contact him. I ended up taking a long (read: expensive) taxi ride home and he felt horrible about it.
With The Boyfriend as stressed as he is, my Momma Bear instinct has kicked into high gear. He invited the boys over this weekend. While they went out to cause some trouble, I opted to stay home and do everything in my power to make our home sparkle and shine. I wanted him to step into a relaxing haven when got back. I slipped my marigolds on and went to work – did the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, baked banana bread, shampooed the carpets… I think I cleaned myself back to 1954.
When the boys returned they found themselves outside playing in the mud. It never fails… The Boyfriend’s most prized possession is his bobcat, and whenever the boys come over they want to play. They hadn’t so much as stepped out of the truck when they fired that thing up. After successfully sinking the bobcat in the mud The Boyfriend came inside, disappointed. In his excitement he had forgotten he was wearing his favorite jeans and managed to get the thick red clay that our house sits on all over his bottom. Still playing my housewife role, I took on the duty of stain removal, eager to make everything better. I’ve never been great at stain removing, but I’d be damned if I was going to let this one get the better of me. I scrubbed that stain and proudly returned the pants to their intended color. Satisfied with my conquer I tossed the pants into the wash for a final cleaning and retired with The Boyfriend to enjoy the rest of the evening together. Then…. I heard it. The thumping. Oh lord, I knew something was amiss… I could see the pants, my victory, swishing through the soapy water in the wash. Everything looked great, yet there it was. Thump… thump… thumpthump thump… with dread filling my chest I turned off the washer and waited for the gurgle of water to subside. Reaching in I searched through the bubbles until I found the source of the thumping.
The Boyfriend’s brand new cell phone.
So much for my I’ll-take-care-of-all-the-stress attempt.
The Moral of the Story: TodayI Love I can't help but laugh at the irony of it all.
With The Boyfriend as stressed as he is, my Momma Bear instinct has kicked into high gear. He invited the boys over this weekend. While they went out to cause some trouble, I opted to stay home and do everything in my power to make our home sparkle and shine. I wanted him to step into a relaxing haven when got back. I slipped my marigolds on and went to work – did the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, baked banana bread, shampooed the carpets… I think I cleaned myself back to 1954.
When the boys returned they found themselves outside playing in the mud. It never fails… The Boyfriend’s most prized possession is his bobcat, and whenever the boys come over they want to play. They hadn’t so much as stepped out of the truck when they fired that thing up. After successfully sinking the bobcat in the mud The Boyfriend came inside, disappointed. In his excitement he had forgotten he was wearing his favorite jeans and managed to get the thick red clay that our house sits on all over his bottom. Still playing my housewife role, I took on the duty of stain removal, eager to make everything better. I’ve never been great at stain removing, but I’d be damned if I was going to let this one get the better of me. I scrubbed that stain and proudly returned the pants to their intended color. Satisfied with my conquer I tossed the pants into the wash for a final cleaning and retired with The Boyfriend to enjoy the rest of the evening together. Then…. I heard it. The thumping. Oh lord, I knew something was amiss… I could see the pants, my victory, swishing through the soapy water in the wash. Everything looked great, yet there it was. Thump… thump… thumpthump thump… with dread filling my chest I turned off the washer and waited for the gurgle of water to subside. Reaching in I searched through the bubbles until I found the source of the thumping.
The Boyfriend’s brand new cell phone.
So much for my I’ll-take-care-of-all-the-stress attempt.
The Moral of the Story: Today
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
How Much Wood Can a Woodchuck Chuck?
Wood cutting. It’s not something I grew up doing. The Boyfriend and I have a wood-burning stove in the house and are pretty excited to use it for the first time this winter. Seeing as the cold weather just started and we’ve already used it a lot we’re planning on stocking up on wood.
The last couple of weekends The Boyfriend and I have worked our little tails off. Cleaning, hanging shelves, working outside… everything to get the house together. Last weekend was no different. We bought our wood cutting permits, woke up early, and set out. I was proud of myself. Number one, I don’t wake up early on weekends. It just doesn’t happen. Number two, I woke up early and headed out to do physical labor. And I didn’t bitch about it the whole way. So far we’re looking at a pretty good day.
The Boyfriend and I drove out to the boonies (who am I kidding, we live in the boonies) and finally found a spot to cut. The Boyfriend worked the hot saw (that’s a chain saw for those of you less experienced wood cutters) and I was the gatherer. He cut big logs and I would follow behind him, grabbing three or four of those logs and hauling them back to the truck (down a hill I might add). I was so proud of myself. On my third or fourth trip I was thinking how great I was doing. I was moving fast, hauling a lot of heavy wood, and man was I getting some exercise. I was thinking that at the rate I was going in a couple of hours we would have plenty of wood for the winter. Fast forward a couple trips to the truck… I. Was. Done. Cursing-under-my-breath, dragging-my-feet, kicking-the-wood-done. But, hey, I still got a decent amount of wood to the truck. Those loggers don’t mess around, let me tell you. And really, how much wood can a woodchuck chuck? And where does one go about procuring a woodchuck?
They Boyfriend and I packed up around noon and headed back to the house to relax with a hot bath and some wine. Yeah…. I wish. Instead we headed back to the house to cut up the wood we had just gathered, stack it, clean up, and paint the master bedroom. Oh yeah, did I mention that we planned to gather firewood and paint the master bedroom in the same day? By the time we finished stacking the wood and got around to painting we got about halfway through before we called it a night. The next day we woke early again to finish painting the room. We had one coat and all of the trim left to do. We poured the paint, dipped our rollers, and…. I. Was. Done. I mean, done. Worse than the day before. I put on my best puppy dog face for The Boyfriend and curled up in front of the TV. I thought ‘I’ll just lay down for one episode of Friends’. Four hours later I woke up and the bedroom was painted. When I woke up from my nap The Boyfriend made me a bowl of chili and lit a fire for me. I was feeling guilty for sleeping while he worked so hard, but he was feeling guilty for working me so hard the last couple of weekends. He told me he felt bad that we hadn’t had any downtime and that I deserved some time to just relax, and I fell even more in love with him. That night we did get our hot bath and red wine. It wouldn’t have felt as good without the days of hard work leading up to it.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love my hard-working, understanding, loving boyfriend. And baths. I love baths.
The last couple of weekends The Boyfriend and I have worked our little tails off. Cleaning, hanging shelves, working outside… everything to get the house together. Last weekend was no different. We bought our wood cutting permits, woke up early, and set out. I was proud of myself. Number one, I don’t wake up early on weekends. It just doesn’t happen. Number two, I woke up early and headed out to do physical labor. And I didn’t bitch about it the whole way. So far we’re looking at a pretty good day.
The Boyfriend and I drove out to the boonies (who am I kidding, we live in the boonies) and finally found a spot to cut. The Boyfriend worked the hot saw (that’s a chain saw for those of you less experienced wood cutters) and I was the gatherer. He cut big logs and I would follow behind him, grabbing three or four of those logs and hauling them back to the truck (down a hill I might add). I was so proud of myself. On my third or fourth trip I was thinking how great I was doing. I was moving fast, hauling a lot of heavy wood, and man was I getting some exercise. I was thinking that at the rate I was going in a couple of hours we would have plenty of wood for the winter. Fast forward a couple trips to the truck… I. Was. Done. Cursing-under-my-breath, dragging-my-feet, kicking-the-wood-done. But, hey, I still got a decent amount of wood to the truck. Those loggers don’t mess around, let me tell you. And really, how much wood can a woodchuck chuck? And where does one go about procuring a woodchuck?
They Boyfriend and I packed up around noon and headed back to the house to relax with a hot bath and some wine. Yeah…. I wish. Instead we headed back to the house to cut up the wood we had just gathered, stack it, clean up, and paint the master bedroom. Oh yeah, did I mention that we planned to gather firewood and paint the master bedroom in the same day? By the time we finished stacking the wood and got around to painting we got about halfway through before we called it a night. The next day we woke early again to finish painting the room. We had one coat and all of the trim left to do. We poured the paint, dipped our rollers, and…. I. Was. Done. I mean, done. Worse than the day before. I put on my best puppy dog face for The Boyfriend and curled up in front of the TV. I thought ‘I’ll just lay down for one episode of Friends’. Four hours later I woke up and the bedroom was painted. When I woke up from my nap The Boyfriend made me a bowl of chili and lit a fire for me. I was feeling guilty for sleeping while he worked so hard, but he was feeling guilty for working me so hard the last couple of weekends. He told me he felt bad that we hadn’t had any downtime and that I deserved some time to just relax, and I fell even more in love with him. That night we did get our hot bath and red wine. It wouldn’t have felt as good without the days of hard work leading up to it.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love my hard-working, understanding, loving boyfriend. And baths. I love baths.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Smoke Bombs
My father and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye as I grew up. There was often tension between us and I blamed it on his stubbornness. I realize now it had more to do with the fact that we’re so alike… I inherited his stubbornness. Through all the stubbornness, when I look back I can recall many cherished memories with my father, memories I won’t soon forget. Sitting in a tin boat out on the lake and singing “Suspicious Minds” together. Every time we stopped at a gas station he would buy me a soda and a king sized candy bar of my choice (I never said we were healthy, just happy). I’ll never forget the moment I told him I was calling off the wedding to The Ex. He asked me if I was sure, and when he was certain that I was, he told me that he would handle everything. He did everything he could to protect me from the disaster I had created.
One of my favorite memories of my father was when I was around 8 or 9 years old. There were quite a few kids on my block the same age as me, most of them boys. It used to irritate me that the boys would play with me, but the second my brother came around I was left behind because I was a girl. They would play sports with my brother: football, baseball, basketball… and they always deemed these sports a ‘boys game’. They refused to let me play. I remember one such day. The boy I was playing with that day was my next door neighbor. We’d been playing various games for a couple of hours when my brother returned home (from where, I don’t remember) and asked my companion if he wanted to play football with him. Of course he wanted to. They once again informed me that it was a ‘boy’s game’ and I couldn’t partake. I very maturely accepted this… and ran straight to my father sobbing that it’s wasn’t fair, just wasn’t fair! My father, in an attempt to cheer me up, told me he had something more fun than football. I, of course, didn’t buy it. Parents just don’t understand. That is until he produced the smoke bombs. He had caught my interest. I watched as he lit a smoke bomb, a smoky blue little round thing, and handed it to me. He told me to toss it in the middle of the field where the boys were playing, which I happily did. They boys stopped immediately and came running toward the source of the smoke. (“Cool, smoke bombs!” “Awesome!”) My brother, eager to play, reached for one when my father stopped him and informed him that this was my game and that he and the neighbor boy couldn’t play.
How cool is my dad?
The Moral of the Story: Today I love the feeling that only a father can give you when you realize how much he loves you.
One of my favorite memories of my father was when I was around 8 or 9 years old. There were quite a few kids on my block the same age as me, most of them boys. It used to irritate me that the boys would play with me, but the second my brother came around I was left behind because I was a girl. They would play sports with my brother: football, baseball, basketball… and they always deemed these sports a ‘boys game’. They refused to let me play. I remember one such day. The boy I was playing with that day was my next door neighbor. We’d been playing various games for a couple of hours when my brother returned home (from where, I don’t remember) and asked my companion if he wanted to play football with him. Of course he wanted to. They once again informed me that it was a ‘boy’s game’ and I couldn’t partake. I very maturely accepted this… and ran straight to my father sobbing that it’s wasn’t fair, just wasn’t fair! My father, in an attempt to cheer me up, told me he had something more fun than football. I, of course, didn’t buy it. Parents just don’t understand. That is until he produced the smoke bombs. He had caught my interest. I watched as he lit a smoke bomb, a smoky blue little round thing, and handed it to me. He told me to toss it in the middle of the field where the boys were playing, which I happily did. They boys stopped immediately and came running toward the source of the smoke. (“Cool, smoke bombs!” “Awesome!”) My brother, eager to play, reached for one when my father stopped him and informed him that this was my game and that he and the neighbor boy couldn’t play.
How cool is my dad?
The Moral of the Story: Today I love the feeling that only a father can give you when you realize how much he loves you.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Lobsters and Love
Yesterday, as The Boyfriend and I spend a wonderfully quiet night at home together, I thought about the first time we said ‘I Love You’ to each other.
I had thought about how we would finally tell each other “I Love You”. Would it be over dinner, laughing together, having a great time when he would pause, give me a big kiss, and then say it? Or would it be after dinner, two glasses of red wine in front of the fireplace, cuddled up? Well, as it turns out…. neither.
The Boyfriend’s Sister got tickets to a lobster feed for herself, her man, The Boyfriend and me. I had never been to a lobster feed and was really looking forward to it. The tickets were $50 each but included lobster, all the sides, and all the alcohol you could drink. The feed was a blast. We ate too much, drank too much, and danced the night away. Finally, as the night wound down, we headed back to the car. The Boyfriend’s Sister and I pronounced that we were ready to go to the bar, and the boys were thrilled. They didn’t expect us to make it that long.
Things quickly went downhill from there.
We got in the car, I slumped over The Boyfriend’s shoulder, and The Boyfriend’s Sister had to make a couple pit stops on the way back to (how do I put this delicately?) ralph her guts up. Needless to say there was no bar for us that night. We got back to the house and crawled in bed. As I lay in bed, the walls spinning around me, holding on to The Boyfriend for fear of flying off the bed, I looked into those gorgeous eyes of his. Suddenly I blurted out “Do you love me or not?” Yeah, not quite the romantic moment I had imagined. Luckily when we woke the next morning we were able to laugh at the memory of the night before, kiss each other, and truly tell one another ‘I Love You’.
Later I found out that The Boyfriend’s Sister spent the night with her head in the toilet moaning “There goes my $50 lobster!”
The Moral of the Story: Today I love those not-quite-perfect moments with the ones we love. Don’t those always turn out to be the memories we cherish the most?
I had thought about how we would finally tell each other “I Love You”. Would it be over dinner, laughing together, having a great time when he would pause, give me a big kiss, and then say it? Or would it be after dinner, two glasses of red wine in front of the fireplace, cuddled up? Well, as it turns out…. neither.
The Boyfriend’s Sister got tickets to a lobster feed for herself, her man, The Boyfriend and me. I had never been to a lobster feed and was really looking forward to it. The tickets were $50 each but included lobster, all the sides, and all the alcohol you could drink. The feed was a blast. We ate too much, drank too much, and danced the night away. Finally, as the night wound down, we headed back to the car. The Boyfriend’s Sister and I pronounced that we were ready to go to the bar, and the boys were thrilled. They didn’t expect us to make it that long.
Things quickly went downhill from there.
We got in the car, I slumped over The Boyfriend’s shoulder, and The Boyfriend’s Sister had to make a couple pit stops on the way back to (how do I put this delicately?) ralph her guts up. Needless to say there was no bar for us that night. We got back to the house and crawled in bed. As I lay in bed, the walls spinning around me, holding on to The Boyfriend for fear of flying off the bed, I looked into those gorgeous eyes of his. Suddenly I blurted out “Do you love me or not?” Yeah, not quite the romantic moment I had imagined. Luckily when we woke the next morning we were able to laugh at the memory of the night before, kiss each other, and truly tell one another ‘I Love You’.
Later I found out that The Boyfriend’s Sister spent the night with her head in the toilet moaning “There goes my $50 lobster!”
The Moral of the Story: Today I love those not-quite-perfect moments with the ones we love. Don’t those always turn out to be the memories we cherish the most?
Monday, June 14, 2010
Guilty Laughs
Today is short and sweet. I made a promise to myself that I will start blogging again (it's been 6 months!) and you have to start somewhere... since I don't have much time, here's today's post:
There's a customer of ours at work that makes me laugh every time I see the company's name. The bad part about it is I think I'm the only one that laughs. The name? T.M. Duche Nut Company. It's a real company, Google them. And really, tell me you didn't laugh at their name.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love the little things in life that make you laugh. The ones you feel a little guilty about....
There's a customer of ours at work that makes me laugh every time I see the company's name. The bad part about it is I think I'm the only one that laughs. The name? T.M. Duche Nut Company. It's a real company, Google them. And really, tell me you didn't laugh at their name.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love the little things in life that make you laugh. The ones you feel a little guilty about....
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