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!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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....
Friday, December 4, 2009
Captain, The One-Eyed Bandit
My dog, Captain, is a thief.
I thought it was humorous in the beginning, how he would bring home a stuffed teddy bear and add it to his growing pile of toys. After the first couple of additions to his toy chest all I could think about is the poor children in the neighborhood that he was stealing from. I can imagine how he does it, walking up to these poor, unsuspecting children. I'm sure he plays it up, looking all cute and sweet. He probably puts a little extra hop in his step, walks with an adorable little swagger, wagging that tail of his... then, bam! He's off with their favorite teddy bear that grandma gave them for Christmas the year before they died. Pretty soon the children in the neighborhood are going to form an alliance against that damn toy-stealing white dog. Captain, the One-Eyed Bandit.
I Think he does it for the rush. See, children's toys aren't enough for him anymore. Now he's stealing bigger ticket items. Brushes, key chains, towels... you name it, he's stolen it. My mom is mortified. Every time he brings home a new prize she immediately puts it in a bag with the rest and hides it away. I'm not sure what to do with the Captain's treasures. A coworker suggested putting it in a box that says 'Free' and placing it in front of the neighbors house so the rest of the block think it's their dog that's stealing, not mine.
I wonder how many hidden piles of treasure he has that I don't know about. I can just see him burying it in the yard, stashing it under the house. Come to think of it, I'm missing a couple pairs of shoes....
The Moral of the story: Today I love my playful, troublemaking Captain.
I thought it was humorous in the beginning, how he would bring home a stuffed teddy bear and add it to his growing pile of toys. After the first couple of additions to his toy chest all I could think about is the poor children in the neighborhood that he was stealing from. I can imagine how he does it, walking up to these poor, unsuspecting children. I'm sure he plays it up, looking all cute and sweet. He probably puts a little extra hop in his step, walks with an adorable little swagger, wagging that tail of his... then, bam! He's off with their favorite teddy bear that grandma gave them for Christmas the year before they died. Pretty soon the children in the neighborhood are going to form an alliance against that damn toy-stealing white dog. Captain, the One-Eyed Bandit.
I Think he does it for the rush. See, children's toys aren't enough for him anymore. Now he's stealing bigger ticket items. Brushes, key chains, towels... you name it, he's stolen it. My mom is mortified. Every time he brings home a new prize she immediately puts it in a bag with the rest and hides it away. I'm not sure what to do with the Captain's treasures. A coworker suggested putting it in a box that says 'Free' and placing it in front of the neighbors house so the rest of the block think it's their dog that's stealing, not mine.
I wonder how many hidden piles of treasure he has that I don't know about. I can just see him burying it in the yard, stashing it under the house. Come to think of it, I'm missing a couple pairs of shoes....
The Moral of the story: Today I love my playful, troublemaking Captain.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Seeing Green
I'm going to be Poison Ivy from Batman for Halloween. A group of eight of us are going to a party at a winery built like a castle and each one of us is going as a character from Batman. I chose Poison Ivy thinking it would be pretty simple to find a cute costume. I was wrong. Three weeks and $200 later I almost have my homemade costume done.
I was trying the gloves on at The Boyfriend's house the other day and his dad gave me quite the review.... he told me I looked "like a high-class call girl". I'm still not sure if it was supposed to be a compliment or not... and he only saw the gloves, imagine if he'd seen the whole costume! Have I told you about the costume? After several failed attempts to locate a cute Poison Ivy costume, I decided to make it myself. I then discovered that green is apparently not in style right now. I settled on white with the great idea to dye it green. I bought a white corset and a pair of boy shorts (yes, I'm wearing underwear for Halloween). Along with the corset and boy shorts I purchased some above-the-knee black boots. I love these boots. I want to marry these boots. I also have a green cape and, of course, a red wig.
Now, I don't know if you've ever dyed anything before but it's an interesting process. I had several pots and pans boiling on the stove top with varies garments in each one, all covered in a bubbly green liquid. I felt like a witch. After carefully following the instructions I pulled the boy shorts out and, voila! The perfect green! I excitedly grabbed the pot with my corset, expecting to see the same, and.... blue. Robin's. Egg. Blue. Shit! I dyed it again. Deeper blue. Unfortunately at the end of the process I had to go to work and I knew that I didn't have time to attempt dying again before Halloween, so I left it up to The Boyfriend. He spent an entire day dying and re-dying that damn corset before he was finally able to get it green. He went to work that day his hands dyed several shades of blue and green. What a great sport.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love Halloween
I was trying the gloves on at The Boyfriend's house the other day and his dad gave me quite the review.... he told me I looked "like a high-class call girl". I'm still not sure if it was supposed to be a compliment or not... and he only saw the gloves, imagine if he'd seen the whole costume! Have I told you about the costume? After several failed attempts to locate a cute Poison Ivy costume, I decided to make it myself. I then discovered that green is apparently not in style right now. I settled on white with the great idea to dye it green. I bought a white corset and a pair of boy shorts (yes, I'm wearing underwear for Halloween). Along with the corset and boy shorts I purchased some above-the-knee black boots. I love these boots. I want to marry these boots. I also have a green cape and, of course, a red wig.
Now, I don't know if you've ever dyed anything before but it's an interesting process. I had several pots and pans boiling on the stove top with varies garments in each one, all covered in a bubbly green liquid. I felt like a witch. After carefully following the instructions I pulled the boy shorts out and, voila! The perfect green! I excitedly grabbed the pot with my corset, expecting to see the same, and.... blue. Robin's. Egg. Blue. Shit! I dyed it again. Deeper blue. Unfortunately at the end of the process I had to go to work and I knew that I didn't have time to attempt dying again before Halloween, so I left it up to The Boyfriend. He spent an entire day dying and re-dying that damn corset before he was finally able to get it green. He went to work that day his hands dyed several shades of blue and green. What a great sport.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love Halloween
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Adventures of a New Job
Ever since I started at the chocolate store I’ve doubled my caffeine intake. I noticed today that I have a pattern. I, of course, have my morning triple latte. What happens now that’s different is when I go to work I have chocolate… for breakfast. Now my afternoon crash is even bigger. I find myself reaching for the coffee pot around noon, and again around 3. And of course, nothing goes better with a mid afternoon cup of coffee than a piece (or five) of chocolate. I’m stuck in a vicious cycle of caffeine and sugar.
Today was one of those days where each person who entered the store is more frustrating than the next. In the store there are two counters to help people at. Today I was the only person in the front and not one person, not two, but three, three, people walked into the store at different times throughout the day, walked up to the empty counter across from the one where I stood patiently waiting to help customers out and stood, waiting for help. Really? Did they not see me standing there? Another person walked up to the counter while I was packing a box, picked up a piece of chocolate right out of the box I was packing and said “Can I eat this?” I informed him politely that he could for $1.85 as we don’t do samples. He set the piece of chocolate down and walked away. He seemed to think it was completely appropriate to man-handle the chocolate then place it back in the box for me to sell to some lucky person. I hope he doesn’t work in food service.
Yesterday I butt dialed The Boyfriend while I was at work. I laughed and didn’t think anything of it. That is until today. Today I butt dialed The Ex. Ironic, I know. I wouldn’t have known except I got a text from The Ex saying “Sorry I missed your call, I was in a meeting. What’s up?” Then I had to awkwardly explain that I didn’t actually mean to call him. I really need to learn how to lock my phone better. The phone locks automatically but you only have to hit the center button for it to unlock. Somehow my butt managed to unlock my phone, open my contacts list, locate The Ex’s number, and hit send. I’m actually pretty impressed with my butt. Irritated, but impressed. I wonder what I was talking about when I left that message….
P.S. Today I ate 27 pieces of chocolate. I think I went into a sugar coma.
The Moral of the story: Today I love adventures in a new job.
Today was one of those days where each person who entered the store is more frustrating than the next. In the store there are two counters to help people at. Today I was the only person in the front and not one person, not two, but three, three, people walked into the store at different times throughout the day, walked up to the empty counter across from the one where I stood patiently waiting to help customers out and stood, waiting for help. Really? Did they not see me standing there? Another person walked up to the counter while I was packing a box, picked up a piece of chocolate right out of the box I was packing and said “Can I eat this?” I informed him politely that he could for $1.85 as we don’t do samples. He set the piece of chocolate down and walked away. He seemed to think it was completely appropriate to man-handle the chocolate then place it back in the box for me to sell to some lucky person. I hope he doesn’t work in food service.
Yesterday I butt dialed The Boyfriend while I was at work. I laughed and didn’t think anything of it. That is until today. Today I butt dialed The Ex. Ironic, I know. I wouldn’t have known except I got a text from The Ex saying “Sorry I missed your call, I was in a meeting. What’s up?” Then I had to awkwardly explain that I didn’t actually mean to call him. I really need to learn how to lock my phone better. The phone locks automatically but you only have to hit the center button for it to unlock. Somehow my butt managed to unlock my phone, open my contacts list, locate The Ex’s number, and hit send. I’m actually pretty impressed with my butt. Irritated, but impressed. I wonder what I was talking about when I left that message….
P.S. Today I ate 27 pieces of chocolate. I think I went into a sugar coma.
The Moral of the story: Today I love adventures in a new job.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Confessions of a Chocoholic
I just ate a 24-piece box of chocolate to myself.
I’ve always been a chocoholic. My mom used to tell me that when I was little the only time I wasn’t talking was when I had some chocolate to put in my mouth. And now I have taken a job at a chocolate store.
Today was my first day at the chocolate store. I walked in the back room, this little magic room where all the delectable creations are made, and took in the aroma. Heaven. Chocolate everywhere in every shape and form. Little chocolate butterflies with beautiful blue and red colored wings, chocolate leaves flavored with fresh mint, turtles filled with caramel and topped with fleur de sel… all displayed in beautiful blue and brown boxes, each piece looking like a perfectly wrapped present on Christmas morning. Again, heaven. And the most amazing part… they encouraged me to taste the chocolates. “Sample each one!” they said with a smile. I honestly had to pinch myself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. I spent all day wrapping these little pieces of treasure, stuffing each piece into a pretty little paper wrapper then carefully placing those into a beautiful round box, finally wrapping each box with a perfect bow. All in between shoving a couple (ok, times that by ten) handfuls into my own greedy little mouth. And then as my work day ended and I was ready to walk out the door I was handed a gorgeous round blue and brown box that held 24 of these tantalizing chocolates to take home with me. “I’ll share with my family”, I thought to myself, “These will last until the end of the week. Most definitely.”
And here I sit, one half-pound box of chocolates completely empty with those pretty little paper wrappers strewn about in front of me. Dear lord, I think this job is going to be the end of me.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love chocolate. Ask me how I feel about it in a week…
I’ve always been a chocoholic. My mom used to tell me that when I was little the only time I wasn’t talking was when I had some chocolate to put in my mouth. And now I have taken a job at a chocolate store.
Today was my first day at the chocolate store. I walked in the back room, this little magic room where all the delectable creations are made, and took in the aroma. Heaven. Chocolate everywhere in every shape and form. Little chocolate butterflies with beautiful blue and red colored wings, chocolate leaves flavored with fresh mint, turtles filled with caramel and topped with fleur de sel… all displayed in beautiful blue and brown boxes, each piece looking like a perfectly wrapped present on Christmas morning. Again, heaven. And the most amazing part… they encouraged me to taste the chocolates. “Sample each one!” they said with a smile. I honestly had to pinch myself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. I spent all day wrapping these little pieces of treasure, stuffing each piece into a pretty little paper wrapper then carefully placing those into a beautiful round box, finally wrapping each box with a perfect bow. All in between shoving a couple (ok, times that by ten) handfuls into my own greedy little mouth. And then as my work day ended and I was ready to walk out the door I was handed a gorgeous round blue and brown box that held 24 of these tantalizing chocolates to take home with me. “I’ll share with my family”, I thought to myself, “These will last until the end of the week. Most definitely.”
And here I sit, one half-pound box of chocolates completely empty with those pretty little paper wrappers strewn about in front of me. Dear lord, I think this job is going to be the end of me.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love chocolate. Ask me how I feel about it in a week…
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Rainy Days and a Season of Scurry
It’s raining. Every year I dread the day that the skies open up and begin their annual downpours. I love the fall so much that I hate these first signs of winter. Fall to me is a season of slowing down. People bundle up and take leisurely walks with loved ones. They stop and look at the changing world around them. They take the time to enjoy life. Then the rain comes and in an instant it’s over. Suddenly people are scurrying about, running to find cover, scrambling to open their car doors before they completely soak through. No one has the time to stop and enjoy their surroundings or the people around them. I feel like it’s one of those black and white montages where the scene is played in fast forward with whimsical music playing in the background.
I claim to hate when it rains and complain all season. And I do – I hate it for all the reasons above. I hate running through the rain, soaking wet. My carefully flat ironed hair curls within seconds and my makeup runs off my face. I hate getting the bottom of my pant legs wet and watching that water creep all the way up to my knees.
The truth is, I secretly love the rain. I love walking into a toasty home and shedding those wet outer layers. I love the sound of the rain falling on the rooftop. I love spending a cold, rainy day curled up by a fireplace reading a book with a glass of hot cocoa (or better yet, red wine). Those hibernation days are some of my favorites, spending too many hours in bed under warm cover. These days are made all the better when spent with that special person.
I wish I could spend the day with the one I love. I know exactly what we would do all day – nothing. Just lay next to each other and be satisfied that we had one another. Unfortunately my love will have to wait for this weekend. That’s the problem with being with someone who lives hours away. So for everyone who has their loved ones with them, take advantage of it. Be lazy, spend all day in bed with that person you love. Do it for me because I can’t. You’ll find my curled up with my dog instead, watching a romantic comedy. Wow, I really am a walking cliché.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love the weekends (and the rain, though I’ll never actually admit it.)
I claim to hate when it rains and complain all season. And I do – I hate it for all the reasons above. I hate running through the rain, soaking wet. My carefully flat ironed hair curls within seconds and my makeup runs off my face. I hate getting the bottom of my pant legs wet and watching that water creep all the way up to my knees.
The truth is, I secretly love the rain. I love walking into a toasty home and shedding those wet outer layers. I love the sound of the rain falling on the rooftop. I love spending a cold, rainy day curled up by a fireplace reading a book with a glass of hot cocoa (or better yet, red wine). Those hibernation days are some of my favorites, spending too many hours in bed under warm cover. These days are made all the better when spent with that special person.
I wish I could spend the day with the one I love. I know exactly what we would do all day – nothing. Just lay next to each other and be satisfied that we had one another. Unfortunately my love will have to wait for this weekend. That’s the problem with being with someone who lives hours away. So for everyone who has their loved ones with them, take advantage of it. Be lazy, spend all day in bed with that person you love. Do it for me because I can’t. You’ll find my curled up with my dog instead, watching a romantic comedy. Wow, I really am a walking cliché.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love the weekends (and the rain, though I’ll never actually admit it.)
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Farewell to a Frenemy
It’s been one day, eight hours, and eleven minutes since I quit smoking. I’ve been telling myself I’m going to quit ever since I started again. It was hard to make the decision because, I’ll be honest, I love smoking. Ask any smoker and they’ll tell you the same.
I have so many good memories with my cigarettes. I remember in high school every morning two of my girlfriends and I would drive to the woods after PE and smoke cloves. I remember sitting on the back patio of my best friend’s house, smoking Camel Lights and playing drinking games until the wee hours of the morning. My brother and I bonded over hand rolled cigarettes. A cold morning and a cup of coffee just doesn’t seem the same without my little nicotine fix. And now, after all these years, cigarettes and I are breaking up.
I have to be honest, they weren’t all good times. A hangover is intensified when a night of drinking is mixed with chain smoking. And the truth about coffee and cigarettes? It’s a bit like drinking a gallon of prune juice. These are the things I’m not going to miss. These plus the smell, the lingering taste, the general grossness of it all. There’s a reason why I used to refer to myself as a ‘dirty smoker’.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over cigarettes. We’ve had a rocky romance with lots of ups and downs but I know that, unfortunately, I will always have fond memories. It’s like that ex boyfriend we’ve all had – so bad for you yet you keep coming back for more. Not this time though. This time it’s over for good.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love letting go
I have so many good memories with my cigarettes. I remember in high school every morning two of my girlfriends and I would drive to the woods after PE and smoke cloves. I remember sitting on the back patio of my best friend’s house, smoking Camel Lights and playing drinking games until the wee hours of the morning. My brother and I bonded over hand rolled cigarettes. A cold morning and a cup of coffee just doesn’t seem the same without my little nicotine fix. And now, after all these years, cigarettes and I are breaking up.
I have to be honest, they weren’t all good times. A hangover is intensified when a night of drinking is mixed with chain smoking. And the truth about coffee and cigarettes? It’s a bit like drinking a gallon of prune juice. These are the things I’m not going to miss. These plus the smell, the lingering taste, the general grossness of it all. There’s a reason why I used to refer to myself as a ‘dirty smoker’.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over cigarettes. We’ve had a rocky romance with lots of ups and downs but I know that, unfortunately, I will always have fond memories. It’s like that ex boyfriend we’ve all had – so bad for you yet you keep coming back for more. Not this time though. This time it’s over for good.
The Moral of the Story: Today I love letting go
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Detective in us All
When The Ex and I first started dating I came home one day only to have my mom ask “So, has The Ex ever been shot?” She asked it casually, as if it’s a common question to ask of your daughter’s boyfriend. Needless to say, I was surprised and couldn’t help laughing. My mom went on to explain that when she heard I was dating The Ex she decided to google him and found that there were several people with his name, one of whom had been shot. I then discovered that this is something that my mom does frequently. Take last night for instance…
The Boyfriend called me last night from his work phone. My mom has yet to meet The Boyfriend. After our conversation ended, my mom came into the room and casually dropped several facts about the company that he works for. See, we have caller ID and when the company name popped up my mom googled it. I asked her why she felt the urge to do so, and she looked at me as if I were the crazy one! “Well, I was sitting in front of the computer when the phone rang, so I decided to google him. Haven’t you ever done that?” My mom, the detective. Or is stalker a better fit in this case?
The Moral of the Story: Today I love my mom. My cute, slightly crazy but always lovable, Mom
The Boyfriend called me last night from his work phone. My mom has yet to meet The Boyfriend. After our conversation ended, my mom came into the room and casually dropped several facts about the company that he works for. See, we have caller ID and when the company name popped up my mom googled it. I asked her why she felt the urge to do so, and she looked at me as if I were the crazy one! “Well, I was sitting in front of the computer when the phone rang, so I decided to google him. Haven’t you ever done that?” My mom, the detective. Or is stalker a better fit in this case?
The Moral of the Story: Today I love my mom. My cute, slightly crazy but always lovable, Mom
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Young & Irresponsible
Summer is almost over, grasping to get in a few more rays before fall takes over. This transition is my favorite time of year. I often wonder if it’s because it mirrors my life. We’re always in a transition, constantly changing. I feel myself grasping onto the old, reluctant to let go, as the new takes hold.
I feel as though I missed out on the beginning of my twenties. I was so focused on growing up that I forgot to enjoy being young. Now I’m in the transition of accepting how young I actually am.
This year I was to be married and start a family. The man I was to marry was 13 years my senior and I found myself fighting to prove to others that we belonged, that it wasn’t so odd that we were together. I remember when I took my nose ring out. I looked in the mirror and saw this stud in my nose, this teeny stud that I loved so dearly, and thought how it made me look young. So I took it out. In all reality it didn’t make me look ‘young’, it made me look my age. I was 21. Last week I was curious to see if it would go back in. it had been 2 years since I last sported it. So I drove down to the same place I had it pierced and bought a replacement. It’s the same small, silver stud I wore before. It went right in. I found myself looking in the mirror and thinking once again how it made me look young. And yet I still loved it. So, I decided it would stay. Does it make me look young? Fuck it, I am young. And I’m allowed to be young.
I look back on the last two years and see how much I changed of myself in order to appear older. I wore different clothes. I listened to different music, changed my makeup. When I went out with friends we went to fancy dinners, dressed up and drank nice wines. I loved every moment of it, and still love to do those things, but I’m having so much fun wearing my jeans and flip flops and grabbing a beer at the run-down bar. The bar I would have avoided last year. I feel as though I get to be myself again. I missed me. If given the chance, would I go back and change things? Probably not. I’ve grown a lot and know things about myself now that I probably wouldn’t have learned for a long time.
So, what are you doing tonight? Let’s go be young & irresponsible.
The Moral of the story: Today I love me. Sounds selfish, I know, but true
I feel as though I missed out on the beginning of my twenties. I was so focused on growing up that I forgot to enjoy being young. Now I’m in the transition of accepting how young I actually am.
This year I was to be married and start a family. The man I was to marry was 13 years my senior and I found myself fighting to prove to others that we belonged, that it wasn’t so odd that we were together. I remember when I took my nose ring out. I looked in the mirror and saw this stud in my nose, this teeny stud that I loved so dearly, and thought how it made me look young. So I took it out. In all reality it didn’t make me look ‘young’, it made me look my age. I was 21. Last week I was curious to see if it would go back in. it had been 2 years since I last sported it. So I drove down to the same place I had it pierced and bought a replacement. It’s the same small, silver stud I wore before. It went right in. I found myself looking in the mirror and thinking once again how it made me look young. And yet I still loved it. So, I decided it would stay. Does it make me look young? Fuck it, I am young. And I’m allowed to be young.
I look back on the last two years and see how much I changed of myself in order to appear older. I wore different clothes. I listened to different music, changed my makeup. When I went out with friends we went to fancy dinners, dressed up and drank nice wines. I loved every moment of it, and still love to do those things, but I’m having so much fun wearing my jeans and flip flops and grabbing a beer at the run-down bar. The bar I would have avoided last year. I feel as though I get to be myself again. I missed me. If given the chance, would I go back and change things? Probably not. I’ve grown a lot and know things about myself now that I probably wouldn’t have learned for a long time.
So, what are you doing tonight? Let’s go be young & irresponsible.
The Moral of the story: Today I love me. Sounds selfish, I know, but true
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Baseball Fields and Summer Nights
Have you ever had a friend that slipped into your life so easy it felt like you’ve known them for years? It doesn’t happen often, but when it does you know it’s special.
I met him at a friend’s barbeque this summer. We spoke a little that night, not much, but later that week I found myself hanging out with him again. He was only here for a month or so, but we made so many memories together. We had a routine. A baseball field at night and a pack of Camel Lights. We would lay in the field and talk. We talked about everything and anything. I told him things I’ve only told my best friend. It sounds romantic, I know, but the amazing thing was we didn’t have to worry about attraction. It was intimate, yes, but only in a friendship way. Looking at the stars, opening up to each other, laughing at the craziness of life. The little time he was here felt like a lifetime.
I’ll never forget our Fever Pitch summer.
The Moral of the story: Today I love Baseball Fields and Summer Nights
I met him at a friend’s barbeque this summer. We spoke a little that night, not much, but later that week I found myself hanging out with him again. He was only here for a month or so, but we made so many memories together. We had a routine. A baseball field at night and a pack of Camel Lights. We would lay in the field and talk. We talked about everything and anything. I told him things I’ve only told my best friend. It sounds romantic, I know, but the amazing thing was we didn’t have to worry about attraction. It was intimate, yes, but only in a friendship way. Looking at the stars, opening up to each other, laughing at the craziness of life. The little time he was here felt like a lifetime.
I’ll never forget our Fever Pitch summer.
The Moral of the story: Today I love Baseball Fields and Summer Nights
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Mistake of a Lifetime
I almost married someone I wasn’t in love with a month ago today. This morning I looked at a lotto ticket that has been sitting in my wallet since Saturday. I knew that today they announce the winning numbers, so I pulled it out, and that’s when I noticed the date. It’s the 22nd. I’m surprised how fast the time has gone by, and at the same time I feel as though it’s been a year since I almost married into what surely would have been a disaster.
I called off my wedding almost exactly a month before the date. I’m happy I came to my senses when I did, yet a little part of me wishes that I had that Runaway Bride moment, escaping minutes before the ceremony starts in my full Bride getup in the back of my best friends pickup truck. See, she had it all planned out. She knew that this marriage would have been the end of me. I told her and her husband one morning around 2am, after one drink too many, that I didn’t think I could go through with it. After I finally admitted it the words rushed out. I told them all the gory details of how unhappy I was. They told me they would support me no matter what. Turns out her way of supporting me was not what I expected.
After my 2am confession I had to go back to reality. The next day I drove home, confident in my decision, ready to call things off. The problem was The Ex’s sister and her boyfriend were staying with us for a long weekend. I didn’t want to say anything while they were there, of course, so I ended up playing the part of the doting fiancé. I didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip back into that role. And stay in that role. I decided it would be easier to just go along with things as they were. I was willing to compromise my happiness to avoid one difficult conversation. Looking back I realize how incredibly ridiculous this is.
I remember when I told my best friend that I was going to go through with it. The Ex’s sister had just left and he and I were on our way to go wedding veil and shoe shopping. I was too scared to speak to her because I knew if I did I would have to face the fact once again that my perfect little fairy-tale wedding was in fact a nightmare. So I texted her. She told me that she would stand by me in my decisions but let me know she didn’t agree with me. Then, a couple days later, she called. She told me she could not stand up next to me in my wedding knowing how unhappy I was. I was crushed. It’s hard to face a friend who is willing to say the things that you’re not. I was mortified, too. How was I going to explain to everyone that my best friend, my Maid of Honor, was no longer in the wedding? Needless to say, it didn’t get to that. I called the wedding off.
My best friend since the day I was born and I weren’t speaking. The night I finally got up the guts to call off the wedding I was surprised how easy it was. It came down to one question, asked by The Ex: “Do you still want to marry me?” Once I gave my answer, a simple “No”, it was over. He left the room to call his family, no questions asked. I picked up my phone and called my best friend. I hadn’t spoken with her in over a week. She answered and all I said was her name. She heard my voice, the wobble in the second syllable, and said “I’m on my way”. She picked me up and on the way to her house she told me her plan. If I had decided to go through with it she was going to sit in the driveway of the house on the day of my wedding, pickup truck running, waiting for the call. Because she knew it would come. If only I had known maybe I would have waited to call things off. You only get that photo-op once. (Kidding, of course)
The Moral of the story: Today I love mistakes nearly made and friends who know you better than you know yourself.
I called off my wedding almost exactly a month before the date. I’m happy I came to my senses when I did, yet a little part of me wishes that I had that Runaway Bride moment, escaping minutes before the ceremony starts in my full Bride getup in the back of my best friends pickup truck. See, she had it all planned out. She knew that this marriage would have been the end of me. I told her and her husband one morning around 2am, after one drink too many, that I didn’t think I could go through with it. After I finally admitted it the words rushed out. I told them all the gory details of how unhappy I was. They told me they would support me no matter what. Turns out her way of supporting me was not what I expected.
After my 2am confession I had to go back to reality. The next day I drove home, confident in my decision, ready to call things off. The problem was The Ex’s sister and her boyfriend were staying with us for a long weekend. I didn’t want to say anything while they were there, of course, so I ended up playing the part of the doting fiancé. I didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip back into that role. And stay in that role. I decided it would be easier to just go along with things as they were. I was willing to compromise my happiness to avoid one difficult conversation. Looking back I realize how incredibly ridiculous this is.
I remember when I told my best friend that I was going to go through with it. The Ex’s sister had just left and he and I were on our way to go wedding veil and shoe shopping. I was too scared to speak to her because I knew if I did I would have to face the fact once again that my perfect little fairy-tale wedding was in fact a nightmare. So I texted her. She told me that she would stand by me in my decisions but let me know she didn’t agree with me. Then, a couple days later, she called. She told me she could not stand up next to me in my wedding knowing how unhappy I was. I was crushed. It’s hard to face a friend who is willing to say the things that you’re not. I was mortified, too. How was I going to explain to everyone that my best friend, my Maid of Honor, was no longer in the wedding? Needless to say, it didn’t get to that. I called the wedding off.
My best friend since the day I was born and I weren’t speaking. The night I finally got up the guts to call off the wedding I was surprised how easy it was. It came down to one question, asked by The Ex: “Do you still want to marry me?” Once I gave my answer, a simple “No”, it was over. He left the room to call his family, no questions asked. I picked up my phone and called my best friend. I hadn’t spoken with her in over a week. She answered and all I said was her name. She heard my voice, the wobble in the second syllable, and said “I’m on my way”. She picked me up and on the way to her house she told me her plan. If I had decided to go through with it she was going to sit in the driveway of the house on the day of my wedding, pickup truck running, waiting for the call. Because she knew it would come. If only I had known maybe I would have waited to call things off. You only get that photo-op once. (Kidding, of course)
The Moral of the story: Today I love mistakes nearly made and friends who know you better than you know yourself.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Quick Fix
I woke up late this morning with a headache. Not one of those slam-my-head-into-a-wall headaches, more of a hat-too-tight feeling of pressure. See, last night I went out with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. My end goal was to drink too much. You know it’s going to be a bad night when you start out that way. Needless to say, I drank too much. And woke up late with a headache.
I’m an avid coffee drinker. When I go to Starbucks you won’t catch me ordering a vanilla-frappe-whipped-foo-foo drink. I want a latte. With 10 extra shots. I take this shit serious. But alas, I had no time for Starbucks this morning. I ran out the door and swung by the gas station on my way to work. The same gas station I had stopped at 5 hours prior to pick up a late night pack of Camel Lights, dirty smoker that I am. And yes, the same attendant was still working. And, of course, recognized me. Drat. He knows I didn’t shower.
Needing my caffeine fix, and no time for ‘real’ coffee, I grabbed one of those Rockstar Coffee drinks. Roasted Latte, to be exact. Now, I’m pretty picky when it comes to my caffeine. I’ll drink the occasional Starbucks Double Shot, but other than that it has to be what I call ‘real coffee’. I must say, Rockstar impressed me. I sucked down my 15 ounces of hangover release and felt fantastic. Healthy? No. Satisfying? Yes.
The Moral of the story: Today I love Rockstar Roasted Latte
I’m an avid coffee drinker. When I go to Starbucks you won’t catch me ordering a vanilla-frappe-whipped-foo-foo drink. I want a latte. With 10 extra shots. I take this shit serious. But alas, I had no time for Starbucks this morning. I ran out the door and swung by the gas station on my way to work. The same gas station I had stopped at 5 hours prior to pick up a late night pack of Camel Lights, dirty smoker that I am. And yes, the same attendant was still working. And, of course, recognized me. Drat. He knows I didn’t shower.
Needing my caffeine fix, and no time for ‘real’ coffee, I grabbed one of those Rockstar Coffee drinks. Roasted Latte, to be exact. Now, I’m pretty picky when it comes to my caffeine. I’ll drink the occasional Starbucks Double Shot, but other than that it has to be what I call ‘real coffee’. I must say, Rockstar impressed me. I sucked down my 15 ounces of hangover release and felt fantastic. Healthy? No. Satisfying? Yes.
The Moral of the story: Today I love Rockstar Roasted Latte
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