Sunday, November 16, 2014

this is why i am a homebody

Last week I had to go on a work trip, and I stayed in the not-at-all-difficult-to-navigate hotel with the fourth and fifth floor on the same level, and the third floor located on the ground level.



I have stayed there at least ten times and I still get lost trying to find my way around.  

When I checked in Wednesday evening for my twelve hour stay, I was given a glass of complimentary apple cider, information about the continental breakfast, and a key for room 441.  I immediately began to regret my excessive packing as I lugged my rolling suitcase, laptop bag, two jackets, purse, lunchbox, and complimentary apple cider down the hall to the elevator, where I made the pleasant discovery that I was staying in the friendliest hotel in THE ENTIRE COUNTRY.



I could hardly believe my good luck.

My belongings and I traveled from the groundthird floor up to the fourthfifth floor, and down several long hallways until at last I arrived at room 441.

I slid my key into the door, and the red light blinked.

Slid it in again.  Red light.

I flipped it over and tried once more.  And once more I saw the red light.

So I gathered my composure and all of my belongings and trudged back to the desk.  A different employee was there and she said, in a VERY FRIENDLY manner, "Hello, miss!!!! Is there something I can help you with?!!!"

"There is," I said, "I just checked into room 441 a minute ago and my room key isn't working."

She typed furiously on her keyboard for a few seconds and then said, with the biggest smile in the entire country, "I'm so sorry, but no one has checked in yet for room 441."

"Well," I said, "I am all checked in.  And my paperwork here says room 441."

After she looked into the matter a bit further and consulted with her manager, she discovered that I was supposed to be in room 449.  As she fixed me up a new key, she looked at me and said, "Don't worry Ms. C.!  You aren't the crazy person!  I AM!" with the COUNTRY'S FRIENDLIEST smile on her face.

I didn't think I was crazy at all, but the statement was oddly reassuring.

I am happy to report that the key to 449 worked beautifully and aside from a moment of my own confusion in the elevator, the rest of my stay at THE FRIENDLIEST HOTEL IN THE COUNTRY was incident free.

Since the location of my meeting was halfway to Penn State, I decided to drive the rest of the way there after my Thursday meeting and visit Emily.

I also decided to book a hotel for the two of us since my days of sleeping in a college dorm are way behind me, and what college girl doesn't love a chance to get out of her dorm for a night?

Emily and I checked into the hotel on Thursday evening and the lady behind the desk gave us the key to room 233.

As we made our way to the room I told Em all about my experience from the night before and we laughed and laughed because ISN'T THAT CRAZY?  HOPE WE DON'T HAVE SUCH BAD LUCK THIS TIME AROUND.

And then I slid the key into the door in room 233 and it opened right up.

I turned on the light and waltzed in a few steps, only to discover THERE WAS ALREADY SOMEBODY IN THERE.

I saw a pizza and sodas on the desk, and I do believe I saw legs under the covers but I cannot be sure because I backed right out of that room faster than I've moved in years.

I whisper-yelled GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! as I literally RAN.  EMILY. OVER.

We hightailed it back down to the desk as Emily kept saying how that seemed like the opening scene of a Law and Order SVU episode and sufficiently FREAKING ME OUT.

When we got to the front desk the lady asked what was wrong, and I said, "It appears that there is someone in the room already."

"Well, there shouldn't be," she said.

THERE IS, M'AM, I SAW THE BIG GULP AND THE PEPPERONI PIZZA ON THE DESK WITH MY OWN TWO EYES.

She reassigned us to another room, which was, quite fortunately, unoccupied.

And then we took this adorable picture because we were so happy to be reunited and headed out for dinner (Emily), and...alive (me).


We had a very pleasant stay, but I think my next visit will just be a day trip.


Tuesday, November 11, 2014

we can never get rid of our cars because then i would have no blog material

Matt and I headed to the gym one night last week, and we took my car because I needed gas.  Since I can't stand to be in the passenger seat of my car with someone else driving (I am a little weird about my car), I was behind the wheel.

We live in a VERY DARK area with turns and curves and hills galore, and other drivers are constantly driving with their high beams on and then not turning them off when oncoming traffic approaches within 500 feet, as per the customary rules of the road.  And the result is BLINDING. 

After about the sixth car did that the other night, Matt said, "This is crazy.  You should flash your high beams at them."

(I have since Googled the practice of flashing your high beams and it appears that such behavior can be viewed as aggressive, or even illegal in some areas.  Let's hope I can't be retroactively ticketed because I am about to incriminate myself in the next paragraph.)

And so I flashed my brights.  

And Matt said, "Why did you flash your fog lights?"

Well, color me surprised.  I told Matt I thought those were my brights, and that I was sorry but unfortunately I did not have any other light selections.  And that's when he told me to push the lever that also controls my windshield wipers and turn signals AND LO AND BEHOLD, THERE WAS LIGHT.

AND LOADS OF IT.

I had no idea those lights existed but now that I know they're there, I cannot stop using them.  

I can't even blame those other drivers for not turning them off.  The visibility is just amazing.

The whole situation reminds me of when I was a little girl and my mom took me to the movies a few days after I got my first pair of glasses.  As soon as the movie started, I slid my new specs down my nose, bifocal style, and throughout the movie I went back and forth between watching with my new glasses and without them.  My mom noticed my strange behavior and leaned over and asked me if everything was okay with my glasses, but it turns out I was just fascinated comparing how poor my vision used to be with how fantastic my glasses made it.

In both situations, I'd literally seen the light.

Speaking of my car, it has been violently shaking for many months now.  Anyone who has ridden in the car with me knows that during periods of acceleration and idling at red lights, there is so much vibration that you have to raise your voice to have a conversation.  
 Naturally my solution has just been to wildly smack at various plastic fixtures in an attempt to quell the noise.

And it's worked for me.  Until that same car trip the other night when Matt said, "How long has your car been shaking like this?"

Oh, ten, twelve months or so.

It turns out I needed a new motor mount, which Matt ordered online last week and planned to install on Saturday.  I didn't want him to think I was lacking confidence in his automobile repair skillz, but since my engine stillsmells of burning oil from his last "maintenance day," I said, "So, you know what you're doing here with this motor mount, right?" 

"Oh yeah," he said, "It should be fine."

Should be fine?

I'm going to need a little more certainty.

"Well, tell me the worst that could happen."  

(Why do I do this to myself?)

"You really want to know the worst that could happen? Well, I guess it would be that I drop the engine, but I promise that won't happen."

And then out the door he went with his toolbox and a whole lot of confidence and I stayed in the house and my nervous energy and I scrubbed the sink until it glistened and EVEN WIPED DOWN THE BASEBOARDS.

Matt came inside a few hours later brimming with the pride of success.  

I will say, my car has never felt so smooth and still.  Occasionally, at red lights, I fear that it has shut off completely because evidently I've become accustomed to the shaking.

And then, because we cannot catch a break, the fan in Matt's car began to blow with great enthusiasm and the check engine light lit up on Sunday.  He drove it over to the dealer, and when he called to give me the update, he told me the water pump was leaking and he had to get a rental.

Since the last time he needed a rental he got a FAN-CAY Camaro, I figured he would have been given a vehicle of similar caliber.   "Oooohhh, what kind of car did you get?" I said.

"Wait until you see.  You will not believe it."

And twenty minutes later, 6'1'', sports car loving Matt pulled into our parking lot in an itsy bitsy, teeny tiny, bright red, Ford Fiesta.



I half expected to see his feet running furiously beneath it, Flinstone style.

He said he was going to call it the Fiesty instead of the Fiesta, but when we took it to the grocery store and I thought I was going to have to get out and push it up the hill, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the name was too grand.

Matt's car was all fixed up with a brand new water pump today, so I followed him to the rental place to drop off the Fiesty, and when we got there I said, "Why did you slow way down when we turned onto Route 30? Were you looking at your GPS or something?"

"No!" he said, "I was pedal to the metal! That's all the juice it had!"

So they Fiesty may not have much power.

But I bet she has powerful high beams.


And to me, that's what really matters.

Friday, November 7, 2014

several unrelated thoughts

Every time Matt and I drive by Cracker Barrel we say, "We should go there for dinner one of these nights."

And then we never go because I am turning into quite the chef and also, one can only eat so much fried food.  Well, on Sunday night we were feeling wild and crazy and decided to head over for dinner.

At 4:30 p.m.

So maybe it wasn't wild or crazy at all, but I blame it on a combo of the time change and a small lunch, and certainly not our ever increasing senior citizen tendencies.

Shortly after we sat down, the most adorable family was seated at the table behind us.  It was a young couple, and the man was wearing an army uniform and they had a little girl about two or three who was insistent that she did not need a lid on her cup and was fascinated with unwrapping butter packets.  As they looked through their menus and did their best to keep the butter unwrapping to a minimum, the manager and another man came over to their table.  The man told them that he came from a military family, and to show his appreciation for their service he wanted to pay for their dinner.

And the men shook hands and the baby smiled and the wife burst into tears.

Which made me fill up with tears because I am becoming a softie in my old age.

Even our waitress was so distracted that she brought us two bowls of cornbread.
--------------------------------------------------

A few years ago I babysat for a family with three little boys.  The youngest was two at the time, and when I would pull up in front of their house he would be sitting at the front door waiting for me, and he would greet me with the most enthusiastic welcome and I always thought about how I'd love to get that kind of hello every day.

One time I babysat around Valentine's Day and upon my arrival he presented me with a little plastic baggie filled with pink and red sprinkles that he'd saved for me from the donut he'd had for breakfast.

That wouldn't be bad every day either.

On Saturday afternoon I closed my eyes during halftime of the Penn State-Maryland football game, which, in my defense, was a SNOOZE FEST, and woke up three hours later.  And when I opened my eyes Matt said, "Are you awake? Oh, finally!! I have missed talking to you so much!!"

So I guess my wish came true, just without the sprinkles.
                                           --------------------------------------------------

By 8:00 on Sunday night, all of our sheets and towels were clean and I even washed the bathroom rugs because I was on a laundry roll.  The ironing basket was completely empty and every single item of clothing we own was washed.

And so I slept in my jeans so that I didn't have to throw anything in the hamper.

Just kidding.

But I thought about it.
                                          --------------------------------------------------

My cousin got married on Friday night and I love a good wedding photo shoot.  I had a new dress and Matt and my dad clearly called each other to discuss wardrobe.

Also, my dad wore his halo to the wedding.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

in the end, the cinnamon scent is worth it

When Matt and I voted tonight, there were several local candidates at the polls.  While I signed in, Matt chatted with one of the candidates, and he looked awfully familiar to me.

That's because he was.  I'd met him a few weeks ago.

While Matt was hunting last Saturday morning, I enjoyed a leisurely morning with several cups of coffee and all manner of morning television.  Around 10:30, the doorbell rang.  I had ordered a dress online and it was scheduled to arrive that morning, and since I work from home and have a husband who is addicted to Amazon.com, I know our mailman always rings the bell when he leaves a package at our door.  So I opened the door in my fresh out of bed, pajama clad state, and to my surprise, there was a man in a suit standing there.

Note to self, next time, use the peephole.

The man was holding a stack of political pamphlets, and he asked me if he was at the home of a registered voter named Matt.

I didn’t want to tell him that Matt was out and I was home alone because STRANGER DANGER, but he asked if he could ask me a few questions and since I love nothing more than a good poll, I was all in.

First, he asked if I knew who Matt would be voting for next week.  I wanted to say, “Well sir, he is currently hunting and when he gets home he will turn on the Nascar race, so that should give you a pretty good idea about which way he leans politically.”

But instead I just answered all of his questions and then went on with my Saturday, which included shopping with my mom and a trip to the spa and dinner with Matt’s mom, and I arrived back home that evening feeling ALL KINDS OF RELAXED.

I walked in the house and the smell of cinnamon overwhelmed me. 

Since the beginning of the fall, I have looked at and smelled and considered the purchase of a bag of cinnamon scented pine cones at the grocery store. However, the grocery stores keep the pine cone display outside due to the overpowering cinnamon scent, so by the time I am ready to check out I totally forget about them and thus, I have spent this whole fall pine cone-less. 

It’s been tough, but I’ve powered through.

So, back to last Saturday.  After I recovered from the smell, I looked around the condo to see pine cones, everywhere. 

They were here.



And here. 


And even…here, strategically spread out for maximum scent dissipation.


Now, Matt enjoys home decorating as much as the next guy, which is to say, hardly at all.  And by the look on his face, I could tell there was an ulterior motive for the pine cone displays.

“I bought you these pine cones today,” he said.  “And…I bought some other things…and you might not be thrilled about them.”

I braced myself and asked what the purchases were.

“Well, I bought a bag of Kit Kats.  And..a two year membership...to...the NRA.”

I only wished I had that information earlier in the day to share with our local representative along with the hunting/Nascar info.

But as it turns out, he and Matt talked for quite a while tonight and he actually lives on our street. Maybe one of these days he will stop by again and they can continue their conversation.

And I can explain why we have pine cones all over our house and everything smells like cinnamon.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

to be fair, i've made an appointment for just about everything else

Something came over me the other night, and I slid the coffee table out of the living room, pulled on my yoga pants (which had previously only been used for lounging and the occasional trip to Target), and fired up a yoga video.

Specifically, I followed the instruction of Jillian Michaels, my nemesis ever since I unsuccessfully attempted to complete the 30 Day Shred several years ago.  And the other night, after about seven minutes of stretching and “melting my chest to the sky” and struggling through the cobra position, Jillian said, “Okay, now that we’re all warmed up, let’s start the workout?”

START the workout?

WHAT WAS IT THAT WE WERE JUST DOING, JILLIAN?

I BROKE A SWEAT AT THE FIRST CHATURANGA PUSHUP.

I made it through (most of) the workout, and then I collapsed into my bed and did not move for ten hours.  When I woke up the next morning, I walked about three steps to the shower before I realized that every muscle in my body was screaming in pain.  I couldn't lift my hand up to turn on the light switch, and instead just kind of leaned against the wall and then stood on my tiptoes so that my shoulder slid the switch up.

Basically, I invented a new yoga move.

Unfortunately, that same maneuver does not work for turning the switch off. 

Which is why the light stayed on for three days.

Due to the aforementioned severe pain, I could barely shampoo my hair in the shower, and I didn't even bother attempting to blow dry it when I got out. 

I’d given up.

My doctor told me that yoga would help me with my balance, but if I was going to put myself through such an ordeal on a regular basis I was hopeful for some more health benefits, so I decided to do some yoga research.

My searching took me to WebMD, a site where I spend a lot of time because I have been known to overreact in the face of a mysterious symptom, or really, any sort of minor discomfort.  In fact, when Michelle and I lived together we were constantly diagnosing ourselves with all sorts of outlandish conditions thanks to our active imaginations and WebMD’s handy symptom checker, and then we’d text her sister, a nurse practitioner to tell her the scoop and see if we should make a doctor’s appointment POST HASTE. 

And ten times out of ten she’d say, “You sound fine.  It’ll go away.”

A few months ago I was telling Matt about a strange problem I’d noticed (my hand was tingly/my leg felt tired/my head felt weird/I found a scratch of unknown origin/my hair wasn’t growing as fast as usual/pick your poison).

As I was telling Matt about the symptom du jour I kept saying, “What do you think it is?  What do you think? I really want to know what you think.”

And he looked at me and said, “I think you’re going to be at the doctor for this by the end of the week, that’s what I think.”

Hey, my peace of mind is well worth a copay.

Anywho, I read all sorts of articles about yoga, and one article led me to the pilates page.  From there I clicked over to read about the benefits of cardio and then made a total 180 and ended up learning about the pros and cons of Crossfit.  Just reading the article stressed me out and as I was about to search for "ways to relax"  this popped up.


Okay, WebMD, I get it.  I will stick to one type of exercise.


And perhaps switch my loyalty to MayoClinic.org.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

it's only a matter of time until i get my own show on the food network

Well, I'm coming to you live with the news that tonight I made the best dinner of my life.  Stuffed peppers, which sounded easy enough when I was planning meals on Sunday, but when I took a good look at the recipe today and saw that it was twenty seven steps long and rated FOR THE INTERMEDIATE CHEF, I got nervous.

 (Despite the clock on the oven, it was not 11:25 when I was cooking this.  We are not nocturnal.  It's just that the power goes out here so often that we've given up resetting the clocks.)

I pressed on and when Matt walked in the door after work the house smelled fantastic.  I was on the edge of my seat as he took his first bite.  "This is delicious," he said.  "In fact, it tastes just like my grandmother's."

Well, HOT DOG.  This culinary success could not have come at a better time because I am currently angling for an early retirement so that I can become a stay at home wife.  So far Matt isn't on board with that plan because we want to buy a house someday and will therefore need a pesky down payment, but imagine GOURMET DINNERS EVERYDAY.

Also, I needed to redeem myself from a very unfortunate kitchen incident that occurred a few weeks ago, that I will now explain in great detail.

We had a family event to go to at Matt's parents' house, and we were in charge of dessert.  I decided to make a pound cake, because they are delicious but simple to make.

Or so I thought.

The party was at noon so I woke up early to start baking.  I was just about to pour the batter into the pan, but before I did, I added some chocolate chips to jazz things up.

And by some, I mean an entire bag.

Listen, I blame the spontaneous artistic license on my Kitchen Aid mixer.  I put that thing out on the counter and suddenly I fancy myself a gourmet pastry chef who can alter recipes on a whim.

I dumped the chocolate chips in, gave everything a good stir, plopped it in the oven, and asked Matt to take it out when the timer beeped as I headed for the shower.

This is where things went south.

When I got out of the shower, Matt reported that the center of the cake had not cooked one bit, so he put it in for another five minutes.  Well, I checked that cake every five minutes for the next half hour, until the outer edges were completely burnt and the middle was still completely liquid.

I threw the pan onto the stove top, slammed the oven shut, and went into the living room to ask Matt if he could go to the grocery store and buy some premade cookie dough so we didn't show up to the party empty handed.

There may or may not have been tears accompanying the request.  I've never seen him leave the house faster.

He returned a short time later with four packages of cookie dough and got to work slicing and baking. I finished drying my hair (a girl's gotta primp) and walked out of the bedroom to see the kitchen counters covered in cooling cookies, and Matt on the patio, grilling my pound cake.

He still had hope that he could save it.

When he accepted that it really was a goner, he brought it inside to throw away.  As he dumped it out of the pan, he said, "Lady...did the recipe call for these chocolate chips?"

"No," I said, "I added them myself to make it a little jazzier."

"Okay," he said as slowly turned the pan over.  "How many did you add?"

"The whole bag!"

"You can't just add a whole pound of chocolate chips to a cake with such a light batter.  The chips probably all sunk to the bottom which means that this thing would never fully cook."

Sure enough, upon further inspection of the ill-fated pound cake, that's exactly what had happened.




Also, wow, that's a lot of chocolate chips.

We packed up the cookies and went on our way to the party, and as we walked in I said, "Okay Matt, don't tell A SOUL about the pound cake incident."

"It never happened," he responded.

Not only does Matt's family consist of great cooks who love good food, his uncle is a PROFESSIONAL BAKER.

I'd never live it down.

When dessert time came around, people flocked to the cookies.  They were a total hit.  And then, they started asking who made the cookies.  When they found out it was us, they started coming up to us REQUESTING OUR RECIPE.

I hated to tell people that they were premade cookies because SHOW SOME EFFORT, SISTER, so finally, after the third request, I said, "Okay, fine.  I have to come clean about something."

I looked at Matt across the table and his eyes widened.  He couldn't believe I was going to do it.

And then I admitted to everyone about my culinary crisis and the reason we brought premade cookies.

And oh, the story made their day.  They thought it was hilarious.

That's me, impressing the in-laws since 2014.

As it turns out, we are spending Thanksgiving with the same folks, and they've already requested that we bring our famous cookies.

But maybe this time I'll bring my stuffed peppers too.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...