what could have been, part 1

The other night I was clicking around to see just how many blog posts I've written in my prolific oh, Laura Darling career, and I stumbled upon a folder of draft posts.  I've officially published 498 posts, but do you know how many are in my drafts folder?

114.

I figured there had to be at least a few gems in those one hundred and fourteen drafts that have never seen the light of day, so I randomly chose one to open, and this is what it said:

I babysat for a few hours the other night.  At 8:30, we brushed teeth and said prayers and then the boys decided they'd like to draw instead of read before they fell asleep.  A few minutes later one of the kids said, "Okay Miss Laura, I made a picture for you.  You look a little bit like a monster but that was an accident."

And then he presented me with this... 


Is it any wonder I didn't publish that for all to see?

I also found a bunch of lists that seem like total nonsense to my 2017 self, but must have meant something to my 2010/11/12/13/14/15/16/holy-cow-how-long-have-i-been-doing-this-self.

For example:

tuna strike
publisher's clearinghouse
chicken follow-up
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forgot wallet
still went to atm
emoticons/emojis
power out
got carded
---------------
purse
diamond earrings
boots
girls should look for polos  
unions
cooked dinner
ears hurt in the night
2 quarts instead of cups

Maybe it's just me, but I'd love to know how I planned to tie together a post about ear pain during the night, boots, and diamond earrings.  Also, a tuna strike?  Perhaps it's a good things these posts remained in draft.

In addition to the nonsensical lists, there were a few posts that seemed to have a good start and an initial narrative structure. Exhibit A:

Well, I learned a very hard lesson last night.

And that lesson is that potatoes do indeed go bad after a certain period of time.

I was operating under the assumption that potatoes were some infinite vegetable, but last night when I opened the bag to make dinner and almost passed out from the sight and smell, my
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MY WHAT? I couldn't be more sorry about that cliff-hanger.

Exhibit B:

Well, this week has been eventful.

I ran to the mall after work on Monday and while I was checking out, I heard my phone ring.  I didn't answer since I was having a nice chat with the friendly cashier, but when I got to my car I saw several texts from my mom asking "Is something going on at your apartment complex?  I see helicopters and lots of smoke.  Is there a fire? Is everything okay?"

There is perk #40329 of living a mile and a half from your parents- someone is always looking out for you.

I called my mom back and told her I was at Macy's, and she reported what she was seeing out her living room window.  I immediately began going through the checklist of "I don't think I left the stove on, I didn't even plug my hair straightener in today, I'm pretty sure I blew out all of the candles" and on and on and on.

And finally my mom said, "Laura.  I'm not saying that you CAUSED the fire.  I'm just asking if there IS a fire."

It turns out that a scrap metal factory across the road from us was burning.  Not only did we have a front row seat to the fire from our balcony, but my brother-in-law and baby nephew couldn't get home due to closed roads so they hung out at our apartment.

Our nephew is three months old, and Matt unbuckled him from his car seat and said, "So, has he learned to crawl yet?"  

We have a lot to learn about babies.

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My current posts are probably more well-written than these, but I can't promise that they're as entertaining or mysterious!

if you need me, i'll probably be sleeping

Since my Valentine’s Day flowers are still alive, it’s not too late to write about it, right?

When I got home from work on Monday, Valentine’s Day Eve, there was a vase on our front step with the most beautiful flowers and a sweet note from Matt.  He is a keeper.

 Matt is on a healthy eating kick and requested that I refrain from getting him candy for Valentine’s Day because that could throw a major wrench into his progress.

So I went the healthy route and made this.

 

Move over, Martha Stewart.

(I also got him a gift card to Cabela’s so don’t feel too sorry for him.  But he really does love oranges.  By my calculations we’ve eaten 11 pounds of oranges in the last three weeks.)

The real gift last week though was our new mattress. 

Several months ago Matt started saying that his back and shoulders were bothering him every morning.  I blamed it on the weather, the work bag he carries, too much work around the house, basically anything other than the 6 year old, bottom of the line, IKEA mattress we were sleeping on.

All the while, I kept quiet about my own back and shoulder pain because do you know how expensive new mattresses are?

Finally, my back pain overtook my thrifty tendencies and I came clean about how my back and shoulders hurt every single day and maybe we really do need a new mattress.

We did a little research online and asked around, and everyone we knew told us to get a Sleep Number bed, so we headed to the store on Saturday to test things out.  The salesman, Aron with one R, had us lay down on a mattress.  He said he would adjust it, and to tell him to stop when we felt most comfortable.

I could have laid there forever.

Of course the tester mattress is the fanciest and most expensive mattress money can buy, so after we got our ideal sleep numbers we walked ALL the way to the other end of the store where the mattresses in the price range of the budget minded shopper were located.   

It was like test driving a Mercedes and buying a Kia.

We made our purchase and were told to expect it via UPS in 5-7 days.  When we got the tracking number, Matt was like a kid tracking Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve.  He could not wait to get it.  It was in our town on Wednesday, but the UPS website indicated it was still at the distribution center and not out for delivery.  So, Matt went to the UPS distribution center on Wednesday night AND MET THE MATTRESS.

We put it together when he got home and at this point I was thinking perhaps we’d been the victim of a very expensive scam. 

After the air pump was on for a bit, it started to look more like something I’d want to sleep on.  I said to Matt, “You know, this is really just like a glorified air mattress.”

No kidding,

Anyway, I've been sleeping like a baby since we got the mattress, and I only have one negative thing to say about it.  It makes it even harder to get out of bed in the morning.

The 5am Miracle book I talked about a few weeks ago is definitely not going to happen.

i'm going back to school. kind of.

My car, affectionately known as Old Blue, is a 2009 Ford Focus.  There are many words one could use to describe my car, and quiet is not one of them.  When I turn the car on, accelerate, or drive up the slightest incline, Old Blue sounds more like a motorcycle than a than a small sedan.  And driving up a hill sounds like a helicopter is taking off.

I usually deal with this by simply turning the volume up on the radio.

On Friday night, Matt and I were going to my cousin's birthday party.  We knew parking would be tight, so we opted to take the Focus instead of Matt's F-150.  He drove, and I prepared him for the noise he would hear.

And then Old Blue was as quiet as a church mouse.

So I said "Okay, you're really going to hear the noises when you go up the hill past that light."

Silence.

"Just you wait until you have to merge onto the turnpike."

Silence.

Old Blue made a fool out of me.  Naturally, Matt credited the smooth and silent ride to his self-proclaimed stellar driving skills.

The next day we heard about an app that scores your driving abilities, and because we love a little competition, we both downloaded it.  The app scores you on five areas: braking, acceleration, cornering, speeding, and phone distraction.  

Matt came home on Monday night proud as a peacock because his score was a 100.  Mine was a respectable 94.  Keep in mind that Matt drives two total miles per day on quiet suburban streets to the train station.  I drive a minimum of thirty miles on the highway at rush hour.

The app tells you where you went wrong, and my infractions were for harsh cornering and speeding.  After I admitted my vehicular shortfalls, I tried to justify it by saying "Well, everyone speeds on that road."

I drive a lot for work, so I've accumulated a few hundred miles since Monday.  I'm proud to say my score has increased to an almost perfect 98.8.

As I was checking my score this morning, I get a text from Matt that said "Oh yea, police school is official."

Several weeks ago, our local police department advertised for the spring session of their Citizen's Police Academy.  Matt's dream job is to be a police officer, and I love men in uniform, so obviously we applied.

And then we joked about what would happen if one of us got accepted and the other didn't.  Neither of us have criminal records and we are upstanding citizens, but we thought it would be funny. 

After I saw Matt's text I immediately checked my email so I could read my acceptance letter.

And there was nothing.  

Newsflash.  It was not actually that funny.

And for a brief moment, I thought, "Officer Gillespie can see the app.  He knows I speed occasionally and maneuver harshly around corners."

Matt double checked his email and it turns out the officer simply spelled my name wrong.

I can't blame him, because I did the same thing.

So, we will be reporting for police school on March 1st.  My goal is to have a driving score of 100 by then.  

Hopefully I'm not pulled over for speeding in the meantime.

i still might spend it on BonneBell Lip Lites

When I was probably about twelve or thirteen years old, I was switching out my winter and summer clothes when a flash of brilliance struck.  I decided I'd put a ten dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans, so that when I pulled them out of the closet the following fall, I'd come across that little surprise and be delighted to remember I was ten dollars richer than I thought I was.

I told my mom about my idea, and she said, "Well, if you're the one that puts the money in the pocket, it's not going to be much of a surprise."

She was right, so I kept the ten bucks and probably spent it on some BonneBell Cappuccino Lip Lites and a tube of roll-on body glitter.

Today was unseasonably warm for February in Pennsylvania, so I wore a light jacket I hadn't worn since last spring.  When I got to the office and put my keys in the pocket, I felt a piece of paper.  I figured it was an old receipt, so imagine my surprise when I pulled it out and discovered that it was in fact a ten dollar bill.

You would have thought I'd won the lottery.

If only my thirteen year old self had known that in fifteen years, I would be leaving money in my pockets and really and truly forgetting it was in there.

It's just as great as I imagined it would be.

it's like forrest gump, but with butter. butter cookies.butter cake. buttered noodles.

I'm currently sitting here eating my breakfast - a cup of coffee and an English muffin with homemade honey cinnamon butter.  And it occurred to me that I never wrote about how it's possible for me to enjoy homemade butter whenever I please.

Did anyone else's husband think, when Christmas shopping this year, "I know what my wife would love for Christmas...a butter churner."  

No?

Just mine?

Matt officially went a little out of the box with his Christmas gifts this year, and got me (among other gifts I truly loved) a butter churner.

Forget Laura Darling.  Just call me Laura Ingalls.

You might be thinking "Wow, Laura, I don't picture you as the butter churning type of girl" and I can assure you I was thinking the same thing on Christmas morning.

I went grocery shopping a few days later, and Matt asked me to pick up two pints of heavy whipping cream so we/he could get started on our butter production.  I wheeled my cart to the dairy department and right past the case of pre-made, pre-packaged butter, and selected two pints of heavy whipping cream so that I could go home and make the very butter I just walked by.

If you're questioning my sanity, you're not alone.

When I got home, I put the cream in the fridge and we read the directions.  Step number one was to let the cream come to room temperature for two hours.

So, naturally, we grabbed the cream from the fridge, dumped it in the jar, and started churning.

And churning.

And churning.

This is my butter churning "smile."

They weren't kidding about that room temperature thing.



Finally, and I do mean finally, we had ourselves a stick of butter.

It was so good that we made the honey cinnamon variety a few days later, and the process went a lot faster since we actually followed the directions this time.

When I was at the farm show last week, I saw a large crowd gathered, ooh-ing and aah-ing about something inside a glass case.  As I got closer and squeezed my way to the front of the crowd, I saw what was drawing their attention.

This giant sculpture made completely out of butter.

Matt better get churning.

i guess you get what you pay for at the Target dollar spot

It's important to do what you love.  

Unless you love making signs, but are a terrible speller who lacks attention to detail.

In that case, do something else.

laura and michelle take care of a baby

On Saturday, Matt volunteered at a carnival sponsored by our local hospital.  He volunteers every year and it's one of his favorite events of the summer.  I pretty much do all I can to avoid carnivals, but Matt works in that pretzel and soda tent like a boss and loves every minute.

This year there was a new addition to his tent's menu- half a lemon with a candy lemon stick in it.  The point is to suck the lemon juice through the candy stick like a straw, because what's more refreshing than a tablespoon of sour lemon juice on a hot day?

Matt's only complaint about the carnival this year was that dissatisfied customers who purchased the refreshing lemony treat kept returning to the tent to ask for refunds because they couldn't get their lemon juice to suck through the stick.

And that right there is why I don't volunteer at carnivals.

While Matt was busy volunteering, I went with Michelle to babysit her five month old niece.  Things went well for the first hour, and by that I mean we watched her play on her activity mat and blow raspberries while we ate chips and salsa.

And then it was time for the Belmont Stakes, so we stuck the baby in her jumper seat so we could focus on American Pharoah's pursuit of the Triple Crown while discussing whether a good horse or a good jockey is the more important key to success.  

This might lead you to believe that we are major horse racing fans but I can assure you that we are not, but you can count on us to jump on a bandwagon.  

Excitement grew when Michelle's dad, who was at the race, texted her to report that he was sitting next to American Pharoah's owner.   We kept an eagle eye on the owner and his purple tinted glasses every time he was on the screen in hopes of catching a glimpse of Mr. C.  

And then after we yelled and cheered and screamed during the race, the camera panned to the white haired man we'd been paying such close attention to, and the caption on the screen said, "Bob Baffert, American Pharoah's trainer."

Well shoot.  We were looking at the wrong guy the whole time.

After the race, Michelle said, "Want to take the baby for a walk?"

"Sure," I said, and we plopped her in the stroller and off we went.  After about twenty minutes, when the poor thing was squinting because the sun was in her eyes, Michelle said, "Do you think we should have put sunscreen on her?"

"Maybe," I said.  "And do you think we should have brought...something?"

Because do you know what we left the house with?

The baby.

And nothing else.

No blanket or pacifier or burp cloth or rattle because clearly we are two girls who are not accustomed to thinking of the potential needs of a small child.

We strolled back to the house and put the baby in her pajamas, which turned out to be a two man job.  She went to sleep without a peep and we came downstairs, turned on My Best Friend's Wedding, and cheersed our wine glasses to a job well done.

Michelle might have even said, "We are like EXPERT parents," and I think I called us baby whisperers.

And then at 10:00 the baby woke up and was NOT HAPPY so we changed her and fed her and explained to her that sleep was really the best thing for her.  When that didn't work we laid her down on the activity mat to try to tire her out.  Unfortunately that made her more active, so we quickly nixed that plan and instead brought the stroller inside, pulled up all the hoods so she couldn't see anything, and pushed her round the living room.

SHE DID NOT FALL FOR THAT TRICK EITHER.

We'd been beaten by a five month old.

Eventually she did drift back to sleep, and we determined that she must have woken up earlier because she'd had a bad dream.  She was in a clean outfit, had just eaten, and was snuggled up in her crib with the fan blowing lightly in her direction and the sound machine turned on.  

I could sleep for a solid twelve, thirteen hours under those conditions.

So, naturally, a bad dream was the only thing that could've caused the disruption.  I bet she was dreaming about being taken out into the world by two inexperienced caregivers who didn't even give a second thought to bringing any sort of baby supply.  

Or, she could've been dreaming about carnivals.

the only time my parents approved of pink hair

My friend Jenna is getting married in August and I am a bridesmaid in her wedding.

Jenna is my oldest friend.  We went to kindergarten together and have been friends ever since, which makes that 22 years of friendship.  Jenna lives in Boston now, but she was home for the weekend and I went to her house on Sunday to see her veil and look at bridal hairstyles on Pinterest and help her assemble her wedding invitations.

We worked on wedding tasks for a few hours and then her parents ordered us pizza and we sat at her kitchen table eating our pizza and brownies for dessert while her dad made corny jokes and her mom refilled our lemonade.  It almost felt like we traveled back in time to sixth grade instead of being grown ups who live on our own and have real jobs and were talking about her WEDDING.

Jenna's shower was last month, and the night before I went through my box of mementos from my own bridal shower last year, and came across the slideshow that was played.  There were pictures of me and Matt and then pictures of the two of us.  That night Matt and I watched the DVD together and by the way we oohed and aahed over our childhood adorableness I almost looked into upgrading to a two bedroom apartment to accommodate our egos.

Although, let's be honest, you'd be hard pressed to find kids cuter than the two of us.

But perhaps the most entertaining pictures were the photos of me between the ages of about three and five.  Those were the years that I desperately wanted long hair, but what I had was this adorable little bowl cut.

And so in lieu of actual hair, I wore a pink baby nightgown on my head.  All.  The.  Time.  And I called it "my hair" without even a hint of irony.  

As in, "Are you ready to eat breakfast Laura?" 

"One minute Mom, just putting on my shoes and my hair."

And my mom would style my nightgown-hair every morning in various styles per my request.  Some days I would wear it "all down," but my favorites were "up on both sides" and a "high ponytail."  My mom was even able to rig up pig tails by twisting the nightgown on my head and putting the arms in one pigtail and the body in the other.

My parents finally bought me an Ariel wig, but I still loved my hair.

And my hair is in a box in my mom's closet.

Don't worry Jenna.  

I won't wear it to the wedding.

it was everything i imagined a vacation day would be

Well, today may be Tuesday but it feels like Monday to me.  

I took the day off yesterday because it was May 18th.  A day of utmost significance.  A day that has been marked on our calendar for weeks now. 

It was the release of the new Cheez-It 'Extra Toasty' flavor.

And you better believe I was at the food store at 10:00 am to stock up.  

Now that I write that sentence, it’s sinking in that I made a special trip to the grocery store on my day off just to buy a new snack cracker.  I’m not sure if that’s a high or a low.

A few months ago, as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard Matt say, “OH SHOOT.  I CAN’T BELIEVE I FORGOT TO DO THAT.”

In case the forgotten task was turning off the oven or renewing the car insurance or something along those lines, I asked in my sleepy state, “Forgot to do what?”

“To write to the Cheez-It manufacturer.  I want to suggest that they put more slightly burned crackers in the boxes because those are my absolute favorite.”

So basically, we have literally lost sleep over the rarity of toasty Cheez-Its.

But evidently the request went from Matt’s lips to the CEO of Kellogg’s ears because we now have two boxes of extra toasty Cheez-Its in our cabinet.  I told myself that we could eat one box this week and save the second for our trip to the beach this weekend, but there is a better chance of me understanding calculus than there is of that second box of Cheez-Its making it to Saturday.

As for the rest of my day off, I woke up at 6:30 because I didn’t want to waste a second of it.  I sat on the balcony and drank my coffee, got all ready for the day, made a phone call to the mortgage man, listened to two podcasts, read six chapters in a new Jodi Picoult book, cleaned the bathroom, ate a tuna sandwich, watered the plants, vacuumed, organized the clothes in my closet by color and category, went to the food store, Sam’s Club, and the post office.

And after all that I looked at the clock to figure out how to spend the last precious moments of my day off and it turns out that it was only 11:37.  

So I decided to go home and grab my camera and a water bottle and take a nice long walk in the woods.  I came upon a horse farm on my walk and wished I’d picked up some carrots while I was at the store for Cheez-Its.

I didn’t listen to music because I was all by myself and I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that I’d want to be able to hear if someone was sneaking up on me so I could make a speedy getaway.  

Without my headphones, my mind wandered and I thought about how when I was little I read a book about a girl who found a tiny abandoned cottage in the woods and she lived there and made an adorable home for herself and even swept the floor with evergreen branches and cut the grass around the cottage with scissors, which sounds quaint in theory but in reality, not so much.  

I also thought about how I wouldn’t mind living in a hidden woodsy cottage now and then, specifically when it is between 65 and 72 degrees, with no precipitation and minimal winds.  However, I have to be careful not to share that with Matt because he would have us packed up and moved out and living underneath an oak tree before you can say “Where do I plug in my straightener?”

And just as I was imagining purple wildflowers lining the path to this imaginary cottage, I saw a large brown creature move out of the corner of my eye.  I stopped, and spotted something walking slowly behind the trees.

And the first thought that entered my mind was, “Oh my gosh.  One of those horses has escaped from the pasture.  I’m going to have to CATCH A HORSE.”

It was as if forty minutes in the woods turned me into some sort of rustic superhero who can catch runaway farm animals with her bare hands.

And then the horse walked into a clearing.  And the horse was a deer.  

Which I should have expected because there are approximately seventy trillion deer in those woods.

After my walk it was still only about 2:30, so I decided to drive around some neighborhoods and look for homes for sale because Matt and I are beginning the process of Buying A House.  And after my day yesterday I think it's best that we move into a civilized neighborhood.

With no wild animals.

And easy access to a grocery store.

i certainly couldn't give it up altogether

When I was a little girl, my dad would empty his suit pockets when he got home from work and leave any change he had in his pockets on my dresser.  After dinner I would count the change, and if I counted correctly I got to keep it.

If I counted incorrectly, I had to donate the money to the poor.

More often than not the money was donated to the poor, because differentiating between a nickel and a quarter and their respective values is evidently a task that I've struggled with since I was six years old.

One of my very favorite things in the world is Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee.  There is a spring promotion going on at the DD stores around here and iced coffee is just 99 cents plus tax.   That brings the total to $1.05 and you better believe that I have been taking full advantage of that sale.

Matt and I collect our change to use for special treats, and since iced coffee definitely counts as a special treat, each morning I grab $1.05 from our coin jar and get my coffee.

One day last week, I rummaged through the change jar for my coffee money and grabbed two quarters and a nickel.

For those of you playing along at home, that is only fifty five cents.

I drove up the street to DD and marched inside with my three coins because I was feeling so confident and superior because HELLO, I COME BEARING EXACT CHANGE.  And my superior attitude and  I placed an order for "iced caramel coffee with skim milk, sugar, and extra ice please."

"That will be one oh five," said the woman behind the counter.

I handed over my three coins and waited while she looked at them and flipped them over and over in her hand a few times.  And then she slowly looked up at me and said, "One dollar and five cents.  This?  Only fifty five cents."

And I have no reasonable explanation for why I reacted the way that I did.  I can only imagine it came from a place of deep embarrassment.

But here is what I did.

I pretended that I did not understand English.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

It must have slipped my mind that just seconds earlier I'd ordered an iced caramel coffee with skim milk, sugar, and extra ice please which is a very particular order for SOMEONE WHO ALLEGEDLY DOES NOT SPEAK ENGLISH.

I made a few gestures with my hands and pointed to the parking lot like a crazy person.  And then I made the walk of shame to my car to scrounge up two more quarters because I'd been so confident in my coin counting that I'd left my wallet in the car.

And to top things off, as I made my shameful exit, the wind caught the door and it flew into the glass window of the store next door, so I looked like a crazy person who knows just enough English to make a very specific coffee order and has an anger problem.

I returned with two more quarters and a red face and sheepishly handed the coins to the lady behind the counter.

Once I had that iced coffee in my hands I literally ran out of the store.

Never to return again.

Because that iced coffee may only be $1.05.

But my pride is worth more than that.

And by "more than that" I mean driving a quarter mile further to the next DD.

i feel like i'm being watched

There are days when I have no idea what to write about.

And then there are days when inspiration literally lands on my doorstep.

Let me provide some background.

Matt is an Amazon fanatic.  Over the past year, I cannot even count the number of Amazon boxes that have been delivered to our house, and they've been filled with everything from khaki pants to Planter's Peanuts to water filters to engine gaskets to a case of organic white chocolate bars, even though we don't really eat organic white chocolate bars.

I was working from home one day a few weeks ago when I heard a knock on the door, and I opened it to find a delivery man holding an ENORMOUS Amazon box.  It was addressed to Matt, but I texted him to ask if he'd mind if I opened it, because is there anything better than opening a package?  I think not.  However, in the event that Matt had ordered a present for me, I didn't want to ruin his surprise.

It was not a present for me, so major bummer there.

But Matt told me to knock myself out and go ahead and open it, and when I opened the box that giant, plastic, freaky looking hawk was staring out at me.

And I almost had a heart attack.

WHERE'S A CASE OF ORGANIC WHITE CHOCOLATE BARS WHEN YOU NEED ONE?

The woman in the apartment below us has a lot of bird feeders on her balcony, which means that the birds sit on our balcony railing, and leave behind...well...what it is that birds leave behind.

It's not pleasant.

And they're not dainty, pretty, little birds.  They're enormous, gross pigeons that Matt calls rats with wings.

So this giant plastic bird creature was Matt's first move in a strategy to keep the pigeon-rats off of our balcony.  When he got home from work that night I told him very dramatically that, "THIS THING HAS TO GO OUTSIDE IMMEDIATELY.  IT CANNOT LIVE IN OUR APARTMENT.  IT DOES NOT MATCH THE DECOR AT ALL AND IT FREAKS ME OUT.  THOSE EYES FOLLOW ME."

Matt said he'd get a few bungee cords to fasten it to the railing and get it outside right away.  But not before he played a trick on me because the next morning I stumbled into the bathroom and flipped the light switch and this is what I saw.

I almost had a heart attack.

Mr. Hawk was in his new home on our balcony railing by that evening.

Except, instead of deterring the pigeons, he attracted them.  Like they were all old buddies.  Sitting on the railing.  Chatting about the snow and their wives and the stock market.

Needless to say, this camaraderie drove Matt crazy.  Now that the weather is (very, very, VERY slowly) warming up and we plan to spend lots of time on the balcony, Matt decided that today would be the day he'd throw down the decoy gauntlet.  While I washed the dishes, he went out on the balcony to fix things once and for all.  And he came back inside a few minutes later and triumphantly proclaimed, "He's like a real bird now! I rigged it so it looks like he's flying.  No pigeons will be coming to this balcony!"

"Woohoo!" I said, "that's awesome,"  and I continued on with the dishes. 

And then I finished the dishes and walked out of the kitchen and saw this.

AND I ALMOST HAD A HEART ATTACK.

That was not the solution that I expected.  And then Matt then taped tin foil all around the railing to deter the pigeons even more and I CANNOT EVEN TALK ABOUT THAT.

I had grand plans for the balcony this summer.  Some colorful Adirondack chairs and plenty of flowers and a nice citronella candle and maybe even some wind chimes.

And now I'll be working around our freaky hanging hawk and tin foil railing.

But at least there won't be any pigeons.

And that is, literally, a silver lining.

i hope this post doesn't embarrass my parents

I woke up on the first Saturday morning of spring and saw this out my window.  I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.  Come on, spring, get a move on.



I cheered up a little bit and then Matt asked if I'd like to go to the mall with him because he found himself in the market for some sunglasses.  I never turn down a trip to the mall, so off we went.  We wandered through Macy's and Matt said, "I wonder if I could get some cologne while we're here.  I've been thinking of getting some.  A nice musk."

Well, I couldn't have been more shocked if I'd see an elephant.

We got to the sunglasses and I immediately remembered that Matt has issues with sunglasses.  And those issues run deep.

Here's how I buy sunglasses.  I walk up to the $3.00 rack in Wal Mart and pick the pair with the most rhinestones.

Here's how Matt buys sunglasses.  He identifies a pair and then proceeds through a checklist that includes but is not limited to the following specifications:  They can't be too tight.  The arms have to be thin because he doesn't want to lose any peripheral vision.  They must have a very dark tint.  No aviators.  The nose pads must be comfortable, but not too thick so his nose doesn't get sweaty.  The tops of the glasses cannot touch his eyebrows.

He is like the Goldilocks of sunglasses.

After about fifteen pairs failed his test, I said, "Matt, what is it that you are envisioning?"

"Well," he said, "I basically just want to look tricked out."

Tricked out and smelling like musk.  He is full of surprises.

We left the mall an hour later without sunglasses or musk cologne and while the sunglasses search will continue, I think we may have dodged a bullet with the musk.

On Saturday evening we went out with friends, and I threw caution to the wind and had a giant iced coffee at 5:00 p.m.  So when we got home, sleep was the last thing on my mind and I decided to clean instead.

Matt turned on some music, specifically patriotic instrumental bagpipe music.  It's a long story, but basically thanks to St. Patrick's Day he is on a bagpipes kick.  

After a while we decided to take a little bagpipes break, and when I turned on the Eagles Pandora station, this song came on.  

My parents love Steely Dan, and growing up I bet I heard this song five hundred times.  I sang my little heart out and then pulled up my Pandora app so I could give the song a thumbs up, when much to my surprise I saw the title was "Reelin' in the Years."

I always thought it was "Reelin' in the East."

As in- I don't know what they're doing over in the west, but we're reeling here in the east.

You learn something new every day.  And on Saturday I learned I should verify song lyrics before I belt them out with confidence.  Who knows what else I'm singing incorrectly. 

Maybe Matt's onto something with the bagpipe music.

well, i won't be cooking lentils again

My sister was home for spring break this week, so I took a few days off work and we did all the important things like going to the mall and out to lunch and Sonic and Michael's Arts and Crafts.

Twice.

It was back to reality today and I will admit, it was not my favorite Thursday.  Not only did I have to return to work after five glorious days of freedom, but I also cooked lentil curry soup for dinner.

As it turns out, I don't like lentils.

Or curry.

And most especially, I don't like the two of them combined in a soup.

All I have to say is thank goodness for that bag of chicken nuggets hiding in the back of the freezer.

It was my first foray into Indian food after quite a hiatus.  The last time I ate Indian food was sophomore year of college, when I went to an Indian restaurant with some friends and our waitress dropped an entire plate of tikka masala on me and my brand new cream colored sweater.

It was a bad night.

After my lentil curry disaster, I headed out for a walk around our apartment complex because HELLO, FORTY NINE DEGREES AND A 7:05 SUNSET.

This morning, Matt mentioned having a Thrifty Thursday meeting after dinner tonight.

Yes, that is a thing.  Matt coined the term "Thrifty Thursdays" a few months back and he likes to rendezvous each Thursday evening to discuss savings and stocks and insurance and budgets and make sure that we're both on the same page.

And I like to discuss the chances of me being able to to go into early retirement.  And by early, I mean sometime in the next 6-12 months.

Spoiler alert: it's not looking good.

Matt didn't mention our Thrifty Thursday meeting after work so I was secretly hoping he'd forgotten since I don't know how many times I can use the story that there was a sale I couldn't possibly pass up at Target/Macy's/Ikea/the nail salon before we have a needs vs. wants conversation.

However, when I returned from my walk, Matt said, "THANK GOODNESS YOU'RE BACK.  I ALMOST FORGOT ABOUT OUR THRIFTY THURSDAY MEETING."

He called the meeting to order (actually he didn't, but how funny would that be?) and 1.5 hours later I took it upon myself as co-president to adjourn the meeting.

I was experiencing information overload.

But speaking of thrifty, I bought a shelf at the thrift store last weekend for $2.00.  I got some paint at one of our many trips to Michael's this week, and for a novice painter I think the transformation was pretty impressive.

 (Emily helped.)

As far thriftiness goes, I think I have the arts and crafts department down.

Cuisine?  Not so much.

There are some areas of the budget where you should splurge.

And dinner is one of them.

if i saw a penguin on the african savannah, i'd say more than oh my gosh

When Michelle and I we were roommates, we watched the show Shark Tank on a regular basis while lying around on the couch and going on and on about inventions that could have caused us to strike gold if only we'd pursued them and/or had an original idea that wasn't already in existence.

Like Michelle's idea for the iPod.

And the plot line for the TV show 24.

And the automatic card shuffler.

Basically, if it weren't for Steve Jobs, the Fox television network, and casinos, Michelle could be retired and a living a life of leisure by now.

Our favorite shark was Robert Herjavec, because of his blue eyes and wisdom and way of being kind but honest with contestants.  He also had a way with words, and our absolute favorite line was, "Don't mistake my kindness for weakness."  To this day, it's one of our favorite phrases.  We can find a way to humorously work it into any situation and text it to each other at least once a week.

Well, I am watching the Grammy's and during their duet, Rihanna and Kanye West just sang, "All of my kindness, is taken for weakness."

All I have to say is that clearly Michelle and I know genius when we hear it.

Also, hope you copyrighted that phrase, Bob.

On a Grammy related note, Sam Smith has just made his way to the stage to accept his fourth award of the evening and this is the first I'm hearing of him.  I've never felt more out of touch.

Perhaps that has a little something to do with the fact that I strictly listen to Pandora, and my stations consist of the following:

Those stations pretty much sum me up, from Dan Fogelberg to Disney classics.

Matt and I babysat our friends' little boy, Leo, this weekend, and last night at about 6:30 we were suffering from a case of "there's still HOW LONG until bedtime?" So Matt told Leo he'd turn on the happy song so he could dance.

Naturally, I was expecting "If You're Happy and You Know It" because, HELLO, OUT OF TOUCH, but Matt turned on Pharrell Williams' "Happy" since it's 2015 and evidently, he's in tune with pop culture.

And it was a crowd pleaser.

So much so that after about twelve times I suggested we give something else a try and Matt turned on a medley of the top ten Disney songs of all times.

That was also a crowd pleaser, if by crowd, you mean me and Matt.  Leo had zero interest.  But the two of us we paid close attention to that countdown and when number one came on the screen, we were both so thrilled that it was Circle of Life from The Lion King that we broke into song.

Since the first thirty seconds or so are sung in an African language, I usually just do my best to mimic the words as best I can until we can get to the English part.  And as I did that last night, I looked over at Matt on the couch, chanting with all the seriousness in the world,

"Oh my gosh, a penguin and a llama."
"Oh my gosh, a penguin and a llama."
"Oh my gosh, a penguin and a llama."

Because for his whole life, that's what he thought they were singing.  And we laughed until I could hardly catch my breath and all day today Matt would look at me and sing "Oh my gosh, a penguin and a llama," and it would crack me up all over again.

So maybe I'm not as out of touch as I thought.

And if I am, I'm in good company.