perhaps things would have been different if i wore my car racing outfit

On Saturday night Matt and I went go karting.  We originally had plans to go somewhere a little classier, but the plans changed at the last minute and that explains how I ended up wearing leggings, a cute floral dress, and black suede boots to the go kart track.

You could say I was a bit overdressed for the occasion.

We were meeting some friends there so while Matt and I sat in the parking lot waiting for them to arrive, I asked him if he had any requests for songs he would like to hear.  And by “hear,” I meant “performed.”  By yours truly.  He answered in the negative but I didn’t let that stop me and I launched into a powerful rendition of New York, New York, followed up with Give My Regards to Broadway.  I was spot on, naturally, hitting every note and probably causing passersby to think that Frank Sinatra himself was sitting in Matt’s car.  

We went inside a little while later and had to wait in a bit of a line while we watched the group before us cheat death as they sped around the track at frightening rates of speed.  I conveniently had just enough time to solidify my decision that if I am riding in a vehicle that is capable of traveling at a speed upwards of 25 miles per hour I would prefer it to have, you know, DOORS.  Perhaps a ROOF.  I’m not asking for luxuries.

When it was our turn I stepped right up to the equipment shelf and buckled on a very large electric blue helmet and goggles, partially for safety and partially because why not complete my ensemble?  I was a SIGHT, believe me.  I chose a go kart, climbed in, fastened my seatbelt, and said the Rosary until the start flag was waved.  Following the waving of that flag a series of rather unfortunate events began to unfold, involving me flooring the gas pedal, grossly underestimating the severity of the curve in turn one, slamming against the tire wall, and ultimately getting totally stuck. 

That’s right.  Turn ONE. 

Give my regards to Nascar. 

The lights blinked yellow and cautioned everyone all of the other drivers to slow down so they didn’t run into either me or the lucky attendant who had the pleasure of  venturing onto the track to locate the driver who had managed to become completely immobile not twenty seconds into the session.  I’m sure the attendant was JUST PLAIN SHOCKED that it was girl who chose to wear a DRESS go karting.

Luckily he was able to reach me quickly, which makes sense since I only made it about fifteen feet from the starting area.  Before I knew it, I had been pushed off the tires and back onto the roadway of doom. 

I survived the rest of the fifteen minutes around the track holding on for dear life but without slamming into anyone/anything or requiring the assistance of an attendant or medical personnel.  So, even though I was lapped two or quite possibly three times by my fellow drivers, I consider the night a rip roaring success.  

Howeva.

I awoke on Sunday morning to the strange sensation that two lead weights had taken up residence where my arms used to be.  Washing my hair before church brought tears to my eyes, and maneuvering the shopping cart in Target?  Forget about it.  I feared irreparable deltoid damage had been done.  By Monday night I was worse than ever, and decided that obviously I needed to either sue the go kart place for millions or seriously consider beginning some sort of exercise routine for my arms.

However, the last time I attempted to develop any sort of muscular tone in my arms is a painful memory, and I could not mean that more literally.  It was two summers ago when I attempted to do the Thirty Day Shred OF TORTURE with Jillian Michaels.  On day one, I was bursting with fitness related enthusiasm and couldn’t wait to show Jillian that the Shred was no match for me. 

After her quick and slightly intimidating introduction, Jillian announced that hand weights were necessary for the workout routine.  Hmm.  Equipment was apparently an aspect I neglected to consider, so when she said that canned goods would be appropriate substitutes for weights, I was thrilled.  I ran down to the kitchen in search of the largest canned goods I could find.

I managed to find two huge cans, and I wish I could say that there was something very healthy inside of them such as green beans or corn, but that would be a lie.  Because those huge cans contained apple pie filling.

For some reason I found it incredibly ironic to be doing bicep curls with industrial size cans of apple pie filling. 

Nevertheless, the apple pie and I made it through levels one and two of the Shred OF TORTURE, but by level three I decided that I would much rather just eat the apple pie filling than slowly raise it to shoulder level, hold for twenty seconds, and repeat ten times, thankyouverymuch Jillian.  So I quit.

Give my regards to Jillian.

I am finally starting to feel better though, so I won’t be suing the go kart place.  And let’s face it, go kart bitterness and temporary arm pain does not a lawsuit make.  And I won’t be doing the Shred again either. 

What I am open to doing is eating apple pie. 

At least that’s something I can do in a cute floral dress and leggings.  And black suede boots.

this particular march day was full of madness

Sunday was a big day.  It was Selection Sunday which meant March Madness had officially begun, and I’m not talking about the madness that is Macy’s lowest prices of the season.  Last year I filled out a bracket and chose Louisville to win it all, and although they did pretty well, I won’t be choosing them again this year because lighting doesn’t strike the uneducated basketball “fan” or casual observer twice.  Both my alma mater and the school I am currently attending are in the tournament, but I probably will not be choosing either of them since I have a feeling they are going to go the way of the Louisville Cardinals of 2010 sooner rather than later.  Instead, this year I will be throwing my support behind Akron.  Do me proud, Zips.

As if that wasn’t enough excitement for one day, Emily and I had our “adventure” to Target.  First of all, I have to say that I’m saddened by the news that most of you don’t have two floor Targets, and so I took a picture of the escalator to show the world or twelve people proof that two story Targets do indeed exist.

Emily was mortified when I took this first picture and actually hid behind a rack of the adorable new spring line of Mossimo purses while I whisper-yelled “It’s for the blog!”  Then we went upstairs and she picked up the new Glee cd and I stood in front of the clearance shoes mourning the fact that my feet aren’t a size 4 because I would love nothing more than a $4.37 pair of gray ankle boots with a small heel or leopard print flats for less than $3.00.  Unfortunately I do not have miniature feet, so my size 8 ½ feet and I walked away empty handed.  Or bare footed, as the case may be.

I actually brought a list to Tarjay with me because I needed envelopes and coffee creamer and I would hate to forget one of the two things I had to remember.  Both items are located on the first floor, and as we headed to the escalator to go back down Emily said “Wait!  Let’s grab a cart so we can take a picture of the CART ONLY escalator in action.”  Well then.  Appears someone had a change of heart.  She also had a last minute request for me to snap a picture of the sign that says “CARTS ONLY” but due a camera malfunction and some trepidation I have about boarding escalators it came out a giant blur. 

So please take a moment to imagine a sign that says “CARTS ONLY.” 

And, here is the cart making the grand descent.  This Target has existed for years and years, yet the novelty of the cart escalator has yet to wear off.  And I doubt it ever will.

While I was typing this, Matt asked me if I wanted to participate in a March Madness pool.  The cost was $5.00 though, and while I decided about ten minutes ago that I love the Akron Zips, I don’t feel confident enough about their chances to stand behind them financially.  So, I’m going to save the $5.00 and opt out of the tournament. 

I feel it's the right decision because I know that one of these days Target is just bound to have some size 8 ½ shoes on clearance for next to nothing, and I want my five dollars and me to be ready.

you never know what you'll find on the clearance rack

Look what I found on the clearance rack the other day.

These lovely, hunter green, corduroy leggings with faux stitched pockets.

It's truly a wonder they didn't sell at full price.

rain and rocks

Well, it’s Thursday and you know what that means.  Time for my traditional Thursday list.

Actually that’s not a tradition around here but you know what I always say regarding traditions.  No time like the present to start a new one.

1-  We are in the midst of a bit of a monsoon around here.  It’s been raining all day and is supposed to continue until tomorrow.  There is a possibility for flooding, and you better believe the weathermen are really playing that up because there is nothing they love more than a meteorological emergency.  It just so happens that there is nothing I love more than falling asleep while listening to rain outside.  I have been looking forward to going to sleep tonight since this rain storm was just a sparkle in the eye of the weatherman and his ten day forecast.

a- My umbrella is nowhere to be found, which, as you can imagine, is less than convenient.  It’s also ashame because it’s a lovely floral pattern and it just the right size to fold up and stick in your bag yet still sturdy enough to withstand all sorts of wind gusts and pouring rain without flipping inside out, rendering itself completely useless.  It’s difficult to find an umbrella that embodies all of those qualities, and I am just lost and soaking wet without it.

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2- I’ve been doing some research, and it seems that I am not the only one upset about No Ballad Weekends.  Soft rock lovers from far and wide are up in arms, as well they should be.  Luckily my dad and brother seem to have rediscovered their love for Simon and Garfunkel in the past few weeks.  Also the other day we heard “In the Ghetto” by Elvis and judging by the number of times I’ve heard Phil sing “in the ghet-TO” I think it’s safe to say he’s adopted it as his new theme song.  Despite the lack of weekend ballads, there’s certainly no shortage of sad, slow songs in my life.

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3-       Yesterday was Ash Wednesday so I went to church on my lunch hour.  I went to a church right near my office, but it’s one I’ve only been to a handful of times so I am unfamiliar with the parking situation.  I just followed the car in front of me as we drove past the main lot, which was full, and over to the parking lot of a neighboring office complex.  We had to sort of cut through the woods to get to there and imagine my delight when I realized I would be off-roading on some gravel.  Normally driving on gravel means that you are only a few moments away from consuming some type of fried cuisine and risking your life in the name of structurally compromised portable amusement rides, and that obviously was not the case yesterday.  But still, I rolled my windows down yesterday and listened closely, because there is nothing I love more than the sound of a car driving on gravel.  Except maybe the sound of rain outside my window, as I believe I have already mentioned.  I am a fan of simple auditory pleasures.

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4-       Last night Emily came into my room and asked me if I wanted to go on an adventure* this weekend.  I asked her what the destination would be and my eyes filled with tears when she announced it was Target.  I remember a day not long ago when she despised retail related adventures, and look at her now.  Of course I agreed because I’m no fool…I would never dream of turning down a trip to the place where you can expect more, pay less, while simultaneously saying hello to good buys.  As you can tell, I’m a slogan expert.  I’ve memorized nearly every McDonald’s slogan since they came into existence, because you just never know when that sort of information will come in handy.  Although I can tell you from personal experience that so far, it hasn’t.

*The word “adventure” is used very loosely here.  It’s not like we have to drive for miles and miles and face countless treacherous obstacles in order to get to ourselves to Target.  In reality it’s probably a six minute drive, and that’s if you hit the red lights.  There’s not even any gravel involved.  Although there is a tricky “left turn yield on green” light on the way back, and of course there’s always the decision of which one of the four entrances to use.  And then there’s the whole business of trying not to spend a good chunk of your money at the dollar spot, which is always difficult because once you see festive holiday socks and teeny tiny little flower pots and colorful picture frame magnets, it’s hard to convince yourself you don’t actually need them.  And I would hate to leave out the part where you ascend to the second floor to browse the shoe, book, and music departments, and your shopping cart travels up next to you on an escalator meant just for shopping carts.  And of course, the checkout.  That’s all I need to say about that.  

Now that I think about, Target really is an adventure.

Emily and I are like a modern day Lewis and Clark.

Except I bet Meriweather and William never misplaced their umbrellas. 

Or went to Target.

a little Sunday morning ballad never hurt anyone

When I was in kindergarten, I had a pink Disney princess alarm clock.  It sat on the shelf above my bed, but to be honest I don’t really recall it going off very often because my parents usually woke me up.  However, when I turned six I meant all kinds of first grade business and I was so over the Disney alarm clock.  I became the proud owner of my first clock radio in preparation for the big bad world of first grade.  The kindergarten party?  It was over.

I remember my dad showing me how to set the alarm and turn it on every night before I went to sleep. 

Quick side note, I also remember my Dad showing me how to set the alarm on the first real watch I ever owned.  I got it when I was about seven or eight years old, and it was a Shark watch because anyone who was anyone in 1996 had a Shark watch.  The watch came with a lovely teal canvas wrist band and the best feature was that the waterproof capabilities would hold up for miles and miles beneath the surface.  That was a very convenient feature for me because just in case I decided to do some deep sea diving I knew that I would never look track of time whilst exploring the ocean floor.  Anyway, we set that watch alarm for 8:12 pm.  There was no real significance to that particular time other than the fact that I just liked it and when it beeped I could say “Oh it’s 8:12 pm.”  And to this day whenever I happen to glance at a clock at 8:12 I always think of my Shark watch and the deep seas dives we could have taken together. 

But back to the clock radio.  Finally, the moment came during clock radio installation to pick the radio station that would I would wake up to each morning.  Oh, I had ARRIVED.  I chose B101, Philly’s Soft Rock Station, because what else would a six year old with very sophisticated musical taste choose?  My favorite song that year was “Take A Bow” by Madonna.  It seemed like it came on every morning as I was putting on my plaid uniform jumper and yellow turtleneck and what can I say?  It spoke to me.  I also particularly enjoyed Expose, Phil Collins, and Meatloaf.  Nothing like a little “I Would Do Anything for Love” before a long day of addition facts and compound words.

My loyalty to B101 remained long past the first grade.  Their slogan was “Playing the best hits of the 80s, 90s, and today,” and they really did do just that.  Also, they like to get in the Christmas spirit sometime around mid-October and I can appreciate premature yuletide excitement in a radio station.  Plus their mascot was a bee, and who’s not a fan of the obvious yet endearing marketing technique?  I added other stations to my presets of course, but I always knew I could turn to B101.  They were, in the words of Bette, the wind beneath my wings.

However, these past few months I have noticed an awful lot of pop/borderline rap music on my go to soft rock station. 

It’s not that I dislike pop and/or rap because, because that’s most certainly not the case.  Chamillionaire had my heart from his first/only number one hit, and I think T-Pain and I could be great friends.  I just think that pop and rap should not be on the soft rock station, that’s all.  

I don’t think I’ve ever written a nerdier sentence.

Anyway lately Katy Perry has been spending and awful lot of time on the B101 airwaves, in addition to Taio Cruz.  I will admit that both of these artists have catchy songs, and even I join Taio and throw my hands up in the air sometimes, saying AYO, gotta let go.  But, I just feel like Katy and Taio do not belong on the soft rock station.  Yet despite the prevalence of pop songs I decided to soldier on with B101, because true love runs deep. 

Howeva.

I was driving along last Saturday, with B101 on the radio.  A commercial came on advertising their new “No Ballad Weekends.” 

Oh.  No.

OHHHH. NOOOO.

I was crushed.  B101 without ballads is like a beach without sand.  Or a birthday without cake.  Or a stop at Sonic (America’s Drive Thru) without tater tots.  Or a Saturday in the fall without a college football game.  YOU SIMPLY CANNOT HAVE ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER.

I’m choosing to view this as just a poorly considered bump in my musical world, but I’m hoping the road doesn’t get too rocky.  There are better days and ballad filled weekends ahead, I’m sure of it.  

And until the ballads resume, seven days a week?  I have these to fall back on.

Just like Gloria says, I will survive.

you will be on the edge of your seat for this entire post

Whenever I have to wake up very early for something important, I am completely unable to sleep the night before due to a nagging fear that if I fall asleep, I will oversleep.

For example, the very last final of my college career was at 8:00 am, and I could not fall asleep the night before.  One single press of the snooze button was all that stood between me and college graduation, and I ended up lying awake in bed all night because the early bird gets the worm.  Or the college diploma, as they case may be.

Anyway.  My big business trip was this past Tuesday and I had to wake up bright dark and early at the hour of 4:00 am and I hardly slept a wink the night before.  I've never woken up that early before and when I turned on the news as I was getting ready, the anchor cheerfully announced, "Well, morning hasn't quite broken here in Philadephia." 

Hasn't quite broken?  I'll say. 

We flew from Philadelphia to Atlanta and it was only my second time on an airplane.  I didn't particularly enjoy the whole takeoff procedure, but once we were at cruising altitude (that's just some airplane lingo I picked up) I was fine.  Although I was a little disappointed when it was announced that once we were wheels up (just another technical term) cell phone use was forbidden.  It was really ashame because first of all, I hear cell phone service in an airplane is just spectacular.  And also, I had been planning to call my friends TI and Ludacris from the air and tell them I was on my way to their city of residence in case they were available to meet for an early lunch.  However, I have a feeling that one or both of them may currently be serving a prison sentence so a lunch date with my favorite rappers was unlikely anyway.

My fancy phone does have an "airplane mode" feature that supposedly doesn't interfere with all of the flight instruments, so I turned it on for two seconds to snap this lovely photo.

I didn't have a window right next to me so I had to lean my chair waaaaay back and then stretch back a little more to use the window of the person in the seat behind me.  Nothing says "airplane rookie" like borrowing your neighbor's window to take a picture of the beautiful body of water you are flying above.  (I think it was the Atlantic ocean.)  I turned my phone off immediately after I took this picture because the last thing I wanted was the flight attendant coming on the loudspeaker and asking the passenger in 10A to please turn off their cell phone. 

I had my very own hotel room, and I have never stayed in a hotel room all by myself before.  I have also never slept with eight down pillows before, but let me tell you, a girl could get used to that.  The hotel was very fancy and had some lovely hand lotion in the bathroom that smelled like it was sent straight from heaven or possibly Crabtree & Evelyn.  Anyway I wanted so badly to bring it home with me but unfortunately real estate in my ziplock baggie meant for 3 ounce containers of liquid was hard to come by.  It was a tough decision but in the end I decided to ditch my travel tube of toothpaste at the hotel and bring the lotion home instead.

I'm thrilled to report that my ziploc bag of liquids made it safely through security and so did I.  I did have to go through the full body scanner though, so let's just saying I'm hoping that what happens in Atlanta stays in Atlanta. 

Although if I could transport a few things from Georgia to here in Philadelphia they would be the southern accent and restaurants dedicated to nothing but barbecue.  Neither of those things exist here and I think they would do worlds of good for the northeast.  Ya'll.

And now it's back to the real world here in the life of Oh Laura Darling, and my mind is already full of pressing issues, as you can imagine.  For example, tonight I painted my nails navy blue because I read somewhere that navy blue nails are SO IN and I would hate nothing more than to be a season behind in the latest nail polish trends.  However, I'm a bit concerned that this particular navy is a few shades too dark for me and I'm not sure if I should take if off and apply something I'm more comfortable with, like a nice BRIGHT PINK, or go with it for a while.

Also, this afternoon our church had a fundraising concert and a Broadway star came to sing, and it made me rethink all sorts of things including pursuing the dream of becoming an international singing sensation as opposed to just belting out New New, New York while I wash the dishes.  It's sort of like what happens when I watch the Olympics and convince myself that I could indeed become the next world class figure skater or champion gymnast if I start intensive training RIGHT NOW.  Never mind the fact that I can't even do a cartwheel and can only maneuver around an ice rink with the assistance of a very large orange traffic cone.  Michelle Kwan has nothing on me except grace and impressive coordination.

I have nothing more to say tonight but I can't come up with a clever way to tie this whole post together.  Between my nail polish dilemma and all the thinking I've been doing about becoming some sort of broadway singing gymnast on ice, my brain is understandably tired.

I do hope you had a lovely weekend.

please don't take this personally hillshire farms

Today is my Dad’s birthday.

I know exactly what you’re thinking.  Thank goodness he wasn’t born one day later, because having a birthday on February 29^th opens up a whole can of leap year birthday related worms.  Trust me-I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the pros and cons of nearly every leap day birthday scenario under the sun.  It’s what I do.

We celebrated my Dad’s birthday on Saturday night, and I cooked dinner.  Despite the fact that it was suggested from a source that shall remain nameless that perhaps I should wait until after the actual day of my dad’s birthday to ensure that my food preparation doesn’t prohibit him from seeing another year, the dinner was a delicious success and we all lived to tell about it.  Speaking of food, we were at Sam’s Club yesterday and my dad spotted a “yard-o-beef” for the bargain price of $7.98.  Even though nothing says happy birthday quite like three pounds of summer sausage, he made the decision to leave the poor, salty yard-o-beef on the shelf.  

Given the opportunity I would have made the same choice because I have always been somewhat skeptical of room temperature meat.  I prefer any meat I eat to go right from roaming in the pasture/chicken coop straight to the freezer.  Part of this may have to do with the training I received prior to beginning my career in food services in college.  And by “my career in food services” I mean I stood in the middle of the sandwich assembly line at the commons sporting a very flattering baseball cap and matching apron and said “cheese?” no less than 427 times per shift. 

However, the requirements for the coveted “cheese” position at the commons consisted of detailed knowledge of what we in the biz call “critical temperatures.”  And I don’t care how much salt the particular meat product is soaked in, I know from my extensive, rigorous training at the commons that nothing good happens in the danger zone between 41 and 165 degrees, or what I like to call bacteria central.  In fact, I kept a portable thermometer in my handy apron pocket at all times during my career at the dining hall to ensure that all food stayed out of the danger zone.  I was the most popular girl in the sandwich assembly line.

Despite the fact that my dad does enjoy room temperature summer sausage, he also recognizes the value of critical temperatures, as evidenced by the fact that when I announced dinner was ready the other night he encouraged me to take out our trusty cooking thermometer and make sure the temperature of our dinner was not in the danger zone, or on the highway to it.  Coincidentally, my dad worked at the same exact dining commons that I did when he was in college, so I am choosing to view his suggestion to double check the temp of my dinner as a result of his rigorous college dining commons training, and not as a commentary on my cooking skillz.

Although, I wouldn’t blame him for the latter.

Happy Birthday Dad!

her pearls could make up a very lovely necklace

My mom really appreciated my inclusion of her belief that “nothing good happens after 11pm on a Tuesday” in my post last week.  She has even strongly suggested that I start a regular feature here on Oh Laura Darling where I could showcase some of her other “pearls of wisdom” like my personal favorite “you gotta look out for number one.”  There are many more, and they all come from a valuable place of grown up experience.    

Although, speaking of being grown up, several things have happened in the last few weeks that make me feel like I am well on my way to adulthood.  Never mind the fact that I still live with my parents and someone else packs my lunch every day. 

Exhibit 1

I had to take Old Blue into the shop a few weeks ago.  Contrary to what one might think given the first word in her name, Old Blue isn’t really old at all-she’s a one and a half year old spring chicken.

Earlier in the month, in a twist of NEVER BEFORE SEEN circumstances, I was driving Old Blue, and Phil, my mom, and Emily were my passengers.  On the way home, two warning lights on the dashboard flashed on, and Old Blue’s get up and go simply got up and went.  Phil was in the front passenger seat, and he flew into action, whipping out the manual and insisting that WE NEED TO GET TO A FORD DEALERSHIP IMMEDIATELY.

I can’t fault Phil for his strong insistence about getting Old Blue to a dealer STAT because he was only trying to prevent me from starting down the expensive car repair road that he has been traveling the past eighteen months or so.  Poor Phil has been burned by the car repair bill many a time, just ask him or his new starter or bumper or the motor for his driver’s side window or the battery or any one of his tires. 

However, since it was 9:30 on a Monday night and we were miles away from the nearest Ford dealership, I did the next best thing in the world of car repair, which is to say that I rolled into a convenience store parking lot, turned the car off, and then turned it back on again.  It worked like a charm, the warning lights went out, and I began to contemplate stopping by Pep Boys for an application because clearly I am a mechanical genius.

That period of misguided career contemplation was brief and ended abruptly the next night when I was driving to school and noticed HOLY HIGH RPM, BATMAN.  I went straight home for some investigatory googling, and guess where Old Blue was at 8:30 the next morning.  If you guessed the Ford dealership, you were right. 

But, lucky for me not only is Old Blue a spring chicken, she’s a spring chicken with a three year, thirty thousand mile warranty.  BONUS.  And now she’s sporting a brand spankin’ new transmission range sensor.

I must mention that this entire saga included no less than eight phone calls and conversations with my dad about the fate of OB, and then him taking her on a test drive on the turn pike to ensure that the RPMs were acceptable and the transmission range sensor was indeed sensing and that his lovely daughter/favorite child had some PEACE OF MIND.

Exhibit 2

As you probably know, Monday was President’s Day.  If someone had asked me during the last 21 years of my life when President’s Day was, I would not have been able to provide a confident and/or accurate answer.  But this year?  I started counting down the days in January, because it meant work was CLOSED!  So, on Sunday night, I went out with Phil and my cousin. 

Out!  On a Sunday night!  There I go, living on that edge again! 

We were chatting and laughing and talking about elementary school and having a great time and then we started yawning.  And yawning some more.  All three of us.  We were straight up EXHAUSTED and so ready to go to sleep and convinced that it MUST be way past our bedtimes.

I looked at my watch.

It was 9:45.   

Exhibit 3

I will be going on a business trip next week.  If you giggled when you read that last sentence, don’t feel bad.  Rest assured that no one is more shocked and amused at this unexpected turn of events than I am.

Exhibit 4

We had a little bit of a WINTER WEATHER EVENT on Tuesday night, and because Old Blue was parked in the street, she was covered in about four inches of fluffy snow on Wednesday morning.  I know…she’s had a rough go if it this February.  Anyway, I had to face the reality that I was going to have to brush her off before work because when you’re a grown up in the real world, there is no such thing as a two hour delay.  Okay, actually there is, but not this particular day.  So I put on my work clothes, zipped up my high heel leather dress boots, grabbed the sandwich my parents made for me, and headed for the street to brush off Old Blue. 

I had just finished the roof and was working on the front windshield when I heard my mom yell, from the second floor all the way across the front yard and down to the street, “Hey, Laura…great choice of footwear!!!”

And I pretended that I didn’t hear her because as I mentioned I am a TOTALLY MATURE GROWN UP. 

A totally mature grown up who is thinking that “Wear waterproof winter boots when walking in/brushing/shoveling snow” will make her mother’s collection of pearls of wisdom.

And with very wet, cold, good reason.

i think it's time to buy some stock in maybelline

When talking about how many lip products and/or hair accessories I own, my dad's favorite number is forty seven thousand.

Normally I think his estimate is a tiny bit on the high side, but last night I cleaned out two purses. 

TWO.

And found all of these...

Apparently my dad is not far off at all.

What can I say?  It's important for a girl to have options in the lip care department.

i can't come up with a creative title

Well, nothing funny or out of the ordinary has really happened to me this week.  I normally hesitate to just write summaries of what I’ve been doing, because I feel that those types of things can quickly cross into the boring territory, and that’s a territory I would rather not spend a great deal of time in.  However, my adoring fans (my mom and Emily) have been begging for a new post.  And I aim to please.  So I’m working with what I’ve got.

I visited Matt this past weekend.  I left after work on Friday and the drive was going along great until I got off at the wrong exit, despite the fact that I have made this particular drive before.  More than once in fact.  I forgot that exit 295B comes before exit 295A, maybe because that makes no sense to me at all and the next thing you know we will be reading books right to left.  Or tfel ot tghir, as the case may be.  I knew immediately that I made a mistake, but in an effort to restore my poor navigational reputation I tried to correct things without having to make a tearful SOS call to one of the men in my life.  Those men being my dad, Matt, my brother, or Brad Paisley. 

(The ironic thing is that this fancy new phone I have can do pretty much everything except actually drive the car for me.  It has at least ten GPS features and programs and apps.  That was one of the features that SOLD me.  Unfortunately, I was so confident that I knew exactly where I was going last weekend that I didn’t take the time to set any of them up, and because I packed my common sense I knew the last place I wanted to be fooling around with my phone was alone in a car off a dark exit in Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania.  I’ve watched CSI.  And nothing good happens off dark exits in the Middle of Nowhere.  Reminds me of when my brother and I were in high school and would ask why OH WHY our summertime curfew was midnight on weekends but only 11 on weeknights.  My mom’s answer was always “Because nothing good happens after 11 pm on a Tuesday.”)

Anywho, I regret to inform you that I made things worse and eventually had to make a call.  Unfortunately Brad Paisley was busy so I called Matt and told him that I was on the fast track to the other side of the world known as WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA. PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME GO THERE MATT.  PLEASE TELL ME HOW TO GET BACK ON THE ROAD TRAVELING EASTWARD.  The good news is I keep my dramatics and tears in check, and made it to Matt’s safe and sound.

Sorry you didn’t get to see me, Western PA.  But, chances are I will end up unintentionally headed your away again soon, so fear not.

On Saturday Matt and I took a self guided driving covered bridge tour.  Lest you think I am the only one who struggles with directions, I will share that things got off to a rocky start because we missed the first bridge on the tour.  Flat out skipped a turn and sailed right on by.  After that I took on the position of navigator and got A LOT of mileage out of the phrase, “Go west, young man.”  Every once in a while I would add, “Go west, young man, go west and grow up with the land!”  In a totally cool, not at all nerdy way of course.

It was supposed to be a sunny, spring like day at home, so I supposed the weather would be the same at Matt’s school.  Well, you know what happens when you assume.

It was snowing.

And cloudy.

With a high of 28.

So we made it to the first (which was technically the second) bridge, and in a fit of boundless excitement I leapt out of the car and onto the pavement, which happened to be a complete sheet of ice.  My legs flew out from under me and I fell flat on my back.

I am graceful like a swan.

Halfway through the trip we were planning to stop at a state park to do some hiking.  I thought we had packed everything we could POSSIBLY need for the day,

but sadly, we forgot our ROPE AXES!

So between our lack of rope axes and my recent experience with ice, there was no hiking for us.  We ate our lunch there though and kept an eye out for cabin people. 

We didn’t see any.

We journeyed on though and had a lot of fun and the drive was SO PRETTY.

And we ended the day with a stop at the Tractor Supply Co, because how else would you end such a day?

Okay, maybe we went out to dinner.  And maybe the desserts were half price.  And maybe I had two.

Then we went to the Red Box to rent a movie and Matt picked.  I am a fan of cheesy, romantic, cinematic masterpieces.  Matt is usually a good sport about it and always tells me I can pick the movie, but I have been noticing for the past few months that every time we watch one of those movies, Matt insists that it’s the same one we watched the time before.  I will admit that the majority of the plot lines are strikingly similar, but how can you mix up P.S. I Love You and The Holiday?!  If you don’t count the ways those movies are exactly the same, they could not be more different.  But, I’m sad to say Matt is suffering from a case of All Of The Romantic Comedies Are Running Into One Another-itis. 

So, Matt picked on Saturday.  We watched The American, which wasn’t a total loss because hellooooooo Mr. Clooney.  Plus Matt enjoyed the suspense and danger and lack of love songs.  Can’t blame him.

So, that was the weekend.  ‘Twas a happy Valentine’s Day indeed.  I am staying home this weekend and plan to spend my time watching Sleepless in Seattle, 500 Days of Summer, and Return to You.  I also should probably figure out how to use my GPS, I would hate to get lost on the way to the Red Box.

Happy Friday!

i'm guessing the recipient of this card won't be getting any diamonds

Because nothing says romantic like a card from the Love and Finances section.

Happy Valentine's Day!

let it be known that i actually can make a mean tuna melt

There is an unofficial rule in my family that everyone takes turns cooking dinner.  The rule happens to be, for the most part, completely unenforced because since June I have only made dinner five times.  Now, my parents and brother love to cook.  They always prepare some sort of elaborately marinated, perfectly grilled, deliciously seasoned, slow cooked, beautiful dinner.  And they enjoy doing it.  I am a different story altogether.  I hate to cook about as much as I love to eat, which is a lot.  So it’s no surprise that my track record of family dinners is a little disappointing. 

The first time I cooked dinner for my family, I made some VERY FANCY chicken.  I dipped the chicken in a mixture of butter, crushed cornflakes, and powdered ranch dressing mix, and then baked it.  HOLLA.  It was a HIT.

So, when my turn came around again, about seven weeks later, I made the same thing since, as I always say, why reinvent the wheel or the delicious cornflake ranch chicken?

And once again, a HIT.

Five months later when I had to make a meal again, I was feeling slightly more adventurous because I had two successful dinners under my belt.  So I decided to make this pasta with tomato and blue cheese sauce, because it sounded delicious and was rated “easy.”  Things were going along swimmingly until it came time for the red pepper flakes.

Hello, nosedive to the south.  The lid to the red pepper flakes?  It looks like this...

However, in a fit of overwhelming enthusiam, I took the entire lid off without even realizing what I was doing.  I used it like this.

And I gave three HEARTY, CONFIDENT shakes.  Whoops.  I tasted the sauce because seriously, how hot could some red pepper flakes really be?

The answer is VERY, VERY HOT.  BURNING HOT.  IRREVERSIBLE DAMAGE DONE TO THE MEAL hot.  After I got that answer I proceeded to make what was probably a rookie mistake, and poured in many, many cups of sugar in an ultimately unsuccessful effort to counteract ALL THE HOT.

I even added a can of premade tomato sauce, thinking maybe that would calm things down JUST A SMIDGE, but it didn’t. 

The meal was truly inedible.  Not only was it burning hot, but it also had a slightly gritty texture due to the abundant quantity of sugar.  I basically served my family noodles with hot sauce and sand.

Yum.

A few weeks ago it was my turn once again.  And you know what they say, once bitten, and twice shy.  So my dinner that night consisted of me VERY LOVINGLY heating up pulled barbecue beef that came from a tub in the freezer section at the food store, dumping store bought coleslaw and fruit salad into bowls, and putting chips in a basket.  As we sat down to say grace, my mom announced, “Okay, let’s pray.  We even have to thank God for this food.”

BURN.

Well, at least this time the burn was just figurative.

Last night, my turn to cook came around for the fifth time in eight months.  I was going to make some chicken.  All I had to do was cut up some vegetables, lay them in the baking pan with the chicken, and sprinkle on a packet of seasoning, and bake it for an hour.  It sounded easy, but thanks to my poor performance with the last "easy" meal I attempted to make, I was apprehensive.

First of all, it involved cutting an onion, which reminded me of my first onion slicing experience.  It was about eight months ago, and I was in my apartment at school.  I was making pierogies for dinner and decided I wanted some fried onions to go with them.  Clearly I was brimming with culinary confidence and naivete.  I took the onion out of the bag.  Got out a nice, sharp knife.  Pulled out a cutting board.  Looked at all my supplies for a moment, just taking things in. 

And then I texted my old roommate Heather.  “Hey, how do I cut an onion?”

She walked me through it, my eyes stinging and tearing with every cut of the knife.

On Wednesday, in what may or may not have been a last minute effort to get out of cooking, I dramatically informed my parents that slicing onions makes me CRY AND CRY.

They didn’t even FAKE sympathy.

So last night, I cooked the chicken, and things went surprisingly well.  I kept waiting for tragedy to strike, but that didn't seem like it was going to happen.  After an hour of baking, I took the beautiful, golden brown, fragrant chicken out of the oven and served everyone with a sense of pride and accomplishment.  I sat down and cut into the chicken.

It was raw.  R.A.W.  I'm not talking "Oh dear, I may see a tiny bit of pink" raw.  I'm talking the chicken was STILL CLUCKING and could probably go for a lap or two around the barnyard raw.  

Back in the oven it went.  Unfortunately I had to go babysit, so I ate a re-heated version of the meal around 9:45 last night. 

There may have been a few tears, but my story is that they were TOTALLY from the onions.

And as for the next time I have to cook dinner, which will likely be about June or so?

 We're going to Sonic. 

i am nothing if not verbose and long winded

I'm back.  Just call me the Prodigal Blogger. 

Or not. 

At any rate, I have returneth.  Just a quick public service announcement: I will be test driving the occasional “th” ending instead of “ed” on verbs in the past tense in an effort to bring back good old fashioned sophistication. 

Speaking of old fashioned and sophisticated (except, not really), my siblings and I spent a lot of time together in the car this past weekend driving back and forth from some family obligations.  Despite the fact that I possess some pretty impressive driving skillz, the Powers That Be (Mom and Dad) designateth Phil as Chauffer #1.  Emily sat in the backseat and put a great deal of effort into pretending that she couldn’t hear, see, or speak to me or Phil.  That’s not necessarily different than your average day, but this weekend it earneth her the official title of Teenage Sister #1. 

 And last but MOST CERTAINLY not least, I took the position as Peacekeeper and Navigator #1. 

 (I don’t know where all these "#1"s are coming from.  I guess I think they make these titles sound somewhat legitimate.) 

 If you’re thinking, “Wow, Peacekeeper and Navigator #1 sounds like a really tough job!”  I will take this opportunity to tell you that you have never been more correct.  It’s not easy sitting in the passenger seat reminding Chauffer #1 and Teenage Sister #1 of the importance of staying CALM, COOL, AND COLLECTED because no matter how angry you get, it won’t make the salt truck driving in front of us at the speed of a tired snail move any faster and won’t you will all be grateful tomorrow morning when we get an ice storm that these roads have been salted?!!

Combine that with my occasional directional suggestion like “I REALLY THINK YOU SHOULD TURN LEFT AT THAT GAS STATION” or “I SURE HOPE YOU SEE THOSE BRAKE LIGHTS IN FRONT OF US!!” and you can imagine the peace and joy that filleth the car.

Not only is the position of Peacekeeper and Navigator #1 is an emotionally exhausting job, it’s a thankless one too.  I know this because Chauffer #1 is still the person who gets to pick the music.  Which meant that for the first two trips back and forth to my grandparents’ this weekend, Phil changed the radio from one classic rock station to the next no less than 17 times a minute.  Evidently he is allergic to a good chorus.  Which is ashame, really, because the chorus is usually the only part of a classic rock song that I know all the words to. 

And now that I think about that, the whole thing is very coincidental.

Anyway, by our third trip the other night, we had all had enough of the oft-changeth rock and roll songs.  Even Chauffeur #1.  The time had come to say sayonara to classic rock and HOLLA to a new genre.

I campaigned solidly for some Delilah, the self-professed Queen of Sappy Love Songs.  Anyone else a fan?  I’m not ashamed to say that I envy her natural, unrivaled talent for picking a song that is perfectly appropriate for any given person’s life story.

“Oh, hello Marjorie.  You mean to say that in the last year, you have been in a car accident, fallen in love, lost your job, bought a new car, painted your house, fallen out of love, gotten a new job, planted a beauuuutiful garden of tulips, discovered a long lost cousin, traveled to Spain, joined a book club, found love once again, discovered the true meaning of life, and found the perfect jeans that don’t shrink in the wash or get too tight around the knees for a bargain price?  I have just the song for you.”

And then after a quick commercial break, Delilah comes back with a song that was just WRITTEN for Marjorie, her jeans, and the tumultuous past twelve months of her life.

Unbelievable.

And no, I NEVER, EVER PRACTICE HYPOTHETICAL DELILAH SCENARIOS.  But eventually Delilah will need to retire, and someone will have to replace her.  And that someone better be prepared.  That’s all I’m saying.

Plus, Delilah and I are kindred spirits, because we both happen to have a deep appreciation for eighties ballads.  I’m looking at you, REO Speedwagon.

I’m sad to report that even though my campaign for Delilah was a hard fought one, with the bonus of a quick Peter Gabriel imitation by yours truly, I couldn’t win Phil over.

I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY NOT.

Instead, he turned on Power 99FM, Philadelphia’s Best Bangin’ Hip Hop n’ RnB.  The DJs on that station say the FM part every time.  It is absolutely vital to the station name, lest you switch your dial to AM and become perplexeth as to why the station numbers are in the thousands and WHY OH WHY you cannot tune into any Ginuwine or Lupe Fiasco.  A great car ride can take a horrible turn when one cannot locate Mr. Fiasco on their radio dial.  Not that I would know from experience or anything.

For a little while, we rode along to the melodic sounds of Fabolous and Tyga.  Keep in mind that we were traveling through suburban Pennsylvania in a family sized SUV, so our street cred?  THROUGH. THE. ROOF.  I think Emily actually took her coat off and put it over her head. 

After three or four songs, Phil pointed out that there has been a noticeably wimpy change in the alcoholic drinks the rappers of today are enjoying.  Rappers of 2008 were enjoying Patrón and Cristal.  I can attest to this fact not only because my buddy T-Pain sings about Patrón on a regular basis, but also because in college I attended both a TI concert and a Jay Z concert, and they both mentioned Cristal. 

However, the rappers of today are apparently daintily sipping rosé.  According to Phil, one must look far and wide to find a drink girlier than rosé.  Never fear though, it was a long car ride, and Phil had time to search his brain far and wide, and came up with two drinks that are indeed girlier.  Chablis and hot tea.  English breakfast, to be exact.  He even composeth a little rap song of his own about them right then and there, and it was one that would make even Ludicrous envious.  Just call him Phil-Swizzle.

Our favorite song of the trip, though, was “Fancy.”  A compilation of Drake, TI, and Swizz Beats.  I think it was our favorite because it was the only one we could really understand, because pretty much the only words were, “Oh you FANcy, huh?”  Well, there was one part where one of the guys (I think it was Swizz) started talking about how he had some sort of a falling out with a girl named Tammy, but we couldn’t figure out exactly what had happeneth between Tammy and Mr. Beats because it was a lot of BLEEEEEEP.”

So we just kept saying, “Oh, you FANcy, huh?” 

We kept it up the whole night.  Unpacking the car.  “Oh, you FANcy, huh?”

Feeding the dog.  “Oh, you FANcy, huh?”

Finally poor Emily had enough, and went up to bed.

I went into her room a few minutes later, because every night around her bedtime my feet JUST WALK THEMSELVES IN THERE and my mouth JUST STARTS TALKING.  I really have no control over it.

The whole night Emily had rolled her eyes at us.  Sighed loudly.  Implored us to please, just act normal.  Saying that none of us were indeed "fancy." 

But oh, look how I found her...

A satin red sleep mask adorning her lovely face.  You know what I have to say about that?

"Oh, she's FANcy, huh?"

Anyway, that's pretty much what's been going on around here. 

And I bet you wish you had poureth yourself a glass of rosé before you sat down to read this.