i bet i'll be thrilled if this happens when i'm sixty

If I had a nickel for every time I started a post with “I can’t believe it’s already Monday…” I would be a rich girl.

Or I’d have about thirty five cents.

Either way, I can’t believe that it’s Monday because these past two days flew by, as per usual.

The weekend started off with a bang.  Literally.  We had a major thunderstorm on Friday night, with more lightning than I think I’ve seen in my whole life and rain that blew parallel to the ground.  In the midst of the thunder and rain, Matt and I decided to go to the movies!  We waited to leave until there was a lull in the storm, but even during the lull it was still raining hard enough for Matt to immediately turn on his windshield wipers, which is noteworthy. 

Matt and I agree on many things, but we have completely different philosophies about windshield wipers.  I believe in turning them on as fast as possible at the first indication of precipitation.  I hate it when there is a drop of rain on my windshield.  HATE. IT.

Matt, on the other hand, is content to leave them off until he can hardly see through the windshield.  So when we’re driving together, we have an unspoken battle of wills.  He leaves the wipers off for as long as he can, and I try to keep myself from saying, “PLEASE TURN ON THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS!!”

I always lose.

By the time we arrived at the movie theater, rain was coming down in BUCKETS.  Matt dropped me off at the door because he is a gentleman, and then ventured out to find a parking spot.  Keep in mind that it was Friday night at 7:45, so the closet parking spot was practically in the next zip code.  His shirt was soaked when he made it into the theater, and was still wet when we left two hours later.

While Matt parked I went into the theater to purchase the tickets.  I stepped right up to the ticket window to place my order, and the grumpy, middle aged woman behind the counter asked me how old I was.  I assumed that was because she wanted to see if I would qualify for the student discount.  Unfortunately I didn’t have my school ID with me, and I knew if I told her my real age it was possible that she would doubt the fact that I was a student, because in general 22 year olds have completed their education and I certainly didn’t want to bore her with my lengthy tale of how I am pursuing a post-graduate degree because while I had a lovely time as an English major, it’s not something that screams IN DEMAND IN THE JOB MARKET and I just want to be able to move out on my own and support myself and buy cute little accessories at Ikea for my apartment!

So, I lied.  I told the woman that I was 21, hoping that she would assume that at that age I was still a student and knock a dollar off the adult ticket price of $11.50.  Or as I like to call it, HIGHWAY ROBBERY. 

However, when I told her my (fake) age, she asked to see my license.  The license that clearly shows that I am no longer 21.  Shoot.  I opened my wallet, pulled out my license, and slid it across the counter.  She studied it for a moment, looked straight at me, and said “You’re 22.”

I did the only thing I could do in that moment, which was look down at my feet and utter the lamest, most unbelievable excuse in the book.

“Oh.  I forgot.”

Luckily she did end up giving me the tickets, along with a large helping of some serious eye rolling.  Can’t really say that I blame the woman.

While I waited by the popcorn counter for Matt to come inside, I looked down at our tickets.  

Theater 13

Horrible Bosses

Rated: R

RATED R.  The ticket woman wasn’t asking my age because she couldn't decide if I was young enough to be a student; she wanted to make sure that I WAS AT LEAST SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD.  Which means that the effort I went to in order to make myself appear YOUNGER was TOTALLY UNNECESSARY.  

Saturday was a full of shopping and visiting and eating homemade pizza with some family.  My cousin and I are dog sitting this week, so we devoted our Sunday morning to watching quite a few hours of quality television programming, and by that I mean the wedding of Prince Charles and Princess Diana along with several episodes of Jerseylicious.  And then we spent the entire afternoon floating around in the pool.  Tough life.

As it turns out,  royal weddings, Jerseylicious, and swimming can really wear a girl out, and by last night we were understandably EXHAUSTED.  I went to bed at 9:45 and enjoyed a solid nine hours of sleep.  It was glorious. 

Although, I’ve read that one of the best anti-aging techniques is making sure you get enough sleep.  I’m thinking that perhaps I should cut down on the shut eye.  After all, I’m turning TWENTY THREE in a few weeks, and I’d love to look, oh I don't know, MY DECADE.

i was tempted to buy a bow and arrow

If someone asked me a few years ago if I ever planned to spend part of a date night in the hunting department of the sporting goods store, looking at countless types of guns and ammunition, I would have said HECK TO THE NO.

 

  And I would have been very, very wrong, because look where I accompanied Matt the other night.

Oh my.

did i mention that it's been HOT?

The other night after dinner Matt and I decided to go for a little creekside walk.  The temperature that evening was 101 degrees, and the humidity was about a thousand percent.  Oh, and the heat index?  ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN DEGREES.  FAHRENHEIT.  So basically, the perfect night for a twilight stroll!  

If you enjoy spontaneous combustion.

Matt and I were about thirty eight seconds into our walk when we caught this glimpse of The Wildlife. 

This deer turned around and stared straight at us for about fifteen seconds.  Then, once he decided we were harmless and firearm free, he continued on about his business of wading through the cold water because did I mention it was ONE HUNDRED AND ONE DEGREES?  I tried to take some pictures but they are a little bit blurry due to all of the excitement.  

Our deer friend eventually wandered to the other side of the stream and put his mouth down towards the water.  I looked at Matt and said, “Aww, look!  Do you think he’s fishing?”

Well, talk about spontaneous combustion. I think Matt’s head almost exploded.  And for the record, no, the deer was not fishing, because WHEN IS THE LAST TIME YOU SAW A DEER EAT MEAT?  THEY EAT THINGS LIKE LEAVES. 

AND APPLES. 

While I may not have seen a deer eat meat recently, it's also been QUITE A WHILE since I've seen one eat an apple. 

Another milestone in my life occurred this past weekend.  I took the train into the city and back, ALL BY MYSELF!  Getting into the city didn't make me as nervous as coming home, because let me tell you, there are some OPTIONS when you are homeward bound.  It wasn't as overwhelming as I thought though, and once I was 99% sure that I need to be waiting at track 4B, I claimed myself a spot on a bench and waited in the underground train station even though it was several hundred degrees because oh, the horror of possibly missing it. 

While I was sitting on my bench with my ol' eagle eyes glued to the incoming board, TWO PEOPLE asked me where they should be standing for their particular trains.  One man was going to DELAWARE.  I decided it was not the best idea to be giving out directional advice to others when I wasn't even totally sure of my own mass transit decisions, so I basically just wished my fellow travelers good luck on their inter-state adventures. 

I felt badly though that they had questions that I couldn't answer.  If only they had asked me whether or not deer eat fish.

if you have a brother, i bet you can sympathize

I took several hundred pictures on vacation a few weeks ago.  Last night I sat down to look at all of them, and once again I was blown away by the breathtaking scenery.

Gorgeous.

Striking.

Beautiful.

Picturesque.

Majestic.

There are some definite framers in this group.

HOWEVA.  It appears that between my cloud and mountain picture taking, SOMEONE commandeered my camera and took several photos of the famous and TOTALLY MATURE elbow butt.

I wasn't going to name names, but there's nothing I can do about self- incrimination.

my BFFs nellie bly and madonna

These past few weeks have been chock full o’ busy.  After being away for a week pet/house sitting, going on vacation two weeks ago, and being out of town these past few days with Emily and my mom, I feel a bit like Nellie Bly must have felt after she circumnavigated the globe in a mere seventy two days.  Except I never left the Pennsylvania border states.  And I most certainly did not travel with only one single dress and a bag of toiletry essentials tied around my neck, OH MY HEAVENS NO.  

I have a feeling Nellie and I would have a very different definition of what constitutes “essential.”  For example, I’m willing to bet that her bag of necessities did not contain lavender sea salt body scrub, Milani 3-D Glitzy Glamor Lip Gloss in Fashion Diva, or a bottle of organic cold pressed castor oil for a once weekly facial application to ensure clear, radiant skin.  

However, I do think that the kinship I feel for Nellie could perhaps explain why a few weeks ago I suddenly started saying, “Sweet Nellie Bly!” in an exclamatory fashion when something was shocking/funny/exciting.  The first time I heard it come out of my mouth, I even surprised myself.  And then I couldn’t. stop. saying. it.  The next morning I decided to do a little research because SURELY it had to be an already established saying and somehow I just picked up on it, since prior to that day I had thought about Nellie approximately zero times in the last decade.  

I went to Google, typed in “sweet Nellie Bly,” and do you know what came up?  Nothing.  Not one result of those three words being in the same category as “oh my goodness” or “wow!”  I have since stopped saying it, because, WEIRD.  Although now that Nellie and I are practically BFFs, it might be a good time to reintroduce it to my lexicon.

Last night seemed like the first time in a long time that I wasn’t packing for/unpacking from a trip, so I spent the evening the way millions of people all over the world only dream of.  Introducing Emily to Madonna’s version of “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.”

(The truth is…I neeeeeeeee-ver left youuuuu.)

I felt it was part of my duty as a big sister.  I also decided I need to add that to my regular reportoire of songs, which so far is limited to Meatloaf’s "I Would Do Anything for Love," Whitney Houston’s "I Wanna Dance With Somebody," and Celine’s “It’s All Coming Back,” complete with sound effects.  Once in a while I throw in Michael Bolton’s “How Can We Be Lovers If We Can’t Be Friends?” because I appreciate a vocalist who can ask the hard hitting questions.

The audience for my singing is typically my mom, sister, or Matt.  I bet they’ll be thrilled with my new addition.  Of course the alternative is that they will wish they were Nellie Bly, halfway across the world.  

I’m hoping for the former.

bic doesn't stand a chance

We returned home from vacation two Saturdays ago which meant that once last Monday morning rolled around, the train of Responsibility In The Form Of A Full Time Job And Night School was leaving the station and it was time for me to hop aboard.  

I'm sorry to say that things on the R.I.T.F.O.A.F.T.J.A.N.S. train didn’t get off on the right foot (or track, if you will) because I had class the very next night and it was there that I found myself in a situation I hoped to never be in.  To get the full story let me back it up like a Tonka truck (name that song) all the way back to college.  Oh, college.  How I miss you dearly and on a very regular basis.  

One thing that annoyed me in college was when a fellow student would show up to class without a writing utensil of any kind.  As someone who maintained a sizable inventory of pens, pencils, and highlighters in my bag AT ALL TIMES, I could not understand students who would arrive to class and not bring ONE SINGLE INSTRUMENT WITH WHICH TO WRITE.   

So the other night, after a harsh re-acquaintance with the world of rush hour traffic, I arrived at school. I proceeded to go through a quick mental checklist before I went to my classroom for my Estates and Trusts class, which can only be described as DRY.  DRIER THAN THE SAHARA DESSERT.  Unless of course, you’re talking about excluding a close family member from your will, in which case, DRAMA.

 I gathered my things, “textbook…check; notebook…check; pen………………”

 I didn’t have a pen.

Oh, the judgmental, collegiate tables.  How they had turned.

I walked to class with my head down and shamefully asked a peer if I could borrow a pen.  Since I neglected to bring one.  

Turns out I had class the next night also, and guess what I didn’t bring?  A pen.  Since asking for a pen TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW at SCHOOL was something I was not willing to do, I drove on over to CVS where I stood in front of one of the largest pen displays I had ever laid eyes on.  I came very close to purchasing the new Sharpie pen, because if I had a dollar for every good thing I have heard about it, I could actually afford to buy one.  In the end I decided couldn’t justify spending five dolla dolla bills on something that would likely be misplaced within 24 hours, so I went with the Papermate Profile.  I felt it was the right decision because they were buy one, get one free, plus it’s THE WORLD’S SMOOTHEST PEN.  And I’m a sucker for a superlative.

And now I am very curious about how that determination was made.  Is there cold, hard proof somewhere?  A spreadsheet of raw data I could perhaps look at?   Also, who tested every single pen in the WORLD?  And how do I get a job doing that?  I am confident that I could find make a wildly successful career of testing several products I enjoy and then making sweeping generalizations about them.  

This is THE WORLD’S SHINIEST LIPGLOSS.  

I am eating THE WORLD’S BEST ICE CREAM. 

Sign. Me. Up.

My 4 pack of pens and I made it to the classroom just in time.  I ripped open that bag o’ pens and got ready to take some serious notes.  Please know that the next sentence is written without one ounce of sarcasm whatsoever.  

I have never written with a pen that smooth.  

Seriously.  I could hardly control my writing.  My normally neat, boxy, controlled writing was suddenly flowing wildly onto the page.  The profile has a mind of its own and just glided across that page like an Olympic figure skater on a rink of ice.  It was unbelievable.  I can officially attest to the fact that the Papermate Profile is indeed the WORLD’S SMOOTHEST PEN. 

And now I think I should probably build up the superlatives section of my resume so that I can find a job sampling chocolate/nail polish/coffeemate flavors PRONTO.  I don’t have a second to lose, so tonight I’m going to start a hunt for the WORLD’S BEST POTATO CHIP.  It's for the people, really.  I’m just happy to help.

once you pop, the fun don't stop

Well, well, well.  I have returned.  I say that as though people far and wide were missing regular humorous content over here at Oh Laura Darling, which is by and large totally unrealistic.  Nevertheless, I spent last week vacationing with my family at a lake in the mountains a few states away.  ‘Twas a lovely time, but when I returned my brain felt a wee bit dusty because I spent several days writing nothing more complex than a Wal Mart shopping list.  

Yes, we went there.  

One or four times.

I can't stay away.

 

Anyway, I have OH SO MUCH that I could write about vacation.   It was fantastic.  We swam and hiked and explored and boated and shopped and s'mored and rested and laughed.

And, OF COURSE, we popped.

that's my motto

Or "to" gramatically correct.

they call me the cat whisperer

So.  I'm currently doing something I never really thought I would do.


Pursuing my pilot's license.


Oh,  I kid.  I'm pet sitting.  


Things are going well, except this whole experience has solidified the fact that I am not a cat person.  First of all, I do not like the fact that she can sneak around silently, and most of the time, I know not where she sneaks.  

Furthermore, Kitty and I had ourselves a battle of the wills on Saturday night when it took twenty minutes for me to lure her into the half bath where she sleeps.  Twenty.  Long.  Minutes.  I was scared to death to pick her up and she refused to move from her perch at the top of the stairs.  Eventually I resorted to enticing her with a trail of tuna flavored cat treats.  She stared at the path o' treats for a long time, but eventually gave in and as soon as she ran in the bathroom I shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of victorious relief.

And that is when I realized I was in a Major Pickle because I had left the light on. 

Suddenly I felt sympathetic and wondering how, OH HOW, will the poor cat get a proper night's rest with the light on?    However, I knew if I opened the door enough to get inside, that cat would shoot out of there like a bat out of you know where.  And there weren’t enough kitty treats left to lure her back in since I had totally depleted my supply in round 1.  

So I just waited a few minutes to throw her off her game, then I opened the door a teeny, tiny little crack, wedged a wooden spoon in through the opening, and slid it up and down the wall until I found the switch, and flipped it down so the cat could sleep soundly without being bothered by the light.

I'm pleased to report that the cat seemed extra rested and refreshed in the morning, no doubt due to her dark sleeping quarters.  Also, she has gone to the bed every night since without a bit of a problem.

Not only have I learned to outsmart a cat, but this week has provided me with the opportunity to add three things to my list of Things I Never Thought I'd Google.

1- How do you know if a cat is happy?

2- What does it mean when a cat arches her back?

3- How do you clean a litter box?

I'm still a little unclear on the answers to questions 1 and 2, but I learned the answer to number 3.  OH, I LEARNED.


And then I gagged.

Anywho, in addition to the cat, I am also in charge of a very agreeable beagle, some well behaved fish, and a guinea pig.   That's right.  I'm a regular Dr. Doolittle.

The experience is actually reminding me of the time my college roommates and I bought our own guinea.

Winnie.

Hey, did you know that Petco has a 30 day return policy, and that it includes animals?

That’s one of those things that people read on the back of the receipt and think, “Who in the world uses the return policy at Petco?!” 

Me.  I use it. 

I promise that we bought Winnie the Guinea with the best of intentions.  

 

We thought a guinea pig would be SO FUN AND ADORABLE.  You know what's not fun and adorable?  Cleaning out a guinea pig cage several times a week, and a member of the phylum rodentia living in your kitchen.


Truthfully I can't even believe that Petco sold Winnie to us, because when we saw the guinea pig cages we decided they didn't go with our decorating scheme so instead we bought Winnie a pink, Victorian style bird cage in which to live.  

Well, four days later we were back at Petco with our receipt, the pink bird cage, and a makeshift shoebox-carrying crate for Winnie the Guinea.  'Twas not meant to be.

 And that's the story of Winnie the Guinea.


Now, it's time for me to go create a path of tuna treats. 


I don't know how I stand all the glamour around here.

 

oh deer

It's not every day you drive down the highway and spot a fellow motorist with a large deer in his front seat.

i'm holding out for vita sweet tea

 

 

Last week Emily and I were in the store and a display of Vita Coco just happened to catch my eye.

Within seconds I had pretty much convinced myself that Vita Coco and I were going to have a lovely, refreshing summer together as girl and beverage.  And as a bonus, it seemed super healthy because everyone knows that putting “vita” in front of something instantaneously increases the nutritional credibility.

I wish there was such a thing as “Vita Doritos.”

When we got home I proudly showed my mom my purchase, and she said, “Laura, do you even like coconut?”

The answer to that would be no.  No, I don’t. 

However, the only place I really encounter coconut is on/in some type of cake, in which case the main reason I dislike it is due to the strange, papery texture it brings to an otherwise delightful baked good.  I do, however, just LOVE the way that coconut scented shampoos/soaps/suntan lotions smell.   

So I guess the bottom line here is that I was hoping coconut water would taste the way coconut shampoo smells.

I am here to tell you that it doesn’t.  Not at all.  Not even close.  One sip of Vita Coco and, in the words of Celine, our love has ended before it's begun.

It seemed like such a shame to let all that Vita Coco go to waste though, but Emily didn't let me down.  She carried on our charming tradition of trying to get Phil to eat gross things by convincing him that they are indeed delicious foods.  So far we have presented him with a ball of candle waxmasquerading as white chocolate, and an Oreo filled with minty fresh Crest toothpaste.  He caught on immediately to both of those tricks, but hope springs eternal, again, so Emily the other night Emily filled up a glass with this cloudy, yellowish/white liquid and presented it to Phil. 

Turns out he was very suspicious.  I can't imagine why.

My advice to you is this:  If anyone ever offers you Vita Coco, run far, and run fast. 

Unless, of course, you enjoy coconut.  Then by all means, give it a shot.

what do these books say about their reader?

I always keep a sizable collection of reading material in my car because you never know when you will unexpectedly find yourself with a few extra moments.  You might be early for an appointment.  Or bored on your lunch hour.  Or sitting in a traffic jam at rush hour on the turnpike.  

Oh, I kid about that last one.  I only read on non-toll roads.

  JUST KIDDING AGAIN.  I am actually a big time supporter of keeping your eyes on the road and off of your iphones and blackberries whilst operating a vehicle BECAUSE SERIOUSLY, WHAT EMAIL/TEXT IS SO IMPORTANT THAT IT CANNOT WAIT TO BE ANSWERED UNTIL YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION OR AT THE VERY LEAST FOUND SOMEWHERE TO SAFELY PULL OVER?  I have some FEELINGS about that, but they are a story for another soapbox.

Anyway, yesterday I was on my way to the library to pick up two more books when it occurred to me that I have myself a mini library right in Old Blue, without the convenience of the handy Dewey Decimal System of course.  My system of literary organization is more along the lines of a slightly disorganized pile on the backseat.  Or on the floorboards, which is sometimes an unfortunate side effect of applying the brakes a bit more forcefully than usual.  Either way, no Dewey.

Let's take a closer look.  Here are two people I bet NEVER thought they would find themselves next to each other. Yet here they are, living on my backseat/floor in peace and harmony.

 Ah, a Nicholas Sparks novel.  This particular one is "The Wedding," but let's face it, it could be any one of his books, since they all have the EXACT SAME plot and the only things that change are the title and character names.  Yet I ADORE every, single cheesy, poorly written one of them. 

I keep these bad boys for a few reasons.  One of which is just in case someone in the Wal Mart/Target/Sonic parking lot asks me about planning their will or how to file for custody.  I will then whip out these trusty books and proceed to merely DISCUSS these legal issues with them, but most certainly not ADVISE them because successful completion of paralegal classes does not a lawyer make.

Also, these books are very big and heavy and I prefer to leave them in my car as opposed to carrying them back and forth into the house.  That may sound lazy, but I prefer the terms clever and strategic.

And finally we have several sophisticated periodicals containing only the hardest hitting of news.

As I was driving yesterday, I began to think what an unlikely literary collection this was.  And then, because I have a slight surplus of time on my hands, I pictured various authors/subjects having lunch together.

My three favorite scenarios were as follows:

1- Kate Middleton, Prince William, and the author of my estates and trusts textbook.  Oh, what I wouldn't do to be a fly on that proverbial palace wall.  Or a beneficiary on that will.  Whichever.

2- President Bush, Tina Fey, and Nicholas Sparks.  I think Tina would be hilarious and Mr. Bush would be a good sport, and Nicholas would try to be polite and occasionally come out with a line so disgustingly sweet that you literally cringe.

3- Tina, Carrie, Kate, and J-Lo.  And me.  That would just be fun, and I’d think I’d probably get at least one big break at such an outing.  I’d get to showcase my singing talent for Carrie and J-Lo and most likely land myself a record deal.  Or Tina would choose me for her comedic sidekick.  Or perhaps Kate would take me back to London to become an honorary sister because we all know that what the royal family really needs is a princess from Pennsylvania.

And on that note, Happy Friday!

if only i really did have such valuable advice

Seems as though I blinked and this whole weekend was over.  I hate it when that happens.

The weekend started on the right foot Friday night with an evening o’ fun.  Meaning that by about 8:00 I was in my pajamas and reading Bossypants.  Tina Fey, you are hilarious.

Then I spent a solid hour making up a ridiculous story and seeing how much I could get Emily to believe.  She and my mom were going to New York on Saturday, and as I hugged her goodnight I told her I had one piece of advice for her to remember the next day in the city.  I even wrote it down for her on a piece of notebook paper so she could tuck it in her purse and bring it along with her to the Big Apple.

 Total nonsense. 

Even though Emily’s common sense told her that my little adage meant absolutely nothing, I could tell that there was a tiny part of her that thought just maybe there was a deep, hidden meaning.

So Emily contemplated the advice while lying on my bed with my computer and researching MIT.  Meanwhile, I sat at my desk and took pictures of myself trying to pose like Tina Fey on the cover of Bossypants, because OH, that picture makes me LAUGH.  Also, I felt like I needed to counteract a little bit of the maturity and sophistication that came along with all the MIT research.

Finally Emily announced that she thought she had uncovered the meaning.  She said, quite confidently “Don’t EVER let anyone else wash your back for you.”

Given the fact that this sentence was complete nonsense, I have to say that wasn’t a bad conclusion.  And truthfully, it probably is advice that everyone should put into practice during their time in New York City.  And, really, life in general.

Saturday afternoon I got the following next from Emily, “I still have no idea what that advice means.  And mom says you have too much time on your hands.”

I can’t really argue with that.

Sunday was of course, Father’s Day.  For dinner, we made my dad the traditional Father’s Day meal of grilled pork and mango skewers with Vietnamese dipping sauce.  ‘Twas delicious.  I was responsible for the rice, green beans, and the dipping sauce, which was a key component of the meal.  Luckily, the whole family enjoyed it and we are all still alive today, so SUCCESS!

And as the icing on the cake, or the Vietnamese dipping sauce on the pork, as the case may be, we took a picture in my favorite popping pose.

Happy Father’s Day, indeed.