two of my favorite people

There are so many things about this picture that make me happy.

 

while on hiatus i lost the ability to develop a narrative structure

So, I was away for a training for work for the majority of last week.  I left Monday and came home on Thursday and I'll be honest - I was quite confident that I would have more than enough time to compose several witty blog posts while I was away.  After all, the training ended at 4:00 each afternoon, which left me with a solid seven hours of time to fill before bedtime.  

And then I started reading a new book and became engrossed in it.  Also, another paralegal from my office was staying at the same hotel, and every night at 8:30 we went down to the lobby for complimentary milk and cookies to talk about all sorts of things and most importantly, strategize about how to bring back animal print apparel back to the office in an understated, professional way.  I'm lookin' at you, zebra print high heels.

 And finally when it was time for bed each night, I would turn on the tv and become overwhelmed because HELLO, SEVERAL HUNDRED CHANNELS.  I could have watched anything.  News shows.  Sport shows.  Sitcoms or soap operas or continuous weather coverage.  I had the television world at my fingertips and I should probably be ashamed to admit what I chose to watch before bed every night.

Infomercials.

Listen, they are addicting.  One minute you're thinking, "Oh wow, that Ninja Kitchen System 1100 sure would revolutionize my culinary blending," and the next minute you are LITERALLY HIDING YOUR DEBIT CARD IN YOUR SNEAKER to keep yourself from ordering a Miyashi pillow, which, by the way, is quite possibly the answer to all of the world's problems.  I'm convinced that people worldwide would be a heck of a lot happier if everyone just had a Miyashi pillow.  Not to mention sore backs, necks, and feet would be things of the past!  Perhaps I should suggest to the current presidential administration that they next time they have hundreds of billions of dollars to throw around, they should think about going the As Seen on TV route.  MIYASHI PILLOWS FOR EVERYONE!! 

 While the content of the training last week was nothing to write home about, the food would have warranted several lengthy postcards home, with maybe even a telegram and some sort of message delivered via carrier pigeon.  Seriously.  It was that good.  I ate tortellini and stuffed green bell peppers and paninis and tomato and gorgonzola soup and taco salad and stuffed shells and grilled sandwiches and thirteen of the best cookies I have ever met.

And that was just on Tuesday.

When I got back home later in the week I settled right back into my routine, meaning that on Friday afternoon I tried to convince Emily that people in England pronounce sandwich "sond-wick."  I knew things were bad on Sunday morning when I found myself performing a soprano version of My Country Tis of Thee for her.  It was time to GET THEE TO TARGET. 

On Sunday evening my dad was invited to the VIP MEMBERS ONLY EVENT at Cabela's, WORLD'S FOREMOST OUTFITTER, and invited us along as his guests.  Before we arrived we were joking that maybe there would be a red carpet at the entrance for all of the VIPs. 

AND LOOK.

 

I can say without a doubt that I never in a million years dreamed that I would walk into a store full of bullets and fishing poles and camouflage apparel on a red carpet.  However, it delighted me.

There is nothing worse than being hungry on the red carpet, so we stopped at Cracker Barrel on our way to Cabela's.  I ordered corn, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, french fries, and hush puppies because I believe in carbohydrates.  The main course was half a pound of fried shrimp.

We were all talking and laughing as we ate, and when I was about a quarter of a pound into my shrimp, my dad looked at me and joked (because everyone know you don't eat the tails of shrimp) "Hey Laur, not eating those tails are you?"

Yes.  Yes I was.

I guess I just figured that if it was fried, you were supposed to eat it.  It turns out that you're really not.  Whoops.  Although this experience is just further evidence that everything tastes delicious fried.

Luckily the consumption of countless shrimp tails did not kill me, which is a relief because I would have hated to get to the pearly gates before I had the opportunity to walk into an outdoors superstore on a red carpet.

  

Or buy a Miyashi pillow.

one of those stories that's only funny several years later

One of my favorite things about my new Kindle is the ability to browse through countless genres and writers and topics.  I've already discovered several authors who I think will become long time favorites.   This afternoon I was reading a book by an author I've never read before, and he wrote a story about receiving an invitation in the mail for a fishing club.  As it turns out his experience in the world of fishing was limited to a few summers on the lake as a young boy, which didn't exactly qualify him as a prime candidate for an angler's club.  However, those experiences did provide him with enough material for a few funny stories.

Which of course made me think of my own fishing stories.

You may be thinking, OH LAURA DARLING, I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE A FISHERWOMAN. 

That would be because I'm not.

However, for nearly every summer of my entire life, my family has packed up the car and driven to the mountains of western Maryland to spend two weeks at a cabin on the lake.  And over the course of all those vacations, a lot of fishing has gone on. 

This particular story took place when I was about twelve years old, which means Emily was five and Phil was thirteen.  We had arrived at the lake earlier that day, and after dinner my parents, Emily, and Phil went down to the water.  For some reason I did not accompany the rest of my family down to the lake.  Probably because I had to put on some Bonne Bell lip gloss.  I was a big Bonne Bell fan at that point in my life.

Let's be honest.  I still am.

Anyway, my parents and siblings brought a fishing pole down to the lake with them, and the plan was to do a little after dinner fishing.  My dad rigged up the pole and put a worm on the hook at the bottom. 

At the time, Emily was a very inexperienced angler, as most five year olds are.  But Phil gave the fishing pole to Emily and showed her the basics of casting.

And then it was time.

First cast of the vacation.

HUGE. MOMENT.

My parents and Phil stood on the dock while Emily enthusiastically brought that fishing pole behind her head in preparation for one giant cast, hoping against hope to catch something. 

Well, she caught something alright.

MY BROTHER.

Or, more specifically, his eyelid.

The good news was that my dad sprang into action and immediately cut the fishing line to free Phil from being anchored to a five foot graphite pole. I  heard yelling and crying coming from the direction of the lake, and after I put down my lip gloss, I looked out the window to see my mom running up the lawn with her arms around my panicked brother, who had a hook through his eyelid and a slimy worm dangling on his cheek.  My dad followed close behind with a hysterical Emily.

The next few moments were a bit of a blur, but it turns out that the while Phil was running up from the lake, the hook was jostled out of his eye.  Thankfully the worm was history too.  My parents decided that the best bet was to take him to the hospital, because, you know, he had just had a DIRTY FISHING HOOK in his eyelid.

And they wanted to avoid any situations of, HELLO TETANUS, SO GLAD YOU COULD ACCOMPANY US ON VACATION.

The three of them jumped into the car and drove to the nearest hospital, which was forty minutes and two stoplights away.  The fact that one can drive for FORTY MINUTES and only meet two measly stoplights boggles my suburban mind. 

Meanwhile, Emily and I watched Nick at Nite and I'd like to take this opportunity to give Bill Cosby a shout out.  It takes a very funny person to be able to make someone laugh when their brother is in the emergency room because she went fishing and CAUGHT HIM.

After a check up and a tetanus shot, Phil was fine.  He lived to fish another day. 

And I think it's safe to say that Emily will never be invited to join a fishing club.

fall

a president and a snowfall

After we ate dinner tonight, I found myself with a lot of time on my hands.  In an effort to use that time wisely I went into Emily's room and proceeded to try to convince her that George W. Bush's middle name is actually "Dubya."  

I presented a lengthy explanation about Dubya being an old family name of English origin, and tradition was that it was never used as a first name.  Only a middle name.  My persuasive skills were in high gear and I was actually making progress until I told her that the original Dubya was Laura Bush's great great grandfather.  That would have made perfect sense if Laura's parents actually had anything to do with the naming of George Dubya.  Which, since they didn't even know of his existence until decades later, they did not.  Looking back I should have thought that through more thoroughly.

After Emily rained on my Dubya parade, she told me I needed to go do something more productive with my time like WRITE A BLOG POST ALREADY.  Because I love to add dramatic flair to any situation, I told her that I needed a five word phrase of encouragement and/or inspiration before I could continue on my way.

"Five words?" she asked.  "Does it have to be a famous quote, or can I make it up?"

I told her that there were no rules other than that it had to be brimming with inspiration and five words long.

She thought about it for half a second and then said, "Get. Out. Of. My Room."

She is hilarious.

And so here I am thinking about what I could write about that would be marginally more interesting than my dentist appointment last night (cavity free! no tartar!) or the fact that I am on a quest for new shampoo.*

I suppose I could take a trip down memory lane all the way back to Saturday, when we had our first WINTER WEATHER EVENT of the season.

 

We got a few inches of snow and sleet and somewhere along the way, the weekend was dubbed "SNOWTOBER."   I did not like that one bit.  In most instances I am all about the clever nickname.  For example, at the Catholic university where I got my paralegal certificate, the coffee shop was called "Holy Grounds."  I laughed every time I walked by.  And I will never find a lipstick name I like as much as "Mauvelous."  But snowtober? Not really a fan.   I am left to wonder what will happen if the region experiences a heat wave in the winter.  Will we call it "warmarch?"  To me that sounds more like something a soldier would do before heading into battle than some eighty degree temperatures in the early spring, but you never know.

This whole snowtober thing is a slippery slope.

Literally.

Happy Friday!

*I really am looking for new shampoo, and am open to suggestions.  Preferably something without many chemicals because MY HAIR!  IT IS SO SENSITIVE!  I would also like to spend less than $8.00 a bottle because I have very important things to buy with the rest of my money.  Like nail polish.  And tater tots.

something is not right about this

I think Mother Nature's timing is a little bit off.

in our defense, dinner was delicious

I did a lot of growing up this weekend.

On Saturday I went shopping with my mom and Emily.  Our first stop was to look at kitchen tables.  I know.  ONLY GROWN UPS SHOP FOR KITCHEN TABLES.

After that, we hit the mall so I could get some more business suits for work.  I picked out several suits that I liked and went into the dressing room to try them .  The first one fit me perfectly, but it was so shiny that it looked like I was either wrapped in tinfoil or masquerading as a giant bicycle reflector and that's really not the look I was going for.  Although it would be the perfect suit for a hip hop star's agent, so if I hear that Chamillionaire has an opening on his staff, I'll be back to buy that shiny suit in a heartbeat.

Emily sat on the bench and listened to her ipod while giving me the thumbs up or thumbs down on each suit I tried on.  She said very little, but when she did speak, she did so EXTREMELY LOUDLY in order to hear herself over the headphones, a tendency that was particularly charming when I tried on a pair of pants that may have been one or five sizes too small and she loudly exclaimed "OH WOW! CAN YOU EVEN ZIP THEM?' 

I think shoppers in housewares heard her and her honesty.

Finally I settled on two suits and three tops, and at the checkout I applied for a Macy's card.  ONCE AGAIN-how grown up of me.  And then, as if that weren't enough, we stopped by the Verizon store on our way out, and I was once and for all booted off the family plan.

After our shopping excursion Emily and I went to a place very near and dear to my heart. 

Sonic.

Since I've started my new job, I haven't been to Sonic once.  Truth be told, I am actually surprised that they have managed to stay in business without my loyal patronage.  I would be lying if I said I didn't think about Sonic daily, and I'm happy to report that this weekend I was finally reunited with my beloved peach sweet tea.

It was just the girls for dinner Saturday night, so after our stop at Happy Hour my mom sent Emily and I to the food store with twenty five dollars and instructions to come home with something tasty yet healthy for dinner.

We returned half an hour later with a classy, mature dinner.

A family pack of fried chicken and a bag of grapes.

Perhaps I do still have some growing up to do.

two steps forward, one step back

As a general rule, I'm not a fan of road names that are solely numbers, or that feature a letter indicating a cardinal direction.  

Main Street?  I can handle that.  

Cherry Lane?  Bring it on.  

676E?  No thanks, I'll stay home.

I have a rocky and longstanding relationship with highways.  What happens is that I tend to panic in areas with several exits and SO MANY signs.  I never seem to have enough time to find the sign I want, and then I end up doubting my gut instinct, and just get on to the nearest exit ramp as quickly as I can.  Which is usually a poor decision.

That exact scenario is how I learned that there is a lovely little town called Grantville in the middle of Pennsylvania.  I accidentally discovered it when I was en route from Penn State to Philadelphia.  I was coming home for a job interview senior year, and it was the first time I'd done the drive by myself.  My dad emailed me a set of incredibly detailed instructions, and after step #9 he wrote, "Okay, if you're made it this far, you can't go wrong now! The rest is easy!"

Well, guess who went wrong at step #10, and ended up in tears on the phone with her father while sitting in the parking lot at the Grantville rest stop.

 

This afternoon I had an obligation in the city for my new job.  As it turns out, that's not really the kind of situation where you can say, "Well, boss, I have bad luck with highways and following directions, so THANKS BUT NO THANKS."  It meant I had to grow up and drive from the suburbs to the city.  I looked over the directions a few nights ago and didn't think they sounded that complicated, and told myself that if I missed my exit, I could always just turn around!  Easy solution!  I showed the directions to my dad and, just for some reassurance, said, "I mean, what's the worst that could happen if I miss my exit?"  

"YOU WILL GO TO NEW JERSEY!"

Hmm.  Note to self.  Don't miss the exit.

So today was the big travel day, and I did it.  Without any problems at all.  I was pretty proud of myself.

After I parked I walked down the street and found the fancy office building.  The lobby was HUGE and after I signed in and went through security, I walked up to a hallway FULL of elevators.  There were at least eight of them.  I saw one elevator that had the doors open and a few people waiting inside.  Perfect timing.  I marched right on over and hopped in, and the man standing in front of the buttons asked me, "What floor?"  

"Five please," I told him.

He sort of looked at me expressionless, so I repeated myself.

"Five.  Please."

And then he said, "Uhh, you know not every elevator goes to every floor right?  The ones that go to five are down there on the end."

Obviously I did not know that, because if I did I would not have boarded a (full) elevator bound for floors 11-15.  I walked out of the elevator and down to the end of the row, where I saw the sign
<-- ELEVATORS FOR FLOORS 1-5 -->.

I have another meeting in the city on Thursday.  

I'm not worried about the drive at all.

But I can assure you that once I arrive, I will be taking the stairs.

unfortunately, i really have missed the autumnal equinox

It was very dark outside when I woke up this morning.  So dark, in fact, that I was initially concerned I had missed some sort of Daylight Savings time related clock changing.  I laid in bed for a few minutes thinking about what a tragic situation that would have been, because it would have also meant that I lost the chance to throw my annual End of Daylight Savings Time Gala.  The gala is always great fun and a true autumn highlight each year.  Everyone wears their finest dresses and brings their clocks and we all ceremoniously change the time together, and then feast on the traditional Daylight Savings Time foods like fried chicken and cheesecake.

Or maybe I was just delaying getting out of bed and thus created this imaginary gala.  

Although it does sound like fun.

Eventually I made my way out from under the warm covers because, you know, carpe diem.  And also, I have a job.  The next half hour went smoothly, but things took a nosedive to the south when I went down to the kitchen to pour my coffee, and remembered that I used up the last few drops of my coffee creamer yesterday.

CODE. RED.

I'm going to be honest here for just a moment.  The only reason I drink coffee is because I love creamer.  There.  I said it.  In my mind, coffee is merely the means to a delicious, high calorie end.  The creamer is where it's at.  Sometimes I pour so much in, that it actually makes my mug of coffee cold.  

Hmm.  Writing that out makes it sound less than appetizing, but believe you me, there is nothing like starting the day with a mug of white chocolate caramel mocha creamer and a teaspoon or two of Folgers.

I thought about stopping on my way to work for coffee, but that is something that I NEVER do simply because I have perfected the art of getting up, showering, getting dressed, doing my hair and makeup, and packing my purse and lunch in exactly 37 minutes flat.  It took months to perfect that routine, and adding another task is like PLAYING WITH FIRE.

But, as the saying goes, desperate times call for Dunkin' Donuts, which is where I found myself five minutes later ordering a large, hot, pumpkin spice latte with whipped cream and caramel.  

Basically, I had dessert at 7 am.

After work I had an appointment to get my hair cut, which meant I spent the last several days performing my semi-annual ritual of deciding whether or not I should do something drastic to my hair and if I should get bangs or not.  Of course, there is always the option of the fabang.

In the end I got a simple trim because I stopped for coffee on the way to work and HOW MANY RISKS SHOULD ONE GIRL TAKE IN A DAY?  I also got a teeny, tiny section of my hair cut into very long side bangs, so I have the option of  either styling them as bangs, or blending them right in with the rest of my hair.

Part time bangs.  The solution to years of follicular discontent.

And the best part is now that I don't have to think about my hair anymore, I can focus my full attention on planning the Annual End of Daylight Savings Time Gala.

Just let me know if you want an invitation.

come to think of it, i could easily eat two gallons of sonic tots

Well.  

I just turned on the news, and one of the top stories is about a chili eating contest that took place this past weekend.  The contestant who consumed TWO GALLONS of chili in just six minutes was declared the winner.  Although I think in this case "winner" is a relative term because, yuck. 

A chili eating story as the headliner means is a sure sign it was a slow weekend around here.  Speaking of the weekend, on Friday night Emily, my mom and I ate dinner with my grandmother.  We dined on pizza, mozerella sticks, and chicken fingers, because sometimes you just need a light, healthy dinner.  

Now that I think about it, perhaps people in glass food houses shouldn't throw french fries.  My apologies to you, Mr. Champion Chili Eater.

I spent most of Saturday babysitting, and then Matt and I ate dinner at the Longhorn Steakhouse.  We have been dating for three years, and I have NEVER ONCE ordered steak when we've gone out.  Not once.  It's not that I don't like steak.  I do.  When my dad cooks it.  But when I'm at a restaurant, I prefer to go with what I know, and I know poultry. 

This is something that boggles Matt's mind, especially when the restaurant happens to be a steakhouse.  If I had a dollar for every time he exclaimed, "WE GO TO A STEAKHOUSE, AND YOU ORDER CHICKEN?" I'd be one rich lady.

Saturday night was no different.  Matt ordered some sort of fancy wild west sirloin steak, and I played it safe with the always delicious chicken and mushrooms.  We both gave our respective dinners two thumbs up.  I know sometimes restaurant chains get bad raps, but how many other places offer a dining experience directly underneath giant, fake, livestock suspended precariously from the ceiling?  Not many, my friends.  Not many. 

In addition to the agricultural paraphenalia, our waitress said, "y'all" which caused me to spend a better part of the evening pondering if she was just wholeheartedly embracing the Texas theme, or if "y'all" is a part of her everyday vocabulary.  The latter would be unusual, because unfortunately people suburban Philadelphia don't say y'all too frequently.  I occasionally try to throw it in during casual conversation, but without fail Emily says, 'DID YOU JUST SAY Y'ALL?" so the transition has been less than seamless.

Several years ago, my mom and I were in Barnes and Noble, and the man at the cash register had the most authentic sounding British accent.  As we were leaving the store I said to my mom (remember...this was SEVERAL YEARS AGO), "So, do you think he's really British, or was the accent just for fun?"

After composing her thoughts for a few seconds she looked at me and said, "Laura, most adults don't just speak in foreign accents "for fun."

And that's the day I retired my Scottish accent.

I'll admit that Sunday was less than exciting around here.  I switched my clothes from summer to winter.  It took several hours, but at the end my closet was once again organized by color and length, and my cozy sweaters and warm boots had taken the place of shirts and flip flops.  

And then today it was 82 degrees.

After all that work, it's a bummer it wasn't CHILI!

Y'all.

my worst nightmare

 

I think this clock would cause me to be late for everything.

time to reTIRE

Last weekend, I made the biggest online purchase of my life thus far.  The number in the subtotal column was equivalent to several days of work, and when I clicked the submit button I crossed my fingers hoping my debit card wouldn't blow up because WHOA BOY, the purchase price was unprecedented.  A few days later I arrived home from work to see that my order had finally arrived.

Here is where I wish I could tell you that what was delivered to my doorstep was a diamond encrusted tiara a la Kate Middleton, or perhaps a designed purse made out of snakeskin.  If there's one thing in this world I love, it's a purse made out of faux reptile skin.  Classy.   

Sadly, what actually arrived what this...

With the combination of a much longer commute and the approaching winter season, Old Blue needed some new tires.  So I bit the bullet and bought these, since I would hate to face a snow covered commute with anything less than SUPERB TRACTION AND CORNERING STABILITY.  

Even though I'm not one hundred percent clear on what cornering stability is.  I just know I want it.

The tires are being installed tomorrow, so on Tuesday you better believe I will be burning (brand new, expensive) rubber.  Speaking of cars and long commutes, I have started listening to the traffic report each morning and evening.  I feel like that is a requirement for driving on the highway at rush hour.  Sometimes I sit at red lights and look at the business people in the cars all around me with serious expressions on their faces and blackberries attached to their ears.  And it is that moment I know for certain that I am the only person in the line of traffic listening to Flo Rida.

So, in the interest of appearing just as serious as my fellow commuters, I turn on the AM news station for "Traffic and Transit, on the Twos" to check in on the status of my homeward route.  But here's the thing.  I only know one way home, which means that if that was is backed up, and the friendly traffic reporter suggests taking an alternate route, I wouldn't be able to.  I have a habit of getting lost, and it certainly doesn't help that the roads here are called 76, 276, 476, and 676.  

APPARENTLY SOMEONE FORGOT TO BRING THEIR ORIGINALITY TO WORK ON HIGHWAY NAMING DAY.

The bottom line is that it's rush hour in the suburbs of a large city, so it pretty much looks like this every day.

 

I can't complain too much though, because I have some sweet new wheels on which to commute.  And of course, Flo Rida on the radio doesn't hurt either.

all this to say, things are status quo

Well hello.  I am back.  Finally.  It seems like the longer I go without writing something, the weaker the muscles in the writing department of my brain get.  It's sort of like exercising.  If I go a few days or weeks without a good workout, my muscles get weaker and weaker.

Clearly I am JUST KIDDING because I do not exercise.  Although I imagine that if I did, that principle would hold true.

The truth is that I have planned several times to write a post for the ol' blog but then I suffer from what I like to call DISTRACTIONS.  For example, last night I sat down with the best intentions of composing a few paragraphs, but instead ended up buying a set of tires for my car and then reading every last detail of DMX's lengthy criminal history.  If you're wondering how tires and felonious rappers are related, you're not alone.  I don't know how I went from one to the other, but what I do know is that perhaps DMX should familiarize himself with what constitutes a weapons violation, because it would appear from his rap sheet that he cannot remember.  

Haha.  Rap sheet.  See what I did there?

Anyway, the reason I've been so quiet is because September was a big month for me.  When it started, I was still in school, working at my old admin job, and living at home with no realistic plans to move out anywhere on the horizon or even in the solar system.  And now here I am on the other side of September, and in the past thirty days I finished my classes, interviewed for and was offered a new job, left my old job, started working as a paralegal, graduated from school, and started planning to move out on my own.

And I still managed to find time to get a speeding ticket!!

My new job required me to go on a trip for a few days last week, and I got a hotel room all to myself.  It's just ashame that it wasn't big enough.

 

Kidding, kidding.  The room was enormous.  I could have run laps back and forth from the door to the window if I were someone who enjoyed exercising.

 

And on Thursday night I graduated.  'Twas a lovely evening and it sure is a good feeling to know that I am finished with school!  Forever!  

Although, I will always be a student of life.

And a fan of cheesy quotes.

The other weekend my friend and I did some apartment hunting.  When I got home and broke the news to Emily that her fantastic older sister is really, truly going to be moving out, great sadness abounded.  Oh, there was devastation.  There may have even been some tears.

And then Emily told me to pull myself together and start clearing out my room because OH, SHE HAS SOME GRAND DECORATING PLANS.

Actually, she was very sad to hear the news.  I may have encouraged the sadness by quietly singing Trace Adkins' "You're Gonna Miss This" every time I saw her.  Although I did try to console her by telling her it will be a lot like when I went away to college.  She said, and I quote, "Yeah, but when you were at school I always knew you would be coming back home.  And plus, I didn't really like you as much then."

It was a precious moment.

On Sunday morning Emily was still in bed, and I pulled the old "knock and enter" on her door, and went in and loudly announced that it was time for Laura's First Weekly Performance of Singing Pop Songs, Opera Style.

I'm thinking my moving out may not be looking so bad to Emily anymore.