Wii for dogs.

I hope you all appreciate this post, possibly my last, because the second Corey finds out I purposely let Oliver on the new rug (which is a big no-no) he will slaughter me.  Maybe even through the phone.


But it is a story that must be told.  And I am hoping one of the four followers of this blog is the random stranger that happened to see me and the following antics through the window.  He or she desperately needs an explanation if only to know that I am not completely crazy.


Here's the story:

I got a Wii and the Wii Fit Plus for Christmas.  I screamed.  Really, ask my mom.

And finally, I was able to set it up Tuesday night.  I put the sensor bar on the TV, plugged in the cords, re-plugged the cords and synched the Wii Fit board...

(this thing)

...and powered up the game.  It weighed me, calculated my body mass index, and figured out my center of balance.  Then it started talking to my dog.

"Excuse me, you want to do what to my dog?"

"Have Guest F (me) help you (Oliver) onto the board.  His/Her weight will be subtracted from your total."

"Hold up.  You want to weigh my dog?OK."

This is what I was trying to do.

But I am not a man, nor am I strong.  And Oliver is not a willing participant.

So, this is what we looked like.

First, I try to get him to sit on the board, but he wanted to lay across it.

Then I try to get him to stand on the board:

"First foot on, second foot on, now the back ones, oh crap, the first two are off..."

"I cannot find you.  Please step off the board and press A."

"Dangit."

Next I wrap my arms around his belly and hoist him up on his two back feet.  He is as tall as I am.  And 70 pounds.  Did I forget to mention that?

We walk onto the board.

"One foot off.  Dangit.  Lemme grab that back foo...."

"I cannot find you. Please step off the board and press A."



I press A, board resets, I regain my grip and drag Oliver back on.

"All feet on, looks goo..."

"I cannot find you. Please step off the board and press A."

"Dangit."


Press A.  All feet on...

"I cannot find you. Please step off the board and press A."



"SERIOUSLY?!  We are both here, on this board, ready to be WEIGHED."

"I cannot find you. Please step off the board and press A."


"Can't I just tell you how much he weighs?!  Because I already know!!  And what are you going to do with his measurements?!  Track his weight loss?"

"I cannot find you. Please step off the board and press A."



(sigh)


I end up standing on the board by myself to get the thing to shut up about the dang A button.  Oliver is then told he weighs negative pounds.  Score for me.  Unfortunately, he won't be able to set and follow his own fitness goals.

He's over it.

And I'm sure Corey's over the whole rug thing...hehe...right Cor?

How many brunettes does it take...

Funny things happen when you put three girls in a room with a deflated air mattress.

(You may think you know where this is going, but you really have nooooo idea.)

For as long as I can remember, me and my sisters would climb into the same bed on Christmas Eve and giggle about Santa, about the presents we hoped were under the tree, about how we couldn't fall asleep, and about Kimberlie, who couldn't stop farting, until we finally passed out.

Eventually, we outgrew twin sized beds, but never outgrew the tradition.

Until I had to go and get married.

See, Corey had this strange idea that as a married couple we should start our own traditions.  "Pppsssshhh,"  I said.....or spit, actually.  But he was right, and Katie, Kimberlie and I, again, modified our tradition.  We would hold our annual Christmas Eve sleepover on Christmas Eve Eve.

This is actually where the air mattress story begins.  I just felt the need to give you way more background material than you probably wanted.  That's just what I do.

So here we are.  The three of us.  Ready to sleep, a deflated air mattress in front of us.  I should mention this air mattress requires many, many batteries to inflate (which we did not have).  Oh, or a car charger. 

Where does ass-uming get you, L.L. Bean?

Anyway, as I am ready to give up on the mattress and claim a couch, one of the two sisters (can't remember which one, they both kinda run together) has the bright idea to inflate the dang thing using a car charger.  As in a car charger in a car.  Outside.

So, we suit up and go.

...plug the thing in there.

And then that thing plugs in there.

Oops.  Wrong thing.

My feet.

Ahhh, yes.  The mattress.  Focus.

Now, to get it inside.  Snow free.

...and up the stairs.

Ahhhhhhh, success.

In short (see what I did there?  This story was in no way short...that's what makes it funny), we survived.  So did the tradition.  And the air mattress.

'Tis the season...

...for stomach aches.

You know you did exactly what I did the past three days: stuffed every goodie within reach down your cram-hole until your innie turned outie.

So don't tell me you're not still full from Christmas ham, beef, or turducken because I won't believe you.

...for unpacking toys.

The toys you got for Christmas.

Because you're at that age where you don't care what your friends, family, neighbors, co-workers think of your obsession with remote controlled cars and video games.

...for zero workplace motivation.

No one is working anywhere this week, so there is really no reason you or I should be.

...for seasonal depression.

No more Christmas carols, no more Christmas lights, no more family gatherings, no more presents. 

What does that leave us?  Snow.  And cold.  Bitter cold.  Then more snow.  Then slush and mud.  Followed by rain.

...for counting down to Saratoga track season.

Oh to see those stately thoroughbreds crossing Union Avenue, holding up traffic, and leaving golden surprises in their wake.

By "golden surprises" I really mean poop.  They poop in the street.

...for New Year's Resolutions.

You know, the goals you set for yourself that you can't seem to keep past noon on the second day of the year.

...for swearing to shop earlier for Christmas presents next year, to not wait until Christmas eve to wrap said presents, and to save ambitious baking projects for, let's say, a Tuesday afternoon.

Enjoy this post-Christmas season and have a Happy New Year!!

The time is near

Um, I wish someone had told me Christmas is Friday.

As in three days from now.

I mean, I knew, but I didn't know. 

You know?

I think I just needed someone to say, "You know all that stuff you got wadded up in all those bags upstairs?   Yeah, it needs to be under the tree next week."

And then I wish that same someone had said, "Oh, and you have to wrap it.  Nicely."

Because now I'm stuck between a rock and a booger.

Do I put all my purchases in grocery sacks to save time for the production of hundreds of sprinkly cookies?  Or do I make enemies out of neighbors and coworkers expecting holiday treats so I can spend hours wrapping gifts in fancy paper that will be in the garbage by Friday morning?

Problem solved.



To my family and friends: If I give you a bag that says Hannaford Supermarket on it, that doesn't necessarily mean there are groceries in it.  Just so you know.

Something you should know

Here's my dad:

People say we look alike.  And that's cool, he's pretty handsome. 

I say "pretty" because he's my dad, and anything more than moderate is gross.

But then there's these days:

When I do not claim his as mine.

That was Halloween.  Pret-ty convincing.

Don't worry Ma, you'll have your day on the blog very soon.

I won something.

Out of 30,000 people I won something.  Me.  The unluckiest person in the world.

The person who manages to do thousands of dollars of damage to her car while it is sitting in the driveway.

The person who always steps in gum and sits in chocolate.

The person who has never won a single dollar in any gambling venture.  Ever.

But this time I won.

Did I mention I won something?

My prize:

Kitchenaid 90th Anniversary Limited-Edition 5-Quart Stand Mixer

Isn't she beautiful?  I'm not quite sure what these things are for, but how can you not love a sturdy piece of kitchenware?  And it's red to boot.

Now if we could just get some salt and pepper shakers...

Devestation

Corey has come down with a serious ailment.

One that has left him practically incapacitated.

He is unable to concentrate on his work.

And barely able to eat.

His world has now come to an end.

Corey has red itchy bumps on his face.

Today, I lumber.

I lumber because...

I am tired.

I am cold.

I did not get home until 9:30 last night.

I will not get home until 9:30 tonight.

I will not get home until 9:30 tomorrow night.

I have 45 items to mail by tomorrow.

I ate a McGreasy with a small McFatty and two McSugar pies for dinner yesterday.

But mostly, I lumber because I'm still wearing my snow boots with the laces untied.

Safety Hazzard

Folks, when putting up exterior illumination of any kind please take into consideration sightlines to and from any major highways.

A single glowing snowman will pose no major threat to motorists.

A single glowing snowman that bends, twists, or moves will leave motorists driving 70mph watching and wondering...

"What could he possibly do next?!"

"Is he going to bend?"

"Is he going to twist?"

"Is he going to do a roundoff backhandspring, back tuck combo?!"

The next thing you know their knees are pushed up to their eyeballs, along with the front bumper.

Another example:

A single strand of lights will pose no major threat.

A single strand of lights connected to another strand, connected to another strand, connected to another strand, wrapped around every protruding object in your yard, AND twinkling most definitely will send a car or two into a snowy ditch. 

See, you may or may not be aware that most people, like moths and other stupid bugs, are drawn to bright, shiny objects.  We must look at every single tree, shrub, child, and grazing deer covered in lights.  Call it an instinctual flaw.

And at 65mph (because we all really do drive the speed limit, Officer Jason Winters) during rush hour traffic you can see how  7 seconds of perusing might have some serious consequences.

Do you really want that on your conscience?

You know who you are, gloriously bright house off of exit 15 on I-87.  Yeah, you, right off the curve where that big blue lodging sign is...

Wanna see sumthin' funny?

I'm a garage sale freak (obviously), so when I plan one of my own I like to really plan.

Like this:

And then I re-plan. 

Like so:

And I take into consideration such things as traffic patterns, and possible obstacles to the flow.

Weird, right?

Mensa membership down by three

I surround myself with intelligent people.  Why?  Because us smarties gotsta stick together. 

I have a sister who constantly surprises me with her insight:

"I'm left-handed in the mirror, too!"

"I didn't know you could put wet clothes in the washer..."

and

"Pigeons can fly here (NYC)! I thought they all adapted to be like humans and walked around on the ground."

Brilliant.  But wrong.

Then there's my dad.  The same dad who says "arrears" and prays for naked people....not in that way.  He also provides me with gems like:

"Does that sign say Krispy Kreme?!....Oh, no. Western Wear."

And finally, Corey.  The man I did not marry for his mechanical abilities or knowledge of human anatomy.

Me: "Boy did I have to pee!"

Corey: "So you emptied your uterus?"

See?  Smart.

The Man, The Myth, The Legend: Santa Claus

He is the obese, probably diabetic, man who wears red velvet pajamas as he breaks into your house to eat your holiday goodies and leave gifts he knew you wanted because he watches you constantly.

Ahhhh, to be young and innocent again.

I don't remember when I stopped believing in Santa and his magical shenanigans.  It must have been a gradual process that began with me silently wondering why my parents were helping Santa do his job.  Most of my presents were from them, not Santa.  The big guy only brought me the boring stuff I needed like sweaters and underwear. 

I now realize they just wanted to take credit for the good stuff like the Nintendo and the bike and the British Knights with pink and white laces.

Corey's story is a little more tragic. 

At six years old he thought to leave Santa the last of his parents' Heinekens with the cookies.  (The intuitive child figured he probably needed to take a load off.)  When he saw the beer back in the fridge the next morning he knew his parents had pulled a fast one.

Awwwwwww....

I wouldn't feel too bad for the kid.  If a six year old could rationalize giving Santa a beer instead of the traditional glass of milk, I'm sure he was smart enough to understand his parents' logic in leading him on for so many years.

My strategy: keep the story going.  My kids will one day appreciate the harsh lesson in vulnerability.  Tough love, folks.  Tough love.

When did you stop believing?

One big hot mess

And I am not referring to an open faced turkey sandwich.

Although, that does sound good....with the stuffing and the cranberry...

Focus.

No, I'm talking about the snow.  The beautiful, white, piled high gift we received on my poorly planned day off.

There would be no stroll through the park.  Falling snow has a tendency to find that one sliver of exposed neck skin and use it relentlessly as a target.

There would be no completed Christmas projects.  The weight of the lovely fluff took out a power line feeding our entire neighborhood.  And unfortunately, computers and sewing machines still run on electricity.

There would be no thrift shop excursion for future craft materials because by then I was just grumpy.

Luckily, however, I was able to shovel thousands of pounds of this glorious miracle of the sky from my parents' driveway, ending the day sore and fatigued.

In short, I am never planning a day off before first consulting Doppler radar....

Or I'll just not wait until the last minute to get everything done.  Whatever.

Holiday Time - By Corey

Holiday time signifies various things, and things to do; cocktails and punches you only get once a year, roaring fires, trips to Mirror Lake Inn, homemade candy, cookies, gingerbread men, college bowl games, holiday parties, snow storms, Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and on and on....if you aren't participating in at least 2 of the below items, you're missing out!

As for the punches; my favorite....Southern Comfort Punch, (I can't give this recipe out, it's top secret; there is a full bottle of booze in it, but you'd never know..just ask Stacie, it kicks her butt every year!)

Eggnog, (see below) a holiday favorite.....and this I will give you, so get your pen and paper out....

Here is Corey's Eggnog recipe:

12 egg yolks, 5 cloves, whole4 cups milk, 4 cups cream, 4 cups light rum, 1+ ¾ cups sugar,2+ ½ teaspoons vanilla essence, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, ground ¾ teaspoon nutmeg, ground. As far as what to do with all these ingredients...well that's up to you!

Mirror Lake Inn - A must if you've never been (Stacie loves it here) Wonderful during the holidays, great brunch, restaurants, and any "winter activity" you can think of...

College Bowl Games - These are very exciting(the 4-5 blog followers might not agree however!) If you're interested in the "Bowl Pool" let me know!

Trans-Siberian Orchestra - You must see this! Stacie and I go each year....we love it and recommend it to all of you(all 4-5 followers!)

* Photos provided by Corey

Johnny Mathis would be sad

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Ev'rywhere you go;

(except for my house)

Take a look in the five and ten glistening once again

With candy canes and silver lanes aglow.

(unlike my house)

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Toys in ev'ry store

(and not in my house)

But the prettiest sight to see is the holly that will be

On your own front door.

(but not on the front door at my house)

Do you get the picture here, Corey?

Giants vs. Dallas vs. Stacie

This is Corey and me.  Hour 5 of a full day of Giants festivities.  And when I say a full day, I mean 14 hours.  That does include driving time because football was discussed the entire time.

What I learned from the day's events:

• 35 degrees, not including wind chill factor, is cold.
• Layers (tank top, turtle neck, fleece, fleece, jacket, hat mittens, spandex) eventually fail.
• Sausage and peppers, beef tips, and potato salad: tailgate food.
• Delicious homemade chocolate chip cookies: not tailgate food (still don't understand this).
• Can't throw a football with knitted mittens.
• Can't catch a football with knitted mittens.
• What goes in must come out...and you must stand in a 30 minute line to let it out.
• The Giants are terrible.

I'm still trying to decide my favorite part of the day:

• Vendor chased through parking lot by security.
• Corey taunting 9 year old Cowboy fan...and her dad.
• Discovering a man in the women's bathroom.

Hmmm....

Overall, it was an excellent morning/afternoon/evening/night, and I discovered a newly formed appreciation for 70 degrees.

The First Man in my Life

My daddy.  And that's what I call him, daddy. 

We had our favorite songs, breakfast dates, and inside jokes.  He fixed owies and boo-boos and held me in his arms while I cried.  We had the kind of bond only a father and daughter can enjoy.

And yet he managed to just give me away like a sack of moldy potatoes.

Not one single tear.

In-credible.

In fact, I think I noticed a dreamy, far away gaze as we walked down the aisle.  Picking out the new wall color for my old room, daddy?  Mentally planning your man cave?

Really...so soon?

Ok, so I was kind of a drain on your resources for the past 27 years, but you know what, hot shot?  You ain't so perfect either:

You are bald.  You have no hair on your head.

And your car is old.

You say things like "the rears" instead of "arrears," and "disingenuous" when I really don't think you know what it means.  Let's not forget your prayer to "feed the naked."

When you played Barbies with us you used your regular voice and not your Ken voice.

You made math homework harder than it already was.

You let us think you liked getting ties and socks three times a year.  Every year.

Maggie.  Need I say more?  (Yes, I do.  Maggie is the loud, conniving, crabby bassett hound my dad convinced us would be perfect for our family)

Give me a day to load a certain video onto Youtube and the world (aka my four loyal followers) can witness your singing abilities.

You think you gave me away?  I was already gone...the Ken voice was the deal breaker.

PS. Are we still on for racquetball next Wednesday?

A Husband's Effort

He meant well.  I know he did.  Which is why I could only laugh when I pulled out the lunch Corey packed for me yesterday.

A slice of pumpkin bread, an apple, and cheesy crackers.

"hmmmm....."

Although delicious and almost nutritious, it wasn't quite enough to last me through the day, let alone through my after work cardio kickboxing torture.

"...is this it??"

In his defense, there were fantasy football stats that needed to be addressed and a dog to harass.  And this had to be done early, because the later part of the morning would be dedicated to looking out the window and watching for our furniture to be delivered.

"uh, hi, I'd like my usual turkey wrap to go, please...."

He also only had two nights of leftovers to work with. 

"...and potato salad on the side."

To be honest, I never actually said I needed a "main course."  I guess I just assumed he was familiar with lunch protocol.  You know what assuming does...

"Can you throw in a chocolate chip cookie?"

So, thank you, Corey, for the sincere effort, and I will try not to be so ambiguous about my lunch expectations in the future.

A Critical Error

A warning to all of you who own and operate the Blackberry Pearl:

Double check your outgoing text and email messages.  They may not contain what you intended.

Each button is used for two letters.  When you try to type "boy" you could end up with "not" (b and n are on the same button, so are y and t).  Or when you try to type "has" you could end up with "gas." (em-barrassing)

I think you get my message.  It had to be said.  Because confusing baked with naked completely changes the innocent conversation about what kind of beans you are eating for dinner into something entirely inappropriate.

Ahhhh, the Holidays

Within the past few days I have spent more time baking two pies than it takes to make an entire Thanksgiving meal.  I locked myself out twice.  I ate way too much.  I learned how to rue.  I shopped at 3am.  I spent 4 hours standing in lines.

I sat outside of JCPenny with my dad at 2:45 this morning for the super doorbuster deal on a cozy pair of slippers.  We were the first in line.  We were the line. 

It was his "spreadsheet of savings" that brought us to the store, an organizational tactic you see in only the most seasoned Black Friday shoppers.  However, it was our rookie naïveté that lead us to believe we would actually have to fight an angry mob of shoppers for doorbuster cargo pants.

Needless to say, we got everything we needed without incident...but not without embarrassment.

Tips for future Black Friday shopping:

• If you will be standing in line outside, wear layers that can be easily removed.
• Designate a line holder while others shop.
• Fanny pack to hold water, mints, bandaids, air deodorizer.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Now here is a list of things I would like to be thankful for next month:

• Wii.   Adults can play video games too (Corey), as you will see in the following games I am also wishing for: Wii Fit, Trivial Pursuit, Super Mario Brothers.
• Nikon camera.  The small one.  So I can put it in my pocket and take impromptu pictures of mullets and mom jeans.
• Gym bag.  The cheap canvas bag I currently use is too small.  And it stinks.
• UGGs.  I am about four years behind in this trend, but it has taken me that long to NOT call them UGGlies.  Size 8.  Contact Corey for styles.  There are several to chose from.
• Title Nine vest.  Boss's daughter has one.  I'd like to copy her.  Contact Corey for more information.
• Long Johns.  I, um, get cold.
• Travel size Bible.  Because I can't nag myself about what I should be doing.
• Salt and pepper shakers.  No joke.  We use salt directly out of the tube it came in.  Very primitive.
• Purdue gear.  To combat all of the Notre Dame apparel I see daily.  Victoria's Secret makes a mean Boilermaker hoodie.
• Apple Macbook.  Yes.  This is pricey, but it would be a good time for long forgotten great-aunt Joanne to feel the sudden urge to revive the familial bond with her sister's daughter's daughter and make up for all the lost Christmases and birthdays.  In turn, I will make up for all the macaroni art she never received from me.  I think that's fair.
• Bernina sewing machine.  The mac daddy of sewing machines.  And why shouldn't I have the best?  My ability to put a pot holder together is totally professional.
• Queen's Greatest Hits.  Voted best band of all time by me.  Worst band of all time: Third Eye Blind.

That's all, dear, dearest friends.  May you have the most wonderful, blessed holiday season!

P.S. For shipping purposes, all major department stores have my address on file.  Thanksomuch.

The essence of Thanksgiving

Today I make pies.  Two pies.  From scratch.

They will be pumpkin pies, and I will use real pumpkins.

The crust will be golden brown.  Formed by my own (clean) bare hands.

And they will be gloriously delicious.

Have I ever made a pie before?  No.

Do I really expect these suckers to turn out?  Hecks yeah.

Stay tuned for pictures of me smeared with pumpkin goop.

For real.  I'm a mess.

An Ode to Weight Loss

Ah, last five pounds.

Your effervescence of triumph.

Toil and trial endured

Stinky sweaty towels litter the floor

I await your good news.

Last five pounds you can't possibly know

My joy.  My tears.  My struggle.

My brownie-less days.

Chocolate cake free nights.

I live on broccoli.

Last five pounds you know the words I long to hear.

"Eat up," you will never say.

For you are nothing but a glob of fat sitting on my love handles.

And fat does not have a mouth, or vocal chords, or lungs.

Yet there you still sit.

My sweet silent encourager.

My last five pounds.

by Stacie "Maya Angelou" Lucas

It's all a waiting game

Who can wait the longest for that $100 46" flat screen TV??

I'll tell you who can: me.

And my dad.

And anyone else who is brave-slash-crazy enough to park it in the dark, in the cold, for 5+ hours with nothing to entertain you but your own wit.

By "wit" I mean sarcastic remarks about frozen snot balls.

We'll be among the first to receive Best Buy's golden ticket of savings, giving us the opportunity to spend $200 and walk away with two microwaves, a DVD player, the first season of House, and a fridge.

This is all complete conjecture, of course.  I have never actually seen this coupon, as they are handed out to only the earliest of early birds.  However, I was offered one two years ago.  For $65.  This leads me to believe it either contains an abundance in savings or it is printed on gold leaf.

No matter, I will have one in my hand at 3:30am Friday. 

In my other hand will be a pastry of some kind.  Maybe a turkey sandwich.

Something to sink your teeth into

A little lesson on vampires, because I know you were wondering.

Vampires do exist, in the same way big hairy guys who like to romp in the woods call themselves bigfoots...big feet?

They are a group of people who are sensitive to light and crave blood.  Although this screams photophobia and iron deficiency, it's not.  Them's vampire symptoms. 

Fortunately, their manners have evolved from Bram Stoker's vampire, Count Dracula.  They now ask you for your blood.  And their diets have drastically changed from all blood to something more balanced that includes aura energy and a blend of fruits, vegetables and free range poultry.

I'm not sure if the original vampire, Mr. Dracula, would approve of these changes.  Because he isn't real.

Just like big foot.

They also don't wait to become vampires until after they're dead anymore.  It is so much easier to adjust fangs and apply black eyeliner when you have a reflection.  Honestly, haven't you seen a zombie picking up some milk at the grocery store with bedhead??  Em-barrassing.

Contrary to popular belief, not all vampires drink blood.  I guess you could call them veganpiresHAHAHA....never mind.  Instead of getting their energy fix from the blood, they suck it right out of the air floating around in someone else's comfort zone.  Although they usually ask first, I think it's safe to say if you're at work and feel tired you might be sitting next to a vampire.  Keep an eye out for your aura, just to be on the safe side.

Vampires are human beings.  Just like paler, more outwardly expressive versions of us.  They are not to be feared or ridiculed, but befriended.  I'd imagine if you're nice enough they'll tell you how exactly they eat corn on the cob with those fangs...

Healthy Eating

I love food.. pizza, pasta, chicken, steak, lobster, shrimp, pie, cake, creme brulee, etc..etc...

Judging by the conversation I had with Mrs Saratoga last evening, I might have to start enjoying all these items in the car on the way home from the office, or on the way to the local Irish Pub, or while walking downtown to shop. It's not longer welcome at 130 Regent, Unit 2.

If I had a tape recording of last night's conversation, you'd all pee your pants....it was that comical. There's nothing like listening to her tell me what to eat, and what I can't eat anymore(which is almost nothing according to her).

I'm all for eating healthy; veggies, fruit, salads, etc....but if I want a pizza every now and then, I'm going to have one!

The best part of the conversation though....(and I did my best not to burst out laughing while she was ranting and raving about this), but this is coming from someone who eats chocolate cake, brownies, mac & cheese, rice krispy treats(once ate an entire plate of them), my famous "garbage plate"(tater tots, topped with spicy meat sauce, mustard, chopped onions, and a side of macaroni salad), and the list goes on and on....none which are close to healthy. Now, I know she means well, and I'm happpy she wants me to live a long, healthy life, but come on, telling a person they can't eat pizza, or put sugar on grapefruit, or dip lobster in butter, or sprinkle salt on mashed potatoes....get real already!!

A canine complaint

Dear God,

My folks tell me you’re responsible for all the squirrels and cats running around outside. I have a few concerns I’d like to share with you.


First, the squirrels are jerks. They get me to chase them, and then they run up trees. This is not fair; I am not equipped to run up trees. Also, the one that I almost caught tasted like dirt. The dead one I play with at home tastes like polyester fiber fill. You might want to check your recipe.

Second, the cats are mean. And they have sharp feet. I’d like to say I enjoy our staring contests, but really they creep me out. I still haven’t recovered from the time that neighbor cat swatted at me and I screamed like a Pomeranian. It was scary, and the squirrels still laugh at me. Like I said, they’re jerks. Do the cats know I’m a dog and can eat them?

What I’d like are squirrels that are slow and dumb like my cousin Maggie and taste like bacon, and cats that I can snuggle with.

Thank you,
 
Oliver

Driving

I did a lot of driving this past weekend...traveling here and there, and had Mrs Saratoga (Stacie)with me....

Now, when I drive and have Stacie with me, there is more to just "driving." You have to negotiate punches from her. You see, when you make a sudden move to miss a deer, stop at a stop sign, or just brake for traffic, she believes these sudden moves are intentional, and done to make her sick....I'm not kidding!

She doesn't like driving with me, that's no secret. I have, however, come to realize that it isn't just my driving, its everyones, but.....I'm sure all the others are not punched or attacked in any way. I however am...usually there's a verbal thrashing, and sometimes its followed by a quick uppercut...or just a jab. The alternative is her driving.....in short, that means risking your life and many others....so I guess the beatings I take are well worth it afterall, I suppose I've possibly saved my own life, and the lives of many others!

The freedom of maturity

Boy, if you could've seen eighth grade Stacie. 

Those of you who have,  please keep all comments to yourselves.  Thanksomuch.

Fortunately, throughout high school I became less awkward, wore contacts, found clothing that was my size and did not make declarations of peace or show Kermit the Frog in his underwear.  I learned how to de-frizz my mane and gave up my rainbow colored shoelaces.

And thanks to my newly developed self-doubt and insecurity I also came up with new rules on parental public displays of affection and when playing in the snow with my kid sisters was acceptable.

I still wasn't cool (see marching band references), but I was pretty normal.  However, even that took hours of careful deliberation of what to eat, say and wear, and thousands of she-said-that-he-said-that-he-said-that-she-said-that-she-said conversations.  It was exhausting.

Hallelujah, those days have passed!

Now, I embrace the frizz. 

I wear a bright green jacket in the dull, dead winter.

I run like an idiot in the park with my dog.

I build lopsided snowmen with my dad.

I wear pajamas and slippers to the grocery store.

I am still very embarrased to ride around in my dad's '95 rust-mobile, but that's because I know one of these days it is going to die with me in it and I'll either be trapped inside or you'll see me in the middle of an intersection pushing the dang thing to the side of the road.  But I digress.

I eat chocolate cookies with little regard to my expanding...um, lower section.

And I wear things that are functional.  Like my winter boots.  With my nice work pants tucked in them.

Sometimes I miss those "carefree" days when I was a teenager, but not often.  I'm usually too busy running around, making a fool out of myself and loving every minute of it.

A note to the corporate offices of Taco Bell

To Whom It May Concern,

I appreciate the little bit of humor you add to my day every other week around lunch time.  Honestly, without the cute little sayings on my sauce packets, I would find nothing funny about my bean burrito minus red. 

However, now that they have their own little personalities, I feel bad tearing off a "limb", squeezing out its "guts", and just throwing it away as if our "conversation" (although one-sided) meant nothing.  I can picture my latest packet, who is afraid of the dark, sitting in the trash can wondering what it did wrong.  Was it too forward?  Too soon in the relationship to share its fears?  Did it scare me off?

So, although I felt a moment of happiness from that sauce packet, now I am racked with guilt.

Thank you,

Stacie

A general plea to the masses

People, please, let's practice good grammar.  Take advantage of your computer's spelling advice.  Because you never know if the person you are sending a letter, memo, or note to may have undiagnosed adult attention deficit disorder and is completely thrown off by the most innocently misplaced comma.

I'm speaking generally, of course.

Think about the recipient of that letter.  Is he or she going to read the same sentence 18 times and still not know your dog, John Charles, is sick because you did not separate his name from the rest of the sentence with the proper punctuation?

Is he or she going to eventually become so frustrated over incorrect verb tense that he or she must stand in a corner and rock back and forth while humming Journey songs until the world is right again?

All things to consider when drafting that "Dear John" letter, or the "..doesn't that skirt make Judy's butt look big?" accidental mass email.

We can all make a conscious effort to make good grammar choices so these silently tortured individuals can find some peace.

Speaking of adventures...

I love Christmas.  Love it.

I love the snow, the caroling, goofy snowflake sweaters, egg nog, the smell of pine, fighting old ladies for that last $5 Cuisinart crock pot, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, family, reindeer antlers for Oliver, watching Oliver try to pull off his reindeer antlers, etc., etc.

So, of course, I have been ready to put up our decorations.  Slight problem, we have no decorations.

Problem solved: The Christmas Tree Shop.  The store that has it all, from travel size wet naps to chicken marinades to butt-shakin' Santas.

I make the trip down to Albany and enter the store fully intending to browse for a future purchase(s).  Browsing turned into a handful, which led to a cartful, and that is where our adventure begins.

"I'm in line, it might be 20 minutes before I check out."

"What did you get?"

"Oh, just some Christmas decorations."

Brief silence.

"Is this going to start a fight?"

"It shouldn't, I found some good stuff."

"How much is it?"

"Don't know yet"

"It's not going to be over $20, is it?"

"If so, not by much."

The total came to $69.76.

Needless to say, this did not end well.  But we do have a lovely red and gold themed centerpiece on our dining room table.  Oh, and more dish towels.

Mr. Saratoga has returned

I'm back! Yup, that's right, Mr. Saratoga is back....


To all the daily followers; I took some needed time off, away from the blog....but good news, I have returned! I look forward to sharing many on my (and Mrs. Saratoga's) adventures with you all (well....the 4 or 5 of you who follow this)

From the pages of my recipe book

In the 53 days I've been married I have learned that a man appreciates a good home cooked meal.  The kind of meal where you unbutton and let the fly out a little, or forgo pants altogether. 

I have yet to cook this kind of meal, but I sense it would be well received.

So, for all of you newlyweds, pre-newlyweds, and wanna-be-weds, I'll give you a secret recipe I perfected myself that will make you and your man "wanna slap your mama.  But you won't."  (My pastor says that, I think it's true meaning is lost here in the north...)

Cozy Dogs

Prep time: 3 minutes

Cook time: 20 minutes

Ingredients
1 tube of Pillsbury crescent rolls
1 package of hot dogs
thinly sliced cheese (optional)

Instructions:
Preheat oven to 350.  Open the tube of crescent rolls.  Follow instructions on the tube for this.  Unroll and separate triangles.  Lay triangles out on a large, ungreased cookie sheet.  Open package of hot dogs.  Take out a hot dog.  Lay hot dog across shortest edge of crescent roll.  Lay a strip of cheese  under hot dog, if desired.  Roll hot dog.  Repeat.

Bake dogs for 20 minutes or until rolls are a golden brown.  Let cool for 10-15 minutes.

From my kitchen to yours.  Enjoy.

P.S. Check back later and I'll tell you how to bake a delicious frozen raspberry turnover!

A week of epiphanies

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

When you drop something enough, like a cell phone, eventually it doesn't work anymore.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Just because you can, that doesn't mean you should. (ie, spandex, sheet cake, flame throwing, etc.)

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Expiration dates are not always suggestions.

Friday, November 6, 2009

The fourth of July will always fall on the fourth of July...and never on my birthday.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Rhode Island is neither a road, nor an island.  Ok, ok, so I stole that one from Saturday Night Live.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

If you must use your fingers to add and subtract, do it discreetly.  People tend to lose confidence when you don't know simple math.

Monday, November 9, 2009

A headache is your body's way of saying, "Please, no more chocolate today."

How much wood?

Here's something to discuss at parties:

If woodchucks do chuck wood, why would we wonder how much they could chuck if they could chuck wood?

So shouldn't the question be, how much wood could a woodchuck chuck when a woodchuck chucks wood?

Definitely not as fun to say, but much more accurate, wouldn't you say?

Thanks Kimberlie for making us all think a little harder about the important things.

Speaking of chopsticks...

...they are impossible.  Really.  And unless you've built up extra muscles in the meaty part of your palm and you can pop your shoulder out of its socket I wouldn't even bother trying to eat with them.

Wow, Stace, that's a pretty random topic.

Not so.  I just managed to finish off a plate of rice, using chopsticks, 8 grains at a time.  It took me so long, the first few bites have already been digested and the last few were cold.

So, although I have a great deal of respect for those who can eat their meals with chopsticks in under an hour, I am now forever grateful for the invention of the fork; the tool that neither teaches me patience nor encourages a healthy rate of consumption.

My application to the funny farm

Name:  Stacie Jo Di...um Lucas

Age:  27

Address:  123 Main Street #4, Somewheretown, USA 05906

Reason for applying to Beirkowicz Home for the Criminally Insane:  I'm 'bout to lose my mind.

Care to elaborate: Ok, so, this guy I'm married to, we'll call him "Raul," is starting to drive me crazy.  He's always made me a little nuts, like when he peels out of the driveway, or dances down the aisles of the grocery store, or farts right in my face.  But now that I'm living with Raul I'm subjected to more than my sweet, innocent, little ol' self can tolerate...and I just might pop him one.

What exactly is "Raul" doing:  Wow, this is a very specific application, um, he does this thing where he changes his mind.  On everything:  I don't like that guy, I do like that guy, let's invite him to dinner; I'd like a loofah, I'd never use one of those things; I hate that song, let's use that song for our first dance; I'll go with you to Carol's Halloween party, we're going to the Yankee game.  It really is very confusing. 

He also yells at random people he passes.  But not words, like in a language someone on this planet would understand, it's more like screeching and bleating...you know, like what goats and farm animals do.  It's loud, and the people he's harassing look at me as if to scold, "young lady, control your mentally-challenged brother."

I'd have to say, though, the one thing that puts me right over the edge and into Beirkowhatever territory, is the feet tickling.  I have sensitive feet.  You come near them and I'll scream like a gay man who just locked his baby in the car (Modern Family if you didn't recognize the reference...Wednesday nights...ABC...9pm, but I digress). 

Cor...I mean Raul goes after my feet meat like a bear goes after hikers with beef jerky in their back pockets.  For serious.  And what do I do?  I lose all control of myself.  My muscles go wild in a flurry of kicking, punching, and flailing.  Knock on wood laminate I haven't kicked out any teeth, his or my own.

This is why I am applying to the Beerenhoffer Home.  To save us both...from myself.

APPROVED

PSA to my readers

Hey folks, (and by folks I really mean mom) sometimes I don't feel good.  Sometimes I'm in a lousy mood.  Other times I just have nothing to say.  So if you log on for your daily dose of entertainment (I am flattered, though, that you miss my wit...occasionally, but I digress) and I have nothing for you, trust me, you most likely do not want to read what is really on my mind.

If I were to blog every single day, this is what you might find:

What is up with parents letting their whiney brats go through the aisles of the grocery store piling boxes on boxes of sugar snap candy dandy doos...or whatever they're called.

Yikes.  This is mean.

Or this:

So, my snot wasn't green today.

I think you get the idea.

Or there is the would-be-subject of today's post:

Yesterday Corey went to the grocery store to get chicken and he left without the chicken.  Woo!

See what I mean?  Some days I am just not funny.  And if you (mom) are going to pester me for new posts I just might tell you where to go.

...I meant the Cake Wrecks website since it's funny all the time.  What were you thinking??

Happy Halloween!

"Why is she walking into that house?"

"Doesn't she know he's in there?!"

"Turn a light on!  You don't have to walk around in the dark!!!"

I hate scary movies.  Hate 'em.  I hate the suspense.  I hate the gore.  I hate sending my poor dog into the bathroom at night to flush out serial killers.  But I still torture myself every Halloween and watch something I know will haunt me for months if not years.

A list of too-scary movies, in no particular order:

• The Ring: Scared my pants off.  The premise: this creepy video kills you seven days after you watch it.  I watched only part of the video, but seven days later I seriously wondered if I was going to die.
• Texas Chainsaw Massacre: Super gory.  I did not expect to actually see a guy hanging from a meat hook, but I did notice the effectiveness.  That guy was in pain.  Mission accomplished.
• Saw: Scariest.  Movie.  Ever.  I don't want to talk about it.
• Child's Play: Saw the preview when I was six, couldn't look at my dolls the same way.
• The Shining: Ghosts, check.  Possessed weirdo, check.  Creepy kid, triple check.
• Thriller: Yeah, it's just a music video, but don't pretend you don't check for zombies after it's over.

This year:  The Amityville Horror.  I figure it will take me 8 months before I stop worrying my apartment is trying to kill me.

I. Am. Tired.

The kind of tired like in college when you intend to stay up all night finishing a 30 page paper due in the morning that you haven't even started but instead you stay up all night to see how many of those cheesy peanut butter crackers you can eat before you vomit.
Yeah, tired like that.

You might also say it's the kind of tired like I did a shot of NyQuil before bed...because that's what actually happened.

You see, Corey needs to sleep as much as I do, but with this cough it just ain't gonna happen for one or both of us.  So what do I do?  NyQuil shooters before bed.  The result: restless coma for me, sweet uninterrupted sleep for Corey.

"I thought NyQuil helps you sleep...?!"

Good question.  Love that you're paying attention, by the way.  Ever stay up late binge drinking.....orange soda?  Well, you get....full....from the....soda...and you pass out.  But usually you don't wake up refreshed 7-8 hours later.  Without going into the chemistry of the...um, soda...throwing off the biorhythmic patterns, I'll just leave you with this: cough syrup and...soda...have the same restless effect on sleep.

They both also leave me laughing like a lunatic and speaking in tongues, but that is for another time.

Back in action...

...kinda.  My head is spinning, my chest is full of ooze, I have been spelling words the way they sound (shu = shoe, soop = soup, etc.), and I am temporarily dyslexic, but that has not stopped me from getting in my car and infecting my entire office.  But I exaggerate.

Until I get my brain back, however, I'm afraid I will have to limit my blogging to simple paint pictures (which take little to no talent/effort/brain waves) and scary craigslist finds (which, thankfully, speak for themselves).  Once I am back to normal...I will be back to normal, and I can give you the embarrassing, pathetic details of my worst day spent watching 12 hours of America's Next Top Model. 

Depending on how I feel, I might actually try to illustrate me practicing my "signature walk" in between coughing fits.

Warning Amazon Shoppers

Hey.  It's me, auto-pilot.  Trying to make Stacie look busy at work, found this:

Pretty scary.  Word of advice: don't buy used tic tacs.  They may have germs.

Thank you.

AUTO RESPONSE

Hello.  This is Stacie's auto-pilot.  She has fallen under the deep and nasty spell of the cold bug and is unable to perform normal daily duties.  I have been activated and will now take over the daily blog.

Unfortunately, I am not as humorous and witty.  For example, Stacie would have written "doodies" instead of "duties" because it just looks funnier.  Auto-pilot is not programmed to make the distinction.  My sole purpose is to make sure she does not run her car off the road as she sings to Bon Jovi on the radio or that she follows her full morning routine and doesn't miss the critical deodorant step.

Stacie will be back to her normal "doodies" in approximately 7-10 days, depending on how much Vitamin C and chicken soup I can cram down her throat while she's not paying attention.

Thank you.

Yankees: Champions of the World.

....well they will be.  Maybe.

But I'm not here to argue the awesomeness that is the Derek Jeter machine.  I just thought I'd share a few highlights:

• Brand-spankin'-new stadium, awesome.

There is actually a screen that shows every single word that is said/sung in that stadium.  However, when Mr. Posada comes on the screen for a little announcement in his native tongue what you see is "(Speaking Spanish)".  I wonder, why put the video message on the screen and not the words?  Is it impossible for there to be deaf Latinos?  Shame, shame.

• 5 hour and 10 minute, 13 inning game in rain, sleet, and cold.  Opposite of awesome, but still worth mentioning.
• Home run in the 11th inning to tie the game by the steroid-free Alex Rodriquez, or as we Yankee fans like to call him, A-Rod.  See what we did there?

• Numerous random-stranger high fives with this super fan:

• 5 foul balls.  Almost had 'em.
• A Kate Hudson sighting. 

She left early.  How do I know?  Corey kept watch.  Close watch.

Two Yankee playoff tickets:  $250

One cheesesteak and Godiva hot chocolate: $35

Waking up on the ride home to Corey singing and dancing to keep himself awake: priceless

Happy (one month) Anniversary!!

And this is my gift to you, Corey:

Why I like being married

by Stacie

When you're married you don't have to be afraid of things.  Like the dark.  Except for when your dear sweet husband hides behind a door when you get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and then jumps out at you and scares out that little bit of pee you knew was in there but just didn't want to come out yet.

When you're married you always have someone to listen to you complain about your job, your friends, your hair, that little bit of fat accumulating under your arms.  You can also share your hopes, dreams, and aspirations that he not leave the windows open anymore.  It's cold out.

When you're married you can look forward to those nice surprises that brighten your day.  A piece of your favorite dessert.  Maybe a love note in your lunch bag.  Or the ever romantic fart in your face while being pinned to the ground.

When you're married you are introduced to new food.  Like gravy and cheese over fries, baked beans with hot dogs over cottage cheese, or my favorite, fries with baked beans, meat sauce, macaroni salad and a corn muffin all mixed together.  Sometimes your husband will serve you while you're relaxing on the couch reading a National Geographic on California's redwood forests, that's another nice surprise.

There are many more reasons why being married is rewarding, fulfilling and special, but I'll leave you with my favorite:

When you're married there is someone else who can take the dog out when it's 30 degrees outside.

The End.

To love is to sacrifice

"When you're a Yankee fan you make sacrifices."  Corey, 7:35pm, Tuesday.

My sacrifice?  Sitting on a cold plastic chair for hours.

Risking frostbite.

Risking foul ball to the head.

Risking near death and spontaneous vomit at the hands of Corey's driving.

Missing a Halloween party and the debut of Hannah Montana zombie.

All of this for..... Yankeesvs.Angelsgame2canIgetaWoopWoop?!!

I guess I'm ok with sacrifices.  But you know what they say...

"When your wife is a huge fan of craft festivals and you just happened to make a mistake in which you did not give her a choice to go with you to the game or go to her much anticipated Halloween party, you make sacrifices."

Thanks, Lynn, for the wafflemaker.

You have unknowingly given the world (in other words, my 4 loyal followers who have yet to officially "follow" this blog) a small dose of entertainment through Corey and my first experience making waffles...together.

This is how we began:

"What is this??  Where's the Bisquick?!"

Apparently, I hit the one store that does NOT carry our trusted baking mix brand.

"No worries, I found Krusteaz!"

Actually, it didn't quite go like that because both he and I were a little nauseous about using a brand named after the goopy balls of gross we pull out of Oliver's eyes.  It went more like this:

"Um...it was either this or Aunt Jemima."

So then began the process of pulling the waffle maker out and mixing up the batter.

"Do we need to grease the thing?"

"No."

"Are you sure??"

"Yes."

"Why not?"

"It's teflon, Corey."

My favorite part:

"I'm going to turn it on."

"Wait, I'm not ready yet."

(mix, mix, mix)

"Ok, go ahead."

(wait, wait, wait)

What was the purpose of waiting?  I'm still not quite sure.

The rest was pretty uneventful.  Read directions, re-read directions, read directions again, poured batter, the thing dinged, we ate waffles.

Why are you leaning forward in your chair like that?  Were you expecting more?  Perhaps some major mishap you are wishing upon us just so you can laugh and point your finger as if to say, "Look at those clowns!!  Can't make a stinkin' waffle without setting a dishtowel on fire...HAHAHA!!"?

Shame on you.

Waffles were good, by the way.

All sports, all the time.

This is my life now.

"It was a pop fly, second out."

"Yeah, Matt Tebow has a concussion, but I hear he'll be able to play in next week's game."

"Now why would Girardi take Rivera out NOW??"

"What's the line for the Purdue, Notre Dame game?"

That's me talking.

Don't worry if you have no idea what any of that means.  You are still in GirlLand, like I used to be.

Now I can spot Johnny Damon's at bat dance in an instant and tell you the over for a Miami game is probably a safe bet.

Conversations on Jessica Simpson's love life are a thing of the past.  Instead, I hear all about the filly running in the third race at Belmont on Saturday.  Of course, this is a one-sided conversation as I 1) tune out all things horse racing after Labor Day and 2) hate Belmont.

I will miss talking about books, nail polish and recipes.  I now ask random strangers what they thought of last night's game fully prepared to break down and discuss each moment, play by play.

But I exaggerate.  I do manage to shanghai the remote every now and then to enjoy a sitcom or two.

The deep down transformation, however, from pink dresses with bows to skipping shopping trips for Giants games is well underway.

This is an important message for Corey:

Do you really want to be married to a Scotty O'Dwyer with mascara?  Wake up to a Tom O'Donnell with long hair? 

No?  Maybe we should spend less time on sports and more time on whether or not I should get highlights.

New routines are like dirty socks

I don't want the stinky smelly things.

Old routines, on the other hand, are like warm flannel footie pajamas.  They feel so right.

But right now, my footie pjs are still on the rack at Target, while my dirty socks are in every crack and crevice I come in contact with.

I'm in a new environment with an extra person.

This environment was not ready for me.  My craft stuff is not here.  And my clothes have nowhere to go but in tubs and laundry baskets.

And this extra person prefers to watch different TV shows during "relax time."  He takes up half of my sleeping space and mistakenly uses my towel, everyday.

The refrigerator does not automatically stock itself like it did at my parents' house.  There are no tortillas or moldy leftovers.  The only reason I now have pickles is because I bought them yesterday.

Folks, this is hard.  You can't possibly know what it's like.  I mean, what I'm going through is so completely unique to the entire married/cohabitating population you wouldn't understand what it means to get in near fist fights over the bathroom mirror (but I exaggerate).

...sigh.

I know eventually I'll have comfy pajamas made out of dirty socks....wait, that didn't come out right.  Yeah, new routines become old routines, but I don't think this metaphor is working for me anymore.