Another special day!

And now it's Kimberlie's birthday! 

My baby sister (baby only by 14 months) was born on this day 22 years ago.  I also don't remember a thing about her birth.  I was still 1.) too young, and/or 2.) too wrapped up in me.  I think I'll go with c.) I just had too much on my plate with a hectic kindergarten schedule, Care Bears and My Little Pony shows to watch, Teddy Ruxpin to entertain, and daily ABC training.

But, as with Katie, we started making memories not long after she was born.

I do think I mentioned the poop in the tub.

Fast forward several years to her collection of Berlie-isms.  Those funny little sayings that only a mind as open and creative as hers could come up with.  And only a person as confident as Kimberlie would allow herself to say such things as:

"Just use the meat beater."

To avoid undue labels, she meant meat tenderizer.

And my favorite:

"I didn't know you could wash clothes when they're wet."

No wait, my favorite is this one:

(to the tune of I Swear by All-4-1) "I swear, by the moon and the justice for all..."

Or maybe this is my favorite:

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

Or this:

"When life hands you oranges, make orange juice."

Oh, Kimberlie.  Have a great day.

Ten on Tuesday

Because I'm sure you got a little tired of me talking about myself months ago, below is me talking about myself some more.

This comes from Chelsea over at Roots and Rings. 

1. What television character do you identify with?   Grace Adler (Will & Grace).  We both can't seem to tame the hair.


2. Describe your morning routine.  6am, elbow Corey, ask why he sets his alarm for 6 when he doesn't get up until after 7.  Get up.  Walk dog.  Quiet time (read).  Breakfast with Saved by the Bell.  Shower.  Make up.  Make up.  Make up (takes a lot to make me look this good).  Clothes.  Hair.  Leave.  Come back and pick up lunch.  Say good bye to dog.  Leave.  Come back and get cell phone.  Leave.

3. How do you do lunch? Bring from home or dine out? Same thing every day or mix it up?  I bring lunch mostly: black bean, red pepper, cheese and avocado all mixed and mashed together.  Fridays I like to treat myself to Thai.

4. What is one moment that, although seemingly trivial at the time, changed your life? Had a conversation with my friend Monica our junior year at Purdue about her plans to study abroad.  I left her apartment, got on my computer and signed myself up for a 6 week session in Florence, Italy.  Best.  Summer.  Ever.  I have been trying to get back ever since.

5. Name your top three beauty products.  1.) Neutrogena On-the-Spot pimple cream.  A-ma-zing.  2.) Herbal Essence mouse, the purple flavor.  3.) Mary Kay foundation, beige 400.

6. What do you do when you’re alone in the car?  Sing like I'm good.  And talk to myself like it's normal.

7. What is the ideal city for you to live in? If you can, take this survey (< that’s a link) and tell us the results. Do you agree with them? 
My answer:  Florence (please see question 4)
Survey says:
1.  St. George, Utah--interesting
2.  Greenville, South Carolina--near granddaddy, maybe
3.  Norfolk, Virginia--how close to Williamsburg, I wonder
4.  El Paso, Texas--NO!  No offense to Texans.  I've been to Texas.  Bad experiences in Texas.
5.  Tulsa, Oklahoma--how close to the beach, I wonder

8. Are you waiting for something?  Yes.  I am waiting for my body to enjoy running.  I am waiting for this headache to go away.  I am waiting for baby time (ahem, Corey).  I am waiting for 80 degrees (helloooo Friday!).  I am waiting for lunch time.

9. What was the last shocking news you heard?  I'm over-dramatic.  Everything is shocking to me.

10. What are three things you wouldn’t do for a million dollars?  1.) Kill a living, breathing thing.  2.) Eat a live bug.  3.)  Harbor a fugitive.  That was a weird answer.

Someone's special day!

Happy Birthday Gary!! 

(aka Corey's dad)

You don't look a day over 50!

Which would mean you had your son when you were 13....hmm.

Anyway, we hope you had a great day!

SPORTS!

ESPN?????

The college basketball you're referencing below is not on ESPN; it's on CBS. What have you been watching on ESPN?!?!?! It certainly isn't March Madness...

Good news; no sooner does March Madness conclude and MLB kicks off. The Yankees home opener is 6 days, 4 hours, and 52 minutes away! Be prepared for the YES Network to be on each night from 7:05pm to approx 10:30pm.

Now stop your complaining; I don't get on you about watching that silly Saved by the Bell every morning, now do I.

Come on Stacie, you're almost 28 years old, not 12; time to start watching CNN Morning with me!!

No More Basketball: A desperate wife's plea

The sport of basketball is hereby fired from my future television viewing lineup.  If I have to watch one more game in my lifetime (besides my beloved Boilermakers) I just might throw myself head first through a plate glass window...the kind that shatters really easy, like in the movies.  And not too high up, I wouldn't want to break anything.

It wasn't basketball's fault.  It just happened to be in the middle of this sport's tournament that I reached my ESPN threshold for my lifetime. 

I'm gonna be honest here, I flipped out.  I hissy-fit-throw-remote-stomp-feet flipped out.  Unnecessary, yes.  Unwarranted, hecks no.

The meltdown actually started months ago:

"Hey, why don't we walk the beach?  This is our honeymoon, after all."

"Can't, it's a big day for football."

And you may remember this one:

"...but Carol's Halloween party is Saturday."

"When you're a Yankee fan you make sacrifices."

And now it has been non-stop basketball.  If the games aren't on there is always something about the games.  Thus, my self-imposed banishment to the bedroom.

Were I an iCarly character, I would have developed hilarious nervous twitches at this point.  But instead I just bottled all that bitterness and resentment for an eventual, equally hilarious, explosion. 

An explosion that included a very impressive remote control slam that landed safely in the mountain of pillows on our bed all while keeping my eyes locked on Corey's.  It helps with the dramatics of the situation to maintain eye contact...at least that's how they do it in the soaps.

I do believe I made my point clear:  Stacie + one more second of basketball = horrible consequences.  Corey will be viewing the remainder of the NCAA tournament elsewhere. 

To express my gratitude for his consideration of my newly developed sports sensitivities, I will dedicate my time to baking something delicious...while watching Bring It On.

Stand by for "No More Baseball," to be followed by "No More Horseracing," and "No More Football."

Friday Confessions

1.  I hate to fly.
2.  I hate planes.
3.  I do not like to travel in any vehicle that is not, in some way, connected to the ground.
4.  I used parmesan cheese on the pizza I made for dinner on Wednesday.  Corey hates parmesan.  While cooking I shuffled the bottle around the kitchen so he wouldn't see it.  Call it a psychology experiment.  I won, he didn't even notice.
5.  I wore a pair of jeans from the condo in Florida.  They weren't mine. 
6.  I had a dream Wednesday night that my sister, Katie, was dating the one Congressman she and her boyfriend are diligently trying to oust.  This can hardly be counted as a confession as I have little control over my dreams.  But I am sorry I laughed until I cried when I woke up.
7.  My closet is arranged by color.  My drawers see no such order.
8.  I once snuck a boy in the house when my parents weren't home.  I then made him dash out the backdoor when my dad pulled up to take me out to lunch.  An unexplained soda can was found in the bushes months later...unexplained no longer.
9.  I am such a morally sound and practically perfect person I doubt I'll have to do these Friday Confessions anymore.
10.  I am not humble.  Confessions continues.

My radio days: over before they began

Today I did my brief radio interview on the importance of colorectal screening as a preventative method for fighting cancer.

I came up with talking points.

I planned to be clever and poignant.

I was completely prepared.

Then the DJ started talking about the health care bill.

That's when I blew it.

I knew right then in a live broadcast was not the best time to admit that an employee of a political office has no idea what that bill entails, or that I purposely skip any and all news coverage of this oh-so-relevant topic.  That might reflect negatively on my boss. 

So I stuck with simple answers.

But I don't even think I got those right.

You see folks, radio is hard.  As a seasoned attention-hog who does not shy away from moments of glory, I can tell you standing up in front of a crowd and making a fool of yourself in frizzy hair and zebra print stockings is easy compared to this.  But I might exaggerate.

You've got all of these thoughts running through your head, like "what if I mess up?" or "what if I can't think of the right thing to say?" or "what if I pass out cold?"

And then, if you're lucky, through a connected speaker you get to hear everything that is said with a slight delay, causing you to pay more attention to the funny sounding echo than to what is actually being said.  So when your interviewer gets to the end of the sentence and you notice a slight inflection in his/her voice you realize you were just asked a question.  You then experience something we in the biz like to call stage fright.  You have no words.  Your mind is completely blank because you just realized you did not pay attention to a stinkin' thing that was said.

You look to see your interviewer raising his/her eyebrows, as to entice a word in the affirmative, and you gurgle out an eloquent, "mmmhmmm."

Then you make a point to pay attention, to ignore the echo.  The next question comes and you start to mumble:

"It's very important because (this is when you notice your echo) people...don't know...they have.......op---tion---s."

You start to wonder why you are slowing down.  Why are you slowing down?  And because, once again, you are thinking to yourself, you forget to keep talking.  Your interviewer looks blankly at you.  You have no idea why.  Stage fright.  You go back to early patterns of listening to echoes and watching for raised eyebrows.  Eventually your interviewer realizes people are probably starting to change the channel and he/she goes back to playing music.

You are relieved.

You go back to eating your hot dog after you stop shaking.

This is all hypothetical, of course.  I just wanted to let you know what could happen should you agree to an on-air interview.  In no way did I take any of this from personal experience.  My interview was, um, awesome.  Could not  have been....better.

Death of an IHOP tradition

I had my very last stack of IHOP chocolate chip pancakes with a whipped cream smiley face on Monday. 

(The smiley face has already been consumed.)

Never again will arguably the world's two greatest foods, chocolate and pancakes, sit blended together in a stack of goodness in front of me.  Never again will they enjoy the mastication process by which they bond with my spit to form a pasty, chocolatey goo fit for digestion.

My discontinued patronage was not a rash decision based on silly nutritional facts or the noticeably absent class of the establishment.  It was based solely on the stank of the bathroom and my incurring heebie-jeebies.

I know you probably would like details.

I've always been a fan of IHOP, but never paid much attention to the condition of the restaurants (if you can call them that...) until recently when a certain someone who frequently employed the above mentioned pancakes as a make up tactic started pointing out its deficiencies:

"Wow, you're right.  This table IS filthy!"

"Ohmigosh, I never noticed the layer of syrup covering each and every inch of the menus..."

"Hmmm....it DOES smell like turd back here."

Although my eyes were opened, I still treasured my chocolatey treat.  And I occasionally looked forward to fights with you-know-who because I was sure to get my make-up-pancakes.  Because that's what couples do...right?  Make-up....pancakes?

Anyway, Sunday was an occasion that most definitely called for some pancake lovin'.  And off we went on Monday to the nearest of the 20 IHOP's in the West Palm Beach area.  We chose the one next to the vacant, overgrown lot on Dixie Highway.  You've probably seen this strip on COPS, several times.

We sat right down, made nice with the waitress to avoid "spitcakes," and placed our order.  After a few short minutes of chit-chat we were presented with two heaping stacks of pancakes.  His covered in blueberries, mine in chocolate chips, and both topped with miles of whipped cream.  We rested assured with this level of care there couldn't possibly be a big slimy loogie hiding between layers...unless Melissa was trying to throw us off, which did not occur to me until just now.  Gross.

After eating half of my stack I realized the sudden urge to use the ladies facilities but the door was locked.  I waited.  Melissa (was that even her name??) exited.  I entered.

Had I been on a blind folded tour of bathrooms across America I would have said I just entered a bathroom at a Highway 87 truck stop.  "Not the nice kind," I would have said, "the kind where you have to ask the attendant for a key and walk around to the back of the building because they prefer to keep stink flies away from the customers."

In other words, it was stinky gross.  McDonald's bathrooms are cleaner.  Hess gas station bathrooms are cleaner.  My sister Katie's bathroom is cleaner.  What's the deal, IHOP?  You getting all cocky because your pancakes are all that?  Yes, they are good.  Probably the best.  But does that mean you get to neglect your other duties to focus on perfect 'cakes? 

I saw our waitress come out of that stinky, grody mess of a ladies room and all I could picture was her touching the door handle on her way out.

It's probably safe to assume by the smell of the place many IHOP patrons aren't too concerned with cleanliness.  **shudder  And based on that assumption I will go further and say they probably don't **shudder wash their hands. 

Putting it all together: if they don't wash their hands they're putting their germs (read: fecal matter, but I disgust) all over everything they touch.  And if they're touching the same things my waitress is touching (door handle), and my waitress is touching things that go in my mouth, they might as well come and "make a deposit" (read: poo) right on my beloved chocolate chip pancakes.

I think you can see now why I had to end my 27 (minus time spent in infancy) year relationship with IHOP.  No matter the condition of the establishment I will forever associate my pancakes with icky germs. 

Corey will just have to come up with some other make-up strategy.  I am leaning towards jewelry...

And the winner is....

Hey, remember my little quiz?  Yeah, I kinda do, too.  I guess I should give the answers.  My mom won by default...although she did get a little snarky.

We ALL said 30 minutes, Mom?  Really?

And only Corey commented on cinnamon-sugar?

Might we be showing some favoritism here, Deb?

Just for that you have to watch my 70 pound monster for one more day.

More answers:

1. "It smells like pneumonia downstairs." Corey.  Our downstairs neighbor brews his own beer (and makes a mean egg nog, but I digress) and upon entering the foyer of the building Corey noticed a "clean" smell he could only attribute to "pneumonia."  He meant "ammonia."  It was cute.

2. "He was a 5th year senior." "He was a senior for five years?!"  Kimberlie.  This came from a conversation she had with a friend about another friend.  She was astonished it took this person five years to finish his senior year. 

3. "We don't have cinnamon sugar." Corey, Kimberlie.  Trick question, I know. 

4. "(reading) Waterproof for 30m....so it's water proof for 30 minutes."  Kimberlie.  Is this really funny?  I, along with my mom, aunt, uncle, and cousin literally rolled around on the floor for 20+ minutes, but that was after pre-wedding-anxiety-reducing cocktails and a card game that was less about the cards and more about being silly (mom dealing cards: "These cards are making me dizzzzy...") so we were already primed.

5. "Boy did I have to pee." "You emptied your uterus?"  Corey.  Said this at a rest stop on the way to the Giants game.  Was this before or after he went into the women's bathroom?  Oh wait, that was at the airport in Charlotte on Thursday.  More on that later.

6. "(upon shutting coat in car door) Wait, wait, my coat's on fire!!"  Kimberlie.  Not much more to explain.  I was taking my sister to school, it was Kimberlie's turn to sit in the front seat and we were in a hurry.  We all jumped in the car, shut the doors, and sped down the driveway.  That's when she realized in a panic that her coat was stuck in the door.  This makes me laugh in the same way sleep talking does.  Of all things she could have said, like 'my coat is stuck in the door,' or 'hang on, my coat is stuck in the door,' the first thing on her mind is that the thing is on fire.  This gives me snort chuckles to this day.

7. "If half of the world is light, what is the other half?" "Heavy?"  Kimberlie.  This is an old one.  It came when she first started her period of deep thinking.  Hey Kimberlie, what does 'philosophical' mean?  Still 'very soft?'

Away from home

I love this vacation.  Love, love, love.

Corey and I come here every year with his parents and aunt and uncle.  There is just something about no-work-do-nothin'-family-time that I just can't get enough of.

Emphasis on 'no work.' 

Did I mention our sight seeing, pool frequenting, marching on DC trip to Virginia this summer with my family?  It's gonna be awesome.

Did I mention Corey and I will have at least five children and there will never be an end to family fun time? (maniacal laughter: HAHAHAHAHA!!)

That means more of Friday night:  first we didn't know what to do for dinner, then we did, then we didn't, then we did, then we saw bad reviews online, then we changed our minds, then we tried to call the order in at a different place, then it took too long for them to answer the phone, then we realized it was Friday night and they were probably super busy, then we hung up, then we changed our minds again and ended up with nachos in front of March Madness.

Corey is super psyched.  About both.

Poop talk on the radio

I'm super nervous.  On Thursday I have been asked to speak briefly on one of our local radio stations about the importance of colorectal cancer screening.

Why me, you ask?

Apparently there is a staggering number of men and women in their later years who do not take the necessary steps in early cancer detection, a fact that only leads to complications when cancer is present and grows and festers and takes over.  Which is scary.  Scarier than sticking a camera up your butt.

So about 6 months ago (I remember this only because it was right before the wedding) a group from the cancer center at our local hospital came in to talk to my boss and let her know of a campaign they were kicking off to combat these statistics and, ultimately, save lives.  And I, being interested in everything involving healthy living and deathly afraid of cancer, became the contact person for any and all updates on this project.

It was possibly my interest and enthusiasm for the project, or the fact that I am a representative of the Senator of this area that lead me to be volunteered for one of three radio spots throughout the month of March, also known as Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month.

So on Thursday I will walk into the Stewart's shop where the radio station will be set up for the day (they are targeting a population that is least likely to be screened, although I know my dad does not frequent Stewart's and he is currently fighting my mom on this very topic, but that's for another day's post.  Yeah, daddy.  You see that?  I will talk about your colon if you don't get your butt..hehe...to the doctor.) and I will give a little schpiel on why gettin' your poop shoot checked out is a good thing.

Now back to the reason I'm nervous, I say dumb things too.  Most especially when I am on the spot. 

When I first started working for my favorite New York State Senator I had to go to events on her behalf.  I was always deathly afraid some city or county official would ask me about the topic of the month and I would have no idea 1.) what they were talking about, and/or 2.) how to respond.  I managed to avoid these conversations somehow, but that still did not take away the panic. 

One day during the summer I was asked to go to a picnic lunch for the YMCA where they were celebrating the end of a successful teen program.  It was very informal.  We had lunch, mingled, speakers said a few words, the Congressman even showed up to congratulate everyone.  This is when I started to get nervous.  "If the Congressman and Assemblywoman spoke, does that mean I have to speak??"

I writhed in my seat as my introduction came. 

"And this is Stacie from Senator Betty Little's office."

(applause)

I walked up to the announcer.  No.  I tip-toed up to her, in front of at least 75 people, and whispered into her ear and the microphone, "I really don't have anything to say."  She looked at me and said, "I know.  I was just letting everyone know you were here." I then tip-toed back, paused half way to wave to everyone, then sat back down.  The Congressman's rep's look of horror told me what I needed to know: I was the doofus of the century.

So maybe you can see why I do not look forward to those moments when I have to speak extemporaneously? 

I also don't trust myself with the topic.  It is dangerously close, literally, to about a million poop jokes and references.  What if I say something like:

"...just don't fart in your doctor's face."

or

"...have 'em pop in a Glade when they're done.  Then your sh*! really won't stink!"

I picture myself uttering profanities in my spur of the moment panic.

So, if you're in the area March 25th between 11am and 1pm, please don't listen to 107.1.  Thanksomuch.

Friday Confessions

Just because I'm laying out on the beach in the morning sun doesn't mean I don't have things I need to get off my chest:

1.  When I was 13 I laughed so hard I peed my pants.
2.  I once sat 8 feet from where David Cassidy was eating dinner.
3.  I love Walker, Texas Ranger.
4.  And Matlock.
5.  I also have an unnatural obsession with office supplies.
6.  For ugly tie day in jr. high, Alyssa and I concocted the most disgusting mess of a tie.  To this day, the smell of minty egg still haunts me.
7.  My Purdue Boilermakers are playing Corey's cousin's alma mater, the Siena Saints tonight in the first round of the NCAA tournament.  I not-so-secretly hope those Saints get their butts handed to them in nicely wrapped pink gift bags that say "Thanks for stopping by."
8.  I cannot drink a whole beer without getting woozy.
9.  I clip coupons every week but I never ever use them.
10. Last week I received, via cell phone, a recorded fart and it was one of the funniest things I've ever heard.  I am still laughing.

On the ground

We made it.  We have arrived in West Palm Beach, Florida in one piece...or three if you count Corey's busted luggage wheel floating around somewhere over Georgia by now.

I don't like posting pre-flight.  I'm one of those people who constantly thinks, "Were those my final words??"  So I didn't want to get all poetic and insightful on you because, honestly, unless it's a poem about pee splatters on a toilet seat or something else entirely inappropriate, it just isn't me. 

I also knew I would be a rambling mess.  Folks, I get so stinkin' nervous before I fly I practically collapse once I'm off the plane for good from sheer exhaustion.  You can imagine my energy is not being spent making sure I am forming complete and coherent sentences.

But here I am.  Alive.  Coherent.

I'm not going to lie to you; both legs of the trip were awful.  Terrible.  I almost peed my pants and slugged a few people.  Not only am I nervous, I am incredibly irritable.  Corey tried to talk to me during take-off, I yelled at him and curled into a ball.  The kid across the aisle played with his brother, I considered digging my nails into his dad who was sitting next to me.  The lady behind me, I call her "smarty-pants-know-it-all," pointed out every single thing she saw on our descent.  I was plotting her smack down in the terminal.

Then there was this guy:

"Excuse me sir, you put your bag in my overhead compartment."

"Uh,yeah.  There's no room back here."

"Yes, but this is above my seat and now there is no room for my bag.  You need to move your bag."

Thank you Corey for saying what I was thinking:
"Are you kidding me??"

Then there was this girl:

"(to the little old lady in her seat) I have the window seat."

"What deary?"  (I don't think she really said 'deary,' I'm just trying to illustrate that she was a sweet, little old lady, it matters here)

"You are in my seat."

"What?"

"That is my seat.  I have the window seat."

"Oh!  I'm sorry dear, I'll just move over."

"You want me to climb over you?  Unbelievable."

Little old lady gets up, crawls out of the aisle, the nasty hippie walks by rolling her eyes.  I was plotting something extra special for her.

But then we landed.

I wish that was the worst of it.  We had technical difficulties on both planes.  The first, midway through the flight there was a sudden burst of cold air, like the door flew open.  My eardrums felt like they exploded!  It was over in a second, so obviously the door was still very much attached.  The captain came on, "Sorry folks, we had a bit of a pressure problem."

Then, after I sampled some biscuits in the Charlotte airport (we were in the South, and where else can you get a better biscuit than in the South?), we took off for West Palm.  As we prepared to land the pilot made a sharp turn back out to sea, in the opposite direction of the airport.  "We, uh, are having issues with our flaps.  We're going to go through our checklist and land in about 5-10 minutes."

The flaps he referred to were on our side of the plane.  We could see them.  And they definitely were not working.  They never started working after one circle 'round the ocean.  We landed anyway.  Came in hot, used up the entire runway.

But we survived.  And now I am looking for train tickets to take me back home.

C.O.M.O

Club Of Members Only. 

Oh, it makes me giggle to think of how brilliant I was in seventh grade.  We, I mean how brilliant we were.

My friend Alyssa and I were inseparable in our middle school years.  We had sleepovers at her house where her dad would make us homemade donuts, we'd swim in their pool for hours, I'd get stung by wasps and my eyes would swell from an allergic reaction to their five cats.

Other days we would spend hours watching our favorite Nickelodeon or FX shows while testing how much Mountain Dew we could drink before we literally started bouncing off the walls...or vomiting.  Whichever came first.

We played soccer together, skied together, trick-or-treated together, joined the 4-H dog club together, we even bought and raised two Golden Retrievers from the same litter together, Lucy and Kestra.  Lucy was mine.

One summer we had the brilliant idea to form a club: the Club Of Members Only.  I suppose we needed a new outlet for our creative energy, and a place to escape her bratty little brother.  In his defense, he was probably that way because I accidently jumped on his head in the pool and almost drowned him once.

So we jumped into this club with full force.  The first order of business was to get organized.  We used an old school 3-ring binder to store all of our notes.  In order to disguise its contents we labeled the binder "C.O.M.O."  Next, we created a secret alphabet only members could understand.  It was a series of dots and dashes and squiggles.  All further documents on rules, conduct, mission statements, and new member initiation rites were written in this code.  And the key was kept in a different location just in case we forgot the code, which Alyssa did.

We were very thorough.

Eventually we decided on a location for our clubhouse: one perfect tree in the wooded lot behind her house.  We drew up blueprints (rectangles on lined paper) and hired a construction team (her dad).

Unfortunately, the summer ended and so did our club.  I think we just lost interest.  Sad, because we had an awesome club song:

Stacie Dina Dipwad is a Dina Dipwad.
Do do do do.  Do do do do.  Do do.  Do do.
B-A-N-G as in Frank, BANG!

Alyssa Hoff Halfwit is a Half Hoffwit.
Do do do do.  Do do do do.  Do do.  Do do.
B-A-N-G as in Frank, BANG!

Sparky (my ferret) is a junior and she does the moon walk.
Do do do do.  Do do do do.  Do do.  Do do.
B-A-N-G as in Frank, BANG!

Dixie (my other dog) is a dog and she sleeps all day.
Do do do do. Do do do do. Do do. Do do.
B-A-N-G as in Frank, BANG!

We were so cool.


Hang on a second...Corey's handing me something. 

Yeah, it's divorce papers.  Apparently that was all he could take.

Whose line is it

Because it's Tuesday, and because blog time is competing with worry-about-flying time, and because I take great pleasure in making fun of people I love we are going to do something fun.

It is now time for the "Say Wha...!?" Quiz!!!

Yay!

Background:
Corey and my sister Kimberlie are actually very smart.  They just say dumb things.  And lucky for us, they have a good sense of humor, which is why other family members and I can point and laugh for several days and then I can post and relive the moment for potentially millions (yet in reality, four) other people without the threat of a knuckle sandwich.  Lucky.

How this thing works:
I'm going to list an honest-to-goodness quote, straight from the mouth of either Kimberlie or Corey and all you have to do is guess which one you think said it.

Prizes:
The prize for the person who guesses correctly (my mom) will receive Oliver for the weekend while I'm in Florida.  Yay!

Here we go.

1.  "It smells like pneumonia downstairs."

2.  "He was a 5th year senior."  "He was a senior for five years?!"

3.  "We don't have cinnamon sugar."

4.  "(reading) Waterproof for 30m....so it's water proof for 30 minutes."

5.  "Boy did I have to pee."  "You emptied your uterus?"

6.  "(upon shutting coat in car door) Wait, wait, my coat's on fire!!"

7.  "If half of the world is light, what is the other half?"  "Heavy?"


Good luck to all four of you.  Results will be posted when I get around to it.  Don't forget, I am currently a panic stricken, unreliable, flight-o-phobic, basket case.  We are all lucky I am still able to control my constitutionals at this point.  Sorry, TMI.

Check....check....check

Florida, here I come...on Thursday.

But I am right on track with my trip planning doodies...I mean duties.

Monday: worry about flying, tell myself I am not packing a lot this time, worry about flying, start thinking about what I want to pack, plan walks on the beach, museum trips, shopping trips, ambitious home-cooked meals.

Tuesday: worry about flying, pull out clothes, make sure they fit, make lists of toiletries to bring/buy, worry about flying, make more lists, worry about flying, worry about flying.

Wednesday: minor panic attack while worrying about flying, lay out outfits, one for nice dinners, one for casual dinners, one for each morning walk on the beach, one for a trip to the zoo, one for laying out by the pool, and shoes to go with each, another panic attack with mild sweating, check and re-check toiletries, purchase travel sized everything.

Thursday: major panic attack and loss of motor function, pack travel bag, unpack travel bag, add emergency outfit, re-pack travel bag, faint, eat/drink everything in the fridge that is set to expire, vomit, drop dog off with folks, drive to airport, forget something important, cry.

Thursday 2pm: board plane, cry, sweat, shake, cry, sit, buckle, cry, shake, dig nails into Corey, shake, panic, sleep.

Thursday 7pm: arrive in Florida in one piece, tear up ambitious schedule.

Ahhhh, I just love vacations.

You are what you dream...?

What causes nightmares?  Stress?  Unresolved conflicts?  Burritos?

I had one Wednesday night.

A nightmare, I mean....and a burrito.  But I digress.

The details are a little foggy.  I remember a cottage, a bunch of people I referred to as family (even though they did not resemble a single relative of mine or Corey's), and a lady in a yellow shirt.  Everyone was randomly roaming this cottage, looking for something, cleaning up, getting ready to swim in a nearby lake while I was being chased.

There I was, running and screaming at the top of my lungs and not one person attempted to intervene, or even lift a finger in my direction, but that is beside the point.  My attacker, a bright orange flying squirrel dog frisbee, would find me in each of my hiding places and try to sting me with a lethal poison.

It was terrifying.  But when it found me in the shower I finally mustered the courage to pick it up, bust open a window and throw it out onto the deck below where Corey and his friends were standing. I ordered him to shoot it with his shotgun.  And that was then end of the sucker.

Phew.

So many things are wrong with this whole dream, I wouldn't even know where to begin.

Friday Confessions

1.  My mom has to remind me as I walk out the door to leave their house that she is parked behind me.  I have been known to back into cars parked in our driveway.
2.  I took my time pumping gas in the freezing cold last night.  An Ace of Base song was on.
3.  Sometimes eHarmony commercials make me cry.
4.  Neil Diamond is my guilty pleasure.
5.  I watch cartoons on Saturday mornings, and I was upset about missing Fanboy and Chum Chum last week.
6.  I have added "House Flipper" to my growing list of what I want to be when I grow up.
7.  When Michael Buble sings Haven't Met You Yet on the radio I slip into a love coma.  This is very dangerous because the only time I listen to the radio is while I'm driving.
8.  I spent the precious hours of my evening on the couch watching my shows last night.  I did nothing else.
9.  When I asked Corey if I could buy a new shirt with my confiscated JCrew credit card I had already bought it online...where they save your information.
10. I am disappointed in the lack of true Saved by the Bell fans on so-called fan sites.

Sick and tired...no, seriously

Here’s a little known tidbit of info about me that might blow your socks off: I over-extend myself. Wow, typing that was almost therapeutic. No. Therapeutic would be if realizing I do this would somehow put an end to it. But it won’t.

I don’t feel good. I am run down. But just enough to make my head all foggy, my body achy and my throat a little sore. Just enough that I am able to work, but I will be miserable and unproductive all day. Maybe even all week. I guess this could be the beginning of the nasty flu making its rounds here, but since I never seem to catch these kinds of bugs I’m not yet planning a weekend of chicken soup and America’s Next Top Model marathons.

But there was that one time…remember swine flu?  Yeah, me too.


I am very grateful, though, my body waits to knock me out until I actually have time to rest. Or maybe I’m grateful that I am able to ignore its signals. “What’s that? I used up all my energy? Ok, one more mile, three hours of rehearsals, 30 minutes of driving, 30 minutes of next-day prep, and then I’ll go to bed.”

So right now, as I whine about feeling crappy, I am mentally planning my next project to coincide with four others I already have scheduled/agree to.

I will never learn.

Just a thought

Is it just me, or are musicians running out of things to sing about?

I have to think when guys start singing about how much they like a girl and they pair her attractiveness with the fact that she does her taxes we have either covered every other aspect in which one can like another of the opposite sex or there has been a shift in what exactly is considered attractive.

"Hey girl, I buy my milk at the grocery store, and you do too.  I like that.  Yeah."

"You know I been thinkin' aboutcha.  Dressed up in yo footie pajamas.  Oh ohhhh."

"I saw you the other day.  Walkin' yo dog.  You picked up his poo.  You know thas right, girl."

What is this world coming to?  Our role models are now telling us to like each other based on merits that have nothing to do with the junk we may or may not keep in the trunk?

Oh happy day! For you, of course. Upon landing my man I happily embraced my frizzy hair, pimple cream and bathrobe/reverse-Snuggie in order to focus on laudable attributes such as patience ("you are getting on my nerves, therefore, I must work hard to not smack you right in the face."), perseverance ("this painting is *!@#, but I am not going to throw it out the window, instead I will try to make it look less like a pile of vomit and more like a self-portrait."), compassion ("yes I will get you a glass of water even though you aren't that sick and should be able to get it yourself."), and kindness ("here is your sandwich, soda, and the remote.").

This is what I call character development, ladies.  Apparently having some is cool now.

Cinnamon Bun Pancakes

I do believe I mentioned cinnamon pancakes on Wednesday.  But to the best of my knowledge I cannot figure out why I stopped short of saying how awesomely cinnamony and delicious they were.

Oh wait, I was sharing a Corey blunder. Yeah, that is important.

Well today I'll do the opposite.  I'll only briefly mention our light bulb conversation:

"Oh, the light's not working."

"Yeah, it went out yesterday."

"How do we fix it?"

"Um, we change the light bulb."

And spend the rest of my time talking about the pancakes.

First, let me clear something up: I do not enjoy cooking.  I am bad at it.  Something always goes wrong.  So when I do settle myself into the kitchen it is because I have found something with enormous potential and worth the hassle of at least two do-overs. 

I found the recipe on Ree Drummond's Pioneer Woman website.  If you don't know who she is you've been living in a box.  And I mean that in the nicest, most brutally honest way.  She's the country gal who talks about calf nuts one day and cauliflower soup the next.  It's no nonsense, fill-up-ma-cowpokes kind of cooking.  Full of heft, butter, and calories. 

Here is an indication of exactly how good these pancakes are, I just had a minor freak-out session when I couldn't find the recipe on P-dub's blog.  And when I say freak-out I mean I got really whiney and grumpy and thought of one irrational solution after another:

"I could Google cinnamon pancakes and go through 2 million hits until I find them..."

"I can 411-search PW, call her, and demand she email me the link...and send an autographed copy of her cookbook...."

"I can drive to her house in Oklahoma and wait on her doorstep until the cows come home (literally)...."

Luckily, I found it.  Cinnamon Bun Pancakes.  They are everything the name claims: all that you love in a cinnamon bun mixed with all that you love in a pancake.  It's a marriage made in All My Children, without ex-girlfriend, step-dad, mom trapped in a hole drama.

But what is a cinnamon bun without it's icing?  I'll go further, what is a cinnamon bun pancake without its maple syrup icing?

It is just a pancake.

Therefore, I implore you, please do not skip the icing.  Not only will you miss out, but you jeopardize my reputation as an uncredited, unsolicited, unpaid reviewer of Pioneer Woman recipes.  And that is no way to thank me for sharing with you the secrets of the last pancake you'll ever want.

So, I will leave you now to your drool and imagination.

You're welcome.

Revenge is a dish best served cold

You forced me to do this.  When you filled the big red cup with cold water, when you plopped a couple ice cubes to make sure it was just the right temperature, when you snuck into the bathroom, when you opened up the shower curtain, when you dumped the frigid contents of said cup onto my back again, when you laughed at my eardrum-rattling shrieks you had to know that I would get you back.

Nice outfit.  Where are your sandals, ya old man.

Back on track

Wow.  I do apologize.  I got serious yesterday when all you were looking for was an easy to follow, Dumb and Dumber-esque anecdote using Corey as the target. 

How I have let you down....but to make up for it I do believe I have a doosy filed away.  Let me just find it....stashed away....in here somewhere.....ah ha!  Oh yes, this is funny:

"Hey, I was going to make those cinnamon pancakes.  Do I need to get cinnamon from the store?"

"Uhhhh, no.  We have cinnamon.  But if you need cinnamon-sugar you'll have to pick some up."

Brief silence.

"You do know that cinnamon-sugar is just cinnamon and sugar, right?"

"Yeah, but we don't have any."

.....silent laughter.

"But we could, we would just have to mix them together."

Silence.

"Do we have cinnamon?"

"Yes."

"Do we have sugar?"

"Yes."

"Then we have cinnamon-sugar."

Silence.

"You just mix 'em."

"Ok.  So you don't need cinnamon-sugar?"



Again, folks, I can't make this stuff up.

What to do, what to do...

Here is a predicament in which I am perpetually stuck:  I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up.

You can probably see how this is a problem. 

As a child I had very little ambition.  Unlike my sister Kimberlie who knew very early on that her life's goal was to marry a pig farmer, I was concerned only for the present; which doll to play with, how much "cheese" to put on my mud taco, should I or shouldn't I scale the fence to spy on our neighbors.  My awareness of life beyond the present did not begin to develop until my parents told me I had to have a reason to go to Purdue University other than because my boyfriend Andy was there.

So I picked a major, Marketing, and I was accepted into Purdue's Krannert School of Management.  Super.

But just before classes began I thought, "Why make a ton of money working for a major corporation when I can be a middle school art teacher?!"

Brilliant!

But that path wasn't all rosy, either.  Yes, I loved cutting up magazines, clothes, pizza boxes, doll hair and paper bags and then throwing them all together into a piece of art that could only be graded subjectively, but there were only so many angles in which I could draw a stinking eyelash curler, and there is only so much torture a person (me) can take when made into a personal punching bag by an instructor who was/is habitually cranky and miserable.

So I switched my major again.  But this time I took the advice of Jill, my friend who had absolutely no stake in my future success, because obviously my methods for laying out my career goals weren't working.  She suggested Public Relations, because I would "look cute in those little pant suits." 

I graduated in 2004 with a degree in  Communications (read: talking).  I learned how to talk to people, talk to myself, talk about stuff, talk at work, talk without talking, statistics in talking, and the history of talking.

I also left with minors in Art & Design, Psychology and Marketing.

What did all of this qualify me for?  A job where I can make a baseball cap out of paper bags, tell you about it and the state of mind I was in when I made it and then convince you to buy it.

I'm sure this job could exist.  Somewhere.  Like in my own house.  But if you were to ask me what I would like to do for a living, depending on the day, time, weather, my mood, I could answer with about a dozen responses:

• sell my crafts
• give tours of art museums
• teach English in Italy
• professional ballroom dancer
• dog trainer
• personal trainer
• Hollywood actress
• stay-at-home mom
• missionary
• jam maker
• middle school art teacher
• cruise ship entertainer

Actually, that last one is almost impossible...unless "vomit art" catches on.  But I digress.

So there is my list of completely unrelated dream careers.  A list I fret over weekly.  Because as the kids in my Sunday School class have pointed out, I am already grown up (I am also 20-35 years old, depending on who you ask, but what do they know)...and way behind.