Lately

So, at Christmas time, I ran into my good friend Sydney. She had had a baby very recently and we chit chatted about what it's like to be a happy zombie in baby land: no bouts of sleep longer than a few hours at a time, cute baby noises and expressions, and how that early bleary eyed goodness is the spring of hope and the winter of despair.

And we agreed on one thing in particular: when we're up at all hours of the night feeding a baby, one thing we both turned to is blogs. So we agreed that we would keep the blog posts coming, if for no other reason than it is nice to have something to read at 3:30 am when you're wrangling an infant into eating.

I'm pretty unsure of where to begin since it's been so long. Plus if this thing becomes an obligatory travelogue that I even detest reading, then it's a chore for everyone to read. So let's keep it light.

I love my baby I love my baby I love my baby.

Rower and I hit a real stride in January. The holidays were awesome, but tricky for a baby that was too young to sleep train, and didn't like traveling (which is basically what we did a lot of in October, November, and December). Christmas was still great; we got to see our families, Rower got maximum cuddles from everyone, and even a 24 hour stomach flu didn't keep us down.

Now that everything has calmed down, Row is sleeping like a champion. He pounds rice cereal, butternut squash and apples, and occasionally avocado. He is seven months old and scoots around on his back but shows no interest in crawling quite yet, no matter how much tummy time we force on him. He laughs and says "Dadadadadadadada" all day long with various levels of urgency. Harry and I just hold him and grin just listening to him. We've stepped back and realized a couple of times, "I'm sure this is entertaining to NO ONE but us, but who cares?!" We're trying not to be irritatingly-enthusiastic parents, but we've never been so enamored with a baby before. It really is the coolest thing I've ever done.

Other than being pleased as punch with parenthood (despite the occasional blowout diaper and the enormous pile of laundry that NEVER GETS SMALLER), things are chugging along. Harry is working crazy hard, non-stop. I remember in law school people told us that we should enjoy this time because life gets so much harder when a real job comes along. I remember disagreeing deep down because I was anxious about all the debt we were accruing, and knowing how relieved I'd be once we were finally able to start chipping away at it. I love our life now and would never go back, but I can't help but miss our old, tiny apartment with the prison toilet and love seat from hell. Mostly, I miss getting to spend hours of free time with Harry everyday.

Harry recently turned 29. As is tradition (which started in his childhood), I snuck out while he was sleeping and bought him his favorite donuts from Winchell's and stuck a candle in it and we sang to him before he went to work. I love that my husband's sweet tooth is really pretty limited to Winchell's donuts and a few other things; it seriously simplifies my life. We met up for lunch with the baby at the mall near his office, and that night I took him on a birthday date to one of my new favorite top three restaurants: A Food Affair. A funky name for an incredible French restaurant. We split a mushroom torte and I got beef bourguignon and Harry got an ENTIRE red snapper that had been flash fried with Thai spices.

Then we scampered off to our favorite movie theater (where we habitually sneak in Godiva dark chocolate milkshakes) and saw "Divergent." We are reading the book for our book club and I have to admit, the story is pretty good (kind of Hunger Games-y) but really Shailene Woodley is incredible. That girl can EMOTE. And yes. Yes. That is Mr. Pamuk from "Downton Abbey." I kept thinking the whole time, "You moron, you were awful to Mary Crawley and then you got what was coming to you."

We still get to go to Imagine Dragons concerts. And, the concerts have changed considerably since 2009. It no longer costs $6 to see them. Their shows sell out online in hours. They now tour all over the world. And the concerts completely blow my mind. I look around at people of LITERALLY all ages and styles and walks of life, packed like sardines into gigantic arena seats and standing space, and they are all singing along to even the most obscure lyrics and going completely nuts. Harry and I are stunned, and so proud of Dan and all the hard work that the band has put in. We still often forget that Dan is famous. I still do a double take sometimes when I hear them on the radio (which is everyday). That's probably because Dan and the band are all still kind, happy guys who work insanely hard. We couldn't be prouder of them or happier for them.

And we got to attend the Beatles Reunion Show taping (and sit 5th row) to see them cover "Revolution." That night really blew my mind. They joined Maroon 5, John Mayer, Katy Perry, Keith Urban, Pharell Williams, Stevie Wonder, Annie Lennox, Dave Grohl, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr and a few others I can't quite remember this second. Harry and I just sort of looked at each other like, "Drink this in, because this is a crazy once in a lifetime experience."

We got to see them on Valentine's Day. The lamest of pictures, yes, indeed.

I feel like so much more has been going on than I can fit into a few paragraphs, but at the same time our life is pretty repetitive and simple. Especially since I feel like my life has now been chunked into 3-4 hour increments, based on Rowers eating and sleeping needs. Case in point, things are good, and getting better all the time (if you started singing "Better, better, beeeeeeetter," after that last phrase, I did too).

Here's to getting back on the blogging wagon.

How was that, Sydney?

Tomorrow

...is my last day of work.

I cannot count how many times I have thought about this day. I plan to celebrate with a prance around my apartment bellowing "Mama Pajama" by Paul Simon and a few hitchkicks and the best night's sleep I have had in months.

I don't think that working in an office is the hardest thing a person can do. But for nine months, I have worked harder than I ever thought I could work at something. And I've felt like I'm constantly falling short. And this feeling turns into the worst self-fulfilling prophecy, and I become so filled with self-doubt that I can barely function. I've spent a lot of time on my knees in bathroom stalls asking for help.

At the same time, I have worked with wonderful people, and I have been stretched and pulled more in this job than in any other. I've gotten comfortable being uncomfortable with the amount of work on my plate.

And now that the month of March is far behind us, I think my wee heart has healed enough to tell a story that still makes me cringe, ending with a redemptive lesson of hope and the tying up of loose ends that we Americans love so much in our stories.

A few days after Harry’s birthday back in March, I got very sick. I came home Friday evening from work with a high fever and a cough that was beginning to rattle my insides. We had to cancel our trapeze adventure I had planned for his birthday, and --to add insult to serious, phlegmy injury-- without a refund, people.

I remained bed-ridden for four days. Harry made soup, bought saltines, and wrote down my symptoms and read the back of every box of cold medicine at CVS before picking the most perfect one and buying it for me (true story).

Thankfully I was able to get on some antibiotics, and by the following Wednesday I came into work, wheezing, woozy, and armed with over the counter cold medicine. I walked into the office that morning to discover that, while I was gone, an oversight had resulted in a problematic scheduling mix up. And long story short, it was my fault.

It was one of those mistakes where, when you realize what has happened, your brain gets mushy and you keep thinking that this has to be a dream, and that soon you’ll open your eyes in your dark bedroom, and see your cell phone plugged in on the nightstand and realize your snoozing husband has stolen the sheet and left you the quilt, and that it was all a dream. But it wasn’t.

The mushy brain feeling was soon replaced by an adrenaline rush of horror that remained with me for the rest of the day. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made errors on the job before (everyone does, as I’ve been reminding myself ever since that day). This one was one of a kind. I spent the day going from person to person, apologizing, fixing, mending the error, making sure everyone knew why and how it happened and how it won’t happen again. I felt about two centimeters tall by the end of it all.

Truth be told, now that I have some perspective, the mistake wasn’t life-threatening, or job-threatening, and thankfully, all affected parties were extremely gracious about it, but the feeling of disappointment and shame in the air around me that day was so palpable, you could whittle a garden gnome out of it with a pocketknife.

5:00 pm eventually came. Miraculously, I was feeling a little better because I had survived. I actually remember thinking to myself that I’d been strong all day long, and that maybe I wouldn’t dissolve into tears when I finally got home.

I got in my car and drove out of the parking garage. As soon as I was at ground level, I hit the power button on my car stereo. I don't listen to the radio here too often. It’s usually inundated with Katy Perry. Meaning, three stations at any given time are usually playing a Katy Perry song, and that gets old really quick. I was expecting my CD player to play whatever was in there. But the radio was on.

And suddenly, Imagine Dragons was exploding out of my speakers. I did a huge double take when I saw that the indiglo screen on my dash read “105.3 FM” for radio instead of “Track 15” for CD. My brother-in-law Dan was singing “It’s Time” on one of the Bay Area’s most popular rock stations.

I began doing eight things at once. I dialed Harry on my phone, cranked up the song, started bellowing, “DAN’S ON THE RADIO! LIVE 105! TURN IT ON!”, and trying to remember to steer and observe traffic laws. Harry was like, “WHAT?!” and “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” and “I’M TURNING IT ON NOW!”

To quote my SIL Annie, it was a very "That Thing You Do" moment.  (P.S. I love Liv Tyler's outfit in this scene.)

 I tried to cover my face so the other drivers wouldn’t wonder who the crazy girl was who was sobbing, coughing, fiddling with her phone, and steering at the same time. But there was only so much I could do. That moment, it was like the heavens opened and a giant clap of thunder erupted, and a FedEx shot down from above into my lap that said, “You’re going to be okay.  Your life is bigger than this job.  And it will get better.”

On literally the worst day of my professional life, I knew that someone was aware of me. It could sound dumb to think that hearing a song on the radio translates to “God knows I had a rough day and this is His way of giving me a reminder that He gets me,” but it did, and for me, it still does.

In the days since, things have slowly ("slowly" being the operative word) gotten better.  But they have gotten better, and I've gotten better at this job. Hopefully one day I'll look back on this and chuckle and wave my hand and say, "Ah, that one time!" and then sip some lemonade and rock in my rocking chair on my veranda as the sun sets.  And then I'll take my dentures out and go to bed.  

Tomorrow, it ends.  And "Mama Pajama" will never have sounded so good.

Oranges and (f)unemployment

Nothing makes my day quite like a cold, juicy, tart orange.

I needed a really quick energy boost at work today, and there were no 5-hour Energy drinks around (or as Jerry Seinfeld calls them, "meth lab hawaiian punch jello shots"***), and realized I had a plump, pulpy orange sitting patiently in my lunch bag in the fridge.

So I tore into it and ate it in probably less than five minutes (necessary peeling time inclusive).

And then I realized that this is one of the last times I will be doing this, this being chomping an orange in my desk chair, because very very soon, I will be not-so-gainfully-unemployed, or as I like to call it, “(f)unemployed.” Yep, the start-up I have been working for since we moved here about 1.5 years ago is calling it quits.

It’s sad to see everyone go their separate ways, especially when we had such a good thing going here. Gripes about obligations to retrieve food/coffee daily aside, I’m very lucky and happy that I had this job, the people I worked with were a lot of fun, and I learned some important things.

I have an odd mixture of emotions, but mostly I’m just excited to dive into something new. I’m already doing my best to get back into the work force, but I have a secret volcano of happiness erupting in my wee heart at the prospect of not setting an alarm next week.

Sidenote: Dare I say it? I still wish I were in graduate school, with a little more direction/inspiration. Especially since, you know, I live on a campus, surrounded by people with tuition bills and, yes, direction/inspiration. But as Harry says when he’s in a lovingly snarky mood, “Patience, my pet, patience.”


*** I don’t actually drink 5 Hour Energy, though I am regularly irritated by their remarkably mediocre commercials when I’m trying to watch “Parks and Recreation” on Hulu.


PS Today I've been married for 1.5 years. It's been good to me. Probably because Hal has been so good to me.

Steven Slater - Jet Blue Flight Attendant had the Monday Jet Blues

Sell sell sell!

I feel for salesmen. Seriously. Because I can't sell anything.

I remember being in elementary school and, once a year, going to giant school fundraiser assemblies where us young and impressionable "youth of tomorrow" were presented with slide shows about selling wrapping paper, tubs of cookie dough, magazine subscriptions, or something equally innocuous. These fundraiser assemblies were filled with laser shows, music, repeat-after-me style audience participation, and guys in their thirties shouting things like, "BUT WAIT! If you sell twenty FIVE tubs of cookie dough, you will be sent a NEON BLUE INFLATABLE ARMCHAIR!" The myriads of prizes would be announced and flashed on a projector screen. And I was positively SINGED by the fire of competition. Yes, I truly have marched around my childhood neighborhood, knocking doors, trying to sell those very things-- to suburban people, who make their own cookie dough, already own wrapping paper, and buy magazines when they want them. I also remember breaking down and crying one night because I didn't get 75 magazine subscriptions sold, and I would be one of the only people I knew who DIDN'T get that grand prize-- a limousine ride to lunch at Carl's Jr. Yes, all this is real.

And don't even get me STARTED on my Girl Scout Cookie days.



Unfortunately, I can't sell. Anything. I couldn't sell a pepperoni pizza to a Ninja Turtle. I bet Donatello would just look at me sadly, shake his head, and walk away.

I did however earn that inflatable armchair. It had a hole in it. And much like that armchair, my salesman (saleswoman?)-ship has always remained very much... deflated.

Today, a very kind salesman wandered into the office.

I politely listened as he tried to sell me on his company's services. I felt bad for him, because the only answers I could give him were "Yes, I can take your card, but unfortunately we already have a vendor for that right now." The situation was not improved by the fact that a particularly large something was sticking out of his nose, and made a grand exit when he was mid-sentence.

I just wanted to give him a pat on the back (out of encouragement, and also because it's out of range of his schnoz) and say, "Hey, man. I'm sorry this pitch just isn't going your way. But hey, you tried, and I bet you were the type of kid who got to ride in a limo to Carl's. Props."

I took his business card.

Better luck next time, guy. I feel your pain.

Thanks, Universe.

Don’t you love those wacky little coincidences where unexpected things work in your favor? Observe:

1) I just went to my work Outlook calendar to create a birthday reminder for myself with a pretty picture on it, and realized that I already did that a few months ago. My brain knows me too well.
2) Today I was eating celery with laughing cow cheese, and the factoid inside the laughing cow cheese wrapper said, “You burn more calories digesting celery than it contains.” I wanted to give myself a high five.
3) I came home from work yesterday and sitting on the counter was the exact book I was needing to get from the library. Harry had thought ahead and surprised me with it (can I really give the universe credit for that one though?).

And yesterday afternoon, I received another ladle full of “Destiny du Jour” into my proverbial soup bowl of providence.

I was denied from the Speech Pathology graduate program I had been so eager and excited to apply for.

Obligatory background: I graduated a year ago from BYU, engaged to the best looking man in the western hemisphere (I’ve never ventured into that eastern hemisphere, so I have to allow for the miniscule chance that there may have been someone slightly better, while fully believing there isn't). We’d spent our school year up to that point applying for schools in the same locations, hoping for 2 acceptance letters from the same region of the country. I got one acceptance, one “wait-list,” and four denials. Harry got almost all acceptances, except from two schools. The let down was that my one acceptance came from a place where Harry wasn't admitted. Southern Connecticut University said yes to me, Yale had told Harry in a high pitched nasally voice, “We already have too many smart people. Please shoo.”

It didn’t matter in the end, because Stanford was where we knew we were meant to be. So many things had fallen into place for us to be here, and we were excited to come. And so far, it’s been dreamy and delicious in every particular.

This year, I decided to apply yet again for one local school that had turned me down last year. Months ago I drove down in the middle of a work day to the campus, met with the Dean of the program, personally handed in my hard copies of my application, and tried to demonstrate all the facets of my personality in one 15 minute appointment and two firm and enthusiastic handshakes.

Alas, it’s now many moons after I began this whole process, and yesterday I received the fateful email. Out of 400 applicants, they took 38 students. Come fall, I officially have no books to purchase/tuition to pay/parking permit to buy (cue sad face).



I should be bawling into a pillow, at least a little embarrassed, considering how many people I told about this application and for the previously high level of my hopes. But, I don’t think I’m in the mood to beat myself up or feel like a failure right now. I don’t have the energy. I have a husband who is the MAN and makes my life exciting and intriguing, a brother coming home and an ensuing get-together with my fabulous family, a job that pays me money so that we can do fun things, friends who make me giggle even from too many miles away, and a million things I can be doing/learning to do in order to make myself more interesting.

Harry told me that now I've crossed "Speech Pathology" off the list of things I'm going to do with life.

(cue playing of Coldplay’s “Everything’s Not Lost,” with steadily increasing volume)

So, world, you’re my freakin oyster. On to the next pursuit. Be it a sewing project or a dissertation on world peace, I’m jumping in headfirst.

And hey, undergrad wasn’t a total waste. At the very least, I’ll still be able to write in the phonetic alphabet.

ɵɛɧks, ‘junIvɚs.

Happy Administrative Assistant's Day!

This is the very first gift I have ever been given based solely on my job status. I'll take it.

Behold: the Gardenia Bonsai. I had a coworker get this picture with my non-iPhone.



How did they know I can't get enough of gardenias? And that I wore one in my hair on my wedding day just so I could smell it the whole day and now strongly associate the two?

My guess is ESP, but they're claiming "lucky guess." Whatever.

I will now be googling "Bonsai care" during my free moments. So far I have learned that it is a dwarf variety of Gardenia jasminoides, and is a low growing evergreen plant that bears white fragrant blossoms from late spring through summer. Just in case any of you botany enthusiasts out there happen upon this blog, you'll know that I at least have the scientific name down.

Until next April 21st, fellow clerical workers... ASSIST ON!

Weekend in the city

We had ourselves a wild San Francisco weekend.

On Friday night we attended a work dinner party for a big conference that one of my coworkers was putting on for all the people helping us with our most recent clinical trial. We got to eat at a really neat restaurant in the city. All weekend long I kept wanting to take pictures of what we were doing but it never seemed appropriate-- especially at a company dinner. So, as usual, when I don't get any pictures, I steal from the internet. Here is where we ate:





Then we promptly scampered off to see Citizen Cope a few miles away. We arrived an hour after he was supposed to be on stage, and he hadn't appeared yet, and didn't appear for another 30 minutes, so... good timing for us. We watched him amid a swarming sea of scenesters. We loved it.

He's really good live. Reeeeally good. Easy to watch. Fun to watch. Really gets a crowd going despite the fact that his expression is pretty apathetic.

I also learned a few unexpected things.

1) I have a theory that if Citizen Cope cut all his dreds off, he'd look something like William H. Macy. I don't know if these pictures really do it justice-- am I the only one who sees this?




2) Apparently getting legalized "medical" marijuana has a level of ease tantamount to buying aspirin round these parts of the country. I ran out of fingers to count on when I tried to keep track of all the people lighting up hand-rolled doobies. Without fear of being caught. I also learned that the smell of 15 people within 30 feet of me lighting up simultaneously in an enclosed space results in nausea of the most vicious kind, and I found myself taking every other breath with the fibers of my jacket pressed up to my nose and mouth. Sound stupid? It should, because I felt pretty stupid. Actually I felt kind of like a 4th grade narc. Before you judge me/think that your preconceived notions of my geekiness are justified, just remind yourselves that 90% of the concerts I went to in the past 5 years were in UTAH. A great place for music, with a shocking lack of pot.

We got to sleep in the Japantown part of SF. We found this funky hotel-- it was 0.3 miles from the concert and had a cool vibe. We liked it.



And we decided we would dedicate ourselves wholeheartedly to something we'd failed at before-- eating at Dottie's True Blue Cafe.

Again, didn't seem like a great time to take copious pictures, considering we waited in line for an hour and didn't end up eating breakfast till around noon with a line hungry waiting people still lingering outside. Here's the cafe.



We ate cornmeal blueberry pancakes (they tasted like Winchell's donuts, only pancakes), fresh bacon (not greasy or drippy, more like jerky that had been pleasantly porkified), and french toast stuffed with raspberry preserves and mascarpone cheese. I still feel like I'm digesting a bowling ball. A delicious, sweet, life changing bowling ball.

Then we meandered around town. Not really meandered I guess because we had a destination in mind, but took our time getting there. We went to the Queen of all fabric stores-- Britex.





Four floors of every kind of woven or synthetic fabric/textile imaginable. We wanted to get our feet wet, and then pick projects, and come back for the actual materials. Then I'm going to get reacquainted with our Bernina and play seamstress!

Then we came home, exhausted and ready to be back in our suburbian atmosphere. The city is so much fun but I have to admit I love our quiet little on campus place too. I'm a big home body. Harry said that's how you know your trip went well-- you had a good time, but at the end of it, you're ready to go home.

The End.

Nasty Brute and Mr. Nice

I've experienced both emotional ends of the working world spectrum today, all before 1:15 pm. Here's the juxtaposition.

This morning I got a phone call from an individual who I will refer to as Nasty Brute. This is how the conversation went:

Nasty Brute: Hi, I need the phone number for _______ (one of the higher ups whose number I am forbidden to give to anyone).
Me: Oh I'm sorry, they don't actually work at this site. Can I take a message?
Nasty Brute: Well, then transfer me to _________ (another higher-up who I can't give out any information for).
Me: I'm sorry, they don't work at this site either, and I'm forbidden to give out phone numbers. May I get your information and give them the message?
Nasty Brute: Look, what's the big deal?
Me: May I ask who's calling?
Nasty Brute: I'm a student doing a project and I need to talk to ________. Just give me the number.
Me: Okay, I'm sorry, but I can't give it out--
Nasty Brute: Don't be a silly little girl. You better just transfer me to someone who CAN give me that information.
Me: (long pause, steam emitting from my ears) Let me talk to my supervisor.

I put him on hold.

My supervisor took the call, talked to him briefly, said we couldn't help him, talked over his whining, and hung up.

There are many choice words which would describe my digust at people like that. I won't say them, but they do exist.

Then around noon I was sent to go pick up lunch per usual. Today I was sent to a Greek restaurant that's owned by the sweetest, friendliest man with a handlebar mustache. We'll call him Mr. Nice (my creativity perplexes the mind, does it not?). I was paying for the office order, and this was our conversation:

Mr. Nice: So which of these things is your lunch?
Me: Oh, none of it, I'm just picking it up for a meeting (in retrospect I should have just lied, because what restaurant owner wants to hear that you're in their restaurant, but not eating their food?)
Mr. Nice: But why aren't you getting any? Are you on a diet or something?
Me: No no, just trying to save money, you know. I have eaten here before though and I loved it.
Mr. Nice: (points to my wedding ring) Are you newly married?
Me: Yeah.
Mr. Nice: Well, what have you eaten here before?
Me: I've had the Greek pizza and the pepperoni pizza.
Mr. Nice: (beckons to one of the waiters) Hey, can you get me 2 slices of pepperoni pizza in a box please? (smiles at me)
Me: Oh my goodness, you don't have to do that.
Mr. Nice: (waves his hand at me)
(waiter brings up box with pizza, he hands it to me)

On top of that, he gave me a $5 discount on the whole order.

I thanked him profusely and felt pretty embarrassed. I was not expecting/asking for that. Next time Harry can come up for lunch, we're eating there. And ordering EVERYTHING

I wish Nasty Brute was here so he could smell my free pizza.

Horses and Dreams.

I share a few key characteristics with horses.



Namely, a busy mane, brown eyes, and thunder thighs.

Today, friends, the list grows.

I have eaten my way through one of these bad boys

ENTIRELY by myself.

Yep (Whinnying with pride).

It's the perfect way to start my day at work. I get to steal a minute of alone time at my desk with a steaming bowl of nature's finest (and Black Beauty's favorite) breakfast. Something about a warm bowl of something that I can shovel in with a spoon and don't really have to chew very much in the morning steels my nerves for the day ahead.

The fact that consumption of a large container of oats is on my "recent accomplishments" list reminds me that college is over. My big accomplishments now consist of my ability to eat the same thing for breakfast for two months.

Sometimes I wish that it were normal to get at least 3 degrees in 4 years (those prodigy kids who become professors before they can drive don't count). By the time I got out of BYU, I realized there are at least 4 other programs I would have loved to try. If I could go back, I would jump headlong into the Clothing Construction program. And I would have gotten a degree in American History. And then I would have studied Graphic Design or Illustration. And then maybe I would become a nurse. I miss learning in a classrom, instead of doing the same things I do at work, which mainly numb the brain.

My job does teach me that earning money and working with people who are decent and nice are good things, and I can't knock that. Still. Is it wrong that I find myself visualizing the BYU Testing Center and I no longer break out in a cold sweat, but feel a glistening perspiration of nostalgia and longing?

Everytime we see something that dazzles me, like that gorilla playing the drums for the Cadbury ad, or read something really moving, or see something that requires a lot of skill, I think, "Oooh! Let's get a book on that!" so that I don't have to feel like all that learning is over.

I think this thought is inspired by "Good Will Hunting" when Matt Damon says to a Harvard know-it-all, "You dropped 150 grand on an education you could have gotten for $1.50 in late charges at the public library."

(Disclaimer: This is not a slight to higher education-- in case you didn't know, we've dropped a pretty penny ourselves on some hefty tuition of late.)

Case in point: I want to be someone who can do 500 things really well, and for now, I do maybe 4 things kind of well. And one of those 4 things is eating oats for breakfast.

Here's to a lifetime of reading up on how to do the other 496 things.

I'll raise a goblet of steaming oatmeal to that.

Bottoms up!

How do you spell "Mononucleosis?"

S-A-R-A-H-S-T-O-N-S-I-L-S.

I would post a picture of said tonsils, but this blog does not exist for the purpose of inducing nausea.

It's actually not that bad. Just your average (and tiny) relapse, barely on the brink of misery. Also, just bad enough to cause me to be camped out on the couch today, hanging with my pals ibuprofen and H20.

I'm considering having a doctor just take out my tonsils, once and for all. And then I'll donate them to science fiction.

To segue out of that and into something else completely non-related, my car's power steering doesn't work anymore.

Have you ever been sent to get 3 grande non-fat lattes in the violently pouring rain in your non-power-steering car and driven back from Starbucks with the steaming coffee sitting in a cardboard tray on your lap the entire time without spilling? I experienced more fear during that episode that anything I felt at anytime during the movie "Drag Me to Hell."

It actually hasn't been that bad without the power steering. But, to quote Fiddler on the Roof, WONDER OF WONDERS MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, Chevrolet has just announced a recall on all Cobalts because of their power steering problems (insert exclamatory and celebratory phrase with wild and uninhibited dancing here)!

Whenever my Mom or I get something we really want for free... we like to call it sticking it to the Man.

Score:

Sarah- 1

The Man- 0

And with that, my eyelids are feeling droopy. Out of sheer exhaustion I may not even make it to the end of this blog po

Outburst

I wrote this to my sister in an e-mail yesterday. Then I decided to post it so that everyone can see how my latent frustration can make its unexpected debuts.

I was sent to the store to get lunch for everybody today (not for myself, because, oddly, I always bring my lunch from home, and yet I go out to get everyone else’s 5 days a week), and I was in no laughing mood. I was paying at the register for the ill gotten gains, getting rung up by the same guy who usually rings up my ill gotten gains (and sympathizes whole heartedly with my daily lunch-delivery plight), and a guy in line behind me plops down on the rubber conveyer belt what he wants to buy-- 8 mousetraps. The cashier guy was like, "Oh no! Why do you need all those?" and the mouse trap guy is like, "I have an infestation! The worst part is, my 8 year old daughter has read all these cute cuddly stories about mice and will be so sad if I kill them." I laughed and said I thought that was too bad. And then, my mood uncontrollably manifested itself because I suddenly burst out with, "I HOPE YOU KILL THEM ALL!" The two guys exchanged surprised looks, laughed, and the mousetrap guy said, "Wow, you're really a catch!"

Thank you, Mousetrap Guy. I needed that.

I take my twist with a shout.

Many a belated event to blog about today. Which I'm sure all of you are on tenterhooks about.

Numero Uno.

Many Happy (meh, belated) Returns of the Day, Mum!

Look at this saucy photo I got of her from her oldest bro's wedding. What a dish! I'll claim those genetics anyday, yes ma'am!

If I turn out 49% as wonderful as she is, I'll be one lucky lady. My sister Merzy put it very accurately and eloquently when she said, "People ask me if there is any fault to be found with my Mom. The only fault I can find is that she has the tendency to occasionally burn a pot of broccoli. Beyond that, she really is perfect."

To which I would add, "But even when she burns broccoli, she does it without error."

Happy Birthday Momsy Pie, from one of your kittens.

Numero Dos: Valentine's Day.

A mish-mash surprise of Stake Conference, Chinese food, and the all-too-eager-to-commercialize-off-a-Catholic-holiday-flick, "Valentine's Day" (yes, we joined the herd, and mooed in unison).

It was, altogether, delicious. Harry bought me a gargantuan Diet Coke and shared his nachos with me.

On the actual February 14, we concocted our newest domestic masterpiece: Sichuan Pork with noodles.

An explosion of porkiness. In all connotations.

Then we topped it off with

Homemade Vanilla Pudding with blackberries and a smattering of crumbled graham cracker crust.

All is going fine and dandy in our corner of the US. The one and only real recent fly in the ointment occurred this past Thursday, and it has prompted a letter to spring forth from my keyboard.

Dear Coworker X:

Thursday’s insult was not the first. But I decided afterwards, that if your demeaning and patronizing words are good enough to be spoken aloud while I’m doing YOUR dishes in the kitchen, they are good enough to be posted on the internet. Immortalized, even.

As much as you think I want you to yell at me because of things like the coffee machine not being clean enough or the printer being out of paper (things that you yourself are capable to fixing when the need arises because you DO have functioning limbs and my desk is on the opposite side of the office), I find it a most rotten aspect of this job.

To put a cherry on top of all of these humiliating episodes, on Thursday you cornered me in the midst of my sudsing your sullied flatware, pinched my hip, and said, “Is it getting to you?”

“Is what getting to me?” I replied.

“The food here. I can tell you’ve put on weight. I can see your muffin tops when you sit.”

I don’t think I responded, but the shock was no doubt written all over my face. You continued to say, “You know, there’s a lot of food here, and some people just don’t have any willpower. But look at me. I only eat one piece of chocolate for dessert and I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing.”

I don’t remember saying anything other than, “Okay.”

Before you turned on your heel and left, you did say, “Just thought you ought to know.”

Ooooh. There are many things that you ought to know yourself, Coworker X. After all of the demoralizing things you’ve said to me, and the fact I’ve never ever done anything in retaliation except smile back at you and say, “Sure, thanks for letting me know,” I find it so stymieing that you find it necessary to twist the knife.

Twist and shout indeed.

I have a friend for you to hang out with. I call him/her the Cretin. He/she steals purses and Bibles. I’m sure HE/SHE could benefit from the things you have to say. And they way you choose to say them.

Most sincerely,

SAR

Happy Saturday, one and all!

Sandwiched between two holidays: a stream of conciousness.

- Thanksgiving was fantastic. Catching both sets of parents and seeing a plethora of siblings/their offspring never fails to make me gleeful. I loved every bit of my first Reynolds Thanksgiving. Especially that one time when Harry and I were making jalapeno poppers for our appetizer, and after I’d spent a good hour handling vinegar-soaked jalapenos with my bare hands, I realized my left hand felt like it was intensely burning. Thank goodness for my medical advisors (Shelly/Mac/Maggie) who told me that to relieve an acidic burn, you soak it in milk. So. Eating Thanksgiving dinner this year was a one-handed act for me whilst my simmering fingers took a bath in a bowl of Las Vegas’ finest 2%. Logging that memory away for future chuckling.

- My job is a wonderful thing because I can play music at my desk, so long as it doesn’t bug anyone. So I happily set about creating a Christmas station on Pandora and I realized… no matter how much you specify what music you like on Pandora, there’s still a lot of Christmas music that is LOUSY out there. Christmas in Kilarney? What?

- My job is a curious thing because I came back to work after my break and had 60 emails in my work inbox. 4 of them actually applied to me. Ah, the “Cc:” function. Why are people always so trigger happy with that thing?

- I told Harry I would decorate our apartment for Christmas on a $10 budget. Then I wondered why I said that. We will see how this turns out.

- I never thought I could benefit from the office coffee machine. And what a naïve girl I was. It turns out there’s a little spout that can create foamy steamed milk for your foamy hot chocolate pleasure. Plus, some blessed soul purchase almond flavoring syrup. Here I had brought fat-free-no-sugar-added cocoa mix (to counterbalance the ice cream I eat every night) expecting a mediocre treat during the day. Let’s just say that my afternoon hot chocolate pick-me-up today was ten times nicer than I thought it would be (and considerably more saccharine. Yet… I’m not giving up the ice cream).

- I, the girl who only knows how to run and ride a stationary bike, played basketball and volleyball over Thanksgiving. Usually sports that involve a ball intimidate—no, frighten me. But, contrary to what anyone may tell you, I’m not half bad. I’m more like 75% bad. But I’m 25% good, and that was enough for me to have a great time!

- I tried to resist. But I had to post it.My father-in-law’s most righteous Thanksgiving rap, Dan beat-boxing on back up.



Quite possibly the best Thanksgiving poem this year next to Harry's Michael Jackson reference and Coulter and Ned's thug turkey.

- Thanksgiving does inspire gratitude.
I am grateful for

I have a hard time imagining my life being enjoyable without him in it.

The End.

Real. Really.

As of very recently, I went from imaginary and disposable temp to having a real job. In the real world.

They PAY me to do real office stuff. I make real coffee, answer real phones, and you know it's so real when I copy and collate like you've never seen.

One real hour at a time. $___ real dollars every hour.

Being a Sugar Mama is so legit.