Preparing to vacate

I have a list a mile long of shit to do before we leave for Arkansas on Friday. I know I'm going to forget something. I keep referring to my five or six lists, but I still feel panicky. And the funniest part of the whole thing? The kids are most excited about the fact that the hotel we're staying at has a pool.

I've reminded the husband several times of the money would could save if we just stayed in an Indianapolis Super 8 or something. We wouldn't even use that much gas! No ten-hour car rides! I could afford the digital SLR I've always wanted! And the best part? His parents wouldn't be there!

He isn't amused.

Customer of the Day

A middle-aged couple stopped in last night, one of the busiest nights I've witnessed since around the holidays. I took their orders, and as I handed their finished drinks to them, the man said, "There are a bunch of kids sitting outside, talking on their cell phones."

"Oookay," I replied, waiting for the big revelation like, ...and they're being loud or ...and they're throwing spitballs or ...and they're humping like crazed rabbits on the tabletops.

I stared at them dully, clearly not understanding what the problem was. The woman stepped up and whispered, "They're like, loitering." And her husband gave me a knowing, solemn nod.

I somehow refrained from screaming and foaming at the mouth at them.

HELLO? It's a coffee shop, people. It's the whole purpose of a damn coffee shop. To get a coffee and then loiter about. There isn't a time limit, and as long as the kids are being polite and orderly, I can't make them leave! It was a lovely night, and I'm sure you wanted to sit outside and enjoy your mocha choco latta ya ya while you talked stocks and bonds and played old people footsie with each other, but seats are a first-come, first serve basis here. You know, how like most places in the fucking free world are.

No, I didn't scream that. I wanted to. What I really did was blink a couple of times and say, "Oh. Oookay. I see."

They looked slightly annoyed with the whole situation, but they grabbed their drinks and left, walking past the thugs sitting out on the patio, who were probably texting Satan himself while guzzling white mochas.

Fuckin' kids.

Listy McListerson

1. I took my mini-SUV to the Suzuki dealership to have a wheel bearing replaced yesterday. They couldn't finish it but assured me it would be done today. Supposedly it's covered under warranty, so I shouldn't owe anything. I'll still be bringing Astroglide though, because you just know a screwing will probably happen.

2. C turned 29 yesterday, and then proceeded to bitch and whine about just how old it was. And I was all, ahem, I've been 29 for six months and everything is just fine and I'll be 30 this year, and MAN am I excited about it so PLEASE shut up.

3. The husband loves to make fun of this little state we live in. And for the most part, I agree with him, but there's still this fierce need to protect this dumb state. I can't explain it. I think it may stem from the fact that he's from ARKANSAS. Has it been so long that he's forgotten? Forgotten that people have fewer teeth there and call shopping carts "buggies"? That their unofficial mascot is a hairy warthog of a pig with fangs? That they like to yell "SOOWEE!" to each other? How the hell do you forget that?

4. I think in order to distract me from the fact that he talks mad smack about Hoosierville, the husband bought me Wolf Parade's first album. It's so good that I mostly forgive him. Mostly.

5. I got nothin' for 5. So how about one of my most favorite pictures of all time? Boobers really embodied the whole clown spirit.

Customer of the Day

On Sunday nights, a church youth group comes to visit our store. I like to lovingly refer to them as The GodSquad. There's usually anywhere from four to ten of them, and they're just the most wholesome kids you'd ever want to meet. They sweetly order hot chocolates and teas, and then sit out in the lobby and braid friendship bracelets. No lie. Isn't that just so syrupy sweet you could gag a little?

However, child of the big G or not, it's never cute to order a "mocha choca lotta ya ya" at a coffee shop. I do not think it's funny. In fact, it may annoy me so much that I can't even crack a smile when I reply that we JUST ran out of mocha choca lotta ya ya. No, I might looked pained and slightly irritated. Which in turn makes the remaining members of the GodSquad feel embarrassed and awkward for you, and how are they supposed to braid bracelets with that kind of vibe?

Freakin' Usher

I've had this song in my head ALL. DAY. LONG. The dumbest song in creation, but dammit, it's catchy.



My favorite part, and perhaps the most beautiful lyrics ever written:

Let's both get undressed right here

Keep it up girl I swear

Imma give it to you non stop

And I don't care who's watchin, watchin, watchin

As for Usher, that man has the WEIRDEST hairline ever and sticky-outy ears. He's just not very cute at all. For the record, I would not make love to him in a club. On the bar or floor. Definitely not in a bathroom. Okay, maybe in a bathroom. But he'd so have to wear a bag over his big ear/weird hairline head. Because Usher from the neck down? Deliciousness.

I'm in love with a city

The husband surprised me with a trip to New York for our sixth wedding anniversary about four years ago. It was the best surprise anyone's ever given me, and I'm sure I'll never be able to trump it.

It also was the best vacation of my life, and I'm also pretty sure it will never be trumped either.

We were there only about four days, and we tried to pack in as much as we could. The Empire State Building at night, the Staten Island Ferry to pass by the Statue of Liberty, the Museum of Natural History. It was all breathtaking and inspiring. We walked miles and miles through that city, occasionally hopping on the subway. But while the subway was entertaining and quick, you missed so much by not treading the streets.

By the time we left, I was in love. Madly, deeply in love with a truly alive city. If it weren't for the fact that we had left my Big D back home, I would've stayed. I could've pitched a tent in the middle of Times Square and lived harmoniously with the Naked Cowboy and been completely happy. As the plane touched down back home in Indy, I was literally homesick for a city I'd only visited for a handful of days.

As I plan and research this upcoming trip we're taking, I can't help but veer my searches to New York occasionally, browsing flights and hotels, just counting down the days until we can go back sometime. I miss the honking and then the "no honking" signs on 5th Avenue, central park, the hotdog carts, the little lapdogs in Saks. I yearn for all of it.

I know we'll go back sometime, and I know Arkansas in a few weeks will be fun for us and the kids, but I wish my chest wouldn't tighten and my eyes get teary every time I think of it.

It's probably none of my business

I think it's finally been long enough that I can say what the most common phrase people Google to get to my blog. The same thing has been searched for by different people several times now, and boy, is it interesting. Are you ready?

nude coworker

Okay, so a couple of things here. One, you're probably highly disappointed when you do click on my link, because um, I'm not really about nude coworkers here, and there are definitely no pictures. Sorry. And two, whose nude coworker? Mine? Yours? Just some random weirdo's coworker? WHY? I don't know about your place of employment, but I don't want to see any of the people I work with sans clothing.

Most of the other things people search are mundane, normal things. However, there was one search a few days ago that was, I don't know, noteworthy? Scary? Really, really disturbing?

asshole pump

I've heard of pumping things up. Tires come to mind. Lips, okay. But why in the hell would you ever need that part of your anatomy pumped? I just...can't even fathom. And how sad were you when you found that I was just talking about pumps of vanilla syrup?

So all freaks take note: I'm making an effort from here on out to write about puppies, flowers, and rainbows.

I highly recommend torture to overcome your fears

Ever have one of those "What the fuckity fuck was I thinking?" moments? Oh, come now, everyone's had them. I think my very first one with regards to the kids was the first Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. As Big D clung to my leg in sheer terror from the large, slightly musty-smelling rat that came to wish him birthday cheer, as the token-sucking game machines chirped and whistled, as the hundred or so children shrieked and screamed and ran around the restaurant, I thought to myself, "What the fuckity FUCK?"

Another one of my favorite moments was some time last summer. Boobers was only a few weeks old, and even though I was as sleep deprived as I've ever been in my life, I needed to clean the house. So when the Boobers went down for his nap, I dragged out my vacuum. Big D wasn't a fan of the vacuum from about birth up until age three. Smella never really seemed to mind it, and I don't know if it was just a phase or having a new baby brother that upset her little world, but she was acting scared every time I ran it. So as she sat on the couch, clutching her blankie, whimpering, I had my brilliant idea.

"Look, Smella! It's okay! It's just the vacuum. Look!" And I proceeded to take the hose attachment and vacuum my shirt a little. "See how funny? Here! Let's try it on you!"

SERIOUSLY? No, I can't believe the awe-inspiring stupidity either, people.

Smella screamed and then began sobbing hysterically. In a last ditch effort to salvage any trust she ever had in me, I turned to Big D.

"No, sweetie! It's fun! Look, Big D likes it!" As I turned to Big D, he ran in circles as I tried to catch him and just, you know, suck up his shirt a little in the vacuum. "No, Big D! C'mon, let me try it on you!"

My plan didn't work so well. It's lucky Boobers was asleep, or else I would have probably tried it on him. I was that desperate to prove the Smella the vacuum wasn't this scary loud device of torment. No, it was just a little Hoover looking for a good time. It cleans up crumbs and is great for parties!

Luckily, I don't think I scarred my baby girl for life. Smella's mostly over her hatred of the Hoover.

Although she still eyes me warily when I whip out the hose attachment.

Tips on how not to be an asshole. Again.

Unless you're having some major kind of crisis, like you have a major head wound or are being chased by rabid monkeys, don't walk into a coffee shop one minute before the store closes. And then order four hand-crafted beverages. (Yeah, I said "hand-crafted." WHAT?)

And then, as I make your drinks, don't eye the pastry case longingly for a donut. Because those donuts are already wrapped up, ready for the next morning. The light is off in the case, the glass is all clean and sparkly. Get a clue.

And DEFINITELY don't say, "Awww, we caught you right at closing time." Because then I might have to grit my teeth and smile and nod pleasantly when I really want to jab you in the eye. EVERYTHING WAS CLEAN, dumbass. Because we were closing in ONE MINUTE.

This is why restaurant workers spit in other people's food.* Because for the lovagawd, that's rude.

*I wouldn't do this. I've never done this. BUT I'M JUST SAYING.

He just wishes

The husband has decided to start his very own blog. I think he's witty enough, but I won't blogroll him until he proves himself to me. That means regular, funny, insightful updates, buddy. And despite what he says, there won't be any "sick competition" between us.

That's because you can't compete with me at all, suckah!

Ahem.

So yeah, okay, there may be a little competition. It's why I got married: so I could compete with someone worthwhile on a regular basis. Oh, that and the insurance savings. You know, whatever.

We know how to party hard

While standing in line last night at Target with K and C, giggling like mad loons because we were free, free, FREE of children and husbands, the cashier says, "Looks like a girls night out."

K says, "Yep, that's exactly right."

Cashier smiles. "Everyone needs one of those now and then."

C, completely dry and stone-faced, "We do this every day."

We erupted into another fit of giggles while the cashier looked at us like we had been snorting lines of coke in the shoe aisle.

(We hadn't. We had been trying on all the highest heels we could find though and then testing out our "model walks." Dangerous shit, man.)

I suh-WEAR

If it doesn't stop raining on the poor Indianapolisians (and southern Indianans. And maybe the northern and eastern ones too) that someone is going to have to build a damn ark and paddle us to the Sahara so we can all dry out.

As I drove home from work tonight, the lightning was actually distracting. And a little blinding. And just slightly scary, dammit.

Planning

In about a month, the husband, my three kids, and I will embark on a little roadtrip. We're heading down south to Arkansas to visit the husband's family. It's about a ten-hour trip, and I've already developed an eye-twitch every time I think about it. Ten hours. In one vehicle. Three children. Woooo, there it goes again.

I've already begun making lists. I've never packed for this many people for as long as we'll be gone. Five people, five days, a newly potty trained Smella, a one-year-old. It's quite possible I'll need a u-Haul.

And there's another issue. I drive a Suzuki XL-7. That thing adores gas like a drunken frat girl adores a kegger. We're estimating $400 in gas for the trip. (I try not to remember back when the husband and I were first dating and gas was only 99¢ a gallon.) We've considered renting a smaller (but still big enough to squish two car seats and a seven-year-old in the backseat) car. It looks like with a higher mpg plus the cost of rental, it'd be about the same.

So I'm stressing. Adding things to my four or five lists and stressing. I'm looking forward to the vacation, but I swear the work it takes to get ready for one is unbelievable. I need a vacation from planning the vacation.

Anyone have any tips or advice? Any good ideas on keeping the kids occupied? Anyone have a script for an anti-anxiety med they'd like to share? I could use alllll the help I can get.

Customer of the Day

I haven't tested it before, but I'm almost positive that most restaurants frown upon patrons leaving the store and then coming back in four or five times a day for a drink refill. So it should be no surprise to you, Miss But-That-Other-Location-Said-I-Could!, that we don't allow it either. You can get your drink, hang out in the cafe, and then come get a refill before you head back out to your car, but that's the extent of refill time.

And really. Do you think we'll bend the rules for you if curse at us? Really? Your "I can't believe this shit!" is not going to warm the cockles of our hearts and change our policy. In fact, it'll probably cause us to bitch about you incessantly and try to get you banned from the whole damn store, stupid. And then where will you get your large iced tea with four Splendas? Hmm?

Top secret blog and oh yeah, the husband's a butthead

So I think this blogging thing is going okay. I mean, I'm having fun most of the time. It's gotten tedious once or twice, where I've sat down at the computer, completely overwhelmed with OMG! WTF do I write about?! I think I even have a regular reader or two (hi you guys!). The husband also reads daily and LOVES pointing out spelling or grammar errors. Helpful, that guy.

But he's it as far as friends and family goes. I haven't told anyone about this blog. And from reading others' blogs, that seems a common theme. I don't know why I don't want to tell them. I don't really write anything bad about anyone (save for that co-worker or two, but even that hasn't been awful). The thought just squicks me out a little. I guess eventually I'll spill it, but I'm not quite ready to just yet. There will be a time when it's right, and I'll want to, I'm sure. Or not. And they can just stumble upon it themselves. Whatever.

The husband is fully aware that I don't want to share this little blog yet. We've talked about it. But since he's 32 going on, I don't know, TWELVE, he likes to drop little references to past posts around my parents. The best one? We were hanging out at with my mom the other day while Big D and Smella shared a package of fruit snacks. My mom pointed out how they do loooove some fruit snacks. The husband agreed, saying, "Yeah, it's like kid crack, huh? Ice cream is my crack."

YEAH, I CAUGHT THAT, THE HUSBAND.

It didn't even register on my mom's radar. I refused to make eye-contact with the husband, so I'm not even sure if the jerkface was smirking or not.

All I know is that I know a whole lot about the husband. Like, those kinds of secrets only whispered to each other in the dark while lying in bed together. And we're going next month to Arkansas to visit his parents. I'd hate to have some non-sequitur tidbits slip out of my mouth around his mama. I mean I'd really, really hate for that to happen.

How I met the husband, The Finale

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.
Part IV here.
Part V here.

After leaving my parents house again after Christmas, I probably didn't stop crying until Missouri. When they came to visit us in Arkansas the following March, I was a weepy mess for weeks. And on one of the nights that the husband was consoling me while I sobbed into my pillow from the homesickness, he mentioned the idea of us both moving back to Indiana. Permanently.

Here's where I gush. This man, whom I had known for a little over a year at this point, was willing to give up his family, his state, his comfort. For me. This is why I agreed to marry him.

We wound up moving back in July. I had stayed in Arkansas for a whole year. The husband's parents were crushed, and I'm pretty sure his mom was more than a little irked at me for stealing her baby boy away, but I didn't force the boy at gunpoint. It was his idea, dammit.

We moved in with my parents. I got the job I had before I moved, and the husband found work shortly after. We saved up enough money to buy a used car in September.

And here's where I admit we kind of decided to get married when we did so that we could save on car insurance.

When I called to get quotes, the agent admitted that there would be an obscene amount of money saved if we were married. This still makes no sense to me. Do people become suddenly become awesome, responsible drivers as soon as the marriage license is signed? I'm here to tell you Internet and Allstate that it's not true in the husband's case. Woo boy. Still a crazy driver.

Since the husband and I weren't (and still aren't) very religious and had no want for spending ungodly amounts of our or our parents' money on a huge wedding, we decided to head down to the city county building to visit a justice of the peace. We got the marriage license on Monday, and on Saturday September 19, 1998, we were married. My parents, sister, K and her fiance were there. It was quick and simple, but I meant every word of those vows I said. Despite being urged a little at the thought of saving on insurance, it was the exact right time. I still don't regret it.

The husband and I moved out a few weeks later. My mother-in-law was tickled pink that we were A-OK in the eyes of the Lawd and were no longer living in sin. She was still a whackadoodle, but at least she wasn't calling every so often spouting bible verses.

The husband and I will celebrate ten years this year. We've had ups and downs, of course, but I don't think there's anyone else in the world I could be married to. In a lot of ways, the husband is my exact opposite. He's the quiet one. I'm not. He's great at math. Um, I struggle with that. He tends to be easy-going, and I enjoy a good freak-out from time to time. How we met and ultimately got married was perfect.

And really, could a story be any better to blog about and tell our grandchildren? I think not.

Can't you just smell the cow poo?

C and I made it back from our trip to K's new house on Friday. The drive is as every bit as awful as I expected. There will be no more drop-ins to K's house with an hour and ten minute drive. C and I helped paint K's son's room, and hey, I hate painting. It was the first time I'd actually painted a wall, and I think it pretty much sucks. So there. I've learned something new about myself.


I also ruined a perfectly good shirt because I'm a total dumbass who paints in nice shirts. I really thought, "Painting doesn't have to be messy! I'll just make sure I'm careful." I'm still picking off tiny blue specks of paint from random spots on my body. Duh.

K's neighbors? Really real Amish peoples. Horse and buggy, no electricity Amish. I felt like a total whore sitting on her porch what with my v-neck shirt and Diet Coke, but they were friendly enough to just wave and not smite thee.

I will say that why I'd never pick to live out in the middle of NOWHERE, it is gorgeous and open. Neighbors aren't piled up on one another. It's quieter. Complete strangers wave at you when you drive past. It's quaint and charming. I just really, really, really like Target.