Thursday, August 28, 2008

Abort! Abort! Return to the Mothership!

That is exactly what I did. Returned to the Morthership, a.k.a. Starbucks. I was crazy to think that I could nix the caffeine addiction, and if I have to have caffeine, I might as well have the best caffeine Boca can offer, right? I was welcomed home with open arms, and a job offer. Here's the conversation I had with my favorite local baristas upon my return:

"Nanci! We missed you the past few days? Your usual?"

"Yes, please. I tried to break up with you guys. It didn't work. What do
you put in this coffee, crack?"

"Entirely possible. So why break up with us?"

"Thought it was an expense I didn't need. I was wrong."

"You could always get a part-time job here, then you'd get your coffee for

Hmm...I may have to consider this.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Weird Fact Wednesday

I am terrified of the Florida lizards. I call them "Florida lizards" because I'm not sure what they are. Geckos? Chameleons? Small iguanas? No idea.

(See image at right. This picture was taken at my wedding. This particular picture is from my official wedding album, but I can't tell you how many angles of this lizard I have seen in all the wedding candids family members sent me. Everyone noticed him, and everyone thought he was adorable. He was the most popular guest.)

In any event, I am terrified of them. Do I think they're cute? Yes. Do I think they are way creepier than they are cute? To that I give you a, "Hell, yes!"

I'm not exactly sure why they creep me out so bad. It could be because I find them a bit dishonest with the blending. Just be who and where you are, for the love of Pete.


It could be due to the unfortunate encounter I had with one such lizard in my very first apartment in Florida.

Tim was working that night at Ruby Tuesday, so I was home alone. This was pre-Azrael, pre-Styx and pre-Hydra, so it was just me and Hades, who was a tiny little kitten at the time. (He was so damn cute, wasn't he?)

Nature called, so I went to the bathroom, and very shortly after I sat down I heard a small "splash." Confused, since I hadn't done anything as of yet, I turned to peer into the toilet.

And there he was, a Florida lizard about 4 inches long. All clear and veiny, attempting to blend in with the white porcelain.

I freaked.

I slammed the toilet lid shut and ran for the phone.

"There's a lizard in the toilet," I told Tim when he finally came to the phone. I could hear busy kitchen sounds behind him.

"What?" he asked.

"There's a lizard in the toilet!"


"What do you mean, 'so?' I can't pee with a lizard in the toilet! What if he tried to crawl upstream?"

"So flush him."

"No way!"


"What if he clogs the toilet?"

"Baby, please, I've taken craps bigger than a lizard. He's not going to clog the toilet."

"Well, it's mean."

"Then you're just going to have to get him out."

"Can you come get him out?"

"Are you kidding?"



"Fine. I'll figure it out."

I got off the phone with Tim, letting him go back to work, and went back to the bathroom to check on the lizard. Still there, still trying to blend. And I still had to pee.

I called Rob Miller, husbad of my friend Tracy, and most recent roommate. I had, practically, the identical conversation with Rob.

"So you're not going to come get him out?" I asked Rob.

"Nope, sorry, you're on your own."

"But I really have to pee."

"So come here."

Which is what I did. Instead of attempting to deal with the lizard, or pee on top of him and flush him, I drove 10 minutes to Rob and Tracy's house to use their bathroom, and then drove back home.

When I got home, the lizard was gone, and I haven't ever again encountered one in my toilet, but ever since then I have lived in fear of the lizards.


Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Critical Update

Starbucks detox not going well! Need Mint Mocha Frappuccino! Send help!

Klutz Meets Skimboard

About two months ago, Tim took up skimboarding. It started as a way to get him to come to the beach with me every weekend; if he didn't have a specific beach purpose, he was ready to leave ten minutes after we arrived, and how is an Irish girl expected to tan in five minutes?

Its been working out pretty well. Most Sundays, if the weather holds, I can expect to get two hours in the sun while Tim boards, recovers, boards, and recovers.

At first I made fun of him for being so out of breath, wiped out, and sore from the activity. I figured it had more to do with him being an out of shape smoker than the difficulty of the sport.

Then I tried it.

First of all, it is definitely one of those things that looks way easier than it is.

Second of all, I have a problem keeping my own two feet on stable, dry land. Imagine what happened when I attempted to balance on a wet, moving skimboard. I'll tell you: I fell down. A lot.

I didn't complain, though. Not once. At least, not while I was falling. I have plenty of complaining to do now since I can barely move a single part of my body without it screaming in protest.

As I was complaining last night, Tim made a valid point. Have you ever seen a fat skateboarder or skimboarder? Neither looks like it should be a physically draining activity - jump on a board, glide. Oooh, real hard. Well, it is. My quads are on fire. My abs are shrieking in pain. My triceps protest when I left my purse. Or a pen. Or simply my arm.

But - I plan to try it again this Sunday. At least once I want to not fall down. And hell, I'm getting the workout of my life. Added bonus.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Starbucks Detox: Day One

One of the best Starbucks quotes of all time, although not at all related to the topic at hand, was spoken by Tom Hanks, as Joe Fox, in the movie You've Got Mail:

"The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don't know what the hell they're doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino."

Hi, my name is Nanci, and I am addicted to Starbucks.

Hi, Nanci

I adore Starbucks, and have ever since we were first introduced in 1999, in Boston, MA.

You see, I was never a huge coffee fan. While I hugely appreciated the morning jolt of caffeine, coffee, much like beer, in an acquired taste. And much like beer, I find coffee to be mostly functional. Allow me to explain.

I don't drink beer because I crave the taste. Actually, I don't drink beer. I will only ever drink beer if I have a severe need to be drunk and there is no other alcoholic beverage available.

Beer = functional.

Similarly, I don't drink coffee because I crave the taste. I drink coffee because I have become dependent upon the influx of caffeine in the morning. Thus, I have never understood the drinkers of decaffeinated coffee. (or O'Douls for that matter, if we bring beer back into the picture.)

But Starbucks, oh wonderful Starbucks, took the coffee taste out of coffee! That is, if you venture away from the standard brew, drip and perk, and allow yourself to wander the world of lattes, mochas, flavored syrups and foam! Now, in addition to getting my requisite morning vibe of caffeine, I also get to drink what, in essence, tastes like a hot, melted cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream. This may not sound good to you, but, may I just say, 'yum squared.'

At first I was only drinking Starbucks on the weekends, as a special treat. Then I started going on Friday's, because Friday is the day for all things naughty. Before I knew it, Starbucks was a morning routine. The baristas knew me by name, and simply asked, "The usual?" whenever I approached the counter. It was bliss. I had never had a "usual" before. They even noticed my trends. When it was the season for Pumpkin Spice, I drank Pumpkin Spice, until the sad day came that the flavor was out of season, and I returned to my trusty peppermint white mocha.

I didn't think it could get much worse after that, but oh boy, did it ever.

After a year or so I found myself needing more of a jump to keep me going in the morning. I discovered that I could add shots of espresso to my usual drink. Oh rapture!

My entire Starbucks experience was nothing short of wonderful, except for the day I realized just how much money I was giving to the Starbucks empire. It made me want to weep. It was insane that one person could spend so much money on coffee. It had to be stopped.

I made a painful decision. I would put myself through Starbucks detox. (It was either that or make the cats get a job, and what was the likelihood of that? They were both lazy with very little skill other than being adorable and lizard hunting. Which, on later thought, there may be a market for down here in lizard central.) I had quit smoking, how much harder could this be? It was only coffee for Christ's sake.

I dragged my coffeemaker out of storage and cleaned it. I made my final (fingers crossed) trip to Starbucks and purchased a bag of ground coffee and a bottle of their peppermint mocha flavored syrup. During that week's grocery shop I purchased filters, half and half, sugar, travel cups. I could do this!

I had my first cup of non-Starbucks coffee this morning.

You know what?

Complete disaster.

I really thought I could replicate the wondrousness. However, instead of thick, frothy, melted mint chocolate chip ice cream bliss, I ended up with bitter coffee flavored hot water with a strange aftertaste that sort of resembled mint chocolate.


This is going to take some work.

Neglected Media

Books by the side of my bed, waiting to be read: (Rhyme not intentional, I found no way to avoid it.)
  • Second Chance by Jane Green
  • The Gatecrasher by Madeleine Wickham (a.k.a. Sophine Kinsella of the Shopaholic series)
  • New Moon by Stephanie Meyer
  • The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch
  • The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

Shows in TiVo, waiting to be watched:

  • All of season 4 of Weeds, up until most recent
  • All of this season of The Closer, save the 2 episodes I watched while biking today
Movies I have copies of waiting to be watched:

  • Batman Begins: The Dark Knight
  • Made of Honor
  • Superbad
  • Grandma's Boy
  • Ice Age 2

Works on the Bridge that I would like to read:

  • Forces of Nature, Barbara
  • Go Figure, Madeleine
  • A Classic Tale, jacobgowans
  • The Becoming, pintobeans
  • A Place in the Shade, Alannah
  • In Fitness and in Death, Alannah
  • Sheila's Progress, Alyssa
  • Death of a Cubs Fan, Alannah

Members I would like to read more of on the Bridge:

  • glberen
  • Histrel
  • ceej
  • Saoirse
  • sofie
  • lexee

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Thursday Night Entertainment

I am a sick, sick person.

Truly, I am.

I only realized how very sick tonight.

Thursday night is feeding night for Hydra, the ball python.

When we first brought her home, I couldn't bear to watch Hydra eat because, at the time, she was devouring adorable little pinky mice. I actually considered starting a "Save the Mouse" crusade. For every mouse that Hydra killed, I would rescue another from the reptile shop and set it free. Tim convinced me that the mice stood less of a chance in the wilds of South Florida than they did in Hydra's tank. Point well made.

However, Hydra inevitably got bigger, and graduated to eating rats.

Rats are not necessarily cute.

Rats are dirty.

Rats are gross.

Rats squeak real good when snatched and strangled by a python.

And, seriously, have you ever watched a snake eat? It is fascinating stuff. Admittedly, Hydra is not the smartest of snakes, and occasionally attempts to eat her rats butt-first, but that only adds to the entertainment factor. The best Thursday nights are the ones when she refuses to eat where she killed, and drags the rat to a different locale in the tank.

And my favorite part? The big yawn she does at the end to re-lock her jaw in place.

Wicked cool.


I know.

I should be ashamed of myself.

It gets worse.

Read on if you dare.

Since Tim treks to the reptile store for a rat each Thursday, he is also nice enough to pick up Styx's super worms.

Last Thursday I requested that he also pick up some crickets for the Fuffer. I feel she needs some variety in her diet.

Well, Styx loves the crickets, but they are tricky little suckers. They hop real good. (This was Tim's initial objection to getting the crickets at all. If one got loose, and he had to listen to chirping all night, he wanted a divorce. He kids, of course, but he was serious about me being very careful when feeding Styx the crickets.)

By Murphy's Law, the first cricket that I tried to feed to Styx hopped away. I figured she might chase it. I underestimated her hunting instincts. I should blame myself for spoiling her so. (I have been known to let her eat from my hand when she is feeling particularly lazy and/or snotty.) I had to suck it up and deal with Tim's ribbing all night long, and console myself and my imaginary cricket-crawlies that my two bad-ass hunter cats would not allow the renegade to live long.

Due to this episode, I learned a little lesson.

Rip off one of the legs and the cricket merely hops in circles, and Styx can take all the time she wants hunting him down.

I know, I know!


And I claim to be such an animal lover!

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Weird Fact Wednesday!

OK - here's the Weird Wednesday fact about me. I count stairs. Every time. I can even tell you how many steps are in certain staircases. My apartment, for example. My parents' front porch stairs. Stairs from the dining room to the basement in my parents' house. Yup. Weird.

I used to think I did this because my older siblings tortured me and made me terrified of our basement. (Shout out to Paul, Adam and Jennifer here.)

Allow me to explain.

Back in the day (like I am so old) my parents had one of those huge box freezers as opposed to a freezer/fridge combo, and the freezer was kept in the depths of the scary basement. If I wanted ice cream, I had to trek to the freezer to get it. Well, since my siblings had me convinced that pure evil resided in the basement, I took the trip upstairs at a run with my eyes closed. Therefore I needed to know how many stairs there were so that I wouldn't trip all over myself, allowing myself to then be eaten by the pure evil.

It makes perfect sense to me.

But I've realized that if that were truly the case, I would only know the stair count on that particular set of stairs. I am now forced to admit that the habit may be slightly OCD.

Oh, I see you raising your eyebrows in question, but I'm sticking with my use of the modifier slightly.

Your turn!

Monday, August 18, 2008


Tropical Storm Fay is on a path toward the West Coast of Florida. A hurricane warning is now in effect for southwestern Florida while a tropical storm warning is in effect for the southern third of coastal Florida. You'll notice by the star on the map above that Tim and I will be experiencing nothing more than heavy winds and rain.

Bollocks, I say.

We haven't had a good hurricane since Wilma in 2005. Although when I repeat my disappointment at home, Tim is quick to ask,

Are you on crack? Do you not remember Wilma? No power for three weeks? Hello? Why don't you go chase a tornado or something?"

I hesitate to admit this to my husband, but I would love to be a storm chaser. However, I have a funny feeling that it involves a lot more boring meteorological knowledge than what they show you on TV.

And yes, I do remember Wilma, and I loved it. Well, most of it. Being extremely ill-prepared, both ration-wise and monetarily, we were forced to eat out every day which was not easy on the budget.

Other than that I adore a good hurricane. I strive to make enough money to have a second home in the Florida Keys, which I will flee to when I hear of impending hurricanes. I have been on the verge of jubilant all day, just waiting for Fay to suddenly change course and veer toward the East.

Sick, I know, but it's not like I am hoping for anything more than a category 2. And I would never wish for death and destruction. Just a little huff and puff without blowing the houses down. (This could totally qualify as a weird fact. Too bad it's not Wednesday.)

Not that it matters. Fay is stubbornly remaining a tropical storm, and I am forced to cling to the modicum of hope that the remaining 4 months of hurricane season may bring happiness.

If by some strange chance you don't hear from me tomorrow it is because Fay answered my pleas and knocked out the power. Yippee!

A girl can dream.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Styx's First Field Trip

When you have a hedgehog as a pet, it is hard for people not to be curious about it. It is even harder for people not to be curious about mine since I have her paw print tattooed on my ankle (along with Hades' and Azrael's). When people notice the tattoo, and I tell them it is my cats' and my hedgehog's paw prints, the response is inevitably, "You have a hedgehog?!" and the barrage of questions begins.

At times, people become so curious that they just have to see her for themselves. Not a whole lot of people have ever seen a hedgehog, and most of the time the only point of reference they have is Sonic, which she really looks nothing like.

This is what happened with the women at Tim's job, especially since they heard him "fuffing" at me over the phone one day. When he explained the noise that Styx makes when she is agitated (she sounds like a cross between a rattlesnake and and a record player) the ladies decided that they absolutely needed to meet this fascinating creature. Since it was unlikely that these women would all troop to my apartment on their lunch hour to meet Styx, my hedgehog's first field trip was planned.

Since Tim only works a mile from the apartment (yes, my heart bleeds for his difficult commute) I could easily bring Styx to the office, show her off, and return her home before heading off on my own 45-minute commute. It was well worth the effort.

Styx, my irritable, snotty, holier-than-thou pet, performed beautifully on her first outing from the moment I placed her in her obnoxious pink Paris Hilton-esque pet carrier. The minute we stepped outside she was awake, alert and very out of character. At the office, she fuffed, curled, preened and pranced for the women of Palm Aluminum and Glass, and they cooed over her as, I can only imagine, they would have had I brought in my newborn baby, and I similarly acted the proud protective mama.

I'm now planning Styx's next field trip, since the folks at my office were pretty put out that I didn't bring her to meet them as well.

It's damn fun to have such a cool pet.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Where I've Been

Working. How much does that suck?

One of the lazy-ass idiots who works with me (I would love for him not to rename nameless, but some other people that I work with may read this blog and I would hate to seem petty) screwed up his part of the project that is scheduled to launch on Monday.

Guess who has been fixing this screw up since yesterday afternoon?

Yours truly.

I have so much to blog about, and so little time.

Bear with me, hopefully you will hear from me tomorrow!

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Weird Fact Wednesday!! (How Excited Are You?)

When I was ten years old (I think. Mom? Confirm?) I broke my wrist.

Ha! Not weird!

Here's the weird part. I broke my wrist because I was trying to re-enact a scene from The Princess Bride. You know, the scene when Wesley and Inigo are fencing, and Wesley throws his sword into the sand below, then leaps onto the convieniently placed tree branch and performs several revolutions before landing on his feet and extracting his sword from the sand? Yeah, I tried to do that on some not so conveniently placed monkey bars. Didn't work out so well for me. (Don't even pretend you didn't try it, too.)
I'm also not so sure I ever told my parents that truth about that. I was pretty sure they would be mad. Guess I'll find out now.

Your turn!

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Tuesday on TV

New weekly thing for me to post about (see how I keep making my life easier?) TV! (Who doesn't love TV?)

During the summers I usually find myself at quite a loss for what to do with myself on certain nights of the week. Tuesday nights are still especially painful, since that is when Buffy used to air. (Final episode aired May 20, 2003, the day before my 25th birthday. Sigh.)

However, I have found an outlet for my Tuesday night angst, and no, it is not reality TV. (My reality TV addiction started with Fear Factor, and I have followed the career of Joe Rogan all the way to the UFC. Kick ass, Chuck Liddell!)

It's actually a little more embarrassing than reality TV. It's The Secret Life of An American Teenager.

It's an ABC Family Original. It's corny. Nobody swears. Stereotypes abound. The acting is bad. It features a Brat Pack member, a Melrose Place alumnus, and Clark Kent's dad. (Better known as Bo Duke.)

I watched one episode and I was addicted. Go figure.

(While I'm getting embarrassing things off my chest, I would also like to mention that I downloaded the new Miley Cyrus and watched the Teen Choice Awards. Whatever.)

Monday, August 11, 2008

This Just In!

I just decided that I am going to initiate a Pickle Tree custom.

Weird Fact Wednesdays!! (I wanted to do it tomorrow but Weird Fact Tuesdays doesn't sound as cool as Weird Fact Wednesdays.)

Each Wednesday I will post a weird and little known fact about myself or my life, and you will reciprocate in kind by posting a comment with a weird and little know fact about you. K? OMG I just used text shorthand. OMG I just did it again. LOL.

Someone pass me the Advil PM, it's past my bedtime.

Crap, Now I Have To Be Interesting...And Productive

On Friday I decided to share The Pickle Tree with my family and friends.

I therefore created for myself one of the largest catch 22's I have ever had to deal with. (As a side note, my husband despises the term "catch 22" because what does it mean, really? I thought of him as I started writing this post, and actually interrupted myself to look up the definition of catch 22. Very insightful, as I believe I have been using it wrong for years. Inconceivable.)

Anyway, the catch 22. Hopefully there is now more than one person reading my blog on a regular basis. (Me being the one person. Yes, I count. I read as I write.) Hopefully my family and friends will find the blog at least mildly entertaining and pass it on to other family members and friends of their own. I could have my own little blog following, how cool is that?

I can't really find much of a problem with that except for...the title of this blog. Now I'm probably expected to be interesting on a fairly regular basis, and anyone who knows me is aware that my life is far from interesting on a regular basis. And when it is interesting, I don't want my parents reading about it because it usually involves alcohol, curse words and sex. So there's half of my catch 22.

The other half is that I sent out the blog as a way of letting my family and friends know that "Hey, I've finally decided to stop wallowing in the fact that I don't have a college degree and get back into this writing thing."

This means that I have painted myself into a productive corner. My family and friends now expect me to be writing all the time. Yes, I have already received phone calls asking "So what have you written today?" Which really is fine, and invited, since apparently my motivation levels are linked to my irritation levels. It would explain why I get my best ideas in the car, as I am frequently a victim of road rage.

So welcome, family and friends, thanks for being here. Thanks for the support. I apologize to those of you who would enjoy reading about alcohol, curse words and sex. Call my father and make him promise to never read this blog and you'll get yourself some way more interesting topics.

Friday, August 8, 2008

The Study

Intro: When I suffered my quarter-life crisis, packed everything I could into my Saturn and drove 1400 miles to South Florida, Tracy and Rob Miller were who I drove to. Tracy had been a friend since high school and the Hopewell Bakery days, and she and her husband provided refuge when I had nowhere else to go. For those who know Tracy and Rob, they will understand why I still refer to their home as The Miller Halfway House For Wayward Travelers.

Me: She hung up on me.

Tracy: Who?

Me: My mother. She claims that the cordless phone died and that she needed to go use the phone in the study, but I think she found a clever way to avoid my question - gave herself time to think of a cover story.

Tracy: Wait a second, the study? What, do your parents live in the Clue mansion?

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Wake Up Call

This is eerily exactly like my cats:

Click to view hilarious video (but only if you find the antics of cats hilarious)
Wake Up Call

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Azrael Goes AWOL

Each morning as I prepare for work Azrael, my smallest and neediest feline, follows closely at my heels. He lounges in the bedroom while I get dressed. He frolics in the bathtub while I do my hair and makeup. He zig zags back and forth across the living room as I collect my belongings. His final act before I leave is to stretch his long kitty body across the floor directly in front of the door. I like to believe this is his last desperate attempt at getting me to stay home and play with him all day. Much to his dismay, I simply step over him and go merrily on my way, blowing kisses and assuring him that I will be home soon.

This morning, instead of flinging himself in front of the door for me to step over, Azrael chose to abandon desperate and attempt nonchalant.

As I was exiting my apartment laden with laptop, purse, keys and sunglasses, Azrael trotted out the front door right next to me like it was something he did every day. I looked down toward my right shin to confirm that, yes, my indoor cat was now chilling in the hallway of my open air apartment complex merely three flights away from the parking lot, neighborhood dogs and certain death. Then I freaked out.

I re-opened the front door and hurled all of my belongings inside almost hitting Hades, the good cat, who was craning his neck to see what was going on and looking at me as if to ask, "Is he finally leaving? Are you finally kicking him out?"

I returned to the hallway to retrieve my fugitive only to find that Azrael had yet to bolt for either of the stairways. But having witnessed my freak out I could tell that his freak out was imminent.

The second I made a move in his direction he ran to the other end of the hallway and started yowling at the top of his lungs as though I had starved him for days, banished him from his home and forced him to beg for shelter.I had never heard such a sound. It wrenched at my heart and terrified me at the same time. I began to shush him and murmur words of comfort, all the while sneaking toward him. Azrael stopped mid-yowl and evaluated what I was attempting. He wasn't happy with it. He took off again.

Before he could reach the top of the concrete stairwell I dove like a linebacker and tackled the 10-pound frightened ball of claws. He struggled against me as I straightened and carried him back inside our apartment, desperately hoping that none of my neighbors had witnessed the embarrassing episode.

I let Azrael loose in the living room and sank to the floor, bleeding from knuckles and knees and barely controlling the sobs that caught in my throat. My furry deserter simply sauntered over to Hades, who was now looking extremely disappointed that his nemesis had returned, head-butted him and then proceeded to do the same to me.

I shook with a combination of fear, adrenaline and laughter. After a few minutes of catching my breath, slowing my heart rate, and watching Azrael furiously lick his paws (yucky outside dirt), I re-collected my belongings and carefully exited the front door still not sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry.

To all of those parents who scoff at pet owners who compare the antics of their pets to the antics of toddlers, I propose a challenge: You let your toddler loose in a playground and I'll let Azrael loose at the same time.

Bet I catch your kid long before you catch my cat.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

For Christ's Sake, Eat a Cheeseburger

I am all about being healthy, being in shape, looking good and making my best attempt to never be overweight.

I accomplish this through exercise and being careful about what I eat.

I do not starve myself. I do not vomit on cue. I do not kill myself in an attempt to burn every single calorie I consume in a day. I have been known to scarf down an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream in one sitting.

My fitness idols are Gwen Stefani (because, hello, how hot is she?) and Scarlett Johansen (she has the ultimate body and swears she eats crap and never exercises).

So jealous I could spit.

I do understand the pressure that women feel due to our societal ideal. (See above references, and add your own skinny, buff idols to the mix.)

However, I do have a request for all the young women who are starving themselves, vomiting on cue, or killing themselves in an attempt to burn every single calorie they consume in a day. This request is especially dedicated to the chick I saw jogging this morning, since I could count her ribs and see her thighbones:

Please, for the love of Christ or whomever it is that you worship, eat a goddamn cheeseburger.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Retail Therapy

I got really pissed off at my husband last night, which did some serious damage to my theory that we were going to be different from all newlyweds and married couples everywhere and that the honeymoon was never going to end. Ah well, the bliss was wonderful while it lasted, and knowing Timothy and I, it will make its way back again soon. In any event, I got mad, I went to bed mad (what would Lucy and Desi think?) and I woke up just as mad, if not madder.

I knew that it would be hours before I could talk (yell) things out with my beloved since he and I have extremely different weekend sleep schedules: I go to bed while it is still dark, and get up while it is still light. Tim does exactly the opposite. So with all this time and frustration to kill, what's a girl to do?

I stood in my immaculate kitchen (I had spent the better part of the previous morning cleaning, and re-cleaning to pass the time was too crazy, even for me) tapping my fingernails on the counter, watching Hades and Azrael jockey for the topmost position on the 3-tiered scratching post, and considered my options.

I could read, which required too much concentration for my agitated brain.
I could write, but my miffed-ness would seep into every word.
I could go to the beach, but I had done that once before and it proved to be a sensational pain in the ass.
I had already placed phone calls to the 2 people who may be remotely interested in listening to me vent, and neither had answered their phones.

Tap, tap, tap went my fingernails as I watched the cats streak out onto the patio, the morning sunlight streaming over my white, boring, I could be living in an asylum, walls.

And there it was. I needed curtains. Suddenly. Desperately. Curtains would solve all of my problems. The vertical blinds would no longer look so institutional. The sunlight that was so pretty in the morning, but so harsh and annoying in the evening, would be softened by the perfect curtains. More to the point, it gave me an excuse to venture to the brand new Super Target that had just opened up the street, and curtains would royally annoy Tim. That was an awful lot of birds with one stone. (The last time I had gotten pissed at him I had redone the spare bathroom in fantastic shades of Florida pink and orange. It made him crazy. I regretted it less than 2 days later, but the neon remains simply based on the principal of the thing.)

So off I went, and boy was it worth it.

As soon as I pulled into the parking lot, it was like the mother ship was calling me home. (I have a small shopping addiction. I'm really not supposed to go shopping unsupervised. Especially not to Target. But this was war, and you know what they say.)

It was beautiful. All shiny, and new, and huge.

Needless to say, I found curtains. And a curtain rod. And I decided that it was time to rid the spare bathroom of the obnoxious neon. Then I got jealous on the master bathroom's behalf and bought it new bathmats. The living room also got a spunky area rug to jazz up the boring beige asylum-like carpet. (I don't care that it is a bit pointless to put carpet on top of carpet, I need color damn it.) To top it all off I got flip flops and a new notebook. (I also have an addiction to paper of any kind and all writing instruments. Office Depot and Staples are also very dangerous places for me to be.)

I returned home, hung my new curtains (and I say "hung" in the loosest sense of the word since Tim, once he is all done being irritated with me, needs to screw the curtain rod brackets all the way into the wall), laid my new area rug and snazzed up my bathrooms. By the time I rode my stationary bike for an hour (in my new flip flops) then took a shower, I was like a new woman. When my husband finally emerged from the bedroom I was just beginning to cook dinner, and I sweetly apologized to him for overreacting the night before.

Before the week is over I will more than likely feel immensely ill over the amount of money spent today, but honestly, I think it saved my marriage. (Of course this isn't true, but I can tell myself whatever I want. It's what crazy people with addictive personalities do.)

In conclusion, there's an awful lot to be said for retail therapy. I'm already planning what kind of fight I should pick with Tim next weekend, and then maybe I can finally justify a flat screen TV.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Six Random Things

Hades plays fetch

Azrael chirps like a bird when he's miffed

Styx completely freezes if she thinks anyone is watching her. "Hedgehog Freeze Frame"

Hydra used to attempt to eat mice ass-end first

All 4 have mythological names, and all 4 have nicknames that begin with "F." (Fattie, Foosa, Fuffer and Flick)
All 4 have a shoe fetish.