The Pickle Tree

The Common Courtesy Crusader: MYOB

2009-03-16T21:19:00.004-04:00

I don't know about where you live, but in South Florida we live on top of each other.

The South Florida motto should be "leave no piece of land undeveloped!" Tim and I were on our way to the beach this weekend when I noticed a square of undeveloped land. "Look," I said, "open space." Three hours later there was a Super Target in that space. True story. Fine, it was six months later, but still.

My point is that wherever you go, whatever you do, you have a 99.9% chance of being within earshot or elbow range of another human being. Here's my sage piece of advice for this week: MYOB. Mind Your Own Business.

If someone is on their cell phone in a public place, takes a personal phone call at work or is searching WebMD at a public library, please have the common courtesy to at least pretend you have not been minding their business.

Example 1: Back before I was cool enough to have my own office, I was part of cubeland. Once upon a time in cubeland, a close friend of mine called in a panic, needing a friend and some advice. After I talked her through her current crisis and hung up, the idiot who sat in the cube in front of me wandered back to my desk. "So," he says, nonchalantly, "helping a friend plan a shotgun wedding, are you?"

Are you effing kidding me? Is this your first day among the civilized? I am perfectly aware that everyone in a four cube radius more than likely heard my conversation, but in the polite world everyone pretends they have heard nothing and goes about their day.

Shortly after the above incident, Tim called and asked a question of somewhat sensitive nature. "You sure you want me to answer that?" I ask. "Yeah, why?" "Because I sit in a cubicle. There are at least three people listening to every word I say, and the asshole in front of me is probably taking shorthand notes."

Example 2: I'm in Super Target (a.k.a. the modern day Mecca), doing my weekly grocery shopping and talking to Liz. I'm complaining about the stuffy nose and immense amount of boogers that have been plaguing me for weeks. I feel a tap on my shoulder. "You might want to try Zicam," a probable well-meaning co-shopper says. Helpful? yes. Ridiculously intrusive and extremely weird? Double yes.

Example 3: Taking advantage of the free wi-fi that comes with having a registered Starbucks card, surfing the net for possible one-year anniversary vacation destinations. Dude next to me peers over and says, "I wouldn't recommend that cruise line. I had the worst experience with them back in 1982 when one of the waiters dropped an entire tray of mai-tais on my will-never-be-in-style white deck pants..." Umm...I forget...did I ask for your effing advice and life story? No.

I realize that there is a second side to this coin. Plenty of you are frothing at the mouth with the desire to play devil's advocate. I know your argument: If you don't want your conversations, internet searches or personal hygiene choices to become public fodder, don't air them in public.

Yeah. I get that. See above where I noted that in South Florida we live on top of each other. Oh, and welcome to 2009, the age of technology in which we don't have to be chained to rotary phones in our kitchens in order to communicate. I don't necessarily think that talking on my cell phone while I wander the aisles of the grocery store is rude. I think it is modern multi-tasking. We could debate the level of rudeness involved if I were to remain on the phone while in line, and then during the length of my transaction. It's debatable, so I'm not going to go there.

All I'm saying is that in the age of growing technology and lessening personal space, mind your own business.

Or at least pretend to.

Please Drive Through

2009-03-04T18:38:00.002-05:00

OK.

Today I might have been a common courtesy offender, but I will let you be the judge.

And I swear (on stack of bibles and my Buffy the Vampire Slayer collection) to retell the events exactly as they happened from my non-biased viewpoint.

8 a.m.

I approach the Starbucks drive through line. (Greatest innovation ever.)

A car in the line has hazard lights blinking, and the driver is standing next to the car with rear door open, holding what appears to be a baby. (Could have been a bundle of blankets. Who's to know?)

I watch as the driver waves a Hummer around her.

I assume (yes, I know what it means) that the woman is having trouble with either the car or the baby, and assume she is "stepping out" of line. I take up the space behind the Hummer, leaving more than enough space for an additional car behind me.

Less than a minute later, the woman (sans bundle of blankets) is knocking on my window.

Why did I roll it down, you ask? Obviously since I was on line waiting for coffee, my brain was not yet functioning.

"Excuse me," she says in that oh-so-endearing and entitled Boca Bitch manner. "I'm in line. I gave her (gesturing toward the Hummer) permission to move ahead of me. Not you. You took my place in line. Move out of line."

"Oh, you're in line? Out of the car with your door open and your hazards on?"

Admittedly, a bit snippier than may have been necessary, but I have an innate dislike for the Boca Bitches of South Florida. (It could be its own reality TV series. The Real Housewives of Orange County 'aint got nothing on these she-monsters.)

"I was attending to my four month old, who is now unbuckled, thanks to you. You need to move out of the line."

I'm still confused as to why you put your hazards on and got out of the car if you intended to stay in line."

"Listen, I'm trying to be nice," (It is sooo hard to convey facial expressions and general bitchiness in a blog post, but I assure you, nice was the furthest thing from what she was portraying.) "What should I have done, just let someone hit my car with my four month old inside?"

"You don't exactly seem all that concerned about her right now."

"Get the fuck off the line!"

I could have been just as bitchy. Argued with her. Rolled up my window and ignored her. Called the cops to report her for leaving a four month old unattended and, by her own admission, unbuckled so that she could be a bitch to a complete stranger.

But I reasoned that her husband was probably cheating on her since the four month old ruined her Boca Bitch figure, and without her daily dose of Starbucks she might soon shake that poor baby to death.

So I got off the line and went inside to place my order. And then took great satisfaction in the fact that she was still on line when I walked out with my coffee.

As I said: you be the judge.

But please keep in mind the utter self control invoked on my part.

Vindication!

2009-02-26T21:26:00.002-05:00

Today when I arrived in the parking garage, the green Mitsubishi was perfectly parked between two lines in one space.

I absolutely take full responsibility for this.

I was tempted to leave a thank you note, but I decided that might border on stalking.

Common Courtesy Crusader!

2009-02-25T20:08:00.007-05:00

I'm hearing a lot about niche blogging. Pick a topic. Stick with it. Increase your readership. Blah blah blah.

But I gave it some thought and I wondered, what subject could I consistently blog about?

The animals, duh, but that only goes so far.

Writing, of course, but who I am to consider myself enough of an expert to offer others advice? I'm arrogant, but come on. At least publish something before you tout advice. (And by publish something, I mean have something published by a respectable publisher. Not your blog. Not your self-published POS novel. Not some short story published on an online journal with a readership of five. Don't even get me started on some of the idiots who consider themselves published authors. "I got another story accepted by an online publication no one has ever heard of!" It's like expecting people to be awed that you got into community college. Dude - they let everyone in.)

Relationships, because mine is perfect and I think everyone could learn a few lessons from Tim and I? Again with the arrogance.

Fashion? Those who are familiar with how I dress and what my hair looks like are laughing themselves out of their chairs right now.

Money? Ditto the above statement regarding my finances.

So what could I niche blog about?

Then it hit me.

I have an extraordinary amount of pet peeves:

Elevator etiquette.

Whiners.

Bad Drivers.

Here's the niche part. I would say about 90% of my pet peeves deal with a lack of common human courtesy.

Please. Thank you. You're welcome. Let me get the door for you. Is it so effing hard??

So, while I am not overturning the entire theme of this blog (which is whatever the hell I want it to be on any given day) I am instating a regular edition to the blog entitled The Common Courtesy Crusader! It's my way of attempting to make the world a better place.

Today I performed my first official act as The Common Courtesy Crusader. Allow me to tell you about it:

Prime space in my office parking garage is limited. If you do not arrive in the parking garage before 9AM, you are pretty much screwed and forced to park on the roof where your car bakes in the sun all day.

Also in my office parking garage there are several parking spaces next to concrete walls and dividers. (No, I have never scraped one trying to fit into a tight space. Never. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

I completely understand the desire to err on the side of safety so that you do not scrape these concrete structures, as I have never done.

However, erring so far on the side of safety that you take up two parking spots? Every day? Selfish! Rude! Discourteous!

Most mornings I just stew about it, and contemplate keying the offending car, but today I decided to take polite action. I left a note. A nice, polite, courteous note.

Dear Mitsubishi Owner:

Perhaps you are unaware that you take up two parking spaces on a rather regular basis, and that by doing so you lessen the already limited available space in the parking garage? I'm sure you would not do something so inconsiderate purposely. Therefore I am bringing this issue to your attention in the hopes that in the future, you will manage to park in one space, and one space only.

No I didn't sign it, do you think I have a death wish?

Picture of the Day: Ball Python vs. Dining Room Chair

2009-02-23T06:51:00.001-05:00

More often than not when I am responsible for Hydra, she has more fun. Tim hates it when I let her do stuff like this, but she loves it. (In this particular instance he was afraid I wasn't going to be able to disentangle her from the chair. It took me less than 5 seconds. She's fairly cooperative if you let her explore for a while.)

Of course, there was the one time I let her loose on the couch, got involved in watching TV, and panicked when I couldn't find her. Turns out she had slithered along the back of the couch and come face-to-face with Azrael, sleeping peacefully in his scratching post/throne. I still shudder to think what would have happened if my vicious killer had woken up and found the cold-blooded nuisance in his face.

Have You Always Been an Ass or is My Medication Wearing Off?

2009-02-22T21:29:00.008-05:00

Two years ago I made a visit to the doctor because I was feeling particularly snippy.

The conversation went a little something like this:

"I have a hard time dealing with stress."

"Are you unhappy?"

"Not especially."

"Do you feel suicidal?"

"No."

Scribbling on pad.

"Here, try this."

Humph.

Wish I would have looked into this a bit more because two years later it turns out that my body has become dependent upon the single most addictive anti-depressent known to medicine.

And now that I have decided I no longer want to take it?

I'm down to taking said medication every three days instead of every day.

It would probably be easier to start and stop a heroin addiction.

In all fairness, the withdrawal effects could be worse.

The longer I am off the meds, the dizzier I get.

Oh, and then there's the fact that everyone in my world seems to have turned into an asshole.

So much so that I have lately found myself wondering, "Why did I ever talk to this person?"

I'm sure this perception is skewed.

I'm sure this is simply another withdrawal symptom.

I'm sure that these people were always assholes, and the lack of medication makes me less able to cope with their asshole-ness.

I'm seriously considering the heroin thing.

The Lost Generation

2009-02-21T06:30:00.001-05:00

Watch this.

All the way through.

Be inspired. Get chills.

Feel something.

Don't be a douche like my husband and ask, "What the fuck did you just make me watch that for? That's two minutes I'll never get back."

I love him, and 99% of the time he is a God, but tonight he was a douche.

Yeah, I said it.

What the Hell is a Meme and Why the Hell Should I Participate?

2009-02-20T19:43:00.002-05:00

Because it's fun.

And I command you to.
Which reason works better?

Definition of Meme for those who, like me, are more concerned with what it is than doing it.

Fun questions about you and your spouse!

Send this back to me in an email and I will never speak to you again. Seriously. I know of at least two people (Paul and Aunt Sharon, this means you) who will send me an email with all their answers. Don't do it. Post your answers on the comments and I will love you forever. Answer all. Answer some. Post anonymously so you don't have to create a Google account, I don't give an eff. But don't send me an email. I LOVE YOU!

What are your middle names?

Me: Elizabeth. Tim: Michael.

How long have you been together?

5 years.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

30 seconds or so?

Who asked whom out?

Depends on which story you want to hear. The one where I physically accosted him in the parking lot of Ruby Tuesday, or the one where he left a really cute message on my cell phone after the physical attack and subsequent apology?

How old are each of you?

Me: 29. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Tim: 29. He has no story, he'll be 30 March 3rd.

Whose siblings do you see the most?

We see Tim's sister Cristi more than almost any other family member. So I guess that answer goes to Tim.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?

Sleeping in the same bed. Even with a king it's not pretty, and many a sleepless night could be considered adequate grounds for divorce.

Did you go to the same school?

No. Not to the same elementary school, junior high, high school, or college. So, no.

Are you from the same home town?

No. I am from nowheresville in Upstate NY, and Tim is from Long Island.

Who is smarter?

I am book smarter, Tim is street smarter. I spell things, he keeps us from getting mugged. It all works out pretty well.

Who is the most sensitive?

I refuse to answer that question on the grouds that it is a dumb question.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?

The Olive Garden. Tim hates it, but can't seem to escape it since I am absolutely addicted to the breadsticks, Peach Palermo and Tiramisu.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?

New York from Florida. By car. Be amazed we are still together.

Who has the craziest exes?

We tend not to talk about that, but I am willing to bet he does. My exes aren't necessarily crazy, just a**holes.

Who has the worst temper?

Since I've been known to throw things, slam doors, lock him out of the house and inflict physical damage, I'm gonna say me.

Who does the cooking?

Cooking? What is this phenomenon that you speak of?

Who is the neat-freak?

I refuse to dignify such a dirty question with an answer.

Who is more stubborn?

Depends on which one of us wants something more.

Who hogs the bed?

According to me, he does. According to him, I do. I'm thinking of investing in a nannycam or training the cats to keep watch and submit a report.

Who wakes up earlier?

Me.

Where was your first date?

Once again, it depends on what you consider a "date." It's either Ruby Tuesday or Turn 3: totally trashy bar in Barely Boca Raton.

Who is more jealous?

Depends on which one of us does or says the stupider thing.

How long did it take to get serious?

We're not yet. I'll keep you posted.

Who eats more?

Me. Of course, Tim could eat like a football player and it wouldn't matter, but has the nerve to ask questions like, "Are you sure you want to eat that fifth slice of pizza?"

Who does the laundry?

My mother will be happy to know that I finally started doing Tim's laundry. So, me. Three cheers for domesticity.

Who's better with the computer?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. When I get done laughing at the idea of Tim using a computer I'll let you know.

Who drives when you are together?

I do. It comes down to the fact that, while we both fear for our lives when the other one drives, Tim is slightly better at keeping his mouth shut and accepting his fate.

Wasn't that fun?!

Conversation Snippets, Wednesday Night

2009-02-19T19:56:00.011-05:00

Shortly after I arrived home from work and was making myself dinner:

"Nothing from Evelyn yet?" I ask Tim.

"Nope."

"That's really not like her. She normally would have called by now. She's going to be here tomorrow. Call her?"

Five minutes later:

"Hi Mom. No, just calling to say hi. I know, we're really looking forward to seeing you next Thursday," Tim says, looking at me pointedly, eyebrows raised, chin jutting out defiantly.

He's just mad because I made him clean the litter box and empty the dishwasher in preparation for his mother's arrival.

Five more minutes after that:

"Next week?" I ask, frantically clicking on my computer.

"Yes."

"Are you sure? Because I swear she sent me an email that said she was flying in tomorrow." More frantic clicking into Gmail. "Huh. Would you look at that," I say once I locate the email in question.

"What does it say?"

"'Hi Timmy and Nanci. Booked my flight. I'll be arriving at 9:20AM on Thursday, February 26th.' Huh. What do you know."

"Know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're finally losing it."

"I think you might be right."

Between 9:00PM and 10:00PM, in bed. I'm watching Lost, Tim is playing solitaire on his iPod. Note: Tim has never seen a single episode of Lost and expresses no interest: (Warning: Lost spoilers)

"Are they on the island?" Tim asks.

"Yes."

"I thought they got rescued."

"They did."

"Well who rescued them if the island keeps moving in time?"

"Penney."

"Who's Penney?"

"Desmond's girlfriend."

"Who's Desmond?"

"The long hair," I say, gesturing toward the TV.

About 10 minutes later:

"Are those his father's shoes?" Tim asks.

"Yes."

"And that's the guy who kept trying to get them to go back to the island?"

"Yes."

"Sucks you right in, doesn't it?"

"Yup."

10:01PM, outburst from me:

"Well what the fuck do they expect me to do until next week?!"

"Turn out the light and go to sleep."

"For a whole week?"

"No, just for now."

"Fuckers."

You Live, You Learn

2009-02-17T20:03:00.007-05:00

I'm sure you've had words of wisdom imparted to you by your elders, yes?

Did you heed those words of wisdom?

If you are anything like me, you did not.

And then those words eventually came back to bite you because, damn it, those wise elders were right.

If there is any wisdom I can impart to the youth of America (because yes, I am so damn old and wise) it is listen to your parents/teachers/mentors/elders - they know of what they speak.

It's funny, actually, because now I call my dad begging for advice.

"Come on, Dad, tell me what to do."

"What do you think you should do?"

Seriously, when I was sixteen he was chomping at the bit to order me around. It would appear that now that I am an adult I have passed the point of imparted wisdom.

Here are some of the life lessons I have learned - the hard way:

1. Never ever, under any circumstances, live with friends.

2. Never ever, under any circumstances, borrow money from or lend money to friends.

3. Don't live in Buffalo, NY. It sucks.

4. Don't attempt to get a lawyer or a doctor to love you. They love themselves far too much to let anyone else in.

5. Don't attempt to get anyone to love you until you love you. You have to be your biggest fan, and your own best friend.

6. Broken hearts do heal. They leave scars that can sometimes twinge at the oddest and most unexpected moments, but they do heal.

7. There is never a good reason to wear spandex.

And the lesson I learned today, and one that has been a long time coming. . .

Never ever, under any circumstances, should you work for friends, or have have friends work for you. It may even be advisable not to become friends with any of your co-workers.

It is all very messy.

You think you can draw the lines - the lines between personal and professional. And maybe you can draw them, but then you have a hard time staying in between them. And the next thing you know you are stuck working way after hours, doing things you would never do for any other co-worker or employer, cursing your friend to hell and back, and cursing yourself for being so damn nice. (And we all know I'm not all that nice to begin with.)

So. . .

You live. You learn. You move on. You try not to make the same mistakes twice.

Or at least not three times in the same year.

He Loves Me. . .

2009-02-16T12:44:00.006-05:00

There is no "he loves me not" because I have finally gotten to that cool place in life where, yeah, he really does love me, and I don't have to question it anymore.

Valentine's Day post coming at ya a little belatedly, and is also combined with a big, fat. . .

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!

I won't divulge her age, even though she probably wouldn't care, but if you saw their anniversary post, and I tell you they got married at 19, you can do the math. Sending mom good vibes, karma and birthday wishes today, and it would be cool if my readers did the same.

Anyway. . .

I have a long standing reason for despising Valentine's Day. It was ruined for me in the second grade, by Brian Schuler. I have grown up enough to realize that he probably didn't do it on purpose, so I have stopped holding a grudge. For the most part.

In any event, that is a whole different long story, and I will spare you. (Unless I receive enough comments/emails begging for the story. I am egotistical and self-indulgent enough to post a follow-up. Lol.)

Since second grade, Valentine's Day never improved by leaps or bounds. Sure, I had my share of Valentine's Days with men, and flowers, and dinner, yadda, yadda, yadda. But nothing was special enough to override the bitterness for the day that I have been carrying around for 22 years.

Leave it to my God of a husband to manage it.

What did he do to eradicate my hatred of Valentine's Day?

Did he buy me a ridiculously expensive piece of jewelry? No.

Did he take me out to my favorite restaurant? No.

Did he whisk me away for a romantic weekend? No.

He got me a five pound bag of all red gummy bears.

You are laughing. Confused maybe. You don't understand how monumental this is.

He gets me.

And he loves me.

And a gift that says those two things means more than any extravagance anyone could offer me.

Whine, Complain, Whine Some More

2009-02-12T12:46:00.004-05:00

I'm feeling pretty persnickety today.

So I am going to voice a complaint.

I'm tired of people complaining.

I'm probably just as guilty as everyone else, but no one has called me on it (recently), so I feel pretty confident in going forward with my rant.

I am especially tired of complainers who:

1. Constantly complain about the same thing.

2. Don't do anything to rectify the situation they are complaining about.

We all know the definition of insanity according to Einstein, right?

Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

You know who you are. (And you're not Liz, so if you are Liz, and you are reading this and getting pissed at me, I don't mean Liz. The rest of you? Yeah, I mean you.)

Here's my new (extremely simplified and insensitive) mantra:

Effing do something about it.

If you don't really want to do something about it, then at least stop whining about it.

(I had a whole bunch more planned for this tirade, but when I actually typed it out it seemed really mean. So I leave you with the mantra. Namaste.)

Not So Critical Update

2009-02-11T16:25:00.003-05:00

I have joined LinkedIn.

Not as cool as it sounds.

Just one of those things I figure I should have for when I am attempting to secure an agent/publisher.

Here's the thing: Everyone in my office is on LinkedIn. In a roundabout way, you can get here (The Pickle Tree) from my LinkedIn Profile.

Result?

This limits the amount of complaining about/making fun of work I can do.

I know you are highly disappointed.

Best Laid Plans

2009-02-08T10:25:00.005-05:00

I had a whole plan for a blog post today. I'll give you the teaser. "Internet Connections". I still plan to write this post, as it sits in the forefront of my mind each time I sit down at the computer. But today the WIP takes precedence, as it has been yelling at me in my sleep as well as in my waking hours. Today's horoscope for Gemini seems to think I may have problems with the WIP, though:

You are eager to have a day set aside for your own pleasure, yet you may have unrealistic expectations. It's easy to set yourself up for failure and disappointment by wanting too much. Grandiose ideas will likely be pared back down to a manageable size by the hard cold facts of reality. It's better to constrain yourself voluntarily than waiting for an unpleasant circumstance to stop you in your tracks.

We'll see. Watch this space.

So in lieu of a proper blog post, I leave you with a Wordle from one of my favorite poems, Impossible Impossibilities:

I Made Myself a Website!

2009-02-05T21:54:00.003-05:00

Check it out. Feel free to comment. I may not care, but you can comment anyway.
:)

Last Time I Checked, I Was Still Living In South Florida

2009-02-05T13:38:00.005-05:00

Can't really tell by the temperature, though. (Look - the parrots have been forced to use heat lamps in their tropical zoo. Brr!)

On my drive to work this morning, the temperature was 36 degrees. It was even colder overnight. The heat has been on in our apartment for the past week, allegedly to keep Hydra and Styx comfortable (hello - Styx is from Africa), but really because our NY blood truly has thinned and Tim and I are freezing. I have exhausted my supply of sweaters. Cold weather in Florida is only supposed to last a week and it is never supposed to dip below freezing!

AND. . .

The cold weather seems to make South Floridians, on the whole, very cranky.

Example:

On the elevator this morning (and if you are a long-time reader of The Pickle Tree, you already know my pet peeves involving elevators) I was joined by three other women and a jerk (excuse me, gentleman) in a leather jacket, gloves and a beanie. A last-minute rider requested the second floor. After she had exited and the doors had closed, the jerk announced, "I bet the two flights of stairs would have killed her."

I see absolutely no reason for this kind of nastiness. Who are we to judge anyone? Where is the cutoff? It is acceptable to use the elevator to get to the third floor and above, but not the second? Why?

So of course, even though two wrongs don't make a right, I couldn't resist.

"Well, it looks like the four flights might have done you some good."

I blame it on the 36 degrees.

What's Heavier? A Pound of Feathers or a Pound of Bricks?

2009-02-04T14:08:00.004-05:00

Yeah, I did it.

I gave in to my obsessive compulsive warped self image urges and bought a bathroom scale.

The stupid doctor's scale was 8 pounds heavier than normal the last time I was there, and I have been unable to console myself with the "muscle is denser than fat; therefore increased muscle mass and loss of fat will result in weight gain" argument.

Of course, the minute Tim steps on it he announces, "The scale is off."

"What do you mean it's off?"

"I mean it's off."

"Which way?"

"More."

"It says you weigh more than you do?" I ask excitedly.

"No. I weigh more than it says I do."

"I have a hard time believing that," I pouted.

"Well, the scale at work says different. Unless you think my work boots weigh 9 pounds."

"It must be the scale at work that's off, because I think it's perfectly fine."

"Did you get it at Target?"

"Yes."

"Then it's a piece of crap."

"Whatever."

He may be right, though.

If we go by the Target scale, I lose 3-4 pounds in my sleep every night.

And the Fat Ass Cat weighs 16 pounds.

Hmm.

Maybe the Target scale is not so far off after all.

I Have A New Obession

2009-02-03T21:26:00.004-05:00

A member of my writing forum turned me on to Wordle. I'm obsessed, and it will now be my default when I have nothing else to blog about.

Lucky you.

Here's a word cloud from my short story Sweet Home Alabama: (Interesting what jumps out, isn't it?)

The Benefits of Marriage

2009-02-01T21:26:00.005-05:00

Over the past eight months, I have discovered the many benefits of marriage.

Love.
Companionship.
An unbreakable bond.

However, yesterday I discovered the best benefit of marriage so far:

TAXES.

Who knew, that just by getting married, I (I mean we) would get such a HUGE tax refund? Has this always been the case, or is this Obama's good work, happening already?

For the past three years, I have dutifully PAID the US government, since I had the NERVE to earn additional money through self-employment. Not only was I expected to give the government their due on that money (because they were so involved in my making it) but I also had to pay a self-employment tax. Can you believe that shit? Capitalism at its best, I suppose.

This year I was a bit proactive, and I pre-paid estimated taxes throughout the year. So I fully expected to break even as opposed to owing our sacred government.

You can imagine my shock and jubilation when I signed into Turbo Tax and began answering questions. I got to check "I got married" under the Life Changes section, after which the Turbo Tax Gods suggested Tim and I file jointly.

Whatever, I thought.

I spent the next hour inputting our wage information. For the third year in a row I hesitated on the "Did you earn income not reported on a W-2?" question, wondering, as I always do, "How are they gonna know?" But, like the dutiful and Catholic-guilt inspired woman my parents raised, I reported all my freelance income, bracing myself for how much money the IRS would still rape me for.

Turbo Tax went through its calculations.

The number appeared in RED. That means that the IRS owes me, and not the other way around. And the IRS owes me a considerable amount more that I was expecting.

I immediately heard the voices of my parents in my head: "You know what you should do. You should just pretend that you aren't getting anything, and put this in your savings account. It's the responsible thing to do."

The jury is still out on that one, because Tim and I would really like to go to California for our first anniversary.

This marriage thing is the bomb.

And, oh yeah, Tim is pretty cool, too.

Our Spirit Is Stronger And Cannot Be Broken

2009-01-20T19:27:00.005-05:00

For those of you who know me well, you know that I tend to shy away from discussions involving current events, religion, and politics. These are all, in my opinion, dangerous subjects to discuss amongst loved ones, and admittedly, I don't have a great deal of political insight.

Yet today I was awed, and I felt compelled to share my favorite parts of Barack Obama's Inaugural Address:

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

And my absolute favorite, that I'm sure I will carry with me for a long time to come:

To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West - know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

We Got A Wii

2009-01-18T09:03:00.006-05:00

Yes. Tim and I have joined the masses. We finally purchased a Wii, after 2 weeks of trying to find one.

Here's how most of my conversations went with salespeople over the past 2 weeks:

[Polite and bubbly sales associate]: Thank you for calling Best Buy, this is Polite and Bubbly Sales Associate, how may I help you today?

[Me. Friendly and Equally Polite]: Hi! Do you have any Wii in stock?

[Instantly Grumpy and Irritated Sales Associate]: No.

I had about 12 of those conversations yesterday, and then this happened:

[Polite and bubbly sales associate]: Thank you for calling GameStop, where we buy, sell and trade used games,this is Polite and Bubbly Sales Associate, how may I help you today?

[Me. Friendly and Equally Polite]: Hi! Do you have any Wii in stock?

[Still Polite and Bubbly Sales Associate]: I have one left.

[Me. Shocked and Gasping for air]: Seriously? Can you hold it for me?

[Hesitant and Wary Sales Associate]: For how long?

[Me. Still Shocked and Gasping for air]: I can be there in 15 minutes.

So we have a Wii. And it might just ruin my life. Between 7PM last night and 1AM this morning, Tim and I played about 80 frames of bowling, 9 holes of golf and roughly 502 tennis matches.

Here's what I should accomplish today: (Keep in mind that some of these things should have been accomplished yesterday.)

Laundry

Increase word count on WIP

Post first chapter of WIP on WB

Work on website

Yoga

Make dinner

Here's what I will probably accomplish today:

502 more tennis matches and a few boxing rounds.

God Bless America.

Drug Experimentation

2009-01-15T22:14:00.004-05:00

It's not what you think.

The drugs I am experimenting with are all legal and over the counter.

And my experimentation was completely accidental.

But it should be interesting to see just how NyQuil and Starbucks react to one another.

I'd be willing to bet that the NyQuil wins, but you just never know.

I would like to share with you something that threw me for a loop tonight, and is currently making me hope that the NyQuil kicks in real fast.

As I was working on the novel tonight, I started to describe something that I knew I had described fairly well in an earlier piece of work. I went searching through my old files (because I keep everything) and successfully found the particular description I was looking for.

Here's the disturbing part:

The description was in the first few paragraphs of an 81 page, 42,000 word piece of work.

Why is this disturbing?

Because it was crap. No, seriously. I'm not even a little kidding. C-R-A-P, crap.

So, right now I am having a small crisis of faith, wondering who the hell I am kidding that I can write, and publish, a novel.

Oh NyQuil, take me away.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad

2009-01-14T05:00:00.001-05:00

Today I am reserving this space to wish my parents a Happy Anniversary! 42 years of marriage, and they still like each other. For the most part. Yay Mom and Dad!

(They are probably going to kill me for posting their picture on the world wide web. I may receive frantic phone calls and be forced to replace their picture with one of Fred and Wilma Flintstone.)

Chutes and Ladders: The Corporate Edition

2009-01-13T20:15:00.003-05:00

Today, after sitting in a conference room from 8AM to 3PM, I thought about high school.

In particular, I thought about my high school Guidance Counselor's office.

Nowhere, not on any of the motivational posters or in any of the counseling literature, was there a description of my job as a career goal to achieve. (My job, in case you are curious. I wouldn't recommend being curious.)

Why?

Because who wants to achieve sitting around a conference room table for 7 hours, only to leave the room having no idea what the meeting was about?

Here are the achievements you are never taught to strive for. (Or avoid). (And these examples are just from today):

1. Ten employees surrounded a conference room table. Nine are Senior Management Executives with varying statuses from Director to President. And then there was one: Me. Non-Senior Management Executive, and the only woman: Ladder.

2. The presentation you are scheduled to give at 8:30AM begins "wobbly": Chute.

3. You are pegged by the IT Department as an email whore. I quote: "You are receiving this email because your current mailbox is exceeding the mailbox limits that are going to be put into effect shortly. To prevent you from losing email and/or not being able to send or receive email: Please take a moment to either delete or archive your mail.":Chute.

4. One of the Senior Management Executives remembers that you are a vegetarian, and has a special veggie sub ordered for you for lunch. It comes in a separate bag with your name on it and everything. As an added bonus, you discover that you do, in fact, like guacamole: Ladder.

So, in the end, it all seems to have balanced itself out. I may not have gotten any higher on the corporate ladder today, but I managed to keep myself out of the Molasses Swap. Oh wait, that's a different game.

And even though this job is practically the opposite of what I intended to do with my life, it is kinda fun.

I hope to look back on it and smile fondly when my real life kicks in.

Can Cats Be Trained?

2009-01-12T21:40:00.005-05:00

Oh, can you tell by the title that I am racking my brain for something to post about tonight?

LOL.

Hades and Azrael, though I love them dearly, have very little respect for me.

Tim tells me this is my own fault.

Probably true.

If Azrael whines, I pick him up.

If Hades misbehaves, I don't discipline.

I don't yell. I cuddle. (Umm...still think I should have kids?)

Here's what it gets me:

5AM, Hades sitting on my chest (and by the way, he's not a feather), and Azrael biting my head. Yes, biting my head. (It is his way of saying, 'Hey Mom, I'm hungry. Here's what I'd like to be doing to food in my bowl right now.')

Mind you, Tim is sleeping less than a foot from me. Would they dare attempt this kind of behavior with him? Never. Why? Because when they behave this way, I either:

A. Get up and feed them
B. Get up and kindly escort them out of the room and shut the door until I am ready to get up.

It is more often than not option A, because option B results in Hades scratching at the bottom of the door until I do get up, while his brother sits by his side and eggs him on.

If they attempted this behavior with Tim, the result would be the following:

A. Punting across the room.

6PM, I come home from work and am greeted with yowling and desperate maneuvers toward the kitchen, as though they haven't eaten in days. They do not relent until they are fed.

Again I ask, Do they do this to Tim?

Wouldn't even dream of it.

Tim enters the kitchen, and Azrael and Hades sit on the dividing line between the carpet and the linoleum, on either side of the kitchen entrance, like little kitty gargoyles.

Tim retrieves their bowls.

They sit like statues.

Tim fills their bowls.

They quiver a little, but they don't move.

Tim puts their bowls on the floor, tells them "OK. Good boys!" and they run, like greyhounds released from the starting gate, and slobber all over themselves devouring their dinner.

If they move during this process, one short, loud "Hey!" from Tim freezes them in their tracks.

He tells me it is all about respect.

I wonder what Cesar Millan would say?

Some Cool, Random Stuff

2009-01-10T22:44:00.006-05:00

It has been a fairly uneventful Saturday, which I suppose I should be grateful for. However, it does leave me with very little to kick start the creative juices, so I will just share with you a few random things that I think are pretty neat.

I have discovered my perfect background music for writing: The Harry Potter movie soundtracks. So far I have downloaded the music from Sorcerer's Stone, Prisoner of Azkaban, and Goblet of Fire. The soundtracks are all completely instrumental and soothing and a great source of inspiration: The scores vividly evoke the movies, which perfectly call to mind Rowling's stories, and J.K. Rowling is among my top five writing idols. The other four are Neil Gaiman, Nora Roberts, Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes.

I opened an account with Twitter: http://twitter.com/NanciBlock. I plan to use this solely to track the word count of my current works in progress (WIP). Hopefully it will be a great motivator to keep me writing. Feel free to follow me. I'm considering opening an account on Facebook or MySpace, but I really can't get past the idea that these sites are places for teenagers and horny adults. Plus, I'm not sure I want any of those skeletons from my past crawling out of the closet.

A certain literary agent who shall remain nameless (since he did in fact get Google alerted that his name was on my blog, and I don't want to do it again and give him the impression that I am cyber-stalking him) left a comment on yesterday's post. It may seem silly, but I'm a little starstruck. Let me give you a little analogy. Cool literary agent is to wannabe writer as Miley Cyrus is to teen girls across America. (Hmm...I wonder if Miley Cyrus is going to read my blog now.)

In addition, two more people whom I don't know have commented on the blog. I'm loving it. I get so excited every time there's a new post or a new follower! I'm such a loser. But, umm, keep passing me around, OK? It's my goal to become a Blog of Note and entertain the masses. Note: I will take topic suggestions!

I am designing a website to become the companion of the Pickle Tree. It'll be pretty sparse to start, only containing some info about me, the two stories I've had published, and a photo album, etc., but I will welcome all your feedback.

There are no Wii game systems anywhere to be found in South Florida. And the people at Best Buy, GameStop, Circuit City and FYE get really mad when you call and ask. Except for Jonathan at the Parkland GameStop. He was really nice to me. Thanks Jonathan.

Glade flameless candles are very cool.

The Pickle Tree Gets Pruned!

2009-01-09T20:20:00.005-05:00

If you're like me, you're addicted to all things Google, and read your blog subscriptions through Google Reader. (Or some other inferior reader.) No, I do not work for Google, I just think they are mad cool. Check out my iGoogle page:

Anyway, if you're reading through a reader, you probably see something like this:
Visually BORING. (But please note that I do have a blog crush on Nathan Bransford. And in case Nathan Bransford also loves all things Google, and uses Google Alerts for his name, and is reading this post, I say the following: the last month of posts is not my best work. Please read earlier, wittier posts.)

Now, to finally get to the point:

The Pickle Tree has a new look, and if you are using a reader, you're missing it. So visit, check it out, and let me know what you think. Here's a sneak peek:

You Say Anagram, I Say Acronym

2009-01-08T09:29:00.002-05:00

Another one for the PTM archives.

Monday night Tim walks in the door and announces, "Do I have the perfect thing for you."
"What's that?"
"Trivia Tuesdays at Sullivan's."
"This sounds promising."
"Want to check it out?"
"Sure."

So at 8:00PM on Tuesday night, Tim and I are sitting in John L. Sullivan's Irish Pub, waiting for the trivia contest to begin. Somehow I managed to get my husband to agree to drive, so I started the night right with a shot of Jagermeister.

Here's how it works:
You pay $10 per team to enter the contest. Teams are not limited to a certain number of participants. The contest is 6 rounds of trivia with a bonus round. Prizes consist of various monetary amounts you can use to contribute to your John L. Sullivan's tab.

Round 1: General Trivia, Simple Question and Answer.
We sailed through.

Round 2: General Trivia, Multiple Choice and True/False.
Again - no problem.

Round 3: A handout round. We were given a sheet of paper with 10 celebrity pics, and we had to name the stars.
Piece of cake.

After round 3, Tim and I (the only team with less than 5 participants) were in 4th place out of 12 teams. I was so excited I had a 3rd shot. (During rounds 1-3 I had downed a second shot and a vodka and red bull. Note: I'm definitely starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.)

Round 4: History.
Crap.
We were given another hand out. Left column had events that occurred on January 1st. Right column was full of years. Match the event to the year.
Again, I say: Crap.

After 10 minutes, we were left with Ellis Island's first day of operation as January 1, 1994.
"Something's not right," Tim says.
"You think?" I asked.

We re-worked the sheet, and ended up with Fidel Castro taking control of Cuba in 1862. Turns out the fact that NAFTA was formed in the 90's completely threw us off. Who knew?

Round 5: Anagrams.
"What's an anagram?" Tim asked me as the host passed out a third sheet of paper.
"You know. When letters stand for something, like AWOL. Absent Without Official Leave."
"I thought that was an acronym."
"Crap. You're right. What the fuck is an anagram?"

Luckily, it was explained to us.

I looked lovingly at my husband. "I'm too drunk to unscramble anything," I told him.
"But you're the one that's supposed to be good with words!"
"Not tonight I'm not."

There were 5 anagrams to unscramble, all with a central theme: Let's Get Stoned. Turned out that the theme was The Rolling Stones, but I kept looking at "Wagon Burrs," seeing "Bong" and trying to make a word out of R-R-S-U-W. I was insistent. We never made it past "Wagon Burrs." (Brown Sugar, in case it is going to make you crazy.)

Needless to say we ended up in last place. The host was kind enough to note that we were the only team of 2.

And maybe we're crazy, but we're planning to show our faces and try again next Tuesday. We may bring a larger crew; either way, it's been decided that I'm driving this time.

Skeletons Sometimes Surface

2009-01-07T15:50:00.006-05:00

Got any skeletons in your closet? Who knows about 'em? Who should know about 'em?

I've got my fair share of skeletons.

Don't get too excited, I don't plan to out any of them here.

I'd be willing to bet that Liz knows every single one of my skeletons. Why? I've known her since I was nine; she was there when I shoved them in the closet. In most cases, she was helping me make room, holding winter coats and my cheerleading uniform while I shoved the scariest ones in the way, way back where no one would ever see them.

For the ones Liz missed, the ones I had to pack away without her, she's been filled in. I have to tell her. She's my second line of defense if a bony secret ever makes a break for it. Pity that she's a crap liar, but she's the best I've got.

What's amazing is that we didn't speak for five years, and she held onto all my secrets. She could have ruined me, yet my scariest skeletons remain intact, dusty, in the way, way back of my closet. That's dedication. Then again, I never told anyone that she...oops. One almost got away.

Is it wrong that Liz knows my deepest darkest secrets, and my husband may not? It's not that I have intentionally kept anything from Tim. In all honesty, every once in a while a random finger or ankle bone falls out of the closet while I am looking for something else, and he looks at me funny. Then I have to go, "Oh yeah. I never told you about the three days I spent in an Argententian prison?" Not because I was hiding it from him, but because when does that ever come up in conversation?

How much about your past are you required to disclose to your other half? Other than the standard past relationships-first love-disease-criminal record conversations in the beginning of the courtship, how much do detail do you get into? Do I need to reveal that in seventh grade I french kissed a boy who turned out to be gay because it may have an effect on my marriage?

I do know of couples who have disgusting disclosure policies. They tell each other everything about their past.

Ick.

I have absolutely no desire to know how many other women my husband has slept with or what kind of trouble he got into before he met me. Unless he's got some kids running around, I don't want to know.

You tell me - how many of your skeletons are you required to reveal to your other half?

Resolutions

2009-01-05T14:26:00.003-05:00

Everyone makes 'em. Everyone breaks 'em. And I did promise that one of my resolutions was to get back to The Tree; give it the love and attention it deserves.

I do have plans in store for the Picklers. (Yes, Picklers. It's what I have decided to call the 5 individuals who publicly follow The Tree - thanks, by the way - and the assorted family and friends who read, but have not delved far enough into the World Wide Web to comment, follow or post. I love ya anyway.)

1. I want to redesign. My rudimentary web design skills should allow me to play around with the layout a bit.

2. I want to post every day. What does this mean to you? Some days you may get really boring posts detailing what I did at work that day, the foolishness that Tim and I engaged in that evening, or what the word count on the WIP is up to, or random streams of consciousness to kick-start work on the WIP. Lucky you. Could be worth it, 'cuz every once in a while I manage to pull out something worth reading. In my humble opinion.

In case you are curious, I've made a few other resolutions. (Pie crust resolutions: Easily made, easily broken.) (I admit that I stole that saying from somewhere, I just can't remember where.)

1. Finish the novel. (Many of you may roll your eyes and think back to New Year's Eves gone by that had the same resolution. I will stick to this one if it kills me. Now, mind you, I did not resolve to write a phenomenal work of literature, nor did I resolve to publish the novel. I resolve to finish the novel. It's a big step, I don't care what you think.)

2. Rid myself of the constant road rage that plagues even short drives to the grocery store. (The speed limit is my friend, I will use my signal, I will stop tailgating, I will not hit a single curb in 2009. Oh, wait. I already did. I will not hit another curb in 2009.)

3. Be (gag, choke, cough) nicer at work. Professional, even. Non-sarcastic, if you will.

4. Grow myself some thicker skin. In the metaphorical sense, of course.

Now I'm going to leave you with something that inspired me this morning:

Watch your thoughts, they become your words.
Watch your words, they become your actions.
Watch your actions, they become your habits.
Watch your habits, they become your character.
Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.

By The Way, Did I Mention I Have The Plague?

2008-12-29T12:22:00.004-05:00

The weeks between Christmas and New Year's are the traditional vacation weeks for most folks in my company. Usually me, too, but I used all my vacation for the wedding and honeymoon in May, and my days do not roll over until March. Ick.

Anyway, there are a few consolation prizes for those of us forced to work during these two weeks:

Casual dress. (Oh, you have no vacation time, or nowhere to go for the holidays? Please, feel free to wear jeans to the office, that should make you feel better.)
2PM closing time on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve. (Woo-hoo!)
Company expensed lunches. (Double woo-hoo!)

Last Tuesday I was invited to a company expensed lunch along with 5 others: 2 VPs, 1 manager and 2 data enterers. Note: All 5 married with children. Yes, this is important to the story.

Conversation around the lunch table inevitably turned to how each individual and their family were spending the holidays. One of the VPs, who I feel comfortable joking with, announced that he and his family were going to Sanibel Island. The following conversation ensued:

Me: There's really no need to brag unless you have room for everyone at the table.
VP: There might be a way for you and Tim to get a free room.
Me: Really? How's that?
VP: Babysit my kids.
Me: I'll pass.
VP: Seriously?
Me: Yeah.
VP: Why?
Me: I don't like kids.

4 heads turned to shoot shocked and appalled looks at me. (1 was already looking at me.) Seriously. I may well have said, "By the way, have I mentioned I have the plague?" Or, "I highly enjoy murdering puppies in my spare time."

Jeez. It's not like I looked at each member of the table and said, "I don't like your kids. Your kids are obnoxious and annoying and shouldn't exist."

I was simply stating fact. I have a very low tolerance level for children between the ages of 1 and 8. I adore infants, and I think pre-teens and teenagers are a riot. That doesn't mean that I ignore children, or am mean to children. I have been known to push swings, give gifts, color, play tag and toss softballs. So what if these are not some of my favorite activities? At least I'm honest about it. There are plenty of people out there who don't like kids, and then have them and are bad parents.

Furthermore, I know plenty of people who don't like cats, and I am not at all offended by that. Even though I think it speaks volumes about someone's character if they don't like cats. Very suspicious, not liking cats. Very suspicious indeed.

Be Amazed, Be Astounded, Be Happy For Me

2008-12-13T12:16:00.001-05:00

I've been doing an awful lot of writing, and that is why The Pickle Tree has been awfully neglected.

It will be one of my New Year's resolutions to learn how to manage both, but it the meantime...be happy for me.

The bestseller may be on its way. (Of course, you are all in it, so I will be publishing under an alias and you will never know it happened, but I'll know and be rich and that's all that matters.)

Like A Light Switch

2008-11-29T16:54:00.002-05:00

I've been told that I can be like a light switch with my emotions.

If that's true than I'm a light switch you can never turn off.

Why is it so much easier to get angry, horny, sad or disappointed than it is to get un-angry, horny, sad or disappointed?

Skim boarding today - first opportunity when the temp and weather have been agreeable. The beach was amazing. A perfect, clean aqua with brilliant blue skies above. The wind was a bit wicked, but it is November, after all. When I took my first skim along the shore, I couldn't help but think, "Maybe this is what my sister needs." Sunshine, exercise, exhilaration. Things that make you remember how alive you are.

I was on top of the world, keeping my balance, having a great time. Then, I caught the board wrong. Slammed into the wet sand (which is much like slamming onto concrete) with my leg twisted awkwardly underneath me.

Tim instantly came running over.

"Baby, you OK?"

"No. Fuck. Go away!"

Of course, he did go away.

I was embarrassed. Angry. Like an injured animal I just wanted to be left alone to lick my wounds, slink back to the beach with my board drawing a trail of shame in the sand behind me.

I wrapped myself in my towel and inspected the bruise already forming across my shin and my knee, the sand rash that had tiny blood droplets forming on my ass.

Just like that, like a light switch, my exhilaration had been turned off. And that pissed me off more than anything.

So I continued to sulk.

Tim came to sit beside me, to check on me, and we made nice. I couldn't tell him that I was mostly mad at myself, but a little bit mad at him.

Right before I had fallen he had wandered my way to give me some advice on how to catch the best surf.

He was always doing that. Giving me tips. Suggestions. Challenges.

In theory, I liked it. He was only trying to help me get better.

Part of me resented it. I was doing just fine on my own, thank you very much. Now I have to take your suggestion, try and impress you, and inevitably fall on my ass.

My fault. I shouldn't be so concerned with impressing my husband, trying to be as good as him, and definitely not trying to outdo him.

I have such a horribly competitive nature, and it kicks me in the ass almost every time.

So I sat in the sand and watched Tim. I watched him catch some good water, and I watched him fall on his ass, too. It didn't phase him. He got right back up. Not like his stubborn, immature wife, still sitting in the sand. Over the pain, but not over the bad mood.

I finally talked myself into getting back up. I did it mostly so I wouldn't have to hear taunts about being a quitter on the ride home.

Toting my board back down to the water I halfheartedly tried again.

And I had fun. The feeling of exhilaration was back.

It's too bad that I couldn't let the embarrassment, disappointment, anger and pain wash over me, and be gone as quickly as they came. It's too bad that my motivation to banish those feelings was so that I wouldn't get teased, which would make my mood even worse.

But I did banish the nasty feelings instead of wallowing in them. I turned them off.

And I did get back up.

I think that's progress.

Weird Fact Wednesday: Functional Family

2008-11-26T15:34:00.001-05:00

It is Wednesday. And the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, at that.

I have been slacking at work all day. (Once again may I say that I hope no one in a position of power at my job reads this blog.)

I have also been a tad paranoid that my parents are alone in my apartment. I'm not worried that they are going to find anything illegal or embarrassing, it's more that I'm worried they are going to let my cats escape, or forget to take their shoes off when they walk on my carpet. Yeah, I know, OCD in overdrive.

But here's the Weird Fact for this Wednesday: I have a pretty functional family. Wait, I retract that. My family on the whole, including my siblings, is totally not functional. The other three offspring of my parents are absolutely whacked out and the definition of dysfunctional. But me and my parents? Functional. I had a perfect childhood.

You may be wondering why this is part of Weird Fact Wednesday, but seriously, ponder for a moment. I have a good relationship with my parents, and have always had a good relationship with my parents.

I never did anything wrong. Well, I never did anything grievously wrong. (My father may beg to differ when he thinks about the tuition money he is out because I dropped out of college 2/3 of the way into the semester. But even then he didn't yell.)

I was never grounded. I never hated them, or threatened to run away. They treated me like an individual from the time I was little, always giving me a rational answer for everything, never saying "because I said so." They never yelled. They rarely told me no. I was terrified to defy them, not because I feared punishment, but because I feared disappointing them.

I'm not sure how many people can say that about their parents, so that is my weird fact.

Of course, all of this may change after I cook Thanksgiving dinner and we spend the next 4 days under one roof.

Secret Slob

2008-11-24T21:10:00.002-05:00

So here's the thing - I'm a bit of a neat freak. I get it from my mother.

I can remember waking up to the sound of the vacuum on Saturday mornings, the coffee table being dusted with my blanket, and putting a half-empty glass down, walking away, and coming back to no glass because it had already been washed, dried and put away.

My mother was serious about her cleanliness. Dust was the enemy, to be annihilated at any cost. Clutter was sacrilege. Beds were to be made every morning, drawers neat, closets organized. Everything had its place.

I inherited most of this.

I say most because I like things to be clean. I have glass-topped tables that I Windex every day. There is never a dirty dish to be found in my kitchen. I am borderline obsessive about the carpet - it's been steam cleaned twice in the 18 months that we've lived here. Tim gets the look of a guilty 4 year old if he spills something on the carpet, and the cats have been trained to yak on the tile. Towels and clothes on the bathroom or bedroom floors? No sirree. Open shower curtain? You might as well stab me in the eye with a fork. Tim's most used phrase is "Baby, where did you put my..." because while everything has its place, I often change my mind about what that place should be.

Here's where the most comes in:

I don't make my bed every day. It's an argument from childhood that I still see the merit in as an adult: Why bother, when I am just going to get back in it in a few hours? I do make the bed occasionally - every Saturday when I change the sheets, and whenever we have company so the bedroom looks presentable.

My drawers? Closets? Kitchen cabinets? Beneath bathroom sinks? Under the bed?

Pig sty's, each and every one.

If I can get rid of a mess by pushing it under the bed, shoving it in a drawer, or hiding it in a cabinet, by gum that's what I'm doing.

So, I am outwardly neat.

Or a secret slob, whichever definition tickles your fancy.

Here's the problem.

Mom - outwardly and inwardly neat mom - is going to be here tomorrow.

Now, my mother has seen my apartment, as well as several other apartments I have lived in. She has even gone so far as to be impressed with my cleanliness.

BUT - Mom has never been in any of my apartments unsupervised, because my parents have never stayed with me before. In the past, they have stayed in a hotel. (To make a long story short, before Tim and I got married we were living in sin. My parents are Catholic. If they slept in my apartment they would be condemning themselves to hell by association. Or something like that.)

I fear that my secret slovenliness is about to be discovered.

Why?

I figure I came by the nosy know-it-all-ness genetically.

P.S. I dedicate the blog post to my Aunt Sharon, who all but demanded that I post something before 11PM tonight. I had planned to write about how I think I am allergic to mushrooms (it's fun being a vegetarian) but this seemed more appropriate, since my parents are sleeping in her house tonight. I love you, Aunt Sharon! Thanks for being 1 of at least (and probably only) 4 people who read my blog every day - you keep me writing.

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

2008-11-23T19:15:00.003-05:00

At least, in my South Florida apartment, it is.

I dragged Tim out Christmas Decor shopping today. (Necessity. Does not count in my therapist-induced deprivation. Also, I bought the eyeliner. So there.)

Target, Ho!

This is the first Christmas Tim and I will spend together as husband and wife, and also the first opportunity I've had to have my own tree. In the past, I have always gone home to mom and dad's, wherever I was. Since meeting Tim, we have split the holiday between my family and his. It never made much sense to put up a tree when we wouldn't even be home for Christmas.

This year, we decided to stay put. We are spending out first married Christmas home, just the two of us. So I get to have a tree!

Let me get the shocking and appalling part over with first:

I bought a fake tree.

To those who know me well, this is close to sacrilege.

The first year that I moved out of the house, my mother talked about getting a fake tree. Easier, she said. No pine needles, no watering, no trekking into the woods and chopping one down.

I pitched a fit. Christmas centered around having an real pine tree in the house - the smell, the sap, the authenticity!

My mother caved (her sentimental Christmas loving heart never would have settled for a plastic tree anyway) and the Akins' household was saved from ever seeing an impostor Christmas tree. (It has seen its fair share of scrawny, Charlie Brown trees since I left, but at least they have been real.)

Now that I am the one faced with watering a tree, sap, shed pine needles all over the carpet, and the prospect of my cats climbing, and getting stuck in, a real tree, I opted for an inflammable, 7.5 foot (fake) Jackson pine.

Amazingly enough, Scrooge McDuck (a.k.a. my husband) did not freak out too much when, in addition to the tree, I ran through the aisles of Target tossing extra items into the cart: ornaments, a star for the top, lights, garland, tinsel, stockings (one each for Tim, myself, Hades, Azrael, Styx and Hydra), glitter glue, wrapping paper, scotch tape, Christmas cards, and an advent calendar for the pets, and evergreen scented candles so I can pretend the tree is real. Tim drew the line at the movable, lighted reindeer for the patio.

Now I can't wait to decorate!

Without the woes of guesstimating how long a tree will live and look pretty, I can join the masses of starting Christmas way too early, and erect my tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Sweet.

When Friday Is Just Another Week Day

2008-11-22T09:59:00.002-05:00

Last night I got home from work around 6:20PM. This is actually pretty late for me, especially on a Friday. Friday used to be the day to leave work early, simply because it was Friday and, being human, you were entitled to lengthen your weekend.

I did attempt to leave early yesterday. Tim and I both had a plan to play hooky and meet at the beach for some afternoon skimboarding. It has been uncharacteristically chilly in South Florida lately, and yesterday was the first day it was supposed to climb above 70 in the afternoon. By 11:30 I knew there was no chance I was getting to leave work early. That's when I received Tim's message:

Grey Squirrel to White Monkey, mission is a 'Go.' I repeat, mission is a 'Go.' 2:00. Call to confirm, White Monkey. Grey Squirrel, out."

I had to call back with the following message:

"White Monkey to Grey Squirrel, mission aborted. I repeat, mission aborted. Sorry, Grey Squirrel. White Monkey, out."

I was then stuck in a meeting from 1:30-3:30, and preparing a report from 3:30-5:30. Ah, sweet responsibility.

Anyway, not really the point. The point is that I got home, Tim and I went out for our usual Friday Night Dinner, came home, I talked to Lizzie for a while, wrote a Blog post, watched some TV and went to bed.

As I was falling asleep, I had this thought: (Language warning)

Fuck, I'm fucking old.

Yeah, you know you're old when Friday becomes just another week day.

Friday's used to mean late nights, lots of alcohol, ridiculous bar tabs, karaoke, laughter, cabs home and passing out. Saturday's would then mean sleeping till noon, battling a hangover and preparing to do it all over again.

No more, my friends!

Now Friday means looking forward to casual day at work, looking forward to dinner out with my husband and going to bed at a reasonable hour after maybe one drink. Saturday now means getting up at a reasonable hour, cleaning the house, going grocery shopping and going to the beach.

I'll admit, probably the better option. But still...

Fuck, I'm fucking old.

Deprivation

2008-11-21T20:22:00.004-05:00

According to my therapist (yes, Mom, I have a therapist. No, it has nothing to do with you, because I'm pretty sure the anxiety ridden OCD came from Dad.) I am supposed to experience the feeling of deprivation. This is, in large part, due to the shopping addiction, coupled with the fact that I almost always get my way and have a need to be the center of attention.

I take full responsibility for the shopping addiction. Neither of my parents, as far as I have ever seen, really enjoys shopping. I know my parents enjoy new stuff (because who doesn't really?) but they are able to exercise an inhuman restraint when it comes to purchasing said new stuff.

Need an example? My mother's washing machine was held together by rope until it finally and irrevocably died.

So, unless I am adopted (which I'm pretty sure they would have told me by now) the shopping addiction is all me. (Unless I really do equate love with stuff, which I am highly skeptical of.)

Always getting my way? Totally my parents' fault. I can count on one hand the times my father told me no. And for the times he did say no, my mother said yes. I prefer to think that I was smart enough to keep my requests within reason, never giving my parents a real reason to say no, as opposed to the less pleasant idea that I was spoiled rotten. There's probably a happy medium.

However, I would like to say that I place this blame in the most grateful and loving way possible. In case my parents are reading this, I don't want them to think I am in any way complaining. I had a perfect childhood and adolescence, perfect parents, and I wouldn't trade any of that for controlling stock in Target.

Also, I take full responsibility for allowing my expectation to always get my way to carry over into adulthood.

Apparently I have already ended several relationships because I wasn't the center of attention, and didn't always get my way.

Fascinating.

Again, not sure how much I believe the psychobabble, but I believe there are reasons behind the things that I do, and I believe that I have the power to change my actions if I can understand those reasons.

Also, I don't want to end up living in a cardboard box, so if agreeing not to buy the new David Cook album on iTunes the day it came out can get me farther away from the cardboard box, I'm all for it.

But I find myself wondering, how much deprivation am I supposed to experience? My eyeliner ran out this morning. Am I supposed to deprive myself of eyeliner? Are my eyes supposed to go naked for the sake of my mental health?

I think not.

Plus, I didn't get my way about where Tim and I went out to dinner tonight, so combined with the lack of David Cook, that's double deprivation.

Not only do I deserve a new eyeliner, but a new purse to match.

Weird Fact Wednesday: Teeth On Cotton

2008-11-19T11:28:00.001-05:00

Some people can't stand the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Doesn't really bother me.

What gets me? Teeth on cotton.

So when Tim really wants to get to me, he'll lean over and bite his own shirt sleeve.

I'm not sure why this bothers me so much. Possibly its a tooth sensitivity thing - I don't know. All I know is that if I see someone biting cotton (when they gag people in movies, biting one end of a tourniquet as they tie it around their own arm,) I shudder. If my own teeth happen to come into contact with cotton, shivers are sent through my whole body, and I get the sensation that I have been chewing on aluminum foil.

What, you've never chewed on aluminum foil? Got old school fillings? Try it - it's fun.

Weird Fact Wednesday: Office Supplies

2008-11-12T11:03:00.003-05:00

It's really no secret that I have a slight shopping addiction. And it's not really the action of shopping that I am addicted to (as much fun as that is) it's the result of having new stuff.

I don't care who you are, you like new stuff. Admit it. New stuff is great.

My shopping addiction can be clearly broken down into sub-categories of addiction:

Makeup
Purses
Office supplies

What, the third one is weird?

Says you.

There is something intoxicating about a new notebook.

And the quest for the perfect notebook is never ending. So much so that I have roughly 20 partially filled notebooks scattered around my apartment. There are so many things that need to be factored: Paper size, paper weight, line rule, line color, cover appeal, portability. The list goes on.

Then, once you have found the perfect notebook (for the next week, at least) the quest for the perfect writing instrument begins. Pen or pencil? Gel roller or ballpoint? Fine or ultra-fine point? The mind boggles.

Every time Tim and I go out to dinner, and I sign the credit card slip, I examine the pen.

"This pen is awesome!" I exclaim.

"It's the paper," Tim repeatedly reminds me.

I need an entire notebook made out of restaurant receipt paper. The smoothness of writing is second to none. It eliminates the need for the perfect pen because ALL pens become the perfect pen on this paper.

And don't even get me started on the accessories. Post-It Notes, paper clips, binder clips, highlighters, thumbtacks, magnets, dry-erase boards, planners, desk organizers, mini staplers, hole punches, dividers, signature flags! (And when the hell will I ever use a signature flag? Doesn't matter - I have hundreds of them in varying colors.)

Luckily I have married an artist, so when I deem a notebook unusable due to its inadequate line rule, Tim uses it for doodling scrap, and it doesn't go to waste.

Same with all the rejected pens, pencils, and markers.

It's going to be a challenge to find something to do with all those signature flags, though.

What Exactly Do You Do All Day?

2008-11-07T11:12:00.004-05:00

I can remember growing up, and having people ask, "What does your father do for a living?" and I would fumble around for an answer.

"He's an electronics test engineer...he makes sure that everything inside the computers...he handles the...he works with computers all day."

I'd be willing to bet my family and friends now have similar conversations about me.

"What does your wife/daughter/sister/best friend do for a living?"

"Something to do with real estate...and web design...projects...she yells at people all day."

Here's the long answer: Project Manager for a real estate marketing and data compilation company.

And now I'm going to brag a little bit. Here's a press release that explains what I have spent the last five months of my life bleeding, sweating, and stressing over - NEXT is my baby. Go me.

eNeighborhoods Launches Redesigned Real Estate Marketing System

eNeighborhoods, the leading compiler of neighborhood information and marketing systems for real estate professionals, and a division of Dominion Enterprises, has announced the release of eNeighborhoods PowerSuite NEXT (Neighborhood Expert Tools).

Boca Raton, FL (PRWEB) November 7, 2008 -- eNeighborhoods, the leading compiler of neighborhood information and marketing systems for real estate professionals, and a division of Dominion Enterprises, has announced the release of eNeighborhoods PowerSuite NEXT (Neighborhood Expert Tools), the latest version of its award-winning software.

A full-featured marketing system, eNeighborhoods PowerSuite NEXT boasts a redesigned agent desktop, powerful Google™ Maps technology, and updated charts and graphs. The system helps real estate professionals connect with clients by making the most of every meeting and delivering the knowledge that clients need to make better buying and selling decisions.

"Home buyers today have a large inventory of homes from which to choose. They are looking for neighborhoods to fit their lifestyles, not just a property," said eNeighborhoods Vice President of Sales and Marketing Mark Mathis. "Finding the right location is more important than ever, and agents who can deliver targeted, personalized neighborhood knowledge can help their clients make better buying and selling decisions."

"Online and email marketing are important, but most valuable for agents is the one-on-one time they have with clients," Mathis continued. "NEXT helps agents make the most of every meeting by enabling them to provide personalized presentations with the information their clients want. Delivering professional reports with housing trends, school information, and neighborhood demographics helps agents build lasting and profitable relationships."

eNeighborhoods PowerSuite NEXT edition features new enhancements that benefit both buyer and seller agents. New features include full access from any web browser, redesigned Neighborhood Reports with enhanced data, updated Buyer Tours for today's tough market, an industry-leading CMA, agent website and more. The marketing system is designed to help agents create more contacts, leads, sales and referrals.

For a limited time, eNeighborhoods is offering a free trial of eNeighborhoods PowerSuite NEXT. For more information, visit http://www.eneighborhoods.com/.

eNeighborhoods will exhibit at the NAR 2008 REALTORS® Conference & Expo in Orlando, November 7-10, with Dominion Enterprises real estate businesses Advanced Access, AgentAdvantage, Homes.com, and Number1Expert in booth #2841.

About eNeighborhoods, LLC
Since 1997, eNeighborhoods, the nation's premier compiler of home and neighborhood information, has been providing real estate professionals with a comprehensive set of tools to attract and retain home buyers and sellers with the most up-to-date, localized information about property, neighborhoods and schools. In 2002, eNeighborhoods achieved the REALTOR Benefits® status with endorsement from The National Association of REALTORS® (NAR). The company also has strategic alliances with major real estate franchisers: Realogy, Century 21, Coldwell Banker, ERA, GMAC, Prudential, Keller Williams, EXIT Realty and RE/MAX, as well as many of the major independent brokerages. eNeighborhoods is the proud founding sponsor of NAR's Good Neighbor Award which educates, encourages and rewards outstanding community service by real estate professionals throughout the country. For more information on eNeighborhoods, visit eNeighborhoods.com.

About Dominion Enterprises
Dominion Enterprises, a division of Landmark Media Enterprises, LLC, is a leading marketing services company serving the automotive, real estate, apartment, recruitment and marine markets. The company operates a variety of businesses that offer Internet marketing, Web site design and hosting, lead generation, CRM, and data capture and distribution services. The company has more than 40 market-leading Web sites reaching more than 16.7 million unique monthly visitors, and more than 450 magazines with a weekly circulation of 4.3 million. Headquartered in Norfolk, Va., the company has 5,400 employees nationwide and annualized revenue of more than $946 million. For more information, visit http://www.dominionenterprises.com/.

I would stop being such a bitch if you would stop being so stupid.

2008-11-07T09:34:00.002-05:00

I adopted a philosophy in junior high, and I firmly believe it to be relevant in the adult world:

Boys are stupid, and girls are mean, but girls are mean because
boys are stupid.

It's true.

That was just the preface. In case you are wondering what my latest pet peeves have been (and I know it has been keeping you up at night) here's the current list:

1. Salesmen. I hesitate to just say salesmen and not salespeople, but the men tend to be more annoying, sleazy and underhanded than the women, which is the thing that really bothers me.

Salesmen have always pissed me off: accosting you when you least expect it; shoving pamphlets, brochures, leaflets in your face; having no shame, dignity or self-respect; lying. However, I have reached a new level of detest, single-handedly accomplished by the narcissistic, overzealous, obnoxious self-righteous salesmen at my place of employment.

2. Drivers who do not adhere to the appropriate sides of the road. It's pretty hard, and pretty stupid, to drive on the wrong side of the road when there are bright yellow lines or concrete medians marking the delineation. My new pet peeve is people who drive on the wrong side when there are no clear markers - like the lack of yellow paint gives them the right to drive in the effing middle. Parking lots and parking garages still have sides people, and one of these days I am going to let someone hit me because it will totally be their fault and it will satisfy my warped sense of justice.

3. Lack of reading comprehension, a.k.a. skimming. Here's the thing: If I take the time to write and email containing specific details or instructions, take the time to read it. And if you are going to skim it, make sure you know what skimming means: Mentally omitting the "filler" words such as "and" "the" "to" "for" etc., and gleaning the most important words. Not reading real quick and assuming you got the gist, and then doing things wrong because you're too lazy to read.

4. Small talk with strangers. This one will never go away. Just because we are in the same elevator does not mean I care what your kids (or dogs) dressed up as for Halloween!!

Overcoming Addictions

2008-11-06T09:22:00.003-05:00

Just to brag a little, here's a list of addictions I have managed to overcome:

- Cigarettes

- Starbucks, a.k.a. crack for caffeine junkies. Yes, I did it again - put myself through Starbucks detox. I didn't mention it this time, because I didn't want to be a public failure for a second time. But it has been 6 weeks, no Starbucks. I feel clean. (And I attend SA meetings bi-weekly.)

- Cheeseburgers, and subsequently all meat. I'm not sure it was an addiction, per se, but I have decided to see how walking the healthy path of a vegetarian works for me. In case my parents are reading, and start panicking about Thanksgiving, don't worry, I am still cooking a turkey for the carnivores.

And, just in case my head was getting a little bit too big, here are the addictions that still weaken me, and that I am not sure I am ready to give up:

-iTunes. Oh, buy just one thing on iTunes. I dare you. Especially if you enable the "Genius" feature.

- Gummy Bears. Especially the red ones. I shun the yellow ones, and as much as Tim attempts to claim that they all taste the same, he shares my addiction, and the Gummy Bear designated tupperware always ends up with all yellow bears at the end. We eat them only to put them out of their misery and to make room for the fresh bag.

- Sleep. I am beginning to think that I may have some rare sleeping disease or disorder, because I sleep a lot. Well, a lot according to my husband and the rest of the Florida freaks who only seem to need 5-6 hours of sleep per night. I need 8. Minimum. Is there something so wrong with that?

Weird Fact Wednesday: Everyone needs a little security

2008-11-05T10:00:00.001-05:00

I still have my childhood blanket.

Oh, whatever.

Sweet Sanctuary

2008-11-04T09:05:00.003-05:00

Last week I wrote a post complaining about my lack of time to write - "Reality continues to get in the way of my life."

I figured something out, and it is actually pretty ironic since my best friend's mother is a retired librarian, and my mother is a retired library clerk: The library is a great place to get stuff done.

My biggest problem, as noted in the original post, is that I am too easily distracted by other things that I find equally important to writing. I would commit to sitting and writing, I would write for 20 minutes or so, and then the distractions would enter my consciousness. Read for a few minutes to clear my head, chat with Tim, play with the cats, see what's happening on The Bridge, call Liz, surf the net.

The library removes all of those distractions in a way that I don't feel guilty about ignoring them.

I find myself a desk, set up my laptop and my iPod (the only interference I allow, because it is soothing) and I WRITE. After the 20 minute mark, when I start to fidget, I have nowhere to go. So I fidget, bit my nails, sigh a few times, look around, become self-conscious that people are looking at me, and go back to writing. The hours between writing bouts has been shortened to minutes. It's pretty cool.

I do have Internet access - if I feel like braving the public pool of computers, and sitting next to someone questionable who is more than likely going to watch whatever I choose to do on the Internet. Therefore, I have disciplined myself to wait until I get home to surf.

Oh, sweet sanctuary of the Southwest County Regional West Boca Raton Public Library (mouthful - and it does not compare to the reverence and calming environment of the BPL, which I miss terribly.) My mother and Susan Martin should be so proud.

Oh Strange Subconscious

2008-11-01T09:11:00.001-04:00

What is it, I wonder, that makes us all of a sudden think of people and places that have been removed from our lives for a long, long time?

Last night, I had a dream involving the following people and places:

Jessie Vanderslice - high school friend whom I have not heard from in over 8 years
Boston - where I haven't lived for over 8 years and haven't visited in over a year
Billy, Pat, and Danny Taylor - family friends whom I haven't seen in well over 8 years

The dream also involved a frantic dash to the airport, a great deal of rain, ill-fitting pants, Starbucks (which kept changing locations so that I could not find it and give in to my peppermint white mocha craving), a very nice Mercedes, a luxurious department store, the Green and Red lines of the Boston "T" system, and Disney World disguised as a Swiss mountain village.

It's really better if you don't ask.

Pickle Tree Moments

2008-10-31T08:30:00.003-04:00

For those of you unfamiliar with the phrase "Pickle Tree Moment," you may want to peruse the site history here.

Just in the past few days, two more phrases have made it into Pickle Tree Moment history, so I figured I would share.

PTM #1:

Background: For a while, in lieu of breakfast, I was drinking a Carnation Instant Breakfast each morning. Of course, my husband scoffed at me. Then, as per usual, he realized I was a genius and he too began drinking an Instant Breakfast each morning before work. Now he's addicted. He can't function without his Carnation in the morning.

Last Saturday, Tim woke to find the refrigerator devoid of milk. Tragedy. He tried to convince me to go across the street and get him some milk. No go. We were headed to the beach anyway, so I told him we could stop on the way.

We left the house, Tim with a Carnation packet secure among the beach gear, and I poked fun at him for being so addicted to the breakfast he used to scoff at.

"Whatever. I need my milk in the morning. I'm like a baby cow."

To which I stared at him thoughtfully, and asked, "Do cows drink milk?"

He waited to see if I was serious, and then started laughing. "What, you think its some sort of cannibalism for cows to drink milk?"

"Well, yeah." I responded.

PTM #2

Tim knows I have been really stressed out at work lately; so stressed out I am on the verge of killing people. A few days ago he called me at work to check in on me, make sure I wasn't going crazy. I told him...

"I'm fine. I'm a duck."

"You're a duck?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm a duck. It all rolls off my back."

Pause. Snicker. "It rolls off you like water off of a duck's back," he corrected.

"Whatever. I'm a duck."

Traditional Traditions

2008-10-30T06:00:00.001-04:00

I had a conversation not too long ago pertaining to the quality of my marriage, which greatly angered and agitated me.

Before I enlighten you on the details of said conversation, I'd like to give you a little of my personal back story:

1. I am not June effing Cleaver. Never have been, never will be.
2. Six years ago I decided that love was more important than money.
3. Peter Pan complexes tend to turn me on.

Now, many of you may be familiar with the back story on my marriage. Just in case you're not, here are some of the pertinents:

1. My husband is my best friend; there is not a single soul on earth I would rather spend time with than Tim.
2. I am my husband's best friend; there is not a single soul on earth Tim would rather spend time with than me.
3. My husband is a laid-back, slightly immature and irresponsible fun-lover. I am an OCD neurotic, slightly more mature and responsible, worry wart. We balance each other quite well.

Here are the reasons that, according to aforementioned conversation, my marriage is doomed:

1. Tim and I do not eat dinner together. Could also be stated as: I do not cook for my loving husband, but make him fend for himself and selfishly feed myself when I arrive home from work two hours later than he does.
2. I make more money than Tim does; I have more ambition to increase my salary than Tim does.
3. Tim is never going to grow up. I am always going to be the more responsible one, will get tired of being the only adult, and will therefore find myself attracted to "adult" men other than my husband.

Here are my angry and agitated responses to these reasons why my marriage is doomed:

1. I refer to item 1 from my personal back story: "I am not June effing Cleaver. Never have been, never will be."

To my mother's (and many of my married female friends) chagrin, I don't do his laundry either. Why? Because I have no desire to take over the job of being his mother - I want to be his wife.

Luckily, Tim feels the same way. He would rather do his own laundry. He likes getting to eat whatever he wants for dinner. When I did make the short-lived attempt to cook dinner, more often than not he had to choke down something he didn't really want to be eating, because, I'll be honest, I'm not really into the whole cooking thing. I could be great at it if I put the appropriate time and effort into it, but...do I really need to say it again? Not June Cleaver.

The same women who are chagrined by my lack of laundry duty will also ask, "But don't you worry that he's not eating right?" I refer back to the "not his mother" statement. And really, the whole dinner thing is about making time for each other, being together, talking, participating in one another's lives, right? Tim and I do more of that than most people, let alone any married couple I know, due to the fact that we are each other's best friend.

So there.

If we have children, I will force them to sit down at a designated time and choke down my half-hearted cooking. Until then: every one for themselves! (Damn those cats for not having opposable thumbs.)

2. I refer to item 2 from my personal back story: "Six years ago I decided that love was more important than money."

It's pretty simple: I've been with guys who make oodles of money - enough to support my shopping habit as well as all their mistresses shopping habits. I was miserable.

Tim makes me happy.

Ergo, me making more money = not a big effing deal.

I suppose I can also refer back to "Not June effing Cleaver." My husband is secure enough in his manhood to also be comfortable with the fact that I am the bread-winner, and I have no desire to be lazy while he makes all the money.

So it works for us.

3. I refer to item 3 from my personal back story: "Peter Pan complexes tend to turn me on."

My husband is hot. My husband is going to keep my young.

End of story.

So I'd like to give a big "Har dee har har har" to the originator (remainig nameless) of the stupid comments.

Weird Fact Wednesday...The Return

2008-10-29T06:00:00.000-04:00

Been a few weeks, huh? I apologize to my 3 fans for leaving you high and dry, lacking weirdness in your life.

:)

Since it is so close to Halloween, I figured I would choose a weird fact in the spooky vein.

I have an unnatural fear of anything supernatural. Seriously. Unnatural. Things that should not be scary scare the bejeezus out of me.

For example, raise your hand if you think any of the below are bone chillingly terrifying:

The Sixth Sense
Haunted Houses and Hayrides geared toward toddlers and adolescents
The dark
Showering alone
The phrase "Bloody Mary"
Ouija boards
Basements
Attics
The phrase "Blair-Witching it in the corner."

My hand was raised the entire time.

I blame my siblings, I'll have you know. It's only fair - they blame me for a whole lot of crap that was not necessarily my fault, a.k.a. being born.

Paul told me the spirit of an Indian (Native American) lived in the basement and to watch out for flying arrows as I walked down the stairs. He also told me the monsters in the basement were particularly fond of the taste of little girl. I learned to sprint the stairs three at a time if I ever needed to be in the basement.

Adam was convinced that he had a Shroud of Turin-esque Jesus imprint on his bedroom wall and adored Alice Cooper. Can we all say creepy?

Jennifer let me watch Psycho when I was nine, then proceeded to feign ignorance two weeks later on Halloween when my mother threw me in the shower after a particularly egg and shaving cream filled night and I screamed bloody murder when the pink color I had sprayed in my hair ran blood red in the shower. Hello?

Also, I grew up 45 minutes from Sleepy Hollow. Seriously.

Is it any wonder that I'm a big 'fraidy cat?

Sweater Week!

2008-10-28T09:24:00.003-04:00

I was going to write a post entitled "Dig A Deep Hole and Hide" since that is how I have been feeling lately, but I woke up this morning to...

Sweater Week!

I love sweater week. Who can be unhappy during sweater week?

Oh, you are not familiar with sweater week? Allow me to explain.

The people of South Florida love to be asked the question, "But don't you miss having four seasons?" Because we do have four seasons: Warm, Hot, Unbearable, and, you guessed it, Sweater Week. (Of course, dependent upon the South Floridian you talk to, our four seasons can also be considered Football, Baseball, Hockey and Basketball.)

Usually for a week in the Fall, and a week in the Winter, South Florida experiences temperatures that dip below the standard 75-85 degree range.

And trust me, below 75 for South Floridians is COLD.

So, if you originate from the cold North Country (as my husband and I do) you can be easily amused the first time this phenomenon is witnessed: Sweaters, sweatshirts, fleece, scarves, coats, hats, etc. being broken out in 50-60 weather.

At first you scoff: Ha! They think this is cold? They should try surviving a power outage in Buffalo - no heat for four days!

Then, the longer you spend in Florida, you discover the rumors are true. Your blood thins. 50 degrees to a Floridian is equivalent to -10 degrees to an Upstate New Yorker.

Hence, Sweater Week. The week that all my New York winter clothes are saved for. Yes, they take up an entire section of my closet, fighting with the capri pants, sleeveless tops and sundresses for space, only to be worn 2 weeks out of the year, but it is so worth it.

Why? There are things I miss about living in the Mid-Atlantic and New England states.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I miss the way the first day of Autumn, and the first day of Winter, smell. Sometimes I miss snow. Sometimes I miss fireplaces. I definitely miss adorable winter clothes. Sometimes I miss a random excuse to cuddle. Sometimes I miss having to warm up instead of cool down.

If I didn't have Sweater Week, I might miss these things enough to consider moving back to the Great White North. That would be insanity. Sweater Week provides most of the above.

The snow? All I have to do is visit my parents or my in-laws in the dead of winter, and be reminded of how effing cold it has to be to snow. After 2 days I'm cured.

Reality continues to get in the way of my life

2008-10-23T10:42:00.004-04:00

Here's my horoscope for today:

You may rebel against authority today because you just don't want to follow instructions. You think you know a better way to do things and all you want is acknowledgment and respect. This can be your chance to show others how clever you can be, so don't let anyone talk you out of your intended plan. Decide what you want and then go for it

Oh, yeah.

Lately I've been feeling like I don't have any time for me.

Well, that's not entirely true. I have been working an awful lot of late hours, and quite a bit at home and on the weekends, but I still have time for me. I simply choose to spend that "me" time in ways that involve other people. Instead of writing and blogging - the things I desperately want to be doing - I am filling my free time in ways that are equally, if not more, important than writing and blogging.

Hanging out with my husband. (Which he may even say I don't do enough of.)
Spending quality time with the furry (and scaly) kids.
Skimboarding.
Talking to my Lizzie.
Playing Wedding Coordinator for Aubs.
Hanging with my new bud Tina. (I have a new chick friend, and I am loving it since it is such a rare phenomenon for me.)
Hey, Trace, I'd love to include you in this list, but my husband insists I leave you alone until you come to me. (Smile.)

With all of the above, fitting in time to write becomes exceedingly hard.

There are going to be the die-hard writers who tell me that if I were truly driven to write, I wouldn't be able to not make the time. I'd put other things aside. I wouldn't rest until the words were on the page.

That's BS.

First of all, I live in a world where the economy sucks, so I have to bust my ass to do a good job so that I can keep my job.

Second of all, without all the "other" things mentioned above, I would have no reason to write, and nothing to write about.

Third of all, reality. Hello. I can't block out a half hour and walk away with something brilliant. And I'm not effing Hemingway. I can't be drunk all the time and hang out with a million cats and do nothing but write. As appealing as that sounds.

So...

I get in what I can, and hopefully I'll be able to get in more and more as time goes on.

Unless anyone else has any brilliant ideas?

Seriously Slacking Skimboarder

2008-10-18T20:47:00.004-04:00

...Reality continues to get in the way of my life.

All of a sudden, I am in important person at my job. I'm starting to gain some respect. Others are tarting to rely on me. Which is good...and bad. These things are making me take my job more seriously, which means I am working later, working at home, working weekends.

Leaving very little time for the things I want to be doing...
Writing.
Bridging.
Blogging.
Among others.

So today I made time for one of the things I wanted to be doing...skimboarding.

The beginning of my skimboarding career was not all that great.
I fell.
A lot.
I couldn't stand up on the board.
At all.
No balance. Natural klutz. Accident waiting to happen.

I watched as Tim mastered it...
with some help from his skateboarding and snowboarding background.
I seriously injured myself.
I got discouraged.
I don't like to not be good at anything,
but it seemed skimboarding might not be for me.

So I almost gave up,
but decided to give it one last shot today.
It was a gorgeous day...
one of those days that make people jealous that I live in Florida...
so if I fell, repeatedly, and I gave up, at least I could lounge on the beach in the beautiful sunlight while Tim got his fill of waves.

And then, at the beach, something happened.
Tim made a suggestion...
and I listened.
It's hard for me to listen, because, as I said, I don't like not being good at things, and it makes me less good at something if I need help.

But, I was getting desperate.
I wanted this to be as fun for me as it was for Tim.
I wanted to stop falling.

So I let him coach me.

He knelt in the sand and surf
with the patience of a saint,
and held the board between us,
pushing it slightly to get it going,
and then coaching and correcting my stance, my balance, my stride, my style.
I wanted to resent it, but when I caught the first piece of surf, hydroplaned off it, and skimmed the length of the beach, catching a tiny wave at the end, I was exhilarated and grateful.

So he patiently coached me some more, until I finally got the hang of it.
So today, I skimmed more than I fell, and I was even on my way to catching waves.

Don't get me wrong...
I fell.
Hard enough that I have sand rash on my ass and the back of my thighs.
But it was worth it.
Because for the 3 times I fell today..
yeah, just three...
I caught perfect momentum about 30 times, and boy did I have fun.

It was a good day.

Weird Fact Wednesday

2008-10-08T09:24:00.002-04:00

OCD vs. Advil PM

I've been having some sleeping issues lately. This has never happened to me. Once upon I time, I could sleep anywhere, anytime. I slept through a heavy metal concert once. In the past, I could probably sleep on rocks. I love to sleep.

I would go to bed, put my head on the pillow, and...OUT. No thinking. No tossing and turning. Nothing. Out like a light, just like that.

No more.

Now, my busy life, and the OCD, is winning.

I lay down, and even if I am absolutely exhausted, I think about work. What I didn't get done that day, what I need to get done the next day, what needs to get done by certain deadlines.

Then I think about my writing. Ideas, first lines, scenes, characters; all swarm through my hand and demand to be written. That has gotten so bad that I have actually left my comfy bed after getting in it to power up the laptop and get a few sentences out.

That never happens. I don't leave my bed for anything. Once, I used my cell phone to call the house phone to ask Tim to bring me a drink. Yes, I am that lazy, and love my bed that much.

If I can quell the noise of the creatives, I move on to thinking about Liz, Tracy, Aubree, my parents, my family, and the few other friends that I manage to keep. What do I think? I don't know...I just think.

I haven't mentioned Tim, or the pets, in any of the above, because they are constantly on my mind; a normal piece of the daily puzzle, my first priorities, and my first and last thoughts of each day.

Last night I was truly exhausted after an especially long day at work, and still, when I went to bed, my mind swam. So, I decided to take some Advil PM. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

Here's the weird part...

The OCD won out over the Advil PM. It did nothing.

Why is this weird? Because DayQuil, as well as all other "Non-Drowsy" medication, knocks me flat on my ass.

There may not be a drug strong enough to get past my crazy brain.

Weird.

Whitewashed

2008-10-06T23:49:00.004-04:00

What's up with the fancy new white background, you ask?

I received a few complaints about the blog being hard to read, because the text overlaps the left side image.

At first, I was all, "Boy, do I feel stupid. I managed a graphic design team for 2 years. Go me."

Then, I realized the more important part...

OMG! People are reading my blog!

I am humbled.

I hope changing the background has made for easier reading, since that is ultimately my goal!!

BTW...about the slacking, and the pitifully small amount of posts per week? I'm working on it. Can't blame a girl for trying to climb the corporate ladder, can you?

P.S. I am attending a charity luncheon with the Florida Panthers tomorrow, courtesy of my corporate ladder. I have yet to decide if I am going to be "that girl" and bring my camera. I'll be sure to post pics if I do.

Resignation Letter

2008-10-01T21:02:00.002-04:00

Dear Adult World:

It is with reluctance that I’m submitting this letter.

Although my time as an adult has been, on the whole, satisfying and productive, for quite a while now I have become less and less satisfied with adulthood.

It was wonderful for a little while: being in a bar without a faked or stolen ID; sleeping as long as I damn well pleased on Saturday mornings; never making my bed; no one telling me what I couldn't do; decorating my apartment to my liking; owning exotic pets; eating dinner while watching TV.

However, I find that I was not adequately prepared for the stress that accompanied the freedom, the obligations that go hand in hand with the privilege. I find myself calling to mind the words of the Uncle of a great superhero: "With great power, comes great responsibility."

It would appear that I do not have the adequate skills necessary to handle the power of adulthood.

With the current state of the economy, my lack of a six-figure salary, and my selfish desire for free time and leisure, it increasingly difficult for me to feel that I’m contributing sufficiently.

Therefore, it is with regret that I ask you to accept this as my resignation from adulthood effective immediately.

If you would be so kind as to forward any and all correspondence to "3rd Cardboard Box From The Curb, Somewhere in Coconut Creek, Florida" as I will most likely need it for kindling, food, flooring, or paper airplanes.

Sincerely,

Nanci Block

Weird Fact Wednesday

2008-10-01T05:21:00.001-04:00

Happy October!!

First Weird Fact Wednesday of the 10th Month:

I have a bizarre habit of looking at the clock at the same time every day. I'm sure this happens more than once, but there is a specific time that I notice every day, because it is my birthday: 5:21

Weekdays, at work, I am generally in the office until 5:30. Toward the end of the day, I get the sense that time is winding down on whatever project I am working on. (unless I want to be in the office all night, which I don't. I have the blessing and the curse of being able to work from home, so like I said, I am generally out of the office at 5:30 SHARP unless something important needs my attention.) I check the time in order to pace myself. It always seems to be 5:21.

Weekday mornings, my alarm doesn't go off until 6:10, but I often wake up for a moment, and stare at the clock at 5:21. Even on weekends. (Here's a bonus weird fact: My alarm clock has a mind of its effing own, I swear. No matter what time I set it for, it goes off at 7:01AM. This is fine during the week, since I completely turn it off well before 7:01AM. However, on the weekends, if I set my alarm for after 7:01AM it still goes off at 7:01AM. It's the creepiest thing. I hit the snooze once, and it relaxes, and doesn't sound again until its scheduled time. Sure, I could buy a new alarm clock, but who likes change?)

Anyway, I don't think the 5:21 thing (or the 7:01 thing, for that matter) is coincidence.

I'm not sure what else it could be, but I think the Universe might be trying to tell me something.

Hmmm...

Weird.

Weird Fact...Oops

2008-09-25T12:39:00.004-04:00

Yeah, I missed Wednesday, but Liz is probably the only one who is going to yell at me.

I generally don't like movies made before 1990.

Of course, there are exceptions. The Princess Bride is one of my favorite movies, and that was made in 1987. (See how close to 1990, though?)

Also, I love Citizen Kane.

That might be about it. Seriously.

I am probably the only person I know who truly liked the Johnny Depp portrayal of Willy Wonka better than Gene Wilder. Except for one scene. This one:

Grandpa Joe: Mr. Wonka?
Willy Wonka: [pointedly ignoring them] I am extraordinarily busy, sir.
Grandpa Joe: [tentatively] I just wanted to ask about the chocolate - Uh, the lifetime supply of chocolate... for Charlie. When does he get it?
Willy Wonka: He doesn't.
Grandpa Joe: Why not?
Willy Wonka: Because he broke the rules.
Grandpa Joe: What rules? We didn't see any rules. Did we, Charlie?
Willy Wonka: [springs up from his chair, angrily] Wrong, sir! Wrong! Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy [grabs a magnifying glass and reads]
Willy Wonka: - "I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained," et cetera, et cetera..."Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum," et cetera, et cetera..."Memo bis punitor delicatum!" [slams the magnifying glass down, shouts]
Willy Wonka: It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal! You stole fizzy lifting drinks. You bumped into the ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get *NOTHING*! You lose! Good day sir!
Grandpa Joe: [shocked] You're a crook. You're a cheat and a swindler! That's what you are! [angrily]
Grandpa Joe: How could you do a thing like this, build up a little boy's hopes and then smash all his dreams to pieces? You're an inhuman monster!
Willy Wonka: [shouts even louder] I said "Good day!"

As opposed to all the following gems from Johnny Depp:

Violet Beauregarde: [hugs Wonka] Mr. Wonka, I'm Violet Beauregarde.
Willy Wonka: [freaked out] Oh. I don't care.
Violet Beauregarde: Well, you should care. Because I'm the girl who's gonna win the special prize at the end.
Willy Wonka: Well, you do seem confident and confidence is key.

Mike Teavee: Who wants a beard?
Willy Wonka: Well, beatniks for one, folk singers and motorbike riders. Y'know. All those hip, jazzy, super cool, neat, keen, and groovy cats. It's in the fridge, daddy-o! Are you hip to the jive? Can you dig what I'm layin' down? I knew that you could. Slide me some skin, soul brother!

Willy Wonka: You're all quite short, aren't you?
Violet Beauregarde: Well yeah, we're children.
Willy Wonka: Well that's no excuse. I was never as short as you.
Mike Teavee: You were once.
Willy Wonka: Was not. Know why? Because I distinctly remember putting a hat on top of my head. Look at your short little arms. You could never reach.

Willy Wonka: I sure hope no part of him gets left behind.
Mr. Teavee: What do you mean?
Willy Wonka: Uh, well... sometimes only half of the little pieces find their way through. If you had to choose only one half of your son, which one would it be?
Mr. Teavee: What kind of a question is that?
Willy Wonka: No need to snap, just a question.

Willy Wonka: Do you like my meadow? Try some of my grass! Please have a blade, please do, it's so delectable and so darn good looking!
Charlie Bucket: You can eat the grass?
Willy Wonka: Of course you can! Everything in this room is eatable, even *I'm* eatable! But that is called "cannibalism," my dear children, and is in fact frowned upon in most societies.

Willy Wonka: [to Mike Teavee] Mumbler! Seriously, I cannot understand a single word you're saying!

Veruca Salt: Will Violet always be a blueberry?
Willy Wonka: No. Maybe. I dunno. But that's what you get from chewing gum all day, it's just disgusting.
Mike Teavee: If you hate gum so much, why do you make it?
Willy Wonka: Once again you really shouldn't mumble, 'cause it's kinda starting to bum me out.

Where I've Been...Where I'm Going

2008-09-22T20:17:00.006-04:00

Where I've Been

Last Wednesday evening I took a serious wipeout on the skimboard, so Thursday I decided to be absent from work. I took myself to the walk-in clinic and procured myself some Skelaxin, Percocet, and 800MG Ibuprofen. May I just say, "SWEET."

Friday, September 19:

Bright and early Friday morning (5AM to be exact) I was rousing my other half in attempt to get us on our way to the Fort Lauderdale Hollywood International Airport. Destination: Long Island's MacArthur Airport. Purpose: Tim's sister's wedding.

I prepped the animals for our three days away. Self-feeder on a timer for Hades and Azrael. BIG water dispenser and toilet seats left open. Hydra ate the night before, and her lights are constantly on a timer, so she was all good. I loaded Styx up with dried fruit and worms, and lectured her about not gorging herself the first day. Gave the cats a speech about sharing, being nice to each other, not destroying the house, and calling if they needed us.

Off to the airport!

The flight was rather uneventful, as was our arrival in Islip. We were greeted by Mom (a.k.a. Evelyn) and Mike (Tim's stepfather) and proceeded to have lunch.

REAL F-ING NEW YORK PIZZA. Granted, it was no Manhattan Ray's, but it was still New York, and it was still better than anything you will get outside of a 50-mile radius of "the city." (Because Manhattan will always be "the city" and Long Island will always be "the island." There are no other cities, and no other islands, as far as New Yorkers are concerned.)

Quick nap (which left my husband so disoriented he shot up out of bed like someone had jabbed him with a hot poker when Mike knocked on our door. His blaring alarm he doesn't hear; the soft knock on a foreign door is like an air raid siren.)

Dinner with the in-laws, sans the bride and groom to be. MUCH family gossip. Good stuff, too, but since they are not my family (well, they are, but it hasn't even been six months yet) I don't feel comfortable publicizing it on my blog. I wish I could, though. It's GOOOOOD.

Saturday, September 20 (Wedding Day!)

I woke up almost as excited as I did on my own wedding day.

OK, that is a gross exaggeration, but I was excited. I chanted to Tim, "Your sister's getting married today!" What can I say? Weddings are fun.

Mike shuttled Tim to the groom's aunt's house to get dressed (he got to be a distinguished groomsman while I remained simply Tim's wife) and I got to join the women at soon-to-be mom-in-law's. I got to be involved once, when no one could secure Cristi's veil to her liking; I was in possession of the almighty bobby pin. Go me.

Off to the church!

Beautiful ceremony - thank God it turned out not to be a full mass. No offense intended (as I make the sign of the cross) but I get cranky if I have to be in church too long. They inevitably smell funny and give me a migraine. No one tripped, no one objected, no one chickened out. The worst thing that happened was my darling husband rolling his eyes repeatedly during the priest's sermon (which, to Tim's credit was about gas prices and deserved eye rolling) but I was probably the only one watching him.

Off the to Cocktail Hour!...scheduled for three hours later. (Some sort of faux pas having to do with booking the reception hall before the church. The priest was all snippy about it, so I hear. I wouldn't know anything about this, having gotten married by a notary at a Yacht Club.)

So, still without my husband, I spent three pleasant hours (at a bar) with Evelyn and Mike. Mike and I are both nerds, so we tend to find a lot to talk about. As the cocktail hour finally approached, I popped a Percocet. Then a Skelaxin for good measure. Was I drinking? Umm...grapefruit juice with the tiniest bit of Grey Goose. Made the reception much more bearable.

The Reception!

Typical reception. Picture any wedding you have ever been to, picture the bridesmaids wearing navy blue and the groomsmen wearing ivory vests. Ta da! You have successfully attended Cristi and Kenny Rich's wedding reception!

Seriously, it was a blast. 170 people (28 from my husband's family) tore up the dance floor and got wasted. The bride and groom, thankfully, remained tactfully sober, and I managed not to embarrass myself in my 4-inch heels and drug induced euphoria. Happily ever after and long live the king! Or whatever.

Sunday, September 21

Wake up and curse myself for allowing myself to mix so many addictive depressants. Get crankier when Tim gets cranky at me because he is hung over. Grumble at each other all the way through showering, packing, checking out, and accompanying Mom and Mike to after-wedding brunch hosted by parents of the groom.

We arrive at the bruch at 12. Entire family of the groom has been drinking since 10AM. Strong possibility that they never stopped the night before. These people know how to party. Tim and I hid on the couch and pretended to watch the Giants game until it was time to go to the airport.

More grumbling on the way to the airport.

More grumbling at the airport.

Positive whining on the plane.

Sigh of relief when we touched Florida soil.

Calm and quiet on the ride home.

Utter joy when we were frantically greeted by the starving animals upon walking in the front door.

Asleep within half hour of arrival, curled up with the (fed) furballs, happy to be home.

Monday, September 22

Back to work, back to reality, back to the blog.

Where I'm Going

I have some plans for The Pickle Tree. I'll keep you posted.

Thanks for reading!

Weird Fact Wednesday

2008-09-17T21:07:00.002-04:00

I brush my teeth in the shower.

That's it.

(It's been a long Wednesday, and I think my latest skimboarding injury might be pretty serious. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble walking in the morning. But get this: I stood up on the board today. More than once. Go me.)

I'm going to be stuck in Long Island for the weekend, so I can assure you plenty of long-drawn out posts pretty soon, since the wi-fi will become my sanctuary.

Random Rant on a Tuesday

2008-09-16T14:03:00.004-04:00

It occurred to me that I haven't blogged in a while. How sad for the three people who read my blog. (Yes, I believe that was sarcasm, tinged with a little bit of bitterness.)

Seriously, though. It is HARD to think of things to blog about. And then, if I factor in what people may actually want to read about, it gets even harder.

So, I decided that I am going to take advantage of my blog (which I can do because it's mine, damn it) and use it for random stream of consciousness.

Warning 1: my consciousness is not a place you want to delve into unprepared. If you don't know me, the likelihood of becoming offended is pretty high.

Warning 2: Just ingested AlkaSeltzer cold medication. Little loopy.

So, here goes...

Stride gum.
Seriously? I bought it. I was sucked in by their amusing advertising campaign. Ridiculously long lasting flavor, my ass. I suppose if you are comparing it to the 3-second flavor of Dubble Bubble, the 4-second flavor of Wrigley's or the 6-second flavor of Trident, then yes, it is ridiculously long lasting at roughly 8 seconds. I still think the advertising is a little over the top.

The Seven Mile Bridge into Key West, Florida.
In case you've ever wondered (which, really, what sane person would?) it really is seven miles long. Down to the 1/10 of a mile, as best as my car could calculate. Thanks, Mom, for that little neurosis.

Grey's Anatomy
Has anyone else had quite enough of the Derek/Meredith "Poor me, my daddy didn't love me enough so I can't love the PERFECT, HOT BRAIN SURGEON WHO IS WAY TOO GOOD FOR ME?" As Chandler once said on Friends: "Oh no, two women love me. They're both gorgeous and sexy. My wallet's too small for my fifties AND MY DIAMOND SHOES ARE TOO TIGHT!"

There is a rumor that Denny will be back in a series of visions/flashbacks not previously seen. Wanna know why? Because the writers/producers/whoever is in charge of that crap knows what a grave (pun intended) mistake they made when they killed him off. Unfortunately the show does not air before 5:00PM, or they could easily bring him back from the dead without explanation.

Talking to Strangers
My parents spent an awful lot of time when I was younger teaching me not to talk to strangers. So why, in the name of God, am I expected to make small talk with strangers simply because we happen to be riding the same elevator, or seated next to each other on the same flight, or on the same line in the grocery store. I want it stopped!

Weird Fact Wednesday

2008-09-10T21:16:00.000-04:00

Last week someone told me that they liked my Long Island accent.

It would have been a nice compliment, I suppose, but I’m not from Long Island, so I shouldn’t have a Long Island accent.

My husband is from Long Island, and has a very prominent, and adorable, Long Island accent.

That’s when I had my epiphany.

I’m a language chameleon. I have a Long Island accent (really only on certain words) because Tim has a Long Island accent, and I have adopted his speech patterns and ways of saying certain things.

I gave it some thought, and I was able to come up with an entire list of words in my vocabulary that I have picked up by association.

Compliments of my husband:
Der
Take care of my light work

Compliments of Liz:
Quick, are you kidding?
Like a pig in mud
Who has time for that?

Compliments of Tracy Miller:
Dude

Compliments of Aubree:
Word.

Compliments of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Bugger. Bollocks. Bloody Hell.

Compliments of The Princess Bride
Inconceivable
As You Wish

Compliments of Grey's Anatomy:
Seriously?

Compliments of Lost:
Live Together, Die Alone

Compliments of Boston
Wicked

Compliments of Ice Age:
Doom on You

Compliments of Paris Hilton:
That's Hot

Compliments of Christopher Walken:
I need more cowbell!

Compliments of the 1990's:
Whatever

Compliments of the Bourne Identity:
Shizer!

September Sundays in South Florida

2008-09-08T22:18:00.002-04:00

I love Sundays, and Mondays are a great way to remind me how much I love Sundays.

On Friday afternoon, I called an emergency meeting for 9:00AM this morning. That was genius.

(Background for those of you who need it: I am a project manager for a specialized marketing company. Our latest and greatest product (the one I am in charge of) is scheduled to launch on September 25th. At 4:45PM on Friday, I found out THAT WAS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. Hence the panic button, hence the emergency meeting. Yeah, hence!)

I usually get to work between 8:00AM and 8:30AM (Starbucks line length has a great deal to do with this window) but of course, on the day I SCHEDULED A MEETING I have trouble getting there by 9:00AM. The day only got more hectic from there. The company who skimps on salary is willing to "SPARE NO EXPENSE" to meet the deadline of the 25th. I was tempted to tell them that an extra $100k in my pocket could cause the deadline to be met early, but really? (Gee, I hope no one I work with has stumbled across my blog. That would suck.)

So, this afternoon I took sometime to relive my perfect Sunday. Here's what it was like:

Wake up at 9:00AM. Feed yowling cats who act as though I have withheld food for weeks. Straighten up mess hubby has left from night before. (OCD, remember?) Check in with my long-lost friends the Internet, the Writing Bridge and Gmail. Contemplate writing. Go to Starbucks instead. Write roughly 500 words. Wander my apartment looking for something to clean, straighten, or otherwise perfect. Write 500 more words. Do some jumping jacks to release excess energy. Write 500 more words. Attempt to play with cats who now want nothing to do with me since they have been fed. Mock cats for not having opposable thumbs. Wake up Tim. Wait the hour it takes him to rouse and get ready to go to the beach. (He's worse than a woman.) Scrounge for meter change. Pack the cooler. Argue over who gets to use the "good" towel. Drive to the beach. Apply sunscreen, SPF 1.2 million. Get sunburn. (it's the only color I turn). Attempt skimboarding lesson #2. Injure heel. Fall on ass fifty some-odd times. Get laughed at by 15 year-old boy wearing shell necklace. (Seriously, were shell necklaces ever cool?) Mock 15 year-old boy wearing shell necklace. Get yelled at by Tim for mocking a 15 year-old. (He is convinced I am going to get him shot one day. Who hides a gun in swim trunks, I ask.) Pack up beach paraphernalia. Drive home. Take requisite post-beach nap. Cook dinner. Feed yowling cats who act as though I have withheld food for weeks. Check in with my long-lost friends the Internet, the Writing Bridge and Gmail. Contemplate writing. Go to Starbucks instead. (Yes, I drink way too much Starbucks.) Write roughly 500 words. Wander my apartment looking for something to clean, straighten, or otherwise perfect. Play with hedgehog. Play with snake. Play with cats. Play with husband. Go to bed. Get up because I forgot to prepare an agenda for the 9:00AM meeting that I SCHEDULED. Genius.

I Like Ike

2008-09-05T13:40:00.003-04:00

Just wanted to share the fact that South Florida is currently in the center of the "projected cone" for Hurricane Ike. Sweet.

Sleep Together, Die Alone*

2008-09-04T18:42:00.003-04:00

Lately I've become curious about the reasoning behind couples sleeping together. Not in the sexual sense (I totally get that), but in the physical sense; in the same room, the same bed, the same space. I'm sure there is a long and esteemed history. I'm sure there are deep, spiritual meanings for it, including display of love, commitment, unity, family and oneness.

Frankly, I think it sucks.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my husband. I love hanging out with him, cuddling with him, being close to him. We have, I believe, an excellent and rare relationship.

Not so fond of sleeping with him.

I'm 100% positive he would say the same about me.

We both snore. We both create a cocoon out of the coverings available to us, and then guard said cocoon fiercely, even in deep sleep. I talk in my sleep. He laughs in his sleep. (Oh, how I would love to be him for a night, and find out what the hell is so funny while he is comatose.)

It gets better.

At 5:45AM, an hour and fifteen minutes before he has to be up, and two hours before I have to be up, Tim's alarm starts sounding.

He sleeps through it.

I nudge hm. I rub his back. I say his name. When, every morning, I get no response, I either violently kick him or violently poke him to get his attention.

A variation of the following conversation inevitably ensues: (Certain euphemisms are used for the sake of the family members that still envision me as a perfectly polite eight-year old. Don't laugh, many of them do.)

Tim: "Ow! What the eff was that for?"

Me: "Turn it off."

Tim: "What?!"

Me: "Your effing alarm! Turn if off and get the eff up!"

After which there is a great deal of slamming, stumbling, mumbling and grumbling as he gets out of bed and goes to work while I revel in my remaining hour of sleep.

Go ahead, tell yourself (and me, if you so choose) that you love sleeping with your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other. Tell me that you are cuddlers. That you roll over every morning and praise the heavens that you have such a wonderful being in your life. I will only believe you if both you and your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other sleep like the effing dead.

I mean, let's be serious; If sleeping with your husband/wife/lover/partner/significant other was really all that magnificent, king-sized beds never would have been invented.

You know I'm right.

*Reference to Lost: Live Together, Die Alone

Weird Fact Wednesday

2008-09-03T13:01:00.002-04:00

I can't read a book without knowing how many total pages it has. I like to know how many pages I have left while I am reading.

Occasionally, when I check the page number on the last page, I glean telling words in the last few sentences. I don't do this on purpose and it makes me insane. Yet, I can't stop looking at the last page for its number.

Weird.

Introducing Barry

2008-09-01T12:39:00.004-04:00

Before I left for my honeymoon (destination: Islamorada, Florida, a.k.a. the Florida Keys) several people advised that Tim and I buy something for the house that would always remind us of our honeymoon.

Well, we did.

On the fourth day of our honeymoon, also my 30th birthday, Tim and I took a half-day fishing charter out of Key Largo.

Below are some pictures of the day's fun, including pictures of what Tim and I decided to purchase as a honeymoon/30th birthday souvenir. Yes, I caught him. He's a 45-inch barracuda. We've named him Barry and welcomed him to the family.

Abort! Abort! Return to the Mothership!

2008-08-28T08:58:00.003-04:00

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
free!"

Hmm...I may have to consider this.

Weird Fact Wednesday

2008-08-27T06:00:00.000-04:00

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.

OR

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!"

"So?"

"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!"

"Why?"

"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?"

"No!"

"Baby..."

"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.

Weird.

Critical Update

2008-08-26T15:21:00.002-04:00

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

Klutz Meets Skimboard

2008-08-26T08:50:00.002-04:00

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.

Starbucks Detox: Day One

2008-08-24T22:45:00.001-04:00

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.

Ick.

This is going to take some work.

Neglected Media

2008-08-24T22:32:00.004-04:00

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 Night Entertainment

2008-08-21T22:40:00.008-04:00

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.

Sick.

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!

Awful.

And I claim to be such an animal lover!

Weird Fact Wednesday!

2008-08-20T11:39:00.004-04:00

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!

Bollocks!

2008-08-18T18:48:00.008-04:00

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.

Styx's First Field Trip

2008-08-17T11:05:00.003-04:00

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.

Where I've Been

2008-08-16T19:50:00.005-04:00

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!

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

2008-08-13T00:00:00.002-04:00

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 on TV

2008-08-12T22:18:00.002-04:00

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.)

This Just In!

2008-08-11T23:52:00.002-04:00

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

2008-08-11T21:09:00.007-04:00

Click To View Larger Comic

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.

The Study

2008-08-08T08:31:00.004-04:00

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?

Wake Up Call

2008-08-07T16:44:00.003-04:00

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

Azrael Goes AWOL

2008-08-06T09:37:00.004-04:00

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.

For Christ's Sake, Eat a Cheeseburger

2008-08-05T09:29:00.005-04:00

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.

Retail Therapy

2008-08-03T21:09:00.006-04:00

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.

Six Random Things

2008-08-02T19:55:00.009-04:00

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.

The History of the Pickle Tree

2008-07-31T14:28:00.010-04:00

I like to think that I am a smart person. That's a particularly hard thing to say without sounding ridiculously arrogant, but I am, I'm really smart. Not street smart, no way. I mean, my closest neighbors while I was growing up were cows, and the biggest threat I had to worry about was Lyme Disease, so who are we kidding? But I am exceptionally book smart with an uncanny ability to remember an obscene amount of details.

I got straight A's in high school, and my 4.0 average in college was only marred because my boyfriend of six years had the bad manners to break my heart mid-semester. (It was all downhill from there, seeing that shortly thereafter I stopped going to college all together. Some would say that was not exactly a smart choice. I prefer to leave off the label and simply call it a choice.)

Tim is smart about different things. For the complete lack of street smarts that I posses, he makes up for in spades. He also has a great deal of common sense (which I also lack sometimes), amazing instincts, and more knowledge about the music industry that one person should have.

Brains notwithstanding, I do have my moments of sheer stupidity. So does Tim. We affectionately refer to these instances as "Jessica Simpson Moments" (JSMs)

The most famous of these JSMs involves the Pickle Tree.

For a while Tim went through a pickle phase, and any meal he ate needed to have a pickle accompany it. So one night as we were eating hamburgers and french fries, I find myself staring thoughtfully at the jar of pickles.

"What's the deal with pickles, anyway?" I asked Tim.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what is it, really?"
"Are you kidding?" he asked, incredulous.
"No I'm not kidding, why?"
"You really don't know what it is?"
"No. What the hell is it?"
"It's a cucumber."
"Shut up."
"Seriously," he said, starting to laugh.

I grabbed the jar of pickles and looked at the ingredients. Sure as shit, cucumbers were the main ingredient. I looked at Tim curiously.

"So, there's no...like...pickle tree?" I asked.

Tim could hardly contain his laughter. I think he laughed for ten straight minutes. I attempted to redeem myself by swearing that I had read a book about a pickle tree when I was little, and the image must have stuck ridiculous or not. I even called my mother to verify the existence of this book. Tim was having none of it. He was in his glory. His super smart fiancee just had the biggest JSM ever, and I was never going to live it down.

There are many other JSMs, most just referred to between Tim and I by one or two words, and generally thrown back and forth in an attempt to make the other feel like an idiot in the middle of a disagreement. For instance:

Trojan War:
This refers to the hours I spent proving to Tim that the Trojan War did not actually happen, but was merely a story from The Iliad and The Odyssey told and retold over time. I often lose an argument when my last shot is this JSM because, as Tim so often points out, there are quite a few people who believe the Trojan War actually happened, so he's not so stupid for believing it too.

Rome:
Tim threw out the comment, in reference to what I can't remember, "Rome wasn't built in a day, baby." To which I responded. "Rome was too built in a day, that's the amazing thing about that saying. Duh."

Test Tube Baby:
The night I found out that Tim believed test tube babies actually came to term in a test tube. I only got the concept through to him when I asked "Don't you think if they had figured out how to grow a baby in a test tube, women would be lined up around the block screaming "Sign me up, I'll be back in 9 months!"

We even use a few JSMs that are not rightfully ours, just for the humor of it.

"Oh my God, those poor birds!" was my cousins reaction to seeing flamingos for the first time and thinking that each bird only had one leg.

"Aubree, Jesus died a long time ago," was the dead serious response of an atheist friend's sister when overhearing Aubree ask, "So Jesus died yesterday," as I explained Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

We have so many examples of smart people saying stupid things, yet the pickle tree reigns as the most famous and most amusing. My entire family knows about the pickle tree. For my 30th birthday my older brother gave me a card in the shape of pickle. The inside read "I bet you didn't expect to get a paper pickle for your birthday!" and my brother had written, "Hey kiddo. I 'picked' this one just for you!" Yes. Hysterical.

You may wonder why I would choose to share such an embarrassing moment with...well, however many people are actually going to read this blog. It is not one of my proudest moments, but I figure if you can't laugh at yourself what kind of life are you living, really? So that is the history of the Pickle Tree. I hope you get as much of a kick out of it as my husband, my family and friends.

Hi My Name is Nanci and I Recently Turned...30

2008-07-30T11:45:00.024-04:00

I would like to apologize to all of those who believe that 30 is the new 20, that life can only really be appreciated after 30 and that 30 is not even in the vicinity of old, for what I am about to say.

30 is 30, will always be 30, and is absolutely, unmovingly 10 years far away from 20. I appreciated life just fine when I was 29, and every time I am forced to pronounce my age I visibly shudder because, let's face it, 30 is old.

Now that you know my stance on that, you have a decision to make.

Dare you keep reading?

I offer this warning to aid in your decision: you may very well encounter similar life stances, arbitrary theories, unyielding opinions and admittedly dumb comments should you choose to visit the world I inhabit. However, you may also find a refuge of empathy, humor, completely useless knowledge and random escape from your reality.

My reality goes a little bit like this:

I already gave you my age, and I flat out refuse to give it ever again.

I live in Coconut Creek, Florida, with my husband Tim, our 2 cats Hades and Azrael, my hedgehog Styx and Tim's ball python Hydra.

I grew up in East Fishkill, NY (upstate to everyone south of Westchester) and my entire immediate family and my oldest and dearest friend Liz are still there. Since I also spent time living in Boston, Pittsburgh, and Buffalo, I learned to despise the cold. Florida will work for me for quite a while, thanks. Luckily Tim feels the same way. He grew up on Long Island which leads him to belive he is cooler than me. (Among many other reasons) He loves to snowboard but shares my distaste for the cold, gray weather of northern winters. He has recently discovered skim boarding, which in my opinion is snowboarding on sand, so he's all good.

My husband is my best friend in the entire world, and there is nothing I would rather do than spend time with him. Since it would be unhealthy (and the married version of SWF) to do that all the time, I have plenty of other things to amuse myself.

I love to read, and I love to sleep. I spend a lot of time and attention on what will allegedly one day be my first novel. I make the valiant attempt to work out several times a week, since I have an unnatural anxiety regarding gaining weight. I have a deep affection for hanging out with my pets, I don't think I could get through a day without talking to Liz at least once, and in the free time I have left I run a freelance business catering to the random whims of Realtors. My temporary passion is perusing and organizing my wedding pictures, but I have a feeling their novelty will wear of just as soon as the novelty of being married does.

I go to work every day, although believe me this is not by choice. Until I work out how to colonize my own island, rule my own planet, or profit from writing or sleeping, I will continue to work full time as a Project Manager for a fairly large marketing company. It's the closest thing to the perfect job I am ever going to get. It's all about organization, planning, and problem solving. What could be better for a Type A, hyper-organized, slightly OCD newlywed? (It's a little bit quirky that I am by turns also extremely lazy. Plague of the Gemini, I suppose.)
I finally quit smoking after 11 years, but I can't seem to kick my addiction to Starbucks. Or Target, for that matter. Willpower is fickle.

That's the nutshell version. You'll get to know me a lot better if you (and I) keep up with The Pickle Tree. To tide you over until I post again (because I know you are salivating with anticipation) here's a weird fact about me: Every time I walk up or down a foreign flight of stairs I count them. Bizarre. If you feel like commenting, you could also provide a weird fact about yourself. Just a suggestion.

Tune in next time for "The History of the Pickle Tree"