Don't pressure us, Anxiety.

         I have to tell you something.  I know there hasn't been a post for two weeks, and this is kind of over due.  I was no fun last Monday, so I didn't really think posting would be a good idea.  I thought it would be better to wait for inspiration.  So, yeah... I flew to work again today.  I'm pretty sure I almost died.

This was my most "dead" picture

        First of all, I had to get up at 0530 this morning, so I was almost technically dead when I walked out to my town car.  (That's right- town car, jokers.)  Second of all, when you fly in a tiny plane, there is almost always turbulence, and that makes me feel like I am about to be dead.  (See above picture.)  

        So, yeah... remember that time I thought I was cool because I flew to work?  I'm over it.  I have it on good authority that there is a legit prescription for flying that keeps one from becoming a born again Christian every time the plane hits a weird air pocket.  I even have a friend who has the perfect calculation for her "happy pill : glass of wine" ratio.  Still, we all know it's not cool to pop a Xanax before work, and when we hit turbulence this morning,  I was stone cold sober.  My stomach did that roller coaster drop thing, and I knew it was the end.  At that moment, my iPod blasted an Angels and Airwaves song, "Don't pressure us, Anxiety-  I'm a passenger.  So dangerous, Anxiety- just a passenger."  I felt like I was about to be a made for TV movie on Lifetime with a way skinnier person playing me.

Belly up

        I don't think I saw my life flash before my eyes, but I had two strong thoughts racing through the old noodle.  Dear God, I'm sorry for everything!  and I didn't kiss Eric before I left this morning.  (Truth  be told, I spent the 0400 -0500 hour kicking and punching poor Eric in his sleep because he was snoring me awake! Oops.) With the wind tossing our toy plane around like a rag doll, it took all of my will power not to give the grandpa next to me a death clutch around the ulna and radius region. (Don't be gross! They're arm bones, you pervs.) 

Right?

        I wasn't worried about God so much, as I was that I hadn't kissed Eric.  You can call me sacrilegious.  Call me a heathen.  But guess what, if God is out there, I am certain he or she would hear me.  And if he or she is a God worth believing in, then I know I would have found love and forgiveness should this have been my last morning on Earth.  Call me lame.  Call me a drama queen, but I would never be able to kiss Eric again if that freakin' plane crashed.  Can't live with that one.

       Hey fools, don't forget to kiss your favorite person(s) before you go to sleep tonight and before you leave the house tomorrow morning.   Obvi.

My two faves

     

        

Oh Baby

        About seven and a half years ago, I went to a friend's wedding.  As you might have already guessed, I was quite a bit younger back then- obvi.

Crimped my hair...sorry 'bout it.

        The day after the wedding, we went to have brunch and watch the happy couple open their presents.  I remember one of the gifts they received was a casserole dish, and the bride, Malora, seemed weirdly thrilled by this.  I sat there thinking, "Kill me if I ever get excited about a casserole dish.  When I get married, I'm asking for a new snowboard."  Actually, I think I might have said it out loud to our friend, Carly, and offended people.  I do that a lot by accident when I think I'm just saying things in my mind.  To my credit, I was only 23 years old.  Why wouldn't I want a snowboard?

       Last Saturday, I went to a baby shower for a friend.  It was a really nice event, considering I hate babies.  Just kidding, I really don't hate babies at all.  I work with them.  Sometimes I hold them.  Overall,  I would say I like them as a people group.  I just don't want one of my own.  Considering the shower goers were comprised of a minimum of three preggos, women who have already had at least one kid, and those who are planning on having kids, I felt like a giant alien face (which is funny, because, let's be honest all babies look like alien faces.)  If not an alien, I am pretty sure this makes me a horrible person.   

I do hold babies.  (I love this baby, PS.)

        I felt like a robot who hadn't been programmed to adore cute miniature baby booties or Onesies with silly expressions on them.  (Although, I did give Shandra a pretty hilarious Onesie with a blue ribbon on it that said, "Best in Show.") I leaned over to my friend Carly - yes, the same Carly from two paragraphs ago- and muttered, "Kill me if I ever get excited about a diaper bag."

         It makes me feel like there is something seriously wrong with me.  I wish I wanted a baby so that I could feel like a normal human.  Then again, I've been completely abnormal for thirty years, why start now?

Nachos on my face?  Maybe.

        I really don't believe I'm a horrible person, (no comments please) but I am a selfish person.  I'm totally set in my ways.  I go to Pilates twice a week.  I run at least three times a week.  I go to yoga on Sundays.  I get my nails done, my hair done, and my eyebrows waxed. Not to mention, Eric and I like living downtown, and we go to about 40 baseball games per season- none of this is conducive to having a miniature, helpless person tagging along.  But never mind these luxuries! Do you know what every new mother I know has told me at one point or another?  "I don't have time to shower any more."  You don't have time to- what the...?  Um, I kind of like showering, people.  Is that so wrong?!

        

        I know I sound like I'm whining, but it's good for me to feel like an alien robot sometimes.  It's a gift to be able to empathize.  Never felt like a heartless alien robot invading a baby shower?  Oh, no?  Well, ever felt like a freak for some reason or another?  We've all been there.  There's hope for all of us freaks, though, you know.  Seven years after I scoffed at my friends' cookware, I got married, myself.  Also, I got this really amazing  oval 6.75 quart cast iron french oven that  I just love.

Weirdly thrilling, no?

     

Pretentious work out gear, obviously.

        It should come as no surprise that I love to shorten words.  Perf, obvi, and totes (ie: totally- obvi) are a part of my daily repertoire.   However, it might be slightly confusing to see the perfectly long word "obvious" in the title of this blog entry.  Since when do I ever say the full word, "obviously"?  Well, you're about to find out, but first I have to digress for a second.

Sensei wisdom- go!

        The new year started out rad because I secretly ordered an obscene amount of unnecessary athletic clothing from the store a friend likens to "crack for women," Lululemon.  

If you don't know what this means, we aren't going to dignify your foolery by spelling it out on our store front for you

        I am fully aware that this store is full of pretentious, ridiculously over priced work out gear.  Eric calls it the "hundred dollar store" (as opposed to the dollar store.)  It sucks me in every time.  I compulsively check the "we made to much"  section of the store's website to see if the pair of running pants I am most recently obsessed with has been marked down below, well... one hundred dollars. (And, yes, they are that ostentatious.  Lululemon does not go on sale.  Sometimes they just make too much.  You're welcome, Universe.)  Confession: I bought sweatpants at this store.  And a hooded sweatshirt.  And running pants.  And a paper thin yoga cover up that has sleeves with thumb holes.  Don't judge me.  The hoodie has sparkles in it- what was I supposed to do?

Looks better on me- duh

       Bad news: I got busted by Eric.  Now, in his defense, he would never come out and tell me not to buy something.  He's far to clever for that.  He did, however, give me the look.  You know, the we're trying to save a down-payment for a house, and you're seriously going to spend - HOW MUCH- on *ahem* another pair of sweatpants.  So, as you can imagine, what came out of my mouth on the way to the cash register was a last ditch attempt to leave the store with merchandise in tow, and a minimal guilt trip.  "I won't buy any more clothes for the next three months!"  The words weren't all the way out of my mouth before I felt the blood drain from my face.  I felt dizzy- faint, even.  I tried to think fast.  How could I cover it up?  "I meant three weeks?  No wait!  I said three days." It was too late.  He heard exactly what I said, and before I could regain my composure...we pinky swore on it.  JUSTIN BEIBER.

         Ever since that horrific moment, random crap has been going wrong.  I forgot I was carrying a water bottle that was open and poured it all over my purse.   I lost my parking ticket and nearly had to pay for a whole day of parking down town.  I burned myself on the oven.  I got a paper cut from the cardboard holding the sanitary toilet seat covers.  I snagged my Lulu yoga cover up on the Velcro on my reusable shopping bag.  Well, that's what I get for trying to save the earth.  

        This brings me to my next point.  You should all be fairly well versed in the proper use of terms such as  "Ratsicles,"  and "Obvi,"  but when to go full on "obviously?"  Well, seeing as how I have stupid misfortunes that I bring upon myself on a daily basis, I can't very well swear every time they happen.  Well, I could, but people would think I have Tourette's.  So, instead of cussing when I poured water into my purse, I just sighed and said, "Obviously."  It's sort of like saying, "why wouldn't I have just done that?"  I would.  I'm me.  Obviously.

        Coffee poured on my shirt before I get to work? Obviously.

        Cat peed on the futon?  Obviously.

        Accidentally pinky swore off retail therapy for three months?  Obviously.

         Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do some laundry so I have clean fancy pants for the week, as I clearly can't buy any new ones before April.  Obviously.

There is no wind in my sales. (pun intended)

Happy Wedding!

        We had the great pleasure of ringing in the new year at our dear friends', Carly and Joe's, wedding.  I have to get sentimental for a minute, and tell you that it was beautiful.  

I know, right?

        The best part- aside from them pledging unending love to each other in front of all their family and friends- was that they had a raw oyster bar (YUM) and not just champagne (which is obviously for commoners and French people,) but my favorite- Prosecco!

So much fancier than plain Jane champagne

        The bad news was that my other good friend who attended the wedding with us was totally pregnant and could not enjoy either of these amazing New Years wedding treats.

She wasn't this happy totally sober on New Year's

        It was perfect for those of us choosing to imbibe at the wedding, though- built in DD! Obvi.  Thanks for being pregnant, Ems.

        The next morning, in keeping with our New Year's Day tradition, we had brunch with Jesse and Emily (said pregnant friend and her husband) at this super little restaurant, The Fork.  My only mistake was that I didn't wear sweatpants, which is surprising because, as many of you know, I wear them as often as possible. In fact, I have certain friends with whom I will only have dinner at their homes if I can wear sweatpants.  Ironically, I didn't wear sweatpants because I figured Emily would wear something classier. (She is one of my classier friends.)  She wore hers because she figured I would wear mine.  It was kind of like the time she dressed like a ho when we were in Vegas because she thought I was going to ho it up.  Turns out I wore mom jeans.

Classic mom jeans mix up (trust me, they're there)

      I didn't make any resolutions (except maybe a subconscious vow to wear sweatpants more and mom jeans less,) but I had a great New Year's Eve with Eric and good friends.  We danced, ate, and drank the night away in celebration of true love (yes I am a sap sometimes.)  I can't think of a better way to start 2012.  

       

       
       

A Near Cat-tastrophe

        Sorry for the absence of posts, people, I have been down and out with the cold of the century. Stupid. Also, the Pack lost last week. Double stupid.

        All of us kids are at Mom and Dad's new house in Eastern Washington, and It doesn't quite feel like Christmas, since I didn't have to hop a plane to the frozen tundra of Green Bay.   It's cold here, but there's no snow.   It may be my first brown Christmas because even the times I have stayed in Washington there have been freak Christmas snow storms.   Ah well, much easier to drive with out snow mucking up the works.

        My parents' house is brand new, and really beautiful.   There are all hardwood floors, granite counters, and a kick ass giant pool.   Problem is, the giant pool is closed for the winter-obvi- and the hardwood floors have been pledged to a terrifying sheen.   My dad stays up late at night and puts Pledge on the floors until they gleam.   We're talking every night, here, folks.   Needless to say, since our arrival, Ben, Stephanie, Eric, and I have nearly broken our necks via floor accident about twenty times a piece.

Danger lurks below

        Poor Kittles can hardly walk on the floor. Her furry little paws slip-slide out from under her. The first time she hopped off the couch onto the floor, it was like Bambi on ice. She ended up spinning out with all four legs in opposite directions, bless her heart.

imagine a persian cat doing this

        Speaking of Kittles, she disappeared for a minute this morning, and as you might imagine, I lost my shit.   I woke up, and skated out to the living room, no Lola.   I thought it a bit strange that she didn't come out from hiding because she is usually very excited to play when a human wakes up, and wants attention.  But I figured she was hiding somewhere, pissed that she had left her miniature kitty ice skates at home, thus rendering them useless to help her navigate the slick floors.

       I looked under every bed, in the closets, in the bathtub- still no Lola.   I started to get a bad feeling in my stomach.   My mom and brother and sister had gone to the gym, and what if she snuck out while one of those fools left the door open?!  All I could picture was a frozen, squashed, lifeless Kittles, and panic mode set in.  I hate to admit it, but I started crying.   "She's not here!"   "It's okay," Eric said, "We'll find her," but I could see he was worried too.   "She's already DEAD," I shouted hysterically.   I flew into my parent's room where my dad was trying to sleep, and screeched, "What's the number to Mom's gym?!!! Kittles is gone!"   I raced out of the room to get my coat, and narrowly avoided a spinal cord injury as I slid across the killer floor.

        My dad stumbled into the living room, dazed having been scared awake by a mad woman.   "I am going to kill the person who let her out!" I raged.   My dad defended himself, "I didn't let her out!"   "It's not about you dad! I don't care who did it, they are DEAD!"  I ranted on.   I threw on my coat and was about to get in the car to begin the search, when I decided to look in one last spot...

        That little jack wagon was under the couch.

Good thing I didn't alert the authorities

        Happy Holidays. Hold your loved ones-furry and otherwise- close this season, and try not to spaz out too much.

Oh Heyyyyyyyy

        Do you ever think to yourself,  "It's difficult being so fabulous?"  It crosses my mind about 8 times per day.  I bet Aaron Rodgers is too good of a person to think that.  However, if anyone was to have a self commentary on one's own fabulousness, I feel he could justify it because he's freaking rad.  13-0 baby!  P.S. Can we stop talking about who the bigger story is on ESPN?  Tim Tebow could not generate enough stock sales to pay for an addition to Mile High.  Just sayin'.

Oh heyyyyyyy

        I would like to think I am smooth enough to have the wherewithal to say, "Oh heyyyyyy" should I ever run in to Aaron Rodgers.  Unfortunately, any minimal brush with a B-list celebrity, and I am even more of a freak show than usual.

        For instance, one time Eric and I saw Casey Kotchman (I'll get to who that is in a minute, but as most Mariners' acquisitions go he was an unmemorable part of a losing season) at the Tap House down town.  At the time, he had just signed with the Mariners to play first base, and we had recently seen him at Fan Fest.  I spotted him before Eric did, and I (big surprise) couldn't get my words out.  I started pointing and sputtering as he walked past, and both he and Eric thought I was having a seizure.  Finally, he was halfway up the stairs when I blurted out, "That's the dude!"  Serious?   At the very least it was a mini fail - so uncool, and he's not even a big deal!  (No offense, Casey, if you are reading this, but you're no Albert Pujols.)  I am not putting in a link for you to find out who Albert Pujols is.  If you don't know, we're fighting.

       No, I don't know what I would do if I ever saw Aaron Rodgers in real life, but I can tell you what my brother did...BOOM.  It's true.

        So the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, he walks through the ol' Austin Straubel International (Green Bay airport) sliding glass doors, and a crowd starts clapping.   This is the best part of the story to me:  he thinks to himself, "Weird, but I'll go with it." Awesome.  Oddly, enough, the round of applause wasn't for him; he turned around, and there was A-Rodge.  I like to picture the scene with a white light appearing from a magical cloud from above, doves flying, and a choir of angels singing a single perfect, "Aaaaaaah!"

        One thing I can assure you of, is that Ben played it cool.  Let's be honest, I would have wound up tazed and served with an official document stating I am not allowed with in 500 yards of Lambeau Field for  an infinity.  Strong work on staying taze free, bro.  I will let that be a lesson to me.

Miller Lite in front of Miller Park- nailed it.

   

     

        

Epic Fail

        I have a confession: I am the fat kid in my ballet class.  Get all your jokes out now.  No, I don't have a tutu, but that is a hilariously sarcastic question.  I know it's super 5th grade that I'm in ballet, but it's a good work out, and apparently, I need it.  I consider myself an average size person.  I don't need a bunch of 22 year old college kids pirouetting circles around me (literally) in size XS leotards.  It makes me feel like I have some kind of excess growth hormone disorder.  Geesh.

"It's so hard finding a small enough leotard"- I know right?

        This all brings me to my next point.  What does the average fool do when faced with a certain to significant amount of failure?  This doesn't really happen to me very often-obvi.  So seriously, people, what to do?

Mini Fail

        I know what you're thinking, and you're [sort of] right.  This hat seems like a bit more than a simple 'mini fail.'  While it is an epic fail as far as hats go, it is only a mini fail in the grand scheme of things.  The good news is, it's an easy fix.  Burn the hat, burn the picture, and as long as that image isn't burned into any one's mind, we're all good.

        How about a medium fail?  Anyone ever have one of those?  I had a medium fail last Tuesday when I came home from work and found Eric's keys on the "wrong" key hook.  To his credit, I don't think he was aware that there was (and is) a right or wrong place to hang his keys.  Sooooo, let's just say he was a little surprised when I sighed, "Ugh. You're always taking my key hook!"  I can neither confirm nor deny any use of profanity associated with this event.  I can verify, however, that I needed a Mulligan, and promptly took one after that entrance.  

Don't take my key hook- RUDE

        Burn a hat here, take a Mulligan there- these mini to medium style failures are fixable.  Okay, fine, but what about things you can't fix overnight, or even... ever?  What if you're the fat kid in ballet class?  I could lose a limb and still outweigh all those chicks by about twenty bills.  Plus, I'd like to keep all my limbs, as losing one would make ballet class exponentially harder to be awesome in.  Even if I know it's actually a good thing to be the fat kid amongst a bunch of 90 pound bony freaks, sometimes it feels like an epic fail.  

        There are obviously much more serious epic fails on the spectrum, but I don't want to sit here, get hippie dippy, and talk about feelings.  Whether its an epic fail of the day, the week, the month, or even the year, you probably can't make it go away with a magic wand.  I do have a recipe to help with my own personal epic failures, though.  You can borrow it if you want, but there is a patent pending, so don't even try to sell this on the black market.

         First, I am nice to myself.  (Disgustingly close to hippie dippy, I know.)  I tell myself, "You're the prom queen."  Next I get my nails done and eat a cupcake.  Aaaaaaand then I get over myself.  

If that's not awesome, I don't know what is

           We all have moments when we wish we had done something differently, said something better, or skipped dessert.  It's so common that it makes me wonder if maybe none of it is any kind of a failure.  It's probably just life.

        Be nice to yourself... and then get over yourself.  Trust me, it is smarter not harder.