Tag Archives: funny

Happy HalloChristGiving, Charlie Brown!

Posted on November 26, 2012 | 4 comments

Hey, you know what the world needs more of? (Warning! Warning! Sarcasm bomb about to detonate!) People complaining about how Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year. We just don’t see enough of that, you know? And I bet if we did complain more, it would totally change things.

Just like how complaining about politics and cold weather and people who think Instagram was created solely so they could share what they’re eating for lunch (Blackened salmon with roasted asparagus? Well, aren’t you fancy!) makes all those things better.

(I sincerely apologize to anyone who got hit with sarcasm shrapnel. Unless your Instagram account is just filled with food. Then you deserved it).

Yes, people complaining about how Christmas has completely obliterated Thanksgiving and is quickly encroaching on Halloween’s thunder is about as cliché now as people complaining how ironic it is we go out and shiv little old ladies to get 40 percent off TV’s and unnecessary shaving kits the day after a holiday centered around giving thanks for what we already have.

But as futile as I think it is to bitch about Christmas being three months long now, I must admit I side with the complainers. Because even though you’ll never convince Sharon, your co-worker who starts wearing light-up Happy Holiday sweaters in October, that she needs to stop, your silence means you approve. And you don’t approve. Because Sharon is ridiculous and owns a cat named Gingerbread and has a weird, creepy crush on Santa.

I too don’t want to have to sift through a bunch of candy canes before I find the Halloween candy at the grocery store in October; or a bunch of eggnog before I find my gourd-based beers at the liquor store in September.

And I sure as hell don’t want to see Christmas commercials when I’m having my annual psychotic breakdown in the kitchen on Thanksgiving.

But before you go thinking I’m all bah-humbug-y, Grinch-y, evil corporate guy in every Christmas special ever, let me throw this at ya.’ Christmas is actually my favorite holiday. Always has been. I love everything about it. The lights. The cooking (until the inevitable psychotic breakdown). The gift shopping. The wrapping. The decorating. The 37 emails back and forth with family about who got what on everyone’s list. The music. The claymation marathons on TV. The awkward reaction I get from salespeople when they say “Happy Holidays” and I reply with a cheerful “Merry Christmas” because they think I’m going to be that A-hole that gets mad that they said “Happy Holidays” when really I couldn’t care less because my body is composed of 82 percent hot toddy at that point.

And it’s because I love Christmas so much that I’m angry everyone is trying to artificially manufacture Christmas spirit prematurely. Because you know what happens when you try to artificially make something happen? It…well, let’s use an awkward metaphor to explain it…

It’s like getting all dressed up in your sexy lingerie, hair done perfectly and actual makeup on your face besides chapstick and anti-wrinkle cream, because you want to surprise your husband with some sexy, fun-time, naked, grown-up stuff. And so you carefully lay yourself on the bed in just the perfect position so that all your wobbly bits and fat pockets are hidden. And you’re just practically vibrating with excited anticipation for the night.

And then you wait.

And you wait.

And then wait some more.

And then he’s three hours late coming home from work and by the time he gets to the bedroom, you’ve already downed half a bottle of wine and eaten three-fourths of a pumpkin pie while wearing sweatpants over your teddy because all the anticipation, and thus the fun, has vanished.

That’s what you people are doing to Christmas.

If you build this holiday up too big by starting it way too early, the only place it can go is to an anti-climatic, sputtering dud. So that by Christmas Eve, you downright rage in a foam-at-the-mouth homicidal spree every time you hear “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” because it is the 37th million time you’ve heard it and the human brain can tolerate only 34 million times (there have been studies, look it up).

So stop ruining Christmas. Be patient. Let’s make this season a reasonable, wonderful, exciting, month-long celebration. Instead of building it up starting July Fourth only to arrive at the end with an attitude of “that’s it?”

It’s what Charlie Brown would have wanted.

And that weird, freaky-looking Yeti in the Rudolph special.

 

 

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Posted in Holidays, Humor

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BEWARE! Hormonal woman on the loose

Posted on November 14, 2012 | 2 comments

CONFESSION: I haven’t been a teenager in approximately (sound of a muffled number due to a hand over the mouth) years. And yet, for the past three weeks, I remember EXACTLY what it was like to be a teenager.

Because apparently my hormones are currently on a cocktail of meth, bath salts and Nyquil. The same concoction they were chugging when I was 14.

And 15.

And 3/4 of my 16th year.

And OK, yeah, some of 17 too.

Possibly also 22.

And for a brief period when I was 27. And 30.

But I digress.

*Now, for you fellas reading this, I realize as soon as women mention anything about the H-word, you zone out and/or start stockpiling weapons for your own safety (as well you should). Hormones are simply a fancy doctor term for “Holy crap, I might die at the hands of this person who used to resemble my girlfriend/wife/friend with benefits.” But stick with me here. Just a little bit longer. At the very least for the benefit of your own safety.

As wacka-a-doo cuckoo crazy puffs as I am right now, I can officially say that this time there is a legit reason (other than “He left the seat UP AGAIN…APRILL SMASH!”). About four weeks ago, I had a miscarriage. Which was devastating. And which I’m still dealing with. And which I wrote about in a post linked here.

And one side effect of this horrific event is that when your body goes from being pregnant to suddenly not being pregnant, it also suddenly decides to go on a hormonal bender. Meaning I’m less of an actual person and more just a bag of skin and bones that is carrying around wayward hormones that have a GIGANTIC chip on their shoulder.

And which also means that anyone in my path is a potential victim of Hurricane Hormone. For example:

  • My dog, who has been yelled at thus far for breathing, for shedding, for pooping too much, for looking at me too long and for that weird, irritating noise he makes when he’s licking his paws.
  • My husband, who tried unsuccessfully to console me after I broke down crying when I saw a mouse dying from the poison the exterminater put around our house.  And trying unsuccessfully again when I sobbed uncontrollably at a deodorant commercial. And an episode of “Teen Mom 2.” And at a Triscuit that I thought looked like my recently deceased grandma.
  • My medical bill, which upon finding out that it cost me $300 to confirm that I did indeed have a miscarriage, was crinkled up, thrown against the wall and then stomped on. It would have also been set on fire, but my husband (rather wisely) hid any and all potential weapons in the house, including lighters and matches.

And just like when I was a teenager, I hate my body with a passion that only a white girl with First World Problems can. I have inappropriate responses to mundane inquiries (“Hey sweetie, how much was our electricity bill this month?” “Gaaahhh, what do you want from me!?! I’m only human. Sorry I have to keep my lousy phone charged. WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME!”). I alternate between being wildly insecure and thinking everyone besides me is an idiot. And, instead of being jealous of the Prom Queen, I am now jealous of all the women I encounter who are pregnant and/or have babies and so make up horrible gossip about them in my head (“I bet her stupid baby will grow up to live at home until he’s 41. Ha! Serves her right.”).

My only solace is that this will all pass soon. And I can go back to normal. Which means instead of being a crazy, hormonal 31-year-old teenager, I’ll be just a plain, old, normal, crazy, hormonal 31-year-old woman.

But since I’m not sure when that will be, I bought helmets for both my husband and my dog.

And the mailman.

Just to be on the safe side.

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Posted in Family, Humor

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Project Ducky Wip

Posted on October 15, 2012 | 2 comments

This past weekend, my husband left me for four days.

Alas, it’s not what you’re thinking. Although granted, that would make for a much better essay, the whole troubled marriage thing and “two people who love each other but grew apart and are trying to find their way back to each other.”  But no, my stupid husband is perfect. Which makes for very boring writing on my part. In fact, if we ever do get divorced, it’s probably because he’s single-handedly killing my writing career by being nice and emptying the dishwasher without having to be asked.

Asshole.

Anyway, as I was saying, my husband left for four days to go to an IMPORTANT FANCY PROFESSIONAL PERSON conference in Cleveland. No big deal, right? Sure. Except for one very important freaky detail of our relationship…

Somehow, in our entire five-year courtship and subsequent two and half years of marriage, we have managed to never leave me at home all by myself. Now, this could either be because 1. my husband (probably rightly so) doesn’t really trust me home alone since I have the common sense of a five-year-old child on meth (“Babe! I invented a new game! It’s called Potato Fire Ball! Here…CATCH!”) or 2. Circumstances have simply never aligned for this particular situation.

That’s not to say we’ve never been apart. But it’s usually me leaving him to go to yet another friend’s wedding or to go visit family or to spend a night in the drunk tank (kidding…that’s only happened, like, three times, tops…speaking of which, Best. Arbor. Day. EVAH.) while he stays behind and does IMPORTANT FANCY PROFESSIONAL PERSON stuff.

So naturally, I was SUPER excited to finally be left to my own devices. And that feeling lasted for all of 45 minutes after he left until I realized how utterly boring it is. And how utterly boring I had become. It quickly dawned on me that we had become that couple that do EVERYTHING together. And now that we’re both in our 30’s, EVERYTHING constitutes sitting around in sweatpants and doing activities that can be done mainly from the couch. Which is fun as a twosome. But just sad and pathetic as a onesome.

So I passed the time as best I could. I had numerous Netflix marathons (“iCarly” is seriously underrated, you guys). I started reading “Wuthering Heights.” I fell asleep reading “Wuthering Heights.” I tried teaching my dog to fetch beer from the fridge. I spent a good couple of hours nursing a drunk dog, holding back his ears back and whatnot.

My boredom finally got so bad that I was reduced to taking on a PROJECT. You know what I mean. Not some rinky-dinky little project you do during a rainy afternoon because it will be fun. No. A PROJECT. An undertaking so big, only people on the brink of insanity caused by boredom would ever even think of taking it on. And the kind of thing you take on that HAS to be FINISHED that day in a manic flurry of activity or else it will never, ever be completed.

We’ve all been there. It’s why kitchens are re-tiled and garages cleaned out and living rooms re-arranged.

And my PROJECT was a suicide mission. But with nothing much left between me re-enacting the majority of “Grey Gardens” in my living room and me actually turning into Edie in real life, it had to be done.

So, I decided it was high time to finally organize the decades-worth of photos from childhood through post-college I had that were just lying around all willy-nilly in my closet in numerous shoeboxes.

No big deal, right? WRONG. Cause see, I have quite literally documented every moment of my life. Ever wonder what you ate before homecoming your freshmen year? Well, I don’t have to. I have a photo of it (cheeseburger and fries). Oh, what’s that? What beer was I drinking at my best friend’s 18th birthday? Natural Light, thanks for asking. And as for what Geoff was wearing at my first boy-girl birthday party in 8th grade? A striped polo shirt and backwards baseball cap.

I even kept all those wallet-sized school portraits. I have like three from elementary school of some girl named Suzanne that I don’t even remember.

So, starting out on my couch, I started going through them, putting them into different envelops organized by event and time period and how I good I personally looked in them. Four hours later, I was on the floor, photos scattered all around. Four hours after that, every surface of my house was covered in photos. And they were never-ending. Those photo boxes were like clown cars. Just when you thought they couldn’t possibly contain more, 300 from a college toga party poured out.

It was like they were multiplying. A prom photo of me and my ex-boyfriend mated with a photo of my college buddies Curt and Tim to produce a ducky-wip picture of my cousin.

It was madness, I tell you. MADNESS!

And to make matters worse, I also thought now would be the opportune time to reorganize my eight (EIGHT!) photo albums.

Sixteen loooong hours later, the PROJECT was finally done. Every photo catalogued and filed away (or thrown away if I happened to have a double chin in it). And every slot in my albums filled in a somewhat narrative order (for instance, sober to drunk for most nights out).

And despite the backache that is still bothering me from being hunched over for hours on end, the PROJECT served its purpose. Before I knew it, my husband was back. And our boring but happy life together continued as before.

And he’s now never allowed to leave again. Because I have about 10,000 photos from the past eight years stored on our computer in about 37 scattered, unhelpfully-named folders.

And that’s simply a PROJECT I don’t think I’d survive.

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Engagement Story, Part 2: I Should Be Committed

Posted on September 18, 2012 | 3 comments

Previously, on Broke Wife, Big City…

Aprill, our protagonist who was pretty in that girl-next-door-who-drinks-a-lot-of-vodka kind of way, was in the midst of revealing her very un-Hollywood-like marriage proposal story (which you can read here) when she had to unexpectedly take a break because her husband made tacos and she was, like, SUPER hungry.

And then she ate too much and there was a “Leverage” marathon on and typing quickly seemed like waaaaaay too much cardio to engage in…and then…well, repeat for five days and here we are.

But now, on with the story…

It all started on a random fall afternoon that we had designated as our “anniversary” since both of us were too lazy to really care what date we actually first met, or first kissed, or first declared our love or first did other things I won’t mention (SEX!!!) because that would be childish and improper.

We were attending a Renaissance Festival (cause we are unapologetically nerd-tastic and love any place where it is acceptable to drink wine and eat turkey legs for breakfast) in Texas with some friends. It was the perfect opportunity. I had been antsy for quite some time for him to put a ring on it and he had been hinting for quite some time that he did indeed like it and intended to put a ring on it. Not to mention, he’s always been a grand gesture kind of guy, so what better place to propose than in front of 30,000 fellow weirdos dressed in loin cloths and barely there fairy costumes, all of whom had started drinking mead at 9 a.m.?

All day I had felt a giddiness. I knew it was coming. I just knew it. So when it didn’t come during the jousting tournament, I didn’t sweat it. When it didn’t come during the performance of the guy who is paid to insult you in Olde English, I, the rancid wench with the questionable virtue, shrugged it off. I wasn’t even too bothered when I had to downplay an escaped squeal and turn it into a cough when my beloved bent down to tie his shoe by the Ye Olde Petting Zoo.

But as dusk descended, my mood, which was already being fueled mostly by Merlot and beer so heavy you had to chew it, started to darken. By the time we got home, it was a black pit of seething drunk girlfriend rage.

Now, men are not necessarily known for their skills of observation. But luckily, the waves of pure anger radiating off my body while we were watching TV on the couch were practically visible even to Ryan’s eyes (the same eyes that have never, EVER managed to see the furry leftovers that smell like hot garbage in August in the fridge).

“Is everything OK, babe?” he asked, while smartly out of hitting range.

“Yup.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

“Because you seem mad.”

“Huh.”

“Like, really mad.”

“Hmm…I don’t know, Ryan. What could I, YOUR GIRLFRIEND, and only YOUR GIRLFRIEND, possibly be MAD about?”

“Uhhh…”

…awkward pause…

“Do you want your anniversary gift?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I have to go upstairs to get it.”

“Whatever.”

“OK…? Then I guess I’ll go it…?”

“It’s a free country.”

And that, kids, is how it happened. Just like in a fairy tale, he came downstairs, paused the episode of “Supernatural” that we were watching (well, he was watching and I was blindly staring at while I made a mental list in my head of everything he had ever done wrong in our relationship…which, to be honest, wasn’t much but women have a special skill to turn moments of “you didn’t notice my haircut” into “YOU DON’T THINK I’M PRETTY, DO YOU!?! DO YOU!?!”), got down on one knee and asked “Will you marry me?” while producing a beautiful ring from behind his back.

What followed was a series of “Seriously? Really? You’re not kidding?” followed by 42 tearful yes’s followed by phone calls to every female I knew or had ever known.

But what you didn’t see, and what I didn’t learn until later, was that he had been making plans to propose for years before that actual moment. Each plan more elaborate and “awww…” worthy than the next. For instance, there was the plan to take me on an East Coast road trip in the fall to see the leaves change, where we would stay at a little bed-and-breakfast (which he had already called ahead of time to coordinate his plans with them) and where he would propose in a candle-lit paradise. He had also already called my closest girlfriends to ask permission for my hand. He had schemed with co-workers and mutual friends. He had maps and lists of potential places and estimates of ticket prices to exotic locales.

What he, what we, didn’t ever have was the money or the vacation time to do any of these things.

And just in case I don’t look enough like a selfish, petty person, he actually WAS planning on proposing earlier that day. He had the ring on him the whole time. And when I asked him why he didn’t, he replied:

“Because none of the moments seem perfect enough to propose to the love of my life.”

So, while I may not have a Hollywood-sanctioned, “good” engagement story, I defy anyone who says that I don’t have a beautiful behind-the-scenes engagement story.

And in the end, when you come down to it, a picture-perfect engagement does not a marriage make. But a man who waits three years to propose because nothing seems special enough? I’ll take that man and our “sitting on the couch while Sam and Dean fight demons on the TV” engagement story any day.

Huzzah!

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Once upon a time, a man proposed to a woman…

Posted on September 12, 2012 | 1 comment

Behind every married couple is an engagement story. The story that they will be asked to tell and re-tell for the rest of their lives. The story that is the opening chapter of a little tale called “Till Death (Or That Hottie From Work) Do Us Part.” The story that pretty much defines them as a couple as long as they don’t go on some epic crime spree later on down the road in their relationship.

(Does anyone know Bonnie and Clyde’s engagement story? Point. Proven. Granted, they weren’t ACTUALLY ever married but I think we can all agree the theory still holds.)

So naturally, you want your story to be a good one. And this pressure to make it a good story is only exacerbated by Hollywood and all your stupid, story-topping friends.

Exhibit A: Every single rom-com on the market features a proposal that falls into one of the following categories.

1. The over-the-top, probably on a rooftop, fireworks and violins, roses and mandolins (sorry…not a whole lot rhymes with “violins”) perfect proposal.

2. The over-the-top probably on a rooftop perfect proposal that goes horribly awry but makes it all the more special BECAUSE it does go horribly awry (including but not limited to a sudden downpour).

3. The surprise engagement/argument engagement where the proposal comes out of nowhere but is preceded by such lovely words (albeit potentially said in a gruff voice) that you have no choice but to say yes (also usually involving rain).

4. The non-proposal proposal in which a couple decides not to get married but just BE together because I mean it’s just a piece of paper and we want to stay together because we want to stay together and so they make quirky yet heartfelt vows to each other in some random location where it is raining and/or snowing.

5. The post-break up proposal, which always involves a guy running 22 blocks in the (you guessed it) rain to get back to the love of his life, who he finds about to leave her house and stands there all out of breath and wet while wooing her back.

Exhibit B: All your friends who have engagement stories that begin with…

1. An exotic locale

2. A rock the size of a small-to-medium baby’s fist

3. A slide show of the couple’s life together

4. Getting a large crowd involved

These are the things the modern-day proposer is up against. But usually, no matter the circumstances, an engagement story, by its very nature of being a momentous occasion, is always a wonderful and emotional moment.

Except when it’s not.

Which brings me to MY engagement story. Now, keep in mind, the story I’m about to tell isn’t even the worse proposal I’ve ever had. That distinct honor goes to a former boyfriend who tried to break up with me, then decided to get out of the uncomfortable break-up scene by proposing, which was followed by “almost broke up but then got engaged” sex, which was immediately followed by a “No…yeah…we really should break up” reversal.

Best. Christmas Eve. Ever.

So, the bar was set pretty low for my now husband. But, in all fairness to my little Schnookum Bear, he had a LOT of circumstances working against him. Namely:

1. We were piss poor broke.

2. He was proposing to a (lovely if slightly neurotic) woman who was more than a little antsy for a commitment considering she had up and left all her family and friends and quit her job to move over 1,000 miles away with him because he got a job offer he couldn’t refuse all before they had even had their first date and now it was three years later and the (lovely yet still slightly neurotic) woman was starting to worry she was going to end up as a cautionary tale to women everywhere about exactly why you DON’T do that.

But enough beating around the bush (heh). Let’s get on with the actual story and what this story actually says about us in the grand scheme of things. This, ladies and gentlemen, is our engagement story. The story we will eventually have to tell our children. And our children’s children. And those children’s children’s annoying friends, who are always hanging around our house because we’re the old people who always have the good candy hidden away in our cob-webby cabinets.

It all started

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Top 10 Most Useless Marriage Advice

Posted on August 22, 2012 | 5 comments

10. Choose your battles.

In the end, the battles don’t matter. What matters is who wins the major wars. Let them take satisfaction in winning the “Battle of Who Does the Wednesday Chili Night Dishes.” You’ll have the last laugh when you win the “Let’s Retire in New Zealand” War.

9. If all else fails, get naked. You’ll forget what you’re fighting about.

I guarantee this works for Tom Brady and Giselle Bskdfjslkflsk or Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr. I’d bang any of them no matter what the hell we were fighting about if they dropped trou. But when you have a normal human body, complete with hair stubble, pimples in weird places, wobbly bits and PMS bloat, getting naked is just likely to make your partner go “What the hell are you doing? Good God, woman, we have neighbors. Put your sweatpants back on.”

8. Always be honest with each other.

I’ll grant you that being honest 85 percent of the time is healthy for your relationship. The other 15 percent should be made up of little white lies like “No, five glasses of wine is definitely not too much,” and “No, those definitely don’t qualify as man boobs” and “Yes, I’d LOVE for you to tell me all about how the “Avengers” movie differs from the comic book series.”

7. Never stop dating.

Dating sucks. That’s why you got married. So you wouldn’t have to shave, wax, bleach, bronze, dye, pluck and paint all so you can go to a crappy restaurant where the waiters wear flair on their vests. Sure, set aside special times to spend with your spouse. But don’t feel you have to, like, put on a bra or anything.

6. Put your spouse on a pedestal.

This one is just simply impossible. Especially if you share a bathroom.

5. Always say “I love you.”

Show, don’t tell. “Oh, you love me? That’s super great, hon. But if you really did, you’d pull all the dental floss the dog ate last night out of his butt.”

4. Really listen to what your partner is saying.

This is good advice unless it’s the 12th time they’ve come home from work bitching about Sharon again. Then you can just pretend to listen while you’re actually thinking about what your next tweet will be or why wasn’t it you who first came up with that ingenious Feminist Ryan Gosling meme. Because honestly all they need to do at this point is vent and if you can already list Sharon’s Top 10 Most Idiotic Statements for the Month of June, you can just pretty much zone out.

3. Never argue about money.

Are you kidding me? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? If you didn’t argue about money, chances are high all your worldly possessions would consist of a 200-inch flat screen and 800 pairs of high heels. Of course you can argue about money. Just do it smartly. And learn to compromise. Like purchasing a 72-inch flat screen and only 400 pairs of shoes instead.

2. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Unless the small stuff is his FREAKING socks that he left ALL OVER the house AGAIN because he gets a weird, perverted THRILL out of taking off his socks in EVERY GODDAMN ROOM IN THE HOUSE AND LEAVING THEM THERE UNTIL THEY DECOMPOSE OF THEIR OWN ACCORD!!!

1. Never go to bed angry.

This only works if you started fighting at 8 a.m. Sometimes you just need to go to freaking bed. Regain your strength. Obsessively go over and over ways to poke holes into their stupid argument about how the time travel in the Terminator series could totally work until you fall asleep. And then wake up, refreshed, and armed with an arsenal of new insults that emerged from your subconscious the night before.

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Let’s just table the issue, shall we?

Posted on August 14, 2012 | 3 comments

For years, my husband and I have harbored a shameful secret. A secret so hideous, so horrifying, so wholly conducive to alliteration, we have hardly dared to even whisper it out loud.

And the worst part is we have carried this secret with us from state to state, apartment to apartment, every time we move, from Ohio to Texas to now Boston. Each time, with each new set of friends and colleagues, our pain and embarrassment only growing as we again try and miserably fail to hide this…this abomination from their innocent eyes.

This shame has only increased ever since we got married and became somewhat upstanding citizens (hunchbacked citizens?). I mean, we pay taxes (occasionally), for crying out loud! We fully intend to register to vote someday probably before we die! Someday we might even be parents once Child Protective Services takes us off their Do Not Let These People Procreate Under Any Circumstances Ever list!

And yet, here we are. Two grown adults, living in our very own house that is “technically” owned by our landlord, and without a single surface to eat on or a chair to sit on that is not of the office variety.

Yes, my friends, my husband and I have never owned a set of table and chairs. For the past, oh, eight years or so, ever since we met, we have been reduced to eating on the couch like a pair of…of ANIMALS (or frat guys…same difference).

Now, you’re probably thinking, “How in the world do two grown adults go without a table and chairs for eight long years!?!” Of course, for all I know, you could be thinking “Cheese may just be the world’s most perfect food.” And I’d have to agree with you there. But for the sake of continuity, let’s assume you’re thinking the former.

It’s not like we didn’t try. We always meant to get an actual dining room set. But other, more pressing financial matters got in the way, such as paying the vet approximately three million dollars because our dumb dog tried to chew his own tail off and the fact we couldn’t live ANOTHER day without owning Rock Band 2.

Although, one time we did get as far as purchasing a second-hand table. Which we had for years. But since we had no chairs to go with it, it ended up turning into “The Giant Shelf of Random Items We Were Too Lazy to Put Away.” And then there was the winter we actually used our patio furniture as our “official” indoor table and chairs, which ended after the Great Thanksgiving Collapse of ’09. We also tried to go all bohemian a few times, making people sit on pillows on the floor as they ate off the coffee table, but that stopped once I hit 30 and the process of getting up off the floor started to resemble one of those bugs that gets caught on its back and can’t right itself.

And then…then a miracle happened. Like a deus ex machina plot twist (yeah, who didn’t pay attention in English class now, Professor Greenberg?), the hand of God himself came down from the heavens and plopped a beautiful, dark wood six-seater with red velvety chairs right in our dining room.

Or, to be more specific, our friend was moving to Chicago and said “Hey, you want this guy?”

And we did want that guy. Oh, how we wanted that guy. Finally! A place to have a nice, intimate dinner! A place for guests to actually sit and eat without our aforementioned dumb dog breathing right in their face! A place to whatever else since I need a third example thanks to that annoying “Rule of Three” writing principle!

I have to tell you, it has completely changed our lives. All two times we have used it in the past three months.

We are now officially civilized.

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31 Things I’ve Learned in 31 Years

Posted on July 2, 2012 | Leave a comment

1. Yoga pants are a lot more fun to wear when you’re not actually doing yoga.

2. Facebook has turned a whole generation of people into really crappy philosophers.

3. Your 20’s are the time to make mistakes. Your 30’s are the time to make fun of idiotic people in their 20’s.

4. A true friend is someone who doesn’t send you spam email about what a true friend is.

5. People who are the most uninformed about politics are usually the ones on TV screaming about them.

6. Cheese is…it’s…it’s just amazing.

7. Free never actually means free.

8. A dog wearing the cone of shame and trying to climb up stairs is simultaneously the funniest and saddest thing you will ever see.

9. Speaking of dogs, they don’t need all-organic, gourmet food. They say hello by sniffing butts and consider random sidewalk vomit a treat. They’ll be just dandy with plain ‘ol dog food.

10. Throw out every diet book you’ve ever bought. If the diet actually worked, it’d be a bigger seller than the Bible and the dictionary combined and we’d all be a size six.

11. America may have its issues, but the one thing we got right is our superb “standing in line” skills.

12. Everyone should strive to see as much of the world as possible. If anything, just so you can truly understand why America’s superb “standing in line” skills are so important.

13. When your biological clock finally finds batteries, babies magically stop looking like loud, whiny blobs and actually start looking like adorable mini-humans.

14. Relentlessly pursuing happiness is bound to make you unhappy. You can’t feel the peaks of happiness if you try to ignore the valleys of sadness and the seemingly endless plateaus of “meh.”

15. Delicate ecosystem balance aside, all spiders should be systematically hunted down and murdered in cold blood.

16. Having Instagram does not make you a photographer.

17. Giving your kid a normal name that is “creatively” spelled is only fun for you.

18. People will judge you based solely on your iPod’s playlist.

19. The key to a good marriage is not marrying a celebrity.

20. LOL is not an appropriate way to end a sentence. And never will be.

21. Never put too much stock in winning awards. Just remember: Kathie Lee and Hoda have won multiple Emmys.

22. Orange is not a desirable skin tone.

23. When you start to feel bad about your age, rejoice in the fact your teenaged self never had YouTube, Twitter and Facebook to record all your stupid thoughts and most embarrassing moments.

24. You’re never too old for Jell-O shots.

25. Cooking is only fun if you don’t HAVE to do it.

26. Another key to a good marriage: Marry someone you like doing boring things with because doing boring things together will constitute about 90 percent of your relationship.

27. You never know how strong you are until you have to pee really bad and the line to the bathroom is 20 people deep.

28. Cheese really is just so amazing. I know I already said that but it just really, really is.

29. Age ain’t nothing but a number. Size ain’t nothing but a tag in your clothes that can easily be cut out.

30. You don’t truly know someone until you share a bathroom with them.

31. Mmm…cheese.

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Fear and Loathing in Las Toyota

Posted on June 26, 2012 | 4 comments

Ah, the family road trip. That great American tradition that has launched a million therapy sessions.

Three or four kids crammed in the backseat of the family wagon as dad seethes in the driver’s seat and says words you didn’t even think he knew while mom periodically turns around and whacks the kids with a fly swatter to get them to stop fighting.

The American Dream, indeed.

Now, for the first 15 years of my life, I never really got to experience this. It was just my mom and me for all those years, meaning any road trip was a much more PG-version of Thelma and Louise rather than the Griswold’s taking on the open road (although technically my mom could have been blowing away potential rapists with a shotgun while I was in the bathroom, I suppose).

Then my mom married Albert, meaning I was now reassigned to the backseat. BUT, I had the entire backseat all to myself and a 90’s portable CD player approximately the size and weight of a phone book playing Veruca Salt on an endless loop, so no big whoop.

Then they had my brother Brandon (no need to call CPS, he has a different last name than me). But he was an adorable kid and had yet to figure out that his earthly purpose on this planet was to annoy the ever-living crap out of me, so sharing the backseat was no big deal at the time.

But THEN my dumbass had to fall in love and get married, throwing off the ENTIRE family road trip dynamic and making the backseat much more crowded.

So, technically, my first authentic family road trip wasn’t until a few weeks ago when all five of us went to Panama and we set out on the totally reasonable mission to see the entire country in four days.

DISCLAIMER: Now, what you’re about to read below is…well, in short, it makes me look like a horrible, horrible person. Specifically, a horrible sister to my 14-year-old brother. So I’d just like to add here that I love my brother Brandon very much and he is one of my best friends in the entire world. He truly is an amazing kid and there isn’t a thing about him that I’d change. Also, all his bruises should be healed, so he’s, like, totally recovered by now.

Now, like any good, old-fashioned, emotionally scarring family road trip, ours began by waking up at some ungodly hour because we had to be ON THE ROAD by 6 a.m. per my stepdad (“Oh, take your time, kids. We can leave whenever for our road trip.” –said no dad, ever). Meaning there was only time for about 1.5 sips of coffee and absolutely no time for me to sneak outside ninja-style and suck down a cigarette.

So, as you can imagine, I was in a SUPER fun mood.

But it didn’t really start to go downhill until we stopped for a quick bite to eat at a Panamanian fast food joint where we ordered a bunch of chicken and empanadas. Now, despite growing up in a country where food is not only plentiful but actually over-produced, my brother treats food like he is some third-world refugee. He steals it, hoards it, and is constantly paranoid about who is getting the last piece despite the fact his own plate is overflowing.

So, when he kept reaching for a second empanada despite the fact he was currently eating a chicken leg, our parents kept telling him to finish his chicken first. After which, he would take a tiny bite of chicken and then once again reach for the empanada. After which, he’d get yelled at again.

This went on for about 10 minutes before my coffee-and-cigarette deprived self decided to chime in:

After ChickenGate, we all piled back into the car and as you can imagine, I handled the rest of the trip as the mature and elegant woman who you have all come to know:

Some good did actually come out of this experience, however.

1. My husband has yet to serve me with divorce papers.

2. Despite the 17-year difference in our age, I can rest easy knowing that my brother still got to experience a typical childhood and the lovingly abusive relationship all siblings have.

You’re welcome, Turd-face.

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