Of Mice and Me

So this morning, I got up, straggled to the bathroom (it's still dark outside), and see that Maceo (the more wild of our two cats) is sitting on the toliet seat. This is a bit unusual. I’ve actually never seen him do this. I wonder what he’s doing, but then just completely dismiss it as it’s very early. I go to turn on the shower, and look up, and what's that? What's that running across the shower rod? Yes. It's a rat.
“AAHHH”, I scream. I am screaming my head off. Maceo runs out, and I slam the door. You guys all know how much I hate rats, right?
Finally, Tim runs downstairs, totally buck-naked, and is trying to figure out what's going on. (Side note: He sure took his time about it. His GF is screaming her face off downstairs, and it takes him 5 minutes to wipe the sleepies out of his eyes? Sheesh.) Anyway, apparently, I am hyperventilating and crying (I don't actually remember this), and he can't figure it out what has actually happened. Finally, I manage to get the words out.
A moment later, Tim returns, still naked and armed in work gloves and a reusable grocery bag (see, there are many uses for those things), and bravely faces the rat. He goes into the bathroom, and I hear him yell, "Baby, it's just a little mouse." Hmmm. I am fairly certain it was at least a 4 foot long rat. And everyone knows that men have issues judging size.
At any rate, he catches the mouse/rat, takes it outside, but before he can let it go, it JUMPS out of the bag, and both cats are waiting to pounce on it. Good lord. Tim finally gets the cats inside, possibly with the promise of food that doesn’t run away, and the mouse/rat makes his way to freedom. Presumably. For a minute, sanity is restored in the Cunningham/D’Andrea household.
Until I walk into the front room. It is like a blood bath up in there. I don't know what the hell happened last night, but there is a pile of bloody guts strewn across the room and a pile of vomit in the other corner.
It’s like Maceo and Shadow got wasted, went to Taco Bell, ordered 8 tacos, ate 7 of them, spilling much of them, threw up, and then let the 8th taco run into the bathroom to taunt and laugh at them for not eating it. Okay, maybe it’s not exactly like this but it this made sense to Maura and me.

Let’s pray tomorrow morning is much less eventful.

Instant Karma

Tim and I flew from Seattle to St. Louis to Reagan National last week. When I arrived in DC, I opened up my suitcase to find my jewelry case opened. Each compartment was unzipped.
“How strange,” I thought. “Why would I have packed like this?”
Of course, I didn’t.
Reaching inside the pockets, I realized that almost all of my jewelry had been stolen. Oh, a few things were left. The thief had obviously take her time and picked out what she really liked. I say she because choosing particular pieces is only something a woman would do. And this, for some reason, makes me even madder.
And it’s not like I’m dripping in diamonds, you know? The things she took were mostly inexpensive, but truly sentimental pieces. She took the Tiffany bracelet that Tim gave me for my 30th birthday. And those of you that know me well know how much I wanted that bracelet. I may not wear it as much these days, but still. It’s engraved with my initials, and it’s so special to me. Tim does not buy jewelry, ladies. This was a big frickin’ deal that he went to Tiffany and picked this out for me. A big deal.
She took a beautiful silver chain that I got on super amazing sale last year. She took pendants that I had picked up while traveling in Thailand and Malaysia. They were cheap. But they cannot be replaced. There may be more. I honestly can’t remember what I packed, and I’m afraid that as I go to wear things, I will realize they are gone.
I am trying to keep a positive mind about all of this. I am trying to remind myself that these are just things, just objects. And I am trying not to place such an emphasis on things anyway. I remember the way that Tim looked when he gave me that bracelet. I remember feeling heady from Thai whiskey when I bought that charm. I have those memories, and no one can take them from me.

But still. Karma’s gonna get you, bitch.

It's My Party, and I'll Cry If I Want To

Yesterday, I was all set to write a blog about turning 33 today, and not looking back and thinking ahead toward the future, and blah, blah, blah. Well, I never quite managed to get around to writing it yesterday.

And today seems to be a different day entirely.

Yes, it’s my 33rd birthday today. And I am definitely not feeling the birthday fun. I have absolutely no desire to wear my birthday tiara. In fact, it’s possible that I may stomp on my birthday tiara.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m having the hardest time with this birthday. There’s no reason in particular. I am not afraid of getting older. I am okay with the lines on my face and the gray in my hair. In general, I am a very happy person – I like the person that I’ve become over the past 33 years. So what’s the problem? I guess I had always thought I would be in a different place by this time: accomplished more, acquired more, done more. I am not married – divorced in fact. No family. No real career path. I feel like I look around at many of my high school and college friends, and they seem so together. Big time careers, marriage, babies, success. I realize that I have never, okay, not always taken the traditional path. I know that I have often taken life’s scenic route. And that is something I usually really like about myself. But lately, I’ve been sort of wishing, longing even, for something more traditional. Is this a grass is always greener situation? I mean, I’m certainly not regretting all of places I’ve been, the experiences I’ve had, the uniqueness of my life. But today I’m wondering if I’ve taken too many detours along the way. I’m so far away from the white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and the Outback station wagon, I can’t even envision what they might look like.

I don’t like this feeling of, dare I say it – regret. This was supposed to be my blog about looking toward the future with positive and hopeful eyes. And instead, I’m just looking back at a life that is no longer an option.

Off to work now. Maybe fighting the good fight will make my birthday blues seem a little less important. It certainly should.

I'm Out

I’ll admit it: I was a Project Runway virgin.

I was always wholeheartedly committed to America’s Next Top Model, and for some reason, I just didn’t feel like I had it in me to be faithful to both shows. (Possibly my self-esteem can only take one hour a week of watching 90 pound waifs traipse down the runway, voluminous hair flying...) However, after what seems like 19 seasons of watching Tyra become progressively crazy – the voices, the dances, the overall kitsch – and not to mention the fact that the “models” seemed to be chosen based on the likelihood of them having an on-air breakdown culminating with the admission of an abusive parent, an eating disorder, or lack of a serious boyfriend, I knew I had to make a change.

And so, my conversion to Project Runway was underway.

We are now about half way through the season, and I have made a major discovery about myself. Brace yourselves, friends, for this bombshell.

I know nothing about fashion.

Whew. It feels good to put that out there. This is how I know that I know nothing about fashion. Every time I watch a “garment” (okay, I know the proper terminology, yay!) go down the runway, and I think to myself, “Wow, how cute is that? Love it”, that will invariably be the look that gets slammed by Michael and Heidi and all their friends, and that designer will go home. EVERY TIME, PEOPLE. And when I see another garment and go, “Ewwww”, that will absolutely be the winner. I could lay bets on it at this point.

But what can be done? At this point, I think I’m a lost cause. So I guess I’ll stick with my
J Crew/Banana Republic/Ann Taylor Loft with some Target mixed-in wardrobe. And I’ll like it.

P.S. I do believe I am correct about one fashion-related piece. See below.

Tim Gunn: Don’t even get me started on leggings.

Emily D’Andrea: Word.