On the way to work today, the woman driving in front of me was really digging the song she was listening to. REALLY digging it. She was banging her head, singing out loud. She had the windows down on her car, and she was doing a full-on Stevie Nicks dance, arms flailing out the window, performing her own little concert.
I was at once both scornful and jealous. Part of me really wanted to, well, make fun of this lady. Who does she think she is, driving to work on a Wednesday, all together too happy with herself? We're stuck in a traffic jam on I-5 for God's sake. There's nothing to be that excited about already.
Alternately, I admire her. She is making the best of a bad situation. She's loving life and her music. Who knows? Maybe she got a little that morning before work, and she's just satisfied and happy.
I found myself laughing and smiling as she performed. I waved at her when I pulled off the interstate.
I wish I knew what song she was listening to. I'm imagining "Total Eclipse of the Heart". Definitely.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
No Time For Losers
I made a discovery about myself this weekend. I am hyper-competitive, and it is not entirely attractive. I announced this to Tim and Abra, and they were not quite as surprised by my revelation as I. In fact, Tim nodded vigorously in agreement, and said, "Yeah, Babe, sometimes you can be scary." Ouch.
Without going into the unflattering details, my Soccer Mom level of competiveness reached new heights on Saturday during a particulary heated game of Flip Cup. Yes, a drinking game. Even as I was yelling at team members, verbally abusing the opposite team, and beating myself up over our loss, I could see that my behavior was, well, not good. And yet, I could not stop myself.
I know that competition is healthy, and even having a competitive spirit is a good thing. But there has got to be a limit. And so, no more yelling "You let the team down!" to my Euchre partners. No more throwing the Scrabble board across the room when Tim uses both the X and Z in a triple score word. No more trash talking during games or competitions of any sort. I will remain competitive, but in a healthy, fun-having, good sport sort of way.
All gloating and self-congratulation will, of course, continue to take place internally. I mean, a zebra can't totally change her stripes, right?
Without going into the unflattering details, my Soccer Mom level of competiveness reached new heights on Saturday during a particulary heated game of Flip Cup. Yes, a drinking game. Even as I was yelling at team members, verbally abusing the opposite team, and beating myself up over our loss, I could see that my behavior was, well, not good. And yet, I could not stop myself.
I know that competition is healthy, and even having a competitive spirit is a good thing. But there has got to be a limit. And so, no more yelling "You let the team down!" to my Euchre partners. No more throwing the Scrabble board across the room when Tim uses both the X and Z in a triple score word. No more trash talking during games or competitions of any sort. I will remain competitive, but in a healthy, fun-having, good sport sort of way.
All gloating and self-congratulation will, of course, continue to take place internally. I mean, a zebra can't totally change her stripes, right?
Friday, August 14, 2009
You are a lover of words. Someday you will write a book.
I've made two decisions regarding this blog.
1. Write more often. Pretty simple, and yet ultimately important.
2. Write more personal. I've discovered that's the key to entertaining and yet relevant blogs. They get down and dirty.
I would also like to apologize in advance to those I may upset in my quest to have an intensely personal and authentic blog. Names will be changed to protect the wicked. But most of you will know who they are anyway.
1. Write more often. Pretty simple, and yet ultimately important.
2. Write more personal. I've discovered that's the key to entertaining and yet relevant blogs. They get down and dirty.
I would also like to apologize in advance to those I may upset in my quest to have an intensely personal and authentic blog. Names will be changed to protect the wicked. But most of you will know who they are anyway.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Snap Crackle Pop
I am finding it alternately upsetting and hilarious that I am currently reading a book about a woman my own age cooking her way through a famous French cookbook while I had a difficult time making Rice Krispie Treats. Culinary genius, I am not.
It's true. I attempted to make Rice Krispie Treats last night for our staff picnic. And although I do not normally bake, I figured I could whip up some mean Treats because, after all, I used to make these things when I was 8. Ha. Rice Krispies are flying out of the bowl. Marshmallow is stuck to the stove top, my face and my hair as well as to the 3 spoons I am using to try and stir the big goopy mess. Also, one would think that one could purchase the ingredients for the Treats without actually consulting a recipe. Well, one would be wrong. You are supposed to use a 10oz bag of the big marshmallows. I had the minis. A 16oz bag of the minis. I assumed (incorrectly) that 16oz of the minis would actually equal 10oz of the regulars, you know, since they're smaller. This is not good logic. In fact, it's just plain wrong. Thus, the excess of marshmallow. The Treats are actually basically white in color and not Rice Krispie colored because of the addition of 6 additional ounces of marshmallow. Perhaps they should be called Marshmallow Treats instead.
Incidentally, I did get a number of compliments on the marshmallow-lovers Treats today at the picnic.
Watch out, Julie and Julia. I'm coming for ya.
It's true. I attempted to make Rice Krispie Treats last night for our staff picnic. And although I do not normally bake, I figured I could whip up some mean Treats because, after all, I used to make these things when I was 8. Ha. Rice Krispies are flying out of the bowl. Marshmallow is stuck to the stove top, my face and my hair as well as to the 3 spoons I am using to try and stir the big goopy mess. Also, one would think that one could purchase the ingredients for the Treats without actually consulting a recipe. Well, one would be wrong. You are supposed to use a 10oz bag of the big marshmallows. I had the minis. A 16oz bag of the minis. I assumed (incorrectly) that 16oz of the minis would actually equal 10oz of the regulars, you know, since they're smaller. This is not good logic. In fact, it's just plain wrong. Thus, the excess of marshmallow. The Treats are actually basically white in color and not Rice Krispie colored because of the addition of 6 additional ounces of marshmallow. Perhaps they should be called Marshmallow Treats instead.
Incidentally, I did get a number of compliments on the marshmallow-lovers Treats today at the picnic.
Watch out, Julie and Julia. I'm coming for ya.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
I know I am. I'm sure I am.
I am well on my way to becoming a Sounders Superfan. Maura and I have some steps in place to ensure this.
1. Learn the songs.
2. Learn the rules.
3. Make up a fabulous Sounders dance.
4. Infiltrate the other Sounders Superfans and teach them our fabulous dance.
5. Become their leader.
Yes, I think it's a brilliant plan. And so does Maura.
1. Learn the songs.
2. Learn the rules.
3. Make up a fabulous Sounders dance.
4. Infiltrate the other Sounders Superfans and teach them our fabulous dance.
5. Become their leader.
Yes, I think it's a brilliant plan. And so does Maura.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Best Friends Forever
Katie is my best friend. She has been my best friend for many years, and she is my best friend for many reasons. Here is an example.
Several years ago, my boyfriend broke up with me. I am a fairly dramatic person, and at the time, it was a rough break-up. I was completely devastated and pretty much flipping out. Katie and I shared an apartment in Ann Arbor at the time.
(Side note: it was the only time we ever lived together, and I’m so happy we were able to have that experience before she went to law school and I went to NZ. Based on how much we ordered out, I’m pretty sure that Pizza House was also happy.)
After the horrific break-up took place, I called Katie at work in hysterics. Heaving and sputtering, I told her what happened. "Okay," she said, "I’m coming home now." And she hung up. I sat in our little apartment, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Minutes tick by, but no Katie. She only works a few blocks away, what is taking her so long? 15, 20 minutes, still no Katie. Finally, a half hour later, she walks in the door. And she has a bag. I stop crying long enough to yell at her for taking forever. I TOLD you, I am a dramatic person.
Katie sighs, “I know, that took ages. I had to stop and get provisions.” Out of the bag she pulls a carton of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a dozen beers. “I didn’t know which one you would want,” she says, and then she hugs me.
I know. You wish Katie was YOUR best friend too.
P.S. Wine.
Several years ago, my boyfriend broke up with me. I am a fairly dramatic person, and at the time, it was a rough break-up. I was completely devastated and pretty much flipping out. Katie and I shared an apartment in Ann Arbor at the time.
(Side note: it was the only time we ever lived together, and I’m so happy we were able to have that experience before she went to law school and I went to NZ. Based on how much we ordered out, I’m pretty sure that Pizza House was also happy.)
After the horrific break-up took place, I called Katie at work in hysterics. Heaving and sputtering, I told her what happened. "Okay," she said, "I’m coming home now." And she hung up. I sat in our little apartment, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Minutes tick by, but no Katie. She only works a few blocks away, what is taking her so long? 15, 20 minutes, still no Katie. Finally, a half hour later, she walks in the door. And she has a bag. I stop crying long enough to yell at her for taking forever. I TOLD you, I am a dramatic person.
Katie sighs, “I know, that took ages. I had to stop and get provisions.” Out of the bag she pulls a carton of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a dozen beers. “I didn’t know which one you would want,” she says, and then she hugs me.
I know. You wish Katie was YOUR best friend too.
P.S. Wine.
Friday, July 17, 2009
All Messed Up
I am an organized person. I am detail-oriented, orderly, efficient. Very, very organized. Except in one area. And that would be "my room."
I have piles of clothes on the floor. Shoes kicked off in different directions. Undies hanging out of drawers. Stacks of clothes piled high on the dresser. Jewelry that has been knocked off flat surfaces that's now just lost on the floor. Instead of hanging clothes on hangers in my closet, I will lay them across the top of the rack making it impossible to see the clothes underneath. Stacks of old journals and poems and magazines are piled in every corner.
Because of my unbelievable messiness, Tim and I actually switched bedrooms. We now have our regular bedroom where we sleep, and then I have "my room." It's basically just a room where my explosion of crap lives. This move was intially so I could have a "dressing room", a lovely girly getaway designed to give me some of my own space. Instead it has become a sort of a breeding ground for disaster.
This is not a new habit. Nope. Anyone that has ever lived with me can vouch for my (truly) dirty little secret. And no matter how hard I try to keep my room clean, I alway revert back to my old ways.
But why?
How can I be so organized in all other areas of my life? Organized to the point of anal even, but I can accept, nay encourage, this shitstorm of a room in my house? Is it because I can view my room as the one place where I don't have to have it all together? In fact, it IS my little girly getaway? Or is it because I can just shut the door and pretend the mess doesn't exist? Or am I just plain lazy?
D. All of the above.
I have piles of clothes on the floor. Shoes kicked off in different directions. Undies hanging out of drawers. Stacks of clothes piled high on the dresser. Jewelry that has been knocked off flat surfaces that's now just lost on the floor. Instead of hanging clothes on hangers in my closet, I will lay them across the top of the rack making it impossible to see the clothes underneath. Stacks of old journals and poems and magazines are piled in every corner.
Because of my unbelievable messiness, Tim and I actually switched bedrooms. We now have our regular bedroom where we sleep, and then I have "my room." It's basically just a room where my explosion of crap lives. This move was intially so I could have a "dressing room", a lovely girly getaway designed to give me some of my own space. Instead it has become a sort of a breeding ground for disaster.
This is not a new habit. Nope. Anyone that has ever lived with me can vouch for my (truly) dirty little secret. And no matter how hard I try to keep my room clean, I alway revert back to my old ways.
But why?
How can I be so organized in all other areas of my life? Organized to the point of anal even, but I can accept, nay encourage, this shitstorm of a room in my house? Is it because I can view my room as the one place where I don't have to have it all together? In fact, it IS my little girly getaway? Or is it because I can just shut the door and pretend the mess doesn't exist? Or am I just plain lazy?
D. All of the above.
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