And This is How Many Times I Injured Myself This Weekend…

This is how many times I injured myself this weeknd

On Saturday morning, I attempted to finish clearing the dead crap from my heavily landscaped yard, a task I had begun upon arriving home the night before (while wearing a damn dress, no less). Dirt, mud and pollen threatened to swallow my hands whole. The purple paint on my freshly manicured, middle fingernail chipped. A light scratch here, a plant-burn there. Is plant burn a thing? Because it should be. Similar to rug burn, only from pulling dead grasses, plants and other things from your garden/lawn. I had zero desire to rip up the rest of my hands.

Illinois prairie grass is a bitch. And look how cute that shit starts out.

Illinois prairie grass is a bitch. And look how cute that shit starts out.

At the hardware store, after eating a bag of free popcorn and grabbing a pair of gloves to protect my accident-prone hands, I found a single package with three cutting tools nestled under a plastic cover, attached to a cardboard back with staples. What a convenient little set for cutting. I have plans to cut more things today. THIS. Is what I need.

I stood patiently, waiting for my turn at the register, and as I dug through my purse hunting for my debit card (yeah, I’m the annoying bitch with the purse full of receipts and other shit I don’t need, while my debit card lies somewhere near the bottom…), I remembered throwing that fucker in my shopping bag at the farmer’s market earlier that morning. Panic set in as the cashier began ringing my stuff up. Balls! I don’t have any money to pay for this shit.

Like an asshole, I mumbled apologies, asking the cashier to PLEASE hold my purchase for 20 minutes as I went home to find my card. I retraced my steps, and tried to remember what I had done with my card, and if it was, in fact, still in my grocery bag. Once inside my car, I realized that the card was actually in the pocket of my sweatshirt, and returned to the store less than a minute later, with red cheeks and a sheepish grin. I feared they thought I was lying.

When I left the store, my arms were full of items I needed and didn’t need all at the same time. I stacked them in the car, and continued on my original mission. I walked with purpose to the backyard of my parents’ house, where a pair of green Adirondacks and matching footstools awaited my rescue. They were battered from several cold winters and bright summers spent outdoors, and so I wiped them down before trying to maneuver them into my car.

After they were cleaned (and I use the term “cleaned” loosely as the abandoned spider egg sacs were removed and the thick coat of dirt and leaves became a thin layer of dusty grime that was going to take more than a quick wipe down to eradicate), I awkwardly carried the first chair to my car. The uneven weight distributed uncomfortably in my arms as I knocked into each bush and tree branch along the path.

My first attempt was to slide the chair into the backseat of my Yaris, but the width of the chair in any direction was too much for my tiny back door. After unsuccessfully trying to push the Adirondack into the trunk, I only had one other option. I opened the passenger door and began bargaining with the car and the chair, promising car washes and a new home respectively.

After a few minutes, I was able to ease the chair into the front, with the back of the seat leaning as far down as possible and the Adirondack appeared massive in my subcompact sedan. And then it was time to repeat the process. I pushed and tugged and arranged the two chairs so that I could just barely make my way home in the car. Each time I shifted gears, I had to lift the chairs to move the handle. I was forced to sit on the left side of my own seat with the chairs digging into my right arm, as I held the seatbelt across my body with my right hand. Thank God my parents only live a few minutes from my house. I prayed every second of those several minutes that a cop didn’t pull me over.

bushes in the front of our house

As I pulled into the driveway, I admired the blooming bushes and flowers that spotted our front yard and made me wish I had inherited my mother’s green thumb instead of a clumsy, fall-over-everything, try-desperately-to-keep-plants-alive disposition. I removed the chairs with little effort, carting them to the backyard, one at a time.

Don't they look adorable on our deck?

Don’t they look adorable on our deck? Even with the dusty grime…

I prepared to resume my original mission to clean up last season’s dried stems and grasses to make way for the budding greenery in our yard. As I pulled out the gloves, I noticed they were attached to their packaging with a staple. I tried, unsuccessfully to remove it with my thumbnail, puncturing a small corner of the once-perfectly polished digit.

In an effort to preserve the rest of my fingers, I looked around for something to remove the fucking staple. The package of clippers and sheers seemed the logical (and laziest) way to solve my problem. As I attempted to delicately – wait for it – pry the staples off the plastic and cardboard packaging, I felt the sharp sting of my finger receiving yet another gash from a single staple. That motherfucker bit me.

Fuck that shit. I ripped the packaging to shreds with Hulk force, feeling the quick whip of a rogue staple whiz past my left ear on its way to the other side of the garage. At that point, all I could think was Welp. That could have been worse.

Once unlocked from the 27 staples, the small clippers acted as a pair of pliers to remove the remaining fucking staples that were causing so much agony. Who the fuck thought it would be fun and/or intelligent to staple plastic gloves together?

Once the seemingly harmless task of unpackaging my new garden toys was finished, I made my way to the bathroom in search of Disney BandAids and Neosporin. I dressed my wound, and gloved my hand so I could finally work on the beautification of our yard.

Several hours after clipping and shearing and pulling and tugging, I was just about finished. I heard the rustle of someone behind me, and I knew that Brian was actually awake.

“I was going to help.”

“I know.”


 

I wish I could end there with a few finger scratches and chipped nails…

Later that night, I felt intense bolts of pain shooting from my wrist when I rotated or pressed on it in certain ways. The pulling and tugging and throwing of the fucking dead grasses and shit was apparently a little rough on my arthritic wrists (which have actually built up a lot of strength thanks to yoga – alas, I’m not invincible). So I couldn’t hold my phone to fuck around on Facebook during the hour drive home from the North Side.

So by Sunday, my fingers were cut up, my nails were broken, my wrist was strained or something…and I’m not done yet.

WARNING: PAINFUL IMAGE DEPICTED BELOW.

A friend stopped by to donate a futon to our guest bedroom, and I went outside to help carry the pieces in. As we walked, three of us carrying the large mattress not unlike my awkward carting of Adirondack chairs the day before…when I tripped over my own bare toe. Why I thought carrying shit barefoot was a good idea ever at all…I’ll never know. But the image of the dirt-covered, bleeding, very large gash of lifted skin from the top of my toe with a giant flap where my toenail met the toe was nothing compared to the searing pain I’ve been in since it happened. My nail is pretty much digging into the raw cut, and I’m terrified of going near it with clippers, as the entire fucking toe is throbbing with pain. I figure I’ll be walking with a limp until June. So much for that spring pedi I was planning on getting myself.

Toe jam

This is my Flinstoe. Wrapped up in a lot of gauze and tape.

 

Blog Friends, what gardening/landscaping woes have you encountered this spring? Any recent injuries or mishaps? Got any tips for me so I don’t kill everything in our yard before we’ve been in our house a year? Am I the only one who finds staples to be among the most dangerous of packing materials?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

The Random Shit They Left Us

Good morning blog friends! Brian and I spent the weekend painting with my second mother (my mom’s best friend who just taught me how to paint a room). She and I also made our way downtown to a very depressing Bears game. And then back for more painting.

This is my backyard. Before it was my backyard. But it's pretty, right?

This is my backyard. Before it was my backyard. But it’s pretty, right?

So as I’m writing this (Sunday night), I’m covered in paint, in dire need of a shower (don’t ask how long it’s been), and beat to hell (is it nap time yet?).

But I really wanted to share this little gem of a story with you. Because I think it’s amusing.

The sellers of our house left us lots of helpful things to get started with our first homeownership adventure. I know that they were thinking of us when they left these things, because they sent a message through the attorneys asking if we wanted them to leave paint and extra fixture-type thingies. (Someone please tell me why EVERYTHING has to go through attorneys and real estate agents instead of just people to people? Because the games of Telephone that we had to play in this whole house-buying process was a giant pain in the ass.) We said “sure.”

Not that we wanted the extra paint in the rooms we would be painting over as soon as possible. But you never know.

So they left cans of paint and stain for the cedar siding. They left light bulbs and extra sticky tiles from the 80’s/90’s. They left bubble wrap and packing boxes. They left a bunch of normal, helpful stuff.
And then they left a whole bunch of random.

Like the brand new, unused skylight flashing dated back to 2004, which would have been PRETTY useful under the skylight that we have to get fixed because it has no flashing and was instead sealed with roofing tar and leaked into our attic/master bathroom (before we bought the house-we knew about it…no money pit here, yet). You know…useful stuff.

Even the curtains, while not really my style at all, are helpful...even if they are getting replaced asap. (By the way, feel free to note the paint color. Next to it is a blue family room and what was a salmon kitchen. Hence the weekend painting.)

Even the curtains, while not really my style at all, are helpful…even if they are getting replaced asap. (By the way, feel free to note the paint color. Next to it is a blue family room and what was a salmon kitchen. Hence the weekend painting.)

Or the insulation paper, which conveniently made the perfect tarp for painting.

painting tarp?

Or the strange yarn/belt/beady thing that I have no idea what it is.

It's like 5 feet long.

It’s like 5 feet long.

Or the magical mystery Ocen Spray cranberry juice bottle filled with some creepy, unlabeled brown liquid.

Juice? Maaaybe not.

Juice? Maaaybe not.

Which I assume is some sort of stain due to the close proximity of other stains and paint.
Paint and things
Which is mostly strange because they labeled fucking everything else. (This was one of Brian’s favorite features of the house. Labeled duct work.)

They also left the piece de resistance next to the bubble wrap in the basement…
Bubble wrap
Can you spot it?
Tighty Whities
Don’t worry, I took a close up. Of the tighty whities. Which I can only assume/hope are clean and were used as a cleaning rag of some sort. Brian and I are fighting over who has to remove them from the basement. I feel like they’re going to stay forever with the current standstill…

Of course, as people move out, they choose to take things with them.

Our sellers took the avocado green clothes dryer (and the washer) – we knew they were taking those. And the shower curtain rod. And the canned goods from the bathroom closet.
Canned goods in the bathroom
And the confederate flag.

I'm not upset that they took that with them. And they did a bangup awesome job of cleaning things up down there. So I'm not complaining. Just musing.

I’m not upset that they took that with them. And they did a bangup awesome job of cleaning things up down there. So I’m not complaining. Just musing.

Blog Friends, have you moved into a new place to discover strange things left behind? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen in a house? Have you left strange things behind? Would you do it just to be funny?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

‘Twas the Night Before We Bought Our House…

Blog friends! We bought a house! I wrote you a little poem! Okay, I’m going to stop using exclamation points now. The night before we closed on our house, Brian’s dad thought it would be the perfect opportunity to watch The Amityville Horror. I know. I KNOW. Not the best idea. So I thought I’d write you a little poem about it. I never claimed to be a poet, but here’s what I came up with.

The night before we closed on our house, we made some poor choices and watched Amityville Horror

‘Twas the night before closing, and all through my brain
Not a thought was unnerving; I wasn’t going insane;
Appointments were made for paint and repair,
In hopes that our house would get some tender loving care;
I was perfectly nestled all snug on the couch;
While visions of Christmas danced in my thoughts;
When Brian was working, his dad with the remote,
Had just chosen a movie for us to enjoy,
When on the TV, there arose such a fright,
I curled even deeper; I wished it weren’t night.
A couple was purchasing a beautiful home,
That soon would be full of terrors and ghosts.
Shirtless Ryan Reynolds couldn’t improve,
The terrifying show that was supposed to amuse,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But Brian to help assuage my great fear,
With snuggles from Brian and a laugh from his dad,
I knew that this movie wasn’t half bad.
More wicked visions and evil house sights,
And the couple that moved there was trying to fight.
The movie it ended; they all got away,
Their stuff left in the house, but they couldn’t stay
The credits, they rolled in the dark family room
And bedtime had come; it came much too soon
I slept with the lights on; how could I not?
My mind was now panicked and worried with wrought;
What if our house would be trying to kill us?
Just then, in a moment I was falling asleep
The room was quite quiet, ’til Bri started to creep.
As he crawled into bed, he made barely a sound,
I made him make promises just in case we found
Our house to be possessed and he’d try to kill me,
I said, “Brian don’t hack my body up with an axe;”
He responded not to worry, he didn’t have an axe,
And he looked a little wicked with a gleam in his eye.
“I’d have to use a mop or a broom til you die”
“Well, Brian I don’t think that’s what I meant”
He looked at me, laughing, “Don’t circumvent.
It’s not me that will kill you, the house wants you dead;”
I said, “Brian, those aren’t thoughts I want in my head,”
And he turned out the light and snuggled me close;
I said, “Don’t just ignore me – it’s scary, you know?”
He laughed at my worry and patted my cheek.
And promised to keep me safe from the freaks,
And I laughed when he said this, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, and I went to sleep,
And dreamed all the dreams of life in our keep,
I know that we’ll have a wonderful life,
And maybe one day he’ll even make me his wife;
We woke up the next morning ready to start,
The first day of homeownership – now the hard part.
As we pulled up to the house our agent was waiting—
The house is now ours – we’re cohabitating.

So anyways, with this milestone that is buying a freaking house, we prepared (poorly) by watching The Amityville Horror. Ryan Reynolds really was shirtless most of the movie. I really did go to sleep with the lights on. Brian really did promise to kill me with a mop or a broom because he didn’t have an axe. And we really are homeowners now.

As I was telling my mom about our movie night the next day (mere hours after we bought the house), she told me that it was a true story.

Wait, what? I’m sleeping with the lights on forever.

So I went to Netflix to see what they had for me. I figure we might as well continue down this haunted house rabbit hole (you know, considering we’re moving during peak Halloween season) and stream a few other Amityville Horror movies…just for funsies.

Amityville Horror

Oh look! There’s a 45 minute feature on the true story of Amityville. Yep. Totally going to watch it.

Blog Friends, do you enjoy scary movies? Do they freak you out? Have you ever watched the wrong scary movie at the wrong time? Have you purchased a home? What was it like for you?

I’m part of the Netflix Stream Team and was recently given a complimentary subscription to Netflix in order to share my experiences. Though I currently have complimentary service, I’ve been a Netflix subscriber for years and wouldn’t have it any other way.

StreamTeamBadge

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How to Make Moving as Painless as Possible…Without Killing Your Significant Other

As you probably already know…we moved. Of course, most of our stuff is trapped in a gargantuan storage unit until we have our own house to put it all in. The last month has been a stressful disarray of OCD-gone-wrong. In order to make moving easirr for you than it was for me, I recommend the following. I got it all wrong the weeks before moving…but on moving day? I nailed it.

The weeks before moving…

  1. Tell your significant other that moving day is a whole week before it actually is. To do this, you’ll have to be in charge of the movers (HIGHLY RECOMMENDED). That way, when he waits until the last minute, you still have a whole week.

  2. Throw. Everything. Away. No, seriously. Throw it all put, because then you won’t realize the movers have zero room for your crap and end up making 5+ additional trips after the big day.

  3. Hire professionals to pack your shit. I mean, pack your lady things and personal shit, but have someone else individually  wrap every piece of glassware, dishware, chatchkis etc, so you don’t feel like your significant other is standing there watching you do all the work and telling you to throw the glassware away.

On moving day…

  1. Make sure everything you’ll need immediately is in your car. The movers don’t need to deal with that shit and you won’t have to dig through their pile of boxes to find it.

  2. Forget every preconceived notion that you had about the move. Drop all expectations except that your shit will be somewhere else in a few short (or long if you don’t follow these explicit instructions) hours.

  3. Put your significant other in charge of the movers. You no longer have a chair to sit in, and they’re about to take the dresser you’ve been sitting on while Facebooking. You probably dropped and cracked your phone while trying to entertain yourself…you don’t need to watch over them. Because you followed tip number 2.

  4. Go shopping. If you did, in fact, crack your phone, you’ll probably need a new one. And new home means you need some new clothes to put in it…especially if you threw everything away.

  5. Go out to lunch. If your brother’s a bartender, visit him and tell him it’s moving day and you’ve relinquished control. He’ll be horrified…first because you left your boyfriend in charge, then when you tell him you paid for movers. He’ll get over it and tell you to have a cheeseburger.

  6. Head to the new residence just as the movers are finishing up. They’ll be able to unload your car before they  roll out.

With these easy steps, you, too can avoid the drama of moving.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Five Things Friday: Things I’m Going to Miss About my Train Line

This is it, Blog Friends. The big move. Today is my last day commuting on the BNSF Metra train line for a while. If you recall, we’re currently moving into Brian’s dad’s house while we begin the hunt for our very own house. As our new residence is only a temporary one, we may return to this commute someday soon, but we won’t know until we find our house. (Which is the most exciting thing EVER. I’m going to have SO MUCH TO TELL YOU. After I’m done packing up all of the shit I’ve accumulated in the last 18 months….or 31 years. One of those.)

But I wanted to reflect on the things I’m going to miss about this particular train line, because it’s been my daily commute for almost a year now. (And I’ve been riding the train for over a year.)

In no particular order,

5 Things I’m Going to Miss About my Train Line

  1. Train buddies.  It’s funny, when I was younger, I dated a guy who had a daily commute to the city and he would talk about having drinks with his train buddies, and I was just like…that’s a thing? Weird. And then I started taking the train every day. And I was in the same spot every day. And in the mornings, I stand in the first car vestibule. Every day. I know the conductor. I know the people. Because we’re in the same spot for 25 minutes every. Single. Day. And you jump into a conversation here or there (which Brian HATES that I do) and the next thing you know, you’re on a first name basis, telling everyone your life story. And then you’re buddies. And you’ll miss them when you leave.
  2. The funny conductor. My morning conductor, whose name is always on the tip of my tongue, but I can never remember, is hysterical. He’s always grumbling and making fun of Metra like it’s his job. I like him because he remembers me and doesn’t make me pull my pass out every morning. He also makes fun of the mean conductor (who was in charge of the cars that I originally sat in). He’s quite a likable fellow. Even though he rarely smiles.
  3. 25 minute commute time. I’m super lucky to have been living in a hub of commuters. Downers Grove is an express train line, and it’s the last stop on the inbound express. Which means I get on the train, and it’s non-stop to Union Station.  I’m going to miss that when I have a 45 minute train commute…tacking on lots and lots of extra time to my day.
  4. The fancy pants grocery store. So on our way home, we get off the train and there’s this adorbs grocery store that has delicious cheese for me and pico de gallo for Brian. It’s pretty much everything we need in our kitchen. Right there. So convenient. So delicious. I asked Brian the other day, “OMG where I am I going to get my cheese!? There are no fancy grocery stores or even Trader Joe’s nearby! I’m going to have to drive an hour to get cheese.” But then I remembered the cheese shop 4 blocks from my office and I could breath again.
  5. The evening conductor. Brian hates that I strike up conversations with strangers and he randomly gets sucked into them. HATES it. But I do. And he does. And one of those people is the evening conductor on our train. While we have separate commutes in the morning, Brian and I often train home together. And we sit in the same seats in the same car every day. And our conductor always stops and chats with us. More recently, he discovered that we are not, in fact, married. And now he teases Brian about it. Which makes me laugh.

It basically feels like I’m moving schools or leaving a job or something. It’s sad. Apparently wherever I go, I build my own little community. I love that about me.

What about you, Blog Friends? Do you have a routine that you would miss if you moved? Have you ever gone through this? Do you commute on a train? What’s the world like for you?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Can Someone Come Over and Pack My Shit?

Hey Blog Friends.

Sorry about, you know…my mini-disappearing act. Things are getting hectic around here…we’re moving in T minus 11 days, and the only things that are packed around here are the Christmas dishes…because It was almost April and we were still using the Christmas dishes. Because it was too cold to bring up the non-Christmas dishes from the unattached garage…and then we were going to be moving. And so it was just silly to switch out dishes that were going to get packed up in less than a few months…and I’m totally making excuses, but as it stands now, we’re using paper plates and really crappy paper bowls and sometimes eating soup out of mixing bowls or small pots. Basically we’re doing exactly what I typically call Brian out on through Instagram photos.

So maybe there are a few more things packed. Like the pot that I thought I needed the other day. And about 70% of my game collection is living at my parents’ house (which seems to both disgust my mother and impress my brother) because 1. I can’t bear to leave it all in storage without easy access, 2. You can only fit a couple of games in a single box and 3. I’m afraid of the amount of storage unit space they would take up…And there are bigger fish to fry in the storage unit.

Okay, and I’ve gone through two rounds of clothes packing. Two rounds of, I don’t think I’ll need these clothes for the duration. Two rounds of, Dear God please let us not still be there when fall comes back because I have some ridiculously cute fall clothes that I’m rolling up into storage bins. Two rounds of, I really should probably donate these pants that are 4 sizes smaller than my current pant size, but I don’t care because I really like them. 

Our weekends are filled with birthdays and weddings and anniversaries and a million other things that keep us ridiculously busy…and unpacked. And of course, even though we live in the same residence and share all the things…everything but the computer stuff, several random boxes of randomness that haven’t been unpacked since we moved here 18 months ago and his clothes seems to be mine. And Brian keeps saying that he doesn’t want to pack my stuff (as in my kitchen stuff, my bathroom stuff, my chatchkis, my art, my games, my linens, my food) because he feels he’ll inevitably do it wrong. Because packing is apparently one of my “things.” Okay, sure…I have a few OCD tendencies…I got a little crazy with TSA when they dug through my skunky Disney suitcase…okay and maybe he’s concerned that I’ll get upset or have to redo the packing…

But here we are with 8 days to pack up all our stuff and each day seems to fill up with work, gym, life, etc. So I’m going to ask nicely…

Can someone please come over and pack my shit stuff?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Holy Crap, We’re Actually Moving.

Life update:

It’s hard to believe it’s been 18 months since we moved into our little Downers Grove apartment. Our first home together with just the two of us. The first non-college apartment I ever lived in. The first place I officially moved out of my parents’ house to live. There’s some serious nostalgia here.

But I’m excited. Because I’m pretty sure the apartment has been trying to kill me for 18 months. And because this means we’re legit looking for a house. Where we can build a secret passageway and a slide/staircase. And create the perfect quirky and unique home that is all ours forever. (I’m an optimist, kids).

Moving to a new home

Our bedroom hasn’t looked this perfect since that day we moved in. *facepalm*

Our move is scheduled for less than one month from today.  For the duration, 95% of our things are going to live in storage, and we, along with the other 5% of our crap, are going to live in Brian’s childhood home. We have a few weeks (and zero weekends) to pack up all of our things and decide what we absolutely need to keep with us and what we don’t. Obviously, I’m having a hard time with this.

But on the bright side, this adventure ends with a second move, from storage to a house.

I want to know, Blog Friends, what would you keep with you when most of your stuff has to live in a storage unit for an unknown duration of time.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Confession Friday: In Which I Talk About Black Wednesday

Confession Friday: I went out on Black Wednesday. In sweat pants. And drank water. At a bar.

I’ll bet you thought I was going to talk about Black Friday, didn’t you? Admit it.

So, every year since turning 21, I’ve joined in on the “everyone’s home for the holiday, no one has to work tomorrow, let’s go out and get shmammered like we’re still in college” holiday. The busiest bar night of the year, I spent many a Thanksgivings praying over my grandmother’s toilet, unable to consume so much as a piece of cheese throughout the day. (To be fair, this had also happened on Christmas and Easter…I was a bit of a lush back in my younger days.)

Some years, (back in the owning-of-the-bar years), I would be working–though I often turned down the shift in order to participate in the debauchery of drinking with my peers, my brother, and my dad.

Last year, Brian and I went out to a fancy-pants dinner with some friends, where we ate, drank, and were merry…instead of doing the bar scene. But there was that air of “we don’t have to work tomorrow” excitement.

This year, one of my best girlfriends is leaving me. Lily is packing up all her stuff tomorrow and moving to freakin’ Iowa. (I know what you’re thinking…who the hell moves from Chicago to Iowa?) I’ve been thinking that since the day she told me. But she’s moving.

And since her going-away-party was not really a chance to actually hang out with her…because she has a lot of friends and I couldn’t really get some legit Lily time out of it, I made her go out last night for karaoke at our local tavern of choice. Where we both drank water. And sang some karaoke. And I argued with some young early 20-something dude about almost everything.

Singing Karaoke

This was not Wednesday night. But I like this picture. Because I was skinnier then. And I was singing karaoke at Sal’s. Which is what I was doing on Wednesday night.

So I had fun doing the things we used to do before we got old. Except for drinking. Because we were both tired. And I don’t like to drive on amateur nights with any alcohol in my system. Because people are stupid. And my insurance is high enough.

Enjoy the long weekend, kids!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Top Secret Mission and Things That I Don’t Love About My Apartment

Good morning readers! Today, I am on a top-secret mission. So I only have 4.32 minutes to write a blog post-here goes:

I love that we have our own apartment. I love that it is our space. I love that we have two bedrooms with a washer and dryer inside of our apartment. I love that our bedroom is HUGE compared to the last one. Yet, I have never lived in a real apartment. College doesn’t count, because those were fancy-pants Bradley owned apartments. This one is not.

Five Things I Don’t Love About My “New” Apartment

  1. The stovetop is NASTY. Not only is the stove relatively ancient, the metal dishes under the electric heaty dealies are rusting away to nothing.
  2. No garbage disposal. There are very few things that I think are more disgusting than cleaning out the sink drain. Wet, gross food remnants that you have to shake or wipe off into the garbage. Ick.
  3. The broken fridge. Yes, as I mentioned earlier this week, I was forced to throw away cheese. From Wisconsin. This is a travesty in itself. The light wouldn’t turn off inside, which heated the cheese into a disfigured warm mess of cheese. If it hadn’t been like that for days, I wouldn’t have minded much. But it had…so I did.
  4. The cabinets. Which are wood, which is nice…but they have likely been wood since 1983. And that is also gross. Because imagine how many tenants have put their food and dishes on those cabinets. Not everyone is as logical as me, and therefore may have put cleaning products or something gross where I keep the crackers to go with my cheese.
  5.  The biggest thing that I do not love about our apartment, though, is the fact that it is making me ill. I’ve often asked the question, “If I think that I’m a hypochondriac, does that mean that I am?” Well, yes. Maybe.  But the hypochondriac in me is convinced that the headache I’ve had nonstop since moving in is directly related to the apartment. Maybe it’s mold. Maybe it’s carbon monoxide. Regardless. My head has not stopped hurting. And it is not fun.

Well, I said I only had a few minutes…and now I must depart. Top secret mission ensues. While you’re here, go and enter my giveaway for the Chicago Toy & Game Fair passes! FREE. Freakin. Giveaway. Just comment. That’s all. Comment.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Rock the Vote; Don’t Waste It

I came in and edited this morning. All edits have been typed in pink.

We still have no internet. And our fridge doesn’t work right (I had to *gasp* throw away cheese. Though I considered eating it anyways…I thought better of it when I realized that I did not want my favorite thing ever to become my demise. Food poisoning scares me. A lot. I have an unnatural fear of botulism. Un. natural. fear. I won’t eat reheated grilled onions. ever. A can or jar that seems ‘splodey? No thank you.) And there are still many boxes to deal with. And we have no couch.

But we have a bed and a clean bedroom. And in-unit laundry. And beer. And cupcakes from our un-freakin-believably-adorbs new neighbors (3 and 5 year old girls). Sunday night they waited outside their door to give us cuppy cakes. Happiest girl ever! Funfetti!

Cupcakes from new neighbors

Too cute right?

So we brought them upstairs and went back to carrying stuff in from the car. I raced upstairs with a small shelfy thing as Brian was pulling out the heavy stuff and I snagged a bite of the delish treat and ran back down. Immediately upon returning to the apartment, Brian noticed the missing piece and he told me that the rest of the cupcakes were his…I threatened to bite his nose off…so I got both of my cupcakes. One for dinner and one for breakfast.

And I fixed our fridge. Sort of. I figured out the problem (the light wouldn’t turn off…so it heated my cheese. And ruined it.) But we rigged it up so that it will turn off. And not destroy anything else.

Oh. Right. It’s election day. I got off track. Because obviously, I’m not writing this on election day. Due to the fact that we have no freakin’ internet. And I’m freezing at my parents’ house as I’m writing this. Yesterday. (My tenses are confusing me.) Moving right along…

So I believe that it is important, even though many of my close friends will not participate, to vote. Do some research, because uneducated voting is pretty shitty. If you’ve only been paying attention to the presidential election race, and don’t know…or don’t understand something else on the ballot, ask the election judge…or skip it. Don’t just fill in bubbles like you would on a standardized test.

I woke up this morning, and it felt like Christmas. I showered. Got dressed in my sweet Rock the Vote tee shirt. Reheated some leftover pumpkin cheesecake pancakes and drank some Oberweis milk (I support the dairy products, not the politics. Dropped Brian off at the train. Visited Mom at work (where I got a lecture as to how I should be unpacking…UM HELLO!? Election day, Ma. Relax, I got it covered. Let’s just call it my union break. If in a week, we’re still not unpacked…I’ve got a secret weapon: The Easy Button-Anything still in boxes is getting thrown away.) Edited blog (now) and will soon be on my way to participate in my legal privilege to vote for the leader of the free world.

Just a quick photo shoot: I bought this shirt on clearance right after the ’08 election. I’ve worn it it on every voting day since, but I’ve been waiting patiently for four years to wear it on the big election day.

Rock the vote, don't waste it

Rock the vote

It’s especially nice that I now only live 15 minutes from my polling place instead of 30. By the next election, I’ll be settled into another home…and this time I’ll be registered to vote there. And it will be wonderful. Life is good. All the pink print I just typed cheered me up. I feel better already. It’s amazing what writing can do for your soul.

What are you waiting for? Go vote!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!