- High heels with sweat pants
- High heels with bathing suits
- Children
- Children in heels
- Smacking
- Talking to me while I’m on the phone
- Talking to me while I'm watching a movie
- Children talking to me
- A size 12 girl squeezing into a size 8 dress
- A size 10 boy wearing size 14 jeans (lookin like a FOOL with your pants on the ground!)
- Waiting in any line for any thing
- Small talk
- Automated phone messages
- Being hot and having a stranger’s bare arm brush mine
- People who speak slowly
- Back hair
- Walking to close to me (mother!)
- The surgery channel
- Waiters who don’t write you order down and then screw it up
- Jhorts
- Having to press 1 for English
- Directv
8.01.2010
Contributing Factors
7.27.2010
The Fabulous Fart
In 1991 I was 8 years old. It was in that year that I saw Phantom of the Opera for the first time at the Fabulous Fox Theater and, not to be dramatic, it changed my life. I fell in love with theater that night and have appreciated the arts ever since. Also, there is no place on earth I would rather see a production than the beautiful Arabian background of the Fox Theater.
I remember that night so well. I was wearing a dark blue ruffled dress that had pea-sized round crystals sewn on sporadically and it resembled the night sky painted on the ceiling of the Fox. I had on black patent leather Mary Jane’s and Mom had curled my hair. I looked so fly it was unbelievable. I went with a friend and her family and we sat on the very front row of the balcony which is arguably the best seat in the house.
I was mesmerized by the elaborate sets and costumes and hung on their every word. To this day it is one of my very favorite musical scores of all time. I also developed a tiny crush on the Phantom, but who doesn’t? Right?
Anyway, that year was the very first time that the famed Andrew Lloyd Webber musical had graced Atlanta with its presence and last week marked its very last. I was so sad to hear that Phantom had begun its farewell tour but I knew I had to see it one last time.
I have been excited for WEEKS! Jenn has become so tired of me telling her how excited I am that she has stopped talking to me altogether. I HATE when she screens her calls. Ugh!
Ok, so anyway, my Mom and Dad, Brad and I all had great tickets to go see the show and have all been looking forward to it for a while. In Brad’s case he has not so much been looking forward to it as much as dreading it. He’s not quite as enthused to see musicals as I am. Whatev. But he did agree to go and he was such a good sport about the whole thing. TEN POINTS BRAD.
As we sat down, eager for the show to start, my heart sank as the effing Jolly Green Giant sat down right in front of me. I HATE THAT! Why can’t there be a Tall Person Section for all the giants to sit together?? I’m only 5’6… Come On! So when the show started I had to lean waayyyy to the left to see around the Giant Lady’s Giant Hair and ended up practically putting my head on the shoulder of the dude next to me. He loved that by the way. Yes, it was awkward and inappropriate, but at least I could see-ish.
My dad was sitting on the isle seat and I could hear him grumbling about how the lady two rows in front of him was sitting up really high. I didn’t pay much attention until I saw him flag down one of the attendants and I leaned back over towards him and noticed that, yeah, that chick was sitting really high?! It looked like she may have been sitting on her legs or something, but it was a grown lady and that would just be strange. So he asked the attendant to get her to sit down normally and we went on watching the show.
Well, nothing was really ever said to the lady and my Dad really started to get ticked off and he bugged a few more attendants to say something to her. My Dad said that they all seemed like he was asking something ridiculous but he thought SHE was the ridiculous one blocking everyone’s view! Come to find out – my Dad definitely ended up being the ass. He had caused such a stir that they did go to her to resolve the problem which was a little different that sitting on her legs…. she was in a freakin’ WHEELCHAIR!
Yes, her chair sat up higher than the rest of the seats and, yes, it did block the view, but holy lord you can’t complain about it! She is in a wheelchair for crying out loud! So about 3 attendants came over to her and they had to physically pick her up and put her in the next row where she would be sitting in a regular chair and not blocking the view. It could not have been a more awkward ordeal. And I’m pretty sure that handicapped lady turned around and shot my Dad the bird a few times. Oh well, at least he could see the show, right? Ehh…
After all that hullabaloo had settled down I went back to snuggling with the stranger next to me and Brad continued touse all of his strength to not scratch his own eyes out enjoy the show. Then, just as I was really getting into the show, the Giant Lady with the Giant Hair in front of us let out the most disgusting, nasty, popcorn scented Giant Fart ever! My eyes started to water and Brad began to choke and the man beside me cried out “Why God?? Why??????”
…
Ugh. Needless to say, Brad did not develop a love of The Arts that night. Next time I'm bringing a booster seat and a gas mask.
I remember that night so well. I was wearing a dark blue ruffled dress that had pea-sized round crystals sewn on sporadically and it resembled the night sky painted on the ceiling of the Fox. I had on black patent leather Mary Jane’s and Mom had curled my hair. I looked so fly it was unbelievable. I went with a friend and her family and we sat on the very front row of the balcony which is arguably the best seat in the house.
I was mesmerized by the elaborate sets and costumes and hung on their every word. To this day it is one of my very favorite musical scores of all time. I also developed a tiny crush on the Phantom, but who doesn’t? Right?
Anyway, that year was the very first time that the famed Andrew Lloyd Webber musical had graced Atlanta with its presence and last week marked its very last. I was so sad to hear that Phantom had begun its farewell tour but I knew I had to see it one last time.
I have been excited for WEEKS! Jenn has become so tired of me telling her how excited I am that she has stopped talking to me altogether. I HATE when she screens her calls. Ugh!
Ok, so anyway, my Mom and Dad, Brad and I all had great tickets to go see the show and have all been looking forward to it for a while. In Brad’s case he has not so much been looking forward to it as much as dreading it. He’s not quite as enthused to see musicals as I am. Whatev. But he did agree to go and he was such a good sport about the whole thing. TEN POINTS BRAD.
As we sat down, eager for the show to start, my heart sank as the effing Jolly Green Giant sat down right in front of me. I HATE THAT! Why can’t there be a Tall Person Section for all the giants to sit together?? I’m only 5’6… Come On! So when the show started I had to lean waayyyy to the left to see around the Giant Lady’s Giant Hair and ended up practically putting my head on the shoulder of the dude next to me. He loved that by the way. Yes, it was awkward and inappropriate, but at least I could see-ish.
My dad was sitting on the isle seat and I could hear him grumbling about how the lady two rows in front of him was sitting up really high. I didn’t pay much attention until I saw him flag down one of the attendants and I leaned back over towards him and noticed that, yeah, that chick was sitting really high?! It looked like she may have been sitting on her legs or something, but it was a grown lady and that would just be strange. So he asked the attendant to get her to sit down normally and we went on watching the show.
Well, nothing was really ever said to the lady and my Dad really started to get ticked off and he bugged a few more attendants to say something to her. My Dad said that they all seemed like he was asking something ridiculous but he thought SHE was the ridiculous one blocking everyone’s view! Come to find out – my Dad definitely ended up being the ass. He had caused such a stir that they did go to her to resolve the problem which was a little different that sitting on her legs…. she was in a freakin’ WHEELCHAIR!
Yes, her chair sat up higher than the rest of the seats and, yes, it did block the view, but holy lord you can’t complain about it! She is in a wheelchair for crying out loud! So about 3 attendants came over to her and they had to physically pick her up and put her in the next row where she would be sitting in a regular chair and not blocking the view. It could not have been a more awkward ordeal. And I’m pretty sure that handicapped lady turned around and shot my Dad the bird a few times. Oh well, at least he could see the show, right? Ehh…
After all that hullabaloo had settled down I went back to snuggling with the stranger next to me and Brad continued to
…
Ugh. Needless to say, Brad did not develop a love of The Arts that night. Next time I'm bringing a booster seat and a gas mask.
7.18.2010
One Hot Mess
My parents love to cook and they are pretty darn good at it, too. Before they had kids they actually owned a catering business together and my Mom even has a published cook book. Naturally, a love for cooking leads to a love for cooking supplies and kitchen gadgets; and boy do my parents LOVE kitchen gadgets. My Dad has a particular weakness for items that perform more than one task. Like, he would totally buy a toaster oven that can also mow your lawn. He has also been known to purchase As-Seen-On-TV items on more than one occasion (and by that I mean he has hundreds).
To make matters worse my parents, collectively, have no memory at all. So they will buy the same gadgets that they already own because they totally forgot that they already have one! This has always worked in my favor; I never have to buy anything for the kitchen. If I want a new pot or pan, I just go over to my parent’s house and chances are that they have 12 of the very same piece. No lie. And they will occasionally decide to clean out their kitchen and just give me whatever I want.
So, about a year ago they were having a kitchen-clean-out and I went over to pick up some new swag. I cleaned house! New knives, new pans and even a very nice Le Cruset pot I had been eyeing for a while. In addition to the big ticket items I also walked away with a new zester and a few more pyrex containers. As I was leaving my mom said she had a one more thing that she thought I would like: an As-Seen-On-TV Bloomin Onion Maker that had never been opened. Sweet Mother of Fried Goodness! I’ll take it!
I was so excited to get home and try this bad boy out- I mean who doesn’t love a Bloomin Onion?!?! I opened the package and took out the instructions and recipe book eager to get started. As I began reading it I was totally overwhelmed – it's easier to build a freakin spaceship than make one Bloomin Onion. Let me walk you through it:
Step One – Assemble Onion Cutting Contraption and place a large onion in center to cut. You have to bear down on this thing with your entire body weight and even then I could barely do it. I ended up getting Brad to do it and prayed that he didn’t loose a finger in the process. So now you have an onion that has been cut to look like a flower - thus the “Blooming” Onion.
Step Two – Make a dry mix. The recipe must be for people who plan to eat a lot of these things because it makes a Kroger bag full of dry mix. So then you have to roll the onion in the mix and peel back each individual “petal” to get the dry mix in all of the crevices. Next you shake the onion to get off the excess mixture which, in turn, covers your entire kitchen with flour. It also covers your Pomeranians in flour since they will be standing there waiting for food to drop.
Step Three – Make a beer batter. You then dump the flour covered onion in the beer batter and again have to manipulate the individual petals so that they each get covered with the tasty coating. The combination of dry mix and wet batter makes everything very goopy. You end up covered in this crap up to your elbows and then get it all over your face and body.
Step Four – Put the onion BACK into the dry mix. Re-cover each and every petal, blah, blah, blah… before frying.
Ok, so while this is going on I asked Brad to fill a pot with oil to fry the onion in. I didn’t pay much attention to what he was doing since I was covered in flour and beer batter trying to coat individual petals of an onion. As soon as I go over to the BOILING HOT oil I realize that Nimrod had filled the pot all the way to the rim with oil.
I look at him and asked if he had ever gotten into a bath tub before? If I put this onion in the oil it’s totally going to spill over into the OPEN FLAME below the pot. HELLO! So he had to carefully dump out about 1/4th of the BOILING HOT oil and return the pot to the stove without killing himself. Not an easy task, but somehow he did it. As I gently slipped the onion into the oil it quickly became apparent that Brad had not poured enough out – the oil started running over the sides! Into the flames!
Oil was quickly pouring over the side and we just knew the pot was about to burst into flames so we started to freak out. Brad decided to ball up paper towels and use them as potholders to grab the pot handles and try to pick it up before it exploded. Unfortunately in his panic he forgot that paper towels ARE FLAMABLE and will LIGHT ON FIRE pretty easily. And they did. And Brad freaked out even more and threw the burning towels down. Unfortunately I was standing right beside him and so he threw them at ME.
Burning Paper Towels…. En Fuego!... at ME!!!!
Then we had to stomp on the towels so they wouldn’t burn down the house. And the oil is still spilling over into the flames and all hell just breaks loose. I keep telling Brad to turn the burner off and he just keeps telling me “it’s too late”!!
So, what did my Knight in Shining Honor do? He grabbed all three flour-covered-dogs and a fire extinguisher and freakin ran out the front door. He then proceeded to stop, drop and roll while repeatedly screaming that it was “too late” and to “save myself”.
Oh dear lord.
I went over and just turned off the burner and we somehow escaped the trauma without burning down our house. Once Brad stopped screaming and came back inside we surveyed the damage. The kitchen was covered in flour, beer batter, burnt paper towels and hot oil. We just stood there for a minute in disbelief. Brad was still clutching on to the fire extinguisher for dear life and the only thing he could manage to say was “Oh shit! What about the onion?!”.
We scooped the onion out of the hot oil and laid it down on a square of burnt paper towel and sampled a “petal”...and it tasted like burnt crap.
I looked over at Brad and said that the next time we get a hanker’n for a Bloomin Onion I will be happy to drive to Outback and pick one up myself but unless we increase the coverage on our home owner's insurance I didnt think it was a good idea to ever try this again!
To make matters worse my parents, collectively, have no memory at all. So they will buy the same gadgets that they already own because they totally forgot that they already have one! This has always worked in my favor; I never have to buy anything for the kitchen. If I want a new pot or pan, I just go over to my parent’s house and chances are that they have 12 of the very same piece. No lie. And they will occasionally decide to clean out their kitchen and just give me whatever I want.
So, about a year ago they were having a kitchen-clean-out and I went over to pick up some new swag. I cleaned house! New knives, new pans and even a very nice Le Cruset pot I had been eyeing for a while. In addition to the big ticket items I also walked away with a new zester and a few more pyrex containers. As I was leaving my mom said she had a one more thing that she thought I would like: an As-Seen-On-TV Bloomin Onion Maker that had never been opened. Sweet Mother of Fried Goodness! I’ll take it!
I was so excited to get home and try this bad boy out- I mean who doesn’t love a Bloomin Onion?!?! I opened the package and took out the instructions and recipe book eager to get started. As I began reading it I was totally overwhelmed – it's easier to build a freakin spaceship than make one Bloomin Onion. Let me walk you through it:
Step One – Assemble Onion Cutting Contraption and place a large onion in center to cut. You have to bear down on this thing with your entire body weight and even then I could barely do it. I ended up getting Brad to do it and prayed that he didn’t loose a finger in the process. So now you have an onion that has been cut to look like a flower - thus the “Blooming” Onion.
Step Two – Make a dry mix. The recipe must be for people who plan to eat a lot of these things because it makes a Kroger bag full of dry mix. So then you have to roll the onion in the mix and peel back each individual “petal” to get the dry mix in all of the crevices. Next you shake the onion to get off the excess mixture which, in turn, covers your entire kitchen with flour. It also covers your Pomeranians in flour since they will be standing there waiting for food to drop.
Step Three – Make a beer batter. You then dump the flour covered onion in the beer batter and again have to manipulate the individual petals so that they each get covered with the tasty coating. The combination of dry mix and wet batter makes everything very goopy. You end up covered in this crap up to your elbows and then get it all over your face and body.
Step Four – Put the onion BACK into the dry mix. Re-cover each and every petal, blah, blah, blah… before frying.
Ok, so while this is going on I asked Brad to fill a pot with oil to fry the onion in. I didn’t pay much attention to what he was doing since I was covered in flour and beer batter trying to coat individual petals of an onion. As soon as I go over to the BOILING HOT oil I realize that Nimrod had filled the pot all the way to the rim with oil.
I look at him and asked if he had ever gotten into a bath tub before? If I put this onion in the oil it’s totally going to spill over into the OPEN FLAME below the pot. HELLO! So he had to carefully dump out about 1/4th of the BOILING HOT oil and return the pot to the stove without killing himself. Not an easy task, but somehow he did it. As I gently slipped the onion into the oil it quickly became apparent that Brad had not poured enough out – the oil started running over the sides! Into the flames!
Oil was quickly pouring over the side and we just knew the pot was about to burst into flames so we started to freak out. Brad decided to ball up paper towels and use them as potholders to grab the pot handles and try to pick it up before it exploded. Unfortunately in his panic he forgot that paper towels ARE FLAMABLE and will LIGHT ON FIRE pretty easily. And they did. And Brad freaked out even more and threw the burning towels down. Unfortunately I was standing right beside him and so he threw them at ME.
Burning Paper Towels…. En Fuego!... at ME!!!!
Then we had to stomp on the towels so they wouldn’t burn down the house. And the oil is still spilling over into the flames and all hell just breaks loose. I keep telling Brad to turn the burner off and he just keeps telling me “it’s too late”!!
So, what did my Knight in Shining Honor do? He grabbed all three flour-covered-dogs and a fire extinguisher and freakin ran out the front door. He then proceeded to stop, drop and roll while repeatedly screaming that it was “too late” and to “save myself”.
Oh dear lord.
I went over and just turned off the burner and we somehow escaped the trauma without burning down our house. Once Brad stopped screaming and came back inside we surveyed the damage. The kitchen was covered in flour, beer batter, burnt paper towels and hot oil. We just stood there for a minute in disbelief. Brad was still clutching on to the fire extinguisher for dear life and the only thing he could manage to say was “Oh shit! What about the onion?!”.
We scooped the onion out of the hot oil and laid it down on a square of burnt paper towel and sampled a “petal”...and it tasted like burnt crap.
I looked over at Brad and said that the next time we get a hanker’n for a Bloomin Onion I will be happy to drive to Outback and pick one up myself but unless we increase the coverage on our home owner's insurance I didnt think it was a good idea to ever try this again!
7.02.2010
Bad, Bad Leroy Brown
As many of you know, I went to an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, private Christian High School: Providence Christian Academy. I have very mixed feelings about my time there that I will write about on another day, but one of the highlights was my participation in the various Cheerleading Squads. I LOVED to cheer! (hard to imagine, I know) And I was not only on both the Basketball (we did not have football) and Competition school squads, I was also on a couple of All-Star Squads that were not affiliated with my high school.
I actually met one of my best friends through cheerleading: Ashley Reccord. My sophomore year I was Captain of the JV Squad and she was my Co-Captain. Although life has pulled us in different directions I still love that girl to death and we have some VERY funny memories together. We even decided to take a tumbling class together to improve our cheer-abilities. At the time I was 16 and she was 15 so I drove us to tumbling class twice a week after school.
Not only was I old enough to drive, I actually had a car. It was a 1996, white, Honda Del-Sol (or Honda “of-the-Sun” for my Angelo readers) and his name was Leroy. I LOVED that car and it made me feel so cool to have a two-seater! And everyone knew when Leroy and I were coming down the road since I am the only non-Hispanic to ever own this particular make and model car.
Anyway.
One day I was totally playing hooky and stayed home from school – which happened a lot. It was on tumbling class day and I was still planning on going given that I was not sick in any way, shape or form. I wanted to somehow let Ashley know that I would still pick her up from school - and this was way before kids started taking their cell phones to class – but wasn’t sure how to do it. I didn’t want to call in to the front desk and tell them “Hey, can you let Ashley know that Rebekah Samford will still come get her for tumbling class even though she is home stick from school?”. You have to remember, I went to a tiny private school so they would put two and two together and realize that I was not really sick at all. They really shun that you know.
So, I figured out an amazing plan. I called the front desk and asked them to “Please let Ashley Reccord know that Leroy will still be picking her up from school.” Genius, right? I knew she would instantly know that “Leroy” meant my car and therefore that I was still picking her up. Fool Proof!
Only problem was that the ladies who worked in the school office thought it was very suspicious that a man named Leroy was picking up one of their young, female students. Go figure? So they called Ashley in and asked if she knew who Leroy was and, she, being the good friend that she is, denied everything. So then they called Ashley’s MOM and asked her if she knew anything about a man named Leroy coming to pick up her daughter this afternoon. And, like any mother would, Mrs. Reccord freaked out. So then Ashley was forced into telling everyone what had really happened and how Leroy was just my car, not a real man.
Of course the next person they called was MY mother. When they told her that I had caused a real problem by:
1. Playing Hooky
2. Concocting a scheme to pick up Ashley
3. Alarming the staff and Mrs. Reccord
4. General Tom-Foolery
my mom did the responsible thing and Burst. Out. Laughing! She thought is was hysterical that they damn near called the SWAT team to investigate "Leroy-the-Felon" when really it was just a couple of teen-aged, high-schoolers trying to get to tumbling class!!
That did not help my case.
So, after a week's worth of detention and several stern talking-to’s by various school authorities on how immature and reckless my behavior had been I was released back into the general school populace to wreak havoc once again. And I did just that.
I actually met one of my best friends through cheerleading: Ashley Reccord. My sophomore year I was Captain of the JV Squad and she was my Co-Captain. Although life has pulled us in different directions I still love that girl to death and we have some VERY funny memories together. We even decided to take a tumbling class together to improve our cheer-abilities. At the time I was 16 and she was 15 so I drove us to tumbling class twice a week after school.
Not only was I old enough to drive, I actually had a car. It was a 1996, white, Honda Del-Sol (or Honda “of-the-Sun” for my Angelo readers) and his name was Leroy. I LOVED that car and it made me feel so cool to have a two-seater! And everyone knew when Leroy and I were coming down the road since I am the only non-Hispanic to ever own this particular make and model car.
Anyway.
One day I was totally playing hooky and stayed home from school – which happened a lot. It was on tumbling class day and I was still planning on going given that I was not sick in any way, shape or form. I wanted to somehow let Ashley know that I would still pick her up from school - and this was way before kids started taking their cell phones to class – but wasn’t sure how to do it. I didn’t want to call in to the front desk and tell them “Hey, can you let Ashley know that Rebekah Samford will still come get her for tumbling class even though she is home stick from school?”. You have to remember, I went to a tiny private school so they would put two and two together and realize that I was not really sick at all. They really shun that you know.
So, I figured out an amazing plan. I called the front desk and asked them to “Please let Ashley Reccord know that Leroy will still be picking her up from school.” Genius, right? I knew she would instantly know that “Leroy” meant my car and therefore that I was still picking her up. Fool Proof!
Only problem was that the ladies who worked in the school office thought it was very suspicious that a man named Leroy was picking up one of their young, female students. Go figure? So they called Ashley in and asked if she knew who Leroy was and, she, being the good friend that she is, denied everything. So then they called Ashley’s MOM and asked her if she knew anything about a man named Leroy coming to pick up her daughter this afternoon. And, like any mother would, Mrs. Reccord freaked out. So then Ashley was forced into telling everyone what had really happened and how Leroy was just my car, not a real man.
Of course the next person they called was MY mother. When they told her that I had caused a real problem by:
1. Playing Hooky
2. Concocting a scheme to pick up Ashley
3. Alarming the staff and Mrs. Reccord
4. General Tom-Foolery
my mom did the responsible thing and Burst. Out. Laughing! She thought is was hysterical that they damn near called the SWAT team to investigate "Leroy-the-Felon" when really it was just a couple of teen-aged, high-schoolers trying to get to tumbling class!!
That did not help my case.
So, after a week's worth of detention and several stern talking-to’s by various school authorities on how immature and reckless my behavior had been I was released back into the general school populace to wreak havoc once again. And I did just that.
6.25.2010
International House of Problems
Have I ever told you that my Mom is hysterical? I mean she is so funny, but has no idea. Also, she has quite a dramatic flair. She loves to wear those really big pashmina’s and they end up looking like a giant cape on her tiny frame.
Back when I was about 8, which would have made my sister (Amanda) 5 and my brother (James) 4, Mom had all of us with her one Sunday. After church that day we went to a very fine eatery for Brunch: I-HOP. (Only the best for us!) As we walked in my Mom noticed a sign that said the special of the day was Egg’s Benedict, as it always was on Sundays, and that’s exactly why we were there. Now, one thing you have to know about my Mom is that she LOVES Egg’s Benedict, so naturally she knew what she was going to get.
We all sat down and we kids got the chocolate-chip pancakes that I-HOP is so famous for while my Mom ordered The Special Sunday Egg’s Benedict. According to my Mother we kids were being especially demonic that day and she had Had It Up To Here and the only thing that was going to get her through that meal and to our home without killing one of us was the bliss she was about to experience via her Benedict.
Unfortunately for my Mother the waitress informed her that they were out of Egg’s Benedict. After Mom’s head spun around about 5 times and she breathed fire on that poor girl she settled for a sub-par breakfast substitution: Scrambled Eggs; which, by the way, ended up being very lack-luster.
Side bar: Do you know what Egg’s Benedict is made of? Eggs – you KNOW they had eggs. Bacon – what I-HOP doesn’t have bacon? There would be a riot! English Muffin – the wildcard of the Benedict ingredients, but could have been substituted with a bagel, toast or biscuit if push came to shove. Hollandaise Sauce (Eggs –check, Butter – soooo check and Lemon Juice - they totally have lemons for sweat tea.) So, with this list of ingredients how could ANY breakfast establishment be OUT of Egg’s Benedict?? It’s virtually impossible. WTF International House of Panackes? END RANT.
After a mediocre brunch, and dealing with her HORRIBLE kids, my Mom was ready to get the hell out of I-HOP. She gathered us up and we all walked to the front check-out to pay. As she was standing there she noticed that same sign for the Sunday Special still proudly displaying false information so she mentioned to the check out lady that they might want to take it down. The manager was standing near by and said to my Mom that he was so sorry she was misinformed, but that they did, indeed, have the Egg’s Benedict that day.
Wrong Answer Manager Boy...
Mount St. Helen made less of a scene than my Mother.
She FREAKED out on that poor man. She told him just how incompetent our waitress was and how the ONLY reason that we ever came to this CRAP HOLE OF A RESTAURANT was for the Egg’s Benedict!!! After he stopped crying and crawled out from under the desk where he had curled up in the fetal position, he very timidly offered an apology. He said that he was so, very sorry and that he would be happy to give my Mom a free Egg’s Benedict on her next visit (and could she please let him know what day that would be so that he could vacate the state?).
My Mother stuck her nose way up in the air, grabbed the end of her pashmina and threw it across her body and over the other shoulder dramatically, and said in her best British Royalty Voice: “Don’t bother –we WON'T be back!!!!”
And then Amanda and I both mimicked her dramatic pashmina throw move and said “YEAH Mister, we WON'T be back!!” and followed her out the door like a little row of indignant ducks.
Apple, meet the tree you fell from.
Back when I was about 8, which would have made my sister (Amanda) 5 and my brother (James) 4, Mom had all of us with her one Sunday. After church that day we went to a very fine eatery for Brunch: I-HOP. (Only the best for us!) As we walked in my Mom noticed a sign that said the special of the day was Egg’s Benedict, as it always was on Sundays, and that’s exactly why we were there. Now, one thing you have to know about my Mom is that she LOVES Egg’s Benedict, so naturally she knew what she was going to get.
We all sat down and we kids got the chocolate-chip pancakes that I-HOP is so famous for while my Mom ordered The Special Sunday Egg’s Benedict. According to my Mother we kids were being especially demonic that day and she had Had It Up To Here and the only thing that was going to get her through that meal and to our home without killing one of us was the bliss she was about to experience via her Benedict.
Unfortunately for my Mother the waitress informed her that they were out of Egg’s Benedict. After Mom’s head spun around about 5 times and she breathed fire on that poor girl she settled for a sub-par breakfast substitution: Scrambled Eggs; which, by the way, ended up being very lack-luster.
Side bar: Do you know what Egg’s Benedict is made of? Eggs – you KNOW they had eggs. Bacon – what I-HOP doesn’t have bacon? There would be a riot! English Muffin – the wildcard of the Benedict ingredients, but could have been substituted with a bagel, toast or biscuit if push came to shove. Hollandaise Sauce (Eggs –check, Butter – soooo check and Lemon Juice - they totally have lemons for sweat tea.) So, with this list of ingredients how could ANY breakfast establishment be OUT of Egg’s Benedict?? It’s virtually impossible. WTF International House of Panackes? END RANT.
After a mediocre brunch, and dealing with her HORRIBLE kids, my Mom was ready to get the hell out of I-HOP. She gathered us up and we all walked to the front check-out to pay. As she was standing there she noticed that same sign for the Sunday Special still proudly displaying false information so she mentioned to the check out lady that they might want to take it down. The manager was standing near by and said to my Mom that he was so sorry she was misinformed, but that they did, indeed, have the Egg’s Benedict that day.
Wrong Answer Manager Boy...
Mount St. Helen made less of a scene than my Mother.
She FREAKED out on that poor man. She told him just how incompetent our waitress was and how the ONLY reason that we ever came to this CRAP HOLE OF A RESTAURANT was for the Egg’s Benedict!!! After he stopped crying and crawled out from under the desk where he had curled up in the fetal position, he very timidly offered an apology. He said that he was so, very sorry and that he would be happy to give my Mom a free Egg’s Benedict on her next visit (and could she please let him know what day that would be so that he could vacate the state?).
My Mother stuck her nose way up in the air, grabbed the end of her pashmina and threw it across her body and over the other shoulder dramatically, and said in her best British Royalty Voice: “Don’t bother –we WON'T be back!!!!”
And then Amanda and I both mimicked her dramatic pashmina throw move and said “YEAH Mister, we WON'T be back!!” and followed her out the door like a little row of indignant ducks.
Apple, meet the tree you fell from.
6.16.2010
Doggie Paddle
While attending Auburn University I didn’t exactly try to stretch myself scholastically. I was more interested in having fun than learning much of anything. So, as you can imagine, I did not pick the most challenging classes as my electives. Instead I gravitated towards the easy stuff like tennis, rowing and swimming.
I was very excited about taking swimming as a class because I used to swim when I was little. I was the Butterfly Champion for the 5-7 year old Albany Doublegate Swim Team -two years running. Thankyouverymuch! So how hard could this be? I singed up for Swimming 101 and felt confident that I would ACE this class. A few days before class started I got a call from the instructor and she asked if I knew how to swim?
Blink, blink.
I was 21 years old; of course I knew how to swim! She then told me that the 101 class was for students that did not know how to swim and that I would need to go to 201. Well, long story short 201 was full and so was 301 and so I ended up in a Graduate Level Swim Class (if there even is such a thing) and I think it was actually called Swimming 97001. No sweat for an old swim pro like me!
I was running a little late to the first class and hustled into the indoor pool to find everyone already in the water. When I looked around it was apparent that I had missed some sort of memo regarding the details of the class expectations; specifically the dress code. All the other kids had on their Fancy Professional Auburn Swim Team One Pieces, matching swim caps and goggles. I, on the other hand, had on a bikini, a pair of swim floaties and I think I even grabbed a shower cap to put over my hair.
I got the stink-eye from everyone and the instructor felt it necessary to let me know how inappropriately I was dressed, as if I hadn’t already figured that one out. So, to “warm up” we swam 30 laps. I thought I was going to die but everyone else seemed fine. I started noticing that everyone else was, like, really fast. And, like, really good. And then I took a closer look at their Fancy Professional Auburn Swim Team gear and realized that they all said “Auburn Jr. Olympic Swim Team.”
Oh. Dear. Lord. All I wanted to do was take an easy elective and somehow I ended up training with Michael Phelps.
The smart thing would have been to drop the class but, as we all know, I rarely do the “smart thing” in these situations. I had to defend my swimming honor! So there was no way that I was giving up.
Over the course of the semester we had to perform ridiculously difficult swimming tasks. Things that I had never heard of. Things that you only see in Rocky! One class all we did for the entire hour was tread water while holding a 5lb weight above our head. I know that may not sound that hard but it would take a lot less than 5lbs to drown you if you are totally exhausted from treading water for an hour! A lot of days we had to do relays of some sort; sometimes just for speed, sometimes utilizing different strokes and sometimes we had to swim through fire. Ok, maybe the last one was a stretch. But every time there was a team relay I was ALWAYS the last one to be picked.
I was totally the fat kid at swimming dodge ball.
Then one day we went over and practiced with the dive team. Now, I am not a fan of heights. The prospect of standing on a chair to change a light bulb kind of makes me woozy so you can only image how freaked out I was when we had to jump of the high dive. Head first. Do you know how high the high dive is????
Thirty Three Feet!
Thirty Three Feet straight up in the air!
That is really freakin high!! Especially when you are forced to leap off of it HEAD FIRST! All the rest of the class had no problem climbing right up and taking a perfect swan dive off. I was the very last one to go and I cried like a little girl. When I eventually got up there I just could not muster up the nerve to actually stand up on the board. I clutched on to the board for dear life and inched my way out to the end of the board. And then I just stayed there paralyzed with fear. There was no way that I was voluntarily launching my body off this bouncy board, so I started inching my way back. The instructor had enough of my antics and eventually just climbed up there and pushed me off the damn dive board with her foot. I screamed bloody murder all the way down to my death.
Ok, I didn’t die. But, I totally could have.
By the time the semester ended I felt like I had gone to war. I was bruised, tired and physically exhausted from the TOTAL HELL this class had put me through. The upside was that I was in amazing shape and could totally out-swim any of my friends. I got there on the very last day of class praying that the instructor would take it easy on us since we had been in full forced Olympic training for the last three months.
Not so much. Our “final” was that we had to swim a mile. A MILE. Do you know how many laps that is in an Olympic sized swimming pool? Seventy Two. And one lap is there and back, so that is really 144 lengths of the pool. I was obviously the very last one to finish. It took me the entire class time (plus a little extra) and I puked about 15 times during it, but so help me I finished! I could not believe it.
So, I was unofficially on the 2004 Auburn Jr. Olympic Swim Team and am damn proud of it.
I was very excited about taking swimming as a class because I used to swim when I was little. I was the Butterfly Champion for the 5-7 year old Albany Doublegate Swim Team -two years running. Thankyouverymuch! So how hard could this be? I singed up for Swimming 101 and felt confident that I would ACE this class. A few days before class started I got a call from the instructor and she asked if I knew how to swim?
Blink, blink.
I was 21 years old; of course I knew how to swim! She then told me that the 101 class was for students that did not know how to swim and that I would need to go to 201. Well, long story short 201 was full and so was 301 and so I ended up in a Graduate Level Swim Class (if there even is such a thing) and I think it was actually called Swimming 97001. No sweat for an old swim pro like me!
I was running a little late to the first class and hustled into the indoor pool to find everyone already in the water. When I looked around it was apparent that I had missed some sort of memo regarding the details of the class expectations; specifically the dress code. All the other kids had on their Fancy Professional Auburn Swim Team One Pieces, matching swim caps and goggles. I, on the other hand, had on a bikini, a pair of swim floaties and I think I even grabbed a shower cap to put over my hair.
I got the stink-eye from everyone and the instructor felt it necessary to let me know how inappropriately I was dressed, as if I hadn’t already figured that one out. So, to “warm up” we swam 30 laps. I thought I was going to die but everyone else seemed fine. I started noticing that everyone else was, like, really fast. And, like, really good. And then I took a closer look at their Fancy Professional Auburn Swim Team gear and realized that they all said “Auburn Jr. Olympic Swim Team.”
Oh. Dear. Lord. All I wanted to do was take an easy elective and somehow I ended up training with Michael Phelps.
The smart thing would have been to drop the class but, as we all know, I rarely do the “smart thing” in these situations. I had to defend my swimming honor! So there was no way that I was giving up.
Over the course of the semester we had to perform ridiculously difficult swimming tasks. Things that I had never heard of. Things that you only see in Rocky! One class all we did for the entire hour was tread water while holding a 5lb weight above our head. I know that may not sound that hard but it would take a lot less than 5lbs to drown you if you are totally exhausted from treading water for an hour! A lot of days we had to do relays of some sort; sometimes just for speed, sometimes utilizing different strokes and sometimes we had to swim through fire. Ok, maybe the last one was a stretch. But every time there was a team relay I was ALWAYS the last one to be picked.
I was totally the fat kid at swimming dodge ball.
Then one day we went over and practiced with the dive team. Now, I am not a fan of heights. The prospect of standing on a chair to change a light bulb kind of makes me woozy so you can only image how freaked out I was when we had to jump of the high dive. Head first. Do you know how high the high dive is????
Thirty Three Feet!
Thirty Three Feet straight up in the air!
That is really freakin high!! Especially when you are forced to leap off of it HEAD FIRST! All the rest of the class had no problem climbing right up and taking a perfect swan dive off. I was the very last one to go and I cried like a little girl. When I eventually got up there I just could not muster up the nerve to actually stand up on the board. I clutched on to the board for dear life and inched my way out to the end of the board. And then I just stayed there paralyzed with fear. There was no way that I was voluntarily launching my body off this bouncy board, so I started inching my way back. The instructor had enough of my antics and eventually just climbed up there and pushed me off the damn dive board with her foot. I screamed bloody murder all the way down to my death.
Ok, I didn’t die. But, I totally could have.
By the time the semester ended I felt like I had gone to war. I was bruised, tired and physically exhausted from the TOTAL HELL this class had put me through. The upside was that I was in amazing shape and could totally out-swim any of my friends. I got there on the very last day of class praying that the instructor would take it easy on us since we had been in full forced Olympic training for the last three months.
Not so much. Our “final” was that we had to swim a mile. A MILE. Do you know how many laps that is in an Olympic sized swimming pool? Seventy Two. And one lap is there and back, so that is really 144 lengths of the pool. I was obviously the very last one to finish. It took me the entire class time (plus a little extra) and I puked about 15 times during it, but so help me I finished! I could not believe it.
So, I was unofficially on the 2004 Auburn Jr. Olympic Swim Team and am damn proud of it.
6.07.2010
Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams
For our very first (dating) anniversary Brad and I took a trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee. We thought it would be fun to see the Aquarium there and bum around the quaint little town. I didn’t realize how impressive the Aquarium would be, but it was really awesome.
Brad knows everything in the world there is to know about the ocean and all of the creatures that live in it. He watches the Discovery Channel non-stop and can tell you the Genus/Phylum/Order/Species of practically any fish in the sea. It’s pretty impressive. Me? Not so much. I’m doing good to identify a “Dora” fish or a “Nemo” fish and that’s about it.
So as we were walking through the different displays Brad was telling me all about the little creatures and their lives. We saw some pretty cool things. There was this one Seahorse that was bright yellow and looked like seaweed - very cool. I’m kind of skived out by things in the ocean, but this guy – he was really cute!
When we got towards the end there was an “interactive” area (which I now know is code forHELL ON EARTH Kid Zone) where you could touch some of the sea life. As we got closer we saw some small-ish fish-type things that were swimming around in a kiddy pool. They were about 2 feet long and grey and seemed unbothered by the pummeling they were receiving by hundreds of snotty hands. I looked at the sign that said “Beluga Sturgeon” and had the following exchange with Brad:
Me: Huh. Beluga? Like where you get caviar from?
Brad: Well, yes, you get caviar from Beluga Sturgeon.
Me: (the hamster in my head is running FULL SPEED on his wheel)
… ??....??….
(Light bulb goes off)
Me: So, those things are WHALES?!?!?!!?
(massive laughter erupts from the sea of children around us)
Punk Ass Kid: Lady, these are not whales! They aren’t big enough, these are fish.
Brad: Actually, they are Sturgeon. (laughing hysterically) We get Beluga Caviar from Beluga Sturgeon, not whales. Whales are much, much bigger, Rebekah. You just got schooled by a 9-year old. (high-fives Punk Ass Kid)
Me: Whatever. I hate fish.
Brad knows everything in the world there is to know about the ocean and all of the creatures that live in it. He watches the Discovery Channel non-stop and can tell you the Genus/Phylum/Order/Species of practically any fish in the sea. It’s pretty impressive. Me? Not so much. I’m doing good to identify a “Dora” fish or a “Nemo” fish and that’s about it.
So as we were walking through the different displays Brad was telling me all about the little creatures and their lives. We saw some pretty cool things. There was this one Seahorse that was bright yellow and looked like seaweed - very cool. I’m kind of skived out by things in the ocean, but this guy – he was really cute!
When we got towards the end there was an “interactive” area (which I now know is code for
Me: Huh. Beluga? Like where you get caviar from?
Brad: Well, yes, you get caviar from Beluga Sturgeon.
Me: (the hamster in my head is running FULL SPEED on his wheel)
… ??....??….
(Light bulb goes off)
Me: So, those things are WHALES?!?!?!!?
(massive laughter erupts from the sea of children around us)
Punk Ass Kid: Lady, these are not whales! They aren’t big enough, these are fish.
Brad: Actually, they are Sturgeon. (laughing hysterically) We get Beluga Caviar from Beluga Sturgeon, not whales. Whales are much, much bigger, Rebekah. You just got schooled by a 9-year old. (high-fives Punk Ass Kid)
Me: Whatever. I hate fish.
6.01.2010
A few things about my ‘09
1. Due to the fact that we experienced a WORLD WIDE RECESSION, and I am in finance; I spent the greater part of the year hiding under my desk in the fetal position wishing to die.
2. My Husband was subsequently laid off due to said WORLD WIDE RECESSION. It was a shock that you could be laid off at the tender age of 27. We felt that it was the universes way of giving us a nice, swift, kick to the balls. And it took 6 months for him to find new, gainful, employment. But he was some of the lucky few who actually did.
3. Also, in a related note: Because of said WORLD WIDE RECESSSION and temporary unemployment for the year of 2009 we went nowhere, saw no one and did nothing.
4. Except for our anniversary. My loving husband of one whole year, with all his marital knowledge, completely surprised me. We already had planned on going back to the Ritz, where we were married, to cash in on our “free anniversary dinner.” (That’s the thanks you get in exchange for spending a gazillion space bucks on your wedding.) Brad had suggested that we go early and hang by the pool for a while before dinner. As we walked into the hotel Brad suggested that we change into our swimsuits upstairs in the locker room?...... What locker room? But I went along with it, and as Brad swiped a 5th floor room key I begin to wonder where we were really going. He then took me to a beautiful Club Level Suite where we were greeted by a bellhop who congratulated us on our anniversary. The room was covered in roses, a bottle of champagne was chilling and there was a present on the bed. As I opened the gift I couldn’t believe how thoughtful he had been. He had the lyric’s to our first dance song framed beautifully with our wedding date at the top and “On this day I married by best friend. The one I laugh with, live for and dream of” inscribed below. He had packed a weekend bag for me, got a friend to watch the dogs and did it all without me knowing a thing! We spend the rest of the weekend walking along the lake, standing where we said our vows, lounging by the pool and enjoying the peacefulness of Lake Oconee. He got some MAJOR brownie points with me but all of his guy friends now hate him since they are being forced to do kind things for their wives. (boo freakin hoo)
5. I changed jobs. This included moving about 150 families with me via uprooting every invested dollar they posses and forcing them to sign an egregious amount of paperwork and endure untold phone calls from Ameriprise advisors begging them to stay. It’s been a lot of work, but by far the best business decision I have ever made. Holla at your girl if you need financial advice!
7. Speaking of dogs… we had an unfortunate “incident” between Roxy and Fisher in 2009. Ok, so, Roxy had not been fixed yet and she was in heat for the first time so we had to get her little diapers to wear. They were too cute. Well, Brad had taken the dogs out, and they ran upstairs before he had a chance to re-diaper Roxy. I heard Roxy and Fisher playing around, and then I heard Roxy starting to cry. I ran over to see what was going on, and I. ALMOST. DIED. Apparently Fisher got excited over her being in heat and had his way with her and THEY GOT STUCK! I am not even kidding. So they were stuck together, but facing opposite directions. I started screaming for Brad, Roxy was crying and the peanut gallery (Pancake) was barking at nothing. We had no idea what to do so we called the emergency vet (excuse me, I called the emergency vet and Brad took pictures with his phone. And NO, we will NOT send them to you, you sick weirdo!) and they said it was pretty common and that we needed to let the “swelling go down.” Eww. So I have Roxy’s head in my hands and I am telling her it will be alright and that I was so sorry and Brad is holding Fisher telling him he’s a no-good, dirty bastard, and to leave his little angel alone!! They eventually just came apart, but I was emotionally scarred and have still not fully recovered.
8. I was conned into doing Boot Camp for a month by my cousin, Tiffany. If you don’t know what Boot Camp is, it’s a workout group that meets at 6 AM each morning and pushes you to the brink of death. And it SUCKS! There is nothing worse than being forced to do 100’s of push ups with someone yelling in your ear to go faster at the CRACK OF DAWN. No fun. Not at all. Not even a little. But, I did do it for the entire month and I was very proud that I finished it. And we are going to leave it at that.
9. One big theme for 2009 was friendship. I made it my mission to make new friends and deepen my existing relationships. I started a monthly –ish dinner for a small group of girls that I knew from my neighborhood, college or work. They have been gracious enough to eat the food I make (trying to become a better chef!) and I have enjoyed the gatherings immensely. It has really been a joy to get to spend time with ladies I admire and love. And it’s also been a great excuse to drink. I have tried to theme our dinners and so far we have had a lot of fun with meals like Fancy Valentines Dinner, Fondue Dinner, Spaghetti Night, and a Southern Spread!
10. I also took it upon myself to be the self-appointed Social Chair of my Junior League small group. It has been so rewarding to be apart of such a wonderful organization and to become friends with some truly inspiring women. These new friendships have become such a welcome addition in my life. We have had some very fun gathering including a BBQ, cocktail parties (with man-friends), Christmas parties and other fun outings. A funny story about this group…
11. I think the best part of 2009 was that we survived. Between job loss, investment losses, changing jobs and the recession as a whole, we count our blessings that we made it though alive. We are very lucky to both have jobs, have food and shelter, and to have come through this whole mess almost unscathed. It has really confirmed what’s important to us: Our love, health, friendships and families. Oh, and our precious little pups, too.
2. My Husband was subsequently laid off due to said WORLD WIDE RECESSION. It was a shock that you could be laid off at the tender age of 27. We felt that it was the universes way of giving us a nice, swift, kick to the balls. And it took 6 months for him to find new, gainful, employment. But he was some of the lucky few who actually did.
3. Also, in a related note: Because of said WORLD WIDE RECESSSION and temporary unemployment for the year of 2009 we went nowhere, saw no one and did nothing.
4. Except for our anniversary. My loving husband of one whole year, with all his marital knowledge, completely surprised me. We already had planned on going back to the Ritz, where we were married, to cash in on our “free anniversary dinner.” (That’s the thanks you get in exchange for spending a gazillion space bucks on your wedding.) Brad had suggested that we go early and hang by the pool for a while before dinner. As we walked into the hotel Brad suggested that we change into our swimsuits upstairs in the locker room?...... What locker room? But I went along with it, and as Brad swiped a 5th floor room key I begin to wonder where we were really going. He then took me to a beautiful Club Level Suite where we were greeted by a bellhop who congratulated us on our anniversary. The room was covered in roses, a bottle of champagne was chilling and there was a present on the bed. As I opened the gift I couldn’t believe how thoughtful he had been. He had the lyric’s to our first dance song framed beautifully with our wedding date at the top and “On this day I married by best friend. The one I laugh with, live for and dream of” inscribed below. He had packed a weekend bag for me, got a friend to watch the dogs and did it all without me knowing a thing! We spend the rest of the weekend walking along the lake, standing where we said our vows, lounging by the pool and enjoying the peacefulness of Lake Oconee. He got some MAJOR brownie points with me but all of his guy friends now hate him since they are being forced to do kind things for their wives. (boo freakin hoo)
5. I changed jobs. This included moving about 150 families with me via uprooting every invested dollar they posses and forcing them to sign an egregious amount of paperwork and endure untold phone calls from Ameriprise advisors begging them to stay. It’s been a lot of work, but by far the best business decision I have ever made. Holla at your girl if you need financial advice!
6. We got ANOTHER dog. I know, it’s ridiculous. She is another Red Sable Simba Pomeranian, just like our precious Pancake, and they could almost be twins…. that is, if Pancake weren’t such a chubster. Her name is Roxanna Eloise Nuss, but we call her Roxy, and the vet said that she has a “sexy little body”. Brad gave her to me as an “anniversary gift” but really it was just an excuse to have another dog! She is such a sweet little pumpkin and I just want to eat her up. Witness:
7. Speaking of dogs… we had an unfortunate “incident” between Roxy and Fisher in 2009. Ok, so, Roxy had not been fixed yet and she was in heat for the first time so we had to get her little diapers to wear. They were too cute. Well, Brad had taken the dogs out, and they ran upstairs before he had a chance to re-diaper Roxy. I heard Roxy and Fisher playing around, and then I heard Roxy starting to cry. I ran over to see what was going on, and I. ALMOST. DIED. Apparently Fisher got excited over her being in heat and had his way with her and THEY GOT STUCK! I am not even kidding. So they were stuck together, but facing opposite directions. I started screaming for Brad, Roxy was crying and the peanut gallery (Pancake) was barking at nothing. We had no idea what to do so we called the emergency vet (excuse me, I called the emergency vet and Brad took pictures with his phone. And NO, we will NOT send them to you, you sick weirdo!) and they said it was pretty common and that we needed to let the “swelling go down.” Eww. So I have Roxy’s head in my hands and I am telling her it will be alright and that I was so sorry and Brad is holding Fisher telling him he’s a no-good, dirty bastard, and to leave his little angel alone!! They eventually just came apart, but I was emotionally scarred and have still not fully recovered.
8. I was conned into doing Boot Camp for a month by my cousin, Tiffany. If you don’t know what Boot Camp is, it’s a workout group that meets at 6 AM each morning and pushes you to the brink of death. And it SUCKS! There is nothing worse than being forced to do 100’s of push ups with someone yelling in your ear to go faster at the CRACK OF DAWN. No fun. Not at all. Not even a little. But, I did do it for the entire month and I was very proud that I finished it. And we are going to leave it at that.
9. One big theme for 2009 was friendship. I made it my mission to make new friends and deepen my existing relationships. I started a monthly –ish dinner for a small group of girls that I knew from my neighborhood, college or work. They have been gracious enough to eat the food I make (trying to become a better chef!) and I have enjoyed the gatherings immensely. It has really been a joy to get to spend time with ladies I admire and love. And it’s also been a great excuse to drink. I have tried to theme our dinners and so far we have had a lot of fun with meals like Fancy Valentines Dinner, Fondue Dinner, Spaghetti Night, and a Southern Spread!
10. I also took it upon myself to be the self-appointed Social Chair of my Junior League small group. It has been so rewarding to be apart of such a wonderful organization and to become friends with some truly inspiring women. These new friendships have become such a welcome addition in my life. We have had some very fun gathering including a BBQ, cocktail parties (with man-friends), Christmas parties and other fun outings. A funny story about this group…
I was so excited to host our very first get together with the Jr. League girls at my house! I had the maid come, I got out all my fancy serving dishes, polished the silver and put on my pearls – it IS the Jr. League after all! I spent all this time and effort in cooking elaborate hors devours, and making sure everything was picture perfect. As I opened the door to welcome in the first arrival, the heavens open up and torrential downpour began like I have never seen before and our power WENT OUT! It didn’t come back on that night even though we had a house full of people. We made the best out of it and lit a MILLION candles, so many that I am sure my neighbors thought we were hosting a séance instead of a dinner party! I guess I should’ve left the house a mess and used Chinet! Lesson learned.
11. I think the best part of 2009 was that we survived. Between job loss, investment losses, changing jobs and the recession as a whole, we count our blessings that we made it though alive. We are very lucky to both have jobs, have food and shelter, and to have come through this whole mess almost unscathed. It has really confirmed what’s important to us: Our love, health, friendships and families. Oh, and our precious little pups, too.
5.20.2010
Dental TLC
Going to the dentist is never fun. I happen to hate going to the dentist. First they take a metal toothpick and jab it into your gums and then they purposefully floss so aggressively that you bleed just so that they can then yell at you for poor dental hygiene. Not fun. AnytimeI hear someone bragging that their dentist isn’t “that bad” I am totally skeptical. So when Brad’s sister, Missy, started telling us that she had found the Holy Grail of Dental Offices I naturally sent Brad to be the Guiney Pig before making any plans to go myself.
Brad came home from his first visit RAVING about his experience. He said that there are flat screen TV’s in every exam room and they are not only on the wall but they are ALSO in the ceiling so that you can watch TV while you’re being worked on. Also, he said the dentist is a total hippie and that there are Morrison posters hanging all over the office and good music pumping through-out. They also have massaging chairs so that while you are watching TV, listening to cool music and getting worked on, you ALSO get a soothing massage. Pretty cool? But the best part is that they are a “gentle dentistry” office meaning that they voluntarily give you laughing gas to calm you down for every single visit. No wonder he was raving; he was totally high!
Of course I was ready to make the switch for my next visit. One thing you don’t know is that my husband is a TOTAL FREAK about teeth. He goes to the dentist like I go to the dermatologist: practically once a month. His one requirement for our prenup was that if I loose my teeth he gets to walk, no strings attached. And since I no longer had the argument that it was self-inflicted torture, he made me go see the new dentist that same week.
Being the good wife that I am, I went for my quarterly dental visit without an argument. Honestly, I was kinda curious about the new place. Everything that he said was true. As soon as I walked in I was greeted with Crazy Love playing in the background and a host of unexpected amenities. Like there are two computers set up in the lobby for waiting patrons to use. There are also hundreds of trashy magazines and a flat screen pre-set to a dirty soap opera. I had a very short wait and then was escorted back to my exam room. As I laid down on the massage chair the nurse asked me what show I would like to watch and would I like the laughing gas while I wait? Yes please!
I have never had laughing gas before but had a pretty good idea what the effect would be. I kinda wasn’t paying attention to how long I waited, what with all the back massaging and drugs pumping through my system, but when the dentist came he apologized for the long wait. They kept the gas on the entire time during my visit and when they were finished took the mask off and escorted me to check out.
Now, I was never one of the kids who experimented with drugs growing up so I *might* be a bit of a lightweight when it comes to this sort of thing. But, ya’ll, I was TRIPPING MY ASS OFF when I got out of that chair. It hit me all at once and I was hysterically laughing and could not stop. The nurse gave me a funny look and asked if this was my first time with the gas? When I burst out laughing at the question she winked at me and said that they probably left it on a little too long but that it should wear off pretty quickly.
I got into the car and headed to work and called Brad to tell him how great the dentist was. I had to drive down Roswell Road to get to my office and passed by a bar that used to be called American Pie that had recently changed names to Cocktail Cove. They had the new sign proudly displayed on the side of the bar.
Brad had just picked up the phone when I passed the sign. I was so totally high that I thought it was hysterical that a shrimp formed the “C” on the Cocktail Cove sign. I couldn’t breathe; this was the funniest thing that I had ever seen in my whole life. I kept saying “The-e-e shrimp….it’s, it’s a “C”!!!....ohmygod… but the “C” is, is a SHRIMP!...Isn’t that hi-hi-hi-larious?” I was laughing so hard that I was snorting and crying and could barely drive the car in a strait line.
Brad was silent for a few seconds and then said “Hilarious, Rebekah. Pull over. I’m coming to pick you up.” It was 10:30 in the morning and I was drunk off my ass. So, now I have to have a designated driver to escort me to my dental appointments, but I never miss a one!
Brad came home from his first visit RAVING about his experience. He said that there are flat screen TV’s in every exam room and they are not only on the wall but they are ALSO in the ceiling so that you can watch TV while you’re being worked on. Also, he said the dentist is a total hippie and that there are Morrison posters hanging all over the office and good music pumping through-out. They also have massaging chairs so that while you are watching TV, listening to cool music and getting worked on, you ALSO get a soothing massage. Pretty cool? But the best part is that they are a “gentle dentistry” office meaning that they voluntarily give you laughing gas to calm you down for every single visit. No wonder he was raving; he was totally high!
Of course I was ready to make the switch for my next visit. One thing you don’t know is that my husband is a TOTAL FREAK about teeth. He goes to the dentist like I go to the dermatologist: practically once a month. His one requirement for our prenup was that if I loose my teeth he gets to walk, no strings attached. And since I no longer had the argument that it was self-inflicted torture, he made me go see the new dentist that same week.
Being the good wife that I am, I went for my quarterly dental visit without an argument. Honestly, I was kinda curious about the new place. Everything that he said was true. As soon as I walked in I was greeted with Crazy Love playing in the background and a host of unexpected amenities. Like there are two computers set up in the lobby for waiting patrons to use. There are also hundreds of trashy magazines and a flat screen pre-set to a dirty soap opera. I had a very short wait and then was escorted back to my exam room. As I laid down on the massage chair the nurse asked me what show I would like to watch and would I like the laughing gas while I wait? Yes please!
I have never had laughing gas before but had a pretty good idea what the effect would be. I kinda wasn’t paying attention to how long I waited, what with all the back massaging and drugs pumping through my system, but when the dentist came he apologized for the long wait. They kept the gas on the entire time during my visit and when they were finished took the mask off and escorted me to check out.
Now, I was never one of the kids who experimented with drugs growing up so I *might* be a bit of a lightweight when it comes to this sort of thing. But, ya’ll, I was TRIPPING MY ASS OFF when I got out of that chair. It hit me all at once and I was hysterically laughing and could not stop. The nurse gave me a funny look and asked if this was my first time with the gas? When I burst out laughing at the question she winked at me and said that they probably left it on a little too long but that it should wear off pretty quickly.
I got into the car and headed to work and called Brad to tell him how great the dentist was. I had to drive down Roswell Road to get to my office and passed by a bar that used to be called American Pie that had recently changed names to Cocktail Cove. They had the new sign proudly displayed on the side of the bar.
Brad had just picked up the phone when I passed the sign. I was so totally high that I thought it was hysterical that a shrimp formed the “C” on the Cocktail Cove sign. I couldn’t breathe; this was the funniest thing that I had ever seen in my whole life. I kept saying “The-e-e shrimp….it’s, it’s a “C”!!!....ohmygod… but the “C” is, is a SHRIMP!...Isn’t that hi-hi-hi-larious?” I was laughing so hard that I was snorting and crying and could barely drive the car in a strait line.
Brad was silent for a few seconds and then said “Hilarious, Rebekah. Pull over. I’m coming to pick you up.” It was 10:30 in the morning and I was drunk off my ass. So, now I have to have a designated driver to escort me to my dental appointments, but I never miss a one!
5.17.2010
Dork Fish
There are a lot of couples out there that have cutesy little names for each other. Some people call their spouse Cupcake, Love Muffin or Butternut Boo. Not in the Nuss house. Oh no, we are WAY to sarcastic and "funny" for that. Instead of something sweet, my husband calls me a Dorkfish.
How endearing.
You might think it's because he loves to fish and everything in his life relates to fishing in some way, but that's actually not it. He got this "sweet saying" from a comedian we love: Bill Engvall. Bill describes what a Dorkfish is here:
That is just too funny until I starting thinking about what this means my husband must think about me. I, like all wives, like to think that Brad sees me as an exotic Victoria's Secret model. In my mind, when he looks at me, he is seeing this:
Once he gave me the nickname Dorkfish I started to question how he saw me. Maybe, when he looked at me, instead of seeing a VS model he sees something a little less "exotic". I asked him about the nickname and he said that sometimes when I am telling a story I make a face that looks like what Bill describes in his stand-up act. I am very expressive and tend to make really silly faces when I talk. Apparently this is the face he was talking about:
People, I am a total Dorkfish. But the sweet part is, Brad loves me anyway. My nickname for him: Douchbag.
...
Just Kidding, you know I love you Sugar Britches!!
How endearing.
You might think it's because he loves to fish and everything in his life relates to fishing in some way, but that's actually not it. He got this "sweet saying" from a comedian we love: Bill Engvall. Bill describes what a Dorkfish is here:
That is just too funny until I starting thinking about what this means my husband must think about me. I, like all wives, like to think that Brad sees me as an exotic Victoria's Secret model. In my mind, when he looks at me, he is seeing this:
Once he gave me the nickname Dorkfish I started to question how he saw me. Maybe, when he looked at me, instead of seeing a VS model he sees something a little less "exotic". I asked him about the nickname and he said that sometimes when I am telling a story I make a face that looks like what Bill describes in his stand-up act. I am very expressive and tend to make really silly faces when I talk. Apparently this is the face he was talking about:
People, I am a total Dorkfish. But the sweet part is, Brad loves me anyway. My nickname for him: Douchbag.
...
Just Kidding, you know I love you Sugar Britches!!
5.10.2010
Melanoma or Melodramatic?
Ok. So, I recently almost died-ish for the second time. As you know I am totally afraid of getting skin cancer because of my family history of being German and the fact that I have see-through skin. Because of this I have my dermatologist on speed dial and go in to see her at least twice a year even though they only recommend me to come in every other year. I’m crazy thorough, I know.
So the other day I was talking to Jenn and she told me that she has a friend that had this spot on his arm that he was concerned about. He said that it looked like a mosquito bite that just wouldn’t go away and so he went to the dermatologist, thinking it was a wart, to have it removed. They ended up telling him that the spot was no bug bite, in fact, it was very serious – stage three melanoma and that he had a very grim outlook for recovery. He is our age and was facing chemotherapy and radiation: so scary.
Now, I have been to the dermatologist a million times and always make sure to have them tell me exactly what to look for. They always say to look for odd coloration, undefined edges or something that looks different from the rest of the moles and freckles that I already have. Not once have they told me to look for a flesh colored bug bite, so this was very concerning. The next morning I was shaving my legs and noticed a spot on my right leg that had been there for a while. It was flesh colored and small. Naturally, I had a very sane reaction…I called my dermatologist in hysterics.
Receptionist: Good Morning! Olansky Dermatology, how can I help?
Me: I need to come in as soon as possible…
Receptionist: Ok, is everything ok?
Me: (sobbing) No! Not at all…
Receptionist: What’s the matter?
Me: I'm technically not a dermatologist, but I am pretty sure that I have stage three melanoma and I need to come in today.
Receptionist: Well, we have some time we can squeeze you in this afternoon, how about…
Me: I don’t think I have that long, I’m on my way right now!
I ran to the car and the whole way there I am crying hysterically and I just know that this is the end for me. I am toast. I have already picked out the flowers for my funeral. I run into the office and I have mascara running down my face and am all red-eyed and look like a basket case. I know this is totally out of the norm for a dermatology office that usually has a lobby full of pizza-faced kids and Cougars awaiting Botox injections, so I think my presence probably freaked a few people out.
They quickly ushered me back to an exam room tokeep me from scaring more patients see me right away. I told the whole story to the first nurse and then again to the physicians assistant and I had worked myself into such hysterics that they almost had to sedate me. When the dermatologist finally came in to see me I could barely relate the story through my sobbing. She patiently listened to me and once I was finished telling her why I was totally convinced that this was my last day on earth she said, very somberly, “Well, let’s take a look”.
So, I showed her the spot on my calf and she took a very thorough look. She ran her fingers over it and then pressed the sides and took out a magnification thing and really examined my leg. After about two minutes of studying the spot from all possible angles, she sat back in her chair and looked right at me. Bracing for the bad news, I grabbed a notepad and pen to right down my treatment options. She then told me that the spot on my leg… was… an ingrown hair.
WHAAAAAAAA???? Seriously? Are you sure?
She told me that, yes, it's an ingrown hair. That is was not cancer, nor would it ever be cancer and that it posed no threat to my health and never would. She said that I had probably just scratched at it and so it formed a little scar tissue and it would just be a permanent tiny spot on my leg but that there would be no reason to ever come into her office, and scare the shit out the rest of her patients, again.
Ok, so you’re saying I’m going to live??!?! Hallelujah!
I called Brad and told him the good news that I was going to live, and he was all “you were going to die? When did that happen?”
As I was checking out I told the lady at the billing counter about my miraculous day. As she was processing my paperwork I noticed that they had a drawing you can enter for a free microdermabrasion treatment so I started filling out the entry form when the lady said to me “Haven’t you tested your luck enough for one day?”
I guess she was probably right.
So the other day I was talking to Jenn and she told me that she has a friend that had this spot on his arm that he was concerned about. He said that it looked like a mosquito bite that just wouldn’t go away and so he went to the dermatologist, thinking it was a wart, to have it removed. They ended up telling him that the spot was no bug bite, in fact, it was very serious – stage three melanoma and that he had a very grim outlook for recovery. He is our age and was facing chemotherapy and radiation: so scary.
Now, I have been to the dermatologist a million times and always make sure to have them tell me exactly what to look for. They always say to look for odd coloration, undefined edges or something that looks different from the rest of the moles and freckles that I already have. Not once have they told me to look for a flesh colored bug bite, so this was very concerning. The next morning I was shaving my legs and noticed a spot on my right leg that had been there for a while. It was flesh colored and small. Naturally, I had a very sane reaction…I called my dermatologist in hysterics.
Receptionist: Good Morning! Olansky Dermatology, how can I help?
Me: I need to come in as soon as possible…
Receptionist: Ok, is everything ok?
Me: (sobbing) No! Not at all…
Receptionist: What’s the matter?
Me: I'm technically not a dermatologist, but I am pretty sure that I have stage three melanoma and I need to come in today.
Receptionist: Well, we have some time we can squeeze you in this afternoon, how about…
Me: I don’t think I have that long, I’m on my way right now!
I ran to the car and the whole way there I am crying hysterically and I just know that this is the end for me. I am toast. I have already picked out the flowers for my funeral. I run into the office and I have mascara running down my face and am all red-eyed and look like a basket case. I know this is totally out of the norm for a dermatology office that usually has a lobby full of pizza-faced kids and Cougars awaiting Botox injections, so I think my presence probably freaked a few people out.
They quickly ushered me back to an exam room to
So, I showed her the spot on my calf and she took a very thorough look. She ran her fingers over it and then pressed the sides and took out a magnification thing and really examined my leg. After about two minutes of studying the spot from all possible angles, she sat back in her chair and looked right at me. Bracing for the bad news, I grabbed a notepad and pen to right down my treatment options. She then told me that the spot on my leg… was… an ingrown hair.
WHAAAAAAAA???? Seriously? Are you sure?
She told me that, yes, it's an ingrown hair. That is was not cancer, nor would it ever be cancer and that it posed no threat to my health and never would. She said that I had probably just scratched at it and so it formed a little scar tissue and it would just be a permanent tiny spot on my leg but that there would be no reason to ever come into her office, and scare the shit out the rest of her patients, again.
Ok, so you’re saying I’m going to live??!?! Hallelujah!
I called Brad and told him the good news that I was going to live, and he was all “you were going to die? When did that happen?”
As I was checking out I told the lady at the billing counter about my miraculous day. As she was processing my paperwork I noticed that they had a drawing you can enter for a free microdermabrasion treatment so I started filling out the entry form when the lady said to me “Haven’t you tested your luck enough for one day?”
I guess she was probably right.
5.05.2010
Closing Time
You know how women talk a lot? Well, I guess I am just a typical woman in that respect. When I get together with my girlfriends we talk and talk but never seem to run out of things to say. This is the case, especially, with my best friend Jenn. We have known each other for going on eight years and speak to each other pretty much every single day and yet we still can get together at any time and talk for hours. We have fallen in to a pattern over the last few years. We will decide to meet for dinner, after work, during the week to catch up. We usually end up at a Mexican restaurant because:
We will usually get to the restaurant around 6ish and start chatting and drink a cerveza or twenty. And then all of a sudden we will look up and it will be 10:30. How did that happen? At that point we will usually just keep talking and order another round even though we are the very last ones left and we know the place closes at 11. For the next thirty minutes the bus boys, waiters and bartenders start to circle our table and give us the get-the-hell-out-of-here look. We completely ignore this. And eventually the restaurant closes, they sweep and mop the floors, have the chairs turned upside down on all the tables but ours and they still have to ASK us to leave. You got it. We can talk so long that we routinely close down Atlanta area restaurants on week nights. Ridiculous. One time this even happened in a mall California Pizza Kitchen. The entire mall had closed down when they kicked us out!
So, I have decided to start a little list of the places we get kicked out of on week nights which I will keep on the right side of this blog. I’m going to call it “Closing Time.”
a. Her husband doesn’t like Mexican food so she never gets to go (ironically they got married in Mexico.)
b. My husband can’t eat spicy food so I never get to go
c. Our mutual love of cheese-dip is one of the main reasons that we are friends (even more ironic: there is no cheese-dip in Mexico. Apparently that's an American thing. Whatever.)
We will usually get to the restaurant around 6ish and start chatting and drink a cerveza or twenty. And then all of a sudden we will look up and it will be 10:30. How did that happen? At that point we will usually just keep talking and order another round even though we are the very last ones left and we know the place closes at 11. For the next thirty minutes the bus boys, waiters and bartenders start to circle our table and give us the get-the-hell-out-of-here look. We completely ignore this. And eventually the restaurant closes, they sweep and mop the floors, have the chairs turned upside down on all the tables but ours and they still have to ASK us to leave. You got it. We can talk so long that we routinely close down Atlanta area restaurants on week nights. Ridiculous. One time this even happened in a mall California Pizza Kitchen. The entire mall had closed down when they kicked us out!
So, I have decided to start a little list of the places we get kicked out of on week nights which I will keep on the right side of this blog. I’m going to call it “Closing Time.”
Partners in Crime
UPDATE: Yesterday I came home from work totally exhausted. I went right upstairs, changed into my PJ's and parked myself on the couch ready for a night of Tivo. I told Brad that I was just too tired to go to his softball game and just as he was about to leave my phone rang. It was Jennifer and Brad knew exactly what that meant... CHEESE DIP! He said that it was funny how I had enough energy to go out with Jenn but not enough to go to his game. He kissed me on the forehead and told me not to stay out too late. Ha Ha, Lord that man is funny. So I threw on some jeans and met Jenn at Monterrey's. I *swore* I was only going to stay an hour.
HA HA.
Ha.
ha.
I will have you know that not only did we TOTALLY close the place down... I mean they had to physically escort us out of the restaurant... we also set a new record. For cheese dip consumption. We had three orders of cheese dip. THREE. That's tres, trois, TRIFECTA! It's also way too freggin much for two people to consume in one sitting. And, truth be told, I totally could have gone for a forth. Is that bad? Ok, don't answer that one.
Congratulations Monterrey's: you make the list!
5.03.2010
Pygmies, Sambo and one Hell of a Hangover
**This was several years ago and I have not been allowed out of the house since.**
At this point it’s becoming painfully obvious that I should never be allowed to leave the house unsupervised, and here’s why…
The other night I went to watch the Auburn vs. South Carolina game at the Bucket Shop. I went with Brad, Jenn Foster (J-FO) Chad, his wife LeeAnne and this other girl, Jennifer. We all had a great time and loved to see South Carolina embarrass themselves on the Plains… War Eagle!
After the game ended, the boys went home and the girls decided to go to another bar, Peachtree Tavern, and watch the Velcro Pygmies (an 80’s band) play. So we all hopped into Jennifer’s car and drove there, leaving mine and J-FO’s cars at the Bucket Shop. So we watched the band and had an awesome time. And there was drinking. Lot’s of drinking compliments of a bartender who apparently had a moral objection to mixing anything with the alcohol she was serving. So my 7&7 was just 7. And a very strong 7 at that.
By the end of the show J-FO and I were ready to leave, but LeeAnne happens to worship the Pygmies (and by worship I mean she has driven to see them play at a distance of 5 hours from where she lives on more than one occasion) and she and the other Jennifer wanted to stay a little longer. So J-FO and I “cab it” back to the parking lot where our cars are. She dropped me off at my car and continued home. As I turned to get into my car I suddenly realize, oh shit, my purse that holds my car keys, money and phone is still in Jennifer’s car at the Peachtree Tavern. I can’t get into my car; I have no phone and no money. Oh, and by the way, it’s now 2:30 in the morning. And of course by the time I realize this J-FO is long gone.
I walked into the Bucket Shop hoping that someone was still there closing down the bar and sure enough there was. Praise the Lord! So I asked to use the phone and called my loving boyfriend ( the man who promised to always take care of me and be there for me) to ask him to come and get me, but the butt-head didn’t answer his phone. So, I called again. And again. And then I called our house phone, and then again, and then his cell… and on and on for about 10 minutes. I was starting to realize that Brad was not going to answer the phone and since I am a child of the 21st century I haven’t memorized anyone else’s phone number thanks to the miracle of modern technology! So, now I am really screwed: don’t’ know anyone else I can call to come get me, don’t have any money for a cab and have no way to get into my car and drive home.
The manager could tell there was something wrong with me, what with all the crying and gnashing of teeth that was going on. So he tried to help me out and was looking for someway to get me home. At that point one of the waitress’, a petite blond girl, said that her boyfriend was sitting in the bar waiting for her to get off work and that it would be at least another hour before she was finished and would I like for him to take me home in the mean time? Ok, there should have been a red flag here, but I weighed my options: ride home with strange man or sleep in the parking lot. So I agreed, sight unseen, to the boyfriend driving me home.
As I said before, this was a tiny, white, college-aged girl named Tiffany so I was imaging that her boyfriend was a college-aged, frat-guy-type, with cut off khaki’s and a polo. Harmless, right? When her boyfriend came over to introduce himself, he turned out to be a little different than what I was expecting. He was actually a 35 year old black man named Sambo. I am not even kidding. Meet Sambo:
I know what you’re thinking…“Tell me that you did not get in the car with Sambo!” Oh, but I did. Since I had already accepted the offer, I felt like it would be really RUDE to say, “Well, Sambo, I am sure you’re a very nicethug young man, but I just can’t possibly get the in the car with you.” Plus I was still a little drunk and so I hopped into his 1986 Cadillac and we headed to Vinings. The entire way there I am thinking to myself that this has got to be the dumbest thing I have ever done and my mother is going to kill me when I tell her about this. Instead of trying to make meaningless chit-chat I just curled up in the fetal position and sucked my thumb the whole way there.
Somehow we made it to my neighborhood without me being attacked or killed and we didn’t even have to make any stops for drug deals. PLUS TEN POINTS FOR SAMBO! When we arrived at the gate to my neighborhood, of course, I didn’t have the gate opener. So I had to get out of Sambo’s car, in the pouring down rain, and crawl under my front gate on my hands and knees and then walk about a quarter mile to my house. I wish I was making this up. I can’t even imagine what my neighbors must have thought.
It’s now 3:30 in the morning and I am soaking wet, bawling my eyes out and banging on my front door to no avail. My buzz was officially gone and this was no longer funny. Finally, after about 30 minutes of constant banging, Brad came to the door, still half asleep, and more than a little confused at what he saw. I looked like a drowned rat, eyes red from crying for the last 3 hours, knee’s all scraped up from having to shimmy UNDER the gate to our neighborhood and all he says is “Babe, what the hell happened? Are you ok?”
“Uhhh, NO. No, I am not ok. I am far from ok and I would like to request that a babysitter accompany me on all future outings.” He said he couldn't agree more.
At this point it’s becoming painfully obvious that I should never be allowed to leave the house unsupervised, and here’s why…
The other night I went to watch the Auburn vs. South Carolina game at the Bucket Shop. I went with Brad, Jenn Foster (J-FO) Chad, his wife LeeAnne and this other girl, Jennifer. We all had a great time and loved to see South Carolina embarrass themselves on the Plains… War Eagle!
After the game ended, the boys went home and the girls decided to go to another bar, Peachtree Tavern, and watch the Velcro Pygmies (an 80’s band) play. So we all hopped into Jennifer’s car and drove there, leaving mine and J-FO’s cars at the Bucket Shop. So we watched the band and had an awesome time. And there was drinking. Lot’s of drinking compliments of a bartender who apparently had a moral objection to mixing anything with the alcohol she was serving. So my 7&7 was just 7. And a very strong 7 at that.
By the end of the show J-FO and I were ready to leave, but LeeAnne happens to worship the Pygmies (and by worship I mean she has driven to see them play at a distance of 5 hours from where she lives on more than one occasion) and she and the other Jennifer wanted to stay a little longer. So J-FO and I “cab it” back to the parking lot where our cars are. She dropped me off at my car and continued home. As I turned to get into my car I suddenly realize, oh shit, my purse that holds my car keys, money and phone is still in Jennifer’s car at the Peachtree Tavern. I can’t get into my car; I have no phone and no money. Oh, and by the way, it’s now 2:30 in the morning. And of course by the time I realize this J-FO is long gone.
I walked into the Bucket Shop hoping that someone was still there closing down the bar and sure enough there was. Praise the Lord! So I asked to use the phone and called my loving boyfriend ( the man who promised to always take care of me and be there for me) to ask him to come and get me, but the butt-head didn’t answer his phone. So, I called again. And again. And then I called our house phone, and then again, and then his cell… and on and on for about 10 minutes. I was starting to realize that Brad was not going to answer the phone and since I am a child of the 21st century I haven’t memorized anyone else’s phone number thanks to the miracle of modern technology! So, now I am really screwed: don’t’ know anyone else I can call to come get me, don’t have any money for a cab and have no way to get into my car and drive home.
Enter hysteria.
The manager could tell there was something wrong with me, what with all the crying and gnashing of teeth that was going on. So he tried to help me out and was looking for someway to get me home. At that point one of the waitress’, a petite blond girl, said that her boyfriend was sitting in the bar waiting for her to get off work and that it would be at least another hour before she was finished and would I like for him to take me home in the mean time? Ok, there should have been a red flag here, but I weighed my options: ride home with strange man or sleep in the parking lot. So I agreed, sight unseen, to the boyfriend driving me home.
As I said before, this was a tiny, white, college-aged girl named Tiffany so I was imaging that her boyfriend was a college-aged, frat-guy-type, with cut off khaki’s and a polo. Harmless, right? When her boyfriend came over to introduce himself, he turned out to be a little different than what I was expecting. He was actually a 35 year old black man named Sambo. I am not even kidding. Meet Sambo:
I know what you’re thinking…“Tell me that you did not get in the car with Sambo!” Oh, but I did. Since I had already accepted the offer, I felt like it would be really RUDE to say, “Well, Sambo, I am sure you’re a very nice
Somehow we made it to my neighborhood without me being attacked or killed and we didn’t even have to make any stops for drug deals. PLUS TEN POINTS FOR SAMBO! When we arrived at the gate to my neighborhood, of course, I didn’t have the gate opener. So I had to get out of Sambo’s car, in the pouring down rain, and crawl under my front gate on my hands and knees and then walk about a quarter mile to my house. I wish I was making this up. I can’t even imagine what my neighbors must have thought.
It’s now 3:30 in the morning and I am soaking wet, bawling my eyes out and banging on my front door to no avail. My buzz was officially gone and this was no longer funny. Finally, after about 30 minutes of constant banging, Brad came to the door, still half asleep, and more than a little confused at what he saw. I looked like a drowned rat, eyes red from crying for the last 3 hours, knee’s all scraped up from having to shimmy UNDER the gate to our neighborhood and all he says is “Babe, what the hell happened? Are you ok?”
“Uhhh, NO. No, I am not ok. I am far from ok and I would like to request that a babysitter accompany me on all future outings.” He said he couldn't agree more.
4.30.2010
Let Them Eat Cake
** I was right in the middle of planning my wedding in 2007. It was a shock to learn that weddings seemed to be more about commerce than love**
I’ve come to find that planning a wedding is less about love and more about how to scam people out of money. Movies have crammed little girl’s heads with impossible dreams of unicorns and ice sculptures and now they just can’t live without a chocolate fountain on Their Big Day!
Also, I now understand the concept of a “non-refundable deposit”. It turns out that it’s so overwhelming and expensive to plan a wedding that anyone who truly knew what they were getting into would hop the next flight to Vegas. So what if most people frown on the impromptu nuptials? Who cares, at least you’ll be sane. And not broke. But the wedding industry has figured this out, and that’s why they created the “non-refundable deposit” to chain you to the wedding of your dreams weather you like it or not! Elvis is beginning to sound better and better. He’s an icon, right? What’s not to love?
I have tried to be a reasonable bride (if there is such a thing) and use the phrase “It’s My Day!” as sparingly as possible. I have also subscribed to the Martha Stewart School of Planning and have organized my entire wedding into color coded sections of a bridal notebook that has “Rebekah’s Wedding Organizer” embroidered on the front. Don’t Judge. I have immersed myself in learning the proper protocol and etiquette for every bridal occasion and decision. It’s my opinion that some of these traditions are really fun and some are dumb as shit. For example:
Ok, so another wedding tradition that I am really not a fan of is the Wedding Cake. I know it’s important to a lot of women, just not this one. Number one, I don’t like cake. Number two, I especially don’t like super expensive cake. So I was planning on having a plain cake that wasn’t crazy expensive just to say I did it, but frankly, I didn’t care if we had one or not. I heard that Publix made a pretty mean wedding cake and luckily there was one right by the Ritz that we were getting married at. I knew it wouldn’t be expensive and so this was going to be a perfect solution and I mentally checked it off the list.
When we went to the Ritz for our first tasting we also met with our wedding planner and I casually mentioned that we would be bringing in our own cake. She said that would be “no problem at all” but that there would be a small fee charged to have the staff cut and serve any cake that was not made by the Ritz bakery. I figured that we would still come out on top since the Publix cake was such a steal. I gave the go ahead and didn’t think anything of it until the end of the meeting I thought to ask how much that “small fee” would be?
“Six Dollars” she replied. I’m thinking: “wow, $6 that’s it? Man, everyone thinks the Ritz is so overpriced but that’s just not true, look how reasonable this is...” “Per person” she continued. Um, WHAT?!?!! So, it’s an ADDITIONAL $6 per person on TOP of the cost of the cake just to have someone slice it?? I’m doing the math here and we are having 150 guests and at $6 per person you are telling me that it will be NINE HUNDRED FREAKIN U.S. DOLLARS JUST TO CUT THE CAKE?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?
I’ve come to find that planning a wedding is less about love and more about how to scam people out of money. Movies have crammed little girl’s heads with impossible dreams of unicorns and ice sculptures and now they just can’t live without a chocolate fountain on Their Big Day!
Also, I now understand the concept of a “non-refundable deposit”. It turns out that it’s so overwhelming and expensive to plan a wedding that anyone who truly knew what they were getting into would hop the next flight to Vegas. So what if most people frown on the impromptu nuptials? Who cares, at least you’ll be sane. And not broke. But the wedding industry has figured this out, and that’s why they created the “non-refundable deposit” to chain you to the wedding of your dreams weather you like it or not! Elvis is beginning to sound better and better. He’s an icon, right? What’s not to love?
I have tried to be a reasonable bride (if there is such a thing) and use the phrase “It’s My Day!” as sparingly as possible. I have also subscribed to the Martha Stewart School of Planning and have organized my entire wedding into color coded sections of a bridal notebook that has “Rebekah’s Wedding Organizer” embroidered on the front. Don’t Judge. I have immersed myself in learning the proper protocol and etiquette for every bridal occasion and decision. It’s my opinion that some of these traditions are really fun and some are dumb as shit. For example:
Fun: Being fawned over and showered with champagne while trying on designer gowns.
D.A.S.: Hot-gluing Life-Savers all over a t-shirt that says “Suck for a Buck” and expecting the bride to wear it in public for her bachelorette party. WTF?
Ok, so another wedding tradition that I am really not a fan of is the Wedding Cake. I know it’s important to a lot of women, just not this one. Number one, I don’t like cake. Number two, I especially don’t like super expensive cake. So I was planning on having a plain cake that wasn’t crazy expensive just to say I did it, but frankly, I didn’t care if we had one or not. I heard that Publix made a pretty mean wedding cake and luckily there was one right by the Ritz that we were getting married at. I knew it wouldn’t be expensive and so this was going to be a perfect solution and I mentally checked it off the list.
When we went to the Ritz for our first tasting we also met with our wedding planner and I casually mentioned that we would be bringing in our own cake. She said that would be “no problem at all” but that there would be a small fee charged to have the staff cut and serve any cake that was not made by the Ritz bakery. I figured that we would still come out on top since the Publix cake was such a steal. I gave the go ahead and didn’t think anything of it until the end of the meeting I thought to ask how much that “small fee” would be?
“Six Dollars” she replied. I’m thinking: “wow, $6 that’s it? Man, everyone thinks the Ritz is so overpriced but that’s just not true, look how reasonable this is...” “Per person” she continued. Um, WHAT?!?!! So, it’s an ADDITIONAL $6 per person on TOP of the cost of the cake just to have someone slice it?? I’m doing the math here and we are having 150 guests and at $6 per person you are telling me that it will be NINE HUNDRED FREAKIN U.S. DOLLARS JUST TO CUT THE CAKE?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?
No effing way.After I reattached my head to my body from where it had blown off, I asked about the other options. She said that their Ritz-Carlton Bakery could prepare a beautiful, one of a kind, wedding cake that would be a culinary and visual masterpiece! They would fly in a world renowned German Chocolatier, the Queen of England’s Personal Pastry Chef and only use the eggs from virgin baby chick’s who have been specially bred for just this cake…. or at least that’s what you would assume she had said based on the fact that the Ritz-Carlton cake was $16 per person!!!! SIXTEEN! PER PERSON! For 150 guests that math works out to be a $2,400 cake!!! (It's not possible to use enough exclamation points to convey the ridiculousness!!!!)
Are. You. Kidding. Me.Hell no. There is just no way that I am going to pay twenty-four-hundred-dollars for a wedding cake that I didn’t even want in the first place! Absolutely not. No. So, after I very calmly told the planner that I would sooner pay $2,400 for pile of dirty socks and that no cake on earth is worth that much money, I decided that we would just not have a cake at all. If I was going to spend money on a dessert I was at least going to have something that I would actually eat. We ended up serving a Molten Chocolate Lava Cake with Chocolate Mouse and a Raspberry Gelee instead of cake. And you know what? No one even missed it.
4.26.2010
The “C” Word
** In the midst of planning my wedding vanity became more and more a driving force in my life. Logic and Reason, not so much.**
I’m sure you have been wanting confirmation of the fact that I am living due to the length of time it’s taken me to get back into the habit of writing these little updates. Good new is that I AM alive, but I recently almost died –ish. For those of you who do not know I am technically about a quarter German but based on the translucent nature of my skin you would think I am more likely a quarter Casper The Ghost. Thanks to my father’s heritage the mere mention of the word “SUN” can send me to the hospital for third degree burns. Sadly this has come to mean that skin cancer runs in the family. The dermatology community has slowly been hacking away at my Dad for years… always something to biopsy or cut out. Because of that I have come to live with a realistic fear of experiencing the same fate. I stopped going to the tanning bed almost a decade ago and stopped laying out the sun for hours as well. I’m white, and totally ok with it……Most of the time.
Turns out that one of the times in my life that I was not ok with it was for my wedding. I wanted to have a “natural glow” on the big day and decided that a slightly increased risk of dying a slow death was worth a bronze tone for one day. I decided to get a 6 visit package to the localCancer Shop Tanning Bed and went in to sign up. The first indication that this was a bad idea was that the owner, who was working the counter, had achieved a tan the color of Coke a Cola. Very strange. After mentioning that I have not had a tan since 1985, and only wanted to go in for 5 minutes to start with so I didn’t burn, he said that he had a product “just for you!” It was a “tingle” lotion that would enrich the tanning process without exposing me to any more rays. He said that it did, in fact, “tingle” a little but did not hurt at all. I agreed and slathered the crap all over me as if my life depended on being tan. I then crawl into the tanning bed ready for a relaxing few minutes of peace, turned on the radio and fan and waited for the bed to be turned on.
What I wasn’t expecting was the effect the “tingle” lotion actually had on my see-through-German-skin. As soon as the bed turned on it felt like he had set the temperature to SCORCH THE SHIT OUT OF THAT WHITE GIRL!!!!! It felt like I had just laid down on the surface of the sun. My skin was already on FIRE and I only laid there for 30 seconds. I leapt from the bed screaming bloody murder. The owner came running back and assured me that it was going to be ok and that my flesh wasn’t ACTUALLY on fire. (yes, it was!) He tried to convince me to get back in the bed and I told him, very politely, what I thought of his establishment. As I was standing there I realized that the burning sensation was actually getting worse and then the owner threw some “cooling spray” over the door and said it would help. Well, I practically DRANK the bottle and it did nothing to stop the burning. I was so fed up I just scrambled to get dressed and go home to shower. As I was changing I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and OH DEAR LORD I was red. Not a little, we are talking red Crayola marker RED with white blotches all over. I looked like some kind of polka dotted red chili pepper and I was FREAKING out.
I rushed home and the response I got from Brad was no help at all. He basically told me that if I stayed in this condition he would reconsider the offer to marry me. After 3 showers, 2 tubes of topical Benadryl and 2 days later the redness finally went away and I resigned myself to being a pale bride because I was NEVER going back to the tanning bed again!
Lesson learned.
I’m sure you have been wanting confirmation of the fact that I am living due to the length of time it’s taken me to get back into the habit of writing these little updates. Good new is that I AM alive, but I recently almost died –ish. For those of you who do not know I am technically about a quarter German but based on the translucent nature of my skin you would think I am more likely a quarter Casper The Ghost. Thanks to my father’s heritage the mere mention of the word “SUN” can send me to the hospital for third degree burns. Sadly this has come to mean that skin cancer runs in the family. The dermatology community has slowly been hacking away at my Dad for years… always something to biopsy or cut out. Because of that I have come to live with a realistic fear of experiencing the same fate. I stopped going to the tanning bed almost a decade ago and stopped laying out the sun for hours as well. I’m white, and totally ok with it……Most of the time.
Turns out that one of the times in my life that I was not ok with it was for my wedding. I wanted to have a “natural glow” on the big day and decided that a slightly increased risk of dying a slow death was worth a bronze tone for one day. I decided to get a 6 visit package to the local
What I wasn’t expecting was the effect the “tingle” lotion actually had on my see-through-German-skin. As soon as the bed turned on it felt like he had set the temperature to SCORCH THE SHIT OUT OF THAT WHITE GIRL!!!!! It felt like I had just laid down on the surface of the sun. My skin was already on FIRE and I only laid there for 30 seconds. I leapt from the bed screaming bloody murder. The owner came running back and assured me that it was going to be ok and that my flesh wasn’t ACTUALLY on fire. (yes, it was!) He tried to convince me to get back in the bed and I told him, very politely, what I thought of his establishment. As I was standing there I realized that the burning sensation was actually getting worse and then the owner threw some “cooling spray” over the door and said it would help. Well, I practically DRANK the bottle and it did nothing to stop the burning. I was so fed up I just scrambled to get dressed and go home to shower. As I was changing I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and OH DEAR LORD I was red. Not a little, we are talking red Crayola marker RED with white blotches all over. I looked like some kind of polka dotted red chili pepper and I was FREAKING out.
I rushed home and the response I got from Brad was no help at all. He basically told me that if I stayed in this condition he would reconsider the offer to marry me. After 3 showers, 2 tubes of topical Benadryl and 2 days later the redness finally went away and I resigned myself to being a pale bride because I was NEVER going back to the tanning bed again!
Lesson learned.
4.20.2010
A Religious Experience
** This was several years ago when a last minute trip to an Auburn game turned into something so much more**
This past weekend I made a last minute decision to attend the Auburn vs. LSU game that was being played in the great state of Alabama, or, as Brad calls it, “God’s Country.” My college roommate, Jenn, and I decided to drive down together the morning of the game; a game that started at 2:30 CST. Big mistake.
The first bad decision was waiting until 11:00 EST to leave when we were PAINFULLY aware that game day traffic in Auburn is a death wish. None the less, that’s when we left for our trip.
One thing to know about Jenn is that she's an atrocious driver. And that’s all the time, even when there is not the allure of alcohol and orange and blue shakers waiting at the other end of 85 South. So naturally driving at WARP SPEED did not help her ability to drive in a straight line. But we made it to Auburn and experienced surprisingly light traffic… until we came to our exit. We sadly realized that it would take us about as long as a trip to the DMV to get to the tailgate: F-O-R-E-V-E-R.
As we slowly crept down College Street we realized all the things we could be doing with this time: writing a novel, running a triathlon, or climbing Mount Everest. And we became more and more depressed that our tailgating time was being eaten away and the fact that there was little to no chance that once we got to the tailgate we would even find a place to park. Trying to park a car on a game day in Auburn is equivalent to winning the lottery. Twice. But we had a plan. That plan may have involved parking illegally on a curb in front of a fire hydrant…. but that plan worked like a charm! We figure that parking laws, much like underage drinking, were merely “guidelines” according to Auburn’s legal system.
Jenn and I were meeting our other roommate from college, Amy, at her tailgate. Amy had tickets to the game, but Jenn and I had not yet committed our first born children to pay for season tickets, so, we were on the look out. We knew that we could count on the fact that if we batted our eyes and twirled our blond locks long enough we would magically find tickets to the game. And sure enough, we got tickets and saw the entire game. It was a very intense game and after a series of heart-attack-worthy-plays, Auburn pulled through for the win, but the real celebration began later that evening.
After we returned to Amy’s house, and had a “heart healthy” (and "sober") dinner of boiled peanuts, pizza, dinner rolls and spinach artichoke dip, we got beautified for a night on the town. If you have ever been to Auburn you know that the only place worth going to is Supper Club. Supper Club is Auburn’s night life. It’s a Southern Institution. A Legacy. And for all intents and purposes; it’s a dump. But we love it and there’s no place we would rather go.
Our little trio went to sit on the outside deck, listen to the band and talk shit about all the other girls there. Don't Judge.What we didn’t expect was such an obvious target. The band was playing “Summer of 69” - an upbeat oldie that everyone loves - and the crowd was full of half drunk college kids bobbing their heads to the beat. One of the kids had brought their mother who apparently was a big fan of this particular song and she got to the stage to dance.
She must have been in her late 50’s and was wearing a shorter-than-appropriate-for-her-age jean skirt, sneakers (no socks) and a tank top she obviously borrowed from an anorexic teenager that said “I (heart) AU.” She was THE ONLY person dancing and she looked like she was performing some sort of tribal mating ritual around in circles. She basically began to scare the drunks and fueled our shit-talking for the night. The dance resembled a chicken that was both drunk and retarded at the same time. At one point she tried to pull an innocent bystander onto the floor to dance with her and the poor boy looked like he was going to cry. Lucky for him, he soon had the opportunity to sit back down when a young man asked to break in…
I don’t know that there was any way I could have prepared myself for what happened next. This guy, somewhere in his early 20’s, must have had a John Travolta obsession from birth, and studied the dance sequence from Greece every day since he got his first leotard for Christmas in 1983. He had probably prepared for this night his whole life and tonight was his night. He challenged her to a dance-off. This dance-off included all the workings of a So You Think You Can Dance? audition episode. There was leaping, booty dancing, the worm, chest bumping, and some gratuitous hip grinding. And Mr. Raunchy McBootyShake even used jazz hands. I have never laughed so hard. It was MAGICAL, and I don’t think I could ever do it justice, or see anything like it ever again. And the funniest part was the fact that this was the highlight of that lady’s LIFE. I don’t know if she was hanging out with her daughter at the bar to try to re-live some of her college days, or just to piss off her shrink, but either way she must have had a religious experience that night. She danced like this was her last chance to ever dance again. And that guy took white boy dancing to a whole new level.
And as I watched them, through tears because I was laughing so hard, I wished that I had just spent the extra money to get a freaking camera phone so that I could capture the essence of the dance-off for all to enjoy. But, alas you’ll just have to imagine it, or donate some money to me for a camera phone. Either way.
This past weekend I made a last minute decision to attend the Auburn vs. LSU game that was being played in the great state of Alabama, or, as Brad calls it, “God’s Country.” My college roommate, Jenn, and I decided to drive down together the morning of the game; a game that started at 2:30 CST. Big mistake.
The first bad decision was waiting until 11:00 EST to leave when we were PAINFULLY aware that game day traffic in Auburn is a death wish. None the less, that’s when we left for our trip.
One thing to know about Jenn is that she's an atrocious driver. And that’s all the time, even when there is not the allure of alcohol and orange and blue shakers waiting at the other end of 85 South. So naturally driving at WARP SPEED did not help her ability to drive in a straight line. But we made it to Auburn and experienced surprisingly light traffic… until we came to our exit. We sadly realized that it would take us about as long as a trip to the DMV to get to the tailgate: F-O-R-E-V-E-R.
As we slowly crept down College Street we realized all the things we could be doing with this time: writing a novel, running a triathlon, or climbing Mount Everest. And we became more and more depressed that our tailgating time was being eaten away and the fact that there was little to no chance that once we got to the tailgate we would even find a place to park. Trying to park a car on a game day in Auburn is equivalent to winning the lottery. Twice. But we had a plan. That plan may have involved parking illegally on a curb in front of a fire hydrant…. but that plan worked like a charm! We figure that parking laws, much like underage drinking, were merely “guidelines” according to Auburn’s legal system.
Jenn and I were meeting our other roommate from college, Amy, at her tailgate. Amy had tickets to the game, but Jenn and I had not yet committed our first born children to pay for season tickets, so, we were on the look out. We knew that we could count on the fact that if we batted our eyes and twirled our blond locks long enough we would magically find tickets to the game. And sure enough, we got tickets and saw the entire game. It was a very intense game and after a series of heart-attack-worthy-plays, Auburn pulled through for the win, but the real celebration began later that evening.
After we returned to Amy’s house, and had a “heart healthy” (and "sober") dinner of boiled peanuts, pizza, dinner rolls and spinach artichoke dip, we got beautified for a night on the town. If you have ever been to Auburn you know that the only place worth going to is Supper Club. Supper Club is Auburn’s night life. It’s a Southern Institution. A Legacy. And for all intents and purposes; it’s a dump. But we love it and there’s no place we would rather go.
Our little trio went to sit on the outside deck, listen to the band and talk shit about all the other girls there. Don't Judge.What we didn’t expect was such an obvious target. The band was playing “Summer of 69” - an upbeat oldie that everyone loves - and the crowd was full of half drunk college kids bobbing their heads to the beat. One of the kids had brought their mother who apparently was a big fan of this particular song and she got to the stage to dance.
She must have been in her late 50’s and was wearing a shorter-than-appropriate-for-her-age jean skirt, sneakers (no socks) and a tank top she obviously borrowed from an anorexic teenager that said “I (heart) AU.” She was THE ONLY person dancing and she looked like she was performing some sort of tribal mating ritual around in circles. She basically began to scare the drunks and fueled our shit-talking for the night. The dance resembled a chicken that was both drunk and retarded at the same time. At one point she tried to pull an innocent bystander onto the floor to dance with her and the poor boy looked like he was going to cry. Lucky for him, he soon had the opportunity to sit back down when a young man asked to break in…
I don’t know that there was any way I could have prepared myself for what happened next. This guy, somewhere in his early 20’s, must have had a John Travolta obsession from birth, and studied the dance sequence from Greece every day since he got his first leotard for Christmas in 1983. He had probably prepared for this night his whole life and tonight was his night. He challenged her to a dance-off. This dance-off included all the workings of a So You Think You Can Dance? audition episode. There was leaping, booty dancing, the worm, chest bumping, and some gratuitous hip grinding. And Mr. Raunchy McBootyShake even used jazz hands. I have never laughed so hard. It was MAGICAL, and I don’t think I could ever do it justice, or see anything like it ever again. And the funniest part was the fact that this was the highlight of that lady’s LIFE. I don’t know if she was hanging out with her daughter at the bar to try to re-live some of her college days, or just to piss off her shrink, but either way she must have had a religious experience that night. She danced like this was her last chance to ever dance again. And that guy took white boy dancing to a whole new level.
And as I watched them, through tears because I was laughing so hard, I wished that I had just spent the extra money to get a freaking camera phone so that I could capture the essence of the dance-off for all to enjoy. But, alas you’ll just have to imagine it, or donate some money to me for a camera phone. Either way.
4.13.2010
The Joy's of Homeownership
** I had just bought my first home in the summer of 2006. I had no idea of what homeownership would have in store for me!**
Hmm, where to begin? I guess I’ll have to start with the first bad thing in a string of the most random, and possibly worst, days of my life…
So. Brad and I had been living in an apartment together and back in March he temporarily lost his mind, decided we should “take some time apart”, and moved out. Enter my new roommate: Jen. Jen was a girl I worked with and she moved in with plenty of baggage, cigarettes and a demonically possessed cat named Rocky. Rocky was pure evil but only partially de-clawed. She didn’t have his back claws removed citing some cruelty to animals propaganda that I didn’t care about after he used those claws to ruin my stuff. During the time we lived together he destroyed the following:
• All Venetian blinds in our apartment by way of hurling his body against them,
• A Murano glass figurine I brought back from Italy,
• Two cut glass bowls of my mothers,
• Oh, yeah, and FOUR leather parsons chairs that were funded by selling my soul to Pottery Barn.
Then, a few months later, I bought a Townhouse (yes, yeah for me I am a grown up now) and Jen was slated to move with me to the new place. Just before the closing she came to me to tell me that her friend Lauren desperately needed a place to stay and could she please move into the 3rd bedroom? I agreed and thought that myself, and Jen, and Lauren and Rocky and Pancake (my dog) would probably be a bit much, but what the hell? I’d have a cheap mortgage.
The next day Brad called with news that his sister (whom he lived with) was divorcing her husband and now he was a nomad and could he please move in, too? This was going to be a cluster of estrogen and animals like no man had ever seen before, but he asked for it. So, now it was going to be me, and Jen, and Lauren, and Brad and Rocky-the-Devil-Cat, and Pancake and we would be one big happy-ish family.
So I went to my closing, blissfully unaware of what homeownership would really hold for me…
The morning of the move from my apartment into the new house was hectic at best. The movers were supposed to be there at 9 AM but never showed. I had to call some back-up movers that charged 400 space bucks an hour and they didn’t bother showing up until noon. As I was looking at Jen’s furniture (that I had offered to move for her at no charge) I called to ask if she wanted to have it moved with all the clothes still in it. She responded “don’t move my stuff, Lauren and I aren’t moving in.”
blink, blink.
So there goes $1,000 worth of rent every month. Her reason was that she thought it was cruel that I had asked her to keep Rocky in her room when she wasn’t home so that he couldn’t rip up any more of my furniture. How dare I?
Life went on and I moved in anyway now happy to have a home with just Brad, me and Pancake. Our first night there was pretty stress-free and then the weekend came. Friday night my Mom and I stayed up till midnight furiously painting before the furniture arrived Saturday morning. When we awoke we were still high from the paint fumes and couldn’t move our necks. American Signature Furniture called about an hour before the scheduled delivery time to inform me that they had some “bad news.” The bad news being that the truck with ALL of the furniture that I had bought had been stolen the night before. The whole truck! They would obviously not be able to deliver my furniture that day, and not the next day… or even next week. No, they wouldn’t be able to deliver my furniture for a month. MINUS TEN POINTS FOR THEM!
Still reeling in anger from being forced to eat dinner off the floor, we encountered yet another issue to deal with. A few days ago Brad went into our unfinished basement to drool over his massive fishing pole collection when he noticed a small leak in one of the pipes. Upon closer inspection he determined that is was a small crack in the pipe and a plumber would simply need to tighten the joint or do a little caulking.
Oh, man, “a little caulking”? That was cute.
So imagine our shock when the plumber said that we had a little trickier situation on our hands. There was a crack in the pipe, but the problem was that the area of the pipe that was cracked was about 3 feet inside the foundation of our home. And the only way to get to it was to DIG. UP. OUR. FRONT. LAWN! That’s right, they brought a FREEKIN bobcat and tore up every inch of our yard and made a 10 foot moat by our driveway. Then, just for fun, they decided that they couldn’t just pull the pipe out, oh no, this pipe was too tightly wedged into the foundation. In order to get it out they had to JACKHAMMER THE FOUNDATION OF OUR HOME. I am not kidding. I had been a homeowner for 6 days people, and they were using a jackhammer. Really?
Well. We now have state-of-the-art plumbing and the worst landscaping in North America but we are surviving. Everything will be ok. We will eventually get all of our furniture delivered and the yard will be moat-less some day soon. I thought I would share this with you to let you know that being a grown up isn’t all it's cracked up to be. But I am happy, and I am healthy, and I could easily flush a small child down my toilet with no worries that my plumbing couldn’t handle it. On second thought, maybe I’d flush the demonic cat.
The definition of “Sucks”
Hmm, where to begin? I guess I’ll have to start with the first bad thing in a string of the most random, and possibly worst, days of my life…
So. Brad and I had been living in an apartment together and back in March he temporarily lost his mind, decided we should “take some time apart”, and moved out. Enter my new roommate: Jen. Jen was a girl I worked with and she moved in with plenty of baggage, cigarettes and a demonically possessed cat named Rocky. Rocky was pure evil but only partially de-clawed. She didn’t have his back claws removed citing some cruelty to animals propaganda that I didn’t care about after he used those claws to ruin my stuff. During the time we lived together he destroyed the following:
• All Venetian blinds in our apartment by way of hurling his body against them,
• A Murano glass figurine I brought back from Italy,
• Two cut glass bowls of my mothers,
• Oh, yeah, and FOUR leather parsons chairs that were funded by selling my soul to Pottery Barn.
Then, a few months later, I bought a Townhouse (yes, yeah for me I am a grown up now) and Jen was slated to move with me to the new place. Just before the closing she came to me to tell me that her friend Lauren desperately needed a place to stay and could she please move into the 3rd bedroom? I agreed and thought that myself, and Jen, and Lauren and Rocky and Pancake (my dog) would probably be a bit much, but what the hell? I’d have a cheap mortgage.
The next day Brad called with news that his sister (whom he lived with) was divorcing her husband and now he was a nomad and could he please move in, too? This was going to be a cluster of estrogen and animals like no man had ever seen before, but he asked for it. So, now it was going to be me, and Jen, and Lauren, and Brad and Rocky-the-Devil-Cat, and Pancake and we would be one big happy-ish family.
So I went to my closing, blissfully unaware of what homeownership would really hold for me…
The beginning of the end
The morning of the move from my apartment into the new house was hectic at best. The movers were supposed to be there at 9 AM but never showed. I had to call some back-up movers that charged 400 space bucks an hour and they didn’t bother showing up until noon. As I was looking at Jen’s furniture (that I had offered to move for her at no charge) I called to ask if she wanted to have it moved with all the clothes still in it. She responded “don’t move my stuff, Lauren and I aren’t moving in.”
blink, blink.
So there goes $1,000 worth of rent every month. Her reason was that she thought it was cruel that I had asked her to keep Rocky in her room when she wasn’t home so that he couldn’t rip up any more of my furniture. How dare I?
Life went on and I moved in anyway now happy to have a home with just Brad, me and Pancake. Our first night there was pretty stress-free and then the weekend came. Friday night my Mom and I stayed up till midnight furiously painting before the furniture arrived Saturday morning. When we awoke we were still high from the paint fumes and couldn’t move our necks. American Signature Furniture called about an hour before the scheduled delivery time to inform me that they had some “bad news.” The bad news being that the truck with ALL of the furniture that I had bought had been stolen the night before. The whole truck! They would obviously not be able to deliver my furniture that day, and not the next day… or even next week. No, they wouldn’t be able to deliver my furniture for a month. MINUS TEN POINTS FOR THEM!
A plumber, a bobcat and thank GOD for insurance
Still reeling in anger from being forced to eat dinner off the floor, we encountered yet another issue to deal with. A few days ago Brad went into our unfinished basement to drool over his massive fishing pole collection when he noticed a small leak in one of the pipes. Upon closer inspection he determined that is was a small crack in the pipe and a plumber would simply need to tighten the joint or do a little caulking.
Oh, man, “a little caulking”? That was cute.
So imagine our shock when the plumber said that we had a little trickier situation on our hands. There was a crack in the pipe, but the problem was that the area of the pipe that was cracked was about 3 feet inside the foundation of our home. And the only way to get to it was to DIG. UP. OUR. FRONT. LAWN! That’s right, they brought a FREEKIN bobcat and tore up every inch of our yard and made a 10 foot moat by our driveway. Then, just for fun, they decided that they couldn’t just pull the pipe out, oh no, this pipe was too tightly wedged into the foundation. In order to get it out they had to JACKHAMMER THE FOUNDATION OF OUR HOME. I am not kidding. I had been a homeowner for 6 days people, and they were using a jackhammer. Really?
Well. We now have state-of-the-art plumbing and the worst landscaping in North America but we are surviving. Everything will be ok. We will eventually get all of our furniture delivered and the yard will be moat-less some day soon. I thought I would share this with you to let you know that being a grown up isn’t all it's cracked up to be. But I am happy, and I am healthy, and I could easily flush a small child down my toilet with no worries that my plumbing couldn’t handle it. On second thought, maybe I’d flush the demonic cat.
4.06.2010
Wherein I Resolve to Life in the City
** This is hands-down the funniest thing that has ever happened to me. I thought I was going to die.**
Brad's 24th birthday was on the 23rd of May and I wanted to do something really special for him. Brad loves to fish and all things fishing related. He usually wants a gift certificate to Bass Pro Shop but I just didn't feel like giving him another stupid gift card. And nothing says “I love you & I put a whole lot of thought and effort into your birthday present” like a gift card, right? So I decided to be extra cute and write him this poem:
“A Birthday Present Dilemma”
Happy birthday Brad,
You're finally 24,
We’ve been together for awhile,
But you’re still so hard to shop for.
Every time I ask,
It’s “fishing this and fishing that,
A gift certificate to Bass Pro,
Just make it out to Brad.
Or, how about a Boat?
So I can fish every single day,
We can take it to the ocean,
To the lake, or to the bay!
You can get me a new pole,
And an expensive brand new reel,
A tackle box, some bait and hooks,
I’ll be catching all our meals!”
I thought about just giving in,
And heading to Bass Pro,
And getting you that gift card,
That I know you wanted so.
But then I realized something,
What’s all this equipment for?
He should be outside fishing,
Not shopping in a store.
So as your birthday present,
It’s not a gift that you can touch,
But a fishing trip in Blue Ridge,
‘Cause I love you so very much!!
Who knew I possessed such literary talent? Impressive I know.
I had done massive amounts of research to find the best fishing trip that North America had to offer(read: booked the first place that came up on a google search for “GA weekend fishing trips”). Let’s be honest, I know NOHTING about fishing other than I get yelled at if I wear heels on a boat. So I did my best to find a good place and The Blue Ridge Mountain Cabins boasted of a “quaint log cabin perched at the edge of a fully stocked lake” (FULL of bass fish) and the use of free boats! Brad was surely going to be impressed.
We left for Blue Ridge, North Georgia, as promised, looking forward to a quite, romantic weekend getaway. Well, that’s what I was looking forward to; Brad was looking forward to fishing, and lots of it. After arriving on Friday we decided to take advantage of the "stocked lake" with "free boats" and walked down for our first fishing trip of the weekend! When we got to the lake we found out that, in reality, the lake was a very small pond. And the boats were canoes. But we decided to make the best of it and we both very carefully got into the canoe and began to row in a tiny circle since the diameter of the pond was all of 3 feet. So image the two of us in a tiny canoe with 15 fishing poles, bait and tackle, rowing in a circle and trying to fish. As you can probably imagine we didn’t catch a thing; in addition to the ridiculous conditions it seems that the last time the "stocked POND" was stocked was June 12th, 1973. I’m sure at this point Brad began to question our relationship and if it was really going to work out between us. So we went back to the Cabin empty handed and defeated.
The next day we decided to go "real fishing" on Lake Blue Ridge. So we gathered enough fishing equipment to open a Bass Pro Shop all our own, and headed to the lake. When we arrived Brad strapped a fishing-fanny-pack around his waist (control yourselves, ladies… He’s taken.), grabbed a HUGE green tackle box, 14,937 fishing poles, a bucket and a few tubs of bait and he trekked down to the base of the damn. I grabbed my lip gloss and cell phone and gingerly navigated the terrain in my high heels. Once I finally made it down to the water Brad got out his award winning $350 fishing pole along the shiniest, coolest lure you have ever seen and he spread out all the special fishing accessories to go along with it. He then proceeded to give me a $20 Zebco pole that he got from the kids department at Wall-Mart, an 89 cent can of corn and told me to "have at it".
Within the first 10 minutes I had already caught a fish and Mr. Greatest-Fisherman-That-Ever-Lived hadn’t even gotten a bite. It was at that point when he leaned over and told me to "gimme that damn corn."
After all was said and done that day we came home empty-handed and instead of cooking all the fish we were supposed to have caught we went to KFC and brought home a bucket of fried chicken and decided to relax in our quite little log cabin.
After eating dinner we were sitting downstairs in the den watching TV. It was pretty late and I started to get a little freaked out. It didn’t help that we were watching an episode of Criminal Minds where they kill a family that’s camping. I convince myself that some flannel-wearing mountain man wants to hack me up and make a stew out of me. I was starting to stress out and then I heard a sound in the kitchen. I was really getting flustered and told Brad to go check it out. He told me that I was crazy, and then reluctantly went up, in his boxers, and checked out the noise. (Way to intimidate the killer, Brad)
A few seconds later he came back downstairs and assured me it was nothing. I calmed down and decided it must have been “nature” making the sound. Then about 10 minutes later I was sure that I had heard a scratching sound in the kitchen again. At this point I was really scared, and Brad just told me that I was being paranoid and we started to argue back and forth:
"Brad, shhh.. Listen!..... I swear I heard something scratching around, I am NOT crazy, go check it out!!"
"Rebekah, honestly, what do you think it is? Do you really think that there is a lumberjack in our freakin cabin?"
"No, but there might be an animal, just go look."
"You think there is a raccoon or something? There is nothing in this cabin but me and a crazy woman!"
"I Swear to God Brad, if there is an animal in this cabin...If a freaking opossum hangs down over this wall I will never...."
And right at that very moment a FREEKING FLYING SQUIRREL glides about 2 inches from my right shoulder and lands on the wall a foot in front of my face, so help me God I am not making this up. The squirrel twisted its head back, stared me down with its creepy bug eyes and started screeching. I have never jumped so high in my life. I literally crawled on top of Brad’s head and started screaming Bloody Murder at the top of my lungs. Brad was laughing so hard he almost couldn’t breathe and the squirrel starts flying around the cabin screeching, and all hell just breaks loose.
The ceilings were really high so to getSatan’s Spawn the Flying Squirrel out of the house Brad had to grab a fishing pole, MY ZEBCO FISHING POLE mind you, and open the front door and to try and shoo him out of the cabin. So he starts chasing the squirrel around with MY fishing pole and I am in the den standing on the couch holding a shoe in one hand and the remote control in the other having a full blown panic attack. It would have been easier for Brad to get the squirrel out if he hadn’t been laughing so damn hard, but he finally went out a crack in the roof. A CRACK IN THE ROOF, people! That totally did not make me feel better since now I know that he can come back in through that same freakin hole anytime he wants!
Oh my stars.
The moral of this story, ladies and gentlemen, is that I, Rebekah Jane Samford, am not, nor will I ever be, "outdoorsy." And this is a perfect example of why. This crap ONLY happens to me! And next time it's going to be a freakin bear, I just know it.
I hope that all of you had a fun, safe and flying-squirrel-free Memorial Day!
Brad's 24th birthday was on the 23rd of May and I wanted to do something really special for him. Brad loves to fish and all things fishing related. He usually wants a gift certificate to Bass Pro Shop but I just didn't feel like giving him another stupid gift card. And nothing says “I love you & I put a whole lot of thought and effort into your birthday present” like a gift card, right? So I decided to be extra cute and write him this poem:
“A Birthday Present Dilemma”
Happy birthday Brad,
You're finally 24,
We’ve been together for awhile,
But you’re still so hard to shop for.
Every time I ask,
It’s “fishing this and fishing that,
A gift certificate to Bass Pro,
Just make it out to Brad.
Or, how about a Boat?
So I can fish every single day,
We can take it to the ocean,
To the lake, or to the bay!
You can get me a new pole,
And an expensive brand new reel,
A tackle box, some bait and hooks,
I’ll be catching all our meals!”
I thought about just giving in,
And heading to Bass Pro,
And getting you that gift card,
That I know you wanted so.
But then I realized something,
What’s all this equipment for?
He should be outside fishing,
Not shopping in a store.
So as your birthday present,
It’s not a gift that you can touch,
But a fishing trip in Blue Ridge,
‘Cause I love you so very much!!
Who knew I possessed such literary talent? Impressive I know.
I had done massive amounts of research to find the best fishing trip that North America had to offer(read: booked the first place that came up on a google search for “GA weekend fishing trips”). Let’s be honest, I know NOHTING about fishing other than I get yelled at if I wear heels on a boat. So I did my best to find a good place and The Blue Ridge Mountain Cabins boasted of a “quaint log cabin perched at the edge of a fully stocked lake” (FULL of bass fish) and the use of free boats! Brad was surely going to be impressed.
We left for Blue Ridge, North Georgia, as promised, looking forward to a quite, romantic weekend getaway. Well, that’s what I was looking forward to; Brad was looking forward to fishing, and lots of it. After arriving on Friday we decided to take advantage of the "stocked lake" with "free boats" and walked down for our first fishing trip of the weekend! When we got to the lake we found out that, in reality, the lake was a very small pond. And the boats were canoes. But we decided to make the best of it and we both very carefully got into the canoe and began to row in a tiny circle since the diameter of the pond was all of 3 feet. So image the two of us in a tiny canoe with 15 fishing poles, bait and tackle, rowing in a circle and trying to fish. As you can probably imagine we didn’t catch a thing; in addition to the ridiculous conditions it seems that the last time the "stocked POND" was stocked was June 12th, 1973. I’m sure at this point Brad began to question our relationship and if it was really going to work out between us. So we went back to the Cabin empty handed and defeated.
The next day we decided to go "real fishing" on Lake Blue Ridge. So we gathered enough fishing equipment to open a Bass Pro Shop all our own, and headed to the lake. When we arrived Brad strapped a fishing-fanny-pack around his waist (control yourselves, ladies… He’s taken.), grabbed a HUGE green tackle box, 14,937 fishing poles, a bucket and a few tubs of bait and he trekked down to the base of the damn. I grabbed my lip gloss and cell phone and gingerly navigated the terrain in my high heels. Once I finally made it down to the water Brad got out his award winning $350 fishing pole along the shiniest, coolest lure you have ever seen and he spread out all the special fishing accessories to go along with it. He then proceeded to give me a $20 Zebco pole that he got from the kids department at Wall-Mart, an 89 cent can of corn and told me to "have at it".
Within the first 10 minutes I had already caught a fish and Mr. Greatest-Fisherman-That-Ever-Lived hadn’t even gotten a bite. It was at that point when he leaned over and told me to "gimme that damn corn."
After all was said and done that day we came home empty-handed and instead of cooking all the fish we were supposed to have caught we went to KFC and brought home a bucket of fried chicken and decided to relax in our quite little log cabin.
After eating dinner we were sitting downstairs in the den watching TV. It was pretty late and I started to get a little freaked out. It didn’t help that we were watching an episode of Criminal Minds where they kill a family that’s camping. I convince myself that some flannel-wearing mountain man wants to hack me up and make a stew out of me. I was starting to stress out and then I heard a sound in the kitchen. I was really getting flustered and told Brad to go check it out. He told me that I was crazy, and then reluctantly went up, in his boxers, and checked out the noise. (Way to intimidate the killer, Brad)
A few seconds later he came back downstairs and assured me it was nothing. I calmed down and decided it must have been “nature” making the sound. Then about 10 minutes later I was sure that I had heard a scratching sound in the kitchen again. At this point I was really scared, and Brad just told me that I was being paranoid and we started to argue back and forth:
"Brad, shhh.. Listen!..... I swear I heard something scratching around, I am NOT crazy, go check it out!!"
"Rebekah, honestly, what do you think it is? Do you really think that there is a lumberjack in our freakin cabin?"
"No, but there might be an animal, just go look."
"You think there is a raccoon or something? There is nothing in this cabin but me and a crazy woman!"
"I Swear to God Brad, if there is an animal in this cabin...If a freaking opossum hangs down over this wall I will never...."
And right at that very moment a FREEKING FLYING SQUIRREL glides about 2 inches from my right shoulder and lands on the wall a foot in front of my face, so help me God I am not making this up. The squirrel twisted its head back, stared me down with its creepy bug eyes and started screeching. I have never jumped so high in my life. I literally crawled on top of Brad’s head and started screaming Bloody Murder at the top of my lungs. Brad was laughing so hard he almost couldn’t breathe and the squirrel starts flying around the cabin screeching, and all hell just breaks loose.
The ceilings were really high so to get
Oh my stars.
The moral of this story, ladies and gentlemen, is that I, Rebekah Jane Samford, am not, nor will I ever be, "outdoorsy." And this is a perfect example of why. This crap ONLY happens to me! And next time it's going to be a freakin bear, I just know it.
I hope that all of you had a fun, safe and flying-squirrel-free Memorial Day!
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