Tales from an Apartment Hunt - Part 2: Clark & Barry

So Friggin' Bob never got back to me. This past Tuesday Boyfriend and I were all lined up to go see two more places. One of them Boyfriend immediately didn't like the sound of because the landlord lived upstairs. Big Brother's watching, and all.

We went to look at that place first. As we're driving up, we note how lovely the neighborhood is, how quiet the street is, how cozy it all seems. So far so good! The outside of the place looks nice. I call the landlord (Clark) and he comes out to meet us. He leads us inside through a porch covered in trash and a baby stroller (who's baby needs this stroller? Clark did not look like he had an infant.) and Clark tells us this whole, glorious, trash-filled porch would be ours. Gee, thanks Clark.

We go inside and the place is a mess. Clark had warned us he was stripping wallpaper, but that was putting it lightly. The wallpaper that was still hanging was ATROCIOUS. One of the walls in the kitchen looked pregnant, for reasons unknown (omg maybe it was a wall baby, and that's who the stroller was for. MYSTERY SOLVED.) and Clark made it sound like he planned on putting up MORE wallpaper when he was done. No thanks, Clark.

Boyfriend also pointed out the ceiling that looked very leaky and sad. There was also no washer or dryer (there were supposedly hookups in the basement), no dishwasher, and no refrigerator. I went in planning to need to buy a washer and dryer if we moved there, but no fridge? "The previous tenants have always had their own," says Clark. Really? Come on.

Clark could tell we weren't impressed.

So anyway, we left Clark and stopped to have a beer before meeting Barry. In hindsight, we probably shouldn't have pounded beers and then looked at an apartment.

This apartment had everything we could have hoped for. The inside was clean and HUGE and had a refrigerator. No washer dryer, but hookups right in the unit. It was on the second floor, though, and I knew my beloved couches would never make it up there and fit through the doors. Also, there was no parking. Only street parking.

"Where do we park during a snow emergency, Barry?"
"I don't know, people find somewhere."

Seriously? I feel like that would be a common question and he should have an answer. Then Boyfriend blindsides me and tells Barry we're going to apply RIGHT NOW. "Get out your checkbook, honey!" Oh yeah, because Barry required $100 to even APPLY.

"Is it okay if we paint?" I ask, as Boyfriend fills out his portion of the application.
"NO. Oh, NO. No painting."
"Oh, okay...we don't need to or anything, just asking." Barry was really vehement about not painting. He didn't want anyone ruining the wood work. Like I'm some kind of heathen who would ruin woodwork. JEEZE BARRY.

"Look babe, we have a dining room! We could have dinner parties!" I said to Boyfriend, envisioning myself dressed as a character from Mad Men, serving delectable food to our guests.
"Yes, I don't mind you having people over...but parties?" Barry pipes in. RELAX BARRY. I said dinner party, not keg party. Also, Barry don't live there. I'll do what I want, Barry.

Barry also wanted us to move in IMMEDIATELY. Essentially so he could start charging us rent immediately. Barry was not sitting well with me. But Boyfriend usually hates everyone, and he seemed okay with Barry, so I figured that must mean something (it meant he'd just pounded a beer).

We got home and immediately felt Renter's Remorse (like buyer's remorse, only involving apartments). It just didn't feel right. So we sat down to watch Wheel of Fortune and mull it over.

"I don't want to live there! Get your check back!" Boyfriend suddenly exclaimed.
"ME EITHER!" I agreed. I decided to call Barry the next day.

So I called Barry around noon today when I finally had a chance to do it.
"We won't be moving forward with the apartment." *silence* I decide to be more emphatic: "We decided we don't want the apartment."
"Why?" Barry asks, indignantly.
"Uh, we've decided to hold off a bit...keep looking some more..."
"SIGH. You could have called 20 minutes ago. I already started running the credit checks!"
"Sorry?" Like I know Barry's life. I didn't know he was doing that right then.
"Well what do you want me to do with your check?"
"Just mail it back. My address is on the application." Because I never want to see you again, scary man!

I also cancelled the check, on the advice of The Council, just in case. Apparently the bad vibes we had about the apartment came from Barry. Thank God he will never be our landlord. The search continues and I'm already exhausted.

Tales from an Apartment Hunt - Part 1: Bob

So as I mentioned in a previous post,  Boyfriend and I have begun hunting for an apartment.  The process is GRUELING. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I kind of thought we'd have lots of choices, and the tough part would be finding one that was good enough for us.

Turns out the real problem is finding ANYTHING, let alone something good enough.

We have a specific town in mind (Beverly, MA) and we know we want a two bedroom and we'd like it to have parking, a washer and dryer on premises, hardwood floors, and a dishwasher. Maybe we're too needy, I don't know. I do know that if I was renting an apartment, I would make sure it had all those things.

We found one place and we went to check it out last week. It had plenty of space, and all the amenities we were looking for. It needed a little cosmetic help, but nothing some  Benjamin Moore and elbow grease couldn't fix! It was the first place we saw so we took the application and went to think about it over dinner.

It had a huge kitchen and a huge bedroom. I had them both mentally decorated before we even left the premises. My Martha Stewart kitchen suite was going to look awesome. I had also already planned out the dressing nook I was going to create in the bedroom. Boyfriend was promised a man cave. I had an office space. The bathroom was itty bitty, but really, you don't need THAT much space in a bathroom.

We decided to apply and called Bob, the landlord, to tell him we'd be dropping the application off that night. "Sounds good, dear!" he told me. WE'RE IN, I thought, HE CALLED ME "DEAR". Never mind that he'd told us about a bajillion people had looked at the place in the two days since it had been listed on Craigslist, and about a bajillion more were still looking at it after us. According to Bob, anyway. I never believe people when they go all used-car salesman on me - "This deal is only good for today!!" Liar.

So I filled out the application and we dropped it in the mailbox. Boyfriend told me there was already another application in there. I told him to steal it and rip it up, but he wouldn't. PARTY POOPER. This was last Thursday. I didn't hear from Bob all weekend. Monday I asked The Council (aka, the girls at work) if they thought I should follow up. They answered with a resounding yes. (Our job, essentially, is to follow up with people. We are a bunch that loves following up.)

I also found two more apartments to look at and made appointments, just to be safe. Even though I really wanted Bob's place.

Tuesday I called Bob in the early afternoon. No answer. I called again on my way home from work. No answer. I didn't leave messages, since I wanted to talk to Bob myself and find out what the deal was. We went to look at another apartment. I called Bob again, like a crazy stalker. This time I left a message and asked him to get back to me. I still haven't heard back. I'm sure the apartment is gone already. DEVASTATION. Friggin' Bob. Especially since the next two apartments we looked at were total busts (see Part 2, coming soon!).

sunday stories: doing nothing

This weekend was perfect. I didn't do anything.

Inevitably, every Monday at lunch brings the same routine question: "What did everyone do this weekend?" I always feel kind of lame saying nothing, but sometimes that's exactly what I did. To be honest, doing nothing is one of my favorite ways to spend a weekend.

All week long, we're hurried, harried, rushed, busy. Wake up for work, "What am I going to wear?", work all day, run errands, cook dinner, squeeze in a workout, do chores, go to bed, repeat. It's exhausting. Some weeks I don't even have a moment to think, let alone relax. After those kinds of weeks, a weekend filled with nothing is exactly what I need.

Nothing doesn't mean I sat and stared at the walls all day, drooling on myself. Nothing means I slept late and treated myself to something delicious for breakfast. It means I didn't put on real pants for two days. I finished one book and started another. Caught up on my favorite TV shows. I spent all of Sunday afternoon making a delicious dinner to share with my mom. I organized my desk, because when my desk is organized I truly believe I am 45% more productive. Instead of going out on Saturday night, I stayed in. Had a bubble bath, put on a face mask and painted my toes. I spent the weekend with myself, and I am, and always will be my favorite person to hang out with.

So it may feel a bit lame saying I did nothing over the weekend, but I don't really care. People may judge those of us who do nothing with pride, but I think they're just jealous. Jealous that they had plans and obligations and things to do that they really didn't even want to do on their day off. They're just upset that they didn't have two whole days of blissfully doing nothing. Pity them. They don't realize they are giving up one of life's greatest luxuries, and it's a free luxury at that: time. Time to relax and do whatever inspires us. Stay or go as the mood strikes us. I, for one, take advantage of that luxury every chance I can. And I don't feel guilty or lame about it one bit.

i will kick you, GPS

So. I got lost on my way home from work yesterday. This seems a little crazy, since I've been driving this same route home for almost three years, but I have a good excuse. There was a detour. Is there any more dreaded site on the road than a detour sign? Well, probably, but a detour is still pretty stress-inducing.

This detour was poorly marked. It was all "Detour! This way!" and then just left you there. I needed a follow up, because unless told otherwise, I am going to continue going straight until I get to my house. If that's not where this detour is taking me I need to be informed. I'm a step-by-step kind of girl.

Anyway, I quickly realized I had missed a turn somewhere, so I decided to just wing it and take the next left I saw and hope for the best. I had my GPS, what could go wrong?

The next left was called Pineswamp Road. I should have known. Yet I happily turned down Pineswamp Road. "Oh look at the trees and the fields, this is the scenic route." I told myself. Then things started to get real piney...and swampy...and the road got real narrow. And I saw the "Not a Thru Way" sign. I took out the GPS. Only to discover you cannot acquire satellites on Pineswamp Road. Shit.

I managed to keep my wits about me. By "keep my wits about me" I mean, slammed my hands on the steering wheel while shouting "STUPID DETOUR!" and turning around. And I kid you not, the satellites were acquired as soon as I got to the end of Pineswamp Road. And they guided me safely home. But not before the GPS could get in a few digs - "When possible, make a U-turn," "re-calculating." You shut up, you condescending GPS lady. She really gets on my nerves sometimes.

Today at work I discovered I am violently allergic to my office and was having sneezing fits and my nose became completely stuffed. I can't work with a stuffed nose, so I desperately needed to find a drug store to get some allergy meds. Since, after three years, I am still completely unfamiliar with the town in which I work, I had no idea if they even had a drug store. GPS to the rescue! I plugged in "drug store" and was on my way. Only to discover the directions had two steps. Turn right, destination ahead on the left.

I felt like an idiot. The tone in which that damn GPS lady gave me the directions didn't help either.  At least my nose wasn't stuffed. Even though I hate that damn GPS, and her damn obnoxious voice, I couldn't live without that thing. I am terrible at getting places on my own. Global Positioning Systems - can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.

presents for mia

Mia is my dog. She is a petite Maltese that loves cuddling, face licking, and rides in the car. She also loves getting presents. Yes, you read that right. This dog not only understands the word presents, she gets really, really excited about them.

It's our fault. She's spoiled rotten and is constantly getting presents.

The problem is, whenever someone else gets a present, Mia automatically assumes it's for her. She hears the rustle of the tissue paper or the sound of wrapping paper being ripped and immediately comes running. She'll sniff wildly and bark at you, alternating between jumping like a circus dog and trying to sit patiently until she finds out what is in that gift.

So we feel really bad when we open gifts and she doesn't get one. Like I said, we spoil her. So we end up digging out some old toy she hasn't played with in awhile and putting it in an empty gift bag and convincing her it's a new toy. The joy this dog experiences when she sticks her head into a gift bag and pulls out a toy she's actually had for years is just too cute for words.

I can only imagine this is what Christmas morning feels like when you have kids. Is it a little strange and kind of sad that we do this? Probably.  But it's too darn cute for me to care.

my ideal life

Do you ever sit down and think about what your ideal life would be? I'm not even saying if you won the lottery or were rich and famous or something. I mean your ideal life in an attainable sense - your ideal life that doesn't depend on chance or luck but on your own decisions. I think about it a lot, maybe because I feel like it would be so simple to achieve it, and it's so close at hand, but is still just out of reach.

Ideally, I'd like to be able to work from home or at least have some kind of job where my schedule was super flexible. SUPER ideally I'd just stay at home and be a stay at home mom and housewife, but I think I'd get bored and Boyfriend wouldn't support me, ha. I want to be able to run my errands in the middle of the day, or sit outside and be able to do my work there. Or just stay under the covers all day when it's snowy and gross.  I just want someone to give me a laptop with whatever I need for my job on it and just send me on my way. Then i can work wherever and whenever I want.

It would be great if I could work for myself - writing maybe, maybe just temping or working a part time job here and there. I'm just not sure how to begin writing as a viable source of income. I'm not even sure I'm a good enough writer to even consider that. Of course the only way to know is to try, and I've never really tried.

I think this will be even more important to me when I have kids. I can't envision myself wanting to go back to work full time once I have a baby. I'd be too tired. And I wouldn't want to leave her (only girl babies!).  But who knows?

I just feel like I have all kind of options for how to live my life, and I don't know how to choose or which way to go. I think a lot of this stems from reading other girl's blogs and seeing what they're doing with their lives. I get totally jealous of these girls who have all kinds of time to do things during the day, or the girls who have these creative jobs that they love.

It's probably unrealistic to even dream about giving up my 9 to 5, as I don't think I'd be able to financially support myself without working full time like this, but who knows. Maybe I just haven't found my niche yet. Maybe there is something else out there for me, and my life just hasn't reached the turning point where it will all make sense yet.

I in no way mean to imply I am unhappy with my life right now. It's just really nice out today and I'd like to be outside, yet I am chained to this desktop. Curses.

the cake curse

I have a Cake Curse on me. I'm pretty sure it started the year I got my Easy Bake oven. There was a blizzard on my birthday that year, so we couldn't leave the house to pick up the cake. I was secretly grateful - the parents had planned a bowling birthday and I couldn't imagine anything I wanted to do less. So we ended up having an Easy Bake oven cake with a candle in it. Yeah. Sad. I mean, anything that came out of the Easy Bake oven was pretty much just lukewarm batter.

I don't think I have ever had a decent cake since then. A few years back I asked for a cake from a fancy bakery I'd heard about somewhere. They had cakes that looked like the ones they made on the Food Network - you know, fancy fondant and fun shapes. I wanted one so badly. So my mom went to the bakery to check them out. My mom bypassed the ones shaped like Louis Vuitton bags and Tiffany boxes and high heels in favor of one that looked like it was meant for baby's first birthday. It was pastel. It had little rosettes on it. It was a beautiful cake and had she not told me beforehand that they had ones shaped like Tiffany boxes and Louis Vuitton bags I probably would have enjoyed it more. It's not that I didn't enjoy my Baby's First Birthday cake, but I really wanted that Tiffany box cake.





"I don't know what I was thinking," Mom said, "The Louis Vuitton bag one was really something..." Thanks, Mom. Rub it in.


Then I tried asking for cupcakes instead of a cake. Like, a tower of cupcakes. How amazing right? Mom either forgot or totally half-assed things, but I ended up with gross, dry cupcakes from one of those warehouse stores that sell things in bulk. Like she was grabbing 50 rolls of toilet paper and saw some cupcakes and she decided that would be a good idea.

Last year, my aunt decided to make me a homemade cake. It was a perfectly lovely, if maybe a bit lopsided, cake. I mean, it wasn't poisoned or anything, so that's always good, but it also wasn't a Louis Vuitton bag cake.

Oh and my college graduation cake? Hannah Montana. No, that's not what we ordered. Do you know how embarrassing it is to have all your friends watch you be presented with a Hannah Montana cake when you've just graduated college?

This year my mom and aunt were super excited. They thought the cake was going to be AMAZING. They had this thing in the bag this year. But of course, when Mom went to go pick up the cake, it was the wrong one. I'm not even kidding. I don't know how my mom didn't burst out laughing in the middle of the bakery. What could she do? They didn't have time to make a whole new cake. She brought it home anyway. They showed everyone pictures of what the cake was supposed to be - all cupcakes arranged in a flower shape with Tinkerbell on top! A princess cake! Because I was the Birthday Princess! We ended up with what we thought was a regular sheet cake with the same Tinkerbell on top.


But lo and behold, when we went to cut the cake, it was actually the cupcakes! For whatever reason the people at the bakery had decided to slather frosting on the sides of the cupcake wrappers to make it look like a sheet cake. It was bizarre, but I still got my cupcakes! And they were delicious. So maybe my Cake Curse is finally reversed? I hope so, because I don't want to think of the disaster my wedding cake will be if I'm still cursed.

Yes, I wore my Gryffindor Quidditch shirt on my birthday. ;P

30 for 30: day 21

There is an epidemic sweeping this state. Maybe even the country. It's becoming a serious problem in my every day life and I don't like the person it is turning me into. I call it Condiment Table Hogging. Because I am not feeling clever and couldn't come up with anything alliterative and witty to call this. Suggestions welcome.

 [30 items: dress, navy thermal, brown JC boots/belt - J.Crew outlet/necklace - American Eagle/tights - Old Navy]

I stop at Dunkin Donuts some mornings on my way to work. The one I drive by that has a drive thru is always mobbed, so I skip it. The next one I pass is in a gas station and this weirds me out, so I skip it. Finally I reach my favorite Dunks, but it doesn't have a drive thru. So I have to get out of my car and go inside, which is problematic enough for lazy me. Then I order my coffee which is usually quick and pain free (unless someone comes in who is ordering one million donuts and fifty Boxes of Joe). They make my coffee, and I head to the condiment/straw/napkin table to get a straw. While I am there I like to remove my straw wrapper and throw it away. I like to put my coffee down on the table while I do this so the whole process can be done with two hands and thus go much quicker.

Here is where I usually hit a road black. Or a person block. If you are standing in front of this table, clearly confused and/or overwhelmed by the choices of straws and napkins and sugar packets in front of you, and you see me coming, clearly focused and in a hurry, get out of my damn way. Take your straw or napkin or 85 Equals and get the hell out of there. Don't kind of lean to the side and make me reach over you. Don't hog the counter so I can't put my coffee down, just move.

This happens at work too. At work the milk and cream is on one side, and the sugar on the other. In a perfect world, people would move from one side to the other quickly. You know how you like your coffee, presumably, so get yo shit and get out of my way. People love to congregate there and chat, or stare at the tea packets. Seriously? They're free, grab one of each and get on with your day. Don't you have work to do?

Don't even get me started about the condiment areas at sports events, or burger joints or heaven forbbid - McDonald's. I beg you, America, take your napkins and sugar and ketchup and get the hell out of there. Because I am impatient due to the fact I haven't had my coffee and I can't drink my coffee without my straw. Which you are standing in front of.

the tsar dust incident

I like to cook. I wouldn't say I'm very good at it, but every so often I get an urge to cook something and make it really spectacular. When Boyfriend and I lived together, I was really excited to be able to cook dinner for him. He eats pretty much everything, my mom and brother, who I live with now, eat pretty much nothing. My brother accidentally ate a mushroom once and thought he might die.

So I went out and bought a kitchen's worth of utensils and pots and pans and gathered all my cookbooks. Then I went to the spice store. I get a little crazed about spices. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I like all the neatly labeled bottles. Maybe it's because I need to know what they all taste like. Maybe it's some strange belief that this spice right here will make everything I cook taste a million times better. Whatever it may be, the spice store is like my special little cooking heaven.

I pranced around with my little shopping basket, loading it up with the basics - red pepper flakes, garlic and onion powder, dried shallots (who doesn't love a shallot?!). Then I got to the interesting section. The spices that were a bit more specialized. Fajita seasoning - in the basket. Something called "Sandwich Sprinkle"? In it went (which, side note, is honestly good on everything). That's when I saw it - the bottle with the cutest label and most clever little name - Tsardust Memories. You all know how I feel about Russia. And I love goofy plays on words. Plus the label on the bottle was so pretty. So I picked up the bottle and tossed it into my basket. It was an unassuming looking brown spice. Seemed pretty harmless. If only I knew.

I've never eaten Russian food before. I have no idea what flavors are common in Russia. I took it home and read the back of the jar, where it gives you a description of the spice and tells you what it will be good in. Sometimes they even give you recipes. Penzey's seriously is the best.

"Warm and spicy-sweet, this blend is awesome with ground beef - burgers, meatloaf, meatballs, casseroles... Excellent in hearty soups and stews, and one of the best things ever on pork chops - try it on the grill. Whatever you make, serve it with crusty bread. It's all good."

Well, that sounded promising and easy enough. It happened to be winter at the time. I'd just make a stew and sprinkle some in. So that's what I did. I woke up extra early one morning to brown meat and cut veggies and throw it all in the Crock Pot. I sprinkled on some Tsardust and went to work. When I came home, the apartment smelled delicious. Boyfriend was salivating and couldn't wait to eat. We dug into the stew.

"...what did you put in here?" Boyfriend asked after a few bites.
"Oh, this new spice I got, it has the cutest name - Tsardust Memories!"
"Doesn't this taste kind of...sweet? I can't put my finger on it. It's kind of weird."
"Yeah, now that you mention it, it isn't a very 'stew-y' flavor. I guess it's not that great in stew."


I was bummed my stew wasn't perfect, but I was determined to make this Tsardust work. A few weeks later, I decided to make some onion soup, one of my specialties. It was coming out perfectly, Boyfriend had done a taste test and said it was my best ever. For reasons I can't explain, at the last possible minute I decided to sprinkle on the Tsardust. 


"You put the Tsardust in here, didn't you!?" Boyfriend exclaimed, outraged, when he finally sat down to eat.
"...Maybe. It says on the bottle it is good in hearty soups and stews!" I said, defensively. I felt like I had to stick up for the poor, innocent Tsardust. 
"This soup was so good! Why would you do that? No more Tsardust, it's just not good and you need to let it go."
"But I want to like it!" I whined.
"What's in it anyway? Is this cinnamon?"
"I don't know, I've never checked." I admitted. I went to get the bottle and read the ingredients. Hand-mixed from: salt, garlic, cinnamon, pepper, nutmeg, marjoram. 
"Um, yes. It has cinnamon and nutmeg in it. As well as garlic."
"Cinnamon, nutmeg and garlic?! That is like putting garlic in apple pie, practically! What about that sounded good to you!?" Boyfriend was extremely perplexed.
"Um...the label was cute? And the name was clever?"
"No more. No more of this in my food. It's just not going to happen." Boyfriend said firmly. I pouted and ate my ruined soup. 

I wasn't about to give up though. A few weeks later, I went to find my Tsardust to give it another go. I opened my spice cabinet and rooted around inside, but the Tsardust was no where to be found.
"Boyfriend!" I shouted, "Where's my Tsardust!" Boyfriend quickly woke up from his stupor on the couch.
"No! No way! I hid it. I am not eating that ever again!" He said, shuddering.
"What! Where is it, give it back! That wasn't cheap!" But he wouldn't budge. I had to admit defeat.


This past fall, when we were moving out, I finally found it. In the cabinet above the fridge, tucked in a corner. Up way too high for me to have ever gone looking for it. But now I have it back - my Tsardust is no longer just a memory. And my determination to find something this spice is good in is now renewed. Watch out Boyfriend, I'm making dinner tonight. ;)

the written wardrobe

 
 
I have super duper exciting news! Last spring, I noticed ModCloth was taking submissions for a writing project they were working on that fused fashion and writing. Obviously, I was intrigued. I immediately set to work on a short story and submitted it, forgetting all about it. Imagine my surprise a few months ago when they told me mine was one of the stories they chose!

I've never had anything I have written published anywhere before, so this was really awesome and exciting for me! I've always loved the way ModCloth is such a fusion of different things and how they really try to interact with people, so to have been involved with them on this was really cool.

My story is called "The Pin." It is fittingly linked under the picture of the diamond rings. :D You can read my story, and the others chosen, at the link below or directly from the ModCloth home page. I'm going to check out all the other stroies now!

The Written Wardrobe

i wanna go on vacation

 

 To the tune of "I Wanna Be Sedated" by the Ramones

Twenty twenty twenty four inches of snow
I wanna go on vacation
Nothing to do but wait for the plow
I wanna go on vacation

Just get me to the airport, put me on a plane
Hurry, hurry, hurry, my flight will be delayed
I can't feel my fingers, hypothermia is pain
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Twenty twenty twenty four inches of snow
I wanna go on vacation
Nothing to do but wait for the plow
I wanna go on vacation

Don't put me on a chairlift, don't put me on a ski
The last thing I need is to crash into a tree
I can't feel my fingers, I can't feel my toes
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Twenty twenty twenty four inches of snow
I wanna go on vacation
Nothing to do but wait for the plow
I wanna go on vacation

Don't put me on a chairlift, don't put me on a ski
The last thing I need is to crash into a tree
I can't feel my fingers, I can't feel my toes
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Wah wah wah wah, wah wah wah wah, I wanna go on vacation (x4)

Sorry I've been MIA the end of this week. But, like. It snowed. So I wasn't wearing anything cute. Or doing anything fun. My beloved Hunter rainboots got to see some action though, so yay for that! I'll be back next week with more regular posting. Stay warm and snow free kids.

winter wonderland?

We finally had our first snow of the season here in New England. In typical New England fashion, they predicted a dusting and we ended up with three inches. Not that three inches is anything, but it sure isn't a dusting. One of my co-workers is from Virginia and I think this is her first winter as a New Englander. She was saying yesterday afternoon how she's heard all about these New England winters and the snow and how she was beginning to think we were all lying.

I'll have to ask her how her walk to the train station after work yesterday was.

My cubicle is so secluded from the outside world, I had no idea it was even snowing until I left the building yesterday. On my way out someone was saying to me how people always forget how to drive the first time it snows and there would probably be a lot of accidents out there. She wished me luck driving home. I gave her a look like she was crazy, since the last time I looked outside there were like, two flakes on the ground. Then I stepped outside. And cried a little. And got out my Sno Brum.

The driving wasn't terrible, but people were crawling along the highway like idiots. There was a lot of road gunk flying up on my windshield and my windshield wiper fluid was frozen. So this morning, when I couldn't see through the road spit congealing on my windshield, I said to myself,  "Self, you know how to put windshield wiper fluid in your car because you are A Modern Woman. Why don't you stop at the gas station and buy some so you can see and don't crash and die?" So that's exactly what I did. Only I couldn't get the hood of my car open. I know how to pop it, but I couldn't find that damn latch to open it all the way. It wasn't where I thought it would be (aka, in the correct location). Then my fingers got cold. And I have grease under my fingernail. And the not very kind Samaritan in the big pickup truck next to me didn't offer to help. So I said "Screw this!" chucked the bottle of windshield wiper fluid in the car, and drove off with zero visibility.

I figure I can try again after work. Or lurk in the parking lot looking distressed until someone helps me. This Modern Woman would rather be a Trophy Wife.

sharing the magic: part 2

Phew, November is over and I am finally done writing for NaNoWriMo. I finished! I'm so proud of myself, but now I don't want to look at that novel again for a long, long time. I'll look back at it at some point, but right now - I'm exhausted. So I'm back with more pictures from Disney! On our last day there we finished up Epcot in the morning - we rode Test Track and Soarin', then hopped on the Monorail to Magic Kingdom. Of course, the first Monorail we got on was horribly delayed, wasting a big portion of our morning.

It was warm but overcast that day, but that didn't take away from our first glimpse of Conderella's castle!!  I was like a little kid when I saw it. I think I might have squealed and hopped around. It was awesome.

We had a lot of fun trying on all the different Mickey Mouse ears they had in the gift shops. They seriously had ear hats and headbands for every single occasion.

We wandered through the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse first. This was another one of my favorites when I was a kid, because I was so, so obsessed with that movie. I need to find it on DVD so I can watch it again. I used to have a worn out VHS copy that my mom threw away during her Great VHS Purge. Next up after that was Splash Mountain, which I also loved as a kid. I loved water rides. The wetter I ended up, the better. However, this day it was overcast and not that warm, so we decided to go on and just try to sit near the back of the ride. But of course, because we have the best luck, we ended up in the front. We were supposed to be in the second seats, but the people who were assigned to the first row pretended they didn't speak English and took our spots. After causing a bit of a scene in the line, and the guy in charge of directing the line not doing anything, we sucked it up and sat in the front. The people behind us in line were covered up with ponchos and they wouldn't even sit in the front. What was the point of the ponchos then guys!?

[dress - Forever 21/belt - TJ Maxx/sandals - Target/bag - Dooney & Bourke/ears - Magic Kingdom, c/o my mom]

Needless to say, we got soaked. And there were no hand dryers in the bathroom! Luckily this dress was made out of some kind of linen and dried quickly. 

Main Street USA looked beautiful all lit up, but the real attraction was the castle. HELLO. SPARKLES. I AM HOME. I nearly died when I saw this. Have you ever seen anything so splendiferous!? We wandered around Magic Kingdom the rest of the night, riding the Haunted Mansion and Thunder Mountain and a couple of other little rides before the fireworks display at eleven. ELEVEN AT NIGHT. And there were little kids that were awake! I was barely awake. Kids these days.

The trip went by way too fast, and I wish we spent more time there. I also wish we planned it so we weren't there on a weekend. Magic Kindom on Saturday was such a mob scene, while Thursday and Friday in the parks were fairly quiet. On Sunday we planned on sitting by the pool, but it was cloudy and cold so we ended up wandering around Downtown Disney. That was kind of boring, actually. I can't wait to go back again, but it probably won't be until I have my own kids to bring!

i will write five thousand words

Today I will write five thousand words. I will go to work. I will write when I can spare a moment at work. I will go home and I will write write write until my eyeballs bleed and I've typed "He smiled" and "She smiled back" more times than I care to admit. I will not read back over what I have written, since I can't take the embarassment at what crap I am sure it all is. But I will still write those five thousand words.

And when I am done, I will be a winner. More importantly, I will be a writer. I will have completed my first NaNoWriMo. In the three years I have been doing this, I've always quit around the halfway point. But this year, I made it this far. I made it to the point where I am only five thousand words away with only a day to spare. Is it good writing? No. Is the story interesting? No, probably not. But I still wrote it. And the potential is there. And maybe, when the blisters on my fingers from wildly typing for the past thirty days have healed, I will go back and look over what I have written. And edit it. And turn it into something great.

But for right now, I am just focusing on these five thousand words. It doesn't sound like a lot, but go ahead. You try to write five thousand words. I'll bet a bunch of them will be "He smiled" and "She smiled back."  This right here? This is only two hundred and fifty one words. It looks like a lot more, doesn't it?

Guess what? I just double-checked my stats and I only have 4,998 more words to go! That's a relief.

via

my fashion history: part i, the early years

Consider this part one in a two part mini-series on my growth into a complete shopaholic and fashion lover. I thought it would be fun to take a little stroll down memory lane regarding my personal fashion evolution.

My cousin was such a good sport.

 I blame my mother for my shopping addictions. It may seem unfair to blame a parent for one's issues, but in this case I think it is totally justified. She's a shopaholic (though she'll probably deny it up and down if confronted) and she passed the addiction on to me. In fact, she started me on this path from a very young age.

I look like a life-size doll.

When I was born, I think my mother saw me more as a fun doll to play dress up with that just happened to breathe and make noise than an actual child. Like a Baby Alive only way cooler. And probably louder and more obnoxious. I pretty much came out of the womb and was immediately swaddled in lace and pink and frills. My room growing up was lace and pink and frills. My first "big girl bed" had flowers stenciled on it and a frilly pink canopy (never mind that the canopy regularly fell on me while I slept, my parents sacrificed child safety for style, apparently).

I wish I had that jacket NOW. So stylish!

 As soon as I was old enough to have an opinion I rebelled against the bows and frills. My mother would still wrestle me into tights and flowers and headbands for special occasions (anyone else suffer through school picture day like this? No wonder I never looked happy in any of them) but at home, in my free time, I was a total tomboy. I begged her to let me shop in the boys department. I stole clothes from my younger brother. I even had a pair of boys' hockey skates, which completely perplexed my mother, since as a child she had been forced to wear hand-me-down boys' hockey skates, and all she wanted was a pair of bright white figure skates.

Coordination is key. So are fabulous backdrops.

 Of course, I was a pretty crappy rebel, even as a youngster. My mom would buy me clothes and I wouldn't have the heart to tell her I hated them. I distinctly recall a black sweater with primary colored rainbow stripes across it. I think it may have also zippered. I hated this sweater. Mother loved it. She had bought it from my favorite store (remember Limited Too!? I literally could not fathom the idea of shopping anywhere else and I feared the day I would no longer fit in their clothes. Dear lord.) and she figured I would love it too. I think I wore it once to appease her, then I finally told her at some point that I really didn't like it. I felt really guilty when she bought me clothes I didn't like, and hated telling her I didn't want them. At some point this definitely changed, as I now have no problem with saying "Ew Mom, that's gross. Please return it immediately" about things she's bought for me or for herself.

I LOVED those sneakers. Note the ketchup incident on my right foot. And my trademark sweats.

 But when I was a kid, let me tell you, many a clothing battle occurred. She just could not understand why I wanted to dress like a boy, in plaid and sweatsuits. Looking back, neither can I, but I suspect  it had something to do with my early overdose on anything and everything girly.

Sadly, this was the beginning of the awkward years.

 My favorite outfits were pretty much limited to matching sweatsuits or wind suits. Wind suits were obviously worn on gym day at school. A few particularly memorable outfits:


- a maroon and navy sweatsuit with a row of fall leaves embroidered across the front.
- a gray t-shirt and short set with purple trim that said Cape Cod on the front. Half my wardrobe was from Cuffy's (I'm sure you Cape Codder's know Cuffy's, but in case you don't, they're huge factory stores that sell various clothing items that say Cape Cod on them.)
- a hot pink wind suit that, unbeknownst to me, had a hole in the pocket, causing all the coins from my lunch money to fall into my pants and lodge between the outer layer and the lining. Awkward.
- blue plaid, bell-bottomed, stretchy pants and a matching blue sweater with a stripe across the front. This was one of my favorite outfits, worn with those clompy black shoes we favored when I was in 9th grade. My BFF had a similar pair I do believe. This was purchased at Limited Too, obviously.
- a green plaid schoolgirl skirt, worn with a matching short sleeved turtleneck sweater. Last seen at an 8th grade dance with my curled bangs, glasses, and braces. My supreme awkward phase. Another Limited Too classic.

Mother and I, decked out in our mid-90s finery.

 At some point, obviously, I also started loving clothes. I can't say when it happened - maybe high school? - but shopping was suddenly not the horror of horrors it was when I was a child. I suddenly enjoyed getting dressed, and I found I didn't miss Limited Too at all. Suddenly my mother and I were able to spend our weekends trolling the local malls, discussing hem lines and sweater colors! Where Younger Me would dread having to wear a dress, suddenly I had a closet full of them. While my fashion sense has come a long way from plaid stretch pants and matching sweatsuits (I can't even touch the fancy, Juicy Couture versions) there are still some fashion rules I haven't broken since childhood: I still don't think I look good in a ruffle, and I will never again wear pastel pink.

things my boyfriend does

It's been awhile since I've done one of these, so I'm sure everyone is just itchin' for more boyfriend stories. So without further ado...

My Boyfriend Does Laundry

"Does" laundry might be a touch generous here. Does he have a lot of laundry? Yes. Does he do it? Occasionally. It amazes me, because I so very rarely see him change his clothes. I've seen him wear the same t-shirt and jeans for days at a time. Yet there is always a huge mound of laundry somewhere in the apartment.

Exhibit A: 

Luckily it was contained to his corner of the bedroom on this particular day. Usually similar (albeit smaller) piles will be in the bathroom, on top of the washing machine, in the washing machine, and strewn across the sofa.

I find socks tucked into couch cushions and belts hanging off the dining chairs. He will proudly say "I'm going to do laundry today!" put it in the wash, and then promptly forget about it, leaving it to sit in the damp, dark machine to rot. It's worse than having the dirty clothes laying around, when he does that. He comes home from work and peels off his work clothes as he walks to the shower, leaving them where they fall.

The funny thing is, I don't know where all these clothes come from. He truly only wears the same five or six t-shirts and maybe four pairs of jeans. I think he may somehow have more clothes than me. Thank God I have as much clothing as I do, because with him constantly "doing laundry!" it's a miracle if I can ever wash anything of mine. 

Secretly, I think he may just keep all his clothing in the laundry constantly to avoid putting it away. I've peeked in his dresser; the drawers are all empty. He's also got  really funny definitions of "clean" and "dirty". Like I said, he'll sometimes just throw on the same outfit three days in a row (I think, I HOPE, he changes underwear on these days...lord knows he showers about 80 times a day). But then we'll go out to dinner, and he'll put on a t-shirt with a nice button up over it, and then he'll come home and promptly toss the button up in the hamper! It wasn't touching skin, it's not like he sweat all over it. Sometimes he hasn't even spilled on it (rare, but occasionally he can make it through a meal without getting it all over himself). 

I don't think I need to explain to him that certain items of clothing can be worn more than once before washing (jeans, button ups, anything that smells clean and is free of debris) and somethings cannot (underwear, socks, any shirts he also used as a bib), but I have been trying for eleven months now to figure out his laundry method and I still cannot grasp it. I just feel bad for the people that live below us. All they must hear, day in and day out, is our washing machine running.

Oh and just this very moment he's informed me he thinks he will go buy new clothes tomorrow. I also hear the washing machine running as I type this. Somehow, the Laundry Tower doesn't look any smaller.

things my boyfriend does

Gosh, writing these posts at home is difficult when Boyfriend is hovering around wanting to know what I am writing about him. Anyway, I locked him out of the room so here we go...

My Boyfriend Sleeps...A Lot

Boyfriend sleeps a lot. Nine times out of ten, if I walk into a room that he is in, he is sleeping. Or drinking. Or sometimes both. Which we all know is dangerous because he spills. But mostly he is sleeping. He prefers couches to beds which is insane to me, as we have a really, really awesome bed. I don't really like when he sleeps in bed with me anyway. He hogs the bed, snores, breathes loudly and generates a lot of body heat. He also has vivid dreams.

The other night he was in bed with me and we were asleep. It was the middle of the night and I woke up for some reason. Groggily, I realized I was awake because Boyfriend was convulsing next to me. I peeked one eye open to see what was the problem. He appeared to still be asleep, but every so often would twitch an arm or a leg violently. 

Still half asleep, I was wondering if there was something wrong with him when suddenly he leaped out of bed and raced into the living room. I laid in bed, sleepy and confused and wondered what the hell was going on. I was slightly afraid he was sick and might puke and I don't do puke so I stayed put. He was out of my line of vision through the bedroom door. I waited to see what he would do. It was silent. He didn't turn any lights on. The best I could guess was that he was standing silently in the dark living room. Then he went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later. He seemed fine. He got into bed, we both went back to sleep without speaking.

Next morning I asked him what the hell he was doing the night before.

"Oh my God I had a terrible nightmare!" he told me, looking frightened just thinking about it.

"What happened?" I asked, curious.

"I was being chased by a giant bee! Like, giant. You know I hate bees!" *

"Seriously? A giant bee?"

"Yes! It's because of those Orkin commercials with the giant bugs trying to get into people's houses. But seriously, that dream was so scary."

"I guess so. You were convulsing in your sleep."

"Well I was RUNNING! From the giant bee!"

Yeah, I'm okay with him and his bees sleeping on the couch. Now, for this week's bonus feature, which would have been more spectacular had a certain someone not gone through my pictures deleting the ones of him that pertained to this post...the very first Things My Boyfriend Does Collage!!

I used to have so many more pictures of him sleeping. I also threw in one of him as a child because he was so cute. And wearing jammies, so he might as well have been sleeping. Notice he had no food because I'm sure whoever was supposed to feed him was nervous about all the spills.

I'm not sure there will be one of these next week, since, to be completely honest, Boyfriend doesn't do a heck of a lot. There's only so much I can write about him sleeping and sitting on the couch. If anyone has any good boyfriend stories (you know, about Boyfriend, not just any old boyfriend) that I have missed that you think would be good to put up here, let me know!

*He does hate bees. Once, we were at his parents house in the pool and a bee flew near his head and he sprinted out of the pool and ran into the house, slamming the door behind him, leaving me with the bee. Very manly.