I Am Non-Caffeinated Woman, Hear Me Snore

A few weeks ago, my hubby asked me while giving me a bear hug,

"What's your favorite country?"

"What?" I had no idea where this was going.

"What's your favorite country?"

Fearing he was up to some plotting that could involve us moving far, far away, I replied, "Um, not to sound overly patriotic, this one."

Yes, I am an unpatriotic American who is ashamed to live in a country where its people vote in a monkey as its leader with Satan as his henchman...twice.

Let's just say we don't talk politics with my somewhat conservative family because it nearly ruined Christmas in 2004.

My husband asked me again. "What's your favorite country?"

"Uh, England, Japan, and France."

"You need to pick one."

"Why?"

"Just pick one."

"Fine!" Jumping to conclusions and assuming that he's plotting a vacation, and jumping to the conclusion it may be for our fifth wedding anniversary in May, I said,

"France. Paris, mostly."

"Would you like to go to France for our anniversary?"

Bingo. I may not be able to surprise the man with anything (he has an uncanny way of sniffing it out. Plus, since he works at the bank, it's like I've got the all-seeing eye of Mordor looking over our daily transactions), but I can at least jump to correct conclusions about where he's going in a vague conversation.

"Absolutely!!" Good thing I already had a Paris travel book from when we thought we'd be able to afford to go after my college gradutation (as you may have deducted from the conversation earlier, we obviously couldn't afford to go).

He then tried to buy us Rosetta Stone to refresh on our French. While he took French all four years in high school, I took two years in high school, and can only remember phrases like "omelette du fromage" (omlet with cheese--big surprise, huh?), and suddenly remembered more French in college during my Spanish quiz (it did not help). I ended up getting a BS (ha!) instead of a BA (again, ha!) due to wacky Oregon graduation requirements. So I ended up with a BS in Communications and Theatre. Stop laughing. It is so me.

He told me that it was way beyond our foreign language refresher budget (which I already knew), but the thought that he tried to buy it for us was sweet.

A week later we began to price out the trip. Did I ever mention that international flights are expensive as hell?

As I was on Orbitz.com fearing the worst, I asked my husband: "Can we realistically afford this?" Because we are dreamers. We think it'll work, price it out, have good intentions, but intentions only go so far.

"Yes, but we'll have to cut way back to afford it."

Lame.

Of course, now that I told people that we're planning to go, Prideful Holly now has to find a way to make it happen.

I have decided to start out small.

Starting with Starbucks.

Getting coffee in the morning started out as a treat--like a once a week/twice a week if your ass was dragging kind of thing. Then Holly got promoted, had to start working longer hours, but the higher pay justified going there three times a week.

It eventually evolved into a daily monster; where if I didn't get my caffeinated goodness by 10am, I would have a splitting migraine painful enough to answer the phone as Holly Hulk and You'd Better Make it Quick Because the Lights Are Burning My Brain.

Of course, if I got coffee that day, so did my husband. We had to make it fair.

Add it up- coffee at about $3 a day, per person (two people total), for each workday (excluding vacations and holidays), equals...

Wow.

That's almost as bad as a pack-a-day smoking habit.

Thank God we don't do both, otherwise we would still be in good 'ol Gangbanger Land (aka Rockwood), hacking it up with the rest of the poor people who can't afford to buy a house.

So I woke up Monday morning with a Mission: Lay off the Starbucks. No matter how tired I feel. No matter if we actually do have some breathing room in our budget. No matter if I brough my lunch, and can totally justify it.

Plus, it's not like we have an espresso machine at home that is currently gathering that icky kitchen dust--oh, wait! We totally do! Thanks to my sister-in-law who used to work for Starbucks and generously provided us with the magical machine as a housewarming present.

Now I have no excuse.

No Starbucks Log

Day 1: I took the non-Starbucks route to work today (this means I don't drive past one). I wanted to get there before 8am, but it didn't happen (which isn't the best decision on a Monday). I did pretty good along the lines of no headaches, no eye-drooping drowsiness, and my perkiness level (that's personality, you perverts) was normally cheerful.

I think I can actually do this. And with the money I'm not spending on coffee each day, I can save that amount, and we'll actually be able to afford to go to Paris in May and I won't be a big, fat, liar who says she's going somewhere and then doesn't.

If I can kick morning caffeine, I can kick my habit of not exercising! I will be able to become Nintendo's poster woman (poster child just sounds wrong) for Wii Fit (see "Having a Fit for Wii Fit"), and Lilly Pullitzer will send me her fabulous clothes to cover my tiny butt (okay, I am currently a size six, but I used to be a zero. ZERO!).

And once I kick the caffeine habit, I will be able to conjure my energy naturally instead of using a puppy upper (caffeine) as a crutch. I can accomplish anything!!

Day Two: "Yes, I'd like a grande nonfat black and white mocha with one pump of each, with no whip..."

What?

So I have an uber-complicated coffee order. Like you'd expect any less from me.

Lil' Kim, Toe Tags, and Microsoft Word

"Eugh," my coworker recoiled as I showed off my best attempt at converting Word into a PhotoShop substitute.

"Heh heh- that's exactly the reaction I was looking for," as I sent off my creation to my friends.

I had been wracking my brain for the longest time for a clever Halloween party invite.

Hubby has gotten to the point where he forbids me from sending out tangible, old-fashioned, snail-mail invites because of the stamp investment, the time investment to make them (if they're going to be sent out in the mail, you bet your ass they'll be hand-made, biotch!), and not to mention the fact that wherever I decide to make them ends up holding that area of the house hostage for however long it takes me to make them...and sometimes holds it for a few weeks afterward, too.

I searched and searched Microsoft's Clip Art online, to no avail. All the items were cutesy or just plain ugly.

I forgot about it until last weekend.

We met up with some friends who had gone to a mutual friends' wedding (hubby was really sick with the flu, so we refrained from contaminating all our friends, and especially the ones getting married!), and for some reason, the theme of the weekend was a Lil' Kim song.

Don't ask. For some reason when we college buddies get together, shenanigans occur. Tomfoolery happens. Hilarity ensues. And many times, a theme emerges.

Last weekend's theme was Lil' Kim's song, "This is A Warning." It's actually a cover of R.Kelly's "A Woman's Threat," but the lyrics are basically the same.

Don't ask. Let's just say Lil' Kim's "Notorious K.I.M." is one of my favorite Rap/Hip Hop albums.

But my friends came up with their own lyrics. And their version totally wins out of the three.

Lil' Kim: "Someone's gonna find your ass dead...someone's gonna poison your food..." (which is still pretty hilarious)

My friends: "Someone's gonna shit in your bed...someone's gonna tag all your toes..."

Maybe it really is funny. Maybe it was just one of those "you had to have been there moments." And I hate those moments if I was the one who wasn't there.

Either way, it gave me the idea for the invite above. And after a simple Google Image search (which may very well be one of the best inventions ever), some tweaking in Word (which was infuriating and made me feel like a creative warrior who works with what she's got), I got it.

It's not perfect. And yes, it could definitely have used some PhotoShop. But it works.

So hopefully, this Halloween, no one will find your ass dead, poison your food, shit in your bed, or tag on your toes.

Happy Halloweener.

Steve "Turtleneck" Jobs Has Won.

I finally broke down and bought it.

The 3G.

And it sucks.

Still basking in the glory that is my new promotion and raise, my husband "discovered" that we're up for phone upgrades (see "iPhone Suicide"). I decided he totally deserved a new phone--whatever he wanted, but I didn't really need a new phone. My iPhone works just fine.

Except that it's sometimes a little slow.

And that will occasionally lose signal.

And the fact that I've dropped it a gazillion times on hard surfaces. Like concrete.

We went to the AT&T store (formerly Cingular that was formerly AT&T), and my husband went to drool over all the smartphones. He eventually decided on a Samsung Blackjack II, and even got the Bluetooth earpiece. I made fun of him all day by quoting lines from the "Bret Gives Up the Dream" episode of Flight of the Conchords where Bret is talking on his Bluetooth, saying things like, "I've got a 5:00, then a 6:00...alright...I'll pencil you in," even though he doesn't even have a phone to use it with.

I wasn't making fun of him to be mean...I was just jealous.

The store had Bluetooth devices, and I want/need one. Since moving into our new house, my commute time has been slashed in half...but that doesn't mean I don't still try to squeeze in some talk time with family members in the morning on the way in to work.

A Bluetooth device would make it somewhat safer...although studies have shown that talking on a cell phone, even hands free, is not the safest thing to do. Plus Oregon is going to ban handheld phones in the car soon, and I wanted an excuse to "get used to it" early.

Only I tried the store's in-ear Bluetooth device, and it didn't even fit in my ear. Not even close.

You see, I have tiny elf-like ears.

I didn't realize how small they were until sophomore year of high school, when some jerk boy pointed at me and said, "Look at your cute little ears! They're so small!!" I was self-conscious about my ears sticking out from my head (a classic Mueller trait), but now I was self-conscious about looking like a petite, blonde Shrek.

Maybe my ears are small for preventative reasons (like preventing me from pulling a Ralph Wiggum and inserting a crayon to tickle my eardrum...but I have never felt so inclined), but I can't fit normal ear things into my teeny ears.

Back in 2005, my husband bought me my first iPod (it was a pink Mini). I jumped with excitement as I raced to open it. I loaded it up, and then on a car ride to his parents' house, I prepared to listen to all my nifty songs packaged in a cute little pink rectangle. I went to put the earbuds in my ears, and...nothing. They wouldn't even fit inside my ears. I couldn't even get part of them in my ears.

I was devastated. I had this new toy and couldn't even use it!!

I had to break down and buy the $40 Apple In-Ear Headphones. I must say I love them. I love the sound quality, and they fit in my ears. Once I have them in, they work better than any noise-canceling headphone on the market. I can't hear ANY outside noise once they're in.

But Apple has yet to make an In-Ear Bluetooth device because their neato black stick-of gum-looking Bluetooth device is just like their earbuds: too big for my small ears.

So my husband got his nifty smartphone and his Bluetooth device, and now he was pushing me to get the 3G.

It was enticing. But I wanted to spend that money on other prospects.

Like clothing.

I'll write a blog on that later.

Eventually he wore me down and I ventured into the very packed Apple store (the very one where I used to work), and asked if they had 3Gs in stock. They did.

I then inquired about the white iPhone. The "Jesus Phone."

They call it the Jesus Phone because at first it was really hard to find when the 3G first debuted. It only comes in 16G (Apple is notorious for this--if you want the different color, pay more!), and it is gorgeous. Plus it matches my MacBook. Like it matters...

My husband was only prepared to pay for the 8G iPhone. I wanted the white Jesus Phone. This is one of the rare instances where I pulled out 'Ol Puppy Dog Eyes.

I realized early on in our relationship that weapons such as 'Ol Puppy Dog Eyes, Sneaky Guilt Trip, and Five-Year-Old Tantrum Throwing should be used sparingly for the best results and the least amount of backlash later.

I had already used Five-Year-Old Tantrum in Target back in March to get my coveted giraffe-print Steve Madden knockoffs. I had been eyeing the giraffe print platform peep-toes for months when I first saw them...but the Maddens were $110--impossible to even hide since we were in homebuying saving mode. And then I saw a knockoff version at Target...and they fit. And they were comfortable. These shoes were in a 99th percentile of being in my regular shoe-wearing repertoire. Anything less usually means a) they're not comfortable, or they are comfortable for up to four to eight hours, only for me to limp home and race for the band-aids, b) they're not as cute. I had to have these $23 shoes. So I pulled out the Tantrum. In the middle of Target. And I got them.

I can't remember the last time I used Sneaky Guilt Trip. SGT has to be used the most sparingly. Both our families are old Guilt Trip Masters, and my husband and I have become really good at guilt trips...the only thing is that we can't use guilt trips on one another--they won't work. In order for them to work, we have to use Jedi-like mind tricks...which is the Sneaky Guilt Trip. But it can't be used very often or it won't work as effectively.

So 'Ol Puppy Dog Eyes was it. And it worked. I got the Jesus Phone.

It is gorgeous.

It matches my MacBook.

It drops calls.

It loses signal.

It...sucks.

Thank goodness I bought it only a week before they released the update to fix those issues. I would have been homicidal if I had it since its launch.

So there you go, Mr. Black Turtleneck "I'm Not Dead" Jobs. You win.

You win this time.

Holy Cupcakes, Batman!

It's been an eternity since I've been on here.

Since my last Captain's Blog, I have:

-Had two job interviews for two Assistant Buyer positions.

-Been offered one of the Assistant Buyer positions (and then learned both Merchandisers were fighting over me! Ego boost!).

-Accepted the offer, wrapped up my old job (goodbye Administrative Assistant position and hourly pay).

-Hosted our Housewarming Party (where I got buzzed after ONE drink and called my cousin Logan "Luke" due to the fact that I had been running around madly getting prepared for the barrage of people coming to view our home since 7am that morning and all on an empty stomach). But we partied until 2am! It's so sad I'm excited about it, but the 8-5 schedule really makes your chances of viewing Conan on a regular basis a huge challenge.

-Went down to Bend and saw Beck in concert (it was ethereal. Amazing.).

-Started my new, salaried job as an Assistant Buyer and loving it,

-Attended my brother-in-law's wedding

etc
etc
etc

I've been busy. Plus most of the above events have been uneventful enough to where there are no funny anecdotes for me to write about. Lame, huh?

Or maybe I just need to see the funny in these stories....Oh well.

This is probably the lamest blog ever.

Lamest.

Blog.

Ever.

(and you have to say it like Comic Book Guy)

Mmmm...Orange Cream Shake *drool*

Arby's brought back their Orange Cream shake. It's like a fucking
Creamsicle in a cup.

Marvelous milkshake...mmmm

Sent from my iPhone

Mmmm...Fiber Optics...*drool*

It is finally here.

Our Internets.

I was in the middle of trying out Wii Fit for the first time when there was a magical knock on the door.

The Comcast guy.

Granted, I hate Comcast. But I hate them less than Qwest, and the door-to-door Comcast salesperson gave us an incredible offer we couldn't refuse.

For fiber optic internet.

After working with a bunch of nerds at Apple (okay, they were some of the coolest and funniest nerds I know), fiber optic cable is totally drool-worthy.

He installed it and left, so we fired up my MacBook (we'll hook up our wireless router sometime this week).

The web is so fast it's orgasmic.

Not kidding.

It's awesome.

Now we will become completely spoiled and scoff at anything that isn't faster than 6 mb/s.

Oregon Brewers Festival

Beer.

Tokens and beer and friends and shenanigans.

Fjufvfsfhddshh.

Shaddup.

I'm drunk blogging.

It's aewsome.

Sent from my iPhone

Reality TV Gossip.

I just overheard two co-workers whispering about "So You Think You Can Dance." Or maybe it was "Dancing With the Stars." Or was it "America's Got Talent?"

Anyway. Normally most of my co-workers and I will debate about our favorite crappy reality TV show (we're the dorks who had an "American Idol" pool).

But whispering?

Could it be they are embarassed to admit they were watching one of those crappy reality dance contests?

Because I would be.

Says the girl whose guilty pleasures are Girls Next Door and America's Next Top Model...

iPhone Suicide.

You know that episode of South Park where Paris Hilton's dog commits suicide and becomes another victim of Hilton's "Pets Who Killed Themselves by Being in Possession of Paris Hilton" photo album?

Yeah, I think my phone is trying to off itself.

First, it tried to drown itself in a toilet (a clean toilet, mind you) by jumping out of my back pocket while in Pullman at WSU Homecoming.

It was a very traumatic event in the fact that I had had a few beers, came out of the bathroom bawling and waving my phone at my husband, who thought I was beckoning him to tell him someone in my family died.

Not so.

I was bawling because a $500 phone that my family all pitched in to help buy for my birthday just went swimming for a few seconds. Plus I had had a few beers and the featherweight that I am was a little emotional already.

But no, the iPhone did not prevail in its suicide attempt because we dried it out, charged it, and it still works like clockwork. The thing is a fucking tank.

Still, the drowning attempt did not curb it from continuing on its suicide quest.

It has jumped out of my hands on multiple occasions--and in most cases, fallen on pavement or concrete. But it survived.

It finally developed a crack down by the main button (thank goodness it's not on the screen portion of the phone) due to its habit of falling on extremely hard surfaces.

And now it has been randomly calling my husband and my friend Crissy. It's not a purse-dial (where you can hear the rustling of items in a handbag while you're shouting your lungs out in an attempt for the person purse-dialing you to hear you). It's a blank dial, where they answer, and absolutely no sound is there. My sister-in-law's iPhone has been doing this sort of thing for a while, apparently.

It has also been freezing up and not responding to any touch whatsoever. I took it into an Apple store to be checked at the same time I was in to get my MacBook battery replaced, and the Genius said to restore it, which would mean I would lose all my Notes. I have a lot. I guess I'll have to find that free app that lets you back up the things iTunes does not.

Or maybe its suicide attempts are for a reason- for me to upgrade.

I initially didn't want to get the first generation iPhone--I tend to shy away from first generation items just so the companies and manufacturers can work out any bugs.

But when my husband accidentally drowned my Razr in a glass of Sangarita, I needed a new phone. It was around my birthday, my family hadn't gotten me gifts yet, so a new iPhone I got.

And I have loved it. I use just about all of the applications, and loaded a few more when the new App Store opened. I think the Phone Saber makes me giggle the most.

When we were at the Apple Store the other day for my MacBook battery fix, I laid my eyes and hands all over the new 3G.

And drooled.

I then knew why my iPhone was trying to commit hari-kari:

It wants me to upgrade.

This possibly could be some brilliant scheme dreamed up by Steve Jobs himself--where the old generation begins to shut down and the user is basically forced to upgrade to the latest generation.

And as I was typing that last paragraph, my phone shut off and displayed the "charge the phone" icon.

I'm telling you, it's a conspiracy.

Oh- and all this bitching about how much more expensive the new iPhone is to the old iPhone??

Let's do the math.

I bought my iPhone for $499. I then got a $100 credit from Apple because people bitched so much (yay for bitching here!). I used that $100 to upgrade my iPhoto software and such.

So the cost is now $399. It costs me $20 a month to have all the data- text messaging, Internet, you know the deal. Multiply 20 by 24 (the two-year plan AT&T has for the iPhone) = $480. Now add $399 = $879. So over two years, that's how much the 1.0 will cost.

Now for the 3G. The cost of the 8G (twice the size of my current 4G) is $199. The data plan from AT&T went up $10/month, so $30 x $24 = $720. Add the $199 = $919. That's up $40 from the 1.0 version.

What people don't understand is they paying a higher price for faster technology. Think about it--dial-up is way cheaper than fiber-optic cable Internet (*drool*), but it's slow as fuck and most of our impatient society cannot tolerate the Internets at that molasses speed, so naturally, we pay more because we (as Ricky Bobby would say) "wanna go fast."

And as time goes by, prices go up. They are going up everywhere. Don't believe me? Buy clothing. All of the prices have been going up. But they're so slight because some clothes are a fraction of the price of a new iPhone, so naturally we don't notice as much. A 2009 GTI is probably more expensive than when the 2008 GTI was considered "new."

And now I just read an article in The Oregonian that mentions that old iPhones are fetching more money than the new ones are selling for.

Hmmm...a new 3G and a new pair of Franco Sartos? I think I need to go peruse Craigslist right now...

My Sister's Wedding- Chapter One: The Land of Moronic Drivers.

My sister got married this weekend.

It was a five-day, four-night stay in Eastern Washington and the Idaho Panhandle, but my bags said otherwise.

So did my brother as he tried to play Tetris Master by fitting everything into the car.

"Look at this pile," he said, pointing to all of my bags- which included my clothing bag, my makeup bag, my laptop/book bag, my handbag, and my shoe bag.

"And then, look at this pile," he said, pointing to my husband's bag, and the bag for Marley.

"So what? How often does your sister get married?"

Exactly.

Not only was my sister getting married, I was hosting her bridal shower and her bachelorette party, and she's getting married on top of a mountain in Kellogg, Idaho. Plus it was my mom's 50th birthday, and my dad's and my birthday during this vacation.

You bet your ass I had a lot of baggage to bring. Literal and otherwise.

I took a half day off of work on Wednesday, and what a half day it was: I got a Birthday Breakfast Potluck.

That's right-- I got a potluck. Most of the time when people at work have a birthday, they get a card and a cake. And we have a lot of people in the Apparel department, so we are usually good on our cake intake.

And I got cards, and a vase of flowers complete with an attached Hello Kitty balloon. Do my co-workers know me or what? They are awesome and made me feel so special that I'll admit, it was hard to leave that day.

We took off for the six-plus-hour drive to Spokane from Portland, stopping on the way for Marley to potty. The first stop we made was right outside of the Tri-Cities in Washington, and it was 100 degrees out.

It was certainly a drier heat than Portland, but 100 degrees is 100 degrees. We're talking blow-dryer-in-your-face feeling. And with a fair-weather dog who was refusing to potty, it was very frustrating and sweaty.

When we finally rolled into Spokane earlier that evening, I suddenly realized why Spokane has a road-rage problem:

1- there is no North-South freeway.

2- everyone drives slower than the speed limit.

My husband accused me of using my "asshole driving" skills a few times when coming home to visit family a few times back, and now I could rub it in his face now that I could feel his frustration growing.

When a bright yellow Nissan truck nearly blindsided us thanks to changing into the lane we were changing into without even signaling, we knew immediately we were trapped in the Land of the Moronic Drivers.

We finally made it into Deer Park (a very small town north of Spokane) at my mom's house.

And the drama began.

Look out for Chapter Two: The Drama Begins

Posted whenever the hell I get to it.

Welcome to Sitcomville.

Ever since we moved in, I realized we gained membership to one of the Ultimate Secret Clubs.

A neighborhood.

An actual neighborhood. Where the neighbors are nice, not nosy, and not Flandersish.

The first neighbor we met was the elderly woman standing behind the counter in a small town--actually, she's a nice older woman with five dogs.

She certainly doesn't beat our former townhouse neighbor who had 12 cats.

Yes, 12. The townhouses we lived in were only like 1200 square feet. Once I saw her garage door open, and along one of the walls were tubs of kitty litter stacked to the ceiling.

Ew.

And she also had a little lean-to built on the back of her house for the feral cats to be sheltered for the rain. And then they would shit in our tiny backyard. Which is why we never let Marley back there (he's a little shit-eater- we have to watch him).

She's a bit of an agoraphobic--when we do see her, she's usually in some godawful floral dressing gown that would put any of the Golden Girls to shame.

When we were over at the townhouse this weekend cleaning madly (we want all our insanely expensive deposit back--and I mean all of it), we heard a knock on the door.

It was our crazy cat lady neighbor. She was dressed in a floral lace nightmare nightgown, and asked us if our cat was still there.

Okay, for one- we moved on July 4. She saw us moving. You would think we would take all our animals with us. For two- does she think we are a bunch of cat-haters? While I love Roxie, I don't love a bunch of feral cats picking a fight with Roxie through the windows, shitting in my yard, and giving Roxie an excuse to piss on the carpet near the door to where I worry if the landlord will smell it and forfeit our deposit to buy carpet at a highway robbery price. But I would never do anything to those shitting, disease-ridden feral cats.

I told her no, we are the type of people who move everything and everyone with us when we move. Imagine that. She said she keeps hearing a cat meowing. I told her no, I haven't heard anything, and that I would let her know if I did hear anything.

She repeated herself and lingered for a moment, almost acting as if we had a kitten trapped in the garage or something.

As I shut the door as she shuffled back to her house, my husband asked who was at the door.

"Oh, the next door neighbor. She's hearing cats meow."

"Yeah, I'll bet she is," my husband replied.

I will be so glad to get out of here finally, I thought.

There are a gazillion things I won't miss about good 'ol Rockwood, but I'll just write the Top 10:

-I won't miss our cars getting broken into, only for the crooks to stupidly take the stereo face but not the stereo. Worrying anytime any of our guests park on the street.

-I won't miss being welcomed home to a fresh batch of graffiti on the mailboxes and the neighbor's fence.

-I won't miss the stupid children playing in the street (when there's a park just around the corner and a larger park down the street) and not comprehending English when you're asking them to move out of the way.

There have been times I've wanted to visit their parents, ask them what the fuck were they thinking when they decided to procreate, why the fuck they're not watching their kids, and to please move their car off of the sidewalk--I can't walk my dog. But I was just afraid these people would understand English about as well as their children, or sic their children on me. In this neighborhood, I wouldn't be surprised.

-I won't miss waking up to drive-by shootings, and seeing my husband "hit the deck" faster than I've ever seen him move.

-I won't miss the hacking, coughing, and hocking at 4am from the neighbor, only to have the hacking d-bag start his farty-sounding Honda and rev it for ten minutes.

-I won't miss the five competing ice cream trucks prowling for children throughout the day and weekends.

Yes, five.

They all play different music- one plays "The Entertainer," one plays "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star/ABC song," one plays the song that goes, "Do your ears hang low/do they wobble to and fro..." (the song title escapes me), one plays a medley of nursery rhymes, and the other plays a medley of Americana songs (like America the Beautiful, Yankee Doodle). It's enough to drive a five-year old crazy with the annoying music. What I really want to see is all five trucks facing one another in a parking lot, only to have the Ultimate Showdown:

Ice Cream Truck Demolition Derby.

That would be hilarious and awesome simultaneously.

-I won't miss the Gorge winds blowing all of the neighbor's trash onto our porch. Or finding bullet casings in our front yard.

-I won't miss worrying if my husband is going to be beaten, stabbed, or shot by paranoid gang members on the MAX (and I won't miss seeing drug deals go down while I'm waiting for the next train to downtown).

-I won't miss the long chit-chat brought on by the nosy neighbor when all you want to do is take in your groceries but can't get a word in to escape.

-I won't miss having to call Police Non-Emergency because too many stupid fucks in our neighborhood decided to park on our street. It's a fire lane, it obstructs traffic, and on New Year's 2006 my sister-in-law got a $40 ticket, and I'll be damn sure I'll put that $40 to use.

By giving all my other jerky neighbors a parking ticket. Yes, I was that neighbor.

And now we live with wonderful neighbors. Most of them come off as hippies- whether it be the zen-like neighbors who came over with a bunch of flowers and vegetables from their organic garden, or the older hippies who now worry about who's lawn is growing too tall.

But now I'm waiting for the bomb to drop. This is too good to be true--neighborhoods aren't like this. Neighborhoods like this only exist in sitcoms. And even then there's a weird neighbor or some crazy shenanigans that occur.

I'm still not used to being in a house where we don't share a wall with anyone. I had my music blasting in the kitchen until midnight last night as I scrambled to finish my edible favors for my sister's bridal shower. And no other neighbors could hear it. Weird.

Where's the guy who plays techno and vacuums at 2am? What about the girl who wears her clacky heels all over her apartment? What about the neighbor whose dog has separation anxiety and scratches and howls while they're gone? You mean there's no neighbor who plays guitar with his amp blasting and is singing so loud I can tell he's off-key? You mean even if they're there, I won't be able to hear them?

Wow.

I think this will take some getting used to.

Worst Parents Ever.

Parents who let their children run around, bumping into people, in
public places, should be shot.

Sent from my iPhone

Plastic Satellite Reception is Better.

Marley is fine from his procedure.

We can no longer nickname him Lance Ballstrong (he only had one ball drop).

I was afraid the vet make us make him wear one of those clear plastic collars. Every time I see an animal wearing one it makes me so sad--I think I have the strange ability to feel an animal's pain much easier than if I see a wound on a human (on a human, it just makes me gag...especially if it's my husband showing me his latest war wounds from the lawn).

They didn't give us one of those collars. They gave us a nicer one--covered in a nylon fabric.

The vet said he only needs to have it on when we're not watching him to make sure he doesn't lick himself down there (and he was already compelled to lick himself there before his procedure).

We took Marley downstairs and got situated in the car.

"I am so glad we didn't get one of those sad-looking plastic collars," I said as I looked at Marley, who looked like a wet, limp, noodle.

"Yeah, but I'll bet it doesn't get as good of reception," my husband said.

We took him home, took off the collar while he slept and we watched TV (okay, it's Simpsons on DVD because we cancelled cable because we're too poor to be financially raped by Comcast).

Later that night we put the collar back on before bed. And went to sleep.

For like, half an hour.

Do you remember when warm-up pants were in style? Remember the voosh-voosh-voosh noise they would make every time you took a step? Remember how annoying and noisy that was?

Yeah, try listening to that all night.

And try not to get upset because your dog is having mega issues with having something big, noisy, and inhibits his peripheral vision around his neck while he's in pain.

I only got about three hours of sleep, while my husband, the lighter sleeper of the two of us, got maybe 45 minutes.

Around 3am, I was awake enough, so I got out of bed, took Marley's collar off on the couch in the living room, and turned on The Simpsons.

He was asleep in half an hour. And after about an hour, so was I.

I woke up periodically to make sure he wasn't licking his wounds.

The vet called the next day to check on Marley. I told her about our sleepless night and asked her how long we'll need to have the collar on Marley.

"Whenever the wound heals, which should be anywhere from 10-14 days."

Wonderful.

So we made an effort to make Marley really tired that day, and he managed to sleep through the night, nylon satellite and all.

Puppies As Children Of People

My husband and I do not have children.

Nor are we planning to have any. This can quickly become a touchy or fascinating subject depending on who you ask.

As far as I know, we are both fertile and compatible with one another. But we have made the choice that children are not for us.

I have a laundry list of reasons why we're not trotting down the Mommy and Daddy route constantly running through and growing in my head, but if I posted it, I would feel compelled to add items and edit the list constantly.

So I'll post one example:

My brother and I were in a national craft store chain when a woman was trying to wrestle her young son into the shopping cart. He kept standing up, as I'm sure he was in awe of his suddenly higher view, so, naturally, he wanted to see higher. At least that's my kid logic (which could be another valid reason we're not...you know).

Anyway, as the woman was trying to shop in the fake florals, the kid kept standing up. Being a good mother, she knew that could be dangerous, and kept telling the kid to sit down. And she did it in such a nice, motherly way. She spoke in a soft voice to her child and said, "Sit on your tush." Only she kept repeating it. And the kid kept standing up.

As my brother and I squeezed past her, I chuckled. My brother, already knowing and bewildered of my husband's and my plan to be DINKs forever (Double Income, No Kids), took the bait.

"What now?"

"Another reason hubby and I are not having kids. I would definitely not be as nice as that woman."

"What would you do?"

"After kicking myself repeatedly for forgetting what a pain in the ass it is to shop with children, I would become highly annoyed at my kid trying to endanger himself like a four-year-old Evel Kneivel, and I definitely would not use that tone of voice to get him to sit down. I would probably be screaming at him, "Sit your ass down because if this cart takes a turn and you spill out of it from standing up, there will be no one there to scoop up your brains from hitting the cement floor!""

My brother just sighed and looked at the floor.

Yeah. That's why I am not on the Mommy Track. We just plan to be the Cool Aunt and Uncle, who have the nieces and nephews over for the weekend, get them high on sugar and overly stimulating video games, and then send them home with some of the most noisy toys on the market. It's what my Aunt did to my sister and I, and it's some of the best memories of our childhood.

But my husband and I do have some "children" of our own. We have a four-year-old Ragdoll cat named Roxie.




She likes to play fetch and look out of the window.

And she really likes the new house because she can look out of ALL the windows.

She even has her own window in the kitchen (the bay window above the sink-we were going to make it an herb garden, but then quickly realized she would eat it all).

When we first brought our dog Marley home, we were afraid she would hate him and us, but she loves him. They chase each other and wrestle regularly.





And earlier this year we adopted Marley.

No, he's not a Skipperkie (spelling?).

He's a black Pomeranian, and Roxie is still bigger than him.

We thought we would wait on getting him neutered, as he wasn't expressing any aggressive behavior, but he only had one ball drop.

So the vet reccommended we neuter him because one-nut dogs tend to have health problems (like puppy cancer).

He's getting the procedure done today.


I'm nervous--this is one of our kids going under the knife.I know it's a normal procedure and our wonderful vet totally knows what they're doing, but he is one of our babies, and I can't help but worry about him.

I must look like I'm worrying more about Marley than Roxie, but when we adopted Roxie from the shelter, they had her spayed before she was ours and before we could take her home (and it was part of the adoption fee). So even before I got to hold her in my arms as our cat, she was going under the knife.

I worried, but not as much as I did with Marley.

All our pets were spayed or neutered when I was a child, but I didn't really have to worry--I didn't know what anesthesia was, I didn't have to sign any consent forms, I didn't have to worry if the pet would come back to me.

And that may be yet another reason I am not having children. I don't want to worry that much about another human being.

Mobile Blog Test

Since we have no Internets at home, and all our neighbors were SMRT (Simpsons reference- sorry, couldn't help it) and have all their Wi-Fi networks under lockdown, I'm going to try this mobile blogging thing.

Of course, you will definitely be able to tell which ones are from the phone, and which ones are from a computer...sometimes the iPhone likes to predict text that is wrong....at least they won't be like the garbled Blackberry emails I get at work...man, sometimes those e-mails are so bad I think a drunken five-year-old wrote them while avoiding getting hit in a New York intersection.

Sent from my iPhone

House Pics

I realized I hadn't posted any pictures of the house. I was nerdy and e-mailed a nifty PowerPoint presentation of pictures instead.

These pictures are before the house was ours, and once we get ALL the painting done, I'll post a before-and-after blog.


Exterior of house (obviously). We'll probably redo the white picket fence (and attach something so that Marley can't squeeze out).








Living room. Yes, the ceiling is crimson. No, the ceilings are not high (in fact, they are about a foot lower than standard ceiling height). This is the only room with Pergo. Since this photo was taken, we have painted (the ceiling is no longer crimson). What was odd was the fact that our Realtor was shocked when we said we wanted to paint.

I mean, the paint looks nice, but honestly, unless you have high ceilings, why in the hell would you paint the darker color on the ceiling??!


Kitchen. The green tile is granite, the light tile is travertine, and the counter is that neat composite material.

While I'm not a huge fan of lighter-colored wood, I do love these cabinets (and they're fairly high quality)! And yes, we had to paint the ceiling in the kitchen, too...

On the weekend of move-in, I decided to scrub down the kitchen before putting anything away, and I soon realized the Seller had never cleaned the cupboards. The interior looked white, but once I started cleaning, realized they were a light grey. Yecch.

And my husband was wonderful enough to scrub down the dirtiest part of the kitchen: the oven. We threw away the burner pans (they may have been black when they were put under the burners, but they were really black when we tossed them out. While my counter, floor, and cupboard cleaning endeavor was certainly gag-worthy, I think I may have lost my cookies over the oven. Thank god it is a self-cleaning oven.

And relief for our wino friends everywhere! This portion of the kitchen has an awesome built-in wine rack with stemware storage underneath--which was perfect since we sold our china hutch. Now we'll just have to find some barstools...

Master Bedroom. Well, not really a Master since both bedrooms are the same size. But this is the one we chose for our bedroom. While the walls are a light green in the photo- the ceiling is--you guessed it--a darker green. Yeah. That went bye-bye when we painted, too.

So my photos will be much better in the before-and-after blog, because after will be so much more awesomer (I know, not a word).

This room is the study- it's considered a bedroom, too, but I don't know anyone who would make it a bedroom. The French doors lead out to the dilapidated deck that we are planning to redo next summer. All the floors except the kitchen, bathroom, and living room are hardwood and recently refinished.

And the walls of this room are also a crimsony-red. They are also painted. Shocklingly, the ceiling is white. They must have run out of paint.

Bathroom. Yes, there's only one. And yes, we had two and a half bathrooms at the last place.

It is small, but it's okay. The mirror is also a medicine cabinet, and it's one of the coolest I have ever seen.

Amazingly enough, Rob and I are making it work beautifully in the morning rush (and I'm pretty high-maintenance, too!).

The tile work in the shower/tub is gorgeous. We don't think the Seller ever cleaned these, either, because my husband scrubbed them down, and they went from black to blacker and shinier. Gross.

And the glass shower doors are indeed clear. No, the glass is not frosted. It's going to take some mega scrubbing and some mega vinegar to get those clear again.

Second bedroom. Will become guest room/Holly's craft room. I'm very happy about it.

What I'm not happy about is that purple. Boy, that is purple. But don't worry, I have some very creative painting plans for this room...and some very demo-like plans for that ugly ceiling fan...

But aren't the floors and trim gorgeous?

Backyard. When we moved in, we had to buy 100 feet of chicken wire to staple around the bottom perimeter because there were plenty of open spots for Marley to get out (and spots for large, mean dogs to get in).

The lot is huge- it's a lot and a half, so we are very excited to plan landscaping and a deck (I'm trying to talk my husband into a hot tub, but we'll see how rich we are next summer (HA)).

And these are the very weedy raised garden beds. My mom in law is a Master Gardener, so she was able to name everything at the drop of a hat. I'm going to need her to come out and name them again, and I'll need to write them down on those little stakes.

I am not a gardener. In fact, I think I may have an Anti-Green Thumb. Granted, it's mostly been houseplants that have died the horrible and slow death upon being faced with my gardening incompetence, but I did try a topiary, who survived for about six months (the longest record to date). That's another blog for another time, though.

So that's our house. The way things are going, we'll be able to have a housewarming party in August.

Religious Doesn't Always Equal Smart.

We have moved!

We are done...sort of. We now just have to clean the old place, get the carpets shampooed at the old place, and put all of our shit away.

This move wasn't near the adventure as when we moved from Pullman to Portland.

The short version of that move is: the Penske truck threatened to overheat unless we turned off the A/C as we were navigating the steep hills and valleys of Walla Walla on the hottest day of the year, and my brother had to be rushed to the hospital the day after move-in to get his appendix taken out. Hooray. That was fun.

While this move wasn't as dramatic, it wasn't without drama of its own.

We were at the old house packing madly until about midnight when my limbs could only move like wet spaghetti and Rob called it a night. It was so hot we were so thankful to be leaving it to go sleep on a hard floor in a sleeping bag in a house with central air.

We slept in later than I expected, then left the new house to go pick up the moving van.

People at work kept asking us on Thursday whether we were hiring movers.

Our answer?

Fuck no.

I think their reasoning for asking this could be alluded to one or more of the following:

a) They have never moved themselves a day in their lives and were born with silver spoons in their mouths (which would make me question why they are working at all),

b) They moved enough times to consider moving services an essential expense, even if it means they cannot afford anything else (like paint),

c) They think we are loaded and can afford it (HA! Just let me write that down on my Louis Vuitton legal pad...),

or d) They look at me and my weenie arms and realize there's no fucking way I could lift anything more than a small bag of sugar. And they're about right. I may be like an ant and can lift my own weight, but it's not for very long--about ten seconds.

I guess, in a way, we had our own movers. Rob, his dad, and my brother. Those poor saps volunteered to help! Of course, we thanked them profusely, my sister-in-law bribed them with Burgerville, and I made sure they had cold beer when they were done.

Rob and went to pick up the moving van. This moving van company franchises out their rental agencies, so this could be anywhere.

Like Godz Isle Auto Sales.

I should have known that any fine establishment that spells anything with a z instead of an s should be a place I avoid at all times.

We drive in, and I have to slow way down because the potholes are so deep in their "parking lot."

This "place of business" isn't just auto sales, oh, no.

They have cars, trucks, ATVs, motorcycles, scooters, outdoor recreation apparel, and...free Bibles.

At least that's one of the first things I saw when we opened the door to the office.

Scrawled in Sharpie on a cardboard box sitting on the dirty glass counter was, "Free Bibles Take One."

Oh God.

I realized what kind of place this was.

Auto sales for the uber-religious.

I looked around some more and then realized I should have just kept my eyes on the dirty carpet.

A clipboard was tacked on to a post and on the clipboard was, printed in Old English font was: "Hello. This is God. I am in control of your life, so don't be mad. I love you."

Wow. That didn't even make any sense.

And on the door to the back office was a big Ten Commandments poster.

My heart started racing. I needed to get out.

Right then, the pudgy man behind the counter finally acknowledged that we were even standing there.

"I'll be with you in a moment," he said as he went back to helping the enormous bearded man standing in front of us. It took Mr. Pudgy 10 minutes to finally say something to us. Usually in retail, you acknowledge the next customer in line right away--this way, it makes them feel they've been waiting less time.

We waited long enough for me to notice the overly neon "Open" sign when a tall, gangly man walked in and asked us, "Back already?''

I had never been here in my life, and now, this balding, stick man was asking me if I was back already?

We both gave him a bewildered look. He paused and then asked, "renting a moving van?"

It was almost as if his brain had two modes: Renting a moving van, and back already?

He switched modes, sat down at a computer and we told him we had a 17' truck reserved for Marsh. We reserved it online about two weeks ago.

About five minutes passed by until he finally brought up our information.

"Marsh?" he asked.

"Yes," my husband replied.

He then switched positions with Mr. Pudgy, who walked enormous man out the door to his moving truck.

"What's the name again?"

"Marsh," my husband replied.

"Okaaaayyyy..." he trailed. It took another ten minutes, and in that timeframe, I was looking up other truck locations, ready to call them to see if they had our size truck available, because I could tolerate this no more.

Mr. Pudgy came back, switched seats with Mr. Gangly, and then asked, "what's the name?"

"Marsh," my exasperated husband replied.

They switched computers again, and finally, Mr. Gangly said, "Oookay...reservation for 10:00 for Marsh. 14-footer?"

I could feel the blood begin to rise from my toes.

"No, we have a 17-footer reserved," I said. I knew they were going to be a problem, so I opened up my e-mail to find the confirmation from the actual moving van company that mentions the exact length of the truck we reserved.

"Uh, it says here you reserved a 14-footer." Mr. Gangly said as he stared blankly at the screen.

"No, we reserved a 17-footer."

"Do you have a confirmation number?"

My husband whispered to me, "Do you have it?"

I did. I had it written down in my trusty notebook and had brought up the e-mail from the moving van company that mentioned the specifics of our reservation, including the size of the truck. By then, my fists were clenching and I was ready to call any of the other companies the minute my husband said, "Go."

They looked up our confirmation, looked at my e-mail (thank you, iPhone!), scratched their heads, and then said,

"We don't have a 17-footer right now."

Of course you don't, I thought, because you rented it to Enormous Man who came here before us!

I was pissed. I was ready to hop over their filthy glass counter, break Mr. Gangly's legs, and smoosh Mr. Pudgy's face until he cried.

My husband knew I had blown a head gasket and needed to pull over for a calming pit stop, so he knew to step in and finish the "negotiation."

Since the 14-footer and the 17-footer were the same price, the d-bags knocked down our price of the rental.

As my husband was signing the agreement, he muttered, "Next time, we're using Penske."

I love him.