Mmmmmmm...

Banana Walnut French Toast...

Made With Real TEXAX Toast!

Things I bought at Target but didn't need Vol. 1

Springy, plastic, bright yellow watch. $12.

Adorable. I wear it everywhere. Did I need it? No.

Purple and pink striped monkey with Velcro paws. $2.50.

Looks adorable posed on my calculator. Necessary? No.

The brush-off

On Friday night, Beau and I went for burgers and beer at a tavern in my neighborhood. We walked in and were immediately accosted by raffle-ticket selling Band Moms. Yep, they were holding a high school band fundraiser at a bar.

Um, ok.

The only seats we could find were at the bar (not my favorite spot to sit, but it'll do when you have no other choice).

To my right was Beau. To my left was a dude in a NASCAR jacket who'd likely been sitting on that bar stool for the bulk of the day.

And, lucky me, he was friendly.

[whistle]

*Tap tap tap* on my shoulder. Howareyoudointonight? 

Fine, thanks. (I turned back around.)

*Tap tap tap* Whatareyoudrinkin?

Hefeweizen. (I turned back around.)

BUDWIZEN? Ibuyyouone?

[In the meantime, Beau is irritated, but I keep telling him that it's not worth a scene. I've had the boyfriend who makes a drunken scene. One of the reasons I love Beau is because he isn't like that.]

*Tap tap tap* Wannaplaysomepool?

Beau hit his breaking point. So he stepped in and said Sorry, Dude, she can't. We're Mormon. She's not allowed.

AND (even though it made zero sense) IT WORKED!!!

McEaster update

With my semi-conservative guess of four, I won the bet.

Victory was as tasty as a Reeses peanut butter egg.

Instead of cash, I took my winnings in the form of a 2-lb bag of Craisins and a fuzzy Easter bunny.

Life is goooood.

Beau thought he was especially funny on Saturday

Via Text:

Me: Saw Scream 4. Lots of people died.

Beau: Screen 4?
Me: Scream 4. 

Beau: Saw 4?

Me: Scream 4.

Beau: Screen Door?

Me: Yes. Paid to see a screen door.

Beau: Why?

Me: I SAW SCREAM 4.

Thanks, Easter Bunny!

McEaster

My Grandma is a fiercely loyal McDonald's customer.

She goes every day. For Christmas/birthdays, I buy her McDonald's gift cards because I know they're the one thing she'll love/use (and because, as I learned last Christmas, Grandmas do not wear fuzzy socks, so let's just forget it!).

My mother has actually uttered the following phrase: Mother, we were NEVER going to consider going to McDonald's for Christmas dinner, and that's the end of it.

And every time we go out to dinner... ANYWHERE (even if we have a holiday meal at home), we hear about how it just doesn't compare to McDonald's.

It gets to be a little grating after awhile.

So I've devised a plan to make Easter dinner more bearable. We're placing bets.

Everyone throws $5 in the pot and estimates how many times she'll mention McD's during the course of the day. Whomever guesses closest wins the big enchilada (which they also do not serve at McD's--just ask Grandma).

I'm playin' to win.

Jesus will just have to understand.

I got my Spirograph!!

How cool are these?

Lose weight, fight aging, or pack heat; it's your choice

I subscribe to a couple of groupon and groupon-like Web sites.

One in particular seems to be making some judgments about my life. LivingSocial sends me deals on teeth-whitening, gym memberships, botox, workout gear, etc.

Yes, I am a woman in her (sigh) late-ish 30s, but ENOUGH. I've taken care of my skin. My teeth are fine. I could stand to lose a couple of pounds, but fuck it. I like cheese.

After awhile, it gets to be a bit much. I have interests OTHER than tightening my ass or fighting a one-woman war against Father Time. 

Today, I got something altogether different.

Yep, LivingSocial has determined that since I'm too lazy to get off of my couch and improve myself in any way, I might as well protect myself against the trolls I most likely encounter in my ugly, toothless, underworld existence.

Might be time to unsubscribe.

Sheesh, doesn't anybody offer restaurant or bookstore deals anymore?

Makes me laugh every time

Hobby Lobby creepiness

I want a Spirograph. I like to draw pretty pictures.

So yesterday after work I popped over to Hobby Lobby to find one.

I looked everywhere. Didn't find one. Not ONE. It's a lobby for hobbies. But only specific hobbies, apparently. You can buy mints in an inspirational tin, but you can't find a Spirograph even if your life depends on it.

However, in my search, I DID run into this.

You can buy and make your very own creepy little friend.

I'll haunt your dreams, little girl!!!

The mature things we laugh about

My folks and I had pie for dinner on Sunday night (before you judge, it was pumpkin pie, so it's not like it was unhealthy). On our way to the pie place, we passed a bus shelter with a movie poster for Diary of a Wimpy Kid.  

Mom made mention of it, and Dad and I both swore she said Diarrhea of a Wimpy Kid.

The word diarrhea sends me into fits of giggles on its own any day, so it was that much more funny.

And then, as we ate our pie, Dad asked What was the name of that movie again? Diarrhea of a Windy Boy?

Which, of course, sent me into a paroxysm of laughter.

We're classy.

Not even clearance prices...

can convince me to want to smell like Butt Cupcake. :)

Proof

that I was simultaneously:

• A huge dork in high school 

And:

• A little ahead of my time

In 10th grade (I think), we were all forced to write love sonnets in English class.

Either I didn't have a specific love interest at the time or I did, but I didn't think it was any of Ms. Eisenberg's (I'm reaching... I think her name at least sounded like Eisenberg) business.

Instead, I wrote a love sonnet about my favorite pair of shoes (a fabulous pair of pink moccasin loafers).

Gosh, I wish I still had that poem.

Hell, I wish I still had the shoes!

Honey, play a LITTLE hard to get!

Last week, my friend Vonn and I dined on ginormous burritos at Chipotle (or, as my dad sometimes pronounces it, Capote) for lunch.

A cute little redhead was working the register. And ahead of us in line was a fella who worked at the local T-Mobile (we could tell by the rainbow of little squares on the back of his work shirt). He was cute in that young, I-can-get-ya-a-great-deal-on-a-data-plan kind of way.

Register Girl seemed REALLY into him. And she treated him right in her own I-can-get-ya-a-great-deal-on-a-chicken-burrito kind of way.

He sat close to her and her register and, between customers, she faithfully ran over to chat with him.

Here's where it got a little sad.

1. She came over and gave him her number
2. Then she came back and gave him another number
3. Then she came back and gave him her e-mail address
4. Then she came back and gave him her work number
5. Then she came back and gave him...

You see where this is going. Every time she came back, it got a wee bit more pathetic. By the time she was done, she'd basically downgraded her desirability to booty-call material at best.

I sooooo wanted to tell her to play it cool. Good Lord, the man works at a cell phone store. He can find a way to contact her if he really wants to.

This week, when I went back for another burrito the size of my head (and a Diet Coke, to make it all healthy), Register Girl's eyes were glued to the door.

And he never walked in. :(

Adventures in awkwardness

I have a new acquaintance; we're thrown together by circumstance rather than choice. And she's pleasant and I'm pleasant.

But she's trying very hard to make a connection with me, and it's so awkward that it makes my skin crawl.

Two of the best/worst examples revolve around Beau.

She heard (didn't see) me leave for lunch with him one day and asked me later if I'd gone to lunch with my DAD (Beau loved that one: I'm not that much older than you!).

When I laughed and explained to her that, no, the guy she heard me going to lunch with was my beau, she nearly fell through the floor, apologizing all over herself. I assured her that it was ok. And it was. Really. No big deal.

A week later, she came back and apologized again, saying that she just very much wanted to make a connection with me (language that makes me totally uncomfortable) and that she talked it over with her husband and he told her how awful it was. I assured her it was fine. Really. No. Big. Deal. Let it go.

Later that afternoon, she spied a photo of Beau as a 4-year-old (Beau loves to post things in my office; he's done decorating his own; why not start on mine?).

Is that your nephew? She asked, pointing to it.

I chuckled, said no, and explained who it was.

Oh God. I'm so sorry!

Here we go again.

Soooooory opening line

I was at a friend's eighth anniversary party with Beau on Friday evening (we go every year) when I noticed a tall fella on the other side of the room. He looked at me, startled, and quickly ducked his head and walked elsewhere.

I chuckled to myself, remembering meeting him three years before.

Beau and I had broken up (my story)/were on a break (his story), and I was a wreck. Two of my friends convinced me to go to Bill's anniversary party. We went and had a few drinks, and I started feeling better and more at ease.

And then this tall lunkhead approached the three of us and greeted me with one of the most pathetic lines ever:

Are you Canadian? You look Canadian.

Seeing as I was already on the verge of bursting into tears, my friend Krista immediately came to my defense.

"You look Canadian?" How the f%*k does she look Canadian?? Is that the best you can come up with?


The fella started to sweat and stammer.


Well, she could have a Canadian flag tattooed on her ass. [Turns to me, lifts an eyebrow.] Do you? And if you do, can I see?

The three of us stood and glowered at him until he lumbered away.

Now it's just a chuckleworthy story. And that poor fella cowers in the corner every year at Bill's anniversary party.

Eh, take off, hoser. :)

New way of shopping

I was in Old Navy during my lunch hour last Thursday. My tax return came in, and I thought I needed a T-shirt or scarf to celebrate (a small, cheap celebration).

As I wandered around the store with my friend Vonn, I noticed the interesting shopping behavior of a fellow customer.

Every time this woman inspected a pair of pants, she jerked the legs apart and went right for the crotch. The violence of it was captivating.

She must be really hard on pants.

She wanted to be sure that if she put money down on a pair that they would be... CROTCHTASTIC!

Am I the only one who does this?

I buy bridal magazines sometimes.

Duh. There are cakes On. The. Cover.

I'm not engaged. Not getting married. Not even planning some imaginary dream wedding in my head.

I just like pretty dresses and cake. (I like cake a lot.)

I've always hidden these magazines from boyfriends because I didn't want them to think I was dropping hints. I'm pretty sure, even after all these years, that Beau doesn't even know I do this [update: I mentioned it to Beau last night and he laughed at me and told me I should put it in my blog].

I really just like pretty dresses and cake.

Why can't they just name a magazine Pretty Dresses and Cake?

1. I would subscribe in a white-hot second.
2. A title like that wouldn't cause anybody any undue relationship stress.

Why you won't be seeing posts on Facebook these days...

Yep. That's right. I am abusive and spammy. My rants about kitchen implements, bad dates, and zombie movies are TOO HOT TO HANDLE, BITCHES! :)

Early-bird special

On Saturday afternoon, Beau and I ran some errands around town. And because I hadn't eaten lunch, I was starving by late afternoon.

In short, I made Beau eat dinner at 4:30.

We stopped in at an Italian restaurant in his neighborhood (but we didn't sit at the Sinatra table because it's cursed--another story for another day). There were two other couples in there. Both as old as the hills.

The one couple behind me chatted loudly with the bartender, discussing how they didn't like people with my politics (I kept my mouth shut out of respect for my elders).

But the interesting table was the one to our right. There was a tiny elderly couple in the corner. They started off with a HUGE carafe of wine (three people could put that much down and still have a bit of a stagger on the way out). It took both hands and all of his might for him to pour out of that thing.

And she kept making this really gross, yet terribly funny, phlegmy noise throughout.

Then their meals came. Two HUGE plates of spaghetti and meatballs (Beau and I usually split one there and there's still enough to take some home).

About a half hour later, she looked at him and asked Did you order a meal?

I gave Beau an incredulous look. She's sitting right in front of him, watching him eat a plate of spaghetti the size of his torso.

I only ask because I don't recall you ordering a meal. 

(Now, before you start chastising me for making fun of a woman who's lost control of her senses, let me tell you that she yelled her conversation throughout the meal and was as sharp as a tack.)


The husband simply smiled poured her more wine.

I had a sinking suspicion that I was looking at my future in that corner.

And Beau just smiled and poured me more wine [cough, cough, hork!].

Life and death in housewares

I had a $10 gift certificate to Sur la Table, so I ran downstairs in search of a silicon whisk (mine broke over the weekend).

To my surprise, Beau decided to accompany me.

I thought he'd be uncomfortable waiting around while I considered the merits of egg separators, multicolored whisks, and mini cleavers, but he was right at home.

Here's why: he loved bringing various kitchen implements to me in the store, making jabbing motions with it, and announcing YOU COULD TOTALLY KILL SOMEONE WITH THIS!

:)

Oh, and by the way

I got MA'AMed by someone 20 years older than me who'd probably never been laid in life.

And he was rude when I tried to be helpful. 

He's on my list.

Nothing beats

The first meal you cook after you've made a trip to the grocery store.

So many choices! Everything's fresh!

It's an embarrassment of riches.

And it lasts for about two meals.

Then it's back to Sheesh, there's nothing to eat in this house!!

Take me out to the baaaaaaallgame!!

It's Opening Day here in the fair city of Denver.

Everyone should attend an MLB opening day at least once in life. Sunshine, beer, and America's favorite pastime.

PLAY BALL!

Of course, this all happens in the shadow of the Barry Bonds steroid trial and controversy. Asterisks, needles, and tiny testicles! Oh my!

I think they're going about it all wrong.

Playas gonna play. Dopers gonna dope.

I say separate players into two new leagues: non-dopers and dopers.

The non-dopers play all season and have playoffs and a pennant winner.

The DOPERS, however, play all season and then, instead of playoffs, the two winningest teams each pick their roidiest, ragiest player and have the two of them engage in a cagematch to the death.

Last man standing wins the pennant for his team.

That's entertainment!