Towel-buying will never be the same

I am shattered.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/jessicamisener/bed-bath-beyond-is-a-palace-of-lies

Buzzkill

On Sunday morning, Beau and I lazed around the house.

I, of course, made inane chatter (something Beau is used to, so don't feel sorry for him).

It was snowy outside (something that simultaneously made me gleeful and Beau annoyed). I was happy to sit under my new blanket.

It's fleece. It's soft. It's warm. And it's a cheerful shade yellow. It makes me happy every time I see it.

Don't you love my new blanket? I asked Beau.

Sure, he groused. It's like sitting under a big ShamWow.

:|

Thanks to Mr. Wet Blanket I am no longer as thrilled with my yellow blanket. 

Permission

This is something I've noticed a lot lately.

In random discussions with folks from different walks of life, I've encountered some version of the following statements:

My husband/boyfriend says I'm not allowed to do that.

My wife/girlfriend won't let me do that. 

I'm not talking about the things that anybody who loves someone wouldn't allow (like drunk driving, fucking around, or mainlining heroin). I'm talking about everyday things like small purchases or getting a pet (when there's no allergy or financial strain involved) or eating a treat.

The Denver metro area is rife with folks who have coupled with despots. 

Why else would a grown-ass adult blindly follow the rules of another?

Beau and I discuss things and give opinions (and respect those opinions), but nobody lays down the law.

Life is a series of choices and consequences. Shouldn't we all be able to make choices on our own (keeping in mind the needs and wants of loved ones and the consequences of our actions)?

I'm surprised it doesn't inspire more rebellion. Because the second someone tells me I can't do something, I want to do it. And I want to do it in a big way.

Don't tell me I can't. Give me a reason why it upsets you, and I'll take that into consideration.

I don't need permission. 

Am I alone in this?

I'm sure this will alienate someone, but whatever

I just can't respect anybody who names their daughter NEVAEH.

That's HEAVEN spelled backward, for those of you who are not in the know.

Putting aside the fact that you're setting your baby up for a career on the pole with a name like that, here's my question:

If an upside-down cross is the mark of Satan, how is spelling Heaven backward not the mark of Hell?

These are answers I fear I'll never get.

If you've named your child NEVEAH and I've offended you horribly, I'm YRROS.

(not really.)

On Wednesday morning

I walked out of the house to find a mysterious box wrapped in plastic bags on my front porch.

I had been left there during the night or in the wee hours.

I went to open it and then stopped, with visions of some sort of shit bomb dancing through my head.

There was about a 50/50 chance of that box being a good thing.

I left it there. And then I did what any wimpy 39-year-old woman would do. I called my dad and made him drive over (we live in the same neighborhood) and open it.

Oh yes, I did. I'm that pitiful.

Turns out it was a box full of pictures my aunt found in my grandma's house (she's moved into assisted living--this is not McDonalds grandma) and wanted me to have.

But it COULD HAVE been a shit bomb. 

Sigh.

I need to reexamine my life.

Dear Gummy Corp.

For the love of God, MAKE THIS SHIT STOP!

The words Adult Gummies Fish Oil need never EVER appear together like this.

[shudder]

Overheard at Macy's

Two saleswomen were chatting as Mom and I browsed nearby. (One had long--waaaay too long--hair that had been curled in those pink foam curlers for the past 40 years. She found a look she liked and NEVER changed it.)

Saleswoman 1: If you want to keep it long, keep it long. But those split ends are gross and they bother me. Just let me get after them. [brandishes scissors]

Saleswoman 2: No! I'll just deal with split ends the way my sister taught me to deal with them when we were growing up.

S1: What was her method?

S2: She just bit them off and ate them.

HORK!!

Bought a candy thermometer

Just in case I want to make caramels.

I took a look at the thermometer and was thrilled to find out that I can also cook hard and soft (chewy?) crack with it!!

Shitflag update NUMBER TWO (get it?)

Shit's still there, but the other neighbors have seen fit to swipe some of the flags and stick them in offensive poop piles on their property.

I don't know if I should be more flattered or annoyed.

For now, I'm saving my annoyance for the shitters.

ValManTine

Beau and I don't usually go all out for Valentine's Day.

We usually do a little something to mark the day, but we're not one of those One Dozen Roses for Every Year I've Loved You, Carriage Rides in the Park, and Candlelit Rose Petal Loveliness couples.

He usually makes me a card and I make him dinner (usually meatballs--this year, it's going to be turkey meatballs made with stuffing and dried cranberries: Thanksgiving in every bite!!).

But this week, I got a text that said I bought your Valentine's Day Gift. 

This simultaneously made me happy and anxious.

What am I going to get him?

He's not a candy guy.

Flowers would be silly.

Shoot, shoot, shoot!

Then I decided to go with something tried and true.

So his ValManTine consisted of:

• A six-pack of Shiner Bock
• Sunflower seeds (he's an addict)
• Beef jerky

I. Am. A. Genius.