Category Archives: Blah-blah-blah

girls are in da hizzouse

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There hasn’t been a whole lot to write about lately. Work is crazy busy this week, which is good because I don’t do well when I’m bored. (Hello, online games! Ah Rocket Mania, how I love you so.) And I’m actually enjoying the work that I’m doing, so that’s fantastic.

This past weekend, since Dave was in Oregon, Kris and I had sort of a “girls’ weekend”. Which doesn’t really mean much of anything, it’s not like we stayed up late doing each other’s hair and painting our toenails or anything. But we were on our own, without the presence of males (save for one neutered male cat, Beaumont), so I guess that’s close enough. Saturday, we drove around Seattle and checked out neighborhoods, so Kris can think about where she wants to live when she gets an apartment. We took a few photos, which will be online soon. We brought Lucky with us too, because we thought that she enjoyed riding in the car. As it turns out, she either ate too much grass when we stopped at the park, or else she got motion sickness, because she barfed all over the backseat. That was my first exposure to dog barf, and let me tell you, it is at least a thousand times grosser than cat barf. My god, that was horrifying. It reminded me of why I’m (still pretty much) a cat person.

That night, we went out for dinner, played pool and drank many beers. Well, I only had two beers because I had to drive. But I drank many more after we got home because I needed to catch up with Kris’s tipsiness. And boy, did I ever. I think we both passed out around 1 a.m. Because apparently we are old, and we can’t stay up all night anymore. But see what I mean about not having a stereotypical girls’ weekend? We are all about the beer and pool.

Sunday morning, Dave got home from Oregon – yay! We went to the store, stocked up on ridiculous amounts of groceries, watched the Oscars, and called it a night.

Last night was “all-you-can-eat crab legs” night at a restaurant that I normally consider somewhat sketchy, but I loves me some crab legs, so Kris and I went anyway. Dave doesn’t eat shellfish, and his tummy wasn’t feeling too good, so he didn’t come with us. I tease him about his anti-shellfish habits a lot, but seriously, it’s not like he’s allergic or anything. He just doesn’t like the whole “cracking of the shell” element. He’ll eat crab cakes, though. Just so long as he doesn’t have to get the meat out of the shell himself, he’s fine. He has no idea what he’s missing out on. Kee-razy. And for the record, sketchy restaurant or no, the crab legs were awesome.

And, that’s about it. I have (literally) about a dozen meetings between now and Friday, so I’ll try to update again soon, hopefully with something more interesting than this post, but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.

thursday drama

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Dave left yesterday afternoon for Oregon. He has some work thing in Portland, and he’s going to stay the weekend to do some sightseeing. I love Portland, and I have two uncles there who I adore and would love to see, so it would’ve been great if I could have gone with him. But, I had meetings today that I couldn’t cancel, so instead, he’s off in Oregon on his own. He’d better bring me back something pretty.

So, Kris has been leaving for work really early in the morning because she has an insane commute. From our house to her office is over 30 miles, which in Seattle rush hour traffic takes well over an hour. Since I leave almost two hours after she does, I’ve been taking Lucky out in the morning so she can go potty one last time before she gets locked up in the house for the day. I really love the dog, so I don’t mind doing that at all. Yesterday morning, however, she somehow managed to yank the leash out of my hand. She runs to the end of the leash all the time, so I don’t know how she caught me off guard, I guess I wasn’t fully awake yet. But she got a running start, and bam! The leash hit the ground, which might as well have been a starter pistol for how fast she took off down the driveway and across the street. The plastic handle of the leash bouncing on the ground behind her sounded kind of similar to the noise that kids’ bikes make when there are playing cards in the wheel spokes.

I went chasing after her – in clogs, because I am lazy and didn’t feel like putting on real shoes for taking the dog out – screaming for her to come back (morning, neighbors!), which of course she totally ignored. (And for the record, she does know that command because it works when we’re inside the house, or if the gate is closed and she’s running around the fenced-in yard. The dog just has selective hearing. Apparently she and my dad have a lot in common.) She headed down a dead-end street, so I wasn’t totally terrified of her getting hit by a car, but I was a little worried about having to chase after her into our neighbors’ yards.

I finally caught up with her a good five or ten minutes later, making me officially late for work. She had found an interesting scent in our neighbor’s hedges, and the leash was lying in the street, so I managed to grab the leash and yank her over to me. I was so mad that I smacked her on the head and yelled, “Bad dog!!” Now, before anyone freaks out on me: I didn’t hit the dog hard at all. I used the tips of my fingers, not the palm of my hand. I use more force when I’m smoothing down my own hair. I just wanted to make sure I had her attention. And boy, did I ever. The look she gave me when I yelled at her can only be described as utter shock and betrayal. Because, you know, I’m supposed to be the fun aunt, not the mean mommy. For the rest of the walk back to our house, every couple of minutes she’d look at me, then duck her head in shame. I felt sort of horrible about it, so I gave her a milk-bone when we got back to the house, and all was forgiven.

That evening, I was driving home from work, talking on my cell phone to my dad about how to post pictures of the used golf clubs that he wants to sell on eBay. (Yes, I talk and drive. I am that girl. Sorry if I accidentally cut you off. Feel free to flip the bird at me, I probably won’t notice since I’m too busy chatting away.) My other line beeped, and I saw that it was Kris, so I told my dad that I’d call him back. Kris said she couldn’t unlock the front door. She unlocked the deadbolt, but the doorknob itself was locked, and she didn’t have a key for that. Problem? Neither do I! We never lock the doorknob (hi, potential burglars!). It’s just a simple push-and-twist lock, it seems pretty useless, so we only use the deadbolt. Our housekeeper came yesterday, so she must’ve locked it on her way out. It’s probably my fault for not explaining exactly how to lock up when she was done, but the woman barely understands English, so I just never bothered. (I’m going to put some duct tape over the lock so it won’t happen again.)

Ok, so. Locked out. Fun! The only person who might have had a key for the bottom lock would be Dave – and oh, did I mention that he’s in Oregon? I stopped at the store on my way home and bought bobby pins, to see if I could pop the lock that way. I’ve accidentally locked the push-button lock on my bedroom door before, and I used a hairpin to unlock that, so I figured this couldn’t be too different. HA! I was wrong. Meanwhile, Lucky had her nose pressed against the window, anxiously waiting for us to get in, so we could take her outside to pee. Poor dog.

I headed to my neighbor Carol’s house across the street. I asked her what she knew about breaking and entering. She said not much, but she came over with her swiss army knife to see if she could do it. Her fifteen year-old daughter was with her, going, “Um, mom? If you really manage to pick that lock, I’m going to have a whooole lot of questions to ask you…”

Carol couldn’t pick the lock. I remembered that our bedroom window was unlocked (hi again, burglars!), so I asked her if she had a tall extension ladder. She did. Charlotte (her daughter) went back across the street to get it, and she and Kris held the ladder while I climbed up and into my own bedroom window. The sight of me hauling myself headfirst through a window (I landed in an awkward “oof!” handstand formation on the other side) must’ve been hilarious to any neighbors who happened to see us. Teenie was sitting on the bed, looking at me like, “WTF? You’ve never come in that way before!”

So, yeah. That about sums up my Thursday. I am so ready for the weekend, you cannot even imagine.

random stuff and a minor political rant

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I’m a little bit scatter-brained today, so here are a few things that have been floating around in my head:

* You know how I have to take a whole bunch of vitamins because of my gastric bypass? One of them is an iron supplement, which I’m supposed to take at least two hours apart from my other vitamins. (I can’t remember why, something about iron bonding with calcium and then not absorbing either.) As a result, I often forget to take it, and then I get lectured by my doctor when my bloodwork shows that I’m borderline anemic. I now keep my iron pills in my purse so I can take them during the day at work. Today, I reached into my purse to get it, and instead, I ate an antacid. Which, ok, I suppose an extra antacid won’t hurt me, but to be consciously thinking of my iron pill, and then to grab (and chew!) a Rolaids before I realized that “oops, that wasn’t what I was going for”? That’s a little weird.

* I can’t figure out if I’m coming down with a cold (which seems entirely likely) or if it’s PMS (which is not just likely, but a flat-out fact), but my equilibrium seems off today. I’ve had to walk down the stairs in my office building twice this morning, and both times I got these weird dizzy spells and felt like I was going to fall. I have a tendency to fall down at unfortunate times anyway, but I really don’t want to fall on the stairs at work, because (a) ouch, (b) I already have a bad knee and don’t need to make it worse, and (c) how embarassing is it to fall down in front of your co-workers? I kept a death-grip on the handrail, so I didn’t fall. But I think I’m taking the elevator for the rest of the day, just in case.

* Today is Kris’s first day at her new job. I keep wanting to call her and check in to see how she’s doing, but I think that’s probably a bad idea. I’m just so excited for her.

* There’s a girl I work with, who’s very tall, thin and pretty. She’s one of those Northwest granola types who never wears a speck of make-up, but still manages to like she could be a model. And she’s nice, so I can’t even dislike her. Today I happened to be in the ladies room at the same time as her, and she ripped a huge fart. This made me inexplicably happy. I guess it was just the realization that she isn’t one hundred percent perfect. (Yes, I’m a freak.)

* On a more serious note, this makes me sad for my home state. I guess the upshot is that girls with unwanted pregnancies in Mississippi are going to have to make a little road trip to get their abortions. But for pete’s sake, there was only one abortion clinic in the whole state to begin with. And you know what? I know exactly where it is, because it was on my route home from high school, and I remember the protesters out there with their signs almost every afternoon. My mom used to laugh at the hypocrisy, that they were never out there protesting when the weather was bad.

There was a girl at my high school who lived with her grandparents, and they were both radical pro-lifers. She was too, I suppose because you buy into your role models’ propaganda when you’re young and impressionable. She tried to convince our entire ninth grade gym class that birth control pills were evil because they acted as an abortive device. (WTF?) I remember going to her house one day after school, and there was a message on the answering machine for her: “Hi sweetie, it’s Gramps. Grandma got arrested again this afternoon, so I’ll be a little late while I go downtown to bail her out.” She shrugged it off and said that something like that happened at least a couple of times every month, and acted like it was no big deal.

I have no idea why all of that came back to me today, I haven’t seen that girl in probably fifteen years. Reading that article just made me wonder if her grandparents were still around, because I imagine this would’ve been a happy day for them.

I also remember that abortion clinic because it was next door to a motel where one of my brother’s friends committed suicide. That was in 1995. On the rare occasions that I visit my hometown, I usually make a point of avoiding that particular intersection. But you can see the motel from the freeway, so I can never really avoid it completely. It always reminds me of his mother, who was a very sweet lady (and a friend of my mom’s). It’s been eleven years and she has never recovered from the loss of her son. I guess you don’t bounce back from something like that.

And that, folks, is the bizarre stream-of-consciousness that makes up my brain today. Sorry to end on a bit of a downer note, but there you have it.

no woman, now cry

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Hi folks,

You may well be able to discern from my deep typing voice that this is not the Poobou. I have decided to execute my right as co-author of the site to ‘write a damn post’ as my lovely wife might put it!

Well, Cindy has been away for 2 days now, and I assume she will be somewhere in deepest Nebraska right now with nought but a sedan, a best friend and an iPod. Not a bad place to be, in my opinion..

So how am I enjoying my time on my own… well… I’ve managed to keep 35% of the house tidy and have only broken 3 ornaments. I have also introduced my guitar amplifier to ‘Volume level 7’.. I fear notching it up to 10 until we’ve had the siding on the house fixed.

Strangely enough, I usually thrive in my own space (I did a remarkable job for 20 odd years), but I do find myself wanting my spouse back home at her earliest convenience :)… I guess I’m just turning into a sentimental fuddy-duddy as I get older.

SO here’s good vibes to Cindy’s road trip, I can only imagine the fun they’re having… *unwraps 2-day-old ham sandwich , stares blankly at open, and surprisingly incomplete, weekly report*

I shall report in as I hear from the Cindy, and I may also take time to fill you in on the perils that I will be facing from a weekend alone, with 4 cats, a pizza take out menu, and a widescreen TV… Pray for me…

happy valentine's day

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I forgot to mention the completely overwhelmingly romantic weekend we had. (Can you tell I’m being a little sarcastic?) Saturday the 11th was the one year anniversary of the day that Dave and I got engaged. How did we celebrate, you ask? (Or, I assume you would ask, if you actually gave a flip?) Well, we had a contractor come to our house to give us an estimate on new siding. So we got to spend a couple of hours talking about vinyl versus fiber cement, and all of the mildew and rotting wood that currently exists on the outside of our home. Isn’t that sweet? For dinner, we had leftover pizza. Mmmm… Oh, the rapture of it all.

Then yesterday was the anniversary of the day I got my ring. I totally forgot that one until we were in the car driving to work this morning. As for Valentine’s Day itself, other than the festively pink-and-white M&M’s that I bought on sale at the supermarket last week, we haven’t done anything to mark that occasion either. In fact, I sort of forgot that was today too. I hope Dave hasn’t bought me anything because I totally forgot to get something for him. I told him last week that he was off the hook and didn’t have to get me any gifts. I really hope he listened.

I guess the moral of the story is that I don’t need a Hallmark-dictated holiday to tell my husband how much I love him, because I do that pretty regularly. (And vice versa.) This is pretty much the same as any other ol’ Tuesday, there’s just a lot more candy around. Which I fully support.

in which the women's movement fails me

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First, the update I know you’re all dying to hear: I’m still not pregnant. But I have started taking my temperature every morning to give this whole ovulation-charting thing a test run, so that’s bound to be exciting. Nothing like a read-out on a thermometer to get one in the mood for sweet lovin’ with one’s spouse. Haaaa.

We had more septic tank problems over the weekend, which I won’t write about it in detail because I’m sure y’all are sick to death of hearing about it. The happy part is that it didn’t cost us anything because Dave fixed it himself. The infuriating part: apparently the last time the repair people were here, when we dropped a couple of grand on getting a whole new pump? The technician forgot to turn the damn system back on when he was finished. Luckily we discovered it before it flooded into the house again. And now we know how long we can go with a completely shut-down system before all the tanks are full (about 6 weeks). Which I suppose is useful information to have. But we were both pretty enraged that the dude didn’t even think to flick the power switch to “on” before he left. I’m going to get Dave to call and file a complaint – usually I’m better at that (we have a pretty nice “good cop/bad cop” routine; he’s the polite Brit, I’m the rude American), but I think that in male-dominated industries like that one, they just might take it more seriously if it comes from a man. Plus, Dave can be calmly angry whereas I’d probably just lose my mind and start screaming about what a bleeping bleep-for-brains bleep-head their technicians are. Only without the self-censorship.

Ok, enough of the rage. Total change of topic: on Saturday night, Dave and I watched “Rosemary’s Baby”, which neither of us had seen before. Very odd movie. Some of it was totally campy – I giggled at things that I’m pretty sure were supposed to be serious. I didn’t think it was all that scary, although the idea of messing with a pregnant woman really bothered me. (Hmm, wonder why I’m sensitive to that?) But mostly I was annoyed with Mia Farrow’s character for being so damn passive. What can I say, my feminist side got all riled up over a movie that was made in 1968. I’m silly that way.

I just realized that I claimed my feminism in a paragraph immediately following one in which I said that I thought people listened to my husband more than they listened to me. Hmmm… hypocrisy, anyone?

In fellow blogger news, The Boy Davis is vacationing at our humble home this week, which is fun since he and Dave are old friends and haven’t seen each other for a few years. Don’t ask me why anyone would voluntarily opt for a vacation in Duvall, but hey, maybe he really likes farm animals and depressingly bleak weather? Those are things we seem to have in abundance. (I know the weather situation is temporary, but god! Enough with the rain already!)

Anyway, I’m trying to hide out and leave them to have lots of male-bonding time. (See the anti-feminism flaring up again? Where does this come from?) This might even turn out to be the week that I finally catch up on all the shows I’ve DVR’ed over the last few months. Season 2 of “Lost,” here I come!

back to present (crabby) day

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Warning to sensitive male readers: this post is going to contain items of an oversharing, girly nature. Proceed at your own risk.

I seem to have a wicked case of PMS this week. (See, guys? I warned you!) I’m irrationally grouchy for no reason, my boobs ache and I’m going through a lot of that whole “give me chocolate or DIE!!!” thing. Oh, and don’t forget the zits. Forehead, cheek, eyebrow, chin: check! (There’s another one under my right ear that I swear you could build a ski lift on. Ow.) You should all send Internet sympathy hugs to Dave, the poor soul who has to live with me. At least I try to warn him and apologize in advance, so my bitchy outbursts won’t be totally unexpected. I’m just courteous that way.

It’s funny (not ha-ha funny, just odd), there is a noticeable difference between my PMS symptoms when I’m on birth control as opposed to when I’m not, and honestly? It is way worse when I’m off of it. Speaking of which, you know how when I made the decision to ditch my birth control, I said that we were just going to relax and see what happened? How we weren’t really “trying,” we were just removing any preventative measures? Ok, that’s fine and all, but WHAT GIVES?? I’m about to have my 4th period (fourth!) with no birth control and still nothing. I just assumed that I’d get pregnant immediately since I have a ridiculously fertile family – my grandmother had 7 kids and my great-grandmother had 16. And no, that isn’t a typo, the woman had sixteen babies – she spent more time pregnant than a lot of people serve in prison for murder – and she still outlived her husband by many years. I mean, how is it that every teenager who gets drunk at their junior prom winds up with an unwanted pregnancy their first time, and we haven’t been able to pull it off in 4 months? The hell? Annoying!

Before anyone lectures me that if I stress myself out about it then I’ll never get pregnant, let me just say that this really hasn’t been bothering me that much. It’s only irritating me because every little damn thing in the world is irritating me right now. Honest. I know this mood will pass soon enough and I’ll feel silly for having written about it, but there you have it. Right now, at this very moment, I am annoyed.

And since it was bothering me, I started doing some Internet research (because, you know, that’s always a good idea) about how one goes about charting one’s ovulation. I found this website, which is full of fascinating tips. This is the paragraph about basal body temperature (BBT) that made me scream out loud:

Take your BBT temperature first thing each morning – as soon as you wake up. You must remain in bed (as physical activity can increase your temperature) and avoid eating or drinking or even moving. Either insert the thermometer in your mouth – or alternatively your rectum – and wait five minutes. Read the temperature to within 1/10 of a degree and record the reading.

Wait, “or alternatively your rectum”? Wow! Who would CHOOSE that when you have the option to take your temperature orally? Who on earth wakes up and thinks, “hmm, I think the best way to start my day today is to shove some foreign object up my butt for 5 minutes”?? Ok, don’t answer that question. I’m sure those people are out there, and I don’t want to meet them. I especially don’t ever want to shake their hands. Of course, now the only thing I can think of is that stupid joke where the punchline is, “Rectum? Damn near killed him!” I don’t remember the rest of the joke (I think there are about a hundred different versions), which makes it even more lame that it now seems to be on some kind of weird loop in my brain.

Now I’m off to my boss’s office birthday party, because hey, free cake! It had better be chocolate.

And GOD, I don’t want to imagine the Google hits I’m going to get because of this entry.