Destination: Forever

After dealing with the blood, sweat, and tears that is planning a wedding, Mr. G and I were more than ready for the sweet victory of the honeymoon. We took off from Columbus on Monday morning following our wedding and flew through Newark, NJ to San Juan, PR and then on to Antigua.

After a grueling bus ride through pitch black, no-man's land we arrived at our Sandals Resort and dropped our bags. Immediately, a wonderfully friendly resort person introduced himself, greeted us with chilled glasses of champagne, and told us to have a seat in the huge overstuffed chairs in the indoor/outdoor lobby. Perfection.

He checked us in, filed all the necessary paperwork, and showed us through the jungle and pool areas to our room. I remember feeling in awe of the beauty that surrounded us. It was difficult to take it all in. There were gorgeous and smooth terracotta tiled paths leading us through towering palms and chest-high exotic flower bushes. We could hear the sounds of the waves crashing on the beaches nearby, and feel the breeze off the ocean stirring our hair. One of the many pools in the resort flanked our room, and was lit softly from below, empty and beckoning us in with it's coolness.

We entered our room and immediately noticed the huge four poster mahogany bed in the center covered with mounds of soft, cream pillows. A great gold and mahogany fan spun lazily overhead, creating a nice breeze. There was a large, white tiled bathroom and an adjacent mirrored dressing area. Our room had a front entrance onto a common outdoor hallway, everything here was outdoor, and another back entrance to our own private deck. We were on the first floor of two floors and so could step right off our deck and onto the pool path. Though you couldn't see the pool just a few feet away, because the foliage was so encompassing of the walkway.

The staff and support people of the resort were so friendly, I felt like they were in on a big secret with us. They would stop what they were doing to ask us if we would like our picture taken, or did we need anything? I felt so emotional coming off such the incredible high that was our wedding that I immediately felt as if the staff were family, and I wanted to share my vacation with them. Each day we would return to our room after lounging at the pool or on the beach to find it in pristine condition, everything put in it's proper place, with flowers by the bedside.

And even more special than the sand, the sun, the people, and the food was that complete relaxation that only occurs so many times in your life. Being in such a beautiful setting with the man I had just vowed to spend the rest of my life with, enjoying every minute of every day, that was the Honeymoon. Making each other laugh over the impish details of the wedding, and realizing how wrapped up in it we undoubtedly got, made us appreciate each other's sense of humor that much more. Rising together, eating together, walking, swimming, sleeping together made every day feel like a commitment to each other. No interruptions, not one soul who even recognized us. We promised each other everything from the smallest of possibilities to the most outlandish plots ever dreamed up.

After spending so much time there, it was difficult to leave it.

I understand why people return to their honeymoon destinations for years and years to follow. And it has nothing to do with the resort.

Quit...

I could eat this with a spoon, I swear I could.

For lack of creative energy today, because it's late, and I am not capable of working 8.5 hours straight (or gay for that matter), I'll just tell you a little about the psychological problems of my dog lately. Kay? So when Hunter came into our lives as an 11 week old French Brittany pup, he was A.DOR.A.BLE. But let's face it, the only puppies that aren't adorable are the ones Brittany and Paris are constantly trying to manipulate into fashionable baggage. I digress. He was very cute and very, very energetic. And. We got him in November, in Pittsburgh of all places. The people of Pittsburgh know what I'm talking about when I say, kill me now if I have to live through another winter in the Steel City, okay slightly exaggerated, but you get my drift (pun intended). Tons of snow and freezing cold winds are not the ideal setting for potty training a stubborn, active dog with ADD. This is not relevant to my story, FYI.

Okay, so we move 6 times in the next year that we have him, not kidding, and I feel like he's adapting quite well to the crap we've put him through. Now he'll be 3 years old in September and for the last month, he has become possessed by some insanely aggressive, Dr. Jekyll-type character who LOVES to eat small dogs. Mainly, the one pictured above, who our great friends Carter and Erica brought over to our house on the 4th of July to "play" with Hunter (The Small-Dog-Eating Lord of the Underworld). I have to admit that a few weeks earlier we got a small clue that something was going on because the Day Care we take him to (yes, we take him to a day care, shut up I don't have kids yet) the Day Care manager Jenny informed me that she had to give him time-outs for playing too rough, aka attacking the living shit, with another dog. But I couldn't really believe her because A. Hunter is precious and B. I know those beady-eyed little dogs at Day Care secretly have it out for the cool kid in class.

Apparently, Jenny was right. Erica and Carter got Henry (pic'd above) a few weeks ago and I am totally obsessed with dogs so I've been begging them to come over forever. Before they arrived Mr. G intentionally ran the daylights out of Hunter at the dog run so that he would be nice and obedient for our 'play date'. When Henry arrived, we took Hunter outside to meet him formally on neutral turf and then once they seemed to be okay with each other, ie the smelling of the butts was over, we brought both inside. Everything was going along swimmingly and Erica and I were chatting on the couch, next to the dog bed that Hunter and Henry were sharing. All of the sudden Hunter freaked out on the pup and pinned him down, barking, and acting like a total freak of nature. Poor Henry howled his little pants off for at least 10 minutes while Mr. G hung Hunter out the window by his eyelids.

I felt like puking my guac and chips up for the next 4 hours. I don't know what the hell is wrong with the canine, but I only get a week a month to be a bitch so his time is up! There isn't room for both of us in this tiny apartment during our 'special time' of the month.

The Losing of the Purse, Part 1

The losing of the purses, I have decided, is a metaphor for how I like to deal with commitment. Not relationship commitment so much as employment commitment or geographical commitment. Exhibit A: The very first purse I lost was after my sophomore year at Bowling Green when I began to feel like this whole college thing was truly overrated. It was a small, square, rattan number with a very annoying pineapple appliqued into one side of the rattan. Witness fashion perfection. We'll hitherforetoafter refer to this little ditty as 'The Pineapple'.

It was mid-summer before my first year of nursing school, and I was living in Glorious Toledo Ohio, the venerable "Armpit of America". Most of my friends lived in BG and were working joke-jobs for the summer and going out every night, while I was spending 40 hours a week doing clinicals and homework. Yum. Finally, I decided to break out of my anti-social, anti-fun shell and head down to BG for a night of binge drinking and dancing. Thursday night, I arrived at the group house where most of my friends were living for the summer and we proceeded to have a great time grilling out, drinking, and acting like idiots. All the while, carrying my hot little Pineapple around with me.

Some time around 12am, when we decided we were bored with each other and needed to hit the dance floor, we headed to Uptown (both bar and dance mecca for the completely inebriated). I'm basically three sheets at this point and made the all intelligent choice to have the two nice gentlemen stationed beside the bar watch my Pineapple while I went off to strut my Micheal Jackson imitation dance moves. THREE HOURS LATER, du-duh-duh, (we can see where this is going) I return to the bar in search of my Pineapple. What? What's that? Those two nice gentlemen didn't decide to fore-go their night of entertainment in order to safely guardian over my purse? The hell you say. Guar.an.teed those guys hit the door the second I turned my back, holding my Pineapple hostage.

So, now I start to sober up. I'm thinking about the items in the bag: car keys, house keys, wallet, cell phone, money, gift certificates, social security card, etc. I have no idea how to get back to Toledo or even just move my car so the guy parked in front of me in the driveway can get out. Yikes. Friday morning, still no Pineapple, I make the dreaded phone call to my parents begging them to overnight my spare set of keys from Columbus. (Because that is the only logical place for my spare set of keys to be, considering I let perfect strangers watch my purse at 12am in a bar.) My mom reassures me that yes, it will be okay and yes, I am the idiot I think I am. Then I drag all of my friends back to the bar to look in every trash can, ask every wino, and leave no stone unturned trying to locate the purse. Why these people are still my friends I have no idea, because we were hungover as hell and it was 100 degrees outside. Yes!

Still no Pineapple, I wait for my keys to arrive the next day and return to Toledo. I'm a walking zombie for two days, worrying about all of my things and re-ordering important identification documents. All the while I'm thinking in the back of my head, (the part I was not using when I propositioned the boys at the bar) that some one would find my purse and send it back to its rightful owner. Boy am I naive. The dread sets in and I give up hope, congratulations cruel world you won. And yet...

Wait, what's that I hear? Naivety winning in the end? Get this, on Monday afternoon I return to the apartment after class and the little red light is blinking on our answering machine (ah memories, remember answering machines?). I retrieve the message and it's this little Asian-accented man babbling about the post office and blue mailbox and A PINEAPPLE PURSE. I immediately go deaf and dumb, stuttering thanks and praise to my new best Asian friend. We made arrangements to meet at the post office in an hour and I hung up, completely in awe of the situation. I quickly tell my two roommates who were standing by watching the soap opera unfold in disbelief and we're all jumping up and down in the kitchen praising Allah and Jesus and Tom Cruise.

Then I stop. I had just made a crushing revelation and my heart sank into the pits of despair, yet again. Cruel World = 2, Me = 0. This had to be a joke, because during the crying and the wringing of the hands and the blood letting of Saturday, I had made the comment to my friend Sara (the epitome of a best friend and also the greatest and most heinous joke player known to man) that once I saw on Oprah how people find things other people have lost all the time and drop the items in blue mailboxes because they know the postal people will return them to their rightful owners. That little b.i.o.t.c.h just had some guy call me, pretending to be a mailman, and fed me that lie so that they can all gather around a beer cooler in the post office parking lot, waiting for me to come flying in there expecting my Pineapple! I was furyocious. (New word.) I immediately call Sara, and start yelling at her that the joke's over and I know her little tricks and we're broken up best friends now. Only she has no idea what I'm ranting about and I finally realize it's true. The Pineapple is back!

(Wow this is the longest post I've ever written.)

So I'll be brief. Ha. I fly down to BG, go straight to the post office, and am literally crawling out of my skin before I see my new Asian friend behind the counter. I ransack him and explain that I am the Pineapple owner and he leaves to retrieve my treasure. As I watch him walk back to the counter the bag comes into view. I hate what that stupid purse just put me through but I have never been so happy to see a Pineapple in my whole life. Everything was in the purse. The phone, the keys, even the gift certificates, but there was no cash (which may be because I had spent it all ordering Buttery Nipples before leaving the purse with the thieves at the bar).

True Story.

Sign the Petition ~ Save Carroll Gardens!

Since this ridiculous development makes my blood boil more than the heat in my office, I have to tag the story of the atrocious building being constructed in my neighborhood. Please take a moment to sign the petition to ban construction on any buildings higher than 50 feet, which is the height of all of the brownstones in our neighborhood. It would truly ruin the atmosphere and beauty of our serene 'little village'.

Thank you.

E.A.S.

Dear Elbow Lady on the A Express Train This Morning,

I understand that you may have had a rough morning. I, myself, have had many, many, many rough mornings since taking up residence in this Great and Holy city. However, never have I thought it appropriate to stab someone on my morning commute with not one, but both of my elbows in a flurry of skin and bone. But you, Elbow Lady, were not willing to overlook one more subway personal space slight on July 17th, 2007. Oh no, you looked me straight in the eye, after I unknowingly and innocently brushed your arm with my work bag, and gutted me with your elbows while attempting with all your might to make me shrivel up and die from your glare.

Don't get me wrong, in some ways I value your personal space and politeness stance. There have been times when I too have felt the need to strike out at all that is unfair in this world by attacking the person blocking my way to the exit doors. That being said, I have to ask you, Elbow Lady, what if we all decided to wreak havoc with our body parts on unsuspecting passengers in mass transit systems all across the world every morning? Think of the horror. Add to that the overall stench that is ingrained so deep into the bowels of this city that my nasal passages are forever scarred and may never smell the sweetness of a fresh baked cookie ever again, and you tell me we need more violence in our subways. Well? WELL!

Therefore, as my part, I will overlook today's unfortunate experience. But so help me Lord, Elbows, if I ever see you again on any form of public transportation, and if when I see you, you commit some itsy, bitsy impoliteness to anyone around you, trust that I will fly at you like furious vengeance until you beg for mercy from a crumpled heap underneath my feet. This is only fair, and the karma fairies have taken notice this day. So be ye forewarned, I have your number and I'm not afraid to use it.

XOXO,
E.A.S. (Elbow Attack Survivor)

Oh, No You Di'nt

I'm not even sure where to start this little dity of a tale here. Okay, (revving up for monster story telling, hold onto your undies), so a few months ago my darling, forgetful, anti-detail oriented husband got a text message from a college buddy, let's call him Sam, asking for our address. But being the Procrastination King of the East Coast doesn't come right up and knock on your door, oh no. That shit is earned. So my husband doesn't reply to Sam's text message and all's well that ends well. I wish. A few weeks later, our other college friends start making plans to attend the wedding of Sam and his fiance in Michigan. Only we aren't planning anything because someone didn't reply to Sam's text message. (Gaining some momentum here).

Cut to a few weeks later, specifically two weeks before the Glorious Wedding, and the same someone I was referring to earlier gives our old buddy Sam a call and basically Invites Himself To The Wedding that is two weeks away (insert gasp now). Oh yes he did. Only he didn't just Invite Himself, oh no, he roped me into this diabolical plan, too. And! He went ahead and bought the plane tickets from NY to Michigan that same day and all of the sudden I'm stuck in this ill-mannered, tasteless, offensive whirlwind on the high road to hell.

So thinking quickly, I automatically search the internet for their bridal registry and send off a semi-expensive gift with the card reading, "Can't wait to see you at the wedding!" - hint, hint. Ready or not, here we come! Then I check for a wedding webpage, check. Scroll over to the guestbook and quickly jot a note to Sam and his fiance, "Thank you for remembering us on your special day!" - HINT, HINT. I don't really know what I was thinking, only that I had to do something, anything that might lessen the blow of us showing up to crash a wedding in less than two weeks.

Friends, it was inevitable. We pile into the limo on the day of the wedding with all of our friends. We head to the church where we obediently sit on the groom's side and give witness to a beautiful wedding. We hop back in the limo to travel to the reception. We arrive and make our way to the place card table. And do you know what? NO PLACE CARD WITH OUR NAMES ON IT. (Insert cringe and face reddening now.) I'm standing there scanning, scanning, re-scanning but magically, no card appears out of thin air with our names on it. Our friends are all picking up their place cards, as we stand there with what could only be described as Shit-eating Faces on, awaiting our death sentences.

The poor lady at the card table, surmising what has happened off-handedly mentions there might be extra seats at Table 30. While she was really thinking, "These inconsiderate heels are getting what they deserve!" Fantastic. So as we scurry over to Table 30, I resign myself to kill my husband at the first available moment/break in the music. The rest of the evening is spent staring at the bottom of empty drink glasses and repeating over and over to myself that this is not happening. I also had to avoid the bride and groom like the plague in the fear that we might be called upon as the uninvited guests who ruined the party. Super.

Item number 43 on my list of Things To Do Before I Die: Crash Wedding = CHECK!

At least we look good.

A2 Here We Come

So we're gearing up for a liver-barraging weekend in Michigan with tons of friends we haven't seen since the BG and U of M days, altogether in one place. It promises to not disappoint. Looking back over the years I can quickly remember a ton, or more, stories of Michigan's mischevious activious.

Witness:

There was that time someone decided to through a toga party and the guys ran out to Jo-Ann Fabrics, (Yes, grown, big, large, and hairy men picking out pink polka dotted fabric by the yard at Jo-Jo's. Together.) to get as much horribly tacky material they could find to dress up in for the night. Tony's had a hard time staying on and covering his most masculine parts, much to the horrific delight of everyone else at the party. It was the first and last time I've ever witnessed public man balls at a party before 10pm.

One of the many times we invaded and crashed a frat party, wherein I was the mole who infiltrated first and then after seeming to blend in with the party, started bringing people through the front door as "my date". And by blend in I mean getting totally plastered, and dancing around like an idiot to Hypnotize. I got about 10 people in that night before some uber-intelligent Sigma Chi figured out my evil plan. Then we all got kicked out and went to Pancheros. Yum-ee.

And the time Mr. G decided to celebrate a winning night of beer pong by face planting in 4 feet of snow, because don't we all need to reconnect with our inner child anyway? But seriously, it took him a few just to get up and moving. And it was only because Pancheros was waiting...

The absolute marathons that always happened the day after the spring game were pretty amazing feats of strength, all around. I remember trying to play a kickoff return in the front yard using a roll of paper towels as the football and Phil absolutely killing himself in his most specialist place when he duffed the ball and landed in the bushes. I laughed until a little pee came out. Sorry, is that offensive?

"Good times. Good people."
~Andy M.

Bring it.

Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy

Yesterday, was my 2nd Anniversary to Mr. G. So in addition to the Snapfish Calendar of pictures I made him (that he won't take to work because he was not exactly sober in some of the pics), I will dedicate this post to him.

Dr. Mr. G,
Thank you for making me laugh so often I have now have abs of steel.
Thank you for forgiving my stupidity and praising me for my insanity.
Thank you for taking the dog out at night when my feet hurt too bad to take the steps one more time.
Thank you for loving my cooking, case in point: the cold broccoli salad (disgusting).
Thank you for carrying the bag of laundry down and never asking me to do it.
Thank you for understanding my incredibly whacked out hormone cycle.
Thank you for telling me about a hundred times a day that you love and respect me.
Thank you for being you, you are the Wonton's in my soup.

I can't wait:
---for our next CSI SVU episode.
---for our next road trip, complete with singing and car dancing.
---to make you dinner again.
---to get your phone call at work, in the middle of a crazy stressful day.
---to decorate for Christmas with you.
---to be married to such a wonderful man for a whole 'nother year.

Love,
Me

I Won't Be Ready To Make My Television Debut Anytime Soon

Make-up and subways do not mix. This is a little disclaimer(slash)warning to the people of New York: I do not wear make up in 110 degree heat. It is physically impossible to accomplish the make-up-putting-on-at-home without arriving at work resembling some sort of Creature from the Blue Lagoon, only oilier (because oily definitely needs comparative form status here). Plus, I love love extra G-Love and Special Sauce, the feeling of a fresh-washed face. Yummy. It's like I'm saying 'Screw off dirt and grime! I don't need your lazy ass hanging around here anymore.' Then I kick out the dirt and grime's clothes and furniture so he has to move in with his new girlfriend who bleaches her hair every day and watches Judge Judy, for educational purposes.

I also do not blow-dry or fashion my hair in any way, shape, or form in the summertime. It only amounts to fruitless attempts at convincing the raging, out of control, animal living on top of my head to conform to mediocrity. And let me tell you, my hair is no mediocre. It is manic, in a whole new genre of insanity thanks to the heat and moisture. But I'm proud of her for standing up for what she believes in, and I won't stifle her creativity with hairdryers and straightening irons, oh no! Every morning I wake up, take a look in the mirror at the Cirque du Soleil going on upstairs and say, 'You go on with your bad-self, Hair. It's all you.'

So here I am mid-July, no makeup, no hair-do. It's like my image went on Summer Break, and I was glad to see it go. Now I understand my elementary school teachers so much better.

Vying for a Raise

What to do? Do you know what it's like to be invited to a party at someone's home, let's say this person is your boss, for the first time and you have no idea if you are supposed to bring a gift/offering? Let's play out a couple of scenarios, shall we?

1. Guest A brings a bottle of $12 wine.
a. Problems with option #1: What if the host is not a wine drinker? This renders your gift completely inappropriate, you might as well have given them a garden hose reel. Also, Guest B would probably bring a $60 bottle of wine and make your offering look like a piece of sh*t. Way to go, Cheapskate, you're fired.

2. Guest A brings flowers.
a. Problemo for 2: There are oh, let's say about 40 other people attending said party and if we all bring the standard flower arrangement the host will end up paying a dump truck to come at the end of the day to dispose of all the dead flowers. Pavlov says boss will now associate your presence at their house with death and unnecessary expense.

3. Guest A listens to her husband and does not bring a gift at all, quote, "We are the guests. We don't have to bring anything. Ugh, stupid wife!"
a. Problems with your husband-er option #3: You will look like an ass. (Nuf said.) And don't ask your husband for decorum advice anymore, he is the same man who sends out an Amazon gift list to his friends and family for his birthday.

Internet, I'm open to suggestions. Suggest away. Oh, by the way, the party is tonight.