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.

Up In the Atmosphere

Maybe it's just me, but every time I cross the threshold of an airplane en route to one of the many destinations that I've been in the past few years, (mostly sunny and fabulastic Columbus, Ohio) I absolutely FREAK OUT. This is completely irrational freaking out, because A. I've been flying all my life, and 2. my hus-friend and I are never not on an airplane, hence I should be over it by now. But it happens all the same, so here is how it works: sweaty/nasty palms, beaded up forehead, severe and instantaneous nausea, incessant reciting of every Catholic prayer I can remember from my early years at Mater Dei Academy. (Yes, I seriously went to the Mother of God Academy.)

Also included in my in-flight psychotic routine is the absolute realization that I, or Mr. G, am going to die and my friends and family are going to take it really, really hard. The height of this spectacle is always as we are approaching arrival, and I can see buildings close to the airport. I always take note of these buildings because I am absolutely certain we are going to hit one or several of them. And sometimes I wonder from this height, are those people at home now or at work? I hope they're at work so when we hit their apartment building it will be empty.

What is my deal? I know the routine so well, you'd think I take some sort of sick delight in it. Since we've been flying a lot in the most recent past few months, I've taken to new hobbies like dreaming about being in planes that are going down. I kid you not, this is the dream I had last week: I arrive at the airport, go through security, walk to my gate, board the plane through the usual gate, stow my baggage in the overhead bin, buckle in, we take off, and then all of the sudden the plane takes a violent nosedive all the way to the ground, upon which time I wake up FREAKING OUT, again. And do you know the kicker? Two days later I had to fly to Columbus.

I don't mind flying, I really don't. It's exciting, mostly. Mostly being thrown in there to account for the death dreams and flying nervous breakdowns. Plus, I love arriving some place as the visitor and everyone's happy to see you. I know there's going to be a time in my life when I remember these days and trips as so very thrilling, blah-yada etc, so I'm trying to go with the flow. But just in case, I want the dog to go to Leslie and Zach, the furniture to Vince and Heidi, the booze to my Dad (he needs it more than I do), and my autographed photo of Hulk Hogan to David Riley because he was terribly jealous of it in the 5th grade (even though he says he wasn't).

Service Without the Smile

I was truly very excited this morning to find myself at the front of the McDonald's order line, mouth salivating at the thought of the impending deliciousness that is McDonald's breakfast, when a very interesting gentleman FLEW up to the counter right in front of me and SHOUTED that he had been waiting longer than me and wanted to order a McGriddle and a coffee!! Yes, it requires two exclamation points. He came out of nowhere, I swear. And scared the living shit out of me. And! It was like waking up Christmas morning to find that not only are there no presents with your name on them, but Santa is dead on your living room floor and all the little children are never going to get any presents either. I couldn't do anything but stand there and gawk at this screaming man who was hungry and starving for his McGriddle and coffee! I didn't even step back from the counter. I just stayed right there, rooted to the spot, within breaths of the lunatic. I wanted to slap his impatient little ass and send him home to his mama where he should ask for some lessons in MANNERS! But instead, I stood there like a turd with people tripping over my jaw that was lying on the floor several feet away from me, saying nothing. It's times like these that I wish I was a 300-pound, weight lifting, black belt wearing, facial hair growing, Comanche, kamikaze, Chuck Norris Trainee who could beat the living daylights out of that guy just by making eye contact with him. Where are you when I need you, Chuck? That would have been totally sweet.

*Note to self: enroll in The Norris School of Performing Combat.

Things That Aren't Very Fun

#1. Waking up sick as a dog and realizing you've spent all your sick days for the year, and it's June.

#2. Wait, I'd like to talk more about #1. It's not really fair. I am sicker more often this year than I was last year, which may have something to do with moving from a city whose population is 1 million to a city of 12 million, but I digress. I want more sick days.

#3. Being on a diet when you're sick as a dog. Why does greasy, fried food make you less sick feeling?

#4. That's all. I can't type anymore, I'm that tired...

SnapKodakPhoto Entry

I always love looking at pictures. Do you to?


This is Becky and Eric's wedding on May 26th. Look how wonderful and happy they look! The day was beautiful and everything went as planned after I shot the mother of the bride for telling Becky, minutes before she walked down the isle, that the florist FORGOT THE NOSEGAYS ON THE PINK TABLES. Are you kidding me?

This is my future-sister-in-law, Heidi's bachelorette party. We had so much fun, even if the band at this bar was totally Debbie Downer. I'm sorry, did you say Depressing Mopey Ballad Night? I think we'll pass. I believe, in all honesty and modesty (can you do that? honesty and modesty?), we were by far the craziest people out that night in the whole entire state of Ohio, in all it's wonderful nightlife splendor.





And here we have the April Girl's Trip to NYC and apparently my sister decided this man wanted her to dance with him on the sidewalk in front of the karaoke bar at 2am. I let her have her fun because: A. she had five babies at one time, and B. she was extremely heartbroken to find out the karaoke bar was closed for renovations when we got there and she wouldn't be able to sing The Gambler to her heart's content. Luckily, we have wedding videos from relatives, friends, acquaintances, some strangers too, dating back years and years of her singing The Gambler for all of the guests as if she were paid entertainment and not That Girl who everybody talks about the next day. Congratulations New York, you have met That Girl.

She passed out about an hour later, nakey, in my bed while the rest of us were outside recanting our middle school and high school drama fests circa 1993-1999 (because yes, I still have the same friends I've had since KINDERGARTEN) until 5 o'clock in the freaking morning. Oh the good life.

Forgive My Careless Disregard for Blog Designing

Internet, I don't know how to post my posts in the order I want them to be read. Also, while we're talking about it, I don't want posts I'm working on for a long time to date back to the day I started them when I finally publish them three months later. Work on these improvements on your own, Internet, and when I log back in tomorrow make sure they're fixed. This is how I solve problems, highlight them and then wait for them to fix themselves. Amen.

In other news, my writing goes in blips and blurbs and then a massive 234-ton Daddy Long Legs Monster Truck arrives with the rest of my ideas. Enter Daddy Long Legs. DLL would first like to talk about Weight Watchers. I've been on it for oh about 3-4 weeks minus weekends. Because you can do that when you're planning your own diet, decide to subtract the three most unhealthy eating days of anyone's adult life out of every week to do with what you want. And I say to myself, Self, do you have any idea why this little diet of ours isn't working? And Self says, no! But isn't it frustrating?! Then Self and I go get a 12 pack and 14 boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes to tide us over before the pizzas arrive. But, just like my mom used to tell me at Christmas time, "It's better than nothin".

Miscellaneous news item 2: I was out till 4:30 am this morning. Good, scratch, Great times were experienced to their little hearts delight and I consider these times some of the best therapy money can buy. And! It wasn't even my money! I managed to go out in New York City without spending a dime, and by dime I mean I only spent about 40 bucks. And the night was complete with TONS of amazing Greek food, some alcohol, not-so-fantastic Diner food, some more alcohol, and some more alcohol. All for the insanely small price of quaranta dollari. Now that's cheap therapy.

Realization number 32 that I had last night: I have some of the most amazing friends in the world, I think. Friends who send you personalized Christmas cards EVERY YEAR with collages of pics of you and your friends on them. Friends who know you don't know a single soul in a new city and take you everywhere with them to help you feel at home. Friends who call you in January to schedule their vacation time around yours for the whole year. Friends who know without asking to get you VIP seats to Shakespeare in the Park, amazing not because they're VIP and free, well that is amazing, but not only because of that. Because they're just as dorky as you are and love nothing more than green grass and verbose, exaggerated drama (is there any other kind?). And even friends who tell you you're smoking crack when you tell them you're dieting. Those are some great people, people. So I count myself insanely blessed and lucky to have all of these people in my life. Yeah Friends*!

*Also they come in handy when you're broke.

Hi-Ho Silver

Alright, here's the skinny in a New York minute.
(Stanza 1):
Blogged.
Blogged some more.
Didn't tell anyone about the blog.
Husband reads the blog, says it's funny.
Still don't tell anyone about the blog.
Stop blogging. (Because if the husband's the only one reading it, I might as well talk to him on the phone.)

(Stanza 2):
That's right now! And I'm blogging, see?