Day #19: Age: 30

Today I am 30.

Not surprisingly, I doesn't feel much different than 29.

My parents and sister threw me a three-year-old's birthday party last weekend. Cutest. Thing. Ever. Mom had cupcakes, streamers, matching plates and napkins with a cornocopia of cupcake flavors featured on them (see photo for details).

Before the party started, my sister looked at me and said, "You're not turning thirty. Your turning free" and held up three fingers. Adorable.

My in-laws helped me eat three pizzas last night, which could not have made me happier.

But The Best Birthday Present Ever Prize goes to my husband for this:

Last night we were in bed (get your head out of the gutter). I'm watching TV and Mike is effing around with his iPhone, as usual. Mike starts chuckling a little. Then he starts full blown laughing.

Me: [annoyed at show interruption] "What's so damn funny?"

Mike: Your blog.

Baaaahzinga! We have a winner!

A few odds and ends before I finally say goodbye to this blog. First, the answers to some (In)Frequently Asked Questions:

Regarding Day #12: Technology: "Did you get your 20 bucks?" - BS in Midlothian, VA.
BS, thanks for writing in. Yes, I did get my 20 bucks, all in $5 bills, because the CS"P" had run out of tens and 20s. Shocker.

Regarding Day #8: Homeownership Part 1 in which I discuss my clever air-conditioning unit disguise plan: "Is it behind the plant?!" -- fellow blogger NatCrat in MD.
NatCraft, thanks for playing along. No one else ventured guesses. The answer is, yes. I hid the air-conditioner behind a palm tree and pretended it wasn't there for 6 months, until Mike and his dad took it out one day and patched the wall. When I pointed out to people, "Hey! Look what Mike and his dad did! They took out the air-conditioner!" visitors would respond with: "What air-conditioner?" Prooving definatively that people are less observant than we all hoped.


Regarding Day #13: Holidays: "Did you plan the matching sweaters?" -- everybody who read that post.
No we didn't (scout's honor). However, as my cousin (and artist) Kate noted, there were many, many, many planned matching-sweater events in my childhood. Meg and I can be found in a variety of ancient photographs, sporting identical old-lady reindeer sweaters, presumably of craft-fair origin. My mom can produce said photographs upon request.

Regarding Day #11: Holly Homemaker I am Not: "Where can I get an out fit like that for a little kitchen fantasy i have?" -- Anonymous.

First, I would give good money to know who this is (I have some suspicions...). Second, I'm sorry to say I have no idea where you can find an outfit like that, but I applaud your creativity.

Regarding me, in general: "Are you going to write a book/column/another blog?" -- Nice People Who Love Me.
First off, this is a massive compliment. Every time someone mentions this, I feel super-proud and grateful.

The thing is: I prefer to write blogs with an angle so I don't wander off into too-general, wildly-unrelated, mucky-mucking about stuff. Currently, I can't really think of an angle that can sustain a blog (or a book) over a long period of time (or pages), which is why I do these short-term blog projects.

However, if you have any suggestions for what I could write an entire blog (or book) about, please suggest away. I'd love to hear some ideas.

Next item of business: Thank Yous.

My mother raised me right, so I'd like to thank...

Cass. You gave me permission to use "Urban Assault Vehicle" (Day #3: Driving) 10 years ago, but I still want to make sure you get credit for that one. 10 years later, its still damn funny. Thanks also for the trip down memory lane and reminding me about "The Fish Tank."

My sister Meg, with whom I shared a facebook banter about her Subaru. I was still laughing about that days later and it inspired Day #6: Vehicles.

My mom, for (1) saying nice things about me in the comments on Day #11: Holly Homemaker and for (2) the laughs at the party. I know you don't want me to say which joke of yours I used, but thanks for letting me steal it and for inspiring the blog its found in.

My mother-in-law Sharon, who I plan on asking to become my agent. Thanks for the heaps of support and for encouraging me to start blogging in the first place.

Sara Eastman (blog promoter extrodinaire) and Kara Eller (fellow blogger) for your support via facebook emails. Talking about writing helps me write better.

Thank you to my 17 followers. I'm not clear what happens when you become a follower (I hear nothing happens except that you show up in my list of followers) but I appreciate having something akin to a fan club.

A huge thanks to anyone who posted a link to Act Your Age on your facebook page and brought a whole new set of readers to the blog. So incredibly cool of you.

And of course, Mike, who lets me broadcast stuff about him and our lives freely, and who is this writer's favorite person and greatest supporter.

Day #18: Passive Agressive. Um, is it cold in here, or are you just pissed at me?

No one is particularly good at confrontation, albeit the people who are good at confronting others tend to do so with a gusto a relish that I do not care to be the recipient of. I, however, did not learn that the best way to handle a problem is to address it directly until well into my twenties -- and quite frankly, I'm still only marginal at it.

While I was waiting to develop my confrontation skills in my twenties, I practiced the art of passive aggressive behavior. You know, not-so-subtly telling someone that they suck.

In college, I had a roommate and we shared an apartment for about a year and a half. She was a nice girl who tolerated my smoking and drinking habits, but she had these fish...

The fish were a gift she received from her boyfriend on Valentine's Day. So guess what she named them? "Val" and "Tine." (Oh, I'm sorry -- did I just hear you vomit a little bit? Its okay, I did too.)

Val and Tine lived in a tank that looked more like a giant flower vase. It had blue rock things in the bottom and little trees sticking out of them and some other random crap people think fish like (do people think fish have decorating sense?).

The tank lived on our rarely-used kitchen table and the fish swam and pooped and crapped up the tank until the thing had accumulated a slimy, brownish-green, poo-and-food film on it. The film spread and gained thickness and grossness and a personality and a stomach and a full-on life of its own. Soon, Val and Tine were no longer visible through the tank-flim monster and I feared the film would get hungry and just say "eff it" and eat them both.

Speaking of eating, did I mention this tank lived in my kitchen? As in: The place where one makes food (occasionally -- usually just Tombstone pizzas, but that's neither here nor there). The tank provided me with an excellent diet plan. I would walk into the kitchen to make something (read: a pizza) see the tank, vomit, and decide to abstain from eating for another day.

One day, my roommate asked me if I would take care of the fish while she was out of town for the weekend. I agreed. I fed the fish and the Film Monster at the pre-ordained times on Friday. I did this again on Saturday.

On Sunday we had a floater.

Dammit.

But could you blame the fish? If your name was Tine and you were swimming in a sea of poorly- decorated excrement-water and spending your days avoiding a giant Film Monster, wouldn't you want to just give up the good fight?

So now what to do. Roommate would not be home until the evening. Do I get rid of the fish? Flush it? What if she wants to say goodbye one last time? What if she wants to bury it somewhere special? Hold a funeral? Say some last words? How do I explain that not only did the fish die on my watch, but that I didn't kill it, The Film Monster probably did or it was a suicide, oh and by the way I flushed it down your toilet and that may be why its a little backed up right now.

What would you do? Huh?

I'll tell you what I do:

I decide to pretend I never saw it. Yup. I order myself a pizza, sit on the sofa, turn on Law and Order and work on the Walrus of a Lie I'm planning to tell.

Roommate comes home.

"Ohmygod! Ohmygod!"

Me: [very concerned] What?

Roommate: Did you know Val died?

Walrus Lie now reduced to Goldfish-Sized Lie: I thought Tine died, so I'm not actually lying when I say:

"I had no idea."

Roommate: Did you feed them?

Me: "Yes! Of course I did!" [Not a lie. Doing okay so far.]

[Roommate is not convinced. Is looking at me like I am a fish-hating murderer.]

Me: "Look, I mean, the tank was really filthy. I think that probably contributed to his demise."

Roommate: "So why didn't you just clean it?"

What.

I mean, you have got to be shitting me, right? Does she not realize that I have absolutely no affection for these boring-ass "pets"? Furthermore, does she not realize that no one volunteers to clean up other living being's poop?

Shortly after Val's death, Tine kicks the bucket and heads to the giant sewage-filtration system in the sky and we are left with just the Film Monster.

Film Monster sticks around for about a week before I take tank and Monster outside on the deck and leave them there.

A week goes by. My roommate walks past the tank, filled with water and muck, 57 times a day. Does she move it? No. Does she clean it? No. Does she throw it in the dumpster? No.

So you know what happens? It gets really effing cold out. So cold water freezes. You know what happens when water freezes?

It expands, folks. It expands and shatters the glass tank and blue-rocks spill out all over the deck like intestines. Little trees and orange castles litter the deck like carnage of some natural disaster. Its like a welcome mat, only instead of "Welcome" it says something more like "Things Die Here."

So its, you know, real welcoming and all.

Still, my roommate does not clean it up.

People come over. They ask the obvious:

"What the eff is that?"

Oh, its just the shattered remains of my friendship with my roommate. No biggie. Just step over this way.

The glass and guts and slime stay there for a week. Neither one of us is talking about the giant heap of blue and green detritus spread all over our deck, right next to our front door. In fact, neither one us is talking.

We are locked in an epic cold war battle of Who-Can-Ignore-the-Biosafety-Hazard-On-Our-Front-Porch-the-Longest.

One day, to send a message, I put a Heafty Cinch Sac on her pillow.

It occurs to me know that the message I may have been inadvertently sending was: If you don't clean that shit up I'll smother you in your sleep.

Woopsie daisy!

Whatever, it still didn't work.

Eventually, our landlord comes over and informs me that we are violating Section 4: Code 52: Line 9 of our lease agreement that says something to the effect of "Tenant shall not leave gangrenous fish tank remains on front porch."

Fair enough.

I pull up my big-girl panties and confront my roommate when she gets home from work, like a mature adult:

"Dude. When are you going to clean up the shit out there."

She says: "I didn't put it out there. You clean it up."

This is it. This is the Film Monster that broke the fish's back. We have it out. I mean, we fought with passion just short of hair-pulling and bitch-slapping.

In the end, the confrontation was a good call. We calmed down. We made peace. We both cleaned up the fish tank remains.

And I learned from this experience. Now, when I want something done, I'll send a message less subtle than a trash bag on the pillow. Eff the passive, let's go aggressive:

I'll put the whole damn bio-hazardous mess on there.

Day #17: Hangovers. A Brief Compare and Contrast.

Last night Mike and I were hanging out on the deck, discussing what I should post today. Mike said "Hangovers" would be an appropriate topic to cover after a post on "Alcohol." Additionally, we may have been mentally preparing ourselves for this morning...

We started to make a list of hangover cures, but realized that our actions at age 20 were radically less sensible than those at age 30, and so we offer you a brief compare and contrast in the form of top 5 lists.

Top Five Favorite Drinks at Age 20:
1. Keystone Light (in a pitcher, preferably at BT's in Radford, VA)
2. Beast Light
3. Natty Light (in a can, preferably in the basement of a fraternity house)
4. Icehouse
5. Shots of Jagermeister





Top Five Drinks Avoided at Age 30:
1. Keystone Light
2. Beast Light
3. Natty Light
4. Icehouse
5. Shots of Yeagermeister





Top Five Favorite Things to Eat When Hungover at Age 20:
1. The leftovers from the pizzia you ordered at 3am.
2. Fast food breakfast purchased via drive-thru (and while wearing a hangover hat and sunglasses)
3. An entire bag of potato chips (in my case, Cool Ranch Doritos) and a Blue Gatorade
4. Donuts (please note that this word is pluralized)
5. Lunch




Top Five Favorite Things to Eat When Hungover at Age 30:
1. Advil
2. Tums
3. Tylenol
4. Pepto-Bismol
5. Lunch





Top 5 Hangover Activities at Age 20:
1. Drink a 7-11 coffee
2. Chain smoke a pack of cigarettes
3. Eat fried food
4. Rehash the hilarity from the night before
5. Drink beer





** Note: Look at this list. Doesn't sound like a Friday night in college? What we did to "cure" hangovers was the same damn thing that caused them in the first place. We were like gods back then...





Top Five Hangover Activities at Age 30:
1. Take Advil.
2. Lay on sofa.
3. Watch a sporting event until 5:00pm.
4. Order a pizza.
5. Fail to shower until next morning.

**Note: This sounds shockingly like my today...

Day #16: Alcohol. "I like my drink with a splash of snob, please."

This is a subject near and dear to the hearts of many, and especially appropriate on a Friday afternoon when those of you in this time zone are shortly to engage in the art of consumption. I, for one, will be hoisting a glass as soon as possible, because I believe I am entitled to start celebrating my birthday a full three days in advance, and continue celebrating it though Thursday.

Let's just cut to the chase here: I have drank some drinks. If you read Beth and Mike Across America, you know I will still be standing at last call and I'll be the one with enough sense to tell you to go home because you're wasted.

Because here's the thing about me and alcohol:

1. I can count on two hands how many times I have been really and truly drunk. When I broach the "Beyond Tanked" threshold, I pack myself up and put myself to bed, thereby eliminating the need for next day phone calls that begin with "Um... so... about last night..." and end with you apologizing for something you fail to recall doing.

2. When I do have one too many, I am the happiest drunk on the planet. I love you when I'm drunk. We are best friends. I will tell you so. I will tell you so repeatedly. I will hug you and sing to you and praise your glories and thank you for being my best friend (even if you aren't).

Then I will pack myself up and put my drunk self to bed.

The reason I manage to stay in control when everyone else is saying things like, "I haff a fantashtic idear! Less settoff firewerks in the garage!" is because I drink expensive beer and I drink it slow.

When I was in my twenties, I aspired to be a wine connoisseur. I bought different wines and tried to remember their names (fail). Nice people bought me wine paraphernalia (of which there is an abundance on the market: cocktail napkins, candles, openers, closers, keys, holders, glasses, and this enormous gadget called The Rabbit that won't fit in any of the drawers in my kitchen and therefore has been relegated to The Cabinet Where Kitchen Utensils Go To Die next to the oven).

Unfortunately, all that work was for naught. Sigh. The wine that can typically found at my house is labeled "WHITE WINE." Not savignon-blanc, or pinot-gregio, or chardonnay, just "WHITE WINE." Its by White Truck. I recommend it.

I also thought, in my twenties, that I would become a fancy-drink-drinker. Fancy-drinks, in my world, are any drinks made with liquor. I don't touch the sauce, man. Nooooo way. Because I am smart. I learn from mistakes. I know this about myself: you give me a shot, and I will go from standing-up-and-talking to believing I am truly a candidate for So You Think You Can Dance and attempting to prove my assertions, um, anywhere. Dance floor not required.

Its just not okay and its the kind of thing that comes back to haunt you in the form of stories told to people whose opinions matter to you.

So I have become a beer snob. My husband is my partner in beer snobbery. We scoff at your Miller Lite in a can. We pashaw that Bud Lite Lime in your fridge. We refuse to drink your free Natty Ice.

Isn't this obnoxious?

It so is, but we don't care, because we know more about beer than you do and we aren't afraid to flaunt it. However, we concede that you have the right to flaunt your checking account balance in front of us because ours is suffering from our expensive taste.

Its not just that we exclusively purchase six-packs that run us about $9.89 each (although, we do and we do it so often that when we walk into Once Upon a Vine South, the owner, Tomy, says "Hey MikeandBeth!" Is this socially acceptable?). Its also because we feel we need to mingle with other beer-drinkers who are as snobby as we are, so each year we shell out $400 bones plus the cost of a hotel room and we attend Savor.

Savor is an American Craft Beer and Food Experience. No really, that's what they call it.

Picture it:

You dress in your best cocktail party attire, tuck your $100/pop ticket in your pocket and stand in line to enter the National Building Museum in DC. You enter a hall that is a full two stories tall and chock-full of tables featuring beer made at craft breweries from around the country. Each beer has been paired with a small dish prepared by one of the top catering companies in the area. You mingle and rub elbows with brewery owners and bar owners and other people with an ungodly amount of expendable income.

We also get our nerd on. Yes, you can (pay $$$ and) attend "Salons," which are small sessions on topics such as "The Historie of the American IPA" or "Panel Discussion on Cheese Pairing."

Truly and honestly, this event exists. See this for details and you can come with us next year and get your annual dose of beer snobbery too!

Part of the beer snobbery is due to the fact that Mike brews beer. In case you haven't had the opportunity to try Mike's beer, let me assure you, its good. Its not your buddy's homebrew where you taste it and then say "Yeah. Wow. Um. That's different" while you figure out how you're going to choke the rest of it down without gagging.

Mike's beer is excellent -- it makes our basement look like a meth lab, but its worth it because we have a nearly unlimited supply of awesome beer.

We have a kegerator:

I remember the night we realized how much Mike's brewing had changed our lives.

We were sitting out on the deck in the fall a few years ago. We are frequently found there, but are definitely found there when, like this particular night, it is cool and crisp out. We have not started to hate the 3 million leaves that will shortly dump themselves on our lawn, because at this point they are golden-orange and beautiful. Mike and I are having some laughs, catching up after a busy week, enjoying the tunes coming through on the outdoor speakers.

We are chuckling and smiling as we stroll into the kitchen to refresh our beverages.

Screeech... music stops. Smiles drop. Silence.

We are out of beer.

Mike and I look at each other. We can read the look in each other's eyes: But I was having so much fun... So much fun that now I can't drive anywhere...

Then it occurs to us:

There is an entire keg of beer downstairs, on tap, ice cold.

The "Hallelujah Chorus" begins to play. The night has been saved.

This post has made me want a beer -- immediately. I suggest you hoist one too, but preferably not one in a can.

Day #15: Keys. Let Me In! I Have to Pee!

When I first started teaching at age 22, I left my keys everywhere. I didn't keep them on my regular key ring because Salem High assigns each teacher, like, 10 keys, and when I started trying to open my apartment door with my classroom keys, I decided changes must occur. The seperate keychain lead to key frequent key loss.

My friends at work would find them, shove them in their desk drawers and watch as I ran around the building frantically searching under stacks of papers, beside copiers, in work bags and file cabinets for the lost items.

I thought this was a symptom of youth -- flaking out. Sadly, not much has changed. I still lock myself out.

Dude, I did it today.



I have actually locked myself out of the house about half a dozen times in the last year (in my defense, we bought a new doorknob and it, unlike the last one, locks behind you automatically). Yes, Mom, I have a spare key. No, Mike, I did not put it back where it belongs.




I have locked myself out of my house in my pajamas. I've locked myself out in the rain. I've locked myself out and had to go to the bathroom really, really, really bad.


Its a bit embarassing.


Story time!


Last week I helped my sister move into her new apartment in Philadelphia. Its a nice cool day, so I decide to walk out on her balcony and take a break.

I enjoy the view of the trees and the neighbors unkempt yards and the sound of nailguns working furiously in the sunshine.



I go to head back in, and would't-you-know-it, the door is locked. I knock, and Juan the Landlord let's me back in. He pokes an appropriate amount of fun at me, and I say, out loud -- twice -- "Well, I learned that lesson! Never making that mistake again!"


Back to work unpacking boxes, shifting furniture, setting up televisions, hanging art, etc.


We are nearly finished! We deserve a break! We walk out to the balcony to regroup, formulate a plan of attack, figure out how late I can leave before all hell breaks loose on the highway.


Plan formed. Prepare for action...


You know where this is going, don't you.


Yes, folks, we're locked out. We're locked out, and not only is there no Juan -- there's also no way we are climbing out of the balcony. Its a two-story sheer wall straight down (which, upon reflection, renders the lock pretty moot. There is no way in Alcatraz anyone is getting in there unless they've got Spidey-Skills).




We attempt to get through the window by prying it open. Yank, yank, crack. We successfully break a window in Meg's brand new apartment. Good-bye Meg's security deposit.



We Repunzels are going to need help. Praise the lord there is construction going on next door (I imagine that will be the last time Meg will ever think that). Meg yells to someone working on the site, kindly begging him to get Kevin -- proprietor of the boutique under Meg's apartment.


Kevin comes out the back of the under-construction-building and points and laughs at us. Deserved.


He also calls Juan, who drives all the way back from someplace, and let's us back in. He also suggests we unlock the door.


Fair enough.


Lest you think I am only capable of locking myself out of buildings, let me provide you with another story:



When Mike and I were renovating the bathroom, I drove out to the tile outlet store way out I64 to West-of-Nowhere to try to find some ceramic tile I liked. I took a bunch of samples, rejected them all, and had to drive back out there to return them.


I was already braced for an awkward salesperson encounter (shocker) because the salesperson was putting on a pretty hard sell when I was there last and I thought he was going to double his efforts when I told him I didn't want the stuff.


So I walk in, explain in the vaguest terms possible why I don't want the tile, and leave.


Except I can't leave, because I can see my keys are sitting shotgun and all doors are locked. I don't even have my phone.


This means I have to go back into the ceramic tile place, call Mike and ask him to leave work, drive 20 minutes out of town to bring me my keys and avoid creating an opportunity for the salesperson to rope me into a pitch.




I do these things, but in order to keep clear of the salesperson I feel I need to stand outside the tile place -- located smack dab in the middle of nothing -- and wait for Mike.



This is ridiculous. Its more ridiculous when you know this fact: Remember the Epic Snowstorm of 2010? Yeah, it was the day after that.




The First Salesperson walks outside and reminds me that I am more than welcome to wait inside, where it is not 35 degrees. This seems like a sensible decision, but I picture myself walking into the massive warehouse, chock-a-block with mammoth-burrito-shaped rolls of carpet and endless pallettes of hardwood flooring and the three of us -- staring at each other. How awkward, I think.

So instead of choosing warmth and awkwardness, I choose cold, damp, and being-stared-at-by-every-customer-who-pulls-up. Solid choice.




Second Salesperson walks outside and reminds me that I am more than welcome to wait inside, where I will not risk losing digits from my hands and feet.



"Um, I'm fine. He'll be here any second."



Even as I say those words, I am fully aware that (1) I am not fine. I am cold and wet and acting like a total fool and (2) I have no idea if Mike will be here "any second" because I don't have access to a clock or a phone because they are all inside my car.



Mike comes and unlocks my door, and only mocks me a little bit (which is fair).

I unlocked my door, cranked up the heat, and pulled outta that parking lot so fast, my burning rubber melted the snow in the parking lot.

And I have learned two things:

1. More hide-a-keys is better than too few.

and

2. Make sure you go to the bathroom before you leave the house.

Day #14: Pets: Maybe When I'm a Big Girl.

I always thought I'd have a dog by 30.


Now, all you cat-lovers out there are probably thinking to yourself: Why a dog? Why not a cat?



Let's just nip this in the bud right now: Cats are weird. They're weird because they're smart. Its alarming. I go into a cat-owner's home, and that cat knows I'm freaked out by its presence. The cat's like: Look at this tall, goofy-looking one. I'm gonna screw with this human. And it rubs its creepy little paws together and cackles.



The cat skulks around me, knowing that if it rubs agains my leg and looks cute and furry, I'll eventually want to pet it -- which I do, because I'm a sucker -- and then...



Whap!



I'm bleeding.



And the cat cackles and skulks away, planning its next assult on the stoopid human.



So cats are out.



But dogs, I love dogs. I love all dogs. Dogs are dumb, and that's wonderful. Dogs just sit around and wait for you to get up, and then they fly around your place with their tongue out thinking:



What are we doing? Huh? Huh? We doing something? Food. Is something happening? Huh? Huh? Squirell.



Its great. That's all the thinking I want my animal to do. I'd actually prefer if my animal were also as lazy as I am, which is why I have had an imaginary pet for about 10 years.



Meet Chunk:


Chunk does not actually exist. Well, I mean, this dog obviously does, but this dog is not Chunk. I don't know whose dog this is because I stole this photo off the internet (copyright infringement lawsuit probably pending).


However, if/when I do get a dog, it will be an English Bulldog and his name will be Chunk.


(And so-help-me if you steal my dog name, I will wage war and steal your first born child's name for my own. I don't even care if you have a boy named Virgil and I bear a daughter. Its on.)


"Why don't you go out and get yourself a Chunk?" You ask. "If you have been dreaming of this dog for 10 years, why don't you just find a Chunkster and make him your own?"

Friends, there is a perfectly good reason why I don't have Chunkifer yet. Its because Chunktastic costs as much as a mortgage payment and I'm not really in a financial position to be paying for the snobby craft beer I drink, let alone vet bills.

And I feel like Doggie-Lay-Away is a tinge silly and a bit beside-the-point.

Furthermore, I had a little chat with my houseplants, and they expressed some fear for their lives. You would too if you were my houseplant (thank god you're not) because I have killed at least 3 rubber-tree plants and 4 cacti. Yes, I killed, not one, but multiple cactus.

I walk through my living room, see my drooping, browning, sad plants -- hear them call to me, in their parched voices -- Beth... please... water...

And I'm like, Um, is Top Chef on?

I bring those houseplants back from the brink of death regularly. I tell myself I'm training them. Teaching them who's boss. Toughening them up. Letting them know who's in charge here. I say to them: "You want water, Houseplant? Earn it."

Which they obviously can't do -- hence their demise.


So its a rough life, being my houseplant, which makes me wonder if I'm really responsible enough for a dog.

My imaginary dog, Chunk-o-licious, doesn't drool all over my hardwood floors or chew up things I like or poop. However, he is alive and well in my dreams, which is more than can be said for a few rubber-tree plants I know.

Day #13: Holidays. Who invited the Rockwells?

When I was in my 20s, I envisioned a Norman Rockwell version of the holidays: My family and I are all seated around a cozy fireplace on Christmas Eve wearing coordinating sweaters, drinking eggnog and chatting about the parties we've attended this holiday season...

Doesn't that sound nice? I think it sounds nice...

Shame its so effing inaccurate. The following is a list of things missing from/wrong with this picture:

1. This scene does not take place on Christmas Eve.

Nope. Its the day before.

See, when Mike and I went from Catagory D f0r Dating [Description: Spend the holidays alone with your own folks] to Catagory S for Serious [Description: Figure out how the hell you can be in two places at once] we had to get creative about Christmas. I know couples who swap back and forth; who spend Thanksgiving with one family and Christmas with another and then switch the next year.

Not Mike and I. We move Christmas. Yes, we have that kind of power. We have Christmas on the 24th with my fam and on the 25th with his. We make Christmas happen twice (side note: How siked are the future little MikeandBeths gonna be when they hear this? "Hey Lil MikeandBeth, Santa comes twice to our house! Now, run along and brag about this to the other little kids and try not to get beat up.")

2. There is never any eggnog. Ever.

First of all, its gross.

Second of all, its not strong enough. You see, by the time Mike and I and the entire state of Virginia have spent 31/2 hours shlepping up I95 in the rain/sleet/snow/fog behind every available incapable driver, we need beers, and we need them fast, which leads us to...

3. We are not "relaxed." At least, not until we are about 3 or 4 beers in apiece, and then we're so buzzed we've forgotten its "Christmas Eve."

4. We are not talking about the parties we've attended.

First, we are bitching about how much traffic sucks and swearing we will never do that again.

Second, if you invite us to a Holiday Party, consider your invitation a MikeandBeth attendance jinx. In the four years I've lived in VA, I've missed over a dozen holiday parties. Its staggering.

However, I think I've found a solution: Change the calander so that December has twice as many weekends and then move it to June. And then, please god somebody throw a party on a Friday and as long as snow doesn't start coming down in 80 degree heat then I think I can make it.

Now we'll probably never be invited to another holiday party again.

So we will spend all of January listening to hilarious stories about parties we did not attend. We will then throw a massive New Year's Eve party to trump your party and make ourselves feel better.

You will note that I have not commented on the bit about the "coordinating sweaters." You were looking forward to that part. I hate to disappoint but...

This happened:

So perhaps there is some Norman Rockwell in my life.

Day #12: Technology: I Miss Dial-Up.

Can you believe we actually grew up without the internet? Remember when dial up was invented and AOL used to send you those CDs in the mail that would offer you "100 Hours of Free Service" that was so slow you could type in a URL, go for a jog, take a shower, make yourself a sandwich and crack open a beer while you waited for the page to load? Remember that?





I actually had a Mac OS2 that I begged my parents to connect to the internet. They put their foot down, saying "There are too many weirdos using that thing..."





Which is still true, but now they've got broadband, so they can be weirder, faster.





However, I did have some "modern" technologies before my friends. For example, I had a carphone. Ooooh yeah, baby. This sucker was installed in the floor of the passenger seat and had a giant rod shooting up over the gear shifter where the phone was actually located. When you picked up the headset -- which was about the shape, size and weight of a rubber mallet -- you had to really tug to get the thing to make it to your ear, because -- ready for this -- it was connected to the floor by a cord. A black spiral cord that was forever getting twisted up into a giant knot and eventually made it so that I had to lean over the center console and talk while paying attention to the road with only my left eye.





To this day, my love for technology has manifested itself through my need to have the latest status-symbol phone available. I've had the tiny motorolas that called people when I looked in my bag for my keys. I had a Samsung flip phone that actually survived a second-story fall from my balcony. A Razor that was excellent at collecting ear gunk and face sweat.





Now I have an iPhone. And it makes me feel cool. People have all those other smart phones, like Droids and Blackberrys, and they're like "Whatever, its just as good as an iPhone."





Um, no its not, and you know its not, and you're only saying that because you don't have enough money to break your contract with Verizon and become as cool as me.





When I got my iPhone, social interaction ceased immediately. I was too busy downloading crappy free apps that now clutter my homescreen and never get used. The only exception was when someone would say something like, "Oh, who's that guy who was in that movie with that chick..."





And I'd tap tap tap, bam: "Burt Reynolds."





Ha! Can your Droid do that?





That's what I thought...





In my twenties, I could never have imagined just how technologically advanced we'd all become, and I certainly never imagined that I would become a teacher who uses complicated design programs on a daily basis and who runs a computer lab, which (due to insufficient funding to public education) I have to maintain myself. Although, this mostly involves knowing the proper keystrokes to turn the screen right-side-up after my students flip it upside-down and replacing mouseballs.





What is shocking to me, is that despite my decent level of technological skill, I cannot for the life of me operate a debit-card machine without some level of prompting from the customer service "professional" (or, for brevity's sake, CS"P"). You know what I'm talking about. These suckers:

(First: Isn't it great that we can now clog our arteries without a trip to the ATM? God bless America.)

I think the primary problem with me and debit card machines is: Each one is completely different. Why? Why is this neccessary? I'm going to propose a bill in congress called the Debit Card Machine Homoginization Act and I think you should all write to your congresspeople to support said act, because I think you'll thank me later.

Here's why:

So I'm at our local Target, with a cart full of stuff I didn't know I needed until I walked in there, but now I am absolutely positive I cannot live without.

I have withstood a line of people who are buying 500 lbs of dog food and entire new wardrobes for their children. My stuff's been scanned and bagged and now its time to pay. I take out my plastic.

CS"P": Debit or credit?

Me: Debit. (Question: Why does it matter? Doesn't my card have a little chip somewhere inside that communicates this sort of information to the machine? Like, Hey dude! I'm a debit card, so get ready cause you gonna have some numbers punched into you!)

CS"P": Okay, swipe.

I swipe.

Nothing happens.

CS"P": The other way.

I swipe.

CS"P": No, the other way.

I am out of "other ways." There are just only so many options. CS"P" takes my card and does it for me.

I type in my pin.

CS"P": No, wait. Its not ready yet.

We both stare at the machine. Waiting.

CS"P": Okay, now.

I type in my pin. Again.

The machine asks if I want cash back. I say "YES". My options are $20, $40 or $60 or "OTHER". I tap "OTHER."

I enter $30.

I am rejected. Screen says: "YOU MAY ONLY ENTER MULTIPLES OF $20."

CS"P": You can only enter multiples of $20.

Me: I heard that somewhere.

I choose $20.

I then start rifling through my handbag for my walking-to-the-car neccessities: sunglasses, keys, etc.

CS"P": You need to confirm the amount.

Me: Oh! Sorry.

I hit "OK".

I'm back to hunting down my keys.

CS"P": You need to hit "OK."

Me: I did.

CS"P": No, you need to do it again.

I'm now wondering what I'm agreeing to by hitting "OK." I missed the question on the previous screen and now I could be signing up for some 29% interest credit card, or allowing Target to call me during dinner to ask me questions about my last customer service experience, or agreeing to join a I-am-addicted-to-Target 12-step program.

I hit "OK" anyway because at this point, I'm in too deep and there are cranky mothers with small children throwing temper tantrums behind me and those moms are killing me slowly with their eyes.

CS"P" hands me a reciept as long as my arm and thanks me for shopping at Target.

In the future, I would like to be able to hold my phone up to the Debit Card Machine and have it just take care of the whole damn transaction for me. Surely there's an app for that.

Day #11: Holly Homemaker I Am Not.

So I'm writing this after a few glasses of wine, which makes this post all the more relevant and also means I will definately have to hit spellcheck when I'm done.

I have pictured myself in so many different ways over the years... As a coporate power-suit wearing city dweller. As a bohemian New Englander raising children on organic, hormone-free foods purchased from farmers markets. And, most recently, as a happy homemaker, who bakes and cleans in pumps and a dress a la June Cleaver.

Why not, right? Any thing's possible. And if you know my penchant for organization, you might say "Not so far-fetched."

But what I've actually become has no clear stereotype. Let me tell you some stories:

My mother-in-law was raised in Mississippi. This means she can effing cook. You want a chocolate pie? Be prepared to never eat another chocolate pie with the same satisfaction. You want stewed tomatoes? I tell you, that few tablespoons of sugar she adds must be mixed with crack because these suckers are like tomatoes from nirvana. You want green beans? Try green beans cooked in pork fat and about a pound of butter and see if you still believe all green vegtables are healthy.

Me? I can't cook shit.

What's worse? I live in the south, where ladies can cook. They got pie recipies you can't find in cookbooks, and I burn frozen piecrusts.

I have been hunting for a recipe I can call my own, because that's what women have here in the south. They make their signature this or their grandmama's that. Meanwhile, I purchase oatmeal cookies from the grocery store, stick them on a serving dish from my pantry and lie and say I made them.

When people ask for the recipe I tell them its a family secret.

For real.

So one day I'm at a luncheon for yearbook advisors (swear to jesus, I am that nerdy) and I overhear this woman talking about these little desserts she makes out of crackers, rolos, and pecans, and I think, I might be able to not eff that up.

Here's the recipe:

Purchase a bag of rolos, a bag of Snyders butter snap pretzels and a bag of pecans. Place pretzels on baking sheet. Add rolo. Bake for a few minutes. Add pecan.

That's seriously it. I call them turtles.

So I go home, and I set out the pretzels and the rolos and I pop them in the oven on 400. I pull them out after less than five minutes and there is caramel everywhere. The rolos have burst leaving a layer of caramel all over the baking sheet, and making them impossible to remove. I add pecans because I'm infinately hopeful, but chewing these suckers is like nawing on a piece of my Old Navy flip flops.

I start to cry. Really. I am defeated. A recipe with two steps -- no blenders or hand mixers or kitchen aids required -- and they are a big fat FAIL. Mike, bless his heart, eats one of my hockey pucks and tries to tell me they're good but its taking him so long to chew these suckers, he can barely get the words out.

I later learned that if you turn the oven to 200 degrees you have more sucess.

Later, I come across a guacamole recipe that I make with actual, real success -- like the kind where people compliment me on my dish -- and I think I'm onto something.

Then, I go to the beach and my mom has purchased this guacamole-mix-in-a-pouch that I make and its every bit as good as mine.

Eff you, Frontera Guacamole Mix.

So that's out. I'm off cooking.

But I kind of like to clean. Really. There's a certain satisfaction in scrubbing and dusting and mopping and polishing and then looking at your house and knowing you don't have to do this again for at least two weeks.

The problem is, I wait waaaaaay longer than two weeks to do it again. By the time I've decided I need to clean again, its because the dust bunnies are setting up societies. They are building up condominium complexes underneath the bed and charging rent and holding housewarming parties.

And they probably bake better than I do.

Here's what I do well:

I crack open a beer and poor it perfectly. I can bust open a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and dump them into a bowl. I can sit on my deck and drink the beer and much on the Doritos and we can order take out when we run out of chips.

And I think that's all the homemaker anyone needs.

Day #10: Religion: Thanks, I'm All Set.

When I stopped attending church in college, I told myself I was just taking a bit of a hiatus. A sabbatical. I'd be right back after I was finished acting like an heathen and was no longer afraid of god watching over my shoulder as I acted debaucherously.

Barring weddings and funerals, I haven't been back since high school.

But I got a lot of god in high school. Actually, I've been getting my god on pretty regularly since birth, because my parents sent me to Catholic school for kindergarten, and I remained a ward of the nuns five days every week from that point until I graduated from high school.

So, I'm all set. I've got my points out of purgatory and at this point I've sat through so many Palm Sundays and Holy Thursdays and Good Fridays and Feasts of the Assumption and Stations of the Cross that I practically have a direct line to god and I'm happy to put in a good word for you -- if you have been acting debaucherously lately and feel you need to protect yourself against a potential smote by the Almighty.


I hadn't been to a Catholic mass in a few years until I was called upon to be a bridesmaid in Kathy's wedding and returned to Church for the rehearsal.

First, I'm definitely going to hell for telling this story, but its just too funny not to.

Okay, so we all gather at the church and one-by-one, each bridesmaid heads down the aisle towards the waiting Monsignor (read: old priest), who is carefully judging each of us as we walk down the aisle.

We have failed him. We must be chastised.

"Ladies, don't slouch, and don't walk so fast, and walk in the middle of the aisle so people don't think you're drunk and nod at the alter when you get to the end."

Fine. We were just going through the motions for the sake of the rehearsal, but fine. We are polite to old people, this Monsignor included, so we all nod and promise to not walk down the aisle like drunk hussies with scoliosis and epilepsy.

At least he didn't ask us to genuflect. Had I attempted to do so in 3-inch heels and holding a bouquet, I would have gotten down and then -- in slow motion-- just leaned right, and then boom. Man down.

A few minutes later, the Monsignor asks which of us is Catholic.

I'm not sure how to answer this question, because I'm pretty sure the church has informally excommunicated me, but if he just wants to know which of us knows what to do at the Kiss of Peace, then I'm your woman. I mean, I'm fully trained, I'm just on leave.

I decide not to raise my hand in case there's a quiz later. I know what to do, but I can't, like, recite the Beatitudes or list the 12 Apostles or the Books of the New Testament or anything (I cleared that shit out of my mental hard drive to make room for stuff like How to Take a Beer Bong Without Gagging. You know, priorities.).

This confuses some of the other bridesmaids, who know me from high school. They look at me with eyebrows raised, questioning...

"Oh, I'm retired." I say and everyone nods, like Ahhh, of course.

But I had been considering going back to religion, because if I have kids I'd like them to at least have a choice. I'm going to shop around, though, because I like my god with a little less, um fear.

So I'm thinking Episcopal. I hear its Catholic Lite.

But I'm definitely not going back to the Catholics. Not after this happened:

So, its Eucharist time at the rehearsal. For you non-Catholics, this is when Catholics stand in a long line to eat bread they believe to be the body of Christ and then sit and listen to music while the priest tidies things up. When you're a kid, this is the best part because Eucharist time means this mass is wrapping up and you can go eat donuts soon.

The priest now thinks I am a complete heathen because I've admitted to not being Catholic, so he's trying to figure out what to do with me when its time for all the non-heathens to get their Eucharist on. I step out of the pew, and out of the way of the other bridesmaids.

Priest: "No, come forward."

I walk forward obediently.

Priest: "You're not taking communion."

Me: "No."

Priest: "Okay. Then walk back to your seat."

I walk back to my seat.

Priest: "Well not so glibly!"

Swear to jesus, that is what this man said. I stop dead in my tracks, wondering how in the eternal hellfires I have been glib.

I stare at the priest. I am awaiting further instruction.

Priest: "When you get out of the pew, walk forward with your arms crossed across your chest and I will bless you."

You are shitting me.

At this point I'm thinking, I'm afraid that will do me more harm than good. I'm thinking, you are so old you are dead and no one has told you yet, you pompous a-hole. I'm thinking, I better look up "glib" before we get to the rehearsal dinner.

I'm thinking I should behave like a good bridesmaid and let man bless me.

Which I do, thankyouverymuch.

Because unlike him, I am a good Christian.

Day #9: Home Ownership. Part 2: Should I buy stock in Lowe's?

When I was younger, I envisioned home improvement projects as being kind of cute.

Yes, cute.

I imagined my honey and I, paint brushes in hand, singing and dancing to the music as we tinted the walls of our little love nest. He would tap my nose with the paintbrush and get a little splotch on me. I would giggle...

What I Know Now: We tackle at least two home improvement projects a year and not a one of these projects were "cute." Dust isn't cute (Mike: "Honey, I didn't know you owned grey shoes just like those black ones you like." Me: "I don't."). Back pain isn't cute (Mike: "Honey, you've been bent over studying the ground all day. Did you lose a contact?" Me: "No. We ran out of Advil."). Tools sprawled all over the house aren't cute (Mike: "Honey, why is there a chisel in my sock drawer?" Me: "Because the nailgun was in mine.").

Oh, and this happened:

Yeah, that's a toilet. In my living room. Shit's gotta go somewhere, right?

Haha. Get it? Punny.

Anyway, most of these home renovations began as the solution to a problem created by Previous Homeowner, who, apparently, looks for the easiest, cheapest, fastest way to get his wife to stop nagging him about [insert issue with home here]. He then went to Lowe's and found the "Most Likely To Break Inside of a Year" aisle and purchased everything he needed for the project.

Example:

So we go to look at the house, and we stand on the deck and look to our left. The deck stops and a pit of rocks roughly the footprint of a Hummer begins.

The realtor says "Its probably just a drainage thing."

Us: "Oooooh."

Pause.

Why did this not raise an alarm, you ask? Why didn't this comment hit us like an APB from homeowner hell, you wonder?

Probably because we wanted this house so damn bad, you could have told us a team of termites had assembled this rock pit to wage war against rats in the crawlspace and this would have been our response:

"Oooooh."

And we would have nodded, and looked at each other like, I-didn't-know-they-could-do-that-did-you-know-they-could-do-that? and followed you into the kitchen to look at something shiny.

So we move in. A week later, we're relaxing in front of the TV, the rain is pouring and making a soft pitter patter on the roof, and we're smiling at each other, thinking Isn't this nice?

Then Mike hears something in the basement. We go to investigate. Is this the a/c kicking on? Did the washing machine have a meltdown? Has the termite war begun?

I would have preferred any of those options to what really happened: Our basement flooded. While that first time wasn't too bad, the basement did continue to flood everytime it rained. And when I say flooded, I don't just mean a little seepage through the foundation. I mean bucket-bailing bad. I mean, wake-up-at-2am-and-mop-until-you-gotta-go-to-work bad.

I suggested we just build an ark and say eff it, but Mike thought there might be some more cost-effective options out there.

My favorite basement-flooding moment:

But first: Some important Mike background. In case you don't know, Mike works in a lab running tests on people who can't seem to learn to put a sock on dude's ____ and stay outta trouble.

Mike also brews beer, which is probably an appropriate hobby for someone who sees as many idiots as he does in a day.

Anyway, one night, Mike is working late and I'm home alone and it starts to rain. Then it starts to pour. Then there is a full-on effing monsoon happening and I know my basement is going to fill up like swimming pool in T-minus...

Sure enough, it does and I'm at a loss. Its coming in faster that I can get it out. Mind you, my getting-it-out methodology is pretty piss-poor: I'm soaking up water in old bath towels, which I'm wringing out into buckets and then dumping outside the garage.

I know -- not exactly efficient. So I'm freaking out, and I call my father-in-law, Marty, who senses how helpless I'm feeling and drives over in a monsoon to help me deal with all this damn water.

He pulls up, steps in the garage and I'm all like:

"Oh my god thank god you're here because I was totally freaking out and I don't' know what to do because its just coming in so fast and we really need a shop vac but Mike hasn't gotten it yet and I'm just blah blah blah..."

The whole time Marty is staring at the "buckets" of brown, poo-colored rainwater.

I say "buckets" because these are Mike's beer making buckets. You know, the ones that are supposed to stay completely sterile through the entire beer-making process. The ones he paid good money for. The ones that now look like the toilets at some 3rd world prison.

Those buckets.

Marty is staring at them because he knows this is bad. He knows I have now just made a Huge Wife Error and he is wondering whether or not he wants to be around when Mike comes home and sees his precious brewing equipment filled with rank-smelling basement water and topped with bug corpses.

But before he has a chance to decide, Mike is home. And Mike is staring too.

Me, I'm clueless. I'm still like "Oh thank god you're here because I've been at this for hours and I'm still not making any headway and these buckets are just filling up so fast and blah blah I'm an idiot blah..."

Mike wins the Husband With Patience Award, though, because despite me destroying his favorite toys, he said:

"Um, baby, why did you use my beer buckets for this?"

Me: "Idaknow. They were just, like, here."

Mike: "Okay, let's empty them out and try another strategy."

Which is exactly what we did.

This event prompted the Great ReGrading of the Backyard as well as the Great Basement Wall Rebuilding (in which the mason told us, "this is the worst job I've ever had." Mike and I high-fived) and the Ultimate Basement B-Drying, all of 2009 and none of which were "cute."

But $12K later, that basement is dry as Snoop Dog's mouth after a fatty and the buckets will live to brew another batch.

Day #8: Home Ownership. Part 1: Its Not "New." Its Just New to You

I was cleaning my basement the other day (fascinating, I know), which is a bi-annual affair in the BethandMike household, because we can really eff up a basement. Items (hoses, golf balls, a hematology textbook, beer from a bachelor party that happened a year ago) enter our basement, find a comfy seat, and don't get up until I move them in 4-6 months.




But while I was down there, vacuuming up spider-cricket corpses and what have you, I started thinking about one of the Major Life Events that I did accomplish before 30: I bought a home.



(This photo is actually my home. If you don't believe me, please note my P.O.S. Subaru in the driveway.)




However, in my twenties I thought I'd find a little bunglow with a front porch and a garage. I thought that on the day we moved in, my husband would carry me across the threshold (hahahaha -- that's laughable on so many levels) and onto the gleaming wood floors of our sparkling new house. The whole place would sparkle and glitter like fairies had come and made this house a home just for me...



These dreams were clearly before the advent of HGTV.



Had HGTV been around, I would have known that the only houses that look fairy-visited are the ones that are actually new. Not houses built in 1952.



Here's how the first day in our new home began:




Its a sunny April day in 2007 and Mike and I pull up to our house with our hearts all aflutter. In the drive way are the former owners, who are just putting the last few items in their car. Previous Owner hands Mike the keys and says:



"She's all yours."



Like we just purchased a pet king cobra from the man.



Then they pull outta there so fast you would have thought we were pointing automatic weapons at them.




Mike and I would have thought this was weird, but we are giddy. We are so its-our-first-house excited we are racing to see who gets to unlock the door to our new home first.



It was unlocked. So that was a bit of a let down.



Whatever! We race in! I go left. Mike goes right. Mike goes:



"Um. Beth?"




Me: What?


I walk into the living room. I see exactly what.

We stare at it like we expect it to turn on and start explaining itself -- justifying its presence in our living room wall: "Hey guys! I'm fun! I cool stuff! You should keep me! We'll have so much fun! I love cooling stuff!"



Mike: Did you know this was here?



Me: No. Did you?


Mike: No.


So right now, you should be wondering how Mike and I failed to notice this when we were looking at the house. This is a perfectly reasonable question. We asked it of ourselves. Then we remembered:



Motherhonkers put a shelf in front of it.



So here's how I handled the problem:

Can you see it?



So we get the keys, but we're going to paint the place before we move all our shit in. Within the hour half-a-dozen friends (who know they will need a favor in the future and they're trying to get in early before we ask them to lift something heavy) show up to help us paint.


Then we start noticing it...



The hair. Little black hairs.



You see, the previous owners owned a dog named Buddy. Real name.




The dog was half-dachshund, half black lab. This is an unusual mixture -- and suggests, perhaps, that Buddy's mom wasn't afraid to get hers -- but allow me to provide visual help.



Take this dog body:

















Imagine it black. Now stick a giant-ass labrador retriever head on top:




You picking up what I'm putting down here? This dog was you-look-so-stupid-its-cute.




You know. You laugh at it, but then you kind of want to pet it to make it feel better. Because you know that this dog is going to get beat-up on the playground. Get swirleys at doggie-day-care. Get picked last for fetch.




But I digress...


There is enough Buddy hair in this house to reconstruct a whole new Buddy.




Buddy's hair is everywhere. Black hair stuck to the molding. Black hair on the window sills. Black hair plastered to the toilet. It is in the baseboard heaters, the closets, and wall-unit air-conditioner.




It is on the ceiling.




At this point, I think maybe Buddy can fly. Maybe he gets a running start on those 2-inch dachshund legs, flaps his giant labrador ears and **poof** He's flying around the house, rubbing his fat little body all over shit.




Or maybe the previous owners (who, apparantly, don't own a Swiffer) took Buddy, lifted him up, and rubbed him on the walls. Like, for a faux finish.




Maybe they duck-taped him to a broom, hoisted him up, and used his fur to put on the second coat of Curdled-Milk-White paint.




Previous owners: Get a vacuum. Or a fairy. Whatever it takes.




And that, folks, was just day one of homeownership. The real adventures didn't start until it rained...




But that's tomorrow's post.

Day #7: Style. Where's my Power Suit?

After college I moved to East-of-Nowhere New Hampshire to attend graduate school. I lived in a mouse-infested, leaky-cielinged, one-bedroom apartment on the second floor with a dead bat in the walls. I decorated the kitchen with pots to collect water and covered up the dead-bat smell with enough candles to give me regular headaches.

And I dreamed of a more stylish life. One in which I was living on Newberry St. in Boston, wearing hip power suits and chic heels and sporting trendy handbags.

I also dreamed of becoming a teacher, so clearly I was living in some kind of salary-knowledge blackhole.

And how many teachers do you know who sport a power suit to stand in front of a room of 15-year-olds and act as a spitball target?

Then I got my first teaching paycheck and quickly realized that the closest I was going to get to a suit was a pair Old Navy sale rack pants with saggy crotch syndrome.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm no slob. I clean up nice. But some days I go to work looking like I got dressed in the dark.

Because I did.

Fact: Because I work in the public school system, I have to wake up at an un-godly, un-civilized, unacceptably early hour. Mike, who goes to work at 8:00am like the rest of the free world, does not have to wake up when I do.

And Mike does not like to be woken up when I wake up.

So I have to leave the lights off. Sometimes, I turn the light on because I can't find something (I feel this is perfectly reasonable) and then go to, say, make coffee, and when I come back to finish gettting dressed, Mike has turned the light off.

I then blow dry my hair with the bathroom door open.

Yeah. How do like me now, light-turner-offer?

One day, I put on a black shirt and heels. I teach first period. I teach third period. I am right in the middle of putting my students to sleep with some lecture on transcendentalism or something ...

"So Thoreau really wanted us to look at our lives from another perspective, to see that there are options, to realize that we are just cogs in the wheel, to respect -- ARE MY PANTS BLUE??"

Students: [as they stare at me like I am dummer than the drop ceiling] "Yes."

I now keep the black pants and the blue pants on separate sides of the closet.

If style is a sliding scale, and one end is Ubr Hip and the other is Marm, then I would say I'm about dead center.

But I do own clogs, so... maybe I'm not being entirely honest in my self-evaluation.

But eff high heels, dude. God made our feet flat, people. F-L-A-T, flat. Not shaped like some crazy-ass playground slide that teeters on what is effectively a ballpoint pen.

Someone in the fashion world said flats are a-okay and I would like to full-body-hug that person.

Story:

As mentioned in a previous post, I was a bridesmaid in my best friend's wedding a couple weeks ago. I purchased a pair of champange, three-inch satin slingbacks that matched my dress. I tested them out at home. Seemed fine.

I wore them on the day of the wedding. By the time the ceremony was over, I was sure some skin on my pinky-hammer-toe was missing. By the end of photos, was waddling like there was something stuck in my ass.

I felt like this:

(Oh, and, by the way: "What the f---?" and "No this is not a real thing.")

These mother honkers hurt so bad I went in to full on temper-tantrum mode and whined to Mike, who -- thanks to a societal taboo that is grossly unfair -- has never worn heels.

I think penguins walk with more grace than I did, but I found the wedding planner and asked her politely if she wouldn't mind finding the (heavenly, blessed) flip-flops the bride had (bless her) purchased for us.

Then someone said "Perhaps you should wait to change your shoes until after the bridal party has been formally announced."

What I wanted to say was this:

Listen, lady, if I wear these soul-sucking heels for one more minute my feet will spontaneously combust and I will walk down those stairs and be formally introduced on ankle nubbins.

What I really said was:

"Um. No thanks."

To my relief, when I saw the bride, she lifted up her dress and revealed her own white flops.

Best. Bride. Ever.

Day #6. Vehicle. Meet My P.O.S.

Throughout high school and college, I drove a 1996 Toyota Rav 4. It was periwinkle. The horn was broken, so for a while it had a sign on the back that said "Horn broken, watch for finger." It had so many college stickers adhered to the back window, you couldn't get a clear shot of the road when you looked through the rear-view mirror.

I loved that thing. (FYI: In case you remember said SUV and are wondering what happened to it: The Rav recently passed on to Vehicular Heaven, also known as the scrap yard in Queenstown, MD. It lived a full life and spent its golden years toting beach chairs and umbrellas to and from our house in Bethany and accumulating sand in its important bits).

After the Rav, I had a brief love affair with a 2000 Jeep Cherokee, but I found that the gas was roughly equivalent to my car payment, and it moved on to a lot at CarMax where I believe it made friends and played well with others.

I then purchased a 2004 Subaru Impreza Outback Sport. Mike and I affectionately refer to it as "the Sububu." My students refer to it as "Ms. Schwind's beater" and I can't really argue with that summation.

Meet my P.O.S:
Current mileage: 138,000

Number of Times the Tires have been replaced: 5

Number of Oil Changes Administered in the Suggested 3mos/3,000mi: 0

Number of Tree Limbs Fallen on Car: 6 (if you only count the big ones)

Seriously, my car is a tree limb magnet. Tree limbs fall in my backyard, get up, walk over the driveway and jump on my car.

Don't believe me?

Proof:

See that weird splotchy light? Yeah, its doing that because the entire front of my car was bashed in by an errant tree limb and now my car is apparently capable of creating blinding light.

If you look around you will also notice multiple small dents created by the acorns that fall from our trees at mach-10 and land on my car like tree-fetus-bullets.

Maybe I have angered the trees. Perhaps I should hug more of them. Recycle more avidly. Conserve paper.

Because only a tree that is truly and deeply pissed off would drop this onto someone's car:

Yeah, see that? Its as tall as me.

And then there are the mystery marks. When I got them is not a mystery. What caused them is a mystery.

Let's see what you think:


So I'm driving along Huguenot Rd. on my way back from Einstein's Bagels one afternoon and I'm stopped at a red light. There's an Urban Assault Vehicle (aka: Suburban or the like) on my left and a few people behind us.


Its a summer day in Richmond, which means that its sunny and so-hot-you-feel-like-someone-stuck-the-earth-in-a-crock-pot.


I'm sitting at the light -- minding my own business -- when...


BAM!


BAM! BAM BAM!


Its so loud, I really, truly, honestly, Scout's Honor believe to Jesus that someone has shot at me.


I start to get out of my car.


Then I think: Trying to make the sniper's job easier, Self? Self, sit your ass down.


Stoopid.


I look around. The occupants of the Urban Assault Vehicle (UAV) are doing the same. We are all confused. I did not hallucinate this event.


Then I see them.


There are three massive cow-turd sized heaps of ash in the road around my car.


Heaps of ash. Are you hearing me here? When have you ever seen this? Unfortunately, ash does not survive rain storms, which we had later that night, so no one saw the ash heaps after The Event.


I should have gotten the driver of the UAV's number so he could verify this story.


One of these cow-turd-ash-heaps hit my car and produced this:

See those four dots on my luggage rack? And the dent below? They weren't there before The Event.

So I consult many, many people on this topic -- what the hell hit my car that could then produce these marks and giant cow-turd ash heaps.

My father, a source of infinite and reliable information suggests that the objects in question were....

Ready...?

Wait for it...

Space junk.

Yes space junk. And let me tell you, I am all-in on this interpretation. Space junk hit my car. I mean, its entirely possible right? There's all kinds of shit floating around in our atmosphere, right? And, you know, gravitational pull, depleting ozone layer, meteors, other astronomical words...

In Case You Were Wondering: Mike is not on this interpretation's bandwagon.

While I waiting for the economy to stop sucking so I can afford a nicer car, I invite speculation on The Event.

In the meantime, me and my P.O.S will be hauling down local suburban roads as the trees launch acorns at us. And since the trees can't hear my horn, they're getting the finger.

Day #5: Customer Service: "Get It Your Damn Self."

Remember when we were teenagers and went into stores in the mall and salespeople followed us around everywhere? I used to think, Wow! These folks are really attentive!

In hindsight I recognize the salespeople were just waiting for me to steal something. They wanted to be nearby so that when I slipped the CD into my backpack they could -- presumably -- chase after me and tackle me to the floor before I made out with the merchandise.

Which -- I will have you know -- I never did. Steal, that is.

In my twenties, I would go into women's clothing stores and no one would pay any attention to me. It was like someone had stamped a message to all sales associates on my forehead reading:

"BROKE. ONLY SEEKING SALES RACK ITEMS."

I could have sent up a god damn flare in the middle of that store and no one would have helped me find a size 8 (hahahahaha -- that's funny) in those black pants.

And then I watch my mom in action. Apparently she too has a sign stamped on her forehead too. But it reads:

"I AM GOING TO BUY A TON OF SHIT."

And the saleswomen flock to her. They don't just find her the black pants, they will call every store in North America -- nay -- they will call the very sweatshop in Korea in which those pants were made -- looking for those suckers. And while she waits, they'll fetch her a cappuccino, polish her jewelry, find her a dentist in the area and book her an appointment for an oil change.

Its insane.

I envy this. I thought by the time I reached thirty, the old forehead message would be replaced by one similar to my mom's, or at least one that reads something like:

"BROKE, BUT HAS CREDIT."

Alas, friends, I can't seem to command customer service despite my age, and when salespeople do follow me around, I can't swear they aren't waiting for me to steal something.

This actually happened:

So I'm grocery shopping. Sadly, when you're broke, this is actually a little fun, because at least you're shopping.

However, my shopping bliss is interrupted by my deli counter experience.

First, I wait in line. Which is not surprising -- when do you go to the grocery store and NOT wait in line for the deli counter? But I wait for a while. And really, there aren't very many people in line, so this is a bad omen.

When its my turn, I think a 20-something, short, stout woman is going to help me, but to be honest, I can't give an accurate description because this woman is so short I can only see her from the nose up over the deli meat case.

I ask for a pound of smoked turkey.

She disappears.

Deli Counter Girl: Its in the back.

[Stares at me.]

I can't think of why this statement warrants a response, but she clearly expects one, so I say:

Um. Okay.

[Deli Counter Girl sighs heavily and rolls her eyes and heads to "the back".]

I'm thinking: Dude. This is your job. And its simply not rocket science. Its just not. Sorry. Go get my effing turkey.

Approximately 10 seconds go by.

Deli Counter Girl: There's none back there.

Yeah, like hell there's none back there.

Me: Okay. I'll have ham.

Deli Counter Girl: How much.

Me: Still a need a pound.

Deli Counter Girl obtains ham, takes it to the meat slicer and starts working on the ham. One piece in the trash... two pieces... three pieces... four pieces in the trash... There's enough ham in that trash can to sustain a Subway lunch hour before this girl finally decides the ham is suitable.

I now have ham.

Then I make a strategic error. I ask for pasta salad.

Deli Counter Girl disappears again.

She reappears.

Deli Counter Girl: I need plastic containers.

At this point, I know the drill. I'm sensing the rhythm.

Me: Um. Okay.

Deli Counter Girl: [Shouting loud enough to be heard in the Seafood section] MARGE! WHERE ARE THE PLASTIC CONTAINERS!!

Marge: OVER THERE!

Deli Counter Girl: OVER WHERE?

Marge: OVER THERE!

Deli Counter Girl: I DON'T SEE THEM!

At this point, every soccer mom in Midlothain, VA is now behind me waiting for lunch meat, and I'm only still there to see what happens next.

This is what happens next:

Marge: THEN WE DON'T GOT ANY.

Deli Counter Girl: [To me] We don't got any plastic containers.

Me: I had no idea.

People in the next county knew this Kroger didn't have plastic containers. Apparently the sign on my head actually reads: "DEAF."

[Deli Counter Girl stares at me.]

[I stare back.]

Deli Counter Girl: Thank you for shopping with us.

And just like that, my deli counter time limit has expired. I am banished from the land of pasta salad and roast beef.

And no one fetched me a cappuccino. Eff it. I'll get it my damn self.