Like You Talk About Other Things At Dinner

A conversation I started I kinda wish I hadn't:

Me: "So I heard this guy, he . . . well, he stuck his finger up his. . . "
Mom: "His what?"
Me: "Pee hole."
Mom: "His urethra?"
Me: "Yes."
Mom: "Eeewww. You'd think that would totally hurt wouldn't you?"
Me: "I guarantee if I tried to pull that shit in the bedroom with someone I would get smacked."

And that's how I ended up making my mom spit her coke all over me.

This was all at dinner with my brother, after we let that pass and my mom moved the conversation to more appropriate topics like how she just learned how to "kick lemon drops up a notch". She was wildly gesturing with her utensils about how to pour the two things into the martini glass at once in some sort of wondrous vodka waterfall when she got a little too big with her movements and stabbed my brother in the face with her knife.

"Jesus Mom!"
"Oh shit, I mean shoot - I'm trying not to swear for the grandkids."
"I don't have kids."
"Don't remind me. I mean E's."
"Is Michael ok?"
"Oh I forgot to check."
"It just happened!"
"Michael are you ok?"
"Is that blood?"
"Is it?. . . Oh, no. That's just hot sauce. He's fine."
"He could have lost an eye!"
"Oh for Christ's sake it's just a plastic knife, it's not gonna do any real damage."

Did I forget to mention we were at Taco Bell when all this went down? Because when we take my brother out to dinner we like to do it in style.

Speaking of family style, my grandma has this thing in her front yard. . . wait. I should preface by saying she lives on what is affectionately known as 'the hill'. It's a fancy part of the south bay, where people have views of the entire LA basin, and on a day when the smog is not at deathcon five levels, you can see both the Hollywood hills and Catalina Island. Rich/famous people who don't want to deal with the 405 traffic live there. Note: my grandma is neither rich nor famous, but she's older than the hills (ha!) and bought the house when LA was nothing but farmlands and orange fields. Point is, she's lived up there so long she can pretty much do whatever she dang well wants and It. Is. Awesome.

Exhibit A:
She bought this painted (life-mother-f-ing-size) buffalo at an art auction on the island and had it shipped over so it could live in her front yard.




My Aunt makes her cover it up whenever she visits because she's so embarrassed of it, but it's not like the neighbors forget what's under there just because they can't see it.

Here's a little closer picture so you can get the full joy:





I rag on her a lot because she's a basket of crazy, but let me tell you something - every time I see this it reminds me how much I just love her for doing stuff like this. Love it.

Unfortunately I didn't get a picture of the (also life-size) tile hanging she has on the front of her house that is the Virgin Mary because it was covered for the moment. Probably because some Jews were coming to visit. Next time people.

Watercooler Safety

Someone at work just scolded me for replacing the Sparkletts water bottle all by myself because she said I need to be "protecting my baby producing organs". Because apparently I am of the breed that makes a baby grow with her arms.

"Wow, look at those guns. Have you been working out?"
"Nope, just pregnant with twins. Arm twins."

I realized we were out of water and then looked around to see how many people would see me sneak away from the empty cooler, realized it was too many to get away with it, and sighed, trudging to where the spare 90 gallon jugs are kept. I need to say that the only reason I sighed was because I am not what you would call 'graceful' when it comes to aiming a full thing of water at an opening the size of a silver dollar. I tend to take a more, get-some-of-the-water-in-there-at-least-and-do-it-before-the-whole-office-comes-to-watch approach.

I grabbed the jug and then psyched myself up to get at least a third of it all over me, much in the same way sports teams psych themselves up for game time - lots of grunting and clapping and incomprehensible shouts about fucking shit up. But then I went in for the attack and everything went amazingly. Like not a single drop anywhere. Not because I'm suddenly Harry Potter (because he would just use magic to do it) but because they have a new safety valve - a new safety valve of awesome - that I'm pretty sure says "Made especially for Amy. No, not you Amy, the other one, over there. That tall one who looks like she just stepped out of a quick jaunt in a local fountain, that one" in fine print somewhere on the cap.

So, now I can change the water all by myself without getting myself and half the break room soaked, but I'm still endangering the lives of my unborn children. My born children though, they're just fine with it.

Like Typing In Space

So I have this computer that I inherited from Becky after she had it for five years in architecture school. Recently, it has decided to slowly drive me crazy and will work only when it feels like I've made a big enough fool out of myself. "Oh, what's that? You want me to turn on and actually let you open documents, I've been doing that my whole life and I'm not taking it lying down anymore! Literally!"

(And yeah, living alone makes all my appliances talk to me - like the other day when my tv suddenly turned off when I accidentally stopped on an episode of Reba. I swear as it went black I heard it say, "What the f is this bullshit? Reba? SERIOUSLY?!)

Anyway, my computer will only power on and/or work if it's turned on it's side, so if I want to check my email, or I don't know, do some work I have to type on it in that position like I'm in some weird Escher painting where everything else is in the upright and locked position, but the top half of me and that brazen Mac are turned to a 90 degree angle. James found it really amusing, and as punishment for mocking me I only let him stay in the freezer for a half hour this time.

I got a new one. A non-Mac (which is sad because I was starting to get on the Mac-only bandwagon. Macs and Diet Pepsi!) and it's all shiny and pretty, but more importantly than that, I don't have to ice down my neck after watching Nurse Jackie illegally for four straight hours.

Like A Little Matthew Perry

Reason number 7 why I probably won't be mistaken for the gay one this week:

The puddle of drool around me that appears whenever I watch 17 Again and Zac Efron is shirtless. Or shirt-clad. Doesn't matter really, I know what's under there.



Reason why I will probably have to stay 500 yards away from elementary schools, and go around and introduce myself to all my neighbors as a creepy pervert:

See above.

Like Having A Trainer But Weirder

Just as I was about to be upset that I was getting passed up (for the second time) by a line of Army recruits on my very rainy run this morning, one of them smacked me on the butt and said, "Keep up the good work ma'am" and then took off to the front of the line.

I should be offended. But then again none of you has ever seen me sweaty and drenched in dirt and rain water - not the prettiest I've ever been. And dang it if I didn't finish my run a minute and a ten seconds faster than normal. See. . . objectifying women with a side of encouragement does do some good in the world.

Take The Stairs

You know how you have those moments in your life where you're like, "If only I'd taken the other elevator!" or "Oh my gosh I could have been on that plane, but I had to check my deodorant situation and ended up missing my flight and because I care about my body odor I didn't die!" Those moments? Well, I had one of those the other morning.

Ok, maybe it wasn't as serious as that, but it was pretty close. Or. . . it was looking at close from atop a mountain range with high visibility binoculars, but still - it could see it.

Anyway, it's 9am and I'm cooking chicken, and plugging in my iron, and turning on my hair straightener - because I like to do all hot things at once. If I had a dryer in my apartment that would be going too. Unfortunately, my timing was a little off and I had too much waiting for things to heat up time, so I decided I was gonna be even more productive and take the trash out (because Regis and Kelly was on commercial), and I get to the elevator and somehow - like by sheer force of gravitational evil - my keys leap out of my hand and fall down the mother loving elevator shaft. It was like a movie where something falls and you just wait to hear the crash, I don't know what I was waiting for - like maybe if I don't hear it, it didn't happen and the keys are still in my hand?

But I heard it.

Luckily, I was supposed to meet my manager right around that time anyway, and about thirty seconds later she comes out of the elevator looking mighty pissed. Then she sees me and says:

"I just dropped my keys down the elevator shaft."

Uh...what now? I think I actually spun around like, did I just say that and it came out of her mouth?

"No," I started. "I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft."

Pause where she looked at me much like I was looking at her.

"Just now?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's why I'm standing here in my pj's with Quiet Riot hair."

"Shit. I just dropped mine down there."

"Who is gonna let me into my apartment then?"

She shrugged, "We could try to lift the elevator?"

"We could try to lift the elevator?"

That's when I realized I was never getting back in. I would be stuck in my sister's 'Class of 2000' t-shirt, boxer shorts with bears on them, and black business socks forever. Correction - black business socks with bright orange bottoms, because that's what happens to them when you mop your floor with something bleach laden and then walk across it before you rinse it down. James was going to burn himself on my straightener, run to the kitchen sink for safety and water, trip on my iron which would land on my curtain, setting the whole place ablaze, and then, because it's on and I'm not there to watch it, the oven would explode.

"Well, shit," she said again. "Do you have anywhere to be today?"

"Just work."

She looked me up and down. "I guess you could wear my sweater."

"Can't we call a locksmith?"

"My phone is locked in my office, is yours hiding in your (**more looking my attire over**) hair?"

"No."

"Well, then this might be a while."

"But my cat and all the hot things!" I yelled at her.

"You have a cat?"

"No."

And thank god, before she could tell me cats were illegal in my building someone walked out of what was supposed to be her locked office and scared the bejesus out of us. Turns out her office wasn't locked after all, spare keys were found, and after what seemed like the longest elevator ride ever, I got into my apartment which was in tact and James was casually sleeping in my backpack like 'What? Oh it's just you. That chicken smells done.'

She didn't manage to lift the elevator herself, but the handy elevator people did it and got our keys back, along with a can of Budweiser (which is apparently a magic shape shifting can). And this is why I'll be glad when I move, because my elevator can summon things at will, and if I have to go to work one more time in my pjs I'm afraid people are gonna start to talk.

A Rash of Calls

I like medical stuff. I always watch when they draw blood, I don't shy away from asking the dentist what she's going to be stabbing with that three-pronged shiny metal thing, I started nursing school for goodness sake, and once, when we were about 8 and 7, I set Bub up in one of our parents recliners, positioned the needlepoint magnifying lamp over her open mouth and proceeded to retract a stubborn piece of plum from in between her molar gums because I care.

But, that doesn't mean I always like it or want to hear it. I'll spare you the phone call about someone's exploding something that sent blood flying all over something else, but a day after I got that phone call, I got this one:

Me: Hello?
Mom: Have I told you about my new rash?
Me: Mom?
Mom: Who else calls you?
Me: Lots of peop. . . you and Bub do. What do you mean your 'new' one?
Mom: Oh, it's been a weird year for me and my skin.
Me: Ew.
Mom: Don't ew me miss sends her sister a picture of her healing stitches everyday.
Me: She wanted to see it.
Mom: It's all over the place, and it's spreading even farther.
Me: Your new rash is?
Mom: Yes.
Me: Did you see the doctor?
Mom: Yes he told me to take these two pills and use this cream that smells like a lavatory.
Me: What?
Mom: No, not a lavatory.
Me: You smell like a bathroom?
Mom: That's not the right word . . . lavender.
Me: Those are totally different smells Mom.
Mom: I look like I have an allergic reaction.
Me: What did the doctor say it was?
Mom: An allergic reaction to this cream I was using for a different rash.

Thank you Lori. And so it went. Then, later on Bub called me:

Me: Hello?
Bub: Did mom tell you about her rash?
Me: Why does everyone want to start conversations with me that way?
Bub: We went to Starbucks together today.
Me: Does it look as bad as she says?
Bub: No. Well, it looks bad, but she doesn't look like a leper.
Me: I think lepers are missing limbs and chunks of skin and stuff.
Bub: Right, she doesn't look like that.
Me: Ok...
Bub: So, we walk in - me, her, and the rash - and she yells, right after she steps into the door, 'It's not contagious! DON'T WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING AIRBORNE! I'm not contagious!'
Me: Nice.
Bub: We got free coffee though.
Me: You did?
Bub: No, but we should have. She looked gross.

Hot At 5am Is Too Hot

Dear Marathon Training in 85 degree weather,

Way to make a girl suicidal.


Sincerely,
The girl who was sweating so much she stopped mid-run at one point to yell, "My eyes! My eyes are burning!" and then had a (turned out to be) good-natured fellow jogger splash her in the face with Gatorade to try and help. It didn't. It just made me sticky.


So, when I woke up at 5am it was blazing, and I thought it won't be that bad outside, and then I got outside and proceeded to sweat my balls off for the next three hours.

Normally I love my long run days because I get a weird feeling of joy when I know I've worked so hard it's gonna be a struggle lifting that leg over the bathtub to get out of the shower, and because there's an odd sense of euphoria and ridiculous emotional stuff that comes after about mile 15 when I either want to break down sobbing because that tree is just so pretty, or start giggling uncontrollably because I've suddenly decided something my mom said to me the night before about her rash is hysterical. But today was not all fun and games. Today was so hot I was soaked before I finished my first mile. And I was sure Chicagoans must have sensed I was having a hard time today, and wasn't gonna make it without their support because for the first hour or so everyone that passed me smiled. Smiled big. And I smiled back. And said hi more than I usually do, because damnit, if they were rooting for me the I was too!

And then I stopped to refill my water.

I glanced down while I was trying to fight off the urge to strip naked and try to bathe myself in the water fountain and noticed my shirt was a lot wetter than I'd thought. And then I noticed it. Two huge wet circles right where my boobs live. It looked like I'd forgotten to put in my breast feeding pads and was leaking. Turns out if you carry your water bottle kinda up high and don't pay attention to how hard you squeeze it sometimes, it can leak. It can leak in some very noticeable spots.

Thanks for the support Chicago.

Anyway, the Gatorade throwing guy immediately said, "Oh shoot! I thought that was the one filled with water." It didn't matter, I was so hot he could have doused me with cool kerosene and I would have been fine with it.

By the time I finished my run I headed straight for the lake, stripping off my shoes and shirt as I walked, fairly certain this song started playing all around me in a building thing of song wonder(thanks weird running hormones) and dove into the freezing, icy, colder-than-actual-ice lake, and it was amazing. It was such a shock that it knocked the breath out of me and when I came up for air gasping, with a weird ice cream headache, an old woman who was inching her way in said, "Did you swim here dear?" I wanted to ask her where she thought I swam from, or just tell her yes, yes I did - but instead I just said no, I was hot, to which she said, "F yeah it is." She censored herself for me, which of course made me start to giggle and then I knew it was time to get home and eat something (everything) in my house.

It was really sucky most of the time, and I certainly don't ever want to run in that sort of heat again, but the lake, Gatorade guy, and the lady totally made it all seem worth it. Totally f-ing crazy. But worth it.

Not Hannah Montana

So, Gige went ahead and had that baby! She was all, "Ok, I'm ready. I don't wanna wait two weeks." And Hailey was all, "Fine, lets get that mucous plug out HOW ABOUT THAT?!"

We talked yesterday for an hour, her doctor said she was 3cm dilated but that it would probably be a few days and she should just go ahead and go to work tomorrow. So we were chatting about nothing really, maybe a little bit about how her life was going to change FOREVER, but other than that it was all - I'm so excited to see Time Traveler's Wife, and how she liked the smell of her loofah (seriously, the loofah took up a huge chunk of the conversation; we don't accomplish much in the way of world peace when we talk, but we do solve a lot of the world's problems regarding good things to smell).

Anyway, I started to get hungry and Gige was like, "Yeah I have to go to the grocery store but **yawn** I'm tired." Cut to a few hours later and she's bringing a human to life. All I did was vacuum. It seemed like a good accomplishment at the time but she just haaaaad to one up me.

And holy crap she did.


Goopy eyed babies are so dang cute. It makes my ovaries hurt just looking at this.


I got Bryan's text that he was a dad right before I went on my run this morning, and then proceeded to immediately lose my cool and cry at a stop sign. A homeless guy stopped to ask me if I was ok and I just nodded and told him my best friend had a baby, and he then asked me for a quarter.


These two people....



...made this.




And that, is pretty fucking awesome.

High-Five

So I threw my back out this weekend. (Because I'm 80 apparently?) And since I am the opposite of having my shit together when it's ninety in my house, it's the one time I decide to forget Advil exists. Normally I down that stuff like its M&Ms if I think I might get a headache, you know, someday. I once gave Gige a dose of what I take during a (sorry boy readers - or reader - hey Nels!) special lady week and she looked at me like I was trying to help her with some sort of friendly, way-too-early, Euthanasia.

Anyway, I made my way to 7-11 to get some Ibuprofen and when I walked in my neighbors were standing there chatting with the guy who runs the place, and who you have to scream at over the radio if Guns 'N Roses comes on because he turns it up so loud the wine bottles rattle and sometimes knock the milk cartons over.

"HEY! EMILY!" he shouted. "YOU LIKE NOVEMBER RAIN?!"
"I used to!" I screamed.
"WHAT?!"
"I love it!"
One of my neighbors walked up to us at the counter and high-fived me. I think. The second I slapped her hand I realized she was probably just waving hi.
"YOUR NAME ISN'T EMILY!" she yelled.
"It is when I get free ice cream from them."
"WHAT?"
"Nope it's totally not!"
When the song ended the volume got turned down but everyone was still semi-screaming, like when you leave a concert and are walking back to your car and you can hear some guy yell clear across the parking lot, "I DON'T CARE THAT YOU PUKED A LITTLE IN MY MOUTH. WHO HASN'T?"

I paid for my Advil and flaming hot cheetos, and waved to my neighbors and the 7-11 guy - waved like a little kid, up and down, something I haven't done since I was four - because I didn't want to have the same high-five/wave mix up again, which really just made me feel even more weird than if I'd just tongue kissed everyone goodbye. Just as I was backing out into the safety of oncoming traffic the guy said, "Emily! You stand up so straight!"
"Oh, yeah I tweaked my back a tiny bit, it's fine."
"You look so tall."
"It's probably just these pants."
"No, really. You stand up like that and you get a nice man."
"Uh. . . "
"Maybe you hurt your back, but you should keep doing it."
"I don't really think. . . "
"Yup. Nice man."

Thanks 7-11. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go lift a couch without bending my knees in case Ryan Reynolds walks by.


Also, have I mentioned Gige is gonna have a baby in like two days?!?! Ok, like two weeks, but that sucker is gonna fly by. She had her baby shower a few weeks ago and sent me some photos from it, her favorite being this one I like to call - "Amy in the background, discovers there's another pitcher of Sangria, and this one IS NOT getting spilled on the white carpet."




So excited for it I answer the phone, "Are you in labor?" every time she calls, and when she says no I hang up. Because maybe if she feels offended it'll speed things up.

Some Days We Talk About Politics And The Meaning of Life, All The Others - Not So Much

People always ask me if it's hard to be so far away from my sister (ok, people don't ask me that, maybe *a* person has asked me, and it's fairly likely that person was my sister herself, but still...) and I always tell them, No. Not so much. Not because I don't love that little sucker, but because I talk to her more now than I did when we lived in the same city. We usually talk at least once a day, but today was one of the ones where we talked five - oh yeah that's right, FIVE - times. Nothing thrilling happened, there was no major catastrophe or something exciting going on in our family that we just had to talk about (even that day we found out our older sister went off and eloped - for the third time - even that day we only talked once, and I'm pretty sure the rushed wedding came as filler in between talking about the latest episode of Weeds and me making her listen to James meow).

And from the following conversations it's pretty safe to assume the two of us decided talking to each other about nothing is actually making us dumber, just like when we read Twilight. Melon-sized scoops out of the brain.

Me: Hey what's up?
Bub: MYCABLEWON'TWORKIDON'TKNOWWHATTODO!
Me: What?!
Bub: MYCABLEWON'TWORKIDON'KNOWWHATTODO!
Me: Unplug it.
Bub: I don't know where the outlet is.
Me: Unplug it from the box.
Bub: Oh.
Me: Did you do it?
Bub: Yeah. But, I just ate dinner staring at the blue screen because I didn't know how to fix it.
Me: Seriously?
Bub: When I eat dinner I'm supposed to be sitting here staring at something on tv.
Me: . . .
Bub: That's really sad. Isn't it?
Me: A little.


And then, later on. . .

Bub: What are you doing?
Me: Nothing. What are you doing?
Bub: Nothing.
Me: I'm lying.
Bub: You're doing something aren't you?
Me: James and I are playing with my magnet pen.
Bub: Oh, Jesus. . .
Me: It's so fu. . . he's so cu. . . you should see how he jumps . . .
Bub: . . .
Me: Shut up.
Bub: I didn't say anything.
Me: I hear you making fun of me.
Bub: You're playing with a magnet!
Me: You watched the error signal!


Tomorrow we talk about Michelle Obama's muscles and how to get melted peanut butter out of your favorite pajama pants - you know, the important stuff.

Bigger IS Better

Oh my gosh I've got a lot of catching up to do. I've got about eight posts started that I just haven't finished because a) I'm training for a marathon again which makes me constantly sleepy; b) I'm stupid - see a; c) There's four seasons of Felicity out there and since I have a terrible memory re-watching it is like watching a whole new show, except I do have the same distinct feeling of anxiety waiting for her hair to grow out again; and d) How exactly does one start a post about how one's mother told her she doesn't know where her underwear comes from - it just appears in her drawers looking the way one's mother's boyfriend wants them to look?

Anyway, I know no one wants to hear about James and the shower and blah, blah, blah, but he's stopped doing it. He now just sits dutifully on the toilet (lid up or down, doesn't matter, that's where he sits) (and consequently, that's where he falls into at least once a week). Except! Except today he decided to try it out again, climbed right on in and (here's where it gets good) proceed to bat at/attack the bubbles from my soapy runoff. Like he was pouncing all over the tub, so much so that I had to back away for a while so he could get a pesky bubble that was floating away from him. CUTEST DAMN THING EVER. I swear to god, my unborn children have a lot of f-ing cute to live up to.

Here's a photo from Catalina just to let you know what sort of things I'll be posting in the upcoming week. I call it, "But they got bigger too! Why shouldn't we test them out?"

I Should Just Let It Air Dry Anyway

So, I have this hair dryer that I got about ten years ago, right before I moved to Arizona. It's all duct taped together because I lent it to someone in 2001 and they broke the heck out of the plastic but I still needed to use it and it survived all this time. Until, you know this morning when I was blow drying my hair and the thing caught on fire about three inches from my head.

(I didn't have a camera with me, but this is pretty much what it looked like)


It took me a solid five seconds to realize what was happening as I kept the sucker running and just looked around me like, what the heck is that smell? Then I caught a reflection of the flames and smoke in the mirror, dropped it into the sink, and luckily had the good sense not to turn the faucet on to put out my plugged in electrical appliance.

(Again, this is exactly what it looked like)


Yesterday I literally said to it, "You're the best blow dryer ever. You'll never die." And there are two things I learned from that, a) apparently saying that is like saying, "Wow we're making great time, we haven't hit any traffic at all!" and then you get stuck on the 405 for like ninety million hours, and b) I need to start hanging out with people more if I'm talking to my appliances.

I just tried it again to see if it would catch on fire again. It did. In other news, I should not be allowed to operate heavy, or semi-delicate machinery, or maybe even babysit if I'm trying to see if things will burst into flames again.

Not Just All Night Long, But An Entire 24 Hours Of Loving

Last night just after I'd gotten off the train at the Thorndale stop (someone peed on the train so I got off a stop early to avoid it rolling toward me - I don't wanna hear it brown line riders!) a guy, and what I'm imagining was his crew, stepped in front of me and said, "Hey baby you need some hot loving tonight?" I did, but declined with a polite "No thanks" because I already knew it would never work between us - he had glittery pants. "Hot loving? I will hold you for 24 hours." Which I thought was really nice of him - to specify the amount of time. 23 hours, too little. 25 hours, forget it I'm bored already. But 24 hours of being held by someone who I just noticed also had glittery shoes, well that would be the perfect amount of holding. But again I declined because, well because he was most likely a drug dealer, b) I don't just let anyone hold me, c) the glittery pants and shoes, and d) I had the sinking feeling the crew would want to hang around.

So I walked around them and started on my way home with the crew muttering, "Damn" and "That's some shit", and then just before I was out of earshot glitter pants said, "Just the holding then?" and I turned the corner totally giggling, and totally glad I live off the red line - you just don't get propositioned like that off the other lines. You don't get that, and you don't get pee on your trains so I guess we both sort of win.

Are We There Yet?

Seriously. Where else is it ok for the police to ride around in a golf cart chasing down people high on meth and then pepper spraying half the crowd while trying to wrastle said meth guy into the cart, then the pepper sprayed crowd decides the ice cream place is more interesting and leaves to wait in line for something gigantic and covered in whip cream and caramel, only to wash it down with margaritas half an hour later.
Catalina: where stomachs go to die.

New Habits

Did I ever tell you guys about the time I went on a road trip to my grandma's wedding and on that road trip is when I discovered my mom's arms were broken? No, I didn't? Well, it's true. That's the only explanation for why she never carried her own bags, opened her own car doors, or cut her own meat. (Ok, she doesn't eat meat. But if she did she wouldn't have cut it herself I can tell you that much.) Lucky for her, she's got a boyfriend who can do all that stuff for her, otherwise she'd just be stuck in that car forever.

Upon arrival to the hotel Bub and I walked up to the doors behind our mom and then slammed into one another when she stopped suddenly at the glass doors. Once I pried my nose out of Bub's back, and she disengaged from the weird mother-daughter sandwich we had just made, we turned to look at our mom who was just sort of eying the door suspiciously, like it was some alien life form she'd never seen before. I half expected her to start sniffing it to see what it was made of.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Why aren't you opening the door?"

"Oh my god," Becky said. "She doesn't do things for herself."

"Excuse me?"

"I had to carry all her luggage in the airport."

"Why?"

"She doesn't carry things anymore."

"Shut up."

"Yeaup."

We carried on like this for a while, talking about our mother like she wasn't standing right there with her arms crossed, smiling at us, amused we were noticing her new weird habits. I don't know why exactly but somehow she's decided Eduardo being chivalrous and opening doors and stuff for her has turned into something her daughters have to do too. Suddenly my tough, jeans-only wearing, here-let-me-carry-that-you-big-baby, dirt-digging mother has turned into a pretty little princess. There's nothing wrong with guys doing nice things, I'm pro everyone doing nice things for each other, but there's opening doors and then there's turning my mom into someone who will stand at a door waiting for someone to open it for her, even though her boyfriend is halfway across the parking lot still. Like a maniac.

"Eduardo likes to do those things for me," my mom said starting to laugh (I hope) because she realized how crazy she was sounding. "Isn't that right baby!" she called, and Bub and I turned to see Eduardo still at the car, piling himself with duffel bags, and trying to figure out how to balance one on his head while he walked.

"I know that's right!" he called back.

She laughed and then he started to laugh. At least I think he was laughing, it was too hard to tell with that strap in his mouth. Bub and I just stared at her shaking our heads.

"I miss normal," I said opening the door and letting Bub in.

"No you don't," my mom said. "Normal would mean I'd have my chore list out by now."

"We're in a hotel!"

"Your point?"

"You don't get to come in this door after me. You can open it yourself," I said pulling the door shut behind me.

"That's fine," she called through the glass. "Eduardo will be here just as soon as he picks up those bags!"

And so went the trip. Becky and I got everywhere five minutes faster than my mom because we can open doors for ourselves, but she couldn't care less. And she's right. If she's so happy she's not making me use the dust buster she brought along with her to vacuum the hotel room floor, then who am I to judge. I should just let her be spoiled and live in the peace that comes with a giggly, happy mom - it's totally worth all the crazy.

Two Pitchers of Sangria

I sort of drunk dialed my mom last night. Which was weird. She didn't seem to mind and/or notice so that's good. Chances are she was a few drinks in herself and was trying to hold her shit together while I tried to hold my shit together. Technically I wasn't really drunk, I was more like very happily tipsy, but still it was enough to loosen me up so that I'm pretty sure I said:

"That Star Trek movie rocked my fucking socks off. I want all the seasons of Star Trek for my birthday asap!"

She then informed me my birthday was ten months away.

To which I replied, "You think I'm gonna stop loving it?"

Yes, she did.

"Never!"

Turns out I woke up this morning and I'm suddenly re-thinking my position on the whole Star Trek love thing. She might be right. I liked it, but I didn't like it that much. Not enough that I was willing to commit myself to it for long enough that we'd get to the point where we would have to start talking about where this was going, and whether or not we wanted to move in together. The Sangria on the other hand . . . that stuff I will love forever.

Doing It

James just ate something crawly. Apparently whatever it was is incredibly tasty because he keeps licking his lips and scanning the walls for more of them. The good thing about having a cat is I always know there's a spider in the house before it's crawling on me. He's like a guard dog for all things under three inches. So, watch out tiny, little murdering men! My cat will most likely bat you around for a while and then get bored and eat you right before he decides it's time to give my shin a good licking.

So, my grandma got married this weekend! Yay! My mom, Bub, and Eduardo all flew out to Chicago first and hung out for a night before we rented a car and drove to Battle Creek, Michigan for the ceremony and so many meals consisting of 90% cheese I might be producing milk soon.

Battle Creek is where the Kellogg plant is, and from the looks of the town that's pretty much the only thing there aside from a few heavily bearded dudes offering my sister and me pitchers of their "special brew". We took a chance and they didn't end up to be roofied so that was good. Plus we drank it and then left immediately so we figured - well, if we're drugged at least we'll be drugged alone in our hotel room, the only bad thing about that is if one of us doesn't have the strength to turn off The Hills we're definitely leaving stupider than we arrived.

The cool thing about the town though is that the air smells sweet from all the cereal making going on. Like, you walk outside and it smells like waffles and syrup, and the people smell like powdered sugar. Ok, the people don't smell like that, but you'd think some of it would sink in after a while. It makes normal air smell real boring.

The lake we had a picnic at was really pretty.


For some reason (lots of beers) I didn't end up taking many pictures (except of my mom drunk), but we had a really good time (lots of rum punch), and the ceremony was really sweet and love-filled (except for the awkward getting communion my sister and I were planning on skipping but then somehow ended up in the line and got the bread but missed the dang wine!), and my grandma seemed so, so, so happy and that's what's important! Plus she probably did it! At 83 she's doing it! I hope I'm doing it at 83. I hope we all are.

Tacky

I got a cork board yesterday to hang above my desk, and as I was checking out the seventeen year old girl scanning my stuff said, "Oh I just got one of these for my desk!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I tacked up pictures of the cast of The Wire."

"The Wire? You watch that?"

"Yeah! Omar is my favorite."

"The gay gangster?"

(long pause as she stares at me in shock) "He's gay?"

"Shouldn't you have pictures of Zac Efron up? Cause that's what's going on mine."

"He's really gay . . . wait, Zac Efron? How old are you?"

"That's not important."

"You're like twenty years older than him right?"

(**complete silence as I stare her down willing myself not to scream I AM NOT IN MY FORTIES!**)

"Omar is gay and you're too young to watch that show."

"You're too old to like Zac Efron."

"You're too sassy to be a register girl."

"We're called cashiers!"

"I'm called 29!"



I actually liked her a lot after that. She was sassy, but she was fun. And we have the same cork board, so there's that.

Getting the cork board up by myself - not so fun. Turns out it's a lot harder than it seems, and I was pretty sure it was going to take all of two minutes and then I could start tacking things with wild abandon. Not so much. I documented the process to keep from crying every time it fell.

First attempt:



The sucker swung like that for a good five minutes, knocking everything off my desk, breaking a picture frame, but apparently not fazing James in the least.

Second attempt:
It fell on my toes and I have no photo of that as I was probably cursing more than my mom at a holiday party.

Third attempt:


At least this time it fell straight down and took nothing with it except a chunk of my wall.

Finally! Many hours later, I got the thing up and had a (much needed) glass of wine to celebrate! (That glow in the corner isn't a lamp, it's God shining on my handiwork with pride.)

Disposable Razors Worked Just Fine

Walking back from the lake today I saw three (yeah - THREE) used condoms, strewn all out and about. Apparently summer is here and Chicagoans are taking advantage of the warmth and doing it. Outside.

Once at home, I settled in with a nice cup of hot tea. Just as good as doing it in the street - and by 'just as good' I mean, a stupid idea. It's 80 degrees outside! And probably hotter in what I'm now calling The Apartment That Hates Sheltering Me From Weather Or Letting Me Go A Single Night Without Hearing Mariah Carey Blasting From The Rehab Center Next Door. Anyway, tea was not my smartest move. Ice cubing my feet however, very smart. So, as I was leaning over to ice, I glanced at my arm and saw this long black hair, like way too long to be an arm hair on me, a man - yes, a monkey - sure, me when I was in sixth grade - absolutely (I had long dark hair until high school for some reason, it did not make my childhood any more pleasant I can tell you that, but it did lead to an odd period of shaving my arms, and then being grounded for several months because I refused to stop shaving my hairy monkey arms).

I freaked out for a minute until I realized I live with a cat and it had to be one of his hairs. But then I pulled at it and it didn't just come with me because it was stuck in my arm! It wasn't a cat hair, it was my hair and so I freaked out some more and followed it down to my skin, because I clearly I needed to see where this sucker was coming from. - I tried to remember if I used shaving cream when I shaved my arms, because clearly I was going to have to start it up again. I know for sure I once used shampoo and conditioner.

Anyway, I find that the thing is coming out of what looks like a mole! What?! GROSS. I deserve to be made fun of. You know who has stuff growing out of moles? Witches. And seventy year old men that smell like Old Spice. But then suddenly the mole came off in my hand and I'm like, "Oh great! Now my skin is just coming off in chunks and I am like a leper, or a G.I. Joe where you can detach things if you just manage to snap the rubber band that holds his legs on to his pelvis." But I look closer (because I'm still holding the thing for some reason) and I realize (thank god), it's not a mole . . . it's a piece of melted chocolate and one of James' hairs stuck to it! Yay! No arm shaving necessary! Freak out can stop!

However, I will be watching myself more closely when I eat because I'm pretty sure I had showered in between eating the chocolate and finding the hair thing. Unless James was eating it, in which case, I'm gonna have to find a new hiding spot.