Moi? July 23, 2008
This one was worth a good laugh:
mature hot mum in the kitchen
Apparently, that is how I’m found. Love, my blog.
Scheduled July 23, 2008
I enjoy the days where my alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. and I’m in the shower no more than 10 minutes later. Before 7 a.m. I’m definitely in the bathroom downstairs painting my face and deciding on what to wear and do with my hair. I sometimes stop for a Starbucks but am usually logging onto my computer at about 7:34 a.m. Home from work between 4 and 4:30 p.m. I take the dog out and meet Jeff outside as he gets home from work for that much-needed hug.
I like routine. I like schedules. I like knowing what’s going on and what will happen next. I like surprises and spontaneity, too. But, my work week is mostly viewed as a road map. And I admit it (ya hear that?), when the key gets switched around, it sometimes doesn’t agree with my system. I stress. I worry about if I’ll see Jeff, if I’ll have time to eat dinner, if I’ll have time to say good night before his head hits the pillow, or before mine does. And those tiny worries send me into a whirlwind of insanity and I worry about unrelated things like bills and money, the future, if I’m too fat, when I’ll grocery shop next, how I’m going to get to and from place to place the weekend of my best friend’s wedding, if I should throw in a load of laundry, etc. (I could continue, but I’ve already painted the picture. I’m psychotic).
And sometimes, this causes problems. And all of these things are heightened each month when my crazy PMS takes over. I know you’re probably thinking, get the girl some Zoloft and maybe a few back up Xanax. And fortunately, or unfortunately, I’ve been down that road a few too many times in my life to wish for it back. So, sometimes I feel stuck.
It’s not pretty. In fact, it’s probably the ugliest version of myself out there. And, talk about something that messes up your schedule. In fact, I don’t think I could create something so ugly and chaotic if I tried. And it’s hard for me to justify drugging myself up and messing with who I am the other 26 days of the month. So, yeah, I guess, I choose this. I choose the craziness. And sometimes there are days and moments and hours where I just don’t know how long I can exists like this. And during those same days, moments and hours I push the limits of my relationship so far that I’m surprised he’s still here. I say mean things that I am too embarrassed to repeat here. I shoot dirty looks. I raise my voice and I cry. Oh, do I cry.
Last night was one of those nights.
I’m smart enough to know, at this point, that a bunch of puffy-eyed appologies don’t really cut it. Coffee in the morning usually helps. Dropping it helps more. And so kisses from my dog. In truth, the ugliness sometimes helps remind me I’m human. But I can’t say that being reminded I’m human helps make it much easier. It sucks.
And to the critics - it’s not a just a case of I have cramps and feel like being a bitch. Ask my boyfriend, he’ll tell you what it’s really like. So, if you don’t have anything nice to say, now is probably the time of the month to have nothing to say at all.
Thankyouverymuch. July 18, 2008
If you’ve ever been injured you know what the bills are like. H-E-L-L.
Those damn hospitals charge you for every last thing. Including sitting in the waiting room and bandaids. OK, maybe I’m over reacting a little. But, it’s expensive. The bills from all my knee injuries have started to roll in and because I have no shame I’m in the process of applying for any program out there that will give me free money. Because I don’t know if you know this or not, but journalists are poor. And we don’t make a lot of money. And we cannot afford to pay four different entities the lowest payment of $50 per month because I swear to you, we don’t have an extra $200 at the end of any month. Anyway. (Stepping off my soapbox).
Today, one of my lovely blue clinic bills (let’s play, guess which hospital Manda went to?) shows up telling me I owe my next 50 bucks and they included a gift. A GIFT you guys. (How mother effing sweet, right?). A fridge magnet. Just what I need every time I open the damn fridge. Something reminding me of the other other man I’m now working for.
And… July 13, 2008
This one is my favorite photo from Saturday.
We’ve all been friends since elementary school. Beck (left) was my first friend when I moved to a new school in fourth-grade and we soon met Tina (right) on the playground after a spat with a bunch of catty girls who didn’t want her anymore (their loss). For years us three girls were inseparable. We’ve watched each other travel through a lot of transformations in the more than 15 years we’ve known each other. Little did we know back in the fourth-grade that Beck would eventually grown into those legs and Tina would learn what to do about her big frizzy hair.
These girls saw me through seven years of braces, bac(k)ne and a lot of photos with one less tooth than I should have had. (It’s since been replaced. That smile you see is genuine and EXPENSIVE). We graduated DARE together, and high school and went our separate ways to college. These girls have seen me through more break ups than I can count on two hands. They’ve seen me through black, red and blonde hair. They were in my car the week I learned to drive stick and one afternoon I even tried to teach both of them. Sleepovers. Broken curfews. Underage drinks. Tears. Laughs. A French news cast. Inside jokes. Us three have shared a lot.
After the Brewers game the other night, we stopped in at my parent’s house because our cars were parked there and my mom asked if we ever thought we’d see the day the first of us would get married. One of us commented that they knew Tina would be first, I said I thought it would be me. I think the friendship we have is pretty damn special.
Tina’s the first one who will do this wedding and marriage thing. And eventually, I know that Beck and I will follow. I’m so proud of us for staying connected. It isn’t always easy and I admit there are sometimes months and months of no communication.
When you asked us all who we thought we’d be friends with when we graduated from high school, I know we all said each other. And people probably rolled their eyes and figured that life would get in the way of that. Truth is, though, I don’t think it ever will. We are the definition of BFFs.
Miller Park July 13, 2008
Five girls including one bride to be, five lawn chairs, two point five coolers, lots of food and more beer and mixers fit in the trunk of the baby Honda on Saturday. The outcome was this:
We had an absolute blast at the Brewers game Saturday evening, and I’d say equally as much fun in the parking lot beforehand for the better part of the afternoon. The only downfall of the day, we lost a brat from the grill.
We laughed until our cheeks hurt, yelled at the top of our lungs causing a dad to relocate his children from near our nose bleed seats. We drank, and drank like we did in our college days. We did this Bachelorette Party thing right, if I do say so myself.
It was so much fun, in fact, that I’m voting we have one per summer for the rest of our lives. Who’s next?
Way past single. July 12, 2008
In theory, today is her last day as a single woman, or at least that’s what the party signifies. Even though I know that she has been far from single for more than three years and technically has 30 days (not that I’m counting) of single to go.
Her closest and longest friends and her little sister will gather today to wish her well, show her our love and really let her know that we value her choice in men, a man. He’s a lucky one, that Mark.
Even though she likely has what her Bachelorette festivities will be this afternoon and evening figured out, I will not divulge yet. But I promise they’ll be pictures that come from those silly little “I Dare You” cards. I promise laughs and smiles and repeated inside jokes. And food. Boy do I promise food. I also promise that after months of freaking out about what to do for this day that it will go off just fine. And, I’m even starting to come around on the reality of this wedding thing. Just one month to go.
Last night on my way home from the mall, I tried piecing together some of what I wanted to say on that day in front of all of her family and friends, and my family and friends, and I started to cry. No, I sobbed. It’s a lot of emotion, you know, if you’ve ever had to do something like this for your oldest, most dear friend. Everyone thinks that writers are good talkers, and yeah, I don’t know if that’s the case. Plus, you have to say something memorable enough that she’ll remember at least one small piece on a day in which she’s focused on something much more important - her new husband. So tell me, are notecards acceptable? A powerpoint presentation? Because I’ve tried to write this speech in my head so many times and each time it comes out completely different. And, for the record, I’m not getting up there and saying ‘uh’ and ‘um’ and crying like a baby. OK, OK, I’m a liar. I’ll probably sob.
But anyway, today there will be no sobbing. Just fun.
My new career July 7, 2008
I quit my job and became a guitar hero. I know I’m a little late in this game, but it’s new and exciting to me and I spent entirely too much time in the past few days rockin’ out with my…oh wait, PG. And suddenly I’m talking about taking real guitar lessons because of a VIDEO GAME. It doesn’t help that three really nice real guitars line the walls of our condo as decoration because we both don’t really know how to play.
We drove to Milwaukee (AGAIN) yesterday for Jeff’s niece’s birthday and on the way there we discussed stickers we might buy for our new guitar. We’re lame. And too obsessed for our own good.
The purchase of Guitar Hero came after Jeff played a poker game online Saturday night and won too much money for our own good. Don’t worry, he’s not a junkie or anything but once and awhile he gets the urge and feels lucky.And he usually does pretty well. His dream - to become a professional poker player. Mine - a guitar hero.
Too bad we both went back to work today putting a very tiny halt on those dreams.
PS: We’re putting a nice chunk of the winnings toward bills (so don’t yell at me - or chastise him), but we had to buy something good.
Hot July 6, 2008
For my birthday Jeff’s parents surprised me with this little gem:
And, I love it.
But what I love about my Coach purse is not how much it cost, or the gawking from friends that will come with it, but instead I love that his mom got it for me because she wanted it to be special. And she remembered that one time last year I said I really, really wanted one. Plus, she knows my style and taste like only a (very observant) mother would.
Upon being handed a big bright pink gift bag, I was nervous, as I usually am when I open gifts in front of people. I told his mom and dad aloud that I didn’t like to open gifts in front of people because you are always forced to react. But this time my reaction was very far from faked, I didn’t have to. I lit up, I’m sure. I’m not even telling a lie when I say I’ve had dreams about this purse since I got it. I absolutely love it.
From the second we started dating, Jeff’s family has accepted me as part of them. Birthdays, holidays, dinner dates and gatherings - I’m always there and it’s always natural. And I appreciate that. I appreciate that his mom and dad went out of their way to make my birthday so special, complete with a special trip to Oshkosh to take me to dinner. I appreciate the purse more than they’ll probably ever know. I appreciate that they went so far out of their way to make 25 special for me. But more, I appreicate that I’ll be with this family for a really long time - and that they make me feel like part of it.
Stories of Summer(fest). July 6, 2008
We hit up the Big Gig, a summertime tradition for me, on Friday. The sun was shining, the music was playing and the beer was definitely flowing.
The girlies were wearing their much too short shorts and the hippies were out as we went to go see Phil Lesh, which I didn’t mind. (Sigh) Hippie day at the lakefront. Tye dye shirts were worn by the masses, despite the fact that most people there weren’t real hippies. But I didn’t mind because the kind of hippies that hang out with us take showers. Anyway.
We found our spot around a picnic table with some friends and family and we danced our souls away. Well, everyone else danced and I swayed back and forth as best I could for fear of re injuring my precious knee. After set break, Jeff and I ventured away from our stage to grab some food and another drink when we found ourselves in the ghetto of Summerfest. I didn’t know there was a such thing either, but there is. And it’s not pretty. Hoochie mammas and their baby daddy’s were chanting and brawling and wearing inappropriate clothing as they did whatever they do in the ghetto of Summerfest (that’s the south end of the grounds if you’re looking to avoid). Jeff and I clung to each other tightly and made our way through as quickly as possible. Just as we were about through the mass of people we heard two guys behind us talking.
“You don’t see this sort of thing in Oshkosh,” one said to the other.
You sure don’t.
Jeff and I call this our best and favorite Summerfest story of all time and as I’m sure you can imagine, we haven’t done anything since without use of that phrase.
Summertime. My favorite.
