I CAN HAZ PUPPY, NOT POOPY

I really don't update often enough. Oh, and I'm procrastinating, so there ya have it--some things never change. So rumor has it that one of my cousins has apparently kind of mentioned that she and her husband may start trying for a baby some time in a year or so, and it made me realize something. Hearing her news made me sigh with relief that it took some of the pressure off me within my family. I get excited over the idea of having a dog even though I know it'll be years before I can, but when it comes to having a kid, the idea usually just makes me feel nauseated. Sometimes I think I'd like to have a kid some day, but then when I really think about it, and I mean like REALLY think about it, I realize that my only interest in having a kid is because the clothes are cute, and I like naming things. It's probably also telling that in a comment about children, I said I like naming THINGS. That's a sign--I need a doll, not a kid. Some would tell me all this is simply pre-parenthood paranoia, that all parents-to-be go through this phase. I think it's just the self-awareness to realize that I'm better off living vicariously through other people's children...and that I should get a Great Dane. She shall wear a tutu, and I shall name her Allegra Pandora Eugenia Sophia. Just a thought...

Oh, and all this kids thinking sounded too familiar, so I wasn't sure if I had posted something similar before. This led me to checking out my old blog posts. Do you ever go back and read your old posts and think to yourself, "My GAWD! I. AM. HILARIOUS." or is that just a me thing? Really though--I'm a hoot.

For Meghan... =)

I received a rather interesting email today via facebook asking that I write about a memory from Meghan and Josh's wedding for a family writing project in a class for Meghan's Master's (go Meghan, woot!). Being as I have a significant buzz thanks to Mandy making me dinner (go Mandy, woot!), I figured why not at least blog something, right? So I'm going to babble now...

I'm a very fortunate person, and by very fortunate, I mean that most of my best friends in life have been a significant part of my life for a minimum of a decade. There's a weird sort of bond amongst those people, a bond that means that my family is their family, and theirs mine, so I may only have a certain number of siblings via biology or marriage, but when you factor in those siblings that are what I shall call siblings by choice, I have a really silly number of brothers and sisters. Meghan is one of those sisters. Her brother, Ethan, has been a wonderful friend to me over the years, more like a brother than a friend, the kind of guy who can guarantee you a multitude of laughs, a ride home should you find yourself stranded without transportation, and someone who can always be counted on for a brutally honest opinion regardless of whether you asked for it (some may find this troublesome, but this is ultimately the first and foremost reason why I love him dearly). When I received an invitation to Meghan's wedding, it was an automatic response--why, OF COURSE I would be there, not only because the little sister of one of my greatest friends was getting married so my sort-of-could-have-been-but-not-really-little-sister was getting married, but also because Ethan was deployed, so he himself could not attend. It felt like I wasn't only attending for myself but also to represent Ethan, if that makes any sense at all. So we went to the wedding, and we had a marvelous time. Now, I don't tend to be one to cry by any means, but this wedding choked me up--I know how close Ethan and Meghan are, so for him to not be able to be there got to me over and over again, and I knew this would be the case well before the wedding, so I went into the occasion with a plan of action. My big bad "make Ethan a part of the wedding regardless of where he is" plan was to take a picture of Meghan with all of Ethan's friends in attendance, leave a space for Ethan, and photoshop him into the picture so that he could be there in a picture with his sister and all the rest of the people who love him, so that's exactly what we did. Meghan, her new husband, and all of Ethan's close friends who were in attendance gathered during the reception, left a space next to Meghan (because where else would Ethan have stood but next to his little sister, the beautiful bride?), and we took a ridiculously cheesy picture because it's what would have happened if Ethan were there...and did I pick an appropriate picture of Ethan to be photoshopped into this image? Don't be silly. I scoured every image of Ethan accessible to find the goofiest-looking one possible, and VOILA! There he was in the middle of all the rest of us, looking equally ridiculous because that's how it should have been. What I remember most about the Knobloch wedding is the love that was there, not just between Meghan and Josh but between family and amongst dear friends. That night was everything a great wedding should be--a loving couple, a close knit family that loves and laughs together, a circle of friends that have been through it all together, and space left to love and remember those who couldn't be there.

This reminds me--I still need to see if Hezza can send me her far less blurry copy of this to be shopped since my point-and-shoot hates dim lighting, ARGH!

Ah, If Only...

We had a really fantastic time in England, saw some AH-mazing stuff, yaddi yaddi blah blah blah, you've already heard all that. What is still sticking with me after all this time? Tea. Tea! Every morning at breakfast, they'd bring a full tea service to our table, and nothing was more relaxing than sitting there, sipping a steaming cup of hot tea (or coffee; I'm indecisive), feeling the caffeine seep into my bloodstream, waking me slowly, gently, pinkie finger poised above the delicate little handle of my teacup, the teacup perched so daintily upon its saucer. Sure, I can make tea here, but drinking it out of a coffee mug someone once gave me Christmas candy in just doesn't feel the same. Ah, if only I had stealthily smuggled bits and pieces of the tea set out of the Marriott in my purse! I want the full proper tea set--tea pot, teacups, saucers, sugar bowl, creamer, and serving tray. And in the words of Veruca Salt, I WANT IT NOW!!!! Preferably in a cute color or pattern, but yes, I'm completely obsessed with the idea. I went through this same phase a few months ago with wanting a cute apron, and my mother-in-law, completely unaware of my obsession, read my mind and got me a blue polka-dotted apron with green trim that I ADORE...so much so that sometimes I match my clothes to the apron while making dinner and put on pearls and heels. I pose and smile widely as I remove casseroles from the oven in my best irreverent impersonation of June Cleaver. Ric just rolls his eyes. As long as I'm feeding him, he doesn't care so much that I've lost my sanity, haha! I have a lot of other "house fluff" items that I'd love to purchase--I'd love a multi-tiered dessert stand (this is inspired solely by my craving for cupcakes, which began and has held on since I started trying to lose a bit of weight. I literally dream about cupcakes; the other night, I dreamt that I had icing on my nose and was trying to lick it off, but my tongue wouldn't reach, and I didn't have any arms). I'm also researching like a fiend on couches right now because ours has officially come to an end (we just haven't had the cheddar to replace it yet, but this bad boy's done), and I want to put curtains everywhere. I keep these thoughts away from my mother because she would immediately begin lecturing me on how I'm probably nesting and that it's my body's way of letting me know I'm ready for children, but the truth is I just watch too much hgtv and Martha Stewart. And you KNOW how Martha is!! She's like a wacky cult leader--a little creepy, has a few too many answers for everything, and I don't think she has a soul, but somehow, she gets under your skin! Maybe I'm just diverting blame to Martha because I want to buy a house, but right now we can't, and I know that's predominantly my fault. Ah, if only...if only the price on my darling would drop by about $100,000, then I'd be a very happy girl indeed!

I know I'm driving the hubs insane, but I CANNOT stop obsessing over home decor sites lately. I'm so hooked on House of Turquoise that I leave the window open on my laptop when I go to bed so that I don't have to find where I left off in my eye candy when I go back to perusing the next day. Sad, I know, but I LOOOOOVE blue, and the site has some of the most gorgeous rooms on it! My other recent addiction is food sites. Something has happened to me of freaky Martha Stewart proportions, and I just can't explain it. I mean, last week, with no explanation whatsoever, I got into the most reeeeeDONKulous cleaning frenzy of my life. Ric came home from work, starving of course, and I refused to make us dinner until I was done clorox-ing the baseboards in the kitchen. Then, when I got to dinner, you'd think after having been cleaning like a crazy person for TWELVE HOURS (literally, twelve hours), you'd think I'd want to make something quick and easy, right? Something like a sandwich or a frozen pizza or something microwaveable. Nope. The woman whose mother-in-law gave her a fire extinguisher as a birthday present just a couple of years ago can now make Tuscan Garlic Chicken with Wilted Spinach and Roasted Potatoes that is so good you'd weep for it.

This is a skill that I apparently developed just in time--the Nana had back surgery friday morning, and when my sister and I went back to see her right before the surgery, my drugged up Nana felt it was DIRE to lecture me and my sister on the importance of cooking every single day. "You have to cook...you have to every day to cook because you cook what you cook, and you need to cook it. Every day to cook, do it. Did you see my cute booties?" Yeah, so Nana was high as a kite, but even so, she seemed like it somewhat put her mind at ease knowing that at least one of us had learned to cook something...or it could've been that we humored her and told her that her booties were lovely. Who knows? At any rate, the Nana is fine, life is good, and now I simply must sneak a peek at House of Turquoise again...

Sleep-Deprivation Hits New Low.

I've come to the distinct conclusion that my cat is a masochist. Granted, I don't think he's intellectually or psychologically aware of his condition, but he must be because only a masochist would do things dumb enough to muster my wrath in the middle of the night, yet he continues to do so. Yes, Bentley, I know you're a fat rascal, and I know you prefer your food bowl to be overflowing at all times, but I DO NOT need you to stand on my eyes at four am to remind me of the fact that you're a fat rascal. It's enough of a reminder when you're sitting on my chest and making me short of breath. This morning, I fiiiinally managed to fall asleep after several hours of restless wakefulness, only to be awoken because something smelled distinctly of fish. Well, not fish, exactly...more like fish breath. Yeah. Since I had my arm flung over my eyes to prevent his usual assault, he decided his new method would be to bite my nose, so when I woke up, he was sitting on me, just casual, hanging out, chillin' really...with my nose in his mouth. I swat him away, roll over to hide my face, and mere moments later, I hear the sound of slobbery chewing. THAT DAMNED CAT IS EATING MY HAIR. We had to have a talk. Said talk went something like this:

Me: Bentley, you know I love you dearly, right?

Bentley: ::blank stare::

Me: And I really am going to feel guilty about it if I have to kill you.

Bentley: ::cocks head to the side trying to be cute::

Me: No, I'm not going to pet you right now. This is serious. You have to behave yourself, or I'm going to turn you into a hat.

Bentley: ::reaches out and puts his paw on my nose::

Me: ::talking around the big furry foot on my face:: Bentley, I'm going to count to three, and if you don't unpaw my nose, you WILL regret it. 1....2...

Bentley: ::claws come out, slowly beginning their descent into flesh::

Me: 3! That's IT!

Bentley: ::flips himself completely sideways, lands on his back in the crook of my arm, looks up at me, and begins purring::

Me: Okay, well, maybe I counted too fast this time... ::scratches his head::

Oh well, if ya can't beat 'em, love 'em.

FAT TUESDAY CAN BITE ME. Okay, so being as I haven't gone out and acted like a total drunken idiot in years because apparently marriage has settled me--people say this to me all the time. Um...not accurate. I only mellowed because I gained a bunch of weight and don't feel comfortable being "that girl dancing on the stage" at all. You know "that girl"--the one everyone points at and says, "Oh my GAWD! Does she know her gut roll is bouncing in rhythm to the music!?! EW!" Where was I? Oh, right. Fat Tuesday. Mandy came over to hang out for a bit, and we decided since we knew we were going downtown later that we should pregame. I had four beers and two rum and cokes, apparently having forgotten the old adage about what happens when you have beer, then liquor. Oh, and yes, in my "I'm READY to PARTY" mindset, 6 drinks was PRE-gaming. So Mandy swings by her house to change clothes, and we meet her and Aaryn at the Tap. Now I have been ragingly, stupidly, ridiculously drunk before. I admit this. I don't know what got into me on tuesday, but I decided somewhere in my haze that I was going to top every incident of drunkenness ever experienced in my 26 years. If you keep that goal in mind, then Fat Tuesday was a success. The last thing I remember is standing on the patio of the Tap talking to Big James the Bouncer (I capitalize "Bouncer" because if you can deal with people as drunk as I was on a regular basis, you deserve the term "Bouncer" to be capitalized--kinda like with royals. Badge of Honor kind of thing...). We were at the Tap for another HOUR after that, and I got nothin'. Ric got me home and to the bedroom (which he says I covered every inch of trying to get to the bed because I was a zig-zag staggerer, and I almost pulled down the shelves in our room trying to balance myself), and he somehow managed to get me into the bed after about fifteen minutes of me not understanding that I was supposed to be UNDER the covers. He gets in the bed, I turn to him and hold up my arms and demand, "STRIP ME." Being as I smell like a brewery, that's probably the only good idea I had all night. So he starts trying to help me out of my bar clothes, at which point I slur to him, "This is half sexy, half NO." "Mmhmm," says Ric, probably thinking to himself that there is NADA sexy about me not being able to remove my own Mardi Gras beads. As he finally gets himself tucked into bed to finally get some sleep and finally erase the memory of what an idiot he married, I turn to him, smile sweetly and say, "What's YOUR half-sexy?" "Wha--you--just go to sleep!" "Uh oh." And thus the vomiting commences. Forget FAT Tuesday--I threw up enough that I probably lost fifteen pounds and at least three vital organs. It's amazing to me, however, that it took me forever to make it from the bedroom door to the bed, but I managed to make it from the bed to the toilet without any serious injuries or damage to property. So yeah, I spent all of wednesday and thursday with the world's nastiest hangover ever. Why is any of this relevant? Because after not remembering multiple HOURS of my life and being a total obnoxious brat (which reminds me--I have it on good report that I berated Travis for about ten minutes on how Ric and I were leaving, and if he didn't get Mandy home safely I would kill him, so I should probably apologize to him for that), I have decided to greatly reduce my alcohol consumption for the rest of my life. My liver is already grateful!

Brain Droppings on Writing

I've been doing some editing for one of my favorite people in the whole world, and all this thinking about writing has gotten me thinking about, well, writing. People always say, "Write what you know." I thought about it. I thought about all the things I know, and I decided that nobody would be particularly interested if I wrote a Faulkneresque novel about my personal feelings regarding which way the toilet paper roll should go on the holder. Nobody actually gives a shit that my cat eats leaves off the living room floor when I track them in from the patio. I know that 2+2=4, but that's hardly worthy of long-winded commentary. What I know isn't all that fascinating. Then I thought about it some more. What DO I know anyway? In the grand scheme of things, I don't have the answers to any of the important questions. Most of the time, I don't even know what the important questions are. Overall, I don't know shit. I don't know the meaning of life, why we're all here, what our purpose is, where I'll be in twenty years, or where my car keys are. I don't know how successful people succeed or why failures fail, and I don't know how to achieve world peace, cure AIDS, or create matter. So then, what does it matter? How does anything anyone says (or writes) actually matter if one only writes what they know? So that cancels that. The opposite of writing what you know, then, would be to write what you don't know. Now you're in trouble. Think of how many times a book has been written or a movie made where it was obvious that the writer didn't actually know ANYTHING about what he or she was writing about. Isn't the first thing that most people say something along the lines of, "That was shit. He didn't know what the hell he was talking about!" It's kind of difficult to write about what you don't know. If you're going to write about what you don't know, then you'd probably have to learn something about it first in order to do so somewhat decently. Of course, once you know something about it, then you're writing what you know again, and we've already covered how that winds up being an epic blah. It is my conclusion that "Write what you know" is categorically, empirically, undeniably 100% horse shit. Don't write what you know; write what you feel. Write what impassions you. Write what you absolutely can't NOT write. This is what I know. But as I already said, what do I know?