Sweaters, Wardrobes, Moves, and Tents . . . it's all here, folks . . .

It's actually chilly today.
Well, for here . . . which makes it about sixty degrees.  I think that's like a summer temperature in Canada . . . maybe . . . I have no real idea. The point is that, in Florida, I have an excuse to wear Black Hoodie and not look like an idiot. If I REALLY wanted to, I could probably get away with a scarf, even . . . we only get to wear cold-weather clothes like six days out of the year so we over compensate . . .  that and we're sincerely cold at sixty degrees. Forty degrees just about kills us.
ANYWAYS . . . The point is that I love Black Hoodie. He's my favorite. About six years ago, I found a black hoodie in the lost and found at my theme park job, and, honey, I wore that sucker threadbare until last year. Last year, I bought a replacement . . . and I reiterate: I love Black Hoodie. I just do. Part of the reason I'm excited about moving somewhere that's between 50-70 degrees all year? I get to wear Black Hoodie all the time.
It's the little things, people.

FYI, when the hubs found out my favorite article of clothing was "male," there were almost issues. He got this scary glint in his eye and I worried for the safety of my beloved. I really did.

source

Along, that same line . . . some days, I just don't care what I look like . . .
I wake up, throw on a tank top and button up a sweater, slip on some flats and foundation, and I go to work. Hair wet, glasses, and no jewelry. I’m hidden most of the day in a corner cubby in the back, I’m tired of the clothes in my closet (THANK YOU, PINTEREST--GAH), and waking up thirty minutes earlier to doll myself up for the gray and maroon walls of my cubby just doesn’t seem worth it. Maintaining the love affair with my mattress, however, is so totally worth feeling homely. I mean, really.

source

Fellow in a pink button-up shirt came by to poke into every one of our cabinets and deep dark secrets to give us an estimate on the move.
I’ll let that sink in.
First off, this involves a stranger wading through the disaster that is my kitchen cupboard, which all the pots haphazardly stacked and the rice cooker in a compromising position with the Tupperware. Oh, and then our closets. I’m not even going to get into that. It doesn’t matter how much laundry I wash and fold, there are MOUNTAINS to be scaled in my home. And that’s just for two people. Lord only knows how I’ll ever manage more than that.
Secondly:
SOMEONE CAME TO OUR HOUSE TO TALK ABOUT MOVING. Like, “Hey, all this stuff? We’re putting it in a truck and shipping it across the country. When are you leaving? Oh, about three months? Great, we’ll get that estimate for you.”
My mind just exploded, peeps. Like blew up all over my monitor.
The hubs heads out in a little over a month to start training out there (NOOOOO!!!!!) and begin the in-person-no-longer-over-the-computer house hunt.
By February or March, I’ll be joining him . . . That’s three months. THREE. ONE HAND. THIS MANIES! THREE!!!!
I will no longer be a Floridian in three months . . . maybe four. It all depends on the housing search . . . so um . . . fingers crossed, prayers, and all that, yes?

We'll be just an hour and a half south of San Franscisco! SO EXCITED!!!
source

Speaking of houses . . .

Chris and I were chatting yesterday, and I say, “Honey, we are going to have a place to live, right? I mean, you’re going to find a place?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Because, knowing you, I have this sneaking suspicion I’m going to end up on an acreage living in a cardboard box.”
He turns to me, looking completely aghast and offended. “No, not a box. I have a tent.”
And peeps, I lost it. The combination of his face and the deadpan practicality of it all.
Then, of course, we spent thirty minutes laughing at MY LAUGH (which only makes it worse), because, according to Chris, I sound like some maniacal chipmunk taking over the world.
I’ve been told I laugh like an old-school evil villain, but, when I really get going, it’s the wicked chipmunk that turns to old-man weezing.

It’s not pretty.

Yes . . . kind of exactly . . . yes . . . .
source

Tweeny Note in Honor of the Closing of the "Saga"

Dear Female Tweens of Today:

In honor of the release of the final piece of the unexplainable cultural phenomenon of the past seven years (good grief, that long?!), I'm going to finally speak my mind (though the fellows of Rifftrax do it SO much better--seriously, I DIED).

source

I had time to reflect upon my own high school experiences, whether they matched up to dear so-not-dysfunctional-and-bland Bella and Edward's (No, I'm not being sarcastic . . . really . . . you don't believe me? Well, shucks.). Mine didn't. Not even a little. So here, dear tweens (and teens . . . and grown-ups . . .), are my words of advice.

• Your parents may not be quite as oblivious as dear Charlie Swan. In fact, they will probably know you're hiding your boyfriend in your bedroom. And they won't like it. No sir. And you can totally forget about sneaking off to Italy . . . randomly. Yeah, it's not gonna happen. And if Charlie Swan is your parents' idea of a great role model, please find yourself a new set.
• Throwing yourself off a cliff will not bring your boyfriend back. Sorry.
• If you notice some guy glaring at you from across the cafeteria consistently . . . and not like day-dreaming-into-space-and-you-happen-to-be-in-the-way or check-me-out-wink staring, but the "I'm a creeper and thinking nasty, dirty things" staring, RUN. He is not a knight in shining armor. He is, truly, a creeper thinking nasty, dirty things. You can judge a book by it's cover.
• Also, if he suddenly appears outside your window or inside your bedroom at night, don't swoon over the romantic nature. That's called "stalking" and it's bad. So, in response YOU SCREAM. Then kick him, call the police, and send his skinny creeper tookus to the slammer.

^^^The appropriate response
(source)

• If you find yourself miserable, confused, and obsessive in the relationship, it's probably not helping you out. I don't care how hot the guy is or how fast he runs up a mountain or scales pine trees, he's not good for you. 
• If your friends keep asking you to do things, participate. Don't sit there like a wall ornament and mope. If all you do is pout and pine, you're not fun to be with, and, eventually, people will stop including you. Unless, that is, you live in the alternative universe of the Lady Meyers, in which the sulk-mistress who obsesses over her boyfriend  is still the most sought-after chick in the entire school.

source

• If someone keeps telling you to go away, GO AWAY. If he wants you, he will chase you. If he tells you to leave and you keep following him around, it's a mess. Trust me. Been there, done that, so much unnecessary tension and drama. Turned out he was gay. You never know, ladies. You just never know. 
• Abstinence is completely and totally worth the wait (I speak from experience, peeps--so awesome) . . . but,  if your lover is like "I can't sleep with you because I'll kill you." Uuuuuh . . . . wait . . . huh??? That's not love and patience that's . . . well . . . I don't even know. Fear? No meaning. No depth. And, fyi, if someone says that, you RUN (are you sensing a theme?)
• HONEYMOONS SHOULD NEVER BE SPENT JUST PLAYING CHESS. Period. I mean, really.
• Oh, and P.S. Vampires don't sparkle. The end. That's like taking Rambo's bow and arrow away or stripping Schwartzenegger of his muscles. You just don't. These are viscious undead killing machines . . . let's throw glitter on them! YAY!!!! 
  Yeah, NO. -_-

(source)

And I'm hopping off my soap box.
I hope I didn't offend anyone. If you are willing to explain to me the glories of Twilight, please do. I tend to be behind on the times and confused by trends of pop culture. I just don't see it folks. I tried to see it. I really did. I read all four books, even, because people kept telling me they got better . . . and they didn't . . . I can see why they're entertaining and why people like them (they fulfill the fantasy of the all-man--depending on your definition of manhood--seeking after you), but I've never been a romance fan. Not that kind of romance anyways. 

Some people might call me a "hater" but I don't have an issue with the fans. I have an issue with crummy literature that gives young women the wrong impression of what a healthy relationship looks like. I have no beef with you if you enjoy Meyer's quartet (I have several friends who do), but it's just not my thing.  I can have an opinion, right? Maybe just a little one? Please?

That being said, I leave you with the video that has brought me oh so much joy

Cheerio!

A Collection of Random Ramblings . . .

Because, you see, I can't think straight any more. Thoughts dark in an out of my head like flashing strobe lights, and I just have trouble forming coherent sentences any more. The hubs blames the cubicle. I'm inclined to agree.

ANYWAYS . . . .

1.       I actually get really, REALLY cranky when I’m hungry.  I didn’t realize how bad it was before until I went through a werewolf transformation this weekend. . .
Before Dinner: SARAH BEEAAAST!!!! HULK SMASH!!!! ALL LIFE MEANINGLESS!!!! ALL NOISE MUST STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!! GRAAAAAAAAGH!!!!
After Dinner: By Jove, what a spectacular evening we’re having! How on earth did all my dishes break? Oh well, no matter. Did you know I love you? Because I do, ole chap! You’re a dandy! Now, where are little furry creatures so I might snuggle them to bits?!
And, yes, I TOTALLY sound like a pompous English gentlemen.
Exactly, in fact.
Or not at all.



source



2.       I think my puppy is a hussy.
Not even kidding . . . even though all her lady bits were removed . . .
Here's the thing: she absolutely does everything in her power to turn all of the hubs' attentino from me to herself.
For example: Chris and I are watching TV. I need a drink, so I stand up and walk to the kitchen, not ten feet away. I turn around, and my dog is IN MY SPOT lounging all over MY husband, all “Paint me like one of your French girls! . . . and while you’re at it, scratch my belly.”
While making eye contact with me all, “Is this your seat? Too bad!”

Shameless little floozy.
This means war, you know. And I bloody feed you.

If it had only happened once, it would be funny, but this sort of thing happens multiple times every day.  The only good side to this is that she snuggles with me just as much . . . but Chris has always been her favorite . . . which is an issue because he’s my favorite, too . . . and, when he’s home, all of his attention belongs to ME, get it, canine?

Yes, I am totally aware that I am jealous of a dog . . . and that it’s ridiculous . . . but, seriously . . . .

 

3.       “Pretty Little Liars” irritates me beyond reason . . . but I cannot pull my eyes away.  It’s like a super bad train wreck . . . with a nuclear explosion . . . of high fashion and pretty men . . . and I can’t stop staring.
The whole Ezra/Aria thing weirds me out (actually, the whole re-occuring theme/situations of older guy/younger girl) . . . I have nothing against major age gaps (my parents are nine years apart, and that’s totally cool), I do have an issue with a 26 year-old unwaveringly wooing a dramatic, insecure 16 year old. I don’t find it cute. I don’t find him charming. I find him whipped and desperate. Aria’s just an irritating snob.  BUT DON’T LET ANYTHING COME BETWEEN THEIR LOOOOOVE!!!!!  
Also, I’ve never known ANY high school chick to dress like these girls . . . oh, yeah, and in completely different outfits EVERY. DAY. I know realism wasn’t exactly our goal, but COME ON.

In a final note, I do not understand a show about Queen Bees is so addicting . . . These girls are the embodiment of everything I can’t stand, and, here I am,  cheering them on. Why am I rooting for them? WHY?!?!?!

source

4.       I have a thing for nerds. Like bad.
Old news, right? See, I didn’t realize HOW much of a thing I had for nerds until I saw the new Bond film (which you totally need to see like right now).  Here I am, enjoying the witty and oh-so-debonair exploit of Bond, James Bond, and then this slight little fellow with glasses pops on screen and starts discussing art . . . .  
I no longer saw the muscular, fierce Daniel Craig.
I saw Ben Whishaw and ONLY Ben Whishaw.
Oh, gee and golly.
If I had to choose between Mr. Bond and this young new Q, I’d pick Q ten times.
And then I’d raid his closet because, my gosh, the sweaters!
I don’t know what this says about me . . . .  

source

Maybe it's because he kind of resembles the hubs . . . I've always had a weakness for nerds with floppy dark hair . . .

And those are all the significant thoughts my mind can formulate . . . and that "I like turtles" . . . name that internet reference :]

Too-da-loo!

All By Myself . . .

I hate that I’m hardly ever one here. I really do, but, gosh and golly, there’s just not much to tell. The highlight of my days has become one of my cats deciding to snuggle. Weekends are highlighted by Chris coming home from his training down south. I have discovered that, despite being an introvert, I do not do well on my own—without someone in my life to take care of, I disintegrate into a being with no motivation whatsoever.

My house is messy. Who cares? No one sees it but me—I’ll clean eventually.
I haven’t cooked in days. Who cares? That’s what salads are for.
I go in late to work and stay late. Who cares? It’s not like anyone’s waiting. . . . . except the dog . . . I suppose I’ll go home for the dog.
My make-up and hair routine are minimalist, my wardrobe lacks creativity, and I have no desire to change any of it. Except working out . . . I have lots of motivation to do that . . . and bathing . . . I’m a showering fanatic . . . so not all is lost.

The point is that I need someone to nurture and to remind me to take care of myself. How do I know this? Because when Chris IS home, I turn into a cooking/baking maniac. I spend half my weekend in the kitchen, whipping up some new meal and then mixing up some sweet for him to take with him back to work. In January, he will begin his training in Cali . . . but I will be here . . . probably until March . . . and I will very likely be unemployed as the temp job only goes until December . . . I think . . . so, if New Years rolls around I don’t suddenly reappear as an impassioned creative genius or June Cleaver after a week, send help. I’ve fallen into mountains of laundry and misery and can’t get out.

To top off the five-days-a-week-of-loneliness, the move looms nearer . . .

As the holidays arrive, I realize that this is one of those “last” holiday seasons. Not the final, no, but the last “normal ones.”
The last group of holidays where we schedule “Ok, if we hurry, we can be at Aunt Sandy’s by one to make lunch and then drive like bats of out hell to make your grandma’s for dinner by five.”
The last group of holidays where we see my siblings in plays or I exchange recipes with his.
The last group of holidays where we have double of everything . . . and then us.
The last group of holidays where our days are filled with the buzz, rush, hugs, and chatter of relatives, siblings, and parents.

Next year, we’re on our own. This could mean that we make friends and share parties with them, that we make our own traditions and just be us. Or . . . it could mean we’re alone, bored, and depressed, the pile of wrapping paper a mockery and turkey sandwiches instead of a feast.

I didn’t feel the finality of it all until Halloween, the beginning of the end . . . . I didn’t do the whole Trick-or-Treat thing growing up. Instead, every Halloween, we went out to dinner with friends and then went putt-putt golfing. Halloween was one of my favorite holidays because we always had such a blast despite my lack of any-form-of-sport skills. To say that I am no master at putt-putt is a devastating understatement. In high school, I made 16 OVER par, once . . . and it was probably closer to 25 except we got tired of counting. When Chris and I got married, we continued to putt-putt with my folks on All Hallow’s Eve.

This year, Chris was out of town and I was bogged down with work. Normally, this would be disappointing, but not depressing. I mean, there’s always next year, and – oh . . . no, there’s not . . . ah, crap . . . there’s not any more . . .

I spent the day in my cubicle contemplating the meaning of existence because I couldn’t hit tiny, bright balls through a miniature obstacle course.
Because it was a last.

And I couldn’t make it.

Chris and I are not regretting our decision to move away. We both think we need it, in a way, that this is an adventure we were meant for, but that doesn’t make it easy. Once you get over the thrill of the change, once you realize that there are things you can’t do and people you can’t see . . . you’re sad. Excited about new adventures but so very bittersweet.

So bear with me if I’m a bizarre rollercoaster of “OMG YAY MOVING!!! HOLIDAYS!!! LOVE HASJDKAHSDHKSDHAKHDKSA!!!!!" and “This is it . . . it’s over . . . the end . . . there’s no point any more . . . I’m going to wallow in the agony and futility of all existence, now . . .”  . . .
It comes with my tendency to over-feels--but-bury-feels-then-explode-with-feels . . . I don't know if you really get used to it . . .

"Oooooh yay! Santa got me a boy for Christmas!"
Christmas 2006--this was our first Christmas as a "couple" and the month Chris moved back to Florida from Idaho so he could be closer to family . . . and me . . . despite my being in Mississippi for school . . .
P.S. One of my all time favorite pictures. It just sums "us" up perfectly.

Beyond that . . . . anyone else nervous about the election??? I mean, yay for the freedom to elect whoever we like, but the suspense is killing me . . . I might explode Tuesday night from massive suspense overload.