Dear Friday . . .

Dear Friday Letters,
I've missed you.
If I could find absolutely nothing to blog about all week, at least I could squeeze out something, ANYTHING, for Fridays. Because Fridays are cool. Everyone loves Fridays. Because you're awesome. And you lead us to Saturday, which, I'm sorry to say, is more awesome.
It's hard being second favorite, isn't it?
Also, because you're Friday, people publish articles like THIS and I die. Because it's awesome . . . and it's Friday.


 
Dear Shasta,
See, puppy? I kept my promise. I took you on a nice long walk all over town. Just like I did yesterday. Besides, when I say the word, "walk," you get so worked up and bouncy and just . . . well, you explode, puppy. You kind of explode. It starts small, with a curious head tilt, and then you see I mean it, and suddenly you can't sit still. First, you run like a freakn race horse through the living room, then you start jumping and yelping and wagging and just OHMYGODWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALK!!!!
How can I deny you? You're hysterical.

 Dear Navi, 
STOP CHEWING ON OUR STRAWS.  First, you steal water out of uncovered cups, and now you're violating the covered cups. Seriously STAAAAAHHPPP IT!!!



Dear Pipkin,

"Draw me like one of your French girls."

You may continue to lounge about in front of my computer monitor. I enjoy the company--you give my fingers kitty kisses and make all kinds of funny noises in your sleep. You can stay. Just PLEASE stop trying to groom your thighs when I'm playing games--you keep turning off the screen in the middle of vital, pixelated life-or-death moments.  -_-

 Dear Self, 
If you get a life, you might ACTUALLY have something to take pictures of besides your pets. Please and thank you.

Dear Local Library,
You are tiny.
I thought maybe you were bigger on the inside, but no, you're tiny. Like the size of my downstairs tiny. Like, for the first few seconds, I just stood there, mesmerized by your tiny-ness. One wall non-fiction, one wall fiction, and three short shelves encasing the area with childrens/juvenile books. I had seen larger personal collections. Tiny.
But that's not a bad thing. You're old, you have character and hidden gems, I'm sure. And I mean, you're a library, which means FREE BOOKS. Heck to the Yes. In fact, I brought home three new books to try.
I've missed libraries. I might read through you in a couple of months, but, hey, months of books are months of books, and that CAN'T be bad.
So, here's to our new relationship. Who says size really matters, anyways?

Dear San Juan Bakery, 

I'm going to have to make Friday visits a regular thing.
First off, you are the cutest little thing EVER with your little retro sign and your tiny chalkboard with the swirly letters reading, "Yes! We're Open!" because, let's face it, everyone WANTS you to be open. You make that whole corner of the street smell like heaven, and you're just the perfect picture of a sleepy town shop.
And your clerks are super nice. Today, I even got to talk to one of your employees about books, and, let's face it, I haven't talked books with someone face-to-face in MONTHS. Oh, so refreshing.
Plus, on Fridays, you have the BEST doughnut holes in existence (sorry Krispy Kreme, you've met your match) that melt in your mouth, and just YES. And there's the White Chocolate Coconut bread that Chris and I have become addicted to. Dessert? Who needs dessert? I have the softest, sweetest, richest slice of pure awesome melting in my mouth right now. Screw dessert.

Dear Dessert, 
 I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. You know I love you, baby. 

Pups and Flowered Strolls

The past couple of mornings, I've woken up to a gentle rub on the shoulder and the sweet nothings of, "Sarah, sweetie, the dog pooped on the carpet . . . and I have to go to work so . . . Could you, um . . . "
I tell you what, there's no other wake up call like it.
Way to get out of it, honey bun. I'll get you back, one of these days.
Also, one day, I will find a way to teach you to clean up pet puke without your turning green. Maybe.

She loves to cuddle in my lap while I'm on the computer . . . and then she starts nosing my hands until I use BOTH of them to pet her . . . Ham, much? Maybe a bit.

Pup's been sick with the runs for four days. Considering that she has delightfully fluffy thighs covered in long, long hair, this posed a slight problem. Let's just say that you can now add "dog butt barber" to my resume. Please and thank you.
Good news--I'm not a terrible furchild parent. I DID take her to the vet and he sent us away with smile, reassurance, and antibiotics.  She never acted sick, except for the obvious, so, now, we wait with a happy dingo and hope the runs solidify a bit. Or something.

Spring has arrived in San Juan Bautista--everything has begun to bloom and it is stunning. Just stunning. There are drizzles, now and again, that go off and on all day.  Sometimes, the sky is bright blue, and others gray, hovering foggy over the mountains the way breathe hangs in cold air. I adore it.  Gray, damp chill brings me back to London.  The fact that the town is small enough that I can walk everywhere brings me back there as well, and makes me think of college a bit.  As a new student, more than anything, I wanted to find a coffee shop, just some little place where I could have a cup of chai and study, a brief walk from campus.


Mississippi, where I attended university, does not have seasons the same as some places, but it has more than Florida. On winter nights, there was a cold that bore into you but no snow.  In summer, the air was thick, heavy with heat and no relief of sea breeze--stiff, smothering.  But springtime, oh, springtime was heaven.  For the first time in my life, I knew was Spring Fever was.  Even in my favorite classes, I'd stare out the window at the Quad strewn with students laying on their blankets, tossing frisbees. Spring was the only time the Quad wasn't as mucky as usual.  The sprinklers never turned off, even in the rain, leaving the dirt beneath the bright green grass perpetually black, damp, slimy, and slick. It nearly stole several pairs of my flip flops and, more than once, nearly had me falling on my bum. Spring time it was alive--all of us were screaming for sunlight after fleeing winter.  I'd wear skirts--the long peasant type--paired with tank tops or t-shirts and flip flops, looking like I stepped out of the 70's. My hair was long, and, sometimes, I'd put flowers in it, plucking them as I walked around the tiny Southern town where nothing happened.  It was the only time that I adored my campus.  My roommate, Emily, and I would lay out on blankets and read, soaking in sunlight.  Then, we'd walk to the local coffee shop, Cups, a lovely, artsy place filled with work of local artists and built in a little yellow house a friend of mine once lived in.  I didn't visit as often as I had dreamed, but my friends did.  I took a full load of classes and worked 18 hours a week at the university library, so I didn't get out much.  Still, very little beat sitting out on that little deck, sipping hot chocolate or chai, with my books and sunbeams.

Sometimes, town wasn't enough to satisfy our hunger for fresh air. We'd go driving out to the Natchez Trace, this beautiful stretch of land with all these little historic spots and pretty, hidden places like my favorite: Owen's Creek. We'd wander the woods, play in the stream. Once, we found a pair of graves from the Civil War.  I might not miss Mississippi a great deal, but I miss Owen's Creek.

Do you see the tiny trickle? The creek ended abruptly in this shelf that, most days, was the tiniest, most pathetic "waterfall" you'd ever seen. the shelf formed this awesome "almost cave" and then continued into the rest of the creek through the woods.  It remains one of the prettiest wooded spots in the Southeast that I've ever seen. I'm sure there are prettier places, but this little spot seemed like a fairytale to me.
Photo credit to my pal Rhyno. :]

I couldn't walk places in Florida.  Not really. Everything's very spread out, built for commuting.  When you do walk, it's brutally hot, suffocating.  You begin to sweat just walking to your car, but it doesn't dry, won't evaporate the way sweat is supposed to, cooling you. It just sticks, drips. Make-up melts, hair deflates, and clothes begin to stink of musk, deodorant essentially useless.  Residential areas are rarely within walking distances of super markets or restaurants. If they are, we drive anyways because it's too hot.  You melt and the milk risks spoiling.  It's dreadful.

Here, in this town, it's different.  I can go for a walk in the cool--almost cold--air and be downtown in roughly five minutes. From there, I have my choice of antique shops and independent restaurants of various tastes and persuasions. If I want to go to an actual grocery store, yes, I have to drive ten minutes or so on a highway, but, to be in town, to see little sights and enjoy an afternoon out, I merely have to put on my shoes and walk out the door. I love that. I have always preferred walking places.  That was one of my favorite things in London. I do not think I would like city life. There's not enough green.  I do, however, adore the commute system.  You walk, you ride the Tube, hop on a double decker bus, swipe your Oyster card, and you're off. I could go anywhere on my own two feet.  I loved that. I love it here, in this tiny, mission town with its buildings straight out of a western film, hidden in the hills from the outside, modern world.

So far, I have found a favorite burger spot. I'm on the look for a coffee shop, now.
Maybe I'll even start wearing skirts and flowers in my hair.

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.



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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?!?!?!

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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!

Dear Friday Letters

Dear Friday,

Have I told you how much I love you? Because I totally do. It’s ridiculous. Thank God you’re here!

Dear Shasta,

Puppy, you make me laugh. You’re totally spoiled rotten and the worst “pet me-pet me-pet me-love me-love me- love me!” ham alive, but we just love you. You’re a snuggle bug and oh-so-eager to please. Plus, you protect me from dangerous things that like vicious doe in the backyard (yay wildlife!). I have no idea how you’ll survive when we having mini humans around here and can’t devote all of our attention to you. You just might shrivel up and die from spoiling-dehydration.  Eat it up, sweetheart, because you’re adorably ridiculous.



"I  can PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE has da chickens, mummy?"
Ok, so I am partially responsible for her behavior as I give her bits of chicken I trim as I'm making dinner . . . still, pretty proud of her because, as badly as she wants to, she won't touch it if I tell her "Wait!" or "Leave it!" . . . she just gives me that expression . . . good grief . . . ;]



So, I get out of the shower, and this is how she's sleeping.  Once our alarms go off, she jumps into our bed to snuggle and wake us up . . . and then she just takes over . . . Upside Down Dingo, anyone?



Dear Hubs,

 I am going to miss you like mad this next month. It’s not even funny. I’m so glad you get to be home on weekends, but being by myself in the office, with no one to send stupid Pinterest photos to or flirt with over the company IM system or remind me to grab my phone . . . I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the day. Plus nights alone? In bed? ALONE??? Oh, dear dear dear! And for a whole whopping month and a half, too! Ugh.
Still, absence makes the heart grow fonder . . . or something . . . Or, like you said during our long-distance dating, "No, distance just SUCKS!"
Yeah . . . but it will be over before we know it, and then we're off on another adventure! Until then . . . I'll just wallow in lonely misery and have Shasta occupy your side of the bed . . .


The Hubs outside the Monterey Bay Aquarium during our Cali vist this past July

Dear October,

You’re my favorite.  You bring pumpkin-flavored everything, almost-chilled air, and pumpkin carving.  If we lived up north, you’d bring orange, red, and yellow leaves. Here it’s just . . . maybe less mosquitos?  Oh, October, I love you so.

The leaves were just starting to change during our  trip to Tennessee last October.

Dear Matt,

You’re awesome. I love our random movie nights, conversations on just about everything, and your enthusiasm for music, video games, and everything else.  You've been my best pal for pretty much my entire life, and I'm so excited that you're staying over a couple times a week while you're attending college. I know it makes the drive easier on you, but Chris and I so enjoy your company and just hanging out. You rock. 


  P.S. Thanks for showing Chris the Plague game on the iPhone . . . he’s now slaughtered the populous through virus, bacteria, fungus, parasite, and Lord knows what else. He’s way better at that game than he should be . . . hmmm . . .

Matt and I, circa 1993, rocking out red hankerchief headbands

Dear iPhone 4s,

Oh lovely, I know we’ve only known each other for three days, but, darling, it seems like a lifetime. We were always meant to be, you and I, forever and ever amen.  Why did it take me so long to see it? Why did I wait so long? But now, here you are, and here I am, and all is well with the world.  You’ve made a believer out of me . . . ibeliever???

Friday's Letters

Dear Friday's Letters: Are you the latest entry in history??? Just maybe. Golly. That's the last time I forget to upload pics until the end of the day . . . geez Louise . . .

Dear Furballs: For the love of all that is good in the world, STOP SHEDDING.  Please, I beg you. Shasta, you snuggled with me while I watched Netflix, and when you hopped down, the couch cushion was an entirely different color.  I can’t wear anything—fresh out of the dryer or hanging in my closet for months—without finding it COVERED in hair.  It does not help that one of my favorite colors is black and that the only one of you with a little dark fur is Navi.  This will not do. I have bathed you and brushed you to no avail.  Please tell me this just has something to do with the massive increase in heat and humidity. Please?

Dear Davie and Ellie:
I spent last Sunday evening with you cuties playing in the laziest lazy river in the history of lazy rivers.  You girls are officially not allowed to NEVER get any older. Nope. You’re too big already. You both should have stopped growing at age three but nine-years-old and six-years-old aren’t too bad . . . in fact, I still find you pretty dang adorable. Just no older, k? And sister sleepover/craft day/shopping day at my house ASAP. 

You know, after all that work staying IN the tube, she totally ditched it in ten minutes to swim like a fish

Good LORD the goggles! Love those goggles! And the "cheese!" faces! Can't get enough, I tell ya!

 Dear Hubs: I know you woke up and said you feel sick . . . but I still get the feeling you’re playing hooky . . . how is it that you can totally get away with this???? Well, if you really are ill, I apologize for all my doubts . . . but, know, until proven innocent, I’m watching you.

Dear Work: First off, thank you for keeping me past the summer program.  I know the pay decreases a bit, but, still, it’s work, and, with the move looming, I need the money, so thank you so much.  I love all of my coworkers, and it’s a good place, so there’s that.
HOWEVER
When I speak with my new supervisor, she asks, “So, what projects do you have with communications?”
“I think I’m pretty much finished except for some scanning, but that’s kind of an ongoing thing for their records.”
“Oh, ok. Well, I’ll see what projects I can have you do.  Let’s see if we can get you something more exciting than scanning.  For instance, Payroll has a filing project going on now that they could use help with.”
I’m still waiting to hear the exciting part . . .

Dear Sunsets: You are my absolute favorite. For real. In fact, you're so gorgeous, your photos don't need editing, and that, my friend, is an accomplishment. WOW!

Apparently, I'm a vegetable . . .

Last night, I was called a yam.
Yeah, like a sweet potato.
It’s partially my own fault, really. I made up a word: “yammish.”

I should have known that in cases like these, my own weapons are used against me. The hubs is a ferocious adversary, and, I, apparently, am the farthest thing from remotely intimidating.

No kidding: my first grader students—you know, little kids who break down crying at the tiniest thing—told me repeatedly that I wasn’t scary. In fact, they behaved for two reasons:
1. If they got a “fuzzy” taken away, they didn’t get to go to the treasure box.
2. If they thought I was going to lose my mind . . . One time, I put my hands over my ears, and one little girl started screaming, “Guys! Stop! She can’t take it anymore!!!”
So, anyways, they weren’t scared of me.

My middle schoolers laughed at me when I thought I was my most terrifying. It ended up as a running gag. I’d get all worked up, and they’d laugh, and then I’d laugh because they were laughing, and then one of my six-foot seventh graders would look down at me and say, “Mrs. B, don’t even try. You’re just not scary.”
Well, geez . . .

The hubs isn’t much better. The phrase, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” invokes no fear, no terror. You’d think that my monthly hormone surge might, but, even then, I’m not scary—I’m just emotional, and, for a man, quite perplexing. There is no fear, only frustration.

So, last night, I am attempting to insult Chris. When I insult someone I love, I call them “boob.” My cats are boobs, my dog is a boob, and Chris, believe it or not, is also a boob.
In case you were wondering, a “boob” is some kind of loveable idiot. Or something. Sometimes, I think I just like getting away with saying the word when it’s completely NOT necessary.

BOOB.

When he didn't react to the first declaration, I decided I needed to up the ante. I shouted the first thing that came to mind . . . and that was  "You're a yammish boob.”

You know exactly the kind I’m talking about.
I have NO idea what that says about my psyche, but it can't be good, right?
I mean, really, where does this stuff come from that's suddenly exploding from my mouth. "Yammish boob?" Really, brain? That's the best you can do? Golly wolly. I have no hope.

Chris isn’t insulted (big surprise). In fact, he’s never insulted. I just can’t seem to get the insult factor down. Just about every time, he laughs at me. After being called a “yammish boob,” he looks at me, mouth open in a grin only seconds from laughing. “A what?”
“A yammish boob. Ha! I just made up a word! It should be a word. Yammish.”
“You’re yammish.”
“*GASP!* I AM NOT!!! I am not a yam!”
“Yes, you are.”
“No! I’m not orange, and I’m not lumpy and odd shapes, and I’m not squishy.”
He pinches me. “You are a little squishy.”
“AM NOT!!!”
“And you are shapes . . . ”
“Everyone is shapes!”
He picks at a strand of my hair, “And, you know, your hair . . . it’s kind of perfectly . . . the color of sweet potatoes.”
“I am NOT a yam!”
“Yeah, I think you are.”
Pause.
“OH GOD!!! I AM A YAM!!! NOOOOO!!!”

Now that I think about it, Anne Shirley is lucky that she got away with just "carrots." I think being compared to a squishy orange tuber is far worse than a skinny orange veggie that helps with eyesight . . . maybe?

About ten minutes later, Chris said my Pipkin was yammish. I tried to defend her, but we both knew it was futile.

She is more a yam than I.

  Oh, and P.S. 
This morning, I received this message over our business IM:

Chris: i wrote a poem for you. would you like to hear it?
Me:  it's not the beautiful love type, is it? is it too much to hope for?
Chris:
There once was a man from Siam
Who ate himself into a jam
Along with his food
His poor wife he had chewed
Because she was only a yam
Sarah: you're awful

And, yes, I snickered despite myself . . . which is frustrating because he's in the cubicle next to mine so he can totally hear me . . . which only massages his ego . . . Clearly, we're the kind of folks who express their love through teasing, torment, and sarcasm.  It keeps life interesting ;]

Friday's Letters

Dear Shasta: Well, sweet girl, today’s the day . . . When we pick you up after work today, you will officially be spayed.  Just in time for your birthday, too.  How’s that for a present? Trust me, you’ll thank us later :]  In the meantime, we’ll be sure to pick up a fun toy or something to aid in your recovery, because, really, you are totally our fur child. 

Dear Readers: Please, enlighten me—is it normal for a young couple with no kiddos to feel this way about a pet?

Dear Archibald: Yes, I've named you, wretched, ginormous arachnid that you are. I sit down at my desk and you dart out from under my purse, huge and creepy.  Spiders have too many joints, friend, among other things. Like legs. Eyes. Creep factor.  But you . . . well, you left me alone. You moved slowly, taking each step with care, like some minature eight-legged-dinosaur.  We all know the reason you, a speedy wolf spider,  weren't racing around: you totally knew you were big enough to take on me AND my flip flops.  I wasn't going to try.  You sat still for a photo op (which all turned out DREADFULLY due to my phone cam's confusion over the carpet pattern), then I turned away. I look back, and you're gone. The worst kind of spider? The kind you can't see. It's been two days. I'm still expecting an ambush. Curse you, Archibald. Curse you!

Dear Thunderstorms: I love you. Yes, you’re hell to drive through, low visibility, flooded streets, lousy drivers, all that, but you’re still awesome.  I love days snuggled in at home listening to you sing, howl, and pound against the earth.  Favorite.  I love getting to dance in your early and late sprinkles, like kisses from heaven. I love that you’re big and dark and ominous.  Will we have storms like you in California? Or, after this Spring, will you be something so very rare and far away? I hope not.  Cause I kind of love you a lot.

Dear Celestial Seasonings: I suppose I should thank you for creating such delectable teas, but, at the same time, you make me nervous. Why??? Because your Nutcracker Sweet Black Tea is too stinkin' GOOD. My GOSH. Add some vanilla creamer, and it's a direct flight to heaven. I tell you what. One day, I made the hubs a cup of it.  Now, he can't get enough. He RAVES about this stuff. Unfortunately, Publix only carries it around Christmas . .. and my four remaining boxes didn't stand a chance. So we found you online, and ordered six boxes. SIX.  I don't think they'll last long either.  If we go broke, I'm blaming you for brewing awesomeness.

Dear Dante:
I have a suggestion for your masterpiece, The Inferno.  No, I get it, it’s already a masterpiece and doesn’t NEED any improving, but, if you REALLY wanted Judas, Cassius, and Brutus to suffer, once Satan gets tired of chewing them, turn them into women and place them in a swimsuit shop. Not even kidding. Not only will they be rendered completely senseless by the onslaught of feelings (so many feelings), paranoia, body image issues, and all those other tendencies that make women so complicated, but then they have to buy a swimsuit.
Because, you see, really, this is Ninth Circle kinda bad. 
When swimsuits are IN season, the good ones cost an arm and a leg, and, really, you’re supposed to lose poundage before donning one of those anyways, so let’s wait a bit . . . . Well, maybe you have or haven’t lost weight, but now, you NEED a suit for something, anything, and they’re almost out of season. BUT they’re finally on sale! Huzzah! Still . . . since it’s almost fall . . . all the good suits are gone, and you’re left with the scraps, and NONE of them in the right size.  Oh, and then the style you want?? Can’t find it. Not at all. I mean, really, is it THAT hard to make a black tankini???? Does it all have to be a string bikini or a one piece? Seriously??? Come on, designers.
So make your three traitors wander around, trying on suit after suit and FAILING. Oh, my gosh, make every one of those little suckers fail. Self-esteem, plummeting, stress building, urgency rising . . . and doggone it, nothing offers any support where it matters.
You’ll break those guys. I mean just annihilate them.
Afterwards, if you’re bored, send them bra shopping.
And BAM! Tormented beyond repair for all eternity.
You’re welcome.

Friday's Letters

Dear Zulu:
It’s been fun puppysitting you while your owners are on vacation.
No, they didn’t abandon you—they’ll be back in about three days.  No, we are not your new home, and NO, THE CATS ARE NOT OVERSIZED SQUIRRELS. STOP TRYING TO EAT THEM.
But I can’t stay mad because you’re so darn cute! I haven’t known a dog this mellow since my lab, Bailey, from my childhood.  You sweet puppy. You even put up with Shasta’s constant insanity. You’re a saint.

 

Dear Shasta:
For the love of all that is good in the world, sweet girl, STOP STEALING ZULU’S FOOD!!! You piggy.  I think you’d gorge yourself to death if we didn’t keep an eye on you.
Still, your apologies are the cutest: crawling over on your belly, wiggling all over, until you’re sitting on my toes then rolling over. “Please love me, please please please? I’ll be a good dog, I promise!”
Oh, ok, I GUESS I can love you a little . . . or a lot . . . too much? So spoiled.
P.S. Do NOT EVER try to hump Zulu again.  Oh, good LORD.

Dear Kits:
So sorry, my dears.  At least the only thing you REALLY do is sleep all day, but I still miss your company on the couch.  I suppose it’s worth sacrificing that for one week to keep you alive for a few more years.
I apologize for Zulu’s rudeness. She doesn’t realize it’s horrifically tactless to stare at someone . . . or try to eat them . . . or stalk them by standing outside their door, nose to the gap between the door and the floor, for hours on end.
I’m not even kidding.

Dear Library Card:
I need you in my life again. After I left my strange, small job in my strange, small library, I’ve been without you. Let’s fix that. I need more literature in my life.  FREE literature.

Dear Jim and Josh:
It was awesome seeing you guys for the first time in three years.  Gosh, college seems like ages ago and just last week.  Sometimes, I feel like I’m still in the dorm room, straightening up for a movie night, or sneaking into the art room for secret angry finger painting, or walking down to Cups Coffee in the cool, fall air, for a study session.  Those were good times.   Have a great trip back!

Dear Chris:
 It’s the cutest when you get embarrassed.
Like when I'm whispering something flirty walking through the parking lot at work, and you go "SSHH!!! We're at work now."
So, I say, loudly, “WHAT?! We're in the PARKING LOT. Besides, I’m married to you, I’m allowed to flirt. It’s not like we’re having sex in the copy room or anything.”
And you look like you want to die on the spot. 
Oh my gosh. You’re adorable when you’re mortified.
I bet you’re making the same expression when you realize I just posted this for all the internet to read.
Haha, Chris. Ha. Ha.
Love you ;]

Dear Matt:
You're FINALLY back from Japan after 11 weeks. It's good to have you back :] Missed you tons! Now, it's back to dinner, movie, and video game nights at my place. And Rifftrax. LOVE that you're my Rifftrax buddy. So much fun. You're awesome.

Dear Self:All right, so you bought the supplies . . . Now, give your ideas a whirl. Can you create something awesome? Maybe, just maybe . . . we'll see . . .

Miscellany Monday

 Booty

Friday, the hubs walked into my cubicle wearing the grin of a Viking conquerer bearing loot.
"I have corn!" He announces proudly, holding the plastic bag stuffed with goodness.
Ah, the benefits of working for an agricultural company: free sweet corn.

And it was DARN GOOD CORN, thank you very much.

Saturday, I heard those words no one ever wants to hear in a salon . . .

Friday Favorites

By golly, Miss Molly! It's been a while since I've done one of these! Let's give it a go!

Hubbish Immitations:

The hubs' birthday-money-from-everyone gift to himself: a Les Paul Studio Deluxe . . . ooooh it's pretty and sounds beautiful. It's his baby.



“Chris? Why are you grumpy?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Did I marry an Eeyore?”

*sigh* “No, you did not marry ‘an Eeyore.’ You see, I bring balance. I am whatever everyone else in the room is not. You’re in the room, and you’re all like, ‘OH MY GOD! DRAGONFLIES! SUNSHINE! LOOK AT THE SPIDER WEB! KITTIIIIIES!!! PIPKIN! NAVI! MUAHMUAHMUAH! I LOVE YOU!!!! SHASTA! CHASE THE PUPPY! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!! I PAINT ALL THE THINGS!”

Sadly, I’m afraid this may be an accurate representation . . .

This Pup:

She’s converted me.

This crazy-cat-lady-wannabe loves canines.

Well, this canine.

But, seriously, how could I not? Look at that face!

She was begging for cheese . . . I made her wait for it . . . I'm a terrible puppy parent, I know . . .

And, no, sweet kitties, you can never be replaced.

Pipkin

Navi

Zoo Trips

I love going to the zoo . . . Even if the Sanford Zoo isn't the most impressive. Chris and I both love creepy-crawlers and the big cats.

He totally commandeered my camera in the reptile/amphibian exhibit so I resorted to using my phone . . . silly man.

We attended with the family company . . . the one I work for during the summers and the one that is sending him out to Cali. It was fun, seeing all of his out-of-town relatives and, let's face it, a free trip to look at awesome critters and then enjoy a free lunch. Good weekend? Yes. 

Artsy-Fartsy:

Last night, after much begging from me and much sweet sacrifice from him, the hubs took me out to paint our own pottery again. I don’t know if my Zelda-homage-GIANT coffee cup will turn out well . . . but, by golly, it was fun.

And I was a mess.
I love being a mess for the sake of art.
Mostly because, whenever I partake in art, I end up looking like an utter disaster.

You should have seen the other hand . . .

P.S. I also realized that, when concentrating on tiny details while painting, I totally do that weird thing where I get REALLY close to the project, my brow furrows, and my tongue pokes out of the corner of my mouth. Why exposed tongues aid in artistic creation? I DON’T KNOW. But it works.

This Bracelet:

You see, I wanted this favorite phrase from a favorite book by a favorite author inked.
The hubs was less than keen. Boo.

Anywho, so we compromised. I found this awesome shop that can do custom bracelets, so voila!
Now I where “He’s not a tame lion” on my wrist every day, and I can take it off every night.

He’s happy.
I’m happy.
TA-DA!!!

Strange Children

Do you know how intriguing it is to find small people in an office setting??
HUGELY interesting.

Does this speak to the excitement level of my job?
Yes, yes it does.

I feel like Jane Goodall examining apes. Seriously, I should start taking notes.
Every arguement I overhear, all the random games, the bartering of food, the aimless strolling, the irritated, working mother . . . It's FASCINATING.
Says the girl typing up archives of the development of celery seed.
. . . it's actually becoming interesting . . . celery . . .

Now, the feral children are wandering the office in their incredibly squeaky sneakers and flappy flip-flops, foraging for diet sodas . . . how interesting, you strange, foreign little creatures . . .

Thank God it’s Friday. I need to get out. Obviously. :]

College Diplomas

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!
The hubs has officially graduated with his Bachelors of Science Degree!!!
It only took him ten years, but, by golly, he made it!

And, yes, we TOTALLY still have it on disply like that on our mantle

Have an awesome weekend, lovelies!