Four Year Anniversary: Now with 90% less Disney

Thank you to Log Cabin for sponsoring my post about updated traditions in my household. To learn more about Log Cabin Syrups (which are all free of High Fructose Corn Syrup), breakfast for dinner, and other new ways to update traditions in your home, click here. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.


Hubby and I moved to Florida exactly three months before our first anniversary.

Our first year of marriage hadn't been easy. We experienced layoffs, difficulty finding jobs, the unexpected death of our first cat and the biggest move either of us had ever experienced. We decided to celebrate our first year with a trip to Disney World, a short drive from where we'd moved.

Four years younger and ten pounds lighter.

We splurged on a season pass, knowing we'd take full advantage of everything Disney had to offer. Yes, two adults can have fun at Disney without a child in tow. We booked a hotel outside the park, but one with a fancy breakfast and transportation to the park. Not only were we celebrating our first year of marriage, but a new life in a new state where we could grow where we were planted.

Sharing the world's most expensive Coke.

When our season passes ran out the next year, we decided to continue this tradition for year two. It wasn't quite as fancy. We probably stayed in a terrible hotel because it's sort of our thing. We probably yelled at some people for cutting front of us in line. We probably looked like wilted flowers by the end of the day.

We definitely had a great time.

Last year was more of the same, but took on a much larger meaning: last May was the last anniversary trip we'd take to Disney on our own. I was about 12 weeks pregnant and only showing in my face and hips. I personally had been infected with Baby Fever, and although I'm speaking for him, I'm pretty sure he was too. Did you know a substantial amount of children go to Disney? Up until that point, when my little squirt had just only allowed me to eat real food again, we hadn't noticed how many beautiful babies visited the parks. It's all we talked about.

We were in line for Snow White and started a conversation with the woman behind us, mother of a cute two-year-old girl. We told her I was pregnant and due in November.

"That's so great!" she said. "Your lives are going to change. For the better!"

We asked her to take our picture with our little anniversary pins to remember our last trip as a family of two.

This year our family tradition of heading to Orlando for a weekend with Mickey is going to be very different. Instead of park-hopping with a season pass, we'll be shopping at Downtown Disney. Instead of standing in line for $4 Cokes, we'll be cooking pancakes for breakfast in our suite (generously gifted to us by my sweet sister). Instead of eagerly awaiting another ride on Pirates of the Caribbean, we'll be splashing in the hotel pool with our six-month-old baby boy.

Today is one month until our fourth anniversary, and something tells me this year will be the best one yet.

What are some of your favorite family traditions?

Las Vegas: Two Tales of One City

Las Vegas. Disney World for adults.  What happens in Vegas....you know the rest.

I have many fond and not so fond memories from two separate trips to Sin City, so gather round ye olde blog, friends, and let me weave a couple tales of vacations past.

The first time I went to Vegas was with my ex-boyfriend, the Bowler. He financed our trip by spending many a night playing poker online with real cash money. I'm 80% sure it was illegal and am 100% sure it was sketchy and off-shore. I also thought it was crazy until his winnings allowed us to eat at nice places and go to shows, then I didn't care as much.

We stayed at the Monte Carlo. I thought I would be super trendy and cute, so I brought only high heeled boots. All I knew of Las Vegas was what I'd learned through movies and TV, where sexy women are wearing sequined dresses and playing craps and drinking champagne. So basically, all I had were heels or nothing -- not even a slipper to cover my tootsies while I ran to the ice machine or something.

You know what there is a lot of in Vegas? WALKING. For miles I walked in those stupid high heeled boots. I'm really stubborn and hated to be wrong, so I pretended like all was FINE just FINE, I walk in boots ALL THE TIME SO SHUT UP. No, I always walk this way IT'S NOT A LIMP.

Oh, and I also need to mention it was December and I was pale as a ghost. I thought I'd brighten up my complexion with a little trip to the tanning bed before we left, ended up laying too long for my first visit in hopes of speeding up the process, and was shedding much like a snake the entire trip.

Bleeding, mangled toes? Check! Red, peeling skin? Check! Sounds great, right?

It got better.

Stampede machine. How cute is that buffalo

?

We were walking through the casinos one night, hopping from one to the next and looking out for my favorite slot machine, STAMPEDE! (If you got three buffaloes in a row, it said stampede and went haywire. Guess you had to be there?) I found one and threw a couple quarters in and didn't win, so we moved on. A few casinos away, I realized I'd left my purse at the machine. We ran back and it was gone, long gone, in a casino of all places. I didn't have much money, but I did have my cell phone, lipstick, a few other odds and ends. By the grace of God, I had my license in my pocket and left my car keys and all but one credit card in the hotel. We talked to security and filed a report, realizing I'd probably never see those things again. The remaining card was canceled and I proceeded to have a meltdown of epic proportions.

That night, while I was crying my eyes out over my misfortune, my ex-boyfriend spent hours in the Monte Carlo casino gambling. No surprise that relationship didn't last.

This trip happened right around Christmas. A few days after we got home, right before New Year's Eve, a packaged arrived at the condo, addressed to me. I opened it and it was my purse with everything still inside, less the handful of change. The purse included a note that said simply, "I found your purse and used the change to send it back." No identifying information, no return address.

It was sort of a Christmas miracle.

The second trip was a few years later, my last spring break trip while I was a carefree college student. I believe it was 2004, and I went with my BFF Candace, who was from a small town in West Virginia and at that point had never flown. Ever. After the fun flight on a SOUTHWEST AIRLINES plane, we landed in Vegas and proceeded to have a blast for four days. I wont' get into details because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right? but a few things I'll never forget:

• Dancing with Midwestern boys on spring break to Britney Spears' Toxic so they would buy us a beer
• Stopping by McDonalds at three in the morning for a burger and Candace proclaiming it the BEST BURGER SHE'D EVER HAD
• Walking for a dance club back to our hotel armed with nothing but my chain metal belt, which I claimed I'd use as a deadly weapon if anyone tried to "mess with us"
• Calling our friend who'd flaked out at the last minute, leaving a message that said she's missing out on a lot of hot guys and then marking the message as urgent
• How blonde and skinny I was in 2005

Blonde. Skinny. Belly shirt? I thought I was fat here BTW.

Anyone else have some Las Vegas memories?

This is part of a Studio 30 Plus prompt! Are you thirty? Word Nerdy? Go now!

Tearin' up my heart

5)  A song with significance.

I have a confession to make.

Back in the day, and that day was 1998, my family and I were at Disney on a family vacation. It was my high school graduation present. During what I believe was our EPCOT day, Mom pointed out there was boy band concert that was being filmed for The Disney Channel. If you'll travel back in your memory some 13 odd years, you'll remember the late 90s being the Years of the Boyband. More spiky hair and funky harmonies than you could shake a stick at.

So, this group was NSYNC, and my sister and I turned up our noeses BIG TIME. We were all, pshaw, boybands? Are for teenyboppers. Thanks, but no thanks. Let's get a funnel cake and ride Spaceship Earth again.

Mom was like, "Not even for free?"

We were all, "Um, ten-year-old girls screaming over some lame made up group isn't' our idea of a good time, Mom."

And Sister Fate, she heard every single word of that conversation and wanted us to pay for our flippant attitude toward boy bands. The NSYNC concert aired two months later and NSYNC became the hottest boyband in the country. We were kicking ourselves for missing the concert.

 A few months later, inexplicably, we were hooked. We had a fever, and the only cure was clearly over produced songs sung by pretty boys. We still say that making the decision not to watch that free concert cursed us to have bad seats to everything for the rest of our lives.

Although at 19 years old I was almost a decade older than their target demographic, I was a sucker for anything and everything NSYNC related. We attended several concerts. We bought every CD -- even the import singles with exclusive German tracks (this was before iTunes, i.e. the stone ages). We even bought those stupid teen magazines and hung posters up on our walls. I'll never forget the winter we took off in the snow to get handi-tac from Walmart.

Why would a college aged girl become obsessed with a boyband? It was probably the fear of changes that were happening all around me. My grandmother had a stroke the next summer and then passed away the next fall. I'd started college, and it was new and weird and sometimes hard. My Dad's company transfered him to Cincinnati, where he lived 5 days out of the week. I was ending one romantic relationship and starting another one. 

Change is awkward and unsettling. Boybands are the complete opposite of that.

I'm a big fan of the 90s station on XM Radio. Everyone once and awhile, the familiar opening notes of Tearing Up My Heart will start blaring on my way home from work and I can't help by smiling about a simpler time when a group of singers brought so much joy to my life.

Lacy panties and flimsy hangers

When I was in grad school, I took a job at Victoria's Secret. I thought it would be super glamorous, what with the black jackets and dress shoes, but it turns out that retail is retail no matter how pretty you look.

I did alright there, if I do say so myself. I was the resident expert bra sizer and beat my credit card opening goals almost every day. I left work smelling great and feeling good -- other than the calluses on my feet and ache in my back.

Of course, I also had to unpack and cut down thousands of boxes, hang panties with two small strips of fabric on flimsy plastic hangers and climb on a huge ladder to change teeny, tiny light bulbs.

There was this one particular fragrance at Vickys called Love Spell that was the bane of my existence. Every hillbilly in Kentucky (where I worked) wanted to slather that stuff over every inch of their skin. I don't think it was so much the fragrance itself as it was the combination of Love Spell, cigarettes and trailers that infiltrated our store. 

After two years working there, I made lots of good friends, bought a small fortune in lacy underwear (that now lives in a plastic bag in my closet because I can't stomach throwing it out) and developed a hatred of holiday mall shopping that haunts me to this day.

That's just one of my ridiculous jobs, and you can read all about another at Erin Margolin's excellent blog, Road to my Writer Roots!

Also? Look what I did this weekend:

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Let's talk about the good ol days of graduate school

Inspiration. I has it.

A few weeks ago, when I started seeing the light after my "dark days" of being kept awake all night by a baby sleep terrorist, I had a conversation with Hutch about how amazing grad school was. I told her she deserved a Master's Degree in Inspiration for inspiring me.

And inspire she has.

Since that day, I've been trying to put together the best stories from grad school before they leave my mind completely. I'm afraid no matter what I write, I can't do it justice. That maybe it was a "you just had to be there" situation. But  I owe it to her, and you all, to at least give it the 'ol college try.

I decided to go to grad school on a whim. Actually, it was because I couldn't find a job and decided the next best thing was to delay adulthood a couple more years, do a little more book learnin' and become a pretentious snob who could later say "I have a MASTERS DEGREE. I shouldn't have to FAX THIS DOCUMENT for you."

My bachelor's degree is in Journalism. I decided to shake it up a little and get my Masters in Communication Studies. The difference between the two? Journalism is the practice, Communications is the ART. The noble study of the written word; theories about human communication and interaction; heady, intense debates about the minutia of verbal and nonverbal speech.

If Journalism is meat and potatoes, Communications is Saffron-Infused Polenta Stuffed Artichokes from a new fusion restaurant: over the top, complicated, not exactly what you expected and will probably leave you hungry after the meal.

So let me introduce you to the cast of characters in the communications department:

Dr. C. B. - Feisty older lady knockin' on retirement's door. She's been in the department since the beginning of time, has seen it all and acts accordingly. You're either her friend or her foe; nothing in between. In fact, her opinions are all  polarizing, from thoughts about women in positions of power (HELLS YES) to her thoughts about Detroit ("I wish we could put Detroit in a bubble and just nuke it. Nothing there but drug dealers.") Super old school, and you can tell because she says "oriental" instead of "Asian" and even though the building has been non-smoking for 5 years, she still smokes in her office because IT'S HER OFFICE AND SHE CAN DO WHAT SHE WANTS. Specialty is consulting. Also? She was awesome.

Dr. E - Head of the department and acts thusly. If your political ideals don't sit firmly on the left of middle, don't bother trying because you probably won't get an A. Bossy, rude and if I may be so blunt? Super scary.  Specialty: political communications.

Dr. Bookie - Bookie's wife cheated on him but they still stayed together. Instead of talking it over with his wife and healing his broken heart, he takes it out on the females in his class. His barely concealed misogynistic rage makes him the perfect person to teach INTERPERSONAL CONFLICT class (oh brother).

Dr. W - Although Dr. W taught the most terrifying and mind-numbing required class of grad school, Communication Theory, he was one of my favorite people in the department, and here's why.

Dr. W? Was looney tunes. I mean 100% certified, organic crazy person. I don't know if it was too much acid in the 60s, the brush with death during heart attack a few years earlier or just the mental instability it takes to commit your whole career to studying communication theory, but Dr. W made little to no sense at any point in my class. But at the same time, I totally understood him. Maybe it was because he drew eyes and antennae  on graphs and said they were monsters.

The scene: 2004. November. A few days before the election. Outside, some students were campaigning in the crisp autumn air. Dr. Woods returned from the break from our evening class, knit toboggan askew, Marlboro Lights haphazardly hanging out of the chest pocket in his short sleeved button up dress shirt. He pulled off his worn out jersey jacket and threw it in the chair.

"I JUST SAW.......................................THE MOST WONDERFUL THING!"

Color us all perplexed. We allowed him to continue.

"There are students out there campaigning. I haven't seen this kind of excitement for years! Taking time out of their day to be part of the election process. It's communication theory in action...well it's...just........."

Dr. W proceeded to stare at a spot on the wall for 5 minutes.

Finally he spoke.

"I'm sorry, guys. I just was thinking about how wonderful it is. Young people. Fantastic."

Thirty seconds passed.

"Amazing."

He ran his hands through his thinning gray hair, making it defy gravity.

"Guys, I can't continue this class. I'm just so overjoyed. Class dismissed for today. GO OUT AND ENJOY BEING YOUNG AND LIVING IN AMERICA!"

And so we all went out and enjoyed being young and living in America.

Where there was beer.

Oh, I can't believe it took so long to mention the beer. There was beer, friends. Any time of the day  or night there was beer. Beer and good times, always, every day. Not that I partook every day, but I do have to say there were several nights when my dinner happened after my 6 PM class dismissed and it included cheese fries and beer.

The good times trumped the beer, though.

A few friends and I at the Union, circa 2004. That's me with long, blonde hair.

There were also tailgates and football games; emphasis on tailgates because my bff JP and I never once stepped foot in the stadium. Instead, we'd "babysit" our friend's tailgate set-up, make beer can pyramids and "listen" to the game. This particular tailgate spot was in the stadium lot, mere feet from the game. 

One time, we rolled up with our tailgate contribution and she wasn't parked in the usual spot. It didn't stop us at all when we found out she was out of town and wouldn't be bringing her car -- who says you need a car to tailgate? We brought our folding chairs and a cooler and tailgated anyway. Turns out, all you need to tailgate is a cooler of beer and some homemade cheese dip.

It's a tailGREAT when we're running the show.

By the end of grad school, things were settling down. We were all older. Grading papers and applying for jobs took the place of bar trivia and staying out until 3. I met my husband and my priorities were shifted. Graduation day came and went and we moved into our new roles: wives, mothers, career women.

But memories from grad school will always have a safe place in my heart.

And now I present to Hutch the It's Blogworthy University MA in Inspiration -- suitable  for framing or placing on your blog.

Birthdays and pregnancy don't mix

I have a confession to make.

I joined Studio 30+ a few months ago because it looked like an amazing place to hang out online, for cool people only. I've been solidly pimping it out on my page and Twitter. The only problem? I wasn't 30. I was 29. And 3/4. I was so close to 30 I could smell it. Everybody I knew was in their 30s. I was married to a 30 year old. I told people I was 30 because when you work with mostly 30 year olds, saying you're 29 inevitably brings lots of corny jokes like, "You've heard of Indiana Jones, right? Or was that before your time?" or "1988 was a good year. But you were still in diapers then, weren't you?" RIGHT, I WAS IN DIAPERS AT 8 YEARS OLD. I especially love it when the people making these HIlarious jokes were two years ahead of me in school. Funny guys. Reallllly funny.

Anybitter, now I'm legitimately the right age for the group and I hope founders Jules and Jerrod can forgive me for all the dirty, dirty lies I've been spreading. Just know in my heart and soul, I was 30.

But let me tell you, people, being pregnant on a milestone birthday is not all it's cracked up to be. I've been close to tears no less than 10 times this morning and it's not even 10 am. People are being so darn sweet and nice that my heart is filled to the brim with appreciation and if it gets much more full I will have a massive hysterical waterworks fest. You've all been warned (but you can be sweet anyway if you want. When you can't have wine, crying is the next best way to relieve stress.)

Indulge my nostalgia for one moment, please: I had a really terrific time in my 20s. I think of it in two pretty distinct areas. The first is my college and grad school years, where I learned so much about myself and made memories that still, to this day, make me smile. The friendships I made during that time I will always cherish...still do, in fact, since some of my best friends of yore are my best friends today. The second area is really after I met my hubby -- or AH, if you will -- when I started my first job, watch friends get married and have babies, got married myself and recently watched my baby sister get married. Hubby and I traveled all around and had the most amazing experiences during our travels. We moved, bought a house, made a baby and started become grown-ups.

And here's 30 that's full of who knows what, but if the trend continues, I know it's going to be great.

Now where's the birthday laundry elf I asked for?

What was your favorite age?

How me became we: Why are we up so early? The proposal

Hubby and I dated for over a year and a half and had talked about marriage, but he always said he wanted to be able to afford a nice ring and just wasn't able to at the time. I was like NO BIG DEAL, my life is not defined by what age I am married, I AM SECURE IN OUR RELATIONSHIP (and I truly was). When we started planning our summer vacation to St. Augustine, FL, in May 2006 it wasn't even on my radar.

I purchased my first new car that Spring and we were going to drive it to Florida, stopping first in Charleston, SC on the way down. We left unreasonably cold WV for Charleston after work on a Friday night. The trip to Charleston was only about 7 hours, so we were there close to midnight and checked into our ghetto fabulous hotel. Hubby was, like, a FREAK about locking my car. He did the thing he STILL does to this day, where he will lock the trunk, then push down on the trunk, then lock it again. He looked out two or three times just to make sure the car was OK, and I was all, buddy, listen, I know you're excited about my new car, but honestly, take a chill pill.

We left Sunday for St. Augustine. Once we got to the hotel and carried our luggage in he started acting weird and quiet and I only noticed that looking back on it. It was sort of late and we were tired from the drive, but he still wanted to get up for an early morning walk on the beach. I'm such a grump in the morning and I was not having it, but he insisted. I'm like whatEVER, I GUESS I can take a nap in the afternoon BLAH.

Dark o' thirty in the AM rolled around before we knew it. We put on our beach walkin' clothes and started to head out. Hubby was holding his binocular bag and I couldn't figure out why, I mean a) what did he think he would see at 6:30 am? cruise ships? dolphins?  and b) why would he need binoculars for it?

We started out and walked and walked and walked and walked, then turned around and walked, then he stopped and bent down to pick up a shell (or so I thought). I turned around in a huff because sister ain't drank her coffee yet if you're picking up what I'm laying down.

Before I had a chance to yell, he was on his knee ON THE BEACH AT SUNRISE with a diamond ring. I don't remember what he said because he truly caught me off guard. All I knew is that the answer to that question was a resounding YES.

Approximately 3 minutes after he proposed.
The person we stopped to take our picture wasn't
nearly as excited about it as we were.

It turns out he couldn't figure out how to fit the ring box into his shorts without me noticing, so he put it in the bionularless bionocular bag. And the obsessive car locking? Three months salary was in that trunk. Now how was I supposed to know that? 

We were married almost a year to the day later at our outdoor amphitheater.

 

Should I go ahead and tell the photographer story? It's such a doosey, but this is getting long and it's my third post this week....do you guys mind? Here we go.

The photographer we chose was nice and cheap. Please, please, please, for those of you getting married, do NOT, under any circumstance, allow "cheap" and "nice" to dictate your wedding photographer choice. She was a nightmare. Her behavior included:

•  Even though I told her to NOT photography my sister and I without makeup, she did.
• She messed with my sister's dress and said "Let me just tuck you in....even skinny people can have back fat." and if looks could kill, my sis's gaze could have killed her instantly with white-hot firey rage.
• She told me my smile was cheesy.
• She booked another wedding while shooting ours and BRAGGED about it.
• She jumped in line before my in-laws during the buffet. 
• Hubby likes kissing me on the forehead because I'm so short and he's so tall, right? He probably did it 40 times during the reception. Toward the end she goes, "Hmmph. I swear, he just keeps kissing you and I miss it."
• At one point she said, "Well there are some shadows here, so I'll just put it on this setting and hope things come out" THANKS FOR INSTILLING CONFIDENCE.
• She overcharged us for our prints and took 3 months to send them. Out of 500 shots, we could barely find 100 that we liked enough for our album.

Please look beyond cheap and nice. The only good thing to come out of this experience was our ability to laugh at back fat.

Everything else was perfect -- perfect weather, yummy food, surrounded by my family and best friends. It was stressful, but beautiful. Here are some pictures!

My brother-in-law is a pastor and married us.

Us posing by the fountain,
yes, there is a copyright all up on that picture
but who has two thumbs, a cheesy smile, and doesn't give a crap? *this girl!*

Official-ness is a-ok!

After the wedding, we spent a week in Mexico at an all-inclusive -- I called it Wedding Rehab 2007.

Thanks for indulging me on this little trip down memory lane! I hope you enjoyed. I love hearing love stories, proposals and wedding stories, so you guys should share yours, too!

How me became we: Love on AOL (volume 1)

Today is my third wedding anniversary. Three years ago, on a beautiful, sunny, 75 degree day, my hubby and I stood in front of a crap ton of our friends and family and said our "I dos". It was pretty much perfect, but the story doesn't start there.

After the break up with Ball Boy and the terrible date(s) with Gravy Boat, I more or less gave up dating all together. I was having the time of my life in grad school with my best friends. I was learning and growing so much, both academically, emotionally and as a person. I didn't really have any use for a boyfriend, especially after some of the horrific dates I'd experienced.

Back then, I had AOL. Like the old school AOL with the profile and everything. I mean, for real man, that was our ISP. One night I was working on some class work, or maybe I was just wasting time before going out --I don't remember -- but I got an IM from Hubby. I guess I'd had something about journalism school on my super rad profile because he asked me if I'd had a certain class. As it turned out, we had an online journalism class together about 3 years prior. He was a radio & tv major and I was print. Those two sequences didn't cross paths because print thought they were better than the other (this is where it becomes clear to you guys that nothing is lamer than journalism students fighting about superiority.)

We chit chatted for awhile and caught up. He had been dating someone then, as had I, so we really didn't talk much. I remember talking to him quite often through IM and he was always sweet and really respectful -- which was a change from all those bar rats I was used to.

Eventually I gave him my phone number. Now remember, I was not in a good place as far as relationships go, and I'm not proud of the way I responded. He would call and I'd either cut the conversation short or not answer. It wasn't him, it truly was me. He suggested we meet up at one of the summertime hotspots, JoJo's Barge and Grill and YES it was on a barge. We're classy up in WV. I always said I would, but it never panned out -- probably because I was unintentionally sabotaging the situation.

One weekend that fall, during football season, he left a message for me while I was at work and asked me to go to a movie with him, as friends. He knew that I wasn't really interested in a relationship, so the friends thing was a perfect "in". I didn't get the message until late that night and when I called him back, he was out of town at an away game. He never called me back. Later that week, I talked to him on IM and he told me all about the girl he'd met at the game and the date they had planned. Yuck, it really sort of hurts to even type that, but he had never heard my message from earlier in the weekend and just presumed I was not interested and never would be.

Fail, Amanda, fail.

Life went on and we still chatted quite a bit. He was so kind and nice and I can remember myself thinking....that girl is a lucky girl.

But not that lucky, or maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Around Thanksgiving Hubby started talking about how he just didn't feel it with her, how it didn't feel like it was working out. I still remember that conversation. I told him if he felt that way after two months, how would he feel in two years?

Later that week he told me they had broken up.

The night of New Years Eve, just a few weeks later, some stuff went down with a guy who I thought liked me and it turned out he didn't. The "stuff" included calling this person and then throwing my phone down when he didn't' answer. Repeatedly. After I talked it over with my friends, I made the best New Years Resolution I could possibly have made, one that truly changed my life -- I decided if I got another chance with Hubby I'd take it, that I was done with falling for the wrong guys just because I was afraid of something real. I was growing up in a lot of ways and I needed to grow up in relationships, too.

January 17th Hubby asked me to go out to lunch with him. It wasn't a date, he said, just a friendly lunch. We chose Longhorn Steakhouse at 2 pm -- not a lunch, not a dinner -- and he was scheduled to work at 4, so there was an end if it was terrible.

Luckily it wasn't terrible. We met on January 19th, Martin Luther King Day. He was incredibly handsome and charming, and we talked for 2 solid hours. I tried to sneak a picture of him on my picture phone to show my friends. We literally had to pry our butts from the booth so he wouldn't be too late for work. We've gone to a steakhouse every year since then.

A few days later I was working in my teaching assistant office and he just stopped by with a Chick-fil-a sandwich. We decided to meet for dinner after my night class. That evening, a blizzard started. I called him and asked if he wanted to reschedule and he didn't. He drove about 35 minutes in blinding snow to meet me at Applebees, at like 9 pm. I remember when he walked in, the first thing he said was "is this seat taken?" It was so lame but just so heartwarming and cute to me. I couldn't stop smiling. After we ate, he brushed the snow off my car and we hugged in the parking lot. I got home and was on cloud 9. The snow was so crisp and beautiful and it just felt like a new start.

After that, we had our first "real" date. Dinner and a movie and then desert because we didn't want it to end.

It wasn't long after that date that we became an official couple, and the rest is history.

My husband is my best friend. Nobody can make me smile, laugh, cry (in good ways) or knows me better. He drives me crazy sometimes but when I'm away from him, I miss him. It's not a perfect relationship, but it's perfectly wonderful and that's how love should be.

So to all my bloggy friends out there who are on the hook, who think it won't ever happen, who are on a dating break, please remember that there's a reason for all of it -- the person you're supposed to be with just isn't ready yet.

Hope you all stuck with me, this was quite a saga! It's my favorite story to tell. Tomorrow I'm going to tell you how he proposed -- its' a goodie.

Gravy...it's a dealbreaker, ladies!

I was planning a whole bunch of stories about bad dates and boyfriends I've had in honor of my 3 year wedding anniversary tomorrow (and how wonderful my husband is), but I'm lazy so you'll get two of the best in one post!

I'll start with the longest. I dated C for 3 years. We lived in different cities but only about 2 hours apart, so I saw him almost every weekend. Where do I start with C? He was a unique person. Uniquely weird and hard to read and uniquely serious in all the wrong ways.

C had two great passions in life: gambling and bowling. Sounds like a real winner, RIGHT? He literally was a winner once, when after many nights of online gambling on offshore casinos, he won $1800 and funded our trip to Las Vegas where he GAMBLED SOME MORE. During that trip, I lost my purse and had to go to the police in one of the casinos and do a report, THEN had to cancel all my credit cards, and THEN was so upset that I was choking on my tears and he went down to the casino to gamble! I mean he was up, why not! Don't worry about me, I'll just soak my pillow with a river of salty tears BY MYSELF.

C's other passion, bowling, was serious business. He was on a college bowling team. He had 11 balls...try to read that last statement and not giggle. He was in a couple leagues. You know how cheerleaders will go off on you if you say their cheering is not a sport? He was totally like that. I'm sorry, but if you can drink while playing, it ain't a sport.

The first time C met any of my friends, we decided to go bowling. MASSIVE FAIL OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. I knew it was over when he rolled his huge bag of balls into the bowling alley. JP remembers this well and we'll often laugh at how ridiculous that moment was. Laugh so we don't dry. Three years, folks!

 (P.S. he's married now with a child, so I hope that bowling and poker moved down to passions number three and four. Also, I am still friendly with this dude because it turns out we had nothing in common...IMAGINE!)

After that relationship was over, I didn't date much. I was pretty torn up about it (who knows why). I became the wingwoman to a friend and sorority sister who liked to party and loved men. I became the little angel on her shoulder who tried to get her to close her tab, say goodnight to the feller she was trying to hook, get into the passenger seat of her car and give me the keys. That happened about 2 out of every 10 visits to the ol drinking hole.

Mostly I just talked to the friends of her conquests. One day she was talking to a guy, I'm going to call him Kevin, and I told her it was time to leave. Kevin's wingman, Dan, struck up a conversation with me and tried to get my number. I started to give him the wrong number, then just told him I'd see him around, because I was in NO MOOD to deal with his crap. I was so disillusioned with men that I had no interested in even getting to know him.

Next time we were at the Union (that was the bar we all frequented), my friend and Kevin had more time to talk and by default I got to hang out with Dan. He asked me out on a date and my internal monologue went something like this:

"He's not entirely awful looking, he's asking you out on a date, just say yes. What's the worst that could happen?"

WHAT'S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN.

We went out a few days later. He took me to a nice restaurant but I knew from the second we met (yes, we met there because I didn't want to be stuck in a car with him if it was awkward). The conversation was absolutely terrible. We had nothing to say to each other. There was a lot of small talk and talking about how good our food was. After the date was over, he asked what I wanted to do and the only thing I could think of was going to the Union (duh) so I could (hopefully) be rescued. At the bar, the lame conversation continued, he spilled beer on my new black capris, and finally...FINALLY...God answered my prayers and my friends came to join us. He left later on and asked if I'd like to go out again sometime.

I said yes....WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME?

A week or so later, we were (again) at the Union and Dan asked what I'd like to do on our next date and also mentioned he didn't have much money (smooth). I suggested we just cook dinner at my house or his house and asked what he wanted. He said fried chicken and mashed potatoes and the sides, like am I KFC over here? But for some unknown reason I said, that's a FABULOUS idea. Maybe it's because I knew I could blog about it 7 years later.

The day of the date, I was finishing up cooking when he arrived at my house.Everything was looking good -- fried chicken tenders, (instant) mashed potatoes, green beans and corn....I'd remembered everything but the gravy.

Me: Oh hey, Dan, I totally forgot the gravy! Would you mind running to the store for me to get it...it's only a block or so away.
Dan: Sure, babe. Do you have money?
Me: Excuse me?
Dan: I'm just out of money right now, so could you give me money to get gravy.
Me: It's only going to be, like, $1.50.
Dan: yeah.....

I gave him the money but knew that it was a terrible sign that I should end this quick, like pulling off a band-aid.

But instead I gave him one last chance...3 times a charm?

A few nights later, we went to get ice cream. I was searching for something, ANYTHING to talk about. I talked about a class I had in which we talked about certain words in the English language meaning nothing because they were overused -- like the word "nice". Then, later, I told him a story about the ice cream place.

Dan: Oh, that's nice
Me: Nice? That's the only thing you could think about saying after we JUST talked about how nice really doesn't mean anything?
Dan: Yeah..it's nice.

*sigh* Strike three. You're out.

Then a year and a half or so later, my husband and I started dating, so there is eventually a happy ending to my dating saga. You'll hear that tomorrow!

bowling ball image via | gravy image via

A few Friday Funnies to end this week

A conversation between me and my Husband.

Scene: We're laying in bed watching GhostHunters in silence.

Me: You know, I think my favorite kind of Jelly Belly is the hot buttered popcorn.
Hubby: *face palm*
Me: What?
Hubby: That is so random.
Me: It's not random. I was sitting here thinking about it before I said something to you.
Hubby: Again, what's not random about that?

Tis my life, y'all.

---------------------------------

When I was in grad school I was a teaching assistant. There were about eight of us who entered into indentured servitude for up to two years. In return, we got what equaled out to be $2 an hour, paid tuition and our own office. Which we had to share. Usually only two to three of us had office hours each day. One semester I had office hours with my friend Ali and another grad student whose name I will never forget but I am going to call him E.

E was just a little weird. He was a terrible teacher and just plain mean to his students. The rest of us were all, Whelp! you tried! here is a B for your efforts! But he was hardCORE. I think he gave his whole class Cs just out of pure spite. He held back his thinly veiled hatred of the human race just enough for us to not outwardly hate him, but he let that hate all hang out with his kids. It was truly tragic. For them. And for Ali and I when he was in a particularly bad mood during office hours.

Anyway. One day during office hours, Ali wasn't able to be there, so it was just E and I hanging out. I got the short end of the stick and taught 8 am classes. I skipped breakfast and was existing solely on the breakfast of champions -- coffee.

I said to E, "I sure could use some breakfast right about now. They should provide a continental breakfast for us! ahahah! LOLZ!"

E replied...and I will never till the end of my days forget the way he said it..."I hate continental breakfasts. I hate them."

*record scratches* Me: E, what do you mean you hate continental breakfasts? What is there to hate?
E: I just do not like them. They are never good. It's always just coffee and donuts and that's it.
Me: That's not ALWAYS true. Sometimes they have awesome breakfasts. You've never had a continental breakfast that has, like biscuits and gravy and those waffle machines?
E: Never. I hate continental breakfasts.

This just made me increasingly angry. Like who hates free food? Rich people maybe, and he certainly wasn't rich or he wouldn't be participating in the slave labor that was the teaching assistant program.

I thought, maybe he doesn't realize it's free.

Me: E, it's FREE though. I mean, even if it's nothing but pastries and coffee, you didn't have to *pay* for them. It's included in the price of your hotel.
E: I don't care. I hate it. I would rather pay.
Me: You'd turn down a free meal?
E: Yes. I hate continental breakfasts.
Me:  I have to walk away right now.

I am 90% sure he was just trying to instigate because he hated the world, but to this day, every time I see a continental breakfast I say to my Hubby, "Remember E!? And how he HATE continental breakfasts? Well I'm going to take extra pastries JUST TO PROVE HIM WRONG."

I made some graphs to prove how awesome continental breakfasts are:

Therefore:

See how my anger increases as the price goes up?


Happy Weekend, y'all. Enjoy it and give your Mommy's extra love on Mother's Day!

The most unproductive office ever

It's story time, people! Gather round as I spin a tale about days of yore.

Once upon a time, I graduated from college and couldn't find a job to save my life, so I decided to spend another two years under the tutelage of some wonderfully pretentious and brilliant professors getting my Master's Degree in Bullcrap Communications.

As that hood was placed carefully around my neck by my favorite professor who once said Detroit should just be nuked because there was nothing worthwhile there and also once called Asian cuisine "oriental food", and who also smoked in the non-smoking building and really didn't give a crap, I was filled with pride. I did it! I am a Master! Fortune is surely on my way! Employers will be banging at my door! I mean, they are probably waiting in the bushes right now to attack me with employment  contracts.


After an amazing back-yard party to celebrate with JP, the hood that was such a source of joy to me became like a noose of reality, strangling me with responsibility. I needed a job, and STAT.


I had an interview at our local newspaper for an advertising sales job. While the job offered barely less as a base salary than I was making at Victoria's Secret, it made up for it in commissions. And I was the health accounts rep so it was like I walked around with dollar signs in my eyes for almost a year. You guys know how much money hospitals spend on advertising? I do.

 For all y'all West Virginians, you're welcome for making your hospital stays as expensive as possible!


Anyway, almost a  year went by and the luster of all that money wore off when I began realizing making sales goals gives me panic attacks. Meanwhile, I was working with an advertising agency rep whose client was in the health care industry. JP had worked for this company in college as a -- secretary, I'd call it? So I sort of knew him through her.


One day I had a brilliant idea. I could come work for them instead of the newspaper! Wouldn't that be great? I could write their copy and design stuff and do account management! And maybe even do some sales! I had a lot of contacts from the paper, maybe I could bring in some new people!


They liked the idea and I came on board. There were only three of us then: the owner, the designer and me. It was a Web design agency trying to put on some big-girl panties and do some real advertising. How did that pan out? I'll let you decide. Here are a few key facts:

• The designer spent almost every working hour on a football message board. Like on the regular.
• I was always pulled into ridiculous projects that were a waste of everyone's time and money: i.e. coming up with ideas for a marketing plan for a NASCAR team.
• They tried to start a NASCAR team.
• There would be days I was the only person around for hours. Sometimes days.
• More attention was paid to the coffee than the design work.
• Beer 30 was a regular occurrence. It didn't necessarily have to happen on a Friday, either.
• We went to Chilis almost every single day of the week and it was on the company's dime. 
• At one point we were working with this vendor/contractor type guy who said BRICK IT UP without a hint of irony. He worked in our office for literally months.
• There may or may not have been a full-on fantasy football draft that happened in the conference room. (There was).
• One time I was given my paycheck and told that I shouldn't cash it until a few days later. You know, until some stuff clears.
• The phrase "hook me up with a favor for this Web site" may or may not have been thrown around.

Then there was the time when Bossman decided he wanted to become a rock star. Rock legend, if you will. He wanted to ROCK. That's in all caps and maybe with a little emphasis. He purchased an electric guitar and brought it into the office with the tiniest speaker ever to enhance music. It was like the kind you get to hook up your iPod. 

Our Web developer was also a musician, but a legitimate one. Like, he really knew how to play the guitar and had a little garage band. He was really good. So of course, how could Bossman resist the opportunity to learn a little something about those golden strings from a real guitarist? I'm not going to pretend there weren't some jam sessions going on in that office.

*phone rings*

Me: Hi, thanks for calling our design place, this is Amanda.

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh] <- phonetic electric guitar, just go with it

Client: This is Mr. Important Client person calling about a Web site.

[[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Me: Oh, hello Mr. Important Client, how are you today? I just got your --

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Me: -- content finished and --

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Me: -- I think you'll really --

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Client: Is that....a guitar?

Sometimes the heavens would part and the stars would align and there would be Beer 30 AND a jam session. There was a special name for those days: 4 o'clock rock. Or 3 o'clock rock. Or 2 o'clock rock. Whatevs.

Sadly, this company and I parted ways and I haven't really heard from them once. But every once and awhile, I'll hear a sad guitar riff from a 1980's power ballad and shed a single tear for my former employers.

Country roads are taking me somewhere, but not really home

Have you missed me posting all over your blogs the past few days? Hubby and I have been in West Virginia, the place of our births the place of my birth because Hubby will never let you forget that he was born in Kentucky even though he was raised for most of his life in WV and..AND...eastern Kentucky pretty much is the same as WV, how is that even better? Anyway. That's where we were. And boy, oh boy did I get behind on my blogging.

It was great for one reason only -- sister time. Sister time is my favorite time ever. It's filled with just pure awesomeness topped with icing from the most delicious cake place called Servatiis.

This is what I imagine Sister time looks like:

 We totally demolished that cake.

We had the best time just sitting around and talking and eating and then a not so great time watching UK lose to my mortal enemies, WVU. Then we reverted back to best times by making her cats dance.

Before the trip to sister's house, Hubby and I visited my Mom and Dad, who are getting ready to sell our childhood home. Mom finds all sorts of treasures, and by treasures I mean things that she doesn't have the heart to throw away, so she gives them to us to "do with them what we will."

One of these treasures was a big, plastic Big Boy bank. Do y'all have Shoneys? Well long ago and far away, Shoney's used to be Shoney's Big Boy. I guess there are still Big Boy restaurants around, but here is the logo:

via

So I'm laughing thinking, where on God's green earth did this come from? Mom proceeds to tell me how when my sister and I were little, she wanted this Big Boy bank more than anything and Mom wouldn't buy it for her. Big sister stepped in and bought it for her as a gift. Now I know, you're wondering, how did a young child get money to buy something like this? And to that I don't' have an answer and neither did Mom. It's so appropriate, though, because my Sister has always been awesome with money and is now an accountant, so I like to think I was building her dreams even at a very young age. I'm selfless and amazing like that. You're welcome, Sissy.

I decided it would be super funny to take the Big Boy to her for it to live in it's rightful home. Hub and I brought it in and wrapped it in paper we found in Sarah's dining room, then handed it to her. She was all, "Oh! A present!" and then laughed her face off when she saw it:

Please note the Snuggie she has on. And look how the Big Boy is staring longingly at her. Her husband better watch his back, is all I'm saying.

And also during this trip, our husbands went shopping together which we both agree will NEVER happen again. Go to her blog to read about that story and to see some male modeling.

Oh! And we are both known for saying some random things because that's just how our brain spits them out. Sarah was showing me her scrapbook calendar and one page has a pic of our two cats who passed away and Sarah's new kitties. Sarah said, "These are my two dead cats and these are my two alive cats" and also "He [one of the new cats] has a skunk eye in this one because he has the herp." And those are both reasons why she's the best.

Then on the way back, Hubby and I were simultaneously bored out of our skulls and terrified for our lives. If you don't know that feeling, drive I75 through Tennessee.

We're really into huge mugs lately, like the ones that hold 72 oz of water or whatever, because we both need to drink a ton more water than we already do. So I borrowed one from Sarah and then he randomly found one at a gas station. He found another use for it when we stopped at Arby's:

I am unbelievably proud.

It's my BFF's birthday and this is her present

Today is my friend Jody's birthday. Last year was her 30th and I sent her a variety of awesome things from our specialty item closet, which is the most amazing thing on this earth. This year she will get the funniest card I can get my hands on and this blog.

She's one of my oldest friends and one of the first best friends I made in college.

Our friendship started a little bit out of obligation. She was president of the sorority I was thinking about pledging. Actually, it was what we called an "open bid party", where girls were invited to just "hang out with the sisters" and then we tricked them into signing bid cards and took their money in exchange for a t-shirt. So I was tricked into going to one of these parties at her apartment. We watched  the Video Music Awards and ate pizza.

For those who don't know, I was super duper cool and loved NSYNC pretty much more than anything ever. She felt similarly about Justin Timberlake as I did about the entire group. That's how we bonded.

Between undergrad and grad school, Jody taught English in China for eight months. China is twelve or so hours behind the Eastern Time Zone and we'd chat after she woke up and before I headed out for the night (right around nine), when I got in for the night and between her afternoon classes (right around 3 am our time) and when she was burning the midnight oil and I was probably just getting up (noon-ish). Those were good times. And you guys? This was even before Skype and Facebook and texting. We're talking an old school friendship that was still awesome.

A few months later, we started grad school together. She lived in the most precious little house on the planet. The back room was what we called the bat cave because of the dark curtains and the fact that it was, like, practically underground. Good conversations were had, papers were graded, TV shows were watched and McDonalds premium chicken nuggets with hot sauce were washed down with Bud Light. The bat cave was my favorite memory from college.

She loves to give me little nuggets of advice that are pretty much life changing. Because she's older (just barely) and wiser. Here's a sample:

• If you don't have pockets and you put your tampon in your waistline just to get to the bathroom without people seeing, remember you've done so and don't just randomly pull it out while walking, for you might run into a male student or colleague and then you're holding a tampon. It's uncomfortable.
• Dark blue nail polish stains are awful. When you try to take it off, it looks like your hands are attached to a dead body.
• Don't eat Shake & Steak and then go for a run.

We also have legendary conversations on the DAILY on AIM. A couple dooseys:

Jody: I just found 1 forint. 
Jody:  that's Hungarian currency.
Jody: Found it in the floor.
Jody: It is mine!
Jody: It is worth .0775 cents USD.
Manny: Ok, moneybags.
Manny: With your.0775 cents.
Jody: Yeah, I know!


Jody: I am going into a 12-5 meeting.
Jody: How do you like them apples?
Me: Oh I hate those apples!
Me: HATE THEM!
Jody: Sour apples.
Jody:Wormy apples.
Me: Rotten apples!
Jody: Ok i'm going
Me: Just go...don't make me more sad.
Jody: Broken and sodden.

So basically, Jody is awesome and an extremely kind-hearted, caring, freaking hilarious, great friend and I'm so lucky to have her as a BFF, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY JP!

When did I get so old aka music ain't what it used to be

So do y'all know about the singer named Ke$ha?

I like to pronounce it KEE sha. Hubby works with teenagers and is a little more in tune with what the youngin's are listening to and he says it's pronounced KESH uh. You know what? It's not pronounced either way because it is written with a dollar sign for that middle S and therefore is unable to BE pronounced. I mean honestly.

I guess it's because I really don't listen to top 40 music. I'm too old and married and lame to go to clubs and listen to it there. And top 40 stations are so annoying in the mornings, with all the loud talking and prank calls and whatnot. Please, top 40 station, I haven't had my coffee, keep your voices down.

Sidebar: Is it even called top 40 anymore? I mean what's like, KIIS FM called. Or the stations that play Ryan Seacrest's show. Is that top 40?

So I listen to the "adult contemporary from the 70s, 80s, 90s and today" station. Lots of soft talking and low tones and unoffensive music. Colbie Calet followed by the Eagles and then a little Billy Joel to round out the half-hour. That's what gets my blood pumping in the AM.

Then I tune into 90's on 9 on XM radio as soon as I hop in the car. I do love me some 90s tunes, y'all. If you were born in 1980 or after, listen when I tell you this, YOU ARE NOT AN 80S BABY. You are whatever type of music that was playing when you were in the 6th to ninth grade and to a certain extent, your freshman year of college. If you danced to any of these songs during your 7th grade dance that took place the last hour of the school day in your school gym, you're a 90s kid. You heard it here.

So K-E-dollar sign-H-A. No offense to anyone reading who busts a move to her songs, but the other day, Hubby and I were listening to her song in the car and I was appalled that 13-year-old children listen to this stuff.

Like:

Before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack
Cause when I leave for the night, I ain’t coming back

Jack, like Jack Daniels? 'Cause that seems unsanitary. And:

I’m talking about - everybody getting crunk, crunk
Boys trying to touch my junk, junk

and WHAT?

Come put a little love it my glove bag
I wanna dance with no pants on
Come meet me in the back with the jack and the jukebox

 "Glove bag", really? Teenagers are listening to this? I mean I'm sure we had the same things going on when I was 13 but I truly don't remember songs with nasty lyrics like this. I sound like a total prude right now. I just get sad hearing young kids idolizing and singing along with adult lyrics like this, because being an adult is HARD and music like this is just the gateway into adulthood and I want to tell them, STAY YOUNG AS LONG AS YOU CAN!

Because one day you're listening to Ke$ha sing about a no-pants-dance, rocking your Ke$ha t-shirt from Hot Topic and the next thing you know, you're getting up every morning at 7 am to work. And will continue doing this for the next 35 years of your life (if you're lucky).

So who out there can explain Ke$ha to me?

Magic Mike and the Olympics

It's becoming increasingly obvious that I'm going to need more hours in a day to keep up with all the fab blogs I'm finding lately. I think I'm up-to-date on the ones I've been following, but now I've got a ton more I found by reading said blogs. You guys -- quit being so funny and entertaining. It's counter-productive.

Remember the other day when I told y'all about my really awesome new Wednesday night dinner plans? I just found out that a person Hubby and I know, let's call him "Todd", really and truly hates Magic Mike. Apparently, Dave was at a place where MM was entertaining one night and MM stayed at his table a little too long, which really annoyed Todd to the point of hatred. He said he will stay away from Beefs from  now on because apparently Magic Mike gives him unspeakable, debilitating anxiety*.

Really, Todd? Really? What exactly is it that annoys you so much about Magic Mike? Is it the card tricks? The magic? The fun puzzles to work out while you eat? The family-friendly jokes? The awesome balloon animals?

My dear friend Allison and her Daffy Duck balloon animal.

*Those are my words, not his, but I think hatred and fear are super close cousins, like so close they couldn't get married in WV.

So I am really baffled that a grown man would outwardly express his hatred of a mild-mannered restaurant magician whose only crime was interrupting this guy's dinner.  And Magic Mike doesn't even dress like a clown. Todd is dead to me.

Tonight are the Olympics, and I would know that even it I didn't read about it on several separate amazing blogs: (Salt Says , Magnolias and Mimosas and Be Awesome Instead who had a whole series about Canada this week in preparation for the wondrous events).

You guys? I am so in love with the Olympics. I always have been. My earliest memory of the Olympics was when I was 7 and it was Valentine's Day or around that day, and I got sick with some sort of bug. I got to stay home from school, watch the Olympics all day and got a crimping iron for Valentine's Day. Best. Day. EVER.

The Olympics inspire me to be a better athelete, which is saying a lot since I truly am the most unathletic person alive, have no coordination and am very lazy. During the 2008 summer Olympics, Hubby and I watched all the women's beach volleyball matches and I'm all, phhhssst I can do that and get a hot bod in the process! So we ran out and bought a volleyball to play on the sand court at our apartment complex and I was so ready to get totally ripped but it turns out that I'm really terrible at volleyball.

And I'm not gonna lie and tell you I wasn't moved to buy a pair of ice skates during some ill-adviced late night online shopping during another Winter Olympics.

And who can forget the 2000 Syndey Olympics when Michael Phelps busted onto the scenes with those tight abs and sexy arms. I had just started as a grad teaching assistant, teaching speech classes. All the TAs went out for lunch one afternoon and all the ladies in our group could do was watch in awe as Michael Phelps wiggled through the water with that itty bitty Speedo. Le sigh. (I love you Hubby.)

Besides all the hot bodies, there is also the element of "the whole world is coming together and putting aside its differences to celebrate the global language of sport and competition" but the hot bods trump that a little bit.

What's not to like about it? I bet Todd hates the Olympics as much as he hates Magic Mike.

This post is a little jumpy because 1) it's Friday and 2) it's 30 degrees outside IN FLORIDA and 3) it's 85 degrees in my office. My brain is a little melty and hyperactive simultaneously.

Who else is excited about the Olympics? If you wrote a blog post about it, put it in the comments.

What would YOU call 30 pianos on one stage?

I took piano lessons for about 7 years in middle school and high school. I don't want to say I hated it, because I truly didn't. It was fun learning how to play, especially at Christmas or to be a showoff or whatever. My piano teacher was nice. She was the organist at our church and was very intelligent, musically. My sister and I had back-to-back lessons at her house after school once a week. Mom drove us until I was 16, and once I started driving, were always late. We would say things like, "oh, traffic was really tied up, I'm surprised we actually got here at all!" which would be a decent excuse if we didn't live, like, 4 blocks away.

I never practiced. Ever. Ohh, how I hated practicing. I would get to my lesson and not be able to play without screwing up the notes and then say, "Hm, this is SO weird, I just practiced this before I left and played it perfectly! Are you sure there isn't something wrong with your piano? The keyboard feels weird. New bench? The light is so dim in here. Or too bright. And did you turn the heat on? I think the change in atmosphere just  threw me off. Why don't you get this all straightened out and we'll try again next week, ok?"

Every year, the music department or music teachers group or whoever it was, organized this big recital. All the piano teachers in the city gave their students two or three songs to learn. Most of them were duets; in total, there were maybe 15 songs. Then we would meet in an auditorium where they set up 30 grand pianos on the stage, and we all got up there and played the songs we learned in unison, there was a conductor and everything. What I'm talking about here is 60 kids playing the same song on 30 different pianos AT THE SAME TIME.Did I just blow your mind? It gets better.

The name of this magical musical extravaganza? PIANO-RAMA, Y'ALL.

I just told that story at work and they were all, really? Where was this? and I said, Huntington, WV, of course, the most awesome place in the world for unison piano playing, DUH.

What is the point of 30 pianos at once? Answer: to use the phrase Piano-Rama.

P.S. I just searched for Piano-rama on Google Images and this is what came up:

What?

If this doesn't give you the creeps, I don't know what will.

Finally Friday

There is nothing substantial in this blog just to forewarn people reading. I'm just drunk on the sweet wine that is Friday and wanted to share my joy.

Today is such a nice day here in Florida. It's getting to be the perfect temperature out (highs in the 70s, lows in the mid-50s) -- nice enough that you can still wear flip flops and tshirts, but cool enough that you can turn the air conditioner off! And it's also nice to get out and enjoy the weather. There are days where it's honestly just TOO HOT to walk outside. I love hot weather more than most, but when it was getting up to 90 in October, I said to Mother Nature, "Enough is enough, quit being a jerk and make it cool already." And then she got pissed and made it even hotter just to mess with me, and now has cooled it down on her own time.

Yesterday around two I did my first stair-walk in the garage. I walked up and down the stairs two times, and each time I got to the top I did a lap around the top floor of the garage (nobody parks there).Then, I walked a couple laps around the lake at the new cancer hospital. I exercised about 20 minutes total and felt GREAT. I felt like I was much more productive when I got back in. Today I brought my running shoes so I can hopefully RUN up the stairs! I checked online and walking stairs for 10 minutes and walking slowly for 10 minutes burns 110 calories. I mean, that's basically burning off the oatmeal I have for breakfast. So like I said, I'm going to make a habit of this and try to get in 20 - 30 minutes every day.

My parents are in until next week to visit and celebrate hubby's 30th birthday next Friday! We're going to the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot again, and going to relax and rest on Sunday. Mom and I talked about doing some crafting, like making a headboard for the guest bedroom.

Speaking of guests, I have been listening to the 90s on 9 channel on XM pretty much non-stop for the last 3 weeks. It kicks ass, you guys! It's all the best music from when I was in middle school and high school and the first part of college -- basically, the years of my life during which music was most influential. Songs will come on and I'll be all, "this is my JAM!" when in reality I probably didn't love it THAT much when it came out. It just puts me in the most awesome mood in the mornings. I mean, how can you hear "I'm Too Sexy" and not smile?

Read the paragraph above, then immediately give me an award for worst transition ever.

If you're hunting for coupons on Old Navy  Weekly, the blog I told you about yesterday (Sweet Deals 4 Moms) has the new Old Navy coupon locations up. I just got a 25% off coupon. Sweet!

Happy Weekend, y'all!

The one time in college where my friends and I almost got killed by a hitman and then ended up at a bachelor party

I had a great time in college and an even better time in grad school. Occasionally I'll remember some completely random thing that happened and have to sit for a minute or two and figure out if it actually happened, or if it was just a crazy, Mexican food inspired dream.

I just thought about this one tonight.

My friends Alicea and Megan (who has since disappeared from the face of the earth, although she PRESUMABLY lives near where we went to college) were at our favorite bar, the Union, one Thursday night. Or maybe it was a weekend. Days of the week blur when you're in college. It was a slow night -- if I remember correctly, it was only us on one side and few other patrons on the other side and the bartender, Herb. We were chatting and drinking a few beers, just enjoying a nice summer night when a group of guys walked in, obviously in bachelor party mode. Loud shenanigans and drunken antics and the like.

Naturally they gravitated towards us, the only females in the bar and started hitting on us. One sat next to me and the following conversation ensued:

Guy: Buenos noches, beautiful, my name is Richardo.
Me: Really? Is that so?
Guy: Of course...
Me: Actually, I'm sure it's NOT Richardo because your name is Dan and we went to high school together.
Guy: Oh, uh. Damn! You're Amanda!

But it gets awesomer.

We started catching up and another high school classmate who was with the group joined us. Everyone seemed to be having a fine time, but a half hour later they all decided to leave and go back to the hotel room they booked for the night to continue the party. They invited us to join then and we politely declined.

Minutes later a drunk old man comes in. Not like, "that guy is just lonely and trying to relive his youth in a college bar" kind of guy -- more like the "oh crap, lock your doors and drive fast" kind of guy. And he also sits down with us. And proceeds to weave a delightful tale that he is a hitman and is paid upwards of $100 to kill people. We all moved closer to each other, scooting as far around the table as we could get from this weirdo.

He then decides he needs to relieve himself, and preferably in the restroom. We pointed him in the direction of the neon 2-P sign and and waited until he was out of sight, then ran as fast as our legs could carry us to the parking lot and the safety of our cars, whispering "bye Herb!" as we escaped.


Now I just want to go back and say, with all due respect (and this is not a secret to anyone who reads this blog and knows Megan), but she was a fan of the mens. Like, big time. And she'd had her eye on one of the party members, so of course her vote was for joining the bachelors at the hotel. Alicea and I were never ones to pass up something like this if for no other reason that to retell the story at a later date. And this did not disappoint.

So we get to the party and it's pretty docile, honestly. There were some girls in bikinis sitting in the hot tub with Richardo/Dan and a beer pong table. Alicea and I played beer pong with some of the guys and Megan tracked down her fella and disappeared for the rest of the night.

I just wanted to write this to make sure I didn't forget it and to maybe share some memories with my old college friends. I've got a whole book's worth hidden in my brain somewhere -- I'll share them when they pop up.