Monthly Archives: July 2011

the only thing going my way today other than the bottle of wine waiting for me at home

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Here’s what I have to perk me up on a Monday that has not gone my way at all: a flower picked outside from outside the office building in a graduated cylinder. That’s right. I’m a nerd.

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a whole new level

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I have finally reached a level of celebrity that I could only dream of:

being remembered by the liquor store clerk so that he doesn’t even need to card me, even though a few days before, someone thought I was 19.

Now, there are many other reasons for me to be recognized:

But this liquor store encounter truly surprised me:

I walk into local liquor store in search of something to make my Monday better. The heat index was one-gazillion and I was in need of something to quench my tremendous thirst and make watching The Bachelorette tolerable.

I found this:

So I would well on my way to my Monday evening ritual watching Ashley the Bachelorette wear clothes that are too small and/or see-through and/or backless and/or awful, all while she annoys the crap out of me. I had already invested so much time into this season that it seemed silly to stop watching now. And the shows aggravates Steve, so there’s another bonus. It’s wonderfully magical how as soon as the show comes on, he finds something else to do, like the dishes or laundry.

I’ve got him all figured out.

Anyway.

Back to the story.

I walk up to the counter at the local liquor store.

Liquor Store Dude smiles at me. He’s about 60. Not like that matters, but I wanted to make sure that it didn’t sound like he was hitting on me. Or was he? Ew.

Liquor Store Dude rings up my beverages of choice and says “It’ll be this much.” (I can’t remember how much they were, but that’s besides the point.)

I ask “ID?” as I hold out my driver’s license.

“Nope. I remember you.”

Thing is, I really don’t go in there all that often. I’d even say that I rarely go to any liquor store.

So, how does this guy remember me?

Was it the time that The Husband and I went in with three of our friends and bought a combined 5 bottles of wine with other various selections of liquor, way too much for any normal 5 people to drink in one night, but we proceeded to anyway and I was reminded that I am way too old to be doing that kind of shenanigans?

Was it the time that I went in searching for a bottle of wine and when the clerk asked me if I wanted a bag, I responded, “Nope. I’ll just through it in my purse.”?

Was it the time that I went in search of a bottle of wine to fill my flask that I was going to sneak into a wedding, which, I explained to the clerk, was necessary because I didn’t like beer and that’s all there was going to be?

I’m not quite sure.

Maybe I just have one of those freckly faces that’s hard to forget. Or maybe it’s just that I seem to look like a young, stylish alcoholic whenever I go into said liquor store.

The Husband will be buying me all of my booze from here on out.

I am now complete.

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It came yesterday.

The part of my life I have been long waiting for.

My Green Apple KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer.

I know, I sounds like an old housewife being so excited for this mixer, but I’ve always wanted one. And I was positive that anything I made would taste a million times better.

As I walked up to the front door when I got home from work, I squealed (a rare occurrence) when I saw the huge box from the UPS dude.

It took all of 15 seconds for me to rip open the box and start playing with it.

As soon as the mixer was out, it met up with its long lost friends.

I’ll never say if I actually used all of this butter for the cupcakes and frosting I made. Okay, maybe I did.

Here’s me with my mixer, Vanna, named after the wonderful letter-turner who I was fortunate enough to meet last December. Note my displaying arms, like Vanna. Sadly, my arms are about 17 times bigger than hers. I would know. I’ve seen them in person.

Maybe it’s all the butter I’ve been eating…Nah.

I even wore a green headband for the occasion. Well, actually, my hair was kinda greasy, but it just so happens that I had the green headband on already. Coincidence? No.

I also look like I’m 14 in that picture.

Anyway.

Luckily, I had the perfect need for this mixer yesterday: I volunteered to make cupcakes for a bridal shower being thrown for a nurse at my workplace. I did a little re-con work and found out that her wedding colors are purple and black and her favorite cake is white cake with white frosting.

A bit bland for my tastes, but I’ll still make them.

It is so nice to not have to hold the mixer. I could get used to this.

Action shot!

The recipe I used can be found here.

I’ve only heard good things about them from the people who’ve tried them, but I haven’t gotten a chance to eat one myself. I’m trying to work on my self-restraint.

Plus, I prefer something with chocolate. Literally, anything with chocolate.

Oh yeah, I’d eat that.

I’d try it.

Okay, I draw the line with chocolate-covered scorpion.

While I’ve been day-dreaming of chocolate, cupcakes baked.

Pay no attention to the crud on the window of my oven. At least it’s not dog hair.

And now for the part where I get a sugar-high from “taste testing” the frosting to make sure that it’s just right.

After this I went into a sugar coma for 10 hours.

I decided to pipe on the frosting since it’s really so much easier and looks much more impressive. And at this point, I was more focused on watching America’s Got Talent than frosting two dozen cupcakes.

As I sat and watched some trapeze artists from St. Paul, I heard a faint voice coming from the kitchen.

Rae….come and eat us….

We won’t go straight to your hips.

We promise.

We are starved for attention. So is your stomach.

EAT US NOW!!!!!!!

Needless to say, the voices from the kitchen won.

Stupid voices.

***Please forgive the quality of these pictures. They were taken on my phone. Except for the chocolate covered stuff. Those were taken from Google.

what an itch.

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Thanks to my ancestors, blood sucking creatures love me. Like way more than any normal person. Luckily I’ve never ran into a vampire, but I’m sure that it would not go well.

But I do normally have onion breath.

It’d probably work the same as having garlic, right?

Anyway.

I’ve got this friend, you see. She’s like a nomad, only she normally sleeps indoors. I live vicariously through her travels. It’s cheaper for me that way.

On occasion, she’ll come visit MN and stay with me, The Husband, and The Beast. Last weekend was one of those times, but it turned into a time I’ll never forget because of all the blood we donated to the local insect community.

On Saturday we had a grill-out with another pair of friends, that recently got hitched.

The food was delisc delish delisc. The drinks were strong. I drank a few five too many.

Then we decided to have a little bonfire to make some s’mores, the poor man’s creme brulee.

The boy-scout Husband set out to make the perfect fire. There was adequate seating, so this short friend of mine and I sat on our swing that we had moved to the inferno.

Now, you see, the swing’s seat was made out of this heavy-duty mesh stuff but it’s not all that holey. And we both had yoga pants on, to avoid as much visible skin as possible.

There was citronella flowing as the five of us tried to defend ourselves from the state bird of MN: the mosquito.

I don’t ever remember them being so bad at our house before. We were all practically sitting in the fire. I’m surprised I still have eyebrows.

We eat s’mores. I have another drink or three. The married friends go home. We watch Entourage. And pass out on the couch/chair.

The next day we went to a Twins game, which was sweltering.

Then trekked over to the MOA. By this point, we were tired, but mostly hungry.

Went to this fun pizza place. Ate and dreamed of yoga pants.

But then it started.

Jenni talked about how she had quite a few mosquito bites.

On her tush.

I laughed and then all of the sudden, my butt starting itching as well.

The more time went on, the worse it got. By the time we got back to the house, the itching was unbearable!

After a final tally, I had 8 bites and she had 9 or 10 or something around that (correction: 17 total bug bites…it’s still a touchy subject…), just edging me out for best tasting blood. Luckily we were in it together, one application of cortisone cream at a time. We even had similar bite patterns.

There are very few people with who I would discuss my horrific mosquito bite catastrophe in great detail including size, color, and location while scratching them with the knobs on my kitchen cabinets.

I’m glad she’s my friend.

And that we’re so weird classy.

Note: this photo is from about 2005 or so. So, yeah, we don’t really look like that anymore.

Also note: margarita bucket in the background. I want one. Immediately.

Really note: the super awesome shirt I’m wearing. I still have it. Even though it’d only go to my belly button. I just can’t part with supreme awesomeness.

It’s also my personal mantra. And my excuse to not work out. Ever.

craftiness

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Because we have a husky, we often find ourselves going on walks around the neighborhood. Rarely works, but it gives us a chance to critique our neighbors’ yards/decks/garbage in their yard/yard sale selections/children.

We were walking along this “new” found path (which I sure is the home to many-a snake) and discovered this whole other neighborhood that we never knew was there.

Most of the houses were duplexes, but this one house had really neat flower pots out in front.

So, we decided to steal their idea. Best of all, most of our neighbors have never been back there and probably have not seen these cool pots before. They’ll think we came up with it all on our own.

Ha!

I’m not creative.

After an exciting trip to Menards (that has escalators for carts…whole nother story…), we were home with a stick, some pots, dirt, and marigolds.

Twenty minutes later…

BOOM!

Craft completed!

Feta even helped a little bit by cleaning up the spilled dirt on the sidewalk. With her tongue.

Instructions:

1. Stick the stick into the ground where you want the pots. Make sure that the stick will fit through the holes in the bottom of the pots before you leave the store.

2. Place bottom pot through stick and onto ground.

3. Have The Husband fill with dirt because we had to buy the biggest bag of dirt possible and I’m far too weak to lift it.

4. Take second biggest pot and place on top of bottom pot, making sure to stick the stick through it.

5. Repeat Step 4 with however many pots there are. Or before your patience runs out.

6. Fill remaining pots with dirt.

7. Tell dog to stop eating flowers.

8. Tell The Husband it’s too hot outside to continue.

9. Plant flowers.

10. Listen to The Husband say something about filling up the pots too much with dirt and it’s just going to spill out everywhere because of….something….and then zone out.

11. Take picture of The Husband and dog next to pot. (Watering can optional)

Note: That mound of dirt in the flowerbed to the right is still there. It’s a reminder of how none of the plants I’ve planted there have lived. It’s a graveyard of foliage.

And don’t be fooled by the flowers back there…they are in a box and were just put there just before this picture was taken. And now, 2 days later, dead.

I’m awesome.

enough

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I don’t care if you don’t want to wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle, even though I would. You’ll only hurt yourself.

I don’t care if you don’t want to wear your seat-belt while in a car, even though I always do. You’ll only hurt yourself.

What I do care about is the idiots that take to the road after throwing back a few too many tequila shots. They could hurt me and those that I love, and I’m just not okay with that.

I’m not the world’s most perfect driver, but there is no way that I’ll put others in danger by making the idiotic mistake of getting behind the wheel not sober.

On Monday night, we were at our friends’ house grilling out with a few other people. We decided to skip out early and not go to the fireworks since Tuesday was a work-day and it was an hour drive home.

Traffic wasn’t too bad, but as we kept nearing the last town before our own, the number of cars picked up as well as the reckless maneuvers that could only be explained by drunkenness.

The main highway is a two-lane highway that curves and curves, rarely allowing any cars the opportunity to pass the slowers ones. Trust me, I’ve been stuck behind many, many, many, many of these slower ones. It’s also really the only straight shot to get home.

While driving along this highway, moving with the flow of traffic, a four-door tin can comes speeding up behind me, only to pass me and barely miss the oncoming car and my front bumper. The car was filled with 4 guys, looking to be about 18 or 19, with the back two passengers turning around to stare at me.

I yelled a few expletives and flashed gang symbols at them, making them fear for their lives. Or maybe not. It was dark. Hard to tell.

Of course, as soon as we passed a cop strategically hidden along the side of the road, this car obeyed every single traffic law…except for tailgating.

Cop doesn’t flinch.

Eventually this a-hole car turns off to find their perfect viewing area, only to be replaced by an even more disturbing a-hole.

We finally made it through this last town and were on the last stretch toward home when we were held up by a car going 30. In a 55. With a steady stream of oncoming traffic, leaving me no other choice other than to just follow behind.

Up behind me comes another speeding car. While riding my back bumper, this car dramatically swerves into oncoming traffic not once, but four different times, almost hitting me and the other car heading straight for it. Once the a-hole saw the headlights, he’d swerve over to avoid getting hit, going so far at to be driving on completely past the far edge of the rumble strip.

Anytime there was a turn lane, he’d try to pass me in it.

Seriously, dude? You realize that I’m not the one going so slow, right?

The kicker is: we passed another strategically placed cop in the passing lanes (aka the one opportunity to get around the slow-poke). Nothing once again.

The a-hole had whipped around me before the passing lane even started and then took off. His recklessness purely astounded me.

I tried to catch him (once I passed the cop) and I was gaining no ground on him when I was going 70.

There’s one stoplight in our town and it came to be very helpful in my journey to catch this dude. Driving like that only saved him about 7 seconds. In fact, I was able to follow him almost all the way to his house without his knowledge.

Because he lives in my neighborhood.

So, I am writing to you, the Reckless A-Hole of My Town: the very apparent drunk driver who almost ran me off the road four times.

What the hell is wrong with you?

I’m just glad there were no passengers in your car. I can only hope that you never have passengers in your car when you make this stupid decision again, which I’m sure you inevitably will.

Drunk driving is never okay, D-bag.