The Essence of Saturday Night

I'm sitting here watching two of my girlfriends follow the "Anyone Can Dance: Nightclub Freestyle" DVD. I'm not sure at what point tonight they lost all motor control, but I wish you could see this! We've determined that this in no way demonstrates appropriate nightclub dancing, but it is the best $10 I ever spent for such quality entertainment. As the video instructor was demonstrating steps 1-5, one of my friends shouted out, "She totally just stuck her ass out and she didn't tell us to do that!!" I guess that move is implied in nightclub dancing.

The three of us here are the last of a large group of women who had a wedding shower for me today. We started with margaritas, chips 'n salsa, gifts... then we went out for Mexican food. Now I'm left watching two of them try to learn hip rolls in my living room. This is the best freakin' wedding shower EVER!

Random Statement of the Day

"Hey- before I move out... if you want to borrow my 'Anyone Can Dance- Nightclub Freestyle' DVD, feel free."

This is why I hate cats!

I don't remember much about the fifth grade. I remember not wanting to show my teeth in school pictures. It probably had something to do with one photo having two of me (thank you creepy reflection photos), thus twice the amount of teeth I already felt self-conscious about. So I now have a collection of elementary photos where I'm grinning ear to ear like I'm trying to pry the super glue from my lips. I remember having to line up with my other female classmates while we were checked for scoliosis... because those years weren't awkward enough without having to either wear a bra you couldn't fill, or show up in a t-shirt while you hunched over to see if you had bigger problems than teeth that weren't exactly straight. Those are the things I remember. What I don't remember is having math problems that made me want to have a tall glass of Kool-Aid on the rocks.

My sister sent me an e-mail today with a math problem that is supposedly on a fifth-grade level. I always appreciate when I'm having the most splendidly average day, then someone sends me something that makes me feel less than adequate. That's good times. So, I rushed through it a couple of times, confident in my IQ level, only to be crushed by stupidity. I got it wrong. Twice. Then, as I was driving home, I started to think about it in the car and with my cell phone calculator ("no officer, I wasn't texting while driving, I was calculating... that's much more intellectual"), I came up with the right answer... then celebrated my great achievement of being able to compete with fifth graders. My lifelong goal is finally accomplished.

So, here you go. Grab your pencil, calculator, and maybe a sprinkle of humility. Don't worry if you find yourself obsessing over it, struggling or cursing- a Vodka tonic works just as well as Kool-Aid.

There are 7 girls on a bus (no bus driver).
Each girl has 7 backpacks.
Each backpack has 7 large cats.
Each large cat has 7 small kittens.
How many legs are on the bus?

(This is not a trick question.) Post your answer under the comments and the first person to get it wins bragging rights. Jon- you're already out!

Warning: Someone has posted the correct answer, so don't open the comments until you're ready to know.

Boys and Their Toys

After Jon and I spent eighteen hours on push mowers cutting the lawn the other day, he was teasing me about being frustrated with me because his legs were eaten up by bugs while we were mowing.

“Don’t blame me because of that. How is that MY fault?”

“You were the one who kept saying, ‘we have to mow, we have to mow’.”

“We did! Had we not mowed, we would have needed a bush hog. Don’t blame me for trying to take care of our house. I’ll tell you what… you buy me a riding lawn mower and I’ll be glad to mow by myself every time.”

“If we buy a riding lawn mower, I’LL mow. That’s like having a go-cart. I’ll be glad to mow then… especially if I can get one with an Ipod dock and a brewski cup holder. I may even cruise the neighborhood on that thing.”

Great… I’ll be that woman who lives in the house on the corner with the waist-high grass and the husband who’s gotten two DUIs on the riding mower.

A Dating Deal Breaker

Yesterday I mentioned men and Bart Simpson décor. It reminded me of a story that I’d like to use to make a public service announcement to all guys (especially single ones) who come across this blog.

Before I met Jon, I briefly dated another guy. The operative word being “briefly” and you’ll soon understand. If you’re a woman, you’ll understand. Guys may still be clueless in the end.

On one of our first few dates, I went to his house so we could ride to his softball game together. He was three years younger than I, but seemed mature enough. He owned a house, had a car, and a good job. Those are the things he gets credit for. Those three.
When I drove up, he had his garage door open and I could see several Star Wars character cardboard standees in the garage. No need for alarm. He was a guy, and well… guys keep crap like that. I mean, I’m a fan of Star Wars, but what does a person do with things like that? I digress. When he opened the door and led me through the house, I literally had to step over piles of clothes on the floor. Seriously guys, let’s stop here. If you have planned a date with a woman and you KNOW she’s coming to your house, the VERY least you need to do is pick your crap up off the floor. I don’t want to encourage this type of behavior, but if you’re desperate, throw it in a closet, under the bed, in the bathtub… I don’t care- just don’t leave it all over the floor. To this guy’s credit (because I like to give credit where it is due), all of his crap wasn’t on the floor. Some of it was on his couch. We couldn’t sit down until he cleared a spot for us. Not cool, guys. Not cool.

Even though my OCD kicked into overdrive and my pulse rate went up, I kept reminding myself that some habits are not deal-breakers. That was, until he showed me his bathroom… his Bart Simpson themed bathroom. I’m not just talking about a shower curtain and bath mat- I mean the WHOLE bathroom. The color of the walls, the toothbrush and soap holders, towels, EVERYTHING. And how I felt at the moment is how I imagine a woman feels when she goes in to mail a letter and sees a black and white mug shot of her boyfriend on the Post Office wall.

For the next couple of months, I tried to focus on this man’s finer qualities, but I swear his physical appearance started to change because all I could see when I looked at him was Bart Simpson. As far as I know, he’s still single. Take notes, guys. Take notes.

One Man's Treasure is Another Woman's Battle

As with most couples that are preparing to marry and share a home together, the woman usually finds an opportunity to “purge” the man’s possessions. I know- men are finding me heartless right now… but the women? The women want to take me out for a drink so they can tell me about all the crap they had to pry from their boyfriend’s white knuckles. But men, let’s be honest- most women do not envision a home with inflatable furniture and Bart Simpson décor. All men have possessions that women would just as well douse with lighter fluid and dance their celebratory ceremonial chants in the glow of its embers. It’s a fact that as a woman, I’m willing to admit. But, I’m not without compassion. I know that men have deep emotional bonds with that couch some roommate years ago picked up at a yard sale and left behind when they moved out. You know, the one that may be incredibly comfortable, but screams 1987. Why wouldn’t they be deeply attached? Sure, they’ve hardly sat on it because it mostly functioned as a laundry hamper, but it was a GOOD laundry hamper.

So, you end up with a man’s “stuff,” a woman’s vision, and enough emotional tension to suck the air right out of a room. I pulled up with the pick-up truck so Jon and I could load his two couches for a yard sale. We tried the large one first and couldn’t figure out how to get it out the door. As we were lifting, tugging, sweating, and cursing under our breaths, I kept using words like “honey” and “babe” to soothe the tension. He didn’t use any words… and that’s to his credit because I saw a lot of words on his face. We finally gave up and left it sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor while we tried the smaller one. By the time we got to the truck with the smaller couch, I felt the need to make light of the situation.

“Hey- this is the couch I fell off of when we were making out. Remember when I rolled over and fell off and hit the hardwood floor?” Yeah, we make out people… and sometimes it ain’t pretty.

I thought my dancing in the bed of the pick-up truck while I sang “Memories… misty water colored memories… of the way we were…” was appropriate. He finally asked me to stop singing that song. I can’t blame him.

He finally assured me that he still loved me, even if he didn’t like me very much for asking him to part with his stuff. It turned out that I couldn’t find any other men who needed a seven-foot, blue plaid laundry hamper, so Jon won in the end. Or at least it was a compromise- now he’ll have somewhere to sit in the basement.

You say toe-mae-toh, I say toh-mah-toe.

On the way home from meeting with the caterer, Jon and I decided to run by our new house and check on things, turn on some lights, etc. For convenience sake, we traveled through a "sketchy" neighborhood. Among other interesting sites, we saw a tightly-clothed woman in high hair and heels walking alone down the side of the street.

"Niiiiice- a prostitute. That's great," Jon said sarcastically.

"I can't believe we just saw a hooker."

"She could have been a crack-whore, not necessarily a hooker."

Yeah... that's better.