Wifely Duties; CHECK

Alrighty! So. My husband is now 23 years old and all the more wiser for it. (I guess.) (Which, now that I think of it, is unfortunate for me considering he's already so far ahead of me in wiseness...poop.)
But here's the story of how his birthday day went. Because basically it was really one of the best days ever. And in hindsight it's not gonna sound like amazingness in a conveniently sized bottle for you to haul around but just take my word for it. We had the time of our lives. (Also I planned all of it so I'm pretty proud.)

Mark had the day off from work and we slept in as long as we wanted. Yeah except just kidding. That's every other day because he doesn't start work until 1 pm. We woke up at 6:50. I haven't been awake before 8 all summer long. Holy anticipation much. We were awake and I wished him happy birthday and...activities commenced but then we just kinda rested and in-and-out slept until 9. We showered and then finally I couldn't wait any longer (ironic? yes) and pronounced it "present tiiiiiime!!"

I had woken up around 1:30 am and needed to pee. While I was up and Mark was deep in slumber, I went stumbling through our dark apartment and gathered together all the gifts I had wrapped and hidden in my art room closet and brought them in the bedroom as you see above. It was a very stressful time in my life, considering I'm clumsy and noisy enough in broad daylight with my awake brain on. But I was successful. In fact, I moved a candle off the shelves by Mark's side where he keeps his phone for the night because I needed to flip his phone over since it was blinking and wouldn't let me sleep but there wasn't room on the shelf. In the morning Mark thought he had moved it in his sleep and was quite confused. 

Anyway.

Yeah. His eyes are closed.

He's still the cutest, no?

And that ribbon was a great idea on my part,

btw.

Because seriously.

Who doesn't love those little parasols?

Yaaaay pants that won't fit.

/sob

Mark is annoying in that he's very particular about his pants and the size thereof but he WILL NOT go with me to the store to TRY THEM ON so we KNOW THEY'LL FIT. Gr. 

But it's ok because I kept the receipts.

So we went out to Denny's for breakfast. Woot free grand slams! I got the caramel banana french toast skillet and OM NOM NOM it was delicious. Ooh! When we first walked in and were waiting to be seated, a guy and his wife were paying for their meal (erm, she was paying and he was wandering about). He happened to glimpse Mark's ribbon and he totally scoffed at it! Audibly! Rolled his eyes and strolled over to the crane machine like he's too classy for "birthday boy" ribbons and such frivolity. Whatever Mr. Scroogeface.

With our tummies full, we headed back home to put our take-home food in the fridge and then grab the two pairs of pants and one pair of shorts that I'd improperly sized to return/exchange them at Khols. We found some better size and fit jeans and he picked out a style of shorts he liked better and we took them back to customer service. I was extremely nervous because I'd never returned OR exchanged merchandise in my life. But holy cow it was the easiest thing ever. Took literally less than a minute and the lady was quite polite, too. Wonderful job, khols. Now just lower your prices a tad, please, so I can enjoy you more fully.

We came back home and had a little time to spare before the next planned activity so I told him to play a couple games of LoL (League of Legends). 

Luckily, Mark enjoys driving so directing him all over town wasn't so bad for either of us. Next we headed over to Paletas Betty, an authentic Mexican ice cream place, for a nifty birthday deal there as well.

I had the watermelon mint (I had tried to get a pecan, nutty-creamy one but they were out) and Mark had their key-lime pie flavor. There's actual graham cracker crust on the other side of it. He's making that face because it's cold and pretty tart. I'm making that face because that's what my face does.

The aftermath.

We scurried on over to the Pollack Tempe Cinemas to catch the 2:15 showing of The Hunger Games. 

Yes, this was finally our first chance to see the movie and we both enjoyed it quite fully. I'd read the book and wanted to see how they did with it. Mark just wanted to get in on the phenomenon. I want us both to read the whole series. We'll see when we ever get around to that.

(We take turns choosing a series to read together. It's his turn next and he wants to do a Shannara series. I want to read more Brandon Sanderson after that. So we'll see when Suzanne Collins makes it up higher on the priority scale).

So the show started at 2:15, it's listed as 2 hours and 20 minutes and that puts it ending at 4:35 right? Well, we had dinner reservations at  5:00 and thus, basically for the last half of the movie I was freaking the beep OUT. I kept the entire day a secret from Mark so I couldn't just spill to him my worries and let him assume his usual job of calming me down with logic and words. When the movie ended I hustled him out real quick. 

We got to the restaurant despite construction work and confused phone GPS plenty early for our reservation. But turns out they close their doors from 2:30 to 5:00...o_O Whatevs.

So we waited outside on the benches as more and more people gathered, including a gaggle of elderly folk who were quite hilarious. Funny and friendly. 

I'd only been to Benihana's once before in my life, when I was a young teen staying with my sister and her family in California. Mark had never been but he's quite the japanese enthusiast and loves all things oriental. So a traditional japanese hibachi steakhouse seemed like the proper place to celebrate his birthday. Plus they have a $30 birthday certificate available. Which is super nice for our wallets.

But here's where it gets interesting.

They sat us at a table along with an older couple (probably upper 40's) and two young mom's with the one lady's two kids (4 and 2 years old) (a great idea when there's a hot grill the size of their entire bodies not even a foot away from their reach). The couple sitting opposite from us were very friendly and the wife noticed Mark's ribbon. They talked to us quite a bit and joked around. They admired our "young love" aura, praising the fact that we are "married and everything". When our server came around (speaking barely half engrish), she asked if there were any special occasions and I excitedly pointed out that it was my husband's birthday. She inquired if we had the $30 certificate so I pulled out my phone to show her the email. But apparently the restaurant requires it to be printed out. Which I was not aware of. The communication between the server and I was so terrible that I panicked and didn't make a big deal out of it and just accepted her decline.

But I could see the faces of the couple sitting across the table from us and knew something was up on their end. I tried not to make eye contact and just murmered with Mark about how we could splurge, I guess. The husband left the table and I was getting quite nervous. The server took our drink orders and we were left to ourselves. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the wife gazing at us with compassion on her face and I couldn't help but feel a little nervous and embarrassed but curious as to what they were up to. 

Turns out the husband went to speak with a manager and they came back to our table, the manager offering to have me email the certificate to him and he would print it out so we could still use it. 

Faith in humanity; RESTORED.

It was honestly one of the kindest and sweetest things a stranger has ever done for me/us and it truly made our night. 

Ironically enough, our chef was a guy I knew quite well in high school and I tried to say hi to him but he definitely did not recognize me. Whoops. 

We had great fun watching the food be prepared, and watching the younger kids watch the food being prepared. The 2 year old girl stood up in chair and giggled every time the chef mixed anything on the grill but even as she laughed there was an absolutely terrified look on her face. Like she was afraid for her life but if she laughed she'd be ok with it. So sometimes her laughter sounded like sobbing. The mix was terribly amusing.

The entree's we picked came with ice cream so after we were all done eating I ordered the strawberry Haagen-Dazs and he got the rainbow sherbet. Suddenly, from behind our backs we heard a few employees singing their version of the "happy birthday" song and Mark groaned,

"oh no..."

I laughed.

They brought out our ice cream (as well as the other kids') and Mark's had whipped cream on top, one of those chocolate cracker stick things and a blue candle. They lit it and our group sang "Happy Bursday". He was a good sport and laughed, blew out his candle and they took a picture of us. 

It was a good end to the day's plan.

And I'm just super glad the plan actually went well! I was nervous and freaking out but nothing failed or completely crashed and burned. We went home and I "gave" him his last present, we did some great work on our puzzle and we watched HIMYM until it was time to go to sleep.

I love birthday's :)

Long Story Is Not Short

Gack! I've been trying all weekend to find the right time to sit down and finally blog annnnd now I'm all fuzzy on the details of what I wanted to relate.
Boo.
But here goes.

Saturday was a whirlwind of awesome. The hubby and I got up early (ahem, like 8:30) and headed over to Half-Off Saturday at Goodwill. Niftily enough, they just opened a new one seriously no more than a minute drive away from our house. It's maybe 20 yards on University and then BAM. You're there. Sweeeeet.
We walk in and suddenly Mark looks at me with a blank look in his eyes and asks,
"Wait....what are we even here for? What do we need to buy?"
Simply, I wanted Christmas things. I was stupid and didn't go around after the jolly season when I was engaged and knew we'd be needing things the next year in our newlywed poverty. Buuuut I was lazy. I guess. Or something.
So we dug through the grand total of about 8 shelves that had red and green tinted items on them and as I about knocked over a stocking-weight Santa figurine I noticed a hanging sign that said,

"Seasonal item do not count toward Sales or Discounts."

Well, boo on you, Goodwill. Frowny face stamp on your forehead, then. So we put back some of the sillier items that we could live without because in my mind, there's still no cheaper place I'm going to be getting Christmas decorations and novelty items from. We ended up with a very charming potted fake plant arrangement thing....oh, bah. Here's a picture.

2, 3-piece sets of tea candles in little red and gold-tinted glasses.

One snowman cookie platter and another super fancy platter that I don't know what I'll use it for but it'll be super fancy.

Some red disco-ish ornament balls.

A snowflakey tree topper.

Looots of cookie cutters (yaaaay!)

And, my favorite, a mega-cute reindeer flour jar but I'll just use it for packs of hot cocoa powder.

Ironically enough, only the reindeer was actually marked as seasonal so all the other things we got were still half-off. No complaints here! If you have any name suggestions for our little fellah, I'm all ears :)

We wandered around through the furniture section and laughed at the tiny, toddler size motor-bike. I don't think it actually had a motor, but it just looked like one. Mark wanted to look for any DVD's that could be salvaged but unfortunately for him those are also located with the books and I got stuck scrupulously digging through every shelf to see what treasures were in store. It takes forever, considering that Goodwill's organizational process isn't exactly library standard. But we ended up with 12 more books on top of what I got at Half-Price Books from my last post and YES, I'm gonna let you all in one what our personal library has gained...

Some classics such as The Inferno by Dante Alighieri and The Jungle Books by Rudyard Kipling ("complete and unabridged" apparently, so woohoo to that!) as well as an "Anthology of American Stories". Including but not limited to, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe (really excited about those), Mark Twain, Jack London, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and J.D. Salinger. Quite a few Mary Higgens Clark considering I've loved her mystery novels since I began scarfing them down in junior high to ease and abate my social ineptitude; We'll Meet Again, Remember Me, Two Little Girls in Blue, and Silent Night. Mark's obsession with all things Oriental won over and he put in his addition to the growing literary pile; The Oriental World, covering India, China, Korea and Japan from earliest manifestations of art more than 3-thousand years ago up to the 20th century. It's a big book and has lots of pictures (228, to be exact). And Finally, after I scoured the same shelves Mark had just been over I found a cluster of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events books and snatched them up real quick. I've been keeping a desperate eye out for them and am glad to now own numbers 6, 7, 11 and 12. 

PS, I just really love books.

Our entire purchase was around $30. 

We then took a couple coupons on down to Arby's and ate fast food again for the first time in about a month and a half. But we were in a hurry because I had another funeral to drag my harp to and unbeknownst to me at the time (a little after 11) the church was out on Arizona Ave and Ray and it would take almost half and hour to drive there. 

So we took the food home and I gulped it down, stripping off my clothes to get into the shower faster. Once I was clean (heck yeah 5 minute shower) and Mark had cleared out the back of the truck to make room for the harp, we went in to begin packing up said harp and lo and behold two strings were popped clean off. 

Which is no bueno, btw.

We stared at it for a minute and then I shrugged,

"Well, I guess I'd better call and let them know I'll be playing piano instead."

I would have felt really bad if I was actually getting paid for the event.

It's not that broken strings on a harp is so much of a travesty that I could not play it, there just wasn't time to fix it. When you understand the mechanics of a harp, it's a wonder that the soundboards can even withstand as much tension as 40 wound and tight strings puts on it. And when one, let alone two, pop it's very stressful on the wood as well as the other strings around it because that tension has now been lost. So the tuning goes very awry when you have strings break.

Stupid monsoon season. Not to mention our swamp cooler and the humidity that creates can't be too great for it either. Whoops.

So that eased up my time crunch quite a bit and I had plenty of time to semi blow-dry my hair and straighten my unruly bangs into place and actually put on make-up! Unheard of.

So eventually, I got in the truck (because after my previous flustered state there was no way my nerves could handle driving stick. See any of the "sticks and shifts" series). I headed out with GPS leading the way and made decent time. I was worried about getting in enough prelude music and hoping that the family of the deceased would not harbor any ill-will against my not getting there early enough.

I got to where my phone led me and there were about 5 different buildings scattered about a very large lot and they all looked the same and there weren't signs or people to help me decide where to try. So I wandered. And luckily, the second building I tried was the correct one. I got in and......they were playing Fleetwood Mac and The Beatles as prelude music. Turns out I wasn't actually needed for that. Huh.

The funeral was lovely and the urn was one of the least creepy I've seen. Although there was a small window looking thing that bewildered me but I never got close enough to really inspect it.

In the end, the only musical responsibility I had was to accompany the duet singers. I left wondering what they had ever had in mind for me to play on the harp and feeling quite glad that the strings had snapped, giving me the exact excuse I needed to not have to bring it. 

Bizarre.

I got home a little after 2 and all Mark and I had left to do was wait till 5 when it would be our ward's monthly Temple Night. I was super stoked about this because I've gone to a couple myself but this was the first that would allow for Mark to attend with me as well. It would have been the first time we'd been back together since we got sealed. Would have been...

We watched a couple HIMYM episodes and then turned once again with begrudging moans to the book we're trying desperately to finish. I'll have to dedicate a whole 'nother post to that. I was reading aloud, trying to not smirk and giggle at the cheesily written drab drivel when from the backyard we could hear many pelting "ting!"s and splattering drops of rain. I paused and said to Mark,

"I guess it's finally storming."

And we jumped out of bed like Christmas had come early and sprang to the curtained sliding door.

We looked out and were shocked to see hailstones the size of gobstoppers pummeling down on all the junk that litters our backyard. With that kind of hail though, there were things that needed to be put away and suddenly our house was a warzone; mankind vs. mother nature. 

Mark went dashing outside to pull the vehicles into the carport and when he came back, a total of maybe 8 seconds spent under the actual rain it looked as if he'd been washed over by a tidal wave. He came in the door cursing the painful hailstones and teasing me,

"Honey! Come give me a huuug!" dripping arms outstretched.

But I was busy blocking the hole in the southern wall of our house. The AC unit was broke so we removed it to get it fixed but nobody ever got around to it so we blocked it with cardboard. That didn't stand up so well to the sleeting rain and gusts of wind. I was also still in my sunday clothing from the funeral so straddling the couch armchair and holding up a now soggy, heavy towel was getting very difficult and I yelled for his help. There weren't too many other options so Mark just grabbed the empty garbage can from under his desk and handed it to me to make a more sturdy support for the crumbling cardboard. Using grocery bags I stuffed the remaining open slits around the box and can and it worked well enough. 

I then changed out of my skirt into b-ball shorts and went out back to help Mark. As I came outside, over the pounding, roaring storm I could hear Mark's utterly bewildered cries of,

"What the beep?! What...how, what the heck??!"

Worried something was wrong I skipped as quickly as I could through the river of mud flowing through our back yard, in and around the cars and appliances that littered the small area. I came around the back corner of our apartment and stopped midstride at the sight of a large metal ladder stretching from the wall surrounding our yard to the wall of our house.....about 10 feet up in the air. We still have NO clue where that ladder started from or how it managed to get there. Already I was soaked through to the skin and we needed to get back to the driveway again to check on things up there. I suggested we just change into swimming suits.

It was a good idea.

We went up front where Mark's brother, Robert, was fixing things up and tying stuff down and making sure fences were fortified. We stood around and marveled at the river that was the road out in front of the triplex and scoffed at the little cars that tried so hard to wade through the mucky, stick-ridden waters. Without warning an intense gust of wind raged through and blew away recycling cans out into the road. Never had I witnessed the rumored "horizontal rain" but the sight was indeed something else. It looked more like swirling mist in fast forward than rain. 

Mark took off at a jog heading once again for the backyard to make sure nothing was going to fly around and break our windows. I had a small relapse from when I was a child and absolutely, terrifyingly phobic of wind. I leaned against the wall, preparing myself to dart around the corner into the onslaught of rain and felt my heart wish to beat a panicked rhythm but shoved it down because I'd been long over that fear and forced myself to revel in the excitement rather than the frightening concept of weather's complete power.

Walking against the storm was really difficult! The wind pushed against you and the rain struck your face in tiny pinpricks, running down into your eyes until it was more like walking along the bottom of a pool rather than along your own sidewalk. Luckily the hail was gone, though. 

Once there were no more possible flying objects of mass destruction and all the electronics were powered down we stood out in the rain and decided we should get in the truck and go on an adventure.

It was quite wonderful.

The retention basins were more like a series of ponds and we honestly swam through them, water up to Mark's chest at times. That's like, 3-4 feet. 

Unfortunately, the rainstorm also meant no Temple Night for us. It was quite a let down to realize that, but I got over it pretty quick playing in the mud.

When we got home we washed off the dirt and leaves and sticks and bugs that had been coursing through the water we played in. It felt very nice to be clean again.

I then made chowder and biscuits for dinner and we watched some more HIMYM. We prepared to read some more and I started making hot cocoa and Mark was acting suspicious. He wouldn't let me go in the bedroom and actually shut the door on me.

When I came in with the cocoa in hand, matching Disney mugs from when I worked in the parks (when I say matching, they're not the same mug but they're both Disney and they were a Christmas present from me to him last year) I was met with candles set up all over the room and the sweet smell of fresh rainfall through the door. It was really a very sweet gesture for him to try and surprise me like that and so we read by candlelight with our hot cocoa and listening to the rain.

It was a saturday full of surprises and moments that couldn't be planned and a simple happiness that makes me so very grateful for the life I have and the best friend I get to share it all with.

Oh Dear...

Many, many, many years ago (probably about 5), one of my dearest bestest friends (that I never talk to anymore and it's quite a travesty but if she'd just exile herself from thatcher then we could probably be friends again...maybe *cough*chelsea*hack*) introduced me to a store with the name of "Half Price Books".
At the time I was still in high school and never having been employed in my life, even clearance books at $2-3 a piece was too much for my nonexistent wallet.
But today, today I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond because gift cards needed to be used and super cool awesome birthday presents were bought (more on that once the birthday boy sees said presents) (can never be too careful with what I reveal on here). Then down to Ross to find more birthday items. I tried to spend a lot of time at the store, because there's AC in there. We use a swamp cooler at our place, turning on the AC only when it's necessary but we also adhere to the 3-6pm rule where AC never gets turned on. So being home during that part of the day is pretty close to miserable.
So yes, I tried to shop for a long time. I lasted about 40 minutes till I was done with Ross and the snippy dressing room lady. RUDE.
So I took my.../ahem, purchases to the truck and looked around in the parking lot for somewhere else I could kill some time.
And there it was.
Half Price Books.
I went in fully intending to just find a random novel, plop in an empty seat and read but unfortunately there was a bright and colorful and eye-catching display right as you walk in through the front doors and I discovered I could own the rest of the Harry Potter series (I only previously had the 3rd, 5th and 6th books) for a mere $14! Uh, yeah. Hardback copies in just spiffy condition. Pretty sure on amazon most of the individual books would go for that much by themselves. Sweeeet!!
And of course it's Harry Potter books so getting four of them means needing a shopping cart and from there I was doomed.
Doomed to be awesome, that is.

Set of Bronte sisters' novels: $9.99
(also part of a "Literary Classics" collection to which I already own the Jane Austen set and the Douglas Adams set)

• Jane Eyre
• Shirley
• Wuthering Heights
• Villette
• The Professor

Harry Potter

• Sorcerer's Stone $3.00
• Chamber of Secrets $3.00
• Goblet of Fire $4.00
• Deathly Hallows $4.00

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer $2.00

(Part of a "banned books" collection of 25 novels so now I have a marvelous list of what to read x])

Three Dan Brown novels

• The Da Vinci Code $2.00
• The Lost Symbol $3.00
• Angels and Demons $2.00 (the one paperback out of all this)

Rakkety Tam $3.00

(Ever enlarging my Brian Jacques collection)

The Host $4.00

(The only salvageable Stephanie Meyers book. It really isn't terribly awful at all.)

And then three $0.49 packs of scrapbooking stickers that weren't just an assortment of butterflies or smiley faces to stick on first graders' scribbling math pages.  

After tax? Total of $45.21

I think I found my new favorite place to be...always.

And I forever thank the gods who discovered that a hair dryer is THE easiest way to get stickers off of books (and anything else, for that matter). No sticky residue or mind-boggling frustratingly difficult ripping paper. Saves my sanity by at least 98% or more.

Good day to you, I have books to read x]

Hell on a Stick

Ok, so I knew the basics and I could manage getting through neighborhoods without obliterating every mailbox and garbage can that happened within 2 yards of my driving radius.
Mark decided it was time to take me to the streets. The streets with actual painted lines on them. And more people. Lots of people.
All I remember of this one was getting out on the road, ka-klomping along and barely making it into first before we were headed down higley to heaven knows where when at a stoplight....I stalled.
In the middle of traffic.
And again, suddenly, just like the first time I forgot what part of the galaxy I was from or whether up was down and light was dark. I began shouting,
"What do I do??!"
And didn't hear a word Mark said because the panic was ringing so loudly in my ears.
I totally abandoned trying to think of how to start the car and just searched for the caution-blinkers button. People began zooming around me and the embarrassment settled in and guess what!
I cried again.
My brain finally began clicking again and I tried to get the car going but failed once, twice then finally rolled in 1st gear up the last 3 yards to get to the now red light.
I don't remember if we switched spots then or later but I do know I was completely and totally against EVER manning a manual car. EVER.




And then I married him.

And gosh darn it that guy makes me pretty happy so I'll do much of anything he says. Which, if you're thinking sounds like a bad thing, quit it. Cuz he's the more sensible of the two of us and pretty much a genius who can really actually think about things whereas I'm like,

"Oh my gosh! A rock! Let's set it on fire, k?"

But he thinks I'm cute so it's whatever.

Thus, when he said,

"If you're gonna be my wife, you've gotta drive stick..."

It was like,

"You have betrayed me. But I love you. So ok."

So we recently found a ska-reaming deal on craigslist for a '96 VW with only 95k on it and only one previous owner and listed for $5,000 (we paid $6,000 because, again, my husband is the greatest human on the planet and felt like he was cheating the guy with only 5k. It's fine. He's just a saint, is all). 

We brought it back down, registered it in my name, passed emissions and wheee! New car for the Douglass'! 

Only problem was his car, the other VW, was broken so he had to use Benji (my car's name) to get to work. But all his spare time was spent slaving in the heat and attempting to fix Marvin (his car's name).

We're going to skip over that process because it was an absolute nightmare. In every sense. It's still not over really.

But finally, at the beginning of this week he stated that the car would be mine and I needed to learn how to drive it. Starting with backing it out of the driveway so he could get Marvin out. 

Except it's been another load of months since I last drove a stick-shift and I don't retain information very well at all (as exposed by my horrid story-telling lacking any sort of concrete detail whatsoever). So I got in and couldn't even get the car to start. Not even a single turnover in the engine. Mark comes back to my door and states,

"You have to put the clutch in to start, remember? This car is different."

Umm, no. I don't remember. I don't' remember anything. Who are you?

So I start the car and he goes sauntering back to his car, giggling at my mishap.

And then no matter what I seemed to do, every time I began letting the clutch out the car would "ka-chunk! ka-klump!" rocking forward and back and then die.

I did that about 7 times until Mark stuck his head out impatiently and shouted (with quite the perturbed look on his face),

"Honey! The parking brake!!"

Imagine humiliation and then put some horse dung on top. That's about how I felt. I sheepishly, and red-faced, put the brake down and half rolled down into the gutter ramp and Mark didn't even wait for me to make it all the way out into the street he just popped into gear, zoomed out around me and away he went.

We had a little discussion on the rudeness of that behavior and that I very much needed him to say a kind word to me before he'd be gone till 11 at night or at the very least, roll down the window to say goodbye.

But before that discussion I was left to get the car back into the driveway. Which I mostly failed at.

I went inside, eyes stinging with tears (again!) but a harder, grimmer determination to absolutely NOT cry this time around.

Later, after I'd stewed awhile. I gathered up my lady-balls and marched back out to that car. I decided I was going to take it to the nearest parking lot and do what I'd always done. Start, and stop. 

Except for I only got to the first 4-way intersection stop sign and died. I put my caution-blinkers on again and rolled down the window to wave people by me. When I'd jerked and rolled myself halfway out into the intersection, a chatty lady stopped next to me to ask if I was alright. When I explained I was learning to drive stick she exclaimed,

"Ah! Oh, I could never do that. Had to stick with automatic for me. Good luck!"

And left me to my misery.

I got myself going again through sheer luck it seemed. I never felt like I knew what I was doing right to get going. I was coming up on a streetlight that was necessary to go through to get to the parking lot where I was headed but after that previous intersection I chickened out and turned onto another side street. 

I got stuck, AGAIN, and for the longest time could not. get. going. I began throwing fits like you see in the movies when the guy wants to show off for the girl but his old klunker of a car won't work and he has a seizure against the steering wheel. The frustration from all these failed attempts was welling up and about to make me scream.

I stopped and turned the car completely off, whipping up the parking brake and sending Mark a rage-text of angst and failure. I sat for another couple minutes just pissed off at the car and my inability to function.

I tried again and I wish I could say I was suddenly a genius but I wasn't. I got stuck over a speed bump which was super fun.

But then miraculously, my feet just kinda got it. I don't know what was right or different about it but it just started working. I was heading home but I was doing so good I decided I could try and go out on public streets. My new goal was to make it to a nearby McDonald's because I deserved a Dr. Pepper gosh dang it! As well as I wanted a straw to use for a pinterest nail painting experiment.

And you know what? I made it! There and back, without killing a single soul. I did kill the engine only a couple times but easily made it back on track. Died in the drive-thru lane actually. That was fun.

That night I had a zumba class to go to. 6 miles away from my house and over freeway too. I spent quite a bit of time agonizing over whether I was ready to do that or not. I gave myself a little bit of acid reflux just from stressing out so much. But I did drive there, stalled once at a light but got myself going again in one try and about 2 seconds flat. Got to the class.

It was cancelled. 

I was so drained of frustration and anger though that I could only laugh and go home again. Didn't stall a single bit on the way back.

So all in all, Benji makes driving manual bearable. I'm getting more awesome. And my husband is sure a supportive and amazing guy.

And there you have it.

Oh, ps, here's how that nail experiment went...

Nailed it!

Get it?

'Nail'??

haaaaaaaha

Sticking to the Shift

So after the mini-cooper fiasco it would be another 5 or so years before I touched a manual joystick again.
I do not recall whether we were dating or just about to be dating or really totally dating but not admitting it at the time, but my now-husband-person, Mark, decided I should learn to drive stick. So we went out in the pirate mobile, to another church parking lot and went around and around and around. I learned a couple tricks and he explained to me in helpful detail what the engine was doing when I put the clutch in and let it out and shifted the gears and all of that. Understanding what was happening made it a teensy bit easier. Teeny tiny bit.
But I refused to drive on the road.
The next time, Mark and I were at a pool party having a grand old time when for one reason or another something needed to be retrieved from his house. One of the reasons I married this kid, he makes me do the things I need to but desperately do not want to do. So he persuaded me to take his VW (stick-shift, of course) and go get the...stuff.
Cursing his name the whole way, I made it well enough back to his house without killing the engine. (Or any of the children gallivanting through the streets seeing as school had just been let out.) I also took all the backstreets rather than facing a streetlight and actual speed limits over 15.
I grabbed the ______ and got back out to the car, still breathing like a yoga master trying to focus my panic but feeling a little more confident from my previous accident free adventure.
But then I had to back the car out of the driveway.
And the joystick no longer had a sticker telling you which gears were where.
But! I knew that in my Dad's car, R had been where a "6th" gear would be. So I tried that.
There was no 6th slot.
I sat there and stared at the joystick. Willing my brain to have a stroke of genius and magically know where reverse was. I couldn't fathom a clue.
Soooo to avoid gashing a dent in my pride, I took out the parking brake, opened my door and used my foot to propel myself and the 2 ton car backwards.
But then I swung into the gutter rut and was helpless.
So luckily I had my cell phone and called Mark.
"HOooooow do you reverse in this stupid thing??!"
"Oh, right. That's kinda tricky..."
"Mm, of course. Thanks for that."
"You push the joystick down and pull all the way to the left and up."

Wait.
You push the thing DOWN?? That's a real thing?
It was seriously NASA space ship talk to me.
But it worked, he was right. Although I got myself stuck in the middle of the road.

I got back to the party soundly, but even further buried in my loathing of manuals.

Stick-Shift; a Series

I have recently acquired the very first vehicle of my lifetime that is registered IN MY NAME. My own name. My very own brand spankin' new name, at that. The title says so and everything.
Also a first, it's a manual.

And here is where I have to open my clenched hands and let my little ball of pride slip free and fall out into the dirt. Where you have free range to judge, as you please.
But as I tell you these woeful tales of misery and demise, please think on me in the most compassionate way you can muster. Because I tell you what, I wish I had a different story here.

I wish I could tell you I'm a beast and took to driving stick like an octopus would take to sticking to the ceiling. (Whether that would work or not I don't know, but they both have the word "stick" in them.) Or that I'm the speediest speed demon to ever never get a ticket because I'm like an Indy500 prodigy dynamite woman who obeys laws cuz she's cool like that.
Instead, I'll tell you how it's really been for me to learn stick-shift.

It all started back in 9th grade, when I first got my permit. Maybe it was 10th grade. But then I'd be older and more susceptible to responsibility expectations and the ability to grasp concepts faster so we'll stick with 9th grade. My dad still had his little baby. His toy car. The mini cooper S soft top. A 5-speed manual. He rather looked like Mr. Incredible, in fact...

Except a lot less miserable because he thought that tiny car was the best thing since sliced bread.

So he took me out driving! He drove to the church parking lot and then we switched places. I plopped down in the seat and realized I had suddenly forgotten what planet I was on let alone what sort of contraption I was supposed to be operating. I didn't know how to turn it on. How to open the door. What the first step to going was. I was an empty-minded idiot. But of course Dad was there (laughing at my brain-blip) and coached me [roughly] on the basics of manual driving while also rambling off stories that had no pertinence to anything ever. If there was ever someone to get off topic lightning quick, it's my father. Bless 'is heart.

A couple rounds about the church building and then he says, "Hey, let's go out on the road." Like he's proposing we take a picnic in a flowery field. Nothing to worry about right?

But he's Dad so I wasn't about to argue. So I haltingly pull out onto the road and successfully manage a left turn to go east and head out toward Bush Hwy. The perfect, long, mostly empty scenic highway to practice starting and stopping.

But lo! A wild stop sign appears! 

That awkward moment when you seriously contemplate running straight through a stop sign because you're just too terrified to put the clutch back in.

But I stopped. And tried to start. And tried. And tried. And naturally there was a line of three scumbag, impatient misers behind who were just waiting and hoping for an excuse to lay on their blaring horns. 

And you know what I did?

I cried.

I broke down and burst into tears. Dad doesn't skip a beat and hops right out of the car, comes around and takes over. I got the hint the moment he opened the doors and just scooched over the console to stare pitifully out the window in complete morbid humiliation.

He zoomed on out of there and the people I stole 10 whole seconds of life from were soon gone down other roads and to other places. Dad got us out to the high way and parked the car down off the side of the road in the dirt and was quiet for just a second before chuckling and saying,

"I think that guy thought I was getting out to beat the crap outta him. His face was terrified."

I giggled and remembered the incident and about started crying again.

But he made me try again and mostly let me shift up and up and cruise along in 5th gear.

I'm pretty sure I couldn't look my mom in the eyes when we got home. I actually don't even remember if I was the one that got us there. Traumatized. Blocked it out, I suppose.

I never drove that car again.

In accordance with the former...

Oh, also.
Problem.
I has them.

So I do this thing where some entertaining event happens and I have no access to a computer for a while yet so I start drafting a blog post in my head. I'm grinning to myself and possibly chortling because I'm dang funny but unfortunately by the time I get home and have a chance to blog...the funny has been spent up. On myself.
But here goes trying!

The elements seem to harbor resentment towards my attempt to exercise and obtain a healthy body. Firstly, this past weekend the sun burnt me within an inch of sanity (itchy flaky redness all over does not promote calm, zen-ful thoughts) and then today, with the stormy sandy habooby-ness. I did work out 30 minutes this morning with my normal kickboxing routine and that went fine. But tonight I redeemed a fabulous groupon of 2 full months of "unlimited" Zumba for $29 dollars (which I actually got for $19 for some bizarre reason I'm still not sure of but terribly grateful toward). Only problem was, with this whole new "sweating" thing my body has discovered, when I left the class, there was still dust floating around and suddenly I morphed into a human churro.
A gritty, sweaty, salty churro.
If cannibalism was a thing, I'd be a delicacy.
It made driving an interesting achievement. Considering once it dried on my I was all cakey and stiff. And my lips taste really gross. Or at least they did. Obviously I enjoyed a nice cool shower at home.

Anyway. I might end up working myself to death with this Kickboxing-in-the-morning, Zumba-at-Night, Color-Run-Training-inbetween schedule that seems to be developing but maybe in the middle of all that I may end up losing a couple pounds.
Just a couple! That's all I ask. Pleeease!! Plee-hee-heeeease!

(btdubs, ^that was the result of all my sweating and work and still stuck hovering around 150 lbs)

(Yes, I did just share my actual weight on the internet)

(No, I don't regret it or feel embarrassed by it)

(Yes, I DO want it to drop)

The end.

(srsly)

Love is...Beautiful?

The more I live in married life the more I'm becoming a rom-com skeptic. Don't get me wrong, I still get a kick outta ole K Hiegl and James Marsden kickin' each other's verbal trash and with a good soundtrack, that reunion moment after the heartbreaking climax will indeed give my heart the flutters but GOOD GOLLY GRACIOUS, how unrealistic can they get?
I know they're called "romantic comedies" but when I say 'holy romanticized' I mean "pfffft, yeah. Sure. The guy would totally say/do/want that."
Or,
"Of course! Of course every candlelit dinner quantifies in revealing and bonding conversation ending in rampaging stripping of the clothes going upstairs...cuz that works."

I am not, however trying to make the point that rom-coms are dumb and need to be more realistic. That's why we like movies (most of the time). Because they skip over reality. Whatever.
My point is...
my husband and I are TOTALLY not a rom-com.

First of all, we're totally comfortable exchanging pictures such as these...

That would be the after effect of tonight's Zumba glass and I thought it looked remarkably like a terrified ghost-specter thing. So I said so in the picture message to Mark.

He replied with these gems of hilarity;

"You work out so hard it's scary!"

And for a moment I thought he was actually flirtatiously joking with me but then...

"Make the fat melt in horror!"

Oh, yay. Sweat/fat puns. Yes let's joke about my disgusting body. Wonderful.

After that little exchange, I'm trolling the interwebz and after scratching my itchy shoulder discover this lovely patch of...loveliness.

Poor quality picture, I know. But they're little bubbles all over this one patch of my left shoulder. So I sent another picture message.

Because that's what you do.

Mysterious, bulbous, possibly toxic (ahem, dramatization) pockets of bodily fluid? Send a picture to your loved one! Sure to rouse them into an incurable fit of stimulating passion frenzy something!

His theory?

Sweat caught in my burnt skin cells from the sunburn. 

"...or worms from the lake."

Thank you dear, for that lovely image.

Now, you may be wrinkling your nose to this post and asking yourself, "WHY would you share this with other people....people other than the one who agreed to spend his life tending to your fluidious mysteries?"

And to that I say

IT'S MY BLOG PEEPS.

I refrained from splaying it all over facebook, be glad of that.

"splaying" may not be the correct verb there but it's a very colorful and pungent word. So deal.

PS- I die

My feelings exactly.

Must. Self. Destruct.

Welp.
It happened.
I finally did it.

I may or may not have mentioned how I'm legitimately forcing myself to exercise almost every day (somehow, I can't actually consider yoga "exercise". It's more like human-pretzel-palooza and I mostly feel confused and like my organs got all jumbled up inside afterwards...). But I generally do a good job of it. I don't have a gym membership but I do use our movie projector and stream netflix which is surprisingly well stocked with exercise and fitness videos. I randomly chose a five, 10-minute series of kick-boxing routines and it's been treating me well so I stuck with it.
I was very disappointed with my body (and self) when I first started out considering I could hardly get through the "basic training" warm-up routine. Wheezing and coughing I skipped 2-4 and went into the washboard abs sequence and mostly lay sluggish on the itchy carpet watching shiny, buff Keli Roberts show me up to the 10th degree.
But gradually, it got "easier" as I got tougher and more accustomed to pushing myself beyond short-of-breath and oh-my-muscles. So now, like today, I went ahead and tried 4 of the routines back-to-back. Two days ago I attempted going straight through the entire 50 minute (more like an hour) video and found I had to cheat a lot and let myself take a few of the moves "easy". So I had to back up a little.
And thusly, a week and a half later I've lost 5 pounds and have currently hit a brand-new "first" in my life as of today.
I actually, really, legitimately sweated today.
My body does not sweat. My friends call it lucky but I call it halfway-sucky because living in a dry, desert valley would be just the place to have a working network of sweat glands. But I don't. So I mainly stay dry, baking HOT all the time. Even in exercising, PE and playing sports I just get kinda dewy. No sweat.
But I tell ya what, since starting this kick-boxing boot camp thing, every day my body realized more and more that the natural thing to do is to cool itself down and today?
I actually had drops of sweat running down my temples and arms.

You may call out "TMI! Hope, ugh geez!" but I'm kind of in a celebratory mood and I feel like I've just accomplished a great goal that has plagued me my whole life.
Plus I have less back-fat already. HU-FREAKING-ZAAAAH!!

Although, my most recent klutzy accident has not been aiding in my attempt to be healthily active...

Those of you who live in Arizona know that it is our stormy season and just this previous weekend there was a small, baby sandstorm and we had some old couches out in the backyard that needed to be brought inside. Only, our backyard is more like a junkyard storage arena and due to that fact, as I was stumbling around hauling my end of the heavy, fold out bed couch piece I ran into and about tripped over a small pile of junk, culminating in the gashing of my leg on a sharp piece of rusty metal.

I can hear your thoughts right now, "Tetanus!! Booster shot! AAhhhh!" But it's alright. Thanks to some handy-dandy doctor peoples in the fam-bamily we're pretty sure I'm not getting any lethal diseases anytime soon. It does, however, appear as if I've broken my ankle or some such silliness from all the bandaging the hubby keeps forcing me to upkeep.

And if you look back a couple posts you will indeed find that I had previously injured the same leg in a cooking accident resulting in bandaging again. I just love hydrogen peroxide and triple antibiotic ointment! Apparently.

In other news, this weekend is going to be one of the most super fun ones of the summer (thus far) because tonight, well...actually here's a kind of short story about how tonight's gonna go.

Mark works (most days) the typical hours of 9-5 (though, ahem, he usually goes till after 5 which is obnoxious for the good little wifey trying to cook good hot dinners and KEEP THEM HOT....xP) but the drive to work is obnoxiously long considering he has to drive into scottsdale without a legal reason to use the HOV lane. Yaaaay traffic. So he leaves the house a little before 8. So on the good days when we get up together to exercise it's at 6:20 in the morning.

Now that that's clear, we have tickets tonight to the midnight showing of BRAVE and I'm about to stuff this keyboard into my mouth to keep from exploding with excitement. I would eat the whole thing up. Really. But midnight showing and early waking up for 8 full hours of desk job just sounds horrid. So today, when he comes home around 6 we will promptly hang a dark sheet up in our bedroom and take a good restful nap and probably end up having dinner at like 10:30 at night. 

I love date-night adventures!

And then, tomorrow morning I'm travelling with the best friend to north phoenix to the Social Security office once again to act as moral support during the process of changing one's name. And moral support meaning someone there to talk to and laugh with...cuz I'm hilarious and wonderful.

After which we will venture to the gym for a Zumba class! I can't wait, I haven't been to zumba since...a while ago. A long while ago. 

THEN. When Mark gets home tomorrow, we will pack up the truck and head out to Apache lake for a family reunion thing of sorts with his dad's family. I wanna swim, swim, swim till I almost drown and then swim some more.

Action packed lives, we live. Sometimes. Every once in a while (read, "blue moon").

Hopefully I'll take a page out of the besties book and take loads of pictures. Yes, I think I shall.

Go out and climb a tree or something (good luck finding a climbable tree).

Saving is Nice

So! Speaking of foodly items.
I'm just really excited.
Cuz I mentioned, in my previous disaster post, about how we're on a budget correct? Of course we are, everyone is. Woot economy.
But here's the thing. Produce? BEEP THAT. I don't wanna pay $3.69 for a small bunch of measly bananas that have been manhandled by every Walmart hobo that took a second look at 'em. Who needs celery?! Or apples, or any fruits and veggies of any kind???
I suppose people that are conscious of their atrocious eating habits would.
(ahem-hem...that would be me)
But they're just so gosh darn expensive! Okay? It's terrible that it's so hard to justify paying so much for what I know will treat our bodies better than the processed, mashed with extra sugar and syrups and who knows what all else packaged food will. Hello, guilt-trip.
And yet! There is hope (you can snerk, it's ok. I did too). My bestest friend and I went grocery shopping together today and ventured out to a Farmer's Market seriously only a couple minutes drive away from my house.
First of all, that place was LOADED. Not only with food and jars of all sorts, shapes and sizes but as well as people...of all sorts, shapes and sizes. We realized only about 10 minutes into the spree that the immense trail of people winding in and around the barrels, carts and shelves of produce was actually the checkout line. Oh, boy. It was like a ride line at Disneyland. During peak season. Christmas peak season. We ended up sharing a cart and speaking of Christmas, it looked remarkably akin to Santa's sleigh it was so heavily laden.
Lettuce, tomatoes, apples, bananas, zuccini, bell peppers, onions, potatoes. There was no end to the splendor! And the entire time we were practically hysterical at the prices. Those beautiful neon signs of cheap glory.
I ended up buying a head of romaine, a stick of green onions, three bell peppers, four apples, five bananas, five cloves of garlic, two packs of strawberries, one onion, two broccoli florets, one [extremely long] cucumber and probably other things I'm not remembering because I do that. I don't remember things. It's terrible.
But guess how much that cost me.
Go on. Think of a number.
We got back to my apartment and I took the three bulging, heavy plastic bags in to where Mark was pulling apart a very tricky and important piece of car machinery and I asked him the same thing.
"Guess how much this all cost, honey. They're chock full of fresh produce."
He said, "I dunno, maybe thirty dollars?"

$11.77

ELEVEN DOLLARS and SEVENTY-SEVEN CENTS.
The cashier lady probably was concerned for my mental health the way my mouth dropped and considering the sound that came out of my mouth I don't blame her.

We had to go to Fry's to get some other items the market just doesn't carry and the first thing we run across, Allie picks out four packages of raspberries and two of blueberries and already that's half of what she paid at the Farmer's Market and she got six or seven full bags of produce. We were ecstatic.
Funny how the things that get you the most elated change over time.
One day it's getting to ride your bike down the street to go play in a field and the next it's buying food to feed your family.

What a world we live in :)

Never a Dull Moment

As a matter of fact, these moments I'm about to relate to you were pretty sharp. Sharp indeed.

So this "cooking" thing. I would very much like to say I'm good at it. But actual, edible, nourishing food just escapes me.
Now baking, hah! I can bake you a cake no problem. I have made that much very clear in previous posts (that I am far too lazy to find and link so just have a go and adventure through my blog!) (yes that sounds a lot like plugging for your pageviews but I'm serious. Too lazy here.).
But anyway.
The past couple weeks we've been eating like poor college roommates that went to a foreign exchange program in some dark, isolated corner of Siberia. Ramen and tortilla's, FTW. Due to the fact that we are on a budget and I had to wait until June to get a renewed grocery fund. So thank goodness it's June today! Going shopping later.
And so! Last night was the first in quite awhile that I actually went into the kitchen preparing to cook an actual, legitimate meal. I even texted the hubby and said, "cooking hot food here for tonight!".
Thusly, I picked out the Tuna Helper box and two cans of tuna (blech, smelly) and set about finding the right size pot for this lovely adventure in cooking. It said to use a 10 inch skillet but we don't really have a skillet and our frying pans looked a tad shallow for 2 and 1/3 cup water along with 1 and 1/3 cup milk...and all the rest of the stuff you gotta throw in as well! So I skipped out on that and went to get a sauce pan. I had just cleaned our large, metal one and it's brand new so I thought to save it the pressure of producing yet another difficult meal so early on in it's career.
(I actually hated the thought of using such a huge pan for such a small amount of food to be cooked)
So I sought out a more size-appropriate pan. And all I found was a maybe 16 qt. glass pan that, let me just say, we have used SO MANY TIMES for things like mac and cheese and other pasta's and even baking! In the oven! So you would assume that would be a safe bet, right?
You have never been wrong-er.
Or I guess I haven't.
In any case.
It didn't even get to boiling before KABLAM!
Explosion.
Glass shattering, milky-buttery-watery mixture spreading over hot stovetop. Sizzling, bubbling, steam and always more glass. Everywhere.
It looked a lot like this...

Except that was taken about 10 minutes after the fact.
At the initiation of the blast, my thought process went a little like--

[gasp]
ohhhh mama.
Glass. That's a lot of glass.
Oh my gosh! Steam! Turn off the stove!
I should take a picture.
Get phone.
Picture message husband.
"Um, come home quick. I messed up :("
Ummm, oh clean. Yeah. I should clean.
[whirl around like lost puppy]
Trash! Yes!
Glass. Everywhere. Bare feet.
[look down at feet]
Oh! Blood. That's good. That's...hmmm.
Paper towel!
[wrap bottom of foot, who cares where the blood stems from...]
garbage can, garbage can
attempt to scoop mess into garbage can with tiny wooden spoon


I'm a genius when it comes to emergency situations. My children are SO. LUCKY.
Mark was apparently right in the driveway when he got my text and he came running in the door just a couple minutes after I sent it. Good timing? I believe yes.
He comes walking in, totally bewildered look on his face and exclaims,
"What happened?? What did you do?!"
Not in a demanding, blaming way but a "omg what did my klutz wife get herself into this time?" way,
as I'm holding the now disgusting, appearingly puked-on garbage can up to the side of the oven with my waist and trying not to laugh hysterically like a crazy person though I just really have the urge to.
He was quite the hero. Cleaned the whole mess up and told me to go sit down and stop bleeding all over the place....
(Alex, look away)

And then he cleaned me up and bandaged my leg as I sat there shaking and feeling like I might cry but still wanting to laugh. My shock response is overloaded and sort of like a brand new puppy wiggling and peeing and wanting to lick everything. Hyper and over responsive.

SO we went out to eat. With friends, too! I guess fate decided we needed to go out, on a date, have fun and laugh. Thanks fate.

I'll also probably get a nifty scar.

Who knows how it cut me there and nowhere else.

And that concludes this episode of "Cooking adventures with Hope". 

Join us next time for "House burns down in pb&j accident".

(Not seriously, and knock-on-wood)

A Lady Post

I'm going to do everything I can to remain classy through this...delicate topic.

Yeah so, the pill and I do not get along. I've a terrible memory and I'm not dedicated enough to even care most of the time. Which is not exactly beneficial when you aren't in a position to have any children at the moment. Not to mention it turned my dear Aunt Flo's visit into a dried up reunion of dead roadkill. Or so it felt. And thusly, my poor husband found himself accompanying me to the ob-gyn's office yesterday afternoon for a check up and attempt at finding another route for birth control.
What was not so great about this visit was the nurse I went to last time, Bonnie, was no longer working at this particular office and the lady who replaced her was...less than pleasant. I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt and assuming her entire day consisted of swarms of gnats occupying her head space, lemon juice in her coffee as well as a severe lack of kindness to account for her behavior and awful bedside manner.
My first ever trip to the ob-gyn, back at the beginning of the year before I got married, went a little like this;
"Hey. I'm getting married and don't wanna have babies for awhile."
"Oh, ok! Have you had sex before?"
"Uh, no. I'm a virgin."
"Ok, well we'll just start you on the pill and then after your body's used to all of that we'll have you come back in and try something else, alright?"
"Ok. Sounds splendid."

This visit was more of;
"I see on your charts you didn't have any procedures last time you came in. Why is that?"
"Uhh, she told me it wasn't necessary and I could come in later...."
"Would you like to schedule that for another day?"
Let me just interject and say, what would be the point of me coming in that day if I wasn't to progress anywhere and get anything done??
"I, uh, um...if it could be done today..."
"Yeah today's fine. She probably just didn't know to do it then."
I think Bonnie knows what she's doing, no need to go blaming anybody...
So she pulls out these weird pieces of loud, folded paper and quickly rattles off,
"Put-this-on-like-a-shirt-and-leave-the-front-open-then-cover-up-with-this..."
Goes to leave...
"Wait! Uh, say that again? Sorry...[nervous giggle]."
"[sigh] Put-this-on-like-a-shirt-and-leave-the-front-open-then-cover-up-with-this...and take everything off..."
Leaves for good this time.


So I'm left with this awkward puzzle piece shape of pink crepe paper and a rectangle of white paper and the expectation to just drop trow (and everything else) and figure out what goes where. I do believe Mark was muchly amused by my consternation and confusion. It took me a solid 2 minutes to unfold the pink vest thing, I was so afraid of ripping the thin paper and ruining my only form of covering up. I didn't think I would be allowed to go fishing (naked) through the drawers and find myself a new one.
But I finally figured it out and sat myself back up on the table-gurney thing.

(You can kind of barely see my festive, Memorial Day toesies)

And sat. And sat. And sat some more. My bum got cold from the drafty air but the rest of me was burning with unwelcome embarrassment and anxiety. When she finally came back she was abrupt in her instructions and impatient with my faulty obedience. She asked me to scoot up maybe 3 times and it's not like I could see or really understand how far was good or when I was going to drop bare-bum to the cold tile off the chair. She grabbed my feet and planted them firmly in the stirrup thingies and I about farted in her face from terror.
This was the first time I'd ever been naked, as an adult, in front of anybody other than my husband. And that's only been a couple months in the making. No doctor has ever gone poking around in there. And this lady had a beeping flashlight for heaven's sake! I was freaking out a bit. Almost wanted to ask Mark to come hold my hand. But I feared the lady would snort derisively and laugh at me. But thankfully her rudeness didn't extend to leaving out verbal communication in what she was about to do and where she was gonna touch. So I had a bit of warning.
And then there was the boob squishing. I thought going to the optometrist and having the huge black mega-goggle eye magnifier things over your face while the doctor is uncomfortably close asking you impossible questions like, "Is #1 or #3 better? #3 or #4? What about #purple?" was awkward. Laying there, with arms behind your head, like your all chill while some stranger prods and pushes and squeezes at your already-objects-of-severe-insecurity with a frowny grump face on the entire time is much worse. I tell you what.
"Do you regularly check yourself for lumps?" She demands.
"Well, um no."
"You should. About every month or so."
"Well I just, I mainly don't because I don't know what I'm looking for...er, feeling for, I guess..."
And she just grunts.

She basically refused to even let me consider using the IUD/IUC's and seemed to be really pushing other pills despite my protests. But I ended up getting the Depo shot and it seems the perfect option for us. I don't have to remember to take a pill every day. My periods will very likely disappear altogether, we'll only really have need to use 6 or so of the shots and it would save us about $60 versus staying on the pill, let alone what it would cost for me to get a surgery, small as it is, without insurance. So I'm very happy with the choice. Even though it is a needle to the bum every 3 months.
All in all, turns out the tv show "Private Practice" has greatly romanticized ob-gyn behavior and I would very much like for Addison Forbes Montgomery to be my doctor. She would be much nicer about it and wouldn't treat me like a burden-to-be-dealt-with.
Then again, I would hate to inspect people's vaginas and order people to get naked all day every day. So.

Also! Whilst we're still on the subject, a word from good ole Walt Disney on womanly-matters....

Cheers to womanhood!

Here I Am....Again

There are good ideas, and then there are bad ideas...
I can clue you in on one of those ideas that are more on the badder side.

Go ahead and decide "I'm gonna do it! I'm gonna start exercising and I'm gonna do it now!"
So you search Netflix and turns out, they have a six 10-minute series of Kickboxing Boot Camp videos.
Commence exercise.
Realize 16-18 minutes later that you fail and are so hardcore out of shape it's sad.
Flop on the floor and breath like a rhino in labor.

Flash forward 10 minutes...


Go outside to see how the hunny is doing working on his mystery-broken-down vehicle.
Annnnd this is about the time when he tells you, "Oh, I could use your help. I need you to hold down the brake....hard."


And there ya have it. Work out your sorry legs until they're nothing more than pillars of wibbley-wobbley jello and then offer your services as the brake-presser.
It'll go real well, I assure you.

It really wasn't that bad. I used both feet to keep it pressed down and my hands anchored against my knee fat and grit my teeth through the shakies. It worked out ok. Although, whatever Mark was working on turned into a dead end. Soooo...it was worthless? No. Now we/he know what isn't wrong. Which is quite worthwhile when you're working with car engines.

It feels good to be exercising though. Feels good for now. And next week, once Mark starts his new 9-5pm schedule it'll finally be possible for us to exercise together. At the best possible time, too. In my mind I say we get up at 7, work out for half an hour, he gets in the shower and leaves for work around 8 and then I'm free to do whatever it is I ever do around here the rest of the day. Perfect! We'll see if he agrees with me.