Yesterday was a long, long day.
I decided to have a beer with dinner. It was pretty good, although I’m no connoisseur. I drank about half.
After the kids were finally, mercifully, in bed, I kicked back with an episode of The Voice and a Kahlua and milk. Is that a white Russian? I have no idea. I drank about a 1/3 of it before deciding that our homemade Kahlua was too old and stale. I dumped it out.
I sort of like alcohol. I drink it socially, for the most part. I didn’t grow up in a house where alcohol was consumed almost ever. My parents weren’t drinkers. It has simply never appealed to me, either. I’ve been drunk just twice in my life. More than anything it seems like a waste of a considerable amount of calories.
Oh, how I wish food were like that. I know that it’s a thing for other people. I’ve seen them stop eating halfway through their pizza because they were full. Pizza! Of all things! My husband can do this. Sometimes he even forgets that he’s hungry or hasn’t eaten recently enough to ward away headaches. I can assure you I’ve never forgotten to eat. Never!
I’m not asking for a swap. I weigh 177lbs at 5’10”, not 300, so clearly having eating issues is preferable to being an alcoholic, at least for me. I’m just saying it would be amazing to eat half a donut, four bites of a cake, four chips, and be able to call it good. That’d be awesome.
Moderation, you are not my friend. But you should be, I’m cool, you’d like me.
Should I “wax” philosophical on this one, or just let the photos speak for themselves?
Made some cards.
The last two are the inside and out of my card to my older brother for his birthday. Nailed it!
A couple of sickos.
Baby puke is the worst. They don’t understand the concept of puking in the toilet or a bucket.
I need to start a new blog called “What I Found In My Pockets Today.”
You know you’d follow that.
This week I ventured into crafting with… FABRIC! I’m super glad I know one or two things about fabric or I would’ve sounded like an idiot at the fabric store trying to purchase it.
I haven’t posted a ton lately, and I’m actually sitting down at my laptop instead of checking on my phone, so I thought I’d share the story of how I met my husband.
It was a dark and stormy evening and I was five years old. Ok, part of that sentence is a lie, and part of it is true. Surprisingly, the five year old part is the truth.
Peter and I met in kindergarten. Our parents lived, and still do, approximately a four-minute-drive from each other. (Makes for convenient holidays.) We spent many of our early years in the same classes, until the ACCELERATED PROGRAM came to town and whisked my future husband into a different school. I wasn’t as smart as he was (this remains true.) Then the district built a brand spankin’ new elementary school, and naturally the ACCELERATED PROGRAM was only to have the finest the district could offer, so Peter and I reunited at Breidablik Elementary. Try spelling that when you’re ten. Also, apparently I’m still bitter about the preferential treatment showered upon the erudite of my generation.
Anyway, we weren’t in the same classes except for band! I played flute and he played trumpet. We rode the bus together, and dated for exactly 16 hours in the 6th grade. Then he left me for Nikki Schow.
Now we’re attending Poulsbo junior high (7-9th grades) and are band-friends and on the cusp of actual friends. We graduate to North Kitsap high school (10-12th grades) and Peter’s best friend Trevor is shot and killed in a drive by shooting in Seattle. Yes, that is real and no, I’m not being funny. By this time Peter and I were good friends, and while I didn’t know Trevor well, I was able to help Peter through all the grieving and loss. And we became best friends. It helped that he drove me to most of our band practices and events because we lived so close.
Freshman year of college I attend the University of Idaho, and he attended Central Washington University. To get to the U of I, I have to travel through Ellensburg, where CWU is, so I stop frequently to hang out. We call, we write, we are still best friends. I spent enough time in CWU that I decide to transfer there (and HELLO! I was in IDAHO! Lame.)
Now we’re in the same dorm together and hanging out ALLOFTHETIMES. We dated for exactly one month. It didn’t work. We didn’t know how to progress from best friends to the mysterious “something more.”
I graduated in 2003 and went to Chicago for an internship. He was in school for one more year, and we got our very first cell phones on a family plan because we figured we’d be calling each other most. Apparently at this time he was thinking there was a future for us. I wasn’t even thinking that way.
In 2004 I go home and start teaching in Renton. Peter graduates and starts teaching in Milton. These towns are about a 25 minute drive, and we spend all our time hanging out because we don’t know anyone else on that side of the water (the east side of the Puget Sound). Then, because I’m super romantic, I’m all “you know, we should either figure things out with each other, or not spend so much time together so we can meet the people we’re supposed to marry.” He agreed. This was our “define the relationship” talk and we started dating soon after.
He proposed about three months later. No need to wait when you already know everything about the other person! And we married in 2005. You’d think all our family and friends would be excited for us, but when we announced our engagement the #1 response we got was “well it’s about time!” After a while I just told people to feign excitement.
Been married to him 8 years, and it still remains the best decision I’ve ever made. Marriage is awesome.
This is crap.
Saw it on my FB and thought “what the heyyyyyy?”
Like any other thing, parenting makes you happy sometimes.
And like every other thing, sometimes not. NOT.
Know what always makes me happy? Knowing that despite being a real jackass at times, Jesus loves me and forgives me all my jackassery. Amen.