i need a damn mulligan

9 / 23 / 2009

I’m having one of those days…

WHERE I DON’T WANT TO DO ANYTHING.

I’d be happy just sitting on my ass, watching movies and eating ice cream.

ALL DAMN DAY.

I had a post I was working on…but why bother?  

Why not just be lazy.

That’s what my brain is telling me…and I’m inclined to listen.

Motivation? Not today.

Just. Not. Today.

I made it outside to take Maddie for a  short walk and THAT was like asking me to pluck out every hair on my body, one-by-one.

Maybe it’s the gray skies…or the smoggy air…

I have no idea…but today is just NOT THE DAY for productivity.

So just leave me lots of fun things to read…but don’t tell me how much you’ve  “accomplished,” all before noon with one hand tied behind your back while…I can’t even come up with anything clever, other than speaking Swahili while eating a hot dog…

I have days like that…where I like, conquer the world – all before breakfast.

I’m thinking that’s going to be tomorrow.

what i wanted to say yesterday…just delayed…

9 / 22 / 2009

We got an aerial view of some of the flooding this morning on our flight home and it isn’t pretty. Thankfully, our house wasn’t flooded. The sun is out, so hopefully everyone is drying out a bit.

And thank you to everyone who wished us safe travels yesterday.

When we got home, girls about attacked us all, “WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU? You were due back like, Monday.”

Anyhow, my plan was to introduce you to the real, live Italians yesterday…it just never happened because we were too busy sitting in airports and hotels.

You know, I really should stop planning. It never seems to happen the way I work it all out in my brain…

So, the Italians: Mirco, Lea and Sabino. Mirco is Lea and Sabino’s son.

The Italians

 

Yesterday at breakfast, Lea asked me IF (key word, here) I wanted to have a little “bambino.”

The “asking” had to go through Mirco (he’s our Italian-English translator, since Lea and Sabino speak very little English and I speak ZERO Italian other than “merci” – which I just realized is French…damn) and I thought she asked me WHEN I was planning to get on with the baby-making.

I looked around, eyeing Tim like, “HELP ME…how do you say eventually?”

When, unbeknownst to me, all that was required was a simple yes or no.

Instead, my confusion ended being a good five minute joke cause I’m all, “HOW DO YOU SAY NOT NOW? LATER? FUTURE??

And they’re looking at me like, soooo….do you want a bambino or not? Seems like a simple enough question…you do or you don’t…

Totally lost in translation.

We finally got it all sorted out…yes, just not in the immediate future.

Our trip also reminded me how Italians can EAT. WOW. I am totally fooded-out.

I won’t even go into details because the food list would be an entire post by itself. You’d gain ten pounds just reading it.

We’ll leave it at this: somehow, we managed to fill an entire eight-person dining room table with dessert. DESSERT.

And poor Maddie…I don’t know if she has a hot spot or was bitten by something…but we came home and she had a HUGE welt-looking thing on her side. We cleaned it out with peroxide and told her NO LICKING.

She didn’t listen.

So she got coned.

maddie cone

I know. She looks totally pitiful and is having a really hard time judging the space available to her between stationary objects…like doorframes.

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stuck…in rochester because of flooding…in atlanta

9 / 21 / 2009

So, we’re hanging out in an airport hotel. The ONLY hotel within walking distance (Yes, people. We WALKED).

Because Atlanta is apparently getting it’s ass handed to it from all the rain.

Technically, we should already BE in Atlanta at this moment, had our flight left on time. However, our plane is still sitting at the gate.  Delayed until…whenever. 8:00pm I think it is…(original flight was supposed to leave around 3:00pm…)

We decided to re-book our flight instead of sitting in those really uncomfortable airport seats and then having to make a mad dash to try and grab a seat on a flight tomorrow if this flight is cancelled…which the lady at the little booth next to the gate thought was going to happen all, “I just don’t think it’s gonna like, take off.”

It’s really too bad..I WAS sitting next to Hurley, from Lost. All, “dude!”

(Tim upgraded our seats again…and we ended up in two window seats on opposite sides of each other. Contrary to what it seems, we do typically try to sit together on planes…it just hasn’t been working out so well lately…)

Ok, sooo maybe it wasn’t the REAL Hurley…but he looked and talked and had mannerisms EXACTLY like him and was nervous as all hell. He had the flight attendant bring him a mini bottle of wine before he even had his seatbelt fastened.

Oh…yes. We actually GOT ON THE PLANE. 

After about five minutes they made us get back off so we’d be more “comfortable” since they grounded all Atlanta flights and now had to wait for an update and the green light to take off.

They’re still waiting.

I must say – I AM TOTALLY FREAKING OUT about all the girls. I was all,  “BUT IT MIGHT FLOOD!”

And Tim’s all, “The house is ABOVE everything. They’ll be fine.”

Me: But what about Lexi?? She’s on the GROUND LEVEL! IN A CRATE!

Tim: It’s not going to flood. Seriously, chill out. Besides, Cindy (our pet sitter) will call us.

I let it go after that…cause he’s right.  She’d totally move Lexi’s crate to higher ground  AND call us to let us know we have a river in our living room. That’s just the kind of forward thinker she is.

Anyhow – I’m, off to check the news and call the family…think good thoughts for my mom…her basement is currently underwater, thanks to the flooded creek behind her house…along with all the other Atlantan’s…apparently it’s REALLY, REALLY BAD.

And, if you live in Atlanta and are reading this, here’s a little tip: DON’T DRIVE!

Whatever it is, it can wait.

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my name is jessica, dammit

9 / 20 / 2009

We all know I’m not blogging under any kind of anonymity.

No secrets here. I’ve laid it all out there for strangers and family alike.

So, before we left for Rochester and Tim’s dad said to Tim over the phone, “I don’t exactly know if I should be sending you jobs in the Northeast according to booshy…you know, the WE WANT TO LIVE IN THE WEST.”

With that one sentence, I knew the visit was going to be interesting. Over the past few months, I’ved learned that much of Tim’s family reads my blog. And if they don’t read it, someone passes along the information all, “Guess what happened on booshy today?” Like it’s some kind of sitcom…or soap opera…though I heard soap operas are like, going extinct…so we’ll go with sitcom.

booshy must have caught on after Tim’s mom was all, “What’s a blog? I don’t understand? So she writes to the internet about…whatever?” when he first told her about booshy. He tried to explain it was like a diary…only different.

But it has since spread to siblings and wives and now they’re all up-to-date with the goings-on in Atlanta.

And unlike me, broadcasting the craziness that is Tim and my life, we only get little bits and pieces in a phone call or email, so the information flow is a little top-heavy. We know they’re still there, we just don’t hear about how they painted a door or planted a garden or got a new job…which is all well and good…until you realize that things change and become common vernacular without you giving your input or opinion or opportunity to voice your distaste in the *new* language.

As in: No one old me that my name had changed past the Mason-Dixon line.

We were just getting better at calling me “Jessica” instead of “Jess” and then the first thing I hear when we’re greeted by Tim’s family?

“It’s BOOSHY!”

WHAT. THE. HELL.

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if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s entertaining myself

9 / 19 / 2009

I wasn’t able to get a good picture of “the cougar,” since I was in the seat behind her…and my middle school note-passing attempts between seats didn’t convince Tim to take one of her with his iPhone. I kept writing: “Just say cheese. SHE’LL KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

He finally turned around and gave me the “Seriously. Stop. We’re IN A PUBLIC PLACE. REMEMBER? YOU PROMISED.”

So I had to make my own fun. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s entertaining myself.

I started writing random sentences on my book draft like, “did you know reading me is a crime?” and “your dress is on fire” for The Snoop on my left.

I took sky pictures

plane

I made myself some free advertising.

adv

WHAT? It’s the CROSSWORD SECTION, PEOPLE. IT’S THERE TO WRITE ON.

When the flight attendant came around to inquire about my “snack selection,” I tried to ask him for the “cookies that started with a B.” They are my most favorite cookies IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. I’ve also decided that these cookies only exist on airplanes, because I’ve never seen them in a sensible place like a grocery store

The flight attendant just stared at me like the altitude was affecting my ability to communicate. I was trying to explain via bastardized sign language what I wanted, because he was too far away to actually converse with and there is just no yelling on a plane. It’s like taboo or something.

Finally, we connected.

Or he’s just really good at charades.

And he brought me a stack of these:

biscoff

Other than the cougar trying to prey on Tim, The Snoop next to me that kept trying to read my book and would look away all, “WHAT? I was just looking out the window.” Um…window’s closed, missy. So unless you have like, X-ray vision…I think not…and the dude who almost dropped a massive suitcase on a poor old lady while he was putting it into the overhead bin and almost caused a brawl…a fairly calm flight.

When we got off the plane and made our way to the security doors that separated ‘those with a ticket’ and ‘those without,’ Tim’s parents weren’t waiting for us, smiles plastered on their faces

And since FOREVER, his parents have picked us up from the airport. There has not been a SINGLE INSTANCE where they weren’t waiting RIGHT OUTSIDE the security area.

So, when they weren’t at-the-ready and in position, Tim was all, “What the hell? Where are they?”

He sent them a text message and I was all, “Why not CALL THEM?”

Tim: This is just as fast.

Me: No, calling and having someone pick up is faster.

Tim: Well, my dad’s usually really fast responding.

WELL…

Not today, he isn’t.

We sat around baggage claim for a few minutes, with no bags to claim…because we refuse to PAY TO CHECK A BAG if we don’t have to…I can find a way to do without the five extra pairs of panties and twenty-eight shirts.

Anyhow, Tim finally decided to call his dad…when out of nowhere, Tim’s sister, Kristen, walks up with her newest little addition, Colton.

tjcolton

And of all the things that happened from the moment we left the airport to the time we spent at her house visiting, nothing could top the last five minutes, except maybe Kristen’s two doves that chuckle like humans.

I didn’t even know doves could do noises other than cooing.

Right, so the last five minutes…Tim was holding Coltwith baby-googly eyes that plainly said I WANT ONE. And at that precise moment, Colton decided it was time for a little exclamation of his own – shot it right out the back end.

Little is actually being nice. Tim said later he felt the reverberations run all the way up to his shoulder and the resulting steam left little droplets of moisture on Tim’s forearm.

The remainder of the evening centered around food (Italians, remember?).

And how do you say “Welcome to America!” to full blooded Italians?

You make pasta from scratch.

Well, YOU as in Abbie, Martha Stewart Junior, who is married to Tim’s younger brother, Josh.

Abbie knows how to MAKE JAM and KNIT SCARVES and can probably do the whole macramé feathers into gold bit.

I will never be an Abbie.

Obviously, that is not my hand making pasta, as I am not allowed near appliances.

It’s Martha’s Abbie’s.

abbie

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the flight

9 / 19 / 2009

Too much rain makes people obstinate and cranky. Especially those working security. At the airport.

Tim and I managed to get yelled at five times from the moment we slipped our shoes off and threw them on the belt to before we walked through the metal dectector.

First, we’re not blocking the aisle. Second, we read the “three million signs” that said the laptop had to go in it’s own special bin. Third…

Oh!! Totally going a different direction but lots more interesting than the jerkfaces in security…

I got to see a real, live cougar! Of the female, silicone filled version.

See, Tim upgraded our seats so I could have some leg room. We were all excited until we were boarding the plane and Tim was all, “What seats are we in?”

Me: 1 and 2.

Tim: I need to know which letter…numbers don’t exactly help without the letter…

Me: F

Tim: And?…

Me: F and F

Tim: I didn’t get seats next to each other?!? DAMMIT!

Me: It’s fine – really.

Then we get on the plane and the person Tim has to sit next to is this bleach blonde woman with way too much makeup and corvette red nails.

I sat by this nice old lady who I nicknamed “snoop” because she kept peeking over my shoulder, reading a draft of my book (I KNOW! It’s in a DRAFT!).

Anyway, so this blonde woman had no idea Tim and I came in a pair ( I think all the silicone has pushed out her brain cells…). Tim sits down and her face lights up all, “FRESH MEAT!!”

They got their seatbelts mixed up or something as she was tee-hee-heeing in a high pitched squeal all, “isn’t that SO FUNNY??”

Tim played along for a minute until he realized what was actually happening. Once the lightbulb went off, he whipped around in his seat and said, “sooo, dear wife of mine…do you need anything? The woman of my dreams..most perfect being in the history of humans….

So much more to juice to spill!…

Are you up for a late night post?

Cause you know how Italians are with food…and apparently dinner is ready and I’m being dragged to the table…

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meet brother jeff

9 / 18 / 2009

This is brother Jeff.

jeffmaddie

 

Normally, I’d just call him “brother” but I figured you needed an introduction.

That’s his name – brother. Mine is sister.

We’re so creative, I know.

It beats my old name before he could do the double ’S’ plus ‘ICA.’  

He ran around calling me ”Sek-a”

I made the mistake of telling Tim my nickname once…and now, every so often after he’s tried to get my attention for ten minutes and I’m not listening, he’ll be all, “HEEEY! SEK-AAA!”

Totally humiliating…especially in public places like a crowded mall or movie theater or grocery store. I’ve never seen more people do the rapid ducking motion as if trying to avoid having their face smashed by a heavy object, coupled with a wide-eyed look all,  DEAR GOD I PROMISE NEVER TO FART ON THE DOG AGAIN…JUST PLEASE DO NOT LET THAT MAN BE CALLING TO ME.

No worries, people.

It’s me.

Right over here.

Now, please excuse me while I throw dagger eyes at my husband.

Anyway, brother Jeff is our resident live-in baby sitter (isn’t he playing so nice with tiny Maddie??) for the girls while Tim and I are…

IN THE NORTH!

(aka Rochester)

All my posts will be coming from Tim’s childhood home for the next few days.

Aren’t you excited?

You get to meet Tim’s family.

The same family who did THIS to me one Christmas.

(did you read it?)

Well, if you were a good blog reader or if you’re a lazy ass - it doesn’t matter…the result is the same:

Who the hell knows what’ll happen.

I never do.

It’ll be a surprise for all of us.

OH!

Did I mention there are REAL LIVE ITALIANS staying with Tim’s parents?

That we have to share a bathroom with?

That don’t speak English?

Exactly.

See you in Rochester.

Ciao!

(shit…that’s French…no, wait…Wikipedia says it’s also Italian. And Wikipedia…definitely a reliable source…).

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no one told me that basters were stupid

9 / 17 / 2009

The house must be like, mad at me or something.

Or, I’m finally going to admit I lack the ability to anticipate cause and effect.

I’m going with the former.

No sense in beating around the bush…never been very good at it anyway…

I burned Tim’s fingers last night with hot sugar water.

Exactly. The house hates me.

Ummm…Oops?

NOTE TO SELF: “Oops” is not the correct response when you’ve managed to melt skin off someone’s hand WITHOUT EVEN TOUCHING THEM.

You know, it’s not my fault. I wasn’t given a tutorial on how to use all of the “appliances” in the kitchen.

And when I say “appliances” I mean basters.

And when I say basters I mean this one:

baster

We may as well call it a bastard. Stupid thing got me in trouble.

See, it all started when I was microwaving a mixture of water and sugar to put on a peach crisp that I was baking. I was convinced the peaches would not produce enough “juice” and would instead be all dry and hard (here’s the recipe).

Yes, I WAS BAKING.

SOMEONE WRITE THIS DOWN.

Anyhow, the microwave started to make these clicky noises and Tim was all, “WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THERE?!”

Me: “A measuring cup.”

Tim: “A WHAT?!”

He thought I meant like, the metal kind that makes microwaves explode and rushed over to take it out.

As he was climbing over the baby gate (we have to contort all cirque du soleil to get in and out of the kitchen. Thanks, Lexi), I’m all nonchalant like, “The glass kind. Geez, dude. Put your pants back on.”

Tim: “I thought you meant…whatever…DUDE.”

He decides to take precautionary measures, stops the microwave and removes my boiling concoction.

I didn’t want him taking over my little project, so I rocketed over the gate and grabbed a baster out of the utensil jar.

Tim stood there, watching me and questioning my motives (technically, dear husband, that was really your first mistake. Whenever I’m in the kitchen, you’re supposed to duck and cover).

I opened the oven and then sucked up some of the hot sugar water in the baster. Tim was on my right, the oven on the left and the hot liquid between Tim and I on the counter.

As I start to lift the baster from the measuring cup to put the liquid on the crisp, Tim goes, “You can’t do that. You have to get closer.”

Ok, people. Let’s just stop. Right there. Mistake number two.

IF THERE ARE DIRECTIONS TO BE FOLLOWED, I NEED THEM WELL BEFORE I TAKE ANY SORT OF ACTION.

I have a problem with patience and I also tend to take instructions literally.

I thought he meant that I HAVE TO GET CLOSER, so I bend my legs and get lower to the ground to get closer to the crisp sitting in the oven.

As an inadvertent side effect of my body movement, the baster went from a vertical position to a horizontal one, squirty end towards Tim, who was still standing there all, “NOT YOU! THE CRISP! TAKE IT OUT!”

And then…

HOLY SHIT WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU DAMMIT DAMMIT MY FINGER DAMMIT!!!!

No one explained to me that basters are stupid.

That basters don’t HOLD THE LIQUID INSIDE until squeezed.

When you turn the damn thing landscape direction it’s like you’ve unlocked a secret weapon.

Landscape direction equals ALL CONTAINED CONTENTS will rocket out with shocking velocity without any pressure on the little squeezy end.

As Tim was screaming and getting his fingers burned off, I just sat there, staring down at the baster all, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS THING? IT’S BROKEN.”

No, not broken.

USED IMPROPERLY.

My name is Jessica or Jess or JB or UPS or booshy...

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