The Krossroads

He's always wanted a rope ladder.

2012-01-28T07:01:00.000-08:00

I've been locked out before. Heavenhavemercy, have I ever been locked out before! You don't have air for brains and never experience THAT joyous moment when you realize that your keys are inside and you are not.

But I'm never been locked in.

Well, I HADN'T been locked in until last Friday.

Adam came home from work and told me to get my keister out of my sick bed because we were going to the doctor. I put on my clothes, gathered my personal effects, walked to the door, and found the deadbolt stuck in the locked position.

"We're locked in," I calmly told Adam. Loads of DayQuil gave me peace like a river.

He rushed over and started jiggling the door like folks tend to do when they find it unexpectedly, but most definitely locked. After a brief but powerful moment of panic (I can't say I blame him. Being locked in when I'm NOT sick would be hell enough.), he got to work removing the door handle.I very helpfully got my camera and a handful of wafer cookies. Did I mention I was sick?Taking the door handle off didn't free us. And truth be told, I was a little relieved. If it had popped right off, we might as well put our flip phones, tube TV, boombox, and broken 1GB iPod in a gift bag for thieves. Jeez.Adam called the maintenance man.

Who also couldn't get the door handle off.

"Hello out there! Could you pass us in a few bean burritos? Actually, I'm watching my diet right now, so I'll just have pintos and cheese. And maybe a lamb kabob? He'll have a diet Coke, too, please." It started to get a bit comical. Or perhaps that was just the DayQuil laughing.

And just when I thought I should perhaps ration those wafer cookies, the door came open and we breathed the sweet taste of freedom! Lapsed time: 38 minutes. ONLY 38 MINUTES!?!? I've experienced months that felt shorter. I was even having difficulty remembering things from before we were locked in. Writing this post took longer than 38 minutes. And now let's go to Adam for a little video recap.
My voice sounds like a man. I realize this, but again, I was sick. I wonder how many more times I can use that excuse. "Sorry I didn't feed the hungry or clothe the naked. I was sick." I abuse things. Character flaw.

A New Chariot

2012-01-27T05:21:00.000-08:00

Adam and I have a fistful of places that we frequent regularly. The local grocery store, the Subway just up the street, and K Street Bagel, just to name ~~a few~~ all of them.

If you can muscle through the embarrassment of another human being knowing how many footlong subs you ingest weekly, it's really quite nice being a regular. Peeps have got your back. Jackie at the grocery store lets us slip through customer service line, even though we're not buying lotto tickets and cigarettes. We have rapport for days with the ladies at Subway. They also know exactly how many thousands of black olives I mean when I say "I want lots and lots of black olives on that meatball sub." At K Street Bagel, the gal starts our order the second our trends cross the threshold: two egg and cheese bagels, one onion, one plain.

There is one other place that we are regulars. But it's a little like being regulars in Hell.

It's Jerry's Ford. Specifically, the auto shop at Jerry's Ford. Our Taurus, lovingly coined "The Shatbag", is there so frequently that she has her own dedicated table in the corner and her favorite waitress. The fellas know Adam like a brother and they yell, "Hey, Adam!" when he walks in.

Everybody knows his name. And he's always glad he came.

Not.

Several months ago, Adam and I took a sick day. Because we had contracted something hateful. And on our way to the store to get sick people medicine (Tylenol, DayQuil, Spaghettios), $hitty $hitty Bang Bang just flat gave up the ghost. Refused to start, laid back, and screamed, "UNCLE!"

So, we had to have that sonuhva witch towed. I called Cheers, I mean, Jerry's.

Me: Hi. Our car refuses to start, is laying back, and screaming, "UNCLE!" so we're having it towed.

Art with Jerry's: What kind of car is it?

Me: It's a white Ford Taur-a$$.

Art: Does it belong to Adam?

Me: Yep. It sure does. How'd you guess?

There's something about riding behind a tow truck, loaded down with your vehicle, that really makes you take stock of your life. Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going?

When we got her back the following day, we gave her a talking to.

Actual transcribed excerpt from the aforementioned talking to:

"We want to thank you for the work you've done for us. We appreciate the effort you've shown in the past. There's been a lot of late nights and early mornings. But over the past two years, we've noticed a serious decline in your productivity and attitude toward your work. We're not able to rely on you like we once were. We see long lunches and online chatting. We even caught you napping on the job the other day. And we couldn't wake you up! This hurts us more than it hurts you, but we're giving you an ultimatum; either you give us 2007 again, or we're letting you go."

Adam made a vow right then and there that he wouldn't put another dime into The Shatbag. Then, he put the key in the engine, gave 'er a crank, and VARRROOOOMMMMM. The purr of a lioness...and the smell of burnt rubber.

Dejected, but sticking to Adam's vow, we carried that smell up and down between our house and the District until my night sweats were too much. Then, we carried that smell to the dealership and bartered for a gently used Prius...despite my pleas for an Accord.
We cried a little when we drove away and left The Shatbag alone and empty at the dealership. I'm not ashamed. She holds five years of memories in her boat-like frame: the moves, the road trips, the vacations, the errands, the backseat. Wink, wink. While there are things we hope he'll improve on (ahem, two new starters in three years?), this Prius has a lot to live up to, and we told him so.

Then, we dried our tears on the 50 MPG we got on the way home.

Maybe it's your upper lip

2012-01-23T19:01:00.000-08:00

The other day, I went to an eyebrow threading appointment at noon. I guess I had forgotten to tell Adam I was going, because he called my cell phone in a panic.

"Where ARE you?!?"

"I'm walking down 19th Street on my way to get my brows done," I said.

"Um, why?" he inquired further.

"Um, because I can braid them," I replied.

He was incredulous. "In the middle of a work day?!?"

"Yes, I can braid them in the middle of a work day. I can also do it in the evening and at night." I said.

"No! Why are you going to get your eyebrows done in the middle of a work day?" he asked.

"Oh, that! Because that's just the kind of girl I am." I like to think that I'm all sorts of bad arse, but full disclosure: it was my lunch break. I'm by the book from nine to five, but after hours...the shirt comes off. And gets spun around my head.

I got to my appointment, got those mother-lovers tamed, and was about to climb out of the chair when the gal asked me if I'd like my upper lip threaded, too.

"Well, I wasn't planning on it...." I told her.

She suddenly inhaled and widened her eyes, leaned closer to examine my lip, and finally withdrew from me with an indignant lip-curl and an exhalation of bated breath.

"BUT," I quickly rushed on, "If you think I need it, by all means!!"

"Well...you could use a little...cleaning up," she said.

I have no sales resistance. Especially where my upper lip is concerned. So I urgently waved her on.

Ever had your upper lip de-haired? Ever had a colonoscopy? Me neither. But I imagine the pain level to be similar.

My eyes watered, both from a natural reflex to pain and the silent sobs inside me, but it was over before I knew it. Also like a colonoscopy.

I wiped my teary eyes, paid up, and left the salon with what shred of decency I had left...again, colonoscopy-esque. That's the last time I mention colonoscopy. I promise. But if you're good, I might weave in a "colon" for you before we close here today.

The fresh air did wonders for my smarting bald lip and I was feeling right as rain in no time. So right as rain that folks were doing double-takes and staring at me as I walked back to work. And I don't mean "a few peeps looked my way." I mean, every person I passed gave me long moments of uninterrupted eye contact.

Unnerved by all this attention, I did what I always do when I notice an influx of starers: I checked the back of my pants for a wayward piece of toilet paper. (Sooooo been there, done that.) No toilet paper, so I swiped my face to dislodge any stray matter stuck thereon. My hand came back clean. I adjusted my clothing, but my fronts was safety robed (not that ANYONE would have been shocked by THAT peep show). I even checked my hair in a store window, but found it no crazier than usual.

But in my reflection, I was reminded that I was wearing a really cute orange cardigan and my skinniest skinny jeans. Bingo! I look extra hot today! That's it! Men, women, and children alike are literally magnetized to my beauty.

And so, I convinced myself that I was shockingly attractive for once in my life and strutted the last three blocks to my building like haters be hatin'. I even gifted an extremely zealous passerby with a electrifying hair flip on the house, imaging him staggering back in amazement at such ethereal beauty.

Then I had to pee. And I went into the bathroom. And I saw what all the fuss what about.

*sigh*

My upper lip the reddest of all reds.

Now, I worry that what you think I just said was "my lip was red." But what I meant was, my lip looked like someone had taken that red lipstick I've started wearing and drawn a mustache on me.

The nice thing about the city is I'll probably never see those two hundred or so people that I passed on my way back to work.

The problem with the city is that I PASSED TWO HUNDRED OR SO PEOPLE WITH FLAMES SHOOTING FROM MY UPPER LIP.

And because I always keep my promises: colon.

Sick Day Essentials

2012-01-20T19:14:00.000-08:00

I've been bitten by the flu bug. Hard. And it's put me out of the game for a week. I attempted to go to work, but my coworker told me that I looked terrible, sounded awful, and smelled like a cough drop, so I slunk out at halftime and spent the rest of the day watching Downton Abbey with a tissue stuck up my nostrils.
I've heard that a great deal of folks have been down and out so, in case you're currently one of the afflicted undead, I've put together this super helpful list of sick day essentials.

First, you need Puffs Plus Lotion with Vicks. Not Puffs. Not Puffs Plus Lotion. Puffs Plus Lotion with Vicks. And it's important to be a diva about this. In fact, it's important to be a diva about everything when you're sick. Husbands acting as caretakers really enjoy this. Demand sponge baths and muscle rubs. They really like demands. Saturate yourself with plenty of herbal tea. Bladders and bladders full of the stuff. Celestial is, of course, the best brand. Again, think "diva" and settle for nothing less than the best. It basically tastes like Hi-C Fruit Punch. Only without the punch. B-list movies are also a must. Pour money into a monthly subscription to Netflix Online Streaming and tons of wonderfully horrible movies will spring forth. But don't worry: you'll be delirious enough to waste an entire day watching such stimulating titles as Love, Wedding, Marriage and Chaos Theory, both of which you've never heard of and don't really want to see. But the most important element of a sick day is to give yourself a treat to help you stay mentally upbeat even though physically, you're rotting. Like...say....a brand-new 7D camera! That's right. Buy yourself something that you've been coveting, working, saving, wishing, hoping, thinking, praying, planning, and dreaming about forever. Blowing your nose is hard work; you deserve it.
It takes video. Because what your sick day also needs is more Emily.

The streets are paved with cheese.

2012-01-18T04:02:00.000-08:00

Every time I'm out west, it's like I'm seeing Utah for the first time. The soaring Rockies that tickle the sky, the fresh, cool air, the starry night sky that I can actually see. Yes, yes, yes, all of that is very nice indeed. But it's the empty, carless roads and freeways, even during rush hour, that make my breath catch and, as I tick by 45 miles in 40 minutes, I think, "Yep, this is the place."

Don't get me started on free parking. I'm liable to break into song. With high notes.

Be Better

2012-01-16T00:20:00.000-08:00

Adam and I got some really good news last week: he doesn't have a tumor! Any serious Adam fans know about the tumor found in and removed from his neck 10 years ago. And something was/is hard in that same spot on his neck again. He told the doctor his suspicions, I told the doctor my suspicions, she told us her suspicions and ordered an MRI, the poor kid suffered through that ordeal, and then Thursday, it was confirmed that he is just abnormal.

Which I knew all along.

(Kidding, Adam. I really shouldn't pick on you right now because YOU ARE TUMOR-FREE!!! But after the excitement has warn off, wooo buddy, you'd better watch out because I'm coming for you. Full force. Guns blazing. Cat launcher loaded.)

I, of course, mean his scar is abnormal. Ain't no thang; just some thickness. We kissed the doctor ON THE MOUTH, because even a benign tumor means an invasive surgery followed by several weeks of recovery.

We didn't tell folks because there's no point is screaming about a fire you see flames.

But one of my coworkers was in the know because she has no boundaries and when I said, I'll be in early tomorrow because my husband has a very early appointment two blocks away, she inquired further.

And further.

And further.

Good thing I really like her.

Anyway, she asked me for an update and I told her the good news. She cheered appropriately, I thanked her for her concern, and we went along our respective ways.

When I got back from running an errand, I found, on my desk, a gift certificate to a restaurant near where I work with a note: Go out and celebrate "No Tumor" Day!

Annnnddddd now I'm crying again.

The most thoughtful, unexpected gift I've ever gotten. Sans that time in college when Anonymous came to my work and left $100 and a "Merry Christmas!" note. THAT was also amazing because I was broke and starting to siphon gas, but I digress.

The feeling of being remembered felt so good and I immediately wanted to share that with someone. Pay it forward, if you will. Not to be confused with the movie Pay It Forward with that creepy, but downtrodden kid from The Sixth Sense and Kevin Spacey, who is, come on now, one of the best actors of our time. Ever seen K-Pax? That scene at the end where his therapist psycho-hypnotizes him? Shutthefrontdoor, why that scene wasn't bathed is Oscars, I'll never know. I'm digressing again.

I popped open a new email and jotted a quick note to a friend going on a nerve-racking trip ("Good luck! You'll do great! Fly safe! Thoughts and prayers!"). Thoughtfulness was like caffeine for my soul and I immediately felt more positive and optimistic.

After that, I spent the afternoon thinking about thoughtfulness and all those times when I was and was not thoughtful.

And then I started thinking about resolutions. Or rather, my lack thereof.

Aside from my resolve to cook more, I have yet to set any for 2012 because 1) my life it just getting back to normal after the holidays, and 2) I usually jot down a bunch of completely irrational and unattainable goals. Read: I will wash my hair three times a week and No more chocolate. Ever.

I ain't never gonna wash my hair three times a week.

Maybe three times a month.

I'm kidding.

No, I'm not.

I wish I were, though.

Then it dawned on me that my 2012 should be about resolving to be better. Simple as that. I'm just going to be better tomorrow than I was today. And tomorrow, I'm going to be better than I was yesterday.

What does "better" mean? That's hard to define, so I think I'll take it as it comes. I mean, today "better" might mean not punching anyone on the Metro, but tomorrow "better" could mean being thoughtful toward a coworker who found out her husband doesn't have cancer.

I'm getting so comfortable with mediocrity, I don't even bother to put on a bra around it anymore. So, perhaps my bar is set low. Regardless, my goal for this year is simple: To make 2012's Emily better than 2011's Emily. Doable, right? Right.

In our family portrait, we look pretty happy...

2012-01-13T06:33:00.000-08:00

...and then someone gave Adam the camera remote. Rookie mistake. He's always good for a humorous series of photos. I think I'll keep him.

Anniversary Par-tay #4: Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby

2012-01-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

On our actual anniversary, December 28th, (not to be confused with this, this, or this), we left South Carolina and flew to Utah to spend a week with Adam's fam. They picked us up at the airport (We were so excited to see them!) and whisked us off to Temple Square for a fabulous dinner at The Roof Restaurant and a little site-seeing. We're certainly idiots, but we did not overlook the fact that five years to the day, we'd come full circle. And much like Googling Google, the world didn't implode like I thought it would. Huh.

Disappointment is...

2012-01-10T02:03:00.000-08:00

Disappointment is losing my phone in the Charleston, South Carlina airport and finding it a week later...with only two missed calls. Both from Adam.

Disappointment is FINALLY being old enough to rebel against my parents without fatal repercussions and putting magenta feathers in my hair, only to have to call attention to the magenta feathers because they didn't even notice. "Nothing you do shocks us anymore, Emily." Challenge accepted! Their words sting.Disappointment is my husband's sudden onset of seemingly permanent bear growl snoring after five years of peaceful(ish) sleeping. Bear growl snoring was sorta my thing.

Disappointment is every one of the 1,984 miles that separate Adam and I from our besties.Disappointment is this picture. It solidifies what I've suspected all along: I'm the most unphotogenic person on God's green earth. Disappointment is getting wrinkle cream from Santa.

Disappointment is knowing that I asked Santa for said wrinkle cream.

Disappointment is meeting up with old and good girlfriends over the holidays, having a rip-roaring good time, and leaving with the bitter realization that I will never again cross paths with Emily of 1121 Chipman Hall, an 18-year-old idiot who kept the stolen laundry cart in her dorm room for several weeks, dropped a Snickers in the toilet to make it look like, well, you now, and had the wonderful fortune of getting the best roommates ever.Disappointment is making a resolution to personally cook more, and then realizing that I've eaten Panera Bread, Taco Bell, Chipotle, and a meal cooked by Adam since making that resolution...four days ago.

Disappointment is coming back to the office after a blissful and relaxing holiday vacation.

Disappointment is coming back to the office after a blissful and relaxing holiday vacation to nearly 100 unanswered emails.

I need to warn you

2012-01-09T08:01:00.000-08:00

I've started wearing red lipstick. And it does. not. flatter. me.

But I'm forging on.

Because I'm nothing if I'm not a trend-follower.

Shield your eyes.

Snippets of South Carolina

2012-01-07T22:12:00.000-08:00

These bits and pieces of our South Carolina Christmas have no crib for a bed, so I'm going to swaddle them and lay them here in this manger, if you don't mind.

Christmas Eve at Grand Janie's House

2012-01-06T20:12:00.000-08:00

An awesome crew was on hand to bring in the Christmas: Willy and Marc-dawg, my eldest broski and his entourage from Nashville, my best parents ever, Adam and his tiny glass of Baileys, of which he did not partake, and, of course, the ever-fabulous Grand Janie. Don't feel too bad: it's not just your grandmother that my grandmother can beat up; it's everyone's grandmother. And then she'll polish off the night with a nice piece of Martha Stewart and a steaming cup of Julia Child. This party was off the hizook. And by "hizook" I mean killer Christmas tunes, a tiny bit of completely sober dancing [courtesy of me], Meet Me in St. Louis on the tube, all sorts of mess and shrimp for hors d'ourves, prime rib and shiz for din-din, petit fours, chocolate cake, ambrosia (or charlotte, if that's your thing), Dad reading our traditional poem, "Everywhere Everywhere Christmas Tonight," and a big, loud shout of "We're in the Christmas!!" It doesn't get much better. Picture above taken by Willy's brand-spanking-new 60D.

Also, the gold glitter pumps made a second appearance. So, that's noteworthy. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe. Not really at all.

Us, in a nutshell

2012-01-05T19:46:00.000-08:00

Me, doing something ~~idiotic~~ awesome like wearing Christmas balls as earrings and hooting about it. Adam, covering his face out of...what is that? Shame? Disgust? Anxiety? Weary tolerance? Casual acceptance? Overwhelming adoration? That's got to be it. Nailed it.

Also, we made it home! Whereupon we threw open the door to our casa, raved about the welcoming and homey scent of sweet orange zest that laced the air, and then found the source: an entire drawer of rotten (read: molded clean through) oranges in the fridge. OJ, anyone? Perhaps some penicillin?

Annnnddddd I'm opening the blogging floodgates. Because I've missed me. And you. But mostly me.

No alcohol was abused in the making of this film

2011-12-30T21:34:00.001-08:00

Sorry you had to see that. Those people are cah-ra-zy. Sadly, I also have their music in me.

Update: After a nearly five hour flight chocked-full of babies and children (read: PAINFUL), we made it to Utah! And it's been quite balmy! No snow to be had (poor, poor Adam is inconsolable) and no coat required. I'm loving it. But if you'll excuse me. There's a plate of orange cream chocolates softly chanting my name. My public awaits.

Go west, young man..I mean, couple

2011-12-28T16:32:00.000-08:00

After an awkward and panicky shifting of undies from one suitcase to the other at the Southwest check-in counter (10 pounds over!), we're Utah bound. Details from our beachy Christmas coming up, and I'll no-doubt have a bundle of goodies from Utah to share, too. Peace out, South Carolina. It's time to put a little chill in these bones.

70 degrees in December? Yes, please.

2011-12-27T15:55:00.000-08:00

Better late than never: Happy Holidays from sunny South Carolina!

The greeting cards have all been sent

2011-12-21T10:58:00.000-08:00

I kid you not, as I type this Karen Carpenter is singing "The greeting cards have all be sent, the Christmas rush is through." And it's serendipitous because this post is about my Christmas cards. But beyond supplying me with a title, Karen wishing us a Merry Christmas, dahling, has no place in this post. So....see ya, Karen. You died so young....

I don't always send out Christmas cards. Sometimes I make them and they never get printed. And sometimes I pick up a really cheesy pack of cards from the dollar store and slap my name on it. But I really made the effort this year to make it something special. FOR ONCE.The inspiration for the card came from a print of that infamous quote from A Christmas Story that I saw on Etsy. You know the one: "Only one thing in the world could've dragged me away from the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window." Love that quote.

I knew I wanted something simple that incorporated the quotes from both Adam and mine's (mine? me? I? our?) favorite Christmas movies. So, here's what I came up with.I used typographic design and some traditional colors. Then, the back of the card had a couple super-cheesy pictures of Adam and I. Because what's a Christmas card without a super-cheesy picture?I ordered my cards from Mpix this year because my schedule was tight, tight, tight. And they were FAST. I submitted them around 2:00pm on a Saturday and by Sunday morning, I had an email confirmation that they had shipped. They arrived on my doorstep three days later. They even included envelopes in the very reasonable price. And here's where this fairytale derails a tad.

The bane of every designer's existence (or perhaps just mine?) is printing. Nothing hurts worse than seeing your slaved over design replicated under imperfect conditions. These prints from Mpix were sub par-ish. The pictures were grainy as a bucket of rice and several of the graphics had what I call "The Hatred Aura" around them. To be fair, the colors were good and rich, but the crispness was just lacking.
My mother says one should never point out one's imperfections. But I pride myself in my honest approach to shiz I post on this blog. Because after all, this blog is ~~for the good of mankind~~ all about me and mine. And me and mine cannot give Mpix two thumbs-up.

BUT I put on a brave face for the children (Adam) and had my elf (also Adam) use his darling calligraphy skillz to address them...while I fanned myself and bemoaned the quality a titch more. And that's enough of that!

Let the Tour de United States begin! Tomorrow, lovelies, I'm flying to South Carolina for a week and then Utah for a week! My suitcase doesn't know whether to grow flowers or hibernate. But it'll be fun to have two totally opposite Christmas experiences! I'll be around-ish. But in case I'm not, Merry Christmas, dahling...Happy New Year, too! Welcome back, Karen. Welcome back.

Because I couldn't afford 20 bottles of wine

2011-12-20T09:10:00.000-08:00

What would you give a whole bunch of stressed out ~~(and slightly humorless)~~ academics for Christmas? PhDs are a super-hard lot to buy for...especially with a budget like mine (which is nada). Why, a panic button of course! An impractical, useless gimmick; it's the gift that keeps on giving ~~absolutely nothing~~. They loved it. Around $1.00 a piece and 15 minutes of my time making the labels, I loved it, too! I wonder how many years I can milk this one for? Can one have too many panic buttons?

Anniversary Par-tay #3 (really just an extension of #2, but whatever)

2011-12-18T09:31:00.000-08:00

The night before the fifth night of 'versary, thinking that the final gift would be a tangible item like the previous four, I asked Adam why it had been so important that those gold glitter heels get here by December 17th. His reply: "It's just time for you to grow-up now and own a pair of gold glitter heels."

Which made me laugh.

But then I stopped laughing when he presented me with reservations at 1789 Restaurant in Georgetown and tickets to Billy Elliot because I was busy running around the room high-fiving everything in sight. Including myself.

We got dolled up.I wore lethal amounts of gold and glitter.
Adam wore lethal amounts of black.
We took a taxi to 1789.Which is the nicest restaurant I've ever been to. The menu was even printed with "Happy 5th Anniversary!" Gee garsh, thanks.

So we reciprocated by being equally sophisticated. Adam asked me if I'd like a slurp of his sausage soup. I used my steak knife to schmear butter on my roll. I used the word "schmear." And we both hoped the food was "as good as Texas Roadhouse." We needn't have worried about that, though. Adam's steak was so heavenly, it sent him into a dreamland from which he has yet to emerge. My lobster farro (whatever the heck that is) was creamy enough for my food libido.
We took a taxi to The Kennedy Center...where we were greeted and ushered inside by a doorman. Like we actually were somebody, instead of a couple of rubes who didn't know the difference between sparkling and still water. Oh wait. That was just me. Adam's the one that got a Coke with a bendy straw in it.The Opera House inside The Kennedy Center is so lush. Picture your local movie theater. It's nothing like that.Here's where my gushing goes from tolerable to excessive: Billy Elliot was unapologetically brash. I was at once appalled and delighted. I danced in my seat and choked back sobs, sometimes within the same minute. Conservative folks beware: folks are a mite bit potty-mouthed in the show; plus, there's a number wherein a young chap dresses in women's clothing. But the acting was spot on, the dancing was breathtaking, the scenery was completely inspired, and the costumes were delicious. A magical show; loved it to bits.

High on sophistication and the arts, we ended the evening with a 7-Eleven hot chocolate run. Because you can take Adam and Emily out of IHOP, but you can't take the IHOP out of Adam and Emily.

At the risk of ruining my image (what image?), it must be said that this LBD came to me through my very favorite store, The Salvation Army. Calvin Klein. New with tags. A dress with pockets for $4.00!?! Yes please. After a little nip and tuck (it was a smidge too big) from my momma, it fits like a glove.

Anniversary Par-tay #2 or Five Fun Days

2011-12-17T21:45:00.000-08:00

Remember when Adam alluded to his plans for our anniversary?

I've been waiting on pins and needles, wondering if around every corner I'd find a clown, holding balloons, and singing A Bushel and a Peck. I needn't have wondered though because all the clowns in the world holding all the balloons in the world and singing every version of A Bushel and a Peck couldn't have held a candle to this week.

Adam got me a present every day of the week, starting Monday. He called it "Five Fun Days for Five Fun Years." TM. Yes, he trademarked it. Each morning, immediately after wrenching himself out of bed, hair all skiwampus and breath, well, dicey, he'd present the gift to me and sing a bar of an original song entitled The Five Days of 'Versary, set to the tune of The Twelve Days of Christmas. Also copyrighted.

In the words of Aaron Carter, it goes a little something like this:

On the First Day of 'Versary, my true love gave to me, a box of chocolates just for me.But I shared. Because that's just the kind of girl I am.

On the Second Day of 'Versary, my true love gave to me, something made of wood and a box of chocolates just for me.Because fifth year is the wooden year or something. But more importantly, it's a hairbrush. A wooden, boar hair, hairbrush. That man is crazy-inside my head.

On the Third Day of 'Versary, my true love gave to me, a really cheesy t-shirt, something made of wood, and a box of chocolates just for me.This requires a brief digression. Oh, twist my arm! A digression! Adam took me to see Superman in the theater on our fourth date or so. Where we did some steamy cudding. Later, when he dropped me off at my parent's house (it was summertime and I was leaching), nerves must have confiscated his frontal lobe because he goes, "Thanks for cuddling with me." Ew. Ew. Ew. Gross. Gross. Gross. Like an adult, I ran inside, gave myself a cootie shot, and told my mother that I didn't think I'd go out with him again because he had cheese sauce coming out of his mouth.

And then we were engaged five weeks later.

Onward and upward.

On the Fourth Day of 'Versary, my true love gave to me, a brand-new pair of Sperrys, a really cheesy t-shirt, something made of wood, and a box of chocolates just for me.Because it's important that Adam and I look identical and androgynous when we're in public. Also, I've wanted Sperrys for.ev.er.

On the Fifth Day of 'Versary, my true love gave to me, a fancy dinner date......,*big finale* a brand-new pair of Sperrys, a really cheesy t-shirt, something made of wood, and a box of chocolates just for me! Yes, those are tickets to Billy Elliot. Yes, we used them tonight. Yes, we'll talk about it tomorrow. Yes, the aforementioned gold glitter pumps made their debut.

I'm so lucky that Adam directs his testosterone toward thoughtful practices instead of sportish ones. So. Freaking. Lucky.

Holiday Tuneage

2011-12-14T06:09:00.000-08:00

A very important matter of business must be discussed. Urgently.

In order, my top five favorite nonreligious Christmas songs are:

1) Cool Yule, as sung by The Divine Miss M
2) Step Into Christmas, by the great Elton John
3) Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, by the one and only Judy Garland
4) No Place Like Home for the Holidays, by Perry Como
5) One Little Christmas Tree, sing it, Stevie

Whew. I'm glad that's settled.

Now, if you wanna talk Jesus, I've got a whole 'nother list to share.

And yours are...????

These pictures are worth a thousand words. Maybe a million.

2011-12-12T17:45:00.000-08:00

I've done a lot of really awesome things in my life. But forcing* Adam to wear a scarf, hold a holiday mug, and sit still while I set up the camera for our Christmas card picture tops the list.

He l-uh-ved it.
Oh, dear me, I really like him.

You wanna see our Christmas card? No? Too bad. I'm going to show it to you anyway. Soon. I'm impatiently awaiting its arrival...

*Actually, I didn't have to force Adam to hold a holiday mug or wear a scarf. Since he saw the cover of James Taylor's Christmas album, he's dreamed of mocking, I mean, replicating it. That James Taylor. Such a trendsetter.

Oh, nothing.

2011-12-11T09:57:00.000-08:00

Just sitting on the couch. In my warm, clean house. Next to an enormous poinsettia. Admiring my shining tree. Sniffing a bowl full of cinnamon pine cones. Watching The Family Stone. Drinking hot chocolate. Wearing my grandma slippers. Working on a Christmas present for Adam.
This charming moment (that for once wasn't overlooked) is going right here for safekeeping.

The Tale of Law School Finals

2011-12-09T06:24:00.000-08:00

One year ago this finals week, I was singing along to Santa Baby, minding my own business...OK, wait. That's not true. More likely, I was using the tie of my bathrobe as a boa and wrapping it around Adam while he was trying to study. I've never really been good at "minding my own business."

In fact, let's pause here to talk about me, shall we? ME!

For some reason, I get INSANELY jealous of Adam's mistress. She swoops in every four months and commands my husband's attention in the way I never can. She keeps him enraptured morning, noon, and late, late, late into the night. He thinks about her, worries about her, and talks about her nonstop. He cancels dates with me to be with her and it's all about scoring with her.

Her name is Finals and I hate that biotch.

And so I disregard her. If I don't think about her, maybe she'll go away. If I pretend that things are normal and that there's not a homewrecker among us, then maybe I can steal my husband back. Logically, I realize that it's good and right for students to study. But the beast that rages inside me, making me eat handfuls of Joe-Joe's and use words like "biotch," does not. And honestly, like all the past mistresses to disrupt our happy home, she's gone faster than you can say, "Maybe we can be sister wives." But in the throws, I feel very resentful for those hateful four weeks. Or six, in Adam's case.

Anyway, back to Santa Baby. Adam looked up from his studying and mumbled, "Stop singing that song. You're not sexy."

I once watched this episode of Grey's Anatomy where a couple came into the hospital for the husband to have a tumor removed from his brain. The tumor was sitting on whatever the technical name for his "filter" is so he didn't have the ability to hold in his emotions. He was moody, irrational, and saying all manner of nasty things to his wife: "Those pants make your butt look huge" and "You know, I've always hated your family."

She kept saying, "It's not him; it's the tumor." Wise words indeed.

And so, when I was deemed "not sexy," I vowed to take a pole dancing class, heaved a few dramatic sobs for emphasis, and reminded myself: it's not him; it's ~~tumor~~ Finals.

As soon as he got rid of the tumor, I mean Finals, a week later, he did, in fact, find me sexy whilst singing Santa Baby, despite that I had not followed through on my pole dancing vow and I was still wearing my rather becoming bathrobe.

The year before, I asked Adam to do a few things around the cottage. To be fair, "a few things," was more likely a laundry list. Just trying to command my husband around the way that little hussie does. What? Nobody's perfect. My point is, he, um, got really upset about my request. I'm going to spare his reputation, but just know that toddlers could learn a thing or two about tantrums. I learned a thing or two about tantrums that I have since implemented into my repertoire. It's wasn't him; it was ~~tumor~~ Finals.

I'm happy to report that so far, this exam season has been mild in comparison. On both fronts. I've been more tolerant of Finals and even encouraging of their association. Adam's been absent, but not absurd.

There was this, though:

Adam: Can I read you my Supreme Court opinion [from Hell]? (I just added that last part. Ad lib and stuff.)
Me: No.
Adam: Come on, Emy. It's only 30 pages.
Me: Oh yeah? OK, then.
Adam: Really?
Me: No.
Adam: Why not?!?

At that point, I smacked my hands over my ears and started singing a tuneless "la-la-la-la-la." My friends call me Maturity. He persisted: "It helps me to read it outloud!!!" So, I started moaning and pulling at my hair and renting my clothing. "Please!" At this point, I feigned sudden deafness and locked myself in the bathroom.

It's not me; it's ~~tumor~~ Finals.

In all seriousness, just one more week! Adam, you can do it! Sprint to the finish! Or jog. Or walk. Or just sit down and I'll come pick you up and drive you to the finish. Or better yet, I'll drive you to Taco Bell so we can carboload and THEN I'll drive you to the finish. Forget the finish. We'll just go home and I'll sing Santa Baby for you. Because by then, I'll be sexy again.

The Future of Medicine

2011-12-06T18:32:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, at 11:37am, I got the following email from my doctor:

"Hi Emily,

your PAP is normal=Negative=good news :)

happy Holiday season,
Dr. kb

Sent from my iPhone"

Sunday. Email. Emoticon. iPhone.

This is 21st Century medicine, folks. Paps make you LOL, right, Dr. kb? semicolon close parenthesis