I really don’t have much to say through the foggy haze of my sleep-deprived mind, but 2 things:
1) Why, why — when he knows I have a job that keeps me up half the night on the weekends and he’s been a bartender himself, would my neighbor decide that 8:00 a.m. is an appropriate time to use a chain saw?
It kind of makes me hate the suburbs.
2) Did you know that Fayetteville, NC, approximately 20 minutes away from where I live, is where the American Humanist Association is apparently planning a 2-day extravaganza with over 175,000 attendees to celebrate what they expect to be the failure of the prediction that the world will end tonight?
All I can say is if the world doesn’t end tonight, it should be one Hell heck of a party.
The Rapture is predicted to happen at 6:00. I’m supposed to be at the bar to work at 6:00.
Honestly? I can’t say I’ll be too bummed if I don’t make it.
P.S. How much you wanna bet that my ex-counselorwon’t be attending the Atheist party?
I don’t know what’s going on with the Universe right now, but I’m guessing it has something to do with the tides and the moon and waxing and waning and the frogs in the pond in front of my house because I have been attacked by not one, but two dogs in the past 5 days.
And the humiliating thing is that they’re not even dog dogs. Each was a little rat-yapper, adorable and cuddly on the outside, and vicious, maniacal, bad-ass dog wannabes on the… well… outside.
In order for you to understand my seemingly irrational fear of these 4-pound monsters with sharp, sharp teeth, I need to take you back to the summer of 2004, when Justin and I lived in our first horrible apartment together in Valdosta, Georgia. It was the kind of place where we could hear our neighbors screaming at each other in thick, southern accents through uninsulated walls, and where large, burley men named “Chops” drank beers from coolers in the back of their pickup trucks in the parking lot.
It’s important for you to know that I am not even exaggerating a little.
And Chops was actually a really nice guy. He almost always offered me a beer.
One particularly beautiful day, I decided to take a walk through the ‘hood. (In retrospect, this was not my most brilliant idea, considering we lived on the edge of exactly that — a ‘hood.) I passed a home with two adorable black and brown daschunds (those ridiculous but oh-so-cute little wiener dogs) playing in the front yard. I noticed that one was tied up and the other was not, and it occurred to me that the untied dog was probably a stray.
Now. I’m the type of person who, if I encounter a stray dog that I don’t deem dangerous, will try to “save” it and find its proper owners. So I crouched down on the sidewalk, a good 20 feet away from the stray, and extended my hand, palm-up, as an offering of peace and friendship — the human equivalent of an offered butt to sniff.
Come here, little fella. Let me see if you have a collar.
The dog’s response?
His hairs immediately stood in a straight line down his back — a line I call the line of meanness when it comes to angry dogs — a line that says, you probably shouldn’t f*ck with me right now because I have a line of meanness running straight down my back that displays my unmistakable ferocity to would-be predators.
Then he bared his teeth. A mouth full of sharp little angry alligator teeth that — I’m not going to lie — would most definitely hurt if they were to chomp down on… say may ankle, since that’s about as high as he could reach.
And then? Then he barked. Well. It wasn’t so much a bark as a yap that just wouldn’t stop, and it struck me as ridiculously hilarious that this little turd of a dog responded to my mild approach in full-on attack mode.
It was like this, except meaner. Much, much meaner.
But here’s where it gets embarrassing. The second the chuckle escaped my lips, the dog took off, headed straight for my face. Apparently, he did not find it amusing.
So, I reacted with my gut, and I ran. I ran back the direction I’d come, and that little effer chased me down the street. Once he felt I was a suitable distance away from the house, his line of meanness flattened out and he returned to his docile playmate, still tied up in the yard.
What. The. Hell.
That did not just happen. I turned around, determined to pull up my big girl panties and pass the house unscathed, but the second he sensed my approach, up went the hairs and out came the teeth, like I’d angered the Hulk or something in wiener dog form, and you know what I did?
I went down another block to pass the house.
It was an emotionally traumatic experience.
So, fast forward seven years to my latest encounter this past weekend with the yappy little mutt of my neighbor’s who, while he appears ferocious and hyper as little dogs go, is usually very licky and wiggly when you actually head over to play.
But not this time.
This time, for some inexplicable reason, he found it pertinent to latch himself to my arm using only his teeth, and let me tell you — it hurt like a sonofabitch.
I impulsively dislodged the dangling black critter’s teeth from my flesh and continued next door to complete the task I’d set out to start, which was letting my other neighbors’ dogs outside while the owners were out-of-town — much nicer and gentler dogs in the form of a German Shepherd and Chow-mix. Then I headed home to Justin’s graduation party and dulled the pain with Cabernet and Southern Comfort, though not at the same time.
The bite left a small wound and a bruise that has since turned a lovely shade of yellow and will probably leave a scar as a helpful reminder that tiny, vicious dogs are not to be trusted.
And just in case I didn’t get the message, I was walking Mara across a dam in our neighborhood yesterday, when from out of nowhere this little yapper was suddenly about 10 feet behind us and closing in quick, the line of meanness prominently standing on its deceivingly adorable and fuzzy little back.
Startled, we turned to face it head-on.
Luckily this time, I was prepared. I was prepared with a beast who had 50 pounds on this thing easy, and all Mara had to do was take one aggressive step in its direction in my defense, and it immediately pulled a 180 and ran off from whence it came.
And now?
Now I’m pretty sure I can never leave home without her.
*Disclaimer: I do NOT think all small dogs are mean. I have met plenty of friendly daschunds and other yappers who haven’t attacked me. It just so happens to be that those are the only kinds of dogs who have attacked me, hence the generalization.
Although I read through all of the comments to the giveaway, I knew the only fair way to pick a winner was to use random.org to select the winning comment number. Some of your responses to what kind of wine you enjoy cracked me up — and others I’ve added to my list “to try.”
***THE WINNER HAS BEEN RANDOMLY CHOSEN!***
This giveaway is no longer accepting entries. I used random.org to select the comment number of the winner, and the winner is:
Rebecca! (Who likes a Pinot Noir.)
Thanks to those who participated — I wish I could send plant nannies to all of you!
So. In case you didn’t notice, I have a fantastic giveaway going on right here. And let me just say this: Many, many more people viewed the giveaway than entered, and I’m thinking either 1) This giveaway is not lame – it’s just that only certain people are cool enough to want it; or 2) You couldn’t figure out how to leave a comment or were scared to leave one because you thought I might judge you for your choice of wine.
All I can say is, 1) Be cool. Enter the contest; 2) Click on the number of comments at the bottom of the post to leave a comment from the main page or just scroll down to the bottom of the comments and type something in the “leave a reply” box; 3) While I don’t believe all wines are created equal, I do believe that there are people in the world who aren’t going to think exactly the way I think or like the exact things I like. Rest assured I’m the last person to judge. I think we established that here.
Now that the boring business stuff is out of the way, I noticed that I’ve been getting some new readers lately who’ve been leaving really, really nice comments. I’m not sure where you’re coming from, but thank you. Also, I’m super amazed when some of you who’ve been reading this for a while now mention something I posted 6 months to a year ago. I mean — I don’t even remember what I posted this week, let alone last year, so thank you for continuing to not only read my public account of my successes and failures, but for actually remembering it.
On second thought, feel free to forget about my failures. Who wants to remember those?
If there’s anything at which I fail on a regular basis, it’s cooking. That’s a big reason I like to share recipes on this site — to catalog those occasions when it actually works out — if not exactly according to plan, at least it’s still edible.
It’s been a while since I posted a recipe, and since we had a bit of company last weekend, I thought I’d share an old favorite that I use almost every time we have house guests: The Breakfast Sausage Casserole.
For those of you who are new and don’t understand why a self-proclaimed domestiphobe is getting all Betty Crocker on you, the short answer is that I’m a learner. I like to evolve. If I’m bad at something but I enjoy it anyway, I make the effort to get better. So if you’re scared of cooking but want to learn, there’s no better way than to just dive right in. Accept the fact that mistakes will be made, and we’ll all get along just fine.
(And trust me — sometimes there’s nothing more therapeutic than chopping up an onion and throwing it into a simmering pan of butter — especially if you have a particularly vivid imagination and can picture the onion as a crazy ex boss or that horrible guy (or girl) who broke your heart for no reason back in college. This is all figurative, of course.)
And if you’re not afraid of cooking and are already pretty excellent at it and consistently pronounce the word prosciuttowith an accurate Italian accent, you might just want to go ahead and skip this post entirely.
So. Breakfast casserole. This is a classic recipe that everyone should keep in their arsenal for low-maintenance house guests because it’s relatively inexpensive, it feeds a lot of people, and the leftovers are fantastic. Plus, you make it the night before, so all your hungover self has to do in the morning is preheat the oven and pop it in.
There are many variations of this dish — I know Justin’s mom has at least 2 different and delicious recipes she makes when we visit — but this one is my favorite because I got it from my grandmother.
To make it, you will need:
2 lb. Sausage (As usual, I use Jimmy Dean’s sausage. For this one, I use one hot and one regular. I make too many things with sausage. I think I have a problem.)
3 cups of seasoned croutons (any brand will do)
2 cups of shredded cheese (any kind – cheddar, marbled… I think this time I used a brick of blended Monterrey Jack and cheddar. You can buy the bags of pre-shredded stuff, but I think it tastes better when you grate your own.)
6 eggs
2 1/2 cups milk
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 tsp. dried mustard
1 small can mushrooms, drained (optional) (This would also be great with some fresh sautéed mushrooms.)
I apologize for the lack of step-by-step photos in this post. I may have been a glass of wine into making this and distracted because our guest had already arrived.
1) Heat a large pan over medium-high heat. Add the sausage, break it up and heat until it’s fully cooked (no longer pink).
[Imagine there’s a picture of sausage cooking on the stove here. I’m sure I have one somewhere from the other 8-bagillion sausage recipes I have here, but I’m too lazy to look.]
2) While the sausage is cooking, grease a 9×13″ pan and layer the croutons on the bottom. These will eventually become a soft crust for the casserole.
3) Sprinkle the 2 cups of cheese over the croutons.
4) When the sausage is finished cooking, drain the grease (or use a slotted spoon) and layer the sausage over the cheese.
Note: This is a pretty basic and hard-to-screw-up recipe, but I will have you know that the layering is important. If you mess up the order, you could end up with croutons floating at the top, and that just doesn’t make sense. I might have learned this from experience.
5) In a large bowl, beat the 6 eggs with a fork. Stir in the teaspoon of dried mustard, 2 1/2 cups of milk, and can of cream of mushroom soup.
Pour this mixture over the top of the sausage.
It will be lumpy and perfect.
Now’s also the time to add the canned mushrooms if you’re using them. This time, I did not.
6) Cover and let it sit in your fridge overnight. This is when the croutons will soak up all that milky, eggy goodness to form a nice, soft crust once baked.
7) Set your alarm for a couple of hours before you want to eat. Drag your bedraggled self to the kitchen and preheat your oven to 300-degrees Fahrenheit. Nap on the couch until the oven is preheated. When the oven is preheated, stick in the casserole and go back to bed for 1 1/2 hours.
Or, if you’re smart, make coffee — lots of coffee — and wait for the casserole. Because if you have a crappy oven like mine, the casserole might get a little… crisp.
But the amazing thing is that it’s still SO good!
This holds together a lot better if you actually let it cool a bit before devouring.
It’s not fancy. There’s no prosciutto. It uses canned soup, for crying out loud.
But it reminds me of a Sunday morning at grandma’s. Before life got all… hard.
And that, my friends, is worth every, delicious, sausagy bite.
Today, I was shocked – shocked – when I went to the Domestiphobia Facebook Page and saw that 100 people like it:
I mean, seriously?
I don’t think I could name 100 people who like me in real life. So the fact that you come to this site and read it and maybe actually even get something out of it from time to time, really – and I mean really – means a lot to me.
I’m pretty sure there’s no better feeling than jumping out of a plane. Or maybe I should say, there’s no feeling like it.
Anyway.
To celebrate this little milestone (in addition to attending a wine tasting for employees at the bar tonight, because we all know that free wine = good times), I’m doing 2 things:
1) Announcing that Domestiphobia is now on Twitter. I created the account about 3-ish weeks ago and still don’t really know how to use it. But if you’re on Twitter, and you happen to want to “follow” me, it might encourage me to… I don’t know… actually figure out what I’m doing over there.
2) Conducting a giveaway. (Is conducting the right word? Hosting? Having? Doing? I think I’m losing my mind.) That’s right, my friends – I’m going to give something FREE to one lucky commenter.
Just what are you giving away? you might ask. Because I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re probably thinking, I bet she’s giving away a crappy coupon book for free hugs or that old dishwasher she can’t get rid of that’s been sitting in her garage for the past 2 years.
And to that, I say, What the hell is wrong with a coupon book for free hugs?! Seriously – mine usually go for like $5 a pop.
And while I still think the hug thing is an excellent idea – especially because I’d likely get to travel somewhere new and interesting just to deliver said hug – the giveaway is more along the lines of the dishwasher option in the sense that I’m getting rid of something I’ve had sitting in the closet for quite some time and never got around to using.
No, I’m not giving you a bottle of wine. Like one of those would sit in MY closet unused.
Remember when I bought these Plant Nannies to use in my garden? Well, I never opened one of the boxes, and at the rate my last garden was destroyed by termites, I’m thinking it might be a long while before I use them again.
So today I’m giving away my last box of (4) Plant Nannies!
Oh, yikes. That sounded a lot more exciting before I typed it out.
Is this a crappy giveaway? If so, I’m sorry. I’d love to give something more extravagant, but I’m unemployed, people. So you’ll take my ceramic plant feeders and you’ll like ’em.
And you don’t need a garden to use them. In fact, they work great in pots as well, if you just want to try your hand at growing one plant at a time.
See? They make your plants look like winos.
Which is really pretty hilarious.
And if you actually take the time to remove the labels from the wine bottles, it can look quite pretty.
But I think we all know I like to do things half-way. ‘Cause that’s how domestiphobes roll.
So anyway. If you win these totally awesome nannies for your plants (because all nannies should feed their kids wine), you can go get all stinky in your garden and grow some beautiful and/or delicious greens to make your life a little better.
And speaking of stinky readers, maybe that coupon book of hugs wasn’t such a good idea.
No offense.
The not-so-fine print:
1. I’m really really sorry to my international readers, but Justin will only support me shipping this within the continental U.S. You see, until I’m actually making money, he’s not that thrilled with me giving ours away. Which, dammit – makes sense.
2. To enter, simply leave a comment to this post telling me what kind of wine (if any) you prefer. Chardonnay? Sweet red? Boxed? With some fava beans and a nice chianti? And if you don’t drink wine, why the hell not?? (Allergies, pregnancy, and legal age limit are the only real excuses I can think of.)
3. I will use some type of random comment selector thing to pick the winning comment. All entries must be in by 4:00 p.m. Eastern Time on Wednesday, May 18th, 2011. Once the winner is randomly chosen, I will announce it on this page and contact the lucky reader for a shipping address.
4. This box of plant nannies has never been used. I will pack them as cushily as I can, but I am not responsible for any that might break during shipping. If any of them do break, I deeply, sincerely apologize. And I’ll send you a complimentary virtual hug – no matter how stinky you are – to make up for it.
*If you don’t want to read this post in its entirety, which is completely understandable, you might at least want to skip to the end for an announcement. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Have you ever had a weekend that’s so utterly fantastic that you just can’t stand for it to be over? And the beauty is that it was so great, you didn’t even waste any time worrying about the fact that it would eventually end. Every millisecond was spent in blissful enjoyment – in the here and now – and not an ounce was wasted on worry or dread over its impending end.
Now that it’s over and I’m coming down from the high, I feel less sad and more satiated.
Dare I say?
Content.
Did you know that it’s constant worry that does that to us? Worrying about the future and longing for happy times of the past takes our lives away, bit by bit, making us forget to just sit back and enjoy the ride.
I blame my recent lack of living in the present for the faint lines across my forehead and shadows beneath my eyes.
But the good news is that my eye crinkles can be blamed on laughter.
So I’m not a total loss.
And this weekend, I did enjoy the ride. Thoroughly. Friday was as relaxed as it gets, with nothing more than eating and dog-walking on the agenda:
Breakfast sausage casserole. Recipe to come.
When it’s hot outside, we all could use a dip in the lake.
Saturday was Justin’s graduation day, and it was filled with wonderful friends and amazing food.
And wine. Lots of wine:
I whisper-yelled, “Justin!” and they both turned around. Guess which one’s mine?
Beautiful mother-to-be, Alaina.
My favorite would-be brother-in-law, Dirk. And not just because he picked a great bottle of wine to go with lunch.
Later that night, the steak also did its thang. Mostly to my thighs.
(Dirk and Alaina bought a cow awhile back. Then they brought like half of it – in the form of three 800 lb. steaks – to our house for dinner.)
Besides wrinkles from worry and crows’ feet from laughter, I’m sure I’ll have a few more lines to blame on my own stupidity for going to the beach and forgetting sunscreen the sun. Due to a family emergency, Catherine wasn’t able to meet us at the lake yesterday. We were bummed, but we reasoned that we are in a coastal state, and it’d be a shame for Matthew to make it this far without seeing the Atlantic Ocean.
So we grabbed a few necessities – towels, bathing suits, sunglasses, and of course cameras, completely neglecting the most obvious of beach-going accoutrements for pasty white Midwesterners, which is sunscreen.
(And kids, when it comes to sun safety, I don’t like to play. No, I don’t find it amusing that I have a bow-shaped burn line on my back from the tie on my bathing suit top, nor do I find it amusing that I could die from melanoma. Fortunately, we all know I won’t have to worry about bow-shaped tan lines in Spain. Only burned nipples. Which might, admittedly, be worse. So it’s safe to say I won’t be forgetting the sunscreen there.)
Aside from our lobster-like appearance, our impromptu trip to the coast inspired the elusive joy that travel-on-a-whim never fails to make me feel. I was reminded that I don’t always need to fly far to experience a life less ordinary.
What is it about the beach, anyway? I mean, it’s hot and dirty and I always end up with little sand mosaics embedded into my skin and we won’t even talk about the other pitfalls of sand ending up in places sand really shouldn’t be, but still we go and we complain about the crowds and we dig in the sand and we crisp in the sun just to experience that wash of awe when we realize we’ve gone as far as we can possibly go without a little help.
Or a yacht.
In a couple of weeks, I’ll be on the other side of that water.
Crazy, huh?
Speaking of crazy, Domestiphobia reached a milestone recently. A milestone I plan to celebrate later this afternoon. So. If you’ve made it this far in this post, you probably, definitely, for sure want to check back later today for something I’ve never done before.
I realize I started this post by telling you to live in the present and not worry about the future, but you should probably forget all that because this is something to get excited about.
But I have an excuse. See, first there were 2 days of painting.
Then a day of cleaning and grocery shopping.
So basically, it was 3 days of a domestiphobe’s worst nightmare.
And now?
Now we have a house guest. And contrary to how most people feel about house guests, I feel like I can finally relax.
Want to know what a leisurely Friday morning looks like to a couple of bloggers?
Yeah. It’s not too shabby.
Matthew (from Inside the Nice Guy) is here for Justin’s college graduation this weekend. So we knew each other way before our blogging days. In fact, I met them both on the same day – exactly 8 years ago on May 20th.
Today will be relaxing. Filled with eating, dog walking (when it’s not raining), movie watching (the boys are seeing Thor while I sit blissfully through some brainless chick flick), more eating, and occasional drinking (coffee and orange juice included).
Saturday is graduation day. Friends are coming to celebrate with us, and it should be another excellent day filled with wonderful food and even wonderfuller (yes that’s a word according to me) people.
Then on Sunday, we’re meeting up with another blogging friend, Catherine, from Simply Solo, at her family’s infamous lake house. We’ve never met in person, but if she’s half as cool as she seems on her blog and Facebook, we’re in for a good time.
I’d love to write more, but when you bring two self-proclaimed geeks (who also happen to be lifelong friends) together in the same kitchen, it gets hard to type over the constant buzz of laptop movie trailers and George Lucas analyses.
But you won’t find me complaining. Right now I’m surrounded by close friends, delicious food, and excellent coffee.
Soo… does anyone know how to quickly defrost a used paint roller?
Anyone?
More important, does anyone know how to get paint out from under my nails? And out of my hair? And how the heck did it get in my bra??
What? I have to take a shower?
Well forget that.
Paint-laced sweat is now my signature scent.
I think the customers at work tonight will really love it. Because at this point, there’s clearly no way I’m going to have time to finish this and shower before heading to the bar. So they have to love it.
But back to my frozen roller question: See, after wiping down all of the trim and baseboards, removing the switch and outlet plates, taking pictures and mirrors down from the walls, patching holes I know I won’t use again, and moving some of the furniture, I only had time to do one round of cutting in with the brush and one coat with the roller before the room was full of shadows and my body gave out.
Plus, Justin had come home with Thai food and once I sat down to eat it, I didn’t really feel I had the option to get back up again.
(By the way, when I say things like “cutting in with the brush,” that’s fancy painter speak for, “I had to outline every damn inch of crown molding, base boards, inside corners, window trim, and door frames – that’s EIGHT door frames – in our living room and hallway with a paint brush before I could cover the walls using the roller.)
So when I finished Round 1 last night, I wrapped my roller and leftover paint in the tray with plastic wrap and stuck ’em in the freezer. This usually works well for re-use in a day or two without having to wash the roller and waste all that paint, assuming you remember to… that’s right… take it out of the freezer.
**UPDATE: My friend “laxsupermom” over at Sugar & Spice in the Land of Balls & Sticks informed me in the comments that I am, in fact, a crack head and paint rollers should go in the refrigerator — not the freezer, otherwise you end up with “paintcicles” (which I did). She also said freezers are for vodka, which would explain the looks I get from guests when I pull my vodka bottles out of the garden. Clearly, I still have some learning to do.
I finished Round 2 of cutting in this morning, washed my brush, ate some lunch, and then realized my roller was still in the freezer.
Doh.
And with just over 3 hours before I have to leave for work, I’m wondering, really, if maybe a darker paint border around every wall and piece of trimwork surrounding a patchy, single coat center might become a trend if I just leave it like this and post pictures of the “finished” room all over the internet.
What? I’m not that cool?
I bet if these guys did it, you’d think it was cool.
Whaddya say, Sherry and John? How about only half finishing a paint job in one of your rooms to make me look good?
No?
Well fine.
I guess I’ll have to finish. My left bicep will thank you, but the rest of my body?
Let’s just say the road to forgiveness is a long one.
Well, happy Monday morning, everyone! Or is that just me because I’m sitting here at my computer in my kitchen wearing shorts and a t-shirt and sipping coffee while the rest of you suckas are like dressed and working and showered and stuff?
If it makes you feel any better, I worked hard for the money this weekend — so hard for the money.
Flashdance, anyone?
Except, of course, dancing is not what I was doing.
I was serving food and beverages to patrons who, for the most part, are usually pretty cool, but for some reason this weekend were mostly complete asswipes who couldn’t bring themselves to tip more than 10%, which might be okay for some crummy waitress who never smiles and messes up your order and doesn’t refill your drinks, but trust me when I say I’m nothing if not great at my job and if you’re tipping me only 10%, there is seriously something wrong with you.
Really. It’s not me. It’s you.
(The exception on Thursday was the lovely mother/daughter duo who had me take their picture and almost made me cry over the sheer… genuineness of their relationship and also tipped me $18 because they’re pretty much the best people in the world.)
Also, I’m painting my entire living room today (and most likely tomorrow because, as I’ve explained before, painting is not necessarily just a let’s-slap-some-color-on-these-walls-and-call-it-a-day type of project — it’s a meticulous, tedious, back-breaking, laborious undertaking, the likes of which I’d wish on all tight-wad tippers of these Great United States for the rest of eternity).
I painted the crown molding last week, a task I’ve been putting off for four years since we painted the living room the first time without taping off the molding because we knew we’d be painting it (eventually). And unfortunately, now that the molding is all crisp and clean and white and looking brand-spankin’-new, it’s become painfully clear that the walls need repainting as well.
The thing is, it really would’ve made more sense to paint the trim first (oh yeah… I still have to paint the baseboards, too) because I can do that without taping off the walls, and then I can use my awesome little short-handled brush to cut-in along the trim with the wall paint without having to tape anything off, just like I did in the office.
Sure, I have to be a bit more careful while I’m “tracing” the outsides of the room, but I assure you it’s quicker (and cheaper) than applying all that tape.
So why am I repainting the living room?
Two reasons:
1) It was the first room we painted when we moved in, and we had no clue what we were doing. The “neutral” color we picked turned out to be pretty yellow, and while I personally loved the green accent wall around the fireplace, we realize that one day we’ll actually have to sell this place and it’s probably wise to choose something that will appeal to more buyers. Also, we originally used a semi-gloss paint, which unfortunately shows every little flaw in the walls, and that just won’t do when you live in a 17-year-old house previously occupied by renters.
The colors are slightly more muted than this in real life, but this should give you a good idea of how they look now:
2) One of our first projects was patching up these speaker holes on either side of the fireplace, and let’s just say we didn’t do the greatest of jobs. Pair a crappy patch job with semi-gloss paint, and you have one fugly wall.
Before:
After:
So recently Justin re-did the patch job, which affords the perfect opportunity to just go ahead and repaint the whole room.
Case-in-point:
Oh, and our friend Matthew from Inside the Nice Guy will be arriving for a visit on Thursday, so I have T-minus 3 days to complete this project (and other guest-prep tasks) before he gets here.
There’s nothing like the imminent arrival of company to motivate me for house projects.
Since it’s already after 8:30 a.m. and my coffee is all gone, I should probably get started.
Umm…
Small SNAFU already.
Do you think Justin would have a problem with me removing our giant plasma t.v. from the wall by myself?
Yes?
Oh well. No one can say I didn’t try to get started.
While the movie, “How Do You Know?” required no less than 3 alcoholic beverages for me to get through it, I have to say — a couple of the lines were real gems.
Like, Never drink to feel better — Only drink to feel even better.
Good advice, no?
And, Don’t judge anybody else until you check yourself out. That way you’re lucky if it’s your fault because you can check the situation.
That’s so… zen.
And, I think I’m in love with somebody when I wear a condom with the other girls.
Never have truer words been spoken.
I even felt a certain kinship with Reese Witherspoon’s character, Lisa, when she was talking about how it seems like everybody’s “regular plan” is to fall in love, get married and have babies, but she’s not sure she’s cut out for everyone’s “regular plan.”
Umm… Domestiphobic much?
Seriously. There were so many profound thoughts and quotes stuffed into this movie, they could compile ’em to create volume 537 of Chicken Soup for the Existential Soul.
But it turned out there was one that worked its way out of the mass of banality to stick in my head like gum to a shoe and I can’t figure out why. At one point in the movie, Paul Rudd’s character George says,
I used to be a bartender, back when I was working my way through bartending.
At first I thought it was hilarious. I mean, what a clever way for him to describe a time in his life when he really was just doing what he was doing. There was no bigger plan. There was no ultimate goal. The plan was to make enough money to pay that month’s bills, and the goal was to go home with the most attractive woman in the bar that night.
That was it.
But as I thought about it more, it became… less funny.
Because I realized, if most of us were really honest with ourselves, we’d recognize that we’re doing the same thing. We’re fairly certain our lives are heading for something better, but until then, we’re just floating along, trying to get from one day to the next. Sure, we might have generic goals, like buy a house, find our dream career, start a family… and it’s awful because we’re so sure that once we achieve these goals, we’ll finally be satisfied.
George even says, “We’re all just one small adjustment away from making our lives work.”
Many people love that line.
I happen to hate it.
I mean, really George? I just need to make one little change — finally buy that throw pillow I’ve been eying? Pop out a couple of kids? Quit my job and move to Costa Rica? Tell me, what is that thing that will finally solve all my problems?
Quench my restlessness?
Satiate my unhappiness?
Because if I knew what it was, and I knew it would make everything roses and double rainbows for the rest of my life, I’d do it without hesitation.
But that’s the problem with this type of mentality. If I’m constantly making these adjustments and waiting for the next thing to happen with the expectation that I’ll finally reach this ultimate level of satisfaction, I’m probably going to be waiting forever. My life will be spent like the greyhound chasing the fake rabbit ’round and ’round the track — thinking, if I could just catch it, my life would be complete.
The fact I have to grasp is that I won’t catch it. And soon I’ll be too old to chase it. And even if I did catch it, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t taste how I expected.
Contrary to how it might read, this isn’t intended to be pessimistic. It’s meant to be a revelation, of sorts, on my part. A way for me to say to myself, It’s okay that I’m going to work in a bar tonight. It’s okay that I still haven’t sent any pitches to any editors. It’s okay that I’ve been writing this blog for over a year now and WordPress still hasn’t Freshly Pressed me.
Ahem.
As cliché as it is, I need to start finding joy in my every day, because they’re passing by at an alarming pace. I can still make daily goals and work on things I want to accomplish, but no more thinking, “If only I had this, then I’d be happy.”
