Airplane Rant: A letter to those detestable passengers we all want to flog

Dear Guy-that-sat-behind-me-on-my-last-airplane-flight,

Stop touching my seat!!! You don’t need to touch someone’s seat that much! I see that you have arm-rests, sir. Use them to push yourself up. No need to pull. Simply put your arms beside you and “push” -it’s that easy. You’re giving me a seizure- AND I DON’T HAVE EPILEPSY! Nope, just a bad case of the this-guy-behind-me-can’t-sit-still!!! For the love of crap, man. Use your abs!! Flex that stomach when you want to stand. Engage those core muscles. Come on! Are you working out back there? ‘Cause it’s darn near impossible for someone to pee that much in three hours and I don’t see a park or anything that you could be walking to, so what the heck are you doing?! Sit down and stay there!!!! I’ll tell ya this, if you use your arms one more time to pull yourself out of that seat, I’m going to bite your fingers!

While I’m at it. I want to talk to you, Mrs. I-can’t-walk-down-the-aisle-without-touching-the-back-of-everyone’s-seat. Seriously, everyone’s seat? What are you doing?! There are clear skies out those windows. This ride is smoother than a Lexis. Stop acting like the plane is going to nose-dive any moment causing you to careen toward the front of the plane. Walk down the aisle like a woman who’s had her legs for more than five minutes!  

Since we’re here…You’re next, Mr. I-feel-that-it-is-necessary-to-drag-my-hands-across-the-over-head-bins-on-my-way-to-and-from-the-bathroom. Everyone in the airplane wants to punch you in the throat right now. I’d rather listen to six computers connect to dial-up internet than listen to your callused hands slide the entire way down the aisle and back. Newsflash! The airplane designer put hand-grips right under the overhead compartment so that you could hold on to something. You’re not the Pope! People don’t want to know if you’re coming or going! They don’t! Not at all! Not ever your wife! She wants to punch you just as much as everyone else! Stop it! If you don’t, there’s a good chance I’ll accidentally trip you on your next walk… after all, I can hear you coming!

                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                Sincerely,

                                                                                                                                                                Aisle Seat 17C

Tupperware Files: Fine China for the 21st Century Woman

Tupperware Files

Fine China for the 21st Century Woman

Oh man, last week I made delicious banana-mint birthday cookies for my uncle. I asked Hubberkins to swing by the house on the way to the party and pick up the gift. He arrived just in time for the present-openings.

“Thanks for grabbing that, honey.” I whispered as he sat down. “Were you able to find a tin to put the cookies in?”

“No. I grabbed a Tupperware.”

You what?! You grabbed a what?! You grabbed a Tupperware?! You gave away a piece of our fine Tupperware?! Why would you do that?! You don’t do that! You don’t give away our Tupperware! What are you thinking?! That’s our Tupperware!

Am I the only one out there that treats their Tupperware like it is fine china? What’s wrong with me? I can buy more Tupperware. For Pete’s sake, I can pick up a four-pack at the dollar store. Yet, here I am internally freaking about a plastic boowwlll… What are you doing using a Tupperware container as a cereal bowl?!?! Are you kidding me? That piece of plastic is to be used with stuff that needs to be stored. Don’t put your cereal in it. Don’t eat your soup from it! Don’t use that Tupperware unless you’re going to put a lid on it! You’re throwing off the container to lid ratio! Pretty soon I’m going to need store something with a lid, but I won’t be able to do so because the container will be in the dishwasher while the lid is in the cupboard! Ridiculous!

These days, when a woman gets married, the most prized possession she could receive isn’t her grandma’s bible, monogrammed picture frame, or a Kitchen Aide mixer. It’s a brand new set of Tupperware. At least, that’s how we women end up treating that Tupperware. It’s practically more important that our husbbb… put that down! No, no. You don’t get another Tupperware today! You didn’t turn in your Tupperware from yesterday, so you can’t take one out today. You’ll have to take your salad in a Ziplock or a paper towel. Sorry, buddy. If you want your lunch in a Tupperware, you’ll have to return the first one.

So as I was saying, we women really need to lighten up on the whole Tupperware thing. I mean, it’s not really a big deal. 

Touchdown in the Fart Zone

Touchdown in the Fart Zone

Ok, I have to tell a little story on Hubberkins. Don’t worry, I already cleared it with him. In fact, he’s kinda proud that I’m telling this story. (Haha – I said “fart” twice). It’s a story about farts. Yah, seriously, he’s proud that his farts made the blog. What is it with guys and their farts? I would never – let me repeat that – NEVER agree to let someone blog about my... perfumes. I don’t even want people knowing that I do that. In fact, stop it! Stop imagining that I perfume. Don’t even entertain the idea. Guys, however, L-O-V-E to fart. They treat a good one likes it’s a great bottle of wine: “Been working on that a long time,” or “Wow, that one’s ripe; take a big sniff” or my favorite, “Whew, that’s a winner”. NO. No it’s not. A fart is not a “winner”. When the smell of rotting cabbage exits your butt, no one wins!

I am thoroughly convinced that farting is to boys as peeing is to male dogs. Think about it: when you take a dog for a walk, he pees on just about every new plant or fire-hydrant you pass. When you take a boy out of your house, he farts in every store, restaurant, and car that you get in to. I swear.

And don’t get me started on hotel farts; they are the worst! The first thing a guy does when he get’s into a hotel room is rip a huge one. Holy Geez! Have you been storing that for days?!?!  The power of a hotel fart is enough to light your nostril hairs on fire and burn your eyes as if you’ve emptied a whole can of hairspray into them.  What died in there, man? Front desks everywhere should pass out digestive enzymes, air fresheners, and nose plugs during check in.

So, let’s get to the story. Hubberkins is really great at farting in places other than our bedroom. Considerately, he walks into the guest room or down the hall if he has to fart. I did not teach him this. He took it upon himself after seeing me gag for air once when he let out a Hiroshima Bomb. Anyway, the morning before the Superbowl, Hubberkins was enjoying a snack at the kitchen island while I cut up some veggies. He then got up, walked to the living room, and then sat back down at the island.

“What was that all about?” I inquired.

“Oh, I had to fart,” he responded.

“So, why’d you walk over there?”

“So it wouldn’t get on the food,” he said in a perfectly nonchalant tone.

“Get on the food?” I questioned in a state of bewilderment. I wasn’t aware that farts were sticky.

“Yes, I didn’t want to get it on the food, and I didn’t want it to bother you.”

“Honey,” I said trying to hold my laughs in, “I’m throwing a flag on this one. We have a great-room. The kitchen and the living room are one in the same. You took three steps away from the island. I could smell your fart before you walked back over here. ”

“Oops, I guess I didn’t have enough yardage to keep the veggies safe.”

“No babe, I don’t think you did.”

Hubberkins now goes long when he needs to make a pass. Hopefully, next year’s Suberbowl veggies will get at least a 5 yard advantage. For now, let’s hope that no one that attended our Suberbowl party reads this blog.

Reality Check - We All Need One

Reality Check

Oh-my-lanta. Why is it that when you make a change in life you think you’ll have more time to do all the things you’ve ever wanted to do? Am I alone here? You’re buying a new house: “We’re getting 4 bedrooms and a den. I’ll finally have time to craft!” You’re buying a new car: “Yes, a suburban. I will wash this baby every weekend!”  You’re getting a new job: “I will have so much time to blog, I’ll have to start another one!”  

Reality check, lady!

You’re moppin’ more floors and dustin’ more blinds than a Merry Maid. You’re car is so dirty, you identify it by the bird poop instead of the color. And you’re blog, well, people think you’re dead or you’ve traded in your computer for a video camera and started a Vlog by the name of Jessica Rabbit (link here) ((just kidding there is no link… did you click?...lol… I would have… hahah… ok… back to the blog)).

So, that’s my story. I got a new job. It’s been great. Nah, more like stellar. I’m loving the company. I have a lot of autonomy and a ton of responsibility. My boss is a great leader and an incredible mentor.

Blah, blah, blah, you’re thinking. Tell us the funny stuff.

Hush.

I have to give a shout out to Hubberkins here. He really encouraged me to seek out this opportunity and to go for it. Here’s a little secret about this job: I took a pay cut to come here. I assume some of you are thinking Why would you ever take a pay cut to go to a new job if you didn’t have to?!  Believe me, I never thought I would – especially because I had a comfy job and I really liked my co-workers. But here’s a little something I’ve learned recently: Wisdom is Priceless. (this is insightful stuff! You may want to text this to yourself...I hope I’m not the only one that texts reminders to herself...Do you get charged twice for that?... I hope I have unlimited texts). 

Where was I? Oh yes,

Wisdom is Priceless. Think about it. King Solomon a.k.a. one of the wisest men to ever live, didn’t ask God for fame, power, or money. He asked God for wisdom. And you know what, through his wisdom, Solomon gained fame, power, and money.

Now, I’m not saying that I want to be famous or powerful. But I do want to make enough money to live a comfortable life and give tons of it away. So, Hubberkins and I made the tough decision to tighten up the budget and launch into uncertainty in hopes of procuring priceless wisdom. Where’s all this “wisdom” coming from? Oh, just my new boss who is incredibly business savvy and has the heart of teacher. The first time I met her, I knew I wanted to attach myself to her leg the same way a four-year-old sits on her cool uncle’s foot, wrapping her arms around his calf and then pleading with him to walk around. I just know that her head is full of brilliant thoughts and I’m in a position to catch them as they come out.

Strangely enough, I feel as though I have made a decision that will impact my future far beyond my understanding.

So, with all that said: The blog is back!

Yo! Dummy. Unplug the Juicer.

Yo! Dummy. Unplug the Juicer.

Have you ever read those books written by those nonconformists that go on hiatus for a year? They travel around the world discovering the benefits of eating strange foods from the Philippines, Malaysia, Ancient China, or some tribe in the middle of the Peruvian jungle who's name sounds like the indiscernible mumblings of an exuberant 1-year-old. They have these life changing adventures and then sell millions of dollars in memorabilia. Why is it that if you travel around the world eating slugs and fried cockroaches that you are suddenly an expert of all things healthy? 

It's probably because people like me read those books and think Wow, gotta try that. Maybe we have an internal drive to be as healthy as possible... or perhaps we're living vicariously through those eccentric people and have somehow concocted the notion that if we eat like them, we're one step closer to gallivanting around the world ourselves. Either way, I've decided that I'm going to juice for Hubberkins and me. 

As an overly-enthusiastic, newly-married wife would do, I set out to get up every morning at 6am to work out with Hubberkins and then make a delicious breakfast for him, complete with fresh juice. Well if you've read my blog post on the Butt Crack of Dawn, you'll know that 6am is not my forte (what was I thinking?!). Yet, with the same unrealistic cheery-ness of a Disney Princess, I soldiered on. The first morning, I woke to Hubberkins' alarm (which is our wedding song... awwww) and rolled out of bed - literally, I rolled out of and off of the bed. As it turns out, my legs and arms don't like 6am; they refused to engage when called upon. Note to self: vacuum under the bed. 

I struggled through my yoga routine looking less graceful and more ridiculous than the hippopotamuses in Disney's production of Fantasia (click here for a visual). Cutting the act short, I decided to move on to the juice. We have a Breville juicer that has a 4-part assembly process. Well... I got two out of the four in the right place. Just so you know, the machine won't turn on with two out of four pieces in place... However, it will turn on with three out of four pieces in the right place. When that happens, - if you're anything like me - you've juiced 2 cucumbers, 2 carrots, and a lime before noticing that all of that delicious liquid has created a stunning waterfall of greens and oranges down the front of your cabinet. Yep, you don't realize that you're standing in your husband's breakfast juice until he walks in the kitchen still sweating from his morning jog and snaps you out of your lethargic trance. 

So much for being healthy. I guess it's back to cereal for breakfast.

Stay tuned for next week episode: Touchdowns in the Fart Zone

Bean Counting and Bread Making

Bean Counting and Bread Making

Bread machine! Everyone gets one when they get married right? Along with a toaster, a rice cooker, a waffle iron, a pancake griddle, a popcorn machine, and a cake-pop maker. We didn't get a cake-pop maker, but I'm sure one of you has one. I find them enchanting and incredibly dumb at the same time. When I see one, my inner  5-year-old  claps her palms together and taps fingers together like the legs of a centipede. Ooooo, cake-pop maker, ooooo, app-li-ance, oooo, it's so pretty, oooo. And then the 16 year-old inside of me thinks Cake-pop, bleh. I digress. 

We retuned all of the items we didn't have room for, which was none of them. Meaning, we kept all the appliance we received-Yay! Hey, we don't have kids, so we have plenty of room.  Plus, we're newly married. Isn't that what you do when you're newly married: Register for every appliance out there and then sell them in a garage sale 20 years later because you've never used them?

This particular night we decided we would make bread and construct our first-ever married-people budget. We thought we'd have bread with dinner courtesy of our fancy-shmancy bread machine. Ta-dah! As it turns out, it takes 3.5 hours to make bread! Well, it would have been absurd for us to set the delay-timer so that we could enjoy freshly baked bread for breakfast, so... we turned it on! ETA: 9:30pm… Ouch! But we’re young, right? We can stay up and eat a whole loaf of freshly baked bread without waking up the next day the size of beached whale. Can’t we?

Anyway, we busted out the pencils, calculator, and spreadsheet. Budget time! Our goal this year is to pay off ALL of Hubberkins' school loans. Total damage: 40,000 big ones. Boing! Yep, $40,000... in 12 months.  Let me stop here and say that neither of us make that much in a year, so the goal is lofty. I'm sure you get it. 

After a grueling 2 hours of delegating our monthly income to specific categories,  we determined that a magnificent $4,800 check could and would be written to the smallest school loan. BOOM - one down, baby!! 7 to go!

Just as Hubberkins licked and sealed the envelope securing a piece of our freedom, a delicious DING sounded from the counter top. Bread's done! As we lifted the lid, the heavens shown down on our glorious creation. Out we pulled a mouthwatering, golden brown load of whole-wheat goodness.

Payoff debt – check.

Successfully operate a piece of highly evolved machinery to create home-crafted food – check.

HI FIVE!

FIST PUMP!

Married Life Rules!

Butt Crack of Dawn: Trouble with the In-Laws

Butt-Crack of Dawn:

Trouble with the In-Laws

Ok, it's gettin' real in here. My dear in-laws. What are you thinking?! 6am!! 6-A-M?! You don't text people at 6am! Seriously.  It's nice to know that the sister-in-law has left Kentucky to drive home, but let's get an update at 8, huh?

No kidding, my mother-in-law starts a mass text with the family at 6am. 

Just have a private convo that early, Mom. It's cool. We won't feel left out. In fact, we'll feel downright jolly at 10am knowing that our little sister is safely making her way through Missouri. Go Tigers! But, when you start a group text a 6am, I want to hurt someone. And the only person in the vicinity is your son - think about it.

Let me mention here that Hubberkins has a very  loud train whistle alerting us every time another family member comments on the cross-country progress. If you've never had the pleasure of waking to the sound of a train whistle, allow me to describe the event:

Golden sun rays sink into the vibrant green grass. The  warm turquoise water dances with the pure white sand as a cool tropical breeze weaves through your hair. In your right hand, your favorite ice cream is piled high in a freshly-made waffle cone, and a dozen hot pretzels have been set on the towel to your left. Sigh.... 

CHOOOOOO CHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What the. Who's dying. Karate chop. I'm I dying? Son of a. Dahhhh!!!

It's like being hit in the head with bat that has 6 bells attached to it, thrown in a gunny sack, and then tossed into a commerical-size clothes dryer until your brain falls out. 

Not exactly the way I like to wake up.

Just remember this: 6am is reserved for nursing mothers and crack addicts. I'm neither. Let me sleep!!!  Here's a general rule: if the sun is not up, neither am I! 

Married Life is Awesome - Check out my next post: 

Bean Counting and Bread Making