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

Dishwashing Saga: Dummies in the Kitchen

Dishwashing Saga

Dummies in the Kitchen

So, I'm cleaning the kitchen the other day, right. Rinse the plate, put in the dishwasher. Repeat about 50 times. I'm feeling pretty good as a new wife: Made my husband a great dinner, had a great day at work, paid some bills. Yay, I can be married! I cheer. I'm totally an adult.

When the dishwasher is sufficiently full -I proceed to fit 5 more dirties there- and then reach for the cleaning solution. Like any normal human, my husband and his former roommate stored the detergent under the sink, which is conveniently located next to the washer. There's a box of cascade and a bag of those square cubes with the gel attached. Yay, you know the ones, they have a thin plastic coating around them that dissolves in water. I grab a cube and pop it into the little square cutout in the washer. "Hey, babe," I question, "I can't get the lid to shut on the detergent compartment. How did you guys do this?"

"I don't know. I always used the box of Cascade. Just try to smash it in there." he coaches.

I attempt to smash the cube. 

Me: "It's not working". 

Hubberkins: "Um, just set it on top of this bowl."

Me: "Seriously? Will the work?"

Hubberkins: "Sure, why not? The whole thing dissolves in the water, right?"

Me: "I don't know. I thought the lid opened up and something magical happened to the soap."

Hubberkins: "Magical? What?"

Me: "I don't know. Let's try it."

Fast forward to the next evening when I'm putting away the newly-washed dishes. 

Me, thinking to myself: Wow, smells good in there.

Put away dishes 1,2,3

Me: Wow, it really smells good. Kind-a home-y.

Away go dishes 10,11,12

Me: This is really nice. Smells like my mom's laundry. I wonder what kind of soap this is?

I reach under the sink cabinet and grab the bag of soap, which, until this point, has been facing away from me. 

Tide?... I didn't know Tide made dishwashing detergent. I thought they only made laundry soap. Wait a second…. DAHHHHHHH!!!!!! This IS laundry soap! No. No. NO. I can't be that dense. There's no way I put laundry detergent in my washing machine. 

I peak at the bag again. "Ahhhhhh.” I'm retarded. 

Epic fail. 

Newly-weds be warned...Next Blog:  Trouble with the In-Laws. 

HIGHS and WOAHS of Moving In

HIGHS and WOAHS of Moving In.

La-lala-lala-de-da I hum as I put the plates away. Twirl, Twirl. Pick up the mixing bowls and place them ever so gracefully in the cupboard, foot outstretched like a ballerina. La-lala-lala. Well, hello there Mrs. Mouse. Yes, you can put away this towel. Why, thank you for this apron, little finches. I wouldn't want to dirty my beautiful dress. Did you know Mrs. Cleaver had one just like it? And thank you for shining my pumps, Mr.Rabbit. Hubberkins sure likes to see his reflection off the toe.

NOT!

I moved into my husband's condo. I say "moved" like I have all of my stuff put away - ha, ya right. My guest bedroom looks like a special episode of  Hoarders. New this week: Bride fills guest bedroom with so much stuff she loses new husband - last seen going in for more toilet paper.  Wan-wah. My family is probably reading this thinking: "No, you're so organized. I don't believe it". Ya, well, believe it, sista. There's plenty of time to be organized when you're a lonely 'ole college student braiding and unbraiding your hair every Friday night.

Now I've got better things to do: the cooking, the cleaning, the cleaning (yah, I know I put in there, twice  - dirtiness is like that ugly picture of you from junior high -just when you think it's gone, your brother pulls it out for show and tell).

And then there's the laundry. New husbands aren't so keen on waiting three weeks for clean underwear. Come on, man. Where's your sense of adventure?

No, you grody people, I don't wear the same three pairs of underwear for three weeks. I happen to have enough pairs to last me that length of time. So-ha. How else do I know when it's time to throw a load in?

Yah, yah, yah. I know you all think I shouldn't let my laundry pile up until it's as tall as the bathroom door. My husband agrees. So now I'm doing laundry twice a week and I ain't got no stinking time to organize! So Aunt Jane, when you come over, do as the boys do when they're at the latrine : keep your eyes up. 

If you think you're a doofus, read about my Dishwashing Sage: Dummies in the Kitchen.