As promised at the end of my slightly depressing post yesterday, today I want to talk about my sister and her two boys.
I spent 3 days up in the Dallas area with them last week and although it wasn’t the stress free, relaxing vacation I had planned (due to some family issues) I still had a ton of fun. That being said, I DON’T KNOW HOW MY SISTER DOESN’T GO CRAZY!!!
I have two nephews. The Mouse is will be three in June and Froggy is almost one month. Oh, and those are her nicknames not mine.
Froggy is adorable and cute, but honestly that’s all I can say right now. I mean he really isn’t even a person yet. He’s just this little sweet guy that curls up on your chest and gets angry if he is hungry and you don’t have boobs with milk for him to latch on to. I mean for all I know he could grow up to be a little jerk or worse… a hipster. Now, am I saying I think my new nephew is an A-Hole, of course I’m not. My sister and my brother in law are great people and good parents and I know they will do everything they can to mold their children in to delightful, model citizens. I am just saying that no matter how cute he is now… you just never know…
The Mouse is almost 3 and AWESOME. Awesome in a “I’m two and a half and I know I’m cute so when I’m a little snot you just need to deal with it because I’ll be awesome again real soon” way. I’ve written on this blog before about how I think that one of the reasons I don’t want kids is that I was never around children when I was growing up. After spending a few days with The Mouse part of me was absolutely exhausted and the other part of me was completely enthralled and very curious about why he is the way he is and why he does what he does. Seriously put ten two and a half year olds in a padded room with a few toys or Thomas The Train on the TV and I’ll happily watch them. Watch them like study them, not watch them like babysit them. Please, I DON’T babysit.
What amazes me the most is mood swings. It’s like the child is freaking bi-polar. Actually I take that back, maybe it’s just everyone that has been diagnosed as bi-polar are really just regressing back to a toddler state of mind. One minute The Mouse is chilling watching a Disney movie and the next minute he is crying and acting like his mom took away his favorite pink bear and made him watch it burn in the fireplace, he can never ever have milk again, and Dora the Bilingual and Totally Obnoxious Explorer (who for some reason is always surprised when that dumb fox in a mask shows up to steel something) will never be on TV again and also, she killed the family dog. Literally, it’s like one minute he’s happy as a clam and the next minute he realized he is a clam from Louis Carol’s Walrus and the Carpenter and he’s about to be eaten and oh crap his life is over because… HE HAS TO PUSH HIS CHAIR UP SO IT IS STANDING CORRECTLY!!! Or maybe because… HE HAS TO EAT HALF A BANANA BEFORE WE CAN GO TO THE PARK!!! I watched his little brain decide that crying and standing in time out and getting yelled at by his mother was easier and a better decision than taking 2.6 second out of his busy day of drinking milk, being read stories to, and building airplanes with fat Legos to stand a chair up. I’ve been reassured by my sister and by my mother that he isn’t really that idiotic and dumb, but just a two year old. I trust them right now, but I hope to see improvements when he turns three.
Okay, I just reread those last two paragraphs and let me restate that I do love my nephews unconditionally… I just hope they don’t become jerks and I hope they get smarter. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?
BTW, my sister has a great blog called The Froggy & The Mouse... check it out.
Showing posts with label sister. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sister. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sister is Having a Baby! Oh, And Just One Of The Times She Was Completely Evil To Me...
My sister is in labor right now with her second kiddo, who will be my second nephew. I honor of my wonderful sister, I thought I’d tell you guys about the one time she SCARED THE CRAP out of me. She’s such a good mom, really…
The story takes place when I was in kindergarten and we lived in the great state of Rhode Island. My sister was in the fourth grade and surprisingly this is not a tale of about how we shared a room for the first (and only) time. Nor, is this the story of us lying in our beds at night making up stories about the super scary Greek tiles that hung on the wall outside of our room. (Although next time I go home to the parent’s house I’ll take photos of those tiles so you guys can be the judge of how frightening they really are.) This story takes place on the road. This story takes place while my family and I were doing that super scary, incredibly creepy act of… driving through New England to look at the fall foliage! DunDunDun!!!! (Insert evil music)
At this time in my life I needed… well structure. I find this funny because now I think I’m a pretty laid back kinda gal. I mean you should see me and Boyfriend try to pick a restaurant some times. I’m all, “I don’t care where we go. Where do you want to go?” Then he says, “Well, what do you want?” “Then I answer, “I don’t care, what do you want?” And this goes back and forth until one of us snaps and finally says something (usually me) and then Boyfriend says “Nah, I don’t want that.”
Anyway, I was not like this as a five year old. As a five year old I went to half a day kindergarten and played the same game on the bus every morning. (Super Mario Brothers) As a five year old I came home every day from kindergarten and my mom made me the same lunch… every day. (Campbell’s Clam Chowder Soup) We did the dishes every day after dinner because we didn’t have a dish washer, and it calmed me that our dog barked incisively at the same squirrels out in our back yard every day. I was good as long as things went according to plan. But, on that cool, autumn day things did not go according to plan…
We got up early and as a family we all piled into the minivan and headed out into the great unknown. I was okay with this because that was that plan. We drove all around New England that day. (So I don’t really remember exactly where or for how long we drove and if I write, “Oh we drove thought New York and Vermont and Maine and heck probably a good 500 miles into Canada” -like I remember us doing- I’ll get a call tonight from my dad correcting me that really we only got to Connecticut, barely.) The point of this story is that we were a ways from our little home and it started to get dark. My parent’s brilliant idea was to simply pull over at the next Holliday Inn and purchase a room for the night.
First hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “There’s no room in the inn…”
Second hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “Yeah, can’t stay here…” (You should read that in the same voice as the snot kid who tells Forest Gump, “You can’t sit here” on the bus his first day of school. Just FYI.)
Forty Fifth Hotel…
Parents: “Just please let us give you money for a place to stay!!!
”
Hotel Guy: “Look people we are in the middle of prime leaf looking season. Did you honestly think you could just pack up your kids and maybe a few granola bars and be set of the day? Did you honestly think that these trees aren’t pulling in record breaking viewers this year? I mean look outside! Look at those colors! And you people just think you can waltz right in here and get a room like its some slow Fourth of July weekend? Ha! You turrists have a lot of learning to do.”
Parents: “Please we didn’t know… WE DIDN’T KNOW…”
Hotel Guy: “I know. I know. And you know what? I like you two, so I’m gonna help you out. I’m looking here on my computer and it looks like our sister hotel in south New Jersey just might have a broom closet you could sleep in for the night. Let’s see here… its 11:30 now and it takes about 5 hours to get there, so you could get a good 45 minutes of sleep in before they would have to get into that closet to find the waffle irons for breakfast. You better hurry.”
While this lovely conversation is going on in the hotel lobby, this is being said in the car…
Me: “I’m tired…”
Sister: “You know what going to happen, right?”
Me: “Um, no. What? What’s going to happen, Sister?”
Sister: “We are never going to find a place to stay tonight, and you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad will make a reservation? Because if they make a reservation they have to let us sleep there.”
Sister: “They can’t make a reservation for the same night that it is. Don’t you get it? Mom and Dad didn’t make a reservation. They didn’t prepare at all. They failed you. And you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad can fail us? I don’t get it…”
Sister: “IT MEANS WE WILL HAVE TO SLEEP IN THE CAR!!!”
I don’t know if words on the internet can express how much this freaked me out. Sleeping in the car is what homeless people did. Sleeping in the car meant my parents didn’t have all the answers and couldn’t fix everything. Sleeping in the car meant sleeping without my blanket. Sleeping in the car meant it would get really cold. Sleeping in the car meant wondering if our dog would die at home because we weren’t there to let him outside or feed him. In my mind, sleeping in the car was not an option.
But then my parents came out of the hotel lobby and got back in the car without a room key
.
Sister: “So did we get a room?”
Mom: “Nope, not here.”
Dad: “Yeah, this is getting ridiculous. I guess we’ll just have to sleep in the car.”
Parents: “Hahaha!”
And while my parents laughed away their worries in the front seat my sister turned to me and gave me an evil, evil smile…
To this day I don’t like not knowing where I’ll be sleeping. If I’m going over to a friend’s house and they pull out a giant bottle of tequila, I’d like to know if I can crash on the couch or do they have an extra room. When I was dating Ex-Boyfriend we took the train from Berlin to Poland and the first thing I made him do was find us a hotel room. In the back of my mind I knew I had taken a ten hour train to Eastern Europe on a whim, and everything I owned within 3000 miles was in a small duffle bag, but damn it I was going to have a bed to sleep in that night if we had to walk to every hotel and hostel in Krakow!
Oh, and in case you’re wondering we just ended up driving all the way home that scary night when I was five.
The story takes place when I was in kindergarten and we lived in the great state of Rhode Island. My sister was in the fourth grade and surprisingly this is not a tale of about how we shared a room for the first (and only) time. Nor, is this the story of us lying in our beds at night making up stories about the super scary Greek tiles that hung on the wall outside of our room. (Although next time I go home to the parent’s house I’ll take photos of those tiles so you guys can be the judge of how frightening they really are.) This story takes place on the road. This story takes place while my family and I were doing that super scary, incredibly creepy act of… driving through New England to look at the fall foliage! DunDunDun!!!! (Insert evil music)
At this time in my life I needed… well structure. I find this funny because now I think I’m a pretty laid back kinda gal. I mean you should see me and Boyfriend try to pick a restaurant some times. I’m all, “I don’t care where we go. Where do you want to go?” Then he says, “Well, what do you want?” “Then I answer, “I don’t care, what do you want?” And this goes back and forth until one of us snaps and finally says something (usually me) and then Boyfriend says “Nah, I don’t want that.”
Anyway, I was not like this as a five year old. As a five year old I went to half a day kindergarten and played the same game on the bus every morning. (Super Mario Brothers) As a five year old I came home every day from kindergarten and my mom made me the same lunch… every day. (Campbell’s Clam Chowder Soup) We did the dishes every day after dinner because we didn’t have a dish washer, and it calmed me that our dog barked incisively at the same squirrels out in our back yard every day. I was good as long as things went according to plan. But, on that cool, autumn day things did not go according to plan…
We got up early and as a family we all piled into the minivan and headed out into the great unknown. I was okay with this because that was that plan. We drove all around New England that day. (So I don’t really remember exactly where or for how long we drove and if I write, “Oh we drove thought New York and Vermont and Maine and heck probably a good 500 miles into Canada” -like I remember us doing- I’ll get a call tonight from my dad correcting me that really we only got to Connecticut, barely.) The point of this story is that we were a ways from our little home and it started to get dark. My parent’s brilliant idea was to simply pull over at the next Holliday Inn and purchase a room for the night.
First hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “There’s no room in the inn…”
Second hotel…
Parents: “We require a room good sir.”
Hotel Guy: “Yeah, can’t stay here…” (You should read that in the same voice as the snot kid who tells Forest Gump, “You can’t sit here” on the bus his first day of school. Just FYI.)
Forty Fifth Hotel…
Parents: “Just please let us give you money for a place to stay!!!
”
Hotel Guy: “Look people we are in the middle of prime leaf looking season. Did you honestly think you could just pack up your kids and maybe a few granola bars and be set of the day? Did you honestly think that these trees aren’t pulling in record breaking viewers this year? I mean look outside! Look at those colors! And you people just think you can waltz right in here and get a room like its some slow Fourth of July weekend? Ha! You turrists have a lot of learning to do.”
Parents: “Please we didn’t know… WE DIDN’T KNOW…”
Hotel Guy: “I know. I know. And you know what? I like you two, so I’m gonna help you out. I’m looking here on my computer and it looks like our sister hotel in south New Jersey just might have a broom closet you could sleep in for the night. Let’s see here… its 11:30 now and it takes about 5 hours to get there, so you could get a good 45 minutes of sleep in before they would have to get into that closet to find the waffle irons for breakfast. You better hurry.”
While this lovely conversation is going on in the hotel lobby, this is being said in the car…
Me: “I’m tired…”
Sister: “You know what going to happen, right?”
Me: “Um, no. What? What’s going to happen, Sister?”
Sister: “We are never going to find a place to stay tonight, and you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad will make a reservation? Because if they make a reservation they have to let us sleep there.”
Sister: “They can’t make a reservation for the same night that it is. Don’t you get it? Mom and Dad didn’t make a reservation. They didn’t prepare at all. They failed you. And you know what that means, right?”
Me: “Mom and Dad can fail us? I don’t get it…”
Sister: “IT MEANS WE WILL HAVE TO SLEEP IN THE CAR!!!”
I don’t know if words on the internet can express how much this freaked me out. Sleeping in the car is what homeless people did. Sleeping in the car meant my parents didn’t have all the answers and couldn’t fix everything. Sleeping in the car meant sleeping without my blanket. Sleeping in the car meant it would get really cold. Sleeping in the car meant wondering if our dog would die at home because we weren’t there to let him outside or feed him. In my mind, sleeping in the car was not an option.
But then my parents came out of the hotel lobby and got back in the car without a room key
.
Sister: “So did we get a room?”
Mom: “Nope, not here.”
Dad: “Yeah, this is getting ridiculous. I guess we’ll just have to sleep in the car.”
Parents: “Hahaha!”
And while my parents laughed away their worries in the front seat my sister turned to me and gave me an evil, evil smile…
To this day I don’t like not knowing where I’ll be sleeping. If I’m going over to a friend’s house and they pull out a giant bottle of tequila, I’d like to know if I can crash on the couch or do they have an extra room. When I was dating Ex-Boyfriend we took the train from Berlin to Poland and the first thing I made him do was find us a hotel room. In the back of my mind I knew I had taken a ten hour train to Eastern Europe on a whim, and everything I owned within 3000 miles was in a small duffle bag, but damn it I was going to have a bed to sleep in that night if we had to walk to every hotel and hostel in Krakow!
Oh, and in case you’re wondering we just ended up driving all the way home that scary night when I was five.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
My Favorite Wedding Dresses Found By Facebook Stalking...
Yesterday I changed my Facebook status to this, “Over the years Facebook has allowed me to see a lot of ugly wedding dresses and it has allowed me to wonder how parents come up with names for their kiddos”. First of all, I don’t think this is a negative status at all. I love looking through my “friends” wedding pictures. Why? Because I’m not a black hearted bitch. Weddings are happy events. They are full of happy people and (hopefully) yummy food and lots of alcohol. Who doesn’t love a wedding? So, yeah, I don’t care if I only knew you for ten minutes in 7th grade, I will totally Facebook stalk your special day because I like weddings. You know what I like even more… happy people, yummy food, lots of alcohol and PRETTY DRESSES!!!
Here are some of my favorites… (In no particular order… well after the first one.)
First up, my sister…
(Photo by Leeann Widyn. Check her out at www.widynphotography.com) I know I’m probably partial to this dress for two good reasons. One, she’s my sister. Two, my extremely talented, amazing, wonderful Grandmother made this dress. My sister is the kind of girl who had been planning her wedding her entire life. She is also the kind of girl who builds things up in her mind and sets very high expectations and then usually the event doesn’t reach those expectations and she is unhappy. (Just ask her about all her middle school dances.) To say the least, my mother was freaking out that her wedding wouldn’t be perfect. But, it was. And the icing on the cake was Sister’s wedding dress. Hand made by Grandma, read the tag on the inside. She had made my mother and my aunt’s wedding dresses and years later out did both of them with Sisters. I love the tulle peaking out at the bottom and the ivory color. I love the crumb catcher up top and the simplicity of the lace. Most of all, I love how absolutely gorgeous my sister looks.
This is my friend Stephanie from Germany…
Again, I like this dress for two reasons. One, Stephanie is a huge personality! I feel like she could have gone completely crazy and over the top and fabulous and crazy and OMG, “Is that glitter on the train?” crazy. But she didn’t. Two, I love the cap sleeve detail. They are delicate and the beaded lace is beautiful and just enough to create a little drama and pizzazz.
Here we have middle/ early high school friend, Colette…
(Photo by Graddy Photography. Check him out at www.graddyphotography.com 952-649-0525) Colette recently got married and I fell in love with her dress the moment I saw it pop up as a new profile photo. It’s so different and yet very classic. I’m not usually a big fan of the halter top, but I love, love, love the ruffle collar. The rest of the dress is very simple, letting it frame her face beautifully. Plus, look closely and you can see her amazing green shoes.
This is Best Friend…
First of all I was with Best Friend when she first tried on this dress and Best Friend’s Sister and I cried. It’s so… Best Friend, which is funny because I was honestly a little terrified about what she would pick to walk down the aisle in. I mean, we have been friends since she wanted to name her unborn children Denim and Lace. I was half picturing Disney Princesses throwing up tulle and chiffon until it made a dress, and then she walked out of the dressing room in this and I cried. She is so pretty, and it’s perfect for her. It’s flattering and unfussy. It has a big bow (throw back to 7th grade) and pockets (for her chapstick she never leaves home without). Plus, Best Friend’s Husband looks pretty handsome, too.
This is another friend named Stephanie…
This one might be my favorite, if I had to pick a favorite and really I can’t because I like them all. Doesn’t she look like a ballerina from a little girl’s jewelry box? I love the ribbon at the waist with the sparkle detail and the rouching of the bodice. And the back… that bow is so cute. No, I’m not really sure why she is in a basketball court, but she looks amazing.
Lastly, Jessica… (I can’t believe I’m about to write nice things about you, you better love me forever after this…)
I had to include this dress, because this is practically the dress I’ve always envisioned myself wearing on my wedding day. (Which makes me hate you even more…) It’s simple and sweet. I like the ribbon details that are present, but not crazy over the top. I went and dress shopping with my sister when she was still looking for the perfect dress (before she went to Grandma with fabric and an idea) and she found two dresses at a little boutique that she liked. She put one on and I put on the other so she could look at them side by side. The one I wore, was like the supped up, Scarlet O’Hara version of this dress. I like it in this much simpler, sweet version way better. Kuddos Jessica for looking lovely and crushing my dreams at the same time.
Another post to come soon about the second half of that Facebook post. I mean why would anyone name their kid Emma Olivia? It's like someone from my generation being names Jennifer Jessica.
Here are some of my favorites… (In no particular order… well after the first one.)
First up, my sister…
(Photo by Leeann Widyn. Check her out at www.widynphotography.com) I know I’m probably partial to this dress for two good reasons. One, she’s my sister. Two, my extremely talented, amazing, wonderful Grandmother made this dress. My sister is the kind of girl who had been planning her wedding her entire life. She is also the kind of girl who builds things up in her mind and sets very high expectations and then usually the event doesn’t reach those expectations and she is unhappy. (Just ask her about all her middle school dances.) To say the least, my mother was freaking out that her wedding wouldn’t be perfect. But, it was. And the icing on the cake was Sister’s wedding dress. Hand made by Grandma, read the tag on the inside. She had made my mother and my aunt’s wedding dresses and years later out did both of them with Sisters. I love the tulle peaking out at the bottom and the ivory color. I love the crumb catcher up top and the simplicity of the lace. Most of all, I love how absolutely gorgeous my sister looks. This is my friend Stephanie from Germany…
Again, I like this dress for two reasons. One, Stephanie is a huge personality! I feel like she could have gone completely crazy and over the top and fabulous and crazy and OMG, “Is that glitter on the train?” crazy. But she didn’t. Two, I love the cap sleeve detail. They are delicate and the beaded lace is beautiful and just enough to create a little drama and pizzazz.Here we have middle/ early high school friend, Colette…
(Photo by Graddy Photography. Check him out at www.graddyphotography.com 952-649-0525) Colette recently got married and I fell in love with her dress the moment I saw it pop up as a new profile photo. It’s so different and yet very classic. I’m not usually a big fan of the halter top, but I love, love, love the ruffle collar. The rest of the dress is very simple, letting it frame her face beautifully. Plus, look closely and you can see her amazing green shoes.This is Best Friend…
First of all I was with Best Friend when she first tried on this dress and Best Friend’s Sister and I cried. It’s so… Best Friend, which is funny because I was honestly a little terrified about what she would pick to walk down the aisle in. I mean, we have been friends since she wanted to name her unborn children Denim and Lace. I was half picturing Disney Princesses throwing up tulle and chiffon until it made a dress, and then she walked out of the dressing room in this and I cried. She is so pretty, and it’s perfect for her. It’s flattering and unfussy. It has a big bow (throw back to 7th grade) and pockets (for her chapstick she never leaves home without). Plus, Best Friend’s Husband looks pretty handsome, too.
This is another friend named Stephanie…
This one might be my favorite, if I had to pick a favorite and really I can’t because I like them all. Doesn’t she look like a ballerina from a little girl’s jewelry box? I love the ribbon at the waist with the sparkle detail and the rouching of the bodice. And the back… that bow is so cute. No, I’m not really sure why she is in a basketball court, but she looks amazing. Lastly, Jessica… (I can’t believe I’m about to write nice things about you, you better love me forever after this…)
I had to include this dress, because this is practically the dress I’ve always envisioned myself wearing on my wedding day. (Which makes me hate you even more…) It’s simple and sweet. I like the ribbon details that are present, but not crazy over the top. I went and dress shopping with my sister when she was still looking for the perfect dress (before she went to Grandma with fabric and an idea) and she found two dresses at a little boutique that she liked. She put one on and I put on the other so she could look at them side by side. The one I wore, was like the supped up, Scarlet O’Hara version of this dress. I like it in this much simpler, sweet version way better. Kuddos Jessica for looking lovely and crushing my dreams at the same time. Another post to come soon about the second half of that Facebook post. I mean why would anyone name their kid Emma Olivia? It's like someone from my generation being names Jennifer Jessica.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Ahhhh! Work... blah...
I think I had an idea for a blog post today, but my mind is being pulled in 500 different ways because of work. So please excuse me for not being entertaining and please enjoy a picture of Sister and I that makes me happy.
Going to my happy place now...(aka lunch with LSU Friend)
Going to my happy place now...(aka lunch with LSU Friend)
Monday, November 8, 2010
Driving: Watching Sister Make a Fool of Herself and How My Parents Taught Me...
Lately I’ve been carrying around small notebook and writing down any good ideas I think of for my blog. This is a good thing because I don’t sit in front of my computer with writers block because I can’t remember that really funny thing Boyfriend said last night. The notebook is a bad thing because last night I dreamed that something slightly… okay not slightly… really embarrassing happened while I was trying to buy a bottle of Disaronno Amaretto (which I don’t even drink) and after I left the store in shame (without my alcohol) I thought to myself, in the dream, “well at least this will make a good blog post.” Swear to God people… I am now putting myself in awkward embarrassing situations in my dreams so you people can have a laugh and I can quietly crawl under a rock and die. FML…
But, If I’m going down, I’m taking my sister with me!
Today I’d like to write about that oh so important time in a young girls life when she learns how to drive.
But first I want to write about when my sister learned to drive.
My sister started learning to drive when we lived in Alabama. I’m sure I don’t know the whole story of every time Mom and Dad would take her out on the road, but I do remember a few things. The first is that I was extremely jealous of my sister getting behind the wheel. Looking back this is pretty funny. I mean I was in 6th grade, so I was nowhere near being old enough to learn to drive. I didn’t care that my sister was dating and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she was in high school and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she played an instrument and I didn’t. But, the first day mom pulled over at the entrance of our neighborhood and turned to Sister and asked if she wanted to drive the rest of the way, I was pissed! Driving, like most things adult get to do, looked like so much fun and at that point in my life I was pretty sure my sister thought I was the biggest nerd, so I immediately started hating her for being able to drive.
My sister learning to drive was hilarious. Her first big obstacle was stop signs. Sister would start slowing down for a stop sign like a block before the stop sign, and this is our neighborhood when she was only going 15 MPH anyway. Then she would dramatically come to a stop about ten feet behind the actual stop sign, meaning she couldn’t see around the corner to see if it was okay to continue after the stop. OMG my mom used to get so frustrated…
Mom: “Daughter! Keep driving forward! You are nowhere near the stop sign!”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me mom! I am right at the stop sign! If you count the nose of the car I am practically at the sign!”
Me: (to myself) “Haha, she sucks at driving. When I get to drive I’ll be awesome.”
Then I remember my sister having a very hard time judging the distance between her car and other cars on the road. This happened one time when my whole family was out driving to who knows where and Sister got to drive. We were driving on some pretty little country road with only two lanes. And my sister kinda drove like this…
Dad: “Daughter! Drive in your lane!”
Sister: “I am in my lane! If I get any closer to the side of the road I’ll be in the bushes.”
Dad: “That’s what I meant! You’re driving on the shoulder of the road. Move the car closer to the center.”
Mom: “Now, Husband, don’t yell, but really Daughter you’re driving in the dirt and it’s not good for the tires. Now gently ease the car back into the center of the road.”
Sister: “I’m on the road! If I get over anymore to the left I’ll hit the oncoming traffic!”
Dad: “You are nowhere near the oncoming traffic! In fact I think the oncoming traffic might flag us down to make sure our car is okay because you are driving off the road.”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me!”
Dad: “I’m not yelling at you. Drive better!”
Mom: “Let’s all just calm down…”
Sister: “Mom!”
Dad: “Daughter!”
Me: (to myself) “Hahaha!!!”
Like I said, I don’t know all the gory details of Sister learning to drive, but I do remember mine.
First of all I didn’t get to learn how to drive at 15 and take my driver’s test at 16 like most normal teenagers. We lived in Germany and the driving age there is 18 or 17 if you already had a license in the states. I did not. So I got in a few more years of being driven around by my parents and begging my friends for rides. The very first time I ever drove a car was in Germany when Ex-Boyfriend Matt asked if I wanted to drive his car in this old abandoned lot.
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: “Hey, you’ve driven before, right? Wanna drive my Opel around this abandoned parking lot?”
Me: “Of course I’ve driven before! Hell yes I wanna drive! Pull over and hand over the keys!”
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: (pulling the car over and getting out of the driver’s seat) “Yeah, this sounds like a great idea and not at all irresponsible of me!”
Me: “Buckle up kid. I’m a pro.”
Yeah, I wasn’t and Ex-Boyfriend Matt quickly demanded I pull over and give his keys back and he never ever asked me if I wanted to drive again. But the first time driving with my father was the best time ever and if by “best time ever” I mean horrible.
My dad told me one day during the week when I was a junior in high school that he wanted to start teaching me to drive. My first thought was “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!” and my second thought was, “wait Lemon Lady when your father tries to teach you to do something and you’re not good at it you get very defensive and end up in tears with your father swearing at a very high decibel that no, he’s not in fact yelling at you… remember when he took you to the driving range and tried to teach you how to hit a golf ball?” But that thought was quickly covered up by, “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!”
That weekend Dad drove me to the high school parking lot right there on base and handed over the keys to his Honda Accord. I got behind the wheel and waited patiently as he went over what every single button, knob, and gage’s purpose was. I waited while he spent 10 minutes making sure my seat and mirrors were adjusted perfectly. After what seemed like an eternity behind the wheel he finally let me turn the car on and drive down the parking lot row.
Me: (to myself) “OMFG! I’m driving!!!”
Dad: “Good job. Keep her at the same constant speed and get ready for to turn left at the end of the row and drive down the next row.”
Me: “Okay Dad, sure.” (to myself) “Yeah I’m going to turn this car. Watch me turn this fine Japanese automobile. You like that Accord? You like that nice and easy left hand turn?”
Dad: “Nice turn.”
Me: “Thanks.” (to myself) “Who has two thumbs and is the best left hand turner driving this car at this very moment? Me, that’s who.”
Dad: “Okay and pull to a stop right here.”
Me: (stopping) “Okay. Can we do right hand turns now? I’m sure I’ll be even more awesome at right hand turns.”
Dad: “Nope, let’s work on backing into this parking space.”
Yeah, you read that right. I had been driving for all of 37 seconds and my dad has me stop and try to back into a parking space! BACK INTO A PARKING SPACE!!! I didn’t even know if I could perform a right hand turn! For all I knew I was the Zoolander of driving and my father wanted to start on backing into parking spaces! Yeah, about 30 minutes later we were back home with me wanting to wash the tears off my face and my father wondering either A, “Why didn’t I have boys?” or B, “How F-ing hard is it to back into a parking space? What’s her problem?”
After that my mom and the driving school taught me to drive my senior year. I turned right on red without stopping once while driving with Mom and she freaked out. (Hello, we were fine…) But then she hurt herself and I had to drive her across San Antonio to the hospital before I had really driven on the highway in driving class. So, yup, that’s how my parents taught me to drive… backing into spaces before I knew what a turn signal was and driving my paralyzed mother, who could only lay in the front seat and pray I knew where I was going, to the Emergency Room when I should have been in 1st period.
I love my parents.
But, If I’m going down, I’m taking my sister with me!
Today I’d like to write about that oh so important time in a young girls life when she learns how to drive.
But first I want to write about when my sister learned to drive.
My sister started learning to drive when we lived in Alabama. I’m sure I don’t know the whole story of every time Mom and Dad would take her out on the road, but I do remember a few things. The first is that I was extremely jealous of my sister getting behind the wheel. Looking back this is pretty funny. I mean I was in 6th grade, so I was nowhere near being old enough to learn to drive. I didn’t care that my sister was dating and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she was in high school and I wasn’t. I didn’t care that she played an instrument and I didn’t. But, the first day mom pulled over at the entrance of our neighborhood and turned to Sister and asked if she wanted to drive the rest of the way, I was pissed! Driving, like most things adult get to do, looked like so much fun and at that point in my life I was pretty sure my sister thought I was the biggest nerd, so I immediately started hating her for being able to drive.
My sister learning to drive was hilarious. Her first big obstacle was stop signs. Sister would start slowing down for a stop sign like a block before the stop sign, and this is our neighborhood when she was only going 15 MPH anyway. Then she would dramatically come to a stop about ten feet behind the actual stop sign, meaning she couldn’t see around the corner to see if it was okay to continue after the stop. OMG my mom used to get so frustrated…
Mom: “Daughter! Keep driving forward! You are nowhere near the stop sign!”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me mom! I am right at the stop sign! If you count the nose of the car I am practically at the sign!”
Me: (to myself) “Haha, she sucks at driving. When I get to drive I’ll be awesome.”
Then I remember my sister having a very hard time judging the distance between her car and other cars on the road. This happened one time when my whole family was out driving to who knows where and Sister got to drive. We were driving on some pretty little country road with only two lanes. And my sister kinda drove like this…
Dad: “Daughter! Drive in your lane!”
Sister: “I am in my lane! If I get any closer to the side of the road I’ll be in the bushes.”
Dad: “That’s what I meant! You’re driving on the shoulder of the road. Move the car closer to the center.”
Mom: “Now, Husband, don’t yell, but really Daughter you’re driving in the dirt and it’s not good for the tires. Now gently ease the car back into the center of the road.”
Sister: “I’m on the road! If I get over anymore to the left I’ll hit the oncoming traffic!”
Dad: “You are nowhere near the oncoming traffic! In fact I think the oncoming traffic might flag us down to make sure our car is okay because you are driving off the road.”
Sister: “Stop yelling at me!”
Dad: “I’m not yelling at you. Drive better!”
Mom: “Let’s all just calm down…”
Sister: “Mom!”
Dad: “Daughter!”
Me: (to myself) “Hahaha!!!”
Like I said, I don’t know all the gory details of Sister learning to drive, but I do remember mine.
First of all I didn’t get to learn how to drive at 15 and take my driver’s test at 16 like most normal teenagers. We lived in Germany and the driving age there is 18 or 17 if you already had a license in the states. I did not. So I got in a few more years of being driven around by my parents and begging my friends for rides. The very first time I ever drove a car was in Germany when Ex-Boyfriend Matt asked if I wanted to drive his car in this old abandoned lot.
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: “Hey, you’ve driven before, right? Wanna drive my Opel around this abandoned parking lot?”
Me: “Of course I’ve driven before! Hell yes I wanna drive! Pull over and hand over the keys!”
Ex-Boyfriend Matt: (pulling the car over and getting out of the driver’s seat) “Yeah, this sounds like a great idea and not at all irresponsible of me!”
Me: “Buckle up kid. I’m a pro.”
Yeah, I wasn’t and Ex-Boyfriend Matt quickly demanded I pull over and give his keys back and he never ever asked me if I wanted to drive again. But the first time driving with my father was the best time ever and if by “best time ever” I mean horrible.
My dad told me one day during the week when I was a junior in high school that he wanted to start teaching me to drive. My first thought was “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!” and my second thought was, “wait Lemon Lady when your father tries to teach you to do something and you’re not good at it you get very defensive and end up in tears with your father swearing at a very high decibel that no, he’s not in fact yelling at you… remember when he took you to the driving range and tried to teach you how to hit a golf ball?” But that thought was quickly covered up by, “AWESOME I FINALLY GET TO DRIVE!”
That weekend Dad drove me to the high school parking lot right there on base and handed over the keys to his Honda Accord. I got behind the wheel and waited patiently as he went over what every single button, knob, and gage’s purpose was. I waited while he spent 10 minutes making sure my seat and mirrors were adjusted perfectly. After what seemed like an eternity behind the wheel he finally let me turn the car on and drive down the parking lot row.
Me: (to myself) “OMFG! I’m driving!!!”
Dad: “Good job. Keep her at the same constant speed and get ready for to turn left at the end of the row and drive down the next row.”
Me: “Okay Dad, sure.” (to myself) “Yeah I’m going to turn this car. Watch me turn this fine Japanese automobile. You like that Accord? You like that nice and easy left hand turn?”
Dad: “Nice turn.”
Me: “Thanks.” (to myself) “Who has two thumbs and is the best left hand turner driving this car at this very moment? Me, that’s who.”
Dad: “Okay and pull to a stop right here.”
Me: (stopping) “Okay. Can we do right hand turns now? I’m sure I’ll be even more awesome at right hand turns.”
Dad: “Nope, let’s work on backing into this parking space.”
Yeah, you read that right. I had been driving for all of 37 seconds and my dad has me stop and try to back into a parking space! BACK INTO A PARKING SPACE!!! I didn’t even know if I could perform a right hand turn! For all I knew I was the Zoolander of driving and my father wanted to start on backing into parking spaces! Yeah, about 30 minutes later we were back home with me wanting to wash the tears off my face and my father wondering either A, “Why didn’t I have boys?” or B, “How F-ing hard is it to back into a parking space? What’s her problem?”
After that my mom and the driving school taught me to drive my senior year. I turned right on red without stopping once while driving with Mom and she freaked out. (Hello, we were fine…) But then she hurt herself and I had to drive her across San Antonio to the hospital before I had really driven on the highway in driving class. So, yup, that’s how my parents taught me to drive… backing into spaces before I knew what a turn signal was and driving my paralyzed mother, who could only lay in the front seat and pray I knew where I was going, to the Emergency Room when I should have been in 1st period.
I love my parents.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Introducing Ms. Hann And The Fact That Old Navy Doesn't Want Boyfriend's Feet To Be Warm...
Bare with my materialistic post today. I promise next week I’ll have a hilarious embarrassing story to share with you, but not today. Today is all about NOT living with 100 things, but going out into the world of commerce and buying things! (I love being an adult and having money and a pay check…)
I made two significant purchases yesterday on my day off.
The first is this beauty I picked up at the Nordstrom’s Simi Annual Sale.
She is Cole Haan and she is my new favorite thing. I’ve wanted a nice bag for a while. And hot damn if this isn’t a beautiful bag. She is the softest black pebbled leather with a gorgeous mahogany lining. The straps are the perfect length for carrying her over your shoulder or across your arms. The gold hardware works perfectly for me because I like and wear gold and it’s not gaudy and there isn’t a lot of it. Have I said she’s soft… she’s really soft.
Before Ms. Haan made it home with me yesterday the most I had ever spent on a handbag was probably 40 bucks, if that. Also, my handbag collection has seen better days, I mean really… it’s sad. When I moved into the new place this summer LSU Friend and I spent a good day going through my closet tossing and donating clothes, shoes, and handbags. I moved to the new place with one black knockoff Coach tote that Jew Boy (who’s not really Jewish, so it’s kinda a weird nickname) bought me on Canal Street in New York. The lining inside is ripping, but it looks better than my baby blue (real) Coach bag that I bought from someone’s car trunk with my old boss. That one is so dirty it more looks like a brown bag with something blue spilled on it. Oh and some Chick-Filet honey mustard sauce leaked in the inside. (Don’t judge me!) I own a canvas tote from Target with yellow straps and also Sister gave me a red satchel also from Target. Actually, when LSU Friend and I were going through all my bags last summer I realized that Sister has given me three purses for Christmas/My Birthday in let’s say the past 8 years and all of them have been red. I also own a silver clutch which I’m pretty sure I stole from my mom, and a black carpet bag that has a fun gold chain as straps, but they always break, so really they aren’t fun. That’s it. That’s my handbag collection. Ms Haan was needed.
After perusing the shoes at Nordstroms and resisting and telling myself I just dropped X amount of money on a handbag, I did what any girl my age would have done… I went to Old Navy. First of all let me point out that Old freaking Navy already has a Christmas tree up in the store and yes, they are already playing holiday music. Really? It was Halloween LAST WEEKEND!!! But I quickly got back into the retail state of mind when I saw on the rack what I was looking for… jeggings.
Yeah, you read that right, Jeggings. For y’all who don’t know what jeggings are (i.e. dad), jeggings are leggings that are made to look like jeans. For the past few years I have been avoiding the leggings trend because just the thought of wearing leggings took me back to elementary school when leggings were the only “bottoms” I would wear. I didn’t wear dresses or skirts or even jeans, I only wore bottoms that were fitted and stretchy and looked cool with my over sized Emmitt Smith T-Shirts and homemade holiday sweatshirts. However, Boyfriend has been begging me to wear leggings ever since he went to Amsterdam with his buddy, Caliman. He came back from the Netherlands all knowledgeable about fashion. This is his wisdom, “All the hot girls in Europe are wearing long shirts and sweater with tall boots and like really, really thick tights…” Once I explained to him that tights are not pants and they are called leggings he has been bothering me for the past two winters to wear leggings. I finally gave in.
I can’t go full legging yet. I’m just not there mentally. But, I was willing to try the whole jegging tread, so I loaded up a couple of styles in multiple sizes (because I never know what size I am at Old Navy) and headed to the dressing room. To my surprise, I didn’t hate them… In fact I kinda like them… a lot. So, I bought them and I’m wearing them right now tucked into the boots Boyfriend bought me while in Amsterdam with a short shirt dress from H&M and a sweater. So, Old Navy come through from me and let me try this trend for a fraction of the Nordstroms price, even during the sale.
Oh, I also learned that the new skinny leg, ankle capri cargo pants all the actresses and models are wearing this season, is not a good look if you have thighs. Just FYI…
Here’s my question for Old Navy… Why don’t they make fun, soft socks for men? You know those socks that I’m talking about… they are made from that synthetic material that feels like angel wings and puppy dog dreams.
Old Navy has them every year in fun colors and prints and they make perfect stocking stuffers. Well, they don’t make them for men. Why not? I mean I understand them not having the pink and silver sparkly ones, but why not some blues ones with footballs or something? I say this because for the past week Boyfriend has been stealing my socks. First to go were my elf socks because they are 500 times too big for me and thus actually sorta fit him. Then he moved on to my super soft Bath and Body Works socks, which annoyed me because they will stretch out too much. Then the other day I come home and he is laying on the couch with my multicolored rainbow ankle socks that Best Friend gave me on! WFT Boyfriend?!?! The thick socks I understand, but those ankle socks are no more thick and luscious than any of his plan white boring socks.
This is why I was so excited to see the fun socks at Old Navy. In my mind I thought, “I’ll buy him his own and then he’ll leave mind alone.” You see this is the problem with sharing a sock drawer, he thinks everything in it should belong to him. Um, no Boyfriend. So I walk to the men’s side of the store and find no socks. So, I found someone and asked them where the fun, super soft, holiday men’s socks are and the sales chick looked right at me and said, “Why would anyone want those?”
I wanted to scream at her, "Because my boyfriend is super weird!" but instead I just walked away thinking how bad a sales associate she was...
I made two significant purchases yesterday on my day off.
The first is this beauty I picked up at the Nordstrom’s Simi Annual Sale.
She is Cole Haan and she is my new favorite thing. I’ve wanted a nice bag for a while. And hot damn if this isn’t a beautiful bag. She is the softest black pebbled leather with a gorgeous mahogany lining. The straps are the perfect length for carrying her over your shoulder or across your arms. The gold hardware works perfectly for me because I like and wear gold and it’s not gaudy and there isn’t a lot of it. Have I said she’s soft… she’s really soft.Before Ms. Haan made it home with me yesterday the most I had ever spent on a handbag was probably 40 bucks, if that. Also, my handbag collection has seen better days, I mean really… it’s sad. When I moved into the new place this summer LSU Friend and I spent a good day going through my closet tossing and donating clothes, shoes, and handbags. I moved to the new place with one black knockoff Coach tote that Jew Boy (who’s not really Jewish, so it’s kinda a weird nickname) bought me on Canal Street in New York. The lining inside is ripping, but it looks better than my baby blue (real) Coach bag that I bought from someone’s car trunk with my old boss. That one is so dirty it more looks like a brown bag with something blue spilled on it. Oh and some Chick-Filet honey mustard sauce leaked in the inside. (Don’t judge me!) I own a canvas tote from Target with yellow straps and also Sister gave me a red satchel also from Target. Actually, when LSU Friend and I were going through all my bags last summer I realized that Sister has given me three purses for Christmas/My Birthday in let’s say the past 8 years and all of them have been red. I also own a silver clutch which I’m pretty sure I stole from my mom, and a black carpet bag that has a fun gold chain as straps, but they always break, so really they aren’t fun. That’s it. That’s my handbag collection. Ms Haan was needed.
After perusing the shoes at Nordstroms and resisting and telling myself I just dropped X amount of money on a handbag, I did what any girl my age would have done… I went to Old Navy. First of all let me point out that Old freaking Navy already has a Christmas tree up in the store and yes, they are already playing holiday music. Really? It was Halloween LAST WEEKEND!!! But I quickly got back into the retail state of mind when I saw on the rack what I was looking for… jeggings.
Yeah, you read that right, Jeggings. For y’all who don’t know what jeggings are (i.e. dad), jeggings are leggings that are made to look like jeans. For the past few years I have been avoiding the leggings trend because just the thought of wearing leggings took me back to elementary school when leggings were the only “bottoms” I would wear. I didn’t wear dresses or skirts or even jeans, I only wore bottoms that were fitted and stretchy and looked cool with my over sized Emmitt Smith T-Shirts and homemade holiday sweatshirts. However, Boyfriend has been begging me to wear leggings ever since he went to Amsterdam with his buddy, Caliman. He came back from the Netherlands all knowledgeable about fashion. This is his wisdom, “All the hot girls in Europe are wearing long shirts and sweater with tall boots and like really, really thick tights…” Once I explained to him that tights are not pants and they are called leggings he has been bothering me for the past two winters to wear leggings. I finally gave in.
I can’t go full legging yet. I’m just not there mentally. But, I was willing to try the whole jegging tread, so I loaded up a couple of styles in multiple sizes (because I never know what size I am at Old Navy) and headed to the dressing room. To my surprise, I didn’t hate them… In fact I kinda like them… a lot. So, I bought them and I’m wearing them right now tucked into the boots Boyfriend bought me while in Amsterdam with a short shirt dress from H&M and a sweater. So, Old Navy come through from me and let me try this trend for a fraction of the Nordstroms price, even during the sale.
Oh, I also learned that the new skinny leg, ankle capri cargo pants all the actresses and models are wearing this season, is not a good look if you have thighs. Just FYI…
Here’s my question for Old Navy… Why don’t they make fun, soft socks for men? You know those socks that I’m talking about… they are made from that synthetic material that feels like angel wings and puppy dog dreams.
Old Navy has them every year in fun colors and prints and they make perfect stocking stuffers. Well, they don’t make them for men. Why not? I mean I understand them not having the pink and silver sparkly ones, but why not some blues ones with footballs or something? I say this because for the past week Boyfriend has been stealing my socks. First to go were my elf socks because they are 500 times too big for me and thus actually sorta fit him. Then he moved on to my super soft Bath and Body Works socks, which annoyed me because they will stretch out too much. Then the other day I come home and he is laying on the couch with my multicolored rainbow ankle socks that Best Friend gave me on! WFT Boyfriend?!?! The thick socks I understand, but those ankle socks are no more thick and luscious than any of his plan white boring socks. This is why I was so excited to see the fun socks at Old Navy. In my mind I thought, “I’ll buy him his own and then he’ll leave mind alone.” You see this is the problem with sharing a sock drawer, he thinks everything in it should belong to him. Um, no Boyfriend. So I walk to the men’s side of the store and find no socks. So, I found someone and asked them where the fun, super soft, holiday men’s socks are and the sales chick looked right at me and said, “Why would anyone want those?”
I wanted to scream at her, "Because my boyfriend is super weird!" but instead I just walked away thinking how bad a sales associate she was...
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Legand of the Lemon Lady: Where My Love For Lemons Originated...
As, hopefully, you can tell, I’ve made a few changes to the look of my blog. I hope you like them. I have also added a list of other blogs I enjoy, so if you get bored at work… your welcome. Also you can now comment on blog posts under the name “anonymous” if you don’t want to set up a Yahoo or Google account… your welcome parents.
A few people have asked me where the name LemonsLemonsLemons comes from. So, I thought I would address that question today in honor of the new look. (And yes, I know it looks very similar to the old look.)
I like lemons.
Here are some reasons why I’ve always liked lemons…
Sour Lemon Sharks from Woolworths in England
Lemon Sorbet
Lemons in your Ice Tea
Lemon Pepper on everything
Then something happened when I as 15 that changed my view on lemons, from just liking them, to kinda being obsessed. I made the mistake of going to the Musee d’Orsey with my sister.
When I first moved to Germany the summer between my freshmen and sophomore years in high school, my mom, my sister, and I went on a girls trip to Paris. Sister loves Paris. She was an art history major in college (yeah my parents produced art history and American studies majors, go figure) and she took French in high school and she found out she was pregnant with my nephew while in Paris with Brother In Law. I mean I think Paris is beautiful and historical and I love food, but Sister REALLY thinks Paris is beautiful and historical and give her a baguette and she’s happy as a clam. So after we arrived in Germany and after my father dragged us all jet lagged through Bavaria and the Alps, Mom, Sister, and I jumped on the train to Paris.
After an interesting train ride sharing a compartment with a mother and her two Harry Potter loving children and a slightly creepy French tennis player we arrived in Paris ready to see the sights thanks to Sister and her tour books and knowledge of every building and statue. When I say we looked at a lot of art, we looked at a lot of art. Now, I like art. I do, but OMG does my sister like art. She can tell you why a certain painter painted an arm longer than the other or why a cherub has a thin halo instead of a thick halo. Then she would want to sketch. She would plop herself down in front of some naked guy holding grapes and draw him from different angles as Asian tourists took pictures and videotaped her. I’m sure it was a dream come true. I mean I can imagine if I was an artist, sitting with my back against the marble wall of some random hall in the Louvre sketching priceless works of art would be awesome. (Maybe even living out the movie that plays inside my head)
On the day after the Louvre, we visited the Musee d’Orsay where all the impressionist paintings are housed. The museum itself is an old train station that has been converted into a holding house of some of the most priceless, amazing, beautiful works of art. Monet and Renoir and Degas and thousands of other master artists have work inside its wall. When you visit the Musee d’Orsay you start on the ground floor and then you take a very long series of escalators to the top floor and work your way back down. This system keeps people walking the same way and traffic moving swiftly. We finished two floors and my feet were killing me and Mom was hungry, so even though I’m sure my sister was ready to press on to the next lowest floor, we made her stop at the museum café and have a bite to eat. We bought our pommes frites and whatnot and quickly found a seat to rest our feet and enjoy our little snack.
Me: “Nom, nom, nom, my feet hurt, nom.”
Sister: “Nom, nom, nom, I love art, nom.”
Mom: “So, girls what has been your favorite piece of art you’ve seen today?”
Me: “Well, I…”
Sister: (Quickly cutting me off) “Oh, well there are soooo many that are worthy of that title…. I mean first there is Monet’s Blue Water Lilies or as the French call them “Nymphéas Bleus” in its square format that just overly emphasizes the neutrality of the composition. And, it is true that if you get really close to the painting the bush strokes are stronger than the identification of the plants and water they are suppose to represent. The man was a genius, a lily pad loving genius! And the Van Goghs! Did you see The Church in Auvers –Sur –Oise? It is amazing to see such a gothic structure become light and almost flamboyant like rising from the shadows. And Cezanna… I love how… blah blah blah…”
Me: (To myself) “OMG will she never shut up? And what’s the difference between composition and dimension? Didn’t she explain that yesterday? Crap this is all just running together…”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… Courbet vaginas… blah, blah, blah… Pissarros’ fragmented brushstrokes… blah blah blah…”
Me: (Again to myself) “Divisionism??? Okay, remember when it’s your turn say smart things like composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism….”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… The Redon off centered child that on one side the painting was airy and light and the other had the dark child in the shadows... blah blah blah and a whole lot of other shit about art I can’t remember/don’t want to look up/wasn’t listening in the first place.”
Twenty minutes later when my sister stopped for air and what was remaining of the French Fries, Mom turned to me and, ever the fair mother, asked me, “So, what was your favorite piece of art?”
Me: “Ah… Um… (What can’t I think of anything?) Well… You see… (Crap, who were those pretty blue painting by again? What were those smart sounding artsy words I was suppose to say?) Um… There was this one of a Lemon I liked."
"Le Lemon" by Edouard Manet 1880
FML. Really? Really? Out of all the amazing works of art I had seen for the past five hours the only painting I could remember was smaller than an 8x10 and pictured a single lemon on a plate. Yeah, a lemon on a plate. I could have remembered the beautiful Degas ballerinas, or that large painting of the men stripping the ballet studio’s floor by someone I can’t remember and Google seems to be failing me. I could have remembered all the Van Gogh self portraits that are all colorful and beautiful but always seem haunted underneath the rainbow paint. But, no. My mind went blank and the only single piece of work I could remember from the last five hours of looking at what can be argued as one of the best collections of art in the world, was than damn Manet’s Le Lemon.
So, I went with it. And I did and still do kinda love it. It is small and dark and I felt sorry for it. Yeah, I felt sorry for a painting in a museum that is probably passed over all day long while people speed walk to the Monets. Since then, I’ve become a lover of all things lemons. Later that summer I took my photo by lemon trees when Mom, Sister, and I went to Austria. Sister has painted me two painting of lemons. One was a copy of the original and one was her interpretation. I have lemon shaped candles and lemon earrings. I have a lemon throw pillow and a lemon apron. I’ve embraced an infatuation of the great citrus because of a small painting in a large museum on the other side of the world.
And there you have it, the story of
LemonsLemonsLemons.
A few people have asked me where the name LemonsLemonsLemons comes from. So, I thought I would address that question today in honor of the new look. (And yes, I know it looks very similar to the old look.)
I like lemons.
Here are some reasons why I’ve always liked lemons…
Sour Lemon Sharks from Woolworths in England
Lemon Sorbet
Lemons in your Ice Tea
Lemon Pepper on everything
Then something happened when I as 15 that changed my view on lemons, from just liking them, to kinda being obsessed. I made the mistake of going to the Musee d’Orsey with my sister.
When I first moved to Germany the summer between my freshmen and sophomore years in high school, my mom, my sister, and I went on a girls trip to Paris. Sister loves Paris. She was an art history major in college (yeah my parents produced art history and American studies majors, go figure) and she took French in high school and she found out she was pregnant with my nephew while in Paris with Brother In Law. I mean I think Paris is beautiful and historical and I love food, but Sister REALLY thinks Paris is beautiful and historical and give her a baguette and she’s happy as a clam. So after we arrived in Germany and after my father dragged us all jet lagged through Bavaria and the Alps, Mom, Sister, and I jumped on the train to Paris.
After an interesting train ride sharing a compartment with a mother and her two Harry Potter loving children and a slightly creepy French tennis player we arrived in Paris ready to see the sights thanks to Sister and her tour books and knowledge of every building and statue. When I say we looked at a lot of art, we looked at a lot of art. Now, I like art. I do, but OMG does my sister like art. She can tell you why a certain painter painted an arm longer than the other or why a cherub has a thin halo instead of a thick halo. Then she would want to sketch. She would plop herself down in front of some naked guy holding grapes and draw him from different angles as Asian tourists took pictures and videotaped her. I’m sure it was a dream come true. I mean I can imagine if I was an artist, sitting with my back against the marble wall of some random hall in the Louvre sketching priceless works of art would be awesome. (Maybe even living out the movie that plays inside my head)
On the day after the Louvre, we visited the Musee d’Orsay where all the impressionist paintings are housed. The museum itself is an old train station that has been converted into a holding house of some of the most priceless, amazing, beautiful works of art. Monet and Renoir and Degas and thousands of other master artists have work inside its wall. When you visit the Musee d’Orsay you start on the ground floor and then you take a very long series of escalators to the top floor and work your way back down. This system keeps people walking the same way and traffic moving swiftly. We finished two floors and my feet were killing me and Mom was hungry, so even though I’m sure my sister was ready to press on to the next lowest floor, we made her stop at the museum café and have a bite to eat. We bought our pommes frites and whatnot and quickly found a seat to rest our feet and enjoy our little snack.
Me: “Nom, nom, nom, my feet hurt, nom.”
Sister: “Nom, nom, nom, I love art, nom.”
Mom: “So, girls what has been your favorite piece of art you’ve seen today?”
Me: “Well, I…”
Sister: (Quickly cutting me off) “Oh, well there are soooo many that are worthy of that title…. I mean first there is Monet’s Blue Water Lilies or as the French call them “Nymphéas Bleus” in its square format that just overly emphasizes the neutrality of the composition. And, it is true that if you get really close to the painting the bush strokes are stronger than the identification of the plants and water they are suppose to represent. The man was a genius, a lily pad loving genius! And the Van Goghs! Did you see The Church in Auvers –Sur –Oise? It is amazing to see such a gothic structure become light and almost flamboyant like rising from the shadows. And Cezanna… I love how… blah blah blah…”
Me: (To myself) “OMG will she never shut up? And what’s the difference between composition and dimension? Didn’t she explain that yesterday? Crap this is all just running together…”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… Courbet vaginas… blah, blah, blah… Pissarros’ fragmented brushstrokes… blah blah blah…”
Me: (Again to myself) “Divisionism??? Okay, remember when it’s your turn say smart things like composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism. Repeat, composition, dimension, and divisionism….”
Sister: “blah, blah, blah… The Redon off centered child that on one side the painting was airy and light and the other had the dark child in the shadows... blah blah blah and a whole lot of other shit about art I can’t remember/don’t want to look up/wasn’t listening in the first place.”
Twenty minutes later when my sister stopped for air and what was remaining of the French Fries, Mom turned to me and, ever the fair mother, asked me, “So, what was your favorite piece of art?”
Me: “Ah… Um… (What can’t I think of anything?) Well… You see… (Crap, who were those pretty blue painting by again? What were those smart sounding artsy words I was suppose to say?) Um… There was this one of a Lemon I liked."
"Le Lemon" by Edouard Manet 1880FML. Really? Really? Out of all the amazing works of art I had seen for the past five hours the only painting I could remember was smaller than an 8x10 and pictured a single lemon on a plate. Yeah, a lemon on a plate. I could have remembered the beautiful Degas ballerinas, or that large painting of the men stripping the ballet studio’s floor by someone I can’t remember and Google seems to be failing me. I could have remembered all the Van Gogh self portraits that are all colorful and beautiful but always seem haunted underneath the rainbow paint. But, no. My mind went blank and the only single piece of work I could remember from the last five hours of looking at what can be argued as one of the best collections of art in the world, was than damn Manet’s Le Lemon.
So, I went with it. And I did and still do kinda love it. It is small and dark and I felt sorry for it. Yeah, I felt sorry for a painting in a museum that is probably passed over all day long while people speed walk to the Monets. Since then, I’ve become a lover of all things lemons. Later that summer I took my photo by lemon trees when Mom, Sister, and I went to Austria. Sister has painted me two painting of lemons. One was a copy of the original and one was her interpretation. I have lemon shaped candles and lemon earrings. I have a lemon throw pillow and a lemon apron. I’ve embraced an infatuation of the great citrus because of a small painting in a large museum on the other side of the world.
And there you have it, the story of
LemonsLemonsLemons.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Huge Accomplishment!!!
Okay so you guys know I’ve been in a little bit of a rut lately with my blog posts, but I am determined to stick it out. I got a huge confidence booster last night when I sat down on the couch and pulled out my journal. When I’m at home I like to write with Boyfriend next to me and the TV on. If I don’t have distractions I feel like I’m writing my homework or it’s an assignment. Plus, Boyfriend says really random funny things and 90% of the time I can’t remember them the next day because I didn’t write them down. So, when I’m in the mood to write I prop up my feet on the leather ottoman (which suppose to go in our bedroom at the end of the bed, but never passed the living room as it’s the perfect height to put our feet on while relaxing on the futon), surround myself with pillows, then mess up the pillows because I never remember water until I’m perfectly comfortable, then surround myself again with pillows, then get a little annoyed because Boyfriend will always take a pillow, then demand he get up and get me the blue Sharpie Pen instead of the red one which I wrote with last time, then I write. Last night I never got to the actual writing because… I’m out of pages in my journal!!!
This is a huge deal! Seriously this is a giant accomplishment in my life. Never, since I was in 6th grade and started my very first journal have I ever actually finished a journal from cover to cover. I know and I call myself a writer… So last night was monumental. I have a whole stack of journals and diaries I’ve started and never finished. I long to be like my sister and have a huge shelf in my house that is lined with my written words. That goal is right up there with publishing a book in my eyes and my goals in life. Honestly, I believe that my inability to finish a journal has kept me going with this blog. I don’t want it to fail the way so many journals of my past have. The fun thing about this blog is I get to write so much that I would never have put in a journal. I mean there was absolutely no reason to write down the most horrible, most awkward, most embarrassing story of my life in my journal because only I was going to read it. I don’t need a written reminder of that story. I will be on my death bed and a tiny voice will appear and say,
“Elaine… Elaine…”
“What? Who’s there? Is that Jesus?”
“No, it is just you… talking to yourself.”
“Figures.”
“You are about to die. You are about to leave this world. You have lived to be 102. Don’t forget that time you kicked your doctor in the face causing her nose to bleed and her dog to go crazy. Bye, bye.”
“Oh, that was awkw…”
And then I’ll die. I’ll die not thinking about my long happy life or my family or counting my blessings, but I’ll die thinking how absolutely awkward I am. Just like on this blog I try not to write about my job and its details (as I don’t want to be fired) and my everyday life, except when it comes to breakfast tacos.
In honor of my accomplishment I am going to buy me something. Well, okay not buy, but lust over some things…
1. Marc Jacobs Classic Q Hillier Hobo Handbag
Seriously I want my babies to come out of me looking this good. I adore Marc’s Handbags, but this one is the crème de la crème. It’s the cat’s meow. It is the bag that when I see it in Nordstroms angels sings and lights shine down from Heaven. I really, really want it. It’s made out of the most amazing, soft pebbled leather… like butter (butta). Although it comes in lots of different colors (usually three new colors a season) I love the classic black or there is a gun metal grey from a few seasons ago I wouldn’t pass up either. There is a quote from Confessions Of A Shoppoholic (which I only bought on iTunes because I had a car ride and needed an easy listen – yeah I’m a book snob, what?) where the main chick is talking about how one day she took all of her shoes out of her closet, lined them up, and took a picture. She didn’t think it was weird because she absolutely loves her shoes, yet has no pictures of them, and on the other hand has loads of pictures of people she doesn’t really even like. If I owned this bag I would take pictures of it everywhere. Date night with Boyfriend – picture of my bag with yummy food. Vacation – bag next to Grand Canyon or Empire State Building. Oh, and they would be framed.
2. Boscia Mask
This is for killing two birds with one stone. First it helps your skin look clear, smooth, and gorgeous. Secondly, it might be the most fun thing ever. Okay, (and I might just be embarrassing myself here) but did you guys ever in elementary school put Elmer’s Glue on your hands just so it would dry and then you could peel it off in one big piece of glue skin? Okay, I did and I loved it. Peeling glue off my skin was like my crack. I needed that high, that feeling of cold glue skin being freed from my real skin. The feeling of peeling off the glue was the best part and that is why this mask is so freaking cool. When you put it on your face it’s all thick and tar–ish like. Then it hardens and you can peel the entire thing off in just one pull. (Like this girl is doing in a picture she posted on her Facebook page. Let this be a lesson to us all, once you put a photo on Facebook it is no longer yours and anyone can get to them. This poor girl has no idea she is modeling for my prestigious blog.)
3. Frye Jane Tall Boots
These are the boots I want for this fall/winter. They are perfect for a few reasons. First they are tall. I hate short boots with a passion. I don’t understand why someone would buy short boots when they could buy tall boots and be able to wear them with double the outfits. Tall boots can be worn under pants and jeans AND with skirts and dresses AND over jeans. Why buy a boot that is just for under pants? Oh, and I’m not talking about booties. Booties are a whole other problem and issue. What girl in her right mind (and this is excluding models and anyone over 5’10) would want a boot that cuts her off at her ankle. She might as well wear a sign around her neck saying, “Hi there. I hate my legs and want to look short and stumpy.” Second reason why these boots rock my world, the color. I love grey for fall. It is a great neutral that can work with brown or black. Last but not least, I like that they aren’t to “tough” looking but also aren’t “girly girly” They would be great over skinny jeans and still look cute with a sweater dress. I’m sold.
4. Voluspa Baltic Amber Candle
Boyfriend likes this scent because Amber is a large export of Poland and Boyfriend is Polish. I like this candle because it smells really good. Boyfriend likes to burn candles because his family burns a lot of candles. I like to burn candles because we never ever burned candles in my family. Boyfriend and I go through a lot of candles and this one is probably the most popular in our household.
5. Frieda and Nellie Bracelet
I saw these in a magazine about a year ago and ever since then I’ve totally wanted one. These two girls were friends growing up and always made friendship bracelets. Then when they got older they started this business of making the same bracelets they used to make but with vintage jewelry and crystals. OMG, why can’t I think of things like this? They are so beautiful, and I want like ten. This makes me want to mix pretty vintage jewelry with anything and everything. Vintage crystals and Tupperware? I’d buy some. Jewels and bathmats? Sure, why not.
6. Extra Large Moleskin Notebook (blank pages)
I finished my first one and now I need a second. I’m so proud of myself.
Although I didn’t write anything after I sat down and made myself all comfy on the futon, I spent the time instead looking back of what I thought I wrote well and what I just slapped together on a page. I came across a few things I’d like to show you.
Okay, I’m getting my hair cut tomorrow and I’m thinking about bangs? Bangs kinda like these.
What do y’all think?
After rereading my journal this was definitely my favorite piece.
I wrote this right after reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer and was contemplating being a vegetarian (which I did for about a month). I might do some tweaking and rewrite it here on the blog.
This is a huge deal! Seriously this is a giant accomplishment in my life. Never, since I was in 6th grade and started my very first journal have I ever actually finished a journal from cover to cover. I know and I call myself a writer… So last night was monumental. I have a whole stack of journals and diaries I’ve started and never finished. I long to be like my sister and have a huge shelf in my house that is lined with my written words. That goal is right up there with publishing a book in my eyes and my goals in life. Honestly, I believe that my inability to finish a journal has kept me going with this blog. I don’t want it to fail the way so many journals of my past have. The fun thing about this blog is I get to write so much that I would never have put in a journal. I mean there was absolutely no reason to write down the most horrible, most awkward, most embarrassing story of my life in my journal because only I was going to read it. I don’t need a written reminder of that story. I will be on my death bed and a tiny voice will appear and say,
“Elaine… Elaine…”
“What? Who’s there? Is that Jesus?”
“No, it is just you… talking to yourself.”
“Figures.”
“You are about to die. You are about to leave this world. You have lived to be 102. Don’t forget that time you kicked your doctor in the face causing her nose to bleed and her dog to go crazy. Bye, bye.”
“Oh, that was awkw…”
And then I’ll die. I’ll die not thinking about my long happy life or my family or counting my blessings, but I’ll die thinking how absolutely awkward I am. Just like on this blog I try not to write about my job and its details (as I don’t want to be fired) and my everyday life, except when it comes to breakfast tacos.
In honor of my accomplishment I am going to buy me something. Well, okay not buy, but lust over some things…
1. Marc Jacobs Classic Q Hillier Hobo Handbag
Seriously I want my babies to come out of me looking this good. I adore Marc’s Handbags, but this one is the crème de la crème. It’s the cat’s meow. It is the bag that when I see it in Nordstroms angels sings and lights shine down from Heaven. I really, really want it. It’s made out of the most amazing, soft pebbled leather… like butter (butta). Although it comes in lots of different colors (usually three new colors a season) I love the classic black or there is a gun metal grey from a few seasons ago I wouldn’t pass up either. There is a quote from Confessions Of A Shoppoholic (which I only bought on iTunes because I had a car ride and needed an easy listen – yeah I’m a book snob, what?) where the main chick is talking about how one day she took all of her shoes out of her closet, lined them up, and took a picture. She didn’t think it was weird because she absolutely loves her shoes, yet has no pictures of them, and on the other hand has loads of pictures of people she doesn’t really even like. If I owned this bag I would take pictures of it everywhere. Date night with Boyfriend – picture of my bag with yummy food. Vacation – bag next to Grand Canyon or Empire State Building. Oh, and they would be framed.
2. Boscia Mask
This is for killing two birds with one stone. First it helps your skin look clear, smooth, and gorgeous. Secondly, it might be the most fun thing ever. Okay, (and I might just be embarrassing myself here) but did you guys ever in elementary school put Elmer’s Glue on your hands just so it would dry and then you could peel it off in one big piece of glue skin? Okay, I did and I loved it. Peeling glue off my skin was like my crack. I needed that high, that feeling of cold glue skin being freed from my real skin. The feeling of peeling off the glue was the best part and that is why this mask is so freaking cool. When you put it on your face it’s all thick and tar–ish like. Then it hardens and you can peel the entire thing off in just one pull. (Like this girl is doing in a picture she posted on her Facebook page. Let this be a lesson to us all, once you put a photo on Facebook it is no longer yours and anyone can get to them. This poor girl has no idea she is modeling for my prestigious blog.)
3. Frye Jane Tall Boots
These are the boots I want for this fall/winter. They are perfect for a few reasons. First they are tall. I hate short boots with a passion. I don’t understand why someone would buy short boots when they could buy tall boots and be able to wear them with double the outfits. Tall boots can be worn under pants and jeans AND with skirts and dresses AND over jeans. Why buy a boot that is just for under pants? Oh, and I’m not talking about booties. Booties are a whole other problem and issue. What girl in her right mind (and this is excluding models and anyone over 5’10) would want a boot that cuts her off at her ankle. She might as well wear a sign around her neck saying, “Hi there. I hate my legs and want to look short and stumpy.” Second reason why these boots rock my world, the color. I love grey for fall. It is a great neutral that can work with brown or black. Last but not least, I like that they aren’t to “tough” looking but also aren’t “girly girly” They would be great over skinny jeans and still look cute with a sweater dress. I’m sold.
4. Voluspa Baltic Amber Candle
Boyfriend likes this scent because Amber is a large export of Poland and Boyfriend is Polish. I like this candle because it smells really good. Boyfriend likes to burn candles because his family burns a lot of candles. I like to burn candles because we never ever burned candles in my family. Boyfriend and I go through a lot of candles and this one is probably the most popular in our household.
5. Frieda and Nellie Bracelet
I saw these in a magazine about a year ago and ever since then I’ve totally wanted one. These two girls were friends growing up and always made friendship bracelets. Then when they got older they started this business of making the same bracelets they used to make but with vintage jewelry and crystals. OMG, why can’t I think of things like this? They are so beautiful, and I want like ten. This makes me want to mix pretty vintage jewelry with anything and everything. Vintage crystals and Tupperware? I’d buy some. Jewels and bathmats? Sure, why not.
6. Extra Large Moleskin Notebook (blank pages)
I finished my first one and now I need a second. I’m so proud of myself.
Although I didn’t write anything after I sat down and made myself all comfy on the futon, I spent the time instead looking back of what I thought I wrote well and what I just slapped together on a page. I came across a few things I’d like to show you.
Okay, I’m getting my hair cut tomorrow and I’m thinking about bangs? Bangs kinda like these.
What do y’all think?
After rereading my journal this was definitely my favorite piece.
I wrote this right after reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer and was contemplating being a vegetarian (which I did for about a month). I might do some tweaking and rewrite it here on the blog.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
My Other Addictions and a Portrait of my Sister...
The day I started this blog I knew I would write a blog post about my addiction to breakfast tacos. They really are a very important part of my life. If you read this blog regularly, you know that a few weeks ago I started going to Boot Camp at 5:30 in the morning to get my butt back into shape. On day one of Boot Camp, my trainer sent us an email of nutritional information to eat healthy and thus, lose more weight and look more amazing. I read the damn thing front and back and couldn’t find a single time the two words, “breakfast” and “taco” were written next to one another. My love, my passion, my addiction was not allowed, and therefore I was going to have to quit cold turkey. Like most addicts and most people who try to quit anything cold turkey, I haven’t been 100% successful. Now I don’t stop every morning at Taco Cabana or Rudy’s like I used to, but a couple of times I haven’t been able to get rid of the shakes with yogurt and fruit. Sometimes, like this morning, I just have to dash into Taco Shack and grab me a potato, egg, and cheese.
But, I should stop talking about Breakfast Tacos because I’ve already written about that love and addiction and I am kinda making myself hungry.
Lemon Lady’s Other Addictions!!!
Popsicles: Besides Breakfast Tacos I go through phases with foods I crave and have to have. Davis Girl and other college roommates probably remember my love for banana peppers from the jar and Best Friend remembers how during my senior year of High School I only at cheese and peanut butter crackers with a box of apple juice for breakfast every morning. (Well every morning until I got my own car and could drive to Taco Cabana…) Right now I am on a huge Popsicle kick. Not just any popsicles, but the ones that come just as juice in a plastic shell and you have to freeze them so they become popsicles. And not the name brand Fla-Vor-Ice but the knock offs that HEB sells in the red mesh bag, two for four dollars. I eat the purple, orange, and pinks first. Then I start on the reds and greens, and when I have no others left I eat the blues. I do not like blue flavored things. And, yes, blue is a flavor! But if I’m all out of grape, orange, strawberry (I think that is what pink is suppost to be) cheery, and lime, I will totally go there. The fact that I will eat the blue popsicles, even though I kinda don’t like them, totally makes me an addict. I figure it is like when Crack addicts are all out of the good stuff, they don’t cry and wish they had saved a hit for a rainy day. Crack addicts get down on their hands and knees and search the carpet for that tiny bit they dropped last Tuesday to support their habit. Obviously my popsicles wouldn’t last in the hot harsh climate out of the freezer, so I only have to search behind the chicken breasts I never remember to take out and thaw for dinner and that cold pack I used once in college. This is why I am superior to Crack addicts. (Popsicles! Improving Self Esteem One Plastic Wrapper at a Time!)
Dove’s Go Fresh and Energize Beauty Bar: I never used bar soap until I started dating Boyfriend. Boyfriend might be the most meticulous shower taker I’ve ever seen. He makes me feel dirty watching him get clean. (Haha! That’s what she said.) I’m not trying to have a dirty mind here. I’m trying to state a fact. Boyfriend usually gets home after me and the first thing he does is get in the shower. He showers and I sit on the toilet and we talk about our days or have geography quizzes with the help of our map of the world shower curtain. The boy lathers up so much that if he doesn’t stand under the water it looks like he is wearing a soft, yellow, onesie. He spends like five minutes on each toe. He washes his head with soap and then shampoo. (For y’all who don’t know Boyfriend he shaves his head, so he has very little hair.) He does all of this with Dove’s Go Fresh and Energize Beauty Bar. It’s made from lemongrass and grapefruit and I think fairy wings (although that’s not on the box). Pretty much it’s the Dove soap in the yellow box. He smells amazing when he gets out of the shower. Seriously, no cologne is better, and Axe Body spray or wash can suck it, because nothing smells better than clean Boyfriend and yellow soap. Mark me down as an addict.
Bloody Mary: Okay first of all I mean the drink and not Queen Mary who murdered a whole lot of English people for not being Catholic. Whoever decided to first mix tomato juice and vodka together is a genius and whoever then made it spicy and added celery might just be Jesus. In fact we all know the Bible has been translated and retranslated 100s of times, so maybe in the original version of The Book of John, Jesus’ last super was bread and Bloody Marys instead of bread and wine. But seriously, who doesn’t love the fact that they can get a serving of fruit out of the way by mixing it with alcohol. Plus you get all sorts of snacks in your glass to munch on like celery and olives. I am on a search for the best Blood Mary and the best Bloody Mary Bar in Austin.
Best Bloody Mary!
Reds Porch on South Lamar: VERY SPICY and they put spicy green beans in the glass to snack on.
South Congress Café on South Congress: They make their Blood Mary with jalapeño infused Titos vodka.
Boyfriends Bloody Mary: He throws in onion and bell pepper as well as an extra shot of the good stuff, Dripping Springs Vodka.
Best Bloody Mary Bar!
Cover 3 on Anderson Lane: Hands down, this place has no competition. It is a giant spread of mixes, veggies, spices, and hot sauces that covers three tables. Plus they give you a list of premium vodkas to choose from.
On a completely different note… I got a message today letting me know that my sister’s baby is officially the size of a lemon! I picture it as something like this…
But, I should stop talking about Breakfast Tacos because I’ve already written about that love and addiction and I am kinda making myself hungry.
Lemon Lady’s Other Addictions!!!
Popsicles: Besides Breakfast Tacos I go through phases with foods I crave and have to have. Davis Girl and other college roommates probably remember my love for banana peppers from the jar and Best Friend remembers how during my senior year of High School I only at cheese and peanut butter crackers with a box of apple juice for breakfast every morning. (Well every morning until I got my own car and could drive to Taco Cabana…) Right now I am on a huge Popsicle kick. Not just any popsicles, but the ones that come just as juice in a plastic shell and you have to freeze them so they become popsicles. And not the name brand Fla-Vor-Ice but the knock offs that HEB sells in the red mesh bag, two for four dollars. I eat the purple, orange, and pinks first. Then I start on the reds and greens, and when I have no others left I eat the blues. I do not like blue flavored things. And, yes, blue is a flavor! But if I’m all out of grape, orange, strawberry (I think that is what pink is suppost to be) cheery, and lime, I will totally go there. The fact that I will eat the blue popsicles, even though I kinda don’t like them, totally makes me an addict. I figure it is like when Crack addicts are all out of the good stuff, they don’t cry and wish they had saved a hit for a rainy day. Crack addicts get down on their hands and knees and search the carpet for that tiny bit they dropped last Tuesday to support their habit. Obviously my popsicles wouldn’t last in the hot harsh climate out of the freezer, so I only have to search behind the chicken breasts I never remember to take out and thaw for dinner and that cold pack I used once in college. This is why I am superior to Crack addicts. (Popsicles! Improving Self Esteem One Plastic Wrapper at a Time!)
Dove’s Go Fresh and Energize Beauty Bar: I never used bar soap until I started dating Boyfriend. Boyfriend might be the most meticulous shower taker I’ve ever seen. He makes me feel dirty watching him get clean. (Haha! That’s what she said.) I’m not trying to have a dirty mind here. I’m trying to state a fact. Boyfriend usually gets home after me and the first thing he does is get in the shower. He showers and I sit on the toilet and we talk about our days or have geography quizzes with the help of our map of the world shower curtain. The boy lathers up so much that if he doesn’t stand under the water it looks like he is wearing a soft, yellow, onesie. He spends like five minutes on each toe. He washes his head with soap and then shampoo. (For y’all who don’t know Boyfriend he shaves his head, so he has very little hair.) He does all of this with Dove’s Go Fresh and Energize Beauty Bar. It’s made from lemongrass and grapefruit and I think fairy wings (although that’s not on the box). Pretty much it’s the Dove soap in the yellow box. He smells amazing when he gets out of the shower. Seriously, no cologne is better, and Axe Body spray or wash can suck it, because nothing smells better than clean Boyfriend and yellow soap. Mark me down as an addict.
Bloody Mary: Okay first of all I mean the drink and not Queen Mary who murdered a whole lot of English people for not being Catholic. Whoever decided to first mix tomato juice and vodka together is a genius and whoever then made it spicy and added celery might just be Jesus. In fact we all know the Bible has been translated and retranslated 100s of times, so maybe in the original version of The Book of John, Jesus’ last super was bread and Bloody Marys instead of bread and wine. But seriously, who doesn’t love the fact that they can get a serving of fruit out of the way by mixing it with alcohol. Plus you get all sorts of snacks in your glass to munch on like celery and olives. I am on a search for the best Blood Mary and the best Bloody Mary Bar in Austin.
Best Bloody Mary!
Reds Porch on South Lamar: VERY SPICY and they put spicy green beans in the glass to snack on.
South Congress Café on South Congress: They make their Blood Mary with jalapeño infused Titos vodka.
Boyfriends Bloody Mary: He throws in onion and bell pepper as well as an extra shot of the good stuff, Dripping Springs Vodka.
Best Bloody Mary Bar!
Cover 3 on Anderson Lane: Hands down, this place has no competition. It is a giant spread of mixes, veggies, spices, and hot sauces that covers three tables. Plus they give you a list of premium vodkas to choose from.
On a completely different note… I got a message today letting me know that my sister’s baby is officially the size of a lemon! I picture it as something like this…
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Scream... Proof Movies You Thought Were Awesome in Middle School, Not So Much...
Labor Day weekend was amazing. I know a lot of people may say this, but my family is honest to God the greatest ever. We have so much fun together just hanging out, playing cards, eating food, and chatting. I feel like all weekend I was saying to myself, “Oh, that story so needs to be a blog post.” But, of course I didn’t have pen glued to my hand and therefore didn’t write down any of those wonderful ideas. (Getting out of the pool and finding a pen inside would have been way to much work.) So, family member that are reading this, if you remember any of those ideas let me know.
As awesome as the weekend was last night might have been just as great. Driving back into town from the parental unit’s house in San Antonio, I stopped at my local used movie/CD store, Cheepos. I have been hitting up Cheepos weekly for about a month looking for the holy grail of entertainment de Middle School weekend sleepovers, Wes Craven’s Scream.
My first horror movie memory was climbing into my parent’s king size bed with my mom and sister and watching the movie Alien. My dad was out of town and my mother decided it would be fun to have a movie night watching one of her favorite movies with her two daughters. She got us all comfortable will pillows and blankets, and we each had a dish of popcorn. What could be more fun? Oh, and did I mention that I was in kindergarten and my sister was in 4th grade. Yeah, my mother (who don’t get me wrong is amazing) thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie where aliens pop out of people’s stomachs with her 6 year old and 10 year old. We only made it through about 30 minutes and never even saw one alien, and my sister still had nightmares and physically got sick to her stomach.
I started liking horror movies and scary shows when I was in 4th grade. We had just moved back to the States from England and I loved all the cool American TV shows that were creepy and spooky. I watched everything from X Files to Are You Afraid of the Dark on Nickelodeon. But, it wasn’t until 8th grade, when I saw the movie Scream, that I started my love affair with scary movies.
I watched Scream for the first time with my neighborhood friend, Mandy. I say I watched it for the first time, but I really I watched it for the first, second, third, and eighty-fourth time with Mandy. She and I would have sleepovers at each other’s houses every weekend and watch Scream at least twice. As soon as the sun came up over Stu’s blood soaked house and credits started to roll we would get up, rewind the VHS, and play it again. We could quote the whole movie. We did quote the whole movie… all the time. Mandy’s older brother thought we were stupid for liking such a dumb movie, and who knows what our parents thought, but we didn’t care. If it was Friday night we were either on my couch or her movie chairs watching Neve Campbell survive her thoroughly F-ed up boyfriend and his long tongued side kick.
So, I’ve been talking about wanting to watch Scream for over a month, and I finally found it on DVD yesterday. I was like a kid waiting for her parents to get up on Christmas morning. I got home with my prize DVD at 3PM and had to wait hours for it to get dark. (You can’t watch scary movies during the day.) Boyfriend wasn’t quiet as excited as me.
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “Yes, Scream!”
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “SCREAM!”
It finally got dark. I turned off all the lights, got me an orange Popsicle, and curled up on the couch with Boyfriend.
Boyfriend: “Hey, that annoying girl who looks like Davis Girl is in this movie.”
Me: “Drew Barrymore, and she doesn’t look anything like Davis Girl.”
(Boyfriend thinks any blonde in any movie or TV show looks like Davis Girl.)
Boyfriend: “Are a lot of people going to die? Who is in the car? Why is she stopping? Is the house going to burn down? I can’t believe she is still holding that phone.”
Me: “Yes, it’s a horror movie. People die. Her parents are in the car coming home. She stopped because she saw her boyfriend tied to a chair with his guts hanging out. I don’t know why she is holding the phone. Now, please hush and watch the movie.”
Boyfriend: “There is too much blood and death.”
Me: “It’s a horror movie and this is only the opening scene.”
The thing is, Scream does kinda suck. I mean I enjoyed watching it because it brought back memories, but I wasn’t scared like I used to be and I didn’t think it was as funny as it used to be. I know that we all grow out of things as we grow up, but this really hit me hard. I used to think Rose McGowan’s Tatum and Matthew Lillard’s Stu were absolutely hilarious. Yeah, not so much anymore. Rose just looks weird trying to be the sweet down to earth girl who wears cloud pajamas and sleeps with a teddy bear. I mean this is the women who went on to star in Jawbreaker and marry Marilyn Manson for crying out loud. And Stu! Stu really pissed me off last night. I remember cracking up to his lines. I remember one night we wrote them all down so we would remember them and have funny inside jokes the next day at school. (For some reason we thought we would be the only ones who had seen Scream.) Turns out his lines suck and all he did, all movie long was make faces and stick his tongue out really far.
When Tatum says, “Stupidity leak!” and hits Stu on the forehead with her lollypop I just thought how gross that is, not “wow high school kids are cool and funny in their relationships.” I mean I know Matthew Lillard didn’t have the greasy bangs Skeet Ulrich sported, but still… ick.
Also Stu’s light one liners like “Peer pressure. I’m far too sensitive.” and “Liver alone.” and “My mom and dad are going to be so mad at me.” ARE NOT FUNNY!
I’m sad. It’s a sad day when happy moments from your childhood die. I mean I watched The Last Unicorn in college and loved it just as much as when I watch it as a kid. I still love The Sandlot and Big Business, but it might be time to retire Scream. RIP.
As awesome as the weekend was last night might have been just as great. Driving back into town from the parental unit’s house in San Antonio, I stopped at my local used movie/CD store, Cheepos. I have been hitting up Cheepos weekly for about a month looking for the holy grail of entertainment de Middle School weekend sleepovers, Wes Craven’s Scream.
My first horror movie memory was climbing into my parent’s king size bed with my mom and sister and watching the movie Alien. My dad was out of town and my mother decided it would be fun to have a movie night watching one of her favorite movies with her two daughters. She got us all comfortable will pillows and blankets, and we each had a dish of popcorn. What could be more fun? Oh, and did I mention that I was in kindergarten and my sister was in 4th grade. Yeah, my mother (who don’t get me wrong is amazing) thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie where aliens pop out of people’s stomachs with her 6 year old and 10 year old. We only made it through about 30 minutes and never even saw one alien, and my sister still had nightmares and physically got sick to her stomach.
I started liking horror movies and scary shows when I was in 4th grade. We had just moved back to the States from England and I loved all the cool American TV shows that were creepy and spooky. I watched everything from X Files to Are You Afraid of the Dark on Nickelodeon. But, it wasn’t until 8th grade, when I saw the movie Scream, that I started my love affair with scary movies.
I watched Scream for the first time with my neighborhood friend, Mandy. I say I watched it for the first time, but I really I watched it for the first, second, third, and eighty-fourth time with Mandy. She and I would have sleepovers at each other’s houses every weekend and watch Scream at least twice. As soon as the sun came up over Stu’s blood soaked house and credits started to roll we would get up, rewind the VHS, and play it again. We could quote the whole movie. We did quote the whole movie… all the time. Mandy’s older brother thought we were stupid for liking such a dumb movie, and who knows what our parents thought, but we didn’t care. If it was Friday night we were either on my couch or her movie chairs watching Neve Campbell survive her thoroughly F-ed up boyfriend and his long tongued side kick.
So, I’ve been talking about wanting to watch Scream for over a month, and I finally found it on DVD yesterday. I was like a kid waiting for her parents to get up on Christmas morning. I got home with my prize DVD at 3PM and had to wait hours for it to get dark. (You can’t watch scary movies during the day.) Boyfriend wasn’t quiet as excited as me.
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “Yes, Scream!”
Boyfriend: “Scream?”
Me: “SCREAM!”
It finally got dark. I turned off all the lights, got me an orange Popsicle, and curled up on the couch with Boyfriend.
Boyfriend: “Hey, that annoying girl who looks like Davis Girl is in this movie.”
Me: “Drew Barrymore, and she doesn’t look anything like Davis Girl.”
(Boyfriend thinks any blonde in any movie or TV show looks like Davis Girl.)
Boyfriend: “Are a lot of people going to die? Who is in the car? Why is she stopping? Is the house going to burn down? I can’t believe she is still holding that phone.”
Me: “Yes, it’s a horror movie. People die. Her parents are in the car coming home. She stopped because she saw her boyfriend tied to a chair with his guts hanging out. I don’t know why she is holding the phone. Now, please hush and watch the movie.”
Boyfriend: “There is too much blood and death.”
Me: “It’s a horror movie and this is only the opening scene.”
The thing is, Scream does kinda suck. I mean I enjoyed watching it because it brought back memories, but I wasn’t scared like I used to be and I didn’t think it was as funny as it used to be. I know that we all grow out of things as we grow up, but this really hit me hard. I used to think Rose McGowan’s Tatum and Matthew Lillard’s Stu were absolutely hilarious. Yeah, not so much anymore. Rose just looks weird trying to be the sweet down to earth girl who wears cloud pajamas and sleeps with a teddy bear. I mean this is the women who went on to star in Jawbreaker and marry Marilyn Manson for crying out loud. And Stu! Stu really pissed me off last night. I remember cracking up to his lines. I remember one night we wrote them all down so we would remember them and have funny inside jokes the next day at school. (For some reason we thought we would be the only ones who had seen Scream.) Turns out his lines suck and all he did, all movie long was make faces and stick his tongue out really far.
When Tatum says, “Stupidity leak!” and hits Stu on the forehead with her lollypop I just thought how gross that is, not “wow high school kids are cool and funny in their relationships.” I mean I know Matthew Lillard didn’t have the greasy bangs Skeet Ulrich sported, but still… ick.
Also Stu’s light one liners like “Peer pressure. I’m far too sensitive.” and “Liver alone.” and “My mom and dad are going to be so mad at me.” ARE NOT FUNNY!
I’m sad. It’s a sad day when happy moments from your childhood die. I mean I watched The Last Unicorn in college and loved it just as much as when I watch it as a kid. I still love The Sandlot and Big Business, but it might be time to retire Scream. RIP.
Monday, August 23, 2010
How I Ruined My Family's 2009 Memorial Day Weekend...
Before I get to today's post I just want to remind everyone who is reading that if you aren't following my blog you could... It makes me really happy to know people are reading about me embarrassing myself on a daily basis. No pressure, but there might be a big prize for followers!!! Okay there is no prize, but still it only takes a few seconds out of your day.
How I Ruined My Family’s 2009 Memorial Day Weekend…
This story still makes me laugh when I think about it and again falls into the “this would only happen to me” category.
Boyfriend and I made plans for Memorial Day Weekend to drive down to San Antonio and spend time with my parents and my sister, brother in law, and nephew who were also going to make the trek down south. My parents were excited because we would all be there, but more importantly the grandson would be there. I’m sure Sister and Brother in Law were excited because my parents would be playing with their kid 24/7, thus giving them some breathing time. And myself? I was just happy to be with everyone and no working for a weekend.
On Saturday my mother decided that we should pack a picnic, grab our swimsuits and floats, and spend the day at the river. What an American thing to do, right? I think she made this suggestion because Brother in Law had planned on going to the lake with his friends for the weekend until Sister told him they were going to her parents. So that morning we packed the cars (Yeah cars. My nephew can’t go anywhere without an entourage of plastic crap.) and headed 10 miles down the road to the river. The Guadalupe River twists and turns all throughout central Texas and I feel like you can never be more than 15 miles away from it if you are anywhere in between San Antonio and Austin. My parents own a piece of land in a community where there are parks with access to the river. We enjoy going to these parks because you have to have land in the community to use them. This means that not everyone and their step children are trying to enjoy the same plot of nature you are.
Okay that was the back story; here is when this post starts to pick it up…
We arrive at the river park and all is well. It was sprinkled on us a little in the car ride over, but once we reached the small parking lot for the park the sky was clear, the birds were chirping, and Brother in Law and I couldn’t get in the water fast enough. Toobs were blown up during the car ride and beers were popped as soon as the car stopped. We all grabbed as much baby crap as we could and walked down the hill to the river. It was beautiful. We were worried there wouldn’t be any water in the river and we were wrong. The river was flowing on the deep side and nice and shallow for wading and the kiddo on the shallow side. One other family was spending the day swimming and relaxing by the water with their two elementary school aged kids. Brother in Law and I were in the water on our floats with our beers before Sister and my parents had even put down the coolers and bags. It was wonderful.
Okay I guess that was more back story: here is where the dialogue picks up…
Two Minutes Later…
Me: EEKKK!
Brother in Law: Are you okay?
Me: A fish just touched me leg and freaked me out.
Dad: Lemon Lady don’t be silly.
Me: It creaped me out.
Dad: You’re ridiculous.
The little fish touching me weren’t scary or dangerous by any means but I moved away from them because I don’t like river or lake “things” touching me. You see I love going toobing and I love the lake, but I don’t like touching anything in either body of water. It has to do with not being able to see under the water and the fact that rivers and lakes (with only a few exceptions) are gross. Bottom of the lake between your toes – gross. Getting into your toob on the river bank – gross. Swimming in the middle of the lake not touching the bottom or nasty floating algae – fine. Toobing down this river with a beer in your hand staying away from the creepy, dark, shaded banks – fine. I moved all of three feet down the river and away from the little fish. There was a slight current and because I have delicate feet and didn’t want to float down the river only to have to walk back to where my family was sitting I put my feet on a rock that was almost big enough to be sticking out of the water. I need to remind the readers that this was very shallow water, like maybe 8 inches shallow. So this rock wasn’t that big. I had just enough space to nestle my feet so I wouldn’t float too far away from the beer cooler, my adorable nephew, or my hilarious brother in law.
Two Minutes Later…
Me: OOOUUUCCCHHHHH!!!!!!
Brother in Law: Hahahaha (I love how he has no idea what happened but still laughs because it’s happening to me and not him.)
Dad: Lemon Lady seriously they’re just tiny fish.
Me: (Still sitting in the toob, but holding my right foot in my hands) Whatever Dad, something bit me.
Dad: The fish didn’t bite you.
Me: Um, something did… It hurt and I’m bleeding.
Brother in Law: (Jumped up from his toob and was out of the water faster than I could put my bleeding foot back in the water to wash it off.)
I very awkwardly get out of my toob and try to stand up. I say awkwardly because there is no other way to describe trying to stand on unstable rocks on one foot so my father can see the blood on my other foot in a flowing river with one hand holding my toob so it won’t keep floating down the river. Awkward. I make it to my dad and he sees the blood.
Dad: Wow something did bite you!
Me: No shit.
Our fun day of at the river has turned into “What scary monster lives in 8 inches of water and has a taste for human flesh?” day. Also I don’t know if you really paid attention to the timeline of these events, but all of this happened before my mom and sister could slather enough sunscreen on themselves to get in the water. So my mom is examining my foot, Sister is holding my water loving nephew back from the river trying to explain to him that after talking about how he was going to get to play in the water all day for the past week he can now not get in the water, Brother in Law is still laughing at me and the whole situation, and my Dad…
Dad: Hey! She wasn’t lying. There is a snake over here… I think the snake bit her.
(Okay. Time for a Zack Morris style timeout. For the past six minutes we have been at the river we had already seen like five snakes swimming in the river, and we commented on all of them. “Oh, look. There’s another one. See over there…” But they were all on the other side of the river. Now this river, it’s isn’t exactly the Mississippi. The other side of the river, the “over there”, was maybe twenty, twenty five feet away. So in our minds the snakes swimming freely “over there” were of no danger because they were “over there” and we were in the shallow, 8 inch deep water “over here”. Yeah not a one of our college educated minds (well besides my one year old nephew) could put two and two together that if the snakes could swim on the west bank of the river… they probably could swim on the east bank of the river. Okay. Time in.)
Mom: Oh, no. Do you think it was poisonous?
Me: SNAKES AREN’T POISONOUS!!!!
Sister: Yeah, yeah we get it. (She had heard me lecture people on this before) They’re venomous… there’s a difference…
Me: There is a huge difference. People eat snakes and don’t die. If they were poisonous every back woods hick would fall down dead after frying up a Rattler. As long as they don’t eat the head, where the venom ducts are, the redneck is free to live and free to be an ignorant jackass.
Brother in Law: (To my nephew) Earmuffs. (Okay maybe he didn’t say that, but in my mind it would have been hilarious.)
Dad: If you two are done… I think Lemon Lady should go to the hospital and get that checked out. I can’t tell what kind of snake this is, but if it’s a Cottonmouth we better get going.
(Okay I’m just going to call all of these Zach Morris Style Time Outs in the future. I was not bit by a Cottonmouth or any other venomous snake. As much as I was flattered by my parents not wanting me to die and all there was no way I was bitten by this…
I am by no means a snake expert, but Ex-Boyfriend (who I dated for a while during the beginning of college) was a big snake fan and I learned a lot about our no-legged friends from him. Plus we bought a few and kept them at my house so for a little while I shared an apartment with four slithery friends. Venomous snake bites hurt like Hell. Like they burn and you wriggle with pain. Although I had never been bitten by a snake (mine were lovers not haters) I knew I wasn’t “wriggling” in pain. It surprised me and I yelled ouch, but fire was not coursing through my veins. Also, as much as I made sure you, the reader, knew that I did bleed, I wasn’t gushing blood or anything. Venomous snakes bite down with two fangs and they make large holes when the fangs are then withdrawn, thus causing the bitten person to bleed a lot. Me, not so much. Time in.)
Mom: We are leaving now.
Sister: You and Dad take her in your car and we will pack everything up and follow.
Mom: Okay. That’s good. Now we just have to get up the hill.
Me: What do you mean get up the hill.
Mom: Maybe Dad and Brother in Law and carry you.
Me: I can walk okay.
Mom: If you walk up that hill you will get winded and your breathing will get fast and your heartrate will rise and the poison in you veins will rush throughout your body even faster!!!
Me: Venom!!!
Mom: Whatever!!!
Me: Dad and Brother in Law can’t carry me up that hill. (This was true. It is a big hill.)
Mom: Okay walk, but try not to exert yourself and get winded, but also hurry up it’s probably a 12 minute drive to Boerne (the closest town).
The drive back into town was very uneventful. I didn’t pass out or die. My foot tingled a little bit and I was hot, but other than that it was very boring. We got into town and more importantly back into civilization where our cell phones worked and Mom found a 24 hour clinic. As Dad pulled up to the front door Mom was already jumping out and yelling to the clinic workers that I had been bit by a snake.
Clinic Worker #1: Um, yeah, you can’t stay here.
Clinic Worker #2: We don’t have snake bit kits or anti poison or anything.
Me: (Yelling from the car because my mom’s car door and the clinic door were both still open) IT’S ANIT-VENOM!!!
Clinic Worker #1: You’re going to have to take her to a hospital.
Luckily for us the nearest hospital was all of three miles down the road. Brand spanking new too! We got there in 45 seconds.
45 Seconds later… (Mom and I entered the hospital while Dad was parking the car.)
Mom: My daughter was bit by a snake!
Nurse: A snake. What type of snake? Was it Poisonous?
Me: Snakes aren’t pois..
Mom: Quiet Lemon Lady. (Turning to the nurse) We’re not sure what kind of snake. It was in the water.
Nurse: Let’s take a look…
I then spend two hours in the hospital while three nurses, my Dad, and my Sister and Brother in Law all tried to figure out what kind of snake had bitten me. Since I never even saw the little jerk snake I didn’t have much to say in these conversations. Dad saw it, but only all coiled up and underwater. Sister and Brother in Law saw it much better. Evidently after my parents rushed me and my bitten foot to the emergency room the other family that was at the river helped Sister and Brother in Law carry all the crap we had left back up to the car. Sister and Brother in Law explained what happened and they quickly called their kids out of the river. (Yeah these kids had been swimming and playing all of three feet from my rock with the snake under it and did it bother them? Of course not. Again, things that would only happen to me.) One of the kids had a net for catching fish and the grownups decided to net the snake out on to the river bank to get a better look at it for identification purposes. (That and you know Brother in Law and that other Dad loved the idea of catching the big bad snake.) Back at the hospital Dr. Whatshisface told me there was no way I was bitten by a venomous snake. Seeing how I wasn’t dying, I agreed with his diagnosis. (Evidently you have to get a PhD to know the difference between poisonous and venomous.) Once the nurses had the pictures of the snake (taken by Brother in Law on his iPhone) and the eye witness counts of what it looks like from Dad, Sister, and Brother in Law they decided I was bit by this guy…
Introducing my toe eater… The Diamondback Water Snake.
Interesting Facts about The Diamondback Water Snake:
They are found predominantly near slow moving streams, rivers, and other small bodies of water. (Yeah I know.)
While not endangered or threatened, their main threat is human ignorance. Diamondback water snakes are often mistaken for cottonmouths or rattlesnakes and are killed out of fear. In actuality, diamondback water snakes (and other species of water snake) are far more common than the venomous snakes in their range, especially in areas that are frequented by humans. (This explains why I’m not dead and why we saw five of his little friends hanging out on the other side of the river.)
We went home and played card games and Risk for the rest of the weekend.
Just a little ending note... I am by no means making fun of the way my parents handled this situation. I love them both very much and I'm glad they were going to do everything they possibly could so that I wouldn't die. Thanks Mom and Dad. Oh, and I didn't just leave Boyfriend out of this story, he was working Saturday morning and drove down to San Antonio that afternoon. He fully thinks I'm super silly and probably kicked the poor snake.
How I Ruined My Family’s 2009 Memorial Day Weekend…
This story still makes me laugh when I think about it and again falls into the “this would only happen to me” category.
Boyfriend and I made plans for Memorial Day Weekend to drive down to San Antonio and spend time with my parents and my sister, brother in law, and nephew who were also going to make the trek down south. My parents were excited because we would all be there, but more importantly the grandson would be there. I’m sure Sister and Brother in Law were excited because my parents would be playing with their kid 24/7, thus giving them some breathing time. And myself? I was just happy to be with everyone and no working for a weekend.
On Saturday my mother decided that we should pack a picnic, grab our swimsuits and floats, and spend the day at the river. What an American thing to do, right? I think she made this suggestion because Brother in Law had planned on going to the lake with his friends for the weekend until Sister told him they were going to her parents. So that morning we packed the cars (Yeah cars. My nephew can’t go anywhere without an entourage of plastic crap.) and headed 10 miles down the road to the river. The Guadalupe River twists and turns all throughout central Texas and I feel like you can never be more than 15 miles away from it if you are anywhere in between San Antonio and Austin. My parents own a piece of land in a community where there are parks with access to the river. We enjoy going to these parks because you have to have land in the community to use them. This means that not everyone and their step children are trying to enjoy the same plot of nature you are.
Okay that was the back story; here is when this post starts to pick it up…
We arrive at the river park and all is well. It was sprinkled on us a little in the car ride over, but once we reached the small parking lot for the park the sky was clear, the birds were chirping, and Brother in Law and I couldn’t get in the water fast enough. Toobs were blown up during the car ride and beers were popped as soon as the car stopped. We all grabbed as much baby crap as we could and walked down the hill to the river. It was beautiful. We were worried there wouldn’t be any water in the river and we were wrong. The river was flowing on the deep side and nice and shallow for wading and the kiddo on the shallow side. One other family was spending the day swimming and relaxing by the water with their two elementary school aged kids. Brother in Law and I were in the water on our floats with our beers before Sister and my parents had even put down the coolers and bags. It was wonderful.
Okay I guess that was more back story: here is where the dialogue picks up…
Two Minutes Later…
Me: EEKKK!
Brother in Law: Are you okay?
Me: A fish just touched me leg and freaked me out.
Dad: Lemon Lady don’t be silly.
Me: It creaped me out.
Dad: You’re ridiculous.
The little fish touching me weren’t scary or dangerous by any means but I moved away from them because I don’t like river or lake “things” touching me. You see I love going toobing and I love the lake, but I don’t like touching anything in either body of water. It has to do with not being able to see under the water and the fact that rivers and lakes (with only a few exceptions) are gross. Bottom of the lake between your toes – gross. Getting into your toob on the river bank – gross. Swimming in the middle of the lake not touching the bottom or nasty floating algae – fine. Toobing down this river with a beer in your hand staying away from the creepy, dark, shaded banks – fine. I moved all of three feet down the river and away from the little fish. There was a slight current and because I have delicate feet and didn’t want to float down the river only to have to walk back to where my family was sitting I put my feet on a rock that was almost big enough to be sticking out of the water. I need to remind the readers that this was very shallow water, like maybe 8 inches shallow. So this rock wasn’t that big. I had just enough space to nestle my feet so I wouldn’t float too far away from the beer cooler, my adorable nephew, or my hilarious brother in law.
Two Minutes Later…
Me: OOOUUUCCCHHHHH!!!!!!
Brother in Law: Hahahaha (I love how he has no idea what happened but still laughs because it’s happening to me and not him.)
Dad: Lemon Lady seriously they’re just tiny fish.
Me: (Still sitting in the toob, but holding my right foot in my hands) Whatever Dad, something bit me.
Dad: The fish didn’t bite you.
Me: Um, something did… It hurt and I’m bleeding.
Brother in Law: (Jumped up from his toob and was out of the water faster than I could put my bleeding foot back in the water to wash it off.)
I very awkwardly get out of my toob and try to stand up. I say awkwardly because there is no other way to describe trying to stand on unstable rocks on one foot so my father can see the blood on my other foot in a flowing river with one hand holding my toob so it won’t keep floating down the river. Awkward. I make it to my dad and he sees the blood.
Dad: Wow something did bite you!
Me: No shit.
Our fun day of at the river has turned into “What scary monster lives in 8 inches of water and has a taste for human flesh?” day. Also I don’t know if you really paid attention to the timeline of these events, but all of this happened before my mom and sister could slather enough sunscreen on themselves to get in the water. So my mom is examining my foot, Sister is holding my water loving nephew back from the river trying to explain to him that after talking about how he was going to get to play in the water all day for the past week he can now not get in the water, Brother in Law is still laughing at me and the whole situation, and my Dad…
Dad: Hey! She wasn’t lying. There is a snake over here… I think the snake bit her.
(Okay. Time for a Zack Morris style timeout. For the past six minutes we have been at the river we had already seen like five snakes swimming in the river, and we commented on all of them. “Oh, look. There’s another one. See over there…” But they were all on the other side of the river. Now this river, it’s isn’t exactly the Mississippi. The other side of the river, the “over there”, was maybe twenty, twenty five feet away. So in our minds the snakes swimming freely “over there” were of no danger because they were “over there” and we were in the shallow, 8 inch deep water “over here”. Yeah not a one of our college educated minds (well besides my one year old nephew) could put two and two together that if the snakes could swim on the west bank of the river… they probably could swim on the east bank of the river. Okay. Time in.)
Mom: Oh, no. Do you think it was poisonous?
Me: SNAKES AREN’T POISONOUS!!!!
Sister: Yeah, yeah we get it. (She had heard me lecture people on this before) They’re venomous… there’s a difference…
Me: There is a huge difference. People eat snakes and don’t die. If they were poisonous every back woods hick would fall down dead after frying up a Rattler. As long as they don’t eat the head, where the venom ducts are, the redneck is free to live and free to be an ignorant jackass.
Brother in Law: (To my nephew) Earmuffs. (Okay maybe he didn’t say that, but in my mind it would have been hilarious.)
Dad: If you two are done… I think Lemon Lady should go to the hospital and get that checked out. I can’t tell what kind of snake this is, but if it’s a Cottonmouth we better get going.
(Okay I’m just going to call all of these Zach Morris Style Time Outs in the future. I was not bit by a Cottonmouth or any other venomous snake. As much as I was flattered by my parents not wanting me to die and all there was no way I was bitten by this…
I am by no means a snake expert, but Ex-Boyfriend (who I dated for a while during the beginning of college) was a big snake fan and I learned a lot about our no-legged friends from him. Plus we bought a few and kept them at my house so for a little while I shared an apartment with four slithery friends. Venomous snake bites hurt like Hell. Like they burn and you wriggle with pain. Although I had never been bitten by a snake (mine were lovers not haters) I knew I wasn’t “wriggling” in pain. It surprised me and I yelled ouch, but fire was not coursing through my veins. Also, as much as I made sure you, the reader, knew that I did bleed, I wasn’t gushing blood or anything. Venomous snakes bite down with two fangs and they make large holes when the fangs are then withdrawn, thus causing the bitten person to bleed a lot. Me, not so much. Time in.)Mom: We are leaving now.
Sister: You and Dad take her in your car and we will pack everything up and follow.
Mom: Okay. That’s good. Now we just have to get up the hill.
Me: What do you mean get up the hill.
Mom: Maybe Dad and Brother in Law and carry you.
Me: I can walk okay.
Mom: If you walk up that hill you will get winded and your breathing will get fast and your heartrate will rise and the poison in you veins will rush throughout your body even faster!!!
Me: Venom!!!
Mom: Whatever!!!
Me: Dad and Brother in Law can’t carry me up that hill. (This was true. It is a big hill.)
Mom: Okay walk, but try not to exert yourself and get winded, but also hurry up it’s probably a 12 minute drive to Boerne (the closest town).
The drive back into town was very uneventful. I didn’t pass out or die. My foot tingled a little bit and I was hot, but other than that it was very boring. We got into town and more importantly back into civilization where our cell phones worked and Mom found a 24 hour clinic. As Dad pulled up to the front door Mom was already jumping out and yelling to the clinic workers that I had been bit by a snake.
Clinic Worker #1: Um, yeah, you can’t stay here.
Clinic Worker #2: We don’t have snake bit kits or anti poison or anything.
Me: (Yelling from the car because my mom’s car door and the clinic door were both still open) IT’S ANIT-VENOM!!!
Clinic Worker #1: You’re going to have to take her to a hospital.
Luckily for us the nearest hospital was all of three miles down the road. Brand spanking new too! We got there in 45 seconds.
45 Seconds later… (Mom and I entered the hospital while Dad was parking the car.)
Mom: My daughter was bit by a snake!
Nurse: A snake. What type of snake? Was it Poisonous?
Me: Snakes aren’t pois..
Mom: Quiet Lemon Lady. (Turning to the nurse) We’re not sure what kind of snake. It was in the water.
Nurse: Let’s take a look…
I then spend two hours in the hospital while three nurses, my Dad, and my Sister and Brother in Law all tried to figure out what kind of snake had bitten me. Since I never even saw the little jerk snake I didn’t have much to say in these conversations. Dad saw it, but only all coiled up and underwater. Sister and Brother in Law saw it much better. Evidently after my parents rushed me and my bitten foot to the emergency room the other family that was at the river helped Sister and Brother in Law carry all the crap we had left back up to the car. Sister and Brother in Law explained what happened and they quickly called their kids out of the river. (Yeah these kids had been swimming and playing all of three feet from my rock with the snake under it and did it bother them? Of course not. Again, things that would only happen to me.) One of the kids had a net for catching fish and the grownups decided to net the snake out on to the river bank to get a better look at it for identification purposes. (That and you know Brother in Law and that other Dad loved the idea of catching the big bad snake.) Back at the hospital Dr. Whatshisface told me there was no way I was bitten by a venomous snake. Seeing how I wasn’t dying, I agreed with his diagnosis. (Evidently you have to get a PhD to know the difference between poisonous and venomous.) Once the nurses had the pictures of the snake (taken by Brother in Law on his iPhone) and the eye witness counts of what it looks like from Dad, Sister, and Brother in Law they decided I was bit by this guy…
Introducing my toe eater… The Diamondback Water Snake. Interesting Facts about The Diamondback Water Snake:
They are found predominantly near slow moving streams, rivers, and other small bodies of water. (Yeah I know.)
While not endangered or threatened, their main threat is human ignorance. Diamondback water snakes are often mistaken for cottonmouths or rattlesnakes and are killed out of fear. In actuality, diamondback water snakes (and other species of water snake) are far more common than the venomous snakes in their range, especially in areas that are frequented by humans. (This explains why I’m not dead and why we saw five of his little friends hanging out on the other side of the river.)
We went home and played card games and Risk for the rest of the weekend.
Just a little ending note... I am by no means making fun of the way my parents handled this situation. I love them both very much and I'm glad they were going to do everything they possibly could so that I wouldn't die. Thanks Mom and Dad. Oh, and I didn't just leave Boyfriend out of this story, he was working Saturday morning and drove down to San Antonio that afternoon. He fully thinks I'm super silly and probably kicked the poor snake.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Crappy Bands, 8th grade A-Hole, and a Batman Mask...
Random Thoughts…
A couple of days ago I was driving two co-workers and myself to lunch at Subway (Eat Fresh). As I pulled into an empty parking spot I noticed that next to the Sandwich store was a small postal shop. I had two or three letters in my car I needed to mail, so this discovery made me happy. I turned to the co-worker who was riding shot gun and told him to open the center console of my little SUV and pull out the envelope. Turns out the letter I was looking to mail was nowhere to be seen but there was a stack of CDs inside, and which CD happened to be on top of the group??? Creed. Oh, yeah straight out of sophomore year My Own Prison. Both co-workers then spent the entire lunch hour singing in raspy Scott Strap voice. (Yeah, I know his name and didn’t have to look it up.)
So who do y'all think is the band that's all cool and whatnot right now, but in 10 years will embarrass me by being on my iPod???
I did a post few weeks ago about my greatest grudges of all time. The story about Karen pushing me into the big bathroom and then how I got blamed was just long enough to write a blog post about. This one isn’t, but this person is just as much a mortal enemy as evil 1st grade witch, Karen.
Tristan Maldonado. Tristan Maldonado told all the cool people in 8th grade he saw me picking my nose in English class. Okay, here is where we all need to be honest. We have all, this includes you Tristan, picked our nose at some point. Sometimes we don’t have a tissue. Maybe what we thought was just going to be a light nose scratch turns into to something more once your hand gets up there. Whatever the reason everyone has done it. I admit it. I have picked my nose. What I would never, ever, ever do… is pick it in a room full of mean, snobby, 14 year old haters. Middle School is harsh and there is no way in Hell I went anywhere near my nose in the middle of English class you mean insensitive jerk!!! Seriously why would anyone say something like that? I wasn’t exactly part of the popular crowd in 8th grade, but I was not a loser either. I was short, had braces, wore my sister’s clothes all the time (because she left the house before me and came home after me), and in honors classes, but not a loser. (Oh, and now that I remember it… It was Honors English, so he was just as much a nerd as I was.) Then, and this is where you’ll be like “oh, no he didn’t”, my senior year of High School he told Best Friend that he thought I was hot. Yeah, “Oh no he didn’t”!!! You don’t get to think I’m pretty you mean, hateful, jack ass!!! You, sir, are now and forever on my shit list.
Oh and at the wedding Chicago Bridesmaid took this classic…
A couple of days ago I was driving two co-workers and myself to lunch at Subway (Eat Fresh). As I pulled into an empty parking spot I noticed that next to the Sandwich store was a small postal shop. I had two or three letters in my car I needed to mail, so this discovery made me happy. I turned to the co-worker who was riding shot gun and told him to open the center console of my little SUV and pull out the envelope. Turns out the letter I was looking to mail was nowhere to be seen but there was a stack of CDs inside, and which CD happened to be on top of the group??? Creed. Oh, yeah straight out of sophomore year My Own Prison. Both co-workers then spent the entire lunch hour singing in raspy Scott Strap voice. (Yeah, I know his name and didn’t have to look it up.)
So who do y'all think is the band that's all cool and whatnot right now, but in 10 years will embarrass me by being on my iPod???
I did a post few weeks ago about my greatest grudges of all time. The story about Karen pushing me into the big bathroom and then how I got blamed was just long enough to write a blog post about. This one isn’t, but this person is just as much a mortal enemy as evil 1st grade witch, Karen.
Tristan Maldonado. Tristan Maldonado told all the cool people in 8th grade he saw me picking my nose in English class. Okay, here is where we all need to be honest. We have all, this includes you Tristan, picked our nose at some point. Sometimes we don’t have a tissue. Maybe what we thought was just going to be a light nose scratch turns into to something more once your hand gets up there. Whatever the reason everyone has done it. I admit it. I have picked my nose. What I would never, ever, ever do… is pick it in a room full of mean, snobby, 14 year old haters. Middle School is harsh and there is no way in Hell I went anywhere near my nose in the middle of English class you mean insensitive jerk!!! Seriously why would anyone say something like that? I wasn’t exactly part of the popular crowd in 8th grade, but I was not a loser either. I was short, had braces, wore my sister’s clothes all the time (because she left the house before me and came home after me), and in honors classes, but not a loser. (Oh, and now that I remember it… It was Honors English, so he was just as much a nerd as I was.) Then, and this is where you’ll be like “oh, no he didn’t”, my senior year of High School he told Best Friend that he thought I was hot. Yeah, “Oh no he didn’t”!!! You don’t get to think I’m pretty you mean, hateful, jack ass!!! You, sir, are now and forever on my shit list.
Oh and at the wedding Chicago Bridesmaid took this classic…
Saturday, July 24, 2010
A Little Story About a Hit Movie and My Traumatic Childhood...
It took me years to learn to ride a bike without training wheels. Why??? No, my parents weren’t evil a-holes who drank the days of my childhood away. They actually tried to teach me many times. I vividly remember my mom trying on the grass (maybe she thought it was my fear of falling on the pavement), and my dad tried a few times. The times with my dad were no better than the time (singular) when he attempted to teach me to drive in the high school parking lot. (Seriously Dad??? Who in their right mind decides that the first driving lesson should be “how to back up into a parking space”??? I mean, come on!!! I’m 25 and I still can’t do this.)
No, it wasn’t my parent’s horrible parenting skills. And, surprisingly enough, it wasn’t because my sister traumatized me, either. Why did I not learn to ride my bike without training wheels???
This guy…
More specifically when he made a movie about this guy…
That’s right. Mother F-ing ET. Steven Spielberg might have ruined my childhood. I saw that messed up movie when I was very young. I can’t tell you the plot, character names, nothing, but I remember that horrible scene when that little kid flies away in his bike with the little brown turd in the basket. OMG that scared me!!! I don’t remember how the bike started flying, but it did. And if I couldn’t remember how it started, what if I accidentally did that one action or flipped that “start fling now” switch on my bike without knowing it??? There was no way in Hell I was going to risk it. Therefore, I was destined to either never ride a bike (which really isn’t an option growing up in suburbia) or just never learning to ride without my training wheels. (Because in my head if I still had the training wheels I was safe. They were like suction cups that wouldn’t let my bike fly into outer space for no reason except to scare the crap out of me.)
The teasing and name calling came first from my older sister. She learned to ride her bike without training wheels in a weekend. (Yeah… she was that kid.) Sister decided that she wanted to surprise our father when he got back from his TDY (for you non-military people “his business trip”). So she got mom to teach her and help her… blah, blah, perfect child, blah. Dad came home, Sister triumphantly rode up and down our street, Dad cried out of pure joy and amazement… Isn’t his oldest child wonderful… (Okay maybe he didn’t cry, but you get the idea.)
Kindergarten is when it started for me. Evidently my mother subscribed to the parenting method of, “if it worked on one kid, it will work on her terrified little sister.”
“Little Lemon, Dad is going to be gone for a week. Why don’t you and I work on your biking skills…?”
“Oh, another TDY for Dad. Lemon, bring me your bike and I can help you get over your handicap…”
“Dad’s out for three day. SIT ON THIS MOTHER F-ING BIKE AND PEDDLE UNTIL I SAY STOP!!!! No, sweetheart I promise I won’t let go…”
Seriously, every time my dad stepped out of the house mom was pushing that damn bike on me like meth on a redneck from Missouri. But, I wouldn’t budge. There was no way I was going to risk my neck because of my renegade bike and not knowing where to locate, or how to turn off, the flying button.
Eventually one morning (I think I was in second grade or so) I woke up and decided I was being silly. I had never seen my sister fly away. Nor, had I seen any of the neighborhood kids, and we lived in England now so maybe bikes couldn’t fly in England. There must be some chemical in the sky, or maybe the Queen made a law, but I was pretty sure there could be no flying bikes in England.
I can’t remember where we were going, but it was early one morning and we were in nice clothes. I finished my breakfast. My mother was probably doing five things at once, so when I told her I was going to go ride my bike she didn’t look up or acknowledge me. The training wheels were already off my bike, from countless times my parents had tried to teach me. I wheeled the bike to the end of our short drive way, mounted the seat, put my foot to the peddles and rode off. I peddled to the end of the street slowly because I couldn’t figure out if it was safe to turn around on the bike or if I should get off and pick it up to face back the way I came. I’m a Bad Ass, so of course I turned all by myself. As I approached my house coming back my parents were standing outside. Both looked confused…
Looking back now even I confuse myself. ET scarred me for life. Because of one scene it took me years to ride a bike, but I love Jaws and I’m not scared of swimming in the ocean. Also, he directed Jurassic Park and I still have dinosaur nightmares…
No, it wasn’t my parent’s horrible parenting skills. And, surprisingly enough, it wasn’t because my sister traumatized me, either. Why did I not learn to ride my bike without training wheels???
This guy…
More specifically when he made a movie about this guy…
That’s right. Mother F-ing ET. Steven Spielberg might have ruined my childhood. I saw that messed up movie when I was very young. I can’t tell you the plot, character names, nothing, but I remember that horrible scene when that little kid flies away in his bike with the little brown turd in the basket. OMG that scared me!!! I don’t remember how the bike started flying, but it did. And if I couldn’t remember how it started, what if I accidentally did that one action or flipped that “start fling now” switch on my bike without knowing it??? There was no way in Hell I was going to risk it. Therefore, I was destined to either never ride a bike (which really isn’t an option growing up in suburbia) or just never learning to ride without my training wheels. (Because in my head if I still had the training wheels I was safe. They were like suction cups that wouldn’t let my bike fly into outer space for no reason except to scare the crap out of me.)
The teasing and name calling came first from my older sister. She learned to ride her bike without training wheels in a weekend. (Yeah… she was that kid.) Sister decided that she wanted to surprise our father when he got back from his TDY (for you non-military people “his business trip”). So she got mom to teach her and help her… blah, blah, perfect child, blah. Dad came home, Sister triumphantly rode up and down our street, Dad cried out of pure joy and amazement… Isn’t his oldest child wonderful… (Okay maybe he didn’t cry, but you get the idea.)
Kindergarten is when it started for me. Evidently my mother subscribed to the parenting method of, “if it worked on one kid, it will work on her terrified little sister.”
“Little Lemon, Dad is going to be gone for a week. Why don’t you and I work on your biking skills…?”
“Oh, another TDY for Dad. Lemon, bring me your bike and I can help you get over your handicap…”
“Dad’s out for three day. SIT ON THIS MOTHER F-ING BIKE AND PEDDLE UNTIL I SAY STOP!!!! No, sweetheart I promise I won’t let go…”
Seriously, every time my dad stepped out of the house mom was pushing that damn bike on me like meth on a redneck from Missouri. But, I wouldn’t budge. There was no way I was going to risk my neck because of my renegade bike and not knowing where to locate, or how to turn off, the flying button.
Eventually one morning (I think I was in second grade or so) I woke up and decided I was being silly. I had never seen my sister fly away. Nor, had I seen any of the neighborhood kids, and we lived in England now so maybe bikes couldn’t fly in England. There must be some chemical in the sky, or maybe the Queen made a law, but I was pretty sure there could be no flying bikes in England.
I can’t remember where we were going, but it was early one morning and we were in nice clothes. I finished my breakfast. My mother was probably doing five things at once, so when I told her I was going to go ride my bike she didn’t look up or acknowledge me. The training wheels were already off my bike, from countless times my parents had tried to teach me. I wheeled the bike to the end of our short drive way, mounted the seat, put my foot to the peddles and rode off. I peddled to the end of the street slowly because I couldn’t figure out if it was safe to turn around on the bike or if I should get off and pick it up to face back the way I came. I’m a Bad Ass, so of course I turned all by myself. As I approached my house coming back my parents were standing outside. Both looked confused…
Looking back now even I confuse myself. ET scarred me for life. Because of one scene it took me years to ride a bike, but I love Jaws and I’m not scared of swimming in the ocean. Also, he directed Jurassic Park and I still have dinosaur nightmares…
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