To Celebrate a Birthiversary...

Remember Jersey when we first got her and how small she was? Let me refresh your memory:

Last week was what I would call Jersey's Birthiversary. Her anniversary with us and technically her birthday as well since she was so sick when we got her. So we have had her two months and she is about four months old.

Ladies and Gentlemen...in this corner we have...Jersey Girl:

Weighing in at a whopping 25 pounds, up from the initial weigh in of 9, Jersey is ready to do battle with any animal:

Oops, wasn't trying to imply B was an animal. Anyway, despite Jersey's recent growth spurt, she still thinks of herself as a lap dog and wants to nap with you. It is just not as comfortable anymore:

Especially when she chooses your shoulder/chest/head:

Jersey is also getting taller. While sitting she is almost to our knees. See those rolls of skin at the bottom of her leg? I think that is proof that there is some Sharpei in her, even if she is looking more like a lab every day:

In addition to being much larger, Jersey has also become a ham and will pose for the camera:

We were told she would be a medium dog, but at 25 lbs four months in, I think we are looking at a 60 pound dog minimum. I mean look at those legs:

That face makes it all worth it!

Happy Birthiversary, Baby Girl.

When I Pictured Myself the Star of a Movie, I Didn't Think it Would be This One

The other day I came home and opened our pantry to find that all of the boxes on the top shelf were neatly placed on the shelf in descending order according to height rather than the jumbled mess I usually leave it. Apparently B had been to work.

Me: So, I see that you reorganized the pantry...

B: Yep.

Me: And all of the boxes are in order of height...

B: Yep.

Me: How very Sleeping With the Enemy of You

B: [blank stare]

Me: Remember when he declared all of the cans had to face front, and all of the towels had to hang evenly? And then if not, Julia Roberts got beat? Should I be worried?

B: When it comes to organization, I like to think of YOU as the enemy.

I don't know what he means.

Don't Even Try it Woman, This is MY Territory

On Sunday, B and I decided to hit a few open houses in our neighborhood to see what is for sale, how much they are asking and to satisfy our general need to snoop in other people's homes. After seeing way too much wallpaper and a gorgeous house on our street but out of our price range, we decided to wrap it up with one final house that B had been to before with the "sexy" kitchen (as one realtor described it).

A "sexy" kitchen, apparently, is one that is newly remodeled while still keeping the charm of the old house. And you can cook up a storm in there. I will admit, even I gasped upon seeing it.

After leaving that area, B called down to me from the staircase to "come check out the third floor." As I was turning the staircase to head up, I hear this small voice say to me very angrily:

HEY! WE ARE CHECKING THIS OUT.

I look down to see a small boy about 6 right up in my face, pointing a finger at me. He looked extremely pissed off that anyone would dare check out this house while he and his family are checking it out. Territorial, much? It must be a joy to play at his house "HEY! *I* am playing with THAT toy." Of course, since I am not a 6 year old kid, I found the exchange amusing:

Me: Wait. YOU are checking out this house?

Boy: YES!!

Me: Do YOU want to live in this house?

Boy: YES!!

Me: Well, you can have it then as I already have a house of my own.

Boy: {grumbles}

Me: Is that okay? Are we good?

Boy: Yes.

And then he stalked away toward the kitchen. When I reached the top of the staircase, B declared "that is one defensive child!"

He must like the sexy kitchen.

It's Fat Tuesday Which Means Time for Sacrifice and Defining the Word "Bread"

Today is Fat Tuesday a/k/a Paczki Day a/k/a PARTY. Do you know what a paczki is? It is a big donut made of lard, sugar and yummy goodness. It is well worth the 4,000 calories. If you are lucky to get one. Me? I had the grocery store kind which means I probably only had 2,000 calories.

Meanwhile, I was discussing with people in the office what I was giving up for Lent. Every year I pretty much give up the same thing, sweets (candy, cookies, desert, etc). It has become second nature for me and even though I LOVE those things, I no longer have difficulty not eating them during Lent. Not really much of a sacrifice now is it?

So this year I decided to up the ante. I am giving up TWO things - sweets* and bread. Random I know, but I love bread. The inspiration behind this sacrifice came to me when I was pondering one day people that don't eat bread. What the heck is wrong with them, I thought. And a sacrifice was born.

And so I told people at the office. Little did I know that I was then going to have to define "bread." Isn't it self explanatory?

Me: I am giving up bread.

Person: What do you mean, bread?

Me: You know, BREAD.

Person: Describe it for me.

Me: Rolls, sandwich bread, hamburger buns...

Person: {gasp} But how will you eat a HAMBURGER?

Me: Without a bun?

Person: What about a pita?

Me: Yup, bread.

Person: What about pasta?

Me: WHAT?

Me: Pasta is not bread! BLASPHEMY!

Person: Well, it is in the same triangle on the food chart.

Me: Wait. What? Huh?

Also poorly timed, the four boxes of Girl Scout Cookies that were delivered to my house tonight. Luckily B has almost polished one of them off.** I am going to have to save the other two. I also believe I ordered four more from someone else. Such a mystery.

That reminds me of the one time my Mom ordered a bunch of Girl Scout Cookies and gave them to me for safekeeping. I stored them throughout Lent in my fridge. Then on Easter I tore into my own Girl Scout Cookies with a little help from B. Soon I was out but my craving was not. Come August when my Mom asked for her cookies I just gave her a blank look followed by a "Crap..."

She never let me hold her cookies again.

*I carved out an exception for pumpkin pie from our fish and chips place because I always get screwed out of eating it since we go there mostly during Lent.

**I may have had one or two and they are small boxes. Damn Girl Scouts with their addictive cookies that they charge an arm and leg for and then shrink the box every year. I NOTICED GIRL SCOUTS! You cannot pull one over on me.

***Yeah, I still ordered 8 boxes. I am a sucker.

Um, Your Baby Sounds Like a Furnace and I Am Pretty Sure That Is Not a Good Thing

Today I had to go to the doctor. You know, THAT doctor. The one that wants you to say "Ahhh" with parts other than your mouth. Yeah, I just grossed myself out with that one.

In any event, I had a bunch of time to kill while dressed in a gown with the opening facing front and a piece of paper over my lap. As in 30 minutes worth of time. Did I mention it was freezing in there?

As I was studying the poster that explained the various parts of a vagina*, I realized that I could hear an ultrasound happening next door. This was not surprising as there were about 50 pregnant women in the lobby when I arrived. So I listened to the WOM WOM WOM sound and thought to myself:

You are witnessing a little life growing and a little heart beating. How precious.

Then I thought:

Wow! That heart is beating fast.

Followed by:

That heart sounds like a train. THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH THAT BABY. WTF PEOPLE? IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE??

Then I got distracted when I heard that my doctor had a phone call and began to think I might have to frickin' call into work if this first thing in the morning appointment went any longer when I realized that damn ultrasound sound was STILL GOING ON. So I thought:

That is one hell of a long ultrasound.

And:

That can't be right.

And it wasn't. You know why? It was the frickin' heating and cooling in the building making that noise.

THE FURNACE.

Yes, I totally thought the furnace was an ultrasound.

The doctor eventually came in, heard the story and immediately revoked my female gender card.

But first he made me open wide.

*The more you know...

I Am a Slacker, but I Have This Fun Video for You and I Shred Beef

So while you wait for a wonderful new post from me, enjoy the following video. You should know that I could have given you any number of actual cast of the Jersey Shore doing some form of crazy antics, but since it is Valentine's Day and I love each and every one of you, I instead give you something that will hopefully not cause you to vomit.

Here is a guy watching The Jersey Shore with his Grandma who actually lived at the Jersey Shore. You will thank me for this:

EMBED-New Jersey Grandma Disgusted by Jersey Shore - Watch more free videos

You are welcome.

In other news, I love B so much, I cooked him dinner for Valentine's Day* and highlighted on my other blog. Check it out.

Happy Valentine's Day peeps!

*Actually, it was purely coincidental that I chose today to actually muster up some motivation to cook, although I really do love B.

**B also loves me and proved it with a gold card (i.e. Starbucks gift card). Here I latte!

Dear B: You Need to Learn to Be a Better Wingman

When I was on the dating scene I had the best wingman. Actually I had a few. We knew what our jobs were as wingmen - RESCUE, RESCUE, RESCUE. This could be in the form of redirecting the attacker, redirecting the situation, taking one for the team, making introductions, etc. You name it, we did it.

WE WERE THERE FOR EACH OTHER.

Now, I am married and I have a built in wingman. Isn't that what a life partner is supposed to do? Support their spouse? Be their backup? I thought so as well. I am here to tell you, however, my wingman is missing a wing or two.

It all started when I somehow became part of the committee to plan my 20 year high school reunion.* I am not entirely sure how this happened other than I responded in a Facebook thread something like "let me know if you need anything" and now I am on a committee of four and responsible for one fourth of the down payment for the hall? Well, then.

Anyhow, the "committee" decided they needed to meet in person to get things rolling. It turns out that the head girl lives just two blocks from me. It also turned out that they wanted to have the meeting at a favorite restaurant of B's.

Perfect.

The Plan

B and I would go have dinner at the restaurant an hour before the meeting was to take place. He would then leave me at the meeting and the girl that lived a couple blocks away would drive me home. I told him to be near his phone in case I needed a rescue. You know, like a wingman.

Perfect.

The Problem

I didn't tell anyone but B about this plan. Therefore, the girl that lived nearby had no clue that I was relying upon her to get me home.

Second problem - two of the four were stay at home moms who hit the jackpot with this meeting in that they could stay out late and drink. Me? I had court in the morning. So as the "meeting" dragged on through multiple glasses of wine and on to coffees with Bailey's, I started to get worried that I would never make it home.

When the head girl decided she was going to read off all 223 names of the people we graduated with to see if we remembered them, the third girl smartly ran off because she had to work in the morning. She was too quick for me. Plus she lived in an entirely different direction.

The Solution

My wingman will save me, I thought. I covertly texted B:

"Can you please come get me?"

This was at 10 pm. The "meeting" started at 7 pm. The coffees were ordered at 10:30. My phone remained silent despite my checking it for messages every 2.3 seconds.

The Result

Over one hour after the original text, B calls. I answer it at the table speaking in code:

B: Why didn't you call me?

Me: Because.

B: I would have came right away.

Me: Can you assist at all?

B: Give me five minutes.

I spent the next 15 trying to figure out how to extract myself from the situation** without being obvious.

I then spent the next 10 minutes berating B's wingman skills. B did make some valuable suggestions such as:

"Why didn't you just tell them you were supposed to call me at X time to pick you up and then call you?"

It was obvious that I was trapped and in unnatural surroundings. The exhuastion of having to pretend I vividly remembered 222 other people, every teacher we ever had, and the last school play took all of my brain cells. B is lucky I remembered his number. Well, actually I am lucky. Also, side note, B does not know my phone number. At all. Wrap your brain around that for a minute.

Anyhow, it's official. B is no wingman. That is why next time I am sending him to the committee meeting as my proxy.

Bet he learns my number after that.

*Damn that makes me sound old!

**Everytime I hear "the situation" in any situation, I think of the Jersey Shore. Damn you MTV with your mindless brainwashing.

Who's Running Who?

I just fed the cats upstairs in my office while walking on tiptoe so as to not wake the dog. Jersey now runs my life.

Vicky has been notified.

One Shoe, Two Shoe, Black Shoe, Brown Shoe

Mondays just aren't my thing. Are they really anyone's though? Does anyone wake up and think "Wow! Monday! Thank God!" Doubtful.

You know what makes a Monday worse? When you realize that you don't know how to dress yourself despite doing it for many decades. Because people that know how to dress themselves do not wear two different shoes TO WORK.

I wore two different shoes to the office.

And maybe I should have kept this information to myself, but it just so happened that I realized it while surrounding by a group of people and my gasp was so audible, I had to explain. I was too shocked to make something up. In that moment, with that gasp, I realized what had bothered me upon getting dressed this morning. My shoes didn't feel right. No surprise, right? They were after all two different shoes.

In my defense, they were the same kind of shoe boot. However, one was black and one was brown. Also? One fit nice and one fit tight. That was my clue. I chose to ignore it.

After everyone had a good laugh, someone commiserated "It happens. I get dressed in the dark all the time." Yes, me too.

Except the lights were on.

Just like when I wear my underwear inside out at least once a week.

But I don't think I will be showing anyone that error anytime soon.

There's Beauty Everywhere, But Not Everyone Gets an Award for it, Do They?

Remember when B decided to go all out and put up Christmas lights on the house? Remember when I wasn't very keen about the icicle lights because they are LED and kind of bluish/bright? Remember when I "warmed" up to them?* Well, this is the post where I admit that B was right and I was wrong.

And B says "I TOLD YOU SO. I AM ALWAYS RIGHT. WHY DO YOU DOUBT ME?"

Then I tell him to stop shouting or I will take back everything I just said.

So he waves a flag in my face. Not a real flag. A piece of paper that PROVES HE IS RIGHT.

Yes, we came home to an envelope addressed to "The Greatest Christmas Light Designer and Hanger Ever" in our mailbox. Actually it was addressed to "Award Winner," but that was pretty close.

And, actually, I came home to an open envelope. B opened it, saw it, gloated and then silently left it for me to discover on my own. When I did, I smiled.

I am so proud.

B is a genius.

B is an award winner.

And to all of those neighbors that couldn't be bothered to stop and "ahhh" and "ooohhh" at our house like the other houses around us?

WE WON AN AWARD!

Did you?**

Until next year, bitches.

*Like what I did there? "Warmed up" to the icicle lights? Genius, right there. Genius.

**For all I know, everyone got one of these awards. I choose to believe they did not.