Casanova

Our next door neighbors (not the ones I hoped were related to the president. The other side) broke up the same time Mike and I were sending out our wedding invites. (Seriously, we were about to hand them theirs when the guy told us he was moving out.) Apparently it hadn't been working for a while, she's really focused on her career and has to travel a lot for it, but they are going to try to remain friends.  Sure. That's what they all say, until one person starts seeing someone else.  But they were together 5 years, probably weren't ready to throw in the towel completely, and every now and again we would see the guy's truck in the driveway. Mike or I (sometimes both) would notice and comment to each other, wondering if a reunion was possible. 

But one morning a while back as I was leaving for work, I noticed someone had left a bouquet of flowers on the windshield her work car. (When we see that car we know she's home since it's parked on the street or in her driveway.) And the flowers had been placed there after a bunch of people had been over, but none of those cars had been the guy neighbor's truck.  But we did notice one car in particular stayed longer than all of them.  And that it showed up again a few weeks later, and so did another bunch of flowers after it left. 

Hmmm. How intriguing. So now whenever Mike or I sees the Casanova car we point it out to the other and we are just downright curious of who this Casanova is. Speculating who it is, how they met, if truck neighbor knows and how he feels, or is he's Casanova-ing someone else too.

You know, it's kinda fun spying on the neighbors!

Required reading

I'm in grad school. There is a lot of reading in grad school. A LOT.  I knew this going into it. 
My co worker (from the library) in a MLIS program a few years ago did not.

coworker (seeing her reading list): Oh my god! Do they really expect me to real all of this?
me and another (library) co-worker: Yes!

And with that, I leave you to finish a few more chapters!

Late Night Phone Calls

My home phone rang at 11:50 pm last night. And at my age you answer the call form a number you don't recognize because you just hope that it's not an emergency.

It was not an emergency. It was giggly, sloppy drunk dial from the Raleigh/Chapel Hill area, jabbering something about frank and an order.

Relief that it' not an emergency quickly transitions into annoyance. But I told them they had the wrong number and got ready to hang up. But drunk and disorderly on the line doesn't understand and tries to dispute that with a "are you shhhhuuul you're not Frank? Like, really sure?"

Yeah. I'm sure. So that I responded with a groan and a why am even I talking to you you idiot? and hung up.

My guess is they were probably going to call back and tell me off, but then they passed out since my phone didn't ring again. I just hope that kid's hangover tomorrow is hell.

Karma

Yesterday I broke down and picked up chickfila on my way home from work. I say broke down because while I wasn't making an effort to boycott them, I also wasn't going out of my way to give them my business.  I was more so surprised at the recent media frenzy everything turned into more so than what the media frenzy was about. I mean, the company closes on Sundays so everyone can go to church, I figured their stance on homosexuality was the pink elephant in the room.

Anyway. I was tired after work, it was on my way home, and I didn't want to make lunch for myself. So I stopped in for a quick and easy lunch.  I got my usual nuggets, but what I really wanted was the lemonade for some reason. No one made any kind of scene, I ordered, it was processed in a timely fashion and I was on my way.  

Well. The homophobic chicken was almost strait from the hate fryer so I ended up burning my mouth.  And then the lemonade mixed with something and tasted way off.

Pretty sure that was god's way of telling me to not eat homophobic chicken anymore. Duly noted.

Pants Always Beats No Pants

I need new pants for work. I have a decent amount of dress pants, but I don't really need to go that formal for my jobs. (both of which I cannot wait to start) I have 2 pairs of khaki/twill pants that I could wear, but that's it, I have 2 pairs and I need to wear them throughout the week. I have some capris that work in the summer, but it's not summer anymore. Not to mention I'm still searching for comfortable yet professional shoes and not old lady shoes that don't pinch.

But I don't have the funds to fortify my wardrobe. And even if I did have them, trying to find pants that fit is a whole 'nother mater. Because I wear a 0-2, sometimes a 4, depending on the brand. And do you know hard that is to find that size in women's clothing? Yeah you can find them in the juniors section, but I am 30, and I am not shopping in the teenage section.

I know, the skinny girl can't find pants that fit her, boo-fcking-hoo. I'm sure there are many people who would love to be at my end of the spectrum. But all I'm saying is skinny people can have problems finding clothes that fit too.     

Oil spill

Last night I was cooking dinner like I normally do and as I was getting the olive oil out of the cupboard, the cap came off on my hand (it must not have been on very tight) and the bottle slipped from my grasp.  The bottle hit the counter top then the floor, where the glass, almost full bottle broke and emptied it's contents all over my kitchen floor.

The first thing I tell Mike to do is keep the dogs away, there's broken glass on the floor but we also don't want them to investigate and get their paws coated in oil and track it through the house.  Eventually we end up crating them just because we just couldn't keep them away.

Well, neither one of us knows how to clean up a spill this big, so I gingerly walk over to the computer (I have oil spattered on my feet too) and google search how to clean an olive oil spill. I clicked on this really wordy solution that was way more like to hear themselves talk than actually tell me how to clean. But I was able to pick out the key word corn starch and could figure out what to do from there without having to read the rest of the jabbering.

By now Mike has picked up the large glass chunks and the shards have been swept up as well, but we've also been sweeping the oil around too. I gingerly walk around the kitchen island, awkwardly grab the corn starch, and proceed to dump it all over my kitchen floor, much to the complete and utter glee of my inner child. I stepped right in the cornstarch puddle to soak up the oil from my feet, and resumed cooking while we waited for the rest oil to soak up. (it was draft night for both my fantasy teams, there was a schedule to keep!)

Then 5 minutes later must have I decided the mess wasn't big enough so I fumbled and emptied the box of spaghetti over the kitchen floor too! I mean, what the hell? How on earth did I manage to make not one, but two epic messes in the span of 5 minutes?  I look at the spaghetti strewn around my floor on top of the cornstartch layer with my mouth agape, and I look up to see my husband with the exact same look.

And with that, he says: "you are NOT allowed to drink during the draft tonight."
Agreed.