I Lub You

You'll have to excuse my blogging hiatus - I've been sick. I thought maybe for once I'd make it through the whole winter (all 6 months) without catching the yuckiness floating around the office, but I was wrong. So, I've put myself in a Tylenol PM induced-coma for a few days, wiped everything down with Lysol wipes, and sneezed on my coworkers (a girl gets to have revenge, doesn't she?).

So back to real life. Except that I'm still sniffling and coughing and no one wants to get within 20 feet of me. That's where I'd be standing too. But being an adult means going back to work even when you don't want to, and washing your own sheets because you know it's for the best.

But lucky for me, being an adult also means having a husband. And that means having someone to bring you the Tylenol PM, and hold you (even though it might mean he gets sick too), and bring you chicken noodle soup from that place you like. It sure makes me feel loved to know that when I'm at my ickiest, I've got someone who sticks by me anyway, and who knows what I mean when I talk in sick-nasally person speak.

So, to my sweet husband I just want to say, "I lub you."


So Long, Farewell

This seems to have become a year of goodbyes for me. Some good, as in "Goodbye debt. Don't let the door hit you on the..." And others hard. Too hard to write about.

Yesterday I said goodbye to my sister and her Chuck Norris impersonating husband after a quick weekend visit. It was so nice to see them, even if Chuck wasn't feeling his kung-fuiest.

I also said goodbye to my "little" brother, who will soon be venturing off for the wild nations of Switzerland and France, with a little Luxembourg and a tad of Belgium thrown in for good measure. He'll be gone for two years doing something he believes in and cares very deeply about and I am excited for him. How often do we have the chance to really put ourselves out there and commit to a task whole heartedly? But I will miss him. Tremendously. And even though I know I'm not supposed to, he might come out of his French Lyon flat one day to find me there for a surprise visit. Good luck bubba. I know you'll do great things.

So Goodbye. Farewell. Adios. Au Revoir. And See You Soon.


Something to caucus about

The summer before my senior year in high school, I attended Girl's State, a week-long summer camp for fledgling female politicians. Some of the attendees were quite serious about this selective grooming program, while others, like myself, were interested in actually enjoying ourselves. (Although I must say, the classes and educational aspect were fascinating.) I ran for County Sherriff and as such made several very public busts (during large gatherings) and even had a high speed chase or two (on foot). I passed around a photo of a large acne-prone wrestler from the host university's course catalog (which they had generously provided each of us with) and passed it around the room saying that this was my boyfriend back home. I ran through the sprinklers with my mandatory business attire on. And I passed a bill in the "state legislature" on appropriate usage of the word "caucus," a word that made me break down in a giggle fit every time I heard it.
So when I found out I could participate in the democratic presidential caucus and have my vote actually count, I was ecstatic. I talked about it for weeks, trying to infect others with wonderment of this rare opportunity that we had. I debated the merits and detriments of each candidate (to myself), marked the date on my calendar and mapped out my polling station.
Finally it was time to caucus. My husband and I showed up about a half hour into it, despite having had a family tragedy earlier in the day. It was that important. We miraculously found a parking spot (a caucus miracle!) and patiently waited in the freezing Minnesota evening in a line that went all the way down the block. And in my excitement I had forgotten to bring a coat, or gloves, or a scarf, or a hat. At last we managed to make it inside, where someone shouted at us to head into the auditorium of the high school where our caucus was to take place. I have included an illustration to depict the line we waited in once inside the auditorium (Exhibit A).
So we waited in line, Eric proudly displaying his Obama button and shirt, eventually winding our way to the tiny shoebox where we were to stuff our ballot. By ballot, I mean scrap of colored paper that we wrote our chosen candidate's name on. As we forced our "ballots" into the way-too-small shoebox, I asked the DFL caucus official, "What happens when the shoebox is full?" (Which it quite visibly was.) She nervously replied, "I don't know. It's never happened before."
And as I looked around the auditorium at all the people still patiently waiting in line, which was as long as ever, I smiled. My caucus dreams had finally come true.
Exhibit A

And for the entertaining story of an inspired comestics line that just wasn't meant to be, click here. (And enjoy the picture below)


A super bowl of corned beef

Last weekend I felt like I knew what it was like to be a Jew on Christmas.

Running my errands at CostCo and Super Target, I was bombarded by exuberant people throwing far, far to much crap into their super-sized carts in pre-Super Bowl hysteria. I actually stood behind a gentleman for 8.7 minutes while he pondered whether or not to buy a large slab of pre-cooked corned beef. And yes, he bought it. Don't you wish you were at his SuperBowl party?!

(Side note: You might be asking yourself what could I possibly have been waiting for. And why wouldn't I cough loudly, or say, "Excuse Me," or gently nudge him out of the way? Both good questions. Firstly, I had spied 3 lonely packages of vacuum-sealed Jamon (a.k.a salted pig's leg), imported from Spain, and I had to have one. Secondly, the word is assimilate. You can ask me what that means later, if you want.)

Later, at Super Target, I was told by a woman in a silly paper hat at the deli counter that they had run out of turkey and ham. Seriously? How do you run out of turkey and ham? Oh. Right. The Super Bowl.

Finally, I made it home to enjoy a weekend of radio programs, Spanish tapas (the Jamon was delicioso), and a quick massage at the spa (a Christmas present from my wonderful husband).

And that's how I missed the best SuperBowl ever.

Coming soon: Caucus, my favorite word.