Score One for Team Jared

December 16, 2009

Jared got home approximately six minutes ago and that man has had nothing but not-nice things to say about by homemaking tendencies since the moment he stepped through the door.

I swear, if I had the option, there are days where I'd return my husband to Big Lots for nothing but a store credit.

I made him dinner--homemade sweet potato soup, pictured above--and I was like, "Say nothing about the salad bowl, Jared. Don't say a thing."

And do you know what he did? He said it. Of course he said it. He was all, "Why's my soup in a gigantic salad bowl, woman?!"

To which I calmly replied, "It's in a salad bowl for two reasons. First, all of the soup bowls are dirty, and second, I'm not convinced that I love you enough to wash one."

In response, Jared decided to kick it up a notch and hit me where it really hurts--the laundry department. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a very crumpled receipt and said, "Do you have any idea when this receipt is from?"

I remained silent, offering nothing but my patented biz-natch glare as an answer.

"October 15th. These pants haven't been washed since October 15th. It might be time, Amy."

I laughed and laughed and laughed some more. "October 15th? That's nothing, Jared. Last fall I put a sweater on and found a movie ticket stub from when I went to see 'Flubber' in 1996."

(I'm very sorry to say that I'm not making that up.)

At that point, Jared gave me a super disgusted look and goes, "You went to see Flubber when you were in high school? What were the cool kids doing?"

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZING!

TEAM JARED: 1
TEAM AMY: 0

(...in case you missed it, there's another new post down there)

Vanity Sizing

December 16, 2009

Banana Republic has the most ridiculous vanity sizing I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

Clearly I am a size 10 (size 8 after a nine-day stomach flu), and clearly I'm okay with that. But when I go to Banana Republic? Size 6.

Size. 6.

I'm 5'8" and weigh 150 at my hottest. I weight 155 when I'm going through a donut phase, and when I happen to weigh in at 145 I can often be heard saying things like, "Dude, Cindy Crawford has totally let herself go," and "I think I'll take a trip back to the old Alma Mater and slut around the cafeteria for a little while."

In other words, 145 is my knock-em-dead-I'm-too-hot-for-my-own-good weight. 145 is when I whip out my favorite skirt from my college days--you know, the one my mom put through the wash, hung on the clothes line and said, "That's a really cute neck warmer, Amy."

And I said, "That's not a neck warmer, it's a skirt."

And she said, "You're grounded."

And I said, "You're jealous."

And she said, "You're still grounded."

And guess what size that skirt is. That's right! I don't remember what size that skirt is. But I can abslo-friggin-lutely guarentee that it's not a size 6, and that was never a problem for me. Back in the day the boys didn't care what size that little number was, all they wanted to do was pull that skirt off my bum, poke a couple of eye holes, and wrap it around the exposed skin on their faces so they could go snowmobiling.

I know, Maine is weird.

All I'm saying is this: Girls who are 68 inches tall and weigh 150 pounds are not a size 6, they're a size 10. And dude, that's cool.

But at Banana Republic? Size. 6.

Ridiculous.

RIDICULOUS!

And that is why I will continue to pay obscene amounts of money to purchase my jeans from that fine institution. When I'm above my donut weight, nine weeks post-partum, and comfortably wearing a size 6 jean? Well that's just priceless.

Haven't met a girl yet who isn't a sucker for a size 6--even if it just an illusion.

Weekend Review

Deceber 14, 2009

I had a really eventful weekend.

On Saturday morning I walked into the downstairs bathroom without knocking. That's when I caught Jared, standing in front of the gigantic mirror, naked, posing like he was in some sort of a fitness competition. The only thing missing was a sequin-studded banana-hammock. But the best part? He was saying, "Man I look good! I look so good!" It was a full second or two before he realized that he had company, and those my friends, were the greatest seconds of my entire life.

On Saturday afternoon, Jared and I went Christmas shopping. In the true spirit of giving (to myself), I bought a half-priced sweater from the Gap. Nothing funny happened. Sorry.

On Saturday night, Gracie ran away. It was pitch black, fifteen degrees outside, and that dog was not wearing her coat. After two hours of driving around with my windows rolled down, calling her name, and looking behind every dumpster in town, she came back home. When I saw her, I was like, "You suck." And she was like, "No. You suck." And I was like, "Nooo. You suck." I'm just kidding, Gracie doesn't talk. But she does suck. I have an eaten up Advent calendar, a new anti-trash electric-shock-collar on my Visa, and more than five-hundred dollars in vet bills to prove her moderate to severe suckage. You know, it's funny--I would never deal with that type of crap from my husband. But then again, he's not striped, and that's why I picked her.

On Sunday morning we went to church. James decided to lip-sync the words to 'Away in a Manger' instead of actually singing them. Due to the fact that my son is the second worst lip syncer on planet Earth (Who's the first? It's Brittany, b!+@#), he called a great deal of attention to himself. What can I say? I was really proud.

And then, on Sunday afternoon I went for a run around the neighborhood. I absolutely wasn't thinking when I picked a pair of mittens to wear during my jaunt. You see, when some dirty-old-pervert offered me some dirty-old-advice, it was completely impossible to give the guy the finger. So I gave him four mitten-covered fingers, and my message wasn't nearly as clear. He thought I was waving. I was not.

How was your weekend?

Strengths and Weaknesses: Cake Decoration

December 10, 2009

A couple of weeks ago, when I was work-free and feeling unusually domestic, I decided to bake a cake for my husband. There was no reason, really--I was just feeling particularly appreciative of his all-around efforts, so James and I planned a "Daddy Appreciation Surprise Party."

The event had all the essential elements that any bash should have--games, prizes, food, speeches, but the crowning jewel of the party was indisputable. It was the cake.

You see, before my brother-in-law left for his two-year mission back in April, we used to Tivo Ace of Cakes and watch it on Friday nights. You know, because I'm awesome.

Somehow, watching all of those episodes puffed me up with a very strong, but very false sense of confidence. I'd seen those television bakers apply a crumb coat a zillion times! I was more than familiar with the internal architecture of a wedding cake. And good heavens, if any lay person had the ability to sculpt with sugar, it had to be me.

Not to mention the fact that I worked at a bakery for two years during high school.

Yes, it's true. I was only there to fill the jelly donuts. But this baking thing? It's running through my freaking veins.

So I gathered my tools, rounded up my four-year-old assistant, and channelled my inner pastry chef. Twenty-dollars, three hours, and two buckets of sweat later, I had created this:

It's a trout.

A rainbow trout to be exact.

What? You couldn't tell? You must be grossly unfamiliar with freshwater fish species, because I swear on all things holy, it's like you could reach out, touch that thing and be surprised that you had frosting on your finger. In other words, it's incredibly lifelike.

Or so I thought.

I was proud of this fish. So proud that I posted the pictures on Facebook for all the world to see. So proud that I chose to interpret Jared's laughing as "Whoa! Ha ha ha! How did a man like me end up with a woman of such talent? Ha ha ha! It blows my mind! Ha ha!" as opposed to, "Ha ha ha! This is, hands down, the sh!++*&t cake I've ever seen in my life! Ha ha!"

The smartie candy for the eye? The chocolate sprinkles for the spots? The anatomically accurate hook jaw? I tell you what, I was about to sign my ass up for culinary school.

And then this morning, as I wiped the sleep from my eyes and checked my Google Reader, my world came crashing downaround me. And it crashed down hard.

I clicked on my friend's blog, and was greeted by a picture of this:

Yes, it's a cake. Yes, it's a trout. And yes, believe it or not, it's also a rainbow trout. Just like my cake.

(I know, she totally didn't put enough spots on the tail or the belly--it confused me, too.)

Oh these novices. She'll get the hang of it eventually. And in the mean time, I'll be the one whimpering in my closet.

Getting the Hang of It

December 8, 2009

Thanks guys, you have no idea how much I needed those comments and emails yesterday.

Honestly, it turned out to be one of the craziest days I've had in a long, loooong time. It ended with my dog eating the chocolate advent calendar (she sucks), and James throwing down the tantrum of the century. Seriously, this meltdown was epic. So epic, that I pulled an old running trophy out of the basement, slammed it on his dresser and yelled, "CONGRATULATIONS! INMATES AROUND THE WORLD ARE PROUD OF YOUR BEHAVIOR!"

He stopped on a dime and was like, "Weally?"

I was like, "Really."

And he was all, "Sanks, Mom! I do love dat twophy!"

And I was thinking, "Damn. I should've thought that through. I really like that trophy, too...."

Whatever.

Anyway, some of your suggestions for managing my work-from-home situation were really, really great--much better than the ideas I had for coping. Namely wine, beer, vodka, moonshine, or pursuing a younger man.

It dawned on me this morning that my neighbor--you know, the 75 year-old woman who lives 50 feet to my left--absolutely adores babies. She stops by to see Maggie a couple of times a week and is constantly dropping hints that she'd love to babysit. Well guess what, Marion? If we can work around your water aerobics schedule, I'd looooove to have you save my sanity. (and get my trophy back if you could manage it)

Thanks again, you guys.