Tag Archives: life

A night that wasn’t in the cards

Remember MySpace? I can’t even type that with a straight face. Well, embarrassingly to say, MySpace was the forum used to create my first blog. This blog, sandwiched between creative selfies and Kanye West’s song, Heartless (not really building a case for myself here, am I?), contained one shining and brilliant moment of self-discovery. As brilliant a moment of self-discovery can be at the ripe age of 20, anyway.

In it, I professed my hatred for card games (obviously not classics like Go Fish and Old Maid; I’m not a monster), but especially my extreme loathing of pitch. Not even when I was 80, not even when all my friends – well, those who were left – invited me to play, not even if it was a choice between playing pitch or getting pitched from the game of life would I partake in this ludicrous activity.

My mind was firmly made up.

I hadn’t thought about that blog until recently. You see, I woke up last Sunday with a terrible hangover headache. Everything was a blur – and then – fuzzy recollections of the night before began to enter my brain.

My stomach lurched violently as I began to experience panic mixed with deep regret and shame.

What have I done? I thought, as I sat up straight in bed, rocking back and forth. Shivering, I wrapped my arms tighter around me.

The night had started out innocently enough. Clayton and I were visiting friends out of town, and our plans were to attend the Do the Brew beer sampling event later that afternoon. After sampling countless amounts of ales, blondes and stouts, I’ll admit my standards went down a bit. I wasn’t thinking clearly. A carefree, reckless attitude was certainly present.

After the event, our friends asked if we wanted to go back to their place to, you know, grab some pizza. Have a few more drinks. Just talk.

“Sure,” I naively said. “That sounds great!”

Before I knew what was happening, a pack of cards was placed in front of me on the table, and the suggestion to play pitch hung in the air like a wet blanket on a clothesline.

I shouldn’t. It’s late. I have to work really early tomorrow morning. Is that my phone ringing?

You can only prolong the inevitable so long, and my excuses were falling on deaf ears. Tipsy, deaf ears. The worst ears for declining pitch: the state game of Nebraska.

“I told myself I would never learn…,” I said feebly.

“Come oooon. Just play! It can be our little secret,” they cajoled.

Before I knew what was happening, cards were being dealt in my general direction. Ew. Ick. I tried to brush them away with a shudder, thinking of the people I would disappoint and hurt if I irresponsibly continued this heinous act.

It was all for naught.

I attempted to eject myself from the game with all the effort of someone who tries to politely refuse the last piece of apple pie, even though they secretly, desperately crave it. I couldn’t possibly.

Then,

Oh, no. It’s happening. Just close your eyes.

I played my first hand, letting the cards of failure fall where they may. Then, the thrill of the chase after almost nine years of painstakingly abstaining from the game took over. I felt … liberated.

Sure, I didn’t played my cards right – specifically, because I ended up playing cards, but also because I didn’t yet know all the rules. But the sense of camaraderie I felt, as well as the various card strategies and lingo learned, welcomed me into adulthood. I came out of the whole thing feeling more experienced. More mature. More worldly.

And so, so dirty.

Back to Sunday morning.

You see, my friends had encouraged me to play this game for more than nine years. With love, persistence and plenty of peer pressure, they offered to teach me more times than I can remember. Year after year, I never gave in.

Now I had to tell those very friends the ugly truth that I had learned to play pitch, and that I had learned it without them. I took to Facebook, and was met with the disapproval I expected, but lots of cyber slaps on the back. Following are some of the responses:

1. Yaayyyy for you! 
2. I feel so cheated on.
3. And you don’t regret it either, do you?!
4. Boo!!

I may have lost respect from my best friend and others, but regardless, the training wheels are off. Like it or not, I’m a full grown woman now; well, despite my love of animated movies and staying up past my bedtime.

My friends may be able to forgive me for my shameless behavior in time. Whether I’ll be able to forgive myself is still up in the air, seeing as my careless actions now guarantee myself a spot at the card table whenever the occasion arises.

It’s too soon to tell if pitch is “the one” for me in terms of card games. So far, it’s been a tumultuous love-hate relationship. I guess all I can do is keep testing the waters and keep things casual in case I end up liking another card game more. After all, it’s way too soon to settle down with just one game for the rest of my life.

Spades, anyone?

Marriage is like a deck of cards. In the beginning all you need are two hearts and a diamond. By the end, you wish you had a club and a spade.

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Things much scarier to me than Halloween

My patooty won me an award. Finally.

Happy Friday, fellow bloggers! And a happy week it’s been, too, as I was recently the proud recipient of…

…well, shoot, let’s do this properly. Altogether: mouths agape! Eyes widened! Breath bated! And, try bristling a little with curiosity.  

I can tell you’re into this now. Except, maybe bristle just a BIT more. It’s honestly so sweet of you, really. Don’t be afraid to go completely bug-eyed. Think Katy Perry, not Renee Zellweger.

I think we’re ready. So, without further ado, I’ve won…

Sure it's exciting, but can we do something about all the...pink?

The Glitter E. Yaynus Award.

Say it loud! Say it proud! Say it fast and then gasp in horror upon finally realizing what it sounds like a mere five days after receiving it! (Hey, I get it! I GET it! Wow, that is so undignified. Thinks about it a little longer. Then…giggles. Giggles more.)

So anyway, I spent way too long trying to figure out what the letter “E” stood for before coming to that realization. Glitter? Sure – I’m a girl. All my makeup and lotion contain glitter. (Don’t worry about the lighting, nightclub, it’s the weekend and your human disco ball is on its way!) Yaynus? Like Festivus, why not? But the“E.” That stubborn “E.”

“E” is for epiphany.

I never expected to get to this point in my blogging career and yet – here we are! I don’t know how I can possibly go about reaching higher goals with my writing now. It’s quite likely I won’t be able to handle the pressure and will lock myself in my bedroom meticulously cleaning every key on my keyboard as an excuse to why I have writer’s block. All thanks to MJ, evil stepmom.

No, really. THANK YOU.

And that covers the thanking the nominator portion of the evening. We’re setting a good pace in this award shit show (hah) already. Feel free to sit back in your chairs now if you’d like. Bathroom breaks are still not allowed.

Well, you should have went before!

The next rule requires me to run across the highway blindfolded. That’s just ridiculous. Good thing I was in high school track and have an instinctive sense of direction. I can always tell where the ice cream is in a packed freezer.  Challenge accepted.

Aaaand…back! As it turns out, I am not as spry as previously thought. MJ, I’ll be sending my doctor bills your way. Thanks to you, I’ll never be able to dance atop a bar to Journey again. (Bummer)

Next, I must confess five things about me that make others want to kill me.

1. If you tell me a story that lasts longer than two minutes, I will indefinitely drift off and start planning my next meal. It’s always about my next meal. You say you’re worried about losing your job? In deciding between spaghetti and sushi, I think it’s obvious who has bigger problems at hand.

2. I’m about to win HGTV’s 2012 Dream Home. Hey, we can’t all win dream homes. But we can be good sports and send me housewarming gifts. *muffled coughing – SLAP CHOP – muffled coughing*

I'll never have to learn to properly cut onions - take that, society!

3. I will pull out in front of you in traffic. I’m late and you’re in my way. Since you’re obviously the one in the wrong, I’m betting you’ll slow down and all without flipping me the bird because at least you’re clearly ahead of me in line at Heaven’s Gate.

4. I take forever getting ready. Probably because I can never get all that glitter off.

5. I hate The Goonies. Ahhhh, it’s so boring! I can’t even get through the first half hour! Fine. Five minutes. Ok, opening credits – you got me. Can’t we just all sit down and watch The Sandlot together?

Moving right along. In accordance to the award rules, I must now list five things I’d be willing to stick up my patooty if forced to. Right. Nnnno! I will instead  list five reasons I am absolutely unable to abide by this rule, even if I wanted to. (I don’t)

1. I’m a lady.
2. Ladies simply don’t have the anatomy.
3. Or bowel movements.
4. And we certainly don’t toot. Ever. Fact.
5. No means no!

Know what else ladies don’t do?

Lastly, I must pass this (coveted) award to five deserving bloggers. Without further avail:

  1. The Byronic Man – Because I have no reason to kill you. Yet.
  2. Becoming Cliché – There’s no way to be cliché with tush topics – I checked.
    The Good Greatsby – Your responses will indefinitely coin the term “Good Greatsby!”among a shocked blogosphere.
    The Occasional Wine – Because redesigning a blog WITHOUT  glitter is just irresponsible.
    Japecake – Get out your baseball glove, because this award is flying straight outta left field.

“Sir, the cup and ½ isn’t an option. You can have a ½ and a ½…”

When I think of the surely darling children I’m going to have one day (sans the van – cool soccer mom reputation to maintain here, and yes – I DO shell out extra cash for the quality Hi-C juice boxes at practice), I can’t help but already feel for these unfortunate children with whom no one will want to trade lunches.

At best, I can put together an appallingly delicious sandwich – I mean it. That thing will blow away any previous sandwich standards, especially when the works slap you squarely into tomorrow. Tomato, lettuce, pickles, turkey, and TWO cheeses will fight a dirty and epic battle to conquer your taste buds. Place your bets now, folks.

Ok, so I know you’re thinking that you can get that sandwich anywhere. And probably with a few chips thrown in on the side, or some homemade potato salad. No doubt a pickle slice.

But, guys. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.

 I toast the bread. I TOAST the BREAD!

At worst? Well, fellow blog readers, I am ashamed to tell you that more than once a month, I open the refrigerator to find a year-old jar of peppers, three mismatching beers left behind from a game night I hosted a year ago, and what I can only assume at one time was a piece of fruit that has slowly disintegrated in the crisper drawer. On a positive note, I won’t have to add raisins to my grocery list. Ba-dumm-tumm-dshhhh. Just kidding. I don’t have a grocery list.

Ironically, on the scale of things, my best and worst are only marginally separated.

If you’re single, it’s completely acceptable to live off of sandwiches in your 20s. It’s not like I’m going to come home on my lunch hour and happily slave away in my “Commander in Chef” apron to prepare a roast that I will then slowly devour in a month’s time thanks to those new freezer bags that now offer 25 percent less freezer burn. About time, am I right? Besides the obvious glitch in that plan being that no one under the age of 75 likes roast anyways.

I fear for the day some poor guy slaps a shiny ring on my hand without even questioning why we never eat at my apartment.

Because then. ONLY THEN. A day to mark the end of an era. Sink or swim. Ride or die. Cook or be divorced after years of unhappy silence upon coming home to find an assortment of meats and toppings slapped hastily between two pieces of (perfectly toasted) white bread.

“But…we had sandwiches for lunch,” he’ll say as I hear his stomach literally whimper, acidic tears dripping from its shrunken encasement.  

 “I thought they were so good, that we’d have them again for dinner,” I’ll say, smiling brightly, for I have a surprise for him. A special dessert of the likes only I can manage. Not just any sandwich. ICE CREAM sandwiches. Hy-Vee special: two boxes for $7.50. Helloooooo, Wife of the Year.

At least, that’s how it goes in my mind.

Every Christmas at work, our department has a Thieving Santa party. Our first time around the table last year, I picked out a nice set of decorative plates for dip, alongside a blinged out spreader. Everyone fawned over them and at the time, I chuckled alongside them with seemingly utter delight while quietly having a panic attack thinking, “Now I have to make DIP?!”

When my inner temper tantrum – and the trading – subsided, I looked down rather reluctantly to find I held a crock-pot in my hands. Which, OF COURSE, no one wanted because everyone on the face of the Earth already has a crock-pot. Winner, winner, aaaaahhh, crap, I’m gonna have to make dinner.

“How lucky for you; now you’ll be able to cook easy meals for the whole family!” said the masses, eagerly sharing simple recipes hearty enough for a group of 8+. Except that it’s just me and my cat. And what’s “cooking?”

 It’s still in the box.

I have the cookbooks and the painstakingly handwritten family recipes handed down throughout the generations. I have a recipe holder in the shape of my favorite thing in the world – shoes. I have a spatula and a handful of forks. But, at the end of the day, I have absolutely no ambition to cook.

So, my cookbooks take up much needed space, my recipe holder sits restlessly atop my microwave longing for the day it’ll grip instructions for homemade lasagna, and my kitchen is just a means to get to my dining room, which is a means to get to the television.

And on the days when I’m too tired to make even the simplest of sandwiches?

Thank God for Jimmy Johns.