The Night St. Paddy’s Day was Over by 10:56 p.m.

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First of all, let’s go ahead and praise Jesus that I’m still alive and not yet the victim of my mailman.

Moving on…

Today is St. Patrick’s Day—a Monday. Which means those of us that have stupid jobs that won’t count St. Paddy’s as a national “Let’s-Be-Off-Work-Today-and-Tomorrow-to-Nurse-the-Green-Beer-and/or-Whiskey-Hangover” holiday, we had to celebrate this past weekend.

My hubs and I celebrated on Saturday night with some of our dearest friends and I think we all had a reality check when we realized just how different the celebration of our favorite saint becomes when we have to play grown-up. We were home before 11 p.m.

Which, while a tad bit embarrassing to admit, you still get a fun list!

12 Ways St. Patrick’s Day Shenanigans Change When Adulthood Takes Over

1.)    If St. Paddy’s is on a weekday, shenanigans no longer consist of boozing it up in your green glitter face paint until 4 a.m., taking an hour nap, and managing to get to (and easily survive off 2 red bulls) your 6-hour workday at Pac Sun. Now, Boondock Saints on Netflix, Longjohn Silvers, two Bud Lights full of green food coloring, and a 10:00 bedtime is what jigs your inner Irishman.

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2.)    You are so exhausted after work, that you jump on ancestory.com just to see if you have any Irish in you that warrants you to have to surpass an early bedtime in order to have at least one green beer.

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3.)    Wearing green eyeshadow or green socks is enough to make you feel like you satisfactorily celebrated this year…unless you’re a ginger, which means you win at St. Paddy’s Day with absolutely NO effort.

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4.)    Irish car bombs are traded in for Irish coffee or Bailey’s on ice. Or maybe a Shamrock Shake from McDonalds.

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5.)    There is no way in hell you are paying $40 for a full leprechaun get up. Suck it, Party City. I’m on a grown-up, bill-paying budget now.

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No. Just….no.

6.)    Unless you live in Florida, the entire “Let’s Dress Like A Slutty Irish Bar Maid” has lost all appeal. It’s winter time which means you’re wearing pants to avoid pneumonia.

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Now THIS is more like it.

7.)    You order at least a couple drinks that involve a “wake-me-up” mixture (i.e. red bull and vodka, coffee and whiskey…) Why? Because frankly, you can’t remember the last time you weren’t tired, and St. Paddy’s Day is no exception.

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8.)    You have an excuse to eat the shit out of those green-frosted sugar cookies that are excluded from your “My metabolism stopped working once I got a mortgage” diet…

9.)    …which leads us into #9—you give up Lent for St. Patrick’s Day. Nice.

10.)  You skip the tanning bed/spray tan just for today. How honorable.

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11.)  You retire your old “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” college t-shirt, knowing that your health insurance won’t cover the medical bills you’ll rack up after that drunk guy with herpes plants one on you at the pub.

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12.) Drinking starts early, which means you’ll be in bed before midnight and that 8 hour sleep time makes you the winner of no hangover for two days this year. BOOM!

Yay, SLEEP!!!!!

Happy St. Paddy’s everyone! I envy those who can still do the 24-hour pub crawls in their green body paint without the promise of back pain and migraines later!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to plop a spoonful of green food coloring into my glass of Pinot Grig and do some laundry while listening to Mumford and Sons. Oy oy!

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I’m Pretty Sure the Mailman is Trying to Kill Me….

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Listen, it’s not that I’m a paranoid person.

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I’m just a cautious, realistic, and very careful person.

I watch a lot of Investigation Discovery and I read a lot of True Crime books. I’m also a writer, so my imagination is a little more tweaked out than the average person.

In short, I don’t have the desire to be friends with my neighbors. It heightens the chances that I’ll end up on “Swamp Murders”, and that’s just not in my life plan.

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Our mailman lives fourteen houses down from us. How do I know this? Because he told me. I’m not kidding. Are you already beginning to see the sketchiness?

Maybe his behavior is weird because my husband accidentally drew a Crocodile Dundee knife on him at our annual Christmas party last year. The mailman rang the doorbell—I’m pretty sure he only did this because he saw strange cars in our driveway, as he only had junk Walmart ads to deliver. My hubs thought it was a couple of our friends, so he threw open the door with a wildman yell and the blade reared in his hand. (Yes, we have this kind of relationship with our friends, is that not normal??)

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My hubs and his getup when he accidentally greeted the mailman. (Christmas party theme was “Camo-Reindeer”. I guess I’m not the only one with the heightened imagination….

We moved into our rental house five months ago and the Mailman’s (I really have no idea what his name is) behavior started out only sort of weird. Our mailbox is a little metal flip box to the right of our front door, attached to the house. So Mailman has to come up to the front step to deliver the mail in that little box. But Mailman would come to the door and knock, even when he didn’t have mail. I figured this was just to get to know us maybe, since we were new to the neighborhood, but here’s the thing—Mailman is not really friendly or conversational. He just stands there and stares at me with his fat Hitler mustache and thick Jeffrey Dahmer glasses, waiting for me to continue friendly chatter. Which I happen to be good at, but hey, I don’t want to make it a daily routine. I am a dirty writer who lives in sweatpants, no bra, and unbrushed hair for three days at a time. I don’t want to see you, man.

 

So, after about three months of this, I turned into a crazy person, dropping to the floor and army-crawling out of site every time Mailman would knock on the door. And it worked! Eventually, he stopped knocking. Instead, he reverted to coming up to the box and just standing there for a good thirty seconds. Just. Standing. There.

But then, Mailman got smart. I have packages delivered to our house on average about two days a week, and I have to usually sign for them. I’d open the door and get my packages and two seconds after I’d shut the door, there would be a loud knock. Guess who?!

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Mailman is standing there with this look on his face that says “GOTCHA!” and he’s got my stamped bills to be sent out in his hand. He begins to thumb through these envelopes and looks back at me.

“The owner doesn’t pay these bills?” Mailman asks me.

“Wh-what?” I’m completely taken off guard by his nosey-ass question.

“He’s making you pay these bills?”  Mailman continues to intrude. My defensive invisible laser wall shoots up in front of me and my inner Robocop quickly scans the front porch for a stick or rock.

“Uh, of course,” is all I can think to say because I’m distracted by the thought of wondering if the attached-to-the-house-mailbox will rip off easily in case I need to use it as a makeshift weapon. Mailman just looks at me with this weird gaze like he knows something I don’t, or that he wants this to turn into a conversation that speaks ill of the owner of the house.

“HAVE A GOOD DAY!” I suddenly blurt out with a too-loud, obvious nervous giggle and shut the door. I can see Mailman’s silhouette (Our front door is frosted glass) and he just stands there for another moment before slowly retreating.

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I’m freaking out, but Mailman steers clear of being visibly creepy for the next couple of weeks. Regardless, I resort to what I do when delivery men come to the house—keep my boots on with a hunting knife hidden in the side of them. You know, just in case. I don’t want to rip the mailbox off the house if I don’t have to, right?

I think I’m in the clear—but then! There is a coat closet right beside the front door. The other day, I walk over to the coat closet and I gasp when I notice movement outside the frosted glass of the front door. It’s Mailman—and he is again just standing there. Like we’re at a face off without actually being able to see each other’s faces. This lasts for about twenty seconds. A looooong time. He finally and abruptly leaves. I wait five minutes. I open the door and lift the mailbox lid.

There is no mail.

Clearly, a Post Office box is in order…and a terrifying book about a mass murdering mailman.

Yes. This is a real movie. Oh. Mah. Gah.

Yes. This is a real movie. Oh. Mah. Gah.

Things My Mom Was Right About (Besides Everything): Part 1

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My mom came to visit last week. With the help of lots of bourbon, tequila, and grits, two Southerners managed to survive the Arctic blizzard that rolled through—well, Mom didn’t get away without catching a pretty bad case of bronchitis and a lungful of black smoke from the accidental almost-fire I set to the chimney, but hey—things could always be worse up North. Way, way worse. We do boast the harboring of the Yeti up here, after all.

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My mom’s visit prompted me to write up a top 15 list of her oh-so-wise lifetime of advice. I’ve been far away from home in this Great White Arctic for two years now and I don’t think I’ve ever really understood and come to appreciate my mother’s (sometimes absolutely crazy-sounding) foreboding phrases more than I do now. I cannot even count how many times I find myself muttering “Now I understand why my mom did [insert motherly genius-ness here].”

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Top 15 Things I Took From My Mama’s Wisdom Bank With Me To The Arctic

1.)    “Be grateful for your eyebrows.” Maybe this sounds like a weird way to start off this list, but hear me out. I grew up with a mom who had no eyebrows. None. I’m serious. I watched her meticulously create eyebrows on her face every single day of my life and she did it perfectly. So, I listened to my mother and never drastically changed these brows, embracing the fact that I had them at all. And now that I’m up in the Artic, they kind of serve as miniature face scarves, so that’s a plus…

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2.)    “When you have a sore throat, just drink whiskey.”

3.)    “When you have a stuffy nose, just drink whiskey.”

4.)    “When you have a full-blown flu cold, just drink whiskey.”

5.)    “When it’s 1:13 p.m. on a Tuesday, just drink whiskey.” (You get the picture. It’s always whiskey ‘o’ clock somewhere…)

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6.)    “Let’s go to Key West!” (Always cures the winter blues or any other serious ailment. And Key West never runs out of whiskey.)

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7.)    “If you would have done it the way I told you to in the beginning, you wouldn’t have this problem now.” Oh, God, in so many ways was she right about this…

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8.)    “Do you want me to make you some grits and/or a grilled cheese sandwich?” Always say yes. Always.

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9.)    “Never be without good lipstick.” Not for the pretty factor—it’s so that I don’t chew my lips off as they peel disgustingly away during the Arctic winter.

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10.)  “Let me teach you this card game…” I found this insufferable when I was younger that my mom always wanted to teach me some new card game to play. Now, the fact that I know probably almost all card games ever invented serves as extremely helpful when the Arctic snow knocks the internet out and interrupts a Netflix binge. (Mom, you still know more card games than I ever will. But I’m damn good at Old Maid.)

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11.) “Always wear good underwear in case you get hit by a car.” Which has a high percentage of happening in the Arctic where people tend to think they can drive. On ice. In a Prius.

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12.) “Come snuggle with me.” I have never been a super affectionate person, so I rarely would snuggle with my mom when she asked. Now that I’m all growed up and so far from home, I wish I would have taken advantage of snuggle requests—because now I miss my mom’s daily affection more than ever.

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13.) “Don’t sit that close to the TV, you’ll go blind.” SHE WAS RIGHT! It happened. And I’m really bad at putting in contact lenses. It never takes less than an hour…

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14.)  “You can hold it.” Oh, we all know this one. Long family road trip in the minivan, whining to pee every ten minutes. The woman who bore you gives you the Mom Look and utters that phrase. Without her refusing to stop at 27 gas stations on the way from Atlanta to Savannah, I wouldn’t be able to hold my pee for, say, two days at a time when it’s Ice-Skating-To-Hell kind of freezing up in the Artic and you’re afraid if you drop your pants, you’ll get frostbite.

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15.)  “Always remember that no one ever has to get you anything.” I’m pretty sure she was talking about gifts, but this phrase that my mother said billions of times to us growing up has taken on a different meaning for me now. I live in a place where the winters are not only brutal, but they last 6-8 months. So, when a miracle happens like today and we get a 40 degree heat wave and two hours of sunshine, I am ready to send Mother Nature a gold-embossed Thank You card.

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While there are sooo many more than just those tidbits, I’ll save it for another day—I wouldn’t want your head to explode from so much wisdom.

Thanks, Mom. Miss you already.

Respect the Val!

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Valentine’s Day was a few days ago.

You know I have to blurb a bit about this day of passion and romance, don’t you?

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Believe it or not, I’ve always been a Valentine’s Day advocate, even for most of my life when I wasn’t particularly ever in love with anyone besides Freddie Prinze, Jr. Yes, it’s a holiday for lovers, but it’s also a holiday to celebrate the romance and passion in everything—not just “In A Relationship With” on Facebook. It’s also another undeniable excuse to celebrate and party heartily in the name of a “holiday”. (Why, yes I do even have a little par-tay on an obscure day such as Columbus Day–what of it!) I have a rant all ready for you, but first, I want to introduce you to St. Valentine—the reason for this season of love.

There was a time in history when the world was ruled by giant jerks (Hard to believe, right?) and one of these jerks in particular decided he was going to outlaw marriage (again, hard to believe!!! [sarcasm begins to shoot off the charts…]) This jerk’s name was Emperor Claudius II and he didn’t outlaw marriage for everyone—just for the soldiers fighting for him. He thought love and marriage would be too big of a distraction for his soldiers as they continued to battle for him. (Do I even have to note that segregating certain people out from being able to marry the love of his/her life is not an okay thing?)

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So, in comes St. Valentine. Ol’ Val used to be a doctor, but then he became a Christian priest. This in itself was crazy because he lived in a time in this world in which most everyone else believed in multiple gods instead of just the one Valentine believed in. Val didn’t agree with this outlaw of marriage, so Val began to secretly perform marriages for the soldiers. Eventually, Val got busted, and the Emperor Claudius II threw Val in jail. But Val didn’t save his love and passion just for marrying people—even in jail, Val performed some seriously romantic miracles.

Valentine befriended nearly everyone in jail—even his own jailer—and he passionately told stories of his unconditional devotion to his faith and beliefs, even when the rest of the world seemed to be against him. Valentine’s jailer had a blind daughter, Julia, and eventually the jailer came to trust Valentine so much, that he asked if Valentine would read stories to Julia from books and teach her the ways of the world that she could not see. The jailer’s daughter and Val allegedly formed a friendship and further secret romance while Val read to her. There is even legend that Julia was cured of her blindness towards the end of Valentine’s stint in jail.

The emperor Claudius II actually really liked Valentine, so he offered a literal get out of jail free card for Valentine if he would renounce his faith and start believing in what everyone else did. Valentine refused, so sadly, he was put to death. Before his execution on February 14th, 270 A.D., Valentine wrote a letter to Julia, thanking her for her friendship and love, and he signed his letter “From Your Valentine”.

I bet you 9 out of 10 people really agree when they hear “Oh, Valentine’s Day is just a Hallmark holiday.” But isn’t that true of every holiday we have come to celebrate? Like our other days of celebration, Valentine’s Day has just as much of a solid basis for where it comes from than any.

And while I can appreciate the mottos we hear about “Happy Singles’ Awareness Day!” and “Stupid Cupid!”, I can’t say I agree with any negative connotation that goes along with it. Valentine’s Day is a happy day! It’s a day of passion, of romance, of love for whatever we choose! I love the hell out of my husband now and I do celebrate that love for him on Valentine’s Day, but there are other passions and romance that fill my heart that I also celebrate. (Yes, Netflix and moscato DO count as a Valentine!)

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Before I had any significant other in my life, I still was just as excited about celebrating Valentine’s Day! Maybe it was a year to celebrate with a full heart with my girlfriends, or reading the newest HP book, or watching old videos of my parents’ wedding. Hell, there were some years I was excited to celebrate myself with Boone’s Farm and a Backstreet Boys in Concert Special on VHS.

St. Valentine was a man who was an advocate for love—not just when it comes to marriage or relationships. He represented love and passion and romance for human rights, for his faith, for keeping a kind heart, and to pour that love into all things—even when he was in the darkness of prison.

So, I challenge those of you who hate Valentine’s Day—for whatever your reasons—to see it in a new, rosier light next year. Not as a holiday for companions or candlelit kisses, but for a day to indulge in our lovely, wonderful, and often times cheesy and ridiculous passions. We live in a world now where we are not necessarily persecuted for these simple things as St. Valentine was so long ago. Let’s honor Val’s legacy to the fullest just this one day out of the year.

Let the jovial sound of chocolate wrappers ensue.

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Married Conversations: Part 1

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Loads of statistics and people seem to be a little Glass-Half-Empty when it comes to marriage.

“Sure, you love each other now, but then—it’s misery! The end of your life!”

I may not have twenty years in yet, but I still think those statistics and people are stupid. I could get up on my little sunshiney soap box about this all day long, but I’ll save it for another day. Instead, I’ll just leave it at that I don’t agree and that if anything, so far, marriage has just made my personal love story with my hubs more entertaining. To an extreme level.

My hubs finally got a day off from the World of the Iron Beast (A whole weekend off!), and I would like to present to you a summary of this rare occurrence in which we get to hang out together for 2.5 days straight, never changing out of our pj’s while we have coffee in one hand and a bag of Fritos in the other. Add a new TV in the mix and now we get to judge and cackle at people we don’t know on a bigger screen.
This is heaven, right?

Allow me to present to you the first installment (because how could there not be tons of these to come?) of a weekend full of Married Conversations.

FRIDAY NIGHT:

Me: “You’re home, you’re home! Let the weekend festivus BEGIN!”
Hubs: “I had a bad day. I’m going to take a nap.”
Me: (A switch flicks and I go all THIS IS SPARTA! on him) “Shug, [my term of endearment for my hubs. It’s a shortened form of the word “sugar”] are you kidding?! It’s the weekend! You are off, you are awesome! Did Leonidas take a nap or did he take 300 guys with some serious weaponry and show everyone WHO’S BOSS? Huh? Would you rather be the guy who takes a nap after a bad day or the guy who DINES IN HELL?!!!!” (This goes on for roughly ten minutes as I also throw in references from history/fiction land such as Spartacus, Batman, and The Punisher…Oh, you thought I only get crazy with embellishment and imagination with the books I write? No. It falls out like verbal vomit every time I speak.)
Hubs: “Okay, okay! I’m up! No nap!” (Walks out of the bedroom)
Me: “Where are you going?”
Hubs: “Alcohol…I need…a drink.”
Me: “We can’t leave. It’s a blizzard outside.”
Hubs: “I don’t need to leave…I have root beer vodka, Dr. Pepper, and….”
Me: “Netflix?”
Hubs: “Netflix! Russia’s Toughest Prisons?”
Me: “This is why we are soul mates.”

SATURDAY:

(It’s been a day of mindless TV and comedies. As the sun sets, things are about to get real)


Hubs: (Walks in the kitchen) “What are you doing in here?”
Me: “I’m making this our personal pub. (I turn on the speakers and start jamming out Black Sabbath. I point at the kitchen tile) That’s our dance floor.”
Hubs: “I’m going to shovel the driveway.”
Me: “What! Why? It’s just going to keep snowing and your hard work will be in vain.”
Hubs: (He chuckles because I am not from the North and I am still learning things—especially about snow. Still, he is amazingly patient with me as he teaches me the ways of the Arctic) “It’ll just make things worse if I don’t shovel a little bit now. Things will turn to ice and…”(He proceeds to give me this logical explanation on why he needs to shovel a bit of the driveway tonight. My mind wanders to this idea I have about strapping a plow to the front of a golf cart and I accidentally stop listening to him.)
Me: “Okay…but no more than ten minutes out there.”
Hubs: “Deal.” (He goes outside and returns ten minutes later to me dancing with a glass of wine to “LaGrange”.)
Me: “Heyyyyyy!”
Hubs: “What happened to Ozzy?”
Me: “I accidently hit the shuffle button and it became the DJ.”
Hubs: (Sits down)
Me: “Dance with me!”
Hubs: “I’m wiped out! I just shoveled the driveway!”
Me: “I have an idea that will refresh your spirit! Let’s go watch old music videos from when we were teenagers on YouTube!” (Hubs bounces up, totally into this idea.)

(Five hours later, we’ve successfully watched every video from mid-nineties to mid-2000’s, bowing down to these memory triggers of nostalgia to BSB, Daft Punk, Muse, Savage Garden, Matchbox Twenty, Justin Timberlake, Oasis, Eminem, and Outkast…the list is endless. Is there any better way to spend a Saturday night with the love of your life? )

SUNDAY:

Hubs: (As we finish our morning coffee and Investigation Discovery is rolling criminal stories in the background) “Sam’s Club?”
Me: “Before the church crowd and late sleepers hit the streets?”
Hubs: “Let’s go!”

(Two hours later, we’re both cranky and are convinced humanity is lost. We are also coming up with new ways to get a buggy [shopping cart] through a parking lot of nine inches of unplowed snow)

THAT NIGHT…

(We’ve been watching the Grammys and all the pre-shows since 6)


Me: “Look at that hat—does he think he’s a Canadian Mountie? Does he know he’s on national TV?”
Hubs: “Who is that? And that? And that?”
Me: “Google.”
Hubs: (Googles these unknown Grammy nominees on his phone, reads off the list of 90% of the “celebrities” on this show who we have never heard of)
Me: “This is depressing. We know maybe 5 out of the 500 people on this show. All I wanted to do is just to see Paul and Ringo perform…why do we have to sit through 5 hours of these kids to get to that point?”
Hubs: “We are so old…ugh, look at her eyebrows.”
Me: “Gross. Look at that one’s dress. I mean, why didn’t you just take the slit all the way up your body since we can already see your underwear.”
Hubs: “She’s wearing underwear?”
Me: “I’m gonna go with the hope that she’s wearing underwear.”
Hubs: “How does someone keep all their stuff in that kind of dress?”
Me: “Tape. Lots of tape.”
Hubs: (Winces) “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Me: (Sigh) “The things we do in the name of beauty. You have no idea…Oo oo, I know him! Finally! Oh, and look at her—gorgeous!”
Hubs: “If clubs impose dress codes, so should the Grammys.”
Me: “I never thought of that, you are so right.”
Hubs: “It’s like, I can’t come in wearing jeans, but this guy is wearing a jean suit. Really?”
Me: “He just called his award a gold sippy cup. Must be nice to have money. Hey, we should buy a lottery ticket. I want a gold wine sippy cup. I’m serious.”
Hubs: “Where are the Fritos? I’m about to eat my emotions.”
Me: “Why? Not into the gold sippy cup idea?”
Hubs: “No, I just want to hear some real music. Some good music. What’s with all this loud, no-talent, everything sounds the same crap?”
Me: “Wow. Did you just hear yourself? Are you eighty years old?”
Hubs: (Gives me a look) “You know you agree with me.”
Me: (I’m laughing pretty hard now) “ ‘Merica!”
Hubs: “Aren’t you a comedian.”
Me: “No, no, no, I totally agree with you! That’s why when I get pregnant, I’m going to blast the kid’s ears with classics. Queen, Rolling Stones, AC/DC, The Who, The Beatles….when music was GOOD. Do they make earphones for your belly? I should invent that if they don’t….”
Hubs: “It’s my turn to ask YOU how old YOU are now.”
Me: “Whatever. You’ll thank me when your kids burst in the house singing “Thunderstruck” opposed to twerking like they have some kind of mad cow disease to a Justin Bieber tune.”
Hubs: (Thinks this over) “Okay, you definitely win on this.”

See? Married life is kind of awesome….and this is only a small slice of just how entertaining it can be.

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Mondays

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It’s Monday, folks.

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Yes. That’s exactly what my Monday has been, in a nutshell. And probably yours, too. Actually, every person’s Monday probably looks like this because, hey, Monday is an eternal jerk.

So, I went to Wal-Mart today. (You already know this is going to be a good story, don’t you?)

It started out just fine. Even though the sun has yet to come out, we ARE having a heat wave up here in the Arctic (46 degrees, y’all!)

Things didn’t start to get real until after my shopping trip was over. As I began the fun checkout process, it was pretty clear that the clerk was super chatty. No problem. I can make some really great conversation with a rock wall if I have to, so let’s talk, sir!

“Oh, my!” the guy says abruptly and I look up at him from my current Facebook stalking on my cell phone, a little startled. His name is “Frodo YES!”…that’s what the sharpie has penned out on his name tag.

“You are from Georgia!” Frodo YES! continues his announcement. He’s looking down at my driver’s license (which I refuse to change because I am from Georgia, not the Arctic…4-ev-errrrrrrr!)

“Yep,” I give him a smile, though he is making me a little nervous with his clumsy Frodo elbow so near the bottle of champs I’m trying to currently purchase. (Champs is Tabspeak for “Champagne”)

“Wow, Georgia, Georgia, Georgia…” Now Frodo YES! has completely forgotten about my order and is looking up at the ceiling in some kind of wonderment, lightly slapping my license over and over against his (probably sweaty) palm.

“So, what’s the major export in Georgia?” he asks me. His gaze is bright and excited, directed solely at me now.

“Peaches,” I answer, with a laugh. Because I’m sure Frodo YES! is just joking…

“Oranges?” he asks. Oranges? What the hell is he talking about? Did he not hear what I just said? The word peaches most definitely does not ever sound like the word oranges.

“Peaches,” I repeat, and I laugh again.

“Hmm, hmm,” Frodo YES! nods and bemuses this over. Really? It’s one o’clock and I haven’t eaten today. I’m running on just two cups of coffee and I’m ready to get out of this place.

“What else do they make there?” He’s not going to stop. There are three people in line behind me, but Frodo YES! seems to have allllllll day.

“Cotton.” The word fell right out of my mouth. I should have made something up like, “WE HARVEST PINE CONES!” Then maybe he would have decided I was too boring to continue on talking to me.

“Cotton!” He’s grinning from ear to ear now. “Wow!”

And then—are you ready? Here it comes.
“Do you guys get clothes really cheap in Georgia? I bet you do! That’s just great!”
I’m staring at him, wondering if I accidentally walked into a Will Ferrell movie today instead of the Wal-Mart.

Frodo YES! is staring right back at me, waiting for me to confirm his theory.

“Sure,” is all I can manage and as he opens his mouth to continue, I am saved by the husky woman behind me in line who barks at Frodo YES! suddenly,
“Hey, can I get some Virginia Slims!”

I rip my license and receipt out of Frodo YES!’s hands and take off out of the store.

I’m also laughing to myself as I load my groceries into my car, and honestly after these few minutes have passed, I’m wondering if ol’ FrodoYES! had a point on the whole “t-shirts should be almost free when you live next door to a cotton field” concept.
“Hey! Hey, you! That’s rude!”
I’ve got one leg in my car and I freeze, somehow sure this hollering from across the parking lot is directed at me. I think about continuing to get in my car and ignoring it (I am the queen at playing oblivious. Sometimes it’s not acting…just ask my hubs about losing my car’s side mirror while backing out of the garage. “Side mirror? I didn’t even THINK ABOUT THAT, honey!) But for whatever reason, I pull my leg back out of my car and look around.

There’s a man with a little kid by his side standing beside the shopping cart holder. The man’s face is scrunched up and splotchy red and it’s like he’s the guard of the holder.

I realize what he’s talking about immediately. As usual, when I’m lost in thought, reality becomes far away for me and I do things that I am unaware of (Yes, it’s scary how not-in-tune I am on this planet sometimes) My shopping cart is just chilling all crooked in the empty parking space next to mine.

Now, I normally put shopping carts where they go and I also normally am pretty laid-back and nice.
But today—today on this gross, gray Monday in which I was still recovering from the bizarre conversation inside at checkout five minutes earlier…today, I wasn’t so cool.
“What—are you the buggy police?!” I yell at the man, even twitching my left eye a little to show him how crazy I am. He’s too far away to see it, but it makes me feel better.

The anger on the man’s face morphs into a look of confusion, and after about five seconds of silence, the little boy holding the man’s hand looks up at him and asks,
“Dad, what’s a buggy?”

Then, it happens. I explode.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I’m screeching now, doing some weird spastic dance with my hands. “I DIDN’T REALIZE I SPEAK LARRY THE CABLE GUY!”

I get in my car and speed off, almost flipping the car on a ginormous pothole because up here in the Arctic, there is no such thing as smooth pavement.

I feel bad as I drive. It’s not the guy’s fault. Sure, he should mind his own business—go flash your hall monitor badge at FrodoHEY! for being an idgit. But really, he was just the last straw in an explosion that was definitely bound to occur at some point. You see, up here in the Arctic, I have realized just how different I speak as a Southerner. I’ve got words and sayings for things that really make no sense at all. And every time I use these slangs of language (for instance, “buggy” as opposed to “shopping cart”), people always look at me like I’m about to get profiled for a butt search at the airport.

Poor buggy police man. He was just the martyr for all those before him who needed a translator for me.
I’m still going to say “buggy”. Probably stick it in every other sentence now. Just ‘cause I’m spiteful like that.

Happy Monday, y’all. Git ‘er done.

larry

(Originally posted January 14, 2014)

Introductions!

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Ok, ok. I did it. I caved. Here I am, people.

Due to some extensive pressuring of professional (and personal) peers around me, I am finally entering the blogsphere.

Is that what you call it? The blogsphere? Or did I just accidentally put in for a new Webster word, to soon be added after twerk, frenemy, and lindseylohanrealityshow?

I had a blog set up since I began my career as an author two years ago, but it was really just because I had to. I think I had three posts over eighteen months. I guess that’s not technically how I’m supposed to do things in the blogsphere.

So, happy 2014! Here’s to a hopefully colorful and entertaining handful of blurbs involving my reality-tv-show-worthy personal life (Hey, “Battle Cats” got its own reality show. Don’t judge me so quick.)

I’ll start basic.

Hi, I’m Tabitha. I write books for teenagers. It’s my full-time job, a dream come true, and I have a ball doing it. It’s a pretty awesome gig. Also due to the fact that I can wear my flannel jammies to work every day.

I’m a Southerner, born and raised in Georgia, and I just merged that already loud culture with another even louder way of life–my husband is a Romanian Railroader. Tall, dark, and handsome, with a European romantic streak that will knock your knees together and cause an explosion of cartoon hearts to erupt out of your ears. He comes with a family that is My Big Fat Greek Wedding on Red Bull. They are emotional, raging with passion, love, and adventure, and can convince you that Vodka is a food group. It’s great.

When I met my husband two years ago, I left my warm, Southern sunshine to be with him in the tropical heaven of….Cleveland, Ohio. (Yes, I’m really sarcastic.)

When you have that thick, warm-weather blood running through your veins, anywhere above the Mason Dixon line feels like the Arctic. So, instead of referring to my new home as “Ohio”, we are just gonna go with “the Arctic”. Got it? Great.

Once I arrived in the Arctic, my husband pushed and pleaded for me to quit my normal job and chase my dream of being an author. I finally caved, and somehow, it actually turned out right. With a solid backing of love, support, and enthusiasm from my hubs, I don’t think I could have ever allowed myself to fail at this…and I was actually lucky enough to make it my full-time career.

Well, aside from being a Real Railroad Housewife, of course.

Ah, the Railroad. The steel this country was built on, still rumbling through all powerful now. It’s not Polar Express, people!

The Railroad is the Mistress in my life. It takes away my hubs for days on end sometimes, leaving me to walk around my house mumbling new stories to myself while shamelessly in the same wine-stained t-shirt and grungy sweatpants for a week.

When my Railroader is home, the clouds part. (No, no, I’m not being sarcastic this time) He is really an awesome man who seriously sits there after working a 48 hour straight shift and intently and patiently listens to me ramble on about a chapter I just wrote this afternoon about an ordinary girl who had to fight off a gigantic seamonster on a paddle boat.

Have you seen the AT&T commercials with the man sitting at a round table with all the little kids, listening and talking to them as if they are adults with some logical thoughts?

That’s exactly what my kitchen table looks like when I corner my husband with my fictional bubble I’ve been in all day. He’s a good sport.

So this is my life, in a nutshell. It’s half fake characters having a party in my brain and half real characters in my life constantly blowing sparkly confetti out of a Ke$ha-made glitter gun.

I hope you’ll enjoy the shenanigans with me as we begin this new year.

Now, I’m off to write about the newest tale in the cloud bubble above my head….something about….apocalyptic female gladiators?

Hmmmm, now this should make for an interesting Wednesday.

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(Originally posted January 8, 2014)