Please pass the...mustard

J and I are not fancy people. At least I never thought we were fancy or anything even close. However, today I was talking to someone at work. Words came out of my mouth and inwardly, I was somewhat horrified at what I sounded like.

"J left on business trip this morning. Business, sure, but I'm sure he'll spend most of the time on a golf course."

Ugh, he sounds like such a cliche. Not to mention, I sound like the bitchy wife - the golf widow or something. I shudder to think that we sound like....um...yuppies?

Perhaps "yuppie" isn't really it. Perhaps domesticated? Suburban? Middle class white folk? (though we neither live in the suburbs or are what I would call Middle Class...maybe LOWER middle class.) My life is my life, and I shouldn't care how we are perceived, but I can't help but feel we have, in some way, morphed into a more conservative, buttoned-up, Martha Stewart version of ourselves.

When did this happen?! Seriously. 7 years ago we were pot smoking, Phish touring, dredlock washing (yes, I washed them...though I didn't have a whole full head of the them. Just 6 in the back - I know,sounds nice, huh?) old crappy house renting, thrift store shopping, dumpster diving, hippie-types. I don't feel different. I suppose I look a little different, but not that much. I took the nose ring out and my hair, though still naturally messy, is no longer in knots. I pretty much lay off the herb now. Must admit it makes me paranoid. We finally bought a house.

You know what? I think that's what's done it. The house.

The house is such a HUGE responsibilty. It is the tangible respresentation of what meager wealth we have managed to string together. And, it's our future. We are living in our savings account. Our ACTUAL savings account is, well, let's just say it's no place you want to go. The tumble weeds and dust storms make it tough.

So, perhaps a house isn't enough to make you a Yuppie, or whatever. But there are other worrisome indications, I fear. Let me share:

We have a dog. A Chocolate Lab. Perhaps the Yuppiest dog on earth. I don't care. He is awesome.

J has a Jeep Cherokee. Kinda an old beater, so it's not as bad as those huge shiny SUVs all the soccer moms drive.

J would LOVE to have a huge shiny SUV.

We have Macs. Not PCs anywhere in sight. Windows - no way. Perhaps that's more of a Hipster kinda thing.

Tivo...I LOVE my Tivo.

I garden. And I like it. You should see my roses.

We went to Vermont for the weekend and saw some Summer Stock Theater ...nuff said.(see previous post)

As I mentioned before, J likes to hit little white balls across the countryside into a hole in the ground.

My mom, the wondful woman that she is, has offered me her old car when she gets her new one. It is a volvo station wagon. No joke. And you better believe I'm going to take it.

Perhaps we fit the mold, perhaps not. Perhaps the term Yuppie just means your not a kid anymore and are willing to take out your nose ring so you can get a job somewhere else besides a resteraunt or tattoo parlor. Perhaps it means we are sell outs to the material and corporate forces at work in America.

Maybe I've just realized that property values are more important than my neighbors rights to sit on their front porch and smoke cigarettes, let their lawn become a jungle of weeds and yell at their dog, so everyone in the freakin neightborhood can hear your redneck ass, every five seconds.

Ooops, that me.

Broadway...the good and the bad.

I had my first experience with "summer stock" theater this past weekend. It was really amazing the level of talent you get in a small Vermont town in the middle of summer. Seriously, it's like the middle of nowhere and here are these great singers and dancers trouncing about for my pleasure! Unfortunately, it seemed as though the Broadway performers who get out of the city to partake in summer stock, also drag the more annoying element of the city with them.

The New Yorker Well-to Dos were everywhere. Talking about how so-and-so had invited them to the Hamptons, but "the country was just CALLING us, so here we are!"

Before the play started, one classy lady was screaming at her kid "Kevin, I swear to GaWD, if you don't sit fuckin' still, I'm gonna to smack you!" As she raised her hand to threaten her child, I was temporarlily blinded by the 450 carat diamond on her overly tanned and manicured finger. Geeez, she was SOOOO loud. As were about 10 other people who would normally be out of earshot. Ever hear of "inside voices?" We're not on the freakin' subway people. For Christ's sake, we're at "The Theater."

I'm sure there are very nice, polite, and non-earsplitting people who go to Vermont from New York to "get away", but unfortunately the not so pleasant element makes it hard to notice them.

I hear that people from other countries think Americans are loud. Maybe they just run into New Yorkers...they do get the best deals on international flights.

Vermont is for....sweating

Alrighty! Back from our wonderful trip up north. I can confidently say that no babies were made. Nacho got no action.

You see, it's hard to make a baby when you are sleeping in SEPARATE BEDS!!! Don't you worry, we aren't on the brink of divorce or anything as dramatic as that. It's just that it was 100 FUCKING DEGREES in our room. No A/C. I was told there was A/C, however, nope...none. My husband J is very particular about his environment. Upon arrival, he glanced around in panic. "What? No AC?" and even though at that point, it wasn't really hot, he started sweating. And complaining. And moaning. And whining.

So, I called the main desk, but there was no answer. It was a late arrival on our part, and we had a choice of trekking up to the main building to see if we could rouse someone to change our room, or go eat dinner. Since it was almost 8, we decided to eat. This, in hindsight, was a mistake.

After our meal, we headed back to the room, holding hands and making goo-goo eyes at each other. However, upon opening the door to our love nest, we were hit in the face with a blast of air that felt like some tropical Southeast Asian country. We immediately went for the windows and opened them up. It seems that the quick shower I took prior to dinner caused the room to humidify to this ungoldy level. There was no ventilation fan in the bathroom to help move the air. Which, by the way, is against the building code...at least in Massachusetts. Perhaps Vermont is too quaint for building codes?

So, at this point it's nearing 11. I've had 3 glasses of red wine which in my household is known to not also make me amorous, but make me sweat. Needless to say, neither one of us felt like snuggling up together in this sticky, hot, oppressive environment. So, instead we stripped down naked and laid in our individual beds, complaining and whining and watching TV.

Sleep was horrible. Not only because of the heat, but at about 2AM there was a crazy loud thunderstorm. Like REALLY loud. Lots of lightning and thunder and rain. It would have been kinda cool if we weren't so tired and hot and miserable.

The next morning I walked down to the front office and requested a new room. When lovely Elisha said "no problem" I just wanted to reach over and kiss her! It's not often you find those in the hospitality industry so hospitable. The only rub was that this room wouldn't be available until 4:30, once it could be cleaned. But hey, you take what you can get.

Well, the rest of the trip went well. We got to our heavenly airconditioned room. I got us tickets for "Kiss Me Kate" at the Weston Playhouse. I had another 3 glasses of wine at the pre-play dinner. I didn't realize the play was 3 hours long, and by the time it was over, I was EXHAUSTED. The lack of sleep from the night before and the wine did me in completely. By the time we got back to our airconditioning it was 12 and I was ready to pass out....which I did. Hence no baby making.

Oh, and an interesting, semi-ironic detail...Kiss Me Kate has a song called Too Darn Hot about how it's too hot to have sex...but apparently not too hot to jump around and twirl with jazz hands.

Vermont is for . . . meteor watching

I'm about to leave work, yippee!!

J and I are headed up to Vermont for the weekend. T gets to come too, lucky dog. I hear there is to be some meteors tonight. Hopefully the nasty humid haze will not obscure the view.

This is kinda a baby-making trip. Shhhhhhh. Don't tell my Mom. Oh Lord! PLEASE don't tell my Mom. Her Grandma aspirations peaked at an all time high last month and the mention of any impending pregnancy may cause her so on a spending spree of Baby Einstein videos and Wiggles. "I hear they are very popular," she said. WTF? Why would I care? Hey Mom, I'm not pregnant. Therefore, do I really give a shit what is considered entertaining to a 6 month old? It was actually a quite bizarre conversation.

Secretly, I filed her babble away for future use. Shhhhhh.

Wish us luck!

Readying the womb...not the orange one, the other one

I haven't mentioned this before, but J and I are thinking of having a baby. It's been a long time of "in a few years" and "soon we'll try" and before I could slam a bottle of tequila and smoke 20 pack of Marlboros, I'm off the pill and have a stockpile of pee sticks in my bathroom.

This is my second month sans birth control and it's having a strange effect on me. If any of you ladies out there have experienced anything like what I'm talking about, please let me know. It will ease my fears that Ortho Cyclin has been, aside from keeping my eggs fortified from little tadpoles, also keeping my underlying insanity at bay.

Let's start by saying, crabby crab crab crabiness? What is wrong with me! I seem to have a perpetual body buzz of irratibility. In order to combat it, I've had a few cigarettes (I know - I know!...I know) thinking it's some sort of withdrawl. But the little bad-habits have no effect on the oppressive lack of tolerance and good humor. The only excuse I have managed to come up with is hormonal. Oh, the old female stand by. I'm not a bitch, really! My estrogen levels are just fluxing uncontrollably! Please excuse me while I inhale copious amounts of chocolate and que up Sleepless in Seattle.

I, in fact, hope my present mood is the result of not taking my daily No Baby Pills. And I pray it's just a time of adjustment. That would mean it's temporary. I can take comfort that things will soon even out and I will again be my jovial, gregarious self. Although, if hormones do play such a large part in making me want to punch my coworkers in their nether regions, I am terrified what might occur once pregnancy has established itself. I suppose it's a little early to worry about that, but I can see the headline: Pregnant Women Gouges Co-worker's Eyes Out with Staple Remover(I always thought they were kinda scarey. I have mutilated many an office supply in their vampire jaws. Mostly just paper...strangly satisfying.)

Orange isn't just for Prodestants anymore...

So, the electricians have arrived! They are whizzing through the wiring of our new bedroom/bathroom. I hesitate to call it a "Master Suite", as that sounds so fancy! Our house is so small that really it's just "bedspace with plumbing." A definite improvement, but the term "suite" is not appropriate. And "Master" just seems ridiculous. Not to mention, implying we are holding someone in some kind of servitude. Since J and I are the only people who dwell in our little kingdom; we are masters of no one...well perhaps the dog. Though I think that may be up for debate. After all, who scoops who's poop?

So now we are entering scarey territory...paint colors. J and I have drastically different tastes when it comes to such things. We get in the same argument everytime. The semantic manipulater and spin doctor that he is, J champions his wish for orange walls by calling them "rich" and "bold." Where as, I call them "ugly" and "are you fucking crazy?" J is a stubborn boy, from a family of stubborn boys, and once he feels the slighest dissent to an opinion he holds, no matter how strongly he actually feels about it, he holds onto that idea with a kung fu grip determined to WIN.

Another issue we struggle with is a residual "it's so ugly it's cool" mentalitly that served us so well in college. This is the design sensiblity that allowed the hula girl ashtray made out of bottle caps.

Combine these two factors and we arrive at orange walls. I have nothing against the color orange. I wouldn't mind a little orange in my life. But my bedroom walls? And really, the room is small...it will feel closterphobic. But J, once again, takes this negative and flips it around to make it positive and support his position. If he could only be this optimistic and "sunny side of life" when it comes to my parents.

Nacho: "Why don't we get some orange throw pillows?"

J: "But orange walls would be so COOL!"

Nacho: "But honey, the room is so small, such a dark color might make it seem smaller."

J: "Not dark, VIBRANT!"

Nacho: "Whatever you want to call it, Orange will reflect no light...I'll feel like I'm in a womb."

J: "Yeah, think of how comfortable that would be!"

I can't win. Hopefully, if I give in and agree, he can declare his victory and then actually be open to compromise. Sometimes I have to call his bluff for his true sentiments to surface. He doesn't really want orange walls. He just wants to prove he can convince me that I want orange walls. Once that has been accomplished, I'm sure we will settle on a nice shade of beige.

I don't feel it, but I think they're peeing on me

Today is Sunday. Oh, Sunday. The day of sipping coffee while watching CBS Sunday Morning. The day of thinking about doing yard work and not quite getting the motivation to do it. And of course, the growing dispair as Monday morning creeps ever closer. Not that I hate my job. Like most people, I think, I just don't love it. I cringe when Oprah preaches to "follow your passion" or "do what you love." Geez, I'm trying. But noone will hire me to talk to my friends on the phone and take naps with my dog. But I check the paper just to be sure.

Tomorrow morning I will have to enter my tetosterone charged work place and try and get my work done without feeling like a pee-on. This is a constant struggle. I admit I am in somewhat of a support role. Ok, not "somewhat". I am in a support role. But if you think about it, anyone who's not the big boss is supporting someone else. But my job title does include the word "Assistant." Therefore, I am forever delegated to do shit that takes longer for my superiors to ask me to do, than it would take for them to do themselves. Oh, the world called "Adminstrative."

I have been trying to emerge out of this world. Even with just semantics. I have been thinking of launching a campaign to change my job title. Right now, I am "Operations Assistant" and my boss is the "Operations Manager." I have been trying to wrestle up the nerve to ask her if I might become the "Assistant Manager of Operations" or "Assistant Operations Manager."

Just want to sqeeze that "manager" in there somewhere. PLEASE BOSS?! I'll still fax! I'll still call people to say your going to be late! I'll still file the 6 months worth of crap you let build up in your office, which causes me to rotate the ENTIRE archival system! Just feed my little ego a little. That one little word in my title will help ease the fear that at any moment, you can get on the phone and find a suitable replacement by calling Uni-Temps or Staffing-Now or Young-Women-Who-Can-Type-Fast-And-Handle-Multi-Line-Phone-Systems.

I have institutional knowledge, God Dammit! I can't complain too much. I get a pretty decent wage for what I do and where I live. I suppose it's just my ego needing a caress or two. Vanity, it's a bitch. I suppose it all boils down to wanting to say something impressive at cocktail parties when asked, "So what do you do?" From now on, I think I'm "Vice President of Communications." After all, no one else knows how to work the fax machine.

Welcome To My Pity Party

I've had my blog now for little over a week. I must say, I feel kinda lame as NO ONE has left me a comment. Not that I need constant validation from strangers or anything. You know what? Yes I do! I want praise, I want criticism, I want you to want to lick my toes!!! I've checked my counter a few times to see if anyone has graced my page, but unfortunately I visit my own blog so often to check the damn comments, I have no idea which clicks are mine and which are yours. C'mon people!!!! Let me know you're there!!!!

I

Amber Alert - Hairy Guy with Visible Ass Crack

Will someone please tell me where the hell the electricians are!??

J and I are in the middle of a semi-major home renovation. Basically, the entire upstairs of our house is ripped to shit. The new walls are framed in all their "wannabe walls but only provide the slightest suggestion of walls" glory. The plumbers have got all their tubes running up and down and sideways and through the roof.

We are ready for your magical wire wizardry Master Electrician. We are tired of having no overhead lights downstairs, where we have been sequestered during this messy, noisy and now DARK time. WHERE ARE YOU?

The biggest concern I have is not actually the lack of light eminating from my ceiling. It's the schedule. You see, J and I pinched every penny we could to make this renovation happen. As part of that whole juggling act we decided that we will do all the painting. Not particularly confident in our abilities, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Anyway, they told us the most likely week we will need to paint is 8/15. This is good since J is leaving on business for 5 days the following week. Well, if this lack of electrician situation causes delays then I will be slaving away in the 1000 degree heat painting 10 foot high ceilings while J is on a golf course in Orlando. Needless to say, I will be pissed. I'm not even sure one person can get the job done?

In the end, if this is the only thing that goes wrong I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky. I've heard some nightmares. I actually work at a General Contractor...so I've heard and seen some good ones. Hmmmmm...good blog fodder perhaps?

My Other Old Man

I forgot to mention that the knock at the door the other day lead to what has become known at our house as "cat noises." This is when our beloved dog "T"digresses into a crazed and uncontrollable seizure of whines and howls that sounds like someone is slicing open his padded feet with a utility knife. He is beside himself. Insane. Nothing can be done. We usually resort to dragging him to the bathroom and securly shutting the door. And even then the wails continue. As well as a body slam or two. We call this "cat noises" because this behavior is usually coupled with a cat sighting. Though it seems that lately he feels as though the UPS truck (they don't have to stop either, just drive by), Pizza Guy and now, The Mailman derserve the same response.

T is getting older. He is now 8. When he was younger, everyone agreed he was a spaz. As he has aged, however, T has settled into a less spastic, more gregarious demeanor. He still goes ape shit when you first walk through the door (especially if you're not me. For some reason Mommy is not as interesting as everyone else!), however his antics only last a few minutes. Once hellos have been exchanged and he has whipped you upside the leg with his enourmous tail a few times, he plops down on the floor and ignores you. He is happily becoming a "floor dog." Something I wished of him for many years, but only recently accomplished.

T says hi by the way. He's passed out on the couch - making a nice wet mark where his nose juice is dripping on the upholstry. I suppose this does not support my "floor dog" theory.

My House Smells Like Dog

My house smells like dog. I can't usually smell it, but when I first walk in the door from work...holy moly. It only takes a few minutes for my nostrils to become accustomed, and then I lazily abandon my plan to Frebreeze the shit out of the place.

This has been my usual routine and I have allowed the doginess of the place continue...I dare say proliferate. Perhaps I'll vacuum, but though it picks up hair, it also filters the exhaust through the accumulated fur and blows it back into the already canine saturated atmosphere. I must find a solution to this problem, and soon. And this is why:

I am enjoying my usual afterwork Dr. Phil episdode when I'm interrupted by a knock at the door. It's amazing when you realize that someone else may enter your bubble, and perhaps make judgement, that you become completely disgusted with the present state of your bubble. Bewildered by the knock, I get up and come to the realization, "Crap. My house smells like a fucking kennel."

I frantically seek out the only half-ass remedey I have yet to find and proceed to run around spraying Febreeze on anything and everything. It has become painfully clear that my dog's ability to stink has surpassed my desire to clean regularly, and I shake my head, disappointed with myself. Right then I make an inner pact that once this front door emergency is over, I am buying a steam cleaner and some of that white smelly powder stuff you sprinkle on carpet. After I have squeezed the last spitting spray out of the Febreeze and onto the curtains, I open the door. It's the mailman.

"This wouldn't fit in your mailbox" he says and hands me a box.

"Great. Thanks," I say and breathe a sigh of relief. I take the parcel, give him smile and shut the door.

I lean heavly against the back of the door, clicking it shut. The sense of relief that pours through me is more like elation. Like when you think you've lost your credit card and imagine all the fancy things that low life who picked it up is buying, only to find it in a pair of jeans when you do laundry. Your are so happy things are the way they are, and not how you feared they might be. No nosey neighbor wanting to check my water pressure. No college kid brainwashed into delivering some enviro - green - water conservation guilt trip. Just the mailman thinking that it's better to see if I'm home than to leave the box on the stoop, where anyone could swipe it.

I look down at the box. It's not addressed to me, but to my husband J. It's from Zappo's. To those of you who don't know, Zappo's is an online shoe store...and my husband is addicted. He has more shoes than I do, and they're cuter too. I toss the box next to the front door, thinking how at the rate J purchases new shoes, at least I don't have to worry about icky boy foot smell on top of the dog smell. Then I think of my pact. I decide that Js shoe budget precludes us from being able to buy a steam cleaner...as they are very expensive (I think).

I go back to the couch, slouching comfortably in my doggydom. "You can't change what you don't acknowledge," says Dr. Phil to some schmuck.

Hmm. Well, like I told you at the beginning of this post...My house smells like dog. Still not sure the best way to tackle it, but I think I got that acknowledging thing down.