You spent a day where?!

On Saturday, a subset of the book club that I'm in decided to take a day trip to Bloomington Indiana which is the home of Indiana University, where the boy's parents live, and roughly 90 minutes south of Indianapolis. I believe the main draw of the trip was Oliver Winery, but in addition to that it became a trip of Greek food, wine tasting, antique shopping, wine tasting, goose avoidance and adult bookstore perusing capped off with chocolate cake.

Did I mention that there was wine? Basically that's all that the invitation had to say.

"Emily, we're going someplace with wine."

"Done. I'll drive."

Nicole* planned the entire thing from start to finish. A fellow blogger was included in the journey, and her take on the day is here.** I loved that the entire day was decided and I only had to be told where to drive. The food was excellent. Downtown Bloomington was an eye opening experience for me. (I expected something more like my hometown. I suppose I should have expected more from a progressive college town.) Still, it was a pleasant surprise to wander through independent shops and the beautiful architecture. The winery was also a pleasant surprise. Had it not been so beastly hot, I'm sure we would have spent more time sitting down by the water on the landscaped grounds. I also heard that you can take your own picnic lunch, buy a bottle of wine and eat outdoors - an idea I found ideal until I was reminded that there are wasps outside. Especially outside where there are pretty flowers and bottles of wine.

Nicole drove us through IU's campus which I had heard was gorgeous. And even though I was seeing the campus through wine-colored glasses, my impression was that it lived up to its reputation. Of course, instead of taking pictures of the pretty campus, I was taking pictures like this one. Oh, and Nicole became the third person EVER to drive Curvy - a fact I was surprisingly okay with. That wine stuff is powerful.

But gooooooooood.

After we left the winery, we had some time to kill before dinner. Now, I'm not so much an antique shopper, but, as mentioned, Nicole cleverly planned that portion of the day AFTER the wine tasting. Turns out, I really didn't it mind so much. In fact, post-wine antique shopping yields pictures like this one. (I would like to note here that I normally am violently opposed to wearing fur. Did I mention there was a wine tasting? Turns out you were allowed to sample between 6 - 8 wines. Guess how many I sampled.) Two of the girls came away with some cute jewelry and I found out that I hadn't had quite enough wine to buy an $85 mink stole. I'm sure that those Visa people are relieved.***

Overall the day was fun-filled and there was a lot of laughter. I keep forgetting how little time I spend with girlfriends anymore. I think I'd like to go back and spend a day solely in downtown Bloomington. But then again, I seem to remember the wine tasting being pretty fun on its own...

Note #1: All beautiful artsy pictures were taken by Nicole whose talent knows no bounds. All other pictures were taken with a point and shoot that Nicole was foolhardy enough to put into my hands while I was drinking wine. I then felt free to pass it around as I deemed necessary.

Note#2: There were five of us on the trip. I would include a group picture, but it turns out that the Witness Protection Program can place people anywhere so it's better to be safe than sorry.

*I would link to her, but perhaps she would like to keep her anonymity?****

**This blogger was the reason behind the adult bookstore perusing... a fact that I did not see in her blog. It occurs to me that it may be embarrassing to her that I'm pointing this out, but I'm an equal opportunity embarrass-er. Stick around long enough and you'll be on here too.

***And I'm sure Candy would have stopped me. Right?!

****I have learned that some people like to be anonymous and go to great lengths to keep said anonymity. Such as wearing sunglasses in adult bookstores. I don't have the heart to tell them that magic sunglasses don't work.

Checkmate

Back when that silly Facebook "25 things about you" thing was going around, I played it cool for as long as I could, and then totally jumped on board. I took quite a long time on my list, and it was full of silly anecdotes and facts about Emily. I was secretly very proud of it. Since then, the random fact that my friends have most commented on is:

"When I was younger, I would play ping pong with my dad all the time. The games were always close, but he always beat me. Afterwards, he would run around the basement, hands in the air, singing “We are the Champions.” I’m pretty sure I got my competitive nature from him."

I'm horribly competitive. Horribly competitive. Think of the worst winner that you know and then double that obnoxious behavior. That's me. Then think of the worst loser you know and multiply that by about 100. Me again. It's pretty bad. I can sometimes disengage this behavior, but what I've found is that if I like and respect my competitor, it's impossible to turn off. I turn into the worst version of myself, obsessively focused on winning.* I'm really glad my friends know this and don't hold it against me. It's because I like and respect you that I want to kick your ass. Really. If I didn't care about you, I would be all "Meh." (but kick your ass anyway.)

As you can probably infer from the above fact about Emily, my father never let me win. At anything. I used to think it's because he thought this was a good way for his children to learn a lesson about winning, but now I just think it's because he hates to lose as much as I do.** The boy thinks that never winning made me tough. I think I could probably be a little less tough and still be okay. It's not that I ever wished my father would let me win... I guess I just wish he hadn't introduced me to ping pong until I had the capacity to beat him.

Which brings me to chess. I used to play chess. In fact, I was in a chess club in middle school.*** (elementary school?) I don't remember being very good, but then again, Vanessa's little brother was phenomenal and beat me every time. Did I mention that he was FOUR years younger than I was? So I would play with my father for "practice." My dad also beat me every time.

MAN was that frustating.

So when I tell people that I went home for Father's Day and beat my father at chess for the first time in my life,**** they're horrified. "It was father's day! You can't beat your dad on FATHER'S DAY!!!"

Darn tootin' I can. The man never LET me win in my life. I'm sure as heck not going to give him the game just because it's father's day. In fact, I beat him twice. And I'm pretty sure my dad respects me for it. (He told me he's proud of me and that I have a "quick mind." That almost made me act like a gracious winner. Almost.)

Of course, he's also found a chess buddy***** in Evansville and he's practicing for our next meeting. And he's retired. So he's got a LOT of time to practice. Looks like I've got a tough battle ahead of me if I want to beat him again.

But then, I would expect nothing less.

Anyone want to play some chess with me?

*Dawn will never know how many frigging games of Bejeweled I played. And still can't beat her. That might be why I hate that stupid game. Well, that and the fact that she taunted me just enough to push me to the edge of sanity, but not OVER it. Otherwise I would STILL be playing that ridiculous, unwinnable game.

**What I didn't include in that little fact about me was that the very first time I beat my father in ping pong was the very last time we ever played.

***I have never claimed to be part of the "cool kids" clique.

****There MAY have been dancing. And there MAY have been cheerleading in the form of "Give me a W! Give me an I! Give me an N! What's that spell?!!!!!!" It wasn't pretty.

*****My mother was quick to gleefully inform the chess buddy that my father had lost to his daughter. You can imagine how happy my dad was when he told me that story.

Blue for President

Okay, so I know that he's technically not my dog anymore. But he's adorable, he's sweet, and he's friendlier to new people than Casey is. (And did I mention that he's adorable?) So I entered him to be the Mutt Strutt 2010 Poster Pooch Contest. Since you're reading this blog, you should go vote for him! Vote Early! Vote Often!! Think about how much positive press can be brought to pit bulls by having this adorable, friendly guy as the mascot for a pretty major dog event in Indy! So you're not only casting a vote for the most adorable dog on the list, you're casting a vote to end dog discrimination everywhere!!*

Think of all the negative press you see about pit bulls in places other than this blog. Wouldn't you like to have a hand in showing the masses the other side? The friendlier side of pit bulls?? Blue (aka "stinker" "gooboy" and "bluuuuuuuue") is just the guy to help with that, but he needs your help.

Vote for him here. Feel free to tell your friends and to vote repeatedly. If he wins, I'll make sure each and every one of you get a Blue kiss.**

*Okay....that might be a slight exaggeration. I tend to get carried away when I get excited. You get the idea though, right?

**Um, a $1 donation is required to vote, which sucks, but I will totally buy you ice cream to make up for it. (and it's for a good cause!!!)

Breathtaking

"So I was catching up with a high school friend, Jackie, and she asked me about you. I gave her the same patent response that I give to everyone. 'I don't know what's going on. I don't know where we're headed. I'm taking things one day at a time.'"

"Uh huh."

"I did tell her that I'm impossible, and you're patient enough to handle me. But that sometimes you're so laid back that I want to throttle you."

"That feeling can be mutual."

I made a face. "I also told her that it's like two jagged rocks that have been rubbing up against each other for five years. The surfaces seem to be getting smoother."

"It's like you're an old shirt."

I was not at all offended by this analogy, but I decided to give him a hard time anyway. "An old shirt, huh?" I asked mischievously, "Soft and shapeless? Like, cotton? Am I getting those spots that are so thin you can almost see through the shirt? Like one more washing and you're going to have to throw the old shirt away?"

"C'mon. You know I wear shirts with holes in them."

"Nice." I was openly laughing at this point.

"Actually, that's not a good analogy..."

We were watching some episodes of 'Friends' while having this conversation on the couch with popcorn. For a few minutes there was silence while I concentrated on the popcorn and he gazed at the TV. Then I remembered that his sentence had trailed off and wanted to know the rest of the thought.

"So what am I like?"

More silence while he gazed at the TV. I was again distracted by the popcorn, though this time I was seeing how many pieces Casey could catch mid-air.

"Seriously....are you ever going to answer me? Don't you think things are getting easier?"

He made a little impatient noise that I have come to recognize as meaning 'Woman! You are not giving me time to THINK!' but since patience is hardly a virtue of mine, I pressed on.

"Hello?!"

Frustrated and eyes averted he said, "It is getting easier.... I just can't think of the right analogy.... It's like you're something that I can't live without."

His response took my breath away. And all of a sudden I realized that he hadn't been watching TV at all...he had been trying to figure out what to say and working up the courage to say it. (And that I had thought the discussion was MUCH more lighthearted than it was.) For a moment I was completely speechless.

"Air? I'm like air?"

"I don't know. But I kind of miss you when you're gone."

Still trying to catch my breath, I started to smile. When he finally looked at me, he started to smile as well. "Now why don't you say nice things like that more often?"

"They mean more this way."

"True."

Needing a Y chromosome

The reason for this blog post began on Wednesday evening. When I got in my car after volleyball and noticed that my low tire pressure light was on. I didn't really worry and just figured that I would check it out when I got home.* When I got home there was no sign of a tire losing air, so I chalked the light up to a fluke and figured I would check the tire pressures sometime the next day.

Thursday came around and I didn't have time to check my tire pressures AND go to Starbucks before work... So I decided to do the responsible thing and check my tire pressure go to Starbucks so I would at least resemble a normal human being in the morning.

So it's probably no surprise to any of you that I left work Thursday evening to find Curvy with one flat tire.** After running through the list of men that I know and could call to help with just such a situation, I realized that at some point in the last five years of my life they had all either gotten married or lived really the heck far away from me at that moment.

And so I heaved a deep sigh and called my father to freak the hell out calmly pulled out my owner's manual to refresh my memory on exactly how to change a tire. From the beginning, things were against me.

First, I knew where my spare tire was. Duh. I love my car. I know every inch of it. But I had never actually taken the spare tire OUT. Luckily I remember asking the maintenance guy if he checked the air pressure on my spare when the pressure on the rest of my tires was checked. They do. (I love Penske.) So the spare was fine. It was getting the spare OUT of the car that was NOT fine. After reading the manual (which made it seem like removing the spare was as easy as turning a screw) and trying unsuccessfully for several minutes to turn said screw, I was perplexed. WTF? I mean, I am not a weak female. I am not a weak female AND I was super pissed. The freaking wingnut should have given way before me like everything else does when faced with my wrath. Still, it remained stubbornly stuck.

So then I turned my attention to loosening the lug nuts on the tire before I jacked up the car. (As it told me to do with step-by-step illustrated instructions in my owner's manual.)

I should probably take this opportunity to mention that amidst all of this working on the flat tire, I was incessantly calling the boy. Incessantly. If there was one man who was going to be willing, nay, REQUIRED to help me, it was the boy. And yet his phone went unanswered. When he finally did pickup, it was with a wry hello that let me know he figured it was something important.*** He wasn't prepared for the scathing anger that he faced. Luckily it was directed at the flat stinking tire, and not at him. Yet.

I swear to God in heaven that I put every ounce of force that I could muster into loosening those lug nuts one-half turn as directed in the manual. Had I not been wearing flats, and instead been wearing some sort of rubber soled shoe, I would have stood on the stinking wrench handle. As it was the lug nuts would. not. move. Not one teensy millimeter. I pushed. I pulled. I kicked. I cursed. I would probably still be there trying to get the lug nuts to succumb to my will had it not been 82 degrees with 110% humidity outside and my hands hadn't suddenly given up all ability to grip anything. It was at this point that I acted rationally and waited for rescue again attacked the wingnut that was holding my spare tire hostage. To no avail.

Around this time (the details are fuzzy) the boy answered and assured me that the calvary was on its way.

The calvary was, of course, late, and by the time it arrived, my hands and fingers were showing the early signs of turning the pretty purple color that they are today. The boy was bemused. But his smug smile quickly faded as he tried to turn the stinking wingnut. He failed. I felt vindicated.

So we gave up on the spare for a moment, and turned back to the lug nuts. As the boy prepared to jack up the car, I showed him the illustrated instructions that directed us to loosen the lug nuts by one half turn first. So he shrugged and attacked the lug nuts.

Nothing happened.

After what seemed to be a superhuman effort, the boy stepped back, scratched his head, and said, "Let's jack the car up a little."

I was tired at this point, but the rule follower in me couldn't believe that he wanted to deviate from what the owner's manual was telling me. I mean, there were illustrated instructions! But I was tired. And so after very little protesting, I agreed.

I'm sure you won't be surprised to know that once the car was raised slightly, the lug nuts came off with minor effort. I would go into the physics of why this is, but you're all smart and you can figure it out, right? Too bad I couldn't figure that out sooner. (silly girl.)

So we went back to the problem of the spare tire being held hostage. The boy pulled out some pliers and eventually won over the stubborn wingnut. (It took a LOT of effort and at one point I was concerned that the vein in the boy's forehead was going to explode.) Once removed, we saw immediately why Emily couldn't remove it herself. There was a slight but pronounced bend in the middle of two inch screw that is attached to the wingnut which made it all but impossible to turn. Apparently there was some residual damage from this incident that no one thought to check.

After that it was just a matter of getting the spare on Curvy and driving the three miles (very slowly) to my home.****

As I write this, my tire is fixed and back on my car. Best $30 I've ever spent. I think the lessons that I've learned are twofold:

1) I need to move marriage up on my priority list. Apparently a husband is not only good to have someone to mow my lawn, but also to have someone come and rescue me should I get another flat tire.*****

2) You should never do things "by the book."******

*In my defense, that light was malfunctioning when I purchased the car and pretty much stayed lit for the first four months that Curvy was mine. So I have grown slightly immune to its importance.

**The stream of obsenities out of my mouth probably wouldn't have surprised you either.

***I think the 15 missed calls were a good indication.

****The boy was compensated generously.

*****Not that I won't be able to do it myself next time.

******As J-mac said, "Apparently the owner's manual was written by a woman." Apparently the fact that he lives far away saved him from having to change a tire yesterday and also from getting punched in the knee.

Silly Girl

Author's Note: I wasn't going to blog about this. Because it's about travel and I have approximately 15 people that I need to go visit and must fly to see, but cash to only take about one of those trips. But please know that if it were up to me, I would visit each and every one of you. Seriously. If IUPUI weren't currently sucking up all extra cash, I would TOTALLY be there for a weekend.

I'll be honest. I use credit cards for their rewards. So when I decided to take a trip for my 30th birthday, I opened a credit card that would give me reward miles to make the airline costs more manageable nonexistent. And I succeeded. (go me!) And to be honest, I didn't look at that credit card again.

But in January, I received a voucher for a companion flight. I read the fine print, and it seemed the companion could fly free with me to anywhere in the contiguous US. Which seemed fortunate because there's this boy, and there's this family that he has yet to meet.*

So I finally pin the boy down on dates, I confirm that they're good with the fam, and I decide to do some online research so I don't book these tickets completely blind. What I found is:

1) Bad: The airline that so thoughtfully gave me a free ticket for my 30th birthday (heretofore known as EvilAir) is significantly higher priced than other airlines that I could also use to get to my family.

2) Good: I have some remaining airline miles!! I can use them to take $150 off the cost of my ticket!

3) Meh: I'm only 20 miles away from being able to take $200 off the cost of the ticket.

So I decide that since it's easy to spend approximately $40 on a new outfit gas, I'll go ahead and use the charge card to get the miles, and THEN purchase my ticket. (I know, right? My logic makes no sense. Even to me and I live here.)

First I must find the credit card. Then I must dust it off. $200 here I come!! Yes, well, there's this expiration date on the card. And it has passed. And Emily didn't notice because she doesn't use the card. Silly girl.

So she calls to get a new card and finds out that it will be a week. Mmmmmkay. So Emily will forgo the extra $50 and just get the tickets anyway. After all, who knows if the price will go up, and my usual MO of waiting until the last minute for cheap flights doesn't seem as smart when there are two people traveling (one of whom will use a companion flight voucher.)

And so I call to book the tickets, only to find out that I must put the tickets on my airline credit card.

Boo hockey.

As I am about to hang up, I decide to use this opportunity as a fact finding mission to find out whether or not the companion flight is everything that it seems to be.

Oh it is. No blackout dates, companion has the exact same itinerary as the other passenger. No standby! Sweet.

And then there's this passing mention of how the other ticket - MY ticket - must be paid full price. I backup to clarify. But, I have airline miles! Lots and lots of airline miles!! I can't use them?

I'm sorry, no. You must pay full price for your ticket in order to use the companion flight. (silly girl)

But!

no.

But but!!

no.

Damn.

Now, the cost of my ticket on EvilAir is still cheaper than two tickets on the other airline that I could take (and be much happier,) so I can't just abandon the plan. But I can sit here and seethe about it for a week until I get my new credit card. After all, it's not that I'm cheap per se. It's just that it hurts me to pay more for something that I know I can be getting for less. Sigh.

But, on the bright side, I also have a week to think scheme and think of alternative plans to save money. Ideas anyone?

*There are also redwoods. We must not understimate the importance that the redwoods have had on getting this boy to actually agree to travel that must be done by air.

We hold these truths to be self-evident

Internets, I've been lying to you.

All these years, and I've been unintentionally leading you astray. Several times I've referred to myself as short, and I think that once or twice I even said five feet. But it's with a heavy heart that I must issue a retraction and explain that I am NOT five feet tall. I am actually five feet and three quarter inches tall.

I don't blame you if you hold a grudge. I mean, this change of height thing has really gotten to me. If I'm not five foot, what other lifelong beliefs will be proven false? Am I not Peruvian? Not sarcastic? Not cynical? Dear God, what is real? Maybe I really DO have cankles! Who am I? What the hell?

This earth-shattering revelation came about at the doctor's office a few weeks ago. Shoes off and on the scale that I hate, the nurse explained that I was in fact 5' 3/4" tall.* It was truly mind boggling for me. I've always known that I'm sixty inches tall. I mean, I measure things with my height!** Somehow, "sixty and three quarters inches" doesn't roll off the tongue quite as well. Not to mention all the things I have to take into consideration with this newfound height. I mean, can I still wear three inch heels? Am I still considered short? Do I have to duck under low hanging branches now? What about rounding? Do I have to say "five one" or do I say "five foot?"

These three quarters of an inch are no laughing matter.

This whole height identity crisis was brought to mind by my first meeting with a dear friend's "new" boyfriend. His impression of me was "shorter than expected." I feel like I should tell him, "Oh yeah? You think I'm short now? You should have met me a month and a half ago when I was only five feet tall!"

And what about the boy? Now that I'm taller, am I still a bulldog? Or can I be categorized under a taller species of dog now?

I think I have to go lie down. I'm one flying pig away from a nervous breakdown.

*This came after I helpfully shared the detail that I've been sixty inches tall since the fifth grade. Boy did I feel dumb. I even had her remeasure me. She didn't seem happy by my request.

**True story. It's because of my height that I knew that the Holiday Inn in Princeton, IN LIED when they said their deep end was five feet. I was completely submerged and had at LEAST two inches of water over my head. Tell me THAT'S not a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Did you know...?

...that constantly refreshing your email doesn't make the reply you're waiting for arrive any faster?

...that when you're really concentrating on something (like the best way to buy a plane ticket) little things in your usual routine (like closing the bathroom door) may be forgotten and lead to embarrassment?

...that sucky work permeates suckiness into every other aspect of your life?

...that rain + dirt = mud and mud + dog = dirty house?

...that you can call someone on a whim, and as soon as the phone begins ringing wish you hadn't called at all... but THEN have a conversation that brightens your entire day?

...that laundry doesn't do itself?

...that paying off a credit card is one of the sweetest feelings ever!! (It's unfortunate that sometimes you can't celebrate by buying yourself something pretty.)

...that sometimes girls just need to cry. Boys, sometimes the reason is "nothing" and sometimes it's "everything." Either way it won't make sense to you, so just accept it and move on.

...that the answer to every single life question can be found in an episode of 'Friends?'

...that sometimes the answers to your problems can be found at the bottom of a glass of red wine, and other times at the bottom of a vanilla milkshake?

...that sometimes looking hot in that fitted outfit just isn't worth giving up the comfort of sweatpants?

What do you know? (Favorites will be added as a post publication edit.)

Work to Live

So, this work thing has been interfering with my blogging. I have informed my boss that this can not continue, but he seems not to care.

Seriously, work has been a madhouse for the last week or so. A new guy has been brought on board, and in an office of three, this causes quite a stir. Can't. Wait. Until. Things. Settle. Down.

As a result, I have had zero time for email checking or blog reading or (most importantly) blog posting. Sorry for anyone I've neglected. I hope to get back to my regularly scheduled programming soon. In the meantime, here are some snippets.

- I managed to make myself look like a complete idiot while walking Casey on Saturday. It was "Bike Day" at Crown Hill, so there were cyclists everywhere. Still, I walk in an older/rarely visited portion of the cemetery, so I let Casey off-leash anyway. I saw a cyclist approaching at a reasonable speed, so I wasn't concerned as I went to corral Casey. When the cyclist was about 50 feet away, she yelled "Does she know what a bicycle is?"

My mind was in approximately a million places at once as I enjoyed my newest playlist, pushed my walk to get it done in under an hour so I wasn't late to meet my friend, and keeping track of Casey so she didn't get in the way of the cyclist. As a result, the only thing that I could think to respond to the woman was, "Um, she's a dog?"

The lady had to stop her bike because she was laughing so hard. After some discussion, we determined that the lady was just asking whether or not Casey was familiar with bikes and knew not to get in the way. I explained that yes, Casey is recently familiar with bikes, but that this was no guarantee that she would stay out of her way, which is why I was herding her over to my side as the cyclist approached. The still-chuckling woman rode off, and I felt like the world's biggest idiot.

- I saw my first horse-show this past weekend. The son of one of my friends from high school was a partipant. It was very cool and I was overall very impressed. I didn't actually realize how tentative I would be around horses, though. My friend said, "Wait a sec, aren't you wanting to become a vet?!" Um, yes. But I never said I wanted to be a large animal vet. Maybe it's because of my short stature, but horses are GIGANTIC! I love horses....I'm just not sure I want to be that close to them. At least not within kicking or stomping distance.

- I did absolutely nothing on Sunday and it felt FABULOUS!

- I have had my bike helmet for over a week now and haven't yet had a chance to use it. I missed out on my bike marathon for the horse show, which was worth it, but I'm still bummed. I need to find time to get back on my bike.

- Drink your milk, kids. I started eating cereal for breakfast every day, and I'm astounded by the changes in my body by the mere addition of daily milk. (not the least of which are fingernails that are longer than I've ever before had them.)

- Unless it's raining, I'm taking the camera on my walk with Casey tonight. I figure it's been long enough since my last photo-blog, and there are some very pretty views at Crown Hill that I'm sure even I can capture with my point and shoot. What I NEED to do is get Ann to go on my walk with me after Baby Boo arrives. But for now, you'll have to make do with my pictures.

- I have a reunion this weekend in Chicago. I'm meeting up with some people that I studied abroad with in Costa Rica. Ten years ago. I hate how old that makes me feel, but I'm looking forward to the fun time that is certain to be had.

I pick the weirdest times to be girly...

Despite random crossovers to the dark side, I'm not usually a girly girl. I mean, sure, I have issues with egregious assaults on footwear, and I may have some issues with bugs (and other creepy-crawlies,) but it's not like I really need to be taken care of. Or go out in makeup every day. Or even fix my hair regularly. (Unless a ponytail counts as "fixing?")

But sometimes, usually completely random times, that girly side of me pops up and can not be denied. Like when bike-riding. Like when bike-riding with someone who won't shut up about how I need a helmet. But I don't want to wear a helmet...even though I know it's probably smart. So I grudgingly look over the helmets at the bike store and find....nothing. They were all blue or black or silver or red and since I was already not wanting to purchase one, I wasn't inclined to like something that didn't make me happy.

And thus began my search for a pink bicycle helmet.

I know, I know. What on earth? To be fair, I don't mean completely pink. I mean, enough so that I like it. Enough so that I think it's cute, even though I'll look like an idiot while wearing it.

(This biking thing? It's taken over my life. I blame Candy.)

And so my google searching led me to this on ebay. I already have a long-standing hate relationship with ebay, but luckily there were only about 4 hours left on this auction when I found it, and I was the only bidder.
Still, I checked on it about 500 times in four hours.

In the end I am now the proud owner of a helmet with pink on it. I think I won because of the enormous size of my head. No other woman needs a helmet this big. Trust. We're talking freakishly large.

And so now I must wait until it arrives. And then I will post pictures. Of the three muskateers that keep going on crazy bike rides, all three of us in our goofy helmets.

Pictures from the Past

Any of my college friends who read this need not worry. I am not about to pull out pictures from college days. No thanks. Those are for the password protected safety of Facebook.

What I will pull out is one of the greatest finds thus far in my 31 year life.*

Now that my parents are retired, they're starting to take on little odd jobs around the house. You know, the things that need to be done, but they're low priority so they never actually seem to GET done? Things like sorting through old photos.

My mother has been having a ball lately going through old pictures. She says that there are pictures of people she doesn't even remember, trips that she had forgotten about, and part of the fun for her is trying to remember when the pictures were taken so that she can put them in rough chronological order. In doing this, she found and sent a picture of me on Halloween in 1980.

I can't tell you how thrilled I am with this picture. It's awesome on SO many levels. First, my mother actually made this costume for me. She said she picked it because it was relatively easy and LOOK HOW CUTE I WAS!!! Second, I'm a pink bunny. Can you see a costume that is further from my personality than a pink bunny?! And finally, of course, I am a HUGE fan of A Christmas Story,** and Ralphie gets a pink bunny suit JUST LIKE THIS for Christmas. Right down to the bunnies on his feet. (Although I have to give my mom some credit as the costume was probably more appropriate on a two-year-old girl. It's not like she made this for me when I was thirteen.***) Keep in mind that the movie was released in 1983. This means that my mother actually dressed me like this BEFORE it was hilarious.

Although it's still pretty hilarious.

*For today anyway. Who knows what tomorrow holds?
**The whole family is, actually. My father actually has a leg lamp on the porch. Cross my heart and hope to die.
***No, she saved a whole HOST of other embarrassing things for the teenage years. Like the leg lamp on the porch. Which is awesome now, but when you're a teenager? Notsomuch.

Spontaneity

Confession: I didn't know how to spell the title of this blog. I had to look it up.

There's a beverage at one of my favorite bagel places that I love to order. I love iced tea, it's lightly sweetened, and it's got enough caffeine to wake me up in the mornings. Plus, the name is fun to say (Spontanei-tea.)

Unfortunately (or fortunately if you're me, I guess) that's about the extent of the spontaneity in my life. I know this will come as a shock to some of you (unless you're regular readers. Then you know me. But if you're new it's a shock. If you're new, hi there!!) but I'm a bit of a planner. A little Type-A. A smidge of a control freak. I sort of like routine. Change is not my friend. In fact, change in my life usually takes a congressional mandate if not an act of God. And even those aren't always successful.

Which is interesting because in a social situation, I am usually the planner. I love to have a group of friends together and it doesn't really matter WHAT we're doing. I'll get friends together whenever and wherever I can.* But, if left to my own devices, I'm finding that the older I get the more I like my weeks to have some routine. I like to go to work, go home and walk my dog, and then spend an quiet evening reading or knitting or basically trying to see if I really can get my couch to have a permanent indentation that is the exact size of my butt. And once I have an idea of how my evening is going to go, it's not that easy to change on a moment's notice. In short, I'm getting boring. But I secretly sort of like it that way.

The boy? The boy is all about spontaneity. The boy has no idea what he's doing most evenings. The boy probably doesn't know what he's doing in the next hour. And even MORE incredibly to me, he can have plans for this evening, and then change them at the last minute. OMG - I cringe just thinking about the uncertainty.

Despite what you may be thinking, this has never been a bone of contention in our relationship.**

But for two nights this week, I've found myself in completely unplanned situations. And I didn't die. The first was when I got to go bicycle shopping. After repeated badgering by Candy and I, zlionsfan opted not to fix the bike that he had languishing in his garage, but instead chose to purchase a pretty shiny new bike. From a bike shop. So I got to go shopping, I didn't spend any money, and I got to help spend a good amount of money that wasn't mine. What's not to like about that? As soon as that was over, I assumed we would each go our separate ways home.

But apparently there was dinner involved. This dinner was assumed to be part of the plans by two out of the three participants.

Um, okay. This was unplanned, but not completely out of the question. Hmmm....Casey had been walked, I was already with friends, I was hungry - why not eat?

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Dinner was fun. (I had fun at an unplanned event.)

So now that a bike had been purchased, we made plans to ride together last night. At one of my favorite places. And ride we did. Another friend, Nicole, came along and we rode our bikes for about two hours (with Casey who ran along with us the entire time.) It was fabulous. The weather was perfect, the riding was both leisurely and heartbreakingly impossible***, and there was plenty of conversation to keep us all occupied the entire time.

When we ended the ride, Casey was worn out. I stopped to say goodbye, and she immediately laid down on the ground. I started thinking about what I was going to have for dinner, and how peaceful the night would be with Casey completely passed out, and how I couldn't wait to get back to the book I was reading. And then Nicole mentioned dinner plans to Candy. And my immediate internal dialogue was, (no joke) "They're going to dinner? I wonder if it's just the two of them. Will they invite me? OH MY GOD WHAT IF THEY INVITE ME? WHAT AM I GOING TO SAY?"

At that point Nicole said, "Does anyone else want to come?"

And my mouth said, "Sure! Where are we going?"

I'm sure it seemed normal to everyone else, but I honestly don't remember making the decision to go. And once it was made, I'm not sure that everyone in my head was entirely happy about it. But we all went out to eat, and surprisingly, I again didn't die. In fact, I had a good time.

When I went home and was cuddled on my couch with a very tired dog, I reflected on my two unplanned outings. Hmmm....unplanned, but still good. Maybe the boy was right? Spontaneous is still okay. Maybe this is the beginning of a change? But wait! Change is bad!! And the boy is never right! What to do, what to do?

In a fit of rebellion I made the immediate unplanned decision to paint my fingernails. See? I can be sponteneous! Look at me go!!****

*As long as I have at least 24 hours notice.
**That was a bold faced lie.
***See, there's this hill...
****Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Like I don't have enough to worry about?

So as not to appear a completely inept cyclist I didn't mention that last Friday, on Ride your Bike to Work Day, I totally fell over. On my bike. Like, tipped over and couldn't catch myself. Like, sprawled on the ground in the middle of the part of town where I work and where there are always a good number of pedestrians. Some of whom rushed over to help me. Which wasn't embarrassing at all. No. Not in the slightest.

And as a result of this incident, I had a pretty black and blue bruise on my shin, just above the ankle, that was about the size of an apple. Which of course made my entire calf and ankle swell up about three times their normal size. Fun times.

I showed the boy, and he was horrified. With good reason. Inexplicably, the boy is none too fond of that part of my body even when it's not grotesquely swollen.

Once upon a time when we were going through a book, the question came up, "What is your least favorite [body] part of your partner?"

Sometimes I wonder why the book isn't called "The breakup book."

The boy had to answer this question first. I braced myself and went through the list of every single insecurity that I have. (The List that is catalogued and cross referenced alphabetically in my mind...as it is in the minds of all women, gents. Don't let us fool you.) Let's see... My ass is huge, and I carry weight in my thighs, so they're none too pretty either. My arms are flabby, I have no neck... the list goes on and on. I was ready for anything the boy said.

Until he said, "Your ankles."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Well, it's just that....see.....my grandmother really doesn't have ankles either. I just don't like that."

"You're saying that I have CANKLES?!" This was said at a pitch that I'm pretty sure all the dogs in the neighborhood could hear.

"What are cankles?" The boy asked blankly.

"Um, when there is no ankle. So your calf goes right into your foot."

The boy began to giggle, "Oh. Yeah. That's what you have."

"WHAT?!" Again with the high pitch.

This was NOT on my List of Insecurities. In fact, I think it's the only body part that escaped even an honorable mention on The List. (Which is no small feat.) But one mention from the boy pointed out a whole new thing that I had never ever thought to worry about in my life. Which meant that I had to review every part of The List to see if there was anything ELSE that I had missed. Which is unacceptable because, seriously, who has time to review a list that they've been compiling since they were approximately 13 years old?

The thing is, in my unbiased opinion (which is deeply rooted real facts and actual observations,) I don't have cankles. My ankles are not the most slender ankles on the planet, but they are most definitely there and distinguishable from my calf. However, the boy is a bit more, um, dainty than I am [please see Bulldog/Cheetah comparison] and I guess he's used to seeing smaller joints. Whatev. I don't have cankles. And I pointed this out to him repeatedly until I'm pretty sure he just agreed with me to shut me the hell up. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's the entire reason why the boy hates the book with a passion. He thinks it's evil.

Which brings me back to today. And the fact that since I have one ankle swollen to about three times its normal size, I actually DO have one cankle and one pretty slender ankle by comparison. And so I'm all, "SEE?! This is what a REAL cankle would look like."

And in response I get a weary, "You're right, Emily."

Darn tootin' I am. Motion to add "cankles" to The List - DENIED.

The Calm After the Storm

Yesterday was insane. Mostly good insane, but in the aftermath of insane, it all feels the same - exhausting.

My parents were in town for the Broad Ripple Art Fair and, you know, to pick up their favorite grandchild. While we did get rained on at the art fair, I think everyone had a good time checking out the different items for sale. My father walked away with some very interesting art, and my mom walked away with some pretty suncatchers. After that and some lunch, we met up again to go duckpin bowling and play some board games. An undercurrent to that busy-ness was that my mother seemed to have her own agenda to learn everything about her cell phone that she could - including the art of text messaging. I know my friend Jill is going through some training of her own, and I wonder if we compared notes who would be more frustrated. The one trying to get a three year old potty trained, or the one trying to get a sixty-four year old woman to understand text messaging. Saturday was a very full day.

But Sunday was what killed me.

I usually keep Sundays plan-free. I love Sundays for this very reason. Sleep in + no schedule = paradise. But this Sunday I had two very old and dear friends in town. So we planned to have brunch at eleven. And then I had to meet my parents back at my place to hand over Blue....somewhere around one. THEN I was responsible for arranging a meeting between this sweet girl and some prospective adoptive parents. That was supposed to be at one, but I bumped it to two. (I was late anyway.) Still, that was a whole lot of arranging in about three hours of my day. I didn't want to rush my friends (who I don't see terribly often,) but nor did I want to delay the meeting between this dog and the interested potential-owners. Throw in finding a time to get my parents in there, and MAN was I stressed.

Luckily I knew the people who were thinking about adopting the dog. They offered me a beer as they were getting to know her. DONE! The boy was with me and commented that he could literally see the tension leaving my body. The meeting was successful, and "Izzie" found herself a new home. That was a good way to end the weekend.*

And when I got home that night, I had a text message from my mother that read, "Home ok thx 4 gr8 time lol mom n dad" I assure you, she did NOT learn that from me. When I called her back and asked, "Mom, who taught you to text like that?" her response was, "I read the comics."

I can't make this stuff up, folks.

*My boss wants to know when I'm going to start selling for him the way I "sell" for his wife (who runs the pit bull rescue.) I told him he needs to find better products.

Environmentally Friendly Fail

The whole "ride your bike to work" thing went swimmingly for my boss and I. Until we realized that we were hungry for lunch and no one really wanted to go out to get food. In fact, when talking to one vendor who asked if my boss had ridden his bike (meaning motorcycle) to work given the beautiful weather, he responded, "No, it's dumbass ride your bike to work day, so I rode my bike-bike."

That pretty much sums up how we were both feeling. Apparently we both prefer being environmentally friendly in theory vs. in practice. It was about this point that the boss (who lives closer) decided that he would ride home at lunch, get his car, and thus be able to run errands after work. A brilliant idea that I only wish I could take credit for. Instead I just copied him.

And so I now have my car. To run errands. And I can't decide whether or not I cheated. Because technically I DID ride my bike to and from work today. I just, you know, drove my car too.

It's good for me

So, Friday is Indianapolis Ride Your Bike To Work Day. It occurred to me on Monday that my excuse of class after work had expired, and I needed to get back on my bike. Of course, by Wednesday when the sky was overcast and threatened to open up at any time, I remembered why I vastly prefer driving my car.

Still, since I'm at the tail end of a tank of gas, now seems as good a time as any to renew my adventure from last year. And when I saw a flyer for Ride Your Bike to Work Day, I mentioned it to my boss. Actually, "badgered him until he agreed that it was a good thing to do" would be more accurate. (We are not super environmentally friendly here, and I always do my best to make little changes. My boss is not at all excited about this one.)

And then, of course, I promptly forgot about it. Until today. When my boss said, "I sure hope the weather holds for us to ride our bikes tomorrow."

Hmmm??

Oh yes. Riding my bike to work. Right...right. I totally didn't forget about that. I am all over it.

"I expect you here at 8:00am sharp, Emily."

Damn.

Her Baby

In the big Blue dropoff of 2009, I got to see my parents interact with Blue for the first time since they've "owned" him for longer than a week. I mean, I've been getting random phone calls that go something like, "I'm worried - it's raining and Blue is afraid of the rain. How will he go to the bathroom?!" or "His nails are so long? How do I cut them? Do I just use nail cutters?" or (my favorite) "This dog FARTS! You didn't tell me that he would FART!!" So I knew that the adjustment was going well and Blue was well on his way to being spoiled. I just didn't get a chance to see it firsthand.

When I came home to find my parents waiting for me and Blue's crate was sitting on my porch ready to be moved in, I wasn't surprised. It makes sense to bring his crate for the week he would be here. What surprised me was the twenty-five pounds of dog food, dog treats, blankets and leash that also accompanied him. Um, they DO know that I already have one dog, right? And thus all the tools to be able to take care of two dogs? In fact, it wasn't very long ago that I used to HAVE two dogs.

Well, they wanted to bring "his" things. Hmmmm. Casey's things are apparently not acceptable. Hmmmmm.....

And then (AND THEN!) we were moving everything in, and my mother says to me, "Watch this." I obediently watch. She then proceeds to say, "Blue! Sit!"

Blue, of course, sat.

Following this, a series of high pitched words in BABY TALK (the likes of which I have never heard come out of my mother's mouth ever before in my life (ever!)) erupted from my mom, "Ohyouaresuchagoodboy! Youarestartingtobemydoggie, aren'tyou? Aren't you?? YouareSOGOOD!" All this was done while she was squeezing his head in a sort of hug that Blue didn't even TRY to wiggle away from.

I couldn't have been more surprised if she had taken out a gun and shot him. Seriously. More disgusted, maybe....horrified....but not more surprised. I mean, what just happened??

By the time my vision cleared and I was certain that I was not going to faint, it was too late to delicately ask if Blue was still considered my dad's dog.

As the evening progressed, I heard stories of how Blue is starting to bark at strangers who come to the house (a sign that he's accepting the house as "his" house) and how he puts his "big heavy" head on my mom's lap. Which she used to complain about. Until she realized that the farts are in dad's direction. Then we came to the subject of clipping his nails.

As I explained to my mom, Blue's nails are clear, so clipping them is fairly simple. You can easily see where the quick begins (where you don't want to cut because he will bleed) and just need to cut off the tips. She first cringed at the possibility of making Blue bleed, but I did my best to get her to see how easy it was to avoid. The problems began when she realized that getting his nails trimmed wasn't his favorite thing to do (he doesn't fight it, exactly....more just moves his paws out of my reach) So she made me stop. No putting Blue under any stress. If Blue doesn't like it, apparently Blue doesn't have to go through it. (Which means I'll be trimming his nails in secret apparently.)

I was seriously floored by these revelations. I mean, Blue's a great dog, don't get me wrong. He's loving and easy, and relaxed and endearing.... I just didn't realize that my lifelong "cat person" mother would be so easily taken in.

On Mother's Day, I called my mother to sing and let her know that I was thinking about her. She told me what they had planned for the day, and then asked "How's my baby?"

"Oh, I'm fine mom. I've got a whole Sunday stetching out before me with no plans..."

"No, no. I meant Blue."

"Erm, of course you did. He's fine."

"Is he? Because earlier I heard him barking at Casey. Is she stealing his bone again?"

"We're fine mom. We're all going to walk to Broadripple later today to visit the boy at work. It should be fun."

"Good. Give him a kiss for me."

"Um, okay. I love you too!"

I have this sneaking suspicion that my brother has been bumped from the position of "favorite child.*" I just can't believe I didn't see this coming. Not one little iota. I mean, there was baby talk. BABY TALK! I don't think my mother even uses baby talk on BABIES!!

*Which he SHOULD since he had to call his big sister to get his mother's cell phone number in order to call for Mother's Day. How did I get second place again?!

Of Cheetahs and Bulldogs

So the parents have come and the parents have gone. My refrigerator has more alcohol in it than it's had in a long long time...and my dishes were mysteriously washed while I was volunteering at the Animal Hospital on Saturday morning. Overall, I'm pretty sure my parents left wondering how on earth I live in such a tiny space, but I think the visit was without any emotional or psychological scarring, and really, that's all a girl asks for.

After my parents had arrived and were decompressing from the drive, we were making small chit-chat as we waited for dinner to cook and my mother's eye fell on a book on the coffee table.

(If you remember, a long long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I posted about a book that I had purchased for the boy and I. I highly recommend the book to anyone in a relationship. I mean, you have to have a solid relationship, because there may be some answers that will truly test your patience (and your sense of humor.) But overall the book was a success. I loved it. It's been relegated to a box in my bedroom for over a year now, but in the deep clean that preceeds a parental visit, the book was dislodged from its usual spot in my bedroom and brought out to the living room so that I could re-live all the hilarity that the boy and I went through when filling it out. I just, um, forgot to put it away before the parents arrived.)

My mom asked about the book, and after I explained it to her, it became a topic of conversation. See, the whole object of the book is that it asks questions, both parties have to answer them, and it's supposed to open up more conversations. The questions range from serious (When did you know you were in love with your partner) to silly (What animal most reminds you of your partner?) I chose the silly to discuss with my parents. (No, I did not let my mother actually SEE the book. Are you crazy?)

When it came to confessing which animal most reminds us of each other, I went first. The answer came easily - a cheetah. The boy reminds me of a cheetah. He's lean, he's fast, he's agile....and he always lands on his feet.* I think cheetahs are like poetry in motion when they're running, and I see the same in the boy when he's playing soccer, playing with the dogs, etc. Done. Cheetah. The boy chewed that over for a while (I don't think it's what he expected) but he seemed satisfied with my response. (Image courtesy of National Geographic, btw)

When it was the boy's turn, he answered with no hesitation whatsoever, "Bulldog."

Blink.

Blink blink.

The boy, seeing my astonishment hurried to explain. "You know! It's because you're tenacious. And stubborn. And strong. And strong willed. And, you know....you're short. Compact."

Now, I don't know what springs to YOUR mind when you hear the word bulldog, but in my mind, a bulldog looks like this image that I found at kandinginfo. Um, notsocute. I mean, I think they're cute, but in that 'they're so ugly they're cute' sort of way. In fact, I think of slobber, and underbites, and snorting, and no agility whatsoever. Dear God, I'm a bulldog?! THAT'S how the boy sees me? A BULLDOG?! This is...what? I mean....what?!

As those thoughts ran through my head, the boy asked me what I was thinking. "Um, I dunno. Isn't there anything with all those characteristics that is a bit, um...cuter?"

At this point in the story, my father was laughing out loud. I told him that eventually I just accepted that this is how the boy is and chose to see this comparison as a good thing. I mean, I am tenacious. I am stubborn. I am compact. I really can't fault the boy for his opinion. It's not completely devoid of reality, you know.

After his laughter died down, my mother turned to my father. "So what animal would you compare to me?"

Whoops. Sorry dad. Didn't see that one coming.

An awkward silence decended while I tried desperately to think of something to say to change the subject. Unfortunately, all I could think of was "What animal would I compare my mother to?" None of the answers that occurred to me seemed appropriate.

"A monkey." My father said finally.

My mother seemed appeased. "Why?"

"Well, because you were born during the year of the monkey."

My mother's appeasement vanished. "That doesn't count!"

Another awkward silence. I could see my father getting frustrated. "Fine. Well, you're stubborn like your daughter. And you yell a lot. I don't know, a jackass?"**

And all of a sudden, the boy's answer didn't seem quite so bad.

*And for StaceyJ, I'll point out that cheetahs also sleep something like 18 hours per day. Though I did not realize this at the time and did NOT point it out to the boy.

**Don't worry, it was said in frustration/jest. My father took back that response later and promised to think about it. I'm sort of hoping he goes with "badger" next time, though I think "monkey" wasn't too far off the mark. He should have gone with his gut instinct.

Missing you (since you've been gone)

The boy is off on a two day backpacking/hiking trip with a mutual friend (whom I shall dub 'Curly.') A mutual friend who (as his wife pointed out) shares a surprising number of traits with the boy. As such, I'm sure they're currently reveling in their unshowered, damp, two day hiking had-to-carry-all-supplies-on-their-back manliness. And as much as I miss the boy, I am not at all disappointed that I didn't go wasn't invited.

Not one little bit.

See, when the boy and I met, I was 100% honest with him. Every word I said to him in that first conversation has stood the test of time.* One of the things that I mentioned was that I "love to do things outdoors, but I'm not so much a camper." To which the boy responded, "Really? I love to camp."

Then I went and did this madness. All of a sudden, the boy figured that perhaps the door to camping had been opened a crack.

It hasn't. Truly.

When the boy and I started hanging out with Curly and his wife (who is a super cool awesome person, btw) the boys began discussing the possibility of a camping trip for the four of us. Uh oh. The more we hung out, the more the idea appealed to them. My response was, "Sure! If you guys plan the trip, I am SO THERE!" Since Curly's wife is no more looking forward to the camping than I am (and immediately grasped the implications of having the boys plan the trip) she agreed.

Did I mention that Curly and the boy are very similar? Nothing has been planned. It's been a couple of years now. I felt pretty safe.

Then Curly had to go and propose a two day hiking extravaganza. And, much to my surprise, it actually happened.**

In the days leading up to this hiking trip, the boy was very very excited. As he gathered up everything he would need (and didn't already have,) he made a list.

Food
Sleeping bag
Emily's Camera
Water Filter
Poop Shovel

I'm sorry, what?

Yeah - apparently a poop shovel was needed. You know, so that a hole can be dug to poop in, and the poop can then be buried.

I'm sorry, what?

The boy was about to explain to me again, when I interrupted to tell him that I completely understood, and that there was no way I was ever (EVER) going to do that. I mean, I know that I've backpacked. And I've camped. And that I was traumatized by having to poop in a glorified hole in the ground while doing so.*** But I didn't actually have to dig the hole!

The boy showed a rare flash of emotion and got a bit upset. "Well, you know this means that we can never go on a backpacking trip together!"

"FINE BY ME!"

After all, I think that if you got a girl who previously thought "roughing it" was Motel 6 to agree to camping, it falls under "compromise." Trying to get her to agree to dig a hole in the ground and then defecate into it....well, that's just madness.

*Which is more than I can say for some people. Ahem. "I'm a morning person" indeed.

**And Curly and the boy are, like, friends now. Like, friends independent of the four of us. Which is weird. Because previously, Curly's wife and I were friends independent of the group, but the boys just came to dinner when they were told. And now they're all hanging out and camping and... DEAR GOD I'M GOING TO HAVE TO CAMP! Which I've actually made my peace with.**** Until the boy told me about the new tent he had purchased. The tent that is big enough for him, myself, and "our dogs." (cue the ominous music) I'm sorry, what? Not only do I have to camp, I have to camp with my nemesis? When did I sign on for this??

***Because sometimes people turn thirty. And sometimes when they turn thirty, they do crazy, insane, out of their mind things that they would never normally do. And sometimes those things are incredibly poorly thought out, but turn into once-in-a-lifetime breathtaking adventures. But they were still insanity. This should never, ever, be forgotten.

****Beer. There will be lots of beer. Enough beer so that the gigantic bugs disappear and are definitely not within a one mile radius of me.

Customer Retention

I went on a quick grocery shopping excursion the week before last because I could no longer scrounge up any sort of meal from the items left in my kitchen. (Parmesan Cheese, pepperoni, soy sauce, and something that used to be chicken.) I had just gotten out of class, and was making a quick run before heading home to take care of Casey...because, um, dog food was something else I needed, and if I didn't buy some, there was going to be no "taking care of Casey" just a "starving and angry dog."

I was in a really good mood after having received my latest physics test score (which was a 97% in case I didn't already tell you!!!) but otherwise, the only things on my mind were getting what I needed and getting home. When I got to the checkout counter, I began putting my items on the conveyor belt and was immediately amused by how the items screamed out "lives alone!" Tuna helper, tuna fish, wine, skinny cows, dog food. Hmmm...if that doesn't scream single woman, I'm not sure what does.

So I was smiling to myself as I lifted the 25lb bag of dog food onto the conveyor belt and when I glanced at the cashier, I was somewhat startled to make immediate eye contact.

< Tangent > I always try to make eye contact with people when I'm speaking with them, whether they be the Starbucks barista, the pizza delivery guy or the checkout guy at Safeway. My rule is at least a good second of eye contact and a smile. It's actually pretty difficult to catch and maintain eye contact with strangers. You should try it sometime. It's like we've become a society of no eye contact. I miss it. I think it makes you feel more connected to whoever you're talking to and these days, who doesn't want to feel connected? < /Tangent >

He was a young man, probably in his late teens, but in my eyes he looked approximately twelve years old. He had really pretty eyes, and as he watched me heave the dog food onto the conveyor, they widened slightly.

"Wow. You're really strong."

I got embarrassed and looked down. "Yeah, well, I've had a lot of practice." When I glanced up again, he was still looking straight at me, and at that moment I could see him decide to say something. I braced myself for some comment about the "great night" he could see that I had planned based on my purchases.

"You look like J-Lo. Has anyone ever told you that before?"

My immediate thoughts went something like this: Do not laugh. DO NOT LAUGH. That was a COMPLIMENT. Nevermind that it has no basis in reality. It probably took a lot of courage for him to say that. Don't you even smirk! Just say something non-committal and move on. Do NOT LAUGH AT THIS LITTLE BOY!

I bit the inside of my cheek for what felt like five seconds, swallowed back my laughter and said, "Well, thank you. I don't think I've ever heard that before."

"Well you do. You know who she is, don't you?"

"Oh, I know who she is."

As he handed me my receipt he said, "Can I have your autograph?"

For a brief moment I was tempted to sign 'Jennifer Lopez' but refrained at the last second. I silently returned the receipt, took my bags and with one last smile, I headed out to my car.

Where I dissolved into tears of laughter.

I immediately called my father, "Hey dad, do you want to hear something hilarious?" and proceeded to tell him what had just happened. He laughed, and mentioned that between that compliment and my test grade, it had turned out to be a pretty good evening for me.

"It really has. But dad, do you want to know the best part? From where the boy was standing behind the checkout counter, he couldn't see my butt! He wasn't saying I look like J-Lo because of my behind. He actually thought I looked like Jennifer Lopez!"

And then I laughed again. Because I was flattered. Truly. But in reality? No freaking way kid. Thanks for making an old lady's night.