The Sea Inside

Recently, I was roped into signing up for Blockbuster Online. Actually, I was seduced by one of those pop ups that say 'Free Prada Handbag- and Matching Wallet!' Well, here I sit with no handbag instead I have 3 paper sleeves with movies that I am not sure why I selected. Yup, call me a sucker.

Today I am home sick with a very nasty ear ache. My head is throbbing, echoing (my husband thought that I could not hear him say that the echoing is due to a lack of matter inside the cranium- haha!), and all I want is to lay in front of the boob tube and eat soup. Sick days are the perfect time to catch up on movie watching and I decided I might as well take advantage of my $19.97 monthly fee and watch these movies that have been sitting here in the family room for the past 4 weeks. ( You get to keep the movies as long as you want!) What is most disconcerting about joining this service is the little paper packets the movies are delivered in: they are easy to lose among the recycling *and* they provide no indication whatsoever what the movie you chose is actually about.

I popped in the first film, having no clue what I was in for, and immediately started to get sleepy. (Another reason I don't rent movies- I fall asleep through every one. Every. One.) The opening to the movie, The Sea Inside, is a calming beach scene with narration in monotone Spanish. I was out almost immediately. I awoke sometime later hearing the Puccini aria 'Nessun Dorma'. Being a novice fan of opera, I am familiar with Turandot and this particular aria and I tell ya, everytime I hear it, I cry like a baby.

My husband came home with my soup to find me sobbing uncontrollably, questioning if my earache was really *that bad*. "I know what the movie is about, " I managed to say between heavy sniffs and heaving. "It's about people. /sob/ People. /sob/ With degenerative diseases." The tears came over me again like a flood in the south. "And the right to die with dignity, " I shouted, hot tears covering my face and streaming onto the floor.

"Oh, honey, " my husband tries to comfort me.

"And to top it all off.../sob/ /hiccup/ /sob/...it's *all* in Spanish and I'm too sleepy to read all the subtitles!"

"Oh, honey...that is just the worst. I am sorry you are having a bad day."

I'm mailing back that film tomorrow.

The code words on my blog and what they mean to the ones dearest to my heart

The other night I was out to dinner with my very dear friend Carrie and we got to talking about my blog. (Carrie is not a person who is online very often, but when she is, I can always count on her to be one of my faithful readers. One of the many reasons why I loves her so much!) She asked me about some internet lingo that she noticed in a recent post. Now, I am not very blog savvy- you can tell by the way my blog looks- so I asked what could I have possibly written that was some sort of internet only lingo that she may not get. She said, "You were writing something and then you threw in the letters M, O, and M. What does MOM mean? Is that like LOL?"

I told her I was sorry for chuckling, but MOM simply meant that: Mom. My mother says that she only knows about my life from reading my blog, so all I was doing was aknowledging my mommy since she, too, is another one of my faithful readers. And since it was in ALL CAPS, I was giving her a little shout out, too.

So this one goes out to you, MOM, in hopes that you did get that I was directing my post to you, knowing that you would be up on what your daughter in Seattle is doing with her life. Thanks for the call to congratulate me on yet another new toilet!

And I loves you, too!

It was that simple!

I don't have anything funny to say, just wanted to update you all- MOM- on our quest for investment property. After searching since November and making 8 offers, we finally got a bite. It had been on the market exactly one hour and thirty five minutes. I kid you not. We were the first offer, accepted, inspection was perfect, and our financing is going through no prob. We put an ad for rent in the local paper as well as on Craig's List and will be signing a lease with a tenant next week! (A most perfect renter, I must say, with an impeccable background and references!) The time it took from offer to finding renter? 17 days!! We don't even close on the house until February 28th!!

I had no idea this was so easy-peasy.

What would Valentine's Day be without Terry Love?

It seemed like only yesterday that we were installing the new toilet here at Monkey Hill and I was impressed with the services offered up by the Northwest's Premier Plumber, Terry Love. Yesterday our upstairs toilet (the main one) went belly up. The wax seal lost it, the gasket busted, and we had a nice drizzle into our basement. Fortunately, this bust had nothing to do with my constant bowel problem, rather, an underlying issue with the toilet itself. It was bound to happen. (!)

We could have simply replaced the rings and such that are part of the underbelly of the toilet, but we knew when we bought the house 2.5 years ago that this toilet needed to go. It was many, many decades old and hardly efficient. The toilet had to be pulled out anyway for this fix, why not buy a better one? So we called on our good friend Terry Love. This afternoon I had the pleasure of leaving work early to talk with Terry Love and visit his vast distribution center (read: his website and house). My husband and I ventured across town to pick up our Toto Drake (we decided to mix it up a bit and not go for another Ultramax. They are virtually the same toilet, though for some reason the Ultramax costs about $200 more!)

Some girls get diamonds, others get flowers and chocolates for Valentine's Day. Some get all three. Me, I got a commercial grade toilet. Now, if that ain't love, I don't know what is.

Who says you shouldn't have instant puddin'?

Before I knew I was pregnant, I had been craving chocolate pudding. Maybe it's because my friend and I have this acquaintance we call 'Cosby' and I think of Jell-O Pudding every time that name is mentioned. (And how I would be Fat Albert if I lived on nothing but pudding.)

Six weeks have past, thinking often of chocolate pudding, and I finally gave into my cravings. I purchased some wonderfully decadent Bavarian Chocolate Pudding from Trader Joe's. Oh. My. The smooth, creamy, chocolate goodness. How could I have just one spoonful? I didn't just 'give in' to a chocolate craving; I dove head first into Willy Wonka's Chocolate River without consideration to come up for air. I consumed the entire container, save for few bites given unwillingly to my daughter.

This treat should not have been eaten right before bedtime. While I certainly felt euphoric, loving everyone and everything, not minding the dogs barking and the non stop Seattle rain, my heart would not stop racing. I realized at that moment that I had not just finished off a bowl of chocolately goodness, rather, I'd just consumed a big bowl of crack. How would I ever be fresh enough in the morning for another grueling day in the office? What have I done to my unborn child??!!!!

That night I had probably the worst night's sleep since discovering ear plugs to protect my hearing from the Darth Vader like snores of my husband. I tossed, I turned, I arose several times to chew on Tums. I cried in agony, "How does one come down from a pudding high? I Don't Know!!!!" I must have blacked out from all the Tums cause the next thing I knew, it was the next morning and I was on the front lawn encouraging my little dog to go pee-pee. I returned to the house, the bathroom being the first room requesting my visit. I looked in the mirror and was dismayed at what I saw.

My face was not only bloated, but I had two (not one, but *two*) ginormous zits glowing with pink fluorescence on my cheek and forehead. They seemed to be mocking me, "Nyah, nyah! See what happens when you eat pudding before bed, suckah?" I cried and drowned my sorrows in my exfoliating facial scrub and overpriced moisturizer guaranteed to take away the wrinkles while providing me with powerful anti-oxidants- and an SPF!

My vanity had gotten the best of me.

Yay, though I will pass through the aisles of Trader Joe's fantasizing about the creaminess and satisfaction that chocolate pudding provides, I know in truth that I would turn into a zit ridden insomniac, incapable of nothing more than crashing from a sugar high, and purchasing expensive cosmeceuticals.

I just don't get it

My office is right next to Seahawks Stadium. From our conference room, I can watch the scoreboard, if I were so inclined. I have to park my car in a lot that is just south of the stadium, next to the Events Center, so in order to get back and forth to my car, I walk by the entrance and ticket booths to the stadium. Twice, sometimes 4, times a day.

Since returning last week, parking has just been nuts. People are scattered all about holding signs; a news crew is a permanent fixture in the parking lot. I wondered, 'What the hell happened here?' Each afternoon this past week, someone has approached me to ask, "Do you have any tickets?" In my mad rush to get to my car through the puddles and ever present rainshowers, I hardly stopped to answer. Instead, I would think, "Am I the only one who sees a ticket booth over there?" The other day I finally answered someone's question as I was making my way to my car. I answered the question with a question.

"Tickets to what?"

My husband filled me in: the Superbowl! He also said that he was surprised no one at the stadium harassed me for not knowing what the heck was going on. Well, lucky me!

How am I supposed to know anything about the Superbowl? I'm not a football fan, know nothing about football, and don't believe I have ever watched a Superbowl on TV. Wait a minute. I do recall when I was a teenager seeing a commercial for Budweiser that had a bunch of frogs croaking. So apparently, at one time in my life, I did turn on the TV to view the most watched sporting event in the history of the world.

My office has some kind of pool going on. It involves putting your name in a square on a grid (for the low cost of $5!) and during each half of the game- or quarter- whatever- the game's score is used as coordinates on the grid and who's ever name is in the square wins cash. I am the only person in my office not participating. The only one. Betting goes against my personal philosophy for earning passive income- Lady Luck need not be bought!

This Sunday my husband and daughter will be here, their favorite weekend spot during ski season. Though my husband is a football fan- his dad played college ball, ya know, and with an entire family from Texas, well, you can be disowned for not keeping up on the stats- skiing is just more important. Someone in my office today couldn't believe that.

What I can't believe is how crazy people around here are about football! I mean, 2 months ago I know for a fact that all the crazy people in my office building were not talking about the winning streak the Seahawks were on. Now they are sharing Superbowl Sunday 'Little Smokies' appetizer recipes, frequenting the pro shop for gear, and talking about the betting pool. Don't you people have work to do?

Sunday, I will be getting a brow wax and my nails done, then having an early dinner with one of my best girlfriends in the world. Sorry if you don't get that, internet, just as I don't get the fascination over a football game.