Next Time we try Ghiradelli Squares

I could write a post every Saturday morning and it would say essentially the same thing every single time: how wonderful Saturday mornings are, how especially lovely this particular one was, all the ways in which I loved that one of my roommates works on the weekends and the other has a penchant for sleeping until noon. Of all the things I enjoy about my roommates, those qualities are at the top of the list.

On this particular Saturday, I'm a bit sore after a killer workout yesterday. I say 'killer work-out' but all that really means is that I ventured beyond the elliptical machine in a rare but painful foray into the world of shoulder presses and bicep curls.

I joined my gym back in November and I love love love it. It's situated directly on my way home from work, which gives me little excuse not to stop by for at least a brief affair with the equipment there. I was originally lured in because my apartment complex pays for more than half of the monthly fee, meaning it only costs me 20 bucks a month to torture myself. They have a ladies only section, so that I can avoid embarrassing myself in front of sweaty guys with nice arms. Granted, it also means that unless I make some serious lifestyle changes, the romantic comedy of my life probably won't start at the gym.

I was glad I pushed myself, however, because last night my friend Stacey had a bonfire at her house and not only does she make a fantastic pizza dip, but she also provided all the fixins' for gourmet s'mores. This is not your typical campfire fare, my friend. We're talking Reese's cups, caramel and chocolate, oreos (or 'smoreos...).

I'm not humble enough to pretend like it wasn't my idea- one I had previously brought to fruition myself on a camping trip with my family several years ago- and I'm happy to say that the gospel of Gourmet S'mores was well received amongst my friends. My friend Kerry took a bite and said "Oh my gosh, I think my life just changed." Actually it came out more like "Ho mgusgh, fink mlufust ed" but I'm pretty sure that's what she was getting at.

I'm off to mediate a battle between self-disciple and sloth- to work out or to not work out and instead watch episodes of Chuck online while casually reading my Rachael Ray magazines, that is the question.

Mi Madre

This is my mom:


*Hi mom!* (She loves natural pictures like this)

Today is my mom's birthday. She's turning 37 or some other attractive young age like that.

I often hear people talk about how great their mom is, how she's the best cook in the world, etc etc. And look, I think that's really sweet- and I'm sure your mom is a lovely person. But, I'm sorry; there's such a thing as objective truth, and that means not all of our moms can claim the title of greatest. If everyone's special, nobody's special, right?

And my mom? Is the best. The B-E-S-T. Do you see what I did there? I SPELLED the word 'best', so you know I mean business.

When I was in third grade, the first year we got lockers at my school, I opened up my locker one day to find a brand new bookbag with a little note pinned on, wishing me a great day. It was one of those drawstring knapsacks, made entirely of denim, with a red plaid flap that buckled over the opening- clearly there's no accounting for my taste, but I loved that thing.

When I turned 20, she threw me a surprise birthday party, and when I turned 21, she made pina coladas for us in the blender. I can't tell you how many parties she helped me host in junior high and high school- surprise parties for friends, New Year's celebrations, swim team functions, going away parties. She suffered through exploded hot dogs in the microwave, water fights, pop spilled on the keyboard (that was probably more suffering on my dad's part), and the great Christmas Cookie Scottie Dog Expedition of Infamy.

Growing up, I did everything- tee ball, soccer, gymnastics, tap, cheer-leading, ice skating, band, horseback riding, choir, piano, school plays, basketball, swimming... I don't recall ever being told I couldn't try something. She sweated through 10 years of swim meets, which has got to be the most boring sport in the world, and even went so far as to interest herself in the whole thing, supporting me and my entire team- not to mention feeding us. She quizzed me for spelling bees, ran lines with me, drove me to morning practice at 5am, and she's the reason I was able to go to college.

She's my shopping buddy, my confidant, my number one fan and who I hope to be as a wife and mother. Quite simply put, she is the best with all capital letters and spelled out backward and forwards at least three times.


So happy 37th birthday, Mom! Thanks for being the B-E-S-T-T-S-E-B-B..... oh, you know what I mean.

Hello, Good-Bye

I figured now that we're a solid two weeks into 2010, it would be a good time to recap 2009.

At the beginning of last year, I sat down and made the most realistic list of goals I've ever done. And by the grace of God (and in certain cases, the federal government), I was able to accomplish a good portion of them.

Successes: I paid off my car (thank you, Obama), put a good amount of money in savings (thank you, Christmas bonus), became a more consistent blogger, read a good amount, learned to produce a live radio show, began teaching Religious Ed classes at church, worked out regularly, picked up a 'little' through the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, expanded my cooking horizons, and found a hairdresser I can tolerate reasonably well.

Fails: I didn't read a single book on my specific reading list, I still can't knit a scarf, I only watched a handful of the entire collection of Hugh Grant movies that I had committed to, and I never did run a 5K (though that one's up for debate).

Favorite book: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (say that three times fast... just say it three times, period. You'll be here until tomorrow)

Favorite movie: The Blind Side

Favorite new TV show: Glee

Favorite new food: black beans. Soup, hummus, chili, burritos... I'm obsessed

Best memory: Surprising my mom (and most of the rest of my family) on my birthday

Most embarrassing moment: While this category has so many contenders I feel like it deserves its own post, for the sake of my dignity, I'll highlight just one and choose the time I realized 15 minutes into Mass that my dress was unzipped halfway in the back. And that my boss and his entire family were sitting two rows behind me. Yay.

I rang in the year in Sterling Heights with Hannah and I rang it out (is that a thing?) in Orlando with Sarah and roughly 4,000 other Catholics. In between, I attended four beautiful weddings, moved into a new apartment with my lovely roommates, was visited by six wonderful friends, traveled to Minneapolis, Hillsdale, Monroe, Charleston, Savannah, Atlanta and Orlando. I was blessed with a whole passel of fabulous new friends, and welcomed my precious godson into the world. I got my first filling, but didn't break any bones.

So yay, 2009. 365 wonderful more days God blessed me with. Maybe in 2010 I'll finally legitimize that 5k.

It's Like Seven Steps to Kevin Bacon Except With Stress and Television Shows

Everybody reacts to stress differently. Some people get ulcers, others canker sores- I once knew a girl who dealt with crippling anxiety by ripping all her eyelashes out. I'll give you a minute here to thank God that's not your coping mechanism.

For me, it's my eyelids- they twitch. You can't see it unless you're close enough to count my pores, but it's pretty creepy-looking and feels even weirder. Not my favorite.

Due to all my exhausting vacation-ing recently (and perhaps a few other, actually stressful, factors), the twitch has been non-stop lately and after a marathon cleaning session on Friday night, all I've wanted to do all weekend is lie in the fetal position watching television online. It's not... the only... thing I've done, but I would say it has taken a certain precedence the past few days. Hey, I'm still recovering from four blissful days at a world-class resort in sunny Florida, okay? Don't judge.

I did venture out on Saturday for a brief post-Christmas shopping trip with V, where we ravaged the Borders going-out-of-business sale, and I picked up a shirt for the Brad Paisley concert in March, to go with my kickin' new cowboy boots. (One day, the words 'cowboy boots' there will link to a yet-to-be-written post, most likely in haiku form, about my favorite new Western possession)

I also hosted the shortest Christmas party ever, whose brevity was due in large part to my sick roommate. She's got the laryngitis, m'am, and because she's a teacher, she's doing everything possible to preserve her voice for the classroom. Which has made things kind of hilarious, mostly because I keep forgetting that I still have the power of speech. She'll write down on a notecard "what are you making for dinner?" and I'm sitting there thinking "hmm, how can I pantomime 'chili'?" And she's sitting there thinking "I can't believe my roommate is such an idiot". She doesn't say it, of course, but only because she can't.

Anyway, did I have a point here somewhere? Oh yes- fetal position, online television. I won't go on about my deep and undying love for Jimmy Fallon, his twelve days of Christmas sweaters, or the fact that he plays beer pong on late-night with his guests. I'll save you from excessive talk about how adorable he looks in a suit, like an eight-year-old dressed up for a wedding, or how he cutely referred to Taylor Swift as 'Swifty' for an entire segment. You won't find me blathering on about how endearing he was in his first episode, where Robert DeNiro made some of the most awkward late-night television known to man or beast. No siree, not here.

Sidenote: Future husband, if you're out there? Take me to see a Jimmy Fallon show someday. There is nothing I would love more. On second thought, maybe don't. That could spell trouble for our marriage. Might be better to go to the Stars on Ice route. Look, we'll talk about it later.

So INSTEAD of talking on and on about Jimmy, an endeavor in which I have clearly already failed, let me introduce you to Better Off Ted. While Glee won the spot for my new favorite show of 2009, it's a new year and with it comes a fresh comedic slate. Especially since Glee is on hold for American Idol until April. Damn you, Ryan Seacrest.

Better Off Ted has taken the lead for best sitcom by a long shot, and not just because we're only less than two weeks into 2010. It's a cross between The Office and Arrested Development, with a touch of Scrubs bromance via the partnership of the show's two scientists, Phil and Lem. I'm terrible at describing things, so I promise you your time is better spent checking out a few minutes on hulu. Consider it a belated Christmas gift, from me to you.

Sweet, Sweet Togetherness

Hello, Weekend.

How are you, old friend? I've missed you. How long has it been, anyway? Gosh, I don't think we've spent any quality time together since- my goodness, November? Mmmm how sweet this reunion will be.

Lest you feel sorry for me, the reason the past month or two have been void of 'weekends' for me is because I've been traveling and spending time with friends and family- rough life, I know. There was Thanksgiving with my family, an extended weekend in Savannah with my brothers and Meg, then home to Monroe for a pre-Christmas celebration, followed Christmas with the Jagos, and finally New Year's in sunny-but-stupid-cold Orlando.

Coming back to reality calls to mind the mornings when my dad would get me out of bed at 6 in the morning by pouring cold water on my face. That's right, feel free to call Child Protection Services. It's an outrage.

But seriously, working five days a week? What is this?

Despite this crazy 40-hour workweek thing, 2010 already holds some fantastically bright spots. For instance: They've made Little House on the Prairie into a musical. The crazy thing is, I had just been joking about the possibility with a friend a couple nights ago, in the context of "super awesome things that could happen to me". Not only does it exist, but it's playing in Raleigh the very weekend I'm going to be there for work. I'm taking that as a sign.

And I think in preparation, the weekend and I should pass the time by re-reading the entire Laura Ingalls Wilder series.

What It's Like Having Older Brothers

They're charming, really.

Adventues in Anxiety: Part 2

I can't imagine any words I wanted to hear less coming from the cockpit this morning than these: "Well, folks, we've got a bit of bad news for you. We've got an indicator that our left engine is going bad... now, we think it's just a faulty indicator, and that the engine is fine, but in the interest of safety, we're going to land in Knoxville to check it out!" This was of course followed by an assurance that everything was FINE and there was no reason to worry. Clearly.

These are the scenarios I make up in my head that cause the weeping and the drinking and the praying and the more drinking- and there it was, unfolding in front of me in real-life. All I could think of was officials reviewing the black box tapes later and the subsequent newspaper articles- "The first indication that something was wrong came around 11:42 am when Captian Mike Jones alerted passengers that there was some possible engine trouble, though there was no need for worry... he was so, so wrong."

But there were no tragedies for me today save the two teenagers making out in the seat next to me. They parked us at Knoxville for a couple of nail-biting hours, and the kind people at Northwest gave us all food vouchers to tide us over the lunch hour, apologizing profusely while handing them out- which, I get it, they're concerned about customer service, but in this kind of situation, it's not some scheduling error causing a delay, it's an effort to keep us from dying. And while I appreciate a free Quizno's sub, I am really really okay with the sitatuion at hand.

Note to any and all professionals who may ever provide me any type of service during my future here on earth: Don't ever, ever, EVER apologize for doing things that end in me being more or less alive as opposed to dead. I actually appreciate these efforts a great deal. I would rather spend 2 hours reading in the airport than bursting into flames somewhere over the Smoky Mountains.

So I made it to balmy 70 degrees Grenville (so THIS is why I moved to South Carolina), but not without a few gray hairs. The best part about flying out of Greenville is that the airport is lovely and small and approximately three planes a day fly out of there, meaning there is virtually no wait time for anything. But the worst part is that I always end up on these tiny planes that are barely bigger than my parents' old Grand Marquis, and you can feel every tiny bump riding in one of those flying Mini Coopers. There's none of the smooth, graceful takeoffs and landings like you get with the behemoth planes; instead it feels like you're bouncing down a gravel road on the side of a mountain with brakes that have just gone out. It is an experience that does not exactly instill one with confidence. Or happiness. Or the desire to ever patronize an airline company again.

On a much, much, MUCH happier note, here's my whole, wonderful family at our fake Christmas this past weekend:

And here is a pictorial testament to my brothers' nerdiness- their idea of a family portrait:

A little piece of my shoe-shopping self dies every time something like this happens. (And yes, there are five of us under there, and yes that is a John Deere book on the far left. Hey, like your family is normal??)

Near-death (in my mind, anyway) experiences and extreme nerdiness aside, it was one of the best Christmases in my memory, even if it was on the short side. The newfallen snow I spied on the front lawn upon waking "Christmas" morning was literally icing on the cake... if our earth was filled with German Chocolate and snow was butter cream frosting.

Obviously I made it alive or you wouldn't be reading this post

I write this from 26,000 feet in the air- on wordpad, of course, not the internet. I would never try to connect to the world wide web while on a plane- ever since seeing Soul Plane (not this century's greatest cinematic achievement, I know), I'm terrified of accidentally leaving my cell phone on when traveling the friendly skies and it causing the plane to explode mid-flight.

I am not what they in the industry would call 'a good flier'. I used to be a good flier- a great one in fact. I loved flying. I will never forget landing in Seoul when I flew to Korea seven years ago, after the longest. flying. experience. ever. Six-hour drive to Chicago. Couple hours sleep at the bro's apartment. One-hour drive to the airport. Four-hour flight to San Francisco. Five-hour layover /delay there. Twelve-hour flight to Korea, touching down almost 40 hours after I'd left Monroe. (and that wasn't even the end- the hold-up in Cali caused us to miss the last flight out to Pusan, and we had to spend the night in a hotel before making the one-hour trip the next morning.)

Anyway, when we finally landed in Seoul, on a clear, crisp night in November, I remember thinking "Holy wow. I'm in a DIFFERENT COUNTRY. I got on this plane in Michelle Tanner's hometown and I'm about to get off in South Korea". I was literally on the other side of the world, and the idea that a plane could do that- transport me across the planet in the span of half a day- was nothing short of magical.

But those days are long gone. As I've mentioned before, I seem to become more like my mother more with each passing day, and now I am a nervous flier . Statistics mean nothing to me, because unless you have a 100% success rate, there is always a chance that something can go wrong. Nobody gets on a plane thinking they're going to crash. It's ALWAYS A possibility.

The kicker is, I love everything about flying, except the actual in-the-air part. I love luggage and gift shops and reading a book in the waiting area and strangers in the seat next to me.

I've been particularly anxious about this flight, and by the time I was seated in row five, I was bent over in my seat, crying because it was the only thing that could release the tension. So I cried and I prayed and cried and prayed and when the flight attendant announced that they were beginning their in-flight service with adult beverages available for only $7.00, my tears came to an abrupt end.

Now, I am not one to spend seven dollars on anything (the last thing I purchased for that amount was a skirt from J. Crew, if that gives you any idea of my price threshold) but I'd just received my Christmas bonus earlier in the day and I figured if my plane was going to fall out of the sky and send me to the Happy Hunting Ground in the Sky (or in my case, the Happy Shopping Mall in the Sky) I figured the most authentically Catholic way for me to go out would be with a prayer on my lips and booze in my veins.

I drank that glass of wine like it was about to go bad, and by the time the flight attendant came back up the aisle after finishing her service (um. there were maybe ten rows behind me), I was already ready with my trash.

So I'm feeling pretty woozy, especially since I declined the complimentary pretzels, and the only thing I've eaten today was sushi for lunch, which I'm starting to regret, but at least if my plane crashes in a fiery explosion, my final thoughts will be recorded for all the world to enjoy.

On the bright side, now I can focus on the waves of nausea washing through my body instead of the crippling anxiety. God bless Cabernet.

Therapy

In regards to the last post about my heartbreak over Cute Mass Guy- which, frankly, I am still not over- my roommate offered the suggestion that perhaps it was a chastity ring causing all this trouble in our non-relationship. To which I say, if there is one way to ensure your "chastity" remains intact forever, it is to adorn your left ring finger with some solid gold bling. Moving on.

My job is strange. Some days I produce a radio show done entirely in Spanish, a language in which I'm not entirely confident I can even say 'hello'. Other days I spend an entire morning carefully removing incorrect address labels from already-stamped envelopes so that new, (hopfeully) correct labels can be applied. Today- well, today I said the word 'jackass' on a internationally broadcast radio show. I was quoting Martin Luther, but still. My job is strange.

Every once in a while I check out Post Secret, but honestly, I get bored quickly. My life is not that dramatic. I just know that if I were ever to submit one, it would be like "Sometimes I drive with both feet on the pedals because I'm too lazy to move my right foot between the gas and the brakes". Sorry, Dad.

Last night, I was helping with the 7th-graders at Religious Ed since their regular teacher couldn't make it last-minute. Since I was going off the fly, we did some trivia and I told them about Our Lady of Guadalupe, whose feast day is this weekend.

Two observations: First, half of the class didn't know what three gifts the wise men brought to baby Jesus. And I don't mean they faltered momentarily over the pronunciation of frankincense (like I just faltered not-so-momentarily over its spelling). I mean they stared at me with dead eyes and a gaping mouth. Sad. Secondly, the only kid who had even heard of Our Lady of Guadalupe was the single Mexican boy. Oh how I love when people fulfill their stereotypes.

I was reminded of this over Thanksgiving when my brother's Canadian girlfriend told me she was on a curling team in high school. You. were. NOT. I think she was a smidge alarmed at my glee, but I can't help it. It just tickles me down to my very toes when I see two cops eating donuts in a coffeeshop. Makes me want to go shoe shopping and dance in formation with 40 other white people. Just for the sake of the stereotype, of course.

Heartbreak

There is a man in my life that I call Cute Mass Guy. I call him this because I don't know his real name. Because we've never actually met. (This is the part where you shake your head and say "Oh, Karen...")

I noticed Cute Mass Guy one of the first times I went to mass at St. Mary's in Greenville. Week after week he was there at the same mass as me. There aren't many singles at church, so he stuck out. For the past year and a half, he has almost always been at the 11 o clock mass when I'm there, and he is ALWAYS alone. Every. Single. Time. (Take note of this; it will be important later) He usually sits within one or two pews of me; a couple times we've sat in the same pew.

I've mentioned CMG to my friends, because, what else would we have to talk about? Really. But none of them have ever actually seen him with their own eyes.

WELL. Yesterday was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (happy Catholic birthday to me!) and I hit mass last night with a few of my closest. Just as I was sitting down, I noticed CMG take a seat directly in front of us, at which point I started freaking out and waving my hands to Stacey and V sitting next to me, trying to indicate with wild hand motions that THIS! WAS! CUTE MASS GUY! RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Luckily they are both well-versed in the Crazy that is Karen and immediately understood.

So I sat through Mass, happily staring at CMG's broad shoulders, and feeling pleased that I'd finally proved he was a real person and not a figment of my imagination. And then something terrible happened.

We got up for communion, CMG turned around, and I saw it. A WEDDING RING.

WHAT? WHAT?!?!?!?! A feeling of adulterous horror settled into the pit of my stomach as I craned my neck to see if maybe it was just a class ring worn on the very WRONG finger, but unless his alma mater is in the habit of issuing plain gold bands to their graduates, I'm out of luck.

Oh Cute Mass Guy, where is your wife? Yeah, yeah, maybe she's not Catholic, but neither is my mom, and I promise you that she's been to church with my dad at least ONCE in 2009. Also, HOW did I miss that tell-tale sign? Since graduating college, I like to think I have perfected the art of ring-spotting: that is, the ability to identify a wedding band on any man between the ages of 18 and 35 within a 50-foot radius. How could my ring radar fail me in such a crucial endeavor?

Sigh. I need to go to the mall, drown my sorrows in an Auntie Anne's pretzel and hone my skills. Clearly. If you need me, you know where to find me.

Blue Bell Tastes "Just Like the Good 'ol Days"

Thanksgiving 2009 was a holiday that Must be Blogged About, but it will have to wait for now. At the moment, there are more pressing matters.

Today, I hopped over to the Nielsen homestead for a quick panini lunch. Alycia does, true to her word, make a mean panini, but the deliciousness of the grilled sandwich was quickly overshadowed by dessert:

Blue Bell White Chocolate Almond Ice Cream

Ahhhhh.

I'm pretty sure Blue Bell can only be found in the south, so for all you saps in the north: too damn bad, as they say. Sorry, sorry, that lacked compassion: It is sad for all you Yankees. Enjoy your many liberties. I'll enjoy another bowl of Blue Bell.

I should produce commercials.

Clearly this delicious post-dinner treat is causing me to lose it a little.

Seriously, though, about this ice cream- it's soooooooo good. And when i went to the website today to check it out, I discovered it's a seasonal flavor so you can bet your patootie I'll be celebrating Advent like it's 1 BC by eating my body weight in creamy white chocolate deliciousness.

Speaking of which, Happy Advent, y'all!

Guess what? I'm FULL

Can you hear it? Shh. That- there, the faint whispering. That's right, it's the sound of bargain shoppers everywhere mopping up there piles of drool while they pore over the ads for this weekend. BLACK FRIDAY IS UPON US, MY FRIENDS, and like a soldier headed into battle, I am prepared for the greatest holiday of the year, just four short days away. Ahhh bliss.

I honestly don't know which I'm more excited for- Black Friday, or having my whole family here for Thanksgiving. Ah, who am I kidding, we all know the answer to that.

But I truly am excited to host my mom, dad, brothers, and Meg in my home-away-from-hometown. Except I'm not really hosting because we're actually staying at a house in the mountains, and my mom is bringing enough food to keep a ten-person family full from now until Christmas.

That's the problem with my mom and me, we're both 'hosters'. I am exactly like my mother in a frightening number of ways, including but not limited to: our penchant for sobbing at episodes of Extreme Makeover Home Edition, our love of a good bargain, and keeping snacks in our purse. I have been buying/cooking/baking like a madwoman the past few days, certain that the only thing standing in the way of lasting happiness for our family this Thanksgiving is 12 boxes of wheat thins and more varieties of cookies than Mrs. Fields has to offer.

Unfortunately, mi madre is doing the exact same thing, except to an even greater extent because she has some 30+ years experience on me. We've been firing emails back and forth for weeks with menu plans, ingredients stocked, food ideas, etc.

Luckily, I am physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared for Thanksgiving Fiesta 2009, as we pre-gamed it at Craig's last night with a ham dinner set on an air hockey table covered in a 'tablecloth' of a fitted sheet. Bachelors. Despite the somewhat, er, un-traditional setting, we had some AMAZING food and we all stuffed ourselves. Sarah, Margaret and I all came home and totally coma-d out at 10 pm.

So, my stomach is now ready for multiple varieties of banana breads, cornbread stuffing, and a liter or two of wine. Happy Thanksgiving, Internet. May your turkey be plentiful.

Playing Anthropologist

Last night, Alycia and I, both northerners by birth, played the Jane Goodall of the south, and slipped on down to the Blind Horse Saloon for their songwriters showcase concert. When Alycia emailed me about the show last week, I assumed it was going to feature a few local bands, since the tickets were FREE.

Uh, not quite- turned out to be Josh Turner, Kellie Pickler, Bucky Covington, and Joe Nichols. They were all AWESOME live and we had a blast, even though there were some 1400 people packed into a slightly oversized bar, and the tallest woman in the human race was, of course, standing directly in front of us. Get to the back, Amazon woman. You look better in me than jeans, I should get front row privileges. Trade-offs.

Some thoughts, post concert:

• I've always acknowledged that Josh Turner is attractive, but up close and personal, he is SO. CUTE. And his voice- ahhhh. It reminds me of a certain extremely tall, deep-voiced, old camp friend of mine that I used to drool over every time he sang. There's just something about a man with a baritone- I'm a total sucker.
• Kellie Pickler has some anger issues she needs to work on, I think. I realized that most/all of her songs have to do with revenge on ex-boyfriends. "Red High Heels" - about going out all skanked up to show the ex what he's missing, "Best Days of Your Life" - the 'you may have a new girlfriend now but you spent your youth with me and you can never get that back muahahaha' song, and perhaps the creepiest of all "Rocks Instead of Rice" - about crashing her ex-boyfriend's wedding and wishing she could throw rocks at them instead of the more traditional rice. On one hand, I say "PREACH, girlfriend. I feel ya." but on the other hand, maybe look into some therapy sessions, Kellie. You can afford it now.
• Am I the only one who thinks the name 'Bucky Covington' sounds like a rip-off of Billy Currington? It's like the name you would use for a really bad cover-up, like if Billy was trying to get advice from someone- "See I've got this friend, let's call him, uh, Bucky Covington. Yeah, that's right. And see, this "friend" has a huge crush on a girl..." Don't they make stars change their names all the time? Wouldn't you think Bucky would fall into this category? Also, as Alycia pointed out, with names like 'Bucky' and 'Rocky' (his twin brother- I'm not kidding), life doesn't really set you up with a lot of options. It's pretty much either car maintenance or country music. You don't meet a lot of bankers by the name of Bucky.
• Joe Nichols was just plain good. He has a normal name, he's moderately attractive but nothing to write home about, and his songs don't suggest the need for intensive counseling, so what else it there to say? Sing on, Joe, sing on.

With drinks under $5, it was all-around a great evening- the fact that we almost got involved in a brawl on the dance floor was just icing on the cake.

Blitzkrieged at Sabroso: An International Affair

Saturday morning is far and away my favorite time of the week. There is nothing like waking up a little 'late' (around 9 am) and spending the subsequent hours drinking coffee, cleaning and reading lazily. This particular Saturday morning is a gorgeous one and I feel sorry for all those who, whether by geographic placement or sleep patterns, are not getting to enjoy it as I am now.

Last night, Sarah, V and I quenched our Mexican cravings at Sabroso, which ended up being really good except for two minor, er, incidents. We got there around 8 and toward the end of the meal, they were already vacuuming around our table and putting chairs up. Um... what? This was not the Country Cafe we were dining at- it was a full-fledged Mexican restaurant... on a Friday night. Do you really shut down at 9pm?

Secondly, as we sat there post-meal, letting our food (and drinks) digest, our waiter came up and asked how we had liked our margaritas. We responded that they were quite good, and with an impish smile he said "How about some shots, eh? Shots on the casa?" We politely declined (however counter-nature it was for me to turn down free alcohol), explaining that we were sobering up for the drive home. His smile grew as he said "I have a car outside- I drive you home!"

We left very shortly after that and as we were getting into the car, I asked my companions, "Just to be clear, that guy did just try to get us drunk and take us home in his sketch-mobile, right?" They confirmed the events that had just conspired and we took off for Barnes and Noble, which apparently stays open later than the fine dining establishments of the south-of-the-border variety in this town, and soaked up the literary goodness for the remainder of the evening.

The most hilarious book I stumbled upon was Drunk, an illustrated dictionary containing some 3000 synonyms for the title term, my favorite being the classic 'blitzkrieged'. Not sure how a military term from one of the most horrific wars of our time came to describe the state of being saturated with drink, but the German in me likes it.

Wined and dined. Mostly wined

For some reason, I've been on a major Disney music kick at work lately. It's got me really craving a good Disney flick, so I may have to remedy that with a little Mulan or Hercules this weekend. Or Moulin Rouge. Really, I just want to watch copious amounts of singing and dancing. Is that so wrong? Millions of Glee viewers would say no.

Busy week. My eighth-graders are getting confirmed tonight and I know I'm going to cry. We had rehearsal for them on Tuesday night and I had a total 'mom' moment (to add to the hundreds already in my holster. If I ever write a memoir, it's going to be called "You look like a mom: My life as a twenties-something"). One of my girls is carrying up the gifts and I asked her if she was doing it alone. She replied that she wasn't, pointed to a boy in the pew behind us and said "he's taking them up with me. But I don't know him." And I found myself, as though having an out-of-body experience, reaching over and tapping on the young boy's shoulder, asking his name. "Uh, Brendan" he told me with a hint of suspicion in his voice. "Well Brendan" I said, "This is Victoria. You two are taking up the gifts together." I turned triumphantly back to Victoria, who greeted me with a look that was a mixture of horror and gratitude (he was a cutie) and it was at that moment I realized I am 45 years old.

If my mom or dad ever did that to me, and trust me, I am not short on those experiences, I would cut off all communication to them for... well a long, long time. I am so far removed from the awkwardness of 8th grade that I actually relish in embarrassing them beyond recovery. It's times like these that get me pondering life's big questions, like "Who am I?", "Why am I here?" and "When am I going to start shopping exclusively at Christopher and Banks?" Time flies, my friends.

Speaking of friends (lame segue, I know), I spent last evening with a few of my favorites at Sassafras, who has half price bottles of wine on Wednesday nights. Um. Yeah. To the good people at Sassafras, I say: THANK YOU for combining what are possibly my two favorite things in the universe besides sandwiches- wine and bargains. It is indeed a joyous time in which two such wonderful and sacred things have occasion to overlap in the ven diagram that is my life.

But seriously, Sassafras, you have my heart, even if it does take me at least three tries to spell your name correctly. We had this fantastic red zindandel (Who knew that was a thing? Certainly not the girl who frequents Green's Discount Beer and Wine) and we got the whole high-class experience, which we were totally not used to, a fact that became quite apparent when our server presented the bottle to Alycia and she was like "Uh...yeah. Looks good. Nice label."

We also shared their blue crab and pepperjack fondue nachos and a plate of fried green tomatoes. Have I ever mentioned that I love living in the south? They'll fry anything you can grow in a garden down here, and a lot of things you can't. It's a beautiful thing.

In any case, I'm pretty sure a tradition was born last night. Sassafras has a really neat atmosphere (it's in a converted church, and retains a lot of the original architecture, including stained glass windows) and I am pretty much powerless to resist the lure of a delicious $4 glass of wine and deep-fried vegetables. We will doubtless be back. Like maybe tomorrow. Like maybe tonight. Like maybe... er, gotta go.