Tales from La La Land

It wasn’t until after I got married that anniversary’s started registering with me. In August The Hansen’s celebrated their 10th! anniversary. Seems like just yesterday that we were sitting outside enjoying Alissa walking down the aisle in a Vikings hat, when a topless woman walked by. Only in Eugene, I guess. Then we danced the night away while Amy Longeteig demanded to take charge of the music selection.

Speaking of those Longeteig’s tricks, they’ll celebrate their 7th! anniversary next month. Wasn’t it just yesterday that the crew invaded York, Maine and did things that I can not even speak of on this blog (Jerry Elmore, I’m pretty sure you have signed a confidentiality agreement, so zip it).

Yes, time does seem to fly by as you get older, so maybe those 10 years flew by. But when you think about marriage, and the day-in and day-out commitment that you’re making to another person, it’s pretty impressive to think about 10 years of highs and lows. A lot of people give up. Sometimes the low parts become overwhelming. Sometimes it’s easier to walk away than to grind it out. Sometimes, it simply just doesn’t work out despite trying.

Which brings me to my beloved parents, Bobbi and Art, who celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary yesterday. Considering my mom is a smoker, and thinks cracking the window an inch in the car equates to rolling it all the way down, this is a huge, huge accomplishment. I know for a fact that there were highs and lows because I was there. They had a mesh of kids to deal with, who all brought some kind of drama and stress. More stress than maybe we even know. They managed full-time jobs with soccer practice, football practice, lunch money, car payments, weddings, and most definitely a constant theme of “I want” or “I need”.

But, they made it through everything. And now they’re retired enjoying whatever it is that old people do when they retire (play Family Feud on Facebook?). They fight like cats and dogs, yet I think they are best friends. They are two peas in a pod who would be lost without each other. They enjoy all of the same hobbies, and therefore truly have fun together. I think they have more fun when they win money in Tahoe. Although, I think when one of them wins they hide it from the other so that they can have a super secret stash without sharing. I think super secret stashes are the key to any happy marriage. Just ask Laef.

ANYWAY, I am truly so happy for them and completely in awe of the 25-year mark.

To celebrate this event, my mom has decided to take all of the kids and the grandchildren on a cruise. Why on Earth she would subject herself to the chaos that is about to ensue to celebrate HER special milestone is beyond me. But, I can tell you this: chaos or not, we are a fun bunch to celebrate with!

Two years ago when Laef and I went to St. Louis we stayed at an Econo Lodge that overlooked the freeway and had a full-length mirror in the shower. It was a smoking room because, well because that’s all it offered. The bed was covered with one sheet – not a fitted sheet, mind you. Just one sheet strewn across the nasty-ass mattress.

Back then, we weren’t married, and we were still paying off credit cards. The fact that we were even staying at a Lodge (I liked to close my eyes and think of it as a snow lodge with walls made of the finest cedar) and not in a tent at O’Fallon Park was a big deal.

So, last week we went to St. Louis again, this time for a wedding. We were fortunate enough to have a room at the Casa Nick Dozier, so we weren’t faced with the dilemma of Econo Lodge round 2. Now, Nick’s shower doesn’t come with a full length mirror (BOO!), and the guest bed appeared to have two for real sheets on it (how classy!), but he did have a gigantic stack of Playboys in his bathroom.

I don’t think I’ve seen Laef’s eyes light up that much since I told him that I would learn how to change a flat tire. (I ordered AAA, which is basically the same thing. Shhh). When we first got to Nick’s house, we were there alone so Laef picked up 8 magazines, walked out of the bathroom and said, “I’m gonna catch up on guy stuff.”

Which was my cue to catch up girl stuff – a 2 hour nap. It was a Thursday afternoon, and normally I’d be chained to my cubicle and, Laef would be stressing about some basketball-related incident, but on this day we were looking at boobies and resting. It was the start of a perfect 4-day vacation.

Later that night, sufficiently rested and boobified, we took a cab to Busch Stadium to watch the Cardinals play. The cabbie ragged on the Cardinals the entire way to the stadium in a way that only a cabbie could rag on the home team, and by the time we got there we were half expecting the Cards to lose by14 runs.

But, this was our vacay! Laef has been talking about going to the Cardinals game for a month. So, of course they were going to win! And they did, 4-0.

On Friday we went to see Nick’s girlfriends band – Killing Vegas – play at Voo Doo lounge in the Harrah’s casino. In case you didn’t already know, girl bass players are super hot. And, Layla did not disappoint. We wandered between the lounge to watch the band, and the casino to play blackjack. I might have called the dealer an asshole once, but it was only because I double downed on an 11 and he gave me a 2. Who does that?

We strolled in at 3 a.m., which meant we didn’t get up until 11 a.m. on the wedding day. I have a completely different perspective of weddings now. Because I know how much work and thought goes into every single thing that happens before, during and after the ceremony. This couple went all out, providing a full open bar, which is very brave. And appreciated.

Also, this is what happens when you have a full bar at a wedding and are drunk by 10:30 p.m.: 7-11. Funyuns. Packaged chicken sandwich that requires microwaving. Frozen pizza. Bad news, people. Bad news. Right now as I’m typing this I am trying to understand why I did not think to get nachos. I am kind of upset that I missed my opportunity. Hopefully there will be another.

We flew home on Sunday. Back to reality. In a sad, boring house that doesn’t have Playboys.

(That I know of)

Laef and I are off to a wedding this weekend in St. Louis (don’t try to use this a way to burglarize our house, Sanch will be home and he has a babysitter coming by. Often.) so I’ve spent the past week packing. Or at least trying to organize what I will need. Eventually, I just threw everything I own into the suitcase, figuring it’d be easier to have options.

One thing missing, however, was a dress for the wedding. I own approximately 5 dresses. 4 are black, and one looks like this:

So, yeah, I’m not wearing the fuchsia pink bachelorette party dress to a fall wedding in Missouri. While I was trying on the different options, I decided I’d work around my fierce 5-inch black heels. Sometimes shoes make your forget that your dress is old. At this point, Laef walked into the bedroom and basically bitch-slapped the shoes right off my feet.

Laef: “NO FUCKING WAY ARE YOU WEARING THOSE!”

Me: “Um. Yes, I am. They make me look almost as tall as you.”

Laef: “No. You are going to get hurt.”

Me: “Beauty is pain. Besides, they make this dress look cuter.”

Laef: “You need a new dress for the wedding.”

Me: “Really?!”

So, apparently it is really important to Laef that I don’t break my ankle during our trip. Truthfully, I was having some concerns as well, but figured I’d have to get used to them at some point.

Anyway, last night I went dress shopping. I was by myself, enjoying some quality alone time (QAT). You don’t get a lot of QAT when you’re married, and sometimes you just want to wander around Nordstrom for three hours by yourself. I must have tried on no fewer than 30 dresses. I went in with an open mind, refusing to try on a single black dress. I tried on things that I normally wouldn’t, thinking that maybe it has a whole new life once you zip it up.

Here is where shopping alone can be a problem. Have you ever tried to zip a tight-ass strapless dress by yourself? It’s impossible. I tried to imagine what it would look like zipped all the way up, but eventually decided I was going to have to leave the confines of the dressing room and ask the sales lady to zip me. As soon as I walked out of the room, the door slammed behind me and locked.

Fuck.

I can’t find the sales lady, so I’m wandering around Nordstrom, holding up a dress and wearing my pink and white polk-a-dot socks. (BTW, another rule of thumb when trying on dresses: always remove your socks. OF COURSE the pretty party dress looks like shit when it’s paired with holey socks!). I pretty much wanted to die and decide to ask the random lady who is shopping to zip me. This is awkward because the dress is one size too small. I mean, it zips, but I would not be able to eat or drink anything during the wedding.

But, at least now I’m fully clothed and can begin my search for the sales lady. I finally find her, she let’s me back in to the dressing room and then the process of getting out of the dress begins.

Holy. Fuck.

I was sweating. Even if you get the dress unzipped (and, btw, it should be a rule that all dress zippers are on the side so that they are somewhat reachable), there’s the process of somehow removing your dress over your head (this requires you to bend completely over and do some kind of booty dance that will make you sweat even more).

Despite the fact that I needed a Clif Shot Block to finish the process without passing out, I was committed to the process, and by the end of it I found a dress that will work. It’s not black, and it has flowers on it. I never, ever wear flowers. It does, however, have black in it, so the black “hooker shoes” (Laef’s words) could still work. So, they are in the suitcase, and we will see what happens.

When I left Nordstrom, it was almost 9 p.m. Laef was home chilling with the Sanch, probably also enjoying some QAT. About halfway down Pico Blvd., I noticed a weird noise. Then my car starting veering to the right.

I was going to try and make it all the way home, but decided to turn down a very dark street and pull over.

Flat tire.

FUUUUUUUUUUCK.

Call Laef.

He comes.

Changes the tire.

And the whole time I’m watching him, I’m thinking: QAT is pretty sweet. But, sometimes, it’s really, really nice to have someone who can change a tire in 10-minutes flat.

Or to help you zip a dress.

Kids.

I keep hearing when they’re your own, you don’t notice certain things. Maybe the poop smells like Absolut Citron. Maybe the boundless snot glistens like rare diamonds under the moon. Maybe the whining sounds like Dave Matthews Band. Maybe you don’t even hear your own child’s whining.

So, the other day, I’m in CVS thoroughly enjoying the bajillion aisles of make up, bubble bath, hair accessories, magazines and candy. I finally decide that I should get the fuck out of there before I spend $200 on purple nail polish. I end up in line behind the dude in highwaters who is buying condoms and gum. (Is he buying the gum so that he’s got something else on the conveyor belt? Or his he buying the gum because he is on his way to a date-thing, in which condoms and gum are equally necessary? No, seriously, I was analyzing it in my mind for 2 minutes). I am in front of the lady who is returning a tube of toothpaste.

Said lady is with her son, who for some odd reason has a beige rubber band around his head. I don’t know if this rubber band is affecting his mood, but he is fucking moaning and whining and bitching about standing in line. He is at least 8 years old, which in my book puts him about 5 years past being allowed to whine. He starts off by complaining that it is taking forever. His mom sooths him by telling him that they are next, right after the lady with 4,231,534 bottles of nail polish in her cart.

After realizing that the “it’s gonna take foreverrrrrr” line isn’t working, he moves to the “I have to go to the bathrooooooooooooom.” So, at this point his mom calmly says, “OK, there’s a bathroom here. Go to the back and use the bathroom.”

But he doesn’t want to use the CVS bathroom. He says he can’t, and wants to wait until they’re home to use the bathroom. At which point, I sort of start to relate to this little rubber band-wearing punk, because, really, who wants to take a shit in the CVS bathroom? I get it. So, I tell his mom to go in front of me, and she is super appreciative, and really nice. She goes in front of me, but her punk-ass son is still behind me becasue he didn’t hear the conversation – the one where I tell him to go ahead of me – over his whining. He finally realizes what’s going on and whips past me, still mouthing off.

This is what should have happened next. His mom should have pointed out the gesture, and had him say thank you.

Here is what happened next: Rubber band boy whines, and his mom says, “OK, see, she let us go in front of her, and now we will be home soon so you can go to the bathroom.” And then rubber band boy says, “I don’t have to go the bathroom. I just wanted to get out of here.”

At this point, I wonder: Does the proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child” mean that I can bitch slap this little ass hat in an effort to help him learn some fucking manners?

Sigh.

If only this season of Top Chef were one ounce as exciting as the for real final four. We are now on the home stretch with only four chefs remaining. This is when the competition should take an uber-competitive, exciting turn. Except that we’ve got Kevin, Kelly, Angelo and Ed. Personally, I wanted Tiffany in the final four and Kevin sent on his way. Tiffany’s personality was starting to grow on me, and she did provide somewhat of a spark during the competitions. Kelly, on the other hand, is a better chef, but fuckin’ A she has one expression, and one expression only. She’s a walking bottle of Xanax, flatlined at all times.

Which is exactly why Eric Ripert loved her boring-ass (albeit probably yummy) halibut dish. It was super simple, and very plain. It was an all-white plate with a tiny hint of green. Nothing made my life more than Anthony Bourdain poking fun at Ripert. They are so different in their styles and tastes, it was fun to see them have a little fun. I don’t think I’d ever want to cook for Eric Ripert. He seems so…strict. Food should be allowed to be a little fun and colorful from time to time, which is apparently why Kevin and Ed did well in Bourdain’s eyes this week.

I think it was Angelo who said, “It’s all up to subjectivity at this point.” And you could see that during judges table. You’ve got 4 different egos, who are all considered to be at the top of their culinary game (although, I am not sure what Padma’s level of skill is other than wearing a suit and tie to a Quickfire) with completely different tastes, likes and dislikes.

From my view on the couch, it seemed that all four chefs did a good job this week. Nobody embarrassed themselves. And, if Tiffany’s dish was crappy, they did a good job of leading us to believe that it was a close call.

To be honest, it was hard to even concentrate on what the judges were saying because all I saw was a face full of braces.

At this point, I’ve got to believe that Angelo’s back in the driver’s seat, and his “setback” was only to keep things interesting. I can’t decide if it will be Kelly or Ed next to him in the final. My gut says Kelly.

The sad thing is, I could give two shits as to who wins. I definitely don’t want Kevin to win, but I don’t care who wins. None of these people has grown on me in any way. Ed admitted to Facebook stalking the guest judge, and his creepy, “Nice to meet you”, just continued his string of awkward, icky behavior. Kelly seems like she has a nice life, with a nice sommelier husband, with a nice house in a nice neighborhood and a sweet dog. Boring. She should get a tattoo or something. Angelo is a weird-ass dude. As more details of his life trickle out, the more I think “Whatever! Fine, he’s the best chef, hurry up and let him win so I no longer have to see him every week!” Kevin wants to be there more than anyone else because he’s still trying to make a name for himself. Whatever. PPYKAG.