Slice of Pink

Cocky

It's Saturday night at the high school prom and Will and I are standing at the top of the stairs in the lobby of a nice downtown hotel. We're on chaperone duty, poised between the hotel bar and the lobby, with the task of keeping high schoolers from entering the bar area and drunk bar-goers from entering the prom area.

Not much is going on and Will and I are chatting away, when Will's eyes suddenly go wide and his jaw drops to the floor. I turn to look and, I can barely believe what I am seeing, but there is a man in the bar with his penis out. He's got his belt undone, his fly unzipped, and his penis is just chillin' there next to his glass of beer.

Now, I don't know what you would do if you saw a penis out at a bar, but we were responsible for 600 teenagers and, somehow, kids + alcohol + bar + penis did not add up to equal the kind of thing that sounded like a particularly good calculation.

After a few seconds the guy put his penis away and zipped his pants back up and the problem was resolved. Temporarily. Five minutes later, he is standing up and undoing his belt again, presumably to bring his penis back to the party. I'm thinking we should tell security or something, but before I can suggest that plan, Will has entered the bar and is hovering over the guy in what Will later reports he wished would have resulted in a bigger confrontation. Maybe involving a punch, what with Will being larger and sober and all.

Instead, the conversation goes like this, except with more much graphic language and a lot of in-your-face finger pointing by Will.

Will: You better not take your cock out again.

Guy: (mumbling) I was just joking around.

Will: There are 600 16 and 17 year-olds right over there...

Guy: I didn't take my cock out over there!

Will: No, you took it out here, right in that chair.

Guy: No I didn't!

Will: Yes, you did. And then you touched that girl right there.

Guy: Well, uh--

Will: Don't do it again. If you do, it will involve the police and jail.

Guy: Okay, okay, we're cool. High five, man.

Will: Get your hand away from me. You just had it down your pants, dude.

The penis, no longer welcome at the bar, stayed put for a good ten minutes, until the guy removed his shirt, put his hand down his pants, and promptly passed out on a Sheraton sofa.

At which point, I informed security.

At which point, the guy and his penis were escorted from the hotel.

At which point, his girlfriend, laughing until this point, also had to leave.

At which point, his girlfriend became distraught because they had to leave behind the large group of wedding-goers they were partying with.

At which point I wonder which is tackier: having your penis out an upscale hotel bar or having a girlfriend who thinks that is hilarious.

Penis police on patrol, protecting prom partygoers since 2008.

Requires Memorization

My husband's order at Starbucks?

Grande iced decaf sugar-free hazelnut nonfat latte.

He's that guy.

Beat by a Girl

Although Will came in 59th out of some 425 triathletes at the triathlon he attended this weekend, he was beat by a 12-year-old girl.

Ladies, let's salute Hannah Rae Finchamp! Getting grown men to train harder and faster, one triathlon at a time.

True That

Will: Why don't you get the green dress?

Me: No, I like the black dress better. It's more classic. And more slimming.

Will: Black is not slimming. You know what's slimming?

Me: No. What?

Will: The treadmill.

My husband, always keepin' it real.

Lint-rolling

I just overheard my husband say:

There is cat hair ALL OVER this blanket. I swear, I'm just gonna lint-roll the cat.

Lint-roll the Cat: v. (lint-rōl) to apply a roll of adhesive paper directly onto a feline, thus removing loose hair directly from the animal and preempting the transfer of said hair to other household surfaces.

Tri Fashion

My husband wears spandex in public.

He pairs the spandex with a "muscle shirt."

Yet, despite the fact that he will squish into a teeny pair of shorts and a muscle shirt, for some reason he will not agree to wear a pink spandex suit. I just can't understand why.

Apparently, he is more of a bright, primary color kind of guy.

Blue Shirt, Blue Boxers

Because you would likely never find this out on your own, but I really think you ought to know:

My husband purposefully matches his boxers to his t-shirts.

Hot Diggity

About 10 minutes after eating a hot dog from The Hotdogger, Will announced that his stomach hurt.

I wanted to feel sorry for him, really I did, but he ordered a hot link covered in hot salsa, hot peppers, hot chili, cheese, diced onions, and tomatoes. This dog, which caused him to literally sweat, was appropriately named "The Gut Bomb."

He claims that it is the dog that "any self-respecting man would order."

27 Going on 7

Me: Hey, I ate the can of Chef Boyardee Ravioli that was in the pantry.

Will: Oh yeah? Good. I bought that for you.

Me: You bought it for me?

Will: Of course. You think I would eat that shit? I'm an adult.

Will Snaps

In a short ten minutes, my Thanksgiving break starts. Will, on the other hand, did not need to go to work at all this week. I guess teachers and counselors need longer vacations because of all the hard work they do.

On a couple of occasions, we have gone out with a group of teachers and, as I listen to them complain about all the hard work they do, I have two conflicting feelings. As a former teacher, I remember that teaching was very hard work. I remember having to stay late and grade papers and deal with some annoying kids and their more annoying parents. Teaching was hard and I complained about it. But, conflicting with this empathy is an even stronger feeling: teaching is hard, yes, but you know what is harder? Law school. Put all those teachers in law school for two months and suddenly teaching? Eh, not such a big deal after all.

Don't get me wrong, I really do think teaching is hard work. It's just not that hard. This is not to say that law school is the hardest thing on the planet, either; there are certainly things a lot harder than law school. Being a crab fisherman in Alaska, for example. Now there's a job to get drunk and complain about.

Although I'd argue that I was the one who needed the extra days off, I can say with some certainty that Will got substantially more things done than I would have. He washed a big pile of laundry. He cleaned the living room. He vacuumed the carpet. He packed for our Thanksgiving trip to Southern California. He even had time leftover to study Spanish, read a book, and take some photographs. I just loved the hydrant photo, above, and set several more of his photographs to automatically post on the Daily Snap over the next week. Most of the photos are of the trees around our apartment complex, many of which have leaves that are turning lovely colors.

Left alone for one more day, Will might have cooked up a turkey. The more I think about the situation, the more I think that some extra days of vacation for Will? Not such a bad idea after all.

A Tragedy of Mammoth Proportion

So my cell phone rings and my caller identification informs me that it is Will calling. I pick up.

"I have really bad news," he says.

I can hear a panic in his voice. Some anxiety. Some distress.

"Are you sitting down?" he asks.

I am.

"I'm across the street at the market and I have to tell you something that you are not going to like," he informs me.

Not going to like?

"The thing is," he continues, "they are completely out of peppermint ice cream and the stock boy doesn't know if they will be getting anymore in."

Bad news? Bad news? THAT'S PUTTING IT MILDLY!

Germs on Burns

I had been sitting in front of the computer for some time, trying to think of a post, when Will stopped reading a book to discuss a smallish burn on his wrist, a wound from cooking dinner three nights ago.

Will: What should I do about this burn?

Me: Nothing. It's fine.

Will: But it's totally exposed to germs!

Me: So what? It's not an open wound. No germs are getting in.

Will: It is an open wound now! The blister popped. It looks liquidy.

Me: Well, put a bandage on it.

(Will extends his arm in mock dramatics that suggest that the wound? It has made him immobilized. He cannot get up from the couch and make it to the medicine cabinet without much pain and suffering.)

Me: Oh, okay, okay. I'll get a bandage for you. Just as soon as I write this post.

Will: Oh great. I may not survive that long.

Turning into a Pumpkin

It's just a few minutes short of midnight on the third day of National Blog Posting Month and I've already almost screwed it all up. When I left the apartment this afternoon, I intended to be back by 11pm, with plenty of time to put together a post about last night's fabulous wine and cheese party, complete with photographic evidence of the many bottles of wine we consumed.

But we're an hour late arriving home. First, the movie we went to see started thirty minutes later than we thought and second, Will, who has a rental bicycle while his is getting a tune-up, was "bunny hopping" speed bumps on the ride home. This caused the chain to fall off his bike and we spent several minutes sitting on the bike path as Will reassembled his rental bike and then attempted to clean his now-greasy hands with leaves from the side of the road.

You know that blogging has consumed your life when you're sitting on a deserted bike path, in the middle of the night, with one broken bike, and a long walk home and all you can think is, damn, I'm totally not going to get that post in on time.

C is for Counselor

Some people in Davis forgot to check the weather report this morning, which means that some people had to ride their bikes home in the pouring rain. Will and I both arrived home at a little after one in the afternoon and we were both fully soaked from our respective fifteen minute bike rides. After changing out of our wet clothes, we made some soup and then took a nap--the perfect way to spend a rainy afternoon, if you ask me.

There's something wildly disappointing about this particular rainy afternoon, however, bike ride aside. You see, this afternoon was supposed to be the local high school's homecoming parade. It is the only high school in town so this parade was not going to be around the high school track or across the football stadium--this parade was going to run straight through downtown Davis.

Will, being a counselor at the high school, was supposed to be in this parade through downtown. The ladies in the counseling department came up with the cute idea of using Cookie Monster and "C is for Counselor" as the main theme for their parade entry. They even made giant cookie costumes.

I packed my camera this morning to capture Will riding his bike through Davis wearing a bright blue shirt and a giant cardboard chocolate chip cookie, but, I am sorry to report, the parade was cancelled due to rain.

I don't believe that Will shares my disappointment.

One Score and 12 Years Ago

Thirty-two looks pretty good, if you ask me. Happy Birthday to You, Will!

Anniversary Number Four

While packing up the kitchen a few days ago, Will found a dried out wishbone, something that we had apparently set on top of a piece of wall art to dry and forgot completely about.

He held out one end to me and told me to make a wish, playing the old traditional game which says that the person who breaks off the larger part of the bone gets their wish granted.

I made a wish and reached for the bone, but then recoiled. I had some questions. Mainly, I wanted to know whether it would affect my wish negatively if I received the short end of the bone. I didn't want to make a wish that was too important and end up causing adverse results in the event I lost.

I voiced my concerns to Will, who told me not to worry. My wish would come true if I broke off the larger piece, he told me, but there would be no unfavorable results if I pulled the short end, and to go on and make the wish and whatever I wished for he was sure would come true anyway. I asked how he knew, since he didn't know what my wish was, and he said he just did.

I pulled the larger piece. You know that you can't share wishes out loud or they will not come true, but since Will lost, I asked what he wished for. He said he simply wished that my wish, whatever it was, would come true.

Somebody who will blindly wish for the thing you want most. That is love. And that sums up why I married Will and love him at least twice as much four years later.

Happy Anniversary!

The Baby Name Game

A lot of our friends have had babies lately. In fact, we know at least eight babies under the age of one and a dozen or so more in the one to five range.

On a recent car ride, I was quizzing Will on all the new baby names. I would name the couple and Will would try to remember the baby's name. It went like this, with names changed to protect the crazy new parents. He did get a few right. Like your kid. He definitely got your kid's name right.

Me: Okay, the Johnson's new baby.
Will: Ummmm. Give me a hint.
Me: Okay, starts with a D.
Will: Ummmm. Daniel? David? Derek?
Me: Well, how about the Smith's new baby?
Will: Yeah. Ummmm. Starts with a G....?
Me: Oh God. The Taylor baby?
Will: They had their baby?!

Finally,

Will: Hey! I know Rachel's baby's name! Emma!
Me: What? Who is Rachel? Who is Emma?
Will: You know, Rachel. From Friends.

Maybe we need to spend more time with our friends and less time watching our Friends DVDs at midnight.

Taking a Hike

During my final quarter at UCSB, the quarter when I was completing my undergraduate honors thesis, I commuted two hours each way to Santa Barbara twice a week to meet with my professor. I had been offered a job in my hometown and it required starting in January, before the completion of my degree, so I worked three days a week and made the long commute to college the other two. Every week I would check out books on tape from the meager selection at my local library to make the commute time worthwhile.

One night--I remember this clearly--I was driving back home, down Highway 101, listening to Dr. Phil on tape. He was discussing living by design--that is, taking accountability for your life, deciding what you want, and then making it happen. Dr. Phil was taped while talking to a live audience and he asked the audience this question: "How many of you live in the town you grew up in?" By the sound of his voice I could tell that a majority of the audience had raised their hands. "What if," he asked then, "your town really sucks?"

Something about that line really stuck with me. I had just moved back home after living in two amazing cities--Santa Barbara and Washington, DC--and compared to those two place, my hometown did really suck. For me. I receive a lot of flak for wanting to move out of my hometown in the Antelope Valley--even more so now that I am actually starting to pack up my crap--and even though I definitely don't feel obligated to explain my reasons for moving, I am going to do it anyway. This is mainly for the people who can't understand why we would move, the people who think we are snobby and vainglorious, and the people who think we are AV haters. Which we are, but only because we have different values. Not better, just different.

After the jump, some of the reasons we are moving away and some of the reasons we probably won't move back.

On Getting Gossip

"Will, did you know that Jose has a new girlfriend?"

"Yeah, I heard."

"WHAT!? You knew! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just found out."

"When?"

"Not long ago at all. Sometime last week, I think."

Turtle Power

After all these years, I still have to look at the keyboard when I type because I do not put my fingers in all the right places on the keyboard and only vaguely know the location of the keys. I can only type three things really fast, without error: sliceofpink, Janet Wallace, and the password to my email. I am worried that this is going to be a problem when I get to law school.

Perhaps more blogging is the answer! And makbe I shoulf try typing here wothout lookong at the ksyboard! Think how awesome my posts will be!

This weekend we volunteered at The Painted Turtle Camp, a camp for seriously ill children. We spent the day getting the camp ready for the campers, which mainly involved cleaning and organizing. Our group was responsible for the arts and crafts room and my husband about died in sheer joy when he was assigned the task of cleaning and organizing an entire arts and crafts shelving unit. With permission to throw out things! And to reorder the entire Painted Turtle crafting system! Dream job!

All those turtles behind us are going to campers this summer and all I can say is thank goodness I wasn't in the group that has to sew all those little guys. My sewing is worse than my typing, and we all know hof that goes.

On the Count of Three...

The photos from our third anniversary are here, minus photos from the kayak adventure because it is not a good idea to take a camera on a kayak out into the ocean even if you are going to see the cutest ever sea lions and lots of starfish and some very large pelicans (don't think I didn't try). Also minus pictures from the art museum because art museums are sometimes very snobby about cameras. Also minus photos from Fiesta because, well, because we forgot to take any.

Mostly everything else is accounted for. Everything appropriate, that is.

Phew!

Today is the third anniversary of the day I agreed to spend the rest of my life with one man and all of his dirty laundry.

I'm glad I chose well. All the laundry is certainly worth it, especially since he does half of it. At least.

All I Wanna Do

Last night, while surfing the Internet, Will found and printed a 6-page travel itinerary for a weekend in Los Angeles. The itinerary, all four days of it, centers around sports events including the Manhattan Beach Open, Dodgers vs. Giants baseball, and the JP Morgan Chase Open. ESPN proposed this weekend and I am sure men everywhere are bouncing around their apartments reading all 6 pages of the itinerary aloud to their wives and repeatedly asking, "doesn't that sound so fun?"

Uh-huh.

I tuned out at paragraph two. Blah, blah, blah, Dodger Stadium, U.S. Open, blah, blah, Lindsay Davenport, SportsCenter, blah.

But then? But then, I heard the words Beverly Hills Hotel come out of my darling husband's mouth. And, then, Pinks, the famous Hollywood Hot Dog Stand was mentioned. And I was pretty sure I heard Will mention the words famous pecan waffles.

I was definitely intrigued, but I played it cool.

After Will left for work, I took a closer look at the trip and found it chock full of great Los Angeles restaurants and even a stop at the Getty and a little bit of shopping in Beverly Hills (of course, they suggest you shop at Niketown where Kobe Bryant launched the Nike Air Zoom, whatever that is).

Suddenly I am feeling so generous and unselfish about this trip. Yes, I really think we ought to go. For my husband, of course. That's how sweet I really can be.

15-Love

On June 1, 2006 I wrote these exact words: We use only one credit card, an American Express, which is paid off in full at the end of the month. Supposedly we earn points for free gifts by using the American Express although I have yet to see anything in the way of a free gift or even a catalog from which to choose said free gifts.

Not a week later, a $179 Wilson nSix-One Tour Tennis Racquet arrived in our mailbox from American Express. I do not think that I need to point out that I was not the one to redeem 23,000 points for a racquet that arrived without strings. I know for a fact that you can purchase a tennis racquet with strings at Target for $24.99, but what do I really know?

The good news is: the next American Express gift is mine! All mine! ALL MINE! I might choose a $250 Bloomingdale's Gift Card, which happens to require nearly the same points the tennis racquet.

The bad new is: it's gonna take me, like, six years to add up the next 25,000 points. I betta get spending on that ol' AMEX. Speaking of which, I updated the Money Madness with the weekend spending and moved the most recent entry to the top so y'all don't have to, you know, scroll. You'll see that I'm still well under a grand, so I am doing super-fabulous, except that, at this rate, I'll never get that Bloomie's money.

Who is this Man I Married?

"Hey, don't you want to try that new Chocolate Covered Strawberry Pie at Marie Callenders?

"I don't really like chocolate with strawberries."

"WHAT? Clearly, I do not know you anymore."

This Post is Long and Needy

One of the main differences between my family and Will’s family is directly related to the planning of family functions.

My family plans all family functions three weeks in advance. The big holidays require at least two months of arrangement time. There are weekend trips that have been planned for a year, including the hotel and restaurant reservations. We have Labor Day weekend booked in Santa Barbara through 2015. We necessitate this much time for important decisions to be made: dates, times, locations, who is responsible for bringing the dip, who is responsible for buying the margarita mix. There are emails and phone calls and, sometimes, functions to plan functions. The downside to this fanatical planning is that there’s really no getting out of a party that has been planned for two millennia.

Will’s family, on the other hand, plans most family functions on two hours notice. They will call you at 11am for a family barbeque that will be taking place at 1pm that very same day. Spontaneity is a fabulous thing, but for a girl who comes from a family where spontaneous means a last minute decision to bring apple martinis rather than the cosmopolitans you signed up for in the organizational email, spontaneity tends to be a difficult creature.

Will has many good qualities for which I will certainly keep him, but, I swear, he could not get six people to the same restaurant on the same day at the same time, even if his life depended on it. It’s a good thing his life does not depend on it. We are still in formal training phase of Planning 101.

In no way do I mean to disparage a family’s organizational processes and, in fact, it is sometimes superior to embrace a lackadaisical approach to life, but had better planning been executed, I would be at a party right now.

Yep. Instead, I am at home. Listening to Journey.

(Never mind that I just watched a movie, drank a watermelon martini and watched a friend blow $880 on blackjack. That’s not nearly as depressing, which is totally what I am going for here.)

The good news is that you get an overdue post, albeit a needy and disappointing one. I have all the time in the world because I am not at a party! Look! I am at home! Lucky you!

So, here’s a dilemma. One of my students has a clothing company. He designs and silk-screens t-shirts and tank tops and whatnot. The kids all over campus are wearing this kid’s stuff and I bought two tops to support his business. Twice last week I went to put on one of the tops (a rare pink edition shirt!) and decided against wearing it to school. Why, you ask? The brand is “Dirty Pony” which is emblazoned right across my chest. The student swears it does not mean anything bad, it’s just a logo he came up with and he is in the top 3% of the Senior class, but I don’t know. Dirty Pony. Doesn’t it just sound, um, dirty?

While we’re chatting (or, technically, while I am rambling and you are listening patiently—what a good friend you are), does anyone else get a horrible pain in their ear while flying? I have a super high sensitivity to elevation change and I can’t even go to the bottom of a 4-foot pool without my ears feeling like they are going to pop from all the pressure. I’m flying on Tuesday and need some advice, if anyone has any. I’ve tried chewing gum; I’ve tried EarPlanes; I yawn repeatedly. Nothing seems to control the feeling that a knife is stabbing through my ear into my brain which sure makes flying a lovely experience. Suggestions?

Also, how fabulous is Sarah Jessica Parker?

Let's Go Crazy

Something I just now found out about my husband:

In 1984 he saved $25 to go to a Prince concert but his mom would not let him go because it was a school night. He was 8 years old. He is still bitter about this.

All This Means is More Laundry

About three weeks ago, when Will started coaching varsity baseball, he started to receive loads of free apparel and accessories. Every day he comes home with a new item—sunglasses, warm-up pants, pullovers, shirts, hats, bags, shorts, sweatshirts. Some of it is the typical high school garb, but some of it is name brand, top of the line stuff provided by generous, high-end baseball gear companies.

In addition to baseball, Will has also been coaching a club volleyball team and he has been receiving lots of free clothing from that gig as well.

As his closet fills up with free, quality merchandise, I am beginning to wonder: what the hell hobby can I do that would provide me with some free, designer clothing?

(Anybody who mentions me selling Cookie Lee will be on probation for six weeks. I can’t take that crap.)

McGreasy

So, Will totally forgot to make the coffee this morning and I was all, "Whaaaaaat? No Coffee?"

And, instead of either a) being late and making up some coffee or b) apologizing profusely for the no coffee situation, Will just said, "Nope, no coffee. I forgot."

And so I got all (admittedly) overly cranky about the no coffee business because hello? I NEEEEED THE COFFEEEEEEE.

And so Will said that I should take the coffee pot to my classroom and I said that fine, I would (except I totally won't because I don't even know how to work the thing and also, the waffle iron in the classroom plan was a total disaster).

Due in part to the no coffee situation (and also due to the no self-control situation), this is what I have eaten, even though today was the day I was going to start "eating right":

Baggie of fiber cereal (very good start, very good)

and then it all went to hell:

1 small bag Cool Ranch Doritos
5 pieces popcorn chicken
3 curly fries dipped in ranch
1 chicken rice bowl (my intended lunch)
10 bazillion Hershey Kisses
2 cupcakes (pink frosting) from Jennifer
5 pretzels
Pepsi

This is actually worse than usual, except for Sunday when we drove a van of kids to Northridge and ate at McDonalds and In-n-Out and had nachos and Reese's Pieces from a food stand all in the same day. Miraculously, I did not puke although I still may, two days later, from the gross overdose of cheese and grease.

Oh well. Tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully a new day that starts with a cup of coffee and does not end with macaroni and cheese, which is what I am currently thinking sounds good for dinner.

My Fabulous Valentine

Did I mention that for Valentine's Day, Mr. SoPink gave me a fabulous Storypeople print and book?

I discovered Storypeople in an artsy shop in Santa Barbara last year and fell immediately head over heels in love with the fanciful stories and charming illustrations of Brian Andreas.

This one says: She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful and life was so short.

More Adventures in Laundering

Since we never carry cash, I was surprised to see that Will had a $20 bill in his wallet yesterday. I asked where he got it and he proudly announced that he had found it in the laundry. In my own sort of aha! moment, I remembered that my dad had given me a $20 bill in my birthday card and I had stuck it in my back pocket and had thrown the khakis in the laundry without remembering to remove the cash.

Clearly, it was my birthday money that Will was carrying in his wallet. I made the announcement that that was my money and I should have confiscated it then and there.

Later in the day, while at Robotics, Will took out his wallet to buy a domain name for the robotics site. I had been working on the website and wanted to name it something other than http://www.lnhs.org/clubs/robo/robotics/index.html which, hello, is a little too long for anyone to remember or locate. As Will pulled out his credit card, I noticed that my $20 bill had somehow turned into a $10 bill.

I protested and explained the situation to the robotics kids--how it was my birthday money and how I had accidentally left it in the laundry, and how it had been a $20 bill and now it was suddenly a $10 bill--when one of the girls piped in to say: Mrs. Wallace,  if you let a boy do the laundry, everything will get shrunk.

And that, my child, is only the beginning.

Locked and Loaded

"Hey Will, Tim thinks it's crazy that I give people from the internet my address and meet up with them for lunch and stuff."

"Why don't you post about my new gun?"

"What new gun?"

I stare at Will with a blank look and then it hits me....

"Ohhhh. See, the problem is, now I want to post that you want me to post about your fake gun."

"Good, you should. I like being on your blog because I say some funny shit."

Oh. Okay.

Snapshot

I'm on my way out the door to buy some volleyball equipment because Will went and bought a new digital camera today WITHOUT ME, THE PHOTO TEACHER. When I asked if the new camera had aperture priority and shutter priority, his response was basically huh?

Oh. my. god.

Love Squared

Will buying Marvelous Market Brownies. Could I be more in love?

This is Cool

Since Will went to Washington D.C. before me last week, he took the camera in his carry-on bag rather than leaving it for me to bring. Upon my arrival, two full days later, Will had taken a grand total of 6 pictures, all of them at the airport. He had walked over ten miles in those two days, viewing monuments, the White House, the Capitol building, and the Smithsonian complex and had 6 pictures. All before leaving Los Angeles.

Despite this seeming lack of interest in photographing any of the great Washington D.C. hot spots, Will took a great deal of interest in trying to capture a photograph of a Zamboni machine at the Sculpture Garden Ice Rink where we stopped to skate one night. He took nearly a dozen pictures of the Zamboni machine as it went round and round, resurfacing the ice. Because our digital camera is moody and volatile, it sometimes will not take a picture when you tell it to and will instead take the picture when it feels like it, usually long after the subject matter has moved out of the shot. Such was the case with the Zamboni.

As Will ordered the camera to take photos, and as the camera refused to take any, as Will grew increasingly frustrated with the camera, I asked what the point was of having a picture of a Zamboni, anyway?

Will just thought it was “cool.”

I present to you, because it is (apparently) cool (and because I don't know what else to do with this photo), The Zamboni:

The One Where Will Talks in Italics

Will went and had a massage today, a birthday gift from me, and he came out smelling like a big fat bush of eucalyptus (eucalyptus: bush or tree?). It was kind of a nice smell, although you could smell him from the next room and actually, when I think about it, he kind of smelled like the Italian herbs that you put on pizza. Good on pizza, maybe not so good on people.

On the way to the massage, I mentioned that we needed to get some cash for a tip and he practically fell out of the car because we already paid them $75 for the massage and you ALSO have to tip? His exact words, I think, were: I have a master’s degree and don’t make that much an hour. What the eff is up with that?

Last night, I put a frying pan into the oven to bake two pork chops stuffed with apple-almond stuffing (delicious, by the way, but not made by me). Will pulled the pan out of the oven and then a moment later, forgetting that the frying pan had been in the oven and not just on the stovetop, grabbed the handle of the pan with his bare hand to remove the chops. After the initial shock, and after placing his hand under the running faucet, Will announced, like an excited little kid: Wow, that was crazy! I felt the sympathetic branch of my autonomic nervous system kick into effect! I think we are going to need to get some Silver Sulfadiazine!

There’s that master’s degree kicking in. It may not mean more money, but by god, look at that knowledge!

As it turns out, after the massage, Will decided that he definitely wanted to tip the masseuse because: I'm probably going back and I don't want her to think I'm a cheapskate although how is $90 cheap anyway?

We'll just leave it at that, because now he's rambling about chiropractors and nerve endings and something about Arnold and USC football and I? Am no longer listening.

Happy Birthday, Baby

Happy 30th Birthday to Will!

In celebration of the number 30, I sent Will all kinds of presents that related, in some way, to the number 30. For example, on the periodic table the atomic number for zinc is 30. Zinc is found abundantly in oysters and so I had two cans of smoked oysters delivered.

The number 30 is a pyramidal number. That is, the sum of the first four squares (1+4+9+16) and so I had a pyramid of chocolate bars delivered.

I'd get more into it and tell you all the clever gifts related to 30, of which there were many, but the roman numeral for 30 is XXX and it's already 10:08pm.

Color My World

With the exception of one other man, Will is working in a department with all women. Yesterday, over dinner at El Pollo Loco, he informed me that his tie “is periwinkle.” When asked about paisley, Will decided that he would definitely know the answer if he were “given multiple choice.”

This could be good. This could be the beginning of Will’s understanding of the importance of fashion.

In Will’s world, you need a new pair of jeans once every two years and a new tie to start the school year and then you are pretty much good to go. He builds the remainder of his wardrobe out of free athletic t-shirts and Christmas gifts. Thank goodness for volleyball and Christmas or Will would still be wearing B.U.M. Equipment shirts with acid wash Guess jeans.

Before school started we went shopping for clothes. Will purchased 4 polos. And then passed out from the exhaustion of having to choose colors (he ended up choosing two gray, two blue).

But now, NOW he has moved outside the color barrier. Will has a tie that is periwinkle.

Blah Blah Blah...

Will just said this to me:

"My team, this team (holding up a hat with a “W” on it), has a better record than anyone in the National League West. San Diego, Arizona, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Colorado. Shitty San Diego is going to make it to the playoffs and my team is in last place. The stupid effing Western Division is sorry. They suck. I can’t believe this."

I can't say for sure, but I think he is talking about baseball.

There's Always Room For More

Will just looked up from a giant tub of ice cream and with a mouthful of Swiss Vanilla Almond asked, "If I ate all this tonight would you blog about it?"

You Do the Math

This is the story of a pen. Not just any pen, but a Dr. Grip pen, which is the best kind of pen you can buy at Target for under $9.99. I am fully aware that nobody wants to hear the story of a pen because pens are very boring and unimportant, but I am going to tell you the story of the pen anyway because

1. everything else I write about is boring and trivial so why try and get all significant and important now and
2. I need you to be the jury, people. This is like Court TV, only better.

We have two Dr. Grip pens—Will has a silver one, I have a purple one. Will keeps his pen neatly tucked away in the center console of his car, I keep mine on the floor under the couch or on the kitchen counter. Sometimes I keep it in the desk drawer, but usually not.

The other day, while we were driving around in Will’s car, I needed to write something down. As I opened the console, Will said something like, “The Dr. Grip is not in there. Hmmm…I WONDER what happened to it?” in a jokingly accusatory tone that suggested that I was the reason that the Dr. Grip was missing.

It does not look good when you cannot keep track of your own pen, and now the pen of the King of Organization had gone missing.

Maybe I had stolen the pen. Maybe I had stolen the pen because mine is currently misplaced.

And then again, maybe not. Yesterday I found the pen. It was in my car, which would, yes, make me the prime suspect, HOWEVER, it was wedged in a stack of Algebra books and Geometry diagrams and, y’all, I do not do math. There is a math teacher in the house, but it is not me.

Last week, Will drove my car to school and he left all his crap on my front seat including the elusive pen. Uh huh.

The question is this: since I took the unwarranted blame, should I keep the pen? Should I get restitution in the form of a new Pink Dr. Grip?

Or should I take the high road since Mr. SoPink is so good-natured and cute and give the pen back?

I Have Found Proof

The Joy of Doughnuts

By clicking on the totally cheesy, yet equally adorable picture above, you will be able to view way too many photos of us eating way too many Krispy Kreme doughnuts on our anniversary. We eat Krispy Kremes on our anniversary because, instead of a traditional wedding cake, we had a big tower of Krispy Kremes at our reception.

We had the foresight to know that if we had a Krispy Kreme cake we would always have an excuse to eat at Krispy Kreme.

Thankfully, we did not wear the paper hats at our wedding, although at one point, in an equally silly getup, Will had his tie attached around his waist like a buttercream yellow sash.

Two Down

Today is our second wedding anniversary. I’d post a bunch of pictures of us on our wedding day, but I haven’t really gotten around to ordering those pictures yet seeing as my To Do list is pretty much backed up into 1998 right now. As soon as I get that high school English assignment finished, I’ll get right on those wedding pictures which I will then illegally scan so you can ooh and aah and look at how cute my husband is in his linen suit. Check back in, oh, say, 2007.

I do have this one gem that somebody took with a disposable camera.

My husband is a wonderful, kind, sincere, funny, generous man. Plus, he is terribly cute, he always lets me use the PowerBook, he calls himself Mr. SoPink, and he left me a box of Rice Krispies cereal with a bouquet of roses on the counter this morning. Snap, Crackle, Pop. The way to my heart.

Happy Anniversary, Moon Pie.

Rebuffed

Lately Will has not been wearing socks with his shoes when he goes to the gym. He says that his socks look “geeky.” I say that geeky is heaps better than repugnant, but who am I to judge? Well, his wife, that’s who, so when he walked in the door and kicked off those revolting Asics I said, “oh, hell no.”

He tried to Febreze them, but there is no amount of Febreze in the wide world that could cover that rank odor, so I moved the shoes out onto the back porch.

Later on in the evening, as we were headed out the door to Target to purchase some non-geeky socks, Will expressed concern that his shoes might get stolen from the porch. I expressed that, if they were stolen, that would be just fine with me.

Well, you know what? They were stolen. Almost.

When we got home? The shoes? They had been moved. Somebody had picked them up AND THEN SET THEM BACK DOWN a few feet from the porch.

The thief is lucky to have gotten away at all. A few more seconds with that foul footwear and he would have been knocked out cold.

Just another reason crime does not pay.

A Little 'Bout Love

Me: What should we do tonight?

Will: I don’t know.

Me: Well, it’s Saturday Night! We need to do something.

Will: Okay, let's listen to some country music.

Me: Uh, why?

Will: Because they always have good ideas about what to do at night.

Me: Uh, for example….?

Will (singing): Like, for example, “down by the river on a Friday night, pyramid of cans in the pale moon light…”

Shame we don’t have a river.

More Dirty Laundry

While I was in the car with my mom yesterday, she informed me that if I wasn’t going to be working over the summer I was going to have to be a housewife. My mother told me that I should have the house clean, the laundry done, and dinner on the table every night. This, of course, caused me to double over with laughter to the extent that I might have fallen right out of my seat if I hadn’t been seat-belted in (I, by the way, always wear my seatbelt thus saving us $97 in tickets, just another reason why I don’t need to work this summer).

As it turns out, Will put on his last pair of clean underwear this morning and I figured I’d listen to my mother just this once and do some freakin’ laundry. At the end of this post it will be shockingly clear why it was necessary for me to go to college.

9:00am: Wake up. Think about laundry. Sort whites into a hamper. Set hamper in middle of room. Check blogs. Take shower.

11:00: Go to hair appointment. Have cucumber water and croissant.

12:00: Hang out at Perk Place. Have an Italian Soda. Share a salad with the owner, who is also my good friend. Have espresso shots.

1:00pm: Call friends and husband. Meet me at Perk Place! Fall prey to the coffee cake.

3:00: Oh crap! The laundry! Go home. Put laundry in washer.

4:30: Oh crap! The laundry! Go to laundry room to find wet laundry has been moved to top of dryer because some people apparently can’t wait all day for me. Put laundry in dryer. Hey! Cool! Dryer has time left on it from previous user! Maybe I can dry for FREE!

4:31: Devise plan: will start with previous user’s leftover time. Will check back in 20 minutes to see if time ran out or if dryer is still running. Figure time is probably almost out, but you never know! I'm saving us money! No need to work!

4:34: Watch three episodes of Newlyweds on DVD.

6:00: Go to the pet store with Kathryn regarding a kitty. Give Kathryn’s almost-three-year-old son gum, which he promptly swallows. She said it was okay.

9:00: Come home. Read blogs.

9:55 (5 minutes before laundry room closes): Husband asks about laundry. Crap! The laundry! Run to laundry room, barefoot. Open dryer. Clothes still wet. Evidently forgot to check back on that free drying plan. Crap! Crap!

9:57: Restart dryer.

10:00: Laundry room closes.

10:01: Husband goes commando.

10:02: Consider summer employment possibilities.

Went the Distance

Clicking on the above photo will take you to the gallery of Will becoming a triathlete! He has got drive and discipline like no one I know and looks surprisingly good in a pair of spandex biker shorts.

The Last Post in Which I Discuss Egg Salad, Because Enough is Enough Already

Mr. Slice of Pink gets no credit around here. I talk a bunch of factual and accurate smackage, but now I am going to play nice. Of course, this sudden change in attitude has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that, while he will be working summer school every day starting in two weeks, I have done nothing in the way of finding summer employment. Nor does it have to do with the fact that I still have not put away the smashed laundry. Finally, it has definitely nothing to do with the fact that I am going to be shopping for some new summer skirts this weekend. Nope, nothing to do with that at all.

Last night when I got home Will was whipping up some egg salad with bacon mixed in for me. I asked him if he had ever had egg salad with bacon in it and he said no, but, hello, everything tastes good with bacon mixed in. Especially eggs. And he was right, which totally doesn’t surprise me because Will is usually always right. Unless he is disagreeing with me, in which case he is almost always wrong. But we don’t keep score.

That wonderful man, he put gas in my car late last night when I finally remembered that I needed gas or else I was not going to make it to work tomorrow. When he got home he told a detailed tale about how he ran out of gas part way to the filling station and had to push my car the last 2 miles. It was highly entertaining, if not at all convincing.

Also, he bought me a new toothbrush because my old one was looking smashed. That's Love, y'all.

And, if there is still any doubt, do you see why I married this man:

Phew. Any more cute and my heart might implode.

Click It or Ticket

So, my husband got a ticket today for not wearing his seatbelt.

Uh, finally.

I’ve been a pesky, nagging, harassing wife for two years over this stupid, stupid seat belt issue. Put on your seat belt. Put on your seat belt. Put on your seat belt. Like a goddamn broken record, put on your seat belt.

Second to the obvious fact that I do not want my husband to die, I really don’t want my husband to come across as an idiot, and let’s face it, not wearing your seat belt is pretty idiotic. It’s right up there with doing a little crack cocaine or driving to the scene of a shooting. Idiotic, I tell you.

I just don’t get it. My husband went to college. He has a Master’s Degree. He can calculate some serious mathematical formulas, y’all. He understands the intricacies of a neuron’s dendritic tree. Apparently, however, he cannot understand the simple notion of putting on a seat belt.

Until today. Today this seat belt situation became about something my husband can totally grasp the concept of: money. Because now it is going to cost him a few bill$. It’s a damn good thing he’s working summer school.

Do I have to say it?

I think I do.

I told you so. I TOLD YOU SO.