The Suite Life

Being kicked out of one's home for an indefinite period of time, for lack of better words, sucks. For me, it's more about homesickness than anything. At the end of a long day at work, I'm looking forward to coming home and relaxing in my own home. Knowing that I can't, that I'll be living out of a suitcase, almost like a vacation, but nothing like a vacation at the same time, upsets me. I seem to be stressed, although I don't feel stressed. I noticed this morning that I've been clenching my jaw for about 3 days straight. While I feel at ease (at as much ease as one can be while being displaced from their home), my subconscious seems stressed beyond belief. I've woken up the past 3 mornings, jaw clenched tightly, with a terrible headache. I wish my subconscious would catch up with my conscious, unstressed, laid back. And soon. Before my conscious, unstressed, laid back self catches up with my stressed beyond belief subconscious.

At the moment, we are staying with one of Kurt's friends from softball. He and his wife and their 3 kids live about 5 minutes from our apartment, in a rural area populated by more horses than people. They have an in-law's suite they have graciously let us use until we move in with my friends on Monday. (PS - I'm not sure either couple will ever realize just how grateful we are). While I can't wait to get back into my home, it's a pretty nice set-up. On Monday, my office was closed due to flooding and power outages, so I was stuck at The Suite. If you know me at all, you'll know that I HATE relying on other people or mooching off them in any way. I don't like the feeling that I owe someone, or that I'm a burden. (I do, however, know there is a time and place to ask for help. And that time and place is now and here.) I had to get out of The Suite for fear of turning into That Girl That Hangs Around Our House But Doesn't Live Here. So I went for a run.

A few weeks back, I signed up for a half-marathon with a friend from work, which has resulted in all of my money going to running shorts, running pants, running shirts, sports bras, and (next up!) power gel and a hydration belt (for those extra long runs), and Kurt complaining about my new found dedication to running four days a week. I've been pretty good about training. I ran the Broad Street Run in the Spring without power gel, and without proper training. And almost didn't make it. I am extremely competitive, especially with myself, so there was no way in Hell I was going to stop and walk. I ran the whole ten miles, but I swear on all that is Holy, I almost passed out. At mile 2. (No I'm just kidding. Mile 2 was a breeze. Mile 7 was the point where my legs turned to lead, and my face turned that horrible white/red splotchy color. So attractive). Whoever tells you if you can run 10 miles, you can run a half-marathon is lying to you. In fact, I want to pinch those people. Really hard. I JUST made it to the finish line, and at that point, my body was so dehydrated and weak that it kept going only because running instead of walking meant I'd get to the soft pretzels and bananas that much faster. There's no way I could've made it to 13.1.

Considering the amount of storms and weekend vacations we've had, my training hasn't suffered too badly. I've been running 3-4 days a week, with one long run per week. Monday, with the need to get out of the house, I went for an 8 mile run in my new neon orange shirt (I had to run on the street, so you know, Safety First!) I can honestly say, I don't think I've ever enjoyed a run so much. Given the ridiculous distance, that's saying something. I usually run in the park in town. It's a beautiful park, with a mile-long track surrounding a field with some trees, but I've been running there for 5 years. After that long, the scenery becomes a little boring (unless that scenery is a giant buck running through the field at a full sprint, which apparently I missed because I was so into my run). This run was so scenic, I got distracted every few minutes and I had to remind myself to breathe evenly. I even stopped a couple times for a few seconds to take pictures. I couldn't resist! (if you're picturing me running with a huge Canon camera, stop giggling, right now. I run with my iPhone, which has a better camera than my camera).

I saw a HUGE snapping turtle crossing the road and quickly snapped a

picture of him before he snapped my arm off. Farms, corn fields, and horses went for as far as the eye could see. Besides a few cars not giving me a wide berth (thanks for that!), and the rustic smell of horse manure permeating my nostrils as I ran (not fast enough) past farms, it was a perfect run.

I felt strangely at peace. It's one of the reasons I love to run. I can relax, focus on my breathing, and let everything go. But this was even better than usual. I wish every run could be that peaceful and that breathtaking. It was the perfect way to spend that morning, with the bluest sky and the greenest fields pushing away all thoughts of floods and suitcases. And now, I share that perfect run on that perfect day with you in the hopes that you find some peace in these pictures. Enjoy.

Well Played Irene, Well Played

I think Mother Nature heard that I was a little upset that I didn't feel that earthquake on Tuesday and decided to grace us with her presence this weekend. Hurricane Irene was in town. Friday and Saturday consisted of everyone on the East Coast buying gas, bread, and milk. Instead of preparing for the hurricane, my sister and I went shopping at the Cherry Hill Mall. 25% off at Macy's, plus ridiculous sales at every store? Irene wasn't about to stop this shopper. I expected us to lose power for a few hours. The storm was all hype, I assumed. I was wrong. At 5:30 am on Sunday, the police knocked on our door. I believe their actual words were, "The lake is rising. You might want to consider evacuating." You know, nothing major, just consider leaving all your possessions behind and hightailing it out of town. We dressed and packed enough clothes for a couple of days. I even had enough sense to pack some work clothes. And in case you were wondering, yes I put on mascara. Kurt was incredulous. "You're putting on MAKEUP for an evacuation?" Look. The police weren't too urgent with their evacuation warning. I knew we had time, so why not? What if something crazy happened and our picture was in the paper?

Our "evacuation" consisted of walking to the front porch and watching the houses and street flood. It is something I will never forget. To the left of our house are four houses, and then a small bridge (that was just redone and reopened about two weeks ago) over a lake. The lake is in our backyard and tends to rise with large storms. And by rise, I mean the bank of the lake rises about 2 or 3 feet to the bottom of our backyard. At around 8 am, I looked in the backyard. The lake was at our back door. We had about 2 feet of water in the backyard and it was still rising and still raining. Near the bridge, water was rushing from the lake into the street. The bridge, road, and 3 houses closest to the bridge were flooded. As time passed and more rain fell, the lake rose higher and higher until it reached the top step at our back door. I spent the time racing between the front porch and back door, taking pictures of everything and panicking.
Next to the bridge is an old building that used to house a mill. There's a little driveway in front of it that slopes downward. That slope became filled with rushing, churning water as more and more of the lake overflowed into it. More than anything, it resembled rapids. Dangerous, fast rapids filled with planks of wood, lawn chairs, life jackets, pipes, and barriers from the bridge construction. There were two shops at the bottom of the slope. Water rose to the windows.

I resigned myself to the fact that our apartment would be flooded. I assumed it was inevitable. That stupid lake just wouldn't stop rising. We moved everything from the floor or bottom shelves onto tables, onto the washer and dryer and just hoped that would be enough. Our landlords arrived with sandbags to try to keep the basement dry, to no avail. Our sump pump gave out and our basement steadily filled with water. Before it was too late, we shut off the power and gas. By 10 o'clock, we had 5-6 feet of water in the basement.

And then, mercifully, the water began to recede. Neighbors came out to compare damage. The houses near the bridge had about 3 feet of water in the first floors. An older woman and her grandson had to be rescued by EMTs. Most people reported only water in the basement. All reached out to those who had significant damage. If there's one thing I've learned it's that there's nothing like a natural disaster to bring neighbors together. As the water receded, it uncovered significant damage to the roadway on the bridge. A gaping hole stood where the water had previously.

We packed our cars and left for Kurt's dad's, unsure what to do next. About an hour later, our landlords called. The building inspector deemed our house and the four houses closer to the bridge condemned. We could come get some clothes, but after that, we wouldn't be allowed in the house at all. Apparently, the pressure of the water in the basement was the problem. If they pumped the water too quickly, the foundation could collapse.

Countless friends and family members reached out. We were overwhelmed by the outpouring of support and offers of a place to stay. We both know that we were lucky. We're both unhurt, our possessions haven't been damaged. It could have been so much worse. At this point, we're chalking it up to experience, to adventure, to a story to tell. Kurt keeps calling us refugees. He loves that word. For my part, I already miss home. It could be weeks or even a month before we're allowed to live in our apartment again, if ever, so we're preparing for the worst. Kurt's devised a plan to sneak in under cover of night to get his prized possession: his TV.

Old, drafty houses and antique typewriters

The other day, Kurt and I were driving through Lambertville, NJ. For those of you who don’t know it, it’s an incredibly picturesque town. There’s a main street with shops and B&Bs that look like they haven’t changed in the past 200 years. Outside of town is the countryside – rolling green hills, dotted here and there with old homes and sheep. It’s this Lambertville I love. I challenge anyone who’s ever made fun of New Jersey (you who think The Jersey Shore is an accurate portrayal of the Garden State) to come here, drive the tiny, winding dirt roads and not fall in love. It’s impossible.

When we drive out there, I prefer Kurt to drive so I can take in the scenery and dream about one day owning one of the old, historical farmhouses. I am, you see, a realtor’s dream. I love old homes. The older, the better. Once, while passing a gorgeous stone farmhouse, I remarked how much I’d love to live there. Kurt, being the practical fuddy duddy that he is, scoffed and replied that it would be too “drafty”. Charming is what I’d call it. I can just imagine the conversations with our future Realtor. “This beautiful stone farmhouse was built in 1865 and has crown molding in every room and 18 foot ceilings.” “Ok…” Kurt would say, waiting for the “but”. Little would either of them know she would have had me at “crown molding”.

Kurt and I would argue about the practicality of it. Our realtor would begin with the “buts:” “It’s drafty and there’s barely heat,” she’d say. “It’ll be just like college when I slept in sweats because I couldn’t afford heat! It’ll be great to relive those years!” I’d reply. “It’s only accessible by a one-lane, but not one way, dirt road…” “How charming!” “…that often gets washed out during storms…” “I’m sure they have hybrid SUVs now!” “…and is completely inaccessible when it snows.” “I’ll talk to my boss about working from home on the 100 or so days a year we have any sort of precipitation. I’m sure that won’t be an issue.” “There’s no air conditioning and window units will blow a fuse.” “How quaint! I've always wanted ceiling fans!” “There’s a resident ghost that rips blankets off people in their sleep.” “I love a home with character!”

What I don’t understand is why new houses can’t be built to resemble old ones. I would love central air and a finished basement that didn’t flood during a drizzle, but in my opinion, new homes lack character and attention to detail. Where’s the crown molding? The molded plaster ceilings 18 feet off the floor? The tall windows? The antique doorknobs? Yes, ok. Some of those things MIGHT be a little inefficient when it comes to energy use, but still!

My love of things "old and shitty" as Kurt so eloquently puts it, does not end with houses. In fact, on this same trip to Lambertville, we stopped at an antiques flea market. Now, I am not usually much into flea markets and I don’t like knick knacks (clutter makes me uncomfortable). However. This place was amazing. I wanted to buy everything I saw. There was a $3,000 antique double bathroom sink that I fell in love with at first sight. And Kurt actually had to DRAG me away from an antique typewriter from 1911. “But it’s only $90!” I argued, unwilling to tear my eyes away from its beauty. “And what are we going to do with it? You hate clutter!” He had me there. But I resisted. “It’s art!” Eventually, I walked away, sadly looking back every few steps like a forlorn lover, trying desperately to find a practical reason why I needed this antique typewriter that surely I'd never use. I never did find a practical reason. But, as we all know, love is anything but practical.

Ready for the Rapture

1. If you aren't on the East Coast, don't have Facebook, or otherwise live under a rock, you might not know that we had an earthquake today. At around 2pm, everyone in my office building came out of their respective offices and cubicles and started talking about earthquakes and evacuating. Having felt nothing, nada, zip, AT ALL, I thought they were talking about some past experience they had all shared elsewhere. Not so. Virginia experienced a 5.9 earthquake and we felt it all the way up in Jersey. Well, everyone except me, apparently. Is it bad I'm disappointed I didn't feel it? I am fully aware that earthquakes are major deals and usually cause mass destruction and casualties and I am grateful it was small, so small in fact that I didn't feel it when others around me did. I am not making light of earthquakes or victims of earthquakes. I know how scary and dangerous they can be. But it was my first earthquake, it was small, and there was no mass destruction and casualties, so I can be focused on something trivial right?

2. Kurt was working from home today and saw a horse and carriage passing our house on Main Street. I know we live in a small town, but this is highly unusual. And, the horse was RUNNING, like going as fast as the cars. And on the carriage were 3 or 4 Amish men. And did he take a video of this sight so that I could share this strange occurrence with you? Nope! Did he stop them and hire them to drive me around until midnight like Cinderella? No. He didn't. I mean really, would that be too much to ask?

3. Rumors are circulating that Will and Jada are breaking up.

4. There's a hurricane headed our way this weekend.

I'm ready for those Rapture people to claim they made another mistake in their prophecy, and that the Rapture is actually this weekend. Given these four factors, I think it's pretty safe to say the world is officially ending, right? Also, that maybe I'm not Cinderella. It makes sense. I suck at housekeeping.

An American in America's Capital

During the four months I spent in Italy, every weekend was spent sightseeing. If I wasn't traveling to a different city or country, I was busy learning the ins and outs of Rome. I knew it was unlikely I'd ever get to travel that extensively again, so I took advantage of it. I worked for two and a half years in Manhattan and lived in Boston for four years during college. The last "touristy" thing I did in the Big Apple was during my 8th grade field trip and waited until the last moment to see the sights in Boston, when friends came to visit from out of town. I think it's difficult to view a city, or country for that matter, in which one lives or works through the fresh eyes of a tourist. One does not notice the detailed architecture, or visit the art museums, or even take in the surrounding culture. Sometimes it's hard to be a tourist in one's own country, where one does not wish to see oneself as a visitor. Sometimes it's just put off, forever, since it's the sights are always "there", to be taken advantage of when time allows.

This weekend, put on our tourist caps, broke out our cameras (or iPhones rather), and pocket map, and headed to DC. Kurt's aunt and uncle gave us ten tickets to a Phillies at Nationals game for our wedding. So, we invited some friends and decided to make a weekend of it. We found a great deal on a hotel on hotwire.com and with minimal planning, (so unlike Control-Freak Me) drove down Friday morning. We dropped our bags at the hotel and hit the sights. My first impression was how pretty the buildings were (once we made it past the ghetto), and how spacious the city seemed. No skyscrapers=more sun!

I was surprised how close all the sights were to one another. We were able to see most of the major monuments in about 3 hours. The White House was our first stop. Apparently, you can only get a tour if you have the endorsement of your Congressman/-woman. Next time.

The best part of the White House was the old woman protesting on the sidewalk. From the looks of it, I'm pretty sure she's been there, in that same spot, day in and day out since 1969. I'm not completely sure of what she was protesting (she had signs protesting US support of Israel, nuclear weapons, W., among others), but her tent was filled to the brim with propaganda.

After that, we made our way to the Vietnam War Memorial, Korean War Memorial, and WWII War Memorial. I loved that all three had their own beautiful styles and unique vibes, yet they were each somber reminders of the men and women lost. The most memorable sight of the entire trip was a middle aged man, possibly a veteran, possibly a friend of a departed soldier, possibly both, sitting on a park bench in front of the Vietnam War Memorial, sobbing. I had the overwhelming urge to hug him.

Here are a few things I loved about DC:

1) The architecture. Each building is different from the last, but just as beautiful. I loved the stone and concrete used instead of the steel and glass of New York skyscrapers. It's so much more inviting.

2) The Southern hospitality. Ok, I know DC can't really be considered the deep south, but it's south of the Mason-Dixon line right? That equals southern to this Jersey Girl. People opened doors, gave REAL smiles, and said hello. Refreshing.

3) The food. I judge everywhere I go by the food. If the food's great, I rave about it for years. If it's mediocre, I'm disappointed. If it's terrible, I vow never to return. We ate at two remarkable places in DC: PJ Clark's, and P.O.V.

PJ Clark's was around the corner from our hotel, so we went there merely out of convenience. It was, however, quite possibly the highlight of our trip. It's black walls and red and white checked tablecloths were casual, yet classy at the same time. The walls were covered in sketches, photographs, and quotations and the staff was friendly. For appetizers, we had deviled eggs (any place with deviled eggs on the menu is fine by me), tuna taquitos, and tater tots. I know these might sound like amateur, even unappetizing dishes, but let me assure you, they were fantastic. Kurt had a NY Strip, aged to perfection, with brussel sprout slaw tossed with bacon. I had lobster mac 'n cheese, which was beyond description. It was beautiful. Perfect. I wanted to swim in it. Our friend, Jeff, had some amazing barbeque. And then came the Key Lime Pie, staple of all southern menus. I ordered ice cream, and ended up eating half of Kurt's Key Lime Pie while the ice cream melted. It was so flavorful. I'm not usually a fan of Key Lime Pie, but this was filled with flavor, light, and refreshing. Plus, it came with a scoop of lime sorbet. I know. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

On Saturday, before going to the game, we ate lunch at P.O.V., at the top of the W Hotel. Let's start with the W, shall we? We walked in and I felt like we had been transported to another decade, one with more style and class. I also instantly felt underdressed in my tourist uniform of shorts and t-shirt. Everything was white, black and red and utterly chic. P.O.V. is on the roof of the hotel, covered by an awning, and offers the most beautiful view of the city. The drinks were very expensive, but the food prices weren't terrible. Despite the $15/glass price, I splurged on a Summer Sangria. It was light and refreshing; perfect for a hot day.

We met some friends at the Nationals stadium for the Phils/Nats game. Although, if I hadn't known better, I would have thought we were at Citizen's Bank Park in Philly. At least 80% of the fans were wearing Phillies attire. We were there as Phillies fans, but left our jerseys at home out of respect for the home team. While the Nats were being booed and taunted by the multitude of Phils fans, I felt for them. How terrible must it be not to have a home team advantage, even when you're at home?

The next morning, as Kurt and Jeff waited for our car to be brought around by the valet, I made a Starbucks run. As I approached the door, a homeless man holding an "I'm Hungry" sign called out to me. "I'm hungry ma'am. Can you help?" Having only a $20 in my bag, I smiled an apology and shook my head. "You know, I'd help you if you needed help, you f-ing snob!" Let's just say, I went out of my way to avoid him on my walk back to the hotel. His comment bothered me. I've mentioned my mixed feelings about homelessness in the past. I want to help, but a mixture of uncertainty, and yes, even fear, usually causes me to speed up and/or hide behind other pedestrians. I hate my reaction, but I honestly don't know what to do, so I end up doing nothing. Should I give a dollar? What if they don't spend it on food? Does it matter? Is a granola bar better? Will they yell at me? I'm not proud of it in any way. I choose instead to support food kitchens, but that doesn't really help while I walk past the homeless and hungry on the streets. "I donate to food kitchens! I'm not a snob!" I want to yell.

On that note, we left DC. But the adventure didn't end there. At a gas station in Maryland, my battery died. Why do things like this always happen when you're on the road and not in your own driveway, or say, in the parking lot of an Autozone? A big thank you to Benny from Piscataway who gave us a jump. There's nothing like a little Northern hospitality in the South.

And now my kitten, presumably upset that my computer is getting more attention than he is, is biting my hands. Point taken. Longest post ever. Time to sign off.

I guess you could call it a work in progress.

I started getting my eyebrows waxed about 3 months ago. Until then, I had plucked. Every morning. Yes, I was a 27-year-old eyebrow waxing virgin. It wasn’t the pain that kept me away (although it did frighten me a little), it was having to put complete and total trust in a stranger that petrified me. I spent years perfecting the shape of my brows and I wasn’t about to let someone ruin them with one yank of a wax strip. I am a control freak. I tend to prefer to do things myself because at least then I know it'll be done right. I am fully aware of the "teach a man to fish" philosophy, but then I wonder: "How will he know exactly which lure to use and how far to cast the line and what if there's a storm, how will he know what to do then? What if he catches something that's too big for him to reel in? What if it's too small and he should throw it back? Will he know to do that?" Yes. I am aware I have issues.

I feared for my brows, but I got to the point where I was just tired of spending those few minutes every morning plucking the (many) little hairs that seemed to spring up overnight. (Please tell me someone else’s eyebrows grow as fast as mine do.) So, I finally decided to take the plunge and get them waxed. Now, control freak that I am, I didn’t just go to any old salon willy nilly. I researched. For weeks. I googled, read reviews, asked friends for recommendations until I found the one place to which I could feel (a tiny bit more) comfortable giving over my eyebrows. The first time, I was nervous and sweating. It felt like she was putting the wax WAY too high. “Not too thin!” I squeaked as politely as possible (she was, after all, armed with burning hot wax). “Just follow the shape please!” I’ll tell you one thing: the anticipation and fear was way worse than the stinging pain. As I sat there fretting the state of my brows, I realized something; getting your eyebrows waxed is a lesson in trust. One might argue that a haircut also requires a certain level of trust, but really, you can see what the stylist is doing to your hair. You can correct them, change their course if need be (told you I was a control freak). But with an eyebrow waxing technician, you have no idea what they’re doing until they’re done. Those excruciating few minutes are excruciating precisely because you have to allow yourself to trust a complete stranger and to put your life (ok, maybe just your appearance - did I mention that I'm also dramatic?) in their hands. It’s nerve wracking! I’ve been going about every 2 weeks for the past 3 months. I am now on a first name basis with just about everyone in the salon, and still, each time I go it’s “Not too thin! Just follow the shape please!” and I sit there in the reclining chair petrified that I’ll have to resort to drawing on my eyebrows every morning. And each time, the technician (it’s almost always the same one, by the way) replies, “I know. I did your eyebrows last time.” and perfects the shape of my brows better than I ever did with my tweezers. And while I’ve learned to trust her more, I still have a mini panic attack every time the wax goes on.

I'll Have Two Meatballs, Please

Last Thursday was the 13th anniversary of my mom's death, Wednesday was her birthday, and today is my Nonni's birthday, which means I have made more visits to the cemetery in 8 days than any one person should ever have to. BUT, in honor of my mother's birthday, I decided to share with you this grainy picture of the two of us, taken when I was about a year old. How. Cute. Am. I?

And in honor of Nonni's birthday, I will share the all important Rules of Eating, that, thankfully, have nothing to do with common sense. These rules must be expressly followed in order to have an enjoyable experience eating with our family. Before I took Italian in college, and despite the fact that Nonni spoke broken English, I knew two phrases in Italian. Both were varying iterations of Rule #1. Quando Si Mangia, Non Si Parla (When one eats, one does not speak) and Mangia e Sta Zitta (Eat and shut up). However, this rule was never followed as my family likes to talk. A lot.

Rule #2 is Pace Yourself. In most American households, lasagna is considered a full meal. Not in ours, especially not on holidays. On Christmas and Easter, that bowl sitting atop your plate is not for salad. It's for the first course: lasagna and meatballs. Whenever someone new comes to Christmas or Easter, this is the first rule we tell them. Lasagna and meatballs is just the first course. There is MUCH more to come. At this point, I'm sure you're envisioning large Italian-American guidos with gold chains and their top shirt buttons undone and guidettes with large hair and way too much makeup. Let me correct that assumption. Apart from the food, we're your typical Americans. And fairly thin (those Mediterranean genes do wonders for the figure).

Rule #3 is Drink Water and is in regards to Nonni's Cheese Bread. When you think of cheese bread, I'm sure you think of soft, sweet, pastry-like cheese bread typically found in bakeries. Again, allow me to correct your assumption. Nonni's Cheese Bread is made with parmesan cheese. I know what you're thinking: Parmesan?? You mean that dry, aged cheese that goes on pasta? Why yes, yes I do. Nonni's Cheese Bread is, much like fine wine and certain liquors, an acquired taste. I love it, but I also believe everything is made better by adding parmesan cheese. (I was teased incessantly in college for putting parmesan on my rice). Like my aunt's Butter in the Shape of a Lamb, complete with sprinkles for eyes and shaved coconut dyed green to resemble grass, Nonni's Cheese Bread has become a staple at Easter dinner. This bread is incredibly dry and tastes exactly how one would expect bread made with parmesan to taste. Whenever I or my sister or cousins bring a friend or boyfriend or girlfriend to dinner for the first time, we love offering them a slice, and then stifling giggles as they take a bite, and look around panic-stricken, either for a glass of water, or for some clue as to how they're supposed to react. To all future diners at our house, the cheese bread is dry, but somehow fabulous at the same time. Just give it some time, and a few glasses of water.

The 4th and final rule is this: You Only Get Two Meatballs. It doesn't matter how many you request, and you will be asked how many you want, you get two. One Christmas dinner a few years ago, Nonni was serving the meatballs and asked my sister how many she wanted. "One, please." "You get two. You need to eat more." She then asked my cousin how many he wanted. "I'll have three." "You get two. You can have more later." Then it was my turn. Eager to learn more about this new rule (was it really You Only Get Two Meatballs or was it Nonni Is Feeling Difficult Today And Will Give You Anything But What You Ask For - both of which were equally probable), I asked for two meatballs. It turns out, it was the former. So now, whoever serves the meatballs plays Nonni's part and we play along, each asking for a different number of meatballs and no matter how many we ask for (none, 16, 25), we each get two.

A New Addition

About 2 months ago, our landlord called to inform us we were getting a new upstairs neighbor. I believe her actual words were "She seems quiet. Oh, and she has a dog." Now, there are a few things you should know before I delve into this story:

1. - Our previous neighbors were a nice young couple (from whom I once borrowed sugar - I know. I felt so domestic...and a little cliche) and their 3 year old daughter (who was petrified of me). Their little girl was this tiny, tiny little thing, but she made more noise than I ever would have thought possible. She ran. All. The. Time. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Through all hours of the night. Both apartments have hardwood floors, which means there is absolutely no insulation against noise. So I was a little nervous having a dog living above us.

2. - When we signed our lease "NO PETS" was written in large print across it. Also, when the young couple and future marathoner moved in, they were told NO PETS. We asked one Christmas if we could get a kitten and were told NO PETS. Even the FOR RENT sign said NO PETS, just like that, in all caps. Yet, here was this new tenant, with a dog.

Our landlord preempted my objection (and whining) by saying, "Since we told her she could have a dog, you can get a cat." With those words, all objections went out the window. FINALLY! A kitten!

So after some major disagreements about whether the kitten should be outdoor (and very likely to be run over, contract FIV or rabies, and just become something we feed every once in awhile) or indoor (safe and cozy and a PET), we're getting a kitten. I'll let you guess which side was mine, and which side ultimately won. I'll give you a hint: they're one and the same.

We knew someone who was fostering 2 week old kittens that had been taken from their mother, so we went to her house to help bottle feed them (which is the most adorable thing I've ever seen), and then picked one. Of course, the one we picked promptly died. So we picked another and prayed it wouldn't die for the sole reason that we picked it.
Then, we did what any normal couple would do before getting a pet; we drew up a list of names. I wanted Guacamole (Mo for short) and was shot down. I suggested Darwin (for obvious reasons - just give it a moment), but then thought it might be just a little insensitive. Kurt wanted Boots, which I vetoed. I suggested Truffle. Nope. The white board by our front door had about 20 names on it before we decided upon Duke.

So we prepared the house for little Duke, making sure all wires, poisonous ant traps, and any other dangerous items were put away. We bought food bowls, a litter box, kitten food, all the essentials for the little tyke. We brought him home Friday night after a quick scare and he absolutely the snuggliest little kitten I have EVER seen. All he wants to do is cuddle. I'm in love.

I'm looking forward to him meowing all night and going to work covered in scratches. I spent ALL weekend holed up in the apartment playing with him and completely ignoring Kurt. Did I mention Saturday was Kurt's birthday? It's ok, he's well aware Duke is cuter. He's also accepted the fact that I'll probably be letting him sleep in our bed with us. I mean, look at this face. Could YOU say no?

PS - Have you seen the new Mad Men collection at Banana Republic? It makes me want to live in the 60's...minus the gender and racial inequality (because we're so equal now), but perhaps including the Manhattans at work. All of the money in my account (yes, Kurt and I have separate checking accounts along with our joint checking and savings in order to not kill each other over spending on things like expensive shoes, clothing, and video games) will be going to this collection.

A Non-Post Gender Normative Story

While strolling through my Facebook news feed today (and not stalking everyone I know, I don't do that, come on!) I stumbled across this post on McSweeney's: Please Read. It's hilarious.

Now, I consider myself a strong, independent woman. I can sit at a bar by myself and order my own drinks (and then dump them on Post Gender Normative Men). I can take care of myself. But there have certainly been times in my life when I'm reduced to a sobbing, emotional little girl (like during every episode of Glee Season 2), or when I have NO idea what I'm doing and need to be saved by a big strong human (as Post Gender Normative Man says).

Case in point, back in February, the pipe under our bathroom sink burst, while I was home alone. It was a Saturday and Kurt was at work, it being tax season and all. I was putting on mascara to walk up to the bakery for my morning latte (yes, I put on mascara to go to the bakery, to go anywhere really. I can probably count the number of times on my right hand that I have left the house without mascara, but I digress), when I heard a loud bang and whooshing sound. The sound was akin to the sound of a waterfall if the waterfall was under a sink. I opened the door to the cabinet under the bathroom sink and saw a terrible sight: one of pipes had burst and water was spraying (powerfully I might add) EVERYWHERE. My first instinct was to turn off the water by the valve under the sink (I told you, I know how to take care of myself), but the water was BURNING hot. At this point, I was still thinking rather clearly, so I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand so I wouldn't burn myself, and felt around for the valve. And felt nothing. There was no valve. Incredulously, I searched, while getting soaked and cursing the universe for letting this happen while I was home alone. Let's just say, no valve = Amy panicking. I ran to the closet to grab towels, then thought better of it and ran to my phone instead to call the landlord (actually I ran back and forth a few times yelling a few choice words in an utter state of panic before ultimately deciding to call the landlord). No answer, so I hung up without leaving a message. I threw the phone on the couch and ran to the linen closet to grab towels to soak up the water that was still POURING out of the pipe and onto the bathroom floor. Luckily, it hadn't yet reached the 150 year old hard wood floors. I ran back to my phone to call Kurt. Also no answer. Seriously? NO ONE?? I cursed a little more and ran to knock on our neighbor's door. No answer. Then I did what any girl does when she's in trouble and doesn't know what to do. I called my dad. His advice was to turn the water off by the valve under the sink. THANKS Dad! I hadn't thought of that one! My voice now high and trembling from panic, I told him there wasn't one. "Check the basement for a shut off valve." YES! The basement! (Let me preface this by saying our basement is technically a root cellar, but I'd go as far as saying it's a cave, filled with spiders and sprickets and I had vowed NEVER to go down there unless UTTERLY necessary). I opened the basement door, the two naked lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling were both out. Perfect timing. I grabbed a flashlight, braced myself and ran down the basement steps. Four inches of water covered the floor (our sump pump only works about a quarter of the time). I told my dad (or rather screamed IT'S FLOODED! WHAT DO I DO??). He told me to call the police.

Now, when something like this happens, do you sit at your computer and calmly look up the number for the police station since you don't have one of those magnets with emergency numbers on your refrigerator because they're too tacky to even consider, or do you call 911? I made the choice to call 911. I KNOW this was not an emergency, but I didn't know what else to do! Water was STILL pouring out of the pipe and I was running out of options. I told the operator what was going on, gave my name and address and he assured me an officer would be over soon. I think the trembling in my voice let him know I was on the verge of tears, so thankfully, he didn't yell at me for calling on our police force for a broken pipe, when they have so many better things to be doing, like pulling over speeders and directing traffic (no offense to policeman everywhere, that's actually what they do in my town. The town is VERY quiet, and about a mile long, not too much crime to fight).

During this time, Kurt called me back. He told me to turn off the water using the valve under the sink. As calmly as I could (which was not at all) I told him there wasn't a valve under the sink. He promised to call the landlord until he answered and said he was on his way home. About 30 seconds (each of which felt like a whole minute while I ran around the house still panicking and then decided it would probably be a good idea to throw on a sweatshirt since I hadn't yet put on a bra and the policeman would most likely be male, since I had never seen a female police officer in our town) later, a police car pulled up, and out stepped...the same policeman who had just pulled me over for talking on my cell phone days earlier (but had very nicely let me go with a "Ok, be careful!"). Told you it was a small town. I couldn't wait for him to walk in so I ran to the porch to meet him (as if this would make him run in any faster) and I explained the situation while he followed me into the house at a run. "There's a valve under the sink." he said on his way to the bathroom. It seriously took all my strength not to throw something at him. "No there's not! I checked!" I yelled instead. Did everyone really think I was THAT clueless? He asked if we had access to the basement. We did. I told him it was flooded AND that the lights had burned out, but we walked down the steps anyway. He spotted a pipe with a red valve and we took a guess that that was what we needed to shut off. So this young, small-town policeman, went down into our basement, in 4 inches of freezing water (it was February, remember), risking hypothermia and electrocution, and shut off the water to the house. I ran upstairs to check if it had worked. It had. The poor guy came walking back up the steps, his nice shiny shoes ruined and his feet wet. I handed him a towel and apologized profusely for calling 911 and making him ruin his shoes at what was presumably the beginning of his shift. "It's ok." he said, "it's a small town. We do everything."

He left and within the next 2 minutes, my dad arrived, and then Kurt. I explained what had happened. "He was so nice!" I said. Kurt's response? "Of course he was nice! You're a cute girl and were in trouble." I told him the officer was nice in general, it didn't matter that I was girl. "Did you mention you weren't single?" YES. I responded, making my point that he was just a nice cop, doing a nice thing for a stranger. Truth be told, I hadn't mentioned "my fiance" until he had come back up the steps from saving me, just in case. Either way, I was just happy he wasn't a Post Gender Normative Man, dead set against saving a girl in distress.

Elephants Never Forget, But Apparently, I Do

Ok, I know I know. I've been REALLY bad at posting. I can't believe my last post was in November! How crazy is that? To all my loyal fans, I'm sorry. And I've missed you. Really.

A few weeks ago, one of my friends sent me this and I just had to share it. For all of you have no idea what I'm talking about, see my last post, yes, from November.

Tons of things have happened in the last few months, including, but not limited to, my getting married (pics coming soon) and changing my name (which was much harder and more annoying than I thought it would be), going off blood thinners and being able to drink again (yay!), getting an iPhone (and addicted to Words with Friends), running the 10-mile Broad St. Run (during which I vowed never to run more than 5 miles again), and then signing up for a half-marathon last week on a whim (apparently, I have a VERY short memory). Don't worry, I'll catch you all up in excruciating detail as I get back into my blogging groove.

Let's get started with what I did this weekend. Yesterday, I drove the hour to LBI to visit my dear friend at her family's beach house. I realized I could actually spend the rest of my life laying on a beach. I also discovered that until yesterday, my life was incomplete. My friend and I drove to a little bakery on the island and bought the most amazing thing I have ever tasted: Elephant Ears. I know what you're thinking. Those big, unwieldy, dry, puffy things at the corner bakery? Yup, those. Let me just say, I've had those before and these were nothing like the ones I see in my corner bakery. NOTHING. These Elephant Ears were more like cinnamon heaven. They were thin and crispy, not doughy, covered in cinnamon and sugar (and apparently pecans, but they must have been crushed in the dough because I didn't see any). And we bought 7. They were for her family, for the week (or at least the next 3 days), but I honestly could have eaten ALL 7 on the way back, and almost did. By the time we arrived back at the house, we had 6 and a half to present to the fam (they're about as big as a hubcap so a half is more than it sounds). What? Don't judge me. You haven't tried these. And did my friend share the blame with me? Did she admit to the few bites she had along with the 50 bites I had? NOPE! She totally threw me under the bus. However, she did introduce me to my new love, so I guess I can forgive her.

Last book on my nightstand:

Life of Pi by Yann Martel. This review is short and simple: I LOVED LOVED LOVED this book. I know I'm a little behind the times and everyone's already probably read this one, but if you haven't, go buy it now.