Leslie tagged me for a meme. Please, if anyone knows, tell me how to pronounce “meme”. This one has to do with your middle name. First, though, a funny story about my name:
Jon likes to make fun of my long list of names. You see, I was born when my mother was quite young, so at birth I was given her maiden name as my last name. Then she married a man who adopted me, and I took his last name. Then I grew up, no longer got along with that dad, met my biological dad, and decided that maybe I wanted to take his last name (though I never actually did). Instead, though, I met my husband and took his last name. Therefore, Jon thinks it is hysterically funny to call me “Suzanne Louise Crunkleton Brandenburg Stewart Gale”. (I know… only soap opera characters have longer names.) Or, even funnier (he thinks), is telling our kids that my initials are SLCBSG (Yes, like Salt Lake City, Battle Star Galactica). Try monogramming that on bath towels.
Anyhoo… on with the meme. Luckily this meme is about middle names and not last names.
Here are the meme rules. I did not write the rules. Someone else wrote them. The rules part of this post has been copied and pasted. So, here come the rules:
1. You have to post these rules before you give the facts.
2. Players, you must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of their middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have had.
3. When you are tagged you need to write your own blog post containing your own middle name game facts.
4. At the end of your blog post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
L- Lazy. I don’t think that needs a whole lot of elaboration.
O- Occasionally obnoxious (bonus points for alliteration)
U- Unusually drawn to pasta and dairy products
I- Illustration-challenged (I still can only draw stick figures)
S- Sentimental
E- Easy-going
I’m tagging Kerri, Cassie, and Diana… three non-bloggers. How does that work? You guys will have to write it in the Comments section of this post.
There I was, bustin some sweet moves with my Swiffer. It looked either strangely hot, or overtly stupid. I was too wussy to set up the camera and find out. In my mind, I was freakin hot and Swiffer was Jason Statham, and we were Dancing with the Stars. And yeah, we totally won.
An actual camera would have just killed the dream.
Oh, and since it was a dream, I was WAY hotter than Nelly Furtado.
Disclaimer: For the handful of male readers known to frequent my blog, this post contains some sensitive, girly material. If the subject of bras makes you uncomfortable, skip me for now and come back tomorrow. If, however, you have always secretly wanted to know more on the subject of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, then by all means, stick around. You may learn something.
I went bra shopping last week. Oy.
Let me first explain that there is a HUGE difference between “bra shopping” and “lingerie shopping”. Lingerie shopping is fun. You feel spunky and naughty and there is no real need to try anything on to see how things fit because you’ll only actually be wearing lingerie on your body for approximately 2-5 minutes, depending on how long the sexy dance lasts (or as the case is in my house: however long it takes your husband to turn off his video game). “Bra shopping” on the other hand, is a necessity. It requires measuring, multiple try ons, and all kinds of weird stretches in the changing rooms to make sure that the bra is going to be comfortable and stay where it needs to stay for long periods of time. Bra shopping isn’t very fun.
So one morning last week, while the kids were at survivor camp, I walked into Victoria’s Secret. I ONLY buy bras at Victoria’s Secret. I am a total bra snob. There are certain things that I will not buy “generic”: peanut butter, soda, and bras are the items that top the “name brand” list. (Jif, Coke, and V.S. are the brands, respectively.) People who have know me for a while know that I worked at Victoria’s Secret a decade or so ago. I was working there while Jon and I were dating, got married, and then for the entire duration of my first pregnancy. Let me just say that Victoria’s Secret is a great place to get an employee discount when you are a newly wed. However, Victoria’s Secret is the LAST place on earth that you want to work when you are 9 months pregnant (second-to-last maybe only to an actual strip club). Not to mention the whole “sexy” thing really goes out the window once you’ve seen bras and panties and teddies packed in bulk in huge cardboard boxes in a stock room. There’s nothing sexy about bulk. Let me also say, though, that when you smuggle from the dumpster a 3’ x 6’ poster of Victoria’s Secret models in bras, and give it to your husband to hang in his office, your husband’s male coworkers think that you are AWESOME! (What the hell was I thinking? I have no idea.) But I digress…
So when I walked into Victoria’s Secret last week, a girl dressed in all black pounced on me with a “Can I help you find anything today?” Normally when this question is posed to me, I give the old “I’m just looking” and they skulk off all dejected, knowing that they’re not going to make any money off of me. But last week I said, “Yeah, I need some bras”. I saw the dollar signs cha-ching in the girl’s pupils, because the average cost of a bra at Vicky’s is 45 bucks. So the girl—I believe her name was Becky or something—first offered to measure me. I said sure, because it’d been a while since my last measure and, as any woman will tell you, the girls tend to fluctuate. Now, if you have ever wondered the proper way to measure for a bra size, you’re in luck. I am trained in bra measuring and I’ll let you in on the technique. Before measuring, put on a comfortable (but not padded) bra. First, measure around your rib cage, just below the girls. The number you get there will be the “number” part of your measurement. Next, measure around the “fullest part” of the girls. Take that number and subtract the first (rib cage) number. Each inch in difference is a cup size. If the difference is one inch, it’s an A; if it’s a two inch difference, it’s a B, and so on. For instance: if I measure 34” around the rib cage, and then I measure around the girls and it comes out at a 36, my bra size will be a 34B. If my rib cage measurement is a 32 and the measurement around the girls is a 35, my bra size will be a 32C. Usually you will come in somewhere with “half inch” measurements… which is why you will actually have to TRY STUFF ON! I know. Sorry. I can’t fix everything for you!
So Becky (or whatever her name is) tells me my measurement (and no, I’m not posting it on my blog) and, sure enough, it’s different from last time. So I got into a changing room and try on a bunch of stuff, and hit the little button that calls her back, and I have her get a few other ones, and I try those on. I look in the mirror and I simulate getting a loaf of bread from a high shelf in the supermarket (yeah, very un-sexy, and very real-life) to see if any of them stay in place. Then I simulate vacuuming with one arm while I lift an imaginary chair with the other. Still good. Then I reach my arms way up high and stretch back and forth like I am picking bunches of bananas from high branches, because… well, you never know. And then I have to gauge the overall “look” of the bras. I mean, is everything sitting where it should be sitting? Because, if one is in the middle, and the other is situated somewhere around the armpit area, you have a bad fit. I finally pick three bras that more or less do what they need to do. I get them in cute, fashion colors to try to fake myself into thinking that bra shopping is fun and cute. But what I have just done is not fun… or cute, for anyone spying under the changing room door.
I’ve now had a week to get used to my new bras. They are quite comfortable, I’ll give them that. But the overall look—to me—is weird. The overall look is, well, shoved together and pressed up under my neck. I’m not used to defying gravity with such gusto. They seem very, umm, high. And, well, mighty. I paraded around in front of my husband last night shooting questions at him with tommy gun speed: “don’t they look a little squished? What about now? What about when I turn this way?” He kept saying they were “fine”. And not “fine”, like “oh baby, those are fiiiiiiiine”, but rather, “m’eh, they’re fine. Same as yesterday.” Which I suppose is the best I can ask for at this point in my life. But I spent upwards of $150 and now I’m walking around kind of self-conscious, feeling like I should be wearing heavier make-up and hooker boots. Maybe the material will relax a little in the wash and the push-up power will fade. Otherwise, I’ll just have to wait another year until my next Total-Bra-Overhaul at Victoria’s Secret. It’s no secret. Bras suck.
So yesterday while at was at my friend’s house painting, we decided to go out and pick up some lunch for us and our kids (who played relatively well together for most of the day, except for Zoe’s one small diva freak-out over the boys acting like boys). After talking through the usuals, I mentioned how I remembered seeing a commercial touting the miracle of the Return of the P’zone! at Pizza Hut. I remember eating P’zones a couple years ago when they first came out, and holy smokes were they delicious. I managed to talk Diana into it. So we walk into Pizza Hut and ask about the P’zones (which we mispronounce a few times — calling it a pi-ZO-nie, like real Italians would — much to the manager’s chagrin), and he excitedly tells us that they are $5.99 for one or two for $10.99! So your second one would only be $5.00! How could we say no to that? And then he slickly slides in there that they are “personal sized”, meaning that each P’zone is meant to be devoured by a single person. So I turn to Diana and tell her that we probably need 4 — two for me and my two kids, and two for her and her son and husband. She gives me kind of a dubious look, but allows me to be nuts and we order 4. When we get back to Diana’s place, we cut them up and my kids each eat, like, a 2″ slice, and I put down an entire “personal size” P’zone… and then some of the one that was meant for the kids, too. Because see, I was talking… we were eating and talking. And when I eat and talk, I almost always eat too much, not realizing that I’m eating too much until my intestines are knotted and crying.
An even bigger problem is that I’ve been trying to eat healthier the last year or so. Other than the occasional chocolate or movie nachos, I usually eat pretty well. Which makes falling off the kinda-healthy wagon even more painful for me and my innards. You can’t take a relatively healthy cucumber-eating body and suddenly stuff 3 1/2 pounds of greasy dough and pepperoni into it without some serious consequences. The consequence here being that I’ve had a stomach ache for a solid 30 hours. I exacerbated it last night with some Twizzler’s Bites while we watched Rise of the Silver Surfer with the kids. Because, Hello!, I already had a stomach ache, so why not?!?
In the event that I die in my sleep tonight, and this is my last post (yeah, I’m all about drama this evening)… it’s been real. I bequeath my domain name to my children, where they can write embarrassing stories about their mother in memoriam.
It’s been one of those days. There are several things that I want and/or need to cover, and instead of breaking it all down nice and organized into separate posts, I’m just going to splat it all down here in one post.
First things first: a Saturday Latin Insult. This one is sassy, I’m not going to lie.
“Quo Fugit Venus, Heu, Quove Color?”
-”Where has all your sex-appeal gone? Ah, how did your blossom whither?”
(Horace, Odes IV.13)
I know, sassy, right? Say that to a woman in the Latin-know, and you’ll get a swift kick to the somewheres!
Second things second: I helped my BFF Diana paint her bathroom yesterday. I went up there with the intent of helping her paint for the entire afternoon, but we got sidetracked (I’m one of those gabby chicks) and ended up only painting for the last 45 minutes or so of my visit. My mouth opens and the stories fly and there can really be no stopping me. But it’s looking lovely, and — as this picture shows — my BFF is a cutie from any angle:
See, right there she is saying, “Put down the stupid camera and pick up the frickin paint brush!”
Third things third: I found some incriminating evidence on the glass panes of my living room doors. So far as I know, “Kiss Practicing” goes back hundreds of years. I remember practicing my kissing techniques on my pillow when I was in junior high. I’ve also heard that one’s own hand can be a decent thing on which to practice. However, I was still a little weirded out when I saw this:
Two things worry me here. One: my kids are 5 and 8, which I’m thinking is a little LOT young to be practicing kissing anyway. And two: Hello! It’s a door! Why is anyone kissing a door?
Every few months I find myself getting a little vexed about the amount of time my dear husband spends with his face pressed into the blue glow of the computer monitor, being a virtual Nightelf druid, staving off evil in the all-too-real-to-them (yet very fictional) world of Azeroth. And when I begin my vexing cycle, I always recall a beautiful song that my dear husband dedicated to me on my 30th birthday… in front of all of my friends. It’s a song that I feel could have been written just for me. It’s a song that keeps me smiling as I sit –alone– in bed, waiting into the wee hours for said Nightelf husband to shut off the computer and emerge from the dungeon (aka- the basement) and come to freakin bed!
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Aussie comedy group, “Tripod“, as they set my marriage to music:
Yeah, I’ve posted it before, and I will most likely post it again. I just love it.
I like to think that I have an organic, hippy, all natural goddess side to me. I like to buy things that say “organic” because it just sounds healthier. I dream of one day having my own herb garden and I’ll know which herbs are good for which ailments, and I’ll whip up all kinds of potions and brews. Basically, I dream of being like the hot sisters in the movie “Practical Magic”; but until I learn the ins and outs of white magic and alchemy, organic carrots and sugar-free Jell-o will have to suffice.
Along with natural stuff, I also love beauty stuff. So of course I love natural beauty stuff. I have quite the array of essential oils and fruit scrubs and cleansers made from red clay and ash from the deserts of Utah (don’t ask me how much it costs for a half ounce of ash and clay… and don’t ask how badly it made my face break out). One natural staple that I absolutely love is Grapeseed Oil. I use it for everything. I especially love to use it to remove my eye make-up. So there I was the other day, grabbing the bottle and soaking the cotton ball and slathering it on my eyes. Something felt a little weird. My eyes kind of started to sting, which wasn’t normal. My eyes were a little blurry, but I looked down at the bottle and noticed that the label was all wrong. I hadn’t grabbed Grapeseed Oil, but an identical bottle that contained all natural Coconut Emulsifier. What is Coconut Emulsifier, you ask? It sounds natural and gentle enough, right? I mean, coconuts are among the most non-threatening of all tropical fruits… I’ve heard. For a moment I had forgotten what emulsifier is and what it does. But no matter, I grabbed the other bottle–the one that actually contained Grapeseed Oil–and smeared that on. And then, Sweet Moses, the pain escalated and it felt like I literally had Elmer’s glue (mixed with hot lava) on my eyeballs. So I began rinsing them madly with water. Wait, water? Ohhhh… Coconut Emulsifier, riiiight. Now I was remembering what it does! It bonds oil and water. So if you want to pour some of that wonderful, natural Grapeseed Oil into your bath, you can pour in some of the natural Coconut Emulsifier and it will all mix nicely into a soothing, moisturizing paradise. Or—it can also bond natural Grapeseed Oil to your water-covered eyeballs, making them feel like they are slathered in lava glue. Oh yes, and did I mention it makes you freakin blind? Yeah: hot, glue, blind. Check. What could I do but keep trying to rinse them? (Layer on that glue, girl. Keep going.) Five minutes into the rinsing I began to think that I was only making it worse. (Really? Do ya’ think?) So I gave up and turned around and exited the bathroom—after a brief collision with the door jam, being blind and all—and wandered around the house feeling and groping with my arms stretched out in front of me. The kids thought I was hilarious. Look at mommy acting like a blind clown. Hahaha. Yeah: hot, glue, blind, and getting busted on by my kids. Check. Oh yeah, tiny punks? When mommy’s eyesight returns, you are gonna get it!
I’m sure there is an all natural cure for blindness caused by all natural beauty products. Oh how I wished the pretty chicks from “Practical Magic” were real and I could call them up and they could bring me some exotic leaves to place over my lava-glued eyes. And we could laugh and talk and braid each other’s hair and they could teach me some love potions while my eyes healed. But alas, the hot witch sisters are fake.
Much like my knowledge of all things organic, natural, and lovely.
(ps- I added the picture this morning so you can see that the bottles really do look similar! Click on it and see! I’m not a total idiot.)
