Cheers to 30 Years

Today, I no longer stare down the barrel of 30 - I have been shot square in the face with a brand new decade. I saw it coming, but nothing prepared me for voluntarily waking up at 6:30am the day I entered old agedom - I suppose now I will rise with the sun, eat dinner at 4pm, and buy a set of knitting needles. I'm going to need an afghan. These old bones get cold. Luckily for me, I have always enjoyed a good 3pm happy hour, so that won't be affected. However, I may have to old lady up my choice of drink. A gimlet is starting to sound delicious.

Now since I'm up at the crack of dawn when I should be sleeping in to prevent the forming of any more wrinkles, I am taking a moment to reflect on the decade that has just booted me out of the nest. Those roaring 20s sure were some formative years, so let me take some time to share with you the life lessons I learned the hard way.

Lesson #1 - Hippie Haute Couture and the Difficulty of Free Love

I arrived in Santa Cruz with tie dyed dreams searching for a drum circle to call my own. I was convinced that a dorm room poster of Phish and a Bob Marley quote hanging on my door would ensure me the friendship of our dreadlocked counter culture. But breaking into the inner world of hippie hoopla is harder than you think, regardless of your bootlegged casette tape of the Grateful Dead and your love of all things Dylan. No longer would wearing a Save the Manatees tshirt suffice. I had to look the part. So I dragged my clean hair and freshly showered behind down to the local hippie clothing store, where I proceeded to spend much of my student loan money (which I am still paying back, even at the ripe old age of 30) on shockingly expensive patchwork pants. I raced back to campus, knowing that these patchwork pants were going to score me a slew of hippie besties. No such luck.Turns out that just because you enjoy a good Cherry Garcia, you will never be one of them.

Especially, incidentally, when your parents make you sign a contract that you won't dreadlock your hair. The odds were stacked against me from the start. I was doomed to a destiny of friendship with squares.

Lesson #2 - Carlo Rossi is a Party Stopper

Walking into a party with a jug of Carlo Rossi is awesome. Just hook one finger into the handle, throw it over your shoulder, and drink it like you just don't care. And believe me, you won't - you're young, you can handle a cheap wine hangover. And though your fellow party goers may not tell you at the time, you will be forever remembered as legend - wait for it - dary.

Lesson #3 - Don't Date the Locals

Just don't. Find yourself a nice boy (or girl) from a nice town from somewhere far away.

Lesson #4 - Major in Something Useful

I majored in Sociology. I can take one look at my surroundings and determine that I know all there is to glean from a social setting. I may even quote Alexis de Tocqueville and act all super smart with my pseudo intellectual comments. But I still don't understand statistics and sociology never got me a job. There is a real world out there, folks. Don't forget that as hard as you try to hover on the outskirts, eventually you will be forced into it. And when you do, it's nice to be able to be employed.

But don't get me wrong. Working for the man sucks.

Lesson #5 - If You Marry A Man Who Steals Steamrollers, You Asked For It

There is never a dull moment with Mr. Greene. But what did I expect, when one of my first dates with said husband was a cozy, intimate little setting at his arraignment. One fateful night, Mr. Greene thought it would be a great idea to hotwire a steamroller and drive it to the beach. Sounds fun, right? And it was all fun and games, as it always is, until someone gets caught.

Now 7th Avenue in Santa Cruz is no back country road. In his defense, Mr. Greene is from a small town in which hotwiring a steamroller may be heralded as local heroism. For years, the town would remember such an antic. It would be handed down from generation to generation, shared over pitchers of beer at the one and only town bar. Shared as a parable at church sermons. Perhaps even a statue of said steamroller stealer is erected. However, in Santa Cruz it is seen as a serious crime, for which you will go to jail.

And hence a love story was born. And here I am, many moons later, with a ring on my finger. I asked for it.

Lesson #6 - Don't Trust the Chocolate at a Phish Show

Just don't. Unless you're into that kind of thing. Then do.

Lesson #7 - Don't Judge a Book by its Cover

I once was riding on a super packed bus to downtown Santa Cruz, on my way to my mediocre job at a juice shop which shall remain nameless. I suddenly got very dizzy, and passed out. When I came to, I was staring into the dirty face of a funny looking man with a Peter Pan hat. His hat had a hole cut into the top, and coming out of the hole was one gigantic dreadlock. Of course I immediately decided that dizzy or not, this man was not my knight in shining armour and I should get out of this situation stat. However, this crazy one dreadlocked Peter Pan man helped me off the bus and bought me an Odwalla. Then, in a cloud of fairy dust, he disappeared back to Neverland.

Lesson learned.

Lesson #8 - Leave Town

Mr. Greene and I had finally had enough of our little college town, and hightailed it out of there to the happening community of Woodland. And though we ultimately did not stay there forever, I made the best friends in the world and had some very funny experiences. It's where I attended my first Demolition Derby. It's where Mr. Greene proposed. And it's where I, along with my closest friends, almost died on Cache Creek. Your 20s are supposed to be full of adventure. Never stay in one place for too long. You have the rest of your life to settle down.

Lesson #9 - Blame it on the Alcohol

Enough said.

        Sub-Lesson #9 - Don't Drink Tequila in Mexico

        Again, enough said.

Lesson #10 - One Day, You'll Look Back and Laugh

True story. I have burnt many a bridge and done many a stupid thing throughout the past decade. I was a much different person at 29 than I was at 21, and I get dizzy looking back and thinking about all the crazy antics that I somehow escaped from. While many things still make me cringe, I am able to laugh about it now - although some of my laughter is just a nervous, how could I, hope no one remembers that kind of laugh.

My great-grandma used to say, "This too shall pass". I just didn't know it was going to go by so quickly. So cheers to 30 years! Now someone fetch me my walking stick. You should treat your elders with respect.

Rose Colored Glasses and Other Such Nonsense

I often live as though life is just one big sinkhole. You know, one day you can be hanging out with the 2.5 kids and the family dog in your picket fence encased front yard, marveling at the beautiful weather and maybe even enjoying a cocktail or two on your front porch. You're probably inhaling the smell of sweet jasmine, thinking, "Self, I've sure made it. This is the American dream. Nothin' can bring me down!" The next day, boom! You walk out your front door onto your wrap around porch meticulously decorated with Adirondack chairs and maybe even a porch swing, then promptly fall right into a giant sinkhole that manifested itself overnight. You didn't even have time to drink your morning coffee and read the paper before you're neck deep in a sticky situation.

I treat life as though the glass is perpetually half empty. If there is a silver lining, all I see is the storm cloud. If there is a rainbow, I focus on the rain that preceded it. And if the Dodgers are winning a game, I sit back, cross my arms, and wait for them to give the game away.

So of course, given my depths of despair attitude and penchant for all things negative, I tend to ignore the signs that life is giving me lemonade rather than lemons. I am Chicken Little, running around screaming that the sky is falling. I'm the Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe - a story that, incidentally, has made me terrified of little children. I am the Boy Who Cried Wolf. You get the picture. Everything is over exaggerated, hyperbolized until I have become convinced that I am going to fall headfirst into the rabbit hole and spend the rest of my life trying to figure out why, exactly, a raven is like a writing desk.

Because I was obviously not issued my rose colored glasses, I ignore all large, hand painted arrow signs that I am in fact heading in the right direction. I married a country boy raised by Giants fans, who willingly decided to forsake the pride of San Francisco and fully commit himself to the boys in blue just to have a harmonious marriage - because, you know, marriages break up over baseball disagreements all the time. And when he agreed to move to Southern California to follow my dreams, did I thank my lucky stars and think about what a fortunate gal I am? Why no! I instead grumbled to myself that it would never work out, we would never hop on the 5 and head south in a uHaul without looking back.

When we opened our first joint savings account, the online banking system randomly gave us an icon so that we would know it was our account. Can you believe it was a picture of seagulls? But did I think, hey, what a lucky sign! Nope. Instead I thought man, seagulls sure are ugly birds. And when we opened our joint checking account and were given a picture of San Diego as the icon, I figured we would never live there in a million years.

One day, my job miraculously asked me to move to San Diego permanently. Not too long after, my husband got a fantastic job in San Diego as well. Instead of marveling at this serendipitous situation, I focused on how much I hated that he would be traveling a lot and never home. And when our landlord decided to sell the house we were living in right out from under us, I definitely did not view it as a fantastic opportunity to find our dream home.

But find our dream home we did, complete with a fancy below ground pool, honey! We were handed the keys to a home of our very own just this afternoon. Not without signing our souls away to the bank, of course, and over extending ourselves to the point where we might become the weird recluses on the block who never leave their front yard...

But never mind that. Today I am going to revel in the positive because come on, we all know that there is no way a raven is like a writing desk. The sky never fell on Chicken Little, and I can only trust that the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe pulled herself up by her worn out boot strap, told those little whipper snappers to stop whining, and went on to move into a beautiful Louboutin and live happily ever after.

You're Killing Me, Smalls!

The 4th of July is my favorite holiday. It never turns out quite like I think it's going to, but nevertheless it is tied up with Easter as the all time best holiday of the year. (Please see It's Not a Party Until Somebody Cries) Whenever I picture what type of celebration I am going to have, I picture the Sandlot. Maybe a pick up baseball game on a dirt diamond, fireworks exploding as we play the all American pastime. A block party where all of the neighbors get together and barbeque hot dogs and hamburgers, everyone decked out in their red, white and blue finest. Dads looking like Ken dolls drinking scotch and beer, moms popping mother's little helpers as they scramble to make a potato salad that can feed hundreds of demanding children, who, incidentally, are using their outside voices. Okay...this isn't sounding as awesome as it was at first. But you get what I mean.

By the way, didn't you all have a crush on Benny? I know that at my age I risk sounding like a bit of a cougar, but Benny was so cute! I believe he is single handedly responsible for my love of Converse sneakers. And then he grew up to be a Los Angeles Dodger, as if he couldn't be any more crush worthy! Though once he made it to the big leagues, he was not very good looking. At all. It was nothing short of tragic.

Anyway, I always set out with the best of intentions to create a holiday that brings back a sort of all American nostalgia, a tapestry of all things patriotic. Think s'mores and pool parties, barbeques and the Beach Boys, tossing the baseball around and the smell of hamburgers wafting through the air. Instead I usually drink way too much beer, and find myself watching my husband do dangerous things with fireworks while we all belt out a very off key rendition of Proud To Be An American. Hey. What can you do. Nothing ever ends up quite the way you plan, but it's still my favorite holiday.

So this 4th of July, remember that it doesn't matter which side of the aisle you are on (although come on, let's face it...there is only one right side!). Whether you celebrate by drinking beer, lighting fireworks, going on vacation, or eating veggie burgers, don't forget to take a moment to revel in your freedom and thank the powers that be for all the opportunities provided as a result of that freedom.

Unless you live in California, where you either have to have a permit, pay a hefty fine, pay a lofty tax, and prohibit all things profitable. But hey, the marijuana is legal!

Have a safe and happy 4th, ya'll!

"Let me tell you something, kid. Everybody gets one chance to do something great. Most people never take the chance, either because they're too scared, or they don't recognize it when it spits on their shoes." ---The Babe, Sandlot

Photo Courtesy of blog.moviefone.com

Paranoia in B Major

I don't even know if I can express the level of amazingness that was this weekend. While I am pretty much wrecked from the events that made up the best weekend ever, and it has once again solidified that in fact I am way too old for this stuff, I am floating around in a dreamy cloud of awesome. Even a nasty email at 8am from the boss man couldn't plummet this girl back down to earth. I'm just going to hang out in an ethereal state of mind for the next few days, because these moments don't come along often enough and it's possible that another won't show its face for a long time.

I spent years plotting my escape from the small town of Woodland, and my brother-in-law's wedding to his longtime love made me want to hop back into the country life immediately! As the bride and her bridesmaids were enroute to the wedding ceremony, we decided that a little detour at the best watering hole in town was in order. Six girls in their beautiful dresses saddled up to the bar and slammed none other than Coors Light, ya'll! And, of course, a trip to this fabulous bar is never complete without a shot of Starbursts....and with a nice o'le buzz we yeehaw'ed our way out of the bar and back into the limo to get this little lady hitched!

Photo Courtesy of the Sweet Life Photography

The ceremony was in a little white church out in the country. Not only was the ceremony touching and beautiful, we were allowed to drink champagne while sitting in the pews. Now that's my kind of church! Jesus did turn water into wine, so I guess it's perfectly acceptable to have a party foul that may have allegedly resulted in spilt booze on the church floor. I'm not saying it actually happened - but I'm not denying it either.

Not to stray off topic, but I lived across the street from a Catholic church for years. Upon first moving into this house, I noticed that very often when someone drove by the church, they would do the sign of the cross. Now, I am a Catholic myself, so this intrigued me. For years, I spent hours in church making similar signs and enduring the drudgery. So I got to thinking. Why not make church a little more fun? And since alcohol is definitely fun, why not make up a drinking game? AND since I lived in a country town and I am not opposed to a little front porch sittin', it only makes sense to post up on the porch, pour myself a cocktail, and drink every time a car drove by and its passenger made the sign of the cross. You decide...Sacriligous or just plain genius? Perhaps you should not judge. This should probably stay between me and the big man upstairs. (Jesus, not Jay - FYI)

Anyway, back to this wedding. We hopped into the limo and moseyed on out to the reception venue - another breathtakingly beautiful location. The little details and the choice of music made this reception one big, fabulous party. And the party didn't stop when the last of the guests had made their way home. We went back to our favorite bar and painted the town red. I mean we didn't stop until beers were thrown, husbands were kicked out, and the maximum amount of fun was wrung out of the wedding tapestry.

But don't think that the weekend stopped there. Oh no, ma'am. My sister-in-law and I have followed around our favorite band, the Avett Brothers, for years. We first saw them back when tickets were 8 bucks a pop and they played tiny venues. I promptly fell in love with the music and the banjo player, Scott Avett. *Sigh* Mr. Greene loves this band as well and has allowed me to maintain my crush all these years, even flying with me to Everett, Washington to go to a show. Never in a million years did I think I would meet this band anywhere other than in my dreams...But luckily I am married to the man of my dreams, and he made my dreams come true on Sunday night.

We danced the night away to the sweet melodies that only a banjo and some boys from North Carolina can bring, and then went up to our friend's hotel room to continue the party. Mr. Greene discovered that the Avett Brothers were out in front of their tour bus, and piled us into the car and got us over to them. Now let me tell you, I was terrified to get out of the car. I know it's hard to believe, but I am not the world's smoothest talker. And I probably wasn't that night either, but the conversation replaying in my head has me looking like the coolest girl the Avetts ever did meet. That's the way I intend on remembering it and no one is going to tell me differently. I mean, just look at how calm and cool I am handling this chance encounter:

So, in a nutshell, my dreams have come true. The weekend would only have been perfect if I had mad banjo skills, played Scott a tune, amazed him so much that he asked me to come along for the tour and we lived happily ever after. (Sorry, Mr. Greene! I love you!) But I guess some things are meant to stay dreams so we can live with the hope that the possibility of something just as amazing can happen to us yet again.

Lollipops & Arugula

Mr. Greene has been traveling all week for work. We are probably the worst couple ever when it comes to talking on the phone. By the time he calls in the evening, he has been working for 13 + hours and the last thing he wants to do is dive into all of my innermost feelings about my day. Being a sensitive and intuitive Virgo, all I want to do is discuss and dissect all the happenings of the day. But last night our conversation went a little like this:

JayGee called very excited about this wonderful dinner he had just gone to for their last day on this particular job. "Babe!" he exclaimed. "Have you ever heard of a tapas bar?"

Have I ever heard of a tapas bar? Well yes, honey, I sure have. I believe I have been asking you to take me out on a date to a particular tapas bar for months. But that's neither here nor there.

He started excitedly listing all of the different appetizers they tried: noodles with fish, beet salad with arugula, something they call the Lollipop...

Whoa whoa whoa! Hold on just a minute here. Up until this point, I had been half listening, interjecting with the occasional ummmhmmm, the obligatory oh yum, blah blah blah. But when he brought up the Lollipop, I certainly would not be the astute observer I am if I did not ask the obvious.

"Sweetie," I began. Now how do I put this delicately? Considering that tact and restraint have never been my strengths, I threw all discretion to the wind and just said it. "Judging from your appetizers, I am certain that by tapas bar you most definitely meant to say topless bar, and Lollipop was no appetizer!"

He responded, "You're right! And that was no beet salad with arugula. What I meant to say was that when Lollipop gave me a lap dance, I shouted ARUGULA!"

And THAT is why I love him.

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The Art of Trolley Tripping

You might think this story is a cautionary tale of carbon footprints and global warming, but to assume so would be wrong. Before you rush out and wave your plastic around wildly as you search for the perfect Prius, or don your snappy bike helmet and super sexy spandex and mount your ever so earth friendly bicycle, please heed the story of the Misadventure of the San Diego Trolley.You see, for all you novices in public transportation out there, there are a few rules and guidelines to which you must adhere should you choose a life of eco friendly commuting. This handbook may also become known as "How to Get from Point A to Point B Without Getting a DUI" or, my personal favorite, "The Art of Trolley Tripping".

First things first. If you are anticipating utilizing the San Diego Trolley, you must first gather a group of good girlfriends and one trusty husband. Once you have all participants joined together, each individual must consume an adult beverage prior to walking to the trolley stop. Now, in the spirit of misadventure and just because two drinks are better than one, you should always make sure that you have at least one rowdy girlfriend and again, a trusty husband, who will be willing to break all the rules of propriety and commence drinking as the group meanders down to the ever so clean and classy trolley depot. To maximize the fun, a drinking game should be implemented. Now, of course you may use your own favorite drinking game, but might I recommend what I like to call the Just Keep Drinking Until You Pass A Gas Guzzling Parked Car game. The name is self explanatory and the rules are minimal. Please keep in mind that because, at the very least, you are projecting an earth friendly image, you must recycle your bottle or can at the end of the afore mentioned drinking game. I recommend only taking the trolley on trash day. That way, you can easily dispose of your empty beverage container in some unsuspecting neighbor's recycle bin while never breaking your stride.

Now that you have arrived at the trolley depot, please resist all urges to play Trolley Roulette, otherwise known as hopping on the trolley without purchasing a ticket. While it sounds fun, there will be no comrades aboard that trolley who will be willing to help you escape a very angry, ticket hungry conductor. Please remember to avoid eye contact with many of the trolley patrons, who may view such an act as an invitation to join your group of girlfriends and one trusty husband. The time for conversation with questionable characters will come, but you must pace yourself.

Sometimes, on busy commuting days, the trolley will be packed with the environmentally conscious, the downtrodden, and the occasional all around hostile patron. You may be forced to stand. You may tire of standing and attempt to take a seat next to another trolley goer. If you choose to do so, you are going rogue and therefore left to your own devices. When one girlfriend breaks from the pack of good girlfriends and one trusty husband, the group does not have your back. Sit at your own risk.

Once you have reached your destination, please feel free to party responsibly. Heck, you aren't driving! I recommend Coors tall boys at Petco Park. That will get the party going. So much so, in fact, that after the game you might desire a California burrito. And if you do decide to indulge your craving, you might happenstance upon the part of the night I like to call "Deep Conversations with Unusual and Possibly Dangerous Strangers". Oh yes, the segment of the epic night where one trusty husband decides that girl talk is boring and silly and so decides to strike up a completely inappropriate discussion with a completely inappropriate dude. (What was he thinking?! A Phillies fan? Mr. Greene is well aware of my long standing feud with Shane Victorino.)

And then the time comes to board the trolley once more, and let the conductor take you home safely. However, should you become bored and wish to add a little spice to your otherwise tame trolley misadventure, you can always rely on the trusty husband to find the heroin addict aboard. If this makes you feel uncomfortable, follow the lead of your good girlfriends and avert your gazes and pretend not to notice the very loud and boisterous conversation taking place about redemption. Or, if you are so inclined, join in the conversation for the amusement of all other trolley goers. And by all means, when the recovering addict leaves his pack of smokes on the trolley seat, do try and chase him down to return them.

So, as you can see, with the trolley so readily available, there is no need to slap on your hemp slippers and join your local chapter of Greenpeace. Simply buy yourself a six pack, grab some friends, ride the trolley, and please don't forget to recycle!

May the Odds Be Ever In Your Favor

When I first heard about The Hunger Games, I wrinkled up my nose in disgust and refused to pay attention. I am much too high brow and way too educated to be bothered with such things of pop culture proportions. Unless you count Harry Potter. Which I don't. Those books are pure genius. But a book with a cover that contains a girl holding a bow and arrow? Puh-lease. No self respecting adult would entertain such folly.

One day I was just browsing at Barnes & Noble, of course with no intention of buying The Hunger Games. I perused the Young Adult section, but not because I was sniffing around the overrated trilogy. Of course not. I just wanted to see what the youth of today are interested in. It keeps me young, because as you already know, I am an old lady. Please see I'm Too Old For This Stuff for further explanation.

I found myself face to face with the dreaded Hunger Games. I tentatively reached up, and began browsing through it. And then, it happened.

I had to read it.

The dangers of a bloated bureaucracy? The perils of government control over individual freedoms? A LOVE TRIANGLE? Aw geez. I'm in. You had me at Peeta.

Would you believe I finished that book in one day? True story. I immediately had to rush out to buy Catching Fire, because my life just couldn't move on in a forward motion until I found out what was going to happen to our beloved heroes Katniss and Peeta. Would they be punished for winning? President Snow can't be happy about their shenanigans in the Arena! And so, piqued with a burning curiosity, I dove right into Catching Fire and didn't emerge for air until I was done with the book. After a day and half, I came to the surface of real life and found that I was not yet ready to rejoin the world as it currently stands. I had to hop back into what the future could be if we continue along this perilous journey of surrendering our freedoms little by little to an elite few who feign interest in peace and justice for all but in reality desire power and control over the masses. (Yes, I gained all of this insight from a hipster tween trilogy with an adolescent love story interwoven into the story line - I am nothing if not a deep thinker!)

At this point, Mr. Greene sighed deeply as he watched me trudge out the door to our favorite local Barnes & Noble on a quest to acquire the final book, Mockingjay. This book took me two days to finish, and I felt a bit rushed by the author at the ending, but it did not stop me from walking around in a Hunger Games daze for the next week. In an attempt to diminish my feverish withdrawal symptoms, JayGee agreed to take me to see the movie. I begrudgingly agreed because I am a book snob, and we all know that the movie never does the book justice. But, I am pleased to report that this movie did a phenomenal job of paying homage to the storyline. It made this intellectual, educated scholar who only reads profound and meaningful works of literary genius proud.

Then again, it's no Harry Potter.

I'm Too Old For This Stuff

It turns out that perhaps I'm not as hip and cool as I think I am. Do the kids say "hip" these days? Because I might be so uncool in fact, that I use words like "hip". Maybe I have hit the time in my life where the only use of "hip" that makes sense is when it is used in sentences such as: "I go in for my hip replacement surgery tomorrow" or "I have child bearing hips". In fact, I might be so far past cool that I am really an old lady standing on my front porch waving my crooked, arthritis ridden finger at the whipper snappers who drive too fast down my street.

You might be shaking your head in disbelief, wondering what possibly could have happened that I have now resigned myself to a lifetime of early bird specials. The events that occurred will chill you to the bone.

Da club happened.

Yes, you heard me right. I was up in da club. My hoochie outfit consisted of a classy dress of an appropriate length paired with sexy but sensible slingbacks. I thought I looked okay, like a married 29 year old who still likes to get dressed up, go out, and get her party on. Well, to quote John McCain - because let's face it, I am apparently close to his age - My friends,  I might as well have been wearing my house slippers. I should have walked into da club with cold cream on my face and curlers in my hair. 29 is the new 92 when trying to back that ass up to a bar with bartenders who call you ma'am. Or was it mom? I couldn't hear a conversation over all that racket they were playing. Honestly, music these days doesn't even have a melody.

But though an old lady I may be, I am nothing if not a trooper. I was determined to celebrate this bachelorette party with the gusto of a girl of 21. I balanced my vodka tonic on my walker and shook my artificial hips to the sound of profanity laced music (honestly, can this noise even be called music? In my day, you could understand the lyrics). Just as I was about to bust a move I collided with a couple engaged in what I believe the kids call grinding. I stared in horror and yelled at the young adults to get a room. I can't be sure, as my hearing isn't all that great, but I think I heard the young man inquire who let Grandma into da club. My heavens!

Can you believe that we partied like teenagers until the wee hour of 11:00? I would have stayed longer as I was just getting my groove back, but it turns out that we can't drink like we could in the good old days. On top of that, some hooligan stole an iPhone from one of the jacket pockets in our party. He probably figured that we were too old to use such a new fangled device, and saved us the humiliation of attempting to join the young world of technology. What a nice young man.

I awoke with creaking bones but hey, any day I wake up above ground is a good day. I folded myself into my rocker, covered myself with my knitted afghan, and dozed off with dreams of da club.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

As you may have read in The Coffee Cup Caper, my husband is a bit of a hoarder. Hoarding conjures up images of piles of junk items stashed and stacked all over the house. Thanks to yours truly, Mr. Greene's hoarding has not been permitted to escalate to emergency situation standards. Buuuut....I do find very strange things in very strange places.

Like today. I found a pair of pajama pants for which he has been searching fruitlessly. In a bush. In our front yard. Of course.

This pants situation baffled me. Since the husband wasn't around to interrogate, I turned to the besties. Thus this mystery became the sisterhood of the traveling pants.

Why on earth, I asked, would one put a pair of pants, pajama pants no less, into a bush in the front yard? Well, perhaps it was a treasure hunt, said one friend. Interesting. We are nearing Easter, so perhaps this is a Greene version of an Easter egg hunt? Said the same friend, it could be a cut and dry case of pants trying to escape! Hmmm...And just what could the pants have seen that would make them fly the coop? I won't ask.

This mystery proved to be helpful to another friend. She had lost her yoga pants and didn't even think to look in the yard! That husband of mine...always so helpful to others in their times of need.

And yet another friend sent encouraging words about the joys of gardening, for oh, the things you can find! Thanks friend...But I still hate doing the "boy" jobs Mr. Greene once did before he joined the dark side of 80 hour work weeks. No matter how cool I try to make it, yard work makes me itchy and irritated. And, quite honestly, confused, now that I've found pajama pants in the planter box.

That's What's Up

This was a weekend wrought with misadventures, which has prompted the following musings. I can attest that over the years, I have been on many a misadventure with many a poor soul, and I have found that these misadventures usually result in the maximum amount of fun. This weekend was no exception.

It all started when the always entertaining Kat rolled into town. For those of you who don't know, Miss Kat is my fabulous sister and partner in crime. These days she goes by the name of Dolly. The afternoon began with a light lunch followed by a pitcher of beer margaritas. Beer Margaritas, you exclaim! And rightfully so, because if you haven't tried a beer margarita, then really, you have no idea what you're missing. I suggest that you make yourself some before reading any further.

www.allrecipes.com

One pitcher became two, and before you knew it we were sound asleep. The following morning, we awoke bright eyed and bushy tailed - Just like you always do after consuming copious amounts of tequila, right? Okay okay, I admit it. We might have looked like something the margarita fairy dragged in. It wasn't pretty. But we had places to go and things to see, so rally we did! A little makeup and a breakfast burrito later we looked great. Presentable. Whatever.

Off we went to our next misadventure, a San Diego bay cruise on the Hornblower. Now that's what's up. I think I may have found the perfect hangover remedy. Fresh air and mimosas! Eureka! Get me the US Patent Office on the phone. We learned many things aboard that ship. Did you know that the Navy trains dolphins to scope out enemy submarines? Those cute, cuddly creatures are actually military combatants specially trained in espionage! Another fun fact we learned that day: The Hornblower sells hot dogs. It was the world's best kept secret, and yet we discovered this blissful fact thanks to an overzealous passenger with a fondness for Stella with Sprite and sausage. And finally, I learned that if Kat could be any sea creature in the world, she would be a seahorse. You learn something every day - even those about whom you thought you knew everything.

Now, sadly, it was time for Dolly to say goodbye. She had cotton candy to twirl and happiness to spread. In strolls the husband, with wonderful news that he (finally) has a weekend off. WooHoo! Already I have visions of spending long, lazy hours together, exploring San Diego and remembering why we got married. Imagine my surprise when my wonderful, hard working husband declared that he would like to spend the weekend refinishing the hardwood floors in our rented (yes, RENTED!) house. After a few choice words and an hour (or more) of the silent treatment, I decided that we should probably make the best of this misadventure. We couldn't stay in the house while the floors dried, so we decided to head on up to the Thompson Tavern in Huntington Beach. Aka: Mom & Dad's. Hey, you gotta do what you've gotta do.

Many misadventures ensued, but like most of the best memories I have, the actual events are foggy. However, I am certain that there was a boat, Captain Jack's, and some serious dancing to Rocket Man. I know how to get down.

We returned to beautiful floors, to which I begrudgingly had to agree were worth the weekend of dust and chaos. I awoke this morning to the delivery of our first ever, matching, grown up furniture! After the weekend I had, it's good to have an adult living room to remind me that all good things must come to an end. It's Monday again and I am obligated to put my adult face on.

The Coffee Cup Caper

My husband has a problem. He is a hoarder. Truth be told, this is not so much his problem as it is mine - He is totally fine with his hoarding ways. If it were up to him, he would have an entire house and yard filled with the treasures he holds dear. Treasure, you ask? Well, I'm glad you inquired. Let me define "treasure".

Rocks. To some, they are a part of the landscape. To others, they are interesting to look at, but nothing more. And to the women of the western world, the only rocks that matter are those that sparkle. But to Mr. Greene, rocks are something to be squirreled away and stored for an indefinite period of time. You never know when a rock may come in handy. One day, I was minding my own business as I was getting into the shower. As I opened up the shower door, I was met with a startling scene. Right there, in my very small shower, was a very large boulder. Not your run of the mill rock, mind you. Oh no. It was a boulder. The kind that you worry might crush you in your vehicle were there to be a landslide as you were driving by. The kind the mob ties to your foot when you are sent to sleep with the fishes. The kind that has no business ever being in your shower.

Unless, you are a Greene. Then all bets are off and boulders may be found on any given day in the shower.

When confronted with the obvious question, Mr. Greene offered this answer in defense of the shower boulder. "Babe. It's a beautiful rock, and it was dirty, so I put it in the shower to clean it off." Ah, yes, of course. What a logical explanation to such an illogical situation. So shimmy into the shower I did, where I proceeded to shampoo alongside said boulder.

Plants. These are another huge item to be hoarded in our household. Now, you might say to yourself, but Brooke! Plants are lovely. One really cannot have too many plants. They add so much to the landscape. To that point, I must say that though plants are indeed beautiful to look at, they have the potential to take over. I have seen Little Shop of Horrors and that horrible Mark Wahlberg movie that was so bad I can't remember the title. But the plants killed people, and that's all you need to know about that. Now while these plants Mr. Greene insists upon cultivating will most likely not kill anybody, they are indeed taking over. A couple of true stories:

I once looked in the closet where the water heater is kept. I don't know why I did that, as the water heater section of the house is not my domain. However, look I did, and it was there that I found three plants huddled together in the dark for no particular reason. Then there was that blissful period in our marriage when we lived in a house with a his and hers bathroom. He didn't use my bathroom, and I didn't step foot into his. It was wonderful. But one day, being the good wifey that I am (albeit slightly nosey and a tad controlling) I decided to clean his bathroom. Upon opening the shower door (why I still do that after the boulder incident, I do not know - I am a glutton for punishment) I discovered a lovely tropical plant growing right there in the confines of tile and plaster.

And yet one more true plant story. We had finally made it to our new home in San Diego, and set about upacking the contents of our UHaul. I wheeled in a kitchen cart, and in front of my mom, dad, and sister, I opened the cupboard doors of this cart. Out fell a plant, spilling dirt onto the kitchen floor. We all stared at this, a bit perplexed, and at that very moment in strolled Mr. Greene. He took one look at the scene before him, and said these haunting words: "Sweet! My succulent!". That's my hoarding husband in a nutshell.

There are more items he loves to gather and store for indefinite periods of time, but at the moment the most infuriating might be the coffee cups. I wake up in the morning and stumble into the kitchen, bleary eyed and cursing as I am no gem to be around that early. I reach for the coffee cup, and to my dismay I come up empty handed! Why, you ask? Please refer to the picture posted below. Mr. Greene likes to stash coffee cups in his car until there are no coffee cups to be found in the cupboard. These were the most recent cups to be recovered in the rescue effort.

I have tried to combat the hoarding many different ways, but I will save that for another day. Most involve tough love and dumpster diving, but for now I have attempted humor in a desperate plea for the restoration of coffee cup order in the Greene household.

Love,

The Coffee Cups

Have You Met Dolly?

You must. She's fabulous.

And sweet.

And my best friend.

http://www.dollyscottoncandy.com/

Alone Again...Naturally

As you can see from the title, I have a cheesy Paul McCartney song stuck in my head....and I'm shameless enough to own it!

The husband is off traveling again for work. This time he's in Oregon, and he'll be gone for two weeks. Now, I'm a strong, independent woman and all that other new age mumbo jumbo, but that's a long time to be home alone talking to the dog. You might think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Coco and I get into deep philosophical conversations on a variety of topics, like what to watch on tv or what exactly I should cook for dinner. I'm cooking for one, after all. Coco keeps hoping I'm going to fall further into my home alone psychosis and start inviting her to sit at the table and serve her people food. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm not ruling it out. I get a little loopy by Day 7.

To make matters worse, I work from home. I know, everyone is getting out their tiny violins and playing me a sad tune. Poor Brooke, she works from home.

Let me tell you something about working from home. It's awesome, for the most part. But some days I don't change out of my pajamas. Some days I go to the gym in the morning and don't change out of my disgusting, smelly gym clothes until I am about to go to bed. I don't put on makeup for days at a time, and I am probably known around town as the Smelly Girl who frequents Trader Joes and Target in the same clothes every day, all day. I have become totally undisciplined, and sometimes the tv is on all day just to keep me company. Well Good Morning, Real Housewives of (Insert city here - I watch them all), how are you today? I will watch your lives and feel better about myself because while I am a tad unhinged, I am no trainwreck. Not yet, anyway.

I have started talking to myself. I have always had conversations with myself in my head, but since the husband is never home and I always am, these conversations have manifested into full fledged discussions with myself. Out loud. Once in the parking lot of Target while loading my trunk full of things I didn't need but bought just because. Well, I did need the bird feeder. Now I have a backyard full of happy little birds who don't mind that I talk to myself because I feed them. I realize how crazy I sound. No comments are necessary here.

On a side note, Jeremiah will be gone on Valentine's Day. While I am not particularly fond of this holiday, I would like to pose this question: What is the point of being married if you have to be alone on a greeting card holiday? That is blasphemy, pure and simple.

This is Day 1 of exile. Stay tuned.

Photo Courtesy of NatalieDee.com

Growing Pains

The other night, while watching my new favorite show Parenthood, I found myself in a conundrum. I no longer related to the rebellious teenagers or to the angst that haunted me well into my twenties. I mean, I get that parents just don’t understand, but I also thought they were acting like little brats. Though I am not a parent myself, I was struck by how much I identified with the adults in the show. Well, this presented me with a terrifying thought – have I, at the ripe old age of 29, finally entered into the realm of adulthood? Say it ain’t so!

It’s odd being in your late twenties. Here I am, staring down the barrel of 30, and yet I don’t feel like an adult. I mean sure, I’m married and pay my own rent. I have a car payment and a professional career. I wear business suits on occasion and flip flops are no longer my go to shoe. I use Quicken to pay our bills and sometimes catch myself discussing new cleaning products that really work with my other “adult” friends. And oh geez, I did catch myself looking just like my mother with curlers in my hair and wearing an apron just this past Christmas season.

I may have switched from drinking Carlo Rossi to a wine that doesn’t produce an instant headache, but I can still throw ‘em back. I might have major responsibilities, but that doesn’t stop me from playing hooky and spending a day at the beach or lounging in my jammies on the couch watching bad reality tv. I sometimes use big words around certain company, but you might also hear me saying “dude” and “sweet” in my daily vernacular. I also might dissolve in a puddle of emotions because I just don’t want to be a grown up and deal with the stress of adult life.

So here I find myself in an interesting (and let’s face it, confusing!) juxtaposition. Knowing me, I will most likely analyze this to death, but for now, the teenager in me is saying screw it. It’s a nice day and I just don’t wanna deal with it. So there. 

Humor is in the Eye of the Beholder

My problem is that I think I am really clever. So clever, in fact, that no one actually understands my humor.

I recently sent in an entry to Hallmark. I thought that I would create the next great greeting card. Check out the picture! I am hilarious, right? I was always the brains behind this operation.

When I was young, I had an amazing imagination. I would make up elaborate stories and my sister and I would act them out. Krista always thought I was incredible. She was young and naive. But I, being old and wise, still think I have an imagination of gold. You want puns? I've got plenty. You want irony? Baby, I was born with it. You want double entrendre? Well, you have come to the right place!

In high school, I used to scribble quotes on a notebook. Anything to look like I was deeper than this all girls Catholic high school! And today, at the bar, over several beers, I will provide incredible insight and elaborate humor that I guess is only understandable to yours truly. Because I am funny. I swear. You just don't get me.

Some Days, You Gotta Dance

The hubby's home! And just like that, the world is as it should be. I now have a spring in my step and this song stuck in my head:

"Some days, you gotta dance,
Live it up when you get the chance.
When the world doesn't make no sense
And you're feeling just a little too tense
You gotta loosen up those chains, and dance..."
                                              ---The Dixie Chicks

Ain't that the truth!

Photo Courtesy of http://smleggett.blogspot.com/

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Photo courtesy of hollywood.com

Remember that book? Alexander had a terrible horrible, no good, very bad day. I used to read it as a child and laugh at poor Alexander and his awful misadventures.

Today I got to live it.

I woke up to the ringing of an alarm. Thought about going to the gym, then decided to stay in bed. Subsequently tossed and turned and couldn't go back to sleep because I was wracked with guilt for skipping the gym. Morning note to self - You're getting fat.

Finally I roll out of bed and pour myself a hot cup of joe. I settle into my chair, turn on my computer, and  boom! With no warning, hard drive crash. This resulted in a day long phone call with IT, running diagnostic tests on my laptop. It was really shaping up to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

It rained all day. The dark skies matched my dark mood, which was a blessing in disguise. When the birds are chirping merrily and the skies are blue, but you are in a funk, the beauty of the day becomes a mockery.

I closed out the day with a confusing and uncomfortable talk with the boss man. I cried to my husband who is traveling for work and a million miles away. He is no good on the phone. I hung up feeling worse.

If only I were Alexander. I could close the book on my terrible horrible, no good, very bad day. Instead, I have tomorrow to make into an awesome, wonderful, super good, very nice day. Here's hoping.

Pillow Talk

I have a husband who usually falls asleep before his head hits the pillow. This is problematic for many reasons, but the main gripe I have is that I do my best thinking right before bed. I don't sleep because my brain tends to wake up at inappopriate times. My husband has a wife who starts to speak before she thinks. This is also problematic for many reasons, but his main gripe is that he does not do his best listening right before bed.

I'm just speaking from experience, but certain conversation topics should be off limits after 9pm. For example, last night I woke up my husband to ask him if I were an author and needed a pseudonym, what should it be? Needless to say, he was not feeling inspired.

So much for pillow talk.

Babbling Brooke

I have been told that I talk a lot. I mean, a lot. And while I am convinced that my stories are told with a perfect combination of wit, charisma, and insight, I have still been told that I talk a lot. Seriously. A lot. So, as a public service to family and friends alike, I have decided that perhaps my babblings are better suited for the written word, and voila! You have the Misadventures and Musings of a Babbling Brooke. Enjoy, but beware of potential verbal overload.