Cookies

A co-worker brought me a cute little bowl of cookies today. She gave them to me in the parking lot. I got them special because by the time my grade level goes to lunch, the ones that she sets out in the lounge are gone, gone, gone. No cookies for me. For five years. So this year she gave me a little bowl of my own. She's also the one that walked me back to my room in Vegas when I was riding the escalavator, just so you know (I like to make connections so you feel as though you are here with me.). I call her Mother Hen.

She brings me the cookies. I tell myself, "Wait until lunch. Wait until lunch." But you see, I didn't have breakfast this morning and TWO of the cookies had fruit stuff. So I ate one. Nom. And then while reaching for the second half of the cookie, I bumped into a thumbprint cookie with homemade butter cream frosting. I touched it, so I needed to eat. Kind of like, you break it, you buy it. So I ate it. It was delicious. Nom again. In fact, I am pretty sure that I could survive on a diet of just those cookies. But then I wouldn't fit through doors, so probably best if I didn't.

Well, then I ate the second thumbprint because I have NO self-control. And then I saw that one of the other cookies had a little filling and I couldn't tell if it was frosting or fruit or what. So I ate it to find out. Nom again again. It was like an almond paste, by the way. Delciousness.

Sigh.

So all I had was one last cookie and at that point I was like, might as well. Yum.

That is my story about how I ate five (small) fancy cookies for breakfast.

Anyone else have a food story that is slightly embarrassing but totally worth it?

p.s. I am listening to novelty rap from the late eighties/early nineties. Does anyone else want to bust a move?

Wahoo, Tattoo!

Remember like, forever ago when I promised tattoo pictures? Well, I may take awhile, but I almost always keep my promises.

Okay. We started out by waiting around awhile. The tattoo guy (tattooer? tattooist?) was drawing Jeremiah's tat from scratcheroni and while I already had mine drawn out (by the art teacher at school) there was some slight altering that needed to be done. So we waited.

Then it was my turn. Let me preface this story by sharing that when I was in the second grade my mom took me to the mall to get my ears pierced. I was SO EXCITED. And nervous. Because, you know. Someone was going to PUNCH HOLES in my body. So that anticipation builds up. Got my ears pierced and we're walking through the department store and on the stairs when I turn to my mom and throw up. On the stairs. And her hand and my hand, too. I am pretty sure that all that build up made my stomach wobbly and then, you know. Puke.

Flash forward about 20 years and a little more west of Michigan. Same thing. I was SO excited/nervous/anticipating the tattoo that once he started and I realized that the pain wasn't going to kill me, all that crud went to my belly and I got wobbly. In fact, I turned white and my lips turned blue. Things started to look far away and like they were through a tunnel. Seriously, closest I've ever been to fainting. I was sweating more than Nixon on his television debate against Kennedy. Or more than Lindsey Lohan in court. There was a lot of panic and a lot of me wanting to lie down (wasn't allowed) or lean forward (wasn't allowed). Jeremiah was trying to be supportive but my superhero sense of smell was working overtime and I could smell EVERY smell and the deodorant that he was wearing was not helping me to keep the barf down.

But are you ready for this? I pulled through. No fainting. No yakking. Here I am drinking my second glass of water.  I'm all, "See? Fine. Ignore the sweat-soaked clothes and let's get this show on the road! We're burnin' daylight!"

After all that, the tattoo took about five minutes. Seriously. And THEN the guy told me that I got the tattoo in one of the most painful places but hadn't wanted me to know ahead of time and change my mind. Nice.

He also said that the LEAST painful place was the arm, where most men get tattoos...which brings us to Jeremiah. Getting tattooed. On the arm. Sissy. First you get shaved. If you are hairy. I did not get shaved. That's the guy that tattooed me. He was very sanitary. And he used more swear words than I could use, even on a good day. He put sailors to shame.

The last picture is blurry, because I didn't want to use the flash and blind tattoo guy. He works with a needle, you know. But you get the idea behind Jeremiah's tat. It is Japanese style waves with a band of music along the bottom with a drum clef.

It looks much better finished, but do I have pictures of that? No. I do not.

P.S. Jamming to the Christmas music right now.
P.P.S. If you are wondering about the pain, let me tell you. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain imaginable, I would rate this a seven. Maybe six point five. Totally do-able.
P.P.P.S. Girls, when you are getting ready to puke and you are surrounded by men it is up to you to pull your hair back. They will NOT do it for you. Just FYI.

B.E. & A.E.

Jeremiah is SUCH a lucky guy.

I decided the other night (while he was trying to fall asleep) that we should play "Name That Movie". I tend to have problems falling asleep so I like to keep myself entertained instead.

So I said "Where are all the good men dead? In the heart or in the head?"

And he named the movie. Which is probably why we are together. And I was all shocked and surprised that he got it because it wasn't a super obvious quote, like, "Our pets' heads are fallin' off!"

If you can name the second quote, we are probably destined to be friends. Maybe we already are. Maybe you need to leave a comment and tell me how you are super awesome and know the movie. If, however, you know where the first quote originated, we are most likely destined to be not just friends, but besties. I heart you already.
 
Following his righteous win, we had the conversation below:
Please keep in mind he was trying to sleep the whole time.

E: I can't believe you got that!
J: Of course I did. I used to own that movie.
E: You did? Really?
J: Yes.
E:When?
J: I don't know.
E: Well, was it before we met?
J:Yeah, I guess.
E: So you might say that you had it B.E....Before Emily?
J: I guess so.
E: Like, how many years B.E. did you get rid of it?
J: Actually thinks about it - Um, It was probably 1B.E.
E: Sheesh. You should have kept it until A.E. and then I wouldn't have had to take my dad's copy of the dvd.
J:Yeah, too bad.

Conversation over.

And we now count time based on B.E. and A.E. Just saying. So for example, we moved into the house 4 A.E., four years after he met me.

So fun. No? Just me?

Anyone have any great suggestions for sleeping? I CAN'T sleep.

Cheery & Bright

We I decorated the tree last weekend. To be fair (because once in awhile everyone should try something different), he did put the tree up and string the lights. But I put up the ornaments and EVERYONE knows that is the most important part.

Right?

Let me explain while you pretend to care about our new holiday tradition. When I moved here, I had zero Christmas things. Zilch. I was sadder than someone who makes it to the final round of The Price Is Right and then loses because they overbid by like, two dollars. So sad. All day.

So I went out and bought a tree. And color-themed ornaments. Blue, white, and silver. So pretty. If I couldn't have my old ornaments full of memories, then I would buy pretty new ones.

Then I got to CA., where I would be spending Christmas with the Jer-to-the-miah. The dude had NO tree. He had no ornaments. So there was a discussion and voila! A tree and ornaments, at my disposal. So for now, we have TWO trees. Dos. Deux. Like that, y'all.

This post documents the tree that lived its first Christmas in Sacramento. 

New ornaments bought at 75% off after last Christmas.

More new ones, making their debut. By the way, I hope that at some point I will be able to integrate my old family ornaments with the new ones.

Tree! It looks prettier at night...and from a regular view.

One of my favorites...

Some more new ones.

Glitter balls. Heeeheeee.

So there is tree number one.

Anyone else have a tree that they want to share? Any color themes you love?

Gleeks.

Let me start by saying that I've been wanting to watch Glee on Netflix for awhile now. So I moved the first disc to the top of our queue (much to CLH's dismay). Oh.My.Gosh. I couldn't stop watching, people.

I'm a Gleek.

But here's my favorite part. If you've been in a hole like me you haven't seen the show, here's the clip:

Season 1, episode 4.



I couldn't find one that shows it, but it goes on to show Kurt (who is tiny & gay & not so popular, but completely wonderful) winning the game by kicking the ball (after dancing to Beyonce) into the goal (endzone? what's it called?) with his tough manly man dad watching. Then his dad is screaming "That's my boy! That's my son!" and I start crying.

P.S. I sing this song to Jeremiah regularly, just so everyone knows.

P.P.S. Any other Gleeks out there? 

Bus Duty.

Hi.

I thought that I would give you a moment in my life type of experience. Because unless you teach at an elementary school, you don't know. Even high school teachers...no. "You don't know me!" (That is one of Jeremiah's favorite lines from his customers when he did the phones at work.) And I'm sure that you have exciting work stories to share, too. If you'd like to leave a comment and share, I'm all for it.

Seriously. You know I am all for sharing.

Yesterday I had bus duty after school. Picture two teachers trying to line up about two hundred kids and walk them to the buses.

Yeah. So. Much. Fun.

Except yesterday? No. Freakin'. Buses.

For HALF AN HOUR. Do I get paid overtime for this?

So while the other teacher has an impromptu parent teacher conference, I am dealing with the kids. Here are some of the going-ons that I experienced yesterday. These are one hundred percent REAL conversations. For realsies. They occurred between the dancing and singing. I find it important to keep things light-hearted.

Student - Camp was fun, but...
Emily- But what?
S- Then I threw up s'mores.
E- Yeah, not so fun, huh?
S- no...

S- Hey teacher!!
E- Hey student!!
S- Teacher, my name isn't student!
E- Well, student, my name isn't teacher.
S- My name is (says name)
E- What are you doing (says name)?
S- Nothing.
E- Yes you are. Can you please STOP unbuttoning my shirt?
S- Why?
E- Because I'd like to keep my shirt on today.
S- (pouts)
E- (buttons shirt back up)

S- Is he the new student?
E- Was he here yesterday?
S- No.
E - Then he's the new student.

S- If I have to walk ALL the way to that bus...
E- You're gonna what?
S- I'm going to be pissed off.
E- (rant. straight up rant. for several minutes. )

Happy Friday, everyone. Enjoy your weekend. If you have a funny work story, please share.

Bathing Suit Underwear

In college, I went to school with a girl that completed the last of her winter finals with a bathing suit under her clothes.

All of her underwear was dirty.

And as all (most? some?) college students can tell you, why pay money to do laundry when you can wait and do it at home? I know that there were times when it was slim pickins in my "closet" but I just wore whatever because I didn't want to pay to do laundry as I would be going home soon. Sometimes I could go three weeks. Sometimes longer.

I owned a LOT of undies, yo. Just for that purpose.

But I never wore my bathing suit to finals. Never.

Why the post about undies, bathing suits, and finals?

I am currently writing a beast of a final research paper (which may or may not have induced tears and pouting on more than one occasion).

It has been two weeks without clean laundry.

Slim.Pickins, people. Slim pickins, for sure.

The bathing suits are on call. I'll just leave it at that.

p.s. I am not at all apologetic if that was too much information. You should have stopped when you read "Bathing Suit Underwear".