My first ever blog posting from an airport, and I have nothing to say other than Vegas rocks, I'm tired and me can't even form coherent sentances at this point. Notice the use of "me" instead of "I", this serves to illustrate my point about being tired.
We won some money, lost some money (mostly me, at the video poker and slot machines, those pesky things ARE addictive) saw some amazing shows, and missed out on a lot of sleep. Some of that lost sleep was curtesy of the construction crews at the Luxor, replaxing windows at 8 am. I really appreciated them, as well as the maids who couldn't perform cleaning services without slamming every door up and down our hallway, repeatedly.
Anyway, we're boarding, so never mind the numerous spelling errors, I'm out.
I'll give you the rundown when I catch up on my sleep, sometime around the turn of the decade.
Hugs & kisses,
Junebug (And a very tired Mr. Junebug)
She's a Wayneiac, a Wayneiac!
Today at work was the annual Thanksgiving Potluck luncheon. You know the drill, the company provides turkey and ham, and the employees bring an assortment of tasteless green bean casseroles and jello products. Seriously, the Marshmallow and Jell-O companies must make an absolute KILLING around the Holidays. There was hardly a dish to be found that didn’t prominently feature either of the offending ingredients.
Anyway, I digress. The whole luncheon idea is fairly normal, and the food was mostly passable. I’m not big on pea/bean/jello concoctions, but there was enough turkey, ham and mac & cheese to keep me content, if not happy.
However, once we were seated, they dropped a bombshell on us. And not the Marilyn Monroe kind, more like the Baghdad/Gigli/K-Fed type. We were to have “special surprise entertainment” throughout the lunching process, and lo and behold, it was an Elvis impersonator. A bad Elvis impersonator.
It was an excruciatingly long lunch. It did however fit into the Junebug 2006 Thanksgiving Theme. You see, as our first holiday as a married couple, Mr. Junebug and I decided to avoid all family/time sharing and get the heck out of dodge. So Thanksgiving morning at 6 am, we’ll be winging our way towards, you guessed it, Las Vegas.
Nothing says “Give Thanks” like slot machines, legalized prostitution, Wayne Newton and the buffet at the Rio. Well, actually, I’ve been promising myself that I would attempt to play “real” games in Vegas and stay away from the slot machines, and I’m pretty sure that a “legal” hooker doesn’t figure into our plans, at least not at this point. Anyway, we are definitely hitting the Rio buffet (per my husband’s begging and pleading), and we are indeed meeting Wayne Newton. Yup, we’re those people who go to Vegas and see acts like Wayne Newton. However, in our defense, it’s not your ever day, run of the mill Newton, its Newton’s Holiday Extravaganza no less. We are so pimp.
We’re also seeing “Love” and “The Blue Man Group” while we are there, and eating dinner at the Stratosphere Tower. I was a little worried that a classy joint like the Strat wouldn’t let people like us in, but I think I’ve got them fooled into reserving a table for two, at least until they lay eyes on us. Then all bets are off. Ha, see, that’s funny, cause I said “bets”. And we’re going to be in Vegas. Ha, get it? Yeah, I know, I’ll shut up now.
I’m hoping and praying that our decision to spend Thanksgiving in Las Vegas won’t come back to haunt me, which pretty much ensures it will. Nothing like the knowledge that you spent what could potentially be your father’s last Thanksgiving getting trashed and flashing Wayne Newton to give you a guilt trip worthy of frequent flyer miles.
Nothing like brain tumors to make you lose your funny. I haven’t felt funny since I found out, and I don’t see it returning any time soon. It’s amazing how easy it is to take the small things like your dad or sense of humor for granted. Take my advice, give your dad a hug, no matter what, and tell a joke or laugh or something for crying out loud.
3 Reasons in 2 words or less
why I never want to relive the past 5 days.
1 - Stomach Flu
2 - Brain Tumor
3 - See above
The trip North to see the in-laws was fun, except for a run-in with some sort of nasty stomach bug, which refuses to relinquish me from it's clutches. Nothing like running to the shared bathroom at work every 10 minutes.
Yesterday I found out that my father has a brain tumor. At 49 years old, he's suddenly facing a whole new life.
Needless to say I've been pre-occupied and haven't really felt like writing. Plus work has been crazy, for the time I've actually been here. I was out sick Monday, here part of the day yesterday till I got the news about my father, and today it feels like the whole world is crushing down on me as I sit here at my desk.
I've had to smile my way through a work lunch, am preparing to sit through 2 meetings, and run around doing last minute organizing for a training session for 15 people tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to meet with software reps, sit through a training, and tackle all of the projects accumulating on my desk. All while keeping a smile plastered on my face and the tears out of my eyes.
I hate that I'm an "emotional" woman, there are few things more humiliating than sitting at your desk bawling and having the entire office stare at you and whisper. There are moments when I'm staring glassy eyed at my computer screen, and tears just begin running down my face, there's nothing I can do about it. If you ever want to see an engineer look very scared, just start crying, it works every time.
That's all I can say, I haven't got anything else inside that resembles human speech.
Junebug
Booorrrr-ing
So, here it is almost 5:00 and I still haven’t written anything down for today’s blog entry. It’s very frustrating, since I’ve composed no less than 4 extremely witty, intelligent and poignant entries since yesterday. Unfortunately, they’ve all been in my head and have never actually made it onto paper, or the computer screen.
When I’m at home washing dishes, showering or trying to fall asleep I have any number of wonderful thoughts and jokes and stories to tell. I spend many minutes composing them in my head, just as I would write them on the computer, even mentally “backspacing” to delete and replace words that don’t sound quite right.
Unfortunately, as I’m always busy, I can never get somewhere and write my ideas all down, so I just make a mental note to remember what the subject was. That way, I can pontificate to my hearts desire once I’m seated in front of the computer. However, it never works out that way. My husband will be shocked to hear this, as I’ve claimed that I can remember anything and everything in the whole wide world (yes, the whole wide world), but I just can’t remember all my good ideas. It must be because I have so many of them, huh? Right… Anyway, these great ideas, they seem to flit right out of my addled head the minute I’ve mentally edited them to perfection. If only I could find a way to blog while in the shower, I’m sure I’d have the best blog on the internet; my shower ideas are that good. Really, they are. I promise.
Ok, so they’re not that good, but they seem pretty damn amazing compared to writing a blog entry about your inability to write a good blog entry. Yes, I know, almost anything would appear amazing compared to such a blog entry, but unfortunately, I don’t care right now!
I’ve been feeling pretty run down the past few days, and while I initially blamed it on the bottle of wine I had for my anniversary, I have since ruled that out. I have a sneaky suspicion that my throat may currently resemble a Petri dish, and I know for a fact that my tonsils look more like tomatoes than can be healthy. I’ve got the oh-so-very sexy smokers voice going, only I don’t smoke and it certainly isn’t making me feel very sexy.
I’ve got a soccer game tonight, so with the avian flu I’m brewing here, I should feel real nice come tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon we’re heading a few hours north to spend the weekend with my in-laws, who surprise, surprise I happen to love dearly. It should be fun, if I get to feeling better and the laundry elf comes to my house between now and tomorrow morning to wash all my clothes for me, otherwise my in-laws will be seeing a little more of me than they might have ever bargained for, what with me having NO clean clothes to wear.
This weekend we’ll also be attending his alma mater’s game against their arch rivals, and getting to watch his niece perform in the color guard. It’ll be my first high school football game in more than 6 years, and it’ll be my husband’s first ever. Yeah, he was that guy, the one that never went to pep rallies or football games. If we had known each other in high school, we would have despised each other I’m sure, as I was at every high school function and event and was damn happy to be there. Of course, if he had known me in high school, I’d have only been 7, and how can you hate a 7 year old?
That’s right, you can’t.
Hugs & kisses,
Junebug
We're still alive
Yesterday was the 6th month anniversary of my marriage to Mr. Junebug, and boy did we celebrate. I know that normally it's considered gay and retarded to celebrate anything other than annual anniversaries, but trust me, the fact that we have both lived through 6 months together and still LIKE each other merits dancing in the streets.
While we didn’t literally dance in the streets, though I probably would have been up for that after my bottle of wine at dinner, we did in fact go dancing. My dear husband signed us for dance lessons, something I’ve been talking about doing ever since we first met. We had a surprisingly good time, and did amazingly well, considering that I have an absolute and total lack of rhythm and grace. I do coordination just fine, I can get those steps down in a pattern, but if Mr. Junebug couldn’t keep time, I’d be completely lost.
You’ll have to wait for Mr. Junebug’s entry to find out just exactly how much wine I had at dinner, but lets just say that I was still drunk this morning when I got up, if that tells you anything.
As part of my amazing anniversary celebration I also got 3 books by Robin Hobb and a subscription to Martha Stewart’s Living magazine. How cool is that? My husband is an amazing man who knows just how to make me happy! I didn’t do nearly as well, as the only gift I got him (not counting my inebriation) was a boxed collectors set of “Thin Man” DVD’s. He seems very excited about them though, so I’m happy.
That’s all I’ve got time for today, I’m trying to get three engineers out the door to a conference with all of their miscellaneous paraphernalia, and prepare for a meeting the same time.
Debt Free Is the Way to Be
When I moved out of my parent’s house for the first time, I was 19 years old. I moved into a one bedroom apartment that I shared with a girl I met working at a Mexican food hole in the wall. We had actually gone to high school together, but with her being editor of the newspaper and year book and my status as a jock our social circles were sufficiently far apart that we had never even laid eyes on each other.
My dad bought me a twin mattress, and that was about all the help I got when I moved out. Not that I should have been given more help, on the contrary, I should have never been allowed to move out. But, I was and I did and so we moved our two little twin beds into that one bedroom, she got a cat, and I bought an Apex DVD player for $90 off eBay (that very same DVD player is in our bedroom right now, and continues to work like a champ).
I lived in that apartment from October 2001 to May 2002, and in that time I managed to wrack up something like $4500 in credit card debt. It’s easy to do, when you bring home about $16,000 a year, out of the $21,000 on your pay stub. Sure, I was a 19 year old girl and I bought some frivolous stuff, like the Halloween decorations for the one and only Halloween party I’ve ever thrown, or the Dallas Stars tickets I bought my then boyfriend for Christmas. But sadly, most of that debt was day to day living, those little pieces of plastic allowed me to eat, to put gas in my car, to make the 5 hour trips to see my boyfriend at college(which seemed like a must at the time), to help bail him out of financial difficulties, and to sometimes cover my rent.
When the boyfriend and I decided that we wanted to get married, and the roommate took a turn for psychotic, I moved back home to save money for the impending nuptials. I shared a double bed with my then 8 year old sister, and let me tell you, those were some of the best nights of sleep I ever had. She was a great sleeping partner, she’d burrow up next to me, and I can’t even begin to express how soundly I slept with her silent emotional support. That’s when I think I began to understand the healing power of human touch in my life.
Over the next 9 months, I saved money, got engaged, planned a big fancy wedding, got $5000 from my parents to help pay for the wedding, used that money to pay off all of my credit cards, and of course started wracking the charges back up. When I finally called off the wedding, the day after New Years, 2003, just a mere 2 months before the wedding, I was back to being about $3000 in debt.
I moved out of my parents house for what has proved to be the last time (so far!) in March 2003, 11 days after I was supposed to have been married. (Funny side note, but the day I was to be married, I was actually riding the Staten Island Ferry with my best friend and her flask of rum, drunk off my ass and watching an interesting exchange between a stock broker from Long Island and two trannies.) From March to December, I went through a really rough time, and when I finally regained consciousness, I owed a staggering $11,000 in credit card and private (i.e. cable, cell phone etc) debt.
The fact that a 22 year old with a job making just $27,500 a year can be allowed to accumulate that much credit in the first place should be criminal. However, it’s not, and I did it, and I was drowning and couldn’t see how I would ever pay that back. I couldn’t keep up with the minimum payments, the overdue fees were killing me, and it was sending me back to a place I had worked very hard to get away from, and neither I nor my family could handle another couple of months like the few from April – November.
One day at work while googling how to declare bankruptcy (at 21 years old), I stumbled across a program offering debt counseling. I signed right up, and by the grace of God I blindly selected one of the few reputable counseling companies that didn’t rip me off. That day, during the lunch hour at my increasingly miserable job, I stared my debt in the face for the first time. I had never before added it all up; I had never assessed the damage. To that point I had patently ignored and pointedly refused to face how much money I owed. I was shocked. I was sick. And I felt hopeless.
January 15, 2004 I made my first payment of a measly $254 towards my debt, and with the lower interest rates the counseling agency negotiated for me, it would have taken me a mere 3 and a half years to pay it all off. At 21, 3 and half years seemed an eternity. Especially since part of the counseling program was that all of my credit cards were turned off and I couldn’t establish any new lines of credit until the old debts were paid off.
The next 2 and a half years of living strictly off of what I brought home from work were some of the hardest times of my life. I changed jobs twice, both times trading up for a bigger paycheck, something that a person in my predicament could not turn down. I graduated from $254 a month to a $366 monthly payment. If those credit cards had not been turned off by the issuing companies, there were hundreds of times that I would have used any one of them, to buy things like toilet paper, or ramen noodles or to have my car inspected.
There were weeks that all I had to eat were the meals my mother offered me (which would have been many more, had she known my dire financial situation), and whatever I could scrounge from the break room at work. During most of this time I was lucky enough to work for a company that kept their kitchen stocked weekly with fresh fruit and animal crackers. I can’t tell you how much I came to both loathe and appreciate the site of bananas and animal crackers. I’d eaten them enough meals to be thoroughly disgusted with them, but if I was hungry, they’d never looked so good. Some days vendors would bring in extra goodies, breakfast burritos or cookies, and those were my favorite days. Most weeks I managed to supplement my animal crackers & bananas with ramen noodles and oatmeal, I could purchase a weeks supply of both for $1.95 including tax at the local Wal Mart.
The scary thing was that no one I knew realized what was going on. Thanks to hand me downs and my mother, I managed quite a few new (to me) outfits to fit my rapidly slimming body, and because of my sacrifices elsewhere, I managed to keep my truck and my apartment and my utilities on, most of the time. But to look at me, no one would have ever guessed that I was having trouble making ends meet. Sure, I didn’t go out to eat very often, or if I did I drank water and had a side salad (which did work nicely into my diet, as I had about 35 pounds to lose), but they thought I was just being health conscious.
Gradually, my situation got a little better, and then a few months later it would again get a little better. By the spring of 2005 I was doing well enough that I could move to a slightly larger apartment and I didn’t have to worry about my electricity being cut off, but my budget was still on the precariously lean side. I went an entire year without getting my truck registered because I never could bring myself to part with the $68 it called for; there were always groceries or gas to be bought.
Things started looking up, and I slowly began to pay a little extra each month as I had it towards my debts. I can’t tell you how proud I felt when I paid off one of the smallest credit cards. I felt like I could do anything, and I felt like all of those hard times had finally meant something. The end was in site, I scrimped even more and it became a contest against my bank account, just how much could I pay off this month and still survive?
April 7th, 2006, one month before I got married, I used my entire bonus from my job to pay off the last remaining debts. I cried as I spoke to the nice counselor who scheduled the last payment I would ever have to make. I felt as if I was finally shedding all of the guilt, pain and failure that I had been living with for the past 4 years. Those were the hardest years of my life, physically, emotionally, financially and professionally. And I had survived. I was still alive with most of my mental capabilities intact, and my money was my own. At least until I got married anyway!
Before this year, if anyone ever asked me what I was proud of, I never had an answer for them. Now I do.
Weekend Update
It’s Monday, it’s rainy, my right eye is doing that spazzy thing it does, my pants are too tight and I might be moving to India, so I’m going to keep this short and sweet as I have a few things on my mind.
- Friday night the hubby and I grilled steaks on the back patio. While there is nothing inherently interesting in this fact, other than to establish that we are both carnivores, keep it in mind.
- I was too young to see “Fargo” when it came out in theaters, and after seeing it on DVD Friday night, I don’t really feel bad I missed out the first time around. It seems without value, other than to establish that you shouldn’t get in debt, and when you conspire to kidnap you wife, your life will go to hell in a hand basket. I made sure my husband took note of this. I felt like everyone pretty much got what they had coming. Yes, I know, I am cold hearted.
- Our bedroom furniture arrived Saturday, and we made the short uneventful trip to go pick it up. It was all as beautiful as I remember, save for the nasty crunched corner on the chest of drawers.
- While moving furniture in, I put The Beast in the backyard so as to not have him underfoot. Remember what I said about grilling on the patio?
- We stacked furniture in all corners of our house, but did not actually set it up. We like to do things the hard way.
- The Beast, he ate charcoal while outside on the patio. He stuck his snout in the bag of discarded charcoal and tried to eat his way to freedom by licking away all vestiges of grease drippings. After a call to Poison Control (hint: they are absolutely useless when it comes to pets) and a call to his vet, it was determined we had to wash his mouth out with water and watch for peculiar behavior(that’s comical, having ME assess for peculiar behavior).
- After drowning the dog (evidently they don’t like it when you stick a water hose in their mouth, and the don’t understand the “Swish, spit, rinse, repeat” command either) we went to the Indian buffet. You know, to see if I could stand living in a country where they serve indiscriminate meat products in Technicolor sauces.
- My entire family came over so my mom could help with a few piddly sewing projects, and in the chaos The Beast pissed on the rug. Have you ever seen a Great Dane sized puddle o’ piss? It’s huge.
- The wedding came off without a hitch, my fee in their hooker shoes being the only casualty.
- After the wedding we came home to find the house in complete disarray, evidently my teenaged sisters who were “dog sitting” because of the charcoal incident have the destructive powers of a Cat 4 hurricane.
- Sunday was spent spending entirely too much money Christmas shopping. I swear, it’s an addiction for me, this thing called Christmas.
- Monday entailed me dragging my lazy ass out of my new bed and in to the office, calling liaison officers to talk about this India thing, and praying I can keep my eyes open long enough to keep from face planting on the keyboard.
That’s all I know. Well, I know a whole lot more than that, but nothing of consequence.
I had a smashing time meeting the Smasherians, so “Hey ya’ll” to anyone reading.
Hugs and kisses,
Junebug
Need to know basis
So, if you’ve read my husband’s
blog entry today, you may be wondering why in the world I just didn’t tell him.
Well, much like
Rusty Shackleford, I tend to be pretty secretive. I don’t think of it as sneaky, just secretive. Ask my husband, I don’t usually appreciate people asking me lots of questions, even such things as “what’s for dinner?” or “how do we get there?” I can’t really offer up an explanation, except that I’m an anal retentive control freak who guards insignificant information with undue zest. I like being the only one who knows, gives me a small amount of control or power I guess. I also grew up as the eldest of 6 kids, and I am unused to being questioned, they were on a need-know basis, and were to follow instructions without question. Evidently husbands don’t like to operate that way. I can’t imagine why.
In addition to being secretive, I also have a much weaker self-confidence than most people would ever gather from my outer demeanor. Perhaps my husband and my parents have the only true inkling to how fragile my often inflated ego is. As a result, I don’t tend to tell people certain things, because I don’t want to appear stupid or inept, and I really don’t want to be made fun of. I do many stupid things that I will be the first to laugh at, but if something really means anything to me, I will be very sensitive about it.
My writing is one of those things that mean something to me. Until last night I hadn’t even told my husband that I was writing anything. Not because I intended to write anything I didn’t want him to see (though hopefully he understands exaggeration for comedic effect. You do, don’t you honey?), but because I didn’t want him to think anything I wrote was stupid. Now, he’ll be the first to tell you he would never think that, but it doesn’t matter what he really thinks, all that matters is my perception of what he would think. And as you may have gathered, I think my perceptions, like myself, can be pretty warped at times.
So I hadn’t told him I was writing anything, and I hadn’t really planned on it. Most of what I write he knows or hears in much less concise verbal format anyway, so I didn’t really think he was missing anything. Then when I received a very surprising request to be interviewed by
Troll Smasher, I was a little wary at first. Given all of the horror stories you hear about online stalkers, I made certain to do my homework. I checked out his site, I followed a few links, I established that while a few stalkers seemed to be after him, he himself seemed fairly normal for a person named Troll Smasher.
Having established he was in fact a reputable Troll Smasher, not some fly-by-night operation, I decided to do the interview. However, I couldn’t, and still can’t, comprehend why anyone would want to interview me. I’ve met myself, and I’m pretty non-descript and boring most of the time, nothing worth interviewing, no matter how diverse the audience. Having never done an interview outside of applying for a job, I was very nervous about my capabilities. So, all of those things combined with not wanting to give my husband any more ammunition in our ongoing war of who’s a bigger nerd, I didn’t tell him.
It wasn’t because I thought I needed to hide it or felt I was doing anything as wrong as playing a couple games of D&D (which he did not disclose his participation in till just last night), but mostly because I didn’t know how it was going to go and that there was a distinct possibility I’d end up sounding like a rambling idiot and God knows he gets enough of that.
I heard him enter the bathroom during my interview, but I didn’t really give it a second thought because I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was only after I concluded the interview that I went looking for him (we had a date to watch a Thin Man movie) and realized he was STILL in the bathroom. My immediate concern was for his health, surely that was not a good sign. However, the minute I heard his voice, I knew he was all kinds of bent out of shape. When it was established why, I felt really bad that I had put him through the roller-coaster of emotional distress he had endured, all because I was trying to preserve the few remaining shreds of my dignity.
He was a very good sport about it all, and was much relieved to discover that I was in fact still a faithful and loving wife. So, it makes for a good story, but not one I’d like to repeat. From now on, all interviews and or strange men met over the internet must apply to Mr. Junebug himself for a permit to interview me. Not really, but he’ll like the idea of it…
Have a happy Friday and a wonderful weekend all. I’m off to a wedding where I’ll like approximately 3 people there, of which my husband and I are two. That margin is only slightly lower than the number of people I like from the general population. I’m a people person who doesn’t like 95% of people I meet. And it’s a wonder my husband thinks I’m complicated.
Catch you on Monday!
Stop and order the roses, it's good for you!
Sometimes, marriage is hard. Sometimes, marriage is really hard. And sometimes, it’s not really anybody’s fault. But most of the time, both spouses are responsible for the difficult times.
I know when my husband makes life hard or sad or difficult for me, I always return the favor. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. He disappoints me or ignores me or just plain pisses me off, and I make my displeasure known, and not always in the healthy, communicative way they espouse on Dr. Phil
I like to stew about it. Ruminate what could have possibly made my husband act this way. I like to ignore him, tune him out, give him the cold shoulder, anything that will send a clear “I don’t like you right now” vibe his way. Eating dinner in the bedroom, getting in bed at 8:30 to watch TV, these are ways I express my displeasure or hurt feelings.
To both of our chagrins, he does not respond well to these tactics. This of course does nothing to lighten the mood of our household.
All of this to say, flowers from the grocery store do not an apology make.
Nothing screams “I’m sorry” like flowers sent to the office, the most “public” admission a woman could require of a man. Flowers to the office let everyone know that he’s sorry, that he feels badly, that he recognizes the problem and that he wants you to feel better. Flowers ordered and sent to the office indicate he put at least a modicum of effort into it, he had to remember it long enough to get online and order them, he had to mean it enough to pull out the plastic and pony up the exorbitant fee, basically it required something out of him.
Flowers from the grocery store say “I know you’re kinda pissed, I don’t really know or care why, but I passed these on my way through the store and thought they might make you forget you’re mad at me”.
Flowers from the grocery store for absolutely no reason are cute and adorable, a nice gesture. Flowers from the grocery store as an apology or admission of problems are insincere and will probably get you in more trouble than before.
Not that that happened at the Junebug household last night. Just saying is all…
Recycled
Some background on me I guess...
I'm the oldest of 6 kids, I was home schooled till I was in high school and I'm not socially retarded. I work in the engineering department of an evil oil company, and it's the first job I've truly loved, mainly because I don't work for a woman.
I met and married my husband in a span of 15 months, he's 8 years older than I am and he works for "The Man". He thinks I'm crazy because I don't automatically discredit all conspiracy theories, and I say he's been brainwashed.
I love to play sports, any sport, though I grew up playing soccer. I wish I could be a gym rat, but at the end of my day all I dream about is going home and putting my pj's on. The Newlywed Nine has turned into like the Newlywed 20, and I'm currently embroiled in a bitter battle with my inner thighs.
I love my family, immediate and extended, and I think that a lot of social problems in the US are caused by the dissolution of the nuclear family and the support system it provides. My family, aunts, uncles, cousins etc spend a week at the beach every summer for the past 10 years, and it is the highlight of my year, next to the weekend I spend with all of my female relatives at Christmas time.
My husband and I call each other "turds" as a form of affection, talking as if we had lisps amuses us, we like to quote the line from Princess Bride "I'm not a witch I'm your wife", get in arguments about hypothetical situations. We also like to take time to cuddle in the recliner, watch episodes of Futurama and surprise each other with gifts from the grocery store. Gossip mags and real Coke for me, Architectural Digest and Candy Corn for him.
I love Starbuck's Mocha Frappuccino's, mostly for the whipped cream. I've been known to ask for a tall frap in a venti glass filled with whipped cream. This greatly embarrasses my husband.
As for music, I'm not too ashamed to admit that James Taylor is my favorite artist, and that Mexico might be my all-time favorite song along with Something in the Way She Moves. I may be the only person under 40 who's been to two of his concerts. Lately though, Snow Patrol is what has been in my CD player. Open Your Eyes, Set the Fire to The Third Bar and You Could Be Happy are great, but Hands Open is my favorite I think. Other favorite songs, in no particular order of cheesiness: Power of Love by Huey Lewis, Unwell by MatchboxTwenty, Long December by Counting Crows, Revolution by The Beatles, Return to Pooh Corner by Kenny Loggins, Hit Me Baby by Trashy Spears, With a Little Help From My Friends as sung by Joe Cocker, The Cheers theme, and that's about all I've got.
The last ten DVD's I watched, in order:
Serenity
Futurama Season 3 Disc 3
Dawson's Creek Season 1 Disc 1
Bringing Up Baby
Stargate Season 7 Disc 4
Thank You For Smoking
My Best Friend's Wedding
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
V for Vendetta
Mystery Science Theater 3000
