Guess who's back, back again?

Remember when everyone used to blog? And we had to tell our stories mostly with words? Those were the days. Earlier this week I took a spin through my last few blog posts and I was like, "Nat! You used to be such a good writer!"

Now the bulk of the writing I do is for work emails. #progress

(Also, hashtags. They're a thing now.)

But I'm thinking about bringing blogging back! Because a lot has changed since I gave up documenting my life three years ago--and that's a dark hole my memory will only be able to remember in photo, which is kind of sad, because I'm a words person!

And now I have a husband! And a house! And full fledged adult responsibilities that require a level of adulting I'm sure has been misplaced (managing a team! managing two sets of full-time missionaries with my ward mission leader husbot!), but I'm doing the best I can.

Because I'll never, ever, ever get back together with the ins and outs of the last three years, this video of Paul and my first 14 months together will have to try and cover some of the distance. 

Someone else join me in bringing blogging back!

ick-be-gone

Every time someone utters the word "ick" I share an internal giggle with myself. You see, in the Fall of 2000, my roommates and I found ourselves embroiled in a prank war with an apartment of boys in our ward. Save the time we poured liquid dish washing detergent in their dishwasher, most of the pranks involved food:

* A hair dryer blowing flour into a hallway vent from the lobby
* Watermelons ceremoniously chucked onto the kitchen floor
* Milk, sauerkraut, and eggs poured into the sunny patch underneath a kitchen window (that also served as an entry/exit to the apartment) etc.

You know how it goes. It's probably a miracle the dorms have held up as long as they have! All those newly independent pseudo-adults asserting themselves in ridiculously typical creative ways.

We'd all heard about the brownies you eat that make you pee blue. Everyone knows that prank, right? Well nine years ago it was still fairly new-ish. Knowing enough about how they were made (brownie mix + blue fish tank liquid), Aftin, Leslee* and I trucked ourselves down to the Walmart. To peruse the pet and aquarium supplies for the special sauce to put in our brownies. At 2am. (Because of course we're awake at 2am on a school night. We're free agents! We're adults!)

The elixir wasn't jumping out to us from the shelves. Asking the employees proved fruitless as the night crew's primary language wasn't exactly English. So we took a risk. We bought a blue liquid called "Ick-be-gone" from the fish aisle and smugly took ourselves home.

Needless to say, we ended up with the runs and several calls to Poison Control.

Moral of the story: If you think you're being clever, you're probably not. But your ick is probably gone.

*Hi ladies! Do either of you have photos from this? I know some existed... need to uncover.

not so heavenly ham

Some would consider waking to the smell of simmering meat celestial. I can firmly attest however, it is most definitely in the terrestrial realm. In your head it sounds all well and good but in practicality just isn't what it's cracked up to be.

By a series of unfortunate events, a crock pot with a pork roast was started in our house at 9PM last night. The roast, marinated and bathing with three lovely onions, slow-cooked throughout the night. Surely its taste is heavenly, but the pungent aroma radiating from it all night was just too much to warrant undisturbed sleep. I woke several times to the meat's all-encompassing aroma; it's powers of attempted seduction created a rather sporadic sleep pattern.

This morning, post-shower, I climbed back into bed and draped my wet hair across my nose to block out the smell. It was just too, too much.

My roommate and I had this conversation today:

me: NO MORE MEAT AT NIGHT

1:50 PM Linda: yeah i know, sorry

me: it was cracking me up and grossing me out all at once

1:51 PM Linda: yeah, me too

me: it was SO STRONG

Linda: i woke up gagging actually

i've learned

Has anyone else experienced erratic sleep due to smell? What's the latest/earliest you've ever eaten pulled pork? When you get married do you ever start making wiser decisions?

Personal Holiday

Yesterday, most of the nation observed Veteran's Day. Including me.

I was 90% sure we had the day off. I was 100% wrong.

My boss's boss just called to ask how my personal holiday was. Egads.

For the record, I seem to love the Veterans more than anyone I know--who else is willing to possibly sacrifice their jobs in observing the holiday?

Truth Realized

Isn't anyone going to congratulate me on having a baby?

Fight or Flight

And now, I will tell you my most embarrassing story of all time. Because it's a Tuesday and you're probably bored. I am also a full six months past said embarrassing moment, and I think it's high time to admit to what was done.

To my friends at the D-Mark, this is for you. You (save Steph) haven't heard about it, because it was the nearly the MOST TALKED ABOUT STORY OF 2006 and I needed to be far from the state before yall found out.

Some of you (totally and completely unassociated with the D-Mark) have already heard this story, so I apologize in advance. Nonetheless, admitting you have an embarrassing story is the first step in releasing it, right?

So, the women's restroom at my old place of employment wasn't really what you imagine standard place of employment facilities to be. Instead of a room with several stalls and sinks, the women's room was actually a woman's room with a door that opened right onto our entire department. Awkward. Sometimes, women would get walked in on if they forgot to lock the door. (Paranoid to death, I would triple check the lock most times. No sound was more fearful than to be going about your business and hearing the door knob rattle.) Please, review the figure below.

The best/worst part was, that I sat on Bathroom Row. (Bad because the line would often queue up and the women would get chatty. "Working With Women," Page 1. Good because I drink a lot. Always. "Our Bodies: Go With the Flow", page 1.)

Back to the story. So the one toilet in our little cube of a restroom had been acting up as of late. Tired from overuse, it seemed to give up the ghost. It clogged, it ran constantly, it ran out of toilet paper. The women in our office, being a competent lot, were familiar with using a plunger, and were all well schooled in how to plunge. It was the unspoken rule. You clog it? You clean it. No big deal.

Until, dun dun dun. One day. The day that lives in infamy in the D-Mark's Interactive Department. I'm getting warm just thinking about it. (Ironically, I also get really really, "I'm having a hot flash" warm when I really, really have to go... but that's probably TMI and should live in the "Stories When I've Really Had to Go" series I'll be starting shortly. I really should drink less. Sigh. Why is diet soda so good? But again, I digress.)

I do my thing. I flush. The water slowly starts to spin. The suction from underneath (is there some kind of technical terminology about this? Are there any plumbers among my cyber-sleuths?) drains what was in the bowl, washes, rinses, and spins the TP and then stops. Sigh. The bowl looks clean. But I know the rule. "Thou Shalt Not Leave Any Mystery Objects in the Toilet for Thy Co-Workers."

I pick up the plunger. I flush, and plunge. The water rises slowly. I freeze. OhNoOhNoOhNo, I'm thinking in my head. Don't overflow.

It doesn't.

But again, I can't just leave it like that. So I flush, and plunge. AND THE WATER STARTS RISING. OhCrapOhCrapOhCrap, don't DO THIS TO ME, I'm mentally screaming. I rip the plunger out of the bowl, realizing that it's displacing water from the space the bowl so desperately needs. IT. DOES. NOT. MATTER.

I'm hoping that the water will slither its way to the drain in the middle of the floor. That's what the drain is designed for right? Right!? Wrong. Wrong bloody wrong.

The water, perfectly clean, I promise you, begins gushing out the top of the bowl and onto the ground.

In an act, absolutely defying the laws of water and motion (surely those exist, right?), the water does not travel down the slight gradient towards the drain, but rather is drawn by sheer force of all that is evil and unholy towards the door.

Towards the door. The door that opens up on to everyone in my department. That is passed on the way to the kitchen. In a high traffic area. Freak. Freak. Freak.

I gather my courage to vacate the bathroom. Over and over in my head I prayed that no one would be outside waiting to use the one toilet assigned to 35 women. What were my odds?

Heart beating, palms sweaty, and breathing jagged--I opened the door quickly. No one waiting. Relief. I squeeze my body out the 10 inch space I open the door, and make a beeline for my cubicle.

In the game of flight or fight, I took the road more/less traveled and fled like a bat out of hell.

However, not wanting to completely abdicate myself of any wrong doing, I decided to leave a Post-It note on the door. Nevermind that the water is seeping out from under the door and onto the carpet, I decide it's only fair. (Why?! Why did I do this? I'd already fled, I should not have returned to the scene of the crime.) This is literally what I wrote on the door:

I even tried to change my handwriting. And then I hid the pad of Post-Its I had used. I didn't want anyone to link me to the crime. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL.

The water continued its seepage onto the common space carpet. Clean. Clean. Clean water. I swear on all that is holy, the water was clean.

I sat at my cube, close enough to hear what everyone was saying. Because there was no one on which to pin the atrocious doing, the verbal assaults and judgments were flying freely. It was a big mystery no one could solve but everyone wanted to play and or had something to say. I, of course, had to join the "who done it" game else I look like the guilty party. AhhhhH! (Dante has a special place in the nth ring for hypocrites. Yie!)

Several blogs were written by D-Markers about the bathroom "problem" that escalated to a catastrophe that fateful, fateful day. (I tried in vain to find them, but I promise, they exist.) Pure mayhem lived in that department for a good 25 minutes--the department was up in arms and ready to loot and plunder. After some time (minutes, days, weeks, it all felt the same), I returned to my cube, sat down, stared at my computer screen and stroked a hidden stack of Post-It notes in my purse.

Baby Baby, how was I supposed to know?

I don’t have any idea how to start this blog. I want it to be clever and “hook” you into reading the rest. Storytelling isn’t my strongest skill—but this story needs to be told. I guarantee that all the events of the below story are true and factual. Bare with me as we get this story started…

It’s ingrained in us early that we shouldn’t tell lies. It’s unethical, we’re told. We should be honest in every thought, word, and deed, sings the Primary song. But I confess, (and digress), that last night I told a lie. A BIG one.

There I am, checking out at the Target service counter. I was purchasing a few essentials, a birthday gift, and a shirt of the most gorgeous blue color.

It’s at this point in the story that I should just fess up and explain that the shirt was a maternity shirt. I like maternity shirts—they’re built in love-handle disguises. (I also like maternity skirts and bathing suit tops, but that’s a story for another blog.) For the record, I never actively seek OUT maternity clothing, but it finds me on the sale racks and by the time I notice it’s a maternity cut, I’m already sold on the style, cut, or color. (Again, I won’t lie. I’m loving the “tight on the top, loose around the gut” look these shirts produce. Quit imagining me in shapeless t-shirt, I know you’re doing it. Maternity clothes are quite stylish.)

But again, I digress.

There I am, checking out at the Target service counter. I was purchasing a few essentials, a birthday gift, and a shirt of the most gorgeous blue color.

Cashier: “You’re so lucky you can find maternity clothes in your size.”
Me: “Yeah, I know!”
Me (thinking): Anyone can find maternity clothes in their size! THAT’S the beauty of it!

Cashier: “Do you know what you’re having?”
Me (thinking): OHMYGOSH. She thinks I’m actually pregnant. OHMYGOSH. Why am I standing like this? I know I’ve stopped running, but do I actually look PREGNANT? How embarrassing! Wow, this is crazy. OH. MY. GOSH. Really, again, WHY am I standing like this? PREGNANT? REALLY?

Me: “Yes. I’m having a girl.”

Me: “What are you having?”

Cashier: “I’m having a boy and a girl.”
Me: “Oh TWINS! That’s so great!”
Cashier: “Yep, one of each.”

Cashier: “How far along are you?”
Me (thinking): OHMYGOSH. How far along do I look?! I know “I know” the sex of “my baby,” so I have to be at least 20 weeks. I also have some (even if only a miniscule) pride left and I’m obviously not 40 weeks along… HOLY CRAP. I look PREGNANT!?

Me: “Twenty weeks.”

Me: “How far are you?”
Cashier: “Twenty weeks too. Just today.”

Me: “Oh, that’s great.”
Me (thinking): IF SHE ASKS ME WHEN I’M DUE, I AM FREAKING SCREWED. I don’t know how far along I should be! I don’t HAVE a due date! OHMYGOSH. I look PREGNANT? AGAIN, WHY am I standing like this? And better yet, WHEN is “my baby” due?

Me: “So… when are you due?”
Me (thinking): Ha. I’m a genius. … a fake-pregnant genius. … I’m an idiot.

Cashier: “October 18th. But they’ll probably be coming early September.”
Me: “Well good luck with everything!”
Cashier: “You too!”

Hungry, and needing to eat for two, I contemplated my recent pregnancy over a Target hot dog. I sat, rather dejectedly (surrounded by the usual Target café crew—really, there are regulars, and sadly I’m one of them) trying to make reason of my recent turn of events. I lied to that pregnant cashier to save her feelings. I mean, why WOULD a non-pregnant woman be buying maternity clothes? It wasn’t her fault I like it easy and breezy around my stomachal region. If I’m being honest (and why would I stop now? I just admitted to looking, acting, and lying about being pregnant in an open forum), I think I also lied to save face.

And with THAT off my chest, I hereby expel this false fetus from my womb, and will be getting back to the gym.

Must Be A Monday

I'm wearing my shirt backward and I just realized it.

To my credit, it's a short-sleeved cotton turtleneck so it's literally the same both ways.
Not to my credit, it's a maternity shirt.

To my credit, this maternity shirt is super cute and is fashioned the same as non-maternity shirts.
Not to my credit, it's shapeless enough that I can wear it nearly all day and not even notice it's on backward.

To my credit, the shirt was on the clearance rack at Target for $4.50. A steal of a deal.
Not to my credit, it's a maternity shirt.