My Life Is Brilliant... My Love Is Pure...

... don't you love that song? Me too. It's so silly, and utterly nonsensical, but it delights us to think that there are men who think like that. Fortunately, there aren't, since we'd want to kill them the first time they fell madly in love with the lady on the back of the garbage truck while dragging the cans to the street.

No... no... no wimpy man for me, that's for sure. I've got myself a very romantic redneck honey who curls my toes and slaps a smile on my face. And in just 6 Saturdays, we're going to take the plunge, and get married. I CAN'T WAIT!!!

Have you ever been around someone that just made your heart ache with love for them? It's so funny. I've known Steven since we were little kids, and back then, when I used to follow him around with my puppy-dog eyes (okay, I didn't start doing that until about 8th grade), everybody said, "It's just puppy love. You'll get over it. No big deal." So I graduated, moved on... tried to forget about him... and proceeded to compare him to every fella I met for the next 20 years. And they all fell short, for one major reason - they didn't make me FEEL the way I felt when I was around him. But that was just puppy love, right?

So why is it that 20 years later, when he finds me on facebook, and we get together, I STILL feel it?? Surely it's just the novelty of the thing, right?? So why is it that 8 months after we started dating, I still get that feeling every time I see him???

Two words, people: TRUE LOVE.

Dang I adore him. So you don't like my sappy trip? Get over it. You're just jealous.

I have to say, 2009 has been the BEST year for me in a long time. My sweetheart and I got together, my eldest daughter, against all odds, graduated from high school, I got a new job that I L-O-V-E, my sweetheart proposed... and now, right before Christmas, we're going to get married and make 2010 a pretty darn rockin' year as well.

Life is good, people. The scriptures say that man is that he might have joy. Want to see what that looks like? December 19 - 7 p.m. - LDS Church. It's going to be a beautiful thing!

Manis, Pedis, and Other Insults to My Intelligence

Yes, dear readers, I do know it has been about 47 years since my last blog post. (Actually, it's been about 6 months.) However, in the interim, something rather strange happened - I got a life.

A few days before my last post, the most absolutely fabulous fellow found me frolicking on Facebook. (That's for all of my alliterative afficionados!) Long story short, my high school crush decided to hunt me down, turned out to be every bit as delicious as I always thought he would be, and 6 months later we're engaged to be married. Yay!

Now what, you might ask, does this have to do with Manis (as in "manicures" for short), etc? Everything.

My 39th birthday is rumored to have occurred last week (I'm still refusing to formally acknowledge it), and my darling mother sent me a little cash with which to fund the manicure I desperately needed before I would be willing to dare take a picture of the gorgeous rock on my finger, to share with the family. So the children and I made the trek to our favorite salon, just to find that our favorite Chinese family actually had the audacity to take their one-day-every-decade vacation exactly when I needed them most! I was absolutely appalled.

But not to be beaten, I marched over to Wal-Mart to visit their competition. Let me just spoil the outcome of this story by saying that is one mistake I will NEVER make again.

First, I am not generally a nail-doing kind of girl. I get my nails done maybe once or twice a year, for very special occasions. On those rare occasions, I (almost) always go see Amy and Scott at LA Nails, whose English leaves a lot to the imagination, but who psychically always seem to know exactly what I want. I say this, having only just come to appreciate their particular gifts, upon realizing that not all Asian nail-doing types have this ability.

For instance, when I walked into the Wal-Mart salon, the rather suspicious looking Asian man behind the surgical mask called out, "I hewp zhoo?" To which I enthusiastically replied, "Mani and pedi for me... just the nails for my daughter..." who dutifully held up her well-chewed fingertips, and promptly got a set of lovely acrylic nails, which were painted in bright red, looking as though they had been painted by a 96 year old half-blind stroke victim with Parkinson's disease.

This fiasco was taking place while I was silently enduring the ice pick and sledge hammer on the bottoms of my feet, under the guise of receiving a pedicure. As always, I reminded myself that I would endure all for beauty, and besides, I couldnt' wait to see how my toes would look when dotted with a color called "I'm not really a waitress" - the most gorgeous metallic red I could imagine.

For the most part, the pedicure was uneventful, if unreasonably painful, as the woman cut one of my big toe nails down to the very quick, and then tried to cover up for this mistake by painting the end of my foot. This would end up being the least of my troubles, though.

After the pedicure, I was directed to the table, where I was left to soak my fingertips, with their nubby little nails, in some rather tingly, garlic-smelling sauce. Then I had a hand-massage administered by a tiny little Chinese sadist, who amused herself by seeing how many bones she could crack in 30 seconds or less. I should probably have been clued in by the green, curling dragon claws she called her own toenails, that perhaps she was one fortune cookie short of a Happy Meal, but I just kept thinking "endure all for beauty!!"

After a few minutes of soaking and bruising, she said to me, "Why you wan nail done?" pointing at my ring. "You get merry?" And I responded that yes, I was getting married, and decided to get acrylic nails to hide my ugly natural ones for the picture of my engagement ring. She then slapped the table so hard my teeth rattled, and her bowl of stingy garlic juice went everywhere. "You wan a fake a nail? Why you say mani when you wan fake a nail?" She then slapped my hands with a towel and shoved me toward the creepy guy behind the surgical mask, who continued to berate me in his barely intelligible English, somehow getting across the point that I had asked for one thing, when apparently I wanted something different.

I have to say... this greasy guy was just waiting for the folks from Immigration and Naturalization to come in for a pedicure. He kept looking at the doorway with these shifty eyes, over his mask, and he about had a stroke when I found his nail salon technician certificate behind the shelf of nail bottles on the table, and I pulled it up to compare his picture to his actual face, and realized they were NOT the same fella.

He then proceeded to slather about 4 feet of acrylic on each nail, until I ended up with a set of totally square, absolutely indestructible semi-French claws. I say semi-French, because the original idea was French, I'm sure, but I'm pretty sure that the original French tips did not start in the center of the nail bed, so they'd be an inch long. I'm sure they also were intended to have some uniformity of shape which in no way corresponds to the Piccaso-esque fiasco which is currently represented on the tips of my fingers.

To add insult to injury, though, was the cost. The sign posted at the doorway said that they charged $20 for a pedicure and $12 for a manicure. However, my total bill came to $70 - and the creepy guy added an $8 tip to the receipt AFTER I left.

So...was this venture a learning experience? Yes. I now know the difference between asking for a manicure and a "full set." And I also know the difference between an illegal hack, and a real nail technician. Next time I go to see Scott and Amy, I'm going to give them a big tip... and assure them that they need not worry about losing business to the folks down the sidewalk at Wal-Mart.

Procrastination

I have always been a procrastinator.   When I say "always" I mean that in the most literal of terms.  My mother carried me 10 months before she gave up and had me removed, somewhat like an obnoxious tumor, which only became more annoying once it was freed.

Nevertheless, this is not about how much I annoy my mother, although I'm sure my procrastination has often been a source of annoyance to her.  This is, in fact, about regret.

I am notorious about procrastinating, and completely unapologetic about it normally.  I generally do, eventually, get around to doing things, and I generally do my very best with them.  But occasionally, something goes awry.

Take last night, for instance.  

I've been enrolled in 2 classes through Capella University for the last 10 weeks, which post all assignments and expectations on the internet before the class even starts.  So you would think that at some point, something in my brain would have registered important things like final papers due, and so forth.  Well, it didn't happen.  

Throughout the ten week period, these two courses (which were both taught by the same professor - no complaints there, best professor I've had from Capella so far) had a schedule which resulted in weekly assignments being due at midnight on Sunday night, at the end of each unit.  So, each week, I would make a point of hitting at least one of the discussion board questions by Wednesday (so I didn't look like a complete slacker), and then everything else would wait at least until Saturday (if it was a really big assignment) or until Sunday night, and get turned in an hour or two (or 15 minutes) prior to the actual time it was due.  This pattern was working well for me.  I did great work, got great feedback, and all was well with the world. 

Until yesterday.

You see, I failed to connect the actual due date of my final assignments to any part of my brain, and had just assumed Sunday at midnight would end this particular procrastination-fest.  And this week, the non-slacking Wednesday job didn't happen either.  I took a sick day on Thursday, thinking I could catch up, and then - ironically - actually turned out to be sick, and got nothing done.

So finally, Friday rolled around and it was time to start thinking about what needed to get done this weekend.  Where I would normally have checked the site to see what was due, I didn't because the computers at school were too busy having a virus, and I had to spend my first several hours at home inoculating my home computers against the same bug.  And then I went to Wal-Mart and turned a trip to pick up one tiny thing (a leaf blower) into a two-hour love-fest with my favorite retail Romeo.  Anyway, I did, eventually, come home, whereupon I ate my dinner while I casually perused my e-mail, checked out a catalog that came in the mail, and generally farted around for a while.  At about 9 o'clock, I decided it was time to get serious, and I logged into my class online.  And served myself one first-class coronary, straight up.

I had e-mail from my professor on both class pages, reminding me that my final discussion board posts were due by 5 p.m. and my final papers were due at midnight.  

I believe I actually shrieked.

Long story short, in the 3 hours that followed I hammered out several (late) discussion board posts, a discussion summary, and 2 fairly high quality papers of 15 and 21 pages.  I was relieved to discover that Capella is located in the central time zone, which bought me an additional hour to work on the OTHER final paper, but I was ill-prepared to write it.  I really had not fully developed even the idea I was going to write about, much less researched it.  So, 42 minutes after it was due, with a heavy heart and a note of apology, I submitted a very inadequate piece of work.  

Then, after addressing my e-mail, I proceeded on to bed, where I should have remained for the next 12 hours (particularly considering that it was 3 a.m. when I finally fell in).  However, my guilty conscience had me up at 8, wondering how long it will be before I hear from my completely disgusted teacher.  

My point:  procrastination has a price.  It is, eventually, quite miserable, and not worth it.  I hereby assert that I will no longer procrastinate!  I will take the bull by the horns and I will be assertive and I will get what needs to be done - done, promptly, and with panache!  

And I'm going to get started on that immediately!  Right after I have a nap.

New Years Resolutions

Having enjoyed a lovely visit with my parents and siblings this holiday season, having had the opportunity to review and relive all of my past choices, I now commit myself to the following New Year's Resolutions:

1.  I resolve... not to marry anyone with more gas than a BP station in 2009.

2.  I resolve... not to doubly insult anyone by mispronouncing the name of their church or the insignificant bit of matter to which I am comparing them (such as accusing someone who is a member of the Episcopal Church of being a part of the "Yep's a Popsicle" church... or letting someone I was trying to call a troglodyte think I was calling them a "chocolate dyke.")

3.  I resolve... to make myself immune to accusations of hypocrisy from people whose blood is a 30% caffeine and 30% tannic acid, by resisting the urge to consume vast quantities of beverages which are capable of corroding metal surfaces.  (i.e.  Coke).

4.  I resolve... to tame the beast within me... as I have been assured I can do with a tube of V05 and a couple of Aussie products.  

5.  I resolve... to resist the urge to eat the Aussie products, even though they smell so deliciously grape-candyish that it will be a significant effort to restrain myself on this matter.

6.  I resolve ... to contain my inner-harpy, even if my children fall moderately short of my goals for them for 2009 (which are very modest, and only include things like admission into Juilliard University, a Nobel Peace prize, and completion of Algebra I [that one's for my 5 year old!]!)

7.  I resolve... to slim down a bit, from something along the lines of an aircraft carrier, to no larger than a frigate, excepting, of course, my feet, which were declared tug-boats by my mother in 1986, and I'm afraid there's no going back.

8.  I resolve... to build a real financial reserve, which doesn't involve any of the lint from my pocket, and is enough of a buffer to at least keep me in pantyhose in case of a real national disaster.

9.  I resolve... to keep the end-goal in mind, and remember each time someone calls me a "perpetual student" that there is no shame in learning, but the third graduate degree really is my limit.

10.  I resolve... to develop a list of New Year's Resolutions which doesn't summarize into "Farts, Fats, Faux Pas and Finances" as soon as humanly possible.