Unsupervised

Joe has left the building. I repeat, Joe has left the building...

Stay calm, don't panic, I am now running amok.

Unsupervised.

Out of control!!!

With my bag of frozen broccoli.

I was thinking, what do I do differently when Joe's not home? There really isn't much. I tend to simplify my meals because cooking for one is a nuisance. I talk more to the cats (which they find to be a nuisance. I sleep in the middle of the bed (if I'm in a bed-sleeping kinda place in my life, which I currently am not).

If he's gone over an entire weekend, I might do a little shopping or indulge in a massage. Maybe an extra trip to the gym or a meal in front of the television.

The biggest difference is probably the noise level. Joe is a lover of sound. I am a lover of silence. So while he has music on from practically the time he arrives home until the time he goes to bed, I tend to sit with my thoughts and be silent in the evenings.

So, farewell, Joe. Safe travels. He's looking forward to this conference and eagerly anticipating running in San Francisco so it's truly not mean for me to encourage him to go enjoy himself. And sometime this weekend, get your booty back home. Hopefully by then I'll be more rested and less cranky.

Yeah, and monkeys might fly out my butt.

Wild Child

Tomorrow, at the butt-crack of dawn, my husband is leaving for San Francisco. I don't know if when he's coming back. Originally, Friday afternoon. But then his boss said to take the red-eye home Friday night. That costs exactly eleventy bajillion dollars at this point so I told him to convince the boss to pay for an extra hotel night and fly him home on Saturday. Late. Because I'm totally digging the alone time supportive like that.

Anyways, on Sunday, we went to CostCo to make our monthly sacrifice purchases. Joe kept reminding me to "buy something awesome" for while he's away. How sweet of him to give me permission.

As we're unpacking the car, I notice him scanning the goods.

Joe: What did you buy for while I'm gone?
me: This!
Joe: Really?
me: Uh huh.
Joe: You're never allowed to call me lame again.

So what did I buy?

Yeah, that's right, I bought frozen broccoli.

I'm so bad-ass.

P.S. If anyone knows the secret handshake for entrance into the "hot dudes" aisle at Costco, please email me immediately.

What I Learned in Cooking Class

Waaaaaaaaaay back on our anniversary, I bought Joe a gift card to a local shop that has cooking classes. We'd talked about doing this forever as we both enjoy cooking and thought it would be something fun to do together. Somehow, we never actually did it so I decided to buy him the gift card, thus ensuring we'd finally make a reservation.

Our class was yesterday and we had a blast. It was a bread-making class. I showed up, ready to dump my ingredients in the bread machine and hit "start" (what, that's not how you make bread?) and learned some interesting things.

• Everything sounds awesomer if you say it with a French accent.
• Apparently, you can make bread without a bread machine!!! Who knew?
• Dough is sticky, y'all. And a lot of work. Where's my bread machine?
• If you have a mild panic attack on the way to class and take a xanax, you'll become so chill you'll forget you even took the xanax. Then you'll gladly drink the glass of wine you're offered at class and be super-duper-loopy.
• The above is the kind of situation that leads Joe to believe I shouldn't be unsupervised in the kitchen.
• Ever.
• French bakers hopped up on percoset are FUN, WHEE!!!!
• That awkward "oh man, I'm doing it wrong, let's make a joke because I feel like an idiot" feeling from high school still exists even in professional adults.
• Sometimes the dough is so sticky and you think it will never end and it's all stuck on your hands and you discover an entirely new way to feel claustrophobic.
• Don't ask the French dude if he has any chocolate chips or cheese to add to the bread. He's medicated and French and a little punchy.

But probably the number one thing I learned at cooking class? "Artisan" and "rustic" are both cooking words that mean "lumpy".

Still, my lumpy Rustic French Country Bread turned out very yummy. And no, I'm not willing to share. If there's one thing I learned from the French dude, it's that it's totally cool to be stabby as long as you say it with an accent. Besides, I put a lot of blood, sweat, and xanax tears into that bread. And a lot of swearing love.

P.S. My bread was much less "rustic" than Joe's. I think he was petting it instead of kneading it.

Six Word Saturday

Describe your life (or something) in a phrase using just six words. For more information, try clicking here. Feel free to explain or not explain. Add an image, a video, a song, nothing. I love seeing what everyone does each week with their entries.

Nobody cares about Saturday the 14th

All that's necessary to participate is to post your own six words. You can post an explanation if you wish but it's certainly not required. If you play along in your blog, please add a link to the Mr. Linky. I appreciate a link back (shiny code below if you like!) but I'm not going to delete your entry or punch you in the face if you don't. Otherwise, you're welcome to leave your six words in this post as a comment.

<a href="http://www.showmyface.com/search/label/6WS"><img src="http://i395.photobucket.com/albums/pp35/showmyface/guts/6wsButton.jpg" /></a>

There really IS an app for that!

No, this isn't a commercial for the iPhone. It isn't a paid advertisement for anything. Besides, Gwen would never allow it. And I will not be switching to AT&T. Anyways...

Wednesday night, I lost my mind a little bit. Specifically, there was a song and I kept hearing it in my head but I couldn't figure out the artist or even the lyrics.

I sent on a search, pleading to a friend over IM, bothering Joe while he was trying to work, and even begging Twitter for assistance. My pleas went something like this:

Help me figure out this song! It's kinda folksy or acoustic. I heard it on Acoustic Cafe on XM. Or maybe on Scrubs. Or it could've been in some Indie movie I hated. I'm not really sure if it's a chick or a dude but maybe someone like Jack Johnson or Ingrid Michaelson. And all I have for lyrics are "Do doDodo dododoo dodoDodo, DO dodoDo dodoDo dodododooo, DO dodedo dodedo dodadoDooo, blah bye you".

What? You don't know it either? What good are you?

Then, @dpringle took the opportunity to mock me for not having an iPhone said it was too bad I didn't have an iPhone because there's an app for that! (cue marketing vomit and eye rolling ickiness - except @dpringle is pretty awesome so I forgive him) He finally convinced me to search for a pc or online version of the iPhone app, Midomi.

Guess what?

It exists. I found Midomi.com and right up top was a little "click here and hum" button. So I gathered my gin courage, hit the microphone, and gave it my best "Do doDodo dododoo dodoDodo". And don't ya know? It came up with the song. Immediately. Way more efficient than 2+ hours of Youtube, Google, ITunes and SlackerRadio searching.

The song was Anyone Else But You by The Moldy Peaches. It may not be Ingrid Michaelson but it WAS used in an indie movie I hated (Juno).

And actual lyrics?

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du
But you

I wasn't that far off afterall!



P.S. This is a lot like that time I was going on and on to someone (SomeMonkey?) about this word they use in London for guys that are kinda tools. And it starts with a B. She guessed every B word she could think of, British or not. The word I was looking for? Cad. Yeah. Cad. That's how I'm wired. I need repairs.