One Sweet Night

I don't know what you did Saturday night, but it wasn't nearly as cool as what Karen, Gretchen and I did on Saturday night because you didn't have 9th row seats at a Boyz II Men concert and we did.

That's right, folks. Wallow in your jealousy.

It turned out to be one of the best concerts I've been to in a long time. The group was really engaging onstage and it was a fun, lively atmosphere. They did a lot of their hit songs from their first few records and then pulled out some old-school Motown.

The show was chock-full of nostalgia for me. I remember sitting on the floor of my bedroom in about 1995 listening to the II album. Oh, the Raynor house saw a lot of wear on that. And my sister had the single Down on Bended Knee. On cassette.

During the show, I called my mom and held up my cell so she could hear them sing A Song for Mama. I thought it only appropriate.

After the show I was really in the mood for some good old '90s R&B (shut up, you know you listen to it too) so I sang every All-4-One and Babyface song I had on my iPod on the drive home. Good times.

So to clarify: yes, it was me who sang I'll Make Love to You at the top of my lungs during the show, but it was Karen who yelled to Wanya that she'd have his babies. Just to be clear.

The only picture where all three of us didn't look stoned:

The father of Karen's children:

And no one would find me until Monday.

I stayed late at work tonight to finish up a project. Everyone else is gone. All the lights (except those in my office) are off. I have my earbuds in and my iPod cranked up.

If I were in a horror movie, this is the part where I would die.

How I almost got into a fistfight today and why I'm probably going to hell.

I was in line at Office Max and almost got my butt kicked.

I heard a woman get in line behind me and grumble impatiently, “What? They only have one cashier open?” I looked up, puzzled. There was only one person in front of me, then me. Just two people. Not really a big deal. Irritated Lady continued to huff and moan and mutter things like, “This is ridiculous!” and, I tell ya, I’m a pretty patient girl but she was really starting to grate on me.

I finally turned and gave her a small smile. And of course by “a small smile,” I mean “a look that says ‘Get a grip, already!’” I turned back to the poor cashier and rolled my eyes a little, good-naturedly.

And that started it all.

“Don’t you give me that kind of look! How dare you? I have every right to be angry about this!” Irritated Lady yelled at me.

Now, I usually avoid confrontation. I bite back a lot of things, a lot of times. In fact, I’m afraid I’m going to bite my tongue so hard one of these days, it’s going to come clean off. That being said, you yell at me in an office supply store, you’re gonna get a piece of my mind.

(This is the part when I became very, very un-Christlike.)

I turned back slowly and looked Irritated Lady square in the face. “I agree,” I said levelly, “You do have the right to be angry. You even have the right to act like a total [censored] right now.” (Oh, she was fuming!) I continued, “But I have the right to roll my eyes at your petulant behavior. This conduct would be unacceptable even for my students. And they’re six.”

I turned back to the cashier who was fighting an impossible battle against a smile. He quietly gave me twenty percent off my purchase.

Dreams from my father

I dreamed my dad was hosting a gourmet cooking class/slumber party at my childhood home and the two people invited were Barrack Obama and Sigourney Weaver.

It was weird.

Ell-oh-vee-ee

Falling in love is fun. It’s a rush, like jumping into a swimming pool. You feel helplessly weightless in the air and, for split second, a fleeting moment of terror (but good terror, like bungee-jumping terror, not like ax-murderer terror) and you hit the water—what a shock it is!—and you feel the rush of air and water bubbling and tickling up your body. And for a minute you think you might just crack in two because, really is it even possible to feel this happy?

But getting your heart broken hurts. Like a sledgehammer to the gut. It’s not all that fun.

But in the end, isn’t it better to love anyway? Because the swimming pool part was quite nice. And now you know to avoid people with sledgehammers.

Yes, I think it’s always better to love than to not.

Is that opium paste I detect?

Café Rio makes me sick. Not in the “I’m so sick of everyone talking about Café Rio because, let’s face it, it’s not that great” sense. More like in the “I’m gonna die” sense.

About an hour after I eat Café Rio food, I wind up curled in a ball on the couch moaning, “Why? Why did I eat that? Someone tell me why! Also, are you going to eat your leftovers?” Every time. And yet, when someone says, “We’re going to Café Rio,” I say, “I’ll get my purse.”

I don’t know why I go there. The food’s not terrific and it makes me (just for you, Beerman) throw-uppy.

And here's something gross: the more I type "Café Rio", the more I crave Café Rio.

I’m such a freakin’ masochist.


P.S. If you don't get the post title, click here.

You're Replaceable

Last night driving home from work, I thought to myself, “I should call James and see if he wants me to come pick him up for dinner,” but then I realized that my baby brother doesn’t live in Provo anymore and so I can’t just go down and rock his world with a Pizza Factory visit.

I continued to think about little James and that time I went down to visit and bought that poor kid shampoo, garbage bags and Band-Aids. He looked at me like I’d offered him my kidney. And that other time I lent him White Rhino for a whole weekend just ‘cause. Man, I’m an awesome big sister. But now I’m suffering pangs of brother-withdrawl. I asked my mom if she would send a replacement (they’ve got FOUR MORE of ‘em out there, for heaven’s sake!); she didn’t think it’d be a good idea.

You know what else? Huh? Huh? My dumb ol’ sister will soon be whisking her own brood out of state and far away from me: the Great Spoilin’ Aunt. Who’s going to dump out the contents of my purse searching for the gum and candy they know will always be there? (I mean, besides on Fast Sundays when I do it myself.) And mid-day Frosty runs? Gone. (P.S. Amy, did you know I give your kids ice-cream practically every time I see them? No?)

All my spoilees are leaving. I need a replacement!

Maybe I’ll get a puppy.


By the way, got this in an email from James just this morning:
"Febuary had a record amount of homicides [in Juarez]. But don´t worry, only about 5 were in our area."
Yeah, James . . . that's how to allay your mother's fears. Smart.

Jerky-Pants Jason

The biggest douchebag in America today is one Jason Mesnick. What a big, fat jerk. Some relationships don't work. I get that. But to break someone's heart on national television? Are you kidding me? I was so disgusted with him, I had to leave the room. Ugh. I'm just glad that Melissa called him out on his jerkiness.

And who else was hoping that Molly would give him the shaft? I know I was. But Molly is always and forever a bug-eyed, head-shaking, scarf-wearing idiot and was like, "Sure! I mean, I know that you are the least sensitive guy on the planet and all, despite what kind of balcony-crying you've been involved in, but I'll take you back. Because I'm a freakin' moron!"

Jason + Molly = most revolting couple ever.

I'm a nerd. How 'bout you?

When Denethor II wished that Faramir had died in place of Boromir, who didn't want to give Faramir a hug?

If you didn't you are cold, cold, cold.

P.S. Faramir is a stud. I'm so jealous of Éowyn.

A Very Naughty Thing

Most of the time I'm fairly well-behaved. Okay, okay, I don't follow all the rules all the time, but I'm definitely not a full-fledged, in-your-face rule-breaker.

But last night . . . (mischievous giggle) . . . I got home around 1:30am (okay, so technically this morning) and should have gone right to sleep. That's the should've. That's what I normally would've.

But, I was naughty instead.

Instead of sleeping, I watched Flight of the Conchords in bed while sipping my Big Gulp and munching on nachos. Yes! Nachos! In bed! At 2 am! That's not even kind of justifiable.


So naughty.

I'm not the type of girl who lays in bed eating junk food in the middle of the night. I think that's why it was so fun. Because I knew in the back of my mind it was taboo. An illicit activity. Something frowned upon by all decent society. And there I was doing it. What a rebel.


How do you break the rules?