Dude looks like a lady

(NEVER start a post with "One of the things I love about my husband is...")

One of the things I love about my husband is his unabashed involvement in whatever is going on. And I do mean "whatever." If the gang is playing Just Dance 3 on the Wii, he's out in front channeling Katy Perry. If it's facial time, he asks for a little oatmeal on his t-zone. If I start wearing red lipstick, he'll coin a nickname for it: "redstick."

Remember when I mentioned my hair feather awesomeness? That didn't even make my parents blink? Yes? When Adam heard that his sister was giving me hair feathers a la Steven Tyler, he wanted one, too. And of course anything Steven Tyler does is pure gold, dripping with sexy, and smothered with genius.

Here's a peek into the feather salon over the holidays.
The final product was hilarious. And hot. But mostly hilarious. Much like the child who begs for nail polish and then immediately wants it off, Adam's feather didn't last long. Probably smart: feathers and the the legal world might not mix well.

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Me, Myself, and Eye...glasses

Did I mention that I got new glasses? Leave it to the ever-amazing Zenni Optical to come through when I needed new ones, but refused to lay down the coin that the doctor's office wanted. $150?!?! I ain't THAT blind.

So...better one or better two? Better two or better three? Better three or better one? Now all those multiple personalities RAGING in me don't have to share! Watch out, World! And speaking of glasses, do you know The Girls with Glasses? I wanna kiss both of them on the mouth and I will tell anybody.

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He's always wanted a rope ladder.

I've been locked out before. Heavenhavemercy, have I ever been locked out before! You don't have air for brains and never experience THAT joyous moment when you realize that your keys are inside and you are not.

But I'm never been locked in.

Well, I HADN'T been locked in until last Friday.

Adam came home from work and told me to get my keister out of my sick bed because we were going to the doctor. I put on my clothes, gathered my personal effects, walked to the door, and found the deadbolt stuck in the locked position.

"We're locked in," I calmly told Adam. Loads of DayQuil gave me peace like a river.

He rushed over and started jiggling the door like folks tend to do when they find it unexpectedly, but most definitely locked. After a brief but powerful moment of panic (I can't say I blame him. Being locked in when I'm NOT sick would be hell enough.), he got to work removing the door handle.I very helpfully got my camera and a handful of wafer cookies. Did I mention I was sick?Taking the door handle off didn't free us. And truth be told, I was a little relieved. If it had popped right off, we might as well put our flip phones, tube TV, boombox, and broken 1GB iPod in a gift bag for thieves. Jeez.Adam called the maintenance man.

Who also couldn't get the door handle off.

"Hello out there! Could you pass us in a few bean burritos? Actually, I'm watching my diet right now, so I'll just have pintos and cheese. And maybe a lamb kabob? He'll have a diet Coke, too, please." It started to get a bit comical. Or perhaps that was just the DayQuil laughing.

And just when I thought I should perhaps ration those wafer cookies, the door came open and we breathed the sweet taste of freedom! Lapsed time: 38 minutes. ONLY 38 MINUTES!?!? I've experienced months that felt shorter. I was even having difficulty remembering things from before we were locked in. Writing this post took longer than 38 minutes. And now let's go to Adam for a little video recap.
My voice sounds like a man. I realize this, but again, I was sick. I wonder how many more times I can use that excuse. "Sorry I didn't feed the hungry or clothe the naked. I was sick." I abuse things. Character flaw.

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Sweet Chariot

Adam and I have a fistful of places that we frequent regularly. The local grocery store, the Subway just up the street, and K Street Bagel, just to name a few all of them.

If you can muscle through the embarrassment of another human being knowing how many footlong subs you ingest weekly, it's really quite nice being a regular. Peeps have got your back. Jackie at the grocery store lets us slip through customer service line, even though we're not buying lotto tickets and cigarettes. We have rapport for days with the ladies at Subway. They also know exactly how many thousands of black olives I mean when I say "I want lots and lots of black olives on that meatball sub." At K Street Bagel, the gal starts our order the second our trends cross the threshold: two egg and cheese bagels, one onion, one plain.

There is one other place that we are regulars. But it's a little like being regulars in Hell.

It's Jerry's Ford. Specifically, the auto shop at Jerry's Ford. Our Taurus, lovingly coined "The Shatbag", is there so frequently that she has her own dedicated table in the corner and her favorite waitress. The fellas know Adam like a brother and they yell, "Hey, Adam!" when he walks in.

Everybody knows his name. And he's always glad he came.

Not.

Several months ago, Adam and I took a sick day. Because we had contracted something hateful. And on our way to the store to get sick people medicine (Tylenol, DayQuil, Spaghettios), $hitty $hitty Bang Bang just flat gave up the ghost. Refused to start, laid back, and screamed, "UNCLE!"

So, we had to have that sonuhva witch towed. I called Cheers, I mean, Jerry's.

Me: Hi. Our car refuses to start, is laying back, and screaming, "UNCLE!" so we're having it towed.

Art with Jerry's: What kind of car is it?

Me: It's a white Ford Taur-a$$.

Art: Does it belong to Adam?

Me: Yep. It sure does. How'd you guess?

There's something about riding behind a tow truck, loaded down with your vehicle, that really makes you take stock of your life. Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going?

When we got her back the following day, we gave her a talking to.

Actual transcribed excerpt from the aforementioned talking to:

"We want to thank you for the work you've done for us. We appreciate the effort you've shown in the past. There's been a lot of late nights and early mornings. But over the past two years, we've noticed a serious decline in your productivity and attitude toward your work. We're not able to rely on you like we once were. We see long lunches and online chatting. We even caught you napping on the job the other day. And we couldn't wake you up! This hurts us more than it hurts you, but we're giving you an ultimatum; either you give us 2007 again, or we're letting you go."

Adam made a vow right then and there that he wouldn't put another dime into The Shatbag. Then, he put the key in the engine, gave 'er a crank, and VARRROOOOMMMMM. The purr of a lioness...and the smell of burnt rubber.

Dejected, but sticking to Adam's vow, we carried that smell up and down between our house and the District until my night sweats were too much. Then, we carried that smell to the dealership and bartered for a gently used Prius...despite my pleas for an Accord.
We cried a little when we drove away and left The Shatbag alone and empty at the dealership. I'm not ashamed. She holds five years of memories in her boat-like frame: the moves, the road trips, the vacations, the errands, the backseat. Wink, wink. While there are things we hope he'll improve on (ahem, two new starters in three years?), this Prius has a lot to live up to, and we told him so.

Then, we dried our tears on the 50 MPG we got on the way home.

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Maybe it's your upper lip

The other day, I went to an eyebrow threading appointment at noon. I guess I had forgotten to tell Adam I was going, because he called my cell phone in a panic.

"Where ARE you?!?"

"I'm walking down 19th Street on my way to get my brows done," I said.

"Um, why?" he inquired further.

"Um, because I can braid them," I replied.

He was incredulous. "In the middle of a work day?!?"

"Yes, I can braid them in the middle of a work day. I can also do it in the evening and at night." I said.

"No! Why are you going to get your eyebrows done in the middle of a work day?" he asked.

"Oh, that! Because that's just the kind of girl I am." I like to think that I'm all sorts of bad arse, but full disclosure: it was my lunch break. I'm by the book from nine to five, but after hours...the shirt comes off. And gets spun around my head.

I got to my appointment, got those mother-lovers tamed, and was about to climb out of the chair when the gal asked me if I'd like my upper lip threaded, too.

"Well, I wasn't planning on it...." I told her.

She suddenly inhaled and widened her eyes, leaned closer to examine my lip, and finally withdrew from me with an indignant lip-curl and an exhalation of bated breath.

"BUT," I quickly rushed on, "If you think I need it, by all means!!"

"Well...you could use a little...cleaning up," she said.

I have no sales resistance. Especially where my upper lip is concerned. So I urgently waved her on.

Ever had your upper lip de-haired? Ever had a colonoscopy? Me neither. But I imagine the pain level to be similar.

My eyes watered, both from a natural reflex to pain and the silent sobs inside me, but it was over before I knew it. Also like a colonoscopy.

I wiped my teary eyes, paid up, and left the salon with what shred of decency I had left...again, colonoscopy-esque. That's the last time I mention colonoscopy. I promise. But if you're good, I might weave in a "colon" for you before we close here today.

The fresh air did wonders for my smarting bald lip and I was feeling right as rain in no time. So right as rain that folks were doing double-takes and staring at me as I walked back to work. And I don't mean "a few peeps looked my way." I mean, every person I passed gave me long moments of uninterrupted eye contact.

Unnerved by all this attention, I did what I always do when I notice an influx of starers: I checked the back of my pants for a wayward piece of toilet paper. (Sooooo been there, done that.) No toilet paper, so I swiped my face to dislodge any stray matter stuck thereon. My hand came back clean. I adjusted my clothing, but my fronts was safety robed (not that ANYONE would have been shocked by THAT peep show). I even checked my hair in a store window, but found it no crazier than usual.

But in my reflection, I was reminded that I was wearing a really cute orange cardigan and my skinniest skinny jeans. Bingo! I look extra hot today! That's it! Men, women, and children alike are literally magnetized to my beauty.

And so, I convinced myself that I was shockingly attractive for once in my life and strutted the last three blocks to my building like haters be hatin'. I even gifted an extremely zealous passerby with a electrifying hair flip on the house, imaging him staggering back in amazement at such ethereal beauty.

Then I had to pee. And I went into the bathroom. And I saw what all the fuss what about.

*sigh*

My upper lip the reddest of all reds.

Now, I worry that what you think I just said was "my lip was red." But what I meant was, my lip looked like someone had taken that red lipstick I've started wearing and drawn a mustache on me.

The nice thing about the city is I'll probably never see those two hundred or so people that I passed on my way back to work.

The problem with the city is that I PASSED TWO HUNDRED OR SO PEOPLE WITH FLAMES SHOOTING FROM MY UPPER LIP.

And because I always keep my promises: colon.

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Sick Day Essentials

I've been bitten by the flu bug. Hard. And it's put me out of the game for a week. I attempted to go to work, but my coworker told me that I looked terrible, sounded awful, and smelled like a cough drop, so I slunk out at halftime and spent the rest of the day watching Downton Abbey with a tissue stuck up my nostrils.
I've heard that a great deal of folks have been down and out so, in case you're currently one of the afflicted undead, I've put together this super helpful list of sick day essentials.

First, you need Puffs Plus Lotion with Vicks. Not Puffs. Not Puffs Plus Lotion. Puffs Plus Lotion with Vicks. And it's important to be a diva about this. In fact, it's important to be a diva about everything when you're sick. Husbands acting as caretakers really enjoy this. Demand sponge baths and muscle rubs. They really like demands. Saturate yourself with plenty of herbal tea. Bladders and bladders full of the stuff. Celestial is, of course, the best brand. Again, think "diva" and settle for nothing less than the best. It basically tastes like Hi-C Fruit Punch. Only without the punch. B-list movies are also a must. Pour money into a monthly subscription to Netflix Online Streaming and tons of wonderfully horrible movies will spring forth. But don't worry: you'll be delirious enough to waste an entire day watching such stimulating titles as Love, Wedding, Marriage and Chaos Theory, both of which you've never heard of and don't really want to see. But the most important element of a sick day is to give yourself a treat to help you stay mentally upbeat even though physically, you're rotting. Like...say....a brand-new 7D camera! That's right. Buy yourself something that you've been coveting, working, saving, wishing, hoping, thinking, praying, planning, and dreaming about forever. Blowing your nose is hard work; you deserve it.
It takes video. Because what your sick day also needs is more Emily.

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The streets are paved with cheese.

Every time I'm out west, it's like I'm seeing Utah for the first time. The soaring Rockies that tickle the sky, the fresh, cool air, the starry night sky that I can actually see. Yes, yes, yes, all of that is very nice indeed. But it's the empty, carless roads and freeways, even during rush hour, that make my breath catch and, as I tick by 45 miles in 40 minutes, I think, "Yep, this is the place."

Don't get me started on free parking. I'm liable to break into song. With high notes.

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Be Better

Adam and I got some really good news last week: he doesn't have a tumor! Any serious Adam fans know about the tumor found in and removed from his neck 10 years ago. And something was/is hard in that same spot on his neck again. He told the doctor his suspicions, I told the doctor my suspicions, she told us her suspicions and ordered an MRI, the poor kid suffered through that ordeal, and then Thursday, it was confirmed that he is just abnormal.

Which I knew all along.

(Kidding, Adam. I really shouldn't pick on you right now because YOU ARE TUMOR-FREE!!! But after the excitement has warn off, wooo buddy, you'd better watch out because I'm coming for you. Full force. Guns blazing. Cat launcher loaded.)

I, of course, mean his scar is abnormal. Ain't no thang; just some thickness. We kissed the doctor ON THE MOUTH, because even a benign tumor means an invasive surgery followed by several weeks of recovery.

We didn't tell folks because there's no point is screaming about a fire you see flames.

But one of my coworkers was in the know because she has no boundaries and when I said, I'll be in early tomorrow because my husband has a very early appointment two blocks away, she inquired further.

And further.

And further.

Good thing I really like her.

Anyway, she asked me for an update and I told her the good news. She cheered appropriately, I thanked her for her concern, and we went along our respective ways.

When I got back from running an errand, I found, on my desk, a gift certificate to a restaurant near where I work with a note: Go out and celebrate "No Tumor" Day!

Annnnddddd now I'm crying again.

The most thoughtful, unexpected gift I've ever gotten. Sans that time in college when Anonymous came to my work and left $100 and a "Merry Christmas!" note. THAT was also amazing because I was broke and starting to siphon gas, but I digress.

The feeling of being remembered felt so good and I immediately wanted to share that with someone. Pay it forward, if you will. Not to be confused with the movie Pay It Forward with that creepy, but downtrodden kid from The Sixth Sense and Kevin Spacey, who is, come on now, one of the best actors of our time. Ever seen K-Pax? That scene at the end where his therapist psycho-hypnotizes him? Shutthefrontdoor, why that scene wasn't bathed is Oscars, I'll never know. I'm digressing again.

I popped open a new email and jotted a quick note to a friend going on a nerve-racking trip ("Good luck! You'll do great! Fly safe! Thoughts and prayers!"). Thoughtfulness was like caffeine for my soul and I immediately felt more positive and optimistic.

After that, I spent the afternoon thinking about thoughtfulness and all those times when I was and was not thoughtful.

And then I started thinking about resolutions. Or rather, my lack thereof.

Aside from my resolve to cook more, I have yet to set any for 2012 because 1) my life it just getting back to normal after the holidays, and 2) I usually jot down a bunch of completely irrational and unattainable goals. Read: I will wash my hair three times a week and No more chocolate. Ever.

I ain't never gonna wash my hair three times a week.

Maybe three times a month.

I'm kidding.

No, I'm not.

I wish I were, though.

Then it dawned on me that my 2012 should be about resolving to be better. Simple as that. I'm just going to be better tomorrow than I was today. And tomorrow, I'm going to be better than I was yesterday.

What does "better" mean? That's hard to define, so I think I'll take it as it comes. I mean, today "better" might mean not punching anyone on the Metro, but tomorrow "better" could mean being thoughtful toward a coworker who found out her husband doesn't have cancer.

I'm getting so comfortable with mediocrity, I don't even bother to put on a bra around it anymore. So, perhaps my bar is set low. Regardless, my goal for this year is simple: To make 2012's Emily better than 2011's Emily. Doable, right? Right.

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In our family portrait, we look pretty happy...

...and then someone gave Adam the camera remote. Rookie mistake. He's always good for a humorous series of photos. I think I'll keep him.

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Anniversary Par-tay #4: Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby

On our actual anniversary, December 28th, (not to be confused with this, this, or this), we left South Carolina and flew to Utah to spend a week with Adam's fam. They picked us up at the airport (We were so excited to see them!) and whisked us off to Temple Square for a fabulous dinner at The Roof Restaurant and a little site-seeing. We're certainly idiots, but we did not overlook the fact that five years to the day, we'd come full circle. And much like Googling Google, the world didn't implode like I thought it would. Huh.

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Disappointment is...

Disappointment is losing my phone in the Charleston, South Carlina airport and finding it a week later...with only two missed calls. Both from Adam.

Disappointment is FINALLY being old enough to rebel against my parents without fatal repercussions and putting magenta feathers in my hair, only to have to call attention to the magenta feathers because they didn't even notice. "Nothing you do shocks us anymore, Emily." Challenge accepted! Their words sting.Disappointment is my husband's sudden onset of seemingly permanent bear growl snoring after five years of peaceful(ish) sleeping. Bear growl snoring was sorta my thing.

Disappointment is every one of the 1,984 miles that separate Adam and I from our besties.Disappointment is this picture. It solidifies what I've suspected all along: I'm the most unphotogenic person on God's green earth. Disappointment is getting wrinkle cream from Santa.

Disappointment is knowing that I asked Santa for said wrinkle cream.

Disappointment is meeting up with old and good girlfriends over the holidays, having a rip-roaring good time, and leaving with the bitter realization that I will never again cross paths with Emily of 1121 Chipman Hall, an 18-year-old idiot who kept the stolen laundry cart in her dorm room for several weeks, dropped a Snickers in the toilet to make it look like, well, you now, and had the wonderful fortune of getting the best roommates ever.Disappointment is making a resolution to personally cook more, and then realizing that I've eaten Panera Bread, Taco Bell, Chipotle, and a meal cooked by Adam since making that resolution...four days ago.

Disappointment is coming back to the office after a blissful and relaxing holiday vacation.

Disappointment is coming back to the office after a blissful and relaxing holiday vacation to nearly 100 unanswered emails.

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I need to warn you

I've started wearing red lipstick. And it does. not. flatter. me.

But I'm forging on.

Because I'm nothing if I'm not a trend-follower.

Shield your eyes.

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Snippets of South Carolina

These bits and pieces of our South Carolina Christmas have no crib for a bed, so I'm going to swaddle them and lay them here in this manger, if you don't mind.

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