Happy Slutoween! Or, Carebear-Palooza.

Happy Slutoween, everybody! Hope you all had a fab weekend. We had our annual par-tay here at the house, despite the atrocious snow storm that rocked much of the Northeast. Snow, schmo. We just wanted to play some beer pong.

As I sit here, I'm still dressed in my carebear costume. Because let's face it, one of the perks of working from home is making your own dress code. And fuck it, I'm going to dress like a carebear if I want to. It's halloween, after all, and I'm a grown up, so I can do what I want.

I just have to share a few photos of the amazingness that K came up with for these costumes. I am one lucky lady, because let me tell you that that man knows how to work a sewing machine. And he taught me too, so I was able to help a LITTLE this time:

Me, K, and our friend R: K did ALL the hand stitching!

Carebear amazingness. (Sans creepy mask)

Carebear tummy bump.

The butt is by far the most amazing part. Thatswhatshesaid.

I am one lucky lady to have a man who is willing to dress up like a giant carebear for her. A good time was had by all, and I managed not to spill beer OR dip on my tummy. Added bonus: the carebear mittens function as potholders AND beer openers. SCORE!

Sucker for a sucker.

Go away, Cindy. I don't want
your delicious candy.

I'm a sucker. A huge fucking sucker. I heard a knock at the door yesterday, and opened it to a little girl with Cindy Lou Who eyelashes selling candy bars for $2 apiece.

There were several reasons for me NOT to buy candy from her. First of all, I'm on a diet. (They're these weird Swedish nutrition bars. They burn carbs. They just burn up all your carbs.) Second of all, I'm trying to save money.

So what did I do? Went and got a 5 spot out of my purse and brought it to the door. "Do you have change for a 5?" I asked. Of couuuurse she didn't. So instead of saying "you know, I'm all set, sweetie, thank you!" Which would have been absolutely acceptable, I said:

"Okay, I'll take 2 then. And you can just keep the change."

Sucker.

As I shut the door behind her, my eyes crazy with desire for the devil's chocolatey playthings in my warm little hands, I realized that I had forgotten to even ask what the donation was for.

Hopefully I didn't fund an underground cocaine ring for schoolchildren.

Put it on my tab.

When K travels for work, I have to figure out how to do shiz by myself. Like cook, shovel snow, and mow the lawn.

It's a sweaty, time-consuming job, but I thought I'd do K a solid and surprise him when he came home to a well-groomed grassy knoll. (Thatswhatshesaid)

I mowed the front lawn with little to no complication; circling the brick island in the middle of the yard with master precision. The lines may have been a little crooked, but at least the grass was cut.

The back yard was another story.

I did a precursory loop around the yard, outlining the surrounding lilac bushes. I was about to make my second orbit when suddenly a metal piece broke off, and the wheel flew right off the GD mower.

Really?

The list of shit I've broken since I moved in is thus:
- End table (fell and took a big chunk out of the kitchen island drywall)
- Closet door (fell off and took a big chunk out of the drywall)
- Coffee maker (juuuuust stopped working)
- Coffee mug
- Dinner plate
- Pan, when I burned chocolate to the bottom while watching gilmore girls
- Dishwasher (the spinny thing broke when I piled the dishes too high)
- Annnnnd lawn mower

Juuuust put it on my tab.

The sweatiest birthday cake EVER.

It's 88 degrees in the house. We forgot to put the air conditioners in before K left for work again, and so I've been sweating my ass off. Not to mention the fact that I've been baking like a maniac, trying to make K a cake for his bday.

I was in the middle of mixing the cake ingredients, (box, not from scratch--you kids put too much faith in my domestication) one meal already in the oven with 16 min to go, when I realized that there is one thing you can't make a cake without.

Fucking eggs.

I'm sweating, I've got a meal already in the oven, but I HAVE to get this cake baked before K gets home. Not to mention I'm doing this all on my lunch break (thank GOD for working from home on days like today.)

Pop quiz, hot shot. What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO?

I had two options: wait until the potatoes were out of the oven, turn OFF the oven, run to the store after my lunch break (which I NEVER do, I get anxious just thinking about it.) Or grab my purse and run to the store with 16 minutes left on the timer, leaving my oven on and cooking. Most of you know that I am borderline OCD when it comes to the oven, and I check it about three times every time I leave the house. At least. So choosing option B was a tough choice, but I REALLY wanted that cake done before K gets home.

So I squealed into the parking lot, dashing around dodging seniors and small children like they were cars in Frogger. I pictured myself as the pixelated amphibian, hopping from aisle to aisle with precision. I even knew which aisles I needed to hit before I went into the store.

I made it back to the house with 4 minutes to spare. I have truly never been prouder of myself. I sure hope K likes his cake. I tried not to sweat in it too much.

T-minus two days until the surprise, people-- wish me luck!

You have to be smarter than the smoke detector.

I ran upstairs yesterday, mid-cat chase, and stopped fast in my tracks when I heard a noise that chilled me to the bone. I froze for a minute to see if I could hear it again. Yep, there it was.

BEEP.

What the hell? I stood motionless in the hallway as I tried to decipher what the noise was. I put on my thinking cap and finally figured out it was the smoke detector--the batteries were probably dying. I stood below it, staring up at it for a good minute and a half, waiting to hear it again to confirm.

BEEP.

But it wasn't the one above my head. Where... was the noise coming from? I walked into our bedroom and noticed there was another smoke detector in there. Ah, that must be it. I stood directly below it, staring dumbly up at it for another minute and a half, waiting for the beep.

BEEP.

Nope, not this one either. How many damn smoke detectors do we HAVE in this house?

I walked into the office and noted that we have another in that room. I stared blankly, straining my neck, waiting for the beep... nope, not it.

Four. That's how many smoke detectors we have upstairs. Four. And naturally, it was the last one I checked, in the guest room, that was making the beeping noise.

I silently cursed K for not being home at this particular moment, as I could have used both his height and vast knowledge of smoke detector anatomy to help me. Instead, I rolled up my sleeves, dragged a heavy chair to the guest room where the annoying beeping was coming from, and started trying to twist it off of the ceiling. When I finally got it undone, there were wires connecting it to the ceiling. I felt like Keanu Reeves in Speed. Which one do I PULL? Will the house blow up? I started to sweat.

I pulled the wires with no dire consequences, and set the smoke detector on the nightstand, proud of myself. I dragged the chair back to its original location and began to walk back downstairs.

BEEP.

You have got to be KIDDING ME. WTF? It's like when you cut a worm in half and both halves still wiggle. I stomped up the stairs and stared at the smoke detector on the table in concern and amazement.

BEEP.

Holy crap. I picked it up, turned it around to see if there were directions on it. It must still be the battery. I finally found the side compartment where the battery was located, and I pulled that motha out. I layed the dissected smoke detector and its innards on the table and stood, hands on hips, in triumph. I dared it to beep again.

It didn't. I think I managed to beat the smoke detector in this battle of wits. And though I could have used K's height and ninja skills, I walked away proud that I was able to do it myself. The moral of the story is: you have to be smarter than the smoke detector.

Chocolate FAIL.

Yesterday, I was laying on the couch, fervently plugging away at my website while enjoying some delicious Valentine's chocolates that K had given me, when suddenly I looked down and realized that I had chocolate ALL OVER ME.  Like not just a smear or two. A 2-inch square of melted chocolate welded to my beautiful new stark white northface that K had gotten me for Christmas. Also, the entire underside of my chin was covered in my melty Valentine's treats.

K is like Nostradamus. He knew this would happen. That's why he got me 2 northfaces for Christmas, one black and one white. The white one was supposed to be for non-chocolate activities. Fail.

There's a reason he knew this would happen: I'm the messiest person on the planet. No, seriously. If I had a meal-to-spill ratio, it would be 1,000,000. Or .000001. I don't know, I'm really bad at math. But it would be huge. Because literally not a meal goes by that I don't spill all over myself.

There was one night when I was sitting on the couch with S & J (sister and her bf) watching TV. It was after Thanksgiving, so we were eating leftover pie with a mound of whipped cream on top. I went to cut a piece of pie off with my fork and... wait for it... flipped the ENTIRE PIECE OF PIE, whipped cream and all, onto my chest. It just stuck there. And I made a pouty face. My sister (such a sweetheart, that one) took PICTURES, while I laid there all pouty with a plate of pie stuck to my chest.

Another night, I was eating a brownie fudge sundae (we love our desserts in this house), just hangin' with Bedtime Bear on the couch, when I looked down and realized I had smeared chocolate all over my bear's face. S & J were witness to this as well. They know all of my dirty secrets.

K and I have already agreed that at our wedding we're going to wear those plastic bibs that you get when you eat lobster at a fancy restaurant. All night. I want the ones with the cartoon lobster on them, too.

I will tell you this, though-- by the time we have kids, I'm going to be a laundry EXPERT. No grass, chocolate, or even poop will survive my washing skills, because I have been carefully trained by the most savvy of masters: K. He has taught me everything he knows, and last night he coached me on the phone as I did CPR on my northface under the most stressful of conditions. Thank goodness K stays calm under pressure, because I thought I was going to have a breakdown.