My husband has an opportunity to work in Thailand. I know, I had to Google Map it too.
My first thought was oh hell to the no. It's a 20 hour event to get to Thailand, and part of that is by rickshaw. The flight alone is something like 16 hours. I suspect that if you put that many people in a sealed tube for 16 hours, the result is something like what happens in Lord of the Flies. Tribes are formed, leaders elected, clothes lost in favor of loin cloths, people finally exiting the plane and signaling for other life with a conch shell.
But then I started to think about it and did a little research. (1) There is both Kate Spade and Starbucks in Thailand. (2) I love pad thai. (3) There is an American International School over there so my son wouldn't even have to learn Taiwanese. (4) NO MORE FILING.
There is just one slight little itty bitty problem. I am quite sure my son's dad wouldn't go for me taking him away to Thailand for a year. Or maybe he would. How great of an experience would that be? Eight year olds love international travelling experiences, right? I'm sure its very high on their list of fun things to do right after Wii and burp-talking.
It's pretty much settled in my mind. If I don't find a new lawyer job by the time my son is out of school for the summer, we go to Thailand. I am sure that I can convince my ex-husband (who hates me, by the way) that it is a great idea to take our son out of the country for a year.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Housekeeping
When my husband called, I told him that I had cleaned the toilets. He laughed at me. See if that ever happens again.
In case you ever plan on visiting (or, because I announced to the world wide web that my husband is away, coming over to rob the place), I can assure you that the place is fairly clean - despite my adomesticity. (I made that word up - it means I don't clean.) I had only been dating my husband for three weeks when I came home to find him on his hands and knees cleaning my townhouse floor. My reaction was (1) well, that's embarrassing, and (2) will you marry me?
In case you ever plan on visiting (or, because I announced to the world wide web that my husband is away, coming over to rob the place), I can assure you that the place is fairly clean - despite my adomesticity. (I made that word up - it means I don't clean.) I had only been dating my husband for three weeks when I came home to find him on his hands and knees cleaning my townhouse floor. My reaction was (1) well, that's embarrassing, and (2) will you marry me?
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
I Am So Not Sorry
I came back to Cube World pumped for the New Year. New Year hear me roar. I shall knock my filing obligations out of the park and hence much accolades, bonuses and career advancement will ensue. Or not.
Note to Supervisor: Do not send out apology e-mails on my behalf to our clients. You may be my supervisor, but you do not have the right to speak for me. I don't think that anybody really believed that waterboarding and/or arbitration would ensue if they didn't get the documents back to us on time.
Note to Supervisor: Do not send out apology e-mails on my behalf to our clients. You may be my supervisor, but you do not have the right to speak for me. I don't think that anybody really believed that waterboarding and/or arbitration would ensue if they didn't get the documents back to us on time.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Home Alone 5
My husband is away on a two week business trip.
I’m not such a fan of staying alone at night in the house. I don’t sleep because I am convinced that every single sound means that someone is lurking outside the windows. My trepidation was only exacerbated by the break-in that was across from our house one evening at around 8:30 p.m. when all the neighbors were home.
I would be 100% A-Okay to spend the night alone in the house if I had a dog. My husband, however, thinks that he is allergic to dogs. I think that his watery eyes and sneezing when we are around dogs is really a psychosomatic reaction and that he just doesn’t want a dog.
He keeps pointing out that we have an alarm system. Hello? If that ever goes off, that merely tells me that someone is already in my house. Too late. Game over.
So I am left to protect myself with the hammer placed strategically under the bed Sharon Stone ice pick style. I also wear my ugly pajamas because if I happened to be faced with a robber / rapists, maybe if I am in the flannel Nic and Nora Target pajamas, he’ll just take the flat screens and move on. Although, I would probably chase after his ass if he tried to take my t.v. in the kitchen.
It’s going to be a really long two weeks.
I’m not such a fan of staying alone at night in the house. I don’t sleep because I am convinced that every single sound means that someone is lurking outside the windows. My trepidation was only exacerbated by the break-in that was across from our house one evening at around 8:30 p.m. when all the neighbors were home.
I would be 100% A-Okay to spend the night alone in the house if I had a dog. My husband, however, thinks that he is allergic to dogs. I think that his watery eyes and sneezing when we are around dogs is really a psychosomatic reaction and that he just doesn’t want a dog.
He keeps pointing out that we have an alarm system. Hello? If that ever goes off, that merely tells me that someone is already in my house. Too late. Game over.
So I am left to protect myself with the hammer placed strategically under the bed Sharon Stone ice pick style. I also wear my ugly pajamas because if I happened to be faced with a robber / rapists, maybe if I am in the flannel Nic and Nora Target pajamas, he’ll just take the flat screens and move on. Although, I would probably chase after his ass if he tried to take my t.v. in the kitchen.
It’s going to be a really long two weeks.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Onion Plane Man
Why is it that the people who fly first class these days look like they couldn’t put two nickels together to ride the bus (or however much the bus costs)?
I am stuck in coach, always in close proximity to the guy who has decided that his one personal carry-on is going to be a foot long hoagie with extra raw onions. I sort of have this thing about food. I really believe that it should be a single sensory experience. I don’t like to smell food, and I absolutely don’t like to hear people eating food. But that’s another story.
This time, it was the guy directly behind me that decided to open his onion hoagie about an hour into the flight. I could see my husband tensing up when he could tell that I smelled the onions, wondering if I was going to go bat-shit crazy or ape-shit crazy, or, possibly, ignore the whole fiasco if I was engrossed enough in the US magazine. Well, no amount of “news” about Charlie Sheen and his shenanigans in Aspen could divert me from the smell taking over the airplane.
I asked my husband if he had a plastic spoon. I could tell by the look on his face that he thought I was going to use said spoon to maim or otherwise threaten the onion man. Which was quite hilarious. A plastic spoon?
No, I needed a plastic spoon because I was teething. That’s right, teething. Something that the dentist did during my 2hr/$900 visit caused my wisdom teeth to move and want to break free. My dentist tells me that I have an unusually large mouth and that he probably won’t need to take them. Anyway, right now, it just feels really good to chew on plastic spoons. It’s also just a classy look.
For some reason, my husband was not packing plastic spoons. Frankly, if he had been, I highly doubt he would have handed one over. But I swear I had no thoughts of maiming onion man with a plastic spoon. My teeth were taking precedent over his outrageous insensitivity.
On the plane ride back, there was actually no onion man. I sat back to enjoy a little nap, but first decided to try a little of the hand cream that the sales lady at Nordstrom insisted I take. And do you know what happened? I became that lady. I became the lady that stunk up the plane with hand cream.
I am stuck in coach, always in close proximity to the guy who has decided that his one personal carry-on is going to be a foot long hoagie with extra raw onions. I sort of have this thing about food. I really believe that it should be a single sensory experience. I don’t like to smell food, and I absolutely don’t like to hear people eating food. But that’s another story.
This time, it was the guy directly behind me that decided to open his onion hoagie about an hour into the flight. I could see my husband tensing up when he could tell that I smelled the onions, wondering if I was going to go bat-shit crazy or ape-shit crazy, or, possibly, ignore the whole fiasco if I was engrossed enough in the US magazine. Well, no amount of “news” about Charlie Sheen and his shenanigans in Aspen could divert me from the smell taking over the airplane.
I asked my husband if he had a plastic spoon. I could tell by the look on his face that he thought I was going to use said spoon to maim or otherwise threaten the onion man. Which was quite hilarious. A plastic spoon?
No, I needed a plastic spoon because I was teething. That’s right, teething. Something that the dentist did during my 2hr/$900 visit caused my wisdom teeth to move and want to break free. My dentist tells me that I have an unusually large mouth and that he probably won’t need to take them. Anyway, right now, it just feels really good to chew on plastic spoons. It’s also just a classy look.
For some reason, my husband was not packing plastic spoons. Frankly, if he had been, I highly doubt he would have handed one over. But I swear I had no thoughts of maiming onion man with a plastic spoon. My teeth were taking precedent over his outrageous insensitivity.
On the plane ride back, there was actually no onion man. I sat back to enjoy a little nap, but first decided to try a little of the hand cream that the sales lady at Nordstrom insisted I take. And do you know what happened? I became that lady. I became the lady that stunk up the plane with hand cream.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Bright Lights, Big Ass
Bright Lights, Big Ass is the funniest book I have ever read. I finished it on the plane today and I went ahead and just started to reread it, it was that good. (Also, if you fly United Airlines and get seat 3C, there is no under the seat space ahead of you for your bag. You have to put your Kate Spade all by itself up in the bulkhead, thus separating you from your MAC lip glass and People magazine when they've left on the stay seated light.)
I have never reread a book in my entire reading history. (Except the once when my university English professor made me reread Jane Eyre because she thought I was missing the point. Stupid Cliff Notes. If they ever make Cliff Notes for Bright Lights, Big Ass, I would highly recommend that you skip them and go right for the book.) You are so welcome Jen Lancaster. Snaps to you!
I have never reread a book in my entire reading history. (Except the once when my university English professor made me reread Jane Eyre because she thought I was missing the point. Stupid Cliff Notes. If they ever make Cliff Notes for Bright Lights, Big Ass, I would highly recommend that you skip them and go right for the book.) You are so welcome Jen Lancaster. Snaps to you!
Friday, January 1, 2010
Sweet Tea
First of all, I love the South. (If I cue a paragraph with "first of all" and then say that I love something, I am going to go off on a rant about something related to that thing.) I really do love a man that can pull off a seersucker suit, and I love when my husband answers me with "yes ma'am" when I ask him to do something. I love how pleasant everyone is. Southerners will make the effort to be to nice to your face, which is more than I can say for people from many other places. I'll take fake pleasantness over surly any day. Although, I don't think they are being fake to your face. I think they really do want to be nice to you when you are standing right in front of them, even if they don't have nice things to say about you when you leave.
There is no mystery, however, why the South has the highest concentration of obese people. It's the food, duh. If it walks on four legs or grows out of the ground, the proper way to prepare it is deep fried. And the sweet tea. Holy fuck. We were at a BBQ restaurant with my in-laws and we all ordered sweet tea. It was so sweet that it could substitute as pancake syrup, and the straw stood straight up in the glass from the viscosity of it. The sweet tea is served in a glass that, if you were allowed to take it home, you could throw it in the yard with the chickens and use it as a kiddie pool. (The South also seems to have a large proportion of fine dining establishments that offer souvenir cups.)
After my in-laws had finished half of the sweet tea [2 liters?], the waitress came around to refill the glasses. Everyone took a sip and looked very confused. My brother-in-law called the waitress back and explained to her that something was wrong with the tea, that it was, in fact, "nasty" (and thereby also demonstrating his ability to use his big words). The severely misguided waitress had refilled the cups half full with - are you ready for this because it is sheer horror - regular tea. Damn her. What was she trying to do? Save our lives?
Tomorrow, I head home to a place where people will jog in a blizzard, demand organic produce and free range chickens, and can tell you the proper recycling method for any variety of plastic. I guess someone in America needs to be doing it to make up for all the people in the South who aren't. On behalf of them, thank you. Now I need to get back to my sweet tea because that stuff is fucking fantastic.
There is no mystery, however, why the South has the highest concentration of obese people. It's the food, duh. If it walks on four legs or grows out of the ground, the proper way to prepare it is deep fried. And the sweet tea. Holy fuck. We were at a BBQ restaurant with my in-laws and we all ordered sweet tea. It was so sweet that it could substitute as pancake syrup, and the straw stood straight up in the glass from the viscosity of it. The sweet tea is served in a glass that, if you were allowed to take it home, you could throw it in the yard with the chickens and use it as a kiddie pool. (The South also seems to have a large proportion of fine dining establishments that offer souvenir cups.)
After my in-laws had finished half of the sweet tea [2 liters?], the waitress came around to refill the glasses. Everyone took a sip and looked very confused. My brother-in-law called the waitress back and explained to her that something was wrong with the tea, that it was, in fact, "nasty" (and thereby also demonstrating his ability to use his big words). The severely misguided waitress had refilled the cups half full with - are you ready for this because it is sheer horror - regular tea. Damn her. What was she trying to do? Save our lives?
Tomorrow, I head home to a place where people will jog in a blizzard, demand organic produce and free range chickens, and can tell you the proper recycling method for any variety of plastic. I guess someone in America needs to be doing it to make up for all the people in the South who aren't. On behalf of them, thank you. Now I need to get back to my sweet tea because that stuff is fucking fantastic.
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