Sometimes when I hear myself say something or refrain from saying something in a social situation -- in an interview, to a coworker, to a stranger that insists on making small talk -- which betrays how I really feel, I hear my inner child, who happens to sound exactly like Elizabeth from Drop Dead Fred, say "what a pile of shit!" Then I smile, concealing my laughter, leaving the recipient of my social graces to assume that I'm so contented with the discussion at hand, rather than the one in my head.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
watch what happens
Because I'm banking on my plan of being the breakout star of Bravo's Real Apartment Wives of Orlando, Neno and I decided that at around season two -- or three, depending on how I'm feeling after the exhaustion that will be marketing my poor bitch cocktail and diet book -- I will start a granny panty lingerie line. I won't be doing the designing, as you know that's best left up to the experts, but I will look into the camera and confess, "it's always been a dream of mine since I was a little girl to design large underpants." Then the camera will show me sitting at the head of an oblong table in a gaudy, gold accented room, heading a meeting with the team of suits that will eventually make this pipe dream a reality. And because I have such a big heart, I will donate part of the proceeds to a charity I've never heard of that supposedly empowers young girls to work hard to achieve their dreams -- something I truly relate to.
Bravo is going to open so many doors for me.
Bravo is going to open so many doors for me.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
bitch is back
Disclaimer: TMI
I'm back in Orlando after our two month stay in Houston for Neno's work. Evidently, I also took a vacation from blogging. I was bored and depressed, what can I say. Nonetheless, we had a refreshing two months in Houston. It was nice. I saw friends. I saw family. I studied Spanish. I watched terrible novelas. I fell into escapists bliss reading a shit ton of books, making new friends and then losing them on the last page, exacerbating my melancholy. Now, in the vein of reflection, and because I still have no friends, I'm ready to start this blog of nonsense again.
I've come to appreciate a few things after living in a hotel room for two months. I'm sitting at our 1970s table taking a break from slow cooking our dinner -- placing items in a crock pot is so hard -- while planning homemade pumpkin muffins for dessert. I'm even wearing a fucking apron. Along with an ever escaping future, I have an increased appreciation for my kitchen and the relative enormity of our one bedroom apartment. Our bed is still impossibly small, though. One thing I will miss about living in the hotel is that king sized bed with the scratchy 80s era comforter. There, when Neno passed gas it would simply skim the sheets and evaporate into the air. I would scooch to the farthest end relatively unscathed. Relatively is a key word. Here, as I'm quickly reminded, there's no escaping it. He farts on me, that's how small our bed is. I can even feel the digestion process rumbling in his stomach.
Luckily for me, I share Neno's 10 year old maturity level, which sums up our relationship quite well. I knew our relationship was something special when he spent the night in my bed for the first time. We were officially a couple but hadn't slept together literally or figuratively yet. I lived in Austin, so Neno was constantly driving hours to see me, without getting lucky. That we were together but celibate for so long is either a testament to how much Neno adores me or how much he enjoys over the pants action. Ten minutes into cozying into my bed for the first sleepover, Neno fell fast asleep and let one rip. My face turned so hot and red as I tried not to laugh out loud. I thought, Well he just feels right at home, doesn't he. And in that moment my feelings for him grew quicker than Kim Kardashians marriage. So suffice to say, our love started with a fart and such frivolity is an overiding theme in our quirky relationship.
Neno has since made it into my pants and I still find his farting hilarious. I mentioned this during our hotel stay as Neno returned to bed from a midnight trip to the bathroom. The sound of flatulence from someone standing bare butt while peeing is particularly amusing to me. Thought to be asleep, I starting giggling like the child that I am.
"What's so funny? Are you laughing because I farted?"
"Yes. It's always funny when someone farts."
Then after a thirty second pause, as the stench drifted towards my nose and I began to scrunch my face in disgust, Neno added, "Until you smell it." Touche. It's always funny when someone farts, until you smell it. An aha moment.
This was supposed to be a reflection post about our trip but somehow got hijacked by immaturity, I just can't help myself. Anyway, I left Houston with about 30 more mosquito bites than I showed up with. Houston is the Bayou City. But as the universe would have it, I found a million and five ants, spiders, and another bug I'm too afraid to identify when I opened my car door this morning for the first time in over two months. It was terrifying. I texted Neno for support. He said something along the lines of "Happy Halloween." I managed to murder them all, but I'm afraid to drive my car for fear of retribution. I also saw The Thing recently, so I'm extra wary of ugly unidentifiable creatures.
Another overriding theme in my life is this: The grass is always greener until you get to the other side. I was so happy to be free from an uninspiring, underpaid job for two months, until I got bored and had no money. I guest blogged to make a teeny bit of money. I turned to prostitution for the rest. I was desperate for alcohol, my husband for sex, so we exchanged. Secret to a healthy marriage, I'm sure. You'll be reading that in a list featured on Yahoo one day. You're welcome for the insider information.
That's about all I can muster today. Basically, the vacation was good, I didn't go through any life altering emotional, psychological changes, married life continues to delight my penchant for "playing house," and now it's back to reality. 'Back to reality' is such a stupid, nonsense phrase. But I'll keep that line there and get on with my life because I'm feeling lazy...
I'm back in Orlando after our two month stay in Houston for Neno's work. Evidently, I also took a vacation from blogging. I was bored and depressed, what can I say. Nonetheless, we had a refreshing two months in Houston. It was nice. I saw friends. I saw family. I studied Spanish. I watched terrible novelas. I fell into escapists bliss reading a shit ton of books, making new friends and then losing them on the last page, exacerbating my melancholy. Now, in the vein of reflection, and because I still have no friends, I'm ready to start this blog of nonsense again.
I've come to appreciate a few things after living in a hotel room for two months. I'm sitting at our 1970s table taking a break from slow cooking our dinner -- placing items in a crock pot is so hard -- while planning homemade pumpkin muffins for dessert. I'm even wearing a fucking apron. Along with an ever escaping future, I have an increased appreciation for my kitchen and the relative enormity of our one bedroom apartment. Our bed is still impossibly small, though. One thing I will miss about living in the hotel is that king sized bed with the scratchy 80s era comforter. There, when Neno passed gas it would simply skim the sheets and evaporate into the air. I would scooch to the farthest end relatively unscathed. Relatively is a key word. Here, as I'm quickly reminded, there's no escaping it. He farts on me, that's how small our bed is. I can even feel the digestion process rumbling in his stomach.
Luckily for me, I share Neno's 10 year old maturity level, which sums up our relationship quite well. I knew our relationship was something special when he spent the night in my bed for the first time. We were officially a couple but hadn't slept together literally or figuratively yet. I lived in Austin, so Neno was constantly driving hours to see me, without getting lucky. That we were together but celibate for so long is either a testament to how much Neno adores me or how much he enjoys over the pants action. Ten minutes into cozying into my bed for the first sleepover, Neno fell fast asleep and let one rip. My face turned so hot and red as I tried not to laugh out loud. I thought, Well he just feels right at home, doesn't he. And in that moment my feelings for him grew quicker than Kim Kardashians marriage. So suffice to say, our love started with a fart and such frivolity is an overiding theme in our quirky relationship.
Neno has since made it into my pants and I still find his farting hilarious. I mentioned this during our hotel stay as Neno returned to bed from a midnight trip to the bathroom. The sound of flatulence from someone standing bare butt while peeing is particularly amusing to me. Thought to be asleep, I starting giggling like the child that I am.
"What's so funny? Are you laughing because I farted?"
"Yes. It's always funny when someone farts."
Then after a thirty second pause, as the stench drifted towards my nose and I began to scrunch my face in disgust, Neno added, "Until you smell it." Touche. It's always funny when someone farts, until you smell it. An aha moment.
This was supposed to be a reflection post about our trip but somehow got hijacked by immaturity, I just can't help myself. Anyway, I left Houston with about 30 more mosquito bites than I showed up with. Houston is the Bayou City. But as the universe would have it, I found a million and five ants, spiders, and another bug I'm too afraid to identify when I opened my car door this morning for the first time in over two months. It was terrifying. I texted Neno for support. He said something along the lines of "Happy Halloween." I managed to murder them all, but I'm afraid to drive my car for fear of retribution. I also saw The Thing recently, so I'm extra wary of ugly unidentifiable creatures.
Another overriding theme in my life is this: The grass is always greener until you get to the other side. I was so happy to be free from an uninspiring, underpaid job for two months, until I got bored and had no money. I guest blogged to make a teeny bit of money. I turned to prostitution for the rest. I was desperate for alcohol, my husband for sex, so we exchanged. Secret to a healthy marriage, I'm sure. You'll be reading that in a list featured on Yahoo one day. You're welcome for the insider information.
That's about all I can muster today. Basically, the vacation was good, I didn't go through any life altering emotional, psychological changes, married life continues to delight my penchant for "playing house," and now it's back to reality. 'Back to reality' is such a stupid, nonsense phrase. But I'll keep that line there and get on with my life because I'm feeling lazy...
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