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.

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...

toilet paper

My husband is walking home from work at the hospital. I texted him to get toilet paper at the hotel front desk on his way up. I've been waiting for him to come to do this all day. I can't bear to admit that I've -- we've -- used all of our weekly roll already...again.

I never realized we take more potty breaks than the average hotel guest, but it's seems as if that's the case. Must learn to cut back.

Summer Days

Wait. I wrote this post way back in August and never posted it. In the vein of reliving the pleasant past, while also being thankful that it's no longer August in Orlando -- which can only be described with profanity -- I'm posting it now:

This weekend my best friend took a break from her hectic, summer off from law school social life to visit me in Orlando. Within an hour it was clear that I was the hostess with the mostest. Notice that that phrase is as equally ambiguous as it is nonsensical.

The fastest way to make a guest feel at home -- don't offer her parched soul a drink, wait for her to meagerly ask out of sheer dehydration, then leave the room to 'slip into something more comfortable' which will ultimately make said guest uncomfortably avert her eyes in nervous darts. I assumed, having met in third grade and having lived together in the past, that we were on the comfortable level where I could walk around nearly naked, which apparently is something one should never assume. Duly noted. (NTS: Possible chapter in Awkward Girl's Guide to Life). Sorry, Katy!

We got past those hiccups, had a few laughs over gummy bears and cheap wine in plastic cups (keeping it klassy with a capital K), and then went on to have a sweet two day reunion filled with lackadaisical lunches, movies, laughs at Neno's expense, and a dreaded trip to Disneyworld, which was as hot, miserable, and expensive as I thought it'd be. I may be a curmudgeon about this, but I am also right. Even the kids looked overwhelmingly unenthused, all red faced and whiny, with sweat drenched hair, bodies hanging uncomfortably out of strollers. I overheard one little girl say, "Don't touch me. It's too hot." As Katy said, "Disneyworld is a testament to how much parents love their kids." Unfortunately, I presume kids don't enjoy Disneyworld in the Orlando summer heat any more than their parents do.

My unimportant, unsolicited advice to the the world is this: Don't go to Disneyworld in August. Even if you do have a penchant for brainwashing children, lame rides, overpriced junk food, and a clusterfuck of sweaty tourists, it's too damn hot to enjoy any of the above. That said, I had a good time. Yay memories. And that said, I would cherish those memories all the same if we had visited a truck stop bathroom. Additional unsolicited advice: Do visit your friends who live far away. It was a much needed refresher to catch up with Roomie in our nonstop talkathon, which we'll have the opportunity to continue as Neno and I will be living in Houston for two months, September through November. I'm pretty excited about that.

My favorite of all of Katy's wise Facebook status updates from our weekend:

Apparently, when Mickey asks, "What's your dream?" The correct response is not, "To be a lawyer!" it's, "To be a princess!" lol! They should make a movie about a princess that grows up to be a partner at a law firm, or a Supreme Court Justice! She can find a prince charming along the way too ; )

Socially Awkward Girl's Guide to Life: an introduction

As my mother would have you know, I came out of the womb awkward. You were such a strange looking thing. Growing up, my strangeness was generally embraced and I reveled in my talent of making my parents laugh with my incessant chatter. But then I started pre-school, where my "teacher" (I'm pretty sure it was just some old lady with a house) didn't appreciate my imagination and neither did the idiotic 4 year olds. We started off every afternoon in a circle for story time, going around telling stories about our morning. If you've ever listened to a 4 year old try to follow a train of thought, you know what an unintelligible snooze-fest story time was. I tried to spice things up. My ingenuity was met with trouble, as the teacher eventually spoke to my mother IN FRONT OF MY CHUBBY INNOCENT FACE to say that I straight up made shit up during story time. In her sketchy preschool teacher eyes, it was time for an intervention. I was a little liar. I didn't have the vocabulary at the time to stand up for myself, but what I was thinking was: Bitch, you never specified that it was NONFICTION story time. Don't get it twisted.

On the drive home in our embarrassingly large grey van (as if being awkward and unpopular wasn't enough), my mom merely said, before turning the tape up, "Hanna, quit lying through your teeth," a phrase my 4 year old self had yet to hear, but was sure to repeat again and again while solidifying my status as the weird girl while I sat in the corner playing alone during subsequent play times at that hellhole called preschool. From that day on, I kept it real during story time, delighting my fellow four year olds with lame visions of me waking up, combing my bowl haircut, eating Crispy Rice (not even Rice Krispies!), and finding my hypoglycemic sister, yet again, eating fists full of sugar under the bed.

By the time I got to kindergarten, I felt ashamed of my doughy self enough times that I retreated inward and never said anything out loud in public again. I amused myself in my head, occasionally accidentally talking to myself out loud while walking alone in the playground as the other morons, I mean girls, pretended to be cheerleaders. My teacher had a conference with my mom and asked, "Does she talk at home? She never speaks in class." To which my mother roared with laughter as "Hanna, do you ever shut up?" was a common phrase in the household. I juggled two personas -- the painfully shy, socially awkward child at school and the strange, hyper loudmouth at home. This went on for years.

As a living, wheezing socially awkward success story, I have several books worth of solid, unsolicited advice to offer fellow spazzes. But Hanna, you have no friends.... And you write in a blog, you might say, to which I respond (in my head) through red cheeks, belieing my so called yet ephemeral success : Eff you, my husband is a hot doctor. I'm starting to write (again, in my head) The Socially Awkward Girl's Guide to Life, with topics ranging from Talking to Peers (Step One: Don't Say Peers) to Surviving Girl Scout Camp When You Look Like a Boy to Losing Your Virginity Before 30.

no shame

After a long holiday weekend, returning to work to watch old men starring at You Tube videos of Selena Gomez while helping others who refer to me as sweetie or mama post self portraits taken with phones in the public bathroom -- stalls, green tile, and all -- onto Plentyoffish.com is particularly cumbersome. *omgididntgotocollegeforthis*

Last night, before dozing off to sleep, Neno asked how much money I make a year. You married me for my money! We calculated that I make less than $15,000 per year. Way to ruin my night, babe. (However, let it be duly noted that I'm ever so grateful to have a job and a home. I may come off as a Complaining Cathy, but I appreciate what I gots).

Edfinancial would like me to jump through hoops to prove I can't afford my monthly loan payment. Sending my pay stubs and a letter from HR noting that I don't get paid shit -- her words, not mine -- wasn't enough. When I send them my pay stubs again with my tax info from last year (which was even worse) imma add an invitation to Take-Your-College-Loan-Officer-To-Work-Day. Like for realsies. I have a lot of unused creativity waiting for a craft project.

Skinny Coronarita

Forgive me if I slur my words. I'm on the verge of being plastered thanks to Bethenny Frankel. Lemme es-plain.

Pictures of something Texans refer to as a "Dosarita" have been popping up all over my Facebook news feed for months, as all of my alcoholic friends and family members back in San Antonio like to document the beginning of their nights -- for future reference, I suppose.

Because I live in Orlando (lame), I can't find a Dosarita (big ass margarita with a Dos Equis bottle inside) anywhere. There aren't many good Mexican restaurants here. Actually, there aren't many good Anythings here. Unless your name is Disney or Universal Studios or Major Tourist Attraction, the city of Orlando doesn't give a shit about you.

Anyhoo, I've taken matters into my own hands. I need this Dosarita in my life. And I don't even like margaritas....or beer. But something told me, the two together are alcohol bliss.

A few months ago, while I was in the liquor store for my weekly perusing, I asked the Pakistani owner if he had any Skinnygirl Margarita. He said, "Yes, yes!" as he enthusiastically walked me over to the Jose Cuervo margarita mix. Yeah, that's not it. Haven't you seen The Real Housewives on Bravo? I replied, and then went into a drawn out explanation of The Real Housewives of New York and Bethenny Getting Married and how I don't really like margaritas, "like at all, but I'm curious and want to support a home girl...without drinking too many calories."

Then two weeks ago, on my weekly liquor store perusing, I screamed, "He got it!" spotting the row of red capped Skinnygirl Margarita bottles. I couldn't buy any, though, because I was sure I was pregnant. I was just torturing myself in the liquor store. But this weekend, knowingly without child, I bought two bottles.

I'm delighted to report that I actually enjoy the Skinnygirl Margarita, although I generally hate tequila. My first and last time drinking tequila was out of a teacup (keepin' it classy) for a friend's pre-party 21st birthday party. The next day I laid in bed, occasionally running to the bathroom to vomit, next to my mother who was also miserably sick....from cancer. My dad took care of us. Isn't that cute?

Even better, I created my own knock-off Dosarita. It's Skinnygirl Margarita with Corona Light mixed in. I call it The Skinny Coronarita. Imma bottle it....post Real Apartment Wives of Orlando fame and after the success of my Poorbitch Cocktail, of course.




PS: Happy 4th of July. John Adams would be rul proud of me.

EDIT, a year later: If you came here to find out how many calories you drank last night and ended up reading that bullshit up there, my sincerest apologies. If you're still anxious to know how many tequila, sugar and beer calories you need to burn at the gym, I'll tell you here.