I love cats

We've talked about this before.  About how I would totally have been the crazy cat lady had I not met my husband and thus had to follow his strict 2-cat maximum policy.

As a child, we had the sweetest, most tolerant little Abyssinian named Asha.  She loved me, she truly did, and I loved her back.  Although sometimes as a child I did not make the best decisions in favor of our friendship.  As in Christmas of 1991:

Also, I was really ahead of my time in terms of "pet fashion."  I'm pretty sure that before celebrities started wandering around the country with tiny dogs tucked under their arms, you couldn't just go to your local Petsmart and pick up a cute little outfit for Fido.

But I was resourceful.  Cabbage Patch kid castoffs would do just fine:

And, really, if all else fails, just use the cat as an accessory:

But she always forgave me.  That is, until the next time we needed a stand-in for a reindeer.

Hairstyle choices of the 1980s

I have a very clear memory of my 4^th grade picture day.

I wore my best dress, the black one with the white lace ruffles.  It made me feel grown-up and sophisticated.  And I knew exactly how I wanted to style my hair.  However, I had to enlist my mother’s help to compete the coiffure.

So there we were, my mother and I, standing in front of the bathroom mirror.  She was poised behind me with a comb and I held the hair band and white lace ribbon at the ready.

“Are you sure this is what you want, honey?” my mother asked.

“Yes, mom, I’m sure!”

“But do you really think that this is a good hairstyle for your school picture?” She paused for effect, trying to let that sink in.  “I mean, wouldn’t it look much prettier if you just had your hair down and we put a pretty barrette in it?”

“No, mom, it won’t.”  I rolled my eyes.  “Now will you please help me?”

Oh, yes, the side ponytail is a timeless classic that will never go out of style.  I sure showed you, mom.

Memoir Monday: How NOT to rent a car in France

It's time for a Memoir Monday!  This one is entitled:

How (not) to rent a car in France. In 6 easy steps.




When I was 19, I spent a semester in France. The university I attended was just about 2 hours west of Paris, so at one point, my best friend and I decided that it would be a good idea to rent a car and drive to Paris.

Step 1: You must be 25 to rent a car in Paris. If you are not 25, play dumb until the last minute when the rental car guy asks for your driver’s license/passport/international ID card. At that point it’s too late and he already went through the paperwork hassle. Bring a friend who’s 25 and SWEAR that friend will be doing all the driving.

Step 2: Be prepared to look very uncool. You will not be driving incognito, my friend.

Step 3: Learn to drive a stick shift. It is preferable if you learn to drive a stick shift before you rent the car. It is also preferable if you have more stick-shift driving experience than twenty minutes in your friend’s dad’s 1957 Chevy with a 3-in-the-tree stick shift that stalls out halfway across town.

Step 4: Learn to drive in a roundabout.  It helps if you've completed Step 3 first.  If you don't know, wing it.  Pretend you are a master of the roundabout. Don’t be all scared like “I’ve never driven in a roundabout or anywhere in the continent of Europe or hell, I’ve never driven a stick shift.” Instead be like, “Haha roundabout, take that! Those other cars will move, I'm almost sure of it.”

Step 5: If you get lost, at night time, and you pull into someone’s driveway to turn around, and then you back out, make sure there is no oncoming traffic in case your clever manipulation of the stick shift results in the car stalling out crossways in the middle of the road while your passengers stare in horror at a set of oncoming headlights… (don’t worry, we got it started again in the nick of time)

Step 6: Book a hotel room in advance. Otherwise you may end up at a little hovel next to the "nude dancing girls" venue because it's the only one that still has rooms available.

And a bonus:

When you return the car to the rental place a few days later, intact and unscratched, make sure to go home and say your prayers.

Super Frack

This story is about the birth of "SuperFrack." (And if you need a reminder as to why my husband is called Frack, click here.)

Flashback to 4 years ago. Chris and I had just started dating. I was in San Francisco for the weekend, attending my cousin's wedding. Chris was hanging out with "the boys" at a friend's house.  The friend's wife and kids were also home, and the teenage boys were practicing their skillz on bicycles.

Apparently, one of the teenagers told my husband and his friends that they were "old."  And that these "old guys" couldn't possibly compete with the superior biking skillz of the teenagers.


So, of course, the "old guys" had to prove themselves:




I tell you what, this video never gets old.

Memoir Mondays: Texas Learned Me a Few Things

Courtesy of Travis at I Like to Fish, it's time for an installment of "Memoir Mondays."


Now that I am, of course, an experienced professional in my line of work, I thought I would share this story from my early days in the business.

San Antonio, Texas, 2006

Remember the good old days of college? Where you didn't take a class before 10am, and if you had to take that 7am or 8am Chem class, you just sat in the back and slept through the lecture? And no one noticed?

Yeah, ummm... doesn't work so well in the "real world". Case in point:

Monday afternoon I attempt to fly to San Antonio. Also on the plane - ticket holders to the Mavs/Spurs semifinals playoff game that night. (This is important to the story later). Get on plane. A-ok! Sit next to skinny people with good hygiene. A-ok! Plane begins taxiing. A-ok! Plane makes loud noises and starts shaking. Not ok! Plane is stopped and returns to gate.

Fast-forward 45 minutes. Flight attendant says there is a problem with the "air ducts" and we are going to switch planes. Original arrival time in San Antonio: 6:45pm. New arrival time in San Antonio: 9pm. Tip-off for the Mavs/Spurs game: 7:30pm. But don't worry. They'll give us updates on the game.

I think I knew the score of that game better than the basketball games I actually attend. There is Bald Guy with the Fancy Cell Phone who shouts out the score every 2 seconds until the plane leaves the gate and he must shut the phone off. In the air, we get an update from the captain every 20 minutes or so, mostly saying, "I think the score is...". Oh, really, are you just guessing or do you actually know the score? Upon landing, Bald Guy with Fancy Cell Phone resumes shouting out the score every 2 seconds until it is his time to leave the plane. Walk by sports bar at airport, score is announced. Get on shuttle bus to car rental, the game is on the radio (really loud). Get in rental car, drive to checkout stand. Security tells us the score of the game. I'm getting the feeling they like the Spurs in San Antonio?

Important "bid meeting" with multiple important people and our competitors on Tuesday. 8am, downtown. If we want parking, we need to leave by 6:45. Which means I must get up at 5:45 to look presentible and manage a small breakfast. FYI: that's 3:45 am Phoenix time.

I manage 1/2 cup of weak coffee at breakfast before it is time to leave. Lulled into a false sense of security by the promise of more coffee at our destination, I don't attempt to chug more caffiene. Upon arrival, no such coffee is available. There weren't even donughts.

So, to make a long story short, after about an hour of sitting in a dimly-lit room at 6am (my time) and listening to some people talk about some stuff... I started to nod off. I fought the impending sleep with everything I had. I was trying so hard to hold my eyes open my vision was swimming. I would be taking notes and all of a sudden realize my pen was no longer forming intelligible words. I hoped perhaps no one had noticed. Did I mention this is my first bid meeting, representing my whole company in front of not only the contracting officers (the company that will hire us if our job bid wins) but also all our competitors for the job?

Maybe no one will notice.

Well, judging by the fact that I was teased about my "naptime" by no less that four people, THEY NOTICED.

Aside from the rude awakening (figuratively, of course!) that the real world is not like college, I learned a few other things while in Texas.

1. It IS possible to use the following sentence when addressing people in a professional setting: "Now if y'all are here for the bid why don't y'alls just come over this way and I'll show y'all where to go." That's right, three y'alls in one sentence.

2. Texas has it's own special Bud light bottle with some sort of Texas star business instead of the usual eagle. That's right, folks, Texas is so great it gets its own BEER BOTTLE!

3. There's nothing that will add more excitement to your day then hearing, "Now when we drive down this back road to get to the job site, the guy that lives on one of the ranches is a little crazy, and somtimes he comes out and chases us down with his shotgun. If that happens, just stay in your car. We'll keep driving, and he shouldn't shoot."

And they were serious.

Time to embarrass myself

The Husband and I had the following conversation.

THB:   So I just got caught up reading all your blogs.
ME:     Cool.
THB:   But I don't understand what the picture of me and my brother at Disneyland has to do with anything.
ME:     It was to show off your twin-ness.
THB:   I think it was just to make fun of us.
ME:    Technically, it was only making fun of Frick. He was the one wearing the pink shirt.
THB:  Yes, and I'm sure Frick really appreciates you pointing that out.
ME:    Frick doesn't read my blog.
THB:   I wouldn't be so sure about that.
ME:    Well, I could put an embarrassing photo of myself on the blog.  To even things out.
THB:   I highly doubt that Frick cares if you make fun of yourself.
ME:    I'll give it a shot anyway.

And here it is:

(I look angry, but I'm not.  I totally wanted to get my hair permed.)

Things from my childhood

So I have this clock.  And it’s not just any clock.  It’s a talking alarm clock… from the 80’s.  You see, sometime in the mid-eighties my father got this alarm clock for free.  That’s right, FOR FREE.  It was either a promotional deal for his business or he won it in a raffle or something (hey, I was, like, seven when he told me the story.)  So he gave the clock to me, his cherished and beloved daughter.

It’s one of those early memories that you shouldn’t really remember, but for some reason it sticks with you throughout the years.  I can still picture my dad standing in his home office of our house in Nebraska, reaching for a box on one of the wall shelves, and handing it to me as a spontaneous gift.


Now don’t forget, this was an era where computers only made beeping noises (and ran black-and-green DOS screens), cell phones were just coming into existence, and most people still had record players alongside their tape players.  A talking clock?  That was revolutionary.  Not to mention JUST PLAIN AWESOME.

The clock, a Spartus model 1108 for those of you wanting to rush out and buy one (I hear they’re worth a whole $1 in the thrift store market these days), still works.  In fact, I still use it. Let’s do a quick run-down of it’s completely awesome features:



Yeah, you know you want one.  Other than a few sticky keys and some scratches, its held up remarkably well despite its age.  But there is one tiny effect of being so old that I must mention.  It’s loud.  And I don’t mean the alarm, I mean the clock itself.

Imagine yourself laying in the dark, trying to ignore the blinding lights of the Hobby Lobby that was build in your backyard last year, looking for a peaceful night’s rest, when coming from your nightstand is… HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

Chris has put down a mandate.  We need a new clock.  One that isn’t louder than a freight train going past an demolition factory in a hailstorm.  And while I agree that the clock needs to go… what do I do with it?  I can’t possibly throw away the alarm clock that has been faithfully by my side for the past twenty-plus years!

Maybe the guest room?

The Best Time for Home Renovation

My husband has a twin brother, we call him Frick.  Together, they are Frick and Frack.



I have heard stories about what they were like as children.  I won't go into detail, but let's just say the phrase "double trouble" doesn't even begin to describe it.

Anyway, Frack's brother Frick (he's the one in the pink shirt... ahh hahaha) had a baby with his lovely lady, Yvonne, on the 31st.  (Yvonne is not her real name.  I don't think people are even named Yvonne anymore.)

Frick was also in the process of completing a home renovation.  With a pregnant Yvonne.  It was four days to baby, and the bedroom and the future baby's room needed paint, sanding, staining, varnishing, and trim.  And of course there were baby clothes to wash, bottles to sanitize, and hospital bags to pack.  There were sanders and saws going nonstop, family and friends running here and there, and dust covering every inch.  Furniture needed cleaning and arranging once the renovations were complete.  We decided that "Saint Yvonne" was a more apt title, as she sat calmly downstairs, away from the dust but still somehow in the midst of noise and chaos.

"How do you put up with all this?"  we asked her.
"Well," she replied, "I already tried yelling and that didn't work."

But before we knew it, there was a new precious little addition to the fam:



And, thanks to the hard work, dedication, and help of family and friends, Saint Yvonne and Brick (that's Baby Frick to you) came home from the hospital to a sparkling clean, fully-renovated house.  Completed just in the Frick... uh, I mean nick of time.

Spring Cleaning

This May, Chris and I decided the house needed a major makeover. Especially since we had some potential tenants to rent our spare rooms. The list of "home makeover" items included cleaning/organizing the house (finally putting away our boxes of wedding gifts!) and landscaping the backyard. More on the backyard later.

My first spring cleaning project: cleaning out unnecessary stuff from the garage. When I moved in to the house from my apartment, there was a lot of my stuff that landed in the garage, in boxes, and the boxes have been collecting dust ever since. Chris had cleaned out his miscelleneous junk the weekend before, so now it was my turn.

I should preface this by saying I am *somewhat* of a pack rat. Not completely - I've moved too often to accumulate very much junk - but I occasionaly have a hard time letting go of silly mementos that have no apparent function other than I just can't bring myself to throw it away.

I'm sure I'm not the only one. I mean, c'mon, don't you keep your expired driver's licenses and old college ID cards? A collection of movie ticket stubs from every movie you've ever seen since the fifth grade? Christmas cards from five years ago that you got too lazy to mail?

Well, anyway, enough about that. Let's focus on the things I did throw away. And I promise, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

• 32 cent stamps (I supposed I could have used them to mail a postcard)
• A promotional poster of The Sixth Sense...IN FRENCH
• The address of my best friend in 4th grade
• Instruction manuals for cameras/phones/printers I DON'T OWN ANYMORE
• Vehicle registration receipts for the car I sold 2 years ago
• A game of M.A.S.H. I played with my high school friends on a bus trip in 1992
• A fake $3 bill with Bill Clinton's face
• Letters from pen pals I don't recall ever knowing, it's been so long
• A Ruby Tuesday receipt for some random lunch with friends - dated January 1, 2001
• More than $7 worth of coupons to I Can't Believe It's Yogurt which expired 6/30/1996

And Chris thinks that I keep a lot of needless junk. Yeah, riiight. I have no idea what would make him think that.