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After spending the long weekend in the mountains of New Hampshire, I have decided that if NH was a person we would totally make out. I might even let New Hampshire hold my hand and take long, romantic walks up a mountainside together. THAT IS HOW MUCH I HEART YOU NH. Why so much love for the Granite State? Mostly because my family knows better than to ask if I am "feeling ok" or to ponder out-loud if I "just finished crying" when I walk into a room. Because in spite of evidence to the contrary, my dear coworkers, I did not just finish crying - that is simply how I look sans makeup. But thanks in advance for pointing out that this "look" doesn't so much work for me. I appreciate it. Really.
Also, you're just not going to have conversations like these in NYC:
S (glancing around the room): Is it safe to say that these people are all kind of granola-y???
J (without hesitation): Uh, yeah. We call it "crunchy".
S: I bet they all brush with Tom's of Maine.
J: Definitely.
In the last month or so my apartment was somehow taken over by a mouse. Initially, when I spotted him darting across the living room, I had a good old fashioned freak out and proceeded to text Julie messages like "MOUSE. I HAVE A MOUSE!"... which was followed up with much saner messages like "MOUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE. I AM LOSING MY SHIT." I saw him often enough in the last few days, that I took to stomping around the apartment in my Ugg boots every night when I got home from work. I looked like Atilla The Tall Dutch Hun. Finally, this past weekend I dragged The Uncle to the hardware store. After consulting with our local Sears Consultant we went old school, and bought a set of six bait'em and squish'em traps.
Theoretically, I was relieved to finally be dealing with the mouse issue. While stomping around the apartment does have its own entertainment value, consistently freaking the hell out every time something darts across the room, does not. Also, that little sucker ate my cashew nuts thereby forcing me to toss the whole bag. For anyone who reads this site but does not have the pleasure of knowing me in real life, it's safe to say that you do not want to get between me and my snacks.
Yesterday morning I checked all the traps and sure enough, Fivo was there staring back up at me. I disposed of him and proceeded to make gaggy faces for the next half hour. THEN last night in the middle of the Gossip Girl finale, I heard two traps go off in the living room. Two traps. In the room where I was sitting. Internet, I do not consider jumping up to stand on the couch while yelling "Ewwww. Ewwww. OH LORD IT'S STILL WIGGLING!!!!!!!!" an overreaction. I dare say it was tame, because I swear on snacks and everything else that is good and holy, I have never wished for a boyfriend more. So I did what all single girls do when they live alone, and are faced with things that should be handled by those without a gag reflex. Chugged a beer and edged it into a dust pan. This morning there was another one, which leads me to believe that Fivo did not in fact go west, but instead invited the whole damn clan up to my place for a party. I'll keep you all posted, but in the meantime I'll be the one stomping around 1R in her boots.
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Edit: Unfortunately, the title of this post did actually come out of my mouth. I said it yesterday while riding in the car with The Uncle, only to glance over and notice him staring at me, like "Woman, I'm about to beat you with a Websters and I won't even feel bad. Your parents will thank me." So, I stared back and stated as eloquently as I possibly could, "I write good." In my family, it's not so much a function of being right all the time, as it is pretending like you are even when you know the facts are stacked against you. Because facts? They are just small, insignificant details standing in the way of you winning an argument.
Yesterday my coworkers and I got into in-depth discussion of The Secret. Which led me to conclude, without having ever cracked the cover, that it's some kind of new age tripe that begs to be made fun of. I happily obliged them.
Not believing it, hasn't stopped me from having conversations with the universe. Last night, after stepping on my new sunglasses and getting another parking ticket, I stood in the middle of my kitchen and was all "Listen Universe, I just don't think today was your best work, dawg. I mean, you've got 13 billion+ years of practice, I expect more from you at this stage of the game. Today just didn't do it for me."
Apparently, I DO believe that conversations with Universe require channeling Randy Jackson. Who knew.
In the last month or so my apartment was somehow taken over by a mouse. Initially, when I spotted him darting across the living room, I had a good old fashioned freak out and proceeded to text Julie messages like "MOUSE. I HAVE A MOUSE!"... which was followed up with much saner messages like "MOUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE. I AM LOSING MY SHIT." I saw him often enough in the last few days, that I took to stomping around the apartment in my Ugg boots every night when I got home from work. I looked like Atilla The Tall Dutch Hun. Finally, this past weekend I dragged The Uncle to the hardware store. After consulting with our local Sears Consultant we went old school, and bought a set of six bait'em and squish'em traps.
