She Has a Little Notepad for Vocabulary

I returned home last night from Family Jesus Camp to be immediately greeted by my favorite Spaniard.
Now that we're on home turf, the English Language rules all conversation. Matt constantly complains that I am too lax in my corrections of her habitual mistakes. Any, none, verb tenses, etc. English is *%&^ing complicated. It's not me.
Lucia and I spent about 10 minutes talking about how surprised she was that our streets were so clean of rabbits.
I tried to explain that rabbits are more common in the suburbs, like where our parents and our married friends live.*
She says to me, "We are talking about rabbits or we are talking about garbage?"
And I'm thinking that she's asking whether rabbits live in garbage: "Heh?"
I'll spare you the remaining 30 seconds of sentence-pause-sentence before we discover the word is rubbish. When we return to Matt's, Lucy is trying to find a new bag for rabbits and I explain it's pronounced "rub ISH" before Matt interrupts me to say that we don't even use that word here.
I blame the British.

*Zing!

Light-Colored Wine

Conclusion: bookclub weekend was a total success. Thanks to Lori's parents and some very caring husband/father types, we seven stole away Up North... with our matching beach towels and a supply of Chexnilla.

Which is obviously Chex mix plus one melty bag of white chocolate chips.
And a year's supply of gas.

My bookclub, for which less than half the women actually read the book and even fewer discuss it at length.
We are so grown up.

Association Fees

In all the excitement* of the last few weeks, Matt moved into his muchly awaited condo. I present his piece de resistance: the Womb Chair.

Isn't that a curious name? If I were a chair, I wouldn't want my name to indicate lady parts. Maybe that's just me. And I would be called "Sweet Chair-ity."

Now, I haven't run this by its owner (hi, Dear), but I'm thinking that we should put newborns in the chair and survey them. "This chair is:
A. Exactly what I remember.
B. Red. I remember red.
C. Like a time machine.
D. Not remotely equivalent to the inside of a uterus."

*I accidentally held down the x key and this post took a decidedly inappropriate turn. Which is funny since I am about to reference female reproductive organs. Yesssss.

So the Cup of Coffee said to the Anxiety Disorder

"I was supposed to tell the one about the two strings who walk into a bar, but then I totally butchered it. A frayed knot, or whatever? And then, What's red and white and black all over? Er... A newspaper. But it was supposed to be a zebra on rollerskates or something. I don't know. I'm tired."
"It's ok. Some people can't do jokes."
"Uhhhhhh."

P.S. Heartburn. I bought a new camera today.

We Called It "The House on Poop Corner"

In the elementary years, we walked home from school because it was just a few blocks; passing by the house on the corner of Remington and Mound that stank all the time. We were not particularly athletic kids, but we always ran past it and the one with all the vines and the untouched newspapers.

Wedding with a View

Ash and Mike got married on Saturday. I brought out the point-and-shoot camera for some low-resolution documentation. Check out the happy couple, and this lady's back!

We celebrated their union by hoisting our personalized beer coozys (cozies? cooties?). Later I pretended--with incredible dexterity--that they were my hands. If anybody got a picture of that, best leave it under wraps. Then my secret would get out and someone would steal me for lab work on beer coozy hands.
Brent models the salad course. Leafy greens and strawberry vinaigrette:

Not sure what caused this extended blink. Perhaps I was moved by a toast and I didn't want anyone to see my crying. Yeah, that's it.

Now tell me, does this centerpiece not look like a giant beer?

Katie told me to delete this just as soon as I had taken it, which I could have done, but then how would I have remembered the look on her face? This girl loves shoes. [Please donate to Sara's finger-reattachment fund, and dial 911 if you see this girl with a crazed expression running around in these shoes.]

I guess this picture was to prove that they are a totally proportional couple.

It was a beautiful day and I'm very proud of everyone (else) for enjoying it responsibly. Congratulations, Newlyweds!

Happy Hour

Tuesday night I got together with some ladies for some drinks. Both the ladies and the beers will remain anonymous, so you won't judge me for drinking Miller Lite with olives or hanging out with beautiful people like Maggie.
Most of the conversation centered around marriage and weddings and the pets which allegedly prepare us for the eventuality of babies. Good God. I took a minute to calm my central nervous system before even typing that.
With these women, I fill my assigned role in the group dynamic. I am the theater one, the one who overreacts to the natural progression of life (see above), and suburban living; the one who gets her hair all chopped off just to have a very tiny ponytail and then forgets to tell anybody about it. Hello, you are my cute mini ponytail and I love you.

When I told them about my plan for an entire sleeve's worth of Virgin Mary tattoo, they abandoned years of saying "yes, I'd still be your friend if you [wore an eyepatch/spoke in tounges/had three nipples/_____]" and said no. But I know what that really means is that they TOTALLY approve.

*This is the only self portrait I took with my mouth closed. Like plucking eyebrows without tearing up. It's nearly impossible.

Feeling Aged (Parenthetically Speaking)

I got "ma'am"ed today at American Eagle Outfitters, waiting for a dressing room. (Seriously? Is 25 too old to shop for wordy underoos? But "World Traveler" describes what I do best!)
Shortly after which I returned home to find that L.L.Bean had sent me a catalogue. (And a British sensibility. Where did I pick up those extra vowels?) Unrelatedly, (or perhaps not; I believe this machine senses fear), I broke my iPod.
If anyone needs me, I'll be by the mailbox, waiting for my AARP card and asking that nice young man to help with my music player.

Just When I Was Totally About to Start Working Out

Sometimes I wonder about the 911 call I'll make. Hi, my bike was stolen...no, I don't know what make...um...purple and teal-ish?...straight handlebars....Serial number? I like Quaker Toasted Oa...oh. No. Sorry....yes, Officer, I understand. Thank you for your time.
My landlord had left a note: "Please move your bike. You have wrecked the flowers."
At first my feelings were hurt. How passive-aggressive, I thought. And then I thought it was funny. I will passive-aggressively not move my it to see if the notes escalate. And then I meant to move it. Honestly. But it was raining, so I took my car. And then I left for Mexico and forgot I had a bike.
A week later, it was gone. My landlord assuring me in her nearly Canadian accent that she was sooorry about my bike, but that she hadn't moved it. I checked all neighboring streets and I am suspicious of every two-wheeled contraption passing by. I've also checked Craigslist to catch the thief who stole the bike I had LOCKED TO OUR WROUGHT IRON STOOP. Also, I want my note back! It's not every day I get notes, Buddy.
Happy Independence Day, Asshat. Enjoy it, because you've infringed on my constitutional right to not have anything stolen from me. I'm looking that up and then I'm coming for you.

More Shameless Self-Promotion

I'm typing this at my parents' house, this little interweb window obscures a family photograph in which I am the only one looking questionable.
For pictures I take, in which people almost always look nice, please visit my professional site. And my new photoblog. Big thanks to Matty for the designinging (once I get started on that word...) and massive other technical support.