Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Confessions-- Mine, Not Usher's

Winning quotation from last night: "I'm kind of a literary genius." -- Wade H.

Have I told you about my friend Wade? You'd like him. He has really nice teeth. That's what initially made me want to be friends with him. But he's also really nice. Extremely, actually. He makes mix cds. He is a cowboy. He is nice to me even though I think horses are scary. We like to talk and have fun. He's kind of a gypsy, and I find that fascinating. Embarrassing Confession No. 1, which I can tell you because I told him last night: Sometimes when I listen to the Dwight Yoakum-heavy play list he created for me, I fantasize that I'm Sandra Bullock in "Hope Floats." Not when she's left by her husband on a two-bit, nationally syndicated talk show. Sandra when she gets to go out dancing with Harry Connick, Jr. I have a little friend crush on him.*

Confession 1 1/2: Yes, I've been listening to country music lately. Let's chalk it up to my eclecticism.

Confession No. 2: I face-stalked my ex-boyfriend yesterday. I didn't mean to, but I'd been talking to his sister who I'm still in intermittent contact with. The man is married. How long he's been married, I do not know. I'm just really happy to say that it didn't send me into a spiral of depression. You may think that this should be the normal reaction anyway, given our relationship has been over for nearly three years, but I finally feel nothing. It feels good, my friends. Best of luck to his real Rachel (the one he left me for). I wish them both well.

Confession No. 3: I normally go to Colorado for Labor Day Weekend-- it's kind of a family tradition. But I didn't realize it was THIS coming weekend and I made some other plans. The juicy nugget here is that I'm relieved that I don't have to go. Don't get me wrong, I love the cabin, and I'll now need to find another time to go and do my chores (I've been charged with the responsibility of washing all the doors and windows and thresholds-- not a bad job, but we have a lot of doors and windows, so it'll take some time). But I'm just glad it's not this weekend. I'm glad that I don't have to work Monday, and I can have the day to do whatever it is I need to get done, even if that means doing nothing. Also, because my family is taking the new puppy with them, I get a break from Sophie-sitting, and even though I'm enamored of her, I'll confess I won't really miss her. Much.

Confession No. 4: I'm a little annoyed with B & S (hahaha! together they are BS!!!!) for their antics last night. Whilst enjoying the company of three nice boys at the IHOP, S was good enough to announce that a) I'm on Weight Watchers (thanks, dude, really love that you called attention to one of my most obvious weaknesses) and b) that I'd "ruined" his dating life. And B, did you really have to tell the world that you'd kissed me? Boo. I'm at a point in my life that I don't want the entire world to know every time I kiss a new guy. Blaaaahhhhh! It's a good thing I love you, B&S, but y'all had better shape up. No more ruthless teasing in front of people we don't know all that well, ok? S, I still owe you nachos.

Confession No. 5: Spencer (not to be confused with the aforementioned S) is saving my crafting life again. It feels shameful, but I'm relieved to have Spencer and his Staples skillz cutting all my album cardstock down to size. Am I a crafting sell-out? Probably. But even Martha Stewart has assistants. I also like Spencer because he is such a confident little fellow. I regret that I fall into the minority of girls who AREN'T madly in love with him, but he is such a good guy that I may arbitrarily shift him into friend crush territory, 2nd half of definition.

Confession No. 6: Michael, I think we're going to be friends. I have a legit, regular crush on you, even though I know that it's superficial. I've always had a thing for boys with curly hair and Chuck Taylors.

Confession No. 7: My well-deserved nickname, Kate, is once again apparent and legitimate, because I really am a bit of a shrew these days. Of course, you must understand that my dear kindred Kate really wasn't evil, she just didn't put up with boys' crap. My crap tolerance is sliding.

Confession No. 8: I'm really considering holding Daniela's blouse hostage. She loaned it to me for Hot Singles, and I'm in love with it. I told her I'd like to wear it on a date. Problem: No dates on the horizon! I'd better just give in and give it back. After all, she did have it tailored for her body, not for mine. But I love that girl, and her wardrobe.

OK. You knew all this. Still, it feels good to let someone know. Amen.

* Definition Friend Crush: To admire to the point of distraction, and to possibly occasionally want to kiss your friend's face, but not in a scary, cougar way. To like your friend so much that you wish you could clone him so you and all your girlfriends could date him.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Albuquerque: Hot or Not?

Friday some friends and I went to Albuquerque The Magazine's "Hot Singles Party." Major thanks to Brad King for the comp tickets-- the night was really fun, but I'm not sure I'd have had the nerve to go without the free ticket.

Let's be honest-- the driving force in me wanting to go (which I have for several years now) is to find out just what kind of people are willing to pay 30 bucks to go to a party labeled "Hot Singles." I mean, you've gotta wonder, are these truly hot people? People who wish they were hot? People desperate to hook up with a hottie? People who think they're hot but they are far from it?

The answer is all of the above. I'm not gonna lie, there were some very nice looking folks there, especially the men. And believe me, there were plenty of men. As in way more men than women. But there were also a lot of passable old men who thought they were pretty tough looking for women with low self-esteem. If I'd not got in for free, the people-watching alone probably would have made the ticket price worth it, though the sheer nerve of some of these folks was nauseating.

Hot: Great vendors. Props to Jade from Toni & Guy for the great manicure, the folks from Massage Envy for the long chair massage (even though I typically don't like people touching me), ABC Cakes for the Lady Gagas (delicious, and super-generous with the leftovers), and my personal favorite, Dennis "DC" Chavez, the coolest silhouette cutter outside of Disneyland. Talked to DC, and his rates for parties are incredibly reasonable. I'm thinking booking him for wedding receptions, because he's super cool, even though you might want to ask him to keep his language a little more church-friendly if you're going that way. Incidentally, DC can marry you, because he's a licensed officiant. He'll also announce your fight, tell some jokes ("Blonds have more fun but Chicanos get it done") and keep you in stitches. Props, DC, props.

Not: Wished the Henna Tattoo people would have been there as promised. Could have used a few more vendors, because you know Albs has more going on than just massages and manis. Oh, and I wasn't super-impressed with the palm-reader. I felt she was pretty hit-or-miss, though I'm an admitted skeptic. She told me I was shy in crowds. Fail. I've realized I'm not really shy, though I'm sometimes fragile. But that's in more intimate groups. Still, good on her for recognizing my psychic ability. Wink-wink.

Hot: The random boy we met who did card tricks. Boy, I saw you take down my blog addy, so I hope you appreciate the shout-out. Glad you're here, bringing a little southern charm to our humble city. Best of luck at Sandia, perhaps we'll see you at the DB sometime (I think there's a group of my friends going Saturday night) and with that girl you were with. She seemed nice, but it looks like she's more into you than vice-versa. Just so you know.

Not: The dear little gal who followed us around a lot. She was really nice, but if she called someone a hood-rat one more time that night, I thought I'd scream.

Hot: The roasted broccoli. Yummy.

Not: Old people who should have just acted normal and partook of the roasted broccoli and left good enough alone. Friends, you were out of your league. I'm talking to you, 65-year-old woman with glitter on her chest. Less is more, and the only glitter you should have should be from your craft projects. I'm talking to you Purple Paul with the fake French thing going on. I know you were probably intoxicated, but you were ridiculous. Also, get some new friends. I'm talking to you County Commissioner Michael C. Wiener. I know you were cleared of those sexual harassment charges, but honestly, get a PR person who will tell you not to show up at an event commenting on women's T&A, and all around acting like a dirt-bag. I almost hesitate to use your name because heaven knows you must have a google alert on yourself and will congratulate yourself on any publicity. And your friend? Glad he's a surgeon, but no one is really that impressed. Yes, you Sean.

Finally, confidential to the skirt-hiker-upper in red: Girl, your outfit was short enough, and no one will buy the cow if they can get the milk for free.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Pennies from Hell

I guess sometimes when a person makes a bad investment it's better to just cut your losses and get out of Dodge.
Remember Bad Penny? He's turned into chump change, emphasis on the CHUMP. After a fun weekend away (special shout out to my girl JW), I am exhausted, sore (yes Pamners, my entire legs are now feeling it-- just took a while for the calves to kick in) and happy. Or at least I was. Until I came into work to sort through the 36 emails waiting for me in the inbox. Many were just junk. No biggie. Some were dictionary.com words of the day. Good. Here and there were some updates from the Construction Reporter. But there, in the midst, was a dreaded email from the chump. I knew I shouldn't open it, but I am a glutton for punishment, a curious cat, etc.
Have you ever had an "apology" letter that is really someone passively-aggressively chewing you out? The gist usually is, "I'm sorry, but guess what-- I hate your guts because you are the scum of the earth and the reason I was a complete a-hole is because of all YOUR problems. I basically had no choice. So even though I made you feel like poo the other day, you really ought to know that it's all your fault, and I'm telling you this because I'm such a good person." The letter was pretty standard and true to form. Penny is a narcissist, so what did I expect? I struggled. Write back and rip him a new one? Delete it and pretend like I never knew him? Submit meekly to his myriad criticisms? Before you get all commenty-advicey, I'll tell you that I chose a combination. I initially deleted. Then I wrote back. I'm pretty sure my own missive was a touch P-A, but that is the beauty of righteous indignation, my friends. I asked him to kindly restrict any further communication to comments on the weather. I don't expect to hear from him again. At least, not until he is again on the rebound. Mea culpa for going out in the first place, knowing what I knew and for expecting to enjoy myself anyway. And mea culpa for even reading the email. And mea culpa for bothering to write back, but now I'm done. That penny wasn't even worth chucking into a fountain. I'm leaving it in Las Vegas for some other unfortunate to pick up, tails-up.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Hello, McFly!?

I think I'm in a funk. Or a fog. Something fishy is going on.
Lately, I don't know where my brain is. I think I can hear it sloshing around in the brain juice in my head, but somehow the synapses are not firing.
First, a clarification: My friend Chris is not married, nor was he. He pointed this out and I promised to spread the word. Ladies (and possibly gentlemen) rejoice.
Next, perhaps I was too tough on Bad Penny. Oh, don't think I'm anxious to let him back in. But I guess I was hoping hanging out with him would snap me out of whatever hazy mood has taken over. I'm like a crafting zombie, and while the creativity is good, it's also draining. Last night after laundry and putting a few odds and ends away, I cut up even more of those plastic water bottle flowers, and I dread having to assemble the mirrors, but I know once I get started I'll feel better. I made some fans out of decks of cards whilst watching "Where the Wild Things Are" and it was only as I finally went to bed that I began to process what a little pill Max was. I'm glad he's not my child. I'm not a fan of biters, you know.
Also currently going on in my half-conscious state: I'm getting set up left and right. I know that I'm not paying too much attention, because I'm being uncharacteristically open-minded about the whole thing. Everyone has someone they want me to meet: President Brown gave me a list of boys to date and I didn't put up a fight. I just told him to keep the list and he could suggest to anyone he likes to ask me out. What? I love PBS, but I'm not sure I should give him carte blanche on my social life. A friend pushes boys my way right and left, but I kind of think it's because he wants to live vicariously through me... probably not healthy. I've been spending an inordinate amount of time working as a decoy for a friend who has a less-than-desirable admirer, which has also kept me up late several nights this week. Even my mother's cleaning lady has chimed in: "Racial. I have idea. I know a man. He is verry funny. Only problem, he have two boys already." I told her to go ahead and introduce me, because she is a kind woman and I know she is sincere, though I'm not the biggest fan of children who are not my nieces (see notation about Wild Things Max, above). I've got to snap out of this, or before you know it I'll be a mail-order bride instead of running a booming bridal consulting firm. In the words of my friends S & R, "This has got to end!"
So what's the problem? Lack of sleep? Creative overload? Office burnout? Mild depression? Who knows. Maybe someone hypnotized me and forgot to snap their fingers so I'd wake up.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Spinning Right Round in the Revolving Door

So you all know I have this problem my friends call the "Revolving Door of Men" in my life, yes? Boo. It's a terrible fate. Certain men make infrequent but regular appearances in my social scene, and perhaps it's because I'm nice or perhaps it's because I'm bored, but I let them in. No more!
Terrible date last night. Sorry to disappoint, Val and Company, but there were no sparks flying last night, despite the delicious and intimate dinner at Paul's Monterrey Inn, even though we jokingly told our waiter Mark that it was our 9-year-anniversary. My square-peg of a date is a bad penny that keeps turning up, and while I thought it would be nice to see him again, I went home sad-- mostly because I think, "Ugh, is this my fate? This guy reminds me of a turtle, and I'm just not that into sea-life." In all seriousness, though, let's just chalk it up to poor judgment on my part, going out with this chap, and be happy he lives hundreds of miles away. Ugh and Grr. Oh dear, I'm reduced to typing guttural sounds of fury. This does not bode well.
Let's move on to another topic-- an old friend who revolved right in and out of a recent dream. My college chum
Reuben and his wife were the star's of Monday morning's phantasmagorical show. I've actually never met the lovely Mel, his wife of several years and mother to their darling daughter Kung Pao, but in this vision she and Reub were renewing their wedding vows. All the men wore space suits, except Reuben who opted for a purple silk shirt (silk shirts are nasty, but he still looked charming). Mel was the real star of the show, however. She made her entrance to the front of the cathedral via a system of pulleys, hidden beneath a bunch of purple balloons. You could see her black, one-shouldered mini dress was gorgeous, but the balloons were the center of the display. As she descended slowly, she'd pop the balloons with a push pin, giving the illusion she was descending due to the ever-decreasing balloons. What an entrance! With such dramatic appearances, old friend Reuben and family may drop into my dreams any time.
And speaking of old friends, long-time readers may remember a tribute I
posted here several years ago. Remember Chris of the Hammer Pants fame? Chris who was so nice he consistently invited EVERYONE in our classes to his birthday pool parties on Edeal Rd.? Chris with the funky toes and fancy dance moves? If you are a Los Lunas contemporary and you didn't know Chris Payne, you missed out. Big time. Pretty much the nicest boy in my entire career at Daniel Fernandez Intermediate School.
Chris also has happily re-entered my life. Here is what he looks like now:

Sorry I stole your picture, Chris. A little too chiseled, perhaps, but friends, you must understand that beneath the actor's exterior lies an incredibly brilliant mind. Welcome back to my life, Chris, even though yours is much fancier than mine. I've missed your doodles and that crazy-huge backpack, your spiky hair and ability to be kind even when you were busy doing math more complicated than most of us ever learned in college. Remember the time I totally embarrassed myself because I didn't know who your dad was and he asked me if I'd seen you at the speech contest and I said, "Oh, I don't know, he's always late" and then I realized you were connected and I was completely mortified?!?! Thank you for being my friend through two solid years of embarrassing moments, and now again despite cliches and run-on sentences.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Weekend Plans

So it's Friday, and you can bet I'm glad the weekend is here. Things have been busy and productive-- my favorite combination-- and I'm ready for a change of scene. Not that my office isn't a cozy little piece of the insulation kingdom, but you know, it might be nice to spend some time at my own house this weekend.

So, what will I do with my 48 hours of "me time?"

During last weekend's tax-free holiday, I managed to get a couple of super-cute outfits, but I think they'll stay in a bit longer (or maybe make their debut on my up-coming trip-- definitely would prefer for my bestie and her buddies to think I don't dress like a slob). I could go out with a member of the YBC (Young Boys Club-- an affectionate name I have for all the age-inappropriate fellas in my life) and see Le Chat Lunatique again, but I'm sorely tempted to stay in. Why?

It's coming-- this year's Boho Babes Boutique-- We're calling it "Boho in the Barn," because this year's sale is happening at Aunt Sylvia's farm in Lake Arthur, NM. It's a gorgeous venue, a lovely time of year, and a change from the Sego Farm, which is now occupied by my cousin and his family.

The sale is the 2nd weekend in October, so I've got a lot to do. Aside from the typical weekend church activities and responsibilities, I planning on busting through the craft closet, reorganizing, and finishing as many projects as possible. On the to-do list:

* Wonderland Party Kits
* Vintage Hankie Scarves
* Edgar Allan Poe-inspired curiosities
* Screen-printed holiday linens
* Ephemera Collections
* Ribbon Flower Accessories
* Plastic Flower Mirrors
* Up-cycled lingerie

And that's just this weekend! As I have something penciled in for practically every day until the boutique, this is going to have to be a productive weekend. Gotta strike whilst the creativity is hot. If you need me, I'll be covered in paint, modge-podge and glitter, singing The Smiths and working from dawn to dusk (or longer). No interruptions, please. Little Martha has much to do.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

My Polish Heart

Found this little essay I penned a couple years back-- thought I'd share. It's not particularly good, but at the time it was particularly sincere. And I feel the same, even if the words are lacking.

Even at the age of 28, the term “grown-up” feels stodgy and elusive. Look around my house, and you’ll see the meticulous eclecticism of a domesticated gypsy. My furniture, for the most part, comes from flea markets and yard sales because I am young and poor-ish, and I fain artistic sensibility. I pay my mortgage with Mr. Potato Head checks, and my toaster burns Mickey Mouse’s face into bread. I’m pleased to have maintained my childlike qualities without being childish, and there is a vibrancy in my life I hope will never go away. But on the other hand, I’ve acted 45 since I was 11, carrying a briefcase in fifth grade, announcing my political aspirations, and spouting paradigms founded on the ideals of my childhood crush Alex P. Keaton, suavely portrayed by Michael J. Fox on “Family Ties.” I am an old soul; I am a complicated woman. I am a Neil Simon character, and in some ways, I’m a Sybil.

But if there was a magical, transitionary time into adulthood, I’d guess it was the summer of 2004, when I went to Poland for a second term of study abroad. I’d just graduated from college two months before, and I gamely (eagerly?) put off the real world in favor of six weeks in the Motherland. The previous summer, I’d been terribly sick— in and out of the hospital during much of the program, and my language skills didn’t progress far beyond, “Hello. My name is Rachel. My kidney hurts. Please help. No, thank you, I don’t care for any kielbasa.”

So even though I knew the responsible, “adult” thing to do was to start looking for a job and become a productive member of society, I found myself on a laughably iconic, European jaunt before facing the real world. I was trying to take the road less-traveled, but I found myself on a path trod by numberless Bohemian spirits before me.

I was nervous. It all felt so irresponsible! Who goes away to a country to learn a language spoken by a relative few, simply because of an inexplicable love of the whimsical? No, of course it was more than that—there was the duty of honoring my beloved ancestors (though I’m only a quarter Polish, I’ve always said it’s the 25 percent of my body containing my heart—doubly appropriate because once someone told me Poland is shaped like a heart, and I’ve never pictured left- or right-ventricles since). And there was the added benefit of Andrew—a boy I’d met and revered in a literature class at BYU—and basking in the majestic glow of his aura for six weeks. In July and August of 2004, the pedestal I’d placed him on was only six floors down in our nun-run dormitory at the Catholic University of Lublin, and I could worship at the altar of his feet—my own sage and guru, or, if I’m being totally honest, my own crush.

I did feel grown up getting off the plane and helping some lovely people from South Africa exchange their rand for Polish złoty. I remember being particularly pleased with myself as I approached a taxi driver and asked, “Przepraszam, pana. Ile to kostuję pojechac do Hotel Ibis Centrum na aleją Solidarności?” The man laughed at my formality (and likely my accent), neglected to answer my question about cab fare to my hotel, and gave me a patronizing, “very good” in English before sending me out to navigate imposing Warsaw. Still, I remember being pleased with myself. For an afternoon, I was alone in a foreign city, and I was determined to be brave. I checked into my hotel without incident. I ventured out by myself to buy a phone card to call New Mexico and let my parents know I’d arrived safely. I even flirted with the toothless, yet handsome boy at the petrol station. For that exhilarating afternoon, I thrived. I lived.

My summer was blissfully magical, and the evolution from young college grad to a more-refined woman happened gradually over the next six weeks. I still embraced learning with the vigor of my undergrad days, and I saw my Polish skills progress from asking about cab fare to having an intelligent conversation about world politics. Once I went so far as to defend an unpopular position, which was a triumph not only as I spoke for an underrepresented minority, but also because I found words to communicate effectively without the crutch of others’ opinions and borrowed phrases.

Likewise, I became more adventurous. Always (and still) the responsible one, I found myself on an uncharacteristic adventure via night train to Prague with Andrew (and a Polish man sharing our compartment), trying to safely fulfill that yen for hostelling. Andrew and I ended up staying in a hotel with twin beds in a dark little room. It accommodated our modesty, propriety and virtue, even if it did make us hostel sell-outs. When recounting our travel histories, we figured no one need know, and at least we looked the part with our backpacks. Andrew carried my large, heavy one (stuffed full with every possible medication and amenity), and I took his, which I think only had a toothbrush and clean underwear. On the whole, it was a cushy way to “backpack Europe,” but I felt I’d traversed a major rite of passage.

Also that life-altering summer, I met some of the most remarkable people—folks living in apartments the size of my current living room, with nearly nothing to their names— people who were humble, healthy, and most of all, happy. On Sunday afternoons, I’d have dinner with local friends who’d open their homes and patiently listen and teach me as I tried to communicate in their language. I think the love I had for their country and culture pleased them, and our mutual love increased the surface area of my own Poland-shaped heart. My Polish friends’ examples still keep me from accumulating too much “stuff,” and their memory reminds me to care more about relationships than possessions.

That was the summer I spent my mornings studying in a gorgeous old monastery, my afternoons immersing myself in the comforting culture, and my evenings sitting on my 10th floor dorm balcony simultaneously weeping and grinning with gratitude.

“Who even gets to live this life?” I’d think over and over again. It brought me to the depths of humility to answer my own question. “I do.”

And though there were times I worried about the impending “real life” just short weeks ahead, I was determined to cherish every moment. More than growing up, I watched with bittersweet fondness as the last threads of my childhood broke away. I relished this short season of luxurious whimsy. Would I ever again have the time or money to immerse myself so whole-heartedly, so frivolously, into something for the mere satisfaction of curiosity—to do something “just because?”

On my flight home, I cried all the way to Amsterdam. I used to think it was because Andrew and I were cruelly separated in the security line, and though his Berlin-bound plane was right next to mine on the tarmac, I’d not been able to say goodbye to this funny little college student I counted as my counselor. But now, I realize it was really because I knew I’d left something familiar in Poland—my former, younger self—even my childhood. I was no longer “dziewczyna” (girl) but “Pani” (ma’am). I realize the country and the experience cemented the long-coming shift to maturity—a change that would have likely occurred even without Andrew—and each day since, I’ve been a better person for the time I spent there.

My time in Poland refined me; it made my metamorphosis complete. I learned I can be brave and lead a life less-ordinary. I learned things aren’t what make people happy—it’s relationships. I learned the love you give out is infinitely more beneficial than the love you receive, but that unselfish giving tends to lead to exponential receiving on that front. Because I blossomed in Poland, I am more gracious and grateful, kinder and more compassionate.

And what of Andrew? He’s still my friend after all this time, and we speak frequently. I called him one night, mortified after a 55-year-old man I’d met at church confessed to having a crush on me.

“Oh, it’s so awful,” I complained. “He’s only four years younger than my father! Doesn’t he know how inappropriate that is?”

Andrew just chuckled at this latest dating debacle of his virginal, little-sister type friend.

“It feels so creepy,” I rambled on. “I feel like I’m still 16!”

“Yes, Rachel,” he said. “But you’ve always been mature, so to him, there’s not the same perception of a 28-year age difference.”

And I guess that’s when I realized the world perceives me as an adult even when I don’t— Mr. Potato Head checks and all.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Quick Word to my WW Homies

The Cabbage Casserole recipe listed below is 4 Plus Points per serving (serves 12).

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

What is this, 1950?

Not to go all crabby-face on you, but chauvinism is a big pet-peeve of mine. There are a lot of things I love about the 1950s-- come see my house or my wardrobe, and you'll understand how influenced I am by the aesthetic. However, men, your "I'm better than you because I'm a man" attitude went out of style YEARS ago.
So the other day, there's a knock at my parents' door. I peer out the window and see a very unattractive man with a beer gut hanging out of his stained white T-shirt. His dirty boots and jeans are typical of workman of every kind, and his long-blond mess of hair doesn't really do much to distract from the big patch missing up top. I assume he's a customer, and open the door to be friendly.
"Hey little lady, is the boss-man at home?"
At that moment, I knew EXACTLY who he was-- one of those asphalt dudes. They always use the same line. They ask for "the boss" or "the man of the house" and then give you a bunch of b.s. about how they've just completed a job down the road and they have JUST enough asphalt to re-surface your driveway. My dad let someone do this once. It looks pretty nice. But when a year later he heard the same line, things sounded suspicious. Maybe we wouldn't have noticed if another tool-box came to the door the very next week with the same pitch. Now, it happens at least a couple of times a summer, and I don't know which to be more insulted by: the fact that they assume only the "man of the house" could make this decision, or the fact that they think my little girl memory won't get jogged when they press the tape recorder that is their speech function. Ugh.
Ironically, I've thought of having my own front drive coated in asphalt, but I guess they wouldn't be interested because there's not a man to give me permission. Oh well, they can take that extra load and add it to the load of crock they're trying to feed me. Not buying, you Neanderthal.