doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

We did it! It’s the last day of No Pop Month, and neither Brad nor I have had a single sip of soda for thirty days. Brad says he’s going to hold off as long as he can, but I’m downing a Pepsi first thing in the morning.

Actually I’m going to a training/conference with my fellow VISTAs this week, and there’s usually plenty of free pop to go around. Thank the Soda Gods the conference starts May first and I don’t have to say no to a single sweet carbonated beverage.

I’m sure after a few days I’ll overdose on sugar and caffeine, and I’ll cut way down on the pop again. But hello Pepsi tomorrow!

So yeah, I’ll be locked away with no communication to the outside world until Wednesday night. Miss me!

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Sleep Naked Month didn’t work out. Maybe when the night’s turn balmy and sweaty, we’ll try again. Because, you know, naked sleeping is fun.. we’ll definitely be doing that again.

One reason my boyfriend makes me crazy with love:
He’s reading a book. No, I’m serious. He’s reading a BOOK! Reading is one of my most favorite things to do, and talking about books is another. But he’s not a big reader; not a big book reader at least. He reads magazines and graphic novels and lots of things on the internet, but not books (let’s not argue about the graphic novel thing, you know what I mean). He tried to get into one book about a year ago, but it still sits on his nightstand, unfinished.

I’m totally cool with his different interests, but I always hoped someday he’d discover a book or two that he would actually read. And enjoy. So when, after a conversation about The DaVinci Code, he told me he might like to read it, I all but ripped my copy out of my sister’s hands and gave it to him. Read? Yes! Here, take this, start here. Need a bookmark?

And he’s been a reading fool ever since! It took him a couple days to actually open the cover, but since he did, it’s not rare to see my boy curled up in bed. Reading a book. I can’t even talk about it anymore because I might jinx it. Shhh…

One reason Brad makes me just plain crazy:
Ever since he got his Blackberry, he has been constantly connected to the world. Everytime he gets an email to one of his many accounts, the Blackberry makes a Brrlling! sound. An instant message or chat. Brrlling! An appointment reminder. Brrlling! A phone call. Well then it’s more of a RRIIINNGG!

And the thing is literally attached to his hip. In a holster. At every Brrling! or RRIIINNGG! he’s like a cowboy in a western shootout. A cowboy with the fastest draw, let me tell you.

At first, he immediately responded to every single Brrling! or RRIIINNGG! the device made. He even texts and chats and emails and surfs the internet while driving down the road. Or while I’m talking to him. But he’s gotten better, often giving priority to whatever he’s doing at the time, like talking to me, and not to the Brrling!s and RRIIINNGG!s of the Blackberry. So I thank him for that.

However, the thing that really drives me crazy is that whenever I call him, he never answers. He always has a perfectly reasonable excuse, I admit, but I always expect that when I call him, he’s going to answer. I see him answer every other call or email or text he ever gets, and plus I’m his girlfriend, I’m priority! But when I call, his phone is always upstairs or downstairs or in his Jeep. Always somewhere he’s not. Or maybe it’s still on silent from when he was at that one thing earlier. I know he’s telling the truth, but it frustrates the hell out of me.

He’s one of the most connected people I know, always has the world attached right there on his hip. Except when I call.

To everyone who came here looking for pictures of Katharine McPhee in her split-to-the-crotch yellow dress, I’m sorry I don’t have any of those. All I have is a deep, dark loathing for her. Will that do?

And to Simon…couldn’t you just let her eat her humble pie and choke on it this week? Why the apology? I think her head visibly grew six more inches last night thanks to you.

I don’t think it’ll be any of the guys.

Not Taylor: because everyone always loves him, and I don’t think they’ll stop now.

Not Elliott: because Paula cried.

Not Chris: because he had a good night, and I’ll hurt America if they vote him off.

So that leaves the girls. Katharine, Kellie, Paris. Katharine, Kellie, Paris. Hmm, that’s actually really tough. Let’s evaluate.

Katharine: She got bad reviews from the judges, but I still don’t think I’m lucky enough to see her go home tonight. Besides, she totally gave the audience a crotch shot, and that’ll get her a few hundred horny votes at least.

Kellie: Two bad weeks in a row, that doesn’t bode well for her future on American Idol. Yet, she’s never been in the bottom three, so voters are holding onto her for some reason. It’s like they look right past the bad singing and obnoxious ramblings and see something endearing. What?

Paris: Pretty good night, and I like her better than the other girls. But she’s been in the bottom three more than once, including last week. That either means her fans will vote like crazy to save her this week, or maybe people just aren’t that excited about her.

As much as I want to predict Katharine’s farewell, I might jinx it since my predictions are always way off. So I’m going to try some reverse psychology on voters and say….

…Paris is going home. Sorry girl.

New banner, courtesy of Brad! If you can’t see it or you just see the old banner with a strange floating tail thing hanging out near the text, then he tells me you need to refresh your cache. Uh huh, just do that. Does it work now?

I like it. It may not be intentional, but I think it has an underwater feel. As if “doahleigh” has been submerged, sunk to the bottom of a very clear ocean. You feel like you’re swimming don’t you?

Bare with us as we work out a few glitches. And enjoy!

And just for laughs, here’s Brad as a hunchback*:

 *It’s just a pillow I shoved up his shirt, but we had great fun pretending he was a resident of Notre Dame. Or maybe just an old man with really bad posture.

Introduction
My disdain for minivans is growing. Rapidly. It’s growing because I’ve found that minivans don’t move. Rapidly. They putz along and take their time, driving well below the marked speed limit, sending my level of patience through the floor and my blood pressure through the roof. I hate to generalize and categorize and patronize all minivans, but the evidence is overwhelming: minivans are slow.

Story the First
Driving home from Grand Rapids on Saturday, I estimated that on a normal day, I’d arrive at my house by 3:15pm. However, this day I set a goal for myself: get home by 3. That’s a whole 15 minutes shaved off an hour and a half drive, so I’d obviously have to increase my average speed. And I’d already wasted a good twenty minutes of drive time before I set this goal. Also, I didn’t want a ticket, so I had to be sly about my increased speed. And I was. I made it to Jackson by 2:50, giving me 10 minutes to drive through town and pull into my driveway. No problem.

All was going well until the white minivan pulled out in front of me. The White Minivan of Incredibly Slow Speeds made no apologetic hand gesture through the back window, it just drove along. At incredibly slow speeds I might add. The route to my house is direct, one road straight through town. There are no shortcuts, so I was at the mercy of the WMISS as long as it drove straight. As the WMISS crawled down the street that I was forced to be on, I watched the minutes tick by, closer and closer to 3:00. We suprisingly made every green light, but that didn’t encourage the WMISS, which continued to inch down the road despite the absence of traffic in front of it. I was a prisoner on the road with no possible escape and a death sentence at 3pm.

Miles passed by slowly as minutes flew by swiftly. I had begun to give up hope of reaching my goal when suddenly! Suddenly the WMISS’s brake lights gleamed, its indicator flashed, and it slowed to a near stop in the middle of the road. WMISS was turning! It was only 2:59, there was still a chance! I flew past WMISS just as the clock turned to 3:00, I had sixty seconds to pull into my driveway. I ignored all speed limit signs and crossing pedestrians, my sights set only on that road up ahead, the one I lived on. I turned and saw my driveway. The clock still said 3:00, I was going to make it!

A second before my tires connected with the driveway, the clock changed. 3:01. I had failed. And do you know whose fault it is? Of course you do.

Beware of the WMISS.

Story the Second
I had just left the incredibly slow Arby’s drive-thru with my Marketfresh sandwich in tow, eager to get it home and into my belly, and I was driving down the same road I had taken on Saturday. This time I made it half-way home in peaceful, just above the speed limit, fashion before the Silver Minivan of Agonizinly Slow Speeds pulled out in front of me. The SMASS, obviously lost or perhaps terrified of speeds above 20 mph, held me as its prisoner until one light before my house. There it turned off and allowed me to continue home in my peaceful, just above the speed limit, fashion.

I ate my sandwich and drank my water, then Brad and I decided we needed to run to the store. Off we went, heading in the opposite direction of where I had just come. Suddenly we catch up to a silver minivan, strikingly similar to the SMASS. Wait. Hon, what does their license plate say? (He doesn’t ride the asses of slow minivans the way I do, so I couldn’t see it clearly. He also has eagle eyes, so he easily read it to me.) AEL… I cut him off. AEL! That’s it, that’s the same minivan. That is the SMASS! Do you mind speeding up and smashing into it violently please?

He declined, and we had to follow the SMASS for what seemed like hundreds. of. agonizingly. long. miles.

Conclusion
Please don’t ever let me own a minivan.

Latest discovery: Men are (subconciously I suppose) more attracted to women whose hip to waist ratio is closer to the ideal. The ideal, you ask? Well that would be .7. I still remember my measurements from that one dress fitting that revealed just how “hour glass” figured I am, so of course I broke out the calculator. My ratio? That’s right, .69! Obviously I’m hot. Wait…I don’t think they’ve taken height into consideration here. Forty-two inch hips sitting only a few inches below a 29-inch waist isn’t nearly as hot as a 26-inch waist and 38-inch hips on a tall beautiful model. Except me. Cuz yeah, I’m pretty hot.

Lastest annoyance: Shopping from a registry in Target (if you’re reading Bon, now you know where your shower gift is from!). Nothing on the paper was actually in the store, much like those people wearing the red shirts. Apparently they weren’t in the store either. I spent 45 minutes trying to find something…anything…I’ll even buy this toilet plunger if only I could find it!, from the damn registry. And when I finally picked something and headed for the checkout, two people, TWO PEOPLE IN RED, asked if they could help me find something. Too late bitches, where were you 45 minutes ago?

Latest mistake: I suck at making American Idol predictions. Never listen to me.

Latest addition: Did you notice the Currently Reading section over there on the right? Brad did that for me. You can watch the progress bar slowly approach 100% as I toil through the 862 pages of small type in Gone with the Wind. When I’m done, I’ll update it with each new book I read.

Latest addiction: Brain Training. Anyone with a DS knows what I’m talking about. Brad bought Brain Age on Tuesday and it’s so much fun. Each day you do training where you complete a series of mind puzzles. Math equations, reading out loud, and other fun things that you’ll just have to see because my brain isn’t smart enough yet to describe them to you. And then each day you test your brain age. Twenty is the ideal, and the higher the number, the more tired your brain is. On my first brain age check I was 59! On my second I was down to 29. Phew! I’ve discovered two things from this new game: 1) I’m terrible at simple math equations, when did this happen? and 2) I love sudoku. The game also has soduko puzzles on it that aren’t part of the brain training. I didn’t think I’d really like those puzzles, but turns out, well, it turns out I love you a little bit, sudoku. I’ll see ya tonight?

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I loathe Katharine McPhee with a searing hatred. Brad and I decided last night that even though we don’t really like Kellie, we can see why other people might. But Katharine. There’s just nothing there to even sort of be fond of.

And what the hell is wrong with Simon? Oh Katharine, you’re the best, you’re a star, everyone else deserves to be decapitated on live television for how much they suck compared to you. Why would anyone else even try to sing while you’re in this world?

Brad laughs at me because he says he can actually see the hatred in me at the mention of her name. When she’s on screen my eyes turn yellow. And when she sings? I grow claws perfectly sized and shaped for digging her eyes out and choking her with them. Not because she’s a bad singer, but because I dislike her that much. Sorry “Kat”…why don’t you go choke on a hairball. Or your eyeballs.

Wow, it’s frightening how much I hate her.

Oh. I almost forgot this is a prediction post, not a Rally to Rid Ourselves of Katharine the Demon. So my prediction, let’s see.

Sorry Elliott. I actually like you so much more than Katharine or Ace. But America is confused, my dear. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Since everyone else was pretty stellar last night, except Kellie who America would never vote off because what would they do without ridiculous calamari quips?, I’m afraid it might be your time. If you want, we could start a campaign to Rid Ourselves of Katharine the Demon together. You in?

I know this because of two things:

1) This came in the mail for me yesterday:

Thanks Robin and Bonny!

2) Jackson has vomited daffodils. Seriously, they’re everywhere. Daffodils are one of my least favorite flowers, and they’ve recently cropped up all over this town! In no particular order or obvious pattern either. It’s like the land got sick and threw up chunky daffodil puke everywhere.

They’re growing in random patches all over the parks and along the roads. Not in gardens or designated patches of soil, just wherever the fuck they feel like it, straight up from the grass. Some daffodil vomit piles are 30 yards long, some just a few feet. I have no photographic evidence of this spring spewage yet, but I don’t know whether I think it’s pretty or not. Flowers are always pretty, especially wildflowers. But despite their random locations and formations, these flowers seem sort of intentional.

I think some “environmental do-gooder” bought a thousand daffodil seed packets on sale at WalMart, walked around Jackson ripping them open occassionally, and dumped their contents wherever the land looked a little too blank. And I don’t know anything about horticulture or plant science, but why are there no other flowers up yet? Who knew daffodils were such early bloomers? Probably everyone but me. Shut up.

Finally! We’re finally done with the Big Flickr Switch, all the photos we’ve taken in the last year are uploaded and tagged appropriately. God, recording your life is a pain in the ass.

So how has SN/NP Month been going for everyone? For Brad and I, not so great. Well at least not the SN part. We were so excited to Sleep Naked in the breezy evenings of spring, but we seem to have forgotten we live in Michigan. Even if the days are nice, it gets downright frigid at night. When we slept naked under our down comforter, we were sweating all over each other. But once we took that off, and were left with nothing but a sheet and a thin holey blanket, we found ourselves shivering to stay warm. Plus, there are certain days of every month that a girl just doesn’t want to sleep naked. So we had to abandon that initiative for awhile. We hope to pick it up again soon, or maybe move the whole damn idea over to May.

No Pop has been a smashing success, however. Neither of us has had one drop of soda for 17 days! While that means we’ve been drinking a little more water than usual, it also means I’m ready to smash apart the drive-thru menu boards that only offer lemonade and Hawaiin Punch as pop alternatives. In other words, while I normally love lemonade, it’s now starting to taste like rot in my mouth. Yes I know, I could just order water (and often do), and why am I going to fast food places anyway?

You know what, just back off. I’ll do No Pop Month my way, you do it yours.

Speaking of beverages (look at me and my flawless transitions!), Brad has been on a wine-tasting kick lately. I, personally, am not a big fan of wine. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my tongue to taste anything but dry alcohol. I’ve tried lots of wines, and there are few exceptions to this; so no, I’m not asking you to tell me some delicious wine you know I’d love. I probably won’t love it. However, if you’re dying to talk about good wine, read on.

Unlike me, Brad likes many kinds of wine, and he’d like to like more. He’s been trying to acquire a taste for red wine, but the “room tempature” thing really gets him.* I don’t understand his need to acquire this taste. If you don’t love it already, why bother? But he insists he likes it, and he usually does finish every glass he pours. However, I think he could use a little guidance on what’s good and what to avoid. My dad, a distributer of wine and other tasty beverages, gave him a little advice. But if you know anything about wine and want to share (without being a wine snob; no snobs allowed), I’ll pass it on.

*Sometimes, after taking a sip of his latest taste-test, he’ll shudder. Like, a literal shudder, complete with the noise commonly associated with shuddering (please know what I’m talking about because I have no way of describing it). Much like I do when faced with images of needles or conjoined twins.

When I was learning to ride a bike, I had a dream that I fell off and my brother ran over my head with his bike. For a long time I swore it was real, and I viewed that experience as a memory, not a dream. Of course it never really happened, but sometimes I wonder how I ever agreed to be anywhere near a bike again.

My first bike was a bright shimmery blue Schwinn with a banana seat. Oh yes, I was hot cruising the neighborhood with that ride. Even then I knew banana seats weren’t cool, but at least I wasn’t walking. Eventually I graduated to a mint green ten-speed. Remember the kind with the curly handle bars? I always hated that bike, but I got it free so I didn’t complain. Much.

Finally in high school my dad bought me a sweet mountain bike for my birthday. He had the hook up with the biking world in those days, so it was a pretty nice one. It was black and beautiful, very mature looking. When I moved away for college, I left the beautiful bike behind, stored away in my mom’s garage.

A few months later I came home to visit on break and found my whole family had rearranged. My mom and sisters had moved out of my evil stepdad’s house, and I never saw that bike again. I was never able to determine if the bike was left behind in the frenzy of the move, or if my brother had sold it for drug money (don’t worry, he’s totally turned his life around. Love you brother!), but either way, my beautiful bike was gone forever. And I haven’t had another once since. Until now…

That was a gift from Brad. For our “anniversary,” even though all I got him was a measly card and a sappy love letter. We really wanted to go on bike rides this spring and summer, but we decided I’d be a little uncomfortable propped up on his handlebars. Besides, how would he see where he was going? Hence, my brand new bike! We’re looking for a good name for her. Suggestions?

We’ve already taken two rides around the neighborhood, down a bike trail, through the park. So far I love it! Obviously we don’t do anything hardcore. As you can see, I’m wearing jeans and sandals, but it’s much better than working out in some stuffy gym.

How come nobody ever takes cute pictures of B and I? My sister and her husband have a bunch of mushy pictures of them doing couple-y things like kissing and cuddling and sharing private moments with each other. All taken by other people. It’s all really quite disgusting, but so incredibly sweet and mushy that I’m jealous.

On some blogs that I read, people post the lovliest pictures of themselves with their significant others, pictures that someone else obviously took. And I’m beginning to wonder why all of the photos of Brad and I are of the arm-extended-as-far-as-we-can variety. Are we not cute? Do we not call out TRUE LOVE! to you? Do you not want to record our overwhelming adorability for all time? I’d love to have pictures of us kissing or hugging or cuddling or whispering sweet nothings to each other or sharing private moments that werent’ totally staged. I think we’re pretty damn cute. What’s the deal people!

A few updates from Doahleigh land. The Big Flickr Switch (BFS) is complete as far as I’m concerned. Finally. All the old photos are uploaded, tagged and sorted. Now it’s just a matter of catching up with ourselves on more recent photos. I also went through and did some housecleaning around here. Because of the BFS, a lot of my old flickr links were lost, so I had to go through all my old posts and reinsert the photographs. While I was doing that I also categorized a year and a half’s worth of posts! All the stuff moved over from livejournal was without appropriate categories, and I felt they needed a little organization. The slobs.

Oh yeah, and I found out last weekend that most of my family has discovered this blog. I thought they were all pretty technologically…well let’s just say ‘not very technologically inclined’ and wouldn’t find me here unless I told them to. But they’ve proven me wrong. So hi mom, dad (although I doubt you’re here much), Des, Ann, Em, and Kel! I’m glad you found me, send your friends. Actually you already have… hi Kara, Lindsey, Stacy and whoever else might be reading!

Hope you all find a good way to pass a few minutes each day. When you’re bored. At work home. You’re so bad!

I really don’t get the Katharine thing. I just don’t get it, and I hate it. She makes my blood boil and I truly might have to stop watching the show until she’s gone. I become consumed with hatred at the mention of her name, and I can hardly look at the screen during her performance. I don’t dislike her only as a singer, I dislike her when she talks, I dislike her when she dances, I dislike her when she just stands there. Why, please tell me, why does Simon and everyone else love her? I’d cut off one of my arms and one of my legs and walk around with bloody stumps if only she’d get voted off. But I don’t seeing it happening this week.

Instead, here’s my guess, mostly because he looked like a circus ring master in that get up tonight:

Ace, won’t you please take Katharine with you?

Imagine being invited to a family get together. Family and some close friends actually. Imagine arriving at this get together and looking around and realizing you only recognize a few faces in the crowd. Am I at the right party? Who is that person? And who are they? Okay there’s a whole group of people over there that I don’t know. I’m sorry, have we met? Imagine being introduced to stranger after stranger and being told that you’re related to them in some way. By law apparently.

My mom’s new husband has the most gigantic family I’ve ever been related to. And I’ve been related to a lot of families. I thought my four siblings and two half siblings were a lot to take, but he’s the youngest of eight children. EIGHT! I was meeting “uncles” and “aunts” and “cousins” galore. Nobody actually used those terms, it was more like “this is Kelly’s brother Blah and his sister Yadda” and I don’t know if I remember a single name. But it was nice to meet you, new family!

Just because I can, allow me to show off my gorgeous sisters.

That’s Emily with the horse’s mane growing from her head (ha! love you Em), me (yes I do wear my new jacket all. the. time.), Andrea (who was thoroughly drunk off a few too many hawaiin punch slushies at this point (see them in that machine in the background?)), and Kelli (it appears she was going for the pastel look that day).* Seriously though, they’re a hot lot, dontchya think?

Eventually we left the strangers to themselves and went to celebrate some birthdays with a little karaoke. I wish I had the balls to try it sometime, but I am undeniably ball-less, and therefore watched from the comfort of my booth. My favorite performance was Brad and Kelli’s rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.

That’s the best picture I got, but it doesn’t begin to portray the killer gyrations and incredible range Brad demonstrated in his performance. They both thought it was terrible, but they obviously missed the crowd’s reaction. Everyone else thought it was hilarious.

*They won’t mind my teasing because they all mocked each other for the same things that day. Right girls? Ann? Em? Kel? I know you love me.

As promised, it was a very eventful weekend. I’m working on uploading some pictures to share from the reception and birthday celebration, but for now I need to give a shout out to my beautiful boyfriend. If lovey-dovey makes you gag, wait patiently for my next update. If lovey-dovey makes you gush, read on. I’ll try not to be too disgusting.

B and I recreated our first date on Friday night. In some trivial ways, it wasn’t as good as the original, but in more important ways, it was magical.

Last year we didn’t wait for a table and got a nice booth by the windows.
This year we had to wait 10 minutes and sat at a small table in the middle of the crowded floor.

Last year the service was good.
This year the service was painfully slow.

Last year the weather was beautiful and ice cream was a joy.
This year the weather was cold and windy, and ice cream was a joke (well, ice cream is always good, but still).

Last year we did one loop around Target and left.
This year we tried out lawn furniture, played with giant balls and hoola-hoops, and took the funniest (accidental) picture ever!

Last year we saw Sin City and enjoyed it.
This year we saw V for Vendetta and enjoyed it.

Last year we hardly knew each other, and we were a little awkward.
This year we’re in love and we’re great friends, so a simple date was an amazing and fun time!

Last year we didn’t even kiss at the end of the night.
This year we did a little more than kiss.

Brad and I have become extremely close in the last year and we’ve really learned what it means to be in a good relationship. After some disappointing relationships in the past, I had a clear idea of what I needed in a man, but I didn’t think I’d find it without having to “train” someone, so to speak. Everyday I’m amazed at how much B is the person I dreamed of without any coaxing from me.

I love that he says all the things I need him to say, without any instruction or nudging. I love that he talks to me and is willing to work out every little problem with hardly any resistance. I love that he anticipates my needs and fulfills them whenever he can. I LOVE that he’s always playing with my hair and rubbing my shoulders and kissing my feet, and I never have to ask for it. I love that he loves me just as much as I love him.

In my own private way I told him how much he means to me on Friday, but I just thought the rest of the world should know how lucky I feel. Sometimes I read people’s outpourings of love on their blogs and I feel like they’re trying to make the rest of the world jealous of what they have. But I feel humbled by what I’ve found with Brad. I doubted it was possible, but now that I have it, I try never to take it for granted, never to assume I’ve done something to deserve to be this in love, never to think I’m more worthy of this anyone else. I’m blessed and I know that. And baby, I’m just so happy to be with you.

Happy Anniversary!

Oh I’m sorry, did you want to see pictures? Fine, here’s a few.

My flowers!

On the way to Date Night!

and

Oh and you probably want to see the funniest picture every don’t you?

Wait did you get that? Take a closer look.

He’s really pointing at DS games, and we didn’t catch this until we reviewed our pictures later that night. But he’s sticking his finger up some strange lady’s ass. Tell me that’s not good comedy.