SSDD

Taking a break from writing so I thought I would add a new post. Hmm. What's new in my world?

Dave had Sunday and Monday off so he spent the first half of Sunday catching up on much needed sleep. While Dave napped, I finished designing the invitations, and then I devoured the latest Sophie Kinsella "Shopaholic" book in one three hour sitting. Oh, it was so good! I love Becky Brandon nee Bloomwood! She's such a ditz but so endearing. And, come on! There's a little Becky in all of us. I mean, every time I walk into a store, I'm like, "Ooh! Pretty! Must buy!" And, of course, I have my own Luke Brandon in my life. Dave's always the one who says, "Do you really need another bottle of anti-frizz, curly hair shampoo? What about the four half empty bottles cluttering the shower?"

My response, "Yes, but this one is for brown hair."

Dave: "Nice try. Put it back."

So yeah, I guess I'm addicted to buying bath and beauty products and panties. Yes. Panties. I probably have seventy pairs in my closet. And no. I haven't worn all of them. It's that damn Lane Bryant marketing scheme! They put piles and piles of gorgeous underpants right next to the register so while they're checking you out, you're looking at the total thinking, "Hmm. My budget is $100 bucks and I have a fifty dollar loyalty gift cheque and my total is only $78 bucks so theortetically....."

At which point, the cashier pipes up with, "You know, Miss Hernandez, our panties are currently on sale. Buy three, get two free."

That's my cue to rush the table and start snatching panties.

But I digress.

So after Dave's Sunday nap, we piled into the truck and drove out to check on the house. We haven't been out there in two weeks so when we pulled into the subdivision and saw our house--well, we freaked out. What used to be a foundation is now an entirely framed house. It's insane how huge it is. Dave wanted me to get out and walk around it, but I couldn't. I was just sort of overwhelmed by it all. Plus my OCD tendencies would drive me nuts. I'd have to count all the boards, lol.

I sat in the truck and watched Dave snap pics of the progress. I almost puked like six times, though. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, and every time he got close to framed walls, my stomach would sieze. I was convinced he was going to trip and fall down into the backyard or the entire structure was going to collapse. But then, I was like, calm down lady. It's the frame. It's done. They don't make money if the houses collapse on their tenants.

The rest of Sunday was spent back at the house, dealing with wedding stuff and watching that Planet Earth series on the Discovery Channel. Monday, however, will forever be burned into my mind as the day that I had the most disappointing meals of my entire life. So I wake up, plod into the kitchen, grab a box of generic Cinnamon Toast Crunch (because I can't stomach paying 4 bucks for a box of cereal when we're saving for a house, wedding, etc) and decide to give it a try while I watch my morning news. I tear into the box, rip open the plastic, grab a handful, shovel it into my mouth--and ew. It doesn't taste like cinnamon or toast, but yeah, it's crunchy. No. It tastes like imitation pancake syrup. WTF? Yep. Gross.

My breakfast ruined, I had a glass of water and then a Diet Dr. Pepper. Dave tried to convince me to have one of the pumpkin cranberry muffins I had baked earlier that week, but I was in an officially grumpy mood. I took a shower, worked on the grocery list, and then gathered up all of our invitation and RSVP printouts to cut out at Copy Corner. They usually have one of those massive paper cutting things on a counter, free to be used. I don't feel bad about going there to use it without spending any money b/c on average, I spend 30-40 bucks a month printing out manuscripts there. So we pull up, walk inside, and guess what? It's no longer available. You have to PAY to have them cut your paper. And guess what? It's 50 cents/cut. I needed them to make almost 200 cuts. Screw that. Fascists! Or wait. No. Not Fascists? Consumer pigs? Yes. Consumer Pigs!

Off to Hobby Lobby for one of those cutting board things. I probably should have bought the sensible, drab contraption by some unheard of brand, but no, I had to have the bright orange Fiskars model. The packaging was so neat! And it promised that it will fit perfectly on my craft table and complement my craft room.

Me: "Dave, am I supposed to have a craft room?"

Dave: "I think it's a marriage requisite."

Me: "Oh, god. If I buy this I'm going to turn into Gem Sweater Lady! Or worse! I'll be that nutty lady who hocks those hideous Quacker Factory Sweaters on QVC!"

Dave: "Tell you what. I'll put my foot down when you start ordering five gallon buckets of glitter and reams of scrapbooking paper...."

We search Hobby Lobby for a bone folder, but can't find one. Dave is still convinced that I'm making it up. Of course, I had to explain to him that a bone folder was NOT some kind of medieval torture implement but a flat stick thing for working on paper crafts. We finish up at Hobby Lobby and decide that we'll go out for lunch. We haven't eaten at Golden Corral in years b/c everytime we visit the restaurante, we have a tiff. It's weird. Almost like the place is haunted by the spirits of ill-tempered waitstaff or cooks who lost their lives to unfortunate kitchen accidents.

Everything seems fine until we sit down and I taste my Dr. Pepper and--gag! No syrup! I mean, come on. If I wanted to drink fizzy water without syrup, I'd move to France. Seriously. Our waiter fixes the Dr. Pepper issue by bringing me a Pepsi. OK. No harm done. I have my salad and it's fine. I go grab some meatloaf, some carrots, a spoonful of bourbon chicken, and some steamed rice. We eat, talk, and add to our shopping list. I'm carrying a fork of meat loaf to my mouth when Dave says, "Honey, that's pink. Don't eat it." I turn my plate around and sure enough, my meat loaf is raw. GROSS!!! So I decide to eat the bourbon chicken instead, but when I stab it with my fork, I realize that the bottoms of the chicken pieces are all black. I mean BLACK.

I abandon the charred chicken and meat loaf for the carrots and rice. They're fine. We head over to the dessert table and I get a huge slab of cake b/c I figure that I can afford the calories. The first bite of cake is OK, but it's nothing compared to Sandee's cakes. I notice a strange after taste, but I can't quite place it. I take another bite. Same weird taste. I taste just the coconut frosting, and there it is, but stronger. Hmm. It seems familiar. Reminds me of brushing my teeth. Oh. Ew. Baking soda. Why in the hell is there baking soda in my frosting?

I push aside my plate. I'm finished. And grumpy.

We go get our fingers sized for our wedding bands. We go shopping. We put up our groceries, order our wedding bands, and start working on the invitations. At some point during the nonstop cutting and resizing, I begin to question my decision to handmake forty invitations and RSVP cards. Seriously, WTF was I thinking? But later, as Dave points out, they're absolutely gorgeous and meaningful because we're putting our love and patience (and frustration and choice curse words) into them. I just hope our guests appreciate them....

Speaking of which. I need to get back to writing. I have to finish this chapter before I can start working on invites again. Laters.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, I did have a delicious dinner on Monday night. Dave made Sweet 'n Sour Chicken with steamed broccoli! It was fab! All wasn't lost, I guess :)