If Any Of You Were Under The Impression That I Have Moves Like Jagger. This Post Will Prove You Wrong.

So I know I promised you all the second part of How Ryan Met Lauren but that is going to have to come later this week, since it will include a TON of old pictures and I just got a new scanner and am still figuring out how to make the damn thing do my bidding.

Unfortunately I have learned that, unlike my husband, the scanner does not respond to thinly-veiled threats and lots of kicking.

So that post is still in the pipeline, it's just taking longer than I anticipated.

To pass the time, I thought I'd tell the tales of a few of the many many times I have managed to get myself grieviously injured over the last 28 years.

In Which I Learn That I Can Not, In Fact, Fly.

Age: However old one is in third grade.  I could figure this out I suppose.

Location: The gym at my elementary school.

Other Pertinent Info: I was, for reasons I can not possibly fathom, not wearing any underwear that day.  Which was quite embarassing for my mother at the hospital.  Oh yes, I go to the hospital in this story. 

So when I was in third grade, I had not yet grown into my monkey arms (as pictured in this post.)  And I was very awkward.  But, like a real monkey, I was also very good at climbing things.  So I got really excited every year when it was time for the gymnastics unit in gym class.  Because I could scramble up the climbing rope like no other, and then get a very fancy certificate and the praise of everyone in my class (and even some fourth & fifth graders!) for doing so. 

When the fateful day finally arrived, I made sure I was wearing nylons under my shorts because I had this theory that nyloned legs were grippier than non-nyloned legs (apparently nylons also render underwear superfluous?)  and donned my lucky pink denim vest. 

And then I caught the bus to school.  On which I probably read Little Women for the eightieth time.
And then I probably learned how to spell 'principal' (your principal is a Prince of a Pal) and then probably got yelled at for eating Oreos in class (this happened, let's just say, more than once.)

One thing that I remember for sure is that I was a ball of anticipation until the hour for gym class finally arrived. 

When it was my turn to climb the rope, I threw myself at that thing like some sort of wild banshee and started wrestling my unclad butt to the top.

I felt the room go quiet as I neared the red bandana that (if I touched it) signified that I would indeed earn my climbing certificate that day.  And then something went very wrong.  As I made to reach up to grasp that beacon of grade school acclaim, my arms got sort of crossed and tangled together and I lost grip of the rope.  And I fell, approximately 19 feet as estimated by the paramedics, which is bullshit, since I know for a fact that the bandana was 20 feet from the ground.

And I landed on a thin mat.




Not A Thick Cushy Mat Like This Landing Mat.  Also, No One Was Holding The Bottom Of My Rope.  The Early Nineties Were VERY Dangerous Times.

 And it hurt.  And I screamed and cried and all that.  And an ambulance and my mother were called.  And while we waited for them to arrive, Dale, the janitor, sat next to screaming crying me, and told me a story about how when he was little he tried to put a large rock on one side of a teeter totter and then jump on the other thinking the rock would fly over his head.  But then it actually just landed on him.

And then the paramedics arrived and made me wiggle my toes one thousand times.  And then strapped me onto a board and loaded me into the back of the ambulance just as my mother arrived.

And then they busted out the siren and drove me to the hospital.  Where it was discovered I was not wearing any underwear and oddly was instead wearing nylons under jean shorts.

XRay, XRay, XRay.  Blah Blah Blah.

Miraculously I was going to be ok.  Just a few broken ribs, a back that was pretty destroyed and painful, and some toes that were sore from all the wiggling.

And then I got to stay home from school and lay on the couch and have my meals brought to me for TWO WEEKS.  And I got like fifty cards and presents and even a balloon bouquet.  And my mom made me cakes on the daily yo.  And then I went back to school and was extremely popular and awesome and my teacher told me that if I ever felt like I needed to walk around to ease my back to do so, even in the middle of class. (She regretted THAT.)

And I decided I was done climbing down ropes.  It was obviously more to my benefit to climb up them and then just fling myself to the ground.  And I couldn't wait until the gymnastics unit the next year.

But then climbing ropes were outlawed at all of the schools in the district.  And I had to focus on other challenges.  Like how far it was possible to lean back in my chair before falling into the kiddie pool that housed 29 crayfish (not as far as you would think.) (No crayfish were harmed.  And I got to go home early because I was all wet.)

But anyway that, my friends, is the first time I can remember being seriously injured.  Unless you count knocking my front tooth out on the monkey bars in second grade seriously injured.  (I got to go home early that day too.)

Does anyone else feel sort of sorry for my mom right now?

Here's what's coming up next:

Best Friends' Fist to Face

Line Drive to Face ( I get hit in the face a lot.)

Broken Leg From Blatantly Ignoring Doctor's Advice

An Allergy I Consistently Decide To Pretend Does Not Exist

Digging Up Hornets Nest And Then Being Chased By Hornets

Very Serious Sunburn (Which it seems addled my brain enough to make me shout ridiculous things in the middle of Nordstrom)

Be excited blogstalkers.  I do all of these things for you.  Not because I'm ungainly and invite disaster at every turn.

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Had A Curtsy Contest With My Husband This Morning. He Won.

First, if you're new here, this post probably will not interest you at all.  I suggest instead you visit here and then visit here and then if you're not completely and entirely sick of me check this shit out.

Second, stay tuned for the epic second part of How Ryan Met Lauren on Monday one day this week.

Third, here is a short story of how last night went for me.

Lauren: My personal trainer is THE WORST.  Even my teeth are sore.

Ryan: I will give you five dollars if you can do two lunges right now.

L: Please Ryan, I am the Queen of lunges.  I could do countless lunges right now.

R: Prove it.

L: You know, I WOULD but royalty does not stoop to displays of physical exertion before their devoted vassals.

R: I'm not sure who you're calling a vassal exactly.

L: Oh right sorry, devoted serfs then.

R: That is...not better.

L: It's more accurate at least.  I am nothing if not accurate.  And sore.

And then Ryan went into the bedroom to change into sweat pants.

L: Shouting over loft wall I just did those lunges you wanted.  And a squat, just for good measure.

And yet Ryan refused to give me the five dollars.  I comforted myself with that fact that I am still somehow on his credit card account (even after buying "too many jelly beans") and I could always buy myself something worth five dollars that way.

But then Ryan and I had a bottle of wine and watched a movie and I was slightly impaired and Ryan convinced me to do lunges in front of him.

And so I started one, got halfway down, got an exquisitely painful cramp, and fell over sideways.

And then I hear

R: Do you need assistance, Your Majesty?


And look up to see Ryan curtsying before me.  (He swears it was not a curtsy but a bow.  But seriously, I know curtsy when I see one.)

So that was my pretty normal-around-here Friday night.

But anyway.

Fourth and last, I need your help blogstalkers.

In the next few weeks this blog will be undergoing a pretty MAJOR redesign (don't worry, I'm not doing it myself.)  I'm hoping when finished it will be easier for all of you reading (I heart you) to navigate and honestly just look at in general.

So what do I need from you, you ask?

I am in desperate need of a tagline.  I've been wracking my brain for days now and quite simply, can not come up with something that is not the worst thing I've ever written.

And you all make me laugh daily with your amazing comments, so who better to ask for help?

I just need like three words to one sentence that will sum up the very essence of this here blog.  These words will be permanently affixed to my header under the words "Filing Jointly...Finally."

If one of you can rescue me from the humiliation of having a tagline that says "This is where a tagline would appear, if I was capable of writing a tagline,"or "Terrible at Taglines But Awesome At Ballet, Or Awful, One Of Those Two." then I will totally send you a ridiculous prize.

It may not be as awesome as a box of cheese (OMG, can you believe a reader sent me that?!) but it'll be something preposterous and/or absurd.

Oh and you will totally get to see your tagline at the top of my blog for the rest of my bloglife.  Which is the real prize, obviously.

Help me blogstalkers.  You're my only hope.

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Boy Look At This Body. I Work Out. Fine. I WORKED OUT, Singular, Once.

Disclaimer: I very much like my job and very much like all of the people with whom I work.  Today was just rough.

Hey blogstalkers.

I was fully intending on posting something charming and funny today, even started writing a cheerful little thing or two before work, but then I had the worst day of all time (I may be slightly exaggerating) and came home to try to finish that sweet-as-sugar post and was like "Aaarrggh too happy, and deleted everything I had written this morning in a fit of pique."

So now you are all getting this post, which is bitter and crotchety.  DEAL WITH IT.  (Sorry, bad day.)

What happened was this.

I got to work at eight like normal and checked my calendar.  And realized I had a five hour meeting from 9 til 2.  And then I banged my head on the side of my cube a little until the very nice lady that sits next to me asked me to stop.

When nine'o'clock rolled around I hobbled (I am very sore because my new personal trainer is evil and thinks lunges and squats are just the most divine way to spend an evening apparently) to the conference room and planted my butt in a chair for what I thought would be the next five hours.

And then I sat and listened to some dude (who was very smart and probably a perfect gentleman) talk about 'asset valuation' and 'impairment basis' for nine hours, without stopping, thru lunch, past going-home time, for nine hours.


This is what I did for those nine hours.


Today's Inner Monologue (brought to you by that horrible color you get when you mix all of the other colors together and the letter F)


Hour One: "You know what, this won't be so bad, you woke up on the correct side of the bed today, you can smile your way through this."

Hour Two:

Hour Three:  "Pay Attention, Pay Attention, Tax Accounting, Pay Attention."

Hour Four:  May have accidentally gotten lost in a fantasy where I attended a Maroon Five concert in high school and then Adam Levine fell in love with me and then I was his muse and my name was Jane and all of the songs on the album "Songs About Jane" were about me, because of the muse thing.

Hour Five: "Fifty-two more minutes.  Thirty-seven more minutes.  Twenty-two more minutes.  Six more minutes."

Hour Six: "NO MORE MINUTES, NO MORE MINUTES, STOP TALKING, WHAT THE EFF."

Hour Seven: "Don't try to sway me with your cockeyed arguments.  It is impolite to even consider murder LAUREN."

Hour Eight:  Taking notes with left hand and writing things like "bubble gum" and "my lovely lady lumps" instead of accountingy things to see if anyone would notice.

Dear Lord I Hope My Boss Does Not Ask To See My Notes Tomorrow.  This Would Be Much Worse Than The Cottage Cheese Incident.

Hour Nine:

And then I got home and the first thing Ryan (who had the day off today) said to me was, "You know I watched how long it took you to get down the block today after you left for work.  I don't think you can tell people you walk to work anymore.  What I saw this morning was more like crawling standing up."

So that was my day blogstalkers.  What did you do today?  Something lovely I hope.

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You Saw Her Bathing On The Roof, Her Beauty In The Moonlight Overthrew You

Someone (Ryan) recently commented that my recent posts have contained fewer pictures than usual.  And then made some sort of snide remark about how he guesses it's understandable seeing as I probably don't have many as-to-yet unposted pictures remaining in which I am not wearing sweatpants or have something stuck in my teeth.

So I am dedicating this post to my husband.  Hope you like the pictures dear.

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Great, Now My Grandmother Thinks I'm A Stripper

Short post today blogstalkers.

I found one of my really old phones this afternoon and the old text messages on it are rocking my world.  I'm planning a post to share some of the especially gemmy ones with you all, here is a small taste:

Ryan and I had the following text conversation this afternoon.

R: Excited to see your personal trainer?

L: No!

L: Are you hymning it up today?

L: Gymming rather.  Please don't sing me any hymns.

L: Ruin my day that would.

R: I plan on hymning all night tonight.  So get ready for that.

L: You had better start learning some hymns then.  Because, and I don't know you if you are aware of this, "I'm In Love With A Stripper" and "Hakuna Matata" are not in fact hymns.

R: Close enough I say.

Oh "funny" story about the song I'm In Love With A Stripper. 

When Ryan and I got engaged I set up a spectacular wedding website and meticulously worked for hours to perfect the damn thing.  The only thing I asked Ryan to do was to set up the music that would play on all of the different pages.

Then we had this conversation.

R: "Oh by the way, I set up the music for the website."

L: "Oh good thank you, people should be getting their Save The Dates about now so they'll be checking it out."

R: "Tee Hee Hee Hee Hee."

L: "Ryan, what the EFF did you do?"
Runs to computer and loads wedding website.

Can you guess which song Ryan chose?

Yep.

Pictures of Ryan and I start slowly appearing and fading on the screen, accompanied by the lyrical artistry that is T-Pain.

And I still married him.  YOU'RE WELCOME RYAN.

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And Then Ryan Got Mysteriously Axed In The Mouth

COMMENTING SHOULD BE FIXED!!  COMMENT AWAY!!  And let me know if anyone is still having issues.
::Blogger has been having some problems with posting comments lately it seems.  I'm super hoping it is fixed soon, until then, if you can not leave a comment, just send me nice thoughts.::

I will begin this post with a warning that has nothing to do with the following story, hopefully this is not too late for anyone.

Never, and I mean never ever, get Axe antiperspirant spray in your mouth.

I'll spare you the details, but seriously, worst afternoon ever.  I feel like I'll never be able to spit again.  Not that I make a habit of spitting.

Oh! Idea! Do you know someone that spits entirely too much?  I have the solution to your problem.

Axe them in the mouth.

Both Axe antiperspirant spray and a real axe would probably work.

But moving on.

If you've read this blog before then you know that Christmas is my most favorite day/time of the year.

And you probably know that Ryan isn't all too keen on Christmas.

And you've probably thought "GOD, that Ryan is Soooo lame, does he like any day of the year?"

No?  Just me then?

Well to answer my own question then, turns out yes he does like one particular day of the year.  I'm actually not sure how I didn't know this until now, Ryan probably thought he had to keep it a secret when we weren't married so I wouldn't dump his rude butt.

Ryan's favorite day of the whole year is the day I geek out on Pride and Prejudice. (Which means I watch the five hour BBC version starring the-one-and-only Colin Firth followed by the two hour newer version starring Matthew MacFadyen who is OK too and then reread my favorite parts of the actual book and then swoon a little.)

Is it weird that I would genuinely like Ryan A LOT more if his last name were Darcy?

I didn't even actually realize that I did this every single year but APPARENTLY I do.  And APPARENTLY Ryan anticipates this day with longing and excitement.

So this last Sunday I got out of bed, drank some chocolate milk and pondered how to spend my morning.  I decided to finally pack away the few remaining Christmas decorations that were still littered throughout the condo.  I was completing the task just fine until I got to my Christmas movies and Pride and Prejudice happened to catch my eye.

So I pulled it out of the cabinet.

And then I heard SOMEONE quietly squeak from the couch behind me "Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god, it's here, and during playoffs too, oh my god."

So I turned around and was all "What is here exactly?"

And Ryan was like "Oh umm nothing, just an update for one of my iPhone games."

Which was actually plausible because Ryan is very interested in stupid iPhone games with girly names like "Tiny Wings."  But something seemed fishy. 

"I will figure this out you know," I said to the suspiciously happy Ryan sitting on the couch.

And then I watched seven hours of Pride & Prejudice.

While Ryan watched seven hours of football and ate homemade tortillas. (I'll get to that in a bit.)

When I finally exited the bedroom stretching, in a Pride & Prejudice-induced stupor, Ryan looked up from where he was laying on the couch, giggled, and said "Done so soon?"

And then I figured it out.

"Are you kidding me Ryan?  The thing that was making you so deliriously happy this morning was the idea of spending the day without me?"

"It's just that, and don't take this the wrong way, but when you watch those movies, you don't say anything to me for SEVEN HOURS.  And I can do whatever I want.  And you don't talk to me for SEVEN HOURS."

"You are in so much trouble for this I hope you know that."

"You don't text me and you don't call me and you don't try to convince me to take the dogs out because you have a headache and you don't tell me stories about how your dad built your brother a treehouse but never built you a treehouse and you weren't even allowed in your brother's treehouse for SEVEN HOURS."

and then he got a dreamy look on his face and whispered "Seven beautiful hours, once a year."

"Well I hope you enjoyed it this year Ryan, because it's the last year it's going to happen."

"Haha there's an empty threat if I've ever heard one.  There's no way you can go too long without watching those movies."

"No you're right, I can't.  Which is why we will from this day forward be spending my birthday enjoying those movies, together.  And if you say one thing about it I'm throwing in Gone With The Wind."

And then he muttered something about getting a treehouse that I wasn't allowed in or something, I didn't quite catch the exact words.

Don't feel too bad for him blogstalkers.  Those homemade tortillas he was eating earlier were made using my brand new tortilla press & cast iron skillet.  You know, the ones Ryan got me for my birthday.  Because, you know, tacos are HIS favorite food and he prefers them with homemade tortillas.

Also, the storage unit key is missing again.  I'm pretty sure Ryan has started to hang out in there to get away from me.

Also, I was speaking to Colin Firth last night on the phone, recapping the Golden Globes and he wanted me to reassure you all that he is not in fact a racist.

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Apparently It Is Legal for A Grown Man To Marry A Horse In Costa Rica

It's Friday blogstalkers and you know what that means.  Yep, it's time to drink champagne and dance on the table.

First though I have to go meet my personal trainer to "discuss my fitness goals."  So that's sort of putting me in a bad mood.  Since I'm already feeling kind of stabby and pinchy (sorry Ryan) I thought it would be the perfect time to post an angry limerick I wrote months ago.

Here is the set up.  Late last year I started experiencing some pain in my left-privates area.  I was obviously scared that this meant I had contracted some sort of deadly jungle virus on the trip Ryan and I took to a cabin located in the wilds of Michigan with our friends.  But ever since the day I woke up, turned to Ryan and, according to him, said something like:

"Oh It's Dr. Batista's birthday today.  I should send her a card.  Or maybe go into the office to see her, and you know what, it does seem like I've been losing more hair than usual lately, so while I'm there maybe I'll just get a quick checkup and a complete blood panel and an allergy test," I am really trying to work on my hypochondria, so I just ignored the pain.

Which was the worst idea I have ever had in my life.  Because two days later something in my insides exploded, literally.

I had a CT scan that determined that a small cyst on my left ovary had most likely burst.  OH and guess what else, there was another as-to-yet-unburst cyst still calling my traitor left ovary home.

So clearly my little cysters had a fight and the one cyst exploded the other in a fit of rage, but managed to stop short of a murder-suicide type situation.  (This was no Romeo and Juliet story yo.)  Preferring instead to lie in wait of a day when I'm probably feeling particularly happy and be all "Oh you thought you were going to Disney World today?  You thought you were going to ride the Teacups and eat churros and take pictures with Belle did you?  Well think again.  KABLOOEY

Abso-effing-lutely Fan-effing-tastic (Sorry sorry, stabby and pinch remember?) (Sorry again Ryan)

This picture is from the first part of our honeymoon.  I had to get it off of Ryan's computer because when I opened the file entitled "Our Honeymoon" on my computer it was just three pictures of Ryan sitting on a horse.  I can not stop laughing.

So yeah, I had some angry feelings to vent.  And the only way I know how to vent is to write, or pinch, apparently.  (Sorry Ryan, but really you think you would have moved by now, and not continue to be sitting next to me on the couch, topless (obviously), with all your skin looking at me all pinchable-like.)

So I wrote my left ovary, the one currently playing host to the death cyst, a warning limerick.

It's not my proudest or finest poetry effort ever, but when I wrote it, I was in a dark murderous hate place with very little concern for proper pacing, meter or grammar.

Ummmm enjoy?

There once was a hateful left ovary
that felt its girl was living life too jovially.
So the M*therF*cker burst.
And the girl, how she cursed.
Then decided she was feeling too soberly.


So she drank a Sh*t Ton of whiskey mixed with Kahlua because she was in the hospital and that was the only thing she had in her purse.


What? Don't normal people spend their time writing limericks to their lady parts?

Sidenote: When Ryan read the above sentence he was like "Well I for one can say for certain that I do not spend any time whatsoever writing limericks to my lady parts."


Oh and this limerick, and this post in general, are dedicated to my reader Cam, who I do not know in real life, but who wrote me a birthday haiku in one of her comments.

And serious poets like Cam and me implicitly understand that if you write someone a poem, they totes owe you one in return.

You all owe me poems now too blogstalkers.  I'm as serious as a death cyst.

Also, I was going to just stop there, but it would make my inner nerd squirm if I didn't say that I do know that Romeo & Juliet did not end in murder-suicide but rather suicide-suicide.  Phew.  Feel better already.

Cam So i'm a little late with the birthday wishes, but i promise to make it up with a haiku: hey! it's your birthday... ryan should give you babies, go procreate now! i've been blog-stalking you for awhile and absolutely cannot tell you how much i love reading your blog - it's hilarious. although i do get in trouble for laughing loudly at work, it is definitely worth it.

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It's Accrual World (I'm An Accountant)

Now that I have a job again (shit) I have a one hour lunch break again.  And sometimes I like to spend that lunch break on a lunch date with my best friend Vanessa.  I usually let her choose the place because she can be particular about her diet and I'm not picky when it comes to food (which I think I've successfully demonstrated at this point.)


So today she picked a restaurant and we agreed to meet at noon.  I left my building at 11:52 thinking that would give me plenty of time.  I was wrong.  I got to the place at 12:07 and found Vanessa at a table, having already ordered and paid at the counter.

I should also mention at this point that it is seriously like Stormageddon in Chicago today.

Lauren: "Are you serious right now?"

Vanessa: "About what? Why are you so red?"

Lauren: "This place is like ten blocks from my office and I can literally see your office.  Look, I'm waving at your coworkers."

Vanessa: "You have snowflakes in your eyebrows."

Lauren: "On the way to meet you for lunch at this Corner Bakery, I passed a Corner Bakery."

Vanessa: "Oh good, my food is here.  You should order."

Lauren: "Next time why don't I just stop and pick up our lunches and then come eat at your desk?"

Seriously.  The walk back was even worse than the walk there, because I was walking directly into the driving wind and snow.  For fifteen minutes.

The front desk people in my building seriously laughed at me when I came in. 

I don't think Vanessa even had her coat. 

So I have decided that I will still have lunch with Vanessa at whatever eatery she chooses but I have started accruing (I'm an accountant) a little something I like to call Frequent Walker Blocks.  Which means that if Vanessa has to walk one block and I have to walk ten, I get to add 9 FWBs to my "account."  And then some day in the future, I am going to call in these blocks and Vanessa is going to have to go anywhere I want. 

And I'm not just talking for lunch.  The beauty of Frequent Walker Blocks is that there are no blackout dates or destinations. I can make her walk 27 blocks to my favorite cupcake place and buy me a cupcake and walk back on my birthday next year. In January.

Walking one block to Walgreens to pick up my prescriptions every month? Thing of the past my friends.

I'm really upset I didn't think of this before.

Now I just need a butler, a chaffeur, a bartender, a nanny (for bedtime stories), a laundress and someone to reset my clocks for Daylight Savings Time and I'm all set.

I don't ask for much.

Oh and if you like stories about butlers - On our honeymoon, we stayed at a very fancy resort that gave each guest their own butler.  Ryan's butler was named Jonathan.  Ryan loved having someone to do all the things for him.  He even once got out of the shower, stood dripping on the mat and said "Lauren, call Jonathan, I need to be dried."

Well, I'm off to create a FWB Forecasting Schedule (I'm an accountant.)

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And The Winner Is....Oh LOOK a Puppy!!

Good Morning Blogstalkers

As I'm sure you are all anxiously awaiting the results of my little giveaway, I will get right to the punch.

But first, let's have a philosophical conversation about the ethics of cloning .

What!? No.  Haha.

Although I will say I'm all about the cloning.  Then I could send my clone to work while I stay home and finally figure out what the eff is going on in Days Of Our Lives.

So without further ado

Wait, hold on, have to sneeze.........

Wait, hold on, have to clean off my computer screen......

OK.  Let's get this party started.

But first, OMG, I was talking to my sister last night and she mentioned that she had heard that...

Just Kidding.

And now I will actually announce the winner of my little giveaway.

I counted all of the comments that were not made by me and were not someone's second comment and came up with the number 33.  Please feel free to check my math. 

Then I googled a random number generator.

Research Randomizer Results Set of 1 Unique Numbers Per Set Range: From 1 to 33 -- Unsorted

Set #1:   20

So that means the winner is Emily!!! Happy Birthday! Did you consider adding some dill pickles to the pack? Pickles make such a wonderful gift

Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding dong.

Also, yes Emily, pickles would in theory make wonderful gifts, it's just that everytime I buy pickles to give to someone because they got a promotion or got knocked up or something, I just end up eating them myself in the car on the way to the party. And then I show up empty-handed. So I've removed pickles from my list of awesome presents.

Things that remain on my list of awesome presents:

I don't even care that that one penguin is holding a chainsaw and that other penguin is holding a mace, if I saw them walking down the street in real life I would still def try to hug them.

But anyway, Emily, send your address information to me at LaurenRaeGallagher@gmail.com and I'll ship your amazing prize by this weekend (still have some last minute items to collect.)

 

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John Lennon Is Rolling Over In His Grave Right Now

This is a very short post.  I wrote a very long post earlier today.  You can read it below.

At work today I was eating a tangerine at my desk.  And it was seriously full of seeds.  I accidentally swallowed one and was like "Ugh, someone should really make seedless tangerines."

And then out of nowhere (I didn't even know it was coming), at my desk, in the middle of the office, I sang:

"All I want is a seedless tangerine."

to the tune of Yellow Submarine.

And I heard someone laugh.  And I don't know who it was because I haven't worked at my job long enough to recognize people by their laugh. 

Someone else found out I'm completely batty today.

What else is new.

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Colin Firth If You Are Reading This, And I Assume You Are, How You Doin?

My little giveaway is still up and running until tonight at 12AM CST, so drop by and leave a comment if you haven't already.  I'm been compiling a box of goodies (and baddies, is that a thing?) all week and let me tell you, whomever wins this prize, is going to be, let's just say, quite surprised.  Hopefully in a good way.

But anywho, I promised you regular posts, and since I always keep my promises, away we go!

Ryan read this over my shoulder and was all like "You promised me you would take the Christmas tree down by January 5th, and yet..." 

And then I was all "Yes, but I didn't say of what year."

 And then he was all "I don't think you understand how promises work." 

And then I was all, "Don't get your hopes up, I know exactly how promises, and vows for that matter, work."

Moving on though.  So I bit the bullet and joined a gym today.  And hired a personal trainer.  Here is a story about my last personal trainer.

PT: So Lauren, how are things going on the diet front?  Been following the plan I set up for you?

Lauren: Absolutely. To The Letter.

PT: So how is it then that you have something that looks suspiciously like strawberry jam on your face?

Lauren: MotherFucker*.

*Sorry blogstalkers, sometimes swear words are necessary.  Plus that is actually what I said.

And then my physical trainer fired me.  For real for real.  I think partly because of the jam incident (it was actually raspberry jelly) and partly because one time I tripped and tried to grab at him to keep from falling and ended up accidentally de-pantsing him in the middle of a crowded gym (he was wearing meshy shorts underneath the pants but still.)

Or as the incident report for the firing stated "Repeatedly missed sessions."

So get ready for some personal trainer session stories.  And also for the excuses I email my personal trainer to miss my personal training sessions.

So what else is interesting in my life right now.....

I keep forgetting that at my new desk at my new job the garbage can is on the right and not the left, so I usually have a small pile of trash sitting on the floor under my desk on one side and an empty garbage can on the other.  People have started to notice. 

Not interesting huh?

Ok well I'll just end with this then.  Here is a list of the things that people have googled to reach this blog.  Y'all are some crazy ass mofos yo.

hot men wet - ummmm

muppet soccer socks - I have a feeling this was Ryan.  He says it wasn't and that he doesn't even play soccer anymore and that even if he did there's no way he would wear soccer socks with muppets on them to play because he plays with work people and the socks combined with the fact that I managed to steal his phone and change his ringtone to the muppet babies theme again might make them think he is weird.  And then I was like "So you WOULD wear them if you didn't play with work people though?"

moustache Justin Timberlake - I even like you with a moustache Justin! I'll bet Jessica couldn't say that. 

baby peppermint candy cane in wrapper

Andy Samberg hot  - I know right?!

"wearing one shoe" - from this post  - but seriously who googles this?  Like who gets to work and is like "Oh crap, I'm only wearing one shoe today, I must check out what the internets say I should do."

"braless on my" - from this post - but again, who googles this?

Justin Timberlake met baard - what?

ladies in long underwear AND ladies long underwear - both from this post, when I made Ryan wear pink ladies long underwear, poor Ryan.

Preschool notice wash hands

t rex arms

Sidenote: Justin Timberlake if you are reading this, and I assume you are, do not read the next sentence.

blake shelton don't make me - Blake Shelton if you're reading this, and I assume you are, you can make me do anything you want.

gay candy cane - like the rainbow colored ones?

my husband didn't get me anything for anniversary - from this post This makes me sad.  Whoever googled this to get here, send me your address and I'll send you a little something.  I hope you like gay candy canes.


That's all for now, remember to check back in tomorrow to see if you won!

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It's My Party and I'll Wear Stretchy Pants All Day If I Want To, Thank You Very Much

Hello my pretty pretty (and handsome) blogstalkers.

Every year on my birthday, I buy myself a birthday present.  This year I've decided to do something a little different.

In honor of it being my birthday and in honor of you all being the best group of readers a gal could ask for, I am doing a giveaway. 

And now I know you're all thinking, "But Lauren, you don't have enough readers or enough regular commenters to do a giveaway." 

And you are right.

But I am going to do it anyway and I figure if I only get two comments then those two people have a 50% chance of winning and that is just fine with me.  The only person that can't win this giveaway is Ryan, which is fine since he definitely wouldn't comment anyway.  I'll even mail to far off lands (like say...Sweden.)

So anyway, comment to enter to win a giant package of my most favorite things.

Some of the things in this fancy package will be surprises.

But some will be the following things.

A $25 Giftcard for Here.  To Buy Books.

A Cubs Tee Shirt.  Not Necessarily with This Particular Image. I just used it because when I saw it and saw that the little bear was waving at me I was all like 'Ohhh HI little cub."

Some of my favorite candies.  I would send cheese, but that is weird.

A little something to hang on your tree (or give to a Christmas-celebrating friend) next year from The Happiest Place On Earth.

And a little something from here.  One of The Happiest Stores On Earth.  (If a boy wins, I promise to choose something very masculine and manly and macho - or something pretty to give to a girl you love.)

So that's it, although like I said, there will be little surprises as well.

Comment to win blogstalkers!  This giveaway closes Wednesday January 11th at 12:00 AM CST.  I will choose a winner randomly and post on who can plan on getting a box from me in the mail on Thursday morning.

And don't worry, I'll continue the regular posts between now and then as well.

Thanks for Reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh and here is a little present for all of you.  YOU ARE WELCOME.

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Happy Happy Birthday To Me And To No One Else, Just Me

So today isn't my birthday.  But tomorrow is.  And I will be turning whatever age it is that means you are old enough to have babies.  (Hopefully that age is 28.)

I have no special plans and Ryan probably doesn't either since he tends to drop the ball on things like birthdays and ten year anniversaries.

If anyone is feeling particularly bad for me because of this and feels the need to send me a present in the mail, I will provide my address on request.  Please make sure to ship everything overnight so I will actually receive it on my birthday.  I like things that are purple, polka-dotted or made of lace.  I also enjoy a good artisanal cheese from time to time.

If you don't yet feel enough sympathy for me to send a pity gift then please read the below and reconsider.

So here are the awkward things I have already done today.

One - I managed to inadvertently offend a cab driver when I got in and remarked that his cab smelled like peanuts.  I really and truly did say peanuts.  What the poor man thought he was experiencing though was a seemingly proper young lady entering his cab and telling him it smelled of 'penis'.  So then he started to gesture wildly toward the door and tell me that I could just hop back out of the cab if the smell bothered me so very much.  And then I was like, "No no it doesn't bother me, it smells like Wrigley Field in the summer." (Obviously unaware that he still thought I had said penis.)  And then he started muttering in a different language and shooting me odd looks.  And then he was like "OHHH YOU SAID PEANUTS, yes I was eating peanuts right before you flagged me." And I was like "What did you think I said...OHHHHH." 

So that happened.

And then I got to work and a very sweet coworker had made me mini cupcakes and brownies to celebrate my big day.  She actually sent an email to the whole company (it's a small company) alerting everyone to the presence of delicious things in the kitchen. 

And I meant to just send back a reply that said "Oooooh."  But I got effing auto-corrected and somehow managed to send her an email that contained only one word and that word was "Poop."  For realz.  And then I realized it like ten minutes later when I was looking at my sent mail and freaked.  And ran down to her desk yelling "Oh My God Nicole, I didn't mean to send you POOP."  So you know, just compounding on the crazy, what the eff else is new. 

Eventually everything was reconciled.  And now I just have to deal with the fact that I keep accidentally giggling in the middle of tax meetings because I am thinking about either the penis ordeal or the poop disaster.

See?  This is my real life and the only thing that will make me feel better is presents.  Please don't accidentally send me poop.

Love you!

Also sweet blogstalkers, you don't actually have to send me presents of course.  Just the fact that you take time out of your busy days to visit my little piece of the internet is present enough for me.

But if you REALLY want to get me something.  I LOVE comments.

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Does Anyone Know What Day Discover Credit Card Statements Usually Come? I'm Just, You Know, Curious.

On January 5th, 2002 Ryan Gallagher started dating a sweet girl.

Sometime I look at pictures of young Ryan and feel bad.  Because that dashing young man is in for a world of crazy.

By January 5th, 2012  this sweet girl has somehow morphed into the awkward shameless, smells peculiarly like pickles, puddle that is me.  And yet, blogstalkers, Ryan Gallagher wouldn't change one thing.  He is supremely happy.  And never comments on this blog so no one will know if that is not the truth.

This girl on the other hand, has some suggestions on making the next ten years better than the last ten years.

So for his anniversary gift (yes I totally do make him celebrate this anniversary as well as our wedding anniversary as well as the anniversary of the day he proposed as well as my half birthday as well as the anniversary of the day I first tasted goat cheese (that day CHANGED MY LIFE blogstalkers)) I have written my husband a letter.

You are welcome Ryan.  I really hope for your sake my present is made out of gemstones or babies or more credit cards since the other one you gave me is getting pretty close to the limit.

But anyway, if you're interested, here's the letter.

My Darling Ryan,

Ten years.  Wow.  Can you believe it?  Yeah me neither.  I was actually pretty sure we were done-zo that one day like five years ago when you suggested I look into toe-shortening surgery for my awkwardly-longer-than-my-big-toe second toe. (It's a sign of intellingence RYAN, my mom told me that.)  But anyway, I persevered and here we are, all sorts of married and trying to have babies.

Shhh Ryan, don't say anything yet, just read the rest of the letter.

So while I have enjoyed our time together so far, I have just a couple of requests for the years to come.

First, if I some random day in the future (not yesterday that's for sure) accidentally, ever-so-slightly, gently brush the car against the wall while parallel parking at Target, please forgive me.

Second, ever since I bought the dogs winter sweaters at Target yesterday it has started to disconcert me that even they wear shirts more often than you do.  I totally get the topless thing when you're eating cherries, I know that you've ruined many a good shirt with their sweet sweet juice, but when we're just sitting around watching Project Runway, maybe shirt-up.

It's actually harder to find pictures of Ryan wearing a shirt than not.  Case in point.

Third, and I really feel like we've had this conversation before after you told me I had a mustache, but could you please stop saying things to me like "The only things you are better than me at are reading, typing, and maybe sewing, but I don’t know, because I’ve never tried sewing." (Although I will readily admit that you are better than me at driving.)

Fourth, Kindly remove the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show from the DVR.  It's been on there for like three months.  And I do not believe that you just have not watched it yet.  And I do not believe that you only like it because the music is good.

Fifth, it is rude to take a picture every day of exactly how you left your razor in the shower to prove that I use your razor.  Wives are allowed to share their husbands razors.  It is in the marriage manual I wrote for you.  Also, we need more razor refills.  I would totally get them, but like I said, there's really not that much room left on that credit card you gave me (dog sweaters and good cheese do not come cheap.) 

Sixth, I'm so confused as to why I am the one that has to chop all of the onions for dinner.  Onions make me cry Ryan, and it should really be your ultimate mission in life to make sure I never cry.  Seriously, I'm done chopping onions. 

In conclusion,  I heart you.  I heart these last ten years.  I wouldn't change a thing.  Except for the things listed above.  Those things for sure need to change.

Also, could you stop pretending like you actually think my birthday is today and Saturday is our anniversary.  I know you remember which is which.  I've been reminding you on facebook for days.

Also, I left a Tiffany catalogue on your computer in case you wanted to peruse it when you get home today.


Love,

Your Lauren.

Hey Ryan remember when you told me that you tried to buy tickets to prom too late and they were all sold out?  And then let me believe that for an entire class period?  Because I do.  

This is what I fell in love with.  High school girls eat your hearts out.

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Seriously, Who Wrote That On My Sock?

Dear Lauren,

Now that you are gainfully employed once again it is important for you to remember some things.  One, you should probably stop giving all of the deals you work with ridiculous nicknames to make work more interesting.  Because, it would be incredibly embarassing if you walked into the CFO's office and asked him a question about the "Frank & Beans" deal again.  Two, when you go to the washroom, please make sure to ascertain that it is in fact empty before singing yourself the DuckTales theme song.  Three, you really must stop writing yourself personal notes in the margins of the notes you are taking while training at work.  Because someone (your manager) might ask to see your notes and then ask you the next day if you rememebered to buy "a giant tub of cottage cheese" last night at the store. 

There are other things we probably could discuss at this time (like how if you are going to risk changing your shoes at your desk when you get to work, you should refrain from wearing that one white sock you own that for some reason has the word "butt" written on it in permanent marker,) but I'll let you get back to work.

Sincerely,

Yourself.

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