I'm sorry, Matthew Lillard.

The Husband and I dove right back into unpacking as soon as we got home from Utah on Saturday. Unpacking is a bitch. Seriously, I'm never moving again. (So that kid that we may or may not have one day? It sleeps in a cabinet.) And I'm never buying anything ever again, either.

It was in one of the thousands of boxes that I found a long forgotten photo album. It was so forgotten, in fact, that I didn't even think it had ever been used until I cracked it open and, surprise surprise, pictures!

There were pictures from our honeymoon in Hawaii, pictures of our first anniversary trip to Disney World, pictures of people we worked with years and years ago. And interspersed between the pictures were scraps. Mostly movie and event ticket stubs, but then I found this:



That's right. Matthew Lillard's autograph. Eat your heart out, bitches.

The year was 2002 (possibly 2003) and The Husband and I were living in sin on the beautiful coast of Monterey. I was a server in a hotel restaurant, both of us working for the same company we do today.

Matthew Lillard, his wife, and their newborn daughter were staying at the hotel to attend a wedding. I wouldn't say I was a huge fan of his, but Scream? Scared the absolute shit out of me. Not kidding. That fear lingered for weeks. (Hey, I was fourteen.)

And I'll always remember how his character snapped at the end of the movie and lays there crying and bleeding after having been shot.

So, as I watched him + fam exit the elevator and begin to approach the restaurant, I was not just a little excited. Unfortunately, they bypassed the restaurant for Starbucks. Fortunately, the restaurant was dead and I was able to stand there and make googley eyes at him for a while

And, holy hell, did they linger! I mean, the man was practically begging me to ask for his autograph.

Actually, the thought of approaching a celebrity, any celebrity, made me shake a bit in my shoes. No lie. But The Husband kept egging me on from across the lobby. "You'll never do it," he said, "you're too chickenshit."

Oh, really?

Finally, after taking that first step eight hundred times just to chicken out and turn around, I finally did it. I approached. I asked. I conquered.

And he was so nice. So "go with the flow." Almost as if having someone ask for his autograph was just part of his normal everyday coffee routine. Setting down the creamer to reach for the pen and paper I held was such an easy fluid motion, it was obvious he'd done it many times before.

What I didn't anticipate was how I'd feel afterward.

I felt guilty. Extremely. I had just interrupted a man and his family... getting coffee... on their vacation! I was scum. Worse. I was ashamed of myself and immediately regretted asking and have ever since.

That feeling of regret has stayed so strong, so persistant, that it has prevented me from ever approaching another celebrity. Even Tim McGraw (TIM MCGRAW!) who, just a year ago, stayed at the hotel with Faith and the kids during a trip to Disneyland. I had the chance, but Matthew Lillard ruined me for life. All I could do was stand to the side and ogle to my heart's content while screaming "I LOVE YOU, TIM!" over and over in my head.

I realize that Matthew Lillard has absolutely no recollection of me. In his world, the only thing I amount to is a five second irritation that was immediately forgotten, but... I'll always remember and I'll always regret.

So, Matthew Lillard? If you're reading? I'm really sorry.

And Tim McGraw owes you a favor.

For some reason, I think that owning this obsession somehow makes itokay. But, really, it’s not.

I'm taking a break from all this pie to share the fact that this Twilight obsession? It may have just jumped way over the line.

And, yes, I know it's not even Thanksgiving yet, but already I've had too much pie. Technically, I haven't actually eaten any, but still... it's all pie, all the time.

Much like our apartment is still all cardboard, all the time. (Who else is sick of hearing about cardboard, cardboard, cardboard?)

Okay, before I completely embarrass myself with this Twilight confession, let's talk Thanksgiving dessert.

I'm responsible for ours. Since we go to Utah for Thanksgiving, I prepare as much as I can here so that all I have to do is mix and bake once we're there. Which means I've been measuring and mixing and packing away all of my ingredients for five different pies. In the works:

Pumpkin Pie (naturally)
Pecan Pie (ditto)
Caramel Pecan Pumpkin Pie (because tried it for the first time last year and YUMM)
this Pumpkin Cream Cheese Pie (because I have to try something new)
and Apple Pie (duh)

Like I said. All pie. All the time. For Christmas? I'm making Flan. (Not really, though. I'm not a big fan of jiggly desserts.)

Now I wish I would have thrown something else into the mix, like a cheesecake or even this yummy-looking Pumpkin Cake I found earlier, just to have some variety, but whatev. (Did I mention I recently cleaned out our local grocery store of all it's pumpkin? I heard there's supposed to be a shortage and I sort of panicked.)

Okay, enough stalling. Let's get this over with.

Remember how I said I was going to hang Edward in my kitchen? Well, turns out, the wall I had planned to use was too small. But I quickly found one that worked EVEN BETTER.

There's a short hallway once you pass our kitchen and, on one side, there's a large, blank wall.

Perfect! I thought. It would be just the right location for me to see it, but not so obvious to the people we (never) invite over. (Until they go to the restroom. Then all hell will break loose.)

So, I hung it.

And it stayed there for, oh, a good fifteen minutes.

And then, as I paused to stare at it again, something clicked. I wish I could explain exactly what it was, what my train of thought had been to lead me here, but it was just a realization, suddenly clear, that I have an unnatural obsession with this character. A CHARACTER. I may have recently admitted that Robert Pattinson, the actor, was slowly growing on me, but this isn't about him.

It's Edward. And more. It's Edward and Bella. And their relationship.

And... fuck. What is wrong with me???

Edward has been shoved to the back of my closet. Facing the wall. (Yes, I had to.) (He's lucky he didn't end up in the dumpster.) (Yeah, like I could bring myself to do that.)

Now would be the time to 'fess up and admit that you, too, have experiencing something similar with another fictional character.

I'm waiting.

Or, it was nice knowing you.

(Happy Thanksgiving, peeps.)

Miscellaneous. Part II.

We are (almost) completely moved in. Except for a few pieces left temporarily behind, everything has been pushed, carried, or wheeled to our new apartment.

We are eating, breathing, and pooping cardboard. It's not pleasant.

I am overwhelmed. First, there's the unpacking process and the constant losing of one's things. You can hear us shouting "I just saw it a second ago!" repeatedly throughout the day as we continually lose various items. Or they sprout legs and run away. Whatever.

Second, the holidays. They're upon us. When did that happen? We leave for Utah on Wednesday. Which means November will be the month in which I post the least. It can't be helped.

I saw New Moon on Friday. That's it. It's done. Over. And I'm already forgetting what I saw so I'm becoming a bit desperate to see it a second time. But TWELVE BUCKS A TICKET.

From our experience, I remember the following:

One. We were the first in line.
Two. People stare at you when you're the first in line.
Three. We got perfect seats.
Four. Naturally, the only five-year-old in the theater sat right next to me.
Five. I wanted to see every movie that was previewed. Seriously.
Six. I especially wanted to see Remember Me.
Seven. Robert Pattinson is growing on me.
Eight. I was pleasantly surprised by Kristen Stewart's performance.
Nine. Taylor Lautner is too short to play Jacob. I'm sorry.
Ten. If Taylor Lautner were 10 inches taller and 10 years older, WATCH OUT.
Eleven. There was only one really cheesy moment, for which I am grateful.
Twelve. Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart look really good kissing each other.
Thirteen. The wolf pack? HOT.
Fourteen. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

I called off from work today. I didn't want to. Honest. But when I woke up this morning, groggy, disoriented and hot (damn fleece pajamas), I lay there thinking about how much I hated having to work the last several days while simultaneously moving, trying to unpack, trying to get prepared for our trip in TWO DAYS and damn it if I'm not growing bushes above my eyes because who knows when I last had my eyebrows waxed and suddenly the phone was in my hand and it was done.

Which means I actually have to be productive today.

Which means I have to get off the internet now.

(I miss you.)

The last childless couple.

The Husband has two friends. Well, more than two, my little social butterfly, but these are the BFFs. Both are married. Just like us. Both have two children. Not just like us. The Husband and I are clearly behind in the Offspring Department and sometimes I wonder if we're not the last childless couple on earth.

(I realize we're not, but it's possible we're the last childless couple we know which is just as bad.)

Last night, the three couples and the four children gathered for a friendly dinner. And by "dinner" I mean The Husband and I ate while the other four adults shoveled in bites of food as they ran past the table in their mad dash to catch a screaming, hitting, and/or crying child.

I knew we were in for an "interesting" evening when our hostess (a genuinely nice and lovely person, really) made a comment that made me realize that their original plan was to only invite the other couple. Because they have kids. A.K.A. a mutual bond. I get it. 

But, while I absolutely adore this woman and believe she feels the same, I couldn't seem to prevent her innocent comment from making me feel inferior and ridiculously guilty. GUILTY. Because we don't have children. HOW DARE US.

To be fair, it's possible I'm being a bit overly sensitive as the topic of children is a bitter pill. One, I have my doubts that we're biologically capable of procreating and two, even if that weren't a concern, our relationship isn't nearly as stable as it should be to start bringing extra people into the mix.

Plus we're moving into a smaller place and I'm not sure it's legal to have babies sleeping in cabinets even if it is a perfect fit.

Then there's The Husband who, at thirty-eight, is the oldest of the three. I know it bothers him to be the oldest and most childless, but I can’t help the fact that he married a woman many years younger who happens to have plenty of childbearing years ahead of her and wouldn’t mind enjoying another 3-5 of them childless (there’s a lot to be said for doing WHATEVER YOU WANT). Or that the longevity of our relationship is still in question and, as a child of divorced parents, I’m not in any hurry to risk recreating that experience for one of my own. Yes, I know divorce can happen to anyone, anytime, no matter how dandy things may appear, but in our situation? The risk is just a bit too high at this time.

So, I've come to a conclusion.

We need to befriend more married, childless couples.

However, I don't like people and purposely seeking them out to make friends? I like even less.

Maybe I could borrow a couple of kids on those rare occasions we're asked over for a play date. That way I wouldn't feel as if we were playing a game of "one of these things is not like the others."

Miscellaneous.

I was recently involved in a Breaking and Entering. And it was awesome. Although, technically, there was no "breaking" involved. J came over to keep me company while I started demolition to pack and I took her down to peek in the windows of our new apartment. I knew it'd be empty, just waiting for us to move in. I didn't know we'd find the sliding glass door wide open. We couldn't resist going in and poking around for a few minutes. Why is that feeling, that fear of getting caught, so exhilarating?

In case you live under a rock, New Moon comes out in a week. A WEEK. By this time exactly seven days from now, I could have already seen it. (Insert chorus of hallelujahs here.) I don't actually plan to until Sunday, but who knows if my control will hold out that long. And I know it's much too early to start talking about Eclipse, but what could be my all-time favorite scene from the book (possibly all books) (the tent scene for those who've read it) is in Eclipse. It has fantastic dialogue and I'm both excited and nervous about seeing it brought to life in film in June. Sometimes, some things are best left to the imagination. Actually, most things are best left to the imagination.


Luke. Post-nap. Looking for sun.

Thanks for your input on the recent litter box discussion. Aside from being helpful, I always find it interesting to hear and see what other people have come up with. I think we're leaning towards a closet as a possible location. It's going to take a bit of creativity and some hard labor, but if it works out the way I imagine it (and, sadly, most things rarely do), it's going to be spectacular! (Constructing new places for my cats to poop. This is what gets me excited.)

I bought myself a present. A new camera. I know. I'm terribly spoiled. I bought a little Nikon point-and-shoot and I got a great deal on it. (Why do I feel guilty about admitting I spent money on myself?) The fact is I don't want to carry The Beast around with me everywhere I go. I mean, I'd love to! But it's heavy and bulky and I find the thought of carrying it to work and on errands to be somewhat unrealistic and slightly frustrating. Also, I wanted something that could record video. So, maybe I'll possibly post a video here one day. Who knows. Pictures are one thing. But I can't Photoshop weird blue moles out of a video, damn it.

J used the camera to take a picture of herself flipping the bird. She's fifteen. It made me laugh. I thought about posting it but then decided it might belong with the photo of cat crap because some things just don't translate well. I mean, you wouldn't know by looking at it that she's a straight-A honor student who plays varsity soccer and just happened to be goofing off with her older sister. You might, in fact, think what the hell's wrong with you, she's fifteen! So, I sent a copy to my mom with "Thought you might like this..." in the subject line and called it a day.

Sad, sad (and dusty) shelves.

The only thing that makes me feel better about packing away my books is knowing that I'll eventually get to take them out and grope 'em a bit when I put them all back up again.

The packing has started. Actually, I wouldn't call it "packing" so much as "let's empty all the closets into one room and see what we've got!" Seriously, I think I may have gone about this all wrong.

Our unused living room is now a landfill full of boxes, an astonishing amount of Christmas decorations and so many knick-knacks from our respective childhoods that I can't even begin to count how many times I've shouted "why do we still have this?!"

The number of boxes set aside to await the move, after just one day, is staggering.

I came this close to posting a picture of poop.

Seriously. I actually took a picture. Of cat poop. And I had every intention of posting it here before I stopped and thought, Really? Cat shit? That's how low you've sunk? Then I felt bad about myself and the general state of my blog and decided not to after all. You're welcome.

So, we're moving. And I'm surprisingly excited. Except for all this extra furniture that we'll have to sell or store (the still relatively new furniture that we bought to fill the living room we never used), there's really no love lost here.

We're moving to a great location and our new place has this incredibly cozy feel to it even as soon as you approach the front door. And, call me a freak if you must, but I am positively giddy at the prospect of going through all the crap we've accumulated in this apartment over the last five years and finally getting organized. God, I love organization.

There's just one teeny tiny problem. (And it's neither teeny nor tiny.) In fact, it's rather gigantic and I can't quit obsessing about it. It's the one thing that could melt my excitement into a puddle of morose frustration and failure.

The litter box.

What the hell do we do with the litter box???

I never consciously acknowledged this before, but The Husband and I have always lived in two bedroom, two bathroom apartments. The extra bathroom, as far as I was concerned, was for the cats. That's where the litter box went. Far, far away from my bathroom so that I never had to worry about seeing it, smelling it, or stepping on little bits of litter.

I do not enjoy stepping on little bits of litter. It's gross. And uncomfortable. And even if it hadn't been tossed around with feces at one time or another, the feeling of stepping on those itty bitty pebbles would still make me want to kill someone.

I've thought of this from several angles and I just don't think I can handle the litter box being in any other room of the house. That just doesn't work for me. POOP BELONGS IN A BATHROOM. Preferably in a toilet. Preferably flushed down a toilet by someone other than me so that I'd never have to deal with it. The end.

I thought of putting it in the bathtub. The litter box is light and easy to lift in and out when needed, it would be easily accessible for cleaning, and it would eliminate cat little on the bathroom floor... But I've found (in the last twenty-four hours since impulsively saying "let's try it!") that it wasn't as awesome an idea as I first thought.

One, it doesn't eliminate cat litter on the bathroom floor (some, but not all). Two, it's a pain in the ass to have to clean the bathtub every time you want to take a shower.

So, what the hell do I do???

I know some of you have cats. And I know some of you are just plain genius.

I need help. Any ideas? Thoughts? Suggestions? Anything??

And, so help me God, if even one person says "this is why I don't have cats" I might just have to hurt you.

Apartment hunting and the pictures I took along the way.

We went apartment hunting today. (Someday I'll fill you in on why we no longer go house hunting.) I grabbed my camera on the way out and thought, today I'm going to take pictures of everything and not care what anyone thinks! I am incredibly talented at caring what other people think. It's kind of a gift. One I wish I could return and exchange for something better. Like a pair.

Our first stop was Starbucks. Naturally. I grabbed my camera and as we were standing, waiting for our drinks, I turned to The Husband and declared my intentions. "I'm going to take pictures of everything," I said, "and I'm not going to care what anyone thinks! Now..." (glancing around) "...what should I take a picture of?"



In my defense, it was incredibly crowded. I was in the midst of several people when I pointed my camera at the stuffed bears and pressed the shutter. Were there other more interesting things I could have aimed at? Possibly. But that wasn't the point!



They always spell his name wrong.

We arrived early to our first appointment. The Husband didn't have his license (long story) and wasn't allowed to see the apartment. This was the only place that even asked for ID. Weirdos. I'm going to use this as the excuse for why we didn't rent from them.

It was up to me to take the tour and endure the used-car-salesman speech. The place was a complete bust. As we walked back to the car I tried to describe it as best I could, but I got hung up on the size, the old cabinets, and the sorry floorboards. This is when I asked, "are you sure we want to save money?"

The Husband and I are looking for a smaller place. Considering how often we entertain (we don't), our place is much too big for just the two of us. Our living room? Never used. The Husband spends his time in the den. Me? If I'm not watching TV with him, I'm in the dining room or in the bedroom. I love my bed. I love to sit at the end of it and watch TV while browsing the web.

And if I get tired, I can just lay down. Napping doesn't get more convenient.

(I love naps.)



This was the best part of apartment hunting. Seriously, everyone had candy. And I totally took this photo while everyone in the office looked on. Surprisingly enough, a couple of people we met engaged me in conversation about photography. Of course, they were just trying to sell me on an apartment, but still... I appreciated the effort.

The second place we looked at was near my dad. Which means I had to call J. Which means we had to swing by and pick her up first. There was more candy, another used car salesman. The apartment was super cute. So cute we put a hold on it before we left. Of course, it was right next to the Yogurtland J and I go to so, for me, it was a no-brainer.

Closer to J, closer to our favorite frozen yogurt spot, closer to work and it had all of the amenities I was looking for including marble counter-tops, crown moldings, upgraded cabinets and doors... Total slam dunk.

But we had two more appointments.



I took these pictures of J while we were waiting for our contact at the third place. She's so pretty. J. Not our contact. Although, come to think of it, she was kind of cute, too. I wonder how she would have responded had I asked to take her photo.



The third apartment, while in a great location, ranked a ten on the scale of meh. Moving on, thanks.

I didn't take any photos at the fourth, and last, apartment. I was too busy looking around, cracking jokes with J, and silently trying to convey my opinions to The Husband. However, this fourth apartment jumped into our number one spot. It was great. Great location, great space, excellent closet. And I knew it was a good sign when I started to envision just how I'd decorate and arrange our furniture.



I love bookstores. And romance novels. (And a little focus in my pictures. But just a little. Obviously.)

I dragged J along with me to Borders because last night I bought a book I had already read and still own. I worried I'd someday do that, but never thought it'd actually happen. Whoops.

Then I went home and sat down with The Husband to discuss our options.

And after all was said and done, we decided to rent a smaller place in the community where we currently reside. Go figure. We move in on the 17th. Moving is awesome. And by "awesome" I mean not at all. Luckily, we don't have to be out of this place until December 1st. So we'll have two weeks instead of just a day.

And I've decided to hang Edward in the kitchen. Which means I'll probably bake a lot more often. Or just stand in the kitchen doing absolutely nothing a lot more often. Whatever.

A bit defeated.

It's like there's this wall. On one side you have "dull" and, on the other, "spectacular." In order to get to "spectacular," you have to climb. But what you don't realize is that the wall? It's an optical illusion. It's much higher than you realized upon first approach. And, even worse, it was built by the same sadistic people who created Wipeout, which means, as you climb, you're unexpectedly shoved, tripped, and pummeled by unrelenting electronic arms until you violently smash face-first into a giant rubber ball before falling back to the bottom. Still on the side of "dull," naturally.

Rest assured, I have a cure.



Irish Creme Hershey's Kisses. Amen.

Confession: I spent six bucks on a candy bar.

That's right. Six dollars. I mean, it's not like I've never spent six dollars on chocolate before. Trust me. I have. Many, many times. But never on one three-ounce bar. I am officially insane and The Husband is this close to putting me on a strict allowance. (Which might not be that bad an idea.)

Here's what happened. I very innocently sat down to my computer one morning. With a smile, I began reading a comment left by a lady named Karen. I don't know Karen, have never heard from her before, but it seems she stumbled across my blog over at WordPress. (Remember when I moved my blog from Blogger to WordPress and back again all within a month? Wasn't that fun? We should so do that again someday.) (Or not.)

Karen had some lovely things to say. Of course, it was all a cover used to prevent me from realizing she was really a monster sent to destroy me. It should have clicked immediately after she wrote: "If you have not tried the Dark Chocolate/Sea Salt candy bars at Cost Plus/World Market, get your A** there immediately! They are to die for..."

This is a problem because something inexplicable comes over me as soon as someone I've never met suggests something I've never tried. That's it. I have to have it. Now. And if it's chocolate? You better hope you're not standing in the way.

Within a half hour, I was on my way. To a store, I might add, I've never been to before. One I immediately fell in love with. And let me just say it's amazing I managed to walk out without spending more than eight dollars! How have I lived without having shopped here before?!

I found the recommended chocolate easily enough.


Seriously yum. I loved it. Thanks, Karen! (If you're still out there.)

Of course, right next to it were all of these assorted exotic (it said so right on the package) chocolate bars I had never seen or heard of before. Including:



Seven-fifty online, but only six bucks at the store. Steal.

But, seriously, what possesses me to buy things like this?!

I think it stems from leftover frustration and regret that I never got my chance to experience the chocolate-covered bacon at the fair this past Summer. Man, I really wanted to try it. But, honestly, the bacon on the cover doesn't even look appetizing.

But I had to have it. And then I had to endure The Wrath. ("You spent HOW MUCH on CHOCOLATE?!")

And, sadly, it wasn't even worth it. Or it's quite possible that my expectations were so high (SIX DOLLARS!) that I was doomed to be disappointed. J loved it and ate most of the damn thing by herself.



Me? I'll take the Sea Salt Dark Chocolate any day of the week. Bacon? I'll see you at breakfast, buddy.

Also, I found this:



Except, after the chocolate, I couldn't justify the cost. And I mistakenly assumed I'd be able to find a recipe. I couldn't.

So, for you I have three questions.

One, what's the strangest chocolate concoction you've ever tried?
Two, have you ever spent a regrettable amount of money on candy?
Three, do you have any idea how to make Pumpkin Bark???

Ninety percent of the time.

This is what I get. And it doesn't matter how slowly or how quietly I move in for the shot. Because Luke is the original lap cat and as soon as you get anywhere near him, it doesn't matter what either of you were doing first. He's going to come looking for your lap and a snuggle. And I'm fairly certain the camera is some sort of signal to do it as quickly as possible.