8.27.2008
Holly and the threesome
The Pastor Professor's first day of school was today. When he asked his students to say something they learned this summer, a newlywed remarked she had learned she could maybe, probably live with a boy.
Later this afternoon, I stopped by the Pastor Professor's new office, which he considers to be some sort of holy shrine. He wants you to take your shoes off before you enter. He won't let you set a large Pepsi icee on his desk. He asked me if I had any idea how tranquil and peaceful it felt to have your space so organized.
As a matter of fact, I recall such a feeling. It was about four weeks ago, when he was in Israel and there was not a speck out of place in my home. But strangely - mysteriously - over the past few weeks, piles of books, clothes, Mountain Dew cans and miscellaneous debris have slowly accumulated, blocking out my peace and tranquility.
But back to his office. Is there a picture of Robyn by herself? No. Are there only pictures of Robyn with the Pastor? Yes. Are there any big pictures of Robyn? No. Aren't I as proportionally important as that frame holding his Ph.D.?
But HOLLY has a picture by herself. HOLLY, some high school girlfriend. HOLLY, who's picture turned up when it mysteriously fell out of some old book he was allegedly discarding. He'd put HOLLY'S found picture out to see if I'd notice. I did. And I thought I was the Pastor's first blonde love after Smurfette.
As I leave his office to go home, I get a text message that says "move out" - what? What's up with that? Turns out he was sending a rather long text message to someone else and he forwarded it to me, so I'd know what was going on, but the message came to me in two parts. Out of order I had received the tail end of the message.
Then I had the pleasure of calling Satan's Minion's working at the cable company. God forbid - me, the lady of the house, might have a question about her husband's affairs. Shouldn't I be making dinner or vacuuming? It was beyond comprehension for multiple cable company employees that I might have a different last name as my husband. I'm the one who set up the account! Believe me, the Pastor would never have authorized a DVR! Don't you people know how lucky you are? One of the employees actually told me maybe, probably I should have changed my name to his to avoid confusion. I ended up three-waying the conversation, calling the Pastor who had to give me permission to talk about our account. So much for feeling like the empowered, modern woman who kept her name and identity. But I did get a credit on our account.
Some people may have figured out they can maybe, probably live with a boy. Me, I'm not so sure. The DVR box is easier to figure out.
Later this afternoon, I stopped by the Pastor Professor's new office, which he considers to be some sort of holy shrine. He wants you to take your shoes off before you enter. He won't let you set a large Pepsi icee on his desk. He asked me if I had any idea how tranquil and peaceful it felt to have your space so organized.
As a matter of fact, I recall such a feeling. It was about four weeks ago, when he was in Israel and there was not a speck out of place in my home. But strangely - mysteriously - over the past few weeks, piles of books, clothes, Mountain Dew cans and miscellaneous debris have slowly accumulated, blocking out my peace and tranquility.
But back to his office. Is there a picture of Robyn by herself? No. Are there only pictures of Robyn with the Pastor? Yes. Are there any big pictures of Robyn? No. Aren't I as proportionally important as that frame holding his Ph.D.?
But HOLLY has a picture by herself. HOLLY, some high school girlfriend. HOLLY, who's picture turned up when it mysteriously fell out of some old book he was allegedly discarding. He'd put HOLLY'S found picture out to see if I'd notice. I did. And I thought I was the Pastor's first blonde love after Smurfette.
As I leave his office to go home, I get a text message that says "move out" - what? What's up with that? Turns out he was sending a rather long text message to someone else and he forwarded it to me, so I'd know what was going on, but the message came to me in two parts. Out of order I had received the tail end of the message.
Then I had the pleasure of calling Satan's Minion's working at the cable company. God forbid - me, the lady of the house, might have a question about her husband's affairs. Shouldn't I be making dinner or vacuuming? It was beyond comprehension for multiple cable company employees that I might have a different last name as my husband. I'm the one who set up the account! Believe me, the Pastor would never have authorized a DVR! Don't you people know how lucky you are? One of the employees actually told me maybe, probably I should have changed my name to his to avoid confusion. I ended up three-waying the conversation, calling the Pastor who had to give me permission to talk about our account. So much for feeling like the empowered, modern woman who kept her name and identity. But I did get a credit on our account.
Some people may have figured out they can maybe, probably live with a boy. Me, I'm not so sure. The DVR box is easier to figure out.
8.21.2008
Mom, here's how my hair turned out.
I had the picture taken from the back because
(1) after surgery, my face too closely resembles the one in my painting. : ( Ugh.
(2) the hair turned out fabulous.
giant carrot cake
That's what it says on the receipt.
$10, btw.
Totally worth it.
Don't worry, I shared.
cute casual day outfit
Nine West silk top
Limited jeans
Isaac Mizrahi black patent flats
also carried giant red handbag
I have decided
to start taking pictures of some of my cute things, for all the world to see.
Bandolino Gray Pumps. Aren't they pretty?
No more wire hangers!
What's that? Something from your gallbladder surgery? Nope. Picture I took a few weeks ago after 75% off sale at Macy's. Wire hangers are bad.
8.14.2008
I just couldn't be happier
Everyone at my house is miserable.
Except me.
Back to school! Off they go!
I can't tell you how warm and fuzzy I feel inside. I have a stack of ten library books, a Vogue and new fall makeup to play with.
Except me.
Back to school! Off they go!
I can't tell you how warm and fuzzy I feel inside. I have a stack of ten library books, a Vogue and new fall makeup to play with.
8.13.2008
look! new!
my new maxandcleo dress
my old lady pearls I got at an old lady's garage sale
my old Nine West pumps
my old robin egg blue chair with room for two
my old Pastor
and my new painting
8.09.2008
roulette
Can you tell?
Is it a boy?
Is it a girl?
I have something growing inside me!
Its 1.6 centimeters, which isn't terribly large, but apparently when you have something roughly the size of a thumbnail on something roughly the size of a kiwi its a big deal.
Congratulations! It's gallstones, but it's not unlike being pregnant. The biggest one is like an alien growing inside me. I got to have an ultrasound. Its a gamble every time I eat something - maybe things will work out, or maybe it will be barf-tastic.
I'm not a gambler. I was raised in one of those houses where cards were of the Devil. I don't even know how to play Solitaire. (I just had to Google how to spell Solitaire because I didn't even know how to spell it.) So I'm going to let modern medicine handle this one.
Unlike the Pastor who is being completely psychotic about a mole on the back of his leg. Foregoing Western Medicine, and not asking Jesus to heal him, he is trying to rid himself of this mole. With wart remover. Only due to the God-given placement of the mole, he cannot reach it himself, hence the flaw in his cure.
He has to rely on me.
He'd be better off asking Jesus.
The daily mole healing involves him barking at me, much like a neurosurgeon scolding a nurse, except his is admonishing me on how to properly apply a band-aid he has, I promise you, punched a hole out of with my hole puncher, and apply Dr. Scholl's wart remover. Don't some moles turn out to be skin cancer? Am I wrong here? Is it safe to treat something that could someday in the teeniest tiniest realm of possibility turn out to be cancer with anything made by Dr. Scholl's, the same brand name that's on my Paul Frank shoes?
I know what this is all about. I've seen this type of male behavior before. Men are prone to this sort of thing. The Pastor is very competitive and I'm sure at some level he had to find something to make a big deal about - his mole - in order to compete with my gallstones.
But I don't care. I have fantastic news! The numbers I've been seeing on the scale. Completely opposite of pregnancy. What's a little acute abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting when you can be really thin? My clothes have never fit better. But maybe the weight loss isn't gallbladder related. Maybe its just the stress of the Pastor coming home, his little piles of stuff all over the house (which I'm sure if a neurosurgeon could look into his brain would tell me he has little piles of chaos going on in there to match) and the stress of having to deal with his mole.
Wish me luck. With the mole, that is. I'm sure my surgery will be a piece of cake. The kind I can temporarily not eat.
Is it a boy?
Is it a girl?
I have something growing inside me!
Its 1.6 centimeters, which isn't terribly large, but apparently when you have something roughly the size of a thumbnail on something roughly the size of a kiwi its a big deal.
Congratulations! It's gallstones, but it's not unlike being pregnant. The biggest one is like an alien growing inside me. I got to have an ultrasound. Its a gamble every time I eat something - maybe things will work out, or maybe it will be barf-tastic.
I'm not a gambler. I was raised in one of those houses where cards were of the Devil. I don't even know how to play Solitaire. (I just had to Google how to spell Solitaire because I didn't even know how to spell it.) So I'm going to let modern medicine handle this one.
Unlike the Pastor who is being completely psychotic about a mole on the back of his leg. Foregoing Western Medicine, and not asking Jesus to heal him, he is trying to rid himself of this mole. With wart remover. Only due to the God-given placement of the mole, he cannot reach it himself, hence the flaw in his cure.
He has to rely on me.
He'd be better off asking Jesus.
The daily mole healing involves him barking at me, much like a neurosurgeon scolding a nurse, except his is admonishing me on how to properly apply a band-aid he has, I promise you, punched a hole out of with my hole puncher, and apply Dr. Scholl's wart remover. Don't some moles turn out to be skin cancer? Am I wrong here? Is it safe to treat something that could someday in the teeniest tiniest realm of possibility turn out to be cancer with anything made by Dr. Scholl's, the same brand name that's on my Paul Frank shoes?
I know what this is all about. I've seen this type of male behavior before. Men are prone to this sort of thing. The Pastor is very competitive and I'm sure at some level he had to find something to make a big deal about - his mole - in order to compete with my gallstones.
But I don't care. I have fantastic news! The numbers I've been seeing on the scale. Completely opposite of pregnancy. What's a little acute abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting when you can be really thin? My clothes have never fit better. But maybe the weight loss isn't gallbladder related. Maybe its just the stress of the Pastor coming home, his little piles of stuff all over the house (which I'm sure if a neurosurgeon could look into his brain would tell me he has little piles of chaos going on in there to match) and the stress of having to deal with his mole.
Wish me luck. With the mole, that is. I'm sure my surgery will be a piece of cake. The kind I can temporarily not eat.
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