Conundrum

I am in a bit of a pickle.

The name of my blog is "Tales of a 25 year old (antacid poppin') granny."  It is an appropriate title and I quite like it.  But when I created this blog, and spent hours thinking about what to call it, I did not think about the anniversaries of my birth.

Hence the pickle I am now in; I am no longer 25.

Do I change the name of the blog every year on February 27th?  Meaning that for the remainder of my life, my blog will constantly be changing until it is eventually titled "Tales of a 73 year old (antacid poppin') granny?"  This will lose any small shred of humor/irony/sarcasm there is in the title, as I will very likely ACTUALLY be a grandmother (who obviously has heartburn).  And this is also assuming that I will have a successful blog at the age of 73.  And that I am still alive.

Or do I leave the name of the blog the same and assume that my 12 loyal readers will know that I am no longer 25 and that the blog was created when I was in fact a quarter cench?  What about any random newcomers (who clearly land on my website accidentally)?  Will they think I am 25 years old 13 years from now when I still have a successful blog?  Or will they somehow find out that I am in fact no longer 25 and I am instead 38?  Am I thinking way too much about this?

I think I will have a sandwich with a side of Tums and think it over.  Maybe I will come to a decision by the time February 27th rolls around again next year.

Best,
Granny

What have I done?

I've made a huge mistake.

I've gone and signed up for a 5K.

It's in less than a month.

And I'm NOT a runner.

And I am not one of those people who says they are not a runner but they actually are.  I can run about a mile and a half outside before I want to die.  And I run that mile and a half in about 13 or 14 minutes.  I really do not run.

I have been "training" at the gym this week to prepare myself for this major life event and lord have mercy am I sore.  I realize most individuals who sign up for 5K's do not train--it is only 3.2 miles after all.  This is the first sign that I am not a runner--I need to TRAIN every DAY for a MONTH until this race occurs, otherwise I would have to walk the entire thing.

Sign number two that I am not a runner: after running said mile and a half and then walking another 1/2 mile and then running one last final half mile (total: 2.5 miles, FYI) yesterday and Tuesday, I legitimately am scared to get on the treadmill today.  2.5 miles is nothing.  People walk and run that shit in their sleep.  And here I am limping around today like a newborn baby horse, all goofy looking.

I want to be a runner, I really do.  I want to like running so much that even in the dead of winter I will just say "oh, a 3 mile jog in the blizzard sounds just lovely today, thank you!"  Instead, I hate it.  I really do.

Signed,
Achy Break-y Grams

Mommykins

Today is my mother's birthday.  I will not embarrass her by telling you her age, but I wanted to publicly wish her a happy birthday.  Happy birthday, mom!

And in honor of my mother and her birthday, I thought I would share some stories about my mom.

Growing up, my mom, like all mothers, did her fair share of embarrassing me.  It all started with her being my middle school's Sex Ed. teacher.  You read that right. My mom taught me and all of my classmates Sex Ed.  I often got picked on--"let's go listen to Shauni's mom talk about vaginas!"  I want to shrivel up and die just thinking about how embarrassing middle school was because of my mom's job. 

And it didn't stop there.  My mom let me have a slumber party once.  I remember having all of the cool and popular girls over and they were exploring our house, when they all came back to me and said "why are there pictures and artwork all over your house with naked women??"  Uh, because my mom is an artist and she appreciates the human body and has an eye for good art.  Why do you ask?  It isn't normal for your parents to have random pieces of artwork around the home that show off and embrace the naked body?  I had no idea.

In high school it was also pretty bad--although happily married to my father, my mother (and entire family) supports gay marriage and the rights of equality for all.  But instead of just voting that way, my mom has always had a rainbow "celebrate diversity" sticker on the back of her car.  And another one that is bright purple and says "TOWANDA" really boldly ("Fried Green Tomatoes).  I hated getting picked up from school by my mom.  People always stared and asked if my mom was gay.  To a 14 year old in a redneck town, that was social suicide.

I can think of another time when I had some of my friends over and my mom was making dinner.  My friends asked "hey, Mrs. PB, what is for dinner?"  And my mom replied, calm, cool and collected "we are having rice and chicken titties."  My friends about died laughing.  I never thought much about this word, as my mom said it all the time--since my sister Tia and I were infants, it was just not taboo and a dirty word in our house.  And my mom always says "chicken titties" instead of chicken breasts when we ask her what is for dinner. 

Now that I am a wise and sage adult, I look back at the embarrassment my mother caused me and I smile.  Those things are not embarrassing!  They are GREAT!  They made me a better person, with wonderful and strong beliefs.  I fully support sex education in schools and believe that our youth should hear about their options and not just abstinence.  I fully support gay marriage and love the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes." And Mr. G and I occasionally even throw around the word "titties" when describing the cut of chicken we are having for dinner.  I love and support my mother in all that she does, and I am beyond proud to call her my mom. 

Except for when we are out to eat in a crowded restaurant and she loudly starts discussing her upcoming colonoscopy.   Then I am back to being embarrassed again.

Lots of love and happy birthday, mommykins!
Your daughter, Grams.

Yeesh

I have been horrible about leading a fun and exciting life to blog about.  This past week I have been so tired and sluggish that all I do is sleep, go to work, MAYBE go to the gym, suck at my double dub diet, watch a partial movie, and fall asleep before it is even finished.  So when it came time to blogging today, I made a list of things that I should blog about to entertain the masses of folks who read my blog.  This is the list of options that I came up with:

1. The fact that I went for a 1.75 mile run in 12 minutes and have never known so much pain in.my.life.
2. The fact that I have been kind of sucking at my double dub diet this week.
3. In relation to item #2, I have had an insane sweet tooth this week and I do not know why.
4. I'm so bored I might die.
5. I watched Alien versus Predator.  It was so boring I thought I might die.
6. Old movies and TV shows (getting desperate here).
7. Food.  But then I remembered this is not a food blog.
8. Babies.
9. Shopping and fashion.  But then I remembered this was not a fashion blog.
10. Zzzzzzz.  Sorry, I just fell asleep reading my list.

I will work on more exciting things in the weeks to come so that my blog does not fail and fall apart and diminish into nothingness.  After all, in the next three weeks I have: 3 birthdays, lots of house guests, and a day off on a Monday.  There MUST be something to blog about in all of that.

Until then, I am going to back bed.

G'night,
Grams

Lurve

For my first married Valentine's day, I made a romantic 3 course dinner for my beloved.  I don't know why, I think he would have preferred Pizza Hut.

The menu consisted of a simple salad first, with arugula, shaved red onions, soft goat cheese, and a lemon oil dressing.  To be followed by a seared piece of halibut with a lemon-butter sauce over parmesan risotto and a side of sauteed spinach and mushrooms.  The piece de la resistance was an Irish car bomb cupcake for dessert.  I would have preferred a red velvet cupcake, but Mr. G hates sweets and loves Irish car bombs, so I figured this might be the only way I could get him to eat a cupcake.

Mr. G apparently does not like goat cheese, so he skipped the salad (I enjoyed both of our portions, not to worry).  He loved the fish and said the sauce was very good, but it "could have used some more acidity."  (*Let it be noted that Mr. G is reading over my shoulder as I write this.  At first I wrote that the sauce should have more of a citrus flavor, but Mr. G corrected me and said "no, not citrus, just acidity."  This is my life.)  The risotto he ate a bit of, but the first bite he took of the sauteed spinach and 'shrooms, he made a horrible face he tried to hide from me.  I (obviously) noticed and started laughing.  "What?" he said.  "I don't like green mush!"

No cupcakes yet, he will likely have a beer instead.

At least he liked his gift.

Love to you all, and to all a happy Valentine's day,
Grams 

Fabulous Friday

I know most of you are out doing epic things on a Friday night at 9pm.  Getting dolled up, going out, taking a limo somewhere like Chateau Marmont...me, I'm used to some pizza takeout, cheap wine, PJ's and a rented Netflix on a Friday night.

However, tonight I decided to live a little.

I started the evening off with Weight Watchers.  Not very exciting to most, who really wants to spend their first hour off of work for the weekend in a double dub meeting about weight loss?  I do.  And I lost another pound and a half.  Which I am aware does not sound like a lot.  But that shit adds up.  A pound and a half is what you get when you buy some ground hamburger at the grocery.  Add that to the 2.5 pounds I lost last week...I was feeling good when I left double dub.

Then I decided to spend my second hour off on a Friday night at the hospital.  I needed some blood work done at the lab to see if I have an ulcer (I am 68, less you forget).  I walked in, nervous as all hell, saying I was ready for a needle to be jabbed into the underside of my elbow and have a pint of the red stuff taken out.  Can you tell, I hate blood, hate needles, hate hospitals? I was a wreck.  No better way to spend a Friday night at 6pm.  As I entered the lab, the young male lab technician could tell I was nervous.  He looked at me and smiled and said "Shauni, right?  You are here to leave a stool sample?"  He was not even kidding.

I about shit myself right there, making his lab fantasies come true.  I was absolutely NOT there to leave a stool sample.  Never in a million years.  I told him I would rather let him take an arm-full of blood than poo for him in his lab.  He eventually straightened things out and took my blood, no side of feces.

I headed home to my man, please with myself for losing over a pound in a week (and not just any week, but superbowl week!) and for surviving giving blood..  I was in a great a mood.  Caroline the Corolla even noticed and stopped on the way home at the NH Liquor Outlet--Grey Goose was on sale, so, CHECK! My night was improving by the truck load.

Got home to Mr. G and we decided to eat out at our local bar/restaurant.  We pulled up to a crowded parking lot and got a GREAT spot (I created my own spot--I parked in the fire lane).  We managed to get our usual seats at the bar while it was really standing room only and within a few minutes, a large drunk man cozied up behind us.  He was at least 62, very nice, and clearly wealthy (he continued to tell us about his home in Newport, RI, the yacht club he owned, the Mercedes he drove, and his second home here in VT).  We mentioned we were newlyweds, living just down the road, and all in all we got along great (I mean, who doesn't love two young, completely broke, hardworking newlyweds?)  He left, got a table, and 5 minutes later...we had a bottle of $80 champagne delivered to celebrate our marriage.  It was not for nothing on his behalf--he came over to get a kiss from me and while doing so got a cop of my left breast.  But it was very generous, and quite comedic.

Made it home by 9 to a cartoon movie, Juicy pajamas, a roaring fire, and some of that Goose.  Life is good.

Completely content,
Grams

Pina Coladas

Mr. G and I have just planned our yearly vacation.  It is not elaborate like an African safari or luxurious like a spa week in a bungalow in Tahiti.  But it is a week long vacation and we are thrilled.

We will be hitting up good old fashioned Key West, Florida for a week.  We have rented a house that is one mile from the beach, 2 miles from downtown.  We will have bikes and a rental car and taxi's at our disposal so we can easily get carted to and from the hot beach, the busy bars, and the delicious restaurants.

I have only been to Key West once.  With my parents.  During Spring Break.  When I was 22.  Not ok.  I will be redeeming myself on this trip.  There will be 12 hours a day of beaches, booze, and bbqing.  I am going to be living the life of Magda from "Something about Mary."  Get jealous.

And here is the best part: some dear friends will be joining us and sharing the house with us!  And since making this decision to go on this fabulous vacation, said friends and I cannot stop planning our trip.  We already know what bars we will be going to every day at 4pm.  We know what time we will be waking up and heading to the beach.  We know what groceries we need to get and when.  We have already planned to go on a private sunset dinner cruise.  And we know what 4 items will be eaten the most while there.  We have already decided to create a bar by our pool, who will have what bedrooms, and what times we are doing what.  Flights are picked out and everything.

This vacation is so planned, prepped, and prepared.  We all so happy.

Too bad we need to wait until September 1st to leave.

Patiently waiting,
Grams

Meanie

Sometimes I am a little mean to Mr. G.  But usually it is only when he deserves it.  Like when he has one too many beers and is inebriated.  Such as last night for example...

Last night Mr. G and I went to a Superbowl Party.  Translation: Mr. G had too many beers.  He was pretty tipsy and incoherent.  It would have been funny if we were not trying to rush home at 10:30 pm so I could get a reasonable amount of sleep before heading into work today.  But we were.  And it took Mr. G 20 minutes to put on his shoes.  So I had to be a little bit of a meanie to get back at him for making me late for my date with my pillow.

While at the party, my cellphone died.  I only have a car charger for my cell phone (I suck, I know,) so I charged my cell on the way home from the party so I could have enough juice in my battery to use the cell phone as my alarm clock in the morning.  But the drive between the Superbowl party and our house is not long, and so my cellphone only got 1 line of battery life.  Mr. G said "I will set my alarm on my cell phone for you to use as a back up alarm tomorrow in case your phone dies in the night."  Very romantic.  If it was not said with a slur.  But it was.  (And it was still a little romantic.)

Mr. G stumbled into bed holding his cell phone.  "Ok, please set your alarm for 7:00 am in case my phone dies tonight.  Thanks!" I said, as I walked into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Cut to: me coming out of the bathroom to Mr. G sound asleep, snoring, with the cellphone in his hand.  I pulled it out and checked the alarm; not set for 7 am.   Shocking, I know.  So I set the alarm for 7 am and almost headed to bed.

And  here is where the meanie in me comes out: I decided to "test play" the alarm and hold it next to Mr. G's ear and freak him out, making him think that it is morning already and he had to be at work.

I chose a great tune--"Funk Funk" which plays a rather loud and annoying disco-funk song.  I was fully prepared to see Mr. G shoot up-right all confused and I was already laughing in my mind.  I held the phone right next to his ear.  I pressed "play" and...

Mr. G started dancing along to the music.in.his.sleep.

I kid you not, he started be-bopping along to the Funk Funk.  His shoulders moved, his head moved, his hands did this little dancing move...I have never been happier to have pulled a prank in my entire life.

I love you, Mr. G, and I love you, 7 PBRs that made Mr. G dance in his sleep to the Funk Funk.

'til next time,
Mean 'ole Granny

Facts and a List from a Random Thursday Night

First the facts:

-We just got a about 14" of snow on Wednesday.  On top of what we already had, which was about a foot and a half.
-The local country music station is doing a contest to give away two sets of tickets to a huge summer concert.  To be qualified for the contest, you have to do a "no shirt, no shoes" snow angel and send in a photograph.
-I really like country music.
-I am way to large and in charge to wear a bikini top, especially for a photograph that could ever be online on a secret website that starts with face and ends with book.

Please keep these facts in mind as you now read the below list:

1) I really wanted to go to the above aforementioned concert.  At 6 pm EST Thursday night, only 11 people were qualified.  The contest ended at 8 am Friday morning, EST.  I thought, "if I enter this, my odds are pretty good."
2) After sitting and staring at the freezing snow and the thermometer that said it was 18 degrees out, I was able to talk myself out of entering said contest.
3) Five minutes later I had changed my mind.  The heat was blasting throughout the house.  Slippers, sweatshirts, towels and blankets were lined up next to the back door.
4) I trained Mr. G how to take pictures of me as fast as possible in the snow.
5) I shoved my bulging belly into (literally) an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini and that is about it.  I also added (for good fun) a neon green winter hat and a hot pink cocktail glass to take out there with me.
6)While screaming, I dropped backwards into the fresh new thigh-high powder.  I made my snow angel, made Mr. G take a two pictures and I immediately jumped out of the snow, near tears, and ran into the house, grabbing sweatshirts, towels, slippers, etc, as I ran across the living room tracking snow all over.  I did not even care that my stomach fat rolls bulged in front of my new husband.  I was that cold.
7) When I came back from the frozen death by standing (sitting on?) by the fireplace, I had Mr. G come show me the pictures.  I looked and...MY FEET WERE NOT IN THE PICTURES, thus I was unable to prove that I was not in fact cheating and wearing shoes.  Poor Mr. G felt even worse than I did for accidently messing this up.
8) I had to jump back into the snow, bikini and all, and retake the picture this time with my feet in it.
8A) Did I mention I am dying of hypothermia?

NOTE: there is no more photographic evidence that I was ever in a bikini in the snow.  It has been deleted from my computer and my camera.  There is only one lone picture, and yes, it is on the social networking site that we all know and love.  But it is not, nor will it ever be tagged, and you will never, EVER find it.  If you do, I will defriend you on said social networking site and in life.

Love,
still frozen and still hopeful to win Granny

Not Your Average Taco Tuesday

I don't know about ya'll, but I think Tuesdays are the worst day of the week.  Saturday and Sunday are no brainers for being the best days, and Friday comes in right after that, since it is the last day of the work week.  Monday is supposed to suck, so everyone is used to it.  Wednesday and Thursday mean you are more than halfway done with the work week.  Leaving just Tuesday behind.  It is not quite half way through the week.  Saturday is still a long way off.  And yet it is not Monday so you cannot complain anymore that the weekend was too short.  All in all, Tuesdays are a drag.

Which is why I believe so many people and college-town bars have implemented "Taco Tuesday."  It's fun to say and you get to have some little gem of a tradition to look forward to every Tuesday night.

Not that Mr. G and I do a Taco Tuesday night.  We don't.  Maybe someday, but for now we just grit our teeth and deal with stupid Tuesday.

Until tonight.  Tonight, on the first Tuesday of February, on the eve of the worst snow storm in a long time (according to all weather reports), after a long day of work, Mr. G and I are spicing up Tuesday.  And not with the usual Taco Tuesday.  No, tonight we will be having...LOBSTA TUESDAY.

Thats right, folks.  Lobster.  On a Tuesday.  Because, hell, why not spend our hard earned money on something that takes a lot of energy and hard work to eat?  We might dress to the nines and eat our lobster via candlelight at a table for two in our little condo.  But more realistically, we will spread out newspaper all over the floor, put on our ratty pajamas and make a mess.  We will savor the over-priced crustacean on a Tuesday night and pretend that we didn't just spend an entire tank of gas on our dinner.  And it will be glorious.

I may be a granny, but it is nice to live a little!