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Musical Theater Makes Me Uncomfortable

I hate when someone sings in public. No matter how amazing their voice is, I always cringe and secretly (not so secretly) wish they would stop. I don’t like musicals or musical theater, and I definitely hate audience participation, unless it is a comedy show and someone is being made fun of.

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I saw this with my Mom and it was the literal worst.

 

I get second hand embarrassment really easily, I can’t even watch Wife Swap. I think I am more embarrassed for others than for myself. Not that I don’t do things that are really embarrassing (I have been described as the “most awkward person” by more than a couple people), but I had food poisoning on a road trip once, and since then nothing really embarrasses me. If you’ve truly had food poisoning, you will understand. I call that “the trip I lost any shred of dignity and several pairs of my favorite jeans.” Plus if you’ve met my husband, you’ll understand my tolerance for embarrassing behavior.

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Not too much phases me these days.

 

In Denver i worked for a non-profit that was holding a gala event, and a part of the gala involved the local performing arts school doing various broadway songs. Basically the worst thing ever, I would have paid money to avoid it. The end of the show culminated in “Let the Light Shine In” from Hair. I had to see a rehearsal at the school and it was just me and maybe 3 other people in the audience. There were about 20 kids on stage and they came at me, smiling and emoting. There was no avoiding eye contact, and I was sweating profusely. It was my nightmare. You could have thrown 30 spiders directly at my face, and I would have been cool with it as long as it meant I could leave.

In short, please don’t sing around me, unless you’re being ironic or hilarious.

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Holiday Flavors

It’s time for holiday coooookies! I said that in an Oprah voice in my head (which I frequently do, but only in my head, I’m horrible at impersonations). Half the conversations in my head are in Oprah voice.

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I know Oprah, I’m just as excited about the impending holiday treats as you.

I’m more excited about holiday cookies than any who isn’t pregnant or five years old should be. I really like spice flavors, so it works out in my favor (or flavor, amirite? Wordplay!). I’m totally breezing past the Starbucks lattes, there is not a Starbucks anywhere in the vicinity of my house or place of employment, and I could have sworn they had pumpkin spice lattes year round. That and I don’t want to be a caricature of suburban white woman. I already love Pinterest, Anthropologie and jeans tucked into boots, I don’t need to stereotype myself even more. I will say I do not own a pair of Uggs or any Pandora jewelry, so score one for me.

I have already gone through a package of pfeffernusse (don’t you judge me) and they were pillowy soft and delicious. Grab a pack yourself, if I can find them in Vermont, I am sure they have them at your neighborhood store. There are various manufacturers, all are good. They are little, soft, gingerbread cookies coated in a thin sugar shell.

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Just go straight to the customer service desk and ask for Pfeffernusse, they will know exactly what you’re talking about. Just kidding, they will say “God Bless You” and hand you a tissue.

Yesterday I picked up a box of these bad boys. They are like wedding cake cookies, but with salty cashews in them.

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Don’t feel shame if you eat the whole box in one sitting. I wholly support this activity.

Last night as I opened the box, I had the following conversation with my husband Tom:

Me: drooling and gurgling

Tom: What are those?

Me: Cashew cookies, would you like one?

Tom: are there nuts in them?

Me: blank stare

Tom: Do they have cashews in them?

Me: Are you really asking me if these cashew cookies have cashews in them?

Tom: They don’t look like they have nuts in them.

My husband, ladies and gentlemen! He did not have a cookie and I side-eyed him for a good 15 minutes after this brief conversation.

I have a whole list of cookies I pinned on pinterest, and fully plan to make at least one of the recipes, which I will share on this blog. As for now, on to the next box of holiday treats!

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Slacker Extraordinaire

I can’t believe how long it’s been since I wrote, but life has taken a turn that I knew was coming and was wholly ready to take, but it’s meant that I have all but given up any attempts at recreational activities that extend beyond Curious George and pumping milk.

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Obligatory pic of my adorable son.

I’ve always been more of a creative type, so part of my reason for starting this blog was just to get myself to a place where I was writing, not expecting anyone to read it, just get it out there. I missed the boat with my life’s career choices. I have an MBA, and it was the biggest mistake of my life, personally and financially, but that’s a different story.

I’m at a point where I have a family, a mortgage and a lifestyle (VERY modest, but it’s there) to support, and with my husband being a teacher, I have no real options to pursue an artistic chute unless it’s in drips and drabs in my free time, which has been non-existent since the birth of my son.

My son had obviously been feeling my creative yearning and has thus decided to not sleep, so he could support my writing sessions.

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Luckily he is only like this during the hours of 8pm to 6am. F*ck sleep, amirite?

Husband is tucked away in bed, blowing his stank breath in the direction of my empty pillow. Baby is in walker contraption that keeps him contained for about 15 minutes (of heaven) at a time, and I have my computer on the dirty kitchen counter, between a tub of margarine and bag of rye bread.

It’s easy as a child to hear “follow your dreams” because your dreams far outweigh the reality of bills, adulthood and responsibility. What did you want to be as a child? Princess Astronaut Veterinarian? Obviously a wise choice as the field of princess is expected to grow over the next 25 years and one does need to specialize (that’s where the astronaut vet comes into play).

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“I only use the services of the finest princess astronaut vet to express my anal glands.”

Did I expect to be a  database manager slash admin assistant? No. Is there any shame in what I do? No, I’m totally proud of the job I do, even though I can feel the seering disappointment in my CEO’s gaze as he reminds me, yet again, that I have an MBA. He says this in one breath and then asks me to scan a copy of the UVM hockey schedule and email it to him in the next breath. I just want a paycheck that supports my personal life and allows me to explore my interests, which I don’t think is a bad thing. It boils down to what you want to be defined by. My co-workers do an amazing job and work their asses off, dealing with the complexities of an international NGO with minimal (and I mean minimal) staff. They are their jobs and they are amazing at it. I am amazing at spending my paycheck, speedily.

So, here I am writing in my kitchen with a beautiful view of the sunrise in  a lovely house supported by my sometimes fulfilling job that I wasn’t really made for, but you know what? I love my life. Except for husband’s morning breath.