ROLO!

it would have been embarrassing had it occurred by itself. fortunately for me, it didn't.

"He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.”― Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere

the scene: my parents huge christmas party
i've had a couple drinks. i won't lie. 
my best friends are there. we're all camped out in the theatre room. we're catching up, sharing stories. drinking. laughing. you know. like friends do.

me: John 3:16 is a Bible verse right?
Serenity: how do you not know this?
me: well that's what i thought. 
Serenity: you call yourself a southerner
me: it's printed on the the bottom of Forever 21's bags
Jennifer: what? you're kidding?
me: serious. saw it this morning. at least, i think i did
Jennifer: funny. considering they sell slutty clothes and preach Jesus
Serenity: sounds typical. 
Mark: you think?
me: i think so. i'll check, the bag is in Ashley's bedroom

at which point i hop up from my spot on the couch. i fail to register the horror on my friend's faces and i prance upstairs. i grab the bag, and stop by the kitchen for a snack on my way. 

mom: oh my god! did you....
--this was said loudly, across a crowded room. the unfinished question hangs in the air--
me: huh?
--i look up from my plate--
Ashley (or any one of the teenagers now looking at me in horror): what is on you? oh god!

at which point i realize everyone in this room is now gesturing (with horror) to my butt.  i twist to look down at my rear. which i realize is covered with brown...."stuff" it's liquid-y, it's a couple shades of brown. 
it looks nasty and warrants all of the attention i'm receiving. 

me: what the?
mom: you might want to go upstairs
me: the hell is on me?
mom: sarah, you might want to go change
me: omg. 

then i leave. 
and change clothes. 
and discover there's melted chocolate and caramel ALL OVER my pants.  

now let's rewind. 
the night before, my dear sweet husband finished off a bag of rolo's while we were watching tv. he was sitting on the couch. the couch i was sitting on at the party. 

i 
was 
sabotaged. 
by my own husband. 
at a party. 

fortunately for us all, it takes more than that to embarrass me. especially when i still needed to address the Forever21 thing.

we sold out of Jack Daniels

it's been a shitty week. it's been a number 7 week.

as in Jack. Jack Daniels.

it's friday night and we've just bought coke.  we're looking for the Jack. 

because jack and coke is a special soul soothing drink. it really does have magical healing powers if consumed in exactly the right amounts. (drink it in the wrong amounts and you'll find yourself with only one shoe puking on a cactus in a strangers yard. you have been warned)

"we don't sell HARD LIQUOR here ma'am" says the clerk in an extremely snotty voice. for the record, she's standing in front of a wall of xmas wines. a literal wall. of wines. yet i'm out of line wondering where the liquor is.

Mark pulls me along before I can respond.

We drive to the liquor store- for the record, it's called BIG DADDY'S LIQUOR BEER WINE

it's at this point that Mark discovers he doesn't have his wallet. so he can't come in for fear of risking the, "i'm not selling this to the two of you if both of you don't have ID" line. 

yeah. it's happened to us. repeatedly. we're both over 30. 

anyway, we want our drinks. we want to relax and watch british crime dramas. we want to unwind. dammit- we're earned it!!

i enter. i run through the aisles- wines, wines, beer, fruity shit, gin.....i'm getting closer. i see the "whiskey" aisle. i slow to search for the familiar bottle and...... i turned the corner, and i'm at tequila. 

what? that can't be right. 

I circle back for a slower pass. Jameson, Bushmills, Glenfiddich, Highland Park, Chivas, Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, Wild Turkey, Canadian Mist......and tequila. 

i'm perplexed. i circle again. and again. i'm getting frantic. this is the only liquor store around and  i simply can't find the Jack. i need the jack. i need to leave, Mark is waiting on me. we need to get home. it's been a long week. i stop between the Old Parr and the Bushmills. which is where i'm standing when a clerk approached me and asks, "can i help you?"

"where's the Jack?"I ask immediately.

"umm" at this point he STEPS BACK AWAY FROM ME. "we sold out of Jack Daniels. you're the third person to ask. please don't yell at me. there's a big game."

What? I have no words. They have a bottle of Johnnie walker blue on the shelf and no Jack Daniels. JOHNNIE WALKER BLUE. but no Jack. No Gentleman Jack. Nothing in the Jack line. not even a mini bottle.This is madness and I simply cannot comprehend. 

I consider leaving empty-handed. yet i know that alcohol is required to deal with the week's events. required. it's been a shit week. i'm not leaving this store, the only liquor store, without alcohol. 

"You could try Jameson" the clerk offers sheepishly. I hide my disgust. I sigh. i pick the closest bottle, defeated. (It's Old Parr btw, i do not recommend it).

I pay. i leave. 

back in car, Mark starts driving us home.

"Jesus, that took forever"- Mark

"they didn't have Jack"- Sarah

"what?"- Mark

"seriously. sold out. big game or something?"- Sarah

"sold out? well what's that then?"- Mark indicates the brown bag i'm clutching

"Old Parr" -Sarah

"What?"-Mark

"Old Parr. I don't know. i gave up, we needed whiskey, there was no alternative"-Sarah

"why did you buy it?"-Mark

"we needed it. i feel like a junkie, but we need drinks tonight and i didn't know what else to do"-Sarah

"you're an idiot"-Mark

"WHAT? i did this for us! would you rather i bought nothing?"-Sarah

"yes. why would you buy that?"-Mark

"you said we must have drinks! what was i supposed to do? why are you so impossible?" Sarah

"Why wouldn't you go to another store?"- Mark

"I swear, we're been six months here and you've learned nothing. there are no other stores! this was it, our only option and i did the best i could!"

Mark turns the car into a driveway- "No? what's this?"

we're sitting in front of the Bottle Shop. He then gestures across the road.
I can read the letters "Randol Mill Beverage" on the sign.
"Six months we've been here Sarah"

It would appear that there are several liquor stores by our house. (we're the purple dot)

at home in an alien land

i've been silent. i admit it. this year has been a whirlwind. there was an immigration. there was the purchase of a new (read: additional) house. there was a crash course in how to be a landlord. there was a 1200 mile Grapes of Wraith-esque move. there was a very itchy welcome to Texas party. there were fleas. there was the great pool incident of 2012. there was a narrow escape from induction into the Stepford wives community. there was the death of a car, and the subsequent replacement. there was unpacking. there was settling. there was a wedding! there was laughter. there was a second wedding 6 days and 2500 miles away. there was work. there was exhaustion.

there is the ever present struggle to become at home in an alien land.

it's been six months in texas. 11 months in the US together. Mark appears to be adjusting to the US. I still don't quite have the hang of Texas.

Sarah: i want to go by that place, the extra/surplus/stuff-you-need-and-can't-afford-place

Mark: the bathtub place?

Sarah: no, the richland hills place. north-ish. i think.

Mark: oh. that place. i think it's closed on Sunday

Sarah: that's retarded. what kind of big DIY store is closed Sunday? it's one of the two weekdays allotted to DIY. that would be counter to all profitability

Mark: I don't think they consider themselves DIY

Sarah: they don't offer install services, and they sell items to be installed. therefore, they must assume you are DIY. therefor DIY. come on. let's go

Mark: fair. but they're still closed.

Sarah: they can't be closed. we covered this.

Mark: It's Sunday. This is Texas, self appointed God country. Closed.

Sarah: Lies.

Mark: Look it up. We'll go, but if it's closed you're in trouble.

<after some internet searching>

Sarah: that the fuck? why would they be closed? when else but Sunday would God want you to work on your house? he certainly can't be smiling on those fuckers sitting around watching football and drinking beer!

Mark: you realize the first time we went there was a Sunday. It was closed. you knew this.

Sarah: No! it was after 6. that's why it was closed. not sunday related at all

Mark: that was the second time dear.

wedding fun!

i know why the caged bird sings.

well, i don't. what i do know is why the bride goes crazy around her wedding day. even a self professed non-singing bird that lives in a huge cage and doesn't care about things like embossed napkins.
for me, it's a combo of things, but i bet most of you could relate to a couple of them.

1.) i don't craft. i'm not a hot glue gun wizard. i detest shopping. i've never in my life gotten my hair styled and makeup done. i can't ice a cake. since i am (surprisingly) not a botanist, i can't tell you what kind of flowers i prefer. i couldn't care less about table top decoration. simply put, I couldn't be further from Martha Stewart.

2.) i care desperately about the photos. they are, after all, the only thing you get to keep after the event. so inadvertently, i care desperately about how everything looks.

3.) i'm trying to stay on budget here. i don't know any real person, who in this economy, with a mortgage (or my unfortunate case- two mortgages), insurance, car payments, and other obnoxious "adult" things; that really wants to spend a large sum of money on anything. much less a wedding.  this is compounded by the fact that i really am a miser. whenever i think about that big number, i get nauseous.  it would pay for all three of the bathroom remodels that are desperately needed in the house.
(seriously- the corner whirlpool in the master bathroom is actually a unique water feature for the office ceiling. ask us how we found out!)

4.) i want me to look good. i'm a girl. this fact alone is cause enough to turn me into a nervous wreck.

-as a photographer (and former wedding photographer at that) i'm hardwired to want the best possible props, background, etc for my wedding.
-as a realist, i want the cheapest solution i can get because i'd desperately love a refrigerator that doesn't leak like a sieve while making ice.

do you see the dilemma?

THESE THINGS CANNOT COEXIST!

i'm vastly aware of how my own domestic shortcomings will be financially impacting my bottom line.

caged financially. singing out of a desire to make it as perfect as possible.

frankly, i don't know how any bride-to-be isn't pulling her hair out. i mean, there isn't a good solution. either i win the lottery, or i become a hot glue gun wizard. both are about as likely as Hercules having puppies.
in the face of such impossible odds and in pursuit of the perfect backdrop...

i've suffered third degree burns on every finger. glued myself to a paper cutter. narrowly avoided Kora ingesting a purple star shaped tack. created hercules a collar out of craft paper. suffered an emotional breakdown in Michael's. stabbed myself (blood was involved) with tacks, pins and florist wire. soldiered on for an entire day with (god bless her) Ashlee Jacobs creating the exact same shape. over and over until our fingers were raw and the table was covered in crazy glue. and experienced Office Space level frustrations with my printer.

fortunately for my appendages, the day is nearly upon us!

toilet paper embargo

i blog. i blog to report a strange and lengthy trade embargo in our house. on toilet paper. to be more exact, an embargo to any and all toilet paper that might possibly make it's way into the hall bathroom.

somehow, regardless of the fact that there actually IS toilet paper in the house, the hallway bathroom seems to be suffering from a trade embargo. I know i'm under strict orders not to replenish it. (and frankly, why should i considering I'm positive i stocked it last). the trouble is that Mark also believes himself to have last stocked this bathroom.

incidentally, this happens to be the closest bathroom to the living room. which translates to the closest to the Olympics. because let's face it- Mark and I are sitting here each night. we're watching the Olympics.

*now before you tell me we're clearly being childish- know that the LAST showdown  was only settled when i finally caved and stocked. so now i've got to stick to my guns. otherwise i'm stuck as hallway bathroom toilet stocker for life. those are the rules.

the point here is that the bathroom has been bereft of adequate supplies for two days now. both mark and i have openly ignored this fact and refused to rectify the situation. citing work "I can't, i have a conference call," inability "it's too hot to walk upstairs. i'll melt" to-my favorite- outright refusal "i would but it's your turn"
the "situation" has now manifested into open avoidance of this room because the user will ultimately find themselves "stuck"
stuck is not a good place to be. stuck means you are at the mercy of the other individual in the house. another individual who, as luck would have it, is watching something awesome on tv. who has no interest in leaving the couch for fear they'll "miss it" (because we're pretending this coverage is live)

i just found myself stuck. again. for a second time. (this is likely because i am incredibly forgetful in regards to temporary avoidance areas. it's a problem i recently discovered)
conversation followed as such-
sarah: oh no
mark: what?
sarah: i forgot
mark: well.....you're stuck
sarah: please?
mark: nope. otherwise how will you learn?
sarah: seriously? come on!
mark: can't. i'm watching this. she's getting gold
sarah: please?
mark: i'm going to leave you in there for an hour. let you reflect on the situation
sarah: what? that's not fair!
sarah: (frantic now) i'll use your gym towel. i swear! please?
mark: fine fine.
-at which point i'm saved when he comes in with the worlds tiniest role of toilet paper. which means i'll be tricked into thinking there's enough paper tomorrow. and there won't be

this won't end well.

you want to bathe socially?

this conversation JUST happened. frankly, i'm impressed they stayed on the phone that long; though, by that point we both had something to prove!

overly bubbly unknown female on phone: hi there and thank you for calling The Pamper House- this is Kelly! how can i help you?
Sarah: hi there Kelly. I wanted to have a spa day with my fiance and I had a couple questions.
Kelly: your fiance?
Sarah: Yes. It's his birthday weekend and I had some questions.
Kelly: Like a guy? A male?
Sarah: Yes Kelly, my fiance is a guy.
Kelly: Ok, that's a strange present.
Sarah: I don't take your meaning- but could you answer a couple questions?
Kelly: Yes ma'am. What can I help you with today?
Sarah: First, do you offer couples massages, and second, are the wet areas for men and women separate or together?
Kelly: What?
Sarah: First, do you offer couples massages?
Kelly: You want to massage him?
Sarah: No! I want us both to get massages, but I wondered if you offered them together, in the same room? You know- a couples massage.
Kelly: No. (sounding decidedly confused) No ma'am. We don't do anything like that.
Sarah: Oh darn it. (I said that- the Texas hick thing is wearing off on me- or more likely, bringing out my inner hick). Well a girl can hope. So what about the wet areas?
Kelly: Wet areas?
Sarah: Yeah, are they separate? Or joint? Because I don't want to spend the day there is they are separate.
Kelly: The day here? I don't understand ma'am.
Sarah: Well not all day, but a couple hours. You know, you're working at a "day spa."
Kelly: We don't have any wet areas.

silence from me.....
silence continues.....

Kelly: Ma'am? Are you there?
Sarah: How are there no wet areas?
Kelly: Well there are bathrooms. And wet-ish areas for the rubs and wraps. But those are completely private.
Sarah: But the spas? They're wet aren't they?
Kelly: We are a spa ma'am. But we have no wet areas.
Sarah: How can that be?
Kelly: Ma'am, I'm going to get my manager.

waiting........

Manager: Hi there, Kelly tells me you had some questions for you and your fiance??
Sarah: Hi I was wondering about your wet areas.
Manager: EXCUSE ME?!!
Sarah: Wet areas. The hot and cold tubs, the saunas and steam rooms. Are they separate for men and women?
Manager: We don't have anything like that here.
Sarah: What? I thought this was a spa.
Manager: This is a spa, but we don't offer anything like that.
Sarah: You don't offer any wet areas? None at all?
Manager: That's correct miss.
Sarah: But you call yourself a spa? I'm sorry, I'm finding this confusing.
Manager: Miss, we offer a wide range of facials, manicures, eyelash and eyebrow tinting, even belly button candling.
Sarah: Belly button candling? You offer belly button candling and you don't have a hot tub?
Manager: Why on earth would we have a hot tub?
Sarah: Because you're a spa! The very definition is built on the idea of social bathing. You know- healing waters and all that jazz? You can't call yourself a spa and then ignore the very meaning of the word! That's like opening a pizza shop, only selling sushi, and justifying it by saying that the sushi is also food. It doesn't work that way- you can't just change the meaning of a word to make yourself sound posh or trendy.
Manager: You want to bathe socially with your fiance? I'm sorry, we are not that type of establishment.

AND SHE HUNG UP

I called seven other "spas" in town. None of them had "wet areas" either. In short, they were Salons that offered massages.

In the meantime, I'm left pining for our last spa day together at Themae Bath Spa in Bath, England. You know, where they speak English correctly, where spas have water in them, and they only offer 2, 4 or all day packages!

inconceivable!

let's start at the beginning shall we? because, it's all retarded, and long and apparently extremely funny- considering my sister was literally in stitches when i poured out the saga of my last week to her

Alright, facts first: I knew about the mosquitos here. Let's get that part straight. I know that I am the human equivalent of a delicious chocolate cake to the entire insect world. I always have been. I accepted long ago that only a near fatal dousing of insect repellant each and every time I exit the house will prevent me from being covered. It will not prevent them from biting, but it will lessen it. 

So when I began my epic battle with the yard, I took precautions. 

The goal: De-strangle my trees (about ten) and the rock walls from the english ivy. (English ivy is like kudzu for those who haven't dealt with it before)

I suited up. Bright pink galoshes. Weedeater. Safety glasses. Big thick blue rubber gloves. Application of entire bottle of lethal bug spray. I hacked. I pulled. I ripped that shit down. I freed an entire tree and the majority of the rock walls. 

I was triumphant! I showed that yard who's boss! Or so I thought. But it appears, that my yard doesn't play fair. The next morning, an unmistakeable huge patch of poison oak, or poison sumac, or poison ivy has appeared on my leg. 

I spend the day plotting to fire bomb the yard in retaliation, and scratching. And getting yelled at by Mark for scratching. 

Next morning. Nearly ONE HUNDRED bright red dots. All around the poison oak and around the back of my knee and all over the back of the other leg and up my arms and just everywhere. It itches like, well, I can't actually imagine anything else bad enough to compare it to. So take my word for it, it was bad. B-A-D. Like christening on Christmas bad. And while I must admit it was well played by the yard for tapping into my serious susceptibility to the stuff, I'm a complete mess. I look like a plague victim.

Fast forward eight hours. Around 5pm, I find a FLEA! And suddenly, it all clicks into place. I've laid it out below so you can follow along:

• I treated the dogs when we got here- one month treatment
• We didn't know the house had fleas from the evil cats the previous owners left inside
• The medicine wore off last week, and the dogs got infested
• I noticed the dogs scratching, and treated them the same day I attacked the yard
• That night Kora slept curled by my legs, against the back of my legs

Here's what I didn't know. If you treat your animals, and there's an infestation- the fleas will jump species to survive. When the dogs became toxic so they jumped to the humans.

Let's insert Carolyne's question now: "Wait, so is Mark covered too?"

Oh, my friends! I'm SO glad you asked. 

Mark has not a single spot. No poison oak. No flea bites. Not even a mosquito bite. And he hasn't been using bug spray. 

So, frantically itching that night, I happen to read online that having high quantities of yeast makes you undesirable to bugs. Which is when it suddenly makes sense; see, Mark loves this stuff called MARMITE. It's yeast extract. I can't compare it to anything else because it just tastes weird. It's unlike any other taste out there. So when those hungry fleas realized the dogs were toxic, they looked around, and they saw a yucky marmite man, and a human chocolate cake. And who doesn't like cake?

Anyway, he's been eating marmite on toast and had mentioned he thought it might help with the bug bites earlier. But I'd disregarded it, because not being desirable to bugs wasn't my goal. My goal was to not get poison oak. And poison oak doesn't care what I taste like. 

Next morning, Mark's on a conference call. I'm itching like crazy, everywhere, there's even one in my ear. So I take the plunge, I'm having marmite. I make toast. I get the jar out.

It should be mentioned here that this stuff is VERY potent. It's like horseradish or wasabi. You take it in extremely small quantities. It should also be noted that I have never had marmite on toast before, nor seen it made.

I open the jar. I slather my toast in it. I figured it was like jam, and applied it as such. But then, just in case, I WALKED INTO THE OFFICE AND ASKED MARK, "IS THIS ENOUGH?"

He looks up. He's on the phone. He looks at the marmite saturated piece of toast in my hand. And he says, "IT'S FINE"

Let's be clear. I've placed a two month allotment of a wasabi-like substance on a single piece of toast and he just okayed it for me to ingest.

So I begin. My eyes water. I start to gag. It's the single most vile piece of toast ever. But I soldier on, because I have to. Because I cannot be the only thing in the entire house that is edible to flea. At this point, Mark's call ends. And he looks over at me, watches me gag, and says, "Oh my god, that's way too much!"

I contain the puking feeling. I swallow. I look at him. At which point the following conversation happens:

Sarah: I ASKED you if it was ok! You told me it was fine!

Mark: I was on the phone. 

Sarah: But you answered! 

Mark: Yeah, but I don't listen when I'm on the phone. Because I'm ON THE PHONE

Sarah: Then say, not now, I'm on the phone. But don't answer me! That's unbelievable. What if I'd asked you if I should drive a nail in my head?

Mark: That's retarded. You didn't ask that.

Sarah: How do you know? You just said you don't listen. I can't believe you.

Mark: You probably needed that much though. 

Sarah: That doesn't make it better. I nearly died just now.

Mark: I was helping you.

Sarah: You're impossible. 

Oh- and for those who are wondering. The house has been bombed. The house has been vacuumed. The dogs were contact sprayed. Then they were shampooed. Throughly. Which no one was pleased over. Then they were re-treated. Then I spot treated my car. The couch. The beds. The closets. And all dog beds. Just for good measure. Today, I think I don't have any new bites AND the dogs aren't itching like crazy. Win. Win. Except for the yard and the marmite bit. That part still sucks.