Showing posts from 2012

Tiny bites of Kryptonite.

I try to eat what folks call "real food." And most of the time, I try to make that "real food" as healthy as I can reasonably tolerate. Like most things, such as my writing, I'm pretty solidly in the "mediocre" category of accomplishment. (Sorry for bragging so hard on myself.) There will be salt. There will be butter. There will be fat. There will be mac and cheese from a cardboard box and Santitas tortilla chips. But there are lots of fruits and veggies, whole wheat instead of white (mostly), organic meats, and American, wild-caught seafood. And I aim to eat a reasonable amount--not too little (as Patrick always says, "You gotta eat. If you don't eat, you die."), and hopefully not too much.

Usually, I keep myself fairly well in line.


Until appetizers.

Until parties with finger foods.

Until we go to the house of our friends who have a pathological fear of guests going hungry and serve 3 different casserole dishes of dips for about 4…

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to you from Boring Can Be Fun! Hope your Christmas is the best kind of boring fun you could have!

Multiple peanut butter cups.

'Tis the season of Advent. This means lots of things for Christians who are familiar with what Advent is. (If you don't know, here's a bit of info about it from the website of the church we attend:

Now that you're back, since I'm sure you all took a moment to go bone up some Advent goodness, I don't need to go into details about Advent. It means all of those good things, but it means something else.

The Advent Calendar.

This is something I've loved since I was a wee little tot, and to this day breaking out the advent calendar is one of my favorite holiday activities? Why? Well:

It marks the beginning of Advent (duh) which means Christmas is tauntingly close.It's a beloved childhood memory that I carry with me and relive each year for an annual dose of warm, fuzzy nostalgia.CANDY.
Oh yeah, I definitely use the Advent calendar that means I get a little treat each day. None of this opening windows on the cardboard or moving the …

Hide, it's the Holly Jolly Trolley again.

Saturday morning of this past weekend, Patrick and I checked out of the hotel we stayed in after the wedding and into a B&B. We're becoming rather snobby about our accommodations, and I don't mind saying so. The hotel offered nothing but a plastic carousal of cereals (reminding me of a hamster feeder), bad coffee, and a "variety of toasts" for breakfast.

The B&B is one we stayed in back in July, and if you've ever had a good B&B breakfast (hellurrr--it's the second B in "B&B", the breakfast is supposed to be good!) then you'll understand why we prefer them over hotels. Our B&B knocks it out of the park.

After check-in, we high-tailed it over to the St. Augustine outlet mall for a little retail therapy. Just kidding. Spending money just for kicks this time of year is more like Holidayus Walletitius Nervosa for us. We'd been spending enough money on rooms and food and gas to get to St. Auggie, so we wandered ar…

I'm 30. This is ridiculous.

This weekend in Saint Augustine was beautiful. Well, no, it was actually kind of misty and gray. But watching Patrick's cousin get married to her luv-ah, now that was beautiful. The wedding was on Friday night which seemed weird at first, but we ended up completely loving. Most weddings (mine included) are Saturday evening affairs. That's great, but it totally takes up the whole weekend. You prep most of the day Saturday, spend all evening at the wedding, stumble into bed in the wee hours of Sunday morning, get up at the slightly less-wee hours of the day and go home. Boo. Below is how I spent my Friday afternoon and evening.

Patrick and I rolled in to St. Augustine Friday, early afternoon, ready to rock and roll. I slapped on my makeup and fixed my hair. It was shiny, smooth, laying perfectly! Hooray! Patrick slipped into his newest suit and was lookin' FRESH. I put on my dress and strapped in to my favorite shoes ever. I looked as good as Patrick--for 15 minutes until we …

Why weddings rock.

Well, this was supposed to have posted automatically on Friday afternoon. I guess I still have to figure out a few things with this fancy schmancy blog! In the meantime, pretend it's Friday afternoon, and you're enjoying this on your lunch break. ;)

As you are reading this, I will be on my way to Saint Augustine to watch Patrick's cousin get married. K and B don't shy away from a good time, they're beyond excited to be marrying each other, and this is a big, crazy, fun-loving Catholic family, so to say that it won't be an austere occasion will be understating things a bit. 

Between Patrick and myself, I'm not sure who enjoys weddings more. (Possibly he does.) When you consider all the fun stuff that comes with wedding celebrations, it's no wonder we love them. What is so great about them, in my opinion? Why, I feel a list coming on! Allow me, please, to enumerate a few reasons...

Why Weddings are Rockin' Good Times 1. It's an excuse to get dressed u…

Bad weather. Good days. Hope you like Jane Austen.

As I write, it is a chilly, gray day. It looks like it could start raining at any moment. I sure hope it does. I love rainy weather. I love cold, dreary days. I love dark, soggy, summer afternoons. (Apparently, I'm not easily affected by S.A.D.) Why? I'm not sure, really.

When it is dark and dreary, it seems to me to be the perfect time to wear your snuggliest clothes, grab a blanket, have a warm drink (must have both hands wrapped around the mug), and light some candles. It seems it would also be wise to have deliciously scented cookies baking. Once they're done, eat them. (Don't suppose I needed to have told you that bit.)

While eating your cookie and drinking your hot chocolate, you should be doing something to improve your mind. This is when you break out the boxed set of Pride and Prejudice. Which one, you ask? Which one?! My Lord in Heaven above, the A&E one with Colin Firth! Shame on you for not knowing better. 

While sipping, snuggling, and nibbling, you'…


A little something seems to be happening to me that has me marveling at myself. It's been coming on slowly, so I was shocked when I first realized that I've kind of become a good cook. Not a great cook. And I certainly don't bake. But I can cook a meal to general satisfaction. Such a ringing self-endorsement, isn't it?

Okay, okay, some of my attempts haven't exactly gone of swimmingly. See: Punkin Joes. And there was the time that, when making tomato sauce, I thought it would be smart to add cinnamon. Cinnamon, Rebecca? Really? (I was thinking about Cincinnati-style Chili and lost my mind for a moment. Afterwards, we had to have Cincinnati-style Chili to use up that sauce.) Sometimes I still over- or under-flavor something. And, fine. Sometimes I may cook foods that I like but others don't. That's just a difference in personal preference, I like to think. I hope.

But at least 51% of the time (that's a majority, people!), I do a good job. One thing I can d…

Stop with the backhanded compliments.

On Monday, I said I wanted folks to stop complimenting each other so much. Now, I address a seemingly similar but much more insidious issue, the backhanded compliment. These are generally issued by, as the laypeople say, "frenemies" as well as some well-meaning but completely misguided friends and acquaintances. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. But as is my custom, I'll give you some examples.

"Wow, I really love what you've done with your makeup. You look so awake!"
Oh dear, I must have looked dreadful before, even though I felt perfectly rested. Wow. Now I feel bad about how I must have looked all this time.

"You've decided to keep the baby? How brave!"
I was expecting congratulations, but an incredulous reaction followed by a comment that lets me know you think I'm in for a huge uphill battle works, too. Thanks.

"Your new shirt looks really expensive. Was it a gift?"
Um, uh... no, I bought it myself, but uh, it was…

Stop with compliments.

Apparently, I'd like people to stop doing lots of things. Being so dramatic. Being so positive. Being so negative. And now, you're all too darn complimentary. I sense a bit of a series here, don't you?

On to my missive. I'm sick of the lovefest we all have with each other. No, that's not true. I'm sick of the lovefest some people have with each other. Now is the time for me to admit I'm not one of the people who is surrounded by the effusive positive reinforcement I'm talking about today. (Worry not, best friends. I wouldn't have you any other way.) Maybe I am a wee bit jelly--that's "jealous" for those not hip to the freshest lingo, you jive turkeys, you--but I still feel there's a real issue here.

"You are so beautiful!"

"Love, love, love this picture! Could you be any more gorgeous?"

"Ahhhh, you're the best!" 

"Love you!" "Love you more!" "Love you the mostest!!!!!!"


Work allergy.

My parents and sister will not be surprised to hear me say: I think I'm allergic to work.

After a full and glorious, albeit too short, week off of work for Thanksgiving, I came back to the office on a Monday. Cold. Dreary. Monday. 

The hours dragged by slowly. I felt as if I never could fully wake up. I had a headache nearly all day. My stomach grumbled to be fed whenever it wanted--not on some predetermined (not by me) schedule.

I did not feel like that during my time off. I never feel like that on weekends. The obvious conclusion is that I am allergic to work and should be a stay-at-home wife.

I'll clarify that I do, actually, like my job. I'm quite good at it and get along with everyone I work with reasonably well. Importantly, I get paid to be good at something and work well with people. But I also really like being in my pajamas (as you are now aware), and I'm not allowed to do that at the office. Apparently the Governor frowns on it. 

(Side note: guess what charming …

I seen you write that wrong.

Grammar is defined, in part, as "the study of the classes of words, their inflections, and their functions and relations in the sentence," and "a system of rules that defines the grammatical structure of a language."

It's something we're all supposed to have learned in school as youngsters. It's integral to my job today. (This law contains compound sentences that aren't separated by commas! Ack!) And yet, it seems that I know some (otherwise lovely) people who apparently skipped any class related to language usage from, oh, grades 3-11.

Being from the South, I agree that there can be something charming about dropping your g's. Matter of fact, allow me to restate that sentence: Bein' from the South, I agree that there can be somethin' charmin' about droppin' your g's. (I hear that in my head as being spoken by Blanche Devereaux.) I have used, and will continue to use, the word "ain't". I sometimes "reckon&quo…

Things for which I'm thankful.

'Tis nearly Thanksgiving, so I shall now give thanks for all the things I'm thankful for.

1. Obviously, I have to start with God, who is unchanging in His love for me, even when my faith in Him is far less than it should be. And He still loves me even when I make thinly veiled references to how much I enjoy a good bottle o' wine.

2. Well, since I mentioned it: I'm thankful for wine. It's my favorite food group.

3. My parents, my beautiful sister, my awesome in-laws (even Lindsey), and my most beautiful niece and charmingly adorable nephew.

4. Patrick. He totally crushes being a husband. Schmidt would agree.
5. High thread count sheets.

6. Dishwashers. Spend some time without one and you'll know what I mean.

7. My friends, whom I don't call/email with/talk to nearly enough, and they seem to still like me anyway. (Maybe that's WHY they still like me? Hmmm.) (Oh, and they go above high thread count sheets and dishwashers. But below wine. Kidding. Or am I?)

8. The…

Go plank yourself, Jackie Warner.

How I feel about exercise.

I try to work out regularly. I have been "trying to work out regularly" for about 5 years now. Actually working out regularly is something I've not yet been able to achieve.

Part of the reason is this: working out SUCKS. It's hard, y'all. I know there are those of you who enjoy the actual exercise, not just "the feeling of accomplishment when you're done." I do not understand you.

The other part of the reason is that I really ought to get up at 5:30 in the morning to have time to workout, eat breakfast, shower, fix my lunch for the day, and get out of the door and to work on time. ("On time" is "5-7 minutes after I should have been here.) I'm not sure if you know this, but 5:30a.m. sucks as much as working out sucks. Sooo, that's kind of working against me.

You are probably saying to your monitor, "Why don't you just work out after work, dummy?" I used to, but I don't now for two main …

The Great Family Plague of Thanksgiving '11.

When a large group experiences something profound and moving together, it brings them together. It bonds them. It ties them together, forever connected by that event. Thanksgiving a year ago, Patrick, myself, and bunch of his family bonded over such an event. This is that tale.

This time last year, on bright and cheery Saturday, the weekend before Thanksgiving, Patrick and I hightailed it to Jacksonville to celebrate the 60th birthday of Patrick's Aunt Donna.

Donna's oldest daughter Dana and her husband Henry have an adorable son who, at the time, was about 18 months old. The party was to be at their house, and that's also where we were to bunk down for the night. Upon arrival, we hugged Dana and Henry hello and got as much sugar as Baby J would allow us. He was just getting over being sick, so we didn't want to bother him too much.

Throughout the afternoon, we did our best to help the hosts prepare (although they had it pretty well under control). Mostly, we just enjoye…

Pajammer time.

I almost never go out in the evenings during the week, and I rarely have people over, either.

My sister-in-law would smile (devilishly) and say that it's because I have no friends.

My sister might suggest as tactfully as possible that it's because I'm kind of lame.

My mom would say, with kindness, that it's because I'm an introvert.

My dad would think it's perfectly normal and not comment at all.

My preacher might guess it's because I'm making efforts to avoid sin. (We all know some good sinnin' goes on once the sun goes down.)

It's not for any of those reasons. The reason I don't go out in the evenings during the week is because I can't wear my pajamas out of the house.

My routine is set pretty well in stone. I come home from work, throw my bags down somewhere, and, much to Patrick's joy and delight, immediately go to the bedroom to change into my pajamas. Seriously. If I've been home for 5 minutes and I'm not already changed in…

Okay, maybe I don't want the bump.

Happy Monday Tuesday, World. I've had quite a weekend. I saw all kinds of little munchkins. No, not Wizard of Oz munchkins. Children. Patrick and I got to spend time with five kids under the age of five this week. And how appropriate it is that we are surrounded by all these adorable little germ factories (no, really, we love these kids) when I've been recently ruminating on so many wonderful reasons I should really have a baby bump. 

But, as I mentioned, I've also gotten the impression that pregnancy may not be quite as magical as I have imagined? Why? Let's dive in.

The number one reason I can think of for not wanting a baby bump is the floating sign that I'm told appears over your head that says, "It's okay to touch me. No, you don't have to ask." I can't imagine what to say to people who assume that, simply because you appear to have a basketball shoved underneath your shirt, it's perfectly fine to manhandle you.

What must be be harder is…

I just want the bump.

Looking at a picture of one of my friends and her newly emerging baby bump, I said, "Man, I want one of those!" Patrick looked up quickly. A sudden sheen appeared over his top lip, and a wild, panicked look besieged his face*. I assured him I was not talking about a baby (not necessarily, anyway). I want the baby bump

Once he unclenched, relaxed, and leaned back in his chair, still shaking a little*, he asked why. I happily answered, "Because it's so cute! I've never seen a pregnant woman with a bitty baby bump that didn't look adorable. I want to be adorable!" 

I thought to myself, no one has ever looked at my stomach after I've eaten a pretty righteous burrito and told me I look cute. But baby bumps? So precious. Who wouldn't want to be precious? (I do NOT want to be Precious--like the movie.)

Our little exchange got me thinking about the other reasons having a baby bump would be awesome. First of all, there would be no more sucking in. I mean…