tongue in chic journalings

The sound of an exploding can of biscuits

This morning I put together a really cute outfit and looked around for my headband. It was nowhere to be found so I snagged the cute new sunglasses Jeanette gave me and used them to push my hair back off my face. I jumped in my car, turned on the back window defroster, set me floorboard heat on low, and headed onto the interstate. That was a lot of mundane details to build up to KA's freakiest.story.ever.

I hate driving on the interstate, and since work is only a 10 minute drive, I tend to drive in the left lane. The slow lane. The lane that is for people like me who hate the interstate. But since I was feeling brave after driving the entire way to Nashville, I put on the cute sunglasses and decide to drive to work in the middle lane.

So I'm driving down I75 going about 70mph when I hear a noise. A very specific noise. A noise that sounds exactly like a can of biscuit dough exploding.

Only I have no time to process that because at that same moment, my entire passenger side window shatters and explodes into my car. Glass hits the hand I threw up to protect my face, cutting my hand and bouncing off my sunglasses. Thank the Lord I was wearing sunglasses. I am screaming, trying to get off the road, trying to turn on my hazards while shards of glass break off my window and fly into the car.

My first thought was that a can of biscuits must have rolled out of my groceries yesterday and exploded through my window. Then I realized that we ate the biscuits last night and that there was no biscuit dough in my car. There was nothing in my car. There were no trucks next to me. I wasn't under an overpass. I never saw anything hit my window. I have no idea what caused this to happen.

Luckily my dad lives about 5 minutes from where I was and he just happened to be home today so I drove slowly to his house. He helped me pull some of the glass out of the window and I took this picture for the insurance people while we were doing that.

All of that missing glass? Yeah, that is all strewn all acorss the inside of my car. When I called Jeff to tell him what happened, I realized that somehow I managed not to crash the car. And told him he better bring me home a brownie.

I didn't stop shaking for over an hour. Thank the Lord no one was in the car with me.

Except I don't think we can bleed orange...

There is so much going on lately that I have not had time to blog. The biggest thing is that Jeff and I are moving. To Tennessee. Actually, to the town my grandparents lived in when I grew up, which is a fairly cool coincidence. I thought moving would be totally fabulous, but apparently moving out of state is a Big. Huge. Ordeal. If you think about it today, please say a little prayer for us to get the apartment we applied for :) In Tennessee getting an apartment is a lot more complicated than it is here. Lots more paper work and something about something about making lots more money than rent, and rent is lots more than here, and giving them your firstborn child, oh and did I mention that we don't quite have a job lined up for Jeff yet in Tennessee? We're kind of praying they will overlook that so we can get the apartment at the special price and not at the normal price, because we'd like to not eat ramen noodles for every meal. We're a little stressed and a little frazzled, but totally excited about the move, about my new job, and about living closer to these fabulous people:)

Stories About Boys (part one)

When I was 18 I dated a guy who's name I wont mention here coughcoughJohnCiminocoughcough as he dumped me on my 19th birthday. For the sake of anonymity I'll just refer to him as John Cimino. When I was 18 I was away at a private college for my freshman year and my two major goals that year were A) to avoid being beat up by the girl in our dorm that randomly threw chairs at people and B) to look exactly like Paige Davis from Trading Spaces. This was the year of the short, flippy hair and cropped denim jackets.

I knew John Cimino liked me already because he would drive an hour to hang out with me at school even though he had to be out of the dorm by 9pm and there is nothing to do in Rome Georgia except walk around campus a few times and hope you see a deer. Or a squirrel. Or an ant. I was also pretty sure he liked me because he told me he thought I looked like Paige Davis and since I made it obvious to everyone that I wanted to be Paige Davis, and also since I'm not blind and I knew I looked nothing like Paige Davis I realized this was blatant flirting on his part.

But John Cimino decided he should tell me just how much he liked me, and so he took me to Starbucks and told me how great and cute he thought I was (come to think of it, I really liked that part) and how his favorite thing about me was that I was so passionate about everything, that I was spunky and full of life, and that he just all around liked how I was just so passionate about everything. He referred often to the passion.

John Cimino dumped me on my 19th birthday.

He told me he couldn't handle how emotional I was.

Apparently, Mr. I-Love-How-Passionate-You-Are-Cimino did not realize that passionate people are very emotional people. And also, he probably couldn't handle the fact that I wouldn't make out with him right off. I did not just hand out the making out people. I made the boys I dated wait for the making out. I mean, he was super cute but was he worth risking a cold sore over? Seriously? A girl needs at least a month to decide  about that. And I'm very glad  never made out with a guy that would go around telling girls they look like Paige Davis and then dump them on their birthday. And I would have kissed him, I wanted to kiss him, but he took me to dinner one night and got all offended when I wouldn't let him feed me dessert. And by "feed me dessert" I mean he wanted to hold the spoon and feed me my ice cream. And so I just totally couldn't kiss him after that. But apparently, I was the one with the emotional issues.

Now when I look back on guys that I dated, John Cimino is one of my favorites. I'm glad for the time I spent with him, and not at all bitter about the whole dumping-me-on-my-birthday thing, even if I did go through a period where I named every spider I saw John Cimino before I smashed it with a rolled up magazine. He did tell me I looked like Paige Davis after all. I can forgive a lot if you compare me to super cute people. Especially if you compare me to say, an Olsen twin. That, people, is the secret to my heart.

  Edited to Add:
I wrote out this blog this morning. I thought about writing it all out last week but had a rough weekend and laid off the blog until I felt ready to write something funny. I just finished writing the blog and went back to my AT&T page at work. I just logged onto my homepage at work and THIS!!! is the story that was on the front page. I find this incredibly coincidental and totally freaky. I think the internet is stalking me. And also, now you can see for yourselves that I look nothing like Paige Davis. Thanks internet!

today

 

boomp3.com

a tale of utter stupidity

*disclaimer*
I realize that by telling this story, I am subjecting myself to total ridicule, as both my sister and my husband told me that it is the stupidest thing I've ever done.

The other day, Jeff was in the bedroom and said "Honey, it is burning up in here."

He went to check the thermostat and came back in.

"Did you know that it is 78 degrees in here? WHY do you have the thermostat on 78 degrees?"

"Because I was cold" I answered. I mean, obviously.

"But honey, 78 degrees is like, hot summer weather. Why did you put it on 78?"

"To make it warmer" I said, getting slightly exasperated with the conversation.

"But why in the world would you put it on 78?" he asked again

"Jeff, I put it on a number that I thought would make it warmer. I didn't know that would make it 78 degrees in the apartment. I don't know what you are trying to get at here."

"K, when you put the thermostat on 78 degrees, you do realize that makes it the house that same temperature don't you?"

Crap.

So apparently, the little numbers next to the thing you push to make the house warm or cold? Yeah, apparently those numbers represent the temperature that you want the house to be. I had no idea that this is how thermostats worked. I thought like, 1-50 was cold and 50 to 100 was warm and that you just moved the little bar up or down until it got the right amount of warm or cold in your house.

For some reason in my 24 years of living, I never made the correlation that those numbers were temperatures. I just thought it was this sort of sliding scale. I had no idea that if you put the little bar on 78 that it made it 78 degrees in your house. I blame this entirely on my parents, since they never let us touch the thermostat when we were growing up. On the other hand, maybe that was the rule because when I was cold, I'd sneak into the hall way and just slide the dial all the way over as far as it would go on the heat side. I probably owe my parents about $7391 for all those years of jacking up the heat.

I was telling my sister and her boyfriend this when they came over the other night and she said "Did it never occur to you that it is called a thermostat because it works just like a thermometer?"

And the answer to that is no, it most certainly did not.

I'd feel totally enlightened if I didn't feel so ridiculously stupid.