beachsick

This is about how I feel right now:




As much as I would have loved to sit on the beach and eat cheese grits and cupcakes for the rest of my life, the real reason I could have stayed in Seaside forever was so that I would never have to make this confession:



I cheated on Ike.

Okay, not really. It was the cheese grits. And drinking two drinks with each meal. And the candy apples. And the cupcakes. And the sunsets, though let's be real -- they'd be better if they were edible.



Sigh. Clearly I ate too much on this trip; good thing I'm in the midst of a low carb diet.



By the way, Ike forgave me for my little transgression with Rudy the French Bulldog. I can tell by his early morning snuggling.



Miss you, Carols. Next year in... who knows!

spring cleaning

As I said, I'll be out of town for the next 4 days. I could be worried about the state of our house when I return, but I am so lucky that my husband is so helpful with household chores.



Crap. Did I refer to Ike as my husband again? I've got to stop doing that.

Anyway, in addition to leaping up to the sink to help with the dishes/snag some leftovers, Ike is also a pro at loading the dishwasher.



He loves laundry day - he will come running from across the house if he hears the word "laundry"... although I think that has more to do with the fact that he gets to go outside (our washer and dryer are in the garage).



And he's been a huge help in my packing process. This morning while I was packing, he brought me a sock and dropped it in my suitcase. He looked pretty crestfallen when I gave it back to him.



And, um, Y's not bad around the house either... I guess.

d out

Once upon a time, three girls flew to Vegas armed with kukui beads, shrugs, and some useful advice: Don't tell anyone your real name.

"Jordan", "Riley", and "Taylor"

4 years later the same three girls, joined by two more friends, traveled to Dallas. This time we were armed with better clothing but the same precious advice. We chose the name "Carol". All of us. We figured a name like Carol - generally associated with well, moms -- would deter any weird people (aka, guys on steroids wearing Ed Hardy) from talking to us. As you can see from the picture below, it didn't quite work, but the name stuck.



To account for how 5 girls named Carol were friends, we explained we had met at a national convention for people named Carol and thus, the Carol Convention was born.

How dare they misspell our fake name?

This article in Real Simple inspired us to designate one person each year to plan a surprise trip (the yearly Carol Convention) and to add two more Carols to our posse. The girls (ladies? women?) in the article are in their 30s and some even have kids, but every year each one puts in a certain amount of money and one person plans a surprise weekend, heightening the suspense with months of clues.

Well, this year's trip starts Thursday, and after our series of cryptic clues, we were convinced we were going to be playing putt putt on a cruise with mailmen. But, it turns out we're going to a tiny resort town in Florida for 4 glorious days. Since the thing that makes my blog remotely amusing are tales of Y and Ike, neither of whom are invited, I might not have any fun blogs from the trip. So, I'm putting the pressure on my hilarious friend Kathy to recap the weekend!

You don't have to be rich, just smart.

Yesterday we decided to drive to Ikea. Sure, we got plenty of new furniture (which will need to be replaced in a year or so), but let's be honest. The real reason for our trip?

We needed this picture:




I'll share the Ikea goodness soon!

tips for a great marriage

Volume 1: Y's secret to Being Right

Y: have you seen the Sellotape?

HUH??

Me: Sellotape??? What in the world is sellotape.

Y (dumbfounded): SELL-O-TAPE. Tape. Cellophane tape.

Me: I mean, I figured that's what you were talking about, but... sellotape? Who says that?

Y: Um. Everyone?! It's like Scotch tape. Here, let me repeat my question in a way you'll understand - (puts on his best redneck voice) Daci, have you seen that there sticky stuff?

Me (furiously googling "sellotape"): Wikipedia says it's a British tape brand.

Y (triumphantly): See!

Me: See?! What are you talking about? We don't live in England!

Y: So? Everyone knows that brand! (Sits down at computer innocently.)

Me: Everyone in your house knows that brand**. I get why you called it Sellotape now, but you are not allowed to get mad at me for now knowing what it is!

Y: Oh really?? Why don't you read the Wikipedia page... again.


Many Americans refer to Scotch tape as Sellotape, becuase [sic] the brand is universally recognized as a pseudonym for clear tape.

That's right, people. Y changed Wikipedia to win an argument. I think that is a testament to how awesome I am at being right. And, by the way, Wikipedia hasn't changed the entry back yet, so if you'd like to try this little trick at home, it might just work for you too.


**Y's dad is British - other fun phrases I've had to get used to include "having a lie down", "film pod", "sweeps", and "riding my footcycle".

I tend to think of myself as a one man wolfpack

I just realized there is a huge blog community of med school wives. Where was this when I was unemployed, having minor panic attacks and feelings of uselessness when my day consisted of folding towels and Yoni's day consisted of cutting open skulls to dissect a brain??

Try doing THAT with a bonesaw, big shot med student.

But after reading a few of these blogs, I've realized I don't particularly need to be a part of their community. By some weird coincidence, every one of these blogs is written by someone who is REALLY religious and spends a lot of time praying for their husband and the outcome of his time in prison med school.That's all well and good, but, you know, not really my thing.

They also summarize their lives as "spending the next four years supporting my husband's dreams" or "being his personal cheerleader", which I suppose is true, but is that really how you want to define your life? That sounds so... depressing. I'm sure Yoni knows that I'm his biggest fan, but there are maybe 2 hours a month where I feel like a personal cheerleader. Those are always just following a test, and usually involve a lot of reassuring that No, a B might not be as good as an A but at least it's better than a C! And remember... D is for doctor and b is for... um... bsurgeon.

Anyway, I bring this up because it turns out that Yoni won't be running with me; he has a test two days later. Potential migraine + upcoming test is a recipe for disaster, and that's fine with me. As my fellow personal cheerleaders probably know, doing stuff alone is no big deal. I was an only child; I've got years of experience.

Besides, I was secretly hoping he wouldn't do it. I've never run with anyone before, and I'm sure I look like this:


And I am okay with not being made fun of for 3.1 miles straight.

You can't make this stuff up.

It all started with Jenny.

Jenny was, apparently, the most popular Vietnamese woman in America, and it just so happens that she was located in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Unfortunately, one day Jenny had to give up her phone number with no warning. Her friends in Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Dallas, and California continued to call her, leaving long, panicky voicemails in Vietnamese.

I got her old number. And lots of Vietnamese voicemails.

It took me several months of broken English conversations, but eventually I convinced Jenny's friend in Dallas that I was not, in fact, Jenny. And then her friend in Los Angeles. And then her posse in Baton Rouge. And eventually, the Jenny phone calls stopped.

I had forgotten about Jenny until I got my latest cell phone number, which once belonged to The Great Gigi. Who is Gigi? you ask, How is she so great?

Well... let's just say Gigi gets a lot of phone calls at 2 am.

She also gets many a text at that hour; such eloquent messages as "Wut up grl?" and "Say gigi how u doin". Gigi's "friends", who range from California to Phoenix to Galveston, all seem American, but their grasp of simple concepts and the English language are no better than Jenny's Vietnamese friends. I have spoken to a charming young man-friend of Gigi's in Galveston several times, and my conversations go something like this:

Man-friend: Yo Gigi
Me: This isn't Gigi.
Man-friend: Where she at?
Me: I don't know. As I told you the last three times you called, this isn't her number anymore.
Man-friend: You gotta tell me her new number!
Me: I have no idea who Gigi is!
Man-friend: I am soooooo sorry! Please tell me her number!
Me: Please stop calling! I don't know Gigi!
Man-friend: Okay. Thanks.

A few hours later I'll get a text like this: Pleze tull me gigi numbr.

Time out - this post is much too text heavy, don't you think?

Scholarly Ike does not approve.

Anyway, random inconveniences that make great stories have been happening to me my entire life. Like the time a misunderstanding at the salon where I got my hair done before prom ended with a potential warrant out for my arrest. Or that time my bus driver in high school mistook something completely benign that I said for a racial slur and sent me to the principal's office. Stuff like that.

Thankfully, the Gigi phone calls have slowed down and I haven't been threatened with arrest since 2002, but I was reminded of the good old Gigster and my weird luck after my dad called to tell me the latest strange thing that has randomly happened to me: My old credit card, no longer in use, had somehow been charged for a mysterious DVD of the month club that not even Google has heard of.

This month's DVD selection, sent to my house in a timely manner (got to give this mystery company credit for punctuality)? When Women Lost Their Tails. Never heard of it? You'll regret that after you read Yahoo movies' captivating synopsis.


1975: Busty prehistoric women cavort in this silly sequel to WHEN WOMEN HAD TAILS.

I can't wait to see how this one pans out...

run, dandy, run

I've always been a runner. Sort of.

My first race. I'm the one chilling in the stroller.

When I was in the third grade, I won a 3 foot tall trophy for being the fastest kid (girls and boys).

Fast forward to today: I can run for about 3 minutes before I realize all the better things i could be doing with my time.

There are a few reasons for this. First of all, I try to go light on anything that might build muscle in my legs, lest they end up like my dad's:

No offense dad... those are impressive. Just not on me:)

And second of all... well, that was actually my only good reason. Which is why I've decided to get over my fear of ginormoquads and run a 5k.

I haven't actually signed up yet, but I figure once I tell the whole world/my 27 followers, I'll have to do it.

My mom had Parkinson's and I think she would love to know that i was running this race. I also think she would approve of all the purchases that go along with starting to run: new shoes, moisture wicking running gear (I bet she'd love Lululemon). Because let's face it, that cool running hoodie I'm rocking in the stroller just doesn't fit anymore.

I'm not going to ask you for money or anything, so here's what you can do to help: in the comments, convince Y that he should run with me. His excuse for not running is legit -- running gives him a migraine. However, here's what else is legit: the 200+ dollars we just spent on preventive migraine medicine.

happy wife, happy life

Are you ready for my unsolicited relationship advice?

Communication is key.

Last night during dinner, Y dropped his knife. Since he is a grown man, I figured he could take care of it and didn't think too much about it.

This morning I realized it was still on the floor. I did the best thing I knew to do in this situation -- sent Yoni this text:



A few hours later, I found this in my inbox:





See? Issue resolved, and we didn't even have to talk to each other.

This is why we can't have nice things.

I'm not going to lie, getting a dog was probably the best decision we've ever made. Not only is he the main reason I have anything to write about in this blog, he's not a bad snuggler, either.




He's the perfect model for all of my creative endeavors.




He is a diligent watchdog, always alerting us when our next door neighbor gets home and when the neighborhood chihuahua takes its daily walk. Important stuff.




He's very smart. You might even call him scholarly.





And he's very interested in his Jewish faith.





He's a way better workout buddy than Y(who gave up on my pilates video after 10 minutes).



But this week, my favorite thing about Ike is our common interest, an interest we've shared since he was just a wee puppy: shoes.



You see, when Ike gets a new pair of shoes...




...so do I.

back to the boys

Y is getting a little frustrated that he and Ike haven't been featured on the blog recently. Or maybe he's frustrated that when he is featured, it's usually not very... loving, let's say.

Blog + nag = Blag

So, I thought I should take this time to talk about Y's positive traits. He's incredibly smart. Case in point:





Not only is he about halfway to becoming an MD, look at that outfit! He's doing SO well in my class on how to basically be Joseph Gordon Levitt in the movie 500 Days of Summer. And for that, I am so proud of him.

Good job, honey. Remember rule number one: You can never have too many sweater vests.

Anyway, in more important news, Ike is a beast.

fashion show! fashion show! fashion show at lunch!

Last weekend I went to New Orleans, where my friends and I celebrated my friend A's birthday. A and I are both interested in fashion (although she's probably never accidentally dressed like a French clown). So, since I have over 10,000 pictures on iPhoto dating back to 2004 (I'm that annoying girl who always carries a camera, okay? Deal with it.), I decided this blog needed a montage of A's birthday fashion.

2004: Judging by the color of R (center)'s fabulous pants, this was not taken on A's birthday but sometime after Memorial day. However, I think it's an accurate representation of what we might have worn to celebrate our dear friend's 20th birthday. Note the abundance of pink and polka dots.

For A's 21st birthday, we celebrated with light denim, shades of green, and a shirred top with a lovely applique.

Of course A, who didn't even know she was about to be attending her surprise 21st birthday party, is the only one of us who actually looked good.

2006. One word: gauchos. Okay, two more words: denim jacket.

2007: Well... I don't actually have anything to say here. Good job, girls.

2008: the year of the weave.

And, 2010: A apparently borrowed her outfit from her 21 year old self.

Happy birthday, A! You're closer to 50 than you are to one! Can't wait to see what you wear to your 40th birthday bus trip to Lucy's.

deep {sea} thoughts

Y's first words to me this morning:

Good morning, darling.

I love you.

Want me to make you breakfast in bed?

Do you think Spongebob's real name is Robert?

M.I.A: my weekend