Something 'bout an airport...

Something about an airport makes me want to blog. People are just fascinating.

Currently I’m being a creep (what's new) as I sit here and watch these two adorable twin boys (adorable like I almost want to shove them in my pockets and take them home with me... almost...) as they stare out the window. I’ve never seen a human being more excited about an airplane in my life. And for once, children in the airport are NOT driving me absolutely insane. Instead, they’re just entertaining. I can tell they’ve just learned to talk and I have a feeling “airplane” may have been their first words.

I remember the days when I got so excited about something so little (not that an airplane is little, but you get the point). If more people got excited about things like airplanes, or you know, whatever else, the world would be a happier place. Just ask the twin boys in matching green IRELAND t-shirts in the Logan Airport.

After 12 days of being home to visit family (one last time before we leave California!), I’m finally headed home. Time flew by too quickly, as it always does, and I’m not especially ready to head home. I do miss my mister, though, and of course my cats (crazy cat lady status).

It’s going to be a long night and already at this point, I can hear our TempurPedic calling my name. I know, sweet bed, I miss you too.

Until next time...

What's Up, Buttercup?

Hi bloggies (noun; people that read blogs – I just made that up), it’s been a while. I bet you’re wondering where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to. Wonder no more. I’ll fill you in.

Life has just been… life. I’m still cranking away on my school work. I finally got my Associate’s Degree. It only took me 14 years (it felt like that long, anyway). I’m working on midterms right now for two completely random, but equally interesting classes. Midterms suck, though, no matter how interesting the subject is, or how smart you are, or how lazy you are and don’t read the chapters ever ever ever. My sweet mister is just about to graduate from an intense, year-long class of learning to speak another language. He is so incredibly smart that it makes me feel bad about myself. I can’t even speak proper English half the time, and he’s heading into class number two (which will make him trilingual by the end of the summer… yeah, TRI). I’m counting down the days until my mom is here to visit and to watch the mister graduate. I’m practically counting down the hours, at this point. I’m so excited and ready for a little fun in my lackluster daily schedule (and a shopping buddy that appreciates a solid trip to Goodwill). If the mister was any other branch besides the AF, we would be packing our house as we speak, getting ready to make a big move. Instead, we wait until August, which sucks… but it could certainly be worse. I’m planning the road trip of a lifetime for the beginning of August with my best friend. Can I say “road trip of a lifetime” if I just made this near-exact coast-to-coast trip last March? Sure I can. This road trip will include my bestie (yep, I said it) turning 21 in Las Vegas. There are no words for what kind of experience this is shaping up to be.

The things that are new in my life include the following: I turned 22 since I last posted. It wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be. I played a role in the best couple’s massage to ever occur on this Earth, which happened to fall on my birthday evening. I practically melted into the massage table, and there was never a sadder time in my life when she told us it was over. My mister bought me the softest, comfiest sweatpants ever for my birthday. I haven’t taken them off since. Am I joking? No. I am still wearing them… cranking on 28 days in a row. I’ve been to the doctors twice, which is almost a record for me. We bought a new bed. I’ve never felt lazier and more comfy in my life. It was worth every single penny that we have to pay for the next 20 years (2 years, whatever). I’ve been renting Gilmore Girls from the library – they own all seven seasons and I’m only halfway through number two. I forgot how much I love Rory and Lorelai Gilmore. Also – Melissa McCarthy is in it, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ve recently watched her on Ellen and Identity Thief, and discovered just how awesome she really is. I’ve decided to finish reading the 50 Shades trilogy. I made it halfway through book two and got incredibly, six-month-long sidetracked. I got a new phone with a frontward facing camera, so brace yourself for a million selfies. I bought plane tickets to visit my sweet fam in April. This will be my final coast-to-coast trip for the rest of my life, I hope. Oh yeah, and I bought a flag to accompany the empty flag pole bracket that’s been on the front of our house since we moved in. A Maine flag. Represent.

I haven't showered yet BUT this is a no-judgement zone... right?

PS - The "What's Up, Buttercup?" title came from one of my absolute favoritest TV shows of all time, The Big Bang Theory. Here's the video. I could've used "What's the Gist, Physicist?" but I didn't because I don't know any physicists. Just buttercups.

Hangover Memories

At this time last year, this Super Bowl Sunday when my dear Patriots were actually standing a chance, I was dying. I was so sick that I was pretty sure I was just dying. The night before had been my birthday – take a guess what age. I thought I’d known hangover in the past, that slightly gross feeling in the pit of your stomach, the nauseated feeling at every nasty smell, the pounding headache. No. I was wrong. On this Sunday last year, I think I was hit by a bus in my sleep, and nobody ever filled me in on the events.

At midnight:02, the night/morning I turned 21, I was at a Cumberland Farms buying Smirnoff and Captain Morgan’s. I drank until 5AM, watched all the Paranormal Activities… and don’t remember them being that scary (it must have been the alcohol – I still, to this day, will never watch those again). I slept for about 2 hours, went to lunch, already didn’t feel great, and then the night began. My 21^st birthday started (again) at a charity event where I inhaled some free wine, red and white alike, even though I hate wine. I practically had to plug my nose to get it down, but it was alcohol, and it was free, and I was legal. So whatever. I partied with my mom all night, which would sound lame to most people… unless you know my mom. I also partied with my in-laws. Just me, my mom, my MIL and my FIL. Seriously. And I loved every second of it. Started with wine, moved to tequila, and rum shots, and vodka, and ended on tequila. So… yeah. I feel like this story tells itself.

Reminiscing on the day I was hit by a bus (metaphorically, of course, unless you believe that I may have actually been hit by a bus – because I’m sticking to that story). I laid in bed from 7:30 til 4:00 in the afternoon, just praying I could finally vomit my brains out and feel a little better (sorry for that image). I talked to my mister for a while, though, so that was nice. He was at boot camp, so my long day of dying in bed also consisted of me wanting to cry for my husband – kind of like a baby. It was Super Bowl day, so at 4:00, I dragged my dying self out of bed, drove to my mom’s in my pajamas, watched the Patriots (lose – my heart still breaks a little bit every day), probably cried my way home, and went back to sleep. Today should be a little better – I hope. Today I plan to eat my body weight in calories, maybe more if I’m lucky, and finish all the alcohol in my fridge, because I’m sick of staring at vodka bottles with less than a tablespoon of liquid left in them.

But I can’t help but to think of what the last year has done for me. It’s crazy, really. I never wrote a “2012 Recap” like I wanted to, but I’ve been slacking, what can I say? So 2012 in a nutshell: boot camp, turning 21, moving, road trip with my mom (Niagara Falls, St. Louis Arch, Kansas City Bombing Memorial, Sedona AZ, Grand Canyon, Vegas), California, new home, two new cats, 4 round trip flights from CA-ME, my degree, fireworks over the Bay Bridge and a scary San Fran night (see previous blog post). And a bunch more things, obviously. But that’s what comes to mind.

So what can 2013 to bring to possibly top that? I mean, I have some ideas, so we’ll see... :) But to begin the list, tomorrow I turn 22. For the first time in my life, I’m not super excited about a birthday. Damn you growing up. After 21, I feel like there’s not much to look forward to except adult stuff. Like lowered car insurance at 25. But guess what? I’m pumped about that. PUMPED.

*Disclaimer: I do not drink that much. Ever, really. But it was my 21^st birthday, so cut me some slack. And today – even though “finishing all that alcohol in my fridge” is the ultimate alcoholic statement, I probably won’t even be buzzed… which might be a problem if the 49ers lose, because I’ll be coming home with a very upset mister.*

*Disclaimer #2: I’m going to stop drinking after today. Seriously. For a while anyway. Another alcoholic statement if I’ve ever heard one, but the difference is, I’m serious.*

We spent a solid 30 minutes in this bathroom taking pictures, as a result of the free wine...

Going, going... gone.

Rosy cheeks should give it away. But look at that cheezin' smile. Every single picture...

Is this real life?

Growing up with a mom who doubles as a nurse, I went to the doctor’s office maybe… 4 times. And the first time I went to the Emergency Room was when I was 19, and it’s because I drove myself there. So when my mom tells me I should go to the doctor, I get my butt to the doctor.

I couldn’t even explain to you if I tried – but military insurance is very confusing. First thing this morning, I had to drive up to the grocery store to make a million phone calls (because I get absolutely no reception at my house – like, negative bars, seriously). I couldn’t get into my doctor for three weeks (what kind of crazy is that?) so I received an authorization to go to urgent care (not of my choice, but of Tricare’s choice… hello red flag).

I’ve never been to an urgent care because I don’t even think they exist in the little tiny state I grew up in. So I finally get to the sketchy-looking office, fill out 74 pages of paperwork (almost literally), and sit. And wait. And wait. And probably catch the flu from all the hacking, sneezing, nasty-breathing people in the waiting room with me. An hour goes by and my phone is dying, which makes me have a slight panic attack (I’m addicted to technology… don’t judge me). Almost another hour goes by and they call my name. As I stand up, a man walks through the door with a handful of bloody tissues, and they rush him in ahead of me, instructing me to take a seat (yep, again). Yeah, because a finger almost sliced off is as important as my sore throat. Deep sigh, followed by coughing.

I finally get called again, this time without any bloody interruptions (hahaha, I crack myself up). The sweet lady calls me to the scale and kindly says, “Would you like to step on?” Is this real life? Is she serious? Would I like to weigh myself? Hi, I’m a female, nice to meet you. I look at her and uncomfortably laugh. “Should I take my boots off?” She smiles and tells me to do whatever I want. I want to take my boots off, and my pants, and my jacket, and my socks, and my shirt, and ten pounds, whatever else is about to accompany me to the scale. But I slide my boots off and stare down the face of the devil. The lady tells me that she’ll set my purse on the floor for me. You know what… I wasn’t feeling terrible enough about this entire situation, so yes, I’d love to stick my new/pricey Coach purse on this germ-infested floor. As if she reads my mind, she says, “This purse is too pretty to be on the floor. I’ll hold it.” Thank you, sweet angel… the highlight of my day.

I get into a small waiting room where she takes my BP, heart rate, temperature, and whatever else doctors do. I had a small fever, which secretly made me happy, because up until this point, I thought I might have been exaggerating/imagining my sickness. She informs me that the doctor will be in shortly, and leaves. I sit. And wait. And wait. And crinkle the annoying paper on the table. And crinkle some more. And I feel like the paper is crinkling with every breath I take. And the crinkling is giving me a migraine. I relocate to the chair designated for the doctor, I learn later, where I sit. And wait. And wait. And then I notice a colony of ants on the sink. How unsanitary, right? I follow their trail and see they are coming from a crack in the cheesy linoleum flooring. Yep, that’s just what I want to see in a medical office. Ants. Lovely.

I wait for another 40 minutes. I lay my head against the wall, remembering that I slept for about 2 hours last night in between my coughing fits and reruns of Roseanne. Then I sit up straight and have a weird fear that ants crawled in my hair. I start to get antsy (pun intended… I’m so lame) and get sidetracked with a disgusting box of BIOHAZARD needles. Gross. I hate the doctor’s office, in case you missed that memo. I start to get nosey and open cabinets underneath the sink. Begin déjà vu. I am such my mother’s child. I remember being younger and sitting in the doctor’s office (you know, those 4 times) and my mom would be poking around the drawers. I’d freak out like we were going to get arrested. And here I am doing it myself.

The doctor finally comes in and again, “Is this real life?” The doctor is a middle-aged Asian man, with long curly black and grey hair. He’s wearing a purple shirt with horizontal stripes and a blue tie with vertical stripes. That should say enough. He’s also wearing high-water pants (expecting a flood?) that are black… with dark blue socks… vomit. I hate that, in case you’ve never met me.

But I don’t judge people based on their terrible ability to match stripes with stripes, so myself and my open mind smile – and then, as life would have it, I have a hard time understanding him, which sucks for me because I feel like I’m missing something important. He tells me about how he’s feeling sick himself, living off cough drops and fighting the dry cough. Yay – that makes me feel better. Before I finish telling him my symptoms, he tells me it’s Bronchitis with a hint of asthma... whatever that means.

He assigns me a cocktail of prescriptions and inhalers, and in comes a medical assistant who looks younger than me. However, he’s wearing matching scrubs (no crazy array of stripes) so I feel more comfortable with him. I do a weird lung capacity test, and I fail miserably. Breathing at a lung capacity 29% lower than I should be, sick and all, he tells me that if I can’t pass, I’ll have to do a breathing treatment that’ll take another 45 minutes. After three hours of this ant-infested office, I’m ready to go. I give one more big breath, see a few stars, and hit 82%. I passed, and in result, came very close to passing out.

I’m finally on my way, and the rest of my afternoon is a strange whirlwind of “Is this real life?” type events. My phone dies exactly as my cousin is telling me the most important part of our conversation and then my prescriptions are nowhere to be seen at the pharmacy. My life. So now I’m home and watching Parenthood… absolutely the highlight of this off day. I just had a small cough attack where I was pretty sure my life was over. The inhalers didn’t do a thing… maybe I’m doing it wrong. 

Ants. On the sink. You know, where people wash their hands.

Friends with Friends

Last night I had a dream that I was the 7^th friend in Friends – my absolute favorite television show of all time, in case you’ve never met me. I was pregnant in the dream, which was weird and scary and confusing, and Phoebe just kept telling me how painful childbirth was, because “trust her, she’s had 3 babies.” We were sitting on the couch in the Central Perk coffeehouse drinking coffee, which is weird because I hate coffee and I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to avoid coffee when you’re pregnant (I’m not really pregnant – it was just a dream – in case I need to clarify). And Joey kept saying “How you doin’?” and Chandler kept making cute eyes at me and Ross was talking about dinosaur things, and guess what? Dinosaur things are as boring in a dream as they make it look on TV. And it must have been Christmas because I woke up with “Noel” stuck in my head. I hate that song.

I have no idea where that dream came from. I haven’t even watched an excessive amount of Friends in, like, days. I really am obsessed with that show. I am in the process of owning all 10 seasons – one by one, I buy them on eBay as I finish re-watching them. I’m a freak. I also watch 2 hours of random re-runs every day on TBS from 1:00 – 3:00 pm. Pitiful, I know.

I’m guessing the dream came from an overload combination of Robitussin and Mucinex and Nyquil and multivitamins and cough drops and orange juice and Gatorade, because that’s been my life for the past 3 days. I’m surprisingly getting worse every day, so that sucks. 50% of the day, I sound like a man with a deep voice, and the other 50% of the day, I have no voice at all. I bet the mister appreciates that – the no voice, not the man voice.

All joking aside, he has been a wonderful mister. When I’m sick, I’m the world’s biggest baby, and I deserve the #1 COMPLAINER ribbon. He stayed home with me all weekend, cuddled up in pajamas, cooked dinner, watched my girly movies, listened to my terrible predictions during the Golden Globes (by the way, how about Jodi Foster?) and listened to me (try to) scream at the TV during the Patriots game. He’s a keeper. (I’m predicting 49ers v. Patriots on February 3^rd, with a big fat Patriots win, of course. It’ll be interesting because the mister is just about as die-hard 49ers as I am Patriots).

So my life has been being sicky and having weird Friends dreams and starting school this morning (sad face) and taking medicine and watching so much football and laughing at Amy Poehler and Tina Fey rock it on the Golden Globes (two of my four girl crushes – the other two are Katy Perry and Jennifer Aniston).

A few laughs to get you through the afternoon. You are so welcome.

Little Fish in a Big Sea

In case you read my farewell to 2012, let me update you on what ACTUALLY happened, because, you know, fireworks over the Golden Gate Bridge just sounded too good to be true, right?

It was actually fireworks over the Bay Bridge.

But settle your jealous bones. When you are as sheltered as myself and my mister, you tend to feel slightly out of place with 200,000 San Franciscans (is that what you call them?) on your heels. So here’s the story of how our night went down.

A very kind shuttle driver informed us that we were absolutely nuts if we thought driving into San Fran on New Year’s Eve was even close to a good idea, so he taught us about the BART, the Bay Area something something… the subway/train/whatever. So we did that, and that was an adventure in itself. It should be easy enough for two adults, you know, to figure out how to get 10 miles from our hotel to the city. So we finally get on the BART, 45 minutes later than we had planned, because everyone else in San Fran had the same idea. It wasn’t too difficult, except for the fact that we didn’t know what stop was which, and for about 35 minutes we assumed that we were going to end up in downtown Oakland after dark… NO thank you. I hate the Raiders, so I just assume that I’d hate Oakland an equal amount.

After we finally get off, stupid iPhone Mapquest takes us around the block twice, only to end up at the BART station again.  Thanks MQ, you suck. It’s dark and chilly and the roads are crowded and two miles later, we find the Ferry Building, which sits just off to the left of the Bay Bridge. A pretty view – but I insist to the mister that I read online, PIER 41 is the place to hear the music that is synced to the fireworks, so we walk. And we walk. And we walk some more. A nice man on a bicycle taxi of some sort tells us that Pier 41 is “only about a mile” from our current location, and even though we’d already walked about 3 (in Ugg boots, by the way), we continue. And it gets chillier. And I have to pee (what the hell is new, right friends?) and there are a million people (maybe a thousand, whatever) surrounding me. We see a cute place to maybe stop and get drinks, but continue on to “make sure we get a good view.”

So we walk and walk and walk, like I mentioned, and our feet hurt, and we FINALLY end up at 41, and there are only about ten people there. Well that’s confusing, since this is the prime location to see the fireworks according to the ‘net. So we sit, and we start to freeze from that oh-so-fresh ocean breeze at 10:45pm, and I start to Google, and my cheeks blush, and I’m afraid to tell my husband that I have just diagnosed myself with dyslexia – Pier 41 and Pier 14 are two totally different locations, it turns out. And in the moment I realized I miscalculated by about 1.5 miles, all I want to do is be in my bed, or the hotel bed, or really anywhere but Pier 41. So we walk again. And it starts to feel much more “city-ish” as a ridiculous amount of police and fire and ambulance lights go flying by us, down the middle of two lanes and almost running over a handful of drunken pedestrians. And as we get closer, I get a little more scared. That “cute little place to get a drink” I mentioned earlier is now surrounded with CAUTION tape and those hundred police/fire/ambulance lights we just passed. Policemen are screaming at people and I suddenly feel like San Francisco is not so great after all.

We hurry down the road and finally end up at Pier 9, standing on the sidewalk freezing our booties off as we wait for the stupid fireworks to start. We’re both grumpy and tired and frozen solid and there are too many people, and oh yeah – we are SO not city people. But I do have to say, this was our first New Year’s Eve together, and the fireworks start, and I got my midnight kiss, and we had a pretty great view – fireworks right over the BAY Bridge (not the GG Bridge like I insisted in my ADIOS 2012 post… I suck).

And we walk back another 2 miles to the BART station down dark allies and past drunken chicks hanging out of car windows, screaming a random assortment of New Year’s cheers. And I’m pretty sure I saw some hookers, so that was new.

And we end up back at our hotel two hours past midnight, and we are thankful that we didn’t fall asleep on the BART, because that was a very realistic possibility.

And the next morning, I see on the news that a man was shot at the Pier 23 restaurant (that “cute little place to get drinks” we almost went to and later saw all the emergency crews at) and they couldn’t find the gunman in the mass amount of people on the Embarcadero (you know, exactly where we were chillin’ all night)…

Hi I’m Kaila and I hate the city.

 Our view from the sidewalk.

This was us in our warm, comfy, safe hotel room - if we had only known what we were getting ourselves into...