Ghost of Halloween Past

Behold a young CKD circa 1992 on her way to her first high school Halloween dance dressed as Garth Algar:

No one I know is able to look at this photo without a full-on spit-take. You’re welcome.

I think we can all agree this costume is the absolute antithesis of the “slutty” Halloween costumes that inspire so much pearl-clutching today.  Knowing that a girl is wearing her dead grandpa’s glasses is probably a boner killer for most adolescent boys I’d imagine.  Also?  I maybe weighed 100lbs at this point in my life but damn if you can tell from this ultra-flattering outfit.  Body dysmorphia and being raised in a shame-based religion, holla!

Dorky as all get-out and oblivious to everyone’s mockery: yep, sounds like me.  No joke, this is probably my favorite Halloween costume ever and I won “Funniest Costume” at the Halloween dance so yeah.  Who’s the loser now?


So, This Happened


Congratulations, Gentlemen, on your second World Series win in three years.  You make me proud and homesick and very nervous with your post-season toruture and extra innings and what-not.  But mostly the proud and homesick stuff.


ETA: AND YOU KNOW I am gonna eat the shit out of my free taco on Tuesday.  Someone stole a base so that I may have a free, possibly disgusting taco.  It’s my duty as an American.

Take a Bath and Wrap a Hot Towel Around Your Head

Well, I’m home with a cold today.  What’s that old saying?  “Feed a cold, punch the fuckface who gave it to gave it you” – right?  Big shout out to the co-worker who came to sick work this week, hacked all over the office, and infected me.  Good stuff.

Other than the annoyance of being sick, it’s actually not so bad.  I have sick days lined up so I’m not stressed about that, I am getting a few things done around the house, and daytime TV has some fun surprises (What is UP, Gilmore Girls!).  The downside?  The crazy-ass dreams that accompany the sweet cold medicine-induced slumber.  Like, that I wound up at a Romney rally at our local Planned Parenthood.  What the hell, subconscious?

Other than being an incubus of plague, life has been pretty sweet.  The weather is showing signs of acknowledging autumn, my hair looks great (after six stylists in four years it appears we have a winner), and the Giants are in the playoffs.  Being hopped up on Theraflu should add some extra-special excitement to Game 3.

Abrupt Change of Subject Ahoy!

I think we’re all ready for a mental palate cleanser after yesterday’s Debbie Downer of a crapwad post, yes?  Yes.  Perhaps some vintage CKD?  Let’s talk about booze, y’all.

Look!  We made wine!  I’m basically married to Jesus!

Come to Butthead.

We made a Riesling, which seemed like a nice choice for something that would be ready in early Fall and into the holidays and who are we kidding?  I’ll drink this this stuff ANYTIME.  It actually tastes good, which was the big fear of course.  All that time, money, effort, and grape juice could have been for nothing.  Or, like, really expensive funky vinegar.  But it turned out great and friends and family have enjoyed it (or are at least polite enough to say so).  Ed put his logo/design skillz to work with creating the label, while I wrote the back copy.  The joke was that since this was homemade, it was basically like the bathtub gin our grandfathers would have made, hence the name of “Claw Foot” for our boutique winery.  Boutique winery is code for “a bucket in my kitchen” because we are klassy up in this piece.  Obviously.

So, if you come over to our house we will offer this to you, but won’t be offended if you want something else made by professionals who weren’t shrieking “YOU’RE SPILLING IT EVERYWHERE!” at some point in the process.

A Little Jedi Wisdom

Try not.  Do or do not.  There is no try. 

– Yoda


I am trying to remember that someone else’s happiness or good fortune isn’t an intentional slap in the face to me.

I am trying to remember that there is not a finite amount of joy or love in this world.

I am trying to remember that our time will come.

I am trying to be truly, sincerely happy on the inside and not put on a happy face for show.

I am trying to remember that my feelings are valid, but I can’t take them out on others.

I really am trying, and hoping it will all make sense soon.

And You Can Forget About Shaved Legs

Happy Anniversary to the love of my life, the peanut butter to my jelly, the peas to my carrots…

Holy shit! We did it! Now where’s my cocktail? Also, my boobs looked great in this dress. Just sayin’.

We’ve been married two years now, which means we are officially no longer considered newlyweds.  This might be why cotton is the “traditional” gift for the second wedding anniversary: it’s all about the sweatpants and granny panties from here, isn’t it?

In all seriousness, Ed planned an amazing weekend of fun and surprises* – flowers based on my wedding bouquet delivered to my office, homemade beignets, mimosas, wine tasting, and an amazing meal, to name a few – and he is easily the most honest, funniest, smartest person I know.  I am constantly humbled by his approach to life’s challenges and the genuine kindness he shows everyone he meets.  This year has been wonderful but it hasn’t always been easy, if that makes any sense.  We have spent a lot of time in doctors’ waiting rooms, hoping for good news, which doesn’t really lend itself to a “WOOHOO PARTY!” feeling, but I can’t imagine a better partner in this crazy life.

Happy Anniversary, Love.

*My contribution to the “surprise” portion of the weekend was an unfortunate blood sugar spike resulting in a monk bringing me water (don’t ask) because what kind of weekend would it be without a near-medical emergency?