It is a truth universally acknowledged that I have a great and unending love of cheese. So when confronted with not one but two free samples at the Giant Eagle of various kinds of cheese, I was able to with no small difficulty move past the second sample vendor.
But then about a minute later I came to my senses and returned to him and tried one of those samples as well.
“Didn’t you just come by here?” asked Cheese Vendor #2.
“I did walk by, but now I am coming back to eat your things,” I answered.
Liebling walks up behind me with the cart as he has finished acquiring our actual groceries.
“Oh I did recognize you!” exclaims Cheese Vendor #2. “You were with the man with the awesome beard.”
I frown at this. I am not a huge fan of the beard.
“See?” Liebling says. “The beard is cool.”
Cheese Vendor #2 nods sadly. “That’s the reason I had to shave mine.” He proceeds to stroke his unadorned chin pathetically.
I gave up on the conversation then. The beard may be growing on me, but my love of cheese has never wavered.
Last month my friend’s darling husband let me beat the hell out of his car under the belief that I could be taught to drive a manual. And I am endlessly grateful because I had never until that moment realized that driving cars was FUN. Having learned to drive in a white Dodge Caravan from two parents who could not even move a manual car, I had been raised under the white suburban belief that cars were for transportation and sports cars were for douche bags.
Cue present day where I tell my car-loving Liebling that I would like a car that is better in the snow, shorter in length than my ’03 Taurus, and a six-speed manual transmission.
He promptly told me to buy a Subaru WRX, and when I shared this with the aforementioned friend’s husband his response was “that is a really fast car.” So, satisfied I had made the right decision, I went out and bought a sports car that I was not actually able to drive off the lot. Already a strong advocate for cursive handwriting, I was doing my best to overcome this tweet I saw earlier in the week:
One week later I am alarmingly smug about how many male co-workers have asked to race me, told me they love my car, or simply stared at it while whimpering as I laughingly drove off, praying silently that I didn’t stall in front of anyone. Liebling’s Audi-driving dad said he would teach me heel and toe shifting. I have started reading car blogs at work! I don’t know what’s happening, but I like it.
For any one who cares about this sort of thing, we are five days in to NaNoWriMo and I have written 10,327 words! For any not crazy people, November is the month where people who like writing got it into their heads that it was a good thing to write 50,000 words in thirty days and call it National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo for short). One of my high school teachers introduced me to this, but 17-year-old me had about as much writing follow through as she had SAT studying follow through or cleaning her room follow through (so, none).
But I have grown since then and I managed to hit the 50,000 word mark my senior year of college and last year, so I am hoping to get another win. I am using a new writing program called Scrivener that I got on sale after completing NaNoWriMo last year, and it is making my writing process so much better. I am in love.
So far this month I have decided that my sympathetic character is the devil and borrowed my close friend’s coming out story for another character (with his permission, of course). If you aren’t excited for me, take this opportunity to re-evaluate your life choices.
And wish me luck!
My November 1 kicked off to a good start when my friend (whom we will call Anna as in the Anna to my Elsa) who slept over because we were too drunk to get her home knocked on my bedroom door. This started a weird conversation in which Anna was wearing her Teen Titans Robin costume and Liebling and I were naked under the sheets.
We recreated our night through screenshots of Snapchat photos, a Taco Bell app receipt, Facebook posts, and word association games in what Liebling termed “CSI: What Did I Do Last Night.” For anyone wondering, the Taco Bell app is awesome, because when you convince your co-worker to drive you home and take you to Taco Bell you get to tell the drive-thru voice that you used the app, he will ask if you’re Snow (he used my real name, but we’ll stick with Snow) and you will scream in the way that only delighted drunk people can that yes you are Snow and he is an angel. I really like to tell people they are angels when I am drunk. The more you know.
Highlights of the evening?
- My dad came out to my favorite bar to see what all the fuss was about. We took a great many selfies, he bought us drinks, he met my friends and co-workers, he was pretty horrified but a great sport.
- You don’t have to remember people’s names on Halloween, you only have to say their costume in varying forms of excitement.
- Wearing someone else’s feather boa.
- Singing many songs thanks to a Karaoke DJ dressed like Meat Loaf.
- Dancing and dancing and dancing.
- Not throwing up! I am now 1/3 on not-throwing-up-when-I-have-a-ride-home-from-this-bar.
- Eating Taco Bell with Anna and Liebling and discovering the joy of accidentally ordering a crunchwrap supreme.
- Somehow managing to remove my makeup and my contacts without blinding myself.
It was a good Halloween.
A while back I blogged about a man I was calling Yoga Jones. He was the one who complained about how it is just as miserable to be in a relationship as it is to be alone.
Yoga Jones and I spoke again recently in which he asked me about “tertiary relationships”.
Me: What in hell is a tertiary relationship?
Yoga Jones: You know, where your significant other just isn’t that attractive so you have to find someone else to take care of business.
My internal monologue: That’s literally cheating. Stop it with your middle class white boy word creation. You didn’t invent a new concept of relationships. No.
Me: I would be against that on principle.
Yoga Jones: But monogamy is literally a made up human construct.
My internal monologue: So is fast food and flag football and your paycheck and you seem to love those.
And at about this point my brain exploded. I found out later he had cheated on his girlfriend over the weekend and was basically trying to get me to help him feel better about it.
I am the friend who will help you feel better when you gain ten pounds. I will stay up late to help you study and proofread anything you need proofread. I will tell you when those jeans make your butt look less like the object of affection of any nearby large snakes and more like a pancake.
But I am not going to make you feel better for cheating on your girlfriend because she isn’t hot enough for you. I am not going to tell you it’s okay to hurt other people. Not telling someone that you did something wrong is not the same as not doing something wrong. “I wouldn’t want to tell her the truth because then she has to carry the guilt” is not an excuse.
If you aren’t happy, leave. Don’t break someone’s heart because you aren’t mature enough to be honest.
Have you ever met someone who, when they told you that the engagement ring their fiance picked out was chipped and had to be sent back, you immediately suspected that it was all a lie and she demanded he get another one because the rock was too small?
These suspicions of insanity of this creature are not out of the realm of possibility. This is the same person who, upon realizing my romantic interest in the man who turned her down for a date in high school, made up elaborate lies about him that I only discovered four months later. She also tried to keep apart her own brother and the girl he liked through equally ridiculous lies. Thankfully Liebling and I got together in spite of her efforts, and her brother is happily married to his lady, who is one of my best friends.
Yet somehow, despite the herculean effort it must have been, she has somehow convinced this guy that she is an actual human being with a soul. Despite the fact that she nags him constantly, is hated by his entire friend group, and has already (not two days after the engagement) begun bullying her own mother about the wedding, he has decided he would like to spend the rest of his life with her.
I am appalled, kittens. And there is simply no way to tell someone that the person they are marrying is probably not even a person under any moral classifications. And I am a stubborn thing and have tried it before, believe me.
I think at the end of the day it comes down to experience. The aforementioned pair is suffering from First Relationship Syndrome. You don’t think Hershey’s chocolate is bad unless you have had other chocolate. But you put a Toblerone in that Hershey-gobbling fool’s hand and they will see the light. You have to meet people. See what the world has to offer. That is my advice to any and everyone. Don’t marry the first person you date, don’t buy the first car you drive, and don’t drink that entire bottle of whiskey just because it is the only thing in your pantry.
And don’t forget the Spice Girls — if your friends would rather leap off your balcony than spend time on it with your girlfriend, you probably shouldn’t marry her.
This morning I found myself staring helplessly at the shelf in my fridge where the coffee creamer belongs. Coffee creamer, the second most important item in my godless morning ritual. Or in my case, the serious lack of coffee creamer.
I did the thing where you shut the fridge and open it and try to magically conjure coffee creamer. Liebling walked in to see my dead morning eyes looking more forlorn than usual.
“We don’t have any coffee creamer,” I whimpered. He looked over my shoulder as if it was possible I was just crazy enough to miss it. Then he nodded his confirmation.
I did the shut the fridge open the fridge thing again. I seriously considered adding Nesquik. I opened the freezer. Frozen chicken, ice, some frozen dinners, and ice cream.
A small hopeful alarm went off in my brain. “What if I used ice cream?” Liebling frowned at me. I frowned in a thoughtful sort of way.
This was not vanilla ice cream, to be clear. It was Girl Scout Thin Mint ice cream and had actual chunks of cookie in it. I did it anyway. I drank my coffee a la menthe with the kind of glee that can only be achieved by sleep deprived Monday-night-drinkers who have achieved new depths of depravity. Liebling pointed out that it tasted “horrible in its own unique way” but I think he was just jealous of my cleverness. I could be wrong.
I clearly have no shame.