32

Today at 4:58PM I will officially be 32 years old.

The idea of my 32nd birthday has always given me the heebie jeebies because my mom was 32 when she had me. When I learned that fact, 32 became the age — the age you become an adult and make babies and do yard work on the weekends for fun. I have avoided turning 32…until now.

It turns out there is something to my theory about 32. I read a story titled, “32 — the age at which we turn in to our parents.” Granted, it is based on very un-scientific research via a poll on some super British website called Netmums…but still. It’s on the Internet and that makes it true.

I also read about this 32-year-old woman who went to sleep and woke up thinking she was 15 again. It sounds like a bad romantic comedy, but this is for real. She had stress-triggered dissociative amnesia and didn’t recognize her kid, her lower voice, and the crazy ass technology in her house. At first I thought I’d want to this to happen to me, but then I realized being 15 again would be awful. The crap I worried about when I was 15 was so stupid, I didn’t know how to drive yet, and no one had told me about how great hair straighteners could be.

did discover Britney Spears when I was 15 though…so there’s that.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’ll give 32 a fair shot. I’m not doing any yard work, though. And if I have to push a baby out, I’m going to be really mad.

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Don’t Wake Mary

I’ve always been a morning person, but I am horrible at waking up — if that makes any sense.

It’s those 1-2 minutes following my alarm that are the worst. I lay there and I am immediately so angry that I am awake. Irrationally angry. When I was in high school, I remember crying for a solid 30 seconds upon waking up…but then less than a minute later, I was up and walking around like everything was fine and I hadn’t just been sobbing like an idiot.

In Kindergarten, my poor teacher had it really bad when she would try to wake me up at the end of nap time. One day, I actually punched her in the face. I PUNCHED MY TEACHER IN THE FACE. That resulted in a traumatic meeting with my mom who tried to make me apologize to my teacher. I don’t know if the apology ever happened — I just remember crying uncontrollably, confused as to how the monster inside me woke up and beat the shit out of my Kindergarten teacher.

Fast forward to last night, when I fell asleep on the couch. Andy was ignoring me, the dog was ignoring me, and there was football on the TV. It was a perfect storm for instant slumber.

I was suddenly woken up by the sound of Andy laughing. I was instantly furious. I saw him looking down at Facebook on his phone, and then he turned to look at me. He laughed more, and then turned back to his phone. In that moment, I KNEW what he had done. I just felt it radiating from his stupid face.

“I HATE YOU!” I yelled.

“What? How do you even know what I did?” he asked.

“YOU TOOK A PICTURE OF ME SLEEPING AND PUT IT ON FACEBOOK. I KNOW IT. I HATE YOU.

Then, I put my head inside my fully-zipped fleece vest and started sobbing. Because I’m awesome.

“Are you seriously crying?” Andy asked as he laughed and tried to get me to look at him.

“YES YOU ARE SO MEAN AND THAT WAS NOT NICE AND I PROBABLY LOOK SO GROSS.”

I jumped off the couch, ran upstairs, and got into bed. A few minutes had passed by this point and I was starting to snap out of the hateful post-wakeup fog. I realized I might have acted crazy.

I picked up my phone and clicked on Facebook to assess the damage. This is what I saw:

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Okay. I had to laugh. Crap.

I went to sleep after that, knowing I had been a douche lord. I didn’t even apologize to Andy this morning because I am stubborn and awful and frankly, was embarrassed that I freaked out so hard.

So, I will say this now: Sorry, Andy. That picture was sort of funny. But we’ve been together almost 10 years now and if you haven’t figured out how much I hate getting woken up, then you are really really slow and special. If you wake me up again, I cannot guarantee that I won’t punch you in the face like you’re my Kindergarten teacher.

You’ve been warned.

 

The truth about the photos in my bathroom

If you’ve ever been at my house before and asked the awkward question, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” you undoubtedly encountered this view of my sink:

Photos in Bathroom

At first glance, you probably thought “Okay, she thinks it’s appropriate to put pictures of her loved ones in a room where people poop. Pretty legit.” However, after thinking it over briefly, you likely emerged from the bathroom and asked me “…who are those people in the pictures in your bathroom? Well, besides Chuck Norris.”

My answer? I have no clue. 

The truth is that I found/stole both of those photos. Before you judge, let me explain.

The Photo: Chuck Norris and a Small Doughy Boy 

Chuck Norris Photo

On my 22nd birthday, I went to a local restaurant with a few friends. It was one of those family-run places with a million bajillion (approximately) photos on the wall of them, their family, their friends, their friends’ friends, and a partridge in a pear tree.

When we sat down to eat, my friends told the waitress that it was my birthday.

“Oh, happy birthday,” she said, less than enthusiastically.

Okay, so she really wasn’t giving any fucks about my birthday. That was fine. I didn’t care about her birthday either. I was, however, maybe hoping for a little song and dance — or even just a free piece of cake. I was 22 and poor and really would have been psyched to get some free wet naps and ketchup packets if she wanted to give them to me.

As our meal went on, I looked around and noticed several people celebrating their birthdays. I don’t know if their cake was free, but they were getting sung to and acknowledged. My birthday is important to me and I WANTED ATTENTION, DAMNIT.

Needless to say, we wrapped up that meal with no birthday wishes from anyone in the restaurant (Yeah, I know, cry me a river). On the way out as we were getting our coats on, I saw it: Chuck Norris and the doughy boy. It was amazing and random and I wanted it.

“Take it!” Andy hissed at me. [This was before Andy and I even started dating and he was just my friend that I had a crush on.]

I had never stolen anything in my entire life, but in that moment, I felt like Chuck Norris and his small friend should be mine. I grabbed it off the wall, put it under my coat, and walked very briskly out the door (I don’t run).

Once I got home and the thrill had worn off, I felt bad. My friend and I were a few months away from moving to LA, so we decided that we would take Chuck Norris with us, bring him to his star on the Walk of Fame, take a picture, and then mail him back to the restaurant with the picture and tell them we just borrowed him because he wanted to visit his star.

We got as far as taking the picture:

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By that point, however, I couldn’t bring myself to part with Chuck. I felt like he was happier with me. So I kept him.

And now he lives in my bathroom.

*Yes, I checked the statute of limitations on theft in RI before I posted this story. The restaurant isn’t even open anymore, but I’m not going to jail for Chuck Norris.

The Photo: My Girls 

Awkward Homecoming Photo

I did not technically steal this photo. Someone lost it — and I found it.

When I was in college, I went home one weekend to see my little brother in a play at his high school. After the show, when basically everyone had cleared out of the auditorium, I went up to the dressing room just for old times’ sake (I used to be quite the thespian).

The dressing room was totally empty, but the kids had all left a bunch of crap around. Among that crap, I found an envelope with a professional photo of 5 girls posing for their homecoming. I loved them all instantly.

I didn’t recognize any of them as being involved in the play, so I figured the photo had been left behind during the dance team’s show that had been weeks earlier.

I made the executive decision to bring the girls home, give them a frame, and display their sass proudly in my apartment. Whenever anyone has asked me who they are, I just say “My girls!”

*If you know any of these girls, for the love of God, please don’t tell them they live in my bathroom. I’ve already decided what I think their personalities are like and what their group dynamic is, so I don’t want anyone to ruin that for me.

A woman named Jeffrey

  I kind of love talking to crazy people. Well, more specifically, I love listening to crazy people talk. Those people with a couple screws loose who are able to catch your eyes, and just start talking and don’t stop. If I’m lucky, I only need to respond briefly 2 or 3 times to acknowledge I’m listening and also egg them on a little so they keep talking.

I found one of these people in a dental office this week. Andy had to get something weird and scary done to his gums, so I thought I would be a supportive wife and go with him. Luckily, there was a cray older lady there just waiting to talk my ear off.

She talked at me non-stop for probably 15 minutes while she waited to be called for her appointment. I was entertained, but she wasn’t really the best crazy I ever talked to. She yammered on and on about the cost of college and how her lawyer has spent $600,000 to put his kids through college and he wears tattered loafers. Also, she lives in Portsmouth and has never heard of Tiverton (for my non-Rhode Island readers, Tiverton is literally NEXT TO Portsmouth.) — she attributes this to the fact that she does not have a car and basically only leaves her house to walk down the street to the dentist.

I asked her, “Oh, are you not from here?”

“I’m a military brat. I’ve lived everywhere.”

Okay, you’re at least 75, which means there’s a chance you haven’t lived with your military parents for almost 60 years. Where have you been for 60 years? YOU ARE NOT BEING CLEAR.

Please keep in mind that the whole time this woman was talking to me, my husband was sitting with his head down, pretending to be engrossed in a Good Housekeeping magazine. Also, my stepson had conveniently put his headphones in.

Finally, the dental assistant came out to the waiting room and said: Jeffrey?

The crazy lady stood up.

My mind started going a mile a minute trying to understand what I had just heard. Andy and I said nothing about this until his appointment was over and we were getting in the car.

“Did that lady have a man’s name?” Andy asked as he was putting on his seatbelt.

“JEFFREY?!” I exclaimed.

“YES, I THOUGHT THAT’S WHAT I HEARD!”

“WHY IS HER NAME JEFFREY? Do you think it could have been her last name? Maybe her first name is so weird that the dental assistant didn’t know how to pronounce it and called her last name instead?”

“No, she’s definitely named Jeffrey,” Andy assured me.

I actually Googled “A woman named Jeffrey” because I needed to know if this was a legit thing. None of the baby name websites were helpful, but I did come across a random financial blog from 2007 that addressed the issue.

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This blog post has single-handedly given me hope that that woman’s name is actually Jeffrey. I have high hopes that I will run into her again. You better believe that if that happens, will be the one talking her ear off.

Trollie Tuesday

Remember “Trollie Tuesday”? If you don’t, here’s a recap that details what it’s all about: WTF is Trollie Tuesday?

Trollie Tuesday died a pretty quick, sudden death last August. One day it was there, one day it was gone. I was annoyed that Buzzfeed sort of stole my idea and I was also starting a new job and didn’t feel like dealing with the trollies. Basically, I decided to be a big butthole. (WordPress just tried to autocorrect “butthole” to “buttonhole”—I kinda like calling a butthole a buttonhole. So cute.)

However, I woke up this morning to a text from my friend Mellissa that may have changed everything (at least for now). She had taken a hideous trollie and wrote “hahahaha here’s your Trollie Tuesday! hahahaha.” I was really impressed with her skills and frankly, it felt good to get a good old fashioned trollie texted to me.

Who wouldn’t want to wake up to this?

Mellissa Trollie Tuesday

If anyone sees Mellissa, you can thank her for single-handedly bringing back Trollie Tuesday. Are you ready to be part of the rebirth of Trollie Tuesday? Get your ugly face on, remember to use your flash in the dark, and then send that beautiful trollie to me at marymack98@gmail.com 

Note: I saw someone recently who told me they miss “Trolley” Tuesday. I would like to clarify that it is not pronounced “trolley”—it is “TROLL-E.” Like, “troll” (a thing that lives under a bridge and stalks billy goats), plus “E” (the letter). This public service announcement has been brought to you by a girl with too much time on her hands.

The most expensive crackers in the world

My in-laws had a nice little BBQ last night. Good, basic food, small group, nothing major, but still fun. When it was over, they were nice enough to send home some leftovers with us. The leftovers included a few spreadable cheeses and crackers that Andy’s dad had gone a little crazy buying (he was set free in the supermarket by himself and came home with $75 worth of cheese and crackers. He’s a dude after my own heart.).

When I got home, I pulled out the container of crackers and was amazed when I saw the price tag on them:


Seriously! $8.99 for a box of crackers. Like not a big sandwich or ground coffee or something I’ve spent $8.99 on before…crackers. The word crackers just implies $3.99 or less. Well, for me, at least.

These are what $8.99 crackers look like, in case you were wondering. Yes, they were quite delicious. Definitely above average in the cracker department. However, there are so many other things I would spend $8.99 on. For example, 3 half gallons of ice cream (on sale, of course). Or an entire month of Netflix, with $1.00 left over to buy a candy bar. Or, approximately 3 1/2 gallons of gas. Basically anything except crackers.

That being said, I’m definitely going to eat the crackers. All of them. I will imagine that I am a rich housewife breaking her personal “no carb rule” and I will say “mmmmm” after bite. And when my husband gets home from work I will put them in my secret snack hiding place and smile just thinking about the carb-filled contraband that brought me so much happiness for a mere $8.99.

In the dark and can’t flush 

You know what’s good for making you blog? A power outage.

Some stupid storm decided to rumble through my town at 6:45 this morning. As I listened to the thunder and pouring rain, I heard the air conditioning make a sad “shitting the bed” sound and I knew it was all over. We’ve been doing good power-wise for a while (we didn’t lose it once during the snowiest winter to ever exist this year) but apparently one pathetic rain storm was enough to do it. 

Strangely enough, part of my kitchen still has power. That means I can plug my phone in (PRAISE JESUS) and my fridge filled with food is safe and sound (I ALREADY SAID PRAISE JESUS, BUT FOR REAL, PRAISE JESUS).

My biggest emotional roller coaster this morning went a little something like this:

Me, while laying in bed: OH NO, THIS MEANS NO COFFEE!

Me, upon entering the kitchen and seeing the coffee pot clock on: YES! POWER! I CAN MAKE COFFEE!

Me, upon realizing we have well water and when the power goes out, the water is gone too: I HATE MY NON-CAFFEINATED LIFE. I THINK MY WITHDRAWL HEADACHE IS ALREADY SETTING IN. I WONDER IF I CAN EAT WHOLE COFFEE BEANS FOR BREAKFAST. 

My smart, handsome husband: Mary, there’s an entire pitcher of iced coffee in the fridge…

Me, drinking my iced coffee: I CAN CONQUER THE WORLD.

Speaking of coffee, I have also already broken the cardinal rule of our household during power outages: poop in the upstairs bathroom, pee in the downstairs bathroom. Because, ya know, we aren’t able to flush the toilets. Mehhh, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Coffee poops don’t do stairs.

I have some actual grown up work to do today, so right now I’m weighing my options. What’s my cut off point for waiting for the power to come on? When do I leave the house? And when I leave, where will I go? Shall I set up shop with the sex offenders at the public library? Or maybe go to Panera where I can enjoy the company of a Fuji Apple Chicken Salad with no pecans or tomatoes? The world is my oyster of wireless Internet. Getting dressed and leaving the house is the hardest part.

I’m just really happy I’m not working at Ben & Jerry’s anymore. I hated working when the power went out because some douche lord would inevitably come inside and say “So, are you going to start giving free ice cream away if the power doesn’t come back on?” 

No, no free ice cream. At least not for you. If anyone is going to get free ice cream it’s ME, so go away and leave my Phish Food alone. 

By the way, I just typed and posted this entire blog post from my phone. I’ve got one word for you: SKILLZ. 

UPDATE: Officially lost ALL power, including in the kitchen. Only had 1 coffee at home and needed to find more before my brain shut down. I’ve set up shop at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks and all is right with the world again. This giant coffee is my new best friend:  

 I kind of love that feeling where you’ve had so much coffee and you’re not sure if you’ll ever blink again.