My plan was to buy a light bulb.

I stop at the store on my way home from work to buy a tiny, tiny light bulb to put in my new tiny lamp that I bought at Hobby Lobby for 50%.

So I am in the store…FYI the PriceCutter on East Battlefield is a wonderland. It has an entire organic food section and it is glorious. Very different from our old Price Cutter. The people that shop there wear all of their clothes including shoes and do not look like they are on drugs.

I find the light bulb section that is clearly marked. I get my light bulb and some carpet cleaner because the dog puked on the carpet again. I also grab some tooth brushes (because you can never have too many), and a bottle of wine because wine is good.

6:10pm must be a very popular time to shop. All of the checkout lanes are full so I make my way to the check-out-yourself-lane. I am not familiar with this style of checkout because I don’t use it. The overly pleasant sounding female voice coming out of these machines has always freaked me out. It also makes me feel a little like I’m in the book written by that guy whose name I do not remember…Brave New World. Orwell? I don’t remember.

People are now piling up behind me in the “Quick Check Out Lane”. I have no clue what I’m doing. I push all of what I deem to be the appropriate buttons and start scanning my items. Then I hear the freaky and oddly seductive voice.

“Please place item in the bag”. I place my light bulb in the bag

“Please place item in the bag”.

Okay it’s in the bag.

“Please place item in the bag."

The impatient woman waiting behind me says in an unnecessarily bitchy voice, “I think you need to put your item in the bag”.

Now I’m thinking, Really? Because the freak’n light bulb is very clearly in the bag.

“Thanks,” I say. I remind myself that I am a nice person.

After the little clerk guy talks with his freaky-voice-lady-check-out-machine, the damn thing accepts the fact that my item truly is in the bag. Now it is time to pay. Easy enough. As chance would have it this particular machine did not like my debit card. I kept getting this CARD ERROR message. Whatever that means. At this point there are like 5 people waiting behind me including the mean woman who is glaring at me. My face is red and I’m sweating.

“Maybe that is not a good card. Do you have something else?” the woman behind me says.

Now my face is on fire. I remind myself again that I am a nice person while I’m thinking lady maybe you should go to another lane and place your items in the bag because this is not working for me.

“Thanks but I think my card is fine."

So eventually they get the ridiculous machine to read my card and I take my light bulbs, carpet cleaner, toothbrushes, and wine and start to walk away. Then the machine’s voice has the nerve to say to me, “Thank you for using Quick Checkout.”

Oh you shut your mouth your you  freaky-electronic-lady. I am never doing this again.

The light bulb did not even fit in my new lamp. Which is so dumb and disappointing that I just have to laugh.

Fear of Flying

I’m not a terribly great flyer. In fact I normally cry during takeoff and landing. I was a little bit nervous about my business trip to San Francisco, especially because I was flying by myself and did not have a warm body that I could dig my fingernails into.

I left SGF on a “puddle jumper”. Interesting, but appropriate term. I sat next to a gentleman I shall call Frank. Frank was 60ish and smelled like scotch.

Upon take off I expressed my fear of flying to Frank. This was a mistake.

Frank said he has been flying for years and told me that he had no problem talking to me throughout the duration to take my mind off of flying. I thought to myself…that seems nice enough.

I thought this to myself before frank began the 3 hour saga of how he lost his middle index finger in a saw mill.

Frank described to me in graphic detail how his finger was sucked off of his hand and how he had to make the difficult decision of whether or not to keep his middle finger index bone…or saw it off. I almost vomited twice during this conversation. Was this really happening?

Frank looked surprised when I told him I did not have time to get a coffee (or gigantic glass of scotch) with him in the airport.

He gets "Command Central Room" because I want my coffee table back.

Johnny and I are in the process of buying a house. We are totally ready to buy this house, except for the fact that we can’t find it.

It’s funny how people say that opposites attract. I never considered Johnny and me to be opposite. Actually, for a long time I thought we were one big train wreck of alikeness. I have discovered during this buying a house process that we are thankfully, but irritatingly, a little more different that I believed.

We both agree that we think we want a 3ish bedroom old house, one with character and maybe even a ghost. Beyond that…we do not agree on anything. Johnny likes white walls, minimalism and clean lines. I want funky stuff all over the place and I want to paint the walls eggplant.

I think we are driving our realtor crazy and I’m afraid she is going to fire us. Maybe we could just buy two very different houses right next to each other. Would that be weird?

There is also the ongoing debate as to whether or not I get a princess-art room in this new house. Who really needs a formal guest bedroom when their guests have the opportunity to sleep in a fantastic princess-art room with glorious papier-mâché masterpieces everywhere and a hot glue shrine?

We looked at one house last weekend with this texas-chain-saw-massacre-esqe building behind the garage. Johnny said to me, “Look honey…they’ve already built a princess-art room here, for you!”

I did not think this was very funny.

Why can’t I use the 3rd bedroom you ask? Because Johnny will be building what I like to call, “Command Central” in the 3rd bedroom of our new home.

“Command Central” is currently stationed on the coffee table in our living room. Johnny has a computer (that he built), his lap-top, his iphone, and our TV networked together...I’m not sure what the hell he is doing, but sometimes he wears these big head phones with a mouth piece. When dinner is ready, I normally ask him, “Sweetie, do you think the Mother Ship will be okay without you for about 15 minutes?”

He gets Command Central Room because I want my coffee table back.

I’m being a little dramatic here (imagine that). It’s not that bad, but a little frustrating. We are having fun and I’m excited to have a dishwasher and neighbors that won’t break the side-view mirror off my car. I think Crux is going to enjoy running around in a backyard too!

I'm a Real Adult! Yay!

I'm not saying that I'm an "old" person. It's all relative. I'm 28. When I was a kid, my Barbie's parents were 28. So…I'm getting older. Top 10 signs that I am officially a "real adult":


1. When the weather sucks (i.e ice, snow, tornados) I do NOT drive 80 on the highway. In fact, I don't even go 50. I'm that person huddled up next to the steering wheel going 45 that everyone flips off. And this is just fine with me.

2. I have plants that have been alive for a really long time now.

3. I go to bed at 9pm, wake up at 4:44am (note the OCD) and I actually watch the news.

4. I save coupons.

5. I catch myself checking out the hot little water- delivery guy and then tell myself, "Self…you are really sick. He might not even be legal."

6. All of my friends have babies…like, real ones.

7. I'd rather hang out with my family that go to a bar and get black-out drunk.

8. I have a husband.

9. My childhood dream of becoming a rock star has been replaced by my adult dream of becoming a member at Sams Club.

10. I no longer shop in the "juniors section". I gave all of my spandex clothing to the Salvation Army last year.