We all have our own go-to music. Music that whenever it comes on–no matter where you are in life–your face lights up, and you’re like “Yes! I love this song!” For me, this music is ’90s alt-rock and early ‘aughts teenaged angst. If you were to peruse my playlists, you would find a lot of Third Eye Blind, Good Charlotte, Blink 182 and New Found Glory. My most frequently listened to Pandora station is called “Summer Hits of the ’90s.” And I don’t care if I was born in 1987, ‘What Is Love’ and ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ are my jams. I mean that in a completely un-ironic way, by the way. Totally serious. My jams. I don’t know what it is specifically about this sort of music, but it may have a lot to do with the fact that it’s what I listened to when I was in junior high and high school. That time is so formative, and I don’t think those attachments you develop to music during that period ever really leave you. Just ask every person in their 50’s who turns the volume up on the Oldies radio station and screams, “This was one of my favorite songs in high school!” while their children roll their eyes and plug their ears in the back seat. It’s still their jam.
The time where I apologize profusely to anyone reading because I haven’t blogged in… a month. Over a month. Crap. My last post was for my anniversary. Shit, that’s a month and 12 days!
I fail at life.
Actually, I’m awesome at life.
I’m just so awesome at life lately that I’ve had very little downtime. And all the downtime I have, I just want to spend laying on Edna (my couch) and watching Netflix with the Hubbster. Speaking of Netflix, if you live under a rock and didn’t know this: new Arrested Development episodes came out this weekend. And they. are. spectacular. For realz. We’re only through 11 of the 15 episodes, but they just keep getting better and better as more of the interwoven storylines are revealed. Mitch Hurwitz is a genius, and I tip my hat to him.
In other exciting news, most of my brain for the past 2 1/2 months has been taken up with house hunting. And house finding. And house falling-in-love-with. And house purchasing, even though house is old and needs a lot of house love. We are in the final stages of getting our loan approved, and it’s been insane–mostly because it’s a foreclosure. There are numerous extra hoops that you have to go through. Not to mention a bank isn’t as flexible as a regular homeowner, so it’s a much more rigid process on top of the hoops.
But I don’t care. Because I love house. She’s pretty and I want to live in her for a very long time. And re-do the kitchen. And take a bulldozer to the overgrown backyard. And fix up the basement… and the upstairs bathroom… and re-finish the floors… and a whole host of other things. The Hubbster and I are embarking on years of manual labor and being house poor in the Chicago suburbs, exactly 1 mile away from the house that I grew up in. Yep. I’m that person.
I’m also the person who lays awake at night trying to figure out just where I want to put the kitchen sink, and if I steal space from the 3rd bedroom closet, will I have enough room to put in a double vanity? and what kind of light fixture would look best in the stairway, and a gagillion other things that I don’t need to be worried about yet.
That’s the main reason I haven’t blogged. All of my spare creative energy is going toward this house, whether I want it to or not. And when I can turn my brain off, all I want to do is lay down. Like that polar bear. He gets me.
On the bright side, I’ve been working on my novel. I got really bad writer’s block on it for about a week, so I started writing an episode of Doctor Who, starring me as the new companion. Well, not real me. But a character close to myself who I could potentially play should Steven Moffat ever receive my letter. It helped a lot actually. My mom says I should start journaling about the house process for a book. I think it’s a good plan, I just need to start doing it before I forget about all these emotions. They are myriad. I’m also really enjoying my Improv classes. I love the people in it, and I’m really discovering a lot about myself as a performer. I just wish I had started all of this discovery a lot sooner.
Hm, just re-read what I have so far. So this is what happens when I don’t blog for a month? I get all deep and rambly? Good to know, good to know… I’ll try to refrain from doing this too much. Please expect a post tomorrow on a lighter topic–i.e. coffee, or how frizzy my hair gets when it’s humid, or my addiction to Argan oil.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Edna and the Bluths.
For those of you who have been following my blog for awhile (or happen to know me in person), I think it’s pretty clear that I have a… unique personality. Someone actually once said to me: “Jenny, you’re weird. You’re like the weirdest girl I know.” I was a little taken aback, because it was obvious that she didn’t mean it as a compliment. I thought about it all day. Was I really weird?
When I got home, I asked the Hubbster about it. I said “Hunni, am I weird?” and he said “Yeah, of course you are.”
But he didn’t mean it in a bad way. He meant it in an ‘I have a kick-ass wife who is awesomely quirky and ten other brands of awesome’ kind of way. And he turned it into a compliment. So whenever I do something adorably weird, he says “Jenny, you’re like the weirdest person I know” and kisses me on the forehead. So, one moral of this story is that my husband rocks, but that was obvious. And the other moral is that I love being weird. Because I am. See below for examples.
1. I leave a trail of bobby pins wherever I go. Don’t really know where they come from.
2. I frequently refer to Germany as “the homeland” because I am 1/4 Austrian and 1/4 German, which I equate to basically being half German. Sidenote: I’ve never been to Germany.
3. I say the word button like there aren’t any t’s in it. But there are two.
4. I carry a bottle of water with me everywhere. Even when I go out to bars. What? I get thirsty.
5. Sometimes I think in a British accent. A lot, actually. Most of the time…
6. I will put hundreds of dollars into an online shopping bag in the morning, agonize all day over what I really want, and 95% of the time I don’t buy any of it.
7. Every time I say the word “supposedly,” I follow it with the “supposably” schtick from Friends.
8. I had a very intense dream the other day where Earth had been invaded by giant bird aliens that were living underground, brainwashing humans and luring them underground as food. I found out and then led a small band of rebels to save the world. Yeah. That’s totally realistic. I watch way too much Doctor Who.
9. I like to name inanimate objects. Like our couch (Edna) or the first turkey I made (Bill–neck in above photo) and speak of them as if they are people.
10. When I was a kid, my friend and I would pop up from the back seat of the car and wave to the people behind us, then hide, while speaking in British accents. We thought it was hysterical. I still think it’s hysterical. I think I’ll do it this weekend.
First, let me just say that I am not pregnant, nor am I planning on becoming pregnant in the near future. There are still a few happy DINK (dual-income-no-kids) years on the horizon for the Hubbster and me. But it is on the life agenda to pop out a couple of kids that bear an uncanny resemblance to one or both of us (or to an old man. I love old man babies). I’m also a naturally curious person, and I love worrying about/trying to plan things that are either a) way in the future or b) completely out of my control. And ding ding ding, being pregnant is both of them. So when I’m really bored and looking at the ‘everything’ page on Pinterest (as I often am), I will once in a while click on a link relating to pregnancy. And I’m always sorry.
I have done this several times in the last few weeks, and was incredibly terrified by what I found. Seriously. There are a lot of really scary stories out there. And I figured if there’s anyone that can really tell me all the things I have to dread, it’s the woman who gave me all the chromosomes I need to make another human being in the first place. So when my lovely mother and I sat down to sip our coffee in Caribou this weekend, I freaked out and opened a flood gate of ridiculous questions.
Me: “Was your hair like really thick and lustrous, and then afterward fall out in large quantities and grow back weird?” My mother: “Um, no.”
Me: “Did you get random rashes everywhere?”
My mother:“What? No!”
Me:: “Did you get a really dark line down the middle of your stomach?” My mother: “No!”
Me: “Did your ab muscles completely separate and then get worse when you tried to do crunches?”
My mother: “NO! Where are you even getting this stuff?!”
Me: “The internet…”
Then she did the mom finger-shake and told me I need to stop reading the internet. And then she ranted about how for some reason, whenever you tell someone you’re pregnant they feel the need to share all of their horror stories. But she loved every minute of it. When I insisted that something crazy had to have happened to her body, she replied with “Nope. I just got fat.”
And that is why I love my mother.
And I do need to stop reading the pregnancy-related internet. But let’s face it. I’m me, so I probably won’t.