spring cleaning

As I said, I’ll be out of town for the next 4 days. I could be worried about the state of our house when I return, but I am so lucky that my husband is so helpful with household chores.


Crap. Did I refer to Ike as my husband again? I’ve got to stop doing that.

Anyway, in addition to leaping up to the sink to help with the dishes/snag some leftovers, Ike is also a pro at loading the dishwasher.


He loves laundry day – he will come running from across the house if he hears the word “laundry”… although I think that has more to do with the fact that he gets to go outside (our washer and dryer are in the garage).

And he’s been a huge help in my packing process. This morning while I was packing, he brought me a sock and dropped it in my suitcase. He looked pretty crestfallen when I gave it back to him.

And, um, Y’s not bad around the house either… I guess.


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d out

Once upon a time, three girls flew to Vegas armed with kukui beads, shrugs, and some useful advice: Don’t tell anyone your real name.

“Jordan”, “Riley”, and “Taylor”

4 years later the same three girls, joined by two more friends, traveled to Dallas. This time we were armed with better clothing but the same precious advice. We chose the name “Carol”. All of us. We figured a name like Carol – generally associated with well, moms — would deter any weird people (aka, guys on steroids wearing Ed Hardy) from talking to us. As you can see from the picture below, it didn’t quite work, but the name stuck.

To account for how 5 girls named Carol were friends, we explained we had met at a national convention for people named Carol and thus, the Carol Convention was born.

How dare they misspell our fake name?

This article in Real Simple inspired us to designate one person each year to plan a surprise trip (the yearly Carol Convention) and to add two more Carols to our posse. The girls (ladies? women?) in the article are in their 30s and some even have kids, but every year each one puts in a certain amount of money and one person plans a surprise weekend, heightening the suspense with months of clues.

Well, this year’s trip starts Thursday, and after our series of cryptic clues, we were convinced we were going to be playing putt putt on a cruise with mailmen. But, it turns out we’re going to a tiny resort town in Florida for 4 glorious days. Since the thing that makes my blog remotely amusing are tales of Y and Ike, neither of whom are invited, I might not have any fun blogs from the trip. So, I’m putting the pressure on my hilarious friend Kathy to recap the weekend!

tips for a great marriage

Volume 1: Y’s secret to Being Right

Y: have you seen the Sellotape?

HUH??



Me:
Sellotape??? What in the world is sellotape.

Y (dumbfounded): SELL-O-TAPE. Tape. Cellophane tape.

Me: I mean, I figured that’s what you were talking about, but… sellotape? Who says that?

Y: Um. Everyone?! It’s like Scotch tape. Here, let me repeat my question in a way you’ll understand – (puts on his best redneck voice) Daci, have you seen that there sticky stuff?

Me (furiously googling “sellotape”): Wikipedia says it’s a British tape brand.

Y (triumphantly): See!

Me: See?! What are you talking about? We don’t live in England!

Y: So? Everyone knows that brand! (Sits down at computer innocently.)

Me: Everyone in your house knows that brand**. I get why you called it Sellotape now, but you are not allowed to get mad at me for now knowing what it is!

Y: Oh really?? Why don’t you read the Wikipedia page… again.

Many Americans refer to Scotch tape as Sellotape, becuase [sic] the brand is universally recognized as a pseudonym for clear tape.

That’s right, people. Y changed Wikipedia to win an argument. I think that is a testament to how awesome I am at being right. And, by the way, Wikipedia hasn’t changed the entry back yet, so if you’d like to try this little trick at home, it might just work for you too.

**Y’s dad is British – other fun phrases I’ve had to get used to include “having a lie down”, “film pod”, “sweeps”, and “riding my footcycle”.

I tend to think of myself as a one man wolfpack

I just realized there is a huge blog community of med school wives. Where was this when I was unemployed, having minor panic attacks and feelings of uselessness when my day consisted of folding towels and Yoni’s day consisted of cutting open skulls to dissect a brain??


Try doing THAT with a bonesaw, big shot med student.


But after reading a few of these blogs, I’ve realized I don’t particularly need to be a part of their community. By some weird coincidence, every one of these blogs is written by someone who is REALLY religious and spends a lot of time praying for their husband and the outcome of his time in prison med school.That’s all well and good, but, you know, not really my thing.

They also summarize their lives as “spending the next four years supporting my husband’s dreams” or “being his personal cheerleader”, which I suppose is true, but is that really how you want to define your life? That sounds so… depressing. I’m sure Yoni knows that I’m his biggest fan, but there are maybe 2 hours a month where I feel like a personal cheerleader. Those are always just following a test, and usually involve a lot of reassuring that No, a B might not be as good as an A but at least it’s better than a C! And remember… D is for doctor and b is for… um… bsurgeon.

Anyway, I bring this up because it turns out that Yoni won’t be running with me; he has a test two days later. Potential migraine + upcoming test is a recipe for disaster, and that’s fine with me. As my fellow personal cheerleaders probably know, doing stuff alone is no big deal. I was an only child; I’ve got years of experience.

Besides, I was secretly hoping he wouldn’t do it. I’ve never run with anyone before, and I’m sure I look like this:


And I am okay with not being made fun of for 3.1 miles straight.

You can’t make this stuff up.

It all started with Jenny.

Jenny was, apparently, the most popular Vietnamese woman in America, and it just so happens that she was located in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Unfortunately, one day Jenny had to give up her phone number with no warning. Her friends in Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Dallas, and California continued to call her, leaving long, panicky voicemails in Vietnamese.

I got her old number. And lots of Vietnamese voicemails.

It took me several months of broken English conversations, but eventually I convinced Jenny’s friend in Dallas that I was not, in fact, Jenny. And then her friend in Los Angeles. And then her posse in Baton Rouge. And eventually, the Jenny phone calls stopped.

I had forgotten about Jenny until I got my latest cell phone number, which once belonged to The Great Gigi. Who is Gigi? you ask, How is she so great?

Well… let’s just say Gigi gets a lot of phone calls at 2 am.

She also gets many a text at that hour; such eloquent messages as “Wut up grl?” and “Say gigi how u doin”. Gigi’s “friends”, who range from California to Phoenix to Galveston, all seem American, but their grasp of simple concepts and the English language are no better than Jenny’s Vietnamese friends. I have spoken to a charming young man-friend of Gigi’s in Galveston several times, and my conversations go something like this:

Man-friend: Yo Gigi
Me: This isn’t Gigi.
Man-friend: Where she at?
Me: I don’t know. As I told you the last three times you called, this isn’t her number anymore.
Man-friend: You gotta tell me her new number!
Me: I have no idea who Gigi is!
Man-friend: I am soooooo sorry! Please tell me her number!
Me: Please stop calling! I don’t know Gigi!
Man-friend: Okay. Thanks.

A few hours later I’ll get a text like this: Pleze tull me gigi numbr.

Time out – this post is much too text heavy, don’t you think?

Scholarly Ike does not approve.

Anyway, random inconveniences that make great stories have been happening to me my entire life. Like the time a misunderstanding at the salon where I got my hair done before prom ended with a potential warrant out for my arrest. Or that time my bus driver in high school mistook something completely benign that I said for a racial slur and sent me to the principal’s office. Stuff like that.

Thankfully, the Gigi phone calls have slowed down and I haven’t been threatened with arrest since 2002, but I was reminded of the good old Gigster and my weird luck after my dad called to tell me the latest strange thing that has randomly happened to me: My old credit card, no longer in use, had somehow been charged for a mysterious DVD of the month club that not even Google has heard of.

This month’s DVD selection, sent to my house in a timely manner (got to give this mystery company credit for punctuality)? When Women Lost Their Tails. Never heard of it? You’ll regret that after you read Yahoo movies’ captivating synopsis.


1975: Busty prehistoric women cavort in this silly sequel to WHEN WOMEN HAD TAILS.

I can’t wait to see how this one pans out…

run, dandy, run

I’ve always been a runner. Sort of.

My first race. I’m the one chilling in the stroller.

When I was in the third grade, I won a 3 foot tall trophy for being the fastest kid (girls and boys).

Fast forward to today: I can run for about 3 minutes before I realize all the better things i could be doing with my time.

There are a few reasons for this. First of all, I try to go light on anything that might build muscle in my legs, lest they end up like my dad’s:

No offense dad… those are impressive. Just not on me:)

And second of all… well, that was actually my only good reason. Which is why I’ve decided to get over my fear of ginormoquads and run a 5k.



I haven’t actually signed up yet, but I figure once I tell the whole world/my 27 followers, I’ll have to do it.

My mom had Parkinson’s and I think she would love to know that i was running this race. I also think she would approve of all the purchases that go along with starting to run: new shoes, moisture wicking running gear (I bet she’d love Lululemon). Because let’s face it, that cool running hoodie I’m rocking in the stroller just doesn’t fit anymore.

I’m not going to ask you for money or anything, so here’s what you can do to help: in the comments, convince Y that he should run with me. His excuse for not running is legit — running gives him a migraine. However, here’s what else is legit: the 200+ dollars we just spent on preventive migraine medicine.