Monthly Archives: April 2009


I owe you a whole mess of posts, but this is great and probably won’t be up for long, so click my picture to listen to my on air re-debut.

More to come…


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North Carolina Day 1 aka wake up early, drool on a plane and possibly cause an overweight Delta flight

Not to get all journal-y on you, but here’s a recap of Day 1 of my trip to NC.

Woke up at 2:30 a.m. to shower and put a suit on. Oh, and possibly the most uncomfortable  cutest shoes in the world.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I didn’t want coffee. I wanted to sleep. I was a grump.

The most amazing boyfriend in the world drove the grumpiest girlfriend in the world  to the airport.  I arrived before the Delta staff. Which didn’t help my mood. While I was waiting around, I  decided my shoes were probably a bad life choice.

My boss met me in the terminal.  I was beyond trying to form coherent sentences. And the Delta staff had finally decided to arrive. It was nap time.

We  boarded the refrigerator disguised as a plane where I fell into frozen coma only to wake  myself up with a loud snore. And yes my mouth was open and yes there was drool on my chin. Loverly.

I limped through the  Atlanta airport in my stupid shoes, crossing  three terminals and making two gate changes before we were finally on our plane to Fayetteville. Oh, but then our plane had a weight problem. Too many breakfast burritos? (yum!) I’m not sure how exactly they knew this would help but they were asking two people to get off the plane. (gulp) Despite the fact that we didn’t have time to wait for the next flight, I was terrified to raise my hand for fear they would say, oh that will do. We really just needed you to get off the plane — you and your ginormous suitcase.

(Did I mention the fact that it took five minutes to shut the suitcase Monday night?)

In Fayetteville we rented the cutest little yellow VW Beetle and I probably annoyed my boss by proclaiming my love for it in every parking lot we retrieved it in. “Look at that cutsie wootsie yellow bug! Whose a good car?!  My little yellow buggy is. Gootchie gootchie goo….”

Meanwhile Bad Betty was in rare form. For a minute she thought we were still in Kansas City. Silly Betty, we aren’t in Kansas anymore. She did pull through and found a darling tea room for lunch downtown where I pretended  a Ceasar salad with fried Parmesan chicken on top was a healthy lunch option and drank my weight in sweet tea. The latter  haunted me half way through our first customer visit.

While the visits went well (Of course. I’m awesome. I’m doing the awesome dance. In my cute little Bug.) my inflated ego got a big ole fat safety pin in it when I realized I had booked our rooms at the Fairfield Inn for LAST week. Oy. Luckily there wasn’t a rush in Fayetteville for mid-level hotel rooms and it worked out.

By dinner I was slap happy and goofy and no longer trying to hide it. And now I’m just delirious and watching 90210 in my hotel room.

I’m really not sure why I’m still up. For a while I was just trying to stay up because going to bed at 7 (or was it 8 EST…) is lame. But now it’s like a game I can’t quit. I’m such an addict.

But there is more sweet tea drinking, customer visits and hours in the Bug with Bad Betty to look forward to en route to Myrtle Beach tomorrow.

And if any of this makes sense then I need a cookie.

Mmmmmm. Cookie. With Sweet tea. yuuuuuuuummm. I’m working on a serious weight problem for the plane ride home.

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An interview with Roomie

I  thought it was time for you to meet Roomie.  Please don’t be jealous because I have such a fabulous roommate. You can always come hang out with us…


1. It’s no secret that you and I didn’t know one another before moving in. What was your biggest fear?

You being an obsessive neat freak or a light, finniky sleeper.
2. If you had to pick a Housewife that I am most similar to, which one would you pick and why?

Ramona: Bubbly, energetic, and viewing life with wide eyed excitement.

3. On Sunday Gertie ate one of your book covers and she wrote you a note to apologize. What would you say to her in response?

Gertie. Really.

4. What is your least favorite thing about our apartment?

The loud grindy noise outside that wakes me up. Still haven’t figured out what that is.

5. What is your favorite thing about our apartment?

Our patio view.

6. What did your family think about you moving in with a virtual stranger (hi, Vicki!)

Well….just be careful.

7. What is the quirkiest thing you have ever done?

Purchased several seasons of the Golden Girls and watched them repeatedly.

8. We should have a code word for nights where we need Mexican food and Margarittas. What should that be?

Granola and Green Tea 😉

9. This summer we should have a code word for hot guys at the pool. What should that be?

Red Suzukis.

10. If our lives were a sitcom or a chick flick, what would the title be and what would the show be like?

The Real Roommates of 114B. Two fabulous girls and their fabulous circle of people.

Um, fantastic really — Granola and Green Tea anyone?

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If I were grilled, toasty and delicious

paniniI remember the first panini I ever sunk my teeth into. I was in high school and a there-one-day gone-the-next fancy shmancy Italian restaurant opened up at Town Center near my house.

It. was. heaven.

Hot melty goodness and flavors I had never before tasted together.  This was no Subway sandwich. This was serious.

A few weeks ago as I arrived at the boyfriends house, I was informed of the following:

The Boyfriend: G-man and I were discussing the fact that if you were grilled, you’d be a Stephanini.


What would you be?


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Science validates the divorce wasn’t my fault


Some scientific validation.

I was not meant to be divorced. It just wasn’t in my biological cards. It had to be the ex-husband who drug us down to the point of cancelling our marriage.

What the heezy?

The heezy is scientists found that children who smile big toothy smiles are  five times less likely to get divorced.

smileyOh thank God. For once my stupid grin – the one that choir directors and Sunday school teachers loved so because it “looks so nice to smile” when you are standing on metal risers singing off-key renditions of piano accompanied Christmas carols – has a purpose. For years, I couldn’t stop smiling. Grin grin grin grin grin.

It was probably almost embarrasing to my parents to see me on stage with a smile so large and in charge. People had to wonder what was it about being on stage that made me so. smiley. Don’t her parents let her smile at home? She can’t possibly love this music that much. Well, maybe she just loves Jesus.

And it wasn’t just on stage. I had a reputation in Jr. High for being the queen of giggles. For Pete’s sake. I peed my pants in seventh grade – TWICE – because I was laughing so hard. That has to be worth at least ten years of solid marriage right there. And just so you know, the air freshenerfound in a church bathroom does not mask the smell of urine on cordoroy pants. I’m just saying…

I’m going to chalk up the whole mess of divorce to the ole frowny face child known as my ex-husband. I think I’ve seen maybe one picture of him smiling as a child. Heck…he doesn’t even smile in pictures as a grown up.

Yup. Me and my smile represent the perfection of a long, rocking chairs on the porch-style marriage.

Man I love science.

It’s so fabulous to be able to simplify the complexities of divorce with one word — smile!



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Double Digits

In a text convo with DD Girl, I realized three things.

1. I have a dirty mind. mwah ha ha. (It’s a little inside joke between us.)

2. I don’t have to worry about her taking my silly jokes the wrong way.

3. Today the boyfriend and I have been dating 10 months! Way to make it into the double digits. Woot. I love you!

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My tradition

I’m really looking forward to my pending trip to the Carolinas. Not only do I get to see my friend Jenny, but yesterday I made plans with some other friends as well.

I hesitated in calling them — my former radio boss and his wife. While they were dear friends, they were our friends. Despite the fact that I worked with both of them for nearly two years. Memories of the four of us sitting on their back deck, drinking Miller Lite cans and belting out Family Tradition override memories of the three of us goofing off in the office having hysterical giggle fests when trying to cut commercials (so the word “panties” in a K-Mart commercial sent me over the edge. Hi. I’m 10.).

But then I realized that I can still have the memories and their friendship. I just have to own it. It is MY tradition now. I was the one who moved to North Carolina to find my career. I was the one who took the leap from print to radio. I was the one who forged the friendship.

Sure, they will ask about him. I’m prepared for that. Yup, he’s remarried. Yup, he’s living in smalltownville Kansas. Yup, that’s all I know. And they’ll shake their heads and say something about how funny he is, maybe even alluding to a memory like the time he put marinade on his cooked chicken and got deathly ill. And something else about how surprised they were that we divorced. (They were in our wedding.) And I’ll say, yup. It happens. And that will be it.

But one thing I’m curious about is, will I  be as impressed with the solidness of their relationship, their marriage as I was back then? Will my divorce cause me to see it through different eyes? Maybe. 

I do know that there will be Miller Lite cans. D will heat up his gas grill that he has converted into a charcoal grill (because it tastes better) and it will take nearly all night. And while we wait, we’ll talk and carry on and forget that we are hungry. Later, we’ll throw on some food as an afterthought. And laugh because that’s kind of a tradition.

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The sushi train is evil

And other Terrible  Terrific Tuesday thoughts:

  • The sushi train is an evil, evil thing that makes you eat far too much sushi and then when you are full, taunts you by passing by with your favorite thing in the whole wide world. (It doesn’t matter what it is because if it goes by on the train, it is always your favorite.) Thanks for the invite, DD girl! I’ll ride the evil train with you any day.
  • When the waitress came to count my plates, she told me “good job.” Either I’m a ginourmous pig, or she was genuinely proud in the way you are when a two-year-old eats broccoli.
  • I ran out of my super potent Secret deodorant today. So I put Mitchum under the other arm. This is causing me to feel off-kilter. And I keep catching a wiff of two scents. Not cool.
  • The work girls are running to Jimmy John’s for lunch. I brought my lunch, but I couldn’t resist requesting one of their GIANT pickles. Yurm.
  • I leave on Tuesday for a work trip. I’ve been driving around with my suitcase in my backseat (What’? That’s not normal? It seems like a perfectly good storage space.) and it’s now covered in Gertie hair. I do not look forward to the lint brush session to come.

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That’s what I get for trying to be a good dog mom

It’s no secret that Gertie likes to go play at Lily’s house


Where she is spoiled rotten. Then she comes home and gives me attitude because like. it’s so. totally. boring here, mom.

What? An endless basket of toys, a kong filled with treats, two couches I can lay all over and long runs with mommy? That’s all you got? Pishaw.

Because over there it’s all rawhides, treats and endless romps in the backyard with Lily. And well, a massive backyard isn’t enough to satisify MY Gertie, who has now learned to jump the fence in order to stroll around the neighborhood.

Last week, Gertie played for two days because the weather was so nice and I thought it was good for her. One day, the boyfriend’s mom received a call from her neighbor, “I think your dog is over here.” The boyfriend’s mom stepped outside and yelled, “Gertie!” Low and behold Little Miss Thang came trotting back into the yard.

But on Saturday, I decided it was time to remind Gertie how like. totally awesome her mom is. Starting with taking her to lunch at Chipotle (lunch for me, not for her — very important disclaimer in light of events that were to transpire.) where we sat outside and she met a very delightful two-year-old child who pet and kissed her.

Then, I thought it would be great fun to go to the dog park. I even stopped to pick up a ball launching device, knowing how much Miss Thang loves to fetch balls, and her propensity toward the slimiest, nastiest balls in the park.

Upon arriving at the dog park, I was  thinking it’s pretty sweet how close she is staying to my side. Awww…she does know I’m her mom!

Then, I tried launching the tennis ball.

Nope. Not going to have any of that.

(The ball was very kindly returned to me by a Great Dane.)

Ok, so we aren’t interested in the ball today. Ok, well, we can still have fun — Go run, Gertie! Do doggie things! Sniff someone! Come on! Something?!

Finally, she started trotting around. Mainly to go sit at people’s feet for petting and belly rubs.

Then I saw it, the moment of  free running fun as she took off in a four-legged gallop. Hoorah! This trip wasn’t a waste afterall. I am the coolest doggie mom she’s ever known…

Then, with horror I realized that what I thought was a moment of doggie play, was more a moment of “gotta go!”

Now there is nothing wrong with a dog doing her business at the dog park. They make little blue bags and plenty of trash cans for such occasion. But when your dog has massive diarrhea that lasts for at least four minutes of squatting and moving around within a 6 foot radius, that is NOT cool.

Suddenly, I was imagining all eyes (both human and canine) were on me. Armed with a blue bag on each hand, I painstakingly tried to scoop the evidence off the grass. Which was not an easy task. I also needed about four more blue bag covered hands.

People were staring at me like their dog had never had an upset stomach (in this case, probably caused by too much rawhide consumption.) Gertie moved on, leaving me to my clean-up efforts. And gave me a look like, “See. this is why I was not in a playful mood.”

I took my dog and my new $10 ball launcher home. To the boring apartment where we layed on the boring couch.

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Shoes. A religious shopping rite.

Recently, I found myself wandering the aisles of a large Kansas City shoe store. 

I was struck by the almost religious aura among other patrons. Women shuffling through the rows and rows of shoes, pausing at each one out of respect and deep contemplation. Often times, picking up the shoe and placing on their foot reverently, with great care.

There was an understanding among these hopeful consumers, often having to make room for another worshiper beside them. It was a respectful, yet slightly pious understanding. Pious in the sense that it was fine for another woman to worship a shoe as long as she wasn’t worshiping the same size.

And then there were the Saints. The ones holy enough to have found a shoe (or shoes) to take home. They stood in the check-out line with the satisfied look of dutiful sacrifice. Ready to embark on whatever sole-searching journey the shoes would lead them to. In the real world.  A world marred with dirt, puddles and elements clearly designed to scuff, soil and wear down their precious new shoes.

Until they can return to renew their spirits and their frequent shopper cards with new shoes.

I didn’t buy any.

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