Shabby Apple Dress Giveaway!

A few months back I discovered Shabby Apple, and spent most of my birthday money on a gorgeous dress that reminds me of something my ever-so-stylish Grandma S. would have worn when she was my age. It's my favorite item in my closet. And now, Shabby Apple (via Mama Manifesto) is giving away a dress to someone who describes her dream date. There's a dress called Antiquated that I've had my eye on for a while, and probably won't get otherwise (one only gets birthday money once a year, after all!), so here, friends, is my dream date (with a smidge of back story):

Mom wore The Black Dress to Homecoming at Cowley, Wyoming's log gym, and Dad thought she looked so beautiful that he never let me wear it, even though Mom saved it for me, for fear that someone might see me in it and marry me on the spot, I suppose.

The log gym in Cowley is still there, and sometimes I daydream about going back there for a different dance. Mom's Black Dress was stunning, but that dress belongs to her and to that night. I'd wear my own Black Dress, more my style with lace and a collar, and sorry Dad, but it's too late for someone to marry me, since I've been there, done that, and Michael, my sweet husband, would be my date. Although I bet when he'd see me in that dress he would want to marry me all over again.

We'd clear a path in the crowd as we waltz around to Tonic and to Lifehouse, and boogie to Cake and to Muse, until eventually we slip-sneak out the back door and borrow Grandma's blue Ford pickup that I learned to drive on ten years back. We don't have to drive too far to see the lights fade out and the stars glow bright so we put the truck in park and lay out in the bed to trace pictures in the stars, and we wait for the fireworks to start going off right over our heads.

Then we'll drive back to Grandma's house and switch off the headlights before we turn in the driveway, and sneak inside like a couple naughty teenagers, and who knows, maybe someday we'll have a daughter who will see the pictures and ask to borrow The Black Dress I wore, and Michael will get to be the dad and tell her no, that's Mom's dress and not for anyone else.

I was just thinking that as rarely as I write here, I even more rarely talk about events actually going on in our lives. Part of that is because I spend about forty-five hours per week at work, and people have been fired for what they've written in their blogs; ergo, writing about work is out. And since most of my most delightful stories come from work, I'm never sure what to write about. But I can think of a few things:

1. I had a birthday (shout hurray)! (Okay, a month ago. It was a great one, though.) At work (just one work-related story won't hurt, right?), my coworkers brought in donuts into which they stuck--for lack of candles yet surplus of lollipops--the sticks from tootsie pops, and lit them on fire. I was impressed with the ingenuity. At home, though, we did a bit better:


Note the puzzle pieces scattered around . . . we never did finish that puzzle :(

Anyway, Michael and I ate lovely red velvet cake, opened presents, etc. I'm especially excited about one present in particular:

Yep, I will officially be the last person in the known universe to see Wicked when it comes through Portland next month. Thanks, Mom and Dad (and Michael for letting me leave him for a few days)! I can't wait!

Since my birthday, I have officially conquered my fear of snow driving due to the epic snow and ice we've had, been rescued by a man with a machete, reorganized our closet, and officially started counting down the days until Josh gets home from his mission.

I'll leave you with a picture of Michael and our snowy adventures.

If you can believe it, I was even less thrilled than he was about the snow that has now stuck around for ELEVEN DAYS.

"I am," Michael said as he watched me take a big old drink straight from the bottle, "an epic failure as a husband."

Undoubtedly that statement was influenced by my beverage of choice: hydrogen peroxide.

Because my dentist refused to remove my wisdom teeth ("You've got years before they'll grow in! No need to worry about them at 20!"), I got my first tooth infection two days before our 2007 wedding. A bout of antibiotics took care of the infection, and I didn't get another one for almost seven months. After the second infection, rather than treat with antibiotics and risk another infection, Michael and I found a sympathetic discount who would give us a poor student discount, and had the tooth yanked. I'm really funny, I've been told, on nitrous oxide.

The two top teeth grew in completely and without incident, but the remaining bottom tooth still gave me problems. The third infection happened less than a month into my new job in Ohio, when I was still in the "trial" period and had no idea whether I would have a job when that period ended. A kind dentist treated the infection for the cost of the antibiotics. And to keep the infections down, I was told to swish my mouth with hydrogen peroxide daily.

Which leads us to my poor sweet husband's pronouncement. To remedy his feelings (and to calm my fears of another infection), we finally decided to have the last troublesome tooth pulled. Because dentists in Ohio are much more expensive than in the dentist-saturated Utah, I forwent the the nitrous, and braved the drill and knife fully conscious, which was scarier than I thought it would be.

But now I am fifty percent less wise, and one-hundred percent happier with my mouth. And, of course, Michael feels much less like he is failing as a husband.

An Apology for Apathy

Dear blog,

I'm sorry I've been neglecting you. I've just been terribly busy, what with running away to Portland for a weekend, deep-cleaning the apartment, working, helping Michael study for his tests, and renewing my love for crime novels. And I'm even sorrier that this isn't going to be a terribly original post, since I am in a Christmasy mood and will just post an essay I wrote last Christmas season, as both a celebration of the coming season and as a place I can consistently locate it, so I don't have to search through hundreds of emails to find the latest copy.

I'll be better, really.

Love, Tasha

p.s. Does anyone know how to center the picture at the top of this blog? It's been driving me crazy!

House Lo-Mein

“Hey love, will you be home for Christmas?” Joel asked the other day. The kid forgets that I live in Utah and he lives part-time in Washington and part-time in Arizona and Josh lives in Thailand and none of us live in Oregon anymore. But yeah, I’ll be home for Christmas.

Joel’s as good as a little brother, being best friends with my brother-by-blood Josh for seventeen years, and he’s spent most of those years at my house in Oregon building blanket forts and chess sets out of Legos and whining “Tasha, cook me something!”

Usually it was ramen. He and Josh picked my house because my parents never fought and weren’t even home most afternoons because Dad worked and Mom went to school. I was okay to be home because even though I was a girl, and a big sister at that, I made the best ramen. Oriental flavor. I cooked it three packets at once, until the noodles were thick as string and they slimed around in the pot looking for more water. I’d open the tinfoil seasoning packets—which was a trick because if they got too close to the steam then all the flavor would get wet and sticky and not blend in—and then I’d dump them in, all three at once. The real secret, and this I never let anyone watch, was adding a teaspoon or two of sesame oil and a few shakes of Dad’s hottest hot sauce over the top.

Sometimes we’d crack an egg on the mix for protein and because we liked to watch it get scrambled up to pieces with the noodles, and it seemed more like we were eating lo mein from a fancy Chinese restaurant instead of a thirty-cent snack cooked by a thirteen-year-old big sister.

We all three ate with chopsticks until we got too hungry to eat one noodle at a time and started to cheat by using forks. Sometimes we’d slurp too fast and noisy and the ends of the noodles would flip on and smack our noses, and the spice in the sauce would burn and squeeze tears from our eyes, and then melt down our throats and into our stomachs. And Josh and Joel would whine, “Tasha, cook me something.” So I would pour them little shot glasses of milk—normal milk, not chocolate or strawberry, because Mom banned colorful liquids (and Josh and Joel’s friend Evan) from the kitchen after the boys had chocolate milk laugh out of their noses and all over the floor.

Joel liked Rasmussen-house food so much that sometimes he’d even stay on for dinner. And when he did that we could pretty much count on him staying for all night. One time he and Josh wanted to build a fort out of blankets in our living room for them to sleep in, and asked Dad if Joel could stay for a fort night. “I’m not letting Joel stay for a fortnight!” Dad said, and I laughed and laughed because by then I was sixteen and I knew that a fortnight meant two weeks to Shakespeare. But I bet that Dad would have let him stay for a fortnight if he asked. Joel was just family like that.

I left first, off to Utah. Then Joel moved to Arizona with his dad, who only eats apples and whole wheat and counts every calorie going in or out of his body. After that he flew to Seattle for school, where he doesn’t have any family, not even someone to pour him milk or feed him pretend lo mein. Josh stayed in Portland and then moved on to Utah and then all the way to Thailand, where he eats real noodles that he gets from vendors and not sisters, and the noodles slime around in his bowl all the way across the world from me and Joel.

So this year’s the first one without Josh at home, and even though Joel doesn’t live in Portland he’ll come out for Christmas before he goes to Arizona, and I’ll cook him ramen noodles for a snack and maybe cinnamon roll sandwiches, which we made once and never again. And Josh will slurp his Thai noodles, maybe the ones with mixed up with pig brains or tentacles, and they will burn his nose and then his throat and make his eyes water, and we will eat our ramen with sesame oil and eggs and with hot sauce tears in our eyes and pretend we are all together in the kitchen using chop sticks really badly. We will be thirteen and eleven, waiting for Mom and Dad to come home, and I will be in charge, because I’m the big sister, and I make the best ramen.

Corn Hole

Corn hole! In my preOhio days, I had never heard of such a phenomenon. However, since our arrival to Columbus, we've seen not just a few examples of its prevalence. Mostly at tailgating parties (which, by the way, eclipse any tailgating party anywhere else in the nation, I'm pretty sure). I look forward to the doping scandals.

toothpastefordinner.com

And speaking of funny subject lines . . .

Our illustrious CNN posted an article with the following headline:

"Obama to address change during speech!"

Wow. Really?

(note: I don't mind Obama. Really. It just struck me as funny.)

Victoria's Latest Secret

As I mentioned in my last post, I have grown to love--dearly--Victoria Secret normal clothing. Since they're only sold online (why don't they sell their pants, shoes, and sweaters in their regular stores? Might have something to do with the nine dollars that I'm still willing to pay to have their wares shipped to me . . .), I receive special email announcements a few times each week that alert me to sales, styles, and trends that they assure me only their paying customers are privy to. Typically, I ignore them. However, sometimes they have some pretty good advice. Take their latest subject line, for instance:

Fall trend alert: Pants.

Thank you, Victoria. Who knows, without your sage wisdom I may have traipsed about the falling leaves in . . . well, what are my other options? Wouldn't it have been more revolutionary for Vicky Dearest to suggest, say, a pants alternative? The anti-pant?

On second thought, I hope they don't. Their jeans just fit too nice.

And on third thought: if only their paying customers got the memo on pants, what are all those misguided trendsters who think pants are out of vogue going to be wearing?

I may not leave my apartment until winter.