Spending my nights with serial killers and horny toads

I consider me 'n Corey city kids.

I grew up on the wild side of Long Beach, California.

Corey grew up in Air Force town, Plattsburgh, New York just south of Montreal.

And now we live in the city of Saratoga Springs.

In other words, we like it when light shines in our apartment all hours of the day and night.

Because serial killers live in the dark.  Everyone knows that.

But go just 10 miles east and you're in a whole other world where you can almost reach out and touch the dark and "traffic" is whichever toad dares to cross the road.

I was there last night.

And I lived to tell about it.

Corey and I have a friend who is a born and raised country girl, bless her heart.  Now she lives on an honest to goodness horse farm complete with, well, horses and horse accoutrements, and last night it was about time I visit her neck of the dark.

One thing, people, about this sprawling expanse of green is that your typical directions are useless.  There's no "go two blocks, turn where you see the Starbucks then go about half a mile and turn again at the other Starbucks and then BAM, you're at Macy's."

This is the only way I know to get to her house:

• Head up (I don't know my directionals, please excuse) route such-and-such.
• Keep going until you think you've gone too far.
• Go further.
• Turn onto P. Road.
• Try not to vomit on the hills.
• Veer left and then turn onto the street that comes out of nowhere.
• Veer every which way because now streets are laid out according to the wandering paths of cats.
• Turn onto the road that comes out of nowhere.
• Also the road that smells like cow crap.
• Turn at the end of that road.
• Drive just long enough to wonder which serial killer is living in this very field you're driving past.
• Turn where you don't think there is an actual road.
• Reach your destination.

Obviously on the return trip you do the reverse and hope and pray she someday finds a cozy, well-lit home in the city.

One month of wrinkles

We're friends, right?

I mean, if I were to share something intimate and private you could keep that between the two of us and, you know, not spread it to the farthest corners of the world.  Right?

I knew I liked you.

Anyway, there is something I've been wanting to get off my chest.

That's a funny expression.  To get something off one's chest.  Where did it come from?  I always picture a man with with lots of chest hair making grand motions of taking all his invisible cares and throwing them upward and outward.

So dramatic.

Not sure why the hairy chest.  That's weird.

But I digress.

My friend Jill says I digress too much.  There are all these little conversations I have with myself when I'm telling a story, sometimes I keep them to myself and sometimes I think you'll want to know about hairy chests.

Where was I?

Oh yes, secrets.  I wanted to tell you something you can't tell anyone, especially my mother-in-law.  With this I am sure she will disown me and never ever again buy me Vera Bradley purses.  Which could mean the end of my world.

So....here it goes:

Ihaven'tfoldedasinglepieceoflaundryinoveramonth!!

I know, I know, I know.  This is bad.  This is SO bad.  We have a literal mountain of laundry that towers over our bed.  Poor Corey can't find matching socks anymore; I'm not entirely sure he isn't wearing one black and one blue right now.

Or at least one spotted black sock and one striped black sock.  Still so sad.

But in my defense....it's the felting.  People enjoy draping themselves in felted wool beads.  I can't fault them for that, I can't.  And so I must sacrifice that precious laundry folding time to give the people what they want. 

If that makes me a terrible person who shall never own a beautiful Laptop Travel Tote in Portobello Road then so be it!  At least my conscience is clean!!



...just like our unfolded laundry.

Anniversaries are for buying sneakers and dog treats

My wedding anniversary was Tuesday.

Time goes by so fast.

It marked Mr. Lucas and my third go 'round on this crazy domestic train.  And apparently the gift for three years is Italian food.  Thanks for the risotto and tiramisu, Corey...it's what I always wanted!  I hope you enjoyed your slab of meat and cream puffs because I put a whole lotta thought into it.

When you've been together long enough, seven years total for us, I'm learning the every day interactions lose a little bit of that spark from the earlier times.  Conversations are less about the "I love yous" and more "make sure you clean the toilet before John and Liz come for dinner...they don't need to know we're tamale-intolerant!"  Which is why it's so important to set aside days every now and then to revisit what brought you together in the first place.

An anniversary is the easiest place to start.

The following is advice to you taken from my magical day; use what I've learned to create a little romance with your boo:

1. Wake your mate up early.  Trust me, he's going to love smelling your morning breath through your whispered sweet nothings.  He may ask you if you swallowed trash the night before, but this is just his way of saying, "hey, you are special to me."
2. Go to work.  All day.  Don't take the day off; absence makes the heart grow fonder.  It also makes you forget for a second that you can't plan a meeting for right after work so maybe keep a little sticky note nearby as a reminder.
3. Don't talk on the phone either.  It's easier to not fight about whether you may or may not have forgotten to mention you will be going out of town for the weekend if you do not speak at all.
4. When you are both reunited, go buy some running shoes.  For your partner.  In the pouring rain.  He probably won't use them for the next several weeks, but this really is the best possible time to do it.
5. Next, drive to the pet store and buy your dog a bag of Greenies.  While it is still raining.
6. Go home.  Put dry clothes on.  You're going to a fancy restaurant for dinner, for goodness sake.
7. Try that place you used to love but haven't been to in awhile.  And take their only table in the bar.  Yes, it will be the size of your bathroom sink but that can only bring you both together.
8. Splurge!  Have your one glass of wine for the month on this day!  And then giggle uncontrollably as you fight your significant other for the last piece of bread.
9. Make conversation.  Talk politics, let him laugh at just how little you know about the state of our national debt for someone who works for a politician.  Just remember as he posts your nonsense on Facebook he's laughing with you.
10. When you get home, put on some pjs, get ready for a night of snuggling to one of your shows, grumble about how you're too full to watch Chopped on Food Network and then drift into a Riesling induced fit of slumber full of dreams about having to share your man with the girl who lived next to you in the dorms your freshman year only to be reminded that, yep, he's all yours as he wakes you up with a snort and yanking of all the covers.

The End. 

Now, enjoy your own magic making, friends.  I'm so glad I could help.

....and now it's Business Time. (serious face)

Here we are.  In September.

It came back again.

As it usually does.

And now is when it feels like the year should really get going.  Do you feel that?  Start the calendar over.  Today.  Hey....happy new year to YOU!

If you were to break it down:

Spring = party prep time.  "Honey, I really think we should book that thing at that place before everyone else books the thing, oh and do you want hot dogs in your mac 'n cheese?"

Summer = party time.  Camps and boats and barbecues and fireworks and trips to the emergency room and iced tea and bug bites and s'mores and burnt marshmallows and more trips to the emergency room.

Fall = business time.  Goals.  Financial reports.  Flow charts.  Where am I now versus where I should be...not even close?  Man that stinks. 

Winter = hibernation.  Three month siesta.  Sign your local "We the People for Sleeping Through the Winter" petition today.

I say no more of this April/May/June fiscal year end baloney.  That's business talk in party time; a time when discussion should be limited to how great stuff is when it's wrapped in bacon.

No, business talk should happen now.  In business time.  Are you liking how simple I'm making this?  And if we're implementing a new schedule I really should start us out with my own SJL Original goals.  SJL is going places, people!  But where?

Hmmm.

 

First things first, I need to get my activities organized.  Stacie needs herself one master list, on one master calendar that does not exist solely in her head.  She needs to figure out what she's blogging about and when.  What craft shows need to be applied for by which dates.  And for goodness sake when is meatloaf pizza night?!

We all have our creative fuel.

Second, I need to get my processes organized.  Ideas are free.  Wool is not.  Neither are silver plated toggles, dyed silk cording or stringing wire.  When do I buy what?  How much does this necklace cost versus that one?  Do I really have to pay sales tax?

The Man says I do.  Ppssshhhh.

And thirdly, if I survive number one and number two, I need to figure out where I want this SJL train to take me.  Am I going to Martha Stewart's house?  Maybe.  I think I'd like it there.  She has horses and dogs and stuff.  Or am I going to stay here.  In the capital region.  Felting as much as I can felt in one episode of Matlock but no more because I have other important projects to work on.

Of course, after I know where I'm going I'll have to start over and set goals to get me there.

*sigh* 

Goals are hard.  But you've probably heard the expression: if you fail to plan you make like banana bread and head out.

So....

I think I'm off to a good start, I already have one under my belt: 1A, refrain from speaking/writing in the third person never, ever again.

Score one for Stacie me!

I quit.

Let's get real, people.

Sometimes life is shizz.

No mom, I said shizz.  It's totally not the same.

She's a little sensitive.  I spent the weekend using semi-foul language with the sole intention to ruffle her feathers.  Kind of like an I'm-an-adult-see-what-I-can-do kind of thing.

I also eat dessert and then tell her about it.

It's how I say I love you.

But I digress.

What were we talking about?

Shizz?

Yes.  What shizz we have to go through sometimes, eh?!

And isn't it grand that there are more times than we care to count when all the shizz hits the fan at once?

Snarking grand.

But this is all to say that eventually that shizz that stunk up our mental places turns into fertilizer; metaphoric crap we can actually use to make life better.

Oops, I said crap.

Crud.

But actually, crud doesn't make too fine a fertilizer.  You need literal poo.  But here I go getting away from myself again.

No, I'm not really quitting anything.  Sometimes I'd like to, but I'm not.

Shizz is only shizz if I let it get to me.

So I go back to the drawing board and do it differently.

.....

How vague can I get, you ask?

Mmmmhmmm.