The worms crawl in

Hubby and I spent our weekend toiling in the jumble of plants and dirt that we call our backyard. You see, our house was built in 1930 and while the former owners all took great care of the inside, they seemed to have just thrown whatever plants were discounted into our backyard without actually taking the time to figure out the best place to put them. We have plants growing under other plants, people, and random trees sprouting up throughout our lawn after the birds dropped the seeds.

For being in the city, we actually have a pretty big backyard. It's big enough for two dogs to run around and big enough for us to wince at the cost of re-landscaping it. It is still small enough, however, that Hubby actually uses a non-motorized push mower that he got for free from our neighbor's garage sale. (Between that and the Prius, we are sounding more and more environmentally conscious with every blog entry!)

So we spent the majority of our weekend transplanting things and trying to organize the yard a bit better. Well, Hubby spent the majority of the weekend transplanting things. I spent mine sitting on an overturned bucket, holding the garden hose and watering where he told me. I don't do dirt. I know, I'm such a girl. Growing up, my sister used to pick up worms and put them on the outdoor compressor of our central air-conditioning unit. In the summer sun, the compressor's metal was so hot that the worms would actually fry. While she would perfect her creepy-crawly torture tactics, I would spend my summer changing my outfit if one happened to get dirty and avoiding her setup on the air-conditioner compressor. Like I said, I don't do dirt -- or worms.

Actually, with a good pair of gardening gloves, I have no problem with the dirt or the bugs or the worms. But I tucker out easily because of health issues, especially in this heat. It's my genes; I blame them.

The rest of our weekend was spent showing off our (nonwrecked) car in hopes that someone would take pity on us and buy it. I feel like I should be wearing the classic polyester suit and gold wristwatch of a used car salesman as I try to talk up its the "reliability" and "great gas mileage."

I also get too attached to prospective buyers. I coo to Hubby that he/she "was so cute!" after they've taken their last look over the car and have driven away. I'm actually rooting for certain people to like and buy our car. But I also worry about angering other people wanting to look at it or not giving them a fair chance.

I'm not wormy enough for this car-selling gig.

What's a whisk?

Those of you who know me, know that I probably am the furthest thing possible from a whiz in the kitchen. And for those of you who don't, let me give you a little testimonial to my cooking ineptness. I have actually succeeded in disintegrating a grilled cheese sandwich. I blame the butter or imposter-butter-spread or whatever it was.

Seriously.

I have managed to make many a grilled cheese since I first learned how to operate a stove, and I pretty much thought it was my kind of cooking: mindless. But my grilled cheese experience took a turn when my sandwich turned to goo on the hot griddle. It didn't burn; it just melted away. So from then on, I have even doubted my grilled cheese capabilities.

My lack of cooking skills is being highlighted as I prepare the menu for Nikki's bridal shower in two weeks. I know bridal shower goodies are supposed to be all girlie and dainty, so I don't think my skills at making a mean frozen pizza or Hamburger Helper will be appreciated. And my one specialty dish is similar to quiche but involves ramps, a plant similar to wild onions or leeks that is only available for two weeks in early spring.

I keep looking at all of these elegant sounding recipes online, but it just seems so daunting. I usually feel very comfortable as long as I have specific directions to follow. My cooking aversion doesn't typically kick in until you start asking me to improvise and throw in random ingredients. Maybe I'm freezing up because I really want Nikki's shower to be perfect. All I know is that a co-worker gave me a recipe for spinach and artichoke dip, and so far, that's all the ladies will eating!

The menu selections at my bridal shower were wonderful, but Nikki co-hosted my shower with a woman who was Betty Crocker incarnate, so I think she had an unfair advantage.

This is why I married my Hubby. The man knows his way around a kitchen, and he keeps me from eating frozen pizza or mac and cheese seven nights a week.

Oh, and I do know what a whisk is. I'm not that hopeless.

We're expecting!

And we've even picked out names for our new baby — George or Rosie. We should expect the new family addition to arrive in two to five weeks, and we hope it won't happen when we're trekking around Wisconsin.

Now I should tell you something before I start getting the calls from all of my friends demanding to know why we A) didn't tell them about our bundle of joy sooner or B) might name our baby after the president. Deep breath, folks. It's okay. I'm not knocked up, but I am expecting a shiny Prius to arrive in our driveway soon!

Hubby and I went to test drive what seemed to be the only Prius left in the Midwest last night, and I completely fell in love with it. It's so tech-y and fun! Between the transmitter that senses when you are approaching the car and unlocks the doors to the fact that you start the car by pressing a button, Hubby and I were salivating by the time we stepped back out onto the asphalt. So after many discreet head nods and winks behind the salesman's back, we put ourselves on the waiting list. And since we aren't completely picky about color (we only nixed the silver and beige), we're hoping to bump above the other three people before us!

As we were glowing with anticipation last night, I told Hubby we needed to name the car. I remember naming my Focus in college, but I've long since forgotten his moniker. But I told Hubby the Prius NEEDED a name. It didn't feel right without one. Our thinking behind George or Rosie — they are color-dependent names, of course — comes from the Jetsons cartoon. I LOVED that cartoon, and the car just reminds me of it. In fact, I really wanted it to make that space-age sound that the cartoon's flying cars made when they flew around on TV. Since George and Rosie are the only two names I can remember from the cartoon, those are the ones I'm sticking with!

So there you have it. Hubby has already called me a nerd so please, no comments pointing that out.

Wise woman

Hubby and I are preparing for a wonderful journey to the Land of Cheese and Beer. In about a week and a half, we will be touring the fine state of Wisconsin. While some people head to the beach for a summer vacay, we prefer to hightail it to the nation's headquarters for dairy products and alcoholic beverages.
 
In actuality, we will be visiting several family and friends over our 10 day trip. One such pitstop will include hosting my best friend's bridal shower just outside of Milwaukee. I know she reads this blog, so I won't be revealing any cheesy bridal shower plans like the game I have planned to have everyone dress her in a "gown" of toilet paper. (Just kidding, sweetie!)
 
I have to admit, it's quite a bit more fun to have a friend plan a wedding than to actually plan it yourself. While I didn't mind the whole process of preparing for our "special day," I've enjoyed offering my opinion when Nikki asks without having to worry about all the particulars like actually paying for it. It's kind of like being able to relive your own prom when it's your job to teach your little sister how to pin on her date's boutoniere. You don't actually have to worry about sticking the poor guy in the chest, but you feel qualified to offer your wisdom having lived through it before.
 
One problem with living through it before, is how you are labeled as a participant in the wedding party. At 26 years of age, I have graduated to the status of matron. I know I am overreacting, but that makes me feel like I should get my dress hemmed to hide my orthopedic shoes. Or at least add a bouquet holder to the stroller I will surely be pushing down the aisle.
 
I lobbied for the title of Best Lady, but I agree with Nikki that it makes me sound like I should be hanging out with the groomsmen on her hubby-to-be Jon's side. (Side note: Why is it that the Best Man's title doesn't change when HE's married? How unfair!)

Anyway, I've made my peace with the Matron of Honor title. Hey, at least I'm being honored, and it makes me sound wise. Maybe I could just be known at the Wise Woman.

It's (not) just a scratch

Exactly a week ago today, hubby was driving my car and the tire blew out sending him careening into a telephone pole. (He's okay, I promise) Well, careening isn't the most appropriate word when the car is only going 25 mph immediately after making a right-hand turn, but you get my point.

So he paid a little visit to this telephone pole and we have been sitting on hold ever since. We are down to one car, which isn't all that bad since I take the commuter train to work every morning. But it's a bit frustrating that our kindly insurance company and the auto shop that was the lucky recipient of our banged-up car keep telling us different things. After seven days, we have received no estimate and no indication on whether or not they will declare it a total loss. Among many other things, we think the frame is bent and the air bags deployed, which on a low-end, 5-year-old car means a big chunk of change in comparison to its value.

Even though I hadn't actually driven my car for three weeks before this happened, I'm feeling a bit trapped without access to a motor vehicle. I can walk to several restaurants/bars, a movie theater, a grocery store and a bookstore, but I can't help feeling like I am being drawn to locales outside of my designated radius. Like Target. And the really good gelato place. And Target.

I know I need to get used to this slow-moving, energy-exerting way of gettin' around. Prior to the car hurtling into the telephone pole, we had been talking about selling it anyway. The plan was to sell that car and trade in my hubby's for a shiny new Prius. And while he would be able to zip around in his new anti-gas-guzzling vehicle, I would still be left to my own two feet.

I wonder if there is a bus that runs between my house, the gelato place and Target.

If everyone jumped off a cliff ...

... apparently I would, too. You would think I would have figured out how not to succumb to peer pressure by now, but I guess I haven't. After occasional nagging by my already Internet-published friends, I am taking the plunge.

That's right, soon-to-be-faithful reader(s), I am starting a blog. A bit late to the blog trend, I feel pressure to provide you with witty insights to my Midwestern, married, 20-something life. But let's just take that slow. What do ya say?