So competitive.

Craig and I like to play games. I like it when Craig wins. I like it when I win. Craig likes it when I win. He, however, doesn’t care much about winning himself. Additionally, I HATE to win unfairly.

Sometimes Craig will try to give me a sympathy wedge in Trivial Pursuit if I got the question half right, or took two guesses to come up with the correct answer. I’m not really sure why, but I hate doing this. I simply hate to win unless it is 100% valid.

We’ve been playing Skip-Bo frequently lately and I’ve been experiencing quite the winning streak. My great luck had surprised me a little as Skip-Bo is a game of a lot of luck and a little skill and I don’t often excel in the skill area. We finished up a round on Tuesday night and as we were cleaning up the cards, we had this little exchange.

Craig: have you ever noticed how you always draw a bunch of Skip-Bo cards right at the end of the game?

Maryn: Yeah, I guess so, weird, huh?

Craig and Maryn continue to clean up cards.

Maryn: Wait a second, you’ve been cheating, haven’t you? How are you cheating?!

Craig: Well, you don’t really pay attention when I am drawing, so I hoard the Skip-Bo cards and then slip them onto the top of the pile after I draw, so then you draw them on your next turn.

...yep, that's just how sweet he is. Cheater.

The cheerleader's houses probably look good on Google.

Remember those embarrassing yearbook photos? Not the “professional” pictures, but the ones taken candidly by the yearbook staff throughout the year. You never know it is coming until the day you get your yearbook and flip through it excitedly only to find that the only picture of you in the whole yearbook is one taken in the hall on that day when you spilled OJ on your white sweater and you didn’t do your hair and your face looks stupid because you didn’t know anyone was taking pictures. The problem, of course, is that you will forever be remembered by your peers as that kid whose clothes were always dirty, who never did her hair and whose face looked weird.

Ten years later—enter Google Street View. Craig and I try to keep our front yard looking presentable. I mean, let’s just face the facts—people judge you buy the condition of your front yard. I got on Google maps this morning and thought I’d check out our house on Google street view. Remember that ONE day like two years ago when we got home from a camping trip and tipped our cooler upside down to drain on our front lawn? Oh, and then there’s the sandbags in our gutter drain placed there by the shoddy construction crew down the street. I mean, these sandbags look unsightly to everyone who drives by, but most of them know why said sandbags are there (yes, they are still there two years later...well, we did a secret ops mission on the first set...the new and slightly less shoddy new construction crew quickly replaced them). Without further ado, I give you—our house on Google Street View for all of the world to see:

So, now for the rest of time (I assume Google will not be updating residential street view anytime soon) when we tell people our address so that they can Google directions to our house, this is what they’ll see. Then I’ll inevitably receive the—oh, something came up, we can't make it—call. Thanks Google. There for a second I thought I was going to be popular next year.

*A little disclaimer here--our house is actually very cute. Really, it is. Use those Google directions and you'll see.

Crazy Knitting Lady

I set out Saturday afternoon at about 3 o’clock with the goal of getting the materials for a new knitting project.

The afternoon ended up being so infuriating that I have spent the last ten minutes trying to piece together the chronology and CANNOT figure it out. My mind’s ability to suppress is astounding.

Here’s what I know. I went to our new supersized JoAnn’s and I went to Michael’s. I’m not sure where I went first, but I think I may have gone to JoAnn’s twice. I found free instructions for an afghan at one of these stores, got chicken nuggets and a Diet Coke, and changed my clothes at some point.

I came away from this chaos with 5 balls of yarn (I needed 32) and no properly sized needles. I buy my knitting supplies at these sorts of big box craft stores because I am kind of a crappy knitter so if my supplies are inferior, I can’t see that it really matters. I have, however, wanted to visit a certain specialty knitting store near my house and I figured that they’d have the needles I needed. I went to said store, where a really haughty saleswoman informed me that a) they didn’t have the right needles for my project b) she didn’t think this size even existed and c) the closest thing cost $18 (about twice what these needles cost at the big box stores). Um, thanks…

Infuriated, condescended upon, and tired of shopping, I decided that I’d give Craft Warehouse a chance and then would forfeit. By the time I reached Craft Warehouse, I’d been blatantly cut off twice, turned in front of at a dangerous distance, and almost run over. I walked into the store and quite literally had to use every ounce of restraint I had to refrain from pushing a kid out of my way. Hey—he was standing in the middle of the aisle! Pathetic, I know.

I reached the yarn and my frustration melted as I looked up and saw the brand and colors for which I had been searching; in fully stocked bins, floor to ceiling. I think I pronounced my excitement audibly. After gathering the yarn into my basket, I was also thrilled to find that Craft Warehouse also stocked the needles I needed.
I was so excited that I almost gave the girl behind the register a hug. I suppose that would have been weird.

So, back to the afghan instructions I found. They contain a typographic error. This is not a problem, I figured out what was supposed to happen, no big deal, but I wanted to let the company know about the error. In reading the fine print, here’s what I found.

I understand why they feel the need to say that they’re not responsible for typographic errors, but seriously, isn’t this something for which they SHOULD be responsible? I guess that’s why the instructions are free.

I came along, I wrote a song for you.

When I was in high school I had a sort of freaking fascination/passion/whatever for the color yellow. My car was yellow, my bedroom walls were yellow, I wore something yellow every day (sometimes it was just a yellow hair band).

This disapated somewhat during college (along with my passion for everything else), but has somehow gradually returned. I can't describe the feeling other than to say that I want to absorb and simultaneously be absorbed by everything I see that is yellow.

That sounded weird. I'll try to think of a less odd explanation, but for today--a tribute to yellow.

I'm Back

Welcome back. As we've started taking on our VW restoration project with ferocity, I've decided to resurrect MinnieMag. I don't have anything to post about at this particular second, but I'm sure I'll have something enrapturing to talk about very soon. (Ha!)

Because Change is Good.

I’m tired of maintaining two blogs.

After having installed tracking devices on both and realizing that this blog gets significantly less traffic than my other one, I’ve decided to discontinue posting on this blog. Apparently most people would rather read about happenings than the randomness of my brain. That’s cool.

So, to those of you who have actually followed this blog—thank you—and please keep reading at http://www.pennyntranny.blogspot.com

Explanation Required

I have a very serious question.

Does anyone know how the word “inaugural” is supposed to be pronounced? Neither people nor dictionaries seem to be able to agree on this and it is driving me crazy!

I have a feeling it may be one of those irritating words that has dual pronunciations. Someone please save me from my own obsessive insanity. Petra, please tell me you have an explanation!

V-Day (Saying that always makes me think of D-day)

I imagine that it will come as no surprise to anyone reading this that I’m an incredibly private person. That's why I'm so cynical--my cynicism makes it so I never actually have to express my true (and very vulnerable) feelings about anything! This is especially true when it comes to things like publicly expressing my love for my husband. I always see people writing on Facebook or blogs about how amazing their husband is, and I never really write that kind of post. I feel all of the things that these people express (seriously, I am not just saying that—I love my husband way more than any of you love your husbands, he he), but I just don’t like writing about it on the internet.

In light of this and since it is Valentine’s Day, I thought I would post a link to a blog post I read today which made me think of my husband, and it is really sweet. It is by a girl (lady? Woman? Chick?) named Kerri whose blog I read primarily because she also has Type 1 Diabetes but also because I'm convinced that we'd be friends if we didn't live on opposite sides of the country...does that sound creepy?

http://sixuntilme.com/blog1/2007/02/the_peanut_butter.html

Craig, my dearest most wonderful amazing incredible husband (I’m totally tearing up right now)—“I’ll always write your name in peanut butter.” (If you are confused, it is because you haven’t read Kerri’s blog post!)

My Most Shallow Post Ever

Craig and I each have a list of five celebrities who, if they…you know—offered themselves to us, we are allowed to accept said offer. (I do realize that this would ever happen. I’m also aware that most of these people have STDs, and that’s really not the point. Just don’t take this post too seriously, okay?)

We re-evaluate our lists about once every six months or so, when we are bored or are stuck in traffic. I don’t know whether it needs explaining, but men look for something different than women do. I asked Craig this morning whether he had any reasons for his top 5 choices other than that they are hot. He said "no...you have reasons for yours, don't you, like--"I like #3 because he is so talented and when he was only 15 years old he dedicated him to helping locusts in Florida". Well, Craig, you were spot on (mostly). Here are our current top 5s with accompanying explanations:

Craig's top 5:

#1 Angelina Jolie : because she’s hot

#2 Jennifer Aniston : because she’s hot

#3 Leryn Franco : because she’s hot

#4 Paris Hilton : because she looks trashy

#5 Amanda Bynes : because she’s hot

Maryn's top 5 :

#1 Rivers Cuomo: Musician with degree from Harvard, so he’s got to have some kind of brain…and because he’s hot.

#2 Billy Corgan: Amazing musician and something draws me to his creepy mysterious side.

#3 Brad Pitt: okay, well, he’s just hot

#4 Anthony Keidis: I saw him in concert and he is a fantastic performer. His music is incredible and he’s had a tumultuous life…I guess it is the nurturer in me. Plus he has nice arms. (The Hep C is definitely an obstacle…)

#5 Wayne Brady: Saw him in Vegas. He is freaking hilarious…and has nice arms.

Having said all of this, I do want to be clear that I am not criticizing men for the way by which they choose women. I love this about men. They are easy to figure out (at least most of the time), and for this I am glad.

Words That Should Die

I’ve been working for a while on compiling a list of words (or things that people use as words) that I hate.
Here it is (in no particular order):

Woot
Missy
Hubby
Princess
URL (not the way you should say this—U-R-L—but the way people have started saying it—pronounced—earl.)
Binky
Maverick (Who doesn’t cringe right now when they hear that word?)
Nummy
Ginourmous (not sure how to spell this, but my spelling can’t be incorrect, because this is not a word!)

There is an explanation behind my distaste for some of these words, but some are inexplicable. My mom has pointed out that by saying I don’t like the word “woot”, it means that I’m old. I disagree, because 1) I’m only 27 and 2) I was young when it was cool to say that something was “da bomb” and I hated that too.

I’m pretty sure that I’d upset at least 77% of the readers of this blog if I went into detail about why I hate the words on this list, so I think I’ll take the high road…just this one time.