Marital Reciprocity My Behind!

The running joke in my house between my honey and I, whenever one of us asks the other to do something that they don’t particularly want to do, is for the requestor to pull out our marriage license (which he had laminated for durability…as he tends to pull it out far more than I do) and loudly proclaim, “I have papers on you!”  And as old and as tired as this joke gets, it still gets a chuckle out of us both, especially in light of the sort of things that are being demanded requested of the other.

Unfortunately, it was my turn to get the “reminder” this week.

While at work yesterday, I got a call from my honey asking if I would be a second set of eyes on a letter for work that he needed to send out in the morning.  Thinking that I’d be perusing some boring (but concise) staff procedural letter, I absentmindedly agreed and went about my work day.  When I got home and settled in, he dropped a stack of recommendation letters in my lap and proceeded take his behind upstairs to catch the Knicks game!

On his heels with papers in hand, my mouth was already shaped to do battle like nobody’s business (did he not realize I had just worked a 9-hour day and had spent the last hour on spelling words; specifically, helping the Big Boy to differentiate between the usage of  “affect” and “effect”?).  But before I could get out my opening arguments, I began to snicker as he spun on me with our binding contractual agreement in hand.  Snatching it, I still continued to fuss about how “reviewing” and “constructing” a letter where two entirely different things.  Of course he tried to pacify me with the whole spiel about appreciating my wordsmithery and ability to eloquently fasten together words and phrases to effectively convey important opinions and points (I think he even threw a “and liberty and justice for all” in there too).

What I explained to him was that while all of that could very well be factual, people actually did pay me to wield the pen on their behalf (oh, did I mention that my side hustle is a writing consulting business?), so it kind of sucked to have to sit for several hours to re-write a letter of recommendation that one of his students asked him to compose in the first place!

The kick in the head however, was that he tried to pull the big guns out on me.  He promptly reminded me off all the times when he turned our bedroom into a spa (complete with massage table, fragrances, warm towels and ambiance music) and gave me massages for free. He went on to say that his side-hustle (therapeutic massage) garnered in excess of $80 per client, but he never charged me or threw in my face the physical toll and exertion massage therapy takes on him.  Now, I could have argued the point that rubbing my back due to a stressful day or lugging in enough groceries to feed a football team or toting around a baby child that is actually big enough to be toting me certainly did not compare to him having me write a recommendation letter while he dictated it because he was more interested in seeing how many points Carmelo was going to score, but I didn’t.

Instead, I went ahead and wrote said letter as well as a little communication of my own.  And when it came time for him to sign that letter, he blindly went about John Hancock-ing them both.  Little did he know, that second document was actually my little contractual ace in the hole.  For the next 26 consecutive weekends, Mr. $80-per-client will be kneading, rubbing and shiatsu-ing my taut muscles until my body is a tranquil puddle of mush.

I too have papers honey!

 

The Only Thing I’m Packing Today Are Birthday Gifts

Although for many moons I have so graciously shared the day of my birth with the likes of Harry Houdini and Peyton Manning, March 24^th has always been a day in which to celebrate the life (and sometimes admittedly, the lunacy) of Tiffany.

And while as a part of my civic duty I should be sharing some motivational nugget with you guys on this here day of my birth, truthfully this is the one day in which I am actually unapologetically all-about-me (gasp).

That said however, I am not too self-absorbed to not be grateful for another year of life, a loving family and the ability to reflect upon all the many blessings that have been bestowed upon me (namely my Macy’s birthday gift cards, monetary endowments and my honey’s resilience and dexterity in the face of the slew of camped-out Apple groupies in order to secure my new iPad 2!!!).

But seriously, as The Pack Household prepares for the Big Boy and the Baby Child’s birthday this week as well (the three of us celebrate Birthday Week every year), today I take this opportunity to relish in just one “me” day out of the year without reproach.

Happy Birthday to me!

 

I Hate My Craptop!

I’ve always been a PC kinda girl, but within the last year, my laptop experiences have certainly built a case for me one day becoming a Mac mama.

Today, my “craptop” (that I’ve had for just nine months, mind you) decided to give up the ghost, even in the face of my multiple deadlines and unending reporting requirements. After a 2-hour visit from my IT guy (who determined that my hard-drive was deep fried, and who was also stunned that the darn thing wasn’t even a year old), I headed to my place of purchase to raise sand and enact my various (and expensive) warranties.

Long story short, I left with a sparkly new and upgraded laptop without even having to fuss (much), but not before overhearing the salesman telling another customer who was hesitant about buying a particular brand of laptop that all PCs, despite the manufacturer, have a 25% failure rate in the first two years after purchase.

Huh? (Yes, I too was scratching my head at his, uh…candor).

But let me just say that when next I spend *my* money on another computing device, the Personal Computer and its “pushers” can kindly kick rocks.

Humph!

Pack Kid Chronicles: Apologies and Scriptures

I have slowly come to realize that no matter how hard I work to make a lady of the Big Girl, she still has these tomboyish tendencies that sometimes have me wishing that the honey and I had opted to chance it and try just once more for another little girl (wait, what? Who knew that Nyquil and Halls could make you “type” deliriously?).

But seriously, for as much as she and I enjoy mani and pedis, getting our do’s done, buying cute clothes, jewelry and other and sparkly things, every weekend my only girl child can still be found mucking it up in the back yard with her brothers, hooping with the boy neighbors and producing a nose-hair shriveling, junkyard dog kind of funk that rivals her father after a long, hot day out in the sun (bleck). Her worst offense however, would have to be her bedroom. Painted in pretty pinks and pastels with matching window treatments and bed linen, she always raves about how much she loves her neat little boudoir, but everytime I enter it, I don’t know whether she’s had a chemical spill or if World War III commenced in there. And telling her that the boys’ rooms consistently stay cleaner than hers does nothing to guilt her into being more tidy; if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that it actually emboldens the broad.

Knowing however, that she still has at least five good years before here prissy gene will fully awaken from its dormant state, I try not to be too terrible when I terrorize her about her disheveled domicile (threatening to paint it green, move the Babychild in and make her sleep in the attic isn’t too harsh, is it?), but this past weekend, she had me on the verge of catching a case.

Going upstairs to check on her after a long day of basketball practice, I opened The Big Girl’s bedroom door to find her in the bed, and her room having the distinct smell of corn chips and feet. Worried that she’d plopped her sweaty self into her freshly laundered bed sheets, I began my tirade about “baths after basketball.” Assuring me that she’d gotten her Mr. Bubble on after practice, I couldn’t help but be baffled by what else could possibly be causing her room to smell like Christmas Chitterlings.

After thoroughly inquiring about what could be stashed in there and she insisting that nothing was amiss, I decided to get to the bottom of things once and for all. On a hunch, looked under The Big Girl’s bed…and boy, did I find the trifecta.

Juice boxes.
A bag of Fritos.
A container of potato salad.

Livid, she was placed on punishment indefinitely and threatened with a sock full of Susan B. Anthony Dollar Coins. I was so disappointed with her bourgeoning sloppiness that she was confined to her room until I’d actually awaken two hours later from my midday power nap. Finally getting up to detemine if The Big Girl’s room could actually be downgraded from quarantined status, I notice that an envelope had been slid under my bedroom door. Opening it, I couldn’t help but burst into a fit of giggles:

“Mommy,

I’m sorry for what I did. I know you want to beat me up and I don’t blame you because I lied and went against your word and I’m sorry. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Beneath the contrite correspondence was a simple illustration of the Big Girl asking to be forgiven and me deciding yes or no.

But the kicker was definitely the arrow she had drawn to the right corner of the paper where a bible verse was inscribed:
“Stop and consider God’s wonders”
~Job 37:14

Seeking forgiveness via Biblical Stationary…Well played Big Girl, well played.

Curiosity Killed The Cat, but Confidence Consoles The Tiger

I recently (and randomly) noticed the other day, just how absent Earl’s boy Tiger has been from the media. But honestly, I suppose that with Elin now swimming laps through half of his fortune like Scrooge McDuck, most women being afraid to be seen with him now, for fear that they’ll be deemed his sloppy 22nds and his mediocre finishes in the few golf tournaments he’s chosen to participate in, there really hasn’t been a whole lot to talk about lately, has there?

Most reasonable folks would say no, but we can always count on the easily excitable folks over at ESPN to find an angle in which to make Tiger relevant again. While watching Sports Center and getting ready for work this morning (I’m weird like that), I caught an interview where Tiger was asked about how his life has been going (you know, post freak-nasty sex scandal and the miraculous cosmetic dentistry answer for a 9-iron to the face). I’m not sure what they were expecting him to say, but in true Tiger fashion, he waxed poetic about how awesome his life was and how he has God on speed dial to materialize rainbows for his kids to slide down during the days that he has visitation (I’m paraphrasing).

The interviewer also asked El Tigre about what, if any concerns he had about his current golf game and about his aspirations to return to the elite ranks within the professional golf world. The last part of this run-on question was an inquiry regarding who Woods thought was the best golfer at the present time. With a side-eye and a smug grin that would have made even Hades blush, the golf great basically shared that with a more consistent swing, the likely candidate would undoubtedly be him (well that’s what his raised eyebrows said).

But seriously though; the man may lack a lot of things; namely a moral compass and his natural incisors and bicuspids, but his well of confidence remains overflowing. If he could just somehow figure out a way in which to bottle and sell the stuff, he’d be a very wealthy…oh wait, never mind.

Digging In the Crates: Cinnamon Girl

Even though my iPod and Blackberry Music Player usually register right around remarkable when I play them in shuffle mode during rush hour, my music was exceptionally awesome today as I drove home with Prince in bumper to bumper traffic this afternoon.

I can remember the first time I heard The Purple One shredding this tune while weaving his contemporary story of life as a young Arab-American girl post 9/11, and being completely captivated, yet chilled by the tale.  Then came the beautiful pandemonium of the song’s video, and I was once again reminded of Prince’s pure and unadulterated genius; and the fact that artists and provocateurs such as he can in fact use their fame and medium to expose a whole lot more than just butt-less jeans.

As war drums beat in Babylon
Cinnamon girl starts to pray
I’ve never heard a prayer like this one
Never before that day

Tearful words of love for people she had never met before
Asking God to grant them mercy in this face of a holy war

Cinnamon Girl

Cinnamon Girl of mixed heritage
Never knew the meaning of color lines
911 turned that all around
When she got accused of this crime

So began the mass illusion, war on terror alibi
What’s the use when the god of confusion keeps on telling the same lie?

Cinnamon Girl

Don’t cry, don’t shed no tears
One night won’t make us feel
Cause we know how this movie’s ending

Cinnamon Girl

As war drums beat in Babylon
And scorch the blood red sky
Militants bomb the foreign gun
Both sides truly die

Cinnamon girl opens the book she knows will settle all the scores
Then she prays after the war that there will not be anymore

Cinnamon Girl

 

Playing Daddy in “Wade” County

As many of you who read this blog know, in the past I’ve not minced words or sugar coated my feelings about the whole Dwyane-Siohvaughn-Gabbie debacle, or my concern for the ex-couple’s children, but it seems that this hot mess of a (dysfunctional) family saga has finally come to an end; at least legally.  Last week, the Miami Heat star was awarded permanent physically custody of his two sons, ending an extensive (and exhaustive, I’m sure) legal battle with his ex-wife Siohvaughn Wade.

And while I have also been unapologetically vocal (and admittedly biased) about my feelings as they pertain to how Wade handled his divorce from the wife who bore his children and stood by him before the league, championship rings, flashing lights, actresses and endorsements came a’callin’, I must admit that in light of her multiple and well-documented instances of crazy recently, it definitely may be for the best that he is now legally the primary caregiver for his sons.

I think that we can all agree that in spite of the beds that the adults made for themselves in this situation (and later tumble around in), the best interest of the children should have always been the focal point of the issue.  In her “woman-scorned” vindictiveness over the years however (remember back when Siohvaughn had legal custody of the boys and she would “adjust” Wade’s visitation times on a whim, or not let him in her gate to even pick the children up?), I think Siohvaughn may have lost sight of that fact, and in doing so lost custody of her sons.

But in fairness to D-Wade, one thing he has never faltered on publicly since things went array with The Missus has been his love and continued concern for his boys.  And in light of his Charlie Sheen-esque “winning” this past week (custody of the kids and Eastern Conference Player of The Week…¿en fuego, no?) I sincerely do wish him all the best as he embarks on this (re)newed excursion into daddydom.

Making It Happen: Adventures in “Bucket Listing”

Although I can recall always having kept a spiral notebook, recording my erudite plans and expectations for the future, it wasn’t until I saw Morgan and Jack in “The Bucket List” that I decided that my safe and conservative schedules and timetables could stand a little finessing and flair.  And while there will always be a special place in my heart for fearless, 70-something , crotchety old men, my personal bucket list doesn’t throw complete caution to the wind, but does afford me the opportunity to experience and explore the vastness of this great big world:

Bucket List Phase I:  Aspirations to Achieve by Age 40

1. Learn a second Conversational Foreign Language (preferably Italian)
2. Take a Four-Country European Tour (England, France, Italy, Greece)
3. Return to and complete Graduate School
4. Winter Retreat in one of North America’s National Park Systems
5. Explore the history of the former Ottoman Empire in an anniversary vacation with the honey (Didim, Turkey).
6. Visit all 50 United States (currently 21 of 50)
7. Participate in The Baltimore Running Festival; run The Baltimore Marathon
8. Experience Carnival in Trinidad
9. Discover my complete maternal and paternal genealogy
10. Finish a published work

 

 

Viva Cocina Mexicana: Some Merchants Get It

As much as try not to be ruled by my gut, I am an unapologetic “foodie”.  That coupled with my proclivity for cost savings and penchant for online ordering and you have yourself one overzealous-coupon-carrying food enthusiast.

This was the case the other night when just for registering my customer card with Qdoba’s rewards program, I received a free drink and chips and salsa for my troubles (which I have yet to claim, as I had bigger fish tacos to fry that day).  So after coming home from an obligatorily long work day and deciding that nothing particular in my refrigerator tickled my fancy, I came to the conclusion that I had a taste for Mexican cuisine.  Short of actually serving the food to me in hearty forkfuls, Qdoba’s website did everything from allowing me to tailor-make my order to offering me a custom timeframe in which to have my meal prepared for pick-up (and did I mention the promotional discounts???).

Too good to be true, right?  Well yeah.  When my honey made the 7-minute drive to pick up our dinner, he was greeted by a locked door and dimmed restaurant lights.  After refusing to be denied (translation: he really did not want to hear my mouth), one of the store employees let him in, only to explain that the store was closed (at 9pm).  By this time, his righteous indignation had set-in and he began his tirade about having just placed and paid for an order online, and why would the store have accepted the payment and order (with a 9:20 pick-up confirmation) if the store closed at 9pm on the weekdays.  He was offered some hogwash about the online and in-store systems not always syncing properly, but upon seeing he was in the preliminary stages of a dissatisfied-customer meltdown on my behalf, a manager was called to rectify the situation.

Giving his spiel a second time, my honey asked for a refund (while calling me in the process) and prepared to take his taste buds elsewhere.  Because the business was closed and the registers were down for the night however, the manager told my honey that our money would have to be refunded the next day.  But the surprise came when, in a stroke of pure Customer Service 101 Genius, the manager not only promised to refund our money, but to comp our same order for the following day!

Are you kidding me, who does that these days?  I was totally verklempt! I mean, I didn’t even get a chance to ask for his boss’s boss our warm up my pen and notepad!

But the true shame is that I actually was surprised by this manager’s efforts to ensure that my honey left his establishment as satisfied customer. Don’t get me wrong; the guy was great and I appreciate his old school ideologies with regard to patrons, but if I’m honest, we are a so far removed from 1965, and it is seldom that I encounter a business that will do right by me (when the error is theirs) without a little arm twisting, you know?

So for as much as I fuss when businesses engage in blatant buffoonery at my expense, how could I not shout out one that went above and beyond expectations…and caused a gluttonous 3lb. weight gain in the process?

 

Back Into the Thick of It

I’d ask you all if you missed me these past few weeks, but in doing so, I’d then have to admit that although I always long for you guys when I am away, I didn’t necessarily “miss” blogging over the last ten days.

Having originally planned to take our much needed vacation last year for our anniversary, the honey and I ultimately had to postpone our long awaited getaway until the end of February (thanks to my hallucination-inducing weeklong migraines back in October, remember?).  But four months and no kids later, the honey and I hit the road to enjoy a full week of rest and relaxation in the Great Smoky Mountains.

Now I know what you are thinking, and while I cannot give you an exact figure or percentage of brown people who actually drive for hours just to find solace in mountainous Eastern Tennessee, it is worth pointing out that by the time we left Gatlinburg, we’d counted and/or exchanged brief pleasantries with close to 10 couples with a melanin surplus resembling our own.  Still, no matter how loud I sang along to Landslide while driving around town (the Dixie Chicks and the Fleetwood Mac version), the honey and I still received the most hilarious double-takes, stares and inquiring side-eyes (well, in all fairness, it was funny to me; the honey was a little cautious and unnerved by all the attention).

But for all of the awkwardness associated with being chocolate city-slickers in a lackadaisical country town, the majestic views, breathtaking sunrises and sunsets, gorgeous landscapes, fresh mountain air, delicious food and the occasional head-nod from a local or two made our stay totally worth doing again in the future.  Too bad my return home was met with crying offspring, permission slips, mandatory business meetings, vendor follow-ups and other fires needing to be put out!

Aaah, back to reality.