Christina and the Crab

Many of you know that I don’t eat seafood. My last experience with seafood took place at the ripe age of six, when I barfed after consuming my mother’s tuna noodle casserole.

I have not been tempted to deviate from my no-seafood-plan. Even while traveling through Norway and Sweden, I politely refused any fish entrée.

This past Friday was Momentum’s annual Christmas party at church. There was quite the spread of goodies, but without question, the most delectable item was Whitney’s cheese fondue. I took several heaping spoonfuls and quickly wolfed them down with the accompanying sourdough croutons. It wasn’t until I finished the meal that I overheard Whitney and Becca discussing the recipe. My stomach began to churn as I heard the dreaded words, “canned crabmeat.” My 21 year seafood hiatus had just ended, and surprisingly, I felt just fine.

And though I won’t be adding seafood to my diet anytime soon, it’s nice to know that when confronted with the crab, I prevailed as conqueror.

Trip, Slip or Rip

Embarrass yourself once in front of a person and your ego will survive, embarrass yourself twice, even three times in front of that same person and your ego experiences a compound fracture. Here’s my tale:

Several months ago my company began renting out office space to a small company called Soy Basics. The company is made up of predominantly young males. Their office space resides in the back of the building right next to my area. When leaving our suites for lunch or bathroom breaks, we use the same narrow corridor to get to the common area. A couple of weeks ago while returning from lunch, I found myself in the narrow hallway with one of their young employees. I coolly acknowledged his presence with a “hello” and right as I did, I slipped on the freshly waxed linoleum tiles and clung to the wall to avoid a face-plant. I can’t recall exactly what I exclaimed, but I am certain it was something stupid like “whoa Nelly, pardon me.”

It wasn’t but the following day when I found myself in the same situation; same young man, same narrow hallway. This time I didn’t acknowledge him but rather looked straight down at the ground and urged my feet to behave. Right before we passed, my left heel swung out from under me, and I went straight down and landed on my right knee. Thankfully the young man didn’t acknowledge my blunder, he just kept on walking. I on the other hand squealed, partially from pain, partially from humiliation.

Now for the worst part . . . as I was coming in the main building this morning, I saw that the same young man was holding the elevator for me. My building has the world’s slowest elevator. By not making the elevator in the morning, it often results in being five minutes tardy to work. I was clearly overjoyed at his gesture and walked speedily towards the open doors. Before I made it, my jacket pocket got hooked on the handicap button and I was jerked back. Not realizing that I was stuck, I lunged forward and my pocket tore away. I was horrified, MORTIFIED, and though I don’t blush, I could feel my cheeks burning.

When I finally made it onto the elevator I announced to the young man that I promised not to “trip, slip, or rip” in front of him anymore. At that he turned to me looking puzzled. I could clearly see that he had no idea what I was talking about. I tried to prod his memory by mentioning the previous week’s hazardous hallway experience, to which he still came up blank. After talking for a few moments it was clear that he had absolutely no recollection of the string of embarrassments that I had endured right in front of him. He hadn’t even seen me get stuck on the handicap button because he was texting at the time. As we got off the elevator at our floor, he apologized for being so oblivious and then laughed and said, “But I am sure glad you’re not going to rip in front of me anymore.”

New Blog

I have spent many hours watching HGTV’s “Spice My Kitchen.” I have spent even more money at Barnes and Noble buying home kitchen renovation magazines. I have dreamt kitchen, cried kitchen, and hounded my dear husband with thousands of pretty pleases’.

Turns out folks, we’re commencing with our project, and I have started a new blog to document the project. Here’s the link:

www.scottandchristinahomereno.blogspot.com

Mind you, there’s nothing posted right now, just a small introduction, but believe me, once those footings are dug, pictures will be up.

Birthday/Anniversary/Labor Day Weekend = Whaa-Whaa

I was SO excited this year because my wedding anniversary and birthday butted right up to the long Labor Day weekend. I asked for Thursday, the 3rd (anniversary), and Friday, the 4th (birthday) off, which meant I would have five luxurious days of freedom to myself.

Upon leaving work on Wednesday, my eyes were already itchy, my head hurt, my cough had started, and I was sneezing continually. Thursday was manageable. It also happened to be my mother’s 65th birthday party that evening (yeah, we like to really bunch together special events in our household). She had hired a classical guitarist to come to her home and perform a concert. Through muffled coughing fits, I was able to enjoy the evening. For those of you that know my mother, she was true to herself all evening and had a ball. She even managed to take some great verbal “jabs” at the musician that made everyone roll with laughter (Arby’s anyone?) Prior to showing up at the party, Scott and I went to Redstone to celebrate our four years of wedded bliss (truly, it has been blissful!)

However, Friday, my birthday, the illness hit with newfound vengeance. In fact, I felt so poor in the morning that I made a last minute appt. with my doctor. She proscribed some tough cough medicine and antibiotics. We spent my birthday evening hunkered down in the basement watching stupid TV movies, and eating Thahn Do takeout, the only redeeming part of the evening.

Hmm, maybe I could write a new lyric for Alanis Morissette’s song, “Isn’t It Ironic.”

Fart Poem

Scott and I spent Sunday afternoon tending to the tedious task of reorganizing/purging our storage room. The storage room had become an endless abyss for clutter—filled with cardboard boxes and trash bags stuffed with miscellaneous surplus from our move two years earlier.

Just entering the room would make Scott’s pulse race and armpits sputter. If you don’t know this already, Scott becomes very frenzied and irritable around large quantities of disarray.

In an effort to pacify his need for order, we bought clear plastic storage bins at Target on Friday. Now everything is packed away in an orderly fashion and the boxes are transparent so we can easily see their contents. This was a daunting task that we are happy to have behind us.

Sorting through the boxes, we came across many gems—old love notes, Jr. High yearbooks, and this poem that I composed for Scott on his 22^nd birthday as a part of an elaborately constructed, homemade poetry book. This was the final poem I wrote for the compilation. Enjoy!

This is the big shebang,

I should say something to make you shutter,

A poem to conclude a birthday gift

should be more than fanciful clutter.

I’ve written about love in every single piece,

and at this point the facts are clear--

you are loved madly without cease.

So now I change the subject,

to something different and brand new,

hopefully it will make you giggle

and you’ll read it through and through.

I am not sure if everyone does this?

Or if it’s specific to our relationship,

but I wouldn’t recommend asking for guidance or for tip.

Something that I’ve noticed,

that has gradually come about,

is that you’re always farting--

be it through your butt, your hand, or mouth.

Sometimes we’ll be walking and you’ll pump my hand real hard,

suddenly a little noise will escape that resembles a little fart.

Other times we’re meandering with nothing much to do,

and all the sudden you’ll lift your leg and let out one or two.

More disturbing are the times when I lean in to give a kiss,

but instead of finding warm welcoming lips,

I am met by a puff of air and spit.

The bliss of farting is so grand,

even if it’s mock farts performed by the mouth and hand.

Charming it’s not; elegant it will never be,

instead it was developed for one reason:

to bring a smile to the face of you and me.

First Crush, Please Respond

Whereas some people didn’t develop romantic feelings for the opposite gender until puberty struck, I can recall having crushes as early as 3 and 4 years of age.

My very fist crush was none other than LeVar Burton, host of Reading Rainbow. I remember being very distraught and confused when I saw him playing his other famous TV character: blind Lieutenant Geordi La Forge on Star Trek.

In real life, my first crush was Carl Huntington. We went to preschool together. Rather than having a sandbox, our preschool had a huge crate of corn kernels that we played in. I distinctly remember plotting ways to lure Carl into the corn crate with me with the intention of kissing him. You may ask, what turned my affections off for young Carl? Well, quite simply, one day he wore a tight white turtleneck to school. During story time, I noticed that while sitting Indian style, Carl had quite the belly rolls (at four years old, I believe this is called ‘baby fat’), nonetheless, this turned me off to dear Carl.

This story is quite infamous in my household. In fact, when Scott and I got married, in an act of jest, my sister, Ann, constructed a wedding card for me. On the front was a magazine clipping of a man in a tight white turtleneck. Ann had glued Scott’s picture over the model’s face and drawn an arrow to his midsection. She wrote, “Hey look, no belly rolls!” And on the inside, “So now you can happily walk down the aisle and say ‘I do.’

Okay, I digress a little with the story. My true intention for this blog post is to discover who was your first crush? Other really stellar crushes in my past include:

-Prince Erik from the Little Mermaid (yeah, the cartoon character)
-The axe throwing hottie, Sully, from Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman
-Huck Finn, as played by Elijah Wood

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside . . .

Like a queasiness, or a mild indigestion.

I couldn’t resist watching clips from yesterdays, “Michael Jackson: The Memorial.”

I realize that he was a musical prodigy. That he blazed the trail into musical superstardom, which few, if any will ever be able to coincide or surpass.

That said, am I the only one that he gave the hybee-geebies?

Queen Latifah read a poem composed by the esteemed Maya Angelou, which seemed to liken him to an angel, granted to earth for only a short while.

Here’s an excerpt:

“Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us and we did have him. “

And

“We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing. He gave us all he had been given.”

Okay, give me a moment to choke down my gag reflex.

In my opinion, Michael Jackson may have been a musical God, but he was still a frail, very disturbed human being.

I may listen to his songs, smile and reminisce, but I will not mourn this man.

Gooseberry Cabins

“White bed linens and a four poster bed.” That was my requirement when hunting for honeymoon accommodations. I was not going to have the most romantic venture of my life in a room that had flamingos (or the color teal) on the bedspread.

Having just booked our three day summer getaway to my childhood vacation spot, Gooseberry Cabins, 30 miles past Duluth, I marvel at how nostalgic value trumps any other conceived value. I really value “pretty” accommodations and accoutrements. That said, my love for these quaint cabins—cabins where my grandparents stayed as young newlyweds, cabins where I romped around as a child climbing boulders and roasting hotdogs, cabins where my best friend in high school, Christa, shrieked when entering the bathroom, “Wow, if you were even slightly fat, you wouldn’t fit in here!” Oh yes, these cabins fill me with such a fury of nostalgic romanticism that I can hardly wait the next three weeks for my tiny, and well deserved vacation to come.

And though I realize that I will undoubtedly be sleeping under a bedspread abundant with shades of hunter green and maroon, and probably a cross-stich of moose antlers on the wall, I am so, so happy. And cannot wait for July 22-24 to come!

To Be or Not To Be . . . A Gluttonous Tale

Working in product sales, there are a lot of freebies. At least once a week I return home with a free item (or a box full!) That said, there is always a fine line to walk: how much is okay to take, and at what point do I look like a big oinker?

Today, this conflict came to a head. Another vendor in our building was having a moving sale. This vendor sells an assortment of very pricey table-top items. For today only, as a means of liquidating their inventory, nothing had a price. They were only requesting free will donations. I love and hate free will donations equal parts. It is too risky. You either overcompensate and pay too much, or you give too little and look like cheapskate. Today, I chose the latter.

When I entered the sales floor, there were already lots of women “having their way” with the merchandise. They had huge boxes overflowing with table runners, decorative napkins, votive holder, and tea blends. In good faith I chose a “small box” to begin hoarding my goods. I grabbed five packets of linen placemats (retail for $54), as well as some pretty glass napkin rings (retail $16). I then noticed some gorgeous twine and glass balls and grabbed five . . . okay, ten (retail $8). I moved onto the picture frames. I picked up three etched glass frames and added them to my box (retail $32). At this point, I discarded my small box, and transported all of my goods a larger, more appropriate box.
Next I made my way to the votive table (oh how I love you ambiance, oh how I need you small candle holders), I grabbed twelve embellished holders and six plain gold holders (retail $18 and $12). Just as I was getting embarrassed that I now looked like the women mentioned earlier, I noticed some beautiful recycled wood salad tongs, I grabbed just one set, and added them to my stash (retail $30).

I was finally done, and now for the awkward “payment” stage. I had one twenty and five one dollar bills. I crumpled them all together in what appeared to be a large wad and handed them to the man working the checkout. I prayed that he would not unroll the wad while I was still standing there with my overflowing box. Thankfully, he just put the cash in the little apron thing he was wearing, and I scurried off, actually more like lumbered off (the box was quite large).

However, now that I have actually written this account, I am feeling quite guilty. If I tally up all the grossly inflated retail costs, I come up with a figure of $900.00! That means I got the products for 99.972% off. I could either chalk this up to being a very, very good deal, or I could acknowledge it for what it was: a pure, unadulterated, glutton fest!

Lucky You!

I am crazy about my husband. He is the kindest, most even-keel, genuinely pleasant person I have ever come across. Though he is generally extremely level-headed, he experienced, shall we say, a “massive moment of impulse” yesterday.

I admit it, I am extremely impressionable. Guaranteed, if I watch an infomercial all the way through, I am convinced by the end of the 30 minutes that my life would somehow be better if I owned the triple charged steamer iron or Kamara’s new body shaper. However, when people come to my door selling items, I am as cold as ice—I can even turn away cute little girls selling cookies!

On the other hand, if you knock on our door, and Scott’s home, your sales quota is met! One year he bought $160.00 worth of magazine subscriptions from a “supposed” former drug addict trying to better themselves. Other years, (very forgivable) he bought Christmas Wreaths’ from the Boy Scouts. I had to go an entire holiday season with an ugly, misshapen wreath, fastened by a tacky red felt bow. But, without question, this year’s purchase takes the cake.

I came home yesterday afternoon only to hear Scott in the kitchen, “I need your help right away, I bought something . . . “

Uh oh.

I thought perhaps he bought an improved air conditioning unit and needed my help to haul it into the spare room. But no . . . when I turned the corner into the kitchen, I found Scott with the freezer wide open. There on the ground was not one gigantic box of meat, but two. I am talking massive, gargantuan, need a fork-lift to transport, boxes of meat!

Evidently, a salesman stopped by with a “cannot pass this up” deal, and Scott bought it hook, line, and sinker. Does this come down to men being visual? I am sure if the salesman would have shown Scott cardboard images of the product, he may not have been so keen to take the plunge. But when he pulled out the beautiful, perfectly marbled slabs of steak and questioned Scott, “You do like meat, right?” all of his manly instincts kicked into high gear and had him clamoring for his checkbook.

Back to yesterday with the meat boxes strewn across the kitchen floor, I ask,
“So, where are we going to put all this?”

. . . 30 minutes later Scott returns from Home Depot with a deep freezer in the back of his truck.

So, there you have it--the retelling of my husband’s momentary lapse of reason, and how it put a large debit in our checking account.

What this means for you: you will be eating the cream de la cream of meat de la meat when we host summer BBQ in August. Lucky you, not so lucky me!

Photography class

I had 10 assignments to complete for my class and the class voted on them. Number 6 tied for 3rd place and number 10 took honorable mention.

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Hey, look who updated!

So, for those of you who have written us off, we don't blame you. It's been over seventh months since we last updated, and a couple of changes have occured to our humble abode. Our finished basement has been our biggest accomplishment. Here's some recent pictures, take a look . . .

Thanks for your help Tom.

My Dad didn't want to miss the fun.

Christina happy about the new siding.