A short time ago in Kansas City, MO...
Previously, our heroes encountered Fred the Shoe Salesman and stopped his evil plot to install himself as dictator. We continue our adventures with our now well-shod duo...
We checked into the hotel and got settled in. Standing right alongside the rather standard bathroom and bedroom arrangements, laid the Holy Grail of our journey. The reason for our monumental trek. The purpose of our sojourn.
The giant jacuzzi bathtub...
Standing there as a beacon of bubbly goodness, bathed in a halo of purest white light, angels singing softly in the distance, it beckoned. We stood for a moment, gazing at this marvel of jets and hardened plastic. Then Carly took a bath. As it filled and she prepared to experience the awesomeness of The Tub, disaster struck. The cold water tap handle broke off. Now, she was cursed to having a increasingly chilly bath. Of course, this would not do, so we needed to inform the front desk. Meanwhile, I, on the other hand, had found another treasure worth mentioning.
The terrycloth bathrobe...
I am firmly convinced that bathrobes are a gift from the heavens. If it weren't socially impolite (and illegal mostly), I would be in a bathrobe all day (plus pj pants, of course). Going to class in a bathrobe. Going to work in a bathrobe. Mowing my yard in a bathrobe. The comfort factor alone makes up for the awkward conversations I'd have to have. "Just gettin' my mail, Mr. Jones. In my bathrobe. You should try it. It's comfy. How's that rash?" See? Awkward. Of course, since that seems totally impractical and breezy, I may have to upgrade to the bathrobe's more dashing cousin:
The smoking jacket...
It's time to go to dinner. So, Carly leaves the tub and I grudgingly leave the terrycloth perfection behind. Off to the resturant with a quick side trip to the front desk. They can have it fixed before we get back, and Carly can have a proper bath. It's 4:30 in the afternoon and we're off to dinner. It was the only reservations they had left. We arrive at The Melting Pot which is located on the Plaza, the fancy part of town that caters to the nuveau riche of Kansas City. Every city seems to have these areas, teeming with upper-middle class eateries and boutique stores, mainly for people with more money than any reasonably sane person would need at any given time, and filled with women that would look down on me so hard that they give themselves whiplash and wouldn't give me the time of day in a clock shop.
(Side note: It has been said that getting married is a sure fire way to get women to hit on you. The theory goes something like this: Women see a ring on a guys finger, figures that the guy must not have commitment issues and is therefore an upgrade to their current guy who has yet to ask the question, even though they've nagged them incessantly about it for the past 3 years they've been dating. I have not witnessed this phenomenon myself aside from the geriatric customers I deal with everyday that think I'm a "doll". It's my theory, that the people who made this theory came up with it in order to make themselves feel better about NOT getting hit on by said women, and passing off any interaction with the fairer sex as being "hit on". Further, they should just comb their hair over their bald spot, accept it, and move on. Sometimes a "hello" is just a "hello".)
We travel down two flights of stairs to get to the front counter of The Melting Pot, follow the hostess down a few more stairs and are seated in what can generously be described as a wine cellar, or, as I prefer to think of it, a bomb shelter. Seriously, we must be quite a ways underground. But it's nicely lit, quiet and, for a time, we're mostly alone.
Fondue is amazing, by the way. So brillantly simple, yet so tasty. I can imagine the geniuses that invented it:
"Dan, I have this amazing idea for a new way to eat things. You know how much you like cheese and chocolate?" "Sure do, Bill" "Let's melt 'em down to molten slag and dip bits of bread, veggies and fruit into them." "Hmmmm, slather yummy stuff onto other yummy stuff. Bill, you're a madman... but it just might work! Let's call it something French to really jazz it up. Make it seem fancy and exotic when it's really a pretty simple concept. You know, like lattes or bidets!" "Brilliant, Dan!"
The Melting Pot is a fantastic fondue resturant that serves stylized meals in a romantic and comfortable setting. It's ideal for a quiet meal with a romantic interest, a fun and interactive eating adventure for the family, or simply a place for a good, filling dinner. Soft music plays over the speakers as Carly and I get settled into the private booth and look over the menu.
So, you understand our suprise when our tall and loud waiter comes around the corner, blindsiding us with a hearty, "HEY GUYS! HOW ARE WE THIS EVENING?!?!?!" Jarring, to say the least. Wide eyed we give him a weak reply and give him our drink orders. He happily trots off telling us that he'll be right back to, "get this party started". I wasn't aware that she and I were at a party, but he insisted. So much so that every course was a party waiting to erupt it seems. We asked him if it's cheaper to go with the package deal that comes with 4 courses or to go a la carte and pick what we want. "OH, NO. GO WITH THE PACKAGE DEAL. SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER AND CHEAPER FOR YOU. NOW, WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THE TUSCAN INSPIRED PACKAGE?!?!?"
Later, he told us that this was his last week, since he was switching jobs. To become a car salesmen. I kind you not.
"SO, WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET YOU FOLKS INTO THE S'MORES CHOCOLATE FONDUE TONIGHT?!?"
But, seriously. If you get the chance, eat at the Melting Pot. It's nummy. And the pine nuts are amazing.
Back to the hotel. The tap is fixed and Carly gets her bath. I get my bathrobe. And all is right.
Sunday. Nothing much to do today. So, a quick trip to the breakfast bar in the lobby and another long bath for Carly, and out the door we go. Our mission: We needed to hunt down a comic book store that sells games in order to get a new copy of Guillotine.
That last sentence might sound like Mad Libs, but let me explain. For this, you'll need to hop in your DeLorean, go 88 miles per hour and travel back to the weekend of the baby shower/baptism/wedding shower. Carly and I own a card game called Guillotine. As the name suggests, it's a game about the French Revolution. The object is to collect more important noble's heads than your opponents. It's a lot more fun than it sounds (and less revolutiony). We wanted to play it that weekend, but our old copy had gotten wet sometime since we played it last and the wetness had turned to mold. So, no more Guillotine.
Now, come back to last Sunday (or travel ahead to the future, if you want. You have a time machine after all. Incidentally, if you do go, pick me up a hoverboard. They promised me those things by 2015 and I want one. Also, if you see future Jon, punch me in the face and take my hoverboard. That guy owes me money anyway).
We went all over the city looking for a comic shop that was A. open and B. selling games. This being Sunday, most places didn't open until noon. So, here we are, sitting out in front of a comic book store on a Sunday morning. If you had asked me what I thought marrage was 4 years ago, the last thing I would have said is, "sitting in a car with my wife, waiting for a comic book store to open so we could get a copy of our favorite card game." A dream to be sure, but never my idea of reality. This is reason #103234 why I love my wife.
For lunch, we wanted to go to Mongolian barbecue. If you've never had it, go eat it. Now. It's great. Just don't go on a Sunday. They're closed. As we found out.... But that Indian place is open...
Ever since we moved here, we've been searching for a good Indian resturant. In Memphis, we were within walking distance of one and we got spoiled. 5 failed attempts to find one here, and we struck gold. And aside from the guy walking past us with the moccasins on that had Democrat donkeys on them and smelled like aromatherapy candles, it was good. Feasting on curried goodness, we spotted something that, well, was not so good.
The lady in the booth next to us got up to refill her plate at the buffet. She wasn't a big woman. She was mostly non-descript. Plain really. Reading a book and eating her Indian food all by herself, looking quite content to do so. As she walked past, though, something was amiss.
It was a perfect line of sweat.
In her crack.
And we went home.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Babymoon: Episode II: Attack of the Fred
When we last left our intrepid heroes, they had thwarted the evil machinations of Man Hands Vee.
We had some time to kill before we could check into the hotel, so we decided to head to the mall and pick up some new shoes for me. Of course, it started raining right as we pulled into the parking lot. So, after letting Carly out at the door and parking somewhere near Canada (all I could see was hockey rinks and bears. And I swear I heard the Canadian mating call: "Molson Ice is on sale, eh!"), I headed into the mall myself. We came to the conclusion that the first place we found that sold shoes we would check out.
And it was there that we met Fred.
Fred is an older gentlemen. He sells shoes in the men's section at the J.C.Penny's in the mall. He is dressed in the starndard men's wear outfit at J.C.Penny's: white shirt, black pants, red tie, and of course, comfy, well chosen shoes. Fred is very no-nonsense about his shoes. Fred is scary no-nonsense about his shoes. Don't mess with Fred.
We approached the men's shoe section, and looked at the display shoes for anything in our price range that looked decent. As Carly reached for a nice black model, Fred comes to us and says, "May I help you?" much like a museum curator would to a patron who had his filthy hands streched out to touch the Mona Lisa. "Yes," Carly says, "he needs a black dress shoe. Nothing too dressy. More casual than dressy but still nice looking." I say, "yeah, something like a Biz-Cas-Fri shoe." Fred moves to show me the shoe, ignoring my comment.
Fred is serious about his shoes.
He points to one particular display shoe and says, "This is the best deal in the store. A very nice pair of shoes." At this point, I'm thinking it's best not to question Fred, much like thinking it's best not to poke a sleeping bear with a stick. "Do you have that in a 12?", we ask. Fred tells me that he needs to measure my foot and, doing the next logical thing, walks off to where he measures feet. I sit down, and being in quite the vulnerable position, ask if it's the left or right foot that he needs. He barks, "right", much like a Nazi SS officer would bark at a soldier to march. I'm very glad that I wore clean socks that day. He puts my foot into the little clamp-like torture device that they measure feet with. He then informs me that I've been wrong for years and that I wear a size 12 in sneaker, but in dress shoes, I wear a 10 1/2.
Fred is VERY serious about his shoes!
We pick out a pair of sneakers for me, then it's time to check out. Fred has been holding my dress shoes for me so we could find the sneakers we like, much like a mother holds a newborn baby. As we go to check out, there is a bottleneck at the register. Fred begins to direct traffic as he checks people out, helping us skip a few people in line. No one protests. No one bats an eye. Fred's word is law.
Do not mess with Fred.
As we walk away, I can't help but wish Fred well. He is a stalwart bastion of podiatary excellence. And, daily, he steps on the heels of greatness, arching his way ever upward to the foot of the heavens. Once more into the breach, dear Fred. Once more.
We continued our adventure into foot fetishism by getting Carly a spa pedicure. Seeing as how I have big giant size 10 1/2 (12 in sneakers) hobbit feet, I declined. They guy in the chair nearest me, on the other hand, seemed to get quite the workout on his feet. At one point, she started to slap his feet. I think the lady was massaging his feet, but it sounded like there was a bug on them and she was trying to kill it.
On the TV was an old show, American Gladiators 2000. It was a kids version of the fabled American Gladiators, with dumbed down events (including questions during the Eliminator. Seriously.) I don't remember that being on when I was younger. The date on it was 1995. 14 years ago. Damn, I'm old. But not as old as the kid that took forever on the Eliminator costing his team the victory. And I saw the entire, humiliating defeat, 14 years later. That kid might be a lawyer or doctor or rocket scientist now. He could be on the verge of curing cancer, or getting ready to take the first steps on Mars. But all I'll ever know of him is that he totally blew it on national televison.
As this is a 3 part story there will be a brief intermission:
Things overheard in Kansas City....
Girl 1: "I like anchovies, and I like pizza. So, why do I hate anchovy pizza?"
Girl 2: "Maybe there's something wrong with you."
Girl walking past us: "And, I swear, I looked down and said, "Holy cow! That's infected!"
Stay tuned for Part 3: The End?
We had some time to kill before we could check into the hotel, so we decided to head to the mall and pick up some new shoes for me. Of course, it started raining right as we pulled into the parking lot. So, after letting Carly out at the door and parking somewhere near Canada (all I could see was hockey rinks and bears. And I swear I heard the Canadian mating call: "Molson Ice is on sale, eh!"), I headed into the mall myself. We came to the conclusion that the first place we found that sold shoes we would check out.
And it was there that we met Fred.
Fred is an older gentlemen. He sells shoes in the men's section at the J.C.Penny's in the mall. He is dressed in the starndard men's wear outfit at J.C.Penny's: white shirt, black pants, red tie, and of course, comfy, well chosen shoes. Fred is very no-nonsense about his shoes. Fred is scary no-nonsense about his shoes. Don't mess with Fred.
We approached the men's shoe section, and looked at the display shoes for anything in our price range that looked decent. As Carly reached for a nice black model, Fred comes to us and says, "May I help you?" much like a museum curator would to a patron who had his filthy hands streched out to touch the Mona Lisa. "Yes," Carly says, "he needs a black dress shoe. Nothing too dressy. More casual than dressy but still nice looking." I say, "yeah, something like a Biz-Cas-Fri shoe." Fred moves to show me the shoe, ignoring my comment.
Fred is serious about his shoes.
He points to one particular display shoe and says, "This is the best deal in the store. A very nice pair of shoes." At this point, I'm thinking it's best not to question Fred, much like thinking it's best not to poke a sleeping bear with a stick. "Do you have that in a 12?", we ask. Fred tells me that he needs to measure my foot and, doing the next logical thing, walks off to where he measures feet. I sit down, and being in quite the vulnerable position, ask if it's the left or right foot that he needs. He barks, "right", much like a Nazi SS officer would bark at a soldier to march. I'm very glad that I wore clean socks that day. He puts my foot into the little clamp-like torture device that they measure feet with. He then informs me that I've been wrong for years and that I wear a size 12 in sneaker, but in dress shoes, I wear a 10 1/2.
Fred is VERY serious about his shoes!
We pick out a pair of sneakers for me, then it's time to check out. Fred has been holding my dress shoes for me so we could find the sneakers we like, much like a mother holds a newborn baby. As we go to check out, there is a bottleneck at the register. Fred begins to direct traffic as he checks people out, helping us skip a few people in line. No one protests. No one bats an eye. Fred's word is law.
Do not mess with Fred.
As we walk away, I can't help but wish Fred well. He is a stalwart bastion of podiatary excellence. And, daily, he steps on the heels of greatness, arching his way ever upward to the foot of the heavens. Once more into the breach, dear Fred. Once more.
We continued our adventure into foot fetishism by getting Carly a spa pedicure. Seeing as how I have big giant size 10 1/2 (12 in sneakers) hobbit feet, I declined. They guy in the chair nearest me, on the other hand, seemed to get quite the workout on his feet. At one point, she started to slap his feet. I think the lady was massaging his feet, but it sounded like there was a bug on them and she was trying to kill it.
On the TV was an old show, American Gladiators 2000. It was a kids version of the fabled American Gladiators, with dumbed down events (including questions during the Eliminator. Seriously.) I don't remember that being on when I was younger. The date on it was 1995. 14 years ago. Damn, I'm old. But not as old as the kid that took forever on the Eliminator costing his team the victory. And I saw the entire, humiliating defeat, 14 years later. That kid might be a lawyer or doctor or rocket scientist now. He could be on the verge of curing cancer, or getting ready to take the first steps on Mars. But all I'll ever know of him is that he totally blew it on national televison.
As this is a 3 part story there will be a brief intermission:
Things overheard in Kansas City....
Girl 1: "I like anchovies, and I like pizza. So, why do I hate anchovy pizza?"
Girl 2: "Maybe there's something wrong with you."
Girl walking past us: "And, I swear, I looked down and said, "Holy cow! That's infected!"
Stay tuned for Part 3: The End?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Babymoon: Episode I: The Phantom Husband
Carly and I have decided that it's time to start reading to our baby. On the first night, I grabbed the book nearest to us (it doesn't really matter what I read, the point is for her to recognize my voice). It just so happened that the book I grabbed was Kafka's "Metamorphosis". Now, as I'm reading to them, Cletus starts kicking pretty violently. So much so that I can feel her whack my hand. It seems our baby loves philosophical prose. I expect her to be born wearing a graduation cap and gown, show me her PhD (obtained from online courses she took while Carly was asleep), inform us that she solved string theory on the placenta, and then ask for the car keys so she can go have lunch with Steven Hawking, tell him his theories are bunk and why, then stiff him with the check.
I have high expectations.
The baby's been kicking me a lot lately, especially right after we eat. She likes most of the things we feed her at this point. Or hates them. It's hard to tell which is which. What I don't like, though, is Carly feeling her own belly when the baby's kicking. It's not fair that she bogarts the kicks like that. She gets to feel them from the outside and inside? No, ma'am!
We decided that now was as good of a time as any to get away for a bit, just the two of us, and have ourselves a babymoon. That is, a vacation before the baby arrives. Sort of a spur of the moment thing.
Left Saturday morning kinda early, since we had an appointment to get to. We stopped in St. Joe for brunch, visited a farmer's market for about 10 seconds, bought some monkey bread, (because you can never have enough things that involve monkeys), and headed on.
Our first real destination was the spa. See, Carly's been feeling achy and this in turn has made her happier than is physically possible in this reality. To make her feel even better, we set her up with a prenatal massage. Rubbing the tension away from her shoulders, her legs, right out of her body. For over an hour, she was pampered and made to feel 10,000 times better.
I, on the other hand, was in the waiting room. If you're curious, there are 47 tiles on the ceiling of the spa, the wicker chairs are from Pier One and cost $39.99 (they failed to remove the tag on one of them), and the aromatherapy candles they had lighted smelled like the unwashed feet of a hippie (in case you're curious, that smells like a combination of dirt, patchouli, and a smug sense of self-righteousness).
Then, the all-female employees begin to discuss why their current attire makes their boobs looks too small, or hurt them or make them look like a floozy. Bear in mind, they're around the corner and can't see me. Also, they must have forgotten that I was there, since they offered everyone else that came into the place a bottle of water but me. As this riveting conversation continued and I learned more about the wonderful people in the establishment and their mammary issues, one of them actually paused in mid-sentence and whispered to another employee, "Is there a client waiting?" The response: "No, it's just the husband of a client waiting." "Oh, so anyway..."
Then, I burned my face off with the aromatherapy candle just to get the full painful experience.
But wait... then, after that little gleaming nugget of English excellence ended, one of the fine staff members (I assume Floozy) comes around the corner and, I kid you not, plugs in the little fountain in the entryway. The tinkling sound of the water was like torture. You might even say it was... water torture. On me. In the waiting room. About 10 feet from it. With a face that smells like roast pork and hippie.
In walks a client. She's obliviously one of those women that gets massages and facials every week. I say this not to be stereotypical, since she knew all the women by first name. They spent 10 minutes going over the specialties of each employee and how good they were at their jobs. I know now that Vee (the owner) has hands that are as strong as a man's. I wish I didn't.
She books an appointment later on that day with Man Hands Vee, and trots her way out of the spa. So, now it's just me, Floozy, fountain of Death, hippie candles, Pier One wicker chairs and a year old copy of Blender magazine to keep me and my patchouli smoked ham face company.
But Carly looked the most relaxed I'd seen her in ages. And that's what matters.
What adventures will Carly and Jon have on the rest of their trip? What fantastic foods will they experience? Who will get a pedicure? And what's the deal with the car salesman?
All this and more, in Babymoon: Part 2! Coming soon! Same Carly time! Same Jon channel!
I have high expectations.
The baby's been kicking me a lot lately, especially right after we eat. She likes most of the things we feed her at this point. Or hates them. It's hard to tell which is which. What I don't like, though, is Carly feeling her own belly when the baby's kicking. It's not fair that she bogarts the kicks like that. She gets to feel them from the outside and inside? No, ma'am!
We decided that now was as good of a time as any to get away for a bit, just the two of us, and have ourselves a babymoon. That is, a vacation before the baby arrives. Sort of a spur of the moment thing.
Left Saturday morning kinda early, since we had an appointment to get to. We stopped in St. Joe for brunch, visited a farmer's market for about 10 seconds, bought some monkey bread, (because you can never have enough things that involve monkeys), and headed on.
Our first real destination was the spa. See, Carly's been feeling achy and this in turn has made her happier than is physically possible in this reality. To make her feel even better, we set her up with a prenatal massage. Rubbing the tension away from her shoulders, her legs, right out of her body. For over an hour, she was pampered and made to feel 10,000 times better.
I, on the other hand, was in the waiting room. If you're curious, there are 47 tiles on the ceiling of the spa, the wicker chairs are from Pier One and cost $39.99 (they failed to remove the tag on one of them), and the aromatherapy candles they had lighted smelled like the unwashed feet of a hippie (in case you're curious, that smells like a combination of dirt, patchouli, and a smug sense of self-righteousness).
Then, the all-female employees begin to discuss why their current attire makes their boobs looks too small, or hurt them or make them look like a floozy. Bear in mind, they're around the corner and can't see me. Also, they must have forgotten that I was there, since they offered everyone else that came into the place a bottle of water but me. As this riveting conversation continued and I learned more about the wonderful people in the establishment and their mammary issues, one of them actually paused in mid-sentence and whispered to another employee, "Is there a client waiting?" The response: "No, it's just the husband of a client waiting." "Oh, so anyway..."
Then, I burned my face off with the aromatherapy candle just to get the full painful experience.
But wait... then, after that little gleaming nugget of English excellence ended, one of the fine staff members (I assume Floozy) comes around the corner and, I kid you not, plugs in the little fountain in the entryway. The tinkling sound of the water was like torture. You might even say it was... water torture. On me. In the waiting room. About 10 feet from it. With a face that smells like roast pork and hippie.
In walks a client. She's obliviously one of those women that gets massages and facials every week. I say this not to be stereotypical, since she knew all the women by first name. They spent 10 minutes going over the specialties of each employee and how good they were at their jobs. I know now that Vee (the owner) has hands that are as strong as a man's. I wish I didn't.
She books an appointment later on that day with Man Hands Vee, and trots her way out of the spa. So, now it's just me, Floozy, fountain of Death, hippie candles, Pier One wicker chairs and a year old copy of Blender magazine to keep me and my patchouli smoked ham face company.
But Carly looked the most relaxed I'd seen her in ages. And that's what matters.
What adventures will Carly and Jon have on the rest of their trip? What fantastic foods will they experience? Who will get a pedicure? And what's the deal with the car salesman?
All this and more, in Babymoon: Part 2! Coming soon! Same Carly time! Same Jon channel!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Late Night With Jon
It's very late at night and we're back from Kansas City following one of the most exhausting weekends ever. Carly just finished 2 papers for her classes and I can't sleep. So, I thought, "Aw, heck. I'll blog!" This, my friends, is the result:
Our weekend itinerary:
Thursday
Went to school and rocked out on my Biology test. (score was 102 out of 100. You may applaud now. Go on. I'll wait......)
Came home and CLEANED! We had Sara R coming over as a house guest tomorrow and both Carly and I wanted to make sure she didn't think we were filthy, filthy people or catch some sort of funk by touching a door handle.
Carly's brother, Nick and the other Sara came into town with their new awesome baby girl, Ella. That means she's my niece! I have an awesome niece! Now, you may be asking: "Jon, you herculean slice of eye candy, how awesome is your niece?". I would answer you with, "Why, I'll tell you, marginally attractive reader."
In a bit. First, back to Thursday.
We had dinner with them, which was a catered affair. Pizza Hut is nummy. I ate too much.
I helped change Ella (by that I mean, I watched the "diaper changing tutorial") and watched her get a bath ("baby bathing tutorial"). I got to feed the little tyke and was rewarded for my efforts by her spitting up all over my hand. Babies are so cute.
Sleep.
Friday:
I had to work (boo!). I was supposed to get off at 7pm which meant that I would miss out on the family dinner with Sara, Sara, Nick, Carly, Connie, Mike, Ella, and Kate (yay, Kate came to town!). But, my nice co-worker, Tonya, and my nice boss, Jamie, let me go home early enough to even have a quick shower before going! (had to get all the old people funk off of me.) So, I got to have dinner with all those wonderful people mentioned above. If your name is not on the list, please assume that you are also wonderful, unless you do not leave comments on this blog. Shame on you!
We had pot roast, marshmellow fluff, veggies, muffins, and the best darn corn casserole I think I've had. Pot roast is nummy. I ate too much. Again.
We bumed around, played some Wii, made total fools of ourselves and a good time was had by all!
Sleep.
Saturday (night's all right for fightin'):
Sara R scares me with her "running on the treadmill" nonsense. Just because we have a treadmill in the basement doesn't mean we actually use it. It's like Chunk from the Goonies tied up down there. We know it's down there, trapped, but we don't really acknowledege it.
Carly's baby shower is today. While all of that is going on, Nick and I scamper away to rock out on some Guitar Hero: Metallica. We came back a bit early, crashed the party, raided the food, watched the end of the NASCAR race, and a good time was had by all.
They had fruit, cranberry/orange dip, cake, and baked goods. Fruit is nummy. I ate too much. Yet again.
Carly, Sara R, and I had originally decided to go to the local rodeo today, but after all the rocking and NASCAR, and pink, and baby, and stuff, we decided we were too tired to go. So, we had steak instead. It's an ample substitute, if you think about it. And here we are, in what amounts to the middle of nowhere at the local steakhouse, and they ask us if we have reservations. No, of course not. "Well, it's going to be a wait then. About 15-20 minutes." Ok, say we. I mean, who drives there, and refuses to wait 15-20 minutes for steak? It's not like McDonald's is a good alternative for that, right? To answer our question, in walks 4 guys, they ask us if we're waiting, and find out from us that there is a 20 minute wait. "Forget that! To McDonald's!" they say.
We go home, play a few hands of a awesome card game Sara R brought, and I listened to stories from Carly's college days. And a good time was had by all.
Sleep.
Sunday:
Up at 5:30. Or that was the plan at least. I usually get up about that time during the week to get to school on time. Or that's the plan at least. I usually snooze for about 10-20 minutes beacuse I don't have reservations for waking up. I tell you this because I snoozed for my normal 10-20 minutes when we needed to be out the door and on the road by 6:30. I thought it was a school day. Carly, in her best singing voice with birds in her hair and flowers all around her kindly informs me of this fact before gaily dancing off to the shower leaving the heady scent of strawberries in the air.
So, I scramble to get out of the door, running around like a chicken that has seemed to have suffered the unfortunate bit of bad luck of misplacing its wallet and head.
On the road, making it to the church in Kansas City for Ella's baptisim. Lovely service and I really like their pastor. Also, really nice Hampton Inn there.
We had lunch at a local bistro brunchy place in Liberty and it's really quite good. I had the fish and chips lunch while Carly finally got her chicken fried steak. Fish is nummy. I ate too much. I have a problem.
Sara E's sister's wedding shower. Nick and I scamper away to an arcade and play the heck outta some Time Crises 3 and racing games. Come back, take pictures and a good time was had by all.
Back to the hotel for dinner. We had some Pizza Shoppe pizza and beer and great company. Pizza Shoppe is nummy. I ate too much. My stomach decided enough was enough and checked me into rehab.
And now, we're back home. LONG weekend of family and fun. Exhausting.
So, how awesome is my niece? Well, you are in for a treat! I have a simple and easy way to recreate the experence of hanging around my super awesome niece in the comfort of your own home! Just follow this recipe!
How to make an awesome niece (Ella style)!
Add and mix together in 1/2 qt casserole dish:
1/2 cup liquid awesome
2 drained cans of cut awesome
1 can cream of awesome soup
a dash of awesome sauce
Bake at 350 until golden and awesome.
Sprinkle on fried awesome.
And there you have one awesome niece!
Or green bean casserole.
Whichever. Both are pretty awesome.
Green bean casserole is nummy...
Our weekend itinerary:
Thursday
Went to school and rocked out on my Biology test. (score was 102 out of 100. You may applaud now. Go on. I'll wait......)
Came home and CLEANED! We had Sara R coming over as a house guest tomorrow and both Carly and I wanted to make sure she didn't think we were filthy, filthy people or catch some sort of funk by touching a door handle.
Carly's brother, Nick and the other Sara came into town with their new awesome baby girl, Ella. That means she's my niece! I have an awesome niece! Now, you may be asking: "Jon, you herculean slice of eye candy, how awesome is your niece?". I would answer you with, "Why, I'll tell you, marginally attractive reader."
In a bit. First, back to Thursday.
We had dinner with them, which was a catered affair. Pizza Hut is nummy. I ate too much.
I helped change Ella (by that I mean, I watched the "diaper changing tutorial") and watched her get a bath ("baby bathing tutorial"). I got to feed the little tyke and was rewarded for my efforts by her spitting up all over my hand. Babies are so cute.
Sleep.
Friday:
I had to work (boo!). I was supposed to get off at 7pm which meant that I would miss out on the family dinner with Sara, Sara, Nick, Carly, Connie, Mike, Ella, and Kate (yay, Kate came to town!). But, my nice co-worker, Tonya, and my nice boss, Jamie, let me go home early enough to even have a quick shower before going! (had to get all the old people funk off of me.) So, I got to have dinner with all those wonderful people mentioned above. If your name is not on the list, please assume that you are also wonderful, unless you do not leave comments on this blog. Shame on you!
We had pot roast, marshmellow fluff, veggies, muffins, and the best darn corn casserole I think I've had. Pot roast is nummy. I ate too much. Again.
We bumed around, played some Wii, made total fools of ourselves and a good time was had by all!
Sleep.
Saturday (night's all right for fightin'):
Sara R scares me with her "running on the treadmill" nonsense. Just because we have a treadmill in the basement doesn't mean we actually use it. It's like Chunk from the Goonies tied up down there. We know it's down there, trapped, but we don't really acknowledege it.
Carly's baby shower is today. While all of that is going on, Nick and I scamper away to rock out on some Guitar Hero: Metallica. We came back a bit early, crashed the party, raided the food, watched the end of the NASCAR race, and a good time was had by all.
They had fruit, cranberry/orange dip, cake, and baked goods. Fruit is nummy. I ate too much. Yet again.
Carly, Sara R, and I had originally decided to go to the local rodeo today, but after all the rocking and NASCAR, and pink, and baby, and stuff, we decided we were too tired to go. So, we had steak instead. It's an ample substitute, if you think about it. And here we are, in what amounts to the middle of nowhere at the local steakhouse, and they ask us if we have reservations. No, of course not. "Well, it's going to be a wait then. About 15-20 minutes." Ok, say we. I mean, who drives there, and refuses to wait 15-20 minutes for steak? It's not like McDonald's is a good alternative for that, right? To answer our question, in walks 4 guys, they ask us if we're waiting, and find out from us that there is a 20 minute wait. "Forget that! To McDonald's!" they say.
We go home, play a few hands of a awesome card game Sara R brought, and I listened to stories from Carly's college days. And a good time was had by all.
Sleep.
Sunday:
Up at 5:30. Or that was the plan at least. I usually get up about that time during the week to get to school on time. Or that's the plan at least. I usually snooze for about 10-20 minutes beacuse I don't have reservations for waking up. I tell you this because I snoozed for my normal 10-20 minutes when we needed to be out the door and on the road by 6:30. I thought it was a school day. Carly, in her best singing voice with birds in her hair and flowers all around her kindly informs me of this fact before gaily dancing off to the shower leaving the heady scent of strawberries in the air.
So, I scramble to get out of the door, running around like a chicken that has seemed to have suffered the unfortunate bit of bad luck of misplacing its wallet and head.
On the road, making it to the church in Kansas City for Ella's baptisim. Lovely service and I really like their pastor. Also, really nice Hampton Inn there.
We had lunch at a local bistro brunchy place in Liberty and it's really quite good. I had the fish and chips lunch while Carly finally got her chicken fried steak. Fish is nummy. I ate too much. I have a problem.
Sara E's sister's wedding shower. Nick and I scamper away to an arcade and play the heck outta some Time Crises 3 and racing games. Come back, take pictures and a good time was had by all.
Back to the hotel for dinner. We had some Pizza Shoppe pizza and beer and great company. Pizza Shoppe is nummy. I ate too much. My stomach decided enough was enough and checked me into rehab.
And now, we're back home. LONG weekend of family and fun. Exhausting.
So, how awesome is my niece? Well, you are in for a treat! I have a simple and easy way to recreate the experence of hanging around my super awesome niece in the comfort of your own home! Just follow this recipe!
How to make an awesome niece (Ella style)!
Add and mix together in 1/2 qt casserole dish:
1/2 cup liquid awesome
2 drained cans of cut awesome
1 can cream of awesome soup
a dash of awesome sauce
Bake at 350 until golden and awesome.
Sprinkle on fried awesome.
And there you have one awesome niece!
Or green bean casserole.
Whichever. Both are pretty awesome.
Green bean casserole is nummy...
Friday, June 5, 2009
New Pictures and dreamscapes
Here we are folks, the thing you've been waiting for! New pictures of the baby! The first is a wonderful picture of the baby's face and hand on the left hand side. The next is our baby's spine, clear as day. Then the top of the head. And then, this picture of a very disturbing and creepy man that hangs around our house. And then a Popeye sighting! Very exciting!
We went to our doctor's appointment today. The main reason for our lack of blog posting is that everything is going just fine. Carly is doing well, her morning sickness has gone away for now, and the baby is wiggling like nobody's business! The doctor gave both the baby and Carly a clean bill of health. Not a whole lot of funny things happened this time at the appointment. There were a few things that were said that are not fit me to repeat here... Although we did have to wait this time, and Carly sat next to a very interesting woman...
This lady looked about 30 weeks pregnant and reeked of cigarette smoke. According to my lovely wife, the lady coughs, and says "I guess I should stop smoking." YOU GUESS!?!?! You should have stopped smoking BEFORE you had the baby! Have fun raising your bubble-headed flipper baby!
Anyway, while the doctor was performing the ultrasound on our very healthy and not swimming in carcinogenic smoke baby, she was not very cooperative and wasn't moving much. So the doctor tried to wake the baby and get her to move. Now, he's a smart guy. He got through med school and started his own practice. He sees lot of patients every day. You'd think he'd know NOT to jiggle a pregnant lady's belly. It pisses her off and generally results in the loss of innocent limbs that were otherwise minding their own business.
After we left the doctor's office, we had errands to run in St. Joseph. While we were there we saw the new Star Trek and aside from some technical inconsistencies (of which I could describe in great detail, if you wish) it was good. Except for Tyler Perry. Yeah, he's in it.
Oh, and we picked up a book titled "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies." It's exactly what it sounds like. It's Jane Austen's novel, mixed with the living dead. It sounds awesome. I expect Carly to give a review of it after she finishes it.
Last bit of info: We both have been having strange dreams lately. My dream last night involved Carly buying a Xbox 360, hiding it from my in the basement, and she and our daughter were playing it in secret. When I caught them, they looked at me and told me that I couldn't play.
Clearly, they're stealing my video game playing time.
But, Carly's is SOOOOO much better. A while back she had this dream that she was a mutant like in the X-Men, but her power was that she ran really fast and had blue hair. So, she goes to this gas station, and a man approaches her. She asks "Who are you?" and he responds "I'm the Gas Station Murderer!" Now, that's not the wierd part. Then, he whips out this knife, and starts to poke her. Not stab her, poke her with the knife. Poke, poke. As this is very annoying, she tells him to stop that. As he is an evil murder with no conscience and little regard for human life, he keeps poking her in a very annoying manner. So, she runs away.
No clue what to make of that.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
And the baby was Kung-fu fighting...
Her kick was as fast as lightning!
And yes it was a little bit frightening!
(pardons to Carl Douglas)
So, last night, as we watched So You Think You Can Dance (What?!? Don't judge me!), Carly pauses the show right in the middle of a very interesting audition and flops to the floor. My first thought? "Oh no! Carly's having a seizure! Grab a spoon, make sure she's not swallowing her tongue. Then, grab the camera and post on Youtube!"
Not really. I freaked out just a touch. Then, she lifts up her shirt, exposing her belly. Now, this would be strange behavior if circumstances were normal. Indeed, in a normal relationship, this would be grounds to have her committed. But, no! This is Chez West! And this is perfectly normal.
So, here we are, on the floor, Carly frantically grabbing my hand, trying to put it on her belly. The baby was moving around, and she wanted me to feel it. After a few minutes of little happening and feeling pretty awkward about the whole situation, the most amazing thing happened: I actually felt the baby kick! And it was strong too! Let me tell you, that was an amazing feeling. The girl can kick!
Yes, it was a little bit frightening. It seems so real now. Remember small doses? Yeah, that wasn't so much one of them.
And yes it was a little bit frightening!
(pardons to Carl Douglas)
So, last night, as we watched So You Think You Can Dance (What?!? Don't judge me!), Carly pauses the show right in the middle of a very interesting audition and flops to the floor. My first thought? "Oh no! Carly's having a seizure! Grab a spoon, make sure she's not swallowing her tongue. Then, grab the camera and post on Youtube!"
Not really. I freaked out just a touch. Then, she lifts up her shirt, exposing her belly. Now, this would be strange behavior if circumstances were normal. Indeed, in a normal relationship, this would be grounds to have her committed. But, no! This is Chez West! And this is perfectly normal.
So, here we are, on the floor, Carly frantically grabbing my hand, trying to put it on her belly. The baby was moving around, and she wanted me to feel it. After a few minutes of little happening and feeling pretty awkward about the whole situation, the most amazing thing happened: I actually felt the baby kick! And it was strong too! Let me tell you, that was an amazing feeling. The girl can kick!
Yes, it was a little bit frightening. It seems so real now. Remember small doses? Yeah, that wasn't so much one of them.
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