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the only thing i fear is being here without you
I am a little overwhelmed by snack suggestions so I will officially forgo replying individually. (Forgo? Spellcheck says that's right but it sure doesn't look right to me. You know what I mean, though.) Thank you all for your suggestions! They're really good! I love grapes and apples and cheese! Especially grapes. I hadn't thought of them, though. And applesauce, I like that too. And! I will have plenty of choices now to add to my grocery list. Or, M's grocery list as I personally like to avoid grocery shopping as much as possible. ;)
You know what I don't really understand about myself? I am such a sap. Certain sad songs make me cry. I know this; I accept this. And yet.. I LIKE these songs, and I'll be darned if I don't listen to them anyway. Twice tonight! Different songs! Both of them I knew would cause it! And it did! I am such a dork. M asked me earlier if I was trying to get depressed, given my choice of music. I was quite indignant, as I happened to have an extremely varied playlist on at the moment (basically, all music which I have ever classified as good) so it was just my music, not a particularly sad selection. He just snorted at me and said, "yeah, that's what I said. Are you trying to get depressed?" The he flounced off to watch scary movies (only option on television) before my mp3s made him cry, too.
Or maybe it didn't happen *quite* that way. But the conversation did really happen, at least! And how can I help it if I just like sad songs and waltzes? (The waltz thing is not a literal statement but a reference to a Keith Whitley album. FYI.)
Speaking of spaghetti.. (someone at work said a while back that men think like waffles and women think like spaghetti.. the connection paths are different. I thought it was quite a good comparison and now relate odd things to spaghetti because.. eh, I think you'd have to have been there).. when we were at Waffle House last night, the song Fancy by Reba McEntire came on. I pointed it out to J, figuring that she would never have heard it, by saying that it was an important piece of American culture. (She's Swedish, if you've forgotten.) And.. it's a ridiculous claim. Except.. everyone (at least everyone of my acquaintance) knows it. Everyone can sing along to the line about being born poor white trash. I don't know why. It's funny.
Now I'm going to get fifty bazillion comments from people who have no idea what I'm talking about. Oh, well.
We went looking at more houses today. (I feel a little bad about saying that we did indeed not go visit my family today, ha.) In a way, it was the most interesting day of looking at houses yet.. we looked at five houses and we could picture ourselves living in any of them to one degree or another. One was kind of cute but small and in a less interesting neighborhood, and one was too big and too NOT FINISHED (even if it was fifty years old, it wasn't finished) and one was nice but not really us, and the last two were most interesting.. one I left saying, "let's buy this" and the other we were really interested in until we went back to the other one to take pictures and realized that it was a lot nicer than the other house, which is affectionately known as "Pukesy" due to unfortunate--what the hell were they thinking?--colors on the outside. That's my fault, as I was in a somewhat foul, but mostly hiding it, mood when we drove by yesterday with my parents. I always get carsick in the backseat of that vehicle, and looking at houses can make me carsick, and the combination of those two things and the headache I came down with made me less than interested in looking at the houses. Soo.. when we drove up past this house and I saw the hideous green-and-yellow paint on the outside, all I could say was, "Who puked on that house?" Which, I guess was not all that supportive and open-minded. It was a nice house on the inside, anyway.. but how could I want to purchase a home which we will call Pukesy for the rest of our lives? Unfortunately, we didn't meet any crazy realtors today. We have a little hobby of naming the weird realtors, too. It's something that has provided us with much entertainment, but the names aren't interesting if it's.. uh.. Mole-Face, or Used-To-Be-A-Minister. See? Just doesn't have much flair.
You know what I don't really understand about myself? I am such a sap. Certain sad songs make me cry. I know this; I accept this. And yet.. I LIKE these songs, and I'll be darned if I don't listen to them anyway. Twice tonight! Different songs! Both of them I knew would cause it! And it did! I am such a dork. M asked me earlier if I was trying to get depressed, given my choice of music. I was quite indignant, as I happened to have an extremely varied playlist on at the moment (basically, all music which I have ever classified as good) so it was just my music, not a particularly sad selection. He just snorted at me and said, "yeah, that's what I said. Are you trying to get depressed?" The he flounced off to watch scary movies (only option on television) before my mp3s made him cry, too.
Or maybe it didn't happen *quite* that way. But the conversation did really happen, at least! And how can I help it if I just like sad songs and waltzes? (The waltz thing is not a literal statement but a reference to a Keith Whitley album. FYI.)
Speaking of spaghetti.. (someone at work said a while back that men think like waffles and women think like spaghetti.. the connection paths are different. I thought it was quite a good comparison and now relate odd things to spaghetti because.. eh, I think you'd have to have been there).. when we were at Waffle House last night, the song Fancy by Reba McEntire came on. I pointed it out to J, figuring that she would never have heard it, by saying that it was an important piece of American culture. (She's Swedish, if you've forgotten.) And.. it's a ridiculous claim. Except.. everyone (at least everyone of my acquaintance) knows it. Everyone can sing along to the line about being born poor white trash. I don't know why. It's funny.
Now I'm going to get fifty bazillion comments from people who have no idea what I'm talking about. Oh, well.
We went looking at more houses today. (I feel a little bad about saying that we did indeed not go visit my family today, ha.) In a way, it was the most interesting day of looking at houses yet.. we looked at five houses and we could picture ourselves living in any of them to one degree or another. One was kind of cute but small and in a less interesting neighborhood, and one was too big and too NOT FINISHED (even if it was fifty years old, it wasn't finished) and one was nice but not really us, and the last two were most interesting.. one I left saying, "let's buy this" and the other we were really interested in until we went back to the other one to take pictures and realized that it was a lot nicer than the other house, which is affectionately known as "Pukesy" due to unfortunate--what the hell were they thinking?--colors on the outside. That's my fault, as I was in a somewhat foul, but mostly hiding it, mood when we drove by yesterday with my parents. I always get carsick in the backseat of that vehicle, and looking at houses can make me carsick, and the combination of those two things and the headache I came down with made me less than interested in looking at the houses. Soo.. when we drove up past this house and I saw the hideous green-and-yellow paint on the outside, all I could say was, "Who puked on that house?" Which, I guess was not all that supportive and open-minded. It was a nice house on the inside, anyway.. but how could I want to purchase a home which we will call Pukesy for the rest of our lives? Unfortunately, we didn't meet any crazy realtors today. We have a little hobby of naming the weird realtors, too. It's something that has provided us with much entertainment, but the names aren't interesting if it's.. uh.. Mole-Face, or Used-To-Be-A-Minister. See? Just doesn't have much flair.
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