Continued from Blog Post on July 7...
Slowly but surely I have worked every angle possible on the Nike Golf Clubs. They were on their way out the door in the garage (waiting to be sold) when I casually asked my husband that they sleep in the house. He was defiant in them being moved into the house until I softly suggested that they might get dirty in the garage. The following scenario ensued:
“Honey, I think the clubs are cold in the garage.”
My husband rolled his eyes and with a heavy sigh says to me,“Dacia, they are fine. They are golf clubs.”
“I know, but they really don’t want to go live with someone else.” At this point, I am stooping so low that I only bring this subject up with a low-cut shirt on. Without doubt he can’t say no to ‘the girls’.
“Well, we aren’t good enough to play with them,” my husband says as he looks reluctantly at the floor. “They need to be sold.”
With fret flooding my body, I suddenly panic envisioning some schmuck walking away with the precious golf clubs I have been eyeing for months.
“Wonderful almighty husband,” I coo, “Friends come over and smoke in our garage…surely you don’t want the clubs smelling like smoke do you?”
With a heavy sigh, he puts down the bucket he was carrying and very firmly says to me, “They may stay in the house, only until they are sold on Craigslist. Then, they need to go!”
“Okay!” I agree and once again all is well in Dacialand. I still haven’t listed them on Craigslist but they are one step closer to being mine as I have them sitting next to my book shelf…
1 point for The Girls—0 points for the husband!
To be continued!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wino in Tenino
Excitement for an event you have never been to is a very weird feeling. I am going to the Wino in Tenino and from what I hear; it is a very pleasurable experience. I find that most things with the name “Wine” —or some other variation of the word—is almost always a guarantee that good times are to be had. My friend and I are attending on the coattails of my husband who has to work the event.
His work always interests me because he is a beer salesman. He is the closest thing to a legalized drug dealer the free world will ever know. He makes friends easily and although I find him charming, I do find it peculiar that the ears of men perk up when they learn of my dashing husband’s profession—he suddenly becomes a God right before their eyes.
Beer, wine, liquor—it’s really all the same in that it assists you in having either a really great time or an awful and miserable experience. I find that people who really don’t have much of a personality tend to go for the hard stuff. This way they can be drunk faster and thus, become rapidly interesting if only to themselves.
Lightweights who tend to get in a lot of trouble when they drink (read: men) normally go for the beer, microbrews, or malt liquor (think OE or Mad Dog 20/20). It takes a while to get a buzz going and if the person tends to do stupid things, there is always a greater chance they won’t get to that level until the party is damn near over. Then, at that point, nothing the beer drinker does will matter because no one will remember anything—accept the designated driver (read: wife/girlfriend/female) who will mop vomit off the center console at the end of the night.
Finally we get to the winos. These people are true alcoholics. They are refined, yet love to be in a constant state of drunkenness in which wine is about the only medium that can sustain them. Sure, if they pounded the vino, they would be right alongside their hard A friends, but if they drink too slowly, they end up in the beer drinkers/lightweight category. This of course all funnels down to the basic principle that wine drinkers are the only true and professional alcoholics. They get it done—not to mention with class, sex appeal, and sophistication.
So as I think about the Wino in Tenino, I smile because I know I belong with all of my fellow wine lovers.
Welcome home, Dacia, Welcome home.
His work always interests me because he is a beer salesman. He is the closest thing to a legalized drug dealer the free world will ever know. He makes friends easily and although I find him charming, I do find it peculiar that the ears of men perk up when they learn of my dashing husband’s profession—he suddenly becomes a God right before their eyes.
Beer, wine, liquor—it’s really all the same in that it assists you in having either a really great time or an awful and miserable experience. I find that people who really don’t have much of a personality tend to go for the hard stuff. This way they can be drunk faster and thus, become rapidly interesting if only to themselves.
Lightweights who tend to get in a lot of trouble when they drink (read: men) normally go for the beer, microbrews, or malt liquor (think OE or Mad Dog 20/20). It takes a while to get a buzz going and if the person tends to do stupid things, there is always a greater chance they won’t get to that level until the party is damn near over. Then, at that point, nothing the beer drinker does will matter because no one will remember anything—accept the designated driver (read: wife/girlfriend/female) who will mop vomit off the center console at the end of the night.
Finally we get to the winos. These people are true alcoholics. They are refined, yet love to be in a constant state of drunkenness in which wine is about the only medium that can sustain them. Sure, if they pounded the vino, they would be right alongside their hard A friends, but if they drink too slowly, they end up in the beer drinkers/lightweight category. This of course all funnels down to the basic principle that wine drinkers are the only true and professional alcoholics. They get it done—not to mention with class, sex appeal, and sophistication.
So as I think about the Wino in Tenino, I smile because I know I belong with all of my fellow wine lovers.
Welcome home, Dacia, Welcome home.
Friday, July 16, 2010
My Mom - The PR Rep
As some of you may know, I have written two books and am working really hard to self publish one of them through Amazon. There are some things I have come to realize through this process—self publishing for the mentally insane and you really find out how much people are willing to help you in making your dream come true.
I was asked by a friend today how many hours I have put into the novel I am currently working on. My close approximation is about 177 hours of writing, editing and rewriting. The first month I spent writing this dang novel equated to a part time job (which I didn’t earn a paycheck for). (Yet! I am always optimistic!) At any rate, these are not sane hours for one to keep. The time could have perhaps been cut in half, but due to my vice (read: WINE) it took a tad longer in the rewriting process. I am absolutely sick of my characters, just the other night; Quinn (the real annoying one) made a cameo in my dream. Like really? Where in hell did she come from?? So here I am, busting my hump to get this book off the ground and keep up the blog for those of you who are interested.
So! I was at lunch a couple weeks ago with my parents (and I would like to also add that before this story even gets off the ground that I was severely hung over. Not quite sure what happened the night before to render me so hung over, but whatever it was, I am sure it was fun. The tattoo I found on my lower back that said, “Fun Cheeks” ensured me of that. Not sure what that was about??) and we were talking about careers and jobs. It was at this point that my mom (who was particularly perky that morning) announced that I, who was on her left, was the next best thing to hit the Barnes and Nobel best sellers list. I about choked on my own tongue as the table turned to look at me expectantly.
My mouth suddenly went dry and all I could think was where am I? Am I still drunk? Who are these people? Am I still drunk? Did my mom just really tell all these people about my book? AM I STILL DRUNK?! Where did my mouth just go? As soberly as I could I smiled, nodded and tried to explain that the book wasn’t really that big of a deal to try and get the attention off me. This was by far the ONLY TIME IN MY LIFE when I didn’t want the limelight and apparently no one was picking up my ESP vibes.
In true mom fashion (well my mom’s fashion) she went on to tell the table of ten what a wonderful daughter, writer, employee, citizen I was and she was so convincing that even I believed her and wondered when I was going to meet this said ‘daughter’ of hers. It wasn’t until she actually said my name that I connected the dots—it was me! My mom was talking about me!
It was at that moment that I decided I no longer needed to worry about my PR rep for when I became famous one day. My mom would take care of that in one fail swoop. As for my job now, I wonder if my work would allow me to take my mom on interviews with me…She does a way better job presenting me than I do!
I was asked by a friend today how many hours I have put into the novel I am currently working on. My close approximation is about 177 hours of writing, editing and rewriting. The first month I spent writing this dang novel equated to a part time job (which I didn’t earn a paycheck for). (Yet! I am always optimistic!) At any rate, these are not sane hours for one to keep. The time could have perhaps been cut in half, but due to my vice (read: WINE) it took a tad longer in the rewriting process. I am absolutely sick of my characters, just the other night; Quinn (the real annoying one) made a cameo in my dream. Like really? Where in hell did she come from?? So here I am, busting my hump to get this book off the ground and keep up the blog for those of you who are interested.
So! I was at lunch a couple weeks ago with my parents (and I would like to also add that before this story even gets off the ground that I was severely hung over. Not quite sure what happened the night before to render me so hung over, but whatever it was, I am sure it was fun. The tattoo I found on my lower back that said, “Fun Cheeks” ensured me of that. Not sure what that was about??) and we were talking about careers and jobs. It was at this point that my mom (who was particularly perky that morning) announced that I, who was on her left, was the next best thing to hit the Barnes and Nobel best sellers list. I about choked on my own tongue as the table turned to look at me expectantly.
My mouth suddenly went dry and all I could think was where am I? Am I still drunk? Who are these people? Am I still drunk? Did my mom just really tell all these people about my book? AM I STILL DRUNK?! Where did my mouth just go? As soberly as I could I smiled, nodded and tried to explain that the book wasn’t really that big of a deal to try and get the attention off me. This was by far the ONLY TIME IN MY LIFE when I didn’t want the limelight and apparently no one was picking up my ESP vibes.
In true mom fashion (well my mom’s fashion) she went on to tell the table of ten what a wonderful daughter, writer, employee, citizen I was and she was so convincing that even I believed her and wondered when I was going to meet this said ‘daughter’ of hers. It wasn’t until she actually said my name that I connected the dots—it was me! My mom was talking about me!
It was at that moment that I decided I no longer needed to worry about my PR rep for when I became famous one day. My mom would take care of that in one fail swoop. As for my job now, I wonder if my work would allow me to take my mom on interviews with me…She does a way better job presenting me than I do!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Great Outdoors
What a wonderful time of year to be out and enjoying nature’s finest. This time of year, it’s warm, the rivers, lakes and streams are cool, and it’s so nice to get away from it all. I don’t know about all of my readers out there, but there’s that soft spot in me knowing when I kiss my husband he’s either going to taste like OFF! or Coors Light—warm, breathy, sweaty, buggy Coors Light.
A comedian once said that he couldn’t understand why people would bust their butt all year to climb the corporate ladder just to (while on vacation) pretend to be homeless. When I first heard that, I admit, I scoffed. This of course was until I met my husband— my days of camping in my parent’s trailer were over.
The first time my husband (then boyfriend) took me out in the woods, he came home to a giddy, much younger and dumber version of myself. I had picked up all the essentials for camping: a table cloth for the picnic table, trial sizes of various hygiene items, a roll of quarters for the state park showers, etc. I proudly showed him all of my goodies and happily chattered about how I loved to camp. When his silence was apparent, I looked up to see the shock on his face. It was then he informed me that where we were going, there was no such thing as a bathroom or picnic table. My stomach dropped and all I could think was “What in the hell did I just sign up for?!”
And so, after years of camping in the middle of nowhere, I have gotten used to the fact that everything is prepared in your lap, there are no bathrooms so you have to bury your own poop, it is wise to lock your food in the front of your truck, and baby wipes are worth their weight in gold.
This weekend, I had enough of normal life and needed to get away from it all. Since I haven’t made it to the rich and famous status yet, we could only afford to go camping — I mean, it’s not like I am a Kardashian or Hilton girl (only in my wildest and frequent dreams). So onward we went for our weekend of being unplugged. We took our daughter’s friend with us and we headed out as soon as we could on Friday.
We had a great time sitting in the river all day in the 90 degree weather, and it wasn’t until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore that we decided to get out of the river. Drunk, a little sunburnt and tired, we retired to our tent.
A few hours after dark I awoke to a half-flat air mattress. The tent was stuffy and the night air was stale. I tossed and turned and couldn’t shake the sensation that we were being watched. After coaxing myself to be brave (and reasoning that it might be something to blog about) I looked outside the tent. I couldn’t see anything and I didn’t have a flashlight with me. I remained as still as possible and over the bubbling of the river I swore I heard a bear rummaging around our campsite! I did the mental inventory of our tent’s belongings. I quickly surmised the only gun with us was in the cab of the truck. This meant that if the bear attacked, I would have no choice but to sacrifice my husband for the sake of myself, our daughter and her friend. It was a price I was willing to pay for safety. I stayed awake most of the night awaiting destiny.
The next morning, we woke up to blue skies, birds singing and two moody pre-teens who were done with camping. After trying to rally them to behave and enjoy nature, it was apparent that it was time to wrap things up and head home. As we cleaned up camp, my husband and I chatted about the night before and he too was tired because he was awake most of the evening. We never did see bear prints or scat, but both of us think there was a big animal waiting outside our tent. It was either a bear or a really great imagination on both our parts.
As pathetic as it is, a weekend of being unplugged only lasted 24 hours. The trip did give us time to get away from it all and reconnect.
It was during this camping trip that I learned pre-teens are probably easier to throw to a imaginary bear than it is a husband who outweighs you.
A comedian once said that he couldn’t understand why people would bust their butt all year to climb the corporate ladder just to (while on vacation) pretend to be homeless. When I first heard that, I admit, I scoffed. This of course was until I met my husband— my days of camping in my parent’s trailer were over.
The first time my husband (then boyfriend) took me out in the woods, he came home to a giddy, much younger and dumber version of myself. I had picked up all the essentials for camping: a table cloth for the picnic table, trial sizes of various hygiene items, a roll of quarters for the state park showers, etc. I proudly showed him all of my goodies and happily chattered about how I loved to camp. When his silence was apparent, I looked up to see the shock on his face. It was then he informed me that where we were going, there was no such thing as a bathroom or picnic table. My stomach dropped and all I could think was “What in the hell did I just sign up for?!”
And so, after years of camping in the middle of nowhere, I have gotten used to the fact that everything is prepared in your lap, there are no bathrooms so you have to bury your own poop, it is wise to lock your food in the front of your truck, and baby wipes are worth their weight in gold.
This weekend, I had enough of normal life and needed to get away from it all. Since I haven’t made it to the rich and famous status yet, we could only afford to go camping — I mean, it’s not like I am a Kardashian or Hilton girl (only in my wildest and frequent dreams). So onward we went for our weekend of being unplugged. We took our daughter’s friend with us and we headed out as soon as we could on Friday.
We had a great time sitting in the river all day in the 90 degree weather, and it wasn’t until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore that we decided to get out of the river. Drunk, a little sunburnt and tired, we retired to our tent.
A few hours after dark I awoke to a half-flat air mattress. The tent was stuffy and the night air was stale. I tossed and turned and couldn’t shake the sensation that we were being watched. After coaxing myself to be brave (and reasoning that it might be something to blog about) I looked outside the tent. I couldn’t see anything and I didn’t have a flashlight with me. I remained as still as possible and over the bubbling of the river I swore I heard a bear rummaging around our campsite! I did the mental inventory of our tent’s belongings. I quickly surmised the only gun with us was in the cab of the truck. This meant that if the bear attacked, I would have no choice but to sacrifice my husband for the sake of myself, our daughter and her friend. It was a price I was willing to pay for safety. I stayed awake most of the night awaiting destiny.
The next morning, we woke up to blue skies, birds singing and two moody pre-teens who were done with camping. After trying to rally them to behave and enjoy nature, it was apparent that it was time to wrap things up and head home. As we cleaned up camp, my husband and I chatted about the night before and he too was tired because he was awake most of the evening. We never did see bear prints or scat, but both of us think there was a big animal waiting outside our tent. It was either a bear or a really great imagination on both our parts.
As pathetic as it is, a weekend of being unplugged only lasted 24 hours. The trip did give us time to get away from it all and reconnect.
It was during this camping trip that I learned pre-teens are probably easier to throw to a imaginary bear than it is a husband who outweighs you.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Gifts Between Spouses
Rarely do I post stories here that are completely true and are not riddled with fiction. However, some of the things that occur in Dacialand are stranger (and much more entertaining) than fiction. Tonight, my husband and I were discussing gifts.
He won a really nice set of Nike golf clubs from work and as his wife; I feel that I am completely entitled to having them. Since he already has a nice set of clubs, he doesn’t want to keep the new set. His rebuttal is that he wants to sell the Nike’s and get the cash because he earned them. The golf clubs are now an issue of pride because I would rather go out and buy myself a new set of $1,000 clubs (and pay the tax AND be inconvenienced) than hand that money over to my own friggin husband so he can upgrade the accessories on his truck. But I digress…
Tonight, while discussing gifts, the following dialogue happened between my husband and I:
“Honey, do you remember back when we were really in love?” I ask, as I bat my lush eyelashes.
“Not really,” He grunts as he puts his hand down his pants while sitting on the sofa.
“Oh! Well, I was referring to when you would have a rough week at work and I would surprise you with a 6-pack of mirror pond, a king size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, and a mushy card.” I look at him hopeful that he will remember how sweet I have been to him over the years. My husband turns thoughtful as his brows crease trying to remember the blissful memories.
Finally, he perks up.
“Well, now you just get yourself a bottle of wine and yell at me all night!”
And so it is. We still love each other, but the one thing I have learned is that liking each other is a whole different situation. He seemed to have liked me yesterday. Today though, I think he would prefer that I have a glass of wine. That at least gives him a 50/50 chance of a nice evening.
My plot to get the clubs is far from over. I just need a new plan of action.
He won a really nice set of Nike golf clubs from work and as his wife; I feel that I am completely entitled to having them. Since he already has a nice set of clubs, he doesn’t want to keep the new set. His rebuttal is that he wants to sell the Nike’s and get the cash because he earned them. The golf clubs are now an issue of pride because I would rather go out and buy myself a new set of $1,000 clubs (and pay the tax AND be inconvenienced) than hand that money over to my own friggin husband so he can upgrade the accessories on his truck. But I digress…
Tonight, while discussing gifts, the following dialogue happened between my husband and I:
“Honey, do you remember back when we were really in love?” I ask, as I bat my lush eyelashes.
“Not really,” He grunts as he puts his hand down his pants while sitting on the sofa.
“Oh! Well, I was referring to when you would have a rough week at work and I would surprise you with a 6-pack of mirror pond, a king size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, and a mushy card.” I look at him hopeful that he will remember how sweet I have been to him over the years. My husband turns thoughtful as his brows crease trying to remember the blissful memories.
Finally, he perks up.
“Well, now you just get yourself a bottle of wine and yell at me all night!”
And so it is. We still love each other, but the one thing I have learned is that liking each other is a whole different situation. He seemed to have liked me yesterday. Today though, I think he would prefer that I have a glass of wine. That at least gives him a 50/50 chance of a nice evening.
My plot to get the clubs is far from over. I just need a new plan of action.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Freedom for Americans
Ahhh…Fourth of July. Nothing quite says freedom like setting your hard earned money ablaze in the middle of an economic recession. I have been thinking a lot about the 4th of July this year and pondering what freedom means to me. I thought about our troops over in the sandbox of the Middle East, I thought about voting, our flag, and all the rights, freedoms and liberties we have as Americans…
Then I received a text message from a friend.
“Hahahaha! I just rode through downtown with my ass hanging out the window!!! Good thing I shaved!”
I laughed and thought; this is the best part of being free (and I am soooo blogging this!). Sure, my friend probably is sitting in a drunk tank somewhere with his buddies wondering what just happened but the reality of the matter is that he was FREE to hang is butt out the passenger side window. He was FREE to send me a text message at 11 P.M. on a Saturday night. He was FREE to get so intoxicated that he would lose his inhibitions. I am sure he probably isn’t free now—considering that he just drunkenly waved his derriere to a wide populace of people—but he did enjoy the liberty.
So in the pursuit of life, liberty, happiness and FREEDOM I would like to wish you all a very safe and Happy 4th of July.
Take care of yourselves and next time you see a soldier out there in your corner of the world, buy them a beer and tell them thanks for letting us be free.
Then I received a text message from a friend.
“Hahahaha! I just rode through downtown with my ass hanging out the window!!! Good thing I shaved!”
I laughed and thought; this is the best part of being free (and I am soooo blogging this!). Sure, my friend probably is sitting in a drunk tank somewhere with his buddies wondering what just happened but the reality of the matter is that he was FREE to hang is butt out the passenger side window. He was FREE to send me a text message at 11 P.M. on a Saturday night. He was FREE to get so intoxicated that he would lose his inhibitions. I am sure he probably isn’t free now—considering that he just drunkenly waved his derriere to a wide populace of people—but he did enjoy the liberty.
So in the pursuit of life, liberty, happiness and FREEDOM I would like to wish you all a very safe and Happy 4th of July.
Take care of yourselves and next time you see a soldier out there in your corner of the world, buy them a beer and tell them thanks for letting us be free.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The Hobby Girl
I always thought that once I finished school, I would bask in the freedom of unscheduled time. It has now been 10 months since I graduated college and I am ready to climb the walls from boredom. I don’t understand what people do all day long when they aren’t consistently in crisis mode. Standard operating procedures for me consist of working my tail off towards a goal between the hours of 4 A.M. to 8 P.M. —that’s 16 hours of non-stop awake time doing something. Now, I really don’t have to get out of bed until 5:30(ish) and after work, I am free until I decide it’s time to go to bed.
So, to alleviate this I have taken up hobbies. Lots of hobbies. My husband didn’t like when I was in school due to the amount of time I spent holed up in our home office. Now, he doesn’t like that I am out of school due to my opinions on television shows, endless amounts of craft supplies, and constant chatter. In the past ten months:
• I have written a book
• Edited a second book
• Started authoring a third book
• Started this blog you’re reading right now!
• Knitted 4 scarves, one blanket, and one semi-done purse
• Scrapbooked the past 15 years of my life
• Read 40 books
• Narrated 5 movies (for my Husband)
• Drank 18 gallons of wine
• Colored my hair 3 times
• Ran 3 races (93.59 miles)
• Quit smoking
Still, in all of the obsessive compulsive activities; I haven’t found my calm sense of belonging. I wonder when that part of my life kicks in?
My family is always supportive of me and my husband is too—only he understands that I am also mentally insane. When I decided to start knitting, I turned to YouTube for instructions. Now, I own half the inventory from JoAnn’s Fabrics yarn section. Each time I start a new project, he peers at the yarn on my needles in horror. He knows there will come a day when he unwraps a much anticipated gift only to realize that in the wake of my insanity, I have knitted him a sweater—with one arm longer than the other—and I will expect him to wear it.
The other hobbies he can pretty much ignore. At least, he can ignore them until I have filled all the extra storage spaces in our house with craft supplies, glue, glitter, wine corks, shoes, etc. I would really feel sorry for him, except for the fact that he really likes to clean. He cleans up after me and our daughter often. In my mind, I rationalize that my obsession with hobbies leads to a happier life for him where he can clean. And as they say:
A clean house is a happy house.
(or do they really even say that?)
So, to alleviate this I have taken up hobbies. Lots of hobbies. My husband didn’t like when I was in school due to the amount of time I spent holed up in our home office. Now, he doesn’t like that I am out of school due to my opinions on television shows, endless amounts of craft supplies, and constant chatter. In the past ten months:
• I have written a book
• Edited a second book
• Started authoring a third book
• Started this blog you’re reading right now!
• Knitted 4 scarves, one blanket, and one semi-done purse
• Scrapbooked the past 15 years of my life
• Read 40 books
• Narrated 5 movies (for my Husband)
• Drank 18 gallons of wine
• Colored my hair 3 times
• Ran 3 races (93.59 miles)
• Quit smoking
Still, in all of the obsessive compulsive activities; I haven’t found my calm sense of belonging. I wonder when that part of my life kicks in?
My family is always supportive of me and my husband is too—only he understands that I am also mentally insane. When I decided to start knitting, I turned to YouTube for instructions. Now, I own half the inventory from JoAnn’s Fabrics yarn section. Each time I start a new project, he peers at the yarn on my needles in horror. He knows there will come a day when he unwraps a much anticipated gift only to realize that in the wake of my insanity, I have knitted him a sweater—with one arm longer than the other—and I will expect him to wear it.
The other hobbies he can pretty much ignore. At least, he can ignore them until I have filled all the extra storage spaces in our house with craft supplies, glue, glitter, wine corks, shoes, etc. I would really feel sorry for him, except for the fact that he really likes to clean. He cleans up after me and our daughter often. In my mind, I rationalize that my obsession with hobbies leads to a happier life for him where he can clean. And as they say:
A clean house is a happy house.
(or do they really even say that?)
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