He pulled me tightly to him, holding on as though we could physically fight the decision we had just made.

“I’m so scared,” I managed to whimper, in between sobs.

He squeezed tighter. “So am I. I don’t even remember what life is like without you.”

I sobbed harder.

“Aw, Rach.” He held my face in his hands, looking down at me sweetly.

“You’re an extrovert with a great rack. You’ll be just fine – that’s a recipe for success right there!”

And for the millionth time in four years, he made me laugh…

And that’s how I choose to remember us.

Mama said share.

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As the weather in DC has recently gotten beauti-freaking-ful, we’ve started using our bedroom AC window unit at night. While I am a huge fan of a gentle breeze while sleeping so I can snuggle up under the blanket, I do not so much enjoy the fact that said breeze blows directly. onto. my face.

My side of the bed is directly next to the window and in the immediate path of the churning cold air, which means that I cannot let so much as a finger poke out of the comforter if I hope to wake up sans frostbite in the morning.

But I endure, because otherwise the bedroom would be eleventy billion degrees and we wouldn’t be sleeping at all. Also, I am just super tough and awesome like that.

Until one evening this week, when I came home to find this:

B had fashioned a piece of cardboard to funnel the cold air away from me. See?

Chivalry is not dead, I say. All it needs is a little duct tape.

/schmoop

Happy weekend!!!!!!!

Mama said share.

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While re-watching “The Walking Dead” last weekend… (which, if you haven’t seen yet, you should remedy immediately. Just sayin.)

B: Just so you know, I would *totally* put you down if a zombie bit you. You know, before you turn.

Me: What?!?

B: Yes. It’s the humane thing to do. Don’t you think about what you’ll do when the zombie apocalypse comes? You wouldn’t put ME down?

Me: No! I don’t think I could do it.

B: That’s very irresponsible of you.

Me: *considering* Well, what if I was a vampire?

B: No, I would not put you down if you were a vampire.

Me: That’s something, at least.

B: It’s not the same! Vampires are awesome.

Me: So you wouldn’t care if I tried to turn you?

B: No, I would open my neck and be all GET THAT SHIT, because it’s bad ass.

Me: Okayyy, I get it. I mean zombies are all mehhhhhh whereas vampires are all insanely cool and, yanno, functional.

B: Exactly.

Me: Hmmm. Okay.

B: Now if you go wolfman, that’s a different story.

Me: What?!

B: Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t KILL you… but I’d chain you up for a few moons, wait to see how that plays out. You know, in case it’s horrible, like when you’re on your period.

Me: ….

B: But hopefully it WOULDN’T be like a period, and it’d be great. And I’d be all “wolfman me, baby!!” Cause let’s face it, Wolfmanning is a little below Vampire, but still way above Zombie.

Please tell me we’re not the only ones who discuss the hierarchy of monsters over dinner.

Mama said share.

Clicky clicky.

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You all know this game by now. Time for another installment of “The Shiz My Boyfriend Says“…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

B has Axe Murderer in his arms…

B: Hey, do you think we should change her name from Axe Murderer to Ms Kitty Galore?! (to Axe Murderer, who has her crazy “I will slit your throat” eye-saucers going full steam) Whaddya say?? Are you a Miss Kitty Galore? We’ll get you sparkles, and a tiara…

Me: Ooooo, and then we can call Murray Mr. Fancy Pants! Then it’s like they’re married!

B: They’re brother and sister, you sicko!

Me: Meh. He’s been neutured! And they had different dads anyway. They’re only halfsies.

B: (squishing her to his chest) MISS KITTY GALORE!!!

Axe Murderer: *cry of anguish*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While watching Top Chef…

Me: I kind of love Gail.

B: No, you don’t. You just really hated Tony.

Me: Hmm. That might be true. I DID hate Tony.

As they’re discussing someone’s overcooked steak…

B: See, right now Tony would be all, “My mother was raped by a cow, amd now my tongue’s been raped by a cow.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is called a cat lady on TV…

B: You’re a cat lady!

Me: I hate to break it to you darling, but so are you.

B: Nonsense. I’m a LION TAMER!!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A commercial for Two and a Half Men comes on…

B: If we just euthanized everyone who watches this show, America would grow up 20% smarter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mama said share.

After a couple years of gift giving, B and I seem to be running out of ideas for presents for each other.

We’ve done the watch, the nice coat, the Wii, the wine fridge, the Mad Men-esque scotch glasses (even if they did turn out to be hobbit-sized).

I searched everything online… even Red Envelope, despite their site being so vomitous it makes me want to punch it where its nutsack should be.

It was six days before his birthday and I knew I had to act fast. I did what any girl does when things get tough:

I called my daddy.

“I just don’t know what to do,” I whined said. “He BUYS everything he wants. The iPad, the Google phone, new speakers… all perfectly good gift ideas he stole from me!”

“Well,” my wise old man said, “you know those toy planes and helicopters? I always wanted one of those. Actually, I always wanted to fly a real plane, but those seem fun too.”

GENIUS, I thought! What man wouldn’t want to machine-operate something through the air?!?

After a bit of research and a lot of Twitter help, I found what claimed to be the perfect starter RC plane: the HobbyZone Firebird Commander (2)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Look at the badassery!! Rawwwwwr and such!

I paid way too much for two day shipping and was thrilled when the tracking told me it was indeed waiting for us at home on the day of his birthday.

B was already home when I picked up the enormous 4 foot long box (huzzah! Look at that wingspan, bishes!!!) from our apartment office and proudly lugged it upstairs.

His reaction when he saw me drag the package inside was almost worth it alone.

“What on earth…” He stared at it in disbelief. “WHAT did you get me??”

“Open it, open it, open it!” I chanted. “Fashion show, fashion show, fashion show at lunch!”

With some help from Axe Murderer, he did just that…

And stared at it in what I knew could only be awe and wonderment.

Until, that is, he started laughing.

Hysterically.

And this was not “child’s joy” laughter. This was much more like “wtf has my crazy-ass girlfriend done THIS time” laughter.

B: (in utter disbelief) “A PLANE?! … What am I going to do with a plane??”

Me: “Wha… FLY it, of course!!”

B: “Baby. We live in an apartment building in Washington DC. We don’t have a yard. Where exactly would I fly this?”

Me: “In the park! We have a whole park behind our building!”

B: “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal… hon, you do know these are pretty much impossible to fly? Like, people spend years learning. And pretty much everyone just crashes them immediately anyway.”

Me: (totally crushed) “You HATE it. You hate my present.”

B: (yup, still laughing) “I don’t hate it! I just was really, REALLY not expecting a plane. You win for creativity, my dear.”

Me: *sad face*

Le sigh.

He did come home the next night pretty excited about at least getting to crash it. Enjoy it, my love. You crash the HELL out of that stupid, stupid plane.

Mama said share.

***Hey, you. Yeah, YOU. You look like you might be in a “skimming” mood today. Look, that’s cool- we all do it. But do me a favor grande, if you please, and make sure you click here to read something very important wayyyyyyyyyyy down at the bottom. Don’t worry- there’s lots of shiny pictures along the way!***

Last Saturday, B and I donned our “classy” faces and headed over to the Men’s Wearhouse at Connecticut and K NW (Farragut Square) for some old-fashioned suiting. My darling dear had been invited to come in and experience their standard “Buying A Suit” experience.

We walked in and were instantly greeted by, well, everyone. And not in that overbearing, “CAN I HELP YOU PLEASE AND POSSIBLY MAKE A COMMISSION SLASH JUST GIVE ME THE MONEY OUT OF YOUR POCKETS” way, but in a way that was warm, casual, and quickly identified who we were and who we needed to see.

The man we needed to see, it turned out, was manager Anthony Caudillo. To be honest, I always sort of imagined the store manager of a corporate suit shop would be something akin to your stereotypical used car salesman; slicked back hair, beady eyes, and a clammy handshake that withered a piece of your soul with each touch.

Anthony could not have been more different. He was truly friendly, efficient, and genuine, making you feel as though you were shopping with a friend (who just happened to know a LOT more about suits and all things menswear-y things than you). The boys immediately hit it off, talking about dood stuff while they casually sorted through the racks, discussing what B already had in his closet, what he might need for the fall, and of course, the Eagles and the Redskins. 

The journey begins.

Action shot! Look at those hands go!

Discussing sleeve styles, flat-front vs. pleats, and other manly suit stuffs.

Dayummmmmmmmmm.

While the men did their thing, I took the opportunity to capture the layout of the store. I was really impressed by the decor and stylings of the displays- everything was so chic and creative, while still maintaining the clean, classic look I personally associate with truly wonderful menswear.

Dapper Dan in da house.

It ain't just suits at the MW anymore.

Mmmmmmmm. Even men's shoes get my heart racing.

Heyoooooooooooo!

After B had selected a lovely navy AND a gorgeous olive with a faint blue pinstripe, it was shoe time.

Every man needs a good burgundy in his closet. (Apparently.)

Again, Anthony walked us through it step by step, considering what B already had against what would best compliment the two suits. Once a shoe was chosen, we moved on to the tailor for a fitting.

Sidebar: Though B and I would like to think we’re special, this entire suit-fitting procedure is standard for ANYONE who buys a suit at the Men’s Wearhouse. The tailoring is all done in-house, is a one-time cost, and is priced by what actually needs to be done, other than a “one size fits all” flat rate. After that, the tailoring is guaranteed for life, and you can bring the suit back in at any point to be resized, fixed, and even steamed for free, yo. WhaBAM!!!

A bit to the right...

A little to the left...

Perfect.

Finally, after the fitting, it was time for the accoutrements. (God, I’m fancy.)

Anthony handed us off to their stylist, who had pulled sets of shirts and ties that could all be mixed and matched between the suits, taking into account the environment he works in (conservative) as well as his personal style.

Rock that purple, baby.

We also ended up with a belt and cufflinks to complete the ensembles, and suddenly my already-stylish man went from a 10 to an 11 in the “Don Draper Debonair Department”.

The whole trip took MAYBE an hour, but we weren’t rushed for even a moment. The experience was easy and pleasant, and we felt well-guided without being smothered and forced into purchasing half the store. DeeeeLITEful.

B picked up his new duds yesterday on the way home from work, so of course I forced him to play dress up for you:

Pay no attention to the kibble strewn across the floor...

Murray can't wait to cover that with white fur.

Swoon, baby. *Swoon.*

Is that... is that a BAG I hear crinkling?!

Turns out the Men's Wearhouse had something for everyone.

So, all in all, a ridiculously awesome and successful Saturday afternoon. Ladies, if you ever need a gift idea for your man, I would highly recommend either a gift card to Men’s Wearhouse, or better yet, accompanying him on the journey and picking up the tab (if you’re in that place, of course). This ain’t no one-month anniversary present.

Finally, and without a doubt most importantly, the Men’s Wearhouse launched their National Suit Drive yesterday on Sept. 1st. Now through September 30th,  they’re asking for donations of gently-worn suits and professional clothing, which will be given to local non-profit organizations who will pass on the clothes to low- (or no-)income men in need of professional wear on their job hunt. Clothes can be dropped off at any Men’s Wearhouse store across the nation. More information about what and how to donate can be found here.

This is their third annual drive, and it is truly a fantastic cause. B dropped off a couple of his own suits yesterday, and (if you can find it in your closet/heart), so should you.

Disclaimer: B was given a gift certificate to Men’s Wearhouse in exchange for my review of the suiting-up experience, Barney Stinson style. All opinions represented here, however, are our own and 100% for reals.






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Mama said share.

My world is absolutely insane lately. Everything is changing, but it’s all things that are out of my control. I feel entirely overwhelmed, a little bit hungover, and a lot bit lost at all times. I can hardly catch my breath, and when I do, I use it to agree to one more thing I probably shouldn’t, for my mental health’s sake. I’m trying to be in charge of it all, to be a part of everything, and because of that, I feel like I’m accomplishing nothing.

I’m running on ice with socks on. It doesn’t work very well.

The job hunt continues, but without a specific direction. I know I don’t want to be an assistant anymore, and I know now the things that I enjoy doing- AND I even have experience doing them!, but it’s so vague a world I can’t for the life of me figure out the path I should take to get there. Or what the destination is.

Shit, y’all, I really don’t know shit.

I miss my family, and friends who are too far away, but I’m exhausted from traveling. I desperately want to get back into an exercise routine, but I can’t get my ass out of bed in the mornings. I’m determined to stop eating like shit and cook dinner, but we’re out half the nights of the week. I’m sick of side projects and never being able to relax, but I’m broke as a joke. I love that my social circle is expanding, but hate growing apart from friends. My clothes don’t fit, my apartment’s a mess, and my bathtub looks like the swamp thing because it’s so backed up with cat hair. (Sink cat’s not so damn cute now, is it?)

(Ok, yes it is.)

So, yes. Things are a bit crazy.

But in truth, I’m fine. Absolutely, 100%, A-OK. Sure, a bit stressed, but I know it’ll work out in the end.

And here’s why:

Happy Birthday, darling. You’re cute and funny and thoughtful and you cook and you make up songs for me and the kitties AND you keep me (somewhat) sane, so you’re a hero in my book. I love you.






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Mama said share.

Hiya! I’m back from Narnia the woods, alive and well save for a few (dozen) bug bites. It may not have been my ideal vacation on paper, but it actually turned out to be the perfect week of relaxation.

I agreed to go into the wilderness if I had four walls, a bathroom we weren’t sharing with strangers, and… a jacuzzi. So, yeah, I wouldn’t exactly call it “roughing it”… but if we hadn’t had said jacuzzi, then our friends Ken and Laura (and the bears, of course) never would have been treated to B’s and my very, very loud (and hopefully moving) duet of Disney’s “A Whole New World”. So there.

B and Ken have been getting into trouble together the best of friends since they were wee lads, so one nice thing about the trip was getting to know Laura a lot better. Since the boys were frequently off in the canoe playing “Vikings of the Shenandoah” and lighting things on fire, we had a lot of time to drink wine and talk and drink wine and watch “The World’s Fattest Man” and drink wine. And it was a grand old time, save for one small detail: while we did try desperately to bring everything we thought we might need in the wilderness, Laura and I managed to let down ourselves, the boys, and most importantly, AMERICA by forgetting the single most essential camping item…

S’MORES.

The first night, as the boys were building a fire (um, sidebar- men are OBSESSED with fire- wtf?! See below…), Laura and I looked at each other in horror as we realized our huge, gigantic, shameful misstep in planning. We simply HAD to fix the lack of s’mores in our life before the last day; a camping trip without s’mores would make us no better than common Commies.

We remembered seeing some graham crackers in one of the cupboards, so one of three bases was covered, at least. The next day, as we were out and about visiting Luray Caverns and getting creative at a few wineries, we made the guys pull over at every gas station and 7-11 we saw searching for marshmallows. We could only find the miniature kind, but we went for it, thinking that was as close as we were going to get. The Hershey’s was of course up front with the candy, so we would have to make do.

That night as we made dinner, I skewered mini marshmallows onto satay-style sticks. Later, as the fire was roaring, it was time to put the s’mores into action.

Let’s see how that went:

1. Those skewers? Are very, VERY tiny when you’re thrusting it into a molten lava hot fire (twss). Just sayin.

2. Once our marshmallows were cooked (in some cases burnt to a crisp; in mine, just above lukewarm), we cracked open the Hershey’s, which we all assumed would be the best part of the whole thing. I glanced down at the chocolate as I opened it…

Me: Um… there appears to be some sort of plastic on the bottom. Hold on… *tries to tear off* Oh… okay… apparently that’s just what the chocolate looks like. It’s kind of… white? Crusty?

Laura: What does the expiration date say? Is that… holy shit. It says 2001.

All of us: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

3. The graham crackers were beyond stale, as were the marshmallows, but shockingly enough, the Hershey’s took the cake as far as the worst ingredient to our horrible disaster makeshift s’mores. Fail, fail, fail, HUGE freaking FAIL.

And yes, we all took a bite because we were drunk and had to make sure they were really that bad. Well, except Ken, because he smelled it first, and I would say that makes him the smartest one in the bunch…

If he hadn’t thrown his shirt in the fire moments later, “just because”.

We’re a special bunch. But honestly? I can’t wait to do it again.

I have a rematch with those goddamn s’mores.

P.S. This is what it looks like when two men obsessed with fire finally, well, get to build a fire:

Re. Dic.

Mama said share.

If you follow my tweets, you know I’ve been in the great outdoors for the past few days. While we are “cabin-ing”, not camping, with a couple friends in Shenandoah, it’s still been much more nature-y than I’m used to.

When we walked across the lawn- yes, lawn- for the first time, heading down to the river with our canoes (who am I??), I actually couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt a whole plot of grass under my feet. At least, one not littered with the homeless and stray chicken wings.

Yesterday was spent touring a few of the local wineries, which was delightful… at first. By the time we got to the third one, we were running out of adjectives with which to pepper our banter with the taste-givers. Let’s face it, you can only say the words “bold”, “earthy” and “full-bodied” so many times before even you start to hate yourself. So, we decided to branch out from the average descriptions and make things a little more interesting.

I believe I started it off when I declared a light red table wine “whimsical and flighty”… and it just plain snowballed from there. (I believe the increasing ridiculousness would most likely directly correlate with the number of tastings ingested. Shocking, I know.)

Some of the phrases we quite seriously deadpanned at our poor taste-givers, as well as a few brainstormed around the fire last night:

“naive, yet playful”

“reclusive, with hints of confidence”

“the finish has a sense of immortality”

“positively existential”

“dirty… even sinful”

“starts out with a bit of agony, finishing with a sense of euphoria”

“slightly prepubescent at first…”

“a note of spoonerism in the nose…”

“very cosmic… gives a real sense of animalistic sensuality”

“the nose cajoles you to drink more”

“very boastful!”

“almost iambically diabolic.”

“claims your palette with a hint of dirt”

And finally, the crown jewel from B:

“No wine is an island unto itself.”

Mama said share.