Teddy Climbed a Tree

I don't know why I was surprised.  He is a bear, after all.  

He said that he wanted to do more "bear-like" things, so he up and climbed a tree.  Good for him, I say. Good for him.

But now he won't come down.

Lazy Slob

I took Mike to the airport this morning. 

This is what the hallway looks like this evening:

Seriously, you guys.  I need to be policed.

I Am Terrible At Laundry

I am terrible at laundry.  I mean, I know enough to separate clothes by color, because if I washed all whites with that lone red sock, I would just be way too cliche to even write about.  And I've actually never done that. Surprisingly.

No, I am terrible at remembering that I am doing laundry.  I don't know how many times Mike has walked past the washing machine and asked if I meant to leave the lid open.  For two hours.

My parents' old washer let you leave the lid open and it would begin the cycle with no problems.  I always thought that it was fun to watch as different items of clothes would get slowly sucked underwater, and I would sometimes save small things like socks so that I could add them one by one and watch them slowly drown.

That's normal, right?

But today, I remembered to add soap and close the washer lid.  I remembered to move the clean clothes to the dryer.  I remembered to add a dryer sheet, and I remembered to turn on the machine.

But apparently, I did not remember to check pockets.

Not only did I wash my super sweet pedometer - which is now broken and I will never again know how many steps I took in a given day - but I washed an unused feminine product.  The results were... so weird.

Great.

And then, I started seeing this weird, clear... goo all over the clothes.  I don't know what else to call it.  It was sort of like a bunch of mini insect eggs or something, but that thought caused me to dry-heave, so I returned to square one in my investigation.

Nice camera skillz, right?

It wasn't until I found the pink wrapper that I figured it out: a pantiliner.  Wonderful.

From then on, it was all about finding the pad itself.  I totally forgot what brand this is, but they should use a similar tactic in their advertising campaigns.  "Feminine pads!  They soak up all of the water in your washing machine!  They hold four gallons of liquid!"

I mean, this fucker filled up like a balloon.  That is brilliant! Imagine if you...  ew.  Nevermind.  NEVERMIND.

Oh, God.

It's Like a Rainshower of AWESOME

Mike bought and installed new shower heads for our bathrooms, and they are basically amazing. If I hadn't started to run out of hot water this morning, you can bet that I would probably still be in there, withering away. Withering away happily.

My mom was the handy one in our household. She could pretty much fix anything - still can, really. It wasn't that my dad couldn't fix the faucet, it's that he was probably procrastinating, off in his comfy chair, reading a book about Harry S. Truman or something. My mom also really enjoys the fixing of things.

This book weighs a metric ton, I swear.

I also enjoy the fixing of things, but Mike was working from home this week and I was not, and it was all lovely and installed when I got home from work. He's pretty much the best.

IT'S FRIDAY, FRIDAY

Oh sweet Jesus. Mike has discovered Rebecca Black. More than a year too late, sure, but what does it matter? Whether my ears bleed now or then doesn't make much of a difference.

Now, I avoided that train wreck like the plague, and I almost got away with it, too, until Mike's STUPID FRIEND LARRY had him pull up youtube and take a gander/listen. I was sitting right next to him! There was no escape! It. Was. Horrible.

But.

Is it really so bad? Mike also likes to annoy me with Katy Perry's "Last Friday Night," and I'm not really sure which song is worse. The lyrics to both are asinine and ridiculous, and at least Ms. Black's verses don't leave me feeling dirty.

I'm going with Rebecca Black. Sure, she's annoying, but at least she's not a HOOR.

This is What I Deal With, You Guys

This is our thermostat. Let me decode it for you:

On the left, 59 is the temperature in the house. Cold, I know, but I was wrapped in an electric blanket on the couch, so I wasn't aware of just how cold it was until I went upstairs to check.

On the right? 43. That is what Mike set it to - for why? I'm not entirely positive, but I'm sure that there are many reasons and one of them is to see if I'll freeze to death in my sleep. But the joke's on you, Mike, because I don't even HAVE a 401K. HAHAHAHAHAHA!

In his defense, I have trouble sleeping if I'm too warm. I like to breathe cool air. I like to bundle up in blankets and cover everything but my eyes and nose. It's pretty awesome, and it's nice on the weekends. But during the week? That's another story.

My absolute favorite times are when simply turning down the heat does not result in a cool house quickly enough for his liking. That's when the air conditioning goes on. Yes, the air conditioning. In January. The house will be something like, 65 degrees, but he wants it to be 60 degrees, so he turns on the air. It's nice at first, but before I realize what's happening, I am lulled into a state of cool, calm comfort and passively drift away to dreamland.

Oh, and the ceiling fan is usually on, too. I forgot to mention that.

And before I know it, my alarm goes off the next morning, it's 54 fucking degrees and I have to somehow extricate myself from the covers in order to take a shower (generally that is how it works) and it's pretty much what I imagine torture to be.

But I sure do sleep well.

I'm Heather. I'm Disgusting.

Mike's been traveling all over God's green earth lately, for work, and I've been alone in the house. In some ways, it isn't so bad. I miss him like crazy, but I've been staying busy enough that it's not too bad.

So in an effort to avoid the crushing loneliness, I've been working out lately. Like, every day. It's not that I'm bored (I mean, I am), it's that I'm going to be thirty-one in mere days and let's face it - no one's getting any younger!

So as soon as I get my ass home from work, I change into my workout gear and I head to the gym with Kelly. Working out with a friend is pretty much the best plan. We push each other to GET GOING when one of us would rather sit on the couch. Luckily, the lack of motivation seems to hit each of us on opposite days.

Of course, there was that time that I showed up at her house with nachos and sangria when I was supposed to be picking her up for the gym.

So my routine has been working quite well, though the house has not been faring as such. I try to keep it clean, I do, but it's hard!

Basically, by Thursday, the house is a trash dump, and when I get home from the gym there is nothing I'd rather do than pass out on the couch. Instead, the night melds into a tornado of vacuums and cleaning products. I can't let Mike think that he's shacked up with a dirtier Tasmanian Devil.

Time to destroy the house, yay!

I mean, seriously. I am a slob. Why I can't seem to be able to clean up after myself on a daily basis is beyond me, especially since I am usually so organized.

The dining table? Not for eating! It's a dumping ground for anything and everything!

The kitchen counter? That's where everything goes that I determine belongs elsewhere than in the fridge or pantry.

The fridge? Oh God. If you're ever at my house, promise that you'll never look in the fridge.

Promise me.

Evil Genius Cat #2?

I love living with Mike, believe me, but there were bound to be a few things that I would miss about living in my little place in Ann Arbor.

I miss my back deck and feeling like I was amongst the branches of the trees in my backyard; I miss my backyard just because I had a backyard; I miss my neighborhood for its relatively quiet yet crazy hippies...

But most of all, I miss Evil Genius Cat. For the last few chilly months, he was huddled inside the neighbor's house, most likely curled up on someone's feet or possibly blocking the television, rarely venturing outside. Whenever he was outside, however, he was always waiting for me to come walking down the sidewalk after work.

Where have I been? Where have YOU been?
I swear to GOD, if you don't pet me I will end you. NOW.

He did make an appearance when I was packing up recently, which was nice, but I'm hoping to see him next week, when I get the remainder of my junk from the apartment.

In the meantime, I walked out of my new place to find this on the doorstep:

Look at how fat and large and orange I am!
Love me! LOVE ME.

Chronicles of Cohabitation

Moving in with Mike has been quite an experience. When you take two people who are more than slightly OCD and overly organized and place them in a two-bedroom condo, you might think that the foundation would soon begin to erode.

But it's been awesome! I have come to understand that he likes things a certain way, and he has come to understand that I am more than likely going to change things and drive him crazy.

The kitchen, however stereotypically, is MINE. The only appliance Mike uses on a regular basis is the microwave, and I needed to drastically alter the setup. I only gave him a few minor heart attacks by changing things without telling him (like switching the cabinet that held dishes with the cabinet that held glassware), but now I've learned to alert him to upcoming changes, and he's fine!

Or so he says.

But I knew from the start that he was the man for me. Look at the closet:

It's so... beautiful!

Anyone who meticulously arranges his clothes like that is perfect in my book. I've been color-coordinating my closet since college!

PERFECT MATCH.

Of course, this is what it looks like now that I've moved in all of my things:

I... have too much stuff.