So, in order to make this blog work, I’m going to have to reformat. Like, seriously. I’m going to have to blog about things other than baseball. Because, for the first time ever, there’s more in my life than Stankee hate.
Wow. That makes my previous life sound sad.
There is more in my life than the Red Sox.
I have hobbies.
Does working count as a hobby?
I shall distract you with this Christmas cartoon. Ooooooh…
So. Instead of just blogging about Kevin Stupidilis (that’s not working, is it? I am so lost!), I will also blog about my life.
Did you hear crickets? Did I hallucinate that?
Fear not. I’ll still blog about baseball. But I can’t do that thing where I get so obsessy that I throw napkin holders at people in bars. I can’t do that again. I’m all. Um. Adult and stuff. And, apparently, when adults are by themselves at bars, they don’t throw napkin dispensers at people. Did you know that a lot of adults don’t go to bars to watch the games by themselves? Did you know that?
So, I’m trying this adult thing. And that’s going to be an increasing factor with this blog. I shall share revelations as I learn them about this adulthood thing. Like, for example, did you know that wine glasses break in dishwashers? And that you have to get your tires rotated?
I’m learning a lot. And seriously, if you have any adult tips, please share them. Because learning that you’re supposed to get your tires rotated is something I would have much rather learned from you than from my four bald tires and a Durham parking lot.
I am home alone this weekend and trying to be like, domestic. I bought a Christmas tree. And, in an effort to be sentimental (which I can sooooo be. sorta), I bought an ornament for $1 that has this spot where you can personalize it, right? And, in permanent marker, I wrote “Matt and Lauren’s First Christmas.” Cue the awwwws. Come on, please? I’ve never gotten an awwww. Especially not at Christmas.
That’s kind of a big deal.
See, I’m not a holiday person. There are holiday people. And then there are antifalalalala people.
Antifalalala people are that way for many reasons.
Maybe they worked in retail and heard the same elevator rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock” eighteen times a shift.
Maybe they were a mall Santa on the weekends and are tired of smelly pants.
Or, maybe, like me, their mother didn’t take them to daycare. Instead, she took them to her job, a radio station that played only Christmas music and then, when they grew up, they were dumb enough to go into radio- specifically a six station conglomerate with a boss who loved “Jingle Bell Rock” so much that not only did he play it after Thanksgiving- once he tried to play it for the month of July because he was under the errant belief that “Christmas in July” is a thing. That boss was Jewish, fyi. And “Jingle Bell Rock” is the dumbest song since “Tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree,” which, by the way, is a really dumb song.
Anyway, I own a Christmas tree. Well, it’s a box, actually. Did you know that they don’t come in tree form? They come in box form? And, although the box shows that the stand is in four pieces, it’s actually in three pieces because it counts the trunk as the fourth piece? See, without this blog, it might have taken you an hour and an angry 1-800 call to figure that out.
I have this image, see, of Matt getting back here tomorrow and being so impressed with my domesticity and my nestingness. I think I’m wearing an apron?
Maybe I’ll make cookies.
I can bake cookies. I can bake the hell out of some cookies.
Oh. Right. Christmas tree.
Here it is.
It looks really peaceful there, doesn’t it? It was not peaceful.
Apparently, Ellie is afraid of Christmas trees. Terrified, actually.
I put the tree up. I put candycanes on it (because they were $1 and ornaments were $4). I turned the lights on. I didn’t have a star, right? But I did have a Santa hat. So, I cleverly (so clever, thought i), put the Santa hat on top of the tree and marveled at my cleverness.
Ellie comes out of the bedroom to see what’s going on. She jumps back in horror and starts to bark.
And… you get the idea.
I turned the lights off. Still barking. I petted the tree and said, “wow, what a not scary tree!”
It works on dogs.
She keeps barking.
Holly wanders in (a lab. Matt’s dog. She lives with me now too. See how grownup I am?).
She hears Ellie barking.
She has no idea why, but obviously doesn’t want to be left out.
Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.
In frustration, I decide, screw it. Back in the box.
I pick up the Santa hat because I am going to take down the tree from the top down. Silence. I put the hat back on. Barking.
My dog thought my tree was Santa.
My dog hates Santa, you guys.
Does this mean I won’t get any presents?