Learning to adult part 182

I don’t care what people say.  Being boring and not having a social life is actually a good thing.  Staying home every night isn’t a problem.  Not going out to a bar isn’t bad.  Not going out anywhere isn’t bad.  In fact, it could be considered an excellent life choice.

It’s cost efficient.

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Pre Cana Classes with Father Awesome

So, The Fiance and I have been attending Pre Cana classes, since The Fiance is nice enough to agree to get married in the Catholic Church.  The priest who is preparing us, Father Awesome, is young (around our ages), has a super friendly dog, and is full of random trivia.  He gives great homilies so that even The Fiance doesn’t mind going to mass with me.

Personally, I’m really enjoying the Pre Cana preparation and would highly recommend marriage (or relationship) counseling to anyone.  And I have.  It’s like I’ve suddenly become an expert on recommending counseling.  Because meeting with a priest a handful of times makes me an expert.  (Sarcasm.)

The Fiance is really enjoying it for an entirely different reason, however.

When we met with the priest in January, we were having a very serious conversation about our parents.  Suddenly Fr. Awesome interrupts us, mid-sentence and says:

I’m sorry to interrupt you guys, but I just thought of a very important question.  Have you seen the new Star Wars movie yet?

For my single cousins

Guys, if I’d thought of this first, then this blog wouldn’t even exist.  But since I didn’t, I’m just going to pass this sage advice along to my own single cousins.

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The List of Deviant Dater

Wedding hotel blocks are, at best, a hassle.  At worst, they become the bane of your every wedding planning existence.  I would say that we’re somewhere right in the middle, but we’re definitely starting to lean toward bane of my existence.

As you know, we’re having a big wedding.  Okay, a really big wedding.  And it’s out of town.  For everyone.  Including The Fiance and I.  So, most people are going to need hotel rooms.  Naturally, we had to get blocks at several hotels.

We ended up with blocks at three different hotels, ranging from 20 rooms to 40 rooms per hotel, and ranging in price to accommodate whatever our guests may need.  We’re getting married over a holiday weekend (Memorial Day), so we wanted to make these hotel blocks well in advance and secure the best rate we could get for our guests.  We signed contracts in August.

We sent out invitations last month.  Our website went live with all three hotels’ contact information.  And since then, all the people who have tried to book rooms at The Holiday Inn Express have called/texted/Facebook messaged me that the hotel has no idea what they’re talking about when they call.

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Huh?

We signed a contract with Holiday Inn Express for an open room block for 30 rooms.  I’ve called them three times.  My parents have called them.  When Holiday Inn started telling people who called that we were paying for everyone’s room (like a closed block that I certainly can’t afford), my parents physically went by to check what the heck was going on.

Turns out, they somehow had a credit card on file that didn’t belong to my parents nor to The Fiance and me.  Thankfully Mom and Dad were able to clear up that situation before anyone was charged for extra rooms.

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Phew!

And yet, even after all of that, I got contacted again today by The Fiance’s sister to say that when they called the Holiday Inn Express, the hotel had no clue about the room block.

Holiday Inn Express, YOU JUST MADE THE LIST!

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So Extra

“Girl,” JC says, “you’re so extra.

“So extra what?” I gasp as I grab the oh-shit handle on the golf cart.  He’s just steered us off the sidewalk and into the grass toward what looks to be a too-small opening in the very solid brick dormitory we’re hurtling towards.  Who knew golf carts could go so fast?

“Don’t you know what extra means?” He doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact that some college co-eds just gave us the finger.  Multiple fingers, actually, as we ran them off the sidewalk.

“Of course I know what ‘extra’ means.  Like when I go to Chipotle and I ask for ‘extra meat’ and they put a 6th spoonful of grilled deliciousness into my burrito.”  I grimace at the sudden honking from the golf cart.  We’re quickly approaching a small Asian woman walking very slowly on the sidewalk.  With her leather gloves, wool coat, opaque tights, and stylized hospital face mask, she looks like she should be melting in the unseasonably warm February weather.

I can’t tell if she’s sweating, though, because there isn’t a square inch of her skin showing.  But I’m certainly sweating enough for her.  A little because of all those layers, but mostly because of her untimely impending death by golf cart.

I say a quick prayer for her under my breath, “Dear God, please don’t let us kill this tiny Asian woman with the university golf cart.  Please.”

The honking persists to the point of becoming one long, solid “meeeeeeeeep,” but JC doesn’t slow down.  We’re only ten feet behind this woman.  Seven feet.  Thee feet.  The horn is still blaring.  This woman is clearly not going to move.

Suddenly we jerk to the left and I swear we’re flying as we launch off the curb.  “Noo.  You know… EXTRA.

I can’t respond to JC because, well, my heart is in my throat; I may have just peed my pants a little; and now, on top of clutching the oh-shit handle, I notice I’m holding a strange handbag.  Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I see the tiny Asian woman teetering around, waving her hands at our backs.

“Um…” I finally get out as I toss the handbag and resume gripping the oh-shit handle with both hands.  “I guess I don’t.”

JC makes a sudden, hard right turn to cut across a parking lot and then juts into a busy street, completely ignoring both the stop sign and cross traffic.  I think horns honked, but we were already speeding away, and I can’t hear that much over the pounding of my blood in my ears anyway.

Maybe this 20 minute golf cart ride can count as my cardio for the day.  My fitbit is telling me my heart rate is in the weight loss zone.

We careen into our own parking lot as JC explains, “You know.  Extra. It’s like when someone is over-dramatic.”  He slams on the brakes, flicks off the power, pockets the key, and looks at me.  “Like you.  On this ride.  You’re just so extra.”

“Right,” I nod.  I need a moment to sit and catch my breath.  I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.  Or rather, what I imagine I would feel like if I ever ran a marathon.  Or if I ever ran more than a 5K. Really, it’s kind of how I feel when I run in general.

As I stagger off the golf cart and wobble in for my 1:45 meeting, I glare at him, “I am so not over-dramatic.”

Re: Late For Work

Boss,

I’m emailing just to let you know that I’m running a little late today.  As you know it’s supposed to be 70 degrees, so I needed to shave my legs.  It’s the first time I’ve shaved since November, so it took a little extra time.  Then I ended up having to clean out the tub, because did I mention that the last time I shaved was November?  After I rinsed out the tub, then I had to unclog the drain.

Now I’m sitting waiting for the emergency plumber to get here, but as soon as he leaves, I’ll be in.

Just wanted to give you a head’s up!

Regards,

Deviant

Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean!

Confession: The Fiance and I did not watch The Superbowl.  We didn’t even watch the commercials.  We had pizza and wings and company over, but the TV was off the whole time.

So Monday morning, when I got to work and my coworker asked if I had seen the Mr. Clean commercial, I had to say no.  My coworker had to say thank goodness for youtube:

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Click it to see the whole commercial.  It’s worth it.  Turn your sound on.

This commercial just really nailed it.  Everything about this commercial spoke to me.  Her face when she realized there was a spill on the stove.  That sexy way Mr. Clean walks up with his cleaning supplies.  The music.  That bathroom slide.  Those white pants.

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Confession #2: I have always had a crush on Mr. Clean.  He’s just so…. clean.  He’s definitely the only guy I’d break my “must have hair” rule for. (Okay, maybe also Bruce Willis…)  There’s just something inherently sexy about a guy who cleans.  And this commercial got it spot on.  (Or maybe “spot off” is a more accurate description.  Mop that floor, Mr. Clean!)

Side note: has anyone ever thought that Bruce Willis would make an exceptional Mr. Clean?  No?  Think about it now.

And the ending of the commercial.  Clearly this is how to handle a man who cleans.  It was like watching a movie of my life, condensed into 30 seconds and played by commercial actors.

Yeah, baby, that certainly is clean enough.  And you certainly are my fantasy.