Sunday, December 29, 2013

Announcement!

First, I have to start by explaining why I quit blogging.  Initially I decided to write a big, long, insulting post about the douche that verbally assaulted me, but then I decided to forgive him.  Hahahaha!  Just kidding, he’s a moron, and I honestly don’t feel like writing about it so I’ll just tell you a drunk, fat, douche screamed at me for my blog, because he apparently doesn’t have a whole lot going on in his life.

Now, on to better things and my announcement.

I’m moving again.  Effffffffffffff.  Yep, it’s true.  On Thanksgiving eve, my sister Jessica, husband Adam, and I were at our sister Trista’s house drinking Mimosa’s and eating homemade donuts.  Basically the healthiest breakfast we’ve ever eaten. We were all hanging out and having a grand ole time, well probably not Adam, but that’s not my fault.  My sister lives in the middle of nowhere.  It’s peaceful, quiet and cell service is spotty at best.  In fact, the only place you can get consistent service is in the middle of the kitchen.  So, when Adam’s phone rang he was forced to stand in front of us.  Yay!  Free entertainment!  Then I heard him mumble, “Hey Craig, I’m good.”  I actually felt time stop, I knew what that meant; a move was on the horizon.  I immediately hushed my sisters and filled them in. 

Adam absolutely detests telling me we have to move because, according to him, I don’t take the news well.  Pfft, whatever. I take it just fine.   Adam getting the news and being forced to deliver it to me in front of my sisters is basically his worst nightmare. So there I sat, eavesdropping on his conversation, practically chugging my mimosa. Jessica rubbed my leg murmmered, “It’s going to be ok,” and Trista, with arms crossed, stared down Adam with the evilest of look I’ve ever seen in my life.  When he got off the phone he broke the news.  In an all too enthusiastic voice he declared that we were moving to Maryland. 

Maryland.  I just knew this would happen.  I love being in Denver.  It’s so beautiful and it’s only 9 hours from my hometown.  I love having the freedom to hop in the car and just drive to see my family whenever I feel like it.  I was really upset, and Adam tried to comfort me, but it was hard because I was saying things like, “You’re the devil!  You’re ruining my life.  I’m not moving, good luck even getting me to drive back to Colorado with you.  The dogs hate the humidity!  Haven’t you even thought about how it would affect them?  Did you even ask them if they wanted to move?!?”  With the mention of the dogs he decided he needed to let them out and promptly left.  I decided I needed to go for a run so I borrowed all the gear I needed from Trista and left for a run.   About 2 steps into the run I was crying, not just crying, but hysterically crying.  Partially because I was so upset, and partially because the 45-mph sustained winds were making my eyes water.  South Dakota is a very windy state, but this was ridiculous. I’m fairly certain that I was actually airborne after a particularly violent updraft.  It was one of those winds that you couldn’t get behind because it was constantly shifting. I’m sure I looked really hot running, crying, mascara streaming all over my face, and dirt sticking to my tears before the wind dried it in place.   

When I returned to the house, Trista took one look at me, started laughing and said, “What the hell happened to you? Windy out there?”  Not, “Are you ok?” or “Do you feel better.”   Nope, she went immediately to the insults.  And I love her for that.

I wish I had a happy ending to write, but I don’t.  Although, I really shouldn’t complain.  For 30 months Adam and I lived apart because he was on smaller jobs that didn’t require a move.  For 30 consecutive months he was only home on the weekends.  That sucked, a lot.  When I look at it that way, I am really happy about the move.  For the record, our next house WILL have a fence…and possibly a pool.  Yes, I think I shall demand a pool, because I can’t make this move too easy on Adam. 


P.S. I know most people will be asking me if we are ever going to stop moving.  The answer is NO.  Stop asking, it’s a touchy subject.  His job requires us to move because once a road or bridge is built (or power plant is converted, which is what he’s done the last two job’s) it’s time to move on.

This is me saying goodbye to Kentucky mere moments before we left.  It was a pretty great moment of me.  

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Moving Day Moving…Geriatric Style



Day 264 of my captivity in La Grange, KY, also known as packing day.  The morning started with giant cup of coffee at the ungodly hour of 6:18.  Since my work is in mountain time I’ve gotten into a terrible habit of sleeping in until 8:30 or 9:00.  As you can imagine getting up at 6:18 felt like a punishment.  After getting ready for the day and taking the dogs to daycare the movers showed up around 8:30.  And they were old, like REALLY old.  The boss was at least 65 and his last name was Hattfield (!!), his right hand guy was in his late 50’s (Rosco) and the third guy was in his 80’s (I couldn’t understand him so I’ll call him Cletus).  Now, I’m not opposed to older people working, it’s just that this is a very physically demanding job so I didn’t expect to see people so close to retirement schlepping my stuff into boxes and later lifting them into a truck. 

Once we got past the introductions I showed them around and pointed out the “high value” stuff.  Their definition of high value is anything that costs more than $100/pound and they must be packed differently than regular stuff.  Obviously my purses fit that description because they only weight two or three pounds.  I usually pack and move them myself but because of my living situation for the next few weeks I was forced to let them move my beautiful collection. *Gasp* I was very specific and stopped short of threatening them with death if they stacked my purses, bent a handle, scratched them or hurt their feelings in any way.  I also told them that I did NOT want them OR my shoes all thrown in a single box.  Two hours later I found all my purses shoved in a single, bulging box.  I had a freaking panic attack.  So I found Rosco and decided to get to the bottom of it.

“Hey, I need to touch base with you about my purses.  I noticed they are all smashed into a single box and it looks like the box is about to explode.”
“Oh no ma’am, see I have ‘em all lined up just right.  They’ll be m’kay.”
“Hmm, I’m just a little confused how you managed to fit 18 purses in a single box without compromising the integrity of them.” He was either confused or thought I was kidding because he just laughed like an idiot and again said they were, “m’kay.”
I quickly realized this conversation was going nowhere and smiled and replied, “Well I hope they’re all ok, because they will tell me if you hurt them, and I know where you live.”  I abruptly stopped smiling, turned on my heel and stormed off.  I decided I needed a good cry and it was time to pick up the dogs so I figured I could cry and drive at the same time.  I’m so efficient with my time.

 Their daycare was only open for half a day so I had a whole list of errands Adam could do with Marty so he didn’t bark for 5 hours like he did when the movers were here in July.  I picked them up, and deposited Marty in Adam’s truck.  I had a ton of work I needed to do, so Bobby and I got settled and I got right to work while she slept.  I had barely connected to the internet when the Cletus came into the room and asked me a question that I assumed was in another language.

“Ma’am, youknowdat darevaseindabasement hadachipiner, ight?”
I choked on my water and replied, “Pardon me?”
“dat darevase in da basement, dat lavender un, had a chip in er.”
“…huh?”
“DAT VASE”
“The vase?”
“YES!!!”
“Hada chip iner”
“Has a chip in it?”
“YES!!!”
“Which vase?”
“Da un in da basement!  The purple un!!”
“You put a chip in it?” 
“NO IT ALREADY HAD UN IN ER!”
“Um…sure, ok.”
He literally threw his hands up and stomped down the stairs.  If you ask me, it’s little childish for a man in his 80’s to be throwing a temper tantrum, but I was willing to lose this battle if it meant he’s stop talking to me.

I finally had a few minutes to get caught up on the 26 emails that seemed to be multiplying faster than rabbits.  I really needed to get a handle on it because it was getting out of control faster than Miley Cyrus on her 18th birthday.  I was connected to the internet for mere seconds when I was startled by a crash and looked up to see 10 inches of pink ass staring at me, and Hattfield hanging on my refrigerator door. I ran over and quickly pieced the together scenario.  Instead of using an effing ladder, he used a five gallon bucket full of paint as a step stool.  It broke and he was limping and tracking paint all over.  I felt bad, because he was so old and has brittle bones.  I also felt bad for me because I had to clean up the paint and he probably broke my refrigerator door.

Kentucky Ladder


After cleaning up the paint and trying to un-see his ass in my mind I called Adam and told him to get the hell home.  I was disgusted and decided to lock myself in a bedroom while the senior citizens destroyed my house and broke my hizzle. They finished early and I signed about five hundred forms and they left. 

As I did a quick scan I realized something was off…they packed our toilet brush!!  Now, our last three moves the movers didn’t pack the toilet brush because 1) they’re not allowed to pack it, 2) it’s disgusting, and 3) they weren’t inbred (to my knowledge).  I was absolutely horrified.  I started opening the bathroom boxes to find it and get rid of it.  I called Adam and told him it was “threat level midnight in the Geis household and he needed to get home asap."  It wasn’t in the bathroom boxes so we were forced to open boxes in the master bedroom.  It was like a really disgusting scavenger hun that Adam won. That asshole packed the used, nasty, disgusting toilet brush in a box with his clothes dangling above.  I was so relieved it was in his box and not mine.  Needless to say all we could do was go to a local wing joint and eat our weight in wings and drink a bunch of beer.  

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Rocky Mountain Fly, Part Two


Friday 11am, we showed up to our first house.  It’s really deep into Castle Rock. CR is a beautiful area, it’s just pretty far away from our friends houses and Adam’s job.  My first impression was that the neighborhood looked quaint and very family friendly.  That was until I spotted and empty beer box and cigs in someone’s front yard.  Aside from that one neighbor the rest seemed fine. 

We walked in and found out the listing was incorrect it was 1300 sq feet and did NOT have a basement, oops, guess they forgot the word NOT in the advertisement.  Right away I knew it wouldn’t work, we would have to have a basement with a house that small.  Even if it had a basement I’m not sure I would have taken it.  The whole house needed to be painted and the baseboards were a disaster.  Baseboards are the way I gauge a house.  If the owner is meticulous enough to clean baseboards and keep them looking fresh the entire house will be well maintained.  I left feeling defeated because we just driven an hour in one direction for nothing.  Adam thought it was a success because our first listing in Louisville had wild animals living in it and the second house had 3 inches of standing water in the basement.  Different Strokes.   Our next listing was in Centennial.  It was so far east that I thought we had actually crossed into Nebraska, and I’m certain I saw at least three tumbleweeds.  It was also right by a toll road so we’d be forced to take it regularly or drive around it to avoid it, who the eff wants to live by a toll road?  Not this girl. 

“Adam, I’m not living there.  Let’s skip it.  Plus I’m hungry.  It’s 2pm my time and I haven’t had lunch.”
“Oh now…you’re fine. Let’s just go look, it might be great.”
“1) It’s not great, 2) It’s not in a great part of town, 3) It’s 39 minutes away from Erica’s house and 37 from The Cottrell’s house, 4) I’m starving and 5) This is turning out to be as bad as the Louisville trip!”
“Mary, it’s fine.  This trip is already way better than the Louisville trip.  We haven’t seen any raccoons or possum living in the houses.”
“REALLY ADAM?  That’s how you gauge success???  The absence of wild animals in these homes automatically makes it a success?”
*Adam thoughtfully scratches his chin and responds:
“….and urine.  None of these homes smell like pee.”

Exasperated I reluctantly looked at the house.  It wasn’t horrible, and if it would have been in Littleton or Highlands Ranch I would have seriously considered it.  But being that far away from everyone and his job made it an automatic NO.

After reminding Adam that I was right and going all the way to Nebraksa was a waste of time I finally got to eat lunch at 3pm my time.  And you can bet your ass I was pretty crabby.  We headed back down to Castle Rock for our final showing for the day.  This house was in the largest subdivision I had ever seen.  There were easily 1,000 homes all so close that you could stand in between them and still touch the houses.  This house had an odd set up, you entered into the dining room.  It was new and nice but it was hard to focus when all the junk in the house and the smell.  I didn’t smell like B.O., but it did smell like people…like elderly people who don’t shower often enough.  It was so gross, and there was so much crap everywhere I almost had an anxiety attack.  There were books, THOUSANDS of books, piled everywhere.  We again decided the location was far from ideal and the road leading in and out was packed at all times.   Fail.

It was supposed to snow 8-14 inches that night and next day.  For that reason we had only one more showing and it was on Sunday before we left.  But on the way back to the hotel we stopped so I could buy a coat and shirt since, like a moron, I had forgotten to pack those items. 

We spent the next day with The Cottrell’s (Jason and Kristi) and our friend Matt.  After a fun game of Quizzle I poured myself a glass of wine and Jason poured the rest of the bottle, which was 3/4 full, in a giant wine glass.  Eventually we ended up playing beer pong and Jason and I kept cheers-ing each other and saying, “To you, kind sir.”  We thought we were *hilarious.* To say I ended up with a lot of wine on my cardigan is an understatement.


Here JJ is writing a rap, per the instruction of Quizzle.




Here I’ve clearly lost interest and started feeding their dogs Cheetos.  I’m the worst.


Sunday was daylight savings time, my least favorite day of the year.  Luckily I was still on East Coast time so I didn’t feel like I got jipped on sleep.  We went to our next showing which was a townhouse.  The house on the internet looked absolutely beautiful.  We drove by it the day earlier and thought it kind of looked dumpy from the outside and thought there’s no way the pictures we saw were from that house.  In fact, I declared that I was 85% sure it was a scam.  We circled the block and discussed at length how we thought it was a scam.  I was secretly hoping it was because I didn’t want to live in a townhome without a yard or fence. Adam just doesn’t understand how inconvenient it is to take your dog out on a leash 400 times a day because he’s exactly 0% help with the dogs even thought HE insisted we get them. 

Sure enough it was the house from the pictures. Beautiful, updated, clean baseboards.  And no yard.  So what do the Geis’ do?  They slap down a deposit!  And here I sit, with complete buyers remorse.  I’m usually so sassy and can convince anyone of anything, but when it comes to Adam I fold every time.  He’s like a genie or hypnotist.  So, not only did we NOT buy a house (like I wanted), we rented an effing townhouse without a fence or yard.  FML. 

OH!  And I forgot to mention the best part; it’s not available until April 15th. So that means I’m going to be homeless for 2 weeks.  Guess I’ll be living the like a gypsy for 2 weeks.  Awesome. 

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Rocky Mountain Fly Part One




If you follow me on facebook you already know that Adam and I are moving back to Denver.  Woo Hoo!  So this weekend we flew out there to find a house.  I wanted to buy.  Adam did not.  I lost.  We had been scouring the internet looking for rental properties for the last month and I set up some showings and Adam pretended to help by setting one showing that was so far east we were practically in Nebraska.

I was flying in early so I could hang out with Dr. Erica.  Adam was coming in later that night and we were going to house hunt the next two days.  I didn’t want to go.  I mean, I really did not want to go, so I think somewhere in my subconscious I sabotaged myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m super excited to be moving back to CO, but the idea of house hunting again made me sick.  We had such a bad experience in Louisville and I was afraid it was going to be a repeat of that disaster.  I was all ready to go by 9 am and for some unknown reason I thought I didn’t need to leave the house until 10 for my 10:50 flight.  I walked the dogs, cleaned the house and watched Judge Judy to kill time before I needed to leave.  As I was taking out the trash and grabbing my suitcase it finally dawned on me that I should have left an hour ago.  I was completely panicked.  I didn’t even say goodbye to the dogs, I just ran out.  I texted Adam that I was going to miss my flight and since I mess with him all the time, he didn’t believe me:





Call them?  Was he serious??  Who exactly should I call??  That’s like someone telling you to call Facebook.  There’s no one to call. I knew there was no way I would make it before my flight unless it was delayed so I called my sister to have her check and also look for additional flights just in case.  Not only was my flight on time, but it was actually taking off 10 minutes early.  Trista was in complete shock that I was going to miss my flight.

“Trista, I’m not sure what happened today.  For some reason I thought I could leave the house at 10 and my flight leaves at 10:50.  I can’t believe I did that!!  Can you go online and check my flight?”
“What?  Oh my God, that’s so unlike you.  Are you having a stroke?”
“Trista!  I don’t know.  I don’t know what happened.  All week I had it in my head that I was going to leave at 10.” 
*muffled laughing* “So does that mean you are or are not having a stroke?”

When I finally got to the ticket counter at Southwest I was informed my flight was leaving in 3 minutes and sadly it would be leaving without me. They had a flight leaving at 11:40 that connected in St. Louis.  This is why I love flying Southwest, I could have flown on standby for free or pay $136 for the ticket.  136!  If it were United or Delta I would have easily paid $500 for a same day ticket.  So I happily bought the ticket, and was on the next flight.  Oh yeah, did I mention it was Adam’s birthday.  I’m such a jerk, I sorta forgot.  But, in my defense, I had thrown him a surprise party last Saturday so I didn’t completely forget.




My first flight was completely miserable because a toddler sitting behind me was kicking my seat and YELLING “NO MA-MA!  NO MA-MA! NOOOOO MA-MA” the entire flight.  Everyone was getting really annoyed after the 387th time this little terrorist yelled “NO MA-MA!’ The flight attendant finally asked her to make Chucky stop yelling and kicking my seat.  It didn’t help; she made no effort to make him stop.  I decided to use the restroom to get away from the yelling and kicking.  I watched a woman come out and I was next.  It’s sad when the tiny smelly airplane bathroom is more relaxing than your seat.  I thought the toilet seemed very cold and when I looked down I realized the seat was up.  I had just sat on the rim.  God knows how much dried urine I just sat in.  I was then tasked with trying to wash my bottom in the tiny sink.  As I was cussing, crying and cleaning I was pontificating why the effing seat was up to begin with, I mean a WOMAN was in there before me.  I’m guessing she either had a dong, or made the same mistake I made.  Probably a dong. I doubt anyone else is that stupid to sit on the filthy piss-filled toilet rim. 

One connecting flight and three hours later I was finally in Denver.  I decided to get a rental car for the day and got on a bus to take me to Alamo Rental Cars at the airport.  All we had to do was go around a corner and check the other side to see if anyone on the West Entrance.  It took 35 minutes to round the corner.  Those bus drivers are crazy.  They kept cutting each other off and getting within mere inches of each other.  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse our bus collided with a van.  Luckily it was just a bunch of scratches and we didn’t need to get the police involved.

I was happy to get my car and head to Erica’s house.  After an hour and half (30 minutes spent sitting in construction) I made it to Erica’s house where a delicious glass of wine was waiting for me to guzzle.  After some much needed girl time and getting to meet the puppy Kevin Brown Bear, I checked into our hotel and took a scalding hot shower to try and sterilize myself from the gross day.  I opened my luggage to get out my jammies when I noticed that I not only forgot a jacket but also didn’t bring enough clothes for the weekend.  Maybe I really was having a stroke…stay tuned for part two.   Until then, look at that cute puppy!


Wednesday, February 20, 2013

My Affliction


I got a bad disease.  Up from my brain is where I bleed…no wait that’s a song.  I really do have an affliction.  It’s very rare, you’ve probably never heard of it.  I have Gollum Arms.  

It’s true.  I have Gollum Arms.  I’ve had it my whole life but I didn’t even know it until my sweet husband pointed it out to me.  I always knew I had skinny arms but I never thought much about it.  My sister Trista always gave me shit about them, but she gave me shit about everything so I ignored her.  She’d make snide comments like, “You should buy that bracelet, it will fit perfectly on your bicep.”   Or  “Your arms remind me of a hairless cat.” Since she was a jerk, I didn’t put much thought into her insults. My older sister Jessica would give me gentle hints like, “Have you ever thought about lifting weights?  I can teach you if you want.”  But alas, nothing penetrated my thick skull and I never took their subtle, or not so subtle hints.

Then in 2009 a personal trainer/gym owner by the name of Patrick pointed out that I lacked muscle mass and looked like a “cardio queen.”  I took that as a compliment because being called a queen is awesome.  I had been consistently working out since I was 18, but never lifted a weight.  After several weeks of prodding I gave in and bought a few personal training sessions.  I quickly realized I had the upper body strength of a toddler.  And thus began my fitness journey.  I got pretty buff by my standards.  I could deadlift 1 ½ times my weight, do 10 consecutive kipping pull-ups, and clean and jerk 100 pounds, (trust me when I tell you that “clean and jerk” is not a dirty term, it just sounds dirty, look it up.) 

Right before my wedding my then fiancĂ© pointed out that my neck was getting awfully thick.  I modified my workouts so it didn’t look like he was marrying a dude and everything was great.   Check out those arms:



Amber, me and Tiffany, look at those beautiful muscles



Then, the unthinkable happened, I got injured.  Everyone gets injured with crossfit so I guess it’s not THAT unthinkable.  I tore my bicep away from my shoulder.  Not only did it hurt like a mother, but it also rendered my right arm useless for about 8 weeks.  I could barely carry my favorite Kate Spade purse.  I kept going to my gym but modified my workouts so I wasn’t reinjuring myself.   My muscles started to atrophy and apparently my husband noticed immediately.

“So, uh, are you still going to crossfit?” He asked avoiding all eye contact. 
“Yeppers.  Why?”
“Well, um, I just noticed you weren’t, uh…..complaining of having a sore upper back…or arms.”
“No shit, I tore my bicep, a-hole.  In case you haven’t noticed I can’t even carry my purse.”
*awkward silence*

*more awkward silence*

“Anywaaaaay,” I tried to break the ice, “I am thinking of quitting.  This injury is bad.  I mean baaaad.  Like it’s not healing and I might need surgery which I’m not going to do, but—“
“Oh God, you’re not going to go back to your creepy Gollum Arms are you?
“My what????”
“Your creepy Gollum Arms.”
“What do you mean, by ‘creepy Gollum Arms’?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.  Your arms.  They’re skinny.  And pale.  And hairless.  And they bend the wrong way.  And really skinny and creepy.”

I couldn’t believe he would say something so rude to me.  All of my sisters insults came flooding back and I realized, I indeed had Gollum Arms. 

Of course I planned on lifting weights again after my bicep healed.  And I did, I got another personal trainer at my other gym (yes I had two gym memberships, don’t judge me) who coached me through my injury and kept me strong.   No Gollum Arms in while I lived in Grand Junction, no sir.

Then we moved.  To Kentucky.  Specifically, hillbilly La Grange, where there is only one gym and it only has free weights, so I haven't lifted since July.  My Gollum Arms came back with an angry vengeance.  This brings us to present day.  My friends, I present to you, my Gollum Arms.   





These pics don't really do it justice because taking a picture of your own arm is kind of hard, as you can see I'm 'double jointed'.  I've been told it's really gross to watch me do a push up.  Enjoy.