I know, I know!

I haven’t written in forever. I don’t think I want to write on this blog anymore, so I’ve been writing on my food blog, which you should totally follow. I may come back to this eventually, but food has taken over my mind so I’d rather just dump everything on that blog.

See ya there!

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Spider will die.

This giant spider thought he was smart, hanging out on my ceiling where I couldn’t reach him.

But I’m a human.

And humans invented things to stand on, and boots with which to smash invading insects.

So, spider, you will die.

And I’ll run outside and scream, and feel violated for hours.

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Sometimes at work …

… when your co-worker gets all snotty about prepositions (“I think they mean on the web page, not in it!”) you have to make a police badge.

Preposition police: In your face. On your case!

Which she’ll wear with pride.

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Some people are so hard to please.

Drive is out today. You’ve heard me talk about it several times before, and if you haven’t seen it, you have yet another chance because you can go buy it on DVD right. now.

Even my friend Clay is excited. Clay has “standards” for movies that keep him from enjoying the otherwise great films I recommend to him.

  • Clayton Joel Cunningham Clayton  You’re the person I know who raved about the movie “Drive” correct?
  • Sara Kuhlman Sara  YES
  • Clayton Joel Cunningham Clayton Ok then. It came to me in the mail today. I’ll let you know what I think. Here’s hoping this isn’t a repeat of Harry Brown or Christmas With The Kranks.
  • Sara Kuhlman Sara  Shut up. Harry Brown was great. And so was the Kranks, although admittedly I shouldn’t have recommended that to you.
  • Clayton Joel Cunningham Clayton Neither of those were great. I have hope for this though. Gossling’s a pretty good actor plus Bryan Cranston is in it so that’s a plus.

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I lied, but here’s a T-rex joke.

Oops, you didn’t see me much this week as I promised. Turns out I was sleeping until 1 p.m. every day. I’ve been working the late shift at work and for some reason sleeping the remaining hours of every day.

I seriously can’t get enough of these dinosaur jokes. If you ever see any, send them my way. I sit here and giggle like a little kid.

 

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One of life’s little mysteries

Cat Dog. Just … why? And how did they (it?) do their (its?) business? I really think they should have made Cat Dog anatomically correct. It would have solved years of questions and pondering from a curious audience.

Sorry for the short post. You’ll probably be hearing a lot from me this week because I accidentally spent my week’s budgeted allowance all on Friday night, and if I had to make a prediction about this week it would include a lot of me sitting in my room waiting for pay day on Thursday. #ouch

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All you need on a snow day

A fluffy lil kitty! Apparently it’s snowing in Ohio.

It hasn’t yet dropped even a speck of snow in London this winter, but nonetheless I’d still like to have Harris here to keep me warm!

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Disaster preparedness.

I may not be prepared for a natural disaster, but God dang it am I prepared for the neighbors or housemates being loud.

I never have fewer than five boxes of earplugs. The United Kingdom makes it difficult for me to find earplugs that meet my standards, so I always stock up when I go back to the US and my mom sometimes sends me supplies as well. That picture isn’t including the box in my night stand.

If I don’t have earplugs I get anxiety. I can’t sleep. Thoughts fill my head like, “What if someone goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night and the flushing toilet wakes me and I can’t get to sleep for the rest of the night??”

When I have my earplugs in I sleep like a little baby. Probably an older one, because I hear babies don’t sleep for long stretches.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on those foam “earplugs.” Those are insult to the very idea of what an earplug should be. Mine are the kind you use to go swimming, that completely seal off your ear and you know, actually work.

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I’m a fashionable, yet hairy, single Muslim gal

Every now and then I’ll have a period of a couple months where I’ll receive the same ad, everywhere I go. One time Mr. Web thought I was extremely hairy(??!), so he kept offering me mass hair removal products.

I can’t figure out what I’ve said or searched for this time that would be causing me to have nothing but single Muslim dating sites advertised to me for weeks on end. Weeks, I say! I asked a girl at my work who actually is Muslim if she gets these ads, and no, she doesn’t. It’s just me. All day, every day.




(Btw, totally listen to that Kooks song. In fact, I’ll link to it at the bottom of this post so you can listen NOW!)

On occasion I’ll get an ad for Banana Republic skirts I’ve already purchased. I kind of feel like if it’s all-knowing enough to know specifically which skirts I viewed, it should know enough to know that I clicked “add to shopping bag,” and know not to show them to me again and again. And again.

The only thing it gets consistently correct is that I love Back to the Future. For years I’ve had ads trying to sell me BTTF merchandise.

So, according to the Web I’m a fashionable single Muslim girl who loves Back to the Future and is extremely hairy.

As promised:

I love ads. Anyone else have any mystery ads appearing?

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!

You might think you have the best mom in the world, but you don’t. My mom knows everything. I still don’t listen to her, but rest assured, I am ALWAYS proven wrong and she doesn’t even have to say anything or try to prove me wrong. Then I say, “When am I going to start listening to mom??!”

Before the Air Force Marathon 5K race we ran together

I’m sure I wrote about this in last year’s birthday post, but I made her this hat when I was like, 7, and if this doesn’t seal the deal I don’t know what does. You can’t really see the words, but they are there.

Best mom in the world.

A couple facts about mom:

Her stuff is always nice. Everything she owns, even socks. She always smells nice, too. She’s just … nice. Like pumpkin spice.

 

 

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Nothing like a sister’s love

I rolled into work about 5 am Tuesday and got on Facebook, as one does. My sister, who is in Ohio and 5 hours behind in time, started chatting to me immediately, telling me about how my city-living parents bought a goat and were going to turn our big lovely porch into a goat stable. I believed it for two days until my dad today had to tell me to read my sister’s blog. Read the story here!

I even tweeted about it:

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Where are you from when you’re a military kid?

First, I just want to say thank you to all the people who commented on my post that was featured on Freshly Pressed this weekend. THANK YOU! I read every single comment and tried to respond to as many as possible. To any new followers, welcome!

Let’s get down to business.

A Facebook friend I know from high school posted this article about military kids having a tough time answering the question: Where are you from?

I’ve lived in 6 different states and in Europe for 10 years.

Standing on the Prime Meridian in Greenwich, England

My whole life this has been a tough question, and to this day I still hate when people ask me where I’m from.

Do I tell them where I was born but lived only for the first 6 years of my life?

Do I tell them where I spent the majority of my life?

Do I tell them where I went to university, the first place I felt like calling home?

Do I tell them where my parents currently live, even though I have never actually lived there?

Do I tell them about the little pieces of me that have been left in states all over the country?

Invariably, this often leads me to have a confused look and say, “Well, what do you mean by ‘from?’”

Although the answers to any of these questions would be truthful, there’s something uncomfortable about picking one and steadfastly sticking to it, with no explanation. It almost feels like you’re telling a slight untruth to a stranger.

The weird thing is that a lot of people are weird about it. They don’t get it, and you have to explain the whole military thing, moving every couple years, etc. A lot of people get sympathetic and say, “That must have been hard growing up like that!” Not really. It’s all I or any of us knew. Another common thing is that they’ll latch on to one thing – that I grew up in England. They can’t understand why I don’t have an English accent. It’s weird to me because everyone pretends to be so patriotic with all the “support our troops” stuff, but they seem to be simultaneously confused about the existence of a military and the lifestyle that must accompany it.

Largely to avoid the same conversation/explanation for the millionth time I’ve developed this odd (to me) thing of saying, “Err … ummm … well, I was born in Florida, but I’m from Ohio now.”

Even though I’ve come to love Ohio as the Great State, I still feel like I can’t fully say I’m “from” there.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever settle down and end up living in a place for so long that I’ll finally be able to say yes, I’m from here.

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Does hailing cabs make you fabulous?

Before I moved to London I couldn’t wait until the day I was a big city gal, whimsically hailing cabs with a casually glorious semi-smile on my face. I’d toss my shopping bags in the back and be on my fabulous way.

I woke up this morning and felt a deep pain in the place my pocket normally resides. I realized I’d wasted yet another £30 ($50) on a cab ride home from the city because I was too stupid to leave 15 minutes earlier to catch the last train and too (I don’t even know the word – smart?) to take the night bus home.

Thirty pounds doesn’t sound like so much, but I’ve developed a habit of easily convincing myself it’s worth the money to not have to take the bus, tube, whatever. “Oh, it’s only £10. Oh, it’s only £20.”

Two months later it’s nearly £200 spent because my stupid hand won’t stop sticking itself out in the street and stopping cabs.

And instead of looking like this:

I looked like this:

So, no, taking cabs does not make you fabulous. It makes you another drunk idiot with less money than you had before. And the fabulous shopping bag? Just an empty, crumpled up, in-case-I-puke shopping bag.

Some people waste money on smoking. Some people waste money on compulsive shopping. I waste money on cabs, and I think cab addiction should be hailed as a serious medical affliction in the same regard as other addictions.

I kinda feel like Annie on Bridesmaids, “Help me I’m poor.”

By the way – if you’re up for cat jokes, cute cat pictures, and discovering the makings of a crazy cat lady, check out my sister’s blog, Furry Little Cousins. It’s great!

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ohmygodohmygodsoperfect

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Parents on Facebook: Friend or Don’t Friend?

A blogger I follow wrote about how she only recently added her parents on Facebook, despite living 4,000 miles away from them. I couldn’t believe it! But then I started thinking about it, and I wouldn’t want most people’s parents as my friends on Facebook or real life if they were my parents.

I guess I got lucky. My parents are cool, and many of my friends are also friends with them.

See, look how cool they are in action, making me dinner, placing it on the table in front of me, etc.

Sometimes I think maybe they’re not cool. Maybe it’s just that I’m so boring and dorky I have nothing questionable floating about in the Facebook sphere to cause concern, and that’s why I can’t see any problem being friends with them. Even if I did engage in nefarious activities, would I be broadcasting them on Facebook anyway? No.

I don’t like how everything has to be “cool.”  Why can’t we just live life, instead of having to say snotty stuff like, “Oh, I can’t be on Facebook now that my grandparents are on it.” I mean, if you don’t want to be on Facebook, fine. But it annoys me when people act like they’re too cool for school. Or grandmas.

Again, maybe this is because I was blessed with a cool grandma, but so what? Grandma watches South Park, says bad words, and plays evil tricks on me like when we went fishing and she tossed a worm in my ear and slapped a big wet fish on my bare back. She’s not on Facebook, but if she did join she’d be way cooler than the tool sheds who’d leave because of her.

Here’s the chart I saw on this gal’s blog. Still kinda funny!

I guess my point is, if your parents suck at life and you’d rather not be reminded of them, fine. Don’t add them. But if you’re not adding them out of some commitment to being cool, you’re not cool. Add them.

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