Sarah Santucci

So, we’re married!

You’d think that alone would have been cause for me to return to my blogging ways, but as it turns out, I took that particular story to another blog. Since my zeal for blogging has been on a downward trajectory for years, I wasn’t sure I’d continue on here. But, as it turns out, I am not totally out of Very Important Things To Say.

In which case, let’s catch up.

I haven’t posted in a year. Here’s what happened:

We Got Engaged:

For me, being engaged was incredible. No one really tells you this; all you really hear about is how hard and stressful it is to plan a wedding. And I suppose that’s true, but being engaged is also just completely tops. There was always something to look forward to! Nearly every month there was a major happy event: a bridal shower, an engagement party, multiple visits home to New Hampshire, a visit from my mom and sister to take me dress shopping, a trip with my folks to meet Jon’s parents in New Jersey. Bountiful phone calls with family and friends, hours spent curled up reading Martha Stewart Weddings, stealing ideas from other brides and envisioning the day. Stuffing envelopes with my fiance and being completely grateful that he wanted to be so involved, because I sure as hell couldn’t have done it alone.

I ate it up. Along with everything else, apparently, which might explain why I am the only bride in all history to not drop a dress size or two prior to the big day.

(Whoooooops, I forgot to get skinny. Oh well. I can state with certainty that had I been able to force myself into something resembling in shape in time for my wedding, our engagement would have been approximately 63% less fun. And who wants that?)

We Got Married:

Again, just see here. Pictures, my thoughts on the day, some touchy-feely treacle. Whole nine yards.

Also, this was our first dance song, and I think it sums up my feelings, which is why I cribbed the lyric for my post title.

We Went To Hawaii:

Our honeymoon; well, I cannot do it justice. Should you ever have the opportunity to spend almost two weeks (or any time at all, really) in Hawaii, just do it. Kauai was jaw-dropping. Honolulu was bustling. The North Shore is a place I’d like to return and spend more time (if only for the shave ice, because hello? Delicious.). Even the parts that weren’t so great were great. I didn’t care much for Oahu, but it still had some of my favorite parts of the trip, like seeking out local eateries (tater tot nachos, anyone?), watching surfers, and visiting “LOST” filming locations in a giant Hummer. Just go.

I Got A New Job:

This part happened at the exact same time as the wedding and honeymoon, and yet it still managed to be a fairly seamless transition. This is probably due to my new gig being pretty awesome. Want to talk about business? Find me here.

Married Life:

If you’ll allow me another musical indulgence, at my wedding I walked down the aisle to this ditty from “UP!” How I made it down the aisle without bursting into tears is beyond me.

The biggest lesson I’ve taken from four months of marriage (four months today actually!) is that changing your name is a massive pain, the unsolicited uterus inquiries begin the moment you say “I do,” and that I was all wrong to be so worried about my parents fighting when I was a kid.

For reals, married people fight. And it’s completely, totally, fine. Sometimes it’s even fun. I kind of want to smack my 8 year-old self upside the head for being such a weenie, especially when you factor in that my parents didn’t even fight that much, if you really think about it. And that their marriage is and always has been terrific, even with the occasional war of words.

But when you’re a little kid, and you hear your parents yelling downstairs at night (when you’re supposed to be sleeping but are actually huddled up next to the not-so-bright glow of your alarm clock hoping it will cast enough light onto your Sweet Valley High book that you can get through the chapter and find out whether or not Elizabeth and Todd are like, broken up for real this time), it’s completely traumatic. It’s omgtheyaregettingdivorcedtomorrow!

I remember one time when my parents were bickering, my sister tearfully asking from the back seat of Ye Olde Minivan whether or not they were getting divorced. My mom’s completely exasperated reply: “If you ask me that one more time, I swear I’m going to just go out and do it!”

Granted, this is not a nice thing to say to your tearful young daughter. Then again, my sister was always a bit melodramatic and I’m pretty sure she asked this question every time my parents had so much as a minor disagreement. Which is just ridiculous. The way I figure, in the absence of deep problems that require more serious attention, most things married people fight about are completely inane. Here’s a sampling of things we’ve fought about, in fights ranging from the minor gripe to the door-slamming, silent-treatment giving, storming out of the house for a cool-off, yell-fest. And you’d be surprised about which is which:

Things We’ve Fought About Since The Wedding:

The toilet seat (duh)
Toilet paper (what is it with the toilet, right?)
The kitty litter box*
Thank you cards
Parking spots
Chicken Parmesan
Grey’s Anatomy
A cardigan
Shampoo
Modern Warfare (ha!)
Sleeping positions**
Nail clippers
Meatballs
Using military time

There is no need for you to know the details of these fights, of course. I just have been reflecting on a couple of my parents’ especially big barn burners from my childhood (including one that resulted in a dented sauce pan that turned into a beloved family artifact that I can’t believe I sold, along with all my other pots and pans, in a moving sale a couple years back), and truly understanding how something so silly (in the case of the sauce pan, I believe it was a family fire drill that went awry) can turn into a screaming match.

In short, when you love someone that much and live with them for long enough, somehow a discussion about the family smoke detector can turn into a five alarm fire, if you’ll forgive the terrible metaphor.

So mom, if you’re reading this, forgive me for being such a weenie. I’m sure my kids will take their revenge by asking me, repeatedly, whether we are getting divorced every time Jon and I snark at each other over changing that damn toilet paper roll.

*We managed to solve this one in an epic win of Marital Negotiation: as long as the toilet seat remains down, dealing with the litter box will never be a Husbandly Duty. Should the toilet seat find its way up on any given day? The very next day said husband will be on Scooping Patrol. So far he that toilet seat has been down every. single. day.

**An illustration of how having a king size bed really doesn’t solve the problem of needing lots of space to stretch out in:

People have been expecting a detailed engagement post. Oh, did I mention we got engaged? We did. Here’s all you need to know:

It was in New York City at Christmastime, and Snooki was there. I mean is that epic or what? Okay fine, the rest of the story can be found at our awesome wedding website, about which I have no qualms in pimping, because it kind of took a long time. So go check it out, I’ll wait.

~waits a reasonable amount of time for you to be wowed by our very ordinary wedding website~

Oh, but did you turn the sound on? Jon added the song. He’s very proud. Now you should go back and check it out again so you can hear the song.

~humming~

Ah, you’re back. So, here are the top three questions I’ve received since getting engaged:

- When is the wedding!??? (No joke, it’s not a cliche, that starts the exact moment you put on the ring. We were in public, and some nice yentas surrounded us to congratulate us, and immediately inquire about when the big day would be and whether they would, as our official engagement witnesses, be invited. Hoo boy.) (It’s September 24.) (That is either an excellently lengthed engagement or excessively short, depending on who you ask.)

- Are you changing your name? As a well known feminist crank, I am still in deep thought about this question. Most people ask it with a great deal of amusement, and most people cackle as though they themselves personally have acheived a great victory against women’s rights when I tell them that I’m about 98.3% certain that this blog will soon be sporadically updated with semi-amusing and poorly drawn cartoons under the name SarahSantucci.com. What can I say? Maybe I am old fashioned at heart after all. Bring on the bon bons!

- Are you fighting about the wedding yet? Uhhhhh….

And of course, there’s the obligatory frenzied weight loss efforts. Which so far, have not exactly been successful.

But all in all, it’s been pretty great. I couldn’t be happier, and maybe now you will leave me alone about writing about my wedding plans!

Today, despite all the Christmas presents I still need to buy and credit cards I still need to pay off, I managed to spend 30 dollars for breakfast and lunch.

This is enough of a ~zomg~ on its own, with regards to my raging stupidity.

(I mean…I even spent three dollars and fifty cents for a crappy fountain Diet Coke.) (Which is outrageous on its own, but especially so when you consider the endless amounts of fountain Diet Coke I can drink at work. Every day. At our very own Diet Coke fountain in the break room. For FREE.) (To say nothing of my Starbucks/Dunkin coffee habits, which also fail to consider the endless amounts of coffee available at work. For FREE.)

This is my ridiculous disconnect. Yesterday I went to CVS and spent 15 minutes in the soap aisle trying to find the cheapest body wash and face cleanser, ending up with a CVS brand neutrogena knock off that was on sale for only $2.43, WHOO!). But what is the purpose of this spendthriftery when I am going to waste all of my available funds on coffee and thai food while I’m at the office?

I am a financial fail. I even tried to turn over my financial life to the boyfriend, now that we live together. But that hasn’t really happened yet, as we’ve had other crap going on for the last few weeks, including multiple family visits and Thanksgiving.

And in the meantime, I’m faced with my own pathetic weaknesses, which boil down pretty much thusly:

I have developed, in my unbridled lust for autumn finally showing itself in DC after months of humid, sticky, historically disgusting summer weather, a real love affair with Maple Pumpkin Butter.

It’s rich, sweet without being sickly so, fat-free, and delicious on everything from toast to fruit to oatmeal. I love it. I love it so much, in fact, that I texted my sister, who also enjoys finding good healthy snacks (especially now that she’s a mom), a picture of it to share in the delightfulness and wonder that is Pumpkin Butter.

Yummy and nutritious!

Too bad I don’t think I can ever eat it again.

Lately, my sister has taken to amusing herself on occasion by texting me “hilarious” photos of my 2-month old nephew’s dirty diapers. In my opinion this only shores up my long-held belief that it was not actually me who had the fecal fixation as a child.

I myself drew one (ONE!) picture of a horsey moving its bowels in kindergarten (what 5-year old wouldn’t want to document in crayon the first time she, on a trip to Benson’s Animal Farm, saw that particular act of nature?), and have borne the brunt of my family’s poo jokes ever since. It’s been a quarter of a century, and my dad still thrills in telling my boyfriend about “Sarah’s drawing of a horse with poop coming out its butt!”

Meanwhile, my sister is the one who broke into my diaper pail as a toddler and used it to draw on the walls of my nursery, along with several other poo-related incidents that I won’t even share here. And now with the texts.

But what on Earth does all of this have to do with my love for pumpkin butter?

Well, see below.

My pumpkin butter photo ended up on the same screen with her dirty diaper photo, and I am now forever traumatized. Stupid iPhone.

At the gym, when I am on the treadmill and “Higher Ground” comes up in my playlist, for motivation I pretend that I’m dancing with Cooper Neilson at an underground dance class that is sooo against the proper training of the American Ballet Academy:

Peter Gallagher would NOT be pleased.

I offer this reveal as a non-post, and as a way to promise imply that a real post will be coming soon.

The topic of said post will be something that surely NO BLOGGER has ever covered before! That completely uncharted topic — the crappiness of moving! Surely I will be the first to cover this. And definitely the first to draw silly cartoons about it.

Stay tuned…

Things I Would Have Very Much Liked To Do Today*:

- Clean my apartment

- Talk a walk

- Go grocery shopping

- Get a pedicure

- Clean my car

Things It was Too Damn Hot To Do Today:

- All of the above

* It is likely I would not have cleaned my car or apartment regardless of the heat, but it’s nice to have a scapegoat

I despise the heat. Despise. The feel of a bead of perspiration making its way down my back. Damp hair sticking to my neck and forehead. The sting of my car’s piping hot “leatherette” interior as it fuses to the backs of my thighs. Pit stains. Sunburns. The way sweat pools under my eyes as the heat gets trapped behind my giant sunglasses, which are foggy with humidity.

Relief, found in chilly movie theaters and frequent cool showers, is merely temporary. If I were ever to embrace objectum sexuality, the object of my most sincere affections would without question be an air conditioner. Or, perhaps, a meat locker. But the window units in my rather old fashioned apartment are woefully inadequate. As they work overtime trying to satiate my desire, they sputter moisture out onto the window sills, which drips down the wall, causing the paint to bulge and crack. All in the service of bringing the temperature in the room from “unfathomably unbearable” to “at least I’m not actively perspiring (so long as I lay very still)”.

I long for ice-cold central air with an almost carnal passion. I simply cannot bear to be hot. We can’t all look “glistening and sexy” like Ashley Judd in “A Time to Kill” (probably the world’s sweatiest movie; the make-up department had to have been working overtime misting Judd down with a dewy, Southern glow).

I tend to look more like Oliver Platt’s character when the mercury heads above 95, as it has been for weeks. Fat, sweaty, and uncomfortable:

So please, God, if your’e out there, I know I take your name in vain too often and, frankly, only ever appeal to you for selfish reasons, seeing as how I’m not even remotely religious. But if you wouldn’t mind taking things down a notch, perhaps from “Hellfire and Brimstone” to something in the neighborhood of “Kitty Cat Relaxing in a Spot of Warm Sunshine,” I’d be ever so grateful. I may even show up at church.

Provided it has air conditioning.

I’m about to lay down a very important piece of life advice. It is vital to your future sanity. Are you ready for it? In fact, it’s not even going to come from me. It should come from someone with the appropriate amount of gravitas.

This ought to do it:

Listen up kids, because I am about to lay down some knowledge.

Now that I have your attention, and a spokesman with the right amount of gravitas, listen carefully to Morgan Freeman:

Never, ever, loan your books or movies to friends. And if you do, be prepared to never see them again.

Sarah! Morgan! How can you say such a thing? Don’t you trust your friends? You’re implying that your friends will maliciously make off with your possessions so they don’t have to shell out $12.99 at Target? That’s terrible!

Settle down, I’m not saying that at all. I’ve certainly loaned books and DVDs and gotten them back in a timely fashion. I’ve also loaned them and never seen them again. I’ve also borrowed books and DVDs and returned them, and in turn borrowed books and DVDs that remain in my collection to this day.

None of this is malicious. It’s just that a certain amount of time passes, and unless the borrower or lender make a specific effort, sometimes you just don’t return something, and then you move away, and then 5 years have passed and you’re like “Hey, I didn’t know I owned ‘The Big Lebowski’, let’s watch this Dude!” all the while some poor friend of yours back in New Hampshire is probably all “what mofo made off with my Lebowski DVD?”

Or you know, something to that effect.

Which is what was running through my head last week when I was attempting to track down my “Good Will Hunting” DVD. I know I had one. I remember watching it about 1,000 times before its mysterious disappearance. (I can’t decide if it’s the allure of a young and occasionally shirtless Matt Damon, Ben Affleck sporting an inexplicable pompadour and tracksuit combo throughout as if he were a Sopranos extra despite obviously portraying a Boston Irish type, or the math professor’s gay assistant–one of the most underrated performances in the whole movie…I just can’t resist Good Will Hunting.)

The movie is no longer in my possession. And that’s okay, because it’s my own fault, because if “Good Will Hunting” is not around despite the fact that I apparently own two copies of “What Dreams May Come” (on VHS no less), then I know that’s because I loaned it out. I am certain the person I loaned it to did not mean to steal it, any more than I intended to steal Lebowski. This stuff happens.

Which brings me back to my point: Never, ever loan out your books or DVDs unless you’re prepared to bid them a fond farewell. And go to Target and spend $12.99 on a movie you already own.

(And if it’s your copy of The Big Lebowski that made its way into my DVD cabinet, well…I kinda hope you don’t read this, because that was a pretty good get. )

It’s possible that I’ve quit smoking.

It’s been over a month since I’ve had one, and just about 2 months, I think, since I’ve smoked more than one or two. I can’t even remember, actually. So it’s possible that I’ve quit. As I wrote last year, the thought of quitting smoking seemed like some unbearable punishment. Mostly because, as everyone knows, smoking is awesome. (Remember kids, don’t smoke! Because it’s awesome, so you will never, ever be able to stop, and then you’ll end up accidentally essploding your oxygen tank, like happened in that one episode of that hospital show I saw that time, with the doctors who make out in supply rooms all up against the sterile equipment and stuff. Gross, doctors!)

My reasons for quitting can be boiled down thusly:

1) The awesomeness tax that has swept the nation has caused the price of a single pack of smokes to skyrocket to approximately $147. I could buy a ticket on Southwest for that, and go to Phoenix or something!

2) People hate awesomeness. They don’t let you smoke, anywhere. Not even at outdoor bars, where it is acceptable to smoke only if you get up out of your chair and take one large step to the left, to the other side of the invisible smoke forcefield.

3) My boyfriend made me.

Number three is highly problematic for a fire-breathing dragon-lady feminist like myself. It requires many rationalizations, such as:

1) Is smoking really worth fighting for as a feminist sticking point? Well, of course it is, if you really think about it, but on the surface: no.

2) I have a chit to cash in whenever I feel like it!

“I gave up smoking for you, and you can’t even shut the shower curtain after your shower? Well, I nevah!!!!”

3) I’m certainly not doing anything else that I started doing when I was 17. Do I have Leonardo DiCaprio pictures on my wall? Do I wear tie-dye shirts and Birkenstocks and flannel shirts every day? (What? It was the 90s!) Do I listen to Smashing Pumpkins albums on repeat, searching for hidden messages sent straight from Billy Corgan to my damaged teenage soul?

No, no, and BWAAHAHAHAH, no. So why am I still smoking?

Of course, now that I’ve written this blog I will no doubt set out to chain smoke at my earliest convenience, having irrevocably jinxed my chances of making this hiatus permanent. I’ll let you know.

From now on, I’m going to stop crowing about how I never get sick.

I honestly don’t usually get sick though! I mean, I get a couple colds and coughs and sniffles per year, just like most people. But I rarely get so sick that I need “to be seen” (as my mom puts it) and take medicines, and miss three days of work, and constantly have people telling me how awful I look.

The last time that happened was when I had mono when I was 23. Mono was terrible in the sense that I had to sleep sitting up in my dad’s easy chair for 3 weeks or risk death by snot suffocation, but wonderful in the sense that I ate nothing but ice cream and liquid painkillers for a month, and lost 25 pounds.

If you ask me, mono is a walk in the park next to bronchitis, because with mono you’re basically just passed out. Sure, when you wake up you’re in unbearable pain, and your spleen might explode, but guess what? A few spoonfuls of ice cream, a mugful of ThermaFlu and a swig of liquid painkillers later, and it’s back to Happy Dream Easy Weight Loss Land for the next 12 hours. What’s wrong with that?

Bronchitis is basically the opposite of mono in every way:

You’re still sick for a month, but in that month you will likely get about a half an hour of sleep.

Instead of your spleen exploding, which most people could probably live through, your lungs might explode, which would probably be bad.

You can’t eat ice cream due to the fact that dairy products exacerbate a cough, but you probably won’t lose 25 pounds without trying like with mono. At least not if you’re me. This is probably due to the lack of sleep and inability to do much more exercise than, well, coughing. And even that will kill you, as I learned that several week’s worth of violent coughs can mean strained muscles and an inflamed rib cage.

This means, on top of the steroids and the inhaler and the antiobiotics and liquid hydrocodone, I also got to take naproxen and percocet and muscle relaxers! This was not as much fun as it sounds.

Oh, and did I mention I was on vacation for part of this ordeal? In New Orleans? And that I was so tired from merely dragging myself out to sightsee each day that I couldn’t even bring myself to hit up Bourbon Street and party down properly? Yes. That is all true.

This entire post about my ailments is, naturally, meant to serve as a very viable excuse for not posting for two months.

“But I thought you said you were only sick for a month??”

Hush, you.

This post at Pandagon had me cracking up.

Essentially, a blogger posted a bit of a web rant warning of the dangers of little Miley Cyrus and her possible foray from pop music into country. In short, the blogger was concerned that her somewhat tarted up image and alleged liberal leanings would taint the wholesomeness of country music.

I’m sorry…what?

Y’all, despite my Yankee status, I am a HUGE country fan. I love it; it is essentially all I listen to. A couple years ago, I even bought a “mega ticket” at the Nissan Pavillion (I refuse to call it by its new name) (snerk!) to go to 7 different country shows all in one summer. I wore a cowboy hat and sang along to every song. Zac Brown’s first big hit, “Chicken Fried,” might be one of my all-time favorite songs, and kinda makes me wish I was from Georgia. So please understand, what I’m about to say is coming from a place of love.

Country music ain’t wholesome.

This has driven me crazy for a while now, mainly because the country music station in DC edits the word “ass” out of the terrific Zac Brown Band song “Toes.” I’m always like, “Really? When every other country song is about killing someone? Really?”

No really, it’s true: So far as I can tell, many (many) country songs are about one of three things: Drinkin’, Cheatin’, or Murderin’. Don’t believe me? Let’s have some examples then, shall we?

Also–I am not judging…I think these songs are all pretty much awesome. Nothing wrong with a good honky tonk number — just feeling the need to point out the ridiculousness of the notion that country music could be “tainted” by, of all people, apple-cheeked little Miley Cyrus, who’s never sung a good drinkin’/cheatin’/murderin’ song in her entire young life.

Regardless — on to the categories!

Drinkin’ Songs:

Drunker than Me (Trent Tomlinson) – Guy is upset his previously teetotaling girlfriend has started boozing it up, forcing him to be the responsible one.
It’s 5 O’Clock Somewhere (Alan Jackson) – Guy blows off work to get drunk all afternoon.
Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off (Joe Nichols) – Self explanatory.
All Jacked Up (Gretchen Wilson) – Lady goes to bar for just one drink, ends up getting hammered, knocking out another lady’s tooth, and then crashing her truck.
Ten Rounds With Jose Cuervo (Tracey Byrd) – As a down on his luck guy drinks ten shots, his night improves with every drink.

Cheatin’ Songs:

You Can’t Take the Honky Tonk Outta the Girl (Brooks & Dunn) - Drunken trollop from the big city returns home and runs off with her second cousin’s fiance the night before the wedding.
Stays in Mexico (Toby Keith) – An insurance salesman from South Dakota cheats on his wife and family with a first grade schoolteacher after too many margaritas in Mexico.
The Thunder Rolls (Garth Brooks) – This a Very! Serious! Song! about the dangers of cheating. Mainly? Women always know.
Before He Cheats (Carrie Underwood) – Guys: if you value your vehicles, don’t cheat on Carrie Underwood. For real.
Why Don’t You Stay (Sugarland) – In another Very! Serious! Song!, a lady having an affair with another woman’s hubby comes to her senses and dumps the guy.

Murderin’ Songs:

(Soooo many to choose from, so I’ve broken it up into “Fun ‘n’ Folksy Murderin’ Songs” and “Very! Serious! Murderin’ Songs.”)

Fun ‘n’ Folksy:

Goodbye Earl (Dixie Chicks) – A favorite of karaoke gals everywhere, who because of the funny and folksy tone of the song may not realize that the song is less about gal power than it is about a woman who is so brutally beaten by her husband that she enlists her childhood best friend to help her murder him.

Papa Loved Mama (Garth Brooks) – Upbeat number wherein the titual Papa puts Mama in the graveyard for stepping out on him. At least the song also points out that he ends up in jail.

Kerosene/Gunpowder and Lead (Miranda Lambert) – Kerosene = You Cheat, You Die! Gunpowder & Lead = You hit me, you die!

Very Serious Murderin’ Songs:

Independence Day (Martina McBride) – Beaten wife kills her husband and herself in a horrible fire. Upbeat!

Folsom Prison Blues (Johnny Cash) – Shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die. Classic lyric, still a very bad thing to do.

Cocaine Blues (Johnny Cash) – Has the bonus of being about murder AND drugs! Drugged out guy shoots his woman then sleeps with the gun under his pillow.

Whiskey Lullaby (Brad Paisley/Allison Krause) – Ok, so it’s about suicide, but it’s still pretty dark stuff. Actually this might be more of a drinkin’ song….because it’s about former lovers who drink themselves to death. One from heartbreak, one from guilt. I mean…wow, now I’m depressed.

What are your favorite delightfully UN-wholesome country songs?