Morning Glory

I’m lounging on the couch on Saturday morning. Mr. Darcy wakes up and in his groggy, morning way comes over to lean over the back of the couch to give me a good morning kiss.

I apologize if it’s too much information but this is important to note for the sake of the story:  Mr. Darcy is naked in this scenario.

Me: Don’t rub your penis on the couch!

Him: My wiener is not dirty.

Me: All wieners are dirty. (I was raised Catholic. This is what they taught us.)

Him: My wiener is cleaner.

Me: Vote for wiener! Your slogan can be- my wiener is cleaner!

Him: It’s an erection year.

Auto Correct

So last night I had to battle lame Seattle drivers in the rain to get to a meeting leaving me very little time between the meeting and my yoga class. Since we were at a pub (that’s where I like to hold my meetings because some people are more productive with booze), a coworker and I decided to share some tater tots. This led me to tweet:

“Tater tits are basically hash browns in a different form, right?”

Then immediately realized the typo and said:

“TATER TITS! Ha ha! Thanks auto-correct on my iPhone. That wasn’t the word I was looking for.”

There was a big response to it. Some of the responses to my faux pas that made me chuckle include:

elzbeth: :D!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and also, ha! I don’t even want to know what you dip those in.

justatitch: Tater TITS? I’ve never tried those…potato boobs sound amazing! 😉

sosaysmegan: Does this mean the iPhone would auto-correct to “Toys for Tits”? How festive!

tenthmuse: Tater Tits is my new drag queen name.

Like I said on Twitter, feel free to use the term “tater tits” inappropriately in conversation.

And Public Service Announcement: Steer clear of tater tits before going to yoga class. The repeats from it while attempting to hold half-handstand or downward facing dog are unpleasant.

Hey, this post COULD have been an imbedded Poo Poll and a discussion of shitcadian* rhythms.  Instead you got burps and tits.

*Shitcadian Rhythm is your poo cycle coined by onenjen’s husband Roth.


As of this weekend Mr. Darcy and I are officially living together.

The two of us, captured by Tomato's camera on his visit.

In light of this BIG LIFE CHANGE, I’m starting a new blog series called, “You know you are living with a man when”. Here’s the first installment:

You know you are living with a man when. . .

There are Japanese swords in your apartment.


I like to refer to them as “fighting swords” to which Mr. Darcy likes to retort, “What other kinds of swords are there? Cooking swords?”

Smart ass.


There are conversations that go something like this:

“Dude. Your shoes SMELL.”


“YES! I almost passed out just walking by them in the hallway.”

“I’ll buy some odor eaters.”

“I think they are too far gone for such measures. You might want to consider buying a whole new pair.”

Offenders are on the left. Peeeee U!

Later while watching tv together:

“Dude. Your feet SMELL.”


“I’m tweeting: I just want you to know in case I die that it was the stink of my BF’s feet that did me in.”

“Great. Juuuust great.”


There are books about war and history and nerd things next to your crafting books and guitar:

Our books are dating.


There is a brand new flat screen television within two days of moving in:

Apparently a new tv comes with every cohabitating boyfriend purchase. SCORE!


We’re still setting things up but once we’ve got it all situated, we’ll do a video tour of our home for you. For now we’re still trying to figure out the desk set up, what rug we want, waiting on our new couch, etc. etc. etc.

Why I Love Him #66, 67 & 68

We’re at the ballgame watching the Mariner’s against the Cincinnati Reds in celebration of Double B’s birthday and Father’s Day. Mr. Darcy grabs himself a soda and some beloved pistachios. We’re sitting there, in the cold gray amongst kids shoving hot dogs and cotton candy and assorted horrible-for-you foods into their gullets, munching on nuts and pretending to know what’s going on down on the field.

After a while I notice out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Darcy hasn’t dropped any shells so I inquire, “Hey, where are your shells?” He replied in a matter of fact manner, “They are in my pocket.” So I said, “Why aren’t you dropping them on the ground?” as I pointed to the cement beneath our feet now littered with my pistachio shells. He responded incredulously, “Are you a savage?”

Why yes. Yes I think I am.


We’re sitting on the couch after dinner and I randomly announce, “I think my belly button smells” as I stick my finger in it and sniff it.

He responds, “Let me smell it” and grabs my hand pulling it to his nose.

After a whiff he says with a shrug, “It doesn’t smell bad.”


We’re lying in bed, attempting to fall asleep when Mr. Darcy lets one rip.

Charmed I say, “Did you just shart?”

Laughing he says, “I have never heard that before. What’s a shart?”

“It’s when you fart and shit your pants a little. I am surprised you don’t know this given how much you fart.”

“I did not shart, thankyouverymuch.”

“It kinda sounded like it. Better check the sheets just in cases.”

My Fartner in Crime

Crazy Makes Me Crazy

I arrive home after a 12 hour day to find a moving truck in my parking space. Two guesses who the thoughtless, rude, annoying person was who didn’t have the decency to ask if she could use my driveway is. I bet you don’t even need two guesses, do you?

Yep, The Smell Lady.

I illegally park my car on the sidewalk, flip on my hazard lights and storm up to the top floor. On the way I encounter movers. Spanish speaking movers who, through gesticulations, decipher my request to move their truck. I pull my car far up into the grass so they can park behind me. BECAUSE I AM NICE.

I head directly to her apartment, skipping the tirade about her not asking to use my space and instead plunge directly into my request. I noticed she had multiple garbage bags and a mattress/box spring set out on the marble steps of the front stoop when I left for work this morning with a hand written sign that read, “Salvation Army.” Upon my return I noticed that the mattress and box spring are still there, uglying up the entry way to our otherwise respectable and classy building. The landlords would have a shitfit if they saw that.

“Hey, I notice the mattress and box spring are still on the front stoop. You’ll need to get rid of them.”

“Yes, well they didn’t pick them up today. I was going to call someone tomorrow to pick them up.”

“Yeah, that’s not acceptable. You’re going to have to remove them tonight.”

“But we are moving. Can you recommend anyone that will pick it up?”

“Used mattresses are very hard to have picked up. You’ll just need to take them with you. You can’t leave them there.”

“But we are moving.”

“I’m well aware that you are moving. But makes the building look like shit so move them tonight. Thanks.”


Her broken record technique irritates me. It’s like having a conversation with a wall. She’s immovable in her stupidity. But today is her last day ever here! REJOICE!

I hope I don’t haul off and tit punch* her tonight during the final walk through of her apartment. I have a feeling she will do something to inspire it. She’s predictable that way.



The other day my Mom told Finn that I had a new boyfriend and that they were going to meet him on Easter. His reply? “When Tee Tee has a boyfriend they need alone time and like to be by themselves.” Uh, yes? Though I’m not sure where he is getting his particular piece of information about romantic relationships. He promptly followed comment with, “Maybe he will be good at Easter egg hunting?”

Finn takes his egg hunting very seriously. He’s been practicing for weeks! I’ve already warned Mr. Darcy that he better brush up on his hunting techniques. The pressure is on. Not only is he meeting my Mom and my nephew for the first time but he’s also got to show his mettle in hunting.

The other night at dinner my sis and mom asked Finn what he had been building in the sandbox that day. He said, “The Parthenon.” I am not shitting you. He is not even four years old yet! He didn’t even mispronounce it! I don’t even think I could tell you what the Parthenon looks like. (I  can now because I looked it up.)

A few weeks ago, Mr. Darcy and I were talking about what we’d want to name our (future) kids (stay with me, this relates to what I’ve been talking about, I promise). He said he’d always wanted to name a boy Agememnon. I was trying not to seem too taken aback but I was like NO WAY JOSE inside. I mean, I can barely spell that. It’s a name that is ripe for teasing. And you can bet we’ll never find a key chain or pencil with that name engraved on it. His second name suggestion was Balthazar. All I could think of was Balthazar Getty from Lord of the Flies. I questioned if he was pulling my leg because I am forever gullible but he said them with such a straight face and claimed to be serious so I believed him. I mentioned the name choice to my Mom and she was like, “um NO.”


Turns out Mr. Darcy was only joking around when he suggested the name and was kind of mortified that I’d told my Mom. SERVES YOU RIGHT, LIARPANTS! When I told him about Finn building the Parthenon he said, “He and Agememnon could play together at the Parthenon. See? It makes perfect sense.”

No, my sweet man, it doesn’t. But you sure make me laugh.

Two More Weeks of This

Since the Smell Lady gave notice, I’ve only shown her apartment once. Partly due to my crazy work schedule and partly due to wanting to avoid interacting with her at all costs. Because she is crazy. And not in the good way.

I attempted to call her multiple times over as many days only to have her phone ring and ring and ring. She apparently does not have an answering machine. Then I resorted to an old fashioned paper note stuck in her door because, oh yes, she has not given me an email address despite my frequent requests to do so. When she finally called me she said the reason the phone was ringing repeatedly was because they had it plugged into the internet. She has dial up! Excuse me, but what the hell year is it? Am I back in 1991?!


Our conversation went down something like this:

{Semi-pleasant greetings exchanged}

I got your note. Our phone was plugged into the internet but we don’t have an answering machine anyhow.

That makes it very difficult for me to get a hold of you then.

Yes. I wanted to ask you a few things. Why do you need to take pictures of my apartment?

So I can post them to the Craig’s List ad I have up. We get a much higher response rate when there are photos of the unit.

I do not want photos of my apartment on the internet. I cannot allow it.

Uh. . . okay.

You have to give me 24 hours notice to enter my apartment.

Actually, no I do not. You have given me written notice to vacate so I technically can show your apartment without notice during reasonable hours.

I work at a property management company and I do not think that is the law.

Well, it is. You go ahead and look that up. When you give written notice to move out, the 24 hr head’s up is no longer required. But it really won’t matter as I usually schedule with the tenant some chunks of time during the week where I will be showing their apartment given how busy my schedule is. We can just agree to a few times during the week where I will show it.

I do not want you showing my apartment without me there.

I can’t promise that. It’s my job to rent your apartment and if someone stops by and wants to see it, I can legally show it to them right then. I don’t generally do that because like I already said, I’m very busy and prefer to schedule appointments that are mutually agreeable to the tenant and myself.

I want 24 hours notice before you show it and I want to be there when you do.

Uhhhh, I think we’ve already gone over this. I don’t have to give you notice. I likely will because that’s how I like to do things but I can’t promise that. I don’t have to do that.

Well I work at a property management company. . .

(interrupting her) Yes, you said that. And like I said, you go ahead and look that up. I’m showing your apartment at 6:30 tomorrow. See you then. Good-bye.

It’s conversations like this that make me want to throw my phone across the room.

And tit punch her.*

If she had tits.

*Invoking Kaplyism

It’s Happened

Mr. Darcy and I have reached that phase in our relationship.

Yeah, that one.


While leaving a restaurant-

Me (cautiously inquisitive): Did you just fart?

Him (averting his eyes): No.

Me (skeptically eying him): Hmmm.

Him: Okay, I did.

Me (victorious): I KNEW IT!


While lying in bed-

Me: I just farted.

Him: That is adorable.

(He says that now. . .)


Via text while in Powell’s-

Him: Ha ha. I just farted.

Him (sent directly after the first text): No, I didn’t.

Me: Where are you? Because I want to avoid that section. FARTER.


Nothing will ever be the same again.


I went over to my Mom’s on Saturday to pick her up and our conversation went something like this:

“What’s going on here?” I say pointing towards her boobs.

“Oh this bra is old. It doesn’t fit very well.”

“I’ll say. We need to get you sized for a proper fitting bra.”

“No. I’ll just buy my usual.”

“No, we’re going to stop at the store and have someone measure you. The right sized bra can be life altering. It could make you look like you’ve lost 5lbs!”

“I already lost 5lbs. I don’t want to go.”

“Congratulations on losing 5lbs. It could make you look like you’ve lost 10lbs then! We need to go.”

“I don’t want to.”


“Because I don’t want to.”

“That isn’t even a reason. You don’t even have to get undressed. They just measure over your clothes around the circumference to figure out the right size.”

“How do they figure it out?”

“I don’t know.  It’s math. I don’t like math. You need a better bra and I am going to buy you one.”

“I’m not sure. . .”

“Listen, Oprah says that over 75% of women are wearing the wrong size bra and you’re apparently one of them. Look, you just made me invoke Oprah and you know I don’t even like her! We’re going.”

“Well, okay. . .”

We never made it to the movie we intended to see because we were too busy buying bras and underpants. Isn’t that what you do with your mom? Here I am at almost 37 years old taking my mom bra shopping when twenty-something years ago she did the same for me. Funny how the tables turn as we get older.

The good news is my Mom is now wearing the right sized bra. Hallelujah!

P.S. Mom? I’m sorry for writing about your bra and boobs on my blog. Well, sort of. Consider it a public service announcement. 😉

I Have a Package You Can Deliver

I kinda sorta went on an on line shopping splurge the other week. Turns out one of the places I ordered from sends their packages via Fed Ex and my building being secure and me having that day job means I always have to go down to the pick up station.

The first time I stopped in at the Fed Ex office an attractive man working behind the counter swiftly grabbed my box (giggle) and when he checked my ID he said with direct eye contact, “You have an awesome smile.” Why thank you hawt Fed Ex counterman! *blush

Later in the week another package notice arrived on my front door so back I went secretly hoping that the yummy Fed Ex man would be working. Hey, I might not be actively dating but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a hot man who doles out packages and compliments. A not-as-attractive-but-still-cute guy was working. I handed him my claim slip and he made penetrating eye contact. You know the kind- the lingering a few seconds longer than what is normal in everyday customer service situations. I smiled politely.

“It’s pretty quiet in here. Do you ever get bored?”

“Nah. Besides, how can I be bored when you’re here?” Wink.

“Oh I bet you say that to all the girls.” I know. I can’t help myself. Someone stop me.

“Just the pretty ones.”

Overt compliment alert!

“I’m not even sure what is in this package.” Trying to change the subject.

“Let me go grab it. I’ll be right back. . . Ohhh someone ordered a handbag or shoes from”

“Guilty as charged. A girl needs shoes. Thank you!”

“You have a VERY nice day.” PIERCING EYE CONTACT.

I have a history of flirting with delivery men. Writing this post reminded me of the UPS guy who asked for my phone number back in 2005. I guess I have a particular weakness for a man in uniform?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I have some more things to order on line via Fed Ex.