Just An Update

We interrupt the regularly scheduled wedding festivities for the following annoucements:

1. It apparently is Mark's greatest ambition in life to wake me up. The last two days I have had the chance to sleep in until about 9am, yet Mark has awakened me before 7am each day by phone calls. This is not okay.
2. I was made to get a french manicure yesterday. Only on my toes. All us bridesmaids had to get matching pedicures and the concensus (my vote didn't count, I guess) was french pedicures. I can't tell you how strange it is to look down at my toes and see bright white tips on my toenails where the familiar crusty, grimy tips of my toenails should be. The look is also deliciously trashy. (Snack on THAT hyberbole for a minute, will ya?)
3. I'm a dancing fool. And my feet hurt.
4. I kind of went on a dress buying spree yesterday. Ross, I heart you. I bought 5 dresses from there yesterday and none of them cost a dime over $12.99! And they're all super cute!
5. I went to Dunkin Donuts this morning. It's like my car was on auto pilot, I swear. I had no intentions of going there, I promise! I won't tell you what had already gone missing before I even pulled out of the DD parking lot.
6. Okay, okay. One glazed donut. Please don't judge me.
7. Kids love me. They flock to me. I can't figure out why. I want one.
8. You know how I sing the praises of my mandolin all the time? One of the kitchen utensils I can't live without? Well, it betrayed me the other night. And my thumb really hurts super bad and I'm all out of bandaids. Someone bring me one please?
9. My favorite holiday is coming up. For me, July 4 beats out Christmas. Don't know why. I just love it. What's your favorite July 4 activitiy? Mine is fireworks. I can't get enough.
10. And okay, okay. The ribs. I love the sticky ribs.
11. Ms. Domestic USA update: I made my own homemade spaghetti sauce last week. Holy cow, guys. Deeeeeeeelish. If you'd like to join my campaign, please contact my campaign manager, Martha Stewart. (I know! Can you believe she accepted the position?!? Apparently, she's not too busy these days for some reason.)
12. Mark just bought a new laptop. I want one too. And I need one. Desperately. This thing has about zero storage space left and is as slow as a turtle. Seriously, have you ever watched a turtle trying to get somewhere? It's so frustrating. Yep, that's my laptop.

Ok, I think that's just about it. I think you're pretty well updated on the last 24 hours of my life.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

About Me #5 - Hey! Over here! I'm right here! Here I am! Look at me!

About Me #5

I like to be noticed. I like to be the center of attention. I have a need to be constantly recognized, constantly validated. It's one of the more annoying traits I possess. Funny enough, my main prayer request in youth group growing up usually centered around this trait I consider to be a flaw. "Peyton, do you have any prayer requests," my leader would ask. "Just that I'll try to shift the focus off of me and not try to always be the center of attention" I'd reply, while everyone else mentioned their sick cats or elderly grandmas. Imagine that. If that's not narcissistic, I don't know what is. Man, wasn't (aren't) I shallow back then (now)?

That's the reason I started this blog, I think. I wanted (want) to be noticed. I wanted (want) to be the center of attention. I wanted (want) praise. Heck, the very first blog entry I wrote was this one and that was only because I wanted you to think I was cool. I could just hear your thoughts, "Oh man, look at all the cool stuff she's eaten! Wonder where she had a hotdog from a street cart?" And I would happily begin my diatribe about my trip with my roommates to NYC. And I'd be so stinking delighted you asked. And I'd be just as delighted to tell you the story. Because what I have to say is of the utmost importance.

This thing, this need to be noticed is just built into my framework. Obviously, the prayer requests from 10+ years ago were not answered. I don't think I'm necessarily prideful about anything (ok, some things, yes), I just like you knowing about me. I like it when you give me feedback. I think this trait is alive and well in most human beings, it just comes to the surface quicker and easier for some than others.

Ok, I'm starting ramble. I'm not quite sure how to end this post. Up until now, the About Me's have been relatively positive traits of mine, not flaws. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with you knowing my flaws. You won't hold this against me, will you? You'll still let me go on and on and on about myself, right? You'll still listen patiently, without having nary a chance to get a word in, right? You'll still think I'm cool and want to know more about me and be waiting in anticipation for my post, right? You'll still leave nice comments and say 'Great job, PeyPey', right?

Good. Because I like to be noticed. I like to be the center of attention. And I have a need to be constantly recognized, constantly validated. I hope you don't mind that our relationship is pretty one-sided.

Veggie Chips

I made these tonight:

Zucchini, squash and eggplant chips. With sea salt and rosemary.

I got the veggies on trade from Market Days and needed to use them before they met the stinking, rotting fate that most of my vegetables meet. Not really. Well, maybe a little. There's some stank nasty lettuce in the fridge that I'm pretty sure, if left another day, will turn completely into brown sludge. But that's another story.

So yeah, I used my mandolin to slice circles of the vegetables really, really thin. Then I patted them dry with a paper towel to get some of the moisture out. Throw them in a vat of oil next. I used my new cast iron skillet (thanks Julie!) and filled it with olive oil. Olive oil has the potential to burn pretty quickly - for some reason it heats up quicker than other oils - so I left the heat on medium. I let it heat up for awhile. It's important to not put your frying subject(s) in before the oil is hot enough. Otherwise, your stuff will just soak up the oil and just be one big ball of oil. Oily balls. There's nothing grosser. Wait, what?

Moving on, so drop the veggies into the hot oil and wait for them to curl up and get light brown. When they've reached this point, take them out and put them on a paper towel covered plate. Sprinkle with some sea salt and chopped rosemary.

And eat them. Eat a lot of them. And please forget that I used the phrase "oily balls". Thank you and goodnight.

In Honor of Father's Day...

I got my dad four different flavors of cake for Father's Day: double fudge, chocolate, coconut, and carrot. I'm convinced that inside my father's mouth is just one large tooth. One, large, sweet tooth. All of his teeth have just joined together in his mouth to form this one giant sweet tooth. The man loves sweets.

I also got him a gift card to Books-A-Million. I've also given him one of these for the last two Christmas. He informed me that he still had the two I'd given him for the last two Christmases and I said, "Dad! Why don't you use them? You could get coffee and sweets from the cafe. Or you could buy art books. Or a thousand bookmarks; I mean, the possibilities are endless!" He replied, "Oh no! I have been using them! I use the gift cards all the time!" Me: "Wow, you must be pretty thrifty with them, then. I think it was only like $25 on each of the gift cards. So you've found some good bargains, huh?" Dad: "Oh, I buy books all the time. I buy 'em off of the bargain shelves, bring 'em home, read 'em, then take 'em back when I'm finished reading 'em and they apply the refund straight back to the gift cards."

Attention Books-A-Million: LOOPHOLE alert. You may want to look into this.

So I figure that $15 gift card for Father's Day, combined with the two gift cards from Christmas's past, will allow my father to buy books from Books-A-Million well into the twenty-second century.

ANYway, I know it's going to sound weird, but in honor of Father's Day, I wanted to give you a "Mom-ism". I went over to my parents' house last night to see my dad and to drop off his gifts and somehow, this is how the night ended:

Molly, my little sister, who I'll remind you is actually named "Victoria Marie", yet has been called "Molly" since she came out of the womb because my mom is convinced that "Molly" is a nickname for "Marie", was regaling us with a story of how she went to Starbucks yesterday. You know how they ask you what your name is so they can write it on your cup? Well, of course, Molly, said "Molly", but when she got her White Chocolate Mocha Frap, it said "Pally" on the side. We laughed, then this:

Me: "Well, a lot of times, I'll introduce myself to someone and they'll think I said 'Peggy'. 'Peyton'? 'Peggy'? Doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but it happens all the time."

My mother, God love her: "Well, you know 'Peggy' is a nickname for 'Margaret'."

Me: "Geez mom. What are you, the walking dictionary of nicknames? And I'm just going to have to take your word for it on that one because that makes about as much sense as Molly being a nickname for Marie. What. Ev. Dad, love you, happy Father's Day, enjoy your gifts, I'm outta this crazy house."

(Side Note: Yahoo Answers and Wiki Answers do, in fact, confirm that Peggy is a nickname for Margaret. That doesn't mean that it makes any more sense though. Oh well, mom, I'll give you this one. Mom: 1, Peyton: 4,837.)

So Dad, in honor of Father's Day, bless your soul. Bless your ever-loving heart. Bless you for putting up with my mother for thirty plus years. You're a better man than I am. Oh, and I love you.

Regarding Archie Comics

When I was seven, I bought two huge boxes of over a hundred Archie comic books at a junk store down the street from my grandparents house.

I originally wanted some green Adidas tennis shoes but my mom wouldn't let me get them because she said it was gross to buy used shoes. She had a point.

I also wanted these two boxes of Archie comic books because they looked fun and I liked to read and had gone through my arsenal of Anne of Green Gables and Misty of Chesapeake Bay books. However, my mom also did not let me buy the Archie comic books. She never gave me a clear reason for her disapproval of the comics, but I can assume it had something to do them not being Christian. (I need to interject something here, in hopes that you will gain a better understanding of who my mother is, while at the same time hopefully gaining sympathy from you regarding this lifelong thorn in my side which I lovingly call "mom". This has nothing to do with this story, but I think it will accomplish the aforementioned goals. The reason I was not allowed to attend a certain high school in my hometown, the high school where all of my friends ended up going after middle school, was because the mascot was the Blue DEVILS. And you bet your bottom dollar that if I had attended high school there, I would have turned into a devil-worshipping, Wicca-practicing freak. I mean, that would have been inevitable, right? Riiiiiiiiiiiight. So do you now understand my mother a bit better? And do I now have your sympathy? Good. Moving on.) 

So what did I do? I went back and bought them, of course! After me and my mom left and walked back to my grandparents house up the street, I told her I was going to play at my friend Tiffany's house. Instead, I high tailed it back to the junk shop and bought those two boxes of Archie comics with my own money. I can't remember how I lugged the two huge boxes back to my house. My guess is that my dad somehow got involved, as his main objective in this life is to spite my mom. Or perhaps Brad helped me. No, no. He wouldn't have done that. He would have sided with my mom and told me they were stupid and that I was stupid for wasting my money on comics instead of something more constructive like Lego's. Or maybe Tiffany helped. Who knows.

All I know is those boxes filled with Archie, Betty, Jughead, and Veronica made it safely to my bedroom and under my bed.

For almost a year, I studied those comics. I read every single word. I fell in love with Archie. Archie and I grew very close. Whoever he liked at the moment, whether it was beloved Betty or vixen Veronica, I became her. Archie and I went to school dances together; I met his parents; we had picnics together; we kissed. (I had a very active and vivid imagination, okay?)

I read and re-read. I memorized. I was fascinated by the colors on the page, the conversation bubbles that floated about the characters heads.

Archie and I spent about a year together until one day, quite abruptly and quite painfully, he was ripped from my life.

I came home from school one afternoon, ran to my bedroom, reached under the bed to find the familiar face of Archie, only to discover that the boxes, along with every single trace of my beloved Archie were gone. Vanished. It didn't take me long to figure out who the perp was that stole my books, along with my heart.

"MOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!" How could she? She knew nothing of the romance Archie and I shared. How could she take that from me? But then I remembered the forbidden nature of my purchase almost a year earlier, the forbidden nature of my secret Archie affair. I couldn't bring it up without taking the risk of getting in trouble for buying the books in the first place. I would have to lay it to rest, along with my heart.

"Yes?" my mom said. "Oh nothing. Never mind. Can I have a snack?" I replied. And not a word from either of us was ever uttered about the sacred, now missing, Archie comic books. (Much like the whole incident of her finding my cigarettes in ninth grade. But that's another story.)    

I dealt with my loss quietly, mourning the end of my relationship with Archie. I'd like to think he has been successful in his future endeavors and remembers me fondly. But I've heard it through the grapevine that he can't seem to pass his classes and graduate high school, and he's still toying around with two different girls' hearts.   

Shame on you, Archie.

About Me #4: I would do anything for love

(Do you have that Meatloaf song stuck in your head yet?)

About Me #4: Regarding the grape kool-aid snorting incident...

I know you've all been eagerly awaiting this post so I'll get right to it.

I had a crush on the same guy for about ten years. His name was Kurt. He was twelve years older than me. My crush developed at a very early age; I'd say by the time I was about six. Before I was six, though, Kurt saw me in my diapers. Witnessed diapers of the dirty persuasion. Witnessed me being a dumb kid. But at the age of six, something sparked within me. I experienced what I would later learn is called a crush, a sensation or feeling I'd never felt before.
I was six. Kurt was eighteen.

It was a bit awkward.

The early days of my crush were marked with pigtails, hugs, and him hoisting me into the air and carrying me around like a sack of potatoes. I. Loved. It. Kurt and I went to the same church and while I was busy making macaroni wreaths in Sunday School, Kurt was running the sound booth. This was so dang cool to me. I would run upstairs after Sunday School to the balcony (where all the magic happened) to the sound booth. He'd be sitting there, looking cool with his gotee and headphones. He'd hoist me onto his lap and he'd let me speak into the microphone, checking the sound coming out of all the speakers. 'Twas glorious.

Kurt stuck around through college. I grew up a little. But only just a little. I eventually found myself on a church bus headed to a week-long summer retreat with the youth group. Kurt was driving the bus and all the youth were in tow. It was my birthday. I was turning thirteen. At 1:43 p.m., the exact time I was born, which also happened to be the exact time our bus pulled into the South Carolina summer camp, I let out a huge, excited scream. I was thirteen for crying out loud! The lady in our bus who was sitting next to Kurt (where I should have been) yelled at me to shut-up. I was mortified. It was then that I finally realized how big of a difference in age Kurt and I were. He was 25. I was 13. And as much as I'd imagined him being my boyfriend, I knew at that moment that it would never come to fruition.

Even though I came to this realization at the age of 13, I still spent a good 2-3 more years crushing on Kurt.

Kurt had a yellow Camaro. I don't remember what year the Camaro was, but it was a classic. Canary yellow. With racing seats. And the five-point harness seat belt. He drove me around in his yellow Camaro.

One day when I was fourteen or fifteen, after youth group (he was a youth leader), he took me, my friend Audrey, and Brad, my older brother, on a drive. I can't remember at the time where we going, but Audrey and I had big plans to dye our hair purple at the end of the night. We had an envelope of grape Kool-Aid with us in the back of the car.

We were getting close to a gas station and Kurt needed to fill up. Before we got there, though, Kurt dared me to snort the purple powder up my nose.

Did I do it? Of course I did! You would too if you were desperate to impress the guy you'd been crushing on for the last 10 years of your life. I know you would. Don't even try to deny it. My sole purpose in life at the time was trying to attract the attention of Kurt. So I snorted. And then I choked. And then the most horrid, stinging, burning sensation I had ever felt in my 14 or 15 years on this earth filled my entire head. I was close to tears. (Please consider this a Public Service Annoucement to never snort Kool-Aid.) We pulled into the gas station and I made a beeline for the bathroom.

As I was blowing purple snot out of my nose, I heard the familiar rumble of a, we'll say, 1969 Camaro. I ran outside, toilet paper still up to my nose, just in time to see the flash of yellow pulling out of the gas station, leaving me stranded with my purple, leaking nose. Apparently, Kurt (with some influence from my brother, I'm sure) thought it would be hilarious to leave me there, stranded at the gas station, purple oozing out of my nostrils. The crush pretty much fizzled out after that. (And yes, they came back to get me.)

So I guess my About Me #4 would have to be that I would do anything for love. Even snort grape kool-aid up my nose in the backseat of a muscle car.

On a side note, my affinity for Camaro's apparently remains. I love Camaros. Here is Mark's:

But I hate grape Kool-Aid.

Reason #438 why you shouldn't bake drunk:

Here's reason #438 why you shouldn't bake drunk:

Confectioners Sugar.

Everywhere.

But alas, look at these beauties.

Okay, okay. Grape kool-aid story coming. I promise.