My $345 Manicure by Julie

There once was a girl from... Mass.
Who finally kicked her nail-biting habit in the... butt,
After what felt like a year,
Her nails were long, lovely and clear,
And she was ready to give them some pizazz.

Off to Brooklyn she drove with delight,
To see her friend Jordan, and hang out for the night,
She looked all over to park,
And found a place just as it got dark,
Then walked to the spa in setting sun light.

The name of the place left them confused,
"Polish Nail Spa" the glowing sign mused,
Was it Polish the spoke?
Was this some sort of joke?
Or was it polish that the nail spa used?

The girls entered the salon at seven,
All the machines and chairs looked like heaven,
They waited forever,
Then were mani-pedi'd together,
And loved the work by the craftswomen.

The place locked its doors at nine,
But kept us to dry, saying it's fine,
We tried to hurry and go,
But they made the dryers continue to blow,
And at ten at night we finally left to dine.

With pretty fingers and toes we went to Lobo,
The guy waiting on us probably thought we were loco,
With delicate hands, and gauze on our feet,
Starving, we ordered a million things to eat,
And devoured a gallon of queso.

Rolling our way down the sidewalk,
We rubbed our full tummies and had girl talk,
I walked my friend to her door,
Told her we should do this more,
And set off to go get my car down the block.

I rounded the corner to find,
An empty space that once had been mine,
My car nowhere in sight,
I had quite the fright,
And then noticed the "No Parking" sign.

"NOOOOOOOO!" I screamed from where I stood,
I would have banged my head on my car if I could,
How stupid of me!
I wonder what's the fee?!
How will I get to work? Oh, this wasn't good.

The dinky little sign, that alerted me of my fine,
Had a phone number on one line,
Which I quickly called,
And a man slowly stalled,
Then told me I couldn't get my car until NINE!

With head hung low I walked back to Jordan's pad,
Who tried to make me feel not so bad,
She gave me some jammies,
Which softened my whammies,
And I texted goodnight to my lad.

When I woke I resolved it was a new day,
And put all my bad feelings away,
I hopped in a taxi,
And accepted THAT fee,
And with the help of an iPhone found the way.

The place was ghetto and shady,
Amidst car parts and refuse, there was a lady,
She went by the name "Red",
Probably 'cuz of her head,
Strictly business demanding I pay HER fee.

I walked to my poor impounded baby,
Would have hugged her if it didn't make me crazy,
She had been through a lot,
Then my eye was caught,
An orange ticket glowed from the wiperblade-y.

All I could do was L-O-L,
This night had turned into "Parking Fee Hell"
I got in my car,
Still had to drive quite far,
And oh, had to go to work as well.

Bumper to bumper I travelled the B.Q.E.
Laughing at how much this all would be,
I stopped by the house,
Changed into a clean blouse,
And tallied the numbers as I pulled into P3...

Nails for 30, Dinner 32,
23 for a cab - since I had to,
165 to the lot, 95 to the state,
Total: $345 but my nails look great!

Another gem from the Kitchen of Hers & His

Don't Forget to Vote!!!

We posted a poll in our June 2nd entry about joining HotDateIdeas.com and have asked YOU the reader to pick one of our dates!

You can still put your vote in!!! (Maximum one a day, but you can come back each day to stuff the ballot box!)

Currently it's a tie between Rock Climbing and Riding Segways... which I don't understand why an afternoon of knitting didn't make it to the top, but whatever. So BREAK THE TIE!! Or make Bingo Night the new leader! Or suggest something else and form a rally to gain support and make THAT the new winner!

Either way, scroll on down to June 2nd and place your vote now (and again in 24 hours)! We'll keep the polls open for another couple of weeks, so you've got time to get every one of your Facebook friends to visit our blog and make decisions about our lives.

YES YOU CAN!

Not-So-Dirty Dancing

The first of our "10 Weeks 10 Dates" guest blogging at HotDateIdeas.com


J:
When given the challenge of going on 10 dates in 10 weeks with my boyfriend of almost two years, Zane, I first thought “well at least it locks him down for another couple months” and secondly thought “what a perfect way to mix up our routine of just sitting in front of the television.” Now don’t get me wrong, we aren’t very boring people, but we do enjoy our comfort zone just fine the way it is. My idea of wild is going for sushi instead of pizza. Zane’s idea of romance is finding a video game for 2 players. We were in need of some hot dates.

Z:
Julie and I try to make a point of going out regularly on dates. Over the past year or so we have each had our struggles in finding jobs so we are deeply ingrained with ideals of being frugal. Often times we would consider walking down a favorite street or splurging on a particular kind of junk food to constitute a “date.” Anything to break up the weekly schedule of TV shows we are enslaved to.

J:
Being the initiator of most of our more daring outings, I instinctively started going through the site to pick and choose what I thought would be fun for us. Zane had agreed to participate in the 10 week challenge so he was at my mercy and couldn’t back out of something new to instead go see Marmaduke in IMAX. Ironically my biggest complaint in our relationship is that I’m always wearing the pants, but of course I’m the one who’s taking them out of Zane’s drawer and putting them on. Maybe this challenge would benefit from a little role reversal, which for most would mean the opposite, but for us means I have decided to become a woman! The first step to womanhood? Learning to follow a man’s lead…

Z:
For our first outing as HotDateIdeas correspondents, Julie and I sought out a simple and cheap idea that many would likely write off as being too far outside of her or his comfort zone. Ballroom dancing lessons.

J:
Dance class has always been intriguing to me, and it’s been tricky to find a way to justify us going without having some sort of looming reason *cough* wedding *cough* or just our biannual audition for Dancing with the Stars. I think deep down I was ready to pull my baby out of the corner and dance on a log with some hungry eyes. Little did I know our adventure would be less of a sexy Dirty Dancing and more of a virtuous Footloose.

Z:
Dancing is an activity that Julie has tried to coax out of me on numerous occasions to no avail. Apparently watching me do the dishes to “Ms. New Booty” isn’t enough excitement for her.

JZ:
Over the years, we have found that the single best resource for free stuff and events is somewhat unsurprisingly Craigslist.org. They have websites for almost every corner of the country and their murder rate has significantly decreased in the past couple of months, I think. Lo and behold they had all sorts of listings under classes, and sure enough, there was a free ballroom dance class.

Z:
Like animals and ottomans in the past, Julie took it upon herself to scour the ‘list and signed us up for our first “Hot Date” before alerting me. I had taken ballroom/salsa-dancing classes in college, as an unsuccessful attempt to meet ladies, so the idea wasn’t too off-putting to me.

J:
Now, if we had been a little wiser we should have signed up for a salsa class, it probably had a little more heat. Word to the wise, think about what type of vibe you want to get from your outing before signing up. Sexy passion? Salsa. Milkshake at the ice cream parlor? Ballroom. Shotgun wedding? Line dance.

A couple exchanged emails with the anonymous organizer and we were signed up for a hot free date at 1pm on a Sunday. Rawr.

Z:
According to the brief Craigslist description, and the vague dialogue between Julie and the mystery dance poster, we really had no idea what we would be in store for. For those of you who know us well (as in, has ever read our blog. Namely the post about our first year anniversary) you would know that we are gluttons for punishment. As someone who gave a bit too much consideration into the offerings of being a male model by some strange middle-aged man on the street, I don’t often look before I leap when attempting to make myself more adventurous. Fortunately for your incumbent date experts, our experience turned out rather wholesome this time around.

J:
The anxiety was high as we boarded a subway to go into the city to go to a building we never heard of before and partake in some brand new event. Was this going to be a tiny group gathering? Would we have to dance with other people? Were Bob Fosse and Martha Graham just trying to get us to their apartment to swing? We had no idea and that was half the fun/terror.

Z:
Seeing the Manhattan Center quelled some of our nerves, since it wasn’t some small dimly-lit apartment above a Laundromat but rather a large, fancy theater. As we passed an eclectic group of people exiting the elevator our imaginations began to run a little more rampant with much more grandiose imagery. Were we to be two of a few hapless suckers standing in the center of a giant classy ballroom while being barked at by a thickly accented man in a unitard?

J:
We entered the fancy building right near the famous Macy’s on 34th Street and road the elevator to the “Grand Ballroom.” It felt legit until we arrived and saw a very motley crew of folks sprinkled about a giant carpeted ballroom as burly crew men struck an elaborate multimedia set on a big stage. Uhhh?

Z:
Entering the ballroom struck us with feelings of awe and confusion as it was nothing like what we anticipated.

J:
I saw young girls in flip flops and no one seemed to be coordinating anything. Were we just bamboozled?

Z:
The herd meandering around could not accurately paint a clear picture as to what we were about to undergo. To the right, there was a concession stand displaying rows of stacked plastic cups, a single coffee canteen and a large cardboard billboard picturing a young boy looking upset. A massive stage was the focal point of the room with a baby grand piano and two large white projection screens. All around us were clusters of people musing over whatever great experience had just ended.

J:
After nervously wandering about (and secretly being relieved that we didn’t have to dance and could go home) I asked a security guard if this was supposed to be a ballroom dance class. He said yes, it hadn’t begun yet but we were indeed in the right place. Crap.

Z:
Were we here just in time for the dance portion of the “let’s feed the needy” convention? Why are some people eating pizza? Don’t you think that haggard little boy would like some pizza? As my mind flooded with trivial ponderings one man stepped forward to begin the show.

J:
A man came over the microphone to tell us it was time to begin. Eagerly Zane and I met eyes and then we were told to have ladies on one side, men on the other. Excuse me?

I began flashing back to 8th grade and standing against a wall at the school formal, hoping someone would ask me to dance. The room felt huge as I could barely see Zane’s facial expressions in the shadows of his face. Did he have “what the heck are we doing” eyes as well?? There was this sense that people sort of knew each other and the fancy event prior to class had yet to be explained, I saw Zane make a friend on the testosterone side, but the estrogen half seemed more occupied with which cute boy they’d get to waltz with.

Z:
Right off the bat the man explained how this was the last session before “graduation.” Without doing a thing we were commended on our great efforts and those of us truly striving to be all we can be may move ahead to try out for the competition. As with most things I chalked these somewhat odd remarks as me just not listening closely enough. He introduced who would be our instructor for the evening, his lovely talented daughter… from Harvard.

J:
This fatherly figure began to talk about the importance of dance and respect and gender roles. How his fancy dancer daughter is so great and how she’ll teach us to be great too.

Z:
As a senior at Harvard, she is one of the top dancers at the Harvard ballroom dancing team. Did you know ballroom dancing is the largest competitive club at Harvard, for Harvard students? Did I mention she goes to Harvard?

I was beginning to wonder whether this was the opening speech for a dance class or college orientation.

J:
He went on to tell how keeping distance is important and proper touch is key to a beautiful cooperative dance between a man and a woman. I remembered in 6th grade when we were taught square dancing (yes, I grew up in a hick town) how all the boys used it as an excuse to feel which girls were wearing bras and which ones didn’t need them yet. Agreed, proper touch and respect are key.

Z:
The operative word throughout the two and a half hour course was “respectful.” There is nothing wrong with being respectful, I respect Julie very much, but when looking for a hot date idea “respectful” isn’t often one of the words you’d typically punch into Google.

J:
He threw in some terms for organizations I wasn’t all too familiar with and then I started piecing it together. We WERE in the middle of Footloose.

Z:
Lo and behold we were amidst a youth group directly after their service. I can’t really tell whether being around teenagers, who have not been allowed to touch anyone of the opposite sex until now, sparked any flame between Julie and myself. In the eyes of most of our dance partners Julie and I were considered as two close friends or better yet… siblings.

J:
We learned some steps and then the boys had to pick a girl to practice with. It really felt like speed dating, but with a sexist vibe. Girls anxiously stood there while the men crossed the length of the room and politely asked “May I have this dance?” Was I allowed to say no? I could only think of poor Zane having to work the nerve up time and time again to ask some stranger to have her toes stepped on. If it weren’t for me approaching him in the first place, we wouldn’t be together today. (I’ll save that tale for another hot date blog) Maybe this wasn’t about me becoming a woman but both of us gaining more confidence. So in the end, Zane and I danced with a combined total of a dozen people.

Z:
I can’t say I really enjoyed pairing off with strangers. Not being a fan of chit chatting I labored through pleasantries of “Where are you from?” and “Why are you here?” It was nice seeing what stage different people were at; to go from an older woman who is incorporating moves they haven’t taught us yet, to dancing with a girl still audibly counting.

J:
We’d seek each other out partway through to compare notes and see each other’s progress. I’d give him inside scoop like we were FBI agents. “Pssst we’re in the middle of a church’s youth group.” Next time around “I think this girl is trying to convert me.” “Someone just asked if you were my brother!” “The group is only comprised of 18-21 year olds!” I’d learn something new each time my partner changed. Luckily I had no trouble being asked to dance. I was like a cougar compared to these boys. But it didn’t make it any less nerve wracking. I think I left sweaty palm imprints on everyone’s shirts and noticed a couple people wringing out their hands after my hearty handshake goodbye.

Z:
The thrill of the unknown did create some excitement during our date. As avid people watchers we were treated to a plethora of sights to nudge one another over. Leaving the center we were filled with stories of awkward moments and speculation about how it had all come to be.

J:
It was neat growing my skills a little with the help of strangers and then reconnecting with Zane and noticing such instantaneous improvements! We may have both been beginners, but by the end we were pretty darn good. We learned the Cha Cha first and the Waltz later on. The class lasted almost 2.5 hours and it was the biggest workout I’ve had in a while! After the Cha Cha I gave in and kicked off my heels and did the rest of the class barefoot like the tweens around me. In the end I was pooped but felt very accomplished. Zane and I had developed a new skill, and it felt like a new secret language of dance just between the two of us (and a few dozen Christian children).

Zane’s Review:
In terms of being a “hot date” I found that learning to dance (particularly ballroom dancing) is best for couples who have been together for a long time. Abiding by the rules, you are only allowed to dance with someone once before you take up another partner, so any couples looking for a fun “get to know you” activity should probably look elsewhere (unless of course they are looking to “get to know” other people). As an experienced couple, learning a skill together (together, meaning in the same room) is very beneficial.

You will be able to make eyes at one another from across the room, which can be romantic for some. For Julie and I, it was more of a “What is going on? Can you come over here?” Our experience may not have been particularly “hot” but it was a valuable afternoon that left us with the skills to spice up any party situations thereafter. As for an exciting outing with your honey, the payoff is more long term.

For new couples, I give this 3 “looks like she and that stranger are having more fun on this date than I am” out of 10.

For couples who have exhausted all of the “get to know you” conversations, I give this 7 “well at least I’m not stepping on her feet” out of 10.

Julie’s Review:
I wouldn’t say it was a “hot” date because it involved half of a middle school, but it was adventurous. Zane and I compared notes and agreed it’d be a great way for our single friends to meet new people. Like speed dating, but less sitting down. You have to be pretty secure in your relationship to just part ways and go off dancing with a bunch of strangers for an afternoon, but it is nice to meet new people.

It gave me a little bit of that new relationship butterfly tummy when I’d catch a glimpse of my cute guy across the room intently trying to get the steps right. Also, dancing together as adults is an exciting activity, one less often enjoyed except at weddings or boisterous clubs. So having an afternoon of light conversation while waltzing across a room was pretty neat.

I really enjoyed the change of pace and as we walked back to the train with our tired wobbly legs I couldn’t help but smile and softly whisper “1…2… cha cha cha” with each stride. (8.5 out of 10)

Hers and His Join HotDateIdeas.com!

We are proud to announce that Hers and His is taking its show on the road. No, we're not moving again, and no physical roads will be involved. Rather, we are hitting the information superhighway (as the mid-to-late-nineties would call it) and will be writing for HotDateIdeas.com as part of a "10 weeks 10 dates" editorial.

Julie and Zane are going to hit the city like a sock full of pennies as they venture out of their comfort zone and find out what makes a hot date! We will then recant our ventures in true Hers and His fashion.

We wish we could bring you all along on these dates with us but I think that might break the whole "hotness" aspect of it, except for maybe the "Have an awkward third wheel remind you how lonely they are, at the park" date. Rest assured we are not leaving this place behind as we have far too much going on in our lives these days to leave you all in the dark.

So check out our series of 10 Dates in 10 Weeks!

As a way of getting you all involved, we would like to know what date you think we should go on! We have quite a few surprises already planned, but are always open to suggestions!

Which "Viewer's Choice Date" should Zane and Julie do?
	Sailing
	Horseback Riding
	Riding Segways
	Wine Tasting
	Rock Climbing
	Golfing
	Bingo Night
	Other (Leave it in a comment below!)
pollcode.com free polls

Welcome to the Family!

Hers and His would like to welcome the newest member of our family, our beautiful niece...

Matilda

Born May 31, 2010 at 10:34am

7lb 5oz 19.5 inches

We couldn't be more overjoyed to be Unkie Zany and Auntie Julie!!!

Hers and His For Sale: Adventures in Baby Sitting

As we all know, in order to be a valued member of society you must trade services for money. While typically J and myself gravitate more towards selling organs on the black market and charging admission to our world-renown, politically correct minstrel show, this monetary venture came about via the desperate plea of an old acquaintance of J's.

What do two self-respecting mid-20s lovebirds do on a lazy Sunday afternoon, you may find yourself wondering? Lay in bed doing crosswords and dreaming of the future? Have brunch and stroll around the park hand in hand? Play in a sandbox and praise the Lord we are nowhere near childbearing years? Bingo!

The latest “well, what’s the worst that could happen” adventure Z and I took on involved an old boss of mine, a spoiled 2.5 year old and a variety of characters that even we couldn’t make up.

Like most impromptu baby-sitting ventures, ours started in the food court of a Whole Foods. For those of you unfamiliar with the locale, it is a grocery story for people with money who like to think their entire diet consists of organic food. As Hannah Montana and Tiger Lily [names have been altered slightly to protect the undeserving of a shout out in our blog] finished up their lunch of sushi and organic mac and cheese, we arrived to take out pint-sized subject away from her all too eager mother. After a short bit of catching up, it was time to throw out the soiled food containers and diaper, which typically wouldn’t deserve much notation, though seeing as the diaper was removed right there in the center of the food court I thought I should mention it.

Rewind to the Friday night before our mini saga began, Z and I were returning home from a night on the town when we found ourselves behind a mother and her children. She kept chastising her little boy to “walk nice!” and insisted he hold his little sister’s most likely sticky mitt. Z and I laughed at the idea of “un-nice” walking and even did a little impersonation of our best attempt. Little did we know a mere 12 hours later, as monkey girl swung from both of our unsuspecting and weak arms (while we were in the middle of crossing a highway, mind you) that we too would reach for that ambiguous phrase. “Walk nice!” we insisted over and over as we checked our watches for how much time remained. Damn, we were only 10 minutes in.

For those unsure, not-nice walking can consist of:

Dropping to your knees mid-step

Freeing your hand from an adult’s and sprinting away

Running full tilt out of a Whole Foods and into a crowded sidewalk

Becoming dead weight and expecting your hand holding teammates to pick up the slack

Embarrassing wiggle-walking in a crowded area (okay, that one was Z)

Part One of the longest 3.5 hours of my life involved ice cream.

Despite Tiger Lily being quite a good sport even with the whole public bare bottomed-ness, her mother felt it was necessary to sweeten the deal by proposing that J and I take her out for ice cream.

“Hey, grab a cone while I finish up my shopping.” What? We don’t get to use the stroller? Wait, you normally don’t insist she holds hands? (Not on my watch!!!!) Um… can I spare two bucks for the cone?

As we sat there getting the low down on our plans, I could only think of the empty wallet I had come with. Z and I had just spent the last of our cash getting bagels for ourselves. As Hannah Montana told us the do’s and don’ts (mostly do’s!) of watching her child, I zoned out wondering how I could sneak away to find an ATM to afford the teeny ice cream cone she had just been promised. Fake illness and duck out to a store? Busk in the streets for 2 bucks? I bet Tiger Lily could get us at least a buck just based on cute points. As the panic rose in me that I would embarrassingly have to ask for 2 dollars from her mom, out came the wallet and I was very gladly handed the cash. Wait… just two bucks? No ice cream for us?

Suffice it to say, the “ice cream man” looked and sounded much like what you’d picture if you heard that the creepy older fellow from your block just bought an ice cream truck. He sat high up, like the gatekeeper to OZ. Peering out of his service window down at us street folk. The mobile sweets dispenser and all the images of the ice cream man’s creamy and crunchy wares displayed on the side dazzled Tiger Lily.

Tiger Lily’s eyes widened when the small soft-serve-filled cone crossed the open window. The cone appeared like many had before it; cool, delicious and hurdling to a quick and tasty demise by way of a toddler’s mouth and wardrobe. This however was no the fate for this extra small chocolate ice cream cone.

While Tiger Lily did thoroughly enjoy her frozen dessert, it was not nearly with the insatiable and vigorous gusto one might expect from a candy-equipped child. Every lick was methodical, every bite deeply considered before undertaking. J and I felt it was our duty to stand watch on “drip patrol” as Hannah Montana is not the type of mother to be so flippant about a few expectable chocolate stains.

Side note: If ever tasked with watching a child, bring ten fold the number of napkins you expect to use. And a hose.

Part Two of our adventure took about an hour. It involved the following:

Hannah Montana: Change her into her “park outfit.”

Tiger Lily: No!

Us: Please?

Tiger Lily: No!

Repeat as needed for one hour.

I may not understand this yet because I am not a parent, but what are with all the costume changes? I’ve done plays with less quick changes than the average toddler goes through in a day. I still don’t get why the first outfit was not park approved, but maybe one day I’ll figure it out.

It took me one hour to figure out how to get her to change on her own accord. Luckily it also took Z one hour to untangle the kite he was assigned to untangle by Hannah Montana. I am so proud of my process I almost don’t want to share, but in case you moms and babysitters need the help one day (though I don’t support your waste of clean clothes!)… “My First Spanish Words Board Book” has 2 pages listing off all the items of clothing a child would need. One by one I asked Tiger Lily which item was her [insert poorly pronounced Spanish word here] and she would point to it on her and I would make her take it off.

Nalgas, lol.

One by one until each article had been changed and I felt like a dirty perv. But… success! Off to the park! Oh, did I mention which shirt we were given to change her into? It read, and I quote “DAMN it feels good to be toddler!” Now I am all for supporting the rights of little people, but the expletive seemed a little unwarranted. And why put your child in profane clothes when sending them out with strangers? We were already being glared at as the helpless destitute parents who had no control over their adopted looking child, why add to the fire with judgment for clothes that only encourage potty mouths?

Oh and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m quite certain a “babysitter” is someone who acts as a temporary guardian for a child, not a temporary assistant. It is not “baby receptionist” or “baby’s yes man.” When given the task of getting the kid out the door nowhere in the qualities of servitude that defines babysitting is maid to, you know “clean up whatever toys she pulled out in her room.”

I mean, DAMN!

Part Three: The Scooter of Death.

What do you give a child who can’t even hold your hand long enough to stay close to you on the sidewalk? A scooter!!! Because there’s nothing better than watching the child you were just assigned to keep alive for the next few hours dart off into the horizon going 90 miles an hour with a helmet wobbling all over the place because “that’s ok, she likes it loose.”

Oh how sweet it is, being on the Hudson. The air is filtered, the nature carefully landscaped and the water looking so good you could land a plane on it. After passing one awesome playground after another, we finally arrived at the complex designated for the 2 – 3 1/2 year olds.

Z and I flipped for it and he won stroller-pushing duty while I was on scolding duty. I like to call it tough love but I think it more resembled a bad episode of 16 & Pregnant. When we reached not the first, not the second but the third playground Tiger Lily was so excited there was no time to remove her scooter helmet. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, she could have hopped back on that death trap at any second and I wanted her prepared. Also, I didn’t want us to have to go through the ordeal of putting it on her again. So what if I knowingly turned her into the “Helmet Kid” on the playground? Maybe a little innocent teasing will humble her a bit.

I honestly was so busy chasing after her and saving her from certain death that I didn’t notice how everyone thought she was so advanced for being so “special.” “You know, I think making kids where helmets all the time is a great idea,” one yuppie mom coddled. I think the “Oh crap, did I leave her helmet on” face gave way that this wasn’t a tactic, just sheer incompetence on my part. Her neighborhood safety watch radar probably went off as she then asked “How old is she?” I shrugged and said “I think 3.” To which the alarm on her face was quite entertaining. I let her worry for a minute that Z and I were just really nice baby snatchers who brought their captives to sand boxes in the richest neighborhoods and then said “Oh, she’s not ours, we’re just watching her.” She gulped and asked “How’s it going?” I winced and replied “Not good” as our little dear dumped sand in the eyes of the lady’s son.

I could appreciate Tiger Lily’s ability to play competently in the sandbox. While sharing may have seemed like an abstract concept to her, she at least could muster the motor skills to not break the colorful plastic shovel, and the presence of mind not to then attempt to use the broken tool, like the poor putts sitting next to her.

One boy was more than delighted to prove that this was a socialist sandbox, as he gleefully handed off all of his worldly belongings to anything nearby with hand to receive them. “Here have my shovel that my parents so diligently labeled with my name.” “Here have this truck that that other boy is no longer playing with.” I’ll just help myself to some of your water here…” “Oh that’s not okay? That’s cool, that’s cool I have my own.” “Here would you like some?”

Did I mention her son’s name was Rocket? Like, legitimately, Rocket. And in case I worried I had misheard her and her husband calling to him, I noticed all of his toys had been clearly labeled “Rocket.” I thought they were just challenging (or should I say “Challanger”ing) him by naming all his sand tools after a spaceship. “Shovel?” No, rocket. “Rake?” No, rocket. But instead, they had turned their son into a new age hipster victim, who along with Apple, Maddox, Pilot, and Blanket joined the ranks of children who will one day despise their parents.

Speaking of spaceships, (no really, best segway ever) there was a child on this playground who made our Helmet Kid look like Stephen Hawking. I didn’t catch his name, but we can call him Buzz, he was sporting an all out full body space suit. “I like your space suit buddy” I said as his dad rounded the corner. “It’s my costume!” he proudly stated, hands on hips, just missing the plastic fishbowl atop his head. His father’s pride was lacking as he prepared himself for a lifetime of more costumes, and perhaps even some high heels.

J overreacts! Buzz may enjoy wearing costumes as a kid, but who doesn’t?? I know, I sure spent a fair share of time as a child dressed like a Ghostbuster, and look at me; I have a pretty sweet life with a beautiful woman! Cross dressing only occurs when I’m out of clean laundry, or it’s dark when I get dressed, or I have been spending too much time with John Jameson, or it’s a Thursday. Purely happenstance.

We all took turns shoving our respective kids down this crazy twisty slide, Z was at the bottom to be the catcher and Buzz’s dad went down with his child. Why not? I thought as I flew down after Tiger Lily had just completed her turn. Well geez those slides are dangerous! I skidded my way down, leaving half my elbow on the slide and just wanting Z to kiss my boo boo better. But before I could whine too much, it was time to color. And nothing gets between me and my coloring.

I had come prepared, though I did not know what “prepared” meant until I saw the suitcases that Hannah Montana had packed for us to constantly occupy Tiger Lily with. Maybe I’m old school, but I think plain paper and crayons will get you a lot further than 12 different bubble blowers and Frisbees and kites and scooters. And sure enough, she loved it. Wore down every last one of my new crayon tips to sheer nubs. (I never said it wasn’t a lesson in sharing for me too!)

Tiger Lily proudly carried as many of the pictures as she could all the way home, clutched tightly in her little paws. When we got home to present our pretty pictures to her mom, her first words were “Oh, was there an organized event?” Um, no. “So you just, drew?” Um, yes. “Because often they have people there doing big organized things, it’s pretty great, maybe next time you should see if they have that going on.” Sigh.

As J squared away the most awkward of dealings as to “well how much is your Sunday afternoon worth to you?” I kept an eye on the little ragamuffin who was enjoying the snack we were supposed to have brought for her. Considering this profile I’ve compiled of Hannah Montana and her brood, you would think that she would know of some sort of brainiac video series that would inject knowledge and proper behavior directly into a kid’s brain, but alas no, Dora’s pompous cousin Diego was all there was. Even with the knowledge that the show goes far enough to teach remedial bilingualism but then falls flat on it’s face when any questions arise.

Well all our worries are over! Diego cleaned up the major oil spill in the ocean!!

…with a vacuum. Man, BP should have thought of that.

Before parting, J took one last opportunity to instill some useful knowledge in the developing mind of a child. Tiger Lily sat at the kitchen bar, attempting to sneak some chocolate from a small colorful dish, after being enticed by Dora and images of a giant tree made of chocolate, you know, where chocolate comes from. Not wanting to pass up on the concept of a child sitting at a bar

J insisted, “Ask mommy for two fingers of milk.”

Tiger Lily “Two fingers of milk please!”

After a shared enjoyment of youth spouting an inappropriate phrase Hannah Montana went on to give in to the candy fix. But amidst her delight, little Tiger Lily let out a pint-size fart.

Hannah Montana “Now what do we say when we pass gas?”

Tiger Lily "Two fingers of milk please!”

Overall the day was pretty good. Z and I had earned every last penny we were given at the end of the evening. We took the hour-long train ride home, looking as if we had just survived the running of the bulls. I brought home enough sand in my pants and shoes to recreate our own little sandbox here in Astoria, but we’ll only invite people who share their toys. After an hour of scrubbing and anti-bacterializing, we had washed away the hard parts of the day and left only the feeling of relief. Relief that we have a cat who behaved himself all day and didn’t get into any trouble while we were gone. A cat who would love us no matter how long we left his helmet on.

The Hers and His Guide to Bathing Your Cat

Our new guest blogger, Buster, has become a key player in the Hers and His day to day adventures. So much so that we've taken a temporary hiatus from writing to catch him up on all he's missed in the past year since we've started the blog. Now he knows what he's in fur in the years to come, and he gets what is funny and what's funny to Zane. Let us resume our tail of loving and learning...

[Editor's Note: Now that we're cat people, expect about 75% of our posts to be about our cat, and 20% to be written by our cat. The remaining 5% will just be photos of our cat being so cute you just won't know what to do with yourself.]

So when we first got Buster, his foster mom gave us the low down on everything there was to know about him:

• His name was Smokey.


• He was a Russian Blue.


• He was skittish.


• He likes baths.

Things she left off that list:

• Buster is a wayyyy better name than Smokey.


• Russian Blue's are hypoallergenic.


• He is not skittish when your TV is no longer at the highest possible volume level it can go while tuned to the Latin music station.


• He likes water.

Being new proud parents, we wanted Buster's transition to be as easy as possible for him. So in the first week, we changed his name, cut off his balls and brought him on a 3.5 hour car ride. If he was going to survive living with us, we'd throw him in 100%. He aced the test and was a GREAT trooper! The meds might have helped with that. The doctors warned us he might be acting a bit stranger than normal after the surgery and we assured them that we had no idea what normal was, but we would love him till his balls stopped hurting. In an effort of solidarity, Zane agreed to stop licking his no-no area as well for the 2 weeks of recovery. I think Buster appreciated the sense of brotherhood.

Over the next four weeks we learned Buster's likes and dislikes and found that he LOVES water. Running, stagnent, in a bowl, in a tub, he sees it, he wants it. We have timed him and from the second the faucet turns on to the time a whisker is in your toothbrush, takes about .01 seconds. Constantly he is waiting for you to shower or brush just so he can watch the wonders of water. Where does it go once it goes down the drain? Where does it come from out of the spout? Why do I gross everyone out when I lick the drain stopper? What's so bad about having your legs licked dry after a shower?

When the one month mark hit for his flea treatment (via a flea and tick shampoo), we actually believed what his foster mom had told us. Buster LOVES baths! And how could he not? He's always getting in the water and loves being rubbed. Why not combine the two???

If you ever have this thought, please learn from our mistakes.

Step ONE: Trim his claws!!!!! Momma didn't think about this one and it left Zane looking like he was an emo teenager.

Step TWO: Find a cat who loves BATHS.

Step Two was where we really ran into some issues. But you see, once you commit to terrorizing your cat, you've got to follow through. The little furball sure was adorable all wet and skinny! His big ol' eyes just glowed with joy as he splashed and splashed his way through his first bath with his new parents. Yes, it took two of us. 4 hands to help? No no no... do you even know us?! 2 people because...

Step THREE: Film your cat being given a bath!

You're welcome folks. Sit back and enjoy our new baby having his first bath. Please don't mind the nudity, we're still figuring out how to get him to wear pants, let alone a bathing suit.

It’s like Russian Roulette with Penises

Just this last week Julie and I played host for one of our dear friends, the purported “reason we’re together” Jameson. While he had planned to stop by a few weeks prior, his flight was canceled due to an impending snowstorm, and seeing that he lives states away in Arkansas he is very much at the mercy of such natural factors. This time however he made the harrowing journey by car in what would be a 20+ hour ride. Are we really that worth visiting you ask? Yes, yes we are.

The weekend turned week visit was very enjoyable. With visits to old friends, good food and copious amounts of Video Gaming and Movie Watching there were many good times to be had. There was one evening in particular in which our fun loving threesome welcomed a fourth, all thanks to our dearest friend “The Internet.”

I’m assuming many of you have heard of Chat Roulette. If not, it is as the title suggests, much “like Russian Roulette with Penises.” No, there is no violence involved, and while our application of it did involve a revolver it was not in the way I’m sure many of you are so unintentionally imagining. The basic principle is that you have three windows, your typical instant messaging chat box, a window showing what is being captured through your web cam, and a venerable “window to the world” which displays the feed form random other people’s web cams. At the top, as simple button that states “Start Playing” or “pull the trigger” as it would more appropriately be titled.

You are then linked with someone, anyone, anywhere in the world. Whether they are young, aged or gross you are free to interact with them however you please. While most often people use this freedom to display their “happiness” towards this newfound technology, others were simply like us; some bored fun-loving drunk just looking for some good, plutonic connectivity.

Fortunately having Julie in our motley crew afforded us a few extra seconds with these strangers to pitch our plea for attention, given that most of the people on the other end are 17-29 year old males who want nothing more than to chat up fine honeys.

While communication seemed limited to pantomiming and cryptic instant messaging we decided the goal for the evening should be to play a full game of Clue with a stranger. With our board set we scoured the seedy bed/computer rooms of fellow chatroulettians, looking for someone to humor us. After countless rejections and erections we finally found a young lady who seemed all but mildly interested in playing with us.

All was going surprisingly well. We would show her her cards and when it was her turn to roll, we would place the camera to where she could make an informed decision about which direction to head. For a moment I thought I had it figured out. I did not have any of the cards involved in my first guess and no one had any cards to show me, so naturally I thought I had gotten a hole in one. That would not be the case however since Jameson was accidentally looking at the cards of our roulette friend.

With the hand hiccup behind us we went on to play a fairly standard game of Clue. Everyone knew what he or she was doing and having a voiceless competitor somewhere out there in the world worked out just as it would if she were ther. That is until her connection cut out.

Just like that she was gone. We knew nothing about her, no way to contact her and no way to know how close she may have been to getting to winning it all. Like ships passing in the night we met up for about 90% of a board game then moved on, never to hear from one another again.

The Jingle Monster

Howdy blog followers!

So much has happened since our last post! We've bought a car, opened up a restaurant and sold our souls to the Devil. Just kidding!

We have been home, like always. Except we've spiced things up at home quite a bit. We decided to take in a homeless child. He's pretty scrawny but we try not to tease him too much. He had a tough start in life, we found out some jerky kids pushed him into the train tracks before his foster mom rescued him from certain death. Since then he lived in a house with other foster boys and girls, but they were so needy. He needed a home of his own. So we took him in. So far he's done okay adjusting.

He doesn't play as much as we expected him to. We bought him all sorts of toys to take his mind off his old foster siblings being so far away in Brooklyn. Potty training has been interesting. I heard when kids have it rough they often mess their pants in order to show a sense of control over something. Well, our little buddy sure is testing us! But never fear, even new Dad Z is handling bodily fluids with the grace I'd always hoped of him.

He sure can be sweet, still too scared to sleep on his own, so we let him snuggle up between us at night. But boy do kids get up early!!! I hope the scampering doesn't wake the neighbors! We've found that if you just lock him into a room he lets all his crazies out... that's in one of those parenting books, right?

Most recently we've had two major incidents occur. We decided to make our new little guy a eunich. His voice was pretty sweet and youthful, but a little castration was all it took to get him singing all those high notes! Zane has signed him up for the local choir so he can get closer to Jesus. (Happy Easter by the way!)

Secondly, a nighttime goblin has begun to terrorize our little boy. I appreciate the fantastical imagination of a youngster, it shows great promise for an artistic future. But this creature is bordering on insanity. What has been happening is at bathtime in the evenings, the "Jingle Monster" comes round and harasses our poor guy until he can't take it anymore. He tries to locate the pesky noise but inevitably fails. If you stay real still you can evade his monstrous grasp, but the second you are lulled into a false sense of safety.... BAM! "jingle jingle"

So far our adoptive son has decided to lick the noise to death. He has its whereabouts pinpointed down to a small range of space just below his chin. Imagine if you will someone egging someone on "I bet you can't lick your elbow!" And you're all like "Yeah huh I could so!" and then you leave it at that but when you get home that night you totally get in front of a mirror and stretch your tongue until it hurts seeing how close exactly you CAN get to it. Yeah, that awkwardness. That is the only way to fight the Jingle Monster. Video forthcoming if Zane can handle his situation with the Technology Monster. It swings by and gives him the ability to capture moments on his phone and then... BAM! Memories get trapped on his phone never to be shared again.

So, that's all from the homefront. We're considering renaming the blog to reflect this great moment in our lives of growing our family. Hers & His & His? Duck, Duck, Kitty? Thoughts?

Oh yeah, our son is a kitty cat. April Fools! (I know it wasn't funny, but still, he's like a child.) Okay, now's your chance to "Awww" at how cute he is!!!

Madge Max: A Retrospective

Back in the Autumn of 2009, when returning to my childhood home from the fourth day of the third week of a spontaneous bit of freelance work I had commissioned to do in the Big Red Fruit (this was before I was offered employment for the rest of the year) I was surprised with a very unexpected phone call while pulling into the train station. On the other end of the line is my mother who gleefully asks "are you up for an adventure tonight?" Often times when an "adventure" is proposed it usually involves running errands or stealing things from restaurants, however in my post-work haze I still thought this may be some fun excursion out into the great unknown.

She then went on to inform me that they are currently stuck in Brooklyn with keys locked in the car. I was asked if I would possibly be able to return to the city and deliver the spare set of keys. Now, rather than having the house to myself all night I was to go on a great adventure that would take most of the evening, as well as the continual guilt-tripping being laid upon me by my parents even after I said I was coming tenebrous for the umpteenth time. Suffice it to say I was not a very happy camper. As I walked home from the train, the world around me turning ever more with each step I took, I assessed my options. I could turn around and hop right back on the train, getting off at Jamaica, then taking another train to Brooklyn; or I could drive.

Keep in mind, my mother had met up with my dad before their evening began since she was running late, so her car was left in the parking lot of some grocery store en-route. So driving wasn't a simple matter of hopping in the car, it involved propositioning my Grandmother at 9:30 at night to let me use her car, after she drives to the house to drop it off of course. Initially I planned to take option "A" seeing as I hadn't driven for well over a month and didn't fell like doing anything outside of brooding, however as I would later realize, thanks to the suggestion of Mapquest and HopStop, that there was about a 100% time difference in taking the car over the network of trains. I then swallowed my pride and picked up the phone to do something I've always hated: asking to borrow something.

I cannot recall whether I actually woke her up with my call, however I'm sure she sounded sleepy when answering. I explained to her that my parents were in Brooklyn and that she held the keys to my getting there. Fortunately entrusting me with her car wasn't an issue, but of course she wanted to tag along. Now I must remind you I was not in the most affable mood, however the last thing i wanted was to be unpleasant around my grandmother. With a hesitant "why sure!" our evening was set, it was time for an adventure.

In the fifteen minutes it took for her to arrive I inhaled some dinner, printed round-trip directions and triple checked to make sure I had the car keys securely on my person. I wouldn't discover until long after returning home that a GPS had been laying on the dining room table. No, this evening I would be flying blind, or just a few years outdated I suppose. When my grandmother arrived I was not certain whether she had intended to drive herself, seeing that it was late and dark, but a Chinese fire-drill or two after my initial confusion corrected our seating arrangement.

Fortunately for everyone involved the moment I sat down in the car my previous temperament had completely extinguished. It were as though my grandmother was a microwave and I a dish of butter, for those of you needing reasons to be sleepless tonight.

Our travels got off to a good start, I explained in explicit details the nature of our journey. How my parents were seeing a contemporary dance troupe in Brooklyn, New York and my father locked his keys in the car. How I had been in the area of where we were heading once before yet driving there would be a completely different experience. Despite the hairiness getting to the point of traveling, all seemed to be smooth sailing, that is until we got to the first turn. Now, I try not to fashion myself a dim man but often times I have trouble remembering names, in this instance the names of highways. With the directions stating one thing and the street signs another I made the necessary turn though my uncertainty did not sit well with my grandmother. From the time we entered the express way to the moment our exit was advertised my grandmother was convinced that we were headed in the opposite direction. This was not from the knowledge of a better route but more in that I did not sell her on my decision. What's worse is when nature took it's course and revealed to us that we were in fact on the right road, my grandmother was profusely sorry as if she were ruining the trip.

After continual praise over the fact that she was very much necessary for my enjoyment of the trip we came upon our second hiccup; the expressway would be closing for about ten or so exits. With now defunct Mapquest directions in hand I followed the orange detour sign along with everyone else as four lanes of New York drivers exited all at once. Fortunately at the mouth of the exit there was another detour sign pointing us in the right direction, unfortunately that would be the last one we see for fifteen minutes. It was dark and we were in a part of the island I had never seen before, not that I could see much anyway. We had a few noteworthy companions, victimized by the expressway closing, but none of them seemed to have a better clue as to what was going on than we did. Still, we chose fork after fork together until it appeared the expressway could be entered again. Though our detour was still an exit shy of completion and we traversed the dark a little while longer. Thankfully with end in sight the signs became more prevalent. We returned to the highway from whence we came and were home free.

Soon, I would begin to recognize my surroundings and while still not 100% confident in my turning decisions (making one left turn too early in the final stretch) our goal was in sight. The wild journey unscathed didn't persuade my grandmother any in believing that I knew where I was going, as she was second-guessing our turns till the very end.

After the final turn we were stuck behind a dump truck on a narrow one way street which gave me the perfect opportunity to call my parents informing them of our impending arrival, and what would you know the show ended the moment the phone buzzed. While it may not have been the night of ice cream and Mystery Science Theater 3000 I had in store for myself. It was a great adventure with great company the likes of which I could never have planned for myself.

Hers & His Blog Anniversary: A Taxing Experience

Being a giant fan of anniversaries, I rarely pass on the opportunity to commemorate any moment. Like the time Zane and I celebrated our 1 year anniversary of our first kiss, this time without that pesky girlfriend of his in the picture. Or when I made a cake to commemorate a month of Zane having put his clothes away. So I won’t be the one to drop the ball and not take note that today is our one year anniversary of our blog. A full year already?! You betcha. That means Zane and I have been living in sin for what feels like a lifetime. We’ve had highs and lows, but we’ve prevailed. Through 4 moves (since the blog, but 6 total since knowing each other) we’ve always found the humor amidst the tears.

It was just one year ago today that Julie and I sat down to write an email detailing all the daily news about our wild and crazy lives together. We were constantly being pestered (or "pleasantly asked" for any of those I'm referring to) about what we've been up to. We didn't want to be jerks and CC our loved ones on generic emails, however we were far too lazy and self-absorbed to actually call everyone repeating our tales like Crunchberry at a corporate meet-and-greet. Instead we took the lazy route and amassed all our stories for a blog. What transpired would go down in relationship history, our relationship history.

Since living together has become so blasé we’ve spiced things up by adding weekly challenges to keep things fresh. Last week Zane fared pretty well being left in the wilderness with nothing but a fork and a can of beans. This week we thought we’d take it to an even scarier level... Taxes.

Since we are both adults who have had full lives before crossing paths, it’s rare to have a first, let alone a first for both of us, that we can experience. So as we grumpily sat across from each other on our laptops, a twinge of sappiness seeped into my bones. Sure, we were filing separately… maybe for the last time? Ha. I took the opportunity to invoke a little friendly competition. As the deductions mounted I excitedly announced each dollar added to my pot. “Ooh! Another $100!” “Wow! Do YOU qualify for that $400??” Somehow my delight didn’t seem to amuse him. So what if he has to pay in since he’s a consultant? He can still be a good sport.

While Julie and I are a very nostalgic couple there is a no more nostalgic bunch than the US Government. "Oh you worked on a small project for a friend and they gave you some money for it? Wow that was nice of them, may I have some of it?" Or even, "have you ever purchased anything online? We'd like to have some money for it as well, I mean it's only right since you're using your duck-shaped foot scrubber in OUR state."

Never have I felt more abused in my life, well maybe not since last night when Julie pushed me off the bed. The US government is like that nagging roommate that who is the ultimate mooch. "Hey what you got there? Is that honey? Mind if I have some of it? It's cool I'll buy honey next time." However they don't get the good honey, the primo honey, they get the fake store-brand stuff. I don't mean to sound bitter at the US, I mean they did just win 37 medals at the olympics so that must count for something. Does it?

Being unable to sit still for lengthy periods of time, we rewarded ourselves with shoveling out the car. That’s right, our delightful break from our painful chore was to chip a 2 foot mound of ice and snow from barricading the car. It didn’t take nearly as long as I’d hoped, Zane is quite handy with a shovel. So then it was back to government.

I felt that doing taxes online somewhat cheapened the experience. Not in the preferred way of leaving me with more money to spend at the OTB. Doing taxes online takes away from all those personal touches I had planned to make growing up. For questions I'd like to fudge, I'd switch to my favorite turquoise crayon: Method of Payment - Cash [] Accruement []DelicioUs CHicken [X]. No, I was forced to play by their rules, the man's rules. How are they supposed to think that I am a man desperately in need of money? They only give me so many opportunities to write "You best not be referring to MY money" or "that's really none of your business". Not to mention doodles are COMPLETELY out of the question.

Hours of crazy questions and learning a new language have left me questioning everything:
*Do I suffer from accelerated depreciation?
*Why do they keep insulting my income and calling it gross?
*Is there any way to claim Zane as my adoptive child?
*Why do they ask me 20 times if I’m blind? Should I be? Is this beneficial? How would I be able to read that question online anyway? Trick question?
*Is this one of those instances of “When in doubt, choose C”?
*Is personal interest the same thing as self esteem?

After guessing my way through hours of deeply invasive and intense questioning, I told Zane to stop it and that I must get back to my taxes. They didn’t take as long as I expected and warranted an expressive victory lap around the living room and immediate “I did it!” call to my mom. Zane’s got a little ways to go, but he’s done a great job defining himself as a man to the IRS. I am still trying to figure out why it’s okay for the IRS to ask where this relationship is going, whether he’s single or married, but when I ask that it causes a ruckus. Maybe next year I can start calling Zane my “write off” but I think we’re a long ways away. For now, I’m basking in our joint success in doing something so adult while still being in our jammies.

Hers and His: The Movie Teaser #1

Certain people have been asking me (and by "certain" I mean no one) what ever happened to that Hers and His movie you hinted at however many months ago. Well sit tight kiddies do I have something for you! Here is a sneak peak at what you might all be in store for should the loan from our neighborhood church get approved!

The Hers and His Guide to Having a Gouda Valentine's Day

Greetings loyal readers! Please set down your red heart boxes of candy, wipe that candy heart powder from your lips and pull up a chair. While all of those are good and sweet, we have a few modern day twists to make your Valentine's day... and night... a little better.

The secret to a happy Valentine? Distance. Hear me out. This year, the His has to be in Maine to visit relatives while the Hers doesn't get Monday off from work. Thus: Long Distance Valentines. While I first sought pity from friends and my love alike, I have now embraced this decision.

You may remember last year, we also incorporated this Valentine's tradition of distance and traveled to Atlantic City to partake in the most memorable holiday to date. This year, we opted to stay separate and keep what's really important in focus: gifts. Kidding, kidding... but welcome.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder and Absinthe makes the heart get a bit fuzzy. Tonight I plan to pour one out to my funny Valentine and consume a well chosen bottle of wine and fabulous cheese pairing. (Riesling and Smoke Gouda, try it.) Along with those treats I will ration my heart shaped box of chocolates that was delivered today nestled snugly next to my dozen roses. That's right, Zane got me flowers! I'm not sure if it was the constant commercialism that finally got to him, or the well placed hints he may have located in his laundry, the fridge, and pinned to his coat. Either way, it brought a great big smile to my face and warmth to my heart that he planned ahead to make sure I felt loved this weekend.

This Valentine's Day it's like we're newly dating again. Anticipating the next time we'll speak, looking forward to hearing about each other's days, not having to pick up each other's dirty socks. And the best part? We still get to celebrate after he returns! So, as in true Julie fashion, it is not just Valentine's DAY, but WEEK. Or, if properly stretched out, MONTH. But don't tell Zane that. I just love any holiday that forces him to profess his undying love: tomorrow, Arbor Day, T. Hanks Giving Day. Just to name a few.

So tonight as each of you falls asleep dreaming of your one true love or can feel their chilly feet hitting yours under the cover, just know that Zane and I are happily sleeping sprawled and diagonally miles and miles apart counting down the hours until we can celebrate Valentine's Day in style just so we can report our adventure to you, dear reader.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Keeping Abreast of Our Neighbors

While still mourning the loss of our beloved Ocho, we have decided to take an uncomfortably close interest in our new neighbors. After all, Z's New Year's Resolution for 2010 was to make friends, so obviously that meant having to uproot ourselves and all the bad blood we caused in Chelsea and start fresh in a new land that has no knowledge of Zane's history with little boys and trenchcoats.

First, we met our Landlord, a young hot Greecian who could only be dubbed "McGreece-y". Oh, that sounded better in my head. Well, needless to say, I'll be glad to call his cell for any problems I might have.... apartment or relationship related. Then we met Old Man Greece-y. You guessed it! McGreesey liked me so much he wanted to introduce me to his parents. Sure, they live downstairs from us and just so happen to be the Supers of the building, but that's all semantics.

So, with our things in place and the friendliest of Supers in the history of the world, we've been enjoying our new digs. Yes, Old Man Greecey has taken the welcome wagon and parked it a little close to our hydrant, but sometimes it's nice to come home to a little old man in your bathtub caulking. And he has found a way to be considered charming when I come home from work and catch him napping in our bed. Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn't have given him a spare key to my car.

In the first week we made friends with our fellow second floor dwellers, Drake Cakes and ????? okay, we only made friends with Drake Cakes. But is it possible to want to be friends with someone so badly, you feel like you know them? 2B is compiled of 2 late-20s professional chefs. So far the smells coming from their door have been nothing short of amazing and my attempts to compete have left the halls wishing I'd stop.

In the midst of moving a giant piece of furniture we met our upstairs gal pal Shannon Dougherty and her roommate Princess Fiona. They are both awesome girls who invited us to a party we ended up not being able to attend. I have high hopes for future Girls' Nights In and Sex and the City-ish brunches in the neighborhood. If those fail, I've developed a way to befriend the girl who lives in the building across from us. Our windows line up exactly, so it's like looking into a mirror. Only her side is a bit girlier and comes with a half naked man who shows up on Saturday mornings. I think we'd be great pals in different circumstances, but every idea I have to initiate contact just comes across as creepy.

1. Sign in the window. "Hi, my name's Julie. I like your couch pattern. Want to be my friend?"

2. "Your boyfriend's cute. So is mine. Want to all hang out? No, we aren't swingers."

3. "Call me. 555-1234."

4. "I see in your fridge that you have some butter, can I snag a stick? I'm out."

I'm still working on that one... definitely will keep you posted.

One of our favorite new neighbors is a furry little critter that keeps following me home. No, not Zane. His name's Gato and he's the neighborhood bakery's cat. He is quite possibly the friendliest little pal anyone could ask for and he literally followed us home, into our building one day. He loves to be pet and meows up a storm. A girl on the street informed us that the bakery lets him out at night to wander and make friends and people "borrow" him and bring him into their apartments. "Don't worry," she says "he'll let you know when he wants to leave. He just scratches at the door." Zane and I melted inside at the thought of a part time pet and have been anxiously waiting for his return so we can scoop him up and steal him for an hour or two. Hopefully he won't pee in our bathtub like our last cat did. Unless that was Old Man Greecey...

So now that you have met all of our fun loving neighbors and have grown to love them as we have, let me tell you a quick tale of late. Casually going to the recycle barrel the other day, I was sorting my plastics and papers when lo and behold, in the barrel alongside my corrugated cardboard and old news lay a collection of magazines. Now I am not much of a magazine thrower-outer and always welcome more materials for collages and bathroom literature. As I flipped over the recycled rag I discovered something new about my loving neighbors. They like porn. Lots and lots of porn. And not like normal porn. We're talking boobs that would make "Jugs" blush. How these ladies manage through the day without backaches and shoulder strain is beyond me, but they appear to be very happy. Buoyantly happy. But why on Earth they'd choose mesh lingerie as their preferred method of support is beyond me. You'd need a forklift to maintain any semblance of perkiness.

Of course I brought one of the magazines up to Zane as a little present for making me bring out the recycling. We enjoyed flipping through the pages and laughing our heads off at what any other magazine would have the title "Morbidly Obese Women Who Only Gain Weight in Their Chests." We laughed and laughed until we realized the pages started getting a little crinklier. Then we cried a little and vowed never to speak of it again. After 10 rounds of hand sanitizer and 3 sessions with a neighborhood shrink, we've returned to our definition of normalcy. But still, that lingering question.... who, oh who, is the Watermelon Wanton?