a day in the life of slacking packing

I get stressed out fairly easily. When I say fairly I am using it in the most-definitely-all-the-time kind of way. It's really rather ridiculous how I can take the smallest situation and stress and overthink and ponder and wonder and worry over it until the cows coming home and get back out and come freaking home again. 

Freddie rarely gets stressed out. When I say rarely I am using it in the maybe-once-a-year kind of way. The dude is the most laid back, go with the flow, don't worry/be happy kind of dude. 

We've got a good thing going on over here.

E: OMG we are going to be late! Why did we plan better? You should call. Call. Are you calling? Ugh. Why are we late? What did we do wrong in life for this horrible late thing to happen to us.

F: ::sits there in silence::

See? A really, really good thing going on over here.

Anyways, so what was I going to talk about? Yes, packing.

Dun dun dun. The dreaded p word (t rhymes with p and that stands for pool/packing) (bloggy bonus points to whomever can name that musical). 

We are moving across the way this weekend into a newer, nicer, hardwood floored condo. Which means there is going to be a lot of rug talk going on here soon...but anyways, back to moving and packing.  We have been slowly going through stuff, throwing away stuff, and giving away more stuff. I thought we had been keeping up a pretty good packing pace. A little boxing up here, a little throwing out stuff there, and voila! The last week to pack is upon us. No big deal, right?

WRONG. SO WRONG.

Three nights ago was a Monday night which means it was an ew, gross night. Mondays are long and this one was made longer by the kind of Monday-ness that was going on this past Monday. Catch my drift? We ate some din din, hardcore finished the kitchen and the pantry, and had plans to finish the china cabinet. I was rocking out to my music, stopping for the ever-so frequent dance party when Ricky started to get stressed. I could tell he was stressed because he was laughing at me in the haha oh you're dancing? WHY ARE YOU DANCING WHEN WE SHOULD BE PACKING? kind of way. I ignored the jaded laugh because I mean, it was Monday and I wanted to dance. I also wanted to eat Freddie's leftover birthday eclair because yummy so I had plans to sit on my booty and eat that eclair as soon as we were done for the night.

My view from the couch. Err, I mean from packing stuff around the couch. 

Except we were never done for the night. Never! The work is never done! <<what Rick sounded like that night. Freddie started listing off everything we still had to pack and wanted to take me on a walking tour of the apartment so we could see his list in person, but the thing is....we didn't need to take a walking tour because I knew everything that is left and we are fine.

We are fine. 
We can sit down and eat some eclair for a break. We don't have to work until midnight. We don't have to box up all our underwear because I would like to have some to wear until the weekend. Because we will be just fine come this weekend.

And I promise not to freak out to him if we aren't fine. Because stopping to eat some eclair will have been worth it. 

And that, my friends, is the story of how Freddie and I upped and switched personalities after one year and one month of marriage. 

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

Ever since Freddie moved into this apartment in July 2013 we've heard the rumor that Darius Rucker lives in the small neighborhood behind our complex. Some locals said Yeah, das right to that rumor so Freddie and I have enjoyed stalking driving around picking out which house we think is Mr. Rucker's.

Oh, that one is huge. Totally his.

This one has a security gate. It's got to be his.

No, no this one! Look at it! So fancy. That's obviously a Darius house.

And then some local paper did a feature on the decor in the Rucker home and 1) spoiler alert: it's beautiful and 2) we figured out which house it is and 3) we were totally right with our first house guess. 

 Here we are one year and two months later and we have yet to see our friendly neighbor Darius. We have yet to be invited to his neighborhood parties, more like.  We always hear of Darius sightings at Publix (the Publix we shop at multiple times per week). Nope, never a Darius sighting there for we common Weiss folk. We always hear of Darius sightings at Target (the Target that is right next to the studio where I teach). Nope, never a Darius sighting there for we common Weiss folk. Not even a Darius sighting when I go for my s-l-oooooo-w run through his neighborhood. Home boy likes to hide, obviously. 

Well, no sighting until this past Sunday, that is.

!!!!!

That's right. 

We common Weiss folk are now some not-so-common Weiss folk/best friends with Darius Rucker folk. 

Let me set the scene for ya.

We were driving back home after a weekend full of 30 year old birthday partying. Read: it was a crazy weekend. Bodies were tired, brains were achy, and stomach were hungry. As we turned onto our street we noticed we were behind a rather large tour bus. 

Ummmmmm, hey Darius. 

Suddenly bodies and brains and stomachs weren't so important because following the bus was important. We not-so-creepily passed our complex, turned the corner and watched the bus back up to Darius' house. In order to look like just a regular 'ole neighbor who was used to Darius and big tour buses pulling up on a Sunday, we did one lap around the cul-de-sac and came back around. 

And there was Darius. Stepping off the bus with a baseball cap on his head and little bag on his arm. No big deal. Just another Sunday Funday. 

Eeeeeeeek!!!! and squeal!! And clapping and no freakin' ways being said! 

Then we realized the windows were rolled down and suddenly we didn't look like the regular 'ole living-by-Darius neighbors. 

Who. Cares. The week we move 4 miles across town is the week we finally saw Darius Rucker and all is right with the world. 

five ways to tell that it is "fall" in the south

I'm so glad it's almost fall for most of you and yadda yadda yadda. Really, I'm so glad. But here in the low country it is still 90 degrees (give or take a few extra 10 degrees) and while I'd love to pull on my jacket for a nippy evening walk, that just ain't happenin' until...December? January? 

Since we poor beach folk don't have the weather to knock on our doors and tell us when fall is coming, we have to get creative and figure out other ways to tell the changing of the seasons...

one

Everyone else is Instagramming pictures like this:

via

...while I'm still going outside wondering if I have to wear a shirt. Or even pants. Do sundresses work year round? No? Wait, it's not June?

two

Hobby Lobby has Christmas stuff on display.

Oh, der, that just means it's the end of July. Not fall. My bad.

three

Everyone in the whole wide world is going gaga over Pumpkin Spice Lattes from Starbucks and/or all pumpkin flavored food items from Trader Joe's.

I'm going gaga over ice cold water and AC. No food needed. Buuuut, I will take some chocolate. 

four

Jackets are coming out as accessories used for layering. 

Jackets are out and have been out because it's so dang cold indoors with the AC blasting. 65 degrees inside and 105 outside. 

five
Meanwhile the leaves are turning beautiful warm colors and falling to the ground with a crispy landing.
...and over here the palm fronds stay the same. Nobody is running around stepping on the crunchy fallen palm fronds, that's for sure.

Palm fronds in the winter. Ice, ice, baby. 

Happy weekend!
Linking up with Amanda, Karli, and Lauren.

30 years

Happy 30th Birthday to dude with the best laugh.

To man who stretches out his legs and points his toes just to show off how sexy they are.

And to further prove my theory that he would make the best ballerina man.

To the guy who wants nothing more in life than a good back and head scratch. And for his wife to not cut her fingernails (ew).

It's the little things, people. 

To the Freddiehusband who wrote the sweetest wedding vows. Vows that included his promise to sing and dance with me every day. 

Except he won't sing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang with me...

To the boy roommate who puts up with my nicknames for him. Rick is the latest one. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiick! 

To the chef who cooks delicious feasts and loves every second in the kitchen.  

To the 30 year old who still knows how to have fun like a <insert younger age> year old. 

I felt creepy saying anything younger than a 10 year old. And we all know teenagers don't know how to have fun. 

Happy Birthday, Freddie (Rick)!

I love you a lot more than just 30 years worth of lurve. 

Now...let's eat some cake. 

30 years worth of cake, that is. Muah!

lessons learned from a weekend

Sometimes in life you just have to suck it up and buy the pixie pants at J. Crew.

And take a Pure Barre class to wake up your tiniest ab and booty and leg muscles that you haven't felt in years and/or ever. Lift and hold. And tuck and freeze. And bend stretch. And...ow. 

And have a dinner/game night/slumber party with your friends.

And buy the chocolate covered pretzels from Trader Joe's because...well, yum. 

That up there ^^ that was my weekend. It was a glorious one. 

Now it's Freddie's birthday week. We're not talking just any birthday week, we're talking his 30th birthday week. 

30 years! 

Tear, they grow up so fast.

Here's hoping our future children are just as cute as little Frederick. Fingers crossed.