The Time I Got Kidnapped.

21 Feb

I am not going to lie. I was a little turd as a child. I loooooved getting into mischief.  I especially enjoyed torturing my poor mother.  Here are just a handful of things I did to drive her to the brink of insanity:

  • Threw a tantrum while she was carrying me down the stairs, causing her to fall down them and subsequently break her leg (I knew she’d broken her leg when I was little, but had no idea that I was the root cause of it until I was like 18)
  • Climbed on top of the refrigerator while her leg was broken and she was in a cast up to her buttcheek, rendering her helpless to catch me
  • Snuck into her bedroom late at night, tap her until she woke up, hide, and then run away.  Repeat 10 times.
  • Snuck up behind her while she was sitting in her rocking recliner, jerk it backwards to make her feel like she was going to flip end over end, and then run away with glee

But none of those experiences even compare to the time I pretended I got kidnapped.

Let’s take a little trip back in time, shall we?

back to the future

The year:  approximately 1983.  Age:  4 years old.

My mom decided she needed something at this old department store called Montgomery Ward.  It was a store at a mall not too far from our house.  My dad was at work, so she had to take my little evil ass with her.

I loved going to the mall.  I was so excited.


So she packed my evilness in the car and off to the mall we went.

My mom was on a mission, so we did some serious mall-walking to get to what she wanted (clothes of some sort).  We walked through shelves and racks of clothes until we got to the rack she was searching for.  Until this point, she’d had a firm grip on my hand because she knew I would take off running.  Because I was evil.  This was before the days of child leashes (not that I condone the use of those but I’m just sayin’ – I may’ve needed to be on one).  Anyway, briefly, she let go of my hand to rifle through some shirts hanging on a rack.

Suddenly, I had an idea.


Before my mom had a chance to even realize she’d let go of my hand, I tiptoed to an adjacent circular rack of clothing and hid in the middle of it.

I could still see my mom from where I was hiding, but she could not see me.  Within seconds she realized that I was not next to her.  She remained calm at first, looking around the aisles and different racks of clothes.  But her calm turned into panic after a few minutes of searching for me.

Before I knew it, my mom ran off and I couldn’t see her anymore.  I continued to stay hidden in the rack of clothes, giggling away like the evil little spawn that I was.


Soon, she returned to near the rack I was hiding in, accompanied by a security guard.  They began frantically searching for me while I sat there and giggled…and giggled…and giggled.

Then I started to get bored.  Sitting in that rack of clothes was losing it’s coolness fast.  Just as I decided that maybe it was time for me to fess up, I heard the security guard tell my mom that he was going to radio the police department.

And even as a 4-year old, I knew that was a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad idea.


Naturally, I began to panic a little.


I sat there in my rotunda of overpriced bejewelled sweatshirts and weighed my options.  1.)  I could fess up on my own, wherein I would be punished by being hung upside down by my toes, taken to the orphanage, being sent to my room without dinner (which would inevitably turn into a meager diet of bread and water for the rest of my natural-born life), or any other combination of the varitable punishments my mother had threatened me with over the years, or 2.) I could wait for the police to arrive, find me, arrest me, and be thrown in jail for the rest of my days.  While the second option was, for a fleeting moment, slightly more favorable than facing my mother after pulling such a stunt, I decided that it would inevitably be better to just fess up and face the music.

As I stepped out of the clothes rack, I remember very clearly thinking that I needed to make myself look as sad and pathetic as possible.



It did not work.

Needless to say, after my mother got done ripping into me, she let the security guard take a turn.  And nothing makes a child cry faster or harder than when a strange man with a badge and a 80’s porn ‘stache berates you for scaring the shit out of your mother.

And that is the tale of the time I pretended I had been kidnapped.



The Tale of the Bathroom That Never Gets Used

3 Jan

My friend Mikki recently moved into a new house. Tonight she texted me saying she found approximately 20 cat litter containers scattered about the house, all filled with water, left by the previous owners. She said that though it was creepy it was nothing compared to the horror that we discovered moving into our first house nearly 5 years ago.

Storytime, bitches.

Kevin and I moved into our house in July of 2008.  We had previously lived in an apartment.  Now, if you have lived in an apartment before, you will know that in order to get your full deposit back, you have to clean the hell out of your place.  Our apartment had very strict instructions on what to clean.  For example, we didn’t get something like $20 back because I had forgotten to dust a few baseboards.  Seriously strict.  So, when we moved into our house, we expected it to be pretty clean.

It was not.

I mean, granted, it was not completely filthy and disgusting, but it was not sparkling clean either.  For instance, there were a ton of crumbs in that drawer underneath the oven.  And that is gross because they’re not YOUR crumbs, they’re some other random person’s crumbs.

Anyway, I knew that the previous owner of our house was a single male, and I made the assumption at that point that I was going to find a lot random grossness everywhere.  Also, our house had not been lived in for about 6 months so it was in need of a good scrubbing.  In anticipation of that, I took a week off of work to thoroughly clean every single room before we moved all of our belongings in.

Throughout the week, I purposely avoided cleaning the small bathroom directly off of our master bedroom.  I knew this was the bathroom the previous owner primarily used, and I was not looking forward to cleaning it.  Occasionally I would go in there, sniff around for a second, look in horror at the state of the toilet, and retreat as quickly as possible.


Finally, the house was thoroughly vaccuumed, sanitized, disinfected, scrubbed, washed down, wiped down, and dusted.  Every room except the tiny bathroom of doom.  I had no choice.  I had to go in there.  “Just like ripping off a Band-Aid, Dawn,” I thought to myself.  “Just do it already.”

So I yanked my yellow rubber gloves up to my elbows, grabbed a bottle of bleach, and stepped gingerly into the bathroom.

“My God,” I immediately thought.  “It frigging stinks in here.  Like mustiness and pee and…” I shook my head.  I didn’t care to think too deeply about what exactly I was smelling.

I cautiously cleaned the toilet, and then recleaned it for good measure.  I scrubbed out the shower, mopped the tile, and wiped down the walls and floorboards.  I took a little break and then went back in one last time to put paper liners in the drawers and cabinets of the vanity.  “This hasn’t been as bad as I thought it was going to be!” I said to myself.  “I was scared for nothing.”

And then I opened the drawer of the vanity.

In it lay a horrible sight.  It took me a few seconds to realize what I was looking at.  “Is that…?”

Yes.  Yes it was, in fact, a drawer…




We are not talking one or two rogue fingernails that may’ve accidentally flown into the drawer.  This jackass actually clipped his fingernails into the drawer and left them there.  We are talking hundreds of nails.  Maybe thousands.

So I did what any normal human being would do.

I lost my ever-loving mind.





And to this day I refuse to use that bathroom.

Dinner Shenanigans.

4 Oct

In true Novak form, tonight I made a new meal for dinner.  I literally thought there was no way Kevin could hate it.  It was a chicken parmesan dish, and there was absolutely nothing weird in it.  No strange vegetables or textures or smells.  Just chicken, some spices, some tomato sauce, and some cheese.  I even diced up onions and garlic by hand.


I laid a plate in front of Kevin.  I was so excited.  I KNEW he was going to like this meal.

He takes a bite.  Chews.  Swallows.  Blinks.  Another bite.  Chew swallow blink.

“Well?”  I say.


I am immediately suspicious.  “Be honest.” I demand.

He hesitates.  “It’s…okay.”


We proceed to eat in silence, except for an occasional, hopeful, “Do you like it yet?” from me, somehow expecting that the more he eats, the faster he will realize that I am, in fact, a culinary genius and he is, in fact, a jerkface.

Kevin finishes his portion, and when I ask him if he’d like seconds, he quickly says, “No thanks,” and gets up to get a drink.

I sigh, and carry my plate to the sink.

And as I pass by his chair, I glance at his plate and find this:

Yes, friends.  That would be the gooey cheese he scraped off the top of his chicken parmesan.  Because it was too gooey.


Top O’ the Muffin To Ya!

20 Sep

A conversation at the gym today:

Trainer:  How’s your nutrition been?

Me:  *hesitates*….I like carbs.  A lot.

Trainer:  Well, do you like your muffin top?




For the record, he was kidding.  Also for the record, mainly everything I ate today was chock-full of carbs.  Delicious, delicious carbs.


My husband, the pickiest eater on Earth

19 Sep

My husband Kevin is pretty awesome.  He’s crazy smart, super-funny, sweet, caring, etc. etc. etc.  I could go on and on.
His one major flaw?  He is the pickiest eater ever.  EVER.

It’s insane what this man will eat, what he refuses to eat, and what food he needs to alter in order to make it acceptable to eat.

He will eat chicken noodle soup, but picks out any celery he might find in it.  He won’t eat spaghetti noodles because he doesn’t like the shape (bowtie and penne pastas are acceptable alternatives).  Vegetables are refused immediately (broccoli is often referred as a ‘vile weed,’ ala Newman from Seinfeld).  He WILL eat corn as a side dish, but he WON’T eat corn IN a dish (for example, enchiladas).  Which is fine, because he really doesn’t like enchiladas anyway.  He likes dill pickles on the side of his burgers but never on them.  He overcooks frozen pizza so the cheese is slightly burned because he has an aversion to gooey cheese.

This is just a small compilation, my friends.

Pickiness when it comes to food is a foreign concept to me.  Kevin and I talked over dinner one night about what foods I DON’T like.  I couldn’t think of one.  I’m not fond of radishes, but will eat them.  I guess I don’t care for runny eggs.  I’ve never actually eaten liver but I imagine I wouldn’t like it.  That’s about it.

To his credit, Kevin does try new things when I make them.  I cook things that I really, really think he will like, taking care to not purposefully feed him something he loathes, but rather incorporate those things in a way where he won’t make a barf face as he eats.  The process usually goes like this:

I make a sensational (okay, fine. Edible) meal, which is usually healthy and mainly made of foods he likes, or at least tolerates.  I set the plate with said food in front of him. And wait.

I am excited.

I am hopeful.

I wait with quiet anticipation, hoping that this will be a new favorite dish.

And 95% of the time, this is his reaction:

And then I’m like

Needless to say, there are about 5 meals in our dinner rotation.  When I don’t cook (partially out of laziness but mainly due to sheer frustration over not being able to find something he really, truly enjoys eating), Kevin’s main food groups consist of:

Just this past Sunday, I didn’t feel much like cooking so while at the grocery store I grabbed a few cans of soup and some bread to make soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.  Tomato soup, of course, goes the best with grilled cheese but, of course, Kevin has always told me he doesn’t like tomato soup so I bought him some chicken noodle instead.  I got home and told him my dinner plan.  He was all, “You didn’t buy tomato soup?  Tomato soup is what you’re supposed to eat with grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Oh, WTF.

So for dinner he got a grilled cheese sandwich (with only 3/4 piece of cheese – remember the aversion to gooey cheese) that may or may not have been squished paper-thin out of frustration.

In the end, I am determined to find foods that Kevin will eat and actually enjoy and that are actually somewhat healthy.  Again to his credit, he always thanks me after cooking dinner and tells me he appreciates my efforts, which softens the blow a bit.  Plus he does the dishes, which I hate doing, so that helps too.

Despite his pickiness, I really do love him, I swear. 🙂

What I did today instead of buying pants

17 Sep

We have a new dress code that is being enforced at work soon.  As of October 1st, we will no longer be allowed to wear denim.  Correction – we will no longer be allowed to wear BLUE denim, but colored denim is fine.  So, these are not acceptable:

But these apparently are acceptable dress code options:

And I’m all:

I hate shopping for pants.  Loathe.  Despise.  HATE.  I have had the same black dress pants that I bought back in 1999.  (Back off, I wear them once every 2 years.)  I have purchased jeans from the same store in the same style for the last 8 years, and I swear if said store ever discontinues that style, I will cry tears of fiery rage.  Buying pants of any kind is a pretty difficult feat due to my shape and short, stubby legs.  Bottom line – if I don’t have to shop for pants, I don’t.  And I haven’t for many, many years.  Until this dress code thing came into play.

We’re quickly approaching Judgement Day, and I’ve yet to go shopping for appropriate work pants.  I knew I had to go today and at least check out my options.  But I didn’t want to.  Oh, how I didn’t want to.  There is one thing you should know about me – I am the queen of avoidance.  If I don’t want to do something, I will find literally ANY excuse to avoid doing said chore.  That’s exactly what happened this morning.  So, in no particular order, here are some things that I did this morning in order to avoid going on a quest for pants.  Stupid, stupid pants.

-Paced back and forth from the kitchen to the living room no less than 20 times

-Made 3 cups of coffee

-Caught up on episodes of My Drunk Kitchen and Jenna Marbles on youtube

-Puppy snuggles!

-Stared at my eyebrows in the bathroom mirror; proceeded to make funny faces at myself

-Rearranged the dishes in the kitchen sink

-Thought about emptying the dishwasher in order to put said dishes in rather than simply rearranging them

-More puppy snuggles!!!

-Googled “biggest movie mistakes of all time,” “benefits of the Paleo diet,” “Why do Taylor Swift’s teeth look so weird?,” and “Back to the Future inventions that actually came true”

-Attempted to french braid my hair

-E-mailed a question to a psychic

-Attempted to weenie-wrap our dog Newman in a blanket like a baby

Ultimately, I ran out of pointless things to do and begrudgingly got dressed and went shopping in preparation for Pantsapalooza 2012.  After hitting 3 stores with no success, I began to feel myself get emotional.

I went from this:

to this:

to this:

and finally this:

I eventually found a pair of brown pants at Wal-Mart of all places that are certainly not going to win me any fashion awards but at least don’t 1.) make me look like a Target employee, 2.) give me camel toe, or 3.) make me look elderly, so I will consider it a small success.  I have decided, though, that I am going to stop stressing over something as silly as pants and take this attitude instead:

Happy Sunday, ya’ll.