I Wanna Kia!

December 16, 2013 at 12:41 pm | Posted in Around Boston | 2 Comments
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I recently said goodbye to the cursed car (that actually turned out to be a great ride once finally fixed), and bought myself a big girl car.  And yes, I say that with every bit of irony I can muster because, as we all know, a woman shopping for a new car alone is ill-advised, so my dad came to help remove the target from my wallet (while the hubs stayed home with the baby).  Annnyway…

At one of the local car dealerships, as RWFOTB and I waited through the “let-me-talk-to-my-manager” negotiation process, we overheard a curious conversation: A middle-aged woman (with her mother in-tow) was standing firm against a sales guy.  He was trying to convince her of the benefits of the Camry, but she wasn’t having it.

Even these rodents can get a Kia!  Step up your game, lady!

Even these rodents can get a Kia! Step up your game, lady!

“I wanna Kia!” she insisted.  “I don’t want no Camry, I wanna Kia.”

We couldn’t help it – dad and I tried to keep our laughter quiet.  But the woman was adamant.  She would accept no substitute.  And even though the sales guy was trying to be polite, we couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room… we were at a Toyota dealership! 

Yeah.

So we may have remarked, loudly enough to be overheard, “Perhaps she’d have better luck at a Kia dealership.” 

The woman just glared and continued her fight.  The salesman looked sheepishly grateful, before saying: “Well, I don’t have any Kia’s here right now, but perhaps we could consider the Corolla?”

“Yeah, but,” and here dad and I mouthed the phrase we knew was coming next,” I wanna Kia!”

Good luck, lady. 

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What I Learned in San Diego

April 25, 2012 at 10:10 am | Posted in Family, Home Ownership | 2 Comments
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Nota Bene: If you have a weak tummy, skip to the second paragraph. 

When I last blogged, I was sitting in the airport terminal after having tossed my cookies on the Logan Express.  My Mo’s guess (that it was a result of taking ‘roids on an empty stomach) may have worked for that first instance, but the rest of the flight will need further explanation because I ralphed the entire way.  Seated between a very proper gentleman and a 15-year-old boy, I was that girl in the middle seat who got sick over and over and over again.  The one who used every barf bag within a two-row radius, and who grossed herself out, along with most of my fellow passengers, on the flight now known as The Great Disgust of 2012.  I arrived in San Diego exhausted, ill, slightly dehydrated and thrilled to see my besty, even in the state I was in.

Anywhoodles, what I really wanted to talk about today is the surprising insight I had about my parents while visiting Rhymes-with-Tzarina.  Tzarina and I did not make any plans for our visit (other than attending a Padres game).  We hung out, watched silly TV, ran errands, walked her dog and did some apartment decorating.  And then it hit me…

I finally get it!

One night Tzarina was making dinner and I started cleaning her refrigerator door handles (of all things – weird, I know).  She gave me that look – I know because I give it to people, too – the one that says “please don’t judge me; I know I’m not perfect.”  And this realization hit me like a hipster on the latest iGadget: when my parents visit and My Mo cleans my counters or puts away dishes or brings groceries or does whatever she does, when RWFOTB works on my jungle of a yard or makes suggestions about future home improvement projects, it has nothing to do with my inadequacies (of which I have many, though they would certainly contradict that statement in the public domain) and everything to do with how much they love and want to care for me.

What I was doing had nothing to do with critiquing Tzarina (who is amazing) or her refrigerator door handles (which were fine before I even touched them), and everything to do with demonstrating my affection for someone who is the closest thing I have to a sister.

I traveled across the contiguous United States and felt closer to my parents – and that’s what family is all about. 

And because I rarely write anything too saccharine, I’ll bookend this blog with the ridiculousness of my journey home.  Waiting to board the red-eye back to Beantown (cough cough never again cough cough), I noticed the fella standing in front of me was none other than the very proper gentleman who was unfortunate enough to have had to sit next to me en route to SoCal.  He did a double take when he saw me, and, in the most polite way he could, said:

“I hope you’re feeling better… what row are you in on this flight??”

Awkward, people.  Very, very awkward. 

Photo Phriday: What Are YOU Celebrating?

June 24, 2011 at 10:23 am | Posted in Around Boston, In The Kitchen | 4 Comments
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Last weekend I made some cookies for my dad, RWFOTB, and only after I laid them out on the trays did I realize I had inadvertently pulled a Cake Wrecks kind of mistake…

This is what I baked:

Huh?

Apparently we were celebrating Fat Hers Day.

Needless to say, I rearranged the text before he woke up.  It was the least I could do, since I put him to work on Father’s Day!

Father's Day Cookies

~Sarah

Like, Bring Back the Quarter Jar

November 15, 2010 at 10:12 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 11 Comments
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When I was a teenager, my dad (you know him as RWFOTB… Although now that I’m hitched, I wonder: does he need a new nickname? A question for another time…) was a relatively patient and easy-going parent, with one glaring exception: improper use of the word “like.”

You know what I’m referring to: it’s like, when you, like, use the word like incorrectly. You know, using it as, like, a way to pause mid-sentence (or even, like, mid-phrase) or when it, like, attributes speech to someone.

The Dreaded Quarter Jar...

To put the kibosh on this habit, my dad introduced the dreaded “quarter jar.”  Every time we used “like” improperly, my brother and I (and even some of our friends) had to deposit 25 cents into the jar.  It hurt.  And let me tell you, it helped me shape up really quickly!

A few weeks ago my dad noticed I was slipping, and even though I’m now a happily married lady living under my own roof, he’s threatening to bring the jar back!

In fact, he’s probably, like, having a grammar-fit just reading this post! And he is most definitely adding up my total. Even though I’m, like, just using the phrase in jest.

So I’m going to ask for your help, dear reader(s): if you hear me use that word improperly, call me out.  Use the Cesar Millan noise on me… shake your fist at me… slug me on the arm… find some way to help me rid my speech of inappropriate uses of “like!”  I can’t spend all our honeymoon savings in the dreaded quarter jar!

~Sarah

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