Love Me Do

Scott and I had been dating about a month. We were driving down Race Street when I said, "Hey, you want to play a game?" The purpose of the game was to find out what your song as a couple is, and the rules are very, very simple. You hit "seek" on your radio, and the song playing on whatever station you end up on is your song. Since we hadn't been together that long and my childlike games were still cute and endearing to him, he said yes. (Since then, his humoring my car games has dwindled, especially since he got a speeding ticket while concentrating too hard during 20 Questions one time.)

I pushed the button, and the song that was playing caught me completely off guard. It was "Love Me Do" by the Beatles.

Now, let me take a moment to explain the seriousness of this occurrence. In case you don't know, I love the Beatles. (And if you didn't know that, you must not know me. Why are you reading this blog then?) While most teenage girls had pictures of N*SYNC or the Backstreet Boys plastered on their walls, John, Paul, George and Ringo kept me company in mine. I had Beatles shirts, lunchboxes, coffee mugs, movies and so on. When I was a junior in high school, I skipped out on the Junior/Senior Banquet (a church of Christ high school's version of prom) to go to a Beatles tribute band concert. (It is here that I will end my list of ways I love the Beatles at the risk of sounding like a crazy person. I don't have any locks of hair. Although, I'd be willing to talk to you if you have a way of getting one for me — especially George's.)

 Giddy as a schoolgirl and on the verge of tears upon receiving the completely remastered Beatles' box set for Christmas. This is serious, people!

I'm not one to believe in signs, especially the movie "Signs" (what was the deal with that Swamp Thing looking alien anyway?), but I couldn't avoid this one. There it was, staring me in the face — my sign that this guy who was driving us to Lenny's had to be "the one" because fate had the Beatles playing on this radio station. And it was a song about love, too! It wasn't "Happiness Is a Warm Gun," "I Am the Walrus" or "Get Back."

Whenever I hear that song, I'm reminded of that moment — the moment I knew Scott was the one who was going to "love me do."

Weekend for Schmucks

Friday

Got off work a little early and headed down to Horatio to visit my mother-in-law and her husband for the weekend.

Decided that life would be easier if we had 1) an airplane and 2) $1 billion.

(We kept saying we wouldn't be greedy and take $2 million, but, if we're dreaming, we're going to dream big.)

When we got there, we learned the highly addictive nature of Words With Friends.

Decided the list of things that would make life easier should include an iPad or iPod Touch.

Saturday

Woke up, played more Words With Friends, ate breakfast and went to visit Scott's great-grandparents.

Drove to Texarkana to visit with Clay, Laci and Zane and eat lots of yummy barbecue. 

I left feeling like that pig — but without the overalls.

Got to hold (and be slobbered on by) baby Zane, which is completely acceptable when you're as adorable as he is.

Went to see "Dinner for Schmucks" and laughed a lot.

My favorite part is begins at 0:12.

 Came back home and played more Words With Friends while we ate homemade ice cream.

(Seriously! An iPod Touch needs to be in my future!)

Sunday

Went to church and then to Papa Poblano's for lunch afterward.

Ate a lot of chips, salsa and Mexican rice.

Drove back home.

Ate dinner while we emptied out the DVR.

Ended the night the best way possible: snuggled up on the couch with popcorn and "Mad Men."

(Dear Don, Please don't be so drunk and cheer up. Love, Jennifer)

*The title of this post is not meant to imply that I spent my weekend with schmucks. Quite the contrary. I have amazing in-laws who I would not trade for the world. And I like the word schmucks.

Here's to you, Mrs. Hannigan

I have the honor of sharing the same last name with the always-inebriated orphanage manager Mrs. Hannigan from "Annie." It wasn't until I was already pretty hooked on Scott that I realized this coincidence and how annoying it would be for me, a future teacher at the time, to have classrooms full of children whining at me, "We love you, Mrs. Hannigan," like the orphans in the movie.

When I was student-teaching, I was fairly confident that children born in the late 90s wouldn't be familiar with "Annie" or anything I might have ever watched on a VHS tape (let alone know what a VHS tape is), and, therefore, I was safe from having them repeat that line to me.

Lucky me, I ended up being placed at the school that had just performed "Annie" as their winter musical.

It's not that I don't love my new-ish last name (I mean, it makes my full name so symmetrical: Jennifer Hannigan), but after a semester of having those students say that to me, and even having it frosted onto my going-away cake, I was happy that I might never have to hear "Mrs. Hannigan" again.

Wrong times two.

This fall I will be an adjunct instructor in the Harding's English department, teaching one section of English 111, otherwise known as Composition 1, to 24 freshmen/sophomores/lazy senior who waited until the last minute to fulfill this gen ed requirement.

Honestly I never thought I'd teach again. Although I had a funky little double cross beside my name in the graduation program indicating that I received my teaching licensure, implementing the powers of the double cross was not in the cards.

A little clip from my program

That little symbol tacked on a bit of practicality to my slightly impractical major. I mean, what do you do with a degree in English? Unlike other most majors, there's not a clear direction for that degree. There's further schooling, unemployment, or teaching with some truly golden opportunities sprinkled in there, convincing you an English degree is the way to go.

When I got my current job, it was as if the great saints of literature had thrown me a bone, giving me one of the few gems of a job where you write and get paid! Brilliant. That little teaching license found its way into a folder, in a box, in a closet. Buh-bye, teaching career.

It wasn't that I didn't want to teach. There was a little part of my brain where the want lived. It was very rewarding, passing on my love of something to my students, even if they didn't necessarily love it in return. It was just that, at least on that grade level or at that time in my life, it wasn't the goal.

In the same folder where my three-year teaching certificate is waiting to expire sits a handful of cards from each of the different sections of English I student-taught. Inside are little statements of love and encouragement (and even one phone number from a very delusional seventh-grade boy), wishing me well on my teaching journey. Re-reading these a little while ago, I felt a little bad — as if I had lied to those classes. They were all wishing me bon voyage on a journey I had little drive on which to go.

So, after two years of early teaching retirement (sort of like how Amanda Bynes retired from acting... for three months), I've decided there's still some kick left in me yet. Maybe I'll try this teaching thing after all.

Wish me (and perhaps the students I'm going to teach) a little luck. I'll probably need it.

Not-so-Iron Chef

I don't cook.

Whenever I say that someone inevitably pipes up, "Aww, poor Scott. What does he do?" That's when I just smile and say, "He starves! Bwahahaha!" and stroke my evil minion cat, spinning around in my evil-ruler chair of evil.

No, that's not right. He gets a crust of bread and glass of water.

The truth is, he cooks — and very well, I might add. Some men don't even know their way around the kitchen or the ingredients that go into a grilled cheese ("Does it include heating up the grill?"), but my spectacular husband can whip up some pretty stellar dishes. See proof below.

Rice and asparagus frittata with biscuits

I know you've seen this before, but it was so good I had to show it again.

Try not to drool on the keyboard, OK?

Cooking stresses me out. There's a lot going on when it comes to pulling together a meal. Lots of directions, timing, keeping cool under pressure — all of which I'm terrible at. My mom always told me that she hoped that I would marry someone who could cook, otherwise I'd be stuck eating cereal and Lean Cuisines for the rest of my life. (Which is fine with me because I love pasta and can eat a spaghetti Lean Cuisine for 290 calories! Carbs and calorie-conscious? Sign me up!)

I'm the girl who thought that the water I'd just boiled was super-heated and deadly after watching a special on 20/20. While living in the dorm, I set an entire pan of brownies ablaze when the marshmallows I'd placed on top got too close to the broiler (as in touching the broiler). I've also burned scrambled eggs, Pop Tarts, toast, various bodily appendages, butter, and cheese. Me + kitchen - common cooking skills = fire.

I remember talking with my great-grandmother last year while she was still in the nursing home and listening to her tell me about how she would cook dinner every night for my great-grandfather from scratch.

There were no microwave dinners or "oh, we'll just order pizza" nights. And these weren't small dinners, either. There was a meat, veggies, bread of some form, and probably a dessert. She told me how, for her, the easiest bread option was biscuits. "Most people," she said, "would think that cornbread would be easier, but it was too much for me. I would just make biscuits every night. And your Daddy Bob liked biscuits better anyway. Can you make biscuits for Scott?"

Well, in her definition of the word "make," no. I can pop open a Pillsbury can, which is always momentarily heart stopping, and set out the preformed biscuit rounds on a cookie sheet and set the oven timer to 20 minutes. That's how I "make" them. But it's a secret recipe, so don't tell anyone.

I'm beyond thankful that I have a husband who is willing to cook dinner every night (even if it's just sandwiches — which are really his all-time favorite anyway) and who enjoys it.

And just so you don't think I sit around the house in my mu-mu, eating bon-bons while watching television (What am I? 80?), I do wash the dishes post-dinner and give Scott a "thank you" hug and kiss — and he thanks me for not setting the house on fire.

Lazy days of summer

Another weekend, come and gone. It can be pretty depressing.

Friday

Looked a lot like last Friday, but, instead of Brick Oven, Scott cooked some amazing breaded chicken with asparagus and sweet potato French fries.

Saturday

Scott spent the morning helping at the Day of Caring with the bank and handed out food to people in the community.
I gave the bushes in the front flower bed a much needed trim, despite the fact that my visit with the allergist on Thursday determined that I'm allergic to pretty much everything outside. Luckily, the sneezes didn't hit until I was mostly finished with the second one. And there were no dogs and cats in the area.

I learned that when the heat index for the day is going to be 110, there is no cool part of the day. I went out at 9 a.m., and it already felt like 100.

I'm no Edward Scissorhands, but I think my dad would be proud.

Once Scott got back, we went to spend the rest of the day in Little Rock.
Saw "Inception" and had our minds blown.
(I don't know if I'm still completely sure what happened in that movie, but I enjoyed it just the same! Besides, I love any movie where they have to assemble the gang at the beginning.)
Ate at the Red Door afterward and had lots of good food (plus the most delicious cheese dip in the history of the world).

Sunday

Went to church and thoroughly enjoyed Baby Sunday, where they present the new babies that have been born in the congregation throughout the year.

Lots of Baby Sunday/Lazy Sunday parodies occurred.

Might have teared up a few times.

Had a gloriously lazy afternoon.

Ate an amazing dinner (pork, mashed potatoes and asparagus) prepared by my wonderful husband.

I could write pages about how well he cooks/over feeds me.

Watched the season four premiere of "Mad Men."

Realized that an hour of that show is never, ever enough.

Remembered that tomorrow was Monday and became sad.

The bright side is we're only four days away from another weekend!

Mad Men: The Carousel

Mad Men returns Sunday night! I'm super excited to see what's going to happen with Sterling Cooper Draper Price.

In honor of this momentous event, please enjoy my favorite scene from Mad Men ever: The Carousel.

Click to watch since YouTube is dumb and wouldn't let me embed it.

(And if it doesn't get you a little choked up, then you're dead inside.)

Where I discover I'm turning into my father

Fact: My dad is cuter than your dad.

My dad asks lots of questions. My sister, Courtney, and I have joked that is brain can only process information if it's the result of a question he's asked.

For example, if I were to say, "Hey, Dad! Today at work I wrote an article for the magazine on what gets said on campus tour. Then I went to lunch with my coworker Heather, and Courtney called me on her way to physical therapy," Dad would reply, "So, what did you do today?" "Who did you go to lunch with?" "Did Courtney call you?"

Courtney and I blame it on his occupation. As an optometrist, all he does is ask questions: "Which is better — one or two? Three or four? Can you read that top line?" and so on. He also checks peoples' eyes and gets them glasses and stuff, but, mainly, it's questions.

When I got home from work the other night, I was asking Scott how his day was, what was for dinner, what was in the mail, did he get a text from Morris, where's Waldo, whose line is it anyway, whatdya want from me, what is this, what was that ... and then he stopped me mid-interrogation asking me to cool it with the questions.

(I was going to have a hilarious clip from Friends right here from when Monica and Chandler had just gotten back from their honeymoon and Chandler was telling Monica that the reason their new plane friends had fake-numbered them was because of all of the questions she asked. "Just the sheer volume of them. It was like flying with the Riddler!" But YouTube doesn't seem to care that I need that clip to illustrate my point and, therefore, doesn't have it. So insensitive.)

And then it hit me. I'm turning into my dad. 

(Thankfully, YouTube did have a clip of Rachel going through my same dilemma, complete with weird subtitles.)

This was completely unexpected for me. I mean, I know that I'm turning into my mom. Despite my best efforts, it is unavoidable. It's slowly started already with my penchant for necklaces and accessorizing. Soon I'll have the whole Chico's jewelry line overflowing in my dresser drawers, know the exact location of every T.J. Maxx in a 50 mile radius of my house, lure small children to sit with me at church with my bag of toys, and say "salmon" without the silent L. This is my lot in life. I have come to accept it.

I draw the line at brightly colored capri pants.

But, becoming Dad, too? I mean, that's Courtney's problem, right? She's the one with the extreme practicality, the over-concern for spending, need to succeed, etc. She is my dad's mini me.

I quickly shook off the initial shock and attributed it to my own occupation. When I interview people for a magazine story, I ask lots and lots of questions. I go into each interview with a list of questions, mapped out like a choose-your-own-adventure novel. Whether the question is yes or no, I have a corresponding follow-up question. Even while they're answering one of the 58 questions I've planned for them, my mind is constantly churning with more and more inquiries.

I comfort myself with the fact that maybe this characteristic will fill in the hole where my mom's T.J. Maxx honing beacon was going to be placed, thus sparing me from knowing every salesperson by name. I can take asking a high volume of questions if that is the case.

So, if you find yourself in a conversation with me and things start to get a little too much like the Spanish Inquisition, just pat me on the shoulder and tell me I'm my father's child. I'll get the message.

(Let me say that both of my parents have very admirable traits as well, like my mom's ability to make friends with complete strangers in five minutes flat, how she volunteers to help anyone with anything, her obvious pride in her children, fierce love of family, or dad's hard work ethic and "if you're going to do it, do it right" mentality, his tender heart and desire to help, and the way he wants nothing more to see his children happy. I can only hope that I'll one day realize I've been given these, too. Just not the capri pants, OK?)