Hide A... what?

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Y'all know the theme of Recently Roached by now, ya? Three words: Feel sorry for Grahm. Okay, that's four. This is a daily theme in our marriage, but some days truly triumph others.

Like last night.

Headed to the park for a six-mile run, got out of my truck while talking to mom on the phone... and bam. Locked my keys in the car. This was a problem (your fault, mom). The other problems involved freezing my little Jenas off, and feeling like my pea-size bladder would burst with any sudden movement. (Obviously I can't tinkle in the park bathrooms for fear of getting "taken out back," if you know what I mean.)

Frantically, I called Grahm. He thought I was ridiculous for not remembering there's a Hide A Key under the truck. Perfect, problem solved. Except it wasn't.

Hide a key should change its name to "Wife Camo" cause no woman will ever find it. Next time I'm on a diet, hide the bacon burgers in this thing. I swear, I'd never find it. It's a freaking black hole under there. I felt like I was searching for Atlantis, or a non-plastic section of Joan Rivers's face.

"It's the black box, babe. Passenger side. Back tire. It's black. It's a box. Just look."
"I'm looooooking! All I see are car parts. It's dusty under here! Come save meeeee."

Did I mention that I had to be on my back on dirty, cold cement the entire time? It was all one gray, filthy blur. Gave me a new appreciation for mechanics and prostitutes.

Since Grahm works 30 minutes away, I had to sit. And wait. And wait. I was desperately trying not to look like the little girl about to pee in her Nike shorts, or the crazy woman about to rob all of the cars.

Eventually, he got there. (He had to leave work early and everything.) And 2.5 seconds later, I had the keys to the truck.

...I know you're staring at his cute little bunzippitydodas now.

Now excuse me while I slap a "20% Off Sale" sticker on that badmamajamma so that next time, I'll be all over that Hide A Key like rat on Cheetos.


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

... Is it just me, or do we look more boring this year?

Today, I'm 24.
It's been a good, difficult, exciting, frustrating, sometimes lonely, crazy, humbling, wonderful year. I did a lot in the last 365 days. I moved to San Antonio. I nannied twins and discovered there's a good chance that I'll be a terrible mother. I started my first big girl panties job as a copy editor. I rediscovered my love for editing novels. I made new friends. I lost old ones. I went brunette (yes, life changing). I trained for marathons. I bought a house. So year 24 has some big bun shoes to fill.
My little sister (yeah, we look nothing alike) has forever jaded me toward birthdays. When I turned 16, she threw me this amazingly fun surprise party. Karaoke may or may not have been involved. When I turned 18, she sent me little presents and sweet notes each hour of school. Basically every year, she's done something incredibly sweet. And now I've come to expect that from everyone, which is just setting us all up for disaster. Husband and friends don't stand a chance. Miss you, my sweet lil nugget.

Thanks to everyone who entered the giveaway. Michelle Prickett, you are the winner! Check your email.

I Could Win an Oscar For...

Monday, February 25, 2013

Gold men (Can the winners personalize these? I want my naked man to look like Channing Tatum.) are handed out for incredible performances (like J-Law falling up the stairs or Michelle Obama's bangs).

Since the chances of me ever winning an Oscar are about the same as bacon ever leaving my diet, I thought I needed to compile a list of my brilliant shenanigans that are award worthy.
Here are some of my Oscar-worthy performances, just to name a few:

1. How I perform the frantic get-ready-in-10-minutes-because-I-overslept-again scramble every morning.
2. How I can convince myself that I need another pink, sparkly lip gloss even though I have 20 in my purse.
3. How I can talk myself out of any/every workout. ("That ice cream ain't gonna cram itself down my throat" or "Working out every day can't be good for muscles. Gotta let 'em breathe.")
4. How I can make my birthday celebration last for weeks. I may or may not have been asking G to "rub my dogs, it's almost my birthday" for the last two weeks.
5. How I can complain about the weather, regardless of what it is. ("Oh my gosh will it ever cool down? I'm sweaty in all the wrong places" or "It's a tiddy bit nipply, and I'm not gonna make the breast of it, y'all.")

. . . I'll expect my nude Clooney in the mail whenever y'all get around to it.


Friday, February 22, 2013

. . . don't worry. This isn't a post about what kind of milk the Roaches prefer. (Grahm says 2%, I say Skim. We compromise at 1% organic, in case you were curious.)
Question. Are you the kind of person who reads every word on every page?

My philosophy on reading is that life is too short to read bad books. (And no, Justin Beiber's book does not count. Legen-wait for it-dary.) Since I edit some pretty crap-tastic novels for a living, I'm pretty picky about what I read in the ten minutes before I fall asleep. If you think about it, this is actually a terrible perspective. 

You see, I'm a skimmer. My eyes quickly scan the words on a page, line after line until I grasp the big picture. (Maybe this is why I'm terrible with recipes.) It doesn't matter if I skip entire sentences, or even paragraphs at a time. Just as long as I get the gist. Unless there is some brilliantly written, hilarious prose (aka anything by Tina Fey), I don't need to be bogged down by every word.

. . . What if I treated people the way I handle books? I start and stop novels like Kim Kardashian and marriage. I lose interest quickly. I skim until I find something worthwhile. Pick 'em up, put 'em down until I find one worth flipping pages for. If I treated people this way, I wouldn't have any friendships, any real relationships to speak of.

The beautiful thing about life is that every one of us has a story, beautiful words on pages. God has carefully crafted the letters of lives, and every word is important; it all matters. I should care about each page of someone's life as He, the author, does.

If we are truly loving people, skimming isn't an option.

things men should never say

Thursday, February 21, 2013

There are few phrases that men say that make my buns pucker up in disdain. (That's right. There are disdainful buns afoot!) And I'm not even referring to the typical, "Those jeans make you look like your hiding a fanny pack in there."

Grahm is usually very wise with his words around his testy little troll (aka me). But every once in a while, his man brain kicks in, and his common sense abandons ship faster than you can say "boobs." It's all men, really though. They let their lips flap in the breeze all willy nilly, unknowingly hurting our small fries. (Obviously I could write a whole post about women who probably get into even more trouble with their tongues... wait, that didn't come out right.)

Here are three things men should never ever say. Keep that zipper zipped.

1. "Are you on your period?"
         - Answer? Probably. But until you grow a uterus that decides to go all Hiroshima on the rest of your body once a month, you don't get to comment on my moody, unpredictable, eat-everything-in-sight behavior. No, it's not an excuse to act like a garfunkled cave woman addicted to a heating pad, but it is very much a reality... so let's just not bring it up. Capiche?

2. "Are you going to shower?"
         - This is my personal favorite, because it's a triple whammy. Essentially what he's really saying is: "You smell," "You're looking like a hot mess, sans hot," and "You're lazy" all in one big, seemingly inoffensive question. Maybe I'm the only girl on the planet, but I do NOT shower every day. Rome wasn't built in a day, folks. (What?) Unless my pits morph into rotting cabbage patches, let me wear my hair in a bad hair day bun for as many days in a row as I want.

3. "You look tired."
         - Translation: "You're not wearing nearly enough makeup." Just no. There may be dark circles under my eyes the size of Detroit, but you best ignore them. I mean what's the best case scenario here for ya? Are you trying to make me drown my self-esteem issues in yet another gallon of cookie dough ice cream?

There ya have it, gents. I hope you learned something.
Don't forget to enter my giveaway!

a thank you

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

 It's always amazing to me that people want to read my ramblings (not you, Mom). Writing is something I've always enjoyed, and laughing is like my stretchy pants--just can't live without it. Having a place where I can combine these two and chronicle my wonderful, crazy life with the ol' ball and chain really has been a wonderful experience.

So thank YOU for reading about our wild journey!
I'm offering a $50 Shabby Apple gift card because I'm so grateful for every one of you little gems.

If you haven't heard of Shabby Apple, you need to get on this gravy train. Their site is chalked full of vintage  and lace dresses for any occasion. Their so stylish and flirty, I love them! (My birthday is also next week. Hint, hint, hint.)

I love this lace, scalloped dress. Pink perfection, y'all.
Or this fun polka dot dress!
(Although I doubt I'll be running in a field while wearing it. Ha.)

. . . Convinced yet?
And here's the best part! You're all winners already! All of my readers are receiving 10% their next purchase! Just use the coupon code: recentlyroached10.

Winner will be announced in one week. Good luck!
<a Rafflecopter giveaway

Liar, Liar Pants On...

Monday, February 18, 2013

I'm a fantastic fibber. I lie about my weight, my bra size, and how many McDonald's fries I've pounded on a daily basis. So how bout a grand ol' linkup so y'all can call me out on these shenanigans? Two truths and a lie. Link up with Sar, Alexa, Lo, and me!

1. I graduated with a whoppin' 16 people in high school. It was like that one bizarre TLC show "19 Kids and Counting." All the plaid and pleated skirts, just not all the kids.

2.  My first kiss was after hours at school, near the lockers. I was 14, and did not know what to do with my hands! ("I guess I'll just put them in my pockets...") It was 2.2 seconds long (yes, I counted), and a teacher just so happened to be walking by as we made our way to Puckerville. The principal did not approve... we were busted.

3. Grahm and I were long distance for the first 5 months of our relationship. Yeah, I know--- desperado losers. He was in Florida winding up his degree, and I was in Oklahoma finishing mine. Eventually, we strapped on our "big girl-boy relationship panties" (weird mental image) and lived in the same town.

Alright, alright. You caught me. They're all truths. (I'm failure at my own linkup.)
I was definitely that plaid-wearing, private schooler who pecked her high school boyfriend after her guitar lesson at school and totally got caught in the not-so-glorious process. Embarrassing. If you're gonna kiss for the first time, have half a brain cell to not to do it at your Christian school. Sheeshkabobs. 
Grahm and I were long distance, which I don't recommend. At all. We were both incredibly poor, so I don't know how we made the 17-hour trip to see each other as often as we did. Somehow, it worked. And his bony little hip is forever chained to mine.

Valentine's Vlog with the Huz-Bun

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Happy Valentine's Day!
Watch and learn something about the Roaches. You know you want to.
Extra points if you can number how many accents I attempt. Apologies for Grahm's scandalousness.
Hope everyone has a wonderful day full of love!

Link up with Katie and I and tell us This 'n That from your week, or what your plans are for V-day!

Recently Roached

Buffet Table, reinvented

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Normally, the only buffets I like are the kind that require me to unbutton my jeans when I'm done with them. That being said, I did find one that caught my eyewinker on Craigslist. It didn't have an ungodly amount of food on top of it (don't worry, it will soon), but it was only 50 bucks. And I saw potential.

The lady who owned it, mutilated it like me and a box of Girl Scout cookies. White crackle paint, people. It was about as attractive as the unsightly pimple on my fanny.
Stripping was necessary, but don't worry... we kept our clothes on.

The couple that DIYs together, stays together, y'all.

My sweet friend at The Rustic Pig is amazing at furniture redos, so amazing that she does it for a living! Obviously she was the person to ask about paint. She told me about Annie Sloan chalk paint. It's expensive, but totally worth it! It's the lazy girl's paint, because it requires no sanding or prep work. We went ahead and stripped/sanded because the buffet table wasn't smooth, and we wanted the best possible outcome.

I mixed Napoleonic Blue and Old white for this beautiful blue. I applied dark and clear wax for an more distressed look--I may add more dark wax later. But that stuff is tricky and messy and scary.

I chose some knobs from Lowe's and voila! A new buffet table.

Linking up with Claire for Creative Tuesday!


Monday, February 11, 2013

On Friday night, we left town to go "camping." Grahm thought we were meeting friends (who had all the camping supplies) in Houston for the weekend. When we made a pit stop for some gas (and an ungodly amount of junk food), I told him the real reason we were going to Houston. SURPRISE!

Here's his reaction:
(He's stinkin' cute, if I do say so myself.) The next couple hours were spent convincing him that he'd be great and deciding what song he was going to sing.

When we finally made it to Houston, we immediately pulled into Reliant Center, expecting a big line. There was no one. The nice guy in the tiny security shack told us, "Yeah, there's no way they're gonna let you line up till 4." ... It was 11:15.

We decided to get a hotel, and lo and behold, there was one right across the street! Only one room left! The hotel clerk wasn't exactly a salesman. He made the room sound real jank-tastic and asked if we wanted to check it out first. In an unfortunate turn of events, while we were up checking the room out... someone had booked the room from an outside source. So, we were up a creek. By this time it was 12ish, and I was not wanting to fork over 120 bucks to sleep for 3 hours. So we opted for the car.

Here we are (after two hours of Grahm practicing). Super attractice freeze frame, yeah?  
After tossing and turning in the car for two hours, I couldn't take it anymore. It was 3:30, and I wanted to see what the line looked like! When we arrived, there were only 30 people in front of us. We were about to keel over from fatigue, but we were pumped. Just our luck though, we sat next to the guy who liked to burst into song to "intimidate" everyone else around him. (He also drank a beer at 5 am, if that tells you anything.)

After four hours of standing outside, they finally let everyone in -- except for me, that is. Friends and family weren't allowed to go into the building, so I had to wait in the car for 3 hours. Pins and needles, I tell ya.

He finally came to the car, without a red ticket. He had auditioned with 10 others in front of one very serious man. He chose the two female gospel singers, and apparently one was terrible. (The conspiracy theorist in me thinks they were looking for something specific, but maybe that's just the bitter wife of a rejectee talking...) We did, however, make the news. Grahm's in the shot at 10-12 seconds, so he's basically famous.

The trip was a blast, something we'll always cherish and remember. He's already talking about auditioning for next season!

Thank y'all so much for all your sweet tweets and RTs. I was blown away! Cannot express how sweet it was! Next year, y'all. #GrahmRoachStillNeedsACoach

I need your help!

Friday, February 8, 2013

Tomorrow I'm surprising Grahm Cracker Crusty Crusts and taking him to audition for NBC's The Voice in Houston! He has no idea. Zilch. Nada. Goose egg. (Mwahahaha.) Good thing he doesn't read my blog now, right?

We love the show, and I know he secretly wants to try out his vocal tenders. It's just not something he'd do on his own lil small fries. Enter: wife.

I need your help though.
If you follow me on Twitter, you've probably already seen some obnoxious tweets to @NBCTheVoice, coaches, and producers . . . anyone, really. Heck, I may tweet at you later. I'm trying to get our story out there: Obnoxious wife forces husband to audition. Wife surprising adorable/talented hus-bunz in Houston for an audition.

If you just happen to have it in your own little hearts, use your thumbs for good today and tweet, or RT, and then tweet again! It can be something simple:

Hey ! Wanna hear a cool story?  is surprising her talented hubs for  in TX! 

Just please make sure you're tweeting to one of these: @NBCTheVoice, @TheVoiceCasting, @BlakeShelton, @AdamLevine, @UsherRaymondIV, @shakira, @carsondaly, @CMilianOfficial  

And please use the hashtag: #GrahmRoachNeedsACoach

Let's get Grahmsterdoodle on The Voice!
Thanks so much!

This N That!

Thursday, February 7, 2013

This: Girl Scout Cookies are officially my Achilles heel, or thigh... depending on how you look at it. We ate four boxes in 1.5 days. Grahm and I are convinced it's a not-so-subtle ploy to take over the world. Osama had it all wrong, man. He should have used some little gals with cute cookies to take over America.

That: Hearing a toilet flush on a conference call at work was pretty epic. I laughed like a 5 year old. ... Is it bad that it's the only thing I remember from that entire one-hour teleconference?

This: Grahm and I celebrated our 3rd dating anniversary this week. Old balls. He asked me to be his girlfriend over a sushi dinner in Oklahoma. I threw my chopsticks in the air and said "yes." Okay. It wasn't that dramatic, but it was incredibly sweet.
Over the most delicious sushi you'll ever eat, we talked about how it seemed like so much longer than three years (not in the "I'm incredibly sick of you already" kind of way) since our sweet friends hooked us up. Honestly, I don't remember much of my life before him, but I do know it wasn't nearly as fun.

Link up with Katie and me and tell us a little bit about your week thus far!
In some proper blogging etiquette, please refer back to our blogs if you're going to link up. 
It hurts our small fries when you don't!
Recently Roached


Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Getting out of bed is hard. Mornings, for me, are like bras. I don't like them. At all. They're not supportive (they haven't made one small enough). They're uncomfortable and altogether unpleasant. But it's a little taboo to throw caution and brassiere to the wind... so like my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, I begrudgingly "embrace" the morning.

Embrace is strong. It's more of a forced relationship I have with the AM. After all, it's only natural to avoid pain. And donchta know, everything hurts in the morning. I'm an 80 year old who needs to rest her wrinkled prunes a little longer than those annoying gals who wake up at 4:30 just to work out... yeah, I want to punch them in the tinkle taco. (Ain't nobody got time for that!)

So here's some things I say to myself to get my frumpy fanny out of bed each morning:

1. That donut ain't gonna eat itself. 
2. If you sleep till noon, it's really going to mess up your nap time.
3. If your bladder explodes all over the bed, it'd be messy and probably painful. Grahm would be pee-ved.
4. You need to cover up those saddle bags under your eyes, Two Face.
5. You wore your hair in a bun yesterday. People are gonna know you didn't shower. AGAIN.
6. The Zombie Apocalypse is happening now. Your cubbies aren't zombie-proof.

And if all else fails, I roll over and get a whiff of Grahmsterdoodle's top-of-the-morning-to-ya breath. And then I'm wide awake.

Linking up with Shanna!


Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Last night (like always) I asked Grahm if we could play the massage game.

It's our nifty little creation that we (okay, just me) like to play where I massage him for 3 minutes, and he massages me for 30. For my Barnacle Bill back, there's nothing better than getting a rub-a-dub-dub while planking on my comfy mattress. I was especially needing some TLC last night from my ten-mile run, my bloody toes, and---did I mention?---the ginormous food baby I birthed last night. (Samoas you are the father!)
Well lo and behold, last night Grahm did not want to play our my game.
He gave me this look:
"Really, babe? I'm tired. Let me go to sleep."
"But it's almost Valentine's Day! Love me! These knots aren't going to unpretzel themselves."
"I do love you, but I also love to sleep..."
"I'll massage you first this time!"
"... I'd rather you just ... didn't."
(A very awkward silence passed between us while the blonde bimbo in me digested what he was saying.)
"What? You ... do ... want ... me ... to rub you? What does that MEAN!"
"Babe... you just aren't the best at..."

He cut me deep. Real deep. What a revelation to declare three years later! My little smokey fingers apparently weren't and have never cut his muscles' mustard. Why didn't he tell me that my attempts at rubbin' his aching back were about as pleasant as a getting repeatedly kicked in the crotch biscuits by a tiny shoe?

I was crushed for 3.6 seconds until I realized . . . our massage game just got way more enjoyable for me. ;) (Silver lining, folks.)

the pits

Friday, February 1, 2013

Not enough sleep. Not enough ice cream. 
My house still looks like we just moved in. There's nothing on the walls.
We still haven't painted the upstairs, or even started. 
My chair is not even half way done getting reupholstered. 
There are saggy bags under my eyes cause I've been at work too much this week.
Grahm got a $440 speeding ticket, $200 extra for the tags. (I try to tell him he isn't filming Too Fast and Too Furious, but apparently you can't argue with the "I'm going the speed of traffic" bit he always pulls.)

This week has just been the pits. 
Excuse me while I drown myself in cookie dough and French fries.