Pickles & Dimes

(You have to click on the link because I don’t want my mug on the front page for a week.)

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There’s been a lot of naming conversations going on lately, about whether people liked their name or their kids’ names, but I have a different question:

Who were you named after? A grandmother, a favorite aunt, a sandwich, a dog?

According to story #1 (there are two, as nothing is ever simple in our family), I was named after Robert Redford’s daughter. My pregnant mom was at the doctor waiting for an appointment. At the time, the plan was to name me Tiffany. (No offense to any Tiffanys out there, but this is so NOT my personality.) But, my mom read a magazine article about Redford, who mentioned his daughter Shauna…and the rest is history.

But! That’s not the whole story. A few years ago, I was talking with my mom about this and she contradicted her very own story with story #2: “I was going through checks at work (she worked in accounting at Target), and I saw a check with the name Shauna and thought it was pretty. So that’s how you were named.”

Right. I completely made up my own story about being named after Robert Redford’s daughter because I was ashamed of the truth. Which is that I was named after someone who owed Target money. Whatever.

Wait, that actually seems totally appropriate.

Anyway, who (or what) are you named after?

Annoying, whispering nature show narrator:
The female sits for prolonged periods of time, often rousing herself only to quench her thirst from the environment’s abundant hot chocolate supply or to socialize with the others.

Her opposable thumbs serve her well, allowing her to communicate through well-placed keystrokes or the use of a crudely fashioned writing implement. This female in particular does not like high-pitched sounds, such as those from the telephones indigenous to the area, or from the offspring of unthinking co-members.

She has few enemies; however, an alpha male will occasionally intrude into her workspace, necessitating the need to frighten him off with bared teeth and loud growls. Frequently, small fights also break out within the group, such as when a new food source is introduced. The food known as “Cheetos” is especially coveted, and members of the group are known to hoard it during its peak season for future meals.

The group as a whole is noisy, often chattering nonsensically without regard for others. To escape the cacophony, the female often climbs the highest tree or retreats to the nearest library.

An intuitive creature, the female keeps her eye on the clock sun to determine when it is safe to leave the area. She is adept at looking busy and avoiding eye contact in order to escape unnecessary work.

When she is not required to be part of the group, she spends her time sleeping.

The Hand is gone. I repeat, The Hand is gone. I successfully smuggled it into my aunt’s car on Thanksgiving, where I wedged it in a giant Target bag filled with the cupcake stands we used for our wedding.

I had a brief moment where I thought she might not find it, and it would be left to decay for months or even years in the dark confines of her basement, but after she got home I received a phone call that started with “YOU DIRTY RAT!” so all was well. (When your elders “swear” it is awesome.)

Thanksgiving was a lot of fun, and to my relative that made the comment, “Where’s all the turkey skin?” I am sorry. That’s kind of my thing. A few years ago, I made a turkey for Jason and I solely so I could eat the skin.

Oh yeah…the Jello Jigglers (Dirk Digglers) were thinner than they should’ve been because I can’t read directions, but they still turned out fine.

Jason had to work until 1:00 the day after Thanksgiving, so I decorated the house for Christmas by myself and had a blast. While the cats wrestled fake tree boughs and chased bouncing ornaments, I decorated the tree with my chosen color scheme for the year (red & gold) and played Christmas music, singing off-key to my favorites while fast-forwarding through those that annoyed me and/or were sung by a Beatle. (Also, I still have the chorus from that Gloria Estefan song Love on Layaway in my head, and it is truly horrendous and should be used by the government to get information from uncooperative individuals.)

When Jason got home, we wrapped Christmas lights outside, and I think the pleasure of plugging in Christmas lights and experiencing that glorious moment when they all work is one of my favorite things about the holiday season. That and a brand-new box of hot chocolate sitting next to a fresh bag of marshmallows in the pantry.

In non-holiday news, I am getting a haircut on Thursday. I am having it cut short. Long hair and I are officially DONE. I used to think it would be great and that I would have tons of volume and body, and enjoy sunsets and beach walks with my hair, but instead, we barely tolerate each other and communicate only in curse words.

I’m tired of finding super-long strands of my hair everywhere and feeling like it’s trying to kill me whenever I wake up to find it wrapped tightly around my neck. I especially hate how when I sit back, my hair gets pulled and when I shut my car door, my hair gets caught. Also, people are starting to think I am a freak (more than usual, anyway), because I am constantly swiping at hairs that are tickling the back of my arm.

So, off it goes. It’s going to be somewhere between chin and shoulder-length and when I whine in a few months about how I want it longer so I can do something with it, please point me to this entry.

Also? We got a digital camera this weekend. I feel sorry for you all.