Hutcompany, Inc. LLC

Yesterday I complained about parents who dress their twins the same.  Today I discovered something worse: parents who dress their kids like their dogs.

Did they punch that boy in the face?

My work recently gave all of us brightly colored umbrellas with the organization’s logo on them.  On the one hand this is great, because umbrellas are pretty handy, and it’s a nice one.  On the other hand, whenever it’s raining we look like a bunch of dorks walking around with the same umbrellas. 

To make matters worse, there’s a girl in my office who has the same trench coat as I do.  The other day – in our grey trench coats and blue umbrellas – we felt a level of embarassment that I think is reserved for twins whose parents force them to dress the same.  There’s a special level of hell reserved for those parents.

The new guy at work is definitely not named Gustav.  It sounds a lot like Gustav, but remember not to call him Gustav.  Gustav is a German name, and his name is an Indian name.  His name might even be the Indian translation of Gustav.  If you can’t remember his name don’t call him Gustav – because that’s not his name.

This definitely isn’t going to help the problem.

My dog, like my fiance, is terrified of the vacuum cleaner (Slam!)  When we first got the puppy she would run across the apartment and hide under the kitchen table whenever I ran the vacuum.  Shortly after that she learned that whenever I went to the closet and started to pull out the vacuum it was time to pre-emptively hide.  These days though, all it takes is me starting to tidy up the living room – picking up things from the floor or fixing the couch cushions  – and she runs to her safety shelter and cowers.  The only way I could see her getting any better at this prediction is if she learns what my messiness-breaking point looks like.  If she does that I could wait until she starts hiding under the table and then I’d know to get cracking!

If you’ve been to Puerto Rico, you’ve consumed the drink known as Gasolina – a mix of liquor and juice in a handy Capri-Sun package.  It leads to the age old adage – “which came first, the Reggaeton song or the booze-pouch?”

True to its name, it's like drinking gasoline!

.

Today marks the start of the second annual Summer Olympics, the yearly competition where Ben and I go head-to-head in all things.  Games, sports, and there’s even talk of an Iron Chef style cook-off.  The time between Memorial Day and Labor Day is when shit gets serious around here.  Our wedding will fall right before the end of that window, so be prepared for some races down the aisle, cake eating contests, and dance offs.

Wedding dance-offs are a thing, right?

See the results of the 2008 Olympics

Today I was unable to outsmart a pond full of fish.  Despite my best efforts they just weren’t interested in any of the fabulous looking flies I was tossing out there.  My goal was to catch two fish between the three of us – enough so that both famlies could have one for dinner – not that unreasonable I thought… 

But it turns out the joke was on me.  While I wanted to murder the fish via hook and knife, the fish wanted to murder me via sun burn and the ensuing melanoma 50 years from now.  The fish have won – for now.  

These flies are good to use if you're trying to catch a fish that likes to eat adorable little muppets.

This post comes just in the nick-of-time, since we’ve been locked out of Ben’s parents’ house for the past short while. 

I’ve blogged it before, but there’s something supremely satisfying about getting into your own house without a key.  In my parents’ house this meant climbing in through the basement window, something which ceased being an option somewhere around puberty.  Then, in college I learned ye-ole “if you wait long enough someone else who lives in the building will show up”.  And, in NYC the “fire escapes all lead somewhere useful.”  Tonight it was just a case of “there’s probably a spare key around somewhere” but throw in a dash of creepy-deer noises from the woods and a “who locked this door?” mystery and you’ve got yourself an adventure!

Talk about a recession indicator to end all others:

For this year’s NYC fleet week there are only going to be 13 ships in port – meaning less than half as many women will wind up making bad choices for cute guys in uniform.