A Princess Needs a Chauffeur

Overeating is always a good time. Overeating when there are holly cookies involved is a doubly good time, because they are pure marshmallow-y green goodness. And so, for the past week, I have been stuffing myself fully of all sorts of good food, including several rounds of steak and holly cookies. Sometimes, not in that order. Holly cookies are great because… your body doesn’t process copious amounts of green food coloring so well. So. Ah. When you consume about a tablespoon of the stuff a day, let’s just say that it adds a whole new element to visiting the little girls room.

Si-i-i-i-ck.

Why did I share that?

So this morning I felt ill and lumpy, and decided I should take a walk. The Funasaurus and I occasionally walk to Einstein’s Bagels on the weekends, which is about three miles away, so I decided that would be a good idea to do, while I am still on vacation. (New job starts next Tuesday, and it’s in publishing, so plbthbthbthbth I am SO not serving fries with that!) Of course, when The Funasaurus and I go, there is usually not two feet of snow covering everything.

I thought I was prepared… I put on warm socks, snow boots, my fleece, and my ski jacket. But about halfway there, my foot felt funny. It was an odd sensation, one that I haven’t really felt since I was a kid. My sock was all scrunched down in my boot. I forget what a pain in the ass cold weather apparel can be. So I took off my gloves, bent down, and after fishing around a lot, finally bothered to unzip my boot to get to my damn sock. I pulled it up and felt the familiar rub of a blister starting to form.

Auugghhhh!

Where is a chauffeur when you need one? Seeing as how I was already halfway there, though, I pushed on. (After adjusting my other sock in my other boot and also discovering another blister, there.)

I limped into Einstein’s about twenty minutes later, and two more stops to pull up my apparently-elastic-less socks.

I got my bagel, and removed my boots, and ignore the glares from the people across the room who apparently caught a whiff of my foot stench.

I then debated calling a cab, as I sat there feeling very sorry for myself. But then I remembered, oh, haha, that’s right, I don’t have a job or an income, so perhaps a cab is a bit of a frivolous way to spend my remaining dollars.

So I limped home. But I stopped by the liquor store on the way, and spent my remaining dollars there, instead. A much better use of my money, I must say. Not only did I arrive home in less pain, but I am having a helluv a Wednesday afternoon! Wheee!

And THIS is the most incredible stuff. (And dear God, if you click on the link, be sure to turn on your speakers. Any alcoholic-y drink that tells me I don't look a day over 21 and plays sweet, sweet music is awesome.) Especially when mixed with champagne. Shout out to Shooting Star, who found my new favoritest drink, ever. Mwah.

It's the Hard-Knock Life... For Sugar

Sugar has gotten more and more daring, recently. We made the fatal mistake of taking her outside on a leash, once (yeah, we were those people- the ones with a cat on the leash) and she l-o-o-o-o-v-e-d it. (The outdoors, not so much the leash.) Ever since, she has been plotting her dash to freedom. She has gotten sneaky about the front door opening, and we have learned to pick her up when guests come in or out because Sugar has figured out that unsuspecting guests are less quick to shut the door than mom, with her lightning-like reflexes. (ha.)

So when the snowstorm of the century (or, at least, the last two years) hit, I decided to teach Sugar a little lesson. Because I am cruel and sadistic, finding pleasure in the little fluff ball’s pain. I opened the door wide, and walked out into a drift of snow, about two feet high all “ho hum, I seem to have forgotten the door…” and The Funasaurus followed me because he wanted to see the action, and sure enough, Sugar was right on his heels.

There was the dart, and then the sudden squeal of “Ew my PAWS are COLD AND WET! MOTHERFUCKER!” And then she climbed The Funasaurus like a tree, wiping her paws on his jacket as she went. So she sat on The Funasaurus’ shoulders looking out over the sea of whiteness all, “This is not how I remembered it.” She kept trying to touch the snow on the railing, and would get very confused when it would a) fall away and b) make her cold and wet. Again.

I was laughing so hard, I forgot to get a picture. But Sugar was still angry at how this had all turned out, and she would seek vengeance. A blast of wind did her in, as she squished her little face into a look of pure feline disgust, and we retreated inside.

A little later, we decided we should probably see what it would take to shovel out our driveway, and we opened the door to the garage to get our boots. There was a sound which I think was either a sonic boom, given her speed, or an unsteady pile of 2X4s being knocked over, I’m not sure, by Sugar in all of her quest-for-freedom-fury.

“Sugar!” I screamed.

“She’s not really going anywhere, what with the garage door being closed and all,” reasoned The Funasaurus.

“Get her get her get her!” I screamed, jumping from foot to foot, not really being the reason-y-type.

So we got down on our hands and knees and realized just exactly why some people bother to sweep their garages from time to time, and finally hauled out a formerly white kitty from under the car. She was disgusting and hateful, but I was very relieved to have her back in the house. Her first course of action, upon being released from my vice grip once we were safely locked back in the house, was to jump onto my kitchen counter with all of her car grease and garage floor filth. “Sugar!” I screamed, for the bazillionth time.

She jumped down, rolled her eyes, and went to her kitty tree to clean herself up. (Side note. The link to the cat tree is not our exact one... but I do think I MUST own it, because it is PINK and named Sugar. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.) As far as I can tell, she was awake most of the night, glaring at us from her perch. But thus far, there have been no more breaks for freedom. We’ll see what tonight brings, though, when I have to leave the house wearing heels. She knows, man. She knows. And she is plotting.



Oh, and P.S. I got a job. Yay.

Update on My Life

Finding a job hasn’t been so easy, after I got fired for being caught doing lines of an illegal white powder off the copier with my lesbian lover. Fortunately, the nightclub where she dances was willing to give me a gig for a while, and I get to keep all the tips I make. The Funasaurus is very supportive of this new career move, seeing as how I have to invest in a new wardrobe of lingerie. I’ve also started to smoke a new brand of cigarettes, the exotic euro cigs may be far worse for my lungs, but they smell oh-so-divine, and I swear my cough is sexier.

Meanwhile I continue to rack up credit card debt, and we may not be able to make our mortgage payment this month, but whatever because I’m the proud new owner of my own little motorcycle! Yee-haw! Can you imagine how much I’ll eventually save on gas? Plus, the club owner is teaching me to do wheelies.

So that’s all that’s new with me. Same ol’, same ol’, really.





***confidential to my loyal readers, most of whom are complete strangers that I have never met***

My brilliant little bro decided to tell my parents that I have a blog. I have decided to do a little experiment and see just how fast I can get disinherited.

The Twelve Royal Days of Christmas, As Acted Out by My Cat….

On the first day of Christmas,
my Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
A big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the second day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the third day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Eleven inches of my fabric tape measure a-remaining,
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Twelve pills for birth a-preventing,
Eleven inches of my fabric tape measure a-remaining,
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.

Get in the holiday mood, y’all! Tatum so did bring us a piece of our new Christmas tree last night, around midnight. I heard this *whispwhispwhisp* sound in the hallway, and it woke me up, so I could tell Tatum had something in his mouth, but I couldn’t see what. (Usually I have no idea we are about to play fetch until it lands on my face.) I could tell he was proud of himself, though because his tail was all doi-oi-oi-oing! ramrod-straight, and he was trotting. Until he tried to get through the doorway, at which point it looked like he ran into an invisible wall, wherein his head stayed in about the same spot but his plump little hind legs kept walking, scrunching his little body up. There was a little feline confusion as I reached down and realized he had a sizeable stick of pine in his mouth that he had retrieved from the tree, and it had gotten caught on the doorframe. I didn’t even take it away from him, I was snickering so hard, and he was so bewildered. Now there is sap all over our carpet. But it was worth it, in Tatum-world. (Sung to the tune of Joy to the World): Joy to the tree, the feisty kitty has come. Let Earth, be prepeared for his evilness!

Man, this caroling stuff is eay.

Jingle Bells, litterbox smells?

Hark! The herald new-security-system rings,
Glory to, my newly protected bling-bling....

So many options!

Will Work for Pearl Neaklaces and Juicy Couture

I play a lot of solitaire these days. Solitaire games are kinda like pancakes. You really crave them at the beginning, but by the end you’re fucking sick of ‘em. (I can’t even take credit for that pancake line. It totally came from a comedian, or something. I just forget who. But credit to YOU, whomever you are.)

I also spend a lot of time daydreaming about the perfect job. I don’t know if it exists. (Though it would probably help if I look.)

I think I want to be an editor, someday. Preferably a developmental editor. I like the idea of making a story streamlined (ha, you say, HA, you parenthetical-happy-princess, you are SOOO not streamlined, but shut up, I say, I have a much easier time fixing other people’s writing.) and I tried it just a little bit in previous lifetimes, in classes and even work. So I’d like that.

I also think I’d like to be a flower delivery person. Because, as they say in that horribly awful but deliciously cheesy romantic comedy, Bed of Roses, “Inevitably, everyone’s always happily surprised to see you.” I like that. I like the idea of people always being happy to see me. I do not like the idea of driving a truck.

Moving on.

I think being an actress would be a lot of fun. Especially in Hollywood, when you make it big and you have a personal stylist and a driver. (See how I went from “dirty truck” to “chauffeur” in the span of a paragraph and a half? Because I’m all about moving up, like that.) I don’t really like the idea of waitress-ing to GET there, though.

Moving on.

I think handling acquisitions in a library would be fantastic. Picking the books that people will read, riding the wave of upcoming literature, advocating the First Amendment (freedom of speech), being sexy in the buttoned-up-blouse-and-cat-eyed-glasses kind of way. Of course, that requires a degree, so… not happening anytime soon.

And, of course, my dream dream dreamiest job would be to be a writer. Of fiction. You smarty-pants nonfiction readers can Frown Upon that all you want, but I love fiction. Those are the stories that inspire me most that I incorporate into my dreams. I like a good nonfiction book every now and then, too, but I do have a passion for fiction. And I’d like to write it.

Of course, that requires talent. Damn. But maybe I will find me some talent, somewhere, and start a book. In the meantime, I’m dying of curiosity. What are YOUR dream jobs? Astronaut? (I’m scared of the falling out of space in a burning pile of metal-thing, but I can see the allure) Massage therapist? Psychiatrist? Guinea pig wrangler?

Tell me so I can steal your idea and start a new career. mmuuwahh, dah-ling. Thanks!

The Princess Goes on an Interview

I told a well-meaning friend about my current job status. (or rather, lack thereof) this Saturday, over lunch. People have been very understanding and supportive when I tell them about my being laid-off, which is nice, but almost everyone I’ve told immediately has an idea of where I can work, which is not always so nice, as well-intentioned as it might be. So on Saturday, I explained to this friend that I’d love to try my hand at copyediting, somewhere, and immediately he exclaims, “Oh! I have an idea!” and busts out his cell phone to call his daughter, who’s an office manager for a doctor. With lots of smiling and nodding in my direction, he jots down some notes on his napkin, and hangs up, triumphantly.

“There’s an opening for an office person at another doctor’s office, down south of Denver! You’d be great.”

Um. O.k., thanks. I’m not sure what a doctor’s front desk has to do with copyediting, but I smile and take the napkin.

His phone rings again five minutes later, and there is much more exclaiming and nodding. When he hangs up he tells me, “This woman, Cindy, wants you to call her right away, she said not to wait until Monday.”

Uh, may I finish my sandwich, first?

“Please call me after lunch, and tell me how it goes!” my friend adds.

I take this as a cue that I do not need to drop everything and call, so I finish my French dip, and we say goodbye.

I call Cindy when I get home. She tells me to come in right away. Um. It’s Saturday. I’m in my sweats. I tell her I need a couple minutes, and change into nice pants and a sweater, and pull my crusty hair back into what I hope looks like a not-too-greasy-ponytail. I am not under the impression that there is enough time for a shower. Perfume plus some sympathetic looks from The Funasaurus later, and I am out the door.

I drive for 25 minutes to a random office building, out in the middle of nowhere. There is no name on the building, just an address, and a couple large, “For Lease” signs. I go into the empty, run-down lobby, and there is an elevator with a generic sign next to it, saying what suite numbers are on what floor. But no business names. I head up to the fifth floor, and find suite number 540, though there is still no name posted next to the number. I go in, and find myself in a square, white room, with a very small window (but no counter) and two chairs (but no magazines.) There’s a guy sitting in one of the chairs, reading a book.

I have no idea where I am, or what I’m supposed to do. I peer into the window, and I see an office. I can hear voices, but there’s no one standing nearby to ask if I’m at the right place. I feel like I’m involuntarily taking part in a weird psychological experiment. The lights in the plain, white room suddenly seem very bright.

“So, is someone usually here?” I ask the guy in the chair, pointing to the desk on the other side of the window.

“Dunno. I’ve just been sitting here.”

????

You just walk into an empty room in a random building, and sit waiting for… something? Buddy, I’ve got some suggestions on better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon, I’m thinking to myself.

I call loudly into the office, “Hello? I’m looking for Cindy!” And eventually a woman comes by and tells me she’ll get her.

Cindy appears moments later, and ushers me in to her office, which, while a clusterfuck of piles of paper, bad artwork by either children who are under the age of 7, or someone who is totally inept with scissors, and remains of a Wendy’s drive-thru lunch; is at least not four oddly empty white walls. There’s even a (dirty) window to the outside world.

Cindy immediately begins to prattle on about patient confidentiality, and within the first five minutes manages to use the words “hate” and “despise” several times, and mentions that she “will kill” me if I were ever to breach patient confidentiality.

I am utterly lost, and finally say, “So. Ah. Forgive my ignorance, but I’m not even sure what your connection is to this doctor.” (as this is obviously not a doctor’s office.) “Are you a staffing agency?”

She is very defensive, no she’s absolutely not a staffing agency. She’s been in this profession for years. (Yes, but what profession IS that?) And goes on to tell me how this doctor is rather ADD, and needs a firm hand, but not too firm, and they’re looking for just the right candidate.

I continue to be confused, and just sit there. And look around surreptitiously for the Candid Cameras.

She says this doctor has a lot of trouble with money, he makes plenty, but he has no idea how much he has, exactly, or where it all needs to go. And then she stares at me and goes, “What would you suggest?”

I suggest I get the fuck out of there as fast as possible.

But I say, “A financial planner?”

:No! Quicken. He needs QUICKEN. He’s still working out of hand-written books!”

Oh. Right. Silly me, for not guessing “Quicken” was the right answer.

Cindy goes on to explain that this guy is living in the dark ages, and it frustrates her no-end, because he won’t even use Outlook for his scheduling, he insists on an old-fashioned scheduling book that you use PENCIL in, how horrifying. Cindy herself if very proficient with computers, and finds most of these programs painfully simple, and she’s always using very complex features that sometimes confuses the computers, ha ha, but she likes it because sometimes the patients DRIVE her NUTS, and she gets ANNOYED, but she does love her job, don’t get her wrong, it’s just these 100 hour work weeks are killing her and also she’s depressed and on medication and while she’s o.k. sharing that with me, most patients ARE NOT o.k. with that kind of openness, and we’re back to her killing me if I breach patient confidentiality. (I will assume, for the time being, that doesn’t include me announcing her depression and medication to the internet. Hi, Cindy, you crazy, crazy nut bag! Hope that’s o.k.!)

I nod, and begin plotting my exit, not having found the Candid Cameras.

I finally deduce that Cindy is kind of a doctor office management consultant-of sorts (although she does not use any of those words) and remotely manages a couple of offices for doctors, however this one doctor (the ADD guy) in particular really wants someone to be physically present in his office, and his last couple of candidates have not worked out, and so he has enlisted Cindy’s help in finding just the right match.

Cindy is telling me how she’s sure there will be some long days, (maybe 12+ hours) and that I should be prepared to go in on weekends, if need be, especially over the holidays, to make sure no emergencies crop up, and for the pittance she thinks this job would earn, I’m thinking “Hell to the N-O-O-O-O-O.”

I start to craft an exit, getting up and shaking her hand as she pauses for a breath after telling me she’ll strangle me if I don’t take notes while I’m in training (to be an office assistant?) and start to say goodbye.

She says something about my resume, and I ask her if I can just e-mail it to her. She says, “Oh no, I hate e-mail, I never use it, you need to fax it to me.” And I am thinking a) aren’t you the super duper computer wiz, yet you don’t LIKE e-mail? And b) I don’t actually happen to have a fax in my home.

But I say fine, and run out of there before Miss Psycho can think of any more ways to hate on me and the world in general.

So far, the job search is not going so well. I’m debating the awesome, make-your-own-hours, every-day-is-casual-Friday, I am my own crazy, crazy boss career choice of Housewife. How do you feel about that, Funasaurus, baby?

Monkeys and Owls and Merlot, Oh My!

Last night I met a good friend and former (eeee! Former!) co-worker for drinks and some Christmas shopping. You may remember Shooting Star from previous posts. She’s a very good wine-drinking buddy, which works out very well for me. Especially when, after we’ve consumed large glasses of merlot and various appetizers, she’s all, “No, I insist, it’s my turn to pick up the check!”

And I’m all, “No, no, I’ll get it… uh… wait… I seem to not have a wallet. …So. Um. Ha. Eh. Sure. Why don’t you go ahead and get it? Also: I’m an asshole. Thanks.”

Less shopping was done than I anticipated, seeing as how I had no access to the money I don’t have (hi, Mr. Discovercard, thecardthatpaysyouback, mwwwahh, love you! Kisses!) and that was probably for the best.

But I was deeply saddened when I realized that there are sock monkey Christmas ornaments! I had a cousin who was a little over-attached to his sock monkeys (and there were several, seeing as how sock monkeys could only handle so many weeks of preschool and kicking dirt before they wore out) as a child, so now of course I see fit to incorporate sock monkeys into pretty much every communication I have with him. Especially since he is a big Senior In College, now, and Takes Himself Very Seriously. (HA! Sock monkey Christmas ornament headed your way, m’dear! Probably in an envelope labeled in big letters,“STD results! Handle with care!” because I am funny like that.)

AND! I also found some owl earrings for $10. TEN DOLLARS. I desperately loved them. And could not buy them. So between the sock monkey Christmas ornament and the owl earrings, I spent a very fitful night tossing and turning and angsting over whether someone had snatched them up in the fourteen minutes between when I left the store and when the store closed.

So I bounded (mmm. Bounded might be a slight exaggeration. “Slowly, groaning and whining while forcing my weary body upright at the ungodly hour of 7:15 a.m.” might be more applicable) out of bed with The Funasaurus this morning, and headed back to the mall... this time, with a wallet in tow.

Do you SEE why it was worth it? Do you not love them, too? And. They were only $10. I rarely love things that are on sale. But oh! And I know I am really not supposed to be buying myself stuff… what with not having an income and whatnot… but they were SO CUTE. And only $10. Did I mention that, already?

O.K., so I have them. And now I am off to mail a sock monkey Christmas ornament to an unsuspecting cousin. Tee hee!

Water Impairment

The other day I found a plastic bag containing a plastic bottle hanging from my garage door. There was a note in it that said, "Free water evaluation, fill this bottle up with tap water and hang on your front door if you would like a free water quality test!"

Okey dokey. I got nothing else to do with my time these days, and I am curious about my water, so I filled the bottle up, hung it on my front door, and promptly forgot about it.

We got a call a few days later saying a consultant would like to stop by with the test results. Consultant? Stop by? Couldn’t you just mail the results to me? No, apparently they couldn’t. Wouldn’t take much time. Promise.

So I set up an appointment for Monday night, and promptly forgot about that, too.

Monday was a big day for us. Our new TV arrived, and IT IS HUGE. As in, gargantuan. As in, the box is bigger than I am. The Funasaurus has been tracking it via UPS’ website religiously, and he called me from work Monday morning to say that it had been scanned for delivery! Joy! I waited, not daring to move, until the thing showed up. Once we (me and the UPS guy who thought it’d be just fine to leave a huge, new TV sitting on our front step, might as well have put a big red bow on it with a sign that said TAKE ME and maybe BREAK INTO THIS HOUSE, TOO, ‘CAUSE OBVIOUSLY THEY HAVE FUN TOYS AND ARE DUMB. But fortunately I caught the UPS guy as he was getting back into his truck) maneuvered it into the house, I sat there in awe. And called The Funasaurus who promptly put all his lawyerly things on hold and got out of there just as fast as he could to come home and stroke the new TV. There may have been a little drool.

So. I got The Funasaurus home a little early. And we spent lots of time trying to read instructions and just spurt out little gasps of joy and bliss from time to time. We had Big Plans for our Big T.V. Namely: a movie. Plus, The Funasaurus went out and got us Subway sandwiches to complete the evening of pure indulgence, and as we sat down to eat the warm, pepperoni-and-mayo-filled goodness, the doorbell rang.

A guy with a briefcase and frosted hair entered our house, before we had really invited him in. Hello?

Here for your water consultation.

Consultation? Just tell me if it’s filled with bad stuff, and good day to you, because we have other things to focus on! (Like, say, the TV that is currently dominating the room, causing a lustful look to settle into The Funasaurus’ eye.)

This’ll be really quick! He promised, grinning. And then he took off his coat and shoes, got out a couple of drinking glasses and a plate from our cupboards, and opened his briefcase to begin setting up shop on our kitchen counter. We began to doubt the “really quick” part. The Funasaurus looked longingly at our TV, which sat there, powerless, taunting him, next to our quickly chilling sandwiches.

First the guy tested our tap water for chlorine. (Can’t be done beforehand, the results wear off.) Then he tested the water from our filter on the fridge for chlorine. Then he did 462 other tests, showing us along the way, as the water changed colors, began to curdle like eggnog you find in the back of the fridge in March, and all but danced for him.

TWO HOURS and two cold and dried-out uneaten sandwiches later, he sat us down to begin the process of signing up for thousands of dollars of water treatment. The Funasaurus looked ready to draw blood, disbarment be damned, and I finally said, “heh heh, peep?” “But see, I just lost my job and NO WAY are we signing up for anything tonight.”

“But I just showed you how this will save you so much money?” said the salesman, sincerely perplexed.

“Yes, but. We are not going to make any changes to our financial routine while I am currently unemployed.”

“Ah. I understand completely. No worries. This is about water education. No pressure at all. May I just use your phone really quick to call and see where my next appointment will be?” At which time he picks up our phone, calls a number, and the conversation goes something like this, “Hello, I’m at Princess and Funasaurus’ house. …No, it’s not a good time for them right now. … Yes, they did see how this would save them a lot of money. … Yes. It would save them $X,XXX.XX, actually. … Yes, they know that if they buy it tonight they get all sorts of free goodies. … Really? … Oh REALLY? Oh. Wow. That is just fantastic! …All of that, FREE? … Wow. I can’t believe we can offer that, what a great deal! I will tell them!” And hangs up, turning to look at us like he just won a Caribbean cruise for four.

“Guess what!” he exclaims.

“Uhm.” We mutter.

“My boss is going to let me give you an amazing deal, for just a slight increase in the interest payments, we can start you off with monthly payments of $18.99! Plus, we'll give you a case of free soap! Let’s sit down and sign you up!”

At this point The Funasaurus is melting into a little puddle of fury, mixed with big screen angst.

“No, no, we’re not making any commitments this evening.”

“Really? But it’s such a great deal. I wouldn’t normally push this, but…”

At this point, death rays are coming from The Funasaurus’ eyeballs, though the salesman remains impervious.

“NO!”

So the guy starts in on a little story about his wife and some lawsuit they’re waging against her former employer, and we begin to edge towards the door for him. Until he realizes he forgot to ask where his next appointment was, and needs to use our phone, again. We do not hide the annoyance this time, and his phone call is short and sweet.

Three hours after his arrival, the water salesman finally leaves, and The Funasaurus will be damned if we don’t get a fucking movie watched, this evening. So the TV is finally set up, in all of it’s 46 inches of glory, (small shiver in appreciation) and we put on The Matrix wherein Morpheus’ head becomes larger than a sofa cushion in a close-up, and we finally get to bed after midnight, dreaming of Keanu Reeves kicking some frosted-haired-water-salesman-ass.

Cracking Nuts and Karaoke

This weekend went just as quickly as weekends always do. (I wasn’t sure, seeing as how I'm on a sort-of perpetual weekend, these days.) My friend M came down from Summit County (waaaay up in the mountains, where I used to live) to get a taste of the city life. Unfortunately, the city tasted something like dirty asphalt, what with the snow and ice not being completely gone, and her being all fashion-y and whatnot in her boots trying to maneuver the glacier-like sidewalks I *hear* there may have been something like a wipe out involved. I’m not saying. So after the pavement debacle and the lack of Tattered Cover (sadly, she never found it) she came to our house. Where I greeted her with wine. Not just any wine. THIS wine.

That made things a little better.

So we chugged our glasses and got dressed to go see The Nutcracker. The Funasaurus was, naturally, devastated that he didn’t get to go, and licked his wounds by leaping (!) for joy and playing some violent video games. He really was sad, under that delighted-appearing exterior.

Having learned absolutely nothing from M’s experience earlier in the day, I also donned some high heeled boots and we drove to the local performing arts school, where M knew someone who was in the performance. We parked on the wrong side of the building, though, and after teetering like drunken old ladies across the icy parking lot only to discover a sign that said, “Parking for Nutcracker on WEST side of building” we promptly decided to Ignore That Shit because NO WAY were we going to make it back across the very cold parking lot. So we tried to detour through the dark school, like the almost-30-something delinquents that we are. We were stopped by a very surly lady who told us the interior doors were locked, and that we should drive around to the correct parking lot.

No.

We were not doing that. How far could it be? It’s a school, right? We’ll just go around the outside. OF THE HUGEST BUILDING EVER. We teetered. We slipped. We giggled. We froze. We swore. We promised second-born children to the please-don’t-let-me-fall-gods (M already has child #1 and apparently doesn’t want to part with her, just yet) but we were only halfway there. We eventually made it, having only lost half of our appendages to frostbite, quite pleased with ourselves that we didn’t kowtow to that dumb ol’ sign that would have made us DRIVE, heaven forbid.The Nutcracker was lovely, as always, and we were totally THOSE girls who snicker through the whole thing. Because we are classy like that. We laughed, laughed, laughed when the doll was replaced by the dancer because whooo-boy, those were the skinniest set of legs on stage (and when said stage is populated by emaciated, teenage ballet dancers, that’s saying something) and coming out from under this HUGE cardboard nutcracker head, well. It was a little more than we could handle, silently. We took bets on whether it was a prepubescent boy or an anorexic girl. (Not funny, no, not funny at all, I know.) Hee?

So twiggy turned out to be a very young boy, but he did very well, as did M’s friend, who was the leading ballerina, who danced the role of the Sugarplum Fairy. She was very bendy and twirly and whatnot in all the right places. M gave her a kiss, and we were off to the second part of our night.

Namely: karaoke.

Now, I don’t sing, but The Funasaurus is a HUGE fan of all things dive bar-y/Air Supply-y. And M is a fantastic singer in her own right, having gone to school for talented people blah blah. So M and The Funasaurus have had it in their minds to get together and sing sing sing their little hearts away at karaoke. I had it in mind to drink drink drink and laugh laugh laugh at them, but I only managed the laugh laugh laugh part since I am still not quite over what happened to me last Monday. Our friend S joined us, because he and M met on MySpace via yours truly, and they have decided that they are each other’s favorite drinking partners that they have never met. So. Game ON. Naturally, S felt he needed to buy at least one round of Jagermeister shots and I almost died trying to get it down. I ordered a lemonade, and became THAT girl. The one who drinks lemonade at karaoke.

Having stooped to that level, I had no choice but to have fun (which I did) while The Funasaurus sang some mean Faith by George Michael, and M slaughtered Alanis Morissette beautifully. We made it home (with only a short detour to McD’s drive-thru [despite the fact that I am still boycotting them since they took away the dark meat Chicken McNuggets- fuckers]) by around 3:00 a.m., and wow. I have not seen 3:00 a.m. in a LONG time. It’s fairly similar to 2:00 a.m. except more blurry.

Who wants to join us next weekend?

Retired Penguins

So far, I am actually really enjoying being retired! I mean, unemployed. Heh heh. So far, there has been a snow day, and while no snow angels (was a little too cold-looking, out there, for my tastes) there was definitely hot chocolate, sleeping in, and cuddling with the kitties. Yesterday the roads cleared up enough for me to finally take advantage of a gift certificate I got LAST Christmas, and mom and I got massages together. That didn’t suck. Friends have been taking me out to lunch, The Funasaurus took me out to a sushi dinner, and I am getting caught up on cleaning and errands and daytime T.V. Besides small bouts of mopey-ness and the complete and utter loss of self-worth, things have been pretty awesome around here.

Also, I have decided that I really desperately need a penguin, after seeing the MOST ADORABLE THING EVER last weekend. This morning, as I lay in bed, in no rush to get up at all, I started playing fetch with Tatum, and one of his little mice toys. He’d retrieve it, drop it near my face so that I would not have to move much to throw it for him again. We had a good little system going. But he finally got tired and decided to take a little break, dropped his mouse in the crook of my legs, and sat on it. This is the moment that I realized I had my very own little penguin, just sitting on his nest (and yes, I did see the damn movie, I know the emperor penguins don’t have nests, they waddle around slowly starving and freezing to death while balancing the eggs on their feet like the coldest game of hackey sack EVER but let’s just pretend I’m talking about another kind of penguin, o.k.,? One that does make a nest.) and VOILA. Take away the oversized ears, and crazed where-the-fuck-did-my-mouse-go?-look, (and maybe also the nice warm piles of blankets) and I’d say I’ve scored my very own penguin. Do you see it? Maybe in a if-a-penguin-and-a-very-small-owl-got-a-little-crazy-one-night-and-forgot-a-condom-oh-just-trust-be-baby kind of way? No?

Here’s wishing you a slightly-less-demented penguin of your very own, too. Happy Friday!

More Time to Catch Up on Blogging!

So, ah, it’s been a couple days… oopps. Ha ha. Sorry about that. It’s been quite a week in the kingdom. Thanksgiving actually went really well, The Funasaurus brined a turkey all by himself (I may, may have stayed a little longer at happy hour than I intended) and it was fabulous. The rest of the weekend was spent seeing GOOD penguin movies, hanging out with friends, and just being lazy in general.

Monday I got in to work, and that's when the proverbial shit started hitting the proverbial fan. I saw the Big Boss call Herr MWOTH into his office. I saw Herr MWOTH reappear, visibly shaken, pass through the warehouse to grab a box, and return to close the door to his office. Someone thought they saw him taking stuff down off the wall. He had been let go!!! I was feeling quite jubilant about the whole thing until I got called in to the Big Boss’ office. I was informed the board had to make some tough decisions because the numbers weren’t where they were supposed to be, and despite the fact that I was the person closest to making my annual goal on the entire sales team, my goals were also the lowest (well, new territory, no contacts, you have to start low, oh well) so my position was “expendable.” As were four other people’s. We were to leave, immediately.

So I reacted as maturely and ladylike as possible. I got shit-faced off of Jack Daniels with a fellow laid-off former-coworker at 11:00 a.m. I spent the next ELEVEN HOURS praying to various porcelain gods (coworker's house, my house after The Funasaurus came and poured my alcoholic ass into his nice car for a long [10 minutes is an eternity when there’s a hurricane in your esophagus] ride home) and finally managed to choke down some Pizza Hut that The Funasaurus had ordered around midnight.

Yesterday I was just a *little* hung over, and spent lots of time staring at walls. Mom came down and fed me soup. (When was the last time you had THIS soup, btw? When you were 6? Me too, but shame on us, because it’s as awesome now as it was then.) Over-consumption of alcohol is more like a badge of honor, where we are from, so it was quite all right to tell my parents about those adventures. (Sex is totally different. Despite the fact that I have been living in sin with The Funasaurus for years, I believe my mom still holds out a glimmer of hope that I’m saving myself until marriage. Uh, right.)

Now I begin perusing the help wanted ads. Do I go for the retail for the “awesome” overtime pay potential for the holiday season, or do I go for some office job? Publishing is hard to come by in Colorado, but I will keep looking. I will also let you all in on a little secret. I’ve been applying to school, again, so I really did have plans of leaving my job, eventually. I just anticipated it would be next fall, and not this winter. So I just get a head-start on finding something to fill the time (and wallet) until I’m back in school… hopefully.

I hope everyone had a fabulous Thanksgiving, and a less-eventful week than mine!
Love,
Princess-I-Have-No-Job-But-at-Least-I-Didn't-Have-to-Drive-into-Work-This-Morning-Because-It's-SNOWING-like-Crazy-Outside!

Bison, Exaggeration, and Scandinavia

To clarify something from yesterday's post, I'd like to add extra emphasis on the words "until very recently," regarding The Funasaurus' kitchen participation. Apparently he reads this blog, sometimes! (Hi, baby!) And maybe he called me on a *slight* embellishment last night, as he treated me to a nice dinner. Um. Hee? Ooops. Love you! So, while it is quite true that the kitchen in the college apartment was kind of a waste of space, he really is much more into cooking these days. If we have spaghetti anymore, I don't even bother helping until cleanup (and even then, sometimes, I am fairly princess-like all, "oh, I can't disturb the cat sleeping on my lap, could you get the dishes, darling?") because he makes the best spaghetti, ever. Funasaurus trick #1: buffalo meat, instead of beef. Funasaurus trick #2: lots of spices. Preferably from the Savory Spice Shop in LoDo.

So he is very competent (and not just in the kitchen, heh heh) but still, I think if I hadn't encouraged the idea of cooking, there's a chance we might have ordered stuffed crust pizza from Pizza Hut for Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, I have decided to get into the full spirit of the holidays by forgoing my lame banana and eating some pumpkin cranberry bread for breakfast, that a nice coworker brought in. I have decided to go to the greasy Mexican restaurant for lunch (buh-bye, PB&J) and am currently devising a plan to skip out on my newfound exercise regime with The Funasaurus, which was supposed to start this afternoon with a light jog by instead going to the bar for happy hour with a girlfriend. I think it's totally worth it, though. My friend is Swedish, and as we all know, (?) Sweden is right next to Norway, and I feel like my friendship with her brings me one step closer to my eventual reign over the neighboring country to her homeland. Despite the fact that she no longer lives there.

Who needs cardio when there's chardonnay to be had?

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Cornbread Makes Your Mouth Feel Really Dry

The Funasaurus' family does not cook. The Funasaurus has not considered the kitchen as being much more than a storage room for the microwave, until very recently. In fact, The Funasaurus' other nickname in college was Frozen Pizza Twin. (He and his best friend were The Frozen Pizza Twins because on the weekly run to the grocery store, they would just buy piles of frozen pizza. And whole milk. They both drank a ridiculous amount of whole milk. *gag*)

This year, as I am spending Thanksgiving with The Funasaurus Family, I have encouraged the idea of cooking our meal, because I grew up in a house with homemade dinners every night, and the thought of ordering out for the holidays made me cringe. However, I am hardly a gourmet chef. I can make some mean French toast, but I'm not the type to spend time dinking around on epicurious.com, really. So it's the blind leading the blind into the season of overeating and stressful cooking. Should be great.

Last night The Funasaurus helped me look through some cookbooks I inherited (Betty Crocker! Women with flip hairdos standing in polka dot aprons and heels holding pies! So! Not! Me!) we made a list, and I went food shopping. The Funasaurus' mom was talking about maybe going out to brunch, first, Thanksgiving morning. Yet, we are aiming to eat around 3:00 so that The Funasaurus' grandmother can get home at a reasonable time. Now, I don't know much about cooking, but methinks that if we don't get ye ol' turkey in the oven until noon, we's not going to be eating at 3:00. So I nixed the breakfast idea and felt bad, and offered to bring champagne for mimosas while we cooked, as restitution.

While at the grocery store I managed to a) freak out about the germ factor on the grocery cart handle and careen my cart right into the apples because I was being so squeamish about touching the handle b) walk right past the ginormous turkey display without seeing it c) do laps looking for the damn cranberry sauce (which no one will eat, anyway, but I couldn't not get some because hello! It's tradition!) which turned out to be in the canned goods aisle, (who knew?!) and d) sign the wrong name on my checkout receipt, causing the poor cashier to look very doubtful about my credit card not showing up as stolen. (Who's been practicing her new married name maybe just a wee bit much?)

But I made it home with one turkey, one dented can of cranberry "sauce" (in my world, sauce cannot be SLICED into neat, circular little patties, looking very much like very raw McDonalds burgers, hence the quotation marks), and one large bottle of Gatorade for The Funasaurus who has come down with some unidentifiable illness, causing him to feel very nauseous and headache-y. I'm really hoping he's not pregnant. That would change a whole lot of things. Not the first of which being the state in which we'd have to get married.

Of course, I'm ALL ABOUT Thanksgiving in Hawaii!

First Runs of the Season

I went skiing on Sunday. It felt so good to be up in the mountains again. It was a perfect day, not a cloud in the sky, lots of sunshine but still nice and cold, the snow conditions were fabulous, and it did not feel like early season, at all. In any way. Including the crowds. I breathed in the fresh air, strapped on my skis and hustled my way on over to The Line. The Line was enormous and never-ending. The lift ops were doing their job and trying to keep things moving, but it was crowded and the line moved s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w-l-y. Even in the singles line, I waited twenty minutes. (For those of you non-skiers, the singles line is an excellent speed-this-shit-up strategy. It's a separate line that allows you jump on with another group of people to fill chairlift space, so that no seat goes unfilled. Usually the singles line moves much faster than the regular line.)

Anyway. I got in all of about four runs about several hours of line-standing before the princess in me was like, "This blows. I need wine." So I gave up and skied back down to my car.

I met a friend for lunch and saw her baby, as well as some pictures of her baby dressed as in chicken costume for Halloween! That was some funny stuff, and waaaay better than the ol' pumpkin costume most babies seem to appear in.

Then I met two other good friends for extremely large margaritas and gossiping. The traffic on I-70 (oh, I-70, how you plague me) is notoriously horrible coming down from the mountains on Sunday afternoon, so I debated taking a much longer, but much less traffic-y back way home. My friend A goes to this tamale joint on one of the roads I was contemplating taking, and as I love homemade tamales almost as much as I love The Funasaurus, so we spent a good twenty minutes discussing where exactly this little tamale stand was, in the back mountains, and figuring out how to get there (including one phone call to the place itself that included a lot of, "What? WHAT? Directions. I need DIRECTIONS. DIRECCIONES?-type speak) until I finally decided that it was too much of a detour, and as much as I love tamales, it would do me no good at all to get the tamales if I ended up passing out on the long drive home and killing myself (and probably smushing the tamales) before I could get home to taste them.

So I took I-70 and the traffic was bad, but I still made it in less time than the detour would have taken, and I promptly threw myself on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns for a couple hours before The Funasaurus got home from the Broncos game. Darn old Broncos. What a bizarre game. (I tuned in to watch the last five minutes, so I could feign some knowledge of what went down with my beloved. Unfortunately, the game was even more cooky than usual, so it really did me no good at all.)

Dear Broncos,
When I have such a great weekend, it'd really help me out if you'd not try so hard to lose, already, so that The Funasaurus isn't grumpy when he gets home from the game.
Thanks,
Princess G, who's rocking some serious windburn, today.

The Queen Mother

Yesterday I had lunch with my parents. It was nice, we get along, mostly, and I score some free food and time outside the office. Yet no matter where we are or when we meet, I revert to a younger, crazier version of myself, especially in front of my mother. I can't even help it, it's like I become possessed by my psychotic, the-world-revolves-around-me (no, seriously, it used to be even worse than it is, now) -*sob*-why-don't-you-take-me-seriously?-14-year-old-self.

I walk in to the restaurant and lo and behold, there is coworker, having lunch with a friend, right next to the table my parents have already scored.

Mom: Hello, sweetie!

Me: Mo-om! Don't call me that! My coworker might get ideas. (That my mother thinks I'm sweet? GOD FORBID.)

Mom: How's your day?

Me (sighing exasperatedly): I don't feel like talking about it. (About the fact that it's going just fine, thank you.)

Mom: We're down here to get our antique clock fixed.

Me: mmhmm.

Mom: And I think we might swing by the nice liquor store, to get some wine for our wine group.

Me: mmmm, wine.

Mom: You should come up and visit sometime, you can have some wine, and you could even help work on this scrapbook I have going on....

Me: AAUUGHH! I DON'T HAVE ANY TIME IN MY LIFE! GOD, DON'T PRES-SURE ME. AUUUUGHHH

Mom: No pressure. Just thought you'd like....

Me: I can't concentrate. I'm hungry.

Mom: uh. Shall we order?

Me: DON'T RUSH ME! I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE WANT, YET!

Mom: apparently decides against beating me with a plastic fork, despite her burning desire.

We: Finally order.

Mom's food: Better than mine. I help myself. She lovingly cuts pieces of lamb and pushes them to the side of the plate that's closest to me, subtly, so that I can't find a way to complain about it.

I love her. I don't know why she loves me, but I can tell you that if having children allows you to put up with such abuse for close to 30 years with no end in sight, I'm scratching "have kids" right off the to-do list. Tatum is bad enough.

Worse for Wear Royalty

You will never get rich working in the publishing business. But there are some cool perks, which make up for the small paycheck. Like when you publish a book about bars in your town, and you "have" to attend the author event a.k.a. a bar crawl with really cool, hip people. I was only able to go to two bars before I realized that the poor Funasaurus was probably withering away in front of his video games, dinnerless, because, ooops, haha, I forgot to call to say I'd be late.

So after chugging two very full glasses of red wine, I began chugging water and shoveling in fries (which is not hard, anyway, but when said fries are coated with garlic and parmesan, it's almost impossible to not start in on your neighbor's plate when you finish your own because damn they are good) so that I could drive safely past all the cops monitoring for DUIs early on a Tuesday evening.

The Funasaurus had ordered some Pizza Hut by the time I got home, which hit the spot, although I am feeling quite bloated, this morning. I spent most of the rest of the evening sprawled across him watching Scrubs, until about 10:00 when I was like, "Oh, heh heh, by the way, I invited a coworker to dinner tomorrow night."

The Funasaurus, not being the type to really care one way or another, didn't really react until I was like, "So we need to clean now." And suddenly he was all wide-eyed and sweet and wondering, "But... bed?"

To his credit, he got up and cleaned up a bunch of mail, did the dishes, and cleared off the coffee table after only mumbling something about "Could this not have come up, like, an hour ago?" very quietly.

So we went to bed a little late, but I wasn't concerned until both Tatum and Sugar decided that tonight was definitely a cuddling night. They would take turns walking all over us, finding just the right spot (my kneecap, The Funasaurus' neck) to flop down on, and then stand up again and start to come knead my shoulder. That is when I realized that it had been quite a while since I clipped their nails. Ow ow owie ow ow ow.

This morning, as I dragged my sleepless, slightly hung-over self out of bed, cursing Wednesdays everywhere, I decided the claws WERE GOING DOWN. I showered to clear my eyes, picked up one Tatum who was all, "Mouse? Are you getting me a mouse toy?" and curled my body around him, wielding the claw trimmers.

It eventually dawned upon Tatum that there would be no mouse involved in this plan, so he decided to bust that popcicle joint pronto.

There was an attempt at a backwards escape through my abdomen, and while perhaps a bit soft, it is very solid, and foiled that plan. Then there was the breaching whale maneuver, which involved some serious height and twisting on ol' Tatum's part, and this time my chin was able to intercept the break for freedom, and we got a couple of nails done before the sideways launch that was very much like some NFL play I am unable to identify, not really being into football. At all.

Go Broncos.

So anyway, we got Tatum's front claws trimmed, much to his dismay, and then I went after Sugar. Who was resting on a heating pad that The Funasaurus had turned on for her. Gee. Wonder which one of us she likes better.

I got the Look of Death as I picked her away from the heating pad, and then I got the scream for mercy as I picked up the scissors, despite the fact that I had yet to actually touch her damn paws. She didn't stay on my lap, and the procedure was finished by me bracing her between my legs on the floor, much like wrestling a very white and fluffy miniature alligator.

I finally headed off to work, looking much like I slept on a block of concrete in an alley last night, between the lack of sleep, hungoverness, and bruises from two small but will-come-at-you-like-spider-monkeys kitties. Where is a weekend, when you need one?

Claymation Princess

I have a weird fascination with claymation. I looooove it. I think it brought me one step closer to my-dolls-are-really-alive fantasy, or something, when I was a child. And now? I just still think it's cool. 3-D fantasy is still a bazillion times more satisfying than cartoons. Rudolph was the highlight of my Christmas.

When I was a child, we used to have Swiss Mix cocoa mix for those rare snow days we would get. In Delaware, an inch and a half of snow would shut the state down. In Colorado, it makes people consider maybe putting on their snow tires, one of these days, hmmm haw.

Uh. Back to Swiss Miss. So anyway, there used to be this claymation-y girl on the Swiss Miss commercials. (I'm talking late, late 70s, early 80s, here.) I have searched and searched for her, and I think it's insane that she's not still around. I finally found her, after much pleading with the Google gods. And. HERE she is. *Joy* Do you remember? Do you remember the love, y'all? What HAPPENED to her? We need to bring her back.

Swiss Miss hot chocolate is a product of ConAgra foods. Here is the TOLL FREE line to Swiss Miss' customer service: 800-457-6649. Please call and ask to bring her back, o.k.? She used to walk around the cocoa and interact with real kids. It was awesome. Like the Trix Bunny, only better because she was a) 3-D and b) not a whiner.

Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

I also very much loved the old Disney short film of Noah's Ark, because all the animals were made out of corks and paperclips and whatnot, and how could you not want a flamingo made out of pipe cleaners? Really.

Another one of my upcoming policies in my eventual kingdom will be the stop-action claymation of most advertising. I would actually be swayed by that kind of marketing. 3-D clay razor dancing around on someone's leg? Hell yes, hook me up! Who cares about the nicks if the razor can wipe the blood away? 3-D clay wine glass frolicking around bottles of very expensive wine? I'll buy a case. Stop-action Popeye munching spinach? I will learn to love the green stuff. Loveable clay lawnmower buzzing around a yard? I'll get a new house just so I can have a freakin' yard to mow. Why hasn't anyone in advertising figured this out?

Attention all marketers: BRING BACK CLAYMATION. If you stop-action it, the princess will come.

(Tee hee. That sounds dirty. Claymation vibrator, anyone? It could whisper sweet nothings in your ear when it's done.)

Picture Me Buying Cards

I had my pick-t-uure (as my ennunciation-conscious grandmother would say) taken this weekend, as did The Funasaurus. We got professional engagement pictures done, mostly for Christmas presents for our grandmothers. Also, to feed my extremely vain ego. Oh, to be gorgeous with flawless skin, via the wonders of Photoshop. Ahhhh.

After our "session" (HA!) we met up with some friends that we haven't seen in a while, down in Colorado Springs. They took us to an amazing new-ish place that has opened up down there, called Rico's Cafe. Wine bar + gourmet chocolate bar + card shop + live music = my kind of heaven. In fact, when I die, if I have been very very good, I will go to Rico's. (If I have been bad, I will be stuck on the dirty cement outside, looking in at other people eating chocolate, drinking wine, and buying cards, face-to-face with some musicians skinny butt, because the band performs in the front window, but faces the interior, which I really don't think creates the best curb appeal, but whatever. )

So I spent $30 on cute, original cards, and drank some divine hot chocolate with a hint of chile in it, and stole much of The Funasaurus' ridiculously fabulous milk chocolate milkshake while he wasn't looking. And then some more while he WAS looking.

The drive home was long, but The Funasaurus graciously offered to drive while I dozed on and off. Somewhere in there I woke up to make sure he was still doing o.k., then fell back asleep in about .24 seconds, then had a dream that the car door opened and I was sucked out and I woke up all, "AAUUGGHHHHH!"

Which, of course, prompted The Funasaurus to be all, "AAAAUUUUUGHHH!" too, because when you are driving late at night and are kind of in-the-zone, and you think your traveling partner is awake because they *just* asked you quietly how you were doing and then suddenly they start screaming like they are being poked with rusty nails by pink aliens, it startles you.

Fortunately, there were no aliens nor any open doors, and The Funasaurus is a very controlled frightened driver so he didn't swerve, but hoo boy he was quite alert for the rest of the drive home.

Sunday was a mellow day, though I did get to meet up with a good friend for dinner. The Funasaurus declined to join us, since we went to an Ethiopian restaurant and he is not a big fan of mushy food. (For that reason, he also dislikes applesauce, custard, soup, yogurt, and pie. PIE. Who doesn't like pie???) But whatever, because it meant more mushy food for me, plus girl time. We had a nice chat over our kitfo, which is basically raw meat with seasoning, (so I am really not a vegetarian. At all. In any way.) but isn't... um... sitting so well in my stomach this morning. But we still had a great time, and I am sad that my friend thinks she wants to move to California because really, what the hell does that state have to offer besides a warm climate, stunning beaches, a superior wine country, and amazing, organic food?

And now the universe has decided that it's Monday. Again. For some reason, that seems to happen to me almost weekly. Dang it.

Champagne Tastes, Naturally

I had a taste of the princess-esque life, last night. My friend and future sister-in-law, D, is a brilliant and extremely successful attorney. She's had about 10 hours of sleep in the last three days, often working until 3:00 a.m. to finish projects, but they do throw money at her to keep her there. Last night was a great example. Her firm hosted a Ladies night. At Neiman Marcus. And she could invite whomever she wanted. And she decided to invite me, mostly because I begged her to.

The firm sent me a lovely invitation, along with a valet parking voucher, and I nestled my extremely dirty and dented Honda Civic between a Mercedes SUV and some fancy convertible all, "Hi, I've arrived!"

I meandered to the second level of Neimans, where it was red roped off for our event, got my nametag with my name in some fancy script, and proceeded directly to the bar. Someone said something about free alcohol. Well. Don't mind if I do!

A lovely tall gentleman refilled my glass several times during the evening, so I didn't even have to move, and I sat around chatting with all of these extremely gorgeous, put-together, powerful women thinking, "I sure wish I didn't wear my sweater with the hole in it...."

Eventually we were guided to chairs that were set up in front of a display of pretty, sparkly things. I couldn't distinguish what was actually up there, seeing as how my eyes were swimming in little pools of chardonnay at this point, but I did manage to keep from spilling my wine on my little gift bag, which included cashmere gloves. (EEEE!)

Some beautiful women from Neimans came out to do a talk on "unique gift ideas" for those people who are hard to shop for. Lovely ideas, but The Funasaurus will not be getting any Armani ties or $400 picture frames anytime soon. And I will definitely not be bringing a cute set of silver bowls as a hostess gift because HOLY COW I don't even spend $250 on my own mother, let alone some random hostess! The $12 bottle of sparkly hair glitter (that was very subtle and not tacky) is definitely on the to-do list, though.

A model paraded some holiday dress ideas, and I was all over this adorable little pink baby doll-ish dress, right up until they were like, "only $2,000! Great deal" and I fainted. Poof.

It made me feel a little better that D and some of her beautiful coworkers also thought the ideas were ridiculously extravagant, but it was fun to daydream about carrying around Sugar in a Juicy Couture pet carrier. (Not Tatum, though. If I know him, he would gnaw his way out of there all, "I travel on my own time, bee-yatch. Pass the kitty treats.")

We sat around sobering up, cleared the place out, and then I drove D home (once the handsome valet had retrieved my car, and even cleaned off the [cracked] windshield because apparently it was too filthy for him to see out of, uh heh heh. Hi.) because she had to get up in five hours for an extremely early flight to somewhere un-fun to take depositions. I slept more last night than she has in the last five days. On the other hand, she can afford the leopard print serving tray. So it's all a trade-off.

As I drove myself home, I called my friend K to talk about the evening. We laughed at the extremeness of it all, and she said, "I don't know. After all's said and done, I don't really think I'd like living like that. I think it would be very dull and meaningless after a while. Don't you agree?"

And I said, "No. It would be awesome. Sign me up."

Unfortunately, I doubt Herr MWOTH is going to hook me up with a fat raise, anytime soon. And for anyone who is curious, Herr My Way or the Highway is my evil boss, whom I introduced here.

But if any of you need some quirky, fun, overpriced presents this holiday season, I know just THE PLACE to send you. Happy waaaay-too-early holidays!

Royal Recipes

Salmon recipe for those who were interested (it's insanely easy):

* You will need:
Some salmon filets. (I usually do two. You can do more, go you with your right to choose!)
Aluminum foil.
Lemon juice.
Butter.
Light, dry wine. (I usually use a sauvignon blanc. Pinot grigio should would just fine, too.)
Soy sauce.
1 avocado and some cream cheese (if you are feeling sassy.)

* Sculpt (yes, sculpt!) two salmon-y sized open-top boxes for salmon filets out of the aluminum foil. Then place the two open-top boxes onto a baking sheet. This keeps the mess somewhat contained. Sometimes. Unless you poke a hole in one of the aluminum boxes, which I inevitably do.
* Wash and pat dry salmon filets and place in aluminum boxes, which you have sculpted.
* In a bowl mix:
1/2 cup wine
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup lemon juice
2-3 (or 4) tablespoons of melted butter
* pour goo in bowl onto salmon in aluminum
* place baking sheet in oven (which you have conveniently pre-heated, even though I forgot to tell you) and broil for about 20 minutes. Give or take. Brush sauce on salmon occasionally.
*take out, serve with slices of avocado and cream cheese on top, for that little somethin' extra.

Voila. Easy salmon à la Princess.

* * * * * *

Meanwhile, work is not going so well. Herr MWOTH continues to plague my existence with his presence. He's asked several of us to help out some of the regional sales managers with sales calls. I hate sales calls more than anything. I am not good at calling people and telling them to buy something, even if I do believe in the product. I'm more of a, "No, I don't have money for twenty copies of that book, either. That's dumb. I totally understand. Have a nice day!"-type girl.

Don't give me goals, unless they involve drinking a certain number of glasses of chardonnay in a set amount of time. If that was my goal, I would kick anyone else's ass and earn a bonus to boot.

Sadly, there is little demand for my wine consumption talents in the book world. But I seek to change that. Someday the world will realize just how valueable that can be. Once I've got my kingdom, I'm instituting all sorts of new policies involving chardonnay. Martini lunches will be once again integral to sales and a brandy snifter will be a prerequisite for editing. Oh, what a wonderful world it will be.

Princesses Run on Their Own Time

Last night I was driving home all leisurely-like, (actually, it WAS leisurely, not just like leisurely) when I remembered, "Crap, our friend L is supposed to come over for dinner tonight!"

So I made a little detour to the liquor store, because when your house is a mess, and you're not sure what to serve guests, the answer is always: MORE ALCOHOL! They notice dirt and lack of food much less when they're plastered.

One sauvignon blanc and some random ass beer later, I swerved into my garage, freaked out both cats, and managed to vacuum our living room before L showed up exactly when he was supposed to. Damn him. But he was very good-natured about the mess, and settled in with his beer to begin idle chitchat. L is a darling Colombian who worked with me up at the ski resorts, and then played volleyball on a league with The Funasaurus last year. So he knows us both quite well, although he and I have a little more history, since we went through some very crazy years together.

The Funasaurus showed up soon after, and washed some dishes so that our guest did not have to eat salmon directly out of the cooking pan, and we sat down to eat well before midnight. The conversation over dinner went something like this:

Me: Have you heard from J and A?

L: Yes! And their baby S is doing quite well. Have you heard from C?

Me: Yes! And her baby A is doing quite well. Have you heard from M and K, and A and I?

L: All doing great. And I saw J and S, they have a second baby, as do S and A! So how's M these days?

Me: Fine, she's dating R, now, and her baby M is going really well. Wanna hear some juicy gossip?

L: Stupid question.

Me: JP and D are having an affair!

L: No.

Me: Oh, yes.

The Funasaurus: wondering about dessert, seeing as how he does not know J, A, S, C, A, M, K, A, I, J, S, S, A M, R, M, JP, or D.

We prattled on long enough for me to absentmindedly serve L some gorgonzola-y salad that I had just put together, only to remember two seconds too late that he doesn't like cheese, and The Funasaurus doesn't like blue cheese, so basically I made a big ol' salad for just me. (Great salad though, baby greens + thinly sliced red onion + tart apple slices + gorgonzola = almost good enough for me to eat 2.7 lbs of it all by myself. Almost.) Finally dessert was busted out, volleyball was mentioned for like, half a second, and we returned to gossiping, until L had to go.

The Funasaurus: So, ah, I don't know these people, but they seem to have lots of babies.

Me: Ha! Yeah. Suckers. But at least I feel like I have filled my gossip tank. I should be good for another 2,000 miles or 3 months, whichever comes first.

The Funasaurus smirked all the way to his video game, knowing that that was a complete lie, but because he picks his battles and tends to be just fine with keeping some jokes to himself, he did not say anything. Although he didn't fight too hard when I insisted on doing the dishes. But it was worth it. And this morning I didn't have to get up early to vote, so that meant for more snuggle time, and the only confusing piece of this whole equation is really: Why isn't it Friday, already?

I Would Vote for... Me

This morning The Funasaurus and I got up early to do our civic duty. The Funasaurus got up obscenely early to do an hour of oh-so-disciplined work before I bothered to drag myself out of bed at 6:15. I showered and smeared goo in my hair and called it good because blow-drying seemed unreasonably long and complicated, and we were off, arriving not too long after the polls opened at 7:00.

Our voting site was at the local elementary school. This was bad because KIDS! Playing! Confusing things! Adults don't function a) happily b) nimbly, so as to avoid bouncing balls, that early in the morning. And also: new school, so they didn't have the kinks worked out, yet, so the line was very slow-moving due to overwhelmed computer systems. Also: short hallways, so the line wound around and around and out the door, to where I sat shivering with my wet hair.

This was good because: elementary school = BAKE SALE! Tra-la! Oh, there were goodies for those of us waiting in line, available at SUCH reasonable prices. I love lower education fund raisers. What killed me was that no one else seemed half as excited about the banana bread and cupcakes. CUPCAKES, people! They even brought them to you while you waited! I sat there twitching in anticipation, silently willing people away from the chocolate things, while the guy made his way down the line with his little basket. I could feel the sugar coming. The Funasaurus acted like he didn't know me. No one else in line seemed interested (their loss) and I got a huge-ass Rice Krispy treat that was so delicious I can't even tell you; I haven't had one of those in YEARS.

Then I voted and I got my sticker. Of course, that didn't come easily, either. I love stickers! It's why I vote. I love elitist feeling of, oh-you-have-to-be-special-to-get-this-sticker! Once I made it through the line and voted, there was a short line filtering out of the school. And somewhere in the midst was an old lady with a roll of stickers. She tried to give one to the guy in front of me, but he turned her down. (?!) (Again, their loss.) Then she acted like she would skip me, so I sat there in front of her and was all, "Gimme."

She looked rather surprised, actually. But she gave me a sticker. Then I waited for The Funasaurus, who breezed past the old lady and I very pointedly caught him by the elbow, made eye contact with the lady, and was like, "Baby, don't you want your sticker???" very loudly. She happily obliged. I am starting to realize what a significant portion of The Funasaurus' life is spent pretending to not know me.

Whatever. I know he's secretly grateful he got a sticker.

Rock the vote, y'all. Feel the elitist sticker love.

My Cat Would Cut You. Cut You So Deep.

Which one of you sick monkeys found my site by googling "cat assholes"??? Dirty!

Also: Ew.

Also: I doubt you found what you were looking for when it led you to the page where I (Cat) called some tech support at a large phone company that rhymes with Dumbmast "assholes."

But seriously. Give that shit up, o.k.? There are many other ways to find happiness beyond the molestations of small, undoubtedly very unhappy and uncooperative felines.

Speaking of unhappy and uncooperative felines... The Funasaurus and I got lazy and forgot to buy the special brand of very healthy/doesn't promote cannibalism/natural ingredients cat food that I insist upon feeding our cats. Instead, we got them a cheap, PetSmart cat food because we weren't able to get to the specialty store that sells my preferred brand. (The Funasaurus refers to all this as A Major Pain in the Ass. I refer to this as a-Princess-naturally-wants-only-the-most-expensive-and-hardest-to-get-stuff. Duh.) But: Oh! Sugar and Tatum LIKE the cheap stuff. Mmmm, processed, chemically-enhanced, diseased horse meat. They practically snorted it.

The Funasaurus and I continue our lazy streak, and the cheap PetSmart stuff runs out and STILL no fancy-schmancy food. So in the grocery store I compromise and get a small bag of the supermarket version of organic pet food.

HA! Our cats are not really hippies. At all. They'd be more into Big Macs and Kraft mac & cheese, if they were human. They took one sniff of their new organic stuff and were like, "Oh hell no." Also, "Where's the meat, motherfuckers?"

Tatum, being half-goat, managed to choke some down. Because his plumpy butt needed sustenance. Sugar, meanwhile, went anorexic on us. There was lots of melodramatic feline sighing, and meowing at three o'clock in the morning. "Meow-I'm-dying-rrowoor-I-wither-meooooow-wake-up-already,assholes-and-get-my-pitiful-self-some-decent-food-*sigh.*"

Back we went to PetSmart, because the damn fancy-schmancy store that is nowhere near to anything and is also apparently closed on Sunday and Monday. Grrrr.

Sugar is back to processed horse, and we are all much happier.

I, meanwhile, decided to follow her very unhealthy example, and am polishing off the sixth bag of Halloween candy at an alarming rate, because we got crap for trick-or-treaters (SIX! Count them, SIX, and that includes the two stupid parents who thought they deserved candy, too) and were therefore left with copious amounts of good candy, which I have been using to sooth my irked nerves at the fact that Kids These Days are totally un-fun.

*sigh*

Pass the Whoppers, please.

Confessions of a Princess

I can't stand the suspense!

The answer is: #1. I would never be mean to a foreign exchange student, silly people! I WAS a foreign exchange student. And the thought never would have crossed my mind to convince someone else to do something like that since I was never dumb enough to kiss a teacher to expect an A. (Except in Psych 101. But that was really more due to throes of passion, the A was just a nice bonus.)

So anyway, I am not mean like that, there was no foreign exchange student from Spain. (Or Italy, or anywhere else, V. But props for being the only person to guess #1.) There was, however, very good beer to be brewed in the bathtub at college. Seriously. It even got my dad's stamp of approval, which was quite an honor.

The same cannot be said, for the "wine" we made by distilling a stolen container of frozen grape juice concentrate from the cafeteria. That was finally disposed of only by prescribing it to Major Losers in drinking games.

My wedding will, indeed, involve a floating couch (more specifically, a lovely, large raft upon which a leather couch sits) and wolves, since the venue also happens to be a wolf habitat. I desperately want one to howl at some key point in the ceremony. ... Maybe I can hire a fire truck to go by at just the right instant. That always seems to set 'em off.

And I have been kissed by Paul Simon.

Tee hee!

(The fact that it was more of a nice-to-meet-you-peck-on-the-cheek backstage is a very secondary detail.)

And Switzerland loves me. Because I am a) cute b) princess-like c) stubborn. They tried to send me back to France, when I couldn't produce a passport but, oh-no. I have quite the control over my tear ducts and the waterworks went ON! and Swiss men, while very advanced in many ways, are still rather chivalrous and couldn't bear to see a maiden cry. Not the boarder control, customs agents, or police. Suckers.

So they let me come in. At midnight. On the last train. Then they discovered I intended to wander in the streets until I found a hotel, and oh-no,-not-at-this-hour-of-the-night-young-lady-do-you-know-what-kind-of-hooligans-are-out-there?(more stern looks: them / more lip trembling: me) and so nothing would do but that they would take me back to the police station. So I was given an escort back to the station, and felt that it was a good sign I was asked to sit in the front seat of the police car instead of the back, and was even allowed to play with the siren button.

At the station they let me call my parents in California, "Hi mom! Sorry to wake you up! I'm in the police station in Switzerland! Have a good night!" (She loved that.)

And then I was told I could take a nap on a cot. Except in the cot room there were a group of officers not really busy "working" so much as watching Pulp Fiction in English and sharing a large bottle of JD. So I was given a generous glass, and told to help translate what was going on, English not being one of the four national languages of Switzerland.

Then a cute officer-in-training gave me a ride up to the mountains the next day.

Ahhh.

And that is how it came to be that I never tricked a foreign exchange student. I had too much other shit going on.

Happy Friday!

My Millennium

mmm. I so desperately love reading people's comments that I'm totally not going to give away the answer, yet. Maybe tomorrow. Tee hee.

Today I will tell you the story of crashing a B- celebrity party in France for the millennium, which is also a good story, but I couldn't condense enough to fit into yesterday's list of mostly-not-lies.

It is the year 1999. (And oh, how we partied. Like it was 1999. All seven and we'll watch them fall. Anyone? Anyone? echo...echo...echo) So I decide to study abroad, and with a little detour, (Denver to Washington D.C. to L.A. [ooops, turns out I'll need a visa for this trip] back to Washington D.C. to Paris in the span of 4 days) I head to Paris early to stay with some friends and bring in the millennium Euro-style, hoping that Y2K does not blow up the Eiffel Tower or cause the Seine to implode.

Quite the contrary, December 1999 was the Year of the Many Floods. The Seine did not implode so much as runneth over. And our swanky party, complete with champagne fountain, scheduled to occur on a large boat on the Seine, was moved into a hall in downtown Paris.

So we got ourselves dressed and make-up upped, and got on the metro (with the rest of the population of France and part of Germany, it seemed) and made our way downtown to the hall. Where, it turned out, they had combined several parties. And there was a mob (a MOB, I tell you!) outside of the entry way, and some Very Large Bouncers were not letting anyone in. We tried screaming that we had tickets, but it was no use, we couldn't get anywhere near the door. So we spent over an hour in the impromptu mosh pit in front of the door, trying to jar our way forward without having our ribs crushed by the mob or high heels crushed by the cobblestones. Until the police showed up in full-on riot gear, marching in a line with shields, waving gas.

That's when we decided to leave.

So we ran around the corner and watched the crowd scatter as the police blocked off the road to where we had been. Looking up at about the sixth floor, I saw a happy bunch of people out on a balcony dancing and waving. Since it was another side of the same building, and our party was supposed to be in a large ballroom, I assumed it was our party that I was seeing. My friend and I wandered across the street and up to the building. There was a door, but it was to the apartments, which appeared to be on the first couple of floors. We hung out for a little while, and eventually a woman showed up with a key to get in to her apartment. She wasn't thrilled about letting us in, but I imagine we didn't look too dangerous, both of us being fairly petite and pasty and all dressed up in backless dresses and heels.

We raced up the stairs to where we heard the music, and banged on the door. It swung open, and we were greeted by a tall, stunningly beautiful woman who ushered us in to the small room full of people dancing to a really intense rhythm. I assumed this was a back room to the main party, so we raced to the back to find the main room, and the champagne fountain.

Dead end.

It suddenly dawned on me that we were in a private apartment.

We turned around to asses the situation. Good-looking people were dancing and grinding around us. Two people were on the couch doing a lot less dancing and a lot more grinding. I turned to look at my friend, with her long, corn silk blond hair. She looks at me with my pale, haven't-seen-the-sun-in-months exposed back and jet-lagged eyes. We look at the room full of beautiful black people who are starting to notice that, um, two of these things are not like the others....

We do a little white girl bop and start to inch our way back to the door from whence we came, when a large white guy with a girl under each arm emerges from the bedroom and intercepts us. My friend is unable to utter more than, "le squeak."

I start explaining that we got lost in my very broken French, and my friend (who IS French) finally picks up and explains what we've been through, that night. The guy laughs, and tells us to stay, and to help ourselves to the spread of delicious food in the living room, as long as we don't steal his very expensive, very large stereo equipment. We promise we won't. Everyone goes back to dancing, and some are even generous enough to incorporate us into their circle and attempt to teach us how to dance. (Ha. Futile, but I do not tell them so.) At one point my friend leans over excitedly to tell me something, but between the music, the jet-lag, and the excitement, I don't really get more than, "I recognize her!" and all I think is, "Oh PHEW. There must be somebody here from her university, or something."

We finally leave around 5:00 in the morning, only to find the metros shut down, but the lights still on, so Y2K has not ended the world as we know it, and we buy ourselves a celebratory crepe filled with Nutella (read: mouthly-orgasm) and begin the long journey home. Part by foot. Part by bus. Part by I-have-no-idea-how-we-made-it-but-we-did.

We slept the whole day, and woke up in time for dinner with the family. As we're sitting around eating hors d'oeuvres and sipping something tasty, my friend flips through the channels, and finds a show called "Le Big Dil." (As in, "deal" spelled very incorrectly. I couldn't make this up if I tried.) It's basically a game show that was very popular in the late 90s, partly due to the fact that they had In Living Color-type fly girls who came out and did dances between the games and doling out prizes. My friend motioned for me to watch, and I almost choke on my champagne as half of our party from the night before file onto stage and start gyrating.

We had crashed the French fly girl party.

And that's why my millennium rocked.

My First Tag. Would I Lie to You?

Oh! I got tagged! Yesterday. Hi. Slow reader, here. Tagged with something about guessing a lie.

I don't lie. (That's a lie.)

...

Or is it?

But in any case, I will make an exception to my (not a) rule here, and make a list of 5 things I've done in my life, one of which is a lie. You get to guess which one it is, and answer in the comments. If you have nothing better to do.

1) In high school, I convinced a foreign exchange student from Spain to kiss the drama teacher during a skit because I told her it was a sure way to get an "A"
2) I brewed beer in a bathtub in college
3) My wedding will include a floating couch and wolves
4) I've been kissed by Paul Simon
5) I snuck into Switzerland without a passport via tears, a ride in a cop car, and an overnight in a Swiss police station translating Pulp Fiction for the officers on duty and drinking a copious amount of whiskey.

And thanks to the lovely Lisa for the tag! I feel so popular. :-)

And now I tag Marcia and Meno and V and Katie Q.

Lie to me, baby.

Boo

I am currently sitting in my cubicle, shivering because all that is covering my legs is a pair of one-size-fits-none green tights, and I'm typing with some totally-don't-match-at-all-but-whatever-it's-a-costume gloves.

As you may have guessed, today is not the most efficient day.

(Ha. Like that's an anomaly.)

And now you can actually see the Kermit and Piggy costumes that I was referring to, HERE. I like being Kermit in the office. I've had a "thing" for Kermit for a long time. And let me tell you, it is NOT easy being green. It makes your face break out and peel, all at the same time.

We have some creative people in the office, I love the girl with the spiders and gross spider bites. Mmm. She also made witch finger treats, (they're actually long pretzels with red-dyed, sliced almonds for fingernails, and they creeped me out so much that I couldn't finish mine and continue to have the shivers every time I think about it. ... b-r-r-r-r.) Herr MWOTH is dressed as... apparently some obscure character from Anchorman. ? O.K., while it was a funny movie, it has not been the reigning champion of any Funniest Movies Ever list. Ever. And the characters are just not that exciting, costume-ly speaking. He looks like a 70s character. Rock on with your lamp chops and elbow patches. Really, I think there are better costumes. Like, say, mine.

Of course, the I.T. asked if I was a bug, when he saw me. ! And I said, "No I eat them, motherfucker." (At least, that's how it went in my head.) But I think I look like Kermit, even if no one else does.

My friend Overnight Express Mailed THIS to me, this morning. Can you believe that? HA! That is because I have AWESOME friends. Pimp my Pumpkin. Indeed I will!

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Clean and Sparkly

Do you ever feel calmer when your house is cleaner? I hate cleaning, but I hate germs even more, so it gets done, anyway. Although we've been so busy, recently that we fell a little bit behind. And I think, honestly, that it added to my stress levels. Because after The Funasaurus (love you, darling) cleaned the toilets (with much melodramatic gagging and squealing by yours truly) and I vacuumed, and did laundry, and organized the office a bit, and cleaned off our dining room table, I felt this overwhelming sense of CALM. Goodbye, dust, apparently you subconsciously freak me the hell out.

So that was good.

What was even better was Saturday night. Wherein Miss Piggy and Kermit came together in a ghet-to fabulous way. After a lazy Saturday morning, a leisurely walk to Einstein's, and some random crap on T.V. we decided we should, you know, get around to making our costumes. Especially since I had decided I was going to sew The Funasaurus a Very Pink Skirt. (No one, not even evil Wal-Mart, carries size XXL skirts in Pepto Bismol pink. Disappointing.) So I got some fabric and a pattern. And I carried my sewing machine downstairs (if you want to get technical, I had The Funasaurus carry it, it's heavy) and cleared off a large working space, and organized my sewing kit, and opened the pattern package and unfolded it all Martha Stewart-esque and realized, "Holy Fuck, I don't know how to sew!"

So I called my mom. Who lives, like, an hour away. And had a party to go to that night, herself.

But I needed help. So I said just the right thing to grate on her slightly Martha-Stewart-esque personality. "I can't sew this skirt," I said. "But it's o.k., I think I could just wrap the fabric around him like a sarong."

"You can't do that! There's no point in doing it if you're only going to do it halfway. I'm coming down. I can only stay for an hour."

I got off the phone, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. For some reason, The Funasaurus felt the need to call me a "Spoiled, spoiled girl."

Hi, I'm the princess. Nice to meet you.

So mom came down. And helped me make a fabulous, shiny pink shirt, custom sized for The Funasaurus, complete with a sparkly sequence trim on the front. (And only the front because idiot-here did not buy enough pink sequence. Who doesn't buy enough pink sequence? I feel like that is something I should have extra of, at all times!) Anyway.

Skirt + matching pink shirt + pink trouser pants + one very large stuffed sports bra + blond wig + fuzzy pink slippers + pink boa + pink gloves + spectacular work with eyeliner and pink face paint on my part, made for an awesome pink Funasaurus Piggy. Pictures to follow.

I was Kermit. Pictures also to follow.

I'm so ready for the trick-or-treaters. I bought six bags of (good) candy, just in case. I'm an awesome house to visit if you're a candy whore like I was, at trick-or-treating age. Now I'm more of a gourmet chocolate whore. But somehow that didn't prevent me from busting into the Reeses Peanut Butter Cup bag.....