Thursday, August 31, 2006

Vindictive Royalty on Wine

I went up to my parents' house last night for dinner, while The Funasaurus was playing volleyball. My parents and I have a pretty good relationship, based not-entirely-but-at-least-partially on a mutual love of dry, red wine. Dinner was good, and I started to whine about a particular boss of mine, who shall now and forevermore be referred to as Herr My Way or the Highway. Die Herr MWOTH (is it just me, or wouldn't that name be perfect for a dark underlord in a B- fantasy novel? Herr MWOTH. Hmm. It totally fits. It's somewhere between "moth" and "mouth" and that's just disgusting. If you're writing a B- fantasy novel you can totally borrow that name. I don't mind.) has been Not Nice, recently, due to the fact that I called him out on a lie.

So I consumed probably a-little-more-than-my-fair-share of an excellent chardonnay, before proceeding on to one of those aforementioned nice, dry reds, which eventually made its goal of making me forget almost entirely about Herr MWOTH.

After dinner, I busted out a pair of pants I had brought along, to have my mom help hem them. Despite the fact that I supposedly own a sewing machine, I am not entirely sure that it really exists, since I've never seen it without the cover on it. But the cover is a nice blue-ish color. It looks good in our office. The dust gives it a nice rustic look.

Mom had me stand on a chest, while she pinned the pants. I was supremely unhelpful, all, "my wine glass is almost empty...! Hang on, must go refill!" and "What are you doing down there?" and "why am I so wobbly up here??"

Mom, very patiently, rotated between putting pins between her lips and putting sips of wine between her lips, not once mistaking one for the other, because she is organized like that. And also rather averse to pain.

Having helped me with that project, I was next expected to help her with hers.

And thus The Latest Scrapbook was busted out, in all its shredded-paper-and-glittery-sticker glory.

Wine, in its infinite gift of making everything better, made me open-minded, and we actually had a really good time. I had a blast playing with pointy objects and expensive paper while inebriated. Tiny items were cut out, I only amputated one ear in a picture (and I question whether that could even really be considered my fault. It blended in with the stadium's concrete color behind it. Speaking of, Uncle, maybe you should think about getting out in the sun a little more...) and discovered the glory of glue that is only glue when you want it to be glue. It's like magic. Plus, it comes in colorful cases. Does it get any better? That is a rhetorical question. The answer, is no, absolutely, it does not, that is as good as it gets.

Eventually we got so engrossed in our magic glue and handy cut-perfect-circle-y things that that sneaky wine wore off without us noticing. And then it was 10:30, and I had a 45 minute drive in front of me, and a tired and more-than-likely rather sweaty Funasaurus to cuddle with, waiting for me at home.

So I went home. Imagining that if maybe someday I find a picture of Herr MWOTH, I could amputate a little something of his....

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

The Princess and the Locust

So I finally made it to yoga last night.

I love the slightly sensual smell of incense, the dimly lighted room, the warm, blonde wood floor....

I hate the fucking bendy people.

Me = Not Really Bendy At All.

We had a new instructor (hope the last regular lady's o.k., given the crisis last week!) and she kicked my ass. She made us hold poses a lot longer than the other (nicer, I might add, and I'll just throw a "prettier" on there, too, while I'm at it) instructor. It hurt.

Yoga is supposed to be about your personal growth, you focus on yourself, and every little bit you improve is your own personal success story for the day. It is not competitive.

My ass.

Every time I do something better than the person next to me (rarely) I feel quite smug. Every time the person next to me does something better (almost always) I secretly hope they'll fall while their leg is wrapped around their other leg 14 and a half times, knocking what I imagine are the very subtle traces of a smug look off their face.

Is that just me?

So anyway, about half way through, my left leg wussed out. I was in the zone, my arms and right leg were all game, all, "Ooh, sweat! Feels good! We can do this!" My left leg was like, "Oh hell no. I quit. And I will shake the rest of you until you join me on the couch." So I am sitting there, next to all these Zen-ed out balanced people, shaking like I'm experiencing my own, private, little earthquake.

At one point the instructor comes over to help push down on my feet, while I'm doing this pose that looks like a feeble attempt to play Superman. (If only there were a green screen and not a mirror behind me!) Her support on your feet is supposed to help you lift the rest of your body via your abs (abs? You really think I have those?) and get an extra stretch.

The instructor had been talking in this calm, half-asleep voice the whole evening, which, I think, is the only kind of voice ever heard in that room, when all of a sudden (as she's holding my feet down) she goes, "WHOA! Your left leg is going NUTS!" In a a voice more reserved for, "Look! Armed aliens just walked out of that spaceship!" The whole class turns to see me shake like I'm Superman on a Gallon Of Caffeine.

Beat that, suckas. I've taken Locust Pose to a whole new level.

Once class let out, I met The Funasaurus at the grocery store. Where my left leg continued to sulk, independent of the rest of my body, by occasionally giving out in the most inconvenient places, like the middle of aisle 13. Awesome. The Funasaurus just acted like he didn't know me. I feel like that's been happening to me a lot, recently.

Now my coworker thinks we're going for a run at lunchtime. I may have a hard time explaining to her why my left leg kicked her in the ass on the way out the door. I swear it's not me.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Thus Going Back on Everything I Just Decreed Yesterday

Things have been a little stressful at work, recently. So when a coworker (whom I also consider a very good friend) suggested retail therapy and a glass of wine after work, I was all over that like Hunter S. Thompson on a small mountain of shrooms.

We carpooled in, and counted down the excruciating minutes of a Very Long Monday (all 484 of them, we didn't get in until almost 9:00) via "How's it going over there?" e-mails. Despite the fact that we work about 16 feet apart, I often don't see her all day. We are that lazy. Also, princess-like. Shit should come to US, man.

So 5:00 finally deigned to come around. And we hustled ourselves on over to the mall. And CPK. Which is, like, our favoritest place for wine, ever. I don't know why. We are both a little more versed on wine and enjoy snooty wine bars... but CPK's selection isn't bad, and they have some very affordable appetizers. Also, we like routine. Why fix what ain't broke?

We both order a glass of cabernet. The waiter peered at us over his nose (as self-righteous as you can be when wearing a CPK apron) and said, "That's the same wine. It would really be more cost effective to just get a bottle."

I swear he smelled the stress emanating from me.

I did not need any more convincing. That was a fine, fiscally prudent argument, as far as I could tell. Shooting Star (that's my friend's name, and no, she's not a damn hippie, I just am in a peace & love mood today [see next paragraph on consumption of full bottle of said wine] and Shooting Star fits her better than Moonbeam) nodded in agreement, and the bottle was immediately brought to our table. I was starving, and inhaled the bread, (mmm, bread. bread and wine. I could live off of that combination. truly.) and "sipped" my wine.

We had a lovely conversation about boys, and boys, and sex, and boys. Work is a purely pre-cabernet discussion. I felt the relief that only comes from a good chat with a girlfriend, and we stumbled off to the card store, where I announce very loudly, "Do you think it's OBVIOUS we're drunk?" And Shooting Star turns a nice shade of pink, and shakes her head politely, all, "I don't really know her, I'm just humoring her because obviously SHE'S plastered."

(Side note: half a bottle of wine and I get drunk. That is WEAK. I swear I am losing skilz as I get older. Very sad. Cheaper fun, though!)

We buy about $45 worth of cards.


And decide our damage is done. Fortunately, my car is parked back at SS's house (Shooting Star, in hindsight, was a very long name to bequeath her, when I end up having to write it 40 bazillion times) so she drives us home.

Or, at least, tries to.

(She swears she's fine. We really did spend over half an hour in the card store, and ate a rediculous amount of appetizers, and she did NOT feel the wine like I did. Props, SS.)

Let's back track a little to our arrival at the mall. (Which we have been to, oh, 13 trillion times. Give or take a dozen.) We go into the parking structure, up a little ramp, and park.

To get out, you would think you would go down a little ramp, and exit.

But no. As usual, the universe decides to fuck with me AGAIN (are you seeing a theme?? Suck an egg, Mr. Universe. .. No, wait, I totally take that back. Please just stop messing with me. You're very handsome, you know that? In all your expansive Big Bang-y-ness) and we follow the exit signs. Around. And around. And around. SS is TOTALLY following the signs, doing exactly what I would do. And yet we go up. We go down.

"Um, isn't that our parking spot?"

"Huh. Yeah. You would think we'd not need to lap by it, five minutes later, in order to exit."

"You WOULD think, wouldn't you?"

So we continue past our old parking spot, thinking, "Hi old friend," and also, "We've said our goodbyes. No need to drag this out. We'll be back, we promise."

And go down the ramp.

And then down another ramp.

And then down another ramp.

And then down a FOURTH ramp. And then, lo, there is the exit onto our street.

"Funny, didn't we only go up ONE ramp on our way in?"


"And yet we had to take four down, to get out?"



"huh, indeed."

But we made it home without further incident.

And I feel much better this morning. Despite the hangover.

Amended decree: Drinking mid-day at wine festivals is the ONLY way to go, unless you are really stressed and there is a good friend and a bottle of cabernet involved. Then 9:45 p.m. on a Monday is totally acceptable.

Also: If going to the Cherry Creek Mall, (Do you see what restaurant they featured in the picture?? Do you SEE?) do NOT park in the parking structure on the east side. It is some kind of physics-defying vortex of confusion. Guard your purses and small children.

Monday, August 28, 2006

The Long Way to Wine

This weekend I had a plan. I was getting me some wine. Not just any wine. As much as I could drink from all sorts of different vendors. A sampling. A comparison. A tasting. Un dégustation, quoi. A damn good time. The Keystone Jazz & Wine Festival was going on, and I was going to be a part of.

So I recruited my future sister-in-law, and my good friend D from college, to go with me.

The morning went something like this:

D: I can't wait to see you, it's been so long! Sorry to make you drive all the way down south of Denver to pick me up.

me: No worries, it's totally worth it!

...20 minutes later...

me: I'm going to be a little late. I just came back home, I forgot my cell phone, and while I contemplated trying to go a day without it and live like the olden days all cell phone-less, I quickly realized it's my lifeblood and that really wouldn't work.

D: I understand. Those WERE dark days....

...30 minutes later...

me: HI! It's so good to see you, finally! What have you been up to?

D: Great! After I finished hanging off the bottoms of helicopters in Antarctica, and a quick trip through southeast Asia, I spent a couple months in a cabin under several feet of snow in Mammoth building fires to keep warm with a cute boy. What have you been up to?

me: Uh. I painted a wall in my house?

D: Wow, that's awesome. I've never painted a wall.

me: Well, it IS pretty complicated. What with all the taping and stuff.

D: Fascinating.

(Do you see why she's my friend?)

Future sister-in-law: I'm on a bus. I'll meet you for lunch?

Pizza: Good.

Us: Finally on our way up to the mountains.

Rain: I want to make your life as miserable as possible.

Tupac: Californiaaaa... knows how to part-ay....

Future sister-in-law: Can you really see out the windshield?

me: Kinda.

Rain: Lets up as soon as we arrive.

Temperature: Colder than you thought, suckas.

me: I fear you not. I will warm myself up with copious amounts of wine.

Ticket booth: Managed by the slowest fucking people EVER.

Wine: Once we finally get to it, very tasty.

Do you know that there's a wine called Little Black Dress? It's decent. And it's fun to drink, just for the label.

Words of wisdom for the day: If you go to a wine festival, and there are long lines in front of Every Single Booth except the wine from Texas, there is a reason.

Future sister-in-law: Tee hee. Maybe tipsy?

me: Definitely.

D: Should we shoot the next one?

me: Definitely.

Future sister-in-law: I think I will buy some artwork. Because it's pretty.

me: Me, too!

somewhere in the recesses of my brain: What are you doing? You have no money!

Wine: Suffocates that recessed part of brain.

Wine: Buy the artwork, it's pretty.

me: obliging.

I now own two very pretty photographs of trees and hills in Virginia. Uh. I'll need to get creative and find a place for those. Somewhere. Since they really don't match anything else in my house.

Festival: over.

us: back on the road.

We went and had dinner, and then saw Step Up, which was basically Save the Last Dance II, except the black guy was white. That's really the only difference. But since I loved the first one, I much appreciated the second one. Definitely go see it. Or better yet, rent it. There will be less chance of angsty pre-teens feeling the need to comment on every scene, making every other pre-teen in the audience giggle nervously, only egging on original young prick. I felt Very Old. And also: like I wanted to kick some adolescent ass.

Sunday I woke up, not hung over. BRILLIANT! I drank obscene amounts of wine, but felt no repercussions! OH! Drinking mid-day at wine festivals is the ONLY way to go, from here on out. I decree it to be so.

Friday, August 25, 2006

A Tale As Old As Time

So last night The Funasaurus made the executive decision, after concluding that There's Really Nothing to Watch on T.V. At All, that we would watch a movie. And his movie selection? Aladdin.

I had not forgotten about Aladdin. No. How could one forget Prince Ali-Ababwa? But I had, somewhat, dislodged from my memory banks the fact that it was a movie we could watch any old time we wanted to. I do not believe I have seen Aladdin in years.

So I deemed that A Very Good Idea, Indeed, and we watched the diamond in the rough come in to his potential.

Which, hee hee, is funny to say. "Come in to his potential." BWAH-HA-HA-HA!

You will not find this statement as funny as I do, unless you, too, in an effort to prove yourself "supremely knowledgeable in all things search engine-y" your freshman year of college (no, seriously, the internet was still quite a novelty, then!) you went looking for "Disney Porn" (oh, I can't wait to see what kind of fabulous folks stumble there way to my blog with THAT search) with your newfound BFF of about a day and a half, because you had heard it existed.

Well. It exists.

And I have never looked at Miss Jasmine quite the same way, since.

But Aladdin? "Coming into his potential"? Hee?

I'm not sure I've seen the movie since that fateful experience some many years ago, but it certainly gave it a whole new feel. So to speak.

Since then, I have learned about all the little sneaky, dirty things Disney animators have snuck into their films, over the years. Some are somewhat bogus, in my humble opinion. Phallic-shaped tower on the Little Mermaid castle on the video cassette cover? Eh. I see which one they mean. It doesn't scream "ABSOLUTE PENIS" to me, though. However, the nudie poster in The Rescuers WAS apparently true... and the leaves spelling "S-E-X" in The Lion King are a big MAYBE.

Which makes me wonder, what else has gone on that ISN'T recorded? Was there subversive S&M in Rainbow Brite? ("The Dark Princess?" Maybe? Maybe?) What were The Muppets doing with the lower half of their bodies that we only got to see about a 1/3 of the time? There was cross-dressing in Bugs Bunny, but that doesn't seem as risqué, does it? I mean, little kids just like costumes. I know I did. And I was totally normal. Despite demanding to be dressed as an entire ear of corn, one Halloween. Totally normal.

Does anyone know any more juicy, animated secrets? I'm certainly curious....

In the meantime, I think I am going to go watch a movie with a much nicer, more wholesome message. Like Dirty Dancing. I took a lot of good messages away from that classic. Nobody puts Princess G in the corner. Nobdody.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

A Glimpse of My Personal Demons

So there are these two, evil little hell-minions that dominate my world, wreaking havoc at every turn, all day and all night. Otherwise known as my cats.

I love them. But they are their own special little flavor of pure evil. They are Devon Rexes... an amazing breed which I sought out, specifically, and PAID for. (I know, please don't hate me. I have all sorts of Catholic guilt [which is interesting, being the rather unreligious person that I am] over that, having grown up with adopted shelter kitties my whole life.)

I got Sugar when I was going through a weird phase in my life... full of bumps and unknowns and hopes and despair... and she filled a huge need. We bonded in a crazy way, more than I have ever realized was possible with a cat. She would wait, impatiently, at the window, every day, for me to come home. When I moved in with The Funasaurus, she and he bonded immediately, because he was home all day, studying for the bar, and she was... asleep on the new, queen-sized bed.

Under the covers, I might add.

But Sugar grew to love The Funasaurus. Mostly because his shoulders are much larger than mine (!) and he let her ride around on them all day. That is Good Times in Sugar World. But she became sad when I was no longer able to come home for lunch every day, and The Funasaurus got a real job, which expected him to be in the office all day long, and not sitting at home, dispensing cat treats willy-nilly.

We could hear her cry (CRY!) in the hallway outside of our apartment every day as we left and when we came home at night.

That broke my heart. She needed a friend. So we got Tatum. A lovely little boy. Who vomited all over himself and me on the way home from the breeder. And then things went downhill from there. He was a boy. He played like a boy. And Sugar is a princess. Who takes after her mom.


As a kitten, Tatum, in all of his 2.nothing pounds, would stalk Sugar and attack her. Sugar, four times larger than him, would SCREAM and hiss and just let him beat her up. And then act Very Sad and Disgusted by Life. *sigh.* (No, really, she sighed.)

If she would fall asleep, Tatum would bite her head. If she tried to wash herself, Tatum would chomp on her tail and not let go. And then poke her in the eyeballs. I think he secretly watched The Three Stooges while we were at work. I have taken Sugar to the vet more than once for scratches on her eyes. Poor baby. The vet calls it some strain of feline hepatitis, or something. I call it, "Evil. Your name is Tatum."

Over time, Sugar has learned to bite back. And even stalk Tatum. Which is good, because he is now almost as large as she is. But she is still much holier than thou. Thou being Tatum. (and also: most of the rest of the world.)

They are still very different. Sugar is extremely graceful and delicate, and knows not to walk on computers, instinctively, and is very good at balancing. Tatum is a knucklehead. (I love that world, by the way! Knucklehead. It's fantastic. I think we should all make a concerted effort to use it today, and slowly reintegrate it into the hip vernacular. It's so worth it.) Tatum also runs a lot.

Often in to walls.

Or down stairs. Not always feet first. He likes to chase toy mice, and even plays fetch. He has no regard for personal items. (has climbed: my leg. [with no pants on] The bookshelf. [the books part, not the solid furniture part] The office chair. [Sugar is able to jump] Guests. [unsuspecting] The stair hand railing. [plain ol' stairs are not good enough] Pile of office work I brought home ["cat climbed my homework?"] and fine linen [inherited from now-deceased Grandma.])

Meanwhile, Sugar, having learned to chase him as well as run away from him, is getting herself into all sorts of new trouble. She will jump the cord for charging my digital camera, but Tatum is too dumb and runs right through it in hot pursuit, thereby strangling himself (choking kitty sounds are *awesome*) and knocking my Very Nice camera to the floor, causing it to bounce. Expensive digital equipment is not really good at "bouncing," per se. Pisses me off.

Last night I came home to a pile of pictures that had been overturned. If you know ANYTHING about my slight compulsive tendencies regarding pictures, you would understand what a hugefuckingdeal that was.

This morning they brought the shower curtain down. (Can't climb the plastic liner, knucklehead!)

By this evening I'm expecting some sort of creative Utter Destruction of my kitchen appliances. Or plants. I live in dread of what wicked scheme they might be plotting every day. But they are also good at cuddling, and really do love you unconditionally. Tatum even spoons me at night. You haven't lived until you've had an a very warm but occasionally evil kitty stretch out as long as he possibly can against your abdomen and purr you to sleep. "But that's cute," you say. You'd be right. You also would not have yet gotten to the part where he starts to knead your face at 3:30 a.m., unrelentlessly. I have come very close to losing an eye, mid-R.E.M.

But I still say he's worth meeting. You should come over. He'll spoon you and play fetch. And then poke your eye out when you're least expecting it.

And Sugar will sigh.

Welcome to my world.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

A Princess Does Not "Feel the Burn"

Or, at least, when I "feel the burn" it is usually more in regards to Jameson shots sliding down my throat, as opposed to overexerted abs or calf muscles.

I have never liked exercise.

What are these "endorphins" you speak of?

Sometimes I run. (And when I say "run" I mean "barely jogging.") Because I know it is good for me. But I hate every minute of it. I have actually, I kid you not, FALLEN ASLEEP while running. Not possible, you say? Well, maybe you don't hate exercise as much as I do.

I hate the ugly shoes. I hate getting up early. I hate using up precious Friends-reruns time on weeknights, and nose-picking time on the weekends. I don't really "do" sweat. And it's impossible to keep your eyes covered, because sunglasses bounce and hats don't really cover as much as I'd like.

Which brings us back to my Falling Asleep Issue. The other day I came up with a resolution to the eyeball protection dilemma. I decided to just close my eyes while I was running. (I know, thank you, thank you, I AM brilliant!) I thought I would just crack my eyes open enough to see where I was going every now and then, and then just keep them shut the rest of the time, to protect them from the sun. Seeing as how endorphins never really kick in for me, I basically put myself to sleep about 20 minutes into a run. So here I am, running along a trail, when suddenly I felt something that could only be compared to a complete mutation into jell-o. All of my limbs suddenly stopped and gave way, mid-stride, and mid-daydream. I jerked my head up (kinda like in physics class in high school when my arm would suddenly stop supporting my chin) and I realized I had veered well off the trail and had fallen completely asleep! My body had taken all of about .036 seconds to go from "jogging" to "completely limp and subconscious."

I must have looked fantastic to passerbys. All my limbs flailing everywhere, looking around wildly because I was not where I thought I was on the trail....

I'm awesome like that.

So anyway, I discovered yoga about two years ago, and I try to go, occasionally, because it is my least-hated form of exercise, by far. (Skiing doesn't count. Skiing is fun, and not really a workout unless you specifically decide to make it one. Which I often don't.) But yoga always ends with a relaxation exercise. (Read: mini nap.) Gotta love the exercise that includes a naptime!

Last night I decided to go to a yoga class, because it had been a while. A good friend called, so I got changed, pinned my hair back, and drove to the studio as we yammered away on the phone. I hung up the phone as I approached the door. Which was locked. ???? Pounding did not make anyone appear, and did not do much for my entrance into a Zen-like state. I grabbed a schedule from the hanging box on the door, and confirmed that, yes indeed, a class was supposed to start in about seven minutes. I hung around, wondering why the universe was fucking with me again, or if I had just forgotten how to tell time completely, when the teacher showed up. Small, personal emergency, class is cancelled for today.

I felt relieved and smiled, and she looked at me kind of oddly, having just described her personal, sad emergency. So I quickly explained that I was just happy because it turns out I'm not crazy.

She didn't look so sure.

So I called my friend back as I walked back to my car, saying, "Phew, what a workout." I decided that since I was all exercise-ready, anyway, I'd just go for a jog when I got home. Somehow, though, my friend and I just ended up talking for the next two hours, and by then it was completely dark. Well, we know THAT'S not safe! So I opted to eat a popsicle dinner (oh yes, I may have even eaten TWO) instead of exercising. Which, I figure, is practically the same thing, except internal. Popcicles and good friends are like exercise for the soul.

-said Princess Zen.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Not Enough Room

Real Title: List of Things To NOT Do When You Are Home Alone Because Your Significant Other Is Out of Town on Business and You Are Bored but at Least There Is an Open Bottle of Wine Wheee Whooo!

Also: it's only Tuesday.

1) Cook in a white shirt with no apron
2) Attempt "new thing" with eyeliner while holding hyperactive cat
3) Shop online
4) Write Fuck You, You Arrogant Prick, That Was My Idea e-mail to that someone special at your office
5) Try to understand directions on replacing the bag in the Litter Locker
5) Count
6) Drunk dial friends on the east coast when it's 11:25 p.m. in Colorado
7) Decide to write editorial piece for People magazine on the overrated Bradgelina and underrated Stephelyn. (No, seriously. I came up with that one, myself. For the record, her name is Evelyn McGee-Colbert. They just list her as "wife" on this site!!! I would kick some serious ass, if I were her. You go, Mrs. Colbert! I got yer back. Honestly. I even tried to put your name first, but Evephen didn't have the same ring, unfortunately.)
8) Practice beluga calls on your front porch (not loudly, yeesh) while watering Very Dead rose tree, ignoring cool neighbors who are smoking exotic-y European cigarettes 20 feet away
9) Open second bottle of wine
10) Finesse angler's loop knot skeelz on own wrist
11) Pass out on couch before setting any sort of alarm whatsoever

Monday, August 21, 2006

Weekend in Review

This was a busy weekend. Saturday morning I went to the store, because I had to get a prescription filled. I went "early" (I find the phrase "early in the morning" [especially on the weekend] a somewhat redundant statement) because we had two baby showers and a Broncos game to get to that afternoon. There are a surprising amount of people at the grocery store on Saturday mornings!

That was slightly unfortunate for me, who was hoping for a world full of sleeper-inners, like myself, because I wanted a little privacy. On top of the prescription, I was also supposed to get over-the-counter medicine for my little issue, which is not, unfortunately, the most princess-like medical issue. Hence, I *really* did not want anyone to see me shopping for aforementioned over-the-counter stuff. So I strolled up and down the aisle casually, all, "I am certainly shopping for tiaras and jewels. Don't those fall under the category of 'feminine products'?" whenever someone (and there were wretchedly awful LOT of someones!) came by.

Then, on to the two baby showers. Whee-whoo. For someone who is not really at a "liking babies in any way" phase of her life, that was a crapload of showers. The first shower was very, very PINK. Now, I normally adore pink. I personally own a lot of pink junque. But not frilly, baby-bottle decorated pink.

No, my pink is more along the line of "flask," and "lingerie."

So we played some silly games, which are basically a required event at parties that are that PINK. My table (which included The Funasaurus, who was QUITE the trooper, I must say, for attending a "co-ed" PINK baby shower, esp. since almost every other male invited [besides the father-to-be] found an excuse not to come, a la, "I would love to, but I already have plans to drive nails through my eyeballs this afternoon... bummer!") cheated horribly, and we won some very nice chocolate as a reward, so that helped.

Baby shower #2 was a cocktail party. ROCK ON. That was a Good Time, actually, esp. since we only stayed for 45 minutes before The Funasaurus deemed it "plenty of face-time" with the pregnant coworker and her husband, so we chugged the last of our (very large!) glasses of chardonnay and went to the football game.

Going to the game was SWEET, because The Funasaurus is a smarty pants, and works for a fancy-schmancy law firm, who has fancy-schmancy BOX SEATS for schmoozing with rich clients, which they let the lowly associates use in preseason. So when people would say, "Oh, I hope it doesn't rain on you," I could be all, "Oh, whatever. It doesn't matter to me. I am in the box. With air conditioning and wine." (I mean, duh. Naturally. Where else would a princess sit?)That was awesome. So we stayed until the bitter end, even though the Broncos had obviously beat the Titans like they STOLE something, before even halftime.

Sunday was a very mellow, mellow day. We saw Accepted. If you take it in the spirit of "mindless summer movie," it was actually pretty funny, and we felt our $5 tickets were money well-spent. (YEAH, matinee.)

Now I'm back at work.

Dear Monday,

I hate you.

Princess G.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Sweet Indulgence

I am a very interesting topic. At least, to me. I love to hear about myself (hmmm... perhaps why I am posting a journal on the internet? [interesting tidbit: I recently learned that "blog" is short for "weblog", am I the only person left on the www who didn't know that?]) and I love inflicting myself on other people.


So naturally, I am a sucker for those surveys that come along as a forwarded message in e-mail every now and then. The ones that have anywhere from 20-100 questions, depending on how much time the creator had. And they range in everything from "Have you ever been kissed?" (methinks creator was perhaps prepubescent? You don't ask a question like that if the answer is "no." So creator HAS been kissed. However, this is not really epically huge news unless it is, like, A New Thing, and also, You Are Young because what 33 year old is going to be like, "oh, me! Me!" [picture arm waving in the air, other arm supporting it to get it higher] "I HAVE JUST BEEN KISSED, FINALLY. JOY. Now I will announce it in this e-mail.") to "favorite bar," which, it seems, is more directed at the 21 and up crowd.

However, sometimes I feel the creators (12 or 24) are slightly unimaginative. "Favorite season?" Please. Odds are one out of four people will agree with you on that one. So I like to switch 'em up a bit. I like to fill the surveys out, but I really don't think anyone cares that I prefer fall over summer, and so therefore I change those kinds of questions to something I think my friends WOULD want to know. Some of my preferred variations have been, "Craziest place you had sex," "juiciest secret you were ever told," "dream vacation," "amount of alcohol it'd take for you to kiss me," "best mixed-drink recipe", and "best sex scene in a book." (Pattern? What pattern? I don't know what you're talking about.) I feel many of these answers could be beneficial. Who WOULDN'T want to see a list of good, literary sex scenes? I am always looking for a good read. And sex is always a bonus. Most recently, I read Troll: A Love Story. And while, erm, different, the sex scenes were interesting.

In fact, please feel free to leave good reading material in a comment.

Also: feel free to leave ideas for new, better questions to those e-mail surveys in a comment. We could revolutionize forwards, here, folks!

In the spirit of learning all about yourself, I am a sucker for on-line psychology tests.

Here is a good one to find out just what special brand of crazy you are.

Here's a good one to find out what you think of yourself, vs. what your friends think of you. (Bonus: it's interactive.)

In the meantime, have a fabulous weekend! I may just indulge and buy myself some horrid, new, pop-psychology book. I mean, isn't buying books really one of the most indulgent things you can ever do? Especially at a yummy, local bookstore? Between Amazon and libraries (big fan, btw, please go support your local library. I plan on being a hot librarian, someday, and we need to keep the system alive so I can fulfill that dream, o.k.???) there really is no reason to buy a book at full price at the Tattered Cover. Except that it's an experience unto itself, you're buying the pleasure of the atmosphere (and supporting local economy!) so it's self-indulgence for a good cause.

You go, girl.

Oh I WILL go, thank you very much. I will go straight to the bookstore. In my horse and carriage. aka my Honda Civic.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

The Caffeinated Bet

A little over a year ago, I made a bet that I could stay off of coffee for a year.

The way I remember it going down, I had been giving a co-worker a ride to work on a regular basis. As a thank-you, she would often get me a nice, hot beverage from the local coffee shop. Now, I love me some coffee, but I usually only drink a small cup every now and then. Not even every day. Well, this co-worker, in all her gratitude, one day bought me a SuperSized vanilla latte.

That was a gallon of liquid yum.

I chugged the whole thing before we had even pulled into the parking lot for work.

Shortly thereafter, I got a headache. (And I am not prone to headaches.) And a stomachache. And the shakes, and overall heebie-geebies. It didn't go away all morning, it didn't go away after I ate a good lunch, and by the time I got home (around 5:30?) that night, I thought I was maybe going crazy.

I remember throwing myself on the couch, fairly melodramatically, saying, "I am never going to drink coffee, again."

I remember The Funasaurus snorting.

And I remember saying, "No, seriously. This sucks."

And I remember The Funasaurus saying, "I'll bet you can't even go a year without coffee."

And I remember saying, "Done." And the bet was made, and the loser had to take the winner out to a really nice dinner downtown, somewhere.

The Funasaurus' version of the story is a little different. It involves me doing all of the talking, making the bet, and him saying all of, "hmm? o.k."

He says it's "the right version."

I say it's the "less-interesting version."

Anyway. So I did it. I went a year without coffee. (Just coffee. I could still have caffeine. There were sodas and chais and tea all year long.)

People have told me, "Gee, after that long, you're probably over it, huh? You'll probably not want it, anymore."

To them I say, "Psh-aaaw."

I craved coffee EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. I love the smell of it. I missed the jolt. (In moderate amounts.) I missed the "cool factor" because after a while you just lose some street cred by ordering hot chocolate every time you go to Starbucks with a group.

So I got to have my very first cup on August 2. I didn't even have a whole cup. I just had a little splash in my normal morning cup of hot chocolate to give it that little something extra. And: HELLO BOINKYBOINKY HEART! (Regarding that link... do any of you remember the Swiss Miss caricature from the 70s? 80s? It was like a claymation Heidi. Complete with blond braids. Does anyone remember her? I can't find her anywhere, anymore. But I miss her. She would have been a waaaay cooler link.)

This reaction surprised me since a) it was a very nominal amount of coffee, and b) I had been drinking caffeine this whole time, as I said. Just not coffee.

But this proves, to me, without a doubt, there is nothing you can say to convince me otherwise, that there is a crap-ton more caffeine in coffee than any other caffeinated beverage I can think of.

(Side note: pet peeve: ending sentences with prepositions. I still do it. See above. I just dislike it. That shows my unresolved issues of anal-ness and laziness.)

(Side side note: one of my favorite quotes: Madame, that is a rule, up with which, I shall not put. -Winston Churchill.)

(Side side side note: Some people dispute that quote is actually Churchill's. To them I say, "Y'all have waaaaay too much time on your hands.")

So that was my bet. I won it. The Funasaurus must now take me out to a nice dinner, somewhere. Sometime. Maybe he will even bring me flowers. (My guess is that would be more likely if he were actually to read this blog.) But I will still take fois gras over daisies, any day.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

My Little Masochistic Tendencies

I care a lot about what people think of me. I am happy to offer to be the driver for the occasional Starbucks run with co-workers. I went out of my way to be nice to The Funasaurus' friends when I first met them. I make a concerted effort to say something somewhat unique and intelligent if I'm asked to speak in a meeting at work. When I moved away from my hometown when I was 13, I began obsessively writing letters every day, lest one of my old friends think I had forgotten them. I literally wrote 5-10 (sometimes more, I think my record was 33. [Please don't think I'm a freak]) every day for two years.

But I think this comes from a deep-seated, "Let's all be friends!" attitude.

Hey, you! Reading this! Let's be friends! ... Write me.

This slight tendency has led to some inconveniences in my life, like giving a co-worker a ride for nine months in a row while she was looking for the perfect car, after hers was totaled in an accident. But on the upside (and more importantly) this has led to some really long-term, meaningful relationships with people I might otherwise have fallen out of touch with. And thank goodness for that, because I adore the people in my life, as crazy and different as they all are. I really do. They make for good stories.

On that note, I recently had a good friend confess to me that she's gotten into the whole S&M thing. More specifically, the whole domination/submissive thing. Because that's different. The whole whips and chains and black leather is apparently SO Hollywood, and not at all how things go down (!) in real (?) life. It's apparently all about humiliation and psychological games, and the physical is only a second-hand deal.

Oh. My. Goodness.

So I listened attentively, and tried to figure out what she was talking about. It took me about 10 minutes of nodding and guessing, "I have these guys... they do whatever I tell them to do... do you know what I'm saying?" nod nod. (Inside my head, "she must be good in bed." HA! Little did I know.) When I finally pieced it together, (we were having this conversation in a bar over a nice Chardonnay, so we had to keep it on the down-low) I was reeling from the concept. My only previous knowledge of the whole subculture came from a very brief scene in Mr. & Mrs. Smith and Sex & The City and apparently that is only the tip of the iceberg, my friend.

So to speak.

So when I got home, I went straight to the computer. There is a LOT of information out there, and while I would dearly love to direct you to an S&M WEBSITE, I'm shy. I can't do it. But if you're curious, it's not hard to find.

Being the open-minded friend that I am, I printed out some pages to review a little more thoroughly. I brought them in my car as stoplight and carwash reading material.

Being the mess that I am, I left those pages of domination and submission in the sun. To yellow just a wee bit. And also to forget about.

Being the person who cares so much about what other people think, I was something beyond Hor.I.Fied. when I went on one of those previously mentioned Starbucks runs with MY BOSS, and she sat on them, all, "what's this shall I move it to the back se... oh!"

Oh!, indeed.

That was awkward.

And perhaps doesn't bode well for the raise I have been trying to get.


Maybe it does.

Perhaps a riding crop is just what I need to get my point across.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

But I don't waaaaaanna be a bridezilla...!

Getting engaged was one of the most pivotal, intense, deeply emotional and thrilling moments of my life. A moment of nothing but a wide-eyed boyfriend and a heartswell of epic proportions lasted long enough to call my parents and brother in a blur... before


the wedding! Tra-la, I am going to be a bride!-moment hit.

I tried to be chill, to enjoy it all and just live in the moment, but already visions of satin and calla lillies were creeping into my head.

I did actually spend a couple of wonderful days (over a week!) just enjoying the newness, the craziness, and the rekindled love of being engaged before we did our first wedding-related thing. We went venue hunting. We spent one day, saw five different spots, decided quickly that we were not the country club types but more the ranch-on-a-mountain types, so we set a date, and that was that.

And, to reiterate, WE picked the spot. The Funasaurus did get a say. And I hope it stays that way. Because I think girls (women?) get a little carried away with this whole wedding-thing. It is a multi-billion dollar industry. Women can be slightly neurotic and perfection-y, anyway (as can men, but there is a division of the sexes, along this line, sorry) and the whole wedding industry feeds in to that neurosis. There are stories of tantrums being thrown over the WRONG STAMPS being bought to send the invitations. (Really, does anyone notice stamps? [if they're not Kermit, that is. Of course everyone noticed the Kermit stamps.]) Of weddings being ruined because the sparkly LIGHTS were not hung just so, that the photographer forgot to take the picture of bride+mom+grandmom+aunt Gertrude+but NOT Aunt Mildred, he only got one with Aunt Mildred in it and how could he make such a big, fan-fucking-tastic mistake?

In starting to research all of this, I have discovered It is basically crack for brides.

It caters to every whim, every tulle or organza question, of dendrobium orchids over oncidium orchids, and how DARE your MOH (figure it out, I had to. There is no guidebook for all the acronyms, [and there are TONS] you just have to be smart enough to decipher them all, or get left out of the conversation because you are too dumb to be here, anyway and probably not pretty enough, either) want a dress that covers her arms when you have always DREAMED of your BMs dressing in matching fuchsia strapless tea-length gowns?

(To theknot's credit, they often advise comfort over matchy-matchy, to their credit. But I was making a point.)

In any case, any topic you can dream of is covered on this site. There are lists of vendors. Lists of vendor vendors, in fact. There are chat rooms. Chat rooms for other fall brides. For brides in your local area. For brides who want untraditional venues. For brides who think men-should-have-no-say-and-wear-pink-ties-and-don't-understand-why-their-future-children-will-all-cower-in-fear. Some women DON'T LEAVE after they're married. They have grown too attached to the daily conversations of "who's the best photographer in Pueblo?" and "What do I do if my MOH can't afford a pedicure?" They still want to dispense advice! So they do, from their infinite wisdom of Now-Being-Married. has even created a place for them. The affiliate: Yet some woman can't make the transition. They still seem to cling to the wedding-prep conversations, even though they are now delegated to the Has-Been Bleachers. (But we DO respect our elders on We do. "***NOWMRS.C.!**** How do you feel about wearing a ginormous pouffy wedding dress onto the plane to go to your honeymoon? Did you feel that was a good decision?")


So anyway. It's fascinating, in the can't-stop-staring-at-the-accident kind of way. And also in the oooh-good-idea-I-will-send-myself-an-e-mail-reminder-about-cranberry-centerpieces kind of way. And there is quite a support network there, which is obviously appreciated from the overly stressed, soon-to-be-brides.

Some of the coolest wedding stuff I've found, though, has come from surfing the web and reading other people's blogs and not from wedding sites. For example, I'm very into the idea of alternative desserts. Candy buffets are all the rage right now (yeah, I know, I had no idea, either, despite the fact that I've been to five weddings so far, this year. But says so, so I believe them. I'm a sucker for marketing) but I'm not really into candy. I like cake. Or pastries. But wedding cakes are obscene, both in style and price. If I am going to pay a fortune for a cake, it's coming from THIS place.

Alternatively, I'd really like to do cupcakes, or petits fours, or SUSHI. That's right. Click the link. It's so, so worth it. Be sure to read the descriptions.

Meanwhile, The Funasaurus and I decided we wouldn't do any planning until our -1 anniversary in September. (Ha ha. Have you even read this post?) So in that vein, I will stop, now. Because I really don't want to be a bridezilla. I just want to see The Funasaurus' hick uncle squirm when we ask him to eat a chocolate sushi. Raw fish. Except, NOT! Heh heh. That's a little sadist of me, no?

But I'll stop there, since that's another discussion, altogether.

Monday, August 14, 2006

I sometimes run the spellchecker twice. In case it missed something the first time.

Everyone has their own, personal demon, supposedly. Some people drink. Some people gamble. Some people collect Star Wars figurines. Some people hear voices. And some people have little fits of OCD in the most random places in their lives. Guess which one I fit into?

I drink, but not demonically. I do not have the patience to gamble, and Star Wars scared me as a kid, so while I enjoy it now, I never was really into the whole marathon-thing. The voices I hear are usually real live people who are really talking to me, so I should hear them. But I do have a vicious case of OCD when it comes to... PICTURE ALBUMS. (This does not bode well for my future as a, dumdumdum, scrapbooker. Especially because my mother does it. Genetics are vicious. Much like alcoholism, I firmly believe scrapbooking is an inheritable trait.) The rest of my life is fairly chaotic and messy. But my pictures are another thing. I even have a digital camera, so they could all just go on-line and be sent to friends with funny little commentary, to be stored in a folder somewhere for a while until it gets deleted on a random purging several months down the road, when someone says, "Why the hell did I let someone take that picture of me with my finger up my nose in front of a blurry mountain and post it on the internet? Why?" But I don't stop there. I need a physical copy of each and every picture that has any identifiable blob in it at all. Because on-line albums are so NOT the same thing at all. So I order prints. Often doubles, to inflict upon unassuming, more internet-friendly friends.

Meanwhile, when I get said prints, I feel the need to sequester them away, almost immediately. This is because of another OCD-related pet peeve: PEOPLE. Those fuckers.

What is SO HARD about keeping pictures in orders? My pictures go into albums chronologically. Pictures are taken chronologically. (It is impossible to do otherwise. "Oh wait, now that I've taken a picture of us totally drunk, we should go back and get one BEFORE my hair fell apart and that mysterious smudge appeared on your jaw." Much as I have *wished* for this ability, it is impossible.)

But when PEOPLE look at pictures, they often look at one, put it down face-up, and then take the next one, and put it on top of the face-up one, and so on... ohnonononononono!!! PEOPLE. That inverses the order. You're making time go backwards. That is Very Bad. And also: Extremely Annoying. How difficult is it to keep it in order? Why on Earth would you do that to someone? Who collects their stack of inverted pictures, all 24 or 36 (or 183, if you have a digital camera and order them all at one time!!!) all grateful, "ooooh, now I can tell the story backwards, this is great, thanks for totally inverting time for me!" This can only be topped in awfulness by the people who insist on totally taking one out, to pass around, and then continue putting pictures down, thus destroying any logic in timing, at all. These are also usually the same people who are incapable of pointing at something in the picture without touching it, and getting fingerprints on it. Folks, we are not two-year-olds. We can point without touching and causing smeary messes. On the upside, at least I can easily tell (had I any police equipment for finger printing identification) who the jerk was who insisted on messing with The Order Of Things In My Universe.

Moral of the story? Don't touch my pictures.

So usually, when I get pictures back, I immediately put them into my album, and then show them to people. That way, grubby little finger-pointers can touch all they want, and there's a nice, plastic cover in the way. And they can't get them out of order. Phew.

Putting pictures in albums is intensely satisfying to me. I just got back an enormous amount of pictures I had ordered (it came in a full-sized mailer, not a picture holder!!!!) because we had gotten engaged, taken a trip to France, and attended a best friend's wedding all in a short chunk of time, in which I hadn't been able to order pictures. So all the pictures came back, at once. I organized them very carefully, and put each one into my album lovingly. It was near-orgasmic as I reached the end, at #224.

Now that my pictures are in order, I feel my life is fairly complete. Minus our house, which is disgusting. We were going to clean on Saturday before our friends from Albuquerque showed up this weekend, but they arrived HALF AN HOUR EARLY. At 4:30 p.m. We were SO not ready. I mean, we slept in, went to breakfast, got new cell phones (mine's PINK, oh yes it is!) and sat around watching some Laguna Beach reruns and napping all afternoon. Our friends were supposed to arrive at 5:00.

We figured waiting until 4:30 to Do Anything was a totally reasonable plan of action, because of course we could run a load of sheets in the laundry, vacuum, do the dishes, clean the bathrooms, make the guest bed, hang clean towels, change out the litter boxes, get rid of the piles of accumulated mail, pay the bills, and have a nice bottle of pinot grigio open and breathing for our weary travelers in half an hour. Of course.

Except they showed up early. So we made them sit on the couch and hold up their feet as we vacuumed under them, and then just sit and stare at each other while we madly scurried about upstairs, not letting them even come up to unpack because oh! the horror.

Well, I kinda did that. My darling fiancé, The Funasaurus, mostly stayed with them and acted like a good host. And was also even a good fiancé, by coming up to check on me, and help me get the fitted sheet over the last corner of the guest bed since I may have shrunk it justalittle in the laundry, and was unable to make it happen in my slightly stressed-out state. That is an incredibly impressive feat, being a good host AND helping me with chores while I beat on my last nerve with our rattly dust buster, which is why I'm going to marry him.

The rest of the weekend was fantastic. We went to a free concert for a local band The Samples, ate some sushi, and contributed a whole lot to the stimulation of our economy. At the mall.

I even took some pictures, which I hope to get back and put into an album before too long.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Feast or Famine in the Grand Scheme of Things

Have you ever noticed the universe likes to fuck with you?

For example: babies. Babies are born every day. Often there are more babies born around a full moon. BUT, in your personal life, babies will go in waves. (That is the royal "you", by the way. Because when I say "you" I mean, "Me, the princess.")

The first Baby Wave in my life happened about two years ago. People I knew from all over the U.S., cousins, friends, co-workers, all got knocked up about the same time. So I currently know an entire fleet of two-year-olds. And now it has happened again. I have a collection of very pregnant acquaintances. So the universe kicks in, with all it's ha-ha-sucka trickery. Because these babies will not necessarily be born on the same day, oh no, that would make remembering birthdays WAY too easy, but instead it will be a much more inconvenient "messing with." I have not one, not two, but THREE baby showers to attend on August 19th. I haven't been to a baby shower in years. And yet now there are three on the nineteenth of August, two thousand and six.


One is in the mountains. One is in a smaller town in the smack-dab-middle of Colorado, and one is in Illinois. I had to politely decline the last one. (And will be pushing it to squeeze in the other two. But the second one will have COCKTAILS, it is a COCKTAIL BABY SHOWER, which is pretty much the most fantastic kind of baby shower I've ever heard of, so I will be making a concerted effort to get to that one on-time!)

Another example of the universe's fiendishness and important events colliding: over the same weekend in October, one of my all-time favorite bands (shout out to Flogging Molly) is having a concert, it is also my five year college reunion and all sorts of fabulous people are flying in to town to attend and create general mayhem and debauchery of only the most fantastic kind, and I will have to miss it all, because I'm going to be in Germany.


I don't even speak DEUTCH. Ich is going to the Frankfurt Book Fair for work. Where ich (we have switched from the "royal we" to "half-assed German," now) would be excited to go, normally, except for missing all the aforementioned good times. Also, I hear Frankfurt's kind of the armpit of the country. Just because we're book dorks doesn't mean we wouldn't appreciate some nice, gingerbread-y architecture, folks.

I may say that in my comments sheet, on the checkout day.

So it's funny, to me, that the universe plays like that. Because it shows the universe is not organized. (Hello, Chaos Theory. How did you find my blog?) The universe could do very well with a day planner. But the universe and I have that in common. Being a fellow MESS, I can only hope that I remember to have a nice, stiff drink before I get on the plane to Frankfurt (I will cover my fear of flying in another entry- although that's a good story, involving drugs and drool) and also to remember to NOT bring said Stiff Drink onto the plane, seeing as how liquids of any kind are somewhat Frowned Upon these days. At the very least, I will raise a pint of good beer when I get there to all the babies being born while I'm away. Which is only to be expected, since the universe plays like that.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Starting Off on the Right Foot

I am starting a blog. (duh)

In honor of it being all public, and whatnot, I decided to, whattheheck, run the spell check as I was creating my name, just to make sure I had spelled "galoshes" correctly. Being that it's not a word I type everyday.

Good thing I did.

The spellcheck came back with, "Priceless in Goulashes." As in, "There is no cost associated with being covered in Hungarian stew." Which would have been awesome in its own right, but not quite the effect I was going for.

Thus, it was changed. And I am now the Princess in Galoshes, which sums up my attitude vs. financial/practical reality pretty accurately, if I do say so myself.

I am currently in a good space in life, engaged, working for a job I actually care about, and in touch with the folks I want to be in touch with. So I intend to write about it all, in painful, [can I follow a hyphen with a parenthesis in this case???] that is a story in its own right)-would-actually-read-this-in-its-entirety-but-whatever-because-this-blog-is-mine-y-mine-mine-mine!

And thus I spake.