Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Royal Fright
Last night, we stayed up kind of late, watching T.V. And eating cupcakes. (Oh yes, motha fucka, I finally made them, and they are GOOD.) I fell asleep on top of The Funasaurus' leg, and woke up to him gently saying, “Uh, baby? I think my leg's been without circulation for almost the entire South Park episode. Could you maybe get up before it falls off?”
And I felt very put out, but managed to not-too-melodramatically haul my sleepy derriere off to bed. We crawled in, and snuggled up and were just drifting off to sleep around 11:45 when the phone rang. Not one of our cell phones, but our home line, which is basically a direct line for telemarketers. (And we continue to pay Comcast good money each month to keep the hotline to New! Lower! Mortgage! Rates! open.)
So anyway, we thought that it was odd that a telemarketer would be calling us so late. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps it was one of our parents, having an emergency of some sort. Although both The Funasaurus' mom and my parents tend to turn in closer to 9:00 than midnight, so that seemed rather unlikely, too.
The call waiting said, “King Soopers.” Now, it's not every day that you get a midnight call from your local supermarket. So I answered, wondering if they were worried, as they should be, that they had sold me yet another faulty package of red velvet cake mix. (Which they hadn't, if you will refer to the first paragraph of this entry.) But there was no one on the line.
Then I got to thinking that it might be a serial killer calling from a payphone outside of the supermarket, checking to make sure we were home so that he could come kill us in some grotesque, B- horror flick fashion. As exhausted as I was, and as sleepy as I had been, I was unable to go back to sleep. I poked The Funasaurus to double check that he had set the alarm. When the heater kicked on I had to stifle a scream. When Tatum fell off the desk I had heart palpitations. And when The Funasaurus began to snore, I kicked him. And didn't even apologize.
I remembered I had had a nightmare, just the night before, about someone breaking into our house while we were sleeping. I was sure it was a sign.
I debtated getting up to put on pajamas, being normally an in-the-buff-type sleeper, but I didn't want a murderer to find me nekkid. But then I realized it was COLD outside of the covers, and I was tired, after all, and didn't feel like getting up. So I sat there stressing about my lack of clothing and the pending attack for another half hour until I finally fell asleep.
As far as I know, no one came in the house. Thank goodness I didn't bother with pajamas. But King Soopers? I've got my eye on you. I'm all about the *69 in the future. You've been warned.
And I felt very put out, but managed to not-too-melodramatically haul my sleepy derriere off to bed. We crawled in, and snuggled up and were just drifting off to sleep around 11:45 when the phone rang. Not one of our cell phones, but our home line, which is basically a direct line for telemarketers. (And we continue to pay Comcast good money each month to keep the hotline to New! Lower! Mortgage! Rates! open.)
So anyway, we thought that it was odd that a telemarketer would be calling us so late. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps it was one of our parents, having an emergency of some sort. Although both The Funasaurus' mom and my parents tend to turn in closer to 9:00 than midnight, so that seemed rather unlikely, too.
The call waiting said, “King Soopers.” Now, it's not every day that you get a midnight call from your local supermarket. So I answered, wondering if they were worried, as they should be, that they had sold me yet another faulty package of red velvet cake mix. (Which they hadn't, if you will refer to the first paragraph of this entry.) But there was no one on the line.
Then I got to thinking that it might be a serial killer calling from a payphone outside of the supermarket, checking to make sure we were home so that he could come kill us in some grotesque, B- horror flick fashion. As exhausted as I was, and as sleepy as I had been, I was unable to go back to sleep. I poked The Funasaurus to double check that he had set the alarm. When the heater kicked on I had to stifle a scream. When Tatum fell off the desk I had heart palpitations. And when The Funasaurus began to snore, I kicked him. And didn't even apologize.
I remembered I had had a nightmare, just the night before, about someone breaking into our house while we were sleeping. I was sure it was a sign.
I debtated getting up to put on pajamas, being normally an in-the-buff-type sleeper, but I didn't want a murderer to find me nekkid. But then I realized it was COLD outside of the covers, and I was tired, after all, and didn't feel like getting up. So I sat there stressing about my lack of clothing and the pending attack for another half hour until I finally fell asleep.
As far as I know, no one came in the house. Thank goodness I didn't bother with pajamas. But King Soopers? I've got my eye on you. I'm all about the *69 in the future. You've been warned.
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Princess Gets Some Culture
Friday The Funasaurus surprised me with tickets to go see the Denver Nuggets. I like watching basketball, actually, and when he told me he found us some good seats, I got excited all, “Ooooh! I've been wanting to watch Ivan Allenson play all season!!!”
...
“You mean, Allen Iverson, baby?”
“Oh, yes! Him!”
The Funasaurus looked horrified, told me I did not deserve the tickets, and then suggested we go to sushi for dinner beforehand, which pretty much made me the happiest girl ever.
On Saturday I woke up early, with the intent to head up the mountain and ski. Then I realized I was still tired, and I went back to sleep. After waking up around 9:00, The Funasaurus and I went out to brunch, where I got a peach kir royale, (why would a princess do a plain ol' kir, anyway?) which YUM, and then I reluctantly started up the mountain. There was not much traffic, but the temperature was plummeting and there was snow in the air, so I headed to the coffee shop instead of the lifts. I met my girlfriend M, and we spent a good two hours gossiping and philosophizing over the worst chai I've ever had, and then she headed to Breckenridge to get ready for her performance of Steel Magnolias that night.
I stayed at M's house for a little while reading book #2 of the Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events, and if you have not read this, yet, oh! But you absolutely must! It's for little goth's in training! I would have been so much better at being somber and wearing black as I approached thirteen if I had been able to get my hands on these books at that traumatic, bad poetry-writing phase.
Truly, they are excellent. Bonus: you can read an entire book in one sitting!
So eventually I headed over to Breckenridge, since the point of this trip was to go see M perform in Steel Magnolias, after all. She is an extremely talented actress and singer, though I try not to tell her this too often, for fear it will go to her head and interrupt the creative process which is the angst of writing a one-woman show, and hoo-boy, that show is going to be hilarious and brilliant purely due to the fact that it is ridden with insecurities, self-doubt, and stories of events that came from horribly bad choices. The fact that she has found a way to make herself relatable to an audience and then get PAID for recounting those crazy stories, is her genius.
So. Anyway. Steel Magnolias. I make it a point not to cry at the theater, or movies. I don't know why. They don't usually move me the way real life does, because I have an extremely hard time suspending disbelief. I met my friend A at the theater, and we traded “Snazzy coat!” and “It's so cold I'm going to die,”-type comments as we sipped overpriced cabernet out in the lobby, while waiting for the show to begin.
By the end (and here I'm going to spoil the ending, if you are a blind and deaf hermit who was living under a rock in Siberia in the late eighties and managed to miss the phenomena that was the movie version starring Julia Roberts) when M'Lynn falls apart because her daughter, Pam, has died after living long enough to live her dream and give birth to a healthy baby, A turns to me all, “Oh! My heart is breaking.”
And I whisper back, “Yes.” hic “Good thing I don't cry at plays.” *sob*
Afterwards, we went out for wine, pizza, and chicken fried steak, and ended our night on a giggly, tipsy note.
I drove home on Sunday, again trading a day on the slopes for a quick cup of mocha (which turned out to be much better than the chai from the day before) and drove back down to Denver in time to go to an Oscar party at my neighbor's house. I don't usually watch the whole thing, it's too long and self-congratulatory, but I am hardly one to turn down a party, so I went, and watched the whole damn thing, from the red carpet strutting to the rolling credits and after-party interviews. I was disappointed in the lack of tragic outfits, most of the celebrities were sadly understated and classy, but I did win some lotion at Oscar bingo (thank you, Jack Nicholson for wearing sunglasses indoors since that was the only square I needed after spotting a cravat and Ellen Degengeres introduced the band, BINGO!) so that redeemed the evening. Does anyone else watch the Oscars, anymore?
...
“You mean, Allen Iverson, baby?”
“Oh, yes! Him!”
The Funasaurus looked horrified, told me I did not deserve the tickets, and then suggested we go to sushi for dinner beforehand, which pretty much made me the happiest girl ever.
On Saturday I woke up early, with the intent to head up the mountain and ski. Then I realized I was still tired, and I went back to sleep. After waking up around 9:00, The Funasaurus and I went out to brunch, where I got a peach kir royale, (why would a princess do a plain ol' kir, anyway?) which YUM, and then I reluctantly started up the mountain. There was not much traffic, but the temperature was plummeting and there was snow in the air, so I headed to the coffee shop instead of the lifts. I met my girlfriend M, and we spent a good two hours gossiping and philosophizing over the worst chai I've ever had, and then she headed to Breckenridge to get ready for her performance of Steel Magnolias that night.
I stayed at M's house for a little while reading book #2 of the Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events, and if you have not read this, yet, oh! But you absolutely must! It's for little goth's in training! I would have been so much better at being somber and wearing black as I approached thirteen if I had been able to get my hands on these books at that traumatic, bad poetry-writing phase.
Truly, they are excellent. Bonus: you can read an entire book in one sitting!
So eventually I headed over to Breckenridge, since the point of this trip was to go see M perform in Steel Magnolias, after all. She is an extremely talented actress and singer, though I try not to tell her this too often, for fear it will go to her head and interrupt the creative process which is the angst of writing a one-woman show, and hoo-boy, that show is going to be hilarious and brilliant purely due to the fact that it is ridden with insecurities, self-doubt, and stories of events that came from horribly bad choices. The fact that she has found a way to make herself relatable to an audience and then get PAID for recounting those crazy stories, is her genius.
So. Anyway. Steel Magnolias. I make it a point not to cry at the theater, or movies. I don't know why. They don't usually move me the way real life does, because I have an extremely hard time suspending disbelief. I met my friend A at the theater, and we traded “Snazzy coat!” and “It's so cold I'm going to die,”-type comments as we sipped overpriced cabernet out in the lobby, while waiting for the show to begin.
By the end (and here I'm going to spoil the ending, if you are a blind and deaf hermit who was living under a rock in Siberia in the late eighties and managed to miss the phenomena that was the movie version starring Julia Roberts) when M'Lynn falls apart because her daughter, Pam, has died after living long enough to live her dream and give birth to a healthy baby, A turns to me all, “Oh! My heart is breaking.”
And I whisper back, “Yes.” hic “Good thing I don't cry at plays.” *sob*
Afterwards, we went out for wine, pizza, and chicken fried steak, and ended our night on a giggly, tipsy note.
I drove home on Sunday, again trading a day on the slopes for a quick cup of mocha (which turned out to be much better than the chai from the day before) and drove back down to Denver in time to go to an Oscar party at my neighbor's house. I don't usually watch the whole thing, it's too long and self-congratulatory, but I am hardly one to turn down a party, so I went, and watched the whole damn thing, from the red carpet strutting to the rolling credits and after-party interviews. I was disappointed in the lack of tragic outfits, most of the celebrities were sadly understated and classy, but I did win some lotion at Oscar bingo (thank you, Jack Nicholson for wearing sunglasses indoors since that was the only square I needed after spotting a cravat and Ellen Degengeres introduced the band, BINGO!) so that redeemed the evening. Does anyone else watch the Oscars, anymore?
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Royal Breakfast
The Funasaurus is to: cereal
as The Princess is to: shoes.
That is to say, The Funasaurus really, really, REALLY likes cereal. To the point where it's an addiction. No matter how much we've eaten that day, he will always cap off the night with a bowl of cereal before we go to bed. We could have just come from an amazing steak dinner, groaning under the weight of bellyful's of Grade A meat, and he will be all, “Mmm, Captain Crunch! Perfect!” and pour himself a big bowl. (Or, say, after two Thanksgiving dinners, or a SuperBowl BBQ, or a 7 course meal of fried meat dipped in lard and smothered with bread crumbs and wrapped in cheese and bacon.)
This is all to say, we go through boxes of cereal and gallons of milk rather quickly. Sometimes, I am fascinated by this, and want to jump on the cereal train with him, because it gives him such pleasure. However, each time I do, I am reminded that I do not so much like cereal. I don't even eat breakfast. And Honey Comb gives me the heebie geebies.
But I still try cereals, occassionally, because I feel like I must be missing out on something, if it can make The Funasaurus smile like that. So every now and then I will pick out a box in the cereal aisle, as The Funasaurus is gleefully loading our cart with Apple Jacks and Lucky Charms, and add it to the collection. Then we will bring it home, and the box I chose will sit unopened and unloved in our pantry, until the inevitable crisis occurs wherein The Funasaurus has gone through HIS cereal, and is in No Mood to go to the store, for it is practically bedtime, but he absolutely must have a bowl of sugar packed grains, somehow. And he breaks into my poor, forgotten box and it eventually disappears. Sometimes I take a bite. Usually I don't bother.
That's how it was, anyway, until the fateful day when I found THIS CEREAL. I may not like cereal in general, but I LOOOOVE strawberries. Desperately. So I decided to give it a try. Of course, I didn't bother until yesterday, when I went down to get some lunch and realized the cupboard was bare. Save for some flour, stale pretzel rods, and olives that should have been thrown out long ago. And, of course, cereal. So I reluctantly poured myself a bowl of THIS CEREAL, in lieu of olive dipped pretzel crumbs, and holy Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Rice Krispies really do Snap! Crackle! Pop! I had forgotten. I haven't had this cereal since I was about five years old, and I'm betting you haven't either, and if that's the case, then shame on all of us, because it is a glorious experience when your cereal is live action! Plus! Dried strawberries! Oh yum.
So I just finished off the box that I started yesterday, and am thinking I need to make a run to the store this afternoon to get me a) 12 more boxes of this cereal to get me through the weekend, and b) a box of red velvet cake that didn't expire last month. (As the one I tried to make on Tuesday, had. Who knew that colored flour expires? I did not. I did see the expiration date, but I took that to mean the packaging would look dated, not that the contents could actually go bad.)
Baby, I totally see what you mean, I am now in the cereal camp, too. It feels so good to be on the inside. If any of you are wondering what to get us for a wedding gift, apparently we are going to need more cereal bowls, spoons, and maybe stock in Royal Crest. Thanks.
as The Princess is to: shoes.
That is to say, The Funasaurus really, really, REALLY likes cereal. To the point where it's an addiction. No matter how much we've eaten that day, he will always cap off the night with a bowl of cereal before we go to bed. We could have just come from an amazing steak dinner, groaning under the weight of bellyful's of Grade A meat, and he will be all, “Mmm, Captain Crunch! Perfect!” and pour himself a big bowl. (Or, say, after two Thanksgiving dinners, or a SuperBowl BBQ, or a 7 course meal of fried meat dipped in lard and smothered with bread crumbs and wrapped in cheese and bacon.)
This is all to say, we go through boxes of cereal and gallons of milk rather quickly. Sometimes, I am fascinated by this, and want to jump on the cereal train with him, because it gives him such pleasure. However, each time I do, I am reminded that I do not so much like cereal. I don't even eat breakfast. And Honey Comb gives me the heebie geebies.
But I still try cereals, occassionally, because I feel like I must be missing out on something, if it can make The Funasaurus smile like that. So every now and then I will pick out a box in the cereal aisle, as The Funasaurus is gleefully loading our cart with Apple Jacks and Lucky Charms, and add it to the collection. Then we will bring it home, and the box I chose will sit unopened and unloved in our pantry, until the inevitable crisis occurs wherein The Funasaurus has gone through HIS cereal, and is in No Mood to go to the store, for it is practically bedtime, but he absolutely must have a bowl of sugar packed grains, somehow. And he breaks into my poor, forgotten box and it eventually disappears. Sometimes I take a bite. Usually I don't bother.
That's how it was, anyway, until the fateful day when I found THIS CEREAL. I may not like cereal in general, but I LOOOOVE strawberries. Desperately. So I decided to give it a try. Of course, I didn't bother until yesterday, when I went down to get some lunch and realized the cupboard was bare. Save for some flour, stale pretzel rods, and olives that should have been thrown out long ago. And, of course, cereal. So I reluctantly poured myself a bowl of THIS CEREAL, in lieu of olive dipped pretzel crumbs, and holy Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Rice Krispies really do Snap! Crackle! Pop! I had forgotten. I haven't had this cereal since I was about five years old, and I'm betting you haven't either, and if that's the case, then shame on all of us, because it is a glorious experience when your cereal is live action! Plus! Dried strawberries! Oh yum.
So I just finished off the box that I started yesterday, and am thinking I need to make a run to the store this afternoon to get me a) 12 more boxes of this cereal to get me through the weekend, and b) a box of red velvet cake that didn't expire last month. (As the one I tried to make on Tuesday, had. Who knew that colored flour expires? I did not. I did see the expiration date, but I took that to mean the packaging would look dated, not that the contents could actually go bad.)
Baby, I totally see what you mean, I am now in the cereal camp, too. It feels so good to be on the inside. If any of you are wondering what to get us for a wedding gift, apparently we are going to need more cereal bowls, spoons, and maybe stock in Royal Crest. Thanks.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tradgedy and Delight Chez La Princesse
We all know (or should know, if there is anything to know about me, at all) that I loooo-ooooove cupcakes. Particularly red velvet with vanilla frosting. Though chocolate or yellow cake with any kind of frosting will do in a pinch. I love cupcake accessories, and accessories, and cupcake variations.
And so, when I realized that there has been a severe dearth of cupcakes in my life, recently, I busted out a box of red velvet cake mix last night, and went to town. I even had to go next door to borrow an egg, and call The Funasaurus on his was home from work to ask him to stop by the grocery store to pick up little cupcake paper liner thing-ies. When he got home, I poured the goey red goodness that is red velvet batter into the paper liners, popped them in the oven, and began to lick the spoon.
Something was wrong.
The batter did not taste good. Nor bad, per se, but it was not right.
I rinsed the bowl, and waited anxiously for the cupcakes to finish so that I could inflict one on The Funasaurus. (Who has an aversion to potential salmonella-inducing activities such as eating raw eggs in yummy yummy batter. I say “joykill” ...but I do intend to break him. Who doesn't love raw batter???) I pulled them out at just the right time, solid, but still very moist. I practically cried, they were so beautiful. Then I really did cry (almost) when The Funasaurus took a bite and was like, “Ew. There is definitely something off about these....”
“Do you think icing will help?” I asked, ever-hopeful.
“No, baby. They're definitively Not Good. At All,” he replied.
So my cupcakes, my darling, perfectly cooked, very moist red velvet cupcakes went in the trash.
*SOB*
However, my luck turned around when I went outside and discovered a slightly belated Christmas present from a French friend of mine. Who cares if it's almost March when the packaging says, “boutique Paris”!
And I opened it to find this.
The most amazing salad servers, EVER.
EVER, I tell you.
Get a better look.
Who doesn't want to eat salad when it's served by a dude in gold and yellow striped pants? And a chick with very round boobs?
I was, and am, overjoyed.
*Joy!*
You're a little jealous, aren't you? Well, come on over! Salad at my house! BYOChardonnay!
And thus was the bipolar two hours that was my Tuesday night.
And so, when I realized that there has been a severe dearth of cupcakes in my life, recently, I busted out a box of red velvet cake mix last night, and went to town. I even had to go next door to borrow an egg, and call The Funasaurus on his was home from work to ask him to stop by the grocery store to pick up little cupcake paper liner thing-ies. When he got home, I poured the goey red goodness that is red velvet batter into the paper liners, popped them in the oven, and began to lick the spoon.
Something was wrong.
The batter did not taste good. Nor bad, per se, but it was not right.
I rinsed the bowl, and waited anxiously for the cupcakes to finish so that I could inflict one on The Funasaurus. (Who has an aversion to potential salmonella-inducing activities such as eating raw eggs in yummy yummy batter. I say “joykill” ...but I do intend to break him. Who doesn't love raw batter???) I pulled them out at just the right time, solid, but still very moist. I practically cried, they were so beautiful. Then I really did cry (almost) when The Funasaurus took a bite and was like, “Ew. There is definitely something off about these....”
“Do you think icing will help?” I asked, ever-hopeful.
“No, baby. They're definitively Not Good. At All,” he replied.
So my cupcakes, my darling, perfectly cooked, very moist red velvet cupcakes went in the trash.
*SOB*
However, my luck turned around when I went outside and discovered a slightly belated Christmas present from a French friend of mine. Who cares if it's almost March when the packaging says, “boutique Paris”!
And I opened it to find this.
The most amazing salad servers, EVER.
EVER, I tell you.
Get a better look.
Who doesn't want to eat salad when it's served by a dude in gold and yellow striped pants? And a chick with very round boobs?
I was, and am, overjoyed.
*Joy!*
You're a little jealous, aren't you? Well, come on over! Salad at my house! BYOChardonnay!
And thus was the bipolar two hours that was my Tuesday night.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Where's My Chauffeur? Also: Needed: Heated Bed
Well, I did it. I took a road trip all by myself. Not without incident, naturally, but I did survive. I left Friday at noon, with a buh-bye e-mail to my current employers who have yet to give me more than an hour's worth of work at a time. I billed 8 hours of time last week. Working from home has not proven to be a fruitful endeavor, thus far.
So I was driving happily along, my studded snow tires make a horrid noise, and the windows cracked because it was actually above freezing and heaven help me but I love fresh air, even if it's chilly.
I noticed the car starting to sway a bit in the wind, and as I got south of Pueblo (waaay down south in Colorado where all is flat and... well, mostly just flat) I was attacked my an army of tumbleweeds. There was no way to dodge them, they just came at the cars with loud bangs, scratches, and blind tumbling. Shock and awe- in straw!
I saw the Huge One before it got to the road, I tried to slow down, to miss it, but it kept pace, and hurled itself at my hood until PLUNK! There it stuck, in my grill. (Were I to have a grill. No, more, it was stuck in my dented hood from where it doesn't quite close all the way due to a prior incident with a damn pole that jumped out of nowhere at me, in a parking garage.)
I weighed the pros and cons of stopping along an empty, exposed highway in a windstorm to wrestle a small, mangled tree from my car while dodging other large chunks of straw and branches hurtling at my across the plains, and decided I would chance it until I got to a gas station. I've heard tumbleweeds can get hot when they stick to cars, and catch on fire, but I thought that being engulfed in flames from a rouge collection of twigs would be a much more glamourous way to go than just a regular ol' car accident, so took my chances and continued my drive with an entire bush covering the front of my car. My vision was rather impared, but the road is straight, and there aren't many cars, and I was in a hurry to get there before it got too dark.
Once I got to Las Vegas, New Mexico, I decided I needed gas, and figured it was about time to extricate the large, dead shrub from my hood. I pulled into the gas station, and pulled up behind another car at the pump, since there weren't any open spots available. (Apparently Las Vegas, NM is quite a happenin' place.) Some hick got out of the car next to me, and came walking over, with his head cocked to one side. He looked over my enormous tumbleweed, and gave it a couple of good, hard, tugs, and got rid of the majority of it. “Didja know you had that on there??” he asked, through the windshield.
No. I totally missed the large chunk of tree-sized bush sticking up across the entire front half of my car.
“Um. Yeah. I was going to get that. Thanks.”
He walked away in his too-tight jeans, shaking his head like, how sad they let such a stupid, blind person drive. But great music!
I was listening to Flogging Molly, at that point, after all. So how could he not have thought that?
So I made it to Albuquerque without further incident.
We threw a fun shower for my friend, M, at a teahouse on Saturday. It was insanely Victorian and over-the-top, but fortunately they provided old-fashioned HATS for everyone to wear, because if you're sitting in an overstuffed chair with floral wallpaper, eating heart-shaped finger food off of doilies, well, you're really missing out if you aren't wearing a hat. I put on this atrocious beige-thing covered in blue toile and faux flowers, and really all it was missing was a dead bird.
So that was a success, and M and I had a good time catching up. She even let me sleep in her bed, because her fiancé is off gallivanting down in South America somewhere, and they have a yummy bed. It is HEATED. We turned it on as we were getting ready for bed, and I just about orgasmed when I slid in between the warmed 400-thread count sheets, it was so delicious. I briefly debated moving in permanently, and staking a claim in their bed... but then I realized The Funasaurus is actually a quite good bed warmer, himself, (if a little sweaty, but much more cuddly) and reluctantly came home.
I made the drive back in record time, and now I am back to “working from home” again. I think I've billed a good two hours so far, this week.
So I was driving happily along, my studded snow tires make a horrid noise, and the windows cracked because it was actually above freezing and heaven help me but I love fresh air, even if it's chilly.
I noticed the car starting to sway a bit in the wind, and as I got south of Pueblo (waaay down south in Colorado where all is flat and... well, mostly just flat) I was attacked my an army of tumbleweeds. There was no way to dodge them, they just came at the cars with loud bangs, scratches, and blind tumbling. Shock and awe- in straw!
I saw the Huge One before it got to the road, I tried to slow down, to miss it, but it kept pace, and hurled itself at my hood until PLUNK! There it stuck, in my grill. (Were I to have a grill. No, more, it was stuck in my dented hood from where it doesn't quite close all the way due to a prior incident with a damn pole that jumped out of nowhere at me, in a parking garage.)
I weighed the pros and cons of stopping along an empty, exposed highway in a windstorm to wrestle a small, mangled tree from my car while dodging other large chunks of straw and branches hurtling at my across the plains, and decided I would chance it until I got to a gas station. I've heard tumbleweeds can get hot when they stick to cars, and catch on fire, but I thought that being engulfed in flames from a rouge collection of twigs would be a much more glamourous way to go than just a regular ol' car accident, so took my chances and continued my drive with an entire bush covering the front of my car. My vision was rather impared, but the road is straight, and there aren't many cars, and I was in a hurry to get there before it got too dark.
Once I got to Las Vegas, New Mexico, I decided I needed gas, and figured it was about time to extricate the large, dead shrub from my hood. I pulled into the gas station, and pulled up behind another car at the pump, since there weren't any open spots available. (Apparently Las Vegas, NM is quite a happenin' place.) Some hick got out of the car next to me, and came walking over, with his head cocked to one side. He looked over my enormous tumbleweed, and gave it a couple of good, hard, tugs, and got rid of the majority of it. “Didja know you had that on there??” he asked, through the windshield.
No. I totally missed the large chunk of tree-sized bush sticking up across the entire front half of my car.
“Um. Yeah. I was going to get that. Thanks.”
He walked away in his too-tight jeans, shaking his head like, how sad they let such a stupid, blind person drive. But great music!
I was listening to Flogging Molly, at that point, after all. So how could he not have thought that?
So I made it to Albuquerque without further incident.
We threw a fun shower for my friend, M, at a teahouse on Saturday. It was insanely Victorian and over-the-top, but fortunately they provided old-fashioned HATS for everyone to wear, because if you're sitting in an overstuffed chair with floral wallpaper, eating heart-shaped finger food off of doilies, well, you're really missing out if you aren't wearing a hat. I put on this atrocious beige-thing covered in blue toile and faux flowers, and really all it was missing was a dead bird.
So that was a success, and M and I had a good time catching up. She even let me sleep in her bed, because her fiancé is off gallivanting down in South America somewhere, and they have a yummy bed. It is HEATED. We turned it on as we were getting ready for bed, and I just about orgasmed when I slid in between the warmed 400-thread count sheets, it was so delicious. I briefly debated moving in permanently, and staking a claim in their bed... but then I realized The Funasaurus is actually a quite good bed warmer, himself, (if a little sweaty, but much more cuddly) and reluctantly came home.
I made the drive back in record time, and now I am back to “working from home” again. I think I've billed a good two hours so far, this week.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Royal Fish Royal Bows Royal Freakouts
Valentine’s Day went well… minus one extra trip downtown. I feel like this is old news, but as I am still working from home and fairly boring these days, I’m going to inflict the story upon you, anyway.
February 14, 2007. The Funasaurus called to say he was on his way. He picked up some sushi from one of our favorite restaurants, and was bringing it home. I cleaned the downstairs, (kinda… extra mail and random things lying on the counters were thrown into drawers. More specifically, the drawer where we keep those little fake mice Tatum loves so much, and when I opened it that many times without giving him one, well, I think I crushed his soul, just a little, but whatever, I was on romantic-frenzy-mode!) opened up the fold-out bed in our couch, threw an old college blanket on it, lit some candles, turned off the light, adjusted my undergarments, and waited for The Funasaurus to get home.
We exchanged cute cards. (He won. He found one with Gonzo on it. How can I compete with that?) Got the T.V. set up to watch American Idol, settled in, opened the sushi and… found someone else’s order.
Crum-diddly-suck-a-tastic-duck.
California rolls (lame!) and no unagi or spicy scallops. (Lamer!)
So we muttered a few inappropriate, fuck-type words, and got back in the car (oh, did I mention it was also SNOWING?) drove BACK downtown, exchanged the sushi for the order we wanted, scored a free bottle of sake from the owner who knows us because we are regulars at a sushi joint (note to self: may need to cut down on that, what with the itty-bitty income you’re making, these days), felt a little better, and even made it home in time for American Idol because it didn’t start until 8:00. Phew!
What is a day of love without an overrated T.V. show about overprocessed, over-eager, belittled wannabe singers, anyway?
And we had a nice evening and then I went back to my world of dinking around on the computer all day and not getting dressed until noon.
Now I am trying to get ready to go to Albuquerque for a friend’s bridal shower. I am totally not prepared, but I don’t feel like thinking up cheesy games and wrapping sparkly pink presents, so I decided to dink around on the computer until the very last, dire minute, at which point I will freak out and have a small nervous breakdown, but then get everything done at lightning speed and get on the road.
That is kind of my modus operandi, these days. The Funasaurus says, “unnecessary stress,” I say, “More MySpace time!”
February 14, 2007. The Funasaurus called to say he was on his way. He picked up some sushi from one of our favorite restaurants, and was bringing it home. I cleaned the downstairs, (kinda… extra mail and random things lying on the counters were thrown into drawers. More specifically, the drawer where we keep those little fake mice Tatum loves so much, and when I opened it that many times without giving him one, well, I think I crushed his soul, just a little, but whatever, I was on romantic-frenzy-mode!) opened up the fold-out bed in our couch, threw an old college blanket on it, lit some candles, turned off the light, adjusted my undergarments, and waited for The Funasaurus to get home.
We exchanged cute cards. (He won. He found one with Gonzo on it. How can I compete with that?) Got the T.V. set up to watch American Idol, settled in, opened the sushi and… found someone else’s order.
Crum-diddly-suck-a-tastic-duck.
California rolls (lame!) and no unagi or spicy scallops. (Lamer!)
So we muttered a few inappropriate, fuck-type words, and got back in the car (oh, did I mention it was also SNOWING?) drove BACK downtown, exchanged the sushi for the order we wanted, scored a free bottle of sake from the owner who knows us because we are regulars at a sushi joint (note to self: may need to cut down on that, what with the itty-bitty income you’re making, these days), felt a little better, and even made it home in time for American Idol because it didn’t start until 8:00. Phew!
What is a day of love without an overrated T.V. show about overprocessed, over-eager, belittled wannabe singers, anyway?
And we had a nice evening and then I went back to my world of dinking around on the computer all day and not getting dressed until noon.
Now I am trying to get ready to go to Albuquerque for a friend’s bridal shower. I am totally not prepared, but I don’t feel like thinking up cheesy games and wrapping sparkly pink presents, so I decided to dink around on the computer until the very last, dire minute, at which point I will freak out and have a small nervous breakdown, but then get everything done at lightning speed and get on the road.
That is kind of my modus operandi, these days. The Funasaurus says, “unnecessary stress,” I say, “More MySpace time!”
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
There Should Be More Holidays That Require Chocolate-Dipped Strawberries
I realize that I have been a delinquent blogger. But I will go ahead and blame the fact that I am working from home (read: living the dream) and no longer bother to do a lot of things that I used to do when I was procrastinating going to the freezing basement that I used to call “work.” I don’t bother to blog. I don’t bother to take vitamins. I don’t even bother to get dressed until around 11:00, most days. And usually, “getting dressed” translates to “pick up yesterdays clothes off the floor and put them back on.”
So, the new gig? Going pretty well. Minus killing the computer they gave me. Ooopsie. Remind anyone of the lost website? So once again, sister-in-law came to the rescue, and determined that I had not, in fact, killed the computer, so much as used a bad cable, and that was why I was not getting an internet connection, thereby relieving me from the thought of having to buy a brand new computer for the company that couldn’t even afford to get me a space heater.
I owe sis big time.
Meanwhile, I’ve taken two naps, and snacked on a fair amount of pretzels and string cheese. Because why wouldn’t I? Is there anything better than pretzel rods? No. No there is not. Except maybe extra buttery popcorn. Which I have also enjoyed, since commencing my working-from-home lifestyle.
Over the weekend we went to a wedding fair, where we were to make many decisions regarding our wedding day. I made a beeline for the wine tasting, The Funasaurus’ sister (my maid of honor) began madly collecting business cards for DJs and florists, my mother panicked over whether we had the exact shade of cranberry right for the chair covers, and The Funasaurus declared that we will serve steak and duck a l’orange at our wedding. I was fairly sloshed at this time, and thought that anything greasy sounded nice, and thus our menu was decided.
* * * * *
(Dots. Because I am too lazy to think of a transition for my next rant about nothing.)
Today is Valentine’s Day. Many people hate this holiday. I don’t, and not just because I am engaged to a cuddly Funasaurus who will agreeably watch a sap-tastic romantic comedy with me this evening, while sipping on a cheap pinot. (Although that is definitely icing on the red velvet cake.) No, I like frilly, doily-esque things, I like Victorian Valentine’s day cards and seasonal candy. I like flowers and chocolate and a random, mid-February reason for asking someone out on a date. I don’t believe in Hallmark, but I do subscribe to any reason for breaking out the fold-out couch in front of the T.V. even though you don’t have guests. I don’t like Rod Stewart, but I do like an excuse to buy sexy lingerie and rose petals. (Don’t get your hopes up, baby, if you read this. I said, “I like” not “I can currently afford”) and while I’m at it, I like fat babies with wings. I don’t know why, but that does it for me.
Is that so wrong?
So, the new gig? Going pretty well. Minus killing the computer they gave me. Ooopsie. Remind anyone of the lost website? So once again, sister-in-law came to the rescue, and determined that I had not, in fact, killed the computer, so much as used a bad cable, and that was why I was not getting an internet connection, thereby relieving me from the thought of having to buy a brand new computer for the company that couldn’t even afford to get me a space heater.
I owe sis big time.
Meanwhile, I’ve taken two naps, and snacked on a fair amount of pretzels and string cheese. Because why wouldn’t I? Is there anything better than pretzel rods? No. No there is not. Except maybe extra buttery popcorn. Which I have also enjoyed, since commencing my working-from-home lifestyle.
Over the weekend we went to a wedding fair, where we were to make many decisions regarding our wedding day. I made a beeline for the wine tasting, The Funasaurus’ sister (my maid of honor) began madly collecting business cards for DJs and florists, my mother panicked over whether we had the exact shade of cranberry right for the chair covers, and The Funasaurus declared that we will serve steak and duck a l’orange at our wedding. I was fairly sloshed at this time, and thought that anything greasy sounded nice, and thus our menu was decided.
* * * * *
(Dots. Because I am too lazy to think of a transition for my next rant about nothing.)
Today is Valentine’s Day. Many people hate this holiday. I don’t, and not just because I am engaged to a cuddly Funasaurus who will agreeably watch a sap-tastic romantic comedy with me this evening, while sipping on a cheap pinot. (Although that is definitely icing on the red velvet cake.) No, I like frilly, doily-esque things, I like Victorian Valentine’s day cards and seasonal candy. I like flowers and chocolate and a random, mid-February reason for asking someone out on a date. I don’t believe in Hallmark, but I do subscribe to any reason for breaking out the fold-out couch in front of the T.V. even though you don’t have guests. I don’t like Rod Stewart, but I do like an excuse to buy sexy lingerie and rose petals. (Don’t get your hopes up, baby, if you read this. I said, “I like” not “I can currently afford”) and while I’m at it, I like fat babies with wings. I don’t know why, but that does it for me.
Is that so wrong?
Friday, February 09, 2007
Documenting the Royal Goings-On
Last night, bless his heart, The Funasaurus brought home dinner.
And it was not just any dinner. It was sushi. Take-home sushi. (And oh yes, it was very raw. There were no California rolls. Look Ma, no salmonella!)
That’s two nights in a row for me!
My life ROCKS.
Also, because today is the last day of my job, tra-la!
I’ve gotten it into my head, recently, that I want to start making home videos. Not of just everyday stuff, but maybe do a little documenting of grandmothers, while they’re still around. Perhaps some of the fun wedding-prep stuff. Perhaps the reunion in Napa with some of my very best friends ever, this summer. I have big plans, folks. (But, you might say, aren't camcorders expensive? And aren't you unemployed, as of this afternoon? And didn't you deplete most of your savings LAST month, when you were also unemployed? To you I would say, Stop hating on my dream, Hater.)
So last night, after feasting off of our raw tuna and yellowtail (and oh, how Tatum wanted some. He was like a kitty possessed, launching his twisty little body at us with no regards for what came after, were we to shift slightly to save our eel roll… namely, falling. Kitties do NOT always land on their feet, folks. Not when they are hell-bent on getting to your lap, with a crazed-salmon-love look in their eye.) I dragged The Funasaurus to Circuit City. Which, he claims, is kind of like what Nordstroms is to me, so he didn’t really mind that much. Although I didn’t see him paying homage to any particular counter, while he was there, nor laying any sort of blood sacrifice down in the equivalent of whatever the shoe department would be, so I don’t know if that’s a fair comparison.
Anyway. I came armed with a couple of ideas. I want a hard drive camcorder, none of this burning mini-DVDs stuff. I want to plug that puppy into my computer, and manipulate the heck out of it. If I can find any way to make it look like M (from Wednesday) is saying, “Please take me out for a drive in your hummer so we can go find some meat to chew on and throw litter out the window, and also, I think George W. is doing a fine job,” then, lord help me, but I will feel like my life is complete.
And perhaps also cause one of my best friends to hate me.
I keep meaning to see someone about that. The Funasaurus says it’s not “healthy.” I say, “Pshaw, but it’s funny!”
Unfortunately, however, (and perhaps luckily for M) I have a Mac, Which makes video editing easier, but finding a compatible camcorder harder. Circuit City did not have any camcorders that had the correct thingamagiggy FireWire-y something-or-other, so I left, camcorderless.
But the hunt is on. Any suggestions??
And it was not just any dinner. It was sushi. Take-home sushi. (And oh yes, it was very raw. There were no California rolls. Look Ma, no salmonella!)
That’s two nights in a row for me!
My life ROCKS.
Also, because today is the last day of my job, tra-la!
I’ve gotten it into my head, recently, that I want to start making home videos. Not of just everyday stuff, but maybe do a little documenting of grandmothers, while they’re still around. Perhaps some of the fun wedding-prep stuff. Perhaps the reunion in Napa with some of my very best friends ever, this summer. I have big plans, folks. (But, you might say, aren't camcorders expensive? And aren't you unemployed, as of this afternoon? And didn't you deplete most of your savings LAST month, when you were also unemployed? To you I would say, Stop hating on my dream, Hater.)
So last night, after feasting off of our raw tuna and yellowtail (and oh, how Tatum wanted some. He was like a kitty possessed, launching his twisty little body at us with no regards for what came after, were we to shift slightly to save our eel roll… namely, falling. Kitties do NOT always land on their feet, folks. Not when they are hell-bent on getting to your lap, with a crazed-salmon-love look in their eye.) I dragged The Funasaurus to Circuit City. Which, he claims, is kind of like what Nordstroms is to me, so he didn’t really mind that much. Although I didn’t see him paying homage to any particular counter, while he was there, nor laying any sort of blood sacrifice down in the equivalent of whatever the shoe department would be, so I don’t know if that’s a fair comparison.
Anyway. I came armed with a couple of ideas. I want a hard drive camcorder, none of this burning mini-DVDs stuff. I want to plug that puppy into my computer, and manipulate the heck out of it. If I can find any way to make it look like M (from Wednesday) is saying, “Please take me out for a drive in your hummer so we can go find some meat to chew on and throw litter out the window, and also, I think George W. is doing a fine job,” then, lord help me, but I will feel like my life is complete.
And perhaps also cause one of my best friends to hate me.
I keep meaning to see someone about that. The Funasaurus says it’s not “healthy.” I say, “Pshaw, but it’s funny!”
Unfortunately, however, (and perhaps luckily for M) I have a Mac, Which makes video editing easier, but finding a compatible camcorder harder. Circuit City did not have any camcorders that had the correct thingamagiggy FireWire-y something-or-other, so I left, camcorderless.
But the hunt is on. Any suggestions??
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Sake Induced Validation
Last night I went to dinner Old Coot. Old Coot is a crusty old mountain man, who lives in Utah. He also happens to be an external sales rep. for some publishers. One of which used to be my old company, and one of which is now my new company. He is actually the one who tracked me down, and got my new company to hire me when my old one laid me off.
(Fuckers.)
Fortunately, I’m totally over that.
Anyway, I like Old Coot. We get along well, and when I decided to quit this job, I called Old Coot to tell him, personally, because I felt bad that he had gone to such lengths to recruit me. We decided to go to dinner, to talk things over.
I assumed Old Coot had a limited meat and potatoes palate, and so I suggested a couple of chain restaurants. He surprised me by saying, “Denver’s got way better food than that. Why don’t we do Indian, or Mexican, or sushi, or something?”
Sushi?!
Well. O.K. Bethereat7! Or, better yet, 6:30! I’ll put a hustle on it if there’s raw fish involved.
So we went out to sushi. I politely ordered a lemonade, and Old Coot ordered himself the largest sake they served.
We laughed and bitched about the old company, (he left them a while ago) and talked about where the new one was going. He asked if the commute was the only reason I was leaving. I hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
We talked about my maybe doing some freelance work (ding!ding!ding! I want that!) and about what I’d do, next. Then, he randomly says, “I’m surprised you haven't mentioned the heat, or rather, lack thereof.”
Ha. If. Only. He. Read. My. Blog.
“Well, now that you mention it….”
He grinned, chugged the rest of his sake cup, and said, “I had to wear my jacket all day the last time I was here for a meeting. We need to start meeting in fuckin’ San Diego, or something.”
!
“Indeed.” I suddenly felt validated. Old Coot is probably 2 to 3 times larger than me. And he’s a mountain man. If he had to wear his jacket inside… well, I am not just a whining pansy-ass princess, now am I?
Now, back to searching for a job that will let me sip wine and/or hot chocolate from under a quilt, all day long. It's out there, somewhere. And I will find it.
(Fuckers.)
Fortunately, I’m totally over that.
Anyway, I like Old Coot. We get along well, and when I decided to quit this job, I called Old Coot to tell him, personally, because I felt bad that he had gone to such lengths to recruit me. We decided to go to dinner, to talk things over.
I assumed Old Coot had a limited meat and potatoes palate, and so I suggested a couple of chain restaurants. He surprised me by saying, “Denver’s got way better food than that. Why don’t we do Indian, or Mexican, or sushi, or something?”
Sushi?!
Well. O.K. Bethereat7! Or, better yet, 6:30! I’ll put a hustle on it if there’s raw fish involved.
So we went out to sushi. I politely ordered a lemonade, and Old Coot ordered himself the largest sake they served.
We laughed and bitched about the old company, (he left them a while ago) and talked about where the new one was going. He asked if the commute was the only reason I was leaving. I hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
We talked about my maybe doing some freelance work (ding!ding!ding! I want that!) and about what I’d do, next. Then, he randomly says, “I’m surprised you haven't mentioned the heat, or rather, lack thereof.”
Ha. If. Only. He. Read. My. Blog.
“Well, now that you mention it….”
He grinned, chugged the rest of his sake cup, and said, “I had to wear my jacket all day the last time I was here for a meeting. We need to start meeting in fuckin’ San Diego, or something.”
!
“Indeed.” I suddenly felt validated. Old Coot is probably 2 to 3 times larger than me. And he’s a mountain man. If he had to wear his jacket inside… well, I am not just a whining pansy-ass princess, now am I?
Now, back to searching for a job that will let me sip wine and/or hot chocolate from under a quilt, all day long. It's out there, somewhere. And I will find it.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Grande Decision
I did it. After sleeping Not At All on Sunday night, I walked in to my job bright and early and announced that I was resigning. It seems a little funny to “resign” from something I had barely started, but I am quite sure I want no mas of the commute, the cold, and the website-losing.
I also woke up early enough to stop by Starbucks, on my way in, and drop off an application.
I may be done with books for a little while.
I am not sure how long I will last at the espresso machine making tall skinny cinnamon blahblahblah lattes with random high school and college kids, especially while I’m still off caffeine… but the commute would be awesome.
My friend M sent me an e-mail, yesterday, asking why don’t I go work for a bookstore, instead? And I replied that bookstores, especially independents, just don’t pay enough. Plus, I would not really want to work at a Barnes & Noble or Borders because I don’t like what they’re doing to the independents.
At about this time, I could almost hear M snorting, via e-mail.
“But you’re o.k. with working at Starbucks?”
“Totally different,” I responded. “Starbucks offers their employees benefits.”
“Ah,” said M.
“Plus… I’m o.k. with supporting the big guy when they have a superior product.” I’m sorry, but around here, the few independents that exist have decent atmospheres, but their coffee is just not as good. And usually costs just as much, if not more. I like supporting independents, I am o.k. with driving a little further, or spending a little more to keep them alive, if the end product is good. But I am hard pressed (ha ha, like coffee beans are pressed? Ha? ... No?) to find better coffee than Starbucks in Colorado. Do any of you Coloradoans have any recommendations?
Meanwhile, I explained to Kanga and Tulip that it wasn’t them, I just couldn’t handle the commute, and Kanga asked, “Well, how soon do you need to be out of here?”
And I said, “Oh, I’m flexible. I’m happy to stay around for a few more days to make this as smooth of a transition as possible.” And he nodded, and I haven’t heard any more on the subject. So perhaps I will be writing from home tomorrow. Perhaps I will still be making the commute next week. But I will be practicing my “Soy chai no whip” routine until then.
I also woke up early enough to stop by Starbucks, on my way in, and drop off an application.
I may be done with books for a little while.
I am not sure how long I will last at the espresso machine making tall skinny cinnamon blahblahblah lattes with random high school and college kids, especially while I’m still off caffeine… but the commute would be awesome.
My friend M sent me an e-mail, yesterday, asking why don’t I go work for a bookstore, instead? And I replied that bookstores, especially independents, just don’t pay enough. Plus, I would not really want to work at a Barnes & Noble or Borders because I don’t like what they’re doing to the independents.
At about this time, I could almost hear M snorting, via e-mail.
“But you’re o.k. with working at Starbucks?”
“Totally different,” I responded. “Starbucks offers their employees benefits.”
“Ah,” said M.
“Plus… I’m o.k. with supporting the big guy when they have a superior product.” I’m sorry, but around here, the few independents that exist have decent atmospheres, but their coffee is just not as good. And usually costs just as much, if not more. I like supporting independents, I am o.k. with driving a little further, or spending a little more to keep them alive, if the end product is good. But I am hard pressed (ha ha, like coffee beans are pressed? Ha? ... No?) to find better coffee than Starbucks in Colorado. Do any of you Coloradoans have any recommendations?
Meanwhile, I explained to Kanga and Tulip that it wasn’t them, I just couldn’t handle the commute, and Kanga asked, “Well, how soon do you need to be out of here?”
And I said, “Oh, I’m flexible. I’m happy to stay around for a few more days to make this as smooth of a transition as possible.” And he nodded, and I haven’t heard any more on the subject. So perhaps I will be writing from home tomorrow. Perhaps I will still be making the commute next week. But I will be practicing my “Soy chai no whip” routine until then.
Friday, February 02, 2007
The Princess Pops
Yesterday I woke up, all cozy in my bed. I dawdled around, relaxing in the warmth of my little home, cursing 6:30 a.m. with blissfully warm, squinty, little eyes. When I eventually made it downstairs, I had the brief thought, “Huh, it’s a little less warm down here,” but lost that thought quickly as I made a mad dash to grab some hot chocolate and an Uncrustable. (Don’t laugh. They are a little taste of heaven. All the happiness of a perfectly crafted PB&J without any of the mess. Despite the fact that it takes about six of ‘em to really fill you up.)
When I went out to turn on my car, I realized, “Fuck it’s cold!” The kind of cold where it makes you swear. The kind of cold that has already frozen the milk in your milk box.
Creamy, ginormous, plain milk popsicle, anyone?
That did not bode well for my arctic-esque office, so I blasted the heat for my entire hour-long commute, trying to deep fry myself so that the cold would feel good for at least a little while. And sure enough, the first two minutes were pretty nice.
The rest of the day sucked.
My hands are now chapped and peeling from all the trips I make to the bathroom. Not because I have to pee. No, no, I have a surprisingly huge bladder, and despite the gallons of tea I drink all day, trying to stay warm, I don’t stop to pee very often. These bathroom trips are for turning on the hot water and just thawing my hands under the faucet. I have also taken to sitting on my feet, to warm them up, which has, in turn, caused my knees to start twitching weirdly every night, when I try to go to sleep.
Back to our story. Around one the snow started coming down. As in: PLOP. Here’s a shit-ton of snow.
And surprisingly, around 3:30, Kanga reluctantly suggested I should go home, before I got stuck there for a week. (Imagine the frozen horror!) So needless to say, he did not have time to say, “Drive safely,” before I had turned off my computer and dashed up the stairs, as fast as my twitching knees would carry me.
It then took me TWO HOURS to get home. Everyone had gotten the same, “Leave early before the Blizzard-of-Death (I think we got a total of 3 inches up here in Denver) traps you at the office forevermore,” memo, and the highways were JAMMED.
It was about a quarter of a mile away from my exit, finally, when I came to a complete standstill, and my head popped.
*POP*
I was done.
I don’t know how I got home, it is a blur of unbridled fury, and some cold, leftover tea that spilled in my lap.
I had brownies for dinner, and then spent another two hours doing work that I had brought home.
When I told The Funasaurus I was too tired for sex, I realized I had become THAT girl. Except I have no kids, no life, and not enough money to make up for it.
That’s when I realized, something must be done.
When I went out to turn on my car, I realized, “Fuck it’s cold!” The kind of cold where it makes you swear. The kind of cold that has already frozen the milk in your milk box.
Creamy, ginormous, plain milk popsicle, anyone?
That did not bode well for my arctic-esque office, so I blasted the heat for my entire hour-long commute, trying to deep fry myself so that the cold would feel good for at least a little while. And sure enough, the first two minutes were pretty nice.
The rest of the day sucked.
My hands are now chapped and peeling from all the trips I make to the bathroom. Not because I have to pee. No, no, I have a surprisingly huge bladder, and despite the gallons of tea I drink all day, trying to stay warm, I don’t stop to pee very often. These bathroom trips are for turning on the hot water and just thawing my hands under the faucet. I have also taken to sitting on my feet, to warm them up, which has, in turn, caused my knees to start twitching weirdly every night, when I try to go to sleep.
Back to our story. Around one the snow started coming down. As in: PLOP. Here’s a shit-ton of snow.
And surprisingly, around 3:30, Kanga reluctantly suggested I should go home, before I got stuck there for a week. (Imagine the frozen horror!) So needless to say, he did not have time to say, “Drive safely,” before I had turned off my computer and dashed up the stairs, as fast as my twitching knees would carry me.
It then took me TWO HOURS to get home. Everyone had gotten the same, “Leave early before the Blizzard-of-Death (I think we got a total of 3 inches up here in Denver) traps you at the office forevermore,” memo, and the highways were JAMMED.
It was about a quarter of a mile away from my exit, finally, when I came to a complete standstill, and my head popped.
*POP*
I was done.
I don’t know how I got home, it is a blur of unbridled fury, and some cold, leftover tea that spilled in my lap.
I had brownies for dinner, and then spent another two hours doing work that I had brought home.
When I told The Funasaurus I was too tired for sex, I realized I had become THAT girl. Except I have no kids, no life, and not enough money to make up for it.
That’s when I realized, something must be done.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Why I Should Never Be Allowed in the Kitchen
We have a small tradition with our neighbors, wherein we get together once a week to have dinner and watch American Idol. Now, I don’t really love that show, but I do love the company. We take turns hosting, and it’s an unspoken part of the tradition that you are supposed to cook something new. That gets tricky quickly, when your entire culinary range is four meals.
But I found a great recipe for a round meal… (wagon wheel pasta, sausage cut into circles, and zucchini, again, cut into circles. Plus butter and oil. Mmmm.) Any meal that is defined by its geometric shape is A-O.K. in my book! And I even thought I was prepared well in advance, because I brought the ingredient list to the store with me last weekend, to get ready. Oh, I am so prepared.
And well I might be, because this week has been insanely busy, so far.
Alas, we know how the universe thinks it’s funny when I act all “ready” and “prepared.”
On my way in to work yesterday, I was like, Yes, there will be an excellent pasta dish. But there is nothing to eat it off of, for the dishwasher has not been run. And there will be absolutely nothing else to eat, because our pantry is bare bare bare. So I called The Funasaurus and said, “Darling, could you maybe pick up some salad, and some of those Pillsbury yummy yummy croissant dinner roll things?” (Except I think I didn’t say “darling” or “maybe.”)
And he said, “Yes, darling,” (again, “Darling” has been added for effect, here) “but I have a meeting that will run until 6:30 or so, so I won’t be home until after 7. You know, the time dinner is supposed to start?”
So I said, “Fuck,” and made plans to run to the store before the guests arrive.
Of course it snowed all day, yesterday, so I froze to death, and then also had to drive home on the highway with a bunch of assholes who don’t know how to drive in the snow. I think they’re mostly from Texas.
So I got to the store, grabbed salad, dinner rolls, and also maybe some Klondike Bars (who knew, there is a junk food blog!) because whoo-boy, I was already turning into that kind of night.
I raced home, and began unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Those included 14 very nice, grown-up wine glasses (as opposed to my not-quite-grown-up-yet-red-plastic-cup. Hey, don’t judge, they don’t break in the Jacuzzi, man.) that my parents had lent us for a party we hosted last week. I lined them up on the counter by the fridge, because that is the only part of the counter we don’t use for cooking.
Dinner was underway when The Funasaurus showed up and I threw a mop at him, all, “CLEAN!” Also, “Hi Baby, how was your day?”
The neighbors showed up, we poured them wine, and American Idol turned out not to be on until 8:00, which was great, because that’s about when it was looking like dinner would be ready.
Until.
Sugar, who had been, until this time, perched on top of the refrigerator, disdainfully watching the proceedings, decided she needed to get down.
Do you remember what was stacked on the counter next to the refrigerator, you careful reader, you?
Yes.
14 of ‘em.
And 14 long-stemmed glasses do not catch a kitty any better than one does.
There was a lot of breaking glasses and freaked out kitties, and nice neighbors who looked like they’d rather be anywhere than in our house.
“Oh no!” said our neighbors.
“Oh, hah hah, no worries. Fortunately, they’re not ours,” I laughed, trying to act like I wasn’t surrounded by a sea of glass shards.
“No, I mean, do you think Sugar’s hurt?” asked our neighbor.
“Oh, no, I’m sure she’s fine, she’s just a little spooked,” I said, feeling guilty that the thought had not really crossed my mind, at that point.
Then Sugar, with her tail all-a-puffed and crazy-eyed, began darting all over my off-white furniture with her bloody paws.
I grabbed the kitchen towel, scooped her up, and deposited her in the bathroom. I stayed in there with her, trying to tourniquet her paw, which she was having none of, and oh fuck that! And I sat there, deciding whether to cry, strangle her, or just have The Funasaurus bring me my wine glass so I could quickly drink myself into oblivion.
Fortunately, it turned out to be not a very big cut at all, and once I was fairly sure that there was no glass lodged in Sugar’s little paw, I came back out, headed straight for my wine glass, and we got dinner out with relative peace.
Until Tatum went for my Klondike Bar when I wasn’t looking. We’re serving kitty stew for dinner, next week.
But I found a great recipe for a round meal… (wagon wheel pasta, sausage cut into circles, and zucchini, again, cut into circles. Plus butter and oil. Mmmm.) Any meal that is defined by its geometric shape is A-O.K. in my book! And I even thought I was prepared well in advance, because I brought the ingredient list to the store with me last weekend, to get ready. Oh, I am so prepared.
And well I might be, because this week has been insanely busy, so far.
Alas, we know how the universe thinks it’s funny when I act all “ready” and “prepared.”
On my way in to work yesterday, I was like, Yes, there will be an excellent pasta dish. But there is nothing to eat it off of, for the dishwasher has not been run. And there will be absolutely nothing else to eat, because our pantry is bare bare bare. So I called The Funasaurus and said, “Darling, could you maybe pick up some salad, and some of those Pillsbury yummy yummy croissant dinner roll things?” (Except I think I didn’t say “darling” or “maybe.”)
And he said, “Yes, darling,” (again, “Darling” has been added for effect, here) “but I have a meeting that will run until 6:30 or so, so I won’t be home until after 7. You know, the time dinner is supposed to start?”
So I said, “Fuck,” and made plans to run to the store before the guests arrive.
Of course it snowed all day, yesterday, so I froze to death, and then also had to drive home on the highway with a bunch of assholes who don’t know how to drive in the snow. I think they’re mostly from Texas.
So I got to the store, grabbed salad, dinner rolls, and also maybe some Klondike Bars (who knew, there is a junk food blog!) because whoo-boy, I was already turning into that kind of night.
I raced home, and began unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Those included 14 very nice, grown-up wine glasses (as opposed to my not-quite-grown-up-yet-red-plastic-cup. Hey, don’t judge, they don’t break in the Jacuzzi, man.) that my parents had lent us for a party we hosted last week. I lined them up on the counter by the fridge, because that is the only part of the counter we don’t use for cooking.
Dinner was underway when The Funasaurus showed up and I threw a mop at him, all, “CLEAN!” Also, “Hi Baby, how was your day?”
The neighbors showed up, we poured them wine, and American Idol turned out not to be on until 8:00, which was great, because that’s about when it was looking like dinner would be ready.
Until.
Sugar, who had been, until this time, perched on top of the refrigerator, disdainfully watching the proceedings, decided she needed to get down.
Do you remember what was stacked on the counter next to the refrigerator, you careful reader, you?
Yes.
14 of ‘em.
And 14 long-stemmed glasses do not catch a kitty any better than one does.
There was a lot of breaking glasses and freaked out kitties, and nice neighbors who looked like they’d rather be anywhere than in our house.
“Oh no!” said our neighbors.
“Oh, hah hah, no worries. Fortunately, they’re not ours,” I laughed, trying to act like I wasn’t surrounded by a sea of glass shards.
“No, I mean, do you think Sugar’s hurt?” asked our neighbor.
“Oh, no, I’m sure she’s fine, she’s just a little spooked,” I said, feeling guilty that the thought had not really crossed my mind, at that point.
Then Sugar, with her tail all-a-puffed and crazy-eyed, began darting all over my off-white furniture with her bloody paws.
I grabbed the kitchen towel, scooped her up, and deposited her in the bathroom. I stayed in there with her, trying to tourniquet her paw, which she was having none of, and oh fuck that! And I sat there, deciding whether to cry, strangle her, or just have The Funasaurus bring me my wine glass so I could quickly drink myself into oblivion.
Fortunately, it turned out to be not a very big cut at all, and once I was fairly sure that there was no glass lodged in Sugar’s little paw, I came back out, headed straight for my wine glass, and we got dinner out with relative peace.
Until Tatum went for my Klondike Bar when I wasn’t looking. We’re serving kitty stew for dinner, next week.
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