Four Time Zones and Three Maxed Out Credit Cards

I have no idea where I am, or what time it is. I just had dinner with D, who is a resident of Boston, so I’m pretty sure I’m in Massachusetts. Yesterday I was in Omaha. Then Denver. Then I got up at o-fuck-thirty this morning and flew here. And then I pit stop in Denver on Thursday night to fly to California. I am tired, and out of money, between having to put the hotel on my card (oopsie in the hotel/company communications, the company gave them a card #, but they need the physical card to swipe to charge it, so in the meantime, I had to hand over mine) and the cute new LBD I just bought at THE TWO MALLS CONNECTED TO MY HOTEL VIA SEXY GLASS PASSAGEWAYS OH MY GOD.

Fortunately, I have to work, tomorrow, and will therefore be distracted from buying too many more pretty things at the mall that houses Dior, Jimmy Choo, and Louis Vuitton stores. Not that I went in many of them.

Here’s the secret, though. I’m terrified to go to work, tomorrow. I’m terrified they’re going to realize I have no idea what I’m doing, and they are going to think “Wow, big mistake on our part, much like her hotel payment mix up, what WERE we thinking, hiring her?” I have visions of them yanking my pretty hotel room away from me, and taking my crackImean, company-issued-desktop-with-wireless-access, and making me sit in the airport for the next 48 hours, until I can get on a plane going home. Which they will regret having paid for, seeing as how I have been no use at all, and just a complete drain on company resources.

Plus, if my incompetence doesn’t do it, my hair will. I spent the entire Memorial Day Weekend in Omaha, which is humid, and now I’m in Boston, which is humider, and my hair is FREAKING OUT. I look kind of like a large, fuzzy, elongated peach in a cute, new, LBD, at this point. I’m sure it would frighten the beejezus out of the nice Boston people who pay for me to fly out here and sit in a lovely hotel room and shop on my first afternoon here. I can see them saying, “Pretty dress. Too bad about the hair devouring her head and most of the air in a three foot radius around it.”

So that’s kind of what I’ve been up to.

AUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

There was just a loud, terrifying noise outside my hotel room! I'm not sure I am conveying the scariness of it. I will go investigate and report back.

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That took freaking forever mostly because I forgot how to un-deadbolt the deadbolt. You would think that would be asininely simple, but then you underestimate my incompetence. Much like my employers.

Anyway. The noise that sounded like boulders mixed with marbles on a steel drum (or the thoughts of a faux-mouse looking into Tatum's crazy eyes right before being flung across the living room) turned out to be the ice machine, which is conveniently located about two steps from my door. So I suppose I have that to look forward to, tonight. Anybody want a sno-cone?

Fetch Me Some More Chai, Kitty

So I am sitting here at my new job, when I get an e-mail from a random person saying, “Hi, I’m your Very Important Boss’ friend, and I would like to take you to lunch. Would today work for you?”

And I write back, all blasé, “Well, I suppose. I am a little busy. It’s not like I’m sitting here in my very own office writing on my personal blog, or anything.”

Then I take a satisfied gulp of decaffeinated chai and SLOOSH, out it spills, all over my pale green shirt and (what else) my white pants. So I have just returned from the bathroom, and now I look like I’ve wet myself, on top of sporting the scent eau de starting-to-get-stale chai, for the rest of the day. I’m sure I’ll make a great first impression.

I blame Tatum.

Mostly because he spent the whole night fetching this piece of plastic that you have to tear off of the milk jugs that we have delivered every week. (I SO have a real milk box and milkman. Are you jealous?) For whatever reason, the softness of the plastic, the round, slightly mouse-esque shape, the bounce-ability factor, whatever, Tatum enjoys retrieving these things when there are no faux mice readily available. Now last night I was trying to sleep, and Tatum fetched one of these milk things and it landed on my face and I remember thinking, “This is not good, you should remove it,” and then thinking, “But I am SLEEPING” so I didn’t, and paid the price of one googly-eyed kitty pouncing on my eyeball.

That sucked.

So Tatum got the boot, and I hid the plastic thing under my pillow, which is often my solution for making his nocturnally fetched objects disappear. When I wake up in the morning I usually look under my pillow, because often there is a surprise, since I have become so good at confiscating fetchable crap mid-sleep. I have found hair ties, collar stays, string, pieces of Christmas trees, straws, leaves, and a mish-mash of other stuff.

So anyway. Tatum spent part of the night trying to play fetch with this thing, and pawing at my pillow because he is not always as dumb as he looks. This morning I rolled over, and the plastic thing poked out from under my pillow and Tatum pounced on that thing like a 13-year-old on a PlayStation. There was no sleeping in for me, Tatum was all, “Play!PLAY!PLAY!” So I finally conceded his victory, threw it a couple times, and began my morning routine.

Eventually I needed counter space in the bathroom, and Tatum would not give it to me, because Being in the Way is pretty much his favorite game ever. Besides fetch. So I hunted around for the plastic thing and threw it for him, and I swear that cat rolled his eyes and was like, “Bitch, please. I get a mouse in the morning. Now could you hurry it up?”

So I am currently hating Tatum. And I blame him entirely for the current state of my shirt and pants.

Princess Bubbles

Besides jogging, now, I have also started taking the stairs to my office, like every beginner exercise book or In Shape article will tell you to do. Unfortunately, I do not work on the third floor. I work on the eleventh floor. And if you have ever tried to hike 11 flights of stairs (upward, people, UPWARD) then you know what an excellent workout I am getting every morning. And sometimes after lunch. Although I've noticed my lunchtime excursions have limited themselves to the break room, as opposed to one of the many nearby restaurants, having now put the “stairs only” restriction upon myself. See, I'm even lazy enough to cheat the system when I create the system.

In any case, at least once a day, those stairs make me more out of breath than a 30 minute jog will. Every morning I tell myself, “Come on, it's not the Matterhorn. It's a staircase.”

And then myself always goes, “But isn't there a cozy little tram you can ride up the Matterhorn?”

So I've been good, and while I cannot feel the results, yet, I feel less guilty about entering BBQ season.

The Funasaurus was away playing volleyball last night, so I decided to treat myself to a bubble bath. Because, um, yum.

The only downside to a bubble bath is that you must clean the bathtub, first. A chore which has led me to decide, “I don't really want a bath THAT badly,” on any number of occasions.

But it was long overdue for a cleaning anyway, so with the help of Sugar and Tatum, I scrubbed the heck out of the bathtub, rinsed thoroughly, and retrieved some bubble bath goo from the nether regions of under-the-sink while the tub filled up with copious amounts of unnecessary warm water.

Al Gore and Laurie David be damned. At least I recycle.

So I soaked in the tub for a good 40 minutes, at first being nervous about any remaining Lysol going up my bum, or sticking to my hair despite the OCD rinsing I gave each section of the tub. (I am a germaphobe who's scared of chemicals. It's been a tricky life.) Once I was sufficiently dehydrated and soggy all at the same time, I got out and curled up in bed. I do not remember the rest of the night, but I am all mushy and happy-feeling, today.

Maybe even too mushy for 11 flights of stairs...?

It's Not Easy, Being Lilac

This weekend I took The Funasaurus tux-shopping, for the wedding. We had to make our reservation and pick out colors and styles. For any of the groomsmen who might read this blog (ha ha) you should know you have a good friend in The Funasaurus. I fought mightily for the lilac (read: shiny lavender) vests with a swirly flower pattern, but The Funasaurus adamantly vetoed those, despite how well they would have matched my sash.

He also vetoed the chocolate brown tuxes, opting for a more traditional black. Whatever. I thought that would have been pretty pimpin', but The Funasaurus, I found out, is fairly pimpin' adverse.

We also spent the better part of the weekend listening to the radio and mix CDs, trying to pick a first dance song. We have the same taste in china patterns (classic) and sofas (comfy) but when it comes to music our tastes diverge drastically. Mostly because I like good music, and he likes Journey.

We can agree on Bon Jovi, at least, (though I think it's pretty un-American to NOT like Bon Jovi, I'm pretty sure it's written into The Constitution somewhere) but as we listened to the lyrics of “Always”, we realized that “unrequited love” was not quite the theme we wanted to start our marriage off on.

Then, last night, “She Drives Me Crazy” came on the radio, and I jumped up all, “I have a version of this song sung by Kermit!” (Who is pretty much my hero. I grew up with the Muppets, and developed a rather strong attachment to the fuzzy green frog. Ask my roommate from college about the posters, collectors items, mouse pads, sippy straws, mugs, and.... better yet, don't. We've just started talking, again.) Having met The Funasaurus in college, he knows something of my affection for Kermit. So when I told him that it would be just so perfect and fitting for Kermit to sing our first dance song, he said, “That's fine, baby. If you want Kermit to sing our first dance song, then we can do it.”

And I began to get teary eyed, thinking of the perfectness of it all.

“I mean, it's not like people will laugh at us, or anything,” he added.

And he wonders why he didn't get any, last night.

Running on Empty

Since “sausuage coming out of pressurized can” is not exactly the image I want people to associate with me in my wedding dress, I took my fitting as a wake-up call and have begun jogging again. Which I hate. If you do not know how much I hate it, go here. That is how much.

So this morning I got up with the alarm, The Funasaurus was kind enough to shut it off and grab my pillow from me, before turning over and going back to sleep, so I begrudgingly got ready and got out the door. I've been telling myself it's o.k. to go slow, that I don't need to break any personal records in time or distance just yet, that I need to be realistic to sustain this. But I was feeling pretty good, and putting along at what felt like a good rate, when I saw a shadow behind me. Now, the sun was just coming up, so the shadow, I knew, would be long. However it still took it about .0002 seconds to grow taller than my shadow, and then this lovely woman comes speeding past me like a Ferrari on an open course. I am horrified- she was not even out of breath, all, “Good morning!”-ing me as she raced by as though I was standing still. But as she ran ahead of me, I noticed she had one of those zero-fat bodies, and extremely muscular legs, underneath an expensive-looking sweat-removing-type runner outfit thing-y. No wonder her “jog” was as fast as a sprint. I imagine she's an Olymipic athlete, probably.

So I don't feel bad until the older, larger woman in grey sweatpants and a dingy t-shirt comes flying past, all, “Good Morning!” me as well. She was barely speed-walking, and she lapped me like a racehorse.

At that point I began to think that perhaps I should upgrade my visor to a fucking paper bag so that I am utterly unrecognizable in my apparently track-and-field-happy neighborhood.

Fortunately someone's sprinklers were on, on my way home, so I ran through them, screwthegrass, the water felt good, and for a split second I was tempted to try out an old slipe-and-slide move on their perfectly manicured lawn. I decided against it, (mostly due to the shuddering in my kneecaps) but even just considering the deviant maneuver made me feel a bit better.

Of course, I've also been having jaw issues, as in waking up with a very sore jaw, and eventually The Funasaurus had commented that perhaps it was due to the fact that I am “clanging” my teeth at night (apparently not just grinding, but clanging) so I have also recently invested in a mouth guard to sleep in. Which, you know, has done wonders for my self-image as well.

T.G.I.F.

Love,
The Epitome of Cool Herself,
P.i.G.

Shouldn't a Princess Have a Limo with a Chauffeur?

Last night I went to a happy hour with a girlfriend from Sweden. (That bit of information, I realize, is not that important. But I just like typing Sweden. Try it. It's fun. ... Seriously. Sweden. SwedenSwedenSweden.)

So we got half price glasses of wine, and a small pizza appetizer, and began to talk about things like pedicures and boys and trips to Norway. Well, that kind of thing makes me so happy, naturally we went for glass #2. And I kept running to refill my meter. On my second trip to the meter, I noticed, “Woah, there's the wine!” as I barely avoided a head-on collision with a railing. So on my way back into the restaurant, I had a very stern talk with myself.

Me: You are going to have to drive. You cannot be drunk. You must stop drinking now.

Self: But... wine! Sweden! Norway.

Me: Yes, but a DUI probably does nothing for getting you to Norway faster.

Self: ... I don't see the connection.

Me: Naturally, you wouldn't. You are drunk.

Self: True. But., then, wouldn't you be drunk, too?

Me: Erm.

Self: Ah-hah! You DON'T see the connection, either, you drunken no-sense maker!

Me: I'm sure there's a connection, somehow! Drinking and driving are not good combination.

Self: I know. But let's just finish this nice little glass of chardonnay, and we'll order some water, o.k.?

Me: Well, that sounds like a good compromise. Maybe we could get a little calamari, too.

So I went back in, but actually did not finish the wine. I was really feeling it, and knew it would take a while to wear off. I have become something of a lightweight. That is not good for my street cred, but I was actually relieved when we realized that my friend had missed her bus because we had been chatting too long, and I was going to have to give her a ride home.

I hate having to be reasonable when I am having a good time. Especially when I am drinking. It is a huge, internal conflict of interest. The obvious solution is that I must build up my tolerance, again. It will take discipline and training, but I am ready.

I am also thinking I should look into the local bus system. I want to support public transportation, and maybe if I am drunk the ghetto route to my house will seem less sketchy. Of course, that will not help either me or my poor Swedish friend the next time we get to talking and BOTH of us miss the bus. Maybe that'll just be a sign to stay for some more calamari.

We Spiked the Punch, So We Think We Can Dance

The Funasaurus thinks I should write about my unnatural excitement for the upcoming season of So You Think You Can Dance.

I say, no, I shan't write about my “unnatural excitement,” because that's just silly. It's silly, because it's the most natural thing in the world. Young adults doing skippy little foxtrots and waltzes and hip hop in ways I could only dream of? It's SO much better than Dancing With Celebrities Whose Days Have Long Since Been Over. The pure skill, the uniqueness of the routines, the slight humility... it's all so much better!

Plus, American Idol is almost over, and I want to start a new weekly dinner and T.V. routine with our fabulous neighbors (hi, Leah!) because it forces us to cook instead of going to Subway for the third time this week. Last week I even made scallops, and no one died, or choked, or anything!

Last night I was feeling a little down, and searching for positive reinforcement from The Funasaurus, who is always willing to comply, as long as the Broncos or Scrubs are not on. So we're lying in bed, and he said I should be happy because I'm, “Fantabulous” and while I can hardly disagree, I laughed it off, because the editor in me was like, “Um, not so sure of the grammatical correctness of, 'Fantabulous'.” So I went to pick his nose, a little something I do just to annoy the crap out of him after he's been nice.

I know how to woo 'em, baby.

So as he pulled my still-booger-free finger away from his face, The Funasaurus looked at me gravely and said, “But THAT is why you're not fantasmigoric.”

“Fantasmi...? ... I'm not?”

He shook his head.

“But you are?”

“Baby. Of course I'm fantasmigoric. I'm drinking fantasmigoric punch,” he explained.

* * * * *

If any of you need to up your fantasmigoric quotient, apparently The Funasaurus is the man to see. Maybe he'll let you have some of his punch.

Utter Darkness and a Strung-Out Sugar

So homegirl Sugar had to go back to the vet, yesterday, for some dental work. Homegirl now kinda looks like homeless girl, because she had to get three teeth removed!

Sugar is pissed. Pissed at the world, and pretty much everyone.

But she doesn't know this, yet, because Sugar is on pain medication. And Sugar reacts to hard-core pain meds as much as anyone would. She's enjoying the hell out of them! Her pupils are dilated, she's rolling around on the floor in ecstasy, she wants her cuddling rough. Apparently kitty pain meds are similar to kitty coke.

Meanwhile I get the lovely task of sticking a syringe in her mouth twice a day, to keep the high going, and then I get to start brushing her teeth every day. For the rest of her life.

I told the vet I valued my fingers, and he laughed like I was joking.

Seriously, though, dude. Typing is going to suck if Sugar has bitten most of my fingertips off.

So the first part of my first day on the job involved taking Sugar to the vet, Very Early.

The second part involved stressing about serious traffic jams and Sugar's reaction to anesthesia.

The third part involved sitting on the phone for half an hour, listening to the computer help desks' wait music, because my computer wouldn't dock correctly.

The fourth part involved complete and utter blackness, in which I perhaps squealed just a little bit. Fortunately, I found my cell phone on my desk, and with its display light, managed to get myself out into the hall where I could actually see, due to the fact that the offices on the OUTSIDE of the hall actually have windows.

The fifth part involved hanging out in said hallways and offices with windows, waiting for the P.A. announcement that said we were having a power outage (no shit, huh?) and that we could expect it to be at least another two to four hours before the lights came back on.

The sixth part involved me gathering up the (still not functioning) computer by the light of my trusty cell phone display, and hiking down 11 flights of stairs.

The seventh part involved sitting on the phone for ANOTHER half hour with the computer help desk, once I got home, trying to establish a network connection.

The rest of my day was a blur of spreadsheets and cracked out kitties. Tatum didn't recognize Sugar when we brought her home, and he was scared of the wide-eyed crack kitty, so he retrated into a corner and hissed. Sugar was so high she didn't really notice, but she did think it was funny that the normally very aggressive and rough-and-tumble boy was acting so skittish. So she chased him around the house, looking kind of surprised (but who can really tell if it was surprise or just drugs with such dilated pupils) that he would run away. So she spent the rest of the evening asserting her newfound dominance and rolling on the floor with pleasure. Maybe having a few teeth out isn't all bad.

Princesses Require Air Conditioning. And Low-Fat Ice Cream.

So I am back from Tucson. If you ever have the chance to go... don't bother. Unless you feel the need to run from over-conditioned hotels to air-conditioned cars trying to beat your sweat glands before they realize that HOLY FUCK it's 99 degrees out, and it's only May!

Also, go if you want to deal with lots of old people driving like REALLY old people.

Get off the damn road and let us youngin's drive. You don't get two lanes just because you're old enough to have babysat my grandmother.

The training was fine, although the woman who was training me was more into showing off 5 foot high piles of spreadsheets that she has compiled for my boss in the past, than she was into showing me how to actually retrieve the reports I would need. When I asked what time I should get there in the morning, she was like, “Oh, whenever....” so I asked what time she normally started to work, and she said, “Oh, about quarter to five.”

....

“A.M.?” I finally squeaked.

“Yes! But you can show up whenever. I'm something of a workaholic,” she added, kindly. Which was the biggest, fattest understatement of THE YEAR, as I came to understand, seeing as how she's on the computer all night and all weekend, just doing reports and triple-checking everyone else's work. Given that we are doing basically the same job, I am a little nervous that she has set the bar rather high for the amount of work that can be expected out of a supposed 35 hour work week. We'll see. I am debating setting up a cot in my new office, just in case.

And possibly importing a case of Jamo to keep me company as I sludge my way through an endless amount of sales reports.

The hotel, I must give props to, however, because they use halogen bulbs in their lamps, instead of 60 watts. Go conservation! Unfortunately, they only had two lamps in the whole room, neither of which gave off as much light as a 60 watt bulb (or so it felt) so from about 7:00 P.M. on, I was in darkness.

But I did manage to make it through most of PopCo, despite the lack of light, and it is really good, so far. Much better than I expected. If you are all about deep, illegal-substance-induced conversations about conspiracy theories, big brother, and mathematical theorems, this book is for you!

This weekend was going to be fun. Saturday I went to try on my... dum dum dum, wedding dress, which just arrived! Hooray! I was a pretty pretty princess, in a pretty pretty gown... except apparently there's been a few too many crème soufles (or trips to Cold Stone) in the kingdom, and the pretty pretty princess has turned into quite a plump princess, and while this does wonders for my boobs (they grew! For the first time EVER! SCORE!), I was barely able to squeeze into the most important dress I will ever wear in my whole life. I came smooshing out at all the wrong points.

Ew.

“Can you let it out?” asked my mother, carefully.

“Erm,” said the saleswoman, looking at the intricate French lace on the bodice.

“Ha ha,” I said, wishing to die, right there on the pedestal, in front of all of the other stupidly perfect and skinny brides walking through the salon, JUDGING. Because that is what they do. That is how it works. You do your hair and makeup extra prettily, and then go in and look at dresses, supposedly focusing on the ones on the rack, but really just scoping out the women in the 3-way mirrors, taking copious mental notes of exactly what You Will Certainly Not Do, once you are on the pedestal, yourself.

So that wasn't IDEAL, but I suppose I get to spend the summer losing extra poundage. Perhaps that will happen naturally from hauling 10 metric tons of Excel spreadsheets to the recycling bin in the new office, every day.

I can hope.

Sleeping In and Almost-Dead Kitties

Today was my first day on the job. My boss suggested I arrive no earlier than 10:00 A.M., seeing as how he didn't plan on being there any earlier. I was agreeable. Then he took me out to a nice lunch. Then we figured out how to log in to my computer. Then he said he was going home for the day, and that I should do the same, since there wasn't much to do, and to have a nice trip tomorrow.

So at 2:00 I came home.

First day? Not so rough.

Except for Tatum. Who almost made me miss the glorious experience of a very difficult day at my best-paying job ever.

When I woke up this morning with the alarm, there was no crack kitty bouncing off the walls going, “MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE GIMME GIMME GIMME!” Instead, a sedate little kitten with sleepy eyes peered at me from under the covers where he had apparently snuggled with my armpit all night.

Sick monkey.

So I got up and took a shower, and was surprised at the lack of batting that normally comes from a Tatum bouncing between the shower curtain and liner, because apparently he thinks there is a chance I will produce a furry little mouse toy from my wet and steamy tile chamber.

When I got out of the shower, I left the towel and peered into the bedroom, looking to see if The Funasaurus had gotten up and taken care of the little ball of psychoticness. But no, The Funasaurus was fast asleep, with a little Tatum right next to him. I hissed his name, and slowly, his little head turned like an ancient turtle, and looked at me with big, sad eyes.

Something was NOT RIGHT.

I went downstairs, naked, in search of the cat toy that will normally make Tatum jump around with dilated pupils. No response. I went back upstairs, and the eyes looked at me, all, “Sadly, we are dying, and can no longer play with that little toy.”

And then my heart broke.

Ker-plunk.

So I put the mouse in front of his nose, and he sniffed at it sadly, and then laid his little head down, in an act of pure agony.

I fought back tears, hating myself, the vet, the car, and anything else that could have ever possibly traumatized my poor little angel. When I tried to pick him up and he squealed in pain, I ran for the phone, and called the vet, swearing to quit the job I had not yet really even begun. The vet assured me it was probably just a reaction to the vaccine, yesterday, and as long as he wasn't puking or hyperventilating, he would probably be just fine.

I was not so sure, and made The Funasaurus swear on his my, and his mom's life that he would come home at lunchtime to check in on our darling baby. Litigation be damned.

And he did, bless his heart. Which is reason #692 I am going to marry him.

Meanwhile, Tatum continued to look Very Sad, and curled up in a corner, resting his weary head on the ridge of the cat tree, making me want to kill myself if only it would lessen his apparent pain.

Sugar snored through the whole thing, all, "How nice that I am not being chewed upon as usual."

The Funasaurus convinced me I should probably try out work, that he would call at lunchtime, and I finally left, after four (not even kidding) about-faces from the garage, to go back in and check on Tatum one last time.

Fortunately, my day at work went well (see above) The Funasaurus did come home at lunch, and I got home around 2:30. And Tatum looked a little better. He was moving slowly.

And by the time our neighbors came over for dinner, he decided to crawl up the back of J's shirt, like the evil little hellion we all know and love.

They seemed a little incredulous that his darling little pokey clawed self was really all that out of sorts, EVER, but I assured them that he most certainly was. Then I plied them with alcohol.

Now I am off to Tucson for training. See you all on Friday night!

Animal Torture

On Sunday The Funasaurus had to work, so I had the brilliant (?) idea to take a little (three mile) stroll to Einstein Bagels and get us a little breakfast while he furiously wrote an 11 page memo. Because, well, he is weirdly capable of writing an 11 page memo on a glorious Sunday morning. And I was craving a strawberry bagel.

So I take my cell phone, because as nice as the fresh air and nature are, I am not sure I can entertain myself the whole way. On the other hand, I am very aware of THE BEES, now, so I walked a good two blocks before I broke down and called M out of sheer boredom.

We had a great conversation, M was in the middle of explaining how her darling daughter has developed a little chomping habit (as in, chomping on mom's hand when things don't go her way) as I walked through a green park when suddenly I saw a wolf running towards me.

So. That's kind of unnerving. I mean, I was in a park, surrounded by suburbia. I looked around, hoping the wolf was perhaps, you know, tame, and being followed by a human with an invisible leash. Sadly, the wolf and I were alone on the green belt (since the miniature trees and struggling weeds surrounded by sidewalks and houses can barely be construed as a “park”) and it was barreling towards me, gnashing its teeth. (That, or panting, seeing as how it was in quite the gallop. But I have a tendency for fearing the worst.)

“Hi puppy,” I offered, telling myself to suck it up, at least Red Riding Hood-esque would be a novel (ha ha, I kill myself) way to go.

“What?” said M, probably confused as to my sudden canine greeting, in the midst of her story about her daughter in the bathtub.

I let her go on, as I continued to imagine my death by fangs. As it got closer, though, I realized that it was not a wolf, but a long-legged, very wet husky. The drenched, matted fur just made his long legs look even longer and svelte.

Well, sweet. I used to have a dog that was part-malamute. I can handle big snow dogs. I just can't handle the wild packs of hungry carnivores. So the very wet husky came over and shook himself at me, drenching my cute white shoes, but otherwise leaving me fairly unscathed. He followed me for a while, and I got a dirty look from a passing family, as though I was the owner of this disgraceful, un-leashed dog. And while: not mine, folks! I almost wished he was, because I'm pretty sure I saw their purebred poodle ROLL HIS EYES at us. Soak him, Fang. (For at this point, I had named him.)

So that was the main event of my weekend. Other than being taken to the aquarium by The Funasaurus for dinner, which, admittedly, I wasn't sure what to expect, but I have to say, it's kind of thrilling to look at the fish, and then eat them. It was really fun. They even have seahorses now, which are like, my favoritest animal ever. (Next to goats, belugas, my cats, and penguins.) So I'm always excited to see some swimming around, floating from algae to algae stalk, mating for life, and whatnot.

Unfortunately, today was much worse, starting with a trip to the vet, for which Sugar has still not forgiven me. Tatum was so scared I actually felt bad for the little, stiff lump of what is normally pure evil, but today was just a shivering pile of unbearably pitiful cuteness. Although he was easy to trick, the vet offered him a mushy bit of meat-flavored goo, and the goat in him came out and was like, “oooh, yummy!” as the vet poked him in the butt with the rabies shot. He didn't even notice.

Sugar, on the other hand, NOTICED.

And fuck y'all, Sugar was GOING HOME, so HELP HER! motherfuckers.

Oh she was a very angry kitty. And kept escaping into her traveling crate, and I kept trying to coax her out, all, “Here princess! Here, Kitty Kitty!” And the vet tech, after about attempt #462 got a wee bit impatient, and was a little more... firm, and yanked her out by the scruff of her neck which IS SO NOT HOW SUGAR ROLLS, and Sugar proceeded to cuss that bitch out, which was hysterical, but I couldn't laugh because of the daggers of death that she was shooting me from her over sized big brown pupils. So I snickered, instead, and Sugar has decided to hate me forevermore.

Which, you know, sucks. Because I love her, and like to cuddle her, although she is having None of It right now, and even turned her back on me when I turned on her little heat pad that she likes to rest on. But I have decided to do Not Much about it, because she has to go back next week to get her teeth cleaned, and hoo boy, I am so not sure she will come home with me after that.

Poor thing. If only she knew, she would have WILLED that wet dog into being the famished, princess-hungry wolf that I had originally imagined it to be.

Snobby Princess

Last night The Funasaurus and I ordered Chinese. We got sesame chicken, because, well, what else do you get?

It arrived, and we set about opening our greasy white boxes with wire handles. (Seriously, does anyone actually USE those handles?) The lo mein looked perfect, the wantons were crispy. The sesame chicken was... not so sesame-y. It was a box of dry-ish looking fried chicken. We discovered the sauce and crispy noodles at the bottom, and set about mixing it all up. We got most of the chicken coated, but when we sat down to eat, we realized it just wasn't quite the same. Not bad, actually very tasty, but just different.

And then it hit us.

We knew what it tasted like.

Dark meat Chicken McNuggets.

The Atlantis of McDonalds, the lost paradise, never to be seen again in the name of “nutrition.”

Did no one else find that a bit oxymoronic? I do not think McDonalds should worry their pretty little felt redheads about nutrients and low-fat anything. That is not why they are beloved. They can add all the salads and hippie breakfasts they want, but I felt it was (ironically) a very dark day, the day they took the dark meat Chicken McNuggets away. Those were my favorite. I used to break my McNuggets apart, as a kid, and figure out which ones were dark meat and save them for last, because I loved them so. I could not believe someone somewhere in the McEmpire thought it would be a good idea to do away with them.

I even wrote a letter. (I did.) But somehow it did not have the sway I was hoping for. They have not returned. So I boycotted McDonalds for quite a long while. I used to go pretty regularly, even if it was just for a 6 piece Chicken McNugget, but NO MORE.

Well, until I got hungry one day, and decided my one-woman protest hardly seemed to be having the devastating impact I had planned on, and went for fries. Because, lord help me, but I do love me some McD's french fries. They are the best.

And I am something of a fry snob. I do not just like any fries. I think most fast food fries are a joke. But there is just something about the thought of fabulously greasy, un-food-like nature of McDonalds fries that makes my little heart skip with joy. (Or maybe it's a clogged artery. Whatever.)

And I came to THAT brilliant realization this morning because the talk radio station that The Funasaurus listens to in the morning was talking about how we are all snobs about something. And they were asking their listeners to call in with their snobberies. At first, I thought maybe mine was wine. But then I realized I'm something more of a wine whore. Not really so snobby at all. While I can appreciate an old Chateauneuf du Papes as well as the next sommelier, I also like me some cheap house pinot. I do not care, I just love fermented grapes. Any color, price, or age. It does not matter. (Except for white zin. Even I don't stoop that low.)

So it took me a minute to realize that my real snobbery is more along the lines of fries. I care very much about my fried potatoes, and hold enormously high standards. Only mass produced frozen deep fried ones will do.

I have also been known to turn up my nose at certain brands of American chocolate.

Perpetuating the conversation from the radio show that I don't really like, what are you snobby about? T.V.? Sports? Unicorns? Tell me.

Snotty Employed Princess

As I lay in bed on Friday, pondering the wonders of phlegm (seeing as how my sore throat had turned into a raging sinus infection) and feeling overall very weary and sick, I hear a peculiar noise, seemingly coming from my stomach.

HAA-AAACH-KGRHK

?

My stomach does not feel ill.

HEERR-EECCK

!

That was definitely not my stomach. That was coming from under the bed.

Heave

HHAARRR-HARRRCHH!

I pull my woozy body out of bed, and crouch on the floor on my aching knees. (My knees ache with a sinus infection. I don't know why.)

And I come face-to-face with a surprised-looking Tatum, who is in the process of coughing up his very first hairball. What he lacked in consistency, he is making up for in quantity. He appeared to be emptying out anything that was not attached to his skin. He seemed confused, as to whether he should be embarrassed or proud.

HEEEEGGGGGG!

I realize my hand is damp, having placed it in Tatum's first attempt, before he retreated further under our bed to continue spewing everything disgusting that can come out of an animal.

So me and my inflated and tender nostrils went and found paper towels and Resolve, and began cleaning.

It was an auspicious start, but fortunately, the rest of the weekend went much better, and even included a wine tasting at my parents' house, although I did not get the full benefit of it since I was severely doped up on decongestants and about halfway into my third glass I began to feel really weird.

Alcohol and drugs don't mix, kids. For a while it's fun. Then you feel oddly lightheaded and miss half the party by laying on your parents bed while the rest of the people in your life continue to get drunk without you.

Sigh

Monday I went for an interview at 9:00AM, and when I got home around 11:00 the phone rang and it was HR saying the job was mine! I'm back to being a contributing member of society!!! How fabulous! And it's even in book publishing. Who knew there'd be so many opportunities in Denver, Colorado? The commute, benefits, and pay all trump the previous gig, so I'm already feeling good. Plus, they believe in lunch. I'm worried they must have a skeleton in the closet, it sounds too good to be true. But I'll take it, and even be able to pay for my lunch while I'm at it.