Dreams Coming True

Congratulations, Shooting Star.

I'm so happy for you!

The Funasaurus Household Takes Karaoke Very Seriously

The Funasaurus is switching firms, pursuing better opportunities, and also conveniently taking off a nice, long, six weeks before starting his new job. With visions of Play Station III football dancing through his head.

Last night, some of his current co-workers decided to take him out for one, final hurrah. AKA- karaoke. The Funasaurus loves karaoke. I do not love karaoke, but I love The Funasaurus so I went for a little while. It was supposed to start at 8, but with nary a music menu book in sight at 7:55, you could sense something was wrong. We finally wrangled it out of the waitress that, well, the normal karaoke DJ guy got into a little (fist)fight with their bartender the other night, and had been promptly fired. They had a new chick starting tonight, this would be the first time she had ever DJ-ed. New chick was looking kind of frantic, in front of her computer, her lower lip squished between her teeth.

We ordered another round and got to chatting, but when we happened to look over again, new chick was gone.

This can't be good, I thought, as I watched a sad little look start to creep over The Funasaurus' face.

When the waitress was next wrangled (wouldn't that be a great B- country song? "Wrangling Waitresses?" If you are a B- country star, you may have it. Just don't forget to give me a shout out between thanking mama and the lord for your amazing gift.) we found out that apparently the computer had died and the DJ had run back to her office (!!! Far be it from me to question the way people run their businesses, but I had a good time imagining what a karaoke DJ office would look like; I pictured lots of headphones hanging on the walls and turntables where the desk should be. And a few disco balls stacked around the corners. That'd be an awesome office.) to get another computer to see if they could save the motherboard, or something like that.

I didn't need a magic 8 ball to tell me the outlook was Not Good, so I polished off my chardonnay, kissed The Funasaurus, and went home around 9:30, wishing him good karaoke ju-ju.

At midnight I rolled over and realized I was still alone in my bed, and thought, “Perhaps they were able to get the karaoke machine working, after all!” and At 1:00 when I rolled over, still alone, I was sure of it.

At 2:00 I couldn't go back to sleep. Don't the bars close at 1:30 on Wednesday nights?

2:30 I decided to get up and check my e-mail, seeing as how I wasn't sleeping anymore, and finally around 2:45 I heard the garage door go up, and so I decided not to call 911 to report a missing Funasaurus. Because, you know, I'm chill and not at all paranoid like that.

The Funasaurus was actually sober, however his coworkers were apparently NOT, and so he ended up not just staying late to sing, but then having to give them rides home. Who ends up playing DD on THEIR night out??? But we finally got to sleep. And guess what? We so missed the alarm to go running this morning.

I'm not even sorry.

The Important Things in Life

So the running has been going: Not Well.

Where The Funasaurus is gleefully going further faster and dropping belt notches daily, I am apparently going SLOWER and not getting as far as I used to and am feeling rather bloated, just in general.

Fucking running.

....

Huh. I thought I was going to have more to say about that, but I'm out. That kind of summed it up.

So, that leaves me with nothing else to talk about except, dum dum dum THE WEDDING. Sorry, suckers.

The wedding. Ah. It is exciting (for me) and all-consuming (for me and everyone around me). It haunts my dreams (nightmares weekly about forgetting to send out invites) it creeps into work (surely ordering leaf-shaped escort cards can be worked in amongst the spreadsheets) it pushes its way into inappropriate conversations, “Oh, I'm so sorry this transition to a new job is hard on you, baby. Now would you please tell me if we should go with the hearts or bells on the disposable cameras for the tables at the reception?” and it is slowly taking over my identity, in so far as the ONLY thing people know to say to me, anymore, is, “How's the wedding planning going?” Despite the fact that just I told them, “Fine, nothing really new,” only yesterday.

Fortunately, we got the big decisions out of the way early, (wine selection, photographer, caterer, invitations, wine selections) and now we're just down to the little details.

I discovered this picture on a wedding website a little while ago:



And now cannot live without aspen/birch table number holders.

Sadly, all the aspen I have found has been half-eaten by elk, and so are unusable. I am not quite yet to the point of chopping down a perfectly healthy tree for my table number holders, but let's just see how much progress I've made by T-1 week. Trees may suffer. ... I'm just saying!

I'm currently looking into candles that cost less than $40 for their somewhat bark-ish looking wax exterior, and bribing any local landscapers I know. (Which = 0 currently, but there are still a couple of weeks to go.)

The Funasaurus and I are still having rounds about our first dance song. My love of Nelly and Shaggy are not blending well with his love of Air Supply and Journey. There is no common ground. Though we do both desperately love "Cherish" by Madonna, it is a little tricky to dance to. Try it in your living room, sometime. We did. Last night. Not so sway-y.

And then there's the question of hair. (...I think that was the sound of my last male reader clicking the hell away from this page) To go up messy, or structured? Am I a lazy curl kind of girl (I do like shabby chic) or a tight bun kind of girl? (I do want to be a librarian.) These are the things I obsess over, and I think The Funasaurus is about ready to elope. In sweats. To the rhythm of my Honda Civic's loose tailpipe. With only a dusty, freakishly smiley, dangling strawberry from my rearview mirror as decoration.

They Really Should Install an Escalator

Last week The Funasaurus informed me that we'd be getting up at four thirty A-frickin-M on my precious, precious Saturday to go climb a mountain. And not just any mountain, but a 14er. Though The Funasaurus does not hike, he does enjoy a goal. So, much like going swimming for the first time during a tsunami, he went from not hiking at all to going up one of the tallest mountains in the state.

I like hiking as much as the next Colorado transplant, but I am not so into the still-dark wake-up. As evidence by the fact that I nearly chewed The Funasaurus' head off at 4:45 AM because he put too many Cheese-Its into a plastic baggie. (According to me, and my erratic baggie quotients, anyway. According to him there is no such thing as “too many Cheese-Its.”)
So we were in the car before 5, and picked up The Funasaurus' co-worker who is my NEW HERO because she had gotten in from a night of severe drinking and debauchery only two hours before, and had that weavy look of someone who is perhaps not completely sober yet, and we drove up to the mountain and began hiking. (Well, we hiked. G weaved, took a cigarette break, chugged some water, and began weaving, again. Needless to say, G did not quite make it up the whole mountain. But she made it really far, at least to 13,000 feet, which still qualifies for Rock Star Status in my book.)

So here, we made it, despite having to boulder up the last 200 feet or so with some mild altitude sickness.



Do you not love my trendy, trendy striped pants?

So we deemed ourselves hard core, us and our Cheese-Its.

And it was pretty, even when we weren't on top of the world.



Sunday I spent the day laying around, moaning about my aching butt. Because, for whatever reason, my legs are fine, but my ass is sore as hell.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

So I have come to the somewhat-difficult decision to defer school for a year. I am kind of bummed, I had really psyched myself up to get back into academia, not to mention the investment in a brand new librarian wardrobe of cat eye glasses and gray sweaters that will now have to lie in wait for another year. But with the way this job is going, I am just not going to have time to get a Masters and get married and, I don't know, SLEEP.

On top of all of these life changes, The Funasaurus has decided to switch firms, so he's going to be “between jobs” around the time of our wedding, and now there's murmurings of, “Maybe we should look into one of those gorgeous new homes that they're building down the street.” Because that won't take much time or money. On top of THAT, The Funasaurus' sister is moving back to town and IS going to be buying a new home pretty soon, but in the meantime she and her boyfriend are moving into our spacious 1200 square foot house for a couple of months, and so, you know, that'll be... cozy.

I think I'm glad I never watched Big Brother.

And now I've got to get back to the job that usurped my higher education.

Who Could Ask for Anything Moooooooooore

Last night I went to take a dance class with my dad. Some time ago (when I was drunk, probably) I decided that it'd be cute if, for the father/daughter dance, we actually waltzed, instead of just swaying back and forth. Dad used to waltz with me standing on his feet in the front hall of our house where I grew up, and I have many fond memories of DUM da da DUM da da-ing across our horrid, orange shag carpet.

So we're recreating the moment, minus the carpeting. And minus me stepping on his feet... at least, intentionally. We both know the basic steps to waltz, what with my mom being an actual dancer and forcing my father to learn, and me having the unfortunate experience of a handful of ballroom classes in college before the teacher laughed my rhythmically-challenged ass right out of the studio. But we decided to take a lesson, just to refresh our memories, and practice dancing together before the Big Day.

The problem is that my father is 100% tone deaf. He does not really understand the concept of a beat. And I inherited the musically inept gene from him, so I am also 100% tone deaf, which horrifies my ballerina mother no end. Puting us together to find a beat is kind of like trying to get a quiet melody out of a herd of stampeding buffalo.

So mom tagged along to our lesson, I guess because she likes inflicting pain upon herself, and the teacher put some music on and asked my dad and I just to try it out, and as we started dancing I saw both her and my mother's jaw drop out of the side of my twirling head.

“It's fascinating...” I heard the teacher whisper. “They are doing the steps perfectly, a little stiff, but very coordinated, yet completely to a different rhythm than the music that's playing.”

Apparently we'd switch it up, sometimes ahead of the music, sometimes behind, my father and I, blissfully unaware. So for the next twenty minutes, we did not get to dance, but instead were made to on the floor with our eyes closed, being told to tap out the rhythm of the music with our hands. Thus bringing on the flood of memories of grade school music class. AKA my first comprehension of my own private hell.

The dancing part was much more fun. If we paired off, my dad with my mother and me with the instructor, we did just fine. I can follow a lead. But the second dad and I got back together, well, we smite the names Ginger Roger and Fred Astaire.



It's like the Muppets were a metaphor for my father/daughter dance.

Kingdom Gone Mad

How is it that this chick is fourth in line to the Norwegian crown and I am not?

My angels told me that you should just hand on over the Princess title to me.

Gypsy Wedding

I have been working more than I like, recently, so to let off a little steam, I met a girlfriend for drinks this evening. The bar we intended to go to, with the overpriced mojitos and overdressed playas, was closed so we ended up in this dive-y Italian place with big awnings and good salad, drinking cheap chardonnay.

I started off by complaining about how hard I have it, how the long hours, steady paychecks, and routine spreadsheets were numbing my soul, and my friend commiserated by going on about her job in a hotel, dealing with people who get irate over the toilet paper being hung in the correct direction day in and day out, and we drank many toasts to living in Scandinavia someday (she has a better chance, being Swedish and all, though I came in a close second with my Norwegian destiny) with fabulous health care and at least six weeks of vacation a year. And a progressive, healthy society.

What is wrong with the U.S.?

The heavens opened up and the rains poured, and it all felt very cozy and deep, once the chardonnay kicked in. No wonder, then, that I became riveted to a NPR interview on the way home, with the lead singer of a punk gypsy band, Gogol Bordello. The passion for music, the exotic history, the devil-may-care-about-any-moment-but-RIGHT-NOW attitude. How could I keep but a little crush from festering in my overworked, over-chardonnayed heart? The chaos of pending grad school, fourteen new bosses, and a wedding to plan collapsed as I savoured the deep Russian accent and images of handle bar mustaches. What could be more stable than a gypsy punk rocker Chernobyl survivor?

When his song, "American Wedding" came on, I lost it.

The lyrics start:
Dun a na na
BAHM BAHM BAHM
Have you ever been to American wedding?
Where is the vodka?
Where is marinated herring?

Indeed! Where IS the vodka and pickled herring? Not to mention the band and "stash" that can last for days! (As he goes on to ask, in the song.) I have been pondering this all evening.

American weddings can be so... lacking. Though perhaps this is my chance to bring a whole new element to my own wedding. Heh heh. And all my guests think they're getting steak.

From Mission Control back to My Kingdom

I can't believe I forgot to mention in yesterday's post- one of the best parts about my trip to Florida was getting to watch the shuttle launch. I didn't actually get to Kennedy Space Center (not enough time between mad dashes between printers and 5-star dinners) but I did head out to my balcony on the 15th floor around 6:30PM last Tuesday, and had one of those experiences that you know will be etched into your memory for many years to come. It looked like it does on T.V., only so much more real. It was this bright streak of neon orange pushing determinedly through the atmosphere against a graying sky. And knowing there were people strapped on board... well, it was more powerful than I'd given it credit for, in my over-spreadsheeted and amaretto soured mind.

Meanwhile, The Funasaurus had no idea there was even a shuttle launch happening when I talked to him later that night. I was horrified, but wasn't able to do anything about it right away. But when my flight was delayed for two hours on Friday, I naturally headed to the airport gift store, where I had my choice of Mickey Mouse/Dolphins/Space Shuttle trinkets to chose from, I immediately procured some freeze-dried ice cream for The Funasaurus, who has never had it before, which I considered to be a Damn Shame, because I loved that stuff as a kid. I think I may have single-handedly funded the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum for a summer, for all the freeze-dried ice cream that I bought from them. (Longest sentence EVER.)

It kind of tastes like syrupy cardboard. Mmm. I really don't know why the supermarkets don't stock it.

And now it's time to head back to ye ol' spreadsheets.

Princess Out.

Look Who Decided to Rejoin the Party

I'm back, finally. I apologize for the delay, but while I was at the conference, I was told not-so-subtly that They (the almighty IT gods, I assume?) are monitoring you! and I couldn't come up with a reasonable correlation between running spreadsheets and Blogger, so I decided not to risk it until I was back at an un-work-affiliated computer. Because I'm chicken like that.

But the long and short of it is: My own special hell shall consist of nothing more than running copious amounts of spreadsheets THATAREDUEIN5MINUTESOHMYGOD!

ANDALSO.THEPRINTER.ISOUTOFINK!

True, I was staying at the Ritz. But I worked my ass off, and would silently scream at the carefree squeals of delight coming from the heated, fleur-de-lis-shaped pool, as I ran unending amounts of spreadsheets day in and day out. I worked into the wee hours of the night (morning) running and printing thousands of copies of reports that people may or may not end up needing the next day.

Well, it wasn't actually all reports and spreadsheets.

The nights alternated between straining my eyes until they were practically bleeding, staring at minuscule cells in Excel, and going out to five star meals with my boss' boss' BOSS, (which would have been a helpful title to have known BEFORE I went head-to-head with him on Jamo shots and proceeded to tell him he was my new BFF, even if his tie was ugly. ... True story.)

In between all this, I somehow discovered that my roommate moonlights as a psychic, that I am incompetent when it comes to changing cartridges on color ink jet printers, especially when under extreme pressure, and that the jewelry store in the adjacent Marriott was having a 50% off sale. Hello, cute new pearl earrings!

And to top things off, on the way home, I sat next to Mulan on the airplane. Or, at least, one of the many Mulans who walk around Disney World in very warm costumes and makeup all day. She was more chatty than I remembered from the movie. We are now MySpace buddies. Naturally.

The Funasaurus picked my surly, two-hour delayed ass up from the airport, and gave me lots of kisses despite aforementioned surliness. Tatum acted extremely pleased to see me, though that may be due to the fact that I bribed him with a mouse, and Sugar went out of her way to ignore me, not disguising her extreme unhappiness with the fact that I up and left her for a week with the boys. (Though I did find her wrapped around my head in the middle of the night, like the world's fuzziest, most-pissed off headband ever.)

And now the weekend's already over, and I face into yet another week of spreadsheets.

Help me, Jeebus!

(Oh yeah, I saw the Simpsons movie this weekend, too. It started off strong and witty, but I thought the end was a bit hasty and unnecessarily saccharine. Please don't hate me, Matt Groening fans.)

The Life I was MEANT to Lead

Wednesday night, at 1:30 AM, I was sitting at my desk in tears. Partly because I was frustrated that I was still working at that ungodly hour, partly because my eyes were so dry that I could no longer see the tiny cells in Excel clearly. So I admitted defeat, and went to bed. On Thursday I received an e-mail saying, “When you arrive at the airport in Florida, look for a driver holding a sign with your name at the bottom of the escalator. He will get your bags, and bring you to the Ritz Carlton. … !

On Thursday I was only up until midnight, but that was because I had to get up at 5 to catch a plane. I didn’t bother applying makeup because, well, it was 5:00 AM, which is just a fancy way of saying Very Late on Wednesday Night, as far as I’m concerned.

I rather regretted the lack of makeup and the dingy t-shirt when I met Gils at the bottom of the escalator, in his fancy suit, as he whisked me and my holey suitcase off to a Mr. Big car.

I arrived at the Ritz, and barely had time to drop off my bags before I had to start working, again. Fortunately, I was greeted with hugs and a fresh fruit platter, rather than the verbal lashing I was expecting, for not having finished the reports that I had been working on the previous nights.

We began drinking around 4, although we didn’t finish working until after 10. I was sent to my room with another hug, and direct orders to order whatever I wanted from room service for the rest of my stay, including alcohol.

As I sit here, well into my third amaretto sour, I feel not-as-guilty as I did for not having finished those reports. As a matter of fact, fuck the reports! I am drunk, and getting a massage tomorrow! I was taken to a dinner tonight that cost more than I earn in two months. We had ice wine for dessert. Because we were too stuffed from the pâté and tuna tartar with mango to stuff in any unpronounceable French souflee-esque gold encrusted chocolate whatevers. This was the first restaurant I had ever been to where, when I asked for a glass of water, they brought out a Fiji bottle and poured it into the glass next to my iced wine, chardonnay, pinot noir, amaretto sour, and I’m not sure what else because HELLO! I have not stopped for water in 24 hours!

I think I have been working a lot. I am not sure. My memory is, oddly, fuzzy.

But the people are nice, the conversation is lively, (I’m sure it is, you raging alcoholic!) and the bed is diiiiivine. I wish there was a Funasaurus here to partake. I’m lonely, here, just me and amaretto, listening to the jazz station… in our overhead, marble shower, right next to the sumptuous robe and slippers. Oh yeah- and Harry Potter? I’m almost done. Meaning: I can almost start reading blogs, magazines, and newspapers, again. Life isn’t all bad.