Friday, April 27, 2007

Ghosts, Grammar, and Tic-Tacs

Wednesday I woke up with a raging sore throat. The Funasaurus was away on a business trip, and I spent the day moping around feeling very sorry for myself. I was supposed to meet a friend for a happy hour, but I was in no mood to go. (You know it's bad if wine does not sound appealing.) But since the gallons of tea and honey and extra strength Tylenol seemed to be doing no good, I forged ahead and got myself to the happy hour/wine tasting.

Where I had a great time. Riesling cures all. My friend J and I spent a while chatting about the superficial, “Oh how's work/job hunt”-type stuff, but as the pinot sunk in, the conversation veered towards scary movies. (Which neither of us like.) And then to the supernatural. (Which both of us kind of subscribe to. Even though I confessed I always moved the Ouija board thing-y. It never moved on its own. [In 7th grade the Ouija board told Karen that cute little Jason liked ME, not her . Ha ha. Although the joke was on me, seeing as how cute little Jason did not ever give either of us the time of day.]) We discussed ghosts and ghost sightings and what one should do should one see a ghost, or get trapped by a “presence.” And also, how we both secretly hoped telekinesis worked. Much like The Force. How nice would it be if someone asked you to please pass the salt at a dinner party, but your hands were full of getting a second helping of twice baked potatoes, and so you just willed the salt (and pepper! Emily Post would Frown Upon not passing them together) to float in their general direction, just with the power of your mind?

Fabulous. Also, you could pour wine for people, and then if you spilled, you could just blame it on your lack of extra sensory perception training. My bad, darling, just need a little more telekinesis practice!

Sufficiently plied with alcohol, I no longer felt the glass shards in my larynx. Just the sweet chill of something nether-worldy near my spine. (Either that, or the sweet Riesling, again.) But then I had to guzzle water to drive home, and whooo boy did the glass shards kick in with a vengeance, though the prickly hairs on the back of my neck did calm down, some.

I got home, and reverted to hot tea and honey. And tried not to panic every time the wind blew.

Around 11:00 p.m., one of our college buddies, Acorn, called to say he was in town for a couple of days. In fact, his plane had just landed. He was in town because he owns an apartment, here, which is currently just sitting vacant, and for whatever reason, the heating bill shot through the roof last month. Odd.

I overrode the stabbing pain in my throat to say, “Come over! I will feed you chocolate and provide you with blankets to use at your apartment!”Acorn obliged, and stopped by. We got to talking... more specifically, he talked. I muttered and nodded and gnawed on throat lozenges like they were candy. And then 11 became midnight, and the wind blew some more and I freaked out and tried to be all casual, “So, you should really just stay here, tonight. It's a long drive to your apartment. What if some hobos discovered it and are now living there, turning the heat up willy-nilly? You don't want to confront them at 1:00 in the morning, do you?”

Nary a care for the fact that it was late and I did not have the guest bedroom ready. Nor the fact that, erm, we actually used to date, and he was The Funasaurus' good friend, and that was quite the switcheroo I pulled several years later. Not to mention, The Funasaurus was so not there to give his stamp of approval.

But what if there were ghosts residing in our newly built track home with no basement or attic? What if our laundry room with large, eco-friendly washer and dryer and stanky litter box were appealing to a poltergeist? I needed company.

So Acorn spent the night, and I was able to mostly forget about any other-worldly visitors due to sandpaper in my nasal cavity.

The next day I decided I really ought to go see a doctor, before I spend the weekend socializing with people I'd rather not infect with hideous scratchy throat viruses. So I made an appointment, and went in all bleak and pathetic looking. The doctor took her sweet time getting to me, and then she stabbed me several times with that horrid throat culture swab (once for strand A of strep, once for all the other strands. Apparently you can test for strands B-Z in one swab. Strand A needs to get in on that action.)

Then she told me to keep drinking tea, and to take 3 Advil. So I asked, “Isn't the normal dosage two?” and she said, “That's more like trying to cure pain by taking Tic-Tacs. You need something stronger. Two pills won't do nothin'.”

Then I made a mental note to write to the dean of whatever damn medical school she went to to tell them that it is entirely inappropriate to give someone a doctorate before they have a decent command of basic English grammar.

But the Advil/Tic-Tacs are working. And The Funasaurus came home. And we had sushi for dinner last night with Acorn, so things are looking good for the weekend.


Wednesday, April 25, 2007

***Birthday Special***

Special shout out to Princess I'm-a-Gine.

Happy birthday, dearest! Love and miss you bunches.

Belated wishes to M, too. For whom I will have to come up with a better name than M. That's kind of lame, on my part. Safe travels, in any case!

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

If Only It Rained Chocolate

Colorado is currently undergoing a storm of biblical proportions. Colorado-ly speaking. This would be a typical mid-August rain shower in Delaware, but in Colorado, where rain has to fight to make it to the 12-minute mark before petering out, this now going on 30-hour stint is quite epic.

The downpour is constant, although the temperature is dinking around about 30 degrees, debating between rain and snow, going back and forth all day.

This, after our lovely 70 degree afternoons.

Naturally, The Funasaurus had a flight to catch this morning. I dithered and fretted (because I prefer antiquated verbs for my anxiety, it makes it seem more delicate, somehow, don't you think?) about de-icing and turbulence and whatnot, and indulged in a mid-day T.V. break, which I don't normally do. I was in the middle of a marathon show about weddings because, hi, I'm really addicted to all things wedding-y these days, and it's like without the hassle of clicking on all the links, when suddenly the phone rang, and it was The Funasaurus, all, “I've arrived on the east coast! I'm off to get dinner!” and I think, “That cannot be, it takes many hours for one to travel to the east coast,” and then I looked at the clock, and realized THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I DO NOT WATCH T.V. during the day because, goodbye! seven hours of my life that I will never get back.

Damn you, wedding programming.

Then my brother called and informed me of an atrocity within our government (shocker) and I absolutely implore you to visit this site immediately and write to your local congressman, or the FDA, or Ol' George or whomever, because we have sunken to new lows, as a society, considering letting faux chocolate pass for the real thing.

(Faux weapons of mass destruction reports, faux civil liberties, and faux health “care” aside.)

What a disturbing day, altogether. Fortunately, my electricity remains intact, unlike the rest of Denver, so I am able to spread the good chocolate word, and do my part.

But, should the electricity go out, do not fret, dear reader (SEE? Much more delicate) for I am well stocked in candles, pretzel rods, and vino. Phew.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Shabby Chic Bees

Sunday was Earth Day, and I made a very important decision. I was going to Do Something Earth-friendly-ish.

There are lots of choices, including changing regular lightbulbs to incandescents, planting trees, hanging the laundry out to dry instead of using the dryer, and turning off the T.V. But none of those really appealed to me as much as the idea of reducing our paper towel usage.

Paper towel usage reduction is appealing because it means converting to cloth napkins. Cloth napkins that you just use and then throw in the wash that you were going to do anyway, and then use them again. That is fabulous because, since we do not currently own any, it means:

I get to buy something pretty. For Me.

Oh, and also: the Earth.

As a material girl, I believe deeply in retail therapy. As an unemployed girl, I have been trying very hard to avoid any sort of retail outlet at all costs, because I do not posses the willpower to Not Buy Things. (See above: material girl.)

And I've been doing o.k. I've avoided clothes all together, and stayed away from bookstores. (Except for the gift certificate I got for my birthday. It was like a little piece of plastic heaven.) I only go to the gas station (where, what can I really splurge on? Super unleaded? No thanks.) and the grocery store. And even at the grocery store I've avoided the gourmet cheese and ice cream aisles. I poo-poo magazines, and play mind games with myself to bypass the cards. With varying degrees of success.

But once I decided that it would be good for the Earth to go to Target and buy some cute cloth napkins, I was a girl possessed. I was up at the crack of notreallydawnmorelike8:30, hustled my way over to Target, and found some fabulous shabby chic cotton napkins. (Which I couldn't find a link for, but here are some cute, pink, flowery ones!) And it was quite the rush for $1.99 a piece. That's much better than my average sundress!

On a sadder, Earthly-conscious note, have you all heard about the bees and cell phones? Apparently some scientist somewhere says that the reason the bee populations are dwindling rapidly (and this is important because bees are a good barometer of the overall environmental well-being, according to NPR, which, yes, I listen to, mostly for Car Talk, but also for commercial breaks between hip-hop songs on KS 107.5 [and I don't care that I'm whiter than a dead fish, I can still appreciate some milkshakes being brought to the yard, by gosh!]) is because cell phones muck with their internal navigation system. Or something.

In any case, the more you talk on your cell phone, the more bees you kill.

And I have an unusual fondness for bees. For the most part, I dislike bugs. I do not care for them in my house, I care for them even less than I care for a mouse. I do not want them near or far, I especially freak when they're in my car.

I am done being Dr. Seuss on crack, now.

So anyway, I like bees. I toy with the idea of urban beekeeping, sometimes. And so, after hearing that it MIGHT hurt a bee somewhere for me to open my adorable little pink phone, I've been in quite a conundrum. I love chatting... but think of the bees! So I've been avoiding my phone all day, and keeping conversations to a minimum. I think my friends think I'm mad at them. I'm not! Hey, you! The one friend of mine who reads this! See! I'm not mad! I'm just thinking of the bees.

Think of the bees, man.

And buy some cute napkins. Do your part. Otherwise, you can also invest in a cute grocery bag. A reusable one. That saves on plastic bag production. And also lets you carry salad-in-a-bag and vitamins home in style.

Peace, love, and shop, yo'.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Everything Pink and Wedding-y

Shooting Star and I have not gotten together in far too long. This is evident in the fact that our e-mails become less conversational, and more novel-esque because typing is a poor substitute for verbal conversation when the two conversees also happen to be two brides-to-be who desperately need to discuss the very important matters of scalloped flatware over brushed nickel.

Fortunately, we were able to get together last night, and naturally headed for more Barbie pink frosting (with bits of real strawberries!) cake and chardonnay. You must go. Seriously. If you come to Colorado, skip the mountains. You can see them from pretty much anywhere. Just head here for cake.

So anyway, we get in the car, and with the mandatory, “So hi, how are you?” bits out of the way, we launch into the pressing issue of burgundy versus cranberry colored calla lilies. And to veil, or not to veil? And invites at 11 or 12 weeks?

We are driving along, our voices getting giddier and giddier with thoughts of registries dancing through our heads, when suddenly Shooting Star goes, “Erm. I do believe we were supposed to turn a while back.”

Me: Huh. Yeah. Actually, I have no idea where we're going, since you drove last time. I figured I'd just ask you, but I totally forgot when we began discussing the pros and cons of a stereotypical florist.

SS: So. Ah, maybe we should turn at the next road?

Me: O.K.

SS: Or, wait, go a little further, it looks more main.

Me: Good point.

SS: Or maybe the next one is Hampden?

Me: Derrrr

SS: Go one more, yes, see, this is Hampden!!

Me: Despite the street sign that says, “HAMPDEN” I really don't think this is Hampden, Hampden. I think it is too small. Perhaps the next street will be the real Hampden.

SS: But.... oh. We're really driving past the one labeled, “Hampden” in search of another Hampden?

Me: Sure. They do this all the time.

Next street: So not Hampden. Or big.

Me: Maybe it's further up?

SS: Maybe we should just turn, anyway.

Me: O.K., Turning onto Jefferson.

Jefferson: Nice enough. Not as big as the real Hampden is, though.

Jefferson: Getting nicer. Magically becomes Hampden, somehow.

Despite making decisions leading us anywhere BUT where we were going, somehow the universe was in a good mood, and put me on the right street, anyway. That does not just happen every day.

I knew we were in for a good evening.

That thought was confirmed when, as we sat down, SS gave me a little birthday gift which included gourmet sprinkles, cupcake mix, pink frosting, and MY OWN PERSONAL CUPCAKE CARRIER.


I shall never carry a briefcase, again. (Come to think of it, I never did.) But this shall be my one and only tote from now on, for it is fabulous.

We ordered a small shrimp salad to share between the two of us, and, after eating a few pieces of lettuce, we felt sufficiently nutritious, sent the rest back, and ordered our own enormous slabs of ooey gooey pink cake.

While getting high off of strawberry-flavored sugar, we seriously discussed hotel reservations and ceremony ceremony music, we got philosophical about bridesmaids, and we got downright angry at the people who don't bother to R.S.V.P. (despite the facts that 1. both of us confessed to having been that person in the past and 2. neither of us actually has yet to RECEIVE an R.S.V.P.) But whatever. It was preemptive indignation.

It was a good night. But now I am all the more resolved to get a job stat, because, as SS sagely reminded me, there is pretty, overpriced lingerie to be bought very soon. Heh heh.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Doomsday Strawberry

It was a cold and dreary night. In Denver. On Sunday.

Fortunately, we barely noticed, for it was still the weekend, we had gotten home from the movies hours ago, and had come home to rent yet another movie on OnDemand. We did a lot of sitting, this weekend. But I feel like my cultural repertoire, at least, film-istcally speaking, was significantly enhanced.

(side note: Casino Royale did not really live up to its expectations. Decent action flick, but not worth the hype. Even for his “perfectly sculpted ass.” [which, I admit, WAS. But it did not make the movie.])

So at some point The Funasaurus announces he is going to get some cereal. If you remember, this is much like him announcing that he is going to breathe. So I barely noticed. Then he mentioned something about Rice Krispies, which made me prick my ears up. Fortunately, (for me, not so fortunate for him) the only ones we had in the house were the ones I blathered on and on about a while ago, the newest bit of dear-god-it's-too-good-to-be-Earthly sensation for my mouth, the ones that have dried strawberries in them. Yum and also MINE. And not an issue, seeing as how The Funasaurus does not like strawberries, I do not need to protect them.

Then The Funasaurus announces he will have some of my cereal, and meticulously pick the bits of strawberries out, thus creating plain Rice Krispies. He has done this before and I do not mind, for it ups my strawberries-to-regular-pieces-of-cereal quotient in the remaining cereal. I think I responded with a, “mmmhhh,” or something equally articulate.

I was rather involved with my book, Confessions of a Shopaholic, which, despite the promising title, is not good. It is chick lit at its worst, redonkulously predictable, with all “allusion” handed to you on a silver platter literally almost saying, “Hey, did you get the metaphor? See? See how she said, 'her mother's spending is out of control' when actually it's HER spending that's out of control? [you fucking idiot.]”

Meanwhile. Back to the dramatic scene in the princess and Funasaurus household. Where drama was about to ensue. Because it was a dark and dreary night, if you remember. That means something bad is foreboding. (I am trying out my chick lit writing technique. So far, so good, albeit the whole “dark and dreary thing” may be a little more Hemingway foretell-y than chick lit, but whatever get back to the story, already.)

So The Funasaurus spends a considerable amount of time in the kitchen, hovering over a bowl of cereal, and came back to the couch with his bland masterpiece, happily snap! crackle! and popping! away.

It looked good, so I said, “I think I'll have some, too.”

The Funasaurus looked up over his heaping, dripping spoonful with his ridiculously adorable big brown eyes. “Oh, baby....”

“Did you finish all the cereal???” I asked.


“No matter, I shall just have the strawberries,” I say, envisioning the pure bliss that is about to ensue. Can you imagine? Pure! Unadulterated! Strawberries! (I KNOW you can buy plain strawberries in the store. But these are special, dried ones that are rehydrated in milk. It's something so beyond fabulous.) It's like being a kid and having someone save you all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box, without any dumb ol' cereal to mess with the sugary goodness, the whole reason you bought the damn box.

“Baby. I threw them away.”

I pause. “No matter, I'll just fish the box out of the trash, because I'm classy like that. I'm sure it's on top, right?”


Big, wide-eyed stare.

“Baby, you threw the strawberries away in the box, right?”

He shook his head.

“You just poured... the strawberries... in the trash can?”

He nods.

Oh HELL-to the nah-oh you di-und!

I am so horrified I do not know what to do. I mutter something about going to the store tomorrow and go back to my book.

The man I am about to marry apparently does not know me. At all. He does not know how deep my love of all things fraise and fabulous goes. He threw strawberries away. He did not think that perhaps I would want to save them, to eat them, to love them more than pretty much anything except him.

I am about to marry a stranger. A stranger who hates strawberries.

How did this happen?

Then I realize I am not really hungry, anyway. And we are talking about some processed, dehydrated cereal fruit, here. But I was in the middle of a good sulk, so I kept it up.

We go upstairs to bed, and I dramatically go do my bathroom routine with the door closed, instead of wandering around, dripping toothpaste on my beloved, as I usually do. Then I crawl into bed with a big sigh. And realize, it's colder than usual. But I do not seek out body heat, nay, I am too proud, and too hung up on my damn missing cardboard strawberries.

Then I feel the heat before there is actual contact. Big, Funasaurus HOT feet wrap around my rather frozen-y feet, slowly bringing sensation back to them. And I remember that although he is not a strawberry lover, he is a fabulous personal heater. And he agrees with me that Casino Royale did not live up to its expectations. And that Tatum is evil. And that we should keep the house at 70 degrees. And that it might be fun to have a goat herd, someday. And that chocolate cake should never have fruit filling, for as good as fruit is, chocolate is best at its purest. And so it maybe it is quite obvious that I really should marry him. Who else is going to voluntarily heat up sulky frozen princess feet?

But I did get him a king-sized box of plain Rice Krispies, to keep in the pantry, just in case.

Friday, April 13, 2007

I Spent the Night at Tinkerbell's House

Sorry I've been away for a couple of days. I raced up to Summit County on Wednesday, desperate to beat the storm of the century. No snow, luckily, so I got to spend the day with M, preparing for a workshop she was hosting that night.

We got lunch, and then went to the supermarket for the makings for fondue, and began driving up a mountain, eventually turning off any semblance of a real road to began trekking up what could have only been a very deep luge track in M's very large 4 wheel drive truck.

We arrived at Tinkerbell's mountain getaway. I would call it a chalet, but I don't think you can call it a “chalet” when my entire house would fit in their kitchen. It's kind of funny, because Tinkerbell is, like, itty-bitty, you know? All blond and petite and whatnot? But as it turns out, Tinkerbell not only has a huge mountain home, but also huge log furniture, upon which I believe you could easily sit three to four Tinkerbells. She also has huge boobs and a southern drawl.

As people started to trickle in and the wine and cheese began to flow, M got geared up, and began reading from the script for the show that she is writing. It was hilarious and touching all at the same time. Anybody planning on being in Colorado in the beginning of June should definitely head up to Breckenridge for the Crazy Bags show. The girl has done and experienced more in the last 20 years than most of us would in many lifetimes. And yet somehow she manages to make the extremes deeply relate-able.

Meanwhile I was pounding the Mike's Hard Lemonade, and eying the princess cake all evening. M asked for honest, anonymous reviews of her show so far, and we dove into the “moistest cake ever!” (as promised the label) as we began filling out our questionnaires. We turned them in, guests began to leave, and M, Tinkerbell, and I began determining who had written which anonymous critique. There was lots of love and “don't change even an apostrophe!”-type comments from sweet, kindly M-cheerleader who would desperately love to adopt M as her daughter; there was the surly, “Your tales of sex, drugs, rock and roll, childbirth, and Plymouth Acclaims are rather self-centered” from the grumpy lady who apparently thinks that somehow a show about your life will somehow not be self-centered; and the rest of the comments fell somewhere in between.

Tequila was passed, the clock struck 1:00a.m., I began to get woozy from exhaustion, and M reminded me that we would need to get up at 5:00 the next (well, the same) morning to get her to work in time. At which point I think I squeaked, and Tinkerbell, with her darling drawl and more energy than a six-year-old at a theme park goes, “Oh, don't you even think about getting up! You just sleep right on in, and I'll give you a ride whenever you wake up.”

Well, if you insist.

M and I wandered downstairs into one of many guest rooms, and began to get ready for bed as Tinkerbell came back down with more towels, more pillows, cups with ice, and fresh water bottles for each of us. One on each side, seeing as how the king bed was too wide to reach across.

As we curled up under what I'm sure were 792-count thread sheets, Tinkerbell adjusted the lights, the fireplace, the thermostat, and the extra blankets. M and I were completely drained, but we heard Tinkerbell go back upstairs, and continue to putter around. We were sure we had cleaned most of the kitchen, so the only conclusion we could draw was that she was constructing a full-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower from the leftover bamboo skewers we had bought for the fondue, and gherkins.

Apparently M did get up at 5:00 a..m., because she was gone when I rolled over a couple of hours later. But I did not hear her go. I spent the morning leafing through Tinkerbell's InStyle magazines, and chatting with her about life, real estate, and fluorescent pink, heart-shaped boudoir chairs.

Then I came home, again racing what was sure to be the STORM OF THE CENTURY and met The Funasaurus for dinner. There were some flurries in the air, and the weather station was predicting 100% chance of snow, with accumulations of up to 17 inches overnight. We slept, cursing ourselves for our extreme reluctance to buy a snow shovel, and wondered if perhaps The Funasaurus' work would give him a snow day.

We woke up to... wet pavement.

No snow. A little rain had fallen, the alleyway was damp, but pretty much things looked the same as they had all week. Which is to say, brown, and green and mostly dry.

It was almost a letdown, after all of that buildup. But at least now we should be able to procrastinate buying a snow shovel until next season!

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Pump. Kitty. Up.

For those of you who have been dying with curiosity... Here's what kitty looked like after 72 hours of swelling.

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I don't agree that she's 600% bigger than she was. But she does kinda look like she's been hitting the 'roids. And see what I mean about the tumor growth?

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picture: top of head

(And, if you forgot, here is the “before” picture. Also with mustard jar for reference.)

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That was an exercise culminating in a big Eh.

But now I'm off to lunch, and to drive around in yet another windy, blustery day in Colorado. I hear we're in for more snow. Could you make that to go, with a side of No Thanks?

Monday, April 09, 2007

A Rather Decadent Life

This weekend the weather went from being all nice and balmy to crap-tastic and snowy. Not being one to let a few flurries get in my way, I went down to get my hair cut, and while I was at it, some highlights. I asked my stylist to switch it up a bit, I needed something to brighten my mood. Why not purple?

My hair now reminds me a bit of a color best suited for a... erm.... French strumpet, shall we say?

Mom decided not to comment, when we went out for our annual Easter brunch. I am loving it, though, trying my best to channel my Euro Floozie side.

(So far, gorging myself on cheese and bread seems to have done the trick.)

My girlfriend M and I were going to go to an Easter service bright and early (and when I say “bright and early” I mean, “really fucking early and not bright at all, because the sun doesn't come up until at least 6:00 and we were planning on getting there at FOUR O'CLOCK A.M.”) at Red Rocks, which would have been a gorgeous setting, had we been able to keep our eyes open long enough to see it. On Saturday M called me, all, “Oh, Cat. I'm SO sorry, but the service was canceled, due to the weather.”

“Gee, that's too bad,” I said, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the snow gods. So I got to sleep in until about 7:00 on Sunday, instead, and then The Funasaurus and I picked up his mom and sister, and we drove up to the mountains for brunch in a blizzard.

We met my parents, who had the brilliant foresight to order us a bottle of champagne, so we warmed up quickly and had a nice time stuffing ourselves silly.

We waddled out to the car and drove home, and spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch digesting and talking about how we really must do this more often! And also: we never want to eat again... but oh by the way, what do you guys want to do for dinner?

Now it's back to the work week... and the on-going hunt for the perfect temp job. Somewhere out there, (preferably within five miles of my neighborhood) there has to be someone who wants to pay me $20/hour to sip champagne and discuss bad chick lit, right?

Friday, April 06, 2007

Film Me Being Lazy

Today is an overcast, rain-y-ish day in Colorado. We have, like, two of those a year. I kind of like the coziness of a rainy day, except for the fact that it turns me in to a slug.

I woke up with The Funasaurus, saw him off to work, and since then have done... nothing. I have a “to-do” list, but it doesn't look very fun. There is a yoga class I could go to at noon, and part of me wants to go, and part of me really doesn't. Part of me is thinking about the warm, heated studio, and part of me is thinking about my warm, comfy bed. Part of me is thinking about looking less flabby for the wedding, and part of me is thinking about the fact that we need to re-stock our Cadbury mini egg supply quickly, because Easter is almost upon us.

Yoga would require moving, and today is really lending itself to a stay-in-pajamas-and-maybe-make-some-extra-chocolate-y-hot-chocolate-type mentality.

Plus. I have some playing to do. Because I am a spoiled, spoiled princess, mom and dad took us out to a yummy sushi dinner last night, and gave me my birthday present a little early. (I fully endorse the idea of the Birthday Week. Draw out the fun a little, by gosh.) The Very One I've Been Coveting. But have not been able to purchase on my own, due to the current employment status issue. That being the severe lack of said employment. So yes. Watch out, world. I'm coming to film you in a make-you-nauseas-à-la-Blair-Witch-Project type way! So me and my pajamas are kind of also interested in skipping yoga to film our toes and occasionally bits of the cats when I manage to find them in the viewfinder.

I filmed The Funasaurus watching T.V. last night, and I thought it was all cute and romantic, getting a nice close-up of his yummy big brown eyes. And then he turned to me (whoa, need to learn how to zoom out, faster!) and goes, “Baby, you know who you remind me of?”

I waited for: “Spielberg.”

I got: “That creepy guy from American Beauty. Put that thing down.”

Oh yeah? Well. Now your zit got it's own close-up, Mr. Funasaurus. Take that.

And I wonder why I didn't get kisses.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

The Princess Needs More Drugs

This week has been sloooooooow compared to last week. Despite all the leisure time and sleeping in, both The Funasaurus and I woke up feeling not quite right on Tuesday. The Funasaurus went to work, and I went back to sleep for another hour. The Funasaurus ended up coming home mid-afternoon, and working the rest of the evening from the comfort of our office, and large helpings of Airborne that I pushed on him.

I had just spoken with M (whose show is really coming together!) who warned me about a certain flu strain/Death Virus that was circling Summit County. The first day you feel a general sense of ooki-ness, (ooooh, check! We were definitely feeling ooky!) and the next day you wake up sicker than you have ever been in your whole life. And then you stay that way for about eight days. Give or take four, depending on if you've taken lots of Airborne and Echinacea, and any other hippy drug that you can get your hands on.

Sufficiently freaked out, because I am not a fan of being devastatingly sick for a week, I started pushing it on The Funasaurus and myself all evening. I even stopped dissolving the Airborne in water and just started chewing on the tablets ever half hour, because I am hard core like that.

(Well, no, not really. But I used less and less water.)

Wednesday we woke up, not deathly ill, but still ooky. So we continued the marathon consumption of hippy drugs, even taking a break to go to the store to get some more (and some more Cadbury mini eggs while we were at it) and spent most of the day rotating between the sofa, and the kitchen counter, where the grow-a-kitty from the previous post continues to grow tumors out of the top of her head. Fascinating.

Well, that's what I did, anyway. The Funasaurus had to work, so he spent most of the day feeling ooky in the office, and writing Important Things Like E-mails.

Um. And that's about it. We're not so exciting these days. Although today should be more interesting. I am off to school for my Graduate Experience Day. I get to experience life as a graduate student for four hours. And apparently the life of a graduate student involves breakfast with the dean, a campus tour (that could get old, after about a week) and a lunch with my fellow students. And then I'm free for the whole afternoon. Being a graduate student sounds like a good gig!

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Sugar Is the New Chardonnay

(And when I say, "Sugar" I mean "the yummy stuff" not "the emo cat who is currently having a conversation with herself in the corner.")

This weekend I discovered the most lovely little place. ...And when I say, “I discovered” I mean, “my friend K drove and led me to.”

It is a glorious, old-fashioned candy store on Pearl St. in Boulder, and we must have stayed in there for at least an hour. There was music playing- all sorts of songs containing the words “candy” and “sugar” and Willy Wonky (the original, and dare I say, better, version) was playing on repeat in the back, amidst tubs of taffy. There was ice cream and licorice, yes, but there were also all sorts of old fashioned candy that I haven't seen in ages. Such as caramel creams and Neapolitan coconut thingies. There were kids in the candy store, but I feel a more dramatic phrase might be, “adults remembering their childhood in the candy store.” Because holy cow, those kids did not stand a chance between the adults re-living the joys of candy cigarettes and candy buttons, via shoving and trampling of anything that got in their way.

There was even an oversized Kermit the Frog pez dispenser, which I loved very much, but was unable to purchase per my maxed-out credit card. (Note to self: must find job, if for no other reason than direct depositing new wages into newfound candy store.) However, I was able to afford Candy from Strangers (a small box of mints labeled just-so) with the leftover change in my wallet.


Also, a grow-a-kitty. I mean, how could I not? It's pink. And a kitty. And looks like this.

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(Yes, that is a grow-a-monkey next to it, which I obviously had to get for The Funasaurus.)

We opened them, excitedly, to begin the growing process last night. They are supposed to grow 600%! That should be huge! However, they currently have not grown larger so much as grown TUMORS because they are still sitting in their bowls of water, kind of... bubbling.

Kitty isn't pretty, these days.

I then went to happy hour with a girlfriend, The Bee (a name that is only funny to ME, but, ha ha, that rhymed!) last night, who just got back from a trip to Israel where they make fantastic chocolate. Chocolate that explodes in your mouth. Seriously. It has pop rocks in it.

She showed me some pictures. They were beautiful. She had some religious revelations there. I nodded through her story, still consumed with the revelations going on in my mouth. All I have to say is, WOW.

So beyond my regular daily diet of a super-sized bag of Cadbury mini eggs, I have been having quite a bit of sugar, recently. And now my heart is kind of doing funny things. But it sure has been tasty. I am glad for Israeli chocolate and the candy store, it will make the end of the Easter season more bearable.