Wednesday, January 28, 2009

My Husband Tolerates This Only Because He Knows I Know He Loves American Idol

Today, instead of exercising, I went out for a sushi lunch. Then I had a cheesesteak for dinner. Then, because we were out of our typical cach├ęs of refined sugar, The Funasaurus and I dropped everything and went to the grocery store at 9:00 to buy cookie mix. One stick of butter and one egg and one oven preheated to 350 degrees later, we had a heaping pile of gooey chocolate chip cookies.

And I blame winter for my current state of icky-feeling.

I am impressed with the number of people who’ve commented on the Twilight series, both in and out of my comments section. Diane, you’re totally in the minority. Everyone else who hasn’t read it, I suggest you bury your inner feminist and literary critic deep, deep in some flannel pajamas and channel your inner angsty teenage girl and just enjoy the story. That’s why we read fiction, right? For the delicious feeling of imperfection perfected? Blood-sucking angel-of-the-night aside, the romance is impossible. It would be creepy and possessive and shallow in real life, but enveloped in an over-romanticized small town in the thicket of the Pacific Northwest rainforest in 14 point font, it’s just lovely. Think of it as bon-bons for your brain. There is no substance to it, and you might feel ridiculous for ingesting it, but dear God it feels so good going down.

Um. That’s it. Mostly it’s cookies and young adult fiction and body image issues around here these days. Pretty much I’m back in high school without the PE uniform. At least that’s something.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Monday Night Is a Dark, Dark Time

1) I did. I’m not even sorry. I read Twilight this weekend. It was awesome. I squashed any feminist inklings I had deep into my pink slippers and singed them shut with chamomile tea and have ever since been fantasizing about unhealthy, passionate attachments to very pale and strong Funasauri with sharp teeth.

2) Sugar has been uncharacteristically playful and talk-y today. And I realized that sometimes I like it a lot when she is a little more feisty and less-lounge-y princess-y. I like it when she does something with her life, when she doesn’t let these four very small walls bear down on her and turn her into a slug and instead reaches out and creates action of her very own, turning her slightly crazy-eyed and purr-y.

I would like to be crazy-eyed and purr-y.

I became obsessed with the idea, and finally, after much grumping about work, I decided to put a plan into action. I would do something. I was off on an adventure. I managed to take about four steps outside this evening before The Universe was like, “You don’t want an adventure, you big pansy,” and I was unable to breathe because it was, like, four whole fucking degrees outside and this princess got chilly. The tea is being re-heated as I type.

I told myself I would wait until next weekend to read New Moon, but this is already turning out to be an extraordinarily long week. I may not make it.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Geriatric-like Hope

I went skiing with my parents this weekend. Skiing with your parents has multiple benefits. Hot chocolate, and often lunch, are free. Your ego is stroked. My, your technique looks lovely, dear. After nearly 30 years, that shit doesn’t get old. You’re not so tired at the end of the day because really, you took a couple of easy slopes at a mellow pace with a couple of 60-somethings and then called it a day around noon because their knees were hurting.

Except for the fact that I am so out of shape that I was actually very tired. And my knees hurt for the first time. When did I get so old?

I found out a friend’s sister qualified for the Boston marathon today. I qualified for discounted rates on car insurance, I think.

On a different topic, I was surprised at the interest generated from the internets in seeing my debut as an unkempt grocery store rep, so I promise that if I ever manage to find said video, I will be sure to post it for your viewing pleasure. Don’t hold your breath. I am not sure King Soopers posts much to YouTube.

Also and P.S. Congratulations Mr. Obama. I’m very happy for you. And very glad I got to watch the inauguration from the warmth of my house (well, to be technical, my neighbor’s house, seeing as how my frickin’ cable [hate you so much, Comcast] went out at a particular key moment) and was not standing outside in the blistering cold trying to catch a glimpse of a Jumbotron somewhere. Though I probably would have tried to if I lived anywhere near D.C.

Monday, January 19, 2009

I Could Have Showered

The other day I realized that I had not been to the grocery store in about two weeks, and was kind of over the whole living off of tuna fish and stale tortillas-thing. So I decided to take a quick break from work and make a dash for, at the very least, some cereal. I actually contemplated throwing on some makeup, but figured there was likely no one worth a few strokes of mascara at King Soopers at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday.

(Fore*shadow*ing. See definition of:)

I made my way through the aisles pretty quickly, and was gazing at an end display of paper towels when I noticed a woman who had bothered to make the effort to appear decent before she went out that day, sort of standing behind me, pointedly. I tried to subtly squeeze my cart over, giving her room to pass. She did not pass. I glanced over my shoulder and immediately made eye contact with her. Probably because she was staring at me.

“How are you today?” she asked through a perfectly lipsticked mouth.

“Fine, how about you?” I mean, what else do you say to that, even if it is odd that a woman in heels in a grocery store, lacking a grocery cart, is making idle conversation with you in front of the paper towels?

“Good! We’re filming a commercial,” she replied cheerily, nodding at a large camera, professional lighting, and multiple artistic-y people dressed in black scurrying around near the vitamins right in front of me, which I had somehow missed up until that point. Apparently, paper towels can be quite riveting.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I’ll get out of your way!” I made a mad dash into the closest aisle, horrified that I had just parked my grocery cart, complete with new mop handle, in the middle of a King Soopers commercial.

The lady with perfect lipstick followed me in her high heels saying, “Actually, I want you to be in it.”

The attention whore in me had about half a second of joy at finally being “discovered” before my brain kicked in and was like, “Dude, NO makeup. Also, perhaps, maybe you could have brushed your hair this morning?”

“Oh, that’s o.k.,” I told her, walking away quickly. There is no way I would let anyone take my picture looking that crappy. I also am not fond of how I tend to look on video, ever. It’s never quite what I see in my mind’s eye.

“I’ll give you a $25 gift card,” the woman said.

I turned around and wheeled my cart up to the camera, ready for my close-up. As they lectured me on what to say “We’re looking for more than yes/no answers, here,” I took a cue from Scarlett O’Hara and pinched my cheeks and bit my lip to try and bring a little color to my winterized, ashen face.

With the cameras rolling, they asked me what I liked about King Soopers. I froze. It was not, really, a shocking question. What did I think they were going to ask in a commercial about King Soopers? But my mind went blank. I stared blankly, proving that one does not need to have much more than an IQ of 4 to be a shopper at said grocery store. “uh.” “erm.” I glanced at my cart. The mop handle did nothing for me. The organic peanut butter, on the other hand….

“Organic!” I peeped. The cameraman, the interviewer, the lady who had recruited me, and everyone else who was watching all looked at each other like, “Wow, that totally does not make any sense. At all. Way to pick ‘em, lipstick lady.”

“Organic stuff. King Soopers has a nice selection of organic…(produce? Meat? Seafood? Yogurt? Cereal?) stuff.” Was all I could think of to repeat. “Also, it’s close to my house. I’d really just shop at any place that’s close to my house.”

Apparently, that was not the answer they were looking for. They kept prying, so I went back to my first phrase and just repeated “organic stuff” a couple more times. Look at me go! I am so organic! I’m practically a hippie, as far as they are concerned. Too bad I forgot my canvas totes and would be taking my wholesome pesticide-free-range food home in plastic bags.

“How about in these economic times? Have you had to make any changes to your spending habits? Has King Soopers been able to accommodate those?” asked the interviewer guy, gently leading the moron to the type of answers he was expecting.

“Oh. Uh. Yes. Also, your prices are good. Um. So, like, when I lost my job (ed. note: this was almost two years ago and had nothing to do with the current economic crisis, but I decided not to bore them with those details) we had to cut back and I was able to find cheaper alternatives in the store. The generic stuff is just as good. Also I like your organic stuff.”

I watched the interviewer guy try not to roll his eyes.

“Also, you’re cheaper than Safeway,” I threw out, in a horrifyingly desperate attempt to appease lipstick lady so that she would still give me my gift card.

It was brutal, but they did finally give me my gift card. Then they took my picture. I bit my lip one more time to try and bring some color in, and I think I managed to make it bleed. That should be a fantastic photo for their campaign.

Look for a bleeding princess on your local television, eschewing normal grooming habits for going out in public, or listen for her on your local radio station, promoting the proximity of King Soopers to her house and stuff.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Do Your Thang

So I may not write much anymore, and I don't have much to show for my time. Mostly I've been sleeping. Sleeping insane amounts of hours. I am pretty sure I'm turning into a koala. Sleep, and also, the Cupid Shuffle.

I've become obsessed with this weak, modern version of the Electric Slide! I got the song in my head out of NOWHERE, and it won't go away. I downloaded it to my iPod, I've Cupid Shuffled across my (oops) work papers in my bitty office, I've been singing Down down do your thang to The Funasaurus as he wakes up in the morning; nothing is helping.

Though I have found a tutorial by Cupid himself, wherein he teaches his latest dance craze to you via hand-held recorder in what appears to be a Burger King, focusing on his upper torso and not so much his feet. I get it, Cupid: left, right, kick. I am rhythmically challenged, not fucking stupid.

Sometimes I wonder if I am, perhaps, understimulated on a day-to-day basis.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

Bringing It On Home

The plague has descended upon my conference, and while many of my colleagues rally through, partying until the wee hours of the morning, supplemented by heavy doses of Sudafed and Dayquil, I and my weaker counterparts resist the peer pressure and are turning in around midnight to be able to drag ourselves, and what's left of our immune systems, out of bed in time for breakfast at 7:00 in the morning.

Happily, I get to go home tomorrow. Unhappily, I have to strategically drug my sinuses into submission in time so that my head doesn’t explode on the plane.

Tonight there’s a formal cocktail hour, sit-down dinner for 1,000 of my nearest and dearest coworkers, and a dance. I am hoping to make it through dinner. I am also taking a cue from grandmothers everywhere and donning sneakers to walk over to the other hotel, whilst dressed in my cocktail dress. Klassy. My sense of balance is just swimming in too much snot to attempt anything more than standing (preferably while leaning on something) in heels.

Hi, I’m now old and crotchety. Nice to meet you. I’ll write again when I’m feeling less whine-y.

Have a magical, snot-free day until then.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

I Think I Can

Internets, I have some news. I am going to have a new job! Same company, new title, new division. It’s a promotion in that I’ll finally be doing what I want to be doing. There is no financial promotion, though. At least I’m finally back on a career track, of sorts. I am super duper excited, and while I have known about this pending possibility for months, I wasn’t sure the economy gods wouldn’t jinx me if I announced it too early. But I start on Monday, and it looks like things are underway. Yay!

So last night I ditched my current boss for dinner (technically, he didn’t invite me, but I assume he would have had I made poor-pitiful-dinner-less sounds around him, as I am apt to do at these things) in favor of going to dinner with my new boss who issued an invitation with exactly NO prompting from me! I feel good about this, already. My new group is full of smart, sassy women, and I am totally intimidated and totally in love. I kind of feel like I’m in a new relationship with a cool, older person who hasn’t realized just how dorky and awkward I can be. I’m trying very, very hard not to make an ass of myself. It didn’t help when I started the evening off by calling the VP the wrong name. Also, when I proclaimed loudly that I LOVED maracas as we heard a rattling sound in the middle of dinner at a Cuban restaurant. And then a busboy walked behind me lugging a crateful of clanking glasses. Please don’t dump me.

My throat is still sore, but the sun is shining and I got at least six hours of sleep last night, in between the resort finally deciding to take down the Christmas decorations and vacuuming the hallways around 12:30 last night, so all’s not lost. So far, 2009 is off to a pretty good, if sleepy, start.

Sunday, January 04, 2009

It's a Small, Drunken World After All

New Year’s Eve went well. We hosted our traditional party and I got trashed, just like I said I wouldn’t do, then I woke up and flew to Florida for work. On the way there, I tried sleeping on my tray table on the plane. Unfortunately, the lady in front of me also tried sleeping, except she did it the normal way, by putting her seat back. Her seat back collided with my sleeping head. Her seat back won. (I'm not even sure it knew there was a battle.) If my head had not been aching before, it certainly was after said collision. I have a lump.

My coworkers were completely unsympathetic to me and my lump, having drunk more and slept less, so they greeted me with a yummy cocktail including a floating, glowing ice cube. They are much more hard-core than I am. And I do not turn down floating glowing ice cubes. After working, we drank our way through EPCOT, (managed to find and pound alcoholic beverages in five countries before they closed the park) and then continued on to a dueling piano bar where we drank drinks of unnatural colors.

Then yesterday we worked and managed to squeeze in a trip to Magic Kingdom. Odd, after a week of drinking too much I started feeling a little ill. But that did not deter me from getting on Splash Mountain. In January. At night. Wearing a t-shirt. As a kid, I disliked roller coasters. I was scared of them, and refused to even try. Last night, I looked at them and was like, “Could be fun.” I was unaffected. And so I went on roller coasters for the first time in my life. I had a blast. Space Mountain may be the coolest thing ever, and it only took me twenty-nine-ish years to figure that out.

Today I was all-out sick. But the show must go on, so I worked and partied and schmoozed, and drank Sprite and told people it was a gin & tonic. And popped throat lozenges between the chicken skewers and tri-colored tortellini. Then snuck back to my hotel room while my coworkers debated between Disney karaoke and a dance club with no DJ. I feel I am not missing out on too much this evening.