At Least Half of the Deadly Sins

A little more than 48 hours since The Funasaurus has gone, and the T.V. has remained off. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, seeing as how I never used to watch so much T.V., it has been pretty easy. Mostly because I wasn’t around much over the weekend, and today I had to “work.”

Except around 4:00 I hit a mental road block, and did the only thing I could think of to do, when work starts to build up and get overwhelming, and that is to ignore it completely and find something else to do, hoping it’ll just go away.

So I left work early (by sauntering across the hall to our bedroom in my socks) and picked up the most horrid of chick-lit, Emily Griffin. And just re-read Something Borrowed. I finished at about 9:30. I don’t like Emily Griffin, I think her stories are trite and shallow attempts at justifying infidelity. I think she lavishes every advantage on her protagonist making them dull and frustratingly flawless (minus the whole infidelity bit, oopsie! But really, it’s o.k., and here’s 300 pages of morally specious excuses) and I can’t even bring myself to feel strongly about the “bad” characters because they are so bad it’s unrealistic and cartoonish.

So why was this the first book I’ve re-read in years? Why did I just spend my whole, lovely, T.V-less evening re-reading crap that I don’t like, instead of a) cleaning my house b) doing the work that built up over the afternoon c) grocery shopping d) mailing birthday gifts to friends e) writing the next Great American Novel (or at least some drivel that’s better than Something Borrowed, it can’t be THAT hard) f) reading good literature, like, say, the next book for my classics book club that I still haven’t gotten around to opening g) playing with my cats h) scheming how to go visit The Funasaurus i) organizing my socks from most-likely-to-sport-a-hole-in-the-toe-tomorrow to least-likely

I have replaced crappy reruns with crappy novels. I do not feel this has been a particularly better use of my time, and my eyes are just as bloodshot.

Sugar and Tatum have been loving it, though, having spent most of the afternoon in various positions on my lap and/or chewing on Very Important Work Papers.

It is hopeless. But I am hoping to convince my neighbors to come over to hang out tomorrow, which will force me to shower and also go to the grocery store. Or at least open the door for the pizza guy.

Love,
Princess Sloth (who is secretly very, very jealous of Emily Griffin.)

Oh Friday, You Little Tease

My brother and sister-in-law are here visiting. I can hear them downstairs, racking up the points on Guitar Hero, and racing past any high points The Funasaurus and I (ha, like I had high points, they beat that on their first try) have ever scored.

I am supposed to be working, so I have removed myself from the fun. Naturally, my first inclination is to check my e-mail and blog, instead. Because it doesn’t feel like I’m skipping out on work as much if I am still sequestered away, here, in the office.

Worksheets wha? Maybe I need to go downstairs and make sure they know how to use the wail bar. Or maybe I need to go to the grocery store. Running errands is practically work, right? Right?

Echo... Echo... Echo.

The Royal Revolution

Fine, you asked for it. A heinous picture of me, to prove I am participating in the revolution. For anyone with more photography experience than I, how the hell do you focus on a spot, where nothing is, yet? Say, yourself, after you click the timer button…. I tried to make Tatum stand still and/or jump in that spot so I could focus on him, but he was very uncooperative.



This is not my most flattering, nor elegant, skirt. But It IS nice and flowy. I feel very girly. Bonus: no zippers to contend with at every potty break. (Apparently I’m back in kindergarten. Hello, potty breaks! No restrooms here! Where are my Smurf underoos?)

But what’s really exciting is, the revolution is spreading!!!

Apart from that, I have been avoiding work, getting my engagement ring cleaned obsessively (what’s that you say? My sister-in-law has a brand new, huge, sparkly one? I hadn’t noticed.) and working some more. I am ignoring the fact that The Funasaurus is about to go away for two weeks, hoping that maybe it just won’t happen if I don’t say anything. He has been working hard, so I try not to get too clingy, but part of me is panicking about a) my midnight butt-warmer going away and b) my computer going away. (I say “mine.” Technically, it is “his.” But I use it more. Squatters rights.) How shall I blog and do e-mail and everything else that I normally do when I am supposed to be working? The horror.

Plus, I have decided to go back to the wild while he is gone. Savage living, really. I’ll barely have running water. I am going to… (drum roll) turn off the T.V. for the whole time he is gone.

!

Well, minus American Idol. I am giving myself that freebie so that I can lure my unsuspecting neighbors over for dinner to keep me company, when I get lonely mid-week, husband-less and T.V.-less.

The thing is, there are things I want to DO. I... don’t know what they are. But I have been feeling like I have no free time, recently. And I have this creeping suspicion that there is this whole world of FUN that is just out there waiting for me, and I am fully suspect of Friends reruns for keeping it from me.

BLAME FRIENDS! It’s my new campaign. Never mind they went off the air years ago.

So I have decided to take the most masochistic route possible to my beloved’s absence, and shall also be depriving myself of my electronic babysitter. I’m currently taking bets on how long that lasts. Vegas puts the odds on 45 minutes after he leaves on Sunday, maybe an hour if I take my customary weekend nap.

Wish me luck.

Meaningless Drivel

In the ever-evolving state of awesomeness (not to be confused with disarray-ed-ness) in our house, we have, of course, added Guitar Hero.

I suck balls at this game, but The Funasaurus is quite good, and I have rekindled my love for the song, “Talk Dirty to Me” because of the cellar door bit. Why a cellar door? Are you talking dirty in the basement? Oooh, baby, you like it dirty? Are you a bad boy? Touch me… hey, watch out for the sump pump!

Anywhos. That’s our latest brain-numbing technique to pass the time. It’s quite fun, although I think it’s probably funner if you don’t suck. I ended up letting The Funasaurus play about three to every one of my songs, not because he doesn’t offer to let me play, he’s good at sharing, but because I get intimidated when he’s using a fourth button and speeding through some complex Pearl Jam song, and I am still attempting to not get boo-ed off the stage with my “I Want to Rock and Roll All Niiiiight… plunk... plunk... plunk.”

It’s nice they let you pick your character, but I really, really wish they’d let me switch up the lead singer in my band. (The Galoshes, of course) because I DO NOT like the dude with the greasy hair and eyeballs halfway up his forehead. He freaks me out.

So, um, there’s that. And my latest issue of Glamour. And really, that’s about all I’ve been doing besides work, recently. How much do I need to get a life?

The problem with getting a life is that it costs money, and I am all nervous about the economy these days. And I spend a lot of time contemplating whether I should never have Starbucks again and save every penny (ie: $3.79) I can, or if I should quick spend it while the dollar is still worth something, and get my fill of decaf vanilla lattes and chais right away.

Obviously, my existence is relevant and profound on the Earth, these days.

Although I do feel like I did a public service with my last post, warning all of you off of Lost. I had no idea there were so many fellow Lost-not-watchers out there, but hey! Maybe we can form a club! Go us and our disinterest in firey plane crashes from every angle!

I have now set my TV viewing sights on The Wire. There are just no connections you can draw from luxury planes flying over unknown regions of the pacific with the ghetto of Baltimore. I feel good about this one.




P.S. Dress Thursday is tomorrow! Don't forget to do your part for the revolution.

You Lost Me

The Funasaurus and I finally succumbed, and decided to start watching Lost, after everyone and their brother insisted that it was the best show on television. Everyone and their brother for some reason thought I would like this show, yet neglected to mention that it is about a fucking vivid PLANE CRASH, that they insist on showing OVER AND OVER and from EVERY POSSIBLE ANGLE, despite the fact that everyone and their brother knows this is basically my biggest fear ever. EVER EVER. Up and to the point that everyone and their (and my) brother knows this because I have drooled pathologically on their shoulder when I fly with them because I am so cracked out on-anti-anxiety medication that I have lost control of a) my drool b) my mind, which is kind of fun when you have a chauffeur picking you up, but less fun when you have a short layover in Chicago O’Hare and you are forced to navigate the blinky neon lights and trance music in the tunnels and OH IT’S FASCINATING when cracked out, but not so conducive to efficient walking. (There may be a Cat-sized dent in the wall under the spot where the purple lights end, where I totally fucking walked right into it, feel free check it out, next time you are in O’Hare with some time to kill.)

Hi, so yeah. We got three episodes in, and there shall be no more. Basically because The Funasaurus is not a fan of being kicked all night long, in between shouts of “THAT’s NOT THE RIGHT TUNA, OH MY GOD!” (My dreams don’t necessarily make sense, but when they’re particularly stressful, my subconscious often elects to share them with the conscious world, anyway.) So the fucking PLANE CRASH haunted me all night, and made me think dire thoughts about tuna and the incorrectness of it all, and this morning I feel a) hungover b) like I spent the whole night crying, which, hey, maybe I did, tuna can be complicated, man.

Lost is not for me, thanks for the suggestion, though. I will be enlisting your help to get another prescription, seeing as how I told my doctor I would not need any more a couple years ago, after working through my issues for a decade and finally attempting to fly without the drugs, again.

At least this has put a delay on my spendy ambitions to get to Scandinavia for a while. Maybe my fears will recover about the same time the dollar does.

Anywhos... Easter was fun. We ate cheeseburgers up at The Funasaurus’ family’s house, which is a drastic change from the mimosas and omelet stations and ice sculptures and fancy clothes that I have been used to in Easters past, but I will say, I was MUCH more comfortable this year in a discretely unbuttoned pair of jeans than in a fancy skirt. Skirts have their time and place (THURSDAYS!) but maybe Easter doesn’t need to be one of them… or maybe I just need to invest in more skirts with elastic bands.

Either way, that reminds me that I DID participate in skirt Thursday last week, even if I forgot to post a picture. I was busy being distracted by the pending marriage proposal. I will attempt to post a picture this week, as I am already weighing my options. Please feel free to join me in the revolution this week, especially if it is supposed to be in the SIXTIES where you are, like it’s supposed to be here! Hooray!

Go Me!

IT’S DONE, IT’S DONE! My sister-in-law got engaged last night! Her boyfriend did a lovely, romantic job, there were flowers, and framed menus from first dates, and hundreds of tea lights, and escargot, and what snails dripping in garlic butter have to do with it I’m not sure, but I didn’t really notice because I got to be in charge of the champagne and hooboy, I like me some champagne!

The Funasaurus and I were invited along to go ring shopping several weekends ago, and the ring is huge and sparkly and I really, really had to struggle to keep the whole thing to myself because SPARKLY THINGS! I am much like a bird in that way.

Anywhos, I did a bang-up job of not mentioning it to my sister-in-law, who was, apparently, very surprised. And now I can talk about it openly and have already vetoed fuchsia for them as a possible wedding color because I am helpful and pushy like that.

So that was the big surprise, it’s funny to me that several folks thought it was that I was pregnant. In between tequila shots and champagne, I come to the conclusion that is perhaps not the best idea for me to be responsible for another life right now. What with having a bit of trouble being responsible for my own, still. Plus, kids are kind of dirty, and I don’t really like dirt. Also, I like sleeping. A lot.

In other exciting news, I have been bequeathed THIS:



Go me! I’d like to thank the Academy, for taking an interest in my work, Christie, for the nomination, and of course Sugar and, begrudgingly, Tatum, without whom this award might not have been possible.


Tatum says: Fo' shizzle, minzzle. ... Now get me a mouse.

And were I to pass the honor along to other pet-lovers, it’d surely have to go to Meno, whose Zola has a tummy that is pure, pettable yumminess.

And Diane, whose pups are the namesakes of the blog.

And of course what would Sangria Lover be without Ben and newbie, Smalls (awesomest name, EVER, btw) I’m still deciding how to spill the beans to Sugar that I really want the canine version of her white, fluffy, neurotic-ness.

And I would say Miss Doxie, except I’m pretty sure a) she’s either dead, or got a life. Because she hasn’t updated in months, so that sucks. And b) I’m pretty sure she does not read my blog.

Did I miss someone? I’m sure I did, there are so many cute pets out there. Help! Or nominate your own! So many pets, so little time for bestowing random graphics.

Clandestine Mice at Midnight

So this morning The Funasaurus and Tatum went about their daily morning routine as usual, and as The Funasaurus left for the dentist’s office (PSA: If you wait five years in between dentist visits, you don’t really gain much, they make you go back in for multiple visits right in a row, whenever you do finally go back) I heard the familiar THUNK scramblescramblescramble of a faux-mouse being thrown across the living room, and Tatum joyfully retrieving it like the little addict that he is.

Often, when The Funasaurus leaves, Tatum will cry, desperately, by the door. Until I inadvertently make some noise up stairs, and the little synapse in his brain goes, “Hey! Another mouse thrower is still available!” and he comes trotting upstairs with his beloved in his mouth.

Except today? There were two belovedES. I don’t know how he did it. But when I saw him outside of the office door, there were TWO mice. It is not unusual for Tatum to lose a mouse fairly quickly (he is not bright, if he does not both see and hear it land, it is GONE FOREVER or at least until the afternoon when he stumbles across it while chasing dust.)

What was unusual was that he had not lost the first one, but had also found a second, and managed to bring them both upstairs. I do not believe he has the memory capacity to have one, see one, put one down, and fetch the other one. Nay, he barely remembers to bring one back, let alone keep a mental image of two separate mice in his fuzzy little empty head.

Yet there two were. Sitting right next to each other, touching, in front of Tatum’s blissed-out little googly eyes. I can only surmise that he carried both in his mouth, at the same time. Which, when you consider the size of Tatum’s mouth compared to the size of those faux-mice, is rather impressive. Kind of like when you see a golden retriever carrying multiple tennis balls. Only imagine that in miniature, with a more crazed, less intelligent look in the eyes. And more flourescent blue faux-mouse fur.

I did not get a picture, but Tatum looked incredibly pleased with himself, rest assured.

Meanwhile, the secret that I alluded to the other day is about to be revealed, and OH THANK GOD, because I am not very good at keeping things to myself. I am more of a sharer.

I consider it a virtue.

Um.

Next transition.

Apparently, if you get 9+ hours of sleep a night for more than two months in a row (hee!) your body is finally like, “Dude, I’m done with the sleeping, let’s do something else.” And The Funasaurus and I found ourselves in the peculiar position of being freshly tooth-brushed and tucked into bed, totally not wanting to sleep. We tried our usual trick of getting to sleep (ahem) but afterwards we were still awake, just more sweaty.

So at 11:00 P.M. we got up and went downstairs to watch a movie on a Tuesday night. How exotic! It felt so much more special than starting a movie at 7:00, or on a weekend. We snuggled in, and found You, Me, and Dupree to be not all bad, and cuddled some more, and finally went to bed on the A.M. side of things. I cannot tell you the last time I saw an A.M. on a weeknight. It felt deliciously rebellious.

Yesterday we proceeded to utter obscenities at the alarm when it went off, and it occured to us why we do not do more delicious movie nights starting at 11:00 P.M. on Tuesdays, anymore.

My A-Typical Coffee Break

On Friday I went out for some fancy coffee at a local coffee shop, and on my way home, stopped to get gas and a car wash, in a less-nice part of town. While I was pumping gas, a girl who looked to be about my age but much more worn down by life came over and asked if I had 50 cents to give her so she could make a phone call. Truthfully, I told her I didn’t have any change. She paused, and then asked, “Well do you have a cell phone I can borrow to make a quick phone call?”

Well, yes. I do. And it’s pink and has a ton of minutes. So not being totally heartless, I let her borrow it while I finished pumping and got my receipt.

“It went to voicemail,” she said, handing it back to me sadly. “Thank you.” She sounded like she was about to cry. I felt bad, but what else could I do? So she walked off, and I drove over to the car wash. Just as I was pulling in, the phone rang from the number that had just been dialed. I answered, hoping I wouldn’t lose reception as the suds started.

“Hello, who’s this?” said the person on the other end.

“This is Cat. But I think the person you’re calling for is someone I just met in the parking lot. I don’t know who she is, she just asked to borrow my phone to make a call.”

“Oh! Thanks. Um, what did she look like?” asked the guy.

“Well, she was wearing a hat, and a light brown coat…” I started.

“Was she kind of… dirty?” he asked, filling in for me.

“Er, yes.”

“Did she have thick glasses?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, thank you,” said the person. I was guessing it was maybe a social worker, or someone, so I told him where I was, he thanked me again, and we hung up.

As I pulled out of the car wash in my shiny, new, clean car, sipping my froo-froo coffee drink, I saw the girl, still standing on the corner of the parking lot, looking kind of unsure about where to go. So I drove over and flagged her down, and said, “Hey, the guy you called just called back. Do you want to try again?”

“Thank you!” she said profusely, and grabbed the cell phone.

I felt like maybe I had redeemed a little bit of yuppie karmic guilt, and sipped my coffee drink while she chatted. She didn’t go far, but was making an effort to be quiet, along the busy street, which I thought was a little odd.

Then I heard her say something about, “Well, just get a nickel.” And then, “don’t worry about it, I’ll set it up…. I’ll get them and meet you at X location at 4:30.”

And I thought to myself, I don’t suppose counseling comes in nickel bags these days.

So much for the karmic points.

The Revolution Begins! Also, Some Tatum Redemption

So it’s officially Dress Thursday! Of course, I couldn’t fully commit, I only went for the skirt, because I don’t really own any warm dresses.

It turns out, taking a picture of yourself is a lot harder than I thought. I found the self timer; I figured it couldn’t be easier! I figured wrong. It is actually not so easy to get the stupid camera to focus on you when you are the one behind the camera doing the focusing. The camera wants to focus on the white wall behind where you will be, instead (because you do not want to use your clutter-filled living room as a backdrop, naturally) which it has some trouble doing. Then you turn out to be a blob. Then you cannot quite fit into the range the camera allows. (Note to “self”: drop non-subtle hints for tripod for birthday. HI BABY!)

So here is a picture of most of my skirt, minus a large percentage of my head, and something white, I think maybe the magazine I was using to prop the camera up on:



As you can perhaps tell, working from home leads one to feel less inclined to do things like iron. And comb one’s hair.

Meanwhile, Tatum, and apparently, a large percentage of the internet, feel that perhaps I was a bit unfair in my description of his svelte self, yesterday.

Feeling a bit remorseful, I give you Tatum being cool, not showing his lack of balls to the world:



I give you Tatum, the lover of Sugar.



Sometimes he holds her protectively.



Sometimes he snuggles under her for safety.



Sometimes he eats her earwax and then gnaws on her neck while she is trying to sleep.



I apologize for not getting a better picture of the gnawing, but Sugar does not put up with that shit very long. There was not time for a second picture before she got the heck out of there.

Cat-tastic

I have been spending a lot of time at home, what with that being where I work, now, and all. Also, last week was uncommonly busy, but this week has been quieter. And therefore I’m able to slowly start catching up on things I’ve been neglecting around the house, including my cats.

(oh, it’s so going to be one of those entries. I happily embrace my inner cat-lady.)

There has been a lot of upheaval, what with moving my office home, and Sugar and Tatum are not really interested in having their environment disturbed. Ever. Unless it involves an increase of tuna and/or faux mice in their environment. In that case, they are all about change, and bring it on, groovy baby!

But I have gotten to watch them on a more intimate level. Combined with my new camera and attempt at faux-tography, there have been lots of pictures.

Like this one.



I realize everyone thinks their baby (human or fur) is the most beautiful, most intelligent, most amazing. But mine actually is. She’s so pensive. You can see the wheels turning, her understanding, her processing. She’s actually much more open-minded than Tatum.

Who talks a big talk, but is actually a big, fat pansy with googly eyes. And oh. I suppose I should do homage to him, too. Here is my darling Tatum.



Apparently we used up all our karmic loveliness on our first cat.

Sugar spends a lot of her life observing. Cleaning. Posing. Thinking Very Deep Things. (Hey, maybe I should introduce her to Porno for Pyros!) Tatum, meanwhile, spends most of his life thinking one thought: “MICE!” Since both of the synapses in his brain are used on said thought, he spends much of his time falling, running into walls, and throwing his butt around in a rather un-feline-like way, and looking surprised. The Funasaurus and I often speak to him with sentences that start with, “Normal kitties don’t…”

(As in: Normal kitties don’t eat Styrofoam! Normal kitties don’t leave their tongues hanging out! Normal kitties don’t sit like that unless they are very, very fat! Normal kitties don’t try and stick their paws in the vacuum WHILE IT’S ON!)

So are you all ready for Dress Thursday?! Because it starts tomorrow, and we’re starting a revolution, here! I have already put much thought into my options. I will post pictures.

Royal Fantasy

I just heard Porno for Pyros on NPR on my way home from book club.

I am willing to bet that sentence has never, in the history of ever, been said before.

I forgot how much I used to adore them. "We’ll Make Great Pets!" It was so deep. I remember thinking it was such a brilliantly dark idea, I contemplated it for days on end. Of course, this was during the phase in my life where I wore a lot of black turtlenecks and wrote poetry in BLACK INK while I cried about the tragedy that was suburban public school life. While snacking on brie.

It was a grueling time.

So I remember how awesome the ending was… I used to think it was a musical description of the downfall of humankind, of hope being dashed, over and over again while aliens put us into the human equivalent of ant farms. (Would that just be farms?)

Tonight it sounded more like a few plunky notes on a keyboard. I think I was deeper, then.

I remember the old feelings it conjured, though, the early 90s musical adaptation of the ache in my angsty, teenage heart. So Porno for Pyro, thanks. You got me through some hard, to-be-a-princess-or-a-goth-y-skater-chick? times. (If you don’t know how that battle turned out, see prior 692 blog entries. … also: title.)

Oddly enough, that kind of relates back to a discussion we had at our book group. We talked about how we can still read good books and appreciate them, but as adults, we don’t seem to be all-consumed by stories anymore, like we were as nerdy little bookish kids. We talked about how Madeleine L’Engle or C.S. Lewis (along with dozens of lesser authors) could totally entrap our imaginations and preoccupy our minds for days. We can read those same stories now, and get a delicious, fulfilling sensation from them, but not in the drunk-with-continuing-the-story-in-our-brains,-including-in-our-dreams, way.

I miss that. But as someone pointed out, we were, mostly, as kids, living in a pretty small world. As adults, we’ve seen a lot more of the world, both geographically and socially. We can live vicariously through our own lives, rather than through someone else’s written description. But I still miss that feeling I got from the Bobbsey Twins, or The Secret Garden. The total immersion in my own imagination and belief that those worlds were tangible. So I’m making a list, and going back to see if I can recapture even just a sliver of that. What was the last book you felt that way about?

The Rain in Spain Can Damn Well Stay There

We were watching My Fair Lady last night, and I have come to the conclusion that it sucks not having an excuse to wear such gorgeous ball gowns on a more regular occasion. Also, if I had it to do over again, I think I would have modeled my wedding dress after the one Audrey Hepburn gets to wear to the ball where she woos the Hungarian prince-guy.



Sigh.

I have thus decided to decree Thursdays Dress (or skirt) Day. Every Thursday, everyone in my office shall wear a dress, thus I spake. Working from home, everyone = me, (and maybe Sugar, if I can catch her.) Every revolution must start somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my jeans as much as the next girl. But I love all the costumes and the finery, and despite the ankle-length skirts, the tops of those dresses were quite fitted… and flattering.

This, coming from the girl who is still wearing pajama pants at half past noon.

I am getting a chance to dress up tonight, though. We are going to the thee-ah-tah. The Funasaurus is taking me to see Stomp, which I have always wanted to see. There’s something intensely satisfying about people jumping on garbage cans in a harmonious manner.

Finally, it’s really Friday.

Maybe It Could Be Friday If We All WISH Hard Enough....

Today feels like a Friday to me, for some reason. It could be that I’ve been working steadily since Sunday morning. I got signed up to man a booth at a convention for a totally different division… I had never heard of the product before, but conveniently, I lived in Denver, where the convention was being held, so the Very Important Marketing Decision was made that “She will do.”

She = me and she also = scared of people, that fear coming in second only to: technology. And so she did not do so hot in the booth repping the unkown internet-y thing-y product. People came by and asked questions using words I had never heard of, and I would politely respond, “ACK! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

I am now under the persuasion that training CAN, occasionally, be helpful.

Perhaps someday my company will come around to my way of thinking.

Meanwhile, it’s the birthday of a very special temporary Israeli housewife- so shalom and happy birthday, dearest! I hope you finally found the organic fruit market! Your present might be a little late, partially due to the fact that I do not think the postal service out there is all that efficient... and also partially due to the fact that I have not yet mailed it.

It’s snowing here, again. I actually like the snow, aesthetically-speaking. But it is interrupting my flow. I had started running (ha ha, I say “run” like I am going more than four miles an hour) again, what with the unusually warm weather, recently, and was feeling good about my pansy 9-9.5 minute jogs, every day. But then the conference happened, followed by snow, and well. I ate a marshmallow Peep for breakfast this morning, instead of getting out of my pajamas.

I’m not even sorry.

A Scrambled Leap

Hi.

…

Nothing new has happened. I just wanted a date stamp that said February 29. Although I still don’t understand why it’s called a “leap year.” Leaping, to me, implies springing forward. But shoving an extra 24 hours into the year kinda slows the whole thing down by… well, by 24 hours. Am I missing something?

* * * * * *

I’m taking a photography class, but so far have nothing to show for it. (Hence the lack of mentioning it, previously.) Unfortunately, after class #2 and still no concept of what I’m doing, or how to get the damn things onto my computer not to mention onto the program, which I am still afraid to load onto said computer, I fear the whole thing can’t bode well for my aspiring photo-journalist skeelz.

* * * * * *

The Funasaurus is taking me to a basketball game, tonight. Confession: I am going to watch the cheerleaders and eat junk food.

* * * * * *

Mmmm, Dippin' Dots.

* * * * * *

I can’t get rid of the car I crashed. I tried to donate it, but they want the title, which I have conveniently lost. I found out you can get a duplicate of the title if you go to the DMV, so I went to the DMV. Except apparently I somehow managed to register the car without the title ten years ago, so the title is still back in California. So I called the California DMV, and they had me fill out 42 forms and then some, and then they told me to do it on-line, except I can’t, because you’re not allowed to if you don’t have a California driver’s license. I haven’t had one of those since Savage Garden was hot. So I am mailing in the forms, although they don’t seem to want any information that doesn’t pertain to California, which is unfortunate, because I have no such information, including a NAME, which I have also changed since CA knew me. But they will still take my $17, thank you very much.

I am not-so-slowly going crazy.

* * * * * *

I know a secret, but I’m not allowed to tell, and oh! It’s very exciting. I will tell just as soon as I am allowed.

Have a great weekend!

Provincial Passion

Here’s the thing about having a looming honeymoon in the middle of February. It leads to all sorts of drastic fantasies about tropical places and not coming back and quick mental calculations about how long you could survive on coconut milk if you were to sell your home.

In short, my work is suffering and I am making my own valiant efforts to restimulate the economy, mostly via the bathing suit and accessories industry. (Also and by the way, does such a thing as organic insect repellent exist, and if it does, does it actually work?)

This behavior has actually led me to think fondly of any time I have spent in a sunnier, warmer place, but most particularly, my time in southern France. Even the “cold” there was romantic. In February, I certainly had to wear a coat. And the wind was icy cold, and it always blew. It came down from Siberia, and was called Le Mistral, and basically had its own magical presence in a culture that made everything from olives to granite sexy and mysterious.

Aix-en-Provence is the geographical equivalent of the most amazing sex you’ve ever had with the most passionate lover you’ve ever had, but in your heart you know is not marriage material. Strawberries as big as your fist! Open air cafes where kisses are blown, nutella crepes are eaten, and young girls are wooed by five-star chefs. (oh, yes.)

The cobalt blues and sunflower yellows! Those are not my real colors. I am more of a grayish-blue kinda girl. I felt at home in calm, orderly, cheese-loving Switzerland with its snow-capped mountains. There’s a method to the goat madness. But Aix made me believe in cobalt, gypsies, and pastis, despite the fact that I loathe licorice. And for a short time, I could pretend every room in my home would smell like lavender fields.

I knew where to buy the most almond-y calissons, (hint: not THAT link) and ate them with great abandon. I shunned the Americans in their shorts and flip-flops, I cloaked myself in black and boots, even the summertime, and thought deep, passionate thoughts while I got drunk on kir peche and perfected my southern drawl. (Because no matter what country you go to, I sincerely believe the southern accent will be the most distinct.) I believed in palm trees and entire villages made from white stone, and tromped around in the woods alone on the weekend, almost hoping to get impaled by a wild boar. What a great blog entry that would have made….

I revered Cézanne and Van Gough, painting Mont St. Victoire and thinking the olive groves were all quite a delicious place to go insane.

And I left a piece of my soul there. A small one, there’s not much room for grey in a place with that much vibrant yellow. It exhausts me thinking about it, as any good lover’s memory should.

Meanwhile I’ve set my sights on the Caribbean, and well, Colorado. I love you. But the lack of a ski pass has made this winter infinitely harder than any other year. We’re not selling our home (yet) but The Funasaurus and I need a little break. I’ll write from a new shade of aqua blue, if we’re not drunk on the umbrella drinks, yet.

Ciao, bella.

Dear Thighs, Please Stop with All the Expanding

At some point I came across the realization that if I am headed to somewhere tropical for a week, perhaps I’d want to bring a swimsuit. Because my standard t-shirt and jeans attire is not going to cut it on the beach.

I have not gotten a new bathing suit since college. (read: 6+ years ago… at least.) That is because I would prefer to get a root canal than try on swimsuits in a department store with lots of young, waifish sales people there to see and judge.

In a desperate attempt at self-help and a nod to Global Warming (finally working in my favor, hello 60 degrees in February!) I decided to go for a jog yesterday morning, before taking the death-walk to the mall. (And by “walk” I mean “drive”. “In my new car, tra la.”) Because obviously jogging lightly for 25 minutes is going to negate an entire winter of sitting on the couch and alternating my diet between pizza and red meat. With, maybe, three total yoga classes thrown in the last four months for good measure.

Surprisingly, my jog did not delete my ever-expanding posterior.

And then the fluorescent lighting obliterated any last bit of self-esteem I might ever have had.

Sorry, baby, I used our travel insurance and we are now headed on a nice honeymoon to Antarctica where you can smooch me under my five layers of ski pants and a very poofy, fur-lined parka, and no one can tell how big anyone’s butt is, for all the layers of polypro.

Plus, penguins! Hooray!

Why I Didn't Get the New Wife of the Year Award

After a weekend of fast food and copious amounts of beef jerky, I decided to cook something a little lighter for dinner last night. I found a recipe for chicken cutlets that looked tasty, and somehow convinced myself that the recipe calling for anchovy paste was absolutely no problem, despite the fact that the man I married orders his cheeseburgers with “no lettuce, no tomato, no cheddar, just American cheese, please” lest they taste too complicated.

I was in the midst of preparing the meal when The Funasaurus got home, specificially,I was busy doing a taste-test of the dry white wine that it called for, when he wandered over to see what was cooking. I was not able to chug my glass quite fast enough before he had glanced at the recipe, and I saw his sweet brown eyes swell in fear.

“Does… does that say ‘anchovies,’ baby?” he asked, failing miserably at hiding his horror.

“Paste! It says anchovy paste, darling,” I said, swooping it away. “That basically means ‘salt’ with perhaps a vague seafood flavor. But don’t worry, you can’t taste actual anchovy flavor at all,” I said.

He wandered away, calculating whether it was worth enduring my wrath to make a quick dash to Quizos.

We sat down to eat, and we both scarfed the green beans, before turning to the chicken. “Mmmm!” I said, as though my verbal endorsement would make a difference in his discriminating tastes. It was good, but there was more anchovy flavor than I had remembered.

The Funasaurus bravely took a healthy bite, and tried not to gag. Then he looked scared, like I was going to beat him.

Then I felt guilty not only for cooking a meal I had known he’d hate, but for apparently having given him the impression that violence might be such a likely occurrence in our young marriage.

Then Tatum helped himself to the sauce on The Funasaurus' plate while we were distracted figuring out what else we could do for his dinner. It's been fun to clean the litter box today!

The Funasaurus finished his night off with Honey Nut Cherrios, and I had good leftovers for lunch, today. And we both felt much better after having a Klondike Oreo Cookie for dessert.

Fortunately, tonight he’s on his own. But I’m thinking I may owe him pepperoni pizza, tomorrow. Maybe I won't even sneak anchovies onto my half, this time.

And a Carriage for my Luggage

We survived Phoenix, The Funasaurus purchased new movies, I didn’t drink as heavily as I had planned, and Sugar wasn’t even hateful when we got home. Tatum didn’t even seem to have noticed that we were gone, he was just like, “Mouse!Mouse?Mouse.Mouse!Mouse: MOUSE!Mouse?” when we walked in the door. Which is a typical evening for him. Sugar has been more clingy and “oh how sad I am. I was so alone,” in her demeanor, and I feel bad, because that was only four and a half days. And in two months, we’re going to be gone for seven.

That’s right, we’re going on our honeymoon! Finally! Hooray! The universe has smiled upon me. (Momentarily. The tickets are bought. We’ll see if we run into a freak hurricane.) We’re headed to a whole week of umbrella drinks and Caribbean sun. I may not come back. Likely because I will have fried myself to a crisp, in another futile attempt at getting “tan.”

The sad part is that for some silly reason, my boss thinks I’m going to WORK between now and the end of April, despite the fact that I clearly explained to him that I’m going on my honeymoon. It seems slightly unreasonable to me that he would think I’d be able to concentrate on anything else.

Where Is the Love?

I’m about to head out on a 14 hour road trip with my husband, and the in-laws. I get to spend Valentine's night sharing a hotel room with my mother-in-law, instead of my husband. The iPod and flask are stocked. We’re going to...wait for it... Phoenix. Whooo-hoo. At least it’s not snowing there.

Sigh.

The universe is, once again, smiting me.

I have moved my office home, only to discover that the two new lines I had installed for my work phone and fax don’t work. We set up a separate account for my work stuff, and having two accounts at one address gets the phone company’s panties in a bunch, and it freaks out. And has a lot of trouble processing work orders because OMG, TWO ACCOUNTS WHAT DO WE DO?! THIS IS SO COMPLEX EVEN OUR MANAGERS CANNOT HANDLE IT!

KAPOW! (That was my brain... popping.)

I bought The Funasaurus a chocolate, heart-shaped brownie with chocolate icing and gave it to him to take to work today. Because I’m romantic like that. He left it at home, so I ate it. I figure he had his chance. I was also hungry like that.

Happy naked babies with bows and arrows day! I'm off to somewhere where it's not snowing! And I don't have to shave my legs!

Love,
Princess-is-11:45AM-too-early-for-a-stiff-drink?

Reason # 495 I Will Not Have Children

Friday I spent most of the afternoon at the emergency vet’s, because poor little Sugar was puking her little guts out, and feeling very embarrassed about it, thus leading her to choose the most inopportune places to leave little puddles of kitty puke. (Under the bed! Behind the sofa! Under the TV stand!)

Alarmed, I took her to the Very Important Emergency Vet, where they did exactly nothing to make me feel better. Sugar lost her kitty shit, between being sick and being poked by needles in a less-than-coddling-way, she was frantic. The vet took some blood (goodbye, honeymoon!) and asked gravely if I thought she should take x-rays and an ultrasound. (Goodbye vacation ever again EVER.)

Um, I don’t know, jackass. Aren’t you the vet?

So she explained that if there was a blockage, or something, that it wouldn’t show up in the bloodwork, they’d need to see it on an ultrasound, because it could be very dangerous and explode. On the other hand, it could just be a huge tumor, that they could see on an x-ray, and while Sugar may only have seconds to live, they could prescribe me some medicine for a million dollars to treat it.

What’s a kitty momma to do?

My gut told me that there was no blockage. The vet kept asking if Sugar had eaten anything she wasn’t supposed to, a toy, or something like that. And I said, “No, that would be Tatum. He’s part goat. Sugar is more... particular. She really only likes dry kibble. In a porcelain bowl.”

So I looked at Sugar who was on the verge of scratching her own eyes out (her attempt at scratching mine having thus-far failed) and I decided that no medical procedure was worth putting her through the extreme panic she appeared to be going through. So I paid a couple hundred dollars for the bloodwork, and took Sugar home.

I called The Funasaurus in tears, wondering if I had made the right decision.

“They wanted to charge you WHAT? We don’t need to pay thousands of dollars for an x-ray to tell us she has the KITTY FLU, baby.” he reassured me.

Sure enough, the next morning, Sugar was running around, eating, drinking, and terrorizing Tatum with her back-from-the-vet smell. She was also Pissed Off that I was trying to feed her medicine when, obviously, she was SO over it.

The vet called the next day to see if she was dead yet from her lack of x-rays and ultrasounds, and I told her that no, in fact, Sugar seemed perkier than ever, probably because I had bribed her with a copious amount of treats from the supermarket, the kitty equivalent of about a dozen Big Macs. And also, since she was doing so great, could I stop giving her the medicine? The vet said no, it’d be better to continue the bi-daily dosage for the next seven days. She’s a vet, but I get the feeling she doesn’t give cats medicine that often. Twice a day for seven days? Are you crazy? I don’t have that many fingers to lose!

But, dutifully, and fingerless, the dance of medicine admission has since taken place twice a day since then, and Sugar grows more hateful with each dose. But as long as she’s eating and drinking while being hateful, I can deal.



Sugar says: You will all be punished.

Death to Squirrels

The other day The Funasaurus called me in a panic, warning me to maybe park on the street when I got home, because our garbage can was alive. Or rather, there was something alive (and, apparently, pissed off) in our garbage can.

I snorted, he never went to girl scout camp during mating season and had to contend with horny raccoons who had a taste for toothpaste in little girls’ sleepover bags. I felt confident I could handle whatever vermin were in our garage.

I got home, pulled into the garage, kicked the garbage can a couple times, and saw nothing. The Funasaurus was still suspicious, and was therefore on RED ALERT when he every time he stepped into the garage the next couple of days, whether to throw away something at the speed of light, or to make a mad dash for his car. (Baby don’t play when there’s potentially rabies involved. See also: fun-hater/salmonella-wary.) (BTW, I did not get sick from the gallon of raw cake batter I consumed, although I did get a fat, new zit on my chin.)

Sure enough, a day or so later, he swore he saw a squirrel dart out of (/into? It is unclear, it was very upsetting) our garage. I shrugged, saw him off to work, and got my own lazy ass up the stairs to the computer and spent a gleeful day working from home, because icy roads are much more terrifying to me.

Yesterday I did have to go to work, though, so I consumed a couple of mini cupcakes (really, at that size, I almost feel like they’re anti-calories. Like celery.) for breakfast, and headed off in our brand, new Civic hybrid that I love so very, very much.

A mysterious light came on, on the dashboard. And the “D” light (either for “drive” or “damn, ain’t this awesome,” I can’t be sure) started blinking. I pulled over, and fished out my owner’s manual, which was still easy to locate in the glove compartment because I have not yet had a chance to fill it up with extra tissues, flashlights, and Happy Meal Toys, that’s how new the car is. Said “mystery light” was actually the “check engine light.”

Erm.

So I got myself to a dealership, and they assured me that it was probably just a fuse, or something, new cars these days, ha ha, such sensitive computers, no worries, even if something is wrong, this car is still covered by the warranty, anyway, we’ll have you back on the road in a jiffy…. He showed me to the waiting area, where they had snacks and hot chocolate. I drank their last three packets, immediately.

45 minutes later the guy came up to get me, and kept his head down and shoulders hunched, as though I were going to hit him.

“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”

“You’re out of hot chocolate packets?” I asked, hopefully.

“No. Er. It appears some rodent has gotten under your car and chewed the main engine wire thing-ies.” (Not a direct quote, but fairly close.) “That’s, ah, not covered by the warranty. I hope you have insurance?”

“Yes. Ish.”

“Does it cover a rental vehicle?”

“No.”

“Um. Because an adjuster needs to come out and inspect this, if you want to claim it. And I really don’t think it’s safe to drive until it’s repaired.”

Fuck.

I called the insurance. They asked me a million questions, including the license plate number, and I had to say, “I have no idea. We still have temporary ones. It is that fucking brand new.”

I called The Funasaurus. Who had to drop some Very Important Things at work to drive all the way across the greater Denver area to come pick up my blubbering butt from the dealership in BFE. Because our insurance doesn’t cover a RENTAL VEHICLE.

The good news is that our insurance does cover the repairs, mostly, and the deductible isn’t so bad that we have to scrap our honeymoon plans, completely (knock on wood) but really. We can’t get a break with these cars. The whole point of the Very Shiny and NEW car is that you don’t have to pay for costly repairs all the time, right? Right? echo... echo... echo....

Argh.

While I’m busy being Miss Fuck-It-All, I will also say that The Hunchback of Notre Dame? Serious let-down.

::Spoiler alert!::

I’ll summarize the whole damn book for you:

It’s boring boring boring.
Then it gets good, and you get attached to some of the characters.
Then he gets wordy again.
Then everyone is sad, and devastated, and killed while in the midst of realizing how unfulfilled and miserable they are. All of them. Except for, like, the one dude you couldn’t care less about.
The only redeeming quality: the goat lives.
THE END.

Tiny Bubbles, Gaping Caverns of Snow, and Mini Bites of Heaven

Last night The Funasaurus was out, so I indulged in a bubble bath, which I haven’t done in quite a while. The premise was to ying the Hunchback of Notre Dame yang. This is the next book for our book group, and really, the three-paged descriptions of fucking marble tables and ladders was just not doing it for me. Also, I think authors who address their audience directly run a high risk of sounding really pretentious… don’t you agree?

So I settled into the bath (good bubbles, I was loving it a little too much, with the bubble beard and whatnot. I may have pushed Tatum’s face in a little. He was asking for it, peering all googly-eyed into the mountain of suds and batting them onto my book) to force myself to get to at least page 100. I declared that a suitable defeat, deeming it enough patience to arrive at book club with my head held high, ready to denounce authors who were paid by the word, as opposed to by the book.

But then… I got into it. Somewhere around the descriptions of the stupid rocks in the road, there was suddenly scandal and beatings and lust and gallows and stolen children and silk shoes. Now, I love me some stolen children and silk shoes, so I pressed on. Somewhere in there, The Funasaurus came home, sad because I had not ordered him Chinese like I had said I would. (Can’t cook dinner if I’m busy marinating myself in floral bubble bath, now can I?)

I generously offered he could join me in the bath, and he backed away liked I had asked him to dance ballet with me while shopping for a dress at the mall.

That is to say , he did not exactly seem as excited about the bath as I had hoped. I tried batting my eyelashes and hiding the soggy classic literature I was still attempting to read. He muttered something about no amount of temptation could get him to willingly boil himself (harrumph, sue me, I don’t care to bath in sub-arctic temperatures) and went off to order his take-out while I developed into a soupy, Quasimodo-loving prune over the next TWO HOURS.

Today I am still a little dehydrated, but I smell lovely, and I feel all relaxed. And we did go snowshoeing over the weekend:



Hi.

And I know it looks all sweet and cute and bloated and whatnot, but really, if you look closely, you can see that I am holding The Funasaurus' sunglasses. That is because just moments prior, he was prying himself out of a very large hole in the snow that literally swallowed him, and I, being the supremely helpful and concerned wife, held his sunglasses for him as he struggled to get his head unburied.

And we saw a pretty door with some snow. And I took a picture.



And I also bought the most amazing thing ever. Along with the most amazing thing-ever-maker. Which I so did not wait to use, and busted out today. Anything that lowers the cake to icing ratio, in my mind, is a Very Good Thing.

Did you know that one regular box of cake batter actually makes an ARMY of mini cupcakes? I cooked about 100 of them, before I decided that there was probably no way we could eat more than that, and so I sadly washed the rest of the batter down the drain. … After feeding myself many generous spoonfuls of raw dough, seeing as how there was no nay saying Funasaurus around with all of his fun-hating “salmonella” talk.

Now I’m off to read more of La Esmerelda’s adventures with the ol’ hunchback, all hyped up on my yellow cake and chocolate frosting high. G’night.



(Don't even try to tell me you're not just a LEETLE bit jealous.)

Also, I feel the Grand Marnier and Jim Beam in the background give it that little je ne sais quoi....

Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit

So far this month I have:

* Woken up with a sugar hangover (thanks to a cupcake fest yesterday with the one and only, Shooting Star, who was kind enough to indulge a very severe cake and icing craving I was having [despite the fact that she’s the one who’s pregnant] and drive for 45 minutes in rush hour traffic to check out a new cupcake store.)

* Had a yogurt container explode all over:

a) the inside of my purse

b) the upholstery in my new (GAH!) car

* Made plans to brave the skier traffic and go snowshoeing this weekend

* Seen a former coworker advertise her burlesque show, and wow, that was a lot of former cube mate sequins and tush for 9:00 AM

That’s about it. But I am damned sure glad it’s Friday. Methinks there is vino in my near future. … I wouldn't say I am prophetic, so much as borderline-alcoholic.

Completely Not Subtle Attempt at Procrastination

I am working from home today so that the phone company can come install another phone line, so that I can move home, permanently, soon. Huzzah!

However, this puts me in a bit of a conundrum. When I am at work, I work. When I am at home, I look around at the mountain of mail, the random cords, cat toys, tissues, and iPod accessories, dust bunnies, laundry, bills, and bits of paper and articles I have saved/cut out to put into a scrapbook, and think, “Perhaps I should attend to all that before I start in on these spreadsheets for work.”

And before I know it, it’s 10:15 and I have successfully updated my scrapbook and am covered in glue (I still get a kindergarten-esque amount of joy from peeling it off my skin) and sparkly-pen and have not really done very much work.

Sigh.

Working from home may be trickier (but more glitter-filled!) than I realized.

Meanwhile, we got more snow last night, so I used that as an excuse to not go to yoga and to order out for dinner, instead. Also, I am really sick of the snow, and since I don’t have a ski pass this season, I really see no need for it. What happened to Global Warming, man?

The Snack Gods Are Pissed

WELL.

I know it is odd to post twice in one day, especially what with not having posted for a week, but this afternoon was just too good not to share.

Let’s see. Where to start.

It all started with my exceedingly poor meal-planning skeelz, when I grabbed an apple and an Uncrustable out of the fridge this morning, and assumed that would be enough to get me through the day.

More like 10:00 AM. After I went in at 9:30.

Anyway.

I have been very hungry, all day. And so around 3:30, I finally told myself, “Self, you should not have to go hungry just because you are an idiot. You have change in your wallet. Go buy yourself a snack out of the snack machine that you recently discovered in the basement of this building.”

(Me lurking in the basement of a random office building while I should have been running spreadsheets, recently, is an altogether different story. But, happy day! I discovered the snack machine. So it was a useful… alternate use of my time.)

So I poked around in the nether regions of my purse (dirty!) and found several quarters, two nickels, and a dime. I was prepared! I had exact change! I was craving sugar, and I could swing the finest refined stuff there was! So I took the only elevator that goes to the basement, and there, like a beacon of golden yumminess, were Grandma’s Oatmeal Raisin cookies in C3. So I dutifully poked the right number/letter combination, it said, “INSERT 60 CENTS” and I did. And then it said, “25 cents.” And I was confused, as to whether it thought I still needed 25 cents, or if it thought I had only put 25 cents in.

Soft, chewy cookies (plural! There are TWO in a package, oh holy day) are not often found in a dingy snack machine, so I decided it was worth the extra change and put in another quarter. And then another. And then my only dime. And it still read “25 cents” and nothing was happening. So I pushed the lever to return all the money I had put into the damn machine, for it was more than a bill (as in a dollar bill) at that point.

Nothing. So I put in a nickel. Because we’ve already established I’m an idiot. Nothing. So I tried to shake the machine a bit, because I really wanted those fucking cookies.

I may have even body slammed it.

I finally gave up, it was still glaring, “25 cents” and I gave it the finger and sadly went back upstairs, poorer and cookieless.

I almost made it an hour before I could not stand the indignity, and I decided I would treat myself to something chocolatey at Panera, the only decent snack-ish place within walking distance of my office.

I even know a sneaky back way which makes the whole trip much shorter.

Naturally, I ran into a mother fucking coyote.

In the fucking TECH CENTER.

We were, I believe, both surprised.

I backed away slowly, and the (rather large, somewhat-mange-y) animal looked away, I guess because I am not all that threatening looking. Or appetizing. Whatever. I decided not to question.

And then I took the longer but more traffic-y route to Panera. Where I asked for a chocolate chip bagel with butter. And I got it in a nice little, warm bag, and took it back (via the long route) to the office to discover that they did not actually butter my now stone-cold bagel, but just threw in a little pad with a plastic knife so that I might butter a tiny corner of one of the frozen halves, myself.

But I showed them. I ate the whole thing, anyway.

And then I logged on to Facebook to see if anything exciting was happening, and I clicked on the friends part, and it was about to say, “You have no friends online within the last 5 minutes” but it froze in the middle of loading the page, and fucking Facebook told me, “You have no friends….”

The end.

Or, I Could Start (!) Drinking, Instead

Gah! I know, I suck. But work has been expecting me to work, recently, and it is really getting in the way of my good times.

I keep telling myself I am worth more than all the spreadsheets in the kingdom (let’s call it what it is [and yet sadly it’s not MY kingdom, and sheesh, what’s the point?]) but the steady paycheck IS nice so I stick it out for another week.

Plus, the absent boss and work-from-home flexibility is pretty awesome. I think I’m just sad because The Funasaurus is away on business. He has been gone for almost 24 hours, OMG, and I am not sure what to do with myself because apparently I am just that codependent.

Well, except, I did watch a Divine Design marathon AND go to yoga last night. That was pretty awesome. For some reason The Funasaurus always vetoes Divine Design as a viewing option despite a) the on-going writers strike, which, hasn’t it been, like, a decade, now? and b) the very, very long queue of unwatched episodes on our DVR. Happily for you, baby, there are only two left. I watched and deleted all the rest. Sadly for me, this probably means I opened up a whole bunch of space to DVR random sports-related crap.

We got an invite to go to the National Western Stock Show tonight, and as much as I like seeing hicks being thrown about violently by recently-taser-ed animals as much as the next girl, I do not own a cowboy hat, nor belt buckles large enough to rival the shields at the Renaissance Fair. And also I don’t like dust. So, meh. I’ll pass. Pass the pinot and arugula salad, please.

My Life: In a Few, Incomplete Sentences

So one of the things that happens, when you put the on-going stream of gay unicorns and varietals of cabernet that are running through your freakish little mind into written format on the world wide web is that… people can read your thoughts. And sometimes it’s witty strangers and you’re like, hey, cool, she digs my incessant drivel. And sometimes it’s old friends that you haven’t heard from in ten (or more) years and you’re like, Hi. Now you finally know it’s true. I’m vaguely crazy. Aren’t you glad we reconnected on MySpace?

Sometimes they turn out to be people whose opinion you really cared about.

And.

Well.

I’m feeling shy.

For the first time in, like, ten (or more) years.

...

But who am I to let a little shyness get in the way of my verbal diarrhea?

So to catch all you people up who knew me an a less-princess and more awkward-pre-teen-with-really-awful-bangs stage, here’s the low-down on what I’ve been up to.

I got out of California as fast as my dinky learner’s permit allowed and went to college in Colorado. I was the one holding a purple water gun in every single one of the graduation pictures, while all of my fellow graduates held up their diplomas. It made my mother proud.

After graduation, I took my very expensive English degree up to the mountains and sold my soul for a ski pass. And then I learned Spanish. And lived in a log cabin. And had a dog that could eat your dog for a snack. She also could retrieve rather large trees that she found floating in partially-frozen mountain lakes. She was pretty awesome. Unfortunately, me and my delicate immune system and lack of interest in hiking for hours on end in sub-zero temperatures did not… do it for her. So she went to live with the ex-boyfriend. Sigh. I thought we could be very happy in our cute little loft in Denver, but apparently there weren’t enough moose to chase in our 900-square-foot cement apartment.

Then I finally got The Funasaurus drunk enough on cheap beer (after having had a crush on him for, oh, SEVEN YEARS) that I made a move, confident that he was too inebriated to get too far. Then he made an honest-ish woman of me and we started dating and promptly shacked up for a couple of years.

Then I had the boss from hell and he got us both fired, and I handled that quite gracefully.

Fortunately, I’m not bitter at all.

Anywhos. Then The Funasaurus and I got married, and I found I really like wearing a princess dress and having a day all about ME. I want to do it again. Like, daily. I just don’t want to deal with all the planning, and whatnot.

Marriage suits me. We do a lot of sleeping in and watching movies together. We spend a lot of times with our cats, because we have bitchin' social lives. Sometimes I pick The Funasaurus’ nose and then put my finger in his mouth when I feel his attention is, perhaps, not as focused as it should be on whatever it is that I am blathering on about. He loves that. Fortunately for me, there’s a legally binding document, now, that says getting rid of me will be even more annoying than being fed your own boogers, so he’s stuck.

We eat a lot of sushi, and I drink a lot of wine, and sometimes pretend to go to yoga. Like last night. When I am pretty sure I caught the instructor LAUGHING AT ME. What happened to “it’s all about my personal journey,” huh? What if my journey in half pigeon looks more like I’m just sitting there? So what? Asshole. (Oh, and by the way, I WILL drink water when I’m thirsty, so suck it.)

Um. That’s about it. I still like pink. And presents. Feel free to send me presents anytime. Oh, also, I am still into cheese, and I got a great fortune and am basically biding my time in publishing until it comes true.

Word.

(How come, when I write that, it looks more like I’m telling you what program I used to write this entry than gangsta for “peace out?”)

*sigh*

Hucked on Fonix Kid!

Really? No one thought to mention to me that I spelled "warfare" "warefare"???

Are you all laughing at me in cyberspace? Someone should start another blog called, "Princesses Cannot Fucking Spell." Becawz I wud laik tew subskraib tew it.

Psychological Warfare with a Seemingly-Stupid Cat

Yesterday I was exhausted all day long. And I had no reason to be so tired, since technically I got, like, nine hours of sleep. However, this morning as I rolled over and came face to face with ol’ googly eyes, himself (hi, Tatum!) I had a sudden recollection of what perhaps caused said exhaustion. Somewhere around 4:00 in the morning Tatum gets snuggly. (Or cold. I prefer to think of it as his own little twisted variation on “affection”) And he likes to crawl under the covers and nestle into my armpit. (Apparently his sense of smell, much like his brain, is underdeveloped.)

Normally I indulge this moment, despite its oddly consistent bad timing, because Tatum is not really affectionate, otherwise. Unless you are a faux mouse. In which case his love is obsessive and unyielding. And also violent. So anyways, there is often elbow crease/armpit kneading involved, which usually makes my arm look like hamburger meat, but I know it comes from a loving place so I tolerate it. (Now that I think about it… aren’t there hotlines for this?) And since I was gone for ten days, Tatum has been making up for his lack of cuddling time by going extra strong with the claws and the snuggling and whatnot. And when you are woken up at 4:00 AM and forced to endure what feels like a tattoo gun but does not yield any sort of aesthetically-pleasing result for half an hour on your inner bicep, your sleep cycle gets a little… fucked, man.

End story: I felt Tatum coming over to snuggle this morning, and I was like, “Ah-hah! I am so tired, I shall ignore his tiny mews and pokes and roll over and continue to sleep like a normal person!” And sure enough, Tatum came over and pawed at the sheet I was clinging to tighter than duct tape, and I felt the paws and mews get more frantic, going from, “Mew?” to “Rrrow!” to “You’re going to regret this, jackass,” and then he poked me in the eye with his talons.

So he got booted from the bedroom, and to punish me for my decision, he ignored me for the rest of the morning, following The Funasaurus around like a sweet, pet-able little shadow, and when The Funasaurus left for work, he sat by the door CRYING, sobbing, as though his hateful little eyeball-poking heart was breaking.

The bandage on my left eye socket has rendered me less than sympathetic.

Meanwhile I stopped at Starbucks on the way in to work for an overpriced, yummy, decaffeinated froo-froo drink, and am feeling more human, both in eyesight and awakeness. Now I need to get back to work before my boss decides to poke me in the other eyeball.

Time Keeps on Turning, and I am Dizzy

I know I’ve been gone a long time, and I resolve to do better in the future. (Ha! How’s that a nice set up for failure? My subconscious is already going, “Nay, I shan’t… and you can’t make me, plbthbthbth.”)

But I had a hectic week, eating my way through San Francisco’s most scrumptious food, and drinking even more. And not just alcohol! No, I deviated far enough from my daily mainline of cabernet to squeeze in some Thai iced tea, French limonade, and, of course, my new favoritest thing EVER. EVER.

Well.

Besides mochi. Which is my newest, favoritest thing ever. Chewy dough wrapped around ice cream. It took many tentative bites, but I suddenly fell deeply in love.

Anywhos. The last week has consisted not just of stuffing my face silly… there was another (tiny) percent of my time that was spent working (hard-ish) meeting up with old friends and my brother and sister-in-law, and sightseeing my ass off. The sad part about seeing people you really, really love is the fact that you realize they live very far away. And seeing them in person is infinitely more satisfying than keeping up with them on e-mail, MySpace, blogs, and FaceBook. (Because, yes, I just went and joined the latter. If you’ve been pestering me about it for awhile, well… I’m there, now. Because just about every cool person I know is on it, and I was terrified I was missing out on something. So far, it reminds me of a watered-down MySpace. YES, I said it. Prove me wrong.)

So I was set to fly home, yesterday, desperate to see The Funasaurus, so naturally my flight was delayed an hour for No Good Reason. I did make it home, and it turns out there’s a SUSHI restaurant in our neighborhood now (hence the mochi discovery) and OMG. We are going to have to default on our mortgage, because I do not see how we will be able to afford the roof over our head AND such a convenient sushi habit. And, well, we have priorities.

So far, I weigh significantly more in 2008 than I did in 2007. That’s about all that’s changed. Oh. That, and I’m driving an infinitely newer and hybrid-i-er car! WHEEEEEEE!

Little Dab'll Do Ya. ... But I Took a Big Dab

Hello, I’m drunk. I have made up for any lack of alcohol consumption from last night by over-indulging tonight. Three glasses of wine. One large glass of Grand Marnier. Some more wine to wash it down with. I haven’t been this… unstable on my feet-ish in a long-ass time.

(Does “long-ass” require a hyphen? Shooting Star- HELP! I can’t find it in the Chicago Manual of Style….)

So anyway. I drank a lot tonight. I ran a lot of spreadsheets. I continue to believe Voss is a little slice of 8 fluid ounces of ecstasy in an overpriced glassy bottle.

My boss tricked me into drinking regular Grand Marnier because I thought it was Centennial shit, and who I am I to let 100 year old alchol go to waste? So I chugged it, only to realize it’s only, like, 10 years old, and fuck, my head hurts.

The transcendental music on the TV is tripping me out, and while I could change the channel to something more MTV-ish, I can’t find the remote, I think because my drunken foot kicked the damn remote under the bed (undirected by my head, mind you) and it hurts to get that inverted to search for it… so under the bed it shall stay, and I shall sit here hating the weird bubbles and la la la stemming from the tube.

My life is rough. Also, dinner cost $2,700. Who knew I could eat that many scallops and fois gras and sherry reduction blah blah? (Well, me and 10 other people.) Plus wine. Ooh, there was lots of wine. I don’t know how any of it tasted, since I was drunk, but I imagine it was good. My stomach feels like it’s going to blow apart in a B- horror flick way.

That’s about it for today. I have a $25 polish change scheduled for tomorrow at the fancy-pants hotel where I am staying. (Their poor taste in la la music is compensated for the bottles of Voss lying around hither and thither) Normally a polish change is, like, $5 for those of you who don’t know.

Whatever. I’m getting black nail polish put on by a professional, so suck it, Lauren from The Hills, who applies her own. ... I think. There’s a black and white ball tomorrow. I figure I can go trendy goth (oxymoron?) since I’m going to need some inner strength to get through the night before the alcohol kicks in. I think they might frown on Jamo shots at a black and white ball. But I don’t care. I’d like to see them catch me in my flowy, perhaps slightly-too-revealing-dress-for-work in their rented tuxedos. Wish I hadn’t over-eaten, for the third night in a row, for the back-less gown.

2008 is off to a Good Start

I am sick.

There is no other explanation. I just left a party early. A party. A party with FREE ALCOHOL and lemon meringue tartlets.

WTF is wrong with me?

Well, there was a decadent hotel room complete with bubble bath waiting for me. And also an infinite number of spreadsheets, that I’d like to complete before 3:00 in the morning. (Obviously, taking a break to write on my blog whilst sipping Chardonnay is a great way to efficiently reach that goal.) My social skeelz are plummeting, but I care not, for if you were to sleep in this bed, oh, you would want to go to bed at granny-early, too.

In happier news, following up my last e-mail of joy and sunshine… The Funasaurus and I indulged a dream, and with some creative financing, we have procured ourselves this:



A Civic hybrid. It makes me happy to think about it. And bless his ever-trusting soul, The Funasaurus even lets me drive it. Immediately after we drove it off the lot, we proceeded to joy-ride around the greater Denver area for no reason at all, spewing our energy-efficient exhaust willy-nilly, and marveling at our Jetsons-like dashboard.

Sadly, I had to leave the dream behind, as we partied like rock stars into 2008 with our annual Funasaurus party, and then I woke up four hours later and went to the airport for my business trip to San Francisco.

And thus, here I sit, once again in the lap of luxury, running spreadsheets until my eyeballs bleed.

Fucking why I haven’t I ever had THIS before? Because it is my new favoritest thing EVER. A) It’s so pretty. B) It’s stupidly expensive. C) It tastes so yummy. (If water can be yummy.) So can you just imagine how my little heart leapt with cracked-out joy when I discovered it’s also from Norway?? Oh yes. Artesian H2O directly from Scandinavia, specifically the country I intend to reign over somewhat benevolently, someday. I am in heaven. And drinking many (recyclable? Eh, it’s iffy) bottles of beautiful water daily. Between glasses of Chardonnay.

Get yourself some. You will not be disappointed.

Thus I spake.

I'm So Over December

Well, it’s been an… interesting week. Eventful, at least. First, we took The Funasaurus’ car in last Thursday because it was making funny noises. We got an estimate back for about 20 cents less than what we still owe on it. We decided to go ahead and get the work done, The Funasaurus needs a car, after all, but we ended up maxing three separate credit cards out.

If I’m going to do that, I’d much prefer to do it at Nordstroms, than a damn car dealership. But life doesn’t always go my way.

Nay, actually, life has been going rather THE OPPOSITE of “my way,” recently.

On Monday The Funasaurus got more sick than I have ever seen him, puking his little Funasaurus guts out all day long. He normally has a nice olive complexion. But on Monday he was closer to a shade of “blank piece of copier paper.” We were pretty sure it was food poisoning as opposed to a virus, seeing as how The Funasaurus has an immune system stronger than Fort Knox, whereas I tend to get any germ within a forty mile radius, and mutate it into the most extreme, disgusting, painful variation for about twice as long as it’s supposed to last.

When The Funasaurus is that ill, and I am doing the Claustrophobic Dance (you know, the bad hippity hop, too much energy-thing) around the living room, we were sure it had to have been something he ate. The only thing is, The Funasaurus and I had eaten together all weekend. So we couldn’t figure out what it could be.

He was feeling better on Tuesday, but on the off-chance it was, somehow, freakishly a 24-hour flu that I had not contracted, we decided not to go to the big family gathering for Christmas. My parents went and repped for the Golashes side of the family, and apparently The Funasaurus’ aunt and uncle put on quite the spread, complete with three separate kinds of homemade pies.

I love pie.

They brought us ham and green beans as leftovers.

I think they hate us.

Anywhos, we went back to work yesterday, and I slid on some black ice on the highway and managed to control my car enough as it fishtailed to avoid hitting the car in front of me and slam into the concrete median, instead.

So now I have a nice little bump on my head, and fucking 3/4 of a car left. The remaining chunk of car is now in my backseat. Happily, the car still runs, so I was able to drive off the damn highway and get to work. Sadly, I am now missing a huge piece of the fender, a headlight, and, oddly enough, the ability to spray my windshield. (Although the wipers still work.)

We picked up The Funasaurus’ car in the afternoon, and it began shimmying on our way home. We called right away, but they didn’t call us back for half an hour. At which point the shimmying had gotten worse, and all the service techs had conveniently gone home for the day.

Sure am glad we maxed out those credit cards.

We figured that was THREE, though, between The Funasaurus’ car, missing Christmas, and my accident.

Naturally, as soon as I went to bed, I began puking my guts out and shivering like a puppy at the vet’s. So I spent the night moaning and keeping The Funasaurus up with my bi-minutely trips to the bathroom.

It was the 24-hour flu, after all.

This morning the snow continued to fall, as The Funasaurus took his car back down to the dealership, shimmying and shaking down the same highway that I slid on, yesterday.

Here’s hoping these things happen in fours, now, and we’ve already filled our quotient for the year.

Love,
Princess Rainbows and Sunshine

Princess vs. The Snow

So here I sit. The bags are packed. The presents are wrapped and stacked, sitting on the kitchen table. Work is done, reports were sent, FedEx should pick up any second. The plan is to leave… soon-ish. We’re driving in to the mountains, to see a Christmas show, friends, and a quaint ski town.

Naturally, this is the first time in three weeks that the forecast is calling for snow. The flurries are falling, and threatening to grow heavier and thicker with each passing second. The universe, as always, can faintly be heard going “neener-neener-neener, sucka.”

The Funasaurus is still working, and Discount Tires’ wait list to put on snow tires grows longer with each fucking snowflake.

I have comfort-eaten my fair share (as well as The Funasaurus’ fair share) of all the varietals of chocolate that have made their way into our house this holiday season. Paired with the artic winds, dry air, and also maybe a few glasses of alcohol, my face has become dry and peel-y, as well as breaking out much the same way a 16-year old boy’s would after a Stuffed Crust Pizza.

It’s sexy.

I take solice in my newly reddened hair and darling new sweater.


The angle from whence you see the least amount of said acne, and also how THRILLED I am at having my picture taken this close-up.


On a model with considerably better skin and wearing a much cuter blouse. I am just not sure I will ever be cool enough to pull of yellow ruffles.

Anywhos. Please do your best Sun Dance for me, The Funasaurus, and my darling sweater. And also for my poor little Honda, seeing as how The Funasaurus’ car (you know, the one with all-wheel-drive) is in the shop. Or, at the very least, (or, perhaps, preferably) please do a little, May There Be Tasty, Tasty Wine, Wherever You End Up Dance.

Cheers!

The Season of Pleasure

On Monday night I met a girlfriend for Ethiopian food. It was, in a word, divine. I adore Ethiopian food, give me unidentifiable spicy mush on spongey, sour bread and I am a happy, happy girl.

The Funasaurus, on the other hand, does not exactly share my passion. Nay, he is more of a carnivore than omnivore, being repulsed by most any food-thing bearing a tinge of green. (Sour apple Jolly Ranchers excluded.) He also has a pointed aversion to some food-ish textures, particularly foods that fall in the nebulous gray area between “solid” and “liquid.”

Sadly, this means custard is out. Stew and most soups are poo-poo-ed. Jell-O is nasty and chocolate mousse induces his gag reflex. (WTF, Funasaurus?)

Anyway, you can see how an entire meal made up of unidentifiable variations of green mush piles is not really... Funasaurus-ideal.

But The Funasaurus was off to a meal at Outback (much more Funasaurus-appropriate) and my good friend who is a fellow foodie took me up on my suggestion to drive waaaaay out to the middle of nowhere strip mall (I stand by my conviction that the best food in America can be found in strip malls, normally squished between a laundromat and a bingo hall/Radio Shack) where we ate ourselves silly. She even let me order kitfo, which may be my favoritest food ever. EVER.

That, or dark meat chicken McNuggets… but since those are no longer available….

So Monday was pure bliss, and while kitfo often makes Ethiopian night + 12 hours a gurgly mess in my stomach, I did not have to visit the bathroom unexpectedly once on Tuesday, making the whole venture a raging success.

Then I braved the psychotic, tinsel-inducing freak show that is the mall parking lot, and went shopping last night. Mostly for Christmas gifts, but also I may have made a little detour through Anthropologie, my favoritest store ever. AndspenttwiceasmuchonmyselfasIdidonanyoneelse. I have an upcoming conference in January, and I recently came to the conclusion that despite a very large, overstuffed closet, I have Nothing to Wear. At All. Amen.

And it has been quite a long time since I went shopping for myself, especially for business-appropriate wear. I may have gone a little crazy. I may have found a hot dress, a darling sweater, and an even darling-er sweater. And also four or five shirts and one pair of pants that had a red pen stain on them but ohmylord they were originally priced at $138 and marked down to $29.99 so how could I not get them oh and also a belt and then I made friends with the sales girl and she gave me her e-mail address and I invited her to my New Year’s party.

Do run-on sentences make you breathless, as they do me?

I think it all just might have given me a little orgasm. I am a very, very satisfied material girl. I almost had to have a cigarette, walking out of the mall. Spread the cheer! ‘Tis the hap, happiest season of alllllllllllllll!

Much love and kitfo to you and yours.

Drip

Y’all should have taken me up on my bet, yesterday!

Not two full hours after writing that post, taunting the universe (I never learn) I felt the familiar, mucus-y burn of post-nasal drip. (Ha ha, aren’t you pysched you came here to read THAT!)

It has escalated into random bouts of sneezing and glass-shards-in-my-throat feeling, and oh, damn you, viruses everywhere. Nobody loves you, and you will get coal in your slimey little viral stocking.

Who’s pouting about her sniffles?

Jane Would Have Gotten a Flu Shot

We had our first book club meeting on Monday, to discuss Persuasion. The discussion was the perfect mix of literary, “The mood was very autumnal,” (go us with the big words that we all pilfered from the introduction!) scientific, “Second-cousins means your grandparents were cousins, but you are from the same generation, whereas ‘once removed’ refers to a difference in generation, ie: your mother’s cousin is your first cousin, once removed,” and gossipy, “I am having this romantic tryst with this guy I was in love with but then he got married but now he’s divorced I think and I’ve only ever met him for a week at a time because we met on a mission trip and he lives on the other side of the country. But I’m flying out to see him for the first time in ten years before next book group, so I will let you know what happens.”

Plus, I made mulled wine, and while other folks in the group daintily sipped a small cup, or just drank the tea I provided (come on, how are you not going to serve tea at a discussion of a Jane Austen novel?) I was chugging the mulled wine like it was a competition. So the discussion seemed very smart to me, especially by the time I was seeing double.

I got my wish and it snowed quite a bit over the weekend and yesterday, and Mother Nature laughed at my wish for Slippery Cold Variations on Water before changing out my summer tires for my studded snow tires. But I showed her, I sent my boss an e-mail bright and early saying, “Please, sir, may I work from home, today?”

And he wrote back, “Absolutely. I just went out to run to the store, and the roads are shit, I’d rather you not be out there.” So wOOt wOOt (official Word of the Year, according to Merrriam-Webster) I stayed in my pajamas all day yesterday, and I found it vaguely conducive to working.

…

And also napping.

Does anyone else feel like the days are even shorter than normal? I mean, is North America getting even more north-ish, or something? Because I think there’s all of about two hours of daylight, anymore, before it starts to get dark again and I am sleeping on average ten hours a night, and I am still able to take naps, here, folks!

On the other hand, this is the first year I have not gotten the flu, by now. Nor any little cold and sniffles bug that seems to be going around. I also did not get a flu shot.

Want to take bets on if I just jinxed myself?

Deck the Halls with Scotch Tape

It’s painful, really, how unexciting my life is these days. It finally looks like it’s going to snow at any second, which’d be nice, what with it being December, and WTF, Denver, with all the 70 degrees and whatnot? That’s not very Christmas-y of you.

(Though it is nice for tromping through the parking lot after dark- feels less ominous, somehow, when you don’t have to zip up your jacket.)

I am ready for Christmas! I hung lights, (yes, me! In clogs! Balancing on the hand railing, 12 feet above cement! Totally OSHA compliant… in BACKWARDS world.) have forced The Funasaurus to listen to Christmas carols, (although some people [*cough*CelineDion*gag*] should not be allowed to remake ANY holiday music) and wrapped pretty, red, fuzzy ribbon around our columns outside, to make them look like candy canes. And I used the ever-popular outdoor adhesive: scotch tape to stick them up there.

And then I was surprised when they fell down into little red fuzzy ribbon lumps.

I also commandeered The Funasaurus’ sister’s wreath, that her company sent her, and put it on our front door. Seeing as how she’s living with us rent free, I figured I had some say in what to do with the large box oozing pine needles and sap that was sitting in my living room. She tentatively suggested putting it on our coffee table as a centerpiece, and I took one look at the googly-eyed, mouse-deprived Tatum who was eyeing the pinecones with pure lust, and tried not to laugh in her face too hard.

I’m full of Christmas joy!

Anywhos, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Preferably after I get home, tonight, and don’t have to drive anywhere. But I’d be o.k. with a few flurries this afternoon, too. It just completes the feel.

Also, our annual New Year’s Eve party is fast-approaching, and we have yet to pick a theme. Generic, Happy New Year is the fall-back, but we prefer to go with something snazzier. Like last year we did a James Bond theme, what with it being 007. (2007.) So we had old black-and-white Bond films playing in the background right up until the countdown, and had a costume contest with prizes. And, naturally, martini makings.

Any suggestions for 2008? Winning ideas shall receive an invite to our fab, fab party (who am I kidding, I don’t care who you are, please come! We like people! There will be lots of alcohol!) and also lots of love from me.

Little Cabin in the Woods... With High Speed Dial-Up, Please.

This weekend I dragged The Funasaurus on what I called, “an adventure” and what he called, “an enormous waste of time and gas.”

I like to play a little game called, Let’s Pretend We Have Lots of Money and Also We Don’t Have to Work Anymore. And with that mindset, I scrounge around on real estate websites for my dream home. I found one last week and forwarded the link to The Funasaurus all, “Look baby, want to move to Golden?”

And he wrote back, “Despite what the address reads, if you look at the map, this house is closer to the summit of some very tall mountains, rather than downtown Golden.”

“Pshaw,” I said, “What do maps know?”

So after lunch on Saturday I offered to drive us home. And then I got on the highway going the wrong way. “Where are we going?” asked The Funasaurus.

“On an adventure,” I said, mysteriously, hoping he was envisioning fabulous voyages and fun shopping sprees. (Because I would have been totally up for that, after doing what I had in mind.)

“We going to see that damn house, aren’t we,” he said, less like a question and more like a statement of fact from a resigned husband who knows he’s just been kidnapped in his own car.

“HOW DID YOU KNOW?” I demanded, looking around for clues. Like car gnomes, or something, might have tipped him off.

He shook his head, and let me drive him 40 minutes to Golden, then another 20 minutes up a windy mountain road to look at my darling little log cabin. Which was amazing, and had a really great view from EVERY angle. Though I fell a little less in love with it when I saw the bear carcass nailed to the north side of it.

“But at least your commute would be picturesque,” I attempted.

“Providing there was no snow on this high, alpine dirt road,” said The Funasaurus, eyeing the snowdrifts on either side of us, “It would take me at least what my commute is NOW, to get to the highway. Where I would then have to drive another 40 minutes, imagining there’s no traffic at 7:30 AM on the busiest highway in the state, to get to my office.

…

No thanks.”

So my dream was squashed, but it was fun to find a new road, nonetheless. I like new roads. And upon further inspection of the real estate link, there is not only a dead bear on the outside of the house, but a very large, dead elk head on their chimney inside. Which made me gag more than just a little. I like my meat in ground, neatly packaged, plastic containers with “free range” stickers that bear exactly zero resemblance to the cute little animals that they once were, thank you very much.

Plus, in retrospect, the cabin didn't have turrets. How is my dream home NOT going to have at least one little turret? So the search is still on.