Jamaica Me Crazy

I loooooved Jamaica. Although my skin did not. Besides getting burned on day three, I actually developed an allergy to the sunscreen on day two… so I was both burned and covered in a rash. It was sexy. And then I was attacked by mosquitoes on day four. I’m surprised they didn’t quarantine me. Despite all that, we had an excellent time sitting on the beach and eating and drinking ourselves silly.

Though it often involved The Funasaurus in his swim trunks perfecting his tan with his olive skin, and me keeping to the shadows in my allergy-inducing SPF 80+ and get-ups like this:



Unibomer Enjoys a Leisurely Breakfast on the Balcony

Whatever, it was still great. Though the hardest part was seeing the desperate poverty surrounding our nice resort. There were tin shacks just on the other side of the barbed wire enclosing our beach. That was a little hard to see, as we surrounded ourselves with all this excess. But we bought some trinket-y souvenirs, and donated to a local school charity on the casino night, so we assuaged our over-privileged guilt enough to continue to glug Jamaican Smiles non-stop. (I’m not sure about the accuracy of that recipe, seems to me there was something creamy in it, too, like coconut milk, but it’s close enough.)

Another bright part were the goats. There are loads of goats in Jamaica! And most of them are running around freely along the highway, so when The Funasaurus turned to me in all seriousness and said, “Baby, this may be the perfect opportunity to rustle us some goats,” he had to hold me back from jumping off the bus and moving in permanently to the next house we saw. I was thisclose, people.

We were happy to come back to Sugar and Tatum though, who I missed terribly. Sugar missed us so much that she didn’t even do her usual I-am-going-to-punish-you-for-leaving-by-standing-right-next-to-you-but-ignore-you routine and just meowed these ecstatic little mews that broke my heart. She’s been a permanent fixture on my lap ever since.

Tatum’s basically been, like, “You’ll give me as many mice as The Funasaurus’ mom did, right? Right?” And that’s that.

Otherwise, though, coming back to Colorado was anticlimactic. We had to scrape snow off of our stupid car at the airport. As we stood there shivering like jackasses in our flip-flops and sunburns. We attempted to BBQ just a little yesterday, and the whole place clouded over like a sad little gloomy winter day in Northern England.

So I dealt with it by drinking a lot of Red Stripe and looked obsessively at my pictures on the computer with Sugar on my lap. And planning our return trip. No problem, mon, only situations!

The Umbrella Drinks ARE Good!

Hello from Jamaica! It’s lovely here. I have time to blog because SURPRISE! I am already burnt to a crisp. I spent two days lacquered up in SPF 80+ in a hat, hiding under umbrellas and trees and other shady places, and managed to do o.k.

However… today, I was not allowed to wear sunscreen. At noon. At the equator. In the ocean. So I am now burnt to a crisp, hiding out in the dark recesses of our unlit hotel room in a vat of aloe, probably for the remainder of my honeymoon.

And it was worth it.



The Funasaurus needs to watch out, I’m in love.

I'm An Idiot, Mon

Who’s stressed? AAAAACK!

Fucking things are not going my way. I mean, they kind of are. But also not. As in:

Overpriced pedicure = full of bubbles

Overpriced haircut = multilayered SKUNK on my FUCKING HEAD. That was not quite the look I was going for, for my honeymoon. But o.k., fine, normally my stylist gets it so right that I was just surprised she thought the crusty urine-colored streaks in my otherwise dark brown hair looked o.k. She gets one more chance to redeem herself (maybe two, she’s pregnant, I guess I could cut her some slack) before I go elsewhere.

Amazon = …well, they didn’t mess anything up. But they didn’t factor in my stupidity, which, I feel , as a long-standing customer, should be in their records somewhere. I ordered a great multitude of books last-minute, and they were due to arrive today. Close-calls give me a rush. So I was anxiously tracking them, because, hello! What am I going to do on the beach for a week without an army of trashy chick lit? And then the thing said “delivered” except, no, they most certainly were NOT delivered, because I have been sitting here in my house all day, monitoring the front door for any deliveries.

So I naturally began to have an anxiety attack, and promptly called Amazon, and they said, “Our systems are down, call again later,” which, really, could they be more dismissive and ambiguous? So I said, “Thank you, have a nice day,” (MOTHERFUCKERS), and went out and unsubtly checked out all of our neighbors porches for a block, because UPS often delivers to the wrong address around here. They kind of have this “close enough” attitude about their deliveries.
Nada.

So I continued my freak out, and then tried tracking it again, just in case the driver had realized his error, and driven back to reclaim my precious package and deliver it to my door. Wouldn’t it be great if “delivered” was crossed out, and it said, “Realized our error, carefully running package straight to you in my strong arms!” Sadly, this was not the case.

But I did notice an extra S. As in, not UPS, but USPS. So I tracked the package on their website and it was saying “delivered” there, as well. And as I sat on hold, listening to our nation’s postal service’s fine, fine easy listening selection, I realized that the postman does not really come to our door so much as to our mailbox. So I hung up, went out to our mailbox, and lo and behold, there was my package. Hee.

My bad.

So anywhos, me and my tiger striped hair and bubbly toes have all our deliciously horrid chick lit, and are prepared for a week of cowering in a hat and SPF 983 under an umbrella on the beach, enjoying the sun. It’s going to be awesome.

Mwah, dah-lings. I’d send a postcard, but I fully intend on being far too inebriated on umbrella drinks to really do so.

Easy with the Credit Card, Cowgirl

I had a fabulous weekend. Between fine dining, pedicures, and shopping my little consumerist heart nearly burst with glee. I am doing my part to stimulate the economy, oh yes I am.

The Funasaurus and I went and saw Forgetting Sarah Marshall over the weekend. It was good, there was a lot of gratuitous shlong, but it was pretty funny. The plot was trite and predictable, but there was some good physical comedy and it made both of us just that much more anxious to get to somewhere tropical quickly.

Happily, we have only about 61 and a half hours to go… but who’s counting.

Since we went to the theater without having looked up movie times first, we had about an hour to kill before our show. So I took The Funasaurus shopping, which he loved. (read: no he did not.) But I had a gift certificate burning a hole in my purse, and The Funasaurus needed things for the honeymoon. He thinks I have turned this trip into a reason to go on a spending spree, and, o.k., maybe a little, but also I do not think he fully grasps the concept of: we do not live near a beach. Our wardrobes need expansion. Because so help me, I do not think he will be happy wearing his wool pants from work suits to dinner where “resort formal” is required. Pants, in Funasaurus world, are either a) jeans b) the bottom half of work suits c) ratty shorts that one can play grass volleyball in and not care about ensuing stains.

So I took it upon myself to get him new shorts, new polo shirts, (hey, it can be used for the one day a year that he golfs, too!) new swim suit, (he only had one. I know he will thank me for that second pair after a week at the beach) and new shoes. Because patent leather doesn’t cut it in the Caribbean.

Hmmm. Speaking of. Maybe I need new shoes, too. There’s still 61 hours of purchasing time.

Hat Friday!

I did buy two hats on-line, and happily I was only charged once, my credit card still belongs to me, I did not wake up in a tub of ice missing key organs, and my receipt appeared in my e-mail and not posted on my blog for all the world to see, and thus I have come one step closer to not being terrified of on-line shopping. Nay, it was downright fun. This could be the beginning of something beautiful.

Or, you know, financially devastating.

...It sounds less fun that way.

Anywhos, the hats appeared, and while I do not plan on modeling them because I don’t really look good in hats, I made my cats model them, because even though they look less-good they look much funnier in them. Plus, it gave me an excuse to torture them. Please excuse the blurriness, they were supremely uncooperative. Sometimes I wish I had a dog.


White hat, modeled by a Very Sad-Looking Tatum

Brown hat, modeled by Sugar, retreating. Also: she hates you. And by “you” she means “everyone, bitches. But particularly Tatum, who opted to include his ass in this picture.”

But you should not feel sorry for them. No. Because I cater to their almost-every whim. Including Tatum’s propensity for jumping on my back, when I happen to bend over and write something.



He can stay like that for hours.

TGIF, y’all.

Always Be My Brownie

Well, it’s Dress Thursday, and I am in a big ol’ long hippie skirt, but you will just have to take my word for it because there is no photographic evidence. I am having a bad hair day. No pictures. Thus I spake.

Of course, it took me about three hours to actually get dressed this morning, so I was a little slow on the Dress Thursday-ing, because I had every intention to go for a jog, but I stuck my little toe out the door and oh! it was quite too chilly, what with all the FUCKING SNOW on the ground.

So I loitered about in my jogging gear, unsure of how to get my heart rate up in the comfortable warmth of my itty-bitty home. Then I remembered that the other day The Funasaurus randomly came home with a jump rope. Apparently he thought we were in need of another dust collector for our garage.

I meandered out to our garage, and decided to see what I could do. Within the first *WHAP* on the dusty cement, repressed memories of failed middle school double-dutch competitions came flooding back over me, and I tripped on my shoelaces (no shit) and quickly surmised that this was not the sport for me. Though not before a) strangling myself with said rope b) giving myself rug burn with said rope, because it was too long so I had the brilliant idea of wraping it around my wrist once to shorten it, not realizing it’d continue to twist as I swung it in huge circles and c) tripped again.

I have come to terms with the fact that my condition will be less than svelte for the honeymoon. And I’m o.k. with that.

Then I had brownies for breakfast.

I have also come to the realization that the best way to gain weight is to tell yourself you are going to go on a diet. I have never really dieted before (and apparently never will) but yesterday I was feeling not-so-hungry after a decent breakfast, and so I decided I wouldn’t be hungry for the next week or so and refrain from eating fried things and bread and refined sugar so that I could slip into my bathing suit a little easier. That lasted until about lunchtime. With the best of intentions, I went to order a salad. But it was cold, so I ordered a tuna melt. With extra cheese. On the very large cibatta bun. With fries. They were so good.

Then I got home and could not stop craving chocolate, but I had no chocolate, and didn’t feel like going out to get some. (See: FUCKING SNOW above.) So I scrounged around in the cupboards and found brownie mix HALLELUJAH! except I am pretty sure I bought that mix when we lived somewhere else, and it made the move to this house with us… and… well, I think that was, like, five-year-old brownie mix. PSA: brownie mix doesn’t go bad, folks! I bribed my unsuspecting neighbor over, mentioning brownies and American Idol, and hey, they were both good. (What? No, I don’t like American Idol. Yeesh.
…
But if I did, I would totally be crushing on David Cook right now. Also, if I was that girl [which I’m not (*cough*)] I would have downloaded his version of “Always Be My Baby”)

So, surprisingly, there were just a couple brownies left over this morning (I consider that a WEAK performance by us, last night) and so I reminded myself of my resolve to not eat refined sugar, and promptly devoured what was left.

Maybe I will eat better when I get to the all-inclusive resort.

I crack myself up.

Clarification and Variations on Yesterday's Pictures

Dress Thursday is tomorrow! Be ready! I sure am not! Stupid Colorado weather. Yesterday, I went for my jog (ha ha, the old lady who passed me with her walker thinks the term “jog” might be a bit strong) and I was sweating profusely by the time I got back because it was EIGHTY degrees. SO HOT. I was dying, and also loving it, and before collapsing from heat exhaustion, I vowed to break out the t-shirt and shorts for today’s run.

Naturally, it is fucking snowing again.

So anywhos, thank you all for your helpful suggestions for fixing my lint filter. Sadly, it is not my lint filter that is broken. It is still working fine, as far as I know. What’s broken is the hose behind the dryer that is supposed to blow all the excess lint out behind the house. It is not only slashed by kitty claws, but also completely unattached to my dryer, as you can see by figure A:



I was literally up to my elbows in lint to take this picture. It is so gross. Dust busting and vacuuming tonight, wheeee!

The problem is that the dryer is a) really frickin’ heavy b) wedged so tightly in beside the (equally heavy) washer that it is never coming out. What I need is a repairman with exceptionally long arms. So far, DLPanther, Google has been supremely unhelpful as far as that goes.

In happier news, I totally traded in my flowers, and while they are not quite daffodils, they are Very Yellow and, even better, Alive.



(I still love me some commas.)

If anyone is looking for a florist recommendation for some good, affordable table flowers in Denver, let me know. I have a great recommendation.

Dead Flowers and Lint

I skied on Sunday, and I will say the conditions were perfect. I will not say that my 67-year-old mother kicked my ass going down the hill because that would just be embarrassing.

After a glorious (!) day of skiing, I got home and fell asleep for two hours. This, following Saturday, when I went out for cupcakes with two girlfriends and bought a bouquet of daffodils for myself on the way home, which are pretty much my favoritest flower, ever. It was an awesome weekend, despite the fact that the daffodils did not quite… open up like I had hoped.



Sad, sad little repressed daffodils. I’m going to see if I can trade them in.

Meanwhile, one of our ever-ass-ohilic cats has figured out it’s fun to climb behind our washer and dryer and slash our dryer tube with their gnarly little devil-claws, and when that didn’t bring a big of enough of a lint storm for their furry little hatefulness, they managed to pull the tube out completely from the back of our dryer. Thus sending all the lint all over the laundry room and the whole place has become one big lint trap IT’S DISGUSTING.

So I have been hang-drying our clothes for the past week, which is a TOTAL BLAST let me tell you, and also The Funasaurus prefers his towels not-stiff-and-bristly, thanks anyway. But I don’t know who to call. The warranty is just up (naturally). Is there such a thing as a dryer repair man? Do I call Home Depot? Do I call GE, the makers of my dryer? I feel dumb enough I have decided to ignore the problem and just make The Funasaurus suffer through another round of crackly sheets. He would be much obliged if you all have any suggestions.

At least it’s 70 degrees today, and the snow is gone! Hooray!

Royal Punctuation

Let’s talk about what a humongous geek I am. Last night, for fun, I went to… (drumroll) Comma Class.

And it was awesome.

I kind of approached it as an AA-type thing, seeing as how I have a bit of an abuse problem with the literary equivalent of taking a breath. I like breathing. And dramatic pauses.

Words like “appositive” and “restrictive clause” reappeared in my vocabulary. We talked about coordinate adjectives and debated whether the word “massive” was an adjective of evaluation or if it really described size. Because you put a comma to separate adjectives of evaluation, but not adjectives describing shape. (Or color, or age, or size, or material.)

So you could write, “Several little black plastic buttons” but you would have to put a comma in it if you wrote, “Several pretty, expensive, sparkly black buttons.”

Um. I think, anyway. If I remember the lesson correctly. (Did I get it right, all you editors out there? I am struggling with the lack of comma after heavy. It seems like there should be one, but last night’s class has made me Not Sure.)

It was a bit of a lesson in humility. I would love to be an editor, but I realized just how much I need to learn and re-learn. All I know is, commas are WAY sexier than spreadsheets. Suck it, Excel.

There’s just something so lovely about the correctness of it all. There are rules! People don’t always follow them, but there is a right and a wrong way! There is structure, and I find comfort in it. (Despite the fact that I basically live outside of it.) Perfect CAN be attained. (Just not by me.) And apparently my subconscious really got excited about it all, because last night I had a dream where people in Germany were writing everything with “z”s and I was frantically running around, trying to remind everyone that although it sounds like a z, you actually write it with an s. And so I was screaming, “Remember the s’s!”

What makes it so funny is that I don’t even speak German.

Love,
Her Royal Highness, (, ?) ... &*%$! Princess Maybe Grammar Isn’t for Me

Why I'm Totally O.K. with Going Somewhere Warmer

This morning we woke up to this:



And This:



These pictures are dark not because I was up that early, but because IT'S STILL COMING DOWN and my camera kind of freaked out when I tried to focus on the snowflakes because there were SO MANY. And so. You know. I’m kind of OVER the whole snow-thing. What with it being April and all. Except I think now I might go skiing again this weekend, so HEY DENVER FOLKS! Thanks for actually staying off the roads last weekend. That was really awesome. Can I get a repeat?

Having near-blizzard conditions on this gloomy spring day did not deter me from Dress Thursday, though! No no, the revolution must go on! (Though the revolution now includes a long-sleeved t-shirt that was not originally part of the plan.)



I am nowhere near as happy or as high as I look in this picture, but hey, I fake it well. And I am fantasizing about the Caribbean even more than before. Which brings me back to the topic of sunscreen. Because I think I get a slight flush when I even THINK about UV rays. One of my hats has arrived. I don’t look great in it, but I it’s more function over form, at this point. I’ll take pictures when there are two.

Even last weekend when I went skiing, and applied copious amounts of SPF 50+ multiple times AND wore goggles AND wore a hat that came down to said-goggles, AND also a neck warmer that I had pulled up over my nose, I still managed to get my telltale freckling that happens when I do anything except stay inside a shady house with the blinds drawn all day long. My freckles are not… cute. There are no “angel kisses.” No, it’s more like the freckle fairy beat me with his bully club, and there’s a ring around the exterior of my eye that kind of looks like the black eye from a bar fight is finally healing, except, WAIT! If you get a little closer there’s kind of some freckly-splotchyness going on, there.

I’m going to look awesome after a week on the beach. But I don’t care, The Funasaurus is already stuck with me, and I'm determined to get my money's worth in umbrella drinks.

29 and I Feel Fine... But Sugar Does Not

Yesterday was indeed my birthday, although it was kind of inconsequential as far as feeling older goes. Today’s kind of like last week, minus the bitchin’ allergic reaction I seem to be having to my new face lotion. It’s fucking sexy, the miniature hives all over my face.

We actually celebrated with my family last weekend, while my brother and sister-in-law were in town, and went out to a nice restaurant where they did NOT sing (the mark of any quality establishment) and instead stuck a candle in the slice of s’more-y heaven I had for dessert. Somewhere around glass #4 of a very good Rioja, my mother decided it would be a good trip down memory lane to tell The Funasaurus stories about what a pitiful little mess of emo crazy I was in high school. Poor Funasaurus. Sucker.

One story begins, “Cat was having a rough year, emotionally.” OF COURSE I WAS, I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL. “Her father brought me (my mother) a bouquet of carnations for Valentine’s Day, a leftover tradition from his fraternity days. He also brought Cat some. She was so overcome with emotion, she burst into tears all over the flowers. While that was not quite the reaction he was expecting, Dad managed to get it together enough to say, ‘Don’t worry, you leave for college in just a couple months, and though he doesn’t know it, yet, there is a special boy who is also going to go to that school, who is going to appreciate you and love you and marry you.’” Or something like that. Dad was optimistic, as I was busy snotting into the flowers he had just brought me with my blotchy face.

Mom likes that story. I had (perhaps intentionally) forgotten about it.

But much to my surprise, yesterday, I got a delivery. A large bouquet of pink carnations. From The Funasaurus. (Who actually claims to not have remembered the story, and just thought I liked carnations, but I pretend like he didn’t say that because it is more romantic this way.)

Go me, and my hives!

Meanwhile, my cat is broken. She was fine as of last Saturday night when we went to bed. Sunday we woke up to squawking. Much like a duck on helium after smoking a pack of cigarettes.

Sugar seems to have developed quite a case of kitty laryngitis, or something. It sounds horrible! But she’s eating and drinking and chasing her feather toy and hating on Tatum, so everything else is right with the world. I called the vet, and explained the symptoms, and they agreed that as long as she was still eating and drinking, it wasn’t worth bringing her in. “Is there another cat in the house?” she asked.

“Erm. Kinda. Except for the half that’s more goat-like.”

“Do they wrestle?”

“What else would they do?”

“It’s possible he sucker punched her in the throat,” said the vet. (I paraphrase.)

“Ah.” I said. And then looked at ol’ googly eyes, who was all, What? But had a certain smugness about him, I swear. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Meanwhile, we’re on day four of Sugar’s Dying-Pigeon-of-Doom voice, and while it’s kind of funny, it’s also kind of sad. I have been feeding her treats to make her feel better, and now I’m kind of wondering if she’s prolonging it just to get more treats. She’s pretty clever, that one. Unlike Mr. Sucker Punch, who I just found sleeping upside down like a bat. I wonder if I should have told the vet about that one, instead.

The Finer Things... And the Finer Woman

My full-fledged yuppie upbringing has led me down all the road to all sorts of life’s little pleasures. Brie at age four? Bring it on! Chablis at age three? Mais bien sur. Overseas travel at age eight? Be free, little grasshopper, to discover your snooty French side! Skis at age five? Um, technically, yes, but that did not go over so well. Skiing was more of an acquired taste. I have always been a princess. And skiing involves a) muscles, and b) being cold, neither of which has ever been all that appealing to me.

However, my parents were committed yuppies, and with a little swill of whiskey in a flask (for them, not me, though: tangent!: whiskey was not an acquired taste so much as something I loved from the get-go, I think mostly because my grandmother used to feed my delicate toddler self all the maraschino cherries out of her whiskey sours) they would push me off the mountain tra-la! And I would be so horrified that they had dressed me in blue (WHICH IS SO NOT PINK) that I would not realize I was skiing until I was halfway down the mountain, mid-sulk. The indignity.

Thus, my one sport of choice was… nourished? And I became a skier. To the point that I almost get high, now, when I ski. The controlled rush is perfect for my taste for contained adventure. To be moving so fast, in such an organic (and by "organic" I mean "non-motorized", as opposed to "non-fiberglass" and "plastic" and "neon colors") way, yet still to be in control… it fits me. Plus, being surrounded by mountains that take your breath away is a good way to make you all zen and tingly.

Skiing is why I moved to Colorado. College was a means to an end, in some ways.

What I will tell you, though, is that if I had never skied before? And you asked me to ski now? I would laugh at you as I made my way to the bar in my fur-lined boots and waited for your ridiculous ass to get out of the cold and join me for some hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps. Or Baileys. I’m flexible.

Which is why my sister-in-law rocks. Because she had never skied before. And then she met my brother, and he said “marry me,” which is the only logical explanation I can think of for her being so blindly willing to attempt skiing at the ripe age of 20-something. She has now been skiing a handful of times, even though our impatient family was like, “You’re fine, let’s go!” and took her up the mountain with nary an alcoholic beverage in sight, and the girl came back for more.

I know, I don’t believe it, either. But this weekend she and my brother were visiting, and she bought a t-shirt that said Opening Season of the New Part of the Mountain! (ish) And my brother and I, being cracked out on fresh mountain air were all, “Oh, you have to EARN it, you have to SKI the new part to wear the t-shirt.”

And bless her unsuspecting heart, she said, “O.K.”

My mother, was more like, “Erm, do you really think she’s ready for that?” in a I-don’t-want-to-give-my-daughter-in-law-a-reason-to-hate-me way, and we poo-pooed her and cajoled my dear sister-in-law to point her skis off the cliff, and down the icy face we went!

Sis got down the first 50 yards quickly, though more so by leading with her face than her skis, like we had suggested. Still, once the acrobatics ended and the billowing cloud of snow settled, she got up, giggled (!) and kept on going. I am pretty sure I would have killed me, if I were her. But that is why she’s a better woman than I am.

And then we went home and drank wine, and she says she’s coming back next year.

We’ll see what she says when the buzz wears off.

Brain Dump

What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?

This is a really fun game; I totally pilfered it from Slices of Life, who is very cute and makes brooches work, somehow, so I am planning on getting me some to spice up Dress Thursdays. (Eventually.)

Here are my results:

What Cat Means

You are very open. You communicate well, and you connect with other people easily. You are a naturally creative person. Ideas just flow from your mind. A true chameleon, you are many things at different points in your life. You are very adaptable. You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. You have the classic "Type A" personality. You are a seeker. You often find yourself restless - and you have a lot of questions about life. You tend to travel often, to fairly random locations. You're most comfortable when you're far away from home. You are quite passionate and easily tempted. Your impulses sometimes get you into trouble.

What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?

Meanwhile, I’m very happy it’s Friday, because I’m sick of working. I spent 40 minutes this morning at the wrong coffee house, waiting for a co-worker-ish person (I say “ish” because we don’t really work together, so much as work for the same company in totally different roles, our paths only cross because of our geographical location and also the fact that she was an assistant to a Very Famous Author which makes me bleed jealousy, but I try not to show it as I constantly invite her to coffee to get the inside scoop on living with a crazy, creative genius…. Or maybe I could just ask The Funasaurus what it’s like. Heh.) What are the odds that there are two DazBog Coffee Houses on 12th Street in Denver? Odds are VERY GOOD, as it turns out.

Opening game day for the Rockies. Whee. More sports.

I bought a new dress for our honeymoon last night on sale for $12, SCORE! You know you are maybe a little lonely when you find yourself trying to make intelligent conversation with the chick in the dressing room at Old Navy, who is so consumed with a chip on her nail that she actually attempts to hang four separate dresses with one hand.

Speaking of dresses, sorry for the lack of picture, yesterday. I swear there was one, (ask Ms. Chipped Nail) but there was a little incident involving some chocolate icing from the last of the army of cupcakes I had left sitting around my house. Though there is a certain amount of pride that goes with knowing I single-handedly took down an army.

Thank goodness those are gone. My skin is starting to rebel.

Looking For: SPF and Juicy Novels, Not in that Order

It’s Dress Thursday! I am wearing my long skirt, although it took me a half a day to get here. (Long story summary: wanted to jog, was a big pansy because it was cold, finally went around lunchtime, then got around to, you know, showering and putting on clean [dress!] clothes.) I don’t have a picture, yet. That would involve waiting for my camera battery to charge, and then going through the process of getting it taken, loaded on to my computer, and then to my blog. It could be hours, people.

The weather’s doing wonky things, with all of its GREY SKIES! SUNSHINE! SNOW! KEEP GUESSING, SUCKA FOOL!-ness, recently. Which I don’t really care about, except for my jogging aspirations: see above, and my skiing aspirations, see: this weekend. Please, everyone else who’s gotten to ski all year long, don’t go this weekend. Let me have a little fun without the four hour commute up I-70. (Anyone else hear the little snort of laughter coming from the universe?)

The Funasaurus is working hard, Sugar is high on feathers, Tatum is chasing air, and I am going stir-crazy. Things are quickly back to normal, after The Funasaurus’ return. Now we are just looking forward to our honeymoon, and in preparation for my blindingly-white skin to meet the Caribbean sun, I purchased not one, but TWO hats on-line, today. One from THIS company, and one from THIS. These are good places to get affordable hats. Also, straw purses, should you be in to such things. I am not.

I also need to look into sunscreen SPF 80-million or so. Any suggestions on good sunscreen? Preferably, the kind in a squirt bottle, because I am four-years-old like that?

And while I’m soliciting suggestions, I also need reading material. I am looking for: Not Sad Things. I like happy endings. I like romance and chick lit, and I have not read either in quite a long time (not counting my tryst with Emily what’s-her-face from two days ago; that was just poor judgment on my part) and am looking for QUALITY along with the cheese and lust, please. I feel like that is a lot to ask for. It shouldn’t be. Get on it, you writers out there. You know who you are.

T.V., Feathers, Muumuus, and Other Fetishes

Due to happy, happy forces outside of my control, the TV ban was lifted yesterday, around 3:00 P.M. when The Funasaurus unexpectedly came home! Work settled in ways they could not have hoped for, and so he got out early, and came straight home to watch a marathon of Entourage. (Does anyone else watch this show? Can you explain to me what’s so great about a group of spoiled, materialistic guys with a lot of money in L.A.? Usually a marathon is enough to suck me in to a show. So far, I don’t really get it.)

I feel whole again, but, of course, my big reading-time and cleaning-time and doing-things-that-are-not-watching-TV-time plans have been squashed. I’m really o.k. with it. And just happy my midnight butt warmer is home.

The cats are happy, too. The Funasaurus knows how to throw the mice the RIGHT way, so Tatum has sworn off of my help altogether, and is back to crying pitifully when The Funasaurus leaves every morning.

Sugar’s story is more interesting. She hasn’t really played with any toys since we got Tatum. We call it the Freshman Syndrome. You know how in college, when you were a senior, and you’d see some freshman all gathered and being stupid and you’d think to yourself, “Dear God, how can one person be such an immature dirty hippie all at once?” and also, “I am better than you.”

Sugar is kind of in that mindset. She used to be silly, and chase toy mice, and roll around on magazines orgasmically (still not sure about that one, the girl loves her perfume samples, I guess.) but as soon as Tatum in all of his googly-eyed splendor showed up, she was so over it. All. Harrumph. And also: sigh. You fucking dirty hippies. And she would sit scornfully in high places, cleaning herself obsessively, as if Tatum’s googly eyes were contagious.

So Tatum took over the faux-mouse realm, chasing them wildly and retrieving them, and decapitating the very same ones that Sugar, only a few months earlier, had whimsically batted around until she accidentally fell off something and then did the quick, sit up, check to see if anyone saw, and saunter away casually as though that had been the plan the whole time. What mouse?

She also had a feather on a string that she loved very much, but Tatum ate it the first night he came home, I think. We haven’t seen it since, in any case.

So I got her another one, recently, in a random act of selflessness in PetSmart.

And suddenly, Sugar cannot help herself! She loves the feather! She cannot bear to see it move, and, forgetting her last shreds of dignity, will launch herself tiger-butt-wiggle-like at it, frantically trying to hunt it down as I evilly swing it in the same loop over and over, laughing manically. Our relationship may have suffered a bit, but the comedic gold that is Sugar’s own brand of googly-eyed-ness is worth it. I have run her into more walls, recently….

And that’s my life, these days. Well, that, and an army of mini cupcakes that I made for a baby shower last weekend. I tried to push them on as many unsuspecting guests as possible, but I was still left with about 692. Not wanting to waste food, I have been diligently consuming about two dozen a day. I am planning on wearing a muumuu on the beach for our honeymoon. Bikinis are so last year, anyway.

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.