A Little Whine for a Friday Afternoon

So I’m kind of frustrated today, because I’ve realized that I have, indeed, completely lost my copy of The Shipping News. The last time I know I had it for sure was on the plane coming back from Miami. That is not a good sign. I’m pissed not only because a) it was good, and I was really into it and I really want to keep reading before I forget all the important plot points and b) it’s frickin’ expensive to buy books, especially when you’ve already BOUGHT said book but also c) this is the second book that’s disappeared recently. Earlier this summer I was reading Mating, by Norman Rush, and it was pretty good. But I took it on a weekend get-away and haven’t seen it since. I don’t know what my problem is. Normally I keep track of things like that, especially if I’m in the middle of reading them! And now I am stuck deciding whether to respend money or go to the library (that's not so close) and see if they have a copy or a list I can get on.

Also, I went to BD’s Mongolian BBQ for lunch today and it was a clusterfuck. I’ve never had to wait in line so long for someone to cook my pile of raw meat and noodles. I intend not to go back anytime soon. And the noise level was deafening. My friend, who’s in town visiting, and I decided to not attempt further conversation and agreed to just catch up tomorrow at another friend’s wedding. That’s how loud it was. And you can ask anyone who knows me, my voice can be SHRILL when I want it to be, and that still wasn’t sufficient.

So I’m annoyed.

Which is a rough way to start the weekend. Happily, there’s a rehearsal dinner at a fancy-schmancy country club tonight, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a little fois gras to soothe my nerves. A girl can hope, right?

It IS Easy Being Green!

If I asked you, “What is the best possible thing that could have ever happened to me?” and you answered, “The Funasaurus,” you would be right. But if you had answered, “Receiving an awesome, awesome bag with KERMIT on it that reads, ‘Green and Loving It’ on a random Monday,” it would have been a close second.

Behold, the second-most awesomest thing to have happened to me EVER.



I could die of happiness.

(Although I don’t want to, seeing as how I would hate to bury such awesomeness with me in the ground [for naturally I should take it to the grave] instead of strutting all over greater Denver showing it off.)

Meanwhile, we had a tornado warning last night. We weren’t sure whether to take it seriously until the tornado sirens went off. I didn’t even know we had tornado sirens! So we packed up the cats, the wedding album, and my new awesome bag, and headed over to my sister-in-law’s house, since our house is made of sticks. And particle board. And while sister-in-law’s house is also made of sticks and particle board, she has a cement basement, so we hung out down there, torturing the cats and looking through wedding pictures. Then we left 15 minutes later when the TV said it was probably just thunderstorms. Also, we ran out of chips.

And that’s all the excitement we’ve had. And if you’re not watching So You Think You Can Dance, you really should be.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqOhAwXZMug

Back in the Goofing-Off Grind

Can one be homesick for Miami if one has only spent a week there at a work conference? If one can be, then I am that one. Of course, Miami did not have a cuddly Funasaurus or a Tatum to chew in my ankles, so you know, it’s not so bad being home. But it’s frickin’ hot in Colorado. For goodness sakes, it was cooler in MIAMI. Twenty degrees cooler. I kid you not.

I would like to do a shout-out to American Airlines, because I had no idea that there were any functional airlines left in the world. But I flew out on a Friday morning and returned home on a Friday evening, and both times, the flight was nice and calm with minimal turbulence, we pulled back from the gate early, and landed early. I am going to try and fly American from here on out, despite the fact that I have a crapload of frequent flyer miles with someone else because holy cow, a flight that’s on time. I had no idea such a wonderful thing still existed.

/random big company endorsement

I have spent the weekend catching up on sleep and laundry. And getting sunburned. Somehow I managed to avoid sunburn for a week on the beach in Florida, but give me one afternoon picnic in Denver and I am toast.

I also saw Momma Mia. The music is fun. The scenery made me want to go to Greece desperately. Meryl Streep continues to do nothing wrong, in my mind. Pierce Brosnan made an ass of himself, and I have no desire to see him act ever again. Oh my lord, but he was awful and took himself Very Seriously for being an Abba-singing babby daddy. The movie was pretty cheesy overall, but fun enough if you are in the mood for uplifting songs and delicious views of utopian Mediterranean isles.

I still think I shall be disappointed by any movie that isn’t Wall*E, so feel free to take what I say with a grain of salt.

Random Question to the Blogosphere

Does this sound like anything other than gibberish to anyone?

Naya naya tuk tuk tuk

Don't They Know I Need at LEAST Eight Hours of Beauty Sleep?

I am not learning my lesson. Probably because I am drunk every time a new learning opportunity presents itself. Sunday night I was told I didn’t need to be working until noon the next day. So I stayed out late, and ordered an extra cocktail. (and by “an” I mean “four… ish.”) At 7:59 AM on Monday I got a call, “Can you come down a little early and help?”

Glarg.

“Uh, sure. When?”

“NOW!”

I checked people in all day with my hair in a greasy ponytail and wearing the same clothes as I had been the day before. Hooray for first impressions!

That night I was told things didn’t begin until 9:00 AM the next day, so I again stayed out and only kept my alcohol consumption to a few glasses of wine…. And of course the orange liquor aperitif-thing the bartender bought us. At 7:00 AM on Tuesday I got a call. “Cat, can you just come down a little early since it’s the first day?”

I did manage to shower before scurrying downstairs.

Last night we were dining in South Beach. I sat next to a friendly guy on the bus and proceeded to share with him how I had scored a single room and had spent the weekend goofing off instead of working. Turns out he had scored a single, too. I guess he usually gets a single, too, being the president of the company and all.

.

Happily, our entire dinner proceeded to be an exercise in every HR violation imaginable, led by none other than my bus seatmate, so hopefully if I get fired there will be plenty of lawsuits to choose from to secure my future.

And then I went to bed after midnight. Again. I didn't need to be downstairs until 9:00 AM. Naturally, this morning I got a call at 7:00, the woman who normally covers the desk first thing in the morning was sick, could I come down and cover for her?

Maybe if I go to bed early tonight, I’ll finally get to sleep in tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll just order another Irish coffee. That tactic's been working well so far, minus the bloating and vague hallucinations that started this morning.

Party in the City Where I Work for a Week

So Miami is nice. I think I shan’t like to leave. I got in on Friday in time for “them” to announce they were ahead of schedule, and so we were taking the rest of the night off. I checked in and found out I was to have a roommate. Of course, when I walked into the room, it had a king bed in it. I went back down and was like, “I don’t mind sharing a room because, hello amenities! but I am a little unsure about sharing a bed. I mean, this girl and I haven’t even met, yet, and what if she’s a night sweater? I don’t know that I’d like inadvertently cuddling with sweaty strangers…." So now they are letting me keep the room as a single. Sa-weet.

Saturday we met around 9:00 to order room service breakfast, then we worked a bit, then we went to a THREE HOUR LUNCH wherein we consumed an inane amount of mojitos and yummy food on the beach before returning to do a bit more work. Then we split up and I took a nap on my five-million thread count sheets before reconvening for an evening of alcohol and expensive food.

My boss for the week is pretty much the kindest person ever, although I’m a little reluctant to call her my “boss” since really all she does is give me cute new chapsticks, sarongs, and massages. She’s more like my mom. Or maybe my pimp. Anywhos, she’s nice. And organized. And condones hard work supplemented by wine. Or vodka lemonades. And I condone that kind of thinking.

Today we woke up early (had to be at work by 8:00, wtf?) but room service was again ordered and we were done by 11:00 and so then we went to the beach. And I doused myself in SPF 50 and prayed and swam in the warmest ocean I’ve ever been in, and then reapplied sunscreen and sat for a bit in the sun and GUESS WHAT! I am a wee bit tan!!!!!!!! WHO KNEW I COULD GET TAN?! Not I. I am excited. Now, two hours later, it’s already peeling off. But let me assure you, I saw a hint of a tan line in the shower and I am super excited.

I did, unfortunately, forget my camera. Crap. But perhaps I will just stay here and have The Funasaurus and kitties move in with me. I think they’ll like the tan butler. And by that I do not mean he is tan. (Although he is.) I mean he’s there to rub coconut oil on you, on the private beach, if you so choose. I would so choose if I didn’t think I’d burn to a crisp.

This has been a good trip, so far.

Where Are You Going? Why Wouldn't You Want to Hear about My Dreams?

Things Never to Do Again:

Last night.

Last night was a weird combination of events. It started with yoga. I took myself to a more advanced class, in a total act of masochism. Naturally, the toughest teacher in the city was there to teach that night. The room smelled like B.O. before the class even started, there were so many people crammed in. Which made me feel good, because there’s anonymity in numbers. And I know yoga is supposed to be about your own personal journey and blah blah blah but of course I am totally comparing myself to my neighbor, and I know I’m not alone, given the number of times I’ve accidentally met my neighbor’s eyes in the mirror.

So class began, and I was terrified as my neighbors started contorting themselves. Not to be outdone (I was totally outdone) I began contorting myself, too. I don’t know if it was the delicious pomegranate acai yogurt flowing through my veins, or what, but I was happily surprised to find I was keeping up, more or less. (Mostly less.) I have never sweated so much in my life. I am surprised I didn’t look like dried fruit when I was done, I couldn’t understand how there was any liquid left in me. But I hung in there, and never once had to drop into Child’s Pose, which was a first for me.

We did lots of chest and heart-opening poses, and towards the end of class I noticed that some of the sweat on my cheeks and around my eyes was suddenly burning. So I wiped it away and it felt strangely satisfying to my eyeballs. That’s when I realized I was crying. But hadn’t realized it. Now THAT is a strange sensation.

So I got myself together, threatening I’d give myself something to really cry about. Like the fact that I am turning into SUCH A HIPPIE, good grief.

Then I got home and the DVR was freaking out again, so I called The Funasaurus to interrupt his workout to have him walk me through the fine art of tricking a piece of electronic equipment into letting you just watch T.V. And I sat there, happily watching bits of So You Think You Can Dance, until The Funasaurus got home. And then we proceeded to lay on the couches and whine about what to do for dinner.

Eventually, we decided to order out from a Greek place that makes fantastic gyro sandwiches. The delivery service said it’d be about an hour. It was actually an hour and a half. We had dinner at 10:30 last night. When we got our food, we dove in, and it was so good. I remember thinking at the time, “I need to announce on my blog that food tastes so much better late at night!” and that “We should do this more often!”

This morning I am amending that decision to “No, we will never do that again. Ever.” Because I had FUCKED UP dreams all night long. There was all sorts of weirdness going on, from deformed dolphins to washing fish with my favorite sweatshirt to bringing home live crabs to cook. There was lots of deranged marine life, is what I’m saying. And at one point I was pretty sure I was being suffocated to death, and had a panick attack in my dream because something was squashing me but I couldn’t figure out what, and so I woke up just enough to figure out it was The Funasaurus’ arm (he does have a nice strong forearm which is nice for lusting over and hanging on to in scary movies, but when it is carelessly draped across your midsection in a semi-conscious attempt at cuddling, it is… heavy.) So I threw off his arm violently, surprising the poor sleeping Funasaurus who had, up until that moment, thought he was being sweet and cuddly.

Me and my mutant dolphins’ll show him!

So anyway. This morning has been weird. I’m having trouble waking up completely, and somewhere in here I gotta pack, because I leave for Miami at o’butt-crack thirty tomorrow morning. And we’re headed to a family function this evening. Who has a family function on a weeknight, I ask you?

Shiny Things

Where should I wear my newly acquired peacock feather earrings?



I am not typically into feathers, or birds, or bits of animal as bits of wardrobe in general, but for the longest time I have harbored this strange craving for peacock feather earrings. I don’t know why. Then I found these on a good deal at a crafty store yesterday and… well. I couldn’t not get them. No peacocks died in the gathering of the feathers. But my fashion credibility might, if they are not worn carefully.

With WHAT does one pair iridescent feathers??? LBD? Iridescent shirts? Pajamas, as they are not fit to be worn outside the bedroom?

It's a Workout for Your Brain! (Kinda.)

I have made the executive decision to NOT go for a run this morning. I just don’t feel like it. Also, it’s hot out, already. And I went yesterday. And did I mention I just don’t feel like it? Plbthbthbth to you, exercise.

So I’ve been debating giving up my Facebook account recently. I am trying to be less-glued-to-my computer. After yesterday’s little fiasco and one small melt-down about JUST WANTING TO CHECK MY BLOG OMG, I have decided that perhaps my relationship with the internet has become slightly unhealthy. Who needs Facebook? Is it really that important? Sure, people’s pictures are nice to look at, but you don’t have to have an account. Plus, no one ever really updates their pictures, anyway. I just didn’t want to get left out of the party. Who knows what sort of wonderful things might get said on a generic social networking site that I would never hear of, otherwise? Turns out, not much. And so I thought that perhaps it was time to cut the cord.

Except this morning I got a message on Facebook from my old French sister. The one who lived in the south. I thought I had fallen out of touch with that family. I didn’t want to, it just happened. They were busy, I was busy, we weren’t necessarily as close as I was with some of my other French friends. But still, they were good people and I did a lot of growing up in their house. This one sister, in particular, just accepted me as another sibling and I was dragged (happily) into her circle, broadening my horizons in MANY ways.

Many.

Hee.

So I have taken it as a sign from the universe that I was meant to have a Facebook account. I accept my fate willingly, and submit that this is yet another reason that I could not possibly go for a run this morning. I have too much to do! Like obsessively check Facebook for hints of my past!

I wonder if she has a Flickr account…?

All I Got

Last night The Funasaurus was being all plan-y-ahead-y and whatnot, and was talking about his upcoming work week. Apparently he had a meeting in some remote building this afternoon and casually mentioned, “Maybe I should take my computer so that I can just finish working from there and not have to go back to the office.” I laughed at such a ridiculous idea, I mean, certainly he knows that I have dibs on his computer during the workday to email and blog and look up random crap on Wikipedia, right?

I was wrong.

Lo and forsooth (melodramatic? Wha?) THE COMPUTER WAS GONE THIS MORNING. OH and rue the day, however would I get through the day? Darn my husband and his efficiency and foresight and stuff.

So I have spent the day mourning the loss of my favorite electronic. I have been working, swimming, watering the plants, and playing with the cats. Also, tempting my company’s site blocker software. Hello, Blogger! (I did get my reports out first, Company Big Brother.)

I spent the weekend cowering in my dark and air conditioned house as the heat soared into the triple digits. The Funasaurus played volleyball for several hours midday and got a tan. I got sunburnt and withered when he opened the door to come inside. I was not made for this kind of heat. Happily, though, my rose bush appears to be made for *just* such a thing, and is busy sprouting out big ol’ rose buds right and left. That is the big excitement in my life. Non-dead bushes, HOORAY!

Princess-how-will-I-survive-in-MIAMI?! out.

Feel the Burn

So my computer has slowed down pretty significantly, recently, and I am quite sure it has something to do with the copious amounts of pictures (mostly of my cats. I am that girl.) that I have downloaded from my camera. And just leave sitting there, clogging up my hard drive.

Being scared of what the death of my computer could mean to my overall well-being and life happiness, I decided I needed to burn my pictures to CDs. Being lazy as shit, I still haven’t gotten around to doing that after six months of owning said camera. I keep banking on the fact that the universe couldn’t possibly hate me that much.

Then I remembered that the universe does, indeed, hate me just that much and so yesterday I just about had an anxiety attack and decided that something must be done. IMMEDIATELY. I began a long and grueling process of reading up on CD burners, and comparing prices online, and does Roxio really include a burner, or just all the cool stuff you can do to media files before and after you burn it onto a CD?

Then a vaguely smarter friend of mine called (and when I say he "called" I mean “I called him. After he refused to answer on gmail.”) and I asked what I should do and he was very kindly like, “Hey, idiot, I’m pretty sure your computer COMES with a CD burner.”

Me: “Der.”

Him: “sigh”

So it turns out my computer has had a little CD burner in it all this time! Who knew! How very exciting! I spent a good part of last night burning pictures onto CDs and labeling them in one of four colors of Sharpie that I happened to have, until I realized that the DVR was NOT recording So You Think You Can Dance, and MOTHERFUCKER, that is my favorite show and I hate when the DVR says it can’t record because its memory is too full when in fact THERE IS NOTHING ELSE IN ITS MEMORY I DEMAND A NEW UN-FUCKING-STUPID MACHINE.

See how the universe does still hate me? How I still have my pictures, I’ll never know.

So I deserted all of my CD burning efforts and began to watch So You Think You Can Dance. And it’s so not a new idea, but Will can continue to take his shirt off every week for me and I don’t care if the judges are now bordering on calling it gimmicky; that’s a gimmick that works for me!

Life is Good

Things I discovered this weekend that made my life infinitely better:

* Wall-E.



Think E.T. meets Johnny 5 meets the cutest kitten you have ever seen. I love him so, so very much. The kitty porn is gone from my computer’s backdrop, and has been replaced with the most darling little robot ever. EVER. You can get your own bit of cute robotic backdrop love here: http://disney.go.com/disneypictures/wall-e/

* Rachel’s Wickedly Delicious Yogurt.

Chai yogurt- ingenious! It’s all the probiotics you could want in a yummy, Christmas spice-y way. Why has this not been thought of sooner?

The pomegranate acai is worth mentioning, as well.

* How homesick I really am. I bought a shirt this weekend not because it is a flattering color on me, or a flattering cut. (Neither is true.) But it is the EXACT print that used to be on the underside of the umbrella on our patio in my childhood home. Kind of a garish yellow and orange print that had the unfortunate side affect of attracting bees to our picnic from very far off every time we opened it to have lunch. I intend on wearing it regularly, despite said lack of flatteringness.

Pictures to follow if I can actually find a picture of the underside of the umbrella from the patio of our childhood home. That might be asking a bit much.

Meanwhile the vacation’s over, work’s picking back up. And next week I fly to Miami for a business trip and work my ass off but get to stay in a nice hotel, so it’s an o.k. trade-off. I just wish The Funasaurus was going with me. Because I’m codependent like that. Plus, you know, it’s nice to have someone to… snuggle with, when one is staying in a fancy pants hotel with a fancy pants cushy bed.

Eating my Way Through Four Continents

It’s been quite the week of international cuisine, I realized, as The Funasaurus commented on the odd noises emanating from my stomach last night. The Funasaurus had to work late on Tuesday, so at the very last-minute I texted a fellow-foodie and we dropped everything to go out for Ethiopian. It was fabulous and I got to satiate my craving for kitfo. As every other time that I go to Ethiopian, our hostess seemed unsure as to whether we really meant RAW, raw when we said we wanted our kitfo raw. (How it’s traditionally served. Grow a pair and eat it the right way, the flavors are so much better. Salmonella-schmallowmonella.) We nodded vigorously, and said, “RAW.” When the seven tons of food appeared that we had ordered, we dove in. And made considerable progress. And then we started sweating a) from the heat b) from the vast quantities of raw meat bulging in our intestines. (Are you hungry, yet?)

Then the hostess came over, looked at the bit of meat left on our plate and was like, “You didn’t like the kitfo.” We reassured her that we did and that it was delicious. “No, you didn’t eat it,” she insisted. I swore it was my very favorite thing in the world (it is) and that we were just full. She shook her head and looked like she was about to cry. I tried to eat more to prove I loved it, but I was in agony, my stomach was about to explode. So I asked for a box and she dolefully told me I could leave the kitfo.

Normally, I do not get this much grief. (Normally, I don’t eat as many chickpeas, either, though. They were particularly tasty that night.) I was almost annoyed, I wasn’t lying and I hated that she refused to believe I had enjoyed myself. So I left a big tip and took home my doggie bag of flavorful raw meat. And am determined to eat nothing but raw meat when I go back next time to prove my point, digestive track be damned.

Wednesday night my Colombian friend had me over for dinner. His parents were in town and had made all of this traditional Colombian food. Some sort of meat so tender it actually melted in my mouth, fried yucca, and plantains. So good. Plus, we got into a nice heated discussion about whose language had more words (see how me = victorious HERE) and it made me realize just how much Spanish I don’t remember. Sad. I guess this is a good time to start watching telenovellas, again.

Then last night The Funasaurus had a very good day at work, so I told him we should get sushi to celebrate. I don’t know that he was particularly in the mood for sushi, but I sure was, so I peer-pressured him into deciding that’s what he wanted to eat, too.

And that’s the story of my international cuisine-y week. Plus, some leftover Nutty Bars that someone left at our house from a game night two weekends ago. I haven’t had those since I was a kid but, you know, they are really awesome.

Idle Hands

I am… slow at work. There. I jinxed myself. I shall (“I shall!” Who’s been reading Charlotte Bronte, recently?) have heaping piles of work come flowing in anon (oh, wait, that’s ME all up in my 19th century British Lit-speak, hallo) but for the moment all’s quiet. And I like it. I took a nap yesterday. I went for a run. Today I finished the last sixty pages of Jane Eyre, and am debating just re-starting it because it’s so damn good.

I scoured Flickr for more friends. I posted some pictures, and read a little in my Photoshop book. I clipped the cats toenails and changed a flat tire. (Or, more accurately, drove lopsided car to Discount Tires who FIXED IT FOR FREE!) I could clean the house, but eh. I’m not quite that bored, yet.

What do you do when you’re bored? I’m looking for non-chore-related inspiration, here.

Home Again

We’re back in Colorado. And it’s raining. And my rose bush is down to one flower and its leaves are turning purple. Did I kill it? Does it mean it’s been over-watered? Under-watered? Help.

Oh, I ended up getting my first cousins once-removed a coloring book, and a book about summertime. My mom totally trumped me with these little foam horse kit things, but hey. Maybe when the foam wears out (in 2092) they’ll be interested in the summertime book. It’s large print.

My little first cousins once-removed (it’s sad they are not less removed, it’s a pain to write that relation each time) are darling, and I am in love with them, and I am sad that they don’t live closer. I do believe there’s something to the whole “you can’t go home again” –thing, but this trip made me miss home a lot. They just love life so much right now. How do you not want to get in on this action?



If that isn't a picture of pure bliss, then I don't know what is.

Plus, here’s what I did instead of working.



Do you see the dark circles of freckles forming in blotchy spheres around my eyes due to mild contact with the sun and only SPF 50? Do you also see how I stuck to Dress Thursday even while I was away? Is anyone out there still participating in the revolution? I mean, some girls manage to wear cute skirts every day. I aspire to their wardrobes.

Nothing Like Waiting 'Til the Last Minute

I had a sub and a beer for lunch. And then I fell asleep in the shade of a butterfly bush. I was so not meant to work.

The Funasaurus flies in tonight, there is a bit of strawberry pie left, and there’s a slight breeze. Life couldn’t be better. Did I mention the rustling of the trees that sounds like a river coming from a long way off? Ah, summertime.

I have also been juggling mini crises at work in between bouts of eating and napping, so I feel vaguely like my life is not totally devoid of meaning to other people.

Tomorrow we head to D.C., I’m really hoping it doesn’t rain and cancel out the fireworks. I’m staying with my cousin and his family, which includes two little girls, ages two and four. I meant to bring them a little gift, but I am out of ideas. I did books last time. Any suggestions? I’m totally clueless as to what two and four-year-old girls want.

Keeping Up with Tradition

Some things DO stay the same. Like my grandmother’s house. The teacups have worn holes in the cupboards, they’ve been re-laid in the exact same way for so long. The rain smells the same, nothing can beat a summer rain on the east coast, all Earthy and warm. And moist. Upside: I no longer need lotion and chapstick. Downside: I think I’m growing mold in my armpits.

The cleaning lady is the same one who came every week when I was a kid. She’s been working for my grandmother for more years than I’ve been alive. Of course, she’s technically retired now, being SEVENTY and all, but you try telling my grandmother that you will be disrupting her routine. You’d still be working for her, too.

Not that the cleaning lady has slowed down at all. She still hugs me tightly, and then I go upstairs to find ALL MY CRAP fondled and rearranged, even though I was perfectly content with the way I had left it, and she threw out my bag that I had my shampoo and stuff in, and NOW how am I going to get it home without it exploding all over my suitcase? It’s not like plastic bags are a dime a dozen.

Oh, wait.

But still, it annoys me as much as it did when I was five and found my very carefully crafted pile of twigs all messed up and sitting in a Tupperware. HOW DARE SHE.

Grandmom and I had a leisurely dinner, complete with candles, and we discussed her wedding. And my wedding. And confused the two, but it was o.k. because we were both tipsy from the cheap wine I had added to the meal.

Meanwhile I met up with an old friend last night. I was just going to go meet her for a quick post-dinner snack, since I had work to do. Naturally, we stayed out four and a half hours just talking at the TGIFridays, until we closed the place down. Then spent another hour in my car. I came home around midnight, and decided not to try to re-enter my aunt’s house to get some more work done, what with them having set the alarm and all.

But my friend did tell me a funny story, that I absolutely must share. I was telling her that I was re-falling in love with Jane Eyre, and as a fellow 18/19th-century-British-lit.-lover, we exclaimed dramatic sighs and began comparing the Brontes and Austen and Elliot. And then she told me about how she had this lovely Austen-esque experience at my wedding, and it just made me melt with happiness. She was one of my bridesmaids, and her dress was very Austen-inspired. It was cool and overcast on my wedding day, much like springtime on an English moor (or so I imagine, never having actually seen an English moor, myself) and apparently she was one of the few people braving the temperature to take in all the greenery from the patio at our wedding. So in her Austen-esque dress, with her curls being pulled out of her bun in the cool wind, a tall, handsome man came up behind her and said something to the effect of, “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” with a perfect British accent. (El, it was SO your fiancé. Bear in mind, my friend is a happily married woman.) But in that moment she said it was all she could do to not whip around and be all, “MR. DARCY?!”

The End.

Mid-Atlantic Homecoming

I got off the plan around 1:30 AM last night in Baltimore, and the humidity embraced me like an old friend. A moist, suffocating old friend. I peeled my thighs off the car seat around 3:00 AM, took down what was left of my ponytail from the mass of frizz, and climbed in to bed, feeling like I had just taken a dirty shower.

Oh, how I miss the east coast!

There was strawberry pie waiting for me for breakfast, and oodles of fresh cherries. Corn is already in season, and the fireflies are swarming. Well, swarming amongst the Japanese beetles that are currently devouring my Grandmother’s rose bush. Ah, nature. It’s so satisfying to squish some of it.

I’m supposed to be working, but who can work when there is cold wine to be drunk, and sun rooms to sit in? Not I, that is for sure. Although my boss doesn’t seem to get it, and keeps sending me pesky tasks. Like forecasting for the entire sales team for next year. Apparently “Er, let’s try to break a million, eh folks?” was not precise enough for him.

So demanding.

The grown-ups (see how I revert to my seven-year-old self when I come back? The grown-ups!) are playing bridge, and I am fantasizing about Jane Eyre in between pie and sweet tea breaks, having re-started the novel on the flight out. I forgot how much I desperately want to adopt her. Poor little 19th-century orphaned English girl! She’s so heartbreaking, in a delicious kind of way.

It’s good to be home. I just need a Funasaurus. Although spooning in one of the creaky old twin beds at my grandmother’s house isn’t exactly the romantic ideal. But if you drink enough brandy, you don’t really notice.

Royal Validation

It’s Dress Thursday! I wore a dress. A new one. I got it at Rue 21. You know, the store for skanky 15-year-olds? But it was only $19 and perfect for summertime! I recently made a resolve that I would only buy fair-trade, organically-made clothing. Apparently my resolves go out the window for $19 worth of red cotton/polyester blends on a hot day.

I’m thinking The Funasaurus did not marry me for my convictions so much as for my awesome CD collection.

In other news, I am still actively seeking friends on Flickr. Or at least someone who’s willing to explain to me how to navigate the site. What is the goal? How do you find the cool pictures without going back to 2006? Do you also stress about the fact that the “Cats R Cool” group will not accept you into being one of their 3,496 members when you don’t hear from them right away?

I’m off to humiliate myself at my first yoga class in months. Wish me luck. I plan on drinking wine, afterwards.

Wannabe Photo Geek

Is anyone out there on Flickr? I just joined. But I don’t know how to go about making friends. I should. I’m on, like, a million and a half social networking sites. But the beginning is always intimidating, no?

Also, it’d help if I felt a little more confident about my photos. There are some really talented people on that site.

But it’s fun, too. I got all inspired by Alyndabear and stole her meme, and I encourage you to do the same. Here are the rules:

a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker.

Questions:
1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favorite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favorite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name.

And here are my results:



Any surprises?

This Would be a Good Afternoon for Tea

I am pleased to announce that not only did I NOT kill the rose bush, but it seems to be happy. (Either that, or it’s putting on quite the dramatic death, but I am pretty sure it’s happy.)

See?



Nine! Nine roses! When I planted it on Friday, there were two! Oh hooray for undead flowers! … Do you like it how I’ve turned them into vampire flora?

So anyway. That’s about the highlight of my weekend. I continued to discover I am so not meant for a) heavy lifting b) wielding power tools, at a construction site on Saturday. Don’t ask. I was trying to do a good thing, although I think my biggest contribution to the day was the sharing of my Combos with the other workers at lunchtime.

I am involved in a vague-ish deception, which I’m not really happy about, because I’m not good at lying. Or avoiding the truth when the truth involves marriage and pretty flowers and rings and formalwear. I love talking about marriage and pretty flowers and rings and formalwear.

Have I said too much?

So there’s going to be an elopement, but at least I am invited to the elopement and get to wear a fabulous dress (provided I do crunches every day from now until the elopement) so it’s not all bad. I am just trying to figure out how not to talk about it. Maybe I will post some pictures of my dress at the Not-A-Wedding. We’ll call it the NAW. Remind me.

And there are a lot of birthdays this month. Happy birthday to you, if yours is/was this month, I am worried I forgot someone. Certainly a non-personalized generic shout-out on my regularly updated blog will suffice?

Tudor Rose

Well, I did it, I got us a rose bush. And I pulled out a dead bush, and I planted the rose bush, which I shall name the Tudor Bush in honor of my favorite author… and I wish it didn’t sound quite so dirty, but oh well.

Speaking of dirt. This next sentence shall perhaps clue the discerning eye into the fact that I am something of a gardening virgin. It turns out: gardening makes you dirty.

!

I was not quite expecting this amount of filth. Gardening was hard on my muscle-free arms and prickly on my newly buffed and manicured feet. I endured a lot of tickling to get those calluses off. Now I am kinda realizing people grow them for a reason. They serve a biological purpose. They help keep every FRICKING STICK AND PEBBLE FROM FEELING LIKE SHARDS OF GLASS. Prickly glass.

I was wrestling with the bush I was trying to get rid of when my neighbor wandered over, Avon catalog in hand. In flip-flops. I in my gardening gloves (they are purple! So cute! Shame to get them dirty…) and SPF 50 were wrestling a plant of less than a foot high. That sucker had IRON roots, I tell you. (Or, wait, that also might have been the pipe I hit with my LARGE SHOVEL. Hee. Oopsie. Hopefully The Funasaurus won’t read that part. I buried it, no one will notice, right?) So anyway, here I am in a sundress, flashing the entire neighborhood as I treat the sad little dead bush like a rabid alligator, and my neighbor is all, “Er, do you want a hand with that?”

I said “No” in the most yes-please-y way possible.

So she took hold of the bush, and yanked it out with her manicured fingers while I and my LARGE SHOVEL and gardening gloves stood by and watched.

Apparently she is not a gardening virgin.

So then I planted the new rose bush, and used my very burly set of pink floral gardening equipment to do it.



Can you see? Here’s a close-up:



See the bit of dirt? I used it!

I also forgot roses have thorns so I got scratched everywhere possible, including my BUM. But that was not so much due to the rose bush as the sad little dead bush behind me that I forgot about when I sat back to admire my handiwork. Ow.

Last night we went to a charity event. I am much more suited to charity events. Pretty dresses? Yes, please! Copious amounts of wine and valet parking and gourmet cupcakes? Oh, I was in heaven! Charity suits me. Gardening... was a bit of a stretch.

But now I have this in my yard.



And this.



Mrs. Tudor, this bit of princess-y deviance was for you.

Pumpkin Moonshine was a Friend of Mine

I just found out one of my literary heroines died on Wednesday. Tasha Tudor, in case you were living in a cave that predates 1830, was a children’s book author and illustrator. She lived this fantastical life, spinning her own yard and wearing (homemade) clothes straight out of the early 1800s, creating magical gardens, and drawing beautiful, delicate illustrations as a means of supporting herself on her farm in Vermont.

I wanted to BE Tasha Tudor. Or, at the very least, one of the characters in her books. A Tale for Easter was, and still is, one of my all-time favorite books. I wanted to use the adjective “magical” again, because it’s so applicable, but I couldn’t figure out a way to do that without sounding repetitive.

I feel like Tasha Tudor would have approved of Dress Thursdays. I did wear a sundress yesterday. In fact, that was the first sentence in my blog entry, yesterday. But since I couldn’t come up with any further sentences, I didn’t bother posting it. But I hope the spirit of Dress Thursdays was with you all the same.

I busted out my worn copy of The Private World of Tasha Tudor this morning, in kind of a still-in-my-pajamas homage, and fell in love with her gardens all over again. I would like to celebrate midsummer’s and sit on a porch in a rocking chair, enjoying the late spring evenings! I would like to go back to the east coast, where the mountains are not as high but the land is twice as green.

And I wonder why I just can’t compel myself to process another spreadsheet this morning. I think I may go buy a rose bush, instead.

“Life is too short not to be enjoyed thoroughly.” –Tasha Tudor

Um, Does This Strike a Little Too Close to Home to Anyone Else?

Courtesy of: http://xkcd.com/

Holy Cow. I Just Read This Post. I AM a Hippie.

Yesterday was a good day. I got to see a friend’s new baby (who has more hair than I did when I was FOUR) and last night I went to the Indigo Girls concert at the botanic gardens. The botanic gardens are an ideal venue, because you can bring wine. Also, a picnic. But mostly I was excited for the wine. And being able to head-bob without judgment because, HEY, we are all freedom-loving hippies and also Very White and so rhythm is not a prerequisite.

In other news we’ve switched up the cat food at our house. (Ooooh, our life! It’s so exciting! Nacht.) Because Innova is one of the best, according to numerous surveys. Of course, it’s different and Sugar has made Change her personal enemy, so she’s currently practicing anorexia. Tatum, on the other hand, is practicing his goat-ish tendencies, and loves him some Innova. He is about twice as heavy as he was last week, which seems like an awfully short amount of time to double one’s body mass. I’ve stopped calling him plump, because, well, he actually IS kind of plump, now. The joke’s less funny. But there’s more of him to poke, so, you know. All’s not lost.

I also went on a hike and made the poor Beanie Baby I got from Vagabond Beanies go rock climbing. Because what is more Colorado than throwing yourself against a reddish-colored rock and attempting to climb its face, despite the fact that there’s a perfectly good trail that goes up the side?

Why My Dad is Awesome, For Father’s Day.

Alternate Title: Why Having a Little Girl Should Send You Running in Fear

This is for my dad, who actually doesn’t know this site exists. Hi, Dad!

You were the one who taught me to love Chablis. At age four.

You were the one who taught me that Kanga, having a son named Roo, was actually a pun. Clever! I remember parroting your words on a box at recess, to an audience of ignorant pre-schoolers. I felt so wise.

You were the one who taught me that half of a half was a quarter, thus breaking up the tedious drive to Grandma’s into fractions. SO INTERESTING! (OMG, you tried so hard to breed a math geek, you really did.) Speaking of, I remember you waking up at 4:00 AM to help me with pre-calc in high school. In a moment of hateful, rebellious teenage angst, I had decided early morning was a better time to study than late night. I am still not sure why you didn’t hit me upside the head and tell me to go back to sleep.

You taught me to saw wood and hammer it together with rusty nails when I wanted a swing for my doll. Fischer Price can suck it. Building your own swing (with an arm on a hinge!) while dodging tetanus was so much more satisfying.

I remember you singing railroad songs to me on a stool in the workshop. I thought your voice was magical and beautiful, and your guitar playing was lovely. I believe this goes back to my point about my inheriting your complete lack of rhythm and harmony and anything musical-appreciation-y. I am surprised we did not shatter windows.

You were the one who taught me not to let “truth” get in the way of a good story. On the other hand, lying is WRONG.

…

I remember being angry that you wouldn’t run for president. You were the smartest person I had ever encountered. Even at an early age, I remember thinking, “Wow, my dad is so much smarter than other adults.” It probably helped that we grew up in the boonies where teeth and education were optional.

I remember watching thunderstorms with you late at night, wrapped up in a blanket in the living room. The view was spectacular from the large picture windows across the fields, but we weren’t usually allowed in the living room. It was a room for grown-ups. It felt slightly forbidden. That, plus the warm blanket, plus your strong arms, plus the cracking lightning outside made it just about the most delicious feeling in the world.

I remember seeing you cry when the cat died. My heart was breaking for the Muffin, but it broke for you, too.

I inherited my love of foreign languages from you. Mostly French. I think it might be because you used to tell my mom where the Christmas presents were hidden in French.

You fed me beer for constipation and ice cream for a broken heart. Two life lessons I still use.

I learned to waltz on your feet on the heinous orange shag carpet in our front hall. Again, we had no rhythm, but we certainly didn’t let that get in the way of our good time.

You used to let me and my friends style your hair with my cheap crimping iron and plastic bows. Why? Dad, sometimes, it’s o.k. to draw a line. I burned those pictures just in case you ever do decide to run for president. You’re welcome.

And I remember the late nineties. Mom was going through menopause. My brother was being as rebellious as his computer geek soul would allow, and I was in the process of throwing another hysterical hissy fit about lord-only-knows-what-contrived-teenaged-crisis I had invented that day. You were the twinkly blue calm eyes in our family storm. I remember summoning up the words, between drawn-out sobs to ask you, “Why do you put up with us?” I think I would have walked out on us, if I were you.

I remember your answer so vividly. You smiled a genuine smile, blue eyes twinkling even more, and simply replied, “Cathy*, I don’t put up with you, I love you.”

That was probably the most powerful sentence I have ever heard. Only ever trumped by one Funasaurus when he said, “Will you marry me?”

I remember your fondness for the Washington Redskins and The Sound of Music.

It’s o.k., no one’s perfect.

And I know I’m your daughter because we both love to ski and hike. And still like wood paneling, even though it’s out of style. And we both like to eat anchovies. And despise barley. (Unless it’s fermented.) I’m also your daughter because I like to drive little sporty cars a little too fast.

I wish I could get you a sporty little car for Father’s Day. Instead I got you a book, because you’re also an avid reader. I only wish I could remember as much as you do from what I read.

I hope you have a good Father’s Day all the same. We’ll certainly have wine, another family favorite. Cheers.

*Childhood name used for keepin' it real in sappy story, not for giving permission to anyone to go back to calling me that.

This Little Piggy Was a Princess

So, I know I am a little late, and this picture has been all over the internet, already.

But: MEEP!



Wee little galoshes! On wittle piglet feet! There could never be enough pictures. Story.

Sugar move over, I have a new mascot.

I Blame It on the Lack of Wine

Blegh, I know I checked out there. But the universe is back to hatin’.

This week I have a) lost my internet connection b) sworn Comcast as my mortal enemy (side note: If you are a COMPETITOR OF COMCAST, please bring your business here to my neighborhood, I will give you all my money, immediately. I do not think I am alone.) c) had my brand new, shiny, wide-screen monitor decide it didn’t want to display pictures anymore. Kaput. Finis. Back to balancing my laptop on, well, my lap. d) had a dead excel spreadsheet come back to life and attack me like a fucking starving werewolf.

Despite the antibiotics, I am opening up the alcohol tonight.

Diane said it’s o.k., I blame her.

In less cranky news, I got a Beanie Baby from Vagabond Beanies, and while, yes, I get that Beanie Babies were sooooo 1999, I actually think the project is very cute, and am taking my photography powers veeeery seriously. Stay tuned.

Rudolph Subsists Off of Sprite

Here’s the thing about antibiotics. They’re kind of the nemesis of fun. You can’t go out in the sun. You can’t drink. And you have to eat when you’re not hungry. So I spent the weekend hiding in shadows, trying not to drink alcohol as my friends had a gorgeous, outdoor wedding.

Let’s just say I did some retail therapy and found myself a cute, new dress to compensate for the fact that a FUCKING BUG bit me two weeks ago, and if that’s not disgusting enough, I could not sit outside nor partake of the FREE WINE because my doctor is a sadist and felt that I should take anti-fun pills for the next eon.

Not only that, but there was a rehearsal dinner (more free wine!) an open house the day after (MORE WINE) and then another friend’s poolside engagement party which again CONSISTED OF LOTS OF SUN AND EVEN MORE FREE WINE.

Do you see a pattern, here? A pattern of the universe mocking me?

The upside is that my pictures came out less blurry than usual. Of course, I got a sunburn on my nose, but oh well. I’m thinking I could try to make the “Rudolph” look work for the summer. At least it balances out my neon nails.

Day-Glo Temptation

We are going to a wedding this weekend, so I went and treated myself to a pedicure, so as not to offend the bride with my heinous toes. I don’t love toes in general, but they are made slightly better when painted pink. There’s a new “nail spa” that opened up right around the corner from where I live. I loved the very idea of it, a local business that does its best to be organic and non-chemically (which is quite a trick, when it comes to dealing with nail polish), it’s owned by a savvy lesbian couple, it’s reasonably priced, and when you walk in, it's darling enough to be featured on Desire to Inspire. Everything about it set my little liberal, aesthetically-inclined heart a-flutter.

Sadly, I have given myself better pedicures. While drunk. It’s a mess. Also, hideous. But that’s more my fault for choosing NEON PINK, circa Barbie 1986. I look like I’m announcing toxic waste on all my extremities. My thumbs do make handy day-glo sticks, though. In any case, I am prepared to give them another chance, to go back and pick a better color and maybe a nail technician with some experience beyond finger painting.

Sorry, K, to be such an eyesore at your wedding. Let me know if you’d like me to put my fingers on the floor just before you come down to light the aisle!

* * * * *

In other news, we have friends from all over coming in to town today, and I really have no interest in working. Especially when there’s laundry, vacuuming, and magazine reading to be doing. (Magazine reading IS considered cleaning, by the way. I am kind of compulsive about reading magazines that come in to our house. Even if they’re horribly outdated and I’m completely uninterested, I cannot bring myself to recycle/throw them out until I’ve at least glanced at each page. This has lead to quite a collection of old magazines under our coffee table.)

I’m also tempted to break out vino as soon as said guests appear… but I can’t do that, right? I’m technically at work and that’s kind of frowned upon, right?

Right?

Echo…?

New World

I can't wait to meet you, E.B.W.

And in the meantime, I give you a quote by a great writer who happens to share your initials, (and my fondness for commas) which, I feel, is very good advice for starting out a new life.


"We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry." --E. B. White

Caught Up in My World

I started Travels with Charley last night. (Book group’s less than a week away… can’t rush in to these things.) I’m pretty sure I was the one who originally suggested this book, because I had already read it and it fit perfectly, in a lot of ways. Our book group decided to do classics for the first year, so Steinbeck was an easy choice, except for the fact that I hate everything Steinbeck wrote except for Travels with Charley. Which totally makes up for the other stuff he wrote. It’s not long, but extremely well-written, and it is BRIMMING with discussion topics. The man lived at an interesting time. If you haven’t read this book, put it on your list.

But of course, now I am once again fantasizing about taking off for a road trip with Sugar. I’m hoping she’ll understand it’s for fun, and not a trip to the vet, because she’s never really excited about going to the vet. Mostly it involves a lot of claws and otherworldly groaning and hissing. And fur shedding. It’s messy.

...

Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe she should just stay home and continue to supervise Tatum’s antics with a disdainful eye. It’s what she’s best at.

While I’m happy summer’s finally here, after last night I’ve also become homesick for the New England falls, the colors, the smells, the apple cider. Fuck, I’m never satisfied. I wonder if book group would consider Christine Heather a classic? It’s got more of a summery, beach-y feel, no?

I think it helps to stay season appropriate. Any other suggestions for next summer?

Bliss

The universe did not send me cookie dough ice cream. It sent me a bouquet of lilies and orchids from Hawaii, instead.

!

…

!!!!

(via my cousins, as a belated birthday present.) Uh, thanks, and also WOW.

It’s been a good couple of days. The sun is shining on a weekend for the first time in forever, and I have spent the entire day inside on the computer, much of it researching flowers I could plant if I were to bother going outside.

Meanwhile, I got my sprinklers turned on, having bribed a neighbor for help while The Funasaurus is yet again out of town. Happily, he’s back tomorrow for a good, long time.

And really, that’s about it. This is the first day in MONTHS that I have exactly nothing to do, nothing penciled in on the calendar, and I am really loving it. I’m off to take a nap, which actually requires more effort than you might think, since it involves trying to convince this guy to move:




(Normal kitties don’t sleep like that.) He is a very sound sleeper. And amazingly immovable for only weighing four pounds. Albeit four pounds of faux-mouse-chasing-FURY.

Denver Theater/re

If you happen to live in or near Denver, Aspen, Oklahoma City, Albuquerque, San Francisco, or Portland and you see no other theater this year, you absolutely must get to Crazy Bag. It’s a hysterical but poignant show about one woman’s extreme life, and you do yourself an injustice if you don’t go see it.

Yes, I am biased. Murphy (writer and performer extraordinaire) is a dear friend of mine. An extremely talented actress, who, if you see the show you will know, is full of adventures, comedy, and drama. But the show has won several awards and she’s taking it on tour, so as the word spreads, it’s definitely not just me who’s gushing. In Denver she’s performing at The Vintage Theatre, and I am planning on going to several performances, so if you want to meet up, e-mail me and we will all go together!

Meanwhile it’s Dress Thursday and I am in a snit because I can’t find my favorite sundress. I know it came home from Jamaica. I am just not sure where it landed after we unpacked. So I am wearing a less-favorite skirt, and it’s really annoying.

Happily, this is the biggest source of angst in my life these days, so I guess I am doing o.k.

California DMV even saw fit to finally send me the title to my car after MONTHS of excruciating paperwork, change of address forms, name change forms, pissy letters about needing to fill out the forms correctly with a CA license number (except I don’t HAVE one of those because I live in Colorado, now, asshats) and random people’s checks being returned to me (although that actually turned out to be a funny story because I returned Bruce in Pasadena’s check to him in the mail, and it turns out ol’ Bruce is an aspiring poet [don’t quit your day job, Bruce] and sent me back a typed [as in: on a typewriter] letter/poem thing about bureaucracy. I am keeping it. Along with my old license plates. The spoils of war.) and well, finally, they sent it to me. NPR, after years of ignoring your pleas for money, I am finally donating my broken car to you. You’re welcome. Watch out for the black ice.

And the sun is shining. If I wasn’t married, already, I’d be suspicious I’d be about to meet my future husband. Maybe the universe will feel like giving me some free ice cream, instead. (no pressure, universe. But if the mood hits, I am partial to cookie dough.)

The cleanse has been put on the backburner, in case you can’t tell.

A Princess' Attempt at Getting Back to Nature (stop laughing)

So I spent the long weekend in the mountains with a girlfriend (hi, K! Don’t I make us sound glamorous and not at all like we went to bed at 9:00 every night?) and I had a really good time. I miss being in the mountains a lot. I actually had to fight off what felt like a looming anxiety attack as we packed the car to head back to Denver. Mostly I think that has to do with the fact that I don’t really feel like working anymore, so much as I feel like sitting on the deck of a log cabin drinking house wine as I listen to a mountain steam rush by. When I actually LIVED in the mountains, I had to work. And, well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I didn’t have a blog at the time, because whoo-boy I used to fill my fresh mountain air days with incessant whining. Whining about the cold. About the snow. About my boss. About the wildlife. Dern wildlife. Yeah, maybe it’s retirement I’m craving more than nature. Whatever.

So anywhos, I felt myself very hard core, as we spent the days hiking and crawling under large trees and scrambling and tempting fate to wring our poor little ankles like pipe cleaners. And then a BLIND GUY came tromping past me as I sat on a rock to catch my breath by a majestic waterfall.



You only get a picture of the waterfall and not the blind guy, because I felt kinda sleazy about taking his picture. Not that he would have seen me. (uhg, did I really just say that?) I just didn’t feel comfortable. That, and he was also with two guides helping him along, who seemed to see me just fine. But STILL. The guy was blind. And came scrambling up the mountain right past my weary, but 20-20-visioned ass.

But this only goes to prove that you do not really need to be hard core to see this:



And this:



And this:



all in one day when you are lucky enough to live in Colorado.

Of course, you also might see the world’s largest and scariest moth ever.



And you will go squealing inside like a piglet until your friend peer pressures you into taking a picture. At which point you will probably squeal some more.

You also might come home and find a tick buried neck-deep into your thigh. I know I did. That was awesome. And also might have elicited some more squealing. So I put nail polish remover on it, just like my mom used to do when we were kids. And as I sat there, soaking it in what I WAS going to use to remove my now-chipped pedicure (side note: I am long overdue for new hiking boots) I googled “tick removal” and every entry I got said, “Whatever you do, do not light it with a match (!) or soak it in rubbing alcohol or nail polish remover. This can cause it to regurgitate poison into the skin.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

So I dialed ask-a-nurse, and told her I had a tick, and that I had tried to remove it with nail polish remover, but had just read I wasn’t supposed to do that. “NO! DON’T DO THAT!” said the nurse.

Ah, right. Well, see, as I said, I ALREADY DID. So now what? Because it’s still in my thigh and WIGGLING. I don’t think it likes the acetone sauna I gave it.

So she told me to grasp it with tweezers as close to the skin as possible and pull it out. Do you even want to guess how much squealing was involved in that process, as I tried to clamp down (but not kill) the insect with its head in my body and wiggling its buggy little legs? I think I shattered a few glasses.

But the tick came out, I wrapped it in the nail polish remover-drenched tissue, and threw it away. And then drank some wine, because even though I wanted to detox after a weekend of subsisting off of cupcakes and wine (do you SEE why I was in heaven?) I really, really needed something alcoholic after that ordeal. Do they make moutains without ticks? I'd like to get me some of those.

My Tiara Is Made of Recycled Cans and Biodegradable Hemp... And Diamonds.

I’ve been more introspective the past couple of days, not sure why. Maybe the wedding pictures pushed the “go crazy” button in my subconscious. The Funasaurus has been working like a madman, and I haven’t seen him in a while. Except to watch the American Idol finale. I know, I know, we are those people. But whatever. We had fun. We totally used it as an excuse to drink the very nice Veuve Clicquot that was just gathering dust in our fridge. Hee! Then we ordered Pizza Hut to ying that yang. We also balance the fine china we got for our wedding on our knees while using paper towels for napkins. People paid good money for me (uh, us) to have pretty dishes, I see no reason not to use them just because I am too lazy to clean off our dinning room table.

So I was saying. I miss my husband, I want to go on another honeymoon. Or at least on another Arrested Development marathon. Awesomest show ever, if you like funny, then you must get yourself a copy of this show. It is a shame, A SHAME, Fox, that it is no longer on TV. It is the funniest thing EVER. How is Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader on and this show's not? No wonder the writers went on strike. You all are morons.

And I’ve been jumpy with every little gust of wind that’s come through here in the past 24 hours, what with the tornados and whatnot just north of here. Reason # 692 to move to the mountains sooner rather than later. I am not a plains girl. Ocean? Sure. Mountains? Sure. Rolling foothills a la Appalachia? It’s my heritage. (Seriously. Grandad was the youngest of seven in the high hills of West Virginia. Yee haw.) But flat stretches of land? Meh. I know some people find it pretty, I get the mythical wheat field-thing some people feel nostalgic for, but it’s not me. At all. And I don’t like wind. Plbthbthbth

Also, it’s astonishing to me the number of people who don’t believe in Global Warming. I had no idea it was such an extremist viewpoint, I kind of thought it was generally accepted, anymore. But apparently not. Best push your head a little deeper in the sand, folks, it’s getting breezy up here in reality what with all the tornados and earthquakes and hurricanes and cyclones and whatnot.

I’m just saying.

And I realize I shouldn’t be too high up on my pedestal, here, seeing as how I still take showers that border on longish. I still sometimes get plastic bags at the grocery store, because it’s what we use to scoop the cat litter into. (Does anyone have an alternative? I really am all-ears. Let me shoot down your first idea by that by saying Sugar turns up her nose at the flushable kind and proceeds to poo on the floor, so that’s a no-go.) And sometimes I leave the light on downstairs because I think my plants like it.

That was actually quite cathartic to admit. Anyone else have some non-greenie confessions? No worries, I still believe you recycle.

Wedding Love

Eeeee! I’m feeling all tingly with love. Love from Elizabeth Anne Designs, and OMG their site is so darling I am blushing. So I figured I should be all a propos and post wedding pictures, mostly because I’ve been looking for an excuse to do so. The Funasaurus and I got married last September and we’re still kind of on a wedding bliss high.

I don’t miss wedding planning AT ALL, but I miss wearing my pretty dress so much I will cry if I think about it too much. I will cry even more when I remember I am, like, 10 lbs past being able to squeeze into it, again, too.

I don’t know how to do the fancy palates that EA Designs do, but I knew I wanted an outdoor, fall-themed wedding, and the colors I wanted to work with were burgundy and gold.

Except I went and got a dress with a lavender sash.



Which, you know, doesn’t really go so well with burgundy and gold. In fact, it kind of clashes. But despite what Martha Stewart says, you CAN clash on your wedding day! If you want burgundy and gold and lavender, so be it, girlfriend! Your mother will probably be horrified, but whatever, you are the princess and drunk on champagne!

Cheers! I loved my wedding day.



sigh

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Colors. So. Burgundy. Gold. Lavender. Ivory, what with that being the color of my dress. (It’s good to establish if you’re going with white or an off-white early on. It’ll save you a headache. Or you can continue to clash, in which case, I applaud you!) Then I decided to add brown into the swoop of things because it’d be a good neutral-y-base-y-fall-ish color, and what the hell, I’m halfway through the rainbow, anyway. So I made my bridesmaids wear brown. I picked out the fabric and trim, told them the skirts had to be long, and then let them make their own dresses. It worked out really well, having bridesmaids spread across two continents and all over the U.S. And hopefully each girl got to wear a dress they felt comfortable in. If they didn’t, it’s their own fault. (Hint: throw in one darling flower girl who basically steals the show and no one will care about the matchy-matchy-ness of it all, anyway.)



I wanted to carry white roses because my mother and grandmother both carried white roses. Except the florist decided to throw in some peach. So then peach joined the mix, on my wedding day.



The bridesmaids bouquets and the groomsmen’s boutonnieres were lavender roses (hint to husband: I love sterling roses, they are so pretty and don’t have thorns) with burgundy berries. And the groomsmen wore brown vests. And didn’t look too clownish. (You’re welcome, groomsmen, for NOT getting lavender vests. The groom went to bat in your honor, which is a big deal, when it comes to decision making in wedding planning.)

And we decorated the aisles in those colors, too.



Um. I forget the rest of the details.

Our reception venue kind of looked like this:



The venue was already pretty decorated, so we were able to go minimal with the flowers. There were lights all over the ceiling, and it was much more romantic at night.

And then we ate the most fabulous cake, ever. Totally untraditional, but it was a shout-out to the way The Funasaurus proposed (hiding my ring in a copy of Pride & Prejudice, that clever monkey, he knew that'd seal the deal.) and tasted phenomenal. So I've heard. I forgot to eat some.


(That IS a Jane Austen action figure next to the cake, thanks for asking!)

But it was still awesome.

Then we waited seven months and went on our honeymoon, and for whomever it was that was curious, we went to a Sandals resort in Dunn River, Jamaica. Believe you me, you can get used to the “all-inclusive” lifestyle very easily. I highly recommend it, and I highly recommend going through a travel agent who can get you groovy upgrades, etc.

…
I want to do it all again.

All pictures courtesy of Picture the Day Photography- awesomest photographers EVER.

Me at My Less-Than-Best

Who knew that a hair dryer could produce curls? Certainly not I. And since you asked, and only because I love you, here is an extremely frumpy picture of me with my Bunny curls.




I feel that neither that shirt nor the camera were doing me any favors, and the curls were a bit more glamorous in person, but you get the idea, right? And you know I am not that plump or matronly, right?

So the trip was fine, Phoenix was hot, and tennis was, well, as expected. I wore my cute shirt and shorts, and had my curls in a ponytail, and that is where the fun ended. I had drenched myself in sunscreen, so I was greasier than bacon, but unburnable. We actually got a bit of a clinic, with a tennis pro out there throwing balls at a group of six of us to practice hitting. Well, that’s what the other five did, anyway. I reverted to my normal approach to any kind of sports and began to duck and cover, which was not really what the tennis pro wanted me to do, apparently.

Then the memories of middle school gym class came back to attack me like a pack of rabid dogs. Read: unpleasant. I would watch as everyone would swing at the ball, and with a satisfactory *thwack* it would land on the other side of the court or beyond, and there’d be “Aw man's” and a bit of swearing when it didn’t do exactly what they wanted it to. And then they would stroke their egos and try not to grin too broadly when it was my turn and I could not even make contact with the fucking ball. At least NO ONE ELSE IN THE WORLD IS THAT BAD.

I think I’ve said enough about that.

While I did not run into any javelina, I did come across a stray cat in the middle of a late-evening stroll, whom I worried about, what with the rattlesnakes and LIZARDS about, everywhere. But the cat was kind of mangy and extremely uninterested in me picking it up and carrying it the half mile back to the front desk of the fancy pants hotel, so I left it there amongst the cacti. I still mentioned it to the front desk and asked if they could call the Humane Society or someone (surely they must have volunteers working at 11:30 PM on a Saturday night?) and the lady looked at me and said, “We have feral cats around here, and some people here at the hotel feed them,” in the way you might say “Some people here eat poop.”

I didn’t hold out much hope for a rescue from the S.P.C.A. anytime soon, but it relieved me, somehow, to know that there were other feral kitties out there to keep him company. He was sweet, if filthy. And he had six toes, which was awesome.

So I got home and life returned to normal. I called my grandmother, as I am apt to do about once a week, because I miss her. And so I was telling her about Phoenix and I happened to mention the tennis clinic and my normally dignified, quiet grandmother busts out laughing and goes, “Ho ho, that’s rich!” (She’s allowed to use such antiquated terminology because she’s antiquated. She’s 96. ) I’m not even sorry for calling her antiquated, because she didn’t stop at laughing at me, she proceed to say, “You? Tennis? Seriously? I don’t recall you being any good at sports.”

!

At least I’m back in Colorado now, safe and sound, surrounded by my chardonnay and delicate kitties who don’t like it when the temperature dips below 72. I wonder how long they’d have lasted if I had brought home a wild cousin from Arizona. I can already see Sugar’s disdain. It’d be like that cousin from the National Lampoon vacations, except more hard-core.

Princess in the Desert

So I’m here in Phoenix for a brief visit, working from my computer in a hotel room, as opposed to working from my computer in my home office. I am quickly realizing I would like my home office more if I had someone else coming in for daily housekeeping whilst I toodle around on my spreadsheets. Also, a comfier robe.

The Funasaurus is working in a meeting room, and is the reason we are here. I got all excited about our little patio off our hotel room, too, and I was like, “Oh, I shall open the sliding door for a nice fresh breeze! I shan’t hurt the environment by turning on the air conditioning! I am at peace with nature, the flutter of the palm trees just outside, the trickle of piped-in water features.…”

And then I saw a lizard, and promptly shut and locked said sliding door and cranked up the air conditioning.

I also went to the salon and got my hair blown-out (one must be careful about how one asks for said service, by the way. When you go into a salon, it’s best to think before you start to say, “Hi, I need a blow…”) anywhos. So the lady washed and dried my hair, and also used a big round hairbrush and twisted it in all sorts of beauty school valedictorian-esque ways, and I have these large, beautiful curls that I really like but also kind of remind me of Playboy Bunny-type hairstyles. So I’m debating whether it’s appropriate for hob-nobbing with The Funasaurus’ boss at dinner tonight. Maybe if I wear pearls and a wool sweater it’ll mellow out the look. Too bad it’s, like, 100 degrees out here.

In even-more-tragic-for-The-Funasaurus news, we agreed to go to his company’s-sponsored tennis clinic tomorrow. I do not think my husband is aware of the full extent of my complete and utter incompetence when it comes to sports. This should be fun. And also humiliating.

I love you, baby. Please remember this weekend for my curls and not my serve.

Naturally Popular

So let me just clarify that when I say “cleanse” I mean “vitamin supplements and steamed broccoli” not “starvation and ass vacuums.”

I have had several friends do variations on both, and I am nowhere near hard-core enough (and also too self-conscious about said ass) to go to that extreme. I’m not even interested in losing weight. I just want to get out of this rut of crappy eating. After a week of eating decadent food and ordering two desserts every night (it was all-inclusive, how are you NOT going to get mousse AND chocolate fudge cake if it’s available?) I have kind of developed an addiction to very-buttery-and-salty-things and also refined sugar. I find myself craving it, to the point of driving to the store for a) more cupcake mix b) candy bars.

I feel gross. And while you might say, “Why don’t you just stop eating French fries and candy bars?” I will say, “Because it’s not as dramatic and hippy-sounding as saying ‘cleanse.’”

Speaking of hippies (not really) are any of you on BlogExplosion? Can you tell me why a 16-year-old girl who posts her (inane) Twitter comments on her blog gets more votes than I do on Battle of the Blogs? I am assuming it is because she paid all the girls in her class with their own inane Twitter blogs to vote for her, and not because “Yo, algebra blows” is actually more entertaining than all my wishy-washy thoughts on potatoes?

Anyone?

Fine Line Between Pretend and Reality

O.K., so don’t be mad… but I did not use all your lovely potato recipes. I was going to, until I stumbled across a really yummy-sounding recipe on Epicurious.com, and oh! I had to try it. It had feta. I am a sucker for feta. And it was wonderful.

Here I go, pretending I have stacks of these recipes, now. My new favorite potato recipe:

Red Potatoes with Olives, Feta, and Mint
(serves 6)

Ingredients:
1 3/4 lbs small red-skinned potatoes, cut into quarters
1 bunch fresh mint, chopped
8 oz feta, crumbled
3/4 brine-cured black olives (like Kalamata) pitted, chopped
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Preperation:
Place potatoes and 3 Tablespoons mint in large pot of salted water.
Bring water to boil, reduce hear and simmer until potatoes are tender. (About 12 min.)
Drain potatoes, transfer to large bowl.
Set aside 2 Tablespoons mint, 2 Tbs cheese, 2 Tbs olives.
Add remaining mint, cheese, olives to warm potatoes, along with oil.
Season with salt and pepper. (I used no salt, the cheese and olives made it plenty salty.)
Garnish with reserved mint, cheese, olives.
Serve warm.

The whole thing went together really quickly, and it was really good. It was very feta-y. I would recommend maybe going somewhere between 7-8 oz.

So, so good.

But I promise to try out all your yummy suggestions this summer, because I like sea salt, too!

Meanwhile, it snowed again today. And while a few flurries hardly compare to the devastating cyclones and earthquakes going on around the rest of the world, I’m kind of ready for some warm spring weather, already. The grass IS liking the moisture, though. I can’t figure out how to turn on our sprinklers (I know it’s insanely easy, I just don’t want the thing-y to start leaking in our front hall closet if it’s not pointing the right way) so our itty-bitty foot of lawn is rather brown compared to all of our neighbors. And I thought I wanted a garden. Ha ha and ho ho.

Also, to all of you who were like, “Changing a dryer hose is soooooo easy!” to you I say: FUCK OFF.

Because it while it LOOKS easy enough, it really isn’t, and there is lots of metal and swear words and trips to home depot for more hose that isn’t utterly destroyed involved. There’s THREE HOURS of our lives that The Funasaurus and I will never get back. Next time we’re calling a repair man. And also maybe a cleaning service. Lint is nasty, nasty stuff.

So keep the comments coming on doing a cleanse. I am fascinated by the replies.

Where I Pretend I Know How to Cook

Thank you for all your lovely potato recipes! I shall definitely be using some of them, if not all of them. I like to mix and match, when it comes to recipes.

For anyone who was curious, here is my super easy and super yummy twice baked potato recipe:

Serves 4

Total prep time (not counting baking the potatoes) about 15-20 minutes

Ingredients:

4 medium-sized potatoes (this means NOT the Idaho spuds that could double as footballs. If you get those, you obviously need to up the other ingredients, as well.)

½ cup sour cream

2 Tablespoons cream cheese

3 Tablespoons softened butter

Some salt and pepper (it’s a matter of taste)

Grated cheddar, optional

Chives, optional

Wash and bake the potatoes. Don’t overbake. (Honestly, I cheat and do about 5 min/potato in the microwave. Since they go under the broiler later, they still get that oven-y goodness. If you do use the microwave, be sure to poke holes in the potatoes so they don’t explode. It’s a bitch to clean up… so I’ve heard.)

Heat oven to broil while you prepare the potatoes

Cut a hole at the top of each baked potato, and hollow them out like little canoes. Keep the walls thick enough so that the potato still retains its shape. (If you DO use the enormous spuds, I usually cut them in half, length-wise, instead of hollowing out a whole one. If you only use 2 potatoes, it’ll serve 4.)

Put all the insides into a large mixing bowl

Add sour cream, cream cheese, butter, and salt and pepper to bowl, blend thoroughly

Refill potato shells with mixture

Sprinkle grated cheddar and chives on the top, if you want. (It’s prettier, but doesn’t really change the taste that much.)

Lay potatoes on baking pan, and put directly under the broiler, for about 5-10 minutes until the cheese and potatoes develop little brown, toasty peaks. Watch carefully, it happens really fast.

Serve immediately

Now I’m off to buy some little red potatoes and sea salt.

Happy Friday, everyone!

P.S. Have any of you ever done a cleanse? Would you recommend it?

Cookies and Potatoes

I had good intentions to go for a jog today. I am dressed in my running clothes and everything. However I also had a Very Big and Lives Depend on It (not really)-type project that I had to get out this morning, so I told myself I’d go after I got the VIProject out.

I was in the process of sending it when I heard the first clap of thunder. Seconds later, we were in the middle of a downpour. This is all the more odd because Colorado does not really get thunderstorms. (Well, Colorado Springs does.) But Denver typically does not. Rain showers are few and far between, and usually they’re more like 10 minute drizzles, and then the sun comes out. Colorado is a very sunny state. Sometimes I actually miss the delicious summertime thunderstorms of the east coast, the crackling thunder, the obese raindrops…. This little storm we’re having is actually quite fun and cozy. And I’m quite sure it’s a direct sign from the universe telling me to not jog so much as eat some cookies. Ice cream cookies, nonetheless.

And, well, who am I to question the sage advice of the universe?

Also, it’s Dress Thursday! Are you wearing your dresses? I will be! Just as soon as I get out of this jogging gear covered in cookie crumbles.

Switching gears again, does anyone have a good potato recipe? I have been instructed to bring potatoes to our Mother’s Day feast this Sunday. That is my contribution. Usually my go-to potato recipe is twice baked potatoes. I make good twice baked potatoes. But I have seen the rest of the menu, and it is filled with cheese and butter and more cheese. All of which is well and good and delicious, but it might be nice to switch it up a bit with something that wasn’t quite so deep-fat-fried. I was thinking maybe little russet potatoes with herbs or something. Anybody have a good recipe like that?

The World Keeps on Spinning

Apparently the world does not stop when I go on vacation, particularly my work world, seeing as how the work just kept piling up while I was gone and now it is a big frickin’ hassle and really, someone should look in to that. I have better things to do when I get back from vacation. Like starting to plan my next one.

On a grander scale, I think the universe is aligned in a funky way these days. Big, big things are happening. Some good, some bad. But recently I feel like the world has changed drastically, although not MY world, exactly, so much as the world around me. There has just been a lot of big news, not all of which I can share. The situation in Myanmar is certainly the biggest and the scariest to watch, even from here. But more locally there are babies and weddings as well as some sadder stories, and it all seems to be colliding into just the past 72 hours or so. Is anyone else experiencing this as well?

* * * * *

For anyone still curious about our trip, here are a few more pictures:

We posed with mermaids



Climbed this waterfall



Yeah, mon



Watched cruise ships go by from our balcony



Cuddled wooden giraffes (sober wha…?)



And were basically devastated to leave paradise. It feels like it was all just a dream.

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!