'Tis the Season for Lowering Expectations

The Muppets Christmas special was tonight. I raced home, my eyes all a-glow, to see what Santa brought tonight. Truthfully? I was… underwhelmed. There was so much potential. They had some good guests, but Uma Thurman? For shame. You are given a choice character called Oh! Joy and the best you could do was fan yourself with a bit of blue paper and make weird, googly eyes over your frosty pink lipstick? Blegh.

The best bit was the shrimp with his Guido black turtleneck and gold chain. And stalkerish picture of Halle Berry in his pocket. Awesome.

Animal was missing completely, and the big Muppet monster is supposed to eat Kermit, not deliver mail and Christmas trees. The new writers are pansies compared to the originals.

That said, I’m still in the holiday mood, despite the fact that it looks like our Christmas tree threw up all over our living room, what with the wide array of ornaments strewn about amongst the packing paper and outdoor lights, which are not, as yet, outdoors.

If you haven’t gotten a Christmas card from us yet, it’s probably because we haven’t sent them. We’re aiming for Easter at this point. Ho ho, no one will be expecting one then! Especially one with a sparkly snowman on it! (Yes, we’re totally those people. The ones who send you a card filled with glitter that you must then vacuum up after reading our generic greeting. Merry holidays to you!)

But that’s o.k. I’m forgiving our seasonal delinquence. We’ve been busy seeing friends and having fun and occasionally working when we can squeeze it into our busy schedule. I feel like anymore, getting to hang out in person is a better gift than most of the crap I can afford, anyway. And less wrapping paper! Huzzah! I am filled with holiday cheer and spirit, if not motivation and organization.

Christmas Miracle

OH JOY!

Christmas has come early this year!

http://www.nbc.com/Movies_Specials_More/Happy_Holidays/video/clips/muppets-christmas-north-pole/861542/

Thank you, Santa, from the bottom of my weirdly-obsessed little Kermit heart.

Christmas Conundrum

We typically decorate for Christmas. Not that you would know, seeing as how we’re well into December and I just threw out some orange and yellow flowers leftover from Thanksgiving, yesterday. That’s about all the decoration we had going on. This weekend, though. This weekend there will be mulled wine and Christmas carols and tree trimmings and The Funasaurus can just suck it up and because I know it’s not his thing but rest assured, darling, your life will be so much pleasanter if you just let me drink my hot spicy wine and pierce your ears with my rendition of “Deck the Halls.” No, seriously.

Also, I have an outdoor problem, and this is where I am hoping to garner advice from the dear internets. We have these lovely white columns outside our house. And last year I found this awesome wide red velvet ribbon that I wrapped around the columns to create a candy cane-ish effect. Unfortunately, the columns are made of plastic or something (read: not wood) and are not so easy to attach things to. Like winding bands of red velvet ribbon. So I, being well into the mulled wine by that point last year, decided that the best way to stick them on the columns was to literally stick them. With tape. With Scotch tape. Because apparently Christmas decorations fall somewhere between grade school art class and Mailboxes Etc. in my world.

Needless to say, they did not last the night. So I added more tape the next day, and they stayed... sort of. We had very droopy candy cane columns. I’m sure our neighbors were thrilled with our addition to the neighborhood adornments. So my question to you is, do you have any brilliant ideas for sticking ribbon to hard, plastic-y columns? I mean, besides Scotch tape? Because that really didn’t work so well. And the columns are white, so I don’t really want to go with duct tape, as wonderful as it is, because it doesn’t blend so well.

Or should I just dip back into the eggnog/hot toddies/mulled wine and forget about the dumb columns, already?

Why I Miss the East Coast

The east coast totally blows the rest of the country away when it comes to autumn.



You just don't get these kinds of colors in Colorado, as pretty as the aspen are.





I spent a lot of time being nostalgic for these places, they feel like home in a deep part of my (albeit wine-soaked) heart.



Happily, I had a Funasaurus calling from Colorado, reminding me that the snow was coming. (I love snow.) And that I had a family to come home to, complete with kitties who needed dental work, stat. Nothing I love more than driving hateful cats to the vet thirty miles away in a snowstorm!

I did miss them, and I am glad to be home. And we have gotten quite a bit of snow recently.

But I still think the fall on the east coast is one of the most magical combinations of time and place.

Dirty. And Awesome.

You'll never look at Teletubbies the same way. (Not that I really think you were looking at Teletubbies all that much to begin with.)

http://unrealitymag.com/index.php/2008/12/03/12-of-the-best-kids-showrap-mash-ups/

Lap of Creepy Luxury

The Funasaurus and I spent a decadent weekend at a fancy hotel in Colorado Springs. We had received a gift certificate for two nights there as a wedding present, and for whatever idiotic reason, had not managed to find a weekend to properly enjoy it. Me, postpone free luxury and room service? Obviously, my princess skeelz have gotten rusty.

We actually took a little vacation from TV, which was just divine. We each had a good book (grammar issues overlooked) and spent a day just cuddling and reading and watching the flurries come down over Pike’s Peak. We were there for the lighting of an oversized Christmas tree, and spent a lot of time pondering the intricacies of what, at first glance, appeared to be a darling gingerbread village. But upon further inspection turned out to be kind of ghoulish and creepy. It was all Nightmare Before Christmas-y, complete with mortuary, coffins, monks with gremlin-y pointy ears, and a gothic church on a cloud. It was awesome, but a somewhat risqué choice for the conservative older patronage that place gets. Props to the Broadmoor for their icing-encrusted shout out to Tim Burton. I’m just sorry I only got pictures of a corner of it. The creepier stuff wasn’t even documented, sadly.

To make the weekend perfect, we got the news that one of our dearest friends finally had her baby. And she picked the prettiest name ever. And the baby is one of the prettiest babies ever, but we are so not surprised, given who her parents are. I’m really, really happy for them. And I’m in complete awe that people my age are intentionally getting knocked up. When did we get so…responsible? Want to hear what I had for dinner tonight? EGGNOG.

So it was a good weekend, with only a minor blip on the radar of happiness. That blip being a huge fucking snowstorm that caused a normally hour-and-a-half drive to turn into three and a half hours of snow-packed misery. But, hey! ‘Tis the season.

It is now winter, thus the universe spake.

Grievances

If I invite you to dinner at my house, I am not inviting you to do my dishes. Please bring wine. That is the best way to show appreciation. If you insist on doing dishes, it will only make me uncomfortable and mad. You are inevitably doing them WRONG and I will just have to redo them after you are gone, and in the meantime you are making me look like an asshole who makes her guests clean her house while she lounges around continuing to drink wine. If my conversation sucks so badly, feel free to leave. More wine for me. But please get the fuck out of my kitchen if I kindly ask you to stop. 

We had our Thanksgiving early. Last Saturday. Guess who got a wee bit frustrated over her extended family refusing to get out of her kitchen. I don’t want to do the dishes at your house. I don’t. I offer, because it’s socially required, and if you are appreciative and need help, it’s not a big deal. Many hands light work and all that. But that is not the case in my house. I do not want your help, because it’s really not helpful so much as getting in my way. 

I’m over it. And the meal was good, and the conversation wasn’t bad. We were missing a grandmother and that was very sad, but it was nice to have the rest of the family together. And now we’ve got a four-day weekend to look forward to without the hassle of cooking another massive feast. I anticipate much reading.

And I need the time, because there are a lot of things to be read. I just finished Mating, by Norman Rush. And am now starting in on All the Pretty Horses, which was last month’s book for book club. I’m only a little behind. Mating was excellent, even if it was completely pretentious and required a little bit of brain power. And now that I’ve started All the Pretty Horses, I can tell you something about National Book Award Winners. They are above grammar.

Quotation marks? Oh, that’s so… mass market. Should you wish to be considered literary, apparently you need to eschew something so base as two bitty dots to denote when someone is speaking. If someone is brilliant enough to be reading your masterpiece, then surely they will be able to divine from your supremely awesome writing style when a character is actually saying something without such a crutch as a common quotation mark.

I’m headed back to chick-lit after this. Chick lit with all its lovely commas and quotation marks. I’m a peon in the masses, baby. And I’m o.k. with that.

 

 

Bon Appetit!

Eggnog is a partisan issue. I don’t know too many people who are very meh about eggnog. (side note: meh was recently added to Merriam Webster! Who knew?*) You either love eggnog or you hate it. I love it. The Funasaurus hates it. Naturally I buy lots of it the second it appears in the stores (last night) and keep it there until it curdles sometime in March. It makes my husband cringe in a sweet way. I didn’t realize it was so divisive until recently, and so now I am curious. Which camp do you fall into?

A)    A)   Yummy, creamy holiday love drink

B)    B)   Old man fart goo in a deceptively milk-like box

On that note, my house looks lovely! The cleaning ladies were so much better than my grandmother’s! I love them. And as one wise sage I know said, “The skill of a cleaning lady is inversely proportional to their fashion sense.” It’s true, the two who cleaned our house were rocking very awesome mullets. Both of them.

I literally danced around clapping my hands when they left, examining things that have never, ever been so clean. Like the floor trim in our bathroom.  With such an empty, sparkling clean counter beckoning me, I decided it was time to get a head start and prepare the brine for the turkey we’re having tomorrow as an early Thanksgiving with family before they go out of town. Naturally I spilled honey all over my newly-mopped kitchen floor. Then I stepped in it. Then Sugar raced through. I’m pretty sure there’s now honey in our carpet.

I’m saving up to have the cleaning folks come back as soon as friggin’ possible. Also, if you’re coming for dinner tomorrow, be sure to wash your socks when you get home.

Cheers!

*I recently learned that the dictionary, since, like, 1961 has been descriptive as opposed to prescriptive. That is to say, it gives the definition as used in the common, current evolution of the language. It is NOT, necessarily, the authoritative resource on correct useage in formal English! Oh! The madness!

The Eight Most Underrated Muppets

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I miss them all.

Polishing Off Bugs

So I’m back in Colorado. I decided I wanted to look pretty for The Funasaurus when I got home, plus I had time to kill at the airport, so I decided to get a manicure. My hair was crap and I forgot makeup, but surely a bit of nail polish would cure all that. A *bit* is actually a quite accurate description. That was the shittiest manicure I have ever gotten. It wasn’t even a manicure, just a polish change. They didn’t even have to take any old polish off, just slap the new stuff on. She rushed through it, used her own nails imprecisely to scrape off sections that she went outside the line on, and in doing so scraped part of the polish that should have stayed on my nail, off.

I was charged $12 for polish I could have done better myself. So I left a really bad tip. I just couldn’t justify the normal 20% that I am accustomed to just doing for most any service. It was a terrible job, it was rushed and overpriced. But I’ve been feeling guilty about the bad tip ever since. Of course the polished chipped the next day, and I can’t decide if it’s the universe punishing me for tipping badly, or if it’s a sign from the universe to show the bad tip was justified. Or maybe it just means I shouldn’t have been trying to take a price tag off a plate with newly-polished nails. The universe is a mysterious thing.

So are space station science experiments. Rogue spider on the international space station!

Meanwhile back on the ranch (aka our little house in our cookie cutter neighborhood) is a disaster zone. Between two weeks of a couch-surfing Funasaurus and me returning from a long trip and feeling the need to spread out the unpacking process into every single room… we’re a big frickin’ mess. Plus, we are supposed to host an early Thanksgiving for 14 of our nearest and dearest on Saturday. I have decided to make the fiscally prudent decision to hire a cleaning lady for a one-time gig. She’s going to ignore our upstairs, and just try to help get our livingroom/kitchen/dinning room/bathroom area in shape. I am excited but also apprehensive. I need the help, but I am squeamish about letting someone else touch my stuff. My grandmother’s cleaning lady came once while I was visiting, and despite my saying “I just got here two days ago, no need to go into my bedroom on this trip,” she went into my bedroom, rearranged everything, and threw out all my little dental floss head-thingies because I guess they looked too messy to her. Grrrr Never have I felt so possessive over little bits of plastic and string.

On the other hand, I don’t really feel like cleaning out the moth that died and smeared his carcass (I suspect some help from our feline roomies) all over the inside of the white lining. Here’s hoping the cleaning lady is less squeamish about incredibly large dead bugs than The Funasaurus and me.

Space. The Final Frontier... For Women, Apparently

I am excited about the Endeavour shuttle launch tonight. I somehow knew about it in the back of my brain, even though I haven’t seen a newspaper or listened to StarDate in several days.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27718900

I was a huge fan of space as a kid. The Challenger tragedy is one of my earliest memories. It is the first time I remember crying for total strangers. In college I actually enjoyed my astronomy class, and ultimately had to make a tough decision between hanging around in Colorado Springs to help a group of physics majors put a huge telescope up on top of Pike’s Peak or go to France for the millennium. Either, I felt, would have been a defining moment in my skimpy life resume of Awesome Experiences thus far. I actually considered skipping the millennium in Paris. I didn’t. (And it was magnifique. But that something even competed with that event in my life is fairly noteworthy.)

I think it’s also fair to say that I was a major contributor to the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum’s funding several summers running, what with my buying them out of freeze-dried ice cream on more than one occasion. It’s basically Styrofoam with a slight medicinal chocolate flavor. I loved that crap. And I liked seeing the inside of the space capsules and moon rock samples. I was, and am, a fan.

What I am NOT a fan of is fucking let’s-be-a-downer-for-all-women blondie on the Fox channel this morning who was supposed to report on the Endeavour launch this evening who was all blasé about it and then has the audacity to turn to her co-host and go, “Eh, I’m just not that interested. Space is really a guy thing.” And, of course, he nodded agreeably and made some borderline chauvinist comment.

?!

Fuck you, lady. Maybe you should uncinch that corset and stick it up your ass in a welcome-to-the-millenium-even-your-precious-Mrs.-kill-‘em-and-drill-‘em-Palin-might-beg-to-differ kind of way.

Whoo. I’ve been saving that up all day apparently. I like being here with family, but I seriously cannot take too many more days of the whack-o-ness that comes out of Fox “news.”

Plus, you know, I miss my husband. See you soon, love. There are so many Daily Show episodes I need to catch up on.

The Best of Intentions Always Result in Chocolate

I met a friend at The Melting Pot last night, where I proceeded to eat my weight in cheese. Then we ordered chocolate fondue for dessert and had to order extra marshmallows for dipping because the two of us are huge marshmallows fans. (We survived Girl Scouts together. There is a lot of psychological comfort derived from marshmallows in our world. Marshmallows and, more recently, martinis. I often think girls camp might have been more bareable had their been cocktails available.)

I waddled out to my car with my pants unbuttoned to make room for all the cheese and sugar expanding in my stomach. And decided that, no matter how cold (it has been cold the past couple of days!) I would run this morning. I went a couple days last week and it felt good.

This morning I scrounged up a hat in my grandmother’s closet, put on long pants, a long sleeved t-shirt, and my running shoes. To walk out into the rain. GAH.

I promptly turned back around and debated what to do. Naturally, running was out. But I could, perhaps, spend a little quality time with my grandmother. So I wandered back into her house just as she was settling happily into the Fox news channel. (It plays about 12 hours a day there.) I resisted blowing my brains out and sat down to try and have a conversation. Mrs. Palin then came on to do a press conference, and all conversations were hushed.

I sat, transfixed, as she forgot the second sentence of her speech and had to look at her notes. To be fair, she was quite a ways in. The woman doesn’t really believe in periods. She just starts talking and keeps going and then says some more and then throws in an “Alaska!” and a “GOP” here and there and it’s just one long painful never-ending steam, OMFG.

Then, after a couple minutes of all but giving the verbal equivalent of a lap dance to the Republican egos in the room (it was a convention of GOP governors, or something like that) she opened it up for questions. The first question was about her campaign. She gave a little snort, and said, “The campaign’s over,” and was applauded for stating the obvious. The reporter persisted, and she said something to the effect of, “It’s in the past, so I’m not going to talk about it. What I am going to do going forward is take questions from the media.”

Forward from right now? Because to me, it kind of sounded like she answered a question from the media by saying, “I’m not going to answer your question, because I’m now going to answer questions from the media.”

I gave up, walked out, made myself some hot chocolate, and went back to work. It seemed like the only reasonable thing to do.

There and Back Again

I spent the weekend in Virginia, and am now, more than ever, in love with that place. The fall on the east coast is just breathtaking. I took a million pictures, but can’t post them until I get home, so you will just have to take my word for it until then.

After a week of pies and cookies and tea in Delaware, I went straight into a delicious lunch made from an artist’s take on a Virginian farmer’s market. Never have I seen cucumbers sliced in such a darling way. (Sadly, they still tasted like cucumbers. The only time I like cucumbers is when they’ve been drowned in vinegar for quite some time.) But the rest of the salad was delectable, even if I can’t pronounce the name of the leafy green I mistook for “lettuce.” Which was, apparently, blasphemy.

There was fresh artisan bread, real butter, and Chablis to wash it down. In short, it was a dreamy lunch. Then there was a walk in the park where my dad used to go sledding as a kid. The trees are the same, though just a little taller, according to my aunt.

Lesson learned: dirt trails covered in leaves were not meant to be navigated whilst wearing clogs and looking through an itty-bitty viewfinder.
Sincerely,
My Ankles

I had crepes for brunch here, and a snazzy dinner here. (Named for Marvin Gaye, and his self-imposed exile in Belgium. Who self-imposes exile in Belgium, I ask you? All that beer hardly seems very hard core exile-y.)

When I got back to work yesterday, there was an exciting email waiting for me in my inbox. Nothing’s official yet, but there may be good things in store. This has been a good trip so far.

A Little Taste

There’s no one better to have tea with than my Grandmother. Mostly because she lets me break out the Limoges teacups. She was down with the dainty pastel flowers and with gold leaf trim long before anyone had thought to add the “chic” to shabby chic. They are mismatched in the most deliciously girl-y way possible.

As she puts it, “Tea just tastes better in these cups.” And who am I to disagree with my grandmother? At least until we get to politics.

The air is getting thick with moisture here, in a way that’s inconceivable in Colorado. I almost felt like I was swimming when I went jogging this morning. And my laundry’s still not dry. But my skin looks phenomenal! And I’m not sure, but I think my eyebrows are thicker.

I’m just kind of hoping it doesn’t rain. I want the leaves to stay on the trees just a little longer. Plus, I don't feel like battling D.C. traffic in the rain this weekend. Amen for my little Garmin.

Sweet Nothings

I broke from my strawberry pie routine this morning and had apple butter on toast, instead. Change is, indeed, in the air. Apple-flavored goo on carbs is totally different than strawberry-flavored goo on carbs.

Last night was special, if quiet. My little corner of the world right now is not so happy about the outcome of the election. My grandmother called my parents to tell them she was unimpressed with me this morning. And other family members began the fear-mongering last night. But you know what? There’s always something to be afraid of. In the meantime, I really think Obama stands for progress, and represents a younger generation for whom race is an afterthought. I believe Obama was elected for his policies and platform and not really much else. If he can run his cabinet half as well as he ran his campaign, we should be in quite capable hands.

I find a lot of similarities between Barak Obama and John F. Kennedy. It seems there are a lot of people in my generation who are excited about Obama the same way my parents’ generation was excited about Kennedy. They were both young, come across as well-educated and articulate, and yet still seem to have an eye for what the nation needs and wants. And they both expressed a lot of optimism about what our country is capable of.

And to me, “So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other,” is not such a far cry from, “ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”

GObama.

Now it’s back to work. And contemplating strawberry pie for lunch. The world seems just a little sweeter, today.

Mostly Food-Related. Plus a Ditch.

I know I’m in Delaware when I am eating strawberry pie before I am even completely awake. I know I’m with a childhood friend when I turn down the opportunity to go out to the bars in a new city in order to stay home and decorate cookies with lavender icing. (We did, of course, supplement said cookies with wine. We’re crafty, not stupid.)

The next day we met her boyfriend for a quick cup of coffee around the corner from Biden’s house. Boyfriend is in the Secret Service, and was able to take a couple minutes break from standing in Biden’s yard to join us for carmel lattes. I don’t know why, but I found that hilarious. Standing in Biden’s ditch all night. HEE! It just sounds dirty to me.

Ditches aside, it’s been a nostalgic trip so far. Fall is good for nostalgia. I went out to a local orchard that sells apples by the bushel from hand-woven wooden crates. I used to buy my Halloween pumpkin there every year. If I could carry it to the car, mom would buy it for me. I strained a lot of scrawny bicep muscles in those fields.

This year my grandmother did not go in with me to scrutinize each and every Stayman Winesap. It’s too much trouble to get in and out of the wheelchair. Nevertheless, I was given explicit instructions on how to park the car for her optimal viewing pleasure from the passenger seat, while I was sent in with a list that included apple butter. (*shudder of pleasure.* Homemade apple butter.) The new lines in the parking lot (new as of a decade ago?) delineating where one was allowed to park, even if one has a handicap tag, were not to her liking. And I was told about it. The more things change….

Fresh Out of Vigor

I’m home. For a couple days. No rest for this royalty. I leave for Philadelphia tomorrow. (Go Phillies!) Tonight we’re just hanging in, handing out candy to all the kiddies, and trying not to get shot, because apparently we now live in the ghet-to, what with all the shootings in the neighborhood, recently. I am running oodles of loads of laundry while scrambling to stay on top of work.

And I am trying not to think about how I am going to miss The Funasaurus and my book club and my own bed. On the other hand, it will be fun to see my grandmother and other assorted friends and family, not to mention the gorgeous leaves. If there are any left. After that last storm, I just don’t know. There are leaves left here in Colorado. It was in the 70s today. And you wonder why I am reluctant to leave.

This is the first year in many years that I have not dressed up to go out for Halloween. It’s kind of sad, although it is quite hard to top our Kermit and Piggy year. We’re getting too old to have fun. I know this is true not just because we’re lame-ish this holiday season, but because one of our friends (who went to school with The Funasaurus) has gout. GOUT. Like what you imagine 80-year-old men with long ear hair getting.

At least there will be trick-or-treaters tonight to remind us of our youth. Ah, youngins. With all their costume-making energy. Those were the days. Pass the wine, time to start pickling myself.

Coming into My Rightful Title

The dream.

The dream is coming true.

I am believe this trip is turning me into the royalty I have always known myself to be. First, there was much discussion today about being behind castle walls. About sending manuscripts out into the scary world “out there” and behind able to retreat behind my safe, grammatically correct castle walls.

Then, after debating with some coworkers as to whether I’d be deigning to come down a floor to visit them or if they’d be coming up to see me in my temporary cubicle, I get this email from one of them, “Oh, I can come up there. I’m not THAT lazy. I just thought maybe it’d be easier for you to see everyone here than to continue to be interrupted. But if you’d rather us come to you, like you’re a queen or something, so be it.”

Ho ho! Buddy. You don't even know. I figure if I can fly to Indianapolis they can damn well take the elevator up a floor to meet me the rest of the way.

They have now taken to calling me Princess Cat. And they don’t even know about the blog! It’s awesome. I’ve been basking in the glory of my newfound kingdom. Baby, I think we’re moving to Indianapolis. The cost of living’s not so bad out here! We could buy… well, we could buy a palace.

Princess Chips a Nail in the Midwest

Aloha from Indianapolis! So far I have seen the inside of my hotel room, the mall, and a man-made lake. I am pretty sure I could be in any small town, USA, but the taxi had an Indiana license plate on it, so I’m pretty sure I ended up in the right place.

I’m here for work. The next few days are going to be busy, and hopefully not humiliating, as I worry about chewing through all that I have proverbially bitten the fuck off. I am here trying to impress people, and goodness knows I am not really so good at that. I brought my new flat iron and have let my hair go greasy for the last couple of days so that I can wash it and style it to perfection (er, somewhat closer than normal, anyway) first thing tomorrow morning. And I also decided that since this is such a short trip, I should try and fly with just a carry-on. Having learned nothing from my honeymoon just a few short months ago when I was forced to go back up and check my carry-on and go through the whole security line again because I somehow thought jumbo bottles of shampoo totally qualified as clear plastic 5 oz. bottle, I got stopped at security again. They did not laugh at my all friendly-like and ask, “Is this some kind of test?” again. Nay, this time they just confiscated my shampoo and toothpaste with nary a friendly word.

To top it off, I broke a nail getting into the jerry-rigged taxicab. Side note: if you are ever in Indianapolis, let me know. I can give you the plate number of a cab I might avoid taking at all costs, if I were you. So I decided I deserved a manicure once I got here, instead of, I don’t know, getting ahead on all this work that I am so stressed about.

And off I trotted to the mall. Nordstroms beckons me no matter what state I am in. There I found exactly no place to get nails done, but quite a wide range of helpful sales people who all gave me different directions on how to get to a nearby strip mall that might indeed have a nail place. The one bit of direction that they could all agree on, unfortunately, was that I would need to cross a Very Large Road. Otherwise known as A HIGHWAY. So off I went, running across a highway with no crosswalk in the Midwest with my hoodie drawn tight around my face because I was battling the very same wind that just a little earlier shook my bitty plane like a fucking Polaroid picture, and managed to not get run over. Then I twisted my ankle walking in the grass because Indianapolis apparently doesn’t believe in sidewalks any more than it believes in crosswalks.

Naturally, the nail place was closed on Sundays. So I went to P.F. Changs and drowned my sorrows in chicken lettuce wraps, and bought a nail file on the way back to the hotel. Hours after I started out. So far, this trip is intimidating me.

Politiks

Not to go post-crazy here today, but whaaaaaaaaaaaat?


http://view.break.com/592648 - Watch more free videos

Proof

Like I said: uncanny

Glass Half Full (Of Wine.)

I’m ready for it to be Friday already. Today didn’t start off super great. First it was cold on my morning jog. Then the wind blew my hat off. Then I had to soak pots and pans from last night’s dinner because we were too lazy to do it last night. Mostly because it didn’t turn out so well, so we never returned to the kitchen for seconds. Stupid Campbell’s soup recipe.

Then I had weird G-rated dreams about Playboy bunnies. (Is that an oxymoron?) I think those were induced by the story we saw on E! last night about Hugh Hefner. Like many bored Americans, I went through a phase where watching The Girls Next Door was my guilty pleasure. I finally quit watching it, because I really despise everything the porn industry stands for. That, and they only show the same four episodes over and over. So while a couple years ago I would have gone straight past any story about the creator of Playboy magazine with barely a condescending sneer, I actually watched the whole damn program last night. And my heart kind of went out to Holly Madison, because I think it really sucks that her “career” probably peaked while she was depicted as one of many vapid clone-like girlfriends of a geriatric pervert. I’d like to think she’s a really nice person in real life, with perhaps an affinity for a really good chardonnay. When she did finally pose nude, it was for an ad for PETA. I support PETA! I hope things turn out o.k. for you, Holly, though we’ll probably never get to know.

But the day’s gotten better. I discovered a stash of Cheetos in the cupboard. Yay lunch! I’m going to a movie night at a friend’s house tonight. And some of our best friends just found out they’re having a little girl, and we’re really hoping they might name her Funasaurusette. Le sigh.

Also, I’ve just been assigned to go on a work trip NEXT WEEK that may bring in some more of the type of work that I actually want to do. (I know it’s surprise, but I really, really loathe the spreadsheets. Anything that’s not spreadsheets is great.) So I went and got myself a plane ticket on a stupidly small plane, and will need to procure some sort of legal knock-me-out-so-don’t-go-batshit-crazy-on-said-bitty-plane drug in the meantime.

His Nickname was Captain Oblivious. And It Served Me Well.

So I can finally breathe… I had a big secret last week and I almost posted it, but then I didn’t because every other month or so The Funasaurus does actually check in and say, “Hey, you’re still writing about nose-picking for the internet?” and it would have been just my luck for him to check in just when I told the booger-hungry internets about throwing him a surprise birthday party. So I refrained. But it was hard to think of material when I was busy obsessing about how to get a cake shaped like a football. (Note, apparently they make such-shaped molds, and a friend happened to own one, so I bribed her with lots of promises of owing her one.)

It went off fabulously, I think. I had grand plans of whisking him away to a cute little B&B in Santa Fe, or perhaps the hot springs up in Steamboat, and then I realized that The Funasaurus does not really like B&Bs, nor hot springs. He’s more of a burgers and karaoke kind of dude. So we surprised him with a barbeque with a bunch of his friends and karaoke. He sings a mean, mean, “Hungry Like the Wolf.”

That’s the man I married.

We slept in Sunday and then went to see Sex Drive, which was terrible and horrible and I strongly urge you not to waste your money on such crap. I’m not quite sure how it didn’t go straight to DVD. Much like American Pie it completely objectifies women and has no substance to speak of, the main goal being sex and occasional scenes involving teenage humiliation. Unlike American Pie, it’s not funny.

Besides that, I watched Futurama for the first time… and holy cow. I KNOW one of the characters!



The likeness is uncanny.

I Stay Awake Contemplating Denim

It is quarter after 11, and I am up and about right now. I am up and about right now not because I hate sleep, because I don’t. I actually adore sleep. I would happily sleep ten hours a night every night. No, I am up and about because Sugar slept her damn princess-disturb-me-and-feel-my-wrath sleep all day, upside down in the cat tree. And now she is awake. And ready to play. And make noise. Rrrrr? Poke. Poke. *ominous sound of important papers being walked upon with litter-encrusted paws*

Then I stumbled across a googly-eyed Tatum who had a bit of paper towel hanging out of his mouth. Paper towel? Seriously? Damn goat.

I am going to feed him some rusty cans tomorrow, like they do in the cartoons.

This afternoon I took some clothes that needed to be altered to a tailor. The only tailor I know, who happens to live, like, 45 minutes away. I took a brand new pair of jeans that I love but have never worn because they are just too long. I once put them on and thinking I could roll the cuffs, but I just can’t get away with the hipster look. So they have been sitting, unloved and unhemmed, on my dresser for over a month now. Finally this evening I fought the traffic and took them to this tailor, dreaming of a perfectly-denim-clad posterior, only to have her say, “Have you washed these, yet?”

No.

“Well, I think you should wash them, first. They might shrink and I wouldn’t want to hem them too short.”

noooooooooooooooooo

I tried to convince her I would trust her pre-washing-hemming judgment. I got ushered out the door with a, “just come back next week.”

I sulked all 45 minutes home, and made myself an enormously large cup of hot chocolate for dinner to soothe my trendy denim-less ego. Then Sugar woke up, Tatum started eating bits of garbage, and the night has kind of gone on from there. Happily, The Office was hilarious. It took about two and a half seasons, but I now love that show. Deeply.

Horton Hears a Hypodermic

I got a flu shot on Monday. Now it is Wednesday, and I am still walking around with a rotting Band-Aid on my arm, feeling the ache of getting punched by a tiny, needle-fisted midget.

What’s funny is, if you are a betting kind of girl (or guy. Whatever. I’m playing to my fan base, my friends) you should still bet on me getting the flu. It’s what I do. I consider antibiotics a vital part of the holiday season.

I also had our sprinklers blown out today. Just in time for the temperatures to soar into the 70s for the rest of the week. I noticed the dude looking at me oddly when I greeted him at the door, and again when I wrote him a check. I thought nothing of it, seeing as how he couldn’t possibly be judging my appearance given he was wearing an orange vest and very tall socks with struggling elastic.

Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I closed the door behind him, and noticed that a piece of my hair had gotten stuck in my headband and was sticking straight up. I looked like I had walked straight out of Whoville. I have benevolently forgiven the dude his orange vest.

All Roads Lead Me Back to Norway

We went to a Hungarian restaurant for book club tonight. (That was as close as we could get to Transylvanian food in Denver, Colorado.) Budapest Bistro was fabulous. If you live in the greater area, find a way to get down there. Pearl Street is darling, and the food was yummy. Our waitress told us about one special, a spicy pumpkin soup that “touched her soul.”

Well!

You don’t just get THAT highly of a glowing recommendation every day. Naturally, soul touching soup was ordered, and the order-ee confirmed that she did, in fact, think her soul was touched. I had goulash. It was awesome.

A random man came by our table with a note written on a napkin. I thought he was very indiscreet, what with his wife sitting just two tables away. “Any book club should read this book,” he said, peering over his glasses at us very seriously. Apparently we were not very quiet in our discussion. Uh, o.k.

Kristin Lavrandatter, by Sigrid Undset.

I looked at the squiggly blue ink on the napkin, and thought to myself, “That sure looks familiar.” Which, mind you, is not a thought I have just everyday about random Slavic book names. So I got home and went through my bookshelves, and wouldn’t you know, I happen to own the damn thing. I got it from my dad, who apparently bought it in, like, 1961 if the aging of the cheap yellowed paper is accurate. (I just checked the front matter… it was actually 1978.) Still, the book is older than I am. I have never read it. I liked it as a kid because the girl on the front had long blond hair. I had shunned it as a college kid because it appeared to be romance-novel-y, what with the literal excerpt about rolling in the hay under Erlend’s strong arms (I kid you not) and I was so above that.

Having settled comfortably into my twenties (only a couple of months left, le sigh) I have totally accepted my deep-rooted fondness for trashy romance novels, and am now curious that it has been recommended as having some sort of literary value. Was the weird dude in the Hungarian restaurant right about the Norwegian novel? I will let you know. It’s moved right up to first place on my to-read list.

Dirty Old Bird

http://www.slate.com/id/2201944/

Miss Emily! I had such… preconceived notions of you. But I kind of like the dirty, pre-victorian wenching in daddy’s living room version, too.

A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.—Emily Dickinson.

Aye. And the word today is debauchery! I say we all have a naughty little tryst tonight in honor of Miss Dickinson.

Also, since I seem incapable of letting the vampire thing go, and we’re talking about repressed sexual intentions anyway, this is some funny shit:

http://www.avclub.com/content/hater/how_to_be_the_perfect_pre_teen

And for those of you out there with any sort of cooking skeelz… how big of a turkey am I going to need to get if, in a fit of generosity and extreme stupidity, I offered to have 17 people come to my house for Thanksgiving? Forget that our table holds eight. Max. And when should I start cooking said gigantic poultry specimen? Last April?

Regret Means You Remember Which Means You Didn't Drink Enough

It’s Tuesday night and I’m drunk. That is something I would typically say about five years ago, when I was young and wild and bordering on alcoholic. However, it is also true tonight. Though less so with the alcoholism than boredom.

Although I can say, the presidential debates are SO MUCH MORE FUN when you are drunk! You yell, “RED LIGHT RED LIGHT, ASSHOLE!” at your own candidate! Jeebus, but those boys like to hear themselves talk. And the pointing of the fingers! It was not even metaphorical. There was pointing. Hello, second grade. Can’t wait for you to bring the world’s superpower out of a devastating international financial crisis with the fucking finger pointing.

I like this season. Fall is great. But I think it also makes people introspective and gloomy, even when it’s sunny. I have decided not to succumb to that morethansixhoursaday and went for a run this morning to shake off the blues. I switched up my normal path, and went down into a little greenbelt, and back through the neighborhood in a meandering way. I saw an entire park I did not know existed. I saw what I thought was a coyote but turned out to be some sort of yorkie mix. (It was far off. Shut up.) I saw yellow houses and Halloween decorations galore. I went down steep hills and back up, and felt pretty good. I was pretty proud of myself, sure that I had added on about 20-25 minutes to my normal run. (Which is 18 minutes.) I got back and discovered I was gone for exactly… five more minutes. WTF? How is that possible? The only reasonable explanation is that I ran very, very fast and am a demigod or something.

That, or I have a shitty grasp of the passage of time. I’m going with demigod.

Goodnight.

Wasting Time Is Fun!

I spent the weekend at a friend’s house eating her food and having her chauffeur me around since it was her birthday. Also, she’s pregnant. I’m an awesome friend. I also managed to eat sushi and drink wine in front of her. (Hi, K! Can we still be friends?)

We also managed to take a nice little walk into downtown Louisville, only to have the heavens open up on us and we had to walk/jog home in the freezing rain. Taking a walk in the rain is not quite as romantic as one might think, particularly if one has recently applied sunscreen to one’s exceedingly pasty face and the rain proceeds to rinse said sunscreen straight into one’s eyes. After a while I was all but completely blind from the burn and unsure as to whether it was raindrops or just tears streaking down my face.

Like I said, unromantic.

I also got through a good chunk of my book this weekend. And despite my recent poo-poo-ing of vampires, I naturally suggested to my book club that we should read Dracula this month. So here I am, deeply entrenched in Transylvanian lore and dreaming about coffins and bats and whatnot. Fabulous. It’s actually a good read. Much better than True Blood, anyhow.

We also squeezed in time to go get pedicures in there. That was lovely, because we went to Ten20, a spa that focuses on feeding you Diet Coke and M&Ms instead of herbal water, or whatever. My kind of spa. While we were there, I went for it and had them paint my fingernails dark purple. If you ask The Funasaurus, they are black. But I know there was purple in there somewhere. In any case, I feel infinitely hip, like my fingers could totally fit in on The Hills. (Shout out to Wickedly Scarlett! She is quite versed on all things The Hills-y.) Not the rest of me, mind you, my hair’s kind of a disaster these days. But the ends of my digits are totally hip, baby.

I did not get any cleaning done this weekend, as I had hoped. Wouldn’t want to scuff the gothic finger look I’ve got going on, now would I? Also no getting ahead on work. It’s been a less-than-productive fall so far. I really need to suck it up and get on track. I’ve fallen into a slump. A nap-taking, Tatum-tormenting slump. (Sugar says, “hi!” She is on board with this slump, entirely.)

Any refocusing techniques out there?

Why It's Bad to Be Bored

I stayed buried in my little house today. I shouldn’t have, it makes me all anxious and stir-crazy. But I couldn’t find a reason to get out. So instead I called The Funasaurus to harass him at work. I took a nap. I practiced my grande jettes across our living room. Then I had to work until 9:30 (with a time-out for the debates, which left me, once again, underwhelmed) because I was so behind.

Tomorrow I am getting out of the house. More than once. Even if it means walking around the block.

I am also going to do the laundry, because The Funasaurus came home from volleyball sporting a blister on his foot the size of Canada, and I am cringing in fear of the potential bodily-fluids-geyser that could erupt in our bed at any time.

I just gagged a little.

Trying to think of kittens and cupcakes and rainbows covered in kitten shaped cupcakes. Sending the goo (ACK! GOO! YEEEEECH!) your way. Oh well. I almost made it.

Torturing the Innocent (?)

It has been a busy week already, culminating in a trip to the vet’s this afternoon. You can understand, then, why I just woke up from a nap. At 6:30 at night on a Wednesday.

I was also working until 1:00 AM last night. I don’t DO 1:00 AM anymore. For any reason. Including tornados. Just come and take me away, just try not to wake me up. But there has also been yoga and cake (though not at the same time, but what a class that would be) and so not all of my schedule has been horrid.

The capper was just the vet today. I have been unhappy with the vet I’ve been using recently, so I took the cats back down to a sweet little cats-only place south of the city. Of course, it meant a longer car ride for my two darlings, who took it upon themselves to sing the feline death march the whole way down. They were all but hoarse when we got there.

The vet got to Tatum first, and he unleashed The Eyes of Sadness and oh! But I was ready to cuddle him and promise him nothing but mice forever more. Fortunately, the vet had her Doctor Googgles of Imperviousness and still managed to stick a needle in his (apparently overweight, but are we surprised?) butt THREE TIMES. Tatum was… displeased.

Then there was Sugar. After her last trip to the vet, she had figured out really quickly that a vet’s office is not a place she cares to be, and in no way was coming out of her carrier. That kitty should be a rock climber the way she can hang onto nothing when turned upside down! With multiple hands and a lot of “Here kitty kitty”’s, she was finally on the table. And began her Sugar Moan of Hatred, which sounds a bit like a fire engine. Dying. Teeth were bared, hissing was the backup to the hatred moaning, and Sugar gave the vet what for.

Then we went home and things are back to normal, although The Funasaurus is getting more love than usual while I am being rather ignored. I get the message. We shan’t be going back to the vet anytime soon. Well, except in December. When they go in for teeth cleaning. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.

And you wonder why I’m exhausted.

Bugs and Books

Friday Sugar seemed overly interested in a cardboard box. Not being the sharpest knife in the drawer (Tatum’s influence certainly hasn’t helped, either) I did not question the blank staring for a while. But then I noticed she was uninterested in the heating pad that I turned on.

Sugar?

Not interested in rotisserie-ing herself at every opportunity? Something must be up. So I blithely picked up the box to see what the fuss was about. A cricket proceeded to drop out and land with a *THUD* right next to my foot.

AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

From Jiminy Cricket to Mulan, Disney has long-fostered a love for crickets in my little heart. They are wholesome and helpful and good luck charms and often sing catchy little tunes in bitty little hats. Who does not love an opportunity for bitty little hats? What those perverse imagineers forgot to mention, though, is that those bugs are FUCKING ENORMOUS and also very BLACK AND SCARY.

So I stood there, horrified, as Sugar proceeded to maim our little home's creepy good luck charm. I finally tore off a bit of toilet paper and scooped up the very large and heavy insect and squealed all the way down the stairs as I carried him outside, sure that he was probably a very venomous cricket and was about to sting and bite and maim me in retribution for my idiotic cat through the very flimsy bit of tissue that separated his bulky exoskeleton from my delicate little fingers.

I flung him out the door perhaps less gently than I could have, but you have to understand I had worked myself into quite a frenzy at that point. He landed with a loud cracking sound on the pavement, and I did not wait to see if he was smushed. I just slammed the door quickly, lest the dizzy, injured bug find made a superheroic effort to squirm its way quickly back into my house.

Happily he was gone by the time I went for a run, so I am assuming he was able to hop off, perhaps into my rose bush, to at least get away from us crazies and go on to lead a very happy, if hatless, life.

Equally exciting but less fun to write about, I found my book! The one that I thought disappeared months ago! I know you must have been wasting away in anguish not knowing where its whereabouts, as I was. We can all sleep better tonight. Phew.

Aging Cake

While I was busy whining yesterday, I completely forgot to mention the awesomest piece of having a 1-year anniversary. Namely: CAKE. We totally saved our top layer, and if you remember, our top layer was pretty awesome. Also: chocolate. Making it awesomer.

My parents deep froze the thing for us, and took it out a couple days ago to start the thawing process. When it arrived at our door on Tuesday, the cake was moist, the frosting was ooey-gooey, and I ate so much I get that little chestache thing that happens when you cram an entire week’s worth of sugar into one serving. Never fear, I am hard core, I drank some water and pushed through the heart palpitations and had another large slice.

I was sad to cut into it, this last, gorgeously detailed vestige of our wedding.



Then I tasted it and got over the whole nostalgic crap quite quickly. There are now only crumbs left.

Meanwhile I’m very excited for the new season of The Office to start. I’ve realized I’ve officially become Old, because I find myself thinking things like, “When I was young, there were so many more good shows on…” and also because I hurt my butt by sitting on a hard bench at a local elementary school this morning. I need cushions! Also: my husband tweaked his back by reaching for floss this morning.

(Sorry, baby, I’m not sure I was supposed to share that, but you didn’t specifically say I couldn’t, and it added to my point….)

I may go cane shopping this weekend. Damn kids.

Change in Pace

Yesterday was about being in love and seeing things with googly newlywed eyes.

Today I am a jaded old married woman, and shall now snark. Snark about the DCPA, where we saw Avenue Q. The show was, as advertised yesterday, amazing. What was less amazing was their fucking ticket seller who apparently is hating on anyone in love. (Obviously, it was personal and not at all a honest mistake by a minimum-wage-making teenager hired to answer phones in the box office on weekends from 2:00-4:00.) When we called to buy the tickets, we asked where the best seats were that were left. (This was a bit of a last-minute idea.) He found two, but they were at opposite ends of the theater. We explained that it was our anniversary, and so, ha ha, we might like to sit together. He found two at the very far right edge of the mezzanine, sold them to us for quite a lot of money considering you mainly only get to see the back of puppets’ heads or their left profile.

We showed up in the theater, dressed nicely and cuddling as we walked. Until we were shown our seats. At which time we could no longer cuddle because although row FF seat 203 and 204 might sound like they are next to each other, but in fact there is actually a BIG FUCKING METAL POST between the two seats. I understand that it probably serves some structural purpose, but let me tell you just how NOT ROMANTIC AT ALL it is.

Haters. I am in the process of composing a Very Angry letter and trying not to use the word “fuck” in any of its variations… more than four times.

I am also so over True Blood. Gah, I know, how dare I. But this is my opinion. I’m actually totally fine with the vampire thing (although I’m still a little surprised that we are clinging so desperately to a Victorian metaphor for sex. Really? Is this not the 21st century where we can talk about sex openly?) it the violence that goes with it. Not the virginal blood-sucking thing so much as the rape, the gory images of corpses, and the abuse. It’s not appealing at any level to me. I think Stephenie Meyer (author of the Twilight series) was ingenious in using the vampire-thing as a vehicle for promoting abstinence in pop culture. I think HBO is just abusing it’s ability to be graphic. But I realize I am in the minority.

Also, I think they kind of overdo the foreshadowing with the protective Sam character. I think it’s enough that his dog turns up at all the wrong times, like before Sookie gets in trouble or people get murdered. I don’t think he also needs to have a picture of a watchdog looking over a little girl while she sleeps in his office AND bark in his sleep. A bit much.

Um. The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day. I shall now try to be pleasant.

Dirty Dirty Fuzzy Monster. Also, Love.

This week is getting away from me. We have been busy with football, and memorial services, and game nights, and also seeing the best musical theater that I have ever seen. Ever.

If you have not seen Avenue Q, you absolutely must. Go get tickets now, they are probably coming to a theater near you. It was funny, the songs were catchy, “Why Can’t I Go Back to College?” and “The Internet Is for Porn” probably being my two favorites, and the puppeteering was amazing. As the Funasaurus said, it’s dirty Muppets. How is that NOT going to be my favoritest thing ever?

(And trust me, folks, I’ve seen my fair share of musical theater in my lifetime.)

And as of today, The Funasaurus and I have officially been married one full year. I am not sure where that year went, as I am pretty sure I spent many lifetimes planning that darn wedding and it was over so quickly I might have missed it if I had yawned. Which I did not. (Yawn, I mean.) I was too hopped up on adrenaline, cabernet, and spanikopita. And of course, good good Funasaurus love. If the first year really is the hardest, I think we are set. Seeing as how we spent most of it cuddling and making googly eyes at each other. When we weren’t busy trying to keep up with our chaotic social life.

It was a little telling at The Funasaurus’ sister’s wedding two weeks ago when we were taking pictures, and we had just taken several of the bridal party. (I was the matron-of-honor. Could we not find a name for that position that makes it sound a little less like I should be wearing a long frock with a high-neck lace collar?) Then the photographer said, “O.K., bridal party sit down, bride’s family, please come up.” Then The Funasaurus had to yank me back up as I started to go sit down.

“Remember that deal we made about a year ago?” he muttered. Guess what has become the most-quoted line from that evening.

Oopsie. It all still feels so new. But I get kind of giddy when I remember all over again that we did it. We’re married. He’s now stuck getting my freezing toes shoved in between his legs at all random hours of the night for the rest of his life. Happily, he enjoys musical theater, too. So I anticipate many more dirty singing puppet shows in our future. What could be more romantic than that?

Ahoy! Kitty Puke!

Last night The Funasaurus and I drove all the way up to Boulder to go to a football game. Happily, it was epic, and happily-er, we won, so The Funasaurus was in a good mood because so help me but if I stood on my feet for three hours right in front of the guy screaming “SPEEDY!” just to have it all go to hell, I think I would have had to have exacted some revenge on football.

Less happily, it was so epic that it went into overtime. Couple that with the fact that West Virginia was determined to piss everyone off and play their remaining two seconds at every quarter even though exactly nothing could happen, and it added up to be an extraordinarily long football game. Which meant we got to bed extraordinarily late.

Thus making it, naturally, the night Tatum chooses to get sick all over our carpet. About nine times. Let me tell you that 3:45 AM is exactly NOT the ideal time to realize you need to put Resolve Carpet Cleaner on your grocery list.

I have also searched far and wide on Google for The Funasaurus’ new ring tone, which is very brown chicken brown cow, but I can’t find it. But if you ever happen to stumble across a Rumor phone, it’s tone six.

Also and most importantly, today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day, landlubbers! Shiver me timbers! ARRRRG. And Yar.

...

I’m out.

But here’s my favorite pirate joke:

Q: What kind of socks do pirates wear?

A: Arrrrrrrg-yle.

What are your favorites? I need to build a better repertoire, here.

Political, Pretty, and Dialed-In

While I’m busy being political, check out a local commentary on Palin coming home to Alaska:

http://thedogsbreakfast.blogspot.com/2008/09/biggest-political-rally-in-alaskan.html

Done now.

The big news is that my sister-in-law got married over the weekend. The wedding was beautiful, the bride was beautiful, I was… drunk. And then forced to sober up because they needed someone to drive the groom’s parents home. So I started out strong, and then switched to water for the last four courses, which was hard. Because there was so much free wine flowing. But the groom’s parents got home safely, so I’m hoping I can karmically cash in on some of the cases of wine the newlyweds got to bring home. (As they brought their own alcohol, and since I was not drinking, they did not end up needing nearly as much as they had expected.)

Then today I was supposed to take the tuxes back to the rental place, and they had to be back by noon, so I raced over there around 10:30 only to discover they don’t open until 11:00. That’s quite the scam, giving hungover wedding attendees an hour window to return rentals. Happily (or, not so much, really) as we have discussed, I was not hungover. So I was quick-witted enough to see a cell phone store across the street, and decided to go shopping. Because, if you remember, my phone is only working when it sees fit. Much like the French. (I kid, my one and only French reader.)

So I am the proud new owner of one of these



and so is The Funasaurus because there was a buy one get one free thing going on. It’s not an iPhone, but since it’s pretty snazzy and only a fraction of the price, I am content. And so is The Funasaurus who gleefully discovered a porn-like ringtone pre-programmed onto his. Luckily for me, The Funasaurus does not get many phone calls.

It's Free to Say

I try to avoid politics on this blog. Mostly because I have other things to antagonize people about. (Like the dearth of cupcakes in my life, recently. Why don’t more people do random acts of cupcaking?)

But tonight I can’t help it. I’ve had a glass of wine with too many people’s extended families and I am just about to wretch. People are in town for the wedding. They’re small town. They’re Republican. I get it. That’s fine. What's not fine is just saying random shit like, “The Muslims are trying to take over America.”

Did anyone else just throw up a little in their mouth? I’m actually fine if our president practices Muslim. Or atheism, Catholicism, or Wiccan. Just as long as they don’t try to prevent my right to practice the solemn religion of meh. Or my right to say that. Or the press’ right to question meh as an actual religion.

I cannot believe they actually think there’s a doubt about Obama’s intentions. They went on and on about him being Muslim, and questioning whether he was actually even born in the U.S. He was. It’s been proven. He wouldn’t be allowed to run for the office of president, otherwise.

WTF, people. I believe in your right to question a candidate. But once your argument has been proved FALSE, it’s time to move on. You just sound ignorant.

GLARG.

So Little Time, So Many Unrelated Things to Talk About

I told myself I couldn’t blog until I wrote the toast for the wedding I’m in this weekend. Sadly, I have absolutely nothing to say about someone I know very well and love very much, so I’ve given up and am going back to blogging.

That’ll teach you to put me in your wedding. “Um, thanks for the party. You guys are awesome. Cheers.”

Meanwhile, my days are filled with hair appointments, dress fittings, tying itty-bitty bows on bits of paper, and occasionally work. When I can squeeze it in. (Kidding, boss, if you happen to read this. I am so busy right now. I have been up very late working every night. Well, except for Monday. When I went out for ice cream with my book group, instead.)

My camera went to my parents’ house, since my dad is acting as photographer for the Big Day. I miss my camera. More than I should. It’s not like I was even taking pictures every day. I just miss its presence. Apparently I have formed my first co-dependent relationship with a piece of electronics. I feel like I can finally be accepted as part of my generation.

Also, in the world of Very Sad News, I had to retire my favorite pair of jeans this morning. The butt has been paper-thin for a while now, and I was being careful to wash them gently (or just not wash them at all, jeans are so soft when they’re dirty) to preserve them. But this morning I realized that at some point they had taken a slight shift and gone from “paper-thin” to “non-existent” and, well, I’m not sure how well that’d go over with the in-laws at the rehearsal dinner. Thanks for the party. You guys are awesome. Also: marrying into white trash. Cheers.

In better news, my book club has decided to go with an international theme this year. We are reading books that have something to do with other countries, thus leaving the genre very vague and very wide. The suggestions that have come up so far have been fascinating, there are so many books out there that I want to read, now! No way are we going to cram them all into one year. That said, I am still curious if there are more. If you have a suggestion for a book about another culture, or that takes place in another country, or is written by a non-American author, let me know!

The Rose is No Pansy

It is now: FALL.

Thus I spake. Thus also has been the weather. Hello, gloom and darkness and cool air! It’s kind of cozy. We’ve turned off all sorts of climate control for the past several days, no heating no AC. The temperature has been fluctuating around perfect. Well, perfect for us. Less perfect for Sugar, whose threshold for happy hovers around 86 degrees. Give or take half a degree.

Our house, and the fall weather have not been so… balmy. So there has been much Sadness and Despair and Moping on Sugar’s part. Tatum doesn’t seem to notice, as long as The Funasaurus continues to ply him with faux mice.

So because my heart was breaking for sad little Sugar, I broke out the heating pad and turned it on. I picked her up, which is kind of against Sugar Rules, but I knew it was worth invoking her temporary wrath, and placed her on the heating pad. It was like her little legs melted under her, and suddenly there was much rubbing and wiggling and I finally had to look away because it was almost kind of dirty.

I don’t believe she’s gotten up since, although she has adjusted her position just about every time I’ve gone in to look at her. Kind of like she’s rotisserie -ing herself.

Meanwhile, though, my rosebush is not such a pansy, and happily it is shooting out flowers all over the place. Look! Hopefully it just keeps right on doing this through the winter.

Where I Bore You to Tears with My Inane Discussion of Processed Cookies

I re-discovered something wonderful tonight, while meandering around the grocery store trying to find more things to buy because I was just that sick of sitting around at home. (I prefer to think of it as adventurous, or maybe efficient, rather than pitiful.)

Given enough time, one can find treasures at King Soopers, did you know?

Like say: ORIGINAL ANIMAL CRACKERS.



I had no idea they were still around. And they are still so good! I have already eaten the whole box. I used to love these things as a kid. I remember swinging my box around on its little string, pretending it was a purse, until it inevitably broke. Twenty-five years later, the giraffe is still my favorite cookie due to its perfect blend of animal-exoticness and texture. Something about the giraffe spots really does it for my palate.

There is also now a koala in the mixture. It’s sleeping on a branch, and kind of teddy-bear-esque, compared to the other lumpy animal shapes. I’m not complaining, I’m a huge koala fan. But I do not remember it being part of the original zoo. It is certainly not displayed on the tiny train car cages on the outside of the box.

For what it’s worth, I think the zebra is my second-favorite cookie. The stripes being similar to giraffe spots to my ever-discerning tongue.

Speaking of zebra stripes, I recently tried teeth-whitening. I do not suggest this exercise in disfigurement to anyone. Some of my teeth are a bit whiter. In places. In, like, horizontal-stripe places across the front of a tooth or two. I have never smiled less in my life.

Now the question is, do I attempt it again tonight, to see if I can even out the damage? I am just a little tipsy right now, that seems like a viable option, even though a little corner of my brain is suggesting I should consult a dentist first. Pooh to the dentist! They’re the ones who hooked me up with the sexy saran-wrap version of my teeth in the first place, promising lighter shades and brighter smiles. It was apparently my own incorrect conclusion that the lighter shade would appear over the full surface of a whole tooth.

Princess Zebra Grin out.

Pictures, Since I'm Too Lazy to Come Up with More Words

Oh hai.

Sorry for the radio silence. I was busy, blah blah blah. I spent the weekend in the mountains for my sister-in-law’s bachelorette party. We did manage to hike between consuming gallons of wine and an endless stream of chick-flicks.

Hiking up there was bittersweet, since it’s my old home. I know it so well, but there are a lot of memories linked to it. And it’s weird being back yet not being a local, anymore. It used to be that I couldn’t go on a hike, to the grocery store, or to a bar without knowing most of the people I’d run across. Yet I saw exactly one familiar face this whole weekend. That’s just the way in a community as transient as that place. I mean, I moved on, too. But it still made me nostalgic.

And the face of the actual flora is changing, too. Pine beetles are eating their way through the entire landscape. If you see red trees in the following pictures, it’s the pine beetles. It’s still beautiful:



But it will be a very different view in just a few years.

Not that it won’t still be beautiful. There will still be tons of wildflowers. (That’s a bee butt hanging out of that particular flower.)



And fauna. Such as beavers. Who are getting a little giddy from all the available timber these days.



And there will still be lakes, and camera-happy tourists. Here is a picture of me failing to outrun the timer on my camera. I am distinctly Not Fast.



And now I’m back home, working too much and missing the mountains, again.

Denver: The City that Only Sleeps a Little Bit

We’ve been avoiding downtown. We heard it was quite the cluster, and we had no desire to wade through seas of Obama-happy tourists in our little Honda. But on Wednesday night I found out my friend A was in town, volunteering for the convention. Having not seen A in something like four or five years, I decided to make an exception and make the trek towards New York City’s alter-friendlier-ego, (at least for this week) Denver.

I parked a fair ways out and decided to walk in. At first, I was totally overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. How dare you all be in my streets and restaurants? This is the West, we need our space out here. But then I got sucked into the hype. There’s a really good energy downtown, it’s very festive, except in a kind of party-with-a-purpose way. Everyone’s got the same goal. (And the same buttons. Seriously, could we not get a little more variety in our buttons?) And I got very excited and swept up in the throngs of people who believe our next President could bring the change (what change? It has yet to be defined, but folks seem to be o.k. with ambiguous, all-encompassing Change for now.) our country needs. I was excited, I had made it! I felt like a big city girl.

Hey baby, do you want to move to New York? I think I’d like it there.

And then I realized I had forgotten a) cash with which to buy previously-mentioned buttons and b) my camera. How do you forget to bring your camera to something like that? Fuck-a-doodle-doo, I certainly wasn’t going home to get it once I had scored a parking spot.

Since A was volunteering at the convention, he was there until the bitter end. Which meant meeting up at 10:00 PM. AKA: my bedtime. So I did a lot of people watching, and met up with A and his girlfriend and their friends and got to see the celeb candids on their camera phones. I didn’t see any celebrities myself, but supposedly I almost ran over Cynthia Nixon (who plays Miranda on Sex and the City) as I gave them a ride to an after-party, so that almost counts, right?

Meanwhile my throat is still sore and my phone is kind of broken, which means I haven’t been talking as much as I usually do. (Much to The Funasaurus’ relief.) If you need to call me, I advise leaving a message, as The Universe has apparently possessed my phone and has decided to let calls through at its discretion, not bothering to alert me that anyone tried to call unless they leave a message. If that’s not a sign that I need to get an iPhone, well, I don’t know what is.

I Went for the Stickers

So we were at the filming of The Daily Show yesterday, since it’s here in Denver for the DNC. You can watch the whole episode here:



I am pretty sure I can hear The Funasaurus laugh at least once, but I am probably the only person who thinks so.

Tickets for the show are extremely hard to come by, and are ordered months ahead of time. We are not that organized, but happily we have good friends who are and who know how much we love faux news. So they let us tag along with them. Of course, we still had to get there four hours early to get a place in line, because they overbook because apparently they don’t have faith in Jon Stewart fans to show up, so your “ticket” only reserves you the right to stand in line and be one of the first 100-some in: hooray! Nacht.

So I am a little sunburnt, and very hoarse from screaming for Jon (because we do not get many celebrities here in the middle of the country, and so I was totally o.k. with screaming rabid-hyena-like for a fake news anchor).

In line we were given all sorts of fun (?) political shwag.

A pin to announce my social beliefs! How original!



A fan with an oh-so-clever pun:



And the very best, a squishy Obama-as-President!



See? He squishes.



It's like he's hiding behind the desk since he knows he's not quite supposed to sit there, yet.

I got a sticker, too, but I can’t find it.

It was interesting to watch the filming, they got us all warmed up and hyped and encouraged “louder than normal reactions” (code for: please be a good laugh track, even if you don’t find this humorous) and then Jon Stewart came out all professional-like and seemed annoyed that we were cheering and laughing so loudly. Did we have a miscommunication with the fluffers?

But overall it was fantastic, Jon Stewart is a very funny person, and the whole crew was amazingly professional. They do the whole thing in one take, in real time. No re-dos, no extra time on commercial breaks, no autographing rabid-hyena-esque fan’s breasts. Sadly.

Of course, this has been a hellacious week with work, I am still trying to recover from traveling, so I had to work really late last night. And Monday night. And will have to work again late for the rest of the week and really. I am so sick of work. I have better things to do with my time.

I did manage to go for a lovely hike over the weekend, though, and I’m headed back to the mountains this weekend. Where hopefully there will be plenty of wine to sooth my aching throat.

Nice to Meet You, Mr. Stewart

I sincerely hope you all can watch The Daily Show tonight. Because you can so hear The Funasaurus' distinct laugh in several places, as we were in the audience this afternoon. It was awesome. Gratuitous photos of shwag to come.

Exoskeletons and Introspection

I managed to have crab and lobster yet again for dinner tonight. I am calling it good, as I have started to develop a weird rash and while I am not sure it’s due to my recent ocean insect diet so much as to the lack of sleep and large quantities of chocolate and alcohol my trainer has been pushing, I am thinking I shall call it good and go back to steak and chicken for a while.

Crustaceans: I declare victory.

Meanwhile, I just about collapsed at dinner. I am exhausted. I was kept awake only by the most gorgeous scene of a new rep (who is also in training) who hails from the south and has perfect blond hair swept to the side just so and lots of eyeliner and trendy, tight clothes get sprayed with lobster juice by the chick next to her who was wearing a bib to protect her from her own meal. Sadly, the bib was not large enough to cover her salad-nibbling southern neighbor, and that was some funny shit. I snorted beer in glee. Which is mean, because Miss Perfectly Coiffed South is actually really nice and I like her very much. But fortunately she started laughing hysterically and made comments about her new eau de lobster for the rest of the evening, so I felt joining her in her self-mocking was the supportive thing to do. She’s seen beer come out of my nose. We are so far past polite it’s like it never existed.

…

Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure it ever did.

Tomorrow I go home, The Funasaurus is picking me up from the airport, sacrificing a ticket to the Broncos game to be my chauffeur. Do you see why I love this man? Sacrificing his beloved pastime to be with his wife when she gets home from her long trip? Also, I didn’t give him much of a choice.

Next week is the DNC. Downtown is going to be a cluster; I plan on avoiding it. Except for one afternoon, when our good friends scored tickets to a Very Important Event, which we are very excited about attending. Being the very involved politicos that we are, and all. (?) Details to come, as it is not set in complete stone just yet.

All But a Red Socks Fan

Here’s the thing: I want to move to Boston. This plan has been vetoed by The Funasaurus, but I plan on having my way with him when I get home and then asking again nicely. Maybe after buying him a new video game. I have my methods. It’s nice here. I’ve had lobster and/or crab four out of the last six meals. (I was going to say “five” but then my friend took me to an Indian restaurant tonight and there was not so much the Maryland Blue Crab in saffron or anything… sadly.) I’ve also been working my ass off. Sunday night I got in after midnight and then had to be at work at 8:00. Monday I spent the whole day in training, then spent the evening catching up on my regular work until about 2:00 AM. With a small break for crab risotto and a nice pinot grigio in there. Tuesday I was at work by 8:15 and worked straight through to lobster and crab ravioli at 7:00.

Tonight I went to happy hour and then out to aforementioned Indian food. Which was delicious, but not half as delicious as seeing an old friend again. And, well, shit. I miss having all sorts of good friends around.

Boston is alive at all hours and all days of the week. Tuesday night? There’s a line out the door at the pastry shop. Wednesday night? The 80s Party Bus came by at least three times during our dinner, and OH! how I wanted to get in on that action.

The 80s Party Bus was pink.

Neon pink.

The office is very bookish and New England-y, and my coworkers are a smart set. I like hanging around them. I feel very east coast and smaaaht.

Plus, we took a Ben & Jerry’s break today. Who doesn’t want to work in an office where there’s a mandatory Ben & Jerry’s break?!?!?!

I have had a lot of alcohol, a lot of sugar, and not so much sleep. I feel a little woozy. But I’m trying to rally. I wish there was a way to commute to this town without that pesky plane flight….

I Need a Groundhog Day Fall Equivalent. I Put a Lot of Faith in Those Vermin.

The past couple days, the word “Fall” has crossed my mind. I’m not sure why, it’s been warm, the ice cream truck’s been around, children are not in school like I prefer them to be. Maybe it’s because my lavender decided it was time to shed all its flowers and look very hibernate-y, despite the fact that the temperatures were still in the nineties and I was watering it daily. Maybe it’s because I deigned to go to the mall last weekend and there was plaid and orange and fall-type clothes everywhere. Or maybe it’s because my taste buds ready to move on from mulberry and get to pumpkin pie, already. Whatever it is, I’ve been dismissing the word thinking, “Well, it’s still summer.”

Then, last night, I went out for happy hour. As I am apt to do. And as I left, the wind went straight up my skirt in a very inappropriate way and I shivered for the first time in months (over-air-conditioned hotels and boutiques not included) and was like, “I think it’s fall.”

And then this morning it was cold and dark and dreary and the high today is supposed to be 58. And it’s raining. It’s also cozy, but it makes me nervous. I am not ready for months of this. A day? Oh yes. It makes napping so that much more delicious. Maybe even two days. But I am so not ready to give up my sunshine, my morning runs, my no-jacket-needed ice cream trips, my pretty flowers outside. I HAVE ONLY MADE IT TO THE POOL ONCE!

Sigh.

Please tell me it’s unnaturally warm and likely to stay light out for many more months where you are. I would really be reassured.

The Perks

I just took a nap. It is the single-most awesome perk of working from home. That, and getting to watch Tatum’s eyes get crazy for No Good Reason all day long (when he’s not napping with me.) Napping compensates for the late nights and weekdays spent staring at spreadsheets. It doesn’t quite compensate for Tatum’s random and violent attacks of my feet under the covers at 3:00 AM, but that would happen anyway, so at least napping helps.

Working from home has other advantages, too. Like: complete silence. I know many people like a little background noise when they work, music or something. And sometimes I play my iPod when I have a really tedious task I’m working on. But for the most part, I am able to stay the most focused if everything is totally quiet. You don’t get that working in a cube farm. Another bonus is being able to exercise. I get up, do some work, and then often go for a jog or even go to yoga if there’s time, around 10:00. Some days I’m too busy and can’t make it. But most days I do. It’s a good excuse to get out of the house, which I desperately need. I start to go stir crazy, sitting in one little room all day. On the other hand, I have yet to see any health benefits. I see no new muscle or loss of flab after a summer of running out of sheer boredom. I’m expecting it’s all just building up and I’m suddenly going to be skinny and toned for my sister-in-law’s wedding this fall. Right?

Echo.

Echo.

Happily, I’m off to Boston soon for a business trip, so that should take care of the little travel bug that’s crept back into my brain. This is sad for Sugar, who’s developed a bad case of clinginess. (More so than usual.) I have a little white shadow all day. If I bend over to pick something up, or check something on the computer, she jumps immediately onto my shoulders. It’d be cuter if it didn’t draw so much blood. We need to work on her aim. She kind of just goes for “up” and figures out the details as her paws make contact with anything, be it collarbone or lace sleeve. (Because I am Beethoven? Who wears lace sleeves? I was making a point.) As soon as I sit down, she’s on my lap. And oh! But it is tragic, tragic I tell you, if I should ever need to stand up again. There is much sadness and angst.

Fortunately for her, I haven’t bothered completely unpacking from Miami, so the suitcase is still lying on the floor, and I’m hoping she won’t notice when I start to fill it up again.

Then it’s The Funasaurus who gets to lug her around on his shoulders for the week that I am gone. Lucky you, baby. I’ll try to remember to trim her claws. Because we all know what a fun job that is.

Finding a Happy Balance

Oh! Good things are happening!

Prior grievances are being fixed by the universe! Thanks, universe!

I believe I have figured this one out. I convoluted the letters a little, but I think it comes from the Sergio Mendes song that I downloaded for free from the card I got at Starby’s. It’s kind of catchy.

And remember this? The book has reappeared. It was unearthed under a bunch of crap that had been frantically cleaned the morning after I got home from Miami, upon sudden realization that PEOPLE would be appearing at our doorstep momentarily. So I am happy, happy, happy to have my book back, especially since I am leaving for another business trip this Sunday and need further reading material.

So good things are happening, despite the fact that my most recent book group was shanghaied by a Mary Kay rep who neither read the book nor belongs to our group but was invited by the host… and while o.k., I like makeup, I felt like it was a bit of an underhanded thing to do, to take advantage of a captive audience like that.

I realize I’m a book snob. I’m o.k. with it. Everyone else seemed to enjoy learning about facial cleansers instead of discussing Tom Sawyer’s summer break escapades, so I am trying to get over it already.

I have also started eating grits again, as a shout-out to my southern heritage. And also as a conscious decision to avoid over-processed cereal as I am turning into a fanatical hippie. I feel the two paths may diverge at some point, but for right now I’m walking the deep South meets tree-hugging/chai-swilling balance beam. Unlike the American girls at the Olympics last night. That was painful to watch. But I love the Olympics, anyway. Something about that Dum Dum, Da Dum Dum Dum Dum music makes me tingly.

What Could Be More Natural Than a Twinkie?

This weekend I was reading my Glamour magazine (my consummate source of all things science research-y) and there was an article about the increasing rate of autoimmune diseases (such as MS, crohn’s disease, Type 1 diabetes, celiac disease, etc) in the U.S., particularly in women. It said that scientists are looking into the correlation of processed food in our diets to the increased risk for these types of things. They are saying our bodies just can’t keep up with technology, and that our immune systems are working overtime, breaking down all of those pesticides and preservatives that come in/on so much of our food. On their Very Bad list? : preserved bread products and cereals.

Motherfucker, that is my WHOLE DIET. I subsist off of bread and cereal. And also cheese. Which, you know, is a food that is a result of preservatives. I’m thinking I may as well just start taking Red Dye #26, or whatever it is, intravenously. Save the effort of chewing.

Their argument kind of makes sense… but that’s a lot to digest (hee? Funny? No?) for a girl who literally ate nothing but: cereal, Fritos, and pie yesterday. Homemade mulberry pie. It was AWESOME. Also: made with real lard.

So today I’m going to yoga and then maybe to the grocery store to buy some quinoa. Which will obviously not really make a dent at all in the nearly-thirty-some years I’ve had of regular Frito and cereal consumption. But I’m getting kind of sick of rice so it seems like a nice change that Glamour would approve of. I've always wanted Glamour's approval, despite my propensity for socks that so very obviously do not coordinate with the rest of my outfit.

Now that I’m thinking about it, we’re also out of ice cream sandwiches. Maybe I will pick some of those up, too, while I'm at the store. You know, you don’t want to shock the system TOO much.