Alpine Theater

I need to get to the theater more often. Last night I saw the most amazing performance. You all may remember my plug for Murphy’s blog way back in the day? She was in the process of writing a script about her life, and was using the blog as a way to get some feedback on some of the scenes. Well, the play evolved into something much bigger than those original blog posts. But it was still extremely organic and moving.

I am not much of a laugh-out-louder or crier, in general. (Well, at least when it comes to movies or theater. If I am feeling stressed at work I will sob my little heart out as undignafied-ed-ly as possible, once I am in my car on my way home.) I mean in terms of movies or book or theater. I enjoy the arts very much, but I am not usually emotionally moooooooved. However. Last night. I was guffawing out loud and fighting back tears in the first five minutes.

If you live in Colorado (which most of you don’t, and I realize that makes this post utterly irrelevant to you, but tant pis, this is moi’s blog) you must find a way to get yourself up to Breckenridge this summer and go see Crazy Bags at the Backstage Theatre. It will be so worth it, I promise you. Not only is the mountain town adorable and shop-able before hand, it is also 20 degrees cooler, and with global warming shoving the thermometer up to triple digits in June in Denver, I was thrilled to get the fuck out of here, for an evening.

So, yeah. I was back in my mountains last night. And it felt like coming home, in many ways. I miss the mountains desperately. I do not miss freezing, and scraping snow off of my car every morning. And I know my car does not miss having to 4-wheel over snowdrifts to get anywhere near the front entrance to the grocery store seven months out of the year. But I do miss the clean air. I do miss the humility that comes with standing in the shadow of a mountain that is miles away from you. I miss the thin grass, the hardy evergreens, and the bat shit crazy people.

Here’s hoping the library thing works out, and maybe there’ll be money for a quaint weekend home in the mountains, someday. I'm picturing something simple, like a little chateau.

It's a Sign

Dear God, I could not have planned this.

But I think it is a sign.

I was screwing around, looking for a new t-shirt, and I just found THIS.

Go. Look.

I am buying one in every color, also in the hoodie and bag.

Screw the salads (thanks for the suggestions, though, some of them even sounded a little tempting) but I think I have found my mantra.

You Say To-mae-toe, I Say, "NASTY"

Well. The unthinkable happened, this morning. I (me!) lapped somebody while on my morning jog. Granted, the somebody was rather stationary when I BLEW past him, as he was trying to wrangle the most adorable golden retriever puppy who was taking orgasmic, full-body face-plants into the mud in the grass, and I may have snorted just a little when I saw him do that, thus diminishing my superiority rush from the incredible feat of Passing Somebody, but WHATEVER because I now rule the jogging world!

Speed walkers, beware. I am catching up to you.

Meanwhile, I thought of another random fact about myself that I forgot to add to the list, yesterday. I don’t like tomatoes. I really don’t. I don’t even like tomato sauce or ketchup. I eat them now that I am older (I hated birthday parties as a kid, because they inevitably involved pizza) because I have learned, in my wise old age, that ooey-gooey melted cheese and bread trump a bit of sauce, but I still don’t looooove tomatoes.

But I have decided that I want to like tomatoes. I want to be the type of person who eats them. They are on everything, from sandwiches to salads to 95% of the entrees in Italian restaurants. And I like the idea of tomatoes with hunks of mozzarella and basil on them. Mmm, mozzarella. So I am on a quest to learn to like tomatoes. Recently, I have been forcing myself to eat them in very small bites.

The Funasaurus, who is a faux-tomato-hater because the thing is, he really loves them, he adores tomato sauce and puts ketchup on pretty much everything (including eggs and filet mignon) but swears that he hates the actual little fruit in its unadulterated form, says that I am buying into tomato propaganda. He says I’ve been hooked by the tomato lobby, and I should fight back.

By eating a lot of mustard, I suppose.

But I am still curious, and wanting to fit in with the tomato eaters, so if anyone out there has a good recipe for something tomato-y but not too tomato-y, let me know.

Eight

Eight Random Things About Me

I got tagged for this meme by PasstheZoloft. I am supposed to write eight random facts/habits about myself, but I am super intimidated. What have I not told you, already, in previous posts? I used up all my good stuff HERE.

I am going to attempt to dig a little deeper. Hello, subconscious! I need to make a withdrawal. … It’s quite the clusterfuck, in here, isn’t it? I apologize for the ensuing lack of any sort of theme.

1. I still fantasize about being a princess. I somehow missed the social cue to give up on the glittering tiaras at age eight, and stubbornly forged ahead with a passion for froofy ball gowns and state dinners and Nobel Prize award ceremonies. I fantasize about this all. the. time. Hence, my justification for spending a ridiculous percentage of our wedding budget on a dress I will wear once in my life for six hours.

But they will be six glorious, princess-like hours.

2. I used to live in a log cabin on a mountain on National Park land. When the wind blew just right in a snowstorm, a little *poof* of snow would come through the window seam and land in your lap. Insulation was not the architect of that house’s priority.

3. In said cabin, I used to also have an amazing dog. She was part lab, and part malamute. She liked to fetch, and if you threw a stick, she would retrieve an entire tree. She was… burly. And I miss her desperately, sometimes, even though I wouldn’t trade Sugar in for the world. (Tatum, on the other hand….)

4. I have reoccurring dreams about tsunamis and tidal waves.

5. I had a crush on The Funasaurus when we first met. It took me seven years to convince him to take our friendship to the next level. (Mostly it involved cheap beer, and the option to either sleep on the dirty floor of a cobwebby attic, or next to me in my nice, soft bed. I was subtle.)

6. Despite recycling, buying Earth-friendly laundry detergent and organic produce, and using the revolving door, I don’t feel like I’m as environmentally conscious as I’d like to be.

7. One of my biggest pet peeves is driving past a car that’s driving really badly and seeing that the driver is a woman. Stop perpetuating the stereotype, jerkfaces!

8. Despite my uppity tastes for things like sushi and fois gras, I love McDonalds french fries. So very much.

Now I am supposed to tag eight people with this same meme, but I am not sure I know that many!

Murphy? Chico? Diana? V? Marcia? Angela? Diane? Anyone else want to play? Consider yourself tagged!

Stinky Fish and Ear Wax

So the midsummer party went well, I ate pickled herring in many forms, along with anchovies mixed with egg… and for some reason found it delicious. Perhaps it was the three shots of Swedish schnapps I consumed, post two glasses of white wine and one hard cider. Oh, and another shot of homemade blueberry vodka poured out of a nalgene. Perhaps it was the leftover adrenaline from the most passionate round of croquet that I had ever played. I don’t know, but, mmm, stinky fish are tasty!

There was indeed a May Pole, which come to find out is a big ol’ pagan representation of a penis, complete with balls, which made me happy. We didn’t laugh at it too much when had trouble staying upright.

The rest of the weekend was full of errands and babies. Not ours, ours friends. I am recommitted to my I-don’t-want-one-of-those convictions.

A few days ago, The Funasaurus went to the doctor, and among other things, it turns out his ears are full of wax. So the doctor made him get this little ear cleaning kit at the store, and we proceeded to put the droplets in his ear last night. And then waited for grossness to ensue.

But it didn’t.

It just kind of… re-gunked in his ear, apparently.

So the directions on the box say that if “stuff’ doesn’t come out, you can irrigate the ear canal with a rubber-tipped ear syringe.

Being fresh out of those, we decided to use a turkey baster.

So I’m sitting on my bathroom sink, basting my future husband, looking for copious amounts of ear gunk, and the only thing I find myself thinking is, “How thoroughly did I wash this thing? I wonder if there are leftover bits of giblets from Christmas being flushed into his head, currently?”

So, he’s psyched. The turkey baster didn’t really work (SURPRISE) so we tried again this morning with minimal luck. It was an odd morning altogether. We both overslept. Sugar became fixated on an invisible bug in the corner of the room, and would do nothing except stare into the corner. I tried to lure her out with treats, and she ignored me. Tatum attacked her, and she let out a pitiful squeal, but managed to remain wide-eyed and vigilant. So we went through our morning routine, gave Tatum a mouse, and last I checked before leaving, Sugar was still staring wildly into the corner. If she’s moaning something about “the others” by the time I will get home, I am going to take her to the vet and revoke her T.V. privileges.

Gainless Censorship

Is your day boring and long? Do you need a way to fill the hours gleefully desecrating every single one of your loved ones' names? Look no further, folks.

Here is internet crack for your brain:

Click me, I'm horribly addictive!

I totally pilfered it from The Silly Kitchen Witch, I’m not even sorry. But she has a great blog, go look, and thank her for providing such fabulous entertainment.

Love,
Gainless Censorship, of course

P.S. When you run out of friends', families', and 5th grade crushes' names, progress to celebrities... like, say, Angelina Jolie. Or George Clooney. Or, at the very least, Alanis Morissette.

A Princess Copes with Summertime

To expound just a little, Little Swan’s wedding this past weekend was gorgeous. In fact, I would go so far as to say practically perfect. Which has made me a little sulky, honestly, because I’m pretty sure she used up all the good wedding mojo, and I was planning on saving some for my wedding.

Everyone who RSVPed showed up. The food was excellent. The air conditioning in the limo worked. The dress did not get dirty, despite dragging it all over a golf course. Many people got buzzed, no one got drunk. The best man’s speech was tasteful. The weather was perfect, warm and sunny with a slight breeze to keep everyone from overheating, despite predictions of 50mph gusts of wind. The pictures were beautiful. They remembered to sign the marriage certificate. And the night culminated in a good dance party.

And if that’s not the sign of a successful wedding, then I don’t know what is.

Nicely done, Mrs. Swan. Can I get you to do your sun dance for my wedding, please?

Back in Colorado, it is stupidly hot for June, the temperature hovering in the mid-90s yesterday, and possibly reaching triple digits, today. Nevertheless, I had tickets to go see the Rockies play the Yankees, and I was determined to go. I met up with my Swedish friend, who is gorgeous and petite and tan, and we stopped at a bar to get a requisite glass of wine before overpaying for Coors Lite and Dippin Dots at the ballpark.

The Swede was shedding clothing as we hiked up the stairs, and was in a teeny tiny tank top and shorts by the time we sat down. I could almost watch her skin turn a deeper shade of tan. I, on the other hand, much like a polar bear or fine electronic equipment, do not handle heat so well. I go from pale to burnt in .02 seconds. So I had on long pants, an undershirt, a long-sleeved sweater with a hood, sunscreen, and a ball cap.

“I love summertime!” she announced, throwing her head back to get more sun on her high cheekbones.

I murmured something hateful in return, while working hard to ward off heat stroke.

Fortunately, the Rockies won, the Dippin Dots didn’t melt, (and neither did I) and we had a good ride home. Next up is her Midsummer’s Party on Saturday, even though Midsummer is technically tomorrow. (Today? Tomorrow?) We discussed, among other things, an impromptu May Pole.

Oh, yes.

If it happens, I will so post pictures.

Because I'm Hard Core Like That

So the wedding in New Mexico went incredibly well, despite my tattoo deciding to bubble and then molt like a snake on the Discovery Channel, and despite my having to get fairly drunk in order to pull off the toast. (Which went well, considering I had a mini-crisis had to send The Funasaurus back to the hotel for my prop immediately after the ceremony and before consuming any of the cocktails at the cocktail hour, which I had forgotten, and was quite sure I couldn’t do without. I feel a prop makes any speech better.)

Since I was able to rage (kinda. Does “desperately wishing for a warm bed that doesn’t smell of stale beer” count as “raging”?) for the bachelorette party and shake my booty all night long, I decided I could not get away with using my tattoo as an excuse not to run, anymore. So this morning I got up at the crack of dawn, and re-commenced my M/W/F routine.

However, I started this week off on a better note. Not only was I well rested (read: hung over) but I was wearing NEW SHOES. When I went to California, my friend M practically had a heart attack when she saw my 1996 hard plastic relics. When she asked, “Why did you not throw those away 11 years ago?” I began to think that perhaps it was time to invest in a new pair.

And it really isn’t hard to convince me that I need to buy something newer and prettier and softer. So when I got back to Colorado, I invested in a new pair of shoes. And this morning, I gave them their maiden send off. We went around the park and back. And at first, I was like, “Holy hell, I’m running on clouds!” which was great. But after about a minute and a half, I realized that even if slightly more squishy, it was still running, and so it still sucked. But at least I was less embarrassed to be seen, which counts for something.

So now I must go back to work, because there is a crapload of work to do, and I am not quite sure how to squeeze it all in before I go to the ball game tonight and watch the Rockies (!) beat up on the Yankees (!!). Who’d have thunk?

Swans Finally Get Their Prince

This weekend I am going to a wedding in Albuquerque. One of my dearest friends is getting married, and I am her maid-of-honor. This means I am not only packing the usual sundresses and sandals, but also emergency mimosa kits, extra safety pins, bachelorette party supplies, a Very Pink taffeta dress, and crap to inspire me to write a speech.

The speech scares me more than the penis paraphernalia. I am terrified of public speaking. If I write mindless babble on a blog, no one is forced to read it. But 150 of my Little Swan’s nearest and dearest are going to be forced to listen to me blather on in a cracking Minnie Mouse voice. (The cracking is due to nerves. Minnie is just me, au naturel.)

What to say…. We have some great stories. But I don’t know how much her family wants to hear about freshman puke fests, or how much her soon-to-be husband needs to hear about the escapades involving ripped but skanky cadets from the Air Force Academy, who were just down the street from our hippie college. Or the stripper our whole freshman hall went in on, together, and got her for her birthday that year. He was very odd, with his rip-away snap-up jeans. He also had some technical name for his thong, if I remember correctly.

I still have pictures.

Although I’m not sure I can slip them into the slideshow unnoticed.

Do I talk about the two of us meeting up in Italy and eating the equivalent of a small engagement ring’s worth of gelato? Do I mention our “dress up” phase, where we’d do an entire fashion shoot in our very best homecoming wear at her aunt and uncle’s house while they were out of town? Do I talk about how we passed up on wholesome backpacking adventures that the rest of our class went on, to spend four glorious days at the mall? Or the vicious slaughter of my dignity when she dragged me to ballet class?

So many memories. So few that are “wedding appropriate.”

Congratulations, Little Swan. I don’t know what I’m going to say. But should the topic of false idol worship come up at your wedding, I promise to keep any mentions of ritualistic blood sacrifices to our Audrey Hepburn and James Dean posters to a minimum.

Time to Invest in Earplugs

Last night The Funasaurus and I drifted off to sleep at about 10:30. Around 12:30, the phone rang. Thinking it was another prank call from King Soopers, I ignored the first couple of rings, until the paranoid part of my subconscious woke up, all, “DEAD RELATIVES!” “GAS LEAK!” “TATTOO INK RECALL!” “FLOOD OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS HOWEVER UNLIKELY SEEING AS HOW IT WAS NOT EVEN RAINING TWO HOURS AGO!”

So I bolted upright, dashed downstairs, and groped around until I found the phone buried under a pile of papers on the coffee table.

“Missed call: Emergency Notification.”

That didn’t do so much for my paranoia.

I went back upstairs and handed the phone to The Funasaurus, all, “DO SOMETHING!” while he stretched, wondering what the hell I was screeching about after only two decent hours of sleep.

“Is there a message? Check the messages!” I said, lobbing the phone in his general direction.

(Note to self: Maybe it’s time to bother to learn how to check the voicemail on our damn home phone.)

But no sooner did The Funasaurus hit talk, than the phone magically dialed a number and said something to the effect of, “You have been contacted about a possible emergency. Please turn on the T.V. or radio to listen to your local news.”

That was helpful.

So we went downstairs, The Funasaurus grabbed the remote, and I suddenly said, “What if it’s a gas leak?!?! You’re not supposed to turn on the T.V. if there’s a gas leak. If there’s even the tiniest spark, it will blow up our house and kitties and probably scorch the side of our neighbors house and THEN who will we watch American Idol with?”

The Funasaurus looked at me groggily, and I debated grabbing the cats and forcing him outside, to test the range of our remote control. Then I decided I was too tired to go back upstairs for decent pajama pants, and just turned on the T.V.

Fortunately, we did not blow up. And the local news station was playing Will & Grace reruns.

So we watched Will dish out the pithy commentary for a minute, before deciding that we really needed to DO something, because we were both too tired for Grace’s crisis du jour. So I called 911, which felt very official and simultaneously scandalous, even though it was a totally legitimate call.

“Officer Noddamyproblem speaking”

“Hi. Um. My name’s Cat. I live in this neighborhood. We were just woken up by an Emergency Notification call, but we don’t know what the emergency is.”

The officer took a minute.

“Oh, yes. It was a reverse 911 call. We’re sent them out to everyone in your neighborhood.”

He paused long enough for me to look outside and see no pending tornado or flood, as well as the dark windows of all of my neighbors who were smart enough to sleep through their emergency notification calls.

“There’s a missing child reported about five miles south of you.” And he proceeded with the description.

“Fine. Thanks, sir, if I see any eight-year-old males with a striped t-shirt and green shoes on my way back to bed, I will be sure to let you know.”

And The Funasaurus and I went back to bed, after peeking out the window to make sure no missing children happened to be wandering on our sidewalk at 1:00 AM.

Now I don’t take Amber Alerts lightly. I KNOW missing children are a Big Deal. But really, did they think it would be helpful to wake up an entire suburban neighborhood (well, at least me, see: smart neighbors, above) at 12:30 AM on a weeknight on the off-chance that the missing child would be spotted in the lamplight only five miles north of where he disappeared from?

And no, it wasn’t any major skin off of our back. But it did take me a while to get my adrenaline to calm down, before I was able to get back to sleep. And in that time, I decided to invent the caller ID that says, “You are not about to die, but we need you to be on the lookout for a missing kid.” I think it'll sell.

Tat the Cat

So, I did it. I was nervous, and worried that it wouldn’t happen for some reason, so I didn’t post on Friday, because I didn’t want to jinx it. I was sure the parlor would call and say they were overbooked, or that we’d hit horrendous traffic and be so late that they were closed, or something….

But everything went smoothly, and on Friday Shooting Star picked me up, and took me to get my tattoo. I've waited 10 years. 10 years. (Minus two days.) I decided I wanted a tattoo on my graduation night of high school, and I told myself I had to wait 10 years, because tattoos are very permanent, and if I still wanted one after 10 years, then I could get one. And I still wanted one. (Also: holy fuck, I graduated from high school a decade ago.)

So here’s a picture:



Isn’t it lovely? In your face, Angelina.

Ha ha!Just kidding, mom.

Here’s what I really got:



Edeweiss is hard core, too, right?

I realize the picture is ginormous, and you get to see every disgusting, irritated pore, but at least it gives the impression of being HUGE, when in actuality it's about the size of a ping-pong ball.

Edelweiss has a special meaning for me, it’s a small, seemingly delicate white flower that actually thrives in high alpine environments. And it’s the national flower of Switzerland, lest you forget my pre-princess aspirations, not to mention, my fond memories of the Swiss and their police stations. And while, yes, you might say, it’s very pretty, isn’t it rather, BLUE for a white flower?

And to you I would say, apparently YOU don’t know how tattoos work. (Neither do I, really, but I just found this out) that white is kind of not really do-able as skin art, and that you often do blue to represent the shadow of white, which, I guess I get, since snow in the shadow is definitely an icy blue color, and so my flower is just very… shadow-y.

Perhaps it is being shaded by a high alpine boulder, or something.

I don’t know. But I do love my new tat, I am feeling very proud of myself, especially when I just continued to sit there on the table, instead of running away screaming when the dude picked up the tattoo gun and jerry rigged it, sparks flying and everything, to drill. The dude (they were all dudes. “Men” seems insanely formal for someone with a devil goat skull next to a marching Grateful Dead bear on his elbow) on the other side of the room was like, “Ha ha, here’s what a normal one looks like,” and clipped it into place and it went “brrrrrrrr” all nice and smoothly, whereas MY dude’s little gun was going, “prrrt, prrtt, SPARK! SPARK! prrrrrrtt!” Fortunately, Shooting Star was there, talking wedding stuff, so I was nice and distracted and hoo boy those dudes could not get over the a) extreme whiteness of my skin ("She's paler than I am!" said the practically albino dude. Thanks, y'all. I get it.) b) the girliness of the two of us in their very dude-ly tattoo place.

So I spent most of the weekend admiring my (now swelling) ankle and working because holy crap, for a 35-hour a week job, I have been putting in an awful lot of time….

Too Bad They Don't Pay Me to be a Film Critic

In an unfortunate turn of events, my company has decided that I need to WORK in order to earn my paycheck, much to the detriment of my avid blogging and e-mailing life.

However, I have persisted in my stair climbing endeavors, and my hatred for anything exercise-y is manifesting itself in odd ways. My subconscious is displeased with my persistence with the whole get-back-in-shape idea. When I go downstairs, I almost start to panic. I feel like something is chasing me, which is actually great for getting my heart rate up quickly, but not so great for the leftover nectarines from lunch, which get horribly bruised in the rapid decent. The further down I go, the more relieved I feel, since I am further and further away from my floor of origination, thereby giving myself more and more space from my pursuer. As though if somebody were to be chasing me they could only start from the 14th floor. Impossible that they’d come in on the 5th.

Crap, I shouldn’t give my subconscious ideas.

Anywhos. So… I’ve apparently gone a little crazy, another point in favor of the fact that too much work is not good for you. More wine should be consumed on the average workday. ... I decree.

The Funasaurus took me to see this movie last night, which was better than I expected, and also more serious than I expected. But in a good way. The plot was more believeable than most good summer commedies. For example, I loved Wedding Crashers, but it really was almost ruined by the lack of plot and resolution. It was mostly just a vehicle for Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson’s witty and humorous repartee, which, you know, is awesome, but could only have been augmented by plot or character development, in my humble opinion.

And now I have to go back to work. Please send chardonnay.

The Princess Does Sonoma

I'm back. Grumpy about being awake this early, but I'm back.

California was a blast. I spent the weekend drinking a copious amount of wine, eating a copious amount of vegetables (for me, anyway, who normally thrives off of pretzels and cupcakes) and talking about everything under the sun with some amazing women. We crammed a lot in, but I still can't believe it's over, and I'm back to the real world, already.

We got in on Friday night, and managed to eat some fabulous Thai food in Berkeley, before going home and crashing, like the old ladies we are. The next morning, two of the women decided to go for a run, and although I brought my running shoes, I SO did not join them because one had just completed a triathlon and one still plays competitive soccer (after having played D1 in college) and so, no thank you, because I did not feel like being humiliated. They laughed like I was joking when I said it takes me more than 12 minutes to run a mile.

So I ate bread and very expensive organic orange marmalade, instead, while I waited for them to get back.

We then toured some wineries, ate at a delicious restaurant for dinner, and a different, even deliciouser restaurant for dessert. Even though we had to tackle a waitress to finally serve us. Please, miss, let us give you money for overpriced port and a slice of whatever desserts you have sitting in the back! Please!

Then we came home, and decided to try and rally because we could not wake up feeling proud of ourselves if we had gone to bed before ten two days in a row, on our very brief reunion. So we squeezed dinner and dessert into bikinis and headed out to the hot tub where we pruned ourselves discussing all 1,400 ways that GWB has screwed this country over.

When we came in, we weren't quite ready for bed, yet, so we rented THIS movie from OnDemand, and whooo boy. You can skip that one. I was all excited for Sofia Coppola's rendition, despite the fact that I hate Kirsten Dunst with a passion. DOESN'T ANYONE ELSE SEE THAT SHE PLAYS THE SAME CHARACTER OVER AND OVER AND OVER? SHE HAS ONE TIGHT-LIPPED, HALF-ASLEEP LOOK, whether she's being dropped from a very tall building by a nemisis of Spiderman, or gambling her way through 17th Century France! IT'S LIKE BLUE STEEL, EXCEPT NO ONE SEEMS TO BE MOCKING HER!

Anyway. The movie was not really good at all. It was just a montage of amazing costume changes, which, you know, great, but find a better model than ol' Kirsten.

Sunday we went for a little hike, did some more wine tasting, had a lovely BBQ with gorgeous veggies and homemade croutons topped off with the most gooey dessert ever... and then went to bed early since we had proven our still-youngness the night before.

I flew home, yesterday, and proceeded to get a verbal lashing from Sugar about my recent absence, and then a very reluctant snuggle. Then Tatum flew at us with crazy eyes, and I almost lost a pinkie.

Life is back to normal.

If Norway Doesn't Work Out, I Might Settle for Boston

I loooooved Boston. I tried to convince The Funasaurus that we should move there, but he said, “no.” I intend to bribe him with sex. It’s too fun of a city to pass up. (Although I vaguely remember thinking not-so-much when we went in early February and got caught in a snowstorm… eh.) I had a wonderful time, and immediately felt at home on the 14th floor of a gorgeous old building right in downtown, with beautiful New England-y architecture and columns, and marble, and yellow walls lined with pretty books. (I am working for a publisher again, although this time it’s more assistant-y stuff rather than the fun marketing/editorial stuff I did before, for those of you who were wondering in my last set of comments.) They day-to-day database maintenance may not be fun, but the people are, and when a publisher is able to put you up in a fancy-schmancy hotel, you know they're doing something right! I sat in the waiting room, on my first day, marveling at my good fortune and reapplying lip gloss because I’m sure that’s what really matters to the New England bookish crowd for about an hour and a half… until I realized I was done reading all the covers on the displays in the room, and wasn’t it a little odd that the woman who told me to be there at 8:30 had still not shown up by 10:00? The security desk (!) called someone else in the group, and a woman we’ll call Monique came and got me, apologizing profusely because Hester, the woman who was supposed to train me, had taken the day off. But Monique leaned over with a twinkling eye, her very red pageboy haircut swinging across her face dramatically, “WelcEHm to Baaahstin!” She led me through the mahogany (!) doors and up the elevator that required an ID badge (!) and said, “Dontchew werry, I’ll shew you the really important stuff. The cawfee room, the caeh-feh-teria, the vieuww…..” So we spent the day sipping our cawfee, sitting on the deck, admiring the skyline of Boston in 70-some degree weather with about half of the rest of the office that managed to trickle in sometime between 9 and 10 and I had found my home.

They let me go about 4:00, and suggested I go shopping on Newbury Street for the rest of the afternoon. And. You know. Who am I to turn down such a sensible suggestion? Hester came in the next day, with leathery skin, a moustache, a tight chignon, and the raspiest voice I’ve ever heard. She had taken two cigarette breaks by the time we got my computer up and running, and then we took a walk back to my hotel for a tour of the new ballroom because she’s also the event coordinator for the company. The ballroom was lovely, I turned down a 10:30 bloody mary, mostly because I could not juggle tomato juice plus celery stick AND my luggage (which I was dragging along, by this point) and by the time we got back to the office, we had just enough time to have another leisurely lunch on the deck, admiring the view, before I had to catch a cab back to the airport.

Now I'm off to California for a weekend of drinking and debauchery with pretty much the most fabulous women, ever.

This is the life for me.

Four Time Zones and Three Maxed Out Credit Cards

I have no idea where I am, or what time it is. I just had dinner with D, who is a resident of Boston, so I’m pretty sure I’m in Massachusetts. Yesterday I was in Omaha. Then Denver. Then I got up at o-fuck-thirty this morning and flew here. And then I pit stop in Denver on Thursday night to fly to California. I am tired, and out of money, between having to put the hotel on my card (oopsie in the hotel/company communications, the company gave them a card #, but they need the physical card to swipe to charge it, so in the meantime, I had to hand over mine) and the cute new LBD I just bought at THE TWO MALLS CONNECTED TO MY HOTEL VIA SEXY GLASS PASSAGEWAYS OH MY GOD.

Fortunately, I have to work, tomorrow, and will therefore be distracted from buying too many more pretty things at the mall that houses Dior, Jimmy Choo, and Louis Vuitton stores. Not that I went in many of them.

Here’s the secret, though. I’m terrified to go to work, tomorrow. I’m terrified they’re going to realize I have no idea what I’m doing, and they are going to think “Wow, big mistake on our part, much like her hotel payment mix up, what WERE we thinking, hiring her?” I have visions of them yanking my pretty hotel room away from me, and taking my crackImean, company-issued-desktop-with-wireless-access, and making me sit in the airport for the next 48 hours, until I can get on a plane going home. Which they will regret having paid for, seeing as how I have been no use at all, and just a complete drain on company resources.

Plus, if my incompetence doesn’t do it, my hair will. I spent the entire Memorial Day Weekend in Omaha, which is humid, and now I’m in Boston, which is humider, and my hair is FREAKING OUT. I look kind of like a large, fuzzy, elongated peach in a cute, new, LBD, at this point. I’m sure it would frighten the beejezus out of the nice Boston people who pay for me to fly out here and sit in a lovely hotel room and shop on my first afternoon here. I can see them saying, “Pretty dress. Too bad about the hair devouring her head and most of the air in a three foot radius around it.”

So that’s kind of what I’ve been up to.

AUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

There was just a loud, terrifying noise outside my hotel room! I'm not sure I am conveying the scariness of it. I will go investigate and report back.

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That took freaking forever mostly because I forgot how to un-deadbolt the deadbolt. You would think that would be asininely simple, but then you underestimate my incompetence. Much like my employers.

Anyway. The noise that sounded like boulders mixed with marbles on a steel drum (or the thoughts of a faux-mouse looking into Tatum's crazy eyes right before being flung across the living room) turned out to be the ice machine, which is conveniently located about two steps from my door. So I suppose I have that to look forward to, tonight. Anybody want a sno-cone?

Fetch Me Some More Chai, Kitty

So I am sitting here at my new job, when I get an e-mail from a random person saying, “Hi, I’m your Very Important Boss’ friend, and I would like to take you to lunch. Would today work for you?”

And I write back, all blasé, “Well, I suppose. I am a little busy. It’s not like I’m sitting here in my very own office writing on my personal blog, or anything.”

Then I take a satisfied gulp of decaffeinated chai and SLOOSH, out it spills, all over my pale green shirt and (what else) my white pants. So I have just returned from the bathroom, and now I look like I’ve wet myself, on top of sporting the scent eau de starting-to-get-stale chai, for the rest of the day. I’m sure I’ll make a great first impression.

I blame Tatum.

Mostly because he spent the whole night fetching this piece of plastic that you have to tear off of the milk jugs that we have delivered every week. (I SO have a real milk box and milkman. Are you jealous?) For whatever reason, the softness of the plastic, the round, slightly mouse-esque shape, the bounce-ability factor, whatever, Tatum enjoys retrieving these things when there are no faux mice readily available. Now last night I was trying to sleep, and Tatum fetched one of these milk things and it landed on my face and I remember thinking, “This is not good, you should remove it,” and then thinking, “But I am SLEEPING” so I didn’t, and paid the price of one googly-eyed kitty pouncing on my eyeball.

That sucked.

So Tatum got the boot, and I hid the plastic thing under my pillow, which is often my solution for making his nocturnally fetched objects disappear. When I wake up in the morning I usually look under my pillow, because often there is a surprise, since I have become so good at confiscating fetchable crap mid-sleep. I have found hair ties, collar stays, string, pieces of Christmas trees, straws, leaves, and a mish-mash of other stuff.

So anyway. Tatum spent part of the night trying to play fetch with this thing, and pawing at my pillow because he is not always as dumb as he looks. This morning I rolled over, and the plastic thing poked out from under my pillow and Tatum pounced on that thing like a 13-year-old on a PlayStation. There was no sleeping in for me, Tatum was all, “Play!PLAY!PLAY!” So I finally conceded his victory, threw it a couple times, and began my morning routine.

Eventually I needed counter space in the bathroom, and Tatum would not give it to me, because Being in the Way is pretty much his favorite game ever. Besides fetch. So I hunted around for the plastic thing and threw it for him, and I swear that cat rolled his eyes and was like, “Bitch, please. I get a mouse in the morning. Now could you hurry it up?”

So I am currently hating Tatum. And I blame him entirely for the current state of my shirt and pants.

Princess Bubbles

Besides jogging, now, I have also started taking the stairs to my office, like every beginner exercise book or In Shape article will tell you to do. Unfortunately, I do not work on the third floor. I work on the eleventh floor. And if you have ever tried to hike 11 flights of stairs (upward, people, UPWARD) then you know what an excellent workout I am getting every morning. And sometimes after lunch. Although I've noticed my lunchtime excursions have limited themselves to the break room, as opposed to one of the many nearby restaurants, having now put the “stairs only” restriction upon myself. See, I'm even lazy enough to cheat the system when I create the system.

In any case, at least once a day, those stairs make me more out of breath than a 30 minute jog will. Every morning I tell myself, “Come on, it's not the Matterhorn. It's a staircase.”

And then myself always goes, “But isn't there a cozy little tram you can ride up the Matterhorn?”

So I've been good, and while I cannot feel the results, yet, I feel less guilty about entering BBQ season.

The Funasaurus was away playing volleyball last night, so I decided to treat myself to a bubble bath. Because, um, yum.

The only downside to a bubble bath is that you must clean the bathtub, first. A chore which has led me to decide, “I don't really want a bath THAT badly,” on any number of occasions.

But it was long overdue for a cleaning anyway, so with the help of Sugar and Tatum, I scrubbed the heck out of the bathtub, rinsed thoroughly, and retrieved some bubble bath goo from the nether regions of under-the-sink while the tub filled up with copious amounts of unnecessary warm water.

Al Gore and Laurie David be damned. At least I recycle.

So I soaked in the tub for a good 40 minutes, at first being nervous about any remaining Lysol going up my bum, or sticking to my hair despite the OCD rinsing I gave each section of the tub. (I am a germaphobe who's scared of chemicals. It's been a tricky life.) Once I was sufficiently dehydrated and soggy all at the same time, I got out and curled up in bed. I do not remember the rest of the night, but I am all mushy and happy-feeling, today.

Maybe even too mushy for 11 flights of stairs...?

It's Not Easy, Being Lilac

This weekend I took The Funasaurus tux-shopping, for the wedding. We had to make our reservation and pick out colors and styles. For any of the groomsmen who might read this blog (ha ha) you should know you have a good friend in The Funasaurus. I fought mightily for the lilac (read: shiny lavender) vests with a swirly flower pattern, but The Funasaurus adamantly vetoed those, despite how well they would have matched my sash.

He also vetoed the chocolate brown tuxes, opting for a more traditional black. Whatever. I thought that would have been pretty pimpin', but The Funasaurus, I found out, is fairly pimpin' adverse.

We also spent the better part of the weekend listening to the radio and mix CDs, trying to pick a first dance song. We have the same taste in china patterns (classic) and sofas (comfy) but when it comes to music our tastes diverge drastically. Mostly because I like good music, and he likes Journey.

We can agree on Bon Jovi, at least, (though I think it's pretty un-American to NOT like Bon Jovi, I'm pretty sure it's written into The Constitution somewhere) but as we listened to the lyrics of “Always”, we realized that “unrequited love” was not quite the theme we wanted to start our marriage off on.

Then, last night, “She Drives Me Crazy” came on the radio, and I jumped up all, “I have a version of this song sung by Kermit!” (Who is pretty much my hero. I grew up with the Muppets, and developed a rather strong attachment to the fuzzy green frog. Ask my roommate from college about the posters, collectors items, mouse pads, sippy straws, mugs, and.... better yet, don't. We've just started talking, again.) Having met The Funasaurus in college, he knows something of my affection for Kermit. So when I told him that it would be just so perfect and fitting for Kermit to sing our first dance song, he said, “That's fine, baby. If you want Kermit to sing our first dance song, then we can do it.”

And I began to get teary eyed, thinking of the perfectness of it all.

“I mean, it's not like people will laugh at us, or anything,” he added.

And he wonders why he didn't get any, last night.

Running on Empty

Since “sausuage coming out of pressurized can” is not exactly the image I want people to associate with me in my wedding dress, I took my fitting as a wake-up call and have begun jogging again. Which I hate. If you do not know how much I hate it, go here. That is how much.

So this morning I got up with the alarm, The Funasaurus was kind enough to shut it off and grab my pillow from me, before turning over and going back to sleep, so I begrudgingly got ready and got out the door. I've been telling myself it's o.k. to go slow, that I don't need to break any personal records in time or distance just yet, that I need to be realistic to sustain this. But I was feeling pretty good, and putting along at what felt like a good rate, when I saw a shadow behind me. Now, the sun was just coming up, so the shadow, I knew, would be long. However it still took it about .0002 seconds to grow taller than my shadow, and then this lovely woman comes speeding past me like a Ferrari on an open course. I am horrified- she was not even out of breath, all, “Good morning!”-ing me as she raced by as though I was standing still. But as she ran ahead of me, I noticed she had one of those zero-fat bodies, and extremely muscular legs, underneath an expensive-looking sweat-removing-type runner outfit thing-y. No wonder her “jog” was as fast as a sprint. I imagine she's an Olymipic athlete, probably.

So I don't feel bad until the older, larger woman in grey sweatpants and a dingy t-shirt comes flying past, all, “Good Morning!” me as well. She was barely speed-walking, and she lapped me like a racehorse.

At that point I began to think that perhaps I should upgrade my visor to a fucking paper bag so that I am utterly unrecognizable in my apparently track-and-field-happy neighborhood.

Fortunately someone's sprinklers were on, on my way home, so I ran through them, screwthegrass, the water felt good, and for a split second I was tempted to try out an old slipe-and-slide move on their perfectly manicured lawn. I decided against it, (mostly due to the shuddering in my kneecaps) but even just considering the deviant maneuver made me feel a bit better.

Of course, I've also been having jaw issues, as in waking up with a very sore jaw, and eventually The Funasaurus had commented that perhaps it was due to the fact that I am “clanging” my teeth at night (apparently not just grinding, but clanging) so I have also recently invested in a mouth guard to sleep in. Which, you know, has done wonders for my self-image as well.

T.G.I.F.

Love,
The Epitome of Cool Herself,
P.i.G.

Shouldn't a Princess Have a Limo with a Chauffeur?

Last night I went to a happy hour with a girlfriend from Sweden. (That bit of information, I realize, is not that important. But I just like typing Sweden. Try it. It's fun. ... Seriously. Sweden. SwedenSwedenSweden.)

So we got half price glasses of wine, and a small pizza appetizer, and began to talk about things like pedicures and boys and trips to Norway. Well, that kind of thing makes me so happy, naturally we went for glass #2. And I kept running to refill my meter. On my second trip to the meter, I noticed, “Woah, there's the wine!” as I barely avoided a head-on collision with a railing. So on my way back into the restaurant, I had a very stern talk with myself.

Me: You are going to have to drive. You cannot be drunk. You must stop drinking now.

Self: But... wine! Sweden! Norway.

Me: Yes, but a DUI probably does nothing for getting you to Norway faster.

Self: ... I don't see the connection.

Me: Naturally, you wouldn't. You are drunk.

Self: True. But., then, wouldn't you be drunk, too?

Me: Erm.

Self: Ah-hah! You DON'T see the connection, either, you drunken no-sense maker!

Me: I'm sure there's a connection, somehow! Drinking and driving are not good combination.

Self: I know. But let's just finish this nice little glass of chardonnay, and we'll order some water, o.k.?

Me: Well, that sounds like a good compromise. Maybe we could get a little calamari, too.

So I went back in, but actually did not finish the wine. I was really feeling it, and knew it would take a while to wear off. I have become something of a lightweight. That is not good for my street cred, but I was actually relieved when we realized that my friend had missed her bus because we had been chatting too long, and I was going to have to give her a ride home.

I hate having to be reasonable when I am having a good time. Especially when I am drinking. It is a huge, internal conflict of interest. The obvious solution is that I must build up my tolerance, again. It will take discipline and training, but I am ready.

I am also thinking I should look into the local bus system. I want to support public transportation, and maybe if I am drunk the ghetto route to my house will seem less sketchy. Of course, that will not help either me or my poor Swedish friend the next time we get to talking and BOTH of us miss the bus. Maybe that'll just be a sign to stay for some more calamari.