I'm So Over December

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love pie.

They brought us ham and green beans as leftovers.

I think they hate us.

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

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

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

Sure am glad we maxed out those credit cards.

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

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

It was the 24-hour flu, after all.

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

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

Love,
Princess Rainbows and Sunshine

Princess vs. The Snow

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

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

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

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

It’s sexy.

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


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


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

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

Cheers!

The Season of Pleasure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love and kitfo to you and yours.

Drip

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

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

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

Who’s pouting about her sniffles?

Jane Would Have Gotten a Flu Shot

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

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

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

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

…

And also napping.

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

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

Want to take bets on if I just jinxed myself?

Deck the Halls with Scotch Tape

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

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

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

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

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

I’m full of Christmas joy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pshaw,” I said, “What do maps know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

No thanks.”

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

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

Book Report of Books Barely Worth Reading

We had dinner downtown the other night with a friend who was visiting from the Western Slope. Dinner downtown is fun, but, of course, we chose the restaurant next door to the Tattered Cover. And it is pretty much impossible to be next door to the Tattered Cover without going into the Tattered Cover.

And once inside… well. I don’t possess much self-restraint. So I spent about three minutes and swiped up two books before I forced myself to the checkout counter and got out the door before further damage could be done. (Poor little libraries. I do still love you. I want to work in you. I just like owning all the pretty books, myself. I think the “sharing” idea is good in theory, though!)

So I got Learning to Drive, because I heard an interview with the author on NPR and she was a nice mix of humble and strong, so. O.K. I’ll give it a go. Also, she's a feminist who had trouble learning to drive and had her husband chauffeur her around for most of her life. And, well, I can relate. (Not to the having issues driving, so much as wanting to be chauffeured around. Which, I'm sure that was the very feminist point she was trying to make.)

Then I got The White Masai. Because the cover intrigued me. White chick from Switzerland goes on holiday to Kenya with her boyfriend, where she sees a dude in a loincloth holding a spear and dumps her boyfriend right there, gives up her successful business in Switzerland, and moves into his cow dung hut in the African bush. It’s not overly well-written. I don’t love the translation. (Originally published in German.) But god, what a fascinating story! Nothing says romance like war paint and cow dung!

It’s an amazing objective autobiography of an obsession. Her perspective is so Western, her ideology is wrapped around a very 1st world upbringing. But somehow she’s totally willing to overlook malaria, goat slaughters, and what basically amounts to rape in the name of love. (Not hygiene, though. The Swiss upbringing is just too powerful. There must be soap and toilet paper, out there in the African bush!)

Anywhos. I’m reading it in the same way that I try not to look at a gruesome accident on the highway. I don’t want to admit that I’m riveted. (But how can you not, when there are even color photographs to illustrate the ridiculousness that is her in a couture 80s white wedding dress, complete with puffy Sleeping Beauty sleeves by a goat skin hut in central Kenya, surrounded by Masai in loincloths and tribal paint?)

Thank goodness it’s Friday. I have so many better things to do than work!

A Week's Worth of Cramming

As predicted, I drank my weight in both mulled wine and eggnog, over the weekend. On top of the enormous feast I continued to shovel into my mouth throughout the four days. I also have not returned to yoga, and I feel great! ... Minus some minor heart palpitations, but I’m sure it’s just working hard digesting all that oyster stuffing.

Mmmm, stuffing.

Meanwhile, the Broncos intentionally lost on Sunday, (there is no other explaination) sending The Funasaurus into a downward spiral of sadness and grieving and cursing at our oversized TV. Fortunately, he had jury duty this morning, to pick his spirits right back up.

(?)

My parents came down early on Thanksgiving day to help us install some shelves in our garage, because our little house is currently busting at the seams, what with four adults and all their crap trying to cohabitate. It’s been very cold, so we quickly realized that the shelves also served as a fabulous second fridge, seeing as how our regular fridge was at max capacity before we tried to cram a Thanksgiving feast for nine into it.

That was a great idea right up until it got warm on Sunday, and there was a fruit torte and some fish that did not survive the heat wave. (Although don’t you worry, we saved that chocolate cake with time to spare.) Our garage currently does not smell as horrid as you might think, because there was also a bottle of wine that did not survive the first shaking of the shelves, thus clarifying any spilled fish on the cement. It currently kinda smells like expensive vinegar out there, which I figure isn’t a bad trade-off.

In other news, I am officially Mrs. Funasaurus on all of my credit cards, now; I saw August Rush and it wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be; (I actually liked [!] it) and I discovered my friend in California is dating Flavor Flav’s doppleganger. Which is pretty awesome, and I am sincerely hoping that, despite being skinny and pale with a darling British accent (and, like, seven feet tall) he occasionally sports a large clock on a chain around his neck.

Here’s hoping!

The Toxic Life Is the Life for Me!

I went back to yoga last night, thinking I’d give it one more shot.

That was a dumb idea.

I thought I’d be o.k. when I saw a very pregnant lady waddle in and roll out her mat, right in front of mine. If she can do it with a second human stuck to her midsection, I could certainly chaturanga my way through one little hour, right?

Wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong wrong.

I spent most of the evening lying prostrate to the vanilla scented candles in the corner, while ol’ preggers there eagled and dancer posed her way around me. I hated her, and her ridiculously limber unborn child.

I felt really ill afterwards, and my sister-in-law gaily announced, “Oh, that’s the toxins leaving your body! Yoga is great for that!”

Apparently, I am a very toxic woman, because I am still ill this morning. I spent the night alternating between shivering and having hot flashes. This morning I woke up and ache in every part of my body. I have done strenuous exercise before. (Believe me, those box wines don’t lift themselves into the refrigerator) But unlike having aching quads from skiing, or back pains from doing crunches improperly, yoga makes you feel like shit all over.

Not only do my quads and back hurt, but my eyelids feel like they are being torn off of my eyebrows, my wrists are as brittle as the leftover meringues I found in our cupboard leftover from last Christmas, and my elbows feel like I rubbed the cartilage right out of them.

Yoga is not for me!

You know what IS for me, though? Thanksgiving. Complete with home-made lumpy gravy, giblets, and extra wine. And eggnog. God, I love eggnog. Thus, I have decided to focus my energies on that, for the rest of the week.

Considering, though, that I have very little energy left after the third ring of hell yoga class I went to last night, my “energy” shall probably come from the couch. Where I shall alternate between glugging wine and eggnog, and giving drunken directions to my poor mother and sister-in-law’s boyfriend, who are probably going to be doing most of the cooking for the rest of us lazy slobs.

Cheers!

*ouch*

I would raise my glass to you, but it hurts. Note to self: invest in some wineglass-sized straws before T-day.

Royally Pissed

This morning’s been a kick in the pants. I got to get up at o’butt-crack thirty to take The Funasaurus to the airport for a business trip. Despite being up before the sun, there were a ton of other people on the road, and the radio reporters gaily announced, “The highways are looking pretty good, although if you’re headed out to the airport, be prepared for delays, there was a rollover accident on THE ONLY FUCKING ROAD THAT GOES TO THE AIRPORT.”

(I paraphrase.)

So, you know. That put me in a good mood. Right along with having to say goodbye to The Funasaurus, which is basically like kryptonite to my codependent SuperPrincess self.

I got home earlier than my alarm usually goes off, though, and decided to make a good impression on the boss and send him a Very Important E-mail that I had said I would send “first thing in the morning” but figured he was expecting something closer to 9:00 AM than 6:40 AM. I remembered to include the attachment and everything, and hit “send.”

And then went about reading my e-mails and checking MySpace for about an hour, until I decided to check and see if the boss had responded yet.

And there was my damn e-mail, still sitting in the outbox. It had not left. Mother….

So then I opened it and hit “send” a couple more times, because, obviously repetitive mouse clicking and keyboard slamming is exactly what makes computer programs go faster.

Sadly, it is now 10:00 AM, and that e-mail still has not left my mailbox. So much for a bright and early start. I did call the help desk, and found out that our e-mail server is out company-wide, so even if the thing had left my box, it probably wouldn’t have made it to my boss’.

I am still frustrated, though, and decided the only logical thing to do was to consume a rather large amount of chocolate. Which I did. At 9:00 on a Thursday morning. It helped.

Now I’m debating a froofy coffee drink run. I don’t have anything else to do, and the chocolate’s gone, man. It’s gone.

It's November? Already? I'm Still Writing 2006 on My Checks....

Where have I been, this week? Oh, I don’t even know where to start. The past six days have included:

1 yoga class. Wherein I actually cried, it hurt so bad. Thus reaffirming I am a big, fat pansy, and also not really meant for exercising.

1 trip to the emergency room with my mother-in-law who was quite sure she had cancer in her throat but it actually turned out to be a large piece of salmon. Radiation not needed, so much as chewing.

Several late nights of work, but often there is a quick power nap with my head on my desk during the day, so… you know. It evens out.

5 excruciating days of mouse withdrawal for Tatum. He was starting to get a little obsessive about the whole thing, having trained The Funasaurus’ sister’s boyfriend (who is currently living with us, if you remember) to get up and get him a mouse STAT, first thing in the morning. Which is fine during the week, when Tatum waits for the alarm. It is not so fine when he decides, “Hey FUCKERS! It’s 6:00 AM! Time for my mouse! GET UP!” on a Saturday morning.

So he starts each day out with his soliloquy that begins with a tentative, “Mew?” and quickly escalates into a little one-sided Tatum conversation, “Rrrow? Row? Rowrowrow? Rrrrrow. Rrowrrowrrow. Rowww? Rrrow. Rrrowrowrrrowrrrow.” And then he goes for the cute, “Purr/rrrowww….” And when that does nothing he gets a little lounder and harsher, “RRRRRRRROW!GRRROW!GRROW!” And when THAT doesn’t work, there’s the not-so-subtle “Rrreow-bitches-best-get-me-my-mouse-before-I-cut-them-rrow!” And Tatum’s not playing, because he WILL cut you, just ask my collar bone.

So I decided to cut the little bastard off, and it has been Very Sad around here, what with the lack of faux mice, and the wild look in Tatum’s eye. Having successfully sucked all the joy from his life, I have turned my attention to Sugar, and her recent darts for freedom into the garage, which are getting rather annoying.

I have not found the time to go to the post office to mail my friend’s birthday present which was, oh, A WEEK AGO, and I haven’t had a spare second to clean the house, which has bypassed "pigsty" and gone straight into "trailer-park-after-a-natural-disaster" territory. (Of course, I did somehow find time to watch Oceans Thirteen with The Funasaurus last night. Because it is just that good.)

Sometimes I miss my days of navel-staring whilst unemployed.

Reading and Drinking in the Kingdom

So remember how a couple of friends and I started a classics book club? Well, I pulled my little, “I’m a princess” routine at our first meeting, and while the majority of the book selection process was democratic… I dictatored my way into Jane Austen’s Persuasion (fortunately, everyone was fairly agreeable) because I have always wanted to read that book. My enthusiasm even demanded I host that discussion, and that we read that book FIRST! We'll see if there's mutiny in the book club. Eh! What do I care, as long as I get my night of hosting the Jane Austen novel?

With visions of finger sandwiches and tea dancing through my head, I immediately bought the prettiest version of the book available from the Tattered Cover, and set into reading, what some call Jane’s best work.

The second night in, though, I had a thought. “This is all so familiar. Her books are all running together in my head. It’s the same, self-restrained-to-the-point-of-mental-straightjacket-dom, 19th century British literature that I love, but o.k., it’s nothing new. I was hoping for something a little more from her final novel.”

The third night I continued down my, “It’s like I’ve read this book before,” train-of-thought. (Though I was still engrossed enough in it to miss meeting The Funasaurus for dinner at IHOP. And that’s a Big Deal, considering how hungry I had told him I was when he called me from the road and offered to go out to dinner.) “This reminds me so much of that one story where the chick falls off the wall at the beach, and the other chick shares a clandestine look with a stranger on some stairs…” the mental images came rolling in, as I read about their walking around the moors between the manor houses with nary a beach in sight.

Then I turned the page and they got in their carriages and drove to Lyme, where the one chick falls off the wall at the beach and the other chick shares a clandestine look with a stranger on some stairs.

Apparently… I have read this book before.

So much for finally reading all of Jane Austen’s works. Turns out I did that many years ago. Derrrr.

So, ah. I don’t exactly remember how it ends (though it is Jane Austen, I’d bet money they end up together at the end, after all hope had been lost, and live happily ever after) so I shall continue on. It’s a good book. And fortunately, worth re-reading.

That’s about it for my life recently. Well, besides the fact that I passed up a massage for a glass of cheap cabernet, last night. It was worth it. Cabernet is kind of like a Swedish for the frontal lobe.

I'll Alien Your America

I don’t like sports.

Ha.

There.

I said it.

And The Funasaurus can’t dump me because he committed himself to me for life. Sucker.

Sometimes, I enjoy being at a stadium, there is something to be said for the rush of being part of a large crowd all with the same agenda- hating the other guys and craving another overpriced hot dog. But really, I don’t have the patience for actually watching a game. It just doesn’t do it for me, as hard as I try to learn, sometimes.

I still prefer Sex and the City reruns, all of which I’ve seen at LEAST ten or twelve times, a piece. But with the advent of DVR (oh, holy DVR) and the fast-forwarding of commercials (and also Seasons 2 and 3 on DVD) it is pure, unadulterated, Samantha Jones & co. Sadly, with the advent of DVR, also comes the ability to watch every fucking football game EVER and then basketball. Right after we spent an otherwise perfectly good Saturday at a college football game. Where we were beaten so badly I’m thinking even The Funasaurus is going to take a little break from watching. (Perhaps it wouldn’t be all bad if we were to get spanked more often?)

DVR has also got us hooked on TV shows that are happening right now, OMG. We are more likely to start watching shows once they’ve already been in syndication for a while. Like Scrubs. We discovered that last year. And Friends and Seinfeld were our staples on the weeknights, up until recently. However now that DVR is around, it can record things that other people are watching on a regular basis, thus giving us a slighter chance at being “cool” and “in.”

Ha ha.

Actually, there is one show that I’m really enjoying, called Aliens in America. It’s kind of a silly family comedy, and I don’t normally really like those. (Gag me, Malcolm in the Middle.) But it is also jumping right in to bigotry and terrorism at a time when our culture seems so hung up on being politically correct (Carlos Mencia excluded) that we aren’t really discussing some really dark and growing stereotypes that are kind of the barnacles on our leading world power boat.

So what better way to discuss whether our constitution covers the right to privacy than a gawky 15-year old boy trying desperately trying to hide the fact that he looked at boobs on his Pakistani friend’s computer, which the police are trying to confiscate?

Take that, Malcolm. I don’t think they’ve ever let you look at girlie pictures on your set.

Haunting Stories of Cars and Projectile Vomiting

Last night sucked balls.

First, let’s start with the fact that I had to work late-ish. That is never a good way to start an evening. Then one of our temporary residents cooked dinner for us (damn him!) and it was good. (ARGH. Making me LOOK BAD.) Then he had the nerve to clean it all up!

Actually, it really did bother me, and this is how I know that I have become Totally Crazy, because I hate dishes. And this is not a secret. But when someone is in my house, and using my kitchen, and then starts cleaning while a movie is still playing it makes me feel Very Guilty. And so when I say, “please don’t,” and they say, “Oh, it’s no trouble, it will only take me a minute,” I feel obliged to stand up and stop watching the movie and help.

Right, I know, I have acknowledged that I’m Crazy. Let’s move on.

So instead of throwing the “woe is me, I can’t watch the lame movie that I really wasn’t paying attention to anyway” tantrum that I felt brewing inside me, I wiped down a couple dishes and then got in the car to go to the grocery store and call my brother and talk about things like house hunting and how he’s having trouble coming up with a half million dollars to buy four square feet of a rundown bathroom in California. Fortunately, what with the housing bubble finally popping, he’s hoping he may get an extra square foot or two, for that price. Hooray, a sink AND perhaps a place to stand, next to it!

So I got to the store, and got very wrapped up in our conversation about staying on his couch sometime in January that I just sat in my parked car, in my little parking spot in the grocery store, blathering on. Until some woman in a truck comes barreling down the row in the wrong direction, and begins this very complicated mover of turning and trying to back into the space that’s either the one in front of me, or the one next to it, I’m not sure, because she backs straight down the middle of the yellow line that’s supposed to divide the spaces. Almost crossing into a third space.

I pause, watching the circus act unfold, with a gut feeling that Something Bad is going to come of this, to the point that I make the comment to my brother, “I think she’s drunk.” And that is when she backed her truck right up into my PARKED CAR.

So with the east coast gangsta girl raging inside of me, I step out of my car in my cute, little Audrey Hepburn coat, glare at the large woman who is jumping out of her truck with two other women and is headed into the store, and scream, “The fuck you think you are doing? You just hit my PARKED car! I will cut you!”

Or, at least, that’s how it sounded in my head. What came out of my mouth sounded more like, “Erm, ‘scuse me? I think you’re over the line.”

“SO?” she snarled.

“So, you hit my car!” I finally squeaked.

“No I didn’t!” she raged, coming back to inspect.

Sure enough, our cars were touching.

She got back into her car, pulled it forward a couple of inches, and then got out, calling me a, “Fucking Bitch,” to her friends, very loudly.

Which makes sense, what with her being the fucking idiot who ran into my car that was just sitting there. No apology. No attempt to exchange information.

And if you know the kind of neighborhood that surrounds my grocery store, I doubt you would chase down someone who was significantly bigger and meaner than you at 9:00 at night in the parking lot there, either.

Not that there was any damage. A) The front of my car is already jacked, what with my feeble attempts at learning to do donuts when I lived up in the mountains (hint, make sure there are no, say, LARGE BOULDERS to run smack dab into, when you try it) and B) she really was only going about four miles an hour.

Still, my pride was mortally wounded, so I called my brother back, (somewhere in there I hung up on him) and filled the conversation with a lot of cussing and heavy sighing. He advised me to at least move my car, which I did, and then we chatted some more, and I came home to a clean kitchen and more work.

Fortunately, work is slowing down, now, some. And the past couple days have been highly successful, what with the DMV being something akin to a Disney World experience, compared to the Social Security office, (despite my signature looking like I want to become left-handed, along with becoming Mrs. Funasaurus) and we got a ridiculous amount of trick-or-treaters on Halloween, most of whom were in very clever costumes.

I don’t particularly like children, but I LOVE trick-or-treaters. I would like them to come to my house every night. And I would buy them candy every night, oh yes I would. Especially the little girl who was dressed as one of the Shrek babies in Shrek 3. (That movie was a horrible, hour + commercial for lunchboxes, with the only redeeming quality being the adorable, projectile-vomiting Shrek Baby characters.)



Her costume was totally homemade (the best kind) but a lot of effort had been put into the skewed antennae, the green face paint, and the large diaper. I would have given her all the candy I had left, if there weren’t more kids lined up behind her that I wanted to see.

And now, it’s finally the weekend.

Witch for a Day

Hi! Remember me? I’m the kid who had a report due on space….

…

(No? Anyone? ...Bueller? ...Bueller?)

So yeah, I’ve been busy. The Funasaurus was out of town last week, but I didn’t get lonely, oh no, for his sister and her boyfriend are currently living with us.

Fortunately, they are very nice and we all get along well and laugh a lot. Unfortunately, The Funasaurus’ sister has some princess-esque tendencies, herself. And, well. I am used to being the only princess in the house. So sometimes there are disagreements over who is more lazy. Or the exact placement of the trash can. Or whether we should have any vegetables with dinner, ever, at all. (And BTW that’s ME who finally insisted on a few little green beans around last night’s extra meat-y spaghetti! There IS someone in the world who eats less healthily than I do!)

But in the grand scheme of things, we’ve actually been having a fun time together. And Sister’s Boyfriend, from here known as SB, is quite a cook, so there have been some tasty (though veggie-less) dinners in the Funasaurus household, recently.

We also went to the World Series game on Sunday night, which was a lot of fun, though might have perhaps been slightly MORE fun had we not had to watch Boston beat us like the playground bully after our lunch money. Bambino-curse or not.

Today is Halloween, though the temperature high is supposed to be all of 47 degrees. Not that that ever stopped me when I was a kid. Nay, I wore many a princess (oh, like you’re surprised) costume with a big ol’ ski coat underneath. I just figure it was training for my future Norwegian monarchy.

Last year we got six, SIX whole trick-or-treaters, two of whom were parents with their own, separate treat bags. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like parents get to get treats, too. Especially if they don’t dress up. (One dude was holding a motorcycle helmet, which COULD have been a piece of a costume until I looked closely.) You’re too old, man. You are now paying your dues for all the hours you dragged YOUR dad around YOUR neighborhood while you were ringing doorbells dressed as Luke Skywalker for the third year in a row. So this year I am making, “Grow the Fuck Up!” tickets to hand out to any candy-grubbing parents.

Because I fully embrace the spirit of the holiday that way.

Of course, I bought three large bags of candy (Reeces Cups, because those are the aces of Halloween candy, Butterfingers because those are my favorite, and Nerds for the non-chocolate lovers, and also because if you don’t like Nerds then there’s something wrong with you.) for our potential four kids who come by this year.

I’m o.k. with having leftovers.

Happy Halloween!

Variations on the Theme: Sleep

The Funasaurus is away on a business trip, and while I am sad and miss him very much, Sugar and Tatum are like, “SCORE! MORE BED FOR US WITH NO FEAR OF BEING SMUSHED IN THE NIGHT!” and have laid claim to about 99% of the covers, leaving me in a very awkward position in the corner, not daring to move lest I disturb their delicate, sleeping selves. How two cats that weigh less than eight pounds a piece are able to take up an entire queen bed is entirely beyond me. But they do it. And sometimes it is not enough space, because I had to wake up twice to remove a determined Tatum jaw from Sugar’s squealing head because apparently she was in the exact spot that he wanted to be.

We have also recently acquired DVR, and I am slowly learning the wonders that are “FAST FORWARD! THROUGH THE COMMERCIALS!” My sister-in-law had to remind me, at every single commercial break, that, “You know, you can skip this if you want,” and I would remember I had awesome power to fast forward the TV.

Mwah-hah-hah-hah.

Screw you, Downy, Viagra, and Comcast! I shall never be bored to tears with your drivel, again.

And....

That’s all I got. I’ve been working a lot, recently. Again. On the other hand, I have somehow managed to squeeze in a nap two out of the last three days in the middle of my work week, so I guess I can’t complain. Having my own office does have its benifits.

Royal Review

I begrudgingly admit that Eat, Pray, Love was not all bad. A little cheesey, and I little metaphor-happy, but actually pretty good. And that’s something, coming from someone (hi! Me!) who was prepared to poo-poo it.

It is exactly what you expect; if you read the summary, there are no surprises. Still, she spins a good story, and she has you seriously considering giving up your wordly possessions to go live in Bali by the end of the novel, which is always a mark of a good book, in my opinion.

It was a little longer than I expected, the pages are thin and the type is deceptively small (in that it doesn’t LOOK small, but it takes a fair amount of time [relatively] to read one page, and you have a headache after each reading… [either that, or I’ve just been spending too much time with my Excel spreadsheets, recently,]) but I kind of like that. I feel like a lot of modern literature is written for our ADD culture, it’s all quick and wit is crammed into every sentence so that the developmental editor can then pare down the minimalist story still further until only the witty bones are left because that’s all the time any ADD reader has to devote to the story. Sometimes I think a little meandering character background is endearing. And it makes you work for it. Kind of like a Jane Austen novel. There’s a lot of drivel, to finally get to the love story that was meant to be, by the end of the book. But the drivel quietly endears you to a character, and by the end, you truly feel like you’ve gone on quite a journey with the character, and are truly invested in their prudish, 19th century English love.

Not that Eat, Pray, Love was prudish or 19th century. No, it was very me, me, me, why don’t you love me, NOW, but it moved at a good place and really told you enough about the setting that you became invested, and I liked that.

And… I’m done. Pass the chardonnay.

Meanwhile The Funasaurus and I have scored tickets to the World Series, despite the debacle you may have read about, because we qualified to get tickets a day early on Sunday, because we were technically season ticket holders, for buying our little 25-game-pack! Hooray! Sitting through those long days of intense sunlight and overpriced beer were worth it! I’m going to a Very Important Game! Go Kaz Matsui (I have no idea if I spelled that right. But I dearly love saying his name.)

We also saw a play this weekend. (Go culture!) It was billed as a “haunting thriller” though since there was a severe lack of ghosts, blood, and Things That Make You Jump, we deemed it not at all a “haunting thriller” so much as a “talky, well-acted dark drama with a Very Naked Dude in it” (hello, limp penis!) And also “some Christ-y-action.”

Today Is The Funasaurus’ birthday, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY, even though you no longer read this! I love you very much, and also it totally was me who ate the last ice cream sandwich, but I think it’s funny that you think you did and didn’t notice. Can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. Mwah.

Little Somethin' Extra

I am having the most delicious day, today!

It started out ominously enough, what we me getting up earlier than I normally do. However, it was not to go to work. Work has decided to oh-so-kindly finally upgrade my ancient computer that I think came out sometime in the Mesozoic era, and was perhaps trampled on my a brachiosaurus before being handed down to me full of unused files and spyware, and so that is GREAT news for someone who would like to open e-mail attachments in under 2.5 minutes. What with 90% of my job coming from e-mail attachments. Getting an unofficial day off because I had to overnight my computer back to the New Jersey location to exchange it for the new one that will be overnighted to me tomorrow is just a big icing on the big slab of extra frosting cyber cake!

I like words.

So anyway. I got up EARLY on my unofficialbutofficial day off to go brave the Social Security office again, thanks to some advice from April, (HI APRIL! GREAT ADVICE!) and got there 40 minutes before they opened for the day to get my damn SQ78536865 number. It would have been 60 minutes, except I *may* have gotten lost on the way. On the way to the office that’s not all that hard to find. The office where I was just at last week. I *may* have called my mother in tears to get her to Google (and if you know my mother, you know that asking her to Google something on the COMPUTER is asking a lot) the damn Social Security office because I was pretty sure it had evaporated. Mostly likely because someone threw holy water on it.

Sadly, It was still there, slightly south of where I had expected to find it, (apparently not enough holy water was thrown, but at least it’s moving in the right direction) and I went in, armed with The Official Marriage License, OMG, a certified COPY of the marriage license, the temporary marriage license, the official form I had printed out and filled in from the Social Security website, my passport, my birth certificate, my driver’s license, reading material, and the rights to my first born child, and also what’s left of my soul.

I only had to wait for 20 minutes after they opened, before my number was called and I came face to face with the SAME FUCKING DRONE who was so rude to me last week. I smiled at her, and did not shove any papers at her, and handed things to her (including The Official Marriage License, OMG) as she asked for them.

She seemed exceptionally cold, and rebuffed any smile I tried to give her. Fortunately, she could not send me away in tears because I came with a full armory of Official Crap OMG, this time.

At one point she abruptly got up, mid-typing, and disappeared, with no explanation. She came back, handed me a piece of paper, and said, “Please sign here and here if this information is correct.” She looked annoyed that I bothered to read it over before signing.

“Erm.” I said, summoning all of my courage, “This is actually NOT correct.”

The drone finally made eye contact with me. The HORROR! You have never seen such condescending hatred in your whole life!

“I actually would like to be Princess Golashes Funasaurus,” I explained. (It has a nice ring to it, no?) “Not Princess in Funasaurus,” I continued.

“It would have been helpful to have told me that earlier,” the drone sneered.

“Well, I didn’t know,” I said. “I have it written on this official form, here,” I said, sliding it across the counter.

“You should have given it to me earlier,” she said, evilness oozing off of every syllable.

“You didn’t ask for it, “ I replied snottily, finally getting pissed, remembering how she snapped at me the week before when I tried to give her the paper before her royal droneness was ready for them.

She rolled her eyes, took the form, THREW IT IN THE TRASH, and then proceeded to re-fill out my application. She got up, got the paper for me to sign again, and the deal was done. She said I could expect my card in the mail in two weeks.

I almost skipped away in joy, but I stood there smiling and said, “THANKS! Have a great day!”

She did not even look up. I kid you not. There was no way she missed it, I was intentionally loud. She was intentionally rude, and I thought many hateful things, but I smiled and walked out, and am now waiting for my card to arrive in the mail.

I considered it a success, though stressful, and ran some errands, and then took myself to McDonalds for lunch to celebrate my uofficialbutofficial day off. Ask me if I’m even sorry. Go ahead.

Am I?

No! No I am not even sorry! Thanks for asking.

Then I came home and played on-line. Then I checked my voicemail at work, returned one phone call, cuddled with Sugar, took a nap, woke up to Sugar snarling at Tatum who had decided to attack her head while she slept, and played on the computer some more.

Not bad.

Working Hard for the ...? It's Certainly Not "the Money!"

I realize I have been gone a long time, but I pass the blame entirely, straight onto work which has been a huge fucking imposition on my life, recently.

There have been many late nights and many groggy mornings, the only good result being a legitimate reason to forgo running. And The Funasaurus, being a supportive husband (HUSBAND! Tee hee) has sacrificed his running time, too, in order to sleep in with me.

Plus, it’s getting cold and dark out, and really, I didn’t need any more reasons not to run. I basically feel it’s a sign from the universe that the whole “exercise” thing was a very bad idea, indeed.

Meanwhile, our real marriage license has arrived, but I have not gone back to the Social Security office because just thinking of that place makes me shiver and my eyes tear up just a little.

I think I shall only be Princess Funasaurus, socially.

So I have absolutely no fun stories to tell you (not that that will keep me from blathering on and on) because WORK is the only thing I’ve been doing recently. Last week my monthly, bi-weekly, and random reports all happened to become due right at the same time, thus creating the Perfect Spreadsheet Storm, and my eyes! Oh, my poor, strained little eyes! Sometimes I have trouble driving home from work because they are still looking for itty-bitty formulas in itty-bitty cells and totally overlook the “DANGER! SINKHOLE! ROAD CLOSED!” signs because they are enormous and it is just TOO MUCH for my dilated little pupils.

Somewhere in all this mess, Shooting Star and I decided to go ahead and start a classics book club, because we are huge English major dorks, trying to justify our BAs. So if you live in Denver and want to re-read Jane Austen, Mark Twain, and Eugene O’Neil and such, send me an e-mail and come join our group of dorks! There will be wine! (We may be dorks, but we still appreciate a good Chianti.)