At Least Half of the Deadly Sins

A little more than 48 hours since The Funasaurus has gone, and the T.V. has remained off. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, seeing as how I never used to watch so much T.V., it has been pretty easy. Mostly because I wasn’t around much over the weekend, and today I had to “work.”

Except around 4:00 I hit a mental road block, and did the only thing I could think of to do, when work starts to build up and get overwhelming, and that is to ignore it completely and find something else to do, hoping it’ll just go away.

So I left work early (by sauntering across the hall to our bedroom in my socks) and picked up the most horrid of chick-lit, Emily Griffin. And just re-read Something Borrowed. I finished at about 9:30. I don’t like Emily Griffin, I think her stories are trite and shallow attempts at justifying infidelity. I think she lavishes every advantage on her protagonist making them dull and frustratingly flawless (minus the whole infidelity bit, oopsie! But really, it’s o.k., and here’s 300 pages of morally specious excuses) and I can’t even bring myself to feel strongly about the “bad” characters because they are so bad it’s unrealistic and cartoonish.

So why was this the first book I’ve re-read in years? Why did I just spend my whole, lovely, T.V-less evening re-reading crap that I don’t like, instead of a) cleaning my house b) doing the work that built up over the afternoon c) grocery shopping d) mailing birthday gifts to friends e) writing the next Great American Novel (or at least some drivel that’s better than Something Borrowed, it can’t be THAT hard) f) reading good literature, like, say, the next book for my classics book club that I still haven’t gotten around to opening g) playing with my cats h) scheming how to go visit The Funasaurus i) organizing my socks from most-likely-to-sport-a-hole-in-the-toe-tomorrow to least-likely

I have replaced crappy reruns with crappy novels. I do not feel this has been a particularly better use of my time, and my eyes are just as bloodshot.

Sugar and Tatum have been loving it, though, having spent most of the afternoon in various positions on my lap and/or chewing on Very Important Work Papers.

It is hopeless. But I am hoping to convince my neighbors to come over to hang out tomorrow, which will force me to shower and also go to the grocery store. Or at least open the door for the pizza guy.

Love,
Princess Sloth (who is secretly very, very jealous of Emily Griffin.)

Oh Friday, You Little Tease

My brother and sister-in-law are here visiting. I can hear them downstairs, racking up the points on Guitar Hero, and racing past any high points The Funasaurus and I (ha, like I had high points, they beat that on their first try) have ever scored.

I am supposed to be working, so I have removed myself from the fun. Naturally, my first inclination is to check my e-mail and blog, instead. Because it doesn’t feel like I’m skipping out on work as much if I am still sequestered away, here, in the office.

Worksheets wha? Maybe I need to go downstairs and make sure they know how to use the wail bar. Or maybe I need to go to the grocery store. Running errands is practically work, right? Right?

Echo... Echo... Echo.

The Royal Revolution

Fine, you asked for it. A heinous picture of me, to prove I am participating in the revolution. For anyone with more photography experience than I, how the hell do you focus on a spot, where nothing is, yet? Say, yourself, after you click the timer button…. I tried to make Tatum stand still and/or jump in that spot so I could focus on him, but he was very uncooperative.



This is not my most flattering, nor elegant, skirt. But It IS nice and flowy. I feel very girly. Bonus: no zippers to contend with at every potty break. (Apparently I’m back in kindergarten. Hello, potty breaks! No restrooms here! Where are my Smurf underoos?)

But what’s really exciting is, the revolution is spreading!!!

Apart from that, I have been avoiding work, getting my engagement ring cleaned obsessively (what’s that you say? My sister-in-law has a brand new, huge, sparkly one? I hadn’t noticed.) and working some more. I am ignoring the fact that The Funasaurus is about to go away for two weeks, hoping that maybe it just won’t happen if I don’t say anything. He has been working hard, so I try not to get too clingy, but part of me is panicking about a) my midnight butt-warmer going away and b) my computer going away. (I say “mine.” Technically, it is “his.” But I use it more. Squatters rights.) How shall I blog and do e-mail and everything else that I normally do when I am supposed to be working? The horror.

Plus, I have decided to go back to the wild while he is gone. Savage living, really. I’ll barely have running water. I am going to… (drum roll) turn off the T.V. for the whole time he is gone.

!

Well, minus American Idol. I am giving myself that freebie so that I can lure my unsuspecting neighbors over for dinner to keep me company, when I get lonely mid-week, husband-less and T.V.-less.

The thing is, there are things I want to DO. I... don’t know what they are. But I have been feeling like I have no free time, recently. And I have this creeping suspicion that there is this whole world of FUN that is just out there waiting for me, and I am fully suspect of Friends reruns for keeping it from me.

BLAME FRIENDS! It’s my new campaign. Never mind they went off the air years ago.

So I have decided to take the most masochistic route possible to my beloved’s absence, and shall also be depriving myself of my electronic babysitter. I’m currently taking bets on how long that lasts. Vegas puts the odds on 45 minutes after he leaves on Sunday, maybe an hour if I take my customary weekend nap.

Wish me luck.

Meaningless Drivel

In the ever-evolving state of awesomeness (not to be confused with disarray-ed-ness) in our house, we have, of course, added Guitar Hero.

I suck balls at this game, but The Funasaurus is quite good, and I have rekindled my love for the song, “Talk Dirty to Me” because of the cellar door bit. Why a cellar door? Are you talking dirty in the basement? Oooh, baby, you like it dirty? Are you a bad boy? Touch me… hey, watch out for the sump pump!

Anywhos. That’s our latest brain-numbing technique to pass the time. It’s quite fun, although I think it’s probably funner if you don’t suck. I ended up letting The Funasaurus play about three to every one of my songs, not because he doesn’t offer to let me play, he’s good at sharing, but because I get intimidated when he’s using a fourth button and speeding through some complex Pearl Jam song, and I am still attempting to not get boo-ed off the stage with my “I Want to Rock and Roll All Niiiiight… plunk... plunk... plunk.”

It’s nice they let you pick your character, but I really, really wish they’d let me switch up the lead singer in my band. (The Galoshes, of course) because I DO NOT like the dude with the greasy hair and eyeballs halfway up his forehead. He freaks me out.

So, um, there’s that. And my latest issue of Glamour. And really, that’s about all I’ve been doing besides work, recently. How much do I need to get a life?

The problem with getting a life is that it costs money, and I am all nervous about the economy these days. And I spend a lot of time contemplating whether I should never have Starbucks again and save every penny (ie: $3.79) I can, or if I should quick spend it while the dollar is still worth something, and get my fill of decaf vanilla lattes and chais right away.

Obviously, my existence is relevant and profound on the Earth, these days.

Although I do feel like I did a public service with my last post, warning all of you off of Lost. I had no idea there were so many fellow Lost-not-watchers out there, but hey! Maybe we can form a club! Go us and our disinterest in firey plane crashes from every angle!

I have now set my TV viewing sights on The Wire. There are just no connections you can draw from luxury planes flying over unknown regions of the pacific with the ghetto of Baltimore. I feel good about this one.




P.S. Dress Thursday is tomorrow! Don't forget to do your part for the revolution.

You Lost Me

The Funasaurus and I finally succumbed, and decided to start watching Lost, after everyone and their brother insisted that it was the best show on television. Everyone and their brother for some reason thought I would like this show, yet neglected to mention that it is about a fucking vivid PLANE CRASH, that they insist on showing OVER AND OVER and from EVERY POSSIBLE ANGLE, despite the fact that everyone and their brother knows this is basically my biggest fear ever. EVER EVER. Up and to the point that everyone and their (and my) brother knows this because I have drooled pathologically on their shoulder when I fly with them because I am so cracked out on-anti-anxiety medication that I have lost control of a) my drool b) my mind, which is kind of fun when you have a chauffeur picking you up, but less fun when you have a short layover in Chicago O’Hare and you are forced to navigate the blinky neon lights and trance music in the tunnels and OH IT’S FASCINATING when cracked out, but not so conducive to efficient walking. (There may be a Cat-sized dent in the wall under the spot where the purple lights end, where I totally fucking walked right into it, feel free check it out, next time you are in O’Hare with some time to kill.)

Hi, so yeah. We got three episodes in, and there shall be no more. Basically because The Funasaurus is not a fan of being kicked all night long, in between shouts of “THAT’s NOT THE RIGHT TUNA, OH MY GOD!” (My dreams don’t necessarily make sense, but when they’re particularly stressful, my subconscious often elects to share them with the conscious world, anyway.) So the fucking PLANE CRASH haunted me all night, and made me think dire thoughts about tuna and the incorrectness of it all, and this morning I feel a) hungover b) like I spent the whole night crying, which, hey, maybe I did, tuna can be complicated, man.

Lost is not for me, thanks for the suggestion, though. I will be enlisting your help to get another prescription, seeing as how I told my doctor I would not need any more a couple years ago, after working through my issues for a decade and finally attempting to fly without the drugs, again.

At least this has put a delay on my spendy ambitions to get to Scandinavia for a while. Maybe my fears will recover about the same time the dollar does.

Anywhos... Easter was fun. We ate cheeseburgers up at The Funasaurus’ family’s house, which is a drastic change from the mimosas and omelet stations and ice sculptures and fancy clothes that I have been used to in Easters past, but I will say, I was MUCH more comfortable this year in a discretely unbuttoned pair of jeans than in a fancy skirt. Skirts have their time and place (THURSDAYS!) but maybe Easter doesn’t need to be one of them… or maybe I just need to invest in more skirts with elastic bands.

Either way, that reminds me that I DID participate in skirt Thursday last week, even if I forgot to post a picture. I was busy being distracted by the pending marriage proposal. I will attempt to post a picture this week, as I am already weighing my options. Please feel free to join me in the revolution this week, especially if it is supposed to be in the SIXTIES where you are, like it’s supposed to be here! Hooray!

Go Me!

IT’S DONE, IT’S DONE! My sister-in-law got engaged last night! Her boyfriend did a lovely, romantic job, there were flowers, and framed menus from first dates, and hundreds of tea lights, and escargot, and what snails dripping in garlic butter have to do with it I’m not sure, but I didn’t really notice because I got to be in charge of the champagne and hooboy, I like me some champagne!

The Funasaurus and I were invited along to go ring shopping several weekends ago, and the ring is huge and sparkly and I really, really had to struggle to keep the whole thing to myself because SPARKLY THINGS! I am much like a bird in that way.

Anywhos, I did a bang-up job of not mentioning it to my sister-in-law, who was, apparently, very surprised. And now I can talk about it openly and have already vetoed fuchsia for them as a possible wedding color because I am helpful and pushy like that.

So that was the big surprise, it’s funny to me that several folks thought it was that I was pregnant. In between tequila shots and champagne, I come to the conclusion that is perhaps not the best idea for me to be responsible for another life right now. What with having a bit of trouble being responsible for my own, still. Plus, kids are kind of dirty, and I don’t really like dirt. Also, I like sleeping. A lot.

In other exciting news, I have been bequeathed THIS:



Go me! I’d like to thank the Academy, for taking an interest in my work, Christie, for the nomination, and of course Sugar and, begrudgingly, Tatum, without whom this award might not have been possible.


Tatum says: Fo' shizzle, minzzle. ... Now get me a mouse.

And were I to pass the honor along to other pet-lovers, it’d surely have to go to Meno, whose Zola has a tummy that is pure, pettable yumminess.

And Diane, whose pups are the namesakes of the blog.

And of course what would Sangria Lover be without Ben and newbie, Smalls (awesomest name, EVER, btw) I’m still deciding how to spill the beans to Sugar that I really want the canine version of her white, fluffy, neurotic-ness.

And I would say Miss Doxie, except I’m pretty sure a) she’s either dead, or got a life. Because she hasn’t updated in months, so that sucks. And b) I’m pretty sure she does not read my blog.

Did I miss someone? I’m sure I did, there are so many cute pets out there. Help! Or nominate your own! So many pets, so little time for bestowing random graphics.

Clandestine Mice at Midnight

So this morning The Funasaurus and Tatum went about their daily morning routine as usual, and as The Funasaurus left for the dentist’s office (PSA: If you wait five years in between dentist visits, you don’t really gain much, they make you go back in for multiple visits right in a row, whenever you do finally go back) I heard the familiar THUNK scramblescramblescramble of a faux-mouse being thrown across the living room, and Tatum joyfully retrieving it like the little addict that he is.

Often, when The Funasaurus leaves, Tatum will cry, desperately, by the door. Until I inadvertently make some noise up stairs, and the little synapse in his brain goes, “Hey! Another mouse thrower is still available!” and he comes trotting upstairs with his beloved in his mouth.

Except today? There were two belovedES. I don’t know how he did it. But when I saw him outside of the office door, there were TWO mice. It is not unusual for Tatum to lose a mouse fairly quickly (he is not bright, if he does not both see and hear it land, it is GONE FOREVER or at least until the afternoon when he stumbles across it while chasing dust.)

What was unusual was that he had not lost the first one, but had also found a second, and managed to bring them both upstairs. I do not believe he has the memory capacity to have one, see one, put one down, and fetch the other one. Nay, he barely remembers to bring one back, let alone keep a mental image of two separate mice in his fuzzy little empty head.

Yet there two were. Sitting right next to each other, touching, in front of Tatum’s blissed-out little googly eyes. I can only surmise that he carried both in his mouth, at the same time. Which, when you consider the size of Tatum’s mouth compared to the size of those faux-mice, is rather impressive. Kind of like when you see a golden retriever carrying multiple tennis balls. Only imagine that in miniature, with a more crazed, less intelligent look in the eyes. And more flourescent blue faux-mouse fur.

I did not get a picture, but Tatum looked incredibly pleased with himself, rest assured.

Meanwhile, the secret that I alluded to the other day is about to be revealed, and OH THANK GOD, because I am not very good at keeping things to myself. I am more of a sharer.

I consider it a virtue.

Um.

Next transition.

Apparently, if you get 9+ hours of sleep a night for more than two months in a row (hee!) your body is finally like, “Dude, I’m done with the sleeping, let’s do something else.” And The Funasaurus and I found ourselves in the peculiar position of being freshly tooth-brushed and tucked into bed, totally not wanting to sleep. We tried our usual trick of getting to sleep (ahem) but afterwards we were still awake, just more sweaty.

So at 11:00 P.M. we got up and went downstairs to watch a movie on a Tuesday night. How exotic! It felt so much more special than starting a movie at 7:00, or on a weekend. We snuggled in, and found You, Me, and Dupree to be not all bad, and cuddled some more, and finally went to bed on the A.M. side of things. I cannot tell you the last time I saw an A.M. on a weeknight. It felt deliciously rebellious.

Yesterday we proceeded to utter obscenities at the alarm when it went off, and it occured to us why we do not do more delicious movie nights starting at 11:00 P.M. on Tuesdays, anymore.

My A-Typical Coffee Break

On Friday I went out for some fancy coffee at a local coffee shop, and on my way home, stopped to get gas and a car wash, in a less-nice part of town. While I was pumping gas, a girl who looked to be about my age but much more worn down by life came over and asked if I had 50 cents to give her so she could make a phone call. Truthfully, I told her I didn’t have any change. She paused, and then asked, “Well do you have a cell phone I can borrow to make a quick phone call?”

Well, yes. I do. And it’s pink and has a ton of minutes. So not being totally heartless, I let her borrow it while I finished pumping and got my receipt.

“It went to voicemail,” she said, handing it back to me sadly. “Thank you.” She sounded like she was about to cry. I felt bad, but what else could I do? So she walked off, and I drove over to the car wash. Just as I was pulling in, the phone rang from the number that had just been dialed. I answered, hoping I wouldn’t lose reception as the suds started.

“Hello, who’s this?” said the person on the other end.

“This is Cat. But I think the person you’re calling for is someone I just met in the parking lot. I don’t know who she is, she just asked to borrow my phone to make a call.”

“Oh! Thanks. Um, what did she look like?” asked the guy.

“Well, she was wearing a hat, and a light brown coat…” I started.

“Was she kind of… dirty?” he asked, filling in for me.

“Er, yes.”

“Did she have thick glasses?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, thank you,” said the person. I was guessing it was maybe a social worker, or someone, so I told him where I was, he thanked me again, and we hung up.

As I pulled out of the car wash in my shiny, new, clean car, sipping my froo-froo coffee drink, I saw the girl, still standing on the corner of the parking lot, looking kind of unsure about where to go. So I drove over and flagged her down, and said, “Hey, the guy you called just called back. Do you want to try again?”

“Thank you!” she said profusely, and grabbed the cell phone.

I felt like maybe I had redeemed a little bit of yuppie karmic guilt, and sipped my coffee drink while she chatted. She didn’t go far, but was making an effort to be quiet, along the busy street, which I thought was a little odd.

Then I heard her say something about, “Well, just get a nickel.” And then, “don’t worry about it, I’ll set it up…. I’ll get them and meet you at X location at 4:30.”

And I thought to myself, I don’t suppose counseling comes in nickel bags these days.

So much for the karmic points.

The Revolution Begins! Also, Some Tatum Redemption

So it’s officially Dress Thursday! Of course, I couldn’t fully commit, I only went for the skirt, because I don’t really own any warm dresses.

It turns out, taking a picture of yourself is a lot harder than I thought. I found the self timer; I figured it couldn’t be easier! I figured wrong. It is actually not so easy to get the stupid camera to focus on you when you are the one behind the camera doing the focusing. The camera wants to focus on the white wall behind where you will be, instead (because you do not want to use your clutter-filled living room as a backdrop, naturally) which it has some trouble doing. Then you turn out to be a blob. Then you cannot quite fit into the range the camera allows. (Note to “self”: drop non-subtle hints for tripod for birthday. HI BABY!)

So here is a picture of most of my skirt, minus a large percentage of my head, and something white, I think maybe the magazine I was using to prop the camera up on:



As you can perhaps tell, working from home leads one to feel less inclined to do things like iron. And comb one’s hair.

Meanwhile, Tatum, and apparently, a large percentage of the internet, feel that perhaps I was a bit unfair in my description of his svelte self, yesterday.

Feeling a bit remorseful, I give you Tatum being cool, not showing his lack of balls to the world:



I give you Tatum, the lover of Sugar.



Sometimes he holds her protectively.



Sometimes he snuggles under her for safety.



Sometimes he eats her earwax and then gnaws on her neck while she is trying to sleep.



I apologize for not getting a better picture of the gnawing, but Sugar does not put up with that shit very long. There was not time for a second picture before she got the heck out of there.

Cat-tastic

I have been spending a lot of time at home, what with that being where I work, now, and all. Also, last week was uncommonly busy, but this week has been quieter. And therefore I’m able to slowly start catching up on things I’ve been neglecting around the house, including my cats.

(oh, it’s so going to be one of those entries. I happily embrace my inner cat-lady.)

There has been a lot of upheaval, what with moving my office home, and Sugar and Tatum are not really interested in having their environment disturbed. Ever. Unless it involves an increase of tuna and/or faux mice in their environment. In that case, they are all about change, and bring it on, groovy baby!

But I have gotten to watch them on a more intimate level. Combined with my new camera and attempt at faux-tography, there have been lots of pictures.

Like this one.



I realize everyone thinks their baby (human or fur) is the most beautiful, most intelligent, most amazing. But mine actually is. She’s so pensive. You can see the wheels turning, her understanding, her processing. She’s actually much more open-minded than Tatum.

Who talks a big talk, but is actually a big, fat pansy with googly eyes. And oh. I suppose I should do homage to him, too. Here is my darling Tatum.



Apparently we used up all our karmic loveliness on our first cat.

Sugar spends a lot of her life observing. Cleaning. Posing. Thinking Very Deep Things. (Hey, maybe I should introduce her to Porno for Pyros!) Tatum, meanwhile, spends most of his life thinking one thought: “MICE!” Since both of the synapses in his brain are used on said thought, he spends much of his time falling, running into walls, and throwing his butt around in a rather un-feline-like way, and looking surprised. The Funasaurus and I often speak to him with sentences that start with, “Normal kitties don’t…”

(As in: Normal kitties don’t eat Styrofoam! Normal kitties don’t leave their tongues hanging out! Normal kitties don’t sit like that unless they are very, very fat! Normal kitties don’t try and stick their paws in the vacuum WHILE IT’S ON!)

So are you all ready for Dress Thursday?! Because it starts tomorrow, and we’re starting a revolution, here! I have already put much thought into my options. I will post pictures.

Royal Fantasy

I just heard Porno for Pyros on NPR on my way home from book club.

I am willing to bet that sentence has never, in the history of ever, been said before.

I forgot how much I used to adore them. "We’ll Make Great Pets!" It was so deep. I remember thinking it was such a brilliantly dark idea, I contemplated it for days on end. Of course, this was during the phase in my life where I wore a lot of black turtlenecks and wrote poetry in BLACK INK while I cried about the tragedy that was suburban public school life. While snacking on brie.

It was a grueling time.

So I remember how awesome the ending was… I used to think it was a musical description of the downfall of humankind, of hope being dashed, over and over again while aliens put us into the human equivalent of ant farms. (Would that just be farms?)

Tonight it sounded more like a few plunky notes on a keyboard. I think I was deeper, then.

I remember the old feelings it conjured, though, the early 90s musical adaptation of the ache in my angsty, teenage heart. So Porno for Pyro, thanks. You got me through some hard, to-be-a-princess-or-a-goth-y-skater-chick? times. (If you don’t know how that battle turned out, see prior 692 blog entries. … also: title.)

Oddly enough, that kind of relates back to a discussion we had at our book group. We talked about how we can still read good books and appreciate them, but as adults, we don’t seem to be all-consumed by stories anymore, like we were as nerdy little bookish kids. We talked about how Madeleine L’Engle or C.S. Lewis (along with dozens of lesser authors) could totally entrap our imaginations and preoccupy our minds for days. We can read those same stories now, and get a delicious, fulfilling sensation from them, but not in the drunk-with-continuing-the-story-in-our-brains,-including-in-our-dreams, way.

I miss that. But as someone pointed out, we were, mostly, as kids, living in a pretty small world. As adults, we’ve seen a lot more of the world, both geographically and socially. We can live vicariously through our own lives, rather than through someone else’s written description. But I still miss that feeling I got from the Bobbsey Twins, or The Secret Garden. The total immersion in my own imagination and belief that those worlds were tangible. So I’m making a list, and going back to see if I can recapture even just a sliver of that. What was the last book you felt that way about?

The Rain in Spain Can Damn Well Stay There

We were watching My Fair Lady last night, and I have come to the conclusion that it sucks not having an excuse to wear such gorgeous ball gowns on a more regular occasion. Also, if I had it to do over again, I think I would have modeled my wedding dress after the one Audrey Hepburn gets to wear to the ball where she woos the Hungarian prince-guy.



Sigh.

I have thus decided to decree Thursdays Dress (or skirt) Day. Every Thursday, everyone in my office shall wear a dress, thus I spake. Working from home, everyone = me, (and maybe Sugar, if I can catch her.) Every revolution must start somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my jeans as much as the next girl. But I love all the costumes and the finery, and despite the ankle-length skirts, the tops of those dresses were quite fitted… and flattering.

This, coming from the girl who is still wearing pajama pants at half past noon.

I am getting a chance to dress up tonight, though. We are going to the thee-ah-tah. The Funasaurus is taking me to see Stomp, which I have always wanted to see. There’s something intensely satisfying about people jumping on garbage cans in a harmonious manner.

Finally, it’s really Friday.

Maybe It Could Be Friday If We All WISH Hard Enough....

Today feels like a Friday to me, for some reason. It could be that I’ve been working steadily since Sunday morning. I got signed up to man a booth at a convention for a totally different division… I had never heard of the product before, but conveniently, I lived in Denver, where the convention was being held, so the Very Important Marketing Decision was made that “She will do.”

She = me and she also = scared of people, that fear coming in second only to: technology. And so she did not do so hot in the booth repping the unkown internet-y thing-y product. People came by and asked questions using words I had never heard of, and I would politely respond, “ACK! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

I am now under the persuasion that training CAN, occasionally, be helpful.

Perhaps someday my company will come around to my way of thinking.

Meanwhile, it’s the birthday of a very special temporary Israeli housewife- so shalom and happy birthday, dearest! I hope you finally found the organic fruit market! Your present might be a little late, partially due to the fact that I do not think the postal service out there is all that efficient... and also partially due to the fact that I have not yet mailed it.

It’s snowing here, again. I actually like the snow, aesthetically-speaking. But it is interrupting my flow. I had started running (ha ha, I say “run” like I am going more than four miles an hour) again, what with the unusually warm weather, recently, and was feeling good about my pansy 9-9.5 minute jogs, every day. But then the conference happened, followed by snow, and well. I ate a marshmallow Peep for breakfast this morning, instead of getting out of my pajamas.

I’m not even sorry.

A Scrambled Leap

Hi.

…

Nothing new has happened. I just wanted a date stamp that said February 29. Although I still don’t understand why it’s called a “leap year.” Leaping, to me, implies springing forward. But shoving an extra 24 hours into the year kinda slows the whole thing down by… well, by 24 hours. Am I missing something?

* * * * * *

I’m taking a photography class, but so far have nothing to show for it. (Hence the lack of mentioning it, previously.) Unfortunately, after class #2 and still no concept of what I’m doing, or how to get the damn things onto my computer not to mention onto the program, which I am still afraid to load onto said computer, I fear the whole thing can’t bode well for my aspiring photo-journalist skeelz.

* * * * * *

The Funasaurus is taking me to a basketball game, tonight. Confession: I am going to watch the cheerleaders and eat junk food.

* * * * * *

Mmmm, Dippin' Dots.

* * * * * *

I can’t get rid of the car I crashed. I tried to donate it, but they want the title, which I have conveniently lost. I found out you can get a duplicate of the title if you go to the DMV, so I went to the DMV. Except apparently I somehow managed to register the car without the title ten years ago, so the title is still back in California. So I called the California DMV, and they had me fill out 42 forms and then some, and then they told me to do it on-line, except I can’t, because you’re not allowed to if you don’t have a California driver’s license. I haven’t had one of those since Savage Garden was hot. So I am mailing in the forms, although they don’t seem to want any information that doesn’t pertain to California, which is unfortunate, because I have no such information, including a NAME, which I have also changed since CA knew me. But they will still take my $17, thank you very much.

I am not-so-slowly going crazy.

* * * * * *

I know a secret, but I’m not allowed to tell, and oh! It’s very exciting. I will tell just as soon as I am allowed.

Have a great weekend!

Provincial Passion

Here’s the thing about having a looming honeymoon in the middle of February. It leads to all sorts of drastic fantasies about tropical places and not coming back and quick mental calculations about how long you could survive on coconut milk if you were to sell your home.

In short, my work is suffering and I am making my own valiant efforts to restimulate the economy, mostly via the bathing suit and accessories industry. (Also and by the way, does such a thing as organic insect repellent exist, and if it does, does it actually work?)

This behavior has actually led me to think fondly of any time I have spent in a sunnier, warmer place, but most particularly, my time in southern France. Even the “cold” there was romantic. In February, I certainly had to wear a coat. And the wind was icy cold, and it always blew. It came down from Siberia, and was called Le Mistral, and basically had its own magical presence in a culture that made everything from olives to granite sexy and mysterious.

Aix-en-Provence is the geographical equivalent of the most amazing sex you’ve ever had with the most passionate lover you’ve ever had, but in your heart you know is not marriage material. Strawberries as big as your fist! Open air cafes where kisses are blown, nutella crepes are eaten, and young girls are wooed by five-star chefs. (oh, yes.)

The cobalt blues and sunflower yellows! Those are not my real colors. I am more of a grayish-blue kinda girl. I felt at home in calm, orderly, cheese-loving Switzerland with its snow-capped mountains. There’s a method to the goat madness. But Aix made me believe in cobalt, gypsies, and pastis, despite the fact that I loathe licorice. And for a short time, I could pretend every room in my home would smell like lavender fields.

I knew where to buy the most almond-y calissons, (hint: not THAT link) and ate them with great abandon. I shunned the Americans in their shorts and flip-flops, I cloaked myself in black and boots, even the summertime, and thought deep, passionate thoughts while I got drunk on kir peche and perfected my southern drawl. (Because no matter what country you go to, I sincerely believe the southern accent will be the most distinct.) I believed in palm trees and entire villages made from white stone, and tromped around in the woods alone on the weekend, almost hoping to get impaled by a wild boar. What a great blog entry that would have made….

I revered Cézanne and Van Gough, painting Mont St. Victoire and thinking the olive groves were all quite a delicious place to go insane.

And I left a piece of my soul there. A small one, there’s not much room for grey in a place with that much vibrant yellow. It exhausts me thinking about it, as any good lover’s memory should.

Meanwhile I’ve set my sights on the Caribbean, and well, Colorado. I love you. But the lack of a ski pass has made this winter infinitely harder than any other year. We’re not selling our home (yet) but The Funasaurus and I need a little break. I’ll write from a new shade of aqua blue, if we’re not drunk on the umbrella drinks, yet.

Ciao, bella.

Dear Thighs, Please Stop with All the Expanding

At some point I came across the realization that if I am headed to somewhere tropical for a week, perhaps I’d want to bring a swimsuit. Because my standard t-shirt and jeans attire is not going to cut it on the beach.

I have not gotten a new bathing suit since college. (read: 6+ years ago… at least.) That is because I would prefer to get a root canal than try on swimsuits in a department store with lots of young, waifish sales people there to see and judge.

In a desperate attempt at self-help and a nod to Global Warming (finally working in my favor, hello 60 degrees in February!) I decided to go for a jog yesterday morning, before taking the death-walk to the mall. (And by “walk” I mean “drive”. “In my new car, tra la.”) Because obviously jogging lightly for 25 minutes is going to negate an entire winter of sitting on the couch and alternating my diet between pizza and red meat. With, maybe, three total yoga classes thrown in the last four months for good measure.

Surprisingly, my jog did not delete my ever-expanding posterior.

And then the fluorescent lighting obliterated any last bit of self-esteem I might ever have had.

Sorry, baby, I used our travel insurance and we are now headed on a nice honeymoon to Antarctica where you can smooch me under my five layers of ski pants and a very poofy, fur-lined parka, and no one can tell how big anyone’s butt is, for all the layers of polypro.

Plus, penguins! Hooray!

Why I Didn't Get the New Wife of the Year Award

After a weekend of fast food and copious amounts of beef jerky, I decided to cook something a little lighter for dinner last night. I found a recipe for chicken cutlets that looked tasty, and somehow convinced myself that the recipe calling for anchovy paste was absolutely no problem, despite the fact that the man I married orders his cheeseburgers with “no lettuce, no tomato, no cheddar, just American cheese, please” lest they taste too complicated.

I was in the midst of preparing the meal when The Funasaurus got home, specificially,I was busy doing a taste-test of the dry white wine that it called for, when he wandered over to see what was cooking. I was not able to chug my glass quite fast enough before he had glanced at the recipe, and I saw his sweet brown eyes swell in fear.

“Does… does that say ‘anchovies,’ baby?” he asked, failing miserably at hiding his horror.

“Paste! It says anchovy paste, darling,” I said, swooping it away. “That basically means ‘salt’ with perhaps a vague seafood flavor. But don’t worry, you can’t taste actual anchovy flavor at all,” I said.

He wandered away, calculating whether it was worth enduring my wrath to make a quick dash to Quizos.

We sat down to eat, and we both scarfed the green beans, before turning to the chicken. “Mmmm!” I said, as though my verbal endorsement would make a difference in his discriminating tastes. It was good, but there was more anchovy flavor than I had remembered.

The Funasaurus bravely took a healthy bite, and tried not to gag. Then he looked scared, like I was going to beat him.

Then I felt guilty not only for cooking a meal I had known he’d hate, but for apparently having given him the impression that violence might be such a likely occurrence in our young marriage.

Then Tatum helped himself to the sauce on The Funasaurus' plate while we were distracted figuring out what else we could do for his dinner. It's been fun to clean the litter box today!

The Funasaurus finished his night off with Honey Nut Cherrios, and I had good leftovers for lunch, today. And we both felt much better after having a Klondike Oreo Cookie for dessert.

Fortunately, tonight he’s on his own. But I’m thinking I may owe him pepperoni pizza, tomorrow. Maybe I won't even sneak anchovies onto my half, this time.

And a Carriage for my Luggage

We survived Phoenix, The Funasaurus purchased new movies, I didn’t drink as heavily as I had planned, and Sugar wasn’t even hateful when we got home. Tatum didn’t even seem to have noticed that we were gone, he was just like, “Mouse!Mouse?Mouse.Mouse!Mouse: MOUSE!Mouse?” when we walked in the door. Which is a typical evening for him. Sugar has been more clingy and “oh how sad I am. I was so alone,” in her demeanor, and I feel bad, because that was only four and a half days. And in two months, we’re going to be gone for seven.

That’s right, we’re going on our honeymoon! Finally! Hooray! The universe has smiled upon me. (Momentarily. The tickets are bought. We’ll see if we run into a freak hurricane.) We’re headed to a whole week of umbrella drinks and Caribbean sun. I may not come back. Likely because I will have fried myself to a crisp, in another futile attempt at getting “tan.”

The sad part is that for some silly reason, my boss thinks I’m going to WORK between now and the end of April, despite the fact that I clearly explained to him that I’m going on my honeymoon. It seems slightly unreasonable to me that he would think I’d be able to concentrate on anything else.

Where Is the Love?

I’m about to head out on a 14 hour road trip with my husband, and the in-laws. I get to spend Valentine's night sharing a hotel room with my mother-in-law, instead of my husband. The iPod and flask are stocked. We’re going to...wait for it... Phoenix. Whooo-hoo. At least it’s not snowing there.

Sigh.

The universe is, once again, smiting me.

I have moved my office home, only to discover that the two new lines I had installed for my work phone and fax don’t work. We set up a separate account for my work stuff, and having two accounts at one address gets the phone company’s panties in a bunch, and it freaks out. And has a lot of trouble processing work orders because OMG, TWO ACCOUNTS WHAT DO WE DO?! THIS IS SO COMPLEX EVEN OUR MANAGERS CANNOT HANDLE IT!

KAPOW! (That was my brain... popping.)

I bought The Funasaurus a chocolate, heart-shaped brownie with chocolate icing and gave it to him to take to work today. Because I’m romantic like that. He left it at home, so I ate it. I figure he had his chance. I was also hungry like that.

Happy naked babies with bows and arrows day! I'm off to somewhere where it's not snowing! And I don't have to shave my legs!

Love,
Princess-is-11:45AM-too-early-for-a-stiff-drink?

Reason # 495 I Will Not Have Children

Friday I spent most of the afternoon at the emergency vet’s, because poor little Sugar was puking her little guts out, and feeling very embarrassed about it, thus leading her to choose the most inopportune places to leave little puddles of kitty puke. (Under the bed! Behind the sofa! Under the TV stand!)

Alarmed, I took her to the Very Important Emergency Vet, where they did exactly nothing to make me feel better. Sugar lost her kitty shit, between being sick and being poked by needles in a less-than-coddling-way, she was frantic. The vet took some blood (goodbye, honeymoon!) and asked gravely if I thought she should take x-rays and an ultrasound. (Goodbye vacation ever again EVER.)

Um, I don’t know, jackass. Aren’t you the vet?

So she explained that if there was a blockage, or something, that it wouldn’t show up in the bloodwork, they’d need to see it on an ultrasound, because it could be very dangerous and explode. On the other hand, it could just be a huge tumor, that they could see on an x-ray, and while Sugar may only have seconds to live, they could prescribe me some medicine for a million dollars to treat it.

What’s a kitty momma to do?

My gut told me that there was no blockage. The vet kept asking if Sugar had eaten anything she wasn’t supposed to, a toy, or something like that. And I said, “No, that would be Tatum. He’s part goat. Sugar is more... particular. She really only likes dry kibble. In a porcelain bowl.”

So I looked at Sugar who was on the verge of scratching her own eyes out (her attempt at scratching mine having thus-far failed) and I decided that no medical procedure was worth putting her through the extreme panic she appeared to be going through. So I paid a couple hundred dollars for the bloodwork, and took Sugar home.

I called The Funasaurus in tears, wondering if I had made the right decision.

“They wanted to charge you WHAT? We don’t need to pay thousands of dollars for an x-ray to tell us she has the KITTY FLU, baby.” he reassured me.

Sure enough, the next morning, Sugar was running around, eating, drinking, and terrorizing Tatum with her back-from-the-vet smell. She was also Pissed Off that I was trying to feed her medicine when, obviously, she was SO over it.

The vet called the next day to see if she was dead yet from her lack of x-rays and ultrasounds, and I told her that no, in fact, Sugar seemed perkier than ever, probably because I had bribed her with a copious amount of treats from the supermarket, the kitty equivalent of about a dozen Big Macs. And also, since she was doing so great, could I stop giving her the medicine? The vet said no, it’d be better to continue the bi-daily dosage for the next seven days. She’s a vet, but I get the feeling she doesn’t give cats medicine that often. Twice a day for seven days? Are you crazy? I don’t have that many fingers to lose!

But, dutifully, and fingerless, the dance of medicine admission has since taken place twice a day since then, and Sugar grows more hateful with each dose. But as long as she’s eating and drinking while being hateful, I can deal.



Sugar says: You will all be punished.