So tomorrow, dear friends, I get on a plane for Deutschland.
I have no idea what kind of access I will have to e-mail, or Blogger, while I'm there. I am hoping to update at least once or twice, but I really have no idea what kind of cybercafés I will have the chance to stumble upon. But there are definite adventures ahead, I'm sure, so please stay tuned!
At the very least, I will be back on Oct. 10, and will update just as soon as I get back to my cozy little home, darling little hell minions, and a yummy Funasaurus.
In the meantime, wish me luck packing (I had a dream last night that I forgot to pack my razor and it was DEVASTATING. In Princess Dream World, apparently, razors are very unattainable anywhere in Germany. And showing up at a convention center with hairy pits was a big no-no, punishable by humiliation and forbidding entrance to man my little booth. Yikes.) and prepping for castle sight-seeing. And standing-all-day-in-only-kinda-comfy-shoes at a huge-ass convention center.
My pharyngitis has also, fabulously, turned into a raging head cold, so I expect to look like Rudolph in all of my pictures. Sweet. Here's to cover-up, and perhaps also Photoshop, should the situation become dire. (And it's TOTALLY due to snot in my head, not a third stein of room-temperature beer. Shut up.)
Habenzie ein gut week, y'all! Drink some pinot noir for me, and send lots of prepared-packing-vibes my way!
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Cats Are Inherently Royal
So last night The Funasaurus and I made the very rare reference to potential future Princess/Funasaurus-y offspring. It's not a reality, yet, but wild to think about. And made us very snuggly, as we drifted off to sleep.
Well, my cat? Tatum? Had other opinions.
a) We did not snuggle with HIM, like we were supposed to, and
b) isn't he enough child for all of us?
As we lay there on the brink of sleep, there was a lot of unusual, loud, chaotic rustling, and some part of my (already-subconscious) brain was hoping that if I could just fall asleep before the burglars managed to break in, that perhaps I could just sleep through the whole ordeal.
I believe I was only asleep a few minutes when the crinkling got louder and louder. Like, right in my ear, louder. Then something weird and hard and plastic hit me in the face. *Ka-thunk.* Tatum, (if you will remember, the feline extraordinaire at retrieving faux-mice like a little dog) had RETRIEVED MY BIRTH CONTROL PACKAGE from the bathroom and DROPPED IT *SMACK* ON MY HEAD.
If there is a more clear way to say, "The FUCK you'll have kids on MY watch, bee-yatch!" in kitty-speak, I don't know what it could be.
His message clearly conveyed, he sauntered off to the cat tree to survey the bed to make sure no hanky-panky ensued.
* * * * *
This morning as I drove in to work, I got a call from Germany! One of my friend's boyfriends is German, and happens to be home visiting family this month. So I am going to meet up with him for a day and a half before my conference next week, to tour around and do all sorts of Geuuuuuh-mahn things before I have to sit in an insanely large convention hall in a little booth all by myself for five days. Sweet! I believe there are castles in my future. Which, if you think about it, is only natural. Princess training, you know. Maybe this will be the trip where my destiny is finally revealed!
Prince Haakon??? Is that you? Tatum can't reach us out here, my darling. He he he.
Well, my cat? Tatum? Had other opinions.
a) We did not snuggle with HIM, like we were supposed to, and
b) isn't he enough child for all of us?
As we lay there on the brink of sleep, there was a lot of unusual, loud, chaotic rustling, and some part of my (already-subconscious) brain was hoping that if I could just fall asleep before the burglars managed to break in, that perhaps I could just sleep through the whole ordeal.
I believe I was only asleep a few minutes when the crinkling got louder and louder. Like, right in my ear, louder. Then something weird and hard and plastic hit me in the face. *Ka-thunk.* Tatum, (if you will remember, the feline extraordinaire at retrieving faux-mice like a little dog) had RETRIEVED MY BIRTH CONTROL PACKAGE from the bathroom and DROPPED IT *SMACK* ON MY HEAD.
If there is a more clear way to say, "The FUCK you'll have kids on MY watch, bee-yatch!" in kitty-speak, I don't know what it could be.
His message clearly conveyed, he sauntered off to the cat tree to survey the bed to make sure no hanky-panky ensued.
* * * * *
This morning as I drove in to work, I got a call from Germany! One of my friend's boyfriends is German, and happens to be home visiting family this month. So I am going to meet up with him for a day and a half before my conference next week, to tour around and do all sorts of Geuuuuuh-mahn things before I have to sit in an insanely large convention hall in a little booth all by myself for five days. Sweet! I believe there are castles in my future. Which, if you think about it, is only natural. Princess training, you know. Maybe this will be the trip where my destiny is finally revealed!
Prince Haakon??? Is that you? Tatum can't reach us out here, my darling. He he he.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Picturing Royal Cupcakes
So I'm feeling much better, today, having taken my yummy drugs and gotten a lot of sleep last night. Of course, I had very bizarre dreams about THIS book, which I finished last night. It was lovely, and intriguing, (if a little pretentious) and a GREAT story, right up until the end. Where the author was like, "And then you guess what happens."
Um.
No.
I like my endings with a neat little bow, please. But what was really irksome was the fact that she makes you feel guilty for feeling that way... just a few chapters from the end the snobbiest, brilliant character in the whole story criticizes Americans for their lack of creativity by not liking books that have ambiguous endings.
Well, I am here, representin' for the ol' red, white, and blue. A little ambiguity is one thing. To make every character disappear and leave a young (albeit genius) girl alone to fend for herself with no hint as to how it turns out for her is just copping out on the author's part, in my opinion.
I am not a novelist. (Yet.) But I DO know that endings are very hard. I like to write and write and write and it's often very hard to make all that writing tie together with some sort of "conclusion." "purpose." "tidy bow." "What have you." And when the author lays out a nice plot, with lots of climactic points and then says, "and off she walked towards the parking lot... The End" that leaves me hanging just a little too much.
But maybe that's just me.
On another topic, we met with some potential photographers for our wedding last night. I really liked them a LOT, they're expensive, but I think we want to make photography a priority in our wedding budget. What do you all think?
Also: how do folks feel about videographers? We weren't that attached, we thought that maybe we could spend that money on just a nicer photography package, but the photographers last night actually recommended we get a videographer, too, even if it took away from THEIR final paycheck! That's quite a recommendation. (They are newlyweds, themselves.)
Huh.
I'd be interested to hear what other people think. My neighbor has made the most compelling argument FOR, so far. She said they watched their video a couple times, put it away on the shelf, and didn't bring it out again until they had kids. Now it's their daughter's favorite movie, and she watches it all the time. (She's 7, I think?) I never even thought about future Funasauruses and Princess Jr.s wanting to watch that kind of thing.... But maybe it'd be worthwhile?
Chew on that, get back to me, I'm going to run get some lunch. Let me know if I can pick you up something. I realize we may live far apart. But I will send you lots of imaginary cupcakes. ... I like red velvet with vanilla frosting, myself. (But NOT cream cheese. Just plain, vanilla frosting.) Or chocolate. Chocolate of any kind, really. Imagine that.
Ciao, bella.
Um.
No.
I like my endings with a neat little bow, please. But what was really irksome was the fact that she makes you feel guilty for feeling that way... just a few chapters from the end the snobbiest, brilliant character in the whole story criticizes Americans for their lack of creativity by not liking books that have ambiguous endings.
Well, I am here, representin' for the ol' red, white, and blue. A little ambiguity is one thing. To make every character disappear and leave a young (albeit genius) girl alone to fend for herself with no hint as to how it turns out for her is just copping out on the author's part, in my opinion.
I am not a novelist. (Yet.) But I DO know that endings are very hard. I like to write and write and write and it's often very hard to make all that writing tie together with some sort of "conclusion." "purpose." "tidy bow." "What have you." And when the author lays out a nice plot, with lots of climactic points and then says, "and off she walked towards the parking lot... The End" that leaves me hanging just a little too much.
But maybe that's just me.
On another topic, we met with some potential photographers for our wedding last night. I really liked them a LOT, they're expensive, but I think we want to make photography a priority in our wedding budget. What do you all think?
Also: how do folks feel about videographers? We weren't that attached, we thought that maybe we could spend that money on just a nicer photography package, but the photographers last night actually recommended we get a videographer, too, even if it took away from THEIR final paycheck! That's quite a recommendation. (They are newlyweds, themselves.)
Huh.
I'd be interested to hear what other people think. My neighbor has made the most compelling argument FOR, so far. She said they watched their video a couple times, put it away on the shelf, and didn't bring it out again until they had kids. Now it's their daughter's favorite movie, and she watches it all the time. (She's 7, I think?) I never even thought about future Funasauruses and Princess Jr.s wanting to watch that kind of thing.... But maybe it'd be worthwhile?
Chew on that, get back to me, I'm going to run get some lunch. Let me know if I can pick you up something. I realize we may live far apart. But I will send you lots of imaginary cupcakes. ... I like red velvet with vanilla frosting, myself. (But NOT cream cheese. Just plain, vanilla frosting.) Or chocolate. Chocolate of any kind, really. Imagine that.
Ciao, bella.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
How to Call in Sick Like a Princess
I wussed out and had tea at the bar last night. I blame it on the Severe Lack of germ-fighting alcohol in my system that the sore throat that I've been fighting for the last week finally caught up with me last night.
This morning I woke up with something that felt like a golf ball in my throat. A sharp golf ball.
So I sent an e-mail from home to Herr MWOTH, "Maybe it's strep. I'm happy to come in to the office and discuss this and maybe wipe my germy fingers all over your nice, new, shiny, big, glassy desk, but maybe it'd be a good idea to go to the doctor and gets a diagnosis, first?"
And he wrote back, "Stay home and get better."
Aw, look who's turning into a kitten! (Kitten has fangs, folks. Don't let your guard down.)
So I called my doctor, and the receptionist was all, "Oh, we're booked. The earliest we can get you in is 4:15 on Friday."
Uh.
I'm sick NOW, lady. Not four days from now. And I do not intend to juggle my razor-laden golf ball in my throat for 96 hours. Fuck that, I'm going to the urgent care clinic. So off I went.
The doctor at the clinic turned out to be really nice, and made nice cooing, oh-you-poor-thing noises at me, and I did indeed feel very pitiful, and he took a throat culture and left me in the room while he checked on another patient. (Who complained very loudly through the Not-Thick-Enough-At-ALL walls that it hurt when he peed and there was some funny discharge on his. um. wee wee?)
Sick sick sickity sick sick sick.
I tried to ignore it and focus on the sage-green walls, and prayed that the doctor washed his hands in scalding hot water with the most antibacterial-ist soap ever, before coming back to see me.
Verdict: I do not have strep, after all.
I have pharyngitis. A virus, for which there is no cure, just cough drops to ease the razored-golf-ball-pain. But, I DID get a little medical insider knowledge into the world of cough drops. Apparently most cough drops are not much more than candy, with the active ingredient being "menthol." As in, what goes into your toothpaste. The Top Secret Ingredient that you want, if you want real throat-pain-relief is BENZOCAINE. Who knew? So I scoured the entire cough drop section (and there IS an entire SECTION) at the supermarket, and found THIS product. The only one with the active ingredient of BENZOCAINE. The doc also gave me some steroids, so hopefully I'll get nice and buff while anethetisizing my throat.
Then I called The Funasaurus in my most oh-I'm-so-ill-your-love-is-all-I-have voice, and he invited me out to a sushi lunch.
Score.
Now I am playing on the computer at home. No fever, numb throat, belly full of raw fish. Really, this is the only way to be sick.
Have a nice day at work, y'all!
This morning I woke up with something that felt like a golf ball in my throat. A sharp golf ball.
So I sent an e-mail from home to Herr MWOTH, "Maybe it's strep. I'm happy to come in to the office and discuss this and maybe wipe my germy fingers all over your nice, new, shiny, big, glassy desk, but maybe it'd be a good idea to go to the doctor and gets a diagnosis, first?"
And he wrote back, "Stay home and get better."
Aw, look who's turning into a kitten! (Kitten has fangs, folks. Don't let your guard down.)
So I called my doctor, and the receptionist was all, "Oh, we're booked. The earliest we can get you in is 4:15 on Friday."
Uh.
I'm sick NOW, lady. Not four days from now. And I do not intend to juggle my razor-laden golf ball in my throat for 96 hours. Fuck that, I'm going to the urgent care clinic. So off I went.
The doctor at the clinic turned out to be really nice, and made nice cooing, oh-you-poor-thing noises at me, and I did indeed feel very pitiful, and he took a throat culture and left me in the room while he checked on another patient. (Who complained very loudly through the Not-Thick-Enough-At-ALL walls that it hurt when he peed and there was some funny discharge on his. um. wee wee?)
Sick sick sickity sick sick sick.
I tried to ignore it and focus on the sage-green walls, and prayed that the doctor washed his hands in scalding hot water with the most antibacterial-ist soap ever, before coming back to see me.
Verdict: I do not have strep, after all.
I have pharyngitis. A virus, for which there is no cure, just cough drops to ease the razored-golf-ball-pain. But, I DID get a little medical insider knowledge into the world of cough drops. Apparently most cough drops are not much more than candy, with the active ingredient being "menthol." As in, what goes into your toothpaste. The Top Secret Ingredient that you want, if you want real throat-pain-relief is BENZOCAINE. Who knew? So I scoured the entire cough drop section (and there IS an entire SECTION) at the supermarket, and found THIS product. The only one with the active ingredient of BENZOCAINE. The doc also gave me some steroids, so hopefully I'll get nice and buff while anethetisizing my throat.
Then I called The Funasaurus in my most oh-I'm-so-ill-your-love-is-all-I-have voice, and he invited me out to a sushi lunch.
Score.
Now I am playing on the computer at home. No fever, numb throat, belly full of raw fish. Really, this is the only way to be sick.
Have a nice day at work, y'all!
Monday, September 25, 2006
How Do You Say "Strep" in German?
Hello, Monday. I've got my eye on you.
So far, it's been a productive day. My company just moved into a new building that we bought, and we are settling into our new (slightly smaller, actually) cubicles. The higher-ups got their own, private offices, though. This whole move is basically a blow-job for their egos. But it IS a nice, new building. And we have a large window in our (yes "our," I now have cube mates) area. Beautiful view.
Also: glare-y. I have a headache already, and I am not usually prone to headaches. I can stare at my own reflection in my computer monitor all day, though, and keep an eye on any wayward strands of hair.
Hello, me!
Not bad for my vanity, but sucks for my eyes.
The weekend was great, though. We went and checked out the wedding venue with some family members who were in town, and it snowed and was very romantic, and I got to wear my yummy fuzzy (faux-fur) coat, and the guy who owns the place gave us all a large glass of wine.
I like him very much.
It was a bit of an issue heading back DOWN the mountain in the snowstorm, but we made it, and the following day my parents threw us a little party. Kind of an engagement party for the family. There was yummy food and fun people (and wine! Oh, wine! And champagne, yum!) and the most delicious chocolate cake I have ever eaten in my life ohmygod. I don't have a picture, yet, but when I do, I will be sure to link it. It was a layer of truffle (like a hunk o' chocolate) with a layer of cake, a layer of mousse, a layer of cake, and then chocolate gooey icing all over the top. With no fruit filling, as The Funausaurus would say, "to contaminate it."
Reason # 65,659 I will marry him: he's also a purist when it comes to chocolate. And cake. Making chocolate cake a double-whammy.
So we had all our families together, and our grandmothers got along quite well, considering they are both basically deaf but good at smiling.
My throat still hurts, but I am so busy I don't have time to go to the doctor BEFORE I LEAVE FOR GERMANY NEXT SATURDAY! So I'm hoping that if I drink enough wine the alcohol will kill off whatever germs are making me feel like a swallowed sandpaper laced with fiberglass shards. And also really fucking sharp knives.
Hello, pinot noir. Save me.
Love,
Princess My-Throat-Huuuurts. Guten tag.
So far, it's been a productive day. My company just moved into a new building that we bought, and we are settling into our new (slightly smaller, actually) cubicles. The higher-ups got their own, private offices, though. This whole move is basically a blow-job for their egos. But it IS a nice, new building. And we have a large window in our (yes "our," I now have cube mates) area. Beautiful view.
Also: glare-y. I have a headache already, and I am not usually prone to headaches. I can stare at my own reflection in my computer monitor all day, though, and keep an eye on any wayward strands of hair.
Hello, me!
Not bad for my vanity, but sucks for my eyes.
The weekend was great, though. We went and checked out the wedding venue with some family members who were in town, and it snowed and was very romantic, and I got to wear my yummy fuzzy (faux-fur) coat, and the guy who owns the place gave us all a large glass of wine.
I like him very much.
It was a bit of an issue heading back DOWN the mountain in the snowstorm, but we made it, and the following day my parents threw us a little party. Kind of an engagement party for the family. There was yummy food and fun people (and wine! Oh, wine! And champagne, yum!) and the most delicious chocolate cake I have ever eaten in my life ohmygod. I don't have a picture, yet, but when I do, I will be sure to link it. It was a layer of truffle (like a hunk o' chocolate) with a layer of cake, a layer of mousse, a layer of cake, and then chocolate gooey icing all over the top. With no fruit filling, as The Funausaurus would say, "to contaminate it."
Reason # 65,659 I will marry him: he's also a purist when it comes to chocolate. And cake. Making chocolate cake a double-whammy.
So we had all our families together, and our grandmothers got along quite well, considering they are both basically deaf but good at smiling.
My throat still hurts, but I am so busy I don't have time to go to the doctor BEFORE I LEAVE FOR GERMANY NEXT SATURDAY! So I'm hoping that if I drink enough wine the alcohol will kill off whatever germs are making me feel like a swallowed sandpaper laced with fiberglass shards. And also really fucking sharp knives.
Hello, pinot noir. Save me.
Love,
Princess My-Throat-Huuuurts. Guten tag.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Snow Falling on Princesses
My brother's coming in to town today! My brother's coming in to town today!
I am excited to see him again, it's been a while. And I only resent him a little, seeing as how he got all the looks and brains in the family. Whatever. My cats are cuter. (THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID IT. [Hi, Chico. Still love me? I was only kidding.] no I'm not.)
And me and my cute kitties? We're working from home, today. Exhibit A.
This is how every day should be.
And then we go collect my cute brother and cute sister-in-law from the airport around 2:00 and blow off work for the rest of the day.
Summit County got a foot of snow last night. A FOOT. For you un-Coloradans, that's up where the ski resorts are. No snow here, but it's only an hour away. (Also: straight up.) Maybe skiing will start early this year? We can only hope. And occasionally sacrifice livestock to the snow gods.
Watch your sheep. I'm ready to hit the slopes.
I am excited to see him again, it's been a while. And I only resent him a little, seeing as how he got all the looks and brains in the family. Whatever. My cats are cuter. (THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID IT. [Hi, Chico. Still love me? I was only kidding.] no I'm not.)
And me and my cute kitties? We're working from home, today. Exhibit A.
This is how every day should be.
And then we go collect my cute brother and cute sister-in-law from the airport around 2:00 and blow off work for the rest of the day.
Summit County got a foot of snow last night. A FOOT. For you un-Coloradans, that's up where the ski resorts are. No snow here, but it's only an hour away. (Also: straight up.) Maybe skiing will start early this year? We can only hope. And occasionally sacrifice livestock to the snow gods.
Watch your sheep. I'm ready to hit the slopes.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Lots of Things That Have Nothing to Do with Each Other
It snowed last night. (in the mountains and foothills. We got rain in the nice, warm, pollution-insulated city.)
It is only September.
Global warming: fact or fiction?
In totally and utterly unrelated news: my cousins are in town visiting. They took a road trip up to Wyoming, and bought some random chili spice from this random Wyoming town (population 200 [if the kids are back from school]) which apparently prides itself on its chili seasonings. Tasted like regular ol' chili to me, when we made it last night. But it was fun to think about some old grizzled mountain man grinding chile peppers and adding just the right amount of paprika to it, to create the dust inside the bottle we used to season our beans and ground meat.
I can just see him, with his cowboy hat and spittoon, pinching the spices with his leathery fingers....
I hope he washed his hands, first....
I suddenly feel less hungry for the leftovers I brought in for lunch, today.
Maybe I'll get some M&Ms from the machine to tide me over. Just in case I don't happen to eat the (what I now imagine to be) dirty, germ-laden the chili.
Like I said, (well, I didn't say it, actually, but it was implied with the "snow" comment at the beginning) it is a cold, dreary, gray day. (Did you not get that from "It snowed last night."? You should have. Pay attention! Welcome to my world. I'm the princess here. ... But I digress.) It's a good day for feeling like THIS, but I don't. I'm pretty chipper, today. I have no plans this evening, besides going to bed early. I'm really looking forward to that. And there was GOOD coffee in the coffee pot this morning. *sigh* It's the little things.
And I'm happy because I came in to work late this morning because I was busy at home buying some artwork from THIS amazing artist before getting in my car to make the commute down the (much-more-reasonable-today) I-70. I almost didn't share that link, because I feel like she's too juicy a secret, and I wanted to keep her to myself, mineminemine, but I am feeling somewhat benevolent, and also like she deserves credit... and fame and glory and my money (although she's insanely reasonable in her pricing; she could get SO much more for her prints, in my humble opinion, but it worked out really well for my budget that she was so affordable so, thanks, Ms. Catia!) and besides, I already ordered the prints I loved most, so I'm guaranteed to get them, so now I will share them with you, too. You're welcome.
Um. That's about it.
Chili and mountain men and cousins and coffee and art. (Oh my.) It IS a good day!
P.S. For you uber grammer dorks with too much time on your hands: I totally used "chile" and "chili" correctly, so I don't even want to hear about it. Webster's says either spelling is correct, but the preferred spelling in the West/Southwest is "chile" for the pepper, and "chili" for the beef and bean soup. Plbthbthbth
It is only September.
Global warming: fact or fiction?
In totally and utterly unrelated news: my cousins are in town visiting. They took a road trip up to Wyoming, and bought some random chili spice from this random Wyoming town (population 200 [if the kids are back from school]) which apparently prides itself on its chili seasonings. Tasted like regular ol' chili to me, when we made it last night. But it was fun to think about some old grizzled mountain man grinding chile peppers and adding just the right amount of paprika to it, to create the dust inside the bottle we used to season our beans and ground meat.
I can just see him, with his cowboy hat and spittoon, pinching the spices with his leathery fingers....
I hope he washed his hands, first....
I suddenly feel less hungry for the leftovers I brought in for lunch, today.
Maybe I'll get some M&Ms from the machine to tide me over. Just in case I don't happen to eat the (what I now imagine to be) dirty, germ-laden the chili.
Like I said, (well, I didn't say it, actually, but it was implied with the "snow" comment at the beginning) it is a cold, dreary, gray day. (Did you not get that from "It snowed last night."? You should have. Pay attention! Welcome to my world. I'm the princess here. ... But I digress.) It's a good day for feeling like THIS, but I don't. I'm pretty chipper, today. I have no plans this evening, besides going to bed early. I'm really looking forward to that. And there was GOOD coffee in the coffee pot this morning. *sigh* It's the little things.
And I'm happy because I came in to work late this morning because I was busy at home buying some artwork from THIS amazing artist before getting in my car to make the commute down the (much-more-reasonable-today) I-70. I almost didn't share that link, because I feel like she's too juicy a secret, and I wanted to keep her to myself, mineminemine, but I am feeling somewhat benevolent, and also like she deserves credit... and fame and glory and my money (although she's insanely reasonable in her pricing; she could get SO much more for her prints, in my humble opinion, but it worked out really well for my budget that she was so affordable so, thanks, Ms. Catia!) and besides, I already ordered the prints I loved most, so I'm guaranteed to get them, so now I will share them with you, too. You're welcome.
Um. That's about it.
Chili and mountain men and cousins and coffee and art. (Oh my.) It IS a good day!
P.S. For you uber grammer dorks with too much time on your hands: I totally used "chile" and "chili" correctly, so I don't even want to hear about it. Webster's says either spelling is correct, but the preferred spelling in the West/Southwest is "chile" for the pepper, and "chili" for the beef and bean soup. Plbthbthbth
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Music for the Highway
Remember how I wrote a little letter to I-70, yesterday?
Well, apparently, I-70 is in cahoots with the universe.
Because this morning? On my way in to work? There was a ginormous accident on I-70. My normal 25 minute commute changed into an hour and five minutes.
Oh-ho, Mr. Thinks-He's-Funny I-70. Mess with me, will ya? I am going to work from home, one of these days. Oh yes I am. And then there's nothing you can do to stop me from getting to work on time! Ha ha. (Unless, of course, you're in cahoots with Mr.-I'm-So-Soft-Just-Turn-Off-the-Alarm-Already-and-Stay-Right-Here-Mattress. Then, I could be in trouble.) I'm counting on the fact that you haven't met.
Last night I had no problems, though. Last night I cruised the highway at some pretty top speeds because it was late and I was TIRED, when I finally headed home. It was totally worth it, though. I was late because I went to a concert at Red Rocks, which is pretty much the awesomest venue. Ever.
I don't care how bad the band is, it's still a fun time.
I did, however, learn how many of my friends are Scared Of Fun.
Oh yes.
See,The Funasaurus got sick. So I had an extra ticket to a Cheryl Crow/John Mayer concert at Red Rocks. Now, you may not be a fan of those artists, (I certainly don't own a CD by either of them) but I think it's practically impossible to hate either of them. And unless you are a deaf hermit living in a T.V.-less hut somewhere not-in-America, you've heard at least ONE of their songs. Whether you listened to a radio for even 30 seconds in the last five years, or walked into any mall, U.S.A., you've heard a Mayer or Crow song. So there was something you could sing along to. (Even, if say, you're tastes are usually more along these lines.)
I do realize that this was a very last minute invitation. But a free ticket? To a fun concert at an awesome venue on a gorgeous 60-degree-ish, clear, fall night? Who says no to that?
Well, let me tell you.
Every single one of my friends in the greater-Denver area. Either they were "working" (lame) or "too far away" (lamer) or "in yoga class" (WTF?!) or some other such excuse and NO ONE claimed the ticket. It went unused. So that meant extra elbow room for me.
But to all y'all whose "phones were not charged"? One word for you. WEAK.
Off for my second cup of coffee. And perhaps a trip to Target to buy Mr. Funasaurus some Echinacea, already. There will be no more missing of anything fun! I decree.
Princess Your Body is a Wonderland
Well, apparently, I-70 is in cahoots with the universe.
Because this morning? On my way in to work? There was a ginormous accident on I-70. My normal 25 minute commute changed into an hour and five minutes.
Oh-ho, Mr. Thinks-He's-Funny I-70. Mess with me, will ya? I am going to work from home, one of these days. Oh yes I am. And then there's nothing you can do to stop me from getting to work on time! Ha ha. (Unless, of course, you're in cahoots with Mr.-I'm-So-Soft-Just-Turn-Off-the-Alarm-Already-and-Stay-Right-Here-Mattress. Then, I could be in trouble.) I'm counting on the fact that you haven't met.
Last night I had no problems, though. Last night I cruised the highway at some pretty top speeds because it was late and I was TIRED, when I finally headed home. It was totally worth it, though. I was late because I went to a concert at Red Rocks, which is pretty much the awesomest venue. Ever.
I don't care how bad the band is, it's still a fun time.
I did, however, learn how many of my friends are Scared Of Fun.
Oh yes.
See,The Funasaurus got sick. So I had an extra ticket to a Cheryl Crow/John Mayer concert at Red Rocks. Now, you may not be a fan of those artists, (I certainly don't own a CD by either of them) but I think it's practically impossible to hate either of them. And unless you are a deaf hermit living in a T.V.-less hut somewhere not-in-America, you've heard at least ONE of their songs. Whether you listened to a radio for even 30 seconds in the last five years, or walked into any mall, U.S.A., you've heard a Mayer or Crow song. So there was something you could sing along to. (Even, if say, you're tastes are usually more along these lines.)
I do realize that this was a very last minute invitation. But a free ticket? To a fun concert at an awesome venue on a gorgeous 60-degree-ish, clear, fall night? Who says no to that?
Well, let me tell you.
Every single one of my friends in the greater-Denver area. Either they were "working" (lame) or "too far away" (lamer) or "in yoga class" (WTF?!) or some other such excuse and NO ONE claimed the ticket. It went unused. So that meant extra elbow room for me.
But to all y'all whose "phones were not charged"? One word for you. WEAK.
Off for my second cup of coffee. And perhaps a trip to Target to buy Mr. Funasaurus some Echinacea, already. There will be no more missing of anything fun! I decree.
Princess Your Body is a Wonderland
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
You're Still Living in a Paperdoll World....
I was very tired yesterday. I don't know if it was the ridiculous amounts of alcohol this weekend (I mean, at least four Mike's Hard Lemonades plus a little bit of some other stuff over the course of two days is a LOT, anymore. Shut up. It is!) or the busy schedule (hiking and drinking and sleeping will wear a girl out) or the long day (8-5) or what... but I felt exhausted by the time I made it home from work last night.
Side note:
Dear I-70,
I hate the big trucks as well as the drivers with a death wish. Please remove them to shave 15 minutes off my commute.
Love,
Princess G.
So I wearily heaved myself onto the couch. And then d-r-a-g-g-e-d myself up the stairs, to check on my MySpace account. While The Funasaurus made us some spaghetti.
My life really is rough.
Then I laboriously heaved one foot in front of the other back down the stairs, and ate the spaghetti, with one arm propped on the table (kidding, Mom, if you're reading this, it means I was sitting up straight with the napkin on my lap) and managed to devour more than my fair share. Then I laid my head down while The Funasaurus cleared the table. (I would have helped, but Sugar was in my lap, and I didn't want to force her to get up, having only just deigned to grace my lap with her fluffy presence two minutes earlier.)
*sigh*
I finally realized we needed to check the mail. It seemed like an awfully long trek. So in my best, maybe-there-will-be-sex-later-if-I'm-not-too-exhausted voice, I said, "Baby, will you come check the mail with me?" and he replied, "Certainly, as soon as I finish cleaning up this delicious meal I prepared all by myself." (That may not be verbatim. That may be my guilt adding a little somethin'somethin'.)
So we walked out to the mailbox and I leaned heavily on him.
"Good thing you're not melodramatic, baby," he said.
I nodded, too weary to reply.
We got the mail, and started the trudge home. (At least 40 feet.) However, on the way back, we passed one of our neighbors, (who we think we like and refer to as The Friendly Neighbor) but never actually get to hang out with. We chatted a bit, and Friendly Neighbor then says, "Hey, we're kind of having an impromptu get-together with some of the other neighbors, can you guys come in for a bit? We have margaritas."
Hello? Did he say margaritas?
"Well, o.k.!" I squeak, jumping up and down, clapping my hands. I make a beeline through his garage towards said margaritas. The Funasaurus follows behind, with the mail.
The margaritas were QUITE tasty, and I had a great time discussing the intricacies of the drywall on our particular model of house with the cute gay couple who live diagonally from us. I am also fascinated by the way the Friendly Neighbor's preteen daughter fluctuates from trying to act "adult" and comment on our conversation in a very elitist voice, and fix her zipper on her neon pink sweater so that it's a little more sexy (?) to playing "kitty cat" on the floor with a younger neighbor girl by "mewing" and rubbing her mom's calf with her head, at the same time.
12 years old is a hard, hard age. Too young for makeup, too old for Playskool.
We all made our exit as references started to be made to a certain young lady's bedtime, despite the young lady's protests. (methinks the lady doth protest too much?)
Sometimes, I am reminded there are advantages to being an adult. You can drink margaritas, and admit when you're tired. (It's good to remember that when you have to pay a bill, or take your car in for an oil change.)
Or, rather, if you're a princess, you can just have your Darling Funasaurus cook you some spaghetti and think deep things over a nice, strong margarita. And play "kitty cat" when you get home. So to speak.
Side note:
Dear I-70,
I hate the big trucks as well as the drivers with a death wish. Please remove them to shave 15 minutes off my commute.
Love,
Princess G.
So I wearily heaved myself onto the couch. And then d-r-a-g-g-e-d myself up the stairs, to check on my MySpace account. While The Funasaurus made us some spaghetti.
My life really is rough.
Then I laboriously heaved one foot in front of the other back down the stairs, and ate the spaghetti, with one arm propped on the table (kidding, Mom, if you're reading this, it means I was sitting up straight with the napkin on my lap) and managed to devour more than my fair share. Then I laid my head down while The Funasaurus cleared the table. (I would have helped, but Sugar was in my lap, and I didn't want to force her to get up, having only just deigned to grace my lap with her fluffy presence two minutes earlier.)
*sigh*
I finally realized we needed to check the mail. It seemed like an awfully long trek. So in my best, maybe-there-will-be-sex-later-if-I'm-not-too-exhausted voice, I said, "Baby, will you come check the mail with me?" and he replied, "Certainly, as soon as I finish cleaning up this delicious meal I prepared all by myself." (That may not be verbatim. That may be my guilt adding a little somethin'somethin'.)
So we walked out to the mailbox and I leaned heavily on him.
"Good thing you're not melodramatic, baby," he said.
I nodded, too weary to reply.
We got the mail, and started the trudge home. (At least 40 feet.) However, on the way back, we passed one of our neighbors, (who we think we like and refer to as The Friendly Neighbor) but never actually get to hang out with. We chatted a bit, and Friendly Neighbor then says, "Hey, we're kind of having an impromptu get-together with some of the other neighbors, can you guys come in for a bit? We have margaritas."
Hello? Did he say margaritas?
"Well, o.k.!" I squeak, jumping up and down, clapping my hands. I make a beeline through his garage towards said margaritas. The Funasaurus follows behind, with the mail.
The margaritas were QUITE tasty, and I had a great time discussing the intricacies of the drywall on our particular model of house with the cute gay couple who live diagonally from us. I am also fascinated by the way the Friendly Neighbor's preteen daughter fluctuates from trying to act "adult" and comment on our conversation in a very elitist voice, and fix her zipper on her neon pink sweater so that it's a little more sexy (?) to playing "kitty cat" on the floor with a younger neighbor girl by "mewing" and rubbing her mom's calf with her head, at the same time.
12 years old is a hard, hard age. Too young for makeup, too old for Playskool.
We all made our exit as references started to be made to a certain young lady's bedtime, despite the young lady's protests. (methinks the lady doth protest too much?)
Sometimes, I am reminded there are advantages to being an adult. You can drink margaritas, and admit when you're tired. (It's good to remember that when you have to pay a bill, or take your car in for an oil change.)
Or, rather, if you're a princess, you can just have your Darling Funasaurus cook you some spaghetti and think deep things over a nice, strong margarita. And play "kitty cat" when you get home. So to speak.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Beer in Buena
This weekend was tons of fun, despite long drives and a mild case of strep. (Well, I'm not sure it's strep. But The Funasaurus' mom has strep, so I'm using it as an excuse.)
We arrived in Buena Vista last Friday night, and proceeded to consume a disgusting amount of M&Ms and pretzel rods, and an even more disgusting amount of cheap beer. I suck at drinking games. So I got fairly drunk. (And it doesn't take very much. Two beers and a shot of Jamo and I was done for.) Saturday we got up Not So Early At All, and lounged around muttering at each other, while nursing hangovers over lukewarm cups of coffee.
We eventually made it into town, where the group split into two contingents: the "hikers" and the "we don't really 'do' the outdoors. At all. Ever.-ers" The Funasaurus made a beeline for the nearest T.V. in a coffee shop, since the cabin lacked that particular Funasaurus lifeblood. I bravely donned FIVE different shades of blue (pants, sweatshirt, hiking boots, fleece, and waterproof shell- all blue. All different.) and joined the hiking group.
We went on a beautiful hike, although in the span of an hour, we went from sunny skies and sweating to falling snow and windburn.
Going up I did o.k., going down I was in Last Place the whole way, minus one chick who stopped to pee waaay off in the woods and fell behind, but quickly caught up with Princess Slowpoke and lapped her immediately. I don't really have great balance. So running down steep terrain that is so Not Paved and really more Covered In All Sorts of Twisty, Pokey Rocks is not an easy feat, for me. Stop and smell the (frozen) roses already, folks!
Hiking that incredibly steep and treacherous mountain (read: gently inclining slope [I think we were gone TWO WHOLE HOURS]) merited some meat. Of the RED variety. The Funasaurus got us steaks, and we lit up the BBQ once we were back at the cabin. After consuming the greater part of a mid-sized cow, we turned to our aforementioned beer tasting.
It was pretty good. But I am not really a "beer" girl. No, I much prefer a pinot noir, or cabernet on such an evening. But Oktoberfest is not really about burgundies of any kind. So I tasted the malted barley. And then quickly opened a Mike's Hard Lemonade, as soon as the official "tasting" was over and "collegiate-esque binge drinking" began. I was punished for my "pansy" drink by being picked upon in the game Kings, (for the record, our rules were MUCH more clever than the ones on that link) but I stood resolute. I'd rather drink a case of Mike's than another sip of banana/grass/rotting-pile-of-trash-flavored beer.
Saturday night we discovered how Very Old, Indeed we were, when the drinking festivities ended at the late, late hour of 11:00 and I fought a headache and sore throat and The Funasaurus suffered some major heartburn all night.
Weak.
Sunday involved more muttering and hangover nursing, as well as vacuuming and hefting a metric shit-ton of empty beer bottles out to the cars. And then the long drive home, to surly cats and a pile of dirty laundry.
How is it Monday, again, already?
We arrived in Buena Vista last Friday night, and proceeded to consume a disgusting amount of M&Ms and pretzel rods, and an even more disgusting amount of cheap beer. I suck at drinking games. So I got fairly drunk. (And it doesn't take very much. Two beers and a shot of Jamo and I was done for.) Saturday we got up Not So Early At All, and lounged around muttering at each other, while nursing hangovers over lukewarm cups of coffee.
We eventually made it into town, where the group split into two contingents: the "hikers" and the "we don't really 'do' the outdoors. At all. Ever.-ers" The Funasaurus made a beeline for the nearest T.V. in a coffee shop, since the cabin lacked that particular Funasaurus lifeblood. I bravely donned FIVE different shades of blue (pants, sweatshirt, hiking boots, fleece, and waterproof shell- all blue. All different.) and joined the hiking group.
We went on a beautiful hike, although in the span of an hour, we went from sunny skies and sweating to falling snow and windburn.
Going up I did o.k., going down I was in Last Place the whole way, minus one chick who stopped to pee waaay off in the woods and fell behind, but quickly caught up with Princess Slowpoke and lapped her immediately. I don't really have great balance. So running down steep terrain that is so Not Paved and really more Covered In All Sorts of Twisty, Pokey Rocks is not an easy feat, for me. Stop and smell the (frozen) roses already, folks!
Hiking that incredibly steep and treacherous mountain (read: gently inclining slope [I think we were gone TWO WHOLE HOURS]) merited some meat. Of the RED variety. The Funasaurus got us steaks, and we lit up the BBQ once we were back at the cabin. After consuming the greater part of a mid-sized cow, we turned to our aforementioned beer tasting.
It was pretty good. But I am not really a "beer" girl. No, I much prefer a pinot noir, or cabernet on such an evening. But Oktoberfest is not really about burgundies of any kind. So I tasted the malted barley. And then quickly opened a Mike's Hard Lemonade, as soon as the official "tasting" was over and "collegiate-esque binge drinking" began. I was punished for my "pansy" drink by being picked upon in the game Kings, (for the record, our rules were MUCH more clever than the ones on that link) but I stood resolute. I'd rather drink a case of Mike's than another sip of banana/grass/rotting-pile-of-trash-flavored beer.
Saturday night we discovered how Very Old, Indeed we were, when the drinking festivities ended at the late, late hour of 11:00 and I fought a headache and sore throat and The Funasaurus suffered some major heartburn all night.
Weak.
Sunday involved more muttering and hangover nursing, as well as vacuuming and hefting a metric shit-ton of empty beer bottles out to the cars. And then the long drive home, to surly cats and a pile of dirty laundry.
How is it Monday, again, already?
Friday, September 15, 2006
I Am an Idiot. But I Love You. Yes, YOU.
Kisses, butterflies, and love, and unicorns to everyone who left comments this past week, after idiot-here turned on the "moderate comments" button... and then totally forgot to moderate her comments.
Hi. There has been no love only because I refused to see it.
What would a therapist say about that?
I have turned off the comment moderator, now.
Have a great weekend!
Love,
Princess Dumbshit
Hi. There has been no love only because I refused to see it.
What would a therapist say about that?
I have turned off the comment moderator, now.
Have a great weekend!
Love,
Princess Dumbshit
Oktoberfest
This weekend we are headed to the mountains with some good friends of ours who have a cabin. There will be much drinking, hiking, and hot-springing involved.
Well. At least, drinking and hiking for me. I think I will not be partaking of the hot springs this time, as nice as they feel.
We went to the same place earlier in the summer, and had a great time. Right up until my little nudie show. I brought my old (only) swimsuit, which, in its day, was a cute bikini with blue and white checks. It's now two lumps of of kinda faded-bluish cloth. But I still wear it, because who really likes swimsuit shopping, anymore?
And it was fine. Right up until I got it wet. At which point, there were nothing left to the imagination. That sucker hid nothing. Hello, every inch of my should-probably-be-covered-somehow, body. Now, I was just fine while we were submerged in the water, out in the dark. I was NOT so fine as I had to traipse through the brightly-lit lobby full of unsuspecting tourists to get to the changing room and my freakin' towel.
Normally, nudity doesn't bother me. I am all about skinny dipping and naked spas. But this place was more of a "family joint" and these folks were definitely not expecting to see my wobbly bits.
Got a little something extra for their $10, though.
So I will probably stay at home with my yummy new book this time, while the rest of the crew heads to the hot springs. And I will probably also get an early start on our Oktoberfest Festivities. On the menu are:
Paulaner Hefe-Weizen
Paulaner Oktoberfest
Paulaner Original Munich
Paulaner Pilsner
St. Polly Girl
St. Polly Girl Oktoberfest (dark)
Warsteiner
Spaten Oktoberfest
This is purely for the "sampling." There will be plenty of other-kinds-of-alcohol to be had for the actual drinking. (Which will undoubtedly involve Guinness and hard cider, along with vino and maybe something potent enough to shoot.) Our group takes our drinking seriously. The menu (see above list of beer) was created two weeks ago. The extensive list of rules for the drinking game was mailed out at the beginning of the week, with a warning that there will be punishment of some (my guess is alcohol-related) kind for those who are unable to abide by the rules and slow the game down in any way.
I have been studying all week.
Bring it on.
Happy Oktoberfest, everyone!
Well. At least, drinking and hiking for me. I think I will not be partaking of the hot springs this time, as nice as they feel.
We went to the same place earlier in the summer, and had a great time. Right up until my little nudie show. I brought my old (only) swimsuit, which, in its day, was a cute bikini with blue and white checks. It's now two lumps of of kinda faded-bluish cloth. But I still wear it, because who really likes swimsuit shopping, anymore?
And it was fine. Right up until I got it wet. At which point, there were nothing left to the imagination. That sucker hid nothing. Hello, every inch of my should-probably-be-covered-somehow, body. Now, I was just fine while we were submerged in the water, out in the dark. I was NOT so fine as I had to traipse through the brightly-lit lobby full of unsuspecting tourists to get to the changing room and my freakin' towel.
Normally, nudity doesn't bother me. I am all about skinny dipping and naked spas. But this place was more of a "family joint" and these folks were definitely not expecting to see my wobbly bits.
Got a little something extra for their $10, though.
So I will probably stay at home with my yummy new book this time, while the rest of the crew heads to the hot springs. And I will probably also get an early start on our Oktoberfest Festivities. On the menu are:
Paulaner Hefe-Weizen
Paulaner Oktoberfest
Paulaner Original Munich
Paulaner Pilsner
St. Polly Girl
St. Polly Girl Oktoberfest (dark)
Warsteiner
Spaten Oktoberfest
This is purely for the "sampling." There will be plenty of other-kinds-of-alcohol to be had for the actual drinking. (Which will undoubtedly involve Guinness and hard cider, along with vino and maybe something potent enough to shoot.) Our group takes our drinking seriously. The menu (see above list of beer) was created two weeks ago. The extensive list of rules for the drinking game was mailed out at the beginning of the week, with a warning that there will be punishment of some (my guess is alcohol-related) kind for those who are unable to abide by the rules and slow the game down in any way.
I have been studying all week.
Bring it on.
Happy Oktoberfest, everyone!
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Um. Still Feeling Down. Any Love, at All Out There?
Wondering: why did I go from a steady stream of a couple comments for each post to a week full of nada?
Possible answer #1: Writing has sucked, recently. And people can't say something nice so they don't say anything at all. Yo mamma trained you well.
Possible answer #2: Comments section is broken. That would be awful. I am a sucker for validation. This week has been Not Really Validating at All, Blogger.
Possible answer #2: There ARE comments, but my computer won't let me see them because Herr MWOTH found this blog and rigged my computer to not show me them, just to fuck with my mind a little. Unlikely... but if you knew him, you'd know it'd still be within the realm of possibility.
Hello?...hello?...hello?
Echo ...echo ...echo
Possible answer #1: Writing has sucked, recently. And people can't say something nice so they don't say anything at all. Yo mamma trained you well.
Possible answer #2: Comments section is broken. That would be awful. I am a sucker for validation. This week has been Not Really Validating at All, Blogger.
Possible answer #2: There ARE comments, but my computer won't let me see them because Herr MWOTH found this blog and rigged my computer to not show me them, just to fuck with my mind a little. Unlikely... but if you knew him, you'd know it'd still be within the realm of possibility.
Hello?...hello?...hello?
Echo ...echo ...echo
And If Thou Wilt, Forget
Do you ever have days that are just a little darker than others? Today's one of those days for me.
I never really went through a Goth phase, entirely. Though there was a point in high school where I wore a lot of black, and loved The Crow. But I never got into the dark mascara, or whiney music. And, of course, this followed my grunge phase where I collected men's flannel shirts, learned to ride a skateboard, and wore different color high top Chuck Taylors for three years. "Dressing up" in those days meant adding a baby doll dress to said converse. But I never even bought Doc Martens. I was just a poser grunge chick.
So I never even committed to a rebellious phase in my youth. Uhg. That's even sadder.
Today's a day where I kinda wish it was raining outside. Where I want to just crawl under a blanket and drink tea. And read something serious. And just wallow in the blues to get them the fuck over with, already. (However, I currently sitting in a cubicle in a pink shirt drinking lukewarm hot chocolate, looking at sunny blue skies. Here comes the goddamn sun.)
Today's a day where I would really love THIS image in a really darkly romantic way, if only it wasn't a highly paid pop actress in a blockbuster summer movie.
It just gets more and more depressing, doesn't it?
Last night I turned over to hug The Funasaurus, who is really good at cuddling, even when he's mostly asleep, which is reason # 69,452 that I'm going to marry him. Unfortunately, he was stretched out on his back with his hands under his head, and my right eye socket collided just perfectly with his elbow and it stung like a mother. The Funasaurus felt bad, and I felt bad that he felt bad, because it really wasn't his fault. But it just kind of fit the general grumpy mood I was tumbling into. And it was then followed by some seriously messed up dreams.
I don't have any good death-related poetry to share, right now. I feel that would be a) waaaay too predictable and b) not really be a good transition.
Eh, fuck that. Here's my favorite, anyway.
And on that supremely wannabe-gothic note,
Princess G signing off to go pour her extreme lack of cheer and goodwill on other, unsuspecting folk.
I never really went through a Goth phase, entirely. Though there was a point in high school where I wore a lot of black, and loved The Crow. But I never got into the dark mascara, or whiney music. And, of course, this followed my grunge phase where I collected men's flannel shirts, learned to ride a skateboard, and wore different color high top Chuck Taylors for three years. "Dressing up" in those days meant adding a baby doll dress to said converse. But I never even bought Doc Martens. I was just a poser grunge chick.
So I never even committed to a rebellious phase in my youth. Uhg. That's even sadder.
Today's a day where I kinda wish it was raining outside. Where I want to just crawl under a blanket and drink tea. And read something serious. And just wallow in the blues to get them the fuck over with, already. (However, I currently sitting in a cubicle in a pink shirt drinking lukewarm hot chocolate, looking at sunny blue skies. Here comes the goddamn sun.)
Today's a day where I would really love THIS image in a really darkly romantic way, if only it wasn't a highly paid pop actress in a blockbuster summer movie.
It just gets more and more depressing, doesn't it?
Last night I turned over to hug The Funasaurus, who is really good at cuddling, even when he's mostly asleep, which is reason # 69,452 that I'm going to marry him. Unfortunately, he was stretched out on his back with his hands under his head, and my right eye socket collided just perfectly with his elbow and it stung like a mother. The Funasaurus felt bad, and I felt bad that he felt bad, because it really wasn't his fault. But it just kind of fit the general grumpy mood I was tumbling into. And it was then followed by some seriously messed up dreams.
I don't have any good death-related poetry to share, right now. I feel that would be a) waaaay too predictable and b) not really be a good transition.
Eh, fuck that. Here's my favorite, anyway.
And on that supremely wannabe-gothic note,
Princess G signing off to go pour her extreme lack of cheer and goodwill on other, unsuspecting folk.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Reverting to the 80s. 'Cause THAT'S Never Been Done Before.
Why I love and hate the advent of e-mail.
Love: staying in touch with friends all over the world for free
Hate: forwards. Especially the kind that say you will suffer some sort of sick and twisted death, a la too much toothpaste up your nose, or something, if you don't forward on this crap-tastic-virus-laden image of an angel to everyone you know or might possibly come to know. Ever.
Exception: forwards that remind you of the 80s. I love that stuff. *Especially* when there are images.
Images of Fraggle Rock.
Images of Hair Bands.
Images of Cabbage Patch Kids. (Scroll down on that one to see pics. I just liked the article, too!)
Images of Inspector Gadget.
Images of Rainbow Brite.
Images of Skip-It.
Images of Jordache jeans.
Images of This Is Your Brain on Drugs.
The one problem I have, though, is that I have never once seen one of those e-mails reference Poochie. Do any of you remember Poochie? She existed. There's a website. Actually, TWO. So it's not just me. And Poochie was awesome, and worth of much more memories and forwards than she gets. A pink dog with sunglasses? Who comes with an amazing amount of accessories? C'mon! There is all sorts of nostalgia, there.
I had a dollhouse in the 80s. (Still do, come to think of it.) It was beautiful. My grandfather made it. My grandmother painted it. When it was given to me, I immediately cut out swatches of the cheapest, pink polyester fabric I could find and fashioned curtains for my new house, held up by POOCHIE TAPE. Yes. It was fantastic. Clear, except for the little pink dog in sunglasses everywhere. It clashed a little with the detail of the old stone exterior, but whatever. It was the 80s, and I was a Material Girl.
I also notice a lack of mention to Cricket, in those forwards. And she was an 80s product if there ever was one. I got a Cricket doll when I was in the hospital. Over Christmas. In '86. Tragic, no? Practically Tiny Tim, I was. (Except for the crapload of expensive presents that were dumped upon me by my adoring family.) But I was very pale and sickly, and that doll, with all of her high tech fascinating electronic-y parts (read: Very Large Tape Recorder with Brightly Colored Buttons) weighed more than I did. And she came with outfits, and very large bows to put in her hair, while she sang eerie little variations of kids songs, and said, "Or What!" at the end of every sentence.
And my parents wondered, like, how I totally became a valley girl, like, right after I got that, like, doll. What-ever. I mean, was I cool OR WHAT? Hee?
I feel there MUST be other key 80s elements that were omitted from those e-mail forwards. Why? Why? Were they TOO good? Were the writers of those forwards (and there are MANY, as you must know) just lacking in some of these Very Critical components of that decade, or is there something more sinister going on, that they ALL "forgot" to mention them? Can anyone think of any more, besides Cricket and Poochie? There MUST be more! I will update, if necessary....
Love: staying in touch with friends all over the world for free
Hate: forwards. Especially the kind that say you will suffer some sort of sick and twisted death, a la too much toothpaste up your nose, or something, if you don't forward on this crap-tastic-virus-laden image of an angel to everyone you know or might possibly come to know. Ever.
Exception: forwards that remind you of the 80s. I love that stuff. *Especially* when there are images.
Images of Fraggle Rock.
Images of Hair Bands.
Images of Cabbage Patch Kids. (Scroll down on that one to see pics. I just liked the article, too!)
Images of Inspector Gadget.
Images of Rainbow Brite.
Images of Skip-It.
Images of Jordache jeans.
Images of This Is Your Brain on Drugs.
The one problem I have, though, is that I have never once seen one of those e-mails reference Poochie. Do any of you remember Poochie? She existed. There's a website. Actually, TWO. So it's not just me. And Poochie was awesome, and worth of much more memories and forwards than she gets. A pink dog with sunglasses? Who comes with an amazing amount of accessories? C'mon! There is all sorts of nostalgia, there.
I had a dollhouse in the 80s. (Still do, come to think of it.) It was beautiful. My grandfather made it. My grandmother painted it. When it was given to me, I immediately cut out swatches of the cheapest, pink polyester fabric I could find and fashioned curtains for my new house, held up by POOCHIE TAPE. Yes. It was fantastic. Clear, except for the little pink dog in sunglasses everywhere. It clashed a little with the detail of the old stone exterior, but whatever. It was the 80s, and I was a Material Girl.
I also notice a lack of mention to Cricket, in those forwards. And she was an 80s product if there ever was one. I got a Cricket doll when I was in the hospital. Over Christmas. In '86. Tragic, no? Practically Tiny Tim, I was. (Except for the crapload of expensive presents that were dumped upon me by my adoring family.) But I was very pale and sickly, and that doll, with all of her high tech fascinating electronic-y parts (read: Very Large Tape Recorder with Brightly Colored Buttons) weighed more than I did. And she came with outfits, and very large bows to put in her hair, while she sang eerie little variations of kids songs, and said, "Or What!" at the end of every sentence.
And my parents wondered, like, how I totally became a valley girl, like, right after I got that, like, doll. What-ever. I mean, was I cool OR WHAT? Hee?
I feel there MUST be other key 80s elements that were omitted from those e-mail forwards. Why? Why? Were they TOO good? Were the writers of those forwards (and there are MANY, as you must know) just lacking in some of these Very Critical components of that decade, or is there something more sinister going on, that they ALL "forgot" to mention them? Can anyone think of any more, besides Cricket and Poochie? There MUST be more! I will update, if necessary....
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Princesses Don't Really DO Spreadsheets
HYPOTHETICAL: You have an evil boss, let's say he's named Herr MWOTH. Last week he tells you to pull together a list of anyone you've ever contacted, ever, as a potential client, including their name, contact info, and what you said to them. Let's say you think thatisSOdumb and suchawasteoftimeIcan'tevenbelieveit but you smile because you're in a small power struggle with the dark underlord, and so you say, "Sure. No problem." So you spend all day Thursday compiling the Dumbest Spreadsheet Ever, instead of doing, I don't know, say, YOUR JOB.
Friday you have off from work for some medical appointments, but you log in to your desktop from home, anyway, a couple times over the weekend because you keep thinking of contacts to add. You think to yourself (smugly) "This is a kickass long list." This will exceed any stupid expectation Herr MWOTH has set. I will rub this spreadsheet in his face, and maybe do a happy dance on it, to boot.
You are *so* pleased with yourself.
You come in on Monday, and send an e-mail first thing saying, "When shall we meet? I fear you not." (Maybe you didn't *really* say, "I fear you not" but maybe you typed it and then deleted it before sending the e-mail) and Herr MWOTH replies, "Super busy. Let's meet this afternoon." And instead of freaking out, you shrug because you know your spreadsheet is so complete, so you goof off on e-mail, maybe you have a blog, maybe you write about your super laid-back weekend on your blog, and you feel very confident. As the afternoon rolls around, you scan lots of your old e-mails, add a few more contacts to the Dumbest Spreadsheet Ever, and decide to print it out, so that when Herr MWOTH says, "Let's meet now" there is no mad, last-minute scramble to the printer.
However, maybe Excel is annoying, and maybe it doesn't want to smoosh your lists all conveniently, so you need to mess with the margins so that you don't have 6 extra pages of "run over" words because the rows were just a little too long. So maybe you mess with said margins, and get annoyed that they aren't doing what you want. So you cancel the print job, and close the window that has changed your document to a "read-only" text, since the original spreadsheet that you CAN convert should be underneath.
Maybe it asks you, "save changes?" and you click on "hell-to-the-N-O" because now the margins look all funky and the text is really small and that's not what you wanted.
Maybe the computer says, "O.K., dumbass" and then the screen goes blank.
"Um." You might say. "Where did the original, non-read-only version go?"
"No big deal, I will re-open it."
Except maybe. Just maybe. THERE IS NOTHING TO REOPEN. Just an old version of a spreadsheet you had added a separate page to. But the separate page is BLANK-ity BLANK BLANK BLANK.
Maybe you feel your heart skip a beat. Maybe it skips another. "Maybe I am dead," you think. Maybe you stiffly stand up with very wide zombie eyes and shuffle (quickly) to the computer tech guy's cubicle.
"Peep?" you might say.
"Uh, English?" he might reply.
So then maybe you say, "Help," very softly, because suddenly you think you might cry. And then you attempt to explain what you did.
"When's the last time you saved it?" he asks.
You could have sworn it was just a little while ago. But now that you are thinking about it... really thinking about it... maybe... maybe.... you didn't save it. Ever. Not all day Thursday. Not once over the weekend. Not this morning....
"It's gone, dude," the tech guy tells you.
Maybe you supress the sob brewing in your throat.
"Meet now?" blinks your computer, with an e-mail from Herr MWOTH, as soon as you get back to your desk.
"Oh. Fuck. Me." you think.
So you explain, politely, that you may need just a couple more minutes.
And unexpectedly, weirdly, surprisingly, the evil dark underlord of all things surly and petty, Herr MWOTH, writes back, "Crap. I hate it when that happens. Same thing happened to me last week. No worries. Take a deep breath. Let's meet tomorrow."
?!?!?!
"Who are you, and what did you do with the guy who would call me a liar?" you might think. But you'll take it, because your day is looking crap-tastic, enough.
So what, what my dear reader, would YOU do?
Hypothetically speaking.
If it were me... I would probably make a feeble attempt at starting to recreate the spreadsheet, and then head straight home to an extremely large glass of wine. Which I would probably refill several times. And wake up with a bitchin' hangover this morning.
Hi, Tuesday.
I like you even less than Monday, if that's possible.
Love,
Princess G.
Friday you have off from work for some medical appointments, but you log in to your desktop from home, anyway, a couple times over the weekend because you keep thinking of contacts to add. You think to yourself (smugly) "This is a kickass long list." This will exceed any stupid expectation Herr MWOTH has set. I will rub this spreadsheet in his face, and maybe do a happy dance on it, to boot.
You are *so* pleased with yourself.
You come in on Monday, and send an e-mail first thing saying, "When shall we meet? I fear you not." (Maybe you didn't *really* say, "I fear you not" but maybe you typed it and then deleted it before sending the e-mail) and Herr MWOTH replies, "Super busy. Let's meet this afternoon." And instead of freaking out, you shrug because you know your spreadsheet is so complete, so you goof off on e-mail, maybe you have a blog, maybe you write about your super laid-back weekend on your blog, and you feel very confident. As the afternoon rolls around, you scan lots of your old e-mails, add a few more contacts to the Dumbest Spreadsheet Ever, and decide to print it out, so that when Herr MWOTH says, "Let's meet now" there is no mad, last-minute scramble to the printer.
However, maybe Excel is annoying, and maybe it doesn't want to smoosh your lists all conveniently, so you need to mess with the margins so that you don't have 6 extra pages of "run over" words because the rows were just a little too long. So maybe you mess with said margins, and get annoyed that they aren't doing what you want. So you cancel the print job, and close the window that has changed your document to a "read-only" text, since the original spreadsheet that you CAN convert should be underneath.
Maybe it asks you, "save changes?" and you click on "hell-to-the-N-O" because now the margins look all funky and the text is really small and that's not what you wanted.
Maybe the computer says, "O.K., dumbass" and then the screen goes blank.
"Um." You might say. "Where did the original, non-read-only version go?"
"No big deal, I will re-open it."
Except maybe. Just maybe. THERE IS NOTHING TO REOPEN. Just an old version of a spreadsheet you had added a separate page to. But the separate page is BLANK-ity BLANK BLANK BLANK.
Maybe you feel your heart skip a beat. Maybe it skips another. "Maybe I am dead," you think. Maybe you stiffly stand up with very wide zombie eyes and shuffle (quickly) to the computer tech guy's cubicle.
"Peep?" you might say.
"Uh, English?" he might reply.
So then maybe you say, "Help," very softly, because suddenly you think you might cry. And then you attempt to explain what you did.
"When's the last time you saved it?" he asks.
You could have sworn it was just a little while ago. But now that you are thinking about it... really thinking about it... maybe... maybe.... you didn't save it. Ever. Not all day Thursday. Not once over the weekend. Not this morning....
"It's gone, dude," the tech guy tells you.
Maybe you supress the sob brewing in your throat.
"Meet now?" blinks your computer, with an e-mail from Herr MWOTH, as soon as you get back to your desk.
"Oh. Fuck. Me." you think.
So you explain, politely, that you may need just a couple more minutes.
And unexpectedly, weirdly, surprisingly, the evil dark underlord of all things surly and petty, Herr MWOTH, writes back, "Crap. I hate it when that happens. Same thing happened to me last week. No worries. Take a deep breath. Let's meet tomorrow."
?!?!?!
"Who are you, and what did you do with the guy who would call me a liar?" you might think. But you'll take it, because your day is looking crap-tastic, enough.
So what, what my dear reader, would YOU do?
Hypothetically speaking.
If it were me... I would probably make a feeble attempt at starting to recreate the spreadsheet, and then head straight home to an extremely large glass of wine. Which I would probably refill several times. And wake up with a bitchin' hangover this morning.
Hi, Tuesday.
I like you even less than Monday, if that's possible.
Love,
Princess G.
Monday, September 11, 2006
How to Royally Kick Back
I had the most delicious day yesterday, having nothing I HAD to do, at all.
It has been a ridiculously long time since I last had one of those days.
I actually got up at a decent time, because The Funasaurus went to play volleyball in a tournament, and couldn't find the sunscreen. Naturally, I knew exactly where it was, and thus continued to seal in my value and net worth into our relationship.
Being up at a decent hour, I decided to try yoga again, hoping the mean substitute instructor from last time had found other people to torture. I mean, teach.
I was dressed with my hair pulled back five minutes later, when The Funasaurus' friends showed up to carpool to the tournament. E took one look at my hair and snickered, and I had to smile sadly at his obvious lack of style. I mean, celebrities TRY to make their hair look as disheveled as mine for red carpet events. Nice try, Uma. A little less mousse and a little more volume off to the right side (while slicking the left side back) and you'd look almost exactly like I did.
So I went to yoga, and The Nicest Girl was leading the class! I almost never get The Nicest Girl. She's blonde and sweet with this angelic voice and has some amazing tattoos. Plus, she never makes you hold the pose *quite* the full minute. Which is an eternity, in yoga-speak.
I think I might have a little crush on her.
And class went well. I tried extra hard, since I want The Nice Girl to like me, and I walked out feeling very peaceful.
So peaceful, in fact, that I came right home and took a two hour nap, waking up about halfway through to go eat half a box of Wheat Thins and then immediately go back to sleep.
That. Was. Awesome.
Every day should include a two hour nap and a box of Wheat Thins. That may be my NEWEST decree.
So after the nap I caught up on a little e-mail, read my favorite magazine ever, (any magazine that has a direct reference to a Kermit quote in its tagline is in the running for BEST THING EVER) which finally just came, and THANK GOD, already, because it only comes every other month or so and I hate waiting that long. I am not really all that patient, as it turns out.
I eventually showered and checked the mail (I do realize it was Sunday, but we're not the type to check our mail every day. More like, weekly. On the good weeks. I'm still waiting for The Funasaurus to hire a butler, already, and then I can just get the damn butler to do it.) and happily, I got a package from Amazon, and while I FULLY CONDONE LOCAL BOOKSTORES MORE THAN ANYTHING, I am also lazy. And also broke. And so I occasionally buy from Amazon, as well. And *yay* for a new, hardbound edition of a Bestseller Book! That feels so indulgent. I have so much new reading material!
Could the day get any better? Why, yes, yes it could.
The Funasaurus came home early *joy!* and as I went into cleaning mode, he CLEANED THE TOILETS because he knows that is the one chore I despise more than anything. Princesses don't DO toilets. We may push that one on the butler, too, come to think of it.
In any case the house is cleaner than it was, including the toilets, and I didn't even have to touch them! Ahhhh.
So we treated ourselves to some fried chicken for dinner, and swapped backrubs, and life is so, so good I can't even tell you. I hope everyone out there has a day like that, from time to time, because it really does make the world that much better.
Happy Monday!
Love,
Princess Sunshine
***Now accepting butler applications***
Job description: mainly mail retrieval and toilet cleaning. And other stuff, when I think of it.
It has been a ridiculously long time since I last had one of those days.
I actually got up at a decent time, because The Funasaurus went to play volleyball in a tournament, and couldn't find the sunscreen. Naturally, I knew exactly where it was, and thus continued to seal in my value and net worth into our relationship.
Being up at a decent hour, I decided to try yoga again, hoping the mean substitute instructor from last time had found other people to torture. I mean, teach.
I was dressed with my hair pulled back five minutes later, when The Funasaurus' friends showed up to carpool to the tournament. E took one look at my hair and snickered, and I had to smile sadly at his obvious lack of style. I mean, celebrities TRY to make their hair look as disheveled as mine for red carpet events. Nice try, Uma. A little less mousse and a little more volume off to the right side (while slicking the left side back) and you'd look almost exactly like I did.
So I went to yoga, and The Nicest Girl was leading the class! I almost never get The Nicest Girl. She's blonde and sweet with this angelic voice and has some amazing tattoos. Plus, she never makes you hold the pose *quite* the full minute. Which is an eternity, in yoga-speak.
I think I might have a little crush on her.
And class went well. I tried extra hard, since I want The Nice Girl to like me, and I walked out feeling very peaceful.
So peaceful, in fact, that I came right home and took a two hour nap, waking up about halfway through to go eat half a box of Wheat Thins and then immediately go back to sleep.
That. Was. Awesome.
Every day should include a two hour nap and a box of Wheat Thins. That may be my NEWEST decree.
So after the nap I caught up on a little e-mail, read my favorite magazine ever, (any magazine that has a direct reference to a Kermit quote in its tagline is in the running for BEST THING EVER) which finally just came, and THANK GOD, already, because it only comes every other month or so and I hate waiting that long. I am not really all that patient, as it turns out.
I eventually showered and checked the mail (I do realize it was Sunday, but we're not the type to check our mail every day. More like, weekly. On the good weeks. I'm still waiting for The Funasaurus to hire a butler, already, and then I can just get the damn butler to do it.) and happily, I got a package from Amazon, and while I FULLY CONDONE LOCAL BOOKSTORES MORE THAN ANYTHING, I am also lazy. And also broke. And so I occasionally buy from Amazon, as well. And *yay* for a new, hardbound edition of a Bestseller Book! That feels so indulgent. I have so much new reading material!
Could the day get any better? Why, yes, yes it could.
The Funasaurus came home early *joy!* and as I went into cleaning mode, he CLEANED THE TOILETS because he knows that is the one chore I despise more than anything. Princesses don't DO toilets. We may push that one on the butler, too, come to think of it.
In any case the house is cleaner than it was, including the toilets, and I didn't even have to touch them! Ahhhh.
So we treated ourselves to some fried chicken for dinner, and swapped backrubs, and life is so, so good I can't even tell you. I hope everyone out there has a day like that, from time to time, because it really does make the world that much better.
Happy Monday!
Love,
Princess Sunshine
***Now accepting butler applications***
Job description: mainly mail retrieval and toilet cleaning. And other stuff, when I think of it.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
My Eventual Kingdom Shall Have Normal Tea
As a princess, I am always on a quest to find the perfect country I might someday like to rule.
No, seriously.
And it has to be in Europe.
According tothe best fortune cookie fortune I ever got.
So in the meantime, I am just biding my time here in the U.S., doing things like "working." For a pittance, I might add.
Let's go, Mr. Universe. Please stop toying with me and get on with my fortune, already. Kisses!
I am pretty sure (or, at least, hopeful, but a princess needs to project an air of certainty at all times, especially in crisis... even if it's my own, personal, [some might say, "delusional" but I would call them HATERS] crisis) that that country I am destined to rule is Norway.
How could you not want to go HERE?!
Working in my favor: cute crown prince, about my age: Prince Haakon
Working not-really-so-much-in-my-favor-at-all: He went and got himself married a couple of years ago. To a lovely (Norwegian *sigh* how can I compete?) wife, who produced this horrifically cute kid, Princess Ingrid Alexandra who is so next-in-line to the throne it isn't even funny... and that is a definite dilemma for my eventual reign.
Maybe if things don't work out there, you can keep me in mind, Prince Haakon?
(Just kidding, Funasaurus, baby, if you ever read this blog! I'm not serious. You're my only love.)
((Prince Haakon: call me.))
Meanwhile, I sit here, contemplating my new tea phase (which began this morning) wondering if it's a phase that's going to last very long at all. Because really, folks, I have a mini-science experiment going on, here. I am pushing my cultural tendencies east-ish, putting milk in my tea, all British-esque. I'm not really sure what traditional Norwegian food is. Sour Herring is Swedish. (Thank God.) I like anchovies, is that close enough?
Uh.
Back to my tea/science experiment.
So we don't happen to carry cream and sugar at the office. We are more the powdered faux-creamer and Splenda-types. So I put some powdered creamer in my tea, and instead of disintegrating all nicely, it's doing weird snowflake-y clump-y things in my tea. I stir it up, it blends in all nicely, as soon as the spinning stops, the chunky snowflake action begins anew. It's somewhat sick and unappetizing, but fun to watch.
That's my life. I'm quite sure cruising among the fjords and attending Nobel Peace Prize ceremonies will be much more invigorating.
Someday.
Update: My kingdom will also have more signs like THESE. How fantastic is that? It's like it was MADE for me.
No, seriously.
And it has to be in Europe.
According to
So in the meantime, I am just biding my time here in the U.S., doing things like "working." For a pittance, I might add.
Let's go, Mr. Universe. Please stop toying with me and get on with my fortune, already. Kisses!
I am pretty sure (or, at least, hopeful, but a princess needs to project an air of certainty at all times, especially in crisis... even if it's my own, personal, [some might say, "delusional" but I would call them HATERS] crisis) that that country I am destined to rule is Norway.
How could you not want to go HERE?!
Working in my favor: cute crown prince, about my age: Prince Haakon
Working not-really-so-much-in-my-favor-at-all: He went and got himself married a couple of years ago. To a lovely (Norwegian *sigh* how can I compete?) wife, who produced this horrifically cute kid, Princess Ingrid Alexandra who is so next-in-line to the throne it isn't even funny... and that is a definite dilemma for my eventual reign.
Maybe if things don't work out there, you can keep me in mind, Prince Haakon?
(Just kidding, Funasaurus, baby, if you ever read this blog! I'm not serious. You're my only love.)
((Prince Haakon: call me.))
Meanwhile, I sit here, contemplating my new tea phase (which began this morning) wondering if it's a phase that's going to last very long at all. Because really, folks, I have a mini-science experiment going on, here. I am pushing my cultural tendencies east-ish, putting milk in my tea, all British-esque. I'm not really sure what traditional Norwegian food is. Sour Herring is Swedish. (Thank God.) I like anchovies, is that close enough?
Uh.
Back to my tea/science experiment.
So we don't happen to carry cream and sugar at the office. We are more the powdered faux-creamer and Splenda-types. So I put some powdered creamer in my tea, and instead of disintegrating all nicely, it's doing weird snowflake-y clump-y things in my tea. I stir it up, it blends in all nicely, as soon as the spinning stops, the chunky snowflake action begins anew. It's somewhat sick and unappetizing, but fun to watch.
That's my life. I'm quite sure cruising among the fjords and attending Nobel Peace Prize ceremonies will be much more invigorating.
Someday.
Update: My kingdom will also have more signs like THESE. How fantastic is that? It's like it was MADE for me.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Taking on Big, Important Issues. Like Daisy Dukes.
Last night I went to a book signing. I wanted to go. I meant to go. I got a little carried away on-line (whaddaya mean, MySpace? I could have been doing research for Very Endangered Animals and children with terminal diseases... stop snickering! I said "could.") when The Funasaurus (who is not normally a book-reading-event-attender-type, but I may have bribed him with favors... of the intimate kind) called up the stairs all sweetly, "When should we leave?"
Let's see.
It's 7:20.
The event is at 7:30.
We live 25 minutes away.
Answer: (here I will do the math for you) 15 FREAKIN' MINUTES AGO!
So we made a mad dash... or, at least, I did, while The Funasaurus took one last bathroom break, looked for his shoes, and tied them in an e-x-c-r-u-c-i-a-t-i-n-g-l-y slow manner. I swear he did it on purpose. (The bribe was to "go with me." I should have specified "on-time arrival.")
I drove in a manner that will teach HIM to take his damn, sweet time.
Relieved for our miraculously accident-free arrival, we walked in only 10 minutes late, to find that things had not started, yet.
We sat next to some of my co-workers who also attended. (side note: Herr MWOTH was there, but sat away from any of the rest of us. I did not even feel bad for him. What does it say about your management technique, when none of your employees or coworkers will sit near you and instead fantasize about lobbing new, hardbound editions of pretty books at the back of your [prematurely graying] head?)
That was not nice.
Maybe I need to hop on that research for Very Endangered Animals and win back a little karma. Or fight the good fight, and spread the good word about THIS book, which is a very excellent and easy-to-read discussion about gun control. The author is totally fine with everyday, responsible people owning guns, but he believes in closing gun show loopholes. As in, terrorists should really not be able to walk in to a gun show in Anytown, USA (there are over 4,000 held annually in the U.S.) and buy himself a whole arsenal THAT SAME DAY. What's wrong with a waiting period, and proof of integrity? With power comes responsibility, right? I mean, we don't just give out a driver's license to any old Hoo-Ha. We don't get mad if someone who has killed people in a drunk driving accident has his license revoked. We say that's for the best interest of society. Why is owning a gun any different?
I also learned this tidbit:
The Second Amendment, in its entirety says, "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."
You may notice that the first half of that sentence is often left out in the pro-gun debate. Take that as you will.
Now, I will get off my darn platform, seeing as how princesses are really more fit for gilded thrones than soapboxes.
And in the meantime, if you make a bet with me, be sure to include a time frame, seeing as how I will scare you with my Dukes of Hazzard-like driving prowess to make shit happen MY way, when left unregulated.
Let's see.
It's 7:20.
The event is at 7:30.
We live 25 minutes away.
Answer: (here I will do the math for you) 15 FREAKIN' MINUTES AGO!
So we made a mad dash... or, at least, I did, while The Funasaurus took one last bathroom break, looked for his shoes, and tied them in an e-x-c-r-u-c-i-a-t-i-n-g-l-y slow manner. I swear he did it on purpose. (The bribe was to "go with me." I should have specified "on-time arrival.")
I drove in a manner that will teach HIM to take his damn, sweet time.
Relieved for our miraculously accident-free arrival, we walked in only 10 minutes late, to find that things had not started, yet.
We sat next to some of my co-workers who also attended. (side note: Herr MWOTH was there, but sat away from any of the rest of us. I did not even feel bad for him. What does it say about your management technique, when none of your employees or coworkers will sit near you and instead fantasize about lobbing new, hardbound editions of pretty books at the back of your [prematurely graying] head?)
That was not nice.
Maybe I need to hop on that research for Very Endangered Animals and win back a little karma. Or fight the good fight, and spread the good word about THIS book, which is a very excellent and easy-to-read discussion about gun control. The author is totally fine with everyday, responsible people owning guns, but he believes in closing gun show loopholes. As in, terrorists should really not be able to walk in to a gun show in Anytown, USA (there are over 4,000 held annually in the U.S.) and buy himself a whole arsenal THAT SAME DAY. What's wrong with a waiting period, and proof of integrity? With power comes responsibility, right? I mean, we don't just give out a driver's license to any old Hoo-Ha. We don't get mad if someone who has killed people in a drunk driving accident has his license revoked. We say that's for the best interest of society. Why is owning a gun any different?
I also learned this tidbit:
The Second Amendment, in its entirety says, "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."
You may notice that the first half of that sentence is often left out in the pro-gun debate. Take that as you will.
Now, I will get off my darn platform, seeing as how princesses are really more fit for gilded thrones than soapboxes.
And in the meantime, if you make a bet with me, be sure to include a time frame, seeing as how I will scare you with my Dukes of Hazzard-like driving prowess to make shit happen MY way, when left unregulated.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Wedding Slash Pig Roast
Y'all, I went to a hick wedding this weekend. Well... it was, more precisely, a wedding/pig roast. That's how it was referred to all weekend. "A wedding slash pig roast."
The invitation said dress was, "Country Casual." Not knowing what that meant, exactly, I went for a sundress with sandals. The Funasaurus' sister, D, went for the same thing. We were the most dressed up people there, by the end of the night. And that includes the bridal party.
I kid you not.
At first, I was shocked by the vast quantity of jeans, and khaki pants, and clogs that showed up, among the guests. But right after the ceremony ended, the father of the bride shed his suit, and re-appeared in jeans and a flannel shirt. Yee-haw!
I thought I had seen everything... right up until the bridesmaids and THE BRIDE disappeared. The bride had worn a gorgeous wedding dress for the ceremony, that made her look itty-bitty and tan. I think most brides strive for that look. However, as we trudged across the lawn (paying special mind to the "Caution, ditch on property!" sign[!]) for appetizers on the neighbor's lawn, the bride and her bridesmaids went inside the house.
For pictures, I thought.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
They all reappeared in jeans. Including the bride.
Now, I try not to judge. Your wedding day is YOUR day, and you can do whatever you want, including making Prince's When Doves Cry your wedding march, if you love the song, serving Hamburger Helper, if you love how it tastes, and wearing jeans, if you love how they feel.
What I DON'T understand, is why you would spend obscene amounts of money on a gorgeous wedding dress, which hopefully you will never have reason to wear again in your life, only to wear it for all of about 45 minutes before you exchange it for cropped jeans.
To each his own.
Apparently, we somehow missed the jeans memo, because several of the guests disappeared, shortly thereafter, to trade in their already-not-very-fancy attire for jeans and sweaters.
(It was NOT on the invitation. Believe you me, I CHECKED that shit when I got home.)
So we sat their shivering, (it was cold!) in our cute little sundresses, feeling very stand-y-out-y in heeled shoes, all evening.
The cake, however, was one of the best wedding cakes I have ever tasted.
And the bride and groom seemed genuinely happy, so that is what really counts.
But I will never wear heels to their home, again.
And D and I did have a great time plotting, snickering wickedly because we had drunken probably more than our fair share of cheap, sweet champagne (blegh!, but I do not look the Alcohol Gift Horse in the face for too long, nay, [neigh! bwa-hah] we drank that stuff happily) having decided that D's wedding (groom still TBD) will be black tie formal. Because she likes getting fancy. And that is her prerogative.
And also because there exists a slightly sadist desire to make 'em all wear something other than jeans for a whole night.
We just need to be sure to get the name of her baker, before sending the Tux-Only invites.
The invitation said dress was, "Country Casual." Not knowing what that meant, exactly, I went for a sundress with sandals. The Funasaurus' sister, D, went for the same thing. We were the most dressed up people there, by the end of the night. And that includes the bridal party.
I kid you not.
At first, I was shocked by the vast quantity of jeans, and khaki pants, and clogs that showed up, among the guests. But right after the ceremony ended, the father of the bride shed his suit, and re-appeared in jeans and a flannel shirt. Yee-haw!
I thought I had seen everything... right up until the bridesmaids and THE BRIDE disappeared. The bride had worn a gorgeous wedding dress for the ceremony, that made her look itty-bitty and tan. I think most brides strive for that look. However, as we trudged across the lawn (paying special mind to the "Caution, ditch on property!" sign[!]) for appetizers on the neighbor's lawn, the bride and her bridesmaids went inside the house.
For pictures, I thought.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
They all reappeared in jeans. Including the bride.
Now, I try not to judge. Your wedding day is YOUR day, and you can do whatever you want, including making Prince's When Doves Cry your wedding march, if you love the song, serving Hamburger Helper, if you love how it tastes, and wearing jeans, if you love how they feel.
What I DON'T understand, is why you would spend obscene amounts of money on a gorgeous wedding dress, which hopefully you will never have reason to wear again in your life, only to wear it for all of about 45 minutes before you exchange it for cropped jeans.
To each his own.
Apparently, we somehow missed the jeans memo, because several of the guests disappeared, shortly thereafter, to trade in their already-not-very-fancy attire for jeans and sweaters.
(It was NOT on the invitation. Believe you me, I CHECKED that shit when I got home.)
So we sat their shivering, (it was cold!) in our cute little sundresses, feeling very stand-y-out-y in heeled shoes, all evening.
The cake, however, was one of the best wedding cakes I have ever tasted.
And the bride and groom seemed genuinely happy, so that is what really counts.
But I will never wear heels to their home, again.
And D and I did have a great time plotting, snickering wickedly because we had drunken probably more than our fair share of cheap, sweet champagne (blegh!, but I do not look the Alcohol Gift Horse in the face for too long, nay, [neigh! bwa-hah] we drank that stuff happily) having decided that D's wedding (groom still TBD) will be black tie formal. Because she likes getting fancy. And that is her prerogative.
And also because there exists a slightly sadist desire to make 'em all wear something other than jeans for a whole night.
We just need to be sure to get the name of her baker, before sending the Tux-Only invites.
Friday, September 01, 2006
The Way We Roll... on a Thursday night
Last night one of The Funasaurus' closest friends, A, came in to town. We've all been close for a long time. The big news is that A is going to propose to his girlfriend today. They currently live in Texas, but her parents live here in Colorado (conviently enough for us) so A planned a vacation for the long weekend up here, and came a day early to ask her parents' permission. (I will save my [and when I say "my" I mean, "my and K's" (hi, K!)] "perpetuating notions of women as property" speech for another day) Since he was in town, naturally we had to take him out to celebrate. And where else do you go for such a momentous event, but The Cheesecake Factory?
Well, "the asking of permission" took a little longer than A anticipated. At 9:30, The Funasaurus received a call that A was finally on his way, he'd be at TCF in half an hour. I had no idea, as I had already passed out on the couch. The Funasaurus shook me awake in a manner more appropriate for "salad dressing" than "darling fiancée" and, after a few choice remarks from me, we took off.
We have two options to get downtown. One is a straight shot, but it's on city streets, through Denver's version of a ghetto. (Not as bad as some of the nicer streets in Wilmington, Delaware, home-sweet-original-home for me. But pretty bad for D-town. S'all relative.) The other option makes a huge "U" around the city and is twice as long, but it's on two major highways where 85 mph is the norm, and you can actually get there faster if the universe is playing nice.
Well.
We all know about my current status with the universe. So when Funasaurus decided to take the highway, naturally, there was construction. And it was stop-and-go. A normally 15-minute drive took us AN HOUR.
AT 10:00 AT NIGHT.
We went from "excited friends" to "snarly people with overactive middle fingers," in the span of about four orange cones.
When we finally got to The Cheesecake Factory, A was well into his second Crown and coke, and didn't mind at all that we were late, because he had found an entire fleet of people to keep him company by making the strategic move of inviting one particular friend out to join him. This particular friend is The MySpace Guy. The MySpace Guy is quirky and funny and does very well for himself, but his real claim to fame is his mastery of the MySpace phenomena. He has made himself known to the greater Denver metropolis area via this site-for-overly-sexy-preteens-and-bored-twenty-and-occasionally-thirty-somethings (and I can say that, because I totally have an account. Look me up! I need more friends! I am currently teetering on "social pariah" on the MySpace Popularity Richter Scale due to my lack of friends. Help me!) and anytime he goes out, hordes of very beautiful women recognize him from their MySpace connection, and flock to him. This guy has a magic, on-line-touch. Digital charm, if you will. Chatroom finesse. A little cyber je ne sais quoi.
So anyway... A calls The MySpace Guy to join him for a drink, when we call to say we're going to be late. By the time we show up, there are three gorgeous women in chandelier earrings and stilettos laughing and re-applying Very Shiny Gloss at our table. At The Cheesecake Factory. On a Thursday night. In Denver, Colorado. How...? Where..? wha...? There are also two random guys in tow. We have no idea who they are. But they seem friendly, so we let them buy us a drink. I am benevolent, that way.
I feel I deserve a little extra compensation for sitting in the car that long, so I order myself a ginormous slice of Linda's Fudge Cake. I felt slightly appeased.
A showed us The Ring, which was basically a little round sliver of something triple dipped in diamonds. That thing had more bling on it than Paul Wall's dentist's office. A had a whole plan for today that includes hiking, copious amounts of roses, portable stereo speakers, a special mix-CD of favorite songs, a gourmet picnic, and a waterfall. And a bling-ity-bling-bling-ring. I think a little "I do" inadvertently slipped out of my mouth as he finished describing his plans.
It was fun, but I we didn't crawl into bed until around 1:00 a.m.
I am struggling a little this morning. But between funny new people, obscene amounts of diamonds, a shit-ton of calories in the form of chocolate cake, and good friends, it was more than worth it.
Well, "the asking of permission" took a little longer than A anticipated. At 9:30, The Funasaurus received a call that A was finally on his way, he'd be at TCF in half an hour. I had no idea, as I had already passed out on the couch. The Funasaurus shook me awake in a manner more appropriate for "salad dressing" than "darling fiancée" and, after a few choice remarks from me, we took off.
We have two options to get downtown. One is a straight shot, but it's on city streets, through Denver's version of a ghetto. (Not as bad as some of the nicer streets in Wilmington, Delaware, home-sweet-original-home for me. But pretty bad for D-town. S'all relative.) The other option makes a huge "U" around the city and is twice as long, but it's on two major highways where 85 mph is the norm, and you can actually get there faster if the universe is playing nice.
Well.
We all know about my current status with the universe. So when Funasaurus decided to take the highway, naturally, there was construction. And it was stop-and-go. A normally 15-minute drive took us AN HOUR.
AT 10:00 AT NIGHT.
We went from "excited friends" to "snarly people with overactive middle fingers," in the span of about four orange cones.
When we finally got to The Cheesecake Factory, A was well into his second Crown and coke, and didn't mind at all that we were late, because he had found an entire fleet of people to keep him company by making the strategic move of inviting one particular friend out to join him. This particular friend is The MySpace Guy. The MySpace Guy is quirky and funny and does very well for himself, but his real claim to fame is his mastery of the MySpace phenomena. He has made himself known to the greater Denver metropolis area via this site-for-overly-sexy-preteens-and-bored-twenty-and-occasionally-thirty-somethings (and I can say that, because I totally have an account. Look me up! I need more friends! I am currently teetering on "social pariah" on the MySpace Popularity Richter Scale due to my lack of friends. Help me!) and anytime he goes out, hordes of very beautiful women recognize him from their MySpace connection, and flock to him. This guy has a magic, on-line-touch. Digital charm, if you will. Chatroom finesse. A little cyber je ne sais quoi.
So anyway... A calls The MySpace Guy to join him for a drink, when we call to say we're going to be late. By the time we show up, there are three gorgeous women in chandelier earrings and stilettos laughing and re-applying Very Shiny Gloss at our table. At The Cheesecake Factory. On a Thursday night. In Denver, Colorado. How...? Where..? wha...? There are also two random guys in tow. We have no idea who they are. But they seem friendly, so we let them buy us a drink. I am benevolent, that way.
I feel I deserve a little extra compensation for sitting in the car that long, so I order myself a ginormous slice of Linda's Fudge Cake. I felt slightly appeased.
A showed us The Ring, which was basically a little round sliver of something triple dipped in diamonds. That thing had more bling on it than Paul Wall's dentist's office. A had a whole plan for today that includes hiking, copious amounts of roses, portable stereo speakers, a special mix-CD of favorite songs, a gourmet picnic, and a waterfall. And a bling-ity-bling-bling-ring. I think a little "I do" inadvertently slipped out of my mouth as he finished describing his plans.
It was fun, but I we didn't crawl into bed until around 1:00 a.m.
I am struggling a little this morning. But between funny new people, obscene amounts of diamonds, a shit-ton of calories in the form of chocolate cake, and good friends, it was more than worth it.
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