I am currently sitting in my cubicle, shivering because all that is covering my legs is a pair of one-size-fits-none green tights, and I'm typing with some totally-don't-match-at-all-but-whatever-it's-a-costume gloves.
As you may have guessed, today is not the most efficient day.
(Ha. Like that's an anomaly.)
And now you can actually see the Kermit and Piggy costumes that I was referring to, HERE. I like being Kermit in the office. I've had a "thing" for Kermit for a long time. And let me tell you, it is NOT easy being green. It makes your face break out and peel, all at the same time.
We have some creative people in the office, I love the girl with the spiders and gross spider bites. Mmm. She also made witch finger treats, (they're actually long pretzels with red-dyed, sliced almonds for fingernails, and they creeped me out so much that I couldn't finish mine and continue to have the shivers every time I think about it. ... b-r-r-r-r.) Herr MWOTH is dressed as... apparently some obscure character from Anchorman. ? O.K., while it was a funny movie, it has not been the reigning champion of any Funniest Movies Ever list. Ever. And the characters are just not that exciting, costume-ly speaking. He looks like a 70s character. Rock on with your lamp chops and elbow patches. Really, I think there are better costumes. Like, say, mine.
Of course, the I.T. asked if I was a bug, when he saw me. ! And I said, "No I eat them, motherfucker." (At least, that's how it went in my head.) But I think I look like Kermit, even if no one else does.
My friend Overnight Express Mailed THIS to me, this morning. Can you believe that? HA! That is because I have AWESOME friends. Pimp my Pumpkin. Indeed I will!
Happy Halloween, everyone!
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Clean and Sparkly
Do you ever feel calmer when your house is cleaner? I hate cleaning, but I hate germs even more, so it gets done, anyway. Although we've been so busy, recently that we fell a little bit behind. And I think, honestly, that it added to my stress levels. Because after The Funasaurus (love you, darling) cleaned the toilets (with much melodramatic gagging and squealing by yours truly) and I vacuumed, and did laundry, and organized the office a bit, and cleaned off our dining room table, I felt this overwhelming sense of CALM. Goodbye, dust, apparently you subconsciously freak me the hell out.
So that was good.
What was even better was Saturday night. Wherein Miss Piggy and Kermit came together in a ghet-to fabulous way. After a lazy Saturday morning, a leisurely walk to Einstein's, and some random crap on T.V. we decided we should, you know, get around to making our costumes. Especially since I had decided I was going to sew The Funasaurus a Very Pink Skirt. (No one, not even evil Wal-Mart, carries size XXL skirts in Pepto Bismol pink. Disappointing.) So I got some fabric and a pattern. And I carried my sewing machine downstairs (if you want to get technical, I had The Funasaurus carry it, it's heavy) and cleared off a large working space, and organized my sewing kit, and opened the pattern package and unfolded it all Martha Stewart-esque and realized, "Holy Fuck, I don't know how to sew!"
So I called my mom. Who lives, like, an hour away. And had a party to go to that night, herself.
But I needed help. So I said just the right thing to grate on her slightly Martha-Stewart-esque personality. "I can't sew this skirt," I said. "But it's o.k., I think I could just wrap the fabric around him like a sarong."
"You can't do that! There's no point in doing it if you're only going to do it halfway. I'm coming down. I can only stay for an hour."
I got off the phone, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. For some reason, The Funasaurus felt the need to call me a "Spoiled, spoiled girl."
Hi, I'm the princess. Nice to meet you.
So mom came down. And helped me make a fabulous, shiny pink shirt, custom sized for The Funasaurus, complete with a sparkly sequence trim on the front. (And only the front because idiot-here did not buy enough pink sequence. Who doesn't buy enough pink sequence? I feel like that is something I should have extra of, at all times!) Anyway.
Skirt + matching pink shirt + pink trouser pants + one very large stuffed sports bra + blond wig + fuzzy pink slippers + pink boa + pink gloves + spectacular work with eyeliner and pink face paint on my part, made for an awesome pink Funasaurus Piggy. Pictures to follow.
I was Kermit. Pictures also to follow.
I'm so ready for the trick-or-treaters. I bought six bags of (good) candy, just in case. I'm an awesome house to visit if you're a candy whore like I was, at trick-or-treating age. Now I'm more of a gourmet chocolate whore. But somehow that didn't prevent me from busting into the Reeses Peanut Butter Cup bag.....
Friday, October 27, 2006
Snow in the Kingdom
So. We got some snow yesterday.
And by "some" I mean "a shit-ton."
Of course, being Colorado, it's already mostly melted off.
The mountains got over two feet.
I am *itching* to go ski on it, just to make sure.
Yesterday I had to go to a doctor's appointment before work. Well, with the pretty flakes swirling down, drivers suddenly went from normal to STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID and drove either outrageously slow or outrageously fast. Folks, if the road is wet, slow down. If the road is icy, slow down a lot more. If you are doing 7 mph in the fast lane on I-70 you better be driving a snow cat over a newfound fucking highway glacier. Otherwise, please attempt 18 to 20 mph.
Of course, I say this, being all haughty about my driving skeelz, and whatnot. Equally haughty about my memory, I decide I most certainly do not need to write down directions to the doctor's office, having been there once before.
An hour and a half after I left my house, and 30 minutes after my scheduled appointment, I am circling the general area where the doctor's office *should* be. Maybe it's buried in snow, I think.
But I call my friend E, just to be sure.
"I assume you are in front of your computer, E, seeing as how you work from home, and it's just not fair?"
E: Mmm. Yes. And I'm wrapped in a blanket. Drinking hot chocolate. In front of my fireplace.
Me (skidding into an intersection): Fuck you. Now, will you do me a favor?
E: Um.
Me: Please look up my doctor and give me the address, because I am an idiot, and did not bring it.
E: Will do. Give me a sec. Whew, so is it as cold out there as it looks?
Me: grrrr
E: Here it is. Abcd 38th Ave.
Me (currently circling Abcd 32nd Ave.): Ah. That might explain it.
E: Gotta go, my freshly-made, nice, warm muffins are done.
Me: Hater.
The doctor was running late, too, and while I don't enjoy visits to the doctor, they can be a nice distraction from work. As I sat in the waiting room, I called the office manager to let her know I was going to be a bit late.
Office Manager: Call me when you're done. You may not have to come in.
Me: ?!?!?!? Also: LOVE YOU.
So the doctor says doctor-y things, pokes me with some needles, and gives me an awesome toughgirl bandage, and I call the office manager back.
Office Manager: About 4 people managed to make it in to work, today. There would have been 5, but #5 is in a ditch with his car, somewhere, fine but very grumpy. Everyone else is working from home. I think the rest of us are going to leave pretty soon. You should just go home.
Me (making a beeline for my house): If you insist.
There's still no internet at my house (despite a very long wait on the phone with Comcast, wherein I *may* have also fucked up our regular phone line while playing around with the modem, and now we have no dial tone, along with no internet connection) which is why I didn't post, yesterday. But I did get a little work done, and I got a nice nap, and I made an ugly but extra-icing-y birthday cake for The Funasaurus, even though his birthday was, like, 5 days ago. Better late than never, right? Right? ...Hello?
And I had a big, fat cup of hot chocolate. And sat under a warm blanket. Living the dream, baby. Living the dream.
And by "some" I mean "a shit-ton."
Of course, being Colorado, it's already mostly melted off.
The mountains got over two feet.
I am *itching* to go ski on it, just to make sure.
Yesterday I had to go to a doctor's appointment before work. Well, with the pretty flakes swirling down, drivers suddenly went from normal to STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID and drove either outrageously slow or outrageously fast. Folks, if the road is wet, slow down. If the road is icy, slow down a lot more. If you are doing 7 mph in the fast lane on I-70 you better be driving a snow cat over a newfound fucking highway glacier. Otherwise, please attempt 18 to 20 mph.
Of course, I say this, being all haughty about my driving skeelz, and whatnot. Equally haughty about my memory, I decide I most certainly do not need to write down directions to the doctor's office, having been there once before.
An hour and a half after I left my house, and 30 minutes after my scheduled appointment, I am circling the general area where the doctor's office *should* be. Maybe it's buried in snow, I think.
But I call my friend E, just to be sure.
"I assume you are in front of your computer, E, seeing as how you work from home, and it's just not fair?"
E: Mmm. Yes. And I'm wrapped in a blanket. Drinking hot chocolate. In front of my fireplace.
Me (skidding into an intersection): Fuck you. Now, will you do me a favor?
E: Um.
Me: Please look up my doctor and give me the address, because I am an idiot, and did not bring it.
E: Will do. Give me a sec. Whew, so is it as cold out there as it looks?
Me: grrrr
E: Here it is. Abcd 38th Ave.
Me (currently circling Abcd 32nd Ave.): Ah. That might explain it.
E: Gotta go, my freshly-made, nice, warm muffins are done.
Me: Hater.
The doctor was running late, too, and while I don't enjoy visits to the doctor, they can be a nice distraction from work. As I sat in the waiting room, I called the office manager to let her know I was going to be a bit late.
Office Manager: Call me when you're done. You may not have to come in.
Me: ?!?!?!? Also: LOVE YOU.
So the doctor says doctor-y things, pokes me with some needles, and gives me an awesome toughgirl bandage, and I call the office manager back.
Office Manager: About 4 people managed to make it in to work, today. There would have been 5, but #5 is in a ditch with his car, somewhere, fine but very grumpy. Everyone else is working from home. I think the rest of us are going to leave pretty soon. You should just go home.
Me (making a beeline for my house): If you insist.
There's still no internet at my house (despite a very long wait on the phone with Comcast, wherein I *may* have also fucked up our regular phone line while playing around with the modem, and now we have no dial tone, along with no internet connection) which is why I didn't post, yesterday. But I did get a little work done, and I got a nice nap, and I made an ugly but extra-icing-y birthday cake for The Funasaurus, even though his birthday was, like, 5 days ago. Better late than never, right? Right? ...Hello?
And I had a big, fat cup of hot chocolate. And sat under a warm blanket. Living the dream, baby. Living the dream.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Big Pimpin', Princess-Style
I have some bitchin' new boots. They are tall, (as in, high pokey heels as well as in, all-the-way-up-the-calf) and black and très Euro. They are all sorts of fabulous for my ego, (once I got over the vaguely-reminiscent-of-Julia-Roberts-circa-1990 part) which came just in time, because I had to give a presentation to the whole company this morning, and I su-u-uck at public speaking. I managed to keep it all together, though, and pull it off, thanks to my faux-leather courage (and also, to my apparent new-found love of hyphens) and now it is all over and I can return to my quiet life of writing e-mails and blog entries and occasionally working.
On the topics of computers ("What topic?" you might say, "That topic has not yet been introduced," you might continue. "Bad transition." "Well, tough, it's my blog, and I transition how and where I damn well please," I might reply): My home computer is still kaput. And my work computer is full of PORN! Not intentionally, let me tell you. And bad, un-graphic, short-lived porn, to boot. This is because my spam has recently gotten much more X-rated. I went from getting stock recommendations and the occasional discounted meds ad, to this morning's full on, "Your wife prefers your dog's (um... male part?) to yours!"
WTF?!
This bothers me a) because I have no wife b) I have no dog and c) I CERTAINLY HAVE NO "MALE PART"!
Harrumph. Apparently spammers do not do much audience research before plaguing inboxes.
Dear Computer,
Please note, I am not an old dude with a wife with a bestiality problem. I'm more of a strawberries and cute footwear kind of gal. With a slight royalty complex. Tell your spammer friends.
Thanks,
Princess G
On the topics of computers ("What topic?" you might say, "That topic has not yet been introduced," you might continue. "Bad transition." "Well, tough, it's my blog, and I transition how and where I damn well please," I might reply): My home computer is still kaput. And my work computer is full of PORN! Not intentionally, let me tell you. And bad, un-graphic, short-lived porn, to boot. This is because my spam has recently gotten much more X-rated. I went from getting stock recommendations and the occasional discounted meds ad, to this morning's full on, "Your wife prefers your dog's (um... male part?) to yours!"
WTF?!
This bothers me a) because I have no wife b) I have no dog and c) I CERTAINLY HAVE NO "MALE PART"!
Harrumph. Apparently spammers do not do much audience research before plaguing inboxes.
Dear Computer,
Please note, I am not an old dude with a wife with a bestiality problem. I'm more of a strawberries and cute footwear kind of gal. With a slight royalty complex. Tell your spammer friends.
Thanks,
Princess G
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
How to Make Royalty Plump
Last night we went out to celebrate The Funasaurus' birthday by eating an obscene amount of sushi. It was awesome. If you ever go to Sushi Sasa, I highly recommend the Ultimate Atomic Shrimp. It's neon. And tastes like deep fried bits of crustaceous heaven. mmmmm
Then we got home. I had had a bit much sake, so I promptly fell asleep, feeling deliciously satiated, knowing that the next day I could sleep in just a little more than usual, because Herr MWOTH is out of town on business, so I decided to go ahead and let myself work from home.
Yeah baby.
Except. The alcohol wore off somewhere in there. And around 2:00 a.m. I sat up, wide awake. Tatum (see: minion of hell, also: evil, feline-ified) had stepped on a cable or something over the weekend and our internet hasn't been working, since. That meant I'd have to get my very technologically-inept-self to figure out how to get that working again, if I were to enjoy a day of working from home. Hmmm. Then I fell back asleep. (Fortunately, "sleeping" is my main way of dealing with problems. I get stressed, I sleep. I am always optimistic that problems will resolve themselves while I'm unconscious.)
So we woke up at a leisurely pace (hello there, new massager!) and finally got started on the morning. I wandered into the office as The Funasaurus got in the shower. I was a crazy-lady-freaked-out-mess by the time he got out of the shower. Turns out, Tatum is in cahoots with Comcast who is in cahoots with the Universe, and, well, we all know how that shit goes down.
After unplugging and replugging-in a ridiculous amount of cables, (with one dropped call in there, and I blame them and not myself who maybemighthave unplugged the phone jack from the wall by accident, ooopsie) they're like, "Wait, you're running on Windows 98?"
Me: "Yes."
Them a.k.a. "THE INEPT ASSOHOLES": Oh. We are no longer able to work with that system. You'll have to call Microsoft, here's there 1-800 number."
Me (weeping): Please? Help?
THE INEPT ASSHOLES: Can't. Buh-bye.
Phone: (dial tone): eheheheheheheheh
Me (hiccupping): dialing 1-800-Microsoft.
Microsoft: Busy. All morning.
The Funasaurus: Hey! How's it going?
Me: *SOB*
The Funasaurus: Uh.....
Me: I (hic) can't (sob) work (sniffle) from (hic) home (snort) today (more sobbing.)
The Funasaurus: Oh no! I'm sorry, baby....
The Funasaurus: Finally has to go to work.
Me: Finally faces the fact that I'll have to shower today.
Me: Now at the office. Supremely pissed off.
Oh well. At least it's close to Halloween, and there's a copious amount of candy lying around, in which I can drown my sorrows.
Since HERR MWOTH made my life so uncomfortable, and it was going to make me feel so much better to work from home, and he chose the week before Halloween to be gone, so therefore I got psyched up to stay home for a day, but now I can't, and now there's candy EVERYWHERE:
I blame HERR MWOTH entirely if I get fat.
And maybe Comcast, too.
Anybody want some Laffy Taffy?
Then we got home. I had had a bit much sake, so I promptly fell asleep, feeling deliciously satiated, knowing that the next day I could sleep in just a little more than usual, because Herr MWOTH is out of town on business, so I decided to go ahead and let myself work from home.
Yeah baby.
Except. The alcohol wore off somewhere in there. And around 2:00 a.m. I sat up, wide awake. Tatum (see: minion of hell, also: evil, feline-ified) had stepped on a cable or something over the weekend and our internet hasn't been working, since. That meant I'd have to get my very technologically-inept-self to figure out how to get that working again, if I were to enjoy a day of working from home. Hmmm. Then I fell back asleep. (Fortunately, "sleeping" is my main way of dealing with problems. I get stressed, I sleep. I am always optimistic that problems will resolve themselves while I'm unconscious.)
So we woke up at a leisurely pace (hello there, new massager!) and finally got started on the morning. I wandered into the office as The Funasaurus got in the shower. I was a crazy-lady-freaked-out-mess by the time he got out of the shower. Turns out, Tatum is in cahoots with Comcast who is in cahoots with the Universe, and, well, we all know how that shit goes down.
After unplugging and replugging-in a ridiculous amount of cables, (with one dropped call in there, and I blame them and not myself who maybemighthave unplugged the phone jack from the wall by accident, ooopsie) they're like, "Wait, you're running on Windows 98?"
Me: "Yes."
Them a.k.a. "THE INEPT ASSOHOLES": Oh. We are no longer able to work with that system. You'll have to call Microsoft, here's there 1-800 number."
Me (weeping): Please? Help?
THE INEPT ASSHOLES: Can't. Buh-bye.
Phone: (dial tone): eheheheheheheheh
Me (hiccupping): dialing 1-800-Microsoft.
Microsoft: Busy. All morning.
The Funasaurus: Hey! How's it going?
Me: *SOB*
The Funasaurus: Uh.....
Me: I (hic) can't (sob) work (sniffle) from (hic) home (snort) today (more sobbing.)
The Funasaurus: Oh no! I'm sorry, baby....
The Funasaurus: Finally has to go to work.
Me: Finally faces the fact that I'll have to shower today.
Me: Now at the office. Supremely pissed off.
Oh well. At least it's close to Halloween, and there's a copious amount of candy lying around, in which I can drown my sorrows.
Since HERR MWOTH made my life so uncomfortable, and it was going to make me feel so much better to work from home, and he chose the week before Halloween to be gone, so therefore I got psyched up to stay home for a day, but now I can't, and now there's candy EVERYWHERE:
I blame HERR MWOTH entirely if I get fat.
And maybe Comcast, too.
Anybody want some Laffy Taffy?
Monday, October 23, 2006
Procrastinator Princess
The Funasaurus left for the weekend to go to a wedding in California, and while I missed him very much, I also slept sideways in the bed and it was awesome. He got home last night, and I think he was a little surprised that I head-butted his chest a couple times, in the middle of the night, in an unconscious attempt to redirect our sleeping patterns.
Saturday I went wedding dress shopping (again) and Sunday I spent cleaning and lounging around... until about noon when I suddenly realized, oh! The Funasaurus has a birthday coming up! As in: TOMORROW.
Holy Fuck.
I am a bad, bad fiancée.
So I hustled on over to a sporting goods store, knowing full well I could find something there he'd like. I had in mind a croquet set, because The Funasaurus has recently expressed an interest in croquet (despite the fact that he's neither British nor a grandma) and I thought that'd be fabulous. Except it turns out that croquet is a SPRING sport (who knew?!) and the stupid store was all out and more focused on winter sports, now, but thanks anyway, would he perhaps be interested in a hockey stick?
grrrrr
So I went to Sharper Image and got him... A NOSE HAIR TRIMMER. For his birthday.
Because I'm an asshole. (hee? Maybe slightly funny asshole? No?)
And I got one of these. Because I thought it'd be fun. Turns out, if you have wine and get snuggly (or even, not, and you're just more naturally creative than I am) it can be *very* fun. If you know what I mean.
And! We got a pumpkin. *joy!* Not that I've carved it, and not that I'm snazzy and acquainted with cool people who want to get competitive about it like Marcia, but I own a slightly deformed gourd AND I bought it BEFORE the freakin' holiday. I RULE.
Meanwhile, I really need to get a Halloween costume. As in, stat. Where do you get one of those, last minute? I have this slight Kermit obsession (I have for many, many years) and The Funasaurus has generously agreed to go as Miss Piggy, so that I can be Kermit. Which is really quite phenomenal. We just need to get going on making it happen. Any suggestions on low budget ways to accomplish this????
Saturday I went wedding dress shopping (again) and Sunday I spent cleaning and lounging around... until about noon when I suddenly realized, oh! The Funasaurus has a birthday coming up! As in: TOMORROW.
Holy Fuck.
I am a bad, bad fiancée.
So I hustled on over to a sporting goods store, knowing full well I could find something there he'd like. I had in mind a croquet set, because The Funasaurus has recently expressed an interest in croquet (despite the fact that he's neither British nor a grandma) and I thought that'd be fabulous. Except it turns out that croquet is a SPRING sport (who knew?!) and the stupid store was all out and more focused on winter sports, now, but thanks anyway, would he perhaps be interested in a hockey stick?
grrrrr
So I went to Sharper Image and got him... A NOSE HAIR TRIMMER. For his birthday.
Because I'm an asshole. (hee? Maybe slightly funny asshole? No?)
And I got one of these. Because I thought it'd be fun. Turns out, if you have wine and get snuggly (or even, not, and you're just more naturally creative than I am) it can be *very* fun. If you know what I mean.
And! We got a pumpkin. *joy!* Not that I've carved it, and not that I'm snazzy and acquainted with cool people who want to get competitive about it like Marcia, but I own a slightly deformed gourd AND I bought it BEFORE the freakin' holiday. I RULE.
Meanwhile, I really need to get a Halloween costume. As in, stat. Where do you get one of those, last minute? I have this slight Kermit obsession (I have for many, many years) and The Funasaurus has generously agreed to go as Miss Piggy, so that I can be Kermit. Which is really quite phenomenal. We just need to get going on making it happen. Any suggestions on low budget ways to accomplish this????
Friday, October 20, 2006
Evil Picked Up the Tab. Nice.
Herr MWOTH decided we should all go out as a team, and grab a drink after work last night. Mandatory Fun.
I had better things to do, like, say, removing nose hairs with a blowtorch, but I couldn't think of a good excuse to back out. Our relationship has been fairly contentious recently, due to the fact that he's a lying liar-liar-pants-on-FIRE, and I called him out on it to management who, being the passive/aggressive scaredy cats that they are, didn't do anything about it, which left me feeling somewhat deflated, and HERR MWOTH pissing mad.
Bad combo.
Things have calmed down, and since I was invited this time (the previous Mandatory Fun function was a BBQ, to which I was very blatantly not invited, despite the fact that everyone else in sales and marketing was, but whatever) I decided to go to keep the semblance of peace. (ha ha. Little does he know, I am plotting his untimely and Kenny-esque demise daily.)
So we left work a little early (bonus) and headed to a bar downtown. Where I happened to recognize the bartender.
Herr MWOTH: "How do you know him?"
(In my head): We dated the same girl.
What actually comes out of my mouth: Oh, we have a friend in common.
La-a-a-m-e... if more accurate.
We proceed to drink our drinks, and move on to a fabulous bar called Double Daughters, named after these Siamese twins who ran off and joined the circus, and their shtick was axe throwing. (Of course it was.) Occasionally, the axes missed, and there was serious bloodshed. So all of the booths at this highly-overpriced-but-totally-worth-it-bar are shaped like huge drops of blood. You really must see it. The railing to the upper level is made out of fake axes, but it's subtle. At the end of the Siamese twin axe-throwing show, they would apparently release doves. So there are also these horrid, dusty white birds suspended from the ceiling. And they kinda glow. It really is fantastic.
And the sink in the bathroom is a fake log. I'm not sure what the significance of that is.
If you ever go there, you MUST get the Teddy Bear Orgy. 10 words: Gummy Bears on a Skewer Submerged in Very Yummy Alcohol. aaahhaaahaaaahhhh
The conversation was strained, I kept coming up with better answers in my head than the crap that came out of my mouth. Like, "Mmm, it IS a random mirror," instead of "Imagine how many lines of coke you could do off of it!" I blame it on the alcohol-drenched gummy bears.
Fucking with evil, slightly conservative, very Republican, prudish bosses is fun.
...previously in the day...
I have a new coworker. She is red-headed and has a unique tattoo, so I decided she was going to have to do something seriously awful, like be a Herr MWOTH lover and a pinot noir hater for me not to like her. Fortunately, that is not the case.
So two days ago I sent her an e-mail with a newfound discovery that I could not just keep to myself:
Africam. Go there. Click on "NKORKO STREAM" in the upper left-hand corner. LIVE PICTURES FROM A WATERING HOLE IN SOUTH AFRICA! ZEBRAS AND LIONS ABOUND! supposedly.
Except we spent two entire days surreptitiously checking the Africam, and nothing happened. Occasionally, the camera would move, and we'd get excited, but it never went anywhere more exciting, "Oh, look, more dirt. It appears to be nighttime to the left of the watering hole, as well."
So finally I got an e-mail from her, "I'm not patient enough for this. It just bothers me that there are zebras wandering around in Africa and I can't see them."
Oh!
I knew I was going to like her.
So we've moved on to Pandacam. I highly suggest you check it out.
I'm not even sorry that you're now addicted. Welcome to my world. Princesses and exotic animals just GO together. Much better than evil bosses and mandatory fun... even if there IS something that implies kinky sex within the stuffed animal realm, involved.
Cheers!
I had better things to do, like, say, removing nose hairs with a blowtorch, but I couldn't think of a good excuse to back out. Our relationship has been fairly contentious recently, due to the fact that he's a lying liar-liar-pants-on-FIRE, and I called him out on it to management who, being the passive/aggressive scaredy cats that they are, didn't do anything about it, which left me feeling somewhat deflated, and HERR MWOTH pissing mad.
Bad combo.
Things have calmed down, and since I was invited this time (the previous Mandatory Fun function was a BBQ, to which I was very blatantly not invited, despite the fact that everyone else in sales and marketing was, but whatever) I decided to go to keep the semblance of peace. (ha ha. Little does he know, I am plotting his untimely and Kenny-esque demise daily.)
So we left work a little early (bonus) and headed to a bar downtown. Where I happened to recognize the bartender.
Herr MWOTH: "How do you know him?"
(In my head): We dated the same girl.
What actually comes out of my mouth: Oh, we have a friend in common.
La-a-a-m-e... if more accurate.
We proceed to drink our drinks, and move on to a fabulous bar called Double Daughters, named after these Siamese twins who ran off and joined the circus, and their shtick was axe throwing. (Of course it was.) Occasionally, the axes missed, and there was serious bloodshed. So all of the booths at this highly-overpriced-but-totally-worth-it-bar are shaped like huge drops of blood. You really must see it. The railing to the upper level is made out of fake axes, but it's subtle. At the end of the Siamese twin axe-throwing show, they would apparently release doves. So there are also these horrid, dusty white birds suspended from the ceiling. And they kinda glow. It really is fantastic.
And the sink in the bathroom is a fake log. I'm not sure what the significance of that is.
If you ever go there, you MUST get the Teddy Bear Orgy. 10 words: Gummy Bears on a Skewer Submerged in Very Yummy Alcohol. aaahhaaahaaaahhhh
The conversation was strained, I kept coming up with better answers in my head than the crap that came out of my mouth. Like, "Mmm, it IS a random mirror," instead of "Imagine how many lines of coke you could do off of it!" I blame it on the alcohol-drenched gummy bears.
Fucking with evil, slightly conservative, very Republican, prudish bosses is fun.
...previously in the day...
I have a new coworker. She is red-headed and has a unique tattoo, so I decided she was going to have to do something seriously awful, like be a Herr MWOTH lover and a pinot noir hater for me not to like her. Fortunately, that is not the case.
So two days ago I sent her an e-mail with a newfound discovery that I could not just keep to myself:
Africam. Go there. Click on "NKORKO STREAM" in the upper left-hand corner. LIVE PICTURES FROM A WATERING HOLE IN SOUTH AFRICA! ZEBRAS AND LIONS ABOUND! supposedly.
Except we spent two entire days surreptitiously checking the Africam, and nothing happened. Occasionally, the camera would move, and we'd get excited, but it never went anywhere more exciting, "Oh, look, more dirt. It appears to be nighttime to the left of the watering hole, as well."
So finally I got an e-mail from her, "I'm not patient enough for this. It just bothers me that there are zebras wandering around in Africa and I can't see them."
Oh!
I knew I was going to like her.
So we've moved on to Pandacam. I highly suggest you check it out.
I'm not even sorry that you're now addicted. Welcome to my world. Princesses and exotic animals just GO together. Much better than evil bosses and mandatory fun... even if there IS something that implies kinky sex within the stuffed animal realm, involved.
Cheers!
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Where I Drink Wine. Again. How Novel.
I had a phili cheesesteak for dinner last night, made with gooey, weird, fluorescent-orange cheese sauce and it was AWESOME.
What made it even better was that I was in this quirky old mining town in the mountains with two amazing women. They are two of my very best friends from Summit County, a place up in the mountains where I lived for three years, working for a ski resort. You have to be a special brand of crazy to be able to call that place your home, which I think inherently bonds the people who do end up there. It's a safe place, in that you don't have to lock your doors. It's a dangerous place, in that, the majority of the time, most of the drivers on the (snow-and-ice-laden) roads are either a) drunk b) driving without a license c) driving without insurance or d) all of the above. There are wild parties and reckless skiing and intimate moments over alcohol-tinged hot chocolate. Friendships are made, bones are broken, and shit happens every .036 seconds.
I have some great memories from that time in my life, and these two women were a huge part of that. These days, we are all a little calmer. There are now serious boyfriends, babies (that'd be M, not me), careers, home ownership, and thoughts of moving beyond good ol' Summit County. But it is fun to reminisce, and marvel at the fact that we've all made it as far as we have, fairly unscathed. Relatively speaking.
Wine was consumed, sobering ensued, and I drove home.
Where The Funausaurus was waiting, sprawled under a blanket on the couch, watching South Park. Mmm, Kenny. There's something wickedly delicious about a kid with a severe muttering problem who dies gruesome deaths over and over again. And The Funasaurus looked SO comfy, and I was SO exhausted, having driven for 50 minutes after a heavy dinner, much cabernet, and good conversation, that I did-not-pass-go-nor-collect-$200-(though-I-probably-would-have-detoured-for-that-had-there-been-an-actual-$200-for-me-to-collect) and collapsed on the blanketed Funausaurus. I do not remember actually touching him, so much as just launching myself at him WWF-style, because I think I was already asleep by the time contact was made.
He woke me up a while later, something about his lower body being completely asleep and concern over circulation issues, WHATEVER, and I was very grumpy about the whole thing, but I made it upstairs into the bed, and had a good night's sleep.
There really should be more nights like that. If only I didn't have to wake up to go to work in the morning. Why doesn't somebody pay me to drink cabernet and have pseudo-intellectual conversations and sleep in until noon, already? Let's go, folks.
What made it even better was that I was in this quirky old mining town in the mountains with two amazing women. They are two of my very best friends from Summit County, a place up in the mountains where I lived for three years, working for a ski resort. You have to be a special brand of crazy to be able to call that place your home, which I think inherently bonds the people who do end up there. It's a safe place, in that you don't have to lock your doors. It's a dangerous place, in that, the majority of the time, most of the drivers on the (snow-and-ice-laden) roads are either a) drunk b) driving without a license c) driving without insurance or d) all of the above. There are wild parties and reckless skiing and intimate moments over alcohol-tinged hot chocolate. Friendships are made, bones are broken, and shit happens every .036 seconds.
I have some great memories from that time in my life, and these two women were a huge part of that. These days, we are all a little calmer. There are now serious boyfriends, babies (that'd be M, not me), careers, home ownership, and thoughts of moving beyond good ol' Summit County. But it is fun to reminisce, and marvel at the fact that we've all made it as far as we have, fairly unscathed. Relatively speaking.
Wine was consumed, sobering ensued, and I drove home.
Where The Funausaurus was waiting, sprawled under a blanket on the couch, watching South Park. Mmm, Kenny. There's something wickedly delicious about a kid with a severe muttering problem who dies gruesome deaths over and over again. And The Funasaurus looked SO comfy, and I was SO exhausted, having driven for 50 minutes after a heavy dinner, much cabernet, and good conversation, that I did-not-pass-go-nor-collect-$200-(though-I-probably-would-have-detoured-for-that-had-there-been-an-actual-$200-for-me-to-collect) and collapsed on the blanketed Funausaurus. I do not remember actually touching him, so much as just launching myself at him WWF-style, because I think I was already asleep by the time contact was made.
He woke me up a while later, something about his lower body being completely asleep and concern over circulation issues, WHATEVER, and I was very grumpy about the whole thing, but I made it upstairs into the bed, and had a good night's sleep.
There really should be more nights like that. If only I didn't have to wake up to go to work in the morning. Why doesn't somebody pay me to drink cabernet and have pseudo-intellectual conversations and sleep in until noon, already? Let's go, folks.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Picture notquite Perfect
Hoooo Boy.
I asked for snow. And I GOT IT.
Too bad I also asked The Funasaurus to drive waaaay west, when we live waaaaay east, to meet with a wedding photographer after work last night. I love the snow. The Funasaurus does not love it, so much. At all. But, quite the trooper, he met me at the photographer's house, after battling I-70, getting lost, sliding his car across some ice at a very slow speed, and trudging through about 3 inches of accumulated powder in the driveway in his pretty work shoes and new suit pants.
"Hi baby, what took you so long?"
(I am NOT nice, and should NOT have been surprised that he snarled [snarled!] at me.)
We were off to a great start.
Meanwhile, the photographer had been showing me some of his older pictures, (of his mother in the 60s with some bitchin' cat eye glasses, of one of the Ramon-but-not-really-a-Ramon band members with whom he supposedly went to high school, of himself as a taxi driver and a mullet.... did he really think that would impress me?, etc.) and drilling me with questions that made me uncomfortable. For example, "Why do you love my work?"
Well, first of all, who said I LOVED your work? (even if I did.)
Second, me = a) not a photographer and b) not really sappy. So I could neither answer, "I love composition with the flowers and the way you handle lighting in a dark room with tall walls," nor "Just the way you've captured the love pouring out of that bride, you can almost see the tears before they've actually appeared. I want to marry her. Oh look, I'm crying, it touched me so deeply." Which were really the answers he was looking for.
Eh.
So I floundered, and was like, "Um, they're nice?"
Which is a horrid answer, but it was a horrid question, so we sat in stalemate until a damp and surly Funasaurus arrived.
Then the photographer decided we should chat, before we got on with the presentation. We talked T.V. shows. (The Amazing Race. Neither The Funasaurus nor I had ever watched an episode. The Real World. The Photographer had never heard of it. [that should be a red flag right there. Who hasn't seen The Real World?!]) We talked movies. (They talked about sports movies. I sat there mute.) We met his wife. (Very nice, very chatty, very big on giving me advice as a bride. Also: she wore braces. They were kind of cute on her, actually. Never thought I'd say that about a 45 year old woman, but she really carried off the brace face look quite well.)
Finally, as I sat watching the snow pile up in the dark street, I said, "Well, we'll have to get going eventually, should we look at the pictures?" And the photographer made one of those jokes-that's-not-quite-a-joke about leaving so soon?
So we saw some very nice pictures. And then some sales pressure was applied by the photographer. And then I decided right there we would not be working with this guy. And The Funasaurus agreed, and fortunately he handled the whole situation much more diplomatically than I would have, "very nice, we have lots to think about, pleasure to meet you, don't mind her, she mutters all the time, it means she likes you, etc. etc." and we went home. Where we proceeded to pop a large bag of extra-buttery popcorn and curl up under a blanket with our little hell minions, in front of The Colbert Report.
(We've already discussed my bizarre crush on Mr. Stephen, no? But I like his wife, Evelyn [who goes by Evie but doesn't work so well for my name-merge so I used the formal "Evelyn"], too much, so I won't go there. Rock on, Stephelyn. I got yo' back.)
And thus ended the night on a lovely, cozy note, despite wet socks and sale-hungry photographer.
I asked for snow. And I GOT IT.
Too bad I also asked The Funasaurus to drive waaaay west, when we live waaaaay east, to meet with a wedding photographer after work last night. I love the snow. The Funasaurus does not love it, so much. At all. But, quite the trooper, he met me at the photographer's house, after battling I-70, getting lost, sliding his car across some ice at a very slow speed, and trudging through about 3 inches of accumulated powder in the driveway in his pretty work shoes and new suit pants.
"Hi baby, what took you so long?"
(I am NOT nice, and should NOT have been surprised that he snarled [snarled!] at me.)
We were off to a great start.
Meanwhile, the photographer had been showing me some of his older pictures, (of his mother in the 60s with some bitchin' cat eye glasses, of one of the Ramon-but-not-really-a-Ramon band members with whom he supposedly went to high school, of himself as a taxi driver and a mullet.... did he really think that would impress me?, etc.) and drilling me with questions that made me uncomfortable. For example, "Why do you love my work?"
Well, first of all, who said I LOVED your work? (even if I did.)
Second, me = a) not a photographer and b) not really sappy. So I could neither answer, "I love composition with the flowers and the way you handle lighting in a dark room with tall walls," nor "Just the way you've captured the love pouring out of that bride, you can almost see the tears before they've actually appeared. I want to marry her. Oh look, I'm crying, it touched me so deeply." Which were really the answers he was looking for.
Eh.
So I floundered, and was like, "Um, they're nice?"
Which is a horrid answer, but it was a horrid question, so we sat in stalemate until a damp and surly Funasaurus arrived.
Then the photographer decided we should chat, before we got on with the presentation. We talked T.V. shows. (The Amazing Race. Neither The Funasaurus nor I had ever watched an episode. The Real World. The Photographer had never heard of it. [that should be a red flag right there. Who hasn't seen The Real World?!]) We talked movies. (They talked about sports movies. I sat there mute.) We met his wife. (Very nice, very chatty, very big on giving me advice as a bride. Also: she wore braces. They were kind of cute on her, actually. Never thought I'd say that about a 45 year old woman, but she really carried off the brace face look quite well.)
Finally, as I sat watching the snow pile up in the dark street, I said, "Well, we'll have to get going eventually, should we look at the pictures?" And the photographer made one of those jokes-that's-not-quite-a-joke about leaving so soon?
So we saw some very nice pictures. And then some sales pressure was applied by the photographer. And then I decided right there we would not be working with this guy. And The Funasaurus agreed, and fortunately he handled the whole situation much more diplomatically than I would have, "very nice, we have lots to think about, pleasure to meet you, don't mind her, she mutters all the time, it means she likes you, etc. etc." and we went home. Where we proceeded to pop a large bag of extra-buttery popcorn and curl up under a blanket with our little hell minions, in front of The Colbert Report.
(We've already discussed my bizarre crush on Mr. Stephen, no? But I like his wife, Evelyn [who goes by Evie but doesn't work so well for my name-merge so I used the formal "Evelyn"], too much, so I won't go there. Rock on, Stephelyn. I got yo' back.)
And thus ended the night on a lovely, cozy note, despite wet socks and sale-hungry photographer.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
I Don't Eat Caviar, Even Though It's Yummy
The weather here is messing with me. I think the weather and The Universe are directly related, somehow.
It's dark and gloomy (and kinda cozy, actually, minus the fact that they are insisting on keeping the office at a nice, balmy temperature of one-degree-above-turning-my-fingers-into-ice-pops) and there seems to be some sort of precipitation in the air... but it's not quite yet snow. COME ON, SNOW!
* * * * *
(Those are transition dots, thus entitling me to the right to say something totally unrelated to snow without further ado.)
I like beluga wales. I used to very much LOVE beluga whales, as a kid, but I kind of forgot about them for a while, what with the 80s, the 90s, college, high fashion, and enormous amounts of cabernet going on, in my life. But there's a little picture of a beluga whale on my calendar, this month. And I remembered how adorable I think those 3,300 lbs marine animals are.
Random fact: "beluga" means "white one" in Russian
Random fact #2: Belugas don't have a dorsal fin, which makes swimming under ice sheets and icebergs and whatnot, easier.
Random fact #3: "Baby Beluga in the Deep Blue Sea" by Raffi was one of the first songs I ever learned.
Please don't think less of me.
Random fact #4: Belugas are closely related to narwhals.
Which are basically the unicorns of the ocean.
I love unicorns!
Which leads me to random fact #5: (see, no need for transition dots, I am COOL LIKE THAT, write-on, yo [pun intended]...[very bad, barely-even-a pun) I want a unicorn tattoo.
I realize I was supposed to get that out of the way during my rebellious youth, but I never got around to it. So I'm thinking it'll be a good 30th birthday present to myself. Except I'm not sure I want to wait that long.
To tattoo, or not to tattoo, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and syringes of outrageous unicorn-esque fortune
Or to take arms against my mother's intense dislike of body art....
What do you all think? Do you have tattoos?
It's dark and gloomy (and kinda cozy, actually, minus the fact that they are insisting on keeping the office at a nice, balmy temperature of one-degree-above-turning-my-fingers-into-ice-pops) and there seems to be some sort of precipitation in the air... but it's not quite yet snow. COME ON, SNOW!
* * * * *
(Those are transition dots, thus entitling me to the right to say something totally unrelated to snow without further ado.)
I like beluga wales. I used to very much LOVE beluga whales, as a kid, but I kind of forgot about them for a while, what with the 80s, the 90s, college, high fashion, and enormous amounts of cabernet going on, in my life. But there's a little picture of a beluga whale on my calendar, this month. And I remembered how adorable I think those 3,300 lbs marine animals are.
Random fact: "beluga" means "white one" in Russian
Random fact #2: Belugas don't have a dorsal fin, which makes swimming under ice sheets and icebergs and whatnot, easier.
Random fact #3: "Baby Beluga in the Deep Blue Sea" by Raffi was one of the first songs I ever learned.
Please don't think less of me.
Random fact #4: Belugas are closely related to narwhals.
Which are basically the unicorns of the ocean.
I love unicorns!
Which leads me to random fact #5: (see, no need for transition dots, I am COOL LIKE THAT, write-on, yo [pun intended]...[very bad, barely-even-a pun) I want a unicorn tattoo.
I realize I was supposed to get that out of the way during my rebellious youth, but I never got around to it. So I'm thinking it'll be a good 30th birthday present to myself. Except I'm not sure I want to wait that long.
To tattoo, or not to tattoo, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and syringes of outrageous unicorn-esque fortune
Or to take arms against my mother's intense dislike of body art....
What do you all think? Do you have tattoos?
Monday, October 16, 2006
Rich Tastes
Friday night I had all sorts of dreams about forgetting my appointments at the bridal salons on Saturday, and getting to the stores and trying on dresses, but then accidentally ripping them, and basically making an ass out of myself to the point the sales women threw me out.
Anxiety, much?
So I met D, my maid-of-honor, and fabulous future sister-in-law at Starbucks early on Saturday morning (SO early. I mean, it was at LEAST 9:30....) for some coffee and I'm rocking some rather dark circles under my eyes due to lack of sleep from my psychotic dreams. (Which wasn't ALL bad, really. It let me try out my ginormous sunglasses.) And I proceed to tell D all about my dreams, while ordering some warm milk. (Shut up. It was supposed to be calming.)
D: I thought this part was supposed to be fun?
Me: (sagely) *sigh* you'd think so... but no.
A little chocolate-sprinkle-for-my-milk and some foundation-for-my-eyes later, we set off.
And then, after all sorts of pleasantness and not-throwing-me-out-at-all-ness from the sales lady, I found The Dress. Or, more accurately, D found The Dress. I thought I had found Lots Of Dresses, and was busy showing her, and she was all, "mmmm, that's nice, why don't you try on something outside of the sheath-like-spaghetti-strap-sparkly-dress-box?" And I was like, "I'm sure it's a waste of time, but fine, whatever."
So she brought me this huge, lacey thing with capped sleeves, and I rolled my eyes, put it on... and fell in love. I twirled. I accepted compliments. I imagined seeing The Funausaurus' reaction at the alter... I saw the price. I died. Hello, anxiety, old friend.
D agreed it was stunning, and that I should make it work, somehow.
I called The Funasaurus and told him I had good news.
"What's that?"
"I found the most beautiful dress in the world."
"That's nice. May I go back to my football game?"
"Yes. also, by the way, Ithinkwe'regoingtoserveKraftmacandcheeseatthewedding, andmaybelimitdrinkstoCoorsLiteandgenericcola,o.k.? O.k. Love you. bye."
Seriously. Cheap pop and mac & cheese. Who doesn't like that? And then I can get my dress.
*joy*
The best part? The Funasaurus managed to squeeze in a reply before I dashed off the phone. "I like mac & cheese," he said.
Reason #743,924 I'm going to marry him.
Anxiety, much?
So I met D, my maid-of-honor, and fabulous future sister-in-law at Starbucks early on Saturday morning (SO early. I mean, it was at LEAST 9:30....) for some coffee and I'm rocking some rather dark circles under my eyes due to lack of sleep from my psychotic dreams. (Which wasn't ALL bad, really. It let me try out my ginormous sunglasses.) And I proceed to tell D all about my dreams, while ordering some warm milk. (Shut up. It was supposed to be calming.)
D: I thought this part was supposed to be fun?
Me: (sagely) *sigh* you'd think so... but no.
A little chocolate-sprinkle-for-my-milk and some foundation-for-my-eyes later, we set off.
And then, after all sorts of pleasantness and not-throwing-me-out-at-all-ness from the sales lady, I found The Dress. Or, more accurately, D found The Dress. I thought I had found Lots Of Dresses, and was busy showing her, and she was all, "mmmm, that's nice, why don't you try on something outside of the sheath-like-spaghetti-strap-sparkly-dress-box?" And I was like, "I'm sure it's a waste of time, but fine, whatever."
So she brought me this huge, lacey thing with capped sleeves, and I rolled my eyes, put it on... and fell in love. I twirled. I accepted compliments. I imagined seeing The Funausaurus' reaction at the alter... I saw the price. I died. Hello, anxiety, old friend.
D agreed it was stunning, and that I should make it work, somehow.
I called The Funasaurus and told him I had good news.
"What's that?"
"I found the most beautiful dress in the world."
"That's nice. May I go back to my football game?"
"Yes. also, by the way, Ithinkwe'regoingtoserveKraftmacandcheeseatthewedding, andmaybelimitdrinkstoCoorsLiteandgenericcola,o.k.? O.k. Love you. bye."
Seriously. Cheap pop and mac & cheese. Who doesn't like that? And then I can get my dress.
*joy*
The best part? The Funasaurus managed to squeeze in a reply before I dashed off the phone. "I like mac & cheese," he said.
Reason #743,924 I'm going to marry him.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Maybe I'll Be a Ski Bum for Halloween
So Arapahoe Ski Basin opened up, today!!!!
The White Ribbon of Death is now available for anyone willing to ski down it and ruin the bottoms of their skis.
I am currently devising the shortest route to get home, grab said skis, and get up there before the sun melts it all off.
I desperately miss the mountains, sometimes, even though I really don't live that far away, at all. There is something lovely, and dangerous, and divine about huge mountains, in the same way that there is something equally magical and scary about the ocean. But you get less sand up your butt when you ski, so I gravitated towards the mountains. Princesses don't really do sand up the butt.
Princesses don't really do "cold," either, but we do do cute ski pants and boots, so it's a decent trade off. Not to mention, you can eat all sorts of fondue and chalet-appropriate food and hide it under a cute sweater, instead of having to nibble frozen bits of flavored ice to keep your bikini figure. Score 1 for the mountains.
Mmmm. Cheese.
Plus, Norway is cold, so I have been in training. Although they do have beaches there, too, supposedly.
Colorado is a good transitional state, in any case.
I heard from The Pink Shoe that it SNOWED in Ohio, yesterday. I am supremely jealous. I am very ready for a little snow around here. (I will regret saying that the moment I get caught without my jacket. Then you will hear me whine about why-isn't-it-summer-already-fuck-this-snow-crap.) It's something of a tradition that it snows on Halloween around here, and all the little Princess Jasmines and Harry Potters arrive with their buckets of candy and bulky snow jackets on. I love that.
Although I have noticed that the whole trick-or-treat phenomenon has died down, since I was a kid. I remember putting in hours and hours into a perfect corn on the cob costume (oh yes, I was. I wore a milk jug on my head to keep the shape and everything. Fuck the traditional witch-stuff. Why be a devil when you can be CORN ON THE COB?) and the streets being mobbed with tons of other kids. I feel like that it has died off into a trickle of somewhat-only-kinda-costumed-not-very-exciting-kids. Where did they go?
Dum dum dum. Seems like an appropriate conversation for Friday the 13th.
We didn't get a single trick-or-treater last year.
That could be because we were living in a small, trendy, urban apartment building that was locked down tighter than a Swiss Bank Account, with no kids in residence. Or maybe it's due to costumed-child snatching gnomes. I just don't know.
This year we're in a house in a neighborhood full of yuppies and toddlers. I expect SOME trick-or-treaters, even if kids these days are fun haters and don't put out the kind of effort we did, back in my day. Burning poop and raiding candy bowls left out by stupid people who think there's any sort of honor system amongst masked, cracked-out-on-sugar 10-year-olds. Ah. Those were the days.
Hi, when did I turn into a surly old lady?
Off to buy a cane (perhaps in pink?) and whine about my every ache and pain. But I promise to give you really good candy, if you come to my house in a really good costume. I pinky swear. And back in my day, that meant something.
The White Ribbon of Death is now available for anyone willing to ski down it and ruin the bottoms of their skis.
I am currently devising the shortest route to get home, grab said skis, and get up there before the sun melts it all off.
I desperately miss the mountains, sometimes, even though I really don't live that far away, at all. There is something lovely, and dangerous, and divine about huge mountains, in the same way that there is something equally magical and scary about the ocean. But you get less sand up your butt when you ski, so I gravitated towards the mountains. Princesses don't really do sand up the butt.
Princesses don't really do "cold," either, but we do do cute ski pants and boots, so it's a decent trade off. Not to mention, you can eat all sorts of fondue and chalet-appropriate food and hide it under a cute sweater, instead of having to nibble frozen bits of flavored ice to keep your bikini figure. Score 1 for the mountains.
Mmmm. Cheese.
Plus, Norway is cold, so I have been in training. Although they do have beaches there, too, supposedly.
Colorado is a good transitional state, in any case.
I heard from The Pink Shoe that it SNOWED in Ohio, yesterday. I am supremely jealous. I am very ready for a little snow around here. (I will regret saying that the moment I get caught without my jacket. Then you will hear me whine about why-isn't-it-summer-already-fuck-this-snow-crap.) It's something of a tradition that it snows on Halloween around here, and all the little Princess Jasmines and Harry Potters arrive with their buckets of candy and bulky snow jackets on. I love that.
Although I have noticed that the whole trick-or-treat phenomenon has died down, since I was a kid. I remember putting in hours and hours into a perfect corn on the cob costume (oh yes, I was. I wore a milk jug on my head to keep the shape and everything. Fuck the traditional witch-stuff. Why be a devil when you can be CORN ON THE COB?) and the streets being mobbed with tons of other kids. I feel like that it has died off into a trickle of somewhat-only-kinda-costumed-not-very-exciting-kids. Where did they go?
Dum dum dum. Seems like an appropriate conversation for Friday the 13th.
We didn't get a single trick-or-treater last year.
That could be because we were living in a small, trendy, urban apartment building that was locked down tighter than a Swiss Bank Account, with no kids in residence. Or maybe it's due to costumed-child snatching gnomes. I just don't know.
This year we're in a house in a neighborhood full of yuppies and toddlers. I expect SOME trick-or-treaters, even if kids these days are fun haters and don't put out the kind of effort we did, back in my day. Burning poop and raiding candy bowls left out by stupid people who think there's any sort of honor system amongst masked, cracked-out-on-sugar 10-year-olds. Ah. Those were the days.
Hi, when did I turn into a surly old lady?
Off to buy a cane (perhaps in pink?) and whine about my every ache and pain. But I promise to give you really good candy, if you come to my house in a really good costume. I pinky swear. And back in my day, that meant something.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Foreign Adventures
Last night I went out to dinner with the Funasaurus' sister, D. Whom I love. We were swapping travel stories, since she had gone to Morocco with her best friend during the same week that I was in Germany.
The conversation went something like this:
D: How was your trip?
me: Great! But I was glad to come home at the end. Business travel is a different kind of adventure.
D: Africa is a different kind of adventure.
me: I met some old ladies on the plane.
D: I met a dark and handsome Arab guy on the plane.
me: The ladies rubbed my back.
D: The dark and handsome Arab guy made out with my best friend.
me: I got lost in the Frankfurt airport.
D: I got accosted by the dark and handsome Arab guy's family at the Casablanca airport, and taken back to their house.
me: I stayed in a really small, closet-like hotel room.
D: I slept on the floor under a rug with a bunch of strangers at the dark and handsome Arab guy's family's house.
me: I heard the people in the room next to me having sex.
D: I heard my best friend under the same carpet having sex with the dark and handsome Arab guy.
me: I toured a castle.
D: I toured the desert.
me: I rode a boat down the Rhine.
D: I rode a camel through some sand dunes.
me: I ate some unidentifiable meat.
D: I ate some unidentifiable mush.
me: I took a taxi on the scary Autobahn.
D: I drove a rental car through some random mountain roads.
me: I learned "polizei" means "police" in German.
D: I learned you have to bribe a policeman with lots of money to not take you to jail when he pulls you over for no good reason in the middle of the night on a dark and scary road, in Morocco.
me: I bought a beer stein.
D: I bought a huge ass carpet.
me: My shower had really low water pressure.
D: I got scrubbed down while naked by a naked old woman with really large droopy breasts in a Turkish bath.
me: I had to throw out my tights because they got a run in them.
D: I had to throw out my underwear after the Turkish bath because I had to sit on the floor in them and it was really gross.
me: I was intimidated by the really loud German men at a restaurant because they occasionally looked at me.
D: I was intimidated by the really loud Moroccan men in the bazaar because they groped me and exposed themselves.
me: I climbed some stairs in a castle.
D: I climbed a mountain in Africa.
me: German toilet paper is really nice.
D: They didn't have toilet paper in Morocco. (Except in the really nice hotel.)
me: I had a nice meat and potatoes dinner by myself, at the end.
D: I had a 5-star meal under the stars in a beautiful hotel with my best friend, at the end.
D's mom: Dying a million deaths, listening to her daughter's stories.
The Funasaurus: D totally wins.
Maybe she did.
For now.
But I will totally trump any camel ride to a tent in the desert with exotic strangers selling hand-woven rugs whenever my kingdom in Europe comes in to fruition. I can wait. I am patient.
...
I'm hoping by year's end....
The conversation went something like this:
D: How was your trip?
me: Great! But I was glad to come home at the end. Business travel is a different kind of adventure.
D: Africa is a different kind of adventure.
me: I met some old ladies on the plane.
D: I met a dark and handsome Arab guy on the plane.
me: The ladies rubbed my back.
D: The dark and handsome Arab guy made out with my best friend.
me: I got lost in the Frankfurt airport.
D: I got accosted by the dark and handsome Arab guy's family at the Casablanca airport, and taken back to their house.
me: I stayed in a really small, closet-like hotel room.
D: I slept on the floor under a rug with a bunch of strangers at the dark and handsome Arab guy's family's house.
me: I heard the people in the room next to me having sex.
D: I heard my best friend under the same carpet having sex with the dark and handsome Arab guy.
me: I toured a castle.
D: I toured the desert.
me: I rode a boat down the Rhine.
D: I rode a camel through some sand dunes.
me: I ate some unidentifiable meat.
D: I ate some unidentifiable mush.
me: I took a taxi on the scary Autobahn.
D: I drove a rental car through some random mountain roads.
me: I learned "polizei" means "police" in German.
D: I learned you have to bribe a policeman with lots of money to not take you to jail when he pulls you over for no good reason in the middle of the night on a dark and scary road, in Morocco.
me: I bought a beer stein.
D: I bought a huge ass carpet.
me: My shower had really low water pressure.
D: I got scrubbed down while naked by a naked old woman with really large droopy breasts in a Turkish bath.
me: I had to throw out my tights because they got a run in them.
D: I had to throw out my underwear after the Turkish bath because I had to sit on the floor in them and it was really gross.
me: I was intimidated by the really loud German men at a restaurant because they occasionally looked at me.
D: I was intimidated by the really loud Moroccan men in the bazaar because they groped me and exposed themselves.
me: I climbed some stairs in a castle.
D: I climbed a mountain in Africa.
me: German toilet paper is really nice.
D: They didn't have toilet paper in Morocco. (Except in the really nice hotel.)
me: I had a nice meat and potatoes dinner by myself, at the end.
D: I had a 5-star meal under the stars in a beautiful hotel with my best friend, at the end.
D's mom: Dying a million deaths, listening to her daughter's stories.
The Funasaurus: D totally wins.
Maybe she did.
For now.
But I will totally trump any camel ride to a tent in the desert with exotic strangers selling hand-woven rugs whenever my kingdom in Europe comes in to fruition. I can wait. I am patient.
...
I'm hoping by year's end....
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
People You Meet While Traveling
Sadly, not Prince Haakon.
But otherwise, I met Rosie and Moxie, (not their real names, but I named them while I was half-conscious, folded over with my head on the tray table) the two large, elderly women whom I sat between on the flight from D.C. to Frankfurt. In the Smallest Plane Ever. They were very nice as well as very talkative, and I had a complete knowledge of the entire history of Rosie's inner ear problems before we had even taken off. I tried to fall asleep with my new, adorable NEW AIRPLANE PILLOW (except mine was PINK! and so NOT $75) but then I switched to lean forward and rest my head on my arms on the tray table. At which point Rosie decided I needed a good rub on the back.
Um. Hello? Me = not your grandkid, lady. Nor, really, a kid, at all, at my ripe old age of 27. So my personal space felt a little invaded, so I fake sneezed, which resulted in an, "Oh, bless you!!" and then more back rubbing. So I decided to enjoy it, since it obviously wasn't going away.
I met my friend's boyfriend in Heidelberg, who took me to tour THIS castle, and then his mother, who expected me to eat like I was a sumo wrestler. I gave it a decent shot, but I saw a hint of disappointment on her face when I wouldn't take a third helping of sausage and pretzel, after the cheese and veggies. For breakfast.
I met a ton of interesting, hyper book people at the Frankfurt Book Fair, as well as a couple of duds who preferred cigarettes to conversation. Despite the fact that a) we were meeting to discuss buying rights to my books and b) the NO SMOKING sign I had placed just above my head.
I met a racist cab driver, who was otherwise quite chatty and helpful with my oversized baggage, and a dreamy hunk.
Who deserves his own paragraph.
I was standing in line at the airport in Frankfurt, headed back home, when I hear this voice say, "Bite, voeghorisg, bloogderzite, ecchh ich begh?" (paraphrasing.) I turned around to see The Most Beautiful Man in the World, and sadly replied, "English?" It took everything in my power not to add, "Ich Liebe Dich."
"Oh," (flash bazillion-watt-perfectly-straight-very-white-teeth smile) "Sorry! Hey, do you know, is this the line for the international counter for Lufthansa?" he replied in the most generic, American accent ever.
Oh! I love him even more.
After regaining composure, I had to admit I had no idea. I just like standing in random lines in airports where I don't speak the language. With no makeup on, damn me. Had I known I'd be running into a soap opera star (no, seriously, he fit what I imagine to be the mold, with his dreamy blond hair, intense blue eyes... he looked a lot like that guy from The Fast and the Furious, actually, come to think of it. I have totally resolved to integrate Days of Our Lives into my life, in any case.) I would have perhaps bothered to, I don't know, brush my hair.
So he said, "Tell you what, will you watch my bag, and I'll go check for us?"
He said, "for us"! I imagined he was also envisioning our life together, too. (Kidding, baby, Funasaurus, if you ever read this.)
(Ha.)
So he went and spoke very fluent-sounding German with some official-looking person, while I took it upon myself to check his baggage tags for a name.
Tobias.
Naturally.
What else would The Dreamiest Soap Opera Star Guy Ever be named?
So he came back, flashed the same smile (I may have swooned a little) and then said, "Follow me."
So I did. (Duh.)
We stood in another line, where I tried to imagine how it was going to play out, that our lives were obviously destined to cross, how The Funasaurus would feel about a third, etc., etc., when I met The Evilest Dude Ever who happened to be working in the Lufthansa counter. He's the one who ruined my destiny with Mr. Beautiful. He's the one who (erroneously!) sent me to the United counter, to go stand in line, and Mr. Beautiful waved goodbye, and that was the last I ever saw of him. I never even got to put on my lucky, Kiss Me lip gloss. That's o.k., he probably wasn't in line to a European throne, anyway.
In other news, there is someone even MORE fabulous in the world. I know, hard to believe. But Marcia, of The Pink Shoe brilliance, (I am still mad she thought of that blog title before I did) created some darling, very princess-like side bar headers for me. So now I'm all cool and hip(per than I was) in the blogosphere, and whatnot. Kisses, Pink Shoe! You're fabulous!
And that was my trip in a (very long-winded) nutshell. Oh yeah, I sold some book rights, too.
But otherwise, I met Rosie and Moxie, (not their real names, but I named them while I was half-conscious, folded over with my head on the tray table) the two large, elderly women whom I sat between on the flight from D.C. to Frankfurt. In the Smallest Plane Ever. They were very nice as well as very talkative, and I had a complete knowledge of the entire history of Rosie's inner ear problems before we had even taken off. I tried to fall asleep with my new, adorable NEW AIRPLANE PILLOW (except mine was PINK! and so NOT $75) but then I switched to lean forward and rest my head on my arms on the tray table. At which point Rosie decided I needed a good rub on the back.
Um. Hello? Me = not your grandkid, lady. Nor, really, a kid, at all, at my ripe old age of 27. So my personal space felt a little invaded, so I fake sneezed, which resulted in an, "Oh, bless you!!" and then more back rubbing. So I decided to enjoy it, since it obviously wasn't going away.
I met my friend's boyfriend in Heidelberg, who took me to tour THIS castle, and then his mother, who expected me to eat like I was a sumo wrestler. I gave it a decent shot, but I saw a hint of disappointment on her face when I wouldn't take a third helping of sausage and pretzel, after the cheese and veggies. For breakfast.
I met a ton of interesting, hyper book people at the Frankfurt Book Fair, as well as a couple of duds who preferred cigarettes to conversation. Despite the fact that a) we were meeting to discuss buying rights to my books and b) the NO SMOKING sign I had placed just above my head.
I met a racist cab driver, who was otherwise quite chatty and helpful with my oversized baggage, and a dreamy hunk.
Who deserves his own paragraph.
I was standing in line at the airport in Frankfurt, headed back home, when I hear this voice say, "Bite, voeghorisg, bloogderzite, ecchh ich begh?" (paraphrasing.) I turned around to see The Most Beautiful Man in the World, and sadly replied, "English?" It took everything in my power not to add, "Ich Liebe Dich."
"Oh," (flash bazillion-watt-perfectly-straight-very-white-teeth smile) "Sorry! Hey, do you know, is this the line for the international counter for Lufthansa?" he replied in the most generic, American accent ever.
Oh! I love him even more.
After regaining composure, I had to admit I had no idea. I just like standing in random lines in airports where I don't speak the language. With no makeup on, damn me. Had I known I'd be running into a soap opera star (no, seriously, he fit what I imagine to be the mold, with his dreamy blond hair, intense blue eyes... he looked a lot like that guy from The Fast and the Furious, actually, come to think of it. I have totally resolved to integrate Days of Our Lives into my life, in any case.) I would have perhaps bothered to, I don't know, brush my hair.
So he said, "Tell you what, will you watch my bag, and I'll go check for us?"
He said, "for us"! I imagined he was also envisioning our life together, too. (Kidding, baby, Funasaurus, if you ever read this.)
(Ha.)
So he went and spoke very fluent-sounding German with some official-looking person, while I took it upon myself to check his baggage tags for a name.
Tobias.
Naturally.
What else would The Dreamiest Soap Opera Star Guy Ever be named?
So he came back, flashed the same smile (I may have swooned a little) and then said, "Follow me."
So I did. (Duh.)
We stood in another line, where I tried to imagine how it was going to play out, that our lives were obviously destined to cross, how The Funasaurus would feel about a third, etc., etc., when I met The Evilest Dude Ever who happened to be working in the Lufthansa counter. He's the one who ruined my destiny with Mr. Beautiful. He's the one who (erroneously!) sent me to the United counter, to go stand in line, and Mr. Beautiful waved goodbye, and that was the last I ever saw of him. I never even got to put on my lucky, Kiss Me lip gloss. That's o.k., he probably wasn't in line to a European throne, anyway.
In other news, there is someone even MORE fabulous in the world. I know, hard to believe. But Marcia, of The Pink Shoe brilliance, (I am still mad she thought of that blog title before I did) created some darling, very princess-like side bar headers for me. So now I'm all cool and hip(per than I was) in the blogosphere, and whatnot. Kisses, Pink Shoe! You're fabulous!
And that was my trip in a (very long-winded) nutshell. Oh yeah, I sold some book rights, too.
Monday, October 09, 2006
I'm Ba-ack
I *just* got home.
Despite my on-going, contentious relationship with The Universe.
It took me through a Frankfurt-ian racist cab driver (we were getting along rather well in our broken languages, until a Michael Jackson song came on and he was all, "Now, Michael white. Very good."
Um, no?
Now Michael white = scary, noseless circus freak. Much more handsome/from-this-planet-looking while he was still black) then the Lufthansa counter at the airport, where the attendent gave me an, "Oh you idiot American"-look, saying, "You need to go to the United counter" and after standing in the line THERE I was told I needed to go to the Lufthansa counter.
Um. Right. Just came from there. (45 minutes ago.) Please let me check in, here. No, they don't have any flights going to Newark, New Jersey. So I went back to Lufthansa, much more surly, cut in line, and said, "Bite, (as in the "please"-in-German way, not in the "me" way) I don't think I can stand in this line again and still make my flight. And to their credit, they let me cut, and I made my flight.
Got to New Jersey, and made my connection.
My luggage didn't.
It is now somewhere in Chicago, (if the United lady is to be believed) but at least I am home, with my kitties who are lovely and hateful, and The Funasaurus should be home from the Broncos game soon.
Tomorrow I will give you the gory details of my encounter with Tobias. The beautiful soap opera dream hunk. With whom I shared some words at the Frankfurt airport, while desperately wishing I had bothered to at least put on some freakin' mascara for my 14 hour trip.
Despite my on-going, contentious relationship with The Universe.
It took me through a Frankfurt-ian racist cab driver (we were getting along rather well in our broken languages, until a Michael Jackson song came on and he was all, "Now, Michael white. Very good."
Um, no?
Now Michael white = scary, noseless circus freak. Much more handsome/from-this-planet-looking while he was still black) then the Lufthansa counter at the airport, where the attendent gave me an, "Oh you idiot American"-look, saying, "You need to go to the United counter" and after standing in the line THERE I was told I needed to go to the Lufthansa counter.
Um. Right. Just came from there. (45 minutes ago.) Please let me check in, here. No, they don't have any flights going to Newark, New Jersey. So I went back to Lufthansa, much more surly, cut in line, and said, "Bite, (as in the "please"-in-German way, not in the "me" way) I don't think I can stand in this line again and still make my flight. And to their credit, they let me cut, and I made my flight.
Got to New Jersey, and made my connection.
My luggage didn't.
It is now somewhere in Chicago, (if the United lady is to be believed) but at least I am home, with my kitties who are lovely and hateful, and The Funasaurus should be home from the Broncos game soon.
Tomorrow I will give you the gory details of my encounter with Tobias. The beautiful soap opera dream hunk. With whom I shared some words at the Frankfurt airport, while desperately wishing I had bothered to at least put on some freakin' mascara for my 14 hour trip.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Things I've Learned Since I've Been in Germany- UPDATED
1. I am not smart enough to be left to fend for myself in a foreign airport. If left alone I will likely a) get obscenely lost, b) get through customs, and c) end up on the other side of the fucking airport only to finally figure out that my bags are back in the baggage claim where I arrived, and I have to wait for AN HOUR to go BACK THROUGH Germany security (where they are much more... "intimate" than the U.S.... taking off your shoes is only the first step) just to get back to the baggage claim where my bags are now the only ones left, rotting in a corner all by their lonesome selves.
2. Castles have a LOT of unnecessary stairs.
3. German food is cardiac arrest-inducing. (But damn good.)
4. German kezboardß suck.
5. My hair and lips are bigger in Germany. The hair can be attributed to the NEVER-ENDING rain, but I am still mystified on the lips. It has been confirmed in various mirrors, though, that, while not yet Angelina-Jolie-esque, they are less pale-pink-thread-like than usual.
6. I still don't love beer. (shhhh)
7. "bite" still does't mean "thank you" in German, as much as I try to make it so.
8. South Park in German is off-the-hook hilarious. By contrast, Richard Geere in Pretty Woman Deustch loses a little somethin´.
9. Living in a closet in the ghet-to is sad and claustrophobic. Send wine. :-(
10. Germany is like France in that everything smells sexy and European. (Minus public transportation.) Germany is UNLIKE France in that their public restrooms are actually clean.
11. German toilet paper is rediculously luxurious. Fold it more than once, and it feels like a swatch of fleece. How does their septic system handle it?
12. Public computer kiosks hurt my neck. What does a girl have to do to get a chair arou,nd here? Signing off.
2. Castles have a LOT of unnecessary stairs.
3. German food is cardiac arrest-inducing. (But damn good.)
4. German kezboardß suck.
5. My hair and lips are bigger in Germany. The hair can be attributed to the NEVER-ENDING rain, but I am still mystified on the lips. It has been confirmed in various mirrors, though, that, while not yet Angelina-Jolie-esque, they are less pale-pink-thread-like than usual.
6. I still don't love beer. (shhhh)
7. "bite" still does't mean "thank you" in German, as much as I try to make it so.
8. South Park in German is off-the-hook hilarious. By contrast, Richard Geere in Pretty Woman Deustch loses a little somethin´.
9. Living in a closet in the ghet-to is sad and claustrophobic. Send wine. :-(
10. Germany is like France in that everything smells sexy and European. (Minus public transportation.) Germany is UNLIKE France in that their public restrooms are actually clean.
11. German toilet paper is rediculously luxurious. Fold it more than once, and it feels like a swatch of fleece. How does their septic system handle it?
12. Public computer kiosks hurt my neck. What does a girl have to do to get a chair arou,nd here? Signing off.
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