So, ah, it’s been a couple days… oopps. Ha ha. Sorry about that. It’s been quite a week in the kingdom. Thanksgiving actually went really well, The Funasaurus brined a turkey all by himself (I may, may have stayed a little longer at happy hour than I intended) and it was fabulous. The rest of the weekend was spent seeing GOOD penguin movies, hanging out with friends, and just being lazy in general.
Monday I got in to work, and that's when the proverbial shit started hitting the proverbial fan. I saw the Big Boss call Herr MWOTH into his office. I saw Herr MWOTH reappear, visibly shaken, pass through the warehouse to grab a box, and return to close the door to his office. Someone thought they saw him taking stuff down off the wall. He had been let go!!! I was feeling quite jubilant about the whole thing until I got called in to the Big Boss’ office. I was informed the board had to make some tough decisions because the numbers weren’t where they were supposed to be, and despite the fact that I was the person closest to making my annual goal on the entire sales team, my goals were also the lowest (well, new territory, no contacts, you have to start low, oh well) so my position was “expendable.” As were four other people’s. We were to leave, immediately.
So I reacted as maturely and ladylike as possible. I got shit-faced off of Jack Daniels with a fellow laid-off former-coworker at 11:00 a.m. I spent the next ELEVEN HOURS praying to various porcelain gods (coworker's house, my house after The Funasaurus came and poured my alcoholic ass into his nice car for a long [10 minutes is an eternity when there’s a hurricane in your esophagus] ride home) and finally managed to choke down some Pizza Hut that The Funasaurus had ordered around midnight.
Yesterday I was just a *little* hung over, and spent lots of time staring at walls. Mom came down and fed me soup. (When was the last time you had THIS soup, btw? When you were 6? Me too, but shame on us, because it’s as awesome now as it was then.) Over-consumption of alcohol is more like a badge of honor, where we are from, so it was quite all right to tell my parents about those adventures. (Sex is totally different. Despite the fact that I have been living in sin with The Funasaurus for years, I believe my mom still holds out a glimmer of hope that I’m saving myself until marriage. Uh, right.)
Now I begin perusing the help wanted ads. Do I go for the retail for the “awesome” overtime pay potential for the holiday season, or do I go for some office job? Publishing is hard to come by in Colorado, but I will keep looking. I will also let you all in on a little secret. I’ve been applying to school, again, so I really did have plans of leaving my job, eventually. I just anticipated it would be next fall, and not this winter. So I just get a head-start on finding something to fill the time (and wallet) until I’m back in school… hopefully.
I hope everyone had a fabulous Thanksgiving, and a less-eventful week than mine!
Love,
Princess-I-Have-No-Job-But-at-Least-I-Didn't-Have-to-Drive-into-Work-This-Morning-Because-It's-SNOWING-like-Crazy-Outside!
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Bison, Exaggeration, and Scandinavia
To clarify something from yesterday's post, I'd like to add extra emphasis on the words "until very recently," regarding The Funasaurus' kitchen participation. Apparently he reads this blog, sometimes! (Hi, baby!) And maybe he called me on a *slight* embellishment last night, as he treated me to a nice dinner. Um. Hee? Ooops. Love you! So, while it is quite true that the kitchen in the college apartment was kind of a waste of space, he really is much more into cooking these days. If we have spaghetti anymore, I don't even bother helping until cleanup (and even then, sometimes, I am fairly princess-like all, "oh, I can't disturb the cat sleeping on my lap, could you get the dishes, darling?") because he makes the best spaghetti, ever. Funasaurus trick #1: buffalo meat, instead of beef. Funasaurus trick #2: lots of spices. Preferably from the Savory Spice Shop in LoDo.
So he is very competent (and not just in the kitchen, heh heh) but still, I think if I hadn't encouraged the idea of cooking, there's a chance we might have ordered stuffed crust pizza from Pizza Hut for Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, I have decided to get into the full spirit of the holidays by forgoing my lame banana and eating some pumpkin cranberry bread for breakfast, that a nice coworker brought in. I have decided to go to the greasy Mexican restaurant for lunch (buh-bye, PB&J) and am currently devising a plan to skip out on my newfound exercise regime with The Funasaurus, which was supposed to start this afternoon with a light jog by instead going to the bar for happy hour with a girlfriend. I think it's totally worth it, though. My friend is Swedish, and as we all know, (?) Sweden is right next to Norway, and I feel like my friendship with her brings me one step closer to my eventual reign over the neighboring country to her homeland. Despite the fact that she no longer lives there.
Who needs cardio when there's chardonnay to be had?
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!
So he is very competent (and not just in the kitchen, heh heh) but still, I think if I hadn't encouraged the idea of cooking, there's a chance we might have ordered stuffed crust pizza from Pizza Hut for Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, I have decided to get into the full spirit of the holidays by forgoing my lame banana and eating some pumpkin cranberry bread for breakfast, that a nice coworker brought in. I have decided to go to the greasy Mexican restaurant for lunch (buh-bye, PB&J) and am currently devising a plan to skip out on my newfound exercise regime with The Funasaurus, which was supposed to start this afternoon with a light jog by instead going to the bar for happy hour with a girlfriend. I think it's totally worth it, though. My friend is Swedish, and as we all know, (?) Sweden is right next to Norway, and I feel like my friendship with her brings me one step closer to my eventual reign over the neighboring country to her homeland. Despite the fact that she no longer lives there.
Who needs cardio when there's chardonnay to be had?
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Cornbread Makes Your Mouth Feel Really Dry
The Funasaurus' family does not cook. The Funasaurus has not considered the kitchen as being much more than a storage room for the microwave, until very recently. In fact, The Funasaurus' other nickname in college was Frozen Pizza Twin. (He and his best friend were The Frozen Pizza Twins because on the weekly run to the grocery store, they would just buy piles of frozen pizza. And whole milk. They both drank a ridiculous amount of whole milk. *gag*)
This year, as I am spending Thanksgiving with The Funasaurus Family, I have encouraged the idea of cooking our meal, because I grew up in a house with homemade dinners every night, and the thought of ordering out for the holidays made me cringe. However, I am hardly a gourmet chef. I can make some mean French toast, but I'm not the type to spend time dinking around on epicurious.com, really. So it's the blind leading the blind into the season of overeating and stressful cooking. Should be great.
Last night The Funasaurus helped me look through some cookbooks I inherited (Betty Crocker! Women with flip hairdos standing in polka dot aprons and heels holding pies! So! Not! Me!) we made a list, and I went food shopping. The Funasaurus' mom was talking about maybe going out to brunch, first, Thanksgiving morning. Yet, we are aiming to eat around 3:00 so that The Funasaurus' grandmother can get home at a reasonable time. Now, I don't know much about cooking, but methinks that if we don't get ye ol' turkey in the oven until noon, we's not going to be eating at 3:00. So I nixed the breakfast idea and felt bad, and offered to bring champagne for mimosas while we cooked, as restitution.
While at the grocery store I managed to a) freak out about the germ factor on the grocery cart handle and careen my cart right into the apples because I was being so squeamish about touching the handle b) walk right past the ginormous turkey display without seeing it c) do laps looking for the damn cranberry sauce (which no one will eat, anyway, but I couldn't not get some because hello! It's tradition!) which turned out to be in the canned goods aisle, (who knew?!) and d) sign the wrong name on my checkout receipt, causing the poor cashier to look very doubtful about my credit card not showing up as stolen. (Who's been practicing her new married name maybe just a wee bit much?)
But I made it home with one turkey, one dented can of cranberry "sauce" (in my world, sauce cannot be SLICED into neat, circular little patties, looking very much like very raw McDonalds burgers, hence the quotation marks), and one large bottle of Gatorade for The Funasaurus who has come down with some unidentifiable illness, causing him to feel very nauseous and headache-y. I'm really hoping he's not pregnant. That would change a whole lot of things. Not the first of which being the state in which we'd have to get married.
Of course, I'm ALL ABOUT Thanksgiving in Hawaii!
This year, as I am spending Thanksgiving with The Funasaurus Family, I have encouraged the idea of cooking our meal, because I grew up in a house with homemade dinners every night, and the thought of ordering out for the holidays made me cringe. However, I am hardly a gourmet chef. I can make some mean French toast, but I'm not the type to spend time dinking around on epicurious.com, really. So it's the blind leading the blind into the season of overeating and stressful cooking. Should be great.
Last night The Funasaurus helped me look through some cookbooks I inherited (Betty Crocker! Women with flip hairdos standing in polka dot aprons and heels holding pies! So! Not! Me!) we made a list, and I went food shopping. The Funasaurus' mom was talking about maybe going out to brunch, first, Thanksgiving morning. Yet, we are aiming to eat around 3:00 so that The Funasaurus' grandmother can get home at a reasonable time. Now, I don't know much about cooking, but methinks that if we don't get ye ol' turkey in the oven until noon, we's not going to be eating at 3:00. So I nixed the breakfast idea and felt bad, and offered to bring champagne for mimosas while we cooked, as restitution.
While at the grocery store I managed to a) freak out about the germ factor on the grocery cart handle and careen my cart right into the apples because I was being so squeamish about touching the handle b) walk right past the ginormous turkey display without seeing it c) do laps looking for the damn cranberry sauce (which no one will eat, anyway, but I couldn't not get some because hello! It's tradition!) which turned out to be in the canned goods aisle, (who knew?!) and d) sign the wrong name on my checkout receipt, causing the poor cashier to look very doubtful about my credit card not showing up as stolen. (Who's been practicing her new married name maybe just a wee bit much?)
But I made it home with one turkey, one dented can of cranberry "sauce" (in my world, sauce cannot be SLICED into neat, circular little patties, looking very much like very raw McDonalds burgers, hence the quotation marks), and one large bottle of Gatorade for The Funasaurus who has come down with some unidentifiable illness, causing him to feel very nauseous and headache-y. I'm really hoping he's not pregnant. That would change a whole lot of things. Not the first of which being the state in which we'd have to get married.
Of course, I'm ALL ABOUT Thanksgiving in Hawaii!
Monday, November 20, 2006
First Runs of the Season
I went skiing on Sunday. It felt so good to be up in the mountains again. It was a perfect day, not a cloud in the sky, lots of sunshine but still nice and cold, the snow conditions were fabulous, and it did not feel like early season, at all. In any way. Including the crowds. I breathed in the fresh air, strapped on my skis and hustled my way on over to The Line. The Line was enormous and never-ending. The lift ops were doing their job and trying to keep things moving, but it was crowded and the line moved s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w-l-y. Even in the singles line, I waited twenty minutes. (For those of you non-skiers, the singles line is an excellent speed-this-shit-up strategy. It's a separate line that allows you jump on with another group of people to fill chairlift space, so that no seat goes unfilled. Usually the singles line moves much faster than the regular line.)
Anyway. I got in all of about four runs about several hours of line-standing before the princess in me was like, "This blows. I need wine." So I gave up and skied back down to my car.
I met a friend for lunch and saw her baby, as well as some pictures of her baby dressed as in chicken costume for Halloween! That was some funny stuff, and waaaay better than the ol' pumpkin costume most babies seem to appear in.
Then I met two other good friends for extremely large margaritas and gossiping. The traffic on I-70 (oh, I-70, how you plague me) is notoriously horrible coming down from the mountains on Sunday afternoon, so I debated taking a much longer, but much less traffic-y back way home. My friend A goes to this tamale joint on one of the roads I was contemplating taking, and as I love homemade tamales almost as much as I love The Funasaurus, so we spent a good twenty minutes discussing where exactly this little tamale stand was, in the back mountains, and figuring out how to get there (including one phone call to the place itself that included a lot of, "What? WHAT? Directions. I need DIRECTIONS. DIRECCIONES?-type speak) until I finally decided that it was too much of a detour, and as much as I love tamales, it would do me no good at all to get the tamales if I ended up passing out on the long drive home and killing myself (and probably smushing the tamales) before I could get home to taste them.
So I took I-70 and the traffic was bad, but I still made it in less time than the detour would have taken, and I promptly threw myself on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns for a couple hours before The Funasaurus got home from the Broncos game. Darn old Broncos. What a bizarre game. (I tuned in to watch the last five minutes, so I could feign some knowledge of what went down with my beloved. Unfortunately, the game was even more cooky than usual, so it really did me no good at all.)
Dear Broncos,
When I have such a great weekend, it'd really help me out if you'd not try so hard to lose, already, so that The Funasaurus isn't grumpy when he gets home from the game.
Thanks,
Princess G, who's rocking some serious windburn, today.
Anyway. I got in all of about four runs about several hours of line-standing before the princess in me was like, "This blows. I need wine." So I gave up and skied back down to my car.
I met a friend for lunch and saw her baby, as well as some pictures of her baby dressed as in chicken costume for Halloween! That was some funny stuff, and waaaay better than the ol' pumpkin costume most babies seem to appear in.
Then I met two other good friends for extremely large margaritas and gossiping. The traffic on I-70 (oh, I-70, how you plague me) is notoriously horrible coming down from the mountains on Sunday afternoon, so I debated taking a much longer, but much less traffic-y back way home. My friend A goes to this tamale joint on one of the roads I was contemplating taking, and as I love homemade tamales almost as much as I love The Funasaurus, so we spent a good twenty minutes discussing where exactly this little tamale stand was, in the back mountains, and figuring out how to get there (including one phone call to the place itself that included a lot of, "What? WHAT? Directions. I need DIRECTIONS. DIRECCIONES?-type speak) until I finally decided that it was too much of a detour, and as much as I love tamales, it would do me no good at all to get the tamales if I ended up passing out on the long drive home and killing myself (and probably smushing the tamales) before I could get home to taste them.
So I took I-70 and the traffic was bad, but I still made it in less time than the detour would have taken, and I promptly threw myself on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns for a couple hours before The Funasaurus got home from the Broncos game. Darn old Broncos. What a bizarre game. (I tuned in to watch the last five minutes, so I could feign some knowledge of what went down with my beloved. Unfortunately, the game was even more cooky than usual, so it really did me no good at all.)
Dear Broncos,
When I have such a great weekend, it'd really help me out if you'd not try so hard to lose, already, so that The Funasaurus isn't grumpy when he gets home from the game.
Thanks,
Princess G, who's rocking some serious windburn, today.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Queen Mother
Yesterday I had lunch with my parents. It was nice, we get along, mostly, and I score some free food and time outside the office. Yet no matter where we are or when we meet, I revert to a younger, crazier version of myself, especially in front of my mother. I can't even help it, it's like I become possessed by my psychotic, the-world-revolves-around-me (no, seriously, it used to be even worse than it is, now) -*sob*-why-don't-you-take-me-seriously?-14-year-old-self.
I walk in to the restaurant and lo and behold, there is coworker, having lunch with a friend, right next to the table my parents have already scored.
Mom: Hello, sweetie!
Me: Mo-om! Don't call me that! My coworker might get ideas. (That my mother thinks I'm sweet? GOD FORBID.)
Mom: How's your day?
Me (sighing exasperatedly): I don't feel like talking about it. (About the fact that it's going just fine, thank you.)
Mom: We're down here to get our antique clock fixed.
Me: mmhmm.
Mom: And I think we might swing by the nice liquor store, to get some wine for our wine group.
Me: mmmm, wine.
Mom: You should come up and visit sometime, you can have some wine, and you could even help work on this scrapbook I have going on....
Me: AAUUGHH! I DON'T HAVE ANY TIME IN MY LIFE! GOD, DON'T PRES-SURE ME. AUUUUGHHH
Mom: No pressure. Just thought you'd like....
Me: I can't concentrate. I'm hungry.
Mom: uh. Shall we order?
Me: DON'T RUSH ME! I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE WANT, YET!
Mom: apparently decides against beating me with a plastic fork, despite her burning desire.
We: Finally order.
Mom's food: Better than mine. I help myself. She lovingly cuts pieces of lamb and pushes them to the side of the plate that's closest to me, subtly, so that I can't find a way to complain about it.
I love her. I don't know why she loves me, but I can tell you that if having children allows you to put up with such abuse for close to 30 years with no end in sight, I'm scratching "have kids" right off the to-do list. Tatum is bad enough.
I walk in to the restaurant and lo and behold, there is coworker, having lunch with a friend, right next to the table my parents have already scored.
Mom: Hello, sweetie!
Me: Mo-om! Don't call me that! My coworker might get ideas. (That my mother thinks I'm sweet? GOD FORBID.)
Mom: How's your day?
Me (sighing exasperatedly): I don't feel like talking about it. (About the fact that it's going just fine, thank you.)
Mom: We're down here to get our antique clock fixed.
Me: mmhmm.
Mom: And I think we might swing by the nice liquor store, to get some wine for our wine group.
Me: mmmm, wine.
Mom: You should come up and visit sometime, you can have some wine, and you could even help work on this scrapbook I have going on....
Me: AAUUGHH! I DON'T HAVE ANY TIME IN MY LIFE! GOD, DON'T PRES-SURE ME. AUUUUGHHH
Mom: No pressure. Just thought you'd like....
Me: I can't concentrate. I'm hungry.
Mom: uh. Shall we order?
Me: DON'T RUSH ME! I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE WANT, YET!
Mom: apparently decides against beating me with a plastic fork, despite her burning desire.
We: Finally order.
Mom's food: Better than mine. I help myself. She lovingly cuts pieces of lamb and pushes them to the side of the plate that's closest to me, subtly, so that I can't find a way to complain about it.
I love her. I don't know why she loves me, but I can tell you that if having children allows you to put up with such abuse for close to 30 years with no end in sight, I'm scratching "have kids" right off the to-do list. Tatum is bad enough.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Worse for Wear Royalty
You will never get rich working in the publishing business. But there are some cool perks, which make up for the small paycheck. Like when you publish a book about bars in your town, and you "have" to attend the author event a.k.a. a bar crawl with really cool, hip people. I was only able to go to two bars before I realized that the poor Funasaurus was probably withering away in front of his video games, dinnerless, because, ooops, haha, I forgot to call to say I'd be late.
So after chugging two very full glasses of red wine, I began chugging water and shoveling in fries (which is not hard, anyway, but when said fries are coated with garlic and parmesan, it's almost impossible to not start in on your neighbor's plate when you finish your own because damn they are good) so that I could drive safely past all the cops monitoring for DUIs early on a Tuesday evening.
The Funasaurus had ordered some Pizza Hut by the time I got home, which hit the spot, although I am feeling quite bloated, this morning. I spent most of the rest of the evening sprawled across him watching Scrubs, until about 10:00 when I was like, "Oh, heh heh, by the way, I invited a coworker to dinner tomorrow night."
The Funasaurus, not being the type to really care one way or another, didn't really react until I was like, "So we need to clean now." And suddenly he was all wide-eyed and sweet and wondering, "But... bed?"
To his credit, he got up and cleaned up a bunch of mail, did the dishes, and cleared off the coffee table after only mumbling something about "Could this not have come up, like, an hour ago?" very quietly.
So we went to bed a little late, but I wasn't concerned until both Tatum and Sugar decided that tonight was definitely a cuddling night. They would take turns walking all over us, finding just the right spot (my kneecap, The Funasaurus' neck) to flop down on, and then stand up again and start to come knead my shoulder. That is when I realized that it had been quite a while since I clipped their nails. Ow ow owie ow ow ow.
This morning, as I dragged my sleepless, slightly hung-over self out of bed, cursing Wednesdays everywhere, I decided the claws WERE GOING DOWN. I showered to clear my eyes, picked up one Tatum who was all, "Mouse? Are you getting me a mouse toy?" and curled my body around him, wielding the claw trimmers.
It eventually dawned upon Tatum that there would be no mouse involved in this plan, so he decided to bust that popcicle joint pronto.
There was an attempt at a backwards escape through my abdomen, and while perhaps a bit soft, it is very solid, and foiled that plan. Then there was the breaching whale maneuver, which involved some serious height and twisting on ol' Tatum's part, and this time my chin was able to intercept the break for freedom, and we got a couple of nails done before the sideways launch that was very much like some NFL play I am unable to identify, not really being into football. At all.
Go Broncos.
So anyway, we got Tatum's front claws trimmed, much to his dismay, and then I went after Sugar. Who was resting on a heating pad that The Funasaurus had turned on for her. Gee. Wonder which one of us she likes better.
I got the Look of Death as I picked her away from the heating pad, and then I got the scream for mercy as I picked up the scissors, despite the fact that I had yet to actually touch her damn paws. She didn't stay on my lap, and the procedure was finished by me bracing her between my legs on the floor, much like wrestling a very white and fluffy miniature alligator.
I finally headed off to work, looking much like I slept on a block of concrete in an alley last night, between the lack of sleep, hungoverness, and bruises from two small but will-come-at-you-like-spider-monkeys kitties. Where is a weekend, when you need one?
So after chugging two very full glasses of red wine, I began chugging water and shoveling in fries (which is not hard, anyway, but when said fries are coated with garlic and parmesan, it's almost impossible to not start in on your neighbor's plate when you finish your own because damn they are good) so that I could drive safely past all the cops monitoring for DUIs early on a Tuesday evening.
The Funasaurus had ordered some Pizza Hut by the time I got home, which hit the spot, although I am feeling quite bloated, this morning. I spent most of the rest of the evening sprawled across him watching Scrubs, until about 10:00 when I was like, "Oh, heh heh, by the way, I invited a coworker to dinner tomorrow night."
The Funasaurus, not being the type to really care one way or another, didn't really react until I was like, "So we need to clean now." And suddenly he was all wide-eyed and sweet and wondering, "But... bed?"
To his credit, he got up and cleaned up a bunch of mail, did the dishes, and cleared off the coffee table after only mumbling something about "Could this not have come up, like, an hour ago?" very quietly.
So we went to bed a little late, but I wasn't concerned until both Tatum and Sugar decided that tonight was definitely a cuddling night. They would take turns walking all over us, finding just the right spot (my kneecap, The Funasaurus' neck) to flop down on, and then stand up again and start to come knead my shoulder. That is when I realized that it had been quite a while since I clipped their nails. Ow ow owie ow ow ow.
This morning, as I dragged my sleepless, slightly hung-over self out of bed, cursing Wednesdays everywhere, I decided the claws WERE GOING DOWN. I showered to clear my eyes, picked up one Tatum who was all, "Mouse? Are you getting me a mouse toy?" and curled my body around him, wielding the claw trimmers.
It eventually dawned upon Tatum that there would be no mouse involved in this plan, so he decided to bust that popcicle joint pronto.
There was an attempt at a backwards escape through my abdomen, and while perhaps a bit soft, it is very solid, and foiled that plan. Then there was the breaching whale maneuver, which involved some serious height and twisting on ol' Tatum's part, and this time my chin was able to intercept the break for freedom, and we got a couple of nails done before the sideways launch that was very much like some NFL play I am unable to identify, not really being into football. At all.
Go Broncos.
So anyway, we got Tatum's front claws trimmed, much to his dismay, and then I went after Sugar. Who was resting on a heating pad that The Funasaurus had turned on for her. Gee. Wonder which one of us she likes better.
I got the Look of Death as I picked her away from the heating pad, and then I got the scream for mercy as I picked up the scissors, despite the fact that I had yet to actually touch her damn paws. She didn't stay on my lap, and the procedure was finished by me bracing her between my legs on the floor, much like wrestling a very white and fluffy miniature alligator.
I finally headed off to work, looking much like I slept on a block of concrete in an alley last night, between the lack of sleep, hungoverness, and bruises from two small but will-come-at-you-like-spider-monkeys kitties. Where is a weekend, when you need one?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Claymation Princess
I have a weird fascination with claymation. I looooove it. I think it brought me one step closer to my-dolls-are-really-alive fantasy, or something, when I was a child. And now? I just still think it's cool. 3-D fantasy is still a bazillion times more satisfying than cartoons. Rudolph was the highlight of my Christmas.
When I was a child, we used to have Swiss Mix cocoa mix for those rare snow days we would get. In Delaware, an inch and a half of snow would shut the state down. In Colorado, it makes people consider maybe putting on their snow tires, one of these days, hmmm haw.
Uh. Back to Swiss Miss. So anyway, there used to be this claymation-y girl on the Swiss Miss commercials. (I'm talking late, late 70s, early 80s, here.) I have searched and searched for her, and I think it's insane that she's not still around. I finally found her, after much pleading with the Google gods. And. HERE she is. *Joy* Do you remember? Do you remember the love, y'all? What HAPPENED to her? We need to bring her back.
Swiss Miss hot chocolate is a product of ConAgra foods. Here is the TOLL FREE line to Swiss Miss' customer service: 800-457-6649. Please call and ask to bring her back, o.k.? She used to walk around the cocoa and interact with real kids. It was awesome. Like the Trix Bunny, only better because she was a) 3-D and b) not a whiner.
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo
I also very much loved the old Disney short film of Noah's Ark, because all the animals were made out of corks and paperclips and whatnot, and how could you not want a flamingo made out of pipe cleaners? Really.
Another one of my upcoming policies in my eventual kingdom will be the stop-action claymation of most advertising. I would actually be swayed by that kind of marketing. 3-D clay razor dancing around on someone's leg? Hell yes, hook me up! Who cares about the nicks if the razor can wipe the blood away? 3-D clay wine glass frolicking around bottles of very expensive wine? I'll buy a case. Stop-action Popeye munching spinach? I will learn to love the green stuff. Loveable clay lawnmower buzzing around a yard? I'll get a new house just so I can have a freakin' yard to mow. Why hasn't anyone in advertising figured this out?
Attention all marketers: BRING BACK CLAYMATION. If you stop-action it, the princess will come.
(Tee hee. That sounds dirty. Claymation vibrator, anyone? It could whisper sweet nothings in your ear when it's done.)
When I was a child, we used to have Swiss Mix cocoa mix for those rare snow days we would get. In Delaware, an inch and a half of snow would shut the state down. In Colorado, it makes people consider maybe putting on their snow tires, one of these days, hmmm haw.
Uh. Back to Swiss Miss. So anyway, there used to be this claymation-y girl on the Swiss Miss commercials. (I'm talking late, late 70s, early 80s, here.) I have searched and searched for her, and I think it's insane that she's not still around. I finally found her, after much pleading with the Google gods. And. HERE she is. *Joy* Do you remember? Do you remember the love, y'all? What HAPPENED to her? We need to bring her back.
Swiss Miss hot chocolate is a product of ConAgra foods. Here is the TOLL FREE line to Swiss Miss' customer service: 800-457-6649. Please call and ask to bring her back, o.k.? She used to walk around the cocoa and interact with real kids. It was awesome. Like the Trix Bunny, only better because she was a) 3-D and b) not a whiner.
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo
I also very much loved the old Disney short film of Noah's Ark, because all the animals were made out of corks and paperclips and whatnot, and how could you not want a flamingo made out of pipe cleaners? Really.
Another one of my upcoming policies in my eventual kingdom will be the stop-action claymation of most advertising. I would actually be swayed by that kind of marketing. 3-D clay razor dancing around on someone's leg? Hell yes, hook me up! Who cares about the nicks if the razor can wipe the blood away? 3-D clay wine glass frolicking around bottles of very expensive wine? I'll buy a case. Stop-action Popeye munching spinach? I will learn to love the green stuff. Loveable clay lawnmower buzzing around a yard? I'll get a new house just so I can have a freakin' yard to mow. Why hasn't anyone in advertising figured this out?
Attention all marketers: BRING BACK CLAYMATION. If you stop-action it, the princess will come.
(Tee hee. That sounds dirty. Claymation vibrator, anyone? It could whisper sweet nothings in your ear when it's done.)
Monday, November 13, 2006
Picture Me Buying Cards
I had my pick-t-uure (as my ennunciation-conscious grandmother would say) taken this weekend, as did The Funasaurus. We got professional engagement pictures done, mostly for Christmas presents for our grandmothers. Also, to feed my extremely vain ego. Oh, to be gorgeous with flawless skin, via the wonders of Photoshop. Ahhhh.
After our "session" (HA!) we met up with some friends that we haven't seen in a while, down in Colorado Springs. They took us to an amazing new-ish place that has opened up down there, called Rico's Cafe. Wine bar + gourmet chocolate bar + card shop + live music = my kind of heaven. In fact, when I die, if I have been very very good, I will go to Rico's. (If I have been bad, I will be stuck on the dirty cement outside, looking in at other people eating chocolate, drinking wine, and buying cards, face-to-face with some musicians skinny butt, because the band performs in the front window, but faces the interior, which I really don't think creates the best curb appeal, but whatever. )
So I spent $30 on cute, original cards, and drank some divine hot chocolate with a hint of chile in it, and stole much of The Funasaurus' ridiculously fabulous milk chocolate milkshake while he wasn't looking. And then some more while he WAS looking.
The drive home was long, but The Funasaurus graciously offered to drive while I dozed on and off. Somewhere in there I woke up to make sure he was still doing o.k., then fell back asleep in about .24 seconds, then had a dream that the car door opened and I was sucked out and I woke up all, "AAUUGGHHHHH!"
Which, of course, prompted The Funasaurus to be all, "AAAAUUUUUGHHH!" too, because when you are driving late at night and are kind of in-the-zone, and you think your traveling partner is awake because they *just* asked you quietly how you were doing and then suddenly they start screaming like they are being poked with rusty nails by pink aliens, it startles you.
Fortunately, there were no aliens nor any open doors, and The Funasaurus is a very controlled frightened driver so he didn't swerve, but hoo boy he was quite alert for the rest of the drive home.
Sunday was a mellow day, though I did get to meet up with a good friend for dinner. The Funasaurus declined to join us, since we went to an Ethiopian restaurant and he is not a big fan of mushy food. (For that reason, he also dislikes applesauce, custard, soup, yogurt, and pie. PIE. Who doesn't like pie???) But whatever, because it meant more mushy food for me, plus girl time. We had a nice chat over our kitfo, which is basically raw meat with seasoning, (so I am really not a vegetarian. At all. In any way.) but isn't... um... sitting so well in my stomach this morning. But we still had a great time, and I am sad that my friend thinks she wants to move to California because really, what the hell does that state have to offer besides a warm climate, stunning beaches, a superior wine country, and amazing, organic food?
And now the universe has decided that it's Monday. Again. For some reason, that seems to happen to me almost weekly. Dang it.
After our "session" (HA!) we met up with some friends that we haven't seen in a while, down in Colorado Springs. They took us to an amazing new-ish place that has opened up down there, called Rico's Cafe. Wine bar + gourmet chocolate bar + card shop + live music = my kind of heaven. In fact, when I die, if I have been very very good, I will go to Rico's. (If I have been bad, I will be stuck on the dirty cement outside, looking in at other people eating chocolate, drinking wine, and buying cards, face-to-face with some musicians skinny butt, because the band performs in the front window, but faces the interior, which I really don't think creates the best curb appeal, but whatever. )
So I spent $30 on cute, original cards, and drank some divine hot chocolate with a hint of chile in it, and stole much of The Funasaurus' ridiculously fabulous milk chocolate milkshake while he wasn't looking. And then some more while he WAS looking.
The drive home was long, but The Funasaurus graciously offered to drive while I dozed on and off. Somewhere in there I woke up to make sure he was still doing o.k., then fell back asleep in about .24 seconds, then had a dream that the car door opened and I was sucked out and I woke up all, "AAUUGGHHHHH!"
Which, of course, prompted The Funasaurus to be all, "AAAAUUUUUGHHH!" too, because when you are driving late at night and are kind of in-the-zone, and you think your traveling partner is awake because they *just* asked you quietly how you were doing and then suddenly they start screaming like they are being poked with rusty nails by pink aliens, it startles you.
Fortunately, there were no aliens nor any open doors, and The Funasaurus is a very controlled frightened driver so he didn't swerve, but hoo boy he was quite alert for the rest of the drive home.
Sunday was a mellow day, though I did get to meet up with a good friend for dinner. The Funasaurus declined to join us, since we went to an Ethiopian restaurant and he is not a big fan of mushy food. (For that reason, he also dislikes applesauce, custard, soup, yogurt, and pie. PIE. Who doesn't like pie???) But whatever, because it meant more mushy food for me, plus girl time. We had a nice chat over our kitfo, which is basically raw meat with seasoning, (so I am really not a vegetarian. At all. In any way.) but isn't... um... sitting so well in my stomach this morning. But we still had a great time, and I am sad that my friend thinks she wants to move to California because really, what the hell does that state have to offer besides a warm climate, stunning beaches, a superior wine country, and amazing, organic food?
And now the universe has decided that it's Monday. Again. For some reason, that seems to happen to me almost weekly. Dang it.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Champagne Tastes, Naturally
I had a taste of the princess-esque life, last night. My friend and future sister-in-law, D, is a brilliant and extremely successful attorney. She's had about 10 hours of sleep in the last three days, often working until 3:00 a.m. to finish projects, but they do throw money at her to keep her there. Last night was a great example. Her firm hosted a Ladies night. At Neiman Marcus. And she could invite whomever she wanted. And she decided to invite me, mostly because I begged her to.
The firm sent me a lovely invitation, along with a valet parking voucher, and I nestled my extremely dirty and dented Honda Civic between a Mercedes SUV and some fancy convertible all, "Hi, I've arrived!"
I meandered to the second level of Neimans, where it was red roped off for our event, got my nametag with my name in some fancy script, and proceeded directly to the bar. Someone said something about free alcohol. Well. Don't mind if I do!
A lovely tall gentleman refilled my glass several times during the evening, so I didn't even have to move, and I sat around chatting with all of these extremely gorgeous, put-together, powerful women thinking, "I sure wish I didn't wear my sweater with the hole in it...."
Eventually we were guided to chairs that were set up in front of a display of pretty, sparkly things. I couldn't distinguish what was actually up there, seeing as how my eyes were swimming in little pools of chardonnay at this point, but I did manage to keep from spilling my wine on my little gift bag, which included cashmere gloves. (EEEE!)
Some beautiful women from Neimans came out to do a talk on "unique gift ideas" for those people who are hard to shop for. Lovely ideas, but The Funasaurus will not be getting any Armani ties or $400 picture frames anytime soon. And I will definitely not be bringing a cute set of silver bowls as a hostess gift because HOLY COW I don't even spend $250 on my own mother, let alone some random hostess! The $12 bottle of sparkly hair glitter (that was very subtle and not tacky) is definitely on the to-do list, though.
A model paraded some holiday dress ideas, and I was all over this adorable little pink baby doll-ish dress, right up until they were like, "only $2,000! Great deal" and I fainted. Poof.
It made me feel a little better that D and some of her beautiful coworkers also thought the ideas were ridiculously extravagant, but it was fun to daydream about carrying around Sugar in a Juicy Couture pet carrier. (Not Tatum, though. If I know him, he would gnaw his way out of there all, "I travel on my own time, bee-yatch. Pass the kitty treats.")
We sat around sobering up, cleared the place out, and then I drove D home (once the handsome valet had retrieved my car, and even cleaned off the [cracked] windshield because apparently it was too filthy for him to see out of, uh heh heh. Hi.) because she had to get up in five hours for an extremely early flight to somewhere un-fun to take depositions. I slept more last night than she has in the last five days. On the other hand, she can afford the leopard print serving tray. So it's all a trade-off.
As I drove myself home, I called my friend K to talk about the evening. We laughed at the extremeness of it all, and she said, "I don't know. After all's said and done, I don't really think I'd like living like that. I think it would be very dull and meaningless after a while. Don't you agree?"
And I said, "No. It would be awesome. Sign me up."
Unfortunately, I doubt Herr MWOTH is going to hook me up with a fat raise, anytime soon. And for anyone who is curious, Herr My Way or the Highway is my evil boss, whom I introduced here.
But if any of you need some quirky, fun, overpriced presents this holiday season, I know just THE PLACE to send you. Happy waaaay-too-early holidays!
The firm sent me a lovely invitation, along with a valet parking voucher, and I nestled my extremely dirty and dented Honda Civic between a Mercedes SUV and some fancy convertible all, "Hi, I've arrived!"
I meandered to the second level of Neimans, where it was red roped off for our event, got my nametag with my name in some fancy script, and proceeded directly to the bar. Someone said something about free alcohol. Well. Don't mind if I do!
A lovely tall gentleman refilled my glass several times during the evening, so I didn't even have to move, and I sat around chatting with all of these extremely gorgeous, put-together, powerful women thinking, "I sure wish I didn't wear my sweater with the hole in it...."
Eventually we were guided to chairs that were set up in front of a display of pretty, sparkly things. I couldn't distinguish what was actually up there, seeing as how my eyes were swimming in little pools of chardonnay at this point, but I did manage to keep from spilling my wine on my little gift bag, which included cashmere gloves. (EEEE!)
Some beautiful women from Neimans came out to do a talk on "unique gift ideas" for those people who are hard to shop for. Lovely ideas, but The Funasaurus will not be getting any Armani ties or $400 picture frames anytime soon. And I will definitely not be bringing a cute set of silver bowls as a hostess gift because HOLY COW I don't even spend $250 on my own mother, let alone some random hostess! The $12 bottle of sparkly hair glitter (that was very subtle and not tacky) is definitely on the to-do list, though.
A model paraded some holiday dress ideas, and I was all over this adorable little pink baby doll-ish dress, right up until they were like, "only $2,000! Great deal" and I fainted. Poof.
It made me feel a little better that D and some of her beautiful coworkers also thought the ideas were ridiculously extravagant, but it was fun to daydream about carrying around Sugar in a Juicy Couture pet carrier. (Not Tatum, though. If I know him, he would gnaw his way out of there all, "I travel on my own time, bee-yatch. Pass the kitty treats.")
We sat around sobering up, cleared the place out, and then I drove D home (once the handsome valet had retrieved my car, and even cleaned off the [cracked] windshield because apparently it was too filthy for him to see out of, uh heh heh. Hi.) because she had to get up in five hours for an extremely early flight to somewhere un-fun to take depositions. I slept more last night than she has in the last five days. On the other hand, she can afford the leopard print serving tray. So it's all a trade-off.
As I drove myself home, I called my friend K to talk about the evening. We laughed at the extremeness of it all, and she said, "I don't know. After all's said and done, I don't really think I'd like living like that. I think it would be very dull and meaningless after a while. Don't you agree?"
And I said, "No. It would be awesome. Sign me up."
Unfortunately, I doubt Herr MWOTH is going to hook me up with a fat raise, anytime soon. And for anyone who is curious, Herr My Way or the Highway is my evil boss, whom I introduced here.
But if any of you need some quirky, fun, overpriced presents this holiday season, I know just THE PLACE to send you. Happy waaaay-too-early holidays!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Royal Recipes
Salmon recipe for those who were interested (it's insanely easy):
* You will need:
Some salmon filets. (I usually do two. You can do more, go you with your right to choose!)
Aluminum foil.
Lemon juice.
Butter.
Light, dry wine. (I usually use a sauvignon blanc. Pinot grigio should would just fine, too.)
Soy sauce.
1 avocado and some cream cheese (if you are feeling sassy.)
* Sculpt (yes, sculpt!) two salmon-y sized open-top boxes for salmon filets out of the aluminum foil. Then place the two open-top boxes onto a baking sheet. This keeps the mess somewhat contained. Sometimes. Unless you poke a hole in one of the aluminum boxes, which I inevitably do.
* Wash and pat dry salmon filets and place in aluminum boxes, which you have sculpted.
* In a bowl mix:
1/2 cup wine
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup lemon juice
2-3 (or 4) tablespoons of melted butter
* pour goo in bowl onto salmon in aluminum
* place baking sheet in oven (which you have conveniently pre-heated, even though I forgot to tell you) and broil for about 20 minutes. Give or take. Brush sauce on salmon occasionally.
*take out, serve with slices of avocado and cream cheese on top, for that little somethin' extra.
Voila. Easy salmon à la Princess.
* * * * * *
Meanwhile, work is not going so well. Herr MWOTH continues to plague my existence with his presence. He's asked several of us to help out some of the regional sales managers with sales calls. I hate sales calls more than anything. I am not good at calling people and telling them to buy something, even if I do believe in the product. I'm more of a, "No, I don't have money for twenty copies of that book, either. That's dumb. I totally understand. Have a nice day!"-type girl.
Don't give me goals, unless they involve drinking a certain number of glasses of chardonnay in a set amount of time. If that was my goal, I would kick anyone else's ass and earn a bonus to boot.
Sadly, there is little demand for my wine consumption talents in the book world. But I seek to change that. Someday the world will realize just how valueable that can be. Once I've got my kingdom, I'm instituting all sorts of new policies involving chardonnay. Martini lunches will be once again integral to sales and a brandy snifter will be a prerequisite for editing. Oh, what a wonderful world it will be.
* You will need:
Some salmon filets. (I usually do two. You can do more, go you with your right to choose!)
Aluminum foil.
Lemon juice.
Butter.
Light, dry wine. (I usually use a sauvignon blanc. Pinot grigio should would just fine, too.)
Soy sauce.
1 avocado and some cream cheese (if you are feeling sassy.)
* Sculpt (yes, sculpt!) two salmon-y sized open-top boxes for salmon filets out of the aluminum foil. Then place the two open-top boxes onto a baking sheet. This keeps the mess somewhat contained. Sometimes. Unless you poke a hole in one of the aluminum boxes, which I inevitably do.
* Wash and pat dry salmon filets and place in aluminum boxes, which you have sculpted.
* In a bowl mix:
1/2 cup wine
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup lemon juice
2-3 (or 4) tablespoons of melted butter
* pour goo in bowl onto salmon in aluminum
* place baking sheet in oven (which you have conveniently pre-heated, even though I forgot to tell you) and broil for about 20 minutes. Give or take. Brush sauce on salmon occasionally.
*take out, serve with slices of avocado and cream cheese on top, for that little somethin' extra.
Voila. Easy salmon à la Princess.
* * * * * *
Meanwhile, work is not going so well. Herr MWOTH continues to plague my existence with his presence. He's asked several of us to help out some of the regional sales managers with sales calls. I hate sales calls more than anything. I am not good at calling people and telling them to buy something, even if I do believe in the product. I'm more of a, "No, I don't have money for twenty copies of that book, either. That's dumb. I totally understand. Have a nice day!"-type girl.
Don't give me goals, unless they involve drinking a certain number of glasses of chardonnay in a set amount of time. If that was my goal, I would kick anyone else's ass and earn a bonus to boot.
Sadly, there is little demand for my wine consumption talents in the book world. But I seek to change that. Someday the world will realize just how valueable that can be. Once I've got my kingdom, I'm instituting all sorts of new policies involving chardonnay. Martini lunches will be once again integral to sales and a brandy snifter will be a prerequisite for editing. Oh, what a wonderful world it will be.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Princesses Run on Their Own Time
Last night I was driving home all leisurely-like, (actually, it WAS leisurely, not just like leisurely) when I remembered, "Crap, our friend L is supposed to come over for dinner tonight!"
So I made a little detour to the liquor store, because when your house is a mess, and you're not sure what to serve guests, the answer is always: MORE ALCOHOL! They notice dirt and lack of food much less when they're plastered.
One sauvignon blanc and some random ass beer later, I swerved into my garage, freaked out both cats, and managed to vacuum our living room before L showed up exactly when he was supposed to. Damn him. But he was very good-natured about the mess, and settled in with his beer to begin idle chitchat. L is a darling Colombian who worked with me up at the ski resorts, and then played volleyball on a league with The Funasaurus last year. So he knows us both quite well, although he and I have a little more history, since we went through some very crazy years together.
The Funasaurus showed up soon after, and washed some dishes so that our guest did not have to eat salmon directly out of the cooking pan, and we sat down to eat well before midnight. The conversation over dinner went something like this:
Me: Have you heard from J and A?
L: Yes! And their baby S is doing quite well. Have you heard from C?
Me: Yes! And her baby A is doing quite well. Have you heard from M and K, and A and I?
L: All doing great. And I saw J and S, they have a second baby, as do S and A! So how's M these days?
Me: Fine, she's dating R, now, and her baby M is going really well. Wanna hear some juicy gossip?
L: Stupid question.
Me: JP and D are having an affair!
L: No.
Me: Oh, yes.
The Funasaurus: wondering about dessert, seeing as how he does not know J, A, S, C, A, M, K, A, I, J, S, S, A M, R, M, JP, or D.
We prattled on long enough for me to absentmindedly serve L some gorgonzola-y salad that I had just put together, only to remember two seconds too late that he doesn't like cheese, and The Funasaurus doesn't like blue cheese, so basically I made a big ol' salad for just me. (Great salad though, baby greens + thinly sliced red onion + tart apple slices + gorgonzola = almost good enough for me to eat 2.7 lbs of it all by myself. Almost.) Finally dessert was busted out, volleyball was mentioned for like, half a second, and we returned to gossiping, until L had to go.
The Funasaurus: So, ah, I don't know these people, but they seem to have lots of babies.
Me: Ha! Yeah. Suckers. But at least I feel like I have filled my gossip tank. I should be good for another 2,000 miles or 3 months, whichever comes first.
The Funasaurus smirked all the way to his video game, knowing that that was a complete lie, but because he picks his battles and tends to be just fine with keeping some jokes to himself, he did not say anything. Although he didn't fight too hard when I insisted on doing the dishes. But it was worth it. And this morning I didn't have to get up early to vote, so that meant for more snuggle time, and the only confusing piece of this whole equation is really: Why isn't it Friday, already?
So I made a little detour to the liquor store, because when your house is a mess, and you're not sure what to serve guests, the answer is always: MORE ALCOHOL! They notice dirt and lack of food much less when they're plastered.
One sauvignon blanc and some random ass beer later, I swerved into my garage, freaked out both cats, and managed to vacuum our living room before L showed up exactly when he was supposed to. Damn him. But he was very good-natured about the mess, and settled in with his beer to begin idle chitchat. L is a darling Colombian who worked with me up at the ski resorts, and then played volleyball on a league with The Funasaurus last year. So he knows us both quite well, although he and I have a little more history, since we went through some very crazy years together.
The Funasaurus showed up soon after, and washed some dishes so that our guest did not have to eat salmon directly out of the cooking pan, and we sat down to eat well before midnight. The conversation over dinner went something like this:
Me: Have you heard from J and A?
L: Yes! And their baby S is doing quite well. Have you heard from C?
Me: Yes! And her baby A is doing quite well. Have you heard from M and K, and A and I?
L: All doing great. And I saw J and S, they have a second baby, as do S and A! So how's M these days?
Me: Fine, she's dating R, now, and her baby M is going really well. Wanna hear some juicy gossip?
L: Stupid question.
Me: JP and D are having an affair!
L: No.
Me: Oh, yes.
The Funasaurus: wondering about dessert, seeing as how he does not know J, A, S, C, A, M, K, A, I, J, S, S, A M, R, M, JP, or D.
We prattled on long enough for me to absentmindedly serve L some gorgonzola-y salad that I had just put together, only to remember two seconds too late that he doesn't like cheese, and The Funasaurus doesn't like blue cheese, so basically I made a big ol' salad for just me. (Great salad though, baby greens + thinly sliced red onion + tart apple slices + gorgonzola = almost good enough for me to eat 2.7 lbs of it all by myself. Almost.) Finally dessert was busted out, volleyball was mentioned for like, half a second, and we returned to gossiping, until L had to go.
The Funasaurus: So, ah, I don't know these people, but they seem to have lots of babies.
Me: Ha! Yeah. Suckers. But at least I feel like I have filled my gossip tank. I should be good for another 2,000 miles or 3 months, whichever comes first.
The Funasaurus smirked all the way to his video game, knowing that that was a complete lie, but because he picks his battles and tends to be just fine with keeping some jokes to himself, he did not say anything. Although he didn't fight too hard when I insisted on doing the dishes. But it was worth it. And this morning I didn't have to get up early to vote, so that meant for more snuggle time, and the only confusing piece of this whole equation is really: Why isn't it Friday, already?
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I Would Vote for... Me
This morning The Funasaurus and I got up early to do our civic duty. The Funasaurus got up obscenely early to do an hour of oh-so-disciplined work before I bothered to drag myself out of bed at 6:15. I showered and smeared goo in my hair and called it good because blow-drying seemed unreasonably long and complicated, and we were off, arriving not too long after the polls opened at 7:00.
Our voting site was at the local elementary school. This was bad because KIDS! Playing! Confusing things! Adults don't function a) happily b) nimbly, so as to avoid bouncing balls, that early in the morning. And also: new school, so they didn't have the kinks worked out, yet, so the line was very slow-moving due to overwhelmed computer systems. Also: short hallways, so the line wound around and around and out the door, to where I sat shivering with my wet hair.
This was good because: elementary school = BAKE SALE! Tra-la! Oh, there were goodies for those of us waiting in line, available at SUCH reasonable prices. I love lower education fund raisers. What killed me was that no one else seemed half as excited about the banana bread and cupcakes. CUPCAKES, people! They even brought them to you while you waited! I sat there twitching in anticipation, silently willing people away from the chocolate things, while the guy made his way down the line with his little basket. I could feel the sugar coming. The Funasaurus acted like he didn't know me. No one else in line seemed interested (their loss) and I got a huge-ass Rice Krispy treat that was so delicious I can't even tell you; I haven't had one of those in YEARS.
Then I voted and I got my sticker. Of course, that didn't come easily, either. I love stickers! It's why I vote. I love elitist feeling of, oh-you-have-to-be-special-to-get-this-sticker! Once I made it through the line and voted, there was a short line filtering out of the school. And somewhere in the midst was an old lady with a roll of stickers. She tried to give one to the guy in front of me, but he turned her down. (?!) (Again, their loss.) Then she acted like she would skip me, so I sat there in front of her and was all, "Gimme."
She looked rather surprised, actually. But she gave me a sticker. Then I waited for The Funasaurus, who breezed past the old lady and I very pointedly caught him by the elbow, made eye contact with the lady, and was like, "Baby, don't you want your sticker???" very loudly. She happily obliged. I am starting to realize what a significant portion of The Funasaurus' life is spent pretending to not know me.
Whatever. I know he's secretly grateful he got a sticker.
Rock the vote, y'all. Feel the elitist sticker love.
Our voting site was at the local elementary school. This was bad because KIDS! Playing! Confusing things! Adults don't function a) happily b) nimbly, so as to avoid bouncing balls, that early in the morning. And also: new school, so they didn't have the kinks worked out, yet, so the line was very slow-moving due to overwhelmed computer systems. Also: short hallways, so the line wound around and around and out the door, to where I sat shivering with my wet hair.
This was good because: elementary school = BAKE SALE! Tra-la! Oh, there were goodies for those of us waiting in line, available at SUCH reasonable prices. I love lower education fund raisers. What killed me was that no one else seemed half as excited about the banana bread and cupcakes. CUPCAKES, people! They even brought them to you while you waited! I sat there twitching in anticipation, silently willing people away from the chocolate things, while the guy made his way down the line with his little basket. I could feel the sugar coming. The Funasaurus acted like he didn't know me. No one else in line seemed interested (their loss) and I got a huge-ass Rice Krispy treat that was so delicious I can't even tell you; I haven't had one of those in YEARS.
Then I voted and I got my sticker. Of course, that didn't come easily, either. I love stickers! It's why I vote. I love elitist feeling of, oh-you-have-to-be-special-to-get-this-sticker! Once I made it through the line and voted, there was a short line filtering out of the school. And somewhere in the midst was an old lady with a roll of stickers. She tried to give one to the guy in front of me, but he turned her down. (?!) (Again, their loss.) Then she acted like she would skip me, so I sat there in front of her and was all, "Gimme."
She looked rather surprised, actually. But she gave me a sticker. Then I waited for The Funasaurus, who breezed past the old lady and I very pointedly caught him by the elbow, made eye contact with the lady, and was like, "Baby, don't you want your sticker???" very loudly. She happily obliged. I am starting to realize what a significant portion of The Funasaurus' life is spent pretending to not know me.
Whatever. I know he's secretly grateful he got a sticker.
Rock the vote, y'all. Feel the elitist sticker love.
Monday, November 06, 2006
My Cat Would Cut You. Cut You So Deep.
Which one of you sick monkeys found my site by googling "cat assholes"??? Dirty!
Also: Ew.
Also: I doubt you found what you were looking for when it led you to the page where I (Cat) called some tech support at a large phone company that rhymes with Dumbmast "assholes."
But seriously. Give that shit up, o.k.? There are many other ways to find happiness beyond the molestations of small, undoubtedly very unhappy and uncooperative felines.
Speaking of unhappy and uncooperative felines... The Funasaurus and I got lazy and forgot to buy the special brand of very healthy/doesn't promote cannibalism/natural ingredients cat food that I insist upon feeding our cats. Instead, we got them a cheap, PetSmart cat food because we weren't able to get to the specialty store that sells my preferred brand. (The Funasaurus refers to all this as A Major Pain in the Ass. I refer to this as a-Princess-naturally-wants-only-the-most-expensive-and-hardest-to-get-stuff. Duh.) But: Oh! Sugar and Tatum LIKE the cheap stuff. Mmmm, processed, chemically-enhanced, diseased horse meat. They practically snorted it.
The Funasaurus and I continue our lazy streak, and the cheap PetSmart stuff runs out and STILL no fancy-schmancy food. So in the grocery store I compromise and get a small bag of the supermarket version of organic pet food.
HA! Our cats are not really hippies. At all. They'd be more into Big Macs and Kraft mac & cheese, if they were human. They took one sniff of their new organic stuff and were like, "Oh hell no." Also, "Where's the meat, motherfuckers?"
Tatum, being half-goat, managed to choke some down. Because his plumpy butt needed sustenance. Sugar, meanwhile, went anorexic on us. There was lots of melodramatic feline sighing, and meowing at three o'clock in the morning. "Meow-I'm-dying-rrowoor-I-wither-meooooow-wake-up-already,assholes-and-get-my-pitiful-self-some-decent-food-*sigh.*"
Back we went to PetSmart, because the damn fancy-schmancy store that is nowhere near to anything and is also apparently closed on Sunday and Monday. Grrrr.
Sugar is back to processed horse, and we are all much happier.
I, meanwhile, decided to follow her very unhealthy example, and am polishing off the sixth bag of Halloween candy at an alarming rate, because we got crap for trick-or-treaters (SIX! Count them, SIX, and that includes the two stupid parents who thought they deserved candy, too) and were therefore left with copious amounts of good candy, which I have been using to sooth my irked nerves at the fact that Kids These Days are totally un-fun.
*sigh*
Pass the Whoppers, please.
Also: Ew.
Also: I doubt you found what you were looking for when it led you to the page where I (Cat) called some tech support at a large phone company that rhymes with Dumbmast "assholes."
But seriously. Give that shit up, o.k.? There are many other ways to find happiness beyond the molestations of small, undoubtedly very unhappy and uncooperative felines.
Speaking of unhappy and uncooperative felines... The Funasaurus and I got lazy and forgot to buy the special brand of very healthy/doesn't promote cannibalism/natural ingredients cat food that I insist upon feeding our cats. Instead, we got them a cheap, PetSmart cat food because we weren't able to get to the specialty store that sells my preferred brand. (The Funasaurus refers to all this as A Major Pain in the Ass. I refer to this as a-Princess-naturally-wants-only-the-most-expensive-and-hardest-to-get-stuff. Duh.) But: Oh! Sugar and Tatum LIKE the cheap stuff. Mmmm, processed, chemically-enhanced, diseased horse meat. They practically snorted it.
The Funasaurus and I continue our lazy streak, and the cheap PetSmart stuff runs out and STILL no fancy-schmancy food. So in the grocery store I compromise and get a small bag of the supermarket version of organic pet food.
HA! Our cats are not really hippies. At all. They'd be more into Big Macs and Kraft mac & cheese, if they were human. They took one sniff of their new organic stuff and were like, "Oh hell no." Also, "Where's the meat, motherfuckers?"
Tatum, being half-goat, managed to choke some down. Because his plumpy butt needed sustenance. Sugar, meanwhile, went anorexic on us. There was lots of melodramatic feline sighing, and meowing at three o'clock in the morning. "Meow-I'm-dying-rrowoor-I-wither-meooooow-wake-up-already,assholes-and-get-my-pitiful-self-some-decent-food-*sigh.*"
Back we went to PetSmart, because the damn fancy-schmancy store that is nowhere near to anything and is also apparently closed on Sunday and Monday. Grrrr.
Sugar is back to processed horse, and we are all much happier.
I, meanwhile, decided to follow her very unhealthy example, and am polishing off the sixth bag of Halloween candy at an alarming rate, because we got crap for trick-or-treaters (SIX! Count them, SIX, and that includes the two stupid parents who thought they deserved candy, too) and were therefore left with copious amounts of good candy, which I have been using to sooth my irked nerves at the fact that Kids These Days are totally un-fun.
*sigh*
Pass the Whoppers, please.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Confessions of a Princess
I can't stand the suspense!
The answer is: #1. I would never be mean to a foreign exchange student, silly people! I WAS a foreign exchange student. And the thought never would have crossed my mind to convince someone else to do something like that since I was never dumb enough to kiss a teacher to expect an A. (Except in Psych 101. But that was really more due to throes of passion, the A was just a nice bonus.)
So anyway, I am not mean like that, there was no foreign exchange student from Spain. (Or Italy, or anywhere else, V. But props for being the only person to guess #1.) There was, however, very good beer to be brewed in the bathtub at college. Seriously. It even got my dad's stamp of approval, which was quite an honor.
The same cannot be said, for the "wine" we made by distilling a stolen container of frozen grape juice concentrate from the cafeteria. That was finally disposed of only by prescribing it to Major Losers in drinking games.
My wedding will, indeed, involve a floating couch (more specifically, a lovely, large raft upon which a leather couch sits) and wolves, since the venue also happens to be a wolf habitat. I desperately want one to howl at some key point in the ceremony. ... Maybe I can hire a fire truck to go by at just the right instant. That always seems to set 'em off.
And I have been kissed by Paul Simon.
Tee hee!
(The fact that it was more of a nice-to-meet-you-peck-on-the-cheek backstage is a very secondary detail.)
And Switzerland loves me. Because I am a) cute b) princess-like c) stubborn. They tried to send me back to France, when I couldn't produce a passport but, oh-no. I have quite the control over my tear ducts and the waterworks went ON! and Swiss men, while very advanced in many ways, are still rather chivalrous and couldn't bear to see a maiden cry. Not the boarder control, customs agents, or police. Suckers.
So they let me come in. At midnight. On the last train. Then they discovered I intended to wander in the streets until I found a hotel, and oh-no,-not-at-this-hour-of-the-night-young-lady-do-you-know-what-kind-of-hooligans-are-out-there?(more stern looks: them / more lip trembling: me) and so nothing would do but that they would take me back to the police station. So I was given an escort back to the station, and felt that it was a good sign I was asked to sit in the front seat of the police car instead of the back, and was even allowed to play with the siren button.
At the station they let me call my parents in California, "Hi mom! Sorry to wake you up! I'm in the police station in Switzerland! Have a good night!" (She loved that.)
And then I was told I could take a nap on a cot. Except in the cot room there were a group of officers not really busy "working" so much as watching Pulp Fiction in English and sharing a large bottle of JD. So I was given a generous glass, and told to help translate what was going on, English not being one of the four national languages of Switzerland.
Then a cute officer-in-training gave me a ride up to the mountains the next day.
Ahhh.
And that is how it came to be that I never tricked a foreign exchange student. I had too much other shit going on.
Happy Friday!
The answer is: #1. I would never be mean to a foreign exchange student, silly people! I WAS a foreign exchange student. And the thought never would have crossed my mind to convince someone else to do something like that since I was never dumb enough to kiss a teacher to expect an A. (Except in Psych 101. But that was really more due to throes of passion, the A was just a nice bonus.)
So anyway, I am not mean like that, there was no foreign exchange student from Spain. (Or Italy, or anywhere else, V. But props for being the only person to guess #1.) There was, however, very good beer to be brewed in the bathtub at college. Seriously. It even got my dad's stamp of approval, which was quite an honor.
The same cannot be said, for the "wine" we made by distilling a stolen container of frozen grape juice concentrate from the cafeteria. That was finally disposed of only by prescribing it to Major Losers in drinking games.
My wedding will, indeed, involve a floating couch (more specifically, a lovely, large raft upon which a leather couch sits) and wolves, since the venue also happens to be a wolf habitat. I desperately want one to howl at some key point in the ceremony. ... Maybe I can hire a fire truck to go by at just the right instant. That always seems to set 'em off.
And I have been kissed by Paul Simon.
Tee hee!
(The fact that it was more of a nice-to-meet-you-peck-on-the-cheek backstage is a very secondary detail.)
And Switzerland loves me. Because I am a) cute b) princess-like c) stubborn. They tried to send me back to France, when I couldn't produce a passport but, oh-no. I have quite the control over my tear ducts and the waterworks went ON! and Swiss men, while very advanced in many ways, are still rather chivalrous and couldn't bear to see a maiden cry. Not the boarder control, customs agents, or police. Suckers.
So they let me come in. At midnight. On the last train. Then they discovered I intended to wander in the streets until I found a hotel, and oh-no,-not-at-this-hour-of-the-night-young-lady-do-you-know-what-kind-of-hooligans-are-out-there?(more stern looks: them / more lip trembling: me) and so nothing would do but that they would take me back to the police station. So I was given an escort back to the station, and felt that it was a good sign I was asked to sit in the front seat of the police car instead of the back, and was even allowed to play with the siren button.
At the station they let me call my parents in California, "Hi mom! Sorry to wake you up! I'm in the police station in Switzerland! Have a good night!" (She loved that.)
And then I was told I could take a nap on a cot. Except in the cot room there were a group of officers not really busy "working" so much as watching Pulp Fiction in English and sharing a large bottle of JD. So I was given a generous glass, and told to help translate what was going on, English not being one of the four national languages of Switzerland.
Then a cute officer-in-training gave me a ride up to the mountains the next day.
Ahhh.
And that is how it came to be that I never tricked a foreign exchange student. I had too much other shit going on.
Happy Friday!
Thursday, November 02, 2006
My Millennium
mmm. I so desperately love reading people's comments that I'm totally not going to give away the answer, yet. Maybe tomorrow. Tee hee.
Today I will tell you the story of crashing a B- celebrity party in France for the millennium, which is also a good story, but I couldn't condense enough to fit into yesterday's list of mostly-not-lies.
It is the year 1999. (And oh, how we partied. Like it was 1999. All seven and we'll watch them fall. Anyone? Anyone? echo...echo...echo) So I decide to study abroad, and with a little detour, (Denver to Washington D.C. to L.A. [ooops, turns out I'll need a visa for this trip] back to Washington D.C. to Paris in the span of 4 days) I head to Paris early to stay with some friends and bring in the millennium Euro-style, hoping that Y2K does not blow up the Eiffel Tower or cause the Seine to implode.
Quite the contrary, December 1999 was the Year of the Many Floods. The Seine did not implode so much as runneth over. And our swanky party, complete with champagne fountain, scheduled to occur on a large boat on the Seine, was moved into a hall in downtown Paris.
So we got ourselves dressed and make-up upped, and got on the metro (with the rest of the population of France and part of Germany, it seemed) and made our way downtown to the hall. Where, it turned out, they had combined several parties. And there was a mob (a MOB, I tell you!) outside of the entry way, and some Very Large Bouncers were not letting anyone in. We tried screaming that we had tickets, but it was no use, we couldn't get anywhere near the door. So we spent over an hour in the impromptu mosh pit in front of the door, trying to jar our way forward without having our ribs crushed by the mob or high heels crushed by the cobblestones. Until the police showed up in full-on riot gear, marching in a line with shields, waving gas.
That's when we decided to leave.
So we ran around the corner and watched the crowd scatter as the police blocked off the road to where we had been. Looking up at about the sixth floor, I saw a happy bunch of people out on a balcony dancing and waving. Since it was another side of the same building, and our party was supposed to be in a large ballroom, I assumed it was our party that I was seeing. My friend and I wandered across the street and up to the building. There was a door, but it was to the apartments, which appeared to be on the first couple of floors. We hung out for a little while, and eventually a woman showed up with a key to get in to her apartment. She wasn't thrilled about letting us in, but I imagine we didn't look too dangerous, both of us being fairly petite and pasty and all dressed up in backless dresses and heels.
We raced up the stairs to where we heard the music, and banged on the door. It swung open, and we were greeted by a tall, stunningly beautiful woman who ushered us in to the small room full of people dancing to a really intense rhythm. I assumed this was a back room to the main party, so we raced to the back to find the main room, and the champagne fountain.
Dead end.
It suddenly dawned on me that we were in a private apartment.
We turned around to asses the situation. Good-looking people were dancing and grinding around us. Two people were on the couch doing a lot less dancing and a lot more grinding. I turned to look at my friend, with her long, corn silk blond hair. She looks at me with my pale, haven't-seen-the-sun-in-months exposed back and jet-lagged eyes. We look at the room full of beautiful black people who are starting to notice that, um, two of these things are not like the others....
We do a little white girl bop and start to inch our way back to the door from whence we came, when a large white guy with a girl under each arm emerges from the bedroom and intercepts us. My friend is unable to utter more than, "le squeak."
I start explaining that we got lost in my very broken French, and my friend (who IS French) finally picks up and explains what we've been through, that night. The guy laughs, and tells us to stay, and to help ourselves to the spread of delicious food in the living room, as long as we don't steal his very expensive, very large stereo equipment. We promise we won't. Everyone goes back to dancing, and some are even generous enough to incorporate us into their circle and attempt to teach us how to dance. (Ha. Futile, but I do not tell them so.) At one point my friend leans over excitedly to tell me something, but between the music, the jet-lag, and the excitement, I don't really get more than, "I recognize her!" and all I think is, "Oh PHEW. There must be somebody here from her university, or something."
We finally leave around 5:00 in the morning, only to find the metros shut down, but the lights still on, so Y2K has not ended the world as we know it, and we buy ourselves a celebratory crepe filled with Nutella (read: mouthly-orgasm) and begin the long journey home. Part by foot. Part by bus. Part by I-have-no-idea-how-we-made-it-but-we-did.
We slept the whole day, and woke up in time for dinner with the family. As we're sitting around eating hors d'oeuvres and sipping something tasty, my friend flips through the channels, and finds a show called "Le Big Dil." (As in, "deal" spelled very incorrectly. I couldn't make this up if I tried.) It's basically a game show that was very popular in the late 90s, partly due to the fact that they had In Living Color-type fly girls who came out and did dances between the games and doling out prizes. My friend motioned for me to watch, and I almost choke on my champagne as half of our party from the night before file onto stage and start gyrating.
We had crashed the French fly girl party.
And that's why my millennium rocked.
Today I will tell you the story of crashing a B- celebrity party in France for the millennium, which is also a good story, but I couldn't condense enough to fit into yesterday's list of mostly-not-lies.
It is the year 1999. (And oh, how we partied. Like it was 1999. All seven and we'll watch them fall. Anyone? Anyone? echo...echo...echo) So I decide to study abroad, and with a little detour, (Denver to Washington D.C. to L.A. [ooops, turns out I'll need a visa for this trip] back to Washington D.C. to Paris in the span of 4 days) I head to Paris early to stay with some friends and bring in the millennium Euro-style, hoping that Y2K does not blow up the Eiffel Tower or cause the Seine to implode.
Quite the contrary, December 1999 was the Year of the Many Floods. The Seine did not implode so much as runneth over. And our swanky party, complete with champagne fountain, scheduled to occur on a large boat on the Seine, was moved into a hall in downtown Paris.
So we got ourselves dressed and make-up upped, and got on the metro (with the rest of the population of France and part of Germany, it seemed) and made our way downtown to the hall. Where, it turned out, they had combined several parties. And there was a mob (a MOB, I tell you!) outside of the entry way, and some Very Large Bouncers were not letting anyone in. We tried screaming that we had tickets, but it was no use, we couldn't get anywhere near the door. So we spent over an hour in the impromptu mosh pit in front of the door, trying to jar our way forward without having our ribs crushed by the mob or high heels crushed by the cobblestones. Until the police showed up in full-on riot gear, marching in a line with shields, waving gas.
That's when we decided to leave.
So we ran around the corner and watched the crowd scatter as the police blocked off the road to where we had been. Looking up at about the sixth floor, I saw a happy bunch of people out on a balcony dancing and waving. Since it was another side of the same building, and our party was supposed to be in a large ballroom, I assumed it was our party that I was seeing. My friend and I wandered across the street and up to the building. There was a door, but it was to the apartments, which appeared to be on the first couple of floors. We hung out for a little while, and eventually a woman showed up with a key to get in to her apartment. She wasn't thrilled about letting us in, but I imagine we didn't look too dangerous, both of us being fairly petite and pasty and all dressed up in backless dresses and heels.
We raced up the stairs to where we heard the music, and banged on the door. It swung open, and we were greeted by a tall, stunningly beautiful woman who ushered us in to the small room full of people dancing to a really intense rhythm. I assumed this was a back room to the main party, so we raced to the back to find the main room, and the champagne fountain.
Dead end.
It suddenly dawned on me that we were in a private apartment.
We turned around to asses the situation. Good-looking people were dancing and grinding around us. Two people were on the couch doing a lot less dancing and a lot more grinding. I turned to look at my friend, with her long, corn silk blond hair. She looks at me with my pale, haven't-seen-the-sun-in-months exposed back and jet-lagged eyes. We look at the room full of beautiful black people who are starting to notice that, um, two of these things are not like the others....
We do a little white girl bop and start to inch our way back to the door from whence we came, when a large white guy with a girl under each arm emerges from the bedroom and intercepts us. My friend is unable to utter more than, "le squeak."
I start explaining that we got lost in my very broken French, and my friend (who IS French) finally picks up and explains what we've been through, that night. The guy laughs, and tells us to stay, and to help ourselves to the spread of delicious food in the living room, as long as we don't steal his very expensive, very large stereo equipment. We promise we won't. Everyone goes back to dancing, and some are even generous enough to incorporate us into their circle and attempt to teach us how to dance. (Ha. Futile, but I do not tell them so.) At one point my friend leans over excitedly to tell me something, but between the music, the jet-lag, and the excitement, I don't really get more than, "I recognize her!" and all I think is, "Oh PHEW. There must be somebody here from her university, or something."
We finally leave around 5:00 in the morning, only to find the metros shut down, but the lights still on, so Y2K has not ended the world as we know it, and we buy ourselves a celebratory crepe filled with Nutella (read: mouthly-orgasm) and begin the long journey home. Part by foot. Part by bus. Part by I-have-no-idea-how-we-made-it-but-we-did.
We slept the whole day, and woke up in time for dinner with the family. As we're sitting around eating hors d'oeuvres and sipping something tasty, my friend flips through the channels, and finds a show called "Le Big Dil." (As in, "deal" spelled very incorrectly. I couldn't make this up if I tried.) It's basically a game show that was very popular in the late 90s, partly due to the fact that they had In Living Color-type fly girls who came out and did dances between the games and doling out prizes. My friend motioned for me to watch, and I almost choke on my champagne as half of our party from the night before file onto stage and start gyrating.
We had crashed the French fly girl party.
And that's why my millennium rocked.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
My First Tag. Would I Lie to You?
Oh! I got tagged! Yesterday. Hi. Slow reader, here. Tagged with something about guessing a lie.
I don't lie. (That's a lie.)
...
Or is it?
But in any case, I will make an exception to my (not a) rule here, and make a list of 5 things I've done in my life, one of which is a lie. You get to guess which one it is, and answer in the comments. If you have nothing better to do.
1) In high school, I convinced a foreign exchange student from Spain to kiss the drama teacher during a skit because I told her it was a sure way to get an "A"
2) I brewed beer in a bathtub in college
3) My wedding will include a floating couch and wolves
4) I've been kissed by Paul Simon
5) I snuck into Switzerland without a passport via tears, a ride in a cop car, and an overnight in a Swiss police station translating Pulp Fiction for the officers on duty and drinking a copious amount of whiskey.
And thanks to the lovely Lisa for the tag! I feel so popular. :-)
And now I tag Marcia and Meno and V and Katie Q.
Lie to me, baby.
I don't lie. (That's a lie.)
...
Or is it?
But in any case, I will make an exception to my (not a) rule here, and make a list of 5 things I've done in my life, one of which is a lie. You get to guess which one it is, and answer in the comments. If you have nothing better to do.
1) In high school, I convinced a foreign exchange student from Spain to kiss the drama teacher during a skit because I told her it was a sure way to get an "A"
2) I brewed beer in a bathtub in college
3) My wedding will include a floating couch and wolves
4) I've been kissed by Paul Simon
5) I snuck into Switzerland without a passport via tears, a ride in a cop car, and an overnight in a Swiss police station translating Pulp Fiction for the officers on duty and drinking a copious amount of whiskey.
And thanks to the lovely Lisa for the tag! I feel so popular. :-)
And now I tag Marcia and Meno and V and Katie Q.
Lie to me, baby.
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