Overeating is always a good time. Overeating when there are holly cookies involved is a doubly good time, because they are pure marshmallow-y green goodness. And so, for the past week, I have been stuffing myself fully of all sorts of good food, including several rounds of steak and holly cookies. Sometimes, not in that order. Holly cookies are great because… your body doesn’t process copious amounts of green food coloring so well. So. Ah. When you consume about a tablespoon of the stuff a day, let’s just say that it adds a whole new element to visiting the little girls room.
Si-i-i-i-ck.
Why did I share that?
So this morning I felt ill and lumpy, and decided I should take a walk. The Funasaurus and I occasionally walk to Einstein’s Bagels on the weekends, which is about three miles away, so I decided that would be a good idea to do, while I am still on vacation. (New job starts next Tuesday, and it’s in publishing, so plbthbthbthbth I am SO not serving fries with that!) Of course, when The Funasaurus and I go, there is usually not two feet of snow covering everything.
I thought I was prepared… I put on warm socks, snow boots, my fleece, and my ski jacket. But about halfway there, my foot felt funny. It was an odd sensation, one that I haven’t really felt since I was a kid. My sock was all scrunched down in my boot. I forget what a pain in the ass cold weather apparel can be. So I took off my gloves, bent down, and after fishing around a lot, finally bothered to unzip my boot to get to my damn sock. I pulled it up and felt the familiar rub of a blister starting to form.
Auugghhhh!
Where is a chauffeur when you need one? Seeing as how I was already halfway there, though, I pushed on. (After adjusting my other sock in my other boot and also discovering another blister, there.)
I limped into Einstein’s about twenty minutes later, and two more stops to pull up my apparently-elastic-less socks.
I got my bagel, and removed my boots, and ignore the glares from the people across the room who apparently caught a whiff of my foot stench.
I then debated calling a cab, as I sat there feeling very sorry for myself. But then I remembered, oh, haha, that’s right, I don’t have a job or an income, so perhaps a cab is a bit of a frivolous way to spend my remaining dollars.
So I limped home. But I stopped by the liquor store on the way, and spent my remaining dollars there, instead. A much better use of my money, I must say. Not only did I arrive home in less pain, but I am having a helluv a Wednesday afternoon! Wheee!
And THIS is the most incredible stuff. (And dear God, if you click on the link, be sure to turn on your speakers. Any alcoholic-y drink that tells me I don't look a day over 21 and plays sweet, sweet music is awesome.) Especially when mixed with champagne. Shout out to Shooting Star, who found my new favoritest drink, ever. Mwah.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
It's the Hard-Knock Life... For Sugar
Sugar has gotten more and more daring, recently. We made the fatal mistake of taking her outside on a leash, once (yeah, we were those people- the ones with a cat on the leash) and she l-o-o-o-o-v-e-d it. (The outdoors, not so much the leash.) Ever since, she has been plotting her dash to freedom. She has gotten sneaky about the front door opening, and we have learned to pick her up when guests come in or out because Sugar has figured out that unsuspecting guests are less quick to shut the door than mom, with her lightning-like reflexes. (ha.)
So when the snowstorm of the century (or, at least, the last two years) hit, I decided to teach Sugar a little lesson. Because I am cruel and sadistic, finding pleasure in the little fluff ball’s pain. I opened the door wide, and walked out into a drift of snow, about two feet high all “ho hum, I seem to have forgotten the door…” and The Funasaurus followed me because he wanted to see the action, and sure enough, Sugar was right on his heels.
There was the dart, and then the sudden squeal of “Ew my PAWS are COLD AND WET! MOTHERFUCKER!” And then she climbed The Funasaurus like a tree, wiping her paws on his jacket as she went. So she sat on The Funasaurus’ shoulders looking out over the sea of whiteness all, “This is not how I remembered it.” She kept trying to touch the snow on the railing, and would get very confused when it would a) fall away and b) make her cold and wet. Again.
I was laughing so hard, I forgot to get a picture. But Sugar was still angry at how this had all turned out, and she would seek vengeance. A blast of wind did her in, as she squished her little face into a look of pure feline disgust, and we retreated inside.
A little later, we decided we should probably see what it would take to shovel out our driveway, and we opened the door to the garage to get our boots. There was a sound which I think was either a sonic boom, given her speed, or an unsteady pile of 2X4s being knocked over, I’m not sure, by Sugar in all of her quest-for-freedom-fury.
“Sugar!” I screamed.
“She’s not really going anywhere, what with the garage door being closed and all,” reasoned The Funasaurus.
“Get her get her get her!” I screamed, jumping from foot to foot, not really being the reason-y-type.
So we got down on our hands and knees and realized just exactly why some people bother to sweep their garages from time to time, and finally hauled out a formerly white kitty from under the car. She was disgusting and hateful, but I was very relieved to have her back in the house. Her first course of action, upon being released from my vice grip once we were safely locked back in the house, was to jump onto my kitchen counter with all of her car grease and garage floor filth. “Sugar!” I screamed, for the bazillionth time.
She jumped down, rolled her eyes, and went to her kitty tree to clean herself up. (Side note. The link to the cat tree is not our exact one... but I do think I MUST own it, because it is PINK and named Sugar. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.) As far as I can tell, she was awake most of the night, glaring at us from her perch. But thus far, there have been no more breaks for freedom. We’ll see what tonight brings, though, when I have to leave the house wearing heels. She knows, man. She knows. And she is plotting.
Oh, and P.S. I got a job. Yay.
So when the snowstorm of the century (or, at least, the last two years) hit, I decided to teach Sugar a little lesson. Because I am cruel and sadistic, finding pleasure in the little fluff ball’s pain. I opened the door wide, and walked out into a drift of snow, about two feet high all “ho hum, I seem to have forgotten the door…” and The Funasaurus followed me because he wanted to see the action, and sure enough, Sugar was right on his heels.
There was the dart, and then the sudden squeal of “Ew my PAWS are COLD AND WET! MOTHERFUCKER!” And then she climbed The Funasaurus like a tree, wiping her paws on his jacket as she went. So she sat on The Funasaurus’ shoulders looking out over the sea of whiteness all, “This is not how I remembered it.” She kept trying to touch the snow on the railing, and would get very confused when it would a) fall away and b) make her cold and wet. Again.
I was laughing so hard, I forgot to get a picture. But Sugar was still angry at how this had all turned out, and she would seek vengeance. A blast of wind did her in, as she squished her little face into a look of pure feline disgust, and we retreated inside.
A little later, we decided we should probably see what it would take to shovel out our driveway, and we opened the door to the garage to get our boots. There was a sound which I think was either a sonic boom, given her speed, or an unsteady pile of 2X4s being knocked over, I’m not sure, by Sugar in all of her quest-for-freedom-fury.
“Sugar!” I screamed.
“She’s not really going anywhere, what with the garage door being closed and all,” reasoned The Funasaurus.
“Get her get her get her!” I screamed, jumping from foot to foot, not really being the reason-y-type.
So we got down on our hands and knees and realized just exactly why some people bother to sweep their garages from time to time, and finally hauled out a formerly white kitty from under the car. She was disgusting and hateful, but I was very relieved to have her back in the house. Her first course of action, upon being released from my vice grip once we were safely locked back in the house, was to jump onto my kitchen counter with all of her car grease and garage floor filth. “Sugar!” I screamed, for the bazillionth time.
She jumped down, rolled her eyes, and went to her kitty tree to clean herself up. (Side note. The link to the cat tree is not our exact one... but I do think I MUST own it, because it is PINK and named Sugar. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.) As far as I can tell, she was awake most of the night, glaring at us from her perch. But thus far, there have been no more breaks for freedom. We’ll see what tonight brings, though, when I have to leave the house wearing heels. She knows, man. She knows. And she is plotting.
Oh, and P.S. I got a job. Yay.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Update on My Life
Finding a job hasn’t been so easy, after I got fired for being caught doing lines of an illegal white powder off the copier with my lesbian lover. Fortunately, the nightclub where she dances was willing to give me a gig for a while, and I get to keep all the tips I make. The Funasaurus is very supportive of this new career move, seeing as how I have to invest in a new wardrobe of lingerie. I’ve also started to smoke a new brand of cigarettes, the exotic euro cigs may be far worse for my lungs, but they smell oh-so-divine, and I swear my cough is sexier.
Meanwhile I continue to rack up credit card debt, and we may not be able to make our mortgage payment this month, but whatever because I’m the proud new owner of my own little motorcycle! Yee-haw! Can you imagine how much I’ll eventually save on gas? Plus, the club owner is teaching me to do wheelies.
So that’s all that’s new with me. Same ol’, same ol’, really.
***confidential to my loyal readers, most of whom are complete strangers that I have never met***
My brilliant little bro decided to tell my parents that I have a blog. I have decided to do a little experiment and see just how fast I can get disinherited.
Meanwhile I continue to rack up credit card debt, and we may not be able to make our mortgage payment this month, but whatever because I’m the proud new owner of my own little motorcycle! Yee-haw! Can you imagine how much I’ll eventually save on gas? Plus, the club owner is teaching me to do wheelies.
So that’s all that’s new with me. Same ol’, same ol’, really.
***confidential to my loyal readers, most of whom are complete strangers that I have never met***
My brilliant little bro decided to tell my parents that I have a blog. I have decided to do a little experiment and see just how fast I can get disinherited.
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Twelve Royal Days of Christmas, As Acted Out by My Cat….
On the first day of Christmas,
my Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
A big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the second day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the third day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Eleven inches of my fabric tape measure a-remaining,
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Twelve pills for birth a-preventing,
Eleven inches of my fabric tape measure a-remaining,
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
Get in the holiday mood, y’all! Tatum so did bring us a piece of our new Christmas tree last night, around midnight. I heard this *whispwhispwhisp* sound in the hallway, and it woke me up, so I could tell Tatum had something in his mouth, but I couldn’t see what. (Usually I have no idea we are about to play fetch until it lands on my face.) I could tell he was proud of himself, though because his tail was all doi-oi-oi-oing! ramrod-straight, and he was trotting. Until he tried to get through the doorway, at which point it looked like he ran into an invisible wall, wherein his head stayed in about the same spot but his plump little hind legs kept walking, scrunching his little body up. There was a little feline confusion as I reached down and realized he had a sizeable stick of pine in his mouth that he had retrieved from the tree, and it had gotten caught on the doorframe. I didn’t even take it away from him, I was snickering so hard, and he was so bewildered. Now there is sap all over our carpet. But it was worth it, in Tatum-world. (Sung to the tune of Joy to the World): Joy to the tree, the feisty kitty has come. Let Earth, be prepeared for his evilness!
Man, this caroling stuff is eay.
Jingle Bells, litterbox smells?
Hark! The herald new-security-system rings,
Glory to, my newly protected bling-bling....
So many options!
my Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
A big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the second day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the third day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Eleven inches of my fabric tape measure a-remaining,
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My Tatum fetched to me (whilst I slept):
Twelve pills for birth a-preventing,
Eleven inches of my fabric tape measure a-remaining,
Ten tiny candy canes a-sticking,
Nine sample packets of lotion a-oozing,
Eight pieces of tissue paper a-tearing,
Seven mice a-decomposing,
Six pens a-leaking,
Five col-lar staaaaays (for the Funasaurus’ suit),
Four plastic straws,
Three French fries (stale),
Two hair bands,
And a big branch from our Christmas tree.
Get in the holiday mood, y’all! Tatum so did bring us a piece of our new Christmas tree last night, around midnight. I heard this *whispwhispwhisp* sound in the hallway, and it woke me up, so I could tell Tatum had something in his mouth, but I couldn’t see what. (Usually I have no idea we are about to play fetch until it lands on my face.) I could tell he was proud of himself, though because his tail was all doi-oi-oi-oing! ramrod-straight, and he was trotting. Until he tried to get through the doorway, at which point it looked like he ran into an invisible wall, wherein his head stayed in about the same spot but his plump little hind legs kept walking, scrunching his little body up. There was a little feline confusion as I reached down and realized he had a sizeable stick of pine in his mouth that he had retrieved from the tree, and it had gotten caught on the doorframe. I didn’t even take it away from him, I was snickering so hard, and he was so bewildered. Now there is sap all over our carpet. But it was worth it, in Tatum-world. (Sung to the tune of Joy to the World): Joy to the tree, the feisty kitty has come. Let Earth, be prepeared for his evilness!
Man, this caroling stuff is eay.
Jingle Bells, litterbox smells?
Hark! The herald new-security-system rings,
Glory to, my newly protected bling-bling....
So many options!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Will Work for Pearl Neaklaces and Juicy Couture
I play a lot of solitaire these days. Solitaire games are kinda like pancakes. You really crave them at the beginning, but by the end you’re fucking sick of ‘em. (I can’t even take credit for that pancake line. It totally came from a comedian, or something. I just forget who. But credit to YOU, whomever you are.)
I also spend a lot of time daydreaming about the perfect job. I don’t know if it exists. (Though it would probably help if I look.)
I think I want to be an editor, someday. Preferably a developmental editor. I like the idea of making a story streamlined (ha, you say, HA, you parenthetical-happy-princess, you are SOOO not streamlined, but shut up, I say, I have a much easier time fixing other people’s writing.) and I tried it just a little bit in previous lifetimes, in classes and even work. So I’d like that.
I also think I’d like to be a flower delivery person. Because, as they say in that horribly awful but deliciously cheesy romantic comedy, Bed of Roses, “Inevitably, everyone’s always happily surprised to see you.” I like that. I like the idea of people always being happy to see me. I do not like the idea of driving a truck.
Moving on.
I think being an actress would be a lot of fun. Especially in Hollywood, when you make it big and you have a personal stylist and a driver. (See how I went from “dirty truck” to “chauffeur” in the span of a paragraph and a half? Because I’m all about moving up, like that.) I don’t really like the idea of waitress-ing to GET there, though.
Moving on.
I think handling acquisitions in a library would be fantastic. Picking the books that people will read, riding the wave of upcoming literature, advocating the First Amendment (freedom of speech), being sexy in the buttoned-up-blouse-and-cat-eyed-glasses kind of way. Of course, that requires a degree, so… not happening anytime soon.
And, of course, my dream dream dreamiest job would be to be a writer. Of fiction. You smarty-pants nonfiction readers can Frown Upon that all you want, but I love fiction. Those are the stories that inspire me most that I incorporate into my dreams. I like a good nonfiction book every now and then, too, but I do have a passion for fiction. And I’d like to write it.
Of course, that requires talent. Damn. But maybe I will find me some talent, somewhere, and start a book. In the meantime, I’m dying of curiosity. What are YOUR dream jobs? Astronaut? (I’m scared of the falling out of space in a burning pile of metal-thing, but I can see the allure) Massage therapist? Psychiatrist? Guinea pig wrangler?
Tell me so I can steal your idea and start a new career. mmuuwahh, dah-ling. Thanks!
I also spend a lot of time daydreaming about the perfect job. I don’t know if it exists. (Though it would probably help if I look.)
I think I want to be an editor, someday. Preferably a developmental editor. I like the idea of making a story streamlined (ha, you say, HA, you parenthetical-happy-princess, you are SOOO not streamlined, but shut up, I say, I have a much easier time fixing other people’s writing.) and I tried it just a little bit in previous lifetimes, in classes and even work. So I’d like that.
I also think I’d like to be a flower delivery person. Because, as they say in that horribly awful but deliciously cheesy romantic comedy, Bed of Roses, “Inevitably, everyone’s always happily surprised to see you.” I like that. I like the idea of people always being happy to see me. I do not like the idea of driving a truck.
Moving on.
I think being an actress would be a lot of fun. Especially in Hollywood, when you make it big and you have a personal stylist and a driver. (See how I went from “dirty truck” to “chauffeur” in the span of a paragraph and a half? Because I’m all about moving up, like that.) I don’t really like the idea of waitress-ing to GET there, though.
Moving on.
I think handling acquisitions in a library would be fantastic. Picking the books that people will read, riding the wave of upcoming literature, advocating the First Amendment (freedom of speech), being sexy in the buttoned-up-blouse-and-cat-eyed-glasses kind of way. Of course, that requires a degree, so… not happening anytime soon.
And, of course, my dream dream dreamiest job would be to be a writer. Of fiction. You smarty-pants nonfiction readers can Frown Upon that all you want, but I love fiction. Those are the stories that inspire me most that I incorporate into my dreams. I like a good nonfiction book every now and then, too, but I do have a passion for fiction. And I’d like to write it.
Of course, that requires talent. Damn. But maybe I will find me some talent, somewhere, and start a book. In the meantime, I’m dying of curiosity. What are YOUR dream jobs? Astronaut? (I’m scared of the falling out of space in a burning pile of metal-thing, but I can see the allure) Massage therapist? Psychiatrist? Guinea pig wrangler?
Tell me so I can steal your idea and start a new career. mmuuwahh, dah-ling. Thanks!
Monday, December 11, 2006
The Princess Goes on an Interview
I told a well-meaning friend about my current job status. (or rather, lack thereof) this Saturday, over lunch. People have been very understanding and supportive when I tell them about my being laid-off, which is nice, but almost everyone I’ve told immediately has an idea of where I can work, which is not always so nice, as well-intentioned as it might be. So on Saturday, I explained to this friend that I’d love to try my hand at copyediting, somewhere, and immediately he exclaims, “Oh! I have an idea!” and busts out his cell phone to call his daughter, who’s an office manager for a doctor. With lots of smiling and nodding in my direction, he jots down some notes on his napkin, and hangs up, triumphantly.
“There’s an opening for an office person at another doctor’s office, down south of Denver! You’d be great.”
Um. O.k., thanks. I’m not sure what a doctor’s front desk has to do with copyediting, but I smile and take the napkin.
His phone rings again five minutes later, and there is much more exclaiming and nodding. When he hangs up he tells me, “This woman, Cindy, wants you to call her right away, she said not to wait until Monday.”
Uh, may I finish my sandwich, first?
“Please call me after lunch, and tell me how it goes!” my friend adds.
I take this as a cue that I do not need to drop everything and call, so I finish my French dip, and we say goodbye.
I call Cindy when I get home. She tells me to come in right away. Um. It’s Saturday. I’m in my sweats. I tell her I need a couple minutes, and change into nice pants and a sweater, and pull my crusty hair back into what I hope looks like a not-too-greasy-ponytail. I am not under the impression that there is enough time for a shower. Perfume plus some sympathetic looks from The Funasaurus later, and I am out the door.
I drive for 25 minutes to a random office building, out in the middle of nowhere. There is no name on the building, just an address, and a couple large, “For Lease” signs. I go into the empty, run-down lobby, and there is an elevator with a generic sign next to it, saying what suite numbers are on what floor. But no business names. I head up to the fifth floor, and find suite number 540, though there is still no name posted next to the number. I go in, and find myself in a square, white room, with a very small window (but no counter) and two chairs (but no magazines.) There’s a guy sitting in one of the chairs, reading a book.
I have no idea where I am, or what I’m supposed to do. I peer into the window, and I see an office. I can hear voices, but there’s no one standing nearby to ask if I’m at the right place. I feel like I’m involuntarily taking part in a weird psychological experiment. The lights in the plain, white room suddenly seem very bright.
“So, is someone usually here?” I ask the guy in the chair, pointing to the desk on the other side of the window.
“Dunno. I’ve just been sitting here.”
????
You just walk into an empty room in a random building, and sit waiting for… something? Buddy, I’ve got some suggestions on better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon, I’m thinking to myself.
I call loudly into the office, “Hello? I’m looking for Cindy!” And eventually a woman comes by and tells me she’ll get her.
Cindy appears moments later, and ushers me in to her office, which, while a clusterfuck of piles of paper, bad artwork by either children who are under the age of 7, or someone who is totally inept with scissors, and remains of a Wendy’s drive-thru lunch; is at least not four oddly empty white walls. There’s even a (dirty) window to the outside world.
Cindy immediately begins to prattle on about patient confidentiality, and within the first five minutes manages to use the words “hate” and “despise” several times, and mentions that she “will kill” me if I were ever to breach patient confidentiality.
I am utterly lost, and finally say, “So. Ah. Forgive my ignorance, but I’m not even sure what your connection is to this doctor.” (as this is obviously not a doctor’s office.) “Are you a staffing agency?”
She is very defensive, no she’s absolutely not a staffing agency. She’s been in this profession for years. (Yes, but what profession IS that?) And goes on to tell me how this doctor is rather ADD, and needs a firm hand, but not too firm, and they’re looking for just the right candidate.
I continue to be confused, and just sit there. And look around surreptitiously for the Candid Cameras.
She says this doctor has a lot of trouble with money, he makes plenty, but he has no idea how much he has, exactly, or where it all needs to go. And then she stares at me and goes, “What would you suggest?”
I suggest I get the fuck out of there as fast as possible.
But I say, “A financial planner?”
:No! Quicken. He needs QUICKEN. He’s still working out of hand-written books!”
Oh. Right. Silly me, for not guessing “Quicken” was the right answer.
Cindy goes on to explain that this guy is living in the dark ages, and it frustrates her no-end, because he won’t even use Outlook for his scheduling, he insists on an old-fashioned scheduling book that you use PENCIL in, how horrifying. Cindy herself if very proficient with computers, and finds most of these programs painfully simple, and she’s always using very complex features that sometimes confuses the computers, ha ha, but she likes it because sometimes the patients DRIVE her NUTS, and she gets ANNOYED, but she does love her job, don’t get her wrong, it’s just these 100 hour work weeks are killing her and also she’s depressed and on medication and while she’s o.k. sharing that with me, most patients ARE NOT o.k. with that kind of openness, and we’re back to her killing me if I breach patient confidentiality. (I will assume, for the time being, that doesn’t include me announcing her depression and medication to the internet. Hi, Cindy, you crazy, crazy nut bag! Hope that’s o.k.!)
I nod, and begin plotting my exit, not having found the Candid Cameras.
I finally deduce that Cindy is kind of a doctor office management consultant-of sorts (although she does not use any of those words) and remotely manages a couple of offices for doctors, however this one doctor (the ADD guy) in particular really wants someone to be physically present in his office, and his last couple of candidates have not worked out, and so he has enlisted Cindy’s help in finding just the right match.
Cindy is telling me how she’s sure there will be some long days, (maybe 12+ hours) and that I should be prepared to go in on weekends, if need be, especially over the holidays, to make sure no emergencies crop up, and for the pittance she thinks this job would earn, I’m thinking “Hell to the N-O-O-O-O-O.”
I start to craft an exit, getting up and shaking her hand as she pauses for a breath after telling me she’ll strangle me if I don’t take notes while I’m in training (to be an office assistant?) and start to say goodbye.
She says something about my resume, and I ask her if I can just e-mail it to her. She says, “Oh no, I hate e-mail, I never use it, you need to fax it to me.” And I am thinking a) aren’t you the super duper computer wiz, yet you don’t LIKE e-mail? And b) I don’t actually happen to have a fax in my home.
But I say fine, and run out of there before Miss Psycho can think of any more ways to hate on me and the world in general.
So far, the job search is not going so well. I’m debating the awesome, make-your-own-hours, every-day-is-casual-Friday, I am my own crazy, crazy boss career choice of Housewife. How do you feel about that, Funasaurus, baby?
“There’s an opening for an office person at another doctor’s office, down south of Denver! You’d be great.”
Um. O.k., thanks. I’m not sure what a doctor’s front desk has to do with copyediting, but I smile and take the napkin.
His phone rings again five minutes later, and there is much more exclaiming and nodding. When he hangs up he tells me, “This woman, Cindy, wants you to call her right away, she said not to wait until Monday.”
Uh, may I finish my sandwich, first?
“Please call me after lunch, and tell me how it goes!” my friend adds.
I take this as a cue that I do not need to drop everything and call, so I finish my French dip, and we say goodbye.
I call Cindy when I get home. She tells me to come in right away. Um. It’s Saturday. I’m in my sweats. I tell her I need a couple minutes, and change into nice pants and a sweater, and pull my crusty hair back into what I hope looks like a not-too-greasy-ponytail. I am not under the impression that there is enough time for a shower. Perfume plus some sympathetic looks from The Funasaurus later, and I am out the door.
I drive for 25 minutes to a random office building, out in the middle of nowhere. There is no name on the building, just an address, and a couple large, “For Lease” signs. I go into the empty, run-down lobby, and there is an elevator with a generic sign next to it, saying what suite numbers are on what floor. But no business names. I head up to the fifth floor, and find suite number 540, though there is still no name posted next to the number. I go in, and find myself in a square, white room, with a very small window (but no counter) and two chairs (but no magazines.) There’s a guy sitting in one of the chairs, reading a book.
I have no idea where I am, or what I’m supposed to do. I peer into the window, and I see an office. I can hear voices, but there’s no one standing nearby to ask if I’m at the right place. I feel like I’m involuntarily taking part in a weird psychological experiment. The lights in the plain, white room suddenly seem very bright.
“So, is someone usually here?” I ask the guy in the chair, pointing to the desk on the other side of the window.
“Dunno. I’ve just been sitting here.”
????
You just walk into an empty room in a random building, and sit waiting for… something? Buddy, I’ve got some suggestions on better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon, I’m thinking to myself.
I call loudly into the office, “Hello? I’m looking for Cindy!” And eventually a woman comes by and tells me she’ll get her.
Cindy appears moments later, and ushers me in to her office, which, while a clusterfuck of piles of paper, bad artwork by either children who are under the age of 7, or someone who is totally inept with scissors, and remains of a Wendy’s drive-thru lunch; is at least not four oddly empty white walls. There’s even a (dirty) window to the outside world.
Cindy immediately begins to prattle on about patient confidentiality, and within the first five minutes manages to use the words “hate” and “despise” several times, and mentions that she “will kill” me if I were ever to breach patient confidentiality.
I am utterly lost, and finally say, “So. Ah. Forgive my ignorance, but I’m not even sure what your connection is to this doctor.” (as this is obviously not a doctor’s office.) “Are you a staffing agency?”
She is very defensive, no she’s absolutely not a staffing agency. She’s been in this profession for years. (Yes, but what profession IS that?) And goes on to tell me how this doctor is rather ADD, and needs a firm hand, but not too firm, and they’re looking for just the right candidate.
I continue to be confused, and just sit there. And look around surreptitiously for the Candid Cameras.
She says this doctor has a lot of trouble with money, he makes plenty, but he has no idea how much he has, exactly, or where it all needs to go. And then she stares at me and goes, “What would you suggest?”
I suggest I get the fuck out of there as fast as possible.
But I say, “A financial planner?”
:No! Quicken. He needs QUICKEN. He’s still working out of hand-written books!”
Oh. Right. Silly me, for not guessing “Quicken” was the right answer.
Cindy goes on to explain that this guy is living in the dark ages, and it frustrates her no-end, because he won’t even use Outlook for his scheduling, he insists on an old-fashioned scheduling book that you use PENCIL in, how horrifying. Cindy herself if very proficient with computers, and finds most of these programs painfully simple, and she’s always using very complex features that sometimes confuses the computers, ha ha, but she likes it because sometimes the patients DRIVE her NUTS, and she gets ANNOYED, but she does love her job, don’t get her wrong, it’s just these 100 hour work weeks are killing her and also she’s depressed and on medication and while she’s o.k. sharing that with me, most patients ARE NOT o.k. with that kind of openness, and we’re back to her killing me if I breach patient confidentiality. (I will assume, for the time being, that doesn’t include me announcing her depression and medication to the internet. Hi, Cindy, you crazy, crazy nut bag! Hope that’s o.k.!)
I nod, and begin plotting my exit, not having found the Candid Cameras.
I finally deduce that Cindy is kind of a doctor office management consultant-of sorts (although she does not use any of those words) and remotely manages a couple of offices for doctors, however this one doctor (the ADD guy) in particular really wants someone to be physically present in his office, and his last couple of candidates have not worked out, and so he has enlisted Cindy’s help in finding just the right match.
Cindy is telling me how she’s sure there will be some long days, (maybe 12+ hours) and that I should be prepared to go in on weekends, if need be, especially over the holidays, to make sure no emergencies crop up, and for the pittance she thinks this job would earn, I’m thinking “Hell to the N-O-O-O-O-O.”
I start to craft an exit, getting up and shaking her hand as she pauses for a breath after telling me she’ll strangle me if I don’t take notes while I’m in training (to be an office assistant?) and start to say goodbye.
She says something about my resume, and I ask her if I can just e-mail it to her. She says, “Oh no, I hate e-mail, I never use it, you need to fax it to me.” And I am thinking a) aren’t you the super duper computer wiz, yet you don’t LIKE e-mail? And b) I don’t actually happen to have a fax in my home.
But I say fine, and run out of there before Miss Psycho can think of any more ways to hate on me and the world in general.
So far, the job search is not going so well. I’m debating the awesome, make-your-own-hours, every-day-is-casual-Friday, I am my own crazy, crazy boss career choice of Housewife. How do you feel about that, Funasaurus, baby?
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Monkeys and Owls and Merlot, Oh My!
Last night I met a good friend and former (eeee! Former!) co-worker for drinks and some Christmas shopping. You may remember Shooting Star from previous posts. She’s a very good wine-drinking buddy, which works out very well for me. Especially when, after we’ve consumed large glasses of merlot and various appetizers, she’s all, “No, I insist, it’s my turn to pick up the check!”
And I’m all, “No, no, I’ll get it… uh… wait… I seem to not have a wallet. …So. Um. Ha. Eh. Sure. Why don’t you go ahead and get it? Also: I’m an asshole. Thanks.”
Less shopping was done than I anticipated, seeing as how I had no access to the money I don’t have (hi, Mr. Discovercard, thecardthatpaysyouback, mwwwahh, love you! Kisses!) and that was probably for the best.
But I was deeply saddened when I realized that there are sock monkey Christmas ornaments! I had a cousin who was a little over-attached to his sock monkeys (and there were several, seeing as how sock monkeys could only handle so many weeks of preschool and kicking dirt before they wore out) as a child, so now of course I see fit to incorporate sock monkeys into pretty much every communication I have with him. Especially since he is a big Senior In College, now, and Takes Himself Very Seriously. (HA! Sock monkey Christmas ornament headed your way, m’dear! Probably in an envelope labeled in big letters,“STD results! Handle with care!” because I am funny like that.)
AND! I also found some owl earrings for $10. TEN DOLLARS. I desperately loved them. And could not buy them. So between the sock monkey Christmas ornament and the owl earrings, I spent a very fitful night tossing and turning and angsting over whether someone had snatched them up in the fourteen minutes between when I left the store and when the store closed.
So I bounded (mmm. Bounded might be a slight exaggeration. “Slowly, groaning and whining while forcing my weary body upright at the ungodly hour of 7:15 a.m.” might be more applicable) out of bed with The Funasaurus this morning, and headed back to the mall... this time, with a wallet in tow.
Do you SEE why it was worth it? Do you not love them, too? And. They were only $10. I rarely love things that are on sale. But oh! And I know I am really not supposed to be buying myself stuff… what with not having an income and whatnot… but they were SO CUTE. And only $10. Did I mention that, already?
O.K., so I have them. And now I am off to mail a sock monkey Christmas ornament to an unsuspecting cousin. Tee hee!
And I’m all, “No, no, I’ll get it… uh… wait… I seem to not have a wallet. …So. Um. Ha. Eh. Sure. Why don’t you go ahead and get it? Also: I’m an asshole. Thanks.”
Less shopping was done than I anticipated, seeing as how I had no access to the money I don’t have (hi, Mr. Discovercard, thecardthatpaysyouback, mwwwahh, love you! Kisses!) and that was probably for the best.
But I was deeply saddened when I realized that there are sock monkey Christmas ornaments! I had a cousin who was a little over-attached to his sock monkeys (and there were several, seeing as how sock monkeys could only handle so many weeks of preschool and kicking dirt before they wore out) as a child, so now of course I see fit to incorporate sock monkeys into pretty much every communication I have with him. Especially since he is a big Senior In College, now, and Takes Himself Very Seriously. (HA! Sock monkey Christmas ornament headed your way, m’dear! Probably in an envelope labeled in big letters,“STD results! Handle with care!” because I am funny like that.)
AND! I also found some owl earrings for $10. TEN DOLLARS. I desperately loved them. And could not buy them. So between the sock monkey Christmas ornament and the owl earrings, I spent a very fitful night tossing and turning and angsting over whether someone had snatched them up in the fourteen minutes between when I left the store and when the store closed.
So I bounded (mmm. Bounded might be a slight exaggeration. “Slowly, groaning and whining while forcing my weary body upright at the ungodly hour of 7:15 a.m.” might be more applicable) out of bed with The Funasaurus this morning, and headed back to the mall... this time, with a wallet in tow.
Do you SEE why it was worth it? Do you not love them, too? And. They were only $10. I rarely love things that are on sale. But oh! And I know I am really not supposed to be buying myself stuff… what with not having an income and whatnot… but they were SO CUTE. And only $10. Did I mention that, already?
O.K., so I have them. And now I am off to mail a sock monkey Christmas ornament to an unsuspecting cousin. Tee hee!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Water Impairment
The other day I found a plastic bag containing a plastic bottle hanging from my garage door. There was a note in it that said, "Free water evaluation, fill this bottle up with tap water and hang on your front door if you would like a free water quality test!"
Okey dokey. I got nothing else to do with my time these days, and I am curious about my water, so I filled the bottle up, hung it on my front door, and promptly forgot about it.
We got a call a few days later saying a consultant would like to stop by with the test results. Consultant? Stop by? Couldn’t you just mail the results to me? No, apparently they couldn’t. Wouldn’t take much time. Promise.
So I set up an appointment for Monday night, and promptly forgot about that, too.
Monday was a big day for us. Our new TV arrived, and IT IS HUGE. As in, gargantuan. As in, the box is bigger than I am. The Funasaurus has been tracking it via UPS’ website religiously, and he called me from work Monday morning to say that it had been scanned for delivery! Joy! I waited, not daring to move, until the thing showed up. Once we (me and the UPS guy who thought it’d be just fine to leave a huge, new TV sitting on our front step, might as well have put a big red bow on it with a sign that said TAKE ME and maybe BREAK INTO THIS HOUSE, TOO, ‘CAUSE OBVIOUSLY THEY HAVE FUN TOYS AND ARE DUMB. But fortunately I caught the UPS guy as he was getting back into his truck) maneuvered it into the house, I sat there in awe. And called The Funasaurus who promptly put all his lawyerly things on hold and got out of there just as fast as he could to come home and stroke the new TV. There may have been a little drool.
So. I got The Funasaurus home a little early. And we spent lots of time trying to read instructions and just spurt out little gasps of joy and bliss from time to time. We had Big Plans for our Big T.V. Namely: a movie. Plus, The Funasaurus went out and got us Subway sandwiches to complete the evening of pure indulgence, and as we sat down to eat the warm, pepperoni-and-mayo-filled goodness, the doorbell rang.
A guy with a briefcase and frosted hair entered our house, before we had really invited him in. Hello?
Here for your water consultation.
Consultation? Just tell me if it’s filled with bad stuff, and good day to you, because we have other things to focus on! (Like, say, the TV that is currently dominating the room, causing a lustful look to settle into The Funasaurus’ eye.)
This’ll be really quick! He promised, grinning. And then he took off his coat and shoes, got out a couple of drinking glasses and a plate from our cupboards, and opened his briefcase to begin setting up shop on our kitchen counter. We began to doubt the “really quick” part. The Funasaurus looked longingly at our TV, which sat there, powerless, taunting him, next to our quickly chilling sandwiches.
First the guy tested our tap water for chlorine. (Can’t be done beforehand, the results wear off.) Then he tested the water from our filter on the fridge for chlorine. Then he did 462 other tests, showing us along the way, as the water changed colors, began to curdle like eggnog you find in the back of the fridge in March, and all but danced for him.
TWO HOURS and two cold and dried-out uneaten sandwiches later, he sat us down to begin the process of signing up for thousands of dollars of water treatment. The Funasaurus looked ready to draw blood, disbarment be damned, and I finally said, “heh heh, peep?” “But see, I just lost my job and NO WAY are we signing up for anything tonight.”
“But I just showed you how this will save you so much money?” said the salesman, sincerely perplexed.
“Yes, but. We are not going to make any changes to our financial routine while I am currently unemployed.”
“Ah. I understand completely. No worries. This is about water education. No pressure at all. May I just use your phone really quick to call and see where my next appointment will be?” At which time he picks up our phone, calls a number, and the conversation goes something like this, “Hello, I’m at Princess and Funasaurus’ house. …No, it’s not a good time for them right now. … Yes, they did see how this would save them a lot of money. … Yes. It would save them $X,XXX.XX, actually. … Yes, they know that if they buy it tonight they get all sorts of free goodies. … Really? … Oh REALLY? Oh. Wow. That is just fantastic! …All of that, FREE? … Wow. I can’t believe we can offer that, what a great deal! I will tell them!” And hangs up, turning to look at us like he just won a Caribbean cruise for four.
“Guess what!” he exclaims.
“Uhm.” We mutter.
“My boss is going to let me give you an amazing deal, for just a slight increase in the interest payments, we can start you off with monthly payments of $18.99! Plus, we'll give you a case of free soap! Let’s sit down and sign you up!”
At this point The Funasaurus is melting into a little puddle of fury, mixed with big screen angst.
“No, no, we’re not making any commitments this evening.”
“Really? But it’s such a great deal. I wouldn’t normally push this, but…”
At this point, death rays are coming from The Funasaurus’ eyeballs, though the salesman remains impervious.
“NO!”
So the guy starts in on a little story about his wife and some lawsuit they’re waging against her former employer, and we begin to edge towards the door for him. Until he realizes he forgot to ask where his next appointment was, and needs to use our phone, again. We do not hide the annoyance this time, and his phone call is short and sweet.
Three hours after his arrival, the water salesman finally leaves, and The Funasaurus will be damned if we don’t get a fucking movie watched, this evening. So the TV is finally set up, in all of it’s 46 inches of glory, (small shiver in appreciation) and we put on The Matrix wherein Morpheus’ head becomes larger than a sofa cushion in a close-up, and we finally get to bed after midnight, dreaming of Keanu Reeves kicking some frosted-haired-water-salesman-ass.
Okey dokey. I got nothing else to do with my time these days, and I am curious about my water, so I filled the bottle up, hung it on my front door, and promptly forgot about it.
We got a call a few days later saying a consultant would like to stop by with the test results. Consultant? Stop by? Couldn’t you just mail the results to me? No, apparently they couldn’t. Wouldn’t take much time. Promise.
So I set up an appointment for Monday night, and promptly forgot about that, too.
Monday was a big day for us. Our new TV arrived, and IT IS HUGE. As in, gargantuan. As in, the box is bigger than I am. The Funasaurus has been tracking it via UPS’ website religiously, and he called me from work Monday morning to say that it had been scanned for delivery! Joy! I waited, not daring to move, until the thing showed up. Once we (me and the UPS guy who thought it’d be just fine to leave a huge, new TV sitting on our front step, might as well have put a big red bow on it with a sign that said TAKE ME and maybe BREAK INTO THIS HOUSE, TOO, ‘CAUSE OBVIOUSLY THEY HAVE FUN TOYS AND ARE DUMB. But fortunately I caught the UPS guy as he was getting back into his truck) maneuvered it into the house, I sat there in awe. And called The Funasaurus who promptly put all his lawyerly things on hold and got out of there just as fast as he could to come home and stroke the new TV. There may have been a little drool.
So. I got The Funasaurus home a little early. And we spent lots of time trying to read instructions and just spurt out little gasps of joy and bliss from time to time. We had Big Plans for our Big T.V. Namely: a movie. Plus, The Funasaurus went out and got us Subway sandwiches to complete the evening of pure indulgence, and as we sat down to eat the warm, pepperoni-and-mayo-filled goodness, the doorbell rang.
A guy with a briefcase and frosted hair entered our house, before we had really invited him in. Hello?
Here for your water consultation.
Consultation? Just tell me if it’s filled with bad stuff, and good day to you, because we have other things to focus on! (Like, say, the TV that is currently dominating the room, causing a lustful look to settle into The Funasaurus’ eye.)
This’ll be really quick! He promised, grinning. And then he took off his coat and shoes, got out a couple of drinking glasses and a plate from our cupboards, and opened his briefcase to begin setting up shop on our kitchen counter. We began to doubt the “really quick” part. The Funasaurus looked longingly at our TV, which sat there, powerless, taunting him, next to our quickly chilling sandwiches.
First the guy tested our tap water for chlorine. (Can’t be done beforehand, the results wear off.) Then he tested the water from our filter on the fridge for chlorine. Then he did 462 other tests, showing us along the way, as the water changed colors, began to curdle like eggnog you find in the back of the fridge in March, and all but danced for him.
TWO HOURS and two cold and dried-out uneaten sandwiches later, he sat us down to begin the process of signing up for thousands of dollars of water treatment. The Funasaurus looked ready to draw blood, disbarment be damned, and I finally said, “heh heh, peep?” “But see, I just lost my job and NO WAY are we signing up for anything tonight.”
“But I just showed you how this will save you so much money?” said the salesman, sincerely perplexed.
“Yes, but. We are not going to make any changes to our financial routine while I am currently unemployed.”
“Ah. I understand completely. No worries. This is about water education. No pressure at all. May I just use your phone really quick to call and see where my next appointment will be?” At which time he picks up our phone, calls a number, and the conversation goes something like this, “Hello, I’m at Princess and Funasaurus’ house. …No, it’s not a good time for them right now. … Yes, they did see how this would save them a lot of money. … Yes. It would save them $X,XXX.XX, actually. … Yes, they know that if they buy it tonight they get all sorts of free goodies. … Really? … Oh REALLY? Oh. Wow. That is just fantastic! …All of that, FREE? … Wow. I can’t believe we can offer that, what a great deal! I will tell them!” And hangs up, turning to look at us like he just won a Caribbean cruise for four.
“Guess what!” he exclaims.
“Uhm.” We mutter.
“My boss is going to let me give you an amazing deal, for just a slight increase in the interest payments, we can start you off with monthly payments of $18.99! Plus, we'll give you a case of free soap! Let’s sit down and sign you up!”
At this point The Funasaurus is melting into a little puddle of fury, mixed with big screen angst.
“No, no, we’re not making any commitments this evening.”
“Really? But it’s such a great deal. I wouldn’t normally push this, but…”
At this point, death rays are coming from The Funasaurus’ eyeballs, though the salesman remains impervious.
“NO!”
So the guy starts in on a little story about his wife and some lawsuit they’re waging against her former employer, and we begin to edge towards the door for him. Until he realizes he forgot to ask where his next appointment was, and needs to use our phone, again. We do not hide the annoyance this time, and his phone call is short and sweet.
Three hours after his arrival, the water salesman finally leaves, and The Funasaurus will be damned if we don’t get a fucking movie watched, this evening. So the TV is finally set up, in all of it’s 46 inches of glory, (small shiver in appreciation) and we put on The Matrix wherein Morpheus’ head becomes larger than a sofa cushion in a close-up, and we finally get to bed after midnight, dreaming of Keanu Reeves kicking some frosted-haired-water-salesman-ass.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Cracking Nuts and Karaoke
This weekend went just as quickly as weekends always do. (I wasn’t sure, seeing as how I'm on a sort-of perpetual weekend, these days.) My friend M came down from Summit County (waaaay up in the mountains, where I used to live) to get a taste of the city life. Unfortunately, the city tasted something like dirty asphalt, what with the snow and ice not being completely gone, and her being all fashion-y and whatnot in her boots trying to maneuver the glacier-like sidewalks I *hear* there may have been something like a wipe out involved. I’m not saying. So after the pavement debacle and the lack of Tattered Cover (sadly, she never found it) she came to our house. Where I greeted her with wine. Not just any wine. THIS wine.
That made things a little better.
So we chugged our glasses and got dressed to go see The Nutcracker. The Funasaurus was, naturally, devastated that he didn’t get to go, and licked his wounds by leaping (!) for joy and playing some violent video games. He really was sad, under that delighted-appearing exterior.
Having learned absolutely nothing from M’s experience earlier in the day, I also donned some high heeled boots and we drove to the local performing arts school, where M knew someone who was in the performance. We parked on the wrong side of the building, though, and after teetering like drunken old ladies across the icy parking lot only to discover a sign that said, “Parking for Nutcracker on WEST side of building” we promptly decided to Ignore That Shit because NO WAY were we going to make it back across the very cold parking lot. So we tried to detour through the dark school, like the almost-30-something delinquents that we are. We were stopped by a very surly lady who told us the interior doors were locked, and that we should drive around to the correct parking lot.
No.
We were not doing that. How far could it be? It’s a school, right? We’ll just go around the outside. OF THE HUGEST BUILDING EVER. We teetered. We slipped. We giggled. We froze. We swore. We promised second-born children to the please-don’t-let-me-fall-gods (M already has child #1 and apparently doesn’t want to part with her, just yet) but we were only halfway there. We eventually made it, having only lost half of our appendages to frostbite, quite pleased with ourselves that we didn’t kowtow to that dumb ol’ sign that would have made us DRIVE, heaven forbid.The Nutcracker was lovely, as always, and we were totally THOSE girls who snicker through the whole thing. Because we are classy like that. We laughed, laughed, laughed when the doll was replaced by the dancer because whooo-boy, those were the skinniest set of legs on stage (and when said stage is populated by emaciated, teenage ballet dancers, that’s saying something) and coming out from under this HUGE cardboard nutcracker head, well. It was a little more than we could handle, silently. We took bets on whether it was a prepubescent boy or an anorexic girl. (Not funny, no, not funny at all, I know.) Hee?
So twiggy turned out to be a very young boy, but he did very well, as did M’s friend, who was the leading ballerina, who danced the role of the Sugarplum Fairy. She was very bendy and twirly and whatnot in all the right places. M gave her a kiss, and we were off to the second part of our night.
Namely: karaoke.
Now, I don’t sing, but The Funasaurus is a HUGE fan of all things dive bar-y/Air Supply-y. And M is a fantastic singer in her own right, having gone to school for talented people blah blah. So M and The Funasaurus have had it in their minds to get together and sing sing sing their little hearts away at karaoke. I had it in mind to drink drink drink and laugh laugh laugh at them, but I only managed the laugh laugh laugh part since I am still not quite over what happened to me last Monday. Our friend S joined us, because he and M met on MySpace via yours truly, and they have decided that they are each other’s favorite drinking partners that they have never met. So. Game ON. Naturally, S felt he needed to buy at least one round of Jagermeister shots and I almost died trying to get it down. I ordered a lemonade, and became THAT girl. The one who drinks lemonade at karaoke.
Having stooped to that level, I had no choice but to have fun (which I did) while The Funasaurus sang some mean Faith by George Michael, and M slaughtered Alanis Morissette beautifully. We made it home (with only a short detour to McD’s drive-thru [despite the fact that I am still boycotting them since they took away the dark meat Chicken McNuggets- fuckers]) by around 3:00 a.m., and wow. I have not seen 3:00 a.m. in a LONG time. It’s fairly similar to 2:00 a.m. except more blurry.
Who wants to join us next weekend?
That made things a little better.
So we chugged our glasses and got dressed to go see The Nutcracker. The Funasaurus was, naturally, devastated that he didn’t get to go, and licked his wounds by leaping (!) for joy and playing some violent video games. He really was sad, under that delighted-appearing exterior.
Having learned absolutely nothing from M’s experience earlier in the day, I also donned some high heeled boots and we drove to the local performing arts school, where M knew someone who was in the performance. We parked on the wrong side of the building, though, and after teetering like drunken old ladies across the icy parking lot only to discover a sign that said, “Parking for Nutcracker on WEST side of building” we promptly decided to Ignore That Shit because NO WAY were we going to make it back across the very cold parking lot. So we tried to detour through the dark school, like the almost-30-something delinquents that we are. We were stopped by a very surly lady who told us the interior doors were locked, and that we should drive around to the correct parking lot.
No.
We were not doing that. How far could it be? It’s a school, right? We’ll just go around the outside. OF THE HUGEST BUILDING EVER. We teetered. We slipped. We giggled. We froze. We swore. We promised second-born children to the please-don’t-let-me-fall-gods (M already has child #1 and apparently doesn’t want to part with her, just yet) but we were only halfway there. We eventually made it, having only lost half of our appendages to frostbite, quite pleased with ourselves that we didn’t kowtow to that dumb ol’ sign that would have made us DRIVE, heaven forbid.The Nutcracker was lovely, as always, and we were totally THOSE girls who snicker through the whole thing. Because we are classy like that. We laughed, laughed, laughed when the doll was replaced by the dancer because whooo-boy, those were the skinniest set of legs on stage (and when said stage is populated by emaciated, teenage ballet dancers, that’s saying something) and coming out from under this HUGE cardboard nutcracker head, well. It was a little more than we could handle, silently. We took bets on whether it was a prepubescent boy or an anorexic girl. (Not funny, no, not funny at all, I know.) Hee?
So twiggy turned out to be a very young boy, but he did very well, as did M’s friend, who was the leading ballerina, who danced the role of the Sugarplum Fairy. She was very bendy and twirly and whatnot in all the right places. M gave her a kiss, and we were off to the second part of our night.
Namely: karaoke.
Now, I don’t sing, but The Funasaurus is a HUGE fan of all things dive bar-y/Air Supply-y. And M is a fantastic singer in her own right, having gone to school for talented people blah blah. So M and The Funasaurus have had it in their minds to get together and sing sing sing their little hearts away at karaoke. I had it in mind to drink drink drink and laugh laugh laugh at them, but I only managed the laugh laugh laugh part since I am still not quite over what happened to me last Monday. Our friend S joined us, because he and M met on MySpace via yours truly, and they have decided that they are each other’s favorite drinking partners that they have never met. So. Game ON. Naturally, S felt he needed to buy at least one round of Jagermeister shots and I almost died trying to get it down. I ordered a lemonade, and became THAT girl. The one who drinks lemonade at karaoke.
Having stooped to that level, I had no choice but to have fun (which I did) while The Funasaurus sang some mean Faith by George Michael, and M slaughtered Alanis Morissette beautifully. We made it home (with only a short detour to McD’s drive-thru [despite the fact that I am still boycotting them since they took away the dark meat Chicken McNuggets- fuckers]) by around 3:00 a.m., and wow. I have not seen 3:00 a.m. in a LONG time. It’s fairly similar to 2:00 a.m. except more blurry.
Who wants to join us next weekend?
Friday, December 01, 2006
Retired Penguins
So far, I am actually really enjoying being retired! I mean, unemployed. Heh heh. So far, there has been a snow day, and while no snow angels (was a little too cold-looking, out there, for my tastes) there was definitely hot chocolate, sleeping in, and cuddling with the kitties. Yesterday the roads cleared up enough for me to finally take advantage of a gift certificate I got LAST Christmas, and mom and I got massages together. That didn’t suck. Friends have been taking me out to lunch, The Funasaurus took me out to a sushi dinner, and I am getting caught up on cleaning and errands and daytime T.V. Besides small bouts of mopey-ness and the complete and utter loss of self-worth, things have been pretty awesome around here.
Also, I have decided that I really desperately need a penguin, after seeing the MOST ADORABLE THING EVER last weekend. This morning, as I lay in bed, in no rush to get up at all, I started playing fetch with Tatum, and one of his little mice toys. He’d retrieve it, drop it near my face so that I would not have to move much to throw it for him again. We had a good little system going. But he finally got tired and decided to take a little break, dropped his mouse in the crook of my legs, and sat on it. This is the moment that I realized I had my very own little penguin, just sitting on his nest (and yes, I did see the damn movie, I know the emperor penguins don’t have nests, they waddle around slowly starving and freezing to death while balancing the eggs on their feet like the coldest game of hackey sack EVER but let’s just pretend I’m talking about another kind of penguin, o.k.,? One that does make a nest.) and VOILA. Take away the oversized ears, and crazed where-the-fuck-did-my-mouse-go?-look, (and maybe also the nice warm piles of blankets) and I’d say I’ve scored my very own penguin. Do you see it? Maybe in a if-a-penguin-and-a-very-small-owl-got-a-little-crazy-one-night-and-forgot-a-condom-oh-just-trust-be-baby kind of way? No?
Here’s wishing you a slightly-less-demented penguin of your very own, too. Happy Friday!
Also, I have decided that I really desperately need a penguin, after seeing the MOST ADORABLE THING EVER last weekend. This morning, as I lay in bed, in no rush to get up at all, I started playing fetch with Tatum, and one of his little mice toys. He’d retrieve it, drop it near my face so that I would not have to move much to throw it for him again. We had a good little system going. But he finally got tired and decided to take a little break, dropped his mouse in the crook of my legs, and sat on it. This is the moment that I realized I had my very own little penguin, just sitting on his nest (and yes, I did see the damn movie, I know the emperor penguins don’t have nests, they waddle around slowly starving and freezing to death while balancing the eggs on their feet like the coldest game of hackey sack EVER but let’s just pretend I’m talking about another kind of penguin, o.k.,? One that does make a nest.) and VOILA. Take away the oversized ears, and crazed where-the-fuck-did-my-mouse-go?-look, (and maybe also the nice warm piles of blankets) and I’d say I’ve scored my very own penguin. Do you see it? Maybe in a if-a-penguin-and-a-very-small-owl-got-a-little-crazy-one-night-and-forgot-a-condom-oh-just-trust-be-baby kind of way? No?
Here’s wishing you a slightly-less-demented penguin of your very own, too. Happy Friday!
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