I signed the The Funasaurus and me up for dance lessons on Saturday. For five hours of an intensive swing lesson. I had grand visions of jump jivin’ with my baby. And for once, I would be the coordinated one. For once, I would catch on quicker (mostly because I’ve taken swing lessons before, and The Funasaurus identified the dance as “the one where you throw the girl around”) and would feel like I was good at something.
Ha ha.
That was before we arrived at the Take-You-Down-a-Notch-Biyatch-dance-studio.
The morning actually went o.k. We learned basic swing steps, *yawn* so-o-o-o easy, and basic lindy hop, which was fairly simple. Then there was a lunch break, and we were offered the option of ordering off of a menu from the hippie-dippie restaurant downstairs. I took one look at the meat-and-potatoes-lovin’ Funasaurus, and thought, “unlikely!” and that thought was confirmed as I looked through the okra and tofu-laden menu, until I arrived at the last section, “sandwiches and burgers.” Well, hello! I stood in line, and ordered two cheeseburgers from the dread-locked waitress in her hemp apron. She stared at me like she had just finished off her fifth joint, and then managed to say, “We don’t serve meat.”
???
“But, your menu…?” I said, pointing to the option, CHEESEBURGER.
“Well, we’re out of meat, right now. We might have some elk.”
“Elk? Like an elk burger?”
“No, there aren’t any burgers.”
I was thoroughly confused, and annoyed, so we vowed to smear a Chicken McNugget or two in her hemp apron before the day was over, and headed off to Good Times.
When we came back, they tried to teach us the charleston, and that is about where my shit came apart.
The dance made NO sense to me, whatsoever.
I tried and tried, but we fell waaaay behind the rest of the class (and when that’s almost 100 other equally inept people, that is seriously behind) and finally The Funasaurus had to say, “Don’t worry about them, let’s go back to the basic” and he SHOWED ME HOW TO DO IT and then I decided I was Done.
So we left mid dah-dah-dada-dah and found a bar. And I drowned my dancing sorrows in some cheap house red, and felt much better.
The rest of the weekend we did not bring up dancing at all. But I think we have come to a silent agreement that we will sway back and forth, a la junior high, for our first dance as a married couple. Either that or break out some Ludacris. Then people like my grandmother will be too busy trying to figure out why I've got hoes in different area codes to notice that I am not dancing anything with "steps."
Monday, January 29, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Princess Complains
Things That I Find Highly Irritating... because I'm just in that kind of mood.
(and there are hundreds, but we only have time for about a dozen, right now.)
12. When my pictures get out of order. THEY’RE IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, PEOPLE! Why ruin the order?? I am slightly obsessive about this.
11. Getting a bad pistachio, You don’t really know what’s happened until you’ve chewed, and suddenly that whole nasty flavor is smeared all over the inside of your mouth.
10. Adults who still think it’s funny to tell racist or gay jokes. (Yo’ Mamma, jokes, on the other hand, continue to be some of the best humor there is.)
9. Telemarketers. (The Do-Not-Call list was a little gift from heaven.) I understand they’re just trying to do their job. But their job annoys there ever-lovin’ fuck out of me. I used to pick up the phone, say, “Can you hang on for just a sec.?” And then put the phone in a drawer, and go on about my business. I figured that way, not only was I not being irritated, but I was saving someone else from being irritated. I’m a do-gooder, like that.
8. Bumper to bumper traffic. I think my current 1-hour commute has raised my blood pressure by about a thousand points.
7. Baseball season. There is NO NEED for it to be so damn long.
6. Hummers. Way to say, “I have a small dick” and “I hope the Earth turns into a dusty ball of fire while I’m still alive,” all in one sentence.
5. People who relinquish pets because they’re “old.” See Meno’s blog from three days ago. My panties are still in a twist about it. What’s funny is they’ll be surprised when their kids put them in a nursing home at age 70. Wonder where they learned that?
4. Tomatoes being a necessary function of every salad. I hate tomatoes. They are gross. But I am hard-pressed to find a decent salad that doesn’t have some of their mealy nastiness on them.
3. Dogs who poop in my yard. I had a dog. I used a pooper scoop. My dog was part malamute. (And part black lab, for added cuteness and energy.) Unless you have a great dane, I’ve scooped bigger poop, so you have no reason not to clean up after your damn yappy little squirrel-looking-thing.
2. When The Funasaurus tells me that PMS is a social construct. … Don’t even get me started.
1. My brain. It keeps me up all night, overworking all the random crap I need to do, or didn’t do, or could do, and then lets me fall asleep at the most horrible times. Like my chemistry final. Or a friend’s party. Or at my new job. Oopsie.
Do you have anything else to add???
(and there are hundreds, but we only have time for about a dozen, right now.)
12. When my pictures get out of order. THEY’RE IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, PEOPLE! Why ruin the order?? I am slightly obsessive about this.
11. Getting a bad pistachio, You don’t really know what’s happened until you’ve chewed, and suddenly that whole nasty flavor is smeared all over the inside of your mouth.
10. Adults who still think it’s funny to tell racist or gay jokes. (Yo’ Mamma, jokes, on the other hand, continue to be some of the best humor there is.)
9. Telemarketers. (The Do-Not-Call list was a little gift from heaven.) I understand they’re just trying to do their job. But their job annoys there ever-lovin’ fuck out of me. I used to pick up the phone, say, “Can you hang on for just a sec.?” And then put the phone in a drawer, and go on about my business. I figured that way, not only was I not being irritated, but I was saving someone else from being irritated. I’m a do-gooder, like that.
8. Bumper to bumper traffic. I think my current 1-hour commute has raised my blood pressure by about a thousand points.
7. Baseball season. There is NO NEED for it to be so damn long.
6. Hummers. Way to say, “I have a small dick” and “I hope the Earth turns into a dusty ball of fire while I’m still alive,” all in one sentence.
5. People who relinquish pets because they’re “old.” See Meno’s blog from three days ago. My panties are still in a twist about it. What’s funny is they’ll be surprised when their kids put them in a nursing home at age 70. Wonder where they learned that?
4. Tomatoes being a necessary function of every salad. I hate tomatoes. They are gross. But I am hard-pressed to find a decent salad that doesn’t have some of their mealy nastiness on them.
3. Dogs who poop in my yard. I had a dog. I used a pooper scoop. My dog was part malamute. (And part black lab, for added cuteness and energy.) Unless you have a great dane, I’ve scooped bigger poop, so you have no reason not to clean up after your damn yappy little squirrel-looking-thing.
2. When The Funasaurus tells me that PMS is a social construct. … Don’t even get me started.
1. My brain. It keeps me up all night, overworking all the random crap I need to do, or didn’t do, or could do, and then lets me fall asleep at the most horrible times. Like my chemistry final. Or a friend’s party. Or at my new job. Oopsie.
Do you have anything else to add???
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Some Salt in the Kingdom
Yesterday, I brought one of these for lunch. Not totally bad, but I felt it was missing something. Salt. Unfortunately, I was in a pepper-happy house, with nary a salt shaker to be had. So I started exploring their cupboards (EIGHT LADELS. Who needs EIGHT LADELS?) and did eventually find a large can of salt. Now, normal, rational people who’ve spent any amount of time in the kitchen at all know to pour a little in their hands, and season their food that way. Not me! I was quite confident in my salt-pour-control abilities, and just turned the sucker upside down over my miniature bowl of pasta with a flourish. And then proceeded to enjoy a nice lunch of pesto flavored salt.
Then, as I was leaving for the evening, I went to wash down the remainder of my lukewarm tea down the kitchen sink, so that it wouldn’t spill all over my car, as it is wont to do. (Cute. Not very “airtight” though.) Of course, the tea bag was still in the cup, and of course, even though I swore I’d just pour ever-so-slightly (having learned nothing at all at lunchtime) the tea bag came right out and went straight down the garbage disposal.
I hate old, soggy, unviewable food more than just about anything. But having already fucked over their e-mail and website, I didn’t feel like screwing up Kanga and Tulip’s garbage disposal, either. So I reached my hand down the dark, slimy hole, and felt… nothing, And I could see even less. That would make sense, since it was nighttime and no one had been upstairs for several hours, so there were no lights on. So, with one hand still in the disposal, I reached over to turn on the light.
Do you see where this is going?
No. Actually, some kitchen gadget god was watching over me, and made me realize that perhaps I should withdraw my hand from the disposal before flipping switches. So, fingers still intact, I got the light turned on, finally retrieved the tea bag, and went home. Where I avoided all machinery and went to bed promptly at 9:30.
Do we think I’m getting a little less exciting when all I can find to talk about is salt, garbage disposals, and going to bed early…?
Then, as I was leaving for the evening, I went to wash down the remainder of my lukewarm tea down the kitchen sink, so that it wouldn’t spill all over my car, as it is wont to do. (Cute. Not very “airtight” though.) Of course, the tea bag was still in the cup, and of course, even though I swore I’d just pour ever-so-slightly (having learned nothing at all at lunchtime) the tea bag came right out and went straight down the garbage disposal.
I hate old, soggy, unviewable food more than just about anything. But having already fucked over their e-mail and website, I didn’t feel like screwing up Kanga and Tulip’s garbage disposal, either. So I reached my hand down the dark, slimy hole, and felt… nothing, And I could see even less. That would make sense, since it was nighttime and no one had been upstairs for several hours, so there were no lights on. So, with one hand still in the disposal, I reached over to turn on the light.
Do you see where this is going?
No. Actually, some kitchen gadget god was watching over me, and made me realize that perhaps I should withdraw my hand from the disposal before flipping switches. So, fingers still intact, I got the light turned on, finally retrieved the tea bag, and went home. Where I avoided all machinery and went to bed promptly at 9:30.
Do we think I’m getting a little less exciting when all I can find to talk about is salt, garbage disposals, and going to bed early…?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Signs of Chocoholism
Sunday was a yummy say for both The Funasaurus and me. The Funasaurus got to play in a volleyball tournament, which he hasn’t gotten to do in ages, and I got to go shopping with a good friend, which I haven’t gotten to do in ages. My day started with a stop at the most darling little café that also happens to serve amazing pastries and alcohol so yes!yes!yes! sign me up! And then Shooting Star and I wandered over to the mall where I found a pair of boots that were at once cute and trendy, as well as flat with large rubber soles so I will not slip and kill myself on the driveway at work, as well as lined with faux fur and very warm AS WELL AS on sale! If there are greater signs than that in the shopping world, well, I don’t know what they are.
Then we stopped at CPK and had some wine. I love wine in the early afternoon. So with some good girl talk and perhaps a shrimp roll or two, we killed an hour or two there before we decided that we had done all there was to be done at the mall that day.
I got home and met The Funasaurus for dinner as the snow began to fall. Again. Now, most people in Colorado are sick of the snow. I fell into their ranks on Sunday night, but early Monday morning I received a call from Tulip, just as I was headed out the door, that went something like this, “We can’t even get our big ol’ truck out of our driveway. There’s no way your car will make it down here, we just got too much snow. I think you’re going to have to stay home, today.” I barely had time to utter, “Gee, that’s too bad, see you tomorrow!” before I ran upstairs and swan dived The Funasaurus who was still sleeping.
I went back to sleep for an hour, then got up to make myself some extremely chocolate-y hot chocolate, and marvel at the fact that I was only wearing one layer of clothing and not freezing to death on a work day.
Around lunchtime I wandered downstairs, looking for something to eat, and noticed a bottle of Cotes du Rhone on the table, that had been opened and re-corked over the weekend. Well.... Why not? It’s not like I have to drive anywhere, and it would taste oh-so-good, and yesterday had involved a mid-day glass of wine and it was just lovely.
Then, in an amazing feat of self-restraint, I paused with the cork in my hand and realized, “Oh, right. I’m working.” Plus, isn’t drinking mid-day alone kind of a sign of wine becoming more of a co-dependent thing than a once-in-a-while frolic-y tryst?
So the wine was re-corked, and more super-chocolate-y hot chocolate was made, along with some super-nutritious popcorn, and the day was not lost.
But now I have a new motivation. I want to learn a snow dance. Or pray to some snow gods, or whatever it takes to get me more days like that. Even if there’s no wine, there IS an extra hour of sleep, plus all the hot chocolate I can handle. And that, my friends, is a sweet, sweet life.
Then we stopped at CPK and had some wine. I love wine in the early afternoon. So with some good girl talk and perhaps a shrimp roll or two, we killed an hour or two there before we decided that we had done all there was to be done at the mall that day.
I got home and met The Funasaurus for dinner as the snow began to fall. Again. Now, most people in Colorado are sick of the snow. I fell into their ranks on Sunday night, but early Monday morning I received a call from Tulip, just as I was headed out the door, that went something like this, “We can’t even get our big ol’ truck out of our driveway. There’s no way your car will make it down here, we just got too much snow. I think you’re going to have to stay home, today.” I barely had time to utter, “Gee, that’s too bad, see you tomorrow!” before I ran upstairs and swan dived The Funasaurus who was still sleeping.
I went back to sleep for an hour, then got up to make myself some extremely chocolate-y hot chocolate, and marvel at the fact that I was only wearing one layer of clothing and not freezing to death on a work day.
Around lunchtime I wandered downstairs, looking for something to eat, and noticed a bottle of Cotes du Rhone on the table, that had been opened and re-corked over the weekend. Well.... Why not? It’s not like I have to drive anywhere, and it would taste oh-so-good, and yesterday had involved a mid-day glass of wine and it was just lovely.
Then, in an amazing feat of self-restraint, I paused with the cork in my hand and realized, “Oh, right. I’m working.” Plus, isn’t drinking mid-day alone kind of a sign of wine becoming more of a co-dependent thing than a once-in-a-while frolic-y tryst?
So the wine was re-corked, and more super-chocolate-y hot chocolate was made, along with some super-nutritious popcorn, and the day was not lost.
But now I have a new motivation. I want to learn a snow dance. Or pray to some snow gods, or whatever it takes to get me more days like that. Even if there’s no wine, there IS an extra hour of sleep, plus all the hot chocolate I can handle. And that, my friends, is a sweet, sweet life.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Wherein I Prove I Should Be Writing This Blog with Quill and Parchment
Well, I’m seriously beginning to question my boss’, Kanga’s, sanity.
Yesterday he deemed it a good idea to give the new girl, the English major, ME, the project of moving our domains. Now, I barely knew what a domain was. (Although, if I understand it correctly, it’s kind of the shoebox for your website. … with your website being the shoe. And the shoebox says “Manolo Blahnik” on it, so that the world wide web can see just exactly where you buy your footwear. Or maybe it’s a plot of land, and your website is the house. That’s more accurate, seeing as how, without your domain, your website will just float around, lost, in cyberspace. As we shall soon see. [Also, I realize your house would not necessarily “float” without your plot of land. It would more “sink halfway to China before it was vaporized by molten lava and heavy Earth and whatnot,” which is waaaaay cooler than cyberspace, but I digress….])
Meanwhile, it turns out ol’ Kanga is something of a domain whore, owning dozens of domains, all registered at different places. My job was to consolidate them on one server, and under one account, and point them all to one site in particular… yawn! me, too, I’m bored already, so we’ll skip to the part wherein I go, “Fuck, our website’s gone.”
And then, “Fuck. Our e-mail also appears to be not working.”
And things spiraled out of control from there.
Finally, after a few held back tears and e-mails to my sister-in-law, who used to be on the Best Buy Geek Squad, wherein we placed bets on whether I was going to be fired by the end of the day or not, we deduced that yeah, that was quite a pickle I had gotten myself into, but really, where on my resume, between “writing press releases” and “minimal copyediting experience” did Kanga think it said, “Great with technology- test me!”?
So we blamed him, and sis assured me no one would think ill of me if I headed directly to the bar, post-sorting-this-out.
By the end of the day, e-mails seemed to be back up and running, and as of this morning, our website is working, phew, but I’m not sure how long I’m going to last at this job. I mean, the snow shoveling and internet work have both expanded my horizons, I suppose. But I kind of liked my horizons where they were, all technologically ignorant and blurry behind a big glass of chardonnay.
Yesterday he deemed it a good idea to give the new girl, the English major, ME, the project of moving our domains. Now, I barely knew what a domain was. (Although, if I understand it correctly, it’s kind of the shoebox for your website. … with your website being the shoe. And the shoebox says “Manolo Blahnik” on it, so that the world wide web can see just exactly where you buy your footwear. Or maybe it’s a plot of land, and your website is the house. That’s more accurate, seeing as how, without your domain, your website will just float around, lost, in cyberspace. As we shall soon see. [Also, I realize your house would not necessarily “float” without your plot of land. It would more “sink halfway to China before it was vaporized by molten lava and heavy Earth and whatnot,” which is waaaaay cooler than cyberspace, but I digress….])
Meanwhile, it turns out ol’ Kanga is something of a domain whore, owning dozens of domains, all registered at different places. My job was to consolidate them on one server, and under one account, and point them all to one site in particular… yawn! me, too, I’m bored already, so we’ll skip to the part wherein I go, “Fuck, our website’s gone.”
And then, “Fuck. Our e-mail also appears to be not working.”
And things spiraled out of control from there.
Finally, after a few held back tears and e-mails to my sister-in-law, who used to be on the Best Buy Geek Squad, wherein we placed bets on whether I was going to be fired by the end of the day or not, we deduced that yeah, that was quite a pickle I had gotten myself into, but really, where on my resume, between “writing press releases” and “minimal copyediting experience” did Kanga think it said, “Great with technology- test me!”?
So we blamed him, and sis assured me no one would think ill of me if I headed directly to the bar, post-sorting-this-out.
By the end of the day, e-mails seemed to be back up and running, and as of this morning, our website is working, phew, but I’m not sure how long I’m going to last at this job. I mean, the snow shoveling and internet work have both expanded my horizons, I suppose. But I kind of liked my horizons where they were, all technologically ignorant and blurry behind a big glass of chardonnay.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Pre-Princess Aspirations
We had a party last night.
I had wine.
So much wine.
Especially for a Wednesday.
I am hurting, now, so you get a piece of what-IS-that-in-the-green-Tupperware?-in-the-back-of-the-fridge-memory leftover instead of a story about our party. (It was fun, though. It involved streamers and signs and me bossing everyone around with a glass of chardonnay in my hand.)
Before I got the awesomest fortune, ever, I still had dreams of making it to a romantic European country and living amongst the locals. Switzerland had been my target for a long time, between my parents having lived there before I was born and still talking about it fondly, and my talent for woo-ing Swiss border patrol with hard alcohol.
However, Switzerland is, like, THE hardest place to gain citizenship. The Swiss are very proud, the dumbest of whom speak only four languages absolutely fluently while the rest can prattle on in pretty much anything you can throw at them. (They LAUGHED at me when I told them I was majoring in English. “But.. haven’t you spoken English since you were a child? Dumbass?”)
The Swiss are also very aware of the fact that Switzerland is small, and is quite full of their own, over-educated, watch-making, chocolate-consuming kind. So they’re not really interested in letting any foreigners in, unless said foreigner can provide a valuable skill that a Swiss native can’t or won’t.
This is where I decided I would be a professional goat cheese maker.
See, the Swiss also have amazing cheese, and yet there are fewer and fewer artisan cheese makers left. Most of them having left the Hills That Are Alive for the City That Has Running Water and High-Def T.V. So I bought books on goat cheese making, and decided that I would head over there in Heidi-esque braids all, “Hi, I’m here to save your cheese industry.”
That never quite panned out, because none of the apartments I lived in were really into me bringing in some goats to herd and train. Even a pygmy. (I really did ask a landlord, once. Somehow I was convinced the balcony on my second floor condo was really all the fresh air a goat would need.)
So fate steered me clear of a life filled with yodeling by forcing me to live in goat-unfriendly apartments, right up until I got my fortune. Now I'm thinking I just need to pick up a “Norwegian for beginners” CD for my long-ass commute, and learn how to say, “Prince, darling, how do you feel about a few goats in the royal courtyard?”
I had wine.
So much wine.
Especially for a Wednesday.
I am hurting, now, so you get a piece of what-IS-that-in-the-green-Tupperware?-in-the-back-of-the-fridge-memory leftover instead of a story about our party. (It was fun, though. It involved streamers and signs and me bossing everyone around with a glass of chardonnay in my hand.)
Before I got the awesomest fortune, ever, I still had dreams of making it to a romantic European country and living amongst the locals. Switzerland had been my target for a long time, between my parents having lived there before I was born and still talking about it fondly, and my talent for woo-ing Swiss border patrol with hard alcohol.
However, Switzerland is, like, THE hardest place to gain citizenship. The Swiss are very proud, the dumbest of whom speak only four languages absolutely fluently while the rest can prattle on in pretty much anything you can throw at them. (They LAUGHED at me when I told them I was majoring in English. “But.. haven’t you spoken English since you were a child? Dumbass?”)
The Swiss are also very aware of the fact that Switzerland is small, and is quite full of their own, over-educated, watch-making, chocolate-consuming kind. So they’re not really interested in letting any foreigners in, unless said foreigner can provide a valuable skill that a Swiss native can’t or won’t.
This is where I decided I would be a professional goat cheese maker.
See, the Swiss also have amazing cheese, and yet there are fewer and fewer artisan cheese makers left. Most of them having left the Hills That Are Alive for the City That Has Running Water and High-Def T.V. So I bought books on goat cheese making, and decided that I would head over there in Heidi-esque braids all, “Hi, I’m here to save your cheese industry.”
That never quite panned out, because none of the apartments I lived in were really into me bringing in some goats to herd and train. Even a pygmy. (I really did ask a landlord, once. Somehow I was convinced the balcony on my second floor condo was really all the fresh air a goat would need.)
So fate steered me clear of a life filled with yodeling by forcing me to live in goat-unfriendly apartments, right up until I got my fortune. Now I'm thinking I just need to pick up a “Norwegian for beginners” CD for my long-ass commute, and learn how to say, “Prince, darling, how do you feel about a few goats in the royal courtyard?”
Monday, January 15, 2007
Royal Secrets
I have something to confess.
Today I did something bad.
I feel a little dirty, honestly.
But I think it’s just because I thought I wouldn’t get caught. And it was so good, and he was so warm, and made me feel loved.
It started off innocently enough. Just a few shy looks. A few furtive glances, and finally, eye contact. We both looked away quickly. The day progressed and we couldn’t help but be in the same room. I told you about my icebox, aka “the office.” (Which, by the way, had NO heat, today. None. Heat died. Kaput. Did not fonctionia.) Anyway…. The day wore on, and somehow, my hand ended up kinda grazing his back slightly. I felt him pause. I couldn’t resist; I wanted just a little more. It was casual touching, at first, almost accidental. But once we were alone with no distractions (Kanga and Tulip were out dealing with the broken heater) it quickly led to heavy petting.
I know he enjoyed it, too. But it was all over too quickly. A torrid love affair, both longing for more but knowing it couldn’t work. We heard Tulip coming back down the stairs and he ran out of the room. I tried to act like nothing happened. I stood out in the sub-zero wind after work, trying to air out my clothes, to get rid of any trace of him.
But as soon as I got home, I knew I was busted. Tatum came running up to me, as he usually does, head-butted my ankle and sneezed. A hair from a cat that actually has fur had gotten up his nose. He gave me a horrified, knowing look, and sulked away. I felt so bad. I didn’t mean to cheat on him, it just happened. The Funasaurus assures me he’ll get over it.
I’m not so sure.
I *just* finished cleaning up two piles of kitty puke. Neither of my cats have ever puked before. (See "cats that actually have hair" comment, above.) I think he’s pissed. In a, doesn’t-your-white-quilt-need-some-more-stale-kitty-food-vomit-on-it?-way.
However. I am not the only one with a dirty little secret, which is not really, so much, any longer a secret.
At one point this afternoon, I needed a form. So I broke the icicles off of my fingers and went to look for one on Tulip’s desk, when all of a sudden, my right calf was having an orgasm. Having never experienced such a thing before, I went looking for this mysterious localized climax inducer.
Ho ho.
Turns out, Miss Tulip has a SPACE HEATER.
That’s right. I am freezing my ass off in a basement in a house that has no heat on a day where the temperature peaked at six degrees. Yeah. That’s right. Fahrenheit. Peaked. At 6. As in, five more than ONE FRICKIN’ DEGREE.
And ol’ Tulip, who can’t be bothered to turn the heat up, has a climax-inducing heat machine.
It’s ON.
I’m going to tell Tatum she’s the one who set me up with that other cat. Maybe he’ll go puke on her space heater.
Today I did something bad.
I feel a little dirty, honestly.
But I think it’s just because I thought I wouldn’t get caught. And it was so good, and he was so warm, and made me feel loved.
It started off innocently enough. Just a few shy looks. A few furtive glances, and finally, eye contact. We both looked away quickly. The day progressed and we couldn’t help but be in the same room. I told you about my icebox, aka “the office.” (Which, by the way, had NO heat, today. None. Heat died. Kaput. Did not fonctionia.) Anyway…. The day wore on, and somehow, my hand ended up kinda grazing his back slightly. I felt him pause. I couldn’t resist; I wanted just a little more. It was casual touching, at first, almost accidental. But once we were alone with no distractions (Kanga and Tulip were out dealing with the broken heater) it quickly led to heavy petting.
I know he enjoyed it, too. But it was all over too quickly. A torrid love affair, both longing for more but knowing it couldn’t work. We heard Tulip coming back down the stairs and he ran out of the room. I tried to act like nothing happened. I stood out in the sub-zero wind after work, trying to air out my clothes, to get rid of any trace of him.
But as soon as I got home, I knew I was busted. Tatum came running up to me, as he usually does, head-butted my ankle and sneezed. A hair from a cat that actually has fur had gotten up his nose. He gave me a horrified, knowing look, and sulked away. I felt so bad. I didn’t mean to cheat on him, it just happened. The Funasaurus assures me he’ll get over it.
I’m not so sure.
I *just* finished cleaning up two piles of kitty puke. Neither of my cats have ever puked before. (See "cats that actually have hair" comment, above.) I think he’s pissed. In a, doesn’t-your-white-quilt-need-some-more-stale-kitty-food-vomit-on-it?-way.
However. I am not the only one with a dirty little secret, which is not really, so much, any longer a secret.
At one point this afternoon, I needed a form. So I broke the icicles off of my fingers and went to look for one on Tulip’s desk, when all of a sudden, my right calf was having an orgasm. Having never experienced such a thing before, I went looking for this mysterious localized climax inducer.
Ho ho.
Turns out, Miss Tulip has a SPACE HEATER.
That’s right. I am freezing my ass off in a basement in a house that has no heat on a day where the temperature peaked at six degrees. Yeah. That’s right. Fahrenheit. Peaked. At 6. As in, five more than ONE FRICKIN’ DEGREE.
And ol’ Tulip, who can’t be bothered to turn the heat up, has a climax-inducing heat machine.
It’s ON.
I’m going to tell Tatum she’s the one who set me up with that other cat. Maybe he’ll go puke on her space heater.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Divine Friday
The universe has smiled upon me, today, folks. Today, I am working from home. Today, I did not fight traffic for an hour. Today I am not slowly freezing to death under four layers of polypro, nay, today I am wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants and basking in the heat of the oven that is our home office. Today I drink hot chocolate not for the feeling it gives back to my fingertips, but for the sugar rush of the stale marshmallows.
God I love stale little marshmallows.
Today is a good day. Yesterday wasn’t so bad, either, since Kanga decided we should stop working early to go get a drink. Yes! Yes! Yes! I want to get these people imbibed so that they can tell me the incestuous history of their past.
It wasn’t as dramatic as I was hoping for, but still, I got a little more insight. Tulip made a tiny jab at Bar-B about getting her extensions redone (and I gotta side with Tulip on this one, they are looking a little nappy and grown out) after Kanga and Barb-B kept going on and on about a trip they had taken through Australia’s Outback, back in the day. Then they got to talking about Hay-Soos, whom I still have yet to meet. (He’s the millionaire owner out in California who’s currently dating Bar-B, lest anyone forgot.) Barb-B mentioned how his pants are awfully tight, and Kanga made a little quip about that probably being because she was in them….
I waited for a snotty retort while consuming vast amounts of calamari, but when none came, I polished off my cabernet and said I should get going.
Drinking with coworkers is fun, but I didn’t want to be the drunk one. Quite yet. So I was totally sober as I began the trek home, and checked my voicemail while dodging idiots in SUVs on the highway during yet another snowstorm. (And by “snowstorm” here I mean “lightly drizzling icy rain” but it was equally dangerous, and “blizzard” is less time-consuming to write, so I’ll just go with it.)
Then there was a lovely message from Reverend Jones saying he can’t wait to meet me later tonight.
Eh?
Me = not so much religious.
Me = not drunk, either, or so I thought, but I couldn’t imagine having called a reverend sober. Somehow, I thought the universe was playing another trick on me, having allowed me the fun of thawing over alcohol with my intriguing new colleagues, it was now going to throw a little religion my way.
Then Reverend Jones said, “Don’t worry, marriage counseling is fun, it’ll be a good night,” and I remembered, holy crap! Marriage counseling! I almost missed our first session because I was drinking with a bunch of people I wanted to get dirt on. Way to get off on the right foot with Jesus.
So I began dodging idiot SUVs going in the opposite direction, and actually made it to the church on time.
It actually wasn’t bad, I think The Funasaurus and I both found it interesting.
And then we came home, binged on popcorn and chips (yeah nutritional dinner!) and called it a night. This morning we slept in a bit, enjoying our time together, and then The Funasaurus headed off to work while I sat around debating whether pants were really necessary in such a warm, cozy house.
I compromised, and went for pajama pants, which should still set the mood for an awesome weekend.
T.G.I.F., indeed.
God I love stale little marshmallows.
Today is a good day. Yesterday wasn’t so bad, either, since Kanga decided we should stop working early to go get a drink. Yes! Yes! Yes! I want to get these people imbibed so that they can tell me the incestuous history of their past.
It wasn’t as dramatic as I was hoping for, but still, I got a little more insight. Tulip made a tiny jab at Bar-B about getting her extensions redone (and I gotta side with Tulip on this one, they are looking a little nappy and grown out) after Kanga and Barb-B kept going on and on about a trip they had taken through Australia’s Outback, back in the day. Then they got to talking about Hay-Soos, whom I still have yet to meet. (He’s the millionaire owner out in California who’s currently dating Bar-B, lest anyone forgot.) Barb-B mentioned how his pants are awfully tight, and Kanga made a little quip about that probably being because she was in them….
I waited for a snotty retort while consuming vast amounts of calamari, but when none came, I polished off my cabernet and said I should get going.
Drinking with coworkers is fun, but I didn’t want to be the drunk one. Quite yet. So I was totally sober as I began the trek home, and checked my voicemail while dodging idiots in SUVs on the highway during yet another snowstorm. (And by “snowstorm” here I mean “lightly drizzling icy rain” but it was equally dangerous, and “blizzard” is less time-consuming to write, so I’ll just go with it.)
Then there was a lovely message from Reverend Jones saying he can’t wait to meet me later tonight.
Eh?
Me = not so much religious.
Me = not drunk, either, or so I thought, but I couldn’t imagine having called a reverend sober. Somehow, I thought the universe was playing another trick on me, having allowed me the fun of thawing over alcohol with my intriguing new colleagues, it was now going to throw a little religion my way.
Then Reverend Jones said, “Don’t worry, marriage counseling is fun, it’ll be a good night,” and I remembered, holy crap! Marriage counseling! I almost missed our first session because I was drinking with a bunch of people I wanted to get dirt on. Way to get off on the right foot with Jesus.
So I began dodging idiot SUVs going in the opposite direction, and actually made it to the church on time.
It actually wasn’t bad, I think The Funasaurus and I both found it interesting.
And then we came home, binged on popcorn and chips (yeah nutritional dinner!) and called it a night. This morning we slept in a bit, enjoying our time together, and then The Funasaurus headed off to work while I sat around debating whether pants were really necessary in such a warm, cozy house.
I compromised, and went for pajama pants, which should still set the mood for an awesome weekend.
T.G.I.F., indeed.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Temper Temper, Little Roo
As it turns out, there are a lot of little things turning up in my daily routine, on top of what was presented to me on paper on my “job description” at my interview. I knew I was going to be working on their catalog, both editing and some layout and content. I knew I was going to be working on building their media database and writing and sending press releases. I did not realize I was going to be loading software and handling customer issues with orders. Not knowing much about software or their product, yet, both are a little tricky, but I’m making it happen, more or less. I also didn’t know I was going to be working on paper jams, consolidating our domain names, or shoveling.
Manual labor was so NOT part of the job description. What about my pink sweaters, sparkly shoes (also pink, if you must know), just-so curls, and general lack of overall muscle screams “HEAVY LIFTING” to you?
Not that I really think this will be a daily occurrence. But I can see how it might happen more than once this snow season. What happened was, Kanga got his truck stuck. Our office (/basement/freezer) is located in a house high on a plateau that receives a lot of snow and wind. My car can’t even make it back there. Kanga has a big Man Truck, and wanted to see if he could pull Tulip’s truck out from the back garage, which involved driving alongside their house (where, I suppose, there is a driveway, somewhere beneath all the snow) attaching a rope, and pulling it out. Apparently things did not go quite as planned, and after much fishtailing, spinning wheels, flying snow and then dirt, and a gawdawful smell, BOTH trucks were stuck. (I was blissfully unaware of all of this, seeing as how I was in my little office area, curled around my warm, fifth cup of tea for the day. [which I do not take lightly either, Dantares, just so you know.])
But I was fetched by Bar-B and reluctantly followed her to the garage, where she grabbed a shovel for me. Apparently Kanga was throwing himself a bit of a tantrum, saying all sorts of “I’ll just have the damn thing towed to the dump. It’s done. It’s broken. Useless piece of crap.” Blah blah blah. Because his toy didn’t do what it was supposed to do. (That’s right, I called his dumb truck a toy. I stand by it. Plbthbthbth.)
So Kanga went inside to sulk (something about a bad back) while the three women, (me, Bar-B, and Tulip) began digging out his truck from about a 4 ft. high snow drift.
I am actually not complaining. (r-i-i-i-i-i-g-h-t) it was a nice, sunny day, and a nice break from staring at the computer screen. Plus, the manual labor actually got my blood flowing and I was able to shed layers for the first time ever at my job, instead of praying to the J. Crew gods to please send new warm, yummy sweaters already.
We actually got the truck dug out, and Kanga decided maybe it was not junk after all, and drove it back up the hill. We cheered... until he began backing back down, and we were all like, “Oh, no no. What are you doing? We just worked very hard to make it NOT do what you are doing….” And he hitched it to the other very stuck struck, and nothing happened. So we got to dig out the second truck, and with the gunning of some engines (and some lamenting of the dirt on my white corduroys by me) both trucks finally emerged onto the road and I believe Kanga’s male ego felt much better. Bar-B got to leave early, Tulip changed into fleece pajama pants, and I drank my first glass of a non-super-heated-beverage. So we were all very happy.
But if they ask me to chop wood, today, I’m out, man. I’m out.
Manual labor was so NOT part of the job description. What about my pink sweaters, sparkly shoes (also pink, if you must know), just-so curls, and general lack of overall muscle screams “HEAVY LIFTING” to you?
Not that I really think this will be a daily occurrence. But I can see how it might happen more than once this snow season. What happened was, Kanga got his truck stuck. Our office (/basement/freezer) is located in a house high on a plateau that receives a lot of snow and wind. My car can’t even make it back there. Kanga has a big Man Truck, and wanted to see if he could pull Tulip’s truck out from the back garage, which involved driving alongside their house (where, I suppose, there is a driveway, somewhere beneath all the snow) attaching a rope, and pulling it out. Apparently things did not go quite as planned, and after much fishtailing, spinning wheels, flying snow and then dirt, and a gawdawful smell, BOTH trucks were stuck. (I was blissfully unaware of all of this, seeing as how I was in my little office area, curled around my warm, fifth cup of tea for the day. [which I do not take lightly either, Dantares, just so you know.])
But I was fetched by Bar-B and reluctantly followed her to the garage, where she grabbed a shovel for me. Apparently Kanga was throwing himself a bit of a tantrum, saying all sorts of “I’ll just have the damn thing towed to the dump. It’s done. It’s broken. Useless piece of crap.” Blah blah blah. Because his toy didn’t do what it was supposed to do. (That’s right, I called his dumb truck a toy. I stand by it. Plbthbthbth.)
So Kanga went inside to sulk (something about a bad back) while the three women, (me, Bar-B, and Tulip) began digging out his truck from about a 4 ft. high snow drift.
I am actually not complaining. (r-i-i-i-i-i-g-h-t) it was a nice, sunny day, and a nice break from staring at the computer screen. Plus, the manual labor actually got my blood flowing and I was able to shed layers for the first time ever at my job, instead of praying to the J. Crew gods to please send new warm, yummy sweaters already.
We actually got the truck dug out, and Kanga decided maybe it was not junk after all, and drove it back up the hill. We cheered... until he began backing back down, and we were all like, “Oh, no no. What are you doing? We just worked very hard to make it NOT do what you are doing….” And he hitched it to the other very stuck struck, and nothing happened. So we got to dig out the second truck, and with the gunning of some engines (and some lamenting of the dirt on my white corduroys by me) both trucks finally emerged onto the road and I believe Kanga’s male ego felt much better. Bar-B got to leave early, Tulip changed into fleece pajama pants, and I drank my first glass of a non-super-heated-beverage. So we were all very happy.
But if they ask me to chop wood, today, I’m out, man. I’m out.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Dreams Worthy of Royalty
Recently, I think I have been feeling a little inadequate. (picture me in Wayne’s World all, “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!” Actually… don’t. It’s a ridiculously stupid movie and is almost automatically quoted by any random bumblefuck outside of the east coast when they hear I’m from Delaware. “Oh, you mean like in Wayne’s World?” and then, because they can’t help themselves, “Hi, I’m in… Delaware.” And then they wonder why I beat them with sharp jagged objects and say, “Never heard that one, before.”)
Love me some parenthetical statements.
Back to my inadequacy. I’ve been having dreams wherein The Funasaurus and I are doing something together, and he’s a million times better at whatever it is, and I wake up feeling like I should drug him and sneak him into the courthouse and wake him up just in time to say, “I do,” today, so that he doesn’t come to his senses and back out of this whole thing before the wedding. These dreams culminated in one two nights ago, in which we were back in a high school math class (my own, personal, innermost circle of hell [Dante has got nothin’ on Mrs. Sullivan]) and The Funasaurus was all, “oh, this advanced calculus is easy, I’m acing everything and will graduate with honors,” and I was like, “I forgot how to add.”
When I woke up, I was first relieved that I will never again have to sit in a math class, and then secondly very stressed and annoyed with myself. So I decided to give myself a little talking-to, because these dreams were getting out of hand. And so I was like, “Self, you are a brilliant woman. No, make that brilliant Princess. And just because someone hasn’t yet decided to commend you on your amazing Chardonnay-consumption abilities and pay you for your borderline-freaky obsession with beautiful foreign monarchies, it doesn’t mean they won’t ever.” (I realize they probably won’t, ever, however self needed a pep talk, not a demoralizer.)
And apparently, I took myself quite seriously. Because last night, I dreamt that The Funasaurus was an astronaut, and I was the winner of a Pulitzer Prize, and we were having a conversation about just how ironic it was that he wasn’t going to be able to attend my award ceremony because it just happened to fall on the same day as his launch on his mission to Mars. Or the moon. Or wherever. And then we laughed, all W.A.S.P.-y and restrained, “heh heh heh.” And shook our heads as we swirled a very expensive Chateauneuf des Papes in the crystal goblets from Tiffany’s that someone had so generously given us at our wedding.
!
The very best part? I woke up saying, “But that’s the same day as your launch!”out loud, and The Funasaurus, totally asleep, rolled over and quite coherently says, “I know!”
!!!! ? !!!!
Love me some parenthetical statements.
Back to my inadequacy. I’ve been having dreams wherein The Funasaurus and I are doing something together, and he’s a million times better at whatever it is, and I wake up feeling like I should drug him and sneak him into the courthouse and wake him up just in time to say, “I do,” today, so that he doesn’t come to his senses and back out of this whole thing before the wedding. These dreams culminated in one two nights ago, in which we were back in a high school math class (my own, personal, innermost circle of hell [Dante has got nothin’ on Mrs. Sullivan]) and The Funasaurus was all, “oh, this advanced calculus is easy, I’m acing everything and will graduate with honors,” and I was like, “I forgot how to add.”
When I woke up, I was first relieved that I will never again have to sit in a math class, and then secondly very stressed and annoyed with myself. So I decided to give myself a little talking-to, because these dreams were getting out of hand. And so I was like, “Self, you are a brilliant woman. No, make that brilliant Princess. And just because someone hasn’t yet decided to commend you on your amazing Chardonnay-consumption abilities and pay you for your borderline-freaky obsession with beautiful foreign monarchies, it doesn’t mean they won’t ever.” (I realize they probably won’t, ever, however self needed a pep talk, not a demoralizer.)
And apparently, I took myself quite seriously. Because last night, I dreamt that The Funasaurus was an astronaut, and I was the winner of a Pulitzer Prize, and we were having a conversation about just how ironic it was that he wasn’t going to be able to attend my award ceremony because it just happened to fall on the same day as his launch on his mission to Mars. Or the moon. Or wherever. And then we laughed, all W.A.S.P.-y and restrained, “heh heh heh.” And shook our heads as we swirled a very expensive Chateauneuf des Papes in the crystal goblets from Tiffany’s that someone had so generously given us at our wedding.
!
The very best part? I woke up saying, “But that’s the same day as your launch!”out loud, and The Funasaurus, totally asleep, rolled over and quite coherently says, “I know!”
!!!! ? !!!!
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Spice of Royal Life
I don’t know how long this is going to last, y’all. It took me TWO hours to get in to work on Friday because of the “snowstorm” (read: sprinkling of snowflakes on the only road to beat out I-70 in its hatred of me, I-225.) and while I was very grateful that Kanga and Tulip let me go early, I got home around 2:00 only to realize that I had spent about as much time on the road as I had working.
Fortunately, our friend N had a wine and cheese party that night, and I am a firm believer in the wine-and-cheese-make-everything-better philosophy. To top that, my friend K also happened to be at the party, and she gave me THIS flower, because she is just that awesome. I spent most of the evening peeking at it and surreptitiously petting it, wondering why on Earth I haven’t ever bothered to own something so lovely, before. That was promptly answered for me when I brought it home and Tatum took one look at it and was like, Oh! A Box! Joy! And took a swan dive into my orchid.
On the upside, I found a great recipe for kitty strew on the internet, if anyone’s interested.
Then, on Saturday, instead of doing, I don’t know, say, something relaxing and hangover-curing, I decided to get up and ski with some of The Funasaurus’ friends. Somehow, me and my little Honda Civic got talked into driving. And so for three tedious hours we schlepped up to Keystone. We skied, and then tried to come home for dinner, with The Funasaurus and some of our other non-skiing friends. But it took FOUR hours, so we. Ah. Kinda missed dinner. The non-skiers were well into a game of Lord of the Rings Monopoly, post sushi, and were all too happy to rub in their good fortune. Until I pointed out that they were playing Lord of the Rings Monopoly.
Sunday was normal, and Monday I braved I-225 and the icebox office, again. Tulip noticed I had brought a very large travel mug of tea (which she must think I’m addicted to, like some kind of overzealous Brit, however it’s really just to keep my hands warm) and said to help myself to the hot water heater in the kitchen for refills, anytime. Well! Don’t mind if I do.
The hot water heater turns out to be a thing that looks like the product of a toaster and a teapot getting a little too freaky one night. It’s got the basic shape of a teapot, but with a lever that you push down, just like a toaster, and turns red, then it DINGS! When it’s done, and the light goes off. As I was waiting for the thing to toast my water, I noticed that Kanga also has a large collection of gourmet pepper mills. Like, the kind you buy at William Sonoma. I was so busy counting them (NINE!) that I took a sip of my tea without really thinking about the fact that toasters are much more capable of heating things much fucking hotter than, say, a teapot. So I sputtered peach tea all over Kanga and Tulip’s kitchen, and have now lost most of my sense of taste. Or feeling in my mouth, for that matter.
I managed to ask Tulip, around the new blisters on my tongue, about the bizarre assortment of pepper mills, and she was like, “Oh yeah. Most of ‘em don’t even work.”
?!?!?!
And that was that. But you want to know what’s really freaky? Despite the hundreds of pounds of pepper that I am sure are stored on their counter, I couldn’t find a salt shaker, anywhere.
I don’t get these people. We have nothing in common. I certainly don’t enjoy freezing all day while collecting phallic-shaped containers for pepper. And scorning salt. ... I'm willing to bet they would even like Lord of the Rings Monopoly.
Fortunately, our friend N had a wine and cheese party that night, and I am a firm believer in the wine-and-cheese-make-everything-better philosophy. To top that, my friend K also happened to be at the party, and she gave me THIS flower, because she is just that awesome. I spent most of the evening peeking at it and surreptitiously petting it, wondering why on Earth I haven’t ever bothered to own something so lovely, before. That was promptly answered for me when I brought it home and Tatum took one look at it and was like, Oh! A Box! Joy! And took a swan dive into my orchid.
On the upside, I found a great recipe for kitty strew on the internet, if anyone’s interested.
Then, on Saturday, instead of doing, I don’t know, say, something relaxing and hangover-curing, I decided to get up and ski with some of The Funasaurus’ friends. Somehow, me and my little Honda Civic got talked into driving. And so for three tedious hours we schlepped up to Keystone. We skied, and then tried to come home for dinner, with The Funasaurus and some of our other non-skiing friends. But it took FOUR hours, so we. Ah. Kinda missed dinner. The non-skiers were well into a game of Lord of the Rings Monopoly, post sushi, and were all too happy to rub in their good fortune. Until I pointed out that they were playing Lord of the Rings Monopoly.
Sunday was normal, and Monday I braved I-225 and the icebox office, again. Tulip noticed I had brought a very large travel mug of tea (which she must think I’m addicted to, like some kind of overzealous Brit, however it’s really just to keep my hands warm) and said to help myself to the hot water heater in the kitchen for refills, anytime. Well! Don’t mind if I do.
The hot water heater turns out to be a thing that looks like the product of a toaster and a teapot getting a little too freaky one night. It’s got the basic shape of a teapot, but with a lever that you push down, just like a toaster, and turns red, then it DINGS! When it’s done, and the light goes off. As I was waiting for the thing to toast my water, I noticed that Kanga also has a large collection of gourmet pepper mills. Like, the kind you buy at William Sonoma. I was so busy counting them (NINE!) that I took a sip of my tea without really thinking about the fact that toasters are much more capable of heating things much fucking hotter than, say, a teapot. So I sputtered peach tea all over Kanga and Tulip’s kitchen, and have now lost most of my sense of taste. Or feeling in my mouth, for that matter.
I managed to ask Tulip, around the new blisters on my tongue, about the bizarre assortment of pepper mills, and she was like, “Oh yeah. Most of ‘em don’t even work.”
?!?!?!
And that was that. But you want to know what’s really freaky? Despite the hundreds of pounds of pepper that I am sure are stored on their counter, I couldn’t find a salt shaker, anywhere.
I don’t get these people. We have nothing in common. I certainly don’t enjoy freezing all day while collecting phallic-shaped containers for pepper. And scorning salt. ... I'm willing to bet they would even like Lord of the Rings Monopoly.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Chewing on Icicles
My commute continues to suck, but I do get along well with Kanga and Tulip (who, by the way, wore a much cuter sweater/jeans combo yesterday, so perhaps I was a bit hasty in my judgment) and tonight we are supposed to duck out early for our first happy hour.
One severe drawback, though, is lunchtime. Or rather, the lack thereof. Kanga and Tulip subsist off of coffee all day long, and apparently eat a feast for dinner every night. While I like me an evening feast as much as anyone, I like a morning and midday meal as well. Since my puny car can’t make it down their road, and they have been shuttling me from a nearby parking lot, it’s not very easy to pipe up around 1:00 and say, “Sorry, could you quit working for a sec and take me to my car? I need sustenance.” So I brought a can of soup, yesterday, and ate alone, in their kitchen.
Which is colder than their basement where I work. I don’t think they heat the main house at all, and the basement is only a degree or two warmer. I wore long underwear, wool socks, a hooded sweater, and boots yesterday and still spent most of the day shivering like a junkie on hour 26 of withdrawl. So needless to say, warm soup was welcome, even if I had to eat alone. (And quickly, because it cooled off immediately.)
Bar-B has yet to spend more than ten minutes in the office, but I like her, too. Yesterday she came in to tell us about a new painting she had bought, and then had to rush back to let the contractor go to lunch, since he was working on her kitchen remodel. Then she made some quip about the heat, and trotted out of there, with her cat in her arms. She managed to comment on both lunch AND the lack of heat in one sentence, and while I felt like that was rubbing a little salt in my newbie wound, I also considered launching myself at her feet and begging her to take me with her, and her cat.
Meanwhile, though, the actual work that I’ve been doing for Kanga and Tulip has been interesting. I have proofread a couple of little things, and get to start working on the catalog, today. That stuff is waaaay more fun than my last job. So I see it as cold, hungry progress.
The Funasaurus continues to call me melodramatic, for some reason.
Meanwhile, last night we went out to eat in Denver, and as we were getting near the restaurant, we heard a weird banging and sirens. I turn to get a better look, while The Funasaurus ducks and covers. A white pickup truck with a very bent fender and what appears to be a shot-out tire comes clattering past us, followed by not one, not two, but more like FIFTEEN police cars. Then a few more appear from another direction, along with an odd assortment of undercover cars, all with blaring lights.
I have no idea what was going on, but I have never seen that many sirens in my life. I have yet to hear anything about it on the news, but I will let you know as soon as I do. That was not normal. And I will get to the bottom of it.
Have yourself a warm Friday, folks. And eat a sandwich for me at lunchtime.
Sigh.
(insert patented Funasaurus Eye Roll, here.)
One severe drawback, though, is lunchtime. Or rather, the lack thereof. Kanga and Tulip subsist off of coffee all day long, and apparently eat a feast for dinner every night. While I like me an evening feast as much as anyone, I like a morning and midday meal as well. Since my puny car can’t make it down their road, and they have been shuttling me from a nearby parking lot, it’s not very easy to pipe up around 1:00 and say, “Sorry, could you quit working for a sec and take me to my car? I need sustenance.” So I brought a can of soup, yesterday, and ate alone, in their kitchen.
Which is colder than their basement where I work. I don’t think they heat the main house at all, and the basement is only a degree or two warmer. I wore long underwear, wool socks, a hooded sweater, and boots yesterday and still spent most of the day shivering like a junkie on hour 26 of withdrawl. So needless to say, warm soup was welcome, even if I had to eat alone. (And quickly, because it cooled off immediately.)
Bar-B has yet to spend more than ten minutes in the office, but I like her, too. Yesterday she came in to tell us about a new painting she had bought, and then had to rush back to let the contractor go to lunch, since he was working on her kitchen remodel. Then she made some quip about the heat, and trotted out of there, with her cat in her arms. She managed to comment on both lunch AND the lack of heat in one sentence, and while I felt like that was rubbing a little salt in my newbie wound, I also considered launching myself at her feet and begging her to take me with her, and her cat.
Meanwhile, though, the actual work that I’ve been doing for Kanga and Tulip has been interesting. I have proofread a couple of little things, and get to start working on the catalog, today. That stuff is waaaay more fun than my last job. So I see it as cold, hungry progress.
The Funasaurus continues to call me melodramatic, for some reason.
Meanwhile, last night we went out to eat in Denver, and as we were getting near the restaurant, we heard a weird banging and sirens. I turn to get a better look, while The Funasaurus ducks and covers. A white pickup truck with a very bent fender and what appears to be a shot-out tire comes clattering past us, followed by not one, not two, but more like FIFTEEN police cars. Then a few more appear from another direction, along with an odd assortment of undercover cars, all with blaring lights.
I have no idea what was going on, but I have never seen that many sirens in my life. I have yet to hear anything about it on the news, but I will let you know as soon as I do. That was not normal. And I will get to the bottom of it.
Have yourself a warm Friday, folks. And eat a sandwich for me at lunchtime.
Sigh.
(insert patented Funasaurus Eye Roll, here.)
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
My First Day
I arrived early this morning. My commute was only an hour, and not the hour and a half I anticipated, (though it still sucked because an hour in traffic is DAYS in I-so-could-be-sleeping-in-right-now time) so I treated myself to a chai from Starbucks while I waited for my soon-to-be-current employer to come get me from the King Soopers parking lot and 4-wheel me back to the house where I would be working.
The house which she, and her partner, keep at sub-freaking-freezing all day long. I spent most of the day trying not to turn into a popsicle while taking notes on updating titles on Amazon.
I work with three people, regularly. Plus a wealthy owner out in California, with whom I have yet to speak with, personally. We’ll call the wealthy owner Hay-soos. In my office/basement/refrigerator room, I work with Kanga, a personified Australian teddy bear of a 50-something man, (just go with it) his ex-wife Bar-B who is beautiful, petite, blonde, and wears Neiman Marcus-y looking clothes and much makeup, and Kanga’s current live-in partner, a teddy bear of a much younger woman who appears to be more of a this-old-sweater's-clean-and-doesn't-have-too-many-holes dresser, than a Neimans girl, and no makeup no no, but is very kind and a bit plump. She looks like she’d be really good at hugging. I think I’m going to call her Tulip. Meanwhile, ex-wife Bar-B has taken to shaking up with ol’ Hay-soos out in California on a semi-permanent basis, so she’s “on the road a lot.” They all get along great.
Supposedly.
I’m desperate to know how they really feel about each other, and am debating getting sloshed with all of them at some point to drag out some details because this is going to be a really twisted, great story, I can just feel it.
Meanwhile, Tulip is turning out to be quite smart, and is juggling a lot of balls, but isn’t so great at explaining what all the balls are, just says, “oh, can you catch that one?” and I did a lot of “catch what? What was that? What am I supposed to be doing?” all day, but she was very patient and would explain, “Oh could you just handle thismumblemumblething” and I would smile, relieved, and say, “oh, thanks for clarifying that” and go back to watching my appendages slowly accumulate frost while I wondered what the fuck I could do to look busy.
Stay tuned for the next installment.
The house which she, and her partner, keep at sub-freaking-freezing all day long. I spent most of the day trying not to turn into a popsicle while taking notes on updating titles on Amazon.
I work with three people, regularly. Plus a wealthy owner out in California, with whom I have yet to speak with, personally. We’ll call the wealthy owner Hay-soos. In my office/basement/refrigerator room, I work with Kanga, a personified Australian teddy bear of a 50-something man, (just go with it) his ex-wife Bar-B who is beautiful, petite, blonde, and wears Neiman Marcus-y looking clothes and much makeup, and Kanga’s current live-in partner, a teddy bear of a much younger woman who appears to be more of a this-old-sweater's-clean-and-doesn't-have-too-many-holes dresser, than a Neimans girl, and no makeup no no, but is very kind and a bit plump. She looks like she’d be really good at hugging. I think I’m going to call her Tulip. Meanwhile, ex-wife Bar-B has taken to shaking up with ol’ Hay-soos out in California on a semi-permanent basis, so she’s “on the road a lot.” They all get along great.
Supposedly.
I’m desperate to know how they really feel about each other, and am debating getting sloshed with all of them at some point to drag out some details because this is going to be a really twisted, great story, I can just feel it.
Meanwhile, Tulip is turning out to be quite smart, and is juggling a lot of balls, but isn’t so great at explaining what all the balls are, just says, “oh, can you catch that one?” and I did a lot of “catch what? What was that? What am I supposed to be doing?” all day, but she was very patient and would explain, “Oh could you just handle thismumblemumblething” and I would smile, relieved, and say, “oh, thanks for clarifying that” and go back to watching my appendages slowly accumulate frost while I wondered what the fuck I could do to look busy.
Stay tuned for the next installment.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
007. 2007.
The Funasaurus and I hosted a little New Year’s get-together, this year. There was much champagne and Pama, as well as some other stuff, but I’m not quite sure what that was, seeing as how I wasn’t drinking it. Why would you, when there is a fresh bottle of Pama to be had?
So we had a party, and our theme was James Bond, 007, in honor of the year being 2007. There was a competition, involving the Best Gadget for the guys, and Best Bond Girl name among the girls. We had a Cricket Sugarlips and an Anita Lottaman show up. I was Mai Char Donné. Cricket won this, and a guy who had a homemade Styrofoam light-up thing-y won this. While I don’t know what his gadget actually DID, it looked like it involved the most work by far, and it was shiny, and I like shiny things when I am drunk, so he won, because I am a supreme dictator and this was not a voting competition so much as a What-the-Princess-Says-Goes competition.
Yesterday involved a trip to IHOP for greasy hangover food and some general laying about and napping.
Today, as you might remember, you memory-wiz of a reader, you, I was supposed to go to work, again. But, as you can see, I am either blogging on the first day of my new job, which is pushing it (even for me) OR I am not yet at said New Job. Which is actually the case. I got an e-mail late last night saying, “Oh, heh, we’re still snowed in, down here. Don’t think your puny car can make it. Why don’t you go ahead and come in on Wednesday, instead?” (That is not verbatim, but as I drive a Honda Civic and this company specializes in 4 wheel drive vehicles, it was implied. [I do see this as an opportunity to sell The Funasaurus on my dream truck, though. Hybrid be damned, I have some off-roading to do!]) So I am here at home, still slowly cleaning up from New Year’s and playing Get-Off-My-Computer-Already-You-Jerk with my cat. It could be worse.
Wish me luck for tomorrow! My first REAL day of work. Supposedly.
So we had a party, and our theme was James Bond, 007, in honor of the year being 2007. There was a competition, involving the Best Gadget for the guys, and Best Bond Girl name among the girls. We had a Cricket Sugarlips and an Anita Lottaman show up. I was Mai Char Donné. Cricket won this, and a guy who had a homemade Styrofoam light-up thing-y won this. While I don’t know what his gadget actually DID, it looked like it involved the most work by far, and it was shiny, and I like shiny things when I am drunk, so he won, because I am a supreme dictator and this was not a voting competition so much as a What-the-Princess-Says-Goes competition.
Yesterday involved a trip to IHOP for greasy hangover food and some general laying about and napping.
Today, as you might remember, you memory-wiz of a reader, you, I was supposed to go to work, again. But, as you can see, I am either blogging on the first day of my new job, which is pushing it (even for me) OR I am not yet at said New Job. Which is actually the case. I got an e-mail late last night saying, “Oh, heh, we’re still snowed in, down here. Don’t think your puny car can make it. Why don’t you go ahead and come in on Wednesday, instead?” (That is not verbatim, but as I drive a Honda Civic and this company specializes in 4 wheel drive vehicles, it was implied. [I do see this as an opportunity to sell The Funasaurus on my dream truck, though. Hybrid be damned, I have some off-roading to do!]) So I am here at home, still slowly cleaning up from New Year’s and playing Get-Off-My-Computer-Already-You-Jerk with my cat. It could be worse.
Wish me luck for tomorrow! My first REAL day of work. Supposedly.
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