If She Sat ON Me, Does It Still Count as Babysitting?

I survived. The child is not dead, and neither am I. Though I did sleep until 10:00 this morning because holy shit! Kids = extreme amounts of energy. I do not understand how people do this full time. Seriously. Is there mommy crack, or something, that I don't know about, that keeps you going?

I have not babysat since I was in high school. Which, coincidentally enough, I used to do a lot, and was about the same time that I decided I didn't want to have children. Ever. I was nervous about trying the whole babysitting thing out, again, ten years later. The Funasaurus has only just gotten it into my head that maybe having kids isn't the worst idea, ever.

Fortunately for me, the child in question is an extremely adorable 4-year-old girl, so she's at the stage where she can carry on a full-on conversation, tell me what's wrong, and be interested in girly things like PRINCESSES! so I thought I had that working to my advantage. Plus, she wanted to start the day by watching Ice Age 2, which is a pretty fantastic movie, so I thought we were off to a good start. Except I forgot that “watching a movie” in kid-speak really more equates to, “Have it on in the background while I do flips off of the back of the couch and demand macaroni & cheese at 10:00 a.m.... oh... and also playing with toys that seem to be spawning in the living room like fruit flies.”

Before Barbie could turn into Barbie and 44 friends (all with minimal amounts of clothing but tons of accessories) I scooped her and her jacket up, loaded her into my car, and headed to Denver. Where there is a CHILDREN'S MUSEUM, which I decided must be fairly kid-friendly. I don't know if I have ever driven in a car with children, before. It was horrible. I can have too many drunk friends pile in at midnight on a Saturday night, and think nothing of it, but when there is a totally innocent four-year-old in the backseat, grinning through a Bronco's pom-pom she found on the floor, on a random Thursday morning I was suddenly very aware of DANGER! EVERYWHERE!

I drove in the slow lane for the first time in my life. I pulled over when someone got too close. I imagined a million horrible variations on the smooshed angelic child nightmare, and just about gave myself a heart attack. All before we had exited Cuteness' neighborhood.

It was a looooong 40-minute drive to Denver, but I got Cuteness to recite every song she has ever learned, then I went through every G-rated song I remembered, and she told me the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, complete with a gruff papa bear voice, but mama and baby, not-so-much. We also counted to twenty, skipping sixteen each time, because who cares about that number, anyway? (At least until you are of driver's license obtaining age.) We were almost there when her mom called me on my cell phone all, “Cat, I'm so sorry, but I think I may have left the coffee maker on....”

Nooooooo.

So we about-faced, and drove all the way back (in a frickin' snowstorm, I might add!) to find the coffee maker totally off and Cuteness very full of pee. And also hungry. Luckily, she made it to the potty in time, and I made some mac & cheese. Then I decided we were going to make it happen, re-loaded Cuteness into her jacket, mittens, and car seat, bribing her with a little doll I had planned on giving her, later, and set off for Denver. Again.

We made it, and actually had a good time, running around, getting mad at pushy boys, and then playing veterinarian for a solid two hours before, “Attention, guests! The museum will be closing in 10 minutes! Please gather your belongings and get out of here. Stat.” (Or something like that.) Thankfully, Cuteness was getting a little tired of playing doctor, having administered more than 100 shots into the spines of innocent stuffed kittens at that point, and allowed me to give her a piggyback out of there, which also allowed us to bypass the gift shop, and home we went.

I forgot about the pea-sized bladders of children. About halfway home, and right smack dab in the 400th rendition of, “Hey Diddle Diddle” with full on pom-pom shaking accompaniment, I hear this, “Cat, I have to PEE!”

Uh-huh. Kind of trying to merge onto a highway in a blizzard, here, kiddo.

“Can you hold it, Cuteness?”

“Yes.”

Two seconds later.

“No.”

I glance in the rearview mirror and her big brown eyes are the size of dinner plates, she's shrinking into her large pink jacket as though it's eating her, and her little legs are crossed tightly in the car seat.

“Shit.” I say in my head.

“Hey diddle diddle?” I offer, aloud.

So I swerve off the highway, cursing other drivers everywhere for exiting because Eee Gads, I am still not o.k. With the whole they-might-smoosh-precious-child-(now-holding-her-crotch)-in-the-backseat idea.

“Can we get french fries?” Cuteness asks through gritted teeth.

“Uh, sure. Let's find a bathroom, first, though, o.k.?”

We find a restaurant, park, go in as quickly as our crossed little four-year-old legs will carry us, (which is a similar feeling of eternity to the last five minutes of chemistry class in high school) and we miraculously make it, circumventing the hostess who asks if we want to be seated first.

“Sure. As long as you don't mind if she empties her bladder on the damn vinyl seat. And maybe I will too, just to spite you.”

I haven't shared a stall with someone in quite a while. Especially someone who announces to the whole bathroom that, “I think I will stay here until I poo.”

So we take care of business, and go back out to the hostess who is holding an armful of crayons and a menu. Sweet! Crayons! But it was quite a shock when Cuteness told me I couldn't use purple.

I always use purple.

I order a plateful of fries and a Sprite, and Cuteness colors away, allowing me to use red and brown, which, FINE, and then the fries come and Cuteness eats about three, total, because there are more important things to do like COLOR! which leaves me the entire plate of fries to polish off by myself. Which I do. In about two seconds.

Then we go home, pop in Ice Age 2 for the third time that day, do a few more flips off the couch, and wait for dad to get home. He does, and he offers me wine, which was about as hard to turn down as a winning lottery ticket, but seeing as how I have another long drive in a snowstorm in front of me and I am pooped, I manage to decline.

Then I sprinted out of there before I could change my mind.

Then I came home and slept for 12 hours.

I do not know how you moms out there do it. Mad props, y'all.

Blondes, Swans, and Mint Whipped Cream

It's been a very busy week so far, having had not one but two sets of friends in town, visiting. Fortunately, I have fabulous friends, so the mélange of high school meets college worked out just fine, and we went and had tea, shopped, and visited the local brewery as though we had been planning on hanging out all together, for ages.

Little Swan Baby was in town because her fiancé was going to The String Cheese Incident concerts. (That's right. Plural. As in more than one night of hippie band-dom.) We forgave him his taste in music, especially when he was agreeable to going to a cute little French bistro with yummy mimosas only a few hours after he had stumbled in the door.

Side note: Tatum loved his wristband from the concert, deeming it his new favorite toy to fetch. I am 99% sure he got a contact high from carrying that thing around in his mouth all day. But it's hard to tell for sure. He's just that dumb.

Blondie was in town for different reasons. She and her boyfriend were considering moving here, so this was going to be a house-hunting trip for them. But instead her boyfriend ended up getting a residency in Raleigh, NC, which is so NOT Denver, Colorado. So we scrapped the model home tour in favor of the Coors Brewery Tour. Mmmm. Free Zima.

Monday Blondie had to fly out for an extremely last-minute interview in North Carolina, so we put her on the plane all, “Bye, dear, I'm going to take your boyfriend skiing while you're gone, o.k.?”

And skiing we did go. Along with some other friends. Blondie's boyfriend was used to hard core skiing, but he was pretty tired on Tuesday. So I told him there was another way to ski. I call it The Princess Method. It involves taking a token run, then heading in to the lodge bar for an Irish coffee (or ski lift, which is part hot chocolate, part peppermint schnapps.) Blondie's boyfriend was all for The Princess Method, so we took two (one of which was unnecessary, but whatever, it was a nice day) runs, and then went in to the bar. Which was still closed, because they don't open until 11:00. Lazy bums.

We walked out, determined to be back by 11:00. Blondie's boyfriend just shook his head all, “I've never gotten to a bar so early that it was still closed!”

I shook my head, all, “Welcome to my world.”

So we came back in at 11, and had yummy yummy ski lifts, complete with minty whipped cream, which I have never expereinced before but DELIC! And then we skiied until it was time for lunch and beer, and then we skiied through the trees to find a little log smoke hut that I have known about since I was six (I use it more for M&Ms eating than smoking. Something about being in a very crude log shelter in the snow that could collapse at any second makes M&Ms that much more tasty) there are lots of hidden treasures on a mountain that are not marked on the map, fyi, and then we came home in time to pick Blondie up from the airport.

Her interview went well, and she had some adventures getting there, but we trumped her stories with our minty whipped cream. I mean, did you hear me? MINT! Flavored! Whipped Cream!

So that's been my week. Now I'm off to babysit for a friend. Who on Earth would entrust me with their child, anyway??? Want some minty whipped cream, kiddo?

Good News

Oh, y'all!

I just found out... I was accepted by the graduate program I applied to! As of next fall, I'm singlehandedly (well, me, and other hot women in the same career path) bringing the sexy librarian back; I'm getting a Masters in library sciences. :-)

I applied long back before the layoffS happened. I applied back when I had a good job, but an evil boss. As some of you may remember. I decided there was more I could do with my time. But I didn't tell anyone, because if I got rejected, I didn't feel like having to announce that, as well.

But now DU is going to let me be all that I can be in the library realm! It's official! And I'm so happy!

Love,
Princess Librarian

My Empty Wine Glass Could Be Modern Art. Sad, Modern Art.

Oh, modern art. I so don't get you. Apparently a big ashtry with several hundred smoked butts and some empty cigarette packs is now “art.”

Really?

I mean, really?

So I have some friends visiting, from out of town. And they heard about the new modern art museum building, in all of its no-perpedicular-walls glory, so we went to go visit it, since I have been curious about it, myself. I liked the room with the projection of falling scarves. It reminded me of a nice screen saver. I thought the Very Large bronze clothes pin was o.k., and the big, decapitated Buddhas with random dolls' heads hanging above them were Not My Cup of Tea.

The gift store, however, WAS. Do you know they make zipper bags? Bags made entirely of a very long, zipped up zipper? The fact that somehow that ONE zipper, along with some tricky, fancy-schmancy sewing created a bag with TWO handles was beyond brilliant. (And more artistic than the plastic red square on the fourth floor, in my opinion.)

The most amazing thing in the gift shop, though, was this Buddha Board. Do not know what to get me for Christmas? Get me this. It's like a Japanese etch-a-sketch. So pretty! With water! And then it fades away and you can do it all again! I'll take two.

Then we came home, napped, and went to yoga. Where there was a new teacher, who was very nice and while she did not have an ounce of fat on her, thereby making her “Let go of any preconceived notions of how you should look” speech null and VOID because only normal people with real body issues are allowed to say that, she was very kind and even went around touching your third eye spot (aka the spot where I am most likely to get zits) with scented oil while you relaxed. My friend, Little Swan Baby, kicked ass, and was all bendy and strong and whatnot, (which I was able to determine while squooshing back into Child's Pose [aka cop-out pose] for the 400th time) and impressed the teacher. Little Swan Baby has also been suffering from a severe cold, and I think the yoga, between the heated room and all the twisting upside-down-ing, squeezed most of the snot right out of her, because this morning she is a little sore but much less sniffly.

Or, it could be the fact that I dried all the snot out of her by feeding her brute champagne.

Either way, here's to starting a weekend by curing a cold with yoga and wine!

Cheers!

Is Noon Too Early for a Mimosa on a Wednesday?

I went to the temp agency this morning, aka the very silent, hidden office on the 21st floor of a secret buliding.

Maybe not so much “secret” as “not really where the address would make you think it is.”

I walked in on time, (barely, thanks, mean receptionist lady, who made me feel like an idiot for not knowing how to find the hidden frickin' building but eventually bothered to give me clearer directions) and met with a twitchy woman who led me through an acreage of cubicles before settling on a random one in the back where she made me fill out four hundred and sixty two forms, all of which where variations on the same bit of information: name, address, daytime phone, and have I been convicted of any felonies, recently?

Nope, I sure haven't (not counting the whole Columbian drug lord month/time between marketing positions), so I am now in their system.

For all of the work I put into putting together a nice, presentable, interview outfit (it's not every day that I wrestle my hair into submission with a flat iron) I don't think the woman ever made eye contact with me.

Not wanting to waste a good flat hair day, let alone the annual event of a freshly-ironed shirt, I called The Funasaurus, who conveniently worked about five blocks away, to see if he wanted to go out to lunch. He was agreeable, so I began a lovely walk through the city of Denver to enjoy the 74 degree weather. A perfect day, right up until some dude outside a building smoking a cigarette gives me the not-subtle-at-ALL up and down and says something along the lines of, “I'd tap that ass,” to his fellow cigarette sucker.

My head immediately goes, “I'd kick you in the balls, mother fucker,” but my stupid feet went, “Run! Run away!” instead. Then I cursed myself the whole way home for not letting my mouth run faster than my feet.

Now I am home again, weighing my options of walking to Cold Stone, taking a nap, or doing the laundry that I so swore I'd do, yesterday. Meethinks I see a nap in my near future.

Things Worth Mentioning

Today is Shout-Out day, because there are so many wonderful things on the internet that I cannot stand not sharing them.

First of all: Hometown Baghdad. Imagine that. Iraquis doing painfully normal things like going to school and making salad and talking about extremist factions in their culture against a backdrop of ruined buildings and friends with missing legs. These videos are amazing. Simple, and amazing. I think showing average people in their daily lives as not so different from Americans and their daily life is a powerful image.

Second of all: Lesbian koalas. Oh, yes. And I admit, this is a BLATANT pilfer from Mimi Smartypants, (who deserves her own shout-out, as well, because: hello, darkly funny! If you ever wanted an extremely well-read, witty goth mom, well, envy Nora. [Mimi's daughter.]) but this breaking new koala info is just too good to not pass along. The only thing is, I don't like that they've only been able to show that this happens in captivity, because that kind of makes it sound like marsupial girl-on-girl action is not natural, and that would be too bad. Perhaps further study is required. How do I get in on that research project? Camping in the Australian outback, following animals that sleep 20+ hours a day, rejecting males in the two hours that they ARE awake. I could SO get used to that schedule.

Thirdly: Malcolm Gladwell archives. Bored at work? Need to find a way to make it until 5:00 and it's only 8:14 a.m.? Read a couple of these. Stop for coffee and pee breaks, occasionally. It will make you slightly sad, that you will never be able to come up with brilliant insights like these every month or so, but it's still worth it.

Fourthly: (Why am I still going with the faux adverb number-y thing?) Virtual bubble wrap.

Fifthly: Have you seen/read these books? Very, very funny. Pick one up for yourself this Easter. Or any other day, for that matter. Easter just kind of goes with the chick theme, but really, they are fabulous and great pick-me-ups. Found in the humor section, in most bookstores.

Um.

That's about it, for now.

See how I pawned off today's blog on all sorts of better writers (of literature AND html)?

Thanks, all you writers with something more profound to say than me. Mwah.

Why It's Not Good to Tweak the Normal Course of Things

The Funasaurus went to Vegas for a major portion of last week. Which left me at home, with too much time on my hands, with the kitties. At first, all seemed normal, and then I got bored. And wanted someone to talk to. So Sugar and I started having lively conversations, and while her vocabulary is not really that large, I really think she GETS me. There was the, “I'm lonely without The Funasaurus, too,” meow, the, “Girl, please, those pants would make a walking stick's butt look big, take them off now before you embarrass me” meow, and the, “enough yammering, get me some kitty treats, already, bi-yatch,” meow.

Meanwhile, Tatum took to curling up with me in the most rediculously cute positions EVER, (most of which were some variation on the little-paw-covering-face-with-butt-sticking up-in-the-air position) and so when I decided to go up and spend the day at my parents (read: dutiful daughter + need some help doing my taxes, Dad) I decided to take the little hell minions with me.

Oh, that may have not been the best choice. My parents were a little skeptical, not being huge animal people. “Are you sure they're well behaved?”

“Of course, they are, mom, they're perfect little angels. Hang on a sec., I need to get Tatum off of our curtains, his paws are still coated in poopy litter.”

So with that rousing endorsement, I loaded them up in the kitty carriers, warmed up my car just-so, and off we went, to the mountains. Wherein Tatum began his Very Loud Monologue on why I was the most awful person pretty much EVER.

Meow and SOB.

I was almost in tears, he sounded so pitiful, then he took a little break, and I looked over in time to see him roll onto his back in his carrier, do a BIG stre-e-e-t-c-h like he was on our bed at home, and then catch me looking at him and screech “ME-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-W!” lest I had forgot he was Not Happy At All.

So we made it up to my parents' place, I let the cats out, they began exploring, and my mom and I took off to go meet with a florist. (Who turned out to be a weird, flower Nazi, and not at all what you'd expect when you picture a florist, but she seemed to know her stuff, so I let it go when she said, “This consultation is free. If you want to meet with me again, I need money.”) We got back about an hour and a half later, and, after waiting for an extra five minutes at the top of my driveway for a couple of St. Bernards to scamper past, obviously happy at their recent break for freedom and looking like they could eat my little Civic in one gulp if I interfered with their dart towards wherever-the-winds-may-take-them, we came inside, and I asked my dad if the cats had behaved themselves.

“Well, now that you mention it, Sugar's been exploring all around, but I don't think I've seen Tatum since you left.”

?

“You don't think... you don't think he snuck outside, do you?” asked my mom, worriedly.

“No, no, Tatum doesn't really DO the outdoors. He's more of a warm heating vent-type kitty,” I replied, with more conviction than I felt. “I'm sure he's just hiding,” I added, as I crammed my body under their couch, reaching around desperately.

“Should we take a look at those taxes?” asked my dad, who had followed me down to the basement, where I was unpacking boxes that haven't been opened since they moved, lest Tatum had somehow managed to crawl into them and reseal the packing tape across the top, behind him.

I finally went upstairs, trying to act casual, but panicking on the inside. Lord, help me, but if I had tormented that cat with a car ride only to lead him to a grizzly death either by garage door smooshing or freezing long enough to become a St. Bernard popcicle, I would never forgive myself.

Taxes went o.k., I ended up owing the government money, despite all the recent unemployment (hopefully that'll come in to play NEXT year) but it was small change, so it wasn't a big deal. Dad got a phone call, so I went back to hunting for Tatum. I did the, “Here kitty kitty! I have TREATS!” call, shaking the bag, which worked Sugar into a frenzy, seeing as how she was there and STOP TEASING ME, ALREADY! And then I did the, “I have a mouse toy!” whistle, that The Funasaurus normally does, which usually gets Tatum dancing like a Cirque du Soleil tryout.

Nothing.

I tore my parents closet apart, hoping he was snoozing amongst the decidedly-70s-ish ski sweaters. No Tatum. I went through their magazine drawers, hoping he was learning how to Cook Lite, and I checked behind all of the electronics in the media area, including the VCR, but no Tatum.

I was debating starting a man-hunt down the mountain, when I decided to peruse the basement one last time. There was one chair I had skipped over in the corner, which was covered in a sheet to keep it from getting sun damage. Underneath, curled up in a corner of the sheet that he had created into his own little nest, was a snoozing Tatum. I unceremoniously woke him up and hugged him, and he was all, “Yawn, I was so not interested in coming out.” But then I fed him enough kitty treats to make him sick, and then loaded him back in the carrier for the long trip home, which he did not like any more than the long trip up, No SIR, and YOWL! But I did not care, for he was not dead. Just slightly gassy from all the gourmet treats.

We survived, and the kitties only looked a little worse for wear, which was slightly better than The Funasaurus who came home the following night smelling of cheap cigarettes and long island ice tea sweat, and snorking right and left due to a raging sinus infection, having had a blast betting on March Madness with the boys. Now our little family is whole, again, even if we're a little crustier than last week.

Phew.

The Princess Has Too Much Time on Her Hands

It's been another crazy week, for me. Work hasn't been able to find enough work for me to do from home, so I am officially unemployed, again. (Which isn't that big of a surprise, I was only able to bill a whopping 4.5 hours last week. blegh)

The Funasaurus gave me an early Easter/sorry-about-the-job-thing,-again gift basket, including two of pretty much every kind of candy I love. Mostly Cadbury chocolate, with some boxes of Andes Candies thrown in for good measure. And pink bunny Peeps. He does know me. And it came in a pink basket, which I've begun referring to as the Princess' Noah's Ark, because: two of everything in chocolate and pink!

Shooting Star and I went to a book club meeting, instead of Nono's Cafe for more divine strawberry cake, which was probably better for my wallet, but less helpful towards my sprint to diabetes. At least I have the Princess's Noah's Ark to fall back on, for that.

For fear of being tracked down by rather intelligent but weirdly similar women, I will refrain from mentioning where, exactly, this book club was hosted. But suffice to say, it is one of the largest cookie cutter communities in the world, and I would get lost trying to find my own house, if I lived there, yet they are all subversively very competitive, trying to outdo each other in “nicer homes” which I find ironic, seeing as how they are all gray and very large, but I am being Not Nice, so I will stop there.

The discussion was actually quite lively, since the author showed up, and we have it on good authority that The Book may be turned in to a screenplay, so get ready to get in on some Will Smith meets the Taj Mahal action. The questions were good, but as more wine was poured, the conversation broke down and became more chit-chat, which is all fine and well, because I do like chit-chat, but Shooting Star and I quickly realized that we were some of the few women in the room who did not live in the gray neighborhood and go to the same church and hang out in the same church groups, and meet with the same book group, and have our 2.5 beautiful children attend the same school where we could get wrapped up in the same PTA drama.

There is a definite allure to having your neighbors be such good friends. Pawning your children off on them for “play dates” aka “time off for mom and WHERE did that jug of Gallo go, anyway?” for example. Or having people to carpool with. On the other hand, what about the weekends where you want to “sleep in” with your Funasaurus instead of go to church? You can't skip out on HOA meetings and claim you were “visiting relatives” while you were really catching up on MTV's Real World reruns if your neighbor picked your kids up for school that morning.

Dunno. I like my privacy too much. I can enjoy my Princess's Noah's Ark of goodness in blessed anonymity. But it would be nice to have more friends close by, with whom I could go out to lunch with. I am getting sick of Ramen and tuna.

Icing and Tires

A little over a week ago, Shooting Star sent me an e-mail, with a restaurant review. The highlight? A homemade strawberry cake, complete with homemade, secret recipe strawberry icing, which promised to be “Barbie pink.”

I was all over that like... a fat kid on cake?

So, exerting every ounce of self restraint I had, I agreed to meet up with her on Friday, as a little end-of-the-week celebration. The week crawled by, and finally, FINALLY Friday came. And then we drove to the middle of nowhere, south Denver, turned a corner, and there on a hill, like a beacon of all that is good (and pinkly frosted!) in this world, sat this restaurant.

We went in, and joined the dozen or so other customers in the large, open restaurant with family farm-style décor. We were the only patrons under the age of 72. We didn't know if this is due to the fact that it was close to retirement home dinnertime (3:30 p.m.) or if it was just due to the fact that we were at a random home-style restaurant in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a weekday. So we ignored all the gray hair, and ordered our slices of strawberry cake immediately, and then, oh heck, why not, a large glass of wine, too, and waited for the goodness to arrive.

I could see the anticipation on Shooting Star's face. It mirrored my own. This was a promise of heaven. And we had built it up, sending e-mails all week, there was no way it was going to like up to our expectations. But, hey, at least there was wine, right?

But. The cake did not disappoint. It arrived, with pink frosting oozing (literally) down the sides. (I could have picked a better verb, there, but that IS what it was doing.) We bit in to the moist goodness of the strawberry cake, and oh lord. The sugar rush began with the first bite. And the frosting. Oh! The frosting. It had little chunks of real strawberries in it. Dear God, I never wanted it to stop. (Except, I kind of did, when my heart started doing funny palpitation-thing-ies from all the sugar.) But it was oh so worth it.

We went home, syrupy sweet frosting coursing through our veins, vowing to gnaw on celery sticks, or something, for the rest of the weekend.

The rest of the weekend was a blur. We passed up going to Frozen Dead Guy Days and discovering our inner goths to hang out with D, who was in town, visiting. (And it was only for D. Otherwise, I was so investing in black lip liner and large safety pins for my ratty sweater had she not been visiting. I even sent The Funasaurus to the store for black nailpolish. How awesome is he?)

Yesterday The Funasaurus' car got a flat tire in our neighborhood, so he jogged home, and grabbed the keys to my car, all, “Lucky you, working from home!” and with a kiss, was off again, and I was car-less. Fortunately, it was 70 degrees out, so I basked in the sunshine reading my Glamour (it IS tough working from home) and waited for AAA at the end of the block.

I finished my Glamour at the tire store, and then had some free time to sit and wonder when Shooting Star will let me convince her to go back for more cake. Wonder what she's up to, tonight?

Easter, Already, Thank Goodness

Normally, I dislike the commercialization of holidays. I think it's ridiculous when I start hearing Christmas carols in mid-October. I get annoyed when I see crappy heart-shaped candy around New Year's. And yet, Easter. Ah, Easter. It can come as early as it wants, and I don't mind, for some reason. In fact, I'd be o.k. with making it a year-round kind of thing.

Easter is all about bunnies, and cuteness, and PINK, and lord knows I love pink, cute bunnies!

So I don't mind seeing white trees with painted eggs a couple of months out. Easter's candy beats Valentine's candy like it stole something. I personally feel that Cadbury is one of the best affordable chocolates that exists. Try eating a Hershey's bar right after a chunk of Cadbury, sometime. It will taste like chalk. That's because Europe continually schools us in the chocolate realm. (Although Ghiradelli isn't so bad.)

But I digress. This is about Easter. And about the fact that I've already eaten two large BAGS of these. Because, hello, little orgasm in my mouth.

Also. YUM.

Even if the commercials include a bunny that bawkbawkbawks like a chicken.

Also, what other holiday will let you buy THIS PEN?



It's o.k. To be jealous of me. I would be, it's pretty much the awesomest pen, ever. What you can't see is that Dingle, (as I've named the sparkly yellow chick) is on a spring, so as you write, Dingle thrashes around as though at a Metallica concert. And if we ever have reason to correspond via regular mail, (which we may, I do like writing letters) then rest assured my letter will come written in the ink of a pen bearing a little chicken in a sparkly blue egg and REAL feathers on the top. I have no idea if it writes well. But I do not care, for I love it so much. So, so much.

And we are living in a material world,
and I am a material girl.

Ski, Pee, and Blog.

Hey Y'all,

I know I have been a slacker, recently. (Hi, Tara! Can't wait to meet you in September!) But I have a good excuse. I was skiing, yesterday. Mmmm. I forgot how much I love skiing. It was a gorgeous, sunny, warm day. The conditions were still good, the snow was awesome, and I was with a fun group of people. All of whom (including the 82 year old... I kid you not!) were in better shape than I am.

It is kind of sad how mushy my “muscles” are. But we were having such a good time that I really didn't want to get left behind. So I skied my little heart out, and just about died. Fortunately, one girl has a really bad knee AND a herniated disc in her spine, so she reluctantly asked if we could go in after about six hours of non-stop downhill. (I exaggerate. There was a quick stop at the top of the mountain for sandwiches and beer, mid-day.) At this point, I was not really in control of my body, anymore. My legs were shaking so badly when we stopped that I would sit down, so that they wouldn't suspect me of seizuring, mid-slope. When I did the bumps, I prayed to the snow gods and just closed my eyes, hoping not to break a femur at the top of each mogul.

So when she asked if we could maybe call it a day, I said, “Oh, I guess. This has just been so much fun, it's sad to stop,” and then I turned into a puddle of pain and pointed my skis at the base lodge, and didn't look back until I was alone in my car and debated crying at the relief of taking my ski boots off.

Glorious!

Then I had a quick glass of wine with the crew, petted a very chill dog, chugged some water, and drove home. About a quarter of the way back, I was headed up a pass, dodging snowflakes, and I realized I had to pee. Very, very badly.

But there was nowhere good to pull over. So I kept going. Only an hour and a half left, I could make it. I unbottoned my pants. I squirmed in my seat. I called my mother as a distraction. And while she did talk for the next 50 minutes, it did not take my mind off my bulging bladder, like I had hoped.

I passed signs for gas stations. I dispise public restrooms, and was so exhausted I was sure that if I stopped I would fall asleep, so I gritted my teeth and kept driving.

The.

Last.

Ten.

Miles.

Took.

What-

Felt-

Like

Hours.

To.

Drive.

Through.

I finally made it, and did not stop to kiss The Funasaurus on my mad, cross-legged dash to the bathroom.

Peeing was bliss.

And I realize that is waaaaaaaay too much information to post on the World Wide Web, but, oh God! It felt so good.

Then I took the next 2.3 minutes to consume the rest of the pizza The Funasarus had ordered for dinner, drink a tall glass of Gatorade, and promptly crash across his lap, impeding his attempts at SuperBowl victory on the Play Station.

Good day.

This morning I woke up and checked some of my favorite blogs. And y'all? Should read THIS. My dear friend Murphy is a brilliant actress, (of previous Steel Magnolias fame) and has led a life stranger than fiction. When someone suggested she turn her life into a one-woman show, she took them seriously, and is in the throes of writing. (Last I checked, she was up at 1:00 a.m. simultaneously typing and pounding merlot, with her precious daughter sound asleep upstairs, while a rock star played Flamenco music in her living room. I aspire to be half the woman she is, someday.) Anywhos... she's posting some of her early drafts for the show on a blog, to get feedback from a potential audience. How often do you get to have a hand in a live theater production? Go, go!

Overalls, Books, and Garage Doors that Actually Work

I have actually gotten out of the house quite a bit, recently. I worked a trade show over the weekend for my company, and not just any show, but an RV show! I'm sorry, but if you RV? You are a hick. I saw more mullets and feathered bangs this weekend than I have since 1988. There were a few deceptively normal-looking families walking around, but the majority of the folks there had a beer in one hand, and a bottle for their screaming, unruly child in the other. It was fun to people-watch, even when old geezers would make feeble attempts at flirting, by winking and flashing toothless smiles.

I looo-oooved working with Bar-B. She owns her feminine wiles like you only read about in bad chick lit. The makeup and long, blond extensions were still there, as were the tight-fighting clothes, but instead of juicy couture, she wore tight jeans, and a bedazzled denim jacket, fitting right in with the locals. Except she makes bedazzled look good.

But she would laugh and bat her very mascara-y eyes at all the men with faux-trout attached to their baseball caps, and they would be drawn in like moths to a flame, and pick up a book, all, “Is this what yer sellin', lil' lady?” and Bab-B would bend over, the top button on her jacket magically unsnapping, and say, “Yes, and they'll fire me if I don't sell these books!”

(Which is funny, since she helped start the company, and now dates the guy who bought it, I don't think she could get out of this job, even if she wanted to.)

And inevitably a geezer from southeastern Colorado would throw some money at her for a book about ATVing in Nevada, despite the fact that he's not sure where Nevada is, (that's a state, right?) and she'd say, “Thanks so much, sweetie,” as she was turning to place a hand on her next victim's arm.

It was brilliant, I could only watch, and make change for her, as I held back my applause.

Meanwhile Old Coot came around, and while his bulky frame and chaotic facial hair does not attract people the way Bar-B does, we have a comfortable rapport at this point, and we had fun catching up, while taking minimal orders for our books. I had brought the latest book I've been reading, for the slow times, but didn't get much progress made, as we swapped Herr MWOTH stories. (Really, we should have moved on by now. But we're kind of petty, like that.)

When my shift was over, I went home, and it wasn't until Sunday afternoon that I realized I had left my book at the show! I knew they were in the process of breaking down, so I called Old Coot to see how I could retrieve my book. He instructed me to come back down, and meet him a little beyond the convention hall, so that I wouldn't have to pay for parking.

I drove down in a hurry, forgetting my coat, and drove past the convention hall, into a worn-out ghetto. I stopped in a crumbling parking lot, outside of what appeared to be a motel, although there was no sign of life therein. I called Old Coot to say I was parked under a very large billboard advertising storage rental, so that he could find me. He arrived about five minutes later, and pulled up his large van next to my dirty car. We both left our engines running, as he handed me some paperwork to take care of, along with my book. We chatted for a bit, and decided I should have some inventory on-hand, for sending to publicists. So we went over to his van, where Old Coot busted out his pocket knife to open a box of books.

At this point, I realized we must look rather suspicious to any passerbys. We're two vehicles pulled up next to each other in a vacant, run-down lot, me, a young woman shivering (see: forgot jacket above) next to this large man brandishing a knife next to his unmarked van. It felt fabulously scandalous, and I wondered, happily, what someone would think if they were to have seen us, as I gathered my books and paperwork and drove home to a burrito dinner with The Funasaurus. (Who, by the way, spent the afternoon installing a garage door opener with my dad, while I talked weddings with my mom, and getting kicks out of running around chasing down historical fiction books on ancient India from a man in a van with a knife in a sketchy 'hood. Love you, baby.)