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.)

Cyber Princess

Check THIS out:

Royal Fright

Last night, we stayed up kind of late, watching T.V. And eating cupcakes. (Oh yes, motha fucka, I finally made them, and they are GOOD.) I fell asleep on top of The Funasaurus' leg, and woke up to him gently saying, “Uh, baby? I think my leg's been without circulation for almost the entire South Park episode. Could you maybe get up before it falls off?”

And I felt very put out, but managed to not-too-melodramatically haul my sleepy derriere off to bed. We crawled in, and snuggled up and were just drifting off to sleep around 11:45 when the phone rang. Not one of our cell phones, but our home line, which is basically a direct line for telemarketers. (And we continue to pay Comcast good money each month to keep the hotline to New! Lower! Mortgage! Rates! open.)

So anyway, we thought that it was odd that a telemarketer would be calling us so late. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps it was one of our parents, having an emergency of some sort. Although both The Funasaurus' mom and my parents tend to turn in closer to 9:00 than midnight, so that seemed rather unlikely, too.

The call waiting said, “King Soopers.” Now, it's not every day that you get a midnight call from your local supermarket. So I answered, wondering if they were worried, as they should be, that they had sold me yet another faulty package of red velvet cake mix. (Which they hadn't, if you will refer to the first paragraph of this entry.) But there was no one on the line.

Then I got to thinking that it might be a serial killer calling from a payphone outside of the supermarket, checking to make sure we were home so that he could come kill us in some grotesque, B- horror flick fashion. As exhausted as I was, and as sleepy as I had been, I was unable to go back to sleep. I poked The Funasaurus to double check that he had set the alarm. When the heater kicked on I had to stifle a scream. When Tatum fell off the desk I had heart palpitations. And when The Funasaurus began to snore, I kicked him. And didn't even apologize.

I remembered I had had a nightmare, just the night before, about someone breaking into our house while we were sleeping. I was sure it was a sign.

I debtated getting up to put on pajamas, being normally an in-the-buff-type sleeper, but I didn't want a murderer to find me nekkid. But then I realized it was COLD outside of the covers, and I was tired, after all, and didn't feel like getting up. So I sat there stressing about my lack of clothing and the pending attack for another half hour until I finally fell asleep.

As far as I know, no one came in the house. Thank goodness I didn't bother with pajamas. But King Soopers? I've got my eye on you. I'm all about the *69 in the future. You've been warned.

The Princess Gets Some Culture

Friday The Funasaurus surprised me with tickets to go see the Denver Nuggets. I like watching basketball, actually, and when he told me he found us some good seats, I got excited all, “Ooooh! I've been wanting to watch Ivan Allenson play all season!!!”

...

“You mean, Allen Iverson, baby?”

“Oh, yes! Him!”

The Funasaurus looked horrified, told me I did not deserve the tickets, and then suggested we go to sushi for dinner beforehand, which pretty much made me the happiest girl ever.

On Saturday I woke up early, with the intent to head up the mountain and ski. Then I realized I was still tired, and I went back to sleep. After waking up around 9:00, The Funasaurus and I went out to brunch, where I got a peach kir royale, (why would a princess do a plain ol' kir, anyway?) which YUM, and then I reluctantly started up the mountain. There was not much traffic, but the temperature was plummeting and there was snow in the air, so I headed to the coffee shop instead of the lifts. I met my girlfriend M, and we spent a good two hours gossiping and philosophizing over the worst chai I've ever had, and then she headed to Breckenridge to get ready for her performance of Steel Magnolias that night.

I stayed at M's house for a little while reading book #2 of the Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events, and if you have not read this, yet, oh! But you absolutely must! It's for little goth's in training! I would have been so much better at being somber and wearing black as I approached thirteen if I had been able to get my hands on these books at that traumatic, bad poetry-writing phase.

Truly, they are excellent. Bonus: you can read an entire book in one sitting!

So eventually I headed over to Breckenridge, since the point of this trip was to go see M perform in Steel Magnolias, after all. She is an extremely talented actress and singer, though I try not to tell her this too often, for fear it will go to her head and interrupt the creative process which is the angst of writing a one-woman show, and hoo-boy, that show is going to be hilarious and brilliant purely due to the fact that it is ridden with insecurities, self-doubt, and stories of events that came from horribly bad choices. The fact that she has found a way to make herself relatable to an audience and then get PAID for recounting those crazy stories, is her genius.

So. Anyway. Steel Magnolias. I make it a point not to cry at the theater, or movies. I don't know why. They don't usually move me the way real life does, because I have an extremely hard time suspending disbelief. I met my friend A at the theater, and we traded “Snazzy coat!” and “It's so cold I'm going to die,”-type comments as we sipped overpriced cabernet out in the lobby, while waiting for the show to begin.

By the end (and here I'm going to spoil the ending, if you are a blind and deaf hermit who was living under a rock in Siberia in the late eighties and managed to miss the phenomena that was the movie version starring Julia Roberts) when M'Lynn falls apart because her daughter, Pam, has died after living long enough to live her dream and give birth to a healthy baby, A turns to me all, “Oh! My heart is breaking.”

And I whisper back, “Yes.” hic “Good thing I don't cry at plays.” *sob*

Afterwards, we went out for wine, pizza, and chicken fried steak, and ended our night on a giggly, tipsy note.

I drove home on Sunday, again trading a day on the slopes for a quick cup of mocha (which turned out to be much better than the chai from the day before) and drove back down to Denver in time to go to an Oscar party at my neighbor's house. I don't usually watch the whole thing, it's too long and self-congratulatory, but I am hardly one to turn down a party, so I went, and watched the whole damn thing, from the red carpet strutting to the rolling credits and after-party interviews. I was disappointed in the lack of tragic outfits, most of the celebrities were sadly understated and classy, but I did win some lotion at Oscar bingo (thank you, Jack Nicholson for wearing sunglasses indoors since that was the only square I needed after spotting a cravat and Ellen Degengeres introduced the band, BINGO!) so that redeemed the evening. Does anyone else watch the Oscars, anymore?

Royal Breakfast

The Funasaurus is to: cereal
as The Princess is to: shoes.

That is to say, The Funasaurus really, really, REALLY likes cereal. To the point where it's an addiction. No matter how much we've eaten that day, he will always cap off the night with a bowl of cereal before we go to bed. We could have just come from an amazing steak dinner, groaning under the weight of bellyful's of Grade A meat, and he will be all, “Mmm, Captain Crunch! Perfect!” and pour himself a big bowl. (Or, say, after two Thanksgiving dinners, or a SuperBowl BBQ, or a 7 course meal of fried meat dipped in lard and smothered with bread crumbs and wrapped in cheese and bacon.)

This is all to say, we go through boxes of cereal and gallons of milk rather quickly. Sometimes, I am fascinated by this, and want to jump on the cereal train with him, because it gives him such pleasure. However, each time I do, I am reminded that I do not so much like cereal. I don't even eat breakfast. And Honey Comb gives me the heebie geebies.

But I still try cereals, occassionally, because I feel like I must be missing out on something, if it can make The Funasaurus smile like that. So every now and then I will pick out a box in the cereal aisle, as The Funasaurus is gleefully loading our cart with Apple Jacks and Lucky Charms, and add it to the collection. Then we will bring it home, and the box I chose will sit unopened and unloved in our pantry, until the inevitable crisis occurs wherein The Funasaurus has gone through HIS cereal, and is in No Mood to go to the store, for it is practically bedtime, but he absolutely must have a bowl of sugar packed grains, somehow. And he breaks into my poor, forgotten box and it eventually disappears. Sometimes I take a bite. Usually I don't bother.

That's how it was, anyway, until the fateful day when I found THIS CEREAL. I may not like cereal in general, but I LOOOOVE strawberries. Desperately. So I decided to give it a try. Of course, I didn't bother until yesterday, when I went down to get some lunch and realized the cupboard was bare. Save for some flour, stale pretzel rods, and olives that should have been thrown out long ago. And, of course, cereal. So I reluctantly poured myself a bowl of THIS CEREAL, in lieu of olive dipped pretzel crumbs, and holy Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Rice Krispies really do Snap! Crackle! Pop! I had forgotten. I haven't had this cereal since I was about five years old, and I'm betting you haven't either, and if that's the case, then shame on all of us, because it is a glorious experience when your cereal is live action! Plus! Dried strawberries! Oh yum.

So I just finished off the box that I started yesterday, and am thinking I need to make a run to the store this afternoon to get me a) 12 more boxes of this cereal to get me through the weekend, and b) a box of red velvet cake that didn't expire last month. (As the one I tried to make on Tuesday, had. Who knew that colored flour expires? I did not. I did see the expiration date, but I took that to mean the packaging would look dated, not that the contents could actually go bad.)

Baby, I totally see what you mean, I am now in the cereal camp, too. It feels so good to be on the inside. If any of you are wondering what to get us for a wedding gift, apparently we are going to need more cereal bowls, spoons, and maybe stock in Royal Crest. Thanks.

Tradgedy and Delight Chez La Princesse

We all know (or should know, if there is anything to know about me, at all) that I loooo-ooooove cupcakes. Particularly red velvet with vanilla frosting. Though chocolate or yellow cake with any kind of frosting will do in a pinch. I love cupcake accessories, and accessories, and cupcake variations.

And so, when I realized that there has been a severe dearth of cupcakes in my life, recently, I busted out a box of red velvet cake mix last night, and went to town. I even had to go next door to borrow an egg, and call The Funasaurus on his was home from work to ask him to stop by the grocery store to pick up little cupcake paper liner thing-ies. When he got home, I poured the goey red goodness that is red velvet batter into the paper liners, popped them in the oven, and began to lick the spoon.

Something was wrong.

The batter did not taste good. Nor bad, per se, but it was not right.

I rinsed the bowl, and waited anxiously for the cupcakes to finish so that I could inflict one on The Funasaurus. (Who has an aversion to potential salmonella-inducing activities such as eating raw eggs in yummy yummy batter. I say “joykill” ...but I do intend to break him. Who doesn't love raw batter???) I pulled them out at just the right time, solid, but still very moist. I practically cried, they were so beautiful. Then I really did cry (almost) when The Funasaurus took a bite and was like, “Ew. There is definitely something off about these....”

“Do you think icing will help?” I asked, ever-hopeful.

“No, baby. They're definitively Not Good. At All,” he replied.

So my cupcakes, my darling, perfectly cooked, very moist red velvet cupcakes went in the trash.



*SOB*

However, my luck turned around when I went outside and discovered a slightly belated Christmas present from a French friend of mine. Who cares if it's almost March when the packaging says, “boutique Paris”!

And I opened it to find this.



The most amazing salad servers, EVER.

EVER, I tell you.

Get a better look.



Who doesn't want to eat salad when it's served by a dude in gold and yellow striped pants? And a chick with very round boobs?

I was, and am, overjoyed.

*Joy!*

You're a little jealous, aren't you? Well, come on over! Salad at my house! BYOChardonnay!

And thus was the bipolar two hours that was my Tuesday night.

Where's My Chauffeur? Also: Needed: Heated Bed

Well, I did it. I took a road trip all by myself. Not without incident, naturally, but I did survive. I left Friday at noon, with a buh-bye e-mail to my current employers who have yet to give me more than an hour's worth of work at a time. I billed 8 hours of time last week. Working from home has not proven to be a fruitful endeavor, thus far.

So I was driving happily along, my studded snow tires make a horrid noise, and the windows cracked because it was actually above freezing and heaven help me but I love fresh air, even if it's chilly.

I noticed the car starting to sway a bit in the wind, and as I got south of Pueblo (waaay down south in Colorado where all is flat and... well, mostly just flat) I was attacked my an army of tumbleweeds. There was no way to dodge them, they just came at the cars with loud bangs, scratches, and blind tumbling. Shock and awe- in straw!

I saw the Huge One before it got to the road, I tried to slow down, to miss it, but it kept pace, and hurled itself at my hood until PLUNK! There it stuck, in my grill. (Were I to have a grill. No, more, it was stuck in my dented hood from where it doesn't quite close all the way due to a prior incident with a damn pole that jumped out of nowhere at me, in a parking garage.)

I weighed the pros and cons of stopping along an empty, exposed highway in a windstorm to wrestle a small, mangled tree from my car while dodging other large chunks of straw and branches hurtling at my across the plains, and decided I would chance it until I got to a gas station. I've heard tumbleweeds can get hot when they stick to cars, and catch on fire, but I thought that being engulfed in flames from a rouge collection of twigs would be a much more glamourous way to go than just a regular ol' car accident, so took my chances and continued my drive with an entire bush covering the front of my car. My vision was rather impared, but the road is straight, and there aren't many cars, and I was in a hurry to get there before it got too dark.

Once I got to Las Vegas, New Mexico, I decided I needed gas, and figured it was about time to extricate the large, dead shrub from my hood. I pulled into the gas station, and pulled up behind another car at the pump, since there weren't any open spots available. (Apparently Las Vegas, NM is quite a happenin' place.) Some hick got out of the car next to me, and came walking over, with his head cocked to one side. He looked over my enormous tumbleweed, and gave it a couple of good, hard, tugs, and got rid of the majority of it. “Didja know you had that on there??” he asked, through the windshield.

No. I totally missed the large chunk of tree-sized bush sticking up across the entire front half of my car.

“Um. Yeah. I was going to get that. Thanks.”

He walked away in his too-tight jeans, shaking his head like, how sad they let such a stupid, blind person drive. But great music!

I was listening to Flogging Molly, at that point, after all. So how could he not have thought that?

So I made it to Albuquerque without further incident.

We threw a fun shower for my friend, M, at a teahouse on Saturday. It was insanely Victorian and over-the-top, but fortunately they provided old-fashioned HATS for everyone to wear, because if you're sitting in an overstuffed chair with floral wallpaper, eating heart-shaped finger food off of doilies, well, you're really missing out if you aren't wearing a hat. I put on this atrocious beige-thing covered in blue toile and faux flowers, and really all it was missing was a dead bird.

So that was a success, and M and I had a good time catching up. She even let me sleep in her bed, because her fiancé is off gallivanting down in South America somewhere, and they have a yummy bed. It is HEATED. We turned it on as we were getting ready for bed, and I just about orgasmed when I slid in between the warmed 400-thread count sheets, it was so delicious. I briefly debated moving in permanently, and staking a claim in their bed... but then I realized The Funasaurus is actually a quite good bed warmer, himself, (if a little sweaty, but much more cuddly) and reluctantly came home.

I made the drive back in record time, and now I am back to “working from home” again. I think I've billed a good two hours so far, this week.

Royal Fish Royal Bows Royal Freakouts

Valentine’s Day went well… minus one extra trip downtown. I feel like this is old news, but as I am still working from home and fairly boring these days, I’m going to inflict the story upon you, anyway.

February 14, 2007. The Funasaurus called to say he was on his way. He picked up some sushi from one of our favorite restaurants, and was bringing it home. I cleaned the downstairs, (kinda… extra mail and random things lying on the counters were thrown into drawers. More specifically, the drawer where we keep those little fake mice Tatum loves so much, and when I opened it that many times without giving him one, well, I think I crushed his soul, just a little, but whatever, I was on romantic-frenzy-mode!) opened up the fold-out bed in our couch, threw an old college blanket on it, lit some candles, turned off the light, adjusted my undergarments, and waited for The Funasaurus to get home.

We exchanged cute cards. (He won. He found one with Gonzo on it. How can I compete with that?) Got the T.V. set up to watch American Idol, settled in, opened the sushi and… found someone else’s order.

Crum-diddly-suck-a-tastic-duck.

California rolls (lame!) and no unagi or spicy scallops. (Lamer!)

So we muttered a few inappropriate, fuck-type words, and got back in the car (oh, did I mention it was also SNOWING?) drove BACK downtown, exchanged the sushi for the order we wanted, scored a free bottle of sake from the owner who knows us because we are regulars at a sushi joint (note to self: may need to cut down on that, what with the itty-bitty income you’re making, these days), felt a little better, and even made it home in time for American Idol because it didn’t start until 8:00. Phew!

What is a day of love without an overrated T.V. show about overprocessed, over-eager, belittled wannabe singers, anyway?

And we had a nice evening and then I went back to my world of dinking around on the computer all day and not getting dressed until noon.

Now I am trying to get ready to go to Albuquerque for a friend’s bridal shower. I am totally not prepared, but I don’t feel like thinking up cheesy games and wrapping sparkly pink presents, so I decided to dink around on the computer until the very last, dire minute, at which point I will freak out and have a small nervous breakdown, but then get everything done at lightning speed and get on the road.

That is kind of my modus operandi, these days. The Funasaurus says, “unnecessary stress,” I say, “More MySpace time!”

There Should Be More Holidays That Require Chocolate-Dipped Strawberries

I realize that I have been a delinquent blogger. But I will go ahead and blame the fact that I am working from home (read: living the dream) and no longer bother to do a lot of things that I used to do when I was procrastinating going to the freezing basement that I used to call “work.” I don’t bother to blog. I don’t bother to take vitamins. I don’t even bother to get dressed until around 11:00, most days. And usually, “getting dressed” translates to “pick up yesterdays clothes off the floor and put them back on.”

So, the new gig? Going pretty well. Minus killing the computer they gave me. Ooopsie. Remind anyone of the lost website? So once again, sister-in-law came to the rescue, and determined that I had not, in fact, killed the computer, so much as used a bad cable, and that was why I was not getting an internet connection, thereby relieving me from the thought of having to buy a brand new computer for the company that couldn’t even afford to get me a space heater.

I owe sis big time.

Meanwhile, I’ve taken two naps, and snacked on a fair amount of pretzels and string cheese. Because why wouldn’t I? Is there anything better than pretzel rods? No. No there is not. Except maybe extra buttery popcorn. Which I have also enjoyed, since commencing my working-from-home lifestyle.

Over the weekend we went to a wedding fair, where we were to make many decisions regarding our wedding day. I made a beeline for the wine tasting, The Funasaurus’ sister (my maid of honor) began madly collecting business cards for DJs and florists, my mother panicked over whether we had the exact shade of cranberry right for the chair covers, and The Funasaurus declared that we will serve steak and duck a l’orange at our wedding. I was fairly sloshed at this time, and thought that anything greasy sounded nice, and thus our menu was decided.

* * * * *

(Dots. Because I am too lazy to think of a transition for my next rant about nothing.)

Today is Valentine’s Day. Many people hate this holiday. I don’t, and not just because I am engaged to a cuddly Funasaurus who will agreeably watch a sap-tastic romantic comedy with me this evening, while sipping on a cheap pinot. (Although that is definitely icing on the red velvet cake.) No, I like frilly, doily-esque things, I like Victorian Valentine’s day cards and seasonal candy. I like flowers and chocolate and a random, mid-February reason for asking someone out on a date. I don’t believe in Hallmark, but I do subscribe to any reason for breaking out the fold-out couch in front of the T.V. even though you don’t have guests. I don’t like Rod Stewart, but I do like an excuse to buy sexy lingerie and rose petals. (Don’t get your hopes up, baby, if you read this. I said, “I like” not “I can currently afford”) and while I’m at it, I like fat babies with wings. I don’t know why, but that does it for me.

Is that so wrong?

Documenting the Royal Goings-On

Last night, bless his heart, The Funasaurus brought home dinner.

And it was not just any dinner. It was sushi. Take-home sushi. (And oh yes, it was very raw. There were no California rolls. Look Ma, no salmonella!)

That’s two nights in a row for me!

My life ROCKS.

Also, because today is the last day of my job, tra-la!

I’ve gotten it into my head, recently, that I want to start making home videos. Not of just everyday stuff, but maybe do a little documenting of grandmothers, while they’re still around. Perhaps some of the fun wedding-prep stuff. Perhaps the reunion in Napa with some of my very best friends ever, this summer. I have big plans, folks. (But, you might say, aren't camcorders expensive? And aren't you unemployed, as of this afternoon? And didn't you deplete most of your savings LAST month, when you were also unemployed? To you I would say, Stop hating on my dream, Hater.)

So last night, after feasting off of our raw tuna and yellowtail (and oh, how Tatum wanted some. He was like a kitty possessed, launching his twisty little body at us with no regards for what came after, were we to shift slightly to save our eel roll… namely, falling. Kitties do NOT always land on their feet, folks. Not when they are hell-bent on getting to your lap, with a crazed-salmon-love look in their eye.) I dragged The Funasaurus to Circuit City. Which, he claims, is kind of like what Nordstroms is to me, so he didn’t really mind that much. Although I didn’t see him paying homage to any particular counter, while he was there, nor laying any sort of blood sacrifice down in the equivalent of whatever the shoe department would be, so I don’t know if that’s a fair comparison.

Anyway. I came armed with a couple of ideas. I want a hard drive camcorder, none of this burning mini-DVDs stuff. I want to plug that puppy into my computer, and manipulate the heck out of it. If I can find any way to make it look like M (from Wednesday) is saying, “Please take me out for a drive in your hummer so we can go find some meat to chew on and throw litter out the window, and also, I think George W. is doing a fine job,” then, lord help me, but I will feel like my life is complete.

And perhaps also cause one of my best friends to hate me.

I keep meaning to see someone about that. The Funasaurus says it’s not “healthy.” I say, “Pshaw, but it’s funny!”

Unfortunately, however, (and perhaps luckily for M) I have a Mac, Which makes video editing easier, but finding a compatible camcorder harder. Circuit City did not have any camcorders that had the correct thingamagiggy FireWire-y something-or-other, so I left, camcorderless.

But the hunt is on. Any suggestions??

Sake Induced Validation

Last night I went to dinner Old Coot. Old Coot is a crusty old mountain man, who lives in Utah. He also happens to be an external sales rep. for some publishers. One of which used to be my old company, and one of which is now my new company. He is actually the one who tracked me down, and got my new company to hire me when my old one laid me off.

(Fuckers.)

Fortunately, I’m totally over that.

Anyway, I like Old Coot. We get along well, and when I decided to quit this job, I called Old Coot to tell him, personally, because I felt bad that he had gone to such lengths to recruit me. We decided to go to dinner, to talk things over.

I assumed Old Coot had a limited meat and potatoes palate, and so I suggested a couple of chain restaurants. He surprised me by saying, “Denver’s got way better food than that. Why don’t we do Indian, or Mexican, or sushi, or something?”

Sushi?!

Well. O.K. Bethereat7! Or, better yet, 6:30! I’ll put a hustle on it if there’s raw fish involved.

So we went out to sushi. I politely ordered a lemonade, and Old Coot ordered himself the largest sake they served.

We laughed and bitched about the old company, (he left them a while ago) and talked about where the new one was going. He asked if the commute was the only reason I was leaving. I hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

We talked about my maybe doing some freelance work (ding!ding!ding! I want that!) and about what I’d do, next. Then, he randomly says, “I’m surprised you haven't mentioned the heat, or rather, lack thereof.”

Ha. If. Only. He. Read. My. Blog.

“Well, now that you mention it….”

He grinned, chugged the rest of his sake cup, and said, “I had to wear my jacket all day the last time I was here for a meeting. We need to start meeting in fuckin’ San Diego, or something.”

!

“Indeed.” I suddenly felt validated. Old Coot is probably 2 to 3 times larger than me. And he’s a mountain man. If he had to wear his jacket inside… well, I am not just a whining pansy-ass princess, now am I?

Now, back to searching for a job that will let me sip wine and/or hot chocolate from under a quilt, all day long. It's out there, somewhere. And I will find it.

Grande Decision

I did it. After sleeping Not At All on Sunday night, I walked in to my job bright and early and announced that I was resigning. It seems a little funny to “resign” from something I had barely started, but I am quite sure I want no mas of the commute, the cold, and the website-losing.

I also woke up early enough to stop by Starbucks, on my way in, and drop off an application.

I may be done with books for a little while.

I am not sure how long I will last at the espresso machine making tall skinny cinnamon blahblahblah lattes with random high school and college kids, especially while I’m still off caffeine… but the commute would be awesome.

My friend M sent me an e-mail, yesterday, asking why don’t I go work for a bookstore, instead? And I replied that bookstores, especially independents, just don’t pay enough. Plus, I would not really want to work at a Barnes & Noble or Borders because I don’t like what they’re doing to the independents.

At about this time, I could almost hear M snorting, via e-mail.

“But you’re o.k. with working at Starbucks?”

“Totally different,” I responded. “Starbucks offers their employees benefits.”

“Ah,” said M.

“Plus… I’m o.k. with supporting the big guy when they have a superior product.” I’m sorry, but around here, the few independents that exist have decent atmospheres, but their coffee is just not as good. And usually costs just as much, if not more. I like supporting independents, I am o.k. with driving a little further, or spending a little more to keep them alive, if the end product is good. But I am hard pressed (ha ha, like coffee beans are pressed? Ha? ... No?) to find better coffee than Starbucks in Colorado. Do any of you Coloradoans have any recommendations?

Meanwhile, I explained to Kanga and Tulip that it wasn’t them, I just couldn’t handle the commute, and Kanga asked, “Well, how soon do you need to be out of here?”

And I said, “Oh, I’m flexible. I’m happy to stay around for a few more days to make this as smooth of a transition as possible.” And he nodded, and I haven’t heard any more on the subject. So perhaps I will be writing from home tomorrow. Perhaps I will still be making the commute next week. But I will be practicing my “Soy chai no whip” routine until then.

The Princess Pops

Yesterday I woke up, all cozy in my bed. I dawdled around, relaxing in the warmth of my little home, cursing 6:30 a.m. with blissfully warm, squinty, little eyes. When I eventually made it downstairs, I had the brief thought, “Huh, it’s a little less warm down here,” but lost that thought quickly as I made a mad dash to grab some hot chocolate and an Uncrustable. (Don’t laugh. They are a little taste of heaven. All the happiness of a perfectly crafted PB&J without any of the mess. Despite the fact that it takes about six of ‘em to really fill you up.)

When I went out to turn on my car, I realized, “Fuck it’s cold!” The kind of cold where it makes you swear. The kind of cold that has already frozen the milk in your milk box.

Creamy, ginormous, plain milk popsicle, anyone?

That did not bode well for my arctic-esque office, so I blasted the heat for my entire hour-long commute, trying to deep fry myself so that the cold would feel good for at least a little while. And sure enough, the first two minutes were pretty nice.

The rest of the day sucked.

My hands are now chapped and peeling from all the trips I make to the bathroom. Not because I have to pee. No, no, I have a surprisingly huge bladder, and despite the gallons of tea I drink all day, trying to stay warm, I don’t stop to pee very often. These bathroom trips are for turning on the hot water and just thawing my hands under the faucet. I have also taken to sitting on my feet, to warm them up, which has, in turn, caused my knees to start twitching weirdly every night, when I try to go to sleep.

Back to our story. Around one the snow started coming down. As in: PLOP. Here’s a shit-ton of snow.

And surprisingly, around 3:30, Kanga reluctantly suggested I should go home, before I got stuck there for a week. (Imagine the frozen horror!) So needless to say, he did not have time to say, “Drive safely,” before I had turned off my computer and dashed up the stairs, as fast as my twitching knees would carry me.

It then took me TWO HOURS to get home. Everyone had gotten the same, “Leave early before the Blizzard-of-Death (I think we got a total of 3 inches up here in Denver) traps you at the office forevermore,” memo, and the highways were JAMMED.

It was about a quarter of a mile away from my exit, finally, when I came to a complete standstill, and my head popped.

*POP*

I was done.

I don’t know how I got home, it is a blur of unbridled fury, and some cold, leftover tea that spilled in my lap.

I had brownies for dinner, and then spent another two hours doing work that I had brought home.

When I told The Funasaurus I was too tired for sex, I realized I had become THAT girl. Except I have no kids, no life, and not enough money to make up for it.

That’s when I realized, something must be done.

Why I Should Never Be Allowed in the Kitchen

We have a small tradition with our neighbors, wherein we get together once a week to have dinner and watch American Idol. Now, I don’t really love that show, but I do love the company. We take turns hosting, and it’s an unspoken part of the tradition that you are supposed to cook something new. That gets tricky quickly, when your entire culinary range is four meals.

But I found a great recipe for a round meal… (wagon wheel pasta, sausage cut into circles, and zucchini, again, cut into circles. Plus butter and oil. Mmmm.) Any meal that is defined by its geometric shape is A-O.K. in my book! And I even thought I was prepared well in advance, because I brought the ingredient list to the store with me last weekend, to get ready. Oh, I am so prepared.

And well I might be, because this week has been insanely busy, so far.

Alas, we know how the universe thinks it’s funny when I act all “ready” and “prepared.”

On my way in to work yesterday, I was like, Yes, there will be an excellent pasta dish. But there is nothing to eat it off of, for the dishwasher has not been run. And there will be absolutely nothing else to eat, because our pantry is bare bare bare. So I called The Funasaurus and said, “Darling, could you maybe pick up some salad, and some of those Pillsbury yummy yummy croissant dinner roll things?” (Except I think I didn’t say “darling” or “maybe.”)

And he said, “Yes, darling,” (again, “Darling” has been added for effect, here) “but I have a meeting that will run until 6:30 or so, so I won’t be home until after 7. You know, the time dinner is supposed to start?”

So I said, “Fuck,” and made plans to run to the store before the guests arrive.

Of course it snowed all day, yesterday, so I froze to death, and then also had to drive home on the highway with a bunch of assholes who don’t know how to drive in the snow. I think they’re mostly from Texas.

So I got to the store, grabbed salad, dinner rolls, and also maybe some Klondike Bars (who knew, there is a junk food blog!) because whoo-boy, I was already turning into that kind of night.

I raced home, and began unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Those included 14 very nice, grown-up wine glasses (as opposed to my not-quite-grown-up-yet-red-plastic-cup. Hey, don’t judge, they don’t break in the Jacuzzi, man.) that my parents had lent us for a party we hosted last week. I lined them up on the counter by the fridge, because that is the only part of the counter we don’t use for cooking.

Dinner was underway when The Funasaurus showed up and I threw a mop at him, all, “CLEAN!” Also, “Hi Baby, how was your day?”

The neighbors showed up, we poured them wine, and American Idol turned out not to be on until 8:00, which was great, because that’s about when it was looking like dinner would be ready.

Until.

Sugar, who had been, until this time, perched on top of the refrigerator, disdainfully watching the proceedings, decided she needed to get down.

Do you remember what was stacked on the counter next to the refrigerator, you careful reader, you?

Yes.

14 of ‘em.

And 14 long-stemmed glasses do not catch a kitty any better than one does.

There was a lot of breaking glasses and freaked out kitties, and nice neighbors who looked like they’d rather be anywhere than in our house.

“Oh no!” said our neighbors.

“Oh, hah hah, no worries. Fortunately, they’re not ours,” I laughed, trying to act like I wasn’t surrounded by a sea of glass shards.

“No, I mean, do you think Sugar’s hurt?” asked our neighbor.

“Oh, no, I’m sure she’s fine, she’s just a little spooked,” I said, feeling guilty that the thought had not really crossed my mind, at that point.

Then Sugar, with her tail all-a-puffed and crazy-eyed, began darting all over my off-white furniture with her bloody paws.

I grabbed the kitchen towel, scooped her up, and deposited her in the bathroom. I stayed in there with her, trying to tourniquet her paw, which she was having none of, and oh fuck that! And I sat there, deciding whether to cry, strangle her, or just have The Funasaurus bring me my wine glass so I could quickly drink myself into oblivion.

Fortunately, it turned out to be not a very big cut at all, and once I was fairly sure that there was no glass lodged in Sugar’s little paw, I came back out, headed straight for my wine glass, and we got dinner out with relative peace.

Until Tatum went for my Klondike Bar when I wasn’t looking. We’re serving kitty stew for dinner, next week.

Dance, Princess, Dance!

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."

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???

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…?

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.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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!”

!!!! ? !!!!

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.

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.)

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.

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.