Yesterday was indeed my birthday, although it was kind of inconsequential as far as feeling older goes. Today’s kind of like last week, minus the bitchin’ allergic reaction I seem to be having to my new face lotion. It’s fucking sexy, the miniature hives all over my face.
We actually celebrated with my family last weekend, while my brother and sister-in-law were in town, and went out to a nice restaurant where they did NOT sing (the mark of any quality establishment) and instead stuck a candle in the slice of s’more-y heaven I had for dessert. Somewhere around glass #4 of a very good Rioja, my mother decided it would be a good trip down memory lane to tell The Funasaurus stories about what a pitiful little mess of emo crazy I was in high school. Poor Funasaurus. Sucker.
One story begins, “Cat was having a rough year, emotionally.” OF COURSE I WAS, I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL. “Her father brought me (my mother) a bouquet of carnations for Valentine’s Day, a leftover tradition from his fraternity days. He also brought Cat some. She was so overcome with emotion, she burst into tears all over the flowers. While that was not quite the reaction he was expecting, Dad managed to get it together enough to say, ‘Don’t worry, you leave for college in just a couple months, and though he doesn’t know it, yet, there is a special boy who is also going to go to that school, who is going to appreciate you and love you and marry you.’” Or something like that. Dad was optimistic, as I was busy snotting into the flowers he had just brought me with my blotchy face.
Mom likes that story. I had (perhaps intentionally) forgotten about it.
But much to my surprise, yesterday, I got a delivery. A large bouquet of pink carnations. From The Funasaurus. (Who actually claims to not have remembered the story, and just thought I liked carnations, but I pretend like he didn’t say that because it is more romantic this way.)
Go me, and my hives!
Meanwhile, my cat is broken. She was fine as of last Saturday night when we went to bed. Sunday we woke up to squawking. Much like a duck on helium after smoking a pack of cigarettes.
Sugar seems to have developed quite a case of kitty laryngitis, or something. It sounds horrible! But she’s eating and drinking and chasing her feather toy and hating on Tatum, so everything else is right with the world. I called the vet, and explained the symptoms, and they agreed that as long as she was still eating and drinking, it wasn’t worth bringing her in. “Is there another cat in the house?” she asked.
“Erm. Kinda. Except for the half that’s more goat-like.”
“Do they wrestle?”
“What else would they do?”
“It’s possible he sucker punched her in the throat,” said the vet. (I paraphrase.)
“Ah.” I said. And then looked at ol’ googly eyes, who was all, What? But had a certain smugness about him, I swear. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Meanwhile, we’re on day four of Sugar’s Dying-Pigeon-of-Doom voice, and while it’s kind of funny, it’s also kind of sad. I have been feeding her treats to make her feel better, and now I’m kind of wondering if she’s prolonging it just to get more treats. She’s pretty clever, that one. Unlike Mr. Sucker Punch, who I just found sleeping upside down like a bat. I wonder if I should have told the vet about that one, instead.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
The Finer Things... And the Finer Woman
My full-fledged yuppie upbringing has led me down all the road to all sorts of life’s little pleasures. Brie at age four? Bring it on! Chablis at age three? Mais bien sur. Overseas travel at age eight? Be free, little grasshopper, to discover your snooty French side! Skis at age five? Um, technically, yes, but that did not go over so well. Skiing was more of an acquired taste. I have always been a princess. And skiing involves a) muscles, and b) being cold, neither of which has ever been all that appealing to me.
However, my parents were committed yuppies, and with a little swill of whiskey in a flask (for them, not me, though: tangent!: whiskey was not an acquired taste so much as something I loved from the get-go, I think mostly because my grandmother used to feed my delicate toddler self all the maraschino cherries out of her whiskey sours) they would push me off the mountain tra-la! And I would be so horrified that they had dressed me in blue (WHICH IS SO NOT PINK) that I would not realize I was skiing until I was halfway down the mountain, mid-sulk. The indignity.
Thus, my one sport of choice was… nourished? And I became a skier. To the point that I almost get high, now, when I ski. The controlled rush is perfect for my taste for contained adventure. To be moving so fast, in such an organic (and by "organic" I mean "non-motorized", as opposed to "non-fiberglass" and "plastic" and "neon colors") way, yet still to be in control… it fits me. Plus, being surrounded by mountains that take your breath away is a good way to make you all zen and tingly.
Skiing is why I moved to Colorado. College was a means to an end, in some ways.
What I will tell you, though, is that if I had never skied before? And you asked me to ski now? I would laugh at you as I made my way to the bar in my fur-lined boots and waited for your ridiculous ass to get out of the cold and join me for some hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps. Or Baileys. I’m flexible.
Which is why my sister-in-law rocks. Because she had never skied before. And then she met my brother, and he said “marry me,” which is the only logical explanation I can think of for her being so blindly willing to attempt skiing at the ripe age of 20-something. She has now been skiing a handful of times, even though our impatient family was like, “You’re fine, let’s go!” and took her up the mountain with nary an alcoholic beverage in sight, and the girl came back for more.
I know, I don’t believe it, either. But this weekend she and my brother were visiting, and she bought a t-shirt that said Opening Season of the New Part of the Mountain! (ish) And my brother and I, being cracked out on fresh mountain air were all, “Oh, you have to EARN it, you have to SKI the new part to wear the t-shirt.”
And bless her unsuspecting heart, she said, “O.K.”
My mother, was more like, “Erm, do you really think she’s ready for that?” in a I-don’t-want-to-give-my-daughter-in-law-a-reason-to-hate-me way, and we poo-pooed her and cajoled my dear sister-in-law to point her skis off the cliff, and down the icy face we went!
Sis got down the first 50 yards quickly, though more so by leading with her face than her skis, like we had suggested. Still, once the acrobatics ended and the billowing cloud of snow settled, she got up, giggled (!) and kept on going. I am pretty sure I would have killed me, if I were her. But that is why she’s a better woman than I am.
And then we went home and drank wine, and she says she’s coming back next year.
We’ll see what she says when the buzz wears off.
However, my parents were committed yuppies, and with a little swill of whiskey in a flask (for them, not me, though: tangent!: whiskey was not an acquired taste so much as something I loved from the get-go, I think mostly because my grandmother used to feed my delicate toddler self all the maraschino cherries out of her whiskey sours) they would push me off the mountain tra-la! And I would be so horrified that they had dressed me in blue (WHICH IS SO NOT PINK) that I would not realize I was skiing until I was halfway down the mountain, mid-sulk. The indignity.
Thus, my one sport of choice was… nourished? And I became a skier. To the point that I almost get high, now, when I ski. The controlled rush is perfect for my taste for contained adventure. To be moving so fast, in such an organic (and by "organic" I mean "non-motorized", as opposed to "non-fiberglass" and "plastic" and "neon colors") way, yet still to be in control… it fits me. Plus, being surrounded by mountains that take your breath away is a good way to make you all zen and tingly.
Skiing is why I moved to Colorado. College was a means to an end, in some ways.
What I will tell you, though, is that if I had never skied before? And you asked me to ski now? I would laugh at you as I made my way to the bar in my fur-lined boots and waited for your ridiculous ass to get out of the cold and join me for some hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps. Or Baileys. I’m flexible.
Which is why my sister-in-law rocks. Because she had never skied before. And then she met my brother, and he said “marry me,” which is the only logical explanation I can think of for her being so blindly willing to attempt skiing at the ripe age of 20-something. She has now been skiing a handful of times, even though our impatient family was like, “You’re fine, let’s go!” and took her up the mountain with nary an alcoholic beverage in sight, and the girl came back for more.
I know, I don’t believe it, either. But this weekend she and my brother were visiting, and she bought a t-shirt that said Opening Season of the New Part of the Mountain! (ish) And my brother and I, being cracked out on fresh mountain air were all, “Oh, you have to EARN it, you have to SKI the new part to wear the t-shirt.”
And bless her unsuspecting heart, she said, “O.K.”
My mother, was more like, “Erm, do you really think she’s ready for that?” in a I-don’t-want-to-give-my-daughter-in-law-a-reason-to-hate-me way, and we poo-pooed her and cajoled my dear sister-in-law to point her skis off the cliff, and down the icy face we went!
Sis got down the first 50 yards quickly, though more so by leading with her face than her skis, like we had suggested. Still, once the acrobatics ended and the billowing cloud of snow settled, she got up, giggled (!) and kept on going. I am pretty sure I would have killed me, if I were her. But that is why she’s a better woman than I am.
And then we went home and drank wine, and she says she’s coming back next year.
We’ll see what she says when the buzz wears off.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Brain Dump
What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?
This is a really fun game; I totally pilfered it from Slices of Life, who is very cute and makes brooches work, somehow, so I am planning on getting me some to spice up Dress Thursdays. (Eventually.)
Here are my results:
Meanwhile, I’m very happy it’s Friday, because I’m sick of working. I spent 40 minutes this morning at the wrong coffee house, waiting for a co-worker-ish person (I say “ish” because we don’t really work together, so much as work for the same company in totally different roles, our paths only cross because of our geographical location and also the fact that she was an assistant to a Very Famous Author which makes me bleed jealousy, but I try not to show it as I constantly invite her to coffee to get the inside scoop on living with a crazy, creative genius…. Or maybe I could just ask The Funasaurus what it’s like. Heh.) What are the odds that there are two DazBog Coffee Houses on 12th Street in Denver? Odds are VERY GOOD, as it turns out.
Opening game day for the Rockies. Whee. More sports.
I bought a new dress for our honeymoon last night on sale for $12, SCORE! You know you are maybe a little lonely when you find yourself trying to make intelligent conversation with the chick in the dressing room at Old Navy, who is so consumed with a chip on her nail that she actually attempts to hang four separate dresses with one hand.
Speaking of dresses, sorry for the lack of picture, yesterday. I swear there was one, (ask Ms. Chipped Nail) but there was a little incident involving some chocolate icing from the last of the army of cupcakes I had left sitting around my house. Though there is a certain amount of pride that goes with knowing I single-handedly took down an army.
Thank goodness those are gone. My skin is starting to rebel.
This is a really fun game; I totally pilfered it from Slices of Life, who is very cute and makes brooches work, somehow, so I am planning on getting me some to spice up Dress Thursdays. (Eventually.)
Here are my results:
What Cat Means |
 You are very open. You communicate well, and you connect with other people easily. You are a naturally creative person. Ideas just flow from your mind. A true chameleon, you are many things at different points in your life. You are very adaptable. You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. You have the classic "Type A" personality. You are a seeker. You often find yourself restless - and you have a lot of questions about life. You tend to travel often, to fairly random locations. You're most comfortable when you're far away from home. You are quite passionate and easily tempted. Your impulses sometimes get you into trouble. |
Meanwhile, I’m very happy it’s Friday, because I’m sick of working. I spent 40 minutes this morning at the wrong coffee house, waiting for a co-worker-ish person (I say “ish” because we don’t really work together, so much as work for the same company in totally different roles, our paths only cross because of our geographical location and also the fact that she was an assistant to a Very Famous Author which makes me bleed jealousy, but I try not to show it as I constantly invite her to coffee to get the inside scoop on living with a crazy, creative genius…. Or maybe I could just ask The Funasaurus what it’s like. Heh.) What are the odds that there are two DazBog Coffee Houses on 12th Street in Denver? Odds are VERY GOOD, as it turns out.
Opening game day for the Rockies. Whee. More sports.
I bought a new dress for our honeymoon last night on sale for $12, SCORE! You know you are maybe a little lonely when you find yourself trying to make intelligent conversation with the chick in the dressing room at Old Navy, who is so consumed with a chip on her nail that she actually attempts to hang four separate dresses with one hand.
Speaking of dresses, sorry for the lack of picture, yesterday. I swear there was one, (ask Ms. Chipped Nail) but there was a little incident involving some chocolate icing from the last of the army of cupcakes I had left sitting around my house. Though there is a certain amount of pride that goes with knowing I single-handedly took down an army.
Thank goodness those are gone. My skin is starting to rebel.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Looking For: SPF and Juicy Novels, Not in that Order
It’s Dress Thursday! I am wearing my long skirt, although it took me a half a day to get here. (Long story summary: wanted to jog, was a big pansy because it was cold, finally went around lunchtime, then got around to, you know, showering and putting on clean [dress!] clothes.) I don’t have a picture, yet. That would involve waiting for my camera battery to charge, and then going through the process of getting it taken, loaded on to my computer, and then to my blog. It could be hours, people.
The weather’s doing wonky things, with all of its GREY SKIES! SUNSHINE! SNOW! KEEP GUESSING, SUCKA FOOL!-ness, recently. Which I don’t really care about, except for my jogging aspirations: see above, and my skiing aspirations, see: this weekend. Please, everyone else who’s gotten to ski all year long, don’t go this weekend. Let me have a little fun without the four hour commute up I-70. (Anyone else hear the little snort of laughter coming from the universe?)
The Funasaurus is working hard, Sugar is high on feathers, Tatum is chasing air, and I am going stir-crazy. Things are quickly back to normal, after The Funasaurus’ return. Now we are just looking forward to our honeymoon, and in preparation for my blindingly-white skin to meet the Caribbean sun, I purchased not one, but TWO hats on-line, today. One from THIS company, and one from THIS. These are good places to get affordable hats. Also, straw purses, should you be in to such things. I am not.
I also need to look into sunscreen SPF 80-million or so. Any suggestions on good sunscreen? Preferably, the kind in a squirt bottle, because I am four-years-old like that?
And while I’m soliciting suggestions, I also need reading material. I am looking for: Not Sad Things. I like happy endings. I like romance and chick lit, and I have not read either in quite a long time (not counting my tryst with Emily what’s-her-face from two days ago; that was just poor judgment on my part) and am looking for QUALITY along with the cheese and lust, please. I feel like that is a lot to ask for. It shouldn’t be. Get on it, you writers out there. You know who you are.
The weather’s doing wonky things, with all of its GREY SKIES! SUNSHINE! SNOW! KEEP GUESSING, SUCKA FOOL!-ness, recently. Which I don’t really care about, except for my jogging aspirations: see above, and my skiing aspirations, see: this weekend. Please, everyone else who’s gotten to ski all year long, don’t go this weekend. Let me have a little fun without the four hour commute up I-70. (Anyone else hear the little snort of laughter coming from the universe?)
The Funasaurus is working hard, Sugar is high on feathers, Tatum is chasing air, and I am going stir-crazy. Things are quickly back to normal, after The Funasaurus’ return. Now we are just looking forward to our honeymoon, and in preparation for my blindingly-white skin to meet the Caribbean sun, I purchased not one, but TWO hats on-line, today. One from THIS company, and one from THIS. These are good places to get affordable hats. Also, straw purses, should you be in to such things. I am not.
I also need to look into sunscreen SPF 80-million or so. Any suggestions on good sunscreen? Preferably, the kind in a squirt bottle, because I am four-years-old like that?
And while I’m soliciting suggestions, I also need reading material. I am looking for: Not Sad Things. I like happy endings. I like romance and chick lit, and I have not read either in quite a long time (not counting my tryst with Emily what’s-her-face from two days ago; that was just poor judgment on my part) and am looking for QUALITY along with the cheese and lust, please. I feel like that is a lot to ask for. It shouldn’t be. Get on it, you writers out there. You know who you are.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
T.V., Feathers, Muumuus, and Other Fetishes
Due to happy, happy forces outside of my control, the TV ban was lifted yesterday, around 3:00 P.M. when The Funasaurus unexpectedly came home! Work settled in ways they could not have hoped for, and so he got out early, and came straight home to watch a marathon of Entourage. (Does anyone else watch this show? Can you explain to me what’s so great about a group of spoiled, materialistic guys with a lot of money in L.A.? Usually a marathon is enough to suck me in to a show. So far, I don’t really get it.)
I feel whole again, but, of course, my big reading-time and cleaning-time and doing-things-that-are-not-watching-TV-time plans have been squashed. I’m really o.k. with it. And just happy my midnight butt warmer is home.
The cats are happy, too. The Funasaurus knows how to throw the mice the RIGHT way, so Tatum has sworn off of my help altogether, and is back to crying pitifully when The Funasaurus leaves every morning.
Sugar’s story is more interesting. She hasn’t really played with any toys since we got Tatum. We call it the Freshman Syndrome. You know how in college, when you were a senior, and you’d see some freshman all gathered and being stupid and you’d think to yourself, “Dear God, how can one person be such an immature dirty hippie all at once?” and also, “I am better than you.”
Sugar is kind of in that mindset. She used to be silly, and chase toy mice, and roll around on magazines orgasmically (still not sure about that one, the girl loves her perfume samples, I guess.) but as soon as Tatum in all of his googly-eyed splendor showed up, she was so over it. All. Harrumph. And also: sigh. You fucking dirty hippies. And she would sit scornfully in high places, cleaning herself obsessively, as if Tatum’s googly eyes were contagious.
So Tatum took over the faux-mouse realm, chasing them wildly and retrieving them, and decapitating the very same ones that Sugar, only a few months earlier, had whimsically batted around until she accidentally fell off something and then did the quick, sit up, check to see if anyone saw, and saunter away casually as though that had been the plan the whole time. What mouse?
She also had a feather on a string that she loved very much, but Tatum ate it the first night he came home, I think. We haven’t seen it since, in any case.
So I got her another one, recently, in a random act of selflessness in PetSmart.
And suddenly, Sugar cannot help herself! She loves the feather! She cannot bear to see it move, and, forgetting her last shreds of dignity, will launch herself tiger-butt-wiggle-like at it, frantically trying to hunt it down as I evilly swing it in the same loop over and over, laughing manically. Our relationship may have suffered a bit, but the comedic gold that is Sugar’s own brand of googly-eyed-ness is worth it. I have run her into more walls, recently….
And that’s my life, these days. Well, that, and an army of mini cupcakes that I made for a baby shower last weekend. I tried to push them on as many unsuspecting guests as possible, but I was still left with about 692. Not wanting to waste food, I have been diligently consuming about two dozen a day. I am planning on wearing a muumuu on the beach for our honeymoon. Bikinis are so last year, anyway.
I feel whole again, but, of course, my big reading-time and cleaning-time and doing-things-that-are-not-watching-TV-time plans have been squashed. I’m really o.k. with it. And just happy my midnight butt warmer is home.
The cats are happy, too. The Funasaurus knows how to throw the mice the RIGHT way, so Tatum has sworn off of my help altogether, and is back to crying pitifully when The Funasaurus leaves every morning.
Sugar’s story is more interesting. She hasn’t really played with any toys since we got Tatum. We call it the Freshman Syndrome. You know how in college, when you were a senior, and you’d see some freshman all gathered and being stupid and you’d think to yourself, “Dear God, how can one person be such an immature dirty hippie all at once?” and also, “I am better than you.”
Sugar is kind of in that mindset. She used to be silly, and chase toy mice, and roll around on magazines orgasmically (still not sure about that one, the girl loves her perfume samples, I guess.) but as soon as Tatum in all of his googly-eyed splendor showed up, she was so over it. All. Harrumph. And also: sigh. You fucking dirty hippies. And she would sit scornfully in high places, cleaning herself obsessively, as if Tatum’s googly eyes were contagious.
So Tatum took over the faux-mouse realm, chasing them wildly and retrieving them, and decapitating the very same ones that Sugar, only a few months earlier, had whimsically batted around until she accidentally fell off something and then did the quick, sit up, check to see if anyone saw, and saunter away casually as though that had been the plan the whole time. What mouse?
She also had a feather on a string that she loved very much, but Tatum ate it the first night he came home, I think. We haven’t seen it since, in any case.
So I got her another one, recently, in a random act of selflessness in PetSmart.
And suddenly, Sugar cannot help herself! She loves the feather! She cannot bear to see it move, and, forgetting her last shreds of dignity, will launch herself tiger-butt-wiggle-like at it, frantically trying to hunt it down as I evilly swing it in the same loop over and over, laughing manically. Our relationship may have suffered a bit, but the comedic gold that is Sugar’s own brand of googly-eyed-ness is worth it. I have run her into more walls, recently….
And that’s my life, these days. Well, that, and an army of mini cupcakes that I made for a baby shower last weekend. I tried to push them on as many unsuspecting guests as possible, but I was still left with about 692. Not wanting to waste food, I have been diligently consuming about two dozen a day. I am planning on wearing a muumuu on the beach for our honeymoon. Bikinis are so last year, anyway.
Monday, March 31, 2008
At Least Half of the Deadly Sins
A little more than 48 hours since The Funasaurus has gone, and the T.V. has remained off. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, seeing as how I never used to watch so much T.V., it has been pretty easy. Mostly because I wasn’t around much over the weekend, and today I had to “work.”
Except around 4:00 I hit a mental road block, and did the only thing I could think of to do, when work starts to build up and get overwhelming, and that is to ignore it completely and find something else to do, hoping it’ll just go away.
So I left work early (by sauntering across the hall to our bedroom in my socks) and picked up the most horrid of chick-lit, Emily Griffin. And just re-read Something Borrowed. I finished at about 9:30. I don’t like Emily Griffin, I think her stories are trite and shallow attempts at justifying infidelity. I think she lavishes every advantage on her protagonist making them dull and frustratingly flawless (minus the whole infidelity bit, oopsie! But really, it’s o.k., and here’s 300 pages of morally specious excuses) and I can’t even bring myself to feel strongly about the “bad” characters because they are so bad it’s unrealistic and cartoonish.
So why was this the first book I’ve re-read in years? Why did I just spend my whole, lovely, T.V-less evening re-reading crap that I don’t like, instead of a) cleaning my house b) doing the work that built up over the afternoon c) grocery shopping d) mailing birthday gifts to friends e) writing the next Great American Novel (or at least some drivel that’s better than Something Borrowed, it can’t be THAT hard) f) reading good literature, like, say, the next book for my classics book club that I still haven’t gotten around to opening g) playing with my cats h) scheming how to go visit The Funasaurus i) organizing my socks from most-likely-to-sport-a-hole-in-the-toe-tomorrow to least-likely
I have replaced crappy reruns with crappy novels. I do not feel this has been a particularly better use of my time, and my eyes are just as bloodshot.
Sugar and Tatum have been loving it, though, having spent most of the afternoon in various positions on my lap and/or chewing on Very Important Work Papers.
It is hopeless. But I am hoping to convince my neighbors to come over to hang out tomorrow, which will force me to shower and also go to the grocery store. Or at least open the door for the pizza guy.
Love,
Princess Sloth (who is secretly very, very jealous of Emily Griffin.)
Except around 4:00 I hit a mental road block, and did the only thing I could think of to do, when work starts to build up and get overwhelming, and that is to ignore it completely and find something else to do, hoping it’ll just go away.
So I left work early (by sauntering across the hall to our bedroom in my socks) and picked up the most horrid of chick-lit, Emily Griffin. And just re-read Something Borrowed. I finished at about 9:30. I don’t like Emily Griffin, I think her stories are trite and shallow attempts at justifying infidelity. I think she lavishes every advantage on her protagonist making them dull and frustratingly flawless (minus the whole infidelity bit, oopsie! But really, it’s o.k., and here’s 300 pages of morally specious excuses) and I can’t even bring myself to feel strongly about the “bad” characters because they are so bad it’s unrealistic and cartoonish.
So why was this the first book I’ve re-read in years? Why did I just spend my whole, lovely, T.V-less evening re-reading crap that I don’t like, instead of a) cleaning my house b) doing the work that built up over the afternoon c) grocery shopping d) mailing birthday gifts to friends e) writing the next Great American Novel (or at least some drivel that’s better than Something Borrowed, it can’t be THAT hard) f) reading good literature, like, say, the next book for my classics book club that I still haven’t gotten around to opening g) playing with my cats h) scheming how to go visit The Funasaurus i) organizing my socks from most-likely-to-sport-a-hole-in-the-toe-tomorrow to least-likely
I have replaced crappy reruns with crappy novels. I do not feel this has been a particularly better use of my time, and my eyes are just as bloodshot.
Sugar and Tatum have been loving it, though, having spent most of the afternoon in various positions on my lap and/or chewing on Very Important Work Papers.
It is hopeless. But I am hoping to convince my neighbors to come over to hang out tomorrow, which will force me to shower and also go to the grocery store. Or at least open the door for the pizza guy.
Love,
Princess Sloth (who is secretly very, very jealous of Emily Griffin.)
Friday, March 28, 2008
Oh Friday, You Little Tease
My brother and sister-in-law are here visiting. I can hear them downstairs, racking up the points on Guitar Hero, and racing past any high points The Funasaurus and I (ha, like I had high points, they beat that on their first try) have ever scored.
I am supposed to be working, so I have removed myself from the fun. Naturally, my first inclination is to check my e-mail and blog, instead. Because it doesn’t feel like I’m skipping out on work as much if I am still sequestered away, here, in the office.
Worksheets wha? Maybe I need to go downstairs and make sure they know how to use the wail bar. Or maybe I need to go to the grocery store. Running errands is practically work, right? Right?
Echo... Echo... Echo.
I am supposed to be working, so I have removed myself from the fun. Naturally, my first inclination is to check my e-mail and blog, instead. Because it doesn’t feel like I’m skipping out on work as much if I am still sequestered away, here, in the office.
Worksheets wha? Maybe I need to go downstairs and make sure they know how to use the wail bar. Or maybe I need to go to the grocery store. Running errands is practically work, right? Right?
Echo... Echo... Echo.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Royal Revolution
Fine, you asked for it. A heinous picture of me, to prove I am participating in the revolution. For anyone with more photography experience than I, how the hell do you focus on a spot, where nothing is, yet? Say, yourself, after you click the timer button…. I tried to make Tatum stand still and/or jump in that spot so I could focus on him, but he was very uncooperative.
This is not my most flattering, nor elegant, skirt. But It IS nice and flowy. I feel very girly. Bonus: no zippers to contend with at every potty break. (Apparently I’m back in kindergarten. Hello, potty breaks! No restrooms here! Where are my Smurf underoos?)
But what’s really exciting is, the revolution is spreading!!!
Apart from that, I have been avoiding work, getting my engagement ring cleaned obsessively (what’s that you say? My sister-in-law has a brand new, huge, sparkly one? I hadn’t noticed.) and working some more. I am ignoring the fact that The Funasaurus is about to go away for two weeks, hoping that maybe it just won’t happen if I don’t say anything. He has been working hard, so I try not to get too clingy, but part of me is panicking about a) my midnight butt-warmer going away and b) my computer going away. (I say “mine.” Technically, it is “his.” But I use it more. Squatters rights.) How shall I blog and do e-mail and everything else that I normally do when I am supposed to be working? The horror.
Plus, I have decided to go back to the wild while he is gone. Savage living, really. I’ll barely have running water. I am going to… (drum roll) turn off the T.V. for the whole time he is gone.
!
Well, minus American Idol. I am giving myself that freebie so that I can lure my unsuspecting neighbors over for dinner to keep me company, when I get lonely mid-week, husband-less and T.V.-less.
The thing is, there are things I want to DO. I... don’t know what they are. But I have been feeling like I have no free time, recently. And I have this creeping suspicion that there is this whole world of FUN that is just out there waiting for me, and I am fully suspect of Friends reruns for keeping it from me.
BLAME FRIENDS! It’s my new campaign. Never mind they went off the air years ago.
So I have decided to take the most masochistic route possible to my beloved’s absence, and shall also be depriving myself of my electronic babysitter. I’m currently taking bets on how long that lasts. Vegas puts the odds on 45 minutes after he leaves on Sunday, maybe an hour if I take my customary weekend nap.
Wish me luck.
This is not my most flattering, nor elegant, skirt. But It IS nice and flowy. I feel very girly. Bonus: no zippers to contend with at every potty break. (Apparently I’m back in kindergarten. Hello, potty breaks! No restrooms here! Where are my Smurf underoos?)
But what’s really exciting is, the revolution is spreading!!!
Apart from that, I have been avoiding work, getting my engagement ring cleaned obsessively (what’s that you say? My sister-in-law has a brand new, huge, sparkly one? I hadn’t noticed.) and working some more. I am ignoring the fact that The Funasaurus is about to go away for two weeks, hoping that maybe it just won’t happen if I don’t say anything. He has been working hard, so I try not to get too clingy, but part of me is panicking about a) my midnight butt-warmer going away and b) my computer going away. (I say “mine.” Technically, it is “his.” But I use it more. Squatters rights.) How shall I blog and do e-mail and everything else that I normally do when I am supposed to be working? The horror.
Plus, I have decided to go back to the wild while he is gone. Savage living, really. I’ll barely have running water. I am going to… (drum roll) turn off the T.V. for the whole time he is gone.
!
Well, minus American Idol. I am giving myself that freebie so that I can lure my unsuspecting neighbors over for dinner to keep me company, when I get lonely mid-week, husband-less and T.V.-less.
The thing is, there are things I want to DO. I... don’t know what they are. But I have been feeling like I have no free time, recently. And I have this creeping suspicion that there is this whole world of FUN that is just out there waiting for me, and I am fully suspect of Friends reruns for keeping it from me.
BLAME FRIENDS! It’s my new campaign. Never mind they went off the air years ago.
So I have decided to take the most masochistic route possible to my beloved’s absence, and shall also be depriving myself of my electronic babysitter. I’m currently taking bets on how long that lasts. Vegas puts the odds on 45 minutes after he leaves on Sunday, maybe an hour if I take my customary weekend nap.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Meaningless Drivel
In the ever-evolving state of awesomeness (not to be confused with disarray-ed-ness) in our house, we have, of course, added Guitar Hero.
I suck balls at this game, but The Funasaurus is quite good, and I have rekindled my love for the song, “Talk Dirty to Me” because of the cellar door bit. Why a cellar door? Are you talking dirty in the basement? Oooh, baby, you like it dirty? Are you a bad boy? Touch me… hey, watch out for the sump pump!
Anywhos. That’s our latest brain-numbing technique to pass the time. It’s quite fun, although I think it’s probably funner if you don’t suck. I ended up letting The Funasaurus play about three to every one of my songs, not because he doesn’t offer to let me play, he’s good at sharing, but because I get intimidated when he’s using a fourth button and speeding through some complex Pearl Jam song, and I am still attempting to not get boo-ed off the stage with my “I Want to Rock and Roll All Niiiiight… plunk... plunk... plunk.”
It’s nice they let you pick your character, but I really, really wish they’d let me switch up the lead singer in my band. (The Galoshes, of course) because I DO NOT like the dude with the greasy hair and eyeballs halfway up his forehead. He freaks me out.
So, um, there’s that. And my latest issue of Glamour. And really, that’s about all I’ve been doing besides work, recently. How much do I need to get a life?
The problem with getting a life is that it costs money, and I am all nervous about the economy these days. And I spend a lot of time contemplating whether I should never have Starbucks again and save every penny (ie: $3.79) I can, or if I should quick spend it while the dollar is still worth something, and get my fill of decaf vanilla lattes and chais right away.
Obviously, my existence is relevant and profound on the Earth, these days.
Although I do feel like I did a public service with my last post, warning all of you off of Lost. I had no idea there were so many fellow Lost-not-watchers out there, but hey! Maybe we can form a club! Go us and our disinterest in firey plane crashes from every angle!
I have now set my TV viewing sights on The Wire. There are just no connections you can draw from luxury planes flying over unknown regions of the pacific with the ghetto of Baltimore. I feel good about this one.
P.S. Dress Thursday is tomorrow! Don't forget to do your part for the revolution.
I suck balls at this game, but The Funasaurus is quite good, and I have rekindled my love for the song, “Talk Dirty to Me” because of the cellar door bit. Why a cellar door? Are you talking dirty in the basement? Oooh, baby, you like it dirty? Are you a bad boy? Touch me… hey, watch out for the sump pump!
Anywhos. That’s our latest brain-numbing technique to pass the time. It’s quite fun, although I think it’s probably funner if you don’t suck. I ended up letting The Funasaurus play about three to every one of my songs, not because he doesn’t offer to let me play, he’s good at sharing, but because I get intimidated when he’s using a fourth button and speeding through some complex Pearl Jam song, and I am still attempting to not get boo-ed off the stage with my “I Want to Rock and Roll All Niiiiight… plunk... plunk... plunk.”
It’s nice they let you pick your character, but I really, really wish they’d let me switch up the lead singer in my band. (The Galoshes, of course) because I DO NOT like the dude with the greasy hair and eyeballs halfway up his forehead. He freaks me out.
So, um, there’s that. And my latest issue of Glamour. And really, that’s about all I’ve been doing besides work, recently. How much do I need to get a life?
The problem with getting a life is that it costs money, and I am all nervous about the economy these days. And I spend a lot of time contemplating whether I should never have Starbucks again and save every penny (ie: $3.79) I can, or if I should quick spend it while the dollar is still worth something, and get my fill of decaf vanilla lattes and chais right away.
Obviously, my existence is relevant and profound on the Earth, these days.
Although I do feel like I did a public service with my last post, warning all of you off of Lost. I had no idea there were so many fellow Lost-not-watchers out there, but hey! Maybe we can form a club! Go us and our disinterest in firey plane crashes from every angle!
I have now set my TV viewing sights on The Wire. There are just no connections you can draw from luxury planes flying over unknown regions of the pacific with the ghetto of Baltimore. I feel good about this one.
P.S. Dress Thursday is tomorrow! Don't forget to do your part for the revolution.
Monday, March 24, 2008
You Lost Me
The Funasaurus and I finally succumbed, and decided to start watching Lost, after everyone and their brother insisted that it was the best show on television. Everyone and their brother for some reason thought I would like this show, yet neglected to mention that it is about a fucking vivid PLANE CRASH, that they insist on showing OVER AND OVER and from EVERY POSSIBLE ANGLE, despite the fact that everyone and their brother knows this is basically my biggest fear ever. EVER EVER. Up and to the point that everyone and their (and my) brother knows this because I have drooled pathologically on their shoulder when I fly with them because I am so cracked out on-anti-anxiety medication that I have lost control of a) my drool b) my mind, which is kind of fun when you have a chauffeur picking you up, but less fun when you have a short layover in Chicago O’Hare and you are forced to navigate the blinky neon lights and trance music in the tunnels and OH IT’S FASCINATING when cracked out, but not so conducive to efficient walking. (There may be a Cat-sized dent in the wall under the spot where the purple lights end, where I totally fucking walked right into it, feel free check it out, next time you are in O’Hare with some time to kill.)
Hi, so yeah. We got three episodes in, and there shall be no more. Basically because The Funasaurus is not a fan of being kicked all night long, in between shouts of “THAT’s NOT THE RIGHT TUNA, OH MY GOD!” (My dreams don’t necessarily make sense, but when they’re particularly stressful, my subconscious often elects to share them with the conscious world, anyway.) So the fucking PLANE CRASH haunted me all night, and made me think dire thoughts about tuna and the incorrectness of it all, and this morning I feel a) hungover b) like I spent the whole night crying, which, hey, maybe I did, tuna can be complicated, man.
Lost is not for me, thanks for the suggestion, though. I will be enlisting your help to get another prescription, seeing as how I told my doctor I would not need any more a couple years ago, after working through my issues for a decade and finally attempting to fly without the drugs, again.
At least this has put a delay on my spendy ambitions to get to Scandinavia for a while. Maybe my fears will recover about the same time the dollar does.
Anywhos... Easter was fun. We ate cheeseburgers up at The Funasaurus’ family’s house, which is a drastic change from the mimosas and omelet stations and ice sculptures and fancy clothes that I have been used to in Easters past, but I will say, I was MUCH more comfortable this year in a discretely unbuttoned pair of jeans than in a fancy skirt. Skirts have their time and place (THURSDAYS!) but maybe Easter doesn’t need to be one of them… or maybe I just need to invest in more skirts with elastic bands.
Either way, that reminds me that I DID participate in skirt Thursday last week, even if I forgot to post a picture. I was busy being distracted by the pending marriage proposal. I will attempt to post a picture this week, as I am already weighing my options. Please feel free to join me in the revolution this week, especially if it is supposed to be in the SIXTIES where you are, like it’s supposed to be here! Hooray!
Hi, so yeah. We got three episodes in, and there shall be no more. Basically because The Funasaurus is not a fan of being kicked all night long, in between shouts of “THAT’s NOT THE RIGHT TUNA, OH MY GOD!” (My dreams don’t necessarily make sense, but when they’re particularly stressful, my subconscious often elects to share them with the conscious world, anyway.) So the fucking PLANE CRASH haunted me all night, and made me think dire thoughts about tuna and the incorrectness of it all, and this morning I feel a) hungover b) like I spent the whole night crying, which, hey, maybe I did, tuna can be complicated, man.
Lost is not for me, thanks for the suggestion, though. I will be enlisting your help to get another prescription, seeing as how I told my doctor I would not need any more a couple years ago, after working through my issues for a decade and finally attempting to fly without the drugs, again.
At least this has put a delay on my spendy ambitions to get to Scandinavia for a while. Maybe my fears will recover about the same time the dollar does.
Anywhos... Easter was fun. We ate cheeseburgers up at The Funasaurus’ family’s house, which is a drastic change from the mimosas and omelet stations and ice sculptures and fancy clothes that I have been used to in Easters past, but I will say, I was MUCH more comfortable this year in a discretely unbuttoned pair of jeans than in a fancy skirt. Skirts have their time and place (THURSDAYS!) but maybe Easter doesn’t need to be one of them… or maybe I just need to invest in more skirts with elastic bands.
Either way, that reminds me that I DID participate in skirt Thursday last week, even if I forgot to post a picture. I was busy being distracted by the pending marriage proposal. I will attempt to post a picture this week, as I am already weighing my options. Please feel free to join me in the revolution this week, especially if it is supposed to be in the SIXTIES where you are, like it’s supposed to be here! Hooray!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Go Me!
IT’S DONE, IT’S DONE! My sister-in-law got engaged last night! Her boyfriend did a lovely, romantic job, there were flowers, and framed menus from first dates, and hundreds of tea lights, and escargot, and what snails dripping in garlic butter have to do with it I’m not sure, but I didn’t really notice because I got to be in charge of the champagne and hooboy, I like me some champagne!
The Funasaurus and I were invited along to go ring shopping several weekends ago, and the ring is huge and sparkly and I really, really had to struggle to keep the whole thing to myself because SPARKLY THINGS! I am much like a bird in that way.
Anywhos, I did a bang-up job of not mentioning it to my sister-in-law, who was, apparently, very surprised. And now I can talk about it openly and have already vetoed fuchsia for them as a possible wedding color because I am helpful and pushy like that.
So that was the big surprise, it’s funny to me that several folks thought it was that I was pregnant. In between tequila shots and champagne, I come to the conclusion that is perhaps not the best idea for me to be responsible for another life right now. What with having a bit of trouble being responsible for my own, still. Plus, kids are kind of dirty, and I don’t really like dirt. Also, I like sleeping. A lot.
In other exciting news, I have been bequeathed THIS:
Go me! I’d like to thank the Academy, for taking an interest in my work, Christie, for the nomination, and of course Sugar and, begrudgingly, Tatum, without whom this award might not have been possible.
Tatum says: Fo' shizzle, minzzle. ... Now get me a mouse.
And were I to pass the honor along to other pet-lovers, it’d surely have to go to Meno, whose Zola has a tummy that is pure, pettable yumminess.
And Diane, whose pups are the namesakes of the blog.
And of course what would Sangria Lover be without Ben and newbie, Smalls (awesomest name, EVER, btw) I’m still deciding how to spill the beans to Sugar that I really want the canine version of her white, fluffy, neurotic-ness.
And I would say Miss Doxie, except I’m pretty sure a) she’s either dead, or got a life. Because she hasn’t updated in months, so that sucks. And b) I’m pretty sure she does not read my blog.
Did I miss someone? I’m sure I did, there are so many cute pets out there. Help! Or nominate your own! So many pets, so little time for bestowing random graphics.
The Funasaurus and I were invited along to go ring shopping several weekends ago, and the ring is huge and sparkly and I really, really had to struggle to keep the whole thing to myself because SPARKLY THINGS! I am much like a bird in that way.
Anywhos, I did a bang-up job of not mentioning it to my sister-in-law, who was, apparently, very surprised. And now I can talk about it openly and have already vetoed fuchsia for them as a possible wedding color because I am helpful and pushy like that.
So that was the big surprise, it’s funny to me that several folks thought it was that I was pregnant. In between tequila shots and champagne, I come to the conclusion that is perhaps not the best idea for me to be responsible for another life right now. What with having a bit of trouble being responsible for my own, still. Plus, kids are kind of dirty, and I don’t really like dirt. Also, I like sleeping. A lot.
In other exciting news, I have been bequeathed THIS:
Go me! I’d like to thank the Academy, for taking an interest in my work, Christie, for the nomination, and of course Sugar and, begrudgingly, Tatum, without whom this award might not have been possible.
Tatum says: Fo' shizzle, minzzle. ... Now get me a mouse.
And were I to pass the honor along to other pet-lovers, it’d surely have to go to Meno, whose Zola has a tummy that is pure, pettable yumminess.
And Diane, whose pups are the namesakes of the blog.
And of course what would Sangria Lover be without Ben and newbie, Smalls (awesomest name, EVER, btw) I’m still deciding how to spill the beans to Sugar that I really want the canine version of her white, fluffy, neurotic-ness.
And I would say Miss Doxie, except I’m pretty sure a) she’s either dead, or got a life. Because she hasn’t updated in months, so that sucks. And b) I’m pretty sure she does not read my blog.
Did I miss someone? I’m sure I did, there are so many cute pets out there. Help! Or nominate your own! So many pets, so little time for bestowing random graphics.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Clandestine Mice at Midnight
So this morning The Funasaurus and Tatum went about their daily morning routine as usual, and as The Funasaurus left for the dentist’s office (PSA: If you wait five years in between dentist visits, you don’t really gain much, they make you go back in for multiple visits right in a row, whenever you do finally go back) I heard the familiar THUNK scramblescramblescramble of a faux-mouse being thrown across the living room, and Tatum joyfully retrieving it like the little addict that he is.
Often, when The Funasaurus leaves, Tatum will cry, desperately, by the door. Until I inadvertently make some noise up stairs, and the little synapse in his brain goes, “Hey! Another mouse thrower is still available!” and he comes trotting upstairs with his beloved in his mouth.
Except today? There were two belovedES. I don’t know how he did it. But when I saw him outside of the office door, there were TWO mice. It is not unusual for Tatum to lose a mouse fairly quickly (he is not bright, if he does not both see and hear it land, it is GONE FOREVER or at least until the afternoon when he stumbles across it while chasing dust.)
What was unusual was that he had not lost the first one, but had also found a second, and managed to bring them both upstairs. I do not believe he has the memory capacity to have one, see one, put one down, and fetch the other one. Nay, he barely remembers to bring one back, let alone keep a mental image of two separate mice in his fuzzy little empty head.
Yet there two were. Sitting right next to each other, touching, in front of Tatum’s blissed-out little googly eyes. I can only surmise that he carried both in his mouth, at the same time. Which, when you consider the size of Tatum’s mouth compared to the size of those faux-mice, is rather impressive. Kind of like when you see a golden retriever carrying multiple tennis balls. Only imagine that in miniature, with a more crazed, less intelligent look in the eyes. And more flourescent blue faux-mouse fur.
I did not get a picture, but Tatum looked incredibly pleased with himself, rest assured.
Meanwhile, the secret that I alluded to the other day is about to be revealed, and OH THANK GOD, because I am not very good at keeping things to myself. I am more of a sharer.
I consider it a virtue.
Um.
Next transition.
Apparently, if you get 9+ hours of sleep a night for more than two months in a row (hee!) your body is finally like, “Dude, I’m done with the sleeping, let’s do something else.” And The Funasaurus and I found ourselves in the peculiar position of being freshly tooth-brushed and tucked into bed, totally not wanting to sleep. We tried our usual trick of getting to sleep (ahem) but afterwards we were still awake, just more sweaty.
So at 11:00 P.M. we got up and went downstairs to watch a movie on a Tuesday night. How exotic! It felt so much more special than starting a movie at 7:00, or on a weekend. We snuggled in, and found You, Me, and Dupree to be not all bad, and cuddled some more, and finally went to bed on the A.M. side of things. I cannot tell you the last time I saw an A.M. on a weeknight. It felt deliciously rebellious.
Yesterday we proceeded to utter obscenities at the alarm when it went off, and it occured to us why we do not do more delicious movie nights starting at 11:00 P.M. on Tuesdays, anymore.
Often, when The Funasaurus leaves, Tatum will cry, desperately, by the door. Until I inadvertently make some noise up stairs, and the little synapse in his brain goes, “Hey! Another mouse thrower is still available!” and he comes trotting upstairs with his beloved in his mouth.
Except today? There were two belovedES. I don’t know how he did it. But when I saw him outside of the office door, there were TWO mice. It is not unusual for Tatum to lose a mouse fairly quickly (he is not bright, if he does not both see and hear it land, it is GONE FOREVER or at least until the afternoon when he stumbles across it while chasing dust.)
What was unusual was that he had not lost the first one, but had also found a second, and managed to bring them both upstairs. I do not believe he has the memory capacity to have one, see one, put one down, and fetch the other one. Nay, he barely remembers to bring one back, let alone keep a mental image of two separate mice in his fuzzy little empty head.
Yet there two were. Sitting right next to each other, touching, in front of Tatum’s blissed-out little googly eyes. I can only surmise that he carried both in his mouth, at the same time. Which, when you consider the size of Tatum’s mouth compared to the size of those faux-mice, is rather impressive. Kind of like when you see a golden retriever carrying multiple tennis balls. Only imagine that in miniature, with a more crazed, less intelligent look in the eyes. And more flourescent blue faux-mouse fur.
I did not get a picture, but Tatum looked incredibly pleased with himself, rest assured.
Meanwhile, the secret that I alluded to the other day is about to be revealed, and OH THANK GOD, because I am not very good at keeping things to myself. I am more of a sharer.
I consider it a virtue.
Um.
Next transition.
Apparently, if you get 9+ hours of sleep a night for more than two months in a row (hee!) your body is finally like, “Dude, I’m done with the sleeping, let’s do something else.” And The Funasaurus and I found ourselves in the peculiar position of being freshly tooth-brushed and tucked into bed, totally not wanting to sleep. We tried our usual trick of getting to sleep (ahem) but afterwards we were still awake, just more sweaty.
So at 11:00 P.M. we got up and went downstairs to watch a movie on a Tuesday night. How exotic! It felt so much more special than starting a movie at 7:00, or on a weekend. We snuggled in, and found You, Me, and Dupree to be not all bad, and cuddled some more, and finally went to bed on the A.M. side of things. I cannot tell you the last time I saw an A.M. on a weeknight. It felt deliciously rebellious.
Yesterday we proceeded to utter obscenities at the alarm when it went off, and it occured to us why we do not do more delicious movie nights starting at 11:00 P.M. on Tuesdays, anymore.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
My A-Typical Coffee Break
On Friday I went out for some fancy coffee at a local coffee shop, and on my way home, stopped to get gas and a car wash, in a less-nice part of town. While I was pumping gas, a girl who looked to be about my age but much more worn down by life came over and asked if I had 50 cents to give her so she could make a phone call. Truthfully, I told her I didn’t have any change. She paused, and then asked, “Well do you have a cell phone I can borrow to make a quick phone call?”
Well, yes. I do. And it’s pink and has a ton of minutes. So not being totally heartless, I let her borrow it while I finished pumping and got my receipt.
“It went to voicemail,” she said, handing it back to me sadly. “Thank you.” She sounded like she was about to cry. I felt bad, but what else could I do? So she walked off, and I drove over to the car wash. Just as I was pulling in, the phone rang from the number that had just been dialed. I answered, hoping I wouldn’t lose reception as the suds started.
“Hello, who’s this?” said the person on the other end.
“This is Cat. But I think the person you’re calling for is someone I just met in the parking lot. I don’t know who she is, she just asked to borrow my phone to make a call.”
“Oh! Thanks. Um, what did she look like?” asked the guy.
“Well, she was wearing a hat, and a light brown coat…” I started.
“Was she kind of… dirty?” he asked, filling in for me.
“Er, yes.”
“Did she have thick glasses?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, thank you,” said the person. I was guessing it was maybe a social worker, or someone, so I told him where I was, he thanked me again, and we hung up.
As I pulled out of the car wash in my shiny, new, clean car, sipping my froo-froo coffee drink, I saw the girl, still standing on the corner of the parking lot, looking kind of unsure about where to go. So I drove over and flagged her down, and said, “Hey, the guy you called just called back. Do you want to try again?”
“Thank you!” she said profusely, and grabbed the cell phone.
I felt like maybe I had redeemed a little bit of yuppie karmic guilt, and sipped my coffee drink while she chatted. She didn’t go far, but was making an effort to be quiet, along the busy street, which I thought was a little odd.
Then I heard her say something about, “Well, just get a nickel.” And then, “don’t worry about it, I’ll set it up…. I’ll get them and meet you at X location at 4:30.”
And I thought to myself, I don’t suppose counseling comes in nickel bags these days.
So much for the karmic points.
Well, yes. I do. And it’s pink and has a ton of minutes. So not being totally heartless, I let her borrow it while I finished pumping and got my receipt.
“It went to voicemail,” she said, handing it back to me sadly. “Thank you.” She sounded like she was about to cry. I felt bad, but what else could I do? So she walked off, and I drove over to the car wash. Just as I was pulling in, the phone rang from the number that had just been dialed. I answered, hoping I wouldn’t lose reception as the suds started.
“Hello, who’s this?” said the person on the other end.
“This is Cat. But I think the person you’re calling for is someone I just met in the parking lot. I don’t know who she is, she just asked to borrow my phone to make a call.”
“Oh! Thanks. Um, what did she look like?” asked the guy.
“Well, she was wearing a hat, and a light brown coat…” I started.
“Was she kind of… dirty?” he asked, filling in for me.
“Er, yes.”
“Did she have thick glasses?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, thank you,” said the person. I was guessing it was maybe a social worker, or someone, so I told him where I was, he thanked me again, and we hung up.
As I pulled out of the car wash in my shiny, new, clean car, sipping my froo-froo coffee drink, I saw the girl, still standing on the corner of the parking lot, looking kind of unsure about where to go. So I drove over and flagged her down, and said, “Hey, the guy you called just called back. Do you want to try again?”
“Thank you!” she said profusely, and grabbed the cell phone.
I felt like maybe I had redeemed a little bit of yuppie karmic guilt, and sipped my coffee drink while she chatted. She didn’t go far, but was making an effort to be quiet, along the busy street, which I thought was a little odd.
Then I heard her say something about, “Well, just get a nickel.” And then, “don’t worry about it, I’ll set it up…. I’ll get them and meet you at X location at 4:30.”
And I thought to myself, I don’t suppose counseling comes in nickel bags these days.
So much for the karmic points.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The Revolution Begins! Also, Some Tatum Redemption
So it’s officially Dress Thursday! Of course, I couldn’t fully commit, I only went for the skirt, because I don’t really own any warm dresses.
It turns out, taking a picture of yourself is a lot harder than I thought. I found the self timer; I figured it couldn’t be easier! I figured wrong. It is actually not so easy to get the stupid camera to focus on you when you are the one behind the camera doing the focusing. The camera wants to focus on the white wall behind where you will be, instead (because you do not want to use your clutter-filled living room as a backdrop, naturally) which it has some trouble doing. Then you turn out to be a blob. Then you cannot quite fit into the range the camera allows. (Note to “self”: drop non-subtle hints for tripod for birthday. HI BABY!)
So here is a picture of most of my skirt, minus a large percentage of my head, and something white, I think maybe the magazine I was using to prop the camera up on:
As you can perhaps tell, working from home leads one to feel less inclined to do things like iron. And comb one’s hair.
Meanwhile, Tatum, and apparently, a large percentage of the internet, feel that perhaps I was a bit unfair in my description of his svelte self, yesterday.
Feeling a bit remorseful, I give you Tatum being cool, not showing his lack of balls to the world:
I give you Tatum, the lover of Sugar.
Sometimes he holds her protectively.
Sometimes he snuggles under her for safety.
Sometimes he eats her earwax and then gnaws on her neck while she is trying to sleep.
I apologize for not getting a better picture of the gnawing, but Sugar does not put up with that shit very long. There was not time for a second picture before she got the heck out of there.
It turns out, taking a picture of yourself is a lot harder than I thought. I found the self timer; I figured it couldn’t be easier! I figured wrong. It is actually not so easy to get the stupid camera to focus on you when you are the one behind the camera doing the focusing. The camera wants to focus on the white wall behind where you will be, instead (because you do not want to use your clutter-filled living room as a backdrop, naturally) which it has some trouble doing. Then you turn out to be a blob. Then you cannot quite fit into the range the camera allows. (Note to “self”: drop non-subtle hints for tripod for birthday. HI BABY!)
So here is a picture of most of my skirt, minus a large percentage of my head, and something white, I think maybe the magazine I was using to prop the camera up on:
As you can perhaps tell, working from home leads one to feel less inclined to do things like iron. And comb one’s hair.
Meanwhile, Tatum, and apparently, a large percentage of the internet, feel that perhaps I was a bit unfair in my description of his svelte self, yesterday.
Feeling a bit remorseful, I give you Tatum being cool, not showing his lack of balls to the world:
I give you Tatum, the lover of Sugar.
Sometimes he holds her protectively.
Sometimes he snuggles under her for safety.
Sometimes he eats her earwax and then gnaws on her neck while she is trying to sleep.
I apologize for not getting a better picture of the gnawing, but Sugar does not put up with that shit very long. There was not time for a second picture before she got the heck out of there.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Cat-tastic
I have been spending a lot of time at home, what with that being where I work, now, and all. Also, last week was uncommonly busy, but this week has been quieter. And therefore I’m able to slowly start catching up on things I’ve been neglecting around the house, including my cats.
(oh, it’s so going to be one of those entries. I happily embrace my inner cat-lady.)
There has been a lot of upheaval, what with moving my office home, and Sugar and Tatum are not really interested in having their environment disturbed. Ever. Unless it involves an increase of tuna and/or faux mice in their environment. In that case, they are all about change, and bring it on, groovy baby!
But I have gotten to watch them on a more intimate level. Combined with my new camera and attempt at faux-tography, there have been lots of pictures.
Like this one.
I realize everyone thinks their baby (human or fur) is the most beautiful, most intelligent, most amazing. But mine actually is. She’s so pensive. You can see the wheels turning, her understanding, her processing. She’s actually much more open-minded than Tatum.
Who talks a big talk, but is actually a big, fat pansy with googly eyes. And oh. I suppose I should do homage to him, too. Here is my darling Tatum.
Apparently we used up all our karmic loveliness on our first cat.
Sugar spends a lot of her life observing. Cleaning. Posing. Thinking Very Deep Things. (Hey, maybe I should introduce her to Porno for Pyros!) Tatum, meanwhile, spends most of his life thinking one thought: “MICE!” Since both of the synapses in his brain are used on said thought, he spends much of his time falling, running into walls, and throwing his butt around in a rather un-feline-like way, and looking surprised. The Funasaurus and I often speak to him with sentences that start with, “Normal kitties don’t…”
(As in: Normal kitties don’t eat Styrofoam! Normal kitties don’t leave their tongues hanging out! Normal kitties don’t sit like that unless they are very, very fat! Normal kitties don’t try and stick their paws in the vacuum WHILE IT’S ON!)
So are you all ready for Dress Thursday?! Because it starts tomorrow, and we’re starting a revolution, here! I have already put much thought into my options. I will post pictures.
(oh, it’s so going to be one of those entries. I happily embrace my inner cat-lady.)
There has been a lot of upheaval, what with moving my office home, and Sugar and Tatum are not really interested in having their environment disturbed. Ever. Unless it involves an increase of tuna and/or faux mice in their environment. In that case, they are all about change, and bring it on, groovy baby!
But I have gotten to watch them on a more intimate level. Combined with my new camera and attempt at faux-tography, there have been lots of pictures.
Like this one.
I realize everyone thinks their baby (human or fur) is the most beautiful, most intelligent, most amazing. But mine actually is. She’s so pensive. You can see the wheels turning, her understanding, her processing. She’s actually much more open-minded than Tatum.
Who talks a big talk, but is actually a big, fat pansy with googly eyes. And oh. I suppose I should do homage to him, too. Here is my darling Tatum.
Apparently we used up all our karmic loveliness on our first cat.
Sugar spends a lot of her life observing. Cleaning. Posing. Thinking Very Deep Things. (Hey, maybe I should introduce her to Porno for Pyros!) Tatum, meanwhile, spends most of his life thinking one thought: “MICE!” Since both of the synapses in his brain are used on said thought, he spends much of his time falling, running into walls, and throwing his butt around in a rather un-feline-like way, and looking surprised. The Funasaurus and I often speak to him with sentences that start with, “Normal kitties don’t…”
(As in: Normal kitties don’t eat Styrofoam! Normal kitties don’t leave their tongues hanging out! Normal kitties don’t sit like that unless they are very, very fat! Normal kitties don’t try and stick their paws in the vacuum WHILE IT’S ON!)
So are you all ready for Dress Thursday?! Because it starts tomorrow, and we’re starting a revolution, here! I have already put much thought into my options. I will post pictures.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Royal Fantasy
I just heard Porno for Pyros on NPR on my way home from book club.
I am willing to bet that sentence has never, in the history of ever, been said before.
I forgot how much I used to adore them. "We’ll Make Great Pets!" It was so deep. I remember thinking it was such a brilliantly dark idea, I contemplated it for days on end. Of course, this was during the phase in my life where I wore a lot of black turtlenecks and wrote poetry in BLACK INK while I cried about the tragedy that was suburban public school life. While snacking on brie.
It was a grueling time.
So I remember how awesome the ending was… I used to think it was a musical description of the downfall of humankind, of hope being dashed, over and over again while aliens put us into the human equivalent of ant farms. (Would that just be farms?)
Tonight it sounded more like a few plunky notes on a keyboard. I think I was deeper, then.
I remember the old feelings it conjured, though, the early 90s musical adaptation of the ache in my angsty, teenage heart. So Porno for Pyro, thanks. You got me through some hard, to-be-a-princess-or-a-goth-y-skater-chick? times. (If you don’t know how that battle turned out, see prior 692 blog entries. … also: title.)
Oddly enough, that kind of relates back to a discussion we had at our book group. We talked about how we can still read good books and appreciate them, but as adults, we don’t seem to be all-consumed by stories anymore, like we were as nerdy little bookish kids. We talked about how Madeleine L’Engle or C.S. Lewis (along with dozens of lesser authors) could totally entrap our imaginations and preoccupy our minds for days. We can read those same stories now, and get a delicious, fulfilling sensation from them, but not in the drunk-with-continuing-the-story-in-our-brains,-including-in-our-dreams, way.
I miss that. But as someone pointed out, we were, mostly, as kids, living in a pretty small world. As adults, we’ve seen a lot more of the world, both geographically and socially. We can live vicariously through our own lives, rather than through someone else’s written description. But I still miss that feeling I got from the Bobbsey Twins, or The Secret Garden. The total immersion in my own imagination and belief that those worlds were tangible. So I’m making a list, and going back to see if I can recapture even just a sliver of that. What was the last book you felt that way about?
I am willing to bet that sentence has never, in the history of ever, been said before.
I forgot how much I used to adore them. "We’ll Make Great Pets!" It was so deep. I remember thinking it was such a brilliantly dark idea, I contemplated it for days on end. Of course, this was during the phase in my life where I wore a lot of black turtlenecks and wrote poetry in BLACK INK while I cried about the tragedy that was suburban public school life. While snacking on brie.
It was a grueling time.
So I remember how awesome the ending was… I used to think it was a musical description of the downfall of humankind, of hope being dashed, over and over again while aliens put us into the human equivalent of ant farms. (Would that just be farms?)
Tonight it sounded more like a few plunky notes on a keyboard. I think I was deeper, then.
I remember the old feelings it conjured, though, the early 90s musical adaptation of the ache in my angsty, teenage heart. So Porno for Pyro, thanks. You got me through some hard, to-be-a-princess-or-a-goth-y-skater-chick? times. (If you don’t know how that battle turned out, see prior 692 blog entries. … also: title.)
Oddly enough, that kind of relates back to a discussion we had at our book group. We talked about how we can still read good books and appreciate them, but as adults, we don’t seem to be all-consumed by stories anymore, like we were as nerdy little bookish kids. We talked about how Madeleine L’Engle or C.S. Lewis (along with dozens of lesser authors) could totally entrap our imaginations and preoccupy our minds for days. We can read those same stories now, and get a delicious, fulfilling sensation from them, but not in the drunk-with-continuing-the-story-in-our-brains,-including-in-our-dreams, way.
I miss that. But as someone pointed out, we were, mostly, as kids, living in a pretty small world. As adults, we’ve seen a lot more of the world, both geographically and socially. We can live vicariously through our own lives, rather than through someone else’s written description. But I still miss that feeling I got from the Bobbsey Twins, or The Secret Garden. The total immersion in my own imagination and belief that those worlds were tangible. So I’m making a list, and going back to see if I can recapture even just a sliver of that. What was the last book you felt that way about?
Friday, March 07, 2008
The Rain in Spain Can Damn Well Stay There
We were watching My Fair Lady last night, and I have come to the conclusion that it sucks not having an excuse to wear such gorgeous ball gowns on a more regular occasion. Also, if I had it to do over again, I think I would have modeled my wedding dress after the one Audrey Hepburn gets to wear to the ball where she woos the Hungarian prince-guy.
Sigh.
I have thus decided to decree Thursdays Dress (or skirt) Day. Every Thursday, everyone in my office shall wear a dress, thus I spake. Working from home, everyone = me, (and maybe Sugar, if I can catch her.) Every revolution must start somewhere.
Don’t get me wrong, I like my jeans as much as the next girl. But I love all the costumes and the finery, and despite the ankle-length skirts, the tops of those dresses were quite fitted… and flattering.
This, coming from the girl who is still wearing pajama pants at half past noon.
I am getting a chance to dress up tonight, though. We are going to the thee-ah-tah. The Funasaurus is taking me to see Stomp, which I have always wanted to see. There’s something intensely satisfying about people jumping on garbage cans in a harmonious manner.
Finally, it’s really Friday.
Sigh.
I have thus decided to decree Thursdays Dress (or skirt) Day. Every Thursday, everyone in my office shall wear a dress, thus I spake. Working from home, everyone = me, (and maybe Sugar, if I can catch her.) Every revolution must start somewhere.
Don’t get me wrong, I like my jeans as much as the next girl. But I love all the costumes and the finery, and despite the ankle-length skirts, the tops of those dresses were quite fitted… and flattering.
This, coming from the girl who is still wearing pajama pants at half past noon.
I am getting a chance to dress up tonight, though. We are going to the thee-ah-tah. The Funasaurus is taking me to see Stomp, which I have always wanted to see. There’s something intensely satisfying about people jumping on garbage cans in a harmonious manner.
Finally, it’s really Friday.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Maybe It Could Be Friday If We All WISH Hard Enough....
Today feels like a Friday to me, for some reason. It could be that I’ve been working steadily since Sunday morning. I got signed up to man a booth at a convention for a totally different division… I had never heard of the product before, but conveniently, I lived in Denver, where the convention was being held, so the Very Important Marketing Decision was made that “She will do.”
She = me and she also = scared of people, that fear coming in second only to: technology. And so she did not do so hot in the booth repping the unkown internet-y thing-y product. People came by and asked questions using words I had never heard of, and I would politely respond, “ACK! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
I am now under the persuasion that training CAN, occasionally, be helpful.
Perhaps someday my company will come around to my way of thinking.
Meanwhile, it’s the birthday of a very special temporary Israeli housewife- so shalom and happy birthday, dearest! I hope you finally found the organic fruit market! Your present might be a little late, partially due to the fact that I do not think the postal service out there is all that efficient... and also partially due to the fact that I have not yet mailed it.
It’s snowing here, again. I actually like the snow, aesthetically-speaking. But it is interrupting my flow. I had started running (ha ha, I say “run” like I am going more than four miles an hour) again, what with the unusually warm weather, recently, and was feeling good about my pansy 9-9.5 minute jogs, every day. But then the conference happened, followed by snow, and well. I ate a marshmallow Peep for breakfast this morning, instead of getting out of my pajamas.
I’m not even sorry.
She = me and she also = scared of people, that fear coming in second only to: technology. And so she did not do so hot in the booth repping the unkown internet-y thing-y product. People came by and asked questions using words I had never heard of, and I would politely respond, “ACK! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
I am now under the persuasion that training CAN, occasionally, be helpful.
Perhaps someday my company will come around to my way of thinking.
Meanwhile, it’s the birthday of a very special temporary Israeli housewife- so shalom and happy birthday, dearest! I hope you finally found the organic fruit market! Your present might be a little late, partially due to the fact that I do not think the postal service out there is all that efficient... and also partially due to the fact that I have not yet mailed it.
It’s snowing here, again. I actually like the snow, aesthetically-speaking. But it is interrupting my flow. I had started running (ha ha, I say “run” like I am going more than four miles an hour) again, what with the unusually warm weather, recently, and was feeling good about my pansy 9-9.5 minute jogs, every day. But then the conference happened, followed by snow, and well. I ate a marshmallow Peep for breakfast this morning, instead of getting out of my pajamas.
I’m not even sorry.
Friday, February 29, 2008
A Scrambled Leap
Hi.
…
Nothing new has happened. I just wanted a date stamp that said February 29. Although I still don’t understand why it’s called a “leap year.” Leaping, to me, implies springing forward. But shoving an extra 24 hours into the year kinda slows the whole thing down by… well, by 24 hours. Am I missing something?
* * * * * *
I’m taking a photography class, but so far have nothing to show for it. (Hence the lack of mentioning it, previously.) Unfortunately, after class #2 and still no concept of what I’m doing, or how to get the damn things onto my computer not to mention onto the program, which I am still afraid to load onto said computer, I fear the whole thing can’t bode well for my aspiring photo-journalist skeelz.
* * * * * *
The Funasaurus is taking me to a basketball game, tonight. Confession: I am going to watch the cheerleaders and eat junk food.
* * * * * *
Mmmm, Dippin' Dots.
* * * * * *
I can’t get rid of the car I crashed. I tried to donate it, but they want the title, which I have conveniently lost. I found out you can get a duplicate of the title if you go to the DMV, so I went to the DMV. Except apparently I somehow managed to register the car without the title ten years ago, so the title is still back in California. So I called the California DMV, and they had me fill out 42 forms and then some, and then they told me to do it on-line, except I can’t, because you’re not allowed to if you don’t have a California driver’s license. I haven’t had one of those since Savage Garden was hot. So I am mailing in the forms, although they don’t seem to want any information that doesn’t pertain to California, which is unfortunate, because I have no such information, including a NAME, which I have also changed since CA knew me. But they will still take my $17, thank you very much.
I am not-so-slowly going crazy.
* * * * * *
I know a secret, but I’m not allowed to tell, and oh! It’s very exciting. I will tell just as soon as I am allowed.
Have a great weekend!
…
Nothing new has happened. I just wanted a date stamp that said February 29. Although I still don’t understand why it’s called a “leap year.” Leaping, to me, implies springing forward. But shoving an extra 24 hours into the year kinda slows the whole thing down by… well, by 24 hours. Am I missing something?
* * * * * *
I’m taking a photography class, but so far have nothing to show for it. (Hence the lack of mentioning it, previously.) Unfortunately, after class #2 and still no concept of what I’m doing, or how to get the damn things onto my computer not to mention onto the program, which I am still afraid to load onto said computer, I fear the whole thing can’t bode well for my aspiring photo-journalist skeelz.
* * * * * *
The Funasaurus is taking me to a basketball game, tonight. Confession: I am going to watch the cheerleaders and eat junk food.
* * * * * *
Mmmm, Dippin' Dots.
* * * * * *
I can’t get rid of the car I crashed. I tried to donate it, but they want the title, which I have conveniently lost. I found out you can get a duplicate of the title if you go to the DMV, so I went to the DMV. Except apparently I somehow managed to register the car without the title ten years ago, so the title is still back in California. So I called the California DMV, and they had me fill out 42 forms and then some, and then they told me to do it on-line, except I can’t, because you’re not allowed to if you don’t have a California driver’s license. I haven’t had one of those since Savage Garden was hot. So I am mailing in the forms, although they don’t seem to want any information that doesn’t pertain to California, which is unfortunate, because I have no such information, including a NAME, which I have also changed since CA knew me. But they will still take my $17, thank you very much.
I am not-so-slowly going crazy.
* * * * * *
I know a secret, but I’m not allowed to tell, and oh! It’s very exciting. I will tell just as soon as I am allowed.
Have a great weekend!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Provincial Passion
Here’s the thing about having a looming honeymoon in the middle of February. It leads to all sorts of drastic fantasies about tropical places and not coming back and quick mental calculations about how long you could survive on coconut milk if you were to sell your home.
In short, my work is suffering and I am making my own valiant efforts to restimulate the economy, mostly via the bathing suit and accessories industry. (Also and by the way, does such a thing as organic insect repellent exist, and if it does, does it actually work?)
This behavior has actually led me to think fondly of any time I have spent in a sunnier, warmer place, but most particularly, my time in southern France. Even the “cold” there was romantic. In February, I certainly had to wear a coat. And the wind was icy cold, and it always blew. It came down from Siberia, and was called Le Mistral, and basically had its own magical presence in a culture that made everything from olives to granite sexy and mysterious.
Aix-en-Provence is the geographical equivalent of the most amazing sex you’ve ever had with the most passionate lover you’ve ever had, but in your heart you know is not marriage material. Strawberries as big as your fist! Open air cafes where kisses are blown, nutella crepes are eaten, and young girls are wooed by five-star chefs. (oh, yes.)
The cobalt blues and sunflower yellows! Those are not my real colors. I am more of a grayish-blue kinda girl. I felt at home in calm, orderly, cheese-loving Switzerland with its snow-capped mountains. There’s a method to the goat madness. But Aix made me believe in cobalt, gypsies, and pastis, despite the fact that I loathe licorice. And for a short time, I could pretend every room in my home would smell like lavender fields.
I knew where to buy the most almond-y calissons, (hint: not THAT link) and ate them with great abandon. I shunned the Americans in their shorts and flip-flops, I cloaked myself in black and boots, even the summertime, and thought deep, passionate thoughts while I got drunk on kir peche and perfected my southern drawl. (Because no matter what country you go to, I sincerely believe the southern accent will be the most distinct.) I believed in palm trees and entire villages made from white stone, and tromped around in the woods alone on the weekend, almost hoping to get impaled by a wild boar. What a great blog entry that would have made….
I revered Cézanne and Van Gough, painting Mont St. Victoire and thinking the olive groves were all quite a delicious place to go insane.
And I left a piece of my soul there. A small one, there’s not much room for grey in a place with that much vibrant yellow. It exhausts me thinking about it, as any good lover’s memory should.
Meanwhile I’ve set my sights on the Caribbean, and well, Colorado. I love you. But the lack of a ski pass has made this winter infinitely harder than any other year. We’re not selling our home (yet) but The Funasaurus and I need a little break. I’ll write from a new shade of aqua blue, if we’re not drunk on the umbrella drinks, yet.
Ciao, bella.
In short, my work is suffering and I am making my own valiant efforts to restimulate the economy, mostly via the bathing suit and accessories industry. (Also and by the way, does such a thing as organic insect repellent exist, and if it does, does it actually work?)
This behavior has actually led me to think fondly of any time I have spent in a sunnier, warmer place, but most particularly, my time in southern France. Even the “cold” there was romantic. In February, I certainly had to wear a coat. And the wind was icy cold, and it always blew. It came down from Siberia, and was called Le Mistral, and basically had its own magical presence in a culture that made everything from olives to granite sexy and mysterious.
Aix-en-Provence is the geographical equivalent of the most amazing sex you’ve ever had with the most passionate lover you’ve ever had, but in your heart you know is not marriage material. Strawberries as big as your fist! Open air cafes where kisses are blown, nutella crepes are eaten, and young girls are wooed by five-star chefs. (oh, yes.)
The cobalt blues and sunflower yellows! Those are not my real colors. I am more of a grayish-blue kinda girl. I felt at home in calm, orderly, cheese-loving Switzerland with its snow-capped mountains. There’s a method to the goat madness. But Aix made me believe in cobalt, gypsies, and pastis, despite the fact that I loathe licorice. And for a short time, I could pretend every room in my home would smell like lavender fields.
I knew where to buy the most almond-y calissons, (hint: not THAT link) and ate them with great abandon. I shunned the Americans in their shorts and flip-flops, I cloaked myself in black and boots, even the summertime, and thought deep, passionate thoughts while I got drunk on kir peche and perfected my southern drawl. (Because no matter what country you go to, I sincerely believe the southern accent will be the most distinct.) I believed in palm trees and entire villages made from white stone, and tromped around in the woods alone on the weekend, almost hoping to get impaled by a wild boar. What a great blog entry that would have made….
I revered Cézanne and Van Gough, painting Mont St. Victoire and thinking the olive groves were all quite a delicious place to go insane.
And I left a piece of my soul there. A small one, there’s not much room for grey in a place with that much vibrant yellow. It exhausts me thinking about it, as any good lover’s memory should.
Meanwhile I’ve set my sights on the Caribbean, and well, Colorado. I love you. But the lack of a ski pass has made this winter infinitely harder than any other year. We’re not selling our home (yet) but The Funasaurus and I need a little break. I’ll write from a new shade of aqua blue, if we’re not drunk on the umbrella drinks, yet.
Ciao, bella.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Dear Thighs, Please Stop with All the Expanding
At some point I came across the realization that if I am headed to somewhere tropical for a week, perhaps I’d want to bring a swimsuit. Because my standard t-shirt and jeans attire is not going to cut it on the beach.
I have not gotten a new bathing suit since college. (read: 6+ years ago… at least.) That is because I would prefer to get a root canal than try on swimsuits in a department store with lots of young, waifish sales people there to see and judge.
In a desperate attempt at self-help and a nod to Global Warming (finally working in my favor, hello 60 degrees in February!) I decided to go for a jog yesterday morning, before taking the death-walk to the mall. (And by “walk” I mean “drive”. “In my new car, tra la.”) Because obviously jogging lightly for 25 minutes is going to negate an entire winter of sitting on the couch and alternating my diet between pizza and red meat. With, maybe, three total yoga classes thrown in the last four months for good measure.
Surprisingly, my jog did not delete my ever-expanding posterior.
And then the fluorescent lighting obliterated any last bit of self-esteem I might ever have had.
Sorry, baby, I used our travel insurance and we are now headed on a nice honeymoon to Antarctica where you can smooch me under my five layers of ski pants and a very poofy, fur-lined parka, and no one can tell how big anyone’s butt is, for all the layers of polypro.
Plus, penguins! Hooray!
I have not gotten a new bathing suit since college. (read: 6+ years ago… at least.) That is because I would prefer to get a root canal than try on swimsuits in a department store with lots of young, waifish sales people there to see and judge.
In a desperate attempt at self-help and a nod to Global Warming (finally working in my favor, hello 60 degrees in February!) I decided to go for a jog yesterday morning, before taking the death-walk to the mall. (And by “walk” I mean “drive”. “In my new car, tra la.”) Because obviously jogging lightly for 25 minutes is going to negate an entire winter of sitting on the couch and alternating my diet between pizza and red meat. With, maybe, three total yoga classes thrown in the last four months for good measure.
Surprisingly, my jog did not delete my ever-expanding posterior.
And then the fluorescent lighting obliterated any last bit of self-esteem I might ever have had.
Sorry, baby, I used our travel insurance and we are now headed on a nice honeymoon to Antarctica where you can smooch me under my five layers of ski pants and a very poofy, fur-lined parka, and no one can tell how big anyone’s butt is, for all the layers of polypro.
Plus, penguins! Hooray!
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Why I Didn't Get the New Wife of the Year Award
After a weekend of fast food and copious amounts of beef jerky, I decided to cook something a little lighter for dinner last night. I found a recipe for chicken cutlets that looked tasty, and somehow convinced myself that the recipe calling for anchovy paste was absolutely no problem, despite the fact that the man I married orders his cheeseburgers with “no lettuce, no tomato, no cheddar, just American cheese, please” lest they taste too complicated.
I was in the midst of preparing the meal when The Funasaurus got home, specificially,I was busy doing a taste-test of the dry white wine that it called for, when he wandered over to see what was cooking. I was not able to chug my glass quite fast enough before he had glanced at the recipe, and I saw his sweet brown eyes swell in fear.
“Does… does that say ‘anchovies,’ baby?” he asked, failing miserably at hiding his horror.
“Paste! It says anchovy paste, darling,” I said, swooping it away. “That basically means ‘salt’ with perhaps a vague seafood flavor. But don’t worry, you can’t taste actual anchovy flavor at all,” I said.
He wandered away, calculating whether it was worth enduring my wrath to make a quick dash to Quizos.
We sat down to eat, and we both scarfed the green beans, before turning to the chicken. “Mmmm!” I said, as though my verbal endorsement would make a difference in his discriminating tastes. It was good, but there was more anchovy flavor than I had remembered.
The Funasaurus bravely took a healthy bite, and tried not to gag. Then he looked scared, like I was going to beat him.
Then I felt guilty not only for cooking a meal I had known he’d hate, but for apparently having given him the impression that violence might be such a likely occurrence in our young marriage.
Then Tatum helped himself to the sauce on The Funasaurus' plate while we were distracted figuring out what else we could do for his dinner. It's been fun to clean the litter box today!
The Funasaurus finished his night off with Honey Nut Cherrios, and I had good leftovers for lunch, today. And we both felt much better after having a Klondike Oreo Cookie for dessert.
Fortunately, tonight he’s on his own. But I’m thinking I may owe him pepperoni pizza, tomorrow. Maybe I won't even sneak anchovies onto my half, this time.
I was in the midst of preparing the meal when The Funasaurus got home, specificially,I was busy doing a taste-test of the dry white wine that it called for, when he wandered over to see what was cooking. I was not able to chug my glass quite fast enough before he had glanced at the recipe, and I saw his sweet brown eyes swell in fear.
“Does… does that say ‘anchovies,’ baby?” he asked, failing miserably at hiding his horror.
“Paste! It says anchovy paste, darling,” I said, swooping it away. “That basically means ‘salt’ with perhaps a vague seafood flavor. But don’t worry, you can’t taste actual anchovy flavor at all,” I said.
He wandered away, calculating whether it was worth enduring my wrath to make a quick dash to Quizos.
We sat down to eat, and we both scarfed the green beans, before turning to the chicken. “Mmmm!” I said, as though my verbal endorsement would make a difference in his discriminating tastes. It was good, but there was more anchovy flavor than I had remembered.
The Funasaurus bravely took a healthy bite, and tried not to gag. Then he looked scared, like I was going to beat him.
Then I felt guilty not only for cooking a meal I had known he’d hate, but for apparently having given him the impression that violence might be such a likely occurrence in our young marriage.
Then Tatum helped himself to the sauce on The Funasaurus' plate while we were distracted figuring out what else we could do for his dinner. It's been fun to clean the litter box today!
The Funasaurus finished his night off with Honey Nut Cherrios, and I had good leftovers for lunch, today. And we both felt much better after having a Klondike Oreo Cookie for dessert.
Fortunately, tonight he’s on his own. But I’m thinking I may owe him pepperoni pizza, tomorrow. Maybe I won't even sneak anchovies onto my half, this time.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
And a Carriage for my Luggage
We survived Phoenix, The Funasaurus purchased new movies, I didn’t drink as heavily as I had planned, and Sugar wasn’t even hateful when we got home. Tatum didn’t even seem to have noticed that we were gone, he was just like, “Mouse!Mouse?Mouse.Mouse!Mouse: MOUSE!Mouse?” when we walked in the door. Which is a typical evening for him. Sugar has been more clingy and “oh how sad I am. I was so alone,” in her demeanor, and I feel bad, because that was only four and a half days. And in two months, we’re going to be gone for seven.
That’s right, we’re going on our honeymoon! Finally! Hooray! The universe has smiled upon me. (Momentarily. The tickets are bought. We’ll see if we run into a freak hurricane.) We’re headed to a whole week of umbrella drinks and Caribbean sun. I may not come back. Likely because I will have fried myself to a crisp, in another futile attempt at getting “tan.”
The sad part is that for some silly reason, my boss thinks I’m going to WORK between now and the end of April, despite the fact that I clearly explained to him that I’m going on my honeymoon. It seems slightly unreasonable to me that he would think I’d be able to concentrate on anything else.
That’s right, we’re going on our honeymoon! Finally! Hooray! The universe has smiled upon me. (Momentarily. The tickets are bought. We’ll see if we run into a freak hurricane.) We’re headed to a whole week of umbrella drinks and Caribbean sun. I may not come back. Likely because I will have fried myself to a crisp, in another futile attempt at getting “tan.”
The sad part is that for some silly reason, my boss thinks I’m going to WORK between now and the end of April, despite the fact that I clearly explained to him that I’m going on my honeymoon. It seems slightly unreasonable to me that he would think I’d be able to concentrate on anything else.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Where Is the Love?
I’m about to head out on a 14 hour road trip with my husband, and the in-laws. I get to spend Valentine's night sharing a hotel room with my mother-in-law, instead of my husband. The iPod and flask are stocked. We’re going to...wait for it... Phoenix. Whooo-hoo. At least it’s not snowing there.
Sigh.
The universe is, once again, smiting me.
I have moved my office home, only to discover that the two new lines I had installed for my work phone and fax don’t work. We set up a separate account for my work stuff, and having two accounts at one address gets the phone company’s panties in a bunch, and it freaks out. And has a lot of trouble processing work orders because OMG, TWO ACCOUNTS WHAT DO WE DO?! THIS IS SO COMPLEX EVEN OUR MANAGERS CANNOT HANDLE IT!
KAPOW! (That was my brain... popping.)
I bought The Funasaurus a chocolate, heart-shaped brownie with chocolate icing and gave it to him to take to work today. Because I’m romantic like that. He left it at home, so I ate it. I figure he had his chance. I was also hungry like that.
Happy naked babies with bows and arrows day! I'm off to somewhere where it's not snowing! And I don't have to shave my legs!
Love,
Princess-is-11:45AM-too-early-for-a-stiff-drink?
Sigh.
The universe is, once again, smiting me.
I have moved my office home, only to discover that the two new lines I had installed for my work phone and fax don’t work. We set up a separate account for my work stuff, and having two accounts at one address gets the phone company’s panties in a bunch, and it freaks out. And has a lot of trouble processing work orders because OMG, TWO ACCOUNTS WHAT DO WE DO?! THIS IS SO COMPLEX EVEN OUR MANAGERS CANNOT HANDLE IT!
KAPOW! (That was my brain... popping.)
I bought The Funasaurus a chocolate, heart-shaped brownie with chocolate icing and gave it to him to take to work today. Because I’m romantic like that. He left it at home, so I ate it. I figure he had his chance. I was also hungry like that.
Happy naked babies with bows and arrows day! I'm off to somewhere where it's not snowing! And I don't have to shave my legs!
Love,
Princess-is-11:45AM-too-early-for-a-stiff-drink?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Reason # 495 I Will Not Have Children
Friday I spent most of the afternoon at the emergency vet’s, because poor little Sugar was puking her little guts out, and feeling very embarrassed about it, thus leading her to choose the most inopportune places to leave little puddles of kitty puke. (Under the bed! Behind the sofa! Under the TV stand!)
Alarmed, I took her to the Very Important Emergency Vet, where they did exactly nothing to make me feel better. Sugar lost her kitty shit, between being sick and being poked by needles in a less-than-coddling-way, she was frantic. The vet took some blood (goodbye, honeymoon!) and asked gravely if I thought she should take x-rays and an ultrasound. (Goodbye vacation ever again EVER.)
Um, I don’t know, jackass. Aren’t you the vet?
So she explained that if there was a blockage, or something, that it wouldn’t show up in the bloodwork, they’d need to see it on an ultrasound, because it could be very dangerous and explode. On the other hand, it could just be a huge tumor, that they could see on an x-ray, and while Sugar may only have seconds to live, they could prescribe me some medicine for a million dollars to treat it.
What’s a kitty momma to do?
My gut told me that there was no blockage. The vet kept asking if Sugar had eaten anything she wasn’t supposed to, a toy, or something like that. And I said, “No, that would be Tatum. He’s part goat. Sugar is more... particular. She really only likes dry kibble. In a porcelain bowl.”
So I looked at Sugar who was on the verge of scratching her own eyes out (her attempt at scratching mine having thus-far failed) and I decided that no medical procedure was worth putting her through the extreme panic she appeared to be going through. So I paid a couple hundred dollars for the bloodwork, and took Sugar home.
I called The Funasaurus in tears, wondering if I had made the right decision.
“They wanted to charge you WHAT? We don’t need to pay thousands of dollars for an x-ray to tell us she has the KITTY FLU, baby.” he reassured me.
Sure enough, the next morning, Sugar was running around, eating, drinking, and terrorizing Tatum with her back-from-the-vet smell. She was also Pissed Off that I was trying to feed her medicine when, obviously, she was SO over it.
The vet called the next day to see if she was dead yet from her lack of x-rays and ultrasounds, and I told her that no, in fact, Sugar seemed perkier than ever, probably because I had bribed her with a copious amount of treats from the supermarket, the kitty equivalent of about a dozen Big Macs. And also, since she was doing so great, could I stop giving her the medicine? The vet said no, it’d be better to continue the bi-daily dosage for the next seven days. She’s a vet, but I get the feeling she doesn’t give cats medicine that often. Twice a day for seven days? Are you crazy? I don’t have that many fingers to lose!
But, dutifully, and fingerless, the dance of medicine admission has since taken place twice a day since then, and Sugar grows more hateful with each dose. But as long as she’s eating and drinking while being hateful, I can deal.
Sugar says: You will all be punished.
Alarmed, I took her to the Very Important Emergency Vet, where they did exactly nothing to make me feel better. Sugar lost her kitty shit, between being sick and being poked by needles in a less-than-coddling-way, she was frantic. The vet took some blood (goodbye, honeymoon!) and asked gravely if I thought she should take x-rays and an ultrasound. (Goodbye vacation ever again EVER.)
Um, I don’t know, jackass. Aren’t you the vet?
So she explained that if there was a blockage, or something, that it wouldn’t show up in the bloodwork, they’d need to see it on an ultrasound, because it could be very dangerous and explode. On the other hand, it could just be a huge tumor, that they could see on an x-ray, and while Sugar may only have seconds to live, they could prescribe me some medicine for a million dollars to treat it.
What’s a kitty momma to do?
My gut told me that there was no blockage. The vet kept asking if Sugar had eaten anything she wasn’t supposed to, a toy, or something like that. And I said, “No, that would be Tatum. He’s part goat. Sugar is more... particular. She really only likes dry kibble. In a porcelain bowl.”
So I looked at Sugar who was on the verge of scratching her own eyes out (her attempt at scratching mine having thus-far failed) and I decided that no medical procedure was worth putting her through the extreme panic she appeared to be going through. So I paid a couple hundred dollars for the bloodwork, and took Sugar home.
I called The Funasaurus in tears, wondering if I had made the right decision.
“They wanted to charge you WHAT? We don’t need to pay thousands of dollars for an x-ray to tell us she has the KITTY FLU, baby.” he reassured me.
Sure enough, the next morning, Sugar was running around, eating, drinking, and terrorizing Tatum with her back-from-the-vet smell. She was also Pissed Off that I was trying to feed her medicine when, obviously, she was SO over it.
The vet called the next day to see if she was dead yet from her lack of x-rays and ultrasounds, and I told her that no, in fact, Sugar seemed perkier than ever, probably because I had bribed her with a copious amount of treats from the supermarket, the kitty equivalent of about a dozen Big Macs. And also, since she was doing so great, could I stop giving her the medicine? The vet said no, it’d be better to continue the bi-daily dosage for the next seven days. She’s a vet, but I get the feeling she doesn’t give cats medicine that often. Twice a day for seven days? Are you crazy? I don’t have that many fingers to lose!
But, dutifully, and fingerless, the dance of medicine admission has since taken place twice a day since then, and Sugar grows more hateful with each dose. But as long as she’s eating and drinking while being hateful, I can deal.
Sugar says: You will all be punished.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Death to Squirrels
The other day The Funasaurus called me in a panic, warning me to maybe park on the street when I got home, because our garbage can was alive. Or rather, there was something alive (and, apparently, pissed off) in our garbage can.
I snorted, he never went to girl scout camp during mating season and had to contend with horny raccoons who had a taste for toothpaste in little girls’ sleepover bags. I felt confident I could handle whatever vermin were in our garage.
I got home, pulled into the garage, kicked the garbage can a couple times, and saw nothing. The Funasaurus was still suspicious, and was therefore on RED ALERT when he every time he stepped into the garage the next couple of days, whether to throw away something at the speed of light, or to make a mad dash for his car. (Baby don’t play when there’s potentially rabies involved. See also: fun-hater/salmonella-wary.) (BTW, I did not get sick from the gallon of raw cake batter I consumed, although I did get a fat, new zit on my chin.)
Sure enough, a day or so later, he swore he saw a squirrel dart out of (/into? It is unclear, it was very upsetting) our garage. I shrugged, saw him off to work, and got my own lazy ass up the stairs to the computer and spent a gleeful day working from home, because icy roads are much more terrifying to me.
Yesterday I did have to go to work, though, so I consumed a couple of mini cupcakes (really, at that size, I almost feel like they’re anti-calories. Like celery.) for breakfast, and headed off in our brand, new Civic hybrid that I love so very, very much.
A mysterious light came on, on the dashboard. And the “D” light (either for “drive” or “damn, ain’t this awesome,” I can’t be sure) started blinking. I pulled over, and fished out my owner’s manual, which was still easy to locate in the glove compartment because I have not yet had a chance to fill it up with extra tissues, flashlights, and Happy Meal Toys, that’s how new the car is. Said “mystery light” was actually the “check engine light.”
Erm.
So I got myself to a dealership, and they assured me that it was probably just a fuse, or something, new cars these days, ha ha, such sensitive computers, no worries, even if something is wrong, this car is still covered by the warranty, anyway, we’ll have you back on the road in a jiffy…. He showed me to the waiting area, where they had snacks and hot chocolate. I drank their last three packets, immediately.
45 minutes later the guy came up to get me, and kept his head down and shoulders hunched, as though I were going to hit him.
“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”
“You’re out of hot chocolate packets?” I asked, hopefully.
“No. Er. It appears some rodent has gotten under your car and chewed the main engine wire thing-ies.” (Not a direct quote, but fairly close.) “That’s, ah, not covered by the warranty. I hope you have insurance?”
“Yes. Ish.”
“Does it cover a rental vehicle?”
“No.”
“Um. Because an adjuster needs to come out and inspect this, if you want to claim it. And I really don’t think it’s safe to drive until it’s repaired.”
Fuck.
I called the insurance. They asked me a million questions, including the license plate number, and I had to say, “I have no idea. We still have temporary ones. It is that fucking brand new.”
I called The Funasaurus. Who had to drop some Very Important Things at work to drive all the way across the greater Denver area to come pick up my blubbering butt from the dealership in BFE. Because our insurance doesn’t cover a RENTAL VEHICLE.
The good news is that our insurance does cover the repairs, mostly, and the deductible isn’t so bad that we have to scrap our honeymoon plans, completely (knock on wood) but really. We can’t get a break with these cars. The whole point of the Very Shiny and NEW car is that you don’t have to pay for costly repairs all the time, right? Right? echo... echo... echo....
Argh.
While I’m busy being Miss Fuck-It-All, I will also say that The Hunchback of Notre Dame? Serious let-down.
::Spoiler alert!::
I’ll summarize the whole damn book for you:
It’s boring boring boring.
Then it gets good, and you get attached to some of the characters.
Then he gets wordy again.
Then everyone is sad, and devastated, and killed while in the midst of realizing how unfulfilled and miserable they are. All of them. Except for, like, the one dude you couldn’t care less about.
The only redeeming quality: the goat lives.
THE END.
I snorted, he never went to girl scout camp during mating season and had to contend with horny raccoons who had a taste for toothpaste in little girls’ sleepover bags. I felt confident I could handle whatever vermin were in our garage.
I got home, pulled into the garage, kicked the garbage can a couple times, and saw nothing. The Funasaurus was still suspicious, and was therefore on RED ALERT when he every time he stepped into the garage the next couple of days, whether to throw away something at the speed of light, or to make a mad dash for his car. (Baby don’t play when there’s potentially rabies involved. See also: fun-hater/salmonella-wary.) (BTW, I did not get sick from the gallon of raw cake batter I consumed, although I did get a fat, new zit on my chin.)
Sure enough, a day or so later, he swore he saw a squirrel dart out of (/into? It is unclear, it was very upsetting) our garage. I shrugged, saw him off to work, and got my own lazy ass up the stairs to the computer and spent a gleeful day working from home, because icy roads are much more terrifying to me.
Yesterday I did have to go to work, though, so I consumed a couple of mini cupcakes (really, at that size, I almost feel like they’re anti-calories. Like celery.) for breakfast, and headed off in our brand, new Civic hybrid that I love so very, very much.
A mysterious light came on, on the dashboard. And the “D” light (either for “drive” or “damn, ain’t this awesome,” I can’t be sure) started blinking. I pulled over, and fished out my owner’s manual, which was still easy to locate in the glove compartment because I have not yet had a chance to fill it up with extra tissues, flashlights, and Happy Meal Toys, that’s how new the car is. Said “mystery light” was actually the “check engine light.”
Erm.
So I got myself to a dealership, and they assured me that it was probably just a fuse, or something, new cars these days, ha ha, such sensitive computers, no worries, even if something is wrong, this car is still covered by the warranty, anyway, we’ll have you back on the road in a jiffy…. He showed me to the waiting area, where they had snacks and hot chocolate. I drank their last three packets, immediately.
45 minutes later the guy came up to get me, and kept his head down and shoulders hunched, as though I were going to hit him.
“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”
“You’re out of hot chocolate packets?” I asked, hopefully.
“No. Er. It appears some rodent has gotten under your car and chewed the main engine wire thing-ies.” (Not a direct quote, but fairly close.) “That’s, ah, not covered by the warranty. I hope you have insurance?”
“Yes. Ish.”
“Does it cover a rental vehicle?”
“No.”
“Um. Because an adjuster needs to come out and inspect this, if you want to claim it. And I really don’t think it’s safe to drive until it’s repaired.”
Fuck.
I called the insurance. They asked me a million questions, including the license plate number, and I had to say, “I have no idea. We still have temporary ones. It is that fucking brand new.”
I called The Funasaurus. Who had to drop some Very Important Things at work to drive all the way across the greater Denver area to come pick up my blubbering butt from the dealership in BFE. Because our insurance doesn’t cover a RENTAL VEHICLE.
The good news is that our insurance does cover the repairs, mostly, and the deductible isn’t so bad that we have to scrap our honeymoon plans, completely (knock on wood) but really. We can’t get a break with these cars. The whole point of the Very Shiny and NEW car is that you don’t have to pay for costly repairs all the time, right? Right? echo... echo... echo....
Argh.
While I’m busy being Miss Fuck-It-All, I will also say that The Hunchback of Notre Dame? Serious let-down.
::Spoiler alert!::
I’ll summarize the whole damn book for you:
It’s boring boring boring.
Then it gets good, and you get attached to some of the characters.
Then he gets wordy again.
Then everyone is sad, and devastated, and killed while in the midst of realizing how unfulfilled and miserable they are. All of them. Except for, like, the one dude you couldn’t care less about.
The only redeeming quality: the goat lives.
THE END.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Tiny Bubbles, Gaping Caverns of Snow, and Mini Bites of Heaven
Last night The Funasaurus was out, so I indulged in a bubble bath, which I haven’t done in quite a while. The premise was to ying the Hunchback of Notre Dame yang. This is the next book for our book group, and really, the three-paged descriptions of fucking marble tables and ladders was just not doing it for me. Also, I think authors who address their audience directly run a high risk of sounding really pretentious… don’t you agree?
So I settled into the bath (good bubbles, I was loving it a little too much, with the bubble beard and whatnot. I may have pushed Tatum’s face in a little. He was asking for it, peering all googly-eyed into the mountain of suds and batting them onto my book) to force myself to get to at least page 100. I declared that a suitable defeat, deeming it enough patience to arrive at book club with my head held high, ready to denounce authors who were paid by the word, as opposed to by the book.
But then… I got into it. Somewhere around the descriptions of the stupid rocks in the road, there was suddenly scandal and beatings and lust and gallows and stolen children and silk shoes. Now, I love me some stolen children and silk shoes, so I pressed on. Somewhere in there, The Funasaurus came home, sad because I had not ordered him Chinese like I had said I would. (Can’t cook dinner if I’m busy marinating myself in floral bubble bath, now can I?)
I generously offered he could join me in the bath, and he backed away liked I had asked him to dance ballet with me while shopping for a dress at the mall.
That is to say , he did not exactly seem as excited about the bath as I had hoped. I tried batting my eyelashes and hiding the soggy classic literature I was still attempting to read. He muttered something about no amount of temptation could get him to willingly boil himself (harrumph, sue me, I don’t care to bath in sub-arctic temperatures) and went off to order his take-out while I developed into a soupy, Quasimodo-loving prune over the next TWO HOURS.
Today I am still a little dehydrated, but I smell lovely, and I feel all relaxed. And we did go snowshoeing over the weekend:
Hi.
And I know it looks all sweet and cute and bloated and whatnot, but really, if you look closely, you can see that I am holding The Funasaurus' sunglasses. That is because just moments prior, he was prying himself out of a very large hole in the snow that literally swallowed him, and I, being the supremely helpful and concerned wife, held his sunglasses for him as he struggled to get his head unburied.
And we saw a pretty door with some snow. And I took a picture.
And I also bought the most amazing thing ever. Along with the most amazing thing-ever-maker. Which I so did not wait to use, and busted out today. Anything that lowers the cake to icing ratio, in my mind, is a Very Good Thing.
Did you know that one regular box of cake batter actually makes an ARMY of mini cupcakes? I cooked about 100 of them, before I decided that there was probably no way we could eat more than that, and so I sadly washed the rest of the batter down the drain. … After feeding myself many generous spoonfuls of raw dough, seeing as how there was no nay saying Funasaurus around with all of his fun-hating “salmonella” talk.
Now I’m off to read more of La Esmerelda’s adventures with the ol’ hunchback, all hyped up on my yellow cake and chocolate frosting high. G’night.
(Don't even try to tell me you're not just a LEETLE bit jealous.)
Also, I feel the Grand Marnier and Jim Beam in the background give it that little je ne sais quoi....
So I settled into the bath (good bubbles, I was loving it a little too much, with the bubble beard and whatnot. I may have pushed Tatum’s face in a little. He was asking for it, peering all googly-eyed into the mountain of suds and batting them onto my book) to force myself to get to at least page 100. I declared that a suitable defeat, deeming it enough patience to arrive at book club with my head held high, ready to denounce authors who were paid by the word, as opposed to by the book.
But then… I got into it. Somewhere around the descriptions of the stupid rocks in the road, there was suddenly scandal and beatings and lust and gallows and stolen children and silk shoes. Now, I love me some stolen children and silk shoes, so I pressed on. Somewhere in there, The Funasaurus came home, sad because I had not ordered him Chinese like I had said I would. (Can’t cook dinner if I’m busy marinating myself in floral bubble bath, now can I?)
I generously offered he could join me in the bath, and he backed away liked I had asked him to dance ballet with me while shopping for a dress at the mall.
That is to say , he did not exactly seem as excited about the bath as I had hoped. I tried batting my eyelashes and hiding the soggy classic literature I was still attempting to read. He muttered something about no amount of temptation could get him to willingly boil himself (harrumph, sue me, I don’t care to bath in sub-arctic temperatures) and went off to order his take-out while I developed into a soupy, Quasimodo-loving prune over the next TWO HOURS.
Today I am still a little dehydrated, but I smell lovely, and I feel all relaxed. And we did go snowshoeing over the weekend:
Hi.
And I know it looks all sweet and cute and bloated and whatnot, but really, if you look closely, you can see that I am holding The Funasaurus' sunglasses. That is because just moments prior, he was prying himself out of a very large hole in the snow that literally swallowed him, and I, being the supremely helpful and concerned wife, held his sunglasses for him as he struggled to get his head unburied.
And we saw a pretty door with some snow. And I took a picture.
And I also bought the most amazing thing ever. Along with the most amazing thing-ever-maker. Which I so did not wait to use, and busted out today. Anything that lowers the cake to icing ratio, in my mind, is a Very Good Thing.
Did you know that one regular box of cake batter actually makes an ARMY of mini cupcakes? I cooked about 100 of them, before I decided that there was probably no way we could eat more than that, and so I sadly washed the rest of the batter down the drain. … After feeding myself many generous spoonfuls of raw dough, seeing as how there was no nay saying Funasaurus around with all of his fun-hating “salmonella” talk.
Now I’m off to read more of La Esmerelda’s adventures with the ol’ hunchback, all hyped up on my yellow cake and chocolate frosting high. G’night.
(Don't even try to tell me you're not just a LEETLE bit jealous.)
Also, I feel the Grand Marnier and Jim Beam in the background give it that little je ne sais quoi....
Friday, February 01, 2008
Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit
So far this month I have:
* Woken up with a sugar hangover (thanks to a cupcake fest yesterday with the one and only, Shooting Star, who was kind enough to indulge a very severe cake and icing craving I was having [despite the fact that she’s the one who’s pregnant] and drive for 45 minutes in rush hour traffic to check out a new cupcake store.)
* Had a yogurt container explode all over:
a) the inside of my purse
b) the upholstery in my new (GAH!) car
* Made plans to brave the skier traffic and go snowshoeing this weekend
* Seen a former coworker advertise her burlesque show, and wow, that was a lot of former cube mate sequins and tush for 9:00 AM
That’s about it. But I am damned sure glad it’s Friday. Methinks there is vino in my near future. … I wouldn't say I am prophetic, so much as borderline-alcoholic.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Completely Not Subtle Attempt at Procrastination
I am working from home today so that the phone company can come install another phone line, so that I can move home, permanently, soon. Huzzah!
However, this puts me in a bit of a conundrum. When I am at work, I work. When I am at home, I look around at the mountain of mail, the random cords, cat toys, tissues, and iPod accessories, dust bunnies, laundry, bills, and bits of paper and articles I have saved/cut out to put into a scrapbook, and think, “Perhaps I should attend to all that before I start in on these spreadsheets for work.”
And before I know it, it’s 10:15 and I have successfully updated my scrapbook and am covered in glue (I still get a kindergarten-esque amount of joy from peeling it off my skin) and sparkly-pen and have not really done very much work.
Sigh.
Working from home may be trickier (but more glitter-filled!) than I realized.
Meanwhile, we got more snow last night, so I used that as an excuse to not go to yoga and to order out for dinner, instead. Also, I am really sick of the snow, and since I don’t have a ski pass this season, I really see no need for it. What happened to Global Warming, man?
However, this puts me in a bit of a conundrum. When I am at work, I work. When I am at home, I look around at the mountain of mail, the random cords, cat toys, tissues, and iPod accessories, dust bunnies, laundry, bills, and bits of paper and articles I have saved/cut out to put into a scrapbook, and think, “Perhaps I should attend to all that before I start in on these spreadsheets for work.”
And before I know it, it’s 10:15 and I have successfully updated my scrapbook and am covered in glue (I still get a kindergarten-esque amount of joy from peeling it off my skin) and sparkly-pen and have not really done very much work.
Sigh.
Working from home may be trickier (but more glitter-filled!) than I realized.
Meanwhile, we got more snow last night, so I used that as an excuse to not go to yoga and to order out for dinner, instead. Also, I am really sick of the snow, and since I don’t have a ski pass this season, I really see no need for it. What happened to Global Warming, man?
Friday, January 25, 2008
The Snack Gods Are Pissed
WELL.
I know it is odd to post twice in one day, especially what with not having posted for a week, but this afternoon was just too good not to share.
Let’s see. Where to start.
It all started with my exceedingly poor meal-planning skeelz, when I grabbed an apple and an Uncrustable out of the fridge this morning, and assumed that would be enough to get me through the day.
More like 10:00 AM. After I went in at 9:30.
Anyway.
I have been very hungry, all day. And so around 3:30, I finally told myself, “Self, you should not have to go hungry just because you are an idiot. You have change in your wallet. Go buy yourself a snack out of the snack machine that you recently discovered in the basement of this building.”
(Me lurking in the basement of a random office building while I should have been running spreadsheets, recently, is an altogether different story. But, happy day! I discovered the snack machine. So it was a useful… alternate use of my time.)
So I poked around in the nether regions of my purse (dirty!) and found several quarters, two nickels, and a dime. I was prepared! I had exact change! I was craving sugar, and I could swing the finest refined stuff there was! So I took the only elevator that goes to the basement, and there, like a beacon of golden yumminess, were Grandma’s Oatmeal Raisin cookies in C3. So I dutifully poked the right number/letter combination, it said, “INSERT 60 CENTS” and I did. And then it said, “25 cents.” And I was confused, as to whether it thought I still needed 25 cents, or if it thought I had only put 25 cents in.
Soft, chewy cookies (plural! There are TWO in a package, oh holy day) are not often found in a dingy snack machine, so I decided it was worth the extra change and put in another quarter. And then another. And then my only dime. And it still read “25 cents” and nothing was happening. So I pushed the lever to return all the money I had put into the damn machine, for it was more than a bill (as in a dollar bill) at that point.
Nothing. So I put in a nickel. Because we’ve already established I’m an idiot. Nothing. So I tried to shake the machine a bit, because I really wanted those fucking cookies.
I may have even body slammed it.
I finally gave up, it was still glaring, “25 cents” and I gave it the finger and sadly went back upstairs, poorer and cookieless.
I almost made it an hour before I could not stand the indignity, and I decided I would treat myself to something chocolatey at Panera, the only decent snack-ish place within walking distance of my office.
I even know a sneaky back way which makes the whole trip much shorter.
Naturally, I ran into a mother fucking coyote.
In the fucking TECH CENTER.
We were, I believe, both surprised.
I backed away slowly, and the (rather large, somewhat-mange-y) animal looked away, I guess because I am not all that threatening looking. Or appetizing. Whatever. I decided not to question.
And then I took the longer but more traffic-y route to Panera. Where I asked for a chocolate chip bagel with butter. And I got it in a nice little, warm bag, and took it back (via the long route) to the office to discover that they did not actually butter my now stone-cold bagel, but just threw in a little pad with a plastic knife so that I might butter a tiny corner of one of the frozen halves, myself.
But I showed them. I ate the whole thing, anyway.
And then I logged on to Facebook to see if anything exciting was happening, and I clicked on the friends part, and it was about to say, “You have no friends online within the last 5 minutes” but it froze in the middle of loading the page, and fucking Facebook told me, “You have no friends….”
The end.
I know it is odd to post twice in one day, especially what with not having posted for a week, but this afternoon was just too good not to share.
Let’s see. Where to start.
It all started with my exceedingly poor meal-planning skeelz, when I grabbed an apple and an Uncrustable out of the fridge this morning, and assumed that would be enough to get me through the day.
More like 10:00 AM. After I went in at 9:30.
Anyway.
I have been very hungry, all day. And so around 3:30, I finally told myself, “Self, you should not have to go hungry just because you are an idiot. You have change in your wallet. Go buy yourself a snack out of the snack machine that you recently discovered in the basement of this building.”
(Me lurking in the basement of a random office building while I should have been running spreadsheets, recently, is an altogether different story. But, happy day! I discovered the snack machine. So it was a useful… alternate use of my time.)
So I poked around in the nether regions of my purse (dirty!) and found several quarters, two nickels, and a dime. I was prepared! I had exact change! I was craving sugar, and I could swing the finest refined stuff there was! So I took the only elevator that goes to the basement, and there, like a beacon of golden yumminess, were Grandma’s Oatmeal Raisin cookies in C3. So I dutifully poked the right number/letter combination, it said, “INSERT 60 CENTS” and I did. And then it said, “25 cents.” And I was confused, as to whether it thought I still needed 25 cents, or if it thought I had only put 25 cents in.
Soft, chewy cookies (plural! There are TWO in a package, oh holy day) are not often found in a dingy snack machine, so I decided it was worth the extra change and put in another quarter. And then another. And then my only dime. And it still read “25 cents” and nothing was happening. So I pushed the lever to return all the money I had put into the damn machine, for it was more than a bill (as in a dollar bill) at that point.
Nothing. So I put in a nickel. Because we’ve already established I’m an idiot. Nothing. So I tried to shake the machine a bit, because I really wanted those fucking cookies.
I may have even body slammed it.
I finally gave up, it was still glaring, “25 cents” and I gave it the finger and sadly went back upstairs, poorer and cookieless.
I almost made it an hour before I could not stand the indignity, and I decided I would treat myself to something chocolatey at Panera, the only decent snack-ish place within walking distance of my office.
I even know a sneaky back way which makes the whole trip much shorter.
Naturally, I ran into a mother fucking coyote.
In the fucking TECH CENTER.
We were, I believe, both surprised.
I backed away slowly, and the (rather large, somewhat-mange-y) animal looked away, I guess because I am not all that threatening looking. Or appetizing. Whatever. I decided not to question.
And then I took the longer but more traffic-y route to Panera. Where I asked for a chocolate chip bagel with butter. And I got it in a nice little, warm bag, and took it back (via the long route) to the office to discover that they did not actually butter my now stone-cold bagel, but just threw in a little pad with a plastic knife so that I might butter a tiny corner of one of the frozen halves, myself.
But I showed them. I ate the whole thing, anyway.
And then I logged on to Facebook to see if anything exciting was happening, and I clicked on the friends part, and it was about to say, “You have no friends online within the last 5 minutes” but it froze in the middle of loading the page, and fucking Facebook told me, “You have no friends….”
The end.
Or, I Could Start (!) Drinking, Instead
Gah! I know, I suck. But work has been expecting me to work, recently, and it is really getting in the way of my good times.
I keep telling myself I am worth more than all the spreadsheets in the kingdom (let’s call it what it is [and yet sadly it’s not MY kingdom, and sheesh, what’s the point?]) but the steady paycheck IS nice so I stick it out for another week.
Plus, the absent boss and work-from-home flexibility is pretty awesome. I think I’m just sad because The Funasaurus is away on business. He has been gone for almost 24 hours, OMG, and I am not sure what to do with myself because apparently I am just that codependent.
Well, except, I did watch a Divine Design marathon AND go to yoga last night. That was pretty awesome. For some reason The Funasaurus always vetoes Divine Design as a viewing option despite a) the on-going writers strike, which, hasn’t it been, like, a decade, now? and b) the very, very long queue of unwatched episodes on our DVR. Happily for you, baby, there are only two left. I watched and deleted all the rest. Sadly for me, this probably means I opened up a whole bunch of space to DVR random sports-related crap.
We got an invite to go to the National Western Stock Show tonight, and as much as I like seeing hicks being thrown about violently by recently-taser-ed animals as much as the next girl, I do not own a cowboy hat, nor belt buckles large enough to rival the shields at the Renaissance Fair. And also I don’t like dust. So, meh. I’ll pass. Pass the pinot and arugula salad, please.
I keep telling myself I am worth more than all the spreadsheets in the kingdom (let’s call it what it is [and yet sadly it’s not MY kingdom, and sheesh, what’s the point?]) but the steady paycheck IS nice so I stick it out for another week.
Plus, the absent boss and work-from-home flexibility is pretty awesome. I think I’m just sad because The Funasaurus is away on business. He has been gone for almost 24 hours, OMG, and I am not sure what to do with myself because apparently I am just that codependent.
Well, except, I did watch a Divine Design marathon AND go to yoga last night. That was pretty awesome. For some reason The Funasaurus always vetoes Divine Design as a viewing option despite a) the on-going writers strike, which, hasn’t it been, like, a decade, now? and b) the very, very long queue of unwatched episodes on our DVR. Happily for you, baby, there are only two left. I watched and deleted all the rest. Sadly for me, this probably means I opened up a whole bunch of space to DVR random sports-related crap.
We got an invite to go to the National Western Stock Show tonight, and as much as I like seeing hicks being thrown about violently by recently-taser-ed animals as much as the next girl, I do not own a cowboy hat, nor belt buckles large enough to rival the shields at the Renaissance Fair. And also I don’t like dust. So, meh. I’ll pass. Pass the pinot and arugula salad, please.
Friday, January 18, 2008
My Life: In a Few, Incomplete Sentences
So one of the things that happens, when you put the on-going stream of gay unicorns and varietals of cabernet that are running through your freakish little mind into written format on the world wide web is that… people can read your thoughts. And sometimes it’s witty strangers and you’re like, hey, cool, she digs my incessant drivel. And sometimes it’s old friends that you haven’t heard from in ten (or more) years and you’re like, Hi. Now you finally know it’s true. I’m vaguely crazy. Aren’t you glad we reconnected on MySpace?
Sometimes they turn out to be people whose opinion you really cared about.
And.
Well.
I’m feeling shy.
For the first time in, like, ten (or more) years.
...
But who am I to let a little shyness get in the way of my verbal diarrhea?
So to catch all you people up who knew me an a less-princess and more awkward-pre-teen-with-really-awful-bangs stage, here’s the low-down on what I’ve been up to.
I got out of California as fast as my dinky learner’s permit allowed and went to college in Colorado. I was the one holding a purple water gun in every single one of the graduation pictures, while all of my fellow graduates held up their diplomas. It made my mother proud.
After graduation, I took my very expensive English degree up to the mountains and sold my soul for a ski pass. And then I learned Spanish. And lived in a log cabin. And had a dog that could eat your dog for a snack. She also could retrieve rather large trees that she found floating in partially-frozen mountain lakes. She was pretty awesome. Unfortunately, me and my delicate immune system and lack of interest in hiking for hours on end in sub-zero temperatures did not… do it for her. So she went to live with the ex-boyfriend. Sigh. I thought we could be very happy in our cute little loft in Denver, but apparently there weren’t enough moose to chase in our 900-square-foot cement apartment.
Then I finally got The Funasaurus drunk enough on cheap beer (after having had a crush on him for, oh, SEVEN YEARS) that I made a move, confident that he was too inebriated to get too far. Then he made an honest-ish woman of me and we started dating and promptly shacked up for a couple of years.
Then I had the boss from hell and he got us both fired, and I handled that quite gracefully.
Fortunately, I’m not bitter at all.
Anywhos. Then The Funasaurus and I got married, and I found I really like wearing a princess dress and having a day all about ME. I want to do it again. Like, daily. I just don’t want to deal with all the planning, and whatnot.
Marriage suits me. We do a lot of sleeping in and watching movies together. We spend a lot of times with our cats, because we have bitchin' social lives. Sometimes I pick The Funasaurus’ nose and then put my finger in his mouth when I feel his attention is, perhaps, not as focused as it should be on whatever it is that I am blathering on about. He loves that. Fortunately for me, there’s a legally binding document, now, that says getting rid of me will be even more annoying than being fed your own boogers, so he’s stuck.
We eat a lot of sushi, and I drink a lot of wine, and sometimes pretend to go to yoga. Like last night. When I am pretty sure I caught the instructor LAUGHING AT ME. What happened to “it’s all about my personal journey,” huh? What if my journey in half pigeon looks more like I’m just sitting there? So what? Asshole. (Oh, and by the way, I WILL drink water when I’m thirsty, so suck it.)
Um. That’s about it. I still like pink. And presents. Feel free to send me presents anytime. Oh, also, I am still into cheese, and I got a great fortune and am basically biding my time in publishing until it comes true.
Word.
(How come, when I write that, it looks more like I’m telling you what program I used to write this entry than gangsta for “peace out?”)
*sigh*
Sometimes they turn out to be people whose opinion you really cared about.
And.
Well.
I’m feeling shy.
For the first time in, like, ten (or more) years.
...
But who am I to let a little shyness get in the way of my verbal diarrhea?
So to catch all you people up who knew me an a less-princess and more awkward-pre-teen-with-really-awful-bangs stage, here’s the low-down on what I’ve been up to.
I got out of California as fast as my dinky learner’s permit allowed and went to college in Colorado. I was the one holding a purple water gun in every single one of the graduation pictures, while all of my fellow graduates held up their diplomas. It made my mother proud.
After graduation, I took my very expensive English degree up to the mountains and sold my soul for a ski pass. And then I learned Spanish. And lived in a log cabin. And had a dog that could eat your dog for a snack. She also could retrieve rather large trees that she found floating in partially-frozen mountain lakes. She was pretty awesome. Unfortunately, me and my delicate immune system and lack of interest in hiking for hours on end in sub-zero temperatures did not… do it for her. So she went to live with the ex-boyfriend. Sigh. I thought we could be very happy in our cute little loft in Denver, but apparently there weren’t enough moose to chase in our 900-square-foot cement apartment.
Then I finally got The Funasaurus drunk enough on cheap beer (after having had a crush on him for, oh, SEVEN YEARS) that I made a move, confident that he was too inebriated to get too far. Then he made an honest-ish woman of me and we started dating and promptly shacked up for a couple of years.
Then I had the boss from hell and he got us both fired, and I handled that quite gracefully.
Fortunately, I’m not bitter at all.
Anywhos. Then The Funasaurus and I got married, and I found I really like wearing a princess dress and having a day all about ME. I want to do it again. Like, daily. I just don’t want to deal with all the planning, and whatnot.
Marriage suits me. We do a lot of sleeping in and watching movies together. We spend a lot of times with our cats, because we have bitchin' social lives. Sometimes I pick The Funasaurus’ nose and then put my finger in his mouth when I feel his attention is, perhaps, not as focused as it should be on whatever it is that I am blathering on about. He loves that. Fortunately for me, there’s a legally binding document, now, that says getting rid of me will be even more annoying than being fed your own boogers, so he’s stuck.
We eat a lot of sushi, and I drink a lot of wine, and sometimes pretend to go to yoga. Like last night. When I am pretty sure I caught the instructor LAUGHING AT ME. What happened to “it’s all about my personal journey,” huh? What if my journey in half pigeon looks more like I’m just sitting there? So what? Asshole. (Oh, and by the way, I WILL drink water when I’m thirsty, so suck it.)
Um. That’s about it. I still like pink. And presents. Feel free to send me presents anytime. Oh, also, I am still into cheese, and I got a great fortune and am basically biding my time in publishing until it comes true.
Word.
(How come, when I write that, it looks more like I’m telling you what program I used to write this entry than gangsta for “peace out?”)
*sigh*
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Hucked on Fonix Kid!
Really? No one thought to mention to me that I spelled "warfare" "warefare"???
Are you all laughing at me in cyberspace? Someone should start another blog called, "Princesses Cannot Fucking Spell." Becawz I wud laik tew subskraib tew it.
Are you all laughing at me in cyberspace? Someone should start another blog called, "Princesses Cannot Fucking Spell." Becawz I wud laik tew subskraib tew it.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Psychological Warfare with a Seemingly-Stupid Cat
Yesterday I was exhausted all day long. And I had no reason to be so tired, since technically I got, like, nine hours of sleep. However, this morning as I rolled over and came face to face with ol’ googly eyes, himself (hi, Tatum!) I had a sudden recollection of what perhaps caused said exhaustion. Somewhere around 4:00 in the morning Tatum gets snuggly. (Or cold. I prefer to think of it as his own little twisted variation on “affection”) And he likes to crawl under the covers and nestle into my armpit. (Apparently his sense of smell, much like his brain, is underdeveloped.)
Normally I indulge this moment, despite its oddly consistent bad timing, because Tatum is not really affectionate, otherwise. Unless you are a faux mouse. In which case his love is obsessive and unyielding. And also violent. So anyways, there is often elbow crease/armpit kneading involved, which usually makes my arm look like hamburger meat, but I know it comes from a loving place so I tolerate it. (Now that I think about it… aren’t there hotlines for this?) And since I was gone for ten days, Tatum has been making up for his lack of cuddling time by going extra strong with the claws and the snuggling and whatnot. And when you are woken up at 4:00 AM and forced to endure what feels like a tattoo gun but does not yield any sort of aesthetically-pleasing result for half an hour on your inner bicep, your sleep cycle gets a little… fucked, man.
End story: I felt Tatum coming over to snuggle this morning, and I was like, “Ah-hah! I am so tired, I shall ignore his tiny mews and pokes and roll over and continue to sleep like a normal person!” And sure enough, Tatum came over and pawed at the sheet I was clinging to tighter than duct tape, and I felt the paws and mews get more frantic, going from, “Mew?” to “Rrrow!” to “You’re going to regret this, jackass,” and then he poked me in the eye with his talons.
So he got booted from the bedroom, and to punish me for my decision, he ignored me for the rest of the morning, following The Funasaurus around like a sweet, pet-able little shadow, and when The Funasaurus left for work, he sat by the door CRYING, sobbing, as though his hateful little eyeball-poking heart was breaking.
The bandage on my left eye socket has rendered me less than sympathetic.
Meanwhile I stopped at Starbucks on the way in to work for an overpriced, yummy, decaffeinated froo-froo drink, and am feeling more human, both in eyesight and awakeness. Now I need to get back to work before my boss decides to poke me in the other eyeball.
Normally I indulge this moment, despite its oddly consistent bad timing, because Tatum is not really affectionate, otherwise. Unless you are a faux mouse. In which case his love is obsessive and unyielding. And also violent. So anyways, there is often elbow crease/armpit kneading involved, which usually makes my arm look like hamburger meat, but I know it comes from a loving place so I tolerate it. (Now that I think about it… aren’t there hotlines for this?) And since I was gone for ten days, Tatum has been making up for his lack of cuddling time by going extra strong with the claws and the snuggling and whatnot. And when you are woken up at 4:00 AM and forced to endure what feels like a tattoo gun but does not yield any sort of aesthetically-pleasing result for half an hour on your inner bicep, your sleep cycle gets a little… fucked, man.
End story: I felt Tatum coming over to snuggle this morning, and I was like, “Ah-hah! I am so tired, I shall ignore his tiny mews and pokes and roll over and continue to sleep like a normal person!” And sure enough, Tatum came over and pawed at the sheet I was clinging to tighter than duct tape, and I felt the paws and mews get more frantic, going from, “Mew?” to “Rrrow!” to “You’re going to regret this, jackass,” and then he poked me in the eye with his talons.
So he got booted from the bedroom, and to punish me for my decision, he ignored me for the rest of the morning, following The Funasaurus around like a sweet, pet-able little shadow, and when The Funasaurus left for work, he sat by the door CRYING, sobbing, as though his hateful little eyeball-poking heart was breaking.
The bandage on my left eye socket has rendered me less than sympathetic.
Meanwhile I stopped at Starbucks on the way in to work for an overpriced, yummy, decaffeinated froo-froo drink, and am feeling more human, both in eyesight and awakeness. Now I need to get back to work before my boss decides to poke me in the other eyeball.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Time Keeps on Turning, and I am Dizzy
I know I’ve been gone a long time, and I resolve to do better in the future. (Ha! How’s that a nice set up for failure? My subconscious is already going, “Nay, I shan’t… and you can’t make me, plbthbthbth.”)
But I had a hectic week, eating my way through San Francisco’s most scrumptious food, and drinking even more. And not just alcohol! No, I deviated far enough from my daily mainline of cabernet to squeeze in some Thai iced tea, French limonade, and, of course, my new favoritest thing EVER. EVER.
Well.
Besides mochi. Which is my newest, favoritest thing ever. Chewy dough wrapped around ice cream. It took many tentative bites, but I suddenly fell deeply in love.
Anywhos. The last week has consisted not just of stuffing my face silly… there was another (tiny) percent of my time that was spent working (hard-ish) meeting up with old friends and my brother and sister-in-law, and sightseeing my ass off. The sad part about seeing people you really, really love is the fact that you realize they live very far away. And seeing them in person is infinitely more satisfying than keeping up with them on e-mail, MySpace, blogs, and FaceBook. (Because, yes, I just went and joined the latter. If you’ve been pestering me about it for awhile, well… I’m there, now. Because just about every cool person I know is on it, and I was terrified I was missing out on something. So far, it reminds me of a watered-down MySpace. YES, I said it. Prove me wrong.)
So I was set to fly home, yesterday, desperate to see The Funasaurus, so naturally my flight was delayed an hour for No Good Reason. I did make it home, and it turns out there’s a SUSHI restaurant in our neighborhood now (hence the mochi discovery) and OMG. We are going to have to default on our mortgage, because I do not see how we will be able to afford the roof over our head AND such a convenient sushi habit. And, well, we have priorities.
So far, I weigh significantly more in 2008 than I did in 2007. That’s about all that’s changed. Oh. That, and I’m driving an infinitely newer and hybrid-i-er car! WHEEEEEEE!
But I had a hectic week, eating my way through San Francisco’s most scrumptious food, and drinking even more. And not just alcohol! No, I deviated far enough from my daily mainline of cabernet to squeeze in some Thai iced tea, French limonade, and, of course, my new favoritest thing EVER. EVER.
Well.
Besides mochi. Which is my newest, favoritest thing ever. Chewy dough wrapped around ice cream. It took many tentative bites, but I suddenly fell deeply in love.
Anywhos. The last week has consisted not just of stuffing my face silly… there was another (tiny) percent of my time that was spent working (hard-ish) meeting up with old friends and my brother and sister-in-law, and sightseeing my ass off. The sad part about seeing people you really, really love is the fact that you realize they live very far away. And seeing them in person is infinitely more satisfying than keeping up with them on e-mail, MySpace, blogs, and FaceBook. (Because, yes, I just went and joined the latter. If you’ve been pestering me about it for awhile, well… I’m there, now. Because just about every cool person I know is on it, and I was terrified I was missing out on something. So far, it reminds me of a watered-down MySpace. YES, I said it. Prove me wrong.)
So I was set to fly home, yesterday, desperate to see The Funasaurus, so naturally my flight was delayed an hour for No Good Reason. I did make it home, and it turns out there’s a SUSHI restaurant in our neighborhood now (hence the mochi discovery) and OMG. We are going to have to default on our mortgage, because I do not see how we will be able to afford the roof over our head AND such a convenient sushi habit. And, well, we have priorities.
So far, I weigh significantly more in 2008 than I did in 2007. That’s about all that’s changed. Oh. That, and I’m driving an infinitely newer and hybrid-i-er car! WHEEEEEEE!
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Little Dab'll Do Ya. ... But I Took a Big Dab
Hello, I’m drunk. I have made up for any lack of alcohol consumption from last night by over-indulging tonight. Three glasses of wine. One large glass of Grand Marnier. Some more wine to wash it down with. I haven’t been this… unstable on my feet-ish in a long-ass time.
(Does “long-ass” require a hyphen? Shooting Star- HELP! I can’t find it in the Chicago Manual of Style….)
So anyway. I drank a lot tonight. I ran a lot of spreadsheets. I continue to believe Voss is a little slice of 8 fluid ounces of ecstasy in an overpriced glassy bottle.
My boss tricked me into drinking regular Grand Marnier because I thought it was Centennial shit, and who I am I to let 100 year old alchol go to waste? So I chugged it, only to realize it’s only, like, 10 years old, and fuck, my head hurts.
The transcendental music on the TV is tripping me out, and while I could change the channel to something more MTV-ish, I can’t find the remote, I think because my drunken foot kicked the damn remote under the bed (undirected by my head, mind you) and it hurts to get that inverted to search for it… so under the bed it shall stay, and I shall sit here hating the weird bubbles and la la la stemming from the tube.
My life is rough. Also, dinner cost $2,700. Who knew I could eat that many scallops and fois gras and sherry reduction blah blah? (Well, me and 10 other people.) Plus wine. Ooh, there was lots of wine. I don’t know how any of it tasted, since I was drunk, but I imagine it was good. My stomach feels like it’s going to blow apart in a B- horror flick way.
That’s about it for today. I have a $25 polish change scheduled for tomorrow at the fancy-pants hotel where I am staying. (Their poor taste in la la music is compensated for the bottles of Voss lying around hither and thither) Normally a polish change is, like, $5 for those of you who don’t know.
Whatever. I’m getting black nail polish put on by a professional, so suck it, Lauren from The Hills, who applies her own. ... I think. There’s a black and white ball tomorrow. I figure I can go trendy goth (oxymoron?) since I’m going to need some inner strength to get through the night before the alcohol kicks in. I think they might frown on Jamo shots at a black and white ball. But I don’t care. I’d like to see them catch me in my flowy, perhaps slightly-too-revealing-dress-for-work in their rented tuxedos. Wish I hadn’t over-eaten, for the third night in a row, for the back-less gown.
(Does “long-ass” require a hyphen? Shooting Star- HELP! I can’t find it in the Chicago Manual of Style….)
So anyway. I drank a lot tonight. I ran a lot of spreadsheets. I continue to believe Voss is a little slice of 8 fluid ounces of ecstasy in an overpriced glassy bottle.
My boss tricked me into drinking regular Grand Marnier because I thought it was Centennial shit, and who I am I to let 100 year old alchol go to waste? So I chugged it, only to realize it’s only, like, 10 years old, and fuck, my head hurts.
The transcendental music on the TV is tripping me out, and while I could change the channel to something more MTV-ish, I can’t find the remote, I think because my drunken foot kicked the damn remote under the bed (undirected by my head, mind you) and it hurts to get that inverted to search for it… so under the bed it shall stay, and I shall sit here hating the weird bubbles and la la la stemming from the tube.
My life is rough. Also, dinner cost $2,700. Who knew I could eat that many scallops and fois gras and sherry reduction blah blah? (Well, me and 10 other people.) Plus wine. Ooh, there was lots of wine. I don’t know how any of it tasted, since I was drunk, but I imagine it was good. My stomach feels like it’s going to blow apart in a B- horror flick way.
That’s about it for today. I have a $25 polish change scheduled for tomorrow at the fancy-pants hotel where I am staying. (Their poor taste in la la music is compensated for the bottles of Voss lying around hither and thither) Normally a polish change is, like, $5 for those of you who don’t know.
Whatever. I’m getting black nail polish put on by a professional, so suck it, Lauren from The Hills, who applies her own. ... I think. There’s a black and white ball tomorrow. I figure I can go trendy goth (oxymoron?) since I’m going to need some inner strength to get through the night before the alcohol kicks in. I think they might frown on Jamo shots at a black and white ball. But I don’t care. I’d like to see them catch me in my flowy, perhaps slightly-too-revealing-dress-for-work in their rented tuxedos. Wish I hadn’t over-eaten, for the third night in a row, for the back-less gown.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
2008 is off to a Good Start
I am sick.
There is no other explanation. I just left a party early. A party. A party with FREE ALCOHOL and lemon meringue tartlets.
WTF is wrong with me?
Well, there was a decadent hotel room complete with bubble bath waiting for me. And also an infinite number of spreadsheets, that I’d like to complete before 3:00 in the morning. (Obviously, taking a break to write on my blog whilst sipping Chardonnay is a great way to efficiently reach that goal.) My social skeelz are plummeting, but I care not, for if you were to sleep in this bed, oh, you would want to go to bed at granny-early, too.
In happier news, following up my last e-mail of joy and sunshine… The Funasaurus and I indulged a dream, and with some creative financing, we have procured ourselves this:
A Civic hybrid. It makes me happy to think about it. And bless his ever-trusting soul, The Funasaurus even lets me drive it. Immediately after we drove it off the lot, we proceeded to joy-ride around the greater Denver area for no reason at all, spewing our energy-efficient exhaust willy-nilly, and marveling at our Jetsons-like dashboard.
Sadly, I had to leave the dream behind, as we partied like rock stars into 2008 with our annual Funasaurus party, and then I woke up four hours later and went to the airport for my business trip to San Francisco.
And thus, here I sit, once again in the lap of luxury, running spreadsheets until my eyeballs bleed.
Fucking why I haven’t I ever had THIS before? Because it is my new favoritest thing EVER. A) It’s so pretty. B) It’s stupidly expensive. C) It tastes so yummy. (If water can be yummy.) So can you just imagine how my little heart leapt with cracked-out joy when I discovered it’s also from Norway?? Oh yes. Artesian H2O directly from Scandinavia, specifically the country I intend to reign over somewhat benevolently, someday. I am in heaven. And drinking many (recyclable? Eh, it’s iffy) bottles of beautiful water daily. Between glasses of Chardonnay.
Get yourself some. You will not be disappointed.
Thus I spake.
There is no other explanation. I just left a party early. A party. A party with FREE ALCOHOL and lemon meringue tartlets.
WTF is wrong with me?
Well, there was a decadent hotel room complete with bubble bath waiting for me. And also an infinite number of spreadsheets, that I’d like to complete before 3:00 in the morning. (Obviously, taking a break to write on my blog whilst sipping Chardonnay is a great way to efficiently reach that goal.) My social skeelz are plummeting, but I care not, for if you were to sleep in this bed, oh, you would want to go to bed at granny-early, too.
In happier news, following up my last e-mail of joy and sunshine… The Funasaurus and I indulged a dream, and with some creative financing, we have procured ourselves this:
A Civic hybrid. It makes me happy to think about it. And bless his ever-trusting soul, The Funasaurus even lets me drive it. Immediately after we drove it off the lot, we proceeded to joy-ride around the greater Denver area for no reason at all, spewing our energy-efficient exhaust willy-nilly, and marveling at our Jetsons-like dashboard.
Sadly, I had to leave the dream behind, as we partied like rock stars into 2008 with our annual Funasaurus party, and then I woke up four hours later and went to the airport for my business trip to San Francisco.
And thus, here I sit, once again in the lap of luxury, running spreadsheets until my eyeballs bleed.
Fucking why I haven’t I ever had THIS before? Because it is my new favoritest thing EVER. A) It’s so pretty. B) It’s stupidly expensive. C) It tastes so yummy. (If water can be yummy.) So can you just imagine how my little heart leapt with cracked-out joy when I discovered it’s also from Norway?? Oh yes. Artesian H2O directly from Scandinavia, specifically the country I intend to reign over somewhat benevolently, someday. I am in heaven. And drinking many (recyclable? Eh, it’s iffy) bottles of beautiful water daily. Between glasses of Chardonnay.
Get yourself some. You will not be disappointed.
Thus I spake.
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