I know. I am totally a bad person for not posting for so long. I have been spending most of my time feeling sorry for myself because I could not go skiing. I have been spending some of my time feeling sorry for myself for letting my weight start to creep in the wrong direction from lack of skiing. And finally, I have been spending the very small remainder of my time being lackluster and depressed because I have let my weight start to creep in the wrong direction from lack of skiing.
Basically, not skiing is ruining my life and the Food-fest that is my office is not helping. Basically my weekdays go like this
5:30 – DH gets up and I contemplate going to the gym but fall back asleep instead.
6:30 – my alarm starts to go off.
7:00 – I get up and run around to get ready.
7:30 – I leave the house (interesting side note: 7:30 is also my start time!)
7:45 – I get to work
8:00 – someone gives me a doughnut while I am eating my sensible breakfast
9:30 – I attend a meeting where halved Costco Muffins are passed out.
11:00 – someone passes out the candy/cookie dough/cookies/popcorn that you bought from their kid as a fundraiser.
Noon – as I am cooking my lean cuisine, pizza/BBQ/Teriyaki/Hamburgers arrive and I am loathe to turn down free food.
2:00 – there is a birthday/retirement/promotion celebration which involves much sheet cake
3:30 – A woman in my row refills her candy bowl and I decide to have “just one”
4:45 – While going to pick up my dishes from the dishwasher before someone steals them and I never see them again, I am faced with the smorgasbord of leftover meeting foods. I have 7 pieces of cheese, 3 slices of garlic bread, 2 brownie bites and an undetermined amount of salsa and chips.
5:00 – I go home and start dinner
7:00 – after snacking while I cook I eat as much dinner as my husband does.
9:00 – I want dessert (or nachos)
10:30 – I go to be having skipped the gym and consumed about 5,000 calories.
Weekends are worse because I always plan to go skiing and then I find that my leg still hurts when I put the ski boots on so I send my husband off to the mountain with his friends and eat nothing but wine and microwave popcorn all day.
Dear lord in heaven let me break this wicked cycle of self destruction by getting on the mountain this weekend!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The wheels go 'round and 'round
When I worked at my fathers bicycle shop as a mechanic there was one story we would hear consistently. Man or woman, old or young, all nationalities and income levels, the story of why your bike is creaking, groaning, screeching, broken, twisted, shredded, clicking, stuck or just plain not working always starts with the words “I was just riding along.” This phrase is so over used by those who neglect and torment their bicycles that it has become quite the joke at the shop. 90% of the time, after fixing the bike, a good mechanic can tell what caused the problem and it is almost always the rider’s fault. Through neglect, malice, or ignorance people do terrible things to their bicycles and after wrenching for many years I have vowed never to be one of them. I pay loving attention to the state of my bicycles; cars however, are a different story.
My abuse of cars is a matter of historical and public record. From the time I “stole” my car with Aarwenn while we both still only had permits and ran it in to a pole at a Starbucks only to lie to my parents about how it became scratched latter, to the more neglectful habit I have of never (and I do me not even once since I have owned it) washing the outside of my current vehicle. From the 2 cars I have run out of oil, seizing the engines and totaling both cars, to the fact that I am so used to driving a stick that I slam on the break while looking for the clutch in automatics. I am like the anti-car. I have no mercy and even worse, no sense. Since getting married I actually clean out the inside of my car on occasion and pester my husband to change the oil on a semi regular basis but this minor change in behavior hardly makes up for all the years of abuse. What does make up for it is this. Today, as I was driving back to the office from lunch, my car began to wail and screech at such a high pitch and intensity that dogs from other counties and perhaps other states were howling. That alone would not make up for my behavior but the noise did not start out small and quiet, it simply turned on at full force, accosting me with its embarrassing, attention grabbing, cacophony of sound and causing me to swerve as a looked for its source and become very red in the face as a realized it was my own car. But even that would not make a dent in the grievances against me. What humbles me to the core is that when I got back to the office I had to call my dad and say “Papa, I was just driving along . . .”
My abuse of cars is a matter of historical and public record. From the time I “stole” my car with Aarwenn while we both still only had permits and ran it in to a pole at a Starbucks only to lie to my parents about how it became scratched latter, to the more neglectful habit I have of never (and I do me not even once since I have owned it) washing the outside of my current vehicle. From the 2 cars I have run out of oil, seizing the engines and totaling both cars, to the fact that I am so used to driving a stick that I slam on the break while looking for the clutch in automatics. I am like the anti-car. I have no mercy and even worse, no sense. Since getting married I actually clean out the inside of my car on occasion and pester my husband to change the oil on a semi regular basis but this minor change in behavior hardly makes up for all the years of abuse. What does make up for it is this. Today, as I was driving back to the office from lunch, my car began to wail and screech at such a high pitch and intensity that dogs from other counties and perhaps other states were howling. That alone would not make up for my behavior but the noise did not start out small and quiet, it simply turned on at full force, accosting me with its embarrassing, attention grabbing, cacophony of sound and causing me to swerve as a looked for its source and become very red in the face as a realized it was my own car. But even that would not make a dent in the grievances against me. What humbles me to the core is that when I got back to the office I had to call my dad and say “Papa, I was just driving along . . .”
Thursday, January 17, 2008
2 inches
It will be no news to some of you that my height has been called into question as of late. At a holiday party this December I compared my height to some of my friends who have always been sorter than me and realized that we are the same height.
This is disturbing for many reasons. The first and most obvious reason is that I am shrinking. You would be upset if you were shrinking too. In fact, you might be even more upset than I am since I know that it is happening because of my scoliosis. Which brings us to the second reason it is upsetting; it means my scoliosis is getting worse. One might think that that is the extent of my reasons to be upset. That person would be wrong.
I am actually most upset because I am now not a tall girl.
There was a time in my life, when I was 5’7 ¾”. I was almost as tall as my “little” sister. In fact, my massage therapist said I would be taller than her if my back were completely normal. That time was early 2004, I was 22 and I will now refer to that period of my life as the “height” of it even though that will confuse people.
Some months latter, when I came home from Europe I had lost that ¾” and I reluctantly put 5’7” on my driver’s license when I renewed it. Since massage therapy had given me almost an inch, I figured that my compressed spine left me at this height. Sad, but that was that.
Fast forward a few years to last month when I realized for the first time that my back has compressed even further. So now I am going to the chiropractor and having them measure my height at the doctor’s office. Yesterday the nurse pushed me up against the wall and said “we will call it 5’6”. I was going to protest because I had recently be told at another office that I was 5’6 ¼” and, damn it I want that extra ¼ but before I could even protest she continued with “you are almost there so we will just give it to you.” Almost there!?!
Honestly the biggest issue for me is feeling small. It permeates into other areas of my life. My husband has noticed I have begun talking even louder than normal and normally I am a loud talker. I have quit wearing high heals because I don’t want people to think I am trying to look taller. I don’t want people to know that my newly discovered shortness bothers me so much. This discovery has bloomed into an identity crisis as if those 2 inches I lost held all the confidence and individuality of me.
This is disturbing for many reasons. The first and most obvious reason is that I am shrinking. You would be upset if you were shrinking too. In fact, you might be even more upset than I am since I know that it is happening because of my scoliosis. Which brings us to the second reason it is upsetting; it means my scoliosis is getting worse. One might think that that is the extent of my reasons to be upset. That person would be wrong.
I am actually most upset because I am now not a tall girl.
There was a time in my life, when I was 5’7 ¾”. I was almost as tall as my “little” sister. In fact, my massage therapist said I would be taller than her if my back were completely normal. That time was early 2004, I was 22 and I will now refer to that period of my life as the “height” of it even though that will confuse people.
Some months latter, when I came home from Europe I had lost that ¾” and I reluctantly put 5’7” on my driver’s license when I renewed it. Since massage therapy had given me almost an inch, I figured that my compressed spine left me at this height. Sad, but that was that.
Fast forward a few years to last month when I realized for the first time that my back has compressed even further. So now I am going to the chiropractor and having them measure my height at the doctor’s office. Yesterday the nurse pushed me up against the wall and said “we will call it 5’6”. I was going to protest because I had recently be told at another office that I was 5’6 ¼” and, damn it I want that extra ¼ but before I could even protest she continued with “you are almost there so we will just give it to you.” Almost there!?!
Honestly the biggest issue for me is feeling small. It permeates into other areas of my life. My husband has noticed I have begun talking even louder than normal and normally I am a loud talker. I have quit wearing high heals because I don’t want people to think I am trying to look taller. I don’t want people to know that my newly discovered shortness bothers me so much. This discovery has bloomed into an identity crisis as if those 2 inches I lost held all the confidence and individuality of me.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Evil Elves: In which I reveal (in real numbers) my weight loss goals.
I have this tendency to take some tiny tidbit of information and latch on to it, repeating it out of context and distorting its message and requiring myself to adhere to its now ridiculous ramifications whatever those may be.
Case in point: I read once that women who have larger weight loss goals are more successful in their weight loss endeavors, where success is measured in pounds lost.
The logical explanation for this is that women who are trying to lose 100 or even just 50 lbs generally have more weight to lose and everyone knows that the more weight you have to lose, the faster it comes off in the beginning so even if you did give up at the 3 month mark (which is usually where I lose it and order a double cheeseburger with a side of everything else to go) you will still have lost more weight than a person trying to lose 10 lbs who sticks to it and meets their goal.
However, my twisted mind has decided that this statement actually means I will lose weight much better and faster if I set some pie in the sky “I used to weight this in high school” type goal. So now my ticker on SparkPeople says 118. It says 118 not because I think I should weigh 118. It says 118 not because I can really even plan on or conceive of weighing 118. In fact my real goal in my heart and soul and mind is 127. But somehow, my superstitious, overly optimistic and blindly emotional side INSISTS that having changed the number on my very public ticker will somehow shift the favor of the fates in my direction and pounds will melt off my frame. Why? Because I now have an unattainable goal and the evil little elves of hell that sit around making it their business to ensure that I never. ever. ever. get anything I want will think that I won’t be happy until I get to 118. Therefore they will let me get to 127 without even worrying their evil little heads about it and I will win and that, my friends, is how the universe works. Yes it is.
Disclaimer: Reaching my real goal of 127 requires me to lose less than 10 lbs and my doctor has advised me at a healthy weight range for me would be 116-140. So yes, this is a vanity diet and no, I am not going to starve myself and end up a crak-head-esque waif. Besides, we recently established at a holiday party that I am much shorter than we previously believed and if I have to be short at least I can be skinny.
Case in point: I read once that women who have larger weight loss goals are more successful in their weight loss endeavors, where success is measured in pounds lost.
The logical explanation for this is that women who are trying to lose 100 or even just 50 lbs generally have more weight to lose and everyone knows that the more weight you have to lose, the faster it comes off in the beginning so even if you did give up at the 3 month mark (which is usually where I lose it and order a double cheeseburger with a side of everything else to go) you will still have lost more weight than a person trying to lose 10 lbs who sticks to it and meets their goal.
However, my twisted mind has decided that this statement actually means I will lose weight much better and faster if I set some pie in the sky “I used to weight this in high school” type goal. So now my ticker on SparkPeople says 118. It says 118 not because I think I should weigh 118. It says 118 not because I can really even plan on or conceive of weighing 118. In fact my real goal in my heart and soul and mind is 127. But somehow, my superstitious, overly optimistic and blindly emotional side INSISTS that having changed the number on my very public ticker will somehow shift the favor of the fates in my direction and pounds will melt off my frame. Why? Because I now have an unattainable goal and the evil little elves of hell that sit around making it their business to ensure that I never. ever. ever. get anything I want will think that I won’t be happy until I get to 118. Therefore they will let me get to 127 without even worrying their evil little heads about it and I will win and that, my friends, is how the universe works. Yes it is.
Disclaimer: Reaching my real goal of 127 requires me to lose less than 10 lbs and my doctor has advised me at a healthy weight range for me would be 116-140. So yes, this is a vanity diet and no, I am not going to starve myself and end up a crak-head-esque waif. Besides, we recently established at a holiday party that I am much shorter than we previously believed and if I have to be short at least I can be skinny.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
My Best Self
2008 is going to be the year I become “My Best Self.” This statement means many things. It means that I am going to work on my eating habits and my exercise habits. It means I am going to start shaving my legs regularly and stop glowering at strangers on the street. It means that I will stop trying to kill the snooze button with overuse and start trying to get some yoga in before work.
It does not mean that I am going to become a morning person or regularly wash my car or begin to enjoy to company of children. I mean there are some elemental facets of my personality. But becoming “My Best Self” (Yes I am aware that every time I type that you all want to sing the “My Buddy/Kid Sister" Song. That is actually ½ the reason I keep writing it.) does mean that I need to go to the chiropractor.
You see, I have a bad back. This was discovered at some pivotal moment in my pre-pubescent years at Jason Lee Middle School. They lined us up in two rows with our backs to one another in the nurses office and we all had to pull our shirts up and bend over. (inset inappropriate joke here) While I was feeling ashamed that all he other girls needed bras and I did not yet (come to think of it I still don’t but I wear one anyway. Go figure) the mentally challenged, lazy eyed nurse was simply noticing that I had scoliosis. Of course she did not tell ME this. She let everyone else go and made me sit with her while she filled out some paperwork and asked me questions. Then she called my mother.
Now, 13 years latter, I have decided to start going to the chiropractor. The guy I went to see on Tuesday is a large, jovial man. He is so cheery in fact that I initially relaxed quite a bit about the whole process. We chatted about my pain. He offered me some coffee. He had me change into a hospital gown. He explained the areas he would target. He positioned me on a massage table. He told me to breathe deep.
Then. He. Body-slammed. Me.
If I had known this would happen, I would have maybe chosen a slimmer chiropractor.
It does not mean that I am going to become a morning person or regularly wash my car or begin to enjoy to company of children. I mean there are some elemental facets of my personality. But becoming “My Best Self” (Yes I am aware that every time I type that you all want to sing the “My Buddy/Kid Sister" Song. That is actually ½ the reason I keep writing it.) does mean that I need to go to the chiropractor.
You see, I have a bad back. This was discovered at some pivotal moment in my pre-pubescent years at Jason Lee Middle School. They lined us up in two rows with our backs to one another in the nurses office and we all had to pull our shirts up and bend over. (inset inappropriate joke here) While I was feeling ashamed that all he other girls needed bras and I did not yet (come to think of it I still don’t but I wear one anyway. Go figure) the mentally challenged, lazy eyed nurse was simply noticing that I had scoliosis. Of course she did not tell ME this. She let everyone else go and made me sit with her while she filled out some paperwork and asked me questions. Then she called my mother.
Now, 13 years latter, I have decided to start going to the chiropractor. The guy I went to see on Tuesday is a large, jovial man. He is so cheery in fact that I initially relaxed quite a bit about the whole process. We chatted about my pain. He offered me some coffee. He had me change into a hospital gown. He explained the areas he would target. He positioned me on a massage table. He told me to breathe deep.
Then. He. Body-slammed. Me.
If I had known this would happen, I would have maybe chosen a slimmer chiropractor.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
I'm Back! This time with a bettery powered iron in my backpak.
I am resurrecting my blog for 2008. As usual, I have no good reason for doing the things that I do. One not so good reason for starting to post for this blog again is that 8 is my favorite number and therefore, 2008 is going to be the best year in the history of my life ever. I figure people should know about it. Another not so good reason is that I re-read my old posts and I realized that I used to be funny and have semi-meaningful things to say. I am pretty sure that this is no longer the case. While assuming there is a casual connection between my current lack of whit and my current lack of bloging might be less than well founded, I really don't care much. Just like when DH (my Dear Husband for those of you unfamiliar with the abbreviation) tells me that my vitamin supplements are worthless placebos, or when medical research disproves the effectiveness of anything sold by Susan Somers; I plan to forge ahead unscathed by the disbelievers. So there you have it, like it or not I am back. And this time I am pumped up on calcium supplements and digging out my Thigh-Master.
Now I would like to make another announcement. I am considering joining the Extreme Ironing association. Yes, there is really such a thing and yes I am really interested in it, as everyone with a pulse should be. First of all I love the outdoors. I live climbing mountains and rocks and other such things. I also love skiing or sliding or rappelling down once I have reached the top. I love the feeling that is gives me; mainly the (often blatantly erroneous) impression that I am the master of myself, physics, the universe, and everything.
Another thing that I enjoy immensely is a well ordered house. I love things to be organized and pretty. I like stacks of folded laundry, neatly made beds, systematically arranged bookshelves and well pressed clothing. The problem with loving order is that the onerous of KEEPING order will inevitably fall on our shoulders. And there are some tasks that must be done that I simply cannot stand doing. Dishes, as anyone who has ever lived with me knows, are not something that I do; at least not without a fight. Ironing, however, is one of those enchanting things that exist so rarely in our world, which both needs to be done and brings me great joy to do. It is not that I simply take satisfaction at the sight of a well done crease or nicely starched collar. It is not that I am relieved and overwhelmed with a sense of accomplishment once the ironing pile is no more. All of those things are nice, but it is the actual act, the anal-retentive attention to detail required, the warmth, the smells of clean linen and lemon starch, the simplicity, the precision; all this together makes ironing nothing short of glorious.
That being said, you can imagine that I went numb with shock and disbelief that I had not had the idea to combine these two activities earlier. I am, however, ecstatic to find that I am not alone in my seemingly paradoxical tastes. That being said, you can look forward to pictures of my extreme ironing attempts just as soon as I save up enough of a lightweight board and a battery powered iron.
Now I would like to make another announcement. I am considering joining the Extreme Ironing association. Yes, there is really such a thing and yes I am really interested in it, as everyone with a pulse should be. First of all I love the outdoors. I live climbing mountains and rocks and other such things. I also love skiing or sliding or rappelling down once I have reached the top. I love the feeling that is gives me; mainly the (often blatantly erroneous) impression that I am the master of myself, physics, the universe, and everything.
Another thing that I enjoy immensely is a well ordered house. I love things to be organized and pretty. I like stacks of folded laundry, neatly made beds, systematically arranged bookshelves and well pressed clothing. The problem with loving order is that the onerous of KEEPING order will inevitably fall on our shoulders. And there are some tasks that must be done that I simply cannot stand doing. Dishes, as anyone who has ever lived with me knows, are not something that I do; at least not without a fight. Ironing, however, is one of those enchanting things that exist so rarely in our world, which both needs to be done and brings me great joy to do. It is not that I simply take satisfaction at the sight of a well done crease or nicely starched collar. It is not that I am relieved and overwhelmed with a sense of accomplishment once the ironing pile is no more. All of those things are nice, but it is the actual act, the anal-retentive attention to detail required, the warmth, the smells of clean linen and lemon starch, the simplicity, the precision; all this together makes ironing nothing short of glorious.
That being said, you can imagine that I went numb with shock and disbelief that I had not had the idea to combine these two activities earlier. I am, however, ecstatic to find that I am not alone in my seemingly paradoxical tastes. That being said, you can look forward to pictures of my extreme ironing attempts just as soon as I save up enough of a lightweight board and a battery powered iron.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
My dream wedding is a nightmare
The nightmares have started. Twice now, I have woken up soaked in the type of cold sweat that can only be produced by unadulterated panic. Gasping for air and gagging on the remnants of a dream so sinister it almost stopped my heart. The subject of these dreams? My wedding and all the ways it could go wrong.
So far my dream weddings have included relatives that don’t exist, demands that I get married in a bar (Magoo’s specifically for those of you from T-town), and my Fiancé’s grandmother taking my seat at the alter (I know, Freud would have a field day with that one. In said dream I told her she could stay in my seat as long as she needed to.)
In these dreams my reaction to disaster varies. In one, I am calm through disaster after disaster until I finally break down and demand that my sister make me a Cosmo the size of my head which I then poor down my throat and all over my dress. In another, I freak out almost right away but give up in the end a happily decide to elope. In both dreams I have great shoes. In both dreams a marching band escorts me to the ceremony. In one dream all the guests leave. In the other they critique my actions like Olympic judges.
I am thinking that perhaps I am a bit overwhelmed. Last night I went to a wedding workshop and the lady running it told me to elope. At this point I am not planning a wedding so much as I am fighting war against it. I cannot elope because then the wedding would win. The sad thing is, this is like high stakes Vegas poker; the odds are stacked against me. There is no way to really win because the wedding will either get my money or my sanity or both. All I can hope for now is to not lose big. I gotta get me some lucky boxers and a cute blonde to blow on the dice.
So far my dream weddings have included relatives that don’t exist, demands that I get married in a bar (Magoo’s specifically for those of you from T-town), and my Fiancé’s grandmother taking my seat at the alter (I know, Freud would have a field day with that one. In said dream I told her she could stay in my seat as long as she needed to.)
In these dreams my reaction to disaster varies. In one, I am calm through disaster after disaster until I finally break down and demand that my sister make me a Cosmo the size of my head which I then poor down my throat and all over my dress. In another, I freak out almost right away but give up in the end a happily decide to elope. In both dreams I have great shoes. In both dreams a marching band escorts me to the ceremony. In one dream all the guests leave. In the other they critique my actions like Olympic judges.
I am thinking that perhaps I am a bit overwhelmed. Last night I went to a wedding workshop and the lady running it told me to elope. At this point I am not planning a wedding so much as I am fighting war against it. I cannot elope because then the wedding would win. The sad thing is, this is like high stakes Vegas poker; the odds are stacked against me. There is no way to really win because the wedding will either get my money or my sanity or both. All I can hope for now is to not lose big. I gotta get me some lucky boxers and a cute blonde to blow on the dice.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Brccoli is a bitch. I am not.
The people at my work are, in general, wildly inappropriate. A sexual harassment lawyer would have a hay-day with my office mates. They tend to keep the banter going all day and usually, one person takes the heat more than the others. This responsibility tends to rotate on an unscheduled basis. Lately the main topic of discussion has been me. Something I usually enjoy but HELLO I just had surgery and I am a bit cranky and GOD DAMN IT why in the world is it your business if I don’t like broccoli?
At first the collective made fun of me for being younger than most other people in the office but I am no fool and I just picked on them for being old. So that is pretty much a dead horse. Now they have moved on to my eating habits. I am a bit picky but I was raised well (Hi Mama!) and I am quiet about it. I usually sit at the table and eat my Lean Cuisine leaving all of the broccoli sitting in a small pile to the side. There are lots of other things I don't really care for but since I bought the food, made the food, and am the only one eating the food, I consider it my right to eat any, all, or none of it as I see fit.
My problem is that a certain individual has decided this means I am “High Maintenance” his main support for this claim is his own assertion that a man taking me on a date would have to carefully consider the restaurant he was taking me to so I could find something to order. Somehow, this really pisses me off.
First of all, I LOVE all types of food. Thai, American, Mexican, Asian Fusion, Indian, Japanese, Italian, Moroccan . . . the list goes on and on. I have never been to a restaurant in which I could not find something appetizing.
Second, I am willing to try new things. My Fiancé took me out to Sushi on one of our first dates. I had never had it before and was a bit trepidations. I tried it that night and LOVE sushi now. I just don’t see the point of eating things you already know you dislike.
Third, I am not High Maintenance. I do not have fake nails. I do not die my hair (I used to but it got to be too much work.) I spend way more money on outdoor gear than I do on shoes (I do like heals but I like Skis more.) I climb mountains and carry my own shit (my pack was 2 lbs HEAVIER than Fiancé’s on the last trip.) I do not expect marathon phone calls or mind reading or daily massages from Fiancé.
So I don’t like broccoli, f-ing sue me.
At first the collective made fun of me for being younger than most other people in the office but I am no fool and I just picked on them for being old. So that is pretty much a dead horse. Now they have moved on to my eating habits. I am a bit picky but I was raised well (Hi Mama!) and I am quiet about it. I usually sit at the table and eat my Lean Cuisine leaving all of the broccoli sitting in a small pile to the side. There are lots of other things I don't really care for but since I bought the food, made the food, and am the only one eating the food, I consider it my right to eat any, all, or none of it as I see fit.
My problem is that a certain individual has decided this means I am “High Maintenance” his main support for this claim is his own assertion that a man taking me on a date would have to carefully consider the restaurant he was taking me to so I could find something to order. Somehow, this really pisses me off.
First of all, I LOVE all types of food. Thai, American, Mexican, Asian Fusion, Indian, Japanese, Italian, Moroccan . . . the list goes on and on. I have never been to a restaurant in which I could not find something appetizing.
Second, I am willing to try new things. My Fiancé took me out to Sushi on one of our first dates. I had never had it before and was a bit trepidations. I tried it that night and LOVE sushi now. I just don’t see the point of eating things you already know you dislike.
Third, I am not High Maintenance. I do not have fake nails. I do not die my hair (I used to but it got to be too much work.) I spend way more money on outdoor gear than I do on shoes (I do like heals but I like Skis more.) I climb mountains and carry my own shit (my pack was 2 lbs HEAVIER than Fiancé’s on the last trip.) I do not expect marathon phone calls or mind reading or daily massages from Fiancé.
So I don’t like broccoli, f-ing sue me.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Independance Day In T-Town Style
My 4th of July plans have changed alot in the past few days. my Father and my Fiance are going to climb Mt. Olympus and they leave at 4:30 AM tomorrow. Because I have to work on Monday I cant go with them and I had planned on going east of the mountains to this ridiculous fake Bavarian mountain town, Leavenworth with 2 of my friends. Not only do they have a giant maypole and men in laderhosen, but some of the states best rock climbing is scattered all around it. Then my dog held me a hostage with his big brown eyes and made me give all my money to the vet for his ear infection so suddenly a girls weekend climbing extravaganza was out of my price range. To add insult to injury, 2 of the 3 people who buy me things when I am broke (my Dad and my Fiance, Hi Guys!) are going to be gone. Therefore I will be hanging out with the last person who will buy me things when I am broke (my Mother, I love you Mama!) all weekend. Mainly I will be attending hokey annual festivals that I have no excusse for absolutly loving the way I do. There are 2 big ones every 4th of July weekend in Tacoma and they are pretty silly.
One , named "The Taste of Tacoma" is just an excuse to gain 20 lbs in a few hours. You walk around paying 2 bucks a pop for a mouthful of whatever at about 200 stands put up by local restaurants. Then you go lay in the sun and yell at your dog not to eat food off the ground because he has food allergies and his vet bills are killing you. There are rides and crafty BS for sale and about 12 radio stations broadcasting live. When you can't stand the 80's cover band and their terrible Stevie Nicks wannabe back up singer and tambourine "artist" anymore, you walk a few miles back to your car and go home to feel sick. It is awesome.
The second is actually called the "Freedom Fair" and was called that before 9-11. It is only on the 4th of July and takes up the whole waterfront. it is more or less the same idea as the Taste of Tacoma but in a line instead of on a lawn. They have a beer garden every few blocks and there is always a stage sponsored by some local something. They will have Uncle Sam on stilts or a not so funny local comedian. Perhaps a not so funny local comedian dressed as Uncle Sam on stilts. Then at midnight there is a war. The fireworks start but that is not the real attraction. The real attraction is the 2 other fireworks shows can be seen from the waterfront and Tacoma must win. Seattle and Browns point both are visible and they both have more money that us. Still, every year we have a bigger barge or a longer show or something to try and out compete them. When the show is over you realize you are a bit wasted and sun burnt and the dog got scared and pissed on your shoe, which may or may not have been a sandal and you still have to walk a few miles to the car.
All in all it will be a full weekend full of fullness. And maybe full of sun (pray to the tempermental Washington could Gods to stay far far away) and also maybe full of Target's boxed wine.
One , named "The Taste of Tacoma" is just an excuse to gain 20 lbs in a few hours. You walk around paying 2 bucks a pop for a mouthful of whatever at about 200 stands put up by local restaurants. Then you go lay in the sun and yell at your dog not to eat food off the ground because he has food allergies and his vet bills are killing you. There are rides and crafty BS for sale and about 12 radio stations broadcasting live. When you can't stand the 80's cover band and their terrible Stevie Nicks wannabe back up singer and tambourine "artist" anymore, you walk a few miles back to your car and go home to feel sick. It is awesome.
The second is actually called the "Freedom Fair" and was called that before 9-11. It is only on the 4th of July and takes up the whole waterfront. it is more or less the same idea as the Taste of Tacoma but in a line instead of on a lawn. They have a beer garden every few blocks and there is always a stage sponsored by some local something. They will have Uncle Sam on stilts or a not so funny local comedian. Perhaps a not so funny local comedian dressed as Uncle Sam on stilts. Then at midnight there is a war. The fireworks start but that is not the real attraction. The real attraction is the 2 other fireworks shows can be seen from the waterfront and Tacoma must win. Seattle and Browns point both are visible and they both have more money that us. Still, every year we have a bigger barge or a longer show or something to try and out compete them. When the show is over you realize you are a bit wasted and sun burnt and the dog got scared and pissed on your shoe, which may or may not have been a sandal and you still have to walk a few miles to the car.
All in all it will be a full weekend full of fullness. And maybe full of sun (pray to the tempermental Washington could Gods to stay far far away) and also maybe full of Target's boxed wine.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Here comes the Bride (zilla)
Today is approximately 500 days before my wedding. 500 days is along time and I am by nature a procrastinator so one would think that perhaps I would be in the “I’ll think about it latter” mindset. You would, however, be incorrect.
I am not the type of person who has had her wedding planned since birth. I am not the type of person who has a strong opinion on the subject of cake toppers. I am however, a planner. I plan. It is what I do. And so this new project (aka “the wedding”) has kind of violently invaded all the mental space in my head. That may not be much real estate to begin with but it is all we have folks.
I think I am being pretty flexible about things. The date, the clothing, the photography, the size of the guest list, the menu, even the officaint are all subjects I have very little opinion on. The venue, however, became singularly important to me. I saw on a photographer’s website (hey, I like research) the most beautiful ballroom EVER and now I want it. I want it bad.
The problem is that it is currently under renovation. All the reports I found on Google said it would reopen in 2007 so I think “Sweet” it should be open by October or November right? But there is no contact info anywhere. Finally after several searches I find a number which I call. The mail box is full so I am transferred to an operator who transfers me to a catering company where I leave a message which they don’t return. So I track down the catering company online and send them an e-mail. I get this in return.
We are not taking reservations for the Dome Room until we get a firm date. It is not set to open until end of 2007 beginning 2008.
We do have the Fairview Club which we are taking reservations for now. It is gorgeous! There are pictures on the website. Please let me know if you would like to see the space.
And my first reaction is “No I don’t want to see the f-ing Fairview club!” at which point I realize that I have a major problem.
“Hello, my name is T-Town and I have a problem; I am becoming Bridezilla”
So now we have
5 million details to think about
5 thousand Dollars to save up
5 hundred days to go and
5 very good indicators that I will not make it out of this as a decent person.
If at any time it appears as though I might bite someone and spread the infection please shoot me. You will be doing me, my loved ones and the world a huge favor.
I am not the type of person who has had her wedding planned since birth. I am not the type of person who has a strong opinion on the subject of cake toppers. I am however, a planner. I plan. It is what I do. And so this new project (aka “the wedding”) has kind of violently invaded all the mental space in my head. That may not be much real estate to begin with but it is all we have folks.
I think I am being pretty flexible about things. The date, the clothing, the photography, the size of the guest list, the menu, even the officaint are all subjects I have very little opinion on. The venue, however, became singularly important to me. I saw on a photographer’s website (hey, I like research) the most beautiful ballroom EVER and now I want it. I want it bad.
The problem is that it is currently under renovation. All the reports I found on Google said it would reopen in 2007 so I think “Sweet” it should be open by October or November right? But there is no contact info anywhere. Finally after several searches I find a number which I call. The mail box is full so I am transferred to an operator who transfers me to a catering company where I leave a message which they don’t return. So I track down the catering company online and send them an e-mail. I get this in return.
We are not taking reservations for the Dome Room until we get a firm date. It is not set to open until end of 2007 beginning 2008.
We do have the Fairview Club which we are taking reservations for now. It is gorgeous! There are pictures on the website. Please let me know if you would like to see the space.
And my first reaction is “No I don’t want to see the f-ing Fairview club!” at which point I realize that I have a major problem.
“Hello, my name is T-Town and I have a problem; I am becoming Bridezilla”
So now we have
5 million details to think about
5 thousand Dollars to save up
5 hundred days to go and
5 very good indicators that I will not make it out of this as a decent person.
If at any time it appears as though I might bite someone and spread the infection please shoot me. You will be doing me, my loved ones and the world a huge favor.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Heat Wave : Creative ways in which to kill things
The greater Seattle-Tacoma metropolitan area is having a heat wave. It has been in the 80s all weekend; we are on smog watch; there is a heat advisory out for today and tomorrow because temperatures will be in the mid 90s. Much like a handful of snowflakes, full sun exposure can close down the entire region. We are so used to our little could of temperate weather that panic ensues once the temperature ventures out of the 50 to 70 range.
Case in point: I am convinced my dog is going to die. He will be baked and burnt like forgotten loaf banana bread in the oven that is my apartment. All my furniture will be singed and the water out of the toilet will evaporate completely.
There is no good reason for me to have this terrible vision haunting me all day. I left the windows cracked and the blinds shut. I gave him plenty of water. Still I am worried. You see Taj is the singular success story in my long list of attempting to care for things. Every plant, cat, fish, rodent, turtle, bird or imaginary friend left in my care has died inexplicably and usually in a bizarre sick fashion. So now I present to you the “Supper Countdown of the Top Three Ways in Which Things I Have Been In Charge of Have Died.” Because we all like lists and lists are better when they are backwards (countdowns). It creates a false sense of suspense.
3. I had 2 fish who hated each other and one rammed the other one to death.
2. My turtle was found 100% dried out, attempting to climb into her water bowl which was empty.
And the very worst . . .
1. My gerbils (named Chewy and Gooey) ate one another. Actually Gooey ate Chewy’s foot so Chewy ate Gooey’s insides. They both died.
Therefore I am going to have my Mother drive all the way out to Lakewood/ University Place to pick up my keys and take the dog to her house. Although come to think of it, I inherited my propensity for forgetting things in the oven from her. Maybe I should call my Dad.
Case in point: I am convinced my dog is going to die. He will be baked and burnt like forgotten loaf banana bread in the oven that is my apartment. All my furniture will be singed and the water out of the toilet will evaporate completely.
There is no good reason for me to have this terrible vision haunting me all day. I left the windows cracked and the blinds shut. I gave him plenty of water. Still I am worried. You see Taj is the singular success story in my long list of attempting to care for things. Every plant, cat, fish, rodent, turtle, bird or imaginary friend left in my care has died inexplicably and usually in a bizarre sick fashion. So now I present to you the “Supper Countdown of the Top Three Ways in Which Things I Have Been In Charge of Have Died.” Because we all like lists and lists are better when they are backwards (countdowns). It creates a false sense of suspense.
3. I had 2 fish who hated each other and one rammed the other one to death.
2. My turtle was found 100% dried out, attempting to climb into her water bowl which was empty.
And the very worst . . .
1. My gerbils (named Chewy and Gooey) ate one another. Actually Gooey ate Chewy’s foot so Chewy ate Gooey’s insides. They both died.
Therefore I am going to have my Mother drive all the way out to Lakewood/ University Place to pick up my keys and take the dog to her house. Although come to think of it, I inherited my propensity for forgetting things in the oven from her. Maybe I should call my Dad.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
France Sent Me an Earthquake This Morning
My new neighbors moved in a few weeks ago. The two good looking, fast talking men my age are cousins. They are originally from West Africa but grew up in Paris. Although we spent one evening getting to know each other, their complete refusal to believe I will not leave my boyfriend for one of them and their intense love of Celine Dion has kept us from becoming friends.
Now, despite the fact that I grew up in this pre-war duplex, the distinct lack of neighbors for 9+ months helped me to forget that there is really no sound insulation between the two sides. So when my neighbors moved in I was shocked. I was shocked about how loud it sounded when they walked up and down the stairs. I was shocked that the French language could be so loud and obnoxious. I was shocked at their bad taste in music and their propensity to foist it upon me at 6:30 every morning. But the most shocking thing of all happened this morning.
I have become accustomed to the wailing noise of bad and usually out of date chick music blasting though my bedroom wall at 6:30 sharp. Usually I roll around and whine about it to my dog for 15 min before giving up and getting into the shower where I will be able to hear a west African man with a French accent singing Brandy’s “I Wanna be Down” in his own shower. Once I get out of the shower I try to ignore the shouting and chatter and door slamming that constitutes their morning routine. We tend to leave the house at the same time. They usually wave at me and then say dirty things to one another about me in French. No I don’t speak French but my best friend took two semesters of it sophomore year of high school and I think that qualifies me enough to know when someone is saying dirty things about me.
But this morning things were different. I woke up at 6:30 and there was no discernable noise at all coming from next door. Great! I thought, now I can go back to sleep and get up at 7 like I am supposed to. So I went back to sleep. Then at 6:48 someone on some soccer team in the world cup made a goal and all hell broke loose. I woke in a panic thinking I was being personally attacked by an earthquake. The whole house was swaying and the noise was deafening. Once I woke up a bit I thought the neighbors were perhaps holding an ultimate Cage Fighter Tournament in their living room. That seemed much more logical to my American mind than the idea that two men could get so worked up over a soccer goal that they literally knocked a picture off the wall in their neighbor’s house. Luckily it was not broken. Not so luckily, the World Cup, I have been told, is not over.
Now, despite the fact that I grew up in this pre-war duplex, the distinct lack of neighbors for 9+ months helped me to forget that there is really no sound insulation between the two sides. So when my neighbors moved in I was shocked. I was shocked about how loud it sounded when they walked up and down the stairs. I was shocked that the French language could be so loud and obnoxious. I was shocked at their bad taste in music and their propensity to foist it upon me at 6:30 every morning. But the most shocking thing of all happened this morning.
I have become accustomed to the wailing noise of bad and usually out of date chick music blasting though my bedroom wall at 6:30 sharp. Usually I roll around and whine about it to my dog for 15 min before giving up and getting into the shower where I will be able to hear a west African man with a French accent singing Brandy’s “I Wanna be Down” in his own shower. Once I get out of the shower I try to ignore the shouting and chatter and door slamming that constitutes their morning routine. We tend to leave the house at the same time. They usually wave at me and then say dirty things to one another about me in French. No I don’t speak French but my best friend took two semesters of it sophomore year of high school and I think that qualifies me enough to know when someone is saying dirty things about me.
But this morning things were different. I woke up at 6:30 and there was no discernable noise at all coming from next door. Great! I thought, now I can go back to sleep and get up at 7 like I am supposed to. So I went back to sleep. Then at 6:48 someone on some soccer team in the world cup made a goal and all hell broke loose. I woke in a panic thinking I was being personally attacked by an earthquake. The whole house was swaying and the noise was deafening. Once I woke up a bit I thought the neighbors were perhaps holding an ultimate Cage Fighter Tournament in their living room. That seemed much more logical to my American mind than the idea that two men could get so worked up over a soccer goal that they literally knocked a picture off the wall in their neighbor’s house. Luckily it was not broken. Not so luckily, the World Cup, I have been told, is not over.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Let Me Check My Calendar
When I first moved to my new department about a month ago, I was overwhelmed by how gorgeous my new work place was. A modern “green-built” building situated on a bluff over the sound in between the Narrows and Chambers Bay. The two long sides of the building are made almost entirely of windows looking out over the water with the Olympic Mountains in the background on one side and framing Mount Rainier floating above a field of wildflowers on the other.
I was impressed by the modern kitchen and spacious work areas. The individual climate controls and well equipped resource rooms amazed me. But in all of this razzle-dazzle I missed something utterly grotesque right next to my desk.
Next to a map of Pierce County just outside the entrance to my cube hangs this calendar of dog poop. On reason. No explanation. Just beautifully taken shots of steaming piles of dog shit waiting for me every morning.
I was impressed by the modern kitchen and spacious work areas. The individual climate controls and well equipped resource rooms amazed me. But in all of this razzle-dazzle I missed something utterly grotesque right next to my desk.
Next to a map of Pierce County just outside the entrance to my cube hangs this calendar of dog poop. On reason. No explanation. Just beautifully taken shots of steaming piles of dog shit waiting for me every morning.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Don't call me, I'll call you.
Funny story, This last December I went to the land of all things good and worthwhile also known as Whistler, British Columbia. While I was there I got to ski on great runs, and drink in the winter wonder-land of Whistler Village, and eat amazing food and the whole time I was there I was in heaven. But once I got home I realized that Instead of taking a bit of heaven home with me, I had left an important piece of home up in heaven. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my only phone charger to my only phone was abandoned in a condo above the Domino’s Pizza in Whistler Village.
I would imagine that a normal person’s reaction to this unfortunate but not tragic event would be to buy a new phone charger. But as we all know, I am more of a person of the “Wildly Neurotic Procrastinator” category and therefore I decided I would decide what to do latter. It is now 6 months later and I do not have a phone charger. “Crazy!” You say. “That is insane” well no. I will not plead insanity instead I am blaming my surroundings and upbringing and perhaps society in general and here is why.
First of all, my old roommate had the same type of phone and I just used her charger while I was at home. True, this once resulted in my walking into her room at an unfortunate moment but I believe her and her boyfriend have since forgiven me seeing as how we have an unspoken pact to never, ever mention the incident. . . ever. In my defense, I could have sworn she was not home.
Aside from that one time, the system worked pretty well. It was augmented by the fact that my boyfriend also had the same type of phone and I could use his charger whenever I stayed at his house.
In addition, my parents both have the same type of phone and they kept on charger at their house and one at their store.
Yes, we are part of a phone cult and no, you cannot join.
So to recap, I had on charger at home, one in the north end at my parents, one on the west side at their store, one in the far south at my boyfriend’s and who in their right mind even goes to the East side anyway? Basically, I still had more phone chargers than most people. Then something terrible happened, actually 2 things.
First my Dad took his charger out of the store and across the country to New York. Much like mine, it never was heard from again. This effectively cut out both my North and West access to phone service because now my parents were sharing a single charger and at least one of them needed it all the time. I could have taken this. I used those connections less than the others anyway. What I could not take was exactly what happened next. My roommate moved out and took her phone charger with her.
Now every few days my phone dies. It is usually on a Friday or some other time I need to get a hold of people. My life is pretty much ruined. I have to have inappropriate conversations on my work phone. I have to make plans more that 10 min ahead of time. It is rough.
So you might be thinking “why don’t you buy a phone charger now?” and then it would be my turn to call you insane. You see phone chargers cost over $30.00 and while that is a perfectly acceptable price for things you do not need like dinner out, or Starbucks for a week, or perfume, earrings, shoes, or tanning sessions, that is way too much money for something that no one will be impressed to find out I own.
“Dude, did you see that chick’s phone charger?”
“Yeah, that was sweet.”
No, I don’t think so. Besides Boyfriends father, who does things in quadruple time (it takes him quadruple the time it takes anyone else to get something done) said he would put Boyfriend on his phone plan. When this happens, (projected completion date 2009) Boyfriend will get a new phone and I will get his old charger. At that point there will be about 3.52 seconds left on my phone plan until I get a new phone. See, my timing is impeccable.
I would imagine that a normal person’s reaction to this unfortunate but not tragic event would be to buy a new phone charger. But as we all know, I am more of a person of the “Wildly Neurotic Procrastinator” category and therefore I decided I would decide what to do latter. It is now 6 months later and I do not have a phone charger. “Crazy!” You say. “That is insane” well no. I will not plead insanity instead I am blaming my surroundings and upbringing and perhaps society in general and here is why.
First of all, my old roommate had the same type of phone and I just used her charger while I was at home. True, this once resulted in my walking into her room at an unfortunate moment but I believe her and her boyfriend have since forgiven me seeing as how we have an unspoken pact to never, ever mention the incident. . . ever. In my defense, I could have sworn she was not home.
Aside from that one time, the system worked pretty well. It was augmented by the fact that my boyfriend also had the same type of phone and I could use his charger whenever I stayed at his house.
In addition, my parents both have the same type of phone and they kept on charger at their house and one at their store.
Yes, we are part of a phone cult and no, you cannot join.
So to recap, I had on charger at home, one in the north end at my parents, one on the west side at their store, one in the far south at my boyfriend’s and who in their right mind even goes to the East side anyway? Basically, I still had more phone chargers than most people. Then something terrible happened, actually 2 things.
First my Dad took his charger out of the store and across the country to New York. Much like mine, it never was heard from again. This effectively cut out both my North and West access to phone service because now my parents were sharing a single charger and at least one of them needed it all the time. I could have taken this. I used those connections less than the others anyway. What I could not take was exactly what happened next. My roommate moved out and took her phone charger with her.
Now every few days my phone dies. It is usually on a Friday or some other time I need to get a hold of people. My life is pretty much ruined. I have to have inappropriate conversations on my work phone. I have to make plans more that 10 min ahead of time. It is rough.
So you might be thinking “why don’t you buy a phone charger now?” and then it would be my turn to call you insane. You see phone chargers cost over $30.00 and while that is a perfectly acceptable price for things you do not need like dinner out, or Starbucks for a week, or perfume, earrings, shoes, or tanning sessions, that is way too much money for something that no one will be impressed to find out I own.
“Dude, did you see that chick’s phone charger?”
“Yeah, that was sweet.”
No, I don’t think so. Besides Boyfriends father, who does things in quadruple time (it takes him quadruple the time it takes anyone else to get something done) said he would put Boyfriend on his phone plan. When this happens, (projected completion date 2009) Boyfriend will get a new phone and I will get his old charger. At that point there will be about 3.52 seconds left on my phone plan until I get a new phone. See, my timing is impeccable.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Your government has got a little Captain in it.
Today I was sitting on my desk and I was talking to my boss and my boss’s boss and I had a moment. I looked at my boss, wildly gesticulating with her Starbucks cup in her left hand and a pen in her right. She had one expensively shod foot on the desk next to her. The cuff of her charcoal slacks swinging as she pointed the pen at her own boss with vigor. He stood next to her, leaning against my desk with his ankles crossed. He looked at her with an understanding smile that said “I am as exasperated as you are. I know where you are coming from.” As she slowed down he took a sip from his own Starbucks cup before responding while nodding and shaking his head alternately. I let out a deep sigh and put my Latte down before saying “the X commission has an over trumped sense of self importance. They believe that they have some sort of authority and it is all because the Y City Council is to lazy to do anything but request recommendations from the X Commission and blindly follow them.” The bosses solemnly nodded in agreement.
Then as I went to pick my Starbucks cup up again I thought “who the hell just said that?” Who the f*** gave me a job where the things I say and think and do have real life implications. Hell, not just implications but consequences!
Seriously, I just looked around at my desk and thought “I am so out of my league” and then I had the even scarier realization that that is not true.
You know that commercial for Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum? The one where they show you a woman who is supposed to be your dental hygienist or some guy who is supposed to be your air traffic controller, or a lady who is supposed to have some other generally responsible type job flopping around on the floor in a puddle of perspiration, liquor, total lack of inhibition? Yeah, I am that person.
“John in IT has got it.”
“So does Carol in Legal”
“Even T-town in planning”
“Yup, they all have a little Captain in them”
Actually I can’t stand Captain Morgan’s. We had a run in when I was about 16. Good times.
The point is that I might be a f***-up when I am not at work but so is everyone else. None of us should be here! All of this is way to important for people to deal with. People have issues. People have hormones. People have feelings and prejudices and hangovers and bad days and . . . what I am trying to say is being the government is hard. I used to trust the government to do shit for me but now I know that “the government” is really just a bunch of assholes like me who get drunk on Friday night and spend the tax dollars you pay them buying their dog food that is made out of organic potatoes and duck! Damn dog! Always being allergic to stuff.
Then as I went to pick my Starbucks cup up again I thought “who the hell just said that?” Who the f*** gave me a job where the things I say and think and do have real life implications. Hell, not just implications but consequences!
Seriously, I just looked around at my desk and thought “I am so out of my league” and then I had the even scarier realization that that is not true.
You know that commercial for Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum? The one where they show you a woman who is supposed to be your dental hygienist or some guy who is supposed to be your air traffic controller, or a lady who is supposed to have some other generally responsible type job flopping around on the floor in a puddle of perspiration, liquor, total lack of inhibition? Yeah, I am that person.
“John in IT has got it.”
“So does Carol in Legal”
“Even T-town in planning”
“Yup, they all have a little Captain in them”
Actually I can’t stand Captain Morgan’s. We had a run in when I was about 16. Good times.
The point is that I might be a f***-up when I am not at work but so is everyone else. None of us should be here! All of this is way to important for people to deal with. People have issues. People have hormones. People have feelings and prejudices and hangovers and bad days and . . . what I am trying to say is being the government is hard. I used to trust the government to do shit for me but now I know that “the government” is really just a bunch of assholes like me who get drunk on Friday night and spend the tax dollars you pay them buying their dog food that is made out of organic potatoes and duck! Damn dog! Always being allergic to stuff.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Lift with caution, this ones heavy.
So apparently I have missed my calling as a Rally Car Driver. I had a feeling that my intense love of Subarus and off-roading were being underutilized but now I know for sure.
My mother sent me a “find your ideal job” e-mail forward type thingy and all you do is input your name and hit enter. Then it will tell you what your Ideal job would be. I was excited to know, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am SUPPOSED to be good at driving a vehicle.
Then I found out that my cousin gets to be God.
All of this got me thinking about the big things like fate and existence and that episode of Gilmore Girls where Emily serves pudding at Friday night Dinner. I mean, is it all that random? Are we all walking around thinking people are taking us into consideration when really they just had a hankering for some chocolaty goodness?
I like to think that things are planned out. That fate has me in his capable hands and I can sit back and enjoy the rollercoaster. I am pretty superstitious. I have good luck charms in my car. I have a little chant I say in my head when I need a favor. I do not believe in luck and I do think what goes around comes around.
I think that people come into your life because you need them as much as they need you. Even if what you need is a hard lesson.
I think that in some small corner of my heart I am a Rally Race Car Driver. I am just not a very good one.
I think that God sees my little rituals and charms and knows that they are my way of connecting with the uncertain. They are my way of giving up control. I need that buffer between me and the will of the big bad universe.
I think that true love is like true belief; there are 2 major components of it and you need them both. First you have to think it, know it in your head, and decide to consciously accept the love as real. Then you have to feel it. You don’t get a choice about that part.
I think that nature brings us closer to the divine.
I think that wine and cheese are the foods of the gods
And I don’t think anyone serves pudding completely by accident.
My mother sent me a “find your ideal job” e-mail forward type thingy and all you do is input your name and hit enter. Then it will tell you what your Ideal job would be. I was excited to know, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am SUPPOSED to be good at driving a vehicle.
Then I found out that my cousin gets to be God.
All of this got me thinking about the big things like fate and existence and that episode of Gilmore Girls where Emily serves pudding at Friday night Dinner. I mean, is it all that random? Are we all walking around thinking people are taking us into consideration when really they just had a hankering for some chocolaty goodness?
I like to think that things are planned out. That fate has me in his capable hands and I can sit back and enjoy the rollercoaster. I am pretty superstitious. I have good luck charms in my car. I have a little chant I say in my head when I need a favor. I do not believe in luck and I do think what goes around comes around.
I think that people come into your life because you need them as much as they need you. Even if what you need is a hard lesson.
I think that in some small corner of my heart I am a Rally Race Car Driver. I am just not a very good one.
I think that God sees my little rituals and charms and knows that they are my way of connecting with the uncertain. They are my way of giving up control. I need that buffer between me and the will of the big bad universe.
I think that true love is like true belief; there are 2 major components of it and you need them both. First you have to think it, know it in your head, and decide to consciously accept the love as real. Then you have to feel it. You don’t get a choice about that part.
I think that nature brings us closer to the divine.
I think that wine and cheese are the foods of the gods
And I don’t think anyone serves pudding completely by accident.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Saturday Night Fire
Electric Wok $39.00
Roll of Toilet Paper $1.00
Case of light beer $14.00
Can of Lighter Fluid $3.00
Urban bonfire in a wok party . . . Priceless!
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
I will not lose another lover to Mountain Biking
Now that ski season is officially over (read “I am done skiing for the season because I am spoiled and April snow is not what is should be”) I need a new hobby. I was thinking that Boyfriend and I might find one together. We could be as diligent about Rock climbing or backpacking (things we already like to do) as we have been about skiing. I envisioned the hiking, the climbing, the cute outdoorsy outfits, and the unnecessary dog accessories I could buy. I was hyped. Then Boyfriend ruined it all (well 83% of it) by reminding me of my long time nemesis . . . Mountain Biking.
See, Mountain Biking and I go way back. MB is not only demanding, pain inducing, and dirty, she is also a boyfriend stealing little you-know-what. MB is hard to resist, she is exciting and edgy. She can impress your friends and upset your mother. I thought, at first, that we could get along. I mean, Cycling (as in, on pavement) and I have had our differences but we had come to an agreement. I thought this high energy cousin could be . . . well. . . FUN!
First I tried to relate to MB on my own. You know form a friendship but she made it so hard. Hard like the ground I was thrown onto repeatedly. Our short-lived friendship was a dirty sweaty one; full of pain, suffering and even a little blood. I like my blood. I like it to remain inside me. If I must part with some of it I had better get some props for it or at least have a good story to tell. When MB and I were through all I had was an old looking new bike and a new scar that made me look older. MB and I said goodbye and went our separate ways. . . or so I thought.
The first person I really kissed was a guy named Marshall. I sort of kissed my best friend’s cousin on a trip to the ocean once before that but Marshall was the first person I REALLY kissed. I was 15. I am a late bloomer. Marshall and I were already friends but once we started dating I realized there was this other part of his life I was not a part of. This other part of his life that took up his time, spent his money, gave him wounds, occupied his mind, and in one case caused him to skip school. This other part of his life was Mountain biking. Marshall would come over and spend all his time talking to my Dad about MB. Marshall would call me on the phone to ask me questions about components and shock systems. Marshall and I dated for about a month (maybe less) before I decided we should just be friends again. Marshall was the first boyfriend I lost to MB.
Nels, the guy I took to senior prom also had an MB problem. We dated for about 3 months and he is still the best looking person I have ever technically dated. We had a lot in common but as the summer days got longer, he spent more and more time on the INSANE MB trails of Vashon Island. In the infancy of our relationship, Nels would take me on these trails. I would just scream and cry and whine about being dirty and scared and needing to GET OFF THIS DAMN BIKE so I could curl up in the fetal position for a few hours. After the second time we went, I was never invited again. Although to this day Nels is the only person who has broken up with ME, I blame the demise of our oh-so-solid end of high school romance on MB.
James (who we have discussed before) also enjoyed a bit of MB every now and then. Although MB was only one of his several mistresses and James was not as in to her as either Marshall or Nels was, MB had DEVESTATING effects on our relationship. MB caused us a trip to the hospital, nearly getting evicted, and one night in Jail for James. Those are just the list toppers.
With all this history, you can imagine how easily I “forgot” that Boyfriend is so into MB all summer. I am sure you can also imagine how shocking and unsettling it was for me to hear from Boyfriend, the he was planning on buying a new bike this year. Now he will spend even more time away from me on his fancy-pants new bike with his duly impressed cronies; all san-girlfriend of course. I would just like to say that this is not over; not by a long shot. If Mountain Biking thinks that I am just going to roll over and die then she has another thing coming. My plan has very little to do with dieing and much, much more to do with sabotage . . . and bribery . . . and perhaps a lot of wine.
See, Mountain Biking and I go way back. MB is not only demanding, pain inducing, and dirty, she is also a boyfriend stealing little you-know-what. MB is hard to resist, she is exciting and edgy. She can impress your friends and upset your mother. I thought, at first, that we could get along. I mean, Cycling (as in, on pavement) and I have had our differences but we had come to an agreement. I thought this high energy cousin could be . . . well. . . FUN!
First I tried to relate to MB on my own. You know form a friendship but she made it so hard. Hard like the ground I was thrown onto repeatedly. Our short-lived friendship was a dirty sweaty one; full of pain, suffering and even a little blood. I like my blood. I like it to remain inside me. If I must part with some of it I had better get some props for it or at least have a good story to tell. When MB and I were through all I had was an old looking new bike and a new scar that made me look older. MB and I said goodbye and went our separate ways. . . or so I thought.
The first person I really kissed was a guy named Marshall. I sort of kissed my best friend’s cousin on a trip to the ocean once before that but Marshall was the first person I REALLY kissed. I was 15. I am a late bloomer. Marshall and I were already friends but once we started dating I realized there was this other part of his life I was not a part of. This other part of his life that took up his time, spent his money, gave him wounds, occupied his mind, and in one case caused him to skip school. This other part of his life was Mountain biking. Marshall would come over and spend all his time talking to my Dad about MB. Marshall would call me on the phone to ask me questions about components and shock systems. Marshall and I dated for about a month (maybe less) before I decided we should just be friends again. Marshall was the first boyfriend I lost to MB.
Nels, the guy I took to senior prom also had an MB problem. We dated for about 3 months and he is still the best looking person I have ever technically dated. We had a lot in common but as the summer days got longer, he spent more and more time on the INSANE MB trails of Vashon Island. In the infancy of our relationship, Nels would take me on these trails. I would just scream and cry and whine about being dirty and scared and needing to GET OFF THIS DAMN BIKE so I could curl up in the fetal position for a few hours. After the second time we went, I was never invited again. Although to this day Nels is the only person who has broken up with ME, I blame the demise of our oh-so-solid end of high school romance on MB.
James (who we have discussed before) also enjoyed a bit of MB every now and then. Although MB was only one of his several mistresses and James was not as in to her as either Marshall or Nels was, MB had DEVESTATING effects on our relationship. MB caused us a trip to the hospital, nearly getting evicted, and one night in Jail for James. Those are just the list toppers.
With all this history, you can imagine how easily I “forgot” that Boyfriend is so into MB all summer. I am sure you can also imagine how shocking and unsettling it was for me to hear from Boyfriend, the he was planning on buying a new bike this year. Now he will spend even more time away from me on his fancy-pants new bike with his duly impressed cronies; all san-girlfriend of course. I would just like to say that this is not over; not by a long shot. If Mountain Biking thinks that I am just going to roll over and die then she has another thing coming. My plan has very little to do with dieing and much, much more to do with sabotage . . . and bribery . . . and perhaps a lot of wine.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Routine Spastic Behavior
Yesterday before I had even managed struggle my way out of the “I hate you world/sunlight/any-person-talking-to-me” haze that is a weekday morning, my roommate called me to say that my dog had not only puked up his food but had also puked up a nasty (and quite possibly corrosive) water-grass-bile concoction about 6 TIMES! In a panic I called the vet.
Vet Office: North End Pet Hospital.
Me: Hi, I need an appointment; my dog has thrown up 6 times and canÂ’t keep any food down, for the love of God SAVE HIM!
Vet Office: My! That does sound severe! Unfortunately we have no more appointments today.
Me: You have no appointments all day!?!
Vet Office: No I am sorry. All the doctors are out right now and wonÂ’t be back until 2 and we are closing early today for an all office training at 5, so you see, all the available appointments are already taken.
It is at this point that I consider pulling a John Q* on their asses. Then I realize I donÂ’t have a gun and it might just be the case that there are other pet hospitals on the Tacoma metro area that DO have appointments. Still I donÂ’t want to change vets at such an emotionally stressful time even if right now I HATE THEM ALL and want them die painfully in publicly embarrassing situations. This is the vetÂ’s office I go to. I am a creature of habit and stuck in my ways and DAMN IT ALL why canÂ’t these people understand this!?!
While this back and forth tirade rages on in my head and I mumble and moan submissively on the telephone, the pet-nurse-phone-answering-lady tells me I can bring him in and leave him all day and they will try to get to him in between appointments if they can. “GOOD, GREAT, We will be right there!” I say hanging up before she can change her mind.
In the end they did see Taj. They saw that he was fine. They saw that he had eaten an unidentified amount of used feminine products. They charged me for an appointment and a “ward” fee.
The moral of the story? In todayÂ’s over violent society it is quite likely that you are brainwashed into seeing violence as the answer. Violence is not the answer, doors are. Shutting doors, keeping your dog out of the garbage and closing yourself and your loved ones off to the world will create an entirely controllable situation, And that, my IIFÂ’s is all you really need out of life. 100% control. All the time. No matter what. Come to think of it, a gun might help with that. Maybe I will get one after all. Do they make them with interchangeable faceplates? Because I had a phone like that once and that was fun.
* You know you saw this movie and cried the whole time. If you did not then you are either a heartless bastard who obviously hates children or you were really really stoned. I am going to go with really really stoned because I don't want to have to hate you.
Vet Office: North End Pet Hospital.
Me: Hi, I need an appointment; my dog has thrown up 6 times and canÂ’t keep any food down, for the love of God SAVE HIM!
Vet Office: My! That does sound severe! Unfortunately we have no more appointments today.
Me: You have no appointments all day!?!
Vet Office: No I am sorry. All the doctors are out right now and wonÂ’t be back until 2 and we are closing early today for an all office training at 5, so you see, all the available appointments are already taken.
It is at this point that I consider pulling a John Q* on their asses. Then I realize I donÂ’t have a gun and it might just be the case that there are other pet hospitals on the Tacoma metro area that DO have appointments. Still I donÂ’t want to change vets at such an emotionally stressful time even if right now I HATE THEM ALL and want them die painfully in publicly embarrassing situations. This is the vetÂ’s office I go to. I am a creature of habit and stuck in my ways and DAMN IT ALL why canÂ’t these people understand this!?!
While this back and forth tirade rages on in my head and I mumble and moan submissively on the telephone, the pet-nurse-phone-answering-lady tells me I can bring him in and leave him all day and they will try to get to him in between appointments if they can. “GOOD, GREAT, We will be right there!” I say hanging up before she can change her mind.
In the end they did see Taj. They saw that he was fine. They saw that he had eaten an unidentified amount of used feminine products. They charged me for an appointment and a “ward” fee.
The moral of the story? In todayÂ’s over violent society it is quite likely that you are brainwashed into seeing violence as the answer. Violence is not the answer, doors are. Shutting doors, keeping your dog out of the garbage and closing yourself and your loved ones off to the world will create an entirely controllable situation, And that, my IIFÂ’s is all you really need out of life. 100% control. All the time. No matter what. Come to think of it, a gun might help with that. Maybe I will get one after all. Do they make them with interchangeable faceplates? Because I had a phone like that once and that was fun.
* You know you saw this movie and cried the whole time. If you did not then you are either a heartless bastard who obviously hates children or you were really really stoned. I am going to go with really really stoned because I don't want to have to hate you.
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