2008

In case you didn't know because of some wildly obnoxious reason, tonight is New Year's Eve 2008, and, as is my wont, I have several resolutions that I'm going to share with you because, I'm hoping, successful or not, they provide some great blog fodder later on in the year.

Here's hoping.

Resolution One: Typical though it is, one of my resolutions focuses on losing some weight, because, let's face it children, I am plump. BUT rather than making a big to do of, "I want to lose 300 million pounds in five minutes," I'm forming a more complete, two-part goal:

1. I shall begin working out EVERY morning. Why yes, this does mean dragging my ass out of bed an hour earlier every morning (and about 5 hours earlier every weekend) BUT! it also means an energetic kickstart to my day as well as a boosted metabolism.



2. I will being lifting weights 3 days a week. Since I'll be taking care of the cardio in the morning, I'll be able to focus some of my energy on bulking up on the reps in the evening hours after work.

Resolution Two: I will move the HELL out of this god awful apartment what with the neighbors and all, and into my First Official Big Girl Apartment. Now, technically, I realize the apartment I'm in is my First Official Big Girl Apartment but it was only ever meant to be temporary and it feels it. Hell, my mattress is still ON THE FLOOR. I am still, technically, living out of a suitcase because THAT is the only place to store my unmentionables. No dresser and a mattress on the floor does not a big girl make. A headboard, bed skirt, and dresser? Yes, please.

Resolution Three: I will visit Dan in Guatemala. Luckily, I now have some potential travel buddies. (Three to be exact. You're welcome, Mom and Dad.)

Resolution Four: I will save for and purchase a motorcycle. Oh, and I will also get my license so I can ride said motorcycle.

Resolution Five: I will make an attempt (or at the VERY least explore my options) at travel writing, seeing how it's the only career I think I have ANY real incling to do (more on that later, like another post kind of later).

Yeah. Five sounds like a good, solid number to me. Ohhh, except:

Resolution Six: I will finally design and set up my web portfolio so that WHEN I get a chance to get the hell out of here, I CAN.

So there you have it kids. Six wholesome, wholey doable resolutions to keep me occupied well into 2008.

Also, as a new 5 year goal (though I certainly hope it doesn't take that long because suck!) is to get a new, awesome job (preferably one I can do from anywhere in the world... like TRAVEL WRITING) and move to Seattle. No, I'm not sure why Seattle but if I ever do move to the west coast, it would be north. Also, while there, I would like to date some rough and tumble Canadian mountaineer.

Um, yeah. I'm a H-U-G-E fan of guys who work with their hands. Seriously, the two sexiest things a guy can say to me, in order of importance, are:

• I have a 401K plan.


• Let me build you something.

And shut the hell up Matt:E, the 401K thing does NOT make me shallow because I am not looking for HIM to take care of ME, I'm much more interested in someone who is smart enough and forward thinking enough to make HIMSELF secure. So bite me, buttmunch.

You heard me!

I CAN'T GET OUT OF HERE FAST ENOUGH

Fear not dear and faithful reader(s) for I have returned! I know it was a long and dark week without me around but you should never fret, I could never leave you, my adoring fan(s). AND as a sign of good faith, I need your help.

I need your help to be mean. I need your help to be spiteful. I need your help to be mean and spiteful but what I really need is subtlety.

You see, dear reader(s), it's the "charming" ass wipes that live upstairs. They have this unholy need to party no matter the time of night or, and this is particularly to my distress, day of the week. Like last night. A GOD DAMNED WEDNESDAY. And this after I wrote them a (relatively) non-pissy note requesting they KEEP IT F*CKING DOWN ON WEEKNIGHTS.

Now, I've come to the stark realization that the only way I can get these guys to shut up is to move, but, alas, that isn't happening quite yet. So no, I'm not asking for ideas to keep them quite. No, what I'm asking for is ideas of things I can do to get back at them. Preferably legal things. Preferably something that doesn't necessarily point to any human culprit (such as letting the air out of a tire). Because THEY don't need to know something happened, because the POINT is I'll know something happened so the next time I'm awoken for the THIRD GOD DAMN TIME YOU PIECES OF SHIT I WILL END YOU, I'll lay there, cursing, but also, I'll smile a small, weak but knowing smile as I roll over and close my eyes YET AGAIN.

Won't you help me smile?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

Today is my 25th birthday. React accordingly.

BABY DADDY

Before I regale you with the originally scheduled story, I feel the need to tell you about the incident that happened today.

So there I was, minding my own business when OUT OF NO WHERE, my business decided, "Elbow? I don't need no fricking elbow." To which end I promptly swung my innocent appendage into a cabinet.

Holy freaking crap the pain. NO ONE ON EARTH HAS EVER FELT THIS MUCH PAIN. (Commense with the shutting it.) The searing heat of the assaulted area combined with the prickling, heavy sensation of my hand, friends, I have not been that breath-takingly stupid since I nearly tore my toe off when I crushed it against the side of my computer tower and that was nearly two whole months ago. (And, apparently, nearly scaring the piss out of D.O. when I almost fell on the trail that was quite close to a cliff is a whole new kind of stupid and thus doesn't apply here.)

And now on to our regularly scheduled programming.

This is Matt:E.


Everyone say, "Hi Matt:E."

(Hi Matt:E.)

For those of you new to the area and those of you not paying attention, Matt:E has been a somewhat prominent feature through the years. (You can check him out here, here, here, here, here, here, here, also here, here, and finally, because I'm tired of looking, here.)

So it should go without saying that Matt:E and I? We're pretty good friends, much better friends than either of us probably ever admit. For some reason, probably because we're both sort of assholes, we just click. Hell, we went to Canada together for a week, a 15-hour drive each way and NOBODY DIED.

Now all of this is NOT to say that Matt:E and I have EVER had any sort of romantic feelings towards one another. Because... he's Matt:E. Attractive though he may be... he's Matt:E. Case in point: Just the other day, while I was wearing my new favoritest shirt ever, he actually asked me why I was looking so sexy. (For the record, it was my new favoritest shirt BEFORE he said that.) While there was certainly some awwage, there were no funny, twinkling feelings of crushiness nor overzealous joy nor did I begin planning our wedding or naming out 2.5 kids. It is just not in me to have THOSE feelings for Matt:E.

So imagine mine and everyone elses surprise when I had a dream about Matt:E. A dream about him and me and me and him having a baby. Together. A female baby. A baby that asshat kept losing.

And even in the dream I'm all "Dude? The hell? HOW DO YOU KEEP LOSING OUR KID? NO, I WILL NOT CALM DOWN UNTIL YOU FIND OUR GOD DAMN BABY!!!"

He found the baby and I'm not eating right before bed EVER AGAIN.

UNDERWIRE WOES

"Well, that was awkward."

"What was?"

"I just had to adjust my underwire in a public bathroom. I noticed it was about to poke me when I leaned over to wash my hands."

"Yeah. I noticed that."

"What?! You saw that my underwire was about to jab me in the boob and you didn't tell me about it?"

"Well, it was kind of hot to see a bit of your lingerie I'm not supposed to see."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Hey! Our waiter's been looking all night, too."

"Wait. What?!"

"Every time he's been by here he's been checking you out. Why do you think he's been so prompt with your refills? I can tell you right now it isn't your charming personality."

"God, is it that blatent? Most days I wear a tank top under this shirt but I forgot this morning."

"I'm not complaining if that's what you mean."

THESE ARE THE IDIOTS I CHOOSE TO HANG OUT WITH

Don't they look sweet in that post-coital glow? They slept like that all night, smiles plastered to their cherubic faces, wanted so desperately to cling to one another in the cool, dark still of the night.



Matt:E and Jennith share a contemplative gaze, discussing the meaning of life and how to solve world hunger and cancer.



Until Matt:E get's fresh with Jennith's boobs and she attempts to eat his sombraro in a half-hearted retaliation.



These are shots that should have been in Matt:E's high school year book.
Matt:E happy:



Matt:E pensive. Or constipated:



Umm, yeah. That would be D.O. in a trash can. Because there is no other shot I would rather get when out in nature than sitting with a trash can lid on my head.

Sadly, he was actually allowed to be the alpha male of the group for a whole 10 minutes after pulling this stunt.



Kings of the world.

TUMMY ACHE

Hi.

I have a stomach something that has been struggling to suppress my immune system for some time. Unfortunately, I gave it a helping hand Friday night what with the drinking and the damp.

I don't feel good. Leave me alone.

HAPPY (EARLY) BIRTHDAY TO ME

Friday afternoon, a coworker who happens to be the Distraction's boss asked if we were dating. We aren't and I told her so. She seemed disappointed but she told me that she had plans to give the Distraction what I thought were some coupons so he could take me out for my birthday since she wasn't going to be around to use them. I told her that wouldn't be a problem since we are friends and do hang out when time and work permits.

The Distraction just called. Apparently, what I thought was a coupon is actually a gift certificate worth $175 to the Cincinnatian, a four star, four diamond hotel and restuarant where, according to the menu they have online, a STEAK, a prime ribeye with gratin of potato, shallot marmalade, and beef jus, costs $51. FIFTY ONE DOLLARS. Hell, the cheesecake costs $12.

I mean, god damn.

She must really want us to hook up. I mean REALLY really. I don't even know what to think.

Aw shit. What the hell am I going to wear?

FUN WITH LETTERS

Okay, something funny DID happen at work today. And I tell you this tale lest you say something so stupid in front of your entire HR department:

"What is in this soup?"

"GHB."

(Very Pregnant Pause followed by Very Loud Laughing.)

"Oh, son of a.. I meant MSG, didn't I?"

"For your sake, I sure hope so."

I LIED

Yeah, I know I told you to come back today for a nice, shiny post but work kicked my ass and if I post want I really want to say about it and someone from work found it, I wouldn't be terribly shocked if I were reprimanded, possibly even fired.

Unfortunately, things like that make the funny go away. Good god, I need a jolly good boinking.

COME BACK TOMORROW

So you might be familiar (at least in name) with my big sister, Tiff. Tiff already got me a totally awesome Christmas present* LAST WEEK and may make something borderline magical happen for (or around) my birthday.**

So when that sister requested that I use my degree and make her pretty pictures on that there voodoo box I responded as any put-upon sibling would:

"Oh, god DAMNIT! What do you want? No. What do you want? NO! I'll do it. I said I'll do it, just tell me what you want! Yeah. Yeah. Oh, you've got to be kidding me. No, I'm not judging YOU. I'm just judging your taste. What? No, I didn't say anything. No, I didn't. Yes, I think it's a (cough) good idea. I mean, it is if you want it to look like shit. What? Wait. No! Stop crying. Come on! No, don't tell mom, I'm sorry! Come on! It was a joke! I'm kidding! You do have good taste. No, really. I mean it. I'm sorry. No, no, you have nothing to be sorry about. No, it's just I've been hormonal recently and I'm stressed at work... It isn't you. I P-R-O-M-I-S-E. Yes. I'll do it. Now, when do you need it by? I.. what?! You realize I have a life, don't you?! I am not a brat! Yeah? Well, you're a whore! No, you go ahead and tell mom! I DON'T CARE! Fat ass. What?! I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING YOU CRAZY BITCH! WELL I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU ANYMORE EITHER! FINE. FINE! What? Yeah, I'll do it. But you sooooo owe me."

Aaaannnnnddddd THAT is why I can't write you a proper post. Please come back tomorrow. KTHXBYE.


*Fret not. There are still 20 shopping days left until Christmas for you to buy your way into my good graces.

** The 20th. Of this month. Yes, another present is required.

MAMA WANT

I recently stumbled upon a blog about a woman who spent two months in 2005 riding across country, from LA to NYC, on her Vespa.

I am drooling and turning a peakish green color in envy.

While every single part of me wants to exactly emulate her trip, right down to riding a bull in a bar, for me to take such a venture on a Vespa would be cheeky and kitsch. Cute certainly, but not exactly my style.

Unlike this:


THAT would most certainly be my style.

Anybody want to get their motorcycle license with me?

JUST A SUGGESTION

Should you ever find yourself in a situation where you are trying to come up with suggestions for a game of charades and should the topics be books, movies, songs, and television shows, I recommend "Like A Virigin" by Madonna.

You will not regret it.

BAD NEWS

I made our executive secretary cry at work today.

No. I wasn't mean to her. I didn't know what I was going to say would make her cry. I knew it wouldn't make her happy. Hell, it didn't make me happy and I have much more invested in it than she does.

I found out today that the job I was sort of riding on becoming full-time. Isn't going to become full-time.

Now, despite what you may think and despite the plans I had made because of the chance of that happening, I wasn't upset in the slightest when I found out. There was always a chance it would get cut somewhere along the line.

What annoyed me is what level it got cut at, the same level that weeks prior has approved it to move on to the next round.

What pissed me off is the reason. Apparently, I seem to get along fine at my job while only being 35 hours a week. That's right, kids. I'm being punished for being efficient. Stressed the mother f**k out, but efficient. I guess they haven't noticed that I've recently begged off any more small projects until I manage to get caught up after the debacle of just three weeks ago that left me so frazzled I thought I might have to commit justifiable homicide.

To top it all off, the ONLY god damn reason I only work 35 hours a week is because MY BOSS told me in no uncertain terms that am I never to work over that. Or get overtime.

Turns out, not only am I ALLOWED to work 40 hours a week if I so choose (though not all the time and I'd still be considered part-time), I can get overtime so long as it's approved by whatever department it's for first. Don't be mad at my boss. She didn't know this either.

Ugh. I'm disgusted. And this after showing a co-worker my clever hiding place for my passwords (That would be under 'P' on my rolodex. See, it's clever because I have SO FREAKING MANY.) and she stared at them, appalled and disgusted, and told me based on THOSE ALONE, I have too much to do. Because of the number of passwords I have! Too much! But I don't need a full-time job. Nope. I can get done a job in 35 hours a week that used to take two people 60. S-I-X-T-Y.

Morons. That alone makes me worth keeping.

SO WHAT YOU'RE SAYING IS I'M TOO COOL FOR YOU?

"I'm a nerd."

"HAH! My friends and I have you so beat!"

"Whatever."

"No. Seriously. I can watch five minutes of ANY EPISODE OF STAR TREK and tell you what it's going to be about."

"... Damn."

"Yeah."

"Well, I like Star Wars."

"Everybody likes Star Wars. Doesn't count."

"Okay, fine. If I'm not a nerd, what am I?"

"I've always thought of you as boarder-line hipster."

"I.. you.. REALLY?"

"Yeah."

"What about me makes you think I'm hipster?"

"I DIDN'T CALL YOU HIPSTER!"

"What about me makes you think I'm boarder-line hipster?"

"Well, you're a graphic designer."

"Okay, but I don't really think I fit in with a lot of graphic designers."

"And the music you listen to."

"The music I listen to is crap."

"Fine, well maybe you aren't hipster but your friends definately are."

"Are you f**king kidding me? They're E-N-G-I-N-E-E-R-S. Dweeby, nerdy, socially inept engineers!"

"Well what about Matt:E?"

"You mean your boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"He's a BIOMEDICAL engineer! Besides he's from California. By California standards he's the most painfully nerdy man ever born, which, granted, makes him almost cool by Ohio standards. Did you ever tell you BFF (DBF) about your thing for Matt:E?"

"What?! No way! Come on! Matt:E is just an affair, a fling, a nothing really. Besides, he's high maintenance."

"He's high maintenance? How is he high maintenance?"

"He's demanding. Your personality has to mesh with his instantly or he throws you to the curb, therefore, high maintenance."

"Well, you two seemed to hit it off."

"I know! I've never meshed with anyone that quickly."

"Well, I think he has a bit of a man crush on you. He wants me to keep you around. He told me I should hook up with you."

(At this the Distraction giggles and leers at me.)

"Not like that! He wants us to be long term. Committed. He's afraid I might become fickle, get bored with you, and toss you away."

"HEY! That is a VALID concern!"

CHEWIE CAPERS

After spending a few days getting settled into his new life with my sister and her husband, Chewie, the newest addition in puppage form to the family, decided to show his assertive side.

He decided to do this several feet from the floor.

My family has always celebrated Thanksgiving on the Saturday before or after Thanksgiving and this year was no exception. Sure, we go out with Grandma on Thursday, but the real party, with an average attendance of 30 some odd people, and thus the real Thanksgiving is and shall forever be (so long as my parents keep hosting) on Saturday.

It was during this Saturday Thanksgiving that my Not Really Aunt But Close Enough For Our Purposes Here had Chewie sitting on her lap. He'd never really made any attempts to jump from any height so no one really thought to tell her to hold him still. Just as she turned to talk to me, Chewie thought it was a good opportunity to make a break for freedom.

Chewie is only 8.5 weeks old. Chewie is very top heavy. Every time this puppy attempts to eat anything, his hind legs raise up into the air in a way vaguely reminiscent the water drinking bird.

His front legs are not yet strong enough to catch the weight of his bulbous head.

He did a face-plant straight into the carpet at the end of a two-foot fall.

There was a resounding thud followed by dead silence for the briefest of moments. Then he started crying. He stumbled towards my sister, his jaw apparently stuck open from the impact (we think he briefly dislocated his jaw). He managed to work it back shut and quite crying but the poor thing knocked all the spunk out of himself (for the next few hours). I say this because he was exceptionally content to just be held for several hours following this event.

Our immediate reaction was to comfort and sooth him and I worried we might be creating a fear of heights in him. Until he almost attempted the same maneuver while my sister's husband held him.

Crazy little shit. At least he looks good in (and likes) sweaters. Pictures of said sweater to follow.

KINDA PISSED

I.. you.. gahh. It is terribly frustrating to care deeply for someone, several someones, and yet to be utterly useless and helpless and.. yeah. As much as I'd rather not be, I'm kind of resentful that I don't matter anymore.

And for the record, the Asshole is and shall be forever Mike. I don't consider Man Friend to be an asshole. Infuriating, but not an asshole.

NEWEST LITTLE ADDITION

I have a nephew.

I was just a surprised at you are.

No, neither of my sisters are or have ever been (as far as I know) pregnant. And yes, technically, I am already an aunt because one of my sisters has a cat. A very stand-offish cat who likes to, literally, roll in it when you put but a wee pinch of cat nip on the floor. A cat that only semi-tolerates me because I'm bigger than she is and she doesn't have much of a choice.

There are certain things, dreams really, that I've had. One dream in particular was getting a dog and I guess, seeing how I'm older and all, I just always thought I would be first. I would be the reason my parents would again keep treats and bowls and maybe even a doggie bed. I would be the one to be a pain in the ass at Thanksgiving since it would be my totally awesome, kick-ass dog underfoot, tripping adults and trampling the smaller children.

Alas. It wasn't to be and, to be perfectly freaking honest, I wasn't expecting to, once again, be last one of us to accomplish something in life, but this weekend, my younger sister's husband gave me a nephew. Or, more to the point, he surprised my sister with a puppy.

Introducing: Chewbacca Abu.


I promise you there is a puppy on that couch. I realize you can't actually SEE him, so I drew a helpful diagram.


He's a pug. And I found out he looks good in jaunty sweaters that I might buy him at PetsMart because HE WAS COLD!!! AND IT HAD A SCARF!! And it wasn't pink. Maybe a little metro but NOT PINK BECAUSE HE IS A BOY DOG, SO HELP BOB GOD!

Bean's only had him 3 days and in those three days he's only crapped on the floor 3 times. But he's a puppy and he doesn't know any better. However, the dogs in our next story did.

The Distraction recently moved back in with his parents in an attempt to continue to hoard squirrel away save money. His parents have two dogs. His parents do not allow the dogs to sleep on their bed so they got used to sleeping on the bed in the guest room.

The same bed the Distraction is now occupying.

He's been pretty good about keeping the door closed so they can't get in there and ransack his stuff but Wednesday morning, while he was talking his shower, he forgot. As he walked back into the bedroom, he noticed the room was smelling a little ripe. He scanned the floor but found nothing. Until he looked up.

One of the dogs had taken a shit on his FAVORITE pillow as punishment for kicking her out of her room and off of her bed. And the Distraction, ever the believer that he will NEVER FIND A PILLOW LIKE THAT PILLOW EVER AGAIN AMEN, is attempting to salvage it.

What do you do? HOW do you do that? You could never again lay your face on the poop side of the pillow, I don't care how clean you think you got it! And how do you find out which side is which? I don't know about you, but I'm too classy to have to SNIFF MY PILLOW to find out which side I'm going to be laying my head on. Particularly when I have friends like me that would take advantage of the situation and flip that sumbitch the hell over at EVERY AVAILABLE OPPORTUNITY.

I THINK I JUST THREW UP IN MY MOUTH A LITTLE

Last week my dad had surgery on his ugly-ass foot with his wigged out, curly toes in order to fix his bunion. Because he is a 90-year-old resentful, bitter, washer woman. With hideous feet. And curly toes. And veins, oh my sweet God, the veins.

They also removed the shattered remains of a bone he demolished almost 30 years ago, but that is neither here nor there. (But it is a lesson to you youngin's out there to NOT jump from first story roofs "all the time" lest your feet look my dad's. Let me assure you, if your feet look like my dad's you will scare small children and make them cry. And if your feet look like my dad's you will also never get into my pants because ewewewewew. If I seriously SHUDDER every freaking time you unfurl your toes, I will lose all interest in the rest of your body.)

He's being a rather brave chap about it all despite the pain and the swelling and the infection that he swears to my mother will turn gangrenous, and, ever the glutton for attention, after exhausting that topic of conversation he felt the need to point out the pain in his elbow:

Mom: "You know what would fix that?"

Dad: "Ice cream?"

Me: "Sex?"

Dad: "Yeah! Well, no. I have a tendency to flex my toes."

Me: ((Gagging, sputtering noises)) "Ew. Ew."

Dad: "I mean, I've certainly thought about it but that would hurt VERY much."

POOCH

Me: "The Distraction wasn't very happy with me today."

Mom: "And why is that?"

Me: "His sweater dried funny so it kept flipping up whenever he would sit down but before we knew that to be the cause we were making fun of him for having a pooch. Then he got mad at me because I kept grabbing at it."

Mom: "Better his pooch than his pouch."

Me: "What's the difference?"

Mom: "Well, his pooch is his belly and his pouch is... his testicles."

Me: "And you think he'd rather I grab his belly?! He's a boy, Mother."

Mom: "You're probably right. What was I thinking?"