Well hello and happy new year, friends. Yes, yes, most of you wrote your New Year's posts days or more ago already, and many of you have already pushed 2009 far, far out of your memory, never to be spoken of again. But most of you probably didn't spend the last week embarking on a remodeling project that sucked up all of your free time and physical energy and rendered you temporarily homeless to boot. Remember when I thought I would have ample free evenings between Christmas and New Year's to catch up with my Internet friends? That was hilarious, in retrospect. My best intentions and estimations slay me at times, really.
Hence, my year-end post is late, which is only fitting, given that my annual trip back through my archives proved to me that I spent most of the year feeling behind and out of the loop. I would like to think 2010 will be different, and as such, I am back-dating this post to keep it in 2009, where it belongs. The new year starts with my next post. Meanwhile, here's a recap of what I did in '09.
January: Hopped on a Flurrious bandwagon and proclaimed myself a Spinster Blogger. (Note: I am still waiting for my Prius, as well as my crock pot.) Tried to up my dairy intake via buttercream frosting. Learned that there really is a web site for everything. Graduated from the Arthur Fonzarelli School of Car Repair. Had dinner with an old boyfriend at a Buddhist Center. Told G.W. not to let the door hit him on the way out.
February: Realized that Facebook isn't the place for the over-analytical or paranoid. Watched two lovely friends get engaged. Went on vacation (yay!) with my coworkers (meh).
March: Celebrated National Grammar Day with a grammartini. Proved yet again that my aging Saturn may be invincible. Met Pauly Shore. (Not really.) Observed Library Boy in his natural habitat. Turned 35. Realized that in The Buddhist's case, once a fuckwit, always a fuckwit, unfortunately. Joined the 21st century with a new-to-me laptop (Thanks, Steve!). Spent too much time on Facebook. (Admittedly, that probably happened in every month of 2009, but not every month includes two relevant links.)
April: Was told to steer clear of Aquarius men. Learned that I don't don't like skate wings. Considered marrying yet another inanimate object (this time, an avocado). Asked out a total stranger whose work email address happens to be in the public domain.
May: Went out with the aforementioned total stranger. Got only one story out of it. Took casting and soundtrack suggestions for the movie version of my life. Went all She-Ra with my yard work and broke a shovel. (Also, learned there may be a lawn tools fairy who puts broken shovels back together.) Vowed never to go into my basement again. Had an epic baking fail and an unintentional and almost frightening garden success. Used a camping trip as an excuse to make the same Thoreau joke I made last year, despite it garnering no real laughs the first time I tried.
June: Grew increasingly wary of the mutant space rhubarb. Narrowly escaped the road to alcoholism, despite that road possibly running quite adjacent to the road to plucky hermitude. Proved that 16-months-expired salad dressing won't kill you (but obsessed about it for several paragraphs anyway). Clicked the "Confirm as friend" button at least one time more than necessary. Maintained that holding a not-so-secret appreciation for the ridiculous does not make me unrelateably highbrow. Finally finished the landscaping project I'd rambled about since May.
July: Learned I am a master negotiator. (Or rather, that I could successfully negotiate at least once.) Went to see Garrison Keillor in a sweltering city park. Decided not to ask out every appealing man I see on stage at the Varsity. Tried to explain all of my yard-related mysteries with semi-obscure movie references.
August: Complained about the trials of being a grown-up, and then vanished from the Internet for the remainder of the month. (I'm sure I did lots of other things, too, but if I didn't write it down, it didn't happen, I guess.)
September: Remembered that I DID do worthwhile things in August. Like went on an old-school family road trip, and discovered South Dakota is far more beautiful than I ever knew. Held an impromptu Beatles debate. Spent a fun-filled, hilarious long weekend in California, and came home with the Amish Friendship Cold.
October: Failed to successfully explain why my father needs a gallon of soda at his immediate disposal, nor why he brings his own spoon to restaurants. Made out with an Australian stranger in public. Took trampoline classes! Proposed a Boot Camp for Lost Boys. Got food poisoning. (But didn't write about it. You're welcome.) Went on a Halloween Pedal Pub ride.
November: Tried to make up for my lack of Stefanie Says posts by pointing you to my Greenists posts. (Failed to convince anyone that this was a reasonable trade-off.) Had a perfect, KFC-free Thanksgiving with friends.
December: Bemoaned the recession hitting too close to home. Learned that I still can't be trusted with a damn checkbook, and that my inability to do math may be my bank's primary source of profit. Showed the Internet my ghetto shower. (Again.) Won a small prize for donning a ridiculous (but festive!) getup. Also, finally began my long-postponed bathroom remodel, and used it as an (entirely valid) excuse to continue neglecting the Internet into the early days of 2010.
In all, it was a mostly uneventful year interspersed with many good times with friends but maybe not quite enough adventures and escapades. If the Facebook population is to be trusted (and why wouldn't it be?), 2010 is already off to a more auspicious start, so I am going to try to piggy-back on that optimism and see good things in store for me as well. First up: indoor plumbing and brand new tile. After that: the world! Peace out, 2009. Let's get this new year a-rolling.
Showing posts with label Excuses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Excuses. Show all posts
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
You can do it. We can help... you load it into your car, at least.
OK, this just in, in case you weren't aware. It is now a mere FIVE DAYS until Christmas. I'm not exactly sure how that happened, but I remain convinced that my house is riddled with worm holes or some such thing. Frequent stumbles into time warps are the only explanation for what on earth happened to large chunks of 2009. On a related note, it seems the Internet does not stop just because I'm too busy working, making Christmas treats, or obsessing about bathroom tile. No, I just clicked over to Bloglines for the first time in over a week, and the rest of you have still been busy writing away... It reminds me of that episode of Growing Pains where Mike stayed home from school for a day and had a really obvious epiphany that the programming on television goes on even when he turns the set off, and the day at school went on as normal even though he was not there. It's an obscure reference, I realize, but the Internet taught me that I'm not the only one who thinks of Tom Hanks as Elyse Keaton's alcoholic brother every time I use vanilla extract, so you never know, I guess. Incidentally, I also think of Mike Seaver seeing his dead relative jogging through the kitchen in the middle of the night every time I need to buy buttermilk. (Anyone? No? Moving on then.) My point is I will catch up eventually. I have very little planned socially in the week following Christmas, so I suspect it will be me cozied up with the Internet for at least a few nights there. See you then.
So. What have I been up to lately? Well, I successfully finished on time all but two of the hand-made gifts I'd planned for friends this Christmas. Here are three of them, modeled by their lovely recipients last night.
That picture was taken at my pal Lisa's Christmas party, for which she promised prizes in various holiday spirit categories, much like the Ugly Sweater parties that have become so popular in recent years. Lisa added a similar challenge to the Evite for her last Christmas party, in 2007, and several attendees stepped up to the plate. If you're the sort of person who somehow manages to remember everything I write, perhaps that rings a bell. If not, again, here is the photographic evidence from that event. Me in a ridiculous outfit? Check. But alone in the ridiculousness? Hardly.
(I hate that picture of myself, by the way. Unfortunately, it's the only one I have that serves the purpose at hand.)
This year, however? This year I was THE ONLY ONE TO PARTICIPATE. Apparently in two short years my friends have all gotten too busy or dignified for such nonsense. People, I was just following instructions. The invitation called for holiday flair, and I brought it. I planned ahead, even. I went to freaking eBay, and I bought these silly, festive tights from a shop that I'm pretty sure deals mostly in stripper wear and "I'm a sexy [insert any occupation or person-noun here]" supplies. I bought those tights, and I wore this ridiculous outfit, like I was bound directly for my part-time job at Santa's photo booth at the mall.
I wore that outfit, and I went to the party, and I was THE ONLY ONE not in normal Saturday night gathering attire. (No, red and white striped tights do not fall under the category of "Normal Saturday Night Gathering Attire" for me. Thanks for wondering, though.) It was not unlike the year in college when my friend Sarah had a Halloween party on November 1. It was a mere DAY after Halloween, which was presumably a very logical night for a Halloween party, given that it was a Friday, and Halloween itself did not fall on a weekend. And yet, when we went out to the bars, all the usual Friday night bar-goers in their usual Friday night outfits looked at us as confused and appalled as if we had walked in wearing Halloween costumes in the middle of May. I am prone to finding myself unknowingly inappropriately dressed and out of place, it seems. Perhaps that explains a lot. On the upside, obviously I won a prize last night, given that the competition was so slim. I now have two pretty new bottles of lovely-smelling hand soap to eventually use in my soon-to-be lovely remodeled bathroom. So there is that, anyway.
Speaking of my bathroom, I bought tile today! Lots of tile. So much tile that the helpful young man loading it into my car asked, "How far are you driving with this? I'm thinking maybe you should make two trips." It turns out it's not enough to know confidently that everything you're piling onto the wheeled flatbed cart will easily fit in your compact Saturn SL2. Apparently one needs to consider the total weight of what you're piling on the flatbed cart as well. And apparently a small bathroom's worth of wall and floor tile weighs significantly more than I anticipated, because as we loaded it up, my car was riding lower than if I'd had Gilbert Grape's mother and two clones of her riding in all my passenger seats. Live and learn. Load capacity matters. Who knew? (Well, most of you, I presume.)
Incidentally, can I just say, since I fear I mention companies by name only when I have an angry bone to pick with them (I'm looking at YOU, TCF Bank; you're still ON NOTICE, as our friend Stephen Colbert would say!!) that in my humble experience, the orange-aproned personnel at Home Depot have been a bit unfairly maligned? Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the Home Depot off Johnson in Minneapolis is a rare bastion of friendliness in an otherwise cold, cruel, orange-aproned world. Still. I have never gone there and not had at least two employees ask me, in a strangely sincere and earnest tone, if there was anything they could help me figure out or find. True, half the time it is a male employee who is hovering precariously on the delicate line between congenial customer service and creepy, inappropriate and awkward flirting. But today it was a 20-something woman who went above and beyond what I would ever expect an orange-aproned employee to do for me. She was the one who crawled into the cave of scaffolding to retrieve 13 packages of white ceramic subway tile for me, and she was the one to whom I first asked, "Do you think this is too much to try to haul in my car?" And instead of giving me a blank look that said, "Why are you asking me that? My job is to sell you the tile; how you get it home is your business," she replied, "What kind of car do you have? I could go Google the load capacity to find out..." Unfortunately, for once Google wasn't all-knowing, and the call she put out on her walkie-talkie ("Does anyone know the load capacity of a Saturn sedan?") didn't yield any solid answers either, and our seemingly sound math of "That's probably not more than 800 pounds of tile, and surely you could cart around four 200-pound humans without any worries" didn't exactly pan out, so I ended up leaving half my tile at the service counter and making a second trip to pick it up. But still! Helpful employees! At Home Depot! In this day and age! You may say it's a Christmas miracle, but I'm telling you, strangely it's somehow par for the course for me.
I would like to think that pleasant experiences like this bode well for the overall spirit of this project and serve as a sign that all will go fast and smooth, according to plan. I am sticking my fingers in my ears and saying "La-la-la, I can't hear you!" every time anyone tells me about their bathroom remodeling nightmares, because I am already dreading the period during which I'll be bathroom-less and I am possibly in denial, truly hoping that period will last for no longer than a week. The end result will be worth the inconvenience, and perhaps living like a resident of a third-world country will be a valuable, humbling experience for me. The baby Jesus didn't have a shower either, did he, but did that stop him from carrying out his duties as Son of Man? It's been a while since Catholic school, but I'm gonna say no.
So. What have I been up to lately? Well, I successfully finished on time all but two of the hand-made gifts I'd planned for friends this Christmas. Here are three of them, modeled by their lovely recipients last night.
That picture was taken at my pal Lisa's Christmas party, for which she promised prizes in various holiday spirit categories, much like the Ugly Sweater parties that have become so popular in recent years. Lisa added a similar challenge to the Evite for her last Christmas party, in 2007, and several attendees stepped up to the plate. If you're the sort of person who somehow manages to remember everything I write, perhaps that rings a bell. If not, again, here is the photographic evidence from that event. Me in a ridiculous outfit? Check. But alone in the ridiculousness? Hardly.
(I hate that picture of myself, by the way. Unfortunately, it's the only one I have that serves the purpose at hand.)
This year, however? This year I was THE ONLY ONE TO PARTICIPATE. Apparently in two short years my friends have all gotten too busy or dignified for such nonsense. People, I was just following instructions. The invitation called for holiday flair, and I brought it. I planned ahead, even. I went to freaking eBay, and I bought these silly, festive tights from a shop that I'm pretty sure deals mostly in stripper wear and "I'm a sexy [insert any occupation or person-noun here]" supplies. I bought those tights, and I wore this ridiculous outfit, like I was bound directly for my part-time job at Santa's photo booth at the mall.
I wore that outfit, and I went to the party, and I was THE ONLY ONE not in normal Saturday night gathering attire. (No, red and white striped tights do not fall under the category of "Normal Saturday Night Gathering Attire" for me. Thanks for wondering, though.) It was not unlike the year in college when my friend Sarah had a Halloween party on November 1. It was a mere DAY after Halloween, which was presumably a very logical night for a Halloween party, given that it was a Friday, and Halloween itself did not fall on a weekend. And yet, when we went out to the bars, all the usual Friday night bar-goers in their usual Friday night outfits looked at us as confused and appalled as if we had walked in wearing Halloween costumes in the middle of May. I am prone to finding myself unknowingly inappropriately dressed and out of place, it seems. Perhaps that explains a lot. On the upside, obviously I won a prize last night, given that the competition was so slim. I now have two pretty new bottles of lovely-smelling hand soap to eventually use in my soon-to-be lovely remodeled bathroom. So there is that, anyway.
Speaking of my bathroom, I bought tile today! Lots of tile. So much tile that the helpful young man loading it into my car asked, "How far are you driving with this? I'm thinking maybe you should make two trips." It turns out it's not enough to know confidently that everything you're piling onto the wheeled flatbed cart will easily fit in your compact Saturn SL2. Apparently one needs to consider the total weight of what you're piling on the flatbed cart as well. And apparently a small bathroom's worth of wall and floor tile weighs significantly more than I anticipated, because as we loaded it up, my car was riding lower than if I'd had Gilbert Grape's mother and two clones of her riding in all my passenger seats. Live and learn. Load capacity matters. Who knew? (Well, most of you, I presume.)
Incidentally, can I just say, since I fear I mention companies by name only when I have an angry bone to pick with them (I'm looking at YOU, TCF Bank; you're still ON NOTICE, as our friend Stephen Colbert would say!!) that in my humble experience, the orange-aproned personnel at Home Depot have been a bit unfairly maligned? Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the Home Depot off Johnson in Minneapolis is a rare bastion of friendliness in an otherwise cold, cruel, orange-aproned world. Still. I have never gone there and not had at least two employees ask me, in a strangely sincere and earnest tone, if there was anything they could help me figure out or find. True, half the time it is a male employee who is hovering precariously on the delicate line between congenial customer service and creepy, inappropriate and awkward flirting. But today it was a 20-something woman who went above and beyond what I would ever expect an orange-aproned employee to do for me. She was the one who crawled into the cave of scaffolding to retrieve 13 packages of white ceramic subway tile for me, and she was the one to whom I first asked, "Do you think this is too much to try to haul in my car?" And instead of giving me a blank look that said, "Why are you asking me that? My job is to sell you the tile; how you get it home is your business," she replied, "What kind of car do you have? I could go Google the load capacity to find out..." Unfortunately, for once Google wasn't all-knowing, and the call she put out on her walkie-talkie ("Does anyone know the load capacity of a Saturn sedan?") didn't yield any solid answers either, and our seemingly sound math of "That's probably not more than 800 pounds of tile, and surely you could cart around four 200-pound humans without any worries" didn't exactly pan out, so I ended up leaving half my tile at the service counter and making a second trip to pick it up. But still! Helpful employees! At Home Depot! In this day and age! You may say it's a Christmas miracle, but I'm telling you, strangely it's somehow par for the course for me.
I would like to think that pleasant experiences like this bode well for the overall spirit of this project and serve as a sign that all will go fast and smooth, according to plan. I am sticking my fingers in my ears and saying "La-la-la, I can't hear you!" every time anyone tells me about their bathroom remodeling nightmares, because I am already dreading the period during which I'll be bathroom-less and I am possibly in denial, truly hoping that period will last for no longer than a week. The end result will be worth the inconvenience, and perhaps living like a resident of a third-world country will be a valuable, humbling experience for me. The baby Jesus didn't have a shower either, did he, but did that stop him from carrying out his duties as Son of Man? It's been a while since Catholic school, but I'm gonna say no.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
I'm well aware Tiny Tim had a tougher row to hoe and a better attitude. What of it?
OK, seriously. December already? Could someone tell me how exactly that happened? Pipe down, smartasses; you don't actually need to explain the intricacies of the Gregorian calendar to me. Rhetorical questions are still valid ones sometimes, I say.
So it's December, and I'm supposed to be all glowy with the warmth of the damn holiday spirit, but alas, December is stressing me out. Yes, on only the second day. The whole month stretches ahead of me, and yet, all I can think about are the hand-knit gifts that I was going to start IN JULY but that remain only half finished three weeks before Christmas. Or the salted chocolate truffles that I made recently, thinking that they'd be lovely little tokens for my friends and family, but that for some reason have already grown ugly, mottled light spots like year-old Halloween candy. (Not that anyone would know what that looks like, I assume.) So at the moment, my half-finished and failure-ridden home-made gift efforts seem most well suited to the Island of Misfit Toys (and, er, Candy and Scarves). Woe is me and my dashed hopes of from-the-heart thriftiness.
So I have Christmas shopping to do, and in an instance of excellent timing, I was recently told that my company is maybe not doing quite as well as we've been told all year (read: apparently nowhere NEAR as well as we've been told all year), and instead of getting a raise on what was, awesomely coincidentally, my 12-year employment anniversary, I got a 10% pay cut. Hurrah. Mind you, it was not just a "Happy anniversary" prize for me alone. Word is we all got pay cuts. Or, all of us who were lucky enough to keep our jobs (for now). An undisclosed number were actually laid off or had their hours cut instead. Happy holidays!
[Side note/Disclaimer of sorts: I do realize that the previous paragraph falls squarely and solidly in the category of "Things I should not blog about" (i.e., "Things I could get fired for"). At the moment and for the record, I sort of feel it's a fair breech. This is my blog, about my life, which I write on my own time, and this is what's going on in my life right now. I will never, ever mention my company's name in this space, nor give any details identifying enough to reveal said name. So I'm sorry to anyone who someday finds this blog and shouldn't, but at the moment, with all due respect, I say kindly suck it.]
On top of that, I still cannot be trusted with a damn checkbook, and one measly little error has caused me TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DOLLARS in NSF fees. Good grief. As some of you may have seen me complain on Facebook this evening, I am well aware that banks need to find ways to turn a profit, but I would much prefer that TCF Bank find a way to do so without coldly bleeding me dry. Yes, that's right, I said TCF. I have few qualms stating that particular company by name. Because seriously, if you are going to punish me EIGHT TIMES for what was quite obviously one single mistake, I am going to tell the Internet (or at least, my tiny corner of it) how disgruntled I am. I am not the sort of societal and financial delinquent you might see on the likes of the Judge Judy or Jerry Springer show. I am a smart, almost wearyingly responsible girl with her head screwed on nearly entirely straight. Would I keep using my check card if I knew there was actually no money in my account? Of course not. But if my unfortunately erroneous checkbook balance indicates all clear, all systems go, I'm going to carry on as usual, and penalizing me charge by charge while your old school paper notices make their way by Pony Express to my house really does me no good at all.Gah.
Sigh. It's time to stop this futile rant, I realize. Times are lean for all of us. Or, times are lean for most of us. I suspect the president of TCF is still doing just fine. In any case, moving on.
I should note that is it not all tears over banking injustices and tight purse strings around here. I did have a lovely Thanksgiving with some lovely friends. More than two people in attendance confidently proclaimed it the Best Thanksgiving Ever, and I dare say I must agree with them. I mean, no eleven hours on the road round-trip back home, no tense conversation with family members who I love but drive me batty, and no day-old KFC biscuits or year-old apple pie! It was a win-win-win, I say. Seriously, people. Look at this spread! Tell me you don't want to have Thanksgiving with my urban family next year.
Note: Those are prosciutto-wrapped sweet potatoes in the lower-left there, people. Essentially, sweet potatoes wrapped in bacon. I know how much the Internet likes bacon. If you're not sufficiently excited about this buffet line, it's only because I failed to photograph the desserts. Apple pie and pumpkin cheesecake (courtesy of me, and both delicious, if I do say so myself). Mmmm.
On a loosely related note, not that my Thanksgiving Day wardrobe should be of any interest to you, but since I am bragging about things I made, how about I return momentarily to those skirts I mentioned making a few posts back? Shana Who Lacks a Link requested pictures, and while I still have no photos of the skirts in action (or at least, in use), I do have some flat, static, "wowsa, are my hips really that wide?" pics for you...
This is the first skirt I made, which is a lovely albeit a bit cumbersome little wrap dealie-o...
And here is the one I made in the Intermediate/Advanced skirt class, which features both a lining and an invisible (or, nearly invisible) back zipper. In other words, I rock.
That second skirt I decided should be my Thanksgiving skirt, so I actually do have a picture of it in use, albeit a not very helpful and showcasey picture at that. Still. Are you up for a game of "Where's Waldo"? Minus the Waldo and plus a skirt? All right. Here you go then.
Do you see it? If so, good work.
By the way, also in that picture? The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past. Or possibly my pal Carrie's mom's arm, at low shutter speed. You decide.
So then. How was your Thanksgiving? I know it was nearly a full week ago at this point, but dwelling on the past is what I do, folks. Timeliness is not always how I roll. So do tell. Any high points or low points for me?
So it's December, and I'm supposed to be all glowy with the warmth of the damn holiday spirit, but alas, December is stressing me out. Yes, on only the second day. The whole month stretches ahead of me, and yet, all I can think about are the hand-knit gifts that I was going to start IN JULY but that remain only half finished three weeks before Christmas. Or the salted chocolate truffles that I made recently, thinking that they'd be lovely little tokens for my friends and family, but that for some reason have already grown ugly, mottled light spots like year-old Halloween candy. (Not that anyone would know what that looks like, I assume.) So at the moment, my half-finished and failure-ridden home-made gift efforts seem most well suited to the Island of Misfit Toys (and, er, Candy and Scarves). Woe is me and my dashed hopes of from-the-heart thriftiness.
So I have Christmas shopping to do, and in an instance of excellent timing, I was recently told that my company is maybe not doing quite as well as we've been told all year (read: apparently nowhere NEAR as well as we've been told all year), and instead of getting a raise on what was, awesomely coincidentally, my 12-year employment anniversary, I got a 10% pay cut. Hurrah. Mind you, it was not just a "Happy anniversary" prize for me alone. Word is we all got pay cuts. Or, all of us who were lucky enough to keep our jobs (for now). An undisclosed number were actually laid off or had their hours cut instead. Happy holidays!
[Side note/Disclaimer of sorts: I do realize that the previous paragraph falls squarely and solidly in the category of "Things I should not blog about" (i.e., "Things I could get fired for"). At the moment and for the record, I sort of feel it's a fair breech. This is my blog, about my life, which I write on my own time, and this is what's going on in my life right now. I will never, ever mention my company's name in this space, nor give any details identifying enough to reveal said name. So I'm sorry to anyone who someday finds this blog and shouldn't, but at the moment, with all due respect, I say kindly suck it.]
On top of that, I still cannot be trusted with a damn checkbook, and one measly little error has caused me TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DOLLARS in NSF fees. Good grief. As some of you may have seen me complain on Facebook this evening, I am well aware that banks need to find ways to turn a profit, but I would much prefer that TCF Bank find a way to do so without coldly bleeding me dry. Yes, that's right, I said TCF. I have few qualms stating that particular company by name. Because seriously, if you are going to punish me EIGHT TIMES for what was quite obviously one single mistake, I am going to tell the Internet (or at least, my tiny corner of it) how disgruntled I am. I am not the sort of societal and financial delinquent you might see on the likes of the Judge Judy or Jerry Springer show. I am a smart, almost wearyingly responsible girl with her head screwed on nearly entirely straight. Would I keep using my check card if I knew there was actually no money in my account? Of course not. But if my unfortunately erroneous checkbook balance indicates all clear, all systems go, I'm going to carry on as usual, and penalizing me charge by charge while your old school paper notices make their way by Pony Express to my house really does me no good at all.Gah.
Sigh. It's time to stop this futile rant, I realize. Times are lean for all of us. Or, times are lean for most of us. I suspect the president of TCF is still doing just fine. In any case, moving on.
I should note that is it not all tears over banking injustices and tight purse strings around here. I did have a lovely Thanksgiving with some lovely friends. More than two people in attendance confidently proclaimed it the Best Thanksgiving Ever, and I dare say I must agree with them. I mean, no eleven hours on the road round-trip back home, no tense conversation with family members who I love but drive me batty, and no day-old KFC biscuits or year-old apple pie! It was a win-win-win, I say. Seriously, people. Look at this spread! Tell me you don't want to have Thanksgiving with my urban family next year.
Note: Those are prosciutto-wrapped sweet potatoes in the lower-left there, people. Essentially, sweet potatoes wrapped in bacon. I know how much the Internet likes bacon. If you're not sufficiently excited about this buffet line, it's only because I failed to photograph the desserts. Apple pie and pumpkin cheesecake (courtesy of me, and both delicious, if I do say so myself). Mmmm.
On a loosely related note, not that my Thanksgiving Day wardrobe should be of any interest to you, but since I am bragging about things I made, how about I return momentarily to those skirts I mentioned making a few posts back? Shana Who Lacks a Link requested pictures, and while I still have no photos of the skirts in action (or at least, in use), I do have some flat, static, "wowsa, are my hips really that wide?" pics for you...
This is the first skirt I made, which is a lovely albeit a bit cumbersome little wrap dealie-o...
And here is the one I made in the Intermediate/Advanced skirt class, which features both a lining and an invisible (or, nearly invisible) back zipper. In other words, I rock.
That second skirt I decided should be my Thanksgiving skirt, so I actually do have a picture of it in use, albeit a not very helpful and showcasey picture at that. Still. Are you up for a game of "Where's Waldo"? Minus the Waldo and plus a skirt? All right. Here you go then.
Do you see it? If so, good work.
By the way, also in that picture? The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past. Or possibly my pal Carrie's mom's arm, at low shutter speed. You decide.
So then. How was your Thanksgiving? I know it was nearly a full week ago at this point, but dwelling on the past is what I do, folks. Timeliness is not always how I roll. So do tell. Any high points or low points for me?
Monday, November 16, 2009
Tramampoline!
So it turns out the best way to make me not write a post for a fortnight is to say I'm going to write more than one post a fortnight. Blah blah fishcakes; whatever dudes; I've been busy. Or possibly I've been staring at Facebook and Craftster and who knows what else instead of Blogger and Bloglines. We all know I can handle only a finite number of Internet addictions at a time. But no! Seriously! I have had all sorts of stuff going on! I made a skirt. (Two of them, even!) I saved 50 starving kids. (Or so the dude at the place where I put in a measly two hours of time volunteering told us.) I helped my pal Carrie repaint her already freshly painted abode. I baked three times in a week. I finished watching the second season of Mad Men. I bought a toilet. Clearly lots of important stuff going on around here.
What I have not been doing is taking any more trampoline classes. My month of classes was up a couple weeks ago, and I decided not to pony up for another month just now. But since I am so good at waiting until something is so far gone that we've all nearly forgotten about it before I tell you about it, how's about I do that Q&A right now? Obviously I'm all about timeliness here. It's a special skill, folks. All right; no it's not. But it's how I roll, people. All things in due time.
So then. You had questions! I have answers. Actually, you didn't even have all that many questions, so I have supplemented some of your fine questions with a few of my own. Feel free to decide amongst yourselves which are which.
Q: Trampoline class?!? I didn't even know that existed! Wherever did you hear about such a thing??
A: Indirectly, through Facebook, of course. (Seriously, where else; am I right?) A seemingly superhuman acquaintance of mine posted an article about parkour (Note: This kind of parkour, not the kind Michael, Dwight, and Andy thought they mastered on The Office recently). That article linked to a video, which linked to an area gymnastics center that offers parkour and free-running classes, where I saw a link for "Adult Fitness" and decided to see where it led. And lo--trampoline classes! Who knew?? For the record, they also have adult circus skills classes, meaning I could finally learn how to twirl around in the air on long velvet sashes, just like Devotchka's burlesque girls. Maybe I'll try that next year.
Q: Is it one big trampoline, or does everyone have their own tiny trampoline? Is it one of those little round ones like my mom had in the 80s? (Do you even know what I’m talking about? A “mini-tramp,” if you will?) If it is one of those little round jobs from the 80s, please lie to us.
A: I DO remember the mini-tramps! I too am a child of the 80s, and my mom bought one of those as well. The mini-tramp did nothing to quell my trampoline fascination, though. Even as a kid, I knew that little, barely bouncy saucer was NOT A REAL TRAMPOLINE. It almost would have been better to have no trampoline at all than a lame, tiny useless excuse for one. The mini-tramp was a tease. (Which I suppose makes sense. Big, legitimate tramps rarely are, right?)
Q: So it's a big trampoline, then?
A: It is. And there are four of them. We take turns, which is fine, really, seeing as after several minutes, I generally need a break. Which brings me to...
Q: Is it good exercise?
A: Given that every part of my body was sore for several days after my first class, I'd say that yes, it is. A good portion of that soreness, however, likely came from the set of (spotter-assisted; I'm no She-Ra) pull-ups that a particularly drill sergeant-like woman (who was not even the instructor!) forces everyone to do before they leave the gym each night. I promise that the pull-up woman isn't the reason I decided not to sign on for more classes in November, but I can't say she helped my sticktoitiveness much.
Q: So, what sort of people take trampoline classes? What was the demographic in that joint?
A: It was actually a wider mix than I expected. Some were former gymnasts; some (like me) spent their childhoods wanting to be gymnasts and simply believe that trampolines always equal fun. Some stumbled across the class in a search for low-impact exercise options. And one guy was a strange, round-bellied, late 40-something in a royal blue sweatsuit and sport goggles. I really wanted him to be sort of awesome. Sadly, he was not.
Q: Have you learned new jumping moves? Do you do flips on it or just jog a little bit? Do you make up routines?
A: Yes, sort of, no, and maybe. There are five ways to jump on a trampoline, so we started by learning all of those. If you're curious about that (and I know you are), you can jump on your feet, seat, front, back, and knees. From there, we learned how to link various moves together, and by week two and three, I did a front flip and a back handspring with a spotter. The instructor flattered me by calling me a natural and a fast learner, but I never did master the easy combination they referred to as "The Kindergarten Routine," so the assisted handspring was a weak victory.
Q: Can I come to your trampoline recital?
A: Unfortunately, I don't think this gym hosts such a thing. If they did, I'm sure it would exclude quitters, so you still couldn't see me. Hence, no.
Q: Do you still want a trampoline in your backyard?
A: Of course I do! Trampolines still aren't free, however, and I'm still a 35-year-old childless woman with neighbors, so I don't think I'll be doing anything about that any time soon.
Q: Are you angling for the Olympic Trampoline Team, because if so, I will see you at the Olympic trials, Missy.
A: No, but I may be hatching a not-so-elaborate plan to run away and join the circus. I have a feeling that in the circus, you're still allowed (and perhaps encouraged) to drink wine and stay up late. If Nadia was any indication, the Olympics require far more discipline than I'm willing to hone. That said, is there really an Olympic Trampoline Team? Because I would much rather watch that than that rhythmic gymnastics nonsense.
Q: So that sounds awesome. Why on earth aren't you in class RIGHT NOW?
A: Well, first of all, because it it not Wednesday. And also because trampoline classes are not free, unfortunately, and because this was one of those pay periods where I paid a few bills, had the crazy and reckless idea to buy groceries, and suddenly had no money left in my checking account at all. Also, since I am collecting reasons and excuses, going to trampoline class involves a bothersome commute down 35W, which is an always annoying stretch of interstate made even more problematic by the array of construction barrels and barricades and constantly shifting exit lanes featured right now. FYI, Minnesota Department of Transportation, I do NOT make a habit of texting, reading, or applying makeup while driving. You really don't need to keep testing me to make sure I'm paying attention, so how about you decide once and for all whether 62 East will be a right or a left exit and just leave it at that, OK? Ahem. I realize this is not L.A. or Atlanta (or for heaven's sake, Baghdad). I could be subjected to far greater trials than a weekly jaunt down 35W. I could also spend my Wednesday nights watching Glee from the comfort of my purple couch and my flannel pajama pants. This month, I choose that.
What I have not been doing is taking any more trampoline classes. My month of classes was up a couple weeks ago, and I decided not to pony up for another month just now. But since I am so good at waiting until something is so far gone that we've all nearly forgotten about it before I tell you about it, how's about I do that Q&A right now? Obviously I'm all about timeliness here. It's a special skill, folks. All right; no it's not. But it's how I roll, people. All things in due time.
So then. You had questions! I have answers. Actually, you didn't even have all that many questions, so I have supplemented some of your fine questions with a few of my own. Feel free to decide amongst yourselves which are which.
Q: Trampoline class?!? I didn't even know that existed! Wherever did you hear about such a thing??
A: Indirectly, through Facebook, of course. (Seriously, where else; am I right?) A seemingly superhuman acquaintance of mine posted an article about parkour (Note: This kind of parkour, not the kind Michael, Dwight, and Andy thought they mastered on The Office recently). That article linked to a video, which linked to an area gymnastics center that offers parkour and free-running classes, where I saw a link for "Adult Fitness" and decided to see where it led. And lo--trampoline classes! Who knew?? For the record, they also have adult circus skills classes, meaning I could finally learn how to twirl around in the air on long velvet sashes, just like Devotchka's burlesque girls. Maybe I'll try that next year.
Q: Is it one big trampoline, or does everyone have their own tiny trampoline? Is it one of those little round ones like my mom had in the 80s? (Do you even know what I’m talking about? A “mini-tramp,” if you will?) If it is one of those little round jobs from the 80s, please lie to us.
A: I DO remember the mini-tramps! I too am a child of the 80s, and my mom bought one of those as well. The mini-tramp did nothing to quell my trampoline fascination, though. Even as a kid, I knew that little, barely bouncy saucer was NOT A REAL TRAMPOLINE. It almost would have been better to have no trampoline at all than a lame, tiny useless excuse for one. The mini-tramp was a tease. (Which I suppose makes sense. Big, legitimate tramps rarely are, right?)
Q: So it's a big trampoline, then?
A: It is. And there are four of them. We take turns, which is fine, really, seeing as after several minutes, I generally need a break. Which brings me to...
Q: Is it good exercise?
A: Given that every part of my body was sore for several days after my first class, I'd say that yes, it is. A good portion of that soreness, however, likely came from the set of (spotter-assisted; I'm no She-Ra) pull-ups that a particularly drill sergeant-like woman (who was not even the instructor!) forces everyone to do before they leave the gym each night. I promise that the pull-up woman isn't the reason I decided not to sign on for more classes in November, but I can't say she helped my sticktoitiveness much.
Q: So, what sort of people take trampoline classes? What was the demographic in that joint?
A: It was actually a wider mix than I expected. Some were former gymnasts; some (like me) spent their childhoods wanting to be gymnasts and simply believe that trampolines always equal fun. Some stumbled across the class in a search for low-impact exercise options. And one guy was a strange, round-bellied, late 40-something in a royal blue sweatsuit and sport goggles. I really wanted him to be sort of awesome. Sadly, he was not.
Q: Have you learned new jumping moves? Do you do flips on it or just jog a little bit? Do you make up routines?
A: Yes, sort of, no, and maybe. There are five ways to jump on a trampoline, so we started by learning all of those. If you're curious about that (and I know you are), you can jump on your feet, seat, front, back, and knees. From there, we learned how to link various moves together, and by week two and three, I did a front flip and a back handspring with a spotter. The instructor flattered me by calling me a natural and a fast learner, but I never did master the easy combination they referred to as "The Kindergarten Routine," so the assisted handspring was a weak victory.
Q: Can I come to your trampoline recital?
A: Unfortunately, I don't think this gym hosts such a thing. If they did, I'm sure it would exclude quitters, so you still couldn't see me. Hence, no.
Q: Do you still want a trampoline in your backyard?
A: Of course I do! Trampolines still aren't free, however, and I'm still a 35-year-old childless woman with neighbors, so I don't think I'll be doing anything about that any time soon.
Q: Are you angling for the Olympic Trampoline Team, because if so, I will see you at the Olympic trials, Missy.
A: No, but I may be hatching a not-so-elaborate plan to run away and join the circus. I have a feeling that in the circus, you're still allowed (and perhaps encouraged) to drink wine and stay up late. If Nadia was any indication, the Olympics require far more discipline than I'm willing to hone. That said, is there really an Olympic Trampoline Team? Because I would much rather watch that than that rhythmic gymnastics nonsense.
Q: So that sounds awesome. Why on earth aren't you in class RIGHT NOW?
A: Well, first of all, because it it not Wednesday. And also because trampoline classes are not free, unfortunately, and because this was one of those pay periods where I paid a few bills, had the crazy and reckless idea to buy groceries, and suddenly had no money left in my checking account at all. Also, since I am collecting reasons and excuses, going to trampoline class involves a bothersome commute down 35W, which is an always annoying stretch of interstate made even more problematic by the array of construction barrels and barricades and constantly shifting exit lanes featured right now. FYI, Minnesota Department of Transportation, I do NOT make a habit of texting, reading, or applying makeup while driving. You really don't need to keep testing me to make sure I'm paying attention, so how about you decide once and for all whether 62 East will be a right or a left exit and just leave it at that, OK? Ahem. I realize this is not L.A. or Atlanta (or for heaven's sake, Baghdad). I could be subjected to far greater trials than a weekly jaunt down 35W. I could also spend my Wednesday nights watching Glee from the comfort of my purple couch and my flannel pajama pants. This month, I choose that.
Monday, November 02, 2009
NaBloNoGo
Well, would you look at that? It's November 2 already, which means that after three years of perfect attendance, I have blown NaBloPoMo on the VERY FIRST DAY. I'm kidding, obviously. Did you honestly think I was going to do that to myself again this year? If so, you are hilarious. Or possibly, out of touch with reality. Have you not been paying attention to my lazy-ass blogging of late? Seriously: only seven posts since July. SEVEN. Obviously NaNoBloPoMo would be a much more likely calling for me this year.
Mind you, I have been keeping busy. I have been taking skirt-making classes and trampoline classes (whoopsie; I was supposed to write a Q&A about that, wasn't I?), and Saturday I hopped on the nation's only Pedal Pub and had an absurd amount of ridiculous (admittedly tipsy) fun. And here is where I prove what a lousy blogger I really am lately, because ordinarily this is the point where I would insert some pictures documenting the Halloween Pedal Pub excursion around St. Paul, but because I apparently forgot that I have a blog, I neglected to put those pictures on Flickr and instead housed them only in a not-easily-linkable-to-the-world album on Facebook. Hence, those of you who ARE linked to me there will just have to vouch for the hilarious-looking time I had. Everyone else, pretend the people in some of these videos are my friends (Note: They are not) for a general idea of what transpired.
Actually, it is just as well I have no pictures to link to, because I would rather tell you what I am about to tell you accompanied by no photographic evidence to help you speculate. And what I want to tell you is that my still semi-newish friend Melissa is not only kind and funny and an excellent yoga buddy and travel partner (scroll to the third-last paragraph if you're going to click that link); she is also a fine, well-matched wing woman for me. Why? Because Melissa indirectly orchestrated the inclusion of two new-to-us single males in this outing, and when I asked, "Are they cute?" she answered, "One of them is..." Fast-forward to Saturday, when, mid-Pedal Pub crawl I asked her, "So, which friend of [so-and-so]'s did you think was cute?" And she answered, "[Dude I personally thought was decidedly less cute]." And when I said, "That's funny. I thought [taller, nerdier dude] was the cute one," she replied, "I thought you might!" It's important to note that neither one of us actually made any progress with either of these strangers, but the fact that our tastes were actually fairly opposite I think bodes well for competition-free single-girl outings henceforth. Hurrah.
Following the Pedal Pub, I went to my pal Angela's house, for her now traditional Halloween chili. It was delicious as usual, as were the myriad varieties of cornbread on hand. I brought The Pioneer Woman's pumpkin spice muffins (with cream cheese frosting), which were, like all of her recipes, an undisputed hit. As usual, however, the muffins are gone but a half a bowl of frosting remains, and someone really ought to sneak into my house and remove that from my refrigerator before I spread the rest of it on chocolate chips or Triscuits or a flour tortilla, for lack of any more appropriate frosting vehicle on hand. Oof. Help me.
In all, it was a fine Halloween. I think I regained the last of the eight pounds I lost during my recent food poisoning bout (Crap; did I not write about that either? I'm not sure if that makes me a bad blogger or a good one...), and I also have a giant bruise on my left knee that I have little recollection of having acquired (Note: Not just a bruise, but a bruise with a fishnet-stocking patterned scrape atop it. I am not even kidding about that.). Each of those is a small price to pay, however, for a fun afternoon and evening with friends old and new.
So it's November already, and while this year that doesn't mean a post a day from me, I will try to do more than a post a fortnight at least. And I'll get to the trampoline post; I promise. Even not-so-burning questions require answers, I know.
Mind you, I have been keeping busy. I have been taking skirt-making classes and trampoline classes (whoopsie; I was supposed to write a Q&A about that, wasn't I?), and Saturday I hopped on the nation's only Pedal Pub and had an absurd amount of ridiculous (admittedly tipsy) fun. And here is where I prove what a lousy blogger I really am lately, because ordinarily this is the point where I would insert some pictures documenting the Halloween Pedal Pub excursion around St. Paul, but because I apparently forgot that I have a blog, I neglected to put those pictures on Flickr and instead housed them only in a not-easily-linkable-to-the-world album on Facebook. Hence, those of you who ARE linked to me there will just have to vouch for the hilarious-looking time I had. Everyone else, pretend the people in some of these videos are my friends (Note: They are not) for a general idea of what transpired.
Actually, it is just as well I have no pictures to link to, because I would rather tell you what I am about to tell you accompanied by no photographic evidence to help you speculate. And what I want to tell you is that my still semi-newish friend Melissa is not only kind and funny and an excellent yoga buddy and travel partner (scroll to the third-last paragraph if you're going to click that link); she is also a fine, well-matched wing woman for me. Why? Because Melissa indirectly orchestrated the inclusion of two new-to-us single males in this outing, and when I asked, "Are they cute?" she answered, "One of them is..." Fast-forward to Saturday, when, mid-Pedal Pub crawl I asked her, "So, which friend of [so-and-so]'s did you think was cute?" And she answered, "[Dude I personally thought was decidedly less cute]." And when I said, "That's funny. I thought [taller, nerdier dude] was the cute one," she replied, "I thought you might!" It's important to note that neither one of us actually made any progress with either of these strangers, but the fact that our tastes were actually fairly opposite I think bodes well for competition-free single-girl outings henceforth. Hurrah.
Following the Pedal Pub, I went to my pal Angela's house, for her now traditional Halloween chili. It was delicious as usual, as were the myriad varieties of cornbread on hand. I brought The Pioneer Woman's pumpkin spice muffins (with cream cheese frosting), which were, like all of her recipes, an undisputed hit. As usual, however, the muffins are gone but a half a bowl of frosting remains, and someone really ought to sneak into my house and remove that from my refrigerator before I spread the rest of it on chocolate chips or Triscuits or a flour tortilla, for lack of any more appropriate frosting vehicle on hand. Oof. Help me.
In all, it was a fine Halloween. I think I regained the last of the eight pounds I lost during my recent food poisoning bout (Crap; did I not write about that either? I'm not sure if that makes me a bad blogger or a good one...), and I also have a giant bruise on my left knee that I have little recollection of having acquired (Note: Not just a bruise, but a bruise with a fishnet-stocking patterned scrape atop it. I am not even kidding about that.). Each of those is a small price to pay, however, for a fun afternoon and evening with friends old and new.
So it's November already, and while this year that doesn't mean a post a day from me, I will try to do more than a post a fortnight at least. And I'll get to the trampoline post; I promise. Even not-so-burning questions require answers, I know.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
September doesn't officially start until after Labor Day anyway, right?
Just maybe not a full week after Labor Day. Whoopsie. Anyway, hello there. Fancy meeting you here. Wait. Is anyone here? It's entirely possible that after such a long hiatus I am now typing into the text-based equivalent of an empty and echo-y cave. The bad news is, perhaps no one is left to hear me. On the plus side, the acoustics are great!
So then. August happened, and with it came... Man. What the hell did I do for all of August? I know that time speeds up as we get older, but still I would like a recount on this summer's length. Wasn't it June just two days ago? And now it's all leaves changing and spiced pumpkin lattes and skirt and boot season on its way. Madness.
Obviously I could rattle off for you everything I have done in the past month, in inevitably lazy bullet-point format. Frankly, however, August is a blur. I did some stuff. I hung out with some people. I probably had some wine. Most important, I took a vacation! A real one, where I left my house (and hell, the state) for a full week and everything! And it was excellent. I don't know why I don't do that more often. I'm allotted a reasonably adequate number of vacation days, and yet, it had been over three years since I took a solid week of those days at once. That's just wrong, people. WRONG. Must remedy that in all years to come.
You may recall that my plan was an old school family vacation, minus the family. Or rather, with urban family, which if you ask me is a much better way to travel. My pal Carrie and I road tripped it to South Dakota, where they have mountains and rock formations and rattlesnakes, making it feel like an entirely different world that's only one state away.
South Dakota was gorgeous, actually, and if you haven't been there yet, I highly recommend you go. Coming from the east, we made the requisite stops along I-90 at the Corn Palace (the world's largest bird feeder) and Wall Drug on the way out, but I suppose you could skip those trivialities (if you must) and proceed directly to the Badlands. You know, the Badlands! Home to an unspecified number of rattlesnakes that I was convinced would be our undoing. I mean, I suppose I didn't really think a rattlesnake would bite me and I would DIE, but I do admit I was convinced there would at least be a harrowing but ultimately harmless run-in of some sort, not unlike the late night tarantula scare in the motel room when the Brady Bunch went to Hawaii.
Seriously, people, after talking to a NOT HELPFUL friend of Carrie's who had me convinced we would camp in the Badlands only if we had a death wish (his exact words: "They don't call it the GOODlands, you know!"), I was so convinced there would be rattlesnakes at our campsite that I did what any normal person (read: Internet addict who believes Google is the new Magic 8 Ball) would do. I Googled "Badlands camping death." And you know what? No matching suggestions appeared in that little drop-down list as I typed! No valid results returned! Clearly that meant all would be fine, and luckily, Google was right! As far as I'm concerned, the Badlands are full of grasshoppers, prairie dogs, and more than the occasional buffalo, but rattlesnakes? The Badlands are fresh out! Whew.
I was going to do a little photo essay of various highlights of my trip, but you know what? That shit takes time, yo, and if I sidetrack myself with a project like that, I may not hit that "Publish Post" button this week either. So how about you just pop on over to this Flickr set if you feel so inclined, and just imagine my witty commentary interspersed between ten or fifteen hand-picked shots? I mean really; do I have to do everything? Oh. Right. This is my blog. So yes, I suppose I do.
Moving on. Vacation was definitely the highlight of my August, but there were other victories as well. Like my winning a new pair of jeans in Abbersnail's Gap-tastic Pants Party! Whee! If I didn't know any better, I'd think my friends got together and somehow rigged that contest to declare me a winner, just so they could finally see me in something other than the four identical pairs of Mossimo jeans from Target I've been wearing for three years now. I do need a jeans upgrade, I'm well aware, so I entered Abbersnail's contest with the plea, "Help me, Abby-wan. You're my only hope!" And help me she did. Hurrah.
So I have new pants. Or, I will have, once I get myself to a Gap to pick them out. On an entirely different note, what I do NOT have is home-grown tomatoes. Friends, if this one first attempt can be considered a fair measure for future success, I'm going to have to say that gardening is not for me. I am pretty sure tomato season is officially over, and from my stubborn and temperamental stoop-side tomato plants, I got a mere handful of not particularly delicious cherry tomatoes and exactly ZERO beefsteaks. I should have had at least a few, but the damn squirrels got to every one of them just before they were ripe enough to pick. Bastards. When they're not dying in my yard, they're stealing the literal fruits of my labors. (That is, if watering a plant every day can be considered "labor.") So I guess I'll have to continue buying tomatoes like a common 21st-century capitalist. I should have learned years ago that a successful pioneer woman I am not. I've never been a quick study, obviously.
I'm sure other things happened in August, too, but as I said, it's a blur. So that brings us to September, in which, thus far, I have survived a visit from my family, had an uneventful trip to the dentist, went to the quirkiest show I've seen in a long time, and made my first quiche. (Note: I still don't love eggs, but it was delicious.) Oh, and today I took an invigorating late summer bike ride that was altogether lovely and perfect aside from the droves of gnats on a mile or so patch of the river-side trail. I have already showered off the ones that awesomely plastered themselves inside my sports bra, but if I find any in my teeth when I floss tonight, I may be too horrified to bike near a river ever again.
And on that note, I shall leave you, because there's no better way to say "Thanks for reading after I abandoned you for a month" than to end with an image like that. You're welcome.
And what have all of you been up to not-so-recently?
So then. August happened, and with it came... Man. What the hell did I do for all of August? I know that time speeds up as we get older, but still I would like a recount on this summer's length. Wasn't it June just two days ago? And now it's all leaves changing and spiced pumpkin lattes and skirt and boot season on its way. Madness.
Obviously I could rattle off for you everything I have done in the past month, in inevitably lazy bullet-point format. Frankly, however, August is a blur. I did some stuff. I hung out with some people. I probably had some wine. Most important, I took a vacation! A real one, where I left my house (and hell, the state) for a full week and everything! And it was excellent. I don't know why I don't do that more often. I'm allotted a reasonably adequate number of vacation days, and yet, it had been over three years since I took a solid week of those days at once. That's just wrong, people. WRONG. Must remedy that in all years to come.
You may recall that my plan was an old school family vacation, minus the family. Or rather, with urban family, which if you ask me is a much better way to travel. My pal Carrie and I road tripped it to South Dakota, where they have mountains and rock formations and rattlesnakes, making it feel like an entirely different world that's only one state away.
South Dakota was gorgeous, actually, and if you haven't been there yet, I highly recommend you go. Coming from the east, we made the requisite stops along I-90 at the Corn Palace (the world's largest bird feeder) and Wall Drug on the way out, but I suppose you could skip those trivialities (if you must) and proceed directly to the Badlands. You know, the Badlands! Home to an unspecified number of rattlesnakes that I was convinced would be our undoing. I mean, I suppose I didn't really think a rattlesnake would bite me and I would DIE, but I do admit I was convinced there would at least be a harrowing but ultimately harmless run-in of some sort, not unlike the late night tarantula scare in the motel room when the Brady Bunch went to Hawaii.
Seriously, people, after talking to a NOT HELPFUL friend of Carrie's who had me convinced we would camp in the Badlands only if we had a death wish (his exact words: "They don't call it the GOODlands, you know!"), I was so convinced there would be rattlesnakes at our campsite that I did what any normal person (read: Internet addict who believes Google is the new Magic 8 Ball) would do. I Googled "Badlands camping death." And you know what? No matching suggestions appeared in that little drop-down list as I typed! No valid results returned! Clearly that meant all would be fine, and luckily, Google was right! As far as I'm concerned, the Badlands are full of grasshoppers, prairie dogs, and more than the occasional buffalo, but rattlesnakes? The Badlands are fresh out! Whew.
I was going to do a little photo essay of various highlights of my trip, but you know what? That shit takes time, yo, and if I sidetrack myself with a project like that, I may not hit that "Publish Post" button this week either. So how about you just pop on over to this Flickr set if you feel so inclined, and just imagine my witty commentary interspersed between ten or fifteen hand-picked shots? I mean really; do I have to do everything? Oh. Right. This is my blog. So yes, I suppose I do.
Moving on. Vacation was definitely the highlight of my August, but there were other victories as well. Like my winning a new pair of jeans in Abbersnail's Gap-tastic Pants Party! Whee! If I didn't know any better, I'd think my friends got together and somehow rigged that contest to declare me a winner, just so they could finally see me in something other than the four identical pairs of Mossimo jeans from Target I've been wearing for three years now. I do need a jeans upgrade, I'm well aware, so I entered Abbersnail's contest with the plea, "Help me, Abby-wan. You're my only hope!" And help me she did. Hurrah.
So I have new pants. Or, I will have, once I get myself to a Gap to pick them out. On an entirely different note, what I do NOT have is home-grown tomatoes. Friends, if this one first attempt can be considered a fair measure for future success, I'm going to have to say that gardening is not for me. I am pretty sure tomato season is officially over, and from my stubborn and temperamental stoop-side tomato plants, I got a mere handful of not particularly delicious cherry tomatoes and exactly ZERO beefsteaks. I should have had at least a few, but the damn squirrels got to every one of them just before they were ripe enough to pick. Bastards. When they're not dying in my yard, they're stealing the literal fruits of my labors. (That is, if watering a plant every day can be considered "labor.") So I guess I'll have to continue buying tomatoes like a common 21st-century capitalist. I should have learned years ago that a successful pioneer woman I am not. I've never been a quick study, obviously.
I'm sure other things happened in August, too, but as I said, it's a blur. So that brings us to September, in which, thus far, I have survived a visit from my family, had an uneventful trip to the dentist, went to the quirkiest show I've seen in a long time, and made my first quiche. (Note: I still don't love eggs, but it was delicious.) Oh, and today I took an invigorating late summer bike ride that was altogether lovely and perfect aside from the droves of gnats on a mile or so patch of the river-side trail. I have already showered off the ones that awesomely plastered themselves inside my sports bra, but if I find any in my teeth when I floss tonight, I may be too horrified to bike near a river ever again.
And on that note, I shall leave you, because there's no better way to say "Thanks for reading after I abandoned you for a month" than to end with an image like that. You're welcome.
And what have all of you been up to not-so-recently?
Monday, August 10, 2009
As a matter of fact, I WOULD jump off a bridge, if Flurrious told me to
No need to send out a search party; I am alive and well. Or, alive, anyway, and mostly well, but feeling persistently disgruntled for possibly no good reason, that being the fact that I am TIRED and life is hard, yo, at least when suddenly forced to live it like a proper grown-up, with a full schedule and commensurate responsibilities and so forth. I told a good friend in an email recently that I was feeling unusually busy lately, and that I've missed my sitting-around time. I really am quite excellent at wasting large chunks of time, and for a while there, I was doing so only at work, not at home. It's good to have a proper work/life balance, after all. My preferred way to restore that balance would have been to free my social schedule and to-do list for a while and hole myself up with two seasons' worth of Mad Men DVDs. The people who direct-deposit my paycheck had other ideas, however, and instead of my scaling back on the off-hours activity, they have upped my 8-to-5 responsibilities significantly. Rather, make that 7-to-5, because it turns out being a responsible, professionally employed grown-up means not just doing valid and work-related activities all day long with no breaks for idle internetting, but also occasionally starting that day at the ungodly hour of 7:00 am. (The horror!) At 7:00 am, I would much prefer to be still soundly sleeping, but in the interest of remaining gainfully employed in a job I occasionally enjoy, I will consent to having pried myself out of bed and be toweling off from a shower right around that hour. Being expected at a meeting 30 minutes from my home at 7:00 am, however? Fully dressed and alert and in business-ready mode? I did not realize that was part of the deal. Oh my.
This is a long and roundabout, excuse-laden way of saying I am tempted to follow Flurrious's lead and give myself official permission to ignore my blog for the remainder of August. Writing here is supposed to be something I do because I enjoy it, not something I do because it is the longest-neglected thing at the bottom of my to-do list. A blog is just a blog, and neglecting it should not instill any particular guilt, but I was raised Catholic; unwarranted guilt is standard operating procedure for me.
Before I vanish again, I suppose could tell you what I've been up to since you heard from me last. Let's see. Well, I enjoyed another summer pilgrimage to the magical Pizza Farm, I made my first flan, I kissed a 27-year-old stranger (for no better reason than that he asked), I unintentionally alienated someone who is supposed to be one of my closest friends, and I came three steps closer to finally finishing a hand-made birthday gift that is now nearly a full year overdue. (Note: I am not necessarily proud of any of these accomplishments, but am significantly less proud of some than of others.) Also, I failed to solidify any actual plans for my upcoming vacation, but there is some benefit and excitement to the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants mode of leisure travel, so I see no reason fret to any degree about that.
Of course, now that I have given myself permission to check out until Labor Day, I will probably find myself logging in with something amusing-only-to-me to say in less than two days' time. Perhaps I will and perhaps I won't. Midwestern Girl of Mystery; that's me.
This is a long and roundabout, excuse-laden way of saying I am tempted to follow Flurrious's lead and give myself official permission to ignore my blog for the remainder of August. Writing here is supposed to be something I do because I enjoy it, not something I do because it is the longest-neglected thing at the bottom of my to-do list. A blog is just a blog, and neglecting it should not instill any particular guilt, but I was raised Catholic; unwarranted guilt is standard operating procedure for me.
Before I vanish again, I suppose could tell you what I've been up to since you heard from me last. Let's see. Well, I enjoyed another summer pilgrimage to the magical Pizza Farm, I made my first flan, I kissed a 27-year-old stranger (for no better reason than that he asked), I unintentionally alienated someone who is supposed to be one of my closest friends, and I came three steps closer to finally finishing a hand-made birthday gift that is now nearly a full year overdue. (Note: I am not necessarily proud of any of these accomplishments, but am significantly less proud of some than of others.) Also, I failed to solidify any actual plans for my upcoming vacation, but there is some benefit and excitement to the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants mode of leisure travel, so I see no reason fret to any degree about that.
Of course, now that I have given myself permission to check out until Labor Day, I will probably find myself logging in with something amusing-only-to-me to say in less than two days' time. Perhaps I will and perhaps I won't. Midwestern Girl of Mystery; that's me.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
I'm not dead, but apparently I want to talk about what would happen if I were
Seeing as I'm single, I live alone, and I am occasionally morbid, I sometimes wonder how long it would take for anyone to notice and investigate if I went missing or broke my neck going down my stairs. If it happened on a week night, there is a good chance my boss would notice my absence within a day and track down my sister or my parents to investigate. I say merely "good chance" because my boss and I work in offices that are only approximately 30 feet away from one another, but as neither of us is exactly a wandering social butterfly at work, those 30 feet are apparently an insurmountable distance to cross unless absolutely necessary, and we often go full days without actually seeing each other's face. If I went missing or dead on one of those days, or perhaps over a long weekend, it is a bit unsettling to me to think how long it might go unnoticed. I can't decide if I should feel lucky I do not have any pets, as it ensures no animal (save maybe Samsa) will eat my face off before the medical examiner arrives, or if I should run out and acquire a pet post haste, knowing said pet might be so helpful as to do away with my remains in a tidy manner before any truly vile decomposition sets in.
Luckily, I may not have to worry about any of these scenarios, because lo, I have the Internets. And the Neighborhood Watch Group in my corner of the Internets (by which I mean 3Carnations) totally has my back. It took a mere week of no Internet activity this time for 3Carnations to send me an email making sure I'm still alive. I could survive a week with no food or water lying on my basement floor with a broken neck, right? She could totally have sent help in time? What's that? No? Well then. 3Cs, maybe this is the reason you should join Facebook: the ability to keep closer tabs on me and provide more prompt follow-up in case of my demise.
At any rate, I am fine. I always think I will have more time for blog reading and writing in the summer, given that there is nothing good on TV to distract me, but I forget that in the summer, I am much less averse to leaving my house in the evening hours, what with the lack of total darkness and bitter cold that thwarts any ambition to combat hermitude during winter months.
So I have simply been busy lately. What have I been up to? Well, let's see.
I picked up and thereafter sampled my free wine. I will say, for Chardonnay, it is not half bad. I might even go so far as to say that for Chardonnay, it is delicious. It was also free, and it's hard to argue with that.
Of course, it would have been far too fiscally responsible of me to walk out with my 12 free bottles of white wine without also spending some money on red. The summer wine sale is in progress, and I cannot see my favorites priced at $6, $7, and $8 a bottle and not do some stocking up. I bought six bottles and yet, I sort of want to go back and buy six more. People, there are BARGAINS in store! It pays to buy in bulk! I have never once felt the urge to acquire a Costco or Sam's Club membership in order to stockpile toilet paper or Ramen noodles, but where alcohol is concerned, apparently I am all about economies of scale. My logic knows no bounds. My priorities not remotely flawed.
Moving on. What else has happened recently? Well, it finally rained. It rained right in the middle of the outdoor viewing of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof that I attended, but it rained nonetheless. Also, one (just one!) of my cherry tomatoes has turned nearly red. I think that had more to do with luck or fertilizer than with rain, but the rain is welcome in any case. Neither the rain nor the fertilizer has saved my Big Beef tomatoes, unfortunately. Today, the most promising-looking one of those somehow entirely disappeared. I stared at my tomato plants for a full two minutes pondering its sudden absence. Whatever animal, neighbor, or lawn gnome took off with it was probably watching me, laughing, the whole time.
In more interesting news, I attended four shows in six days. I am totally a Girl About Town. The last of those was a semi-secret, semi-private Jenny Lewis show that I scored free tickets to on my way out of another show. It was sponsored by Target and Converse, meaning it was very corporatey and logo-laden, but we had a lovely time nonetheless. Plus, I got a free girly red martini in a blinking martini glass, and nothing says "Fun" like a blinking martini, no? You like blinking lights, don't you? (Like the one on the waffle iron. Or the little guy on the Don't Walk sign. I may be tired and losing my focus here, but somebody please get that reference.)
Also, I planned two vacations. Actually, not so much "planned" as "committed to." And this may have happened before my last post and I just neglected to mention it until now. I did say I was overdue for a vacation. Apparently my remedy for that is to take two. Hurrah! First up is a week-long road trip to the Badlands, etc. (South Dakota tips, anyone?) Then in September it's a long weekend in L.A. Unlike my last trip out of the state, neither of these will be with my coworkers. Mexico may beat South Dakota on most people's list of hot spots worth visiting, but being able to return from vacation without saying, "Huh. Haven't been in this office for a while, and yet, I just saw YOU yesterday!" ranks pretty high on my list. I can't wait.
And finally, in less exciting news, I have developed an awesome case of insomnia. Oh man, it is the best. Know what's even better than feeling tired and headachey and nauseated all day because you have a hangover? Feeling tired and headachey and nauseated all day without even having had the fun of an irresponsible bender the night before to warrant it. As I type away right now, my head is heavy, my eyelids are drooping, and yet, like magic, I am certain the moment my head hits my pillow, I will be wide awake, ready to tackle all the world's problems (or at least, ponder incessantly the most trivial of my own). If you have any remedies or suggestions for this dilemma, I would love to hear them. Partying like a rock star is one thing. Looking and feeling as though I've partied like one without having done any actual partying is quite another. Yawn.
Luckily, I may not have to worry about any of these scenarios, because lo, I have the Internets. And the Neighborhood Watch Group in my corner of the Internets (by which I mean 3Carnations) totally has my back. It took a mere week of no Internet activity this time for 3Carnations to send me an email making sure I'm still alive. I could survive a week with no food or water lying on my basement floor with a broken neck, right? She could totally have sent help in time? What's that? No? Well then. 3Cs, maybe this is the reason you should join Facebook: the ability to keep closer tabs on me and provide more prompt follow-up in case of my demise.
At any rate, I am fine. I always think I will have more time for blog reading and writing in the summer, given that there is nothing good on TV to distract me, but I forget that in the summer, I am much less averse to leaving my house in the evening hours, what with the lack of total darkness and bitter cold that thwarts any ambition to combat hermitude during winter months.
So I have simply been busy lately. What have I been up to? Well, let's see.
I picked up and thereafter sampled my free wine. I will say, for Chardonnay, it is not half bad. I might even go so far as to say that for Chardonnay, it is delicious. It was also free, and it's hard to argue with that.
Of course, it would have been far too fiscally responsible of me to walk out with my 12 free bottles of white wine without also spending some money on red. The summer wine sale is in progress, and I cannot see my favorites priced at $6, $7, and $8 a bottle and not do some stocking up. I bought six bottles and yet, I sort of want to go back and buy six more. People, there are BARGAINS in store! It pays to buy in bulk! I have never once felt the urge to acquire a Costco or Sam's Club membership in order to stockpile toilet paper or Ramen noodles, but where alcohol is concerned, apparently I am all about economies of scale. My logic knows no bounds. My priorities not remotely flawed.
Moving on. What else has happened recently? Well, it finally rained. It rained right in the middle of the outdoor viewing of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof that I attended, but it rained nonetheless. Also, one (just one!) of my cherry tomatoes has turned nearly red. I think that had more to do with luck or fertilizer than with rain, but the rain is welcome in any case. Neither the rain nor the fertilizer has saved my Big Beef tomatoes, unfortunately. Today, the most promising-looking one of those somehow entirely disappeared. I stared at my tomato plants for a full two minutes pondering its sudden absence. Whatever animal, neighbor, or lawn gnome took off with it was probably watching me, laughing, the whole time.
In more interesting news, I attended four shows in six days. I am totally a Girl About Town. The last of those was a semi-secret, semi-private Jenny Lewis show that I scored free tickets to on my way out of another show. It was sponsored by Target and Converse, meaning it was very corporatey and logo-laden, but we had a lovely time nonetheless. Plus, I got a free girly red martini in a blinking martini glass, and nothing says "Fun" like a blinking martini, no? You like blinking lights, don't you? (Like the one on the waffle iron. Or the little guy on the Don't Walk sign. I may be tired and losing my focus here, but somebody please get that reference.)
Also, I planned two vacations. Actually, not so much "planned" as "committed to." And this may have happened before my last post and I just neglected to mention it until now. I did say I was overdue for a vacation. Apparently my remedy for that is to take two. Hurrah! First up is a week-long road trip to the Badlands, etc. (South Dakota tips, anyone?) Then in September it's a long weekend in L.A. Unlike my last trip out of the state, neither of these will be with my coworkers. Mexico may beat South Dakota on most people's list of hot spots worth visiting, but being able to return from vacation without saying, "Huh. Haven't been in this office for a while, and yet, I just saw YOU yesterday!" ranks pretty high on my list. I can't wait.
And finally, in less exciting news, I have developed an awesome case of insomnia. Oh man, it is the best. Know what's even better than feeling tired and headachey and nauseated all day because you have a hangover? Feeling tired and headachey and nauseated all day without even having had the fun of an irresponsible bender the night before to warrant it. As I type away right now, my head is heavy, my eyelids are drooping, and yet, like magic, I am certain the moment my head hits my pillow, I will be wide awake, ready to tackle all the world's problems (or at least, ponder incessantly the most trivial of my own). If you have any remedies or suggestions for this dilemma, I would love to hear them. Partying like a rock star is one thing. Looking and feeling as though I've partied like one without having done any actual partying is quite another. Yawn.
Monday, June 15, 2009
When I ran spell check on this, Blogger highlighted all instances of "Facebook," and I'm a little shocked how much yellow there was to display.
I've got a meme to finish, and I should probably do that. I should probably do a lot of things, but as it turns out, I'm much better at saying I should probably do things than I am at actually doing them. Perhaps it's best to embrace this foot-dragging part of my personality already and simply abandon even my smallest and least significant goals. Or perhaps I am just tired (SO TIRED), and low expectations and lethargy are all I've the energy for.
I'm not making any sense, am I? I should probably shut the lid on the laptop and go to bed early, but like I told you: better at saying I should probably do things than I am at actually doing them. Must work on this.
My weekend was exhausting, in the dirty, sweaty, manual labor way rather than the fun but overwhelming social butterfly way. The good news is, I am finally almost (ALMOST!) done with the landscaping project that six weeks ago I thought might take me two weekends. (Ha! I slay me. Obviously I will never learn.) The bad news is, a half a tube or so of Ben-Gay seems like a good idea right now, and yet I don't even want to bother because I wouldn't know where best to slather it. People, my everything hurts. Would a bath in Ben-Gay be unwise?
Incidentally, the other good news about my being almost (ALMOST!) done with this project is that when I am done I will finally stop talking about it. You're welcome in advance, as I'm well aware it is interesting to no one but me. Come to think of it, however, that is not unlike probably a solid 75% of what I write about, so scratch that pseudo-apology; obviously it is worthless.
Moving on. I said last week that I had Facebook stories to share. I am going to stop apologizing for telling Facebook stories as well, as I have realized that whether we like it and admit it or not, Facebook has become so integrated into our lives that it comes up as casually and unintentionally as stories about work or family. I rarely talk about work or my family, so clearly Facebook is simply filling some conversational void. (I'm not proud.) Tonight I had dinner with a friend and I realized, in the middle of a Facebook story, that the people at the next table were talking about Facebook as well. So see? It is NOT JUST ME! Technically, however, none of us were actually talking about Facebook. We were each telling a story in which Facebook was simply the venue. Facebook is a conduit for our daily lives, just like any other place (real or virtual) is. This is an angle that actually hadn't occurred to me before, and I'm sort of working it out as I type, and yet suddenly it makes me feel a whole lot better about the number of comments I make or stories I tell in which the word "Facebook" bears mention. Facebook is just the venue. If it helps, we could say two out of three of these tales took place at the mall.
ANYWAY...
Facebook story the first: Last week, I received a friend request that I sat on for a full three days before begrudgingly clicking "Accept." It was from a former classmate who I have NO good memories of. None. Dude was a smart allecky punk on his good days and an absolute ass on his bad ones. In the eleven years that I knew him, his wiseass remarks weren't directed at me specifically often enough that he's scarred me in any permanent way, though on the rare occasions that I think of him, the first memories that come to mind are ones I did hate him for at the time. The day he pushed me down on the playground and made me tear a hole in the brand new corduroys I'd gotten for Christmas. (They were turquoise with a gray pinstripe checkered pattern, and they were fabulous. It was 1985. Trust me.) The day he stole my stocking cap, and I was too foolish to lie and tell my mother I lost it, which meant she called his mother to complain about him, and I got labeled a tattle tale for a week. Oh, and my personal favorite: the day he gave me the worst nickname I've ever acquired, a nickname I should really have a sense of humor about by now and yet still refuse to share with even my closest friends.
So yeah. Good times. Great guy. I can totally see why he friended me, no?
I almost didn't click that Confirm button. I almost sent him a note to say, "Dude, we were never friends, and I have NO good memories of you. The fact that we went to the same school is not reason enough to link to me." But I didn't. Because really, what is the big deal? The path of least resistance comes to mind. I don't care if he sees anything on my profile, and I don't expect any further direct contact from him to me. I will forget he is there just as I have half the other people I'm linked to, and life will be no different henceforth. But before I commenced the forgetting, obviously I looked at his profile.
During the eleven years of our childhood in which I knew this guy, he made at least two nuns cry. He also inspired one of our CCD teachers to quit her volunteer post, so miserable was the experience for her. And yet, today, the "Religious Views" line on his profile says, "Born-again Christian Believer." He lists the Bible (author: God) among his favorite books. I read his profile and my jaw dropped, and I said (out loud, to the computer screen), "Who ARE you?!?"
So maybe 17 years does make a big difference. Maybe he has changed a bit. Maybe he actually is less of a giant ass by now and would be shocked to learn I remember him as such. Then again, he describes his political views as "Conservative, in the divisive, polarizing kind of way." So nope. Pretty sure I'd still hate that guy.
Do you see now why I pulled these stories out of that meme question deeming them too long to be part of that post? I promise the next two are shorter. That dude got me more worked up than I thought.
Facebook story the second: I told you last week that a new clip had been added to the montage reel of dates past. I did not tell you that I actually ran into that same date a second time a mere four days later. He was at that book club discussion I mentioned, and I wasn't particularly surprised to see him there, given that I saw his name on the list in the related Facebook group months ago now. Still. In a metro area of 3.5 million people? Two run-ins in a week? This is getting a little ridiculous.
More ridiculous, however? The day after that run-in, his face and name showed up in the "Suggestions" box on my Facebook home page. For those of you not yet sucked into this world, the "Suggestions" box highlights people you may know, who you might want to add as a friend. Generally they are people I went to school with, vague acquaintances, or strangers who happen to be friends of my friends. To my knowledge, NEVER has Facebook suggested I be friends with someone I have no linked friends in common with. Not ONLY did it suggest this guy, however, but Facebook also suggested a meMarmony match I emailed with briefly but never dated two years ago, a three-date guy who long time readers with steel trap memories might remember as Boomerang Mike, AND... drumroll please... the damn Traffic Engineer. Facebook should have NO reason whatsoever to know that I know these men. Facebook is messing with me.
It is now entirely past my bed time, and this post has run entirely longer than I intended, but I promise this last one will be quick.
Facebook story the third (and final... for now): I friended my neighbor recently. You know... my super helpful neighbor? The one I have mentioned many times but am too lazy to find a related post to link to? He is the neighbor who snowblows my driveway after blizzards. The one who comes over to start my lawn mower for me when he hears me swearing at it. And the one who fixed the broken shovel that I abandoned in my yard. (OK, that one was recent enough to quickly find the appropriate link.)
I debated the necessity of friending him, but it has already come in handy! No longer do I have to hope he just happens to be in his yard when I need help with something! No! I can pester him directly! Hurrah! I share with you our first Facebook messaging exchange...
Frankly, if that doesn't convince you that Facebook is immeasurably useful, I don't know what will.
I'm not making any sense, am I? I should probably shut the lid on the laptop and go to bed early, but like I told you: better at saying I should probably do things than I am at actually doing them. Must work on this.
My weekend was exhausting, in the dirty, sweaty, manual labor way rather than the fun but overwhelming social butterfly way. The good news is, I am finally almost (ALMOST!) done with the landscaping project that six weeks ago I thought might take me two weekends. (Ha! I slay me. Obviously I will never learn.) The bad news is, a half a tube or so of Ben-Gay seems like a good idea right now, and yet I don't even want to bother because I wouldn't know where best to slather it. People, my everything hurts. Would a bath in Ben-Gay be unwise?
Incidentally, the other good news about my being almost (ALMOST!) done with this project is that when I am done I will finally stop talking about it. You're welcome in advance, as I'm well aware it is interesting to no one but me. Come to think of it, however, that is not unlike probably a solid 75% of what I write about, so scratch that pseudo-apology; obviously it is worthless.
Moving on. I said last week that I had Facebook stories to share. I am going to stop apologizing for telling Facebook stories as well, as I have realized that whether we like it and admit it or not, Facebook has become so integrated into our lives that it comes up as casually and unintentionally as stories about work or family. I rarely talk about work or my family, so clearly Facebook is simply filling some conversational void. (I'm not proud.) Tonight I had dinner with a friend and I realized, in the middle of a Facebook story, that the people at the next table were talking about Facebook as well. So see? It is NOT JUST ME! Technically, however, none of us were actually talking about Facebook. We were each telling a story in which Facebook was simply the venue. Facebook is a conduit for our daily lives, just like any other place (real or virtual) is. This is an angle that actually hadn't occurred to me before, and I'm sort of working it out as I type, and yet suddenly it makes me feel a whole lot better about the number of comments I make or stories I tell in which the word "Facebook" bears mention. Facebook is just the venue. If it helps, we could say two out of three of these tales took place at the mall.
ANYWAY...
Facebook story the first: Last week, I received a friend request that I sat on for a full three days before begrudgingly clicking "Accept." It was from a former classmate who I have NO good memories of. None. Dude was a smart allecky punk on his good days and an absolute ass on his bad ones. In the eleven years that I knew him, his wiseass remarks weren't directed at me specifically often enough that he's scarred me in any permanent way, though on the rare occasions that I think of him, the first memories that come to mind are ones I did hate him for at the time. The day he pushed me down on the playground and made me tear a hole in the brand new corduroys I'd gotten for Christmas. (They were turquoise with a gray pinstripe checkered pattern, and they were fabulous. It was 1985. Trust me.) The day he stole my stocking cap, and I was too foolish to lie and tell my mother I lost it, which meant she called his mother to complain about him, and I got labeled a tattle tale for a week. Oh, and my personal favorite: the day he gave me the worst nickname I've ever acquired, a nickname I should really have a sense of humor about by now and yet still refuse to share with even my closest friends.
So yeah. Good times. Great guy. I can totally see why he friended me, no?
I almost didn't click that Confirm button. I almost sent him a note to say, "Dude, we were never friends, and I have NO good memories of you. The fact that we went to the same school is not reason enough to link to me." But I didn't. Because really, what is the big deal? The path of least resistance comes to mind. I don't care if he sees anything on my profile, and I don't expect any further direct contact from him to me. I will forget he is there just as I have half the other people I'm linked to, and life will be no different henceforth. But before I commenced the forgetting, obviously I looked at his profile.
During the eleven years of our childhood in which I knew this guy, he made at least two nuns cry. He also inspired one of our CCD teachers to quit her volunteer post, so miserable was the experience for her. And yet, today, the "Religious Views" line on his profile says, "Born-again Christian Believer." He lists the Bible (author: God) among his favorite books. I read his profile and my jaw dropped, and I said (out loud, to the computer screen), "Who ARE you?!?"
So maybe 17 years does make a big difference. Maybe he has changed a bit. Maybe he actually is less of a giant ass by now and would be shocked to learn I remember him as such. Then again, he describes his political views as "Conservative, in the divisive, polarizing kind of way." So nope. Pretty sure I'd still hate that guy.
Do you see now why I pulled these stories out of that meme question deeming them too long to be part of that post? I promise the next two are shorter. That dude got me more worked up than I thought.
Facebook story the second: I told you last week that a new clip had been added to the montage reel of dates past. I did not tell you that I actually ran into that same date a second time a mere four days later. He was at that book club discussion I mentioned, and I wasn't particularly surprised to see him there, given that I saw his name on the list in the related Facebook group months ago now. Still. In a metro area of 3.5 million people? Two run-ins in a week? This is getting a little ridiculous.
More ridiculous, however? The day after that run-in, his face and name showed up in the "Suggestions" box on my Facebook home page. For those of you not yet sucked into this world, the "Suggestions" box highlights people you may know, who you might want to add as a friend. Generally they are people I went to school with, vague acquaintances, or strangers who happen to be friends of my friends. To my knowledge, NEVER has Facebook suggested I be friends with someone I have no linked friends in common with. Not ONLY did it suggest this guy, however, but Facebook also suggested a meMarmony match I emailed with briefly but never dated two years ago, a three-date guy who long time readers with steel trap memories might remember as Boomerang Mike, AND... drumroll please... the damn Traffic Engineer. Facebook should have NO reason whatsoever to know that I know these men. Facebook is messing with me.
It is now entirely past my bed time, and this post has run entirely longer than I intended, but I promise this last one will be quick.
Facebook story the third (and final... for now): I friended my neighbor recently. You know... my super helpful neighbor? The one I have mentioned many times but am too lazy to find a related post to link to? He is the neighbor who snowblows my driveway after blizzards. The one who comes over to start my lawn mower for me when he hears me swearing at it. And the one who fixed the broken shovel that I abandoned in my yard. (OK, that one was recent enough to quickly find the appropriate link.)
I debated the necessity of friending him, but it has already come in handy! No longer do I have to hope he just happens to be in his yard when I need help with something! No! I can pester him directly! Hurrah! I share with you our first Facebook messaging exchange...
From: StefanieWithin 15 minutes, I had this reply...
To: Nice neighbor
Subject: I promise I will not routinely use Facebook for requests such as this.
Hi. OK, I *should* be brave enough to take care of this myself, but I am not. You are far less squeamish than I am, given that I'm pretty sure you hunt and fish and therefore presumably touch dead animals on a regular basis. A squirrel has met his final demise on the grass directly next to your fence and retaining wall. Is there any chance you might be so good as to remove it before other animals start gnawing at its sad, stiff little carcass? If so, that would be awesome.
Poor little guy. Also, ew.
From: Nice neighborI declined, of course, and I also resisted the urge to invite his poor wife over to my house for dinner instead (only in part because that particular night I happened to be having Ramen noodles, and she may or may not have thought that any better an option than boiled squirrel). But the important part? Dead squirrel gone! Fifteen minutes after I noticed him there! And I didn't have to touch his possibly rabies-infested body myself. Whoo hoo.
To: Stefanie
Subject: RE: I promise I will not routinely use Facebook for requests such as this.
Thanks for the notice. As we speak, it is now boiling in a pot. BTW - Did you want to come over for dinner? ; )
Frankly, if that doesn't convince you that Facebook is immeasurably useful, I don't know what will.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I could win a prize for procrastinating, if I'd just get around to nominating myself for one.
I am going out of town this weekend, which means that at the moment, I should definitely be packing instead of typing, but apparently I am doing that thing where I say, "Oh, packing won't take any time at all. I just need to throw a few things in a bag... no problem! Fifteen minutes, tops!" I am telling myself this despite knowing full well what happened the last time I said that before packing for a trip... and the time before that... and, hell, EVERY SINGLE TIME I HAVE PACKED FOR A TRIP IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE. I'm a quick study, I tell you. Isn't there some phrase about a river in Egypt that I could use here? Like everything else in my life, packing takes at least three times as long as I think it will. I know this and yet... la, la, la... all the time in the world. Anyone care to place bets on what time I get to bed tonight?
So where am I going? Ah. Glad you asked. I am going camping, in the woods along the North Shore. I am going to the woods because I want to live deliberately. Or possibly because I want to drink wine around a campfire. You decide. And yes, I used that same joke last fall, but I don't care. As you may know, nerd humor is my favorite kind of humor, and Thoreau doesn't get nearly enough laughs.
The fact that I'm going camping when it's still only May is excellent news, because it means I have plenty of summertime ahead of me during which to forget how much work prepping for, packing for, and unpacking from camping is, so that I can decide it's a good idea to go at least one more time again before fall. This is important because I somehow made it through all of last summer without camping even once, and although I would never claim to be any sort of avid, hard-core outdoorswoman, a full year without one night in a tent still feels in some way wrong, like a cosmic imbalance I need to resolve. So. Perhaps this weekend's trip makes up for no camping last year. If any of my real-life, local friends want to help me check the camping trip off my list for this summer as well, do let me know.
This weekend's trip didn't actually involve any daunting amount of prepping on my part (says the girl who still hasn't even removed her decades-old green duffel bag from its storage spot beneath her bed, much less put anything inside of it). I'm going with a couple of good friends and a gaggle of their friends, and with all the planning in their hands, my own list was pretty brief. Most of the participants I do not know, but I'm sure by association they must be friendly and fabulous, and yet, I'm feeling uncharacteristically insecure about ridiculous things. Like, will the hippies and artists look down on me because the ground beef I bought does not say "grass fed" and "antibiotic free"? And must I remove the zucchini and yellow squash from their plastic wrappers before I go, because zucchini and yellow squash are not supposed to come in plastic wrappers (oh, and also are not supposed to come from Florida, when we have perfectly good zucchini and yellow squash right here)? This is probably more about my own social conscience than the imagined judgment of the hippies and artists I'm going camping with. A little knowledge is a powerful thing, but not as powerful as laziness, and when I want to make one stop on my way home instead of three, factory farm beef and plastic-wrapped veggies is what I get. Horrors. Damn you, SuperTarget, with your low prices and conveniently inclusive array of products and your near-total disregard for the "eat local" movement.
Of course, you might understand my paranoia, given that I heard a friend from this same circle say, at a potluck party recently, "Ooh. Do we really want to put cheese on the same plate as the raw food cookies?" I thought she was kidding. She was not. If the person who brought the offensive dairy items returned to the food table later and wondered (like the mouse in that overrated best seller) who moved her cheese, I have the answer to that. And if the raw food cookie lady is on this weekend's camping trip, well, then I guess that's just more sodium-heavy buttermilk ranch pretzels and sugar-loaded layer bars for me.
Yes, I made layer bars tonight, as well as a batch of cookie dough that I will have to turn into cookies at some point before I leave tomorrow mid-day. That adds two more hash marks in my list of culinary endeavors for the week, bringing my total up to one tiramisu, five baked goods, and one lasagna. Oh, and eighteen eggs. If the cooking tally isn't a new record for me, the egg thing surely is. And only one of those efforts was a total failure. On the up side, it was a failure that helped guarantee no leftover eggs in my fridge. So there is that, anyway.
And with that, I really should think about packing, or at least tossing a few things into a pile near a bag to inspire the idea of packing and get that ball rolling. Happy last days of May, everyone. Can it really be June so soon?
So where am I going? Ah. Glad you asked. I am going camping, in the woods along the North Shore. I am going to the woods because I want to live deliberately. Or possibly because I want to drink wine around a campfire. You decide. And yes, I used that same joke last fall, but I don't care. As you may know, nerd humor is my favorite kind of humor, and Thoreau doesn't get nearly enough laughs.
The fact that I'm going camping when it's still only May is excellent news, because it means I have plenty of summertime ahead of me during which to forget how much work prepping for, packing for, and unpacking from camping is, so that I can decide it's a good idea to go at least one more time again before fall. This is important because I somehow made it through all of last summer without camping even once, and although I would never claim to be any sort of avid, hard-core outdoorswoman, a full year without one night in a tent still feels in some way wrong, like a cosmic imbalance I need to resolve. So. Perhaps this weekend's trip makes up for no camping last year. If any of my real-life, local friends want to help me check the camping trip off my list for this summer as well, do let me know.
This weekend's trip didn't actually involve any daunting amount of prepping on my part (says the girl who still hasn't even removed her decades-old green duffel bag from its storage spot beneath her bed, much less put anything inside of it). I'm going with a couple of good friends and a gaggle of their friends, and with all the planning in their hands, my own list was pretty brief. Most of the participants I do not know, but I'm sure by association they must be friendly and fabulous, and yet, I'm feeling uncharacteristically insecure about ridiculous things. Like, will the hippies and artists look down on me because the ground beef I bought does not say "grass fed" and "antibiotic free"? And must I remove the zucchini and yellow squash from their plastic wrappers before I go, because zucchini and yellow squash are not supposed to come in plastic wrappers (oh, and also are not supposed to come from Florida, when we have perfectly good zucchini and yellow squash right here)? This is probably more about my own social conscience than the imagined judgment of the hippies and artists I'm going camping with. A little knowledge is a powerful thing, but not as powerful as laziness, and when I want to make one stop on my way home instead of three, factory farm beef and plastic-wrapped veggies is what I get. Horrors. Damn you, SuperTarget, with your low prices and conveniently inclusive array of products and your near-total disregard for the "eat local" movement.
Of course, you might understand my paranoia, given that I heard a friend from this same circle say, at a potluck party recently, "Ooh. Do we really want to put cheese on the same plate as the raw food cookies?" I thought she was kidding. She was not. If the person who brought the offensive dairy items returned to the food table later and wondered (like the mouse in that overrated best seller) who moved her cheese, I have the answer to that. And if the raw food cookie lady is on this weekend's camping trip, well, then I guess that's just more sodium-heavy buttermilk ranch pretzels and sugar-loaded layer bars for me.
Yes, I made layer bars tonight, as well as a batch of cookie dough that I will have to turn into cookies at some point before I leave tomorrow mid-day. That adds two more hash marks in my list of culinary endeavors for the week, bringing my total up to one tiramisu, five baked goods, and one lasagna. Oh, and eighteen eggs. If the cooking tally isn't a new record for me, the egg thing surely is. And only one of those efforts was a total failure. On the up side, it was a failure that helped guarantee no leftover eggs in my fridge. So there is that, anyway.
And with that, I really should think about packing, or at least tossing a few things into a pile near a bag to inspire the idea of packing and get that ball rolling. Happy last days of May, everyone. Can it really be June so soon?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A little more. A little less. This could go on all day.
Things I should be doing right now:
As for the first bullet point, I think my solution might be to have a party in the not-too-distant future. It's been a while since I hosted any sort of gathering, and it may be the only thing that forces me to clean this sty on any sort of deadline. Then again, parties cost money, and they also give me one more opportunity to fret about my friends seeing the much-mentioned duct tape that's still in my shower. The logic in many of my hair-brained plans seems a bit flawed lately, but flawed logic is usually the more fun sort of logic, so why should that dissuade me?
Regarding the third bullet, I am almost letting myself off the hook with the excuse that I worked hard enough on Friday to justify a day off today, but I know myself well enough to know that granting a free pass like that is an excellent way to ensure I have piles of dirt signifying a project in progress for the better part of the entire summer. I was determined to follow through on a goal in a timely matter for once. "Determined" is apparently a relative term for me.
I have, however, already gotten all three of the odious shrubs in front of my house dug up and removed, despite their best efforts to thwart me. They put up a good fight: the barberry stabbed me with its prickly branches so many times that I almost gave up and said, "Fine! You win. You can stay." And I pried so hard against the roots of another shrub that I actually broke my shovel right in two. That's right: I broke a shovel. Just when my stubborn lawn mower has me feeling like a wimp I realize I'm totally She-Ra. Yay me.
Let's see. What else have I been up to lately? Well, yesterday I meandered around Art-a-Whirl. My goal was to find something new to hang in my living room. What I bought instead was a pair of earrings and a new handbag, which, while they are lovely and adorable respectively, are probably not well suited to be wall art. Details.
On Thursday I went out for dinner with two friends, where I ordered a bacon-infused Manhattan despite the fact that I'm well aware I do not like Manhattans. (See sidebar, with its recent search engine note that is obviously not too recent anymore. Note to self: either remove that component or scour your stats for a replacement search hit post haste.*) I have to agree with Salon.com that bacon may have jumped the shark** only shortly after it started showing up in candy bars and on donuts, but pop culture peer pressure made me want to try it anyway. For my money, I'll skip the bacon cocktail next time and order another Jackson Pollack instead. My pal Carrie posted a picture of it here, but she neglected to mention that this strange looking cocktail was both delicious and moisturizing. Each sip left a trace of green basil oil on my lips, making me wonder if perhaps I'd need to reach for my lip balm a time or two less that night.
__________________________________
* Of course, when I do that, the reference in this paragraph will be lost, so I should note that the search engine phrase in question was "What is a Manhattan supposed to taste like?" to which my response was, "If the answer is 'battery acid,' I totally did it right."
** If you happen to click through to that article, you must read through to the second page, on which the author brilliantly reasons that bacon is the Arthur Fonzarelli of the meat world while Ritchie Cunningham is the skinless chicken breast of the Happy Days universe.
__________________________________
After dinner we high-tailed it over to the Riverview for a three-dollar showing of The Wrestler. This paragraph may contain some spoilers, so if you haven't see it yet and plan to, you might want to skip ahead right about now. If you have seen that one, tell me, is the ending open to interpretation, or are we all supposed to assume what we think happened actually happened and Mickey Rourke said goodbye not just to wrestling but to everything else in this life with his final body slam? Assuming it's the latter, who do we blame for his early exit? After considering Ram's daughter, the stripper, and his own ego, my friends and I finally decided it was actually the Potato Salad Lady's fault more than anyone else. "A little more. A little less. A little more. A little less." Frankly it would be enough to drive anyone over the edge, no?
All right. It's now well into the afternoon hours, which makes still sitting on my bed in a t-shirt and pajama pants seem less delightfully relaxing and more slothlike and lazy, so it's about time I attend to at least one of the bullets in that first list.
So what are you doing or not doing lately? Do fill me in.
- Cleaning my house, as there is clutter on every flat surface within it (and even some not-so-flat surfaces as well), and the layer of dust on my entertainment center is thick enough that the ghost who may or may not live here might start writing messages to me in it soon.
- Potting the tomato plants I bought this weekend, because the likelihood of me getting something I can actually eat to grow is slim enough, and probably becomes ever more slim the longer I leave the tiny seedlings sitting forlorn in a cardboard box atop my dishwasher.
- Continuing the big dig in my front yard that I began on Friday, with the goal of replacing the sad, anemic mismatched bushes that came with the place with something less sad and less suited for a "before" picture on the HGTV show Curb Appeal.
- Thanking the magical scientists who invented wireless connections for the still-novel-to-me ability to change my Facebook status and type a blog post from the comfort of my queen-sized pillowtop.
As for the first bullet point, I think my solution might be to have a party in the not-too-distant future. It's been a while since I hosted any sort of gathering, and it may be the only thing that forces me to clean this sty on any sort of deadline. Then again, parties cost money, and they also give me one more opportunity to fret about my friends seeing the much-mentioned duct tape that's still in my shower. The logic in many of my hair-brained plans seems a bit flawed lately, but flawed logic is usually the more fun sort of logic, so why should that dissuade me?
Regarding the third bullet, I am almost letting myself off the hook with the excuse that I worked hard enough on Friday to justify a day off today, but I know myself well enough to know that granting a free pass like that is an excellent way to ensure I have piles of dirt signifying a project in progress for the better part of the entire summer. I was determined to follow through on a goal in a timely matter for once. "Determined" is apparently a relative term for me.
I have, however, already gotten all three of the odious shrubs in front of my house dug up and removed, despite their best efforts to thwart me. They put up a good fight: the barberry stabbed me with its prickly branches so many times that I almost gave up and said, "Fine! You win. You can stay." And I pried so hard against the roots of another shrub that I actually broke my shovel right in two. That's right: I broke a shovel. Just when my stubborn lawn mower has me feeling like a wimp I realize I'm totally She-Ra. Yay me.
Let's see. What else have I been up to lately? Well, yesterday I meandered around Art-a-Whirl. My goal was to find something new to hang in my living room. What I bought instead was a pair of earrings and a new handbag, which, while they are lovely and adorable respectively, are probably not well suited to be wall art. Details.
On Thursday I went out for dinner with two friends, where I ordered a bacon-infused Manhattan despite the fact that I'm well aware I do not like Manhattans. (See sidebar, with its recent search engine note that is obviously not too recent anymore. Note to self: either remove that component or scour your stats for a replacement search hit post haste.*) I have to agree with Salon.com that bacon may have jumped the shark** only shortly after it started showing up in candy bars and on donuts, but pop culture peer pressure made me want to try it anyway. For my money, I'll skip the bacon cocktail next time and order another Jackson Pollack instead. My pal Carrie posted a picture of it here, but she neglected to mention that this strange looking cocktail was both delicious and moisturizing. Each sip left a trace of green basil oil on my lips, making me wonder if perhaps I'd need to reach for my lip balm a time or two less that night.
__________________________________
* Of course, when I do that, the reference in this paragraph will be lost, so I should note that the search engine phrase in question was "What is a Manhattan supposed to taste like?" to which my response was, "If the answer is 'battery acid,' I totally did it right."
** If you happen to click through to that article, you must read through to the second page, on which the author brilliantly reasons that bacon is the Arthur Fonzarelli of the meat world while Ritchie Cunningham is the skinless chicken breast of the Happy Days universe.
__________________________________
After dinner we high-tailed it over to the Riverview for a three-dollar showing of The Wrestler. This paragraph may contain some spoilers, so if you haven't see it yet and plan to, you might want to skip ahead right about now. If you have seen that one, tell me, is the ending open to interpretation, or are we all supposed to assume what we think happened actually happened and Mickey Rourke said goodbye not just to wrestling but to everything else in this life with his final body slam? Assuming it's the latter, who do we blame for his early exit? After considering Ram's daughter, the stripper, and his own ego, my friends and I finally decided it was actually the Potato Salad Lady's fault more than anyone else. "A little more. A little less. A little more. A little less." Frankly it would be enough to drive anyone over the edge, no?
All right. It's now well into the afternoon hours, which makes still sitting on my bed in a t-shirt and pajama pants seem less delightfully relaxing and more slothlike and lazy, so it's about time I attend to at least one of the bullets in that first list.
So what are you doing or not doing lately? Do fill me in.
Monday, April 27, 2009
I'm still alive
I promise that someday I will write something of at least marginal substance here again. Today, however, is not that day. People, I am TIRED. And it is only Monday. This does not bode well for the rest of the week. It's all good and fine to be busy and popular (I may be exaggerating or even completely making up the latter part of that compound), but a girl needs to take a night off now and then. One of these nights. Really.
Meanwhile, talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic. What should Stefanie wear on her maybe-date with the MPR reporter she met two weeks ago? Yes, I have a maybe-date! But I did not plan an M-P-R-ty to acquire it. I just decided, in an impulsive "What the hell; what do I have to lose?" moment, that maybe it wasn't completely unreasonable to write to a total stranger whose email address happens to be in the public domain and ask if he'd like to have a drink with me. And apparently he didn't think it was completely unreasonable either, because he basically said, "OK." I know! I'm as surprised as you are. But stranger things have happened, no?
Of course, this is only a maybe-date, because first off, I did not use the word "date" in my invitation, and hence, he may have an entirely different label for this get-together in mind. And second, I have not actually heard back from him with any further confirmation of these date or non-date plans. It's all very hazy, obviously, which makes asking you what I should wear on a possibly entirely fictitious maybe-date or non-date entirely a moot point. Plus there is the problem of most of you having no idea whatsoever what is in my closet and hence no idea what the options in this multiple choice question might be.
So how about I give you a different topic instead? The Holy Roman Empire was neither holy nor Roman nor an empire. Discuss.
Meanwhile, talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic. What should Stefanie wear on her maybe-date with the MPR reporter she met two weeks ago? Yes, I have a maybe-date! But I did not plan an M-P-R-ty to acquire it. I just decided, in an impulsive "What the hell; what do I have to lose?" moment, that maybe it wasn't completely unreasonable to write to a total stranger whose email address happens to be in the public domain and ask if he'd like to have a drink with me. And apparently he didn't think it was completely unreasonable either, because he basically said, "OK." I know! I'm as surprised as you are. But stranger things have happened, no?
Of course, this is only a maybe-date, because first off, I did not use the word "date" in my invitation, and hence, he may have an entirely different label for this get-together in mind. And second, I have not actually heard back from him with any further confirmation of these date or non-date plans. It's all very hazy, obviously, which makes asking you what I should wear on a possibly entirely fictitious maybe-date or non-date entirely a moot point. Plus there is the problem of most of you having no idea whatsoever what is in my closet and hence no idea what the options in this multiple choice question might be.
So how about I give you a different topic instead? The Holy Roman Empire was neither holy nor Roman nor an empire. Discuss.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I'm tempted to use that famous Go-Go's line as a title, but "Had to get away" is less relevant when you're not getting away from much.
Hello! I am back. Did you miss me? (Please, don't answer that.) To answer the question that really only one of my friends was asking (hi, Ang), Yes! I am home. Have been for a full 26 hours now. And what have I done in those intervening hours? Let's see...
What I have NOT done is even open my feed reader. I am far too scared to do that without a few free hours in front of me. Have I missed anything particularly notable? Well of course I did. Blog Share was the day after my last Bloglines check-in. I'll catch up eventually, I suppose. Meanwhile, if anything of particularly notable import happened in the past several days, feel free to fill me in.
So. Mexico. Honestly, I don't have a whole lot to tell you about that. Nothing about it was so exciting as to warrant an enthusiastic "It was FUN!!" summary, but it would be awfully lame and ungrateful of me not to appreciate the mere fact that I spent three and a half days basking in the sunshine (sans any sort of layers) in the middle of February.
As you may recall, this trip was with my coworkers, so perhaps the weirdest part was being away from work for several days, only to come in this morning and think, "Huh. Haven't been here in a while, and yet, I just saw you yesterday!" Strange. In a way, it was a long weekend without a weekend, but since that weekend included free drinks and the aforementioned sunshine, I suppose I can't complain too much.
It seems I really should have some sort of recap, however, but as 9:00 p.m. has somehow quickly become 10:56, I'm afraid that recap is going to happen in quick and lazy bullet-point form. Let's see. Some high and low lights...
And honestly, that about wraps it up. I ate too much, drank almost too much, read a book and a half, and came back with what I'm certain will be a sadly short-lived sunny souvenir vacation glow.
So. What have you been up to since I heard from you last?
- Nearly fully unpacked (within two hours of my return--surely that is a new record for me).
- Had a particularly unproductive day at work.
- Had one of my most prolific Facebook days to date. (No, that last item isn't necessarily related to this one; I'm just surprised to notice that today's Wall activities take up a full screen length.)
- Went grocery shopping to ensure that a meal encompassing more than just the Refined Carbs and Processed Foods group might again be possible in my home.
- Shoveled the snow Mother Nature was rude enough to leave for me in my absence.
- Watched another Presidential address without heckling. (Seriously, when will this start to feel commonplace to me rather than make me smile involuntarily in relief and hope?)
What I have NOT done is even open my feed reader. I am far too scared to do that without a few free hours in front of me. Have I missed anything particularly notable? Well of course I did. Blog Share was the day after my last Bloglines check-in. I'll catch up eventually, I suppose. Meanwhile, if anything of particularly notable import happened in the past several days, feel free to fill me in.
So. Mexico. Honestly, I don't have a whole lot to tell you about that. Nothing about it was so exciting as to warrant an enthusiastic "It was FUN!!" summary, but it would be awfully lame and ungrateful of me not to appreciate the mere fact that I spent three and a half days basking in the sunshine (sans any sort of layers) in the middle of February.
As you may recall, this trip was with my coworkers, so perhaps the weirdest part was being away from work for several days, only to come in this morning and think, "Huh. Haven't been here in a while, and yet, I just saw you yesterday!" Strange. In a way, it was a long weekend without a weekend, but since that weekend included free drinks and the aforementioned sunshine, I suppose I can't complain too much.
It seems I really should have some sort of recap, however, but as 9:00 p.m. has somehow quickly become 10:56, I'm afraid that recap is going to happen in quick and lazy bullet-point form. Let's see. Some high and low lights...
- Yes, there were liquor dispensers in my room. I thought about providing a photo as evidence, but I fear that doing so might only remind us of the cold, sad reality that there aren't liquor dispensers everywhere in life. You say I'm too lazy to upload a photo; I say I'm just helping you out. (Disclaimer: If you are my Flickr friend, you'll probably see photos within the next day or so, actually. I'm just not getting to it quite yet.)
- My ex-boyfriend who is also my coworker is in seemingly a really not very good place right now. To everyone who for some reason keeps asking, "So, now that he's divorced, do you think you two will get back together?" I say again, "NO!! What am I, some kind of masochist??" The most important fact is that his ex-wife was in no part any of the reason he and I broke up. He did not meet her until over a full year after we parted ways. Yes, I think his divorce somehow helped me to finally let that wall of bitterness fall down. I can say in some lame, karmic way, "OK, we're even now." I might venture so far as to say enough time has passed that we could maybe even be friends again. (We were extremely close friends before, and the fact that our romance didn't end badly should have meant we could be friends after as well.) But does that mean I want it to be my turn again relationship-wise? Hell to the no. I still feel that it was largely me who helped him pick up the pieces after his first divorce. Damned if I want any part of that role a second time. Besides that, I am already possibly making the same mistakes I made once before with one ex-boyfriend. Why would I add another one to the list?
- You don't have to go on a Carnival cruise to have a different animal-shaped towel sculpture in your room every day. Again, if I had actually visited Flickr before I started this post, perhaps I'd have photographic evidence of this.
- Yes, I realize I again made allusion to The Buddhist in that second-to-last item without actually telling you anything, and also wrangled what could possibly be a post in and of itself about an ex-boyfriend into a poorly summarized bullet point. You're just going to have to accept that for now.
- The food at an all-inclusive resort isn't always awful. It's still nothing to write home about, however.
- When you're gone only three (plus two travel) days, there really isn't much to write home about at all, actually. Or so is the story for those of you who might be expecting post cards. (i.e., Don't hold your breath for those.)
And honestly, that about wraps it up. I ate too much, drank almost too much, read a book and a half, and came back with what I'm certain will be a sadly short-lived sunny souvenir vacation glow.
So. What have you been up to since I heard from you last?
Monday, February 16, 2009
If I keep this up, I may find myself becoming one of those people who uses "party" as a verb.
My weekends are starting to feel a bit like Groundhog Day. You know... drink some wine, watch a couple get engaged... same old, same old.
Yes folks, I actually witnessed two engagements in one week. Tis the season, I suppose? This time, it was some friends of The Buddhist, the female half of which proposed at the Art Institute and then dragged her new fiance' over to a local wine shop, where thirty or so of their closest friends and friends-of-friends were waiting for a surprise congratulations party. I fall into that latter category, of course, the friends-of-friends category, although I must say that the friends of The Buddhist whom I have met thus far are so tremendously kind and fun and flattering that I may just start collectively dating all of them instead. I'm not sure of the specifics in making that happen, but I'm sure we can work out the details.
The engagement party was the first of four parties I attended this weekend, because clearly I am just that busy and popular. I've been told that I cannot actually count the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon as a party, given that it took place in a community center and included parents and grandparents but no alcohol, but I care not. I received an invitation and I brought a gift. Also, there was cake. It may not have been a particularly raucous party, but I say that qualifies it as a party nonetheless. After all, how many times do I get invited to four parties in one weekend? I'm not going to let some killjoy take that claim from me.
I am invited to another party this coming weekend... This one is an Oscars party, but I will not be attending, as A) I will be in Mexico at the time, and B) I do not actually know the people who sent the invitation. Because I feel it might be rude to reply to the Evite with an, "I'm sorry, but... WHO are you??" I have instead used my powers of deductive reasoning to determine which friends the party hosts are associated to me through and conclude with approximately 96% certainty who those hosts are. I am all for making new friends through existing friends, but I still think it's a little weird to mine a past Evite to round out your guest list. Or maybe that's just me.
In any case, as I said, my primary conflict is that I will be in Mexico, which I tell all of you on the Internet with the express instructions that you please NOT find and burglarize my house while I'm gone. I promise you, the booty you would gather would not be worth the trouble. Unless! Wait! Perhaps one of you could engineer a reverse-burglary instead? I will even save you the effort of breaking in and possibly alarming my neighbors. I will leave a key under the mat, and you can just come right in and replace my ailing, stuffed-to-capacity Dell desktop with a shiny new laptop. If you'd like to take care of that whole "holes and duct tape in the shower" mess while you're here too, I'd be much appreciative. It'll be just like one of those surprise home makeover reality shows, except that I haven't actually suffered a near-fatal disease or saved a litter of kittens from a burning building as a means of deserving said makeover. Details.
The Mexico trip is one I mentioned a while ago. It's a company trip, making it a wholly mixed blessing, I say. On the one hand, it's a free (or, almost free... the details of the "almost" part are something I've ranted about to nearly everyone who'll listen, but I don't feel at liberty to publish them here) trip to a very warm place in the middle of February. I could certainly use a vacation, and I would certainly enjoy wearing sandals comfortably for four days or so. On the other hand, I usually take vacations to get away from everything that reminds me of work, and having all of my coworkers there with me will sort of make that impossible. It's a bit like a four-day company holiday party. I usually cut out of the holiday parties right after dessert. Staying for four days is a foreign idea to me.
Regardless, I plan to make the best of it. We're staying at an all-inclusive resort, so I intend to sip my weight in margaritas while I soak up some sun and blow through a couple books. Today I even found a swimsuit that I can almost bear to wear in front of my coworkers, so that's one less thing to worry about as well. I stopped short of one of these wholesome numbers, but managed to find a modest yet not matronly, reasonably cute one-piece that will not result in the middle-aged men I see every day staring at my cleavage or abdomen, and really that's about all I can ask for in a swimsuit for this particular trip, so, yay.
With that trip to plan for, I suspect my posting will be even more sporadic than usual this week (which actually probably means business as usual, and yet I felt the need to warn you anyway). It's just as well, as later this week you'll all be busy reading the posts in R's next Blog Share. No anonypost from me this time. (Mexico, remember? Too much to do, folks. Or so is my excuse.) I'm sure it'll be as entertaining and heart-wrenching as the last three. Someone make note of the highlights for me, OK?
Yes folks, I actually witnessed two engagements in one week. Tis the season, I suppose? This time, it was some friends of The Buddhist, the female half of which proposed at the Art Institute and then dragged her new fiance' over to a local wine shop, where thirty or so of their closest friends and friends-of-friends were waiting for a surprise congratulations party. I fall into that latter category, of course, the friends-of-friends category, although I must say that the friends of The Buddhist whom I have met thus far are so tremendously kind and fun and flattering that I may just start collectively dating all of them instead. I'm not sure of the specifics in making that happen, but I'm sure we can work out the details.
The engagement party was the first of four parties I attended this weekend, because clearly I am just that busy and popular. I've been told that I cannot actually count the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon as a party, given that it took place in a community center and included parents and grandparents but no alcohol, but I care not. I received an invitation and I brought a gift. Also, there was cake. It may not have been a particularly raucous party, but I say that qualifies it as a party nonetheless. After all, how many times do I get invited to four parties in one weekend? I'm not going to let some killjoy take that claim from me.
I am invited to another party this coming weekend... This one is an Oscars party, but I will not be attending, as A) I will be in Mexico at the time, and B) I do not actually know the people who sent the invitation. Because I feel it might be rude to reply to the Evite with an, "I'm sorry, but... WHO are you??" I have instead used my powers of deductive reasoning to determine which friends the party hosts are associated to me through and conclude with approximately 96% certainty who those hosts are. I am all for making new friends through existing friends, but I still think it's a little weird to mine a past Evite to round out your guest list. Or maybe that's just me.
In any case, as I said, my primary conflict is that I will be in Mexico, which I tell all of you on the Internet with the express instructions that you please NOT find and burglarize my house while I'm gone. I promise you, the booty you would gather would not be worth the trouble. Unless! Wait! Perhaps one of you could engineer a reverse-burglary instead? I will even save you the effort of breaking in and possibly alarming my neighbors. I will leave a key under the mat, and you can just come right in and replace my ailing, stuffed-to-capacity Dell desktop with a shiny new laptop. If you'd like to take care of that whole "holes and duct tape in the shower" mess while you're here too, I'd be much appreciative. It'll be just like one of those surprise home makeover reality shows, except that I haven't actually suffered a near-fatal disease or saved a litter of kittens from a burning building as a means of deserving said makeover. Details.
The Mexico trip is one I mentioned a while ago. It's a company trip, making it a wholly mixed blessing, I say. On the one hand, it's a free (or, almost free... the details of the "almost" part are something I've ranted about to nearly everyone who'll listen, but I don't feel at liberty to publish them here) trip to a very warm place in the middle of February. I could certainly use a vacation, and I would certainly enjoy wearing sandals comfortably for four days or so. On the other hand, I usually take vacations to get away from everything that reminds me of work, and having all of my coworkers there with me will sort of make that impossible. It's a bit like a four-day company holiday party. I usually cut out of the holiday parties right after dessert. Staying for four days is a foreign idea to me.
Regardless, I plan to make the best of it. We're staying at an all-inclusive resort, so I intend to sip my weight in margaritas while I soak up some sun and blow through a couple books. Today I even found a swimsuit that I can almost bear to wear in front of my coworkers, so that's one less thing to worry about as well. I stopped short of one of these wholesome numbers, but managed to find a modest yet not matronly, reasonably cute one-piece that will not result in the middle-aged men I see every day staring at my cleavage or abdomen, and really that's about all I can ask for in a swimsuit for this particular trip, so, yay.
With that trip to plan for, I suspect my posting will be even more sporadic than usual this week (which actually probably means business as usual, and yet I felt the need to warn you anyway). It's just as well, as later this week you'll all be busy reading the posts in R's next Blog Share. No anonypost from me this time. (Mexico, remember? Too much to do, folks. Or so is my excuse.) I'm sure it'll be as entertaining and heart-wrenching as the last three. Someone make note of the highlights for me, OK?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Admittedly rushed, "phoning it in" NaBlo post, but shouldn't you all be talking to your family rather than playing on the Internet anyway?
Whoops. As usual, I have frittered away what seemed like plenty of time on several valid tasks such as cleaning my house prior to my parents seeing it, working out prior to Thanksgiving day binging, and sitting around prior to... well, nothing really. I just can't seem to stay on task ever without at least a little bit of mindless sitting around in between.
Anyway, so now I am officially late and have officially left my sister to entertain my parents for a full hour without my help. I'd best be off. More later, perhaps, if this whole family togetherness thing gets me home before midnight. (Fingers crossed.) Meanwhile...
Happy Thanksgiving, all!
Anyway, so now I am officially late and have officially left my sister to entertain my parents for a full hour without my help. I'd best be off. More later, perhaps, if this whole family togetherness thing gets me home before midnight. (Fingers crossed.) Meanwhile...
Happy Thanksgiving, all!
Friday, October 03, 2008
I'm pretty sure campfire Catchphrase also counts as sucking out the marrow of life
Bad news, folks. It turns out I can handle only one Internet-based addiction at a time. Hence, lately I have been far too busy commenting on status updates, accepting Green Patch requests, and playing Twirl on Facebook to do much blog reading or writing.
All right; so that isn't entirely true. I have also been going on dates that I give you no details about (sorry, Jess), reuniting with the TV shows that I forgot I liked to watch during the past four months, immersing myself in civics nerdery (I totally played Palin Bingo during the debate. Did you?), and trying to finish the third of those ridiculous teen vampire books before it is due at the library (TODAY). That last one isn't going to happen, by the way. Why yes, Hennepin County Library system, you CAN have small portions my money, 30 cents at a time, while I hold that book hostage. I'm not a delinquent library patron; I consider it a DONATION. A donation to a worthy cause and a totally intentional one at that. Yep; I am simply helping to support the library's mission. It has nothing to do with keeping those 44 people holding for that book behind me waiting while I take my good sweet time deciding if I'm on Team Edward or Team Jacob. Nope. Not at all.
I promise you I can still talk about things other than Facebook and the Twilight books. At least, I think I can. If not, I'd better forget about NaBloPoMo right now, because while a theme helped me through that full month of posting last year, I highly doubt either of those particular themes would keep any of you reading this year.
Before I find more interesting things to talk about, however, I had a Facebook-related story about an awkward relative that I was going to tell you. Remember that? (No? Well, how about I tell you anyway?)
As we all know, the primary purposes of Facebook are to play word games with your friends and to look up old classmates and boyfriends to find out if you have aged any better than they have. As such, I have wasted more time than I care to admit beating people at Scramble and having my butt kicked by Lara at Scrabble. I also spent a solid hour scrolling through pages of people who apparently graduated from college with me. And in the midst of doing that, I found a picture of my cousin.
Let me clarify. My cousin did not go to college with me. My cousin did not go to college at all, and he has never even lived in the state where my alma mater is housed. But there on page 14 of the class of '97 results was a photo my cousin likely wishes he'd never uploaded to this here series of tubes we all know and love. It's a photo I've seen before, but not in any family album. No, I saw it years ago on a rudimentary web site forwarded to me in the very early days of the Internets-as-entertainment. The site was called, simply, "Ugly People," and the site owner had apparently trolled through Internet dating sites, church photo directories, and other people's family albums to find disarmingly unattractive and frightening-looking people for the rest of us to point and laugh at. It's all fun and games when you're looking at strangers with mall bangs and lazy eyes and unfortunate wardrobe choices. But when the scrawny, skeevy-looking guy in a black mesh tank top with mad scientist hair is a guy in the family photo your aunt sends every Christmas? That's... well, that's funny, too, though in a far more guilt-inducing way.
I do feel bad for my cousin, of course. I remain baffled as to why that photo was the one he chose to post where anyone with an Internet connection could mock it, but his early forays online managed to nab him a reasonably hot Russian bride (yes; really), so who am I to question how he marketed himself? In any case, since the "Ugly People" web site, that photo has apparently made the rounds and is still floating about the Internet and resurfacing where we least expect it. Like on page 14 of the list of graduates from the class of '97 at a mid-sized Midwestern state university. Oh my.
The guy using my cousin's photo has his profile set to Public, so I was able to click through to see who he is. Although we apparently graduated from the same school on the same day, I don't know him. You know who does, though? -R-. I noticed in the "Education & Work" area that the company where he works is the same one where -R- is employed, so I quickly sent off an e-mail to ask her about him. People, it is -R-'s nemesis!
OK, that last part is a lie. -R- doesn't actually know him at all. He does work in her building, though, and when she looked up his picture in the company directory, she said she's seen him in the elevator more than once. This would be a much better story if the cousin-photo-stealer were the guy who has gotten on our friend -R-'s bad side by repeatedly ignoring her, however, so I'm just going to pretend that is the case.
All right. I am out of here in a few hours, so have a lovely weekend, all of you. I am going to the woods this weekend, because I want to live deliberately. Wait. No. That's Thoreau, not me. I'm going to the woods because I want to drink wine around a campfire. I like to think good old H.D. did a bit of that himself.
All right; so that isn't entirely true. I have also been going on dates that I give you no details about (sorry, Jess), reuniting with the TV shows that I forgot I liked to watch during the past four months, immersing myself in civics nerdery (I totally played Palin Bingo during the debate. Did you?), and trying to finish the third of those ridiculous teen vampire books before it is due at the library (TODAY). That last one isn't going to happen, by the way. Why yes, Hennepin County Library system, you CAN have small portions my money, 30 cents at a time, while I hold that book hostage. I'm not a delinquent library patron; I consider it a DONATION. A donation to a worthy cause and a totally intentional one at that. Yep; I am simply helping to support the library's mission. It has nothing to do with keeping those 44 people holding for that book behind me waiting while I take my good sweet time deciding if I'm on Team Edward or Team Jacob. Nope. Not at all.
I promise you I can still talk about things other than Facebook and the Twilight books. At least, I think I can. If not, I'd better forget about NaBloPoMo right now, because while a theme helped me through that full month of posting last year, I highly doubt either of those particular themes would keep any of you reading this year.
Before I find more interesting things to talk about, however, I had a Facebook-related story about an awkward relative that I was going to tell you. Remember that? (No? Well, how about I tell you anyway?)
As we all know, the primary purposes of Facebook are to play word games with your friends and to look up old classmates and boyfriends to find out if you have aged any better than they have. As such, I have wasted more time than I care to admit beating people at Scramble and having my butt kicked by Lara at Scrabble. I also spent a solid hour scrolling through pages of people who apparently graduated from college with me. And in the midst of doing that, I found a picture of my cousin.
Let me clarify. My cousin did not go to college with me. My cousin did not go to college at all, and he has never even lived in the state where my alma mater is housed. But there on page 14 of the class of '97 results was a photo my cousin likely wishes he'd never uploaded to this here series of tubes we all know and love. It's a photo I've seen before, but not in any family album. No, I saw it years ago on a rudimentary web site forwarded to me in the very early days of the Internets-as-entertainment. The site was called, simply, "Ugly People," and the site owner had apparently trolled through Internet dating sites, church photo directories, and other people's family albums to find disarmingly unattractive and frightening-looking people for the rest of us to point and laugh at. It's all fun and games when you're looking at strangers with mall bangs and lazy eyes and unfortunate wardrobe choices. But when the scrawny, skeevy-looking guy in a black mesh tank top with mad scientist hair is a guy in the family photo your aunt sends every Christmas? That's... well, that's funny, too, though in a far more guilt-inducing way.
I do feel bad for my cousin, of course. I remain baffled as to why that photo was the one he chose to post where anyone with an Internet connection could mock it, but his early forays online managed to nab him a reasonably hot Russian bride (yes; really), so who am I to question how he marketed himself? In any case, since the "Ugly People" web site, that photo has apparently made the rounds and is still floating about the Internet and resurfacing where we least expect it. Like on page 14 of the list of graduates from the class of '97 at a mid-sized Midwestern state university. Oh my.
The guy using my cousin's photo has his profile set to Public, so I was able to click through to see who he is. Although we apparently graduated from the same school on the same day, I don't know him. You know who does, though? -R-. I noticed in the "Education & Work" area that the company where he works is the same one where -R- is employed, so I quickly sent off an e-mail to ask her about him. People, it is -R-'s nemesis!
OK, that last part is a lie. -R- doesn't actually know him at all. He does work in her building, though, and when she looked up his picture in the company directory, she said she's seen him in the elevator more than once. This would be a much better story if the cousin-photo-stealer were the guy who has gotten on our friend -R-'s bad side by repeatedly ignoring her, however, so I'm just going to pretend that is the case.
All right. I am out of here in a few hours, so have a lovely weekend, all of you. I am going to the woods this weekend, because I want to live deliberately. Wait. No. That's Thoreau, not me. I'm going to the woods because I want to drink wine around a campfire. I like to think good old H.D. did a bit of that himself.
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