tuf

Alex just got home from a short trip to Walgreens to pick up some much needed sherbet. Along with the sherbet he made a purchase of some paper towels... we usually buy our paper towels from Costco, you know the plain white ones that come in a 60 lb. package? Walgreens paper towels just aren't the same. First of all the name brand is Tuf. Then you must consider the prints. There are 3 in this particular pack. One is light yellow tulips with some pink and blue blobs thrown in for good measure. The second is a rendering of a light green bow holding some sparse stems accompanied by the words parsley, sage, oregano, tarragon and thyme. On the last roll you will find pictures of pies which look like upside down baskets next to bright pink apples and cherries. As if that weren't bad enough it says "home is where the pie is" surrounded by hearts.

Who's idea was this? what's wrong with plain white? and how did we run out of a 4 month supply of paper towels and not notice?

oh Jesus

oh no, I shouldn't have had so much shrimp at dim sum.

our vacation, day 2 into day 3

In May 2000 Alex and were married in Las Vegas, which is what made it an appealing stop off on our road trip. However, every time I go there I forget how sick I get of that place after about 3 hours. The Strip is a lot longer than I think it is, every time, and I always wear the wrong shoes. And the people, so many people. People who need to stop and look at something, people who can't chew gum and walk at the same time. I know that's what Vegas is all about, but for some reason I like to picture it differently in my imagination and then feel a sad, sad let down when it's the way it always was.

We stayed at the Tropicana by default. There was some sort of convention in town and all the nice hotels were all booked up. We were supposed to be staying in the Garden Room section of the "original" (a.k.a. two floors that look out onto the parking lot) hotel, but the woman at the front desk did a good job of convincing me that the for 10 bucks more we would be better off in one of the towers. 16th floor, here we come. The room was absolutely hideous. The bed had a headboard of mirrors that continued up and onto the ceiling. There was also a wall of mirror on the right side of the bed. and a giant mirror on the dresser directly across from the bed. Let us not forget that I was faced with all these reflections of me after the bathing suit debacle. how unfortunate.

After resting up in the magical mirror room for a bit we walked down the strip to the Aladdin. Alex heard that the dinner buffet was pretty good there and the hotel wasn't complete the last time we were there, so we thought we should check it out. We strolled down the Strip, smashing into other tourists and refusing cards with numbers of call girls. By the time we got to the Aladdin I had a big ol' blister on my right foot, all because I wanted to wear cute shoes. When will I learn; you can't wear cute shoes in Vegas unless you're planning to park yourself at a slot machine all night. We did have to wait in line for the buffet, about a half hour, not too bad. The other people in line were entertaining though. The man behind us in line was with his family of 5 and never uttered a word. He did, however, amuse himself by feeling up the 4 inch "jewels" which were embedded in the walls of the casino. I couldn't help but notice how he was fondling them and it was actually kind of creepy. He did it for awhile, until he noticed that I noticed him doing it. He then immediately stopped and started tapping and knocking on each jewel as if to indicate how sturdy each one was. He nodded in my direction and I smiled, in approval of the sturdy jewels. Alex asked me what was so funny and I said "keep your eyes on the jewels" and then he laughed, so I assumed he noticed, too. We finally made our way through the line, down an escalator and into another line where we could finally see food and a hostess. Jewel groper continued to tap, not fondle, all surfaces as he passed them. Alex and I were pretty quiet during our wait, but we were both chuckling. As we finally sat down to eat Alex asked me if I was laughing about the man in front of us, so I explain the groper guy, who Alex didn't notice at all, and then I asked what he had been laughing about. As it turns out when I said keep your eyes on the jewels Alex looked at the dude in front of us who apparently was playing with his crotch the entire time we were in line, while his whole family watched. I guess jewels would be correct term for that as well.

The buffet was pretty good, the best part was the dessert, but isn't that always the best part? After dinner we walked down to Treasure Island. Four years ago our extremely klassie wedding package included a video of our wedding, complete with a clip at end of pirates (from the free pirate show in front of the hotel) cheering our union. We thought it would be fun to watch the pirate show again. Luckily, a show was starting as we got there. Sadly, the show has changed. Treasure Island has changed. If you go the website you will notice how desperate they are to change their image. The show was so bad that we actually left half way through. What used to be a wholesome show with the British navy and a rowdy group of pirates is now a show with a gaggle of Sirens (who clearly worship Christina Aguilera) going up against a bevy of shirtless, oiled pirates who sail in on ship boldly called The Bull. The Sirens tempt the pirates and the pirates fight back, blah, blah, blah. The show is complete with horrible songs that sound like sorry rip-offs of Britney Spears' masterpieces and plenty of jokes about blow the man down, it's so wet, your ship is going down, etc. Although it was funny to watch, it was crowded and Alex and I were a little disappointed to see our beloved pirates tossed aside for these slutty Sirens, so we walked away. I'm assuming at the end of the show there's a big dance party and everyone hooks up.
This Japanese site has some pictures (click on the colored text to see more pics) to give you a better idea of the trashiness I can't quite put to words. I miss the Bucaneer Bay show. I guess I'm getting old. sigh.

It was a long walk back to the Tropicana, especially with cute shoe blisters, so we stopped off at the Bellagio to check out the water show and to play nickel slots and video poker for awhile. We lost 30 bucks and then headed back to our hotel. I think it might be a long, long time before we visit Vegas again.

dim sum sunday

it's been 11 days since I've updated ... alas I leave my blog behind too often. And I was on such a roll at the beginning of the month.
I don't want to get into details about why I haven't been writing, so I'll sum it up like this: on Monday my doctor and his unsteady disposable scalpel (accompanied by a pack of gauze pads) ended my bout with throbbing pain that ailed me for about 8 days.

So there you have it, with that out of the way, I will continue with my life.

On the Sunday before Easter RM treated me and Alex to our first dim sum. We went to Gold Mountain in Chinatown and I do believe we were the only white people there. I don't think I would have noticed right away, but the hostess was calling out numbers in Chinese and we were the only people looking around in confusion. It was pretty obvious to all around us that we hadn't a clue, because everyone who knew the drill (take a number and wait for the hostess to call it) was pushing us aside. And I'm not just saying that, I was literally pushed aside, a two handed push, one on my shoulder and the other on my hip, by a very hungry man who proceeded to get his number and seating before us. But not to worry because before I was even done quietly complaining about him the hostess called out our number in English (realizing we were the group who didn't understand the number that sounded like "Jose White" in Chinese) and we were on our way to deliciousness.

The food was swell and it's a good thing that all three of us like shrimp because we must have been there at the peak shrimp hour. I think we grabbed at least 5 shrimp dishes. It was hard to say, because we couldn't really understand what any of the people were shouting while pushing those carts around. We all agreed that the best item we consumed was the shrimp stuffed shrimp. Now before you think about how great that is let me add this, it was deep fried. That was the beauty of the whole thing; you have that crunchy shell in the shape of a shrimp, so you have a good idea of what you're about to eat, but you know there's something more... because no shrimp is that big. And that's the glory (and sometimes defeat) of fried items, what awaits inside that golden nugget. I don't know who thought to put shrimp within a shrimp, but it was freakin' brilliant.

RM was disappointed with the duck, because it was cold, but I thought it was all good. Except the black egg. I could have done without that.

our vacation, day 2

Problem #3 on our road trip was another oversight on my part. I forgot my bathing suit. Even though Alex had reminded me and asked me over 73 times if I had packed it. It actually became a running joke before we left. About an hour or two into the trip while watching the road and re-packing my bag in my mind I realized I had not packed my bathing suit. When I told Alex that I had honestly forgotten it he thought I was joking. ha ha ha.

The real reason this was a problem is because I hate shopping for bathing suits. And unless I wanted to forgo the spa at the Grand Canyon I was forced to get a new suit. I don't know any woman who looks forward to a trip to a department store to scrutinize her cellulite under fluorescent lighting in a cramped space with someone knocking on the door asking if things are "working out in there". I especially abhor it. I bought a bathing suit in 1996 that worked just fine until 2000, when the elastic in the shoulder straps gave way. I ordered the 2000 bathing suit from a catalogue, successfully avoiding the dressing room all together. The 2000 suit wasn't too bad, as a matter of fact it's quite practical and borderline middle-age-y. Anything that's advertised as "tug free" and "Kindest Cut" for the upper thigh/ass region is okay with me, although I'm pretty sure those kind of suits are more geared towards ladies who are 40 and over. Land's End doesn't mess around when it comes to comfort, and I'll take that over fashion any day, especially when it comes to exposing more skin than I think I should. But, alas, the Land's End comfort suit sat in my dresser drawer for this vacation and Alex and I were forced to stop at a mall of outlet stores in Las Vegas.

For a Sunday it wasn't as crowded as I thought an outlet mall should be, but then again, we were in the desert. I reluctantly went to a store with only swimsuits straight away to just get the whole thing over with. But it was just the beginning of a long day of ego squashing. The women working in the store were quite helpful, perhaps a bit too over zealous. One of the employees correctly guessed what size pants I wore and then proceeded to point me in the direction of what I was looking for. I brought 5 suits into the dressing room with me. None of them fit. I tried on the first one, couldn't pull it up past my knee. The next one barely made it over my thighs. Another one cut off the circulation in my armpits. All of them confirmed how doughy and pasty I thought I was. I neatly hung them all back up, thought about weeping, but instead forged on. I gathered some more suits, some larger suits. I thought if I went for the tankini I would be okay, you can't go wrong with a tank top and something that looks like granny underwear for the bottom, right? Once again I got into the dressing room and found myself struggling to get these overpriced pieces of spandex and nylon over my thighs or rib cage. I hung all the new failures up, this time not so neatly. Who needs to go in a hot tub, anyways? I left the all-suit store, gravely disappointing the perky sales staff. Alex and I made our way to another store and although Alex gave me nothing but words of support I entered the new dressing room with knots in my stomach as I started the whole process again. No success. We moved on to the next store, same story. I finally told Alex that I was done, because at this point I was just wasting valuable vacation time by trying on suits and hurting my self esteem. I started engraving invitations for my pity party. We decided to leave the mall and think about a bathing suit later. Our car was parked closest to the entrance of the Polo store so we decided to cut through. While passing through I noticed a rack of pretty good looking bathing suits, and Alex encouraged me to try one on. He picked out the orange one.
Here's some advice for any pale Irish gals out there: never, ever try on an orange bathing suit. Especially if you are already in a bad mood.
I was in too deep to quit now though, I was going to solve the suit problem... RIGHT NOW. There was no way I was going to start this process all over again, especially on the Strip in Vegas. I grabbed 4 different sizes of navy blue suits. I went into the dressing room and started with the biggest size. Victory was mine.

As it turns out, when buying a swimsuit simply follow this rule - if you wear a size 6 or 8 in pants then you should just take your pride directly to the dumpster and then grab a size 14 bathing suit. Because that's the one that's gonna fit you. I don't know what these fashion people are thinking, but give a girl a break. We are at our most vulnerable when looking for swimwear, how hard is it to boost a some spirits by just making your numbers a little smaller? Had I known it was as easy as grabbing something that's double my size I wouldn't have taken so long bruising my thighs and ego trying to fit into merchandise.

We finally made it to the Las Vegas Strip on Sunday afternoon. We checked in at the Tropicana. And after all the sweat and tears I put into getting that damn bathing suit I couldn't convince Alex to go down to the pool with me.

girls' night out

I love Survivor.
But I will admit I wasn't too excited about Survivor All Stars... until last night. I don't know if Mark Burnett rigged the "pick a new buff out of the urn" trick or if he just peed his pants and wept with joy when Amber and Rob (Survivor's first on air couple) got split up onto different teams. That show got me so damn excited that by the time I watched the Apprentice I felt like I had run a few miles. Alex was worried about my blood pressure. Who needs exercise when you're pathetic enough to get an adrenaline rush from reality TV? Now I'm wondering if Mark Burnett sold his soul to the Devil. If he did I think it's okay, because Thursdays now rock.

I actually did go out and do something last night, instead of just sitting on the couch pretending I'm friends with reality television participants. I went out to dinner at Nizza La Bella with my friend Rachel. I always forget how much fun it is to hang out with other women. Most of my friends are men. I should never underestimate the power of chatting it up with another gal. It's very liberating, there's so much to talk about. Not to get down on conversation with men, there's just a different vibe. And something about going out and getting dinner with a girlfriend makes me feel like a grown up.

Thanks, Rachel, for getting me out of my TV rut and making me feel like a full fledged 30-something kind of lady.

our vacation, day 1 into day 2

We drove a little more than halfway to Vegas on Saturday and spent the first night camping at Lake Success near Porterville. We arrived at the tail end of sunset and it was quite serene there; the sun had made it over the other side of the hills, a few boats were still in the water, a warm breeze... no sweater necessary. We started to set up our camp. Alex had the brilliant idea of bringing the Aerobed with us (because the Matrix has a 115 volt outlet) so after we set up the tent we pulled the car over, put the Aerobed in the tent, plugged it in to the Matrix and voila! Now were officially un-campers posing as campers. It was extremely comfortable and I don't ever want to camp without it, I guess I'm less outdoorsy than I've led on. (we were in a tent and did use sleeping bags on the Aerobed, doesn't that count for something?) We started a fire and were about to cook some hot dogs and that's when problem #2 arose (problem #1 being my temporarily lost, but actually washed wallet).

I was looking for the skewers and other camping gear and couldn't seem to find anything except the lantern and the single propane burner. I asked Alex where everything was and he told me I could find what I was looking for in the green backpack. What Alex had forgotten while packing the car was that at the end of last camping season we had re-packed all our gear into a handy waterproof Rubbermaid container. We decided to leave the green backpack for all things propane. I asked Alex where I could find the blue plastic container and he said "doh". Thus came the discovery that we were at a disadvantage, especially if we chose to do further camping on the trip. But we did have a cooler, a lantern, a tent, sleeping bags (and an Aerobed) and that was enough for now. So we used a Swiss Army knife to cook our hot dogs. We sat at the fire, split a Guinness and had a lot of fun melting some Oreos to see what would happen. They glow kind of purple if you leave them on the fire long enough. We also enjoyed watching the family across the road from us, there was a pre-teen girl who was working on some sort of pop and lock routine to a Britney Spears song which she mumbled under her breath.

As we watched the fire die down the serene lake setting came to a screeching halt. The campsite of hard core spring breakers who positioned themselves behind us began to blare bad music and crack open a bunch of cheap beer around 9:00pm. That continued until about 11:00, or longer, I'm not sure, because miraculously I was able to sleep. I woke up a few times around 2:00 or 3:00 due to the yelping of a young woman, but all in all it was pretty comfortable and warm there.

Alex and I woke up around 5:00am on Sunday and decided to pack up and hit the road. This was good for two reasons: 1. we now didn't have to pay for the campsite and 2. the motorboats started squealing around the lake at this time.
Off we went, stopping at a Denny's at around 7:00 for breakfast, finding ourselves under-dressed compared to the pre and post church crowds we encountered. Our waitress had gastric bypass surgery about a year ago. I know this because she openly discussed it with the perfumed woman sitting in the booth behind us. Perfume lady was only having a vanilla latte, while her husband and child ate eggs, sausage, bacon and toast. I felt sad for her. That Denny's had the best french toast.

my almost lost wallet

Alex and I returned from our vacation last week. I'm still trying to catch up with my daily life. Why it's taking me so long to do that? I may never know.

I have to admit that a 6 day road trip isn't my ideal get away, but it was inexpensive and it had it's moments. We made it all the way out to the Grand Canyon, stayed there for a couple days and then headed back. We thought that we could go home through Yosemite, but snow had the roads closed. Without using deductive reasoning we decided to head to Tahoe instead, where it was snowing. I guess we get less bright when we spend 5 or more hours in a car each day. We zoned out a lot while on the road, but the Matrix kicks the Saturn's ass when it comes to comfort, and if we hadn't bought that new car we probably wouldn't have even taken the trip in the first place.

We started our journey on Saturday the 20th. No vacation is complete without at least an hour of me freaking out either right before departure or directly afterwards. This year's freak out was brought to you by the stupidity of me washing my wallet which I had left in a pair of pants. Before I realized the actual fate of my wallet I thought I had lost it. Better yet, I jumped to the conclusion someone had picked my pocket the night before and I would never see my wallet again. Alex tried to help, but there's just no reasoning with me when I'm convinced that I was more than just a victim of my own carelessness. I had it all pictured in my mind; how some dude just reached into my back pocket without me even noticing. And now he was buying all sorts of electronics and pricey gas with my credit cards. At least he didn't get any cash. But my tap dance card... there were still 2 classes on that thing, I was certain that he had just thrown it out. I was so mad at that guy for about 40 minutes. Until I went to remove my clothes from the washer. Then all my angst was transferred to a poor 8 year old boy who was tired of waiting for a washer and was promptly removing all my clothes from the washer and trying to put them in a dryer. I say trying because most of my clothes were on the floor. The filthy, filthy floor in between the washer and the dryer. It really bugs me when I see my wet skivies on that floor. I think I might have been a little harsh with the boy, but no one likes muddy undies. I told him to stop what he was doing, because he was making all my clean laundry dirty again and he would just have to wait until I finished moving my own clothes. And as I reached into the washer there it was... the wallet. Sitting ever so neatly on a pile of wet clothes. Credit cards, license and even the tap dance card were all in their correct places. That's when my fear and anger for imaginary pick-pocketer (and all of society in general) subsided and I started to feel regret about how I had approached the young lad. I finished loading the dryer and said "okay, all set, it's all yours, sorry I took so long." What made me feel especially bad was when I looked over to address the boy I noticed that he had retreated to the corner to look at his shoes until I was done with the washer.

I would like to take some time to publicly apologize to the following people:

The boy who would have rather been watching cartoons on Saturday morning instead of getting scolded by crazy wallet-washing woman while trying to do laundry for his family.

My Mom, for calling you just to tell you that I lost my wallet. For some reason I still think you should be able to fix these sort of things.

Alex, because I yelled at you for not looking hard enough for MY lost wallet. I know that's not your job, and I have no business yelling at you. ever.

And last, but not least, the imaginary pick-pocketer. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions.


more stories of our actual road trip to follow.....

the invented demise of Zachary

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the death of my cat. Which is pretty pathetic, because he hasn't died yet, nor does he show signs of doing so anytime soon. For some reason I just wander to an ugly place in my mind about 4 to 5 times a day and think about how sad it will be when my cat does actually die. I know that he can't live forever, and he's getting kind of old, so I'm just trying to be realistic about it, because it will happen...someday. Sure he's healthy and acting normal, but I have to pick something to worry about on a daily/weekly/monthly basis and this is my new senseless anxiety for the month. I think the main reason I needlessly obsess about this future event is because I never had a pet as a child and I am somehow trying to prepare myself for the mental blow of losing a cat that I've grown so fond of. Somehow I feel that if I picture in my mind's eye what it's like to come home and find an ailing or dead cat I'll be able to deal with it better. When deep down inside I know that there is no preparation for dealing with death; it's just one of those things you can't practice for, but that hasn't changed my behavior.

Rational me, I'd like you to meet crazy me, hope you two can live together.

I give it another week and then I'll find something as equally as unintelligent to worry about.

And for the record, I don't want to be a liar. Technically, I did have pets as a kid... My sister and I had two goldfish that we kept in a giant brandy snifter. Their names were Tom and Miles (named after friends of our mother, one was heavy and the other thin, just like the real Tom and Miles) and they lived a long, and perhaps meaningful, life on the dining room table. I don't remember exactly how long we had them, but I do remember that we came home from school one day and there was the snifter, still in the middle of the dining room table, but empty. No water. Not even a note. I know that my sister and I each owned one of the fish, and to this day I wonder if only one of them died, but not wanting anyone to feel slighted, my mom flushed both. I also remember being a complete drama queen about not having the chance to say goodbye and give my fine finned friends a proper burial, even though we lived in an apartment and had no yard.
We also had gerbils. I don't remember too much about them, I don't even remember their names. I do however recall that they had a pretty kick ass habitral (though nothing compared to these)and that they ate their babies, or maybe they ate each other, it's a little blurry when it comes to who was eating who. And they escaped right before we left for Disneyland, raising some questions of if we would find them before we had to be at the airport. We sometimes would let them run around in the bathtub... lots of fun to watch them try to escape to freedom by attempting to scale the tub walls with those scratchy little claws. I don't even remember how or when we got rid of them. Maybe they just fought each other to the death.
During undergrad I went into my "I'm cool and alternative" phase which led to ownership of a pet snake, who I promptly gave away to a grade school when she got big enough to eat rats. And lets not forget the impulse purchase of fish and a 12 gallon tank. I moved 3 times with that damn tank, those fish just wouldn't give up. Eventually they all died within 3 days when two new diseased fish were introduced to the pristine tank.

I don't remember being too devastated while saying goodbye to any of the pets listed above. Except maybe No-Legs-McGraw, who was a cutie little orange fish who I had for about 5 years. I liked him a lot, but he was hard to hug or cuddle with on the couch, I can't say we ever bonded. When I think of how downhearted I got while flushing my old friend No-Legs I can't help but think how devistating this whole cat death thing is going to be.

So I suppose instead of wasting more of my time writing about how much I'll miss him one day I'll go squish that big-eyed cat and enjoy him while he's around. if only he would come out from underneath the bed.

back to the grind of the day to day work. The big ol' project is over and I can finally sit at my desk without grinding my teeth every time I hear the phone ring or the bing of an email alert. I actually opened my sunroof on the drive in today and enjoyed the smell as I drove past the bread factory.

Last week was all about four days in San Diego, one starting at 3am. We only saw the sun on the last day. Which we didn't much care about anyways because we were all working on about 4 hours of sleep. for the entire weekend.

Since the past two weeks were so consumed by work I can honestly say I didn't enjoy my birthday as much as I wanted to, but Alex had a small dinner party for me the Friday before my birthday and I had dinner at my favorite restaurant with other friends on my actual birthday. Even though thoughts of the work project kept gnawing in the back of my head I had a nice time at both events, I got to spend time with almost all my friends and eat some pretty great food. It was, however, a little frightening when I realized that the older I get the role of food on my birthday becomes more and more prominent and inevitable. Come to think of it, my coworkers took me out to lunch for my b-day as well, and while there we having lunch we discussed what food I would be partaking of that evening. I am having trouble buttoning some of my pants this week.

I also had a life changing experience; I received TiVo as a gift. TV will never be the same for me. Alex knew exactly what I wanted (because I told him everyday for about a month) and now he is officially an enabler to my addiction. I could go on and on about my new pal TiVo and all the fun we're having, but I think I can sum it up like this: pair my brazen love for TV with my enthusiasm for efficiency. Words cannot describe the bliss. Coaxed by TiVo and it's ability to CHOOSE SHOWS FOR ME I may confront some bad decisions as far as reality TV is concerned, but I somehow feel justified in my zeal because I can skip over commercials.

please don't judge us. TiVo and I think we can make this thing last.

my confession

oh no. now where am I going to get 7oz. of fries?

I've been working on the project from Hell for the past 3 weeks, which turned into the micro-managed project from Hell yesterday. So when I get home at night I don't really feel like doing anything constructive because I'm spending most of my time in a fetal position in the corner rocking myself back to a calm state. This project will be over in just 2 more excruciating weeks and I will be able to continue with my life, return phone calls, enjoy a meal, frolic through fields...

I have, however, managed to squeeze some reality TV in there though. Isn't there always time for that? And now here's the part where I confess.

Please forgive me. I watched the first episode of Forever Eden. A reality show without an end. 11 people who I would never want to meet. 11 idiots hanging out on a beach, at a pool, in a private resort... never without a drink on hand. I should have been tipped off by the bad logo they use of the snake with gigantic fangs twisting around the apple. Even the theme song that opens the show is terrible. There is no reason for anyone to watch this show, ever. If you feel compelled to read about it, this is pretty good.

So to save anyone else the pain of watching this show - Forever Eden is boring, slow, poorly edited and the cast is so dumb that when bad things start a-brewin' someone actually said "...and that's just the tip of the cherry." yeah.

Old Navy whore

I get to wear jeans to work everyday, which I think is pretty rad, but right now my three pairs are in a sad state. One pair has a ripped belt loop, an unfortunate by-product of me pulling them up with too much gusto. Another pair ripped at the seams right near the calf, no explanation for that one. And the last pair has a hole in the back pocket from my manly wallet. After summing all that up and realizing that I look like a big ol' slob I figured it was time to do some shopping. And since I've been called the official Old Navy whore more than once I gave in; there's nothing like a trip to the ON when cash flow is low.

The problem with Old Navy is the same reason that it's so swell... it's friggin cheap. Not just inexpensive, but also not the best quality. Mom always said you get what you pay for, that's why I'm never surprised when that thread I pull on actually makes the hem in the sleeve fall out, or when I realize the side seam actually does make the shirt twist in unflattering ways, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. The problem that always irks me though is the size of the pants, so inconsistent. My sister had a good point; they cut all the jeans in a stack, so inevitably the top pair will be a much more snug fit than the one in the bottom of the pile of 20. (Now I'm starting to feel morally obligated to consider the slave labor it probably took to make these pants and I feel a little guilty for shopping there.)
At Old Navy I can be as thin or as fat as I want to be... depending on the luck of the draw... I can fit into jeans that range 4 sizes. And once I find a pair I like I know it's impossible to buy more than one of the same thing, because the next pair I pick up of the same size probably won't even get over my thighs. And, yes, I know that this should not even be a consideration, because apparently it is very un-hip to buy in bulk. If buying two of the same kind of jeans in one purchase is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
I recently had an extremely unsuccessful trip to Old Navy, maybe the first time I've left empty handed. I must have tried on 12 pairs of jeans, none of which fit me. What was even more annoying than the jeans, however, was this eight year old boy who was clearly not in his element, being ignored by his mother and older sister. To clarify, the boy was not annoying, the ignoring of the boy is what got to me. I can't blame the boy, even I get bored in Old Navy, and I have a mission when I get in there. He just kept popping up wherever I wanted to go. I tried on a jacket and when I found a mirror to see how it looked, there he was, against the mirror as if the cops were ready to frisk him. He was looking at himself with one eye right up against the mirror and then began to lick it. Disturbing. Apparently I was the only one who noticed this. I went to grab more jeans that I had no chance of fitting into, and there he was again, thrusting his arms into a stack of denim and imitating a fork lift. Only I noticed when the pile of jeans ended up on the floor. He ran. I was waiting in line for the dressing room, there he was yet again, running in circles with an unopened bag of Cheetos. Who was he with anyways? Then the answer was clear...
He was with the woman who couldn't find her daughter, and in her quest thought it appropriate to jam her head over the top of every changing stall to see which one contained her offspring. I was not amused. Every time she violated someone's privacy she would cackle and say "oh, yooooou're nooooot her!" I luckily made it in after she had done her rounds.
I finally got in there and as I wondered why I even bother to try on any of these clothes, I heard the pitter-patter of the wayward eight year old followed by a loud POP. It was the bag of Cheetos... the time had come, he was hungry. Unfortunately the luck of the bag was not with him tonight, because right after the pop came a shower of Cheetos, right underneath my dressing room stall door. I looked down and saw the floor littered with his delicious fried snack. I felt sad for the little guy, because, gosh darn it, these were his Cheetos, his last chance to chase away the boredom. What happened next made me realize that there is nothing that can come between an eight year old and his Cheetos. No sooner had those crispy orange bits landed under my door than a tiny hand began to search for them, feeling his way from Cheeto to Cheeto. He didn't try to scoop them all up at once, what he did was downright dainty. First he got the ones closest to him, clearly a little shy about reaching under the stall, using only his thumb and pointer finger. One at a time, a Cheeto would disappear, immediately followed by some crunching. He got a little more bold with each morsel, it wasn't long before he almost reached my feet. It was as if the floor of my stall had become a buffet table. I first thought that I should grab his hand and say "gotcha! You shouldn't have your hands in other people's stalls. And by the way this floor is filthy, don't eat those" But then I realized that he had probably witnessed his mother feeling free and easy to look into any stall she felt like, so why should he stop? I also realized I was sans pants at this moment, so that probably wasn't the best time to address the boy. Then I figured that I might help him out a little and scoot all the tasty bits a little closer to his hands, but that would just make me an enabler. So instead I just pushed all the Cheetos to the furthest corner of the stall because he really shouldn't eat those things off the floor. He grabbed as many as he could, and finally gave up. I heard him root around the almost empty bag for any remaining tidbits.
When I exited the stall there he was just sitting there, like a prisoner of Old Navy, defeated, Cheetoless. As I gave the attendant the mound of clothes that would never fit me, I looked back. Just as I suspected, he lost no time getting into the deserted stall, foraging in the corners, desperate to find all the orange stragglers. His mother and sister down the end of the dressing room, fighting about how tight those pants looked.
See, Old Navy clothes don't really fit anyone.

a day trip to San Diego for work does not a vacation make

I started my day with a healthy sized panic attack so my head would hurt just right for an hour flight and an all day outing at a beach (scouting a location). It ended pretty well, with a sunburn on my nose and a seat in first class, compliments of my "feeling sorry for me" boss. Usually work doesn't stress me out this much, but today just pushed me over the edge and I kind of lost it. Phone calls to my sister and mother, pre-boarding the migraine flight, helped to take the edge off, but on a scale of 1 - 10 I give this day a 2.
I guess not having control over where I want to live or what I want to do for a living have worn me down to an emotional pulp that led to a sob fest in the ladies room at SFO... at 7:23am. It's been a long time coming and putting on a happy face just didn't fit into my repertoire today, come to think of it, it hasn't fit any time in the past 2 weeks.
By the end of the day I gained some sort of control over my private emotional outbursts and I was able to be quite productive. I never shed a tear or shouted at any of my co-workers, but now I'm left wondering when my next breakdown will be and how I will handle it. Chances are I'll take it out on Alex, which is the worst because he was really the coolest today. He gave me rides to and from the airport, when he really should have been studying for a mid-term. He also got me dinner and understands that I'm going to have to watch crappy reality TV without him tonight and that I'll probably blab about it before he even gets a chance to watch the tapes.
So now I will go and eat my fatty-fatty-fat-fat burger and fries and numb my brain with the wonders of television. I also got a package from my sister (I get one every month) with lots of fun things, including my tiara that she borrowed. I think will put my tiara on and pretend I am princess of my couch.
There, I feel better already.

10 things that made me look like an ass

Stress from my job is setting in, the insomnia caused by the stress is catching up with me. And while I know I'm not supposed to lie in bed thinking about why I can't sleep I lack the energy to actually get up and do stuff. When it's 3am nothing really seems appealing. Reading isn't fun and cooking is just out of the question. Knitting is okay, but then I have to turn the TV on. Before I know it, one crappy Lifetime movie rolls into something equally as mind numbing on the Oxygen network and I can't seem to surrender to the exhaustion within. So between the hours of 3am and 5am I've resorted to thinking of how I would design my dream home . I have had some very excellent ideas, most of which I forgot immediately.
Since I've been kind of like a walking zombie for the past week I've done some interesting things during the hours that I am supposed to be "functional":

* used the key fob for my car to open a door in the office, then walked into door, perplexed at why it didn't open.
* spilled coffee from travel mug down both sides of my mouth. while the coffee was running down my face onto my shirt I was thinking "Why won't that stop?", without ever moving the cup.
* attempted to spit chewed gum into a wrapper while driving. Missed. Then, while still driving, tried to clean gum off seats of new car, only making it worse.
* listened to an entire song by Hootie and the Blowfish
* got out of the shower, realized I forgot to wash my hair, got back in the shower to wash my hair, then couldn't remember why I was in the shower again.
* put wallet in back pocket and then spent the next 25 minutes freaking out about where I could have lost my wallet.
* carved a face on my lunch kiwi with a plastic knife and then became attached to it, vowing I would never eat it.
* had overwhelming and inexplicable paranoia that every car in the lane to the right of me was about to swerve into my lane.
* sang along with a Sugar Ray song.
* realized that the pen I was holding in my teeth was the one I picked up in the conference room.

Because of all the things listed above (and you bet there were more) I was deathly afraid of my tap class last night. If I was as bad as I was last week (as you can read below) - pre Hootie and the Blowfish episode - what would happen this week? Then when I walked in and realized I was half the class I almost had an anxiety attack. As it turns out I do much better in a smaller group and no one had to fear the return of Frankentap (name courtesy of Wil).

frankentap

I thought a lot about the whole boob thing yesterday and all the things I wanted to say about it. But then I realized that everyone thought about it and everything that's going to be said has been said. So now everyone is over the incident, especially me. I think I was over the whole thing after we watched it for the 11th time (in slow motion) on TiVo (courtesy of Max and Julianne). About 4 times of watching the "wardrobe mishap" cleared up how intentional the act was, around time number 6 it had lost it's novelty and shock value and I would say that sometime around # 8 is when depression set in.
11 really pushed the envelope, but we had to be sure. Of what? I don't know.
Everyone at work had it pictures up on their monitors within 20 minutes of their arrival on Monday morning. Not me though, I was extremely busy... not only did I have to change my desk calendar but there was a wall calendar that needed my attention as well.


Last night I had my worst tap class ever. I don't know what happened, but there were definitely a few moments where I thought I might have to run out of the room in sheer panic. The first thing that threw me off was my embarrassing rendition of a stamp within the first 3 minutes of class. It's pretty obvious what it should be, you just put your foot down ... keeping your ankles loose, let your heel fall first. easy, like walking. Easy until the teacher said "think Frankenstien". Apparently I thought about him a little too much and tried some bad method acting to actually be Frankenstien. Picture this: a bunch of people watching me walk across a dance studio as if brooms were shoved up each of my pant legs. Add a puzzled look on my face which is slowly turning red. Is what you picture starting to look like me being a really big ass in front of the rest of the class? Swell, then you've got the idea. I stomped across the floor wondering why I felt so stupid, until the teacher laughed while telling me to not forget to bend my knees. If my memory serves me correctly (and I might be exaggerating a little here) I had my arms straight out like a fucking zombie and my eyes looked like something out of the Thriller video. And then I shouted "aaaaggghhhhh..... frieeeeend.....frieeeeend!" scaring all the small children in the karate class next door, sending parents into a frenzy with torches to chase me from the village.

My confidence was pretty much shot after that.

He singled us out for some exercises which resulted in me further making an ass of myself. At one point I just walked over to the corner and said "I'm out". I think everyone breathed a sigh of relief with my retirement; who wants to dance next to a freakin' monster?

reality rundown

Last night I spent some quality time on the couch watching some seriously crappy TV. I felt somewhat justified in doing so because I went to see legitimate theatre on Wednesday. I know that there is really no excuse for watching such drivel as My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance and Newlyweds, but I'm in for the long haul now and there's no stopping me... so please let my one night of theatre justify an entire week of my (what should be) secret shame.

Here are some of the stupid shows I watch and why I watch them:
My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance: This show didn't appeal to me too much when I saw the ads, it was finding out that the obnoxious fiance is actually an actor that got me in a tizzy of viewing. I kind of think that Fox missed the boat on this one by letting us in on the actor secret so soon. It would have been just as funny if we hadn't found out he was in on the whole joke until halfway through, then they could have re-aired the first few episodes and people would probably watch them again; now feeling smarter than the duped bride-to-be. Best part: watching Randi (the bride) squirm whenever Steve lets out that crazy yelp of a laugh and stares at her a little too long. Worst part: the host's eyebrows. She makes Phyllis Diller look like a make-up genius. I'm not committed to this show, but I adore a good improv actor.

Most Extreme Elimination Challenge: Take a wacky Japanese game show and don't translate it to English, just make up your own crap! Throw in a few fart jokes, references to alcohol and/or drugs and plenty of sexual innuendos and voila!, you've got a show for custom made for SpikeTV. MEEC is so low brow that it appealed to me (and Alex) on a whole new level. Apparently it's been around for awhile but it wasn't until last night that my desperate channel surfing brought me to it. If the voiceovers from the Iron Chef ever make you giggle then you're gonna love this. Here's a review if I've you're wanting more info. Best part: the voiceovers, it's so well written. Worst part: I got a little overwhelmed by the scatological humor a few times. I'm not sure if I'll watch this show again on purpose, but it was a good find while flipping.

Newlyweds: It's just plain amusing. Whoever edits this show is a genius. Best part: the pure goofiness of Jessica Simpson. Worst part: realizing that a 23 year old woman spends more on her husband's birthday than I make in a year. I'll probably watch the whole season of this show... how can I not, it occupies every other time slot on MTV.

The Apprentice: I think that Mark Burnett is pretty darn smart, I've been thinking it ever since I fell madly in love with Survivor. I thought it was brilliant that he took some of the best elements of Survivor but then gave Donald Trump (and the other producers) the power to keep the people that otherwise would have been voted off by peers. I was more into this show for the first two episodes, it's losing it's charm as of late. The women use their sex appeal for each challenge and frankly I find it degrading... but then I have to punch myself in the arm and say "It's freakin' reality TV! Don't be an idiot." There are some interesting people on this one and there's nothing more fun than watching people crack under pressure. I'm really missing this geek who got booted last week. Best part: Donald Trump's hair. Worst part: the whorish women. I'll tune in for next week's episode, but if I see one more belly button from any of those women while they're "working", I'm out.

American Idol: This show is a winner, especially for those with a short attention span. I don't think there's any reason for me to go further into this because let's face it... everyone has seen at least a commercial for this show... you get the jist. Best part: the desperation of the contestants. Worst part: I can't keep up with Paula Abdul's hair. I missed a lot of this season. How can I keep up when it's on every friggin night? Once they whittle it down to 10 I'm in. But once they get the group small enough so every contestant sings two songs it's all about the fast forward button.

There are more, but I'm starting to feel embarrassed. However, I will proudly add that I am skipping the Bachelorette this season and I've never watched Temptation Island. And of course I can't leave Survivor now, it's the All Star edition, that's a really bad time for me to go cold turkey.

I'm not trying to sell anyone on watching this stuff. I figure this is my chance to justify and confess for my sad, sad addiction. I try to believe that if I have an opinion and coherent thoughts about these reality shows then I must still be a smart person.... right?

I just went into the lunch room here at work to get some gum and the television was on. It was tuned to Animal Planet but I didn't look up at it until I heard "sensuous slugs". There on the screen were two slugs mating. Not only had I never, ever given any thought to how this activity would happen, I am now forced to think about how inappropriate it was to watch that sort of thing at work.

my unavoidable fear of new things

Driving, driving, driving. I feel like ever since I moved to the Bay Area all I do is drive. I should have felt like that in LA, but I have to honestly say that I think the traffic up here is worse. Maybe it's worse because I want it to be better. I admit that having a new car really improves the quality of my time driving, but I still would rather not spend 2 hours a day behind the wheel of a car, no matter what car it is. We've had the Matrix for a week and it already has over 500 miles on it. Seeing the odometer reach that point gave me a slight panic attack, which is silly, because we bought the car so we could drive it. It wasn't until I spoke with my mother on Sunday that I realized where my irrational fear of putting miles on my car came from. I told her I had already put over 400 miles on the car (you always want to keep the numbers lower when talking to Mom. don't ask why). She replied with "Wow, maybe you should start driving the old car again." At first I felt comforted, relieved that someone understood me, but then after letting it sink in I discovered how stupid I must have sounded telling my buddies at work that I don't want to have too many miles on the car. We bought a new car to feel safer and enjoy our time on the road, we bought a new car so we could DRIVE IT. But now my mother was urging me to follow my wacky bliss of keeping new things new and leaving it parked outside the front window to admire every day, maybe take it on some trips to the market... on the weekend.

Instantly I got a picture in my head of:
me turning the chair in the living room to face out the front window, a spectacular view of the parking lot. There I am, in the comfy chair, sipping my morning coffee and wearing an oversized white terry cloth robe while listening to classical music, just staring at the car. I am smiling with only one small corner of my mouth, a coy smile that everyone who owns something shiny and new should have. I finish my coffee, stand up and move closer to the window to gently touch it, as if to say "good morning Matrix", and then get ready for work. As I'm leaving the apartment I lock the front door and turn around swiftly to look at the slickness that is our new car. My hair is windblown and sticks to my pristine lipgloss. I use the key fob to unlock the power doors, a feeling which I have never known before. I smile as I admire the way the sun hits the unscratched black paint and shines through the moonroof. Making sure that the new car still looks new I use the fob and lock the car back up. I walk down the street to my crappy old Saturn and it begins to rain. I scrape my knuckles on the ground as I get into the teal blue dented car. I drive to work trying to listen to the tinny radio over the whine of the engine, thinking about how uncomfortable the 10 year old seats are. I notice the stains on the seat next to me, wondering what the hell they are from. By the time I get to work I have lower back spasms, my hair is disheveled and my clothes are wrinkled... and have holes in them. Smoke pours out of the hood. I stand in the parking lot with tears streaming down my face and mumbling "why? why?" as passerbys stare at me and comment on the weird color of my car.

I can't be that person. I'm going to face my fears. I refuse to be timid about putting miles on the Matrix. As Joanne asked last night while I was driving home (from a kick-ass tap dance class): "Don't you buy a car to put miles on it?" It was the most simply stated question and the answer is pretty clear.
So as I hit 540 miles today it didn't feel so bad.

I do however have this other problem that taunts me Monday - Friday, twice a day. As I'm driving past the Oakland Coliseum there is this giant electronic sign alerting me to the fact that Britney Spears will be performing there ON MY BIRTHDAY. I think it would be fun. But maybe it wouldn't. Would it be? hence my dilemma.

OCD and comic strips

The dude who delivers our paper put a Christmas card with a self addressed envelope in our paper about a week before Christmas. I am ashamed to announce that we never gave him a tip. I know that it's never to late, so I could still send one, but I think we threw the card and envelope away. Maybe I should get up at 5:30 and sit outside to wait for him. At any rate, now I know that it's important to remember to tip because Alex and I used to get the San Francisco Chronicle everyday... even though we only ordered it to come on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. It turned out to be the kind of thing I decided not to call and complain about, although I did have a few days of remorse when I felt guilty enough that I would try to get Alex to call and let the Chronicle know we were ripping them off. Of course I didn't do it myself, I just urged Alex to do it, which he didn't. So we got the paper everyday for almost a year, until right after Christmas. I think the absence of a tip had something to do with it. Maybe he was giving it to us for free on purpose, to get a tip. Or maybe it was the lack of a tip made him look at the records a little closer. Whatever the reason may have been it's just as well that we don't get it everyday, because to be honest, it was an emotional burden for me. When it first started coming I felt a lot of pressure to read the whole thing every day. Then I narrowed it down to where I would at least flip through every page to see if anything caught my eye and read at least 3 stories. I was often late for work. For awhile we became those creepy people who have a stack of articles "we are going to read". So instead of looking like crazy folk with the leaning tower of periodicals I decided that I would just secretly act crazy and have a relationship with the comic page. It was a way to justify my not reading the whole paper on a daily basis, but still feel as though I was taking advantage of this daily opportunity. That's when I realized I have an obsessive compulsive disorder. I had to read all the comics. Even the bad ones. You know what I'm talking about... Hagar the Horrible, Blondie, Dennis the Menace and worst of all Family Circus. It's shameful to admit it, but I read them all, everyday. I would start with the worst ones and end with my favorites. Some days I would try to stop myself and only read the 5 I really like. I would put the paper in the pile to be recycled but before I could leave for work I would have to pull it out of the pile to read the rest. And there it was confirmed, every time, Beetle Bailey was still stupid. Zippy the Pinhead was still beyond my comprehension. For Better or for Worse was predictable, yet I was compelled to see how the story progressed. Hagar will never change, he'll always be that good for nothing Viking with a cranky wife. And none of these were ever funny. Ever. But heaven forbid I leave anyone behind. Get Fuzzy was always the last one to be read, because it's the best. If my eyes wandered over Get Fuzzy at the beginning of my obligation to the comics the whole project was a disaster. If I read the best first what did I have to look forward to? Mr. Boffo? That cartoon can't even rely on half decent animation.
I knew my unhealthy relationship with the comics was supremely ugly when we got back from Christmas vacation and our house sitter had saved all the papers... Alex separated all the comic pages out and put them in chronological order for me. He was an enabler. This was no longer fun, not even a hobby. This was addiction. One paper was too waterlogged to make it in. I'll never know if Garfield happened to be funny on that rainy day. Is that was I was looking for? Something that was usually extremely un-funny to suddenly make my gut bust with hilarity? I think there was something about the predictability about the whole thing that was appealing. Rolling my eyes at the Classic Peanuts was part of my morning routine.
But now I can put it all behind me.

except on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.


to give my props... here are my top 5
Get Fuzzy
Boondocks
Rhymes with Orange
Doonesbury
Bad Reporter

oh shit, did I just buy a car?

I'm not sure what normal people do over a long weekend, but Alex and I fill it up with all sorts of pajama lounging, usually some furniture gets moved around and occasionally some impulse buying takes place on that magical 3rd day. I've never had buyers remorse about these impulse purchases... until this weekend. We weren't messing around; we bought a car.
It's not that we don't need a new car, we actually do need a second car starting this summer. It's just that we went out to look at what was out there. Maybe do a test drive. I never had the intention of sitting down and signing legal documents. Especially because not even 24 hours prior to purchasing this vehicle I assured Alex that there was no way we were even looking at the Matrix... it was too bubbly looking and the t-tiny window in the big butt of the car wasn't something I was interested in. I knew I wanted something hatch back-y or kind of like a wagon, it needed to have a sunroof and be higher off the ground than the Saturn, oh, it also should be under 18,000. Alex again presented the Matrix, and each time I turned my nose up in disgust, how dare he ask again.
Monday morning rolled around and Alex and I were having some eggs and bacon. As I was chewing on that last tasty morsel of crispness I looked out the window and saw a car, it looked pretty interesting, it was a Matrix. And when I say interesting I mean within my price range including the sunroof. I asked Alex if it's a Matrix, even though I knew exactly what is was. I had now officially decided that it's not so bad. Alex confirmed the greatness of this car. I don't know if it was the bacon talking, but within the hour we were at a Toyota dealership.
The first dealership wasn't so great, no one was particularly interested in talking to us. I like the no pressure deal, but I could use a little enthusiasm. Maybe it was obvious that we weren't planning on buying right away, after all, it was our first day of looking and we spewed that line out at anyone who came in our general vicinity. Alex had a chat with one employee and asked him how low he could go on the price. He told us what the dealership had paid for the car and that he couldn't go much lower than what was on the sticker. And so we moved on to the next place. We spoke with Ed, a nice man who confessed to buying his reading glasses without a prescription. We told him what we were interested in and then Alex says "the other dealership said that they could give us that car for X". X was actually the price the last dealership said they bought the car for, but I wasn't going to argue. Alex was either honestly mistaken or he was driving a hard bargain. Either way, I saw a bargain and we weren't even buying today, so who cares? Friendly Ed drove us around to some different lots where they store their cars in search of what we were looking for. At this point I'm wanting to go home and also wanting some lunch, but I'm game so I take the back seat and wonder how long this is going to take. When we got to the second lot we saw this car, sitting all alone, it was just what we wanted. I wondered how he did that, because I didn't see anyone else at the lot. So Alex test drove and I sat up front and played with the stereo. (Yep, it's nice. Okay, can we get some lunch now?) Ed was sitting in the back like a chaperone and scared the crap out of me when he said "so if I could give you the same deal as the other dealer would you buy this today?" Then Alex scared the crap out of me (and the same time delighted me) by saying maybe. We drove the car back to the dealership to "talk about numbers". I called my sister to relieve me from my nervous breakdown and that helped a lot. She told me about a cordless phone that she's sending my way and reminded me that I could walk away from this whole car thing at anytime. I needed that.
When we got to the dealership I let Alex do all the talking. He had nerves of steel and I was hungry. He asked for the car for 500 less than X. That didn't work, but a valiant effort was made. At that point I was ready to bolt, figuring that no bargain was headed our way and it was the perfect excuse to get out of the purchase today. But then Ed came back and told us that he could give us 0%APR and the car would cost X. X... the brilliant X. The next thing I knew I was signing papers with my clammy hands. My scalp was sweating. I couldn't believe I was buying a car. I couldn't believe I didn't eat lunch. We drove away around 5pm in a slick black Matrix with a sunroof and a 6 CD changer.
Of course I woke up at 3am in a panic. Reminiscent of the tattoo freak out of '96, I shook Alex awake and asked him to calm me down. What had we done? "We bought a car that we deserve to have. It's going to be okay."
He's right. Having a new car kicks some serious ass.

Insomnia is a terrible waste of my time... if I could only find a way to make it work to my advantage, it's not like I can start to vacuum or do a sink full of dished between the hours of 1 and 5am. I chalked up one lousy hour of sleep last night and spent the whole day feeling like a crumpled up math test. During the hours I wasn't sleeping I: wrote the entry below, found some cheap airfares, read some other blogs, clipped my toenails, read some articles in the New Yorker, played with my uninterested cat and selfishly tried to have a conversation with Alex who responded with, "the way I picture it is like I'm a little bug flying around your head like this" and then proceeded to use his index finger to draw invisible concentric circles above my forehead. Then he smiled with satisfaction and gently snuggled in to a comfy pose. I really have no idea what he was talking about but it was kind of like the time he was drifting in and out of sleep on a hot summer night and said (unprovoked) "I hate oranges. I hate them. And their white, webby skin."
You can't make that kind of shit up. You have to be in that crazy-like state of half sleep; that time when a pillow is the best damn thing you have ever felt and your sheets are so delicious, no matter how dirty they are. I have insomnia a lot, so it's not very often that I get to experience this most excellent state. However, on Tuesday night of last week Alex was asking me questions while I was falling asleep and I answered one question with "You know, those women won't just dry your clothes for free." I remember feeling slightly confused at my own response, but not concerned enough to stop enjoying the fact that my head had now become one with the sweet, sweet down pillow.
So this week when I couldn't sleep I tried to remember my dreamy haze state and force myself back there, then when that didn't work I would fantasize about TiVo and how handy it would be between the hours of 1 and 5am.

On Wednesday night I went out with Wil; it was back to the scene of the crime... Martuni's. I knew it was time to face my fears and enter said drinking establishment on a school night. The plan was to get something to eat first and then split a drink at the piano bar. We went to Chow and there was a bit of a wait so we ended up next door at the Pilsner while we waited. It was about a half hour before our table was ready so before we even had so much as a nibble we had each had a pint of beer. Feeling counter-productive by the time we got to our table I decided I would order something with mashed potatoes, because surely that would absorb any alcohol. The whole time we were eating I was trying to decide how to break it to Wil that since I already had a pint of beer there was no way we could go to Martuni's. I guess it was something about the mashed potatoes combined with that toasty warm blast from the heat lamps that made me rethink my plan, and after a delicious (and thrifty) dinner we walked down to the sign with the big green neon olive.
There I was again. It actually made me nervous to be in the bar. Wil found a good table pretty close to the piano and I decided I would use the one and only restroom. Surprisingly the layout seemed different than I remembered it from over 4 months ago and I started to laugh while I was in there wondering how stupid I looked that night that I drank 2 of those gargantuan drinks. I got back to the table and Wil ordered 2 glasses of water and a Knob Creek Manhattan. The bartender, Billy, asked if that was just one drink that we wanted. Wil and I both said yes with absolute certainty. Then I started this uncomfortable diatribe about how last time we came here it got ugly and blah, blah, blah... Billy said "I know, they warned me when you came in." Laughs all around. As he walked away to get our drink I noticed the two women sitting in front of us. They were swaying with no certain rhythm and shouting with excitement at each other, were they drunk or what? Please tell me I didn't look that bad the last time I came in here. As they started swing dancing and knocking chairs down behind me I knew that no matter how bad I thought I was on that ill-fated September night these women made me look like a freakin' super star. So Wil and I shared our drink with three extra cherries, listened to some mediocre singers and I am proud to announce that I am now free of the Martuni curse.

It's been awhile... almost a month... since I've written. It takes me awhile to get into the swing of things after the holidays. Alex and I went home and spent time with all the people we wish we could spend a lot more time with. It's always a mixed bag when I go "home" because I'm so happy to see everyone, and then so sad to leave. Bittersweet. Of course there was the obligatory cry-fest at the airport, but Alex told me that everything is going to be okay, and I believe him.

Since I've waited so long to write I think it's best for now to do an informational/observational list of our trip:

* Traveling on Christmas day is actually quite pleasant, unless you were counting on Bayporter to get you to the airport.
* Bayporter does not operate on Christmas day
* Surprising everyone with your mere presence is a great ego booster
* My Mom is an excellent secret keeper
* Nana looks terribly cute in sneakers
* Knitting is more fun when your Mom teaches you how to do stuff
* Atkins banana bread is the worst thing you could ever put in your mouth
* My nephew has the best dimple and can find the baby Jesus on command. He also does a rockin' dance to the ABC song
* Papa Gino's pizza is pretty good
* It's so comforting to have the same best friend for 20 years
* Alex picks out nice desserts
* I can win at least one hand of Texas hold 'em
* Dunkin Donuts beats any other coffee. Don't argue.
* Flights are more pleasant when you are a frequent flyer; if you travel as a couple they block out that 3rd seat in your row
* Christmas is still my favorite holiday

In the grand scale of the cosmos I'm not really sure what this means... but I feel that it's worth mentioning.

Last night my Dad (who passed away in 1996) came to me in a dream. He wanted to let me know that I should check all items in my house with an expiration date and make sure I throw away anything that had expired. He pulled out some old make-up and showed me that I shouldn't use it because it "went bad" in May. He then proceeded to open it, smell it, and throw it away.

I think we can all take a little something away from this. I tend to think that my Dad must be fairly serious about this, because he also came to me in a dream about a year ago to ask me if I had theft insurance on my car. Two weeks later my car was stolen. So heed the warning of this dream if you wish; perhaps it was advice meant only for me, but I figured, what the heck, it's the holiday season and I should share this wealth of knowledge.

Christmas time is always a little hectic, when I try to finish up those final details at the last minute everything else in my life seems to fall to pieces. I can't return phone calls, there's a mountain of clothes on the floor near the bed and periodicals just pile up. Last night I hit a breaking point. Too much to do and tired, Alex and I decided to go to the McDonald's drive through on our way home. I try not to eat there, but sometimes I just have to give in. I think the last time I had McDonald's food was in the summer of 2001, so I can sort of forgive myself. I also figured that they finally started putting chicken... I mean, white meat..... in the McNuggets, so I figured I would give it a go. We got to the drive through and realized we had 8 bucks, plenty. We got a #5 (all new white meat Nuggets), super sized (to share the drink and the fries) and a double cheeseburger.

The following are the things that astounded me as we ordered: A double cheeseburger is a dollar. You can get your meal regular, large or super sized. There are 3 kinds of chicken sandwiches to choose from.

We waited a while and finally got to the window where the guy told us we owed 4 dollars and some change. Hey, wait, that's too cheap. What did he think we ordered? A number 5 and 2 apple pies. That's when I realized that "super size" kind of sounds like "apple pies". Alex told him what we were supposed to be having and the guy says "Sorry, we're out of apple pies." A mediator steps in and starts yelling at window guy accusing him of deleting the order, he takes out a sheet of paper and taps it a lot while telling him "this is what this car was supposed to have", blah, blah, blah. Mediator man was actually pretty firm with window guy and told him to do a better job and pay more attention. Window guy apologized to mediator man (but between you and me, it didn't sound very sincere). Window guy took our money (6 and some change) proceeded to fill the bag and hand it over.

Here's what blew me away when we got our food: the size of a super sized drink. It's not a cup, it's a bucket. I can't even begin to imagine drinking that much of anything at one sitting. I don't even know why they make cups so big.

Then, I believe in an act of defiance, window guy gave us 2 sauces for the McNuggets. The sign on the window clearly states that you only get 1 sauce with a 6 pc. McNugget. That's when I knew that window guy was not really sorry for not paying more attention.

When we got home we unpacked the bag and there at the bottom was an apple pie.

I can't remember when I last went to a Toys R Us (I just hate giving my money to a big crappy toy store like that...), and if I had remembered how visually assaulting it was I probably would have not set foot in one again. I felt like I was dizzy from the moment the doors closed behind me, but I was on a mission to find the Ocean Wonders Fishbowl and I had come to far to stop now. The two sets of drums being used by toddlers at the doorway forced me into the store quickly. To escape the noise I noticed I could either go into the depths of the store or to the exit, which you can only get to by going through the depths of the store and back again. I didn't see anyone who seemed to be on staff (except the cashiers near the drums), so I was on my own. I looked up to see if there were signs above the aisles and that's when I realized there really weren't any aisles in this store, it's kind of broken up into sections, and it took me a while to catch on. I finally figured out the following: the pinker it got I was in a section of toys intended to be used by girls. If things started to talk to me and ask me to press them I was in the pre-school section. And if things had wheels and made loud noises I was in the toys intended for boys section. All I wanted was the fishbowl, there was no fishbowl section. After walking around in a giant circle for about 20 minutes I found the clothes and bottles and thought "if this stuff is for little bitty babies maybe the little bitty baby toys would be here too" and lo and behold there was an aisle, yes an actual aisle, of Fisher Price toys for kids 6 months to 2 years. Ahhhh. And the Fishbowl. There it is was. I did have to wait in line by the drums, but once I found what I wanted the drums and the kids banging them didn't seem that bad. However, the pink section will always remain bad.

by the way... I got the pie recipe from a cookbook, thinking it was all exclusive and fancy pants. But much like everything else, you can find it on the internet. Here's the recipe. Don't look at it if you ate the pie, because you'll never want to eat it again.

I ended up making three of those chocolate peanut butter pies... they were a hit, and somehow they got renamed "crack pie". We even took one down to LA with us, and because of Alex's handy work with a cooler, that pie stayed firm and in once piece overnight and through 8 hours of driving down the 5.
We drove halfway down to LA on Wednesday night and stayed in a hotel pretty close to Harris Ranch. Seemed like a good idea in theory, but if you've ever driven between LA and the Bay Area you know how bad that ranch can smell. If you haven't driven past there just picture miles and miles of cows all bunched up together in a mound of filth, there, now you've got it. I never knew it was possible for an entire town to smell like that or that town would be able to survive so close to such a huge number of cattle. We didn't realize we were surrounded by stench until we got into the center of Hanford and tried to find the hotel. Alex was driving and I was navigating, a disaster indeed. I got us all over the place except to the hotel. We agreed that we should switch it up and I would drive while Alex (not directionally challenged, like myself) read the map. At this point we opened our doors and I had to look around because I thought I was standing right next to a port-a-potty. It was bad. Possibly the worst smell I could imagine for such a cute little town. I figured it was just that street, must be something bad with the sewers... but then we got the hotel. different street, same smell. The room kept us pretty safe from the odor, but by morning I was pretty aware that cows outnumbered humans in this county and I was ready to go. We had a pretty pleasant drive the rest of the way and spent a nice Thanksgiving with Beret, Rob and little Jack.
On Friday we took Jack on his first Merry-Go-Round ride, his expression was a combination of confusion and terror, but never once did he cry. He's one tough cookie, and that's part of the reason we love him so much. We also had some fun in the playground (a very cool Universally Accessible Play Environment) there, which I had never been to before. It was crowded, but I thought it was really cool to see all sorts of families together... except for the parents on the cell phones, that was kind of sad to watch. Besides taking Jack to the park we relaxed a lot and ate too much. We headed back up to the Bay Area on Saturday and avoided some of the holiday traffic. I must admit that since I spend an average of 15 hours a week in the car (since I started working in San Mateo) I was feeling pretty irritated by 6pm on Saturday night. We made it home safe and sound and are currently suffering from massive head colds. I'm not sure if we're quite ready for further holiday festivities. Good thing we have 19 more days to recover.

In my ambition to be more domestically creative I attempted to make a peanut butter chocolate pie Sunday night. It struck me that I should do this at around 10pm, and since I already had all the ingredients I decided to go for it. Who needs to get to bed early when you have pie?
This pie took me about 2 hours to make. It really shouldn't have taken that long, but the list of wacky things wasted my time included items such as: trying to use a tinfoil cake pan instead of a pie pan, beating heavy cream by hand instead of using the electric mixer, and making crumbs from graham crackers in the blender. I like to call it ghetto cooking, where I follow the directions to a point, but then I kind of do things my own way, which I always think is the quick and dirty way to do it, but it actually takes me longer and inevitably makes whatever I'm making look kind of crappy. I haven't tasted the pie yet, but Alex and many of my co-workers have and assure me that it is delicious. Although I haven't eaten an actual piece I probably ingested about 3000 calories of raw ingredients while I was making it. The contents of the pie go a little something like this - some graham crackers, lots of butter, tons of sugar, peanut butter, cream cheese, chocolate and an obscene amount of heavy whipping cream. Watch everyone get sick from it tonight and come and kick my ass tomorrow. Oh well. I have to make 2 more tonight for Thanksgiving. That will make it virtually impossible for me to ever eat a slice because I'll be thoroughly disgusted by the idea of this pie by around 9:00 tonight. Weight loss by cooking... look out Dr. Phil, I may have a new plan.

I've been struggling with insomnia lately, and sadly I turn to my fine friend - TV (accompanied by cheap cable) for comfort. Unfortunately the only things I can find on TV right now are Michael Jackson and Britney Spears. Disappointing, to say the least. Entertaining? Hardly. I was amused with Britney for a while, but now it's just sad. I begrudgingly admit that I watched the Diane Sawyer interview. It was terrible. Diane asked "This has been a hard year for you, hasn't it?" Britney responded with a yeah and a lip tremble, which turned into "ewwww" (for the 10th million time in the interview) and began to cry. She then asked them to shut the cameras off because it embarrassed her. Could it have embarrassed her more than the wig she wore to kick off the football season? that thing was bad. I've decided to not watch anymore crap about Britney, if I can help it, but I did read this hi-larious review in yesterday's paper.
While not being able to sleep I've acquainted myself with some music videos, since MTV and VH1 actually do play videos... between 2 and 4 am. Right now I'm digging on Beyonce's Baby Boy. Especially because that little modern dance break down in the middle of the song where she throws a bunch of sand down her bikini top. I can't say I understand why she did it, but it makes me laugh every time.
I also took a little time to get to know the Clay Aiken video. I watched it twice, I think that should do it. It's one of those videos where he has a stage in the middle of LA, and as he sings his totally awesome song people gather all around his stage... to enjoy his way cool image. My favorite part is the heavy metal looking dude kind of watching Clay, and then kind of looking away, like he knows he shouldn't be watching Clay. I think we can all relate to that, especially once you have watched the video (and admitted it to everyone).

Things finally feel like they are starting to turn around for me. We got the car back. I have the possibility of a pretty kick ass job lined up. Zach the cat is cuter than ever. I started a tap class on Monday. I fit into most of my pants. Life is pretty good.
I've been in a great mood this week (despite some bouts with insomnia) and even though I constantly find a stream of ants coming out of some random places in my kitchen I don't want to run away screaming. Zach woke us up at 3am to let us know that his bowl was pulsing with ants on Wednesday morning. I must say that he is one smart cat, he really knows how to send a message out when he wants me out of bed, I got the full treatment - everything from forehead licking to a meaningful dance on the ribs. However, I started to wonder how smart he really was when I finally got up to see what he wanted and he runs to his food bowl and sticks his giant noggin in there and starts chowing down on food covered with ants. If it didn't bother him enough to get him to stop eating it then why did he get me up? Maybe he was making a statement "I'll eat this if I have to, see what you put me through?" Or maybe he's been watching too much Fear Factor and wanted to show me he's game for a reality TV show. At any rate it helped us to stop the ants before they got to the people food, so thanks Zach, for a job well done!
While driving home on Tuesday I found a new (crappy) radio station, that was playing holiday music. Apparently they started this at the beginning of November and will continue through the holidays. I thought to myself - what kind of psycho would listen to this now? it's not even December yet. As I pulled into my parking spot after an hour drive home the answer to my question was pretty clear. I am the psycho. I guess there is something comforting about Christmas music for me, kind of like a big plate of macaroni and cheese or mashed potatoes. It means that I'll most likely be getting some gifts soon, and who doesn't like that? I'll probably get some Christmas cards from friends I haven't heard from in a while. But I think above all I like holiday music because I know all the words and I can sing along. Nothing makes time fly on an hour commute like crooning with Bing Crosby and Dean Martin. I know this isn't for everyone, but if you're feeling kind of down, especially at work, you might want to give some thought to a little holiday tune. And if it doesn't work for you perhaps you can take pleasure in knowing that you have annoyed others in your immediate vicinity....

Writing about cars. Never thought it would come to that. But I think I'm past it now, it's all over. I got the Saturn back and it's driving better than ever. Back to the same old low ridin', teal, stained seat form of transportation and happy to be there. Alex replaced all the inside panels with a successful trip to two different Pick and Pulls, he even found them in the same color. He also bought a new club (number 3) and I use it EVERY TIME. People at work make fun of me, but that's okay, because I bet they haven't had their car stolen, twice. I'll take the good natured ribbing to be able to have the chance to run my own piece of crap into the ground.
This weekend Alex and I, along with RM and Greg went to Spike & Mike's Sick and Twisted Festival of Animation. Not really as good as the last time I went, which was probably about 7 or 8 years ago. A lot of low brow stuff repeated over and over and I couldn't really understand why everyone was laughing. Lest you think I am trying to be all high falootin', please understand that I appreciate potty humor as much as the next guy, but I have to draw the line somewhere. At least we went to the Parkway to see it so we had pizza, nachos and beer to amuse us when the cartoons were lame. RM actually fell asleep for the last 15 or 20 minutes and was not too sad about catching a little shut eye. We also had a drink before the movie at Baggy's By the Lake, which is now Alex's favorite bar. Julianne showed it to me when we saw the less than stellar My Big Fat Greek Wedding. So it seems to me that the formula is: bad movie at Parkway + drink at Baggy's= okay evening, because at least we had a drink at Baggy's.
The rest of the weekend was pretty much about a fuzzy blue and gray scarf that I'm working on. I put some really crappy TV and bad Netflix movies on and made a dent in the couch while knitting away. There's something very rewarding about making stuff. It's neat that you can teach yourself to knit from a book (and help from Rachel) and then have a product to show for your efforts just weeks later. Unlike exercise the gratification is almost instant and everyone seems to notice how much progress you've made. Also, a scarf always fits, no matter how much weight you gain.

Is it wrong to like being behind the wheel of an SUV? Is it bad to feel empowered for having a height advantage? I'm feeling guilty for my new found love of bigger cars. Perhaps it's only temporary, a crush, puppy love. I noticed while driving my new rental (a Ford Escape) over the vast San Mateo Bridge that I am now part of a special group. I like to call it the "we are better than all the cars lower than us. ha ha ha!" group. I didn't want this car, I didn't ask for this car, but now I'm driving it.
We had the Saturn back for one day. For one day everything was back to normal, but I knew it was too good to be true, especially when I gave the car a little gas on my way to work and it felt like I ran over a giant rock or someone hit me from behind. I was driving on the 880 and I gave Alex a call (over the scream of the Saturn engine) to tell him I missed the Grand Prix. Maybe the car understood what I was saying. Maybe the universe didn't want me to love a white guido-mobile. Whatever it was, the car started bucking, it felt like it was going to stall at any given moment. I became an instant basket case. Anyone who has ever driven with me can vouch for this; I'm a nervous driver to begin with. White knuckles come with the territory. An upset stomach while driving through personally unchartered land is par for the course. The questions started reeling in my head... Where am I going to pull over when I stall out on the bridge? How many cars will rear end me when I stall out at the toll booth? You know, typical nervous driver questions, because it's always best to prepare for the worst, or at least make yourself sick about it. That's the way my family taught me to do things. It goes a little something like this: you make yourself crazy with worry because then if things turn out okay you feel great. If things were sort of bad then they could have been worse. And if things turn out the way you dreaded at least you were prepared. I'm not saying this is rational behavior, I'm just letting you in on the old family secret of working yourself into an unnecessary frenzy.
I made it to work safely with a dry mouth and nausea. I decided not to think about the car again until I was going to leave for the night. 5:30 came around and I took a deep breath and got into the drivers seat. Smooth sailing for the first 2 miles and then the rest of the ride home resembled a rodeo. I drove in the slow lane, with my hazard lights on as trucks passed me. Humiliating.
I took the Saturn back this morning, and after an extremely uncomfortable 25 minutes of driving around with a mechanic waiting for the bucking thing to happen while he was driving (it mildly happened once and I became that crazy high maintenance lady shrieking "There! There it is! That's it! Did you feel it?!") he told me the car needed a tune up. I told him that he should fix it because this never happened before the car was stolen. It went back and forth for awhile, but once the gals in the office chimed in it worked out to my advantage. They called the rental car people for me and a nice guy named Cornell picked me up from the auto body shop. He liked to talk and ask questions and said "dang" a lot. I liked him. He drove me to the Enterprise and gave me this small SUV.
So now I'm back to where I was a month ago, except this time I have an even bigger car. And I have to admit that after driving around in a car that practically scrapes the asphalt (yeah, that's right, I'm talking about you Saturn) it's kind of nice to be up there with the elite force. I know, I'm taking it back tomorrow, so get off my case, okay?

Because I thought that yesterday was going to be the last day with the Grand Prix (which I think I may have grown to like) I figured I should end it on an ironic note and decided to listen to the Smiths on the way into work. (see, get it, guido-mobile playing teen angst music. ha ha ha) I also figured that this might be the only chance this car will have to play some fab 80's tunes. The extra time it took me to find those dusty CDs is what won me my free ticket into the front of the freeway parade on my morning commute:
As I'm driving down the 880 a cop suddenly speeds out of nowhere and starts swerving all over the place. Right in front of me and the other 4 lanes of traffic. Cars start driving wacky all around me. People are stopping short, pulling over to the right. I just keep going; I'm from the school of thought that you look more guilty if you stop whatever you're doing right away, it's best just to just keep on the path your on and ease into whatever it is you're supposed to be doing. Probably not a good choice in this case, but old habits die hard. Then my mind gets to racing... Can a cop pull you over by swerving in front of you? I've never been pulled over before, is this how it's done? How fast am I going? It's this rental car, isn't it?
Then I realize that he's trying to slow all the traffic down. Okay, now I get it. Easy peasy. Just keep it slow. Stay in the zone with the cop, I can do this. After about 15 minutes of going 20 mph it starts to feel weird to me. My mind starts racing again... how will I know when to speed up? is everyone behind me wishing I would go faster? can I go faster? the cop is all the way to the right now, does that mean I can go?
I'm not really a big fan of driving to begin with and I especially don't like being at the head of a huge line of traffic . It's a lot of responsibility. It's a lot of pressure in this particular car, too. If I were in the Saturn it wouldn't be a problem, when people see someone in a teal '93 piece of crap they think "oh, well, what can you expect, I'll just blow around them". But in a white Pontiac it's a whole new game. "we build excitement" is a lot to live up to. It was time for me to make a bold move. As Alex once said "hey, I just drive the way the car tells me to."
I'll try now, the cop seems to be pulling to the right a little more, the lights are on, but the siren is off ... a little gas and this lane will be fired up again. Oooo, not so - says the cop as he races in front of me and turns the siren on. I almost hit him. Smooooth. Real smooth. Another 10 minutes go by. Still rockin' out with the Smiths. I start to laugh, because I'm in a fabulous car parade on the 880, cruising through Oakland at 20mph with the Smiths in a white Pontiac. I try the speed up trick a few more times, almost hit the cop a few more times - now I'm living large. We do build excitement, baby! This car wants me to be a rebel, so bring it, I can't let those behind me down.
I finally get to a bunch of road flares, apparently there had been some sort of accident earlier in the morning. The parade is over and the cop is gone.

I still got to work on time and sadly enough it wasn't my last day with the Pontiac. I'm stuck with that monster for one more weekend.

and as it turns out our haunted house kicked some serious ass. A great cast, some crazy masks and a lot of plastic from Home Depot made quite a stir in our little corner of the Village.
Keith and I started setting stuff up around 11am. Of course I took the day off, because if I have the choice between making some cash or scaring some kids it's pretty clear what the better choice is. We got most of the plastic stapled to the ceiling - we created a little path from the front door all the way through the kitchen and out the back door. With some orange lights in the living room and some not so great black lights in the kitchen it looked pretty neat in the dark. RM and Judy came over around 2 and got to the cobwebs, which I thank them gratefully for, because that stuff is a real pain in the ass. RM and I busted out some Rosco-glo paint and I did the obligatory graveyard with ghosts and trees (classic WT) and RM did some eyes. It would have been cool if we had some good black lights, but for 1.25 what can you expect?
Long story short, there were 11 of us working our wonders at the house of horrors and we all found our comfortable zone just about the time it started winding down. Next year we'll have it goin' on.
These were the highlights:
*Keith looked remarkably like a Latin man in his clear plastic mask
*my chicken mask was much funnier than anticipated
*two little girls said "we like you, chicken lady" to me
*RM liked to mix it up a little and would greet guest with such brilliant phrases as "welcome to New Jersey!" or "Prepare to be mildly frightened"
* Alex knew exactly what shirt to pull from his closet as soon as I gave him his mask, the kids referred to him as "devil man"
*Judy could scream louder than any of the kids
*Loeb is really good at hissing
*only two mild injuries; Alex got punched in the face, I got a pitchfork to the eye
*the best "customer" was the little football player who fell down in fear and dropped all his candy, then couldn't decide whether to run or pick up his candy
Around 9pm we packed it in and had some beer and Chinese food.
All in all I would say that we succeeded in bringing a little of that down home white trash into our haunted house, so mission accomplished. And unlike the Bushies, I really mean it!