all i want for chrithmath.

Every year around November 1st I start to get the little Christmas feva. Don't judge... I know that's almost a 2-month's advancement on the excitement, but frankly I don't give a damn. There's nothing like a little Silver Bells blaring through my speakers on a Monday morning commute. But what's really precious is Korn's rendition of Jingle Bells which they appropriately renamed Jingle Balls. Nice. In it, the "singer" screams to the high heavens about jingling balls... or at least that's what I get from all of the rawr's and blaaaaaaaahhh's that come out of that guy's mouth. There might be a falala here and there; hell if I know. Seriously, he's gonna be one hellapissed monkey when he's 64 with only a few shreds of his vocal folds left. Aaaaand that's my musical soap box.

Along with the whole holiday music thing (and Josh Groban's months in the spotlight--bless his heart) comes CHRISTMAS LISTS! Ohhh yeah. Who didn't rifle through the JC Penney Christmas edish catalogue when they were 8, picking out the year's best toys and games? Not me. I was practically drooling when that beast came in the mail. I would spend hours in the middle of the living room floor with my list growing exponentially as I turned each page. I'm not even embarrassed to admit that. I'm also not embarrassed to admit that I was a little heartbroken this year to learn the JCP has discontinued their gargantuan catalogues. I mean, for my nieces' sake and stuff...

This year I looked back on my Christmas list and realized a couple of things. 1. I'm 23 and still making a list. <--nottadamnthing wrong with that, 2. Most of my options say "[insert thing] or money for [insert thing]" and 3. I'm turning into my mom. <--also nothing wrong with that since my mom happens to exceed my own awesomeness twenty-fold. Seriously, she's a star.

But really, all I want for Christmas is listed below:

1. A mega snuggle sesh. <--ahem, K.O. that's for you.
2. Peace on Earth.
3. For George and Stella to suddenly lose their claws.
4. A coffee grinder.
5. More bestie time.

royal news.

Heavens. It's December 20th and the only post I've managed to crank out this month is a pathetic blurb on peanut butter. Really? That's the best I've got? Ha.

This morning I rose-and-shined to a lovely new Monday, just full of promise and hope. Or whatever. I'm not exactly one of those bright-eyed and bushy-tailed morning risers that some people are annoying enough to be. I'm more of a late morning, late evening kind of lady. Who isn't? Anyway, I wrestled George out of my spot in the shower, jumped in and out, then turned on the news for a little background noise while I got ready. Let me begin by saying that I watch the news strictly for entertainment purposes. I rarely believe a damn thing they say, particularly when it comes to the traffic people, but I still watch it because some of their stories are real zingers. This morning's news came of no disappointment to my funny bone. Are you ready for it? William and Kate, the new and adorable royal couple (of 8 years...), released their first OFFICIAL wedding merch! Oh shit's about to get real now. If you rrrrreally want to be a gentleman, surprise your lady with a plate featuring WillKate. I really can't think of a better gift than someone else's face shining through your curio cabinet compliments of a shitty piece of porcelain and some third-world labor. Ah yes, happy holidays. Thank GOODness these were released before Christmas is all I'm saying! And I was worried I wouldn't be able to find something nice for my mom.

Anyway, in other royal-related news, it appears Justin Bieber has a little lady friend which is getting everyone's panties in a twist. And why shouldn't it? A still-pre-pubescent 16-year-old snags a hotter, older 18-year-old 2x4-figured babe? Juicy gossip if you ask me. Rumor has it they've been seen skipping down the street together, giggling and singing harmonies, and J.Bieb has EVEN put his arm around her. Wow. If that's not news, I don't know what is. Really. Honestly. Come on. I guess newsies are calling him The Biebs now. I should really get with it.

In other other news... I walked into the office this morning, did the routine rounds of "Morning, how was your weekend?" and got the standard back: "It was good. How was yours? How was your trip? How was the weather?" Except for my bossman: "My weekend was epic. I just skied the two best powder days of my life at Breck. You missed it. It just dumped." Meh, I'll have other powder days, just you wait.

And the best news of all: Jack Black is starring in a new-age Gulliver's Travels movie. I smell a flop.

pb.

Today I found myself dipping pretzel-covered peanut butter bites in a jar of peanut butter after having eaten a peanut butter cookie and a spoonful of plain peanut butter. For breakfast I had a spoonful of peanut butter and honey and tonight I'm planning on eating an English muffin with peanut butter and jelly. I also ate a tuna pack.

I won't consider this a problem until I start eating chalk.

lock out.

Some days I'm baffled by my own awesomeness. It takes a very special person to get two license plate violations, wake up early to cook a breakfast burrito for lunch then forget it on her way out the door, and lock herself out of her own apartment... all in one week. It's a good thing I have insurance.

Fun story: Last night I came home after a nice little trip to the gym where I simultaneously ran and giggled at the Dancing with the Stars. A coworker was in the gym with me, so we spent the majority of the show making fun of how dramatic everyone got. I mean, really? Someone actually shot his TV after Bristol Palin beat out Brandy? I actually feel really bad for Bristol. She's obvs not the best dancer on the show (hello Jennifer Grey... you have Dirty Dancing to thank), but I think she's gotten a lot better and if the ol' tea party-ers continue to vote, well, she could win. But really, I lurrrrrv Kyle Massey because as the eight-year-old child that I am, I lurrrv That's So Raven. Seriously, what's not to like about that show? It's got a hint of nostalgia with Raven (child prodigy from The Cosby Show), she's a PSYCHIC, her BFFs are a crazy veggo and aspiring-but-never-gonna-happen 'gangsta', the acting is atrocious, and she has a weird, chubby little brother who thinks he's the bees knees. And now that Kyle is all grown up, he's still the weird, chubby little boy we all know and love.

After I got bored with that, I went home to chill out with Georgey and Stel... or so I thought. They're still in their door-darting stage, so I usually have to bring things in in droves (Note: my mom calls me The Bag Lady because I can't go anywhere without at least 4 bags hanging off me. It's an embarrassing habit that I've considering seeking professional help for. You can go ahead and leave your judgments at the door.). Well, last night I walked in, set some things down (including my keys), then walked out to get the rest of my things and shut the door before G&S could dart out. Faaaaaaaaack meeeeeeeeeee. I have a bad habit of immediately locking the door once it's open, and guess what? I did it again. So I knocked on my neighbor's door for her help and while we called the maintenance people, her boxer was about to pee her pants watching G&S's little paws sticking out from under my door accompanied by an embarrassing amount of "mew's."

My neighbor, who by the way is awesome, immediately went for the credit card unlock method. When that didn't work, I tried the bobby pin approach. Ummm this doesn't work... save yourself the humiliation of trying it if you ever find yourself in a similar predicament. Then our neighbor upstairs tried everything from a wire hanger to a wrench to breaking in through the windows (thank gee-oh-dee that didn't work). Finally, we went back to the credit card and whaddyaknow... IT WORKED. Brilliant.

This all happened long before my maintenance people called me back. I even left a message on the emergency line, thinking that might heighten the importance a little. Nosegoes. Good thing I now know that my neighbors have superawesome skillz. I feel much safer in my place now. Not that I didn't already feel safe with my guard kittens, but you know what I mean.

Just add that to my list of thankfulness this season.

it's a...!

Kittennnnn! Oh yes, I adopted. Despite my rant about an unfortunate experience at a local shelter a couple months ago, I went back. Call me a hypocrite? No no no. Call me a good Samaritan.

OK: interjection point. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my hood and am enjoying the cornucopia of individuals... just in time for Thanksgiving. There's a man sitting next to the door doing the woman cross (legs) and keeps making this weird gurgly-growly throat-clearing noise. It makes me a little nauseated I think. Or maybe the nausea is coming from my evening last night taking care of a wee one with diarrhea and her brother who threw up chicken noodley things all over Creation. I don't think I've ever smelled something quite as awful as that. And... I'm rambling.

Back to the good news. Last Wednesday I finally gave in and paid a visit to the shelter. On a mission. I checked out a few of the prospects in the older cat alley (seriously, shelters are among the saddest and weirdest places imaginable--this cat place smelled like an old sponge dipped in ammonia and looked like the inside of a loony bin), then made my way to the kitten boxes. I picked out three wee ones to take into the adoption room and voila, there was no line (thank gee-oh-dee). While waiting for the precious little babes to be fetched, I browsed the older cats one more time and in walked two little boys who clearly took 2 hours apiece on their outfits. I think they were 12. These boys were adorable and obviously gay. I was immediately enamored of the one who couldn't stop flipping his gorgeous hair, so I struck up a conversation. And let me just tell you, this conversation was much more enjoyable than the one I had about 3 hours later with a creepy cat woman at Petsmart. Somehow in recommending cat beds to me, she admitted to being a 40-year-old cat lady whose knowledge only reaches as far as her seven kitties' litter boxes. Creepy.

Needless to say, I chose two: A brother and sister who I promptly named George and Stella. They needed me. I had to. Don't judge. When George crawled up into my lap with his little white-booted paws and fell asleep purring, closely followed by Stella who snuggled up next to him, my fate was sealed. There was no turning back. For some reason people have been getting really surprised that I adopted them. Really? Are you really that astonished that I would save two kittens from the treacherous depths of an animal shelter or worse, a creepy cat lady's home where they pick a number and play charades dressed in baby clothes? Come on people. Even the little girl (See-->Africa) I babysat for last night was a skeptic:
"Do you have a puppy?" Her.
"No, but I have two kitties." Me.
"Oh, but do you have a puppy? Why don't you have a puppy?" Her.

I guess in her mind in order to legitimize having kitties, I needed a puppy. Puppies rule, kittens drool.

Anyway, I picked them up Thursday night and what did I do Friday night? I laid in bed with them curled up on and next to me watching P.S. I Love You and sobbing at all the right parts. Once I realized that I was on a slippery slope to social destruction, I vowed only to allow myself a handful of these nights. I mean come on, as a woman of 23, I should probably be spending my weekends bouncing around the bars, challenging people to dance parties, making friends right and left, right? Well, usually. When it comes to my options, sometimes I prefer a good snuggle sesh followed by waking up un-hungover. <--It's a win-win if you ask me.

Anyway, one thing I definitely will NOT be doing is writing about all of George and Stella's antics, cuteness, blahblahblah because I've read a few too many blogs written by cat- or dog-obsessed people. And. It's. Weird.
...You're welcome.

That guy is still making the gurgly noises. I'm about to throw a box of Kleenex at his Jersey-blown hairdo.

on a mission.

I'm on a never-ending quest to be a Rosie the Riveter-esque woman. In high school my grandpa hired my brother to help him build on and landscape his acreage. Screw that, I thought... give me a freaking hammer and I'll prove that I can build things too. And I did. I mean, some days I would get flower duty or the super sexy task of painting his horse pen green, but the other days I was sawing, measuring (twice, cutting once), putting up rafters, and playing with the dogs and horses... sue me.

Oh, speaking of suing people... Friday night I went out with some friends and after leaving a jam-packed vodka bar where I was by far the only sober person, I found a note on my car that said, "Hey I'm in the white truck behind you and hit you... sue me... 931-1-jdkfnksvnjkf." Mother effer. I swung around to check out the damage on my back bumper but couldn't see anything incriminating, thankfully. All there is is a little white streak to remind me never to be as big of a douche as that guy was. In the tiniest way possible, I guess I learned a good lesson from Douche McGouche.

Anyway, last night I got home from a run and had one decision: two options. 1. put on my big girl pants and fix my bed or 2. lay in bed and forget it. Like the sensible adult I pretend to be, I chose option 1. So I grabbed some Gorilla Glue (which is still all over my hands today) and my tool box and tore shit up. Actually, I literally did. See, a few weeks ago I rearranged my bed-living room and when I picked up my bed to move it to the opposite wall, I heard a big crrrrrraaaaaaaccccckkkk and there went the back piece of my day bed, ripping off the screws. Sweet, so not only had I ruined my only sleep-on-able thing in my apartment, but it's also a family heirloom. Go figure, right?

Naturally I've been ignoring the damage for several weeks because to be honest, I had no freaking idea how I was going to fix it... until last night. I unscrewed one of the sides and SNAP the other end decided it was done being attached too. Sooo I spent about 20 minutes trying to get all of the little pieces to line up and go back in their respective holes and slots, but do you think it was working? Ha. Instead I made up my own solution involving twine, gorilla glue and a screw driver. You do the math on how that all works, but long story short: my bed is back in one (sort of) piece. One point for the lady.

I can't help but be a little bit proud of myself. Oh, and truth be told I'll probably still have it fixed for real some day.

today.

On days like today when I can't figure out why I'm off kilter, I typically call my mom. Moms have an answer for everything. Well, at least mine does. And she's the most logical and sensical person I know, so if anyone needs to borrow her... actually... tough. I'm not lending her out.

While I was waiting for mi madre to return my call, I was wracking my brain for creative ways to cheer myself up. I also consulted a friend who sent me two links: 1. weird/random pictures of animals (they know me too well...) and 2. a website that lists awkward as hell auto-correct text and facebook conversations. It's amazing how many people want to say they just took 7 shots, but actually say they just took 7 shits. Freaking fantastic if you ask me. I also love me a good fart joke. Come to think of it, I can't keep a straight face when I even think about farts. Or say the word fart. Or fart on my ball... not that that ever happens. Ever...

I also fall back on the phrase "The best way to spread my cheer is singing loud for all to hear." This usually results in me singing old Screamers songs and typing random words into YouTube in hopes of finding a good song or video. Today: Cum on Feel the Noize. You're welcome to everyone who is now watching that video.

Hmm what else... ohhh yeeeaaaahhhhh... KITTENS!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtX8nswnUKU

Snazz.

death eaters.

Do you ever have conversations with people who absolutely suck the life out of you?

I did today.

Wrapping up some things in my workstation, I was just getting ready to change for a much-needed yoga class. And let me just say that my yoga instructor is extra awesome because she focuses on the spiritually healing aspects of yoga as oppose to just making her students all bendy and inverted and stuff. She reads energies, so if everyone walks into the room thinking, "OK Shauna, let's do this, but please don't kick my ass today," she knows and will base her class off that energy. Call me crazy, but I like it.

Right when I was about to leap off my ball, my phone rang. And as the dutiful little lady that I am, I answered. Damn it.

It was one of our off-site employees who wanted to know about two of our policies. <--Two of our most difficult policies to explain, not to mention the two that piss people off the most. Mind you, he's one of these hyper-active, don'tf-ckingtalkwhileI'mtalking kinds of people. But here's the problem: I would be explaining something in the most precise wording I could muster and he would interrupt me with "Yeah I understand that, but..." or "Right, yeah, but..." or "So wait... ramblerambleramble." I'm 200% surprised that my head didn't explode. He ended the conversation by telling me that he's had a lot of illnesses in his life, but I wouldn't understand because he's not as old as me... which didn't make sense at all. "How old are you?" he asked me, patronizing my every cell. "I'm 23." Me. "Well I'm 62 so I've got a few years on you." You don't sayyyy.

When I finally hung up the phone, looked at the clock and realized that I'll go yet another week Shauna-less and much less enlightened, I put my head down and could feel the tears burning in my eyes, just daring me to blink them out. I envisioned myself as Harry Potter, which I often do, but this time I was getting the life sucked out of my by a real-life death eater. I always thought Harry should spray mace in their eye sockets or, better yet, jam a twinkie in their mouths when they come after him. Instant diversion.

life-ish camp.

Last night I was watching a late-night news-y special on some retreat place that is designed to make gay guys un-gay. Hmm. Right. Because I had so many issues with the premise of this show, I stayed awake far past my granny-pants bedtime to watch it.

First thing's first. I should probably state my opinion on the matter. Gay people are born gay. Straight people are born straight. Although I'm very happy with the fact that I'm attracted to men, I didn't choose to be because that's just how I'm designed, which is the same as a woman who's attracted to a woman, man and man, penguin and penguin... you get the point. People, if I could or would ever preach anything to anyone, it would be this: Focus your energy on yourself. Instead of casting stones, get yourself in check first. If you do in fact find that you're a divine being, then go ahead and work your magic, but chances are you're a normal, flawed human just like the rest of us. With that being said... shushup and take care of yourself because you probably need it. <--Damn, that's needlepoint shit if I ever saw it.

Now that you know where I'm coming from, I'll get back to the story.

The reporter opened with a feature on this guy named Preston who was a devout Mormon fighting his sexual attraction to men. Growing up he was tormented with the thought that no one would accept him if he came out, so he held off on dudes until his early twenties. Two years after that, he married a woman. And for the past few years he's been attending this Camp Un-gay in an effort to channel his gayness and change into a straight man. Like I mentioned once before, I have so many problems with this I don't even know where to start.

Next they filmed him in session at Camp Un-gay and it was actually kind of disturbing. The two men who run it reminded me of Olive Oil and Stimpy. Stimpy was interviewed and quoted as saying that he was formerly "gay-identified" but now feels and acts like and is a straight man. I didn't believe him for a second. Stimpy, who has no formal training or education, referred to himself as a Life Coach and tagged along like a chubby puppy behind wherever Olive Oil the psychologist would go. It wasn't even close to being as cool as the Ambiguously Gay Duo, mostly because they didn't wear spandex and fly around on top of each other or drive a penis car. Instead they were shown sticking pieces of duct tape on men that said both discriminating and encouraging words... like that's gonna help. There was also a lot of passionate embracing, hand-holding, holding each others' gazes a little bit too long, and lotssss of crying. I have absolutely no problem with a man who cries, but a group of guys sobbing over a tape recording of The Itsy Bitsy Spider is just ridiculous. "Get in touch with that little boy you once knew. Go back to that place," cooed Stimpy as the men wiped each others' tears and rubbed each others' backs and legs.

I think it goes without saying that this little camp was nothing more than a scheme for Stimpy and Olive Oil to make a few pennies and attempt to brainwash these poor guys. Thankfully at the end of the show the reporter interviewed two guys who had attended the camp and had nothing good to say about it. Finally, someone was talking sense. I was sick of listening to that Preston guy and his wife giggle about being attracted to the same type of man. (Good for her for being cool with it I guess.) These two anti Camp Un-gayers had more sane things to say in their two-minute spot than Stimpy, Olive Oil and their faithful followers did in the other 58 minutes of the show.

I don't really know how the reporter kept a straight face the entire time because it was pure shenanigans going on in that place. Oh, and good news... Preston's wife is expecting.

the dmv.

I knew this day was bound to happen, but didn't really expect it to be a reality for at least another 2 to 17 years. I'm not going to complain that it has come sooner than later, but I'm still trying to wrap my head and my emotions around it. What I'm referring to is missing living in a small town. There, I said it. I miss smaller towns. Ugh, who am I? Let me explain before I talk myself out of my love for this city.

Today I drove my little red star--Jennifer--to the DMV to get my registration, taxes (woof) and title taken care of. <--Nothing about getting that done made me very happy except that I don't have to worry about it anymore. So I stood in line for about 40 minutes before almost getting sent away for not having my VIN verified. Come on people, no one tells me these things and it's getting a little old. I've been missing memos since I was four. Anyway, my choice of locations was between Ghetto Spot #1 or Ghetto Spot #2. I tried #1 last week and left immediately after seeing a curly skullet, so I tried my luck with #2 this week. And let me tell you, there's some quality people watching at these places. I finally got my stuff taken care of, dropped the gov some more Gs, then headed outside with the security guard to get my VIN checked and plates put on. Mind you, the security guard (I'll refer to him as Security Steve) was standing around complaining about just having thrown out his back so if someone decided to mess with us, it was up to me to defend the two of us. I felt nice and safe.

Not a second later I heard someone screaming and looked up to see a woman dinosaur running down the sidewalk flailing her arms all over the place and spouting out unintelligible phrases. "Don't look directly at her," Security Steve says to me. "It will just make things worse if she catches you looking." HOLY SHEET. I wanted to look up so bad. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her jumping around hitting street signs acting-a-fool. Clearly she was on something and clearly if I could have kicked her in the schnoz so she'd shut the eff up, I would have. But since I was wearing a skirt and Security Steve said NO, I opted to stay on my safer side of the street. Next she jumped into her little blue Chevy and after a little more yelling at this poor old man who was unfortunate enough to be in the passenger's seat, she sped off. I prayed she wouldn't come barreling around the corner and smash into me because I'd looked at her.

After that, I returned to some idle surfacey chitchat with Security Steve and somehow blurted out that I had a degree in psych (why the eff do I do this?) soooooooo naturally he spilled his guts. "OK, here's a scenario. Give me your psychological opinion," he says to me as if I'm a freaking professional. "Why would a woman leave her husband and three kids?" he asks me--and instantly I know I'm not even close being to the first person who's gotten asked this question. So I pulled out my corncob pipe and Mister Rogers sweater and answered, "Sounds like she's selfish and has some internal issues she needs to deal with." And of course it was his wife. And of course she left him for his neighbor. And of course his kid got hit by a car a couple months after that. And of course his six year old is dealing with suicidal tendencies. Ummm WHAT? All I needed was to register Jennifer, but instead I was handed a steaming plate of drama. Thanks, Security Steve.

Something tells me that the simplicity of small town life would help to avoid these types of situations, but then again small towns have their own form of drama. I don't know what's worse: the disaster that was me trying to get my car registered today or having your high school teacher come up to you and ask if the rumors are true, that your parents are buying the plot of land next to your house to build a Walmart... For now I think I'll enjoy the perks of being a cosmogirl. All this culture biz has got to pay off at some point.

halloweeny.

Halloween is approaching which means a few good things. This year people will be watching kids run around dressed up as Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber. Seriously people, what happened to ghosts, witches, princesses and pumpkins? Those were the cute days. I ran the gamut of costumes as a young babe including a mouse, unicorn, witch complete with a sparkly spiderweb cape (but no hat because I didn't want to ruin my perm), Medieval princess and Jasmine. I looked good. Every. Year. The coolest thing was that my mom sewed every single one of my costumes so I wasn't walking around with a bunch of cheap junk hanging off me. I was the real deal.

In preschool I showed up to our dress-up day as a scarecrow, only to find out that everyone and their doll was a princess, including my teachers. I was devastated. My outfit was suuuper awesome and thanks to a little positive reinforcement from mi madre, I strutted into that room thinking I was the next Raggedy Ann. But instead of riding my ego wave, I felt like a huge ass for not getting the memo to be a princess. I can honestly remember thinking, "Why didn't Mom tell me? I bet she did this on purpose." In retrospect, it's a little weird that there were so many princesses in the room that day. My memory shows a flashbulb image of two mid-fifty-something women floating around in poofy dresses holding wands and granting everyone's wishes. Next they hug my friend Kim, who I always thought was cooler than me, and giggled about being twinsssss(!!!). Me? I was overlooked in my honky scarecrow outfit, even down to when we lined up for pictures... we all climbed onto the piano to take a picture and I sulked my way to the back. Traumatic, I know.

From that day on I made sure I had the coolest outfit to wear to my class's Halloween party. I also brought the coolest treats--owl cookies that my mom slaved over for hours in the days leading up to our parties. It's quite obvious that my mom is awesome. If only I were that cool.

Growing up I've found that most late-teen-early-twenties and hell, late 40's, women still try to fit into their childhood costumes. It's inevitable not to see a boob or butt cheek hanging out on Halloween. I never understood the whole slooty costume thing. In defiance, I dressed up as a sack of M&Ms one year in college. (I've mentioned this before.) Watching the ho-face Fanta Girls run around that night, I felt a little bit better about myself as I was safely secured in what only can be described as a sleeping bag.

This year will be no different. I'm tossing back and forth either being a ski bum or camp counselor. Sexy, I know. My boss lent me his super awesome ski onesies, so it might be impossible not to wear that. The benefits are endless: more room for booze in my belly--thank you, elastic waist band and buttons up the front, no possible reason to be self-conscious, and really, who wouldn't want to wear a neon ski suit? I might end up looking like Barney, but at least I'll be happy about it. Yet again, it's my little eff you to the preschool princesses.

another seminar.

One of the perks of joining the corporate ranks is getting sent to seminars related to your department. Conversely, one of the pitfalls is not knowing what the hell everyone is talking about. This morning I woke up early, ate a few prunes for good measure, pulled my hair back in a schoolmarm bun because I needed to look "professional" (and secretly because I get sick of the whole hair washing/drying/ironing thing), and set out for the seminar. And really, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Come to think of it, I still don't know what I got myself into.

Point #1: This is something every seminar putter-onner needs to know. HAVE SIGNS. I really could care less if you write "THIS WAY ASSHOLES" and draw an arrow using a ball point pen on a piece of printer paper, just throw a girl a bone. I've yet to walk into a meeting like this not looking doe-eyed and having no clue who I need to talk to to get my freakin name tag and get a chair under me. I deduced that the Security desk was a bad choice mainly because of two ridiculously hefty men sitting behind it. They seemed to be doing a lot of good with their game of Who Can Stare Further Into Space. Super. Instead I went to a desk where three women were chirping about Lordknowswhat and took a solid 30 seconds to acknowledge my presence. In a voice not unlike one used for speaking to a child, I am asked, "Aaaand what can we help you with?" Before I could finish my sentence, I was told that so-and-so would take me to such-and-such room if I put my information here and took this badge.

Point #2: What are you supposed to talk about with so-and-so who is taking you to such-and-such room? Seriously... The weather? Make awkward early morning jokes? Insincere how-are-you's? I racked my brain to come up with something else, but settled on, "So how are you doing today?" One of these days I really just want to say, "Quick. Tell me your top three favorite kinds of pie. Aaaaand GO!" or "These underwear were really a fantastic choice. I feel like a new woman. What kind are you wearing?" or "So we had to have my cat euthanized 6 months ago and I still wake up in a pool of sweat screaming his name..."

Once I got to the room and received my hand-written name tag (my name was not yet on "the list"), I sat down next to a woman I recognized from a Medical Marijuana conference I had attended a few months prior (Note: The conference was a lot less exciting than anticipated, except for the fact that they served brownies for dessert. Touche, conference putter-onners.) and it took me awhile before I could get her attention to even introduce myself. She was glued to her flip phone. And they say younger people are the textaholics of this day and age? Excuse me, but this over-40 woman was texting throughout the entire seminar. I, a woman 20 years her junior, only checked my phone once to find a text that read: "I shared a bagel with the trash. I had 3 chocolate cheesecakes." and I thought I was going to pee my pants. Instead I reminded myself that I had a bun in my hair and pulled myself together enough to pretend like I was listening to the speaker.

Truly, I had no idea what we were talking about. So what else could I do but smile and nod, then pretend to take notes when the speaker looked at me. I was in a room of about 20 professionals in my field who all worked for construction companies. Needless to say, we had nothing in common in addition to the blatant age gap. What I did pick up on was the fact that apparently because of my position in my company, I am now the default member of this "elite" group of individuals and will be expected to attend their meetings from now on. After figuring that out, I focused on picking up their lingo, wrote a few things down, and will study up on how to say things I don't know shit about in order to assimilate myself into this group. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

If anything, I'll keep getting fed delicious free breakfasts. One more point for the youngsters.

dilemma.

I would never consider myself a political expert, much less enthusiast. Rather, I think I'd be more suitably categorized as watching-them-make-asses-of-themselves enthusiast. This fall's election season has been far short of a let-down for me in that arena. I get to watch the likes of Donkeys and Elephants butt heads, spewing the most unbelievable remarks at one another, but what gets me most are the interest groups. Have you noticed that the political ads made by the actual politicians are a little more sugar-coated than those by special interest groups?

In my humble opinion, and judging by what's been splattered across the media, it seems like politicians are more interested in whose doodle they're going to snazz, or vice versa, respectively. Fidelity has become a mere glimmer of morality as much as infidelity has become cause for comedic relief. The thing I don't get--and someone, please, help me out here--is what some people find so alluring about themselves. The last thing I want is some icky pot-bellied, bad-haired man trying out one of his world-renowned pickup lines on me. Woof. And ladies, don't think you're getting off the hook either. The most attractive female politician any of us has seen in a loooong time is Mrs. Palin; however, if you ever catch an episode of O'Reilly you may notice that every single one of his female analysts (whether psychologists, political experts, word-root-finders...) are very attractive. Not that this is a bad thing. I agree, people are more inclined to believe what an sensibly (or outrageously) attractive person has to say rather than someone less appealing, yet I can't help but find this humorous, if not a little creepy on behalf of the aforementioned peeps.

I digress.

So now the great challenge is to decide to whom I cast my vote. In the senate race, I can go for the extreme right-winged candidate who is clearly hated by one particular women's interest groups that has put out an ad saying he will end abortion and birth control... or I can go for the extreme lefty who pissed all of the state's money down the drain. Hmmm decisions decisions. They sound like such great guys. The governor's race isn't much better. I believe the Lefty was called a hooligan and I honestly haven't heard much about the Righty. I think I'll vote anti-hooligan, although I do love me a good shenanigan.

My conundrum: The political and economic scene couldn't be in worse shambles, although I feel strongly that Americans need to look down at their pointed fingers and realize "ohhh shit, there are three pointing back at me." Duh. We're the ones falling for the ponzi schemes, the political bullshit and asinine media coverage. Come on people, quit believing everything the media tell you. Let's go over this one more time: economy does not equal stock market. Rinse and repeat.

So. Do I stick it out and give these policies some time? Um, hell no. I didn't agree with them in the first place. I think I'll stick with my partay and see what bandages we can apply to this giant fracture, or what I feel more suitably can be labeled: shitstorm.

what's better.

What's better than...

Loading up someone's facebook post with a blog-like string of responses.

Yawning then seeing someone else yawn, then another then another then another.

Getting a personal email in your inbox.

A long-overdue hug from your best friends (T-minus 24 hours).

Winning a game of Scrabble against people smarter than you.

Hearing someone fart in the stall next to you. Just tryyy not to laugh.

Laughing until you cry and your abs feel like they're on fire.

Finishing a long run without tripping on a crack.

Huncalfroyo.

Getting TWSS'd.

Kittens. (and puppies...)

Getting flowers for no reason. <--side note: For Sadie Hawkins my sophomore year in high school I sent flowers to my friend Dirk with a note asking if he'd be my date. After that, flowers started pouring into the secretary's office with notes to guys on them. Not saying that I maybe started a weird trend... but I think I did. And by the way, Dirk loved the flowers and was the best Sadie Hawkins date ever.

Challenging your mom to a beer shotgunning contest... and losing.

Reggae.

Finishing a book.

Waking up at 1:30 in the morning and realizing you have hourrrrs left to sleep.

The first sip of a blended margarita... and let's be honest, all the other sips (or gulps) are fantastic too.

A good yoga sesh.

Dancing by yourself in the middle of a crowd. <--try it.

Waking up without a hangover on the weekend.

...obviously I'm bored. That's all.

piratey things.

For the past two weeks all I've seen on the news are developing stories about a Colorado man shot by Mexican pirates in a lake straddling the USA-Mex border (I heard the term straddling this morning and really enjoyed the fact that the anchor used it.). I don't have a problem with the fact that news stations have made this tragic story a national headline. What I do have a problem with is the backlash from this guy's family... and don't even get me started on angry Colorado citizens (I'll get to them later).

Let me just say that I regard this situation to be extremely tumultuous for someone to try to grasp as a reality, so I understand the tears and desire for justice. Contrastly, I find it ludicrous that they are calling out President Obama and Secretary Clinton to help them in their plight for justice. Seriously guys. "Help us Obama! We need our justice! Help me find my husband and bring him hoooome!" Are you effing kidding me? "Secretary, we need your help. We can't do this without you." For God's sake. I can bet you Mr. Obama and Ms. Clinton can do about as much as my next door neighbor for this situation with the exception of maybe meeting with Mexico's prez and saying, "Hey, I know this is kind of awkward, but these two women are totally holding us accountable (I know, wtf right?) and we need your help to make us look good. Can you, like, at least make it look like you're searching?" When did people become so needy that they feel entitled to have the president and secretary of state lead their search party? I for one find this ridiculous.

To add insult to injury, last week a group of angry protesters marched to the Mexican Consolate in Denver to demand justice. Huh... will someone please explain to me what a group of Denverian diplomats are going to do in this situation? Rent a speed boat to go search pirated waters for a man's body? Give me a break.

Some news stations even have gone so far as to point fingers at the wife, questioning her part in the murder. Again, someone pleasssse give me a break. No no no. Then of course fingers got pointed toward Mexican drug cartel. Hmm, so what happened next? A Mexican official was found decapitated. People: shut. up.

Moving on to the term "pirate." When I first heard the broadcast of this story, all I could picture was Johnny Depp harpooning some guy off his giant ship. Apparently I still live in a Disney box and expect a pirate to be wearing an eye patch and MC Hammer pants, have about 6 teeth in his mouth and a parrot perched on his shoulder. And I know I'm not the only one. I even played out in my head this little fantasy involving a big fancy dancy pirate ship with One-Eyed Willy (in his prime) manning the wheel. He was throwing his head back and laughing while his shipmates were having a dance party with a bunch of slooty piratehookers on the deck because they had just raided another ship for gold. I guess my assumptions were a little off... but if anyone doesn't believe the story of The Goonies couldn't be real, shame on them; they have no sense of adventure. Once my suspension of disbelief let go its control of my thoughts, I realized that this was probably kind of a serious situation. And I did care... until they started in with all of their woe-is-me-because-I-have-my-ten-seconds-of-fame shenanigans. I changed the channel to Curious George.

bugs?

In case you missed it... (reference: an email I sent two weeks ago). It took me awhile to admit this to anyone but my close friends and family, but once I got over it it was actually kind of fun to talk about. Finding wolf spiders and bed bugs in your apartment isn't exactly something a person should brag about, but it does make for kind of a funny story. Because my landlord refused to believe that the bug I found was in fact of the bed, I made sure I did everything perfectly to prepare for the exterminator. So annoying. After flipping my apartment upside down and washing every piece of clothing I own (thanks to a giant envelope full of quarters from my landlord... so awesome), I got a call from the guy saying I was right--it was a bed bug. I couldn't figure out whether to be happy because I was right or to cry because of why I was right.

Gooooood morning!

SO. This. Has. Been. The. Week. From. Hell. Or so they say. Maybe I'm just being dramatic (not unlike me...?), but then again I don't know too many people who actually enjoy living with bugs. As I said to Kyle last night, I think I'm getting desensitized to pests because I didn't even scream when I found a wolf spider in my "dining area" last night. And Lord knows... I hate spiders. In addition to the bug sitch, I was graceful enough to catch my toe in a crack and superman slide onto the sidewalk during a run last week, leaving my palms and knees so scraped that I have to take a little extra time to do things. (Am I being dramatic again?) Thankfully, I have a wonderful friend who has let me couch surf at her place this week. Catherine, I owe you big time.

Things I've gained from this experience:
1. Humility... and/or humiliation.
2. A cleaner apartment.
3. A new friend who lives in my building and is straight out of the cast of Jersey Shore... FIST PUMPS!... thanks to me spending several hours in the laundry room last night.
4. Neutrality toward bugs.

In an effort to spread awareness about the 19th-Century-like bed bug infestations that have been occurring throughout the Metro Denver area, I decided I'd share some pictures of what I've seen (and done) this past week. That way, if you see one of these bad boys crawling around on your blankets, you'll know what it is. Beware: it's gross, but if I can handle it... so can you. :) These things happen people.

Lots of bugless love.

P.S. The exterminator comes today. Thank. God.
P.P.S. I'm strongly considering moving into the sunshine bus in the last picture.

rainy days and scrunchies.

This morning I woke up in a foggy haze at 7:20. Mind you, I'm supposed to be at work by 8:00 and it usually takes me about 20 minutes to get there. Awesome. Surprisingly I rolled in at a decent time, so once again: I'm thankful to have my job.

Today it's a rainy mess outside and in my opinion, rain storms are only good for about three things.

1. Long runs. My first weekend in Australia I experienced what I can only describe as a hurricane on campus, so what did I do? I went running. My mom was superawesome (duh) enough to send with me a snazzy little rain pant/jacket combo, so at least I looked good. This especially helped when I would get to a point having no clue where I was and had a combination of ohhhshiiitttt/complete ritard look on my face. It was precious. I don't know that I made many friends that weekend, mostly because people deduced that I was insane.

2. Movies. In college I spent an entire 48ish hours watching episode after episode of The OC with my roommate and then-bf because of inclimate weather. There's nothing like sitting three-deep on a tiny futon, buried in (Cooler Ranch) Doritos, nacho cheese, M&Ms and mini pizza wrappers... mmmm.

3. Sitting on my parents' back deck watching the lightning and listening to the rain fall. Neb's good for a few things.

So today? It's pouring outside and all I really want to be doing is be curled up in a snuggie watching episodes of Dexter, It's Always Sunny and (for old time's sake) I Love Lucy, followed by a round of movies including, but not limited to: The Parent Trap, Under the Tuscan Sun, Major League and The Goonies. Of course I'd be buried in popcorn bags, Hot Tamales, and for kicks... a large chocolate malt and fries from McDonald's.

Ohmygod fat.fat.fat... I love myself and I hate myself. (See--> Harvard Sailing Team vids...)

Anyway, I just got a text from Kyle who told me he found my headband in his squadron... hmm. [I should probably interject the reason I was missing my headband... one of his friends took it a couple weekends ago and wore it out to the bars (weird?), then didn't give it back.] It was hanging on the door to a room, so naturally I assumed it was being used for the "scrunchie rule." For those of you who don't know what the scrunchie rule is, you should and I can't believe you've spent this much time not knowing. Maybe this was just a UNL dorm thing, but in my opinion, it's common knowledge that if you see a scrunchie on a door handle, it means: DO NOT ENTER... sexytime in progress. No? Well, now you know. And speaking of scrunchies, when I was in grade/middle school, the cool thing to do was to wear 1 scrunchie in your hair and the other on your wrist. I wish I knew why, but apparently it looked cool. I even had lime green, purple and blue "hair" scrunchies. Gross. But let me tell you, I LOVE seeing scrunchies on people now. It's really a special treat. To this day I wear a hairband on my wrist (in case of an emergency ponytail situation). Bad habit? I think not. But looking back on my formative years, all I see is this (and I have no issues with it):

jennifer.

I know I just said I was going to avoid "I" posts as much as possible, but this news is just too snazz not to post. I bought a new car this past weekend let me tell you, the experience was a real treat. My superawesome madre and I have been emailing back and forth about the deterioration of my beloved Lois P. Aztek and and after forking over an arm and a leg for some repairs, we decided it was time I start seriously looking for a replacement. Well... it just so happened that one of the dealerships in my crackjack box of a hometown had in its possession a cherry red Jeep Liberty within my price range and an army green one a little above my range. Hello opportunity.

So Saturday morning we mosied down to give the Jeeps a little test drive. Brad, the dealer guy, and self-proclaimed "cousin of many" (?) in my tiny town, began by describing the features of the red Jeep. It had fantastic chrome detailing, so naturally I told him that that's perfect because it will match my own grill, which I'm planning to get soon in an effort to launch my rap/hiphop career. The joke wasn't received quite as well by him as it was my brother's girlfriend. I got more of a "heh heh... not sure what she's talking about" kind of deal from ol' Bradley.

A couple of glory days conversations ("Oh yeah I remember watching you play basketball..."), more joke attempts on my behalf ("Yeah, I was a lot cooler then...") and some signatures later, I gave Lois one last hug good-bye and drove off in my new sassy ride.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you... Jennifer:

Aside from my mom bursting with pride because her baby girl bought a Jeep (now I'm one of four in my family who owns a Jeep...) here are a couple of the responses I got:

1. "Really? But your old car had so much character..." That one stung a little. (Jennifer is full of character. Just look at that griiiiiill.)
2. "Whatwhatwhat? I already miss the van." Lois was not a van. She was oh-so-much-more.

RIP Lois P. Aztek. You did me good these past seven years. I hope whoever gets you next gives you the love you deserve.

man pantz.

I think I've gotten away from the true intent of this little blog (I still don't like admitting that it's a "blog"), so I'm gonna take a step back in an effort to get in touch with my innerblog... that's not a word... but what I mean is that I think this has gotten a little "soap-boxy/day-in-the-life-of-me" and I'm not sure what's more annoying than continual word vomit in the form of "I statements." SO it's back to basics bitches. I'm not saying I won't recount awesomeness that happens in my life (See--> Africa or Climbing Things), but I like the whole unraveling pop culture with plenty of sarcasm thing.

Yesterday I caught sight of something that sent my imagination in a tail spin. I was eating lunch and noticed a middle-aged man walking by my table over to his little nook of OCD. (This is another thing I need to talk about sometime, but for now... I'll keep going.) As he passed I noticed he was wearing a polo and khakis, but something just didn't seem right. Or fit right. His waist was about the circumference of an apple and he had hips. No, he wasn't a woman, but he did have a mom butt. I mean, I was even a little jealous because I feel like he had a better lady butt than me.

So this led me to look at other guys' butts, naturally. Well, actually let me back up a second. Take a look at the picture above... although this may appear to be a man's butt, in reality it is more of a he-she butt. And why? Because this guy actually has a pair of breasties. Thanks to the photographic skillz of my gentleman friend, this picture is now more than just a picture of a man in a G-string; it's inspiration. If this guy has the balls (and boobs...) to walk around in a silver G-string bikini, I don't want to hear excuses about people not wanting to do something because they'll feel stupid. This guy walks up and down the beach flaunting his bits (and sassy blonde skullet) and tight little tush daily. Now THAT is See Me Run shit if I ever saw it.

Back to my thoughts... after doing some man-butt research (strictly for educational purposes only, I swear), I've concluded a few things:

1. More guys have hips than you'd think.
2. Khakis aren't flattering unless you have a "hockey butt." (I may or may not have borrowed that term from someone.) Let's just say, athleticism isn't the worst thing when it comes to rocking some chinos.
3. Dockers with pleats in front are a no no because they lend too much ease to potential bif's.
4. Bedazzled and snazzed up jeans belong only on women, tweens and gay men.
5. There generally are only two types of man-butts: apple bottoms and pancake butts.
6. Back-sided happy trails are unacceptable and should be removed regardless of any Nancy Pants (no pun intended) excuse. No one needs to know that you have a forest hiding in your underthings.
7. Belts and suspenders are encouraged at all times.
8. ...Although I do love me a good plumber's crack.
9. I still say no to skinny jeans on guys. Face it, it does nothing for your butt.
10. I recently saw the inside of a zipper that said "Lucky You" and was overjoyed. Well done, Lucky Brand. Keep it up.

dreamz.

My friend texted me this morning to tell me that I had appeared in his dream... as an accomplice in a murder. This was new. I get the occasional "hey you were in my dream last night and we were running naked through fields of marshmallows and pixie sticks toward a giant sand dune then we all of a sudden were back in high school listening to Mr. Lum talk about Calculus and his sweet Christmas yard display... then I woke up," but never have I been an accomplice. This is exciting. Here's how the text went (quick note: I don't know why I talk so weird with this particular friend of mine, but my grammar always always turns into that of a mid-20th century English professor on pot):

T: Morning text!! You were in my dream last night. We may or may not have been an accessory to murder...
M: Oh dear. Please tell me the details!
T: Well somehow we were on a back porch that was like a hybrid between bread & cup and pepe's only super high up. This dude is afraid of Thomson [the dog]. We go back and forth, yelling, etc. You steal the guitar then Chaz pushes him off the side... so I guess now that I tell it I am in the clear.
M: Yowza. I feel quite awful. Need I repent?
T: Nah. He deserved it I bet.
M: Well as long as he deserved it...
T: Yeah you're good...

I wonder what ridiculous things I'll be doing next via the subconscious. I still can't believe I stole his guitar.

my friend at work.

You know what's the best thing ever? It's not really a secret... it's when you realize you have a friend at work. OK, maybe using the words best and ever is a little extreme, but for someone who loves making herself a new friend, it's not the worst thing in the world. I'll refer to my friend as Dee, for the sake of confidence. Dee is in her mid-forties, a mother of one and a wife of a military man. BUT one of her finest qualities is that she's from the Jersey Shore. Yez yez yezzzz. I have my own personal Snooky less than 10 feet away. And if that doesn't make someone feel special, I don't really know what could.

A couple months ago Dee came back from her lunch break all sorts of jazzed because she had just bought new curtains. "This is what you have to look forward to in your life... you get excited about curtains and throw pillows. It's really awesome, I know" she said to me. Thank God I have at least 20 years of fun before I reach that point. Consider this my pledge to never let my life get anywhere near letting curtains and pillows being something that jazzes me up. And for anyone who knows me, you know this isn't going to be hard to stick to.

Dee and I share a similar sense of humor. Case in point: Our senior officer emailed our staff a riddle. I for one am not too terribly fond of riddles, mostly because I'm horrible at them. Someone can say "What's brown and nutty and has a sweet friend? He likes to smoosh, but be careful because he'll stick to you if you hold on for too long." And nine times out of ten I won't guess peanut butter. The riddle our officer sent out read, "It is passed from hand to hand and pocket to pocket, yet whoever takes it doesn't know it. Whoever knows it doesn't want it. And whoever makes it makes sure never to mention it. What is it?" Hell if I know. Someone guessed lice. I was thinking it's probably a cold...? But I opted to answer "boogers" because I'm mature like that. And how did Dee answer? "Snot." Yes, we're kindred spirits. I knew it.

Dee will routinely send me emails full of jokes, youtube vids, and random crap news stories. It really helps me get through my days a little more easily. The other day she was super stressed out, so I sent her a clip from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, when Charlie's mom sings "Cheer Up Charlie" and responded by saying WWCF is among her top choices in her movie catalogue. Ummmm did I mention we're kindred spirits? Considering my favorite movie is the original Parent Trap, closely followed by WWCF, you can imagine how superstoked I was to find this out.

In addition to our email chain, which is obviously completely unnecessary because we equate one half of our cube quad, we share some stories about the random/stupid/awesome things that happen when we're not at work. The best, though, are stories about her son. He's a 10-year-old going on 27 and I've honestly never heard stories about a kid saying funnier things. For example: The other day he was flipping his hair and said, "Hey Mom, you know when I flip my hair like this it really turns girls on." (Uhhh he's 10.) This story was closely followed by a melodramatic tale of his heart getting broken for the first time because Sally McHotterson at his school called him a show off. Ohhhh mah gawd I remember calling boys show offs and thinking it was the worst thing evaaa. I also distinctly remember calling someone a stinky sock and you might as well have washed my mouth out with soap. Shit got real when I busted that one out. But the end-all was when Adam (my fourth grade crush for like 3 weeks) called me a dog. I'm pretty sure I went home and cried for 2 hours straight. Asshole.

Has my life become so mundane that I truly regale over email jokes and stories about 10-year-old's shenanigans? Not a freaking chance. If anything, I consider this normal, if not a little bit awesome. Besides, I'll admit I'm proud of myself for befriending the cool kids in the middle-aged crowd.

climbing things.

This weekend Kyle and I had the mega jazzy idea to go for a hike. We took our typical approach to things: "go big or go home" and decided we needed to do a 14er. Why not? We're young and nimble and moderately in shape (him more than me thanks to this whole 8-5 thing...), so all signs pointed toward yes. We chose to tackle a little slope some people like to call Grey's Peak.

Friday night was one of our typical downtown adventures featuring the likes of Crown, PBR, the aftermath of Oktoberfest... shenanigans, and sardine-ing at the Ginn Mill. Ahh downtown Denver, you never fail me. Saturday morning greeted us with a 10am rooster call and a trip to City O City before heading out on our adventure. C-O-C has some of the best people-watching opps, so we kept ourselves entertained while waiting for our veggo meal. "If I ever wear skinny jeans, you can just go ahead and kill me," Kyle said while we were both checking out a weird little group of hipsters. I honestly still haven't decided how I feel about the whole skinny jean rage, particularly among men/boys. They're not exactly the most flattering things. You either show off the fact that you shouldn't be wearing them thanks to your giant muffin top and unavoidable plumber's butt or everyone sees your knock-kneed chicken legs and pancake butt. But then again, some people can really rock them... and those people are called 12-year-old girls. Thankfully this trend will one day pass. I'm still crossing my fingers for mom jeans to come back in style--hello Z.Cavaricci and Guess, yes you can give me a pear butt while buttoning above my belly button. People who actually enjoy low-rise jeans are only kidding themselves.

Back to my story. After stuffing ourselves full of cheesy/beany things at City O City (which we later found out may or may not have been a bad idea...), we headed for the hills. Our first barrier was a 20ish minute drive up to the trailhead. Whatever we drove on could hardly be considered a road. It was more like what I imagine the surface of the moon to be like: craters, rocks and dust... I could hardly send a text without punching myself in the face with my phone. So that went well.

Somehow we made it to the trailhead, filled a water bottle, grabbed an old Gatorade out of the back of the car, and set off. Little did we know, that Gatorade was what would get us to the top. Note to self #1: hydrate like a camel. I think we were a little full of ourselves in thinking that we could crush this hill with one bottle of water, one Gatorade and one bag of trail mix, but whatever, at that point we didn't care. Oh, and note to self #2: drinking a Red Bull right before climbing to 14,000 ft is a bad idea. Enter--> major energy crash.

Eight minutes into the hike we were both time bombs ready to puke at any second. Note #3: drinking tasty adult beverages the night before a 14er is also a bad idea. Enter--> sweaty things, dizziness and nausea. I could have sworn we had been walking for at least 20 minutes. "Do you think it ever stops going up?..." We decided we'd stay on the trail for at least one hour then reassess. So we trudged along, secretly wheezing to ourselves. At one point I even told him to ignore the fact that I was breathing loudly because I was only doing it to remind myself that I was really still breathing. Cool, I know.

We kept running into people who would say smug little things like, "Looks like you're the only late-starters, huh?" Really guys? Feck yoo. Not only are you coming down the mountain while we're getting our asses kicked up, but you're rubbing it in our faces. Note #4: if you don't have something completely nice to say, shut your face, smile, and keep walking. Another 30 minutes went by and I turned into a turtle which didn't mesh too well with Kyle's bionic pace and the fact the world wouldn't stop spinning around me. Crazy what a few extra thousand feet can do to you. At that point we stopped and asked an older guy how much further it was to the top and he told us it would be about an hour... omigod... "Kyle, I'm not hiking for another fecking hour." He just turned around and kept walking uphill--good move, boyfriend, because I tucked my shirt into my Nancy pants and kept going. Note #5: When it starts to get shitty, shut your mouth and keep up with the positive internal dialogue. Actually... it doesn't help to say anything out loud.

An hour later we reached summit and I nearly wet my britches. Despite the fact that my body hated me, the view was so worth it. There's really no feeling like being on top of the world. We soaked it in for awhile, then decided enough's enough and headed down. And what did we see? A MOUNTAIN GOAT. Thank you, nature, for giving us that little extra gift. The rattle snake, not so much, but who doesn't love a good goat siting? I couldn't understand why he wasn't coming closer to us to give us a ride down. Apparently goat doesn't equal horse, even if you tack on the word mountain to its name. Who knew? I just wanted to squeeze him, but Kyle reminded me that wild animals are not our friends. Who knows what kind of disasters I would have gotten into had I been by myself. Note #6: hike in pairs.

So cheers to another check off my bucket list, right next to: climbing a waterfall, seeing monkeys in Costa Rica, riding a motorcycle, being in the center of dance circles, and eating banana bread.

sauna parte TRES!

Oh. My. Stars. Was tonight ever a real treat. After a long day on the ball, what I needed was a hot date with the gym so I set out for the 24 Hour down the road. I did my thing for a little while, then made my way to dessert: the sauna. Since my iPod died right before I started to lift weights, I was going commando... not like that was gonna be a big deal (unless someone thought they should start rubbing their sweatiness all over the place which is without a doubt the worst sound in the whole world... next to someone chewing their food like a cow).

When I walked in, I'm pretty sure the world stopped spinning for a split second. Sitting in front of me was a full house of sweaty, gray-haired middle-aged men. I felt like Augustus Gloop swimming in the chocolate river. The best part was that they all smooshed together to give me a seat in the corner, smack dab in the middle. Talk about being jazzed.

A couple guys down the row were deep in sweaty convo about Jamaica when I sat down, so naturally when I heard one of them say, "I didn't like it. There are a lot of poor people just trying to get your money and sell you drugs," I made my move. "You mean... you didn't buy any of their drugs?" And boom I was in. That got all of their attention which, let's be honest, who wouldn't want to be the center of attention in a room full of sweaty old men? It's every young entrepreneurial woman's dream, right? Make some jokes, get a job, get a sugar daddy, you know how it works.

Moving on...

Tom, the Chatty K, was a wealthy businessman who had just traveled to Rio de Janeiro. He and Chubs, an apple-bodied man the shade of chocolate pudding, dove deep into more sweaty convo about Rio, dancing the Samba and Brazilian babes. I strongly considered piping up about nude beaches, but bit my tongue like a lady. After getting a geographical lesson of Brazil, Tom's life story and a few deets on his love life (he now has a Brazilian ladyfriend), everyone awkwardly sighed into the silence and stared at each other's feet. (See: Rules in previous sauna entries--> never check out bizoobies, bellies or danger zones...).

A few minutes later, Tom and Chubs flew the coop with a couple of our quieter friends and I was left with one last friend. Somewhere in the conversation I dropped the N bomb (Nebraska) and this guy turned to me to show off his T-shirt that lovingly advertised Ogallala. We were instant besties. Unlike Tom, Mike wasn't an annoying chipmunk who filled every silence with an awkward joke. As it turns out, he's in the mental health field (cha-ching), so we spent the better part of my 30-minutes in the heater talking about nerdy psych stuff. OK, let me just point out that making friends in the sauna isn't actually an ideal place because you're sitting there sweating your ass off while trying to focus on what the other person is saying (not to mention what you're saying), but the heat is taking over and you end up just feeling like a melted candle. Eventually I announced that I was baked and drunkenly stood up to leave. It kind of reminded me of the time I went tanning after putting on heat lotion (which feels like your skin is on fire), then walking next door and blacking out in the bathroom of Juice Stop. Fantastic.

Once again, I can thank the sauna for fulfilling my life a little bit more.

post labor day crash.

I don't know if I really like this whole Labor Day thing. It basically sets every worker bee up for a giant bitch slap because although you start the week off with Tuesday, it feels like more of a Monday than any day ever has. I don't know why I was misfortuned with a hearty bowl of peed-in cornflakes this morning, but I guess Karma decided to lose its knickers and go.

I woke up like any other work day... by pressing snooze at least 4 times before realizing I had a life to tend to. I opted against a shower because A. I had taken one post-sauna last night and, B. it seemed like too much work. So instead I spun a braid in my hair, threw on a dress and headed out the door on my way to take my car to the mechanic. Mind you, this was all done prior to 7 AM. What a day already. I secretly kept hoping that the Boulder wildfires would create enough smoke to cancel any/all morning commutes, but let's be honest, I'm not stupid enough to actually believe that could ever be true.

Next on my list I dropped Lois off at the mechanic, crossed my fingers hoping they wouldn't call back and offer a 10-foot rod to shove up my... bank account, and hopped on the light rail, which was actually pretty fun. Nothing like some awesome people watching opps first thing in the morning. Sure, 26ish girl-woman,  Of course it's appropriate to wear a corset, jeans, Vans and your ex-boyfriend's oversized hoodie to work. There were a few nerds in grey suits and vagabonds who I considered befriending, but my senses got the best of me and I kept my distance. I don't know what it is about me that wants to ask every single homeless person why it is they wound up homeless. It's a legitimate question, right? If Diane Sawyer can ask Chaz Bono why she-he is a she-he, I can damn well ask a homeless guy where he ate his last meal.

Anyway.

I wasn't so lucky with the proverbial rod. The garage called me shortly after I got to my ball n' desk and quoted me at what I could only distinguish as my arm, both legs, liver, 1.5 kidneys, left lung and right middle finger. I excused myself into a vacant office, called my dad and cried. To add insult to injury, I ran into one of the Accounts guys who blatantly called me out on saying it was Monday... and I thought we were friends. That's when I realized I didn't like Labor Day. Nothing good comes from a Tuesday posing as a Monday.

At 6:00 I finally rolled my beer-filled-from-weekend-shenanigans ass down to the gym for a little workout + you know it... Wheel of Fortune. This may have been where my night peaked (thankfully it wasn't the only peak of the day). After Wheel (only true Wheel Watchers such as myself have the audacity to refer to our beloved show as Wheel instead of using the full name... trust me, you'll catch on in due time) I strolled through a gusty 35-mph wind toward the light rail station, then walked another 2 miles home in the dark. Every white van and '87 Chevy I passed I stopped and jabbed the air, Billy Blanks style, just in case there was someone in there thinking they could take me. Believe me they'd have another thing coming if they got one of my Billy Blanks left hooks or military kicks. No one needs to see that shit.

Now that I've been lying in bed for the better part of the night and I'm beginning to waste precious sleeping hours, I have to ask myself once again what's so great about effing Labor Day. Because if you ask me, after my first official celebration for being a grown-up with a big-girl job, all I got was a broken car, a 3-mile trek across the city, some awkward tearful moments and a dirty kitchen. Please, Hump Day, don't do me wrong.

i got my hair did.

My brother's getting married today and I had the unfortunate opportunity of waking up early and going into town to get my hair done. Woof. My sister and I rolled in around 9:15 and this place was bumpin. It's very possible that I was still a little d-town... like a lady... but I'm gonna stick with "hungover." Note to self: stop mixing wine and beer. Choose one and stick with it dammit. Anyway, Elli got swept away in the fog of hairspray by some too-much-pep-in-her-step little lady while I waited for my stylist. "And Mike will be right out to do your hair," says the receptionist. Immediately I was way snazzed about what was about to happen. Hot gay man to style my hair? Yes please. Having moved away from college, I've gone through a little drought of gay friends and lemmetellyou, I miss them mucho. Next thing I knew Mike came swishing around the corner and for a second I forgot about the nausea and got supa jazzed.

Mikey and I dove into convo, covering the basics: "Ooo you have a great hair color. This is your natural color?" "What kinds of things do you do for fun?" "Where are you from?" Blah blah blah. He was adorable and bless his heart, just couldn't seem to get my facts straight. For example...
"So when do you head back to Boston?"
"Oh, actually it's Denver... and Monday..."
"What do you do for fun in Denver?"
"There are a lot of parks so I spend time there, go out with friends, ski in the winter..."
"I didn't know there were mountains in Nebraska..."
"Ummm, nope, uh huh, OK..." (Real thoughts: Haaaaaahahaha oh shitballs this is going great.)

Just as I was getting ready to dive into love life questions, Mike started talking about his girlfriend. HOLD. THE. PHONE. Excuse me? Boy, there's not a hair out of place in those eyebrows and you're telling me you have a girlfriend? This completely redefined the term metrosexual for me. But to be honest, I don't believe him for a second. Lit'rally, five seconds before he laid down the gf-bomb, I was formulating the most PC way to ask what his boyfriend's name was. I mean, come on, he was gorg. I was even supa jeal of his hair and don't even get me started on those biceps. But I guess he's had a little ladyfriend for 3 years now. What I didn't say to him was this: OK honey, you can play your little games here, but you might want to just save your girly the identity crisis and let her go. But you know what? Maybe he was legit and really did lurv her. Who am I to judge? I'm just saying... coming from someone who may or may not have experience being on her side of the game, he'd probably rather kiss her brother. Boyfriend knows how to do some hairdo's. Mine's looking good.

make it stop.

Kyle... this is for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7yswQLTH4KE&feature=channel

Parents... don't let your kids do this.
My Cy... you've created millions of monsters thanks to this song.
Singing girl... keep on singing.

cat day.

Yesterday I had the effing fantastic idea to go to the local animal shelter (and when I say "local" I mean this is the corporate multiplex of shelters) to adopt a cat. It's been a few months since my beloved Jude was unethically put to rest and I'd like a new snuggle buddy. So all day my coworkers and I were emailing back and forth pictures from their website and giggling through the cube walls at our own jokes. So by the end of the day, I was convinced to go take a peek. And let me also include the fact that the shelter has, within the past week, taken in over 100 cats from a home in Wyoming that housed... wait for it... holyshit150 cats. That's disgusting even for me. And if anyone from 2120, 132, 505, ChiO, 208, 934 or 1T can tell you, I freaking lurv cats. It should be embarrassing, but face it: I don't care. So back to my story...

The shelter has been giving away free cats for the past week because of the overflow thanks to those nucking futzers in Wyo. I do love me some Wyoming, but those people really put a damper on my feelings. I'm fascinated with hoarders, mostly because what they have is a completely ridiculous mental illness and I want to know what goes through someone's mind when they think that having 100+ cats roaming around is normal. Strike that... anyone who has more than 3 (and 3 is pushing it) cats needs to reevaluate, if you ask me.

I love that all of the secret cat people of Denver will only come out of the woodwork when it's a free altered/vaccinated cat being offered. Heaven forbid you actually admit that you'd like a cat and would pay for its shots and to have its sexyparts snipped. But needless to say, the whole "Cat Days" thing going on at the shelter should have been the red flag. Why didn't I see it? Clearly I was blinded by love, which is typically how I choose to live my life. Why not love while you live and live while you love. Try it, you might like it.

So I go there thinking, "OK I probably won't bring one home today, but I'll spend 30ish minutes playing with them and make my decision then." Ha, silly girl. I walked in and checked out the cats, then took my place in the waiting area and watched all the crazy cat people shuffling around. What a treat. The only thing I didn't get to see was a cat-embroidered sweater. Otherwise I saw all of the typical cat-lover styles: women in stretch pants with dirty oversized T-shirts, hippie girlies, girlies who love girlies, boys who love boys, weird farmer man who couldn't shut the eff up and smelled like manure, overweight single middle-aged women with bad haircuts, cankles, kids with ADHD, fanny packs... the list goes on.

Two hours later, I was still sitting there. I kept looking at my watch thinking my turn would be next and every minute that passed I got more annoyed and more tired. Finally when the crowd got smaller and my pride faded, I went to the desk to talk to one of the adoption reps. She told me that two of the three cats on my list were "just cats" meaning... not "pets," meaning... you just wasted your night, sucka. And the third had just been adopted. Holyf-ck. I pleasantly thanked them for their time, praised their efforts, Nancypants'd through a few more surface-y things, then tucked my tail between my legs and shuffled out the door. Just fantastic.

All I have to say is this:

1. I will only be adopting cats from farms or buying one from a breeder.
2. Thank you, silly old woman wearing a fanny pack, for not telling me the cats on my list were PsOS.
3. Is this what I get for liking cats? Come on, someone's gotta do it.
4. I need a nap.

story time.

My friend got a phone call from another friend who told him this story (in a nutshell):

She's been dating this one guy for a few months. Things have been going great, he's active, great personality, blah blah blah. She has a successful career, owns a home, is really fit, more blahblahs. Basically, things are going well for these two love birds. He told her that he owns a condo up north, but has been sketch on answering questions like, "Who takes care of your lawn?" and "What's your interest rate?" Ok, let me interject for a moment that after only a few months of dating, these are kind of weird questions to be asking, but whatever. Right? No? I'm not in my forties, so maybe that has something to do with it. Did I mention that? They're in their forties. Keep that in mind.

SO she did a little research on the guy and somehow (give me a break... thanks to the graces of some wonderfully invasive Internet search tools) found out that not only do his parents actually own the condo, but they live next door. Wowsers. (He had been saying that they live far away... nice one.) It's one thing if you can't afford a home or were hit by the economic bitch slap and lost your home, but come on... man up. This reminds me a lot of the guy in Failure to Launch except for the fact that he was proud that his mom still did his laundry and was his alarm clock. Note to men: this is not attractive; however, if a girl likes you enough she might be able to deal with it. But what's more unattractive? Lying about it. Although I think it's weird that this lady had to do some Blue's Clues work, his situation was even weirder. Needless to say, they're no longer speaking. I hope she finds someone with a little more chest hair next time.

This ties into the whole Cougar-Cub thing. Sort of. When did the tables turn and women turned into the Sugar Daddies? I guess women are gaining power... thank you Rosa, Lady Bird, Cher, Oprah and Condolezza... I could launch into my whole theory on the internal submissive male sub-psyche, but that's for another day. :) I'll be honest, it does gross me out a little to see a coug out with her mancub. Call me what you will (a hippie maybe?), but I have no interest in plasticizing myself in order to score some cub-toosh in 25 years. Don't get me wrong, the thought of gravity taking its toll scares me to death, but that's life, right? Besides, I'd rather have crow's feet from smiling for 60 years and saggyboobies than look like the botox nightmares wandering around this country. I'm exiting my soap-boxy arena... now.

Africa.

Well I'm back babysitting in one of my favorite spots. I just put one of the kids to bed and the following is an excerpt from our conversation (interject several "OK now scratch my back. OK now rub my back. Now scratch. Now rub." while we were talking):

Her: "I can punch someone really hard."
Me: "You can punch someone? You know it's not nice to hit people."
Her: "Well... (sigh) yeah. I went swimming with my cousins in their pool."
Me: "Fun! Did you play a lot of games while you were swimming?"
Her: "Yeah...."
Me: "Where do your cousins live?"
Her: "Africa."
Me: "Oh. Africa, huh? Are you sure?"
Her: "Well, um, yeah... Who lives in Africa? Do you know someone who lives in Africa?"
Me: "I don't know anyone who lives in Africa. It's a long way away."
Her: "Scratch! OK now rub. Do you have friends? I have a lot of friends and you have only a little friends."

I love conversations with four-year-olds.

dorothy.

Some days I fall into this little "there's no place like home" funk and seriously, all I can think about is how much I miss my friends and family and the great state of Neb. I'm not going to start complaining because A. that's annoying and B. I love the Den, but when you're cool enough not to have plans on a Friday night, like me, a little homesickness isn't altogether unnatural.

Plus, in a week Husker fever starts. And if anyone doubts a Nebraskan's committment to Husker Football, they're complete idiots. During the fall, all normal activity unrelated to football is put on hold while a big red cloud encompasses the state. I've never seen anything like Lincoln on gameday and yes, I'm just as stupid about it as everyone else. And why? Because it's awesome. If you've never been, you couldn't possibly understand. I'm gonna go ahead and admit that I get goosebumps during the Tunnel Walk and have to try rrrreally hard not to cry when the planes fly overheard. That part is a little embarrassing, but whatever. Judge if you will. My mom still tells me I'm cool.

As much as I love it here, there are a few things I could use in my life including, but not limited to:

1. 934-934-934-934. Pool + Fiskaycoke buzzes + Craig's pot roast + Brady's flame-sided scooter + Frank headlining with Shithook at Duffy's + Sardinar's pecs...
2. Sorority rush. There's really nothing like hundreds--strike that, thousands--of screaming freshman girls running down the street in your direction then pummeling you with hugs, tears and thank you's. You're effing welcome we let you in the best house on campus. Now clean the floor. Jussssst kidding...
3. 'Screamer' camp outs. These little social gatherings bring a whole new meaning to TMI. And. I. Love. It. I could use a little recap of Baysoulandlandlandlandlandlandlaaaaaaaand land land right about now. And what I just realized is that there are only a few people who could understand what I just wrote and chances are... they're not reading this.
4. O Street shenanigans. I once watched a girl dressed up in a tiara and sash (bachelorette partayy) stumbling out of The Bar by herself, then playing pinball down the sidewalk before she face-planted, booty-crack exposed, life-in-shambles. And what did passersby do? They walked around her. My friend was kind enough to pick her up and put her back on her heels, but about 20 yards later, she was facedown assup in the bushes. Bless her heart.
5. Walking into my room to find my friend studying for a final with a stiff drink in one hand, hi-liter in the other. By herself. She's my idol. Naturally, I joined in the festivities.

So I guess tonight I'm working the merch table at the Fruit Bats concert... then tomorrow I'm going to their concert. If I'm not BFF with these fools by the end of the weekend, immabe one unhappy camper. At least give me a slap bracelet or something. Glow in the dark, please.

this made my day.

This is just too good:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYW6C44zo24&NR=1

Next time I'm sitting on a toilet, I plan on singing this song. Stall 3 better watch out.

current eventz.

I really don't know how people are thinking straight these days. I'm mean, let's be real here, it's not like the news stations are dishing us even remotely legit information. When I turn on the news (which is a typical default considering I don't have cable...), all I hear are a bunch of melodramatic tall tales told using wrongfully emphasized syllables. Holy shit, someone just give me one single fact. No embellishments, no corny bullshit. Just one fact. I don't even care what it is. For all I care, the anchor could look at someone's green jacket and tell his viewers that he's looking at a man in a green jacket.

Aaaand now I'm stepping off my soapbox.

Recently the headliners have included: Brett Favre's on-again-off-again antics, Dr. Laura calling it quits, and of course... an egg recall. Somehow these all seem uniquely linked. I'm not sure how, but use your imagination and I'm sure you'll come up with something.

I've never really hopped on the Favre train as many people seem to have done over the past, uhhh, 20ish years. Michael Jordan, yes. King James, yes. Maybe even a little Lance Armstrong. But Brett Favre just never really did it for me. I feel like he peaked when he made his cameo on There's Something About Mary. So now, 12 years later, he's doing all he can to keep his head above water. So what better way to get people's attention than act like a total flake? It's actually been entertaining to see how all of the news-y channels get a little moist in their drawers about it. Ohhhhmygawwwwd he's retiring! No wait, he's back! he's back! he's back! Breaking news: The Era of Favre is over. News to break the breaking news: Ohhh sonofabitch, just kidding, he's back for another year. I'll give the guy a few props for his epic arm, but for the love of NFL, just pack up your Nancy pants and buy a one way ticket to Scottsdale. Let someone else have their prime. And plus, now his teammates are speaking out against him. Think the Vikes are going to do well this season? Ha. Think again.

Ohhh Dr. Laura. It's about time you cashed in your chips. I remember standing in my dad's kitchen listening to the Dr. L show and thinking that this woman belonged in the cuckoo's nest. One of my biggest pet peeves is people who can't shut the eff up. And believeyoume, she had no clue what a warm cup of shut-the-hell-up tasted like. In her defense, she often said what a lot of people were thinking (but had more class than to actually say it) so I guess you could consider her a voice of the people. But to be frank, she was an angry old Ethel whose bigotry was the magic carpet of her career. And even though there's a teeny tiny, microscopic part of me that's sad that I won't get to read about another lawsuit filed against her loud mouth, I can only say good riddance.

Last but not least... there's been a recall on eggs? What? I just made an omelette last night and judging the rate by which foodstuffs are getting recalled, I'll more than likely wake up d-e-d tomorrow. So to make sure I had my facts straight I did a little investigating (thank you wiki) and here are a few of the more recent recalls I found:

1. April 2007: Nestle voluntarily recalled its "Caramel Kit Kat Chunky" bars and "KitKat Cookie Dough Chocolate" bars due to some bits of hard plastic being found in the chocolate.

2. April 2008: Malt-O-Meal voluntarily recalls its Puffed Rice and Puffed Wheat cold cereal products.

3. March 2009: Setton Pistachio of Terra Bella, California recalled its entire 2008 crop of pistachios due to salmonella contamination.

4. 2010: McDonalds recalled the Shrek Forever After cups due to risks of lead poisoning from the cups' paint.

And finally... 5. Most egg companies are recalled due to a salmonella outbreak on most of there eggs.

Hmm. So this brings me back to square one about the news. Dramadramadrama. I can promise you that there always has and always will be salmonella in eggs. Thanks to the lovely USDA, the amount of feces and pesticides we eat every year is a fantastically sickening number anyway, so what's a little sal gonna do? The only thing I'm worried about right now is the whole genetically biggie-sizing animals thing. There's a reason people are bigbodies... larger portions mean larger asses. 1 + 1 = Supasized. So can someone do us all a favor and just knock it off with the genetic processing nonsense? I promise you my smaller chicken breast won't taste any different than your bigger one.

pianos and politicians.

Ohhh good God I found a gem. I was reading stories on MSN today and, as always, was reading only the ones with the most intellectually stimulating titles like: "Woman fumbles $9,000 engagement ring awry" (I actually felt sick reading it. Poor guy.), "How to Build Muscle Really Fast," "Cats and schizophrenia," and "'Jersey' Star 'Snooki' Denied Trademark" (Toooo baaaaddddd Snooks.). As I was saying: intellectual. Amidst this crap, I found an article on talented celebrities... like it's such a big surprise that Condolezza Rice knows how to play the piano. Really? Come on. Among these celebs were... wait for it... the Singing Senators. Oh snazz. I die. I couldn't help myself, so I dove into some research on these schmucks and slap my ass and call me Charlie, one of the Singers is the one and only: Larry Craig.

For those of you unfamilar with Lar-Bear, these clues might ring a bell: Idaho. Men's bathroom. Tomfoolery...

Clearly it comes as no surprise that this douche was a part of a barbershop quartet. Before any barbershoppers get their foam hats all crumpled, let me interject the fact that I sang with show choirs in both high school and college AND thought it was cool, so I'm not judging... I'm merely stating a fact of showbiz, or whatever you classify cheesy singing groups as. But let me just say this. Combining a political figure with music is never a good idea. Leave politics in Washington and music, well, everywhere else. And why? Because no one really enjoyed listening to these guys, let alone having to look at them. Who really calls a group of middle-aged politicians with bad haircuts, bad make-up and bad vibratos "entertainment"? Maybe Janet Reno would. Or who knows... maybe on a good day Nancy P gets a little goosey about it.

I'm having a hard time saying this, but I'm almost thankful for L-bird's little bathroom incident because now the world has one less political barbershop group. So please, MSN, let's watch our words a little more closely. When you say "talented celebrities," you're better off just sticking to the basics: Lady Gaga (and that little kid who got a record deal after singing Paparazzi), Dave-John-Jack, THE Scarlet & Cream Singers and of course, John Stamos.

parking lot.

Within the past week, I've seen these two scenes in the parking lot of my gym. One causes me to go into turtle mode when I'm trying to find a parking space. The other... well, I'm pretty sure if they had a sign on the front of it saying, "This is where you belong," it would be like the pot calling the kettle black. Good stuff.

doug world.

So today I was at the mall and happened to wind up in a skateboardy type of store... in my pseudo-frantic "adult" life I seem to have forgotten that August is BACK TO SCHOOL month at the mall, so I was rubbing elbows with moms and their teeny weeny kids. And I'm serious about the teeny weeniness. Have you seen high school kids these days? I realize there's a big health crisis going on out there and childhood obesity is at an all-time high (1/3 kids are bigbodies these days... a special thank you goes out to: Philo Farnsworth, Sony, Frito Lays, Bill Gates, Laz-E-Boy and Little Debbie), but omigod, these kids made me feel like a giant! This was in part due to the fact that I was wearing heels (not to mention completely out of place in my "office-appropriate" dress/sweater), but also because I've just forgotten what kids look like during those precious pubescent years: Awkward.

There's really no happy medium for neither guys nor girls. They're either morbidly gangly or morbidly obese. It probably doesn't help that I compare people (in almost every circumstance) to the characters from Doug. For instance, every girl is either a Patty or a Connie. (Side note: I always discount Bebe because she was a huge biatch who no one liked because all she did was whine and flaunt her daddy's pocketbook--no one liked Bebe.) Patty was super gangly, the object of Doug's affection, and undeniably popular. Connie was a little chubbier, a little more shy, and too nice for her own good. I always thought Skeeter and Connie should hook up. Anyway... For guys, it's either Chalky (I think that's his name) the almost-jock or Doug, the epitome of a teenage guy. Who didn't love Doug, though?

As I was walking around feeling like Betty White in Loompaland, I encountered every single character from Doug. Mostly it was a bunch of Patty's in tiny tank tops and shorts that barely cover their not-yet-developed derrieres and Rogers in their trying-really-hard-to-be-badass skateboard brand tees and skinny jeans.

Standing in line I might have been eavesdropping on a conversation held by two teen guys buying a skateboard. There were sooo many "shit dudes" and words their mothers would smack them to the moon and back if they heard... I began to lose count. These guys were definitely Dougs. A group of Patty's walked by and the guys launched into their assessment of how girls dress. This was a real treat. They were talking about the fact that girls only have two looks: "They either go all out and look smokin' hot or they don't do anything to themselves and just look bummed out." I quickly did a once-over of myself and decided that I was closer to the smokin' hot category than bummed out, only because I was dressed up for work (default win). More often than not I'm a bummed out girl, according to the Dougs' standards... I consider this my contribution to the maintenance of sociological standards. If there were no bummed out people in this world, then how could these Dougs rate anyone higher? They would just accept the fact that every Patty was bummed out. They'd never have a chance to see a smokin' hot Patty (or Connie for that matter) or to see that a bummed out Patty can look just as good as a smokin' hot one, all things considered. It's just another one of my efforts toward the greater good. Small sacrifices create big return, people. I'm just another Patty in gym shorts.