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.
9/22/10
9/21/10
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.
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.
9/19/10
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.
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.
9/13/10
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.
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.
9/7/10
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 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.
9/4/10
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.
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.
9/2/10
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.
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.
9/1/10
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.
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.
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