Today I got called out by a sassy little Japanese woman (who I happen to work with on a daily basis). Don't let size fool you--the shorter, the sassier--unless you're talking about me. My sassy pants come with a 36-inch inseam.
I meandered over to the food cube with my heart set on a tub of guac. Beating me to the punch was the aforementioned Mistress of Sass. I took a little jab by taunting her selection of Cheddar Bunnies, then immediately, like it was the fate of Gawd Awmighty, I keeled over with knife-like pangs in my belly. "Uuuuggghhhhrhrrrrsrelifjslkfjsd," I whined. "I have little gas bubbles floating all around in here," I said as I pointed to my mids.
She wheeled around and looked up at me, saying in her sassiest of sassafrass tones, "You always have a gas problem!"
BOOM. Even my office-mates know now. Hey, some people have charm. Other people have gas.
Well-played, Sassafrass.
1/26/11
1/25/11
dreaming with George.
I have a certain knack for remembering almost every one of my dreams. I don't know if I would necessarily constitute this as a talent per se, but a "knack?" Yes. I generally refer to knacks as weird things anyway, like knick-knacks. WTF? You know you have at least one family member or friend who has knick-knacks all over their house. Maybe they're miniature tea sets? Or porcelain plates lining the ceiling? Or better yet... porcelain cats alllllllll over the place. I love me a good cat picture every now and then, but come on people, pull yourselves together! There I go on my tangents again...
So this knack of mine. I consider myself a human dream catcher (and maybe possibly have a mild obsession with Native American dream catchers... yet I don't actually have one... yet). Every day I consider the ramifications of taking a Mental Health Day from work and driving to the Four Corners to pick one up from a street (desert?) vendor. To date, I have yet to come up with a reason why I shouldn't go. Any takers? ...didn't think so. Anyway, I've been experiencing a plethora of bad dreams throughout the past few months and am not sure why. For example, I experience at least 2 kidnappings and/or psycho killer stalkers on a weekly basis. Despite my intense hatred for these dreams, I still think I'm lucky whenever my brother tells me about his dreams... lucky that I don't dream his dreams. For the love of Gawd, the man experiences Steven King + Bret Easton Ellis + Herman Munster + Sinbad x 50 in some of those things. And belize me, I don't want to have anything to do with any of that. Well, maybe except for Herman. He's so lovable.
My latest nightmizare looked like this: I was the ball girl or towel girl--or something degrading me to wearing short shorts and a tight tank top (to show off my fake boobies... what? I know, right?) and white dance team sneakers--for a pro football team. I blame listening to the Jets/Steelers (go Jets, ew Steelers) game on the radio during my FIVE hour drive home last Sunday for that little detail. Naturally I was the "guys' girl" friend with the boiz on the team and found myself folding towels or shorts or something down in the locker room with my buddy who was on the defensive line. My buddy just so happened to be Faizon Love. <--again, wtf I know. Well, Faiz started professing his undying love for me, then gave me some major googly eyes that insinuated one thing: assault. Aw haaeeeelllll no this was not happening again in my dream. And so the chase ensued... I bolted for the door, slow motion of course (WHY does it have to be slo-mo every single time?), and ran up an outdoor flight of stairs to a bar/movie theatre/lecture hall. ??????
I snuck in (I blame reading Water for Elephants on this) without paying my $12 admission and sunk down into a seat I was sure would hide me. Luckily, one of my coworkers was in the seat across the aisle from me and a pillow from my parents' couch in Nebraska magically appeared to better aide in my hiding efforts. BUT (so starts the Jaws theme song) next thing I know, Faiz comes tearing through the dark theatre in hot pursuit of... me. I hold up the pillow, but to no avail; he spots me, takes note, then leaves. Phew. Each time I looked over my shoulder, he was pacing back and forth in front of the glass doors, his panther eyes locked on me. Thankfully I woke up at that moment, sweating like a moose and cradling a knot in my stomach. And who did I have to comfort me? George. But not George's glorious purring face that he uses to wake me up with at least 14 times a night. He was positioned such that his smelly little booty was propped up on my shoulder. The little bastard. This has been happening more times than not and then again last night being woken up for the second night in a row by George's backside put me in a foul mood. Looks like the little guy and I need to have a serious Come To Jesus tonight.
I should probably give G a little more credit now that I think of it. At least he was there for me, lending what he feels is his best asset for the sake of my comfort. It's impossible not to appreciate his effort. Sweet little guy.
So this knack of mine. I consider myself a human dream catcher (and maybe possibly have a mild obsession with Native American dream catchers... yet I don't actually have one... yet). Every day I consider the ramifications of taking a Mental Health Day from work and driving to the Four Corners to pick one up from a street (desert?) vendor. To date, I have yet to come up with a reason why I shouldn't go. Any takers? ...didn't think so. Anyway, I've been experiencing a plethora of bad dreams throughout the past few months and am not sure why. For example, I experience at least 2 kidnappings and/or psycho killer stalkers on a weekly basis. Despite my intense hatred for these dreams, I still think I'm lucky whenever my brother tells me about his dreams... lucky that I don't dream his dreams. For the love of Gawd, the man experiences Steven King + Bret Easton Ellis + Herman Munster + Sinbad x 50 in some of those things. And belize me, I don't want to have anything to do with any of that. Well, maybe except for Herman. He's so lovable.
My latest nightmizare looked like this: I was the ball girl or towel girl--or something degrading me to wearing short shorts and a tight tank top (to show off my fake boobies... what? I know, right?) and white dance team sneakers--for a pro football team. I blame listening to the Jets/Steelers (go Jets, ew Steelers) game on the radio during my FIVE hour drive home last Sunday for that little detail. Naturally I was the "guys' girl" friend with the boiz on the team and found myself folding towels or shorts or something down in the locker room with my buddy who was on the defensive line. My buddy just so happened to be Faizon Love. <--again, wtf I know. Well, Faiz started professing his undying love for me, then gave me some major googly eyes that insinuated one thing: assault. Aw haaeeeelllll no this was not happening again in my dream. And so the chase ensued... I bolted for the door, slow motion of course (WHY does it have to be slo-mo every single time?), and ran up an outdoor flight of stairs to a bar/movie theatre/lecture hall. ??????
I snuck in (I blame reading Water for Elephants on this) without paying my $12 admission and sunk down into a seat I was sure would hide me. Luckily, one of my coworkers was in the seat across the aisle from me and a pillow from my parents' couch in Nebraska magically appeared to better aide in my hiding efforts. BUT (so starts the Jaws theme song) next thing I know, Faiz comes tearing through the dark theatre in hot pursuit of... me. I hold up the pillow, but to no avail; he spots me, takes note, then leaves. Phew. Each time I looked over my shoulder, he was pacing back and forth in front of the glass doors, his panther eyes locked on me. Thankfully I woke up at that moment, sweating like a moose and cradling a knot in my stomach. And who did I have to comfort me? George. But not George's glorious purring face that he uses to wake me up with at least 14 times a night. He was positioned such that his smelly little booty was propped up on my shoulder. The little bastard. This has been happening more times than not and then again last night being woken up for the second night in a row by George's backside put me in a foul mood. Looks like the little guy and I need to have a serious Come To Jesus tonight.
I should probably give G a little more credit now that I think of it. At least he was there for me, lending what he feels is his best asset for the sake of my comfort. It's impossible not to appreciate his effort. Sweet little guy.
1/21/11
the texter.
Let me start this post by saying a couple of things:
1. I'm a texter. I love it. Who doesn't? Well, my mom doesn't and every time I bring up a text I've sent her (and I only do it to be annoying, naturally), she says to me and whoever else might be in earshot, "You know I don't see what's wrong with just picking up the phone and calling someone. Why do I have to text (she says this word as if she's actually saying fuck, but surprisingly she says fuck a lot more easily; however, not too often . . . I digress) someone to get an answer or have a conversation? It's so impersonal . . ." Oh Moooommmm, you're silly.
2. I don't like malls. They're gross, overwhelming and smell funny.
Yesterday I turned on the news while getting ready for work to good old Good Morning America (The Today Show was really starting to piss me off with their stories about the man with the goooolden vooooiiiiice...) and the big headliner featured a youtube video of a woman texting in a mall, not looking where she was going, and nose-diving into a fountain. I could hardly contain my excitement and was about 20 minutes late to work because I couldn't pull myself away from this train wreck. The anchors were saying something about how dangerous texting and walking can be (what?) and then did the whole "here's why" to introduce the video of this woman. They showed it backwards, forwards, sideways, frontways, slow motion, fast-forwarded, and finally upside-down. I was glued to that shit. So next they interviewed the woman and that's when it got good.
She was all in a tizzy because the youtube video has gotten millions of hits. Millions! If that were me I'd be SO PROUD! Instead, she was all up in arms because people were laughing at her. Come on lady, take a joke! Laugh at yourself! COME ONNN. I mean really, people slip and fall all over the place, people laugh, then inevitably a cake falls on the laughing people, someone slams the other in the face with a pie then they pie-slammer slips on a banana peel and so on and so forth. Shit's funny, ya know? Instead, this woman has retaliated because her Ego (or honestly, it sounds like she's still stuck in the Id) has been bruised. That's the only explanation for her reaction. She then tried to justify her texting by saying she was texting someone from her church. Ohhhh OK, so because it was someone from your church, everything is totally legit and you were only being the good person that you are. Personally, I don't care if she had been texting the Pope or her dog. It's completely irrelevant. But come to think of it, if her dog had texted her then that is what I call a great news story.
She's hired a pudgy, bad-haired lawyer who was sitting with her and could only say "at this time we're investigating the issue as well as identifying anyone who was involved with posting this video to the Internet." Oh come on, you can't blame the security guys. You weren't hurt. Nothing happened. You fell into a two-foot pool of water. Get over yourself, lady. You could tell the lawyer was doing all he could not to laugh in her face. I did for him. The anchors finally cut to commercial and I realized I was sitting in the middle of my living room floor, head tilted up toward the TV, mouth agape, and unable to move. I felt dumber for having experienced that 10 minutes of Breaking News.
Now do you see why I'm not a fan of the news? I just don't get people some days . . . and by some, I mean most.
1. I'm a texter. I love it. Who doesn't? Well, my mom doesn't and every time I bring up a text I've sent her (and I only do it to be annoying, naturally), she says to me and whoever else might be in earshot, "You know I don't see what's wrong with just picking up the phone and calling someone. Why do I have to text (she says this word as if she's actually saying fuck, but surprisingly she says fuck a lot more easily; however, not too often . . . I digress) someone to get an answer or have a conversation? It's so impersonal . . ." Oh Moooommmm, you're silly.
2. I don't like malls. They're gross, overwhelming and smell funny.
Yesterday I turned on the news while getting ready for work to good old Good Morning America (The Today Show was really starting to piss me off with their stories about the man with the goooolden vooooiiiiice...) and the big headliner featured a youtube video of a woman texting in a mall, not looking where she was going, and nose-diving into a fountain. I could hardly contain my excitement and was about 20 minutes late to work because I couldn't pull myself away from this train wreck. The anchors were saying something about how dangerous texting and walking can be (what?) and then did the whole "here's why" to introduce the video of this woman. They showed it backwards, forwards, sideways, frontways, slow motion, fast-forwarded, and finally upside-down. I was glued to that shit. So next they interviewed the woman and that's when it got good.
She was all in a tizzy because the youtube video has gotten millions of hits. Millions! If that were me I'd be SO PROUD! Instead, she was all up in arms because people were laughing at her. Come on lady, take a joke! Laugh at yourself! COME ONNN. I mean really, people slip and fall all over the place, people laugh, then inevitably a cake falls on the laughing people, someone slams the other in the face with a pie then they pie-slammer slips on a banana peel and so on and so forth. Shit's funny, ya know? Instead, this woman has retaliated because her Ego (or honestly, it sounds like she's still stuck in the Id) has been bruised. That's the only explanation for her reaction. She then tried to justify her texting by saying she was texting someone from her church. Ohhhh OK, so because it was someone from your church, everything is totally legit and you were only being the good person that you are. Personally, I don't care if she had been texting the Pope or her dog. It's completely irrelevant. But come to think of it, if her dog had texted her then that is what I call a great news story.
She's hired a pudgy, bad-haired lawyer who was sitting with her and could only say "at this time we're investigating the issue as well as identifying anyone who was involved with posting this video to the Internet." Oh come on, you can't blame the security guys. You weren't hurt. Nothing happened. You fell into a two-foot pool of water. Get over yourself, lady. You could tell the lawyer was doing all he could not to laugh in her face. I did for him. The anchors finally cut to commercial and I realized I was sitting in the middle of my living room floor, head tilted up toward the TV, mouth agape, and unable to move. I felt dumber for having experienced that 10 minutes of Breaking News.
Now do you see why I'm not a fan of the news? I just don't get people some days . . . and by some, I mean most.
1/17/11
things grown-ups do.
As a grown woman who still wishes she were 9 (even though those were my chubby years), I sometimes reflect on the things grown-ups like myself do that are arguably, well, childish. This past weekend I was babysitting my little boys in the mountains and would cringe every time the 2-year-old scampered up and down the steep set of stairs. Granted, he did fall of his stool while eating lunch which made me nearly pee my pants worrying that he'd knocked a tooth out and I'd never be allowed back to hang out with this family. Thankfully, he didn't. So every time we climbed and descended the stairs, I was behind him, arms extended, ready and waiting for him to tumble. He slipped a couple of times, but considering his center of gravity is about 4 feet lower than mine, he was jusssst fine.
Now comes my turn. I heard the baby wake up from his nap, so I set off toward the stairs to fetch him. Mind you, the stairs in the mountain house are carpeted as a safety feature, but when donning SmartWools, you're just setting yourself up for a disaster. I wasn't really paying attention and the next thing I knew, my heel caught the edge of the stair and my feet slipped out from under me. The fall down (and bump-bump-bump of my tush thumping ungracefully down the effing stairs) felt like a slow motion movie. And I kid you not, I haven't been in that much pain since I tripped on a crack during a run and skinned my hands and knees... four months ago. What is wrong with me? Apparently balance isn't my forte. So I sat on the stairs feeling like I was about to throw up and wondering if I still had a tailbone, let alone a butt. Omigosh seriously, it was one of the most awful experiences of my life. I was just glad the parents weren't there to see it and think "Oh sweet Jesus, who is this girl and why are we leaving our kids with her?"
But really, the older we get the more we revert to child-like ways. College kids wet the bed, cry and throw tantrums at social gatherings, and in some cases push their enemy down on the sidewalk and run as fast as they can in the opposite direction. I was guilty of the last infraction as a third-grader and naturally denied the shit out of it when the crazy scary P.E. teacher came over to ask why Kim was crying and saying that you pushed her down. Dude, why would I admit that? I was an A+ student. I wasn't about to get sent to the principal's office for a little shove. But now that I think of it . . . Kim, if you ever come across this, I'm sorry for pushing you down in third grade and for calling you Kimbie and for maybe pinching you once. Maybe. I was just jealous that you were prettier and you had really cool glasses.
These days if someone thinks another person is prettier, instead of pushing them down (which some people still do), they generally just say really nasty things about them and get everyone else to hate them. Cool guys; way to assert your adulthood, huh? So really, if you think about it, the only thing that sets us apart from elementary-aged kiddos is our ability to use reason and logic. It's just too bad most people forget about that. I guess that's what keeps it interesting.
Now comes my turn. I heard the baby wake up from his nap, so I set off toward the stairs to fetch him. Mind you, the stairs in the mountain house are carpeted as a safety feature, but when donning SmartWools, you're just setting yourself up for a disaster. I wasn't really paying attention and the next thing I knew, my heel caught the edge of the stair and my feet slipped out from under me. The fall down (and bump-bump-bump of my tush thumping ungracefully down the effing stairs) felt like a slow motion movie. And I kid you not, I haven't been in that much pain since I tripped on a crack during a run and skinned my hands and knees... four months ago. What is wrong with me? Apparently balance isn't my forte. So I sat on the stairs feeling like I was about to throw up and wondering if I still had a tailbone, let alone a butt. Omigosh seriously, it was one of the most awful experiences of my life. I was just glad the parents weren't there to see it and think "Oh sweet Jesus, who is this girl and why are we leaving our kids with her?"
But really, the older we get the more we revert to child-like ways. College kids wet the bed, cry and throw tantrums at social gatherings, and in some cases push their enemy down on the sidewalk and run as fast as they can in the opposite direction. I was guilty of the last infraction as a third-grader and naturally denied the shit out of it when the crazy scary P.E. teacher came over to ask why Kim was crying and saying that you pushed her down. Dude, why would I admit that? I was an A+ student. I wasn't about to get sent to the principal's office for a little shove. But now that I think of it . . . Kim, if you ever come across this, I'm sorry for pushing you down in third grade and for calling you Kimbie and for maybe pinching you once. Maybe. I was just jealous that you were prettier and you had really cool glasses.
These days if someone thinks another person is prettier, instead of pushing them down (which some people still do), they generally just say really nasty things about them and get everyone else to hate them. Cool guys; way to assert your adulthood, huh? So really, if you think about it, the only thing that sets us apart from elementary-aged kiddos is our ability to use reason and logic. It's just too bad most people forget about that. I guess that's what keeps it interesting.
1/7/11
casseroles.
So the past few weeks have been pretty crazy in my world. My dad and his family visited the mountains (I like to pretend they actually only came here to see me just to make myself feel better, although considering they've been making this trip for the past 15ish years, it's blatantly obvious that they didn't... I digress.) to celebrate Christmas the right way with skiing, awkward family gift swap, hot tubs and hot cocoa and, my personal fave... or not... casseroles. I realize this whole concept of the "casserole" is supposed to be like the end-all for meal-planning, but someone please help a sister out.
A casserole is your mother or grandmother's way of cramming a bunch of old shit that's been sitting into a cupboard + a hearty helping of leftovers into a pyrex pan and saying, "Hey! It's a delicious new creation! Yep, that's corn and cream cheese and ground beef and ham and pesto and sour cream and cheddar and monterey jack and pickles and black beans and maraschino cherries and pineapple and whole grain pasta (because it's healthier) and water chestnuts and dates and potato wedges and almonds and spinach and garbanzo beans and allspice and Nesquick and lard and orange peel and tomato sauce and apple butter and lemongrass in there." Mmmm so delicious. Inevitably the recipe has been handed down through 16 generations, so if anything, you're guilted into eating it with a smile on your face. And if you don't clear your plate... after having seconds and maybe thirds... you're doomed.
I need to make mention of one tiny thing. Corn doesn't belong in casseroles. I've just recently embraced corn being put into things, so I do realize this may just be a work in progress for me. My mom makes this thing called Carolyn's Casserole which is among one of her prized dishes. Or at least it used to be. Don't get me wrong, my mom could cook circles around Emeril and those other TV goons, but this Carolyn's thing is one helluva nightmare in a dish. Ingredients: corn, hamburger, cream cheese, noodly things, cheese, and some other unidentifiable stuff. Omigosh it makes me feel nauseated just thinking about it. My brothers used to request it for their birthday dinners and I'm convinced they only did it to spite me. I think it was because I was the youngest... and cutest. One of my brothers also had a knack for requesting things like chipped beef on toast (which is actually insanely delicious). All CBOT is is a packet of dried beef (the old 39-cent special at Hinky Dinky) cut up and stirred into a pot of bubbling cream of mushroom soup and poured over two pieces of dry toast. The only other family in the history of families who I can think ate this stuff is Laura Ingalls Wilder's clan.
I have a friend who gets freaked out about beans. This makes absolutely no sense to me as I am a strong bean advocate. If I could eat a pot of mixed beans all day every day, I think I would. Throw in a little CBOT and Ovaltine and you've got yourself one delicious, and classy, meal. Beans belong everywhere. They're the magical fruit. Really. Honestly.
Now that I've ragged on casseroles enough, I'll (naturally) counter my credibility by mentioning a few of my guilty pleasures (in no distinct order because they're all equally mind-blowing):
1. Potato Ole's with nacho cheese and Mexi Rolls at Taco Johns. I became a connoisseur of TJ's at a very young age. Pair this order with an ice cold Surge and you have yourself one damn fine meal.
2. Strawberry milk. Once again, as a kid this was my beverage of choice. I don't know if it was because of the awesome bottle the strawberry syrup junk came in (bunny-shaped) or the fact that it's abnormally delicious, but I got hooked at a very young age and am not above buying a bottle of this stuff for a road trip every now and then.
3. Waffle Crisp. Do they even make this stuff anymore? In high school I used to kill a box of this stuff on nearly every basketball trip. I think the sugar helped to sustain me throughout the games... or maybe it was the fact that I kept smelling the maple syrup flavoring on my fingers and played harder to win the games faster so I could get back to my Crisp. Yep, I bet that's what it was.
4. Slim Jims. I raaaaaarely eat these, but there's really nothing like a good Slim Jim. In 5th grade I would buy these off the snack cart with my Duster Dollars to munch on while we were forced to watch Channel One. The only bad part about this was that my reading teacher made us take notes--VERY detailed effing notes--about the news stories and blahblahblah, which really got in the way of my enjoyment of my stick of processed meat.
5. Barbeque sauce. Ohhhhhhh I could eat this on everything. And I do. Need a little something extra on a salad? Cottage cheese? Turkey wrap? Chicken nuggets? Eggs? YEP. BBQ is the universal condiment second to peanut butter... which I also could and do eat on everything.
6. Gummies. Another bad road trip habit of mine. Here's the slieu: Peachies, Strawberry Puffs, Sour Worms, Sour Octopi, Gummy Bears, Gummy Worms, Gummy Frogs, Gummy Root Beer, Swedish Fish, Apple-O's, Cinnamon Bears and mochi.
Don't judge me. And stop drooling.
A casserole is your mother or grandmother's way of cramming a bunch of old shit that's been sitting into a cupboard + a hearty helping of leftovers into a pyrex pan and saying, "Hey! It's a delicious new creation! Yep, that's corn and cream cheese and ground beef and ham and pesto and sour cream and cheddar and monterey jack and pickles and black beans and maraschino cherries and pineapple and whole grain pasta (because it's healthier) and water chestnuts and dates and potato wedges and almonds and spinach and garbanzo beans and allspice and Nesquick and lard and orange peel and tomato sauce and apple butter and lemongrass in there." Mmmm so delicious. Inevitably the recipe has been handed down through 16 generations, so if anything, you're guilted into eating it with a smile on your face. And if you don't clear your plate... after having seconds and maybe thirds... you're doomed.
I need to make mention of one tiny thing. Corn doesn't belong in casseroles. I've just recently embraced corn being put into things, so I do realize this may just be a work in progress for me. My mom makes this thing called Carolyn's Casserole which is among one of her prized dishes. Or at least it used to be. Don't get me wrong, my mom could cook circles around Emeril and those other TV goons, but this Carolyn's thing is one helluva nightmare in a dish. Ingredients: corn, hamburger, cream cheese, noodly things, cheese, and some other unidentifiable stuff. Omigosh it makes me feel nauseated just thinking about it. My brothers used to request it for their birthday dinners and I'm convinced they only did it to spite me. I think it was because I was the youngest... and cutest. One of my brothers also had a knack for requesting things like chipped beef on toast (which is actually insanely delicious). All CBOT is is a packet of dried beef (the old 39-cent special at Hinky Dinky) cut up and stirred into a pot of bubbling cream of mushroom soup and poured over two pieces of dry toast. The only other family in the history of families who I can think ate this stuff is Laura Ingalls Wilder's clan.
I have a friend who gets freaked out about beans. This makes absolutely no sense to me as I am a strong bean advocate. If I could eat a pot of mixed beans all day every day, I think I would. Throw in a little CBOT and Ovaltine and you've got yourself one delicious, and classy, meal. Beans belong everywhere. They're the magical fruit. Really. Honestly.
Now that I've ragged on casseroles enough, I'll (naturally) counter my credibility by mentioning a few of my guilty pleasures (in no distinct order because they're all equally mind-blowing):
1. Potato Ole's with nacho cheese and Mexi Rolls at Taco Johns. I became a connoisseur of TJ's at a very young age. Pair this order with an ice cold Surge and you have yourself one damn fine meal.
2. Strawberry milk. Once again, as a kid this was my beverage of choice. I don't know if it was because of the awesome bottle the strawberry syrup junk came in (bunny-shaped) or the fact that it's abnormally delicious, but I got hooked at a very young age and am not above buying a bottle of this stuff for a road trip every now and then.
3. Waffle Crisp. Do they even make this stuff anymore? In high school I used to kill a box of this stuff on nearly every basketball trip. I think the sugar helped to sustain me throughout the games... or maybe it was the fact that I kept smelling the maple syrup flavoring on my fingers and played harder to win the games faster so I could get back to my Crisp. Yep, I bet that's what it was.
4. Slim Jims. I raaaaaarely eat these, but there's really nothing like a good Slim Jim. In 5th grade I would buy these off the snack cart with my Duster Dollars to munch on while we were forced to watch Channel One. The only bad part about this was that my reading teacher made us take notes--VERY detailed effing notes--about the news stories and blahblahblah, which really got in the way of my enjoyment of my stick of processed meat.
5. Barbeque sauce. Ohhhhhhh I could eat this on everything. And I do. Need a little something extra on a salad? Cottage cheese? Turkey wrap? Chicken nuggets? Eggs? YEP. BBQ is the universal condiment second to peanut butter... which I also could and do eat on everything.
6. Gummies. Another bad road trip habit of mine. Here's the slieu: Peachies, Strawberry Puffs, Sour Worms, Sour Octopi, Gummy Bears, Gummy Worms, Gummy Frogs, Gummy Root Beer, Swedish Fish, Apple-O's, Cinnamon Bears and mochi.
Don't judge me. And stop drooling.
1/4/11
new year.
And yet another year has passed us. We've successfully managed to once again avert such things as the Apocalypse, skies raining down frogs and making a dent in the national debt. But hey, the good news is that we almost launched Orion. Almost. Anyway, for me personally the year was epic. Yes I realize epic has been logged as one of the most overused words in 2010, followed by Facebook and Google, but really... epic seems to encompass it quite well. I got a job (one year ago--today's my "service anniversary"--ohhh yeah), have a super stellar boyfriend, went on adventures with said super stellar boyfriend, have my own apartment, and have visited almost all of my friends at one point or another in the past year. Yeah I know... it was a good one. I sometimes get annoyed with the whole "Omigosh I can't believe it's 2011 already! 2010 flew by sooo fast!" because come on, you know you said the same shit about 2009, 2000 (thank Lawd Awmighty we're still alive!), 1985 and 1901... you get my point.
I've come to the realization that with age comes speed. Speed in terms of hours, days, months, years. I know that by the time I'm 40 I'm going to be looking at my wrinkly (clearly this is a figure of speech because when I'm 40 I'll be tight as a fresh oyster) ass and thinking "Where did the time go!?" That's why I'm hellbent on making the most of these precious twentysomething years. Well actually, I'm hellbent on making the most out of all of my years. I think that's been my prerogative since childhood. I mean, why not?
I know it's corny to hop on the resolution bandwagon, but this is actually one of my favorite times of the year. Somehow the first of the year has become the benchmark for goals and fresh starts--not that January 1st is any different than July 8th or April 12th, but since it's easy to remember, people holiday it up. Regardless, I'm a big fan of resolution time. I don't love it when the gym is packed beyond belief because for the first month (or 6 days) of a person's get-fit-or-else diet goal, they ransack the gym, BUT I applaud the effort. Since America continues to ingest growth hormones and simple sugars to make our bootays fatter, maybe a few will actually stick to it. My goal for 2011? For everyone to jump on the bandy so that we can all shut-the-front-door about airplane seats not being big enough. COME ON. I realize I'm just ranting now, but if these people would stick to their Slim Jim goals, we wouldn't have to deal with this disaster. But what do I know...
My goals naturally include fitness, marathon-ing, getting my six pack back (if I pretend like I've had one before, maybe it will be easier this go-around), re-learning how to play the piano so that I can be the singer-songwriter hippie I was born to be, and a few others. I also want to re-learn how to knit, but that could be a long shot. Yeah, I said RE-learn.
Anyway, I wish you all well with your goal-setting AND -maintaining. I'll be checking in with all of you (I'm referring to my 1.25 readers) from time to time to see that you're not violating my airplane code. Thank you in advance.
I've come to the realization that with age comes speed. Speed in terms of hours, days, months, years. I know that by the time I'm 40 I'm going to be looking at my wrinkly (clearly this is a figure of speech because when I'm 40 I'll be tight as a fresh oyster) ass and thinking "Where did the time go!?" That's why I'm hellbent on making the most of these precious twentysomething years. Well actually, I'm hellbent on making the most out of all of my years. I think that's been my prerogative since childhood. I mean, why not?
I know it's corny to hop on the resolution bandwagon, but this is actually one of my favorite times of the year. Somehow the first of the year has become the benchmark for goals and fresh starts--not that January 1st is any different than July 8th or April 12th, but since it's easy to remember, people holiday it up. Regardless, I'm a big fan of resolution time. I don't love it when the gym is packed beyond belief because for the first month (or 6 days) of a person's get-fit-or-else diet goal, they ransack the gym, BUT I applaud the effort. Since America continues to ingest growth hormones and simple sugars to make our bootays fatter, maybe a few will actually stick to it. My goal for 2011? For everyone to jump on the bandy so that we can all shut-the-front-door about airplane seats not being big enough. COME ON. I realize I'm just ranting now, but if these people would stick to their Slim Jim goals, we wouldn't have to deal with this disaster. But what do I know...
My goals naturally include fitness, marathon-ing, getting my six pack back (if I pretend like I've had one before, maybe it will be easier this go-around), re-learning how to play the piano so that I can be the singer-songwriter hippie I was born to be, and a few others. I also want to re-learn how to knit, but that could be a long shot. Yeah, I said RE-learn.
Anyway, I wish you all well with your goal-setting AND -maintaining. I'll be checking in with all of you (I'm referring to my 1.25 readers) from time to time to see that you're not violating my airplane code. Thank you in advance.
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