Sweet Tweets

Lessons

2009-06-29T15:03:00.000-07:00

"Our mistakes have brought us to grace." - Julia Baggott

Today's horoscope said I would receive a great gift. Everywhere I've looked, I have found inspiration. From quotes about life, to writing that moves me to explore, to listening to others stories, to indulging my curiousity - there are lessons to be learned in it all. A reminder that gifts are not always material.

More moments

2009-06-29T14:56:00.000-07:00

1. It gets dark early now. A constant companion of emptiness. Every night I crawl into bed and try to not let it wash over me. The feeling and urge to be loved. To be held. To be noticed. But I am powerless. It can take my breath away. But it’s comforting. I am still here. I can still feel. And it hurts. I close my eyes on another day with a plea that it won't last. Oh, how I wish you would call.

2. This time things progress at a normal pace, instead of awkward and rushed like before. But there’s still no romance. I enjoy being around him. I feel like I can be myself, or at least that’s the Hallmark answer I’m trying to convince my head of. I don’t have to be someone I’m not. I say dumb things and don’t care. I watch him eat the dinner I made, and I smile. He laughs and asks what? Afterwards, we lie there and talk. Like us, the conversation is stripped and bare. I can hear the traffic outside. He finally looks at me. I want to tell him that he should leave, but I don’t because he already knows. After he leaves the room smells of longing and peaches.

3. We both wake up foggy and hungover. I ask for some water and you get up to get me some. You take a sip before handing me the glass. You lay back down in the bed with me, and put your head on my belly. We sit there quietly for a few minutes. I run my fingers through your hair. You look up and tell me that I am so pretty. In that one moment, everything that was once broken in my life is fixed. I don’t tell you that this is what I am thinking about when you ask me seven months later. In fact, I never answer your question instead I just smile. I realize I have never been happier. I immediately fear losing that feeling forever. “Just Like Heaven” is playing on the car radio. Now, I wish I had told you what I was really thinking.

4. We stumble home from another raucous night out. We turn the key to the apartment and walk in. I’m giggling about nothing in particular. We don’t turn on the lights. We just sit in the kitchen and eat ice cream. Suddenly, you begin pouring out your emotions to me. You’re crying. I want to rush to you, and hold you to tell you everything will be okay. Like you have done for me so many times before. The lights from outside are reflecting off the pool causing big waves of pale blue light to dance across the ceiling. You have never looked more beautiful, or more real. I go to and wrap my arms around you. Cradle your face in my hands. You go tense. I know this has made you feel weak. You will never let me see you weak. You will never let me in. You pull away from me and angrily swipe your tears away, and tell me you’re being stupid. You go fall asleep on the couch. I have never felt more apart from you.

Moments

2009-04-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

Just little moments that run through my head.

1. I am on the back of your motorcycle. I don’t have a helmet on, and all I can think is my mom will kill me if she finds out. I don’t remember what kind of motorcycle it was, but knowing you it was probably the top of the line. The bike is loud. I can feel the rumble between us. I’m holding on for dear life. Exhilarated. Scared. It’s a warm spring night. As we ride, the wind blows my hair into my face. It stings my eyes, but I don’t want to let go of you to fix it. We pull up to a stoplight and you grab my hand and kiss it very gently. I bury my face in your back so you can’t see the goofy smile you’ve spread across my face. It feels like a movie. Later when I go to hop off your bike the exhaust pipe bumps against my leg. It leaves a nasty burn. You do nothing to help ease the pain. Roll credits.

2. There's something strange about waking up with another person in your bed. Hogging what should be your side. Soft morning snores punctuating the silence. There's something protective in the way a strong arm flops over, and pulls you towards them. So close that you can feel the warmth of their breath on your neck. Two bodies sharing an embrace, faced away from the world outside. Each wanting different things. Each willing to give up a piece of themselves to get it. It’s palpable. It surrounds me. I have no choice but to surrender to it.

3. Whiskey makes me think of you. I love the smell, the taste, the way it sits warmly in my belly. It always reminds me of home. The home you and I made. When I hear ice cubes clinking on the side of a glass, I am reminded of our laughter. Those were the fun times. I have switched brands of whiskey.

Just like like Ah-nold said, I'll be back.

2009-02-18T09:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Anonymous,

Often when someone signs a comment “anonymous” there’s a reason. Usually, they want to tell you something bad like “hey, your feet stink and you’ve had spinach in your teeth for the last hour.” Rarely, is it good. You’ve proven the exception.

Words are powerful. Words can heal. I thank you for yours because you have inspired me to start writing again.

So Anonymous, keep checking in. And keep inspiring those around you. Those that need it truly thank you.

Sincerely,
Tweets

Spitting in the Wind

2007-07-18T16:06:00.000-07:00

The other day I was busied and hurried trying to catch a train to the Loop in order to run an errand over lunch. (The Loop is only .5 miles [or less!] from my work but I take the train because? Am lazy!) I was just past the turnstile, when a lady turned to ask me if this was the train that was headed towards the Loop.

Normally, I hate strangers, but this day I was feeling helpful and generally not filled with disdain for my fellow man. (I’ve gone soft!) So I looked up and was about to tell her that yes she was headed in the right direction, but before I could get out that yes a giant ball of spit flew from my mouth.

This spittle took such an exaggerated arch on its way to her forearm that there was plenty of time for our eyes to go from each other to the flying spitwad back to each other.

I was mortified. How do you recover from that?

I didn’t even bother to finish my answer. I didn’t even apologize! Instead, I just ran.

And honestly, I really hope she finally found her way to the Loop, but I will never know. And that’s because I turned on my heels, and headed for the train going the opposite direction and rode it for two stops just to make sure I could put ENOUGH space between me and the embarrassment.

Sunsets

2007-05-31T12:38:00.000-07:00

The other day I was leaving work and walking towards to the bus stop when I happened to look up at the sky peaking out between the skyscrapers. It was slightly after six, the weather was perfect and the sky was starting to take on that wonderfully delicious color of dusk. Shades of crimsons, pinks and oranges were being spread across the sky by the setting sun.

I wished I had a camera because I have a thing for sunsets. A life lesson my mother taught me was to always enjoy sunsets because you never know which one will be your last. One thing Oklahoma beats Chicago hands down in is sunsets. In Oklahoma, without buildings blocking your view of the horizon, sunsets set the entire sky on fire. (Too bad for Oklahoma, it’s also home to Republicans.)

I smiled. I had one of those moments that almost make your heart explode with a flood of emotions. Mix of joy, sadness, regret, love but mostly a sense of true happiness for the first time in a long time.

Then I suddenly remembered I had my sunglasses on. I took them off, and the sky returned to a muted gray with the only slightest hints of pink. I thought to myself, hmm I must have on some rose-tinted glasses.

I put them back on and enjoyed the view.

Life can be so poetic sometimes.

Hey look! It's an Adult!

2007-05-04T13:20:00.000-07:00

I like to say that I am running at about 48% Responsible Adult, meaning I almost there, but not quite. The number comes from the fact that although I am 28 years old I still don’t act like an adult.

For example:

I don’t have a regular laundry schedule

I still don’t like broccoli.

I put way too much on my credit cards each month.

I eat too much candy.

Owning a house might be a possibility for me sometime in the year 2042.

I’m over involved in the lives of people on reality TV shows.

I don’t remember other people’s birthdays, but expect everyone to remember mine.

I don’t have a 401k, nor do I have any clue what a Roth IRA is.

According to the amount of money in my savings account, I’m saving for the future purchases of 4 Snickers bars and an Us Weekly.

There’s no toilet paper on the roll.

And the list could go on and on. I’m not very happy about being only a 48% Responsible Adult. And trust me, I have all these big plans to eventually become a 100% Responsible Adult, but the current 48% means that I am clearly in no rush, or that I even know what a Responsible Adult is—and oh, look America’s Next Top Model is on.

So now each day I have decided to try to do something new that will boost my Responsible Adult-ness. In fact today, while at the Coke machine I had this brilliant internal dialogue:

“Oh no, I can’t get my third Coke for the day, people will think I am weird. Well, weirder than they already think I am. Oooh, I know I’ll get a V8. Because that’s what an adult would do.”

So I got my V8, and gloated all the way back to my desk thinking to myself:

“Look at me, I am so healthy and SUCH an adult. Next thing you know I will be drinking sparkling water.”

And you know what? V8 tastes awful.

Reunited, and it feels so good.

2007-04-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

Inspired (okay, damn near ripped off) by this entry over at Bacon Grease

Dearest Chicago,

I know it’s not cool to be the first to say this, but I think I love you. Really! I want to have your little Chicagoland babies.

Chicago? Will you be my Lovah.

Love you always,

Tweets

Guess what? I love this city. I'm pretty sure Chicago feels the same way. And I can't stop gushing about it to everyone.

We’re in that amazing phase where you’re falling in love, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself because you are afraid you’ll jinx it. The phase where you spend hours just looking at public transportation maps and just marvel: I can get anywhere I want to and never hop in a car.

I’m not one to brag but my Lovah put a CVS across the street from me. And a little dive bar at the end of the block. And I can frequent both establishments in my pajamas if I so choose. If I want a Chicago-style hot dog I can get an AUTHENTIC one—at almost any hour of the night. There are the 4 a.m. Thai take-out places. The Cuban bistro. The quaint Ethiopian restaurant which serves its beer in glasses slightly larger than Dixie cups. And since 6 long months of miserable cold weather is beginning to transition over to lazy warm afternoons, the whole of Chicago has decided to leave their cramped apartments to just be outside. There are people everywhere. It’s like Chicago has up and thrown a party for me.

But what I love most about Chicago and our renewed love, I haven’t felt this pressure to live up to an unattainable perfection—ahem, I’m looking at you, Dallas. You drift in an anonymous sea of strangers who are all at the same time exactly like you and nothing like you. Every day on the bus a cacophony of languages ring out. (Although some are just a tad too loud on the cell phones behind me, but don’t get me started.)

And don’t get me wrong, Chicago is not without its flaws. Alley noise at 3 a.m. Silent farters on the bus. Overzealous horn honkers. Parallel parking. Meanie cashiers. And that distinctive smell of urine, day old feces, Old Spice and vomit that graces the deep bowels below the city in the subway. (Which to be honest this is the first relationship where I have plunged headfirst into the bowels of anything, so who’s to say this isn’t typical of all my loves.)

I’m also not implying that I'm without my faults. Some days I am just not in the mood to deal with you, Ranting Homeless Man. And some days I long for some man to hold open the door for me again. (STILL a feminist! Don’t get any ideas!) But we put up with each because it’s TA-WU WUV.

Chicago offers me a few million things to do every day. Even if all I do is watch a marathon of America’s Next Top Model, I really just can’t get enough of this city. The sights, the sounds, the people and the pace of it all. I love just getting caught up in it. And yes, the cashier at CVS may never remember my name, but that's its charm. The kind of anonymity that makes me feel like I can be somebody.

Oh Chicago, let’s run off to somewhere exotic, and get married. (But come right back of course.)

Holy Sheet!

2007-02-21T14:34:00.000-08:00

Oh y'all what have I done?

To Whom It May Concern:

I am giving my two week’s notice for the resignation of my employment with Your Agency. My last day will be February 28, 2007.

Sincerely,
Tweets

I move to Chicago in two weeks. I don't have a job. I am bat-shit insane.

And I'm so excited I may have just peed a little.

More to come... including the thrilling adventures of being unemployed, desperate and beggin complete strangers to hire you. Sounds fun, no?

And I can't promise you that this won't be me in two months:

It's an 8!

2006-11-02T15:51:00.000-08:00

Recently – I use recently in the loosest terms possible here, boy time flies when you’re not blogging – I called one set of my parents, only to be informed that my mom couldn’t come to the phone. The reason she couldn’t talk to her one and only beautiful, radiant daughter? She was testing her Brain Age on her Nintendo DS.

Huh? And what?

Apparently it’s some game that allows you to see at what age your brain functions. I guess the younger your brain’s age the smarter you are, and this machine is supposed to tell you? I was skeptic to say the least.

But as luck would have it I was headed home that very weekend, so I could test it out myself. I was still pretty skeptical when I got to Tulsa, and my Mom and Marvin were telling me that their brain ages were both in the twenties, the lowest you can get. Which lead me to believe that this was a lot easier than they were leading on to believe, after all these are the people who are overcome with wonderment at the sight of frozen ice cream in gas stations.

So I grabbed the white contraption and sought out to prove them wrong. And it went a little something like this:

NINTENDO DS: Instructions, instructions, blah, blah, blah… colors… blah, blah, blah… words… speak answers… instructions, instructions… time limit of two and half mintues.

TWEETS: Yeah, get on with it, got it, hmm okay. So young my brain is!

NINTENDO DS:

TWEETS: Blue.

NINTENDO DS: nothing.

TWEETS: BLUE.

NINTENDO DS: Nothing

TWEETS: BLUE. BLUE. BA. LOU. BLUUUUUUUUUUE. BLUE. BLUE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT’S BLUE! (and so on for two and half minutes)

NINTENDO DS: Your brain age is 87. Also you kinda suck at instructions.

MOM AND MARV: Snicker. Giggle.

My mom pipes up that I was supposed to say the color of the text and not the actual word. Oooooh, it’s a challenge. I get it.

Unfortunately, your brain age is a lot like your credit score and once it goes bad, you’re screwed. My brain was going to be 87 for years.

Marv told me to play some of the other games to help lower my brain age, plus I secretly suspect he enjoys mocking me. He offered up “Calculations,” which involved solving 20 simple addition and multiplication problems as fast as you could – preferably in 20 seconds.

This first time I completed the game it took me 3 minutes and I missed 5. Yep, still 87 years old.

But some of the problems were not entirely my fault. First, the game involves you using a stylus to write out the correct answers and frankly the NINTENDO DS does not like the way I write my eights.

For example, I write:

And NINTENDO DS says: You write a zero. And also get better at PhotoShop.

Apparently I need to make my eights like this:

I say: Screw you and your 8s.

So now not only our my parents cooler than me, they’re now a lot smarter than me and their penmanship is in better shape as well.

What’s happening here?

"Should I leave a note?"

2006-10-26T15:24:00.000-07:00

I have mentioned it here before, but I take the bus to work. And I love it. It gives me a chance to read, even if it’s just for 15 minutes a trip. I can sit back and relax before I get to the daily grind. I save money on gas. I get to learn Spanish ("Stop requested. Parada solicitada.") Oh, and everyone who drives in Texas is a retard. Seriously, every one of them, and that makes it essential that I stay off the road.

So there I was. Minding my own business, sitting in my favorite seat (across from the back door right by the buzzer so I don't have to reach to request a stop– I hate reaching over people), with my nose deeply buried in a book. And then?

THWACK. BUMP. SCRAPE.

I jolt up from my book. And the bus driver – who until this day was my favorite driver – turns around and says, “I guess I hit something?” In the very same tone that Cher uses in Clueless when she sideswipes three parked cars.

Oops. My bad.

You think you hit something? YOU THINK YOU? HIT. SOMETHING! You just ripped off your entire side view mirror. No shit, you hit something. Maybe you should stop and check it out?

But nay, she does not stop. She continued on to a transfer point, which is where they switch drivers on shift change. The new driver notices the carnage of mangled side view mirror now hanging from the side of the bus, and asks her what happened. And once again she just says, “I guess I hit something.”

She got off the bus, calmly walked to her car and drove off like nothing happened. Which got me to wondering if she’s even supposed to drive the bus? Or did she just see it waiting unattended at a bus stop, hopped in and then took it for a joyride hellbent on side-mirror destruction?

(And if this was her plan then I say well played!)

So the poor new driver had to call it in, and clean up the whole mess. And us fortunate passnegers, all sat stranded on the bus waiting for a new one to come. I ended up late for my meeting, and no one believed my crazy story about the bus.

Frankly, I don’t care because truly public transportation never ceases to amaze me. And I’ll never understand why people don’t use it more often.

Treasure Hunting

2006-07-11T15:10:00.000-07:00

I've returned. Back from hiding, with a vengeance. What brings me back? Oh let me tell you.

First, let me say that there are few things you expect to find under your refrigerator – dust bunnies, bits of what was for dinner three weeks ago now permanently a part a your floor. And there's a few things no one wants to find – cockroaches, dead body or worse a drunk and horny Kevin Federline.

But what about a used hypodermic syringe?

Uh huh, you heard me. Is your skin crawling right now because that's pretty much the standard reaction. That or aak, eeesh and munwwaaah.

So what are we looking at here? Best case scenario – diabetic? One who would need a syringe to supply his body with insulin in order to survive, thrive and become a gainful member of society.

Worst case – DRUGS. (said in the same hushed tones as your mom would say) Smack. Black tar. China white. Ack ack. Judas. Mr. Brownstone. I'm living in an old opium den. (And the apartment people certainly didn't put that in the brochure.)

My first reaction upon seeing the syringe – thanks to Nancy Regan and our friends at D.A.R.E. – was to flee the situation whilst saying NO! with a great force. And then I thought, this might be why there are bunch of indentions on my front door, you know the kind that's left by folks who knock while they're forcefully saying POLICE! and OPEN UP!

So, now then what do I do with it? Leave it? But what if someone after me finds and assumes I'm the intravenous drug user. I can't have my pristine reputation tampered with in that manner. Or remove it? And be forced to – gulp – touch it. With eleventy hundred layers of protective gear, mind you. But I know if I try to remove the damn thing, it will be the time Dallas S.W.A.T. decides to bust on in, and there I'll be standing with my needle in my plastic kitchen gloved hands.

So, yeah I'm just gonna go with that it belonged to a diabetic.

Pee Pee Kid

2006-05-25T13:55:00.000-07:00

So let’s see. Emotional breakdown. Works sucks. Cut off all my hair. Am still crazy.

Oh, right I have a dog too.

Poor Lily. I have been so busy lately that we hardly get to spend anytime playing and frolicking outside. I have substituted red wine its place. Fun for me, but not for Lily. Now she just lays her head on the window sill, and sighs for all the fun she used to have. Outside. When we got out to potty she'll run around with poo half out of her butt, yet she refuses to poop because that means she has to go inside – and that my friends is supremely frustrating because seriously POOP ALREADY.

And because my heart cannot hold one more ounce of guilt, I take Lily to doggie daycare once a week. That's right doggie daycare, or as I like to call it "OH! Thank You Jesus". Best part? They have a webcam! I get watch Lily all day. Sometimes, I call people over to my cube so they too can share in the joy of watching my dog play. They are usually not as amused by this as I, but whatever.

Unfortunately, this webcam has turned into my obsession. I'm constantly watching it, and worrying whether or not Lily is well-liked and plays well with others. SEE! Am crazy!

It all started because every time I would pick her up from daycare she smelled of pee. And I started to freak out that she was the kid that always smells like pee. My kid (okay dog) is the Pee Pee Kid.

Great.

So it started out that I would just watch the webcam to make sure she was not indeed the Pee Pee Kid, or stuck in the corner somewhere getting her lunch money snatched from her.

And then I saw this!

That's her in the middle of that Daycare Orgy. She's popular alright, and apparently a swinger.

Now with 100% more crazy!

2006-05-22T07:16:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when you give Crazy access to a hair salon.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

I had to beg and plead the lady to cut it. She was all like - are you sure? I was all like - is the Pope Catholic?

CUT IT.

Who invited Debbie Downer?

2006-05-18T08:40:00.000-07:00

So this is what a quarter life crisis looks like. I'm going through some real tough emotional times right now - stuff I'm not quite ready to discuss here.

I'm not sure I will ever be ready.

The good news is that work is finally easing up enough that I might be able to start writing about the truly mundane stuff that is not a part of said emotional breakdown.

I'm sure you're all waiting with baited breath.

Ordinary

2006-04-10T12:51:00.000-07:00

I've settled into a nice little routine these days. I go to work. I come home. If it's early enough I treat Lily with a trip to the dog park, make dinner, have a glass of wine (or two depending on the perceived annoyances of the day), read a little and head off to bed.

Rinse. Repeat.

Not terribly exciting. And that's why I've been in a bit of a slump when it comes to entries here. I just can't seem to find anything to write about. I figure if I'm not interested by my life, surely y'all won't be either.

Recently – and I'm talking the bus ride to work – I finished a book called, An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, and I realized that although I think it's mundane at times there is a certain happiness that can be found in being Ordinary. The book is essentially an encyclopedia of the author's ordinary life chronicled from A to Z – it reads much like a blog does. I'm drawn to books and authors like this, ones that can find humor and levity in things that happen all around us everyday, and who have the ability to put it into words that make you say, uh huh yep totally know what you're talking about. This is probably why I love reading Dooce, David Sedaris, Amalah.com and others.

When I started reading An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, I was in the middle of another book called Atonement. I had been limping through Atonement for about two weeks, (I finished An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life in about a day in a half) and it was really starting to make me feel dumb (it's 2004's book of the year, I'm supposed to flying through it, right?). Don't get me wrong the book is wonderfully written, I just couldn't sink my teeth into it. The book is filled flowery, triple-letter-score words that fly totally over my head (have you ever used the word febrile in your life? EVER?) and long drawn out character descriptions that left me going who in the hell is he talking about NOW, oh the same person, hmmm I thought he was talking about a dude, oh well.

So I came to the realization that I like to read (and write) about the ordinary. It's relatable. I can picture myself stubbing my toe, missing the bus and having lipstick on my teeth, no flowery language needed. I'm there. But early twentieth century Americana? Yeah, not so much. And running to the dictionary every ten minutes to figure out what your flowery language actually means isn't helping. (I know, God forbid I actually learn something – boo.)

Maybe I just don't like fiction. Maybe someday I'll grow up and enjoy sitting down with my glass of merlot soaking up every word of high and mighty encrusted prose. Who knows.

But as for now, I'll stick to the Ordinary.

The Ordinary is always there, waiting to be written about.

With a febrile pestilence, fuckers.

If you've ever wondered what writer's block looks like...

2006-04-05T13:46:00.000-07:00

(crickets chirpping)

Look no further.

My brain is all sorts of mush, and is incapable of writing actual thoughts down.

Boo.

Life's A Beach

2006-03-27T12:09:00.000-08:00

I'm having one of those days where I just want to be really whiny, and stomp off from meetings saying I don't want to be here wah wah wah. I knew it was going to be a bad day when I went to fill my coffee cup and there was no coffee in the pot! CURSES! It's because the break room's coffee pot is incredibly dirty, and the gauge that tells you when you're running low on coffee is stained the color of coffee which it makes it impossible to know when you're about to short change the person behind you. Unfortunately, this morning I was the one who got short changed. And double unfortunately, our sweet, dear receptionist walked into the break room right about the time my rage was boiling over because oh my GOD I would have to wait an additional three minutes to get my coffee. I turned to her and barked ISN'T THERE ANY WAY WE CAN CLEAN THIS POT, SO IDIOTS WILL NOW WHEN THEY TAKE ALL THE DAMN COFFEE. My teeth were gnashed and my eye, it was a twitching. She mumbled something with head down and quickly scurried out of the room.

Eventually I got the coffee. And it was burnt. Wah wah wah.

You could say I need a vacation. The thing is? I just got back from one.

Perhaps that's why everything is so annoying right now. Everything. It's because I know there's a beach with white sand and dolphins frolicking off shore just waiting for me. A place with warm sun, good food, cool salty breezes, Charlie!, impossibly cute beach communities – I have seen the GLORY of the coming of the LAWD, and I want to march right back there.

Two weekends ago, I spent two whole days in the fun and sun of Destin, FL. And y'all, the Gulf Coast is absolutely GORG. EOUS. It was one of those vacations where you scream WEEEEEE all the way through it because there's no time to slow down because you have only TWO! DAYS!, and why are you SLEEPING? There's no time to sleep! It was also the kind of vacation that leaves you a tad more exhausted than when you left.

I would like to give a big shout out to the Erdmann family for inviting me along, and since they were also there to attend the Lee's Famous Recipe Convention a big thanks for giving me the chance to learn more about fried chicken than I ever thought I could learn.

Some highlights:

1. The beach. Beee-yoot-tiful. The last time I was at the ocean I was in San Francisco – and it was cold and rainy and being very San Francisco-ish – so it good to get back to a "real" beach.

2. FRISBEE®! I think I am half hippie because y'all? I was damn good at Frisbee.

3. Walking around the creepiest place on earth, Seaside, FL. I tend to be very uncomfortable around things that are perfect. (That's why I can't talk to gorgeous men, or spend too long in the sculpture gardens of most museums.) And Seaside was perfect in every way – quaint little shops, perfect houses, perfect manicured lawns on manicured streets belonging to the perfect Stepford Wives strolling around in Range Rovers. I kept getting the feeling I was on a movie set, any minute the director would need to call cut because I was in the frame picking my nose. Charlie's sister, Michelle, kindly informed me that Seaside was where The Truman Show was shot. And I was all like, oooooooh yeah. I can't tell how creepy it is to be somewhere you recognize, but that you know you've never been before.

Another thing that was annoying about Seaside is that it proudly boasts that it was established in 1981. I am older than this town.

4. The Erdmanns cannot for the life of them settle on a place to eat. We spent two hours searching for a place to grab a quick bite to eat. We went to every restaurant in a twenty mile radius, only to end up eating back at the hotel. This is so foreign to me because in my family when Mom is hungry the vacation is put on hold until we find somewhere to gorge ourselves. There are no qualifying factors for vegetarian menus or soup quality, my family is like do y'all make stuff in a kitchen? Is it warm? Good, let's eat.

5. Deep sea fishing. I know NOTHING about fishing, but this was by far the coolest experience of the trip. We went out 28 miles into the Gulf, and then proceeded to fish and fish some more. Our fishing consisted of letting a six pound sinker um, sink to the bottom of the ocean. The "mates" explained that after your sinker sunk to the bottom that you could give your line a couple tugs and most likely catch your fish right then. "Most likely" never happened for me. My entire haul was only two fish. I only got to keep one. Something called a mingo. (when I googled it I found out it also goes by the name bastard snapper which rocks so hard) I must have looked like I really knew what I was doing because the guys on the ship would come by and be like, you got something, and then after reeling in over 150 feet of fishing line there would be nada. After about five times they stopped coming around to me.

When I first heard we were going out on the ocean (gulf, whatever) I was a little worried about getting seasick. Although I never get motion sickness, I remember my brother talking about everyone being affected by the proverbially motion in the ocean when he was on the military's big boats. And let me tell you, being out on the waves is like being on a roller coaster ride that never ends. I never got sick, but that's not to say my stomach's contents didn't try to lead several escape attempts throughout the day. Charlie battled the nausea all day. Charlie's dad did get sick, like three times. (Charlie even took a picture of his like seconds after he got sick, which I thought was a little mean. But then again I just told the internet.) Next time, I will pack the Dramamine.

6. While we were fishing Charlie kept telling me how proud he was of me because I went fishing and I was such a tough chick. (Even though I made him bait my hook every time because touching squid? Ew.) When we got back to shore I totally princess-ed out on him. I was like I'm cold and hungry, you're going to get me a big hamburger when we get back to the hotel all while I sleep a glorious little nap wah wah wah. It's a wonder he puts up with me.

The lowlight:

Getting stranded in Houston overnight because I missed my connecting flight to Dallas. I won't go into much detail because there's already enough profanity on the internet. However, I will say that if I ever meet the woman who was at the Continental Airlines counter in the Ft. Walton Beach airport again, I will swiftly kick her in the shins. I told this woman no less than eleventy hundred times that if I was going to miss my connecting flight in Houston (because my first flight was already delayed) I would rather reschedule the flight for in the morning. She looked at me like I was certifiably nutty, of COURSE you'll make your flight, don't be silly. Big surprise, I missed the flight. And frankly after 55 dollars spent on an itchy 4 hours of sleep at the shadiest hotel ever, plus an hour and half waiting on their shuttle, then spending 2.75 on a plastic toothbrush and half a tube of toothpaste because the airline held my luggage hostage, and a 40 dollar cab ride back to the airport because the hotel's shuttle didn't leave before 8 a.m. she's lucky I'm only kicking her in the shins.

Wow. I didn't mean to write a book. But if you're with me this far you get a prize: Boring vacation pictures!

Luck of the Irish be with ye

2006-03-24T10:05:00.000-08:00

I want his gold too.

Cause We Can't Be Sad ALL the Time

2006-03-13T14:45:00.000-08:00

Folks, I give you what might be my finest achievement in Photoshop to date:

I like to thank RoboFavo, Nancy Rice and Google Image Search.

And I think I have found my calling - you think hotjobs.com has any positions where the only required skill involves slapping your friends' heads on random pictures for an outrageous salary in Milan, TN?

My Pock

2006-03-13T14:18:00.000-08:00

(First, I want to thank everyone for their sympathies about losing my family pet, Ricki. I can't tell you how much it helped.)

Now, on to The Weird:

For those of who remember the birds and are keeping count with me - the count is up to eight (minus the original 17)

The latest dead one was at the front door of my office building. Which means they are indeed following me.

At this rate, there will be one at my desk by the end of the month.

At first, I was like, oh this will make a funny blog. But now it's giving me a serious case of The Icks.

No one likes to have dead birds follow them, especially when you're named after a bird.

Miss Ricki

2006-03-08T10:01:00.000-08:00

My parents wrote me this weekend to tell me that they were going to have to put our family dog, Ricki, down. I knew it would be coming soon, - when I saw her at Christmas time she could barely walk and was having seizures pretty frequently – but still when I heard I couldn’t help but stop and cry. Like a little baby. My only regret is that I didn’t get to say goodbye when I saw her last. So I’m choosing to do it now.

Goodbye, sweet girl.

Ricki was our first family dog. In the spring of 1989, we loaded up the family and went to check out some free-to-a-good-home puppies. We brought her home where she met her adoptive parents, Ozzie and Harriet. (I guess my mom had a thing for the Nelsons) We named her Ricki (notice the “i” please don’t call her a BOY!) and fell in love with her immediately. I was 9 years old.

Ricki was so very smart. Her face would light up when we would ask her if she wanted to go on a walk. In fact, it got to the point if we even said, “walk” in passing conversation she would go sit at her leash. Eventually we had to start spelling the word, and still she caught on to that.

We taught her how to catch Frisbees. In 1993, she was named State Frisbee Champion. Her trophy hung in our living room for many years after that. She so loved to catch Frisbees that even when arthritis limited her ability to get around she still wanted to go out and show off her skills. We ended up having to hide all her Frisbees because if she found one she wouldn’t let us rest until we went outside tossed a few around. She would go for hours until her poor little body would give out.

We used to call her “Monkey Dog” because her nervous/excited chattering sounded exactly like the monkeys at the zoo. When one of us would come home after a long day, Ricki would be there oooh-aaah-aah-ooh-ing her entire day’s activities. She couldn’t wait to tell us about how the UPS man had come to visit, or how the crazy lady across the street had let her cat wander into our yard.

Ricki had a nose for water, be it lake, creek, or even large puddle. And when she found it she would bolt towards the water’s edge, and doggie canon ball right in. She would emerge with the biggest grin on her face.

Ricki was the most loyal and eager to please dog I have ever known. And in the end, I’m positive it’s what kept her hanging on as long as she did – she did not want to let us down.

When we lost Ozzie, my mom brought home a new little puppy, P.B. – who quickly became Mr. #1. Yet Ricki was content to play second fiddle. (And secretly Ricki, you were always my favorite. Sure P.B. might have been cute, but he couldn’t hold a candle to how sweet you were.) My mom tells me that P.B. has been walking around the house searching for Ricki, reminding me that we weren’t the only who lost their best bud.

I can’t imagine how hard it was for my mom and Marvin because underneath all the gray whiskers and ailments were the eyes of a puppy. You would almost forget just how old she was. To look into those eyes and have to say goodbye must have been absolutely soul crushing.

I can't understand people who tell me that they're not "pet people." The love of a pet is far-reaching and unconditional. It’s the kind of love that can know when it’s time to go - the tumors and seizures were just too much for you. It’s that kind of love that can give you your last kisses, and whisper that it’s okay, you can let go now.

I know Ricki is in a better place. It’s full of unlimited Frisbees to catch, toys to chew and leaves to bark at in the front yard. I know she is no longer is carrying the weight of a body that can’t keep up with her spirit.

We love you, Ricki.

We will miss you more than you will ever know.

Goodbye, sweet girl.

Dream A Little Dream

2006-02-28T20:53:00.000-08:00

I've been so busy at work. Like ridiculously busy. Lily looks at me with the hot hate of a latch key kid when I come home. There's about seven hundred dirty dishes in my sink right now, and instead of cleaning them I am going to blog instead. Not because I love you, but because if I spend one more minute thinking about work my brain will start to seep out through my ears.

When first got The Bed, the sales lady told me it might take a couple of weeks for the bed to "loosen up." Well, we've reached those couple of weeks, and bed is as loose as the quiet guy from work after a couple of cocktails. The bed is sleeping phenomenally. And filling my most blissful sleep have been the most amazing dreams. Recently, I awoke from such a great/bizarre dream that I sat up and was like I have to blog about this. (Then I cried because seriously? It doesn't get any nerdier than that.)

So I give you my inner conscious' deepest thoughts (in stereo where available);

It begins with me walking down the streets of downtown Minneapolis. I'm totally stoked because all my friends are getting together to watch the MTV Movie Awards, and it's going to be one bitchin' throw down.

So I hop in my car and head out to the party. I want to get a head start because I want to make sure I get to New York City in time to mingle with all the super hot party guests.

It takes me about an hour and a half to get to NYC from Minneapolis. (In dreams you either move super fast or you can't move fast enough)

I walk in the front door and no one's there. Except my main man Hugh Hefner. Oh, me and the Hef go way back. We chit chat for awhile, (the Girls Next Door were not home, but he informs me that they are doing well) and then Hef tells me that the MTV Movie Awards are in fact not in NYC, not LA.

D'oh.

We go out into his backyard and catch fish coming out of a drainage pipe. Hef tells me that this particular fish was thought extinct, but in actuality it just had been our old friend evolution at work. It's then that I realize that if I ever play Trivial Pursuit I'm definitely picking Hugh to be on my team. He's wicked smart.

I apologized to Hugh for not being able to stay longer, but I need to get to LA in time for the awards. He tells me that he understands, and that I shouldn't be a stranger. So gracious, that Hef.

When I get in my car, I figure I should call all my friends to make sure they know that the Movie Awards are in LA, and not NYC. My friends are all like no shit Sherlock, and when they said "watch the MTV Movie Awards" they meant watch them from Minneapolis.

Right.

When I get to Minneapolis the party is in full swing. Although we’re in a giant and sprawling mansion, the entire party is packed into the teeny tiny kitchen. Ridiculously packed.

Then this dude who was vaguely familiar (which isn't everybody in dreams because hello, it's your own sub conscious) came up beside me. He then starts to bump and grind all up in my junk. He starts to grunt (which in fairness could be me snoring at this point). I start to get skeeved out.

And guess who comes to my rescue? No, not Hugh Hefner he's in NYC, silly. It's Charlie! He gets the Vaguely Familiar Dude off of me, and he's about to kick his ass when out of nowhere a giant animatronic leprechaun appears. (Yeah, I know it's the what the fuck moment everyone has in a dream.)

Mr. Leprechaun is supa pissed. Apparently someone ate all his cocktail weenies because he's stomping around smashing all the booze. NOT COOL.

Charlie flies in from stage right to save the day (and the booze!) with the ol' lighter and can of hairspray trick – originally made famous by Rob Lowe in St. Elmo's Fire followed by Kristy Swanson in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I believe I mention this little known fact, and people are so disgusted by it that they up and leave the party. Everyone.

This leaves only Charlie and I to go out back and catch fishes out of a drainage pipe.

Then I woke up.

My radio was playing an NPR story about fish – once thought extinct – along the Nile River, which explains the fish. The other stuff? I don't know.

Interstate Love Song

2006-02-21T14:07:00.000-08:00

This weekend I loaded up a rental car and headed to Milan.

Milan, Tennessee, that is. It's pronounced all country-like (My-Laaaaaan), not all foreign-ish like the city across the pond (Meeeeee-lan). What on earth is in Milan, you ask? CHARLIE! And fried chicken, but that's another story for another day.

As Lily and I rocked the Mid-South in my pimpin' Malibu Maxx, I realized I might live in perhaps the ugliest part of the country. Seriously, exciting scenery equaled a change from boring trees to less than boring trees. But fret not because as it turns out driving for hours along the Eisenhower Interstate System allows one plenty of time to compile a fetching entry for a blog. (I'm not saying that this one is it, but saying that at least the time was there to compile one)

So besides the trees here's what else I happened to notice while cruising along:

1.Traveling gives Lily gas. Hot, stinky, vile gas. She slept for nearly all seven and half hours of the trip, which apparently did nothing to slow down her digestive system. Every now and then she would sit up, look around and then cut the cheese. Satisfied with herself she would then return to her nap. It was like traveling with a truck driver. Bad Lily.

2. Since I was traveling with a dog, I had to take "advantage" of rest stops so we could both tinkle without separate stops. Now everyone knows that some rest stops are better than others, but something that is found in both of The Fancy Just-Across-the-State-Line Rest Stops and The Rickety We-Put-This-One-Here-Because-You-Haven't-Seen-A-Building-In-400-Miles Rest Stops is The Super Flush. Where are the rest stop toilets flushing to that they have to flush so violently? One toilet at a rest stop in Arkansas bid the contents of my bladder such a fond farewell that the commode nearly shook the foundation.

3. Why is it that I become bored with the mixed CDs that I burned specifically for the road trip after about twenty minutes? Some selections left me scratching my head, was I smoking The Crack when I put this playlist together? Did I really think that Debbie Gibson would see me through Arkansas? And this unfortunate phenomenon leads directly to number 4…

4. Adult Contemporay/Easy Listening/Listen While You Work radio stations have the same frequency across the country. Inevitably anytime I ejected above mentioned Crappy Music, the radio was blasting all of yesterday's favorites from the 80s, 90s as well as all of today's hits. Indeed we should all take these broken wings and learn to fly again, little Miss Can't Be Wrong.

5. Another note about the radio, without a shadow of a doubt The Song that you have been dying to hear, the one that will MAKE your road trip – perhaps when you hear it you exclaim, Fuckin' A that's what I'm talking about! who knows – will begin the SECOND you get out of range of above mentioned stations. If you're lucky you'll get in one good chorus before it fades quietly into oblivion. If luck's not on your side, you'll get the dueling radio frequencies throughout The Song. It's then you're left with, "I'M FREEEEEEEEEEEE FAAAAAALL – shish crrrrruh shish – dribbling down mid-court the Turtle Bum high school kids seem to be in control – shish crrrrurrl shish – a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis…" and so on until you give up and move on.

6. Audio books frustrate me. Either I get far too involved in them that I suddenly look up, and realize Wha? How did I end up in North Carolina? Or I'm far too concentrated on the task of driving that I end up completely lost. Wait a minute who is sleeping with the vicar? What the hell is vicar? Also I am the only one who is a little disheartened with the fact that a book can be read in about 3-5 hours? Why does it take me like three weeks, how fucking slow do I read?

7. I love to imagine what people's lives are like in the small towns that I drive past along the interstate. What do you think is the most exciting thing to do in Earle, Arkansas? Because frankly, it sounds like the most boring town in 'Merica. Like you just have to sigh and flatly (sans emotion) say "I'm from Earle, Arkansas ho hum." On the flip side there's Cumby, Texas. Which I like to think is pronounced like "come by" because I'm dirrrrty. And the neighboring towns of Friendship and Hope, Arkansas put a smile on my face. (Double Jeopardy fact: Hope, AR is the birthplace of Bill Clinton – I nearly stopped to snap a picture, which nearly makes me exactly like my father) And Hooked on Phonics clearly worked for the town folk who were in charge of naming Daingerfield, Texas – "Spell it like it sounds Phil, Daiiiiiin-ger-field, duh."

8. I'm also FAS.CINATED. by the taglines of cities. As if to answer the nagging question in the back of my head, Milan, TN proclaims itself to be "A Good Place to Live"** So color me confused when I discovered that Arkadelphia, AR is "A Great Place to Call Home!" Exclamation point to really drive it home. And to top it all off Paris, TX had the AUDACITY to announce to the world that is "The Best Small Town in Texas," and between you and me I think the research must have been shady at best. Then there's Texarkana, TX. Emblazoned across their water tower is the fact it is "Twice as Nice." But given the fact that the city name cleverly combines all three states that it borders – Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana – into one geographical ménage a trois, it seems like it would make more sense to go with "Thrice as Nice."

9. I wish that life had "SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT" signs.

10. There's no finer end to a long day's drive than being scooped up into your boyfriend's arms and planting a kiss that's been 6 weeks in the making right on his deliciously bearded face. Well, nothing except maybe a Sonic Sweetheart Blast.

**Or "Jesus is Lord Over Milan" depending on what sign you decided to believe.

Is This Burning an Olympic Flame?

2006-02-15T08:33:00.000-08:00

Do you have it? The Olympic fever!

To quote Ashlee Simpson: I "L-O-L-O-L-O-V-E, L-O-L-O-L-O-V-E!" the Olympics. (hells yes, I just quoted Ashlee Simpson, suck it) I don't care if it's the Summer or Winter, but every two years I get all caught up in that competitive spirit and unbreakable courage that is the over-produced and over-hyped world of the Olympics. I cry like a baby every time they do one of those segments on what it's like to grow up in Russia/Serbia/Trenton, NJ with only some bread/your orphaned brother/million dollar sponsorships and your measly figure skates to get you through all the hardships of life as an athlete.

I'm such a sucker.

And I don't know if it's the fact that I didn't grow up around winter sports, but whenever I watch the Winter Olympics most of the time I think to myself: Dude, I could totally do that.

Speed skating? Sure no problem. You should have seen me in the 7th grade when my shuffle skate was second to none.

Luge or Bobsled? Pfft, riding on a sled? Yeah, I got that one down. You see, I'm from the south, and when it snowed down here we grabbed whatever we could find to use as a sled. So I've flown down many a drainage ditch on inner tubes, air mattresses and even cafeteria trays ten times faster than some fancy high tech luge.

Curling? Ha, don't make me laugh. I'm proud to say that in my long and illustrious career on the Tour De Dive Bars, I have only been defeated once in shuffle board. And well, curling is just shuffle board on ice – so go ahead and give me the GOLD.

Figure skating? What do you need grace, beauty and athleticism? Hell two out three will get you a silver medal, just ask Tonya Harding.

Ski Moguls? Bounce bounce bounce? Sure I'll take that one too.

And then I remember the first time I tried to ski. And the fact I can't even stand up in figure skates without breaking a hip. And I refuse to participate in any sport that requires a bodysuit for a uniform. (Those things are flattering on exactly no one. And my eye is usually automatically drawn to one's down there delicate area.)

But still, the luge? C'mon.

See you in 2010.

Too Cute Not To Share

2006-02-14T08:46:00.000-08:00

Alternative Title: Humliation By Owner

She's sporting Charlie's favorite-est shirt of all time. Seriously, just ask him.

Happy Valentine's Day!

It's Raining Grackles and Sparrows

2006-02-06T13:31:00.000-08:00

On any morning that I drive to work I park my truck about a mile and half from my building and then walk. Walking is so completely foreign to Dallas that I have people who exclaim in shock, you walk to work? A half! mile! every morning? And when I respond that I walk that far any day that I don't take the bus, it starts a whole new conversation about the utter craziness I'm exhibiting when I ride the bus by choice. (Sigh, it a vicious cycle.)

Most days the walk is rather uneventful. Although, I have to be on high alert because Dallas drivers are all like, "Whuuuut's a peee-destri-ayun?" while they're turning left at ninety miles an hour without bothering to notice that SOMEONE'S IN THE CROSSWALK.

But pissy drivers have been the least of my worries because for the past two weeks it been something else. Something strange. Strange, as in two dead birds. The first bird was a half eaten carcass that could have been easily eaten by animal. I thought nothing of it until I saw this week's bird in the exact same spot as last week's. This week's bird was a grackle, or rather what was left of a grackle – the head and wings. There was a neatly severed head just lying on the sidewalk like when you would ripped off your Barbie's head. Then there were its wings which appeared to be ripped off at the shoulders. (do birds have shoulders? Whatever.) All of it was displayed ritualistically, although I am not an expert on rituals so how the hell would I know? Either way it was a little creepy.

My first thought was man I need to buy some more Street Wise newspapers because the homeless people are killing birds. My next immediate thought was how the hell did they cook the bird, I mean it's not something you can just walk into a restaurant with and say, I'll take this blackened with a side of mashed potatoes. (I cannot balance my checkbook, but I can have this entire conversation with myself in less than two blocks – go figure)

And then suddenly it hit me. They're back. The dead birds have found me.

You see a little over a year and a half ago I was confronted with more dead birds at my parents' house in Tulsa. It was 4th of July weekend, and I was hitching a ride with Travis, his wife Cyndi, and Nikki to Minneapolis. I was headed back to Mpls for my last quarter at Miami Ad School, and they were going for drunken debauchery.

They were scheduled to pick me up at 8 a.m., and for the first time in the recorded history of Travis giving me rides he was on time. Instead I was the one running late, and oh, I still had some packing to do. So there I was running around, apologizing profusely for my lack of preparedness, when I look down and see a dead bird on my porch. I was MORT. TIFIED. This was the first time anyone had seen my parents' house, and now the impression they were going to walk away was that we were the kind of people who just left dead animals to rot on our porch. Shocked and deeply embarrassed, I blamed the cat. I was nearing the end of my Oh-My-Goodness-My-Cat-Must-Like-You-Guys-Because-He-Gave-You-A-Dead-Animal Speech, when I glanced at Nikki to see that she was giving me the ol' shifty eye that says dude, look all around you.

Then in one of those slow-mo pans that only happen in movies, I looked out across my yard and saw it. The carnage! I counted about six dead birds in my front yard. SIX! My cat is good at catching live things, but he ain't that good. At this point I did what anyone would do – I went straight into denial. I was like, Okay, nothing to see here, ready to go to Minneapolis? Whoo hoo!

Along the 10 hour car ride when anyone brought up the fact that there were SIX! dead birds in my yard, I was immediately "TURN UP THE RADIO! Alright, I'm sorry I can't hear what you're speaking of."

Somewhere in Iowa, I alerted my mother to the ungodliness that awaited her in our yard. She called me the next morning and told me that they had found over 17 dead birds in the yard. AND ONLY OUR YARD HAD DEAD BIRDS IN IT.

Did you read that? Seventeen dead birds. My mom saved them and took them to the health department for inspection. The health department said nothing was wrong with them, oh and not to worry. Easy for them to say because they didn't have SEVENTEEN dead birds in THEIR yard. (Right then I swear I saw Robert Stack doing a story about me and the dead birds)

And now they're back. Following me. I've moved about 5 times since the initial dead bird bonanza, and clearly the dead birds have had to follow a few change of address forms to find me, but THEY HAVE.

Is it a plague or pox (singular pock?) or whatever that man upstairs can put on people? Is he up there right now going, "Yea, and I shall rain down on thee a plague/pox of thine winged fowl whom have touched death's door. And lo it will be weird?"

Or is it a string of unrelated causes like bird flu and a serial-killer-in-training (albeit hungry) homeless man?

Which begs the question, which is worse?

The Guessing Game

2006-01-30T14:02:00.000-08:00

Guess what I got this weekend?

*

(Bonus: Guess how many minutes I wasted taking these pictures when I should have been rushing back to work?)

*who says being a cheerleader doesn't pay off later in life?

Guess what happens when it doesn't rain in your state for something like eleventy hundred days and then it suddenly does perhaps overwhelming your apartment complex's shoddy drainage system?

(Bonus: Guess who's glad she lives on the second floor?)

Guess who likey the red wine?

(the same answer works for guess who likes to drink while she posts?)

That Guy.

2006-01-27T13:01:00.000-08:00

So recently I started a MySpace.com page, and yes I know. I am so very. very late to the game. Whatever. MySpace.com is basically a big ol' networking thing – essentially a place to find people you have long since forgotten. And as always it's a contest to see who has the most friends.

It's like Google for friends. So you search. Every name you can think of. Yes, it’s a bit of a guilty pleasure because you’re secretly hoping that all the mean girls you knew in high school have been married seven times with 8 kids, an arrest record and of course you hope they're 72 pounds heavier.

And then the inevitable happens, you don’t want to do it, but you do.

You search for an old flame.

And up pops his profile.

There he is smiling back at you, That Guy.

That Guy you dated for five months what seems like a million years ago. That Guy who made you swear off the entire male species. That Guy who broke your heart into a million pieces. That Guy who left crumpled up on your dorm floor in the fetal position bawling because he just didn’t have the time for you. Left you to be picked up, snot in all, by your best friend, who had to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that you deserved better because That Guy convinced you that you didn’t.

That Guy that made you doubt yourself. That Guy forced you to look at yourself at little deeper. That Guy kept you withdrawn and quiet.

That Guy probably wouldn’t even know how to spell your name; you were just a blip on his radar. But every time you begin a clean sweep of the proverbial baggage you carry there is That Guy.

That Guy who used you for what he wanted, and never took time to see what you needed. That Guy who turned into a needy shell of your former self. That Guy who offered you only scraps of respect and love, and yet you clung to them as proof that he cared, right?

That Guy, he sucks.

But That Guy made it possible to find You.

Post in which I Make No Attempt to Masquerade a Pile of Randomness into an Entry.

2006-01-27T09:21:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when my brain hears, read, or sees something unusual it thinks that would make a totally fucking awesome band name. Today's totally fucking awesome band name: Wishful Psychosis. How hard do you think that band would rock? Twice as hard as Static Portal that's for sure.

*************

This weekend I am going to be getting a bed. A REAL. BED. The one I currently own was one of those I'm-in-college-I-am going-to find-the-cheapest-bed-I-can-find specials. And let's just say, you get what you pay for. It kinda sags in the middle so when more than one person is sleeping on it, both parties end up rolling towards each other throughout the night. If you're not dating it can end up pretty awkward in the morning. Anyways, I can't tell you how excited I am to be getting a new bed. It makes me feel like a real live ADULT. Because this is what adults do, right? We get excited about purchases like beds, cars, couches and loveseats. These kinda purchases serve as my trips to Disney World now. I hope I'm tall enough for the "Locked in 4.9% APR Financing," if not I'll just take a ride on the "30 Days Same As Cash!"

***************

This past weekend I became aware of a phenomenon I like to The Cross-Introduction of Friends. It occurs when you try to introduce two different groups of friends to each other. We all have our different groups of friends like your bestest group of friends, your drinking buddies, work friends, or the random group which could be folks you met in a yoga class/Tupperware party/blogosphere. In my case, my random group is people I know from the dog park. The Cross-Introduction of Friends can go either two ways: introducing a random friend to your close friends, or a close friend to a group of random people.

Random friend meeting your close group of friends goes a little like this:
"Hey everybody meet Random Friend. Random Friend this is Everybody, we are going to sit here and drink while laughing hysterically at inside jokes that we will not bother to explain to you because you won't get it. Random Friend, I hope you enjoy drinking by yourself."

Introducing a close friend to a group of random friends works a little different. There's this added pressure because you fear your good friend will take one look at your random friends and think to herself, good gawd your friend-making skills suck. Or that she will come up to you and say something like, "Hey, did you know Random Friend had a pot farm in his backyard/collects ceramic dolls/invited me to a swingers party?"

*************

Lately I've been getting in the elevator and forgetting to press the Lobby floor button. Sometimes I just sit there for like five minutes before I realize that, FUCK! I'm not moving. Other times the elevator starts to go down, but stops at a lower floor. When that person gets on the elevator and sees that the lobby button isn't pressed they look at me like, what a idiot. And then they sigh and make an exaggerated motion out of pushing the button. Like oh no, you had to expend an extra calorie to push the button, I should forever be in your debt. Please.

***************

While searching my work computer – I was making sure all the porn was gone, you know, just in case – I came across some random pictures that I thought I would share with you:

These are some of my Work Friends. Their Cross-Introduction is equally hard because there's all that venting and bitching about people that no one outside of the office cares about.

I never got around to doing a proper Halloween post, but I found these pictures that I was going to use. Nikki and I had the best costumes ever for the second year running - Mall Walkers.

Here's Nikki and I doing one of our many victory laps, the key was to not get the pace up too fast - you would hate to pull a muscle or something. Charlie went as Ernie, of Bert and Ernie fame. He shaved half his head, and died his hair black - that's dedication folks. And there might have been someone who ended up with orange paint all over her face because she could resist how cute Ernie looked.

For those of you who didn't believe this story. Here's some proof. Judging by the picture's shakiness,I would say this is one of the later ones.

Recently I have developed a bad habit of taking artsy fartsy photos while I'm out hanging with my friends. Because apparently I think I am just that cool.

Chuck sent me some pictures of My First Baby cathing some dog biscuits in mid air. And guess who taught him that trick? His momma, of course!

Okay, girls. Let's stop wearing gaucho pants. Now. The reason? They ride up your ASS! And me and the rest of the world have to sit there and stare at it. YOUR FUCKIN' ASS CRACK!

This picture is why I love Texas. I consider this woman a walking mullet. I;m sure from the front she's quite nice looking, but then you get to the back and it's like AAAAAAAH, Slut City. Tramp stamp? Check. Way too low rise pants? Check. Muffin top? Check. Hideous red thong "peeking" out? Check. Although, I'll give her credit for bringing the Gucci purse, you know, to class it up a bit.

Meme's the word

2006-01-20T09:41:00.000-08:00

Memes are not usually my thing, but I just could not resist indulging in the Diva's awesome shout out.

This used to be my wee little blog, and suddenly Oh My God! people are reading what I am writing? Crap.

So anywho, here's the list:

FIVE JOBS YOU HAVE HAD IN YOUR LIFE:
1. One Hour Photo Girl (I cannot tell you how many rolls of film I developed for my friends and me at no charge. Oh, and the one hour photo people TOTALLY make fun of you in your pictures – and if you have the audacity to bring me a roll of you NUDE around town I will steal them and make fun of the size of your peter)

2. Dillard's Sales Associate (between the panty hose and having to lug around a clear purse, I don't think I have ever been so depressed at a job before)

3. Summer Day Camp Counselor (I hate other people's children)

4. Gap Girl (Hours and hours of folding can be undone in ten minutes of SALE-MANIA)

5. Copywriter (HAHHAHAHAHA)

FIVE MOVIES YOU WATCH OVER AND OVER:
1. Fools Rush In ("The white people are melting out here!")

2. Bridget Jones's Diary ("PS. Love your tits in that top")

3. Christmas Vacation ("This is our family's first kidnapping")

4. Father of the Bride – when Steve Martin says "I just know I will remember this moment for the
rest of my life," hello water works.

5. Ice Age ("Ah, come on no one falls asleep that fast)

FIVE PLACES YOU'VE LIVED:
1. Tulsa, OK

2. Minneapolis, MN

3. San Francisco, CA

4. Chicago, IL

5. Dallas, TX

FIVE TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH:
A lot of these aren't on anymore – thank god for DVD
1. Sex and the City (that annoying person that always quotes SATC, yeah that's me)

2. Friends

3. Family Guy

4. CSI: Las Vegas

5. Daily Show

**Honorable Mention: From the Earth to the Moon – technically a mini series, but so frickin' good. I'm a bit of a Space Geek, not Sci-Fi geek, ahem, Gina!

FIVE PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON VACATION:
1. Pagosa Springs, CO

2. Norway (the sun never set!)

3. Disney World

4. Cancun

5. Lake Tahoe

FIVE WEBSITES YOU VISIT DAILY:
(only on a blog would this actually tell someone something about yourself)
1. Here, here, here, and here.

2. Dooce.com

3. Amalah.com

4. Gofugyourself.com

5. Dailyshow.com (fake news is much funnier than the real stuff)

FIVE OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS:
1. Chips and Salsa (I could live off this, and one things for sure MINNESOTA doesn't have a clue about salsa)

2. Pasta

3. Green Beans

4. Pickles

5. Guacamole

FIVE PLACES YOU WOULD RATHER BE:
1. Sausalito, CA

2. On a mountain

3. Chicago

4. In my man's arms

5. Out of debt

FIVE PLACES YOU CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT:
(This is the reason I hate music – all the judging…)

1. The Little Mermaid Soundtrack – it was one of the first CDs that was MINE, and I listened to it everyday. I know every word by heart. Look at this stuff, isn't it neat. Wouldn't you think my collection is complete...

2. Ropin' The Wind - Garth Brooks – snicker all you want, I'm from Oklahoma and Garth was HUGE. It also reminds me of my first backpacking trip where I wore out the cassette because I played it over and over and over and over.

3. Brushfire Fairytales – Jack Johnson – oh Jack, could you come and hang out and play your guitar for me? Thanks in advance.

4. The Paul Simon Collection (Disc 1) – sometimes I just listen to this and cry. Good tears, mind you.

5. Home – Dixie Chicks – okay, okay judge me.

FIVE PEOPLE I'M TAGGING:
(I'm changing the rules to two people)
DEEEEEEEEEE-pi
Fry me up some bacon, woman

And as Paul Harvey would say: Now you know the rest of the story.

I Miss The Snow, No Really I Do.

2006-01-17T15:40:00.000-08:00

I mean seriously folks it's 54 degrees here and I walked to work in a fleece and a DOWN VEST. It's 54 degrees! It's the middle of January! Where's winter? Where's the snow? The world is ugly without snow in the winter. You get to see all that Deadness just hanging out in plain sight. In Minneapolis, the snow comes around the first of November and doesn't leave until April. A tad excessive? Yes, but you get my point. In Texas, we get no winter. Just temps that flirt with freezing and spring back up to 75 degrees in one day. And yes, I'm complaining.

During my first winter in Minneapolis not only was I shocked by The Cold, I was also shocked by how much people frolicked in it. Outside in the winter? Wow, these people were hardcore. There's figure skating, sledding, hockey, snow mobiling, ice fishing and of course skiing. Being wrapped in all this Winter Love I decided to mark one of those off my Things I Should ReallyDo list – skiing.

(And folks this is where we segue)

I had never skied before and when it was suggested on one lazy Saturday I thought, what the hell let's do this you only live once. I dressed as though we were headed to Antarctica with no less than eleventy frillion layers on. On the car ride out to the "resort" I started to play scenes of horrific skiing crashes in my head, and I was starting to get a little nervous. But no worries because my friend Nikki reassured that she hadn't skied in YEARS so she would be just as bad. Okay, no big deal.

I signed away my first born child to purchase a lift ticket that let us ski for the rest of the night. (We had arrived at around 4:30, probably because we were all really hungover and couldn't up and moving before then. I digress) I signed away my first child's college education to rent my ski equipment. Some perpetually stoned teenager asked if I what level of skier I was, and I instantly turned into a southern girl and began to talk incestantly about useless nonsense about my life. Mid way through me explaining that my family just never thought about skiing we would rather camp in the mountains he shouts to no one in particular BEGINNER! I was already humiliated and I hadn't even been on the slopes. I hear him ask Nikki the same question, and she replies Intermediate. INTERMEDIATE? What was all that crap about not skiing in FOR. EVER, Nikki? She gave me some bullshit about ski size and yada yada yada, but she still assured me she was going to be as bad as me on the hill. You can all see where this is going, can't you?

I put on my skis, and head outside into the snow. What no one prepared me for was how slapping two six foot planks on your feet seriously decreases your mobility. In order to move two inches I was expending about 90% of my energy. I FINALLY got on the lift. I still had no inclination of the upcoming hell. I still thought this was going to be SO. MUCH. FUN. Me, Nikki, and the rest of the crew just moseying on down the slopes. Then I saw it, the end of the lift. I started to panic. "How do we get off the lift?" I asked Nikki. "Flackety poo-poo!" she tells me. FLACKETY POO-POO?!? Nikki suddenly began speaking another language. And then it happened, it was go time – time to get off the lift. I would give my liftmates, Nikki and Taber, a perfect score for their dismount as for me? A negative 29. I fell. Hard. I screamed, "How do I get up?" Taber said something like, "Just gibblety gawker faddy da." RIGHT. I could have burned a hole straight through his skull with the lasers beams shooting out of my eyes at that point. Nikki was no help because she was off to the side laughing her ass off at my plight. All I heard was the alternating shouts of "Oh my god, I'm going to piss myself, AH HA HA HA!" and "GIBBELTY! THEN GAWKER FADDY DA! GIBBELTY!"

This was going to be a long night.

The lift operator didn't shut down the lift so I would just about stand I would get plowed over by some two year old getting of the lift, and the process would start over. After 20 minutes I was able to stand. I just wanted to get down the hill and never ski again, but unfortunately getting down the hill involved well, skiing. Of which I did not know how to do. After Nikki regained her bladder control I asked her, "Okay, do you know how to ski?" She assures me that all I needed to do was point my skis in the general direction that I wanted to go, and voila I would be skiing. I thought, okay I can do that. And then – wait for it, wait for it – FACE PLANT. See you just can't "point" your skis where you want to go, it doesn't work that way – again no one told me this. I looked back up the hill. I had gone 8 feet.

And that's how the rest of the virginal ski run would go: me flailing uncontrollably in 8 foot increments.

At the bottom of the hill I began to pick up a little momentum, and that's when the warning bells started to go off in my head. YOU'RE GOING TOO FAST TO SURVIVE! I began wailing at people down below to move out of my way because I had no idea how I was going to stop. And then my mind screamed, SACRAFICE YOUR BODY, IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO ESCAPE DEATH! So I ungracefully flopped onto my side and rolled to a stop. Thank God, I lived.

Somehow I managed to get myself back to my feet. I was exhausted. Mentally and physically. I looked back up from whence I came. I had traveled (maybe) 100 feet at about a 15 degree decline. The hill basically amounted to a glorified snow covered driveway.

I had fallen 700 times.

All my friends chimed in at once in that annoying sing-songy cheerleader tone, "Wanna go again?" I declined citing something like, "FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKERS I'VE FUCKING HAD ENOUGH. WHERE THE FUCK IS THE FUCKING LODGE WHERE I CAN FUCKING GET A FUCKING DRINK?" All the while I was trying to stomp off, but ended up more like a hamster in its exercise wheel. And that was it, my breaking point.

I yelled, "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" and it could be heard in Canada. I clicked off my skis and threw them off to the side.

And because life already didn't suck enough, when I got to the lodge I realized I would be having drinks with Charlie's date. Oh what? I didn't mention that? That's right Charlie (we were not dating at the time, but I still had a wicked crush on him) had a "Friend" in town to "hang out" with. Sometimes there's just not enough joy in the world.

Our conversation went a lot like this:

The "Friend": Isn't Charlie the best? Isn't he just so sweet? Don't you just love him? We just love watching movies together, and I can't wait to marry him, blah blah BLAHBLAH!

Me: SHUT UP! FUUUUUUUUCK!

After becoming sufficiently buzzed on Captains and Coke, the gang joined the Charlie-Love-Fest in the lodge and asked if we were going back on the hill. Charlie's "Friend" said she didn't really feel like skiing anymore, she was just going to sit at the lodge and drink.

I was DEFINITELY going back outside.

The next trip down the hill was considerably better. Perhaps I was getting the hang of it, or perhaps it was the Captain Morgan. (the latter of course) When I fell, I laughed. And then very slowly I started to get the hang of it. I made one turn successfully and then another. The second post-Captains run I didn't fall once, and I realized why people would drop small car payments on this crap. The wind in your hair, the swish swish swish of your skis, the crunching of the snow, the two year olds screaming down the hill already forty times better than you would ever be – it was fucking awesome.

And then Nikki suggested we try some of the other runs.

"SURE! NO PROBLEM! ALCOHOL TALKING!"

We arrived at the top of the Black Diamond, which in fairness would have been the bunny slopes anywhere else. I was scared shitless. Captain Morgan took a hike. Nikki says something like, FINALLY we can do some real skiing.

BURN IN HELL, NIKKI.

It took me 45 minutes to get down that hill. It was a painfully slow process of criss crossing from one side of the mountain to the other, decreasing my elevation by about one foot each time. And if I got going to fast (i.e. over 2 mph) I would plop down on my butt.

And you know who stayed with me the whole way down? Charlie? That would have been sweet, huh. But alas, no he and Nikki were firing down the hill at warp speed. Instead it was Taber. After like ten minutes of getting NO. WHERE. I pleaded with him to go on down the hill. He was like no big deal, I don't want you to have to do this on your own. And he stayed with me the enitre way. How sweet was that? (YES, Charlie I'm looking at you!)

I didn't ski the big bad Black Diamond again, but I did return to the my lovely driveway, and skied by myself for about an hour. And it was one of the most peaceful times of my life. It was so quiet on the hill, except for the occasional two year old totally kicking my ass. But there I was, skiing! ME!

On the last ride up the ski lift I rode with Charlie. He looked at me and said, "Man you're awesome. I feel like I wasted my money on the "Friend" because she didn't ski. But you got back out here after that first time sucked, and still went for it." And I thought to myself, yeah I went for it. And that sums up that first year in Minneapolis – I WENT FOR IT.

And then I thought, I am SO TOTALLY over my crush on you , Charlie.

Heh.

It's Her Party and She'll Cry If She Wants To

2006-01-13T09:37:00.000-08:00

Lily has spoken:

And her will? It has been made KNOWN.

Here's the thing, apparently Lily is punishing me for what? I'm not sure. But I have my sneaking suspicion it has a little to do with the fact that I'm not right by her side 24 hours of the day.

Ever since Romeo left with Charlie so they could "follow their dreams" - whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean - Lily has been getting more and more anxious when I leave to go to work. It reached a boiling point when she returned from being kennelled at the vet over the holidays. She refused to go in her crate when it was time for me to go, and I had to pick her up and force her in there. (Which NO, BAAAAD TWEETS. And yes, I know that now, thank you very much Mr. McSmartypants Dog Owner at the dog park.) Last week, I put her in her crate she started to shake violently. And the barking, oh the barking. Loud and horrific pleas for her Mama TO NOT LEAVE HER. My heart broke into about a thousand pieces because I? Was clearly the worst pet owner ever and if I could this to a dog how could I ever handle children. WAH WAH WAH.

Not only was Lily's anxiety affecting me, but it was taking it's toll on her as well. She woke up one morning and puked on the bedroom floor. (I was like HA you're not the first one!) Another morning she had explosive diarrhea that shot out of her ass twenty feet across the courtyard. Plus the barking was starting to annoy The Neighbor. And the last thing I wanted, and what I feared the most, was that the apartment people would make me choose my dog or risk eviction.

So both of us decided to come up with a plan. I worked to reassure her that I wasn't going to abandon her. This mostly involved me leaving for random amounts of time in order to fool her into never knowing when I'd return. It takes me 45 minutes to leave the house now, but BY GOD Lily doesn't know if I will return in 5 minutes or 5 hours. MUWHAHA HA! I also decided to put Lily in my bedroom during the day because her crate is like one big Vietnam flashback for her right now. Then I promised her that I would get up a little earlier so we could take a short walk together while she finds the Ultimate Place to Poop. She promised me that she wouldn't get me evicted.

(The first time I left her in my room I tried to hide everything that I thought she would get into. Unfortunately, I forgot the roses that were on my nightstand. I came home to find that Lily had shredded 18 red roses across my room. Had she lit candles too it would have been the perfect romantic evening.)

But now it appears as if she's growing bored with the bedroom. Wednesday I came home to the picture above. It's what is left of a TV antenna box. She completely devoured it into a million little pieces. I think it's because she secretly hates that I make her listen to NPR all day, but Mommy secretly hates dumb dogs. I'm waiting for her to come up to me and say, "You know what? They should just confirm this old Alito coot, I'm sick of listening to the hearings. They're BOOOOOOORING."

Sometimes I feel like she is an overbearing girlfriend, the kind that has to know where you are and what you're doing every minute of every day. If she had opposable thumbs and could dial the phone, I know she would be calling me every ten minutes and saying "What do you mean you HAVE to work? Who is this Kat person you're always talking about? Do you think she's prettier than me? YOU THINK SHE'S PRETTIER THAN ME DON'T YOU!"

But no one is prettier than Miss Pixie Lily Pooter-Bauer, that's just craziness.

Don't be surprised if I start calling y'all the wrong names.

2006-01-09T15:16:00.000-08:00

I am becoming my mother. I think it's something every woman dreads because didn't we all swear somewhere around the age of 15 that we would never be like our mothers. OH. MA. GAH.

Case in point, my mom has what I lovingly refer to as Sudden Screaming Syndrome, or SSS. You won't find it in any medical books, but know it could send you to the emergency room just as easy as a compound facture could. Sudden Screaming Syndrome produces blood curdling screams in situation where an, "Oh my, that slightly startled me" would have sufficed. You'll even see, or more appropriately hear the affects of SSS when my mom sneezes. Most every other human being's sneeze is a simple version AA-choo. But not my mom's sneeze. Her sneeze goes a little like this AHH- OH MY GOD I AM BEING STABBED WITH HOT POKERS IN MY KIDNEYS – choo. And the beauty of her sneeze is that it lacks any warning signs that would prepare you for The Sneeze. One minute you're deep in concentration chopping vegetables for the evening's DELICIOUS! salad, and then WHAM! BAM! My mom slaps you up-side the head with The Sneeze, and then you can only hope everyone enjoys salads with julienne carrots with a side of finger tip.

Once SSS stuck our family when we were driving home from the mall or somewhere as equally suburban, and we passed the local Chinese Buffet. At this point in Oklahoma Chiii-naise Boo-fays were somewhat of a novelty, and they were constantly packed with Rednecks getting their fill of "culture" and "gourmet cuisine." Then out of NO. WHERE. My mom screams/screeches/belts out, "OH MY GOODNESS!" at a pitch that presumably tortured every dog within a five mile radius of her. It's helpful to mention that at the time we were stopped in a bit of traffic jam because ahead of us was a car wreck with two fire trucks and an ambulance responding to it. So when everyone in car heard my mom shriek we perked up, expecting a carnage of the likes we had never seen. Was something exploding? Were there heads rolling around on the asphalt? WHATCOULD IT BE?! And then in a calm as ever voice she states, "Look at all those people waiting in line to eat at the Chinese buffet." We had all crapped our pants in anticipation of the unholy wreckage in front of us only to be disappointed by the (at max) 8 people waiting to indulge in all you eat chicken lo mein. Sudden Screaming Syndrome has impeccable timing like that.

In yet another incidence, we were in the car returning from a grueling shopping trip (SSS is 7 times more likely to occur inside a moving vehicle), and my step-dad, Marvin, in no uncertain terms had informed us that we were NOT stopping the car until we arrived home. Now in Oklahoma during the spring and summer, you'll see the occasional fruit stand along the side of the road. I never thought my mom was a particularly huge fruit fan, but when she saw this fruit stand she desperately wanted to stop. Marvin, being ever so understanding, said NO. I'm not quite sure how the events exactly unfolded in my mom's head, but I guess she believed if she couldn't stop at the fruit stand the she would just roll down the window and SCA.REAM. at the adorable old man running the stand, "GOT ANY WAAAATER-MELOOOON?!?" The poor guy dropped what he had in his hands and hit the deck because I can only imagine my mother screaming at him sounded like verbal machine gun fire from a Ford Taurus station wagon flying down the street at 70 miles per hour.

And sadly, I learned over the holiday Sudden Screaming Syndrome is hereditary. I have begun to display the telltale warning signs of the disease. It happened when my mother and I decided to go shopping the day after Christmas because we are such a sucker for all those SALES! At our last stop I was attempting to park the behemoth of a vehicle known as Marvin's truck, when its rear view mirror got caught on the car next to me and folded backwards. Now, folks this is what these mirrors are designed to do, but it made a loud CR-ACKing sound. It was such a loud crack that it angered my mom's SSS intensely, and she let out the most blood curdling scream you have ever heard. To which I responded with my own Sudden Screaming Syndrome, "SHUUUUT UP MOTHER!" And look, I know I said shut up to my mom - tar and feather me later – but seriously people, the windows were down, and we were in a parking garage. In such a confined space that scream had the enough magnitude that shoppers were ducking for cover and I know all the mall security guards were thinking, this is it – THIS IS IT! - the day that I get to finally save someone.

And then I shot my mom a look that said, don't you dare say another word. And she knew what the look meant because she is the inventor of said look. And I knew just how to wield it because I have been on the receiving end of this look many a time in my life.

So after my blood pressure returned to normal and I stopped shaking violently (that's how loud and piercing this scream was) I parked the truck successfully. As we entered the mall a woman ran up to us to make sure everyone was okay. I kid you not.

If I have a daughter, I'm positive that I will pass my SSS on to her as my mom passed it on to me. And to her I apologize profusely in advance. Charlie already can't stand driving with me in the passenger seat. He's had to yell at me to STOP SCREAMING LIKE THAT, you're gonna give me a heart attack! I always retort, you have no idea what it looks like from over here – which is verbatim what my mom says. Again, I apologize because I know, oh how I KNOW what it feels to be in the driver seat with someone who has SSS in the passenger seat. All that gasping, the flailing arms and pounding of the imaginary brake pedal. I can only hope that Charlie will be as forgiving with me as Marvin is with my momma.

Even though my mom has put me through plenty of SSS episodes you better believe I still love her and couldn't ask for a better mom. I wouldn't trade her or any of her crazy sneezes for anything in the world. My mom is the strongest and most beautiful woman I know. She taught me everything I know, like never trust a man who has more hair products than you. She taught me to fear not the colon (as in the body organ not the punctuation mark), and that corn gives you good poopers. And with her infinite wisdom gained from her registered nurse days she taught me that Advil will cure ANYTHING. Cramps, headaches, broken bones, and possibly the ebola virus if given in large enough doses. To this day if you haven't tried to cure your ills with Advil, my mom will not believe you are truly sick. She was also wise enough to shove me in the largest burlap sack she could find when my chest, ahem, blossomed in 8th grade. But most importantly she taught me to always do things for myself, to be independent and to never try to fit into someone else's mold. Oh, and FINISH school before you get married.

So mom if you're reading, I just want you to know that no matter how old I get or how much those sneezes scare the ever loving crap out of me, I will never be too big for you to rock me to sleep in your arms.

Love,

Your baby girl, Poop

Brrrr. It's Cold in Here.

2006-01-05T08:00:00.000-08:00

I'm assuming Satan is enjoying his new ice skates since Hell has clearly frozen over - the University of texas has won a national championship in football. That's not nearly as suprising as the fact that Mack Brown has won a national championship in FOOTBALL. Whuuuuuuuut?!

I have to give up to texas though, after they beat Ohio State I told many of my texas friends that they were going to win it all. That just had that certain luck that accompanies national championship teams. Plus, it is my firm belief that it all starts with the quarterback. A good quarterback can carry a team through tough games, but a great quarterback can move USC sized mountains. OUr year we had Heupel, and this year they had Young.

I am the biggest University of Oklahoma football fan ever, and by mandate I am supposed to detest all things burnt orange and given what USuCk did to us last year in the Orange Bowl I don't think I need to remind anyone of the Hot Hate I reserve for those tools. So you could say watching last night's game was a little like sitting in the dentist's chair, mouth agape and stuffed full of cotton, waiting to get the bad news about your cavities. You know you have them, and you know there's going to be novacaine shots followed that incessant drilling and drooling. But you have no choice but to sit there and watch and wallow in the unpleasantness. (And maybe hope that you're abducted by aliens)

All in all, I'm happy for texas (oh, I just threw up a little in my mouth) and texas fans (oh, I just threw up a lot in my mouth). I hope y'all enjoy it. I know I did in 2000. (Remind me to tell you the trip to the 2000 Orange Bowl sometime) And don't get too cocky about it because it hurts when you fall from grace. Real bad.

Okay enough football.

------------------------------------------------

So seriously, you would not believe what happened to me last night. As I was lying in bed thinking how thrilled the folks in Hell must be with their new ice water (get it? GET IT? Hell froze over! Okay, enough sorry), I hear a bunch of sirens headed my way. I'm not a stranger to hearing sirens after living in urban areas for the last couple of years. And since my apartment is situated in between a stretch of road with a lot of bars and some shady shady neighborhoods, I thought nothing of it. Until the sirens kept coming and coming. I hear rubber squealing, revving engines, and not to mention a couple of impacts. It sounds like they are filming Dukes of Hazzard right outside my apartment. I leap from my bed, and exclaim HIGH SPEED PO-LICE (pronounced pooo-leeeese because I'm southern) CHASE.

I run over to my bedroom window, pull down the blinds in time to see a cop car catching air through the intersection and landing with burst of sparks from underneath his cruiser. Holy SHIT, that was AWE. SOME. I thinking to myself, man I wonder where the chase is going to end as I slowly panned my head to the left and? HOLY GUACOMOLE! Not two hundred yards from my apartment building is where!

So I grabbed my pajamas and coat and ran out of my apartment to do what any red blooded American would do - GAWK. There was a little Honda Civic (who out runs the cops in a Civic?!) that appeared to try take the corner too fast and ended up in the median, mowing down two street signs in the process. I counted at least 13 cars.

Then the neighbors came out, and since I hate socializing with neighbors I went back inside. But as I tried to go back to sleep I kept wondering what was that guy (or girl in all fairness) running from?

So, I invite of you to tell what you think it was.

I'll start. I think they were running from clowns trying to force feed him laxatives, that and the meth.

The Obligatory (and much belated) Year in Review

2006-01-04T14:31:00.000-08:00

I know we are four days deep into the New Year but I'm still feeling nostalgic about last year - the ole Aught Five.

So without further ado: The Best and Worst of 2005.

Best Moment– Watching the sunset atop the Hancock Tower in Chicago with my Dad. It was early April around the time that Chicago begins to awaken from the deep slumber of winter. I had been laid off from my first job about a month earlier. I was really starting to get depressed – it was hard to get off the couch, I didn't want to talk to anyone lest they find out I was a failure at my job (your usual pity party). And then my Dad showed and forced me to clean the apartment and get out and enjoy Chicago. And never once did he get all Dad on me and pressure me about when I was going to find gainful employment and such. He just took me around the town and I finally got to sightsee in the town I had called home for seven months. The trip ended with us high above downtown Chicago watching the sun go down and city come alive under the night sky. It was absolutely breathtaking. After that weekend things started looking up. I got my book together, found a job, and moved to Dallas all within the month.

Worst Moment– Clearly without a doubt March 9th, 4:43 p.m. I was called into a room with five other coworkers and told that I should no longer expect a "paycheck" from them. I was in shock because NOT TWO WEEKS prior I asked my boss if I was on the chopping block and he told me, NO WORRIES. I remember how awkward it felt to pack up my desk and walk out of there. I was 26, this was my first job out of school and I had only been there 6 months! There's no way I could be getting laid off, right? And when I left the building, some bum asked me for some spare change I retorted with, "I'm sorry sir I just lost my job, and my student loan grace period ends in two days and I don't have a steady paycheck which means I fear ending up on this corner with you. So no, I'm keeping all my spare change for myself." Afterwards, I did what any self respecting recently laid-off girl would do – I got drunk and experimented with crazy illicit drugs. By getting drunk I mean 3 beers, and by crazy illicit drugs I mean Tylenol PM because I had a wicked upper respiratory infection. Parrrr-tay! Looking back now I can say it was probably for the best. They were paying me chicken scratch and the people were just not my kind of peeps.

Most Ill-Timed Ironic Comment – After the axe had fallen on my old job the CFO says, "I know this is probably bad timing but this is the first time I've ever had to lay anyone off, how do you think I did?" Do you really want me to answer that one right now?

Most Debaucherous Moment – this one is tough. But I'm going to have to go with Laurel's wedding. Tying the knot with endless amounts of alcohol and friends equals a fucking fabulous time. I broke my thumb and several sangria glasses, read a speech during the ceremony and never vomited once.

Best Purchase – Lily. (I woulda said Romeo, but technically I didn't purchase him) She's made Charlie's leaving me (AGAIN) a little less heartbreaking. She loves to get her belly scratched and I love her cold nose kisses. I have the best conversations with her, and she agrees that Hilary Duff needs to repay me for buying her insipid song.

Best Album– Tough one because there wasn't a lot to love this year, but I think I will go with Guero from Beck. Gone are his wah wah wah days of Sea Change and back is pure Beck. Great spring into summer album.

What I Really Want to Say the Best Song is – Kelly Clarkson's Since U Been Gone. Because um yeah, when I hear this song (even now) I kick up the volume and rock the fuck out. Seriously, someone hurt Kelly real bad and she was all like oh no you di'int. The whole album is like my freshmen through sophomore years in college all wrapped up in 12 perfectly produced pop songs. But since the album technically cam out in 2004, she can't win best album.

Don’t you dare judge me.

PS I totally took what I said about Guero from Amazon.com and my friend Ted because I wanted to sound all smart and stuff, but in reality I have no clue about music. And I just couldn't come right out with Kelly Clarkson I would have totally lost my street cred.

Oh, and I really did love Guero.

Best Movie – I'm going to cop out like the Golden globes break this one down into categories.

- Best Movie Overall – March of the Penguins. I am literally livid I didn't insist on seeing this is in IMAX. There's hardship, there's an unconquerable love, there's adorable little fluffy baby penguins and don't forget Morgan Freeman. And to top it off it is so beautifully shot. Rent it, buy it, see it because this movie is so worth it.

- Best Movie That Made Me Nearly Piddle In My Chair from Laughing So Hard – The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Very funny, well-written dialogue, and a story that was at least plausible. And anyway, you know how I know you're gay? You listen to Coldplay.

- Best Tug At Your Heartstrings and Punch You in Your Throat Overly Sappy Movie – Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants. I bawled. Snot running, red puffy eye and hiccup inducing kind of bawling.

Best TV – Without a shadow of a doubt Grey's Anatomy. The boys are yummy and the girls are fabulous.

Best DVD Find – it's a tie between Space Camp (must send Max to outer space) and Watcher in the Woods (why in the world were we allowed to watch this in fourth grade?) Ain't nostalgia grand?

In Memoriam – H&M, Michigan Ave, culture, Michigan Lake, dependable public transportation, other people who don't own cars.

Christmas Break: The Picture Book

2006-01-03T12:32:00.000-08:00

So I had this whole retrospective entry about 2005 ready to go, but unfortunately my brain was (is) not functioning properly at 7 a.m. today and I forgot all my notes about it. So instead I will commence with a photo essay detailing my holiday break. Photos will work much better than words, trust me.

(There are going to be a lot of pictures – more than 30 – let's see if this crashes Blogger. If you're on dial up you may want to turn back now.)

For the Christmas holiday I flew home to Tulsa for a couple of days, and unfortunately this meant I was going to have to kennel Lily for five whole days. So I bought her a bunch of toys before I left so she would continue to love me after I abandoned her (and mostly to appease my guilty guilty soul).

Here's Lily with her new and eventually doomed stuffed kitten. (and the fridge and the trash that Mom keeps forgetting to throw out.)

Lily wants you to know it was quick and nearly painless death and dismemberment.

She's all like, what kitten?

Anyway let's bring on the other cutie patootie babies in my life – my nephews.

This is Trey. He got a new tricycle and helmet for Christmas. He instantly fell in love with the helmet and wouldn't take it off. Ever.

Told you.

There is just too much scrumptious-ness in this picture for me to for me to describe.

You know what this entry needs? More helmet.

This is Joshua. It was his first Christmas. You know how I know?

Because the ornament says so.

We got him drunk and stoned and put him behind the wheel of a plastic Jeep. Aren't family traditions the best!

He is going to be the cutest gap-toothed hillbilly Kansas has ever seen. And if you've ever been to Kansas you know that's saying a lot.

Here we are gathered around the Christmas tree enjoying everyone's favorite Christmas movie – Independence Day.

And since I am a creative, here's my arty shot of the Christmas tree. (I am a walking cliché)

After the holiday I returned to Dallas, and guess who showed up too?

Hello, Lov-ah.

While Charlie was in Dallas we decided we would move the rest of my furniture/crap out of storage. Which turned my empty and depressing apartment into a disaster area.

I also made Charlie hang blinds and shelves. Which meant that I got to buy power tools and a laser level, and Charlie got to invent new cuss words. (And how cute was Handy Chuck? OH. MY. GOD. )

I have power tools, but no iron. Feminism rocks!

Lily enjoyed the new furniture, but secretly I think she questions my decorating tastes.

Seriously, this entry is turning into the Lifetime channel.

While Charlie lugged all my furniture up to my second floor apartment on one unseasonably 70 degree December day, I took pictures of the flowers I bought to make the Lov-ah's visit more romantic. (Charlie didn't notice the roses until I pointed them out to him) Here are some of the more impressive shots I took of them.

That last photo is begging to have "Footprints" embossed across it. Am I right or am I right?

This is after the last item has been moved. Got take a second here to drool over this man with his bulging muscles and his infinite patience and love for me. What a fox.

Here I am after the move. I look like I am fresh off the crack pipe. And I didn't lift a single thing.

People it doesn't get any better than this. We're laying on The Couch. Charlie has moved this couch going on five times now. Each time he says it's the last. This time after a long stretch of curse words he threatened to chainsaw it in half.

Not only did we move all my stuff, hang blinds, and hang shelves, but we also managed to watch the entire 4th Season of "24" on DVD. That's 24 hours of television folks – and a whole lot of not moving off The MOTHERFUCKING! STUPID PIECE OF SHIT! COCKHOLE! Couch.

And before you knew it, it was time to ring in the New Year.

He's so pretty.

Even the dudes want him.

Aren't sorority girls the hap-happiest group of bitches you know? Y'all it takes years of practice to be able to line up your hats, heads, and smiles on cue like that. We are professionals.

Sometime during the evening Elizabeth and I were abducted by aliens and they turned my face to a radioactive glowing shade of PALE. And gave me the ability to shoot laser beams from my face.

I know I have said this before, but the sign you're having a good time at a party? If something is spilled down the front of your shirt. Elizabeth seems to be caught in the tractor beam that my boobs give off. Usually it affects only creepy men at bars, but everyone has an off day.

And then Charlie had to leave and the break was over. And I'm officially the owner of a lonely heart again. AND a power drill.

Oh blessed Internet

2006-01-03T08:05:00.000-08:00

Ah, I have returned to the world wide web! I have been sans internet access for way too long, but I'm back. And y'all, it feels good.

I will update as the day progress.

Stay tuned.

Hilary Duff? You owe me 99 cents.

2005-12-20T15:58:00.000-08:00

As a refund for the purchase of the song "Come Clean." Repayment is expected in full. You can make the check out to Tweets.

I am here to report the song as completely devoid of any musical talent, and thereby defective.

Specifically, at the 1:35 minute mark where you, Ms. Duff, proceed to do a Mexican hat dance on every musical note on the scale (inventing new ones along the way) causing me, who was once labeled lovingly as tone deaf, to scrunch my face in a way once reserved only for people who insist on still quoting Napoleon Dynamite. Then there's the 3:35 minute mark in which your song becomes the most overproduced piece of music EV. ER. And I know a thing about overproduction, I owned a NKOTB album.

Fret not Hilary, I'm not just pointing the finger at you I'm also blaming MTV. Because on every Monday at 10/9 CST they allowed this song to play as the theme of Laguna Beach, which led me to connect it with the beautiful beach vistas of coastal Orange County and being perpetually tan, rich, and taut in places where my body has long since been un-taut. (This made me keep it in my iTunes for far longer than I should have.)

Oh, I'm also blaming your mom, your sister, your boyfriend (do you guys share the same eyeliner? I've always wanted to ask you two that), your dentist who put those giant horse teeth in your mouth or anyone else that told EVER you that you could sing. Although, I'm not seeking monetary damages from them because they already have a special place in hell reserved for them.

So basically Hilary, you're really very lucky that I'm only asking you for 99 cents.

If I'm going to live like a Rock Star I would at least like the Rock Star Salary

2005-12-19T12:40:00.000-08:00

I have a mounting suspicion that doing four Irish Car Bombs in a row was not a good idea. That suspicion being the vomit on my bedroom floor.

Thank god for Febreeze and candles.

Just know this is the kind of thing that happens when Tweets works every weekend (yes, including Thanksgiving) since September. She gets out of practice. And she talks in third person.

A sneak peek

2005-12-15T15:39:00.000-08:00

Listening:

Heartbeats - Jose Gonzalez (who, believe or not, is Swedish)

It's the song from the Sony Bravia commercial, because yes, I am that lame that I discover music from commercials. That aside this song so beautiful, and yet I have no idea what it's talking about:

"One night to be confused

One night to speed up truth

We had a promise made

Four hands and then away "

And apparently it's a remake. Make sure you check out the orignal to hear the difference.

(I'm not as fancy as Crazy Virgo, so I don't know how to post it to the blog for your listening pleasure. Although, I'm pretty sure that iTunes wouldn't allow it anyway. Meanies.)

Reading:

Lunar Park - Brian Ellis Easton

From the guy who wrote American Psycho and Rules of Attraction. This book has me seriously creeped out. Right now, the last 60 pages or so are just taunting me.

The Gina Blog

"Being the kind and gentle mom that I am, I thought to myself, "well, how long can this thing live?" Apparently - FOREVER!!!"

Bacon Grease

"After being alienated from someone you love because of a mental illness, probably doing everything you could to see and help that person only to be denied but then discovering they were thinking of you all along, every single day, every single week, year after year. I can’t think of a more amazing yet torturous gift."

Watching:

I want to have his babies

"Just to reiterate: America is now less progressive than South Africa."

You're only 16, you don't have a rep yet.

2005-12-14T15:13:00.000-08:00

This morning, I've been putting together a CD for my nephews – a.ka. the most adorable nephews on the planet. (Say differently, and I will cut you) I've been trying to find all sorts of fun songs that would pique a 2 year old as well a 7-month-old baby's interests, which is a difficult task under normal circumstances but seeing as I'm not shy about vying (desperately)for the Aunt of the Year spot I was not going to stop until this CD was awesome. I learned from The Bro that Trey loves to boogie, and although Josh isn't very mobile right now it's only matter of time when he will join his brother in keepin' it real. So I went about trying to find them songs to ensure motion in their adorable diapered backsides.

And that's exactly how I ended up perusing the musical library of DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. Y'all I cannot even describe how much "Parents Just Don't Understand" took me back – to 1988. (Yes. 1988. We are that old.) Instantly, as the first notes of Will Smith's nasally rap played I was taken back to my 1988-90ish years.

A simple time - free of zits and Cranky Meth Head neighbors.

Back when it didn't get ANY cooler than New Kids on the Block, and if you even try to tell me that you were not hangin' tough with your right stuff I will NOT believe you. It's back then that if you were asked out by a boy you would only agree if he would go out with all of your other friends. I remember a particularly serious 3 week relationship with another boy in which we walk around for hours just holding hands. Two tiny, sweaty palms pressed together for what seemed like FOR. EVER. because that's what grown ups did in their relationships, right? And I most definitely remember being completely heartbroken when he left me for some other girl, that skank. Every Rose Has Its Thorn, indeed.

Back when I wanted to grow up and be a nurse, just like my mom. And I spent hours wondering when I would "blossom" because Are You There God? It's Me, Tweets. Life revolved around lunch times and who was sitting at your table. How high and ratted you could torture your bangs was directly proportional to your social life. Braces. Head gear. The running man. It all came flooding back to me.

Hangovers, real heartbreaks, credit card debt, bewbies, layoffs – these we're all yet to come. It was then that I became a little pissed off that I was a grown up. Things were supposed to be different when you were finally a grown up, right? Because to be perfectly honest at age 12 I saw my 26th year going a little different. I figured I would be married (Mrs. McIntyre, if you will), with 2.5 kids, a dog, a white picket fence and large perpetually manicured lawn. And my 26-year-old self would be there watching over it all on a porch swing, in my french cuffed jeans and sipping a strawberry daiquiri. I was from the South, and these were the dreams you had. (Oh, the horrors of being 26 and unmarried.)

And then I thought about my two gorgeous nephews, whose CD started me down this trip of memory lane. I thought about how their little lives are going to play out – and I immediately wanted to call The Bro and tell him did you know that they were going to GROW. UP! Those two are going to be grown ups. Hurry, quick push a Pause button or something because they just can't grow up. It's not all it's cracked up to be.

Oh, and don't let them have credit cards until they're 26. Or 27. Okay, 35.

The Move and the Meth Head

2005-12-11T18:06:00.000-08:00

So, I have a new apartment. That makes three apartments in 10 months. A grand total of 9 different addresses in 3 years in a total of five different cities. In a sense, you could say I'm used to moving.

But the thing is I'm not. I should be a moving pro, but alas no. Everytime is a freakin' hassle. Because you know what, there's always a junk/mystery drawer to empty out no matter how temporary your address.

So here's the problem - I need to move again.

I've resisted mentioning my recent move here because I wanted to be completely moved before I talked about it. That way, we could all have one big ol' celebratory cheer and perhaps a celebratory glass of wine (or two or three) as well. But the Moving Gods? Well they had other plans.

First off, I might be mildly retarded because I thought I could get this entire move done in one day. ONE. Oh, and without a truck. Eleventy billion car trips later, and I still don't have furniture in my apartment.

Secondly my neighbor hates me. She hates me so much that it qualifies as The Hot Hate. And why does she hate the lovely Tweets? Because I am so loud. SO VERY, VERY LOUD. You see, she's on disability and she needs so a certain number hours of sleep. Not to mention she has a nurse who comes to her house on every other day. And if I could just keep it down, what with all the walking and such. Sure thing Lady, just as soon as you put your teeth in to talk to me.

(GRRRRRRR. I got home this evening and lo and behold what did I find? A noise complaint. The official complaint is that every evening I let my dogs run around constantly. A) first off it's a dog, I only have one. And B) These indoor dog racing tracks are just too profitable to give up. GIVE. ME. A. BREAK.)

I'll mention (although I don't think I need to) I'm no louder than your average gal. I like to think of myself as very light on my feet, somewhat graceful if you will. And Lily is a sprightly 23 pound pup. And aside from when I return from a long day at the office, she doesn't jump or run anymore than your average 6 month old puppy. And Lily and I are both usually in bed by 11:00.

Oh, and I almost forgot, you live in an APART. MENT! Which by definition means you'll need a little give and take with your neighbors. I extend you a little courtesy even though you feed the stray cats around the neighborhood. In fact I'll let it slide that you would rather just watch me struggle with my keys and the outside gate while my arms are being torn off by eighteen grocery sacks instead of reaching the four feet it would take you to open the gate for me. And I'll even cut you some slack for your friends that you let into the complex that could easily double for street transients. And you know why I do this? Because we're neighbors.

So, I've put in a request for a new unit far, far away from her. Because I'm pretty sure that I can't be still and silent for the next 12 months.

Unfortunately, it means I have to pack up my boxes. Again.

If She Doesn't Find Someone Soon She's Going to Take Out a Personal Ad

2005-12-08T14:21:00.000-08:00

You know what? I'm not the only who misses their bestest pal, and the warm snuggles in the morning. Lily does too.

Course her hunk-o-burning love probably never farted on her hand.

Lily's all like Gurrrl, you don't even know. You heard?

Everybody Loves a Happy Ending

2005-12-08T08:22:00.000-08:00

***

Just a little update from Sleet Watch '05: The Sleet? It came. It saw. It conquered - the roadways. I am literally dumbfounded by the fact that The Entire City of Dallas has never heard of sand or salt. These two things are mandatory weapons in the crusade against freezing water, yet as I was walking to work I saw only one instance of salt on the sidewalks. I'm SO going to fall outside of the Adam's Mark hotel and sue their ever-loving butts off. (Seeing as how I wrote about it here, I probably won't get a dime. Eh, c'est la vie!)

Also our main offices are closed. (But fret not clients for I am here all day today) Yep, even adults get the occasional snow day. I just hope we don't have to make it up in the summer.

***

Last night I watched The March of the Penguins (I begged and begged for Charlie to see this with me whilst it was playing in IMAX theaters, but as we've seen he can be a meanie.). Y'all, it was the sweetest movie I have ever seen. Morgan Freeman is there to do what he does best - narrate. It tracks the Emperor penguins as they head inland for the winter to get a little freaky-deaky with the opposite sex. They usually have to walk more than 70 miles to get to the exact spot where they mate every year, and by walk I mean that irresistibly cute penguin waddle. After the make the 70 mile journey, they have a little meet and greet, pair off, do the nasty, and hopefully produce a wee tot. And get this, penguins are monogamous – at least for the breeding season – so when they find the one they stick with that penguin. The movie then follows as the adults make trips get food and battle -60 degrees below zero weather (with NO Snow Day). Then the chicks are born. I aaaaaaaawwwwwww'd so many times and at such high pitched frequencies that Lily had to sit on my head to make me stop.

(I should mention here that I have always wanted a penguin for a pet. Along with a pony, dolphin, the monkey from Friends, and a llama.)

There is this one scene in the movie towards the end that made me bawl like a baby. Wha? It's a very emotional time for me, and well penguins are cute. So shut up you emotionally dead robot. So anyway, I cried because here are these little penguins that waddle and waddle back forth day and night for 70 miles all for the love of each other. So who says two advertising love birds can't travel 1000 miles or so to be close to one another?

Just don't think regurgitating meals into my mouth will be considered an acceptable response to a long absence.

Well hello, Jack Frost - nipper of the nose.

2005-12-07T14:47:00.000-08:00

Folks, it's getting cold outside which that can mean only one thing: Chuck and I are more than 800 miles apart. If I've said it once, I've said a million times… Good Fucking Times, man. We’re rounding out three years together and this will be our third winter apart. The official start of our relationship is March 10th, and with the exception of that initial March 10th we've always been on opposite ends of the country on the anniversary of that fateful day (and on one occasion a full ocean apart). You read that right folks, we have not been together on our anniversary. EVER.

But I am not bitter. Oh, and just ignore the tears.

If EVER get married you will all be invited to a January wedding.

Audience (and anyone I manage to talk with for more than 15 minutes): OKAY. Enough. We get it. QUIT bringing us down.

Why I love living in Texas during the winter: Sleet Watch '05. There's a small winter storm headed our way. Winter weather means only one thing in Dallas (or the south for that matter) – NATURAL. DISASTER. This natural disaster will be in the form of one POSSIBLY! one and a half inches of snow. People at my work honest to god called in sick to work today for fear of Nature's Wintery Mix. The workplace is all a buzz about how dangerous the bridges are going to be – should they find another way home, oh the humanity of it all. Someone even informed me today that it was BELOW. FREEZING! And they were dead serious with their fear. Our management company closed its doors at three!

Y'all I have spent the past three winter in Minneapolis and Chicago. And?

YOU.

AIN'T.

SEEN.

NOTHING.

The average temperature in Chicago in December was 12 degrees last year. The weather dudes predicted a storm would pass through the city and dump 8 inches of snow, and we were told that it was going to be no big deal the trains just tack snow plows to the front. That storm ended up dumping 12 inches of snow, and I ended up white knuckled in the back of a cab doing 60 miles an hour through snow banks on Lake Shore Drive.

In Minneapolis, I once had to walk to a class mile and a half in -18 degrees.
NEG. A. TIVE. EIGHTEEN.

(And yes it was uphill both ways. Why do you ask?)

So spare me with your stories of Omigod, it got so cold here one time that the water got real hard and stuff.

Am I a hypochrondriac? Because I think I may have this: S.A.D. They detailed the disorder on the Today Show this morning and thought yeah, yeah, that’s totally me. And then I just realized I was just really bored.

Another thing – I am the perfect audience for those segments that start with Not Feeling Well? You could totally have streptamiliocouclincus, which you can only get when the clock strikes 1 am and you're facing north standing in only your underwear. Or maybe it's just your blinds were made in the seventies and therefore could cause your feet to swell to the size of a small country.

I see those segments and think OH. MY. GOD. How did they know?!?

And then I call my mom immediately. Because she was a nurse and knows all about those scary things.

Mark Wahlberg, and other things that go bump in the night.

2005-11-10T16:08:00.000-08:00

While watching a particularly gruesome episode of Nip/Tuck this weekend, I was reminded of my friend Oliver's freakish fear of blood. I know a lot people are a little timid when it comes to blood, but Oliver couldn't stand even hearing the word blood. And for that matter, he couldn't stand hearing the descriptive words of what blood does, like spurt, gush, and the worst being ooze. This was a fear I, of course, completely exploited. (Poor Ollie, if he's reading this he's already fainted by now.)

But this got me to thinking. We all have those same generic fears of dying in a horrible way, or what Crazy Larry in front of the 7-11 is looking at with his one wonky eye. But what are the rest of us freakishly afraid of? I asked around the office got some pretty good answers. Everything from bugs that don't die when squashed to lint screens on dryers to Mark Wahlberg in that one movie where he carves his chest.

I heard it and thought wow that would make a fetching entry. (mainly because I couldn't think of anything else to write about – I mean how many dog pics can we look at.) (This is otherwise known as my freakish fear that my creativity will run out)

So, I'm about let in on what scares Tweets to her inner most core.

1.
Lightning – um yeah, don't laugh. Lightning is some freaky shit. It all started when the local electric company came to my elementary for a demonstration on electricity and safety. Because apparently there are a lot of kids running around Oklahoma frolicking with downed power lines while in a torrential downpour in an open field. They brought in giant transformers and mammoth crackling Jacob's ladders to demonstrate the crazy power of electricity.

For the kicker, they took a hot dog – meant to represent a wee tot's innocent finger – and ran umpteen hundreds watts of electricity through it. And you know what that hot dog did? It blew'd up. Into a billion tiny pieces. And the Electricity Company Guy, with a creepy smile on his face, says something like, "Jeepers kids! That's only a tenth of what lightning is packing." Oh yeah? Yeah. While all the other kids were say something to the effect of COOOOOOOL, I sat frozen in place. Wide eyed, mouth agape, shaking in my koolats.

I vowed right then and there to never fuck with electricity for as long as I lived. Which is a fine goal for something like avoiding downed power lines, but lightning? You can't control that beast. (And yes I realize it's very unlikely to be struck by lightning, but if I happened to be lucky at being unlucky in one aspect of my life I'm sure lightning strikes would be it.) So, to this day if I happen to be in an open field and feel a drop of rain on my skin I FA-REAK the fuck out. I run around asking people – hey are my hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

So yeah, if it's raining I'm the one you'll find running around screaming how we should Get inside the car because the tires will protect you! or Get off the phone! or Get away from that tree! and for God's sakes Don't take a shower!

Then there's that whole bloody murder sceaming thing that happens when lightning strikes within a five mile radius of me.

2.
Alligators/Crocodiles – Doesn't matter which one because frankly? I don't know the difference between them. And I don't care. They are both equally terrifying.

I know it's not rare to be afraid of giant prehistoric animals whose sole purpose it is to devour other animals with their lethal fangs, but hear me out. First, it really creeps me out that these things can just appear in people's pools or worse their toilets. Not to mention they can take down a deer in a single gulp. Plus I have a natural distrust for animals that are sneaky. For example, you could just be gallivanting away in some swamp in southern Florida (could happen!) and turn your head and see some giant gator eyeball staring right back at you. Goodbye arms and legs, hello crap in pants.

And even though being completely aware of this fear, I was handed a book (by a family member no less) that was essentially When Animals Attack! in paperback form. For one afternoon I sat transfixed reading the alligator and crocodile chapter – including every gory detail – about how much gators enjoy munching on their prey, that prey being people. Good times, really.

See, I discovered all sorts of fun facts like even though gators bite down on you real hard, that's not really what kills you – oh no! – instead you die because the grab a hold of you and take you underwater and twirl you around a bit until you drowned. And don't think climbing a tree is going to save you because crocs can jump something like eighty feet, give or take. Sounds fabulous, no?

Plus the book was filled with such glorious testimonials of the fact that YES! gators are dangerous, avoid them at all costs. People that told stories of how they were having a gay ol' time swimming somewhere of the coast of someplace when all of the sudden a gator came and snatched up their friend, and how after hours of searching, they found nothing but her mangled body. Oh but the horror doesn't end there, because once they get her body in a body bag to take somewhere not infested by gators, the gators follow her "scent" the whole way home. Jumping up and nipping at the body bag. Apparently they were hungry for a little midnight snack.

Did I mention I was reading this book in FLOR. IDA! A place where there are actual gators or crocodiles OR WHATEVER.

You know what else Florida is known for? Most Lightning Strikes in America. Talk about a stress free vacation.

H.W.J.V.?

2005-11-07T09:21:00.000-08:00

How do you know when you're living in a red state? The teaser for your local news opens up this way:

"The Gay Rights and Marriage Bill and how would Jesus vote."

Unbearable Cuteness Ahead

2005-11-03T14:57:00.000-08:00

I know, Two Posts, One Day. It's like the feeling you get when you win the lottery. Not the Powerball of course, more like when you win 25 bucks on the scratch-offs.

Trust me, I have a lot to talk about, and work is finally back to Mildly Hectic so there's actually time for my brain to decompress and not have think about web banners 99% of the day.

So where to begin – the trip to the fair, Halloween's shenanigans, Laguna Beach, cool autumn nights, Grey's Anatomy? Oh, I know! Lily.

Well, here she is.

Meet Lily. It only took us five days of different names to name her. So in addition to Lily she will answer to Maggie and Pixie. Hear that Romeo? She answers to three names, you think you could answer to yours? Ever?

This past weekend Charlie and I awoke on a beautiful Saturday morning, wiped the sleep out of our eyes, made the bed. Smiled at Romeo, our precious little pup, and then skipped into the kitchen to grab a glass of orange juice. Returned to the bed to find that Romeo? Had pissed on it. Again. And we looked at one another and said, "Let's get another one because this, this is so much fun!"

No lie. We went to the Shelter right then. Unlike last time, there weren't any tears and only a mild instance of hysterics when someone tried to snatch the dog I was going for. Oh no you di-int!

And by god I was going to look at every damn dog that Shelter had. I was determined to make a well thought out and planned decision, no matter how long it took or how many times Chuck whined, "Juuuust pick one, I want some luuuuuunch, wah wah wah." Haste never pays off at the Shelter (see above Piss/Bed incident for proof) (Just kidding, I love you Romeo!)

And it wasn't going too well. Charlie nixed the three legged dog because is A MEANIE. And I nixed the dog who came into the "Get to Know You Room" and promptly pissed on everything that wasn't ten feet off the ground because? AAAH, flashbacks to my first dog Ozzie and pee covered Christmas presents. The seven hundred other dogs we brought in were terrified of Romeo. (And the thing that's worse than going to the Shelter and not getting a dog, is actually taking the dogs out of their kennels and playing with them only to decide that the dog won't work for you. So you have to return its kennel, all the while the dog is looking at you like "hey give me one more chance, and look I can do tricks just please don't put me back in that kennel confirming once again for my fragile psyche that no one loves me." Yeah that sucked.)

So there I was cooing at a litter of Labradoodles, (knowing Charlie would nix them because TOO MUCH HAIR! but OH MY GOD they were cute) trying to ignore the yippy dog next to me, and secretly eyeing the lady holding the adorable Chihuahua with an underbite, and it was then that Lily caught my eye. She just sat there and stared me big ol' puppy dog eyes and would you just look at those YOO-GE ears. It sounds really stupid and trite now, but at the time it felt like she was calling me. And lucky for her, she could handle Romeo and all his Romeo-ness.

So we took her home. The whole time we were in the car Romeo was like whuuuuuuut? This thing isn't leaving?

Oh boy more puppy pics!

Meet the kids. (When I say that Charlie's whole body tenses up and I just know his brain is screaming NOOOOOOOOOO) Oh and by the way, I have to mention that we were doing laundry (see above Piss/Bed incident) I would hate you to think that we live the kind of life where we don't put bed sheets on our bed.

Romeo is all like, you can keep trying but it's not going to work, I know because I tried it like hundreds times at the dog park. Seriously, it will never fit.

Oh. My. God. Call the Lifetime Channel right now because that is the sappiest pile of sappy cuteness.

Romeo would like everyone to know that even though there's a new pup in town – he still owns this bitch.

Exodus and Irony

2005-11-03T13:37:00.000-08:00

Ha ha, I was only kidding when I said it wouldn't be another month before I updated.

Okay here's the deal. See I had big plans to organize my side of the closet for I am an unorganized mess of a girl – I bought drawers and shelves to boot – and I had planned to update when that was done. That way I could post some pictures of The Great Closet Organization Celebration '05 and I could be all Look! at what I did, for I am a person with organizational skills. And all of us would oooh and aaaah, and then you guys would shower me with all sorts of organizational praise. And life would be Good. But alas it didn't work out that way. As of right now, the closet is only moderately organized, but no fear today is the day that I will have plenty of extra time to get to it. Right. Today.

Oh, but I have a nice big excuse for being unorganized. Charlie decided to quit his job. I know that's what I said too. And two weeks after I officially moved all my stuff down to Dallas no less. And for a week I thought he going to move all the way out to North Carolina, which is? Like all the way across the country. Clearly an unorganized closet was the last thing on my mind. I was more occupied with keeping potential flying projectiles out of my hands, lest Charlie "accidentally" walk in front of a flying flat iron. Because in case y'all didn't know, everything is about ME.

And Charlie is the only person in the world who can quit his job (with no job to take its place) and have two jobs lined up for him to consider within a week. TWO! Most of us are lucky to be offered A Job, let alone two jobs that would necessitate A Decision. But that's Charlie for ya, one lucky son of a bi-atch.

So after much Quality Decision Making and Thinking, in which he listened to none of my sage advice (and still ended up doing what I told him to do, but gave me none of the credit) he choose to take a freelance gig where he gets to design video game characters. For a living! How freaking cool is that? And the best part is that this job not in North Carolina, it's in – wait for it - Chicago. Oh. The. Irony. But now I can say yeah, that's my boyfriend he designs twelve headed fire snot spewing dragons for a living. Jealous much? (See, all about ME)

And with this job he won't be stuck in some cube. And he never has to listen to another stupid account executive. Plus he will be able to travel when he wants, and he can work from Dallas, Minneapolis, Tennessee, the moon, wherever there's an internet connection. HUGE plus for him because he apparently cannot adopt the sedentary lifestyle. I mean for goodness sakes dude, just sit still for a second. And we all know that I, personally, have not one problem with that lifestyle.

And the proof is in the pudding or in my case the closet.

The Post With All the Updates

2005-10-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

If there's anything that could drag me from a blogging slump it would be this. Tom and Kat(i)e have spawned. Good lawd, the Apocalypse is upon us.

If you were wondering what I have been up to – and I know you all care - you came back at the right time because folks? I am gonna go all month-long-update on that ass, right about now.

First off, work? Has me by my proverbial balls. We have been so busy around here lately. My typical day looks like: get up, work for ten hours, go home, take the dog to the dog park, return home, cook dinner, pass out on couch after attempting to watch 2.2 minutes of a movie. Repeat ad nauseum.

But I'm not going to let that get me down. Oh no.

Now then, we can get to the excitement. The first weekend of September, Charlie and I went to the first game of the OU football season. Known now as the first and LAST football game Charlie will be attending, for he is clearly bad luck. We lost the game in smashing fashion to a team that wears purple. PURPLE. (And you think it's just a coincidence that Tom and Katie are having a baby? No, God is seriously pissed at the world) That Saturday, Charlie was invited into my family's inner circle and summarily banned from it in the span of four hours. Tough break, but you gotta cut the weak ones loose.

Also Romeo made his first trip to Tulsa. Romeo loves to ride in the car. There's an endless supply of things to look at, and usually the ride ends some place where Romeo has never peed before which to him equals a huge bonus. Lately when Charlie and I ride in the car with Romeo we roll down one window in the back and he hangs his head out of it and there is much joy in the world. Eventually he becomes bored with the one side and we have to roll down the other window so he can see a Whole New World. He goes back and forth and back and forth, loving it all the while. Except when I played our new game on this particular car ride I had a wee lapse of concentration (because you know there's a road and I have to pay attention to it and stuff) and OH! NO! I rolled up the wrong window, and Romeo's head paid the price. Had we been on a playground at the time, all the other dogs would have totally been making fun of him. Because he screams like a little girl. After I released him from the crazy window of death he shot me with hot laser beams from his eyes. His payback was his favorite game where he lets the car get very, very quiet allowing me to drift off in thought and wait for it, wait for it – now unleash The Bark With All The Barking Loudness Of A Bark That Was Not Expected. And then I scream like a little girl.

When Romeo arrived in Tulsa, he was greeted warmly by my mom's dog P.B. And by warmly I mean, with lots of growling and chomping. P.B. pulled me aside later and lamented that he couldn't handle it if I started bringing "babies" home with me too. The two nephews/grandchildren who visited were almost too much for him to handle. As for the Mom and Marv's other dog, Ricki, she would have been less scared if I had dropped an F-4 tornado on her. She spent most of the weekend being spooked out of her gourd (because she can't hear worth a lick) when Romeo would come up behind her to play. Their cat? Well he just flipped me off and went about his weekend. Romeo didn't mind the cold reception from everyone because every time he turned the corner there was a new treat to eat. Within ten minutes of being there he had found every one of P.B's "hidden" bones, plus all the secret stockpiles of Milkbones®. And Sweet Jesus! all those Beggin' Strips. He ate everything he could find. And Grandma spoiled him just like he was P.B., everytime I saw Romeo and my mom in the same room he was getting another treating from her. (For three days after we got back from Tulsa he laid down the largest poops I have ever seen.) And then there this wonder that apparently called The Backyard. When Romeo discovered The Backyard there was a lot of leaping and bounding followed by more leaping and more bounding. My dog has never had so much fun.

Then came the weekend that will be known as weekend of The Most Anticipated Contract Termination of 2005. I flew to Chicago to pack up and leave the Money Draining Apartment behind. Just in case you didn't know this is what is like to have movers move your stuffit goes something a little like this:

Pack
Re-pack only with more bubble wrap
Ask for Saturday pick up
Be told to expect Friday morning
Request Saturday instead
Be laughed at
Watch movers re-pack everything
Watch movers charge for moving supplies needed to re-pack
Be convinced that movers are making fun of you in Spanish
Hurry back to Dallas, delusional that stuff will arrive in two or three days
Wait for five days, with no stuff
Learn move is 500 bucks over estimate
Cry because you barely had enough to cover the estimate
Tell movers they need to drop off stuff before 6:30 pm
Be told to expect my stuff sometime around 6:45 pm
Request earlier time
Be laughed at
Cry some more
Lift and haul my own stuff that I am paying 500 bucks over the estimate to have movers lift and haul for me
Note the sound of broken glass in every box
Pay for move by handing over first born child in the form of 2200 cash

So needless to say, moving was a joy. But hey, I'm officially in Dallas. Yeah! I guess.

The next Saturday I returned to Norman (sans Charlie) to try this whole football thing over again. This time I figured the best way thing I could do was to get drunk. Plenty drunk. Not surprisingly, I wasn't worried about the outcome of the game by about beer three. I was dancing in the aisle by beer four. With the drinking, the dancing and the actual winning of a football game I eventually did a bad thing. That bad thing being elbowing (accidentally!) Meanie McMeanerson in the back of the head. She was very pissed because she had hoped to attend the football game without all the football-gamey stuff. So receiving an Excited! elbow to the head literally sent over the edge. She spent the rest of game hating me with Hot Hate.

But you guys, look at what she wore to a football game. I should have taken her down with a pile driver for those paisleys ALONE.

Which brings us to now. Whew. We're all updated. And don't worry it won't be another month before I update again.

To Quote Seinfeld - Why is it...

2005-09-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

Why is it when I take my dog outside to poop and someone comes up to make small talk I feel as weird and icky as if a perfect stranger walked in on me pooping in my own bathroom?

What is love?

2005-08-30T14:25:00.000-07:00

Recent conversation overheard between two first time cohabitants:

Whew, I'm really gassy. My insides are all hurty because of it.

I'm sorry.

Ow. Oooooow.

Well, do I need to burp you?

Yeah, maybe.

Well, come here.

Climbs on lap facing significant other.

Buuuuurpaaaaargghhh Ah. Ruuurrrp. Bupfffruuup. Gurrrruuup. Recovers. Wow. Thanks.

Uh, yeah, I guess you were gassy.

Told you. Love you.

Love you too.

_____________________________________________________

Speaking of gas, Chuck and I crossed our final relationship frontier. One of us deliberately and purposefully farted in front of the other. Up until now busting the accidental toot was met with red cheeks and awkward giggles.

That was until a couple weeks ago. I was trying to goose Charlie, and he got mad and threatened that he was going to fart on my hand. (which, um yeah, what are we 12, Charlie?) AND THEN HE DID. I’ll repeat for those in the back. The man FARTED. ON. MY. HAND.

So that final barrier just wasn’t crossed. Oh no. It was cluster bombed, folks.

ON.

MY.

HAND.

What about Lil Romeo?

2005-08-29T15:48:00.000-07:00

No, no not Master P’s son/rapper/actor. What about my little Romeo?

Well, first things first he’s not so little anymore. Check the progress y'all.

Romeo at 3 Months
Romeo at 5 months

The dog is now the largest dog I have ever owned. He’s coming in at 27.8 lbs. And the vet is putting him at forty to fifty pounds full grown. And seeing as he takes up three-fourths of the bed right now, I’m frightened to think of how it’s going to be in a couple of months.

Also we have begun taking him to the dog park. Or as I like to call it high school with poop bags. (or maybe that’s just high school) And PS the dog park is the clique-iest place I have ever seen. And folks, I was in a sorority.

First you have the cool kids, with their Labs and Golden Retrievers. To find them just follow the tennis balls or other various squeaky object flying through the air. Their dogs are usually the ones running around aimlessly knocking over the small children. Which is fun for a laugh, but also very tacky.

Then there’s the “I’m so cool because my dog is unusual” Great Dane and Weimaraner Club. This is the group of people who wanted to own a dog that no one had ever seen so they went the highly “unusual” Great Dane or Weimaraner. Funny, that there’s like ten of both of these breeds walking around the dog park at any given time.

And of course, don’t forget the “Dog people.” They are the reason that dog parks came into existence, and they aren’t going to let you forget it. They bring their own chairs, and they sit in a large circle to claim the best spot in the park (and only shade) for themselves. It’s very hard to get into their inner circle. They spend most of the time talking organic dog food or doggie spas – because, you know, it’s only the best for Mr. Tuffy McScuttlebottoms – Prince of the Fancy Pants. They are there every day. They let their dogs kiss them on the lips after four plus hours sniffing dog butts. They are quite literally the soccer moms of dog world.

Then you have everybody else, who much like in high school, are just walking around with our heads down trying to not get noticed. Most of them are guilt ridden twentysomethings who are looking for the quick way wear their dogs out. They all kind of walk around with this stunned look on their faces like did you know dogs were this much work? The goal of everyone in this group is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. They’re not really looking to make friends. Clearly, these are my people.

Now if only Romeo understood the rules of the park. You see, Romeo’s favorite thing to do is to find one and only one dog and gnaw at it for the ENTIRE. TIME. This means my time at the dog park is spent finding all about who the owner of the dog that Romeo is trying to fit inside his mouth. Romeo’s nasty habit is always met with the same scornful look, that says to me, listen I brought my dog to jump to play to run, I didn’t come here for my dog to get covered in your dog’s drool.

Oops. Sorry about that.

Finally Romeo's chosen dog will get fed up with Romeo chew chew chewing on its neck, and retaliate by kicking Romeo’s ass. Romeo gets scared and takes off at hundred miles an hour to find refuge in between someone’s legs. And of course those legs are never mine. Which means? Hi, I have to introduce myself to you too because my dog is a quivering mass of drool covered jelly underneath your legs, pleased to meet you.

This happens ad nauseum until people see Romeo coming, and pick up their dogs to head in the other direction.

But do realize the dog park isn’t all good times . The park has its dangers. For example, molestation runs rampant. And Romeo might as well have Barely Legal written in bold right across his forehead. He sends all the pervert dogs into a tissy. I can’t count the number of times that he’s been humped. Poor guy was deflowered and gang banged in the same day. All of it leads to some awkward morning-after glances. Like hey, you’re dog pounded Romeo into the ground for an hour straight, but it's not awkward no, no. Definitely. Not. Awkward. (Not that Romeo minded because at the time he was probably turning an innocent mutt into a rawhide chew.)

Plus you always run the risk of running into Talkie McTalkerson. She lives at our apartment complex, and as her name indicates she’s a talker. And I enjoy talking to her about as much as I enjoy getting a paper cut. On my toe. Charlie says she’s not that bad, but then again he could have a conversation with a wall. She’s supa annoying to me because EVERY time I talk to her she has some sort of stupid advice (better known as assvice) to give me. For example she’ll ask me a simple question like:

Talkie: What are you feeding you dog?

Me: Dry food.

Talkie: What? Just dry food? OMIGOD! OMIGOD! Your dog is going to DIE a long horrible death if you don’t start feeding him some canned food at once. You’re so lucky I told you in time.

You’re right, I am so lucky. Now if you don’t mind I have to go yell my dog’s name over and over while he ignores me, and continues to devour some poor puppy’s hind quarters. That way I can get looks from all the cool people and their cool dogs like, how dare you bring a dog here that isn’t trained.

I hate high school.

Now here are some pics of the growing boy. (I will update with some from the dog park when I get home.) Now then, are you ready for this much cuteness?

Romeo has the longest legs I have ever seen, when he stretches out he becomes like three times his size. I’m afraid all the dogs at the dog park are calling him long legged freaky dog boy behind his back.

I tried to tell you that you were indeed not ready for this much cuteness.

I just took away his new favorite thing. My dirty underwear. That’s right, nothing is more disgusting than to walk into a room and find your dog munching on your dirty panties. And every time I take them away he acts like I just ripped out his little heart. I blame all his deviant behavior on the dog park, he is clearly hanging out with the wrong crowd.

Nipples and Librarians

2005-08-15T14:24:00.000-07:00

Y’all. I went to Billy Bob’s Texas this weekend. If you didn’t know (and how could you not) Billy Bob’s is the World’s! Largest! Honky tonk! Oh, and Urban Cowboy was filmed there.

It’s all the way out in Fort Worth. It took 45 minutes, 30 bucks in gas, and a 9 dollar cover to get us there. But ten minutes after we arrived, we were greeted with something so spectacular that it made all that worthwhile.

I give you:

Here I’ll get good and close for you.

Let that soak in folks. Notice the fringe on the tank, as if she needed help drawing your eye to her MASSIVE CLEAVAGE. And that poor tank top is so crying for help, plus it's dug so deep into her shoulders it’s a wonder how she was still getting blood to her fingers. But the boots? Not bad. They tie the whole outfit together, don’t you think?

The night was an amazing insight into how the other half lives. Here’s a hint: it’s in trailer parks.

Let’s see, number of children under the age of eight: 17

Number of pregnant women: 2

Number of women with infant in stroller with beer and cigarette in hand: 1

Number of ill fitting denim ensembles on both men and women: a frillion billion

Then there was this:

It's a bad picture, but those are her NIP. PLES. Showing through her shirt. So classy.

And this was all in the first hour. But you know what took the cake, I know. I KNOW. How could it get any better? Or is it worse? Either way, we came upon the ultimate sight. Now close your eyes, and put a little banjo music on in your head. Now picture your mom, local librarian, that nice lady who hands out church bulletins on Sundays ALL wrapped up in one lady. Her name might be, I don’t know, Betty. Put Betty in her best embroidered vest and high rise pleated khakis. Don’t forget the reading glasses on the chain. And what would be the perfect accessory for her to pick out? Why a “69” sticker of course. Placed directly in the middle of her shirt.

Whuuuuuuuut?

Gawd, I love this country.

It's my ironic cowboy hat and ironic big hair.

We're hot stuff people. Hot. Stuff.

Birthday Extravaganza? Maybe.

2005-08-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

So, this weekend was my birthday. (What, you don’t have birthday weekends? Shame.) I turned a whopping 26 years of age.

It’s officially the end of an era. I am closer to thirty than I am twenty. I am officially out of the running for People’s Most Beautiful People Under 25. I can no longer look forward to being on the Real World: St. Louis Park. It’s all downhill from here.

When I was younger my birthday parties were usually? Lame. And this was no fault of my parents, of course. It was mainly due to bad timing. And Jennifer C. (I'm using an initial to protect her innocence, plus she probably knows how to Google herself and I don't need a lawsuit) Jennifer’s birthday was a week ahead of mine. Jennifer had herself a pool. Jennifer threw her annual birthday bash in her said pool. Everyone came. Everyone always had a blast. By the time my lowly birthday rolled around all the nine year olds were all partied out. Jennifer once had a birthday party and thirty people showed. I threw a skating party that next week. Two people showed. Another birthday party I had three people to show up, but one girl ate too much cake and ice cream, and barfed all over the table. She understandably had to go home.

By middle school and high school I just gave up. This was mostly because I couldn’t take the humiliation of sending out those cute invites and no one showing up anymore. That and OH MY GAH birthday parties are so NOT COOL. Gah, Mom.

After that I stopped caring that I never had a birthday during the school year. Who wanted to be sernaded by their friends at lunchtime anyway? I started to realize it didn’t matter that on the last day of school I got lumped together with the other 14 kids with summer birthdays for one big mock birthday celebration, when everyone else got their own day. (And by not matter I mean it’s haunts me EVERY. DAY.)

As for birthdays in college? Two words– SORORITY. RUSH. That’s right. All the friends I paid to be friends with me were under house arrest. No one could leave. The house went dry for the week. DRY. As in no alcohol. (Not that I drank before I was 21. Heh.) My 21st birthday went down as the biggest bust of a birthday ever. I took my shots, but once again two people showed up. (I have to mention here that Cyndi and Elizabeth were kind enough to throw me a make up 21st birthday party in December.)

After college came Miami Ad School. Or as I like to call it, Binge Drinking with a side of Debt. Its classes were in session all year. No summers, meant no summer birthdays. Yay! Plus you invited people to drink and they RSVP'd. Who couldn’t turn down a chance to drink your face off while at MAS? Whatever it was, I couldn’t have been more delighted. In the three birthdays I have had since I first walked the hallowed halls of MAS, my birthdays have been more fun than I can remember. Literally. Three birthdays. Three blackouts. (Parents – You raised me right, don’t worry. Kay?)

So that brings us around to last Friday, A.K.A. Daffornication 2005. I wish I could regale you with funny stories about drunken mishaps, but unfortunately I remember about this much(doing that thumb and finger thing that indicates a very little amount) of the party.

Here are the things that I am rumored to have done while my memory took a vaca to Bermuda.

- I slid head first into second base, and by second base I mean the food table.

- Had long, deeply insightful conversations. With the plants.

- Played cups. And won.

- I imbibed mass quantities of alcohol

- Passed out two hours into my party. Only after taking out an end table. (I have good friends, so the party continued in my honor.)

But here is what I will admit to doing, but only because there is photographic proof:

Happy Birthday to ME. That’s right, MEEEEE. This is when the shots started. I think this is the last part of the night where I was able to put together a coherent sentence. I think.

All the sexy bitches were at my party. Oh yeah.

But who invited Willy Wonka?

Eeek, look how shiny our faces are. We’re like a Clearasil "Before" picture. But big surprise, it's Texas, it's August, and it was eleventy million degrees outside.

Rich had a really good time. Clearly.

Here’s Jordan and I as we compare our fine orthodontia. I won hands down.

And here’s where it all starts to get foggy. Can you really blame me though? That shot glass is huge. YOO-GE! (From here on out I don’t remember a thing, and the rest of these pistures were a surprise to me the next morning.)

Folks, this is why they call it TE-KILL-YA. Oh my head hurts just looking at it.

Show us exactly where The Bad Taber kissed you.

Is this my sexy look? Gah. I really feel sorry for Charlie.

Every girls fantasy!

Again with the sexy look? Huh?

Vixens and…

Vagabonds. PS - note that Charlie has spilled something on his shirt, a hallmark of any good party.

Bye Bye Charlie

2005-08-07T13:39:00.001-07:00

Charlie spent the weekend in Minnesota. That meant I spent an entire weekend without my man. How did I celebrate? Why, by being messy of course. As we speak: Dirty dishes in the sink - check. Bed not made - check. Hair stuff, flat irons, makeup, and other girlie stuff I "try" to hide from Charlie frolicking out in the open - check. And there's not a thing anyone can do about it. (I bet you ten dollars when Charlie reads this he will have to restrain himself from flying through internet to clean the house.)

Oh, and then I watched about eleventy million hours of Sex and the City. And tooted on the couch instead of running into the bathroom. In short, it has been awesome.

But still, I miss him. A lot. The night before he left I just buried my face into his chest and tried to soak up every last drop of him. I just hate to say goodbye. To anyone. When Charlie left for three months to go to Prague a year ago, I cried and cried and cried. And then for good measure I cried some more. The guy next to me on the plane had to ask if I was okay - which really? How very For the Love of the Game of me. Even now I still cry and pout whenever I have to say goodbye to him. And since Charlie thinks this is the most ridiculous thing in the entire world, I wait until I make it back to the car before I turn on the waterworks. So Wednesday evening, there Romeo and I sat in the car and boo-hooed all the way home. Mostly I think Romeo wanted to ride in the front seat and hang his head out the window, but I'm pretty sure on some level he was just as sad as I was.

(side note: The Look-Kids-It's-Big-Ben circular construction of DFW airport is doing nothing to help waterworks. I get lost EVERY. FRIGGIN. TIME. North exit?!? South EXIT?!? I just WANT OUT. WHY CAN'T I GET OUT!)

But I ask you, how can I not be sad when Charlie leaves? He takes such great care of me. He treats me like a princess. Never once has he griped at the amount of shit I leave around the house. We're both first time cohabitors, and it's been an adjustment to say the least yet he's never once thrown up his arms and yelled GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! (I would have done this about a frillion times by now if someone had moved into my humble abode and put all their girlie shit EVERYWHERE. Often, I catch him staring whistfully at the bathroom that just used to be a bar of soap and a toothbrush.)

(Oddly though, he does disappear in order to get a couple of beers, and returns seven hours later - for the life of me I can't figure out what that's about.)

But still with everything, he's always there for me when I need him. He has the most amazing pair of arms that just swallow you whole. They wrap around me and it's then that I know that even if the whole world spontaneously combusted and fell apart, that I would be just fine right there in his arms. He's got a big, beautiful and alarmingly reassuring smile that still to this day makes my heart leap when I see it. He patiently listens to me when I explain to him what's hapening on this weeks episode of Laguna Beach. He's disgustingly talented. He's never met a stranger. His heart is about the size of this god forsaken hell hole of a state that were stuck in. He can take me in the midst of a giant oh my gawd the world is going to end better just stick my head in the oven freak out session, and whisper in between my sobs that everything will be alright, and I know that it will. He wipes away big ol' crocidile tears with his freakishly soft man hands and kisses my cheeks for the ultimate boo-boo fix. And if I ever try to push him away (which I have done more than my fair share of) he hangs on for dear life. He can take me at my very worst, and treats me like I am the very best.

Plus he's turned me into a mushy girlie girl. Ew.

Oh and hurry home, babe.

How to Make it Awkward Come Monday Morning

2005-08-02T11:46:00.000-07:00

Combine one work party and several (okay lots of) free drink tickets.

Here's the thing: you take one lowly office peon, who has spent the entire week huddled over her computer fretting over whether or not soccer moms will understand the term "golf claps", and then give her the okay to drink on company time, well, she just might kick back and have a few.

Now, don't worry. I wasn't THAT girl.

But I did manage to get the And-Here-I-Thought-You-Were-The-Quiet-One comment more than a couple of times. Which please, I'm not quiet. I just don't like talking to you.

Anyway, like I said here are some things to remember (or not) about company parties.

Make sure your voice is never below shouting level. Even if you are in a quiet suburban establish meant for kids (you know the kind of place with skee ball for the wee ones and shots of tequila for the moms). Otherwise, no one will be able to hear your genius ideas for how the company could improve.

And when broken into groups don't bother to learn anyone's names. For your name is the one that they should be learning. Clearly. And when your boss bowls a gutter ball, make sure to mention how bad he sucks. This will come in handy when he sits down to do your evaluation in a couple of months.

When your boss comes over to see what all the fun/yelling/hysterical hyenia laughing is about - run.

When your boss' boss comes over to see what all the fun/yelling/hysterical hyenia laughing is about - for gawd sake's woman RUN. FASTER.

If they are bearing more drink tickets - take a suicide pill or something, just STOP. TALKING.

And for pete's sake stop telling everyone you love them. Oh, I mean REALLY. LOOOOVE. THEM. Because they are so great and talented and thanks for all the opportunities because I LOOOOVE YOU and YOU and YOU.

Yeah, stop doing that.

Workie McWorkerson

2005-07-28T10:09:00.000-07:00

Until the end of this week, you'll find me huddled under my desk weeping incoherently about copy decks and sweepstakes.

Boo.

Hoo.

And until my brain returns to normal function, I will leave you with this:

Murphy's Law can suck it.

2005-07-25T16:34:00.000-07:00

So, on Sunday I found out my Dad broke both of his arms. I know, ouch. The poor guy is in two cast up past his elbows. And really, is this how old my parents are now? I don't mean that in a ha ha you're over the hill way, but in more of an Oh-My-GOD-My-Parents-Aren't-Going-To-Be-Here-Forever kind of way. I've been blessed with four parents (that's right count 'em. FOUR!) and so help me if any of you "go away" I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kick you square in the rear.

Side note: For all parties involved, a trip to the ER equals a phone call. And you must be truthful, no sugar coating. Yeah, I'm talking to you.

And my parents aren't even that old. They're all around their 50s. (Sorry, mom) And they're all still super active. Heck, my impression of people in their 50s is drinking martinis while watching the Lawrence Welk Show. But that ain't them. My Dad and Jen are runners and outdoor enthusiasts, like hiking up huge mountains outdoor enthusiasts. My Mom and Marvin are biking fools, like across the state of Missouri biking fools. (clearly their athletic prowess didn't rub off on me) So this came as quite a shock to me. And you know what? I'm Pissed.

Pissed because this is the poo poo-iest of timing. My Dad has been planning a trip to Yellowstone National Park for like a year. A YEAR. And I can't even pay my bills on time. (once again clearly did not inherit his organizational skills) He was so looking forward to it. I was looking forward to him going too. The whole fam was going to be there. And now it's all up in the air. This is the guy who taught me to love nature. he lives for this kind of stuff. When I was younger he literally dragged me up a mountain kicking and screaming. Literally. I can be such a brat sometimes. But it didn't phase him any, and with dried tears and snot caked to my face he snapped a picture. He said because eventually I would want to remember the first mountain I climbed. And of course he was right because parents can be like that sometimes. Now that picture is framed in his living room, and each time I look at it I silently say, thanks for everything Dad. (This mountain was 3000 feet taller than the first mountain Todd climbed. Take that, Tawd)

So, now we're waiting for news from the doctor. And it better be good news or I will kick him/her square in the rear.

I spit on you bad timing, pfft.

Seriously y'all,

2005-07-24T13:05:00.000-07:00

does this look like the face of a puppy who was born to torture me?

Surely not.

Of course not, and stop calling me Shirley. (Days folks, I got 'em for days.)

Romeo is giving me a great insight into my life. For example, I now know how I will handle motherhood:
1) Scream
2) Pull out my hair
3) Assume fetal position
4) Cry. A lot.
5) Consult Dr. Pinot Grigio
7)What baby?

But seriously dog, pee OUT. SIDE. Or mommy will go crazy an begin to softly rock in the corner again.

Single Brindle Dog seeks fun times, but not in the park.

Hello my sweet, my name is Romeo. I'm a lover not a fighter, and I'm also an Aries. I'd really like to get to know you. Perhaps we can get together some time and sniff butts.

Quote: If there ain't pee on the floor, it ain't a party.

Likes: Hunting crickets; Eating rocks; Chasing leaves; Hunt for the Shit Game

Dislikes: Any toy my mom has ever bought me; the word NO!

My camera went capooey on me this weekend. Mark me down for two electronics that have just upped and failed me. So I am sans camera until Aug. 8th, and oh my gosh the first thing I thought about was that Romeo is going to grow so much and I won't have any pictures of it. (yes I am that woman) Thankfully, Charlie talked me out of this near hysteria panic fit cause he's all awesome like that. And not to worry I still have plenty of pictures of my dog to share, and if you are mean to me, I will bring back Romeo's butt.

Plus I lost my check card. A word to the wise: don't EVER lose you check card. People at Wal-Mart are all like what the? A check? What are you ninety? And it was a blast to carry on this conversation every time I wrote one, Yeah, I lived in Minnesota for almost two years - that's why I have a MN driver's license - and then I recently moved to Chicago - which is why there's a Chicago address on my checks - oh and the Oklahoma cell phone number? Well, that's where I am from originally. No, I didn't know it was against the law to not have a TX license after you've lived here for 30 days. I know they were totally taking my picture and posting me on a wal in the break room as a suspicious check writer. Fo' reals. Think of all that I went through next time you use your credit card and A) no one asks for an ID and/or B) don't even bother to check the signature. (Manager approval's people, MANGER'S. APPROVAL.) Oh, and buy me something pretty.

GAH.

Random Notes from Hell

2005-07-21T09:10:00.000-07:00

Otherwise known as Dallas, TX.

1. I have a confession to make. I, Tweets, am a illegal DART rider. I get on everyday without paying. I'm putting honor systems everywhere to shame. I'm the one bad apple that spoils the a whole lot. I would walk the seven blocks, but seriously, it's mad hot here. And I might sweat or something. I don't do humidity. Though riding the DART train illegally has turned me into a paranoid freak. First, as the train rolls into a station even before I've boarded, I have to survey the entire thing to make sure a fare inspector isn't on board. I bet if you took my blood pressure while I'm riding the train, it would be sky high. I fear any minute someone is going to yell at me to show them my ticket. And I'll just stand there going uuuuuuuuh, hey, look over there. But still I can't help getting on the train and not paying. It's $1.25, people. For seven blocks. It's too hot to resist. Plus it's right there when I come out of my office. And drops me off right at Charlie's office. What's a girl to do? Sweat? Surely you jest.

2. But I am loving this:

It's the best toothbrush in the whole wide world. Swear. I actually look forward to brushing my teeth. My teeth feel like I just got back from the dentist. Sans the novacaine shots, and lectures about flossing. IT. IS. AWESOME. Buy one now.

Oh, and I'm also loving the $1 bins at Target. Nothing like slapping a cheap price sticker on a cheap product. Measuring cups? A DOLLAR? Yes. Chip clips for only a dollar? CHIP CLIPS! Why, buy five of them. You can never have enough chip clips. Ever.

3. But I am so not impressed with this:

It's my new flat iron. It's ceramic (oh la la). But I ain't impressed. Well, at least not 70 bucks impressed. My hair should be straightening itself for that kinda bank, or at least stay straight for longer than twenty minutes. Curse you thick wavy hair! I hate you so bad.

4. And I'm hating this cold sneaking up on me. There's that lurking feeling in the back of my throat right now. But, hey, at least it's in time for the weekend. It's not like I had any plans, or anything. Because I totally did. I was planning to go to Wichita to see my nephew Joshua's baptism. (What? Real live babies? Romeo would have been so jealous.) Only now, to prevent being THE relative that got the wee defensless cherub sick, I won't be attending. I will certainly not be receiving Aunt O' the Year nods anytime soon.

5. Loathing: that damn Coke Zero song. Why must that song be stuck on repeat in my head? Gah! Oh, and G.Love? Way to sell out. And for Coke? Double Gah!

6. Deperately needing someone to talk me out of these:

Oh, but aren't they cute? And I bet if I got them, I might actually take up cross country. What? It could happen. Whatever. They're still cute as all get out.

7. And speaking of talking me out of something, go ahead and talk me out of bidding on these:

Because um, really. Used shoes? Used adorable boots? VINTAGE adorable 3 inch heeled cowboy boots? Okay, you're not doing a very good job.

And those directly link to these:

Which I am absolutely coveting. I wanna be all boho now. That's fancy Us Weekly talk for dressing bohemian. Which could totally be my style because I just scream fashionista, right? Whatever.

8. Reading: (like there's any time) The Power of Positive Dog Training by Pat Miller. It's helping me stop treating my dog gawd awful by telling him horrendously deviant things like, NO. Because if you tell your dog NO! you should be shot. On sight. "You should just ignore the dog's bad behavior and then reward him when he's doing something you like." Uh, Pat have you ever tried to ignore little razors, otherwise known as puppy teeth, clamping down on the back of your foot when you least expect it? Ignore it my ass, that crap huuuuuuurts.

Oh, and where's your chapter on What To Do When Your Dog Barks Incessantly At You, Gnaws Your Feet/Shoes/Hair/ $125 Pair of Jeans, and/or Pees Ten Minutes After You've Come In From (Yet) Another Unsuccessful Potty Trip?

Cause this bitch would like to know.

9. Why. WHY am I addicted to movies like this one? Maybe it's the drama. Maybe it's how they overcome so many obstacles. (Because people, you know there's going to be some serious obstacles to be gotten over. I'm thinking someone gets their feelings hurt.) Maybe it's that damn song.

10. Why did I choose list form for this post? No. Clue.

See you on the flip side.

Seven or eight borderline alcoholics walk into a bar

2005-07-19T09:26:00.000-07:00

Hilarity ensues, yada yada yada.

So, Friday was Charlie's birthday. He turned 28. Yeah! Happy birthday you old fart. We celebrated like only we know how. Bar. Drinks. Good times. I started out the evening by stating that I was keepin' it ruuurl. Which apparently meant "real" drunk. Happy Birthday to who again?

Now some of you might be going Friday July 15th, that's Charlie's birthday? Oh. My. Goodness. That was the same day as when the sixth Harry Potter book was released - Harry Potter Day! And those some people would be nerds. I'm kidding. Sort of.

Anyway, Nikki and I had the same thought and smelled an opportunity right away. Chucky Potter Birthday Extravaganza. It had so much promise people. So much. Casting spells to get drinks. Warring Hogwart's houses. General debauchery. Unfortunately, the Chucky Potter Birthday Extravaganza lasted all of 6 minutes and 42 seconds. But Charlie went along with it for the whole time. What a good sport.

Oh and y'alls, we had the dumbest waitress on the planet. Not only would she disappear for-like-EVAH, but she hadn't quite mastered the concept of a tab. Tab, as in we give you a credit card, and you keep track of our drinks. I can't tell you how many times she would ask, okay, who's paying for this? Actually, I can tell you how many, EVERY. DAMN. TIME. By the end we were just screaming The TAAAAA-BUH. Even at the end of the night she still didn't get the concept. My mind? Boggled. Given this, Nikki and I get all worked up and feel like it's proper to complain. Because you know it worked so well for us before. So now it stands who's dumber? The waitress or the slightly more than tipsy girls who go to complain to the bartender at bar time? Don't answer that. Fueled mostly by Nikki's encouragement and libations we both proceed to the bar to complain. And I promise we had an argument, a real legitimate beef, but mind you, this is at the end of the night so it just kept coming out, she took my receipt and I want a Tab. Yeah, we'll never learn our lesson.

Photo essay? Why, yes.

"You're a wizard, Charlie." Was SO. FUN. While it lasted.

Tweets and crew. What keeps us so close? Booze. Take a gander at Nikki's rack, amazing! And doesn't Charlie have the cutest little Menudo-esque 'fro going on here?

If it's Charlie's birthday it's means we're doing lots of these. Lots.

Which lead to Charlie doing lots of this. Lots.

I told them to pose like they had just won their first Grande Prix at Cannes. And this is all they coud give me. Apparently Travis took it to mean "lose all my hair." I'm keeping this picture, you know just in case. That way I can say, I knew them back when they were just still ego-manicial hyper-competitive kick-you-in-the-bollocks fuck-you-over asshats who had nothing to show for it.

Aren't we cute when we're drunk? My hair is so in a second day without a flat iron pony tail. Fetching, don't you think?

What do you think Nikki I were doing here: Vehemently discussing the problems of depending on foreign oil and how it is impacting our government's role in world politics? Not hardly. Dishing the latest gossip about our friends Jen and Vince/the other Jen/Jessica/Brad & Angelina/J-Lo/Lindsey/Britney? You're getting warmer. Bitching about that damn waitress? Ding Ding Ding Jackpot!

And look, I even got to part-ay with some work peeps. Kat is all like look at the bewbies. And even though they were work people it never got awkward.

Until this. And then it got REAL. AWKWARD.

Then Nikki and I made out. Look at Taber, he's all up in hog heaven. Perv.

Whew, now that Charlie's birthday is over, we can finally focus on the birthday celebration of moi. What my birthday is about a month away? Your point?

A couple of FYI's

2005-07-15T11:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Strangers,

Stop touching my dog! Seriously, I know he's cute. I know he's adorable. I know you want to take him home with you. But you can't. So HANDS. OFF. Also, I don't want to chit chat with you. I want my dog to pee and poop, so I can go back inside and watch reruns of Chaotic. I don't need to hear about how your dog got mange, and then you did. Because? Ew gross.

Thanks in advance,

Tweets

Dearest Romeo,

Stop giving love to strangers. Especially stop giving MORE love to strangers than you give to your mom. She's jealous. And when you return from outside, stop refusing to go into the apartment. With that scared pleading look on your face and me literally dragging you by your leash to go inside, people will assume you are headed straight for a boiling pot of water in a dungeon of torture.

And quit waking us up after you have pissed on the floor.

Love,
Mom

Letter to the Asshats in the Utility Truck at 7 am,

Thanks for scaring the shit (literally) out of my dog this morning. Your honk and subsequent shouts of DAMN, baby! while Romeo was mid-crap really worked. I am totally in love with you now.

But Romeo says -

- kiss it. Jerk offs.

Yours truly pissed off,

Tweets & Romeo

Good Morning Sunshine.

2005-07-14T08:06:00.000-07:00

So this morning I woke up. Late. My dog has foul diarrhea. Doggie diarrhea is impossible to pick out of grass with a plastic bag. Especially when the plastic bag has a hole in it. Good morning to you too, warm gooeyness in my hand.

My boyfriend is still in bed. I am going to be late for work. To pass the time I put on my make up. The boyfriend is out of bed now, prancing around in his underwear like I care. He hops in the shower. Begin the hair straightening process. WHAT THE? Flat iron cold? But it's on? WHAT! It's broke. Ask/shout/hysterically hyena scream at boyfriend. Did you break my flat iron? He says no. But I have my suspicions. He tries to be cute. I think back away, or I will cut you. I want to run and get a new flat iron right then and there. But I am already twenty minutes late for work. Instead I cuss. A lot. Look at hair which was totally relying on flat iron to make look pretty. Cuss more.

I think hair care appliances are the only thing that completely just go capoot. They have no warning light to say hey, going dead here. No sputtering/squeaking/screeching to say hey I'm very unreliable right now. They just work and then they don't. Wednesday 8:30 pm - workie. A mere 12 hours later on Thursday morning 8:30 am - no workie.

But back to the fun. I went to put on my shoes. I find this strange bump/bug bite/boil/pustule on the side of my foot. That's right I said pustule. ON. MY. FOOT. Disgusted yet? Me too. I'm afraid to touch it. Afraid to squeeze it. Hell, I am afraid to even make eye contact, or mention it here for fear that it will suddenly sprout a head and start devouring my foot. The boyfriend mentions it's probably a zit. Zit? On my foot? Right, what the hell do you know. Flat iron breaker.

Once I finally get to work, with my frizzy unstraight hair in pony tail. My pustule on foot. I proceed to check my email. And I read this : Blah blah blah flubbity flub the project you haven't heard hide nor hair of for three weeks is due. Today. IN TWO HOURS.

Joy.

Oh and then my pen explodes on me. Ink. Everywhere.

So for those of you keeping score:

Thursday - 742
Tweets - 0

And it's only 9:15 am.

It's okay though, because it looks like I can just sign up for one of these.

Makin' an ass outta you and me.

2005-07-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

Want to ruin my day? Well then send me this email:

Attention: Tweets, (what, no Dear?)

Your account is 35 days past due. If you have overlooked your bill, please mail your total amount due at your earliest convenience to avoid possible negative credit reporting, or to make a payment online through our web-site. (this is officially where I blacked out from a giant ulcer erupting in my stomach, oh the pain)

If you are unable to pay your past due balance, you can complete and return a General Forbearance to clear up your delinquent status. (What the hell I thought I was in forbearance)

You can then resume your scheduled monthly payments. (Oh, of course I can)

Sincerely, (Sincerely my ass, why don't they just sign it "Send the Check you Dumb Bitch?")

Your Direct Loan Servicing Team

No, no thank YOU.

Notice how 35 is in red. That makes me want to cry. Apparently when I asked for a forbearance because I didn’t have a job and was moving to a new city and all, the lady I spoke with only put my account in forbearance for a month. I SWEAR she said that she was putting the loan on a general forbearance and that if I wanted I could fill out a deferment form that would put the loan in deferment so it wouldn't gain interest. Otherwise, it would stay in forbearance and gain interest, until I called them to take it off of forbearance. But according to Direct Loan, I am a big fat idiot because nothing of that sort took place. So much for assuming I knew what she was talking about. (Title. Post. All make sense now. That's called going full circle, folks.) I also remember getting off the phone thinking, gee she was nice. That bitch.

So now I owe them 305 buckaroos. Sweet.

But on the bright side (Department of Education's words, not mine) they didn't report this to my credit report, they only do that after sixty days. Good because, you know, I would hate to be turned down for a credit card.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

2005-07-12T16:28:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness, someone left a comment to my entry. Thanks Kix.

No. Freaking. Way. I feel like a million bucks.

Now all you other minions get to commenting.

Thanks in advance.

A few complaints

2005-07-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

Work? Stop interfering with my trying to get home and let the dog out before he pees and poops all over the floor. Gah.

Dallas(s)? Stop being so friggin HAWT! Oh. My. God. I would love once to walk outside and my ass not immeadiately start sweating. Nothing makes the latter half of the work day fly by like having swamp ass. Thanks a bunch.

Pink blog? Yeah not so much. I don't do pink. What the hell was I thinking in the first place. Now green, green I like. For now.

Oh and if my loyal readers could please send me some quarters because I NEED to do some laundry. I scraping the bottom of the undies drawer right now. And all my sistahs know, there ain't exactly quality undergarments left at the bottom of the drawer. Compile that with the above condition and you get All Sorts Of Cranky Tweets.

Everybody's workin for the weekend.

2005-07-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

Hey Everybody!

All four of you who are reading this.

Okay who am I kidding, Hi Todd! Hope the weekend was awesome because well, mine was.

Here's a little glimpse into how my ENTIRE weekend went:

No! NO! NOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Stop that. Stop that please.

No! That's not yours.

Where did you find that? Get that out of your mouth.

NO! AGH! AAAAAAGH!

Ouch, you little bastard.

Please STOP it. NO!

Not yours, dammit.

NO!

Was that you or the dog, damn, that's funky!

No. Uh-uh.

NO.

Just go to sleep please. Please.

No. Noooooo!

Good dog.

Rinse. Repeat.

It was good times really. I just love that shithead. I mean Romeo.

And you know what else Romeo did this weekend? He invented a new game, he sure did. Genius dog? Me thinks so. It's called Hunt For The Shit. It's kinda like a safari, but instead of exotic animals you're trying to find feces. Huge piles of them. Tons of fun. Especially at 4 am. It goes a little like this:

*Sniff*

*Sniff*

*SNIFF*

Where the hell is it, it has to be -

SQUISH

Ah, there it is.

The game definitely has the potential for multi-players. Give us a heads up if you want to play, and we'll get Romeo to work up a particularly juicy one for you.

Not to mention we have the only dog on the earth that doesn't like the park. We took Romeo to the park on Saturday and he was all like, so? What's big flippin' deal? And quit shoving those squeaky balls in my face.
I hate those.

I basically had to drag him on his leash through the luscious foiliage. Which began the Romeo hates me session number 412.

In between all that, I also managed to scrub the bath tub to a sparkling spit shine! Nesting? No it's just that the tub had moved from slightly discolored to off color green and then on to a horrific blackness. Ew gross, I know. Either Charlie and I are out-of-control funky, or his tub is sensitive. But most likely it's due to the fact that it had been like a month and a half since we cleaned it. Whatever. I srubbed, and it's now pristine. I also cleaned the shower curtain liner because it was about 8 times worse than the tub. Now, I could hide behind my blog here and say that I have no idea how Charlie could have let the liner thingy get so disgusting. And that I would never let something I owned get that disgusting, but we all know that would be A. LIE. Well, anyways I got the bathroom totally cleaned, which in my schedule book means I am off the hook cleaning wise for about another month and a half. Sweet. (And yes, this is why our relationship succeeds. I love you, honey!) Oh and babe, I didn't scrub the toiliet, you understand right? Hop-Singy was tired.

Leave it to me to do half ass work and still expect to be treated as a princess.

Oh, and I'm loving the fact that Charlie bought From the Earth to the Moon on DVD. Cue my inner outer space geek. Heh. They put a man on the moon and I can't even my dog to play with his toys.

Oh the irony.

More Romeo pictures? I thought you would never ask.

Thanks Mom, the park is awesome. Not.
PS. It's hawt.This is shortly after Romeo completely gave up on the park. Just plopped down and said suck it. In the background is one of the squeaky balls he detests.

Slendor in the grass? Cue the porno music.

Please someone drop some of that ice cream. I can't stay this cute much longer.
Y'all being this cute is hard work. Sigh.

Yes. I stilll hate that ball. Nice. Try.

My favorite toy. An old cottage cheese container. A FREE cottage cheese container. Ha. Suckas.

Attack!
A fun weekend. Done in by a cute dog.

Romeo? Where for art thou Romeo?

2005-07-07T07:47:00.000-07:00

Guess what we did on Tuesday?

Meet Romeo. He's part pit bull and part boxer, all cutie pie. Now shower him with love and affection.

Okay, I know in the last post I said I wanted a puppy, but I knew that I was being implusive and should just buy a pair of shoes instead. Well, after careful deliberation we decided we were ready for a dog. Don't worry I got shoes too. Duh. But whilst at the mall buying said shoes we ran into the SPCA. And the most adorable puppy, Fernando. But we would have to wait until the next day to adopt him at the shelter.

Now, here comes the cruelest thing Chuck has ever done.

We went to the SPCA the next day determined to get Fernando. I was a wee bit excited at the prospect of getting a puppy, I mean the only thing I was missing was a Mom-to-Be shirt. In my mind I had me a puppy. Well, Chuck didn't read all the rules and we couldn't adopt until the shelter talked to Chuck's landlord. And the apartment complex was closed. Now, a little background on me, I am a spolied brat. If I don't get something I want I get very upset and pouty. (Past the age five it isn't cute anymore, but what the hell it suits me.) Here I'll demonstate:

Me: How do you know the apartment place is closed?

Chuck: Because I got the voicemail sweetie.

Me: Well, what did it say?

Chuck: Darling - the love of my life, it's saying "For maintenance emergencies....

Me: What do you mean this isn't a maintenance emergency?

Chuck: Baby, it's okay, we can come back another day and get him.

Me: (minor tantrum)

Me: (silence.) (for like nine hours)

So, we had to wait until Tuesday because everything was closed on Monday. Thanks so much Founding Fathers. We got to the SPCA and found out that Fernando was gone. Oh well, look at all the other cute puppies. In the process of picking one I believe I knocked over several small children looking for their family's first pet, but tough shit. Mommy wants a puppy. And shoes.

Now get ready for more puppy pictures than are completely necessary.

This is the first thing he did when got home. It's okay to be jealous. Really it is.

Oh, mommy loves you so much she's going to choke you. And then cry for an hour because maybe you really thought she wanted to and now you are never going to like her. Ever.

Look at the new toys my new parents got me. They make me crrrrraaaaaazy.

This is my first night in my new apartment. I'm so quiet, so peaceful, so lovable. I'm so not like this for the rest of the night.

Check out my big feet. You know what they say about big feet don't you?

I love my boys! Except when they pee on my stuff. Heh.

Babies = great birth control

2005-06-28T16:30:00.001-07:00

Little known fact:

The best birth control is actually seeing people you love, who for most of your life were sans kiddos, now with children. I went home this weekend to spend a little time with the fam. My brother and sister-in-law came too. So did there two adorable baby boys. I mean they really are the cutest-wootest babies you have ever seen. Much cuter than any niece or nephew you might have, so don't even try it.

Unfortunately, having these babies around can really get that ol' maternal clock a tickin'.

I spent most of the weekend flip flopping back and forth from wanting a kid to not wanting one. I know. I KNOW, chirrens ain't like a new pair of shoes, but c'mon I'm impulsive by nature. Would you expect any less from me?

For example:

Dressing the baby in teeny tiny little clothes from Baby Gap - Oh me want one
Some sort of diaper leak that was likened to a "play-doh machine" - Oh take it back.

Cute little baby button noses - Aaaaaaw!
Being the designated booger snatcher from said nose - Aaaaaaw, hell na!

Hearing baby's first new words - Yeah, sign me up.
Understanding baby's first new words - Huh? Oh lord kid, spit it out.

Watching the little baby work up to his first smile - Gimme gimme gimme.
Watching the little baby work up his 78,952,344,087th tantrum - Not so much.

Caring, nuturing, life-giving mother to all - Preach it sister!
Not a drop of alcohol in two years - Not. Gonna. Happen.

In short, it's family weekends like these that make me realize I am no where near ready for babies. I love my two nephews so much, but I love saying Cheerio off you go back to Mum and Dad, even more.

As for those maternal instincts kickin' in? Maybe I'll get a puppy. Or a goldfish. Okay a plant. Ah, heck I'll just go buy a new pair of shoes.

What's wrong?

2005-06-27T07:23:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been knee deep in a situation that is so bizarre you swear you are being punk'd or something? Well, that was me a little over a week ago.

My friend, Nikki, and I were headed back from a wedding that took place in Norman, Oklahoma. The wedding was ever so elegant in that drunken debauchery kinda way, plus it answered the age old question of what it takes to have a truly "memorable" wedding.

Booze.

And booze hounds. Ah the good times, but I digress.

Anyway, as I was saying we were driving back to Dallas, when it occurred to us that we were hungry. And if there's one place to stop when driving thru Texas, it's a Dairy Queen. After all, it's the Texas stop sign.

So cutting three lanes of hyper-sonic-speed traffic, we pull up to the Dairy Queen in Valley View, TX. I looked and thought oh look it's an old fashioned one, how quaint. I'll now refer to this as flashing-neon-warning-sign #1, as this Dairy Queen wasn't so much old fashioned as a complete shit hole leading to the depths of hell that no man has ever known.

But again I digress.

This would be the first of many signs that I overlook because I was in need of some food. Food that would hopefully soak up some of the excess alcohol from this 48 hour drinking binge (sorry, Mr. Liver, please forgive me!) and cure this 17 hour hangover. I opened the door and the immediate smell of fried grease and stale fries told me that, oh yes, you will eat here and it will be good. The ol' white trash hick in me actually exclaimed out loud, "YES! They have steak fingers, I love steak fingers!" I can only assume that my mind was still in some leftover-alcohol induced haze because throughout our experience at the Dairy Queen these steak fingers will prove to be my achilies heal.

It's after I enthusiastically order my steak fingers that things begin to take a turn for the worse. First off, someone is one the phone so they can't process my debit card right now. I will have to wait. That's right they're still dialing in credit cards. I check my watch, yep, still 2005. Get a new process dumbasses, oh say one that doesn't use a phone line. It's now that I notice that there's not a single person over the age of, oh say I don't know, 16 working there. None. And there' s not one dude to be seen. This revelation is punctuated by my lovely cashier screaming, to no one in particular, "GET OFF THE PHOOOOOO - NUUH!" Yeah, get off the phone. I want to eat, dammit.

(Using our credit cards for a $6.58 meal will eventually pay off, but I would hate to get ahead of myself.)

Eventually the card gets scanned and now we wait. Waiting for our food turns out to be a bad thing. I begin to see all the not-so-subtle hints that should have had me running straight for the door. The kitchen floor was covered in old food. Smashed ice cream cones. Smushed french fries. And bits of gawd knows what. Well, they're busy I tell myself, as I grab my own cup from behind the counter and prepare my own drink. But then I turn and see the Blizzard machine. It's been defiled like a drunk girl in Cancun. Still I stay. Now at this point you're asking yourself, damn, girl are steak fingers that good? Oh yes. Yes they are.

Meanwhile, there are a few interesting situations occurring behind us. First, a young lady, let's call her Chrystal (because? I dunno, if you saw her you would have said yeah she looks like a Chrystal) receives her food on a tray. Chrystal kindly informs the employees that her food was to go. The lovely girls of Dairy Queen then proceed to answer the age old question, just what does it take to switch a dine-in order to a to go one? 17 minutes, several arguments, and one paper bag. We'll hear more from Chrystal later on. Next, a nice older woman, we'll call her Alice, returns to complain that her order was all messed up and that her fries were cold. All I can think is, Damn, hope they get that taken care of before they get to fixin' my meal. After 13 more mintues of waiting Alice finally gets fed up and demands a refund. OOOOOh, this just got interesting.

(Cue stand off music)

Alice: I would like my money back.
Petulant 16 year old brat: Um, yeah we don't like give refunds.
Alice: Well, start.
Petulant 16 year old brat: Um, no. (roll eyes, sigh heavily)
Alice: Just. Do. It.

Alice then gives her one of those looks that seemed to say that Alice was on the verge of doing something very unholy. The petulant 16 year old's friend folded before we could see what Alice was going to do and gave Alice the refund. You go Alice.

Now here's how the next five minutes at the Dairy Queen in Valley View, TX go:

Kitchen: Order up.

Nikki and I: Oh good maybe that's our food.

Kitchen: Order UP!

Nikki and I: Christ just give us our food and let us go.

Kitchen: ORDER UP!

Nikki goes to investigate. I remain seated. This is when our friend Chrystal returns. "You call this a chili cheese dog?" she says as she shoves her food in my face. Folks, I have seen dirty diapers that were more appetizing than what was presented before me. I choke back vomit.

I get up to find Nikki. We must get out of here. Now.

She's at the counter trying to conversate with the employees:

Nikki: What the hell is going on here? Where's our food? The cook has been yelling order up for five minutes. Who's in charge? Everything is so very, very discombobulated.

Triple word score for Nikki. The employees respond with blank stares.

One of the girls has gone back to retreive the food orders. Oh, all will be forgiven if I could just get my steak fingers. They hand me a box of goodness. Poor Nikki, still no popcorn chicken.

Slowly my brain begins to return to normal function:

Oh boy can't wait to eat my yummy steak fingers.

Common Sense brain: You should check the order, as Nikki said, things are very discombobulated here.

OH NO! These are chicken fingers instead of steak! Grrr. Oh well, I'm super hungry I'll eat them anyways.

Common Sense brain: The hell you will, get up there and get your steak fingers, WOMAN!

I proceed to the cash register. I'm fired up now. You fucked up my steak fingers. I feel betrayed. There I join a woman, we'll call her Carole, she was mistakenly given a box of steak fingers, and just like me she is now lodging her formal complaint. I listen to Carole explain that she ordered chicken finger meal and she would like to get a chicken finger mealin return. It's then that I hear this doozy from one of the staff, how should I know what you wanted I didn't take your order.

You gotta be kidding me. I then calmly look up from the sad box of chicken fingers and say I would like my money back. It's then when I am confronted with this:

Lucky to alive 16 year old brat: Why? What's wrong?

What's WRONG? WHAT'S WRONG? (I am Jack's rage) Have you gotten an order right YET! Do you see your kitchen floor? Your dining room covered in trash? That dirty diaper passed off as a chili cheese dog? What's wrong is that I'm hungover and my wits aren't quite about me, so I stayed here for thirty minutes whilst you just pissed on my glorious steak fries. What's wrong is that I broke my thumb and can't grip things too well, things like your neck when I chokeslam you.

During all of this a "woman" emerges from the back room. We'll call her Tonya. Or maybe Misty Jo. Why? Because imagine the most white trash woman you have ever seen. Now multiply that by twenty, and you're roughly about to Misty Jo's level. Hair so bleached it's straw. One inch black as night roots. Eyeliner done in the shade of Sharpie marker. Braces. And that fresh from a five day meth bender glaze to her eyes. She is no help. She says nothing. She offers no reprieve. My guess is she'll be looked over for Manager of the Year, again.

Lucky to alive 16 year old brat: Um yeah, we don't give refunds without a receipt.

Carole doesn't have a receipt. Poor Carole.

Nikki and I do though.

"$6.58 is your refund."

God Bless Credit.

And I'm still hungry for some steak fingers.

The Party Bus of Lame Asses

2005-06-17T08:58:00.000-07:00

Open Letter to the Fuckwits who wanted to throw down at the bar last night,

Here's a couple things to remember before you try to start a fight:

1. We do not wear our shirts on our shoulders. Even before the fight starts you've already lost. You derserve to have you ass kicked on these grounds ALONE. Oh, and tell your friends to put their collars down. Dorks.

2. "How much do you bench press?" has never and will never be a respected comeback, threat, or witty retort. By using it you have clearly pointed out to me just how small your penis really is. On a side note, I presume the only proper way to use this is as an ice breaker at a gym. Between homosexuals.

3. Don't act all big and tough, and then when the cops arrive completely change you tune. If you're Billy McBad Ass touting that you could kill anyone of us whilst asking the bar patrons if they would like a piece of you, then don't become William from Accounting the second the cops show up. Pansy. Street credibility? Gone.

4. Futhermore, as was duly noted by a member of my party, why are you having a bachelor's party on a Thursday? Dweebs.

5. Yes, as a matter of fact your teeth are too white.

Yours Truly,

Tweets and crew

PS Your face looks like a penis.

Take that, ha.

I'm only cynical when I have to be.

2005-06-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

And to prove it here are a few things that make me all warm and fuzzy inside:

Ice cream
Puppies with short tails
One syllable names
The color red
The word piddle
Shoes
Peppermint tea
Vintage postcards
Science museums
Bodø, Norway
Pagosa Springs, Colorado (Or Ouray, Colorado…kind of a tie)
Ely, Minnesota
Sausalito, California
Any Journey song, especially when there's a road trip involved
Guys that hold the door open
Opening my own damn door
The sound of high heels on sidewalks
Guys dressed for winter (for reals though, like with a long woolen coat, scarf, and leather gloves)
Childlike innocence
Bluegrass
Line dancing (don’t laugh)
Sappy singer/songwriters
Reality TV (almost to a fault)
US Weekly/Glamour/InStyle – my magazine trifecta
The smell of a fireplace going on a cold night
Cheesy pop music (Kelly Clarkson RAWKS)
Dancing to said cheesy pop music
Playing quarters
Hot days and cold beer
OU football – the stadium, the cheers, tailgating... yada yada yada
Duvet covers
Log rides
Roller coasters
Crushes
Midnight movies
Watching 24 ‘til my eyes bleed

Ah crap.

2005-06-13T11:54:00.000-07:00

I can't be witty on demand.

I'm off to a good start. Great.