And… we’re back!

You know, I’ve done more difficult things in my life than get up on a cold, rainy Monday morning and return to work after two weeks of serving as captain of the Fat & Lazy Squad. But whatever those things were – those terribly difficult things – they happened a really LONG time ago and have all but been erased from my memory and as a result, today is biting me in the tush. Hard. We’re at the point in our program where the only tasks I can manage are to make bedroom eyes at my coffee and try desperately to find sense in things like the Out of Office Wizard and why the keys on my calculator are so tiny. That i-before-e-except-after-c rule is giving me a bit of trouble right now, too. The agony.

This weekend, the Boy and I forced facilitated the acquaintance of my eleven pound cat and his sixty-something pound German Shepherd/Lab. To say I was worried about the meeting would be an overstatement. I was curious, though, to see how it would play out. Big, big dog. Tiny, used-to-his-domain cat. I suppose I don’t need to tell you who came out the alpha male in that relationship. One glimpse of Hal with his back ever-so-slightly arched and that gigantic, hulking, bred-to-kill dog hit the skids and did an abrupt about face. Nature is so ass-backwards sometimes. Hal has not figured out he’s in charge yet, but once he does, I fully expect him to assert his superiority by sending that poor creature on demeaning errands. It will be nice to be excused from litter box duty.

No hyphens were injured during the making of this post. .

Because I am off work until January 5th, and I didn’t have the benefit of being told the office would be closed for two weeks so as to plan a real vacation, I’m playing the home version. And just like a real vacation, say on a cruise boat far, far away where it is hot and sunny, the home version has theme days. For instance, yesterday was Stay in PJs Most of the Day Day. The day before yesterday was Eat Lots of Mexican Food and Feel Bloaty Day (I mean, how close to a real vacation can you get?) and today is Domestic Goddess Day. Which is really just a fancy way of saying I’ll be scrubbing the toilet here in just a few minutes. I know. Sometimes I, too, get overwhelmed with just how glamorous my life is. Usually right after I clean out the cat box.

So, Christmas came and went and I really did mean to wish you all a very merry, but with my two sisters here, and shuttling between the Boy’s family and mine, there wasn’t really time for much of anything else, except maybe a quickie makeout session in the laundry room before brunch. And I do mean quickie, because as infatuated as I am with the Dork Lord and all,  I wasn’t about to choose kissin’ over brown sugar & bacon wrapped sausages (!!). I’m not Superwoman, you know.

Okay, I’ve got pork chops to marinate and sheets to iron, but if you haven’t had enough of me for today, you can check out the piece that ran in the Dallas Morning News yesterday. Fun, fun.

Merry belated, my friends.

My coworker Josh just caught me snoozing at the coffee machine. I was so close to actual sleep (eyes closed, swaying slightly) that had he not grabbed my shoulder, I’d have tipped right over and found myself in certain java disaster. And if you think a few measly third degree burns would have woken me up, you’d be wrong. Not this morning, boy howdy. It’s cold and dark, we’re receiving a fresh new coat of freezing rain, and I’d kick puppies to be back under the down comforter listening to the symphonic range of the Boy’s snoring. And you know how much I like puppies.

Oh, man, speaking of tipping and certain disaster. On Thursday night, I managed to slip getting in to the shower, bang the hell out of my shin, and then tumble forward, smacking my forehead on the hot water knob. It was terrifying. By the time the Boy arrived thirty minutes later I was simultaneously jelly-kneed and frantic, which I think takes some real emotional agility. Seriously, I’m the only thirty-year-old (okay, the only non-geriatric) I know who needs to wear a Life Alert 2000 at all times. In fact, I’m hoping to get one for Christmas. The watch version. Depending on who’s on the other end of my emergency beacon, it could be a pretty kick ass deal. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! Oh, and could you please bring me some Chubby Hubby? It’d be like having a Mr. Belvedere with EMT skillz.

I realize this is all very random, but considering that other possible topics for today included, Sweet Baby J, There Was So Much Traffic Coming Home from the Airport Yesterday and Casserole: the World’s Most Perfect Food, I think we can all agree that near death experiences (while naked!) are the cream o’ that crop.

Oh! Here’s something fun! If you live in the Dallas area, pick up a copy of this Sunday’s Dallas Morning News. I had the pleasure of answering some questions for the My Town feature (Life/Travel section) and the interview will run on December 28. Apparently, last week’s interview was with some dude from The Ticket. I like to think that the proximity to an actual household name makes me just a little bit awesome by association. And that between that and my new Life Alert watch, I’m going to be the coolest kid in nonslip houseslippers.   

Ari: Can’t I just marry a prince?

Me: Well, see, I just finished reading The Other Boleyn Girl and seems it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, marrying royalty.

Ari: Eh… it’s got to be a bit better than this.

Me: People’s heads get chopped off.

Ari: When I had strep that would have been a blessing.

Me: God, no kidding.

When I tell you I came *this* close to taking a dive off my icy front steps this morning, I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. Which, you know, is sort of standard operating procedure around here. Who doesn’t love a little hyperbole? But this morning, as my feet started sliding out from under me and I grabbed the railing (sending my purse flying, along with one of my shoes), my mind suddenly filled with visions of broken noses and horrific dental injuries. I don’t know how I didn’t fall, and I must have done some hollering, because my downstairs neighbor came out to see if I was okay. Um, yeah, don’t mind me. By then I’d managed to plant my tush and take stock, but I was all shook up. Seriously, Texas? I mean, I enjoy a good near death experience as much as the next girl, but generally not before 8AM.

And… end whine.

So, I was just looking at my Christmas shopping list and I gotta say I’m feeling damn proud of all the progress I’ve made. There are little red check marks everywhere. Mom? Little red check mark. Sister-in-Law? Check mark. Ordinarily, I’m a bit hopeless about this kind of stuff. Orinarily, you’re pretty lucky if your Christmas present wasn’t purchased the day before and shoved into a too-big gift bag that says, “Happy Birthday, sassy gal!” and padded with old resumes and WalMart circulars. Holiday gifts – or gifts in general – should never be taken as a measure of my affection. Except this year, naturally. Because this year I am on it and the depth of my love will be profoundly felt with each thoughtful, appropriate (and appropriately wrapped!) gift I give. So many gold stars! I’ve yet to pick up the Boy’s gift, becasue well, I had to put some thought into that one. After all, a gift is supposed to send a message, and it isn’t exactly easy to find a gift that says, “Merry Christmas. I really like you, so don’t eff this up.”