August 6th, 2009
After spending the last two days sequestered in a conference room in San Antonio, I sat down at my own desk this morning, took one look around at the blizzard of paper, coffee cups and post-it notes and mumbled something meaningful about really getting my shit together. But here it is, four hours later, my shit is still wholly un-together. And I’m caring less and less. You know, when I was a kid, the idea of business trips sounded so glamorous and grown up, but like boyfriends, boobs and financial independence, the reality of it is not a damn thing like your preteen brain imagined. But you know what is as good as your preteen brain imagined? Self medicating with booze. Totally not kidding.
I can be one disgruntled wicked witch of the west (or bicked bitch, according to my sister), but that’s nothing that half a glass of wine won’t undo. I’m easy. See also: cheap date.
To give this particular business trip a bit of sheen, four of us went out Tuesday night for some “team building” at a pricey steakhouse. And after a cocktail or two (because, as we all know, “team building” translates to “resent each other and your jobs less by drinking heavily,” conversation left the topic of work entirely and headed into much, much more interesting realms. Someone confessed to plastic surgery. And I, being medicated enough to lose most of my good breeding, wanted to know every single detail.
Lipsocution and lobster tail. Just add wine.
I’ve always been of the opinion that if you get plastic surgery for someone else (or general attention whore reasons), you’re kind of a sick puppy. But if it’s something that will change how you feel about you and make your world a better place, meh, okay. It’s your money. I’d rather buy a house.
What about you? Fake ta-tas and botoxed brows seem so common place now. But do you think it’s sad or not such big deal?
August 3rd, 2009
Yesterday afternoon, the Dork Lord and I went to his parents’ house for a DisneyWorld planning session. I know. Who needs plans for the happiest place on earth? Don’t you just show up and eat Mickey Mouse ice cream ears and skip through the Swiss Family Robinson tree house until you can’t get the music out of your head and then ride Pirates of the Caribbean one more time before going to sleep with a stupid grin on your face? You’d think. But, as it turns out, we do need plans. Because with meal packages that require reservations, and maybe one or two picky eaters (yeah, don’t look at me. If you cook it, I will consume), and acres and acres of park to cover, there were maps to scour, golf arrangements to make, menus to review and, well, look, I’m going to go ahead and cut the crap and tell you that all that matters is I’m going to eat lunch with Cinderella. IN. THE. CASTLE.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been in the castle. It came as a tremendous disappointment that not just any little girl who loves – really truly loves — Cinderella gets to venture inside the castle (unless you count the gift shop where your mom assures you that you cannot afford to touch anything, let alone buy it). But guess what? If you are a grown up with spending power (or a meal package) you can go any damn where you want. Including Cinderella’s castle where the princess herself will make an appearance at your meal. I’m pretty sure the Boy’s sister and I will be wearing white gloves and tiaras if left to our own devices. Our boyfriends will also be wearing gloves. Golf gloves. Out on the golf course. Because they’re just not emotionally equipped to handle that kind of celestial experience. Also, they sort of refused to go. I’ll tell you now that things will have to be going very wrong for us to notice their absence. I’m just saying.
The Dork Lord, who is used to his own dorking out seemed pretty amused by the whole holyshitcinderella’scastle! and the ensuing nerdvana.
“Will you get your picture taken with Cinderella?”
“Are you freaking kidding me? We’re going to get drunk and make out.”
“Oh dear.”
Seriously, I don’t know what else he expected to happen with thirty years of build up. Picture, schmicture.
July 28th, 2009
Ordinarily, Monday’s the kind of day that has me looking up from my computer at 2:00 wondering just where the hours have gone. Ordinarily. But yesterday, Monday had me (no matter how crazy busy) looking up at least once every half hour to see if that crinkled blue bag of animal crackers had magically replenished itself for my continued consumption. Kinda like the loaves and fishes. Only, with less Jesus and more high fructose corn syrup.
I’ve decided I’m finally going to commit to writing that, How We Met (Commence Tossing of Cookies) story, but of course that is when work also decides to get so hectic that my lunch hours have been reduced to a four-minute all out assault on a turkey wrap, leaving very little time for story telling.
What this barely-blink intensity has left time for is a broken-record repeat of a Kelly Clarkson song, round and round in my head, filling life with such brilliantly poignant, heartfelt lyrics as, Life would suck without you. Really? Life would suck without you? That’s a real song? I weep for my unborn children (none of whom shall be named Elliot, no matter HOW MUCH I like the name, because, haven’t I seen ET and Pete’s Dragon? No kid should have to be stuck with the name Elliot).
Sigh.
July 22nd, 2009
1. I hate goat cheese. Like, really a whole lot. I will wipe my tongue off with a napkin if I have to.
2. I have a weakness for standing too long in front of the mirror and “inspecting” my complexion. The outcome is never good.
3. Any time sports announcers say, “penetration” I laugh. They’re talking basketball. I’m being twelve.
4. I’m pretty darn good at telling time with the sun. Take that, Dundee!
5. I have a morbid fixation with the Crime section of the news.
6. Going barefoot makes me really happy. Buying shoes does, too. I know. I’m so complex.
7. I don’t like being drunk. I used to – oh, how I used to – but I don’t anymore and I have no idea why. Okay, yes I do. Control issues. There, are you happy?
8. I have a pretty sick affinity for the ABC Family channel.
9. I can never find my keys. They are almost always in my purse.
10. I worry that crazy is genetic.
11. My boyfriend is taking college classes and it makes me a little bit jealous. What I wouldn’t give for a do-over.
12. I wish I lived closer to my siblings.
13. I often get Color Me Badd’s “I Wanna Sex You Up” stuck in my head. Tick tock, get up, stop, stop…
14. I owe the government a whole lot of money. I am *this* close to paying it off.
15. I do not care what you say. Tom Selleck is still damn sexy. He was damn sexy in his little Magnum PI jogging shorts and he will be a damn sexy corpse.
16. I will order any dish that contains artichoke hearts, capers or strawberries, regardless of what else is in it (notable exception: goat cheese. See #1).
17. I strongly believe that texting and driving is irresponsible. Period.
18. I get sick a lot. In fact, I’m sick right now. Shocker.
19. I’m clumsy.
20. Fewer phrases irritate me more than, “That’s gay.” Do you mean, that’s homosexual or do you mean that’s stupid? Because they are not the same thing. Holy soapbox, Batman. Don’t get me going.
21. Mac n’ Cheese in the blue box. Omm nom nom.
22. I don’t care for U2 or Dave Matthews Band.
23. I would happily live off the free ice cream cones from Jason’s Deli.
24. I am pretty much always cold.
25. I love spreadsheets.
26. The older I get, the more scared I am of accidental pregnancy. Because I’d have to keep it.
27. ZOMG hate (HATE!) the sound of balloons popping.
28. I’m irrationally offended by the overuse of punctuation. One exclamation point will do. Unless you are on fire.
29. I would have made a really shitty pioneer.
30. I will never Tweet. Or whatever the hell it is kids are doing these days.
31. Bright blue skies with white clouds invariably make me hum The Simpsons theme.
July 21st, 2009
This weekend, I learned that what stays in Vegas isn’t necessarily your seedy tales of debauchery so much as your money. Even on a most-expenses-paid work trip. Even if you only lose fifteen bucks to the slots. Aren’t we just the most underachieving gamblers? Fifteen whole dollars. Risk takers! While true, we lost the money on slot machines (instead of something fancy like Black Jack or Craps) and that’s pretty sad, it’s sadder still that we only did it because our car to the airport was not due to arrive for another thirty whole minutes and what else were we going to do to fill the time? We couldn’t possibly eat any more or spend any more time getting prune-fingered in the pool. So, we threw fifteen bucks in the crapper and had a fine time doing it. But then, we have a fine time doing most anything that ends up in fart jokes.
Speaking of: I spent Wednesday night in the hotel solo – the Dork Lord wasn’t coming out until the next evening. And glory hallelujah, wasn’t it just heaven to have a big old king sized bed to myself, and all those divinely squishy pillows for me, just me? It really was… until I realized, in the middle of making snow angels in the smooth white sheets, that it was going to be me, just me all alone all night long. I know my friend Mike thinks this is pathetic and horribly codependent (he sent me an email saying as much), but after months and months of sharing bedtime with my best friend, going to sleep alone wasn’t worth all the extra space and all the deliciously plush linens in all the off-strip hotels in all of Vegas. I didn’t like it one bit. Bedtime – even excluding any headboard knocking antics – is one of the best parts of the day. It’s when we trade love you’s and back scratches and yeah, usually fart jokes because we’ll probably never be proper grown ups. When I was a little girl, lying in bed at night, I could hear my parents in the bedroom above mine, their laughter getting sucked down and pouring out of the heating vents in my ceiling. I think about that sometimes when we’re falling asleep, still laughing about something silly, and if I have my way, that’s how it will be for the restof forever.
Unless, of course, one of us is on a business trip. And that’s when cell phones come in handy.
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