Okay, Facebook kids, I (finally) did it. I don’t know if I did it right, but all the same. As of last night, the blog now has its very own page. Become fans! Throw flowers! I won’t lie: my ultimate goal is to overcome the Archie & Jughead fan club with the sheer force of our numbers. Take that, Jones!

I’ve got a bit of a flying problem. Not that I’m scared of flying; I’ll be the last person on the plane white-knuckling the armrest during take off. And it doesn’t make me sick. Except for that time I was winging it to my brother’s wedding cracked out on the vicodin cough medicine the good doc had given me and wouldn’t you know, liquid narcotics and turbulence do. not. mix. And if I thought horking at home was bad, it was nothing compared to the hygienic nightmare of the airplane lavatory. And there was no bathmat to curl up on.

Yesterday morning, I seriously misjudged the amount of time it takes to get from my new digs to the airport. I’m used to a 20 minute door-to-gate commute. And having already checked in online, that’s exactly what I allowed myself. Silly me. As it turns out, my new drive was at least 35 minutes, the security lines were exceptionally long for it being only 7AM, and after stabbing my feet back into my shoes, I went running for the gate. I’d say sprinting but let’s be honest, it wasn’t anywhere near as graceful as the word sprint implies. I was gallumping. It wasn’t pretty. And my laptop smacked against my thigh so many times, I may have discovered a cure for cellulite. By the time I found a seat (Oh, Southwest, you and your wacky no-assigned-seats policy) and made sure my seat belt was securely fastened low and across my hips (me, I follow instructions), the door was shut and the flight attendants were halfway into their safety routines. My heart was racing. Then on went the engines and… I woke up 40 minutes later.

And, therein lies the problem.

Who goes from competing in the Awkward Olympics to comatose in twenty seconds? I do. I had an hour’s worth of work to do on that flight. And an hour’s worth of work to do on the flight back later that evening. And yet, I spent both of those hours working on nothing more than putting deep plastic window cover creases into the side of my face. Twice now I’ve fallen asleep with my boss in the adjacent seat while we were supposed to be going over our meeting agenda. Embarassing? Uh, a little. But it’s like taking the crying baby out for a drive; the moment the vibrations start, I’m catatonic. And once we land and hustle off to our meetings, I’m hardly raring to go. I’m sorry, what did you say? I was busy digging the sleep crusties out of my eyes.

I’ve got to do this all again on Friday. I’m looking into adrenaline injections. 

My boyfriend is a pirate.

After work yesterday, I picked up some groceries for our dinner and then stopped by my apartment to grab a few essentials: the contents of my make-up drawer, a bottle of Grey Goose, and my pillow. Oh, hello old friend. It was pretty warm in the afternoon, so by the time I’d struggled up the three flights of stairs to our apartment with my loot, I had sweaty strands of hair plastered to my face, a trickle running down my back, and red, welted rings on my arms where the grocery bags hung.The very moment I stepped through the front door, StepDog was at my knees, blundering around in his lampshade (he has a licking problem, okay?), cutting just close enough to send me pitching forward, make-up compacts and heads of romaine lettuce flying.

Don’t yell at the dog, I told myself. He doesn’t know.

I set my pillow down, giving it a place of honor on the end table, and took Lampshade out for his afternoon constitutional. Then I started dinner. An hour and a half later, after we’d polished off our plates, I scooted upstairs for a quick shower. If the climb up the stairs hadn’t undone me, a stupidly complicated meal over a hot stove and hotter oven finished the job. When I came down, fresh and clean and ready to finally relax with the DVR and Wednesday night’s episode of LOST, there was my sweet fella, done with kitchen duty, crashed out on the couch watching a basketball game, his noggin resting peacefully…on my pillow. 

Commence meltdown in five, four, three…

Don’t yell at the boyfriend, I told myself. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know that in this entire apartment, one average-in-every-way, polka dotted pillow is about the only thing that is mine. I mean, unless I wanted to curl up with my hair dryer or the wok, that was it. My pillow. Mine.  He also doesn’t know that while he was at the Mavericks game the other night, and I sat at the apartment feeling misplaced and homesick (and silly for it), the only comfort I could think of was that damn pillow. Standing there, on the bottom stair, it took about three and a half seconds to degenerate into toddler mode.I felt like I was watching a sibling play with with one of my toys -and forget that there were heaps and heaps of toys in the toy box (and a bed full of pillows upstairs), Iwanted that one. Because it was mine. But instead of cracking him over the head with a Tonka truck – like I’d have had no problem doing in my actual toddler days – I put some cookies on to bake, and then cuddled up next to him on the sofa.

I won’t lie, I eyed that pillow like, the whole damn time.

But I said nothing. Because on the What’s Really Important Here scale, I chose to rank the Boy over the pillow. The Boy, whom I love, who tries so hard to make me happy (and yes, who would have given me the pillow without hesitation, had I given in to my petty inclinations), and who sleeps so soundly that if he tried that shit at night and crossed the imaginary line down the middle of the bed, there wouldn’t even be a pause his snoring when I yanked that pillow right out from under his pretty little pirate head.

Mine.   

Irony or really, fiercely ugly coincidence? I suppose it’s not unthinkable to be the victim of a crap economy three times in 18 months, so it’s only coincidence that mere days after I post about employment woes, I’m in the middle of ‘em. Again. Details later, but for the moment, I have a job. And for that I am grateful.

But with money being tighter (one hefty freelance gig has already dried up due to budget cuts), and with the fear that it will only become more constricted in the coming weeks, the Dork Lord and I put our moving-in plans into, how do they say, hyper drive. God, I’m so tempted right here to make some sort of nerdy Battlestar Galactica reference, but I’m not sure I have the frackin’ lingo down quite yet. Anyway, on Monday, I closed up shop at my apartment – canceled what was left of the amenities (um, that would be Internet. Cable went away a month before), unplugged the appliances, scooped Hal up into his portable torture chamber (honestly, you’d think so by the way he hollers in that thing) and relocated to the Boy’s apartment. Two months ahead of schedule.

It’s a lot, really. True, we haven’t spent a night apart since the second week we were dating. But for a girl who’s been used to residential autonomy for the last five years, just getting over feeling like a visitor in his our apartment is going to take some work. I worry about stressing him out, moving into too much of the closet all at once. Watching him box up nerd books to make room for my shoes. Saying silent prayers to feline deities that Hal doesn’t turn his black leather sofa into a high end scratching post. It’s like I’m on constantly.

Obviously, it’s not all stress. One of the nicest things about us is how easy we are. Even playing the Yours or Mine game, which I think he’s been letting me win, just to keep me from reaching stress levels ordinarily reserved stockbrokers, air traffic controllers and the cast of Grey’s Anatomy. Your vacuum or mine? Your dishes or mine? Your rules about gigantic dogs on the bed or mine? We’re like The Brady Bunch over here, only instead of little girls in curls we’re melding things like salad spinners and living room sets. And as for stepchildren, mine’s a 75 pound German Shepherd/Lab who doesn’t listen to a word I say except when I’m holding meat. Yeah, I’m the Bacon Lady.  

I’m also one lucky lady. The worry over losing my job in the near future is real. Very real. But being part of a “we” makes it somehow less scary. And adjustment periods or no, I know when he says that whatever happens, we’ll be okay, it’s true. We will.  

Sure, it’d be even better if he were like, 87 years old, a millionaire, and wheezing his last breaths from an oxygen tank. But I’ll take what I can get.

Warning: this post may contain references to the movie, Clueless, which, incidentally, was anything but.

I’ve been getting more than a few emails and comments from readers who have lost their jobs. To those of you in this position, I am so very sorry. I wish I could offer the advice you’re looking for, but even going through this twice in a calendar year has not made me any more of an expert on reemployment. In both cases, I got lucky. Twists of fate.

But here’s what I can do: I can use my popularity for a good cause. After seeing how many people, in every corner of the world stop by here from time to time, I figured well, that right there is a community of folks. Folks who also have other communities of folks and so on and so forth. Surely, you will be able to help each other better than I ever could.

The comment box on this post is dedicated to just that. Have you weathered the unemployment storm before and can offer some tips on how to do it… gracefully? Advise away! Are you recently jobless and need to cry on our collective shoulders? I will bring the tissues. Do you have a website with a link to your resume? Let us have it. 

In the meantime, here are a couple links that I used while job hunting in October:

Solo Gig (temp, consulting, freelance, etc.)
Indeed.com (pulls from tons of other job listing sites)

FYI: For those seeking jobs, some very kind recruiters are leaving their contact info in the comments box. I won’t lie. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

The Dork Lord loves scary movies. And, predictably, really bad Sci-Fi. I once sat through Hell Boy II and came dangerously close to suffering tissue damage from rolling my eyes so far into the back of my head. Really, Selma Blair? REALLY? Rarely do his… tastes in film cause conflicts, though, because we’re both quite happy to meet in the middle, somewhere between Vicky Christina Barcelona and Another Movie Where Cops Behave Badly. Sure, sometimes that middle is Eagle Eye (AKA, I, Robot, Want to Kill the President), but usually it’s something like W and everyone comes out of the experience feeling informed and well pleased.

But the last few times we’ve wandered Blockbuster, and knowing full well my sensitivity to gore and violence, the Boy has asked to take home Quarantine.

No, and um, no.

“Why not? It’s a heartwarming tale about…”

“Don’t bother to read me the back. I see the cover. There’s crazy zombie disease written all over it.”

Sure, there was pleading in his sad, Sci-Fi loving eyes, but I held my ground. Until… well, until I realized yet again that I am a gigantic sucker. On my way home from work yesterday (and even before he called with upcoming root canal news), I decided to surprise him with the last DVD that I would ever watch while still in possession of my faculties. I mean, what says love like setting yourself up for weeks of nightmares? Nothing. Except for maybe a diamond. They’re forever, you know.

Naturally, he was thrilled with his surprise. And eventually, so was I because my god, what a ridiculous farce of a horror film that was. I’ve had subway rides that filled me with more fear. Watching a small child with people rabies gnaw on her mother’s neck not only didn’t scare me, it plastered a big old grin right on my face. Because I had just gotten off so freaking easy.

Far, far easier than he will when I bring home Nights in Rodanthe. Insert evil laugh here.

So, I cried at the Oscars. More than once.

I cried for Miley Cyrus who clearly has developed some sort of terrifying ocular disease that causes her to mistake large, sparkly fish scales for red carpet finery, and also for Jessica Biel who had absolutely no time to practice her teleprompter reading skills because that last Hooked On Phonics lesson ran way too long. I also cried for the glorious mess that was Sophia Loren’s crazy ass Dynasty get up, but in a worshipy type way. But mostly, I shed genuine tears because I was just so moved by the presenters. If Shirley MacLaine told me she expected great things out of me, I’d totally forget all about that scummy Italian boyfriend I’ve been pretending to forget about this whole time and cry and blow kisses, because who cares if Shirley is totally nuts, she’s also totally awesome and can even make Cameron Diaz look like she has legitimate acting skills. And that ain’t easy.

But hoo-boy, when Kate Winslet finally won, I actually had to take a moment and pull myself together. When a lady who embraces her stretchmarks wins, we all win, ladies.  

It’s Wednesday morning at 10AM and I have already logged 37 hours for the week. I know some people are totally used to this: dragging themselves into the office at 7:30 in the morning, slinking home thirteen hours later only to put in another hour and a half of “home work” in bed while their beloved lies next to them reading Lord of the Rings FAN FICTION instead of editing endless pages of ENGINEERING TEXT, after a pleasant day of not accidentally putting the coffee mug upside down in the coffee maker and standing there in complete befuddlement while steaming coffee runs all over the counter and silently screaming, “Ohmyeffinghell!”

Some people are used to this. But not me. And so I’m having a hard time with normal things like walking without running into stuff and remembering to rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Ooooh, pretty! You have no idea how many words I just misspelled.

Anyway, my boss is so superhuman about appreciation that I know quite certainly my efforts are noticed (and duly rewarded). But truthfully, that hasn’t made a bit of a difference when say, the alarm goes off and I tip toe downstairs to find that the dog has upended my laptop, stepped on it, and left a puncture mark like a bullet hole in the middle of the screen. Spy work, it is dangerous. I tried not to cry. Really, I did.

If I’m being completely honest, I’ll tell you that the only reason I didn’t exact some major revenge on that dog is, well, The Boy’s parents just bought our tickets to DisneyWorld and I don’t want to rock the boat. In case, you know, the tickets are refundable or somesuch.

P.S. You people kill me with the awesomeness of the comments on my last post. You’re everywhere! You’re in places right next door and so far away I’m sure you have to have a special passport just to get there. I love it. And on pain of being cheesy, I love that we’re all connected.

Oh, Interweb, I’m having a bit of a focus problem. Like for instance, right now I’m watching a pair of hawks nest on a utility pole across the highway, and I cannot tell you how much more interesting than work this feathery home makeover show is. Oh, wait, maybe I can. The word infinitely comes to mind. It’s not that I don’t like my work, because I do. I just happen to like hawks better at the moment. And earlier this morning, at exactly the hour I should have been strolling into the office, I liked the cool side of the pillow and blowing raspberries on the Boy’s forehead better. You know what this is, don’t you? Spring fever in February.

I’ve stopped watching the hawks now, and instead am focused on the breadth and width of me in my office chair. People, I’m pretty sure love is making me fat. My running mate Bob hasn’t seen my sleepy, creased face in about three months because, thanks to His Nerdiness, I get into bed later at night and stay in it longer in the morning (see: raspberries), and none of that lends itself to 5:30AM runs. Which in turn does not lend itself to me fitting into about six of my eight pairs of jeans (Don’t scold me. Most of those jeans were purchased sometime in 2004 or 2005. I’m not spendthrify, I just take good care of my stuff).

Let’s play a game. See how we’ve switched topics again? I’ve got the attention span of a fruit fly and I’ve decided not to fight it. So, yes, game. If you leave a comment today, will you please tell me what city you live in? I’ve been thinking about this for a few days now (on and off, of course. see: fruit fly) and I’m really very curious about where you all are. Me, I’m here. In Dallas. Where it’s 60-something degrees and sunny and the sky is blue and the birds of prey are homebuilding for their little prey-lets and where I had better buckle down and get some work done. What about you?  

Perhaps the best thing I have seen in a really long time. You know of my love for Detective Elliot Stabler. Well, now he has puppet competition.

The Dork Lord and I spent the weekend at the ranch where His Nerdiness had a very successful first experience with gun slinging (the bruise on his right man boob is ever so pretty) and where I did what I always do there – eat, sleep, read, eat, play with dogs and eat – only this time, with added making out. It’s so very easy to be in love where there is lots of sky and no responsibilities. And hardly anyone tells you to get a room. Anyway, I’ll get back to the weekend stories later, but I have to interrupt our previously scheduled entry to show you this:
 

Last night we lay in bed reading, the boy with a gigantic programming tome propped up on his chest and I, curled up with a paperback of Diablo Cody’s stripper memoir. I was wading through some pretty graphic descriptions of things I’d just as soon never have a first hand knowledge of when it occurred to me that my beloved was talking. I glanced up to see him looking at me, waiting for my answer.

“I’m sorry, hon. What did you say? I was reading about lap dances.”

“Uh… well, I was reading about picking up chicks. So there.”

“Oh, really? In what language?”

“…. C Sharp.”

“Mmm hmmm. I thought so.”

If you spend any time at all on Facebook, someone you most likely don’t know and/or like all that well has asked you to tagged you to post 25 random things about yourself – mostly so they will have something new to read while they pretend to work, I’m guessing. And you did it because, duh, you don’t want to work either. Well, I’m not buying in. In part, because it’s like my friend Kate said,

“as preconditions I want it to be 1990 and I want to hand-write it onwide-ruled paper and I want to never be lucky in love if I fail tocomplete it in a timely manner.”

Gotta hand it to Kate; she made me feel sorta nostalgic for the sixth grade. And I hated the sixth grade. Anyway, I’m also abstaining because, if I brain dump on Facebook, I’ll have no trivialities left for you fine folks. And listen, I know we don’t always get along – like when you steal my clothes and I have to put salt in your sheets to remind you who’s older and has better hair and then you tattle to mom and I get grounded from the car for a week – but we’re family and it’s you I tell my best trivial shit to. Not Facebook. 

Besides, I am totally stubborn. Even if I wanted to participate now, I couldn’t. Because no means no, dammit. Also, the major media outlets are catching on (some with mocking, some wishing to participate in all seriousness ), so my shame would be somewhere on par with joining the Unit belt craze approximately five years too late. With knock-offs from JCPenney. The shame, it deepens. I told you I hated sixth grade.

I caught the bouquet. I did not leave with the bouquet, but I caught it, dammit. The seven-year-old ball of fury directly in front of me was up waaaay past her bedtime and having none of this leggy stranger getting her mitts on the loot. She burned into me with a look that said, “The fit I’d throw would be epic. EPIC.”  I handed it over immediately. The tiny diva was willing to part with the bouquet briefly when the bride asked if we might borrow it to take photos, but not one second after the photographer stopped snapping she planted herself in front of me and demanded I return it. I may have pushed my luck by asking her to say “Please give me back my flowers,” but hey, it takes a village, right? I’d like to think her mother would have given her the same treatment – insisting on common courtesy while being obstinate and greedy – had she been present. True, her mother probably would not have savagely plucked off several petals out of sheer spite, but the village isn’t done with me either. So there.

From what I understand, the after party also verged on epic (the Dork Lord poured himself into our hotel room sometime after 4AM, having suckled at the JÃ_germeister teat), but that is second hand information only. After tottering back to the hotel in borrowed socks (they came with the Boy’s tux and therefore fair game for city sidewalk grates) at half past twelve, I decided to crawl into bed with some outrageously priced Peanut M&Ms from the minibar and watch American Idol. That I woke up with vicious heartburn should not be surprising.

Now that the week from hell is over and the Boy and I will be spending much more time in front of our computers (he, programming; me, catching up on people.com), blogging is back to its regularly scheduled programming. Some nutty shit went down last week, and if I can somewhow work out how to protect the privacy of those I love while still spilling my guts, I may just include it. If not, just know this: if I ever have to audition for Cops, I’m ready. 

There was a time, when this blog was anonymous, when neither family nor love interests were any wiser to its existence, that the electronic airing of dirty laundry was how I got by. Something about handing over my woe-is-me’s to the Universe and saying, “Here, see what you can make of this” felt healing. Cleansing, maybe. Having never gone to confession, I can’t say that I know, but I imagine that’s what it feels like. Say five Hail Marys.

Oh, well THIS is fun. I just discovered that the last two draft posts I’d saved no longer exist. Gone! I’m going back and forth between sending a frantic email to the iVillage tech folks and just letting it go. You know, trying out this crazy Zen business I hear so much about.

In the meantime, I will tell you that this is kind of a hard week. It will end in celebration – rehearsal dinner Friday, wedding excitement Saturday – but tonight the Boy and I are attending a wake and tomorrow a funeral. I like black dresses. I do not like pulling them out for such occasions. Mourn with those that mourn has always been a tricky admonition for me. I don’t always know when to stop. It’s like, once the faucet is on, you’re gonna need a wrench and some duct tape to shut it off. This is why I can’t watch a lot of movies that other people find thrilling. I cannot stand to see other people (real or pretend, it seems) in fear or pain. No war movies, no horror flicks. I cried almost all the way through The Sixth Sense because that kid was scared. Does not compute.

Also, I will tell you that my nephew is probably the softest, most delectable little thug I’ve ever seen. He giggles! He smiles! Holy cow, he overwhelms me with want. Not that I’m asking for my own (Not. Now. Thanks, Universe), but eventually, I’d like to own one of those wee beauties. Pictures to follow.

If you’ve been around these here parts long enough, you know I make it a point not to write about politics. It’s just too divisive. People will say the nastiest thing under the cloak of anonymity anyway, and when it comes to parties and their lines, they can be exceptionally ruthless. So, except for saying I was happy for Sir Hal when his candidate won the presidential election, I have not commented on This Major Thing Which Is About to Happen. And I still will not comment except to say, holy crap, today is a really, really good day and it feels a little bit like an entire lifetime of Christmas mornings all rolled into one infectiously giddy celebration. That pony in the backyard? It’s yours! Now, go take care of it.

Another point of glee: my nephew is coming to visit on Monday. Also, my sister and her husband. But you know, mostly my nephew and his thighs. Omm nomm nomm. If you would like to get visually lost in some baby rolls, I refer you to the photo below. Keep scrolling. Yes, there it is. God, so much cuteness.

Speaking of my delicious nephew and politics… What? You don’t see the connection? Yeah, neither did I. But to the commenter who lambasted me for my American Ignorance (apparently not writing about politics and world events is a sure sign I am unaware they even exist) by telling me that my nephew may be sweet and beautiful but do I KNOW how many BABIES are dying in GAZA I say, take it somewhere else. And shame on you. Yes, the world is a difficult, dangerous, brutal place. This blog, however, is pink and silly and about babies and making out and what happens when you forget you’re wearing underwear and pee all over yourself at work. And it might, if you let it, give you a break from some of the harsher realities – even if just for a minute or two. What I’m saying is, the content is purposely light and conspiculously lacking in dead babies and I intend to keep it that way. Capiche?

Now, go take care of your pony.

So, does he like cars?

My boss and I were heading to one of those marketing events where we’d stand around for three hours, drink too much wine, and try very hard not to be perverse in front of potential clients. I was driving. Car time is downtime and downtime with my boss usually means being re-interviewed. This time about The Boy.

“Yes, yes he does. In particular, he likes – no, loves – his car.”

I talked horsepower and engine liters and other things I no clue about, save what The Dork Lord has told me. All I know is that 400 horsepower makes driving ridiculously fun and it guzzles a metric sh!t ton of gas. That’s all the information I need.

“Does he let you drive it?”

“Yep.”

“Then this must be the real thing.”

“I think you’re right.”

Aw, love. Granted, I’d never asked The Boy which he loved more – me or the car – because frankly, I was afraid he might hesitate before answering. But how could I feel anything but secure and happy knowing that my honey digs me enough to trust me with his most prized possession? I gave him a key to my apartment; he handed me the keys to his car. It was all very warm and fuzzy. Until Friday night. Because on Friday night, after the nicest of date nights, I scraped his beloved car while pulling it into the garage.

“Oh my god. Baby.”

Drunk though he was, he leaped from that passenger seat with the agility and speed of an Olympic ribbon dancer. Me, I sat gripping the steering wheel, white-faced with my stomach climbing steadily toward my throat. I found myself wishing I was anything but perfectly sober. Man, I have really got to learn to like whiskey.

“Baby. Baby. Baby. You have to be careful with this garage!”
 
Finally, I climbed out to see for myself. And at the sight of two-foot swirl of gnarly white paint on his otherwise pristine car, I did what came naturally. I burst into tears. He stared at me.

“Noooooo.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Nooooo. Do not cry. I’m sorry. You’re what’s important. Not this. This is just metal. Understand?”

Well, you know me. A little bit of sympathy and the waterworks go from drippy faucet to open fire hydrant. I cried harder. Of course, had I known then that there was not one tiny bit of damage to the car’s paint, that the next morning, a high end car wash complete with buff and wax would take away all my sins, I’d have marched right upstairs and enjoyed (with gusto) the spoils of our 2AM Jack in The Box visit. But as it was, that Oreo shake a total waste.

Sure, it was only one of you. But one voice clamoring for updated baby nephew photos is all the encouragement I need. Two words: sheriff onesie. I’ve been sitting on this one for a couple weeks now and the discipline that took, I just can’t tell you.

What I can tell you is keeping the peace in this one horse town must be exhausting work.

With all due respect for the law, all I want to do is nibble some knees.

I hate commercials having anything to do with over the counter medication for migraines. You know, where the afflicted presses a hand to his temple and grimaces and then Excedrin fixes him right up. It makes me want to punch someone in the throat. Where’s the sobbing and curling up on the bathmat because it’s the darkest room in the house and because if you feel the vibration of the cat walking or hear one. more. sound. you’re going to need to have that toilet handy? Where’s the pale-faced sufferer walking around like a newborn calf for the next several hours because the whole experience has left her wobbly? Excedrin is for hangovers. Mercy killings are for migraines.

All of which is to say, while yes, the Boy is a very nice distraction, he’s not the reason I haven’t been parked in front of my computer telling you funny stories about introducing him to Mike J (it’s coming though, I promise). I’ve been whimpering and leaving mascara stains on my white linens. Ten years of migraines and this one let me off relatively easy, only I’m still jell-o kneed and exhausted. And I look SO pretty. Think a zombie mascara model after watching Steel Magnolias. I know. Hot.

Hey, let’s play a game. If you were going to take a cheap, three-day vacation, where would you go? And I do mean cheap. Mama’s got itchy feet and a slim budget.

Usually, when I need a good cry, I put on my jammies, climb onto the couch and watch Steel Magnolias. Because usually I know when I need a good cry. The culmination of a thousand little injustices and frustrations combined with some out-of-whack hormones and general ennui and I’m sobbing myself into a snotty heap while Sally Field guides a comatose Pretty Woman through her Jane Fonda exercises. Wake up, Shelby. Wake up.

Waaaaaah!

Things have been running at such an even keel lately (with a slight hint of floaty, actually) that I had no idea when we went to the movies last night, I’d be having a Wake Up, Shelby moment… while watching Gran Torino. Clearly my body needed a good sobfest, but I was unaware. And thus, completely unprepared. No tissues. Copious eye make-up. Bemused boyfriend asking, “Are you gonna make it?” For a good hour after the movie let out, I was a sniffly, raccoon-eyed mess.

My eyes are still a little puffy and I have a hunch The Dork Lord will be suggesting comedies from here on out. But damn, that was a good movie.

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.