28 February 2009

I love you, Jess.

Man, there is nothing quite like starting your Saturday feeling like an enormous dork. Lucky for me, that's just what happened in yoga this morning.

Yoga classes at the gym aren't really the hippy-dippy, spiritual kind of classes you might get at a real yoga studio. Then again, I suppose it depends more on your yogi than on the place in which you're taking the class. So, regardless of the reason, the classes I take are fairly straightforward. Drop your worries off your shoulders, enjoy your Savasana, you carry your emotions in your hips ... that kind of stuff, sure.

However, my Ukrainian Saturday instructor has gotten a bit more into the philosophic side of yoga over the four years I've been taking her class. Just back this summer, she started having us "Inhale love ... exhale peace. Inhale health ... exhale gratitude." She's talked about chakras and visualizing energy entering your body. But today she busted out something new. She wanted us, as we were inhaling and exhaling, raising our arms and bring them back into Namaste, to say, "I love you, [insert your name here]." Loudly.

So she demonstrates with her own name, "I love you, Marina." And I followed along, as most people seemed to do; just not very loud. What I couldn't hear, since I was up in the front, was that people were apparently saying, "I love you, Marina." Look, maybe it was because it was earlyish on a weekend morning. Perhaps people hadn't had their coffee yet. But honestly, it's not that tough of a concept to grasp, is it? Do these people read an oath or something with "[insert name]" and say "insert name?" Oh, dumb people.

We also had to say, "I respect you, Jess." Well, that's what I had to say. I think people figured out they were to use their own names at by the time we got to respecting ourselves. And I only felt like a bit of a nerd. I mean, I am pretty awesome. 'Bout damn time someone said something, even if it was me.

26 February 2009

Dear Science: Fuck off. Seriously.

This is a letter to the discipline of science, not TV on the Radio's latest album, Dear Science. Though, that can fuck off, too.

It wasn't that long ago I was proclaiming my love for science. Red wine is good for my heart! It has anti-aging properties! Hooray! But now science is telling me again that even one alcoholic drink a day (or less!) will give me cancer because I'm a woman. (Please note: the story is just saying it increases your risk of cancer. I'm just being melodramatic and sarcastic.)

Shows what you know, science. I've already had cancer. Ha-ha.

Of course, this is just another in a series of contradictory studies that say "this thing is good for you. Oh wait. No it's not." Coffee is good for you. Or is it bad? No, it's good for you. Except when it's bad. Eggs are bad for you. Or are they good? Farm-raised fish are bad for you in this way, but wild fish are bad for you in that way. Blah, blah, blah.

One has to wonder if people live and die by these studies. No doubt there are some who do. However, they must be going nuts trying to keep up. I can only hope my healthy habits outweigh my unhealthy habits. And if not, my retirement plan is to die before I need a retirement plan, so I'm sure it'll all work out in the end.

I'll take your study under advisement, science, but if you'll excuse me, I need to open a bottle of wine so it can breathe before the Gopher game starts.

25 February 2009

Worst proposal ever?

Last week, I was reading a post on Jezebel about a story in the Daily Mail on a woman who had been proposed to nine times. I knew a girl like that once. I worked with her at Dayton's/Marshall Field's. I could never understand it. She wasn't cute. Not terribly smart or funny or really anything. But dudes apparently loved her. I can't even remember how many times she'd been proposed to, but she was on her fourthish engagement at the ripe old age of 25.

I suppose there are some who would feel like a loser after reading such a story if they'd never been proposed to. Not me. Why would you want proposals from dudes you wouldn't want to marry? Is it some sort of feather in your cap? Is there some sort of exhilaration you get from being asked, even if you're going to say no? Shit. I may never know. I can't say I'd ever be surprised if I'm never proposed to.

Oh, but then I was reminded of something. The friend of The Boy I Currently Like who played basketball in college with The Cheating Asshole Ex (I've got to come up with a better name for him) was regaling me with stories about The Cheating Asshole Ex on Saturday night. Of course, that got me to thinking back over the last few days and I remembered that holy shit -- I had been proposed to.

Okay, it was more like an epic fail of an attempt to win me back after I dumped his ass. But there were matrimonial overtones. I cannot remember how long it occurred after I'd broken up with him for the second time. Probably past the sending roses phase. And it must have been long enough after for him to have been harrassing me with phone calls so much that I blocked his number (also his work number and eventually several of his friends' numbers), because he left a message on my WORK VOICEMAIL and played this song:


(I don't think it's the video ... just the song with a black screen. Embedding on the video was disabled, but if for some strange reason you want to watch it, here you go.)

Yes, boys and girls, that is Jagged Edge's "Let's Get Married." The song with the lyrics that go:

Meet me at the altar in your white dress
We ain't gettin' no younger girl, so we might as well do it


I'm sure you're all shocked to the very tips of your toes that I didn't swoon. I laughed. I laughed until I cried. Then I told all of my friends about it. And I laugh some more. I'm laughing about it right now. Is there a more appropriate response? Other than screaming "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?," of course.

So yeah, after a little reminiscing, I can absolutely say I would rather never receive a marriage proposal if it's going to be something like that. Or like any of these. Those "marriage magnets" can keep that shit.

24 February 2009

Nerdy Gras.

I've just returned home from my very first Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday party. We dubbed it "Nerdy Gras" when we realized just two fellows in the room could wear their masks properly, because the rest of us all were wearing glasses. Things only got nerdier from there, as we delved into Star Wars discussion.

Things must be coming up Milhouse for me. I mean, I kept my job. My birthday celebration turned out to be top-fucking-notch. I found out earlier today I'm getting a bonus (of course, my boss told me by pulling me into his office and closing the door, making me think that I was going to get the news of "Hey, remember when I told you that your job was safe?"), AND I GOT THE BABY FROM THE KING CAKE.

I failed miserably in not making everyone show me their tits before I left early because I'm lame. Obviously, I am a horrible, horrible Queen. There are certain privileges/responsibilities/superstitions that come with getting the baby. Notice, Classy Broads and Company, there is nothing on Wikipedia about the baby-getter ending up knocked up. I am not getting knocked up!

However, I do have to host the party and make the cake next year. Thank fucking Christ I have a year to work on my jambalaya, red beans and dirty rice. Man, Dave threw the fuck down in the kitchen tonight, y'all. I'm sure I can come up with something reasonably tasty, foodwise. However, I'm not going to replicate the delicious, delicious home brew we had.

I've got work to do. Mark your calendar, y'all.

23 February 2009

Since no one is going to get into trouble ...

On Saturday night, while out at Liquor Lyle's celebrating my birthday, I ended up meeting some friends of The Boy I Currently Like. I was completely freaked out that he would be mad at me, or at them, or at all of us, but I guess that's not the case. So, I guess I feel like it's okay for me to write about it.

See, I'd been laboring under the delusion that I'd cleverly kept his identity secret. Well, my friends know who I'm talking about. But his friends didn't. Or at least they didn't until last fall, when one of them finally put all the pieces together after reading about the Boy I Currently Like for a year or so. Honestly, I thought he was the only friend of The Boy's who read my blog. That's apparently not the case, either. I knew he'd figured it out, but I had no idea what he'd do with the information. But now I know.

On the one hand, I feel like a complete idiot for laboring under the assumption that I was doing a good job of keeping things under wraps. It's neither my job nor my place to tell his friends we're dating, right? But on the other hand, it's kind of a weight off my shoulders. I don't have to try so hard to hide things (not that I was doing a good job ... I think I was getting kinda lazy about it) . Don't think I'm going to out anyone, though. Not that it matters, since everyone fucking knows, but I still don't feel it's my place to do. But I certainly won't stop anyone from outing themselves.

As I proofread this, it almost sounds like we're having some dirty little affair that we must keep secret from the world. That's totally not the case. However, despite the fact that I'm a narcissistic asshole who regularly writes about the intimate details of my life for all of the Interwebs to read, I do hold some things back. It's true!

So anyway, back to Saturday, I'm very glad I didn't leave early or head to the Red Dragon to continue the party. I had a blast talking to his friends. And I'm not just saying that because they bought me drinks. Or because I was already kinda drunk when they got there. They truly seem like great guys -- not that I would have expected anything less. They love him dearly, which makes me happy. In fact, they told me how great he was so many times that it felt a little like they were trying to get me to agree to go out with him. There may have been a reason for that, but my whiskey-addled memory can't quite pull it together.

And there was even a bonus "Hey, what a small world," discovery. One of The Boy's friends played basketball in college with The Cheating Asshole Ex. I really figured it was only a matter of time before I discovered some overlap somewhere. I mean, they all went to a tiny college. How could they not know each other? It's still possible The Boy knows The Ex, but I've never talked in specifics about him.

There you have it; elaboration on the ultra-vague birthday night post. It turned out to be a pretty damn good birthday week, after all.

20 February 2009

I should feel better about having dodged a bullet.

My boss pulled me into his office this afternoon, ostensibly to talk about this big new initiative on which our department is working. However, what he really wanted to tell me was that if I'd heard any rumblings about potential layoffs, I shouldn't panic and run out to look for a new job.

Um, rumblings about layoffs? I'd not heard anything at all, but there was something in the air. However, there's been something in the air for a while now. It's kind of inescapable, isn't it? Isn't it in the air everywhere?

So I should feel good, right? When these layoffs are announced (I thought it was supposed to be this afternoon), I know I won't be amongst those getting the axe. I'm to keep this information under my hat. He went to his boss to get permission to even tell me. He made sure to tell me that they love the work I've been doing -- my willingness to pick things up and work on tough projects. All a preview to my review, which I will be getting (no raises, though, but I haven't had a raise in years ... at least there's a shitty economy on which to blame it this time around and not just a shitty boss) next week or so.

Even if what he told me is true -- that my job is safe -- I can't relax. Even if our department has the most promising prospects for this year, I can't relax. When the layoffs do come, there'll be more work for those of us who are left. I'll have to deal with people being let go who have way more time there than I do. Granted, it makes financial sense to keep the new people. I get paid less, get less vacation time and all that. I mean, I'm cheaper (in so many ways outside of work, too!) all around. But now I'll have to feel horrible about those who are let go. I know it's coming and I can't say a damn thing about it.

You'd think that I'd be thrilled. I know my boss really likes me and what I bring to the table. He apparently even thinks enough of me to make sure I don't put myself back out on the job market, lest someone snatch me up. This is hilarious to me, of course. But I'm still totally anxious. Fuck.

They're everywhere!

Before I bought my Malibu three weeks ago, I could have sworn up and down that I'd never really seen one before. I mean, I had an idea what they looked like because my sister has a (gutless) Cutlass, and they're very similar cars. Or the Cutlass went away and the Malibu is its replacement. Something like that.

However, once I decided to get the Malibu, I started seeing them everywhere. There are usually a couple parked on 35th Street that I pass on my way home from work. I noticed those a couple of days before I got my car. Those were the first I really noticed. Like I saw one and said, "Oh, that's what it looks like. Yeah, I think that'll be just fine."

Now that I'm actually driving my car, it's a little ridiculous. There always seems to be another Malibu in the parking lot when I'm at Rainbow. I see them parked on the side of the street and driving along next to me on the interstate. And not once, but twice, this week, I've been third in a line of Malibus sitting at a stoplight. Tuesday on my way to the gym I was behind a white and a silver Malibu on Excelsior. Last night there was a dark green Malibu in front of Barbie and a purple or maroon one ahead of that at the Snelling light while I was heading down Randolph (trying desperately not to sneak a bite of ribs before I got to The Boy's house).

It's weird driving a popular car. There were never a lot of Achievas on the road, but I would occasionally see one the exact same color as mine. It always freaked me out. Not once did I ever see a Beretta identical to mine. Apparently, I had an odd-sized engine compared to all of the other dark gray Berettas on the road. The colored stripe around the car indicated the engine size and I never saw another one just like mine. And the Delta '88? Well, that was a long time ago. But again, I think there were more of another, similar car around on the roads. Though, I occasionally see a Delta and it makes me smile.

And of course, now that I know one Mr. Garwood B. Jones drives a Malibu, I always wonder if he's in one of the many I see on the streets. Well, unless the driver is a lady or an old person, as I'm pretty sure he's neither. Then again, this is the Internet ...

19 February 2009

Entirely too excited about food.

Sometimes I get way too excited about food. This is not-so-shocking a revelation once you get a glimpse of my big fat ass. But whatever. I normally try to eat healthy and I spend a good bit of time at the gym so I can have the occasional, totally-bad-for-me meal.

Actually, now that I think about it, I often get totally stoked about cooking at home; especially trying new recipes or taking a recipe that is not particularly healthy and experimenting with it to make it healthier while also keeping it tasty. It's been a pretty fun challenge since I started my Being a Better Jess campaign ... um, a couple of years ago? Man, has it been that long? I can only imagine I'll be doing more kitchen dorkery with the food scale my siblings and nephew gave me for my birthday. Perfect portions for everyone!

That's all really neither here nor there. It's just background thoughts while I try to keep from completely obsessing over tonight. For my birthday dinner, The Boy I Currently Like and I are getting ribs from Rooster's. And probably a couple of pieces of fried chicken, because he is apparently granting me birthday wishes like they're going out of style. But really, how do you never try the fried chicken from a place that is supposed to have fried chicken that rivals its ribs? (Also, I'm sometimes very indecisive. Ribs and chicken means everyone wins! And by everyone, I mean me.)

I've been drooling over the prospect of this dinner since he suggested it yesterday. My lunch looks like crap next to just the idea of ribs. And not just any ribs. They've won like, awards and shit from the City Pages and Mpls St. Paul Magazine. The Boy proclaims Rooster's ribs the best in all the Twin Cities. However, he is not a food critic. He is a very good eater, though. He also makes a breakfast that will get a girl all tingly. So obviously, his opinion matters to me.

Dammit. I'm drooling again. This is the slowest. day. ever.

18 February 2009

The birthday with which I apparently cannot be bothered.

So today is my birthday. Normally, I would be stoked as hell. I just don't really care this year. You'd think after last year, when I was unemployed, this year would be super awesome funtime birthday. But ... I'm just not feeling it.

Maybe it's because I'm turning the dreaded 35. I've never had trouble with any other particular year -- I was totally stoked to turn 30, for Pete's sake. And I think 36 sounds just fine. The World's Worst Wing Woman said she was incensed on my behalf; that 35 sucks. However, 36? Totally cool. The Boy I Currently Like will be turning 35 just days after me. We were talking about the big 35 and he said he had spent so long preparing for 35 that he thought he was going to be 36. So, not only does he get a free year, he gets to enjoy being younger than me for nine whole days. And enjoy it he will.

Could it be this extra-long, horrible winter? Okay, so it's a normal Minnesota winter. It just seems interminable because we've had abnormal winters for so long. Still, it's either cold as fuck and sunny or warm and gray. It's awful; it's weighing on everyone. Usually, my birthday is the bright spot in the winter. Guess that's not happening this year.

Then there is the general state of horribleness in the air, what with the economy in the shitter and people losing their jobs left and right. All I read is doom and despair and lost jobs and businesses going under and I can't fucking stand it. Especially after I just went through a bout of unemployment just a year ago. How can anyone have fun or think of themselves at a time like this? I do have a job, yes. But for every good thing that happens -- "Company X loves the work you did on this project and they want to renew it for this year at a higher cost." There's something bad, like, canceled projects and a need to increase billable hours.

I feel like I just don't deserve to have fun. I feel like I'm putting a huge burden on my friends by asking them to come out and have a few drinks with me to mark my hanging around another year. Really? In years past, I would not only ask people to come out and have a few drinks, I'd have several such occasions and not think twice about it.

God, proofreading this whole thing kinda makes me hate myself. What a fucking whiner. It's a wonder I have any friends at all. Either I'll go to yoga tonight and feel better after that, or I'll skip yoga, go to happy hour with KayGee and get drunk and feel better. By the time Saturday rolls around and I show up to drink at Liquor Lyle's with my friends, I'm sure I'll be out of this funk. Because, at the end of the day, I have a job, a pretty decent family and the most awesome-est group of friends for which a girl could possibly dream. Whatever this funk is, it can't be hanging around for all that long. Right?

17 February 2009

One letter can make a difference.

Earlier today, I was corresponding over e-mail with KayGee about whether or not to go to The Herk for happy hour tomorrow to use my $10 birthday coupon. Our original plans to go yesterday (along with The Prison Librarian) were thwarted by my driving all over Southern Minnesota. I suggested (in the most wishy-washy manner possible, I think) perhaps Friday. She countered with availability for tomorrow and this was my reply:

For whatever reason, I've been all "Oh, I'm just going to go to yoga and not do anything else on my birthday." But then I realize I barely got in a workout yesterday because I got awful craps while on the elliptical machine and I have plans with [The Boy I Currently Like] on Thursday so I'm skipping the gym that night.

At this point, I might as well say "screw it" to the entire week. I'd be down with tomorrow if you want.

I would say that the onset of "awful craps" would be just as valid a reason to cut your workout short as "awful cramps," which is what I actually had. I doubt I would find the idea of "awful craps" as hilarious as I do if I'd actually experienced them at the gym.

(Now I keep typing "cramps" even when I'm trying to type "craps." TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE, BRAIN.)

16 February 2009

Road observations.

I did a lot of driving this weekend. Well, actually it was pretty much just yesterday and today. Down to the farm, then to Mankato to drop my car off, then back to town for my grandpa's 90th birthday festivities, then back to Minneapolis. Today, it was down to the farm, to Mankato to get my car (at least I didn't have to pay anything for my brakes) and back to the metro.

While I was out and about on the roads, I saw a lot of stuff, of course. But there were of a few things I saw a bunch of times.

Cops: The cops were out in full force today. I'm not sure I saw a single one yesterday. There was a Minneapolis cop parked in the driveway of the Calhoun Beach Club with a radar gun (that doesn't seem quite right) trying to catch speeders when I went by on my way to the gym. I saw a state trooper doing the same on 169 between Belle Plaine and Jordan. There were troopers with cars pulled over on 35 and I even saw the Waterville and Janesville cops. So, you know, eventually I slowed down and drove the speed limit. And I failed to see another cop. Of course.

PT Cruisers: All driven by old people, natch. There was even one in a particularly hideous shade of electric blue.

Ugly, ugly babies on anti-choice billboards: Have you ever seen a pro-life billboard with a cute baby? I haven't. They're all ugly. I don't get it. You'd think there would have to be at least one pro-life group with access to an attractive baby. Especially with the economy the way it is -- you'd think there would be at least a handful of adorable babies out there looking for work. Did they blow their entire budget on enlarging photos of aborted fetuses?

Is there some sort of additional, deeper message they're trying to send by using ugly babies? Because I'm not getting it. What I get is a harsh warning: You could give birth to something that looks like this. Do you really want to take that chance? Yeah, I'm a terrible person, but at least it's an extra reminder for me to take my birth control pills.

14 February 2009

What is that intoxicating scent?

Know what's better than coming home from The Boy You Currently Like's place and smelling like The Boy You Currently Like? Coming home from The Boy You Currently Like's place smelling like bacon.

13 February 2009

The Key Cadillac Girl: Back by ... popular demand?

Well, it's demand, anyway. Rockin' Reader Mark dropped me this note earlier this week:

Ok, its time to bring back another column of the key Cadillac girl as we now have the most bizarre and uncomfortable ad yet for Valentines Day. It amazes me with the sales of American cars, that this small outfit can continue to advertise at all, but I guess with the quality of these ads, they get a lot for their buck. However, maybe the latest bailout is helping.

Your wish is my command, y'all. As it turns out, I've seen this TV spot several times over the last couple of weeks and I'd been planning on writing something. But with VD coming tomorrow, I'm sure the ad is going to stop running soon. Or at least I pray that's the case. So time is of the essence here.

Mark is absolutely right -- the ad is totally awkward and uncomfortable. Then again, that's been the running undercurrent in all of these Key Cadillac ads. There was the weird dancing on the billboard in Downtown Minneapolis a year or so ago. Then there was a basketball-themed ad during March Madness and a baseball-themed spot that featured the Key Cadillac Girl in the strangest-looking batting stance I've ever had the displeasure of seeing.

The Valentine's ad theme seems to be exhorting would-be car buyers to head on down to Key Cadillac to buy their loved one a fancy new car. Oh, but what about the lovelorn losers amongst us? For whom will they buy an expensive new car? Why, you should buy one for yourself, silly! Because, as the Key Cadillac girl tells us, you have to love yourself before anyone else will love you. Or, in the immortal words of Foxy Brown in "Big Bad Mama" (which features the incomparable Dru Hill), "Love yourself, put no one above thee; 'cause ain't nobody gonna fuck me, like me."

However, if you go out and buy yourself a new car from Key Cadillac, not completely un-hot, awkward young women who speak in a wooden, stilted fashion with a weird accent and stand in the most awkward of poses will be all over your shit. Say goodbye to your lonely nights of masturbation and crying yourself to sleep. Besides, no one wants to be alone during a recession. Especially a on Valentine's Day. And if you have a a flashy new Escalade or something, your chances of pulling in some desperate young tail are going to be much, much better.

At least, that's the message I'm getting from the spots.

12 February 2009

Helpful hints.

Hint 1: If you have what appears to be a miscarriage in the toilet, please flush. No one wants to see that shit.

Hint 2: Ladies, until you've mastered the technique, please refrain from testing your peeing-while-standing technique in the bathroom at work. Because you are doing something very, very wrong at this point. It looked like someone sprayed a fucking hose in that stall. You might want to also try some exercises -- I'd advise Kegels for starters. After that, work your quads if you're going to be doing a lot of hovering.

11 February 2009

Stop fucking judging me.

It's bad enough that over the last year and ... a few months or whatever, that I have had to deal with my friends judging my relationship with The Boy I Currently Like. And judge they fucking have.

Apparently, that's just not enough. Even random people can judge. Say, a girl I barely know in my yoga class. Sweet.

The instructor of the class before ours told her students to have a "nice Valentine's weekend." This prompted my classmate to ask if I had plans for the weekend. And I do! The 90th birthday party for my grandpa that I mentioned in yesterday's post. Plus, the drinking on Saturday and now sushi happy hour on Friday. Score! But then she had to go and ask if I had a date Sunday.

"Um, you mean Saturday, right?" I said no. Of course she asked if I had a boyfriend. I said I was seeing someone and then we got into a whole discussion about that. Somehow we got to the point where she asked how often I saw him. I said, "About once a week or so. Kinda depends on what's going on."

She was mildly incredulous. Apparently, that's not enough. Seriously? YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW ME. It works for me. It works for us, actually. Or, you know, it seems to work well enough. I mean, we're still seeing each other, right? Yeah, sometimes I'd like to see him a bit more often. Until I think about how I'd have to skip another night at the gym or I'd have to let shit pile up on my DVR or some other thing in my life would be disrupted and I like things the way they are now, dammit.

Jesus H. Christ. Why does everyone have to have an opinion? Why does everyone have to tell me I'm doing it wrong? It works for us, so fuck off.

So much pressure.

The Boy I Currently like has a birthday in a couple of weeks and I am becoming completely obsessed with his present. Okay, I've been thinking about it since Christmas. While my mom's birthday in early January is entirely too close to Christmas for my taste, The Boy's birthday two months later gives me some breathing room, while allowing me to keep gift ideas in the back of my mind. Or it would seem, anyway.

I just want so fucking badly to give him something(s) that is at once funny, different and smart. Perhaps a little nerdy, too. I think I did pretty well with his Christmas present. He has quoted the book I gave him and seems to wear the t-shirt I gave him every time we see each other (which is terribly sweet and awfully cute).

However, I totally feel like I shot my wad with the Christmas gift. I'm so wary of books or music, despite the fact that he does indeed like the book I gave him for Christmas and raved about the CD I gave him for his birthday last year. There seemed to be so much less pressure last year, even though our birthdays were our first gift exchange. I don't recall obsessing over what I got him nearly as much as I am this year. Though, that could be due to the fact that I was unemployed last year and had other shit to obsess about.

Once I do decide what I'm going to buy him, I'll spend the intervening days until he opens said gift thinking, "I've made a huge mistake." Take the Christmas t-shirt, for example. I thought it was funny and clever. I told the World's Worst Wing Woman and possibly a couple of other girlfriends about it and they thought it was dumb. I berated myself for being so stupid as to think it was a funny t-shirt. I worried from the moment I hit the "submit order" button until the moment he opened the box, read the t-shirt and laughed.

Sweet, buttery Christ. It shouldn't be so hard. And it probably isn't. I'm just a freak who has to make her life as difficult as possible for some strange reason. After all the pondering, comparing, interwebs shopping, searching and hand-wringing, I'm sure I'll end up going with the stuff from his list of possible Christmas gifts that I thought could wait until his birthday. Then I'll worry until he opens them and at least pretends he likes them. But at least it will be over.

Until Christmas, of course.

Speaking of birthdays -- I'd like to wish a very Happy Birthday today to one Muffy Willowbrook!

10 February 2009

This week can go straight to hell.

You too, Tuesday. You're nothing but Monday in a hat.

That this week was going to be rough is not a surprise. It's been an unpleasant week every year for the past 11 years. That's because the anniversary of the car accident in which my grandma died is on Saturday.

It's weird -- as soon as February rolls around, it's in the back of my mind. Perhaps it's even more below the surface. I think about it, but it doesn't really register that the date is coming up. Even Saturday, I was thinking about the phone call I got from my dad that morning. Was I the first of his kids he called? I mean, I am the oldest. My brother was in high school and my sister in college. I had to have been the first, right? Despite the fact that I was thinking about that, the fact that the date was coming up wasn't really a part of my thought process.

But I had trouble sleeping on Sunday night. I was just not in a good mood at all when I finally did get up after being awake from 2:00 to 6:30 a.m. and then finally drifting off for a while. Something in my mind clicked, and I really started thinking about it.

Instead of just vaguely wondering about the order of phone calls, I started reliving that morning. The weather was really similar to what we've been having the past several days, or it was when it was sunny and not raining. I'd taken a leisurely route to work, dropping off the Cheating Asshole Ex-Boyfriend's Valentine's gift because I was going home to watch my brother's big basketball game that night. I washed my car. Then I finally went to work to finish up preparation for our big Lobby Day at the capitol that was coming up the following week.

And then my dad called. "Your Grandma was in an accident."

Things aren't so clear after that. I knew I was supposed to try to get in touch with my cousin who went to the U. I was going to pick her up and bring her home with me. I made several borderline hysterical phone calls. There were a lot of choked out words between sobs, anyway. Somehow I got back to my apartment and packed a bag. I kept calling home for some reason and got a busy signal for what seemed like forever. Finally, I got in touch with my cousin and set off to get her. Things are even more unclear after that.

You'd think it would get easier after all these years. And I suppose it is. Sunday and yesterday were really bad. Today's a bit better. By Saturday, I'll be fine. I'll be ready to make Grandma's angel food cake with lemon glaze and get drunk in my grandparents' memory (my Grandpa died on the day we buried Grandma -- 10 years earlier).

What puts things in horrible contrast is the fact that I have to go home for a bit on Sunday for my living Grandpa's 90th birthday "party." It might be mildly interesting because Grandma is apparently seriously losing her shit, but I kinda doubt it. It just seems so fucking unfair that my wonderful, loving grandparents died so many years ago and the evil people who treated my mom like shit and since we're her kids, they treated us awfully shabbily too, are still living and we have to be nice to them. You're a right fucking cunt sometimes, karma.

My gray, bleak mood has been matched, step-for-step by the weather. Jesus H. Christ. I missed the Good Doctor's birthday festivities yesterday because I rarely check my Yahoo e-mail account. I was up at 4:00 a.m. yesterday after not sleeping well the night before. I have PMS. The brakes in my new car -- the ones that were supposed to be at 75 percent -- aren't. I'm sure I'll have to lay out some more money because brakes aren't covered under my warranty. Still no word on my AWOL W-2, despite an e-mail and a phone call.

Oh, and I tweaked something in my right lower leg that forced me to stop my warm-up on the treadmill after 10 minutes today. I was actually ready to stop at about the 6:00 mark, but pushed on. Then I spent the entire time I was lifting weights trying to force myself to just GO HOME and not try to do any more cardio. Good Lord, is that tough. I managed it, though, but only after I looked upstairs and saw the spray bottle of sanitizer was still missing. If The Boy I Currently Like hadn't sent me some e-mail from someone at his work about a Norovirus "epidemic" in the state, I would have been sorely tempted to do it anyway.

It's going to be tough to not do cardio before yoga tomorrow. And to probably skip the gym altogether on Thursday. I'm going to feel gross and lazy and I'll hate myself.

But there's a bonus. I was able to run my errands and get home to get caught up with Gopher game by halftime and see Trent Tucker's jersey retirement ceremony in real time. Sweet! I was at The Barn the night Mychal Thompson's jersey was retired. I think.

And hey -- tomorrow is Hump Day. It's yoga day. It's one week until my birthday. I don't have to work on Monday. Things will be better soon.

09 February 2009

Praise Jebus!

Bathroom Jesus Lady and I must have similar schedules, because she's often in the loo when I am. Granted, 99.9 percent of the time she is yapping on her phone, but we're in there together often.

Truth be told, I'm in the bathroom at the same time as lots of people because I have a tiny bladder and I drink a lot of water throughout the day. But that is neither here nor there.

As seems to be par for the course with these call center women, she was on the phone discussing some sort of financial transaction. After telling the person on the other end to have a blessed day or whatever Flandersesque shit she tells people, I hear:

"Wooooo! Wooooooo! Hallelujia! Praise Jesus! I am the proud owner! Wooooo! Thank you Jesus! Woooooo! I am the proud owner of a 1998 [something or other] Cadillac! Woooooooo! Thank you Lord! Amen!"

It was all I could do to not laugh, which was very troublesome, since I was already having trouble breathing. I'm congested, but that bathroom is fucking stank today, so I was breathing through my mouth. An open mouth is an invitation to laugh. It was rough, y'all.

Apparently, she thought she was alone in there until I came out of the stall. Oops. I congratulated her, though. Paying off your car is a pretty good feeling.

08 February 2009

But where do you rinse?

I was just coming in from the basement and saw a guy walking down the sidewalk. He stopped, and put something in his mouth.

I thought maybe he was lighting a cigarette. However, it was very long; too long to be a cigarette. And this guy didn't exactly look like some hipster douchebag who might be using some sort of retro cigarette holder.

As I climbed the steps to my deck and got closer, I could see it was a toothbrush. He started walking again, this time while brushing his teeth.

06 February 2009

Give me my fucking money.

It is bad enough that I had to buy a fucking car last week. What's making that outlay of several thousand dollars even more fun is the fact that several people/places/things that owe me money are not ponying up.

As I totally fucking knew would happen, I've yet to receive my W2 forms from the job from which I was let go last year. My former coworkers received theirs last week, but I haven't seen jack shit. Of course, the company that did our payroll sent out the W2s and of course nothing I have at home from them has a phone number or anything like that. I've tracked them down on the web, but I have yet to receive a response to my e-mail. Naturally, this means I'll have to take time out from my day to call them and see if they can track my shit down. It's not like I moved or anything. Christ, if I have to deal with my old boss at all on this, I will NEVER get to file my fucking taxes.

I've already spent a good bit of time on the phone with the company that does our flex plan, because they denied part of my last claim, paid a bit and have about $250 listed as "pending." I shelled out the money that my insurance didn't cover for my glasses, so there's no reason to deny that. There's absolutely no fucking reason to deny my birth control prescription or my Claritin. Oh, it's okay. I was only counting on that money to help pay my rent and you know, buy food. Assholes.

The Super Bowl has come and gone, which means fantasy football season has long since ended. Stoner commish said he'd get our finances done over the holidays, yet last week when I checked, the same amount was listed on my account as had been at the beginning of the season. When I e-mailed to ask (ever so delicately and politely), "When am I going to get my goddamn money?" He said he'd get it to me when people paid him. Um, how the fuck can people know how much to pay IF YOU DON'T TELL THEM WHAT THEY OWE? Again, I asked that in as polite a manner as possible. At least I got somewhere with that. He updated the finances and told people to send him money. I'm sure I'll be waiting until the season starts for those jerkoffs to pay. If I don't have my money soon, I might just fucking quit.

Seriously, you take on the responsibility to be the commissioner of the league, you need to live up to those responsibilities. One of the (many, many, many) straws that broke the camel's back with the Cheating Asshole Ex-Boyfriend was the fact that he screwed his friends out of their fantasy football money. He was the commissioner and took all of their money at the beginning of the season (what a novel idea!) and then apparently spent it. Being the cocky asshole that he (no doubt still) is, he must have thought he'd win and not have to pay anything out. So when all was said and done and he hadn't won any money, he couldn't pay the winners either. Not fucking cool at all.

Bah. I'm exhausted and so fucking sore (those new pink gym shoes make me feel great while I'm working out, but when I wake up at 3 a.m. with my knees screaming, they seem less than awesome) and stressed and I totally intended to bug out early today, what with working most of my vacation day on Monday and staying late yesterday and Wednesday, but of course there are like, two huge rush projects looming over us. Delightful!

I'm totally going to punch someone today. Watch out, bathroom skanks.

04 February 2009

Listening to you vomit was the highlight of my day.

I guess I should be glad you apparently got it in the toilet. I've heard tales of puke on the floors. Between the stalls, even!

And it was very kind of you to choose the stall right next to mine, when you could have put a stall between us, or even two stalls between us.

Thanks for making my day. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

03 February 2009

Notes.

Yesterday on my way to my eye appointment, I opened the mirror on the back of my sun visor and a note fell out.



Was the note written to the previous owner or someone else? Did he (or she) ever see it? Just what did he (or she) normally eat for lunch? All candy, all the time? I WANT TO KNOW.

I submitted the note to Found Magazine. Maybe it'll get used!

02 February 2009

Awk. Ward.

I wish I could convey the way that sounds. But how do I convey wide eyes and a high-pitched tone in the title of a blog post?

At some point last week while I was mired in my car drama and unable to really see or think about anything else, an e-mail popped up in my Yahoo account from Match.com. I pretty much only use my Yahoo account when I have to sign up for something these days -- I'm a Gmail girl. And the e-mail was from Match? I haven't actively used that in years. However, it's really nice to still have an account, as I have friends who are using it. And when Mrs. Dirk was all, "Oh, I'm going to go out on a date with this guy," I could actually check him out. Or, I can spy on other people for my friends who are using it to find the love of their lives. Oh, come on. You've not done that?

So, the last time I logged in to Match was this summer to spy on someone for Mrs. Dirk. Why would someone be winking at me? And why would this someone be the guy who works the front desk at my gym? Oh. Boy.

Actually, I'm not worried that he will realize the girl whose card he indifferently scans several days a week is the same girl he winked at on a popular dating site. The picture of me on there is old as hell and I roll up into the gym every night with "makeup" that's about 18 hours old and hair that's up in a half-assed bun or covered by a hat. Not to mention that I look about a billion times worse when I leave.

Oh, but that's not enough. The dude at Trader Joe's who offered me workout advice a few months ago and always discusses my Celtic cross and shamrock pendants, his Celtic tattoo and our Claddagh rings noted that mine was upside down on Saturday.

"Oh, you're still looking?"

No, I'm really not. However, I'm weird about shit like that. Despite the fact that The Boy I Currently Like and I have been seeing each other for well more than a year and we've been exclusive now for a year, he is not my boyfriend. So, the ring remains upside down. Don't get me wrong -- I dig him. Big time. More than I've dug anyone in a long, long time. But the day you apply those labels is the day one of us could break up with the other. Right now, we'd just stop seeing each other and in theory, it seems much less awful.

Yeah, I'm still gun shy after all these years. It's not that I don't eventually want to get to the labeling point. I do. However, I'm totally happy with the way things are now. No need to rush things, right? Maybe you can see why I just told the TJ's guy "Yeah."

As it turns out, Winky wasn't working the desk tonight, so I didn't have anything to worry about. Man, I gotta tell you, I was so glad to get to the gym tonight. I went yesterday, too, but tonight was yoga night. And after not doing yoga for about a week-and-a-half, I needed this. Yoga did not disappoint. I felt so good after class tonight that I think I love everyone.

Okay, that's not true. Dammit. I still hate the douche on the elliptical machine next to me who stood on the machine for 15 minutes reading the paper in a busy gym with very few pieces of cardio equipment open.

Oh, and the douche from my yoga class, who, a couple of weeks ago, said something to our instructor about not knowing "yoga etiquette." And then said, "Oh well." No. Not, "oh well." You see everyone else in the class waiting until the class before us has their equipment off the floor before we go to take our places. It's not that difficult to figure out how shit works. And then when you realize what is going on, you just say, "Fuck it. I'm more important than everyone else. I'll do what I fucking want." Man, fuck you. I hope that girl who is always dropping her weights drops that shit on your foot. I'm sure some crushed toes will help you figure out yoga etiquette. Ass.

But everyone else? I love y'all.

01 February 2009

Pink thoughts.

This post has a soundtrack: Moving Units, "Pink Thoughts."

Despite my vast makeup collection and numerous purses, I am not really much of a girly girl. I belch and swear a lot. I'm not a petite, delicate flower. In fact, The Boy I Currently Like admitted not long ago that if he were ever to raise his hand to me, he would be the one coming out of the encounter worse for wear.

However, you might not realize I'm not a girly girl by looking at my gym accessories. My gym bag is pink. As were the two before it. Yesterday, I got new gym shoes. Guess what: they've got bright-ass pink Adidas stripes on them. Oh, and there's that hot pink hoodie I often wear during yoga to stay warm for Savasana.

You know, it wasn't even that long ago that I refused to wear or buy or have anything that was pink. It was damn near impossible to even find shoes yesterday that weren't super-girly looking. Jesus. It's 2009. GIRLS DON'T ONLY WEAR PINK. We can shoot rifles that aren't pink and maybe, just maybe, we would like to wear our actual team colors, not pink ball caps and t-shirts.

(Side note: I AM DYING from the cuteness of Puppy Bowl -- and a Pedigree commercial that was just on. YOU ARE KILLING ME, ANIMAL PLANET.)

But whatever. My gym bag just hauls my shit to and from the gym. And my new Adidas running shoes seem to have the arch support I need. They felt like a dream today on the elliptical. So they're all pink and girly. I suppose I'll live.

Horrible segue: Football is almost over. *sniff* Despite the fact that I really can't stand Kurt Warner, I'm pulling for the Cardinals. I picked the Steelers to win, though. You'd think I'd go for the team with several former Gophers, wouldn't you? But I just hate the Steelers for some reason. Plus, the Cardinals have Matt Leinart and his hotness trumps a lot of stuff.

My party is going to be small this year. My nephew's party is going to be at least twice the size of mine. Awesome! Of course, after imploring my friends to let me know if they were coming, a few didn't, but oh! You're coming now. Thank goodness I have a pathological need to have about five times the amount of food necessary for the number of people coming over. It'll actually be nice to watch the game this year. I can't remember the last time I actually spent most of the game watching the game and not running around cooking and making drinks and trying to be a good hostess. An intimate affair will be a nice change of pace.

Super Bowl Sunday has taken on a little extra significance the last couple of years, since it was two years ago that The Boy and I struck up our correspondence. Two years? Damn. It doesn't seem like it's been that long.