Hey, remember when I said that I'd be back sometime this week? Well, that was a lie. I'm not back. In fact, this isn't even me. It's a ghost writer named, uh, Urgle Grue?
It's been a successful holiday, for the most part. I have a ton to write about and lots of pictures to post. Christmas in New Mexico was definitely a lot different than Christmases spent in Arizona. For starters, it was freezing! Oh, and there was some sort of white business all over that I heard the natives refer to as "snow". I don't know that word but I'm told that's what it's called. One cousin even told me you could eat it. Um, what? Crazy New Mexicans.
I'm heading up to Phoenix for New Years to spend it with some of the best, if not the most awesome, people I know. It should make for some good times. I'll post more about it next week. For realsies this time.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
What a Wally-World
Who was I kidding? We all know that being the only one working on Christmas Eve equals blogging.
After receiving a basket of ass from the Universe yesterday (no really, you didn't have to Universe. This doesn't come with a gift receipt? *sigh* Of course it doesn't), I have to go to Wal-Mart to get my tire fixed. What happened to my tire, you ask? Fuck if I know, I'm not a scientist. Alls I know is I was walking to my car yesterday feeling pre-eetty sorry for myself when I noticed my tire was flat. FLAT. Whys it gotta be like that, Universe?
But don't worry, my five faithful readers, my writing here today is evidence that I did indeed live through the Seriously, A Flat Fucking Tire Are You Kidding Me?! Fiasco Of 2008. It'll be one for the history books, but at least I can tell my kids that I was there and I only sort of panicked before calling every person I knew to ask for help. This is exactly why I should listen when my dad is trying to teach me to change a tire instead of making jokes. Stupid comedy.
I digress. As a result of the aforementioned S,A.F.F.T.A.Y.K.M?!F.O.08, I have to go to Wal-Mart to get a patch put on my tire. That's right. Wal-Mart. On Christmas Eve. Wait, let me rephrase that. I mean I have to go to the bowels of Hell on what should a holy evening before a holy day. Wal-Mart is a terrible place under normal circumstances. But under Christmas related circumstances? I am honestly afraid for my life.
But y'know, thanks to the Great Cheering Up Efforts of The Evening Of December 23rd, I'm not in a bad mood about it. Yeah, it blows, but by the end of the day I'll be with my friends drinking and watching Christmas movies. And tomorrow by 10 a.m. I'll be in New Mexico with my family, drinking some more and playing in the snow.
All in all, I guess it could be worse. Wish me and Luna* luck today as we try to make it to Wal-Mart by 5 without being murdered and/or murdering others. Amen.
*My Corolla was originally named Sky Masterson (from Guys and Dolls) because it was smooth on the road, much like Sky was smooth with the ladies, and one good looking hunk of metal, again, much like Sky except for the whole being metal part. However, after much consideration, Sky Masterson has been re-christened Luna "White Stallion" Lovegood, or Luna for short. My first car was named Neville because, like Neville Longbottom from Harry Potter, it didn't really serve any purpose but I loved it anyway. Luna (the car) has a light complexion and I imagine would talk in a light, high pitched voice similar to the actress who plays Luna (the person) in the Harry Potter films.**
**I take my car naming seriously, thank you very much.***
***No, I'm not in therapy. Why do you ask?
After receiving a basket of ass from the Universe yesterday (no really, you didn't have to Universe. This doesn't come with a gift receipt? *sigh* Of course it doesn't), I have to go to Wal-Mart to get my tire fixed. What happened to my tire, you ask? Fuck if I know, I'm not a scientist. Alls I know is I was walking to my car yesterday feeling pre-eetty sorry for myself when I noticed my tire was flat. FLAT. Whys it gotta be like that, Universe?
But don't worry, my five faithful readers, my writing here today is evidence that I did indeed live through the Seriously, A Flat Fucking Tire Are You Kidding Me?! Fiasco Of 2008. It'll be one for the history books, but at least I can tell my kids that I was there and I only sort of panicked before calling every person I knew to ask for help. This is exactly why I should listen when my dad is trying to teach me to change a tire instead of making jokes. Stupid comedy.
I digress. As a result of the aforementioned S,A.F.F.T.A.Y.K.M?!F.O.08, I have to go to Wal-Mart to get a patch put on my tire. That's right. Wal-Mart. On Christmas Eve. Wait, let me rephrase that. I mean I have to go to the bowels of Hell on what should a holy evening before a holy day. Wal-Mart is a terrible place under normal circumstances. But under Christmas related circumstances? I am honestly afraid for my life.
But y'know, thanks to the Great Cheering Up Efforts of The Evening Of December 23rd, I'm not in a bad mood about it. Yeah, it blows, but by the end of the day I'll be with my friends drinking and watching Christmas movies. And tomorrow by 10 a.m. I'll be in New Mexico with my family, drinking some more and playing in the snow.
All in all, I guess it could be worse. Wish me and Luna* luck today as we try to make it to Wal-Mart by 5 without being murdered and/or murdering others. Amen.
*My Corolla was originally named Sky Masterson (from Guys and Dolls) because it was smooth on the road, much like Sky was smooth with the ladies, and one good looking hunk of metal, again, much like Sky except for the whole being metal part. However, after much consideration, Sky Masterson has been re-christened Luna "White Stallion" Lovegood, or Luna for short. My first car was named Neville because, like Neville Longbottom from Harry Potter, it didn't really serve any purpose but I loved it anyway. Luna (the car) has a light complexion and I imagine would talk in a light, high pitched voice similar to the actress who plays Luna (the person) in the Harry Potter films.**
**I take my car naming seriously, thank you very much.***
***No, I'm not in therapy. Why do you ask?
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Year Round Dickery
It's been a rough morning. It all started at 2 a.m. I slept on the couch last night because I was alone. My family is in New Mexico for Christmas and when they're not home, the house feels too big. The couch seemed like the only welcoming place. My dog spent half an hour barking at the front door, something both irritating and kind of creepy. I woke up when my alarm went off with a crick in my neck and a dog on my back.
Then, in a rush to find an umbrella and make it into work without being late, I locked myself out of the house. And since I am a certified genius (I won a grant and everything) and keep my house and car keys on the same keychain, I realized that I was a.) royally fucked and b.) locked out of the house...in the rain...without an umbrella...with a mean case of the frizzies. Someone cue the violins.
After a knight in shining armor showed up in The Black Egg (thanks again, M!), it was off to work where things were a little hectic. Nothing I haven't handled before, but I couldn't shake off the crappy bits of the morning and I felt kind of bleh in general.
By 10:30 or so, things were looking up. Work had quieted down and I was starting to unwind. Then a guy came in. He was scruffy looking with a red beard and fogged glasses. He was tense and annoyed the second he came through the door.
"I need a permit," Red Beard grunted. His voice was gruff and he slapped down an envelope on the desk. He's not here to fuck around. I understand that, nobody wants to waste time doing unpleasant errands. But if you needed a permit by the end of the year, maybe coming in December Motherfucking 23rd wasn't the best idea.
Of course, because the Universe has a sense of humor, we don't have the permit he needs. In fact, he's at the wrong place entirely. The only place he can get the type of permit he needs is in Phoenix. Great. I let Red Beard in on the bad news.
"You people keep giving me the run around!" he bellowed. "I'm not going to Phoenix when you should have what I need here." I've dealt with assholes before, this guy should be no different.
"I'm sorry sir," I said. "We don't issue those permits here because that piece of land isn't part of our property. I can give you the Phoenix number if you'd like."
"I'd like to tell you where you can take this whole damn state," he said. Deep breaths, I tell myself. I smiled him, trying my best to remain courteous.
"You're ridiculous," Red Beard growled at me. He picked up his envelope and stormed out.
Fucking prick, I think. A guy from down the hall, who heard the whole exchange, walked up to me.
"What happened?" he asked.
"We didn't have what he was looking for," I said. I could feel my face start to get red and tears began to well up. It wasn't just Red Beard. Everything shitty about the past few days and the morning that preceded it had finally caught up to me. Being alone in a house that's too big, trying to accomplish goals that seem unattainable, feeling grossly inadequate about everything in my life. Everything I'd been successfully avoiding for the past couple weeks found me the second Red Beard walked out the door and took my confidence with him.
"Hey," the guy from down the hall said. "If someone is ever acting like that, my office is only a few doors down."
"Yeah, I've dealt with people like that before," I say. Christ, I can't believe I'm about to cry at work. "It just takes me a minute to process it. I mean, it's Christmas, the time of year people are supposed to be on their best behavior."
"Don't worry about it," the guy says with a shrug. "Some people are dicks year round."
I laugh. Can't argue with that.
Also, I think this may be the last post before Christmas. I'm leaving Thursday to New Mexico to join the rest of the familia, so I'll be on Christmas Vacation* until sometime next week.
Happy Christmas, all.
*Sans Chevy Chase, of course.
Then, in a rush to find an umbrella and make it into work without being late, I locked myself out of the house. And since I am a certified genius (I won a grant and everything) and keep my house and car keys on the same keychain, I realized that I was a.) royally fucked and b.) locked out of the house...in the rain...without an umbrella...with a mean case of the frizzies. Someone cue the violins.
After a knight in shining armor showed up in The Black Egg (thanks again, M!), it was off to work where things were a little hectic. Nothing I haven't handled before, but I couldn't shake off the crappy bits of the morning and I felt kind of bleh in general.
By 10:30 or so, things were looking up. Work had quieted down and I was starting to unwind. Then a guy came in. He was scruffy looking with a red beard and fogged glasses. He was tense and annoyed the second he came through the door.
"I need a permit," Red Beard grunted. His voice was gruff and he slapped down an envelope on the desk. He's not here to fuck around. I understand that, nobody wants to waste time doing unpleasant errands. But if you needed a permit by the end of the year, maybe coming in December Motherfucking 23rd wasn't the best idea.
Of course, because the Universe has a sense of humor, we don't have the permit he needs. In fact, he's at the wrong place entirely. The only place he can get the type of permit he needs is in Phoenix. Great. I let Red Beard in on the bad news.
"You people keep giving me the run around!" he bellowed. "I'm not going to Phoenix when you should have what I need here." I've dealt with assholes before, this guy should be no different.
"I'm sorry sir," I said. "We don't issue those permits here because that piece of land isn't part of our property. I can give you the Phoenix number if you'd like."
"I'd like to tell you where you can take this whole damn state," he said. Deep breaths, I tell myself. I smiled him, trying my best to remain courteous.
"You're ridiculous," Red Beard growled at me. He picked up his envelope and stormed out.
Fucking prick, I think. A guy from down the hall, who heard the whole exchange, walked up to me.
"What happened?" he asked.
"We didn't have what he was looking for," I said. I could feel my face start to get red and tears began to well up. It wasn't just Red Beard. Everything shitty about the past few days and the morning that preceded it had finally caught up to me. Being alone in a house that's too big, trying to accomplish goals that seem unattainable, feeling grossly inadequate about everything in my life. Everything I'd been successfully avoiding for the past couple weeks found me the second Red Beard walked out the door and took my confidence with him.
"Hey," the guy from down the hall said. "If someone is ever acting like that, my office is only a few doors down."
"Yeah, I've dealt with people like that before," I say. Christ, I can't believe I'm about to cry at work. "It just takes me a minute to process it. I mean, it's Christmas, the time of year people are supposed to be on their best behavior."
"Don't worry about it," the guy says with a shrug. "Some people are dicks year round."
I laugh. Can't argue with that.
Also, I think this may be the last post before Christmas. I'm leaving Thursday to New Mexico to join the rest of the familia, so I'll be on Christmas Vacation* until sometime next week.
Happy Christmas, all.
*Sans Chevy Chase, of course.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Think About It, Hollywood
Holy God, it's freezing in my office! I just spent the last five minutes in the bathroom washing my hands because the water that comes out of the faucet is warm. Sweet, warm bathroom water.
Seriously, this is ridiculous. I realize it's Christmas week and nobody gives a shit, but it'd be really nice if I could make it to Thursday without getting frostbite or hearing Morgan Freeman narrate March of the Penguins because it's so cold there's actual penguins in here. In fact, I propose that someone make March of the Penguins 2 and film it in my office. Real people, real setting. I even made up a poster* for your consideration, Hollywood:
"I wish I could tell you it wasn't so cold in that office and that KV fought the good fight and the cold just let her be. I wish I could tell you that- but the office is no fairy-tale world."
Just sayin'. You could film it guerrilla style and pay myself and my co-workers to act in it. Although you'd probably have to haul in some penguins and maybe some snow. And Morgan Freeman. And probably a script. But other than that, I think it's a pretty solid idea.
*I think it would be in my best interest to learn Photoshop. Don't get me wrong-- Microsoft Paint is awesome. But to take my time wasting skills to the next level, I think I may need to learn how to alter photos and paste someones head on a body that's not theirs like the pros.
Seriously, this is ridiculous. I realize it's Christmas week and nobody gives a shit, but it'd be really nice if I could make it to Thursday without getting frostbite or hearing Morgan Freeman narrate March of the Penguins because it's so cold there's actual penguins in here. In fact, I propose that someone make March of the Penguins 2 and film it in my office. Real people, real setting. I even made up a poster* for your consideration, Hollywood:
"I wish I could tell you it wasn't so cold in that office and that KV fought the good fight and the cold just let her be. I wish I could tell you that- but the office is no fairy-tale world."
Just sayin'. You could film it guerrilla style and pay myself and my co-workers to act in it. Although you'd probably have to haul in some penguins and maybe some snow. And Morgan Freeman. And probably a script. But other than that, I think it's a pretty solid idea.
*I think it would be in my best interest to learn Photoshop. Don't get me wrong-- Microsoft Paint is awesome. But to take my time wasting skills to the next level, I think I may need to learn how to alter photos and paste someones head on a body that's not theirs like the pros.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Watching Movies and Knit
It's a Saturday night. Are you doing one or more of the following:
- Knitting?
- Watching The Departed?
- Drinking a margarita flavored wine cooler because you couldn't find actual wine?
- Wearing sweat pants at 8 p.m.?
- Popping Tylenol and Ibuprofen because your back hurts?
- Convinced your hands have the arthritis?
- Wondering if 8:15 is too early to go to bed?
- Telling your dog not to judge you?
If you answered no, congratulations. You're probably a normal, outgoing twentysomething. If you answered yes to any of the above, consider one more question:
- Are you an old woman?
If you answered yes, then you and I are in the same boat. Now can someone please make me some tea? My bones are cold.
Friday, December 19, 2008
4 Boys
A quadruple threat of yum just barged into my office. Four young, muscular and very gorgeous guys came to the desk at work to ask for some general information. So not only are they dangerously* handsome, but they're in fatigues. That's right, Army boys. They're joking with each other and calling me ma'am. Where do I sign up? Clothing is optional in the Army, isn't it?
They need to leave a a $100 deposit. The leader, the cute brunette with blue eyes, only has $40. His buddies pull out crumpled wads of greens from their fatigue pockets. Another $30, a $10, $7.
$87. I want to tell them that I'll just take it, but we can't jerk around with the deposit. So one of them pulls out a quarter. Then a dime. Before I know what's happening, they have another $10 in change. They start to pull out pennies and I say, "That's enough, guys. I'll just take what you have. You don't have to keep pulling things out of your pants."
They laugh. "I was this close to selling my skivvies," one of them says. Maybe I should have let them keep going.
As they leave, one of them, Sommers, stops to shake my hand. "Thanks, ma'am."
"Sure," I say. "Have a good one."
Aside from being one man away from a fantasy, those guys were wonderfully refreshing. They looked my age with baby faces. I don't know where they're from or if they're away from their families, but they were enjoying each other and making the best of the situation. A lot of times, people will come in and freak out if they don't have the right amount of cash or we don't have what they're looking for. They blame each other, they blame us, sometimes they just leave without a thank you or even acknowledge us as human beings. Those people leave a sting that stays with me all day.
"Assholes," I'll mutter trying to shake it off, but their shit attitude stays with me. Sometimes at the end of the day it takes all the energy I have left not to drop armfulls of files and just leave. Thanks to the boys in green though, today will not be one of those days. Today will be a day when I can go home and think, "Y'know, today wasn't so bad to get through."
Thanks, beautiful boys in green.
*I say dangerous because it's almost stroke inducing how cute they were. Is it possible to die due to adorable overexposure?
They need to leave a a $100 deposit. The leader, the cute brunette with blue eyes, only has $40. His buddies pull out crumpled wads of greens from their fatigue pockets. Another $30, a $10, $7.
$87. I want to tell them that I'll just take it, but we can't jerk around with the deposit. So one of them pulls out a quarter. Then a dime. Before I know what's happening, they have another $10 in change. They start to pull out pennies and I say, "That's enough, guys. I'll just take what you have. You don't have to keep pulling things out of your pants."
They laugh. "I was this close to selling my skivvies," one of them says. Maybe I should have let them keep going.
As they leave, one of them, Sommers, stops to shake my hand. "Thanks, ma'am."
"Sure," I say. "Have a good one."
Aside from being one man away from a fantasy, those guys were wonderfully refreshing. They looked my age with baby faces. I don't know where they're from or if they're away from their families, but they were enjoying each other and making the best of the situation. A lot of times, people will come in and freak out if they don't have the right amount of cash or we don't have what they're looking for. They blame each other, they blame us, sometimes they just leave without a thank you or even acknowledge us as human beings. Those people leave a sting that stays with me all day.
"Assholes," I'll mutter trying to shake it off, but their shit attitude stays with me. Sometimes at the end of the day it takes all the energy I have left not to drop armfulls of files and just leave. Thanks to the boys in green though, today will not be one of those days. Today will be a day when I can go home and think, "Y'know, today wasn't so bad to get through."
Thanks, beautiful boys in green.
*I say dangerous because it's almost stroke inducing how cute they were. Is it possible to die due to adorable overexposure?
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Dirty Christmas
Today, Garland and I took a drive to the mall so I could finish up my Christmas shopping. All was going well, then this happened:
Me: I hate it when people are too southwestern. I get that you like it here, but enough with the kokopellis already.
Garland: What about boot tassles?
Me (confused): Boob tassles?!
Garland: Yes, boob tassles. Except they're southwestern so they're bolero tie boob tassles. And in the middle are kokopellis.
Me: That would be so heavy! It'd make your boobs sag so much that National Geographic would have to film you.
Garland: Like a really dirty native tribe. The Inaprop-Hopis.
After that conversation, the day went from a good day to an AMAZING day. It was the first day I actually felt in the Christmas spirit. After I dropped Holly off I drove home with the windows down and let the wind whip across my face. I looked at the sky and thought, "Good one," to whoever was listening.
Good one, indeed.
Me: I hate it when people are too southwestern. I get that you like it here, but enough with the kokopellis already.
Garland: What about boot tassles?
Me (confused): Boob tassles?!
Garland: Yes, boob tassles. Except they're southwestern so they're bolero tie boob tassles. And in the middle are kokopellis.
Me: That would be so heavy! It'd make your boobs sag so much that National Geographic would have to film you.
Garland: Like a really dirty native tribe. The Inaprop-Hopis.
After that conversation, the day went from a good day to an AMAZING day. It was the first day I actually felt in the Christmas spirit. After I dropped Holly off I drove home with the windows down and let the wind whip across my face. I looked at the sky and thought, "Good one," to whoever was listening.
Good one, indeed.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Dating the 10-year-old way
Tonight I was going to blog about my Christmas shopping, IHOPing, gym going and other general -ings, but the powers that be (read: Garland) is making me entertain her. I AM NOT A MACHINE! So I'm doing what any other sane, rational person would do: I'm writing about our conversation in the blog because that way I kill two birds with one stone. Win-win.
Turns out, writing and talking are hard to do at the same time. I'm writing right now and she's humming the Jeopardy theme song. New subject.
I went to Target tonight to get my present on. Because everyone knows that Christmas is all about going broke buying people things they kinda, sorta want. But I digress. I only had one goal in mind: to buy my cousin/goddaughter something awesome. When I was little, I judged people solely on how good their presents were. There's always the family member who gets you socks or, god forbid, underwear. You pull out a pair of granny panties in front of everyone one time and suddenly it's "Grandma KV" this and "knit me some socks" that. But Christmas was always saved by the cool family member who got you the newest toy, an amazingly warm sweater or pretty much anything with flashing lights. I want to be that person for my goddaughter. I am not above bribing kids to like me.
So I'm perusing the toy aisle asking myself, "What did I like when I was ten?" Now there's a question. I can't even remember what I liked a month ago, let alone eleven years ago. I end up in the board game aisle, awe struck and overwhelmed.
"I know, I'll get her Uno," I thought. "That way everyone can play and enjoy the game."
Then I looked to the left and saw Twister. "That might be fun," I thought. "She'll get a little exercise and learn about sexual tension when she plays with her friends."
Then I looked to the right and I saw it. A High School Musical Mystery Dating Game. I couldn't take my eyes off it. When I was a tween, I used to have a Mystery Dating Game, except it wasn't High School Musical. It was from a little show I like to call Saved by the Bell. That's right. I, like everyone else in 1993, was not immune to the curly haired mullet that graced Mario Lopez's pre-pubescent face.
AC Slater showed up on screen and it was like, "I'll AC your slater*."
But I remember loving that game. I was so hip. I was totally with the times. As I stared down High School Musical Dating Game, I knew that was the one. So I bought it and brought it home. And now I'm having second thoughts. The Mystery Dating Game was awesome when I was 10, but ten years later it's just embarrassing. Furthermore, why should 10-year-olds be worrying about dating? And just why is Zac Efron staring at me so intensely? Is there something on my face?
I don't know that I feel comfortable about him staring at my 10-year-old cousin so, lustily.
So, the Mystery Dating Game sits on the chair across from me. Zac Efron's weird kidnapper face stares at me as if to say, "You know you want to date me. C'mon, just roll a 6 or an 8 and we can make-believe date all night long." No. No I don't want to do any of those things. But Dani might. So, I think I'll keep it.
After all, everyone needs an Aunt Tina.
*My sexual innuendos don't have to make sense.
Turns out, writing and talking are hard to do at the same time. I'm writing right now and she's humming the Jeopardy theme song. New subject.
I went to Target tonight to get my present on. Because everyone knows that Christmas is all about going broke buying people things they kinda, sorta want. But I digress. I only had one goal in mind: to buy my cousin/goddaughter something awesome. When I was little, I judged people solely on how good their presents were. There's always the family member who gets you socks or, god forbid, underwear. You pull out a pair of granny panties in front of everyone one time and suddenly it's "Grandma KV" this and "knit me some socks" that. But Christmas was always saved by the cool family member who got you the newest toy, an amazingly warm sweater or pretty much anything with flashing lights. I want to be that person for my goddaughter. I am not above bribing kids to like me.
So I'm perusing the toy aisle asking myself, "What did I like when I was ten?" Now there's a question. I can't even remember what I liked a month ago, let alone eleven years ago. I end up in the board game aisle, awe struck and overwhelmed.
"I know, I'll get her Uno," I thought. "That way everyone can play and enjoy the game."
Then I looked to the left and saw Twister. "That might be fun," I thought. "She'll get a little exercise and learn about sexual tension when she plays with her friends."
Then I looked to the right and I saw it. A High School Musical Mystery Dating Game. I couldn't take my eyes off it. When I was a tween, I used to have a Mystery Dating Game, except it wasn't High School Musical. It was from a little show I like to call Saved by the Bell. That's right. I, like everyone else in 1993, was not immune to the curly haired mullet that graced Mario Lopez's pre-pubescent face.
AC Slater showed up on screen and it was like, "I'll AC your slater*."
But I remember loving that game. I was so hip. I was totally with the times. As I stared down High School Musical Dating Game, I knew that was the one. So I bought it and brought it home. And now I'm having second thoughts. The Mystery Dating Game was awesome when I was 10, but ten years later it's just embarrassing. Furthermore, why should 10-year-olds be worrying about dating? And just why is Zac Efron staring at me so intensely? Is there something on my face?
I don't know that I feel comfortable about him staring at my 10-year-old cousin so, lustily.
So, the Mystery Dating Game sits on the chair across from me. Zac Efron's weird kidnapper face stares at me as if to say, "You know you want to date me. C'mon, just roll a 6 or an 8 and we can make-believe date all night long." No. No I don't want to do any of those things. But Dani might. So, I think I'll keep it.
After all, everyone needs an Aunt Tina.
*My sexual innuendos don't have to make sense.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Let's talk about me!
Sorry for not writing in a few days. I've been busy and in all honesty, not really in a blogging mood. I haven't really been in a "I'm going to accomplish something today!" mood in a while. I blame the holidays. Christmas rolls around and it's just an excuse to check out early.
"Hey KV, did you get that file I asked you for?"
"No. I've been busy preparing for the holidays. I completely forgot."
"I hear ya. Christmas is coming up quick this year!"
It's those seven magical words: I've been busy preparing for the holidays. It's like civilized code for "Hell naw, I ain't done shit since December 1st!" I know this cause I haven't. I've got an incurable case of the lazies. Sure, my body has gone to work, school, out with friends, hill climbing and treadmill running, but my mind is where it always is: wondering when I'm going to be able to lay around in bed all day and watch movies. Because that's mostly how I want to spend every minute of every day for the rest of my life. Is it possible to have a job where one just lays around and watches movies all day? Like my own personal Mystery Science Theater 3000 except (sadly) with less robots.
However, I will settle for being a professional Channel watcher. Someone could pay me six figures to sit around (with or without pants) and watch The National Geographic Channel, The History Channel, The Discovery Channel and The Discovery Health Channel. Hell, I'd even throw in the TLC channel for no additional charge. Really, you're the one getting the deal. I'm just the lady who's been wearing the same tank top for three days watching TV on your couch. Just sayin'.
Anyhoosie, I'll try and get around to writing more this week. Maybe about something meaningful, but no promises. I've got to prepare for the holidays, you know.
"Hey KV, did you get that file I asked you for?"
"No. I've been busy preparing for the holidays. I completely forgot."
"I hear ya. Christmas is coming up quick this year!"
It's those seven magical words: I've been busy preparing for the holidays. It's like civilized code for "Hell naw, I ain't done shit since December 1st!" I know this cause I haven't. I've got an incurable case of the lazies. Sure, my body has gone to work, school, out with friends, hill climbing and treadmill running, but my mind is where it always is: wondering when I'm going to be able to lay around in bed all day and watch movies. Because that's mostly how I want to spend every minute of every day for the rest of my life. Is it possible to have a job where one just lays around and watches movies all day? Like my own personal Mystery Science Theater 3000 except (sadly) with less robots.
However, I will settle for being a professional Channel watcher. Someone could pay me six figures to sit around (with or without pants) and watch The National Geographic Channel, The History Channel, The Discovery Channel and The Discovery Health Channel. Hell, I'd even throw in the TLC channel for no additional charge. Really, you're the one getting the deal. I'm just the lady who's been wearing the same tank top for three days watching TV on your couch. Just sayin'.
Anyhoosie, I'll try and get around to writing more this week. Maybe about something meaningful, but no promises. I've got to prepare for the holidays, you know.
Monday, December 8, 2008
It's not Christmas until it sparkles
Today at work, this happened:
Co-worker: Hey, how was your weekend? Have you done any Christmas decorating?
Me: Not really. I've been kinda busy, which is too bad for Christmas because the way I decorate would make Santa cry and elves sing.
Co-worker: Really? Why don't you put up the Christmas decorations for the office? The decorations are in the box in the basement.
Me: Uh, well I'm kinda busy and I don't have the basement key right now and--
Co-worker: I'LL GO GET THE BOX!!
Crap. Did I say I could decorate? I meant to say that I can watch others while they decorate and provide helpful comments ("That balloon is a little lopsided", "The table cloth is wrinkled", "I'm hungry"). Decorating freaks me out because there are just too many options to commit to. Should I put the Christmas tree in the center of the room or off to the side? Should I wrap garland around it? What if I moved the coffee table over to make room? Should I move the rest of the furniture around? There are literally limitless options when it comes to decorating. It's like the old choose-your-own ending books. I don't want to chose my own ending. You're the one who wrote the book!
But, I didn't want my co-worker to think I was a dirty liar, so I bit the bullet and decorated. And let me tell you, I decorated the crap out of the front office. I used the only fool-proof technique that I know for Christmas decorating: wrap things in sparkly garland.
That snowman was boring and kind of off-putting before the sparkly garland. And the pine cones? Puh-lease, forget about it. I fell asleep twice trying to wrap garland around those bad boys because they were so dull. And now? Well, let's just say that once you lay down in a bed of sweet, itchy garland, you never go back.
Co-worker: Hey, how was your weekend? Have you done any Christmas decorating?
Me: Not really. I've been kinda busy, which is too bad for Christmas because the way I decorate would make Santa cry and elves sing.
Co-worker: Really? Why don't you put up the Christmas decorations for the office? The decorations are in the box in the basement.
Me: Uh, well I'm kinda busy and I don't have the basement key right now and--
Co-worker: I'LL GO GET THE BOX!!
Crap. Did I say I could decorate? I meant to say that I can watch others while they decorate and provide helpful comments ("That balloon is a little lopsided", "The table cloth is wrinkled", "I'm hungry"). Decorating freaks me out because there are just too many options to commit to. Should I put the Christmas tree in the center of the room or off to the side? Should I wrap garland around it? What if I moved the coffee table over to make room? Should I move the rest of the furniture around? There are literally limitless options when it comes to decorating. It's like the old choose-your-own ending books. I don't want to chose my own ending. You're the one who wrote the book!
But, I didn't want my co-worker to think I was a dirty liar, so I bit the bullet and decorated. And let me tell you, I decorated the crap out of the front office. I used the only fool-proof technique that I know for Christmas decorating: wrap things in sparkly garland.
That snowman was boring and kind of off-putting before the sparkly garland. And the pine cones? Puh-lease, forget about it. I fell asleep twice trying to wrap garland around those bad boys because they were so dull. And now? Well, let's just say that once you lay down in a bed of sweet, itchy garland, you never go back.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The heck is this?!
Today I come home from work to find my mother, my own flesh and blood, entertaining the bane of my existence: Tyra Mother Effing Banks. I DO NOT CONDONE TYRA BEING IN MY HOUSE AND ENTERTAINING MY MOTHER.
I hate her so much (Tyra, not my mom). But since my mom frowns upon me telling her what to do, Tyra "Plague Upon The Earth" Banks is still using our television set to transport herself into our living room. That's right, my home, the one place of comfort and safety, is now filled with the loud sounds of a shrewish banshee woman. And who does Tyra think she is? You know what I hate, when she tries to "open people's eyes" to the injustice in the world. Like when she dressed up in a fat suit and lived a day like a plus-sized girl.
Hey, guess what? I didn't need Asshat VagWeiner to dress up in a fat suit to tell me that being fat sucks. I've pretty much been able to figure that out myself. And of course because she's Tyra and a fart face she was all up in people's business about it. Like she would walk up to random strangers and be like, "I'm fat! Why are you judging me?!" and then when they looked at her strangely, she would be like, "People treat you so badly when you're overweight." No, people treat you badly when you're a crazy D-list celebrity dressed in the worst fat suit I've ever seen.
There was just a preview for another episode of her show where they make a little white girl drink dirty water from a water bottle so she can know what it's like to "live in Africa". Puh-lease, Tyra. You're no Oprah.
For Christmas, I'm going to ask Santa to please expel Tyra banks from the face of the earth by any means possible. Or at least cancel her shows. Or a pony.
I hate her so much (Tyra, not my mom). But since my mom frowns upon me telling her what to do, Tyra "Plague Upon The Earth" Banks is still using our television set to transport herself into our living room. That's right, my home, the one place of comfort and safety, is now filled with the loud sounds of a shrewish banshee woman. And who does Tyra think she is? You know what I hate, when she tries to "open people's eyes" to the injustice in the world. Like when she dressed up in a fat suit and lived a day like a plus-sized girl.
Hey, guess what? I didn't need Asshat VagWeiner to dress up in a fat suit to tell me that being fat sucks. I've pretty much been able to figure that out myself. And of course because she's Tyra and a fart face she was all up in people's business about it. Like she would walk up to random strangers and be like, "I'm fat! Why are you judging me?!" and then when they looked at her strangely, she would be like, "People treat you so badly when you're overweight." No, people treat you badly when you're a crazy D-list celebrity dressed in the worst fat suit I've ever seen.
There was just a preview for another episode of her show where they make a little white girl drink dirty water from a water bottle so she can know what it's like to "live in Africa". Puh-lease, Tyra. You're no Oprah.
For Christmas, I'm going to ask Santa to please expel Tyra banks from the face of the earth by any means possible. Or at least cancel her shows. Or a pony.
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