Operation Pink Herring

Going to the moon, BRB

I know this is a bold statement, but I think this is the funniest website I've ever seen (link borrowed from sweetney).

It might have something to do with how much Mechanic Kittay reminds me of this idiot:

When UR at werk

 

Im pretendin 2 B Marie Antionnette 

The Invisible Sandwich cat is also a pretty good likeness.  Last night we caught Madison in a fake fight with one of the neighborhood strays, who was sitting on the other side of kitchen window.  They were swatting at each other from opposite sides of the glass.  Sometimes you can just feel the love, you know?

:::

In other news, I am currently sweating to death because I decided to disregard the weatherman's prediction of 60-degree weather today (when is the weatherman ever right?) and wore a wool turtleneck to work.  And I just found a big fatty hole in one of the armpits.  Maybe it will provide some ventilation, at the very least.

Mmmm... venti.  I need some coffee.  I hope they still make iced coffees in almost-November. 

Otherwise I might just pretend it's my Halloween costume:

I'm a JCrew model!  Who ripped her sweater! Get it? I'm an out of work JCrew model who has no money to buy new clothing!  That's why I haven't brushed my hair in several weeks and I'm not wearing any makeup...wait, what do you mean Halloween's not today?  Tomorrow??  Well, hell, I guess I look pretty silly, then don't I?

Happy FREAKING Monday, internet.  I hope you're all well rested and appropriately dressed for the weather.

Negro IS the word for black... right?

I bitch a lot.  Maybe you've noticed.

My three favorite topics to complain about are: (lack of) parking in our faux-yuppie neighborhood, nasty men making noises and/or gestures at me while I am innocently walking down the street, and Max's penchant for depositing bodily fluids on the rug.

I am of the belief that there isn't much I can do about any of these things... except, of course, complain about them on the interet!  I've tried just not going anywhere, and while that does solve the parking dilemma, we seem to run out of food rather quickly.  And I guess I could try to walk to the mall... after all, it would be a lot harder to miss the exit if I weren't driving at 80 miles per hour.  Ahem, I mean 55.  But there is a certain satisfaction I feel when I park my car in a spot that it can't physically fit into.  It just feels good to defy the laws of physics, you know?

Dear Honda owner: Sorry.

I've also tried teaching Max to vomit on the easy-to-clean-with-bleach bathroom floors instead of the carpet, with what you could consider moderate success: now he barfs on both the hardwood floors in the hallways AND on the carpet.  I know he's trying.  And he's gotten amazingly good at his walking on two legs in exchange for a treat trick, so I still have some hope. 

But I really don't know what the best response to the perpetual "Hola mami, how yooo doooing?"  I generally think that just ignoring them is the best response.  Sometimes I can't help but cast a dirty look, and sometimes I throw up a little in my mouth.  One time, I exploded and let loose a stream of profanities and middle fingers, but it didn't make me feel any better, really.  So tell me, what's a girl to do?

Joel thinks I should say something really mean to them in Spanish, so they know that I actually understand what they're saying about my various body parts.  I don't think that would really help, because it's pretty obvious what they are saying, and even if they were speaking Vietnamese, I would have a pretty good idea.  Smooching noises are not so hard to decipher, in any language.

The other problem with this proposed tactic, which he refuses to accept, is that I no longer really speak Spanish.  There was a time when I was fluent, but at that time I was living in Madrid.  I held on to it pretty well when I came back, but now that I'm out of school, not even taking Business Spanish or some other joke class to keep up my skills, I have lost so much of my Spanish that it makes me want to cry.  I'm sure I could pick it up again if I were to go back to a Spanish-speaking country for a few days, but when you never have the opportunity to practice, it's really hard to hold on to a language.

Now, I'm not trying to complain.  Not about that, at least.  I just wanted to report that I've finally convinced Joel, I think, that I have lost as much Spanish as I think I have.  Because when he just called me to ask what the Spanish word for the color black was, I had to think for a second.  And then I had to Google it after he hung up, just to make sure I got it right.

Dios mio.  I better go put on some Shakira.

Tenth time's the charm

Last week I was going to write an entry about all the stupid things I'd done while Joel was away, and somehow blame it all on him for not being here.  Either that, or I was going to conclude that his prescence in my life is the only thing that keeps me from accidentally stumbling in front of a UPS truck every morning.  But then I decided to watch TV instead, and I never got around to it.  I know you're heartbroken.  Please stop crying.  Really, don't cry.  If I see other people cry, then I start crying, and... oh, hell.   Now I'm crying.  Great.

So, *sniff*, sometimes Joel makes fun of me and tells me that I'm a mess, which I vehemently deny, because I clearly have my shit together.  Sure, sometimes I go to work with the size sticker still attached to my cute new sweater, and sometimes I try to cook and end up with a charred heap of burnt fish and some shattered CorningWear.  But in general, I have it together. 

Or something.

ONE. As a grand kickoff to my week-long stupidity fest, I came home from the gym on Thursday night and couldn't find my keys.  It turned out that I had left them at work.  My work is not that far away, and I could have just walked back and got them, but: 1. My office is in the bona-fide ghetto.  2.  It was already 7pm, and dark out. 3. My key to the office is also on my keychain, so I couldn't even get in.  4.  I was tired and didn't feel like walking any more.

Whoops!  Liz to the rescue!  Good thing I refused to let her give me that house key back after she babysat the cats, for just this reason!   Good thing she picked up the phone!

TWO. The next day, I decided to skip the gym and make myself a nice dinner for one.  Except, I burned it so badly that it was inedible.  Seriously, that pork chop was so black, even Max wouldn't eat it.  And Max eats bugs, and enjoys chewing on the broom.  But at least I didn't set off the smoke alarm, because we've temporarily disconnected it again.

THREE STRIKES, BUT I'M NOT OUT! On Saturday morning, I went to pick up our dry cleaning.  As I was sitting in my car rooting through my purse for the pickup ticket, I realize I don't have it, because my entire wallet seems to be missing.   I went back home, got my wallet, and came back, paid for my dry cleaning and dropped off my new red peacoat, and left.

FOUR.  As was pulling out of the parking lot, I noticed a crazed-looking Korean lady running after me.   Waving... something?  What is that?  Oh, my dry cleaning.  Which I forgot to take with me after I paid for it. 

FIVE. On Saturday, I bought myself some not-scrapbooks.  On Saturday night, I ruined all of the plastic protector sheets (SHUT UP) by putting them in too-close proximity to the rubber cement (SHUT UP!).  On Sunday, I went to try to sneakily return them and get a new book.  On my way there, I was daydreaming and missed the exit for the mall.   Had to drive 7 miles north on the highway before the first exit. 

SIX.  The craft store woman shows me how to open the binder in the not-scrapbook and replace the pages.  She still lets me return it, and pretends not to notice that I'm an idiot.

SEVEN.  In my rush to leave for work on Monday, I forgot my lunch.  I berated myself for this the whole way to work, thinging  Great, now I'm going to have to buy lunch, on top of coffee because I had sympathy insomnia and couldn't sleep until Joel got home at 3am, and this staying alive is just getting too damn expensive. Got to work, and saw that the leftovers I forgot to bring home on Friday were still there.  Evidence that two wrongs DO make a right?  I think so.

EIGHT.  Had to run back into the house because I forgot my new book.  Read all of two pages of new book at lunch.  Come home, and looking forward to picking up on page three, go to get out my new book... and realize I left it at the gym.  Which closes in 18 minutes. 

NINE.  Made Joel drive with me back to the gym and sit in the illegally parked car, while I run up to find my book. 

TEN.  Tell the world about it all, hoping it will break my curse.  Plan to walk across the path of three black cats next week if that doesn't work.

Today's photos are brought to you by the letter V

The pictures from the wedding I went to earlier this month (the first one) have just come in over email.   My memories of the evening had been tainted by the way I felt for several days afterwards (which was, lying on the couch wishing to be dead, hugging the toilet wishing to be dead, and lying in bed wishing to be dead).   

The pictures have reminded me that all the wishing to be dead was preceded by some very fun times, which, I suppose, is what hangovers are all about.  And that's the moral of today's episode.

####

At the beginning of the night, we were four photogenic friends (you like that alliteration?)

 

Bethy looks skinny!  I look sober!  Jenny looks sexy!  Clippy looks warm (which was quite a feat in the FREEZING reception hall)!

By the middle of the evening, I am having trouble keeping my tongue in my mouth.

So what if I'm no longer looking exactly sober, because, hey!  My hair is still straight, thanks to Jenny's magical flat iron.  Which reminds me, I've been meaning to buy one of those things.

And by the end of the evening... well, I think we know how that turned out.   

Is it bad that when I saw this, that dreadful Alanis Morrisette song popped into my head?  I've got one hand on my vodka, and the other one is making a peace sign....

1001 reasons why an open bar is the greatest invention of all time (with Jenny's magical flat iron coming in at a close second).

Peace out, ya'll.

You say potato, I say ITS NOT A FREAKING SCRAPBOOK

As much fun as I had frolicking about doing errands last week, it's a good thing I'm back to a normal schedule, because my credit card and I became very close buddies last week.  A little too close, if you know what I mean. 

Not going to work is expensive.  I mean, I am happy that I got a gorgeous new red peacoat (yep, I went back and got it), and a cute new sophisticated purse, and a pair of Seven jeans.  I'm just not so sure that I needed to spend $50 at Old Navy (on socks and pair of fleece sweats) (but the socks are really cute and the fleece pants are SO comfy).  Or that I needed to buy two books at Barnes and Noble (but a gift certificate paid for half of one of them!).  I'm positive that I didn't need to buy a pumpkin spice latte and a spinach and feta-stuffed pretzel while I was at Barnes and Noble, but man!  Were they ever good.

The bottom line is that  I spent almost $400, and the only things that I can truly say I needed were the $12 purse and three $11 photo albums.   But my new purple argyle Old Navy socks are making my Monday a little bit brighter today, I do have to admit. 

What really makes me feel that I went a little overboard is that I visited many of the stores that happily drained my bank account more than once in the same week.  For starters, I had to go back to the consignment shop after convincing myself that I did in fact NEED that red peacoat.  And then I had to go back to the tailor's, to add said peacoat to my order to have my Seven jeans hemmed.  Then, on Saturday, I went to AC Moore to but a photo album for all of our vacation pictures, which I've just finally gotten around to having printed.  I should have known that a simple in-and-out trip to AC Moore was a pipe dream, but what can I say?  I'm just so naive. 

I generally hate going to AC Moore (or Michael's, or any other crafty craftster place).   The way they bombard you with cheap, ugly holiday "decorations" makes me cringe and want to run out screaming, "I'M NOT A CRAZY CAT LADY YET!  I STILL TALK TO REAL PEOPLE AND I SWEAR, I'M NOT EVEN GOOD AT CRAFTS!!"  But those places are the only places I can get the photo albums I like, because Target/Walmart/Marshall's/TJMaxx (places I consider perfectly acceptable to shop at, ironically) all insist on only carrying the kind where you slip the photos into sleeves.  I don't like those kinds, because then you can't write notes under the pictures.  Or doodle things like "Seattle vacation 2006".  And you certainly can't paste your various boarding passes and admission tickets and other random "souvenirs" in those kind of photo albums, if there just happens to be a little vestigial packrat hidden somewhere inside your deep, dark, blackened heart.

I know what you're thinking.  And you can just stop it RIGHT NOW.  Because I am not a scrapbooker.

I also hate the Crafty Stores because they are overwhelming, and not in the Old Navy I-want-to-buy-everything-in-here-someone-please-help sort of way.  Here's a prime example:  I was also hoping to buy a patch for a pair of jeans that I desperately love, which has torn a hole in a very sensitive area.  I know I've seen those iron-on blue patches before, but now that I need one, I've been unable to find one anywhere.  I figured AC Moore would have to have it, since they have everything from fake plastic ivy to make-your-own wedding veil kits.  Upon walking into the store, I asked someone working there if they had clothing patches, and she kindly directed me to the correct aisle, where I found a myriad of peace sign and flower power patches -- which reminded me a little too much of my own wardrobe in middle school -- but not a single plain old REPAIR patch.   This only made me realize I needed to get out of there, and FAST, before I morphed magically into a 45 year old woman with a mullet and a sweatshirt with a screen printed cat on it and started asking where I could get a refill for my bedazzler.

I made a beeline for the back of the store, where I assumed that the giant sign advertising "CUSTOM FRAMING" would also indicate the rest of the photo supplies were housed in the vicinity.  And lo, I was right, and I found aisle upon aisle of glass photo frames, wood photo frames, fake wood photo frames, photo collage kits,  mat-cutting scissors, frameable prints of flowers and horses and motivational posters, and pretty much everything you could ever imagine relating to the art of photography.  Except, no photo albums. 

I could not believe that such a store would not carry a single photo album, so I came to the conclusion that they must have their own display area.  And so, I set out to find them. 

I was just about to give up when I saw what looked like a wedding photo album sticking out of a shelf in the far right corner of the store (next to the beading and embroidery supplies).  And yes!  There they were.  Right under a big sign that said "SCRAP BOOKING CORNER"

Oh, hell no.

I had an impulse to walk -- nay, ran -- out right then and there, plunge my head into the decorative fountain outside, and then speed home -- possibly stopping at Ikea to restore a bit of my dignity.  But I actually saw a book I sort of liked.  And it was on sale.  So I picked it up.  And the next thing I knew, my coffee table was covered in a mess or cardstock paper, photos, and rubber cement and I was high on glue fumes and watching Bridget Jones' Diary: The Edge of Reason for the third time through.  I spent the better part of the weekend hunched over that table, trying to work out the best photo arrangements and get everything aligned just so.   Every time that Joel would call from Boston and ask what I was doing, I would say "NOT scrapbooking, if that's what you're thinking!" and then merrily continue pasting photo collages on each page.

The fact that I had to go back to the store for another album and more glue on Sunday means NOTHING, I tell you.  I refuse to be a scrapbooker.  Crazy Cat Lady, sure.  I'm fine with that.  Neurotic, compulsive, obsessive, FINE.  Call me what you will... just mention the word scrapbook if you come over and ask to see our vacation pictures.  Because then I might just have to glue your mouth shut with my stockpile of rubber cement.

More than you wanted to know

Warning: Typepad is being a bitch today, and I had to "edit" the "HTML" on this post.  As I have no idea how to edit html, things may look "funny", "strange", or "fucked up".  I will try to fix them if I have time later, but right now Typepad and I are in a fight, and this is the part where I slam the door and walk around the block a few times (which will be followed by the part where I realize I forgot my keys, and sit on the steps waiting to be let back in).   

At long last, as my special gift to you, internet, on this glorious Friday, I give you the end of the questions.  Anything to get out of telling you the story of how I locked myself out of the house last night, which is about the 5th or 6th time I've locked myself out of the house and the second time I've done it WHILE JOEL IS 500 MILES AWAY.  Sometimes I curse our fortress of a rowhouse, with it's huge window plantar box and gated alley and deadbolt and alarm system.  Sure, no burglars are getting in, but that's not that much good when you're more scared of Jack the Ripper and the Blair Witch, and you have a tendency to leave your keys on your desk at work in your rush to get to the gym before all the good machines are taken.

But really, that's not what we're talking about here, internet. Stop getting so sidetracked. God.

So, Lisa (a fellow insomniac! word up, non-sleepers represent!) asked: What was your first kiss like? What's the story around it? Are you still friends with that person too?

You're supposed to, like, remember your first kiss, right?  Or something?  Crap. 

I am pretty sure that my first kiss was in the eighth grade, with a young lad named Adam, in a movie theater. I suppose if I were a normal girly girl, I would know that for sure, and I might even remember what movie we "saw", what the date was, and what I was wearing.  I could probably look all that up in my journal, because I'm sure I recorded such a groundbreaking milestone, but the truth is that I don't really remember it.

Ok, so I just went and looked for my old journal because the not being able to remember was driving me crazy, but it seems that the book that memorializes ages six through thirteen is still somewhere in my Mom's house in New Jersey. That's a real shame, because now that I think about it, I can almost remember writing about how it was wet and sloppy and gross and I could not understand why people thought it was cool to slobber on each other's faces.  I think he might even have bit me (accidentally)! If it's not in the journal, then I'm sure it was written in a note to my BFF at the time, Kate. Lucky for you, internet, I saved all those all notes. You see, I have a dirty little secret, and you have to promise not to tell Joel. I used to be a packrat, in a huge way. We're talking saving every blurry picture, note, letter, friendship bracelet, and soda tab that broke off on the letter of the boy's name that I liked at the time. (Oh shut up, you know you did the soda tab thing too). I didn't manage to break myself of the Save Everything habit until I moved for the fourth time in college and had to cram all of my wordly possessions into two suitcases, a backpack, and a very large purse, and then lug it all on a very long metro ride at an ungodly hour of the morning to the airport. After that, I became a minimalist. People can change!

Back to the kiss: even though I can't remember the actual incident, I am positive that it took place with young Adam.  We were in the eighth grade, he was my "boyfriend" and we held hands under the desks in English class and made out in the movies. It was kind of gross, and I will be sure to look for all those notes when I go home for Thanksgiving, because I'm sure they would be entertaining. Adam and I "dated" for a long time, which meant that we talked on the phone every night and passed notes and sometimes made out. Then I broke up with him, over the phone from Kate's bedroom, the day before we started high school because I wanted to be "free" to start my high school career. He told me that he couldn't care less, I said "Yeah, right! You're just pissed that I dumped you! Loser!" Ah, the maturity.

I thought it might be weird seeing him around school, and it probably would have been if his parents hadn't moved the family to Malaysia sophomore year. We got periodic updates about him from his long distance girlfriend, who was nowhere near as cool as me. Then he ended up coming back to the states and going to college with one of my best friends, Jenny, and it was a pretty small school, so I saw him a few times when I went down to visit her.  We were on friendly terms, and we even talked over IM every once in awhile.  Then, one time, when two of my friends and I went to visit Jenny.  One of our friends ended up accidentally spending the night at his place, and we found her lying on the lawn outside of Jenny's dorm the next morning, yelling for someone to please let her in.  There was a tour of prospective students walking by, and it was priceless.  Jenny started laughing and told our friend that she better watch out, because Adam's frat nickname was "The Walking STD".

Nice.  Watch out boys, because I think the lesson here is that after dating me, things can only go downhill.  First you'll just date some girls that are clearly not as cool as I am, and the next thing you know, your whole school will know you as Gonorrhea With Legs. 

And last but certainly not least, we have the questions submitted by the lovely Isabel, who lives in Seattle but I was totally too chicken to email when we went out there this summer, and who later told me that we were posing for pictures two blocks outsider her workplace, and I am possibly still kicking myself over that.

If you were to quit your job (like I just suggested I do myself), what would you do with your time (money is no object)??

You know in Office Space (I KNOW you have all seen Office Space, and if you have not, I command you to stop reading this blog right now, get yourself to a Blockbuster, and sit down and watch it at least three times back to back), when Peter is having this conversation with his creepy neighbor, and he says that if he could do whatever he wanted all day, he would do nothing?

What's that? You want me to make a quick trip over to the Great Internet Movie Database in the Sky and paste that dialog right here, so you can refresh your memory? Well, alright then.

Peter: What would you do if you had a million dollars?

Creepy Neighbor Lawrence: I'll tell you what I'd do, man: two chicks at the same time, man.

Peter: That's it? If you had a million dollars, you'd do two chicks at the same time?

Creepy Neighbor Lawrence: Damn straight. I always wanted to do that, man. And I think if I were a millionaire I could hook that up, too; 'cause chicks dig dudes with money.

Peter: Well, not all chicks.

Creepy Neighbor Lawrence: Well, the type of chicks that'd double up on a dude like me do.

Peter: Good point.

Creepy Neighbor Lawrence: Well, what about you now? what would you do?

Peter: Besides two chicks at the same time?

Creepy Neighbor Lawrence: Well, yeah.

Peter: Nothing.

Creepy Neighbor Lawrence: Nothing, huh?

Peter: I would relax... I would sit on my ass all day... I would do nothing.

Creepy Neighbor Lawrence: Well, you don't need a million dollars to do nothing, man. Take a look at my cousin: he's broke, don't do shit.

That's some great dialog right there. I tell you, they just don't make cult classics like they used to.

But that's the opposite of what I would do.

If I didn't have to work, I would start each day off with a healthy dose of sleeping in. I would sleep until at least 10am. But no later than 11, because I don't want to waste the whole day!

Next, I would go to a yoga class. You said money is no object, right? So I can blow twelve bucks on a yoga class every day, no problem. I would be doing that arm balance in no time if I could make it to yoga more than once a week.

Then I would take a shower and go to Chipotle for lunch. After savoring my vegetarian burrito (with both kinds of beans, hold the sour cream and salsa), I would wander over to Barnes and Noble and buy whatever book struck my fancy by having a pretty cover, and sit outside and read.

In the afternoon, I would volunteer at the SPCA. Then I would come home and whip up a delicious dinner, which Joel and I would eat while watching TV recorded by our Tivo. Because if money is no object, you better believe I have a Tivo. And possibly an Ipod, too.

I would end the day by staying up until 3am organizing, cleaning, and working on our various home improvement projects. I'd paint the house, finish My Wall, and play with all the cats that I would doubtlessly rescue from the SPCA. And when I'd finished those projects, I'd start some new ones.

Do you ever pee in the shower? (Come on, we NEED to know!)

I really don't understand the big deal people make about peeing in the shower, but I can assure you that I personally do no such thing, because my cats have this strange habit of jumping into the bathtub after I take a shower and licking all of the water up. I swear, I give them fresh water in a nice, clean bowl every day. But they prefer to drink out of the bathtub. Max draws the line there, and he'll deign to drink out of the water bowls too, because he's a thirsty dude and I don't take enough showers for his metabolism. Madison, however, will drink out of the sinks, the houseplants, and, if we forget to put the lids down, the toilets.

Exhibit A: And we wonder why I can't keep plants alive.

Exhibit B: The smuggest smile that you ever will see (on an animal, at least).

Exhibit C: TThis has really gotten annoying, since when he can't reach the water (or cranberry juice, or soda), he just knocks the cup over for easier access.

Exhibit D: This one truly captures Madison's spirit, which is to say that you can see the little demon that lives inside him in his eyes.  He is pissed that I won't open the damn toilet for him, and is threatening to shred all the toilet paper once again if I don't comply.

Along with his bad habit of taking a drink out of any cup left unattended, Madison also enjoys sleeping on my pillow. Never Joel's pillow, only mine. And no one wants a cat sleeping on the pillow next to their face after he's licked up pee.

I guess you can ask me again if Madison ever gives up sleeping on my memory foam pillow, but I don't think he's going to do that anytime soon. Even if he did, the toilet is just so close to the bathtub... it's just so easy. As long as you don't flush before you get in, of course!

But I will tell you what I do, that some of my friends think is weird....I poop at work. When you gotta go, you gotta go! And, let's be honest: better their bathroom stinks than mine (it's a very large bathroom, with at least 30 stalls, just so you know).

Do you ever poop at work? Do you think it's crazy/weird/embarrassing? Would you like me to stop talking now? Very well. Happy Friday to all, and to all a good night.

Days Of Our (My) Life

Sorry I've been MIA lately.  I took the day off today to recover from a wedding I went to in Chicago this weekend, but (thankfully) I managed not to repeat my performance from two weeks ago at THIS wedding, and I didn't really need to "recover".   So it's been a glorious day of errands, home improvement, fall weather, and daytime television.

The wedding was uneventful, in that I had one (ONE!) glass of wine and managed not to vomit in any fast food restaurants.  So maybe I am capable of drinking in moderation... but at the very least, the state of Illinois was left unscathed by my presence.  One more wedding down... and another friend announced her engagement.  It's officially official, everyone I know is getting engaged or getting married.

I was excited to go to yoga this morning to start my Mental Health Day off right, but yoga sucked.  My leg/back has been acting up lately, and I could hardly do anything.  It still felt good to get some exercise, but I am beyond frustrated at my "injury" for coming back.  My friend who is almost a doctor (3rd year med student) said I should try going to a rheumatologist to rule out inflammation and arthritis.  So I guess that's what I'll be doing as soon as I get back to work, because I have no desire to go back to the Smug Sports Orthopedist.  Sometimes I feel like I should just give up.  It could be worse, and I feel bad for feeling sorry for myself when there are people with all kind of horrible disorders and diseases.  Other times I feel so angry that I've been dealing with this for five years, and I still have no diagnosis and no respite.   And if one more doctor tells me to try "taking a few weeks to rest" or "taking up yoga", I'm afraid that I won't be able to just fake a smile and cry in the bathroom on my way out.  I'm afraid that I'll kick him or her in the baby-making parts and show them how I can fucking stand on my head from all the yoga I've been doing, but I still can't run a mile.

Anyway.  On to more upbeat topics.  I did myself some shopping this morning, when I was dropping off some things at the consignment shop down the street.  I love the whole concept of a consignment shop, because people (ahem... me) get sick or grow out of their clothes so quickly and most are still perfectly good.  It's great to be able to "recycle" them, so they don't end up in the trash, and make a few bucks in the process.

The one problem is that I'm pretty sure I've never made any actual money from all the clothes I've sold in consignment stores, because I always end up buying something for myself when I go in to drop things off.

I've been looking for a new purse for quite some time.  I have a lot of requirements for this new purse:  it has to be basic enough to go with every day outfits, but not so basic that it's boring.   It has to be big enough to fit my keys, wallet, cell phone, a bottle of water and a book, but not so big that it makes me look ridiculous when I carry it.  It has to have lots of compartments so that I can organize all must stuff in it, and have some structure.  It also has to cost less than a week's worth of groceries.  Oh, and it has to be "me". 

I've been using this bag that I used to love for about two years, and now it's the point where I hate it.  I can't really explain the complete 180 I've done on this poor bag, but I cannot WAIT to get a new one to replace it so I can take it to Goodwill and never have to see it again. 

I'm proud to announce that I found a lovely bag at the consignment shop this morning which met ALL of my requirements.  And it cost $12.  Internet, meet my new bag.   

It says Sonoma on the inside, which I am pretty sure is a Sears brand or something, but I don't care.  I pink-puffy-heart it.

Just for reference, here's the old bag. 

(And for the record, I have nothing against Vera Bradley, and if you have a bag like this, I am sure it is lovely.  I am just sick of this thing.) 

Oh, and I also got a pair of Seven jeans, which I promptly dropped off at the tailor to be hemmed.   And I ALMOST bought a red Kenneth Cole peacoat.  I might go back for it this weekend.  It was really gorgeous, but it cost $54... which I know is a bargain... but I already have a peacoat that I love (camel colored, JCrew).  And I'm always ragging on Joel for buying things he totally doesn't need, so I feel a little hypocritical.  We'll see.  Maybe someone will buy it and save me the agony of deciding whether or not I should get it.  Here's to hoping! (Sort of.  Because I really, really want it).

Happy Monday, internet.  I have to go watch Seventh Heaven reruns and finish painting the bathroom now.   I love days off.

Smoke screen

We have this smoke detector in our house that has had a dead battery for quite some time.  Actually, we have several smoke detectors that have either had dead batteries or NO batteries for quite some time, as we had to disconnect them all when our burglar alarm was installed three years ago, and we never got around to re-connecting the ones that are up high enough to require the ladder.  Or the one in the basement.  I know, I know.  I should really get on that.

And guess what!  I did get on that (and by "I", I mean "Joel").  While we had the ladder out to assist one very short me in painting one very tall ceiling one very red hue, Joel replaced the batteries in two of the non-working smoke detectors (Mom, please do not worry. We have like 7 working smoke detectors).  And now I am beginning to wonder if we may have one smoke detector that is slightly angry at us for the length of time that it was left bereft of a working 9-volt Duracell.  At the very least, it seems to be a bit oversensitive.

When Joel put the apple pie in to bake on Sunday night, I was left to watch it while Joel went to move his car out of the Street Cleaning Ticket Zone (see: Ass, Parking Is A Pain In).  Two seconds after he left, a horribly loud beeping sound started to shake our house, causing Max to make a beeline for his top secret, super safe hiding place under the bed (see: Cat, Neurotic) and Madison to run laps around the kitchen at top speed (see: Cat, Fluffy and Insane).  It took me a minute to figure out what it was.  And then all I could think was, I can't believe I burned the pie without even touching it. This must be a new record.

Oh yes, and Joel is going to kill me.

But it was kind of strange, since there was no smoke or anything.  And the pie had been baking for all of 5 minutes, at the correct temperature.   I opened the oven to check (I know, I know: you are never supposed to open the oven, for it lets all the heat out.  But you try remembering that when your house is supposedly burning down), and the pie looked fine. I fanned the smoke detector until it stopped beeping, opened a window in the kitchen, and turned on the oven's vent fan.  Joel came back, inspected the pie, and confirmed that everything was fine.

Weird, right?  This is why I hate baking.  It's so much work, makes you fat, AND burns the house down. 

However, I also thought it was kind of strange when the smoke detector went off last night.  I was boiling water, over medium heat.  I couldn't really blame that on baking.  Again, I fanned the smoke detector, opened a window, yadda yadda.  (This time, Madison ran around the kitchen at top speed, and Max yawned and ate some food).

Then, this morning, the smoke detector decided to raise hell at 4:30am.  The offense?  Joel put a waffle in the toaster.

Now, is it just me, or is this not normal behavior for a smoke detector?  I think we are going to need to have a heart-to-plastic heart, because it's one thing to hear the alarm clock AND Joel's cell phone backup alarm going off every morning at 4am.  It's quite another to be jolted out of bed by an a noise that is supposed to alert your impending death.  I would hate to overuse Dr. Phil's catchphrase, but THIS IS NOT OK.

I think I'm going to need more money

Today's thought-provoking questions are brought to you by the lovely Janet, whose straight, blonde hair I positively covet.

So, Lovely Janet asked:

1. What is the hardest thing you have ever done? Could you do it again?

I'm pretty certain that this post sums it up pretty well.  Letting go of my eating disorder was the hardest thing I have ever done.  I hope that I could do it again, but I'd rather never have to find out.

2. What is your dream job?

I really, really wish I knew.  Sometimes I think that I would like To Be A Writer, but I don't even really know what writers do.  Besides, you know, write words and stuff. 

I think I might like to be a veterinarian, but I can't stand needles and blood, and I certainly could not surgically alter an animal.  Spay and neuter your pets!  Just don't ask me to do it.   Sometimes I think I should be a vet tech instead, but I am pretty sure that involves a lot of cleaning up poo, and that's one job that I think my current employment beats out for better use of my college degree.

My friend and I have recently been discussing the many virtues of being a teacher.  Summers off!  Lots of holidays!  A break to the monotony of the constant work year!  But... I don't really like teaching.

So, if I could just get rid of my squeamishness, I think that being a vet would be my dream job.   Then again, if I can just take away my natural tendencies, can I also give myself talents?   Because then I would like to be a singer.  Specifically, I would like to be Kelly Clarkson. 

3. I second anything about shoes! Nice question, Joke!

I wish I had something new to report on the shoe front, but I don't.   Still wearing the same black and brown pair at work, still have the same pretty ones sitting in the closet.

4. If $10,000 fell from the sky tomorrow, how would you spend it? Let's say you can't save it for a rainy day.

Oh, how I love this question.  I think about this all the time.  Currently,  I think I would spend it all in this delicious furniture store called Su Casa.   We made the mistake of wandering in there this weekend, and almost walked out with a $500 trunk thing that goes at the foot of your bed.  I really want some "real" furniture, meaning that we didn't buy it secondhand or from Ikea (or both).  I would also love to hire a decorator to give me some good ideas for the house.  I would also hire some professional painters to come in and finish this disaster that I have started in the bathroom.  And to paint the rest of the house for me too.  Ooh, and I also would love to have a cleaning service come over every once in awhile to vacuum and clean the toilets.  I hate vacuuming.  I hate cleaning the bathrooms even more.  I'll even let the cleaning people use my purple Dyson!

Oh, and I would also buy a new mattress.  This one. 

And an iPod. 

And a TiVo.

I think I'm well over my $10,000 limit by now.  But that's what I'd buy.  Can I have my $10,000 now?  Should I go outside and wait for it to fall out of the sky?  Ok, see you all later.  I have to go watch out for my raining money.

I hate fun and church bells. But I love apple pie.

First of all, I feel I must clear up a few questions.  I do, in fact, have a size 4.5 foot, as measured by a foot/shoe professional when I was being fitted for orthodics.  However, I do not wear size 4.5 shoes, as they do not exist outside of children's departments.  I can fit into a 5.5 or even a 6 in some brands, with the right socks.  It's not even that abnormal.  I'm very short, so I have very small feet to balance my very small body.  Really, it's my toes that are freakish, but we're not getting into that.

And secondly, it has been brought to my attention that the fine folks responsible for writing Law and Order: Criminal Intent did create a semi-plausible backstory for Detective Eams' sudden pregnancy.  Isabel assures me that it was clearly stated that Eams was serving as a surrogate mother for her sister, and that they even mentioned her sister and the baby a time or two after her huge belly disappeared equally suddenly.  So I guess I stand corrected.  I do feel a little better knowing that there was at least some effort to explain the mysterious baby in Eams' belly... but, seriously?  A surrogate mother?  They couldn't come up with anything better than that?  If the actress gets knocked up again, then what? Maybe an immaculate conception, or impregnated by aliens? 

Anyway, moving on. 

I know I have bemoaned The Parking Nightmare before, but I just have this dead horse here, and a stick in my hand....

Usually parking is only a problem at night, when everyone in the neighborhood is safely tucked in their houses, watching television and drinking Natty Boh. Therefore, Joel and I had no reservations about going out on Sunday morning.  Imagine our surprise when we returned at approximately 1pm to find nary a parking space awaiting us. I'm not talking nothing right in front of our house, or nothing on the block.  NOTHING.  AT ALL.

As it turned out, this weekend was the Fell's Point Fun Festival, which means that people from all over the city came to our neighborhood to eat pit beef and drink beer and buy useless crap from a multitude of vendors.  In previous years, this has not affected our parking at all, because our house is a 15 minute walk from the downtown area that houses the Festival, and people would rather park in front of a fire hydrant and get a huge parking ticket than walk for fifteen whole minutes.  But as luck would have it, Saturday was a cold and rainy day, so everyone came on Sunday instead.  And everybody had to park their cars somewhere; there are only so many fire hydrants to block and handicapped spots to steal. 

After cruising for at least 10 minutes and finding NOWHERE to park, we decided we might as well go to the grocery store, since we needed to pick up a few things anyway, and hope that there would be a spot when when got back.

Except the parking lot at the grocery store was also full of Festival parkers. NO SPOTS.

After we had patrolled the entire Safeway parking lot and still could not find one place to legally deposit our motor vehicle for a few moments, I was fuming.  I HATE THIS STUPID FESTIVAL.  WHY DON'T YOU ALL JUST GO HOME!, I might have said.

That's right.  I hate The Fell's Point FUN Festival.  You heard me right.  And I still hate it.

Possibly the only time I have caught myself sounding more bitter is when, in a half-asleep daze, I told Joel I hoped someone would burn a particular church in our neighborhood to the ground.  To be fair, they ring their very loud bells every time they have a service, and they just happen to have a service at 6am and 8am every day.  I do not condone arson, but I can't say I would be sad if someone stole the clappers out of those damn bells, Gilmore Girls-style.

Yes, I realize that I will most likely go to hell for using the word "damn" in reference to a set of holy church bells, but we've already established that I HATE FUN, so how much worse than that could hell really be?   

I actually had a pretty fabulous weekend, parking problems and general fun-hating aside.  Lately, I have been having this problem with feeling really frustrated and disappointed on the weekends.  I look forward to the weekends so much, and I am all for catching up on sleep and relaxation... but when Sunday rolls around, I can't help but feeling like we've wasted our precious weekend hours, nothing has gotten done, and Monday is already looming overhead.  It's a real Catch 22, because I love sleeping in, and I believe that a certain amount of couch-time is necessary to a healthy and happy life.  But yet, I always have 50 different projects I'm working on, books I want to read, movies I want to see, and places I want to go.  I can't tell you how many times Joel and I have found ourselves sitting in our living room on a Sunday afternoon saying "so, what do you want to do today?  Do you want to go for a hike?  Want to go see a movie?"  And by the time we've actually decided what we want to do, it's too late to really do anything.  And then I cry.

But yesterday, Joel planned a surprise trip to a pick-your-own produce farm.  It was a beautiful, perfect fall day, and we got up early (early for us = 9:30am) and drove out of the city, into rural Maryland.  I am always amazed at how fast the city drops away to cow pastures and horse farms, and on a warm autumn day, with the leaves just starting to change, it was nothing short of idyllic.

(we forgot the camera.  sunbeam photo effects brought to you by my crappy Samsung camera phone) 

The farm that Joel found didn't just have apples, but also a bunch of garden-y stuff you could pick yourself, including broccoli, beets, tomatos, spinach, various types of flowers and herbs, pumpkins, and of course, apples. 

(I am totally farm-ready, what with my pigtails and movie star sunglasses)

I picked us some broccoli and spinach, and we also got a bounty of apples.  While we were in the apple orchard, I overheard a conversation that singlehandedly explains many of America's problems:

Mom to kid: 'Honey, put down that apple.  We need to save room for hamburgers later."

I swear, that's what she said, and the kid threw his half-eaten apple on the ground for the bees to swarm around.

Anyway,  I asked Joel what on earth we were going to do with so many apples, and he replied that we could make a pie or something.

Um.  Make a pie? 

I am a pacifist, I hate violence.  Animal cruelty make me nauseous.  So why would we want innocent fruit to suffer a long, painful death at the hands of my baking?

Joel did most of the work, and all apples received a humane and ethical end, and were ushered into the afterlife in a flurry of sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg.  It came out wonderfully, especially compared to some of my past baking adventures.  I had my first taste of homemade apple pie, and it was a the perfect end to a lovely day.

Tomorrow I'll do Janet's questions, and we'll see if by the end of the week I can have these all finished, thus creating one less project that I've started and thoroughly enjoyed, but never finished.

In which I may get a little too emotional about Law and Order

Well.  I am now almost halfway through the questions, and I have to thank you all again for participating.  I also must give Liz a pat on the virtual back for coming up with some excellent, thought-provoking, deeply probing scenarios for me to ponder.

Such as:   

1. Would you rather have NO law and order (thats right NOT on ANY channel at ANY time...and no you cant rent them on DVD) OR have to work 7 days a week (8 hrs days)with at least two OMG this needs to get done NOW projects a day.

Tough call.  But really, not that tough.  I love my L&O and all, but recently it has started to piss me off.  And since you asked, let me tell you why.

For one thing, last week I watched one episode at 6pm (which as eh at best), and then when Joel went to bed and I settled in on the couch for some blessed TV alone time at 10pm, they were playing THE EXACT SAME EPISODE.  Law and Order has been on for a long time.  There is no shortage of reruns, and I find this wholly unacceptable.  It demonstrates a complete lack of understanding for the viewing audience of the USA Network.  I would think the fact that I watch their network 50 hours a day would delight the folks in charge of programming over there.  And when I see the exact same episode aired twice in one day, it makes me feel like a loser who should really be cutting back on the TV.  Which may or may not be true, but I don't think it's the message that TV network execs are going for.

Secondly, I do not understand why the Criminal Intent franchise has to be so annoying.  In general, the CI plotlines are excellent.  But then they go and ruin it with that smug, Monk-wannabe (I don't even watch Monk!) Detective Goren, Oh Mighty One Who Can Identify Any Smell AnyWhere Any Time.  Not only is he completely unbelievable as a walking Encyclopedia Britannica (which would not be so bad in and of itself, I have no problem suspending my powers of reason for the sake of television, see: addiction to LOST, addiction to 24, undying love for Passions), but he is also a smug jackass.   Every time they are in the interview room with some suspect and Goren uses a trick he learned in a psychology course he took while living among Yiddish monks in Burma, I want to punch him in the face.   There was a glimmer of hope when the masterminds behind L&O realized that even the most loyal fans could not stand one Detective Goren (I am not even going to get into Eams, little miss I'm-Suddenly-14-Months-Pregnant-With-No-Backstory-And-Then-Suddenly-I-Am-Not-Pregnant-Anymore-And-The-Baby-Is-Never-Mentioned) and they started alternating his character with the dude who played Mr. Big.  MR. BIG!  Who we don't have to hate anymore, because he came around and loved Carrie in the finale!  HOORAY!  Things were looking up for Criminal Intent haters everywhere. And then, to ruin it, they gave Detective Big a partner who speaks 27 languages, has 14 PhDs, and is able to identify remains by smelling them.  She is slightly less annoying than Goren.  Slightly.

So really, this is not that hard of a call, due to the above gripes, along with my general apathy toward corporate working America.  Please never mention the possibility of having 7-day work weeks again; I don't want to have nightmares.  The 2 "OMG THIS NEEDS TO BE DONE RIGHT NOW" projects is just a clincher; icing on the cake.  It pains me to say this, but I would cut Law and Order out of my life in a heartbeat to avoid having to work on the weekends.  Thank goodness that's not a decision I actually have to make.

By tilting his head just so, Goren is able to discern what the suspect's mother had for lunch the day he was conceived.

2. Whats your favorite totally BS job that you've had?

Wow.  I didn't realize just how many BS jobs I have held in my short life.  In trying to decide which was my favorite, I have come up with a list of at least seven different BS jobs I have had since the time I was 14 and could legally start working (meaning, I am excluding all the cleaning and ironing I did for pay in the safety of my own home, before I was legal to venture out into the working world).  In roughly chronological order, I have held positions as:

1. A professional ice cream scooper -- about 8 months in high school
2. A lifeguard (at Deer Lake) -- 4 summers (high school/college)
3. Babysitter/personal driver for an 8-year-old -- one year full time (high school), on and off after that
4. Cutco knife seller -- 3 weeks in the summer (college)
5. Lifeguard (at Birchwood Beach) -- 1 summer (college)
6. Bagel clerk -- one winter break (college)
7. Campus security officer -- 4 years (college)

They all had their perks.  For instance, I got tons of free ice cream when I was a Professional Scooper, and I could mix in the sprinkles and toppings properly instead of just having a measly coating on the outer layer (this was in the days before Cold Stone Creamery existed, people).  When I worked at the bagel shop, I got free bagels and free coffee.  And I think we all know, I love me some bagels and coffee.  I have a great set of knives with a custom, patented supersharp edge as a prize from my days selling Cutco door-to-door, which come in very handy when Joel is out of town and I walk around the house with a meat cleaver in my hand and sleep with a baseball bat next to me in the bed.  Woe unto the person who tries to rob my house while I'm home alone, because I know my Cutco and I'm not afraid to use it.

Of course, there were also downsides, as I would assume is the case with all BS jobs.  Most of them paid horribly, and those that paid better (babysitting and Cutco) sucked my will to live.   I had to get up way too early in the morning for the bagel place, and I will probably get skin cancer from my days of sunscreen-free lifeguarding.

By far, my favorite has to be the security officer.  It was truly the best gig a work-study gal could wish for.  All I had to do was punch in, keep my walkie talkie on and my orange reflective vest in sight, and punch out 5 hours later.  Within the first semester, I learned that I didn't really have to keep the walkie talkie on, nor the orange vest in sight.  Then I figured out I didn't even need to take them with me when I punched in; no one knew the difference.  Then I realized I didn't have to check in and out at the designated times; I could really just do it any time I wanted to as long as I didn't exceed the 20 hours/week work-study limit.  Then I realized no one cared if you DID exceed the 20 hour limit.

By the end of senior year, I was wearing the vest while drinking 40s and letting my friends' friends make bogus calls on the walkie talkie.  Niner niner, we have 267 in progress at the corner of Charles and University.  Send backup!

Those were the days, right?  Sigh.

3. If no one remembers did anything happen??

Ah, the age-old question.  I think the obvious answer is no.  It's sort of my personal "What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas" motto.  The only problem arises if, say, there is photographic evidence.  Or if one person's memory later comes back to them.  Otherwise, you can rest assured:  if no one remembers, nothing happened.

4. If there had to be one song that played in your head all day long what would it be?

It's funny  you should ask that, because just this past weekend, when Jenny and I were driving up to New Jersey for the aforementioned wedding which ended in disaster in a Wendy's bathroom, a little song you may have heard of came on the radio: Hips Don't Lie.  And I said to Jenny, "This song could play on repeat for three days non stop, and I STILL wouldn't be sick of it."  She thought that might be a tad excessive, but I disagree.  I do not think I could ever get sick of Hips Don't Lie. Or anything by Shakira, for that matter.

I also have been singing Maneater to myself quite a bit lately, and it is only growing on me.  I could have that in my head for at least one entire day.

And of course, it goes without saying that anything by Kelly Clarkson would also be a fine choice.

Back to the questions

I'm no longer hung over.  Which is good, since it's been a full 60+ hours since I consumed anything remotely alcoholic.  But up until mid-day yesterday, I was still not feeling my best. 

So, back to the questions.  Thank goodness today's are not quite as... challenging.  Because my brain is still not working at full capacity, even though my stomach is back in working order.

My mother wanted to know what paint colors we picked.  To which I respond with a hearty HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  Colors?  As in plural?  We have definitively decided on ONE COLOR.  And here's a surprise for you:  it is red. 

I love red.  I bought us red sheets for the bed, red throw pillows, a red blanket for the couch, and I would paint every wall in the house a different shade of red if Joel would let me.  It's just so cozy, and yet not boring at all.  Come on, it would look cool.

At the very least, I wanted to paint the smaller bathroom red, because the tile has red accents, so it will actually match.  Imagine that!

However, Joel vetoed my motion to paint the bathroom walls red, saying it would be "too much" and "make the room seem too small".  Instead, he wanted  to paint the ceiling red.  FINE.

And guess what?  It looks awesome.  I love it. 

Those rad flowered drop cloths?  They were THE CURTAINS IN OUR OLD APARTMENT.  And the sad thing is, those curtains actually made it look BETTER.  Now they are relegated, much more appropriately, to a life of protecting the toilet. 

Choice of paint color: A+ (good thing I went back to Home Depot for trip #42134 because I thought the previous color was a tad too pinkish.  This one is perfect).

Job putting up painter's tape:  D.  We will now be painting the walls with a fresh coat of white paint to cover up all those red splotches and drips.  Super!

I have a new appreciation for Michelangelo after painting this friggin ceiling.  People always harp on the beauty of the Sistine Chapel, the intricacy and skill of the artwork, when they SHOULD be patting Micky on the back for just managing to get the whole damn thing covered in paint.  You cannot fully appreciate art history until you have stood on a wobbly ladder for two hours, paint dripping onto your face and clothing, rolling a brush upside down until your arm falls off.

So, once we finish taping up the rest of the trim and ceiling, patching the holes in the drywall where water has rotted through, and picking out a water-resistant white paint, we'll be finishing up this room, and moving on to the next: the living room.  Which has much furniture that is bolted to the walls.  I can't wait.  Estimated completion date: March.  Of 2015.  Unless Joel does not heed my warning to tape really, really carefully this time, so that we don't end up having to go back over with another coat of red, and then another coat of white, ensnaring ourselves in a never-ending loop.  In that case, we'll be finished whenever the paint fumes kill off my remaining three brain cells, or when we break the space-time time continuum.   Whichever comes first.

Next up are Liz's (who wins the prize for best rhetorical question ever).

It's times like these when being a Mormon starts to sound like a really good idea

It's official, it's wedding season.  Not in The Wedding Crashers type of way, but in the It's-Your-Mid-Twenties-and-Someone-You-Know-Is-Getting Married-Every-Month sense.  I can't even complain, because I have been to a total of three weddings in the past two years, and four weddings in my life.  One of my friends, on the other hand, has attended no less than a dozen weddings in the past three years, and has been in the bridal party for most of them.  She estimates she has spent no less than $10,000 on travel, bridesmaid dresses, wedding and shower gifts, and bachelorette party craziness.  Wow, right?

But I'm going to complain anyway.  Because for the love of all things holy, I thought I might die yesterday.  I wished I was dead, out loud, many times, until my very superstitious, wedding-veteran friend begged me to please stop saying "I wish I was not alive right now", lest I cause us to get into a car accident.  And she just had a car accident, she doesn't need another, so stop being so selfish and wishing for death.  Geez.  That's easy to say when you pop out of bed the morning after going shot for shot with your dying friend AND ARE ABLE TO GET DRESSED IN REAL CLOTHES AND PUT ON MAKEUP. 

I don't drink much anymore, mostly because I hate the way I feel afterwards.  During my prime high school and college years, I never got hungover.  I would wake up and still be drunk, go and eat something greasy, take a shower and a nap and be ready to go out again.   Then, sometime during my junior year of college, I got my first hang over.  I will never forget it:  I was living in a house with some of the most wonderful guys I'd ever met, and they were always worried about me.  They would knock on my door when I had a test to make sure I was awake, they would insist on driving me to the library late at night because it wasn't safe to walk alone.  They would ply me with delicious food all the time, scoffing at my dinners of progresso soup and Diet Coke.  It was a nice life.

One night, I decided to consume more alcohol than any one person should consume over the course of several lifetimes, and instead of waking up with the urge to call all my friends and tell them I loved them in a drunken morning ritual, I felt like someone was jackhammering my skull.  My stomach felt like a rock, and all I could think to do was eat something, because I must be really, really hungry.   I ate some cereal, and then promptly threw it up.  I spent the rest of the day moaning on the couch, too weak and weary to move back upstairs to my own bedroom.  As luck would have it, one of my housemates was in a similar state from his own festivities the night before.  We each lay on our own couch in the living room, watching TV and waiting for the pain to go away.  The Mummy 2 was on the TV, and the remote was in the middle of the living room floor, and neither of us could move far enough to reach it.  After the movie ended, it started again, from the beginning... and we figured, what the hell.  We might as well watch the parts we missed, since we turned on the TV partway through it.  When we passed the point where we'd started watching the first time, we figured, what the hell.  We might as well watch the whole thing through. Such was the state of our hangovers that we watched The Mummy 2, 2.5 times back to back, and didn't even care. 

Ever since that horrific day, I've curbed back my drinking.  For one thing, it's time to grow up and start acting like a serious adult person, get a real job and stop living off of frozen pizzas and canned soups... oh.  Never mind.  Honestly, it's mostly because getting that hung over takes almost all of the fun out of drinking. 

Almost.

That's not to say that if a friend from high school were getting married, say, this past weekend, that I would leave my cocoon of sobriety for the weekend.  No, I would have to guess that if a friend from high school were getting married this past weekend, well... then my friends and I would probably have to book a room at the wedding hotel, even though our parents only live 10 minutes away and would probably charge us considerably less than $130 a night plus tax.  We would probably arrive at the hotel three hours before the wedding to "get ready," if not to drink two bottles of wine and snack on a delicious cheese, cracker, and hummus smorgasbord purchased from the local King's.  I would probably even go so far as to convince a very nice bartender named Carlos to give my friend and I shot after shot of vodka, even though he explained very clearly that he wasn't allowed to give shots, and he could get into a lot of trouble.  Who would be the wiser, we asked? 

So... Sunday was a wonderful disaster.  People got married, lovely speeches were made, tears were shed, and drunken dancing was performed (the latter two by me, personally).  On Monday, I wished openly and loudly for the grim reaper to come and take me away, but all the gods gave me was a Wendy's bathroom on 287 to throw up in, and two trips through the same Wendy's drive-thru to stock up on food for our 3 hour drive home.   I learned that, while intoxicated, I called everyone in my phone book, including my mother and brother, that I proposed marriage to my friend's boyfriend, left a tear-filled voicemail professing my love to Joel, and locked myself in the bathroom with my friend's phone so I could text message her new boyfriend and tell him that he better treat her right, because she is one fine piece of ass.  I'm just a bundle of drunken love, bursting at the seams. 

Of course, I remember none of this, with the exception of the little incident at Wendy's.  I seriously wish that I could forget about that.

I think it goes without saying that I will never be drinking again.  Ever.  This time I really mean it.