This office needs a waffle maker

A waffle a day makes the... uh... something something something. On second thought, too many people might hang out back here with the waffler in residence. Screw that.

Here's another thought: I really need to start blogging more. And writing less bitchy posts. Or at least more non-bitchy posts so that all I post is not just bitchy posts.

Hmmm...

As I ponder the situation I come to the conclusion that I don't think I should stop the bitchy posts completely. I do so enjoy writing them.

But really, what else is there to write about?

Oh, lots. I know. But all the good stuff lately is written in my head before I ever get to a computer/notebook and then it never makes it up on the screen.

So until the good stuff happens I'm going to write about...

Hmmm...

Yeah. I got nothing this morning.

Oh! I'll write about this dream that weirded me out the other day. It wasn't one of those "wrap Tilda Swinton up in a blanket and beat her unconscious with a miniature silver shovel" type of weird.** I haven't had one of those super disturbing dreams in a while. This dream was one of those glitch-in-the-matrix dreams.

1) I'd been wondering for weeks now where some missing pants had sauntered off to...

2) Friday afternoon a thought popped into my head that they might be in the closet...

3) I file that thought away...

4) and then I have a dream that night that I found them exactly where I suspected them to be...

5) When I wake up the next day, the memory is in my head as an actual event, not a dream...

6) so while I'm looking for something else in a different part of my room and find my pants and think, 'what the hell, I'd already found them in the closet!'

Not exactly a premonition dream. But what are the odds that I find my missing pants after I find them in my dream?

Hmmmmmmmmm??????

Yeah, okay. I know that no one finds that as interesting as I do. I mentioned it to the HB and his sister later that day and got no reaction out of them whatsoever.

But I dreamed I found them in the closet then woke up and found them under my desk! Get it?!

Sigh.

Maybe I should just stick to bitchy posts.


** Okay, I just did a search through my posts and couldn't find anything about that Tilda Swinton dream. How did I never write about that?! It was fascinating and disturbing all at the same time. I mean, I was hitting her with a shovel! Really, really hard too. I can still see her looking up at me, all serene like, as I whacked her uncontrollably with my little shovel. Uggggh.

Why?

Why must people take it upon themselves to inform me that my face is sunburned.

Really? My face is sunburned? I hadn't noticed. Nope. No mirrors in my house. Or in my car. Oh! And you know what? I can't feel the heat radiating off of my face like a disco inferno. No way, Jose. And every time I touch my face the skin doesn't feel like it just wrestled with a giant tumbleweed. So thanks Fellow Coworkers for stating the fucking obvious. Because I obviously didn't know!

If you are curious as to why my face is a tomato, then please, by all means, inquire into it. I will tell you I had a fantastic time this weekend. But don't try and start the conversation off with a dumb ass remark. Because all you'll get is a smart ass remark in return.

Him: "Hey! You're face is sunburned."

Me: "Hmmm. I hadn't noticed."

Him: "You hadn't noticed?"

Me: "Noooooooooope."

Him: "Errrr..."

Me: "Hold on, I need to ignore you now and make a phone call."

I'm secluded in the back office and have only seen two people today. And both have made these brilliant observations. And now? I have to go to school. Where I'll be surrounded by people. Some of whom will be endowed with a keen sense of Must State The Obvious.

If only I had a biting comeback for all of them. Because really, after the first person let's you know you've got a sunburn, it gets really annoying really fast.

I need a t-shirt for just such an occasion. One that reads:

"My sunburn irritates me. You will too if you mention it."

But with more snarky attitude. And with a picture of a crazy lady with a gun or butter knife or something underneath so they know I mean business.

T H R E E - O H

Why is it, when I woke up at 6 am on tuesday I still felt sleepy, like I could fall back asleep in seconds and dream for another hour or two.

And today, a no-need-to-rush-to-work saturday, when I woke up at 6 am I was wide awake. Wide freakin awake. Without a chance in hell of falling back asleep. And no desire to even try.

What's up with that?

It probably has something to do with today being my birthday and having a super fun weekend ahead of me.

/peanutbutterjellybananadance

Yep. That's right. Today is my birthday! The big 3-0. I am now officially a thirty-something. Eeek!

I was all weirded out and shit as the day approached, leaving the twenties, entering a new decade of adulthoodedness, assessing where I am, where I'm going, yadda yadda yadda, some of the same stuff that bothered me the last two birthdays. One of the weirder 'holy shit' moments happened a few weeks ago when I realized that my mom had two children in elementary school when she was the age I am now. Or was. Or something.

As a kid she was always old to me. Not old, just mommy-adult-old. But I don't feel old. Definitely not mommy-adult-old. And yet she was this age once! So when I thought of her as 'older adult' she was actually young. Like I am. With two kids already!

I'm not sure if I adequately explained all that as I'm just riffing here, but I'm going to leave it unedited so I can have a laugh when I read it months/years later.

Anywhoo...

Today the boyfriend and I are driving down to San Diego for a book signing to see our favorite author Jim Butcher. Tomorrow we're going to the red bull air race.

Its a weekend of firsts!

My coworker smells like Electric Youth

My coworker smells like Electric Youth

And I don't necessarily mean that in a good way.

When I was a tweeny-bopper (oh lordy I hope it was back in my pre-teen/tween years and before high school...) my parents bought me Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth perfume. It was an awesome gift.

I was a big fan of Debbie Gibson. (Still love her actually. Her greatest hits CD is full of electric and youthful win.) I listened to that Electric Youth cassette tape every night, singing along, imaginging I was the one singing on stage, or in a music video/beach movie type scenario, until the cassette died from exhaustion due to excessive rewinding after favorite songs.

The bottle of perfume looked bitchin', what with the neon pink spiral tube spiraling through the pink tinted liquid.

I was never cooler than when I spritzed on my Debbie Gibson Electric Youth perfume.

That was then, back when my nose never thought to distinguish the difference between wal-mart perfume and holy-shit-this-tiny-bottle-costs-how-much perfume. Like I would have cared back then anyhow.

I was wearing Debbie Fucking Gibson's Electric Youth perfume, yo!

But now? Yeah... the smell of that pink neon mist has not aged well.

And I keep getting a whiff of it, or its evil sad red-headed stepchild counterpart every time I walk anywhere in Ms Coworkers wafting zone. Now, I'm not saying "Wear the Good Stuff or GTFO" because lord knows I rarely bother to get spritzed up myself. I'm trying not to be a perfume snob or anything. But there are alternatives! Ones that won't make me want to gag! Skip the $2.00 perfume aisle and go look for the smelly lotion aisle. Even non-fancy smelly lotion smells a hell of a lot better than the crap perfume does.

Save that crap perfume for home. For date night. For grocery shopping night when cute clerk boy is working his shift. For going out and checking the mail.

Maybe you can find some good smelling cheap stuff. Good for you! No, really, that's awesome. Tell me where you bought it!

But if you buy something and it smells icky?

DON'T DOSE YOURSELF IN IT BEFORE WORKING IN MY OFFICE.

Thanks,
Management

Today's Happiness Is Brought To You By The Letters S, H, I, N, and Y

I'm wearing a new blouse today. And I'm in a really good mood because of it.

Sure, I got a little snappish at Former-Mr-Desk-Neighbor (former because he was relocated to a desk in the big, posh, all-in-one office fish bowl at the front of the building). But he got annoyed when I told him to shoo so I could get back to work so he totally deserved it.

And still, my good mood radiates through my poors!

*sniff sniff*

Yeah, its just my good mood. Sniff check confirmed.

I haven't bought new clothes in months. Almost a year actually come to think of it. Wow. And if you don't count the dress I bought for that waste-of-time reunion then I haven't bought normal, every-day clothes in an even longer time.

1) shopping for clothes depresses my fat ass sometimes

2) other times I fall in love with too many cute/funky things and spend too much

3) credit card debt sucks

Not that I've gone into debt because of my clothes spending. I just feel guilty buying stuff when I have evil credit debt looming over my shoulder like an evil devil monkey. Evil debt devil monkeys suck ass.

But some time last year I got caught up and paid off every thing I owed. I still have some student loans looming on the horizon, waiting to pounce after I graduate - which is finally happening in the summer. Halle-fucking-luiah. The only real credit debt I have is school related, but its manageable. I do have a new car payment I have to work into my budget, but that'll be manageable too.

So I felt okay on the money front. I still felt like a fat ass, but my fat ass was in the mood for a treat, so I bought some new tops. Yay me!

But where to put them?!

I've needed to clean out my closet for the longest time. There are so many clothes I've kept for years that I don't wear anymore, that don't fit anymore, that I might wear again, one day. I've come to the conclusion that that's just silly. When I can fit into them again, and I will be able to, eventually, I'm still not going to want to wear them. I have dresses hanging in my closet from the last century for crying out loud. Seriously. When I can wear them again I'm going to need to upgrade the fashion a few decades.

So I bought 5 new tops. The plan was to replace 5 old tops that are currently in my What To Wear rotation that are stained (my boobs are food magnets) or worn or just plain ready to go to Clothes Heaven.

Last night, instead of pulling out 5 of those tops I started grabbing shit I haven't worn in years. Those keepers I've held on to for supposed inspiration. Turns out they weren't really inspiring at all, I just wanted them to be.

I filled a trash bag of shirts and blouses to donate to goodwill. I've got a couple more trash bags of clothes to go before I'm done.

I'm a packrat. I keep junk and knickknacks and whatnot for those you-never-know moments. I didn't realize until last night I've been doing the same with my clothes. I'll go through the pants and skirts another time. There are some things I'll keep forever, like the t-shirts from my swimming competition days. Those I need to turn into a quilt sometime so I can get use out of them again. I used to live in nothing but those t-shirts for years, I miss them sometime. But I've really got to keep working on de-cluttering the rest of my closet.

And then... my dresser drawers! Gasp!

For now though, I shall bask in the shininess of my new top! Its shiny and soft and an obscenely bright lime green. It truly is a hideous color, but I like it anyway.

The friend in your pants will be dancing like at a party.

I <3 spam. Both the meat-in-a-can and the email-in-the-trashcan varieties. Email spam, when done right, just tickles me so.

The subject of today's work spam was very mundane:

Perform like a star as long as you want

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. You, my friend, are like so many other spam emails that go unnoticed in my spam box. If you're going to break through the filter, you need to break through with a POP! Where's the pizazz? Where's the pow? Where's the other 'p' words that escape my vocabulary at the moment?

I'd like to perform like a lounge singing super star for hours on end but I'm sure this email will offer nothing of the sort.

I give it a D+.

If there was a way to delete it without seeing its contents I never would have found the gem inside:

The friend in your pants will be dancing like at a party.

This is it. This. The erupting spring of joy in the early hours of my day. The power source for the twinkle in my heart. The secret of all that is warm and fluffy and happy and awesome and magical.

What the fuck does it mean? Let's take a look, shall we?

First of all, there's a friend in my pants! And he/she is dancing! First thing I pictured was The Boyfriend miniaturized, the size of a sprite, snuggled down in the front of my pants, doing a little booty shake. This image brought forth a few giggles.

But maybe we're not sharing the pants. How silly of me. A friend is wearing my pants! Ugh. That's worse. That would be like one of those weight loss commercials where the skinny people hop into their old pants and go "look at me! i used to be this fat!" Ugh.

Okay, back to Sprite Boyfriend image. And he's dancing. But, more specifically, dancing like at a party. Good thing there was that clarification. I almost pictured him dancing like at a bar mitzvah.

To end the email Mr. Emailer linked, of course, a totally unrelated website that has nothing to do with being a lounge star or dancing in pants.

Hmmm... I just pictured a bunch of half nekkid hunky men dancing behind me in nothing but pants during one of my lounge singing numbers. I'll have to file away that thought for later.

Two Things

Thing One:

I bought a new car last weekend.

I was hoping my granny smurf-mobile would last a couple of months longer than it did, long enough for me to graduate and stop driving to school and back every day, long enough to pay off credit debt and school loans and save oodles of money. But alas! 'Twas not to be.

The old car had been on the brink of crapping out for months, but got to the breaking point during the week. Instead of paying 2k for a new transmission I did some online price shopping, looked for some cheap ass, used, non-granny car that I could pick up for reasonably cheap. Cheap being the key word here.

Then the HB said, "Wait a minute. If you could have any car, what would you get?"

"A cheap one."

The HB gave me that look. That look of divine patience and fortitude. "No, really," he said. "Don't think about what it would cost or whether its got the highest MPG." (because that was something I was looking at as well). "What car Do. You. Want?"

What car do I want? What car makes me cream every time I see it?

"A mustang."

"Okay then. We're getting you a mustang."

"Wheeeeee!"

He is such a bad influence.

I'm not a car person. Whenever the HB mentions one of the many cars he's considering getting next (his car is in desperate need of a trade in as well) I have no idea what he's talking about. He has to point them out on the street when we pass them. Then? A day later when he talks about that car again? I still have no idea what he's talking about. An escalade? That's a truck, right?

I'm not a car person. I'm definitely not a sporty car person. Yet I am now the owner of a Mustang.

Holy shit.

Midlife crisis? I'll be 30 in a couple months. (Holy shit x2.) Shouldn't I get a grown-up car? Like a mini-van or some shit? Meh, I already had the granny car. DID NOT WANT AGAIN.

I'm driving a mustang!

My fat ass barely fits in the seat, but it fits. And it has a cd player! And some thingamajig for a mp3 player! My granny smurf-mobile had a cassette player for 10 years! And speaking of smurfs, the inside of the mustang is not blue. No more blue interior! Its grey. And there's a mustang on my steering wheel!

I'm driving a mustang!

I still don't think its sunk in yet. This all probably seems silly to everyone else. But a new car is a big deal for me. It's the first car I bought on my own (not counting the HB's invaluable assistance and reassuring presense). And it's a mustang! That feels like such an extravagance. But its totally in my budget, so why the fuck not?

*tee hee*

Thing Two:

While we stood outside and waited for the car people to finish up the paperwork the HB made a discovery.

"Hey look, you have a white hair."

He fished it out from the tangle of other very dark hairs and held it out in front of my face for inspection.

"Whaaaaaaaaat?"

"Look!"

"Gah!"

"Oh! Here's another one!"

And that's when I stabbed him.*

Those are just blonde hairs dear. BLONDE. Sheeeeesh.


*just kidding! No really! I even let that blind bastard drive my new shiny car. It's all good.