Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Speaking of getting dressed, Sunday night, P.I.C. and I dressed up and went out to dinner at Kevin Taylor’s at the Opera House. Fancy. It’s Denver restaurant week, and so for $52.80 per couple, you can get a three course dinner at a whole LIST of restaurants. After much consideration, we chose the most expensive place we had never been to. I liked it, but I wasn’t like “best dinner EVER!!” He had veal, I had salmon and then crème brulee. If a stranger wanted to lure me into his car, all he’d have to do is give me some crème brulee. You know, because I like to give helpful hints to all the strangers out there…
After we went to dinner, I was flipping through the channels at P.I.C.’s house, and came across the movie “Grizzly Man” on the Discovery Channel. We only watched an hour of it before I had to go home to bed, but we’re going to rent it. You totally should because the guy is a lunatic. Well, he WAS a lunatic before he got eaten by a bear. Anyway. Now I’m totally intrigued by it and can’t wait to see the rest. Because clearly I like to mock the crazies.
I’ll tell you, P.I.C. and I watch some quality t.v. Like the day we made the mistake of having mimosas with breakfast and decided once we got home that maybe vodka and grapefruit juice would be a good idea. Hey, it WAS almost 11 – that’s 1 EST, and that is CLEARLY afternoon. So we were going to watch one or two episodes of THE BEST SHOW EVER – Arrested Development – and then six hours later we had watched the entire second season. And had popcorn and potato chips for lunch (and vodka) because we couldn’t be bothered to find anything else. And in case you didn’t get my reference before? Arrested Development is the best show NOT on television, which is a travesty because it is hi-larious and also clever, which is more than I can say for most shows.
So that's about it. That's what I did on Sunday, after I took a three-hour nap to recover from the night o'debauchery that was Saturday. I really hope I get some pictures downloaded soon, because the details? They are foggy.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Friday night I had it all planned out. P.I.C. and I had decided that we were going to do happy hour. After some discussion about whether to do it “classy” (i.e. a fancy new martini bar) or “dirty” (i.e. some college dive) we decided on classy, as we were both dressed nice that day. No problem. Meet him downtown at his house and we’ll walk to our chosen location(s). Drink copious amounts of delicious beverages and walk back to his house. It’s easy…almost TOO easy.
Did you know ivy is poisonous to cats? I did, but I stupidly figured that since the cats hadn’t ever bothered the ivy plant BEFORE, they would continue to ignore it. Oh no. Not Miss “I Eat Everything I Can Possibly Find”. Especially leaves. She shakes the ficus tree so that more leaves fall for her to bat around and subsequently eat. Because she just doesn’t have enough toys. Oh wait – she ate her sparkle balls as well. So I get up Friday morning to see that she’s puked in about three places in the house. This does not bode well, because the last time this happened (last month), it was because she ate a styrofoam berry and it was blocking her stomach. Dr. Karen to the rescue! Needles! X-Rays! Barium! A night at the vet hospital! You’d think the cat would have learned. But no.
So I had my mom go check on her during the day, and she reported back that as soon as she walked in the door, the Baby Kitty yakked right in front of her. Super. So I left work and went home so I could take her to see Dr. Karen. Needles! X-Rays! IV of Fluid! Medicine! Karen asked Baby Kitty if she wanted to stay with her or go home. The cat looked at her and then bonked her head against her travel crate, so Karen let her go home. She’s not smart enough to not eat poisonous plants, but she apparently knows she doesn’t want to stay at the vet hospital again. I learned my lesson about ivy, although judging from her track record, Baby Kitty will continue to eat stuff she’s not supposed to. Not the tuna or cat treats I give her – oh no. That would be no fun at all. Only things that make me have to spend Saturday morning cleaning the carpet in multiple places in every room of the house because she couldn’t possibly be bothered to barf in the same place twice. Side note: I love going to see Karen at work because I get to go downstairs where all the veterinary magic happens. And since everybody knows me and Barfy McPukerson, well, they don’t mind if I ask a million questions. It’s interesting, what can I say?
By the time I got home, happy hour was way past over, so I went to P.I.C.’s anyway and we went out for sushi. And then watched “Starsky and Hutch.” Because I love Owen Wilson. And because I’m an unstoppable party machine, I fell asleep on his couch. Although in my defense, I actually WAS an unstoppable party machine on Saturday night. More on that later.
So now I have to give Baby Kitty a bunch of medicine every day so that her tummy feels better. I don’t mind (but judging from the scratches on my arms and legs, SHE certainly minds) and neither does the Inspector. He always runs to get INTO the crate, because he thinks that means he’s going somewhere. He likes to ride in the car. Medicine? Sure, he’ll have some. He’ll also have some of that tuna, the cauliflower you don’t want to eat, the rest of the syrup on your plate, the cake batter off of that spoon, and pretty much any other food item in his reach. And if you don’t mind, he’d like to hug you and lick your face. What? You do mind? Too bad. He will hug you and lick your face. He will not be deterred by you pushing him away and repeatedly saying “get off me” because he LOOOOVES you and he wants to make sure you’re fully aware of that. This picture is an accurate representation of what I wake up to most mornings.
Anyway, enough cat stuff for the day. I will have the story of Joe’s birthday extravaganza in the next couple of days – I’m hopefully going to have pictures as well…
Thursday, February 23, 2006
The thing about it is, I haven't done anything noteworthy of late. In fact, if we're getting right down to it, I haven't done much of anything period. Due to circumstances beyond my control, there have been a series of, well, issues -- for lack of a better word.
Like that. Right there. I can't remember ever being at a loss for words. Oh sure, maybe if I were shocked about something, I'd get all speechless, but not in everyday conversation. But now? There have been times when my mind literally goes blank -- and the more I try to come up with something to say, the worse it gets. Since I hate my job and everyone knows it, people often ask me "what do you want to do?" And EVERY TIME I go completely blank. My brain is like "does not...compute" and it shuts down while I try to at least come up with something more word-like than "Mmmmm...uhhhhh." I'll tell you what, in the event I get a job interview, I seriously doubt they'll be falling all over themselves to hire me after I wow them with "Mmmmm...uhhhhh."
I've also ceased to care about things that would have previously bothered me to the point of ridiculousness. My new favorite and most used word? Meh. Because "whatever" has three syllables, and frankly, just takes too long to say.
My phone conversations have suffered because not only do I not have anything to say, really, but I also can't muster up the mental energy to try and think of words to put on the blank canvas of my mind. And of course, the blog has suffered because really, when you have nothing to say, it never shows through more than when you write it down.
So. Now that I've explained in 500 words or less why my posts lately have been lame as hell, well, I leave you with these sage words of advice. Mmmmm...uhhhhh. I'm so wise.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
As I’ve mentioned a bunch of times before, I was an only child for almost nine years and also my mom stayed at home with me. So we spent lots of time together. We went to story time at the library every week. We went to the grocery store and the park. My dad plays basketball every Thursday night, and so my mom and I would go roller skating every Thursday night (at Skate City, before it became the ghettooooo). I slept in her bed when my dad would go out of town, despite the fact that I used to be quite the flailer and would pretty much always smack her in the face once or twice during the night or wake her up with my sleep talking. One time, she read me “Robinson Crusoe” every night before bed. She was a champ, because inevitably, I fell asleep about 5 words into that night’s installment. Clearly I was not enamored of Mr. Crusoe and his day-of-the-week monikered pal on the island.
My mom is the oldest of five kids, and so I think her attitude about raising me came from understanding that some things are just out of your control and the best thing to do is to stay calm and, if the situation warranted it, roll your eyes. This was especially necessary with Reckless McStumble as her daughter. Knees ripped out of jeans, skinned knees, the time I got stuck on the top of my jungle gym in the backyard for a couple of hours while my mom was taking a nap. I can’t tell you the number of times I fell out of bed – the topper being the time I rolled out of the top bunk of my bed at our condo in Winter Park and probably knocked myself out, as I didn’t wake up. My mom heard the thud of me hitting the floor, but I was confused when I woke up there the next morning.
Then came the teenage years. These were the years when I didn’t like my mom very much. She was so BOSSY and there was YELLING. Oh the yelling. We argued all the time, because that what Irish girls do – they flip out. It happens to this day – although try as we might to stay mad at each other, it never works because one of us always has something to tell the other one pretty soon after that so we stop fighting. As many secrets as I kept from my mom in my teenage years and even early twenties, she now knows more about me than any one of my friends.
One of my favorite memories of my mom was the summer after 9th grade. There was this girl at school who had been harassing me all year long. She was a year older, and one day she just started calling me “bitch” and “slut” whenever I walked by. I finally figured out that the reason behind it is because I was friends with her boyfriend (a senior) and she thought I was trying to steal him. Which I wasn’t – I didn’t become a boyfriend stealer until much later. Ha. Anyway. She and her friends cornered me on the last day of school and screamed at me and then…she made a fatal mistake. One night, she and her friends tp’d my house – unflattering words in shaving cream on the driveway and sidewalk, an overturned wheelbarrow of dirt in the yard and the final touch? They turned on our hose. That was the mistake. My mom heard the water running and saw the mess, and so we luckily got it cleaned up before morning. Was my mom ever pissed. She called the girl’s house and talked to her dad. She told him that his daughter had been harassing me all year and that last night she and her friends vandalized our house. My mom said “I want it to stop right now. And if it doesn’t, we’ll be in YOUR driveway.” And she hung up. The girl never spoke to me again, and the bad karma from calling me a slut bit her in the ass later because guess who got pregnant at prom? But my mom? Awesome. That’s the other thing about us – don’t mess with our family or you will be sad.
I pretty much talk to my mom every day. She has a key to my house, which, when I gave it to her, came with the stipulation that any abuse of key privileges would result in key revocation. She’s been excellent about it thus far. She comes over when I’m at work and tidies up the house and plays with the cats. She leaves groceries for me and waters the plants. She bought sectioned plates for me to take leftovers home in because of my “thing” about my food touching. She constantly organizes my Tupperware cupboard because my haphazard approach to it makes it difficult to find lids and whatnot. Stuff like that.
My parents are now alone in our house, since my brother moved out at the beginning of the month. I thought she’d have a harder time with it, since he’s the baby and all, but she’s not. She was telling me last night that it was much harder when I moved out (the first time) to go to college. I said I remember her calling me at school once and saying that she “missed my face” because I make a lot of faces when I tell stories.
When I told her that, she started to cry. I was like “What? Why are you crying?” and she said “I don’t know – I just always love to hear your voice on the answering machine and I think to myself ‘don’t erase that until you see her again’”. Aww. I love my mom.
Monday, February 20, 2006
So I guess it’s a symptom of being MY AGE, but I no longer look forward to Fridays because it means drinks and clubs and hanging out. No. I now look forward to Fridays because I can watch "Monk" and the episode of "CSI" that I missed the night before and sleep late on Saturday and do nothing if I so desire. Yes, we’ve also established that I’m a nerd, so that could be part of it as well. And the rest of this post will do nothing to shatter my well-deserved nerd image.
Anyway, Friday night, I went to get online for something and had no internet. Hmm. Walked away, did some stuff, came back – nope, no internet. Got into bed, watched a movie, got up the next day (eventually) – still no internet. At first, I kind of didn’t know what to do with myself. It felt really weird. And now? After three days? I sort of like it. Although I apologize to those of you whose emails I haven’t responded to or that I haven't been online to amuse you with my witty IM repartee. I miss you too.
Now what, you may ask, did I do with my newly found non-internet time? I read an entire book. Like a 350 page book. In one day. Granted, this is not surprising for two reasons – one is that I am a ridiculously fast reader and often read entire books in one day. And also, lately I have cut down substantially on my t.v. watching time in favor of reading. It’s so nice to have an attention span again! In the past week, I’ve read about six books. I’m like a book devouring MACHINE. I took breaks from the reading here and there in order to clean the house and do laundry. After that was done, I read some more. Later, I wrote some cards and did some art. Read some more. Cooked and baked. And read some more. Awesome.
I was thinking though, that maybe I should start going out more, because then I’d have more interesting topics to write about. Because the fact that you got a boring-ass recap of what I did when my internet was down? Not the kind of thing that keeps you coming back for more. Next weekend I do have plans – it’s Joe’s 50th birthday party and I know there will be hijinks AND shenanigans. Maybe tomfoolery. Because that’s just how we roll.
In the meantime, maybe you want to give me some material. Anything you want to know about me that I haven’t laid out already? Questions? Requests for fascinating tidbits? You just tell me and then I decide whether or not to ignore you depending on the question. What? This is not a democracy. It’s a BLOGocracy. And I’m the Blogtator.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Ok. I’m just going to put to bed the rumors that the boy I kissed on Valentine’s Day was Not Boyfriend. It wasn’t. I HAVE mentioned the boy I kissed in the blog before, but I will also say it’s no one that I’ve previously dated. See how it’s like a big cryptic puzzle?
Here’s why it couldn’t be Not Boyfriend. Because in the year that we didn’t date, there was PLENTY of kissing. The only thing “not” about our relationship was the fact that it wasn’t labeled as such. Plus, I’ve known him for more than two years – specifically, I’ve known him for 17 years. Also, you may remember that Not Boyfriend moved to Nevada at the end of December, therefore, he wouldn’t have been here on Valentine’s Day(although he did call), therefore, I wouldn’t have been kissing him. Sillies. I’ll be kissing him NEXT weekend, when he comes home to visit. Oh no I won’t…or WILL I?
And to deflect the questions that will no doubt arise from this, as it turns out, he’s better at keeping in touch then I thought he would be. When he left, I thought that would be the end. But he calls me at least once a week, which I’m continually surprised about. Obviously I’m not pining away for him over here, but it’s nice to know he misses me.
Also, in case you were wondering, I'm not sure when I'll be seeing the boy I kissed again. We've talked on the phone, but haven't made any plans to totally make out. What? I mean, no plans to hang out. Heh.
I was awakened from a deep sleep this morning by the ringing of my cell phone. It was P.I.C. drunk dialing me from Vegas. I can say with certainty that this is the first time I’ve ever been drunk dialed at 6:30 a.m. He and his buddies were on their way to breakfast after not being to bed yet and he wanted to say hi. I called him an hour and a half later because I forgot to tell him something (they were just finishing breakfast and getting ready for more gambling) and he only vaguely remembered calling me and was also wondering why on earth I was awake so early. I think I said “It’s EIGHT O’CLOCK!!” about fifty times. That’s the kind of fun me and my girls will be having in Vegas in two short months.
Soon you will fear me
We’re stepping it up in boxing. Last night we did some combinations and then some give and take – the give and take was interesting because we were actually punching each other. Awesome. Pansy Boy wasn’t there, so I’m wondering if he gave up. Anyway, I felt pretty good – like I’m making some progress, even though I still can’t wrap my own hands. I’ve got to practice that – I feel like a big baby when the coach has to do it. And I only got smacked in the head once for not keeping my hands up. See? Progress.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
I kissed a boy! I kissed a boy!! I! Kissed! A! Boy!
Why am I so excited about this? What, you mean besides the fact of the kissing? Well, it’s because for once, patience has TOTALLY paid off and also I was pretty surprised because I never thought we’d end up kissing. Oh, and also, because I looooooooove kissing.
He’s sort of shy. He’s got divorce baggage (but apparently, ALL the guys I’m interested in do – is it a product of the age? Whatever). We’ve been having platonic fun together for two years. TWO. YEARS. I thought he was hot the day I met him. And thus far, I have curbed my natural overt flirtatiousness because I liked hanging out with him and I didn’t want things to get “wheird”. I was going to let him make the first move, even if it never ever happened. I was beginning to think it would never ever happen. I would like to pat myself on the back for my remarkable show of self control. FOR TWO YEARS.
Anyway, on Valentine’s Day, we were talking on the phone and he’s like “come over and we’ll go to the bar and I’ll buy you a drink for Valentine’s Day.” So I did. We hung out there for a while, talking like usual, and then he hugged me and kissed me on the lips. I didn’t think much of it, because he’s done that before. I thought more of it later when he leaned over and REALLY kissed me. Luckily we were sitting in chairs with backs, because otherwise, I might have fallen over from the sheer shock of it all. We eventually left and went back to his house where there was more kissing. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. Did anything else happen besides the kissing? Ha. I’m not telling.
And really, I can’t think of a better way to spend Valentine’s Day. Mwah hahahahahahaaaaaa. Awesome.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Because I got flowers from Karen, presents from Sally and Joe, and Chicago pizza from Dasi. Cards, e-mails, voice mails, text messages, instant messages, vodka tonics, hugs, kisses and snuggles, all from people who love me. More.
So while I may not have a boyfriend, I have PLENTY of love in my life and Valentine’s Day was just like any other day. Because my friends show me love every day.
Beth was talking about perfume today and so it got me to thinking about the smells I love. So here they are. I love household products that smell like "fresh rain". I love candles and room fresheners that smell like "clean cotton". I love the smell of clean clothes. I love the smell of my own perfume -- "Heaven" by the Gap. I love the smell of my mom. I love that when my dad uses the phone before he leaves for work, it smells like his aftershave. I love that my brother has always had a distinct little boy smell, even now. It’s not bad, it’s just Tim smell. I like that when Kendra takes her hair out of a ponytail, it still smells like her shampoo. I love the smell of rain and the smell of barbecques in the summer. I love the smell of Not Boyfriend – when he used to hug me and even after he left, my shirt smelled like him. I love the smell of baby shampoo on baby heads. I love the smell of fall in Winter Park. I love that all these smells remind me of so many good things. MY good things.
Fascinating Ex-Boyfriend Story
Ok Romey, since you’re SO INTERESTED in my ex-boyfriend, here you go. It’s a tale of intrigue and mystery – not really, but there are some parts I will keep to myself. We were together for four years, and we broke up almost exactly two years ago. We loved each other – a lot – but we’d gotten to a place where the next part of moving forward was getting married, and that wasn’t going to happen.
He was 14 years older than me and he had two kids already. He didn’t want to have a second family and that was a dealbreaker for me. I knew that from the beginning, but the heart wants what it wants, I guess. I also never thought we’d be together as long as we were. We started dating when I was 23 and he was 37, and we definitely went through some rocky patches because hello? I was 23 and even though I’d been in two long term relationships already (and engaged once) being with someone my age was completely different than being with someone that much older.
It was a hard break up because we didn’t stop loving each other, but I needed to move on and find someone who wanted what I wanted. Clearly I’m still looking for that – harder than I thought it would be, apparently. Anyway, he and I stayed in touch for a year after we broke up, but in that time, I wasn’t moving on. So we stopped talking altogether. And since then, well, you know the excellent experiences I’ve had in the dating realm.
I used to miss him all the time, but that’s faded. I think about him a lot, mostly in the context of places we’ve been and things we did. But I don’t miss him anymore. I have good memories of our time together and I don’t regret a minute of it. I’m thankful for him and the things I learned from being with him, and that’s that.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
He made me a priority – called when he said he would, and even when he didn’t say he would. Always had time for me – always MADE time for me.
We did nothing, we did everything. We went to dinner, we went to breakfast, we went to the gym, we went to the movies. We went to San Francisco, San Diego, Winter Park, Vail, Breckenridge and a billion places in between. We saw Dave Matthews and Indigo Girls and Sting. He was a chef and I loved to watch him make dinner, concocting delicious things out of whatever was in the fridge.
He taught me that being in a relationship wasn’t all about me. That I should want to take care of the person that I’m with but to also let myself be taken care of.
Valentine’s Day was a day for flowers, but so were Tuesdays or Wednesdays. He always remembered that I don’t like red roses and that I love Gerbera daisies.
I have the physical remnants of that relationship – a diamond bracelet, necklaces, clothes, sand from the beach in San Diego, matchbooks from our favorite restaurants. Memories.
Whenever I told him I loved him, he always said “I love you more”. And he did – he loved me more than anyone ever has and now I know what it’s like to be loved like that. He told me that I should always be with someone who loves me more.
And because of him, my standards are higher. I’ve had the kind of love I want and because of that, I know it’s out there. That’s why I always have hope. Even after all of the ridiculous excuses for dates I’ve been on in the two years since he and I broke up, I know that there is someone out there who will love me more.
I know because he loved me more.
Friday, February 10, 2006
He’s not the dad who will try and intimidate guys I’m dating who come to the house to meet my parents. My dad is the kind of guy you can put in any social situation and by the end, he will have met a few people and know all about what they do. He asks questions and pays attention and really listens to people because he’s genuinely interested in what they have to say. He’s big on learning – he likes to learn.
My dad is the consummate teaser. At my house, you will tease or you will be teased. We will immediately spot the weak ones in the pack and if you aren’t quick with a comeback, well, it’s the end for you. I’m surprised my brother isn’t permanently scarred as he was an easy target as a child. Like the time we were on a road trip and we were at a deserted gas station and my brother was peeing off to the side and so my dad waited until he was mid stream and started to drive away. Man, that was a good one. Seriously though – we’re not mean. Relentless and hilarious, yes. Mean, no.
He’s not the dad who lets you win at games so you feel good about yourself. Oh no. He’d beat you and then make you feel bad because you suck. Not in a mean way, but like “I can’t believe the score of this ping pong game was 21-3 and I was even playing you with my LEFT HAND.” And it worked. Because I’m ultra competitive, I folded one side of the ping pong table up and practiced ALL THE TIME. I’ll tell you what, it was a big day when I played my dad and he had to use his right hand. And an even bigger day when I beat him. He would hide the last piece of the puzzle so that he could be the one to finish it. I caught on to that and started hiding two. So he’d hide three. And it went on like that until the puzzle would be halfway done but all the pieces would mysteriously be gone.
Our biggest deal is Scrabble. When we play Scrabble, it’s serious business. I can’t remember when we started playing, but I got trounced more times than I can count. However, the more we played, the better I got. And the day that I beat my dad was like the best day EVER. He’s the smartest guy I know and I beat him at Scrabble. Woo hoo!! We played again (because he also hates to lose) and he beat me. But that one time, I won. I’ve won a few times since and of course I’m like “Wow. What a fluke! I can’t believe I won. Ha ha ha ha ha ha! I mean, good game. HA!” My dad also taught me the fine art of the post-game gloat.
If you know much about Scrabble, you know that while “Q” is a super high-point letter, it’s also a big fat pain because for the most part, you can’t use it unless you have a “U”. So when we find Q words that don’t require a U, well, we latch on and use it at all possible opportunities. Like the word “qat”. Excellent Q word. Yesterday I was reading “News of the Weird” and there was a piece about the World Scrabble Championship and they mentioned the word “Qanat”*. So of course I emailed the story to my dad. Here’s what he said:
“If you are going to use qanat, then I am going to use qanatic.....which means a fanatic of qanat......which means I use all seven of my letters.........which means I get the 50 bonus points........which means "I WIN" !!!!”
I don’t think so. So I wrote him back:
“Oh yeah? Well I will build off the "I" in "qanatic" and spell "bigjerk" - and oh my! Is that a triple word score?”
And not to be outdone, the last word from my dad:
“OK, crybaby.....qanatic is not really a word, but I tried. Please go to Google and type in qanat for the definition and you will see that the "ic" probably can't be added on the end.......I confess, I tried to pull on over on you!.....I win anyway!”
Ok dad, I’ll let you win…but just this once and just because I’m feeling nice today. Oh, and maybe because I love you! But just this one time. I mean, I'll always love you, but I won't always concede a win in Scrabble. Just so you know.
* Qanat: a gently sloping underground tunnel for irrigation purposes, esp. in ancient Persia. In case you were wondering.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
P: Bog ig
P: Got it
A: What is bog ig? Did you have a mild seizure? Are you speaking in tongues?
P: I did have a milk seizure
P: Mild seizure – I’m having trouble over here
A: A milk seizure? Sounds serious!
P: I’m not typing anymore.
He didn't appreciate my hysterical laughing and I'm sure he'll appreciate this even less, but I had to do it. It's just an example of how funny he is -- and this was even unintentional. Aw P -- you know I love you! I tease because I LOVE, remember?
In other news, the boys in boxing have figured out that the slow 11 year old is a pansy. And they don't like it -- I'm just waiting for the day that in the guise of demonstrating, one of those boys knocks him on his ass. Is that wrong? Maybe so, but seriously, Pansy, this is not the place where you're lazy. Don't pretend to run and sit down at every turn. He's big for an eleven year old and I really recommend that he learn all he can or else he's going to have more problems later on. End of diatribe. See how I can multi-task? I'm people watching AND practicing my skillz at the same time. It's necessary -- observing behavior is handy. Wow. Re-reading that I realize I was all over the place. Meh. You get the gist.
I was at P.I.C's house last week one night after boxing and I was hungry so he made me some delicious bagel bites. It was maybe 9:30 or 10 by the time I ate them, and yes, they were delicious. I went home and went to bed, and I was asleep for maybe an hour when I dreamt that I opened my eyes and these giant spiders (and I do mean giant -- like the size of my cats) were crawling off my bedside table onto my bed. I sat up, threw my pillow across the room and turned on the light. I looked all around my bed and there were no spiders, just my cats looking at me like I was crazy. Later that same night, I dreamt that I was being chased by Sloth from "The Goonies" and he was trying to kill me. I had almost escaped when my cell phone rang and it was my dad. He asked if I knew where my mom was because she had gone out to run an errand and never came back. It was 1:30 in the morning when he called -- I'm still dreaming by the way -- and so I started to cry and woke up. I couldn't get a hold of my mom in the morning, so I called my dad at work and was like "Uh, did you see mom this morning?" He had. Phew. The moral of this story is that I can no longer eat delicious bagel bites late at night. Oh, and a couple of nights later I had a dream that I was pregnant. THAT was weird. But it was just a dream, not a premonition or anything -- sadly, it's totally impossible for me to be pregnant right now. And I can say with reasonable certainty that it's not an immaculate conception as I believe that the Lord would think twice about giving ME his son to raise.
So yeah. My life has not become any more interesting. Don't the people I associate with realize that they're going to have to step up the funny? C'mon people -- I need blog material!
Monday, February 06, 2006
There was some prior discussion regarding our previous art. Chris drew a picture of him burning his hand on a burner cover, which I countered with a drawing of when I burned my hands carrying a bowl of ramen and dropped it on the floor and cried. I then drew a picture of a cat asking him if he was allergic to cats, since he’ll be at my house before we leave for camp in Montana this July. We have also recently been discussing how by the time he gets here, I will be a boxing bad ass. He doesn’t believe me, and so we’ve been talking smack. The conversation picks up right after he tells me that no, he’s not allergic to cats.
Amber: then you'll be fine at my house
Amber: except for when I kick your ass
Chris: that might not happen
Chris: well I will not take it easy on you
This is where there were more pictures drawn – Chris relaxing under a tree, me flying through the air attacking him with my stealth ninja skillz only to find out that it’s actually a dummy of him because he’s actually hiding in the tree. He then rains on my stealth parade (with a cloud and rain and everything), only to find out that it’s not me flying through the air, but a hologram of me. I’m actually hiding behind the tree, trying to climb up it and surprise him. But then somehow the tree ate me so we started a new picture. He won that round by creating the carnivorous tree. I'm sorry, what? Yes, we are almost thirty. What's your point? Let's move on, shall we?
Chris: game on
Chris: the line is drawn
Chris: or river
Amber: yeah. i thought it was a river
Amber: i jumped over the river to get you
Chris: my rainbow fish is eating your leg (you can’t see the fish anymore – it’s covered by the shark)
Amber: my severely deformed purple elephant is stomping on your head (my crudely drawn purple elephant is now obscured by the fantastic volcano which is my favorite part of this whole picture)
Chris: the volcano on my side of the river blew your elephant into space
Amber: but now you're covered with molten la-va
Chris: my man runs down with a few singed hairs and slides his gloves on simultaneously
Amber: I'm self healing, so after I re-grew my leg, I slide tackled you and you're flying through the air
Chris: the raven is flying in to save me
Chris: since I was airborne
Amber: my pterodactyl is dive bombing your raven
Chris: shark attack doot=doot-doot=do (“Shark Attack” is a camp song we always sing. Awww. Camp. I can't wait for camp.)
Amber: HA HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!
Amber: wow. that's a big shark
Amber: but he died because sharks can't survive in fresh water
So since Chris had to go to bed because Croatia is 8 hours ahead of me, I’m going to say that I won this round since his shark died. Also I can say that because it’s my blog and he can’t correct me! HA! Isn’t our art EXQUISITE? We even signed it so we can say we knew us when…
This was actually one of the better afternoons I’ve had at work in quite a while.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
I’ve been wanting to learn how to box for a long time, but my mom was always discouraging me because I have small, pretty hands and she didn’t want me to ruin them. Too bad. I want to box. Plus, duh, that’s what wrapping your hands AND wearing gloves is supposed to protect. I will be sad if I break my nose, but proud of getting a black eye. Just in case you were keeping score at home.
I did some research to find a class, and found one at a rec center by my house. I was wary, because in the past when I went to something like a kickboxing class, what it inevitably ended up being was an aerobics class MASQUERADING as a kickboxing class. That was not what I wanted. I don’t want a bunch of ladies kicking wildly at imaginary would-be-rapists while the cardio remix of some Britney Spears song is playing in the background.
So I show up the first night, pay the fee and go to the room where the class is. The first thing I notice is that the average age of the people in the class is like 12. Maybe they’re older, but they look tiny. And they’re all boys. I almost turned around and bailed but I sucked it up and stayed. The instructor comes over and talks to me and is like “here, I’ll show you how to wrap your hands.” Ok, this is a good sign. He’s a burly Mexican guy who works for the DEA and was a boxing champ back in the day. I am VERY relieved that he isn’t some soccer mom who loves scrapbooking and teaching aerobics in her spare time. He asks me if I’m any good with a jump rope. I say yes, because actually? I am awesome with a jump rope.
*Side note – the reason for my mad jump rope skillz is because in elementary school we had a jump rope team and I practiced ALL THE TIME because I really wanted to make the team. Geek, party of one? However, one girl on the team didn’t like me and so she kept me off. Can you believe it? This was in 5th grade, and I’ll tell you, she only got more bitchy with time. Anyway.*
After some jump roping, we ran laps and then came back to the room. In the meantime another chick my age showed up, and I was pretty happy about that. We ran through the basic punches and footwork, and then? We put on gloves. AWESOME. The rest of the class practiced on their own while I was paired up with one of the 12 year olds. There was another new kid, and he was paired up with a different guy. Anyway. My 12 year old was named Jose and he was this sweet little soft spoken kid in a wife beater and shorts who taught me the requisite footwork and did some punching combinations with me. He’d hold up his gloves and I’d punch him. At one point he’s like “punch harder” and I was thinking “I’m scared I’ll break you.” But I said ok and punched him harder. I did not break him.
Here’s the funny thing about boxing. It’s a LOT like dancing. Back in my choir days, I learned the staple of all choir choreography – the jazz square. And lo and behold, you do the jazz square in boxing too, only you do it while punching people. And it’s not called a jazz square. And the shoes are different and there’s no singing “Come on Get Happy.” So actually, the jazz square is kind of where the dancing similarities end.
After a while of the punching and the jazz square, the instructor came over to do some drills with me and the other new kid. So the instructor has these pads on his hands and he’s having us go through punching combinations and moving so we have to also integrate the footwork. As you may or may not know, in boxing you must keep your hands up AT ALL TIMES to guard your head and face. I forgot a couple of times, and so I got smacked in the head. AWESOME. This would never happen in the aerobic pseudo-boxing class! I also felt pretty good because the other new kid was this rather slow 11 year old. How sad am I because I’m happy about being more coordinated than the slow kid.
So ninety minutes after I walked into the class, I walked out with the marks left by the tight wrappings on my hands, the knowledge of how to do a 1-2 combination (which I remembered and successfully tried out on Joe yesterday as he was ALSO a former boxer -- I even threw in an extra punch and surprised him. Oh yeah.) and a sense of accomplishment. I also learned that the best place to learn how to fight is in a neighborhood where you BETTER know how to fight or you’ll be real sad. And it just so happens that this particular rec center is in the center of the ‘hood around what I like to call “Thug High School,” so I clearly picked the right place. I’m going again tonight, and after a lot more practice, I’ll have the fists to back up the attitude that comes with being a hot-tempered, mouthy Irish girl. And I will totally have your back. You’ll want me to, because frankly? I plan on being awesome.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Have you ever felt this way? Yeah. Me neither. I was just wondering.*
AND if you're so inclined, scroll to the bottom of that page and see the entry titled "Amber's Vanity Attacks..."-- there's another music file that's ME singing. Many of you have heard it before, as I posted it originally back in September. BUT, if you're new or if you just didn't get enough the first time, well, there it is.
*the song is "Grey Street" by Dave Matthews and it's at the top of the page on my media blog. In case you cared.