Where's Alice when you need her?

It's been a pretty quiet few weeks in the new house without a whole lot of idiocracy going on—and I have to admit that I've sort of missed it. The lack of my roommate's domestic faux pas really leaves me with very little to report to you all on—until this morning that is.

My mom is on her way up from Arizona to visit for a week—due here in a few hours, so of course I'm frantically cleaning. As roomie gets home from PT for his tore up knee I've already got the house 90% done and tackled the nastiest of nasty. So, as I'm knee deep in alleged scrub-free cleanser in the bathroom I wager a deal. I've cleaned everything else in the house—even swept and mopped up 6 dead moths from the laundry room (the roomie has a bizarre and unexplainable fear of moths that only rivals my fear of snakes in ridiculousness—I can't even handle pictures of snakes or genuine imitation snakeskin accessories or pictures of snakeskin accessories for that matter), so could he put the kickball growlers in the dishwasher for tonight's game as a trade.

Our kickball team is sponsored by the fabulous Boulder Beer Brewery so for each game we get 5 growlers of beer for the thirsty players. We had a bye last week for the holiday so the growlers have festered a little, and the roomie decides that they merit both a hand washing and machine sanitation…sounds like a good plan to me…I'm blown away by the extra effort and extremely grateful.

Until about 15 minutes later when I finish scrubbing the bathroom and begin my quick walk through of the house. Bathroom, check. Laundry room, check. Family room, check. My room, check. My office, almost check. The kitchen, circle of white fluffy foam 3 feet wide and 1 foot high and growing from the dishwasher. WTF?!?

The roomie has locked and loaded the dishwasher with 5 large beer growlers fueled with dish soap (the wash by hand type) as ammo and now our kitchen looks like a reenactment of what was possibly the best Brady Bunch episode ever, well aside from when they went on the TV talent show that is and had those fabulous matching bell-bottom costumes and groovy dance choreography, that's a really great one. While technically I believe that the Brady kids loaded a washing machine with dish soap—the result is actually quite similar.

SO, now all the clean towels in the house are barricading the kitchen entryway and attempting to quarantine the bubble cloud as the roomie stands there with the mop catching the continually flow of new foam spewing from the dishwasher like super clean lava. My next concern is of course, can the dish soap soaked towels go into the washing machine or will the bubble of foam rise like a phoenix from our washing machine too?

I'm so glad that things are back to normal in our house.


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Now playing: GET SET GO - I Hate Everyone
via FoxyTunes

Just My $0.02

OK, so I was writing an email to a good buddy to give my "two cents" on a conundrum he's facing and I was overcome by the aggravation that there is no longer a cent sign on the keyboard. Writing $0.02 just isn't as satisfying. I've also always loved the fact the cent sign follows the numeral instead of rushing ahead of it.

I'm rather confident that when I used to set up the old noisy Selectrics in my parents den and play travel agent or university professor that the keyboard included a cent sign, that beautiful and squirrley "c" shape with the slanted line through it. And I'm almost certain that our first old PC that required the insertion of 6 disks to "boot-it-up" also had the cent sign. So, why did it disappear? Where'd it go? Was it a result of inflation? Did some silly patent symbol trump it?

I miss the cent sign, just my $0.02.

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Now playing: Leona Naess - Charm Attack
via FoxyTunes

"Hello, this is Gordon of the Violent Femmes…

…and I've just been locked inside my house, so I can't go out and uh get my bus and stuff and get up there by one 'clock. I'll...someone's coming over to rescue me so... it wasn't my fault. My parents had locked me in. So, I'll get there whenever I can. Maybe I'll try calling Victor at his house or something like that. OK, ah bye"

OK, so I really didn't think it was possible—but today I got locked inside my own house. And I have to admit that it incited a minor panic attack.

Last week the roommate and I moved into our new palatial abode which is located about one mile from downtown (we were previously about 25 yards from downtown). So, now when heading over to Pearl Street we have begun to refer to it as "going into town." As if it was the kind of trek into town from some rural lean-to that requires at least half a tank of gas, sled dogs, CB radio, emergency blanket and list of supplies and dry goods to be schlepped back.

Around 11 the roommate "went to town" and miraculously remembered to lock and close the front door as I was in the office at the back of the house--and he's not what I would describe as a "safety concerned" kind of guy. About half an hour later I went to leave and "go into town" for my lunch meeting and when I went to turn the handle on the front door—it did nothing. I had just gotten out of the shower, so maybe there was lotion or something on my hands making them slippery. So, I wiped them off and tried the door again. No dice. WTF am I supposed to do now…call my client and explain that I am locked inside my house…?!?

I know this is completely ridonkulous, we live in a 3 bedroom ranch style house, that is quite spacious and all the windows were open, but I actually started to feel incredibly claustrophobic and was having a hard time breathing and thinking (guess those two are related…)

Now we do have a side door, but the catch is that the landlord lost the keys to the side door and is in the process of replacing them. So, technically I could leave, but I couldn't lock the door, now it is Boulder, so odds are pretty safe that the house would be safe—but I'd hate to be the douche bag that gets robbed because they didn't lock the door. I decided to bank on Karma and called the roommate to alert him of the door situation, crossing my fingers he would remember it when he got home later and not try to break down the front door (it's happened before…twice, wouldn't be a good thing to happen the first week we live there).

All in all, the house was safe. And the roommate and I spent half an hour dissecting the doorknob and yelling at each other through the front door and over the rumble of three fans. "I said hold the knob god damn tight." "No, you said turn the knob to the god damned right." Wow, the neighbors must love us already.

Anyhoo, now I get to make the embarrassing call to the new landlord explaining that we are locked in the new house.

Not Even My Junk

So, this is pretty bad. I'm sorting through some old files in preparation to move and I came across not my resume from 7 years ago...but a 2 inch thick file of resumes and writing samples from interns that applied to a program that I ran 7 years ago!!! Not even just the one from the intern that I hired...but the ones from all the little UA underclassmen that applied. And even worse, this means that I have boxed and schleped this 1/4 pound of paper approximately 4 times in the last 7 years. I'm not sure if there is a sadder example of Pack Rat behavior. This is just pathetic. Although I guess it makes me as bad as google. When my name is googled it apparently lists that you can still apply for this internship...oy vey.

Now That's With Flair

I have to admit, I "heart" the Chotchkies. Whatta game and whatta team that really watches out for their own. Rock on Adonis!!!

Note from Adonis:
Hey y'all,

As I sit at in front of my computer machine (I'm a slave to the most philanthropic company in the world), I thought of something.

We clearly have stellar talent on our team; however, I fear our team spirit might be waning (just a bit). I propose we schedule a team outing where we can all get together, cut loose and have a fantastic evening of fun...without a kickball game.

It's a proven fact that those that party together, perform more effectively together (haven't y'all ever hung out with Japanese businessmen?). Everyone's on an even keel when they go out. There is no CEO nor secretary. No: team captain, nor glamorous catcher whose been waiting nearly a decade for the best boob-trap fly ever, nor Cy Young award winning pitcher whose not afraid to toss the 1 eyed jenny, nor elder statesman with a pulled hammy who proceeds to run full bore to make fantastic catches in the outfield, nor stunning wife who claims to be afraid to catch only to pull in an over the shoulder winning out, nor smoking diesel supermom who has more athletic talent in her little toe than most yet cannot seem to figure out how to kick a ball, nor tempting compact speed demon who regulates 3rd with an iron fist, nor shortstop who successfully affronts every lady he'd like to bed, nor unsung hero 1st baseman who takes ridiculous shots to the dome yet holds onto the ball and says nothing in the face of an absurd call, nor provocative lady who's not afraid to blast the ref with an f-bomb after witnessing her man thrashed and degraded by a bad call, nor tantalizing pink machine whose not afraid to play sans shorts, nor consummate base coach with Adamantium hips who shows up to every game and dwarfs us all in the realm of team spirit, nor supreme athlete with the body of Adonis and mind of Aristotle whose been relegated to an area of the outfield where he sees as much action as he does in his very single life.

These are just a few examples of who is not what, when you go out in Japanese society (and only for those who showed this evening). But we should deviate from the Japanese way in one aspect and one aspect only--allow the women to attend the festivities.

So I propose we all get together on Friday, the twentieth of July (I am picking this date randomly, but without a date nothing happens) at 6:30pm to quickly blow through our meager gift certificate to Harpo's. If it will entice any of y'all to attend, I'll grab first round (and probably many after that) and all cabs from Harpo's to Pearl Street to continue the festivities.

He really is a god. Thank you!

Don't Ask, Don't Smell

The roommate and I are preparing to move soon, so it only makes sense that after four years of renewing the entire house would go to shit--literally, just a few weeks before we have to clean and restore it to "give us that full-deposit with interest back" condition.

Over the years we have tolerated the temperamental nature of the plumbing in our uber retro condo...we know which sound coming from deep within the walls means step to the side in the shower as it's about to get hotter then a whore in a church and the sound that means artic waters are about to flow. We tolerated a dishwasher that shook both stories of the building, permanently adhesived rice and cereal flakes to all of our dishes and was as water tight as a vegetable colander.

Then there were the "our oops occasions" like roomie dropping my comb in the toilet or the eyeliner pencil in the toilet fiasco caused by 4 people attempting to change into Halloween costumes in our 3 foot by 3 foot mirrored bathroom a few years back that sent us running to Target just minutes before close on a Saturday night and being assaulted by the misguided mentality of the general public. Please, please explain to me how seeing the two us squatting in front the cleaning supply section comparing the merits of Draino vs. Liquid Plumber and making deals with the devil to not have to call our landlord at 11pm at night gives someone the idea to saunter up and ask us "Whatcha get stuck?" as if it was a great opening line and a fine time to make some new friends. "Yeah let's get together real soon and compare hair clogs from the tub, what fun!"

But the most annoying and most recent has to be the recent combination of continual marathon running, overflowing and lack of flushing ability of our toilet. Now after 4 calls to the landlord and a week of plunging, augering, bleaching and praying—our plumber Todd has come by to tell us that he has ordered us a new throne, the old one can't be fixed…but it won't be here until Friday…uh it's Tuesday dude, and we have ONE bathroom.

So, until Friday at 8am our household motto is going to borrow from the fine town of Vegas and the Navy to survive with some remote dignity. What happens in the bathroom, stays in the bathroom and don't ask, don't smell. Thank god we are moving soon and taking our damn auger with us...

Come on--Just a little bit longer

So, I'm a sucker for these old school photos--and yes more photos means I'm still not done digging out the house. Thank god we are moving next month and will soon have the threat of the landlord stopping by to show the place forcing us to keep it clean...or at least cleaner.

Think this photo sums up the count down to happy hour...just a little bit longer, just a little. Think these dresses might be back in style too, could've sworn some sorostitue was wearing one at Dish today...mmm...Dish yummy sandwiches and garlic green beans...

Just a little bit longer until Stella time--wahoo!

Bring it!

I've barricaded myself in the house today after 41.5 hours of OT last week to catch up on a few chores and of course I'm making zero progress. Unless progress includes cleaning up my itunes and coming across some fantastic old photos. The photo above is a particular fave. It was taken at Candlewood Lake in CT at my aunt and uncle's house--clearly in the 80s. I'd like to say, "Nice Charlie's Angels doo mom," but with the wall of lopsided bangs beginning from apparently the back of my head, I really don't have much room to comment. Hard to believe I was ever so blonde and wore that belt at will.

What I love about this photo is the fact that it is quite obvious that I'm about to get busted for something, but that first my mom has to give my little brother (who is outside the left of the frame) the "Don't you even think of going near that lake, not right now," evil eye. And I have that smirky mixed expression of "I'm ready for it, I will NOT cry, and do I ever have a brilliant little retort ready to throw back at ya" look on my face. I'm waiting mom...

Santa's Workshop

So, I'm stuck at home working on a stoopid proposal for a client on a Saturday night…which totally blows. The client is a big company that makes space crafts and other future space junk. I know I should be impressed by them and what they produce, but I'm just not that into it…space just really doesn't do it for me at all. I think it's a generational thing, most of the folks that work there were kids when we first landed on the moon—so they are mesmerized by the wonder of space. But for me, my first space memory is being in elementary school and watching the tragic Challenger take-off—not exactly something that pushed space exploration to the top of my list.

Anyhoo, the best part of working on the contract is a little place I like to refer to as Santa's Workshop. Smack in the middle of the Communication Services building there is a model shop where they make scale models of all the space crafts. They are made out of the same materials that are launched into orbit—and they are completely sweet. While space doesn't mesmerize me, these tiny models just rock my world.

The highlight of the model shop is that apparently an application requirement to work there is that you must be male, under 5'7", in your late 50s or 60s, have a bushy gray beard and wear an apron. You must also have a hankering for obscure, 60's acoustic guitar music.

I "heart" the model shop elves. Every time I send a document to the printer, I intentionally select the printer on the opposite side of the building just so I can stroll Santa's Workshop for a little zen time. I think the only thing that would make the model shop better is if it actually smelled like Christmas. I think I'll buy a little pine tree shaped air freshener or some sprigs of cinnamon and stash them in the model shop and see if anyone notices…

Ecstasy at the Schoolyard

No, not mini acid tabs on sheets you silly little rabbits, this is B-town, not D-town.

The beauty and pure innocence of school yard sports. Monday night in Boulder is kickball night, as it should be in most places. Everyone needs to start the week kicking some balls before they get their ass kicked by the cube.

Tonight we played "Rowdy Roddy Piper" a fantastic wrestling themed team (they played last season as "Hacksaw Jim Duggan" the vintage 2x4 wielding wrestler) that we could not be matched with more perfectly. Whatta game and whatta way to start the week.

It was an exhilarating night of back and forth, perfectly even play that makes you earn it the whole night long, victory tastes better that way. Not to wax nostalgic or get too Hallmark on you, but we had that late spring rainstorm that kept threatening, but the cloud coverage that keeps it warm and just right outside.

We had fabulous team plays and some rock star catches, props to Mer for the outfield rally!!! And Stryker for the class act of the night MVPstyle—shows some good schoolin' and nuts to run to the outfield and high-five the guy that dove headfirst to catch your fly ball.

And once again, props to the Pipers this week and thank you for letting the Chotchkies start the week off right. Woohoo!!!!

Check us out, 'cuz it sure feels good to be a gangster!

http://www.myspace.com/chotchkieskickball

2 Months of Apathay

You know how when you have a list of things to do that is so long that it is overwhelming that you just don't know where to start--so it's like physically and mentally impossible to start any of the tasks and you just feel further behind? That's where I am.

Sort of like running, once upon a time ago I used to run and nearly crossed into the category of "runner" but again that was a long time ago. So, I started running again and it is killing me--not necessarily in the physical sense but in the mental sense of I used to be able to just walk out the door and go, now I'm huffing at a mile.

I sort of feel the same way about the blog, I used to post regularly and then I got busy and I then I sort of forgot about and then I just end up feeling so far behind and guilty to start posting again--which I know is an even lamer excuse. And the kicker is there have been so many great things going on in all areas of my life, although when work is going great it makes sense that I'm not motivated to write more--how much can a girl put-out, really? I guess I need to cross-train and get back in both the running and writing saddle.

Desperation Post to Stay Current

OK - so tonight I learned that I have devoted readers and have inspired another to start blogging, so I'm here to promise new posts by Sunday (We do have my birthday to recount, meeting with The Fergel and I'm waiting for The Housemate to do something really stoopid...trust me it'll be soon) and to promote the fabulous new blog: cuskibum.blogspot.com/.

PS to CU Ski Bum, I did graduate from Catholic School with honors--so when it comes to Signage Liberation, I'm a pro...

Cheers all, and get ready for some supa posts, it's nearly kickball season after all.

Pieces of String too Short to Save

I've been trying to justify any TV watching time lately by multi-tasking and either sorting through some old files that have pile up or working on something crafty. The crafty projects have been winning. This weekend while working my way though my last 6 Lost episodes to prepare for it's long awaited return tonight (WOOHOO!!!!), I pulled out a box labeled "Embroidery" to sort through.

And of course before being able to do anything "productive" I got totally side-tracked by sorting through the random odds and ends in the box. Glad to know that this form of procrastination is not only work specific for me. While on writing assignments I can somehow go from looking up on a word online at Merriam-Webster to reading Zach Braff's IMDB profile to a Wikipedia page on the history of the Ruby Red Slippers in the Wizard of Oz…all the while mentally justifying the time spent in some way or another.

In the box was a HUGE tangled pile of embroidery floss that was easily two feet by two feet, bigger then pet ferret sized and just smaller then 30 pound alley cat size. I started to unwind it and sort it to see if there was anything usable in there and maybe inspire me to stitch something. I've just come across www.subversivecrossstitch.com and I am addicted to finding the perfect project to start. Which in all truth I will spend 4 times the amount of time looking for a project then I will actually completing the project.

Anyways, a few hours and 4 Lost episodes later the string reminded me of a poetry class that I got dragged too years ago. The class had the standard lonely female divorcees writing angry poems and a handful of very odd men trying to create mid-word rhymes. This left just two of us in the class to compete over the grand prize of pithiest lines of verse, bordering on limericks. And I got heinously beat out of the smart-ass, clever-chair one evening when my competitor wrote a poem about realizing that she knew what it meant to be old when she came across a shoe box on her Grandma's craft shelf labeled, "String to Small to Save."

String to Small to Save – for years I've wondered, "What made the pieces too small to toss too?" By this point, I was wrapping episode 5 and on the home stretch. I had several freshly wound spools, labeled and sorted in one box and a Ziploc bag of some random pieces that I begin to label, yes: "String to Small to Save." I can't decide if the bag of small pieces to save made sense. I could use them for all those mending projects I don't ever do, or for little accents on projects I never finish here and there. But in all honesty, am I just actually justifying my pack-rat nature here or is it more a subconscious way of noting, "Whoa, I'm getting REALLY old?"

Two Things Gets Even Better!

Now the news headline on the WB has evolved too "Attacked by Diaper Wearing Astronaut!"
You can't beat that for sheer entertainment :)

Two Things I Didn't Need To Know

But will of course bestow upon you…

In accordance with my unofficial New Year's goal to become "unliterate" I have started sampling the different news programs as I make coffee in the morning and prepare for the day. Big topic of discussion today was the NASA astronaut, Lisa Nowak that is being charged with attempted kidnapping and murder. Apparently she is involved in a love triangle and tried to kidnap The Other Woman using pepper spray, a BB gun and steel mallet. OK, I don't have any Navy training and I'm not an astronaut—but a BB gun, wtf? Military intelligence once again I guess.

But here is what I didn't need to know. She was in such a rush to drive from Texas to Florida to launch her kidnapping scheme that she wore a DIAPER! And apparently it is standard protocol for astronauts to wear diapers during launch and re-entry. Two things I really didn't need to know, especially before my morning coffee was even done brewing. Unliterate is better than ignorant in my book.

Knock, knock. Knock on Wood.

This afternoon I had to meet with an editor for a magazine piece and I had an errand to run up at the University, so I suggested that we meet somewhere on "The Hill" which is the local campus strip complete with coffee shops, Laguna Beach cast wannabes, a handful of intellectuals and some fading hipsters. One of my guilty passions is getting coffee up on The Hill and just walking around campus, daydreaming about the day Tenure and the title of Professor is bestowed on me…oh the things these kids could learn from me…

In daydream mode there is a definitely a tendency to wander aimlessly, incidents of staring without intending too and just the euphoria of being lost in thought. So, the ring/vibrate combo of my cellphone startled me out of my little heaven in my head to find myself with one foot off the curb about to step into traffic and the other foot in a 3 inch deep puddle of snow melt as I was about to put an electronic device in close proximity to my brain.

The call was from a client trying to recruit me for a long-term writing contract that would require me to slum it onsite and actually leave my house on a regular basis. The reason for the call was to ask in case of emergency or accident, what hospital would I like listed in my file to be taken too.

Normally, this would seem like a bizarre question to ask a writer, but I guess the client also has some manufacturing onsite so it sort of makes a little sense, although I am going to re-read the job description now… Anyways, I've lived here off an on for almost 12 years and only been to the hospital once, so I had to stop and concentrate to think of the name of the local hospital. But as I ungracefully leapt from the puddle and away from traffic to knock twice on the wood of the nearest phone pole, the question actually seemed quite logical. But, I do wonder what my references said about me and my klutzy nature... I walked home with extreme caution obeying all crosswalks. I am so jinxed now.

Purple Rain and Phallacy

I am a complete football neophyte, with an immigrant father I was raised primarily watching soccer and baseball (my New Yorker mom's influence). Also, growing up in Arizona there were no pro teams until I was in at least high school, so I wasn't brought up as a fan with a "my team" loyalty. For me sports were something played and not watched, unless it was grainy Tele-Mundo futbol broadcasts ("GOOOOOAAAAAAL!!!!") or attending spring training baseball games that were usually followed by double-header concerts with The Beach Boys or The Monkees and free foam fingers for those of us under 10. They gave free bats away once…just once though, who thought of that horrible idea?!?

But working in advertising and a die-hard pop-culture student I have come to love the Super Bowl if just for the commercials and half-time shows. So, yesterday armed with enough knitting and White Russians to keep me on the couch for four full hours I settled in to watch THE game. The annoying level of "super-fan" cheering over the coin-toss was enough to tempt me to check the On-Demand guide…as there was a marathon of The Closer on TNT that had some serious pull for me…but no, I was determined to sit, watch and try and understand all the pull of this event.

My housemate finally migrated downstairs to watch the game and explain some of the finer points of play to me, and from what I understand it was a pretty great game. I'll even admit to setting down my knitting and watching about 60% of the game—that is pretty huge progress for me…

Since, I was displaying some interest in the game and actually actively watching my housemate thoughtfully participated in my favorite task of discussing the commercials and then the pop-culture holy grail of the half-time show. The half-time performer is always an interesting choice, something to appeal to middle-America, well known enough to be a household name and hopefully not a has-been. To this day I still don't know how Miss Jackson managed to slip through the cracks.

Our votes for half-time fell more along the lines of the good-old American performers like Springsteen or Bob Seger, maybe CCR and a little harmonizing with Britney or Christina to keep the younger set interested. Prince to my housemate held no merit what-so-over. Which surprised me, for his job as a ski coach he has clocked more highway and Top 40 radio hours then the average bear. You can't have listened to Top 40 radio for that long and not have a soft-spot for Prince.

He: "I can't even name one Prince song."

Me: "Yes, you can. Hello. Pretty Woman singing along in the bath tub to Kiss. How about Little Niki, or Red Corvette, Raspberry Beret, Purple Rain, I Would Die 4 U..."

He: "OK, OK so I guess I kind of know one or two of them.

Me: "One or two!!! And anyway now he's more of a producer, he just got a lifetime achievement award. He probably wrote or mixed most of the songs you know the words too."

He: "Like who?"

Me: "Umm..." Why or why does the mind go blank at these points in debates?

He: "OK, I can name his best contribution ever, he made Carmen Electric"

Me: "Fair enough"

He: "But still, don't you think the half-time performer should be someone all American and corn-fed from like Minnesota."

Me: "He's from Minneapolis…"

Then suddenly on the rain-soaked half-time stage our debate was interrupted by the launching of a huge condom-like white parachute in front of Prince. The camera was showing an illuminated silhouette of Prince wailing away on his guitar that was in the shape of his "The Artist Formally Known as Prince" symbol…but when he turned the guitar side-ways it was clearly a huge penis, illuminated behind a HUGE phallic shroud.

Why is no one talking about this today?

On headline news they commented on Prince's classy performance and the thoughtful nod of wearing aqua and orange in a tribute to the Dolphin Stadium…how did this little man who once wore purple lace assless chaps for an MTV performance slip this HUGE phallic symbol past America? Weren't we all watching and hoping for something naughty?

I even googled Prince and Super Bowl. Nada. Then I googled Prince and phallic—which I don't recommend trying, especially at work.

I feel dirty? Is my household the only one with their thoughts of the half-time show steaming up from the gutter? "I'm sorry Miss Jackson..." but you've ruined us or at least our expectations.

Um…Latex Gloves?

I work at home and everyday my housemate storms through the house like the Tasmanian Devil during his half an hour break between working at the ski store and coaching the ski team. It is truly amazing to what level my serene home-post can be disrupted, destroyed and just plain d-mowed in those short 30 minutes.

Today, hollered from behind the closed bathroom door:
"Do you have any latex gloves?"

I don't even want to respond and if I do—I am not willing to participate in a hand-off that requires reaching around the bathroom door. I have boundaries. But I am curious now and completely distracted, so:
"Um, no…WHY?"

"Well, I dropped your comb in the toilet."

Great... Don't even want to know how my comb got implicated in this debacle.

"We have some Ziploc bags."

"No, uhhhh…"

"Oh, I see. The comb has company in the bowl, well…shit, yeah shit. What about those stupid noodle tongs that have never worked, just grab and toss. Toss the comb and tongs?"

"No, we might want those someday even though they don't work. Oh well."

Apparently, "Oh well" translates in housemate speak to: "He will flush the toilet and leave the comb in there for me to deal with later." Which considering we only have one bathroom will likely be SOON. There is some odd Pavlovian connection between knowing there is no accessible toilet that makes one need to use one immediately.

Raised lettering, pale nimbus...white

      Hi, guys. I wanna get your opinion on something. 

It's my business card. 

I decided to get a new one too. 

Oh, it's-- 

Very nice, Luis. 

Thank you.

The other day while focused on my New Year's resolution of more networking and business development ventures a new networking link handed me her card and I noticed that their agency style was an all caps first name and an all lower case last name.

I like it. It works, but it also drives me completely nuts.

As portrayed in American Psycho, in the advertising and creative arena business cards are so far beyond important in perceived value that it's unbelievably amazing how even with a team of professional copywriters and editors on staff that they always seem to mess 'em up.

At my very first job out of college, the Public Relations firm that hired me thought it would be a very slick to have my business cards printed and displayed on my desk the first morning I started. Sort of a "Hey, welcome aboard, hit the ground running and make your 3ft by 4ft cubicle seem a little more yours," gesture I guess.

Well…my vague job title upon hiring was "Public Relations Associate". And only two weeks out of college at the time, I really had no idea what that meant or what my job duties truly included. But I did know that the job title printed on my business card in raised Garmond print was missing one very important "L" and that my job would likely involve lots of editing. Talk about starting on your hands and knees.

Years later, during my first week at a big fancy ad agency they announced that they would be printing a fresh run of business cards for all the new hires (woohoo! happy hour favors and symbols of legit career status). But that I (and only I) first had to meet with the Creative Director and one of the Writing Directors. WTF?

The two directors sat me down in a conference room and tried to make me feel comfortable and welcome, while only succeeding in coming off as increasingly smarmy as they launched their pre-rehearsed presentation. As I tried not to pee in my pants and look calm, I wondered if this skit would include a PowerPoint slide or two and, I imagined this must be what it feels like right before the company offers you a bribe to drop your claim against them and not sue.

To paraphrase their painful skit, they had invested beyond a buttload of hours and $$$ (oh quarterly profit sharing…there you went) in designing the snazzy, heavy weight cards to depict the proper creative brand image for the agency and that my name—one of those southern compound first names with the "anne" smooshed on the end and a capital "A" before the suffix to help folks with pronunciation well, just didn't work with intended design philosophy of the card which was in all lower-case.

Seriously? Yes.

I turned the card over in my hand and read it twice. Then again. I thought for a second—then counted to 10 and took a deep breath to appear as if I was seriously contemplating my response.

"Well, I understand the amount of research, thought and design that went into this, it's beautiful and compelling…and I'm comfortable with the all lowercase appearance of my name on the card…but would it be OK to add my last name to the card? I'm not familiar with the Bauer family…"

Is that a gram? 

New card. 

What do you think? 

Whoa-ho. Very nice. 

Look at that. Picked them up from the printer's yesterday. 

Good coloring. That's bone. 

And the lettering is something called Silian Rail. 

It's very cool, Bateman, but that's nothing. Look at this. 

That is really nice. 

Eggshell with Romalian type. What do you think ? 

Nice. 

Jesus. That is really super. How'da nitwit like you get so tasteful? 

I can't believe that Bryce...prefers Van Patten's card to mine. 

But wait. You ain't seen nothin' yet. 

Raised lettering, pale nimbus... white. 

Impressive. Very nice. 

Hmm. 

Let's see Paul Allen's card. 

Look at that subtle off-white coloring. 

The tasteful thickness of it. 

Oh, my God. It even has a watermark.

Astro Addiction

So, I still haven't kicked my horoscope checking addiction—even after meeting with psychic and getting a full analysis of my sign and learning that the sun and moon signs have pretty much equal impact…but I just can't stop checking 'em. At least I have now progressed from to checking them at the end of the day and not the night before…and they are still somehow right on.

This is the kind of day that makes luck come your way, KA, especially where relationships are concerned. Perhaps a friend will introduce you to an exceptional person who will help fulfill your professional fantasies. Or maybe your partner will surprise you with a gift profound in its thoughtfulness. However your luck manifests, trust that this is going to be one great day!

I have to admit, today I made 5 professional connections that could end up rocking my world today AND I did receive a gift from that special one that was indeed profoundly thoughtful and completely unsolicited I may add.

It's a great day!

All skate reverse

Talk about pure unadulterated childhood joy.

Knowing you were good enough to slyly drag one skate behind you and stop on a dime.

Slightly shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

And with just one step, pushing off…

Gliding away.

Past all the ungraceful and unfortunate wall stoppers.

And the amateur contortion artists struggling to penetrate the cement floor with their red rubber toe break.

Just stop and turn.

All skate reverse.

Toothpaste is one thing…

The only way to sanely survive the extremely daunting cold weather, snow and icy conditions we are facing in Colorado this winter is to just balls out embrace it. A few weeks ago, one of my supa star kickball teammates came across an impromptu game of Broomball while out bar-hopping one evening and was drawn to the gliding, pushing, laughing and shrieking…could it be true, could there be a Broomball league in Boulder? The answer: "Hell Yes"

Needless to say she recruited a few of us from the good old Chotchkie's with Flair kickball team, informed us that along with signing a lengthy release form that we need to gather up some protective padding, helmets and mouth guards. Yes, mouth guards. Those little pieces of $1.99 rubber that manage to protect $6,000 worth of orthodontia.

So, my housemate and I set out to the mammoth sports store to purchase our very own mouth guards—oh the sweet anticipation of then going home, boiling water and molding the crappy piece 'o plastic to our mouths—and then being able to taste or smell nothing but plastic for the next 36 – 48 hours.

Like any 27 year old guy, that is actually 12 inside. He immediately opened his mouth guard in the car and stuffed it into his mouth as we headed over to the grocery store.

Now, while in the grocery store, I was on a mission and have to admit that I really didn’t pay attention to the presence or lack of presence of the mouth guard. As we got back in the car I have to admit that the whereabouts of his mouth guard didn't even remotely cross my mind until my hand landed on something cold, wet, slimy and squishy as I slid into the front seat. "What the f…" "It's just my mouth guard," he says. "Yeah, key word being mouth and now my ass." "Really, it's not a big deal, I mean I use accidentally use your toothbrush all the time." "What the f…" again… "Well they are really similar colors."

Seriously toothpaste can be shared, but toothbrushes?

I am so buying a ridiculously unique toothbrush; I am going to decoupage my name onto the handle of MY toothbrush. MY toothbrush. And all the time?!? Seriously.