And One More Time...This Time With Feelers!!!

So, I woke up this morning feeling like a semi-truck had run me over or as the roomie would say, "Feeling like a bag of smashed assholes," which was a little bizarre as a I had an unbelievably uber mellow evening last night that involved dinner at friend's house (AMAZING homemade tortilla soup BTW) and then going to see 21 at the theater (also FANTASTIC---love, love, love the guy from Across the Universe and my 401 K retirement plan is so out the window and being cashed in to support my new career of counting cards in Vegas now…aside from my distaste for math and only knowing one calculation—I can calculate 30% off of any number in about 15 seconds as it was the amount of my employee discount when I worked retail—I'm sure it's a full-proof plan).

So back to last night, Let me reiterate—super, super mellow. In light of the great Margarita race on Friday that evolved into the great Margarita recovery on Saturday, by Sunday night we're talking so mellow that I had clothes laid out for my big client meeting the next morning, briefcase packed, google driving directions printed, teeth brushed, face washed—tucked in bed with the lights out by 10:30pm, so why oh why do I feel like the semi-truck may have also backed up over me while making a 3-point turn?

Now, I'm not a good sleeper by any means—even as an adult I still frequently have night terrors—so I can't really say that the term a "good night" of sleep really means that much too me. Heck, to me a "good night" sleep means not waking up in a cold sweat, wondering what is chasing me and how the hell I'm going to untangle myself from the sheets (that is if I haven't woken myself with my own snoring yet—yes, hot, very hot I know…it's totally sleep apinia which is deadly—so no laughing, seriously I could die and then you'd feel like ass…). But this morning felt different, with night terrors, the details are gone the second I wake up and I just feel exhausted and sometimes kind of achey (like a running the length of a marathon away from giant hairy monsters kind of achey).

So, I'll recap the details for you:
1. I was woken up by the roomie at precisely 1:36 AM
2. It took like forever (or at least like 4 minutes) to locate my glasses, so I was extremely agitated and discombobulated
3. The roomie was shrieking "pinchers, legs, feelers, HUGE, long" (yes, shrieking exactly like a girl) and armed with a roll of toilet paper, and a roll of paper towels he kept rolling the bottom of his jeans up higher and higher and leaping in and out of the bathtub adding, "he's REALLY, REALLY fast" and "did ya see it, did ya see it"
4. EVERY God DAMNED light in the house was ON
5. A box of soap was involved
6. Did I mention that it was 1:36 AM when this all started?

And now it gets weirder. I go into the bathroom to get ready for my meeting and notice the shower curtain is half off the rod and tucked behind the towel rack, the bathroom rug is rolled up against the wall, there is a roll of paper towels and a variety of different sized Tupperware containers on the floor—WTF?!? Now the roomie is by no means OCD or one to put things away—but this is definitely one of the more bizarre messes he's left, EVER. I genuinely DO NOT want to know why there was a need for that much paper towel or Tupperware in the bathroom between last night and this morning. I'm a curious person and after seeing my fair share of Law and Order (that's L&O to all the REAL fans out there), I'm a decent puzzle solver—but NOT when it involves the bathroom.

OK—so still getting weirder. I drag myself into the kitchen at 6:30 to make coffee and on the counter is an empty card board box from a bar of Zest soap—corked with about 17 papertowels? WTF?!?!

Now, I'm actually a little worried because:
A. I can remember my night terrors
B. I can possibly add sleep walking to my sleep issues AND
C. Add the acting out of night terrors to the list too

I go to my client meeting feeling completely disturbed. When I get home this afternoon I start to pile up the recycling while I'm waiting for the oven to heat up and make lunch:

KA: "Soap box on the counter?"

Roomie: "OH MY GOD YOU DIDN'T THROW IT OUT DID YOU?!? DID YOU? IT'S THE BIGGEST BUG I'VE EVER SEEN---I'M SAVING IT TO HAVE IT IDENTIFIED!!!!! DON'T THROW IT OUT, DON'T THROW IT OUT."

KA: "So, there was a bug last night?"

Roomie: "Yeah, I woke you up to show it to you, it was in the bathroom walking along the edge of the tub, it had HUGE pinchers and REALLY long feelers and it was SOOOO fast. Didn't you see it?"

KA: "So…was this around 1:36 AM by chance?"

Roomie: "YEAH"

KA: "AHA! That's why I feel like a bag of smashed assholes. Was I up? Was I talking and coherent?"

Roomie: "Seemed like you were, but you weren't even that impressed with the bug and it was HUGE…."

KA: "Yeah with pinchers and long legs, I heard…"

Roomie: "We still have the bug right…?"

KA: "Yes, yes it's entombed on the kitchen counter in an Zest soap box."

Not sure if I'm relieved or pissed at this point in time. This bug must be amazing, time to examine. I pull out the wads of paper towel and there smooshed in the middle is a typical household centipede that is MAYBE 2 inches long—with like 2 inch antennae feeler things—so not impressed.

KA: "You woke me up for a fuckin' centipede."

Roomie: "No, it's not a centipede—it has feelers—LOOK! I was going to the bathroom and it crawled out from behind the toilet---RIGHT BETWEEN MY FEET, it was so scary—it has feelers!"

KA: "Yeah, that's what centipedes have, you woke me up at 1:36 AM!!!"

Roomie: "It's not JUST A centipede"

KA: "Yeah I know it has 'feelers'…"

Now I'm from Arizona—so when it comes to freaky bugs and poisonous creatures, my theory is: "If doesn't live in Australia—it lives in Arizona," so it's gonna take a seriously creepy creature (or snake, onion, open water or a clown) to scare me, whereas the roommate hyperventilates if you even say "Miller Moth." I'm making no headway trying to explain that while completely sci-fi looking, they are really common and even with 2" feelers—this one isn't that big. The roomie is from WAAAY upstate NY, so I even try to the analogy, "It'd be like waking up someone at your house to point out a deer in the forest…or a pine cone."

AHA we are getting somewhere, but the doubt is still obvious.

I google, "Centipede with Pinchers," and up pops www.whatsthatbug.com (google is so my homey). A fantastic site where you can email in pictures of bugs you find around the house and an entomologist identifies them for you.

Let's just say that 93% of the entries on the main page – start off with "Holy crap I sat down to study and this came out of the book/rug/chair cushion and it has pinchers…REALLY big PINCHERS" and then proceeds to display a picture just of a centipede (just like the one in our Zest soap box on the kitchen counter) and the entomologist responds with the "Household Centipede" identification.

But the issue isn't quite settled yet. Yes, it's just a household centipede—but they just live on cockroaches, bed bugs and other bugs…so this only means more to come…

The Grapefruit of Wrath

I'm STILL home in AZ, but I can't really complain. I'm able to work remotely here in the amazing 60+ degree weather. I hike everyday. And my only other responsibility (which is self mandated) is that I've been grocery shopping and cooking dinner every night for my mom. It's actually been quite enjoyable. I've learned that while interacting and bonding with the Snowbirds when out hiking and grocery shopping on mid-week mornings while everyone else is tied to a desk—that I will make a kick ass retired person.

When working remotely—you inherently get your work done faster. It's not as easy to procrastinate by puttering around someone else's house. Quite frankly it'd be a little weird—especially since these aren't my drawers to needlessly sort through—although I am guilty of "accidentally" removing all of the god awful, high-waisted Mom Jean's from my mom's closet. I keep telling her that Clinton and Stacy told me to do it and that she will one day not only forgive me, but thank me.

So, I've been looking for ways to fill my days. Hence the new interest in hiking and rejuvenated interest in knitting and maybe blogging… Yesterday I decided I would do my mom a favor and pick all the grapefruit from the trees in her backyard. I know it's one of her least favorite things to do (god damned thorns) and heck, I have time. Plenty of time.

I picked and bagged over 200 grapefruit, and was pierced by the evil trees 14 times. There are still 100 grapefruit on the trees that I couldn't even dream of reaching—so we'll let those become someone else's problem.

Now, there is no way that 2 people can even attempt to eat 200+ grapefruit and not develop some sort of health condition. In honor of all the New Year's Resolutions being set, I was inspired to Google the Grapefruit Diet—and yeah, that's clearly a no go.

My mom lives in a quaint little community on a golf course, that is 50% retirees and 30% young families and 10% families in the process of building a new house and renting from one of the retirees that didn't make it out here this season. All of the mailboxes in the neighborhood are grouped together and it gives it a creepy Wisteria Lane quality. More research on this will follow, but I have learned that every time I venture out to get the mail that I can see movement behind the neighbors' curtains and shutters and I'm greeted by at least two of them that just happened to "pop" out to get the mail and then barrage me with at least 15 minutes of chit chat. Alas this is where the kernals of neighborhood gossip begin! So, mom thought it would be nice to put the bags of grapefruit out on top of the community mailboxes for all the neighbors. Brilliant idea I thought.

So, yesterday I dropped approximately 180 grapefruit off at the community boxes. Today when I left for my run I noticed that ALL of the bags were gone. So I figured:
A. The Neighbors actually took them
B. We violated some neighborhood HOA code and some ninny removed them
C. Maybe the mailman or workers in the 'hood picked them up

Either way – grapefruit: dealt with.

Then about a mile down the road I began to notice an excess of grapefruit skin along the golf cart path…hmmm, now everyone here has tons of citrus trees in their yards so it's not uncommon to see a random peel or mutilated orange here and there—but what I noticed was a suspiciously ri-donkulous amount of grapefruit. I rounded the bend that leads to an underpass for the golf carts and I stopped dead in my tracks.

In front of me were 4 saguaros (yes, the tall cacti in the roadrunner cartoons that look like a penis with arms) and they had been completely assaulted!! Used and abused for target practice by the neighborhood 'tweens. Apparently our neighborly gesture actually just was not so benign—we provided the ammo for the Grapefruits of Wrath…

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.

Lagging Jet Lag

So what exactly is the statute of limitations on jet lag? I arrived home from my trip to Hawaii over two weeks ago and at 2:03 am—I'm still awake. Being that I went to bed at 11:02…this is bad, especially since I was actually exhausted.

Normally, it's pretty easy to pin-point exactly what is keeping me up—but right now, things overall are pretty good, not great—but good. Work is keeping me busy, it's almost ski season and my roommate is out of town for 10 days (which means the house is clean). It's just two days away from the 6^th Annual Thanksgiving Folks Without Folks in Colorado bash (my favorite holiday of the entire year) and I'm actually prepared for it way ahead of schedule.

But here I am up and even though tired, wide awake! I tried thinking of boring things step by step, like detailed step by step and almost fell asleep and then someone down the alley started playing god-awful techno music and pulled me out of the trance. I tried reading a chapter out of a GIS mapping textbook that a friend left at my house, I tried ever combination of pillow combinations, finally got perfectly comfortable and then had to get up and turn down the heat. I finally caved at 1:52am and went downstairs for a glass of milk and watched the last 8 minutes of the Cosby show—and then saw that the Jon Stewart show was on next with Tina Fey as a guest…so now I'm up for at least another half hour. Aaaarrrgggg…..

Oi Vey...

There is nothing worse than not editing an email post to a writing group...oh wait, yes there is...not editing a post to a women's writing group. After a crazy, crazy busy week and feeling a little sleep deprived I sent a query request out to the group for help finding some templates and tools that would rock my world. I made the mistake of rewording a sentence and hitting send on the fly before noticing that two extra words needed to be deleted--otherwise it makes for an rather existential read:

The outline wizard tool has nearly brought me to be tears and it's just time to for a new solution

Yes, I actually make a living as a writer...

Anyhoo, in the ten minutes following my flawed post to a group of 500+ women, I have received 17 grammar corrections and not a damn bit of advice, so typical.

Que Sera, Sera

I landed what I thought was a dream writing assignment: unique topic, good medium, big name—what could be a real cornerstone of a portfolio piece, but instead it turned into that corner of the coffee table that you repeatedly bang your shin against in the dark.

I first received word of the assignment about two months ago and have been ecstatic about it since then. Except, for the fact that the project has been continually pushed back by the client until now, when it is of course piggy-backed on top of other deadlines and struggling to seek its priority ranking in the chaos that is my daily life of late.

I finally wrapped up the project today, or at least did what I was allowed to do with it. As a writer nothing is scarier than to hear the words, "The copy is really well put together, it just needs a light copyedit."

Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit! Editing copy that is "nearly ready to go" means not only do you need to dot the Is and cross the Ts, but you need to make sure they didn't mix the two up…and then there is the bizarre grey-shrouded land of copyediting, more specifically light copyediting—how far can you go? Something can be grammatically correct, yet still painful to read and ultimately the work reflects on you, so what do you do?

Well, now that I've lamely started three consecutive paragraphs with "I" and worked in three corresponding "bullshits" – I might be bullshitting you, but I feel a little better.

And as always my horoscope confirms it:

September 20, 2006

Action you take today may significantly annoy someone else in your workplace. Other people's moods are going to put a damper on you and your work, but this is no reason to slow down or change course. Continue on regardless of others.

Que Sera, Sera – What ever will be will. Keep on Truckin' as the stoney folks say.

Archived Celebration

It's about time to celebrate FINALLY achieving archived blog status—whew! How happy it makes me to see that one of the entries is now bumped into the blog purgatory of August 2006. Ahhh, such relief to have the first entry disappear—like ripping out the first page of a diary. No matter what, the intro is required to be lame, no matter how times it is cleverly structured and preciously revised! To blog purgatory—where it belongs!

Although I am quite ashamed to so profusely discuss how much I was getting into blogging and then to let a span of 11 days pass me by. But, in my defense I've been taking care of a tween and teen and still working away—so the last 11 days haven't exactly passed, but more or less flown by with the speed of a derailed train careening downhill.

So, I guess it's just time to climb back on that horse...

Hush Hush, Voices Carry

I'm very well aware of the fact that I have to learn everything the hard way, in fact more accurately I tend to learn things in an extremely over the top hard way… Seriously, how could I not be gravely aware of my magnetism for faux pas as I literally trip through my day?

Luckily, I have learned to find the humor and take pride in my "learning experiences." I've actually been incredibly disappointed after taking a digger on an icy sidewalk when no fellow pedestrians were around, knowing that my sore tailbone was a wasted bruise, resulting in no shared entertainment. I spend much of my day wishing I had an ice pack, the ability to maintain a poker-face and David Sedaris' career. If only I could learn to parlay my socially klutzy escapades into an NPR radio show—well not live radio of course. My saving grace is that I usually only make the really big mistakes once, except for one that is…well best summed up by Aimee Mann in song. So, let's go back to the days of 'Til Tuesday and bad over-gelled New Wave hairdos to the lesson that I've been working on mastering since the mid-80s:

Hush hush
Keep it down now
Voices carry
Voices carry

"Use your inside voice" is a phrase I'm quite familiar with. Even my whisper was built for stage. Yet, I am continuously surprised by how far my voice carries.

Last night, LeeAnn, Jessica and I ran into an old acquaintance of mine that I doubted would remember me (E. is tall, handsome, an artist, poet, welder and has really great hair…so I'm sure that I'm just one of the many zillion girls that he's meet over the past few years)—and being in the midst of a very important girls night we didn't stop to re-connect.

So, today on the way back from the farmer's market I saw E. up ahead and being that LeeAnn and I have been chatting about how small Boulder is, I said to LeeAnn, "Hey there he is again." Yet, I suppose I should clarify that either I didn't simply "say" it or the thrust of Mother Nature's wind combined with the curve of the building created the perfect acoustic tunnel, funneling my every word to him as clearly as an HD radio station as he looked up directly at us and quite surprised.

When will I learn?!?! I'm vowing to repeat SILENTLY an inner mantra of "Hush hush, keep it down…"

For which path do you settle?

So, the discussion of having too much to blog about and too many ideas to share has completely dried up all the creative bones in my body. The creative knob in my brain has shriveled and there is no inspiration in sight. No offers up to the sacred altar of entertainment and pondering from me today. Although…whenever I find myself unable to write or too tongue-tied to fill quiet space, I always wonder if that's because I'm pre-editing myself. What you might call creative or expressive self-sabotage.

What is it that is stuck in the craw of my unconscious?

On some level I think it is relationships, but I guess it's always relationships. And not just dating but relationships of all sorts. For the next three weeks, I'm watching two kids that I nannied for about 10 years ago. And it always makes me reflect on the second most annoying question asked to singletons, "Don't you want kids?" This question is always fired about a tenth of a second after the THE most annoying question, "Don't you want to get married?" Now it's not really an issue of "wanting" is it?

Anyhoo, my response to both questions was always a knee jerk and emphatic "YES" before, but I think that's changing. Instead of thinking about how many I want or names, I find myself contemplating things like if I'm too old, or what would it do to my career and how they make the inside of your car soooo dirty and everything sticky! But, my CAREER--this scares me, when did this ever become a priority.

I feel like a pathetic anti-feminist to admit that I never thought I'd still be working full-time and not at least a part-time stay-at-home mom at my age. Yet, somehow I ended up on the career path and even own my own business. Most people would feel that earned them a gold star. Not me. Not one bit. When I went home to visit this summer it made my stomach turn to hear how proud of me people were—didn't they realize I'm succeeding at someone else's dream? Shouldn't they be as disappointed as I am? I never liked the childless, ambitious adults who were totally career focused. I always thought that there was something wrong with them—how could someone be so selfish and lead such a cold and empty life. But now, I think I'm becoming one of them. Heck, I think I AM one of them. I don't even know if I want to get married anymore. I think it takes a level of trust that I don't know if I have and that I am too old to learn.

But how do we end on these paths? I don't recall making a conscious decision along the way, but so many of my friends are in the same boat. When did I take the fork in the road that offers single-serving size bags of microwave popcorn, I don't even remember seeing it. Is this an unconscious martini-induced decision that is being made across our generation?

The generation plagued by divorce, single-parents and distrust. Or is everyone else actually really happy single?

I've read a lot about the new trends towards marrying later, and how the chronological norm is ever-evolving and that people are "nesting" later. But I don't buy it. I've seen them at Home Depot and the mall, there are people that do nest. Who are they? Did they settle like "settle"? Are they happy? Do you have to move from Boulder to Ohio, get married and come back?

Archived Disappointment

No worries, this not a "My childhood sucked rant" ahead—that would be way too vanilla and blasé for me and eliminate my need for happy hour, but instead just a little continued adulthood disappointment rant. Again, nothing I need to pay anyone $100 an hour to discuss, just some minor-level whining.

So, the whole blog experience is quite new to me. I understood (but don't want or care about) the need for real-time information about news things like politics, stocks or crock-pot recipes. But I didn't understand why people wrote blogs just for fun, especially folks like me that get paid to write all day—isn't it just unpaid work, and why do that? Yet, I have finally succumbed and I'm hooked. There is actually an inner-dialogue on loop in my mind that goes something like, "Hmm, would this be blog worthy? How would I fit this into a blog format? What's already on the list of potential topics for today—is it timely or could I save it for tomorrow? Would anyone care? Is this too revealing? Will anyone be offended—who can I try to offend? Is it too early in the day to blog—what if something better happens? Do two entries in day make me look like I have waaay tooo much time on my hands? Much like the use of waaaaayyyy toooo many letters does?" This is not to say that I make time everyday, but I at least make time to contemplate it.

OK, now I'm sidetracked thinking about what other subconscious inner-dialogue got bumped by the recent addition of the blog bit… So, anyhoo as I established in the Introduction/Exposition (T—lit vocab words for $500) my blog is new, so there are only like 6 lonely entries and no archives. Blogs entries are archived by month and year, so needless to say, I have never in my life been so excited about September 1, 2006. On this day, I would receive an archive link to August 2006 and start fresh in September, hiding what my little blog lacks in quantity. But it didn't happen. I mean did get my link—but all the August entries are still listed. Everything looks exactly the same. I am so disappointed. I still haven't met the blog quota. Still not tall enough for this ride.

I Believe in Monkeys

So, as I mentioned (since I know you're all taking notes, and yes—Virginia, there is a quiz) that my horoscope discussed the upcoming social events in my house:

A brief recap for the kids jonesing for a smoke in the back row:

Tonight you might host a social event in your home, KA. You might be a bit nervous at first, wondering if all will go as well as you hope, but your efforts should produce the results you want. You might be introduced to new contacts, which could lead to increased opportunities in your profession. Take a walk after everyone has left. Your mind will be going a thousand miles an hour, and you'll want to clear your head.

Well, I'm happy to report that I put in more cleaning effort than expected (when you realize that people will be sitting on the floor—it makes one very aware of the merits of vacuuming) and I'm even happier to report that I had much more fun than I could have expected playing Scattergories! Can you say "Fab Five Freddy"— that's a 3-point, nothing but net, "fictional character starting with an F" thank you!

Anyhoo, my horoscope also mentioned meeting new contacts that might lead to increased professional opportunities. Well I haven't yet figured out how you link a geologist, lawyer and a copywriter together. Trust me--I even sacrificed my precious Wikipedia.org surfing time today to ponder this. And the only thing I've come up with linking us (other than LeeAnn of course!) is that they live in the same building as Disco Doug, a cultural party icon of Boulder in the late 90s, who is now a tennis pro. Yeah, you saw that one coming. So, at this point I actually hope we are drifting very far away from the professional opportunities and I'm just gosh darn content with the fact that I met two new, very cool folks that like to play "bored" games and drink wine!

Hobbies for M "making (comma) cookies"

Jaws of Life

Yesterday, for the first time in over 6 years—I went to yoga. This wouldn't be out of the ordinary as many folks my age have become lapsed athletes that are often now lapped when they once again attempt to get back on the fitness track—except for the fact that I live in Boulder. And Boulder is a town where you can hire a fitness trainer to get your little rug-rat crawling faster by instilling the finer points of drafting at an early age.

After my recent softball outing, I had a few doubts about yoga. Part reasonable terror and part ridiculous terror based on an incompetent Bally's instructor years ago that pushed me way too far into a pose. So, as I headed out the door the last words from my roommate the ski coach were "Don't get stuck, and if you do get stuck and it looks like the fire department has to drop by and use the Jaws of Life…have LeeAnn call me first, that would be some great shit."

Needless to say, I'm not too sore and I'm excited to go back. I'm also standing a little taller, sitting a little straighter at my desk. But I think it has nothing to do with stretching and 100% to do with the fact that I didn't get stuck. I suppose to the majority of the folks functioning in proper Boulder-mind set that means I didn't go far enough—but there's always next week. Booyaa!

Barrel of Monkeys

I'm a total wuss. But, that's not really news to anyone. While I like to think of myself as strong-willed, tough and maybe even a little defiant, I'm also hyper-sensitive, hate conflict and totally fear disapproval. Explain that one. Basically, I was that straight-A student, who never learned how to graciously miss an answer or to not follow directions in a noticeable fashion. I always rebelled within the proper Catholic School boundaries, can you say petition anyone?

So, this morning while getting coffee, I reached for a lid...and of course I selected the lid that was connected to ALL the other lids in the stack like a chain of those plastic barrel monkeys. Yet, unlike barrel monkeys, the lids lack the plastic tails that allow them to remain connected. So, during morning coffee mayhem I ended up dropping at least 17 lids onto the coffee condiment or "accessory" table. I never thought that those little lids had it in them to reproduce the sound of a gong.

Quick-thinking panic situations--not good BEFORE coffee either. But, what is the appropriate response?

The table is kind of sticky and gross from everyone pouring sugar or even worse simple syrup and those two tablespoons of coffee that projectile squirt out the tiny, tiny "sip" opening in the top--no matter how much space you leave. And don't even get me started on the wake of stickiness left behind from trying to insert a straw into an iced drink. I swear the ice cubes plot against me every single time.

Is it OK to throw the lids out? It seems wasteful.

Do I put them back in the stack? That seems dirty.

And what exactly are the politics of lid separation? Like when you get just two lids innocently spooning together, can you separate and put the now lonely lid back in the pile? I mean I know my hands are clean…but what about everyone else's?

It was a lose-lose situation, I knew whatever I did I would receive a disapproving look from the barista. But, I can't disappoint my coffee life-line, it's only Tuesday and there are three more work days to fuel for. And most disturbingly, why am I still thinking about this 12 hours later?

Which leads me to horoscopes. I'm such a wimp that I actually check my horoscope for the next day before I got to bed, so I can brace myself for any trauma, conflict or disappoint that might make me wish I had stayed in bed.

I was once a devout horoscope skeptic and then years ago at a copywriting job I actually had to write them. So, I know that a lot of them are a bunch of clichés strung together with vague adjectives. But then I started checking my horoscopes at the end of day, to test them and make sure they weren't self-fulfilling prophecies and I became an addict. So, tomorrow night I was inspired to move our regular "bored game" night from the usual pub venue to my house, and to change the line-up of players a little bit, so I'm of course a little nervous having a few new folks over to our house of mirrors, and as I'm about to turn off the computer for the night…I checked my horoscope for tomorrow, and here is what is said:

Tonight you might host a social event in your home, KA. You might be a bit nervous at first, wondering if all will go as well as you hope, but your efforts should produce the results you want. You might be introduced to new contacts, which could lead to increased opportunities in your profession. Take a walk after everyone has left. Your mind will be going a thousand miles an hour, and you'll want to clear your head.

I guess life can be a barrel of monkeys.

Insult to Injury

I felt that my humbling softball experience last night, was a sign to get back in shape. I began by pumping up my physio ball, a workout in itself. I now understand why parents have the faraway look of all joy in life being sucked out of them when they are left with the task of blowing up water wings.

Then I proceeded to do the Ab-Focus DVD. The entire DVD is a complete smoke and mirrors productions hiding what is basically an hour of sit-ups and crunches. The catch is they have you perched in bizarre positions trying to balance the stoopid ball so that you don't realize that you are doing crunches. Even though I was smart enough to see through their sneaky tactics, the DVD still prevailed. I am literally sore to the core. I predict that breathing will become increasingly difficult in the next few hours.

Glory Days

For the last two years a good friend of mine has been asking me to sub for her softball team, and each time I've had prior commitments that have let me gracefully avoid getting trapped in the storage closet trying to locate and dig out the old mit, so I could once again round bases. But with a season of kickball under my belt, I was finally willing to offer myself on the sub alter of recreational softball last night when she called in need of a spare player so they wouldn't have to forfeit their first game of the season.

Now, I was a actually pretty good softball player throughout my childhood and teen years. In fact I spent several years on the all-star roster of the Canyon View Little League as the first-string catcher. I was short, but also quick, tough and highly skilled at psyching out the batters. Put me in full catcher gear and just try to get past me, just try. But now, too many years later to count...I'm still short and chatty--but not so quick and tough.

I hope these girls didn't think they were getting a ringer, I just spent the entire game trying to avoid utter humilation. At my first at bat, I quickly found that a slowpitch looks nothing like a fastpitch--and that the strike zone is a mysterious black pad behind the plate--huh? I even have to admit to clawing after a passed ball like a crab who had never used it's claw before...a few times. But the ultimate humbling moment of the night was simply returning the ball to the pitcher--me, a girl who could once make a line-drive throw to 2nd base from a squat at home plate--let the ball bounce in front of the pitcher....repeatedly. I guess my glory days of softball are in the past and kickball is more my speed...but I am forseeing a batting cage field trip in search of a little redemption soon...

BBD & The East Coast Fam

OK, so I'm fairly new to the world of MP3s and downloaded music--I've always been a firm believer that album art is art. So, I thought having all my CDs loaded for convenient rotation would be abosulute heaven and joy, the end of scratched CDs and cracked cases...but instead I have developed an aboslute fear of random play. It's not like in my truck when someone digs out the stashed copy of the Spice Girls and you can simply claim that someone left it there on the last roadtrip. We all have that get pumped for the meeting tune hidden somewhere to help us get by, or belted a little Air Supply in the car by ourselves, no lying. But the same excuse doesn't work for, "Gee, who left a copy of Wham's 'The Jitterbug' in my ipod--wow that's weird."

But now my fear of itunes increases. I've always been a music collector and prided myself for unscathing pretentious, yet classic taste. So, today I learned how to use the Smart Playlist feature--where itunes makes a mix of the top 100 songs you listen to. I'm mortififed to admit the Boys 2 Men's 'MotownPhilly' was listed amongt my top 25 most frequently played songs. WTF?

That is just sad and wrong. I don't even want to admit to knowing myself today.

Hey Ho Let's Go!

Oi! Is the ever hipper British version of "Hey!" - with a fabulous nod to the yiddish "woe is me" and note of exasperation, surprise and disgust. But hey, that is life. There is of course a little bit of historical DIY punk in it too.

Ruby. Who wouldn't want to be a Ruby? The Stones, Beatles, Drifters and Soul Coughing all give you musical nods. It's old school sweet like a soda shop or diner, yet Rock-a-Billy sexy. And how can you not think of the Ruby Slippers - yes, yes we all know that they can help you escape Kansas with just 3 clicks of your heels--a mighty feat indeed. But why does no one ever wonder wear the heck the Wicked Witch of the East got a Bedazzler and a bazillion red sequins? What a stylie DIYer was she?

"Hey, Rube!" The universal cry for help amongst the traveling carnival and circus folks. "Hey, Rube" meant that an 'outsider' was attacking one of the group and that everyone must join together and rally against the 'norm'. And of course, the good Doctor, Hunter S. Thompson also titled his ESPN column, later made into a book, "Hey Rube."

So, you put it all together and Hey Ho Let's Go! oi! Ruby