The Things I've Done

I am back in a totally non-zombie way.  Things got... a bit crazy for a while there.  Let's take a look at my itinerary from the last six weeks or so, shall we?

• Thanksgiving:  The Dude met My Sister the Lawyer, and no one died.  Mostly importantly, me.
• The Dude proved himself to be the worst friend ever, but his friend did specifically request a roasting.
• My company Christmas party.  Open bar.
• The Hobbit:  Desolation of Smaug!  Followed by beer.
• Christmas party with the Dude's enormous Irish family.  Open bar.
• Christmas #1, with the Dude's mom.
• Christmas #2, with my family (Sandwiched by Christmas Eve and Christmas #3 for the Dude.
• Hangover.
• Light show at the arboretum
• New Year's Eve pajama party.  With beer.
• Hangover.
• Inventory at work (yay!...).  Followed by beer.
• Lunch (and beer) with friends
• Computer-building with beer.
• Karaoke!  Beer-fueled karaoke!
• Hangover.
• Board game party.  (No beer--recovery.)
• Frozen!

Honestly, I think I'm forgetting about half the things we squeezed in.  Some of it is probably lost in a semi-drunken haze.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I missed you while I was away.  But beer!


(True:  I actually don't drink a lot.  Partially because drunk me is an exact replica of the worst B-actress's portrayal of badly-written drunkenness--who actually slurs?--but mostly because I've never found drink and fun to be mutually inclusive.  I think some of the Dude's friends think I'm a teetotaler.)

The Dude is a Thief and a Rapscallion

When we order Chinese, we order way too much Chinese.  Because that's what Americans do.  Plus, leftovers.

So when we prepare the next-day plates, it's a race to see who can fill their plate and get to the microwave first.  This time, I won by juking around the Dude and startling him into stillness.

A couple of minutes later, we realized I hadn't actually set the microwave to do anything other than sit there smugly with my plate of cold food.  The Dude reached it before me.  And took my plate out to reheat his.




On an entirely unrelated note:  this weekend I'm going to a prom-themed party.  Cute 60's style copper taffeta or terrible velvet long, puffy-sleeved bodice anchored by twelve layers of hot pink floral taffeta and the biggest rosette ever created?  Vote!

Bro-Dude the Hulk is one cool bro-dude.

I went to Georgia for work Wednesday and Thursday.  On the flight back to Chicago, I got a window seat.  (Yay!)  In the seat next to me was a hugely burly bro-dude.  (Nooo!)

To give you an idea, he looked rather like the soap guys from Hyperbole and a Half.  Except in a hot pink polo and a "vintage" baseball hat.

His muscles kind of hulked into my personal space, so it was a pretty cozy flight.  He was also super-embarrassed about it and not unintelligent, so we were cool.  I decided if our knees were going to touch even when we were both trying hard to not let our knees touch, I may as well just relax. 

Travelling can make for strange knee-fellows.

All was well until the woman sitting behind me asked her seatmate the distance from the airport to the suburb where I live.  I turned, apologized for accidentally overhearing, and answered.  She looked at me like I was wearing a horse mask and had invited her into my rusty, windowless white van.

I lurched around and tried to fall out the bottom of the plane, but that doesn't even work in really terrible romance novels.

Bro-Dude the Hulk leaned over.

"If you hadn't answered her, I would have."

Muscle on, Bro-Dude, my friend.  Muscle on.

There are things you'd think I'd remember...

I've been told I can get a little feisty.  And I fight flat-out dirty.  I'm small and arthritic, so I've got to strike quickly and efficiently.

So I bite.

Not strangers or whatever, just friends and the Dude, whenever we get to wrestling.  (Actual wrestling--get your mind out of the gutter.)

The Dude commented on this penchant of mine last week.

"Yeah," I said, laughing.  "Remember that time I missed and accidentally bit your nipple?"

"Uh, that wasn't me..."

Whose nipple did I bite?!

Office Supplies. They Matter.

My office recently switched to a new toilet paper, and it's pretty innovative.  The manufacturer has, it seems, discovered a way to make toilet paper that is just one molecule thick. 

This really makes peeing a thought-provoking experience.  Your tentative, gentle grasp punches your fingers through the tissue, simultaneously make one feel like the Hulk with a china teacup and driving home the fragility of human life.

And then there's the adventure of it:

There's only half a roll left--will this be enough to cover my needs?

And coping with menstruation under these circumstances becomes fraught with all the anxiety of the apocalypse.

It does make for great calisthenics, though.  I stretch my arm all the way out, as far as I can without tipping over, and then foldfoldfoldfold (haha, fourfold) to achieve something akin to the bare (lol) minimum of adequacy.

But don't blow your nose in it.  If there are no Kleenex to be had, I'd recommend using sandpaper before our new toilet paper.  It's softer, and you're infinitely less likely to shoot your snot right through it and onto your hands, desk, and any passers-by.

A sneeze would be catastrophic.

A Series of Unfortunate Eve--Wait. That title's already taken.

I went camping with the Dude, the dogs, and my folks.  This is not the unfortunate part.

Dad set the Dude on fire.  (But only a little bit.)  (Edit:  I've been told by a not-unbiased party that this should actually read:  Hero Dad saved the Dude's life moments before total combustion.)

Blink, the blind and deaf dog--It's awesome.  He grins and waves his head like Ray Charles, only without the piano.--almost, while on a walk with Dad and the Dude, floated away down the river.  Whoops!

Via

The moral of the story is:  I'm never leaving the Dude alone with the Dad again.  They're trouble.

Also fun:  I forgot to rinse the conditioner out of my hair this morning.  You know that scene in There's Something About Mary?

Via

Yeah.  It wasn't anything like that, actually.

Life Lessons

Yesterday I learned:

• To never wear sandals in a dog-friendly park.
• That dating a nurse is totally helpful in determining whether or not you need stitches.
• And that it's generally considered inappropriate to make Weekend at Bernie's jokes at a funeral.

These three lessons are fortunately not related.

I'm Getting a Fashion Update. Or Downdate. Or Something.

It wasn't a fanny pack (bum bag for you British folks, and please pardon my language).  I swear to god it wasn't a fanny pack.

But it was a belt with a pocket in it that had just enough room for your ID and maybe one key.  And it was flat!  Flat does not equal fanny pack, okay???  I just didn't want to deal with a purse at a theme park, and the belt was totally hidden beneath my t-shirt.  So just stop maligning my dignity right there.  I am unquestionably dignified at all times.

Needless to say, I took a lot of flak for it.  But then I discovered these:

Via

It's a chatelaine, and women in the 18th century hung them from their belts to carry their necessities.  Pretty, right?  So I took everthing out of my purse, and I'm going to make one for my necessities.

Classy, right?


(True:  Last weekend I saw a dude unashamedly rocking a fanny pack.  But he also was wearing short shorts and work boots with the shoelaces artistically untied, so I don't know if that's a sign the fanny pack is making a comeback or if he was just a hipster prepared for the zombie apocalypse.)

I was going to post, but then I nerded out instead.

But you know, it's Much Ado about Nothing.  By Joss.  And with everyone I love.  And Shakespeare.  And it comes out in two weeks, and I can honestly say I've never been so excited for a movie in my life. 

Via

So, yeah, I may have just gorged on everything about the film I could find instead of putting together a proper post.  Or eating lunch.  Because, you know, priorities.


(True:  I have more filmed versions of Shakespeare than I can shake a spear at. Ba dum chick.)

I'm Alive! And Tan(nish)! And Clothed!

I know, I know.  I'm shocked, too.

As far as warm-locale vacations go, I'd say this one was a huge success:  this was the first one during which I did not get physically ill from a sunburn (My Sister the Lawyer's wedding--I almost missed my speech for the puking.*) or a permanent line from a blister-level sunburn (reaching all the way to my armpits--just a little uncomfortable, that**).  Three cheers for me!

And, it was relatively disaster-free.  Sure, my tank top strap broke, but it happened in the hotel room, so no biggie.  And there may have been a Marilyn Monroe moment, but no one was really looking.  And the clasp of my swimsuit top may have snapped, but the tankini portion held everything mostly decently in place, and the bit of plastic clasp that winged five feet away didn't take out a single bystander's eye.

So this was definitely my most low-key vacation.

*You know it's a good wedding when you puke through most of the reception dinner and still manage to have a great time.  Also, don't judge me.  I fell asleep on the beach and forgot to reapply my sunscreen.  It could happen to anybody.

**Yeah, okay, I forgot to put sunscreen on my neck and chest.  And then I fell asleep on the beach.  And while it could happen to anybody, it mostly just seems to happen to me.  You should probably feel sorry for me.  And send pity cookies.


(True:  I saw grown men play what was essentially floor hockey.  In the dark.  With bare feet.  With a ball that was on fire.  Did I mention the bare feet?)

A Little Early for Mother's Day, But...

To my mom, who had to co-raise my snarky ass:


Remember when you got me a psych evaluation because I had an imaginary friend?  And the doctor told you that you had you play along, even when I said my sister had locked her in the house and we had to turn the car around and get her?

Sorry about that.

Remember that time I knocked all my teeth out and my sister told you Dad had taken me into town to get dentures?

Sorry about that.

Remember how there were never bandaids, paper towels, or scotch tape in the house?

Sorry about that.

Remember how I spilled a whole bottle of glue on the floor just a few weeks after you'd installed new carpet in my bedroom, and it never came out?

Yeah...  sorry about that too.

Remember that time I asked if people made babies the same way rabbits made babies (you know, the boy rabbit screamed and fell off), and you still didn't laugh?

I'd say sorry, but that was pretty freaking funny, now that I think about it.


Thanks for being the mom who played along.  Who didn't panic.  Who didn't ask.  Who understood it was an accident.  Who always answered my incessant and sometimes embarrassing questions seriously, so as not to embarrass me.  Because good lord, I was an obnoxious kid.

You rock.

Order Matters

Not the Good Housekeeping/Martha Stewart-approved kind of order, obviously.  Anyone who has seen my apartment, or my car, or my purse can attest to that.  (Though I maintain that I'm visually organized--if I can see it, I can find it.  So it's not clutter.  It's visually available.)

No, what I mean is the sequential kind of order.  Specifically, the order in which one's thoughts leaves one's mouth.

So, when I was talking with a work friend about what a bummer is was that his band had missed the cut-off for entry in an industry battle of the bands event, I probably should have put my sentences in an orderly sequence, instead of blurting them out in the order I thought them.

Compare what I meant versus what I said:

True:  I am an accidental asshole.