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Archive for the ‘it's all about me’ Category

why you stupid … I mean golly you’re cute

Sunday, January 25th, 2015

Every so often I think ‘hmm, I should work on my brain’. Because I have this idea that you can make your brain better by doing … exercises, like you can your muscles, right?

Does the former statement imply that I do exercises for my muscles? Because if so who am I to disabuse you of that notion? Nobody. I’m nobody who should counteract the implication that I regularly work out.

See, it’s sentences like that and moments like Coastie excitedly showing me an RFID key finder thingie because even my coworkers know I can’t keep track of those dumb pokey metal things that make me think maybe brain exercises are a thing I should do.

Did I tell you guys about the key thing from the apartment?? I don’t think I did! Ok, here’s what happened. (Live. On BRAVO. I’m in a weird mood tonight.)

The story. I moved last April and the complex was like here’s two keys and a little plastic beep-y thing that gets you into the pool and the weight room, and I was like awesome thanks. So I put one of the keys and the beep-y thing on one of those detachable key ring things on my main key ring, so I could take just something tiny with me to exercise.

Again, in case it was not clear, I do not lift weights for my muscles. However, my keychain was more than adequately prepared in case I chose to do so.

About a month before I moved, I lost the attachment thingie. I had another apartment key so I wasn’t totally out of luck, but I knew I was going to get charged for the beep-y thing and I looked FUCKING EVERYWHERE. Primarily in the bowl that I’ve been using for keys since buying my townhouse in 2007, but also in the pockets of every jacket I have, in every bag and purse, on the floor, in drawers, every square inch of my car, and then in the bowl again. And then in the bowl again, then pockets/bowl/purses/bowl/floors/car/bowl/etc. You get the point.

When I turned in my keys after cleaning the apartment (with help from my gorgeous and generous and youthful mother), I told them what happened. “I just can’t find it. I’m sure it’s in a box now, somewhere,” I told the woman in the office.


I’m very close to positive that she thought I was keeping it on purpose. Like, I thought I could get away with sneaking into the gym with it? I don’t know. As previously established, I didn’t use the damn gym even when it WAS allowed.

I did not appreciate the smirk.

At the end of December, I was grabbing my house keys out of the key bowl, and …

I don’t even know what to say. I took every single thing out of that bowl more than once. See the amount of times I wrote ‘bowl’ when I was listing where I looked? I took everything out of the bowl, individually, MORE times than I wrote the damn word.

I returned the beep-y thing and wasn’t charged for it, but I’m still irritated by the mystery. Did someone find it and put it in the bowl? Is my prankster ghost back?

Do I just need to do more mental exercises??

anthony loved MY spicy shrimp stew

Thursday, January 15th, 2015

Watchin’ The Taste, makin’ some playlists, la-la-la.

I’ve been putting Friends on in the background for the last few days while I do stuff around the house, and I would really like to integrate more of Pheobe’s here’s what’s happing song writing into my life.

The playlists are a mess la-la-la.

See, more charming!

The playlists for the party are a mess. Right now it’s 175 songs I like divided into quiet, medium, and loud categories, where quiet means no one will want to sing along, medium means some people will want to sing along, and loud means GODDAMNIT YOU BETTER ALL BE SINGING RIGHT NOW SO HELP ME.

Put that thing back where it came from or so help me la-la-la! See, singing in real life is memorable and cute. Especially if you’re a cartoon monster.


how to disappear

Monday, January 12th, 2015

I bought a book called How To Disappear on Kindle a few years ago. Perhaps as research for Corked? That would make sense, although I don’t actually remember that being the reason. More likely it was because I was considering packing up Cloey and Maida and making a full on escape-from-grad-school attempt.

One of the first things that the author points out is that if you really are planning on ditching your life, you messed up if you bought the book with anything but cash, anywhere but a book store without cameras. Fortunately, I didn’t end up making a break from grad school, so it didn’t matter.

However, I’m now perhaps considering it again (blogging about it isn’t a tip off, right?) because I’m having a party.

A cocktail/housewarming/birthday party, on Saturday.

To be clear, I am psyched as hell about the party. I have two separate party cocktails along with beer and wine, and literally ten different canapes planned. (Seven savory, three sweet, half vegetarian, some gluten free, some dairy free – I really thought this through.) I’m excited for my work friends to meet my … life friends? Non-work friends? Friends friends? (There’s no reasonable thing to call my friends that I don’t work with that doesn’t demean the people I do work with, but who are we kidding, no one likes their work friends as much as their friend friends. Except the people in The Office.)

The thing is, I have 30 yes RSVPs.

I absolutely blame myself. For being so damn lovable.

Ahahaha just kidding I’m the worst, remember? I do blame myself, though. Reason 1) I’m used to throwing girl only parties, so I invited all the women I would normally invite and their plus ones. Double the list, didn’t plan for it. Reason 2) I clearly underestimated how much combining two big parties AND requiring people to dress up would up the guest list. Housewarming, skippable but fun. Fancy cocktail party, skippable but a nice excuse to buy a new outfit plus it was very clearly stated that you didn’t have to bring ANYTHING. Birthday party … skippable with good cause. The three together? Unstoppable. Basically everyone but my boss said yes. (Very polite of her, don’t you think? It was perhaps a risk inviting her but I think we played the social situation quite well.)

It’s going to be awesome. Or I’m going to spend the whole night worrying about food and drinks. Or it’s going to be great. Or I’m going to spend the whole night worried about Agnes and Maida.  Or it’s going to be carefree and a kick. Or I’m going to get crazy drunk and embarrass myself in front of most of the people I love.

Just maybe I should have paid for the book with cash.

let’s do this

Sunday, December 28th, 2014

I have made pretty damn good progress on this house that I’ve lived in for 12 days.



See??? (See also: tiny dog in a tiny sweater.)

Self back pat, with a smug look on my face. Since this picture was taken I’ve painted the wall on the right dark grey and ordered a kitchen table that fits the space, too.

So I’ve been busy and also distracted. Every house idea I have requires money and I am maybe a teeeensy bit over my house budget already (teensy is an actual financial term when you add two extra ‘e’s, I don’t know if you all knew that so you’re welcome) so I can’t do a lot of that. I can paint a lot of walls but I think perhaps some of those decisions are best made slowly. Yes?

So today I was like hey I need a hobby. And then I remembered:

I have a fucking hobby.

Hi, hobby!

details, details

Thursday, October 23rd, 2014

So my morning thing is the alarm going off at 5:30, and me either getting dressed to go for a run with Agnes, or me hitting the snooze button once if I’m going to walk both girls together for longer after my shower instead.

This morning was supposed to be a running morning, but instead I hit the snooze button three times. Three.

See, I was having a dream about flying. Sort of. I have a lot of dreams about flying. Not the actual flying part, but the details of flying. Frequently I’ve just realized I’m going to miss my flight and I have to get to the airport and park and find my party. Sometimes I decide I don’t want to go and I have to deal with alerting my party and losing whatever money I’ve put down.

My party is almost exclusively my high school French class, even when they aren’t.

This morning, though, I was dreaming about pricing flights to Ireland. See, I was somewhere and my mom was in Dublin and I had said I wasn’t going, but I decided I did want to and I was literally dreaming about searching the internet for the best price on tickets to Ireland.

I woke up and hit snooze three times just because I desperately needed to know how it was going to end.

I feel like this says something about me, but I’m not sure what.

Oh, wait. It says I am one boring ass dreamer who spends too much time on the internet. And should maybe go somewhere. Sometime. One of these days.