The Man left to the opposite coast for a bachelor party and I’ve got the homestead to my little ‘ol self.  Well, the Rabid Beast too.

He left Wednesday morning, before the butt crack of dawn, and it was radical how fast I changed my routine.  That morning, probably before he had even arrived at the airport, I had decided I WAS NOT shaving my legs.  And I didn’t.  Empowering! 

Now, day two since he’s been gone, the Rabid Beast and I have adapted to his absence.  I still haven’t shaved my legs, and I don’t plan on shaving my legs.  The Rabid Beast stole the Man’s bed spot last night.  I watch FOUR episodes of Law and Order (2 CI, 2 SVU) IN A ROW.  I’m going to eat my homemade white chili every single day.  Which will probably give me gas, but I don’t care ‘cause it’s only the Rabid Beast and I.  And truth be told, the Rabid Beast deserves some Fleur farts because too many times has he curled up next to me and let it rip.

The house is immaculate.  Pristine.  Every single item in its spot.  As soon as I got out of my non-leg-shaving shower Wednesday, I cleaned.  I was up a full hour earlier than normal, I had time to waste.  The house had been a disaster area.  Now, laundry is folded and hung.  Dishes are not only clean, but put away; not a stray dish in the sink, which is a pet peeve of mine, especially since the dishwasher waiting right next to the sink – I think this is an estrogen related problem.  I even did the self-clean cycle on the coffee maker for extra delicious de-caf coffee when the feeling hits.

I haven’t washed my hair in three days.

I watched two of the Law and Order shows in bed last night.  While eating frozen whipped cream clouds. 

I stole all of the covers.  All night.  And I made the bed this morning and last.  I love a made bed.

Tonight, I might just eat only edamame and drink a glass of white wine and call it a balanced meal.

In the mornings, I been playing really loud salsa music, AND making the Rabid Beast dance.

I’ve been peeing with the bathroom door open.

I may be creating bad habit that will be difficult to break once he returns next week.  But, until then I’m peeing with the door open.  And singing to the sound of tinkle.

I'm searching for some sweet art for my home.  I have never successfully hung anything on the walls of any of my 'homes,' which were more accurately termed temporary establishments of one-year leases that I slept in.  I've never gotten anything up on the wall because the reality of how temporary any of those apartments were was apparent, and I can't find anything I want to stare at for any extended period of time. 

And I do mean stare.  Like space-cadet.  I have a wandering brain problem, the Man calls it the 'spanish channel,' that's because one of the first time we were together was at the GoldRoc, and they played the spanish channel on tv, and I don’t' have good conversations skills when I first meet very attractive men, and so I stare off into space, at the spanish channel.  So any art that I hang on the wall has to occupy my drifted mind.  I want, no NEED, something that I can get lost in.  I could sit and stare at the art when I'm avoiding a conversation, or ignoring my dog, or pretending to be pondering life's existence.  Whatevs.

The Man and I are more than likely going to be renewing our lease on the gorgeous! amazing! spectacular! condo we are currently leasing.  And while the views have sustained us for the past year, the Man has decided it’s time for something to go on the wall with the intent of us looking at it often.  Since we cohabitate, we now have to agree to something.  We’ve never had to do this before.  Previously, our home furnishing decisions have gone something like this: him- “I have a couch.” me- “good, I don’t.”  him- “I have a bed.” me- “good, I don’t.”  him- “I have a big tv.” me- “good, mine’s the size of my head.”  (My head as in physically, not egotistically)  End of story.  Now we have to join our different lack of styles.

I want something that is going to be just as gorgeous! amazing! spectacular! as our condo views.  And I have, well, interesting and finicky taste.  Once I asked the Man if I could hang nude art in our bedroom.  Not like a giant vagina on the wall or a naked orgy sex scene or boobs, boobs, boobs.  Definitely not a schlong.  But something tasteful; I enjoy classy silhouetted nudes, the human body is magnificent.  Despite that, I got a resounding HELL NO from the Man.

So I’m at a loss.  I have peculiar tastes, and I don’t do generic.  If I can’t have naked ladies on my walls, I don’t want anything on my walls.  I don’t want to decorate my walls with faux vintage French liquor ads like every other wanna-be interior designer hack, and I’m not hanging a iron swirl candle holder from Bed Bath and Beyond.  I’d say photography, but I prefer the textures of paint and charcoal.  I’d hang tons of interesting mirrors on my wall if I free will, because let’s face it, I’d rather look at myself than some hack reproduction Renoir painting.

I collect sunglasses.  Sue me. 

I love them.  I fancy them.  I also fancy that I have a ‘sunglass-face.’  As in a face that looks good in many shapes of glasses.  I don’t have ‘doll-face,’ I may not have an ‘honest-face’ or even a face-only-a-mother-could-love, but I (think I) have a sunglass face.

This isn’t the entire collection.  There are more.  Like this pair that were a gift;, they are huge, and tortoise shell and have a belt buckle side detail.  FABULOUS!  This collection has been pared down through the years.  Sunglasses have been stolen from me.  My collection has been targeted by girlfriends because, let’s face it, they believe I have so many I’m not gonna miss one.  But I do.  Especially when a friend shows up wearing a suspiciously familiar pair.  Previously, as in when I had lady friends that I saw on a regular basis, I would purchase sunglasses for them.  In hopes that my collection would not be thinned.  It didn’t work.

My collection has also been wounded.  My late dog, The Vicious Mugsy Brown, wasn’t called Vicious for nothing.  He was known to eviscerate glasses.  Sunglasses lose their allure when they have teeth marks on the lenses. 

My collection consists of cheap glasses purchased from a myriad of stores.  Target.  Macys.  Nordstroms.  Old Navy.  Cheap because I’m not known for my grace and poise, instead I’m known for random sunglass-clad face plants while swaggering down a street, and sunglasses are just so breakable (unlike my face).  Anywhere that has $10 or cheaper shades has been perused by me.  Or so I thought.

Yesterday I stopped by Bartell Drugs.  I was picking up a bamboo spa set they had on sale.  Secretly (well, not-so-secretly now) I heart Bartell Drugs.  It’s as close to Target as I’ll get since I live in the heart of downtown.  What I love about Target is the health and beauty areas, followed closely by the purses, then shades, then panties, then, well, I love everything.  But, Bartells has a (cheap as all hell) health and beauty section.  The whole damn store is health and beauty!  So, as I was waiting in line, my line of vision happened upon the shades display and I immediately thought: “Those aren’t hideous!  I could wear those!”  My collection of shades has stopped growing since moving downtown because, well, Target inspires shade purchasing. No Target, no inspiration.   And hitting any other downtown Seattle place is rampant with tourists and an above-average saturation of idiots.  EUREKA!  Bartells can provide (cheap as all hell) shade inspiration.  Additionally, idiots don’t flock to Bartells like they would a Macy’s Saturday one-day sale only with a Friday preview.  Note to Macy’s: Just call it a 2-day sale.  No one’s gonna mind, the Friday preview is, in essence another sale day.  Make the plunge.

This is my favorite pair right now. 

Now I only have to get past the uber-cheap stigma that comes with purchasing shades at Bartells.  I mean, I’m cheap.  Real cheap.  But Bartells is a level of cheap I have yet to stoop.  But for the collection, I will make the sacrifice.

1.5 weeks of non-coffee-ness.  I miss it.  The REAL coffee.

I’ve got all the fake stuff in hopes reconfiguring my DNA; I’ve got de-caf Dunkin Donuts coffee to brew at home, de-caf tea, I’ve even got Teeccino, which coins itself as ‘Herbal coffee,’ it’s made from roasted carob and other crap.  Surprisingly, it does taste like coffee, if you can get over the fact that is smells like booze (I say it smells like Jack Daniels, the Man says Malibu Rum) and the ingredients list looks like a hippy trail mix made by Kashi – seriously: carob, figs, date, chicory, huh?

I’m surviving.  I miss the coffee kick.  It’s such a letdown to slurp a cup of coffee and not get that energetic boost.  Or BOOST! if the coffee’s brewed strong like I like it.  All these other things have coffee’s mouth feel, and coffee’s taste, but doesn’t have the caffeine core of coffee. 

It’s like getting rid of your girlfriend ‘cause she’s crazy and you know, eventually she’ll do serious bodily harm to you.  So you date the girl that has the same brunette hair, even the same style and she’s got a similar body and good-looking face.  And she’s good for you, makes you good meals, encourages your personal growth, or whatever.  But she doesn’t do that nasty, naughty thing in bed that made you LOVE your last girlfriend so much, and stay with her so long, kept you going back to her.  She was such a naughty trap, and you loved it.  So, it’s a let down.

But I’m making it.  No terrible withdrawal symptoms, but I weaned myself off caffeine by stepping down my caffeine consumption.  I’ve been fully caffeine free since Friday.  Can I get a WOOT!?  Nah, it’s really not that special.

I’m afraid of a caffeine binge.  What if I miss it so much I go off the deep end?  Then I hit up the corner store for a Hershey bar, just for a little caffeine hit.  But that’s not enough.  So I get a Coke, NO! diet Coke, but not caffeine free, and I guzzle it.  And it’s great!  Reuniting with caffeine is FANTASTIC!  On my way out, I grab two more Hershey bars, King size versions.  And walking down the street, stuffing my face with caffeine laced candy bars, I see a Starbucks.  Or Seattle’s Best.  Yes!  Seattle’s Best!  They don’t have the nasty Pike Place brew that Starbucks is pimping like a three dollar hooker on Two-fer Sundays.  I enter, familiar coffee scent releasing mood boasting chemicals because I know THIS TIME I’m not getting de-caf!  I order, largest size please!  Americano, please!  CAFFEINATED, thank you!  Extra shot, please!  No, TWO coffees, please!  Put ice in it please, cool it down, thank you, I want to drink them NOW!  I fumble around for my red wallet, heart racing.  I pull out the debit card, my hands shaking like I’m in the late stages of Parkinson’s.  Big goofy chocolate/sugar induced Cheshire grin on my face, little smudges of chocolate on the corners of my mouth, pupils dilated.  Pound the coffee, heart explodes, the end of Fluer.

Stupid coffee.  You naughty tramp, I love you.

I've been moderately depressed and introspective, which may cause others to blogs their little rain cloud brains out, but not I.  Instead, read some one else's problems that made me say "At least I don't have nudey photos on the internet."  I think.

Don't fuck with someone who has naked pics of you.

Click on the hyper link.  Read the craigslist post.  Laugh your ass off.  Feel mildly sad for the person.  Reflect on whether or not there may be nude photos of you floating around on the internet.  Feel the fear.  Curse the internet and its photo uploading ease. 

 http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/chi/623387629.html

Nude sexy time pictures are never a good idea.  Although, if I had Dita Von Teese's burlesque-y sexiness, there would be nudey photos of me.  Just not on the internet.

I wish to learn the art of sexy burlesque.  The Man would appreciate.

I wish I had gotten some hashbrowns.

I feel the need to craft like some people feel the need to dance.  Or serial killers feel the need to kill.  Or jock itch.  It’s incessant!  It’s deep and unconscious and wild and uncontrollable.  I imagine that I was perhaps Amish in a previous life because absolutely nothing escape my “I could make that” thinking. 

Folding panties.  Mental thought: I could make these.

Search for a coffee table.  Mental thought: I could make one.

Need for bookcase.  Mental thought: I could build them.

Shopping for a dress to wear to a wedding.  Mental thought: Why don’t I sew one?

I even want to BUILD my own home.  BUILD it.  With these dainty doll hands.  I’d look damn good in a tool belt, and nothing’s sexier than a woman who can maneuver around table saw like a pro.  And I’m surprisingly strong from being so short and wide.

Nothing is exempt.  I get great sick pride from building/making/sewing things.  Whipping stuff up.  And I have the SKILLS to do it, so whenever I make a purchase, I feel like I’m not tapping into my limitless talent of making. 

It’s been suppressed lately.  The Rabid Beast, the Man, the Job.  But my plate ain’t as full as I think it is.  I’m spending more time watching boob tube than I ever have. 

I like new things.  Call me materialistic (You’re materialistic!).  But I do.  And I like to shop and I like to find things.  Not like, hey! a penny.  More like, HOT DAMN! that u-g-l-y thrift store chair from before I was born is hideous, and has uber-potential.  That’s right.  I’m not just a talented beauty, I can spot potential talent and beauty.  I am a thrift store scavenger.  I have the patience and I’m a tight wad without an aversion to the old, feeble or poor, so thrifting on the weekends is my idea of fun.  But when I can’t thrift, I (used to) revamp.  And the Man brought so many goodies when he moved that I have been eyeing.  Our condo could, perhaps, be used as the set for Another 70s Show.  Or 60s.  Heavy dark wood and out dated fabric couches.  Brass lamps, need I say more?

Have I mentioned that I’ve always wanted to re-upholster something?  Yep.  And I’m completely confident in my abilities despite never have upholstered or re-upholstered anything in my life.  Or even read a book, watched a tutorial or witnessed another person doing it.  Nope.  But, I think my Amish heritage would make me a natural.

I wouldn’t re-upholster the sofas ‘cause then the Man and I would either have no place to sit or only one couch; it gets crowded when dog, lady and Man sit in the same, not-so-wide lounging area.  And he would forbid me from doing it.  I would be FORBADED.

I HAVE refinished wood items though.  And have learned necessary things like, wiping down the finished stained product BEFORE varnishing so the dust isn’t trapped under your varnish driving you crazy and making you sand, re-stain and re-varnish.  And while the heavy, dark 1960s wood furniture the Man lugged across the US isn’t in the best shape, it is pretty neat.  And all I need to get started is sandpaper.  Then stain.  Then varnish.  But FIRST I have to sand, which is a decent weekend project that will set me on the path to pride in my work.  Without removing necessary seating area.

I couldn’t get a sewing machine.  BOO.  I’m totally heartbroken, although it’s temporary.  But I had thought up all the different projects I was going to do with it.  Hem skirts and re-construct sweatshirts and re-size some pants smaller.  But NOOoo.  Stupid adult bills and necessities.  Because I have mentally built myself up to anticipate occupied weekend moments, I’m really feeling let down.  And like a junkie in dire need of a hit.  A crafting hit. 

I think I’m gonna commit the 4 bucks to some sandpaper.

If it weren’t for health reasons, I’d never quit coffee.

I’m, yet again, trying to quit coffee.  Well all caffeine.  Even tea. 

I love my coffee.  It’s a not-so-secret friend that occupies my time and butterfly coffee mugs.  And my heart.  I heart coffee.  Coffee is my routine.  And I am a creature of routine.  If I didn’t have my coffee-making-drinking-savoring routine in the morning, I’d be lost.  Like a little puppy, wondering the cold hard streets, waiting the ASPCA to pick him up and deliver him to a warm home.  Only, in my case, the ASPCA would be java.

Have you seen those ASPCA commercials?  Sigh.  I don’t even look at the tv when that Sara Mc-whoever song comes on.  I just know, my little ami-nal loving brain screams LOOK AWAY!  For the sake of the Man, it’s best.  If I successfully watch an entire ASPCA commercial, I’d be crying, then asking him if we could adopt another dog.  Tears would be rolling down my bloated and red face, I’d be blubbering and drooling and hiccupping and my non-waterproof mascara would run. 

A withdrawal effect I’m experiencing is distraction.  I’m already a “ooo! Look!  Something shiny!” type of person, this makes it worse.  Most of the time, with my steady caffeine drip, I can fake concentration on what people are saying.  It’s my focus.  I can’t fake it without.  I change subjects in the middle of thoughts.  Every sentence I’ve spoken today started with “Oh!  Did you hear…?” or “Oh!  I saw….” and “Oh!  I read…?  I’ve become an eleven year ADD boy on Mountain Dew in a mall. 

Did you hear that kids with ADD should be screened for heart defects because the stimulants doctors prescribe have cause sudden death related to un-diagnosed heart problems, in addition to numerous strokes and other heart related bad things?  Yep.

Except, I’m not a full-blown eleven year old on Mountain Dew.  Unless someone spiked that eleven year old’s Mountain Dew with a couple doses of benadryl.  Because I’m easily distracted, can’t maintain a string of thought AND I feel drugged.  Tired.  Fatigued.  Fuzzy gray-matter syndrome.  I also think I’m slurring my speech.  The lack of caffeine has caused my tongue to swell and my mouth to dry out, it’s like trying to talk through a mouth of peanut butter.

Speaking of swelling, it’s caused my right foot to swell up too.  So that my really great looking shoe is uncomfortably tight.  But just the RIGHT foot.

I can’t stop eating this can of nuts.  I’m normally not too terribly hungry, but the past two days it’s been hard.  I picked up a can of Mauna Lao Almonds and Macadamia nuts at the store, and have eaten half the damn can already.  Ridiculous.  I’m not hungry for good-for-me thing either.  I wanna gorge on a frosted brownie (but that has caffeine) or cookie the size of my swollen foot or a cold Stone ice cream concoction of sweet cream ice cream, heath bar, butterscotch, Reese Peanut Butter cups and coconut.  It HAS TO HAVE coconut.  The coconut makes it.

I don’t feeling like making food tonight, but I’ve got to and I ready for bed, but I can’t and I don’t want to walk home, but I haveta. 

What is wrong with female fashions of today?  Since when did it become incredibly hip to look like you are an 8 year old?  Or a half-retarded monkey that uses it’s opposable thumbs for attaching ridiculous headbands to your forehead, then giving the best “I’m an idiot” look?

And why do fashion photographers request the women look like they are in pain?  Perhaps the models ARE in pain, like I HAVEN’T EATEN SINCE LAST WEEK’S ICEBERG LETTUCE BINGE.  Or I'M SO CONFUSED.  Or stoned?  Oh jeez.

What are you clothes saying about you?  Why is this woman wearing a striped multi-colored bag?  Is she drugged?  Urban Outfitters, this is horrendous.  Does nothing for the female form.  It looks like a dress a cult might force it's members to wear to obliterate any sense of gender.  And your models look scared, drugged and frightened. 

THIS.  This is creepy!  A big giant bow on your freakin’ head?!  WHAT?  And that dress was made for 10 year old.  And that look on her face, she looks like a scolded child. 




This one looks like a photo of some poor Armenian child prostitute.  Who can't afford clothing, so she wears whatever is discarded by others.  This looks like aphoto from some backwards 3rd world country's redlight district.  I expect this photo to actually be attached to flyer enlightening people the children being forced into the sex slave trades.

Ladies.  While I completely agree that it is not your duty to be visually appeal when you leave your house, it is also not necessary to look hideous.  People look at you, in your flower opaque tights, and ballet flats with bows and ribbons and wonder why you decided to use your elementary school aged sister’s closet this morning.  Additionally, question this: if a man is attracted to your prepubescent, I-still-play-with-My-Little-Ponys garb, what does that say about him?  It says: I’m a pedophiliac in training.  And what does that say about you?  It says: I can’t cope with being an adult, so I dress like at child so some(pedophile)one will take care of me. 

What the hell?  Are you a chimney sweep?  Are those MC Hammer pants?  Are you a cowboy?  Are you pissed off becuase you are wearing the most unflattering ensemble you could find?

Thursdays are the worst days of the entire week.  They are worse than Mondays, which I don’t mind ‘cause I actually like my job so I wake up enthused to tackle whatever case I’m working on at the moment.  And I usually get new cases assigned to my docket on Friday afternoons or Monday mornings so Mondays are synonymous with NEW and EXCITING case territory.  I don’t mind Tuesdays.  I’m even macabre-ly relieved when Tuesday hit; Tuesday are the days that I finally get a grasp on my cases, their direction and claimed issues.  Wednesday are blah, it’s hump day so it’s nice to know that the majority of the week has gone by.  Wednesdays are days that I have solidified my routine.  I’m in zone by Wednesday

But Thursdays are terrible.  It’s like the second place day, and no one likes second place.  Your parents are wrong.  Second place is not as good as first.  Thursdays are a let down.  They knock me out of my zone with the false sense of an approaching weekend.  The weekend’s not that close.  I still have 1 point 5 whole days of case work – Friday afternoon is not for productivity, it’s for martini dreams.  I awake on Thursdays only to remember its Thursday, which reminds me that I have to get through ALL Thursday just to get to the BEGINNING of Friday.  And the BEGINNING of Friday is almost as bad as Thursday.  It’s a tease.  Exactly.  The beginning of Friday is a slutty little tease.  In naughty clothes that you can’t take off for HOURS, so you just have to sit through the slutty tease day of the beginning of Friday waiting for 5:00p when you can take the naughty, slutty tease of day’s clothes off.  And that part of Friday itself tastes so good.  Nudity good.  Dirty gin martini good.  It’s so close it makes my mouth water; I like Friday.  Well, Friday after 5:00p. 

Thursdays have a feeling of “JEEBUS!  Isn’t this week over YET?!”  But that thought is bitch-slapped with realization that NO, this week isn’t over yet.  So I carry that feeling around all day Thursday.  And am constantly bitch-slapped with reality.  Reality that it’s Thursday and Thursdays can eat my poo.

This morning I got in the elevator at my home and it smelled like a big stinky fart.  I was thinking about how cruel the previous patron must be to capture their disgusting farts in an elevator for the next person.  When the elevator stopped on the sixth floor and a little construction worker dude got in, I could tell he could smell the elevator fart stink.  And since I was the only person in the elevator, I’m sure he blamed me.  I had to ride the rest of the way down imagining that this construction dude was probably thinking to himself “Man, that little girl can really rip some nasty ass gas.” 

If I were to cut off one part of my body and so that it can bionic parts surgically replaced, I’d choose my right hand.  That’s because, while walking, I hold my heels that I will be wearing for the day in my left hand (I walk to work in sneaker to preserve my heels).  This leaves my right hand free to attack cars that jump in front of me while walk or attempt to run me over.  This happens numerous times, including today.  If I had a bionic hand, then my counter-attack on the offensive vehicles would leave me in less pain and them with more vehicular damage.  Until that time, I will deal with the right hand pain and hope that my whacks sound bigger and badder to the offending driver because it is the PRINCIPAL of the moment.

While walking to work, I saw a lady wearin some bad-ass hooker heels.  More accurate, they were dominatrix heels; black leather with excessive buckles and straps and an insanely high heel that tapered to needle-thin prick.  But, she was wearing a very demure skirt.  Like Sunday-church attire, hitting below the knee with precious little flowers and pastel colors.  I wanted to inform her that those two styles don’t necessary ‘go’ well together and she needs to wear something latex and lace-up.  But she stumbled (those heels are hard to walk in on uneven city sidewalks) off before I could alert her of her horrendous fashion faux pas.

The past two days, while climbing the escalator in my office building, I have tripped on the stairs.  Since I ALWAYS climb the escalator, and I have been doing this for YEARS, the only plausible conclusion is that the building has changed the individual stair heights, sometime over the evening of Monday.  Not that I am escalator-climbing challenged.  Now that I have realized their sneaky stair-height-changing ways, I’m hip and did not trip on my escalator climb this morning.

BUT!  On my morning escalator climb, I was behind a behemoth of a man wearing leather pants.  Tight leather pants.  He was huge, like two Fleurs put together, tall and wide, a giant of a man.  And he was redheaded.  Like a big Irish, tight-leather pants wearing man.  My office building is a corporate office building.  We wear suits and dress shoes, we are a conservatively dressed bunch of professionals.  So I walked behind him giving him my best “Who do you think you are, Irish, tight-leather pants wearing, redheaded man?” look the entire way.  Because he lacked other apparel that would lead me to believe he just biked in on his Harley, I was forced to make the conclusion that he is an Irish, tight-leather pants wearing, redheaded homosexual.  Which I’m fine with.  And because he’s so ‘massy,’ like enormous, and occupying so much space, I concluded he’s a ‘bear’ homosexual.  So this morning I climbed the escalator behind an Irish, tight-leather pants wearing, redheaded, bear homosexual.  Interesting.

After getting a cup of coffee, I went to hop into an elevator to return to my office.  At the far end of the elevator bay, I spotted two chubby girls, waiting for an elevator.  They were more like two panda bears, and they were stuffing their panda bear faces with Starbucks sugar-death goodies.  But, I was drinking a Starbucks Americano, so I cannot judge.  The elevator immediately in front of me was open, so I made eye-contact, then pointed to the open elevator.  Then I stood in the elevator, pressing the ‘open doors’ button, waiting for the panda bears to clamber into the elevator, testing the load capacity with their combined girth and giving me a fright-ride while I anticipate the elevator failing to lift us, snapping cables and ultimately plummeting to our death.  I was being NICE by holding the doors open, because I am a ‘door close’ button person on any other given day.  They never clambered over.  Perhaps they found an extra petite vanilla scone hidden in the folds of their hand fat, thus becoming distracted and forgetting their goal of acquiring an upward moving vehicle to deposit them behind their desk jobs, where I’m sure a box of Ding Dongs is sitting next to a 42 pack of Diet Coke is awaiting their thunderous arrival.  Panda bears suck.

I’m wearing white pants.  I look damn good in white pants.  I like white pants because I have a big butt, and I’m proud of being a pasty pale white girl who has a big butt.  And the white pants enhance the big butt.  So I look damn good today.

This concludes my morning observations.

Every year I usually start a 2-ish month countdown to my birthday because I am the most important person in the people who know me lives, so they should have adequate time to acquire a wonderful present for me.  For them to have adequate time, they need a good, long countdown.

I have to stop doing this because last year the man threatened to not give me my birthday gift because I pestered him with my countdown.  I also tried to guess the gift as well so I was just an all around pain in his ass.  But this year I can’t countdown.  BOO.  Well, I can’t countdown out loud, so I have a countdown for myself.  In my head.  Kind of like talking to myself, only birthday specific.  WOOT!

The countdown in my head for my birthday is for me to get ME a great birthday gift.  And I am a picky gift receiver, this I know, so I need this time to find something that will blow my own socks off.  Something that will ensure that I continue to love me, even if I do something stupid because I can always remember that AWESOME gift I got myself for my birthday.  All is redeemed.

Also, this birthday, which will be my 25th, will kind of be overlooked because there are other more important things going on in the days surrounding my birthday.  It’s cool.  I ain’t no princess, I can handle that.  But because of that, I’m gonna scrounge up something real neat for myself to remind myself that I’m special (to me).

So I covet this digital SLR camera.  For a hefty price of $700, this is a gift that will keep giving.  When I’m 28, I’ll still appreciate the fact that I splurged on this for my 25th birthday. 

I love to take photos, but I don’t anymore because: the ex took my film SLR camera, and I’m unenthused with the digital camera I have.  For quite a while, I actually developed photos as a living, I’m not half-stupid when it comes to films and photos.  In fact, that’s what I was doing with DSLRs first come onto the market, and they started at 6 mega-pixels.  Anyway, the current digi gives me very little control over the photos being taken.  I’m a control freak.  Me and that camera don’t see eye-to-eye.  It’s lame.  But adequate.

And with a handsome ass dog like the Rabid Beast and a gorgeous ass boyfriend like the Man, how can I NOT get a sweet ass camera to capture their masculine beauties?  Even if the Rabid Beast thinks the camera is stealing his soul, and attacks thusly, and the Man isn’t fond of being photographed.  Too bad!  I’m snap happy.  Besides, the world is full of inspiration.  There are silhouettes to be captured and family events to be memorialized. 

But $700 ducks in a bucket is quite the price to pay.  Maybe I’ll just buy a new pair of Payless Shoes during their BoGo event.  That would give my cheap butt just as much pleasure.

Lately I’ve been noticing pageants.  I saw Miss USA – who is/was Miss Texas – on the Today show.  There’s a pageant reality show, or was that Miss USA?  I wouldn’t know.  There was a mother/daughter pageant reality show also.  I remember thinking that was had to be the 18th, 19th, and 20th levels of Hell rolled into one hour of purgatory.  I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that my Ma thought of me as competition (mostly likely resultant from the on-going power struggles throughout my growing up), so if our sorry asses were shamboozled onto that Hell Show, something pent up would be released.  And it wouldn’t be a fart.  Well, considering it’s me I’m talking about, yea, it would.

And then there was this story I read about potential Miss England, Chloe Marshall.  Oh the controversy, she’s a size16 – UK standards, which is approximately 14 here in ever-so svelte USA.

I remember seeing the commercials for the pageant reality show – which may or may not have actually been the Miss USA contest, and saying to the Man “I’m gonna do that next year.”  First, I asked him how old he thought they were, because I didn’t want to be the oldest one up there.  Like that would be an issue.  Me.  5’2 on stage, looking like a hobbit in real-people land.  And I’m worried about being old. 

I was thinking about Miss USA and (potential) Miss England and how far apart they are on the pendulum of beauty queens.  After exhausting that train of thought, (that consisted of “Wow.  Their different.”) I had to consider ‘beauty pageants.’ 

I guess I have always assumed, perhaps incorrectly, but an assumption nonetheless, that a beauty pageant was exemplifying the perfect female.  Physically, the most obvious, but these contests also have other standards – humanitarian efforts, academics, how good you look in an evening gown because women are trophies to marry rich men and attend philanthropic events.  Wait.  Sorry, tangent.  Ironically, Miss USA differs from Miss America (I KNOW!  They aren’t the same!) in that Miss USA does NOT have a talent event.  Huh. 

Returning to my original chain of thought, assuming that Miss USA is exemplifying the perfect female, I’m a little, uh grossed out.  She’s all hard planes and obvious muscles and pointy angles and boobs that defy gravity.  Or those may be pectoral muscles, oops.  Where does that leave men?  ‘Cause in my eyes, the male species were supposed to be chiseled, and muscled and have high, perky boobs pects. 

What about the so-called ‘real’ women?  They are closer to (potential) Miss England than Miss USA.  With the exception of height, but seriously, why must beauty queens/Dallas Cheerleaders/models be over 5’8?  Most of the men I know don’t want to look UP to their woman.  And that’s not a normal height.  Every woman I see over 5’8 I stare at.  Sometimes I point.  Usually I make a comment like “I’m glad I’m not freakishly tall.”  And it’s deserved.  They shoulda stopped growing inches ago.

I’m secure enough in myself to be able to appreciate the female form.  I’ve understood it to be the softer form.  Not stark and cold like granite, but warm and soft and smooth.  Like (potential) Miss England.  Which is not be understood as me saying ladies should pack on the pounds, because being healthy is more important than pant size.  But (potential) Miss England has a waist, and real boobs and thighs.  And hips, did you see her hips?  Big hips, cushy hips.  If I was a man, those would be the hips I’d want to attach myself to.  Without insult, those are child-bearing hips, and isn’t that what hips are made for?  Childbearing?  That makes them fundamentally female.  That leads me to believe, to be the ideal female form, you need a pair of hips.  But Miss USA has two jutting, bony structures that serve to hold up her bikini bottoms, they don’t even create a waist.  Can she squeeze a child through those things?  Hell no.  Her waist is the size of my little-person thigh.  If it wasn’t for the added boobs, you mistake her for a real tall prepubescent boy with long hair.

The female form is meant to be touched (with the expressed consent of such a female) and caressed.  It should be a body that hands want to linger on.  I don’t want to touch Miss USA, if not for the fact that my hands would be coated with enough baby oil to warrant the use of degreaser, then for the fact that she has a highly uncomforting looking body.  I don’t wanna roll over in bed during the night to that, her elbow’d poke an eye out.  I don’t want a hug form a pair of outstretched boney arms attached to a rib cage, with suspended lumps of silicone.  Or slide my hands down her back, feeling every vertebrae like I’m playing a xylophone.  Or rest my head on a clavicle attached to a shone joint.  The female body should have some cushion to soothe, some give to a body. 

Despite being a good 8” shorter than either of those Amazonian beauty queens, I think I need to become a contestant.  I got hips.  Childbearin’ ones.  And real boobs.  And thighs.  I’ve got a tummy, a waist and I jiggle.  I think women should jiggle. 

I’m gonna have to work on my model pose face, that one’s one too flattering.

I hate grammatically incorrect sentences and spelling errors.  Perhaps I was an English teacher for a Catholic school in the 1800s.  Maybe my previous life involved severely beating young children with a ruler for confusing ‘lay’ and ‘lie’, incorrectly using ‘were’ and ‘where’ and forgetting periods or commas.  Then making them repeat “’An’ comes before a vowel, ‘A’ comes before a consonant.  ’An’ comes before a vowel, ‘A’ comes before a consonant …”  It makes me see red. 

Actually, it’s a by-product of my days as a young power-hungry Senior-Editor-in-Chief at my high school newspaper.  Prestigious role.  Attempting to prevent other students from sounding like the ignorant, mentally-challenged wastes of space that they were.

I feel strongly about semi-colons and correctly apostrophed contractions.

It’s Rabid Beast time.

He just graduated from puppy obedience class – so proud!  The Man even came to the last class to celebrate, which I appreciated because I have to put up with some nut cases in that class, not to mention the dogs.  They were all dainty little yappy, jumpy, annoying furballs.  Jimi was the stud of the class, a gorgeous French bulldog sharing class with a Miniature Pincher – who pissed on my coat, I was five seconds away from pissing on him, a Maltese/Poodle mix and a Pomeranian.  He was the star pupil too, thanks in part to his treat fixation – he’s hyper focused if he knows a treat is on the line, and me paying attention.  The other owners sat and talked all class, except the MinPin’s owner, who didn’t speak English. 

The past two days, the Rabid Beast has prevented me from getting my early morn cardio in.  I’ll get up, put on my shorts and tank and am just about to slip on my shoes and slip out the door when the Man comes out holding the Rabid Beast, saying he’s not going back to sleep.  Insult to injury, not 5 minutes after the dog delivered to me, he’s sitting in front of the bedroom door wanting to go in and sleep.  Damn dog doesn’t know what he wants. 

He’s still an attacker.  I can’t lie on the floor, or look under the oven for an escaped Easter egg without the Rabid Beast becoming embroiled in a battle with my hair.  But, I’ve learned my lessons.  I don’t even attempt to do any form of yoga or exercise while the dog is conscious and/or in my presence.  Which makes me all the more pissed when he decides at 5:45a that he needs to be with me.  Not sleeping, he needs to be awake, following me around because HEAVEN FORBID I do anything without him overseeing  or participating.  What the hell am I supposed to do at 5:45a when my morning cardio is obviously not going to be done, and I’m wide awake?  Make some coffee and get in the shower.  Except that quickly becomes boring.  The Rabid Beast looks at me and says: “what…this again?  You just did this yesterday morning.  I thought you were gonna do something interesting, like burn some calories or get in shape or do some centering activities, like yoga.  Eh, well.  I might as well go back to sleep.”  I DID do this same routine yesterday because YOU wouldn’t sleep, you damn hindrance to my fitness.  I can’t put him back in bed, that’ll just piss of the sleeping Man.  So I putter.  Do laundry, clean the kitchen.  At SIX IN THE MORNING.  Thank you Rabid Beast.

He’s vindictive too.  He has these nasty ‘bully sticks’ he chews on and they stink to high hell.  The most revolting stench ever.  And he’ll gnaw on one till it’s all chewed and slimy and the whole place stinks, and HE stinks, then he mosies over to my water bottle and LICKS the mouth piece.  MY water bottle now smells like rotting dead fish and puppy-who-eats-his-own-poo slobber.  I had to throw the bottle away I was so disgusted.  And yesterday he eviscerated a different water bottle.  Of mine.  When he HAS to be awake and I CAN’T work out, I sit on the floor to watch news and attempt some bonding time with him.  But he chews on my feet.  Or climbs on my chest and gets his little face as close to mine as possible, or climbs on the couch behind my head and barks at my hair or just assaults my hands. 

He has to be sitting on my lap or on top of my makeup table while i get ready in the morning.  Or else he barks.  And I ignore him.  Then the Man wakes up, barrels out of the bedroom like the Rabid Beast is pulling a Lassie, and instead of timmy being stuck in a well, I may be passed out or dead.  But I'm not, and we both look at the Man like "Crisis?"  And he slinks back into the room. 

He sniffs everything before I use it, even trying to eat my makeup brushes and sticking his paws in my cream blush, which now has nice Rabid Beast nail scrapes through it.  He steals my makeup too.  Occassionally he just decides, "Um, this HighBeam from Benefit, well, it's mine now."  Into his mouth it goes, onto the floor he goes and I make a mental note to buy more cheek and brow highlighter next time I'm out.

The Rabid Beast is my best friend.  I love his vindictive and attacking ways.  He’s got personality.  Be that one of a deranged assailant.  He’s endearing.  I’d take him everywhere with me if I could.  Thrift store shopping, work, karaoke, billiard hall.  But, he’s too crazy for society and too cute for people to leave him alone.  Look at him, he’s a model.  That’s his model pose.  I love my dog.

I wish to be a domestic goddess.  I want to be a 25 y/o, non-Polish, shorter with brunette hair and not so round version of Martha Stewart.  Except not so complicated.  I don’t want to make 57 step-cake or pot roast that require imported herbs and foreign culinary techniques taught at Le Cordon Bleu.  Okay.  Maybe I want to be Sandra Lee, but dammit, I’m not admitting that out right.  Because she doesn’t know what a bra is and every sentence that comes out of her mouths is started with a laugh.  And she’s so perky and blond. 

Nevermind, I want to be Fleur as a domestic goddess, because you can’t improve on the perfection of my personality, just my domestic skillz.  With a ‘z.’

I think at one point, a few years ago, perhaps slightly before high school graduation, up until the Man moved to Seattle, I WAS a domestic goddess.  I sewed, I cleaned, I was a decorating fiend, a crafter.  Amazing at laundry.  A folding wonder, perfectly folded shirts that are exactly the same size.  I’ve given demonstration on that, my step-Ma is always astonished.  I was organized and even had plants!  I didn’t actually cook in the last two years of my domestic goddessness, but I didn’t actually eat.  BUT!  I had gone through culinary school, so it’s not like I didn’t know how to cook. 

Now, my domestic goddessness has been reduced to cooking and cleaning.  And I do a half-assed job at both.  The condo is a terrible mess and there is laundry in the dryer that has been there since (hold your sighs and sounds of disgust, please) Sunday.  Actually, Saturday night, but give me some slack.  AND!  My clothes are still laying on the back of the couch waiting, since Saturday, to be put away.  My meals consist of frozen veggies or prepared salad mix with chicken.  Although I have a thousand ways to make chicken – tonight its lemon pepper, yesterday it was parmesan crusted.

The condo has no sense of style.  We do not have anything hanging, except for some photos I took of us.  We are not organized.  In fact, we can be labeled ‘disheveled.’  Everything is everywhere.  I’m a domestic failure.

I really want to make the condo a ‘home,’ but I think it’s a female thing – yearning to live something that representative of that woman’s individuality or whatever.  I’ve always ‘customized’ my place, if you will.  In high school, I had the freaking sweetest bedroom ever!  I thought it all out, painted, searched around, bought all the crap with my own money I made at the pretzel store.  And through the numerous places I’ve lived since moving out (6 place in 7 years), throwing up curtains and sprucing the place up made if feel like a stable place, even though they weren’t. 

Here I am.  Currently living in a gorgeous place.  The most remarkable ‘home’ I’ve lived in.  It’s got great potential because it’s already an amazing place.  But it just depresses me.  We may be leaving the condo in a couple months, so it’ll be a(nother) new place.  And I’ll have the same process.  I’ll think, “Oooo!  I’m gonna finally spruce up those lamps ‘cause they will be great next to the bed.  And I’ll diddle with the drapes, and I’ll find some nice bedside tables.  A rug, I’ll get a rug for the living room to tie everything together in there.  Then I’ll whip up some art to hang on the wall and this house will be a HOME.” 

But, it’s highly likely that THAT place, the anticipated new place, will be temporary too, so I don’t think I’ll even hang pictures there.  And my domestic goddess skills will scale back another notch.  I might not even unpack my cookware.  We may just eat convenience foods, string cheese and salami, all day every day.  I might just hang up 5 outfits and cycle them, leaving the rest of my garments to deteriorate in the cardboard boxes. 

Now, after writing this I think to myself: “Self, perhaps your domestic goddess skillz don’t need improvement.  Maybe they are on a hiatus.  They need opportunity.”  Ah, yes.  Oh, no – there are no upcoming opportunities.  And now, that’s just sad.

Despite having the ‘what’s the point?’ mentality towards current and future domestic goddess attempts, I think I am going to buy myself a new sewing machine.  Perhaps it will inspire me and I’ll forget that I’m a modern day yuppified traveling gypsy.  Can traveling gyspies be domestic goddesses?

I’m eating a donut.  Or a doughnut.  Howevr you say it, I’m eating deep-fried refined carbs and sugar glazed with more sugar. 

The donut compliments my free tall Starbucks coffee.  That has HEAVY cream in it. 

It’s an apple fritter.  From Top Pot.  The Man calls top Pot the gay donut shop.  I concur through mouthfuls of awesomeness. 

I’m gonna get so fat.  But, as chew in rapture and sip decadence and delicately slurp sugary glaze of each individual finger, I have believe I will be a happy fat person.

Mmmmm.  Fried apple dough.

I’m wearing white pants today.  White, wide leg trousers.  That’s a no-no on donut eating day.  White pants make you look bigger.  Being short and wearing wide leg pants makes you look shorter and bigger.  Eating a donut makes you bigger, which accentuates your shorterness.  I’m all full of faux pas today.  Faux pas and donut. 

It has been repeatedly brought to my attention, throughout my existence here on Earth, that sometimes (most of the time) I am daft.  The obvious is not so obvious to me.  But because the obvious is not immediately apparent doesn’t mean that I’m forever running around not grasping obvious-isities.  The wool is not pulled over my eyes indefinitely.  Au contrar, they inevitably hit me.  In the end I ‘get it.’

I usually ‘get it’ on the toilet.

Today I was taking a wee, thinking about those people, those people that hover over the toilet, not letting their precious little fannies touch the rim because that’s eww! so gross.  Hover-ers.  I was thinking about this because my precious little fanny thought it may have detected moisture on the toilet seat, thinking that, then thinking “Damn you hover-ers!”  note:  My fanny was correct, there was moisture on the toilet seat.  I realized, you know what?  Those hover-ers are afraid of getting pee on their heinies, yet they are the seat pee-ers that get pee on other people’s heinies!  They are afraid of themselves!  It’s now obvious.

Following the toilet thought, I thought about people that use the crinkly tissue paper barrier to rest their bums on.  Logic would lead you (me, actually, it’s my logic) to understand that they are afraid of the un-hygienic, germy seat touching them.  See, I’m not afraid of that.  Because when I shower in the morning, I never, check it, NEVER forget to wash my arse.  Cheek and all.  Every time I pop a squat, it’s a clean and fresh, hygienic arse perched on that throne.  Using my powers of reasoning, crinkly tissue paper barrier users do not have clean and fresh, hygienic arses because they think everyone else doesn’t.  You see how that works?  Guilty people always assume and accuse others of guilt.  So thank you crinkly tissue paper barrier users for saving my arse from your dirty arse.

I’m having an enlightened day.

It’s Tuesday in Seattle.  It’s overcast and slightly drizzling, which always causes a panic to Seattlites.  Out come umbrellas despite the damp drizzle evaporating before touching their over-priced mod haircuts. 

Seattle days like this make me crazy.  I realize my Seattle quota has reached capacity and occasionally the urge to stand of the corner and yell “You AREN’T GETTING WET!  Stop the panic, put away the umbrellas” is overwhelming.  Times like that I listen to country music and walk real fast.

The country music is out.

It’s made a big comeback on my Sansa!, that I always say Sansa! really fast like I’m saying ‘samurai’ or some other deadly thing, like ‘ninja’ and with an exclamation point because you can’t contain the enthusiasm I have for this little red device.  I downloaded some dude’s Country hit list from Rhapsody about a week ago and can’t get enough of it.  It’s Fleur’s stress relief.  It’s the equivalent of a cigarette, if I still smoked.  Or a martini.  There are times I climb into an elevator and into someone’s mundane conversation about indie bands or vegan doughnuts and I my hand trembles for some Dwight Yoakum.  I get the shakes and if my Sansa! isn’t on me, well I just have to start conspicuously humming “She think my tractor’s sexy” by Kenny Chesney.  And for good calming measure I do the neck thrusting to the beat.  It’s akin to rocking yourself back and forth while repeating “everything’s okay” and trying to find your ‘Happy Place.’  Only less crazy looking.  Key word: looking.

I don’t know what it is about Seattle, but I am getting uncontrollable feelings of disdain for those that occupy the same area as me.  Things are looking muted.  People are looking personality-less.  And at the same time highfalutin’.  (I learned that one from Travis Tritt)  There’s a level of trying-to-impress that just never goes away.  Look at how ‘green’ I am, look at how I save the environment, look at all the yoga I do, look at how vegan I am, look at how tight my tight-tight pants are, look at how mod and indie I am, look at how buck tradition, look at how gay I am.  I don’t care.  Not everything is a statement.  Look at me, I’m not making a statement, my clothes/hair/persona don’t say lesbian chic! or non-traditionalist! or vegan consumer! 

It’s supposed to be sunny and 60s on Saturday.  I wanna invite over all my rowdy friends and throw a big redneck barbeque.  Mudwrestlin’.  Pig chasin’.  Smashin’ beer cans against foreheads.  Talk hemis and tires with our hands down the front of our pants.  I want to see someone chug a cheap ass beer, spike it off the grass while issuing a rebel yell.  That will encourage others to get crazy.  Maybe a couple unprovoked beatings, and beer-bellied guys strutting with their shirts off.

I guess that’s a Nascar event, but we don’t have those in Seattle.

I don’t even have any rowdy friends.

To hell with it.  I’m taking the Rabid Beast to the roof of my high-rise condo building, which is the only area with actual grass, bringing some Miller Highlife (it IS the champagne, ya know) and just start my own barbeque.  Me and my dog.  I’ll say ya’ll and I’ll try to smash a beer can, and I’ll probably even pee on the grass ‘cause I won’t want to leave my own party to use the bathroom.  I’ll grill up some hot dogs, and get mustard down the front of my shirt, that I will try to get out by dumping beer on it.  I’ll do my own rebel yells.  And I’m gonna blast Boot Scootin’ Boogie AND dance along WHILE singing.  I make my own fun.