Voted Seattle's Favorite Person for 12 Years Running!

These are the sexy Goodtimes of a yuppie Seattlite, written in coffee-crazed moments when nothing will do but a large Hazelnut Dunkin Donut's coffee with milk and Splenda. Except there are no Dunkin D's in Seattle.

Spider...saved.

I saved a spider today.  I...SAV-DED...a spider.  Like the ugly eight-legged beasty above.  You've got the crawlies right now don't you?  Like there's one creeping up your bicep towards your shoulder.  Ugh, gave myself the willies.

Since buying a house last month, no spiders have been spared from the wrath de Chy.  Serious, I spare no eight-legged lives, I don’t want them in my house, breathing my air, walking on my walls, hanging out in my curtains.  Nuh-uh.  Nada.  I don't know when I became so goose-bumpy at the thought of spiders, but in the past week I've shrieked many blood curdling shrieks of a small, defenseless girl being viciously attacked, and moments away from being murdered by a quarter-inch long arachnid. 

On Tuesday I screamed just such a scream after a remorseless human terrorist snuck up on me; I ended up scaring the spider.  Shit you not.  That sucker ran like dogs of Hell till I smashed it with my latex dipped work gloves (a risky maneuver I wouldn't have attempted un-gloved).

I've been de-wallpapering, sanding, painting and repairing the new home for a month, a house that's been unoccupied since October.  Long enough for spiders to move in.  The past week has been particularly bad, requiring me to kill up to four a day.  But I figured I'm getting in something bad with the spide-y karma.  So today, I turned a new arachnid-loving leaf which included saving a spider from being permanently painted into my dining room walls and refrained from killing another little bugger. 

We'll see how long I last.  The fact that I look at every spider and think "BROWN RECLUSE, DEATH IMMENENT!" when I see one of these ugly punks may work against me.  Even though I don't think they reside in the state of Connecticut.  No one said fears make sense.

 

 

Doggie Date

First World Complaint: the coffee shops aren’t close to me, I can’t walk to my caffeine fix, I have to drive.  Ugh, what. a. hassle.  Totally throws off my weekend dates with my dog, Jimi the Savage.

I love a good First World Complaint.

 Seriously, I do have to drive to my coffee shop – not to mention my complaint that in Avon, we don’t have coffee-only shops.  We have bagel shops (which I complained that Seattle didn’t have) or donut shops.  But sometimes, I don’t want to asked if coffee is the only thing I want at a bagel joint or be tempted by Munchkins and Vanilla Kreme donuts while getting my large hazelnut, black, no sugar coffee.  Regardless, I’m stuck.  Mostly, I miss the early weekend morning walks with my dog.  Jimi got extra exercise on Saturday and Sunday mornings ‘cause I got to sip my coffee while strolling through deserted streets without interruptions by a gaggle of passer-byers drooling over my admitted adorable dog – who eats that kind of affection up.

Jimi the Savage and my Gorgeous Man during our cross-country relocation drive.

Seattle, Washington to Avon, Connecticut

I’ve subbed our weekly walking dates for weekly driving dates.  Talk about a First World Resolution for a First World Complaint. 

 I move the passenger seat as close to the dash as possible, raise it as high as it will go and pile my 25 pound crazy-monkey dog into the vehicle.  We make our way to Avon’s Bagel Chalet – I recommend a sun-dried tomato, toasted with light cream cheese, my Gorgeous Man recommends the French Toast, toasted with regular cream cheese – Jimi the crazy-monkey keeps the car warm while I grab my bagel and Snickerdoodle coffee (not gonna lie, that’s a damn good cup of coffee) and we’re homebound – where we’ll curl up on the couch and watch the week’s episode of Fringe, also a part of our date.  We DVR Fringe because, First World Complaint: we don’t like commercials.

 Jimi the Savage News:

 Two weeks ago, Jim accidentally swallowed a mini rawhide.  It ended up stuck at the bottom of his esophagus; he was unable to dislodge it and we ended up at Farmington Valley Emergency Veterinary Hospital.  We were faced with two options: attempt to move the rawhide into his stomach by forcing a scope through his mouth and esophagus [esophageal lavage] and pushing the obstruction, then removing the rawhide with stomach surgery, or surgery through his chest to remove the obstruction.  The esophageal lavage wasn’t guaranteed to be successful and if the Vet was unable to move the rawhide, we’d have to drive to Tufts Veterinary Emergency and Vet Specialty Hospital, near Boston Mass – approximately 1.5 hours away.  Because the chest surgery is such a precarious and delicate surgery, and this occurred on Sunday afternoon, we were going to be required to travel to a specialty hospital.

It was late and we had to leave our little guy in the hands of the Emergency Hospital staff and go home while they attempted the lavage.  I made many calls, asking if the lavage had begun, if the lavage was successful, requesting they call us, regardless of the hour once the surgery was done, asking when we could come by in the more, when he’d be released.  Needless to say, the Gorgeous Man and I were wrecks.

The lavage was successful and Jimi was released to us the next morning around 7a.  The staff bandaged his IV’d arm with a blue wrap decorated in green stars and he had a gnarly Frankenstein stapled stomach.  He was hopped up on powerful pain medicine – just like a stoned human, he had the saucer-sized pupils, glassy gaze and he panted a lot giving him a goofy, lolling tongue grin. 

Jimi the Savage has been the third member of the Gorgeous Man + Me family for two years – two days after we got him, the Giants won Super Bowl XLII; the Gorgeous Man and I are NY Giants fans and that was a sign [last win: 1991].  We can’t imagine our lives without our little buddy.  My buddy dates are super important to me, I’m so happy Jimi is still my Saturday morning co-pilot.




Dude, relocated. For Serious.

                I don't hate Avon, Connecticut.  It's, well, decent.  I like it as much as a person can when they move from a spectacularly - albeit overcast - mild climate to Antarctica.  Or a frozen tundra.  Or colder-than-a-witch's-tit-Ville.  It’s hard to bond with a town when you're freezing your tookus off. 

                It's been a learning experience.  For example: leather steering wheels get so cold it feels like they freeze-sear the skin off your finger tips.  It's really difficult to drive when you're afraid to touch the steering wheel.  Also, cold weather causes involuntary faucet nose. 

Startling realizations have been made as well.  Over the weekend I went to Boston to visit another recent Seattle-deserter.  While walking down Newbury Street, I realized that, should I piss my pants and then stop at a crosswalk, it's very likely that my legs would freeze into immobility from said pants-peeing.  The thought process behind this realization was this: a particularly cold draft flew up my toosh-covering arctic jacket and into my lady bits, freezing my uterus, a couple dozen potential Chy-babies and my intestinal tract.  While contemplating how uncomfortable an ice cold, slushy "number two" was gonna be, I made the above ImmobilityDueToFrozenPeePants realization.  Thank goodness I still have bladder control [at my old age].

                Relocating isn't terrible.  I now have a viable reason for not knowing where anything is.  I'm not one for directions, having long ago deduced that my internal compass was replaced with a franticly trapped cockatiel.  I'm known for taking the longest possible route just because I think I know, but I actually don't.  So that little trapped frantic bird is flying all over the place but getting No[dash]Where.  Even to my parent's house, I don't know that I've driven directly to their house; I'm fairly sure every time I've gone there, I've driven up and down every surrounding side street before stumbling across their house.  But it's okay now, I'm not from here.  Aside from the numbing cold, the weather's pretty awesome.  By this time of year in Seattle, we've gone without sun for 3 to 4 months, and have another 3 to go.  Connecticut gets sun during the winter.  Woot!  Good sun.  Like brilliantly blue skies ALL DAY.  Sunglasses wearing Sun.  And, ‘cause it's so cold, there's no real rain.  I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: WOOT!

                I work from home.  It’s cool; I dig.  My dog gives me “let me sit on your lap” puppy eyes and I get to watch Ellen (if I want) and I can wander over to the Man Office whenever.  I listen to Gangsta Rap at my lady desk as loud as the Gorgeous Man can stand.  Yes, I listen to Gangsta Rap, which is so misleading ‘cause I don’t look like a “Gangsta Rap” listener.  I look like I have a hard-on for Modest Mouse or Lady GaGa or perhaps, Usher.  I assure you, I’m all T.I., and Juvenile, and Lil John and Chingy, and, have I mentioned Luda?  As in, Ludacris?  Yep, we’re secret hip-hop lovers.  I can “white-girl-sitting-at-her-lady-desk-and-can’t-rap” sing every Luda lyric he’s ever produced.  And that’s no lie.  Keep this in mind, when I’m reviewing all the legal documents I get my hands on or troubleshooting all the IT issues my little firm throws my way, it’s to the sound track of T.I.’s Top Back and Ludacris’ Blueberry Yum Yum.  Yup.  [don’t hate]

Me. Mugged: 3rd Ave & Virginia St, Seattle

Yea.  I was mugged.  Here are the logistics.
X, Y, and Zs.  Pop Tart (awesome lady friend, knows of my pentiant for the living dead) takes me to a free preview to Zombieland (which, by the way ROCKED!).  After the movie, we crossed through the D.town Seattle Nordstroms on the way to Bartells to get her some bus money.  I can't be 100% sure, but I'm ninety-nine percent certain @sshat duo followed us out of Nordstroms 'cause, while using the phone to check her bus schedule, two somebodies were breathing down my neck.  I mentally thought: "get your own damn bus route scheduler checker and get off my ass" - because I am b!tchy.  Those somebodies were behind us; I didn't see faces to say for sure they were the same, but those @sshats weren't outside the Bartells before we went in. 

Leaving Bartells, Pop Tart and I part ways; I start my walk home by jaywalking 'cause these dudes, who had already piqued my attention, were on my ass and I assumed they'd wait for the cross walk.  Nope.  I whip out the phone and call the Gorgeous Man - thinking: these two aren't dumb enough to try something WHILE I am on the phone.  (eventually) Wrong.  @sshat #1 and @sshat #2 are really riding my @ss (HAH! pun).  I'm watching thier shadows because they are flanking me - I'm thinking 1 for the purse, 1 for the phone, but again assuming these two aren't dumb enough to try something. 

Chy: if you are mentally noting that dudes are FLANKING YOU, to which you assume for an upcoming purse/phone snatch, don't ignore it.

Anyways: I'm talking.  Zig zagging home.  Aiming toward where people would be.  Stopping, hesitating at corners, hoping they'll go around me.  All the while, yimmer-yammering with the Gorgeous Man.  We are not talk-on-the-phone types, so I'm literally asking him about his friends, his friend's girlfriends; he's trying to get off the phone -dude, there's nothing to talk about (except shady-ass guttersluts following me) - my response: "uh, no.  No."  They repeatedly stop behind me, "discussing" if they need to go left or right, blah BLAH, till I walk.

And, I DON'T DO SHIT.  It's pretty obvious where this is going.

Ram-bam!  @sshat #1 throws me into the wall while @sshat #2 grabs for the phone, I'm (of course) struggling, meaning @sshat #1 really pins, otherwise he'd have grabbed for my purse.  The iPhone is a slippery little bugger; in the heat of the moment, you'd think that thing was KY-jellied up.  Eventually @sshat #2 makes off, @sshat #1 follows and I, in all my infinite wisdom, take chase. 

Can I mention that there is NO decision making on my behalf?  None.  One minute = struggle; next minute = little legs in motion, years of vocal training and "projecting from the core" unleashed as banshee screams.  Oh yea, AND I exploded into the most rage-filled person this side of the Mississippi, clad in dress slacks, (p)leather jacket, turtleneck and 3" heels.  Weilding a gigantic white purse.  Sprinting down the street.  Screaming at the top of my lungs.  Yelling at Every. Single. Person. I. Saw.  Shouting discriptions as I ran for blocks.  b ... l ... o ... c ... k ... s ... 

ALSO, the Gorgeous Man: he heard that all go down, but has no idea where I am.  He hit the streets at a full run to find me.  Because he loves me. 
DOUBLE ALSO, Pop Tart saw me running and screaming while on the bus.  She got the driver to stop (by being that crazy person), disembarked and joined pursuit.  Because she loves me (too).

Random panhandler with a big, like, 5G water jug strapped to him, throws his jug into the street and takes after the guys.  Panhandler really saved the day.  Not only did his help allow me to catch @sshat #1, he also retrieved the cops for me.  Dude's got something coming for him, if I ever find him.  As in, a thank you card, large monetary bills and cookies. 

I have @sshat #1; @sshat #2: gone.  But!  I got @sshat #1.  And 1 is better than none.  While Panhandler got the cops, I wrassled @sshat #1; he mistakenly thought that since he didn't have my phone, I'd generously let him go.  Heh heh, no young fella, and I informed him thusly; we tussled.  I knotted my hands and arms into his clothing and repeatedly introduced him to a wall while he tried to get away.  He failed in escaping from the grasp of a 5'2 girl wearing high heels and STILL carrying her purse.  Seriously: body slam, tripping, Full Nelson, elbow-to-the-brow/kidney/gut, sitting on your chest and, if need be, knee to the babymaker - all apart of my citizen's arrest arsenal.  Our fight got the attention of some local lady @sshats who tried to wade in; Pop Tart, in all her 5'3, model-thin petiteness and insanely nice persona, was having none of it.  Cops show up, the Columbia store/Macy's parking garage block is locked down.  @sshat #1is cuffed and landed in the jerk-seat of a cop car (behind the shatter-proof glass), my statement taken and I'm told: "Eh, you're probably not gonna get your phone back, he's probably ditched and long gone."  I learn these types of assault/robberies have skyrocketed the last 2 days but no arrests and no property has been recovered.  I was cool with that. 

I didn't think I'd get my phone back and I definitely didn't think they'd find the guy.  When a call came down that they had detained someone on a level of the parking garage we were at, I was damn sure it wasn't him.  Probably just some poor dude wearing the same color clothes.  I was escorted to @sshat #2 extremely unimaginative and, my I say, STOOPID, hiding area for eye-witness identification; eventually retrieving my crap.  Insult to injury: @sshat #2 told the cops that the PINK, BOB MASSE (rock poster artist) clad iPhone was his.  For serious? @ss.

Score one for the "easy" mark. 

Seattle Mugging: 4th and Virginia Street

I was mugged last night.  I was freaking mugged(!!) last night.  Dude.  What a bunch of f#ckheads.
It's cool.  Don't cry for me Argentina peoples.  The @sshats just wanted my iPhone, though they would have nabbed the purse if one of the idiots hadn't thrown me into a wall, sandwiching said purse between my body and bricks. 


BattleRoyaleTime: 8:50p, Thursday October 1st.


BattleRoyaleTurf: Pine Street through Virginia Street and 5th Avenue through 3rd Avenue.


BattelRoyaleAdversaries: One mid-twenties aged female v. two eighteen-or-under male "minors."


BattleRoyaleWounds: minor.  Two tiny scratches on my right temple acquired when @sshat #1 tried to strip the phone away from my ear, a light bruise on the left of my forehead from @sshat #2 throwing me into bricks and my right hand is sore from struggling with @sshat #1 while he was trying to steal my phone. 


BattleRoyaleOutcome: @sshat duo arrested, property returned.


BattleRoyaleVictor: Me, BITCHES!

 

Regardless, I'm feeling really freakin' dumb.  I had the little alarm bells going off, I knew something was gonna happen.  I've always been hyper aware of my surroundings - Navy father’s paranoia has rubbed off - but I've also always been cocky.  More accurately, I've been cocky mixed with naivety and a dash of expectation that people are too smart to be dumb which equals stupidity.

Sheetz, Mecca of Coffee

     Seattle doesn't have Sheetz gas station.  That pretty much sucks.  Earlier this month I took a little vacay (slang for vacation to those not in-the-know) to Dillsburg, Pennsylvania to spend some time with my Grandparents, see my newborn nephew, and hang with the bro-haha and his new fiancé.  I stayed with my Grandparents, who, for reasons unfathomable to me, don't drink coffee.  DON'T.  EVEN.  OWN.  A.  COFFEEPOT!  I know, crazy strange. 
     My Grams knows I'm a coffee-addict, so the first morning I wake in Dillsburg, my Grams calls to see if she can pick me up a cup-o-joe from Sheetz.  I have no freakin' clue what 'Sheetz' is, but I'm sure as hell not gonna turn down coffee knowing I can't make coffee, and having no idea where to even find coffee.  And, I'm no coffee snob, I'll drink anything 'cause I load it with Spenda and some form of white liquid or even white-ish powder so it's not like I can even taste it. 
     The next morning, I'm on my own to scrounge up coffee.  Not so novel.  What is novel is that I have to drive; I literally jaywalk across the street for coffee.  To get to Sheetz, we're talking, longer, as in dodge 18-wheelers on a divided highway.  It was well worth the journey though, because Sheetz is home to a coffee mecca.
     DUDE.  Dude!  Coffee mecca.  I wouldn't lie to you about coffee.  For example, one of the baristas at the coffee joint across the street from my home, is a dude.  Well, she doesn't know she's a dude, but you don't get pectoral muscles like that without being a man, and women don't get square, muscle-shaped boobs, but that's neither here not there.  As you can read, I'm not going to lie to you about finding a coffee mecca.  Better described as a coffee bar.  An abundance of glass carafes, small ones, no bigger than home-brewing carafes.  Each carafe beholds dark liquid brew in a variety of flavors.  Hazelnut, Columbian, etc.  Grab a cup and pour.  Pour-it-yourself!  Ah-mazing!  I could have a HazelnutColumbianExtraDarkBrazilNut with a splash of Breakfast Blend!  Turn around from Coffee Carafes of Variety Heaven because behind you holds a coffee customizing island, filled with those little tubs of creamer in every flavor.  Fancy some Cinnamon Spice?  Done.  Feel like a French Vanilla flavor bomb?  Do it.  Irish Cream?  Check.  Or, is it an ice cold half-and-half kind of morning?  No problem 'cause Sheetz has an ice-cold half-and-half dispenser!  It even has whole milk!  Sugar, Splenda, Equal, Sweet-n-Lo, Sugar In The Raw.  Powdered creamer for those people.  Don't like creamer, but still want a flavor explosion with your caffeine?  Gotcha covered: pump dispensed coffee syrups.  Now, that is what I consider customizable coffee.  Truly MY coffee because I made it.  MYSELF!
     Who knew coffee could be so empowering.  I really want a Sheetz near me.  The closest thing I have is a 7-11.  The crazy monkey, I mean, my dog and I went on a 7-11 coffee run, travelling 3 whole blocks.  Not as amazing as a Sheetz, but until I get back to Sheetz, it will do.

Barometer of an Adult: fail

Every year of my twenties has been punctuated by pre-birthday mental turmoil.  A period of time in which I take mental stock of my life and realize I am failing miserably at that elusive thing called “Adult.”  Although on any normal day, I think to myself: “Self.  You’ve got it together.  You’re doing your thing and that’s good.  Way to go.”  Pre-birthday mental turmoil is always the opposite.  It includes berating and shining a spotlight on what I consider my downfalls.  It’s like a modified biological clock that measures what I perceive to be success.  Whatever that is.  This year my mental turmoil is all about my imagined barometer of an Adult.

This year it’s arrived very premature, propelled by my friend’s and family’s seeming advancements into Adulthood.  My little bro is going to propose to his girlfriend AND have his first child.  The oldest of my younger sisters is graduating and may make a partial cross-country relocation.  My Ma is getting married for the fifth time.  My friend has an impending engagement that she does not want to accept.  I have two weddings on the docket this year, and two possible weddings next year.  The Gorgeous Man is one year from thirty.  If I had any friends that weren’t already married and/or had babies, they’d all be getting married and having babies.  Instead they are contemplating purchasing double wide trailers.

My claim to maturity is purchasing an iPhone so I can immediately input my purchases from Sephora and Nordstrom into my personal finance software.  Really, it’s so I know exactly how much money I have left to spend on wine.

So I’m having a little bit of the biological clocksies.  Every other day I hear updates on so-and-so who had a baby or blah-blah person who just got married and that someone who’s buying a house.  I’ve officially reached that age when the only time you’re gonna see all your homies and have some real party fun is at someone’s wedding.  Lame.  I’m lucky, I have a very small group of friends, and none of them are immediately making maturity jumps in the form of job relocations, condo purchases or engagements.  But timetables have been established; timetables and speculation are big with people of my decade.  Everything and everybody is evaluated, and then key life hurdles are scheduled.  This person’s turning some-odd age in November and is going to buy a house by then.  Someone’s been with X-company for six months so they are going to be President of Awesomeness at X-company by the end of 2009.  Blank’s baby is due in June so the wedding will be the following August.  This girl and that guy have been living together for three months so his proposal is coming within twelve months.  She wants to have a baby by that age, and she’s already this age, which means she’s got to get engaged then married then knocked up within yadda-yadda years, but he’s got no money to do any of that.  I’m in it too.  But my timetables aren’t defined, in fact I find then to be indefinable.  When am I moving to the East Coast?  I dunno.  When am I buying a piece-o-American Dream, depreciating money pit, real estate?  Unknown.  Even little things, like when am I going to train my dog to not be a jerk or when am I going to paint those lamps I’ve wanted to paint for two and a half years?  I have no idea.  I’m stuck in a tar pit of immaturity.

I’d like to set some schedules.  Part of me wants to define some life hurdles.  But when I sit down and contemplate by what age I should be impregnated, thoughts of all the things I can’t have pop up.  Pregnant = no martini Fridays.  Swollen feet and ankles = no stilettos.  Mortgage payment = no shoe fund.  Homeowner’s dues = no more dining out.  Crying, snot-nosed, poo-smelling, money-eater = no more $200 trips to Sephora purchasing skin care items I probably won’t even use.  Instead I find myself scheduling events that have nothing to do with growing as an Adult.  Like making Fridays a weekly Cocktails at Fluer’s night.  And Wednesdays should be Ladies’ sewing night.  And start a pool league.  And devote myself to that new yoga spa.  And take up Salsa, Belly Dancing and Tango again.  And buy a road bike and a goofy pet trailer to attach to it and go on massive bike rides, towing my little pup along.  But if I did all of those, I’d feel like I was sliding backwards from maturity. 

Maybe it’s just that I equate selflessness with maturity.  All the above seem selfish to me.  These are things I want to do; but having a baby, then the focus shifts.  It’s not about ‘you’ it’s about ‘it,’ with ‘it’ being your baby or your mortgage or your spouse.  I want a selfless item to put on my timetable.  As selfish as that sounds.  I want to join the conversation and not just be a spectator.  When my girlfriends talk about their impending engagement timetable, I want to say, “Yea!  I know!  So stressful, this growing up thing.  I mean, I’m totally trying to save for a condo.  I’m gonna buy one in one point five years.  But the market <insert blah-blah> and interest rates <more blah-blah>.”  I want to relate.  ‘Cause right now, I can’t.  When they talk about a baby schedule, I talk about when I can buy a 63” tv so I can move the 52” into my bedroom.  House down payment discussions are met with me discussing the food porn theme I want for my kitchen decor.  Engagement anticipation is answered with my anticipation of a real vacation in 2010, assuming no one plans a wedding for that year.  

On my imagined barometer of an Adult, I’m really failing.  I have no ticks in the checkboxes of life advances.  Beneath my name, there is not a list of accomplishments that I have achieved or am attempting to achieve.  And if someone from my past ran into me today and asked what I’ve been doing for the past seven years, I’d stammer and tell them that I have a dog.  He’s a French Bulldog.  He’s a year and a half.  No, he’s not trained.  No, he’s not fully housebroken.  No, he doesn’t listen to anything I say.  But, I have a lot of points on my Sephora Beauty Insider card.  And my iPhone has an Atomic Fart application. 

Way to go.  I’m really making progress towards some sweet, free samples at Sephora.

Dear little dude brother:

Dear little dude brother:

Yo, yo, who’s my ho?  Hey little bro.  

I guess you’re growing up, Stink.  Got a baby on the way, and a girlfriend you want to marry.  You live all the way across the country in Redneck-ville and work a good job.  Handlin’ your bid’ness.  I suppose I can’t really think of you as my ‘little’ brother anymore.  Now you’re my ‘younger’ brother.  You’ve got adult things going on man!

I still think of you in terms of dyed orange punk hair and skateboard tricks.  Remember how I would go out and take pictures of you hurling yourself off a homemade ramp?  Remember that time I pulled you on your skateboard while you held onto the tire rack of my Bronco?  Then you fell, got terrible road rash and we thought you broke some ribs.  And we told Ma that I tripped you in the parking lot of Albertsons.  Or that time we were at the mall and those people, who I will assume were Jewish, had a Hanukah table set up, but it was spelled “Chanukah” and you kept telling them they spelled it wrong.  And all those times you would yell stuff at people, like “Ha ha!  You’re ugly!” and I would die laughing.  Even though it was mean.  Oooh oh!  And that one birthday of yours, when we sat in your bedroom with your friends smoking pot.  Out of that huge PVC pipe bong you made; what was it, 5 feet or something?  Wrapped in caution tape and you had to pass it around to everyone to clear one hit.  Ridiculous.  I was throwing goldfish at you, trying to get you to catch them in your mouth.  Your whole carpet was covered in goldfish.  Yea.  I still think of you like that.  Hyper, your bedroom covered in empty Mountain Dew cans and having to pound on your door because you would turn your alarm up all the way, and then never wake up to the crazy loud buzzing.  I could hear it all the way in my room; used to piss me off.
I know it’s no surprise that I did not take to the whole “Guess what, my girlfriend’s pregnant” thing.  Of course I jumped to man-trapping conclusions.  I didn’t know that girl.  Hell, I still don’t.  And I definitely didn’t take to the “I wanna marry this chick” she-bang.  But I understood.  I was proud that you wanted to marry her not just because she was having your baby, but because you love her.  That’s smart, I can support a marriage based on love.  Things didn’t exactly go how I’d plan them, and I’ve been pretty vocal about this whole deal, but I’m trying to be better.I’m mailing out this ring to your because I want you to know that I support you.  I know you don’t have the money to buy her an engagement ring, and I know you’d like to propose before you both become physical parents.  This is my sisterly sacrifice, my sisterly peace offering to my future sister in law, future wife of Poop Breath.  Do you remember this ring?  You found it at the playground down the block.  You found this ring and a cheap mood ring.  I lost the mood ring promptly, but I kept this.  I’ve had this ring for over a decade.  I love this ring, Punk.  I love it not only because I think it’s gorgeous, but because it’s from you.  I get compliments on it all the time, and every time I tell them “My brother gave it to me.”  I know it's not the biggest rock, but it's classy.  And it's real.  I always wanted an engagement ring like this.

I’ll never tell you this, but it would mean the world to me if you proposed to your girlfriend with this ring.  It feels like a family ring; from you to me, then from me to you to pass on to your future wife.  I took it to a jeweler yesterday to have it cleaned and get some info for you.  It’s a real diamond set in white gold, little bro, and those suckers are pricy.  It was my first diamond, and since I’m not hip to diamonds and I’m not on the marriage track, it will probably be my last.  I haven’t even touched it since it was sonically cleaned and steamed, I didn’t want to taint it with older sister cooties.  I was tempted to though.  That ring fit my finger like a glove and I wore it so much.  I was very sentimental after I got it cleaned yesterday.  My little brother.  Getting engaged.  Gonna have a baby.  Still needs to brush his teeth ‘cause I can smell his breath all the way over here.


I promise I’ll be nice to her.  And, from now on, I’ll say nice things.  I won’t even refer to her as your “Baby Momma,” and I’ll play defense on her behalf against Ma.  I know she’ll need it.  I figured there is no sense in me being a big-mean-older-sister-bitch to this girl, although that is my first instinct.  If you love her, that will be enough for me.  I’ll be a good sister in law; I’ll welcome her as best I can.  I’m usually ‘icy’ and perpetually crabby, but I will definitely put in a consorted effort towards warmth.  I’ll even come to your wedding, but I’ll probably cry.  Don’t do all that stupid Jack and Jill parties or the million parties that go along with becoming engaged.  I’ll tell you right now, I’m not coming to any of them and I’m not sending you any gifts.  Those parties are just cons to hassle money out of friends and family.
Ehh.  You know I’d send you gifts.  I’m a sucker for you.  But really.  I’m not showing up.

Only a couple more months and I’ll be an Auntie, and you’ll be a Dad.  Weird.  I feel like you should be the older sibling here, you’re tackling all the ‘adult’ things and I’m horsing around with my dog.  I also feel like you should still be in middle school.  I’ve already been bitten by the baby-bug, Stinky-poo, and I’ve been scouring the internet for adorable baby stuff to spoil your little munchkin with.  You think he’ll have your ears?  HA!  Maybe he’ll have your eyes.  We both have the same eyes, that’d be cool.  Then I’d get an idea of what my baby would look like if I got knocked up.  I hope he’s not ugly ‘cause then I definitely wouldn’t have kids.  He’ll probably have your nasty body odor and be freakishly tall.  And thin.  With big boat feet.  Little Bro Jr.

If you decide not to use this ring, I understand.  It’s a man ego thing.  But, you better give this ring back, Dillhole.  I’m not lying, I love this ring.  Don’t pawn it either.  I’ll say I’m giving it to you, no strings attached, but there is one.  If you don’t propose with it, GIVE IT BACK.  I won’t forgive you if you don’t.  Buttface.

Love you much, sucker.
Your older, much cooler and better looking sister.

Beter late than never


Since I'm such a zombie dweeb, this is the most suitable Valentine I have ever seen.  I would never give it to the Gorgeous Man though, he might find it disturbing.  How you ever read such a practical Valentine love promise?

I didn't think so.

screaming headache

Thanks to the 6:54a phone call from my mother this morning, which was preceded by a 6:00a ON THE DOT phone call that was not answered, I have a nice screaming headache to start my Wednesday.  Not a delicious dull throbbing, this is a pleasant shade of piercing pain in my temples that migrates to just above my eyebrows where it stabs my ability to think positively like a savage serial killer.  ‘The world is NOT out to get me’ part of my brain has also been mauled.

Future mothers: do not call your daughter 6 minutes before her alarm goes off to tell her that you are going to get married when she flies out for a short weekend visit and need to know when she’s planning on arriving.  Because if she is barely awake and standing in front of her coffee pot full of scalding hot Dunkin Donuts coffee, she will silently say to herself: "Beat me over the head with a full coffee pot."  And it will seem like an acceptable way to start the workday.  But if you are one of those mothers, as in ‘those’ mothers, go ahead and feel the thrum of satisfaction knowing that you have effectively started your daughter’s day on a very bad foot and she will walk around with a Charlie Brown storm cloud over her head all day.  Which is not conducive to productivity.

My headache is accompanied by “Pooooooop on a stiiiiiiiccccckkk, sucky poopy daa-ayy” sung to the tune of Smoke on the Water.  I don’t know why.  

I gave my Ma a call yesterday to give her my new phone number (made the switch to the iPhone, which I.  LOVE.  In capital letters.) and she informed me that she is planning my brother’s future wife and soon to be baby-mamma’s baby shower for the weekend I was flying twenty-four-hundred-miles to visit.  I’ve never been to a baby shower, I don’t condone this girl procreating and I do not want to part with my cash stash to clothe her child in Winnie the Pooh gear.  But, I was willing to part with the moola when I thought I could buy things and have them sent to them without having to bear witness to them ooo-ing and aww-ing over whatever crap they got.  Especially since one look on the baby registry revealed that my brother and his future wife/baby-mamma a) have not. a. damn. clue. what a baby needs; b) have expensive taste for impractical things; c) will be grossly underprepared if they only get items on that registry.  I was planning on doing a very practical older-sister baby care package, complete with items that a newborn would need.  Like DIAPERS, and BABY BOTTLES and RECEIVING BLANKETS.  Things that, oddly enough, were not included in their baby registry.  You know what was included?  A Winnie the Pooh lamp and matching Winnie the Pooh curtains.  I was also going to include a newborn baby necessities checklist so they can drum up the additional supplies that they currently have no idea they need.

Needless to say, I was not looking forward to my casual visit after yesterday’s phone call.  I had planned on flying in, hanging with my Grandma, Grandpa and Great Grandmother while watching the Today show, drinking coffee and hitting up Early Bird specials.  I imagined long discussions on where my life is going – nowhere; what my plans are for the future – none; how the Gorgeous Man and the Rabid Beast are – fabulous; when I’m getting married – not even engaged, so let’s focus on Ma and the little bro who are getting married with-in a year; and antique discussions – we like old things.  I also thought that maybe, if I was lucky, I’d get to ogle my Grandma’s and Great Grandma’s jewels, because I love fancy, gaudy, antique jewelry and they have immense collections.

Now my plans include an alcohol free baby shower and a wedding with abundantly flowing alcohol.

I really should be happy that my brother is having a baby and that my Ma is getting married.  Instead, I feel like my family is going against the laws of physic but really it’s just my perceived laws of conservative convention.  I guess I’m just conservative when it comes to family.  I think you should only get married once unless you are a widow/widower.  I think marriage and making babies should follow the sibling birth order.  I think the earliest you should start putting buns in the oven is the first night of your honeymoon.  I think you should date more than a year before you get engaged.  I think the man should propose to the woman.  I think that you shouldn’t have children unless you are financially ready, emotionally ready, mentally ready and if applicable, in a secure, stabile and loving relationship.  Alas, this is not a perfect world, therefore my conservative notions do not apply.

To add insult to injury, the Starbucks barista would not put two shots of whiskey in my Americano, even though I asked real nicely.  But she did add the fourth shot for free and free sugar-free hazelnut syrup.  Which is just what I need after 32 ounces of home-brewed, extra strong Dunkin Donuts coffee, two Midol and three ibuprofen.  If the screaming headache doesn’t explode my left eye, I’m sure the above concoction will.

Christmas, part duex

I feel like Christmas hit my house again.  Look at my bounty!

Before I went to the Tulalip casino last Friday, I did a little casino outfit shopping.  Nordstroms Rack was having a slamming sale so I was perusing the 'premium' jeans even though I had absolutely no intentions of buying them.  When they are marked down 50% off original price and STILL over a hundo, I say rip off.  But.  I found a pair of Joe's Jeans.  Now, the Gorgeous Man's Super Cool Sister told me to purchase Joe's Jeans months ago.  And I tried.  I went to Macy's, armed with a $50 gift card, already mentally psyched up for the fact that I was going to be spending that gift card, plus and additional $100 to $125 on ONE PAIR OF JEANS.  I found myself a nice heroin-addict, ex-rock star-looking sales associate who poured me into a bunch of jeans, each time returning with sizes smaller and smaller and smaller.  If it were up to me, I'd be sliding my toosh into size 30s, I might even go for the 31s in case I decide to eat anytime.  Apparently, with premium denim, you're supposed to buy them as tight as possible.  Like muffin-top tight.  Like busting-buttons-off tight.  And she had me squeezing my enchilada and doughnut-fed booty into size 26s.  She literally had to help me button them, and I'm glad I wore panties that day.  Every time I'd get my butt into a pair of Joe's Jeans, she'd tug at my waist band - if she could squeeze her hand down my pants, they weren't tight enough.  And she constantly comment "Look at your ass.  Doesn't your ass look great?"  I couldn't see my ass because their was a avalanche of blubber erupting from my waist band and my vision was starting to dim around the edges.  When she left me alone, I changed returned my flattened heinie to my cheap jeans and snuck my butt outta there.  

But at the Rack, there are no weird associates.  So I grabbed up the jeans intentionally ignoring the price tag - because I like expensive surprises - and slid them on in the solitary comfort of the Rack's dressing room.  And man, did my ass look great.  I forked over the $50-plus bucks with delightful visions of my strutting my apple butt around at the casino.  And I love these jeans.  Not just the awesome power they have to make my butt look like you could bounce a quarter off it, but also because the denim is soft and they really are well made and even though I want to check myself out every few minutes, these jeans look classy.  Hell yea.

Also.  The Gorgeous Man's Super Cool Sister, who knows I love sunglasses and collect sunglasses and am cheap as all hell, therefore buy lots of inexpensive sunglasses, got me a gift certificate for a sunglass place as my Christmas gift.  After a month of searching the site for the PERFECT sunglasses, I settled on three.  As you can see, they are freaking sweet.  I got some glorious mirrored aviators, a pair of red stunner shades and, in tribute to the Super Cool Sister who loves her Louis Vuitton, a pair of knock-off tortoise shell Louis Vuitton glasses.  With the fake gold monogram LV detailing on the side.  Although I know she's does not support purchasing knock-offs and although they border on tacky, they are my favorite!


I am probably the most spoiled person you don't have the fortune of actually knowing.  I blame the Gorgeous Man.  His sister and mother taught him well, like give your lady jewelry, be nice to her and Friday's are no-cooking nights.  Prior to him I had not received a single piece of jewelry and was not familiar with Tiffany's or it's wares.  Since him, I've amassed a Tiffany's stockpile and have become quite, QUITE familiar with their website.  And I'm frequently stopped by ladies who comment on my jewelry.  The ladies I work with think I'm overindulged and every occasion they expect me to wander into the office with new bling.  It's all his fault.  What can I say, I grabbed myself the best man.


On New Year's, a good friend of mine passed along to the Gorgeous Man that I love aquamarine and, I believe, she insinuated that I would love it as an engagement ring because I'm not a diamond girl - which I'm not.  Side note: I didn't put her up to that or any other weird, manipulative lady things and I wasn't even paying attention to this convo they had.  She's vying for an engagement because she wants to be in someone's wedding, hence the insinuation.  Since she had mentioned it, and since I didn't get anything sparkly for Christmas, he decided to get me something aquamarine for Valentine's Day.  

 When I
 reserved us a room at the casino, he decided to make it an early Valentine's Day gift.  I love them.  Like L-O-V-E, LOVE them.  Love them so much I have to spell out the word 'love' to express my love for them.  And the only way to describe them is 'honking.'  These are honking earrings, as in honking huge. And man do I make them look gorgeous.  In these pics, you can see the sapphire nose ring he bought me last year.  Spoiled.

I'm gonna go check out my ass again.




Cow Time


Everynight in my house, my crazy Rabid Beast has what has been termed "Cow Time."  It strikes at 7pm, after evening walk.  He brings us one of his cows, lays it on some part of our body, then stares at us.  Then whimpers if we don't respond.  And when we try to throw the cow, he attacks our hands, then runs a dead sprint to retrieve the cow and it starts all over again.  It's like wants us to throw the cow, but he doesn't want us touching his cow.
this is his anticipation look.





"Seriously.  Don't touch my cow."
















The attempted evisceration.















This look means he's gonna attack.











Here he waits for another throw.












Natanis

Letter to Natanis

Dear Natanis:

Cappy!!!  How the hell are you?  Haven’t heard from you in, what, forever?  Miss you.  Miss the blogs.  Miss the recounting of the previous nights crazy events that you used to post.
  
Three years:  yah, I know!  I have to thank you for encouraging that spontaneous cross-country trip.  How crazy did that weekend turn out?  I definitely would not have believed that within a year of that weekend, that dude would be living in my city, and eventually, I’d wake up next to him every morning.  By the way, he’s flourishing here in Seattle with the exception of him not really understanding Seattle men and our crazy weather freak outs.  We got a dog; he’s a crazy nut.  We still like each other.  A lot.  

Last we heard from you was the damn job crap that went down.  You realize that was over a year ago?  A year and a half!  Fill us in.  I’d like to know if you still enjoy the Capt. Morgans.  Cappy.

That’s all, and man! What a pleasant surprise to see that comment from you!

Love and Skittles and Budweiser in the morning,
Fleur

2009 will not be my year.

DECLARATION: 2009 will not be my year.

Everybody makes the same new year initiation phrase: this is the year.  The year of fitness and love and book reading and self exploration and travel and personal growth and making millions and on and on.  It never works out.  Last year: crappy year.  Year before: I can’t remember that far back so I’m inclined to believe it never happened and/or it was crappy.  Like last year.

The positive to this declaration is this: if a declaration made at the initiation of the new year, more often than not, does not come true, then by reason of logic, making the declaration of a wish/hope/prayer that you do not want to come true (but perhaps, actually think will come true?), should result in the opposite of said declaration.  Which, in theory, would be a good thing.

So, if by chance, 2009 happens to not be not my year, I will be pleasantly astonished.  And my backwards/opposite plan is working.  So far this is my2009:

I got a raise, woot!

I also got a bonus!  Suck it economy!

Company matched retirement plan.  Here I come early retirement.

I’m going to the casino on Friday and I’m very excited.  I might win money.  I might loose it all, I don’t care.

My tax refund is going to F-A-T.  More than a month’s salary, which is how I planned it.  And I can't wait to spend it on hospital bills.

I’m going to Scottsdale, AZ with a couple I actually like and a Gorgeous Man who pleases my eyes in a bathing suit.  We got an incredible deal.  It will be warm.  I will swim.  There will be fruity drinks and I may be able to convince some naive pool boy to put that drink in a coconut.  I could get laid. 

I have two weddings I’m going to attend.  Which means I will get gussied up in a fancy dress with pretty make up and high heels, then I will drink and dance and eat on someone else’s bill.  Both weddings are in cities that are novel and cool and I could get laid again.

I will become an Aunt to my brother’s spawn child.  And I might get a sister-in-law. Actually, I’m lukewarm about this.

The Gorgeous Man and I will have been dating for three years (at some point this year, we have no anniversary, which makes my little, pink, marshmallow, girl heart hurt) and he still likes me!  Small pleasures.

My dog, despite pooing uncontrollable for a week+, is still living!  And even recovering!  Enough to attack me on a daily basis.  You can’t beat the love of a dog for it’s Ma.

Dude, two zombie games and like, 5 zombie books this year and it's only 13 days deep in 2009.  'Nuf said.

See?  I’m on a 'not year' roll. Here’s looking at you 2009 for not being my year.

Fluffy Fleur

For the first time since the Gorgeous Man relocated to my mild city of Seattle two years ago, we are taking a vacation together.  A real one.  One that doesn’t involve seeing either of our family members.  Not that visiting the fams are bad, not at all.  I love visiting his family and hanging out with them feels like a vacation because it has all the vacation-necessary bits and pieces: surrounded by good people having fun, drinking great martinis made just for you and eat delicious meals prepared with love.  That’s just like a vacation.  But, we desire a vacation alone, and we are finally getting one.

My friend and her boyfriend talked the Gorgeous Man into it over New Years.  Both of their birthdays happen to be within the week of his, so they presented the idea of a conjoined birthday trip.  I had been hem-ing and hah-ing and very non-committal about a vacation with them because I had been planning a surprise Vegas trip for the Man for his birthday.  They told him they’d go somewhere warm.  That’s all the selling the Gorgeous Man needed, his only necessities for a vacation are warmth, source of water and a fruity drink in his hand as he sits in the warmth by the source of water.  The two of them work for a very prestigious hotel chain and managed to secure us a weekend at the Fairmont Princess resort in Scottsdale, AZ for $79 a night.  Compared to regular-person rates of $415 per night, we confirmed and now have a real vacation on the docket for the end of March.
And I just realized that in 73 days, I’ll be required to squish into a bathing suit AND be seen in public in said bathing suit.

I’m no resolutionist, and I’m already a devoted gym-goer.  Actually, I’ve been slacking on the ‘devoted’ part of ‘devoted gym-goer,’ so I’ll down grade myself to a person who holds a gym membership.  That seems appropriate.  Since the holidays, I’ve become, well, fluffy.  I’ve got a thin layer of hibernation worthy flub and I might get winded if I tried to walk up a flight of stairs.  I haven’t busted the seams of any of my pants, in fact, I still fit them all the same, but, I’m not the svelte Brazilian model I used to be.  In reality, I’ve never been a svelte Brazilian model; I’m definitely not Brazilian, but confidence is all in how you see yourself.  And I prefer to see myself as a svelte Brazilian model.  Who is frequently described as svelte.  Period.

Now I gotta get myself into some sort of shape.  And I prefer a shape that does not closely resemble an apple, melon or other round fruit.  In fact, I don’t want to be any fruit shape.  And I also don’t really feel like doing any kind of exercise that requires moving fast.  Like running or aerobics or cycling and if I can get away with it, I’d prefer not to walk fast either.  But I have a dog who is too small to run with but high energy enough to require a fast paced walk, so I’m shit-outta-luck.  I’m just not that into ‘fast’ right now, it was soo 2008.  Which means I’m reduced to yoga, as long as it isn’t a fast flow yoga, and pilates and weight lifting.  I like pumping iron, so I think I’ll spend a good deal of time doing bicep curls until ‘fast’ seems doable.

I realize, because I have always been a not-thin person, that if I don’t do something that boost my heart rate, short of amphetamines, I’m really not gonna make a dent in the reduction of hibernation chub.  I could subsist off lettuce and two tablespoons of cottage cheese for the next 73 days, but that makes me on extremely crabby person and I like the Gorgeous Man and the relationship we have so I’d rather not chase him off with my hunger-fueled rage.  And I don’t want to negotiate custody of the Rabid Beast.

So I’m thinking I’m gonna try something small.  Like cutting sugar from the list of ingredients I put in my mouth.  This may be the hardest thing I’ll ever try to do.  I have a sweet-tooth that I have come to accept.  Like the fact that midgets are short and Santa doesn’t exist.  These are irrefutable truths.  I’ve become friends with my sweet tooth, as has the Gorgeous Man, and when I say I want a bag of Peanut M&M’s, he knows I’m gonna get a bag of Peanut M&Ms.  I can live off sugar, I just can’t live very long and that life won’t involve flying in airplanes because I won’t be able to fit in the plane hatch, let alone the seats.  That life will probably involve a motorized scooter with a basket to hold my bags of Peanut M&Ms.  Or an iv drip of Peanut M&Ms slurry.

But I’m gonna try.  I printed myself out a nice calendar, and everyday has the number of days till swim-suit vacation.  I’m gonna stick on the fridge and mark off all the days like a vacation advent calendar, only my end date involves frolicking scantily clad, not gifts of jewels and cameras.  Since there are 19 days left in January, I’m only gonna make a goal of lasting 19 days without sugar.  Because I don’t do “indefinite” diets.  I need to know that someday I will be able to have ice cream again.  Besides, when I came back from Thanksgiving, I swore off ice cream, pizza and chips and dip to the end of January.  Now I’m just adding to it.

I’m thinking next month I’ll do something different.  Maybe my goal will be 30 minutes of heart-racing activity 2 days a week – I don’t want to overwhelm myself with fitness so I should start slow.  Or maybe I’ll …I don’t know.  I’m out of ideas.  I'm hitting the gym for a lunch hour iron-pumping session, maybe something will hit me.

An Xbox Addiction

I have never wondered by I don’t have hoards of friends.  I totally know why, I’m strange, a loner, socially awkward, sometimes condescending, moody and a flake.  I admit this quirks about myself, I accept myself just the way I am.

But every so often, I wonder why I don’t have less friends.  Because there are instances when I realize, I’m just not fit from friendship.

For Christmas I gave the Gorgeous Man the Xbox 360 for myriad reasons including the desire to make him love me more and some other stuff that I can’t remember.  He loves it, although, my plan may have backfired on the whole “loving me more” because the love that supposed to be showered upon me with Diamonds and Pearls and Gold and Rubies, is actually showered on the Xbox, but whatev.  I’m not jealous of an inanimate object.
  
I had absolutely no desire to play his console.  I’d gotten him the Grand Theft Auto IV and a couple Guitar Heros and they just didn’t seem like fun to me.  The only game I would have considered playing on the Xbox was Left 4 Dead, which is a zombie game, so that’s a given.  Well, I would have played Zelda, but noooOOOOOOOO!  It’s not made for the Xbox.  Jerks.

The Gorgeous Man did force me to play one of the Guitar Heros, Legends of Rock.  I created a user, gave my Wii-knock-off avatar a kicking pink tracksuit, set Guitar Hero to easy and tried to play.  So, let me just let you know, in case you haven’t played, you have strum AND hit the buttons AT THE SAME TIME.  Yes, simultaneously.  I didn’t know this.  I got boo’d off stage.  <frownie face, frownie face>
Me, in a previous life.

Now, Guitar Hero World Tour has a Beginner mode, which is even easier than the Easy mode in other GH versions.  You only have to strum, no button-hitting required.  Supposedly, you don’t even need opposable thumbs to work this version which means that an UN-trained monkey could play.  I don’t have any sort of rhythm or beat or even know what kind of musical term actually applies to what I don’t have, so I overwhelmingly sucked.  You have never seen a worse Guitar Hero than Fleur.  Not only am I the Worse Guitar Hero EVER, I can’t even talk while playing, or look away or make any other face than the face of utter and complete, unwavering concentration, which is also my constipation face.  One in the same.

I gave up on the Xbox, but no skin off my back.  

Then last Friday arrived.  Weeks ago I had asked the Gorgeous Man to do a small household chore.  Then as the weeks went on, I’d ask him to do other small, single task items, until he has three tasks that he needed to do, but had yet to complete.  In a stroke of woman-genius, I decided that I’d hit my local Game Stop and buy myself a zombie game for the Xbox.  This way, I’d occupy the Xbox and head have all the free time to do his three measly things that would take 30 minutes if he took a fifteen minute nap in between.  The Gorgeous Man’s Fabulous Brother recommended a game that, supposedly, I’d like.  Sweet.  Once I got to Game Stop though, I had a judgment meltdown and ended up purchasing two zombie games: Left 4 Dead because it got great reviews, and Dead Rising, per Fabulous Brother’s recommendation.

That weekend, we played non-stop zombie.
One of my eyelids swelled up, and it may not be directly because of the marathon Left 4 Dead playing, but I will blame it nonetheless.  I also developed a nice headache behind my eyeballs; eyeballs that acquired an unwelcome strained pain.  And lastly, my back became sore because of all the adrenaline coursing through my muscles as I waited, wound up tighter than a girdled Dita Von Teese, for zombies to jump out at me, or a Witch to attack or to be dragged away by a Hunter or a Boomer to vomit on me.  Yea.  Total nerd.
Fast forward to today and the reason my friend circle should probably be reduced by half (which would be half a person, so you can see the conundrum): I made plans with my lady friend for tomorrow to get brunch and do some other non-playoff football related things.  Girl things, but I don’t know what.  When really, all I want to do is sit on the couch playing Dead Rising, running Frank West around collecting survivors in the mall over run by zombies so I can level up and get more life.  Yesterday I spent a hefty amount of time on GameSpot.com reading the Dead Rising guide and learning things, like I can give my survivors weapons and they can shoot zombies!  Again.  Total nerd.  I’m not naturally good at these video player games, so I need all the online-guide help I can get.  When my mailman asked me what I was gonna do this weekend, I complained to him that my friends were totally cutting into my Xbox playing time.  He told me I sound like a guy.  I said “But, I’d just found out where a submachine gun is and I really just want to get it and plow down some zombies.”  

If it was up to me, my Dead Rising marathon would begin tonight at 5:15p, the time at which I walk through my front door.  I wouldn’t even make dinner, but I might throw some Pizza Rolls in the oven and if I had forethought, I stop off at the convenience store to get some Tostitos on the way home, postponing my arrival to 5:20p, but I would be able to eat chips and salsa with my Pizza Rolls.  I drink Coronas with no lime, ‘cause I would not have that much forethought, close the blinds and play until BOTH my eyelids swelled up.  Occasionally stopping to scarf down a string cheese and a couple Advil.

We’ll see.

Weekly Vociferation

This week’s vociferation*:

Golf Umbrellas. 

On my walk home from work yesterday, I had the unpleasure of following an umbrella dunce through one of the most crowded sidewalks of Seattle.  Olive Way, between 5th AVE and 6th AVE is a major bus hub and thanks to some City genius is also the entrance to Seattle’s Medical Dental building and location of a Bartell Drugs, which is the closest drug store for quite a few blocks.  Public transportation commuters flock to this bus stop like flies to…you get the expression.  More City genius: it’s a very narrow sidewalk made even more narrow by the line of newspaper display stands on the right side of the walk, dozens of waiting people lining the left side of the walk and it’s positively claustrophobic thanks to the massive buses snugged up tight on the curb to load/unload the herd.  The newspaper racks are so cleverly positioned so that there is only the space of one human’s width between them and the bust stop column, which is where passengers must jostle and shove to enter their bus, the whole time cluster-fucking the entire sidewalk. 

This is pretty much the worst street to walk down if you don’t have jump a metro.

But I walk it.  Everyday.  Because I’m known for my beauty, not my brains.

It’s sprinkle outside, nothing unusual for Seattle, although you’d think the inhabitants of this city were made out of spun sugar and therefore their fragile bodies were in dire danger of melting, because everyone’s got their umbrellas out, fighting for space on a sidewalk that we can’t even comfortable stand shoulder to shoulder on.  But, for some reason, umbrellas in the drizzle seems like a good idea to majority of the herd.  I’m trucking along, I’ve got my trusty blue Giants hat on, and even though I have hair that does a great impression of Gizmo with water, a hat works perfectly fine.  ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING IT’S JUST DRIZZLING.  I look up in time to see someone blocking the way – gender unknown because this genius brought their with pterodactyl-wing span wide umbrella. This thing could provide shelter to at least 3 homeless people if they are lying down, I’m thinking a good 10, maybe 12 standing if they haven’t eaten in a while.  This obviously not-too-bright individual is lost, and he/she keeps swinging around, trying to get a look at where they are going or maybe, where it left the logical part of its brain.  There’s absolutely no way I can maneuver around this person, I’m trapped between the dense crowd of bus waiters and newspaper displays, and as usual, there are a few crazies standing in the way trying to read the front page of some Seattle paper, like they didn’t have all day to do that. One such crazy gets beamed right in the head by the umbrella wielding dill-hole.  Luckily for him, the impalement of those pokie umbrella end thingies immediately lobotomized him so he had bigger issues, like figuring out what his name was and standing dumbfounded in the middle of the sidewalk.  Lobotomy victim didn’t even bat an eye when he took that shot to the dome.  Coulda lost his eye.

Right after I start swelling with rage at the injustice of umbrella assault on defenseless, albeit brainless victims, umbrella-dork does a 45 degree half turn and I realize I’m not just dealing with an inconsiderate precipitation nerd, I’m dealing with a mostly blind, poncho-wearing, cargo pants sporting, hiking boots stomping, card carrying granola girl, who is in her forties.  She looks like she’s expecting the skies to part and the Pacific Ocean to fall onto her gimongo umbrella, if that happens, she wants to be sure she’s wearing the necessary Columbia gear for that adventure.  And half of her head is locked behind a pair of sweet-ass coke bottle glasses.

My head is filled with my own voice yelling “Seriously?!  Seriously?  Come on, SERIOUSLY?!” ala Jim Mora Coors Light commercial.  The woman is practically covered in water proof gear from head to toe and she still thinks a GOLF UMBRELLA is necessary. Seriously?

Let me enlighten you, because I can tell those coke-bottle glasses have spent too much time in the sun’s direct rays and that’s resulted in cooking your brain like the poor ants little boys murder with a magnifying glass.  There’s been an invention, and I’m sure you haven’t heard about it because your solar-powered radio only gets NPR, but they have these things.  They’re attached to the backs of coats, about neck level.  It’s like a little pouch. YES!  You have one on your poncho!  It’s called a hood.  It’s used to cover your head in case, now this is a rare possibility, but a possibility nonetheless, the clouds above start sprinkling.  You reach behind and pull it up over your head, like so, you’re has fancy drawstrings too.  To make sure you head really doesn’t get wet.

Now.  Because you have that pair of magnifying glasses strapped to your face, I’m gonna tell you about something revolutionary.  And again, I don’t blame you for not knowing about it, I’m sure you spend a great deal of time in your Prius, driving around to organic farmer’s markets and protesting with Green Peace.  Those are time consuming commitments. Anyway.  See this on my head?  The blue thing with “Giant” written on it?  Yep.  See how it fits over the crown of my head?  Right above the ears?  Uh-huh, and this snazzy thing extending over my face, it’s called a bill and this whole contraption is a hat.  It protects your head and your face and I think this is especially great for you ‘cause we don’t want those awesome glasses getting rain spatters on them.  Double bonus: since I’m pretty sure they don’t make prescription simple-microscope-sunglasses, this innovation will be very helpful in the warmer months to shield your eyes while you’re out bird watching or volunteering at an oil spill or whatever.

Or, get one of these.  You look goofy enough already.  Commit to goof wardrobe.

This is a major problem in the city.  With narrow sidewalks crowded with commuters that area already pissed off for whatever reason, there is no reason to add to the general discourse during a sprinkling of precipitation.  Don’t be a Sp.Ed.**, leave your golf umbrella with a caddy.

This has been your weekly vocifercation*.

*Don't know this word?  You're next week vociferation. J/k!  I don't have anything against ya'll with no vocabulary.

**Don't know this term?  You're bag-o-insults is seriously lacking.

Lesbian + Zombies = Yup.

I got hit on by a lesbian last night. 

This is super cool to  me.  I am not fodder for lesbian attraction.  Not that I actively try to coerce people into hitting on me, but I’ve always kind of wondered why lesbians don’t like me.  I get hit on by guys all the time.  Ok, that didn’t come out right.  I get hit on by gentlemen with a frequency that would denote that I am neither hideous nor intimidatingly beautiful but am eye-pleasing enough for interest and homely enough to be approachable.  Flirting from the hetero-man genre of sexuality is taken by me as either, amusing, ridiculous or insulting and is accompanied with a laugh and shove brush off, an eye-roll and hair sweep or one very pissed shorty.  Mostly it’s insulting because I (incorrectly) believe men should just KNOW I’m not available, but we all know men are not intuitive. 

Having determined that I could procreate if I ever developed that wild oat-sowing desire I’ve instead settled quite well with a man that flirts with me constantly (and is always received as amusing), but I’m still baffled by why, oh why am I not approached by lesbians?  Seattle is ripe with alternative genres of sexuality and we run a full spectrum of proclivities.  I live in very close proximity to Gay Central and I’ve already determined that my features do not make people run screaming or attempt to gouge their eyes out to avoid look upon my freakish face.  So where’s the lesbian love?

Last night I was hitting the local Borders to fulfill my Zombie book appetite and the nice, tall, tattoo’d and Mohawk-sportin’ lady commences to flirt with me through my transaction.  I guess I sparked her interest with my book purchases: a novel about Texan Zombies and (unbeknownst to me at the time ‘cause I got it out of the 75% box) an erotic Vampire novel.  DON’T JUDGE ME!  I didn’t realize what I had until I was reading the back panel this morning, talk about judging a book by its cover, I thought it was Bram Stoker-esgque novel.  Any who, as she dilly-dallies through my purchase, she asks if I’ve read World War Z (no, I’ve never warmed up to first-person accounts) or the Zombie Survival Guide (same author) then proceeds to discuss with me graphic zombie novels, of which I have no knowledge because I have not fallen down that Rabbit Hole of Zombie-Geekdom.  Yet.  Actually, I’m not a graphic novel person, something about books with pictures makes me feel like I’m, uh, 2 IQ points away from Simple Jack (Get the Tropic Thunder reference?! amazing!) 

Speaking about books with pictures, a few weeks ago I was chillin like a villain, alone sipping a martini and reading a book on Fleur’s Friday Post-Work Martini – I haven’t yet made it weekly installment – when a guy asked me if my book was good (“yes”, return attention to book) then asked if it had pictures (pause, “no”, return to book) and followed up with “I don’t read anything that doesn’t have pictures.  For some reason I can’t get interested.” (pause, swig of martini, “I avoid things with pictures because they make me feel illiterate”, ZING!)

Back to the story at hand.  I listened to her talk about some well known zombie graphic novel writer, nodded at appropriate times, smiled occasionally, said polite things, “Ahh.” and “Interesting.”  She finally handed over my bag of books and concluded our conversation with offer to lend me some of her zombie graphic novels.  Awww, how sweet!  Wait a second….YES!  I was officially inducted onto the lesbian radar. 

Perhaps, under normal circumstances not muddled with zombie novels, women of the lesbian persuasion can sniff me out.  A waft of my Fancy perfumed head sets of the “Straight” light and I fail to register.  I’ll be honest, I figured I could be mistaken for a lipstick lesbian because I coif my hair and were makeup, but apparently not.  Or maybe they can just tell that not only have I never kissed a girl (or liked the taste of her cherry chapstick – Oh Em Gee, another reference, I’m on a roll) but it’s never been appealing.  There was never a One-time-at-college and I have no stories about a Melissa Etheridge concert, at which I was drinking Apple Pucker.  Well, there was that one time with Pam Anderson.  She made me call her Pam Anderson, not Pam or Pammy, but that was in my youth and there are only so many decades a sex symbol can get away with wearing thick black eyeliner (and nothing else) before the world realizes she’s using it to disguise her old-lady eye bags and crow’s feet.

Either way.  My “why-don’t-lesbians-like-me” curiosity has been cured but now I have to find a new Borders to visit.

Sidenote: Book about Zombie Lesbians?  I think I’m onto something here.

Terrible mother I'd be

I would make a terrible mother.  I’m glad I’m only 25 and wasn’t born in an era when marrying at 12 was appropriate and child rearing was expected immediately.  I’d pretend I was a boy.  Or refuse to emerge from my mother’s womb.

I have a little Rabid Beastie instead of children and I’m damned happy about that.  I’m holding off on having little Fleur clones until my uterus dries up and I have a real reason not to contribute to Earthly over population.  Or at least until I’m 35 and my significant other roofies me, and that will be an awkward conversation the next morning.  25 is, in my egomaniacal opinion, too young.  Although my littlest brother, at the ripe and fresh age of 24 (today’s his birfday) has already put a bun in his girlfriends oven.  Vicariously, I will emotionally-abuse his children.

I’d be a horrible, terrible mother and I’m learning it thanks to my Rabid Beast.  He’s small and sometimes very annoying and he needs my attention, like always, and instead of repeating “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom! Mom! MOM!” over and over, he steals my nail file or takes off with my one of my bras in my mouth.  Just as annoying and more expensive too, because bras are not cheap and I have not learned how to repair teeth shred on satin and lace.  I also had to buy a plastic case to store my nail file in.  How ridiculous is that?

I’m also a worrier and I’ve known this and the Gorgeous Man has adapted to this personality flaw, but the Rabid Beast brings out the WORRY like no other.  If I’m not worrying about what he just ate off the sidewalk (two days ago: a huge wad of blue gum that still smelled like mint and was probably 3 pieces combined) then I’m worrying about why I can’t see him/hear him.  Because the quiet moments are when he does the most damage.

The most recent worry is explosive diarrhea and I truly never thought I’d have to worry about that, except on the rare occasions I go ape-shit on McGutbomb Big Macs and in that case, I’d be worrying about my toosh and also about assaulting the Gorgeous Man olfactory, not a small 22 pound creature that can create the most disgusting, heave-worthy poos imaginable.  Under normal circumstances, I’d probably just be disgusted and tell the Gorgeous Man that explosive diarrhea is a man job and besides, he’s your buddy.  But, Rabid Beast has this forlorn look he gives me and he just looks so sorry!  Then I melt and meld into a clingy, worrier doggie-mommy.

I’m pretty sure, or at least I’ve been told, that the most annoying thing a mother could do is be overbearing, clingy and overprotective.  Add bossy, moody, and the unique ability to never be satisfied with the cleanliness of the homestead, and you have me.  That last one actually makes me cranky and pissy, so add those personality traits to the Cuisinart, hit pulse three to seven times until you have a substance resembling pus and that is me.  I’m also a spoiler.  You know what kind of booger-eater that makes?  A slightly insecure, hypochondriac that is jumpy, passive-aggressive, needy, incapable of handling anything but has a sense of entitlement and too many toys.  When applied to a dog you get a hyperactive chewing machine that thinks the middle of the bed is his spot and who will randomly attack me when I look at it wrong with too many toys.  I think I’m better off parenting creatures that I can legally cage and bark at when I get pissed off.

In the Rabid Beastie’s case, it’s good that I worried.  We ended up having to hustle him to the vet when his explosive pooing was tinged with blood and he was vomiting everything and shaking.  Now he’s back home safe and secure with prescribed meds and cans of $13 special bland food after we ran the gamut of possibilities and tests at the vet’s and received IV fluids.  Did you know that they don’t put an IV in a dog, as in to give him fluids?  Yep.  They just put all the fluid under the pup’s hide and it’s slowly absorbed by the body.  But in the meantime, the pup has a huge bump where the liquid is.  The Rabid Beast looked like a hunch back ‘cause they put fluids right in between his shoulder blades.  I called him the Hunchback and tried not to touch it, but the bump was like, the size of his head!

I’m sleep deprived from repeated bouts of comforting him during the night and strung out tighter than tight wire thanks worrying that something else might go wrong with his little puppy intestines and too much coffee to counteract the lack of sleep.  On the bright side, I don’t need to worry about saving for his college.

Ahhh HELLS Yea.

Yea, yea.  Christmas is over, New Year’s is one fart from being over and in two farts time, we can all get back to the scheduled farts of 2009.  I’m pretty dag-gone pleased about that.

I have a thing with farts.  They are, believe me on this one, hilarious.  You’ve never seen a girl so delighted as I am when the Gorgeous Man rips one around me.  Laughing ensues. It’s such a rare occasion that I have to laugh it up.

Lets recap:  Christmas was a day of unbridled spoiling.  I was spoiled by the Gorgeous Man with a fancy, extra awesome digital SLR Nikon camera – which was a total and complete surprise.  Ever since he placed my three professionally wrapped gifts under the tree weeks ago in a crazed form of Christmas torture, I have been guessing by the visuals. I was not allowed to touch them, let alone shake them, and I wasn’t even allowed to verbalize my guesses, but I’m so damn cute that the Gorgeous Man entertained my guesses periodically.  Always retorting with “I will send them back!  No more guessing!” He loves me.

I’ve, obviously, been a good girl this year.

My Ma and step Ma and dad and grandparents spoiled me with things I didn’t know I needed or wanted but now have no idea how I’ve lived without them, like a bohemian scarf and patent-leather rain poncho, cute snowflake bowls and mugs, and money and other stuff.  My little sister got me a sweet ass NY Giants throw and she has been deemed most awesomest Giant’s gift giver.  The Gorgeous Man’s family spoiled me to the nth degree, extra spoiled, really, considering I’m of no relation and have stolen their son/brother/grandson/nephew away from the East Coast.  To which I will return him, eventually, with me in tow.  I’m getting some stunner shades and bought myself a bounty at Sephora, slated some monies for a mindblowingly cool mp3 player and have a romantic date with the Gorgeous Man at an Italian restaurant to look forward to as well. 

The Rabid Beast sucks at giving Christmas gifts, I’ll tell ya.  His gift was to wake us up at four in the morning with explosive diarrhea.  After I took him onto our balcony – where his doggie potty is – and he poo’d what amounted to creamy water, he would not sleep.  My doggie mommy intuition told me that he had more pooping to do.  I had to dress myself, leash him, grab an elevator, go down 17 floors, through the parking garage, out into the frozen, icy tundra of Seattle’s streets and stand in front of bum-ville as my dog painted the sidewalk brown.  With an audience of homeless people who were quite intrigued by the little girl in a pink hat, rain boots and pissed off look on her face and her projectile shitting dog. 

Upon return to the warm cozy confines of my home, Rabid Beast still would not sleep.  So instead of laying my brunette head down on a fluffy pillow in my warm, pillow-top bed with my own personal heater known as the Gorgeous Man, I had to hang out in the living room. With my sick dog that kept making tortured faces at me and running around nervously. After half an hour or trying to cajole him into relaxing with me on the couch, he made the “I’m gonna puke” sounds, I dragged him into the bathroom, he vomited three times, I found a new appreciation for parenting little things that heave smelly, slimy stuff out both ends and we went back to bed.

He wishes you a Merry Christmas from Santa Paws.

Turns out, we had gotten some expired samples of all-natural dog food from our yuppie dog store, and of course we fed it to him unknowingly.  Poor buddy, I still feel incredibly bad for force feeding food poisoning on him.

And now it’s New Years.  And I’m pretty freaking relieved to be putting 2008 away in a box, sticking it under my bed and forgetting it existed.  Although, I won’t be able to entirely, seeing as how a few people related to me died and my sibling’s girlfriend is incubating a spawn and another sibling visited me from a far way place and we had so much fun.

So I’m partying like it’s 1983 – because that’s my birth year and I figure that you can’t top the excitement that I assume a person has when they are about to be pushed from a va-jay-jay and start ‘life.’  I would think that’s quite an exciting event and maybe me, as a little almost-born embryo, laughed a lot and knocked back bottles of champagne, took stupid pictures wearing glasses that spelled out 1-9-8-3, said “Wooo!” a lot, kissed strangers and entered the new year crying.  Ahhh hells yea.  That's what I'm gonna be doing TONIGHT!

Love, Peace and Chicken Grease, homies.

fleur
Female - 28 years old
SEATTLE, WA
United States
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