I need to get a haircut.  I hate getting my hair cut.  I have issues with hairdressers.  Or stylists, or whatever they prefer to be called.  Stylist around here have problems, to say the least.  It’s so trendy to be a stylist.  They are so cool and funky and left-of-center that I just can’t relate.  I’m not cool.  Nor funky, and I’m more halfway between right and left, and maybe a little underneath.  Or overtop, depending which way you’re standing. 

I’ve had some hair run-ins too.  One hairdresser was receiving transmissions from God, or Joan of Arc or maybe Dennis Rodman.  I ended up with her because I didn’t like my boring highlights, I wanted my poop brown, all one shade hair back.  She said, do a shade lighter underneath, it’ll give you the dimension you want without the typical ‘highlighted’ look.  I thought: Sweet!  An hour and a half later, the bottom half of my hair was platinum blond, the top was deep brown and I had two, yes my friends, TWO PUMPKIN ORANGE RACING STRIPS running down the top of my head.  Not only was the under hair white, as in the whitest white, call me albino white, she had taken the liberty of bleaching a nice halo of albino white framing my face.  Like the wispy baby bang hairs near my ears, temples and forehead.  An albino halo!  Punctuated by bright ORANGE.  I had to get it re-dyed immediately, but went to a different salon.  That salon discovered that she had left dye on my hair, giving me chemical burns on my scalp, neck and the back of my ears.  I’ve haven't had my hair dyed at a salon since.

Since I’m the anti-cool, fashion-lacking regular gal, I’m quite intimidated by the punky color,  asymmetrical, “I’m a girl but look like a dude” or “I’m a dude but look like a girl” look that is oh-so popular with stylists.  I don’t want that look, and quite frankly, I don’t want to person cutting my hair to have that look either.  It tells me that your judgment should be questioned, and you are probably receiving transmissions from Dennis Rodman too. 

After all that crap I was talking about Seattle’s summer, it decided to give me the ultimate proverbial backhand across the ‘ol kisser.  In the form of lobster red skin, burnt to a crispy Peking duck consistency.  But I don’t come with hoisin sauce, instead I offer blistering.

Yea, the ultimate sun burn.

Saturday, a gloriously sunshiney Seattle day.  I had great plans of sitting on the roof top deck, reading a fairly good book while the Man watched the Yankee game on the big screen.  I had been planning this getaway all week, as soon as the weather forecasted 80 degree weather for the weekend.  Saturday morning, I’m piling sunscreen, multiple icy water bottles, a towel, the Sansa! and my book into an oversized tote I got from Target.  Into the elevator and up the 17 floors to the roof.  I slather on the sunscreen.  I have a deep-seated fear of skin cancer and wear it religiously.  I put on the Soulful Reggae box set from Trojan, nestle in and zone out.  I reapply the SPF, I check my legs and shoulders for tale-tell signs of pinking.  Nothing.  A little less than two hours later, I’m inside the house done with my reading.

That evening, the Man remarks fairly frequently on my reddened skin.  I shrug it off.  I’ve been burnt before.  I was practically raised on the shores of Delaware, summers were spent crabbing, and swimming and absorbing as many cancer producing rays as possible during the day.  I could handle a little burn.  I’ll survive.

Yesterday I didn’t think I was going to survive.  My forehead had blistered and one side of my nose.  The side that has my crystal nose ring, I guess it’s a great reflector because that nostril is nice and leathery.  The skin on my shins is so tight it makes my shin bones hurt, I could barely walk around.  The bones, BONES hurt!  The whole front on my legs are a delicious shade of red.  If you were to see me nudie (get that picture out of your head!) you’d think I was wearing tacky red thigh-highs because I had been wearing teeny little short shorts and there’s a great line of demarcation, where my milky white legs slide into scarlet thigh-highs.  My chest is an attractive shade of mottled strawberry, with thin white streaks where my shirt straps protected my precious skin.  Luckily for me, the straps are from my bra too, which is now the only bra I can wear with minimal pain thanks in part to it pre-designating areas to remain unscathed. 

I am a human shaped tomato.  I couldn’t find any professional wear clothing that wasn’t lined with razor blades and threatened to fillet me my ultra tender skin, so I stayed home.  After making that decision, I couldn’t get out of the jury-rigged bra I fandangled myself into and felt like crying.  The Man graciously donated an oversized white Polo undershirt AND ran to the store to buy me after sun lotion and aspirin.  And Skittles.  ‘Cause Skittles makes everything better.  All day the Man had to put up with his beet-colored significant other wandering around on stiff limps, whimpering, holding the top of the muu-muu sized undershirt away from her chest, face glossy with oil from the over-productive sebum glands attempting to repair the epidermis disaster.  Attractive.  At times like this, I wonder how I even got a significant other.  Let alone one that will purchase Skittles to make me feel better.

Damn you sun.

I’ve been an avid ‘spinner’ for years, as in indoor cycling.  It’s like a gym mini-cult.  Gym goers are like a clan, and spinners are like the cult within a clan.  And if you happen to be a part of the yoga faction – like mio, you’re like, in the faction and the cult within the clan.  We’re very exercise elitists.

Over the years, I’ve noticed a trend.  Cancer survivors turned bicyclists.  Thank you Lance and your girly yellow bracelets. 

I’ve got nothing against cancer survivors.  A lot of my family has cancer.  I will probably have cancer, although I do everything prevent it, like not have testicles or smoking or believing in lung cancer (p-shaw!) and wearing always sunscreen.  And I’d totally eat anti-oxidants, but I always forget whether or not ice cream is anti-oxidants or anti-anti-oxidants.  I eat ice cream regardless, in large quantities just in case.  Which means I have to work out.  A lot.  More than I currently work out, but I’m not obese, yet (damn fatting ice cream anti-oxidants).  And we come full circle to the spin class.

My spin class is early, 6:00a.  I get up at exactly 5:30a and am on my indoor bike by 5:50a – I live super close, I am lucky.  And since this is still early and I’m off caffeine, I’m not the most social person (ever) while I’m warming up.  But people love to talk to me.  And I hear, quite frequently, about how they took up cycling while recovering from chemotherapy.  It’s always some sob story “Testicular cancer, blah blah, almost died, blah blah, inspiration to live, yadda.”  I grind my teeth and feign a smile and pump my little legs.  Not impressed.

Why can’t cancer survivors be unique?  It’s bad enough how prevalent cancer is, but why do they all jump on a bike?  I’d like to meet a cancer survivor turned WWE wrestler.  I’d like to hear the story of how they became inspired to live by watching Triple H smack around Mankind and then took up wrestling.  Cancer has no hold on them anymore, now they are living for the WWE Divas, and cancer can’t take that away from them.  At 5:50a, I’d like to hear that story.  I'd be impressed.

Additionally, after testicular cancer, do you really want to stick your nads on a very hard and uncomfortable bike seat?  Yesterday I had to hear some dude’s testicular cancer to mini-Lance story and I kept wondering, are your nads, like gone?  That may be an idiotic question, but I don’t have nads, but the spot where nads would be hurts.  From going up and down on that bike.  Soon it will become numb, but as a dude, do you really want your nads, if they are still attached, to go numb?  Ever?  I wouldn’t.  If I was a dude with nads, I don’t think biking would be my hobby.  And I’d never want my nads to be numb.

I don’t want to hear anymore cancer turn cyclist stories.  What if I told them my “I almost died and turned to cycling” story?  All the sudden I’m turning to them saying “No WAY!  I almost died too!  Coincidence, I think not.  Mine was ‘cause of an ectopic pregnancy.  Horrible.  Excruciating pain, worse than anything I’ve ever felt and I have a huge pain tolerance.  Go ahead, pinch me.  No one even dies or almost dies from it anymore, except me!  They operated on me, had to remove my left fallopian tube!  Through my stomach, eww!  Gross I know.  Now I probably, more the likely can't have little me's now.  Can you?  Do you have nads?  I took up cycling because I developed an eating disorder as I coping mechanism and cycling was my blossoming exercise addiction.  But it’s ok, I’m totally healthy and well adjusted now.”  Gasp.  I lose another potential cycling friend. 

Sigh.  Even I’m lame.  I better brush up on my WWE wrestling moves.

Warning: Content

That's for all you non-adults.

Apparently this - http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2008/06/new_yorkers_dont_wear_condoms.html  - study  came out, and I’m just a little, um.  Unnerved?  Horrified?  Exponentially more skived out by New York now?  All of the above.

Maybe just NY’s men. 

Anyone else recall that they way you get herpes is also the way you HIV/AIDS?  Just in case everyone forgot, I have taken the liberty of compiling a couple AIDS awareness posters.  One to scare you – a scorpion, WTF!  That’s a bad case of beer googles.  And why does that guy's butt look like it's made from plastic?

And one just to make you got “WTF, mate?”  The slogan is “Explore – just protect yourself.”  It actually won the bronze medal at the Cannes.  Go figure.  Who knew a penis sea full of penis creatures was artistic?  I can't wait to have kids and have the Birds and Bees discussion.  I'm referencing this as the anatomy lesson.

 

Friday we got the Wii.  On my lunch hour I took a stroll to the local Gamestop.  Right there, inside the door was a giant “IN STOCK NOW!” poster, which I (correctly) deduced meant the Wii.  I promptly called the Man, “I think the Wii’s instock.  Ton’s of people are here.  I can’t ask a salesperson.  You better get down here.”  And he did.  And we purchased.  Our lives are complete.

After work, I immediately went home and challenged the Man to every game we had.  I beat him at golf and bowling.  He kicked my insignificant Mii butt at all of the other games.  Regardless, I’m the 1811 Wii Bowling and Wii Golf Champion.

And…drum roll please…

I’m the 1811 Wii BOXING Champion as well.  Betcha didn’t see that coming.

I’ve been practicing.  I love the boxing.  It is my favorite, and I’m surprisingly good.  I did lose a few times.  Saturday I cahllenged the Man after we had both consumed copious amounts of wine and liquor. Supposedly it was a four-punch knockout.  I may have bee inebriated, and therefore so was my Mii, and I don't recall.  But I'm good now.  So good, in fact, that when the Man challenged me to a match, (after I was sitting on the couch bragging, “Oh, she knocked you to the mat.  No one’s knocked me to the mat.  Hmm.”) I beat him.  Four times.  In a row.  Back-to-back-to-back-to-back.  In case you weren’t counting, that’s four.

It’s a major victory for me.  Because I’m inept.  Watching me play Wii, you’d be surprised to learn that, yes, my eyes and my hands are on the same body and are operated by one single brain, but no, I cannot get them to coordinate.  Half the time I can barely get the Wii remote hand-thingy on the screen to select Wii boxing.  I’m pointing at the freaking orchid or something, definitely not the screen.  I don’t know.  No hand/eye coordination. 

So when the Man says, “You’re throwing punches I don’t know how to throw”, I get a little prideful.  Ok, pompous.  Whatev.

I really wish I had some Fleur/Wii action shots.  I bet I look totally rad.

We played the tank game, on WiiPlay, I think, and I kept blowing myself up.  As in laying bombs (are they bombs?  I don’t even know the lingo) and not moving.  I’d maneuver into missiles, not out of the way.  Major skill. 

It’s definitely fun.  My girly boxing muscles hurt (w-i-m-p) and it’s so worth it.  In the near future, we hope to get Wii Mario Cart.  I’d love it!  The Man’s gonna get some shoot ‘em up bang-bang games, that I will probably not touch because I’m not a good aimer and I’d give myself motion sickness.  The Wii does not appreciate projectile vomiting.

The sun has graced Seattle with its buttery warm rays and Seattle, as a collection of mod hippies with eco-pretentiousness, has hung up the wool coats and donned sandals.  Of the Teva variety.

No, really.  It’s remained winter here until, oh this previous weekend.  With a one-night stand with 90 degree heat one weekend, but the sun was drunk and Seattle just looked so good in those tight cargo pants. 

I’m happy.  My sunglass collection can see the light of day (Oh jeez, pun!), which always makes me feel glamorous and evasive.  People are outside, doing outside things that involve laughing and lifting their faces towards the sun to absorb as many cancer producing rays as possible.  I think Seattle’s pretty darn sure the sun’s here to stay; we’ve abandoned our sunshine skepticism.  When a wayward sunbeam hits us in the eye, we no longer look towards the heavens with cynic hope, trying to determine how much time we have to bask in light before frothy grey clouds over come the skies.  No, instead there is handholding – which can only be done on sunlit days, and dresses are gracing women’s forms, held precariously in place with string and everyone has broken out one of their four hundred and seventy seven pairs of flipflops.  People are leisurely meandering around with no place to be and no urge to get there.  They remind me of stoned sheep with their sluggish movements and delayed reactions.  The honeymoon of having a sun has not, and will not for some time, worn off with the people of Seattle. 

I do love the summer.  I just don’t like how it affects every single other person.  Kind of like booze.  There’s a lightheartedness and inhibitions go out the door.  Out comes the flesh.  I’m usually pretty fine with that.  My pet peeve: tube tops.  Specifically: large women in tube tops.  They don’t have the ability to smooth and slim, and if you’re wearing muffin-top inducing short-shorts, well, then you look like a summertime Stay Puft marshmallow woman.  As my biological dad would say (to me, no less) “You want some jam with those rolls?”  Second runner up: big boobed women in tube tops without bras; if your boobs and stomach meld to form some disfigured uni-torso, ex-nay the tube top. 

Tourists are here.  I don’t understand visiting Seattle.  What are they doing here?  Enjoying the Mariners?  No.  The city’s not that old, there ain’t much history and while the people appear friendly by opening the door for you, we are really thinking that you are a little shit for taking your sweet time walking through that door we have opened for you.  The smile is to disguise our disgust. 

Actually, that may just be me.  I held the door and then got stuck behind two British lady tourists.  Who were having a hard time negotiating the Seattle’s Best coffee menu.  But they weren’t ordering coffee (dear jeebus), they wanted sandwiches.  Specifically the sandwiches that were not in stock at the time.  And while they asked stupid questions (“You don’t have turkey and provolone on a croissant?  What about cream cheese instead?”  No you twit, they are pre-made and they are out.) I kept thinking, “Your accent sounds dumb.  And you ask dumb questions.  I will now associate the British with dumb.”  It was a negative association thing.  I’m sure they were looking at me, as I sighed, rolled my eyes and noisily shifted my weight from one enormously tall red patent heel to the other, “You’re movements are annoying.  And you’re from Seattle.  I will now associate Seattle with annoying.”  In my defense, I was in a hurry to get my de-caf and sit outside.  In the sun.  Way to go dummy.  Thanks for ruining my sunshiny day.

The internet is a wondrous thing.  Like a woman’s body.  Exploration is overwhelming and thrilling at the same time.  So much is learned by just immersing yourself in its vastness.

I learned that you can learn how to do 100 pushups.  Perhaps this doesn’t amaze you.  Keep reading: 100 pushups is a lot.  So a website is up that teaches you how to do 100 pushups over the course of time by following a program.  That you customize to your own abilities.  And I’m SO on this bandwagon. 

It’s got testing.  It’s got a week by week course to follow, slowly increasing your strength.  It’s got information like “What is a pushup?” and “Why pushups?”  All pertinent and key topics to address before committing yourself to doing 100 pushups. 

The program is supposedly accomplished in 6 weeks, working out three days a week.  That sounds easy.  I could totally pump out some pushups during the commercials of Dr. Phil.  And six weeks, I’m planning on living that long.  I’m planning on having my arms in good working order during that time.

I like this idea.  I have only one qualm.  I have a short attention span.  If I can’t do 100 pushups in 20 seconds, I don’t even want to try.  I would get bored after pushup number 27.  While I may have the ability to do 100 consecutive pushups, the time commitment during that one period could, perhaps, be a little too much for my pea brain. 

I'm practicing my pushup smile now.  I'm hoping I could have great pec muscles like her when I'm done.  Or boobs.

Wii

I didn’t know I wanted a Wii until the Man said “I want a wii.”  Well, even then I don’t think I wanted a Wii.  When was the last time I played video games?  Can’t remember.  And I have been told on many occasions that the Man is a video and computer game GOD.  By the Man himself.  I have no reason to dispute his statement.  But I don’t want to play him either.

Now me, I am not a video and/or computer game GODDESS.  In fact, I still move video game controllers in the direction I’m trying to video game maneuver.  I’m a real seasoned pro.  I can barely speak during games, I have no hand-eye coordination and talking throws my concentration.  And, if you think that’s bad, you should see my play real games, like volleyball.  I look like one of those pigmy fainting goats, all the grace of a beached sea lion.  My limbs move in staccato actions usually reserved for the Robot dance.  Oh the horror.

Last week the Man made me stop by a game store.  He said that he was gonna buy the Wii.  Right then and there.  But, it was out of stock, so we left.  Empty handed.  And now I want one.  I keep fantasizing about playing.  Circumstances in which I could whip it out and kick butt.  The Man and I would have challenges.  We call them the 1811 (insert champion of what) Champions.  Right now I think he’s the 1811 Dancing Champion.  He’s also the 1811 Wrestling Champion.  I’m just the 1811 Champion, period.  But he may dispute that.  I see an opportunity to become the 1811 Wii Boxing Champion.  Or the 1811 Wii Bowling Champion.  I WANT TO BE A WII CHAMPION!

The ladies are coming over tomorrow night to drink cheap wine and cocktail while wearing dresses on the roof of our building.  There’s supposed to be a Rooftop Party for all the residents, but it may rain.  And if so, we’d be heading inside, to what I’ve deemed Fleur’s Lounge.  Now.  If I had a Wii, we could totally rock out while drinking wine.  In Fleur’s Lounge.  Wearing our dresses.  But alas.  I don’t have a Wii. 

Life is incomplete.

I feel like a brownie.  A really good brownie.  If I’m gonna eat a brownie, I don’t want mediocrity.  If I’m going to waste precious calories, fat and sugar on a single item, it better be damn good.  Otherwise it’s like paying for sex for only getting a hand job.

I walked into the office this morning and it smelled like brownies.  Which started my whole I-feel-like-a-brownie thing.  The smell actually hit me immediately upon the elevator doors opening.  It called to the estrogen and I got a craving.  Damn woman hormones!  I inhaled the rich scent of warm chocolately cake-like goodness into my office.  I promptly declared: “I smell brownies.”  Like I’m ousting someone.  Like I discovered a communist among the ranks and wanted everyone to know what a good little U.S.A-ian I am.  “No brownies,” someone responded, “but [so-and-so] used the toaster.”  Pivot, turn, confrontation.  “I smell brownies.”  Response: “Nope.  Bagel.”  My more than hopeful response: “Brownie bagel?”  Response: “Nope.  Regular bagel.”  My dejected departed.  End scene.

I still want a brownie.  Now it seems like a challenge.  Where am I going to find a brownie?  Now, where am I going to find a good brownie.  Can I find a brownie without calories, fat and sugar?

I suppose a brownie isn’t the best idea.  I am wearing a lovely ensemble that doesn’t leave enough room for breathing, let alone the bloated, quasi-pregnant stomach associated with eating (5) brownies.  And the pop of my shirt button exploding off my shirt would be distracting.

Luxury is a gym with slate floor showers.

I changed my gym.  I got tired of being hit on by 5’5 muscle builders.  I got tired of waiting for the lat machine.  I got tired of waiting for an elliptical trainer.  I got tired of trying 5 treadmills before I found one that worked.  My gym wasn’t doing it for me anymore.  I broke up with it like a dirty lazy boyfriend without a job.  Good riddance good sir!

My new gym is luxury.  My new gym has a woman’s only workout area that’s the size of my old gym.  It makes me feel like I’m a part of a super cool club and that is our clubhouse and we have a hand painted wooden sign that says “No boyz allowed!” and we wear Wonder Woman underwear and plan our world conquests.  I’m working on our initiation handshake right now.  The Women’s Only area is full of real equipment, not pink yoga balls and foo-foo girly weights. 

My new gym has three floors of working out variety.  With tvs on the cardio equipment and about a million different studios for group classes.  The Spin/Cycle room has a view of downtown Seattle, and since I’d spend the most time there, I’m pretty happy.  It’s called the Executive Gym.  For executives, like me – or so I like to think.  There are people waiting around to give me a new sweat towel, take my old one, refill my water bottle or just gush at how great I am for getting out of bed and working out.  Because we all know it’s easier to turn off the alarm, curl up with the Rabid Beast and sleep those extra two hours.  Because the gym is geared towards those that have Made It and are Successful, they provide swanky things, like a conference room, just in case you feel pressured to hold an impromptu workout/brainstorming session with the colleagues or clients.

The women’s locker room could be a spa.  And I don’t even like spas.  Not true, I actually have never been to a spa, but I know enough about them to make a fairly accurate assessment.  It has slate floors and giant shower stalls made of plated glass.  I could lie down in the private shower stall, and have enough room to make a shower stall angel in the glorious water sprinkled down upon my nude and freshly worked body from the rain shower head.  It even has large, comfy looking leather sofas and giant flat screen tv to watch just in case you wear yourself out applying makeup at one of their 32 mirror and marble vanity tables.  That has perfect light.  It also has a steam room AND a sauna and full length lockers and irons to use and hairdryers to use and a clothing steamer to use and it just rocks.

The gym is the third most likely place you could find me if I’m not 1) at work or 2) at home.  It’s got to be nice.  I’ve upgraded.  Did I mention it has a rock wall?  Instead of the dirty lazy boyfriend without a job, I’ve got the swanky computer programmer with awesome dancing skills.  There’s no going back.  It’s love.

Against my better judgment, I have joined Facebook. 

I have a good reason.  It’s in the name of science.  Computer science.  Or internet science.  As in I’m testing out the NEW BLOGS4ME FACEBOOK APPLICATION.  Yes, you heard me capital-letter yell that right.  New.  Blogs4Me.  Facebook.  Application. 

It’s still being tested, which is why I joined.

I’ve volunteered my Facebook page to Blogs4Me so the new application kinks can be worked out.  So you all can use it with ease and without error and all your Facebook homies can be kept up to speed on your writing.  Because most of us want what we write to be read.  Possibly by people you know.

Facebook.  Sheesh.  I never thought I’d join.  I’m too old for this.  I’m not really a social person.  I’m not a participater.  Internet social interaction is not my forte, I’m not fit to interact with others.  I did the Myspace thing.  I became disenchanted when glitter banners became popular because I thought they would give me seizures.  And I was afraid of Myspace bullies.  No one wants to be bullied.  Especially when it’s just so damn hard to turn off the computer and turn on the other past-time stand by, the television.

But I’m up.  I got a spiffy pic and, AND! I already have a Facebook boyfriend.  Sweet.  I’m feeling the Facebook love already.  Feel free to find me and be my friend.  If you can figure it out.  ‘Cause I haven’t.

The Rabid Beast is getting neutered today and I’m an absolute head case.  Bonkers.  Owning a dog just affirms that I’d be a crazy mother.  Overprotective.  Worrisome.  Like, I had the Rabid Beast microchipped, I want the same for my human child. 

Taking him to the vet was horrible.  He wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything after midnight last night, so he was hungry and looking at me and his little puppy eyes were saying “Hey lady.  Feed me.”  Then he looked dejected.  Just sat around in the living room and watched me as I went about my morning duties.  I could hardly look him in the eyes.  The guilt was tremendous. 

I couldn’t stop myself from telling a lady in the elevator that he was getting neutered today.  I could almost imagine him rolling his eyes in extreme embarrassment and blushing while saying “Maaahhhhmmmm!  Don’t tell everyone, it’s embarrassing!”  I even told the overnight concierge.  The pained look of pity was too much for me, I hustled us out.  While walking we ran into Crazy Homeless Woman, who always tries to hold and tells me how cute he is, even when he takes a fat poo in front of her.  I told her he was getting neutered too.  She said “Wah-waa wah-waa something, I’d steal him.”  In that speech that professional alcoholics have that’s just unintelligible and gravely, but I understood the “I’d steal him” part loud and clear.  Crazy lady.  A block further down the road, a random guy asked if the Rabid Beast was a Frenchie (yes), told me he had an English (cool) and wished he’d gotten a Frenchie (too bad).  I told him about the Rabid Beast’s impending neutering also.  The whole Westlake area of Seattle knows that my dog will be ball-less soon.

For some reason, my little guilty brain set me on the path towards the doggie daycare instead of to the vet’s.  I realized I was taking him to the wrong place about 15 minutes into the journey.  And of course it’s not in the same direction.  I had to turn around, change our trajectory.  Alter our course from Fun and Friendly Doggie Daycare Full of Pals and People that Adore him and head down the path towards Scary Vet with Big Scissors Who’s Gonna Chop Your Balls Off. 

I thought we’d be late.  I had underestimated how long it’d take us to get to the vet.  Because I had calculated walking travel time to the daycare.  I’m a spaz.  I do that all the time.  The first time the Man came to visit Seattle, I had to take him to the airport so he could return home.  I was so sad.  I, without realizing it, drove past the airport exit, and about a half hour out of the way.  I was subconsciously determined to keep him.  I did the same thing with the Rabid Beast.  Once we were on the right path, I didn’t think we’d make it in time.  I was perfectly fine with that.  But we did.  And he was so damn happy to arrive at the vet’s.  There were Dogs! and People! and I think he remembered that last time there were many Treats!  He was frolicking and jumping and smelling canine butt and being petted by vet assistants and ignoring me and enjoying the attention.  If he had a tail, it’d be whipping a mile a minute.  And he happily followed the vet assistant to the back room to get blood drawn and be prepped for surgery.  He had no idea what was going to happen.  It made me feel even worse. 

Even though it’s just a neutering, not even considered major surgery, the vet might as well have said to me, “Fleur, we’re going to take your beloved dog, who is still a wee-little tyke of a pup, stop his heart and see if we can bring him back from imposed death.  Just for the hell of it.  If we’re able to bring him back to life, you can have him back.  But we might fail.  Or forget about him.  So, you might never see him again.  And if you do see him again, he might now be the same.  Just so you know.  Oh and it’s gonna cost about $600 for us to tinker with your dog.  Have a great day.”

Could you imagine the mental anguish I would be going through if this was a human child?  Like if this was my newborn baby boy who needed to be circumcised?  I’d need to be sedated.  My husband, or baby-daddy (but I hope husband AND baby-daddy, ‘cause I’m old fashioned like that) would be required to warm up his smacking hand to administer a “Calm yourself, woman” slap.  I might need that right now.

It’s almost Father’s Day.  Have you hugged your dad lately?

I adore my dad.  He’s absolutely amazing, especially considering he’s not even biologically related to me and yet still put up with all my contentious teenage years.  Like when I stole his Isuzu Trooper.  At 2-ish in the morning.  Just to drive to my boyfriend’s house.  I had to have it towed home because I’d fried the engine (by magic!).  I even asked the tow truck driver to back it into the driveway, because that’s how he would park it, in hopes that he’d never know (the tow truck driver refused).  It turned out to just be the starter, but still.  I stole his truck.

And that very first time I ever drank alcohol and, of course, consumed my weight in booze via an always full Big Gulp cup-o-margarita, then had to go home.  After tossing me into a cold shower in an attempt to sober me up, he threw me in the back of that very same Isuzu Trooper to take me to the hospital.  Just before he closed the rear doors he said to me “Don’t fall over.  Stay sitting up or you’ll hit your head on the wheel well.”  Door closes, I slam my head on the wheel well and wake up in the emergency room.  I would have disowned myself.

He’s seen me dye my hair every color, watched me go from an extremist tom-boy to a high-heel wearing girly.  Taught me how an internal combustion engine works, complete with diagrams and helped me not only excel at physics, but appreciate it.  Explained the benefits of a biscuited joint, how to take accurate measurements, let me run the commercial table saw without hovering, indulged my woodworking appetite and walked me through numerous car repairs, including replacing an alternator.  I’d come up with crazy ideas (Hey dad!  Why don’t we take some drywall, wet it down, mould it into an arch and hang it above the shower for an arched shower entrance!) and he’d always try it out – that arch thing worked by the way, it’s awesome. 

And my dad never wanted to have kids.  Yet he was as great as a father could be.  Once he took me to the store 4 different times for toothpaste because I kept telling him they were the wrong kind.  I was (still am) such a brat.

Despite all the great things my dad’s done for me or my crazy acts he had to deal with, I don’t get my dad anything for Father’s day.  He’s just not one of those dads.  I used to get him fancy tools every year, but his workshop is so big and so full of stuff and he’s so not an organizer that I was just adding to the mess.  There are only so many ratchet sets a man can use.  Or lathing tools.  Or table saw blades.  Now I make him food instead of gifts.  I know he’d rather hang around and eat my food than get a mailed Home Depot gift certificate anyways.  Or at least that’s what I tell myself. 

I’d never tell my dad how much I appreciate all the stuff he’s done for me.  We aren’t emotional people, my dad and I.  In fact, we never even hugged before he’d married his wife, which was about 3 years ago.  And I’ve known him my whole entire life!  Emotional feelings stuff is just awkward and he knows and I know so it’s all gravy.  And I’d probably cry and blubber and get all red faced and sobby while trying to tell him how great he is.  I’m a little choked up right now.

And it’s almost Father’s day.  I’m so glad I have a great dad to celebrate.

I had no idea triathlons were such a sexy sports genre.  No really.  I didn’t.  My interpretation of a triathlon was, um, wait a second while I rack my brain…OH!  Three events!  Endurance events, usually swimming, cycling and running.  Knowing that, thoughts of triathletes are rarely sexy, composed of sinewy muscles, an abnormal sense of determination to complete a wholly useless task.  But I guess I was wrong.

These are some of Triathlete Magazine and Triathlon Magazine’s covers.  Oh la-la!  A swim suit edition!  Sweet.  But this chick's boobs are obviously too big to be a competitive-anything.   

What are these girl’s tri-events?  Endurance fasting?  Competitive tanning?  Makeup application stamina? 

And this one, WTF, mate?  ”The Sex Issue”?  Are you kidding?  I don’t think triathletes have sex.  And sexy triathlons?  Unless the triathlon consists of stripping, modeling lingerie, and wet t-shirt contest, it’s not sexy.  This girl looks like she’s modeling for a less classy and extremely cheap Playboy knock-off.  She doesn’t even have muscles.  I bet if you asked her jog across the room she’d faint.

I’d be appalled, but really, I’m just fascinated.  This is a triathlete, easily recognized by the aerodynamic hair cut, body composition that resembles muscle atrophy, the stern look of determination and androgynous physique. 

Tis the season

Right about now I’m not even thinking about the fact that summer is coming and in some areas, people have already donned swim suits and flocked in lemming-like crowds to beaches across the US.  Well, I am a little bit.  It easy not to really think that summer is almost here like gray hairs harkening the imminent arrival of my twenty-five birthday because Seattle doesn’t believe in summer.  Or sun.  Or temperatures that exceed 60 degrees.  Blame our close proximity to the ocean or being flanked on either side by mountain ranges or blame God.  I blame Jim Castillo, our weather man.

In the spirit of not thinking about things, I’m not even considering getting a new bathing suit this year, as has been the tradition since I was introduce to water in utero.  I’m a water lady, I love to swim and frolic and all the other wonderful things you can do in glorious water, be it salty or chlorinated or not. 

Ok, dirty lies, you got me.  I have been thinking about it.  Thinking about it enough to go out and join an online group that is voluntarily being tortured by Jillian Michael’s (ala The Biggest Loser) book, Making the Cut in an effort to cut some inches and become the rock hard physique I know I have hiding somewhere under this layer of hip bones and rib cage.  And fat.  And I’ve been diligently following the extremely intense and pain-inducing exercise regime that would make any burgeoning third-world dictator proud. 

Still.  I wonder.  Am I getting to old for this sprint-to-bikini-body-worthiness that I (and almost all the other women) do every year?  Will I ever do a bikini justice?  I mean, I’m not disgracing it now, I’m not rolling down the window, flipping it the bird while chugging a Pabst during a high speed police chase.  No I’m not pissing on bikini’s name.  But, I don’t do it the justice that, say, Jessica Biel or Gisele does it.  I blame that on being 5’2.  But, should I throw my bikini dreams into the ‘ol toilet, along with my astronaut aspirations and wishes on stars?  Is it worth it?  Some ladies can just wake up, slap on some string and fabric, wander to the beach and be alright.  I’ve got to hit the gym 5 to 7 days a week, swear of carbs/fat/beans/sugar/alcohol/red meat, subsist on broccoli and spring water, sit in a sauna for 8 hours, suck in my gut THEN strap into a two piece.  With a sarong.  And maybe a giant hat and sunglasses to cover my face, lest I be recognized.

I’m caught in the seasonal mad dash.  But I want to attain a balance between looking damn good and eating cake on a regular basis, or ice cream cones, I’m not picky.  And my balance may actually come in the form of stretchy, made-for-water material, strategically sewn and placed on my body.  That happens to be classy.  And retro.  And very forgiving in the event that I decide I will lounge scantily clad at the beach AND eat cake.  With wine.  And ice cream.  And life would be good.

How amazing would I look in this beauty?  TOO amazing, that's how much.  This suit needs to be accompanied by a fine man and a classy drink, like a manhattan.  Wearing this, I may even be forgiven for eating.

The Rabid Beast is un-systematically going through all of my worldly possessions.  And the Man’s for that fact.  As diligent as I repeatedly demand we be, we aren’t.  We are the overweight mall security officers that fall asleep in front of a wall of closed-circuit camera monitors.  Because diligence is tiring.  And boring.  And it’s so much more fun to discover recently devoured personal belongings.

These are some of his latest victims.  I don’t understand the dog-hate-shoe thing.  Is it a complex?  Are shoes a canine’s worst enemy, are they born nemesis’?  The perplexing issue with the Rabid Beast is his preference for heeled shoes.  High heeled shoes.  MY high heeled shoes.  I leave my sneakers out all the time, the Man leaves his sneakers out.  They show mild damage.  Like he maybe nibbled on them.  Tasted the leather and said “No thanks.”  But a pair of heels, hell yea.  It’s a problem because I like high heels too.  And I rarely wear anything but.  So if he starts gnawing through my stash, I will sell him.  To buy more high heels.  And wear them with the confidence that is only afforded to women without the threat of canine destruction.

He’s gone through countless emery boards – those little lady nail files.  I’m a lady.  I file my nails.  I don’t know how he finds my emery boards but he does.  And they aren’t effective with little teeth holes.  And, insult to injury, they haven’t made his little sharp chompers any less dull.  Meaning they still hurt like hell when he attacks my fingers, which is daily.  He destroyed one of the Man’s posters.  Came home to a closet blanketed in tiny little pieces of poster paper.  This weekend he came tearing out of the bedroom, wrapping paper in mouth, the remaining roll dancing in the wind of his little puppy run.  He chewed the wooden beads off the strings on one of my hoodies.  Paper towels rolls are common floor coverings in the house.  Bottles of nail polish.  Books.  Gizmo.  Look at the hell that was unleashed on poor Gizmo.  You should have seen the Rabid Beast.  Gizmo in mouth, running around, chew chew chew, run around, chew chew chew.  Hell hath no fury like the Rabid Beast on a stuffed animal.  He chewed Gizmo's arm off.  And some of his fur.  He’s already gotten to some of our other stuffed animals.  Explanation: we don’t make it a habit of surrounding ourselves with stuffed animal toys.  They were fond friends from our youth.  Fond friends that are no more. 

It doesn’t matter what toys we get the dog.  Everlasting dog treat dispensing toy – he doesn’t care.  Chocolate/bacon/regular-flavored nylabones – nah.  Kong full of puppy foam or treats – only distracts him long enough to lick the contents out.  HE DOESN’T EVEN CHEW ON THE KONG.  What is wrong with him?  There is nothing more appealing to the Rabid Beast than materialistic items I have purchased for my own enjoyment.  Damn dog.

At least he's handsome.

I’m not known for being an outstanding friend.  I’m not horrible.  I don’t steal boyfriends, or clothes or poop on your head while you are sleeping.  Mostly, I’m unavailable.  I’m distant and say inappropriate things and am odd and socially awkward and you can’t take me anywhere and I’d rather be sitting on my couch than sitting on your couch anyday and I don’t do things on Sunday.  I don’t like to stay out late, I’m not into club scene, I don’t like to travel far and I’m not very interesting.  Despite being very up front about my downfalls, I still have friends.  And they are lovely, intelligent, caring people that for one reason or another, have taken me into their circle.

I don’t necessarily understand why.  I rarely hang out and even more rarely coordinate festivities.  Maybe I’m an accomplished conversationalist, and I didn’t even know it.  Perhaps it’s my great set of boobs. 

One of my friends had a little baby.  Like a month, no, two or more months ago.  I didn’t go to the baby shower.  I wrote about it, I didn’t go for some of the reasons stated above as why I’m not a good friend, mainly, I didn’t want to travel, it was on a Sunday and people I didn’t know were going to be there.  Also, I’ve never been to a baby shower, so I didn’t know what to except and I’m very uncomfortable about baby things.  Now, approximately 2 point 5 months after the fact, I’m feeling guilty.  Mostly because I kept the evite for the shower in my email inbox and so I see it frequently.  My thought process was to keep the evite till I bought something for her from her baby registry as a reminder to myself.  So today I procrastinate reviewing documents and search on babys-r-us for something super cool awesome necessary thoughtful that I can send her and be in her good graces again.  At least perhaps reduce my guilt. 

I’m drawing a blank.  I’m looking at things and don’t know what some of them are for and I’m anti-unnecessary and/or overpriced things so my babys-r-us virtual shopping cart is empty.  I have no idea what a 2 point 5 month old baby needs, beside a boob.  I was under the impression that a boob was basically all they needed, all that other crap is for the parents.  And frivolously unnecessary at that.  So what do the parents of a 2 point 5 month old baby need/want?  Earplugs?  Anti-depressants?  A handle of Jack Daniels?  A baby sitter?  These are things that I’m thinking I’d need if I had a baby, and yet babys-r-us is failing to provide them for me. 

I could get the wee baby a shirt, but what size?  Should I get him something big?  So he’ll grow into it?  Does he need more binkies and plush toys and what is a receiving blanket?  How does it differ from a regular blanket? 

I’ve clicked the red ‘x’ on the far right corner of my internet explorer 2007 and shut down the babys-r-us.  I’m just not cut out for my friends to grow older and do adult things, like have babies and get married. 

It’s raining in Seattle this morning.  Don’t even get me started on this ass-crap weather we have been having lately.

Because it is raining, I take my umbrella with me for my walk to work.  I get to work and climb into an elevator with a couple other people.  Pretty soon, it only me and ‘some dude’ left in the elevator.  He’d been looking at me through the elevator ride, and I don’t indulge glancing men with returned glances, so I’d been successfully ignoring him.  But, as the elevator doors slide shut, I can tell he’s gearing up to say something to me.  He says: “Good thinking bringing your umbrella today.”

First, I was relieved he didn’t verbally vomit some cheesy “Hey, how you doing” line.  But.  It’s raining outside.  It has been raining all morning.  It’s not like I got a psychic premonition prior to walking out the door. 

After an awkward pause, during which I thought “Is that the best you’ve got?” I tapped my head and told him I was revered for my astute observation skills and powers of deduction.  I should have recommended revisiting the chalkboard and a new brainstorming session on opening lines for elevator ladies.  Now I feel bad for beings such a sarcastic elevator lady.  And I hope it doesn't decrease my elevator karma more.

I don’t shop Ebay often, but I like it.  I find, everyone finds super crazy things that they never thought they would find.  Like apothecary jars and corsets and cars, oh my.  I’ve gotten some sweet stuff off Ebay.  Every single one of my NY Football Giants shirts is from Ebay, with the exception of one.  They are all vintage, soft and wonderful, impregnated with memories of Giants past, like the last time they won the Superbowl or when they were affectionately referred to as the Big Blue Wrecking Crew.  I wear them with pride and I do get the thrill of the hunt. 

Last year I spent the better part of 9 months searching for vintage Giants glasses for the Man.   Somehow I had discovered vintage NY Giants rocks glasses and made it my mission to find them and buy them, no matter the cost because they were going to be my crowning glory Christmas morning.  The kind of gift that shows your significant other that not only do you know them, but you are willing to waste countless hours on the hunt, and countless times being outbid because you LOVE THEM.  They were rare on Ebay and everytime I lost a bid, I’d be afraid they’d never come back.  But they did, a whole set of 10, in pristine conditions.  They were even shipped packed in newspaper from the 80’s.  They are way sweet and when I first spotted them, I had visions of the Man drinking a refreshing gin and tonic out of them in swanky high-Giants-society fashion.  My visions have come true.  These aren't our glasses, but are the same.  So freaking cool.

I limit my Ebaying to vintage Giants gear mostly.  If I try to expand I become overwhelmed with possibilities, akin to when I first learned to use the internet and just went to chat rooms because the world seemed so vast and dangerous and awe-inspiring.  Little did I know at the time (the time being a teenager) that chat rooms held the most danger – doesn’t anyone watch Dateline?

I have recently discovered that I can buy costume jewelry on Ebay.  No longer must I hit every single thrift store in Seattle and the surrounding boroughs to find a great piece of old, funky, totally unique jewelry.  My hunting spirit has been sparked and MyEbay is full of vintage necklaces and matching earrings, bracelets, pins and rings.  As I’ve previously posted, I HEART costume (actually, all) jewelry and wish to own an amount that would require a separate free-standing piece of furniture to hold it all.  And I’d open it frequently, admire my baubles and adjust my accoutrements to match my mood/panties/weather. 

I’ve only discovered costume jewelry on Ebay this week.  I have attempted to bid/purchase many items.  Well, three items.  I have FAILED miserably all three times.  I’m not a novice.  I can sneak in a bid at the last moment, stealing a prize right out from under someone else.  But I think I have stumbled upon a super elite type of Ebay bidder.  An Ebay bidder with a penchant for costume jewelry.  It’s happened TWICE.  TODAY.  That’s right.  I have failed twice in one day.  I am sad.  And I say DAMN YOU EBAY BIDDER!