Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.

After yesterday’s eight hour battle royale, between my brain and architectural/structural drawings that culimanted in me fitfully removing my gloves after a brutal TKO from the drawings, I’m back.  I eventually gained a spring in my step and an optimistic viewpoint for this day.  I will pull the gloves from retirement.  I will don them again.  I will engage in another battle royale, and I will be triumphant. 

I’ve jumped into the ring again because, well, I love my job.  And, I think I’m good at it.  That and if I don’t work here, I may be so emotionally destroyed by the defeat that I will only be able to get a job at Capelli’s Gentelman Barbershop hyphen (understood, but not expressed) whorehouse.  Where they require their silicone-d and cake makeup women to wear low cut shirts and invest in pushup bras.  I’ll be billed as the “All-Natural” one.  They will ask me not to talk, because I insult shallow men that need haircuts performed by busty idiots.  The Man will leave me.  Total devastation.

Anyway.  I do love my job and also, today is PAYDAY.  And FRIDAY.  And ST. PATRICK’S DAY WEEKEND.  But the last one doesn’t really mean anything ‘cause we aren’t doing anything.  And we are THIS MUCH closer to Mariner’s regular season baseball.  And tomorrow I will be purchasing a Sansa Clip so I can retire my ancient iPod.  Either way, knowing the above, I pulled on a pair of flattering jeans, let my hair down (I always wear it up at work), strapped on my favorite shoes and set out for work.  Red shoes to dance the blues.  I will conquer and prevail.

Leaving the house I pulled out the ancient iPod, savoring the feeling that this may be my third to last time I will ever use it and it’s 4+ years old music (it’s a MAC formatted iPod, I haven’t been able to change music since I got it, damn the ex-boyfriend); third to last because I need it for the gym at my lunch hour and for the walk home.  Through the gently misting rain of Seattle’s downtown street, I strutted.  I strutted the strut that can only be strutted by a person who KNOWS, beyond a doubt, that she has the coolest, most rad and beautiful shoes on and no one, no one! has shoes on that compete.  Not even the lady with eggplant colored suede (hello, rain?) ankle boots with buckles that are lined in fake eggplant-colored fur (hello, foot sweat?).  A strut complete with pendulum-like swinging of my wide child-bearing hips - that I have come to appreciate because they balance out my oversized chest and carry my high and mighty toosh proudly - and a Cheshire cat grin.  As I listened to David Bowie’s Modern Love.  My big teased hair swishing in the wind underneath my umbrella.  I got looks.  Oh sure I did.  But mostly from dudes and the looks said “I wanna know what you are smiling about.”  I’m smiling about anticipated domination.

As soon as I arrived to my humble work abode, I met with the lead attorney on the case that has given me brain warts.  Him, preparing for a deposition, told me that my documents I had supplied in preparation for this deposition turned out to be important.  In fact he needed them, which he originally thought I was wasting paper by copying, then wasting his time by explaining them, then wasting valuable space by leaving them on his desk.  I did a GOOD JOB.  It shines an entirely different light on our case and my angle, that I have been following on a hunch, tackling drawings and specifications and details is the right angle.  The skies have parted.  The Universe is shining down on my shiny brunette hair.  It is saying, “Fluer, girlfriend, you KNOW.  You follow your hunch.”  And dammit, it’s all worthwhile again. 

If it wasn’t 10.30a, I’d rejoice with a bottle of wine.  Aw hell.  It's Friday.  I should live a little.

Last night I had a dream.  Actually, it was slightly nightmare-ish and left me feeling immature and stunted in terms of personal growth.  In this dream, I was with old friends/people from the high school/college era of my short life.  I was telling them all the good things in my life, about how I have the Man and how he’s great.  They told me they were married, or already divorced.  I told them I had the Rabid Beast, a new addition to my life, and I love him despite his regular violent attacks.  They had newborn babies and toddlers and even a few had kinds that elementary age.  It made me feel very juvenile.  I slunk of frowning, vowing to get married have babies and trump them in life.

Low and behold, this morning I had TWO myspace friend requests.  Damn you myspace!  Both were from my old high school.  One is married (over 5 years!) and just had a baby.  By the way, the baby is hideous.  The other was a good friend of mine, he’s married.  Sweet.  Since when did Seattle become bum-fuck backwards Alabama, where everyone decides 22 is over the hill and therefore secures a bride/bridegroom?  At that age, all your really securing is a person to torture with you adolescence as you grow out of the relationship, becoming depressed and resentful that you’re tied to this person while still paying off the debt from your ambitious (and undoubtedly tacky) wedding, realizing it’s easier to stay with them than it is to divorce and start over.  As a divorcee.  BLAST!

Despite knowing I am more the wiser for NOT being married with kids, it still makes me feel like somehow I missed the Grown-Up Train to Adult-ville.  In terms of generally accepted points of growth and accomplishment, it looks like I’ve grown little and accomplished nothing.  They’ve attained a perceived level of adult-hood that I haven’t reached.  And as a highly competitive person who’s life motto is “Anything you can do I can do better,” I have the uncurable desire to bear better, more beautiful and smarter child that would bully theirs and win Spelling Bees every day.  That’s coupled with the nagging aspiration to have a devoted spouse that is handsomer and genius that knows more about everything than their spouses do.  We’d ride around in our Prius’ with bumper stickers that say “My Reproductive Gene Pool is Better than Yours.”  Or “My Offspring are Cooler, Smarter and More Beautiful than your Hideous Trolls.”  Shallow?  Perhaps.  True?  Absolutely.

Damn you myspace.  Luckily, it’s only a temporary lapse into insanity.  Although my ‘accomplishments’ aren’t of the marital and children-bearing kind, I do have others.  While they are worrying about paying for an inflated adjustable rate mortgage on a single salary because they just had a kid and the mom’s on maternity leave, I’m worrying about which Starbucks I’m going to go to when it’s comes time to purchase my overpriced espresso drink. 

If ever I missed my dad, today is one of those days.  Actually, it’s one of those weeks.  I need the fatherly wisdom that only my dad can bestow.  My dad who studied engineering ‘cause they don’t teach you what a ductile girder is in Legal Ethics text books.

I’m constantly fascinated in my legal arena.  On my toes.  This week it’s culminated in a constant frustration at my complete and total ignorance.  Who knew “ability to read CAD drawings” was invisibly written into my job criteria.  I didn’t and I’m kicking myself for not reading invisibly written items.  As I spend yet another day pouring over drawings and plans for a Seattle residential high rise, I can feel the urge to drool, pick my nose and feign mental retardation.  I think the different drawings – with unsubstantiated revisions – are causing brain warts, and I don’t think the weekend will come fast enough to prevent them from exploding and releasing cancerous spores into the grey matter occupying the space between my ears.  Perhaps the cancer has already been released, I just spent a full minute looking at the screen, trying to figure out how to spell ‘occupy,’ then remembering it doesn’t start with an ‘a,’ in fact, there isn’t an ‘a’ in the entire word. 

Blink.  Blink.  Oh yea.  I needed my dad right at that moment.

I know he’s about to head home, lay on the couch and watch the History channel while eating either chocolate ice cream out of the gallon carton or cheese right from the 2-lb. block that he will take from the fridge to the living room.  With roasted garlic Triscuits.  Sigh.  I miss my dad. 

I could really use and interpreter or an Architect-to-English dictionary, so I can look up words and items for translation into lay/half-retarded/“I study laws and statutes and civil rules” – person terms.  And the damn drawings are about the same height as me when I roll them up and stand them on the floor next to my 4” heel elevated body.  In fact, my little 11 year old sister could double for these drawings, they are the same height, weight and I don’t understand either of them.  I hoist, unravel and try to decipher the hieroglyphics, trying to CRACK THE CASE, but my eyes just cross and I end up rolling, hoisting and grabbing another pre-teen sized log from the shelf.  If my dad was here he’d help me by lifting the other end, he’d never just carry the whole drawing ‘cause he knows that part of my self-worth is dependent on my physical strength.  The other part is reliant on intelligence, but this week has shown that I may be failing miserably and therefore should take up professional bodybuilding or become a lumberjack and capitalize on my biceps.  My dad would support me if I decided on either.  Or both.

Ultimately, my pride will prevent me from calling my dad and asking what ‘post-tensioning’ is and if he knew what kind of waterproofing applications would most likely be utilized to create a watertight seal on concrete balconies on floors 4 through thirty nine where the concrete deck coating meeting the metal deck railing that has been bolted four times at each corner of a steel plate into an ‘embed’ (and what’s that too?) that’s been sunk into the concrete deck.  No.  I’ll go home exhausted, mentally drained, refuse to cook dinner because it requires standing, sleep, wake up and try to CRACK THE CASE again tomorrow.  I hope the infectious spores don’t turn my brain matter into goo first.  And if that happens, I hope the Man will still like me when I drool.

Some girl on her got a job at Safeco field.  I’m so jealous. 

Yesterday I had one of those ‘tude days; a day when I’m just waiting for some high-and-mighty business guy to jump in front of me while entering an elevator so I step on his expensive shoes with my very pointy heels.  I was in a MOOD.  I think it was tipped off as soon as I entered my building to start my day.  Ahead of me on the escalator was a lady with a Mariners gym bag.  Not just any Mariners gym bag, but the EXACT gym bag they gave away last year at one of the game.  A game that I went to specifically so I could get a gym bag, but the Mariner’s gods were looking the other way because they gave them all away before I got there.  The Man assured me that he’d get me one.  I sulked the whole game, looking around at all the other fans that had a bag, when I didn’t.  It was obvious they were not as big Mariners fan as I was, my clapping was louder, my cheering more enthusiastic, my emotion to an extreme.  I deserved a Mariners gym bag, I actually workout! 

Well, some lady that works in my building has a Mariners gym bag, and I like to think it’s mine.  I don’t even think she’s a fan.  She probably isn’t.  She probably got it from some friend, I don’t even want to think about it.  Somebody giving away a Mariners gym bag that should be treasured and used lovingly.  I thought about that girl all day yesterday.  I even told the Man about it.  He asked if I stole the bag, I said no.  It was full of her stuff.  Not a good idea. 

Amazingly, I just found this bag from the 1979 Mariners and I HAVE TO HAVE IT.  It's gorgeous.  It trumps the free Mariners gym bag the chick-chump had and I love the old logo with the trident.  This is the best trident logo they have, I don't like the one before this, the first logo form '77.  This gym bag is Mariners perfection.

Now a girl, on THIS SITE, got a job at Safeco.  Safeco, home of the destined-to-be-amazing-this-year-have-you-seen-our-rotation MARINERS.  Seattle Mariners.  Small world.  If I didn’t have a full time job, and the Man and the Rabid Beast, Cinderella chores and have a desire to relax, I’d have a job at Safeco.  A part-time job.  I’d work the Ben and Jerry’s cart, serving up Phish Food ice cream and screaming at Richie Sexson to bat another one in.  People would walk from the far end of Safeco Field to my Ben and Jerry’s cart, to see the “Crazy Ben and Jerry’s girl that claps really loud and gets really excited and sometimes yells at McClaren.”  I’d develop a fan base and they’d put me in the Mariner’s Hall-of-Fame, right next to Dave Niehaus.  I’d get to throw out the ceremonious first pitch of the 2009 season.  The local news shows would do specials on me, the girl who loved the Mariners so much she got a part-time job working at the Ben and Jerry’s cart so she could see as many home games as possible.  The players would know me.  Beltre would ask me to critique his game because I had an elevated vantage point.  I’d tell him to hussle more.  I’d tell Ichiro that if he’s gonna dress like a gay Japanese man, he needs to steal more bases.  And I’d always pronounce Raul’s name with eleven ‘u’s.  Ahh, the dream life.

I asked that girl to be my friend.  I’m nervous.  I’d feel like I’d have to scout her out at Safeco, say ‘hi.’  I need a Safeco connection.  So I can get the inside scoop, which joint makes the best garlic fries and which shop have the friendliest Safeco employees.  I only like to buy gear from friendly people. 

DNA Paternity tests are on sale at Rite Aid for $19.99.  Now I'm sad I don't have kid; it's obvious they could be loads of unnecessary testing fun. 

I wonder if these are what Maury uses on his paternity shows?

In response to my last few weekends of never-ending madness – between friend birthdays, ladies nights, vet and puppy appointments and general debauchery – I decided to devote this weekend and next to staying home with the Man and the Buddy, also known as the Rabid Beast.  I was still recovering from this previous weekend’s whirlwind on Monday (which involved stealing a little leaguer’s mitt), and Tuesday my alarm failed to wake me up my normal time (I awoke only two hours before I need to leave for work, instead of three) so today feels like the first full day of my week.  Starting on Wednesday has its ups, like the week is halfway over and I can officially start planning my weekend. 

Now that my social schedule has been cleared, I can return to my domesticated self.  The anticipation of the weekend is mounting and my inner planner has already assembled an ambitious list of domestic stuff for me to do.  Like laundry, because that did not get done this weekend and I can’t wear the same pair of black pants more than once in a single week; it’s a rule I have.  The Man has put the kibosh on me hiring a housekeeper, so I still have Cinderella duties that I’ve failed to do recently so the homestead is a wreck.  In fact, the Man broke out the vacuum yesterday because it’s been so long since I have – which reminds me, I have to make sure the cord is wrapped up and not just tangled in the closet.  Because stupid little things like that always get me, I didn’t learn how to not sweat the small stuff.

In between the chores, I’m gonna get some hearty homecooking done.  The excitement is UNFATHOMABLE.  I love to eat.  I love to feed people.  I love to eat and feed people things I have made with my own hands (that are covered in the Rabid Beast drool and fur because I like to carry him around while I do things in the kitchen, appetizing).  I’ve got braised beef tacos on my list, something that has been gnawing at my tummy for a good while now.  Flank steak that’s been braised hours, HOURS I tell you, in delicious Mexican spices and tomatoes until it melts into heart warming taco-ness.  I have some Mexican cheese left over from queso fundido that will smother the beef taco-ness, oh I can’t wait!  I’m also thinking about making a mega-batch of meatballs to have on hand for whenever.  See, this is why the Man stays with me, despite my mangled bruised legs and burping, and I laugh really loud and say really inappropriate things in front of strangers (mostly in elevators), it’s because I feed him good food.  And because in the failing light of dusk, when he takes his contacts out and when the lights off, I’m a beauty.  Right below Pam from the Office.

Maybe if I accomplish some cleaning and have beef taco goodness prepared, the Man will even let me rent the movie 30 Days of Night, which I have been waiting to come available on On Demand, but still hasn’t.  I’m anxiously awaiting this movie, but I can’t watch alone ‘cause I might start crying or pee my pants, so I need the Man and Buddy to watch with me, so really the weekend is a bribe.  And if I wet the bed I can blame it on Buddy, so really there are no losers in life.

My legs are a battlefield. 

Hideous.  They look like a chubby ten year old boys legs, not the svelte stems of a nearly 25 year old woman.  They are marked with bruises of various sizes that are slowly morphing through revolting colors that should never speckle a young woman’s legs.  And I have the pale legs of a girl that lives in Seattle and wears long pants even in the summer.  I have not an inkling of a tan that could disguise and hide the nasty blue/purple color or blend with the sickly green/yellow ones.  Some sort of a deficiency means I have the ability to collect and harvest bruises like dandelions in Spring; they pop up when I receive a harsh look (and I receive many a harsh look) and stay for months at a time. 

The ferocious beast that is my adorable rascal dog is the culprit.  Every energetic bound across my body leaves another bruise; I even have them on my chest or décolletage to the fancy folks.  The skins so thin there that I don’t know how long those bruises will last.  They might be permanent.  And when he decides he’s gonna sleep on my legs, it’s preceded by 5 minutes of circling and sniffing for EXACTLY THE RIGHT COMFORTABLE SPOT.  He only weighs 10 pounds, what am I going to do when he reaches a full maturity that is double his current weight?  Styrofoam protective suit?  Considering his rabid attacks on me at random times, that doesn’t seem like a bad idea. 

Not only is my lower half spotted, but it’s covered with scabs and cuts all over the place from shaving.  Although that may lead some to believe I have been pounding Jack Daniels before climbing into the shower to hack and fillet my stubby appendages, it’s not true.  Although, the Jack Daniels could help dull the pain of Jimi’s vicious attacks.  No, I just bought a different type of blades, which were to replace the previous blades that I mistakenly believed were filleting my legs – irony.  My pride is too much to allow me to buy yet another pack of blades, so I suffer.  And I would never use the Man’s razor because that’s just cruel treatment to his handsome face.  On top of it, I hate stubbly legs, so I shave every day.  I don’t even give my little legs a chance to stop bleeding and start healing; the very next day I’m accidentally ripping scabs off.  Scabs from wounds that have been there for weeks, creating nice lifelong scars, ‘cause I scar easily.  And drawing a nice mangle blade across previous lacerations somehow makes me sever other pieces of flesh, usually quite close to other wounds so that they form a wound warzone of pain.  A warzone of pain that is ignited again when I go to rinse my battlefield legs in steaming stream of water. 

Normally, I wouldn’t care.  But I make an attempt to look good for the Man to make up for my un-ladylike burping.  Now I’m a burper with scabby knees and bruises.  And I have a shoe collection that isn’t been properly appreciated because the shoes are hidden under full length pants (there’s always a vanity issue).  I purchased some nice skirts that I am now too embarrassed to wear because people with think I am paralegal by day, rugby player by night.  Or a street whore who’s always on her knees.  Neither is flattering.

I got invited to my first ever baby shower and it’s depressing.  I was just reviewing the baby registry and can’t help but sigh repetitively and roll my eyes at the unnecessary items that people want.  I adore the pregnant woman and am happy for her, but I just feel like I am too young for this type of thing.  A baby shower?  What the hell do I do at a baby shower?  I’m supposed to bring a baby/small child photo of myself.  Why?  I’m not a ‘lady that lunches,’ and I have visions of miniature food in pale pinks and blues being served with decaf coffee.  I’m imagining a situation that would require me to raise my pinkie as I drink out a delicate coffee cup, the same situation may require me to wear some sort of a pastel Spring suit, a matching hat, gloves and cross my legs at all times.  Quiet demure giggles and golf claps as the mother-to-be opens gifts wrapped in rattle paper.  Soft gasps and whispers of “it’s so precious,” as I try not to audibly remark about how much they are going to regret getting knocked up when the poop machine comes flying from her womb.  I might get carried away and tee-hee at the breast pump, but I’m blaming it on peer pressure. 

I’m not anti-kids, I think I am anti-social situations.  I do consider myself to be quite socially awkward, although I think I hide it well.  Perhaps it’s age appropriate social situations.  But I haven’t even been weaned into this situation yet.  All of my highschool girlfriends had babies while still in highschool.  Teenage pregnancies usually don’t require baby showers, and thank goodness they don’t because I would have boycotted.  I’m anti-idiocy and I happen think being 15 with a bun in the oven is tops on the “I’m an idiot” list.  The last girl to get pregnant actually waited until after graduation.  I was a nanny, and my nanny family gave me an old crib to give to my misguided pregnant future ex-friend.  I drove all the way out to her low-income housing home, delivered the crib and said “I probably won’t see you again.”  I stopped taking her phone calls (in all fairness, it’s because she after the kid popped out, she realized how much it sucked taking care of a kid all by yourself and wanted me around to pick up the slack).  I eventually ran into her a Target and after looking at her enormously chubby hellion and thinking “Jesus crime that baby is hideous,” I thankfully haven’t seen her since. 

I haven’t even been to a bachelorette party or an engagement party, which I think might have gotten me a little prepared, at least mentally.  After an engagement party, there’s a bachelorette party, then a wedding, and once the honeymoon is over, sometimes those couples decide to start reproducing.  So I may have been mentally ready, or at least understood that next could be a party to celebrate a new pooper.  No.  I’m not ready and I’m too sarcastic and socially retarded to look forward to spending my Sunday with a group of baby-crazed girls.  Baby-crazed girls I don’t even know. 

I had to take stock of my life right now and the people in it.  I’ve realized I’m surrounded by girls that are just chomping at the marital bit and I’m going to have to be involved in these things more and more often.  I’ve actually been anticipating one of them announcing (in a highly smug and prideful way) that they are engaged.  At which time I will loudly announce (in a highly sarcastic, slightly venomous way) that they have beat me to the gate and are officially WINNERS at the game of life. 

Upon receipt of such future party/shower invitations – engagement, bachelorette, wedding, baby – I will interpret them more as “poor parties” as in, they have not properly planned ahead and are not financial set to for whatever; therefore they would like me to purchase things for them.  Purchase things like drinks and a stripper at their bachelorette party, Cuisanart and crystal vases at their wedding and all organic onesees and a wipe warmer for their baby.  A savings plan and forethought would mean they are monetarily set for whatever upcoming life changing moment they are planning, and I don’t have pick up the burden waste my hard earned money.  Really, I consider this to be highly un-thoughtful.  I didn’t throw a Canine Shower when the Man and I got our dog, registering at PetSmart for puppy pads, Simply Solution and a pooper scooper. 

Having friends can be such an imposition, I wonder why I even bother.

On Tuesday Starbucks closed its doors in order to retrain it employees.  I thought this would be a good thing because Friday is my “Special Starbucks Treat” day, as in the only day of the week that I buy myself coffee instead of surviving day without.  

Explanation: I make a healthy 8-cups of coffee every morning before I head to work.  I have to drink it all in those 3 hours I have before the workday begins or leave it undrunk in the pot.  That’s blasphemy, so I almost always consume all of the java.  My rule is that I am not allowed to bring coffee to work with me anymore.  This was an effort to reduce the amount of brew I drink, which has horribly back-fired because previously I would drink 2-cups at home and take one travel mug with me to work equaling 4 cups of coffee.  I have succeeded in doubling my coffee consumption in half the time in my effort to curb the addiction.

Special Starbucks Treat Friday rolled around, today, and I head down to get myself and nice steaming cup of joe to celebrate the weekend (which looks like it’s really going to suck because it’s so loading with crappy things to do).  I always go to the same Starbucks, at the same time and order the same thing.  I like routine.  This morning, I get the one barista I never get.  This one barista has to, of course, complete her conversation with another barista before assisting me.  I’m cheerful, I’m about to get my Special Starbucks Treat, I can wait. 

I order: “Grande drip, sugar-free hazelnut…” she walked away from me.  She did ask me if she could help.  Apparently she wasn’t ready.  I attempt again when she returns only to have her pick up a cup and walk away again.  I’m obviously in the middle of a sentence.  Her back is turned to me, but that doesn’t prevent me from giving her the LOOK.  The LOOK that says “It’s Special Starbucks Treat Friday and you are screwing it up.”  She returns with my cup, I continue my raised eyebrow LOOK.  I finish my sentence: “…and please put heavy cream in it for me.”  OHH THE LOOK OF HORROR, her little teen face showing complete astonishment.  She gave me a look that could only mean I had asked her to whip out a boob and squeeze the milk from her pubescent teet into my cup of coffee.  “You mean, like whipping cream?!!?”  Yes, I mean, like, whipping cream.  I did not st-st-stutter my slow friend.  The look continues, this time morphed into disgust that says “You are gonna get so FREAKING FAT!”  The disgust did not subside until I have removed my foul presence from her store.  I swear her eyes fixated on my hips as I strutted out the door, looking for the imminent expansion of my body.

So, did Starbucks’ retraining of employees improve their coffee?  Uh, I don’t know, nor care.  Coffee is coffee; I am non-discriminate as long as it’s caffeinated.  Supposedly if your drink isn’t perfect you should let them know and they have to fix it for you.  Perfection is quite lofty.  I’d settle for respect.

It's obvious I am too pretty for Starbucks coffee.

 Damn dog is getting up so early.  We spend all night sharing our bed with him and he sleep wherever he wants.  WHEREVER.  Be that on the Man’s head, on our tracheas, in between my legs with his head resting on my pubic bone (not cool Jimi! move NOW).  He licks my arm pit.  And, he’s prone to flipping on his back and losing his mind at random times in the middle of the night.  Awaking from REM sleep to little legs and paws pumping in the air, sharp little points gnashing is no dream.  Damn dog even mocks me in his sleep.

Now I have to arise before dawn if I wasn’t to get some exercising in.  I’m getting up at 5:30a to exercise – an entire 3 hours before I leave the house.  But now he wakes at the same time; at 5:30a Jimi’s name becomes ‘damn dog.’  Trying to perform yoga while a ferocious beast attacks is just not ‘centering.’  As I stretch into downward facing dog, damn dog deems my hair bun a threat and becomes embroiled in a hair bun war.  This hair, in case of confusion, is attached to head, that is upside down, dangling between my shoulders.  Bound and determined to overcome the damn dog and get my yoga on, I yank my head side to side, whispering “no!  ah-ah!  Damn dog!” in an attempt to not wake the Man.  It appears to him the hair bun is fighting back, attempts to dismember the offending hair bun lead to him leaping onto my head and neck.  Damn dog’s claws and fangs entangle in my hair, scraping my scalp.  Pleasant! 

Moving on to a low lunge, his little mouth nabs the drawstring of my pants.  With his bulldog jaws and the force an ox, he hunkers down into a tug of war with my waist.  I may have a low center of gravity, but I can’t balance on two side-by-side feet as it is, a balancing in a low lunge is a miracle in its self.  The tugging, of course, pulls me onto of the damn dog, which is understood be an attack, which makes him go absolutely abe-shit on my prone, off balanced body that has many juicy and chewable looking extremities that are not covered by the thin and non-protective fabric coating of yoga gear.  Damn dog only has about two teeth right now, those two canine teeth on the top of his mouth that give him the appearance of a vampire dog.  Two very sharp, needle-like teeth that have already left many marks on my delicate forearm skin from previous battles.  Trying to defend myself only infuriates him more and he gets the look of crazy in those big brown eyes located only an inches above his little vampire teeth of crazy.  Damn dog! It makes you wonder just why we got this rabid bi-poplar varmint when his mouth is opened to expose toothless jaws with the exception of those fiendish two teeth and he scrunches his head back into his shoulders so all his extra skin folds encompass his gnashing face and he’s looking at you with deranged eyes.  He looks like an old man with those glassed-over crazy eyes, sagging jowls and gummy mouth.  A nut case old man.  Damn dog, this is a previously documented look of crazy.

I manage to my feet, at which time he attacks the only thing of flesh color close to him, my toes.  Not in the proper frame of mind and trying to recover from almost being chopped to death, I start dancing, threatening to stomp him as I try to avoid him masticating my tiny toes.  I eventually plant both feet, lean down and clamp onto his teeny little haunches, right where the damn dog’s head can’t whip around and eviscerate my tender wrists.  Ultimately he returned to a slightly normal state of canine mind, all those battles with various parts of my offense body tuckered him out.  Then he’s cute and loveable and cuddly and soft.  I don’t call him damn dog when he’s like this.  I remember I love him and he loves me and we're buddies.  Forgotten is furball of fury and sharp points.  Damn dog loves me.

Everyone has a badge of honor.  Or maybe more accurate, they have badges of honor.  As I listen to a conversation in the elevator, down the hall, another elevator, to the mailboxes and back the same path (these ladies, and I, were getting mail, and thusly on the same journey, although I was not associated with them) I hearing the physical and vain badges of honor some women carry around.  One girl rambled about how she’s always been a size two, and doesn’t think she’ll ever not be a size two.  In fact, if she ever couldn’t fit into her (size two) pants, she’d start dieting.  But that hasn’t happened yet.  One of the others could budge from size six.  She’s dropped down to a size six (from what, I don’t know), but she weighs 120 pounds, so it’s not terrible.  Still, she’s not moving AND she lost two cups sizes so it’s a double negative.  She wishes she was a size two.  And had her boobs back.

Size two, size six.  Paint it on their foreheads.  They established their measure of worth as a pant size.  Sometimes it’s breast cup size, weight, waist measurement.  Superficial stuff like salary and bling and how many Gucci bags they own.  It’s beyond a healthy sense of pride.  It’s a macabre interpretation of Girl Scout patches and badges.  I never did participate in Girl Scouts, but I did envy those that wore a sash of accomplishment.  I wanted one, I just knew, I KNEW I could sew like a champ and be a safety queen and although I wasn’t too pretty, I would sell more cookies than anyone else ‘cause I was a natural born sales woman, and natural born saleswomen didn’t rely on looks.  They made sales and got badges. 

On the way back to my office I use the bathroom.  Right there, between my thighs is my number.  Size eight regular.  Once I was a size fifteen.  Two weeks ago I said a little prayer I zipped myself into these very same pants because they were tight.  Today I can fit both hands inside the waist band.  Is size eight my badge?  What about my actual scale number, 138.2?  Two months ago it ready almost 160, should it now constitute as one of my badges of honor? 

I want a sash full of my honor badges.  But I want good honors, unique honors, not vain honors.  I hold my job as a badge, the career badge.  You can’t be any ‘ol size two and get this job done.  Homemade dinner, at least four times a week – domestic badge.  Not yelling, screaming and holding a grudge against the dog when he takes a nice big steaming diarrhea poo on the carpet (and eats it) is definitely a tolerance badge.  I now hold my nerdiness as an honor; the Man really appreciates that I handle his taxes and I still get really excited about taxes – intellect badge.  I can bench press 30 pounds, definite fitness badge, as with my swimming champ-ness.  I can spell damn near anything and have am slightly obsessed with punctuation: grammar badge.  I have no hand/eye coordination and I can't play volleyball (or anything else with 'ball' in it) so that's my un-graceful (and proud) badge.  My size eight isn’t a badge.  And if I ever fandangle my way to a size two, that’s not going to be a badge either.  But, if I lose two cups sizes, that WILL be a badge.  The no-neck-pain badge.  The I-can-wear-a-halter-top badge.

Two 18-year old girls bitched, whined and moaned that they were 'targeted' on a Soutwest flight because they were too pretty to fly when they were kicked off.  In actually, they were vulgar and threatening because someone was using a bathroom too long.  They were even self absorbed enough to create a youtube video.  Story here: http://aviationblog.dallasnews.com/archives/2008/02/too-pretty-to-fly-southwest-sa.html

Here's a nice quote from one of the girls, who I like to think will be future elementary school cafeteria ladies: "I think they were just discriminating against us because we were young, decent-looking girls. I mean, nobody else really on the plane looked like us except us." 

Sometimes I think all teens should be equiped with electronic collars so I can shock the shit out them when they act like complete selfish idiots.  They are to pretty to fly, they are just unfit to be socialize with the rest of humanity.  Give them hysterectomies so they can't reproduce and send them Alaska!

I read an interesting article about how external stimulus, experiences and interactions shape your brain and therefore your personality, how you think, react and approach situations.  It similar to the whole “it takes a village to raise a child” theory, only more focused on the village’s practices than the maturing of a child. 

I may not (just barely) be a child anymore, but I do believe everything, person, is in constant evolution.  Like the Buddhist understanding of ‘impermanence.’  This is difficult for some people to grasp because for a lot, like myself, the one constant in my life is myself.  But it not necessarily the idea that I am not a permanent staple, it’s more the understanding that who I am is in constant flux and change.  Using myself as an example, I’ve always grasped that I am an endlessly adapting human being, as is everyone.  But recently I’m realizing just how much of a role circumstances and experiences outside of ‘me’ affect me.  How I act, talk, think and interpret the world is the culmination of external stimulus. 

I’ve been trying to pinpoint and identify outside stimulus or things I experience that affect my thinking or perception.  Some stuff affects me in positive ways, some stuff affects me negatively.  I consider some of this stuff to be mental junk-food.  It does absolutely nothing for me except waste my time, fill me with useless and misguided information and is potentially to be detrimental to my emotional and mental health.  Like eating empty calories in the form of Ruffle’s sour cream and onion chips, its temporary satiety of information and stimulus.  Sure, I’m not hungry anymore, but now I have saddle bag thighs and in 20 minutes I’m gonna be looking for more food. 

I’ve known for years that reading ‘women’s’ magazines really negatively affected my body image and warped my perception of the female role.  Cosmo, Allure and Shape taught me that how good you look (then taught you ‘how’ to do it) mattered more than how well you performed your job, that sexually pleasing your man was the most important bedroom (and other room/park/car/elevator) activity and endless hours at the gym are required.  It was unacceptable to be un-pretty, un-fit, un-fashionable and a non- nymphomaniac; as a woman your duty to be physically attractive.  I eventually and slowly learned, as I purged these magazines from my life, that I owe it to no one to be pretty, thin or a sex-aholic. 

That being said, I never truly considered that which eats up my evening and distracts me while I exercise in the morning, the television.  I always wake up and watch the Tyra show.  That’s right, I admit I watch Tyra.  Why?  ‘Cause it’s the only thing on at 6:00 in the morning, besides the news, and I watch the news in the form of the Today show at 7:00a.  I’m daft, I admit that also, so it only just hit me this morning (the show was about the Bad Girl’s Club, some reality show) that the Tyra show sucks (I knew this) and was a horrible form of mental junk-food.  Duh.  (So is the Today show, but it’s similar ice cream labeled ‘low-fat;’ it gives you justification to inhale the whole gallon despite the fact that it’s all refined sugar and chemicals.  They call it news, but is it?)

Reality tv is mental junk-food, gossip is mental junk-food, shows and books about some diva’s life in rich-ville are mental junk-foods, infomercials, advertisements, shock-jocks are all guilty pleasures that are mental junk-food.  I feel like all these things that occupy our time and attention contribute to a widespread lack of personality, the inability to think for yourself and a general negative attitude.  A warped perception of life.  At the very least it doesn’t encourage personal development.  And while that doesn’t mean that I’m going to immediately replace my hour of “The Girls Next Door” with Maya Angelou poetry books and walks around the neighborhood, it does mean that I’ve finally realized how clogged people’s ( and my) brains have become with junk.  A preoccupation with vapid, shallow, narrow-minded fluff.  It stimulates us, but instead of stimulating mental growth, it stimulates mental shrinkage, encourages narrow-mindedness. 

But, you can eliminate junk food from your house, you can start a healthy eating diet.  Is it possible these days to go on a mental junk-food diet?

I had a ladies night last Saturday with two female friends that absolutely kill me.  We got all decked out like Christmas trees and hit the town for a little sushi, pre-gaming at neighborhood Irish bar, some full-on karaoke and then a return to the Irish bar.  Just in case you wanted to know, I sang “Boot Skootin’ Boogie,” my friend sang Reba’s “Fancy” and my other friend sang “Hey Jude” and “Fresh Prince of Bell Air,” which was funny ‘cause she didn’t want to sing at all.  Just goes to show that we got her a little liquored up.  I took over the stage and started the Electric Boogie during someone’s song, but I’d do that sober if given the chance.

Anyway, gussied up like a couple of $50 dollar street-walkers (not really, we looked damn sexy), we weren’t necessarily the most lady like Ladies Night ladies out on the town.  In fact, I made the Irish bartender make us all rootbeer drinks just so we could get some burping going on.  And one of my lady friends laughs loud enough to temporarily deafen you, which is so funny that I start laughing extremely loud so we reverberate throughout the bar and draw stares.  She also snorts while laughing, so funny.  And my other friend impersonates us but looks like she’s a partially paralyzed stroke victim – one side droops like she’s drooling, the other is laughing - which makes me laugh despite having had a partially paralyzed stroke victim grandfather. 

During sushi, I had to teaching the ladies on honor and the sushi restaurant.  I learned the sushi-honor-code from the Man, he learned it from his sister.  It involves: eating all the sushi you order and eating the entire roll in one bite.  The Man may have made up the last one just for shits-and-giggles, but I follow it.   

This is me schooling my girlfriends.  They made me lean into the table ‘cause it was an up-light and the bar was too dark for the picture.  I had to hold my flattering pose while my friends laughed uproariously at me and strangers stared for about 30 seconds.  How big are my eyes!?!?!  Serious, nothing is sexier than a woman with wasabi soy and fish-eggs roe dribbling down her chin.  At least my family honor is upheld.

I’m a burper.  I just really like to burp, it feels good and I get a wee-bit of pride from just letting one rip.  I could never burp when I was younger no matter how many burping contests I attempted with the lil’ bro, or lessons he tried to give me, I was belching-retarded.  So, now it makes me happy.  Like a little girl. 

I recently took up drinking root beer floats at home.  Really, it’s diet A&W with heavy cream thrown in.  Delicious!  It really helps with my post dinner sweet tooth.  It gives me incredible belches though, big loud root beer-scented mouth exhaust.  Nothing makes me burp like root beer.  Not even real beer.  So, for the past week or so I’ve been just lettin’ em loose.  Even milking them for optimal volume and length.  The Man expressed to me that a burping girlfriend is not the most appealing thing in the world, so I’ve been trying to contain my gassy mouth explosions.  By buying a 12-pack of diet Barq’s, stashing it in the fridge at work and drinking one every afternoon.  Again, mock-float style (I swear the heavy cream consumption has not added to my waist line, I drink it in my multiple cups of coffee too).  I would never dare let it rip while at work.  The office is so quiet, the attorneys would be appalled.  Appalled I tell you!

If there ever happened to be a root beer alcohol drink served at bars, the place would be in trouble.  I’d be ordering, guzzling and fogging the joint up like no tomorrow.  And happy hour around here is so quiet that people would truly be appalled.  I might even just decide to carry an extra bottle of diet A&W (I never drink the real stuff) in my purse and just purchasing shots of vodka to mix in it.  Or rum.  A rum and root beer.  A hard root beer float.  That would be a post-work piece of heaven.  There’d be no containing me, I’d have to release the gut gas.  Oh boy, how red would the Man’s face be then!

I’m considering this a Valentine’s Day gift to the Man.  A lady-like lady.  I make my efforts. 

I’m alarmed at the ambiguity of men in the area I live.  At least once a day I see a man, or multiple men wearing, doing or saying something that men just should not wear, do or say.  Seattle is like the real line incarnate of the Replacements song “Androgynous” – “Here comes Dick, he wearing a skirt.  Here comes Jane, you know she’s sportin’ a chain.  Same hair, revolution, same build, evolution…”  The ladies don’t get to me ‘cause I just don’t notice them.  I am a heterosexual.

Yesterday I saw a man wearing lavender, magenta, purple and baby pink striped socks.  He wasn’t homeless, and he was walking with a girl – although, his arm was strung through her arm, which I find a gender-role reversal.  So just how did I know this walking man was wearing little girl socks?  Oh, uh, he cut his pants a good 3 inches above his shoe line; there was visible fraying so no mistake could be made on whether or not this was a home tailoring job.  It’s was so odd, I had to snap a picture.  The 'male' is on the left, and his lady-friend was on the right.  Unfortunately, they were walking so it’s not exactly clear, but you can tell, those are LADY colored socks.

And this morning I climb into an elevator with two other women and two other men.  Someone’s wearing perfume that smells really good.  Like womanly-good, as in I might consider buying this bottled smelly-good stuff.  Me being a woman.  I offer a compliment: “Someone smells good.  I like the perfume.”  Metrosexual dude in front of me accepts the compliment.  I stopped myself before saying “you smell like a girl.  I bet all the guys like you.”

I’m glad this Valentine’s Day I am not a single female scoping the Seattle Single’s Scene.  I would have to resort to hitting on college freshman in hopes that they too have not swallowed (no pun intended, wait, pun intended) the androgynous fad of Seattle.  I think if you wanna dress and smell and talk with a lisp and wave your hands around and squeal like a little girl, just commit to it and become a girl.  Likewise, if ladies feel the need to shave their heads and grab their crotch and cat call and wear boots and talk in a false tenor tone, I say testosterone injections are necessary.  I’m tired of being confused.

I’ve never been to keen on committing.  I’m very non-committal about everything, from girl’s night out to dates, to vacation to shoes.  I don’t know if I’m saving myself for a pair of shoes that are better, a Saturday night that will be more fun or what not, I just feel more comfortable leaving things hanging, if you will. 

I get comfort from my lack of commitment.  Knowing I owe nothing to nobody makes me feels secure.  I don’t even like to sign leases because a year seems so long.  My gym membership is month-to-moth ‘cause I never know when I’ll just decide never to return.  I’m not a part of any clubs because can’t say for sure I’ll show up.  I don’t go to the doctor because if I don’t forget my appointment, I’ll just end up cancelling it.  Hell, I even lack commitment to myself.  I can’t commit to losing this excess 30 pounds, I can’t even commit to a hairstyle.  But non-commitment means that if I fail, fail to show up for an appointment, lady’s night, cutting my hair, losing weight, then I’m really not hurting anyone. 

I was primping for work this morning, horsing around with the pup, when I started thinking about how I’m going to have him for at least (if all goes well) 10 years.  By that time, I’ll be gearing up for turning 35, the same age my best friend John turned on SuperBowl Sunday.  That just seems so far away, that’s over half of how long I expect to live.  So many things could come up in 10 years time.  I could lose a leg, my life, my sanity.  I could win the lotto, become a hippy or a bleeding heart and join the PeaceCorp or *gasp* a Conservative Republican.  I could give birth, be a mother, get cancer.  But no matter what happens, I’m responsible to that dog.  And the decision to get this dog was a decision to co-raise it, so it was like a commitment to the Man for the life of the dog.  It’s was like a double extended commitment in the form of a teeny, barking poop machine that attacks my sneakers.

My commitment to my dog has given me a different sense of security.  I like knowing that he’ll be here for the next decade and tonight when I go home.  This helps me understand the allure of marriage.  It’s not just companionship, it’s a little bit of security.  Of comfort.  It’s a singular unchanging item in your life indefinitely.  You sign your names on the dotted lines, eat some cake and throw a bouquet and then look forward to each other’s abidingness.  Of course, your dog will always love you, where as your spouse could decide you’re fat and have chronic halitosis then decide to become a transgender drag queen.  I get the marriage thing now.  I still don't understand the wedding chaos.

SuperBowl at the Ross hyphen Lawson homestead is intense.  But, WE, the Giants won.  With seconds on the clock.  This is our Giants family photo.  2008 pre-SuperBowl photo, all of us decked out in Giants gear.

The obligatory shrimp cocktail was eaten.  Without it, the G-men would have lost.  We ate shrimp cocktail during every playoff game and you can see how it worked out.  For the SuperBowl, we went with a full pound of shrimp, instead of a half pound.  We obviously couldn't eat it all, this is a post shot.  This is a THE GIANTS ARE CHAMPS shot.  We made a dent though, the bowl started full.

My sister texted me.  I received a screaming voice message.  Even my Gramma called me, which sealed the Giants-Won-The-SuperBowl deal.  She heard me screaming all the way in Dillsbug, Pennsylvania from Seattle, Washington.  I'm drinking a celebratory gin and tonic and wishing I could call in sick tomorrow to work.  But they all know I'm a Giants fan and would see through my thinly-veiled happiness. 

Big Blue won because of our little 3-month old French bulldog Jimi in his Giants jersey.  He slept majority of the game, but I assure you it was out of exhaustion from SuperBowl tension. 

Or maybe it was the 5 sacks on T. Brady.  Either way, THE GIANTS ARE SUPERBOWL CHAMPIONS! 

Now I can wash my Big Blue Wrecking crew shirt.  After almost 2 months of wear and no wash, it's strating to reek.

Nothing says ‘It’s Friday!!!’ like a stinking drunk homeless bum singing Blue Oyster Cult’s Burning For You at the top of his lungs in the middle of a lunch time crowd of working professionals hustling back to the office. 

I imagined it was my man singing to me and smiled all the way back to work.

It’s the little things in life that make it worth living. 

I finally, finally can retire my old BlackBerry, un-affectionately known as the Calculator.  I hated that thing and in the last week of it’s usage, it had started freezing and pausing in the middle of activities: text messages, phone calls, info retrieval.  Thing was good for one thing: calculating.  It was undetermined whether it even did that function accurately. 

So the upgrade was the Verizon Voyager.  Ever since I saw the very first ad, I knew I had to have it.  I used to have the LG-V, which was the first model of the EnV. I loved that phone.  I loved the clamshell style, the speakers surrounding the internal display, the full keyboard.  It was the most fabulous phone, before it was stolen.  The Voyager is the same style as the EnV, except it has the touch screen.  And it’s thinner and just looks damn sexay!  I’ve snapped some pictures of it and although I have at it for all of, um 18 hours, I’m in love.  With an inanimate object, but it’s love nonetheless.  I have a gross addiction to my cell phone’s text messaging capabilities, which is the only thing I truly use it for.  I prefer to have a phone that can’t even receive phone calls ‘cause majority of the time I don’t answer.  The touch screen is surprisingly responsive and the graphics look good on it.  It has a 2.0 megapixel camera, but it lacks a flash, and seriously, I think camera phones have been 2.0 megapixels since the onset.  It’s time for a little upgrade.  But, it does have a little recording that says “Say Cheese!” when I go to snap a picture, and that is a simple pleasure for my simple mind. 

Also, the doggie got a GIANTS jersey last night, and he looks so damn mean and angry in it, just like the Giants.  Actually, he’s adorable.  He wouldn't sit still in it.