Texas Residents Only...

G and I were having some frozen yogurt Friday night in a nearby mega-community (you know the ones - oodles of work/live space but the work is all somewhat trendy and expensive and the live is corporate apartment housing used mainly by students?), when my eyes happened to stray to a nearby "European" waxing shop/spa/salon. An aside: I wonder what a European wax is? Is it significantly different than salons that feature the infamous Brazillian wax? But I digress. What attracted my attention was the huge FREE! sign on the window. I'm, at heart, cheap and relish words like "free" and "one time only," etc. As such, I was naturally drawn to the sign. And being a woman of the law, I read the fine print.

See for yourself:


So I'm just wondering... how many non-Texas residents in the major metropolitan of ATX come seeking a free introductory waxing offer? Do people in the great states of New Mexico, Oregon, Tennessee, etc. sit around discussing that free waxing deal in Texas, only to get here and realize, darn! it's for Texas residents only. Is a European wax so worth it and hard to come by that people coming in for free waxings from other states is a such a huge problem?

Given the exclusivity of the bargain, Texas only, I think I might have to give it a try. I mean, who am I to say no to an obviously fabulous deal like a free European waxing? And since I am a local, can I really justifiably say no?

I suggest all you recent Wisconsin converts hold on to your Texas licenses. You wouldn't want to be unable to get your free European wax, you know. Just a suggestion...

Titsapity...

I've been traveling for work all week and while we were wasting our time waiting for people to not show up for scheduled meetings, my coworker A and I seriously killed some crossword puzzles. And by killed I mean cheated. But I digress. I'm doing an NYTimes one, she's doing some local paper one, and we switched halfway through. We're both asking each other questions, talking out loud, etc. (as you do), when I hear her say something along the lines of "titsapity is a bitch one." And then, "titsapity is a whore, right? Or a bore?" After hearing her say "titsapity" a few more times, I realized she was a) talking to me and b) I had absolutely no idea what words were coming out of her mouth. What follows is a brief breakdown of our conversation, as I remember it:

Me: Wha?
Her: Titsapity is a whore.
Me: Are you speaking english?
Her: Yes.
Me: Who's a whore?
Her: What's a bore?
Me: I'm confused.
Her: Titsapity. Is it she's a whore? Or she's a bore?
Me: I have no clue what words you are saying.
Her: T-I-S A P-I-T-Y
Me: Are you saying 'tis? (pronounced correctly as in tizz)
Her: Right. 'Tis. (pronounced incorrectly as in tiss)
Me: I have no idea if your tits are whorish or borish but the word you're trying to say is prounounced tizz, not tiss and not tits.
Her: I know it's not tits. Tiss a pity.
Me: No. Tizz.
Her. Right. So is it titsapity she's a whore or titsapity she's a bore?
Me: Good god.

So in the world of made up wrong words (i.e. hyperbowl instead of hyperbole and now titsapity instead of 'tis a pity), I'm officially adopting titsapity into my everyday vocabulary. How is it used you may ask? Like this:

Friend: That cute neighbor guy of yours plays in the gay tennis league.
Me: Damn. Titsapity, man, titsapity.

OMG...

I might be a violent person. I just smashed my fist on a coworkers top shelf (bookshelf) and bowed it in two. Her candy jar went flying, her inboxes jumped around, and various other sundries (don't ask) were all askew. I tried to recreate the scene later and couldn't so much as budge the shelf, much less bow it. I can't even believe I am capable of such action. I blame it on pilates making me do all those push-ups. Damn the pilates. It was a moment of passion but mainly done for amusement's sake and it went all wrong! I was so traumatized by my actions that I had to eat half a bag of animal cookies to convince myself I wasn't a terribly violent person. Although I'm not sure eating the feet off camels one by one is exactly indicative of a peaceful nature...
 

I fucking hate roofers...

Or roof repairers. Whatever. Call me an elitist snob but I Hate Them. It was supposed to take 1 or 2 days (at most). Day 2 was a Saturday. I realized Saturday afternoon that a mirror had fallen off my wall and a smoke detector is hanging by a precarious thread, threatening to hit me on the head in one of my mad dashes up the stairs to the restroom, which will result in one or both of the following: 1) a fall back down the stairs and/or 2) me pissing myself. Nice, eh? I also realized last night that my bed and nightstands have shifted noticeably and now stand at some kind of crazy 45 degree angle from the wall they were so equally balanced against.

Oh and at 6:22 a.m. this morning when I was so rudely jarred awake by the sound of Apocolypse Now (in the form of my roof caving in)? Yeah, I really hated them then.

I cannot express how much I wanted to remove the kazillion foot ladder (their only way up and down to the roof) this morning when I left for work. I wanted to kick it over and watch it land on the ground, all loud and long, and look up at the rooftop where the sweaty, noisy, asshole workers would be looking down at the crazy, hysterical-with-laughter girl below.

Screw you, roofer people.

What happens in Vegas...

gets posted on my blog. Unfortunately I left before Bill had his bday party, but I suppose it couldn't be helped.

Here's a brief rundown of my stay in Sin City:

Thursday night - Arrived in Vegas and at G's insistence, ate at some horrid $5.99 for steak and eggs restaurant, and got caught in a crazy, sandstorm. I couldn't see through the smoke filled casinos and accidentally walked right into the swirling dirt. It was very surreal and felt too David Lynch for my tastes.

Friday Morning - Got up early and went horseback riding in Red Rock Canyon. (One would assume that since I'm from Texas I know how to ride a horse. That would be a bad assumption. I rode horses when I was little and with bigger, older people and the experiences only created vague enough memories to assure me I'd done it.) I rode the hugest horse evah! Her name was June (I assumed as in Cleaver but turns out it was short for Junebug). G's horse was tiny and he looked like he was riding a donkey next to me and my Clydesdale. Turns out getting oneself into a horse saddle is quite the complicated endeavor. As my horse's belly came to about my chin, I considered it quite the feat that I was able to put my left foot in the left foot saddle thing (what's that called?). With my foot raised almost above my head, I looked at the horse wrangler guy and asked him what to do next. He suggested, politely, that I grab the horse horn thing (on the saddle) and pull myself up and swing my right leg over the horse to put my right foot in the right foot saddle thing. Here's me - uh, wha? Did I mention my horse refused to stay still and I was left hopping around with my one leg that was still precariously on the ground while my other foot was in the foot saddle? It was very natural and not at all uncomfortable and terrifying. Luckily the horse wrangler had the vision to see the pure "what the fuck are you talking about horse boy?" look on my face and helped me up onto the giant horse. After mounting the beast, the rest was smooth sailing. Except for the shit and piss parts. Horses do that a lot. It's gross. My ass was sore pretty much the rest of Vegas, but the scenery was beautiful and I convinced my horse to trot a few times so I think it was worthwhile.

Friday Afternoon/Evening - Ate a place called the Burger Bar that had a truffle hamburger. It looked awesome but cost $60, so it was only for oohhing and aaahhing over. We spent the evening downtown (hurrah Golden Nugget!) and had a blast. That's definitely the fun place for gambling in Vegas. No one takes themselves too seriously and it's got all the cheap tables.

Saturday Morning - I hit the pool! Anyone who knows at all knows that I am not a pool person. I bemoan almost all sun exposure and slather the spf on at all possible times. But I chose a chair in the shade, it was cool enough that I kept my sweater on while I was there, and it was so damn peaceful that it made me think that maybe I've missed the mark on my anti-pool stance. The only thing that would have made it better was if I had a fruity beverage to drink, but I figured it was too early in the morning to start all that.

Saturday Afternoon - I met G at a buffet at the Paris. Apparently it's supposed to be good. G gave it a 7/10 but only because he couldn't eat all the crab and shrimp stuff (he's allergic). Otherwise he said it was a 9/10. Personally I've been to that buffet before and it's where S and I named our food babies "Mimosa." No explanation needed really. Then I left G and decided to participate at a poker! tournament! I was so excited - you have no idea. I paid my entry fee and was the 2nd person out at my table. In case you don't know poker, that's bad. In a huff, I decided to win my entry fee back at the slot machines. I lost more money. Boo. Then I decided to leave the swarthy gambling arenas and go see some high art. The Bellagio has a fine art museum and the exhibit was a small but awesome Lichtenstein, Warhol and Friends soiree. It helped to soothe the savage beast within (I hate losing - even at gambling), and I spent the rest of the afternoon softly mewing over the beauties of modern art. Okay, that's not true at all. Modern art makes me laugh (at not with the art and artists) and I actually spent the afternoon feeling morally superior to the idiots who make the audio guide (or written guides for that matter) to modern art exhibits.

Saturday Evening - Saw Ka!, a Cirque de Soleil show and it was freaking awesome. Spent the rest of the evening at some bar, lost G for about half an hour, found G, and found some cage fighters. Not at the same time. Fun evening.

Sunday Day - slept late. Ate at Serendipity by myself with my lovely, lovely book (I'm reading The Time Traveler's Wife for the 2nd time and it's way better on the 2nd read) and had tomato soup with goldfish crackers! I love Serendipity. I also attempted a piece of cheesecake later on in the day (what? I was on vacation), and the piece that came to my table was bigger than my head. I read the menu a little closer and read that it was suitable for 2 people, but I'm guessing more like 6. I made such a small dent in it that the server thought I was unhappy with it. To prove I wasn't, I pointed out how I'd eaten all the whipped cream off the top of the cheesecake, which I guess, to his credit, wasn't exactly evidence of the deliciousness of the cheesecake itself but it was just too damn big! Who can eat that much cheesecake? In between the two Serendipity visits, I sat down at a poker table in another casino. I decided to try my hand at a cash game this time instead of a tournament. It worked out much better and I walked away after a couple of hours even, which was a nice change from my last attempt the day before. I visited the Forum Shops and decided I was way too spirtually wealthy to need any of that vain, commercial crap. (Read: I wanted to save my money for flitting away at the casinos in the evening instead since it was my last night.)

Sunday Night - Saw Penn & Teller, got my tix autographed, and took my picture with both of them. They rocked. They were hilarious and smart. What more can you ask for? We were leaving Vegas at 6:30 a.m., so we decided to spend the entire night out and about. G went to the stuff he liked and once again, I decided to give poker another shot. It was quite the good decision, if I do say so myself. I made a table full of big, strong men weep into their dwindling pile of chips. I bought in at the minimum buy-in, because above all else, I'm superbly cheap, and I nursed my tiny stack of chips until my moment came. Once I'd doubled up, I played a little looser and all those boys who told me to stick by them, that they would help me? walked away empty-handed when I took all their money. And did I mention there was a professional player at the table? I won't say his name (mainly because I don't remember it and don't feel like looking him up although I could 'cause he's on tv and shit), but I took half his stack as well. And yes, it felt good. Eat that, male-dominated semi-sport. And I only stopped short from wiping the whole table clean because I had to leave for the airport. I also got in quite the, um, "debate" over how amazing (or in their cases how unamazing) T.O. is, but I feel I've called it on this one. We'll see, poker boys, we'll see.

Monday Morning/Afternoon/Night - got lost in a haze of crazy dreams and sleep-addled wanderings as I made my way back to the ATX.

So here you have it. My first post back is a grand diatribe on the ins and outs of a Vegas trip that only I'm interested in. I hope all you encouragers and well-wishers are happy.

Okay, okay.

I'm kind of an ass, I know. I'm going to Vegas for the weekend but come next week, I'll be back on a more regular basis. Peer pressure is a bitch. Oh yeah, one more thing: thanks, I think...

Well shit...

I always thought I was lucky to live in Texas - at least from a natural disaster perspective. Sure we have earthquakes but not the kind that will take us off into the sea. And yes, there are tornados, but we're no Kansas, right? When the poles switch places, the polar icecaps melt, or whatever happens when it gets all freezy up north, Texas gets to be a modern day Minnesota - cold but still liveable. The terrorists may want to take out symbolic sites, but unless they've got a fondness for the Alamo, Texas ain't high on their list.

 

But now I go and read that in the worst case pig flu scenario, Texas comes up short. So shit. I can avoid random, movie-making natural disasters, but the black plague? No such luck. But don't worry. I'm not hysterical or anything. I like to leave that kind of MASS PANIC to the parents of 3rd graders and CNN. I mean, really. I listen to sound words of advice, not fear-mongering. It's a good thing we have our national leaders here to talk some sense into me, isn't that right, Mr. Biden?

 

 

RIP Dorothy, Maude, Bea...

I learned so much about Bea Arthur when I read her obit in the NYTimes on Sunday. I didn't know she died until then. I was in DC over the weekend and missed any important news until I picked up a copy of the paper Sunday evening in the airport. (PSA - buy papers!) I was surprised - not about her death although that was sad but about all the interesting facts within. Did you know that Bea didn't own up to any one age? No one really knows how old she is. I might start adopting that philosophy. The NYTimes said she was probably around 86 though.

I've seen a ton of stuff about her on the internet, some of which I'll post links to. But I think my favorite Bea Arthur moment, aside from her Golden Girls years (did you know I'm always a Dorothy in GG quizzes?), is the time she helped roast Pamela Anderson and read aloud from Pam's book about the joys/intriques of anal sex. It's pretty much the funniest thing I've ever heard involving Pam Anderson, which really says a lot.

My list of web-related/tv-related Bea activities and my own, personal favorite Bea moments:

1. WE is planning a 2 night homage to Dorothy Zbornak last night and Thursday night. If you missed last night, check it out (or DVR it) on Thursday.

2. USA Today did a thing about her. And the LATimes did a fairly decent obit as well.

3. Maude had an abortion. Did you know? She was in her 40s, married, and decided she was too old to have a baby. So she did it. Pretty shocking by today's tv standards. Of course Maude was a spin-off of All in the Family, so what can you expect? (See the Jezebel piece for the video on it.)

4. This is the fabulous NYTimes obit I read about her (along with a picture slideshow). It's really good.

5. Jezebel has a top 5 Bea Arthur moment piece that includes two of my favorites (the Pam Anderson bit and a song and dance bit from early on, which admittedly I only saw for the first time in the last couple of years).

6. Bea singing in a Star Wars Holiday special. Ha! Freaking hilarious.

7. And finally one of my favorite, non-zinger Dorothy moments on Golden Girls:

Flowers are blooming it seems...

I am a Nigella What Flower Are You?

"Many people think you are just a little bit odd, but you consider yourself just a little eccentric. You find new experiences exciting and fulfilling."

I don't even know what kind of flower this is. And I'm probably never going to be referred to as a flower by anyone, ever. I'm not exactly fond of things that manage to grow on their own. Plants freak my shit out. I wish I were kidding.

I'd shake his hand...

I, a citizen of Austin, Texas, U.S. of A, would shake Hugo Chavez's hand if he offered it to me. I guess I'm a pinko commie, no? Well it's not the first time I've been called that. Just ask my favorite right-wing, nutjob, Doug.

 

On a different note, tobacco infused tequila is my new favorite alcohol. Try it. It will blow your mind. (And I hate smokers and smoking, so it's not that kind of thing.) 

Speaking of the Dixie Chicks...

I'm incredibly embarassed to be associated with the crap that our Governor Head of Hair is spewing right now. Texas could secede? Is he fucking insane?

 

I'm quoting a local Austin paper, which generally sucks ass so don't read it but, "According to The Associated Press, Perry suggested in response to a reporter's question that Texans might at some point get so fed up with Democratic-led actions in Washington that they would want to secede."

 

I did NOT vote for that asshat. I heard him speak at a college graduation last year and I'm certain he was a) drunk, b) unprepared to give a speech, and c) stupid. I canNOT believe anyone would bother to quote anything he has to say.

 

Geez. What a loser. Oh and I heard he really enjoys the teabagging. *snicker*

Apparently my mother is way cooler than me...

She's going on a cruise of castles in Amsterdam and Germany. Or some such ridiculousness. And although I abhor cruises, I'm so jealous I can't see straight. I had to help her with cocktail attire (for the dinners), for god's sake! Plus she's already been to Amsterdam once. Isn't that enough? (An aside: I was scarred beyond recognition from that first trip to Amsterdam. Imagine your mother standing next to a 12 foot tall penis at the sex musuem and you'll only begin to imagine what I'm talking about.)

 

Karmically speaking, I realize she's suffered by marrying a baseball-loving, cigar smoker, but come on! And I realize her first son must be a huge disappointment due to his college football, political, and religious affiliations, but really she should have just nipped all that shit in the bud early on, right?

 

Okay fine. I'm not saying she doesn't deserve to go. I'm just saying I deserve it too. And possibly more than her, because.... well, because I say so.

 

Jealousy does not bring out my best colors.

 

 

I hate...

Slow internet. When I'm trying to read about American Idol on TWOP, I do NOT like having to wait for a page to load. It's a recap of a stupid reality show. It should not take more than 5 seconds for me to be done with their shit.

I'd also like some chocolate as soon as possible. The two are not related.

And then something happened...

I've been worrying for a few days that nothing exciting or post-worthy has been happening to me. Although most things I write about aren't exactly happening to me, they're things I care enough to form an opinion about, which, come to think of it, is not really saying much. But as soon as I decided I was washed up and work was sucking the life out of me (and it is), something slightly entertaining and slightly destructive happened.

Two factors combined yesterday to bring me to this time time and place. 1) My pilates instructor talked about a cool movie room at the gym she goes to a few miles north of me. She said they play the same movie all day long, over and over, and it makes the minutes fly by. My interest was piqued (I had to look that word up to make sure it wasn't really peaked). 2) My coworker/friend got in a car accident yesterday and due to recent hail storms, had to have a ride to a car rental place that was convienently a few miles north of me. So of course I decide to try out this crazy movie room gym thing I'd heard about. (Maybe other gyms have cardio cinemas and these aren't actually weird and new but to me? Insanity.)

I drug my coworker/friend to the gym with me - she kinda had to since I was giving her a ride and all - and we walked into the gym and stood outside the "cardio cinema." The sign next to the door said 7 Pounds was playing. I've been wanting to see at least a little of that movie, because the boy says it's really interesting (although I don't trust his movie judgment at. all.). We went in and were immediately consumed by darkness. It was really dark! I thought I would trip over people and/or equipment, so I stood like an idiot for a few minutes trying to figure out exactly what the set up was in the room. We found two treadmills together in the front and hopped on. It took a little less than 2 minutes before I realized there was a reason the treadmills at the front of the room (next to the giant, movie-sized screen) were empty. I nearly fell twice (or so I thought nearly fell, but I'll get to what nearly falling looks like in a minute) trying to look at the screen and run in a straight line, which I've decided is basically impossible.

We moved to treadmills in the middle of the room after a couple of minutes. Actually the coworker/friend left the entire cardio cinema after she ran a few minutes because she couldn't handle the intensity of the big screen, the dark room, and the blinking red lights of the machines, which were pretty much the only indicators of any kind of depth perception. Oh yeah! (in my best Peggy Hill)

I, on the other hand, really enjoyed the treadmill and the dark room. I vowed not to look at my time until the current scene was over. Turns out the scene I was watching was never over. 7 Pounds is a looong and boring movie. Good thing I caught the end. I had a sweater draped over the front of the treadmill, so a) I could cover my time with it (it's a mental thing) and b) it wouldn't sit on the dirty floor because I care about my sweater, you see? About 10 minutes into running, my sweater fell of the treadmill and traversed the length of the treadmill onto the ground behind me. I looked back to watch it land and turned back to running. I figured it would stay there and I would pick it up once I was done. A couple of seconds later the belt on the treadmills lurched and practically stopped. You know that almost falling I talked about earlier? That was nothing. This almost falling was much more palpable. Although I didn't technically bust it, I did flail supremely well and I yelled/screamed so loud that I drew the entire (full) room's attention away from a Will Smith sex scene to me.

The treadmill then went on its merry way, only at a slightly slower pace. I stupidly thought it was a really sensitive machine and it must have felt my sweater fall on it and fall off on the ground. I tried, repeatedly, to up the speed back to a workable pace and when that failed, I looked back to see if my sweater was somehow the culprit. Of course it was gone from behind the treadmill. I sighed, stopped my machine, and knelt down like a fool at the foot of the treadmill. Of course my sweater had somehow got stuck up in the rolling belt. Of course it got so stuck that I couldn't pull it out. I did hear some ripping when I tried though. One good thing about the darkness of the cardio cinema? No one can tell the exact idiot you're making of yourself. They have some sense of it but not an entire grasp of it.

I went to the front and asked for help. A really hot, gym guy came to help me and declared my sweater stuck. You don't say? He went for help from another really hot, gym guy ("the muscle" according to the first hot, gym guy), and they proceeded to laugh at me, stare in wonder at the predicament, laugh some more, and then use absurdly stupid boy logic to get the sweater out (i.e. pulling). The first guy told me, apologetically, that the sweater probably would not come out in the same condition it when in. As I'd already accepted that portion of future events, as any relatively cognizant person would, I told him not to worry about it. Between the two of them and many grunts they finally managed to pull the pretty, pink sweater from underneath the treadmill belt. The first hot guy fell backwards into an elliptical machine and almost made that person fall off, which sort of made the whole experience worth it for me (seeing one of those hot gym guys look like an uncoordinated ass at the gym? priceless), and held up a tattered, holey, ripped pink sweater that somewhat resembled the one I'd been wearing earlier. The second guy handed me a button he'd managed to retrieve - real funny - and they ambled off, still laughing.

And all I could think as I attempted to re-find my running groove (never happened) was that finally I had something to write about.

I also realize that if I wrote more often, I could have condensed that into a much funnier, briefer post but since I haven't written in a week, I figured blogspot could handle it.

In honor of Rana...

I've decided to discuss my last few days, which have been... oddly satisfying and disconcerting, all in one.

Thursday - work until I feel the need to go to bed for the night. A) that's late and B) that's too late to be working. I had to skip a lovely outing I'd looked forward to all week because of all the work. Boo to work.

Friday - get up much earlier than usual and go back to work. Work until I feel the need to eat dinner. The bf beats me to my house for our usual weekend ritual of yummy Indian food. (This is a huge shocker, because he's almost always the one with the later time schedule, forcing me to wait on his sorry ass.) After a lovely glass of wine and like two bites of dinner (not hungry after all the work, I guess?), we head over to the Chandi's and drink more wine. It was lovely until one part of the Chandi decided to go to bed early to be up for her early morning run (hmph - marathoners are really, really annoying). Sorry B but it's true!

Saturday - um... was there a Saturday? I have no memory of it.

Sunday - drove over to SJM's old house for the last time *sigh* and managed to steal the female half of the duo for a lovely trip to Target. As payback, I helped unpack at the new house and realized that there is such a thing as too much vinegar.

Monday - Worked so frantically I forgot to eat food. If you know me at all, you know that is incredibly unlikely. Got out THE WORK PRODUCT of the century about 4:45 Monday afternoon. Had wishes and needs crushed by big boss soon thereafter. Still proud of THE WORK PRODUCT of the century though.

Tuesday - Got to work absurdly early to attend hearing related to THE WORK PRODUCT of the century. Hearing supposed to be done by lunch, ends up going until 4 where, wishes and needs reinvigorated when THE WORK PRODUCT of the century gets mentioned and although I couldn't see the other side, I'm fairly certain heads snapped and eyes agogged. Oh and the hearing went exactly the way our side wanted it to. Bad guys defeated! Went back to work and stayed long enough to hear that THE WORK PRODUCT of the century is officially THE WORK PRODUCT of the century. It's not just in my head. And the guy in our other office who doesn't even know your name if you don't have cocknballs? Yeah, he called THE WORK PRODUCT of the century aggressive. In a good way. While it was cool, it was weird, because what do I care what he thinks? Conundrum. Oh yeah, drank wine and have carpet picnic with the girls. Missed Barack and fell asleep before I could finish hearing what Keith O. thought about it. Sad.

Wednesday (today) - Am confused that it's not Thursday all day. Receive accolades in the form of an ALL CAPS! email, a few phone calls, and a news article that gets it all wrong for THE WORK PRODUCT of the year. Decide to cut the workload considerably post 4 o'clock, hence the current post.

It's been a good few days and oh my god do I need a nap. And quite possibly a trophy.

They say you're Irish...

nah nah nah nah nah nah. Well I'm Irish too. nah nah nah nah nah nah.

Or at least that's what they tell me. So I'm here, wearing green, and I've seriously contemplated the outcomes of pinching strangers in the elevator who are not. (I've decided to avoid the battery and since I'm officially admitting my contemplation, the assault as well.) My family insists the only thing they are, aside from poor, country folk, is Irish. I tend to believe this because of the following:

1. I have blonde hair.
2. I have blue eyes.
3. I'm afraid of snakes (although technically this comes from the non-Irish side but whatev).
4. Almost every man in my family has a Riley or Odais somewhere in their name.
5. I spent the majority of my early childhood lying in the mounds of clovers in my front yard looking for a four-leafed clover. Or is it four leaf clover? I'm unsure.
6. My dad's facial hair comes in red, which is why he only ever grew a beard when he was in Vietnam and shaves regularly since then (or so he says).
7. I'm still fairly certain the tiny footprints I used to see in my old bathroom were those of a leprechaun.
8. I look good in green.
9. Rainbow Brite was my favorite cartoon/book character as a child. (It's a rainbow, pot-at-the-end thing.)
10. I've seen Gone With the Wind at least a dozen times, intermission and all (and if you don't know why this is Irish, shame on you).
11. The only tattoo I've ever wanted to get was a green clover. I'm never going to get that tattoo, so don't worry, but it's the only thing I'd consider putting permanently on my body.
12. The fat in my ass is shaped in large part by potato products. And assorted other white foods.
13. My senior thesis in college was written on the role of mermaids in the folklore (well only folklore to us) of 13th century, Irish popular culture. I like to think of it more as a feminist take on the mean, mean Irish men (or any men of the era), but it's primary focus was Irish folklore. (Small aside: my love of the name Lorelai comes from the mermaid stories I read then not Gilmore Girls, although I'd be perfectly happy to be aptly compared to Lorelai Gilmore.)
14. I like Whiskey. Mainly U.S. whiskey but whiskey nonetheless.
and finally
15. I do not drink green beer.

And in case you can't tell, I have no empirical reason to believe I'm Irish. It's all made up bullshit. BUT. I've always been disappointed by my lack of ethnicity, so I embrace all the green good luck I can wrap my colloquial brain around.

In honor of St. Patrick's day, here's my made up Irish prayer, just for you:

May your days be spent floating on mounds of green clover;

May you always get to be Rainbow Brite for Halloween;

May your whiskey go down smoothly;

And may your own, personal St. Patrick chase away all the snakes.

Flaming Lips Awesomeness...

Saw this on PopCandy. It might be the coolest thing I've ever seen... this month. I'm seriously crushing on FL right now.

Flaming Lips covering Madonna's Borderline. Could there be anything better in life?

Skydiving...

Well I did it. I wanted to wait until I had video to post, but I guess that's not happening anytime soon - thanks bf! I'll try to post again once it becomes somehow accessible to me and not on someone's weird, little recording tape that I haven't seen since the 1990s. But apparently it's quality. Whatever.

Turns out the skydiving got canceled and then rescheduled. I got all psyched up for Saturday and then it was too gusty. But Sunday? Perfect day.

Let me set the scene: I finally went to sleep early Sunday morning (after pitching a pitiful fit to the bf about having to get up early the next day and insisting on going to bedorshire). Of course I couldn't sleep because I kept hearing the wind knock against the windows and wondering if the whole thing was going to be called off - yet again. Part of me hoped it would, because I was crazy tired but the better part of me was hoping Texas weather would do me proud. I woke up at 8:30 (see? early!) and called my co-skydiver in crime. She called back shortly and told me we were on. Of course I still had a little time to snooze if I wanted but I was way to excited/antsy.

I went to the living room and found a Golden Girls marathon on the Hallmark Channel (aside: GG moved from Lifetime to Hallmark! Who knew?) and I was pretty certain it was a good omen. After I'd finally coaxed the bf out of the house, we made our way to the launch pad. I insisted on having a bagel before I fell out of a plane and after about 3 stops - bagels are hard to find! - I was officially on my way.

In the car ride there - the place was a good 30-40 minutes away - the bf was amazed AMAZED! at how cool, calm, and collected I was. I told him there was nothing to mentally prepare for, so really what was there to think about at this point? He thought there was definitely a mental preparation aspect to the whole thing, but after discussing with my co-jumper, also a lawyer, we decided it must be our profession that keeps us from getting nervous at attempts at physical endeavors. Put me in a courtroom and I'll be reciting this or that, anticipating arguments, going over easy objections, etc. in my head the entire morning before. But skydiving? Chatter and fun music is all I had to think about.

Blah, blah, blah, 1 orange jumpsuit later and we're up in the plane. I looked like a convict but at least I was visible... I guess. My instructor woman! asked me if I had any questions - as we're climbing up to 10,000 feet of course - and I just wanted to know what happened if she died on my back before she pulled the cord thing. (I swear I'd just seen something on yahoo news or similar about that.) Luckily the chute had a gadget that automatically triggered the parachute if we reached a certain altitude.

As I looked out the window on the way up, I was completely calm. I realized there wasn't one butterfly in my stomach, which was nice because I can't say I feel that way on any normal day, much less a day when I'm about to potentially plummet to my death. We scooted, quite literally, up to the plane door and as we waddled our way forward I had a momentary panic moment (much like I do when I stand on a diving board or when I'm tripping over my shoes at the top of my staircase at home, or ya know, the crack on the sidewalk outside work, whatevs) that I was about to fall. Luckily I didn't have much time for speculation and before I could think to put my hands in front of me to catch myself, I was out. And flying! And all of a sudden realizing I couldn't breathe. Nope, I wasn't flying - I was very quickly suffocating to death. My brain was telling my mouth that of course I could breathe; I was surrounded by air; there was nothing I could do but breathe. But of course my illogical lack of oxygen receiving lungs took over and I panted horribly. Luckily the free fall portion was over relatively quickly. It wasn't a scary experience by any stretch but more of an uncomfortable feeling that passed as soon as the wind stopped hitting me in the face so hard.

And then IT happened. The parachute opened and after the initial lurch and feeling of gravity, I experienced one of the most peaceful, calm, and relaxing few minutes of my entire life. It was pretty remarkable.

I did worry briefly when I saw my friend spiraling crazily downward but apparently that's what we were all doing and it only looked scary from above (so said my tandem jump instructor). There was one weird thing though. As we were getting closer to the ground, my instructor was telling me how to put my feet for landing, etc. I responded "okay" after every instruction she gave. Apparently this caused her some amount of anxiety because she said, "you keep saying 'okay' but are you really okay?" Um, is there some kind of conversation I should be having when I falling toward the earth? Is there a Miss Manners on this subject that I don't know about? What should I have been saying? Not okay? Commenting on last week's episode of Lost? Strange.

We landed on our feet, just like I'd imagine you'd land if you could really fly, about 6 feet away from the guy who unhooked us, so I'm guessing my instructor was pretty accurate. I kept wanting the parachute to collapse all around me so I could come climbing out from underneath it like they do on cartoons but they were too professional for all that.

Things I learned:

1) Wear your hair back and don't let one, single strand get loose. I had quite a few strays and that shit was impossible to brush for hours!

2) Bring your own gloves. I don't know of finger diseases, necessarily, but if there are some, you'd get them sharing general skydiving gloves with all the other scrubby folks who run through that place.

3) Skydiving is the best way ever to have a peaceful day. I had the most relaxing day that I've probably ever had - or at least had in the last few years. I just kept thinking, as I was sitting on the couch reading, "I should really start all my days off like this."

4) If you're an adrenaline junkie, don't skydive. It's not all that adrenaline-enducing. I didn't do it for that purpose, but I was a tad bit surprised I wasn't more hyped up after it was all said and done.

5) Don't talk very much to your instructor. Those fools will do everything in their power to freak your shit out. I didn't encounter it so much with my instructor, but I could see it in others and feel it bubbling just underneath the surface of mine.

6) Always go skydiving (as in go to the location) with someone who won't do it. It really helps with the superiority complex you're bound to have after you're done.

Cartoon figures abound...

I missed King of the Hill last night. Boo. It's a good thing I didn't miss my completely unrealistic, animated character fix though, because I did get to see this goober:





I haven't seen anyone mention it yet but why the hell does he have to talk like that? I felt like I was back in my 9th grade geometry class when the teacher used to put apples with our names on them around the room for good grades.

I also heard Jindal speak on one of the morning news shows over the weekend and he was ridiculous. I hate to even dedicate 5 minutes of my time to discussing him but the fact that he's the Republican party's Obama is beyond laughable. Obama is post-racial. Accept it.

And for your reading pleasure, just in case you wanted to learn what a nutjob Jindal really is and let me just preface this with two words: exorcism and sex. Oh yeah.


FYI, the count down begins. I have approximately 74 hours left before I plummet to the ground in a self-induced mania. Wish me luck!

Is there such a thing as a love scrooge?

God how I hate Valentine's Day. Even if it's just the day before. One more time: Valentine's Day sucks balls. And not in a good way.