Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Mele Kalikimaka

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

11 Days of Fail: Day 3

Aaaand I'm back, having been run over by a reindeer named either "Stomach Virus" or "Food Poisoning". I'm not sure which is to blame, but after four days subsisting on toast, ginger ale and equally unpalatable reruns of Married...With Children, I'll never again be eating any food described as 'Jumbo' nor anything that a menu upsells with the phrase 'bigger than your head'.

So the Days of Fail continue and will run through the end of the year rather than stopping at Christmas because it's more than fitting that even chronicling my failures is littered with...failure. Anyway, today's installment is about one of last summer's painful attempts at conjuring a personal life. Sadly, my longest relationship in 2008 was with my plantar wart, The New Boyfriend running in second place by six months and two cartons of Compound W.

Day 3: The Pick Up Artist

Note: Originally published in 2oSB Blog Swap (6/08)

Last Monday* was my friend’s birthday which meant that I invited several people over, made poorly mixed drinks, served store-bought spinach dip and a variety of toothpick pierced treats–because everything from melon to McNugget tastes better with a splinter of wood jammed through its center–and hoped no one would notice that I’d already licked the salt from most of the pretzels. When my sad little plates of crappetizers were gone, we decided to walk down the street to the kind of restaurant that doesn’t mind a party crowd, especially since I frequently see a member of the staff fishing some shitfaced customer out of their koi pond.

We had to wait for a table and took turns staring at the couples slowly picking the crust from their salmon steaks, debating whether they were more likely to speed things up if we gave them pitiful, practiced “Man in the Mirror” expressions or if we just glared, with the facial equivalent of a Harrumph when they stopped chewing long enough to steal a sip of sweet tea.

While were waiting, a guy walked in and signed his name to the waiting list, circling the single digit he left on the notepad to draw extra felt-tipped attention to the fact that he was a party of one. He had an outfit straight from the Jeff Spicoli Starter Kit–a tight Ocean Pacific tee, well-worn khaki cutoffs, and a couple of days worth of stubble. He was mid-to-late thirties and incredibly hot, wearing biceps that said “I could pull a tree stump out with my hands” and a slightly bewildered expression that responded “But I never learned to read”.

My friend A and I started talking to him in that drunken sort of way where you ask a question and immediately respond by giggling and twisting your hair into tiny spikes. He was just in town for a few days, he said. We expressed delight because WE LIVE HERE! IN THIS TOWN! WHERE YOU ARE! He said he’d just stopped in for a burger and a beer, a revelation that made A squeal and me yank my hair into a style last seen on Sonic the Hedgehog because WE WERE EATING AND DRINKING THERE TOO! THIS IS SO GREAT! HOLY SHIT! He laughed cautiously, keeping one hand on the handle of the door and a fishbowl full of business cards between us.

Someone called for our party–mangling the mess of consonants I call a last name–and guided us to a table safely away from the other patrons. We quickly settled in and within a single inning of the Braves game flickering silently on Fox Sports South, we’d had enough beverages to start referring to the waitress as ‘Special Angel’. Spicoli had been seated at the bar, but he would occasionally turn around to cast a sidelong glance to our table, either because he was interested or because he’s never heard someone use the phrase “ballsack” that loudly in a dinner conversation.

As other customers grabbed their things, leaving after swapping a tip for an Andes mint, it was pretty obvious that Spicoli was hanging around for us. Or– I liked to think–for me, even though every time he would look at us, I’d give him a jazz hands-y wave, fluttering my fingers like windchimes before burying my face in my bowl, listening to my laughter echo off the porcelain.

The next time I looked up, he brushed the side of his face, a gentle gesture that meant ‘you have sundried tomato stuck to your skin.’

When Special Angel started stacking the chairs upside down on the tables–the universal sign for ‘You’re not getting another vodka tonic’–and the rest of the waitstaff rolled the silverware tightly up in paper napkins to make little spoon-filled spliffs, Spicoli threw a couple of bills on the bar, hopped from his stool and headed for the door, throwing us a peace sign as he walked by.

“WAIT!” A shrieked, “Pull up a chair!” And–for whatever reason–he did, taking the seat with the sort of guarded curiosity you use when a park ranger asks if you’d like to touch the copperhead he’s been holding.

“So.” she began, slapping his knee like he wasn’t a complete stranger. “Do you like dogs?”

She didn’t start by asking his name, his business, whether or not he’d ever set any children on fire. No, she was most concerned how he felt about domesticated mammals. Excellent.

Spicoli cocked his head a bit, imitating the animal he was being asked about. “Um, yeah, sure.”

“GREAT!” A shouted, clapping her hands. “BECAUSE J-MONEY HAS A DOG!”

She continued to interrogate him for the better part of thirty minutes, asking all of the important questions, like whether he was married (He wasn’t.), whether he had a job (He did. With benefits, he added, perhaps anticipating the next question), and whether he had been to Australia (He had not). We were about to find out whether liked Tom Petty songs, when he sat up and announced that he was getting cold and was going to go grab a change of clothes.

We assumed that he’d decided not to spend any more time in our lives or, quite possibly, had gone to call the authorities, when he knocked on the just-locked door, already back and wearing a pair of blue jeans in less time it took me to wipe the remaining tomato bits off my face.

“Wow, you must be staying close to here!” I said, jumping into the convo for the first time since discovering that neither he nor I had ever been pregnant, another excellent sign as far as our compatibility was concerned.

“Kind of,” he said, shrugging and giving us a blank expression like a carved pumpkin whose candle had been blown out. “My stuff is in my van.”

“Heading to your hotel?” I asked, pleased that I could even follow the conversation at this point since I was pretty sure I’d given myself fetal alcohol syndrome.

“Nope. I live in my van.”

We stared at him. If we’d been in a cartoon, you would’ve heard the sound of a single percussive tinkle as we all blinked in unison.

A spoke first. “Wow.” She rebounded. “Do you have curtains?”

He did not.

And that was when she decided that the night was over.

She turned around to face the half of the restaurant that was shrouded in darkness. “Well. I guess Special Angel isn’t going to refill your pilsner.” In response, another bank of lights went out, followed by the rhythmic click of the back room breakers being turned off.

We all walked out together, unsure of what to do next. We hadn’t anticipated this plot twist, which was passable in a Debra Messing mini-series but not in my life. I don’t have high standards (see: Boyfriend, My Former) but somewhere on my wishlist between ‘two distinct eyebrows’ and ‘aversion to sweater vests‘ is the hope that his permanent residence doesn’t have a dashboard or a cardboard evergreen dangling from the rearview.

I wanted to say something–to ask for his VIN number maybe?–but instead we just waved, returning his peace signs with ones of our own. We started stumbling home carefully, hoping to avoid the koi pond and wondering when it had gotten so cold.

* Again, this ran in June and doesn't reflect an attempt to double dutch The New Boyfriend. I tend to be more monogamous than most tapeworms.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Eleven Days of Fail: Day 2

Day 2: The Payless-ening

Last month, I flew to LA to attend a friend's wedding. The day of the ceremony, my friend Clare and I got together to spend the day wandering around West Hollywood, eating Japanese novelties and buying imported energy drinks. Since she'd rented a Nevada-tagged Volkswagen and I was at the mercy of the 'Suck It, Tourist' Cab Company, she kindly offered to drive me to the wedding. I agreed, she dropped me and my Diet Jolt Cola off in front of the hotel and said she'd be back in an hour.

Determined to be on time and to look like I didn't live in storm gutter, I immediately started getting ready. I used an entire fun-sized bottle of shampoo, brushed my tongue, and painted my toenails--in some cases all the way down to the knuckle and also on the carpet and maybe just a little on the baseboards. Within thirty minutes, my eyeliner had reached emo levels and I'd twisted my hair into perfect tiny peaks. I was ready, save for actually zipping myself inside my dress, which I refuse to do until the last minute because I am the Lewis and Clark of finding trouble. Even if I did nothing but crawl into the dry cleaning bag with it, within five minutes I'd be wrinkled, ripped, and on fire.

When Clare called to say she was on the way, I yanked it--carefully yanked it--off the hanger and swapped my bath towel for my good bra, the one that makes me look like I have actual breasts and not just a pair of mealworms crawling across my sternum. After safely securing myself and my store-bought B cups, I reached for the stilettos I'd packed, one of the few pair of shoes I own that weren't purchased in a store that also sells sweat-wicking underwear.

After false-starting on my first attempt to fasten the shoe's ankle strap, I circled for a second try and the buckle went rogue, ripping entirely off and skidding away under the desk. I couldn't find it, but it didn't matter. I had one shoe on and one dangling impotently from my toe, with no way to secure it to my foot. I didn't know what to do except panic. And call Clare. "Hey," I said, swatting at the aneurysm stirring in the back of my brain. "What would you say if I said I'd just broken my shoe?"

"What? I'd say put on another pair and be downstairs in five minutes." I could almost hear her regretting her decision to play Hoke to my version of Miss Daisy's Declining Years.

"What if I said my other pair had laces and could be worn in a 10K?"

"I'd say 'oh shit'." The turn signal clacked in the background. "I'm almost here. Come down and we'll figure this out."

I couldn't stroll through the lobby barefoot. My hotel was too trendy for that, overrun with woman wearing sunglasses the size of welding masks and men with impractical scarves and improbable haircuts. Earlier that same day, I'd sneaked out the back terrified that someone would smell the outlet mall on my t-shirt and smother me with a Fred Segal bag. Unfortunately, Option B was equally unattractive. I had no choice but to walk through the packed lobby wearing these shoes:

With this dress:


Until I got to Clare's car, I looked like a hooker who decided to mall walk on her lunch break. Luckily Clare is both brilliant and owns a GPS. I'd barely dropped my ass into the passenger seat when she said, "I plugged 'shoe store' into the Garmin and there's a Payless two streets away!" She merged into traffic, hit all the green lights, and before I could realize I had nail polish on both ankles, she was idling in a handicapped space outside a strip mall.

I burst through the door, caught the eye of a woman wielding a pricing gun and asked "What do you have that goes with this outfit?"

"These is our evening shoes," she said, giving a lazy gesture toward the aisle closest to the register.

Within thirty seconds, I'd crammed both paws into a black and silver pair that didn't look like they were purchased within 15 feet of an AutoZone. "Is that it or do you want to BOGO?" asked the cashier, whose name tag was decorated with a picture of a knife-wielding devil. Perhaps sensing that I didn't know if 'BOGO' was a game or a sex act, she continued with "If you buy one, you get one half price".

"No, I'll just BO, I guess, and hold the GO," I told her. "And I won't need the box."

I teetered back to the car--one sneaker in each hand--and vaguely remember high fiving Clare as she typed the wedding's location into the GPS. If that Garmin had been a person, I totally would've let it touch my boob.

Believe it or not, we rolled in on time. Clare parked the car, I double checked for price tags and we walked in with a couple I'd met at dinner the night before. We'd taken two steps into the brightly lit courtyard when I looked down and noticed I'd somehow streaked myself with ball point pen. I was trying to discreetly lick my own dress when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the woman from the parking lot. "Nice to see you again," she said, "Looove those shoes!"

"Doesn't it feel good to pay less?" I told her and headed for the bar.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

11 Days of Fail: Day 1

In order to properly recount the 11 Days of Fail, I've had to reexamine 2008 and there are so many suck nuggets to choose from. I earned less than ten grand this year, got fired from a job that required a name tag, and--until September-ish--my personal life was emptier than my bra cups. You need more? I've fallen down three flights of stairs on three separate occasions. I threw up in a canoe. I LISTENED TO FALL OUT BOY. Obviously Oh-Eight will go in the books as a giant casserole of Ugh. So let's dwell on it, shall we?

Day 1: The Credit Card Shredding

The first installment is also the most recent. This time last week, I was in Arizona with The New Boyfriend (TNB) who won't be given a different nickname until he loses that 'new boyfriend' smell. We spent two nights in Tucson at the Hilton El Conquistador* and--as I noted before--after spending 99 miles on the interstate, we just wanted to toss our bags in our room and head for the nearest bucket of tequila.

That was salt-rimmed mistake number one, not because I drank a lot, but because I have the alcohol tolerance of an earthworm. After one drink, I'm in love with you.

Two, I'm licking your face and may have proposed.

Three, I'm naked and arguing with a Rent-A-Cop about why I can't go down the waterslide again.

Anyway, I was buzzed enough to decide to do something thoughtful and pick up the tab for TNB, his sister, and INSANELY ADORABLE niece (who was not drinking). I stumbled toward the bartender, plunked my card on the counter, and she tried to convince me that I should just start a tab. Shaking my head, I insisted that I just wanted my check and possibly a receptacle to vomit into, so she gave me a receipt to autograph and--pleased with my overpriced round of generosity--we all headed back upstairs.

Luckily, I saved my receipt because that's the last time I'll do anything nice for anyone, ever.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. TNB and I had dinner at the hotel's Dos Locos** restaurant, because nothing is more appetizing than associating mental illness with the people who handle your food. We had a couple more drinks. We watched college football. Yes, I think I would like one more. We went to the outdoor hot tub tepid pit*** and then one of us may or may not have fallen asleep mid-sentence and awakened with the imprint of the nightstand on her face.

The next morning after breakfast, we stopped by Target to pick up a couple of things and when I whipped out my wallet there was...nothing. No ATM card, just my license, a couple of withering business cards, and my perpetually maxed-out Visa which I keep handy in case I need a bookmark. I rewound the night and realized with a shrug that I'd probably forgotten it at the pool bar. No worries, unless someone had drained my bank account by ordering a plate of nachos.

When we got back to the hotel, I made a frantic trip to the front desk where a helpful employee wearing a polyester vest and a permasmile told me not to worry, that he was sure the bar staff had either locked my card in the cash register or turned it over to hotel security. "No se preocupe," he said, although at that point, I was pretty fucking preocupe'd.

He smiled, patted my hand and made a call to the security station. Three sentences in and his expression started to darken. "Oh really?" he said, eyebrows jumping to high five his hairline. "You're kidding...we actually do that? Maybe you should tell that to her" He placed his hand over the receiver before passing it across the counter. "He wants to talk to you. Lo siento."

I took the phone warily, having complained about enough undercooked Mexican meals to realize that lo siento doesn't mean "Here's some really awesome news".

"Is this J-Money?" the heavily-accented baritone on the other end began.

"Yeah, you have my credit card?"

"Had.", he said, coughing before he continued. "We had it. Our bartender turned it in to my office, we checked for your name on the guest registry and when we didn't find a match, we destroyed the card."

"Destroyed? Like...just put it on a high shelf and waited for me to come pick it up?"

"Destroyed as in shredded. As in it's gone. Lo siento."

I handed the phone back across the counter and realizing I didn't know enough Spanish to say "Thanks so much, lunkhead" I gave a very American "Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT." I had no ATM card, no checks, and a worthless credit card, so I'd have to survive for another week on $52 and three McDonald's Monopoly pieces.

Stomping back upstairs, I immediately called my bank**** who was less than helpful. They wouldn't mail a replacement card to any address that wasn't stamped on my checks, despite the fact that I provided my SSN, date of my last transaction, and promised to send them a basket of candy. I hung up, paced around the room, then called back when I realized that my neighbor was collecting my mail so he could get the card and overnight it to Arizona. But, of course, the bank still wouldn't play nice. They wouldn't overnight it--their first offer was a glacial 7 to 10 business days--but they could send it Three Day Priority for an ADDITIONAL FIFTY DOLLARS because they apparently use envelopes made of BluRay discs.

Fast forwarding a bit, I survived by paying part of my Visa bill so I'd have enough available credit to cover eleven days of airport parking, spring Pigpen out of the kennel, and buy a chocolate peppermint milkshake at Chick-Fil-A. Now, of course, I'm maxxed again because trying to pay that card off is like trying to fill the Grand Canyon by peeing in it.

Ten days later, and Godot will probably show up before my ATM card. When I called to check in with them on Saturday morning, they hadn't even mailed it so I had no choice but to fork over fifty bones. I hope like hell it's in the box tomorrow...I could really use a drink.

* Official Motto: "So Long & Thanks for All The Smallpox".
** It can't be a good sign when the first thing mentioned in a review is the restaurant's fabric selection.
*** No, not for that. Just to relax. Because doing that, outside in full view of the hotel would be lewd, irresponsible, and can also give you a nasty yeast infection.
**** Their name sounds exactly like BB&T.*****
***** Which is an acronym for Bend over Bitch & Take it.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Arrival and Cross Check

So I made it home from Arizona, scoring Boarding Class B tix for the flight back which meant instead of perching on a tray table, I had an actual seat--an aisle seat, even--giving me easy access to the flight attendant's snack basket* and an un-worked crossword in the inflight mag. I also got a nasty cold, courtesy of the Human Microbe beside me, a man who spent three hours and thirty-six minutes coughing, sneezing, and being as aggressively contagious as he could without actually licking his hands and wiping them on my face.**

When I wasn't checking the pretzel package to see if they had enough Vitamin C to protect me against Lord Rhinovirus who insisted on draping his diseased limbs on my armrest, I was taking notes about the other passengers and jotting them on the back of my air sickness bag. My fave transcontinental friends this time were:

-- The fortysomething woman with skin like a baked potato and oversized breasts so new she'd barely peeled the price tags off. Her entire outfit was inappropriate, from her skinny jeans that were bedazzled with skulls on the back pockets to the pastel hued UGG boots that made her look like she'd gotten each foot stuck in a Care Bear's ass. Creepier still, she was carrying a cardboard crate from Build-A-Bear. While we waited to board the plane, she periodically opened the box and pulled a stuffed rabbit out by its ears. I initially assumed it was for the same kid whose closet she'd raided, until midflight she grabbed it out of the overhead bin and smothered it in her equally overstuffed cleavage while she slept.

-- The cockdragon behind me held up our takeoff because he refused to get off the phone. The flight attendant urged him to turn his Treo off--a request he repeatedly ignored, waving her away as he dropped the words "anywho" and "co-inky-dink" in the same sentence.*** When she threatened to yoink him off the plane, he hung up with an exaggerated sigh, and busied himself for the duration of the flight by kicking the back of my seat. Anywho, the second the landing gear kissed the runway, he immediately dialed someone so they could have the same exchange that EVERYONE ON EVERY SINGLE EFFING PLANE HAS TO HAVE:

Hey, I just landed!
[pause]
No, I'm on the plane!
[pause]
WHAT?... I'M ON THE PLANE!
[pause]
I'M STILL ON THE PLANE...WHAT?
[pause]
WHAT? I'LL HAVE TO CALL YOU BACK.

-- The couple across the aisle spread a miniature version of Scrabble across their tray tables, a game that becomes an unintentionally hilarious spectator sport when neither of the participants can spell. Right before my Xanax kicked in, the male half plunked down the word "BABONE" which he described as "that monkey with the blue ass". She nodded, marked his score, and triumphantly built the word "CARRIGE".

-- A couple with three kids got on the plane arguing with each other, probably because she was pregnant again with--from the size of her stomach--what was either a litter of golden retrievers or a golf cart. They took their seats, each struggling to staple a child in beside them. Everything was quiet as we taxied down the runway when she yelled, "You know, your dad has really gotten racist since he moved to South Carolina."

He responded with nothing, so she continued. "Seriously, I always thought your mom was the racist one, but no, it's him. And he's gotten even more racist lately."

Her husband--who I'd already christened Johnny Applesemen due to his K-Fed levels of fertility--unfastened his seatbelt, stood up, and whispered something to her, possibly along the lines of "I'll get you pregnant twice next time" before calmly taking his seat. She didn't say another word.

* Not a euphemism.
** As a result, I've spent the better part of two days shuffling around in my pajamas. That's not entirely different than my regular workweek, except my t-shirts are stained with cough syrup and chicken noodle soup instead of just Diet Coke and my own tears.
*** Another personal tenet of mine? I refuse to have sex with anyone who uses the word "co-inky-dink". Consider yourself warned.
__________

But I made it back, despite my airborne disease, and I'm trying to get back to work. Starting today and continuing until I forget about it Christmas, I'll be posting the Twelve ELEVEN DAYS OF FAIL, recounting some of this year's more spectacular personal disasters, the ones that haven't already been written about. When I told The New Boyfriend about this idea, he said that this list was already 100% Fail because the real 12 days of Christmas didn't start until December 25, but whatever. That makes it even more Fail-icious.

Look for the first post later tonight. No, really.
__________

One more quick programming note... I haven't forgotten about LOLHouse! I'm just technologically barren right now, like the MacBook version of Jennifer Aniston. I had to replace my old PowerBook a few weeks ago and was unable to transfer my copy of Photoshop because, um, it wasn't exactly purchased at a local retailer. What? DON'T JUDGE ME. Anyway, hopefully I'll get my mitts on another copy of said software and can fill in the missing episodes before the season resumes in January.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Putting the "I" in Arizona

Greetings from geriatric Arizona, home of the giant Saguaro cactus, supermarkets that sell liquor, and a large chunk of John McCain's face. I’ve been here since last Wednesday to see The New Boyfriend, who picked me up at the airport, tossed my bag in the back, and immediately took me to an In-N-Out burger. The fact that he watched me eat a Double Double with cheese without recoiling in horror or abandoning me in the non-smoking section with meat juice dribbling out of both sides of my mouth means that he's a keeper on a number of levels.

Wednesday morning marked the first time in recorded history that I made it to the airport on time, lugging my 48.7 pound suitcase to the Southwest counter and reveling in the fact that they allow me to take ten days worth of ironic t-shirts across the country for free. The only downside to Southwest is the lack of assigned seating. I was slapped with passes marked Boarding Class C, which means "Please fold yourself into one of the overhead bins and someone will extract you before we continue service to San Jose".

On
Thursday, we drove from Phoenix to Tucson to check out the course for the Holuaualaouaua Tucson Marathon, which he's been training for longer than we've been dating, although our relationship has probably been more painful. The course was mainly downhill, starting in the mountains and snaking through the small towns of Oracle and Catalina whose major industries seem to involve woodcarving or selling puppies. We stopped for lunch at the historic El Charro Cafe, the restaurant that invented both chimichangas and ambiguous bathroom labels. When forced to choose between a door stenciled with 'Charros' or one with a drawing of something that looked like a retarded goat, I selected the former and learned that while I'm apparently not a Charro, those who are freak out when you barge in and watch them pee. We came back to Phoenix, did a workout with his track club then went out for hot wings, which combined with the salsa at lunch to ensure that my colon would spend the next 48 hours weeping.

Friday morning, we drove back to Tucscon to check in at the fabulous El Conquistador Resort and Collection of Kokopelli Statues to hang out (and try to keep him from clawing his face off) before Sunday's race. We dropped our stuff in the room and immediately took off toward the pool bar for the El Conquistador Margarita which is a $9 glass full of Patron and bad decisions. I got Conquistador'ed enough to forget my credit card at the cash register--a mistake which ended with me sobbing to four different nametags at the front desk (and one that will be detailed in my upcoming TWELVE DAYS OF FAIL series). We had more margaritas at dinner, a couple more while watching ESPN's coverage of the Who Knew SUNY-Buffalo Had a Football Team Game so I woke up on Saturday morning facedown in the Arizona Vistor's Guide beside hastily scribbled directions to a Hopi Indian village.

Breakfast on
Saturday was at a buffet that specialized in ambrosia salad and elderly lesbians. Unfortunately, we were two bargain-priced plates in before realizing that any restaurant that classified Sunkist as 'juice' probably wasn't an optimal pre-race meal. The rest of the day was spent doing pretty much nothing, other than eating more excellent Mexican food and watching his niece be adorable. She has more Cute in one ringlet that I've accumulated in 100-something pounds. Also after a week here, I've gotten fluent in speaking 3-year-old, which is a language the Rosetta Stone people should look into, especially the translations for "I am on the verge of pooping", "Seriously, I'm about to unleash this right now" and "OK, I may need a wetnap and a change of pants".

Sunday--Race Day--began at 2:45 a.m. Neither of us could sleep and we had to be in the lobby before 5 to catch the buses to our respective start lines, so I ignored my 'Never Let My Skin Touch Hotel Carpet' rule by spending half an hour doing several stretches I remembered from either yoga DVDs or porn. We strapped the timing chips to our shoes, chugged our final bottles of Gatorade, and said goodbye as he got on the marathon bus and I took the ride to the half.

They dumped us off before sunrise in the middle of the desert, within a mile of the Biosphere, that scientist-designed ecosystem of the early 90s that spawned an unfortunate number of Jay Leno jokes and--even worse--a Pauly Shore movie that I refuse to link to. I had a pretty good day on the course, running a PR of 1:33:17 and crossing the finish line without soiling myself.

There were supposed to be showers at the end but that proved to be a myth, so I had to break my OTHER life rule of never being naked in a portajohn, where I changing clothes before finding The New Boyfriend's Family and waiting for him to finish his 26.2. His time of 3:24:48 was also a personal best (and his incredibly detailed race recap is posted here).

Since then we've been in Phoenix, spending our days moving slowly around the house and our nights trying not to accidentally touch each other's sore spots, which is sadly not a euphemism. Because of the course's Black Diamond-level downhills, I've winced every time I've gone up and down the stairs and have had serious internal debates with myself about whether I had to pee bad enough to justify the pain of sitting on the toilet. If I hadn't been draped across someone else's upholstery, I probably just would've let it go, which--based on the prominent displays of adult diapers in the Fry's grocery stores--seems to be a popular option here. We felt mobile enough on Tuesday night to venture out for some stellar sushi at Sushi Eye and
yesterday I got a sewing lesson from his mother, which means that in some cultures he and I are now officially married and he owes my family a head of cattle.

About this time tomorrow, I'll be heading back to Slappytown, still a bit sore and sad to say adios to him and his family. All I can hope for is that I'll see them again...and that next time I'll be in Boarding Group A.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

This Space Available

Hello, interwebs! I'm in Arizona visiting The New Boyfriend, spending quality time with his awesome family* and recovering from the Tucson Half Marathon**.

Anyway, I'd written more words about my stay in the Land of Enchantment The Constitution State The Arizona State*** and my new-yet-still-prone-to-sucktastic-freakouts MacBook ate my post. I'll be re-writing it and tossing it online later today. I've missed you all.

* Who quickly forgave me for breaking a towel bar on the first day.
** He ran the full marathon. Showoff.
*** I think the actual motto is Don't Touch That, It's a Scorpion.

Monday, December 01, 2008

Tastes Like Disappointment

Because my body is a Temple (of Doom) and also because my monthly income is less than a subscription to US Weekly, I frequently find myself idling in the drive through lane, waiting to suckle from Wendy's bargain-priced, bacon-covered teat. Tonight, I broke from my 'Double Stack and Child's Size Frosty' habit to sample Her heavily advertised Gourmet Mushroom Swiss Burger. Unfortunately, the item that was thrust through my open car window looked nothing like what I'd seen in the pictures. Instead of this:

I was given this:

Yes, I still ate for under a fin, it still had the fat-tastic flavor I've come to depend on, and it still made my car smell like a hobo's pants, but I can't help but feel cheated. It's like falling for someone's cover model-caliber eHarmony picture but when you meet them, they look like a rotting squash.

And they don't have nearly enough mushrooms.

Suck It, Oxygen Network


After a sleepless Saturday night involving an endless parade of Hugh Grant movies on cable, I've finally developed a healthy loathing for him, his sleepy eyes, floppy hair, and delightful personality.

The opposite of "Thank You" goes out to Lifetime, Oxygen, We, and any other uterus-based television network* for shoving his upper class accent and stammering speech patterns into my retinas AND for somehow rendering me incapable of changing the channel, even when confronted with 124 minutes of Notting Hill, in which Hugh woos, spurns, and re-woos Julia Roberts and her creepy lip cuticle.**

*Collective Motto: "Because Sometimes Midol Isn't Enough".
** And through the magic of HD, I could actually see her growing rows of new teeth. Like a shark.