Dude. A Shameless Plug. And a List!

Sometime last year, I had this epiphany about getting older, and in true drama queen fashion, I tried to spell it out on the blog so that everyone could taste what it was I was feeling:

I am facing one of those those life jolting moments where I was young and innocent, but then BAM! Just like that, I now feel old and worn out - like that picture you envision in your head (or maybe just I do) about how your life is split into 2 halves - half walking up one side of the hill (and there are birds and sunshine and a nice summer breeze and it's happy), and the other side of the hill - well - you know - the side with withered old trees and everything is black and dead and it's freezing cold and you don't have a coat, and you are essentially walking downhill until you are in your grave, because, well, the grim reaper lives at the bottom of the hill.

I have one foot in the grave.

I was trying to use a little hyperbole to mix things up a bit - because, well, I don't use enough of that around here.

Ahem.

And sure - it's true that I've started to notice those crazy crow's feet people are always whining about - they're slowly taking up residence around my eyes...and I think there's a possibility that a kangaroo mistakenly placed her kid in my belly, because I have this mysterious pouch there that wasn't around when I was 27. And there's that extra pocket of insulation growing under my chin that must mean I am evolving into a more superior - and warmer faced human.

Note to self: "Oh man - you are totally gonna get a million hot dates with THAT description running around loose in cyberspace."

Dude. If you are reading this and you are a man, pay no attention to the above paragraph. Oh no. There's no need to be scared off because of my exquisite beauty descriptions. You needn't hate me because I am beautiful. Or sarcastic. Or whatever.

Ewwwkay. The digressing.

So the point, good people, is that TODAY is my birthday! WOOT WOOT! Which means, I must be wiser, right? Either that, or I want all of you who lurk about here silently to reveal yourselves to me by wishing me many happy returns, or good luck with the word vomit thing, or whatever. Because word vomit? It's hot. And so is shameless birthday advertising.

The lovely Camille happens to share this splendid date of birth with me * , and published an inspired list of accomplishments she has made in her short life to celebrate. I was totally going to copy and do that here, but you know what? There's no way I could ever top her list.

So how about this - as a birthday present to me, let's make a list of all the lovely accomplishments all of our bitchin' girlfriends have made in this world. That way, when the crow's eyes and the kangaroo pouches start to get us down, we can reflect upon our exceeding awesomeness. I'll start:

1. We are one of the first generations that has really broken through the glass ceiling and succeeded in the workplace in much the same way as the men of previous generations have. [Editor's note: Don't even get her started on her theory about the men her age...]
2. Not only do we have more access to high-powered careers, but many of us are choosing to stay home and raise babies instead. That? That is totally impressive, if you ask me.
3. We have more access to travel and culture than our grandmother's did - and most of us are taking full advantage. Seeing the world, learning about other places, all of that good stuff. The world is getting smaller everyday.
4. We've lived through the Cold War, the war on drugs, the attacks in 2001, and will, um, hopefully make it through that never ending conflict in the middle east (grr). For the first time in history, many of the soldiers defending our fine country are women. That's cool.
5. We've seen the economic up's of the 90's, watched our jobs fly out the door as a result of outsourcing, and are now getting a sense of what a recession tastes like. And you know what? We women - we keep saying "bring it!" - like it's a bull fighting contest that we won't back down from.

Your turn. Don't let me down, y'all. This better be the most comment-en-est post I've ever had.
No pressure!


And when we're done - let's go eat birthday cake.



* For a long time, Camille and I would forget this interesting tidbit - and when we would hang out, it would come up in conversation...and we'd both be like "Whoa! Your birthday is on the 31st! ME TOO!" And then Kate would roll her eyes because, duh, we have this conversation everytime we're together. Good times!

Variations in Cloud-age

I ask thee:

How did we ever live without the technology that is Photoshop?

From a "blah" original (albeit an original taken from my back door...ahh!):

To these lovely variations:

Tra la la!

I think I have just found a new monkey for my back.

A Contradiction in Jewels

For some reason, I have recently developed this intense love of jewelry. I have always had my standard necklace and earrings - the ones that I never take off (and if I did, then ew - hazmat would probably have to come quarantine a 40-mile radius around me...given all the yummy ear sludge build up).

That's right folks. Sludgy ear build up. I'm not above discussing such atrocities around here. Go eat your lunch with that mental image in mind. Or whatever.

So where was I going with this? Oh. Right. Jewelry. There is, however, more to this train of thought that I am embarking on, but I promise - there is a point. Hang in there whilst I try to get to it.

In addition to jewelry, I loooooove Audrey Hepburn. She was/is the picture of all things feminine and lovely and graceful - thoroughly magnetic onscreen, and in real life, she was this altruistic humanitarian type. I'm drawn to that. Ask any woman who knows of her what they think, and I would bet dollars to donuts that they all say they love her. Well, ok - maybe not dollars to donuts. Dollars to something less glazed? Maybe. Or dollars to euros? Ooh! There's a plan I could make work right now.

Right. But finally, we come to the third arm of this train-wreck of a thought: Thanks to work, I have to spend all this time in Manhattan. And of course, it's not all work - I mean, when in Rome, right? If you are like the average "corporate tourist * ", you spend your free time wandering around China Town, the Meatpacking District, Central Park, 5th Avenue, Little Italy, the Village...blah blah blah. You might even accidentally end up in Queens **, once or twice. And if you are MY kind of corporate tourist, this means you WILL ALWAYS make at least one pilgrimage to Tiffany & Co. Let's call it an "homage" to the lovely Audrey - It's a "Lynette" thing.

Right. So allow me to sum up:

THIS:

PLUS THIS:

(Or 5th Ave, as the case may be...but whatever. I don't have a picture of 5th Ave.)
PLUS THIS:

...has turned me into a jewelry lovin' mama. More so now than ever.

NOTE: We have finally reached the portion of our programming wherein I get to the original point of this post. If you made it this far - hoorah!! You have the reading stamina of a librarian on speed. You, like me, are not averse to wordy-run-on-sentence-while-running-around-in-circles-to-get-to-the-point writing. We're blog soulmates.

Tiffany's then. The other day, my mom and I were on the Tiffany's website having a gander - mostly having a heart attack at the cost of things, and wondering how many people really spend that much coin on jewelry (I'm talking like $90,000 on necklaces and $18 bajillion dollars on rings - completely mind boggling), when we came uponst this little gem:

Ahem. And I just want to point out that if you were a peace-lovin' hippie from the 60's, and you now own this - well shame! And if you are just some yuppie wanna-be who purchased this, well then, you just don't get it.

Lame. I'm not so sure I love Tiffany's the way I once did.

* Those stuck somewhere in between the "locals" and those who are "real life tourists". We pretend we are Wall Street suits during the day, then lace up our walking shoes at night to breath it all in. We are all total frauds.
** This would never, ever happen, say, after splitting TWO bottles of high-dollar French wine with ONE other (small, stick insect-ish sized) colleague...only to accidentally get on the correct train - the "E" - which happens to be heading in the wrong direction. Nope. Never.

Family Resemblance?

I've been working with my Grandma to scan and retouch pictures for my next installment of "The Book". I love being able to pepper her with questions (a luxury I didn't have when I put together the previous edition); I'm pretty sure that she enjoyed all my queries as well. She reminisced all day and into the next - which is great mental exercise...trying to recall the little details of one's life from many, many moons before.

When she pulled this picture out of her box of goodies, it was like I was staring at a small piece of myself, and frankly - weeks later, I.CAN'T.STOP.LAUGHING at it. Observe:




Methinks she has a small animal, a late afternoon snack (preserved for later), or perhaps even a pint-sized child wadded up in each cheek. She calls herself "Crazy Guggenheim" whenever she looks at it, which is such a crack up - to hear an eighty-something "young" lady of such distinction call herself that. Have you ever met my grandma? She truly is the essence of a lady.

Oh, how dead I would be if she knew her image was now swimming around freely in the internet ether. And I do mean DEAD. As a door knob. Or is it a door nail? I bet my grandma would know.

I digress.

Too bad I am such a gambler that way - some things are just too cute not to share. Shh! Let's make it our little secret.









*Maniacal, evil laugh ensues*

Come Along, Neighbor

I was watching the news this morning, and they ended their broadcast with an interesting tidbit. I swear to the holy powers that be that I am not making this up:

Today is the official

"Wont' You Wear a Sweater?"

day - in honor of everyone's favorite children's television show host. See:

Today would have been Fred's 80th birthday, so to celebrate, people everywhere are evidently using their wardrobes to honor him. I personally think this is hysterical...I mean - who among us wasn't haphazardly plopped in front of the tellie and forced to endure Lady Elaine Fairchild, and Mr. McFeely, and all those factory tours...just so that our frantic mothers could have a wee moment to refresh their sanity?

Oh. Probably I wasn't supposed to tell the whole internet about my mother's favorite Nanny. Sorry Mama.

I was totally going to write this long post about how YAY! It's the first day of spring! Woot Woot! The longest winter of death IS OVER (you know - that winter wherein I did not get to participate in it's lovely, snow filled goodness?).

But instead, I'm just gonna pull on a sweater and roll with it. Perhaps you should too. Too bad I don't have a pair of those groovy sneakers!

Narcissism at its Finest

I usually hate those email quizzes that you fill out about yourself and then forward to the entire universe. "What's your favorite bath soap and if you could meet anyone before you died, who would it be?" and la di da. However, the other day, my sister sent me a quiz with a twist: instead of answering the questions about myself, I had to answer them about her - to see how well I know her, or whatever. And actually? It was kind of fun.

Here are the answers I sent to her...about her. How about we have a contest? Because I am all narcissistic and all, how about you all answer these about me, and I'll post them here? And you know, I'd be happy to do the same for you. Then - just think! We'd have built in blog material for days, and maybe even something to cackle about. And I'll give $1 to the answer that cracks me up the most.


1. Where did we meet?
On a cloud in heaven, whilst eating cotton candy and listening to God's administrative assistant make the "who's family will you be in?" assignments. You threw your candy to your feet when they called your name and yelled, "Eh! Why do I always get the broken ones?". Interestingly enough, this endearing trait came through with you to earth and has manifested itself every Christmas morning since you were born.

2. Take a stab at my middle name:
Jo-sepphy? Jocephus? Jo-Jo Gadget?

3. Do I smoke?
Heavens no!

4. Color of my eyes:
Your eyes are like the untouched, crystal pools of the melting polar ice caps. Or the sky on a crisp January morning - the kind where there is no inversion sludge or pouty rain clouds to muck things up. Unless you have consumed 75 beers the night before, and then they are like those cheap after-dinner mints you get at Sizzler. And I can say this even though I am not the least bit attracted to you.

5. Do I have any siblings?
You have 2 of THE MOST EXQUISITE - nay - MOST ENCHANTING and PERFECT sisters of life. Truly - could you have had any better luck that morning in heaven when you thought you were getting the short end of the stick? I think not.

6. What's one of my favorite things to do?
If you could make a living playing "Guitar Hero" from your living room floor, you would be the Donald Trump of video game addicts. Aside from that, you love to go camping, like to cook (which, BTW - what are you making me this Sunday?), and also like rescuing cats and dogs a la "Doris Day" and her modern day animal rescue compound.

7. What's my favorite type of music?
You will never deny your deep-seated love of Country music, no matter what the rest of the world says, I think because it must be part of the family genetic makeup.

8. Am I shy or outgoing?
The Magic 8 Ball says you are shy. But that? That's a lie. You are the loudest, most talking-est human ever to walk the face of the earth.

9. Am I a rebel or do I follow the rules?
Hmm. To which rules do you think the survey refers? You are responsible - pay your bills, go to work, don't cheat or lie; but you don't allow yourself to be boxed in by any theocratic rule, and you are happy with that. Some might say that makes you a rebel. Seriously though. Who cares what they all say?

10. Any special talents:
You used to be able to do a real head spin when you were about 4. And you always win the "who-can-scream-the-loudest" contests. And then there's that one thing... [Editor's note: It would have been too cruel to publish that "one thing" here. The niceness factor of my personality just made a rare appearance.]

11. What am I most adamant about?
I can't conjure up anything specific from the archives of my brain, but I can testify that when you get an idea in your head, you will see it through regardless of how insane, impractical, unruly - whatever - it may be. This is most definitely a result of that day in heaven I mentioned earlier - you (and the rest of your blessed family) were also standing in the "pig-headed/stubborn" personality trait line the same day.

12. How many children do I have?
None, so far. But never fear! My psychic powers tell me that at least 6 are on their way.

13. Thought or memory when hearing my name:
There could never be just one thing that enters my head when your name is mentioned - there are just too many lovely things to choose from.

14. If you and I were stranded on a desert island, what is one thing that I would bring?
Your hubby (and let's see, perhaps he would say a bottle of Bourbon in answer to this question? That way you'd have everything you need!).

Seriously Invasive, Says I

So, I know - I totally live under a rock, or in Mayberry, or whatever. I like to pretend that my existence is very private, and that unless I advertise all of my gory details, most people won't give me a second glance. I monitor my credit. I try to keep this blog pretty anonymous*. I rant and rave about the Patriot Act and what it might do to my privacy rights as a citizen of the good ol' US of A, but truthfully, when it really comes right down to it, I don't think about what a privacy invasion might mean to little ol' me.

And then? Then my papa pointed out that there is this "feature" on Google Maps that totally rocks my privacy world.

Try this for yourself:

1) Navigate to Google Maps and look up your address.
2) Click the "Street View" link.
3) Resist the urge you may have to CRAP YOUR PANTS. Please. Or, failing that, keep it to yourself.

If you are too lazy, allow me to give you the low down - following the simple instructions above will show you an ACTUAL PICTURE OF YOUR HOUSE. On the internet. With like - all of your embarrassing lawn ornaments and everything published for the world to see (and then naturally, if you are like me, you will immediately jump to the whole "and also where all of the stalkers and B & E experts - like Karen - can virtually case your joint").

*commence pants poopage*

I am pretty much appalled with the whole deal. Google LITERALLY installed this massive camera on a truck, then DROVE IT AROUND the streets of our fair city (and every other paved surface on the face of the earth) taking pictures of everyone and everything they could. Thank God I wasn't walking around nekkid in front of the windows that day! Sometimes, the stars really do watch over me.

There is, however, a teensy upside to the whole thing - and that is this short (yet hysterical) video. I can't stop cracking up at the part that starts at about 1:15.

Take a moment to compose yourself (unless this is totally old news to you, in which case you should disregard all of my excessive UPPER CASE PANTS CRAPPAGE from above), and then enjoy.






* Ahem. Shut up.

My New Plan for Career Development

Last week at work, they announced the winners of this fancy-schmancy award they give to a select group of employees every year. My original understanding of the award was that it recognized people who were high-achievers, or those who really give a lot of themselves to turning out high quality - so of course! Imagine my happiness when I was nominated for one of these awards a few months ago.

Then yesterday, I saw the list of winners.

And you know - you always hear people say "...it was just an honor to be nominated...", right? Which I still believe might totally be true, if you actually respected the people who actually won. I mean - there are indeed a couple of winners whom I actually do respect. Then there are those who were recognized that make my head spin, which makes me consider chucking it all, packing up my stapler a la "Office Space", and moving to Tahiti to be a barmaid on a beach.

But instead, I have just decided to mirror their work ethic*, and as such, have put a 13-step plan into place to accomplish what they did:

13 Sure Fire Ways to Win the Coveted Corporate

"Pat on the Back" Award Next Year
My collection of behavioral observations that seem to attract recognition -

some not unlike my own, some? Not so much

Carry on torrid affair with an office peer and have no discretion. Note: This includes being absent from work at regularly scheduled "hotel rendezvous" intervals and hence, not able to do any actual work...or even "fake"/"pretend" work, for that matter.

Alienate all office peers with crusty looks and attitude when I hear they are gossiping about said affair (the one I am flaunting in their faces).

Call people "Fat" or "Ugly" or anything offensive, and do so at inappropriate times and at regular intervals. Additionally, only pay attention to the "hot" guys, and go out of my way to make the "ugly" guys feel even uglier. Accomplish this by giving "view only" access rights to my thong underwear whilst in office settings, or sticking my chest out when the occasion calls for it (which means constantly).

Yell, rant, and rave over every little detail that seems wrong-ish. Turn up the "passion" at every opportunity.

Treat consultants like giant piles of poo. To their faces and behind their backs.

Never work any overtime. Also known as "quit working 472 hours a week".

Refuse to travel anymore.

Refuse to be a good partner with the client by strategically placing roadblocks at various stages of the project (become an expert "bottle-necker"); by making insanely bad architectural recommendations to them, and striving to assassinate quality.

Start working "(Enter any lazy colleague's name here)" type hours. This might include logging in at 6 am to send an "I am hard at work email", then going back to sleep til 10 am; waking up and sending another email (perhaps designed to show how I was totally available via cell phone during an all night install, or whatever, and since I am such a martyr I am now busy with a full day's work, etc.).

Always manage upwards; never loop in colleagues who are at my peer level or below.

Throw anyone (and everyone) under the bus; do so whenever possible.

Always take credit for everyone else's hard work. (Note to self: Figure out how to legitimize such actions so that when the smart, observant people complain, I can whip out a paper trail.)

Delegate everything, regardless of how tedious ("Can you please compose and send an email for me? But first, cook me up some bacon and some beans**, then get over here and give me a pedicure.").

I have confidence that my new goals will help me reach even greater heights of career development and employee stardom.

The End.






* Right, like that will happen.
** Song reference, anyone?

And Then - SHE Almost Shat Herself

Ahh, dear friends. Have I got a thrilling adventure for you - a GUEST POST - brought to you by none other than the lovely (and typically blog "anonymous") Karen. This? This could be the funniest and most embarrassing thing that ever happened to a person. Woot woot! I am not the current front runner in the most embarrassing of embarrassment contests anymore!

Enjoy!

"The Door Was Open"

By Miss Anonymous Karen (aka "Outlaw Lou")

"So…after a fine day of cross country skiing, I drop my friend off at her house, check the time, (hmmm..it’s only 6:30pm) and decide to oogle a bedroom set I put money down on last weekend, just to go see if I still like it. I get to the store, and notice that as I pass, it looks kinda dark…however…there are several cars parked in the prime spots, and there’s no “Closed” sign posted, so I park a row over and head into the store. When I get to the front door, it strikes me again that the interior of the building looks darker than usual and there don’t seem to be any people wandering around…but I quickly glance at the store hours and see that 9pm is the closing time, and that 6pm is the Sunday closing hour….”whew”… thinks I, “there’s still lots of time left to check it out”. I grab the door handle and pull. Nothing happens. It seems to be stuck. I grab the other door handle and pull…and walaaah, it opens.

Hmm..what’s that funny chirping I hear? “It must be an alert sound to let the sales guy know someone is here”, I say to myself. I take a closer look at the surroundings. “Geez, why are half the lights off?”, I wonder. And “Why hasn’t that chirping sound stopped yet, and where is the sales guy?” I wander over to a desk area where they are normally sitting. It looks abandoned. The chirp sound continues. “Hmmm…well, maybe they are upstairs with a customer.” So, I go to the stairs. “Uhh…this looks pretty dark”, thinks I, “but there’s gotta be someone here”. I go over to the front door and read the backwards lettering….” It says 9pm, there’s gotta be someone here!!”. The chirping continues. I wander back over to the desk area. Still no one appears. I continue the conversation with myself…“Welll…they have to be upstairs helping someone, after all, the door was open and it’s says right on the door that they
are open until 9pm.” The chirping continues. I head to the stairs. (The stairwell is the kind where you go up 6 or 7 stairs, then do a 180 degree turn and take 6 or 7 more steps, so you can’t see the upstairs level from the downstairs at all.) I take a step. “This stairwell looks pretty dark”, I tell myself. The chirping continues.

I take another step.

REALLY LOUD sirens start blaring.

“Uhh-oh”, thinks I.

I walk back to the desk. Still no one appears. “I guess there really isn’t anyone here??!” I walk towards the front door expecting SWAT teams to come blazing in…."I can’t just walk out…what if there’s a video monitoring system?! I’ll be on the 10 o’clock news in one of those ‘Have you seen this person’ news flashes!”. The conversation with myself continues.....”and what if I get to my Tahoe and the police show up and block the parking lot exit and arrest me for fleeing the scene of a crime?! No way! I’m staying right here.” The sirens continue to blare. “I wonder if they have a number so I can call someone and tell him what’s going on?” I walk over to the desk and find a handy yellow sticky note on the phone with “Darwin’s” home and cell phone number. “Yeah! I know Darwin! He’s one of the sales guys, or part owner or something.”

I pick up the phone and dial. The operator comes online, “You must first dial a ‘1’ before placing this call”. Dang it! I hang up and dial again, this time with a 1 and the 801 area code. It rings. Someone answers, but then the line is dead. I call again. It rings. Several times. I let it ring. The sirens continue to blare. After about the 8th or so ring, someone answers. It sounds like a female voice, but I automatically ask “Is this Darwin?”. The voice answers “yes”. [Obnoxious editor's note: Darwin sounds like a girl? You bought a mattress from a guy named Darwin with a girly voice? Ahh ha ha ha!]

“Ohh, well, Hi Darwin, this is Karen blah blah blah, and I’m in your store with the alarm's going off. The door was open and I came in.” I hear a low groan coming from the voice, followed by an “Ohh no”. The voice continues, “The front door was locked.” I reply with something like, “well, uhh, yeah, the right side door was, but the left side door was open, so I came in and here I am. I couldn’t find anyone, so I headed upstairs to find someone, and…the alarm started going off”. Another groan from the phone. “I just left a few minutes ago, I’m still on the freeway, I’ll turn around and come back. You can just go to the front door and let yourself out.” I say “Uh…what if the police get here?!…..no way!, I think I’ll just stay right here and wait for you to get here.” The voice answers, “Oh right. The police aren’t there yet, huh?
Okay, I totally understand, go ahead and stay put, I’ll be right there.”

I park myself behind a display desk with a tall back so I’m hidden from the front door in case the SWAT team shows up. [Obnoxious editor's note 2: What? Did you think you were
gonna get mowed down by machine gun fire? Laughing.my.ass.off!] The sirens continue to screech. My ears are starting to ache and I wonder how much long-term damage is being done. I sit. And sit some more. In my mind, I see the store hours again and realize that it was laid out as what equates to M-F 9-9pm, Saturday, NOT Sunday, as 9-6pm. The phone rings. I wander over to check the caller id. “Private line from an 801 number” the readout says. “Hmm. Wonder if I should answer that?” I don’t. I go sit back down behind the tall display desk. I look over at the mattress I bought and wonder if I should go test it out to see I still love it. An image of the SWAT team finding me sprawled out on the mattress changes my mind. [Obnoxious editor's note 3: Sunday morning Tribune Headline: "SLC SWAT mow down innocent bed tester in after hours burglary caper"]

I sit some more.

And some more.

The phone rings again. I go look at the display again. “It’s not Darwin’s number…I’ll just let it ring.” So....I let it ring.

I go sit back down.

I wait some more.

The sirens continue to blare. “Geeez!!…doesn’t this alarm system have a timer that turns all this off after like 20 minutes?”, I wonder to myself.

I sit some more.

I gaze around at the windows looking for flashing police car lights or guys with UZIs taking positions and flashing ‘all clear here’ signs to each other as they make their way to the front door.

No cops. No lights. No SWAT team. I wait.

I decide to text a couple of friends….the person I just dropped off and the person who recommended this store. I sit some more. No one answers the texts. I sit.

A thought comes to mind..."No one is going to believe this, I need to capture the sirens blaring somehow!” My phone!! It does videos! That’ll get the sound! I pull the phone out and find the setting for ‘video’. I take a short clip. I try to get a picture of me, but I forgot the lens was on the other side of the phone and mostly miss me. However!!...the sound part works really well. The sirens are still blaring. I play back the video. “Giggggglee...giggle”. I look over to the windows for signs of activity. Still no SWAT team action.

I play the video again.

More giggles.

I sit.

I play the video again….finally I hear someone rummaging around at the front door. I close my phone, hold my breath, and slowly peer around the display wall expecting to see uniforms, and preparing to raise my arms in surrender. [Obnoxious editor's note 4: This is the funniest part of the story, if you ask me. Karen, crouched down behind the high counter cracking up at her accidental and unfortunate larceny stint - and then preparing to extract herself, arms up - criminal style.]

Instead I see Darwin. I breathe. I stand up and walk to Darwin. I start getting text message replies. I ignore them for the moment. Darwin turns the alarm off and we walk to the front door and he starts to provide an explanation about how the door must’ve not latched correctly. I repeat my story….well, I kind of vomited out the whole story again…” Karen fashion”…in one long sentence and with breath to spare [Obnoxious editor's note 5: I'm so proud! My word vomit training is taking the world by storm!] . Darwin
looks blankly at me and sort of nods. The he says, “Well, you must have come here for a reason, what can I show you?” I reply, “Well, I just came to look at a bedroom set I’ve already bought, but just want to make sure I still like it, but really, we don’t have to go look at it.” He insists that we do. We head towards the stairs and go up them. He finds a light switch and, walahhh…there is light everywhere. My phone rings….I ignore it again. I go over to my bedset and glance at it, but seriously, with the ring of the sirens still echoing in my ear (even though the alarm has been disabled for, like 3 minutes by now), how is it possible to really “look” at bedroom furniture and decide if I chose wisely or not?! I try to do my best at evaluating it since Darwin has gone to so much trouble for its sake.

“Well, do you still like it?”, he asks. I quickly say “yep, I do”. He replies, “Well, good, I still like it too.”….however, I pick up on the slight air of, “even if you don’t like it, it’s too late now”. I wonder to myself if I just made that up, or if it really is too late. I decide I don’t care. I just want to get out of there. I reassure Darwin that every thing is good, I like it, I’m happy with it, we can go now, and I head back to the stairs. He follows. I go to the front door. I’m trying to figure out how I can make this work for me and get something out of the deal for “trauma”, but I can’t think fast enough on the bargaining.

I scope the outside for police lights or guys in black suits and rifles. Nothing out of the ordinary is there. He opens the door and lets me out. We say an awkward goodbye. I walk to my car, giggling most of the way at what has just happened, then start replying to text messages.

Moral of the story: If a store looks closed, it probably is. Do not attempt to enter. Back away slowly and leave. Oh….and when in doubt, do not speed read the “hours open” sign. REALLY, read it."

The End.

And now - drumroll please...

Allow me to present...Miss honest-as-the-day-is-long Karen caught in the act of mattress thievery:

Ahh. My guts hurt. Methinks we're getting a little too used to these kinds of episodes around here. But and accidental B & E? That is just way too good to be true.

Ooh La La!

Oh Camille. You will be so proud of me. See:

I BOUGHT RUBY SLIPPERS!

Off to New York, so please bless* that the day I wear these:

• My knee holds up to the heels,
• I don't fall on my face in front of a NYC bus whilst wearing them (deja vu), and
• If things get too gory at work, and I decide to tap the heels together and say "there's no place like home" - well, it really works, and I am transported back to my comfy couch (shoes in tact, of course) and all of my worries are washed away.

* "Please bless" is a shout out to Kate. So also, please bless Kate that little Toria gets her butt here soon!

Poll

My ex-husband just informed me that my ex-mother-in-law's cancer is back, that it is inoperable, and that she has a year, maybe two to live.

Do I send her flowers? Or a card? Do I phone her? Perhaps do nothing at all?

Egads. This one is awkward as ass.