SWF seeks brain.
I am an idiot.
First of all, I misread my Outlook calendar last night and thought I had to be at work for an 8:30 meeting this morning. I did not. There was no meeting. I left my apartment (and subsequently woke up that much earlier) 25 minutes before I normally would. Traffic sucked, as it usually does at 7:50 AM on a Tuesday.
And yes, it's TUESDAY.
I was walking into the front door of the building as a very important agency person (Molly, you've received calls for him) was getting out of a car, presumably back from the airport. I headed up the stairs, pleased that I had actually worn nice clothing (grey slacks, black sweater) today instead of looking like my usual scrubby self.
And then, I ate it. I tripped over one of the steps and went stumbling headlong into the front doors. Said important agency person laughed as I sheepishly held the door open for him and said "Yeah, it's Monday."
IT ISN'T MONDAY, YOU MORON!
It's Tuesday. Fuck!
On the agenda for tonight is a healthy dinner, the gym, and TV. I have to (HAVE TO) go to sleep by 10 PM, as I have to (HAVE TO) go to the gym tomorrow morning before work. We're going to a Stars game tomorrow night, and then probably out afterwards--we haven't had a good weeknight drunkfest in a while, and I have a feeling we're due for it.
For those wondering what the hell is going on.
I've been blogging elsewhere, and kept meaning to move said posts over to this blog (on the off chance anyone still reads it.)
I finally got around to doing that today.
In the future, I'll post them in both places. Enjoy.
Breakfast casualties.
I've adopted a new plan for eating in the new year.
It goes into effect today, mostly because if you read my description of dinner last night, you know there is no way in hell I've abided by it yet.
Monday through Friday, I eat as heathily as possible. Saturday and Sunday are mine to blow off in terms of eating like absolute shit. However, on Friday mornings, I get to have a breakfast "treat"--namely because I never eat breakfast, and because it's Friday. And that always deserves a little celebration.
Today, I decided to swing by Starbucks on the way to work, figuring that since I was late anyway (wreck on 35. fucking 35.), 5 additional minutes wasn't going to kill anyone. Plus, since my supervisor and I live all of 8 blocks away from each other, chances were good that he was also running late.
He did beat me to work, for the record.
At any rate, I left Starbucks $5.25 poorer, and in posession of a grande Caramel Macchiato and a chocolate donut.
(Sidenote: I liked Starbucks better when it was free or deeply discounted.)
I saw the donut in the display case--one of those chocolate glazed jobs. I love those donuts. I got to work, sat down at my desk, took a sip of the coffee, and then plunged my hand into the bag to grab my donut.
Key word here: plunged.
Yeah, I saw the underside of the donut in the display case. The top of the donut also had chocolate icing (oh man, is it Friday). The top of the donut is what my hand just connected with.
Lovely.
Oh well. Time to put in a little less than 2 hours of work, then we're off to the Four Seasons for our pedicures. I hope that Jen remembered to wear open toed shoes... or I'm going to have a lot of fun telling everyone how goofy she looked walking back into work in those temporary foam flip flops they give you.
It's funny, the things that stick with you.
I was in a meeting this afternoon at work, just before quitting time. A radio network was in to introduce our new sales rep to the media department.
Towards the end of the meeting, discussion turned to the comeback of talk radio. Someone asked whether Paul Harvey was still around... they assured us that he was, though he's got to be something like 86 at this point. This prompted a few Paul Harvey jokes ("His picture was taken when FM radio was introduced!"), and my supervisor turned to me and said "You probably don't know who they're talking about."
I actually do.
My dad used to pick me up from gymnastics practice, before the days when I was at workouts 20+ hours per week. We'd stay to watch the older girls for a few minutes, then head home so that I could finish my homework and eat dinner.
This was back in the days of the Oldsmobile Cutlass--not to be confused with the Oldsmobile station wagon that I inherited when I turned 16. The Cutlass was navy blue, and ancient. I came home from the hospital in that thing, and it stuck around until I was 12. The seats had the kind of padding only seen in senior citizens' land yachts nowadays, with bench seats in the front and the rear.
I digress.
My dad has a thing for talk radio. AM radio will stay around at least until he dies solely because it's the only thing that he listens to, apart from a few Bruce Springsteen, Paul McCartney, and Beach Boys CDs. Every drive home from practice, he'd have the Paul Harvey Show on the radio.
Every practice, my tortured 11-year old soul would beg him to change the station, to no avail. Paul Harvey was there to stay, no matter how much whining and pleading I did.
Back then, money was tighter. We didn't go without--we had sports, and my mom was always home for us. It was a tradeoff. We didn't go on big family vacations, and meals from McDonalds were a treat. I can probably count on two hands the number of times I went out to a "real" restaurant before junior high. As such, things like randomly buying supplies to make rice krispie treats at the grocery store were not the norm.
But every time we made that drive, with Paul Harvey in the background, my dad would pull into the Popeyes drive-thru and order me a small Coke and a biscuit.
When my supervisor asked me if I'd heard of Paul Harvey today at the meeting, I smiled, thought about those drives home, and said yes.
Oh, Lou Bega!
You were so charming and catchy when you released Mambo No. 5. It was so thrilling to finally have a song involving Mardi Gras that could a) be sung in front of small children without getting you arrested, and b) be understood without the aid of a lyrics search on Google.
I realize that you're one-hit wonder. You'll undoubtedly appear on the next five versions of the VH1 show dedicated to such musicians. I realize that a lot of what you had going for you rested in the hat that you wore at a jaunty angle and the sexy bite to your voice. I realize that your success had more to do with whomever wrote the song, and very little to do with who actually sang it.
But Lou, baby--did you really have to stoop to doing the Applebees commercial to pay off the enormous debts that I'm sure you racked up during your moment in the sun?
3rd grade redux.
I feel like I'm on a field trip.
My lunch today consists of a small bag of Doritos, a peanut butter sandwich, and a can of Coke. Wrap some foil around the Coke, stick me in a park somewhere with 90 eight year olds, and I'd swear that I was back in 1991 on a field trip somewhere in New Orleans.
(Sidenote--I've noticed that field trip coolness varies directly in proportion to the type of district you're attending school in. New Orleans? We went to the Sunbeam Bread Factory (remember that one, Simon?) and a (free) national park. Virginia Beach? Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Nags Head. Seriously, folks)
I should be entering program information into flowcharts right now. I'm not. Obviously. My attention span is everywhere but on my work today. I just need to survive until 5 or so, and then I can go home and decompress on my couch. I need a second job. Badly. At this point, an extra $70 a week would make an enormous difference in my life. I'm so tired of living paycheck to paycheck. It brings back memories of the Summer of 2003, when I was so broke it was painful.
The peanut butter sandwich also reminds me of that. Try working an unpaid internship, taking classes, and trying desperately to find a part-time job that actually pays you. I never did, and subsequently wound up funneling my grocery money to my entertainment fund (which was still woefully inadequate), and thus spent the entire summer eating instant mashed potatoes and peanut butter sandwiches. On a good week, I had fresh fruit to go with the sandwiches. On the upside, I was really skinny. On the downside, I was probably bordering on malnourished.
The point to this is that I don't want to have to live that life again. When I was 21, it was tolerable for 3 or 4 months. Now that I'm getting close to birthday #24, I'd like to have a little more of a financial cushion. I just sat down to figure out what I'm paying out of the paycheck I get on Friday. Car payment, insurance, credit card, electric bill, apartment fee, and I'm left with a whopping $168.25 to hold me until I get paid again on the 30th. And it's not as if that
paycheck is going to rock my socks off, because once I pay the rent, I've killed nearly 70% of my paycheck.
I'm just sick of being so worried about money.
AmiLynn has amazing timing, as she just emailed me a link to an online tutoring site that pays $10/hour. I'm going to apply as soon as I finish this entry.
If anyone else has any ideas of how to earn money on a part time basis, preferably not weekends (that's My Time), throw 'em at me.
Misinterpreted conversation.
Jen and I just finished watching the first episode of The Bachelor: Paris.
We've learned that it's never OK to list "My eggs are rotting and my clock is ticking" as a reason why you'd like to settle down.
Now that it's over, she's sprawled on the couch, and I'm camped on the floor. I'm watching the news, and she's surfing the internet.
So imagine my surprise when she looked up, held her hands a little ways apart, and said "Is this seven inches?"
I dare you to say that you didn't automatically think of that.
Listening...
to Jen have a talk with her dog.
A 4 pound Chihuahua who has decided that in order to live a happy life, he must have a bite of my peanut butter sandwich. Apparently he feels that the best way to accomplish this goal is to make noises like a creaky door. I didn't know that dogs could make those noises.
Highlights from the lecture include "Koa, I have one word for you. Adoption. SPCA, buddy.", and "Son! It is not manly to beg for sex or food. STOP."
And on an unrelated note, I just overheard this gem from a phone call she's currently on:
"I'm sure she's seen more than two sets of balls to have a comparison."
I think they're talking about me.
An open letter to Austin.
Dear Austin,
I love you, dear city. I really do. And because of this, I feel as though I should warn you of what you're going to face this weekend.
You see, there's a celebration scheduled for Sunday afternoon at Memorial Stadium. It's just a little shindig being thrown to honor the National Champion Texas Longhorns, complete with the band, cheerleaders, Bevo, and tens of thousands of insane Longhorn fans.
As such, I'm sure that you're anticipating a large crowd of idiots to descend on the Austin City Limits (I still need to steal one of those road signs...). But even though you're prepared for frat boys, former frat boys, crazy middle-aged alumni who like to try to drink the way they did in college, crazy young alumni who tend to forget they're not still in college, and just generally crazy fans, I don't think that you're ready for one of the possibilities.
See, AmiLynn and I may both be in Austin this weekend. And so help you, if we are, I cannot promise to act in a classy manner. Actually, I can promise to act crazy and get absolutely toasted, and I can promise that she'll be crazy and absolutely toasted, and we all know that a crazy and aboslutely toasted AmiLynn can be the stuff of legend.
So I apologize in advance, promise to document the weekend with an obscene number of photographs (though hopefully the subject matter will not be obscene), promise to contribute to the local economy, and promise to do my best to represent my second-generation Longhorn self.
Love,Kelly
Dear MollySara,
As I'm sure you can tell, I'll be in Austin this weekend. A little birdie told me that you will be as well. I'm trying to convince Jenny to come down with me--help me out here, OK?
Love,Jenny needs to see Austin and actually remember it.
Missing: motivation.
I'm a lazy bastard.
In my defense, this is really the first Saturday in a month when I've had nothing to do, no one to answer to, and no obligations to fufill. The weather is gorgeous--I'm sitting in my apartment with the windows open and good music playing. I've only been awake for 3 hours, but I'm thinking of taking a nap.
Nothing to do or not, there are some things that need to get done. I need to do laundry because I'm running out of clean clothes. I need to go to the gym lest I develop an epic ass. I need to go to the grocery store because I have no toilet paper or Coke in the house, and that just doesn't work.
I don't want to do laundry because I'd have to sort out my clothes and walk the whopping fifty feet to the laundry room. I don't want to go to the gym because I'm sleepy and lazy. I don't want to go to the grocery store because, duh, the grocery store on a Saturday afternon is hell on earth. I'd almost rather go to the mall.
I'm going to keep being lazy until Jen calls me back. Then, I'll start to think about getting a plan going and accomplishing something today. Until then... I'll be on the couch, under my fleece blanket, dozing off.
Oh, and while I've heard rumors that they're doing the celebratory parade in Austin after school starts up again, I can't find anything concrete online--does anyone know anything? I'll definitely be coming into town for it, so the usual suspects should prepare themselves for a potential appearace by me on their couches.
And Matt and Carey, if you two aren't in town, so help me I will cut you. Not really. But I will be unhappy and begin to think that you're avoiding me.
And a new tradition is born.
For those of you who are living under a rock or away from any and all forms of mass communication/human interaction, let me start by informing you that the University of Texas (at Austin) won the Rose Bowl last night, and subsequently the 2006 National Championship. They defeated the University of Southern California (I felt like using full names--more formal, you know) 41-38 in Pasadena.
Alright.
Originally, my plan was to be at this game. However, since that didn't happen (I still don't want to talk about it), I decided to do the next best thing--drive to Austin and watch it there so that when we won, I could go apeshit on Sixth Street.
Unfortunately, work this week has been all hands on deck, and I was unable to get the time off. That, and I have $50 in my bank account to last until the 15th (ouch). Remember to pay parking tickets on time so that they don't suddenly drain $55 from you. On that note, remember to examine streets from six inches away for signs of a BRICK CROSSWALK WITH NO WHITE LINES. *ahem*
Thus, I was forced to go with the next best alternative: watching at a bar in Uptown Dallas with several hundred other insane Longhorn fans... and a few annoying USC supporters. We wound up at Frankie's and snagged a pretty sweet corner table (no small feat considering that Frankie's apparently allowed reservations, and this was the only table left, and we ran over a few people on the way to snag it... kidding).
Highlights:
- yelling to the point that I had no voice this morning, and my throat still hurts
- Free Crown & Cokes from the Crown Royal Girls (and bless them, because there is not enough money in the world to convince me to dress in referee striped halter tops, short purple shorts, and boots)
- high fives every time the damn ball moved in a way that favored Texas (my palms are bruised. I'm not kidding)
- the genius guy standing next to me who decided it was a good idea to slam his fist into our table when we did something wrong, thus sending two glasses full of water EVERYWHERE, including all over 1) my pants, and 2) Andrea's purse
- Text message conversations with AmiLynn (I capitalized the goddamn second letter, OK?) involving the words "fuck", "cocksucker", "hell", and "love". Just trying to throw you off with that last one.
- The crazy employee who painted his (bald) head to look like a UT football helmet and ran around with a GIGANTIC burnt orange flag, directing the crowd in chants of "Hell Yeah, Fuck Yeah!"
And now, the new tradition.
Whe we played Ohio State in Columbus this year, I watched the game at a bar in Frisco with friends. When we were about halfway through the fourth quarter and didn't seem to have a prayer, Ryan and I left and decided we'd watch the remainder of the game at his apartment nearby, thus saving ourselves from public humiliation from the impending loss.
I left that evening with a bruised shin from jumping into the corner of Ryan's coffee table when we defeated Ohio State.
Last night, with 6 minutes to go, I gave up. I turned to Andrea and said "I can't do this", and we started to leave. A friend we'd made said "But you guys can't go now!". I replied "Well, when we played Ohio State, I left at about this point and we won."
"Get the hell out of here."
Heh.
Sure enough, I headed home to watch Texas go on to score twice more and win, 41-38.
While they didn't result from last night's activities, I have to wonder if it's any coincidence that my right shin is sporting a killer bruise right now.
Thus, I am now to leave any game that seems to be following this pattern, so long as I am not watching it in person. For the record, I was present for the Rose Bowl victory over Michigan in 2005, so apparently I'm just shitty luck when I'm at a bar.
