Creative Juice Wasteland

To my fellow readers: as I always say, I'm completely flattered by your continued dedication to reading my blog. Especially when I never really have anything important to say.

I know posts have dropped off recently... but I'll be back soon. There is a lot going on right now, as far as family issues go. My grandma is dying and my sister is getting married. Not to mention my mother drives herself up a wall with worry -- so, understandably, she hit the ceiling last week and hasn't come down yet. So life is a bit heavy right now. Not to mention that a few of my close friendships aren't exactly "friendly," and I don't have the patience, energy or drive to fix them. Not a good place to be, I know. But it's all I've got right now.

So the creative juices aren't exactly flowing at the moment, hence the lack of posts. I'll be back though, I'm sure, after a few more baseball games, work mis-haps, and wardrobe malfunctions.

So I Don't Have To... Parts Two and Three

So I'm a slacker, and I totally forgot to link you guys to Part Two and Part Three of my Belizian adventure. Please find my comments below.

Way Too Hot for Sex (or the hotels) - July 18

I'm not a huge fan of being hot. And I'm even less a fan of sweating. And I'm a huge fan of sleeping. So you can imagine my frustration of being hot and sweaty and trying to reach for the sweet release of sleep. So when Carolyn and I discussed the impossibility of, say, staying in this room as a honeymooner or as someone celebrating an anniversary, it was mainly because you couldn't pay me to have sex in this room we stayed in (and I guess I should take this moment to say that you couldn't pay me for sex, period... but you know what I mean). I wouldn't care if David Hasselhoff walked up the stairs and said, "Hey baby, can I come in?" The answer would be no. And then I would go lay on the bed by myself, naked in front of the fan, spritzing myself with water.

Carolyn also said, "We had one rough morning there, after a night of a little too much beer, but perhaps I should let MAH field that one."

*Fielding: basically we were a total shit show at the San Pedro Lobster Fest and I (after sobering up quickly prior to leaving the bar... Carolyn you can field that one...) ended up completely, debilitatingly hung over the next day.

In addition, that night I ended up sleeping with a spider and got seven spider bites on my legs that went from dime to quarter size over the following three days. And the burning itch was ten times worse than hemorrhoids. It was bad.


Beer, Bracelets, and Beachside Breakfasts (or the food) - July 22nd

Talking about La Playa, Carolyn said, "We met a couple friends here: a somewhat-emaciated stray dog, the color of sand, whom MAH dubbed 'Sheila' and Israel, a server at the restaurant who invited us to go out on his boat to a private island (we declined). "

What Carolyn neglected to mention is that Sheila was not only somewhat-emaciated, but she was also flea-infested. The dog was just itching itching itching itching every time we saw her. And if she wasn't itching... she was sleeping. Camouflaged. Because her fur was the exact same color as the white sand.

And I'm sure you wondering about the "Sheila" name. I can't explain where it came from. It just seemed natural that her name be Sheila. I don't even know a Sheila. Sometimes, when I see an animal that I don't know, I just automatically name them - because I love them. For instance, in Cambridge during our England tour, I was walking down a neighborhood street with three friends and we came across a cute, clean, kitty. After she didn't dart away from me (the reaction most cats have to my attention) I started scratching her head and said, "What's your name, Catherine?" Not so funny to you, I'm sure, but it sure as hell has been a running joke between those girls that were with me that day. So Sheila, Catherine... who's counting?

Also, the bracelet Carolyn talks about - the one I left on the table and found on the waitress' wrist the next day -- was from my fabulous friend, Sophie. She gave it to me when we were in eighth grade. It was one of my most favorite bracelets, but I didn't wear it that often because one of the wires the beads were threaded on snapped a few years ago, and consequently poked me in the wrist all day long. But, ironically, it was her birthday when I was in Belize...and even more ironically, she got in engaged when I returned home... and I guess I was just thinking of her, so I took it with me on my trip.

So, as Carolyn says, "We decided not to say anything (what would you say?), the awkwardness of bringing it up outweighed the worth of the bracelet. I guess we left with the satisfaction of knowing that there will always be a little part of MAH in San Pedro." Although I probably don't agree that the awkwardness outweighed the worth - the bracelet was priceless - Carolyn was right about the satisfaction. I knew that in the very same month Sophie was born, and the very same month she would get engaged (23 years later), was the same month that a Belizian waitress found the coolest bracelet on her table. Hopefully she'll come to be blessed by it as much as I was.

Also - Estelle's. Definitely one of my most favorite places in Belize. Reason one: they had breakfast food... my favorite. Reason two: they had coffee... strong coffee. Reason three: the meal was hearty enough to cure one of the worst hangovers I ever had.

*See previous.

45 Minutes and a Fondle

I hate the bus. Honestly. I do. I realize it is supposed to be good for the environment and promote efficiency and is supposedly better for everyone in general. But I'll tell you one thing - it's not good for my blood pressure.

My bus ride is approximately 2.11 miles from Queen Anne to Downtown. I mapquested it. I walk about a block down from my front door to the bus stop on the corner of Third Avenue W and W Olympic Place. Then I ride the "1" (which changes to the "36") to the corner of Third Avenue and Union Street downtown. Two point eleven miles. That's all. Mapquest estimates a seven minute drive.

It took me 45 minutes to get to work this morning. And let me tell you... it would have been worth the $8 it costs me to park and the $2 it costs me in gas to drive... because now I'm just ruffled and irritated and just plain PISSED at the metro system. This is not a good way to start my day. It can only get worse from here, people.

Let me break it down for you. I leave my front door at 7:50 am. The bus is late, as usual, and doesn't show up until 8:05 (you know the bus will be 3 minutes early on the ONE DAY you plan to allow for its lateness). So I get on the bus at 8:05 and the bus driver's accelerator pedal seems to be playing dodge ball with his foot. Truly, the man cannot find the accelerator. So we coast for about 10 minutes (with a mile-long tail of cars behind us) to the stop in front of Uptown Espresso. You know the one. Next to Kid Valley, on the bottom of Queen Anne.

An impressive .27 miles from WHERE I STARTED TEN MINUTES AGO.

And please don't even get me started about the ginger bloke that rides the bus with me everyday. And stars at me. In the eyes. Sitting across from me. We ride the exact same line: same starting point, same ending point. And while I'm sure he's a nice enough, normal enough guy, I swear that one of these days I'm going to stare straight back at him, bug my eyes, stick out my tongue, gag, pull my hair violently out to the sides of my head and yell, "DIDN'T YOUR MOTHER EVER TELL YOU IT IS RUDE TO STARE!!"

Perhaps that will cure him of his habit.

Then there's the lady sitting three feet to my right, hacking up a lung and, if she's been to Whidbey Island lately, is probably infecting everyone on the bus with whooping cough. And cougher is sitting next to an overweight lady, dressed in all gray (including her hair), reading a book while tears stream down her face. Now, does she wipe them? No. She lets the tears trickle down her face to the tip of her nose and I can't help but watch the thing bobble and dangle for a few seconds before dropping onto her protruding belly, leaving a charcoal mark on her gray sweater.

So FINALLY, 20 minutes later, we get to the Bed Bath & Beyond Downtown (on Third and Lenora) and I'm thinking to myself, thank you sweet Moses, we're almost there. We pull over to let another 300 people on the bus (including a woman who felt the need to put her plastic bags of FOOD up against me and breath directly onto the top of my head) and I'm just sitting there saying to myself, "Have patience. Have patience. Have patience," and I see yellow lights pull up behind the buss -- a service vehicle. Something is wrong with the bus cables.

And just as I'm about to stand up and walk the remaining 11 blocks to my office, the bus driver gets back in and MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, pins down the accelerator a mere 20 yards before the next bus stop.

So finally, at 8:25 I arrive at Third Avenue and Union Street, the end of my line. And as if I hadn't had my personal space invaded a couple dozen times before 9:00 in the morning, this big man is blocking the back door so that I have to brrrrrrush up against him to get out.

Now, this situation always poses a problem. Because do you give them your front? Or do you give them your back? This man is obviously not going to move out of the way. He obviously is not willing to step two inches to the right and let me pass. So in order for me to get off of this bus headed straight for Satan's garden, I HAVE to push past this man. Ass or boobs? Ass or boobs? I almost always go with the ass. And that's what I did this time. SICK.

So I walk into my office at 8:35 this morning, 45 minutes and one fondle after I left my house.

Needless to say, I will be driving tomorrow.

Cookie Dough Condolences

My dad’s mom is dying. And I say “dad’s mom” instead of “grandma” because “mom,” in my family, means more than “grandma.” To me, it’s a bigger deal that my father’s mother is dying than it is that my grandmother is dying. I hope that doesn’t sound harsh – I love my grandma. Dearly. And she is (was? Not sure what tense to use here…) a fabulous woman who always wore skirt suites from Talbot’s and thin silver and gold bangles. Even while doing dishes.

But to me, mom trumps grandma, and she’s my dad’s mom.

Perhaps this says more about my relationship with my father than anything else. My dad is… everything – for lack of a more descriptive word.

I wouldn’t say I’m a daddy’s girl – 1. because I hate that term and find it offensive, and 2. the incarnate of what those words mean wouldn’t be tolerated in my family. My dad was the final word. My dad was the spankings – the bad ones at least (and not because it hurt, but because when DAD spanked you… well… you really were a little shit). My dad told us no. And yes. My dad advised, still advises, to always have “assured clear distance” when driving. My dad is my harshest critic – when dad says he’s disappointed in a soft, deliberate voice it’s a million and one times worse than a screaming match with mom.

So for me, a daughter who knows her only "true love" in life to be her father, his pain is my worst ache. It’s not necessarily a “heavy heart” or any of those other cliché phrases that actually accurately describe the feeling – but it’s more of a deep, in the bones of my rib cage ache that grows to a muted broken feeling when the frog appears in my dad’s throat.

This is his mom. This is the woman who pushed a watermelon sized baby out from between her legs and then raised that watermelon to be a humble, infinitely wise, funny, odd man. And she is dying. Within the next month, she will be gone. And my dad will be an orphan – at age 56, my father will be parentless…and you can’t tell me that orphanage is any easier at 56 than it is at say, 22.

My dad buried his dad almost ten years ago. Buck. Grandpa Buck. A strapping guy really, who robbed the cradle…big time… and married a woman 14 years his junior. I mean think about it… he was well into puberty by the time my grandma was born.

And really, I see so much of my grandpa in my dad sometimes. My grandpa, a man who would load up the shot gun, swing it over his shoulder, and march out to shoot those bastard muskrats who ate the tomatoes in his Akron, Ohio garden, is the same man my father is when he shoos and violently beckons Penny, our senile family boxer to stop eating shit in the yard.

So why am I telling you this? Why am I going on about Grandpa Buck and Grandma Jane? I guess it’s because they are responsible for creating my father, who is responsible for creating me. And I am not me without my father. And I wonder if my dad feels the same way about his mother.

Death has never been a taboo subject in my family. My crazy ( and truly fabulous) Uncle Edward, my dad’s oldest brother, talks about hitting 90 years old and drenching his shed in gasoline, lighting it on fire from the inside, and dying with his coon dog, Basker, by his side. “Burn baby burn,” is what he says.

My dad says that when he’s too old to eat or shit, he’ll just walk down the hill to the Puget Sound and never come back. “Don’t come lookin’ for me,” he’ll say, “ 'cause I’ll already be gone.”

And we all laugh. Because we are a massively dysfunctional family. And we love it that way.

News of my grandma came tonight, during the first dinner with the first set of future in-laws. My other Uncle, my dad’s other brother, Arthur - the real hero here because he's the only family memeber left in Ohio, beside my grandma - called my dad to say that Grandma was basically in a comatose state and didn’t recognize or even acknowledge Arthur when he walked in to her nursing home room.

And trust me, this didn’t come as a shock. We’ve been playing the dementia waiting game for two years. But tonight was the first time I heard my dad say, “We need to get her to a hospice.”

I learned the meaning of the word hospice ten years ago when my grandpa died. It’s where people go to die. Comfortably.

A comfortable death. For who? Grandma? I sure as hell hope so… because death, in my book, is far from comfortable. At least for me. And my family. And my dad who is loosing his mother.

But as my dad and I are in the kitchen and everyone else is out on the side porch and we're getting ready to pop some cookie dough into the oven for dessert, my dad’s updating me on the state of my grandma. I’m brewing a pot of decaf.

And this is why I love my dad more than I could ever explain. I love him because he prepared and cooked a three course, better than Ray’s Boathouse meal for Ben’s parents. And then, dessert was chocolate chip cookies. But not just ANY chocolate chip cookies. These were New York Times featured recipe cookies with sea salt. And he made the dough 48 hours in advance because it needed to spend some time in the refrigerator. And then he prepared two baking sheets with perfectly round cookie dough balls so that when he asked me to go fetch them from the basement refrigerator, I couldn’t help but think, “Rachel Ray, you and your EVOO abbreviation don’t have shit on my dad.”

And so my dad is telling me that his mother is dying while prepping cookie dough to put in the oven. Can you see why I love him? Because he is so real sometimes it kills me. And then right after he says that he’s not going to travel to Akron to see his mom one last time because she’s been gone for a while now and she wouldn’t recognize him anyway, he turns and says to me, “do you think it’s okay to serve these on a dinner plate?”

And if I’m real with myself – if I can be half as real as my dad – the reason my grandma’s soon-to-be-death is so upsetting to me is because it forces me to realize the lifeness of life. It makes me realize that one day, God willing, I’ll be standing in my own kitchen, with my own daughter, talking about how my dad is dying.

And that thought friends, is completely ironic. Because although I know my dad raised me to be a woman that can stand on my own if I need to, he’s put me at a disadvantage to deal with death because he has shown me so much love. He fills a part in my heart that will be forever empty when he dies.

And so, with my grandma dying, I can only imagine that feeling of emptiness my father will feel - the feeling he has felt for the past two years. And really, I guess I have to remember that we’re all lucky to feel something like that. Because then we know we’ve truly been loved.

So I Don't Have To... Part One

I told you a few weeks ago that an entertaining post was coming soon about my week-long vacation to Belize. Well... Carolyn beat me to it. Which is fabulous.

She approached the subject logically, deciding that the best way to inform our friends of our many adventures was to do four instalments.

Instalment One, "Lucky Star Bonita (or Ambergris Caye)," went up today.

So now, I don't have to do posts about Belize. I can just link you to what I'm sure will be a more eloquent, better described, foul-language devoid account of what went down on the Island.

I will also post a few notes of my own (on my blog) regarding each blog entry she does.

My note on this one: The lyrics I so easily mistook went like this...

"Lucky stahhh, bonitaaa." (sing it...with a staccato mark above "stahhh")

Actual lyrics:

"La isla, bonitaaa." Consequently also the title of the song. Amazing how I missed that.

Battle of the Buldge: President Taft vs. Gilbert Grape's Mom

One of my most favorite things to do is post g-chain e-mails on my blog. I don't know why I find them so funny...maybe it's because I think my friends are fabulous. And witty. And bring-you-to-tears honest. But this time...we're just plain mean. And we are all going to hell for this particular conversation about our friends' co-worker, also known as, Eater.

M: "Why does what Eater is eating gross me out so much?! I often find myself just staring at her eating – its almost barbaric, the way her head is like 2 inches from the counter top, just shoveling. And I kind of vom in my mouth sometimes."

K: "That is very disgusting."

C: "I can just imagine the look on your face while you are staring at her. Head tilted down a bit, mouth open a little. Totally.

Could you subtly take a picture of her sometime? Too bad your phone doesn't have a camera."

M: "Just to add to the mental image, the woman wears bad, what-not-to-wear-hidden-camera-worthy clothes. Right now, she is wearing running pants (like the swishy ones from the eighties) and a HUGE wrinkled white tshirt with some logo on the front (like a dad’s shirt, a shirt you’d paint in)."

C: "To WORK? Really? Wow."

K: "TO WORK?"

M: "I forgot to mention accessories. Because she drives motorcycles she wears a GIANT padded black leather jacket and hiking boots.

Every day

Every day

Every day!"

Me: "Like, how big are we talking? Are we talking Winona Judd big? Or like, Gilbert Grape's mom big?"

M: "Big: not HUGE. Not Gilbert Grape’s mom, not President Taft, but big. Shorter than Winona, but about that rolly polly. About 5’-6” probably a size 22 or 24. However, strangely... how do you say... bulbous."

Me: "I guess if she rides a motorcycle she can't be Gilbert Grape's mom big, huh? Unless it's one of those cruisers. Then MAYBE. But she would have to pimp it out with extra thick tires I bet."

K: "President Taft?"

M: "Remember? He broke the fancy claw foot tub in the white house because he was SO fat. Look it up."

For the Love of Lladro

I received an e-mail from my sister yesterday (the one that's getting married in September) and all it said was this:

"What would you say to me if you were randomly looking at my registry and you saw that I registered for this..."

And then there was a link that led me to this:



The title: Lladro "You're Everything to me."

Price tag: $715.00

Description of item on Macys.com: "Lladro enthusiasts have long appreciated the skilled artisans of who are able to capture everyday human emotions through carefully crafted porcelain creations. The "You're Everything to me" figure celebrates love in a casual, beach setting making it the perfect gift for a wedding or anniversary."

I asked my sister if she wanted me to see if I could get it in life size for her.

Good Morning, Stupid

It's not often that I ride the elevator with people I know. Usually, it is a silent moving-coffin ride to the 23rd floor, unless of course, I happen to grab the same elevator as a co-worker.

It just so happens that this morning, after an AWFUL drive to work (Convention Center traffic is a bitch... and it's probably just another animae group dressed like freaks), I stop at the Tully's in my building to grab a grande ice drip coffee (don't tell my dad... it would make him so upset that I am spending my hard-earned money on something I could make at home for a fraction of the price). Then I make my way to the middle bank of elevators.

Two of my co-workers were there. One is a Senior Manager (soon to be Partner) who I work with on a regular basis and the other is an associate I know fairly well.

Plus, there was a handsome guy waiting next to us. Alone. With no ring on his left ring finger - yes, I checked. This is infinitely exciting to me considering that there are few prospects in my building, let alone 6'3" tall, late twenty-something yum yum. AND, he smiled at me. Yes.

So the elevator "dings" and the doors open and we all pile in. As the doors are closing, my two coworkers and I get to talking. The Senior Manger mentions that a few people from our office are traveling to Moscow to visit a client. And, here's the clencher, I say, to an otherwise silent elevator (with handsome yum yum standing behind me):

"Oh... is that the client that used to be in Russia?"

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd then I stuck my head up my butt hole.

Because not only do I looked like a COMPLETE ASS WIPE in front of a soon-to-be partner, but I also do irrevocable damage to the possibility of Mr. Yum Yum wanting to date me. And then marry me. And then make my babies.

The 6'3" yum yum will most likely never, ever talk to me again because, due to a momentary LAPSE IN BRAIN FUNCTION, I didn't realize that Moscow (which just happens to be the CAPITAL) was in Russia.

This is why I do not ride elevators with people I know.

Faux-Pas Firework continued...

And now... if I haven't suffered enough scrutiny today...people seem to have a problem with my lunch.

I'm eating chili. That my dad made. From scratch. And it really is quite tasty. But now, when people walk by my desk, they look at my plate and make a funny face. It's like they think I'm eating poop or something.

So now, I'm a firework eating poop.

Is it 5:00 yet?

Faux-Pas Firework

I walked out my front door today feeling good. I have on an outfit that I love, feel good in, and on top of it, I'm wearing high heals (which boost self-confidence about as many points as inches tall).

I wore the outfit to work for the first time about two months ago. I remember getting a compliment or two on it, but definitely nothing ground shaking.

But today, there was an earthquake in my office.

The first person with a noticeable reaction was one of the partners. A man that almost never acknowledges my presence looked at me, smiled, and averted his eyes. Weird.

The second person to say something was my bosses boss - who I usually love and respect - but not today. All he said was, "wow."

"Wow," good? Or "wow," bad? I'm going to go ahead and assume bad.

As he's standing there with his jaw on the floor, another one of my co-workers walks up to my cube and says, "is it still the fourth of July?" And then laughs as he walks away.

Next, no joke, I go to the copy machine and the office assistant says to me, "You're looking very festive today." Then I walk down the hall to another partner's office - someone who is infamous for telling you one thing and meaning the complete opposite - and HE says to me, "I like your outfit, by the way."

Here is what I am wearing today:








Now, I couldn't find the exact shirt and skirt, but the admittedly not-so-attractive Kenneth Cole dress is actually quite cute as a skirt (I think). I couldn't find a image for this, otherwise I would have posted it. It's not a pencil shape like the dress, but more of an A-line with a pleat in the front. The pattern is exactly the same.

I'm wearing that skirt with a blue sateen button down blouse similar to the one pictured above - minus the pockets on the front.

And the shoes, they're exactly what I have on now. Enzo Angiolini, baby. Love them.

While I admit that I happen to be wearing red, white, and blue, I don't think that automatically qualifies me as a fashion firework gone wrong. While it may not be the best choice to wear these colors the week after the celebration or our country's independence, I still think it's a little harsh to put the black bar over my eyes and feature me on the "What was she thinking?" page of US Weekly.

My good friend at the office, the Burger Heiress, definitely didn't put a bar over my eyes. But she did send me an e-mail with this in the message:



In my defence, all of the negative feedback (besides the e-mail)was from men. I did receive a few wonderful compliments from women around the office, including the Burger Heiress.

So I guess it's a toss up. Bad outfit? Good outfit? I wouldn't call it a success by any means, but I don't think I'm a complete failure. Next time I wear the skirt, I'll definitely pair it with a black top, as to avoid too much "patriotic" confusion.

I'll leave you with a comment my IT guy made when he came by to restore a document I lost: "I didn't know you were on riverdance?"

Not sure how my outfit = riverdance. But it made sense to him.

The Good One

One of Carolyn's best friends just had a baby, Lilian. She is beautiful. And perfect. And her mother looks better than I do on a good day.

There are, oh let's count them... six women in my office (including my boss) that have gotten pregnant and/or had a baby in the last six months.

I am attending five weddings in the next four months. My sister, Erin, will be in her third wedding this summer as of August 2.

There seems to be a trend of love and sex and fertility all around me. In fact, I'm swimming in it. I have my bathing suit on, my goggles tightened, and my flippers flipping, and somehow, I still can't get my head below water.

Dustin and Holly Wood were married two weekends ago. It was a fabulous event. I have never been happier to see two people commit their lives to each other. She was beautiful. Beautiful. And he was happy (and handsome...if I can say that...is that okay, Hol?). It was a moment I will remember for a very long time.

Mervin and Harriet are getting married in just about two months -- the weekend after my sister, Morgan, gets married to Ben. Those weddings will mark some of the happiest times of my life, I think.

And last night... I confess... I watched the three-hour finale of ABC's, The Bachelorette. There's one more couple that are lucky to have found each other, however bizarre their situation was.

So why am I babbling on and on about weddings and babies and love?

I guess I'm having a hard time reconciling why some people find it so surely, so quickly, so effortlessly, and then there are others of us, like my coworker, the Burger Heiress, and myself who seem to come up empty every time. Today, the Burger Heiress replied to an e-mail I sent her (about wanting to go on a date) with, "Where is the guy that treats you like a lady and doesn't turn out to be a giant pussy. I think the problem is that there are all these great guys on the surface and then they turn out to be HUGE F***ING PUSSIES (excuse the language) but its true!!"

After I wiped the tears of laughter from my face, and then cleaned up the charcoal black streaks caused by my mascara, I got to thinking about this. Because, obviously, not all men are duds. Holly found a good one. Morgan and Harriet found good ones. And ALL of those women with babies found good ones.

So really, all I'm saying is... where's my good one?

I Like How You Swayze

I am listening to my faithful PANDORA, Heart station of course, and to my genuine surprise, Eric Carmen's "Hungry Eyes" starts jammin' through my ear buds. This immediately makes me think of one of my top five movies, Dirty Dancing, and then I am consequently reminded of Mervin's house. Mervin wasn't there, but Muscle-ino and Ironingman were.

Here's how it went:

Muscle-ino went upstairs to do who knows what...change his clothes, probably... so I took control of the remote and immediately began surfing the directory for something better than South Park or Simpson's. I promptly clicked the "OK" button when I saw that my main man Patrick Swayze and my girl Jennifer Grey were gettin' busy in Johnny's cabin.

Muscle-ino comes back downstairs and Ironingman walks through the door right when Johnny and Baby start to grrrrrrind. Hard.

Muscle-ino makes some smart comment about, "get it done already" and than asks me, "do they do it?"

To which I say, "of course they do it."

To which Ironingman says, "I want to see them do it."

And really, anyone who knows their Dirty Dancing knows that you don't actually see Johnny and Baby "do it." But you do get to see them do some pretty nasty, naughty, better-than-fore-play dancing.

Get it girl. You go Baby. Nobody puts you in a corner.


And excuse me, because I have to take a moment to give a shout out to my man, Burrito, who does THE BEST impression of me dancing. At first I was in denial. Then I was in awe. And now I'm slightly embarrassed. You sure know how to roll it, Burrito.

I do have one thing on you, though - I was the first to figure out Mervin and your secret language. Take that.

Signed,

The Dirty Ass Dancer

The Sentimental Sweet Spot

There are some things in this life that are shit. In fact, at twenty-two (and I imagine any age) there is often a lot more shit then sugar. But today – this weekend – life was nothing but brown sugar sweetness.

I’m sitting in my favorite over-sized armchair (a hand-me-down from my mom after redecorating) with a pile of peanut butter M&Ms next to me. I just ate a handful (yes...just a handful) of Cheddar and Sour Cream Baked Layes, and if I was eight feet to the right, and outside…and if that damn apartment building behind us would fall down, I would be able to see the cityscape and Puget Sound against a dusk sky. My apartment is clean – dishes done; kitchen, toilet, shower, sink Comet-ed; carpet vacuumed; couch pillows fluffed.

The fridge is cleaned out and freshly stocked with lunch (I de-boned a rotisserie chicken!) and dinner foods for this week (I’m trying to cut down on the eating out) and the pantry (actually, it's a cupboard with two shelves: one for me, one for Carolyn) is reorganized and stocked.

And perhaps most importantly, I have three brand new pairs of cotton, full-butt underwear in the wash right now – soon to be in the dryer. Why am I so excited about this? Because, A. I hate thongs and these are not thongs, and B. new underwear is just SO NICE. I feel like a new woman the first few times I wear them.

And, no, they are not from Costco. I would imagine Karen and Foxy would be disappointed. They secretly LOVED my MASSIVE cotton underwear that I had to roll over three times to avoid an excess of PANTY sticking out of my jeans. I am convinced that they used to sneak around the dorm room when I wasn't there and steal pairs for themselves...because they were just jealous that I had COSTCO underwear.

Or maybe they went missing because they did what any good friend would do - BURN THEM. Ha. Good Lord.

And just for the record – I hate the term, “granny panties.” Actually, I hate the term “panties” in general…but “granny panties” seriously irritates me because A. I am not a granny, and B. full-butt underwear can be sexy. And if they aren't sexy, get over it. Because chances are… if you’re seeing my “granny panties” you’re already one lucky bastard. Unless the panties are from Costco. In which case, I give you full permission to A. break up with me, B. kick me out of your bed, or C. point and laugh.

So all of the above contribute to the brown sugar sweetness feeling I have right now. All of the above, plus the fact that my roommate is sitting on our navy-and-white striped couch, watching Extreme Home Makeover and who allowed me…without me having to ask…some alone time this weekend. In fact… this evening I was here at the apartment cleaning and wondering where she was … wishing she would come home. And now she’s here. And the place is clean. And smells good. And I have new underwear in the dryer. And it's not from Costco. And sometimes I'm in awe of how blessed I am.

I think the brown sugar sweetness was prompted by my trip to Belize. Followed by an unexpected review at work (which almost brought me to tears…in a good way). Followed by a fabulous 4th of July camping trip with 12 of my most cherished friends (who never fail to make me feel like family – who never fail to accept me for who I am – who never fail to make me feel loved – who never fail to remind of how lucky I am to have them in my life). Followed by a wonderful day of errands with my oldest sister and a burger dinner with my mom and dad.

I often complain of my single life and my trials as a twenty-two year old. I was in a bitch-blogging war (“bitch-blogging” – noun; using blogs as a medium to communicate irritation, sometimes severe; the verbal equivalent of a bitch slap) and tend to be pretty negative. But really, all that bitterness and bitchiness takes a complete back seat to everything and everyone in my life that blesses me daily, weekly, monthly, yearly.

So forgive the sentimentality. I can assure you this won’t happen often. But today – these last two weeks – have been truly... well... sentimental.

Search Warrant

Yes. I'm here. And I'm posting. I'm sincerely sorry for my prolonged absence. I went to Belize for a week on vacation and then work was a shit show... but I'm back. And a post about Belize is coming soon to a theater near you...

But for now, I thought I'd let you in on some "search terms" that linked people to my blog. Little words or terms that people typed into a search engine, clicked "find," and were directed to my lovely blog. And really, I hope that these people got the answers they were looking for. Some for health reasons.

- "Flatulence due to head cold."

- "Flatulence worse when sick."

- "How to remove human fecal matter from city sidewalk."

- "Thangs," (yes, thAngs) "a twenty two year old should be doing?" I find it infinitely interesting that this person chose to end this search with a question mark.

- "Alki beach thong."

- "Cellulite khaki." A woman after my own heart, I'm sure.

- "Eyebrow waxing in Belltown."

And my personal favorite - I know exactly who typed this into the empty little box on the google.com home page:

- "Blog that makes fun of prone twenty two."