Things I will do while Bob is out of town

Alphabetize my cd collection (which has virtually nothing more recent than 1994)

Dust my floorboards

Iron all of my ironable clothes, expanding my wardrobe by easily 75%

Color sort my closet 

Learn to play the piano

Read the Bible

Blog.  A lot.  Oh wait, or never because wtf will I blog about?

Catch up on old correspondence

Work out 4 times/day

Wait at the airport overnight for her to return

My current ailments

1.  I have approximately 7,234,128 bruises on my body.  I don’t know why.

2.  My head is sunburned in a line straight down the middle – because I wore perfectly parted braids in my hair for the tubing trip, and perfectly parted pigtails out on the boat this weekend.  My scalp is accordingly peeling. . . and not in a tiny little flecks of skin that I could pass off as dandruff sort of way, but in gigantic chunks of skin that make people recoil in horror and fear catching my lepracy sort of way.  And, that, my friends, is just gross.

3.  I have lost my voice.  I couldn’t figure this one out until last night as I laid in bed at 3:30am cursing the entire concept of apartment living.  My neighbors apparently smoke.  During the wee morning hours.  A lot.  And, I think they have rigged the vents so that the smoke smell is sucked out of their apartment and blown directly into mine.  I haven’t figured out yet which neighbor it is, but I suspect it’s the lady with the apartment in front of mine. . . and if it is, she better watch out because her tailless cat has already attacked my dog, and if I have to live with no voice for 9 months, I’m pretty sure you all know how incredibly pissed off I’m going to be. 

4.  Bob is leaving town for the bulk of this week. 

I know my 8th grade boyfriend WAY TOO WELL

In case you don’t read the blogs I have linked, Chad Seward, this is for you:

In the event of possible misunderstandings, I am not saying that Chad Seward, who is in Italy, is a professional ball sucker.  Or a ball sucker at all, really.  If he is, then I don’t know him as well as I think I do. . . but I digress.  I’m just saying this is his kind of humor, and I shouldn’t know that because he was in 7th grade when we dated and I’m sorry, but 7th graders should not be enjoying this kind of humor, but anyway.

(thanks, Emma)

Decisions, decisions

So, by now you all must know that there are people out there who make a living by blogging.  Seriously.  They put ads on the side of their blog, people click on the ads, and the blogger gets paid for every click.

I’ve thought about opening this blog up to the public and whoring the details of my life out for a few bucks.  I’ve thought a lot about it.  But, I can’t decide.  I’m already weird about the few (70+/-) people who read me now.  Like. . . when I blog about porn and my mom and the people she works with read about it. . . that’s just weird.  Would it be more or less weird if tons of random people that I don’t know were reading?  Maybe it wouldn’t be weird at all once the checks started coming in. . . what do you think?

Elsewhere, I finally got my home office furniture today!  Woohoo!  It’s all assembled, and I’m now completely unpacked.  Wheeeee!  I need to either find a new container or a new location for the dog food. . . oh, and if I could get someone to knock out the exterior wall and extend my living room by about 6 feet. . . I think then I’d feel settled. 

I’ve now had my own place for 2 whole weeks.  I thought I’d be all depressed and scared and life would be miserable and scary and I’d have a nervous breakdown and the neighbors would break in to save me and then they’d send me to the nuthouse and I’d never see any of you again.  But, it’s not like that at all!  It’s wonderful.  It’s so quiet and MY WAY.  Everything is MY WAY.  Why didn’t I think of this sooner?  HOLY CRAP, life is so much easier when I don’t have to convince anyone else that MY WAY is the right way.  Why didn’t any of you tell me about this whole living alone thing?  Geez.

The apartment is still miniscule.  My treadmill is 18″ away from me as I sit at my desk typing this entry.  My loveseat is approximately 30″ away, and the stove maybe 48″ away.  It’s pretty uuuum, cozy.

So far, I think the best thing about this whole scenario is that I can go to the gym at 10pm, stay until midnight, come home, shower, and stay up another 3 hours and no one is bitching at me.  Well, I mean Cleo won’t shut the fuck up, but that’s entirely different.

Mostly, I’m learning that being poor sucks, but being happy almost makes up for it.  And, that’s pretty good to know.

Why I’m not talking about the porn

Because it’s embarassing to tell the entire internet that I somehow managed to ask a church group where they find the best porn.

*please note:  this was during the tubing trip, during which I’ve already admitted to being extremely intoxicated.

Points for Mr. Universe & other stories

Memories of the weekend (yes, I do know it’s Tuesday) are coming back now that the fog is lifting and the emails/phone calls are coming in. . .

Mr. Universe called me today, which could have been disasterous, but wasn’t.  Instead, we talked about how much fun we had and how it was harmless and neither of us took any sort of unintended meaning out of it.  Yay!  I mean. . . he started the call by saying, “so are you really in love with me and did you really mean to make out with me?”, but he quickly retracted the question when he heard how nervous I was at the possibility that I told him I love him and made out with him and just don’t remember.  Whew.  I didn’t.  Thank God.

He also reminded me of the reason I decided it was OK to dance with him all night.  Prepare yourself for this.  It’s not your run of the mill excuse for lewd dancing behavior.

Mr. Universe cleared the dancefloor.  For what?, you might ask.  And, let me tell you.  Mr. Universe knows the entire choreography to Ice, Ice Baby. 

YOU want to dance with him now, don’t you?

Ironically, as I was apologizing to Mr. Universe for my behavior, an email was being crafted from one cartoon character to me, apologizing for his behavior.  What a funny world we live in.  Apologies schmapologies, what nonsense.

I’ll tell you who that cartoon character should be apologizing to; the lady whose cooler he stole (and whose head I pelted with a tennis ball). 

We spent the entire day kicking back in rubber tubes, floating down the river with some random lady’s cooler attached to us and none of us were the wiser, except, of course, for the cartoon character.

I often used that cooler to latch my toes onto so that I didn’t lose my group.  At one point, I asked if we could eat the Doritoes that were in the cooler. . . which may have been an appropriate time to tell the rest of us that the cooler was not his, but instead, instead, he told me the Doritoes would get soggy and refused to share. 

3 hours later (+/-), once back on dry land, the poor woman who spent the day without her cooler found herself in the path of the wet tennis ball I was attempting to launch at our host.  Talk about adding insult to injury.  She probably wishes I would die.

So, the moral of these stories is this:  I should not drink in the presence of others.  Except, then I’d have nothing to blog about and where are my priorities, really?  Do you see what I put myself through for you, internet? 

In case I’m not funny enough

Here are some of my favorites:

http://www.fluidpudding.com/
http://www.fussy.org/
http://www.suburbanbliss.net/

Enjoy!

This weekend was too much

I can’t even remember half of the stories I was saving in my head to tell.  I needed to remember everything because it was the first Austin weekend without Bob and I wanted to make sure I had every story tucked neatly away in my memory to share with her later.

Then I drank all of the free drinks, and well, I think you probably know the rest of that tale.

Friday night was the cocktail party for which I was soliciting wardrobe advice.  I almost caved and bought this dress and these shoes:

I argued with myself all day Friday and decided to do the mature, responsible thing and save that $200 for nourishment and shelter.

I wore the previously mentioned dress #3 and I was no worse off for it.  Well, I mean, I probably would have met the man of my dreams and lived happily ever after if I had worn the above dress & shoes, but whatever.

So, the party was an anniversary party for a local charity.  We provided the design for all of the raffle prizes, so my wonderful, fascinating business partner and I were awarded free tickets to the event. . . which was especially wonderful because those free tickets provided us with access to 7 hours of free food & drink. . . an especially wonderful thing for an incredibly poor girl like myself.

We drank so much that the drink waiters knew us by the end of the night.  I’m not sure whether it was the jumping out from behind the palm trees to catch the drink waiter . . . or if it was the chasing of the drink waiter across the dance floor. . . or if it was the complaining to the boss of the drink waiters that they weren’t circulation nearly quickly enough. . . but something caused them to find us with every tray of drinks they carried. . . and they began saying things like, “Oh, there you are!” and, “I’ve been looking for you!”.  So, that could be good or bad depending on how you want to look at it.  It could mean we had a damn good time. . . or it could mean we are shameless drunks.  Your call.

I’m pretty sure there were about 82 events in the course of the evening that caused me to say, “OMG, this is the best part of the night, I have to remember to blog about this”.  Alas, I’ve got little to nothing now that the vodka has worn off.

I vaguely remember a guy that we affectionately coined “Suspenders” – because he was wearing suspenders (duh), but of more interest, because he was wearing suspenders and dancing like a madman.  He seriously thought he was the shit.  It’s not as funny now, but I’m telling you, it was hilarious then.  The best part was when the DJ switched gears on him and tossed on a slow song. . . causing Suspenders to grab his purse and storm off. 

Another highlight involved the executive director of the charity.  This guy’s got to be at least 65, maybe older.  I’ve met him a few times, and though I don’t know him well, I was shocked to see him on stage dancing with two young women in red dresses.  That, alone, was entertainment enough.  It was heightened only by the later raffle of a weekend at said executive director’s beach house, which apparently includes a “dancing machine”.  My fascinating, amazing business partner asked out loud the question in all our minds, “Is he the dancing machine?”.

Probably of most notable mention. . . the guy I’ve blogged about before, you know, the one with the universe and the butterflies and the past life?  He was there.  I managed to maintain an acceptable level of friendliness without flirting for what I’m going to guess was maybe 2 hours.  After what I’ll estimate was 10 drinks, my decision making skills began to falter and I became unable to comprehend the stupidity of my behavior.  For reasons that escape me now, I apparently thought it a good idea to spend the entirety of the remaining hours of the party dancing with this guy.  *shaking my head*  I accept, with remorse, the full consequence of this behavior, come what may.  This, this, is why I typically spend my drunk time with Bob.  She never would have allowed me to behave this way.  Never.

The other story involves another guy, and because I really like him, I’m not going to offer any details that might indicate who he might be. . . except to say that he asked no fewer than 6 times if we’d stay in his hotel room with him (instead of driving home).  When it became evident that he had found a girl who would stay in his hotel room him, I figured he had been insincere with me. . . and then he called Saturday to ask if I made it home OK.  He he.  Cute.

So, then, just when you thought my weekend couldn’t possibly get more fun. . . we went river tubing on Saturday!  Yeeeeeehaw!  My amazing, wonderful, fascinating business partner also accompanied me for this good time. . . and thank God she did because I’m not sure I would’ve known what to do otherwise.  She brought along a friend, who likely does not remember my real name and will forever refer to me as “Monkey Toes”, which, really, is ok with me.  I like monkeys.

We got up stupid early (I got approx. 5 hours of sleep) and headed to New Braunfels for a full day of sun and more liquor.  I didn’t really think I would drink that much, but I didn’t want to be the only dork there not drinking, right?  And, then I proceeded to become quite chummy with a guy whose full name is that of a cartoon character, and we, the two of us, drank an entire bottle of rum.  It wasn’t in the form of mixed drinks, either, folks.  The two of us are bad ass.  We drank that shit straight from the bottle.  That’s right, internet, I’m hard core.

At the start of the day, my cartoon character friend was anti-photo-opportunity.  By the end of the day, someone somehow got a photo of my legs wrapped around that guy’s head (that someone would be my business partner. . . and I bet she’ll share those photos with me faster than oh, say Mr. Bob).

I got sunburned from my head to my toes, lost one pair of sunglasses, and my top only came untied once er, um, much to my dismay, it has come to my attention today that my top came off on more than one occasion.  I don’t know how that happened without my knowledge and/or how the top was returned to it’s rightful position without my knowledge, but apparently that’s what happens when you chug rum.  Let that be a lesson to you all.

We were supposed to go home, shower, get dressed up, and head back out for a late night of partying, but thankfully, everyone bailed, leaving me to sleep for 14 straight hours. . . something I now get to do without the slightest feeling of guilt.  Living alone definitely has it’s benefits!

FYI, PEOPLE

This fancy schmancy little blog tells me how many people have read it on any given day. . . so I know how many of you have been here today and the number of people here versus the number of people who have offered advice on what to wear do not match!

Don’t make me mad, internet.

HELP! Cocktail attire

The event I’ll be attending Friday evening requests cocktail attire.  Because, as I may have mentioned up to or more than a dozen times, I am completely broke, I can’t just run out and buy a cute little black dress.  I have to work with what I’ve got.

What I’ve got is a long red dress, a beige/brown/ivory print dress, and a brown/ivory print dress.  I’m going to post photos and then I really need y’all to speak up and tell me which one I should wear.  Is the red dress too dressy (probably so).  Which of the other two is better?

Vote and vote fast . . . or I’ll go naked. 

ps – you’ll deal with the blurry photos because you understand that it’s the middle of the night and I had to take them by myself after each costume change.

Sweet Jesus!

I have internet access at home! 

What I do not have is a microwave.

You decide which is the lesser of the two evils.  I, myself, am still trying to determine which is harder to live without.  On the one hand, what did the world do before the internet?!?!  On the other, I haven’t eaten since Friday because I don’t know how to make food hot without a microwave.  So. . . hey, I have internet access at home!  Maybe the internet can tell me how to make food hot without a microwave.

OK.  So, let me tell you all about how this new life is working out for me.  In the 5 days I’ve been here, the following have occured:

Living room is best described as human sized furniture in a doll house
Best feature:  chain that supports ceiling fan cord across the ceiling and down the wall (very 80’s chic)
Cat without tail attacks Cleo (my pug)
Beans (my boston terrier) squeezes through 4″ opening in patio fence to attack chihuahua
Giant mutant horse flies invade my apartment
Dogs resort to walking in circles for lack of any space to move about the apartment, grow dizzy, and fall over

See?  It’s kicking ass over here in the new digs.

I am enjoying the closet that’s bigger than any other room in the apartment.  I’m confused and would really like to meet the guy who thought, “Ok, the living room will be 10 square feet. . . and the dining room, uuuum, about 8 square feet. . . and we’ll make the bedroom also about 8 square feet. . . and then the closet, let’s make that closet about 200 square feet”.  Don’t get me wrong, a big closet all to myself rocks.  But, if I had a choice, I think I’d prefer a smaller closet and a little more space in the living room so I didn’t have to crawl over the back of the sofa to get out of the bedroom.

The first night here, I laid awake most of the night waiting for someone to break in and kill me.  The second night here, I got the dogs, so I thought I would feel better, and they would love me more, if I let them sleep in bed with me.  Except, instead of sleeping, they RAN!  ALL!  NIGHT!  LONG!  I finally put them in the kitchen at 5am because I don’t know if you’ve met me, but I need my sleep.  Since then, it seems to be getting better.  I don’t think anyone has even tried to break in and kill me.  So, maybe it’s not so bad after all. 

MR. BOB IS A GOD AMONG MEN

Thank all that is holy for this stolen tidbit of internet access.  It’s like my crack.  For real. 

I’m hoping this blog entry will convey, in no uncertain terms, the wonderment that is Mr. Bob. . . and not just because he demanded the praise, either.

Friday evening, it looked as though Mr. Bob might have to bail on the moving plans. . . and that was going to be such a disappointment because basically, I really only moved so that I could lure Mr. Bob to my house to carry heavy objects so Bob and I could sit back and admire his beefiness.

Thank the good Lord, he fudged his other plans enough that he was able to come and help.  Especially thank the good Lord because none of the other dillrods showed up on time.  So, my plan was thwarted because, instead of watching the boys move my stuff, I had to help move my stuff, but at least I got moved.

Mr. Bob and I singlehandedly loaded every last bit of crap I own into the rental truck (after Mr. Bob brilliantly navigated the monsterous vehicle through the obstacle course that is my stupid old neighborhood).  Bob “supervised”.  If by supervised, we all know I mean drank beer.

SO.  We loaded ‘er all up, and drove our way to the tiny little hole I now call home. . . at which time we were joined by another very nice man who helped unload.  At some point, this one demanded that I photograph his muscles.  Which was awkward.

Everything came out of the truck and into the apartment, at which time I realized the truck was actually bigger than the apartment. . .

Just as the last box made it’s way into my cardboard box apartment, third guy who was supposed to help move showed up.  How convenient, no? 

We sat around and talked and laughed and had such a good time. 

The moral of this story is that Mr. Bob is a god.  You all got that, right?