My Whole House Smells like Wet Dog...

My mom called this morning from Florida telling me that I wasn't allowed to leave the house because of the snow storm...

I was still in bed, so I had no idea what the crazy woman was talking about.

(I think that it's impressive that my mother is across the country and she knows about the state of my backyard better than I do...)


(She's freaky like that...)

So I was instructed to stay inside and watch movies and drink hot chocolate.

And I learned at a very early age that you ALWAYS listen to mom... I'm, like, a great daughter.

So I'm holed up in my house with two crazy dogs who think the snow is so great that they are bringing half of it INSIDE with them...

(I know that they look miserable... and I think Hannah fell asleep sitting there... but I assure you they are having a fabulous time...)

(Awesome.)

But I shall persevere, because my mommy told me to stay put.

(Unfortunately, Mike had to go to work. He took the bus so that he didn't have to drive... and the bus got stuck somewhere... but he eventually made it...)

(He works in a restaurant on an OUTDOOR mall... who the HELL is going there today?)

(I asked Mike that and he said it didn't matter because he was scheduled and he had to go in... he's "responsible"... loser.)

So I'm sitting here... watching the blizzard... remembering how it was in the 70s a couple of days ago... yelling at the idiots who think that it's a bright idea to ride a bicycle in over a foot of snow...

("Hey genius... you could get further CRAWLING... damn fool...")

(On top of being an awesome daughter, I am, like, the nicest person ever.)

Step Away from the Keyboard... Now...

It was a beautiful day... the sun was out... the breeze was nice... and I was enjoying reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies in the backyard.

(Best. Book. Ever. Bytheway.)

Then...

My Twitter from 6 hours ago:

The guys two houses down just brought a drum set into their backyard... no good can come from this.

Yeah... well, they calmly started playing a little bit and I really didn't mind because I was all into Elizabeth Bennet slaying the minions of Satan with her favorite musket.

Later, though, I realized that there was some noise... but I assumed that it was a car parked at the light in front of my house or something...

But the music didn't go away...

My Twitter from 27 minutes ago:

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? God damn guys with the drums have been playing "music" for 1.5 hrs! OUTSIDE. It's 10:30! & turn off your black light!

I AM GOING TO KILL THEM... KILL THEM!

After turning off the TV I couldn't help but acknowledge that there is a JAM BAND in the backyard two houses over...

Drums.

Guitar.

Keyboard set to imitate a PIPE ORGAN.

And bright (black) lights...

And cheering.

And it DOESN'T STOP... ever.



Hippie Invasion from rhymes with milk on Vimeo.

(I know that you can't see anything (like the black lights), but even on my crappy camera, you can HEAR it... remember, there is a whole HOUSE between us...)

So I did what any rational individual would do.

First, I sent my dog out to bark at them.

(Actually, she's been out there off and on all night barking at them... but at this point I stopped telling her to shut up and instead told her to bark away and mess up that jam band-y beat...)

Then, I called Mike.

Me: MIKE!! Those-god-damn-mother-fucking-hippie-bastards-are-playing-jam-band-music- with-black-lights-and-I-am-officially-going-to-kill-them-and-once-they-are-finished-I-am-going-to-go-steal-their-drum-set-or-at-least-put-dog-poop-in-it-and- they-totally-interrupted-my-Grey's Anatomy-which-was-really-good-and-I-KNEW-that-Derek- would-have-to-save-Izzie-and-anyway-I-am-going-to-shoot-me-some-hippies!

Mike: Well... as long as you don't involve the cops...

Next, I did the most logical thing I could think of:

I put my IPOD into it's stereo next to the window and blasted songs from the Wicked soundtrack...

(Take that you damn hippies!! Jam to that, suckas!!)

(Don't make me go all John Cusack on your ass!)


(I actually thought that it had worked... but then I realized that I had turned the Wicked soundtrack up so high that it took a few seconds for my ears to hear those damn drums and keyboard...)

Finally, I documented that I was not the only one suffering here:


Interview with a Hannah from rhymes with milk on Vimeo.

All in all... a very productive night.

So... it's 11:30 at night... and they have expanded... there are now yelling females...

HEY RUDE NEIGHBORS! SOME OF US HAVE TO GO TO WORK IN THE MORNING!

(They don't know that I'm not "some of us"...)

Dirty Mouth?

I know I complain about the wind a lot...

But COME ON?!?!

The wind today is out of control.

Like... it's just not safe.

Street lights are down, and although one would think that it would be clear that one must adopt the whole 4-way stop system in such a situation, many people adopt the whole "let's just gun it through the light as fast as possible at any moment that we choose" system.

And I don't appreciate that after walking through a parking lot to my car I realize that I am chewing ON DIRT because the wind blew DIRT PARTICLES into my mouth and now when I clamp my jaw down I hear gravel crunching.

And when I walk in the door the wind is so strong that SOMEHOW the trapdoor to the attic BLOWS OPEN.

Not cool...

Bad, Colorado wind... bad.

In fact? Bite me... or should I say, blow me?

(Hehehe.)

PS: I just realized that President "Kick-Ass" Obama is in Denver today signing the Stimulus Bill... I hope the Secret Service totally has some sort of "Save the President for Deadly Winds" plan.

PPS: Shit! Something just slammed into the side of the house, causing me to run around screaming "We're all gonna die! We're all gonna die! Save the President!"

PPPS: It was a patio chair, so we had to take all of the cushions off so we could stack the chairs and the cushions were dripping water all over the place but I thought it was Hannah peeing so I started yelling "Hannah is peeing!", but then Mike pointed out that it's the cushions so I screamed "Hannah didn't pee! Hannah didn't pee! Save the President!".

PPPPS: I just added the tag "In Need of Professional Help" to this post.

PPPPPS: I have more dirt in my mouth after the whole chair slash cushion slash Is Hannah Peeing? fiasco.

On My Own: Part One

So I'm on my way to Nashville for BlissDom 09.

I have never been ANYWHERE all by myself, so I'm kind of freaking out.

But I'm distracting myself by blogging about this crazy lady sitting near me.

First, there are two men in the vicinity with a likeness to Santa Claus.

This woman has decided to tell EVERYONE about this (like we can't tell for ourselves)... including her husband, whom she called on the phone to have him talk to the Santa Claus look-alike. Seriously... she made this poor man with a beard talk to her husband on her cell phone.

Dear Lady,

He's not really Santa.

Sorry.

And then she told the people next to me that she is "sorta starting menopause so I'm all over the place with my hot flashes".

COMPLETE STRANGERS.

I think she just said that she's a therapist.

Brad help her clients.

Must board plane.

More when I get to TN.

Acceptance

So I sat down to write a post about people who have nothing better to do than to write mean comments to me, but it turned into some rambling gibberish with a whole lot of cuss words, so I thought it better to leave that in my private blog rather than force all of you to read it.

But apparently there's this person, "Anonymous" (I think he/she must be Greek... it sounds like a Greek name to me... NOT THAT IT MATTERS... please don't send me comments about how I'm mean to Greeks... it's just an observation), who really has nothing nice to say to me.

And it sucks to get mean comments.

It really sucks.

But, I'm trying to tell myself that it doesn't matter. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will agree with you.

I sure don't like everyone. And I sure as hell don't agree with everyone.

And since I opened up my blog to more people, I'm bound to get people who hate me and who just HAVE to share their two cents.

That's just part of the game.

So I should just let it go...

(Ha!)

This latest comment said: "I don't expect that you'll publish this."

And he/she expected correctly. I clicked delete, because this is a happy place, where only Ally B is allowed to be a total a-hole.

It's my right as an "artiste".

(I went through a brief moment where I was like, "oh I should so publish this", but that was AFTER I clicked delete so I would have had to go through all of this BS to try and get it published and I realized that nobody who tells me I'm a bad person is worth that much effort. If you're curious, they had a problem with this post. Something about me using "being a girl" as an insult... and therefore I can't be a feminist... I have a feeling Anonymous hates dead baby jokes, too... so it's not like we could be friends anyway.)

(Wait! What if Anonymous IS one of my friends who didn't have the guts to write his/her name... I'm going to have to investigate. All of you who are my so-called friends... please wait outside my house for an extensive lie-detector test followed by a beat-down from the dogs...)

(Though the majority of my friends are fans of dead baby jokes... hmm...)

(And don't send me a bunch of hate mail about how I hate babies!)

And so, to all you "anonymous" peoples out there who just can't help it:

It's okay. Sometimes I ask for it.

Sometimes I stick my foot in my mouth.

And sometimes I need to hear it.

But, you should know...

In the eloquent words of Ms. Tina Fey...

You can suck it.

Female Perspective: The Gym

*** ATTENTION MY FAITHFUL MINIONS ***

(Wait, what?)

So in a weird twist to this thing I call “My Life”, the following blog post is featured on MensHealth.com.

(I know. The irony is palpable, as I am not a man, nor am I healthy.)

The fitness editor / MH blogger / sleep model asked me if I would write a guest piece so that he could have a “female perspective”.

(Oh, I should probably mention that Adam didn’t just stumble upon me and think I was so amazing that he had to have me and my blog… we know each other from the hood… sort of…)

And I said sure.

(Actually I said, “HOLY SHIT! Are you KIDDING ME? YES!!”)

And so, for any of you brave souls who were redirected here from Adam’s Blog (I have a tendency to ramble quite a bit, so the whole thing couldn’t FIT on Menshealth.com)… I feel for you.

You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into…

*****************************

Sometimes (and this is just how I feel, I don’t claim to speak for any other person but myself… and my boyfriend…) the gym can feel like a “boys club”. Especially when you cross that threshold into the free-weights. The last time I entered that area of my gym I was struck with an ominous feeling that I had entered “man-land”. So I quickly turned around and left.

(Not because I was intimidated or anything… I actually ended up in “man-land” because I got lost looking for the bathroom… it’s a little disturbing when you’re trying to find a place to pee and the next thing you know you’re surrounded by half a dozen grunting guys…)

So I tend to have a pretty good vantage point from my perch on the cardio machines. And I’ve discovered some things about the opposite sex while I’m pedaling, walking, and gliding away calories.

Men at the gym can be really annoying.

(Just so you know, I’m the first to admit that women are also super annoying at the gym, (don’t get me started on girls who wear a full-face of makeup to workout) but that’s for a different post.)

Now, I’m not one of those women who will sit here and say, “Ohmygosh will these pigs just stop hitting on me! It is, like, so annoying…”

For one thing, I think that guys should be smart enough to realize that a gym is not a bar, girls are there to get their sweat on… not get on you.

(If you didn’t realize that, then I hope I just opened your eyes to the fact that hitting on girls at the gym is CREEPY and ANNOYING, so cut it out…)

Another reason I won’t go into how annoying it is when guys hit on girls at the gym is because, personally, I have no experience with that. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not attractive (no! That can’t possibly be it!), or if it’s because I live in an area with very polite (and/or self-absorbed) men, or maybe it’s because I still haven’t mastered the whole “drinking-water-while-moving-on-the-elliptical-thing”, so it looks like I’ve been drooling on myself for an hour.

(I’m no expert, but I assume guys just don’t want to “tap that”…)

So instead, I have devised five categories of men that I have noticed while at the gym.

(I apologize in advance if anyone who reads this fits into one of these categories… but isn’t it better to hear it from some crazy chick who blogs than, say, that girl you’ve been trying to ask out for the past 4 months… consider it a public service announcement (“the more you know”).)

OK, the first category on Ally B’s List of Things that Annoy her at the Gym: Guy Edition:

(Drum roll please.)

The Strutter (aka: One Who Struts):

I was sitting in a recumbent bike, pedaling away, watching an episode of South Park on my MP3 player, when I glanced up at those around me, and noticed The Strutter.

He seemed to be in his forties, and he had shoulder-length stringy hair (I get not taking a shower before going to the gym, but this guy was in serious need of a deep-conditioning), and he was wearing a super tight black t-shirt and baggy black sweatpants circa 1984 (with the elastic around the ankles and everything).

His upper body was completely over developed compared to his lower body (his torso looked like an upside-down triangle perched on two skinny French baguettes, and he had no butt to speak of).

(DO NOT judge me for looking at his butt… it’s a natural instinct… and it’s not like there was even anything there…)

Anyway, so this guy is walking slowly back and forth in front of the recumbent bike station and I’m contemplating how he really needs a quality hairbrush and then I notice that he’s eyeing the woman next me. She looks about his age with long (well conditioned) blond hair and she’s beautiful in a MILF sort of way, pedaling in her pink sports bra and black yoga pants.

So The Strutter starts to do a few chest presses on the machine in front of Blondie and then he gets up, and starts walking in front of her again. And I notice that the guy is now clenching every muscle from his jaw right down to his non-existent butt.

If he were a peacock, his feathers would be out in full formation.

And Blondie just kept on pedaling and reading her US Weekly.

And so, The Strutter teaches us how his display of manliness did nothing for his intended target (Blondie didn’t seem to notice him at all), but ended up annoying those in the vicinity (ME).

So take your manly model walk somewhere else… it really does nothing for females… trust me.

Next category:

The Flexer (aka: One Who Flexes):

Now, The Flexer is similar to The Strutter in that they both enjoy clenching their various muscles. But The Flexer is not clenching for an attractive lady riding the recumbent bike, but for himself (at least as far as I can tell).

I was on the elliptical and my eye catches a fairly buff guy. Now, no, I was not staring at his muscles, I was actually caught off-guard because he was wearing grey sweatpants and an oversized tank top (please see the fifth category on this list: The Horrible Dresser, for more on why oversized tank tops should be discarded immediately).

The Flexer walked into the aerobics room (three sides of the room are mirrors, and one side is windows so that people working out in the main area can look in on the classes and make fun of the people who have no rhythm or who fall down… good times) and he proceeded to take his ugly shirt off and then roll his sweatpants up, transforming him into a sweaty and glistening muscled man with short shorts on.

(Again, see category five.)

He then spent the next ten to fifteen minutes flexing in the mirror. My favorite was when he would walk away, then turn around really fast to check out his butt in the mirror.

Now, I was thinking that maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, maybe he’s training for some kind of “show your muscles” competition… or maybe he’s spent all of his money on protein powder and bad workout shirts and therefore cannot afford mirrors of his own.

But seriously? Could he not flex in a more secluded and private area than in front of the entire gym? The locker room? His house? The basement in his mom’s house where he is living until he wins his first big muscle-showing contest? All places where I wouldn’t have to look at him.

(If you haven’t noticed by now, it’s all about me.)

So, The Flexer teaches us to flex on our own time, in a private place. I can handle if you want to see your biceps reflected back to you, but keep your clothes on in public… for the sake of us all.

(Would you appreciate it if I went around in public flexing in the mirror with my shirt off?)

(Wait, stupid (and awkward) question… moving right along.)

The Noise Maker (aka, One who Makes REALLY ANNOYING NOISES!):

OK boys, you know who you are. You can’t help but grunt and groan and count your reps out loud.

I understand that there is something in the DNA of guys that sometimes causes them to produce noises when they are lifting a certain amount of weight.

I can handle some noise - especially if you’re lifting the equivalent of my body weight - but keep it down. If it sounds like you should maybe not be on a weight bench, and instead on the toilet, you can bet you’re annoying most of the people around you.

(And possibly grossing them out.)

But the most hilarious and annoying Noise Maker ever was a guy who used to come in and run on the treadmill.

I don’t run, but I hear that at a certain point, endorphins kick in and you feel really good and happy-go-lucky and all.

(I’ve never gotten to that point… I usually pass out from lack of oxygen and the pain radiating in my knees…)

Well, this Noise Maker really enjoyed running. After a certain amount of time, I assume that his happy endorphins kicked into overdrive, causing him to scream out with glee.

The first time I heard this guy, I was working out on the treadmill in front of him and I heard a high-pitched noise. I thought it was my machine, so I paused my music and listed for the squeak again.

Nope, nothing. So I turned on my MP3 player and went back to walking.

Then I heard the noise again. I turned around and saw a very happy bald man sprinting on the treadmill, but assumed that he would have the decency to keep that kind of noise to himself, and who yells like that while running, anyway? So I just hit my MP3 player a few times, thinking it skipped or something, and continued on.

Then I heard a “Whoop!” so freaking loud I swung my head around at lightning speed just in time to see running man with a stupid grin on his face, followed by another “Whoop!” that confirmed that this annoying noise had been coming from him the whole time.

And it’ not like this noise just escaped through his lips. No, this guy was proud to be on his treadmill. When he screeched he sort of hopped and threw his fists in the air like he was about to run his victory lap. And every time he “whooped” he would shake his head like he was thinking to himself: “Holy cow! I am the MAN! Look at how fast I am! Can you believe this?”

Which caused me to think: “What kind of noise would you make if you fell flat on your face?“

So, this particular Noise Maker is just one example of a guy who produces really annoying sounds that make me want to push the STOP button on his machine so that he goes flying over the front.

So, keep it down… or else I am not responsible if my hand “accidentally” slips onto your STOP button… or slaps you.

Can’t Help but do Pushups Guy (aka, One who Does Pushups in the Most Inappropriate Places):

So I’m on a stationary bike, trying to get through another workout, wondering why the makers of stationary bikes can’t make a seat that is at least somewhat comfortable, when I look over and see Pushup Guy.

He approaches a shoulder press machine and sits down, adjusting the weight to some ridiculously high number, when all of a sudden he shakes his head and gets out of the seat. Then he gets on the ground, does about 20 pushups, brushes himself off, and then goes on with his regular workout.

Now, this doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, right? Pushups are really good for you (or so I’ve heard), so this guy couldn’t be annoying.

WRONG.

The problem is where Pushup Guy decided to do his impromptu pushups. He got down right across the aisle where everyone walks to get across the gym. He essentially blocked off half of the room, forcing people to make detours to avoid climbing over him!

(I must say, the desire to leap over him like a ballerina was quite strong… at least for me…)

It wasn’t just annoying… it was plain rude!

So, the lesson here? If you can’t help yourself and you just HAVE to do a pushup session: go to an appropriate area. Or at least get out of the freaking way.

And finally, I can’t help but make this last category:

The Horrible Dresser (aka: One who Makes Others ask: “Are You SERIOUSLY Wearing THAT?”):

I’m not one of those girls who dress up to go to the gym. I’m a big fan of baggy concert t-shirts and baggier pants. I really don’t try that hard, and I don’t really expect others to look totally put together either.

But sometimes there are those men who just cross the line.

You might not think that dressing badly is annoying (I mean, it’s not really hurting anyone else), but it can be distracting and sometimes even scary.

(And that makes me annoyed.)

I mentioned The Flexer and his stretched out tank top. What I’m referring to is when a guy stretches out the armholes so that they droop down by his waist.

It’s like this guy couldn’t possibly stuff all of his muscles in a regular t-shirt or tank top… no, he needed to stretch it out so that they could fit… and so everyone could see his nipples in all their glory…

(Seriously, if you have one of these shirts… destroy immediately. Your fellow gym patrons will thank you.)

Another annoying example of The Horrible Dresser: I’ve been seeing a lot of guys at the gym in jeans and a tank top. I mean, not only do these guys look plain silly doing squats in jeans (with a fine leather belt on), but it just can’t be functional.

This also goes for the guy I saw yesterday who was wearing a tracksuit with hiking boots.

(It was quite distracting.)

The other obvious thing that puts one in The Horrible Dresser category: short shorts on guys. Please, please, please, guys, if I can see you flexing everything you have to offer… well “annoying” isn’t so much the word I’m looking for as “horrifying” might be.

Plus, the gym is largely a family friendly type of place now… so keep those things to yourself, and get some longer shorts.

All in all, The Horrible Dresser might not seem like a very annoying thing, but I feel it is my duty to tell you all to run over to a sports store as soon as possible and get some more appropriate threads.

(Asking a female sales associate would probably ensure a positive outcome, too.)


So, as I said before, I apologize if you fit into one of these categories (or if you are actually one of the guys that I mentioned… I only criticize to help…) but changing certain things like NOT strutting around in front of MILFs, NOT flexing in front of 60 people who are trying to keep their breakfast down, NOT yelling, grunting, groaning, or squeaking (or at least keeping it to a minimum), NOT dropping and giving me twenty in my walking path, and NOT wearing inappropriate clothes to the gym, can make everyone happier while working out.

(Especially ME!)

Guilty Pleasures

We all have things that we indulge in that we are not all that proud of.

We just don't want to admit that we like certain things.

Whether it's trashy romance novels, the occasional soap opera, or the Spice Girls, we try to keep it under wraps that we are fans.

(No I don't watch soap operas... yes, I will always love the Spice Girls...)

(Girl Power!!)

Well... my guilty pleasure is the awesome, the disgusting, and the truly remarkable reality contest: Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels.

(I'd like to say that I enjoy the show because of my background in sociology: it's truly amazing to examine the societal structures and interactions at play on such a show, especially from a liberal feminist perspective... but it'd be a big fat lie...)

Now, don't judge me.

I don't smoke, don't drink, don't take part in illegal substances, and I don't watch American Idol.

I am allowed one vice.

And I choose Bret and his cast of crazy-ass biahtches.

I wasn't even going to post about it, but I can't deny myself this purging of my feelings any longer.

(Plus, Bret was on The Today Show this morning. I figure that if they can talk about it, so can I...)

For those of you who don't know what Rock of Love Bus is, let me quickly fill you in.

Bret Michaels, the lead singer of the eighties hair-band Poison, is in search of his other half. The man just wants someone to share his music, his home, and his mascara with. He wants a woman who is ready to party with him, worship him, and participate in groupie threesomes with him.

Now, the poor guy was not having much luck, so Bret and VH1 teemed up to find him his true love. There have been two seasons, and he has still had no such luck.

(*tear*)

Then, this season, it hit him that he's on the road 300 days a year (where? I have no idea... who goes to a Bret Michaels' concert?), so having these women compete for his love while stuck at home in a mansion must be the problem with the whole reality contest = true love equation.

And so, this season Bret has commandeered two extra tour buses to cart his 20 lovely ladies around the country with him (to really classy and exciting places, like Kentucky and Indiana).

The women will compete for one-on-one dates with Bret, and at the end of each episode, Bret has to say a tearful (/hilarious) goodbye to one or more of them.

So, you may be wondering why the hell I would enjoy this. Ha! So many reasons.

First of all, the women that they find for these shows are mind-blowing. As in they make you want to blow your brains out. The first two seasons had quite a few crazy girls (Lacy), strippers (Heather), and sociopaths (that crazy bitch Megan who really needs to be locked up in some sort of institution).

But this season... these girls are in a league of their own.


Where the hell did VH1 find these creatures? I can only assume that they had to do their casting calls at some sort of convention (for strippers, porn stars, the circus...).

At least 98 percent of them have implants, which wouldn't be that surprising on its own, except that these implants are about the size of pumpkins. I mean, forget cantaloupes and honeydews, these breasts are the size of prize-winning watermelons! Who are these women's doctors?? And how do they stuff these boobs into extra small mini-dresses without busting a seam?

It's truly like watching gravity fail on television.

The amount of silicone, collagen, and hairspray is absolutely outstanding.

The next thing that is amazing about the show is what comes out of these girls’ mouths.

Personal favorites so far (there have only been two episodes):

• One girl said that she got her implants (the size of overweight babies) so that she would be unable to climb walls to do graffiti, and therefore would stay out of jail... This was right before this same girl rapped for Bret, reading the lyrics off of the back of a sheet labeled "Facts About Genital Herpes"...
• A confirmed porn star (Bret has seen her movies) screamed at a black girl that the only reason the black girl was there was because of her race. And then, when the black girl told this porn star that she was, indeed, a racist, the porn star proceeded to cry, "I'm not a racist! My grandfather is black! And he is a big, beautiful black man!" She then went and cried herself to sleep in a bed shaped like a spaceship.
• And finally, when a model (read, Penthouse Pet) said: "I take off my clothes for Penthouse and I'm the classiest one here!" The scary thing is that she was totally right.

You cannot write this stuff! Seriously! Some reality shows (enter, The Hills) are scripted and the scripts aren't even this entertaining!

Finally, the funniest thing (/most depressing thing ever) about this show is how these girls truly believe that what they are doing is finding TRUE LOVE.

They believe that Bret Michaels is their prince, their happily ever after... their soul mate.

Well, ladies, sorry to break it to you, but it just ain't so.

But, you know what? Thank you for giving me hours of entertainment, lots of laughs, and a very long blog post.

Now I have to go... I have a very important appointment with my plastic surgeon.

Toothpicks at the Gym

Like I said before, I'm trying to get in shape, so my mom and I joined a gym a few days ago.

This, of course, means that I have a whole new world of blog material opened to me.

First on the list: really skinny girls who workout next to me.

I want to hit them... hard.

Oh, I'm sorry. Was that a little harsh?

Well, I don't care.

Because there's thin, there's fit, and then there's skinny toothpicks.

I can understand thin people. I actually hope to be one of them someday.

And I totally get fit people. Again, I hope to be called fit at some point in my life.

But skinny toothpicks?

Well, I'm not gonna lie, I'd also like to be one of them.

And that's probably why I hate them so.

Seriously, though, some of those girls need to get off of the elliptical and into a Dairy Queen, stat.

("Stat means now, people!")

(If you can tell me what show that's from, and the episode, you get 25 cool points (which is also from a TV show).)

And they need to spring for the extra scoop of cookie dough in their blizzard.

It would seriously be money well spent.

Again, I probably don't like them because I'm jealous. But it really bothers me when I'm huffing and puffing, sweat dripping down my over sized t-shirt, while Little Miss Perfect is bouncing around in her yoga pants and sports bra.

SUPER ANNOYING.

This is the reason why I don't go to the gym on campus. When I worked out there, my self-esteem took a huge hit when I entered the cardio room and was hit with a wall of beautiful sorority girls.

So, to all of you toothpicks... eat a burger. And stay off of my machines.

(OK... add "bitter" to jealous.)

A Christmas Story

Ally B went to a very busy store on Christmas Eve Eve.

She didn't want to go, because said store has a TERRIBLE parking lot, and it being Christmas Eve Eve, Ally B did not want to deal with the parking lot from hell and about 40 billion people Christmas and Hanukkah shopping at said store.

But a Christmas present needed to be gotten, as it was for Lightning Legs, and she would be sad if Ally B did not brave the hellish parking lot and throngs of people.

And because Ally B is selfless (sometimes), she went.

(Ally B also didn't want Lightning Legs to keep Ally B's present as ransom... so it just made good sense to get it... I said I was only selfless sometimes.)

Ally B went to the store with a note in hand from Kevin. It had the product name written out, so Ally B decided to just ask for help rather than wander around the store like a lost puppy for a good hour before caving and asking for help.

She approached not one, but two salesmen having a conversation, and politely interrupted them:

Ally B: I need help.

Salesman 1: What do you need.

AB: I need a Footprint for a two person Hubbaxll tent, please.

S1 looks to Salesman 2 and rolls his eyes. S2 does the same.

S1: A what?

AB: A footprint.

S1: Yeah, I got that... but a Hubbaxll?

AB: Oh I'm sorry, is it pronounced Hubb-uh-xll?

S1: Um... (looks to S2, who is busy trying not to laugh).

AB: Here. (I show him the note, which clearly says Hubbaxll).

S1: Do you mean a Hubba Hubba?

AB: I don't know. (I mean seriously, if I knew that that's what I meant, would I really put myself through all of this?)

S1: Well, I'm guessing that it's a Hubba. How many people in the tent, three?

AB: No, two. (It was the one thing that I actually got right, and he couldn't even remember... sheesh.)

S1: Oh! Maybe the note means "Hubba times 2".

AB: Oh! How smart you are! That's exactly what my crazy boyfriend wrote! Thank you for clearing that up! (OK, I didn't say that... I think I said: Oh, thanks.)

S2 is laughing hysterically in the background. I'm so glad that I could bring him some Christmas joy.

S1: We're out of it.

So I went through all of that just to have to go get a crappy gift certificate so Lightning Legs can go get it herself.

And if you think that it was a rookie mistake to not clearly see that the note said Hubba x II... I kept the note as evidence.

And now for a really fascinating, albeit morbid, music video. I think that I'll practice dancing while lying down... I wonder if Wii has a game for that...

Adele |MTV Music

Battle Scars (Mental and Physical)

Today I heard some very disturbing things.

My boss said that her aunt can't believe that Obama is allowed to run for president... because he is not a US citizen.

That's right, she didn't think that Hawaii was in the United States.

Scarier still: her aunt was a public school teacher for 35 years.

Um yeah... that pretty much sums up why I stay up late at night nursing the ulcer that this election has given me.

Because this country is full of stupid people.



Now if only I could convince one of those stupid people to buy my damn Madonna tickets... preferably for more than their worth.

Oh, my elbows hurt from holding my books up to read.

Yep... I am reading so much that I am sustaining injuries...

This must be how people with old football injuries feel...

And AJ suggested that I get a hobby... and then suggested archery.

Dude, if I suffer from "reader's elbow", I'm thinking I should probably stay away from bows and arrows.

Actually, weaponry of all kinds should probably be off-limits.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to lie in a bathtub full of ice...

How the Hell did I end up Looking for Kylie Minogue Videos on YouTube Tonight???

I don't drink... so I guess that I just don't get the appeal of getting really trashed and then stumbling up and down my street screaming profanities by oneself...

Again, since I don't really drink, I just must not be cool enough to understand the freaking awesomness of what multiple people have done all the live long night.

And what is it about football that brings the most self-respecting people to drink themselves into oblivion?

Now, I could understand if you had to drink to keep yourself from dying of boredom during the game... or to get over the fact that you were virtually molested in the nacho line by drunk freshmen... but I get the impression that this is not the reason behind said drunkeness/stupidness.

I sound bitter.

Well, why would I sound bitter? It's only 1:30 in the AM on a Saturday night... and I am here, writing my second post of the day (third if you include Leo's Vote Video) while watching season 10 of FRIENDS on DVD...

And why would I sound bitter after my most exciting event of the night was giving Boris a bath after Hannah possibly peed on him (I'm not sure if she actually did pee on him, but is it really something that you want to take a chance on?)... and then chasing Hannah away from the drying rack as he drip-dried for the rest of the night...?

At least I was able to relax (except when the frat kids were yelling and pushing each other in front of oncoming traffic in front of my house), unlike Mike, who had to serve a whole bunch of hungry Texas fans.

But at least he made mad money.

Nope, not bitter at all.

So maybe I should have a drink...

But what if someone calls me and asks me to please come pick them up from some bar...

So I should probably not drink that whole bucket of frozen margs in my freezer.

I always thought that I didn't drink because I was raised to not... but my brother would be out at some house party kicking ass at beer-pong if he were here right now... so that's not it.

Nope, I'm just completely weird.

And kinda pathetic.

But so not bitter.

I just ate a crappy quesadilla because apparently I am STARVING at 1:30 AM.

STARVING!!!

Grr... my tummy is going to eat itself soon... and then move onto other vital organs and ligaments.

So I just opened a hundred calorie pack.

Hmm... I am choc full of life and vitality now.

And now, for NO apparent reason, I have a Kylie Minogue song stuck in my head.

Why god? Why?!?!?

Aren't I suffering enough?!?

And I am too hungry/bitter/tired to appreciate the irony that the song that I can't get out of my head is called Can't Get you Outta My Head.

Dammit.

Well, if I have to suffer, so do you:

Please Form a Queue and Let me Fix You...

(Hehe... my title rhymes...)

I have a problem...

OK... lots of problems, but there's a specific one that's bugging me.

I have this impulse to give my opinion on things.

More than that, I have a huge desire to help people.

When someone is hurt, I yearn to fix it. I have imaginary conversations in my head where they ask for my advice and I (finally) get to dispense all of this pent of wisdomness onto them.

And then that person thanks me profusely and wishes that they had just sucked it up sooner and asked for my opinion in the first place.

(Or I imagine opening a can of whoop ass on someone and shaking them because they are being stupid... but we all have that fantasy... right?)

But this rarely/never happens (either scenario).

It doesn't help that I have these urges to help people who I have very little business in helping.

They don't want my help.

And they might press charges/disown me if I kicked their ass...

I've been the person who stuck her nose in other people's business... and I've been emotionally pounded for it.

So I'm trying to stay out of other people's lives, unless invited.

Except when it comes to Kevin... it's my job to stick my nose in his life... sorry dude.

And Bonnie and Hannah. I had to give some serious trauma counseling to Bonnie after the deer incident.

And the fam... most of the time.

But with other people, I have to be very careful. I don't want to overstep my boundaries.


So now I just sit here... worrying...

And I wish I didn't. But I've been worried my entire life...

When I was little, I worried about my baby brother. (I still worry about him, but I keep it to myself... for the most part. At some point you just have to let the little bugger climb glaciers and jump out of airplanes...)

As I grew up, I worried about my friends.

When my parents split, I wasn't worried about me... I was worried about them.

When I was younger, my dad would tell me not to worry so much, or else I would get an ulcer.

Then I worried that I had an ulcer...

And those are just the other people that I worry for...

The smell of the inside of airplanes still gives me panic attacks.

Waiting in line gives me panic attacks.

Shopping (believe it or not) gives me panic attacks.

Low blood sugar gives me panic attacks.

And feeling out of control, or that I did something stupid, makes me panic, too.

Granted, it's a whole lot better than it used to be. I don't let it take over my life... and that is a very good thing.

But it's this sick feeling in my tummy that is the problem... the sick feeling when someone else is not doing well.

That's why I don't know if I can be a social worker. I know that it would be interesting, but I have a very hard time drawing the line between other people's feelings/problems and my own.

I don't know how it would all transfer into my own happiness.

Maybe I should just go back to being an ice cream scooper.

Although there is some worry in the ice creaming business... I would imagine that it's fairly less than in social work.

So, do I care too much?

Maybe.

Thinking about it, it may not be a "problem" (at least not in the same way that global warming or poverty are "problems"), but it sure does blow.

Not that I'm looking for sympathy...

Really...

I'm just sharing.

So don't worry about me.

Another Way I have Managed to Piss People Off...

You want to piss people off? Say you're not a fan of cats.

A manager at work found a kitten in a bush in front of the office. Now my friend and her mom are adopting it.

The kitten is adorable, so cute. But she can't fool me.

Cats are killers.

It's actual fact... everything a cat does is based on hunting instincts. That is what they are made to do.

After working in a vet office, and having plenty of angry cats hiss my name when I tried to feed them, I have an aversion.

They are smarter than they look (like toddlers... both can see through your soul).

And there is a very fine line between a happy cat and an angry cat. They make the same movements with their tales and both cats flex their claws...

Dogs are pretty transperant.

Anyway, I simply stated how I feel.

"Your crazy," people said... but what they looked liked they wanted to say was "You heartless bitch".

They wanted to name the cat Victoria and call her Vicki. I love that name. I am a big proponent of people names for animals.

Somebody else said they should name her McCaslin (that is the name of the street we're on), and call her Mickey.

I said that I didn't like it, because she is clearly a Vicki.

Woman I work with but don't really know: "Mickey is a person's name"

Me: "No... it is a mouse."

Woman: "Well, I know more human Mickeys than I know animal Mickeys."

Me: "And I know a person named Cookie... but that doesn't make it a human name."

I guess I'll shut my mouth now.

I thought being an unpatriotic bitch was bad... but apparently dog people are up there on the list of satan's minions too.

Just Call me K-K-K-Katie.

A woman in Denver sang "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing" (aka, "The Black National Anthem"... which seems a little bit racist to me) instead of the Star Spangled Banner at the State of the City Address on July 1st.

People are pissed, including many people in my office. I walked into the lunch room and a bunch of women were saying that she should be in jail and it's as bad as burning the flag (which I think is a really dumb law....).

I said I think that it's awesome. Good for her. Thank goodness we live in a place where she has the right to sing that.

They said Black National Anthem like it was a disease... like Black Plague or Black Death.

I think that the lyrics are much better than the traditional song, anyway.

I wonder if they even know what the song is, or if they just got pissed at some (black) woman for standing up and doing what she wanted.

I don't stand up during the Star Spangled Banner.

I do not believe that we are the land of the free and the home of the brave.

We are the land of the patriot act and no gay marriage and dwindling abortion rights and the home of cowards who send poor kids over to die in a pointless war.

I believe that there are better ways to honor those who have fought, and died, for our country than standing up at a sports game with a Coors Light in one hand and the other hand on my heart.

I believe that this country should help those people who fought and survived by actually giving a damn about them when they return, broken and hurt. By giving them actual therapy for severe PTSD, and not antidepressants that make it worse. I believe in actually helping the families who have lost brothers/sisters/mothers/fathers/husbands/wives/daughters/sons in a stupid, useless war.

I believe that I have a right to NOT stand, because I love my country.

Because I am patriotic and because I expect more, much more, from this country.

Because it is my right to sit while some school kid sings a song that I don't believe in.

I will stand when this country proves to me that it is the land of the free and the home of the brave.

I will stand when this country starts to change.

And I will be proud.

You can call me a communist.

You can call me un-American.

You can call me a hippie.

You can call me K-K-K-Katie.

Just don't call me lazy when I stay in my seat.

Oh shit... is that Homeland Security knocking??

One for Ma

I am all alone for lunch today, so I am here, posting my lonliness on the world wide web.

A couple of days ago my mom asked me to post about a specific topic that pisses her off. The only reason that I have agreed to do so is because this issue also pisses me off.

She came around the corner looking all angry, and said "Will you please blog about idiots who talk on their cell phone in the bathroom?"

Well, sure, ma.

I hate idiots who talk on their cell phone in the bathroom. Maybe not to the extent as Mom, who sat there flushing the toilet a few extra times to bug the person in the next stall having the offensive conversation (passive aggressive, are we?).

It is annoying, though, to be in a public bathroom, minding my own business, and hear someone in the next stall doing her buisness, while chatting about last night's episode of CSI: Miami.

I mean really, is the conversation so important that you cannot wait the 2 minutes to call back?

Does the person on the other end really not care that you are on the freakin toilet while talking to them?

Plus, public bathrooms tend to echo. Those little stall doors are in no way sound proof. In fact, I would argue that the tile and porcelin causes sounds (and conversations) to be louder.

The bathroom is a place of privacy, but, let's face it, there is nothing really that private about an echoing room with doors that have two foot gaps on the bottom and top. It's only private in one's own home... and even then it creeps me out when people talk on the phone while doing... stuff... on the toilet.

If you want to make a phone call, go somewhere else... as long as it's not the stall next to me (or Mom).

I bet this person also talks in the bathroom. Grr...

I'm getting really excited for Greece. I just want to go go go!! I feel like it's hard to really start planning out my life-post-WOG before I go. I keep getting distracted thinking about the beach and the city and the food... mmm... food.

Mike said that he is going to shave the dogs today. He keeps saying that the girls better sit still, otherwise they will be the stupid ones walking around with only a few shaved streaks down their backs.

I informed him that I don't think that the girls will see it the same way.

He said that Bonnie is very into her looks. Hannah is more of a free spirit, so she'd probably think that she was being "progressive" or something.

I think Hannah and Bonnie will be scared to death of the crazy noise making monster giving them bald spots...

But that may just be a difference in opinions... only time will tell.

Lunch is over soon...

And I'm still hungry.

I'm too Sexy for my Yard Work

A couple of days ago I was mowing the lawn, because I don't need no stinkin man.

Anywho, I was mowing, and all of these people were staring at me as they drove/walked/skateboarded/biked/ran by. I was wondering why they were staring at me.

And I mean really staring at me. Like, watching me as they pulled up, and then continuing to watch me as they sat at the light, and then still watching me as they turned the corner.

It was weird.

Now, it was pretty obvious to me, as I'm sure it is to you all, why this was happening.

All of these people were drawn to me because of my intense and amazing beauty. My looks must have been calling- no, screaming to these poor, helpless folks.

Especially with sweat dripping down my face and my stained t-shirt and tree branches sticking out of my hair (the tree attacked me while I was trying to mow under it).

Then I thought, "well maybe it's not my beauty".

Then I was thinking that maybe something was wrong with me. Like a big booger or a big rip in the back of my shorts.

I checked... multiple times... and nothing.

Is it because I'm a girl mowing the lawn? Well, that would be stupid.

It must be the beauty.

When I mow the lawn, I have trouble being pretty about it. By this I mean that I have trouble making the lawn all even and nice looking while I do it.

There's always a lot of those silly little long grasses that end up all alone after I do a strip with the mower. Or I mean to do a straight line, and end up with some sort of zig-zag design on the lawn.

In fact, I ended up with a big circle in the middle of the lawn... and no clue how it got there.

It was some sort of crop circle thingy... I blame aliens.

Sex and the Stupid Lady

I saw Sex and the City: The Movie today, and it was pretty awesome. It was cheesy, overdone, and cliche; but lots of sweet fun.

I went by myself, which was actually kind of fun. I was the first in the theater, and got that perfect seat: in front of the railing, dead center, with no seat in front of me, and the railing to rest my feet on.

I was sitting there, reading, when a single guy in his early 40s (I would guess) walked in by himself and sat behind me. He was making little small talk, which was nice. He asked lots of questions, like who my favorite character is (Big), and if I've seen every episode (yes), and if I've read the book (yes).

He was in Paris on the 28th, which is the day that the movie was released in France. He said that he tried to go see it open, but said the line was around the block an hour before the show. So he decided to just see it open in Boulder. When he showed up an hour early to that show, though, it was sold out. So, he went to the first showing today.

He spent the whole time acting like he wasn't really a fan... just curious.

I didn't buy it... but I think that it's cool that he was there, by himself, because he enjoyed it.

Then there was the bitch next to me.

There were maybe 30 people in this whole, big theater. I'm lounging in my perfect seat, and this woman, alone, with her large popcorn, sits down in the seat right next to me.

There were at least 6 seats to my right and 7 seats to my left, and this woman chooses to sit right next to me. I was practically lying in that seat, and she just sat there. I thought that it was weird. I mean, we're in the United States here. We don't like that kind of closeness with strangers.

At least I don't. At least when it's totally not necessary.

And she chewed really loudly, which just added insult to stupidness.

Then I came home and worked out.

My workout guy gave me a killer routine, and told me not to throw up.

I didn't, but I wanted to. I don't hurt... yet. But I should be strong enough to kick some major ass someday soon.

To warm up for my weights, I walked around the block for about 15 minutes. It is extremely hot today, so I put my big hat and cut-off pants on and went for my stroll.

I looked like an idiot.

Seriously. I thought that I looked cute. But I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a car window, and it's official...

I looked like an idiot.

But Mike pointed out that at least I'll be a sunspot and cancer free idiot.

I guess that is the silver lining.

Whistle While you Complain... I Mean... Work.

I've only got 8 minutes (to save the world?) before my lunch break is over.
What can I do in 8 minutes?

I know!

Complain!

You know those people who think that when they are on the phone nobody can hear them? Those people who get a personal call, in their open cubical, and talk as if they are at a rock concert and they are trying to tell a story over the screaming crowd?

We have one of those at work.

Except this time, she actually got up and went into another room. Unfortunatley, this was an empty conference room that created an echo effect when she started yelling. This meant that all of us could hear here telling a story about god knows what.

But it included the line: and he grabbed her boobs...

Um... we are still at work? Right? Isn't that a conversation that should be had... not at work. Or at least not in an echoing room that allows this whole side of the building to hear her.

I was writing something down, and I stopped, closed my eyes, and said What. The. Hell.

In other musings, a woman brought chocolate chip cookies today. BUT, these were made with whole wheat flour and applesauce in place of butter. ALAS, they are healthy for you. That knocks off two food groups right there. Three if, like me, you consider chocolate an essential part of your dietary needs.

Uh-oh... one more minute left and I haven't found a picture... better get some more health cookies and start posting.

I have offensive loud telephone calls to pretend to ignore for the remainder of my day...

VIP or Bust

I'm on Benadryl right now, so this post could go a couple of ways: it could be hilarious, completely dull, or totally effd up... or a combination.

But I guess that's how my posts are most of the time anyway.

I'm on Benadryl because my eyes are totally swollen, red and itchy. I used some eye cream stuff and my the skin around my eyes got angry and decided to become red and purple and puffy...

Not fun to do the Bolder Boulder with.

But let's start at the beginning. I left for Sin City on Thursday and returned yesterday. I was too tired to post, so I now have even more to share.

I will just do highlites, hopefully chronologically.

Jeannie has never been on a real flight before... or on a moving sidewalk, for that matter. So the airport was a flurry of excitement. I didn't think we would make the flight because Jeannie was having too much fun on the sidewalks (or the airport rides, as we told her they were). Needless to say... Vegas was a bit a change for the Kansas gals.

When we got to Vegas, the car that was supposed to be there was not. In fact, they had no record of a ride for us at all. So we had to sit at the airport while I convinced them to send a driver for us.

While we sat there, two separate guys walked up offering VIP passes for clubs (Jet in the Mirage and Tao in the Venetian). I guess that it's there jobs to find young women to get to come to their clubs. Note: they don't do this for guys... they assume that if they get enough hot girls in, the men will follow... and buy the drinks.

We took the passes, but never went to the clubs.

We finally got a ride with a guy who kept asking us to guess his age, which is the dumbest game ever. What am I supposed to say (well, I didn't say anything. I let Jeannie do the talking because she is the cute one. She could tell him he looked like he was about to keel over and die and he would still have thought she was the sweetest thing since candy corn)? Of course I'm not going to tell you, "yeah, you look 67"... even if you clearly are. I'll always say, "oh, 33... maybe 34" because I don't want to say you look as old as you actually are.

The guy was almost 39... he looked 45... Jeannie "guessed" 30... and probably made his day.

Our room was great. It was on the 25th floor and faced the strip, which was awesome at night. The best part was the tub, which could fit 3 fully grown girls from Colorado and Kansas... I assume.

We went to the Forum Shops, to find Jeannie some shoes. The cab ride back was like the cab ride from hell, with the driver from hell, who took us to the wrong hotel, and then drove 30 mph over 2 ft high speed bumps... and then asked why he got a lousy tip...

I held Jeannie's hand the whole way...

We dressed up and went to Nove that night. It's an Italian restaurant on the 50th floor of The Palms. When we sat down, the manager gave us free champagne. He also brought us free appetizers (that tasted sort of like cat food... but it was free... so we ate them), and then the waiter took an espresso shot with us that was on the house.

But the BEST part, by far, was desert (which they also gave to us for free). They were mini cannoli shells that we filled with the creamy filling ourselves, and decorated with a selection of about 16 toppings. It was incredible.

I would go back to Vegas just for that desert.

Then we were escorted up, through the employee escalator, to The Playboy Club. It's actually more of a lounge, but there is no place to sit. Scratch that. There are plenty of places to sit, but only if you are VIP. Although we were treated very well... we were not treated that well.

The Playboy Club was a pretty big let down, overall. The Bunnies were SO MEAN... and it was pretty tiny. But the bathrooms were cool. Playboy photos are all over the walls and the doors to the stalls are full-size naked chicks. And when you close the doors, it's her whole body from the back.

That will be in my next house.

Then we went to Moon. Moon is a cool club. Although there is still no place to sit (except for VIP), the dancing was fun. There are go-go dancers on the booths and the ceiling retracts, showing you the moon (... hey! I get it!). Plus, there is a huge balcony with great views of the strip.

I sat down on an (empty) ottoman to fix my shoe, and a security guard almost ninja chopped me off of the balcony.

Then we went back to the room and took a bubble bath (in our bathing suits).

The next day we went to a couple of the hotels on the strip. This was not the original plan. The original plan was to go to the pool party. But there is no pool party when there is no sun, and when it is raining. We had reserved seats, which we curled up on under huge towels and almost fell asleep (until one of the life guards told us that the pool was not for napping, it was for drinking and partying... but I slept anyway).

So we left, but not before getting one of the 1/2 yard long cups with pina coladas in it.

I'm having Mike make mine into a Piggy Bank.

We went to Dane Cook at The Colosseum in Caesar's that night, which was fun, but made us tired.

There was also a Pussycat Dolls Lounge, where the original PCDs were going to perform their new single... but we did not get to see that. But that's OK, because I go to the Playboy Club to see my half/fully naked chicas.

I don't need no stinkin dolls... I have (mean) bunnies.

I won $10.83 at the penny slots, which made me feel like a high rollin' pimp...

We went to this little club at The Mirage that was called Revolution. It's supposed to be Beatles themed, but I'm pretty sure that the living Beatles would never go there and that the dead one's would rather... be dead.

It was too crowded, a girl ran in to me while grinding on another girl, and the bartender charged me five bucks for a club soda.

So we went home to bed.

Our last day we covered the rest of The Strip, which was exhausting. Then we took a nap and got ready for our last night in Vegas. I wore my new super cute dress, and we went to the Mexican restaurant in the lobby of The Palms where we had frozen drinks and greasy, cheesy appetizers (to soak up the alcohol).

Then we tried to go to Rain (the first big club at The Palms).

The manager had given me VIP passes at check in. I flashed one at the security guard and expected to be escorted up to the club on the pony of my choice with champagne and caviar.

Instead, he informed me that the pass didn't work, because it was a special occasion weekend. Stupid manager, giving us passes that don't even work.

So we decided that we could slum it and wait in line...

Then we found out that the cover was $40.

No club is worth that... so we went shopping at the gift shop and Playboy store, and then played the penny slots some more. I ended up coming out $4 ahead by the end of the trip.

Big Pimpin...

Then it was back to the room to pack and end the trip where it started... with a bubble bath.

When I got home, I had to go down to Wheatridge to go to my grandma's get together for her friends from Texas. It was a lot of old ladies and boxed white zinfandel.

This morning was the Bolder Boulder. I did it by myself, and my eyes burned the whole way. I thought they were going to swell shut. But I made it, and I am proud of myself for doing it after a crazy Vegas weekend.

I told Jeannie and Kayla that we walked off all of the cannolis, pies, fried food, and booze from our trip... which is always a good thing.

At lunch, I asked Mike if we could get some cucumbers to put on my red, swollen eyes...

He said I could just use some cheese.

Lefties are taking over the world!

So I was really bored in class, so I started to write. I have decided to post it here, because I figure that I would have posted it on here if I had my laptop. So here it is:

I have this professor who has a ponytail. A beard, ripped jeans, and oversized t-shirts. I'm actually sitting in his class right now. He's a sociologist, and a stereotypical one at that. You can actually picture him wrapping his arms around a tree and giving it a squeeze. I've got no problem with him... except his class blows. Maybe it's just me, but I don't really think anyone here is really paying any attention. There's a girl in front of me whose on facebook and IM. Now they're talking about Vegan fastfood and compostable coffee cups (he actually asked "Do you get free coffee for telling us this?"). I'm not learning anything in this class. Maybe it's because I'm 4 weeks away from graduation, or because I'm taking this pass/fail, or because I'm lazy. But when your professor says "I'm no expert... were on this journey together", it's kind of a turn-off (again, maybe it's just me... the girl in the front row with a bandanna and lip ring is nodding her head after every single word this guy says... But there's still six people cruising the web on their laptops).
I've had a cold... it was in my head and throat for a few days, and now it has moved to my sinuses. I swear, my brain feels like it is leaking out of my nose. But I can't sneeze, so I look like I'm crying about the "state of the world"... but I just want to sneeze, GOD DAMMIT. I'm basically depleting tissue resources at a rate of 1/5 minutes. Boulder will be in a tissue drought within a week if this keeps up.
40 minutes left in class...
OH! I just noticed that there were 2 left handed girls sitting in the front row... then I just say that Bandanna/Lip Ring girl is also a lefty... 3 lefties in a row... sounds like a nursery rhyme. Is this a sign? Holy shit! ANOTHER one behind them! And one sitting right in front of me... WHAT'S HAPPENING??? And another behind Bandanna girl... I've officially lost my mind and have entered an alternate universe...
*duh-duh-duh...*

So that's all I wrote today...
I just ate a mango. Now, I like the skin. I'm not sure why, but I do. So, I decided to look it up on the web. Can you eat mango skin? Well, I got answers that fall into two basic categories: Yes you can and you should and No you can't and it will kill you. Well, needless to say, I started to freak out. My throat feels constricted and my lips are tingling. And the back of my head itches. Is it me? The mango? The lefties poisoning me? So I called my mom:
"Can you eat the skin of a mango?"
"I don't think so... I'm not sure. But I wouldn't."
"Well... I already did!"
"Then why are you asking?"
"Because I might DIE!!!"
"Well, how do you feel?"
"Tingly."
"Well, then I would lay off the mango skin... maybe wait about a month, and then slowly introduce it. Maybe you'll develop a tolerance. At least it's a lot of, you know, ruffage."
"Well, yeah... I guess."
So, Mom was pretty useless, so I called Dad:
"Can you eat the skin of a mango?"
"Sure you can! You'll get sick, but you can."
"Sick?!?!?"
"Well, no. Probably not."
"Well, I already ate it! So don't tell me that!"
"Well, how do you feel?"
"Tingly!"
"That's just in your head. Call me if your vision starts to blur."
Dad is so caring.

Now my back itches and my calf itches and my ears tingle... crap... now my tear duct itches and my stomach hurts!!!!!!
Ok... talking (typing) myself over the ledge, huh?

One more story: I was driving and stopped at a red light. I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed a lighter go on. And then the driver TOOK A HIT... 10 seconds later, he took another! I called Mike:
"Hello?"
"I'm at a red light and these two guys are in the truck behind me and the driver just took 2 hits of weed!"
"*laugh*"
"Seriously... we've been here less than a minute and their getting high... OH MY GOD! HE JUST TOOK ANOTHER HIT!!! 3 hits in less than 2 minutes!!"
"*laugh* When the light turns green, drive away really fast."
"Well, I better, because they'll probably come after me."
"Why?"
"Because I proabably look like a giant cheetoe!"
"No, you look like... well, your car is silver, so what's silver that you can eat?"
"I don't know... I'm not all high and shit!"

I drove away very fast...