You won't find me

At Beef O'Brady's. What a revolting name for a restaurant. Gives me a vivid mental picture of an obese, sweaty man with food stains on his t-shirt, laboring over a gigantic bowl of meat. No, make that a wifebeater. His forehead is creased. He's constipated. I don't know. It's just what I picture.

I also have not entered, nor will I, a Dress Barn. Who are you calling a cow? Or am I supposed to be a pig? For crying out loud, people. Talk about killing the mood.

Dear American people with big butts

Next time, may I suggest that you get out of the mile-long drive-through line at Chick-fil-A. You can park and walk a few yards inside, where it is just me and the nice lady behind the counter. You can order right away, like me. You can get your food right away, like me. Then we could enjoy our delicious chicken sandwiches and strawberry shakes together. And your butts might be a smidge less big. Just a thought.

Confession time

O-tay. Another one bites the dust.

I am in love with Facebook. IN luuuuuurrrrrrvvvvvvvve. That MySpace shiznit gives me seizures. For real? Facebook is clean, easy and dreamy. My friends, my work peeps, blogging, music, pics, books, podcasts, lists, games, messaging, OMG, I can't get enough.

I'm sure in a few weeks I'll lay off it a bit, but don't get between me and my Facebook now, brother. Just don't.

What the hell does THIS light switch do?

Yay, me! I'm all moved into my new house, I've got most of my stuff unpacked, and I even know what day is garbage day on my street. Pilot gave me a super-nice lawnmower, so I'm gonna go get him a hammock for him to lie in after he mows my lawn. hehehe

Endangered species

Can't believe I caught sight of this Dubya fan in broad daylight.

Why are my trips to San Fran always too short?

Last weekend's trip to SF was outrageous. Outrageously screwed up. Think elaborate plan, mechanic breaking plane, part not available, scrambling for commercial flight, missing BART train, missed flight, frustrated fuming (him), frustrated crying (me), and sitting around in an airport for 12 million hours, which led to pretty great conversations, so it was salvaged, as much as possible. I don't EVEN want to go into any more detail than that, I'm just glad we escaped without a medical emergency, but I wanted to post some California goodness.




Pilot's rich uncle (I have a rich uncle, too. Does everyone? Do you?) has this awesome store. The window display is a meth lab.




Obligatory shots. Oooo, pretty.




I love, love, love Muir Woods. Makes me feel tiny, like a fairy or something. Maybe an elf.














Wouldn't you love to live here...





It's right next to this...


...and this.


The kids were chilling...



...while a fancy wedding commenced on the beach.

Wasn't supposed to

It wasn't supposed to be like this, was it?

I wasn't looking for it. Neither was he. I was doing something else. I'd look later. I had my whole life ahead of me.

Some of you know I fought it like a wild animal. It made me ill when I missed him. Damn it! My mind rebelled against itself. I ran the other way.

On paper, I wouldn't have accepted it. I'm not trendy. Being a cougar is trendy. Therefore, I couldn't do this.

I stubbornly fought. He was patient. I said I didn't want the exciting, independent, patient, persistent, genuine, self-aware, intelligent, physical, ambitious, adventurous, thoughtful, confident, devoted man. Who loves to travel and experience the world and life as much as I do and makes it a priority. Who doesn't want kids or already have a brood. Who has a lust for life and learning and teaching. Who is a passionate bickerer and lover. Who tells me I'm a pain when I need to hear it. Who admires me. Who pushes me forward. Who wants me. Who loves me. But he gave me my space and my time. Whatever I asked.

I love him. I love him and he loves me. We are in love.

Take one and pass it on

Twinkie tagged me with this lil list. Here's your trivia for the day about me, me, me.

THE RULES: Elaborate on the words below, kids! Pass it on to your Blogger Friends.

Accent: Pure Midwest. Born in Virginia, raised in Iowa. I'm proud to be a corn-fed Hawkeye. A touch of Kentucky might sneak in there if I'm tired.

I Don't Drink: Alone. I also don't drink milk. It was squeezed out of a cow's tit and it's thick and goopy. What the hell?

Chore I Hate: Dusting. There is no point.

Pets: Yes, the cutest one. The Reverend Alfredo Green, aka Mr. Grumbles, Fuzzy Butt, Itchy Pants. Most often answers to Fredo, Stinky, or Hey! (clap clap).





Essential Electronic: Laptop. I don't want it to be essential, yet it is.

Perfume/Cologne: Threw it all away. I'm usually wearing scented lotion. My signature is Warm Vanilla Sugar. I do like to smell yummy.

Gold Or Silver: Both and lots of it.

Insomnia: Not anymore.

Job Title: Editor in Chief

Kids: No thanks.

Religion: No thanks.

Siblings: One younger brother, who might well be the greatest guy in the world, and one much younger sister who is becoming a close friend. Since she's so much younger, and my parents moved so far away, we didn't know each other well at all while she was growing up, but now we're clicking.

Time I Wake Up: Whenever I want. Or when the dog barks.

Unusual Talent/Skill: Making the people around me feel relaxed and comfortable.

Vegetable I Refuse To Eat: Keep all green peppers far from me and my plate. Blech.

Worst Habit: Either belching or not taking my makeup off before I go to bed. Or taking too big a bite of your dessert.

My Favorite Meal: A baguette, Brie, strawberries and champagne. To be consumed sitting on a blanket on the floor in front of a wood fire, in our undies, at the very most.

Delish Nish, you're up!

Geek revealed and a new career

Pilot has a tendency to talk in his sleep. He really enunciates, too, which is helpful. The other night, he was talking about Captain Kirk, Chekov and getting more power to engines one and two. If I hadn't heard the first part, he might have been able to convince me that he was dreaming about flying a plane, but I heard what I heard, and no, I won't let him forget it. Or maybe I will, because he very patiently listened to me describe the dream I was having when he woke me up with his space jabber:

Hillary Clinton was running for president, but she was extremely obese, and it was hurting her numbers -- she had no chance of getting elected. Female president? Maybe. Fat female president? Oof, as if. So, Hill and I were chatting (as we often do), and I presented my plan for getting her elected.

I would put her on a plan including regular exercise and sensible eating and she would start to lose weight. Whenever anyone asked her if she was losing weight, or how, she would politely change the subject. Soon, the whole country would become obsessed with how she looked each day and what she was doing. What was she eating? What wasn't she eating? Had she had surgery? What size did she wear? Then she would go on Oprah, looking all curvy and svelte (and yes, showing some boobage, dammit) and the two of them would talk about size, diet, body image, and all that crap. The female voters would be mesmerized by her weight loss success and the males would be distracted by her cleavage. Hill would ride the wave of goodwill, curiosity, gossip and jealousy straight into a presidential election landslide, with me as her closest, most trusted advisor. Together, we would rule the world and shop til we dropped in all the chicest shops. Or, rather, have all that designer shit given to us, cuz that's how we trendsetters roll.

I think this could work. First, I start sending Hill cookie bouquets to get her plumped up. Then I go in for the kill. I see me in that White House office. I see me in Versace and Monique Lhullier. I see it.