I had planned on staying just for a little bit today at work, and commencing the drinking at or before the drive home. But when my boss called in to say we could leave at noon, all of a sudden all pretense of work stopped. I just watched the two guys I work with take a beer bong apiece at 11AM. I'll stick to my beer in a cup, thank you, like a CIVILIZED employee. The idea of wrapping my lips around a stale rubber tube that two guys I have reason to believe have oral herpes (at the very least) have just finished using does not fill me with happiness. But yeah...the idea in itself is pretty awesome and it's a moral principle I can really get behind.
I am leaving to begin my three and a half day weekend in 15 minutes. I have a two week old brownie and a slice of unrefrigerated (24 hours and counting) pizza to look forward to, and no, my weekend can't get any better from here. I hope everyone has fun celebrating Labor Day in all ways you see fit. See you Tuesday!
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
the lord works in mysterious ways
I just found ten dollars in my wallet that I didn't know I had. Jesus wants me to have Vietnamese food with Laura instead of going to the gym.
Me: But Jesus, I had planned on working out my killer calf muscles this afternoon!
Jesus: Bam! Here's a crisp ten dollar bill.Go stuff yourself with rice noodles.
Who am I to refuse the almighty?
Me: But Jesus, I had planned on working out my killer calf muscles this afternoon!
Jesus: Bam! Here's a crisp ten dollar bill.Go stuff yourself with rice noodles.
Who am I to refuse the almighty?
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I TOLD you, my baby beat me up
I have been saying for a while now that my jetsetting lifestyle was going to catch up to me and I was headed for a fiery crash into reality sooner or later. This weekend was my fiery crash. I think up till now I have been handling pretty well the schedule of work, school, and more work that keeps me going nonstop between the hours of 7AM and 11PM, but usually I at least have the weekends to relax and unwind a little. Add to that an apartment move and wedding planning assistance and apparently you throw me over the edge and into the sobbing mass of bruised flesh I have become.
I've been slowly moving my stuff out of my old place over the last week, and this weekend I had hired movers to take all my heavy furniture from Sunnyvale to San Jose. I didn't want any of my friends and family to have to move crap down one two two flights of stairs and up two flights of stairs, since they've all been through it before. So I figured $140 was a small price to pay for not breaking anyone's backs. Saturday morning I got up at 7:30 to get ready and go get Mark's truck to move the little stuff while the movers took the big stuff. I had Luis to help for that, but since it was only going to be little items, I had refused everyone else's offers of help to spare them. I rushed back home because I was late, only to find that the movers had not arrived by 9:05. No big deal, they were only five minutes late. By 9:15 I began to worry that the "Professional Moving Service" I had found at bargain rates on Craigslist might have been a poor choice. And not calling to confirm they were coming the day before might have been a second bad move. So I called the number on the ad and was greeted on the fifth ring by an incredibly homosexual-sounding male voice that might have just been roused from sleep, or interrupted during fellation. The guy could barely speak English and I couldn't really make him understand that I was calling because I wanted my furniture moved and no one had come to do it. He said he would call me back and hung up on me without getting my number. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him, but instead, Luis called him back and was able to communicate what had happened and what was going to happen. Turns out the man I had spoken to the week before took my number down wrong and was unable to reach me when he called to confirm, therefore he just sent no one. They offered to reschedule for the next weekend, and said they would call me back to see if it was at all possible to do the move later that Saturday. I don't handle setbacks well and was in the midst of a full on tantrum when Luis said we should just move the stuff ourselves since we had a truck. I did not want to do this, but there wasn't much else we could do unless I just moved everything back a week. I called Laura and she brought over another truck and we began lifting and moving like our lives depended on it.
Hours and hours and numerous scrapes and bruises later, we had taken the last load of furniture over to the new place. From this experience I have learned many things: ALWAYS call to confirm when you are scheduling movers. Three people does not constitute a moving team. Bungee drawers on your dressers. Don't trust someone with a TV on his back to lower it carefully into your waiting arms. Sofa beds are very heavy. If you tell your friends who have been kind enough to help you move your worldly possessions up and down several flights of stairs that you accidentally left the elevator key in your car when you exchanged vehicles to move, don't let them in on the fact that your key was in your purse the whole time when you find it after the very last item is carried up to the third floor. They get mad.
Now all I have left are some small things at home which I have been moving stealthily in the night. I still have a ton of shit to unpack, but after barely being able to lift my arms to hang up the 6 garbage bags full of clothes I brought up yesterday, I think I deserve a break. My legs look like someone took a tiny baseball bat to them and took out years of aggression in the form of repeated assaults, and my arms are covered with lumps and angry purple bruises. Laura and Luis suffered the same injuries, and I feel horrible that I subjected them to that. But I am extremely grateful because I could never have done it on my own, and I have promised to repay both of them with dinners and homemade desserts. And hopefully, I won't have to do this all over again in a couple months. But if I do, you can bet your ass that this time I will just be renting a Uhaul and going down to the Home Depot with a case of beer and a fistful of twenties.
I've been slowly moving my stuff out of my old place over the last week, and this weekend I had hired movers to take all my heavy furniture from Sunnyvale to San Jose. I didn't want any of my friends and family to have to move crap down one two two flights of stairs and up two flights of stairs, since they've all been through it before. So I figured $140 was a small price to pay for not breaking anyone's backs. Saturday morning I got up at 7:30 to get ready and go get Mark's truck to move the little stuff while the movers took the big stuff. I had Luis to help for that, but since it was only going to be little items, I had refused everyone else's offers of help to spare them. I rushed back home because I was late, only to find that the movers had not arrived by 9:05. No big deal, they were only five minutes late. By 9:15 I began to worry that the "Professional Moving Service" I had found at bargain rates on Craigslist might have been a poor choice. And not calling to confirm they were coming the day before might have been a second bad move. So I called the number on the ad and was greeted on the fifth ring by an incredibly homosexual-sounding male voice that might have just been roused from sleep, or interrupted during fellation. The guy could barely speak English and I couldn't really make him understand that I was calling because I wanted my furniture moved and no one had come to do it. He said he would call me back and hung up on me without getting my number. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him, but instead, Luis called him back and was able to communicate what had happened and what was going to happen. Turns out the man I had spoken to the week before took my number down wrong and was unable to reach me when he called to confirm, therefore he just sent no one. They offered to reschedule for the next weekend, and said they would call me back to see if it was at all possible to do the move later that Saturday. I don't handle setbacks well and was in the midst of a full on tantrum when Luis said we should just move the stuff ourselves since we had a truck. I did not want to do this, but there wasn't much else we could do unless I just moved everything back a week. I called Laura and she brought over another truck and we began lifting and moving like our lives depended on it.
Hours and hours and numerous scrapes and bruises later, we had taken the last load of furniture over to the new place. From this experience I have learned many things: ALWAYS call to confirm when you are scheduling movers. Three people does not constitute a moving team. Bungee drawers on your dressers. Don't trust someone with a TV on his back to lower it carefully into your waiting arms. Sofa beds are very heavy. If you tell your friends who have been kind enough to help you move your worldly possessions up and down several flights of stairs that you accidentally left the elevator key in your car when you exchanged vehicles to move, don't let them in on the fact that your key was in your purse the whole time when you find it after the very last item is carried up to the third floor. They get mad.
Now all I have left are some small things at home which I have been moving stealthily in the night. I still have a ton of shit to unpack, but after barely being able to lift my arms to hang up the 6 garbage bags full of clothes I brought up yesterday, I think I deserve a break. My legs look like someone took a tiny baseball bat to them and took out years of aggression in the form of repeated assaults, and my arms are covered with lumps and angry purple bruises. Laura and Luis suffered the same injuries, and I feel horrible that I subjected them to that. But I am extremely grateful because I could never have done it on my own, and I have promised to repay both of them with dinners and homemade desserts. And hopefully, I won't have to do this all over again in a couple months. But if I do, you can bet your ass that this time I will just be renting a Uhaul and going down to the Home Depot with a case of beer and a fistful of twenties.
Friday, August 17, 2007
there are two kinds of girls in this world...
...those who do THIS to their phones:
and those who don't.
I could tell you immediately everything about this girl, and the guy lucky enough to date her. Thank you, Swarovski, for finally making a clear determinator to split the gender.
and those who don't.
I could tell you immediately everything about this girl, and the guy lucky enough to date her. Thank you, Swarovski, for finally making a clear determinator to split the gender.
Monday, August 13, 2007
..and then I received the second proposition of my life
This weekend was uncharacteristically eventful for me as of late. I got a lot done, even if the result was a weariness that struck deep into my bones. My check engine light was finally repaired after three years of constantly reminding me of my inadequacy as a car owner, which was followed by a nail biting smog re-check (after failing the first time when I frantically drove my car to the station after the light was reset by the dealer, only to find that the smog test machines are smarter than a 28 year old woman who is lying through her teeth to the mechanic). I will not have to endure the shame of displaying a large sticker advertising that I cannot maintain my vehicle according to DMV standards. Thank god. And all it cost me was $700. And three blowjobs.
Friday night Janessa and I went out to sushi, which was glorious despite the fact that I had already eaten not too much earlier and that I was sleepy. To counteract the tireds, I consumed two bottles of unfiltered sake. Then we went to E&O where it quickly became apparent that I was drunk. I drank more and then went home earlier than I had planned, which unfortunately meant drunker than I planned.
*SCENE MISSING*
I woke up alone and with the realization that I probably did something bad. After calling Hector to beg forgiveness, I learned that not only did I insist on driving the night before, but I left when I was given specific instructions to wait for him to come back down with his car. I know, I am a bad baby. And I was properly chastised, so you don't have to worry. But as I told him, I have been so good lately it's disgusting and this will put the fear of god in me for at least a couple more months. And by then I will be living near the light rail so my chances of drunk driving will be further minimized. Everyone wins!
Saturday I got a call that my apartment was ready to be moved in, so I went to fill out the forms and get my keys. After not living on my own for three years, it's kind of exciting/scary to be thrown out into that world again. Also, I really really don't want to move all my shit. I ended up napping for three hours after getting home from doing various tasks, and then when I woke up at nine (after realizing that no, it wasn't Sunday morning or time to get ready for work) I decided to start moving some things into my new abode. Then I got a craving for tater tots and chicken nuggets, so the moving was short-lived. I rented a couple movies and began my baked feast. And some advice: if you ever get hit in the head and decide you might like to watch Music and Lyrics, don't. It's pretty damn awful, and this is coming from someone who insisted on finishing The Next Best Thing.
Sunday I woke up early and began moving more junk into my car to bring to the new place. On my very last load, I was taking this clumsy chair I have for some reason not thrown away yet out the front door and trying to balance my purse, keys, and hair all while closing the door. I started closing the door and heard a loud POP!! followed by exploding pain in my left thumb. Turns out, I had been for some reason stabilizing myself by holding the door in the exact place where it closes on the hinge. If any of you have taken Physics, you would know that this is excruciating. My thumb turned purple instantly under the nail and blood began pouring out of the cuticle. Sexy. Not to mention, the throbbing in time with my heartbeat. If I was less of a woman, I would have thrown everything I was carrying down and commenced sobbing like a baby. Instead, I let out a loud gasp and stood there looking at my thumb as it bled, unable to believe I had been so stupid. For the record, this is the second time my hand has been caught in some way in a door. I had no choice but to finish loading up my car and go to the apartment as planned because my car was not driveable all day as it was stuffed with bags of purses, lubes, and stuffed animals. So I drove to San Jose with my thumb in the air, calling everyone on the way to whine that I had just mutilated myself. Because hearing their sympathetic cluckings made the pain go away just a little.
My new place is on the third floor. It is hard to carry heavy bags of crap up three flights of stairs when your thumb is spilling its life's blood all over the stairwell. But my pain didn't stop there. In the middle of heaving four bags and a sewing machine up the first flight of stairs, an elderly gentleman in a suit approached me from the side. He said something, but I couldn't hear him above my whimperings of pain. He asked if I was moving out or moving in, to which I replied that I was moving in, and then for some reason (I wasn't thinking clearly, my blood loss was making me lightheaded) I added which apartment number I was in. He was old, and therefore harmless. Then he asked whether I was living alone. I am stupid, obviously, because I said yes. THEN he told me what apartment he lived in, and said I should come by. At night. Or...whenever. I was shocked, and disgusted. And intrigued. What is it about me, in distress, that brings the nasty mens a callin' like sharks to a wounded baby seal? So long story short, I will be visiting apartment 81. And I may or may not be wearing underpants.
Friday night Janessa and I went out to sushi, which was glorious despite the fact that I had already eaten not too much earlier and that I was sleepy. To counteract the tireds, I consumed two bottles of unfiltered sake. Then we went to E&O where it quickly became apparent that I was drunk. I drank more and then went home earlier than I had planned, which unfortunately meant drunker than I planned.
*SCENE MISSING*
I woke up alone and with the realization that I probably did something bad. After calling Hector to beg forgiveness, I learned that not only did I insist on driving the night before, but I left when I was given specific instructions to wait for him to come back down with his car. I know, I am a bad baby. And I was properly chastised, so you don't have to worry. But as I told him, I have been so good lately it's disgusting and this will put the fear of god in me for at least a couple more months. And by then I will be living near the light rail so my chances of drunk driving will be further minimized. Everyone wins!
Saturday I got a call that my apartment was ready to be moved in, so I went to fill out the forms and get my keys. After not living on my own for three years, it's kind of exciting/scary to be thrown out into that world again. Also, I really really don't want to move all my shit. I ended up napping for three hours after getting home from doing various tasks, and then when I woke up at nine (after realizing that no, it wasn't Sunday morning or time to get ready for work) I decided to start moving some things into my new abode. Then I got a craving for tater tots and chicken nuggets, so the moving was short-lived. I rented a couple movies and began my baked feast. And some advice: if you ever get hit in the head and decide you might like to watch Music and Lyrics, don't. It's pretty damn awful, and this is coming from someone who insisted on finishing The Next Best Thing.
Sunday I woke up early and began moving more junk into my car to bring to the new place. On my very last load, I was taking this clumsy chair I have for some reason not thrown away yet out the front door and trying to balance my purse, keys, and hair all while closing the door. I started closing the door and heard a loud POP!! followed by exploding pain in my left thumb. Turns out, I had been for some reason stabilizing myself by holding the door in the exact place where it closes on the hinge. If any of you have taken Physics, you would know that this is excruciating. My thumb turned purple instantly under the nail and blood began pouring out of the cuticle. Sexy. Not to mention, the throbbing in time with my heartbeat. If I was less of a woman, I would have thrown everything I was carrying down and commenced sobbing like a baby. Instead, I let out a loud gasp and stood there looking at my thumb as it bled, unable to believe I had been so stupid. For the record, this is the second time my hand has been caught in some way in a door. I had no choice but to finish loading up my car and go to the apartment as planned because my car was not driveable all day as it was stuffed with bags of purses, lubes, and stuffed animals. So I drove to San Jose with my thumb in the air, calling everyone on the way to whine that I had just mutilated myself. Because hearing their sympathetic cluckings made the pain go away just a little.
My new place is on the third floor. It is hard to carry heavy bags of crap up three flights of stairs when your thumb is spilling its life's blood all over the stairwell. But my pain didn't stop there. In the middle of heaving four bags and a sewing machine up the first flight of stairs, an elderly gentleman in a suit approached me from the side. He said something, but I couldn't hear him above my whimperings of pain. He asked if I was moving out or moving in, to which I replied that I was moving in, and then for some reason (I wasn't thinking clearly, my blood loss was making me lightheaded) I added which apartment number I was in. He was old, and therefore harmless. Then he asked whether I was living alone. I am stupid, obviously, because I said yes. THEN he told me what apartment he lived in, and said I should come by. At night. Or...whenever. I was shocked, and disgusted. And intrigued. What is it about me, in distress, that brings the nasty mens a callin' like sharks to a wounded baby seal? So long story short, I will be visiting apartment 81. And I may or may not be wearing underpants.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
two down, three to go...
Yes, this is going to be a post about my stitches.
I haven't written anything in quite a while, but not because I don't have anything to write about. Oh no. My life is one adventure after another, each day filled to the brim with action and activity. Just last night I went to the mechanic, fought with a computer for two hours, did some Illustrator work, sewed the lining of my dress in, washed a massive load of dishes, and washed and flat-ironed my hair followed up by a hefty set of crunches and ab wheelings to keep my body in top form, all before bed. Sure it might have been cooler to say I had gone to the Giants game and sat in the VIP section to watch Barry Bonds make history, but can I be blamed for the fact that those juicy tickets were given away to someone else at the last minute? I make do with what I'm given.
Back to the stitches.
I don't want to alarm anyone, but two of them have fallen out of their own accord. I say "fallen out" but it's probably more accurate to speculate that running for 25 minutes without a bandaid caused the first one to chafe and wiggle its way out of the skin hole it had been wedged into. Considering it is about at the intersection of pant waist and underpants, this is probably what happened. I noticed it was gone Saturday night but wasnt really alarmed despite the fact that the piece of incision it once covered now looks like a butterflied shrimp. But I'd rather have an unsightly scar than a cancerous mole (which it wasn't, according to the tests run after moley was pried so forcefully from my body after 28 years of peaceful existence). The second one disappeared yesterday, although we predicted it on Monday when performing the daily inspection. I'm hoping to chafe away the last three between now and Friday when I'm supposed to go back to the doctor to get the stitches removed. I think refusing to wear the bandaids anymore (they were leaving rashy red marks where the acid bandage gum began eating into my skin -- I don't think you're supposed to wear bandaids for two weeks in a row) is helping my cause. And if worse comes to worse, I do happen to live with a registered nurse. Or a Chinese girl with alcohol, tiny scissors, and a loving touch. Same thing.
I haven't written anything in quite a while, but not because I don't have anything to write about. Oh no. My life is one adventure after another, each day filled to the brim with action and activity. Just last night I went to the mechanic, fought with a computer for two hours, did some Illustrator work, sewed the lining of my dress in, washed a massive load of dishes, and washed and flat-ironed my hair followed up by a hefty set of crunches and ab wheelings to keep my body in top form, all before bed. Sure it might have been cooler to say I had gone to the Giants game and sat in the VIP section to watch Barry Bonds make history, but can I be blamed for the fact that those juicy tickets were given away to someone else at the last minute? I make do with what I'm given.
Back to the stitches.
I don't want to alarm anyone, but two of them have fallen out of their own accord. I say "fallen out" but it's probably more accurate to speculate that running for 25 minutes without a bandaid caused the first one to chafe and wiggle its way out of the skin hole it had been wedged into. Considering it is about at the intersection of pant waist and underpants, this is probably what happened. I noticed it was gone Saturday night but wasnt really alarmed despite the fact that the piece of incision it once covered now looks like a butterflied shrimp. But I'd rather have an unsightly scar than a cancerous mole (which it wasn't, according to the tests run after moley was pried so forcefully from my body after 28 years of peaceful existence). The second one disappeared yesterday, although we predicted it on Monday when performing the daily inspection. I'm hoping to chafe away the last three between now and Friday when I'm supposed to go back to the doctor to get the stitches removed. I think refusing to wear the bandaids anymore (they were leaving rashy red marks where the acid bandage gum began eating into my skin -- I don't think you're supposed to wear bandaids for two weeks in a row) is helping my cause. And if worse comes to worse, I do happen to live with a registered nurse. Or a Chinese girl with alcohol, tiny scissors, and a loving touch. Same thing.
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