skeletor

I've been watching the Biggest Loser all season, which is a first for me since in the past I've been content to just watch the finales. They show the before pictures anyway so you can get the idea of how far they've come. But this year, I invested in the contestants. I formed my snap judgments and denounced the ones who refused to push or who cried constantly. I cheered when my favorites lost a ton of weight and shouted at the TV when Ron was an asshole or when Laura/Shannon/Helen/Aubrey cried for the ten-thousandth time.

I won't get into all the things that pissed me off about the finale, after I spent so much time getting emotionally involved in the series (read: eating pizza/fried chicken/cake in front of the TV every week and feeling momentarily motivated to work out afterwards) but I was furious...FURIOUS when Helen came out looking like a sack of bones and ended up winning the entire thing. I was pleasantly shocked when Mike came out looking really svelte (but still healthy) and I thought Tara looked great, if a little strange looking in the face, but that could have been because of her overdone makeup. Tara should have won. She was the best competitor in the entire series, and she actually looked healthy in the finale. Helen looked like she had aged at least 10 years and hadn't had a drop of water in the last week. Seriously, the show took a turn for the worse with this win I think, since to me the message that Helen's win sends is that it's ok to overexercise and undereat/drink if it's for $250,000. Of course she lost the most percentage of body weight, pretty much all that's left of her is bone! Janessa and I were taking turns shuddering during the last 30 minutes of the finale, every time they would zoom in on Helen's haggard face. Considering how selfish she was during the entire show, I wouldn't be surprised if all her daughter will see of the winnings is a value meal at McDonalds. Congratulations, Helen!

and they said it couldn't be done

It's no secret that I have a problem with food, and that problem is that I eat way too much of it. I have had people watch me in disgust as I pack away entire sides of beef, panfuls of macaroni, or bucketloads of popcorn just so none of it gets thrown away.

This weekend, we went camping and I ate more than I should have. I brought a block of pepper jack cheese to eat with salami (reduced fat, so it's not entirely bad!) and roasted garlic triscuits. Side note: that shit is delicious.

Anyway, halfway into the cheese I started to feel full. But there was still cut cheese on the plate that no one was eating. So I soldiered on...and on...and on. Berta's mom mentioned that maybe the plate should be taken away from me, but Berta wisely cautioned that it wasn't a good idea, since I have been known to bite when hands get near my food. All told, I ate about a half pound of cheese and who knows how many servings of triscuits and salami. The sad part of that story is that it's not all that uncommon.

Last night, I noticed that I still had half of my footlong Subway sandwich I had bought when we moved last weekend, hidden in the refrigerator door. That would make the sandwich 9 1/2 days old as of today. Janessa said I shouldn't eat it, with worry in her voice. Hector said to throw it away. But after working out at lunch in the 80 degree exercise room for our building, that aged sandwich tasted terrific. Jared would have been proud.

mama was a rollin' stone

I'm moving next week. In the past 5 years, if I include this time, I'll have moved three times. That might not seem like that many times to some (like say, a transient) but I absolutely hate moving and this third time that I have to pack up all my crap and figure out how to get it 8.1 miles from A to B is about as not fun as it can be.



I'm sick of the same old things I've had since I first moved out on my own, but too broke to buy newer, fancier things to get sick of. However, despite all the trials and annoyances of packing, I am definitely excited to be moving out of the ghetto. The other night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I was awakened by not one (which is alarming enough), not two (getting a little scarier) but FOUR gunshots in rapid succession, which signifies to me that the shooter meant business and/or had a semi-automatic weapon, and the shootee probably at the very least pissed his pants and at the very most got killed. At my new apartment, (if first impressions count for anything) the most troubling sound I'm going to hear at 11:30 PM will be those of the local geese getting gangbanged by some ganders. For that, I might even make popcorn.

In the spirit of getting rid of stuff that I've had around the house and not used for the past two years, I threw away a few dozen shampoo/conditioner/lotion samples that have been collecting in my bathroom, and have put some things up on Craigslist to see what might even make me a few bucks out of the deal. You know what they say about one man's shit being another man's treasure? Well, I sold a box of my childhood troll dolls for $30. It don't get more shit than that.

I also sold my couch last night, since I'll be taking Brian and Janessa's urine-soaked leather one instead. There is no better illustration of the way things have been going for me lately:

Brian: Do you want my sofa bed? It's leather.
Me, looking at my current ratty blue/tan/brown striped sofa bed covered in an ill-fitting black couch cover made white by the abundance of Shebe hairs: YES!
Janessa: Tibbsy has been pissing on it daily.
Me: ... what color leather?

Since I didn't really trust the guy coming to buy my couch and was slightly worried I'd only be inviting a stranger into my home to have the place cased and then robbed, I asked my dad to come over to look menacing. He failed when he immediately threw himself on the floor next to Sheba and started cuddling with her. But it was ok, because the guy showed up with his brother-in-law and a 2 year old. No robber/rapist brings a kid along, right? Unfortunately, the guy expected me to hold his child as he attempted to shove the couch out of my door. The last time I held a baby was in high school and that didn't go well either. The only way I know to hold anything over 6 pounds is the way I hold Sheba, so needless to say by the end of the ordeal, both me and the little boy were tearstained and crying for our daddies. But only one of us got $100 out of it, so take that, little Carlito!

I am now in the process of attempting to advertise the eleven Girls Gone Wild dvds left behind by an ex 21/2 years ago in a way that doesn't get them immediately pulled from Craigslist. I've gotten some nibbles...but if the buyer wants to come to my house to pick up, something tells me I'm not going to be able to ask my dad to chaperone.

sweet jesus!

this lobster is 50 to 90 years old. I don't even think I'll be able to live that long...

buns of steel

If a doctor offered me today to replace my bones with steel, or perhaps a titanium alloy, I would have to say go for it. Because although my body has been generally kind to me over the years, I've been having a few problems with it lately. Last week it was my hand, causing me to spend the four-hour car ride to Tahoe with my left hand cupping the mangled right one, an ugly bruise spread across the palm and the fingers curled in and unable to straighten out. God knows what happened to it (this is why you should listen to your mother when she tells you not to drink. It really isn't becoming of a lady) but I do remember some fighting. I was pretty sure it was broken, but having never broken a bone in my life and having just canceled my health insurance two weeks before, I had no way of confirming this. So I adapted to my claw-hand, comforting myself with the fact that lots of things cope with three digits.





So I'm ok with my three fingered lifestyle, although it was depressing to learn that I can no longer eat with chopsticks. But last Friday, I started having pains in my left side whenever I breathed. Which happens to be quite a lot. I didn't worry about it too much until I woke up Saturday, still unable to breathe without wincing. I started to get a little worried, so I did what anyone without insurance has to do to diagnose their ailment. I went on WebMD.com to see what I had. Turns out, according to the little clickable body, it was either a miscarriage or some sort of imminent kidney failure. I should mention that I am somewhat of a hypochondriac, so I was immediately convinced I would need a kidney transplant and started mentally listing possible kidneys to harvest. When I still couldn't laugh without screaming by Monday, I decided to reinstate my medical coverage and go to the doctor.

As it turns out, my kidneys are fine and this is most likely a muscle strain. Possibly from my sedentary career path, but also and more alarmingly, possibly from the salsa dancing I did last Thursday night. This is frightening because the class is beginner level and there is no explanation for the intense pain I am in merely from being twirled around for half an hour. If this is what my thirties have in store for me, then I may as well order my Rascal now...although I'm not sure how well I'll be able to operate the controls.

another day, another person I want to strangle

I'm tired. Really, really, tired. But that is to be expected I guess from splitting a week starting a new job and working half days at the old office. I haven't had a lunch break since Monday and the stress of trying to remember to-do items from both companies is starting to make my eyeballs pop out. But...I'll get used to it.

Now, on to the strangling.

Last night, Hector told me he was taking me out to dinner (somewhere far away, he said, and our reservations were at 8). I changed from my work clothes when I got home, and since I had no idea where we were going, I looked to Hector to tell me what was appropriate attire. I ended up wearing a sweater-y top and jeans, with my converse, which I was pretty sure would be too informal for Ruth's Chris (there went THAT hope). We then drove down the street and into the Outback parking lot.

Now don't get me wrong, I love me some Outback, but it's certainly not worthy of going to all the trouble to keep it a secret for a week that Thursday night I would be eating a 7oz Outback Special with a side salad and baked potato (hold the sour cream). So I was understandably confused as I walked into the restaurant, thinking maybe that once we got in there, the real surprise would be that all my family and friends had been gathered surreptitiously to help me celebrate...Thursday? Getting through four days of a new job? Going a whole day without spilling anything on my shirt? Instead, the only surprise was that we sat down to eat and commenced one damn fine meal.

I won't put you through the suspense I had of trying to figure out what the hell was going on. After we ate, we drove downtown and I learned that we would be going to the Sharks game. Hector bought tickets for us because he knew I'd wanted to go for a while now, and so we went. It was a surprise, and a very nice one. He got the good tickets too, the ones on the bottom where I didn't need my glasses to make out the puck and Setoguchi's sweet lips.

Unfortunately, no amount of money could have been paid to prevent us from having seats near the assholes who ended up behind us. As soon as they sat down and I heard the first piercing shriek of the woman and lame baritone "witty" commentary of the man, I knew that I would hate them with every fiber of my being, as I do various strangers at least ten times a day. But, instead of my hate passing as it does when I zoom past some jerk who cuts me off on the way to work, or when I loudly whisper to Laura "I hate someone in this yoga class", or when I let the air out of an inconsiderate neighbor's tires, this hate was to last for three periods, one overtime, and a shootout. The woman was loud, drunk, and knowledgeable of the player's names, which was a very upsetting combination. For every single play, every single time the puck was touched, my ears would ring with screams of "Come on, Marleau!" or "Get it out of there, Boyle!" or the truly enraging, "Stop fucking up, Ehrhoff!" Even Hector almost snapped at that one, since we could hear both her and her stupid male counterpart complaining how awful Ehrhoff was and how he's been screwing up all season. I certainly didn't see her fat ass on the ice doing any better for the team.

Aside from that, it was nice to be able to see the Sharks play, even though they did lose. I got to see my first ever shootout, which was interesting. And I got to eat an entire king size kit-kat to myself, which was glorious. We came very close to being on the monitor several times, which makes me think maybe I should have worn more revealing clothes or brought a baby to dress in a shark costume for crowd appeal. But there's always next time. One thing I'm thankful for, I didn't wear heels to my fancy surprise dinner.

two weeks in review

A couple weeks ago, my boss called me into the conference room, which in and of itself is kind of a nerve-wracking experience (even though the last conference room meeting resulted in my receiving an envelope filled with cash). When we got in, he told me that he was really sorry, but he would have to cut my hours back to just two days a week. There isn't as much work coming in, and because he's in the business of buying property, there isn't any income right now either, making for a pretty bleak situation. I've worked with him for two and a half years, and I've never seen him look more depressed than he did when he told me all this. Talking to him, I was calm and I was understanding, but inside I was panicking and thinking I would have to move back in with my dad. Or start whoring for money. Isn't that what Craigslist is for?

After that meeting, I updated my resume and applied for everything I was even remotely qualified for in fields I had even the tiniest bit of experience in. I discovered in one morning that I've actually learned a lot more than I realized at this job, which hopefully has made me a more marketable employee. After faxing my resume/cover letter to one prospective employer, I forgot to pick up the confirmation sheet that also prints out the first page of what you faxed. So about five minutes later, a coworker came into my office looking really concerned. I had to explain what happened (feeling guilty for some reason, like I was going behind everyone's back to look for more work) and she told me she would keep her eyes peeled for any opportunity she might see. About ten minutes after that, another coworker came in and told me that she had just learned of my situation and would I mind if she called her boss' neighbor who had asked her to work for him a few months ago to see if he still needed anyone? I told her of course not! And she made the call, and learned that he had found someone, but knew of someone else who needed an assistant. So he called that guy and then called back to give me his cell number so I could also call and introduce myself. I did, and ended up scheduling a meeting for later that day.

I wound up meeting with the CEO of this new company that day, and then the CFO the following day. I left both days with a really good feeling that this might become a new opportunity for me, and WAY sooner than I could have hoped. The next week, the CEO called both the woman who had referred me and my current boss to see what they had to say about my work ethic. Apparently they weren't too hard on me, because at the end of the week he offered me the job, starting part time at first to kind of phase out at my office now, and then hopefully moving on to full time after two months. I'm excited to start with a new, stable company in what could become a really great career move, but at the same time, I'm sad that I will probably have to leave where I'm at now. I've learned that there are way more important things than money when it comes to working. It's really important to me to be appreciated for the work I do, and to have people I work with who I genuinely look forward to seeing every day. I know the new office will be like that, because everyone there seems really great, but it's depressing that I will have to leave these women and my boss who bent over backwards to help me out these past couple of weeks.

(But don't get me wrong, the money's nice too.)

Over the next couple of months I will be working like crazy, going from one job to the next and trying to ingratiate myself in the new office so that they have to wonder what they ever did without me. I have to also go buy some new office clothes that make sure to hide my tattoos, cause something tells me I shouldn't show the arm and shoulder till I'm no longer a contractor and they can't get rid of me. Turtlenecks and long sleeves, here I come!