Reheating

Generally I am proficient at food preparation, specifically when I'm preparing left overs.  I know how long to microwave garlic mashed potatoes to get the cheese stretchy without drying out the butter... how long to bake lasagna back to perfection and how long it takes to reconstitute chowder on the stove with a little extra wine and milk..

Burgers, however - are difficult.

Sunday night the boy and I made DELICIOUS sliders on the grill (yay! the grill is back in use for the season), and we had leftovers.  Which I wanted.  badly.  However every method I consdiered sounded crappy.

Microwave?                ew, rubber
Oven?                         crispy..
Back on the Grill?        dry, dry, DRY

So, I started texting.  Texted the boy - "microwave with cover?"  Uhhhh no, thanks though! Texted my mom - "uhhhh eat it cold?" and miss out on the fatty juices!? no thanks! (did I mention I put blue cheese crumbles IN the patties, cause I did!)

Finally McCloud had a stroke of brilliance, "Call Lindsay."

Lindsay! of course! why didn't I think to call the only girl I know who a) lives in the heartland, b) owns a grill and c) can generally be considered the proud owner of over 200 lbs of buffalo meat in her freezer.

Lindsay.  Lindsay will DEFINITELY know how to solve my hunger problem.

She didn't answer, so I sent the SOS text that garnered an immediate reply "S.O.S. Domestic issue, call!"

She called. immediately.

I repeated the issue, conditions and concerns (burgers, cold, grill, microwave, oven and stove at my disposal, don't want them dry or gross). She pondered for approximately 1.2 seconds before declaring:


"Skillet on high, use beer."


Obviously.  Obviously there is beer involved, why didn't I assume that was the solution? I usually assume that beer is the solution, I must be losing my touch...

So I went for it. cracked a coors light, put about 1/4cup into the hot skillet and tossed my little patties in there.  It worked like a dream.  The steam kept the patties moist, the skillet kept the outside "grilled" and the cheese got perfectly gooey!

I only had one bun left, so I had to improvise with lettuce tops for the little guys, but all in all it was a delicious success. A delicious, juicy, melted success.

One that I regretted only slightly at my 5:45am wake up call for the gym. 

Office Apparel

It's monday. its raining. and I have a cold. 

Not a lot going for the day so far aside from the caramels and Thin Mints that I shoved in my congested face for comfort (even though I could barely register their taste).  kudos me, I don't even have to taste junk food to justify it!

Anyway, McCloud mentioned that she was wearing the same outfit as last night, which immediately reminded me that I am am wearing the same thing I wore out on Saturday night.  Granted I traded mine in for sweats and a blankie yesterday (along with a box of tissues and some sudafed).  But it did get me wondering.  How in the hell did I say to myself "nice outfit Gingham, go paint the town!" on Saturday, then wake up this morning and think "gee I look professional." about the exact. same. outfit. same shoes. same shirt, same scarf. SAME SAME.

Questionable?

The real alarm is I can't tell if it's a great saturday night outfit, and a ridiculously inappropriate office ensemble, or vice versa. Or what if it's neither? and its just a sad boring outfit regardless of the time of day??

This cold is seriously messing with my ability to think clearly.

snoodles. time for more tasteless candy.

Tennis, anyone?

McCloud and I have come to the shocking realization that we often have an easier time making plans (and friends) with folks we don't know, than we do convincing our current acquaintances to join us for an event.  Sure, we're strong personalities, and sure that's not everyone's cup of tea.  But it does seem like at some point it should be easier to convince current friends to come out and play than to convince total strangers to buy us a drink.

On more than one occasion we have had space (in the hotel, on the plane, in our bed) for someone, and struggled to get anyone from the current roster to partake, whereas we seem to easily garner attention (and presents!) from random folks around town (on the street, at the bar, in our bed...).

Is this another red flag? what does is say about our friends, ourselves or our choices??

hmm.

in other news, anyone want in on a lecture with us this evening?

Job. Interviews.

So, I'm applying for my boss' job. Yup. Hoping to join the ranks of big kids as a manager.

Odds? Completely questionable.

The internal interview process has been, well...extended. And I'm suited (or should I say skirted?) up for the final one. Today.

According to my co-worker, "you look much better wearing what you are today than for your first one and the second one in your wool sweats."

Thanks? You are the BEST at backhanded compliments. And, those aren't sweats. The waistband rarely fits and they were expensive. Asshole.

In good news, I'm fairly certain I'll be able to keep a smile on my face as I just saw a woman moon most of 4th avenue. At first I wasn't sure it was a woman ass I had just seen . In fact, I kinda thought it was a dude's UNTIL I looked again (yes, I stare at car crashes, and anything vaguely grotesque: I consider it to be one of my human "conditions") and I saw her flashing her tits for everyone on 4th. So it's a chick. Nice. Awesome. I saw multiple people do U-turns on the sidewalk.

And yup, I laughed out loud. Like a guttural belly-laugh. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm going to hell, so it only seemed appropriate. In fairness, I know this woman is most likely severely mentally ill (or just awesome!) and I wish her all the best in her pursuits. And I thank her unjudgingly (I may have made this word up) and unconditionally for putting a smile on my face today.

Wish me luck. Please.

Bachelorette Backslide...

So, I've been attempting to process the mountain of baked goods and phallic paraphenalia that was the bachelorette trip last weekend.

While it resulted in good times for all and some serious dancing (uh.. .my quads are sore?) there are a few moments that stand out in my memory and should be relived so as to make sure that I learn all possible lessons from them.  Ok, maybe just one.  

Strip Tease Aerobics.

Every party needs it's stereotypical "stripper" event, and I for one, considered some sort of aerobic activity a good counterbalance to the cookies, and a creative way to check this bachelorette box.  After a morning of gluttony, and a surprisingly beautiful walk on the sunny beach, all the girls (maybe a bakers dozen of us..) changed into yoga pants and sports bras so as to be suitably dressed for our cardio session.

As it turns out, any level of "athletic support" was totally unnecessary, since what walked through the door at the bride-to-be's beautiful beach home was less "sports club fitness trainer" and more "Hartford-Hooker."  Three of them in fact. three really, really tired looking... strippers?

They were dressed to impress.. short-shorts, yellowed lucite heels (what makes lucite yellow?) and of course, seriously tragic wet look curls.  I gave a cohort a panicked look, and we immediately dashed for the fridge, desperate to swipe the last bottle of prosecco and hopefully alleviate the stress of what was most certainly NOT going to be a glorified step aerobics class...

It started with Stripper #1 (the attractive one) explaining to us that her business "Goddess-N-Motion" was meant to inspire confidence and "swagger."

Really.

At this point all it was inspiring me to do was drink more, and make a mental note to ask The Boy about strippers.

We were then introduced to Stripper #2 (the squishy one), who was to be our "instructor" for the afternoon.  Stripper #2 was incapable of speaking up (I know we're loud, but still), incapable of keeping her shorts zipped (weird, are those trick shorts?) and also totally revolting.  She kept claiming that stripping had "Totally transfoooooormed" her body which was accompanied by really ridiculous self touch/rub moves.

Really.

At this point I was wondering a) what could it possibly have transformed from. and b) was this the sort of transformation that I was personally looking for...

Then we "danced" or rather, we crawled.  We were told to move slower and constantly touch our bodies, ideally our boobs, but also our thighs (uh, k). The crawling was ok, but I really wished that I had made less of an effort to pack a sportsbra and more of an effort to pack knee pads. they would have been helpful for the hard tile floor, and "approach" that we were instructed to take when approaching our "lover" or.... teddy bear?

The Strippers had convienently brought I gigantic, stuffed, state-fair-sized teddy bear.  He was our "client."

Really.

Client. Where exactly had Teddy been? who had he been with and when (pray tell) was the last time we thought that Teddy's plush exterior got the gift of a good cleansing? My assumption was, NEVER, so I chose to ignore teddy, and his stubby extremities in favor of a good long time friend who had the unfortunate experience of me climbing all over her, crawling, turning and attemping a seductive "leg routine" from the floor which I can only imagine looked less like an enticing dance, and more like a beetle struggling to right itself in the middle of a sidewalk.

From there it was downhill.  Poor Stripper #2 kept trying to anoint us with her "skills" but no one cared. at all.  This was when I started to feel guilty.  12(ish) girls, giggling and mocking their livelihood can't feel good.. I felt a twinge of over-privileged guilt sneak up on me, which is when I noticed Stripper #3 (the sad one).  Stripper #3 looked like she needed some love.  or at least some sleep, and possibly some rehab.


While I really wanted to chat the girls up when we were done learning the "exotic art of striptease," It seemed a little rude to question them like specimens at a World's Fair, but I really didn't know what else to talk about.. options included:

"nice... heels..."

"is that L.A. Look in your hair?"

"where did you find Teddy"

or

"What's that scar from?"

None of them seemed like good options and I felt sorta like a bitch for constantly making sure none of them wandered off in the house, but hey, I judge. Its what I do.

Anyway, I'm fairly certain that the "aerobics" did nothing to lift, tone, or transform my backside.  Hence, I'm fairly certain that I brought some of those baked good home with me (on my ass).  But what's a weekend among friends if not fattening.

Why hello

lovely.

My girl scout cookies have ARRIVED! Thin Mint abundance for all.

YAY!

O.L.D.

So, when I was a kid my mother insisted on dressing my sister and me up on a fairly regular basis: holidays, first day of school, family dinners, plane rides (don't know why, but to this day I usually look nice on airplanes. exceptions include: I'm too fat to fit back into my jeans or too hungover to figure out how to put my jeans on)

Anyway, that isn't really here nor there except that during these dress-ups I often remember my mother getting dressed first and tucking anything she could find into her tights or underwear (okay, it was mostly shirts being tucked) and then it was our turn. Me first, then my darling little sister. I can safely say we both HATED it and tried to wiggle our shirts out of our undies or tights or horrifically both. It was frightfully uncomfortable and almost always resulted in clothing in some crevasse where no clothing belongs.

FAST FORWARD to now. like today. this morning. I effing tucked my shirt into my tights. It only made sense. SOMETHING had to hold it in the skirt, which has an elastic waistband and the shirt is a little short. I am here to report that this method is TOTALLY working as my shirt has managed to stay tucked in to not only my skirt, but my tights and miraculously there is no wedgie involved. The only slight fail is that I should probably be rocking spanx instead of tights. Worse things have happened, I suppose.

I am OLD. that is all this can mean.

Food Groups?

Today I have consumed:

• 16oz Soy Latte (bravely avoided the ham and cheese croissant... go me)
• Fiber One Granola bar
• string cheese
• rice cake (with tahini and seaweed)
• American cheese (on the rice cake)
• Pizza flavored Pringles "Styx"  (surprisingly delicious)

I'm fairly certain I don't know what food gorups half of these foods even go in.

I need a meal.....

Croissants: my other true love..

In spite of the fact that most people classify me as a "strong woman," is seems that I have, what can only be consisdering "numerous," weaknesses.  Burgers, cheese, a nice italian shoe... you name it.  But one stalwart item on that list is the delicious, comforting flakiness of a croissant. 

Some weekends I even set an alarm so that I make it to my local coffee house before they sell out of their limited number of exceptional ham and cheese croissants (which just happen to be my favorite variety..).

Croissants are lovely.  They pull apart like string cheese (check! another weakness), are savory, buttery, filling (if you eat at least 3), and the perfect way to hold a sandwich together.  Which is precisely why I have to limit my exposure to them.  I have learned that the number of croissants I consume increases exponentially with the number of times that I see croissants available for consumption. 

Easy enough.  If I avoid seeing them, I avoid eating them.  Out of sight, out of mind.

Which is why it is WHOLLY inappropriate that the latest incarnation of the perpetually doomed "cafe" at my gym has started stocking them fresh, on a daily basis in their ridiculous little display case.  As though waking up an hour early to exercise didn't require ENOUGH will power and self control, now I have to fight my pastry addiction on top of it?

It's crap if you ask me. Total, total crap.

Well, Good Morning...

Nausea! There you are. How I've missed you so.

I wish you came with me to Palm Springs when I decided to eat an entire bag of Jelly Beans followed by Cadbury Chocolate Eggs (we are NOT talking single serving sizes either).

Or if only you had been around when I decided to drink my weight on Monday...maybe I wouldn't have felt so bad on Tuesday had you been around and helped with some sort of purge.

But instead, I ate HUGE sandwich called a "hot Richard" on Tuesday in feeble attempt to feel better from absurd consumption on Monday. I could have used you then too.

The only drawback is the actual anxiety that inspires my otherwise delightful relationship with you, nausea...luckily there is wine and melatonin for that.

Let's stick together for awhile.

Yours Truly (and conjoined at the hip for now...)

M&N

It's 5:15...

and I've yet to pull it together as Gingham suggested we would be able to do. I'm not sure if I'm disappointed in myself for not being able to do so or if I'm slightly annoyed by her optimism. Now, I'm not much of a hater and I typically welcome optimism, so it's probably just me. So today I think I hate myself. Or my-yesterday-self for all out reckless consumption.

p.s. the champagne in that photo on the airplane was D-I-S-G-U-S-T-I-N-G. And it's a miracle I remember that because the rest of the flight, is well, completely questionable.

Uh, what?

Let's see.  I woke up this morning, POSSIBLY still drunk and definitely smelling like a terrible combination of the champange, wine, vodka, airplane "short ribs" and peanut butter that I consumed en masse yesterday.

I'm sure that'll we'll pull it together here shortly, but for the moment McCloud and I are out of commission.  In case you were wondering why we are out of order, see below.

First. the Drink that Destroyed us (Champagne and V8 Splash, health food!)

Which led to me taking a picture of a girl at the Palm Springs airport leaving the restroom who is NOT in fact McCloud, though at the time I thought it was. Though I'm not sure that even makes it ok.

THEN, we dedided to drop the V8 Splash and go straight for the Champ and snack mix.

Which Meant that I ate ALLL of the "short ribs" that Alaska airlines so kindly served us.

 

Ew. 

Hopefully I'll be back to sorta normal soon.  we have some good (though not super entertaining) stories form the weekend. I think.  Can't be certain.

Sunshine Summertime!

Tomorrow McCloud and I depart for Palm Springs and the promise of sunshine and goosey's by the pool. 

Except its a crappy promise because the current weather forecast is calling for showers and 68. 

BITCHES. 

Not only is that totally unacceptable its downright depressing, especially given the fact that I almost saw an abdominal muscle yesterday and its going to be even harder to see it if I'm lounging in sweats and a hoodie by the pool.  At least the Olympics are on so we can entertain ourselves with room service and obscure displays of winter athleticism while the clouds roll by.. 

Not exactly what I had in mind but oh well.  I'm still packing my bikini, but I'm tossing in some Seattle-clothing as well just in case I have to scamper through puddles to get to a last minutes mani, or massage or whatever.

The cruel irony is that its supposed to be blazing sunshine here all weekend.

BITCHES!

Happy V-day, or Three-day, or whatever...

I am one of those girls who doesn't buy into the cynical disapproval of Valentine's Day.  Yeah, yeah, I get it.  You're so cool that no "hallmark holiday" is going to cause you to spend money, or emote, or plan a fun date.  RAD, gee I'm so jealous of the girl who gets to date you.

I mean really, I'll get off this rant shortly (mostly because it seems like no one is ever interested in my defense of Valentine's Day), but SHUT UP.  Nobody cares. You aren't saying anything interesting, and your lack of participation is neither impressive, admirable, nor shockingly independent.  Go home.

Here is why I like Valentine's Day. 

1) There is seasonal candy associated with it.  Good candy too. Don't take that away from me.

2) It's an excuse to have a nice date.  No it shouldn't be the most interesting, or even the most romantic night of the year. But we all need a little reason to make reservations and spend more time thinking about dinner with someone we love than looking up the number for our favorite sushi takeout place.

3) Who cares if its made up.  Mother's Day is made up and you still honor her with a card, and sometimes even brunch... Let's see, what else is arbitrary... St. Patrick's Day (yup, you get shitfaced for that holiday), Mardi Gras, Flag Day, Black Friday... all willingly celebrated without any compelling personal factor or religious belief as far as I can tell.

SO STOP WHINING.  It's just another excuse for a good meal and fun evening.  You are not being persecuted, you are not being tortured any more than green beer and bagels on St Patty's day is an unwelcome (although delicious) tradition for some reason.. so buy a cheap flower, put on a nice shirt and have a nice glass of wine.  you're FINE.

(ok, I'm done)

So let's get back to this year's Valentine's Day.  Past years have brought weird events.  More than a couple of years have seen ex boyfriends show up unannounced to varying levels of reception.  Recently though I've limited myself to just the one boy I was dating at the time, and a usually a decent dinner.  My last boyfriend was a Valentine's Hater and it was all I could do to get him to pay his usual attention to me on V-day.  I mean really.  Not celebrating is one thing, but actively avoiding me? that's just sort of mean.

Now, The Boy is not that sort.  He doesn't really go over the top or anything, but so far he's made a good show of planning dinner, putting on a nice shirt and at least remembering to wear his "dress" converse for the occasion.  Last year I even got an orchid with candy stuffed all around it.  (double win).  This year however presented a new challenge. - The Ex.

Unlike past ex appearances, this one was invited, and in fact, the V-Day overlap wasn't planned. Its just that Valentine's Day happened to overlap with President's Day (yet another arbitrary day, but this one you don't have to work on.. unless you want to protest that by putting in a 12 hour day..).  So the Ex was here for a fun long weekend which left the question of how to handle plans for V-Day.  He was only here for 3 days, so blowing off one of those days completely seemed weird, but it also seemed contrary to my Pro-V-Day attitude to sacrifice my moral high ground and skip date night all together. 

So I compromised.  The Boy and I had our Happy Hour date (he knows me so well).  Then we joined the Ex (and McCloud) for post-dinner drinks and hang time.  Not the most traditional way to spend the evening, and in fact almost everyone I know offered up some form of "Are you INSANE."  But it worked, and it wasn't weird (at least, it wasn't weird for me). 

The possible weirdness between The Boy and the Ex, caused me to lower my standards and back off my usual V-Day zeal, so I wasn't as festive as I like to be, but it eneded up being a night for the scrapbook.  After about 3 (more) glasses of wine, McCloud departed (it was a sunday afterall..) and left me and the boys to continue with the rampage. 

I'm not sure when the dynamic shifted, but at some point I lifted my head out of my wine glass and realized that they were ganging up on me and that me (and my quirks and oddities) had been the subject of ridicule for the last 45 minutes.  I don't know what I was expecting, but I think it was something closer to unfailing adoration from both of them, and not that I would become some common enemy that bonded them together...

So the boys continued their common attack and "forced" me to leave my cute comfortable trendy Asian Bistro for a crappy dive bar. in a strip mall. with gross carpeted floors.  vomit.

We spent the next couple of hours drinking beers and "swapping stories" of who had dealt with the most obnoxious part of me UM HELLO, I'm RIGHT HERE. I CAN HEAR YOU.  Before we abandonded the bar for a late night Rock Band session. 

So yes.  I drank all night with my current boyfriend, ex boyfriend and then attempted to hammer out some butchered version of Beatles songs while they continued to bond over the trials and tribulations of dating a girl like me.  At least I had already gotten my martinis and oysters ...

I guess I can call V-Day (or three-day) 2010 a rousing success.  If nothing else it was wildly entertaining and rendered me mostly useless for all of Monday.

Thanks Cupid. 

What's for Breakfast?

I awoke at not my house on Sunday morning, which was just as well as the fridge was STOCKED full of delicious food. So, I decided to make an amazing breakfast (why not really just drive home the fact that I am the shit...) So, I went for a variation of a Benedict: English muffin bottom, basil, creamy brie beneath a yellow tomato with Swiss cheese on top that was broiled to a melty perfection and topped with a poached egg and avocado slices on top. YUM. (things I should have taken a photo of...noted).

But the fridge also had this little lonely bunch of asparagus, which I have come to LOVE grilled with some olive oil and salt and pepper on top. So I indulged and served it with breakfast. Seemed to be a pretty big hit despite the total LACK of seasonality (hey, he bought it, not me)

BUT, the veggie breakfast material really just reminded me of this one sleepover I had with a TOTAL hippie (who in fact was nicknamed and so commonly referred to as "hippie" that I literally blanked on his real name more than once...ooops). Anyway, he made me eggs, rice and broccoli for breakfast. This was nearly as entertaining to me as making out on his floor the night before while listening to Discovery and Passion Pit (things damaged in rolly make out: Fendi sunglasses, damn, but worth it, I guess?). But backup: Steamed broccoli?! I'm a healthy eater, but really? It has now become apparent to me that there is a fine veggie line associated with breakfast, but if you douse it in olive oil the odds of a good response are significantly higher.

In other, much more self loathsome news, I am apparently NOT the shit as the stocked fridge suitor has kicked me to the curb. Onwards and Upwards...

New Low (again).

So, I'm on day two of teaching my three day seminar, which really translates as three days of snacks, doughnuts and bagel sandwiches.  I usually manage to come prepared and eat a filling breakfast so as to avoid doughnuts and trail mix for as long as possible, but unfortunately, my little "work station" (for when students are working away and I get to sit down) is right next to the "doughnut bench."

Today, my strength faltered and crumbled into a heap.  After devouring a bag of peanut m&ms I tried to ignore the one lonely maple bar for as long as possible, but it just didn't happen. 

After about 40 minutes I caved, but maintained the illusion that I wouldn't eat a whole maple bar.  Which meant I needed a knife.  which of course I didn't have, but there were some spoons so I grabbed that and shaved off a sliver of maple bar...

Flash forward 10 minutes and I found myself SPOONING the remaining maple bar into my mouth and caught completely off guard by someone asking me a question.   Total doughnut fail.

spoon down, Gingham... Spoon down.

Bacon. a love affair.

Well, the last few weeks have been shockingly good for my figure and the impending Palm Springs trip.  The trainer has gone so far as to even say "your ass is getting smaller." and "you don't look as puffy as you used to."

Ah, men have such a way with words...

Anyway, I was totally on track and moving and feeling really good about myself and what I was choosing to shove in the intake hole.  Note the use of the word was.  The streak is gone. and rightfully so, since yesterday was the Superbowl, and I was starving when I hit the store to shop for snacks.

First mistake: Blue Cheese Dressing with Bacon.

This wouldn't really be a mistake, except that I spent most of the first half of the game grabbing anything within reach and dunking it into a bowl of that delicious stuff.
I say "most" of the first half, because just before The Who embarrassed themselves in front of millions, I moved along to something else terrible for me....

Second Mistake: Bacon Wrapped Club Crackers.
I'm not really too sure how I managed to go so long without knowing about these, but now I realize that I didn't go long enough without knowing about them... One of our hosts good friends lovingly made us a tray of delicious club crackers wrapped in the thickest bacon(/pork steaks) I have ever seen.  Then he popped them in the oven to bake and when they came out? BAM, crispy deliciousness.  I ate about 3 before I felt like passing out so I stopped briefly.  However, somewhere in the second half (BORING), I got up to refill some snack plates and managed to see the fresh (second batch) of bacon crackers cooling on the stove.  So I went over and took a peak.

"hmm" I thought. "where did all of the grease go?" (since such thick bacon must have melted off a SIGNIFICANT amount of fat). I wouldn't even question this if I wasn't cooking bacon often enough to have a fairly refined sense of how much grease different types and cuts of bacon produce so that I can be on standby with the appropriate "pour off" device. 

then it hit me.

the grease didn't evaporate. it just went IN the crackers.  (vomit).

The files are iiiiiiiiiiiin the computer......

Gym Time.  

Had I known...

I would have campaigned to contribute. Tales of Love and Lust in Seattle?! Can they read minds?! Hello, that has been the past six months of my life. Damn missed opportunities in publishing.

(in other news the article lacked intrigue and juicy material...which left me feeling a little void and as though my experiences in Seattle would have found shelter in the little love nest known as Seattle Metropolitan)

Don't fret, I'll keep dreaming.

Expensive Hobbies.

So, I'm generally comfortable with my level of (absurd) indugences, but its become more and more apparent that I have gotten used to some seriously expensive hobbies.  Recently the question as to whether or not I should reenter the world of horse ownership caused me to take a look at my finances. 

Currently most of my $$ goes to:

Wine
Oysters (to have with the wine, obvi)
The Trainer
The Therapist
The Shopping

These are expensive outlets.  Why couldn't I just really love knitting and collecting used DVDs? My 401k would certainly appreciate it, PLUS I'd be able to produce my own knitwear! But alas I seem to spend most of my time (and money) on things that are literally commanded by the clock.  Either they charge by the hour (trainer, therapist), or I'm urged by time restraints to consume appropriately (thank you Happy Hour and limited online sales).  Basically this leaves less disposible income readily available to take care of this pretty thing: (I know, I know, its not a bottle of booze, or a hamburger or anything sauteed in ANYTHING, but still... she's pretty)

So, true to form, I continue to add serious cash drains without really removing anything from the list.  In theory if I manage to spend any time at all with the big Hay Burner, then I should be spending less on The Trainer, and should definitely be spending less time (and money) at Happy Hour.  So really this should all contribute to the big bad goal of "get in shape, have fun doing it."  and the real kicker is that might reduce the other questionable decisions that I tend to make. 

See how good I am at convincing myself of potentially horrendous life choices? Ta-Da!

Big Rocks.

Those of you who have been forced to listen to me while on one of my *many* soapboxes have probably had to endure my rant about "scheduling" and prioritizing my life.  One of the curriculums that I have the pleasure of teaching has a whole section dedicated to learning how to identify "roles" in your life and spend your time according to the ones that matter most.  It's pretty powerful.  Definitely difficult to sit down and think about, but really amazingly helpful and clarifying once you take the time to do it. 
An example of possible "roles" is given in the materials, and looks something like this:

Project Manager
Parent
Spouse
Friend
Soccer Coach
Musician

An admirable list to be sure (or wholesome if nothing else..)  and in fact, my own list is fairly impressive (I think) which is reassuring.  Basically the idea is that you figure out what in your life is worth spending time on and you block out time for those roles (or "big rocks") before the whirlwind of daily life robs you of any and all free time. Like how you never have time for the gym cause you're too busy picking up dry cleaning or you never take that art class because work is crazy and True Blood is on...


(I find it sort of hard to listen to that lady when she's wearing that coat... I sort of want it, is that weird!?)

Anyway.  I can always tell what is filling up my life based on what activities I consider my "Big Rocks" when I plan my week out. The last few weeks have been crammed full of just about anything I could get my hands on, work, lectures, meetings, gym, the barn, drinking, cleaning, making nice with the boy... you name it.

So I just about squealed with delight when I cracked open my planner at the start of this week and saw almost NOTHING on my calendar.  I literally only had to schedule 1) The Trainer and 2) The Therapist. 

Then, because I had so much white space staring at me I scheduled 3) The Happy Hour.  :)

I probably spent about 12 minutes relishing in the stark nakedness of my calendar for the week before I mentally zoomed out and considered my "roles."  It's been a while since I've consciously worked out what roles I need to (or want to) be fulfilling, but I decided that if I chose this particular week to reverse engineer my roles it would be somewhat revealing. (sorta like archeologists who find a small piece of pottery then infer how a whole tribe of people cooked). 

Based on my calendar this week I am:

Obsessive Compulsive (with regards to exercise)
An Alcoholic
A Terrible Cook
Bad Girlfriend

Realistically I would prefer to think of myself as a "motivated" gym goer (palm springs 22 days!), someone who enjoys a well made dirty martini and excellent oysters, a girl attempting to cook more than one night at home and a committed girlfriend willing to spend good $$ on a therapist when she could be purchasing these little beauties... 

Not to mention the new board position for a women's homeless shelter (really, did I need to commit to that??) , coaching (both cute little riders and volleyball) as well as oh... uh sleeping.

If it sounds like I'm complaining.. I'm not.  I'm attempting to relish this small small moment of calm before everything smacks me in the face again and I turn to pinot noir for comfort.

Not that a good pinot has ever disappointed....

I Challenge You To a Bottle Hiatus...

So, after hosting a wildly over-the-top yet surprisingly drama-free 25th birthday for myself and 80 of my closest friends, with an open bar (but a NO SHOTS restriction (thanks mom)), and transportation for all 80 of us to a bar after the boat cruise was over, I decided to maybe take a few days or maybe a week or two off the bottle. I mean, it wouldn't do me any harm to "just say no" for a few short weeks... right?

I am not sure if it was the MANY touchdowns I took, the fact that I decided to take 15 people home from the bar back to my parents house, or if it was the smart decision to open a few bottles of wine, break out the brewskiis from the beer fridge, start mixin' my filthy martini's at 3:30 am around the kitchen island which is also known as the "family continent" and start telling stories, that I decided to take a small hiatus from the bottle. It was enough to ruin anyone... no really, just ask my sister. Actually, don't... very messy.

Anyway, given the "balls to the wall" approach I took to my 25th birthday celebration, I thought a long break would be great for the FLMHT temple and her liver.

Well... it's 6 days post party, and I have had 2 cocktails every night of the week.

The Good News: I am not dependent upon alcohol to live my life, go to bed at night, or meet boys. I do that just fine sober.... A LOT.
The Bad News: Any chance of the "BOTTLE HIATUS" I had built up in my mind that would be soooooo good for the FLMHT Temple, didn't even make it past Monday happy hour.

What was I thinking convincing myself that I would be able to turn down that fabulous Cabernet at Dinner on Tuesday that I wasn't going to see the bill for? And that murky, filthy ohhh soo olive filled martini I sipped on people watching in "bellview" the other night, not a chance I was passing that up! Mr. Mondavi and Dr. Grey Goose, you win this time.

Maybe I would be better at a chocolate hiatus??

Twix & Dick's

Two of my nearest and dearest friends are going to have to go by the wayside for the next 27 days.  Because in 27 days we are baring it all (or most of it anyway) for yet another girls getaway.  this particular adventure will in  Palm Springs and involves a LAZY RIVER.  (what what).

Basically that means I have to stop eating twix (current average of 4-5 mini Twix per day) and I DEFINITELY have to stop eat Dick's Hamburgers (current average of 2-3 deluxe burgers per week).  Not necessarily because they will make an impact on my bikini body, but because I need to start banking calories now so that I can fully indulge in pitchers of Goosey's (still a fan favorite), Sangria and however much Coors Light the pool bar has in stock...

Even so, I will still be sad, and I will still miss my regular candy/burger fixes. So, a moment of silence to acknowledge the pledge that I am making to myself for the next (almost) four weeks only seems fitting.  Here's to hoping that maybe, just maybe this time I show some self control.  

On tap for the weekend? some workouts, some concerts and coming up next, Happy Hour with McCloud and FLMHT at our favorite tequila bar... cause that should be a nice slow start to the evening.. uh oh.

good thing I'm not swearing off guac...:)

(Lazy River and soon to be drunk and sun-drenched girls not pictured...)

ahh. My Edward...or Bill? Definitely Bill.

SO...I've been seeing this lovely gentleman for a couple months now. Over the course of this courtship there are some interesting factoids (as always of course) that have been unearthed:

1. He LOVES cashmere (this is a good thing)

2. He kinda hates puppies (really?)

3. He thinks I have nice forearms (I have NO idea what to do with that one)

4.He HATES garlic: wait: what?!?

SO, Gingham and I were discussing #4 over some wine last night (as she witnessed him practically huck a forkful of garlic mashed potatoes across a room). Who doesn't like garlic?!? oh that's right, VAMPIRES.

Which led to a discussion of my activities with him and the viability of the fact that he may actually be a vampire. The list is rather compelling and goes as follows:

1. As mentioned above...he HATES garlic.

2. We almost exclusively meet up after 10 pm. and when I have seen him in the day he is typically unwell and looking particularly pasty.

3. Rather systematically he "goes away" for 3 to 5 day periods whereby we have little to no contact (umm...is he hunting?! i think so...for HUMAN BLOOD)

4. He drives a very pretty, nice, new, luxury automobile

5. His family is a total mystery. I vaguely know that they may be "old money." Dear Magic Eight-Ball: "Like Transylvania old?" Outlook Good.

6. Literally, every time we have been out to eat he gets violently ill afterwards. And we aren't going to Taco Trucks and sketchy joints. And, I've yet to get sick (my stomach isn't exactly made of steel) Maybe it's because "human" food isn't really his thing?! I think so.

7. Strength. He's strong. Like super human strong. Like pick me up strong (I'm no feather..well, maybe to him). Like break the bed strong (see previous post: wheels fall off)

8. I've seen where he works (one night after dinner (pre-sickness), obvi) and there are NO windows. Coincidence? I think not.

Now, I'm not typically much of one for fanfare, but Twilight and True Blood have truly cornered a little real estate in my heart and provided a soft spot for said vampires. Even so, I think I'm still smitten with my vampire-boy...for now.

Dip Muscles.

It would appear that once again, everything on my body hurts in some fashion.  I've been balls to the wall with The Trainer this week and am definitely painfully aware of that fact.  Because it's unlikely that I'll ever pursue a career that relies on a strong understanding of anatomy, I've taken to describing my muscle groups by whatever function they serve.  So, for example, Tuesday I had to do lots of dips, therefore today my "dip muscles" are sore. 

I feel like this advancement in my communication has streamlined communication between me and The Trainer.  Instead of the slow poking and prodding to determine what exactly hurts (/screams out in pain when touched), I simply report that my "dip muscles" are "angry" and "not interested in doing anything today." 

I'm not intentionally personifying them, but it does seem to get my point across lots faster than when I ramble off a list of random body parts until The Trainer nods affirmingly.

your "dip muscles" ----->

 ps, these are my new favorite muscle diagrams that I found online.  I'm hoping to utilize them more in the future, since I imagine that my "Happy Hour muscles" and my "sleeping muscles" might get sore over the next few days and this clearly helps illustrate my point. 

Anyway, off tonight to a lecture series on Africa (read: "scheduled activity" that requires HH beforehand... I love having a reason to indulge in $5 and $1 oysters.. 

50!

I just realized that this is the 50th post for INTD... which isn't really impressive in the blog world, but for us girls... this might be more commitment than any gym membership, relationship or diet has seen in a WHILE.

so hurrah! pop the bubbly (as though we needed an excuse?) we turned 50! (sorta).

ok, on to other things.

I have been drowning in a whirlwind of actual, legitimate work, and I'm not so sure I like it.  Meetings and last minute trips are interfering with my usual scheduled activities like "The Trainer" and "The Happy Hour."   I think I managed to sort out a solution for this week at least, but as usual it relies on a lot of procrastination and doesn't really incorporate any "long term" solutions.  Lucky for me rarely am I looking for long term solutions, so I'm gonna take my free pass for the week and smile.

In other news, I am enjoying my (re)obsession with getting manicures.  There was a good month around october/november where I managed to keep my nails nicely done but that dried up and fell off a cliff with the holidays (like so many other "priorities").  Well I am glad to say that they are back.  I think its mostly due to the fact that I frequent a nail parlor that doesn't do any weird airbrushing or fake nail business.  And aside from the really comfy pretty chairs (more reminiscent of herman miller than a MTA bus seat..) they provide alcoholic beverages as well as entertaining television (read: Mad Men, The Cutting Edge, Sex & The City..)  It's EXCELLENT.  I've taken to trotting by for a mani after an evening trainer session for the ultimate post-work indulgence. 

Also, the girls all speak English which is much appreciated by this girl who managed to study nothing but Latin and Japanese in school, neither of which are helpful for communicating with a typical nail technician..  It's almost like having a whole new set of friends...  who make my nails look nice (which always makes me feel pretty even when the jeans don't zip). It all comes back to the mantra:

If you can't tone it, tan it. and if it won't tan, paint it some luscious color.... (current favorite is far left..)

I'm on a BOAT

Weekend Shmeekend.  What a riot. Friday was tame.  After a rousing session of couple's therapy, The Boy and I enjoyed some fancy cocktails and crudo as we made our way home.  Who knew that 60 minutes with a married white guy in his mid 50's could be such a great start to date night? FUNNER.

Anyway, Saturday doesn't really count as a weekend.  It started off like a dream day (coffee, drive to the hangar, plane to sun valley..) but ended up like a day of work (business meetings, schmoozing, no booze, flying OUT of sun valley).  Somewhat disappointing. Snow on the ground and blazing sunshine made for a very tempting day in Idaho.  Plus, the fact that I recognized at least three other friends' planes sitting nicely on the tarmac meant that there was BOUND to be some shenanigans in town later that night.

I feel like a ridiculous person for saying that I "recognized three friends' planes.." but I'm over it. hope you are too...

Really the important fact of Saturday was that we made it back from Idaho in time for Filthy-Like-My-Hott-Tub's big birthday bash.  In true form, FLMHT went all out and hosted 80 of her closest friends on a boat for a Seafair in Winter BLOWOUT.  Basically we were greeted with beverages, captain hats (YES PLEASE) and hot, hot, HOT polo's for the occasion.  After much dancing, sweating and more than one hooker-hair-toss we disembarked and swarmed the bars en mass to continue the festivities.

Sunday demonstrated less festivities, but also less restraint in terms of consumption.  The day started off with Dick's Drive In (WHOOPS).  at 10:45am.  (double whoops?)  which was delicious and totally worth it. Followed it up with a suburban moment of junior basketball, hit I the barn for some "cardio" with a bratty pony who has spent the last 3 weeks terrorizing her cute rider and basically convincing those around her that she's been possessed. 

After 60 minutes of some serious "schooling" both the pony and I had sweat through our various coats and were more than willing to call a truce.  The fact that this little furball just wallopped my ass in terms of a workout leads me to believe that I should alter my ratio of Trainer time to include more pony and less bike sprints.... just something to consider.

Since the barn puts me halfway into the boonies to begin with, I simply continued my trek and had The Boy join me for my all time favorite Mexican food which is usually WAY to far out (and way to close to childhood home) for regular consumption.  There are no words for how exceptional the fajitas at this place are.  Mostly I think the fact that I'm willing to dine in a strip mall speaks to the quality (and fat content) of the cuisine.  I mean holy hell.  There's not much out there that I am willing to tolerate vinyl seats and fake parrot statues for, but whatever magic seasoning ends up on their chicken is definitely high on that particular list.

after gorgoing (and actually undoing the button on my jeans) it was off to a (yup you guessed it) bar to meet up with some old high school friends and make nice with a new bartender.  I think that a good sign of "positive bartender ettiquete" is if you get at least one free drink during your first visit.  We managed 3... so I do believe we will be making repeat appearances on Sunday evenings. 

Here's to another week... and 6 more days till sunday funday..

Reflection:

It can't be good when you go to get coffee at 8 a.m. and the lovely barista in the health bar decides that you look like you need some chocolate fro-yo to go with the coffee. He put berries on it?

Now, I'm sure he was just being nice and I don't know his motivation, but I can't help but think: what does this say about me? And what I must have looked like...apparently a girl that eats fro-yo for breakfast.

Next step? Detox...or fat camp.

Professionalim?

Ok. So today is the day of my big PRESENTATION to a group of regional business leaders.  Like I mentioned, I'm not really too sure how I got signed up for this since I'm neither a head of state (current of former) OR a Fortune 500 CEO... in fact, I'm starting to question my general presentable-ness (and English skills..) at any level for the following reasons:

1) I may or may not be "borrowing" a significant amount of material from a consultant that we paid heavily for at our own business.  I think its fair game since I'm a true believer and have totally rearranged all the words.  Plus this "consultant" has several books published, which means any Nancy could read the books and share the same information I am.  So I think I'm ok there.

2) I have more than one peer attending who has arranged to have scotch/whiskey/vodka at the ready should I need it.  This is what classy friends with fancy purses are for... no one thinks that THEY are the one hiding the flask.  I'm assuming that minimal suspicious means that I'm ok here too...

3) I potentially have to rethink my wardrobe choice since my current understated-yet-modern choice of a gray tweed dress might be unwearable due to bite marks all over my shoulder.  Not sure, but I don't think there's anyway around "trashy" on this point...

So let's recap.

I have no credentials (aside from my impressive bra size). I am not presenting my own material. I will likely smell of scotch and I either have to go home and change or come up with some excuse for the mauling my left shoulder is evidencing.

I'm not sure this is what mom and dad had in mind when they were "so proud" I was speaking at this event.  In fairness this probably explains why as of this point in time I'm not "so proud" that I'm presenting either...

Here's to hoping that some clever quips, humorous video clips and a pretty smile will get me by...

 Stay Classy! xxoo

Sleeping Beauty

Instead of waking up with any amount of gusto this morning, I lazed in bed and slapped angrily at my alarm for a good extra hour plus.  Sometimes snuggling keeps me in bed, sometimes the cold dark abyss of the morning keeps me in bed, but this morning it was my new obsession. 

my BED.

In a fit of discomfort I unceremoniously threw my old mattress off the loft and left it sitting up against the wall in protest of its remarkable ability to transform into a taco.  Usually I'm a huge fan of tacos, any kind really... beef, chicken, bean... but in the instance of my bed, its uncanny resemblance to a inverted parabola was not only disrupting my sleep patterns, but making it damn near impossible to sleep in any arrangement other than rolled on top of The Boy.  Not that i mind that most of the time, but it becomes obnoxious when any attempt to separate bodies results in rolling back down to the pit of the taco. 

Anyway, long story short I began a search for a bed replacement and stumbled upon the somewhat geriatric, definitely gimmick based "Sleep Number" bed.  Of all the things not to buy in large indoor malls, I'm fairly certain that mattresses rank pretty high on the list, but I fell into the alluring trap of "pressure diagnosis", "pillow customization" and the appealing digital remote that adjusts my new bed at my every whim. (did I mention I have control issues??)

Unlike my usual spending habits which operate under the general protocol of "I want it, it's pretty, I bought it," I decided to put an unusual amount of time and energy into researching bed options (read: at least 2 days of thought).  Several friends had suggestions for me, ranging from "just sleep on the floor, its natural" to "My Dux bed is the best $12k I've ever spent."   I found spending five digits on a bed about as appealing as sleeping on the shag carpet of my loft, but I certainly appreciated the suggestions even if I chose to ignore them for the promise of "customized sleep systems." (aside from the fact that if I spend $12,000 on a bed, it damn well better fly and make me sexier when laying on it).

So we pulled the trigger on the sleep number bed (/glorified air mattress). And for the first few nights i was having serious buyer's remorse.  My back still hurt, the foam top was hot and uncomfortable and I just wasn't buying into the satified rested smiles of the all-american-couples smiling from the "individually adjusted" sides of the bed in all of the brochures. 

<---- Satisfied Happy Couples, sleeping soundly, no back pain

BUT I persevered, each night I adjust my number, up or down, and then BAM.  25.

25.  Magic.  Cloud like heavenly bliss.  Not since the womb have I experienced the sort of suspended, gently cocooned feeling of 25.  Basically you get to adjust the "air chambers" from 0-100, which puts 25 somewhere along the lines of "saggy" at best, but holy crap its AMAZING.  It's perfect, and I've never slept better.

The really remarkable part is that because my side is so much squishier than The Boy's, that when he gets out of bed and leaves me there (a la this morning) I can have a fake snuggle with the seam between our air chambers.  I just roll right up against the ridge and presto! instant bed snuggle. 

Who knew that not only would I be replacing the taco, but I'd also end up with a boyfriend backup! TA DA!

25 is even more magic than I thought...

Too bad McCloud ended up with the Taco For Two bed... 

When it rains it pours. literally. without stopping.

Well, Seattle has apparently skipped right over any sort of "winter" and decided instead to try out a new season that must be called "soggy crap."  Seriously,  I mean today is the third day that I've had to wear a different coat because my previous ones AREN'T DRIED OUT YET. Yesterday it was so gloomy and doomy that the huge ugly flood light outside my window that illuminates our parking lot, never turned off because its little floodlight brain was convinced that daylight never came.  That's how disgustingly dark it is.  I dislike it.  (press nonexistent "dislike" button now).

This morning was just as treacherous.  Continuing my crusade to get the leg line back, I forced The Trainer and Miss McCloud to wake up this morning (in pouring rain) and join me at the gym for more torture.  Surprisingly, McCloud and I roused early enough to get some "cardio" in (read: watching music videos/"teen mom" while walking slowly or coasting on the elliptical).  However, instead of minimally elevating my heart rate, we fought with a parking meter in the downpour.

Now, its struggle enough to get up early enough for the gym, and even harder to get up early enough to tack some extra cardio on, which makes early morning Macgyver missions totally inappropriate and unappreciated.  Basically one of the fancy new parking meters greedily accepted my credit card for payment, then REFUSED to spit it out, instead just teasing me with a 1/8th of an inch edge of my poor sad little visa sticking out.  Obviously I stomped and huffed and puffed and tried to grip it with my sodium inflated hands (thank YOU taco salad), but I quickly gave up and called McCloud.  She was just parking nearby and scooted into her Office building to see out pliers, or tweezers or a man to help us out. 

She returned with these items:

A Wrench.

Scissors.

and assorted sizes of butterfly clips.

Now, clearly I was in no position to complain, but I wasn't exactly sure how any of these were an improvement over the only "tool" currently in my vehicle (uh... jumper cables). Needless to say after a wicked combination of all three utensils, 5 more minutes in the rain and some serious bitching, we retrieved my card and wisely used another machine to pay for our street parking.

The workout was anticlimactic.  Due to a HORRIFYING weight session on Sunday, my legs are currently incapacitated and so tight I can't move normally.  (The Trainer actually told me to "stretch it out" to which I responded with "I am, you asshole." while I was still standing straight up... not ideal).  So today we pummeled the arms. 

OW.

During the post-gym shower/dressing session it already hurt to get myself dressed.  Putting a bra on was particularly tricky as every aspect of my shoulder was already screaming with lactic acid.  The only joy that came from that painful attempt was the fact that I was wrestling a brand new (very pretty and very pink) bra.  Which was the result of an extra 20 minutes between meetings a little too close to Nordstrom.  Staying true to my roots, I continued my faithful consumption by returning one item, spending 3x returned item's value in a different department... whee.  At least this time it led to a whirlwind of fun with a very nice lady in the Intimates section.  Best 20 minutes of the week thus far. 

That's about it.  Its gross out.  I am consoling myself with retail therapy, and continuing my quest for the leg line whilst refusing to make any substantial life choices.  In fact, just yesterday, while sitting mat my desk I somehow managed to smear a $30k jewelry invoice with chocolate.  (I'm fairly certain that there are several red flags hiding in that statement but I'm ignoring them...)

Moving forward for the rest of the week includes some general upkeep (bang trim, mani, etc) and preparing for a rather large presentation on Thursday.  If I know myself with any detail, I should start actually working on said presentation sometime later tonight and panicking about it sometime tomorrow.... stayed tuned for anxiety attacks. 

"I'm sorry, I'm beginning to hate your face."

I'm not sure if it's healthy or not, but I think that both McCloud and I seem to have a "fake relationship" with our morning radio DJ.  Now, for those of your not in the immediate seattle area, or without an interest in dirty indie rock, you probably dont' know him, but basically he's perfect. 

- He's always there (at least from 6-10am monday through friday, which is enough for this girl)
- He's Witty (though my standards are lower pre-coffee)
- He's self deprecating (who doesn't like that, it makes him accessible!)
- He's got an adorable kid (who says funny things on the air, but who I have no responsibility for)
- He's got impecable taste in music, and is friends with everybody (neato!)
- He's nerdy (....)
- Annnnnnd last but not least, when he's on a roll I'm certain that he puts me in a good mood for the rest of the day.  (and i'm DEFINITELY grumpy when he's gone and "Troy" fills in. ew.)

What do we think? Is it normal to adore faceless personalities that you don't have any interaction with? or is it a sure fire way to eliminate disappointment?  I for one am currently for it.  I look forward to my dose of the morning show as though I'm meeting a friend for coffee (or makeout? its confusing...). So I think it's fine.

Anyway, this morning John was indulging another one of his (I'm sure somewhat obsessed) SWF listeners in her recent breakup and playing loud breakup rock.  He popped on a tune I hadn't heard before titled "I'm sorry, but I'm beginning to hate your face."  I just about peed when I actually listened to the lyrics.  The song was catchy, but not all that intersting, but I'm sort of in LOVE with that line.  It might actually replace "pigwhore" or "douchewaffle" as one of my new favorite sayings.  I think it will be particularly helpful when:

a) mouthing off to The Trainer
b) receiving exceptionally bad service (a la pigwhore-hostess at the cabin..)
c) mumbling under my breath at coworkers, employees, general acquaintances.

Love it.  So not only did our fake boyfriend provide me with an energizing and uplifting soundtrack this morning, now we have an inside joke.  I'm pretty sure it means that makes us official.  I'll probably facebook him about it later...

Oh John.  I will never ever begin to hate your face.  (possibly because I never see it).

More later. :)

We gonna rock it 'til the wheels fall off...?

So, I must admit that there have now been numerous mornings whereby I have abandoned Gingham and the trainer to a. sleep off a hangover a little longer or b. sleep in someones' arms a little longer.

I am aware that this is not a good long term plan. The trainer helps with muscle tone, body image (wait, seriously...you like it when things (aka thighs and ass) jiggle?) and general ego. However, I am proposing that I maybe getting in some other form of cardio...

Now, I've never really thought of sex as cardio. Nice? yes. Work up a sweat? sometimes, yup. Cardio? questionable. I'm not entirely sure how to say this tactfully (not sure when I started caring about tact) but last night my opinion may have been altered. When the bed was literally broken. Yup. slats off, matress through like a landslide. In good news it was ONLY half the bed. In other good news the boy is strong enough to pick me up and move me...to the OTHER half of the bed.

I think Ikea should put a warning label on their cheap-ass beds

NYE - the details.

So clearly, the entertaining/embarrassing anecdotes of the weekend have already come out, but I feel like there are other circumstances that deserve to be documented from this past holiday break... 

All in all the cabin trip made me feel significantly more competent at life, and somewhat more relaxed. But that was not without challenge or doubt.  As with most cabin runs, up to the time when the last boat leaves, it's difficult to know if you are going to end up with 14 people or 2.  it's far, the trip never sounds appealing, it's hard for people to give up multiple nights, dogs get sick, dates get planned.. about a gazillion obstacles always pop up and prevent folks from joining in on the reindeer fun, which usually means if you invite 3x the people you want to come, you end up with about the right number.  Every once in a while the stars align, and you end up with exactly 3x more people than beds and a hot tub that can't accommodate another pale, drunk body. 

This was not the case.  This trip ended up being, me, The Boy, and McCloud.  3. tres.

No problem! we make our own parties all the time! So we haggle our way through holiday traffic (and the rain) through the ferry terminal (and the rain), through the island passages (and the rain) to make it to Friday Harbor (oh... and the rain). 

With luck, the boat starts right up (not always the case) and we begin our trek to the detached island where our crumbling, weird, but totally amazing cabin is perched on top of some rocks. Right at the point when we decided that a "faster and colder" boat ride is better than a "slower and wetter"  trip, the engine chuggs softly and dies. 

Fab. no gas.

We coax the engine back to the gas dock, where The Boy jogs around the marina for however long it took my jacket to soak through in order to find someone to run the gas pump.  Upon arrival at the cabin (and dock that we saved just a few weeks back), it becomes apparent that the dock is still somewhat (mostly) under water and not ideal for walking on in cute new ruffly gray flats (oops, should have changed).  Oh well.  To avoid the sunken dock (I ask why we even have a dock if it requires you to get wet) we have to nose the boat up to the ramp, scramble OVER the boat railing then scamper OVER the ramp railing to disembark.  It becomes instantly obvious to me that I am a) no longer flexible and b) no longer fearless, as I had to spend about 5 minutes attempting new and different approaches to this climb/leap/scamper process before I felt like I found something that reduced the likelihood of me ending up like a sad, wet cat to less than 30%. 

It then took another slow climb up the stairs/rocks/decking as they have all sprouted another healthy layer of moss/slime that makes even sure footed people slide around like drunk figure skaters... not good.  especially not when I'm carrying a VERY unhappy, wet and remarkably heavy french bulldog.  (note to self, get cute carrying case and force other people to lug me around during travel..)

We thought that we had succeeded when we finally got into the house, turned on the heat, turned up the stereo and poured some sturdy glasses of scotch.  Not the case. 

The Boy (heroically) jogged up the hill to the water main where he bagan the process of turning the water on.  My agenda at this point? Fill up hot tub, start hot tub heater, make grocery list, go to town, get burger, get drunk, get breakfast supplies, come back, drink more scotch, get in hot tub, (HAPPY NEW YEAR!) and get in bed.

Just about the time I'm smiling to myself and visualizing how lovely and wonderful this NYE is going to be, The Boy bursts through the ktichen door and annouces that "we have a problem."  Now, as far as I can tell, neither McCloud or I have ANY problems at this juncture. scotch? check. heat? check. indie rock music? check.. cute dog doing funny things? yup! no problems here!

"A pipe's burst"

oh now that IS a problem.  Not because I plan on running water for taking a shower any time soon, but the hot tub is most enjoyable when filled. with water.
that's running.
crap.

I won't bore you with the details of our attempted repair, but instead tell you that, as it turns out you don't need fancy pipe repair kits, you just need some weird powder/putty from the 1950's called Durhams that touts itself as "indispensable to woodworkers, decorators, designers, housewives, electricians and plumbers."

Weird, I know, but its all we had and it (mostly) worked.  Definitely not sure what's in it that's now considered toxic, but sometimes it's best not to know these things.

Also, I will also note that the "balance ball inspired technology" on the bottom of my aforementioned "get a better ass shoes" is definitely NOT helpful on slippery stairs or rocky, muddy ground under the house.  (my second terrible footwear choice of the day..)

BUT after a struggle, we had the broken pipe down to a slow drip and the hot tub was full.  Considering this a success we returned to town to gather food supplies and eat a burger.  By the time we got groceries (better than ranch and more scotch included), we walked straighrt to the Ale House where we received possibly the worst customer service known to man.  We walk in, SOAKED to the bone, tired, exhausted and lacking the positive effect of succeeding in sprite of the gas/dock/pipe situation - when our waitress takes one look at the beer in The Boy's hand, and in her best terrible-teen-movie-bitch voice is like "awww, gee, we can't allow outside liquor in here!" 

I'm pretty sure the three of us stood there, just inside the door (dripping), stone still and silently stared, waiting for the (almost certain) follow-up of "but i'll jsut stash that behind the counter and we'll pretend no one sees it!"

Instead we heard "yeah.. gosh if the state liquor board walks in, we'd be in super big trouble!" (I almost hit her).  I mean REALLY. the state liquor board?! we're on a TINY island. which would require a VERY long and VERY wet boat ride to get to, on NEW YEARS EVE, in a TINY town. EVERYone here knows each other and you think that our (now wet) groceries somehow look like we're sneaking drinks in?  eff off lady, you're a pigwhore.

She politely told us that we REALLY couldn't come in with "that" and we needed to leave. The boy went and stashed the beer down in the (very wet) boat so that we could actually sit down, have a drink and order some hot food.  As soon as we were seated, the bad-teen-movie-bitch girl left and stranded the one (very nice) bar tender with the ENTIRE restaurant, who we spent the rest of the night feeling bad for, and who CERTAINLY wouldn't have given a crap about our (unopened) case of Coors Light, or really even cared if we opened it and drank one(/6) while he scrambled around and attempted to serve 15 tables plus the bar. 

I hope that bad-teen-movie-bitch girl has a bad 2010.  I really do.  That's bad NYE karma if you ask me.

Anyhoo.  The rest of the weekend was great, drinks, puzzles, copious amounts of food and a finally warmed hot tub. 

Ultimately we left the cabin feeling stronger, handier, and significantly fatter than when we arrived, which I chalk up as a rousing victory.  So cheers us.  Happy New Year.

Almost.

In regards to Gingham's recent post regarding details. I have only two details that are of note from the weekend (and differ from the topic at hand of drinking and eating too much).

1. I was able to fit a pair of slippers into galoshes which made me so smitten with myself I hardly took them off. This was incredibly useful while loading/unloading from the partially submerged dock.

2. I often use the word "almost" in regards to an emotional state that has been embodied by a bodily function. i.e. "Ew, that is gross; I almost threw up in my mouth." or "OMG, that was so funny I almost peed my pants." But Friday night (the one with the pitchers during the football game, the power hour with Coors Light AND the bottle of Macallan, and Baileys and hot tub) I may have actually peed my pants. Or the bed more accurately. Hard to say. All I know is I woke up with one VERY wet pant leg (pants were disposed of on the floor) and a partially wet bed. The only other viable options are that I

a. slipped into the hot tub after putting said pants back on (totally plausible, as I vaguely recall Gingham beckoning me to assist with the cover)

OR b. fell asleep outside for an unknown amount of time whilst smoking my last cigarette of the evening, whereby one leg was sticking out past the overhang getting soaked by the glistening downpour.

Either way, the fear that I may have peed the bed is terrifying, particularly as a girl that is new to dating. This has NEVER happened before, can you imagine the shame on a sleepover night?! What does one do?! Offer to wash the sheets? Buy new ones? Holy hell I don't have time to even consider these terrible dilemmas.

Needless to say, I proclaimed to Gingham and her boy that I was never drinking with them again, which was a resolution that dissolved in approximately 15 minutes when I cracked a beer to go with my coffee. Power hour may be a different story, but only time will tell.

xox,

bedwetter

Details, details...

So apparently I should have waited (or thought longer) about my "resolutions."  I think I'm doing ok on the "Big Picture," but Im pretty sure I already blew it on some of the smaller commitments I made.

New Year's weekend was a smashing success. I'll write more on it later, but mostly the only thing that you need to know is that McCloud and I decimated a bottle of McClellan's, several 18 packs of Coors Light, two bottles of Champagne and lots of "hot tub drinks" (Read: sweet liquors mixed with each other) as well as a shockingly delicious variety of snacks.

Note scotch, coffee, beer

and carrots (for posterity) ---->

My downfall came while we were shopping and I wandered over to the weird random salsa/hummus/dip section of the deli.  What I found was somewhat life changing.  Right there next to the hummus (that I intended to buy and dip carrots in), I saw it : "Better Than Ranch."

BETTER than ranch? what's better than ranch!?? says I.  Apparently this dip is, in which case I must have it. I coveted it. I was already thinking about what gross fried delicious things I could smother in it...
So I grabbed it, and continued with my shopping...

Basically, this is like when alcoholics purchase good wine "for their guests."  Somehow you justify the purchased, fooling yourself that the self control will kick in later so you shouldn't worry about not having any right now.  Yeah, okay darlin, whatever makes you feel ok about the purchase... just wait till you get home and have to stare at the sweet, sweet syrah sitting up there on the shelf. 

In my case it was the Better Than Ranch that would be staring at me from the fridge every time I opened it to grab another beer... until I was drunk enough to give in to its sad lost puppy stares and dip AN ENTIRE bag of Bagel Chips (of the roasted garlic kind, obviously) into its thick, perfectly seasoned pot of figurative honey.

As it turns out, it was better than ranch!  Though I think I may have made myself sick and already totally failed at my attempt to get off the Ruffles/Ranch addiction that I've been trying to kick since August of '09.

So that's my shameful confession.  More on the weekend later, when my Ranch Dip buzz has worn off and I can think clearly again... 

On a positive note, we did have a very fruitful session whereby we brainstormed our resolutions for the new year as well as old habits and thoughts that we needed to let go of.  Then it was into the fire with them for a nice cleanse before the stroke of midnight. 

(We would have had one of McCloud's signature baptisms, if it had been just a little bit warmer, the dock was not submerged and the hot tub was actually full and warm.. Alas it was not the case, so we settled for flames, and called it good)

<--- liberating fire, and three crumpled balls of good intentions for the new year...