Now we know what our foreign friends like

There's a stat-counter site that accompanies this blog that lets me know where my audience comes from (get ready to be shocked: most of you are Americans). :)

Every so often, I'll see a visitor from Germany or UAE. Out of curiosity, I click to see what drew them to my blog.

Almost without fail, it's the Helen Hunt bikini photo.

:)

Let it wash over you

Things haven't been great lately. I've been a little (ok, a lot) stressed and tired and things just aren't quite right. Not yet (hope springs eternal).

And as I walked to my car yesterday afternoon and saw the crusted muck all over it from snowstorms past, I thought You look like I feel.

Cloudy. No brightness. Sitting inside, you were forced to look through a veil of unpleasantness (which can be a hazard if the sun is in a bad spot). It looked like one big sad sigh. (Something I've been doing a lot of lately.)

On my way home, I pulled in to a gas station, topped off the tank, and bought the best car wash that $9 can buy.

I turned off the radio, I turned off my phone, I turned off the engine, and I sat there in silence as the multicolored soap sprayed on and the scrubbers wheeled their way over my car.

It was a zen moment.

Sometimes you forget how nice it is just to sit in silence and let it wash over you.

I drove out into the sunshine and felt so much better about everything.

My car looks like a bright, shiny piece of red candy and my soul got a good buff and shine too.

If you want to see

a bunch of grown-ass men act like puppies, hire a beautiful woman at your office.

It's totally worth the floor show.

My mother, the music critic

I was flipping through radio channels last night and heard Eminem, which reminded me of this story from more than a decade ago.

Mom and I were in the car and Eminem's My Name Is came on the radio. She sat and listened for a minute and then very thoughtfully asked this question:

Did that Taco Bell Chihuahua cut an album?

:)

Whatever you do: Do. Not. Sneeze.

This week we've got some VIPs in the office, so the floors are shiny and everybody's got their best foot forward.

And in the ladies' room, someone has artfully arranged the tissue into a pretty little flower.

And we're all too afraid to touch it. That flower remained as-is for two days. A lot of us had the sniffles, but we just sniffled and moved on because nobody wanted to be The One Who Ruined the Flower.

Human nature makes me chuckle.

Pet peeve

The term deadly slaying irritates me.

Duh, if someone was slain, it was probably pretty damn deadly, Sherlock.

Stink like the stars

I went to Ulta the other night after work for one unapologetic, girly hour of sniffing perfume and testing nail polish.

I attempted to find a nice perfume that didn't make me smell whorish (without luck). Oh well.

As I sniffed around the perfume aisles, I noticed how many "celebrity" scents there are out there. (I also delighted in noting that Jessica Simpson's fragrance line is named FANCY.) Are there that many folks out there who want to smell like Faith Hill?

I didn't sniff any of those bottles, but my mean-spirited imagination ran wild with thoughts of what they should smell like.

• Britney Spears: Bare feet, Starbucks, paparazzi
• The Kardashian sisters: Black hair dye, sibling rivalry, overexposure (give me credit; this one could have been sooooo much worse)
• Lindsay Lohan: Cocaine, Antabuse, and poor parenting
• Mariah Carey: Overtaxed Spandex, glitter, and topnotes only dogs can smell (get it? get it?)
• Jessica Simpson: Chicken of the Sea, the NFL, chicken-fried chicken
• Paris Hilton: Penicillin, anti-fungals, old money

(PS: Ed Hardy perfume actually does smell like douchebaggery)

Since when

Did "Pressure" become the new word for "Pain"?

Next time you go to your doctor or dentist, listen for it.

You're going to feel a little pressure now.

That sentence is usually followed by blinding pain and a huge effort on your part not to smack someone.

Where's the honesty?

Pain is pain and pressure is pressure. They're NOT interchangeable in my book.

My Strange Addiction

Is there a more aptly named TV show out there? It's like a sideshow right in your living room.

• Women who eat household cleanser (and lose all of their teeth in the process)
• Girls addicted to eating laundry detergent ("It calms me down and makes me feel like everything's ok.") (!)
• A woman addicted to shoes
• A young lady addicted to wearing furry costumes

Last night, Beau said he was going to try to watch an episode because he heard that a woman was addicted to eating sofa cushions.

Beau is a man who refuses to watch Man vs. Food with me because it grosses him out and he feels like we're watching a man slowly but surely kill himself. I was interested to see how long he'd last during My Strange Addiction.

He lasted five minutes. By the time the woman got around to discussing how she liked to eat the yellowed, older part of the sofa cushion and not the softer, cleaner part inside ("It doesn't have the same flavor."), I got a text message: That's it. I'm out.

He didn't get to hear about how her stomach hurt so badly that she stopped eating food (but continued to eat sofa cushions).

For the record, I didn't make it all the way through the show either. You feel like you're watching something you're not supposed to see. It's like reading someone's diary.

I can't even think of anything weird enough about myself to make it onto that show. I like my shoes, but I don't believe they have personalities and feelings (and I certainly don't spend $600/mo. on them). I love cheese, but I don't have it at every meal. I like having clean hands, but I don't wash obsessively. Normalcy is a good thing, I guess, even if it makes me sound boring. :)

Maybe I'm casually addicted to the weirdness of others. 

I'll admit that I'm curious about next week's episode where a fellow is addicted to his... uh... Real Doll. He takes her out to dinner in public and says the sex is great!

Eeek! [Covers eyes with hands, peeks through fingers]

Ignorance is bliss

I have no idea how much I weigh.

I can't even ballpark it.

Who knows if my driver's license is correct? Not me. 

When I go to the doctor and they weigh me, I get on the scale backwards and I ask them not to say the number out loud.

I refuse to have a three-digit number make or break my day.

It's so freeing.

Throw out your bathroom scale! Judge by how your clothes fit and how you feel.

I double-dog dare you!

Isn't it romantic?

Beau and I were going to go to the movies on Saturday, but on our way in, I stepped in a gigantic hole in the sidewalk, twisted my ankle, fell down, injured my foot and my pride, and started crying (something I normally don't do, but it was just one of those days).

That effectively put the kibosh on the movies for us.

So we stopped for some food and went home to find something on TV.

We ended up with true-love romantic classic Sid & Nancy. Heroin abuse really brings out the romance, doesn't it? (Word to the wise, if you're thinking about getting involved with a heroin addict, be aware that they can get a bit stabby.)

After the movie was over, Beau and I shared this loving exchange:

I will never love you enough to stab you in the stomach in the throes of a heroin binge. 
I will never love you that much either, baby. 

Swoon.

Then we watched one of our favorite shows (sad but true), 48 Hours Mystery. Or, as we've lovingly renamed it, Husband Kills the Wife (though sometimes they do switch it up a bit and have wifey go berserk with a Black & Decker). Many of those murders happen for life-insurance money. But a number of them happen because one spouse just gets sick of the other one.

Why not divorce? Nine times out of ten, they'll tell you that they couldn't divorce because The Church frowns on it.

Hmmmm....

But The Church gives a pass on murder, dismemberment, and a hasty desert burial using a Rubbermaid container?

This leads me to another romantic agreement that Beau and I have made:

Honey, if you ever dislike me that much, just dump me.

Ours is a romance worthy of a Gershwin tune, I tell ya.

WTF is going on with people?

Lately, I've seen some... (frankly, there's no other way to put it) messed-up shit.

When I sat in family court to support a dear friend in her ongoing suit against her dullard ex-husband, I saw a mail-order bride taking advantage of an oooooooold man to whom she'd been married for five years (Your honor, he's a millionaire. He's hiding his money in the Caymans. I want my DVDs! I want my money! I want my clothes! I want machines from the house!).  The man didn't even seem like he knew what was going on.

I also saw a man tell a judge that he's afraid for his life and the life of his three-year old daughter because his step-daughter threatened to shoot and kill him and the little girl in their sleep (the step-daughter is TEN YEARS OLD).

I saw people wearing torn jeans and backward baseball caps in front of a judge. 

Later that day, as I was perusing the bargain bin at Barnes & Noble, I turned around to find a man standing so close to me I could feel his breath. That alone freaked me out. Then I realized that he was using me as a human shield to take a photograph of a woman farther down the row. She was an imposing African-American woman who was dressed in normal office attire and carrying a briefcase... but she was wearing white face paint. She was not, as my mother sweetly suggested, an off-duty clown. The woman seemed disturbed, agitated, and sad. I'm glad she didn't see the "gentleman" behind me taking her photo. 

And last night, as I was making my way into Target, I heard a woman behind me screech I HAVE TO GO POTTY! as she bolted past me and into the store (running faster than the automatic-door sensors could react, so she nearly smashed into the doors--twice).

And this isn't even the month when folks normally go a bit off the beam (that's April, by the way, mark your calendar). 

Between the weirdness going on around me and the flocks of dead birds and the schools of dead fish and the dead crabs (crabs don't travel in schools, do they?), something's up.

Am I the only one who feels this way?

Maybe I just need some sunshine and a happy pill. (Seems like the folks above do too.)

Here's another true story

During Prohibition, the Federal Government ordered the poisoning of alcohol beverages to discourage illegal consumption.

The idea was that a patron would have one drink, become violently ill, and refrain from all future drinking.

However, the Feds underestimated just how much We the People like to drink. And many folks did not stop at one.

The result?

By 1933, the Federal Poisoning Program killed 10,000 people.

Ooops.

Sounds crazy, right? Don't believe me? Read more here.

It's funny/sad because it's 100% true

This is a true story about a former coworker who shall remain nameless (and who has traveled much further down the road of ignominy since, so I have no qualms about sharing this little vignette).

About seven years ago, I had a bad breakup. I was a wreck. In hindsight, why I was so upset about that guy (and why, of all things, I took him back months later for yet another miserable year) is a mystery to me. But I digress. For weeks, I was sniffly and sad at work, mooning around as though my life had ended.

In swoops The Coworker. He'd always been friendly and we'd gone to the same college (everyone from my alma mater is very proud to have gone there--it's an instant bond). He seemed harmless, so when he asked me to lunch, I accepted.

Sigh.

At lunch, I sat there mute while he told me allllll about himself. The motorcycle crash that led to a brain injury. Multiple brushes with the law. How his cop father never really accepted him, which led to a momentary bout of homelessness. Everything a girl wants to hear from the guy who still has to drive her back to the office.

In the car on the way back, he told me he had to stop for gas. As we pulled into the filling station, he told me that he knew about my breakup and that he was "a great rebound guy." And THEN, he uttered the line that would go down in the annals of history as one of the all-time-worst things to say to a woman. The thing he would NEVER live down. The phrase that would spawn disbelief and jokes. Hell, people even had bumper stickers made: 

"And no-strings sex might make you feel pretty."

I. Shit. You. Not.

I understand that rules are rules, but...

Surely in the past week,  you've heard this man's story.

 

It's a story with a happy ending! And happy endings are hard to find these days (no massage-parlor jokes, please).

This gentleman, who cultivated a beautiful radio voice before he had problems with drugs and alcohol and became homeless nearly 20 years ago, has been clean for two years. And, after becoming a YouTube sensation, he's had at least two job offers. And, a sweet footnote, someone offered to fly him to see his ailing, 92-year-old mother, whom he hasn't seen in years.

One small problem: he's homeless and he has no ID. And the TSA wouldn't let him on the plane.*

I understand that these are frightening times and that the rules are there to keep us all safe. But it seems a bit far-fetched for the TSA to believe that Ted Williams' ten-point master plan was as follows:

1. Cultivate mellifluous speaking voice fit for radio.
2. Develop serious drug and alcohol problems.
3. Become homeless.
4. Stay homeless for almost 20 years. 
5. Get sober and stay clean for two years.
6. Stand on a street corner with a sign advertising the aforementioned mellifluous voice.
7. Be discovered by a local radio personality. 
8. Become an Internet sensation virtually overnight.
9. Receive job offers. 
10. Become a terrorist and take down a jetliner.

*He did, eventually, get ID and get on a plane. See? Happy ending!

Don't believe the story about the chair???

Overheard

Today in the office, there's a commotion in one of our rowdier departments.

First, silence... and then a cacophony of grossed-out EEEEEWWWW! OOOOOOOH! and AAAAAAHHHH!

A member of that department walked by and someone asked him what was going on over there.

Oh, they're trying to get people to lick Eckelson's* chair.

Of course they are.


*Name changed to protect the messy SOB who left behind a stained, disgusting chair that most people won't even sit in (much less lick).

Newsflash: pedestrian killed by Angry Birds

I'm not an iPhone hater. I don't own one (because I'm cheap), but I think they're cool.

My major irritation with the iPhone is the iWalkers (head bowed, hands busy, staggering gait).

Three iWalkers bumped into me before noon today.

FOR PETE'S SAKE, PUT THE DAMN THING DOWN AND WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!

What text message could be that important? Angry Birds (despite its addictive nature) can wait for the duration of the two minutes it takes for you to walk to your destination, can't it?

Please tell me you don't iWalk on the sidewalk like this. By the time you notice you're in the path of an 18-wheeler, it'll be too late. You and the Angry Birds will be squooshed on the pavement.

In the office, I guess you only run the risk of stepping on my toes.

But that sounds like reason enough (to me) to stop.

Right?

My pathetic fitness goal

I wear a pedometer every day. And I dutifully stomp around the house, the neighborhood, and the office each day to get a good number of steps in.

I have a set number of steps that I want to reach each day. I usually hit that number (and, on many days, I go beyond that number).

Don't be impressed just yet.

Problem is... that number isn't quite at the Optimum High Activity level (that's 10,000 steps a day. AS IF!).

Nope, my number falls somewhere below Optimum High Activity and somewhere above Sedentary.

Yep, that's right. My goal is Not Sedentary.

Maybe my new fitness goal should be to have a less pathetic fitness goal.

16 things I learned over Christmas vacation

1. The Whole Foods by my house has a baby grand piano and a resident pianist, which made shopping for Christmas snacks (my food assignment from Mom) on the 23rd rather surreal.
2. Jason Bourne (the character) shares my birthday.
3. Jason Bourne is really good at driving fast in reverse.
4. Though it seems like a phenomenally bad idea, the Dinochicken is in the works (and, let's face it, probably already in existence in some mad scientist's lab).
5. If your thermostat is going to go out, it's likely to go out on Christmas Eve as you're walking out the door. (Oh, and in case you're wondering, the perfect time for a hot water heater to go out is 11 pm on Valentine's Day.)
6. People use skiing/boarding as an excuse to wear ridiculous gear around Breckenridge even when they're nowhere near the slopes.
7. The place I where I buy Beau buffalo jerky in Breckenridge is actually called Climax Jerky, which just doesn't sound good (and, frankly, is disturbing to see on my bank statement). 
8. Thanks to my constant pedometer use, I've realized that, when I'm not running around at work, my life is heart-stoppingly sedentary.
9. According to my grandma, GRANDMAS DON'T WEAR SLIPPERS OR FUZZY SOCKS, SO LET'S JUST FORGET IT!! (Unfortunately, she said this right after she opened the slippers mom gave her and the fuzzy socks I gave her. But what else do you give an 85-year-old who doesn't really do anything? For the record, I got fuzzy socks for Christmas and I love them.)
10. The sheer volume of pajamas-in-public folks is testing my huge desire to pants someone, which would surely land me in jail... but is there a jury out there that would convict me? 
11. Christmas is fine, but Mom and I have the most fun buying half-price calendars the day after Christmas.
12. Success is near, according to my fortune-cookie fortune on New Year's Eve (I take this very seriously).
13. Even though I'm 37 years old, I still get excited to open a gift and find SNOOPY items inside!! (PJs, lunchbox, and calendar! Thanks, Mom!).
14. My mom and I are the only two who truly like the green marshmallow/corn flake "cookies" we foist on the rest of the family at Christmas (to quote Beau: That's a cookie?).
15. That Dinochicken thing really freaks me out.
16. There is a market for this product:

April showers bring May flowers...

Check out what the first real snow of the year brought!

That's right. Not just shorts in the snow (the bane of my existence), but CROCS in the snow.

I cut his head off in the photo for the sake of his privacy, but with his white beard and hair, this fella looked like Santa off to the tropics (which was apropos, because I took this on 12/29). There was also a gaggle of squeaky teens dressed in pajamas behind me in line.

I swear they're out to get me.