Another jacked-up dream

Courtesy of my unconscious.

I dreamt that I was in a high-end department store like Barney's (only it wasn't). It was populated with very skinny saleswomen.

I bought a $900 purse, and when I walked out, I said to myself "What the fuck are you doing buying a $900 purse?"

So I marched right back in to return it. They were pretty bitchy about it, but whatever.

I stopped in the Ladies Room on my way out. And in each stall, there were two toilets. One is for regular business One has blue water and is designated solely for bulimics.

WHAT???

My obligatory, trivial, yet bitchy, post about aging

Today, I am... older. Technically, I could say that every day, but today, the number of candles inches up.

I am one step closer to the F-word (that's FORTY, fuckers).

And here's my gripe about aging. It's not gray hair or the occasional aches and pains. It's not even the "middle-age spread" (an actual term my doctor used during my checkup yesterday--I shit you not).

This is what chaps my ass:

In the morning, after a night of sleeping on a particularly bunched-up pillow, it now takes FOR FUCKING EVER for the pillow creases on my face to go away. They used to go away like *that* (I'm snapping my fingers), and now I regularly show up at work with what looks like a relief map of the NYC subway map on my cheek.

Told you it was trivial.

Told you it was bitchy.

Happy birthday to me.

Yay old.

;)

As much as I love new stain-removal methods...

If you could see the shelf in my laundry room (you can't), you might think I have a problem.

Sadly, these removal methods are never as exceptional as their packaging and commercials make them seem (which, considering the fact that I work in advertising, shouldn't be a shock, but somehow it always is). [Insert sad Charlie Brown Christmas music here]

But I digress.

Even I find this bit of marketing chatter odd.

I fear the stain-grabbing nubs (and, let's face it, the fact that they didn't hyphenate it on the package).

My nosy neighbors tried to give me the plague/rabies

On Mom's birthday, we ate. A lot. Starting with a huge breakfast.

I don't know why I ordered them (because I've never ordered them before), but I found myself sitting behind a pile of banana walnut pancakes.

I finished about a fifth of the pile. And then I felt wasteful.

Then I got a brilliant idea. I asked for a doggie bag, took the pancakes home, and left the open box on my front porch...

I'M GONNA GIVE THE SQUIRRELS LOVE DIABETES!

I left the cakes on my porch and went on with my day (movie, shoe shopping, and--of course--more food).

When Mom and I came back, we wanted to see the progress. We rounded the corner and saw... that one of my neighbors had closed the box.

But only after the squirrelies had eaten two-thirds of the contents.

What's the point of that??? Why close a box full of rodent-gnawed food?

BECAUSE they saw squirrels gnawing away, and thought I'd probably eat some random food item left on my porch AS LONG AS IT WAS IN A CLOSED BOX. Thus, giving me the plague.

Diabolical.

But, alas, I'm waaaaay too wily for them.

I dumped out the rest of the squirrel cakes on the step and took the box inside.

Take THAT, mean old rabies-rootin' ladies!

I. Am. Shocked.

That these beauties were in the clearance section!!

I like cooking and baking

But when you have (AND admit to AND publish) your own CANDY CORN RECIPE, it's time to lock up your crazy ass and throw away the key.

Time to break out the butterfly net.

Also, a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the BEST (pistol-packin') MOM EVER (mine), who is smart enough to buy candy corn at the store like sane people do. 

I love you, Mom!

If someone didn't know me...

They might think my Netflilx queue is a cry for help.

And with that, I slam back down to Earth

So.... I've been doing a little exercise these days. Nothing crazy; just a little cardio (to combat the crap I eat--hello, Endless Shrimp--and because it's just stupid for anybody who's able-bodied not to).

I've been pretty proud of myself for keeping up with it. Feelin' a little better about how my jeans fit. It's put me in a general Mary Tyler Moore Throw Your Hat in the Air mood.

Until... on a recent daytrip to Breckenridge, I got into the car and blew out the left thigh of my jeans.

It. Was. Attractive.

[Side note: This is not an uncommon occurrence with ladies whose thighs touch when they walk (*gasp* did I let my horrible thigh-touching secret slip?). Repeated friction weakens fabric over time.]

It's just that the timing was a little irritating.

Thanks for the instant reminder that I'm not hot shit, universe. 

Sigh.

The Taste (level) of Colorado

Every Labor Day weekend, Denver hosts The Taste of Colorado, a fair based on food but better known for the insane people watching.

I loathe crowds (I like scary crowds even less), but Beau LOVES crowds. I agreed to go on the condition that we eat light so that we could feast on Endless Shrimp at Red Lobster later in the evening (don't judge; you know you love it).

Oh, the sights and smells of downtown.

Here are a few of the photos I got.

Memorialized her favorite snack.

I want ya to cut his hair all classy-like, BUT I'LL CUT YOU IF TOUCH THAT RAT TAIL!

The tattoo on the middle of her back says DIVA.

But here's my favorite story of the day.

On our way back to the car, I urged Beau to come with me and, for good luck, stand on the Mile High step at the capital building (for those of you who don't know, Denver is the Mile High City, sitting at an average altitude of 5,280 ft.).

We ran up the steps until we got to the Mile High step.

Proof that I'm not a big fat liar.

When we got to the step, we decided to do the Rocky dance (fists in the air, jogging in place).

And that's when we heard an angry female voice.

"Go ahead and laugh! It's real fuckin' funny, isn't it?"

We stopped jumping and noticed a woman with a shopping cart (and, I'm guessing, numerous drug, alcohol, and emotional problems) at the base of the steps.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DO TO PEDOPHILES IN PRISON, YOU BITCH? 

Oh, my. She's talking to me. And I'm pretty sure she just called me a pedophile. And a bitch. Whuck?

And then she started talking about some BALD-HEADED SONOFABITCH (which couldn't have been Beau; he's got a lovely head of hair) and GOING BACK TO JAIL.

And then she called me a bitch and a pedophile again. I think.

So I had no qualms about taking her picture.

All in all, I think it's a lovely shot.

When I texted this photo to Beau today, he responded with "Pedophile."

To which I shot back "BITCH."

And that's what goes down at The Taste of Colorado.

The Endless Shrimp was delish, BTW.

I got my wish

When I blew out the candles on my birthday cake last year, I knew exactly what I wanted.

And I got it.
DONUTS THAT GROW ON TREES!

Note to self: When making birthday wishes, BE SPECIFIC.

Luckily, this wasn't my cake.

Not that there's anything wrong with a cake with a GIANT TUMOR in the middle of it. 

If you want it, though. It's on sale!