It seems like just yesterday that I would watch football games and think, admiringly, “Wow, that guy has some gorgeous eyes!” or “Look at that soft baby face, what a doll!” Tonight, we watched a football game, and the only thing I could think was “Oh my. He’s just a kid!”
I think that right there, hands-down shows my age. I went from that “Oh, he’s about my age” stage to the “Oh, he could be my son” stage practically overnight. It’s not a good feeling.
Well, not quite, but if we HAD to go home today, it would have been a successful trip. We’ve seen the James Bond movie, ate an In-N-Out burger, and enjoyed some sunshine. Get me some apple pie and I’d call it a perfect trip to the States.
(Sorry my blog entries are pathetically uninteresting lately, I really do plan on stepping it up here soon.)
We made it, staying awake for 26 hours, before collapsing in bed last night at 10 p.m. Up this morning at 7:30 and enjoying the warm, 80 degree southern California day. We have a lot on our list to do today which includes a trip to the store so I can buy a new razor so I can put on my swimsuit for some pool lounging. Life is rough.
Why is it that on work days, I can sleep til 9 like it’s nobody’s business, but on my first day of vacation I’m up at 6 a.m.?
We leave today for the epic tour of the U.S. Here’s the schedule:
Leave at 10 for airport. Go to Red Carpet Club (yay status) for free munchies and drinks.
2:00 flight to San Francisco. Try to stay awake.
Arrive S.F. at 6:30 p.m. (their time of course, really 2:30 a.m. “my” time).
Leave S.F. at 8 p.m.
Arrive LAX 8:30 p.m.
Drive one hour north to father-in-law’s house.
That means, with getting bags and all, the earliest I can hope to be in bed is at 10 p.m. PT. which is exactly 24 hours and 42 minutes from right now.
Um, ouch.
Let me preface this by describing the main character in the dream:
A German male colleague who has refused to speak to me since the day I arrived. He will come into my cube and speak IN GERMAN to my colleagues, and I will HEAR my name, but not know what he’s saying until he’s gone and they tell me. I am not a fan of this gentleman, because usually, you know, I like to EXIST.
So anywho, the dream… the man, who will remain nameless, left the refrigerator door open overnight. Well, not open-open, but it didn’t seal tightly. The next morning when I was putting butter on my bread I realized the butter was soft and I knew it was him because he was the last person in the fridge. Then I opened the door to see what else was ruined and I realized I had just bought 10 pounds of butter (they were on sale for $1* each) and they were all ruined. I was so angry, and he waltzed around and denied that he was the last one in the fridge.
Nutty, no?? I seem to have major issues.
*Yes, my dream in Germany about a German had U.S. Dollars. And no, you can not get butter, or anything really, that cheap out here.
(Completely unrelated follow-up to joke 1.)
This girl pulls her boyfriend aside for a talk. “Babe, I’ve heard a few rumors I’d like to talk about with you.”
“Sure, hon, what’s up?”
“Well, I’ve heard these horrible, awful things. I don’t even know how to bring this up….”
“Go ahead, you know we can talk about anything.”
“Ok then. I’ve heard that you’re a… a… a pedophile!”
“Pedophile?” He pauses for a minute from the shock, then replies, ” That’s an AWFULLY big word for a 12-year old.”
(Pedophile jokes… ah… I’m stretching.)
Ok, so I realize last night’s post was EXTREMELY lame, but I had a good excuse. I rushed home from the bar and fired up the computer and had not a minute to spare in publishing that sucker. And for me to even be able to FIGURE OUT how to turn on my computer last night, well, let’s just say you’re lucky you even got one sentence.
Today we went to the American Women’s Club annual bake sale and craft fair. It was exactly what it sounds like: a bunch of older women running around scooping bowls full of chili and hawking their knit goods. But I did end up with a sugar cookie and a cupcake, so I’d call that a good day.
I was SO going to bed, because it’s like 11:59, and I’ve had some beers, but I had to post… so… sorry, this totally counts.
The house I grew up in (and in fact my parents still live in) was at the top of two fairly steep hills (by Iowa standards, anyway) which resulted in many childhood difficulties. My best friend and I used to play a form of ghetto tennis in the street, which resulted in one of us having to be on the downhill side, which meant one of us had to haul tail after the ball about every 15 seconds. We also played kickball in the street when we could round up enough kids, always uphill (for good reason). And in the winter, the empty lot across from my parents’ house made for the best sledding hill.
It wasn’t always fun and games, though. In third grade, I tried to teach myself how to skateboard, hopped on my brother’s yellow, plastic death contraption, and started downhill. Perhaps I should have started uphill. About 15 feet from the driveway, I hit a crack in the sidewalk (a LARGE crack, let me emphasize) and went splat on the ground in our front yard. The skateboard kept wheeling it’s way down hill without me, as I lay yelling for my mom, or someone, to come save me.
My yells went unanswered, and I realized I wasn’t getting the proper sympathy. I gently picked my arm up and went inside, tears streaming down my face. My brother greeted me with “Where’s my skateboard?” to which I had to admit, was down the hill somewhere. He was not so happy with me.
My mom, perhaps because I was the third child and she’d been through similar scenarios, or perhaps because I may have been a wee bit melodramatic, gave me some aspirin and more or less told me to toughen up.
The next morning, I was still in a great deal of pain and somehow convinced my mom that this was serious. We went to the doctor where I was pronounced with a broken wrist, and to this day I can use that as a guilt trip against dear ol’ moms.
Logistically, having a broken arm in 3rd grade becomes exceedingly difficult. This was when we were learning cursive, and I remember the joy of taking my homework home for six weeks and having my mom do it (which was approved both by the teacher AND recommended by the doctor). Perhaps that was her pennance for making me sleep on a broken wrist.
8:58 - Wake up.
Shit. It’s 9. I should already be at work. I’ll need to work really late tonight. Crap. I have a lot to do. FUUUUUUUK.
9:11 - out the door.
Thanks to the shower last night. Thanks to Travis straightening my hair while I put on makeup. In spite of wearing a really complicated belt that took at least 70 seconds to put on. Including eating breakfast! (Ok, I grabbed a piece of bread and shoveled it into my mouth.) Including making lunch! (Ok, grabbing a Tupperware of last night’s dinner.)
9:27 - at work
A-freakin-mazing. The first one here.
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