Excuse me! This is me time.

Keith and I have a few rules.  For the life of me, I can't really think of more than one, actually.  

Due to the fact that I can only really think of one, I'm starting to believe we really only have ONE rule.  Do not ever hang out in the bathroom while the other person is on the toilet.   Just because we're seated doesn't mean it's powwow time. (alright, so there are others, like... don't fuck around, obviously)

Until about 2 years ago, I'm pretty sure no one had ever seen me pee (this doesn't count my mother, of course.  I'm sure I gave her a number of golden showers as a baby).  And then Sam and I started "team drunk."  We don't have jersey's but we do drink whiskey.   In excess.  But only once in a while. 

On our inaugural Team Drunk night, Sam and I went to "thebar" and then proceeded to consume a bottle of Jameson that had JUST been opened and used to pour 2 shots.  Over the course of the next 3 hours, we finished that bottle.  Yes. Finished.  I only remember the first hour and 2 small snippets from the rest of the night.  Sam remembers that I drank more whiskey than she did, and not much more.  At this point in my "adulthood", I have a hard time thinking of two people finishing a fifth in one night, but we finished an honest-to-god bottle.

Somewhere around hour 3, we had to go to the bathroom.  So we ran next door to the cafe where I was the boss (yes! way to undermine your authority) and Sam was everyone's favorite.  And we did what drunk sorority girls have been perfecting for all of time.  We paraded into the bathroom as a duo.  You know, held each other's hands.  Just in case peeing had gotten significantly harder.  

I vaguely recall trying to hide my face from my bunnies with my sweater when we were headed into the bathroom, but I'm sure it looked ridiculous.  In fact, I don't even remember having on a sweater, so it's very possible that I flashed a cafe full of people.  Cause I think I was wearing a skirt.  (OH DAMNIT.  Why does this memory just get MORE ridiculous.)  And then I sat on the floor while Sam peed, and vice-versa.

There were, of course, other hilarious things that happened that night.  

1: I got lost on my way home from the bar, which is scary because I lived in the superghetto and hilarious because I was visible from the bar when I called Sam to tell her I was lost.  She waved and told me to "keep on!" This statement kept me keepin' on.

2: Whenever I'm wasted I murmur in french, and that night, the teams-man in me  was shouting out phrases you'd shout at a (european) football match at the top of my lungs.  Luckily my roommates were both at work.  Only Penny (dog) witnessed that.  I think I threw her a ball and said goooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaal for a long long LOONG time.  She got scared and went to her room.

But what sticks out the most to me is the peeing.  And the laughing.  So sam, I know you've seen lots of people pee at gigs and shows (and some of those bitches are shooting up, which is CREEPY! Don't do lines on bathroom sinks!) but you're the only person to see me pee, not to mention the only person I'VE seen pee.  

I was reminded of team drunk part 1 this morning when my dogs came barreling into the bathroom while I was peeing.  EXCUSE ME! This is me time!

We really have to fix that latch.  And Sam, wanna take on a fifth?  Or... what's half of a fifth?

The Bunnies

As you know, I recently quit my job.  It feels like it was AGES ago.  I'm mostly bored out of my mind half the day.  I finish everything I have to do, then I end up just twiddling my thumbs the rest of the day wondering what's going on with my old employees (my bunnies, as in, "

Hey bunny, could you pass me the thermometers? Thx") .  

I miss them so much that it hurts.  Yeah, hurts.  They scared me (stealthy when entering my office), made me giggle (singing christmas songs in June), gave me a reason to get my heart racing and put on a smile.  I like to think that they miss me as much as I miss them... but it's probably not the case.

It kind of makes me wonder.  Was I really a good boss? Did they actually like me? Or were they just pretending to appease me?

I've kept my distance since my departure, only really showing up at odd hours, or when I know Sam is the only person there.  Mostly because I have a hard time not getting involved with them, but also because I know first hand how difficult it is for someone new to start enforcing rules when the old "boss" is lingering around.

I think my favorite thing about my bunnies is that I hired most of them on gut instinct.  And then learned to love them.  

Anyway.  Just throwing it out there.  I miss them.  They made me crazy, and I miss it.  I can't wait until I'm spending my days walking into Ike & Jane, looking around at all the craziness that someone didn't finish before locking up and then smiling to myself while rolling my eyes. 

Someone's gonna get a talkin' to!

Let's give'em something to talk about.

On any given day, I send Sam about 15 unprompted text messages that say "I'M RUINED."  (the picture is of one of my favorite responses to my proclamation. So I embroidered it on dish towel. Click the pic to read.)

I send these messages because I'm 119% sure that something inside of me broke off  --it was an emotional regulator-- when I read the Twilight series.

Before December, I like to think that I was a moderately normal human being.  I read a book every week and when it was over, there were a few hours in which I wondered about the lives of the characters.  I'd let my mind wander over hypothetical plot lines, but by the next week, the novel's original plot remained, but for some reason I had absolutely no recollection of the main characters names.  I blame this memory loss partly on the fact that I DO DID read a semi-substantial book every week.

That is, until a month ago.  The ladies and I made something of a pact to go see the movie once we had all read the first book.  "what's all the hype?!  I dont understand teenagers" And so...I started reading the devil vampire books on a rainy car-ride with my parents to go get a piece of equipment that was purchased on ebay.  

Big mistake. BIG EFFING MISTAKE.

For 14 hours in a car, I did nothing but submerge myself in the world of Edward Cullen (vampire sexystrordinaire... not a word) and Bella Swan (normal girl with crush on hot, sweet, overprotective vampire).  And then I was hooked, the regulator broke off and was dropped by the wayside, probably somewhere in Tennessee.  

I think if I had only had 3o minutes to read at a time it would have been one thing.  But after 9 hours in the car, I had finished the first book, and asked my parents to STOP ALONG THE HIGHWAY SO I COULD BUY BOOK 2.  Yes. That's right.  I didn't ask for a "pee stop" all day, but I did ask for a book stop. 

Somewhere in the mystical world of Forks, WA I got lost.  And I think my soul is there somewhere, searching for a fantasy.  

This is only part of the reason why I want to go there.  First and foremost, I want my soul back.  Secondly, I think I need a little fantasy.  But most importantly, I want to go there because I think that it will break the mystery.  It'll help me get over this... this... this absolutely ridiculous affliction that I have.  

That's right folks, I'm addicted to a Tween Novel Series.  I know I've alluded to it before, but I'm not sure you understand.  I really... really really really don't know what happened, but I'm broken.  I think about Edward and his vampire/wolfy cronies all the time.  It's a mess. I'm a mess.  My life's a mess.

I'm ruined.

But until I can find my regulator, I think I'm doomed to listen to the books on tape... conceivably, for the rest of eternity.

On a Break

Yesterday was so JAM PACKED with activities I didn't have time to sit down and write anything.  Which made me sad.  Although I suppose that technically, I did post something as the day before didn't end until 2am.  

So today, I'm sitting here trying to think of something to say.  I usually like to sit down with something specific in mind before I get going.  But instead, today I've chosen to sit down with nothing to say.

And so, as I'm pondering what on earth I could possibly write about, I'm going to... instead... continue with Raul and I's poem contest and throw out a new contest.  Because this entertains me and I think it's good fun. 

So.  If you are interested, please come up with a 100-word --or less-- short story (yes, I know 100 words is a VERY small number of words.  It'll force you to be creative with your structures)  It must have the following things:

Lust, Aprons, a knock knock joke, telephones and a dump truck. 

Post your entry as a comment.  It'll be fun.

No.. really! Fun!  

I have mine written, I'll post it later.

Laughing my email off.

Keith is designing a bunch of "gig posters" for my brother.   They've been emailing back and forth about it for the past few days.

The bro just sent this email (I think it's mostly in jest):

"2 Choices up to you.  I'm sending 2 pics, one is high res, one is dark, but you can lighten it up if you want to ... make me look hoTT and confidenTTT.  Two more options, first one is similar to the other one, different fierceness.  I want maxximum fierceness. I think I like 33 the best for headshot. Fierce. Passion." 

To which Keith replied:

"Thanks for the input, Tyra"

God.  We hope it was in jest. 

Well, None of my money is mine... yet.

One of our best friends just got dumped.  Like, dropped on his ass out of nowhere, dumped.  He's handling it very well, I will say that.  He's such an amazing guy, and I'm not one to forget your flaws when it comes to relationships.  Relationships are hard.  It's best not to pretend like everything's hunky-doory when friends come to you with relationship woes, that doesn't help anyone.  The other party can't always be at fault.  

That being said, he's well rounded, holds a steady job to support himself and have enough money to do fun things he wants to do.  And! He is just about the funniest, most considerate, sweetest guy I've ever met, to boot.  I mean, for crying out loud.  It's January 25th and he already had her Valentine's Day gift ready to go.  You can't go wrong here.  I'm even leaving out that he's adorable in all the hottest ways possible.

I know I'm just singing the praises of someone you don't know.  But he is awesome.  This is the kind of guy who will fly across the country on his own dime to help you move back home after a failed relationship. 

And time after time, he finds these girls who... just aren't worthy of the kind of admiration he's willing to dole out.  This most recent one not escaping that mold.  She seemed awesome.  Liked the things he liked, smart, and pretty to boot! 

But... 

She's from old Money.  The kind of Money that would make Steve Jobs blush.  The kind of Money that's capitalized and NOT on credit cards (see picture of all of my "money"--lowercase.)

This past week, he traveled to visit her.  Took the girl and her mother out to lunch. Needless to say... Mom didn't like him.  She talked, and he just... took it, like you do when the mother of the girl you're wooing is laying into you.  

Fast forward to the end of the weekend.  He comes back to Atlanta, everything picks up where it left off.  Then out of the blue she calls, tells him "it's over, I can't do this anymore, we're done" and hangs up the phone.   Nothing else.  No elaboration. 

That's just cold.  A clean break is one thing.  But... damn.   Her friends say her family pressured her into it.  One even said he was better off.  That her mother would have made him miserable until he ran away with his tail between his legs, anyway.  

I know parents are hard to please.  I know that there are social obligations for some people.  Hell, Renee (who's blog I LOVE, sorry to single you out) has alluded briefly to what I assume is something of a "higher class" lifestyle, and I can appreciate that it's different.  There's something more to deal with than just your run of the mill relationship issues.  However, DAMN.  Let a guy down easy!

I guess her parents just want her to have everything.  But everything doesn't include a great man or a backbone when it comes to family.  

So... who's single?!

Don't Treat Me Like I Don't Matter

Please, please learn from my mistakes.   If any of you are even considering starting your own business.  Maybe... just... don't.  Or at least wait until you're thirty.

There are a LOT of things that are amazing about it.  I'll be doing something that I love almost exactly how I want it done.  But there are also a lot of things that are less than pleasant about it.

For one thing, getting open is just about to give me a heart attack every day. But more importantly, as I have not reached that pivotal 30-year mark, I am treated like an inconsequential part of the grand scheme.

Yesterday  I spent a good part of my afternoon worked into a tizzy over a coffee vendor who owns 10 local cafes.  He bought them about 2-4 years ago.  This is great for him, I'm sure.  He's doing something he likes after so many years of not being in the coffee business, and I'm sure he's taken measures to teach himself about each process involved in the coffee business.  But I'm pretty sure that doesn't give him the right to talk down to potential customers.

When someone contacts you about wholesale bean prices, I dont care who they are.  You dont know anything about them.  You act sweet as pie.  Get their business... right?!   What you dont do, is tell them they're 1)crazy  2)obviously mislead  & 3)not aware of what they're looking for.

 

I'm not sure what school of thought he's subscribing to, but they're preaching the things you shouldn't do.  

And then he called me Kiddo. And implied that my business partner (who knows nothing about coffee) was my boss (nope) and therefore the deciding factor.  Then continued to try to circumvent me by going to my business partner in lieu of talking to me.  Oh, and making sure to "copy him" on all of our "correspondence" because "that's just what you do in a business relationship"  (Which I read while sitting down to lunch WITH my business partner.) 

All I did was point out that he wanted a LOT of money for his beans wholesale.  Even after mark up.  I'd love to use someone locally, but if you can't handle the volume at a reduced rate, I'm afraid it wont work out between us.

I just refuse to pay high-quality, direct-trade prices on NOT direct trade coffee.  

By the way, never imply that I'm 15.  It doesn't go well (oops).  I'm small.  I know this.  But god help me.  If one more person implies I'm still in Highschool this month, I might snap.

To moonwalk or to Punch. That is the question.

On any given day, Keith delights in dressing up.  Or at least looking dapper.  He wears collared shirts, sweaters, vests, slacks, nice shoes, designer jeans... often, it will take him an hour to figure out what he's wearing on any given day.  Too many options is most of the problem.  He tries on one thing, takes it off, tries again.  Eventually he stumbles across "the look" he was really hoping for, and then we're out the door. 

Me in my basics. GapJeans, solid shirt, big scarf, jacket, boots/chucks.  Keith in his ensemble (must be said with snooty french accent).

Basically, I married a girl.  And not just any girl, but a girl who understands fashion, who loves interior design, and can pick out a fantastic bottle of wine.  I married that mythological girl who is both hilarious and hot... Only handsome, and with boy-humor.  

He works from home, I own a store.  He wants to be a stay at home dad, and I'm content to work all day.  Work all day where people can see me in the most basic of clothing while he sits at home in his get ups where only I see him.  I'm not sure how this happened.   

I took that picture at the top just after I found out that he scheduled a massage for me today.  Something to relieve stress.  Sometimes, I think he might be imaginary.

When he told me, I paused, said thank you, rubbed his back, and found this spot that made him go limp and twitch toward the floor.  (Mwahahaha) He screamed out, "STOP IT!" and with a giggle, "I don't know whether I should moon walk or punch something!"  

And then I took his picture (with the Mrs., which is awkward).  To commemorate the moment. 

Ohhhh, Marriage.

 

Bed Time?

It's Thursday.  I don't have to work tomorrow. It's  not even 8:30 yet.  But I'm pondering going to bed.  Yep, I'm a 24-year-old 75-year-old.  Thank you Bakery.

Keith just headed off to his nighttime job at a local bar, and I'm turning in for the evening with a cat in my lap and Bon Iver blaring through the house.  Have you listened to Bon Iver?  I suppose it's no surprise that I'm sleepy.  Their music is dreamlike.  Sort of muddled and cold, like you're listening to it underwater in the winter. 

That's also why I love it.  It makes me think of running full-force into the ocean in the dead of winter.  I always listen to it, close my eyes and inevitably end up rocking back and forth.  

It's rare that I listen to something other than audio books and french speakers when I'm at home by myself and can listen to anything I want.  But this has eeked into my solo night-time life slowly and smoothly.  It's a lullaby you fall asleep inside of, then dream the night away with.

Nightcap time!  I'm off to run into the ocean (bathtub). 

The Capital of Dirtytown is in Windows.

Yesterday I had a meeting with our accountant for the bakery.  She's awesome, very thorough (the way an accountant should be) and totally by-the-book (the way an accountant should be).

Regardless, she has started me on Quickbooks, which I've never used before.  I previously used a system of Excel files that our accountant would then utilize to tabulate based on what she paid via check or debit card vs. what I paid via cash paidouts. 

So I am now in charge of ALL FINANCIAL OPERATIONS. This scares the shit out of me.  I'm good at the accounting I've done up until now.  I can manage to pay my bills at home.  But the very idea of accounting for every last dime that we spend or earn at the bakery is daunting.  I'm going to be doing a LOT of things.  So it's great that Quick books is going to remind me when I need to pay rent, taxes, payroll... etc etc. 

HOWEVER.  Quickbooks also caused me to do a little vomitting in my mouth yesterday when I.... [GASP] had to load Windows XP onto Mrs Macbook Pro.  I loaded it up, loaded ANTI VIRUS SOFTWARE (if you're a mac user as I have been for over 10 years, you know that this is ludicrous) and then stood back in horror as 1/2 of my computers ram went to power the most disturbing thing I've done in a few weeks.  

Before you tell me that Quickbooks makes an operation for Mac, I know.  BUT it doesn't operate with the payroll function.  And I refuse to operate with a pc. So... we're at what they call an impasse. 

I felt dirty all day.  Like I was cheating on my husband.  Like I had shit stuck to the bottom of my shoe (which reminds me of another story for later). 

And now here I sit, writing an entry and looking at the "fusion" icon that I'll be pressing momentarily to expose my beloved computer to the viruses of the internet. 

Dear Mrs. Macbook Pro,

I am so sorry that I have subjected you to this terrible disease.  Please know that despite what I've put you through, I love you dearly.  More than you know.

Always and Forever,

Corie 

Chainsaws and Moustaches

In response to the fantastically confusing and somewhat terrible poem "Alien Vs. Predator" that was recently featured in the New Yorker, Raul and I have decided to have a poem-off. 

[note: I am in no way an aficionado of  poetry nor am I really suited to judge poetry.  BUT... I didn't like it.  That's how I feel about it.]

I gave him the following topic:  Hybrid Cars and Teddy Bears.

He retorted with my topic: Mustaches and Chainsaws.

Here we go.

Just Cut It Down, a terrible poem written in 3 minutes.

Chainsaws roar to life just as

a mustache motorboats two breasts.

The saw rips down what has grown

While the 'stache grows every day.

A barbershop chair waits 

for yet another heated face.

To feel the cool breeze of morning

air where once their was hair.

The saw turns round and round

whisking away leaves, bark with 

seeming ease yet the operator

cannot feel its murderous guilt.

And so the murderer is left to 

cope and endure such loss

while the mustache gleefully curls

upward to the heaven it will find.

end terrible poem.  What'chu got Raul?!

Historically Speaking

Just to get it out of the way, I fell out of love with photography a few years ago.  It used to be mythical to me.  Someone could capture the color, light and enthusiasm of a person's personality in one specific moment.  But then I realized how quickly people write off photographs.

"it's too  _______."

"Where's the intellect?"

I guess that's art school for you.  Always fuc*ing things up. And in a town where "art" is very visible, it's hard to ignore it.   Keith's degree is in Photography, though I haven't seen him holding any sort of camera --whether it be polaroid, digital or film-- in I don't even know how long.  This might be part of why I fell out of love with it.  Because it seems that he did.

I guess he and I are doomed to always love the same things within reason.  I suppose doomed is the wrong word, but sometimes it feels that way.  For example, I've become an avid fan of naked people on dishtowels, which I never thought I would find as amusing as I do.  I like to think I've implanted some of my weird loves on him as well, like purging closets (ugh, is that really the best example of something I love that I can come up with?!)... but only in moderation.  He's more steadfast than I am (his wardrobe still dwarfs mine).

But I digress.   Yesterday, I missed Obama's inaugural speech because I was working to get my damn bakery open.  Phone calls turn into house calls turn into driving 45 minutes to find the trash company... and before you know it, it's 9pm on inauguration day and you've completely forgotten about it.

I'm running off to find a NYTimes before they are all sold out as they were the day after the election, but I wanted to let you know that I fell back in love with photography for today while scrolling through this slideshow.  Give it a listen, a look.  It's pretty, and amazing.  Not to mention all of the 20-somethings in there made me realize what working hard and being motivated can get you.  And suddenly I didn't mind being addicted to work. 

Girl, you better don't!

Yesterday, at the gas station I slipped up.  (Not to worry, I didn't fall.)

While paying for my dangerously orange peanut butter crackers I dropped Mr. iPhone (yes, MR. IPHONE, it's an unhealthy attachment, I know).   But that's not the point.  I dropped Mr. iPhone and the attendant said to me:  "Shooo, girl.   You best not be breakin' yo' things! Yo' momma gonna be maaaaaaad at you.  She paid a pretty penny fo' that phone.  Don' be breakin' yo' things. "  And the whole time I was thinking to myself,  "Oh no. No no no you did not just treat me like a fifteen year old. " (I like to think I can pass for at LEAST 20. I mean, OBviously I can drive.)

So, as a gut reaction.  I responded without truly thinking, "Honey, my mother did NOT buy me this phone.  I pay for my own damn self."

Then I'm pretty sure my face dropped.  Because, you don't sass a sassy black lady.  They are awesome and strong.  You dont sass them.  You learn their ways and employ them.  But you don't let them know that you're studying them.  I mean REALLY.  What is wrong with me?!

To my great surprise she laughed, smiled widely and said, "Well good for you honey! (then turned serious) But really. Don't be breakin' yo' shit."

And I responded the only way a 100lb 5'2" white girl should.  I said, "Y'all have a great day, now!" And hurried out the door with my peanut butter crackers and Mr. iPhone, leaving my momentary bravery behind.

The l, r, and g sounds are lost!

After writing about coffee and my struggles with the inner timing of a french woman, I remembered just how long it's been since I've really truly spoken french with someone.  

Oh dear god, it's been a while.  Especially if you don't (and I don't) count having "phone conversations" with myself when I'm trying to avoid people.  

Yes, I do that.  I don't know why I do it in french.  For some reason it seems like a good idea.  So, if you ever pass me on the street, and I "don't see you" and therefore don't wave back, and you think you hear me babbling in french on my phone... well, I might not like you.  I'm sorry.  It's completely juvenile, but true.

Long story short, it's been forever and a day or so since I've had a full-on conversation with someone in french.  And in that amount of time, my french muscles have gotten lazy lazy.  I can no longer decipher my sounds.  This is going to be quite a work out.

As I'm about to start semi-tutoring a friend of mine in the "language of love" so that we can teach her lovely baby French... I downloaded a bunch of French podcasts to start getting myself used to the sound of it again. I'm also thinking of finding some books on CD in French to keep the sound of it in my head.  Ugh. The thought of those headaches is not pleasant. 

Have you ever been immersed  in a country where they speak a language that you know, but don't fully comprehend?  Well, I'll save you the trouble.  It hurts.  The first three days you spend so much time squinting and raising your eyebrows in confusion that a throbbing develops above your left eye.   Luckily, somewhere around day 4 you stop worrying about what people are saying, and trying to catch words you know and put them in context.  This often goes poorly.

Someone may be saying, "Hey!  I totally bought a horse yesterday, he's a beautiful arabian.  Let's go riding tomorrow.  Oh, bring carrots with you, we're all out!"  But what you hear is "horse... duh duh duh beautiful... zoop zoop zoop riding... grandmagrandmagrandma, carrots... crickets crickets, out! Phew.  I understood just enough of that to respond logically.  

But then I do respond.  And things go south again.

"Uh... sure! I'll bring my condoms!"  (I always ALWAYS get the words for riding helmets and condoms confused.  You'd think that after 400 or so miscalculations with the words I'd start using them correctly, especially after 400 or so makes-you-red-in-the-face embarrassing moments.)  

[makes motion of putting on helmet when Evangeline looks at me wide-eyed]

Ohhhhh, Coree, zat eez not zee word you would prefer to use.  Zat word eez for zee sexy timez.  You no want to be having zee sexy timez wiss zee Orses, no? 

A conversation I've had too many times.  How come her crappy english always sounds better than my crappy french?  Oh well, it'll come back to me. REVIENS french, REVIENS! Tu me manques!!

Anyone wanna parler with me?

circuitous indeed, today.

I keep starting posts, but then I can't finish them.  They take a turn in the middle and become incoherent.  

"Uh... where was the [expletive] point?!" I keep asking myself.  Regardless.  I'm off to get some work done now that I'm frustrated with my blogging abilities this morning.  

But I've got 5 posts in the works.  Somewhere between started and postable but dangerously close to crap. So... I guess they'll have to wait until I have re-mastered focus.

The Oates to my Hall

This morning I'm sitting at the Cafe I used to run, hanging out with my best friend while she works.  Slinging coffee, making sandwiches, rearranging the pastry case... a lot of things that I'll be back to soon in a new location.  But more importantly, I'm realizing that this is where we met.  (sigh).  Sam helped me become the crazy coffee person that I am.  She taught me how to foam milk, how to move a line of 30 people in 5 minutes, how to send 300 text messages a day (yeah... that's not really an exaggeration.  I can have a novella's worth of conversation via text messages)... I taught her about how awesome my lame tv shows are.

We have known each other for about 4 years.  Maybe more at this point.  We've developed something similar to a sixth sense over those years.  Finishing sentences, answering questions at the same time with the same answer... you know, friend stuff. We didn't really start out as friends, though.  I'd say the first year of working at the cafe, she scared the bejeezus out of me.  1) she's REALLY good at just about everything  2) she knows everyone  3) she was in a hard rock band.

And after a year of tip toeing around her, we were both talking one day about joining a gym.  You know, build up the ol' muscle mass, cut out the flab and replace it with ROCK HARD MUSCLE.  So we did.  We joined a gym.  (then quit the gym less than a year later.  Gyms are lame.)

Suddenly we were attached at the hip.  Trips to the gym led to us taking hip hop classes.  And we found out that we both have an affinity for lame pop music.  But it isn't lame.  It's awesome.  There's nothing like a good pussy cat dolls song to get your heart pumping during a choreographed dance in a room full of pearl-wearing sorority girls trying to be sexy while we are laughing hysterically at our inability to look tough. 

So Hip Hop class turned into dinner, which turned into drinks, and now we're practically married (no really, we joke that she's the second wife). About 2 years ago we made a video that bonded us for life.  It's on the internet, so there's no going back.  (No, not THAT kind of video, sorry.)

Sam was randomly searching the internet to see if we could feasibly take a road trip to see a Hall and Oates concert when she found a link on their website to a video competition.  The entry deadline was in 36 hours. 

So what did we do?  WE MADE A VIDEO, of course.   Now.  Before you watch this video.  Please empty your bladder.  I assure you that if you have any sort of humor in your body AT ALL you'll be giggling like a school girl, so please, empty your bladder.  I don't want any accidents on my conscience.

The quality's a bit terrible.  At the time we had no idea what we're doing and now we're too lazy to upload the higher quality version.  My favorite part is in the middle at the bridge where we didn't have enough footage... so we used stills and put the earthquake effect on them.  Oh man.  I'm laughing just thinking about it. 

We waited about 4 months for the results of the contest to get posted.  There were 3 rounds of voting required and we came out VICTORIOUS, even though after the second round of voting this old guy who was REALLY LAME and had entered an equally lame video complained that we had cheated.  But seriously. Who needs to cheat when your video is so AWESOME?!  We did abuse our position as dispensers of caffeine to get votes.  I'll fess up to that. But hey, if you're going to see 600 people every day, you bet your ass that you better take advantage of their voting abilities!!

I still laugh hysterically whenever I watch this.

We spent a long weekend in LA on Daryl and John's tab, then got to spend a few hours in heaven at their Hollywood bowl concert. It was... an experience.  The photo at the top of the post is from the concert.  Yes, we wore our wigs. What?! 

If Sam ever gets really mad at me, I know exactly what I'm going to do. 

I'm going to beg her for forgiveness by kneeling on her lawn with a giant projection screen playing our video behind me while singing that song at the top of my lungs.  (Sam, now you know my plan, so getting mad at me is pretty futile.  You know you'll take me black)

We are winners. (literally and figuratively)

The Spanish Armada

Without further ado, a tail from the life and times of Kyle:

A quick disclaimer: I never would have believed this story had it not been confirmed by Kyle's best friend in Boston, who happens to be an awesome Chickadee who wouldn't lie to me.

This past halloween my brother threw a party for his apartment building.  He lives in one of those fancy brownstone communities somewhere near what's called "the backbay area"  If you've ever been to boston for a length of time, someone probably made you go there, honestly I couldn't tell you anything about it, except that Kyle lives there and you can see the baseball stadium from his apartment.

Anyway, his building houses 4 apartments and they consider their 10- 15 neighboring brownstones to all be in the same "complex" for lack of a better term.  In a classic Kyle maneuver, he invited 40 households of people, most of whom he's never met and are probably in their late 30s early 40s with 2.7 toddlers and 1.5 dogs.

The big night shows, the boys have decorated their apartment, gotten out all their "scary" crap and halloween themed-booze.  Luckily someone's girlfriend was there so that there would be food along with the booze.  I love my brother, but he's not the best at parties (implied: commonsense), and neither are his roommates. Typical Musicians.  

As the guests start arriving, all of his friends arrive soon followed by 25 miscellaneous 20-27 year old Hispanic women.

In Kyle's own words, "It's like we hit the motherload! But none of us could figure out where the rabbit hole was!  And man.  We HAD to find that rabbit hole again!"

Turns out Kyle and his roommates invited all of their neighbors nannies without realizing.  Only he could have that luck.  Any other normal human being would have ended up with a house full of middle aged men, but not Kyle. 

My brother proceeds to seduce "The Spanish Armada" (I'm about 100% sure they were all from Latin/South America, but with Kyle apparently speaking spanish makes you Spanish) with songs and jokes out on the balcony.  From his retelling the 4 he focused on (yeah... FOUR... again, confirmed) were totally into him; falling all over him, stroking his arm etc. etc.

In the end he made out with two, "hooked up with" (can someone define that?!) another and ended up getting all of their phone numbers.  

Unfortunately all four of them also got his number.  Because Kyle's a little 'tarded.   For 3 weeks he got love texts and flirtations from these girls at all hours of the night and day.  Two of the girls (probably the two he made out with but didn't "hook up" with) apparently could see his apartment from their places and would text him whenever he left the building.  

"If there's one thing I've learned,"  he told me at Christmas, "It's that you don't mess with the Spanish Navy.  They are bat-shit crazy." 

Pop Tarte

As it is one of my 2009 resolutions, I've been keeping better track of my brother.  It would seem that track is perhaps the wrong word.  It sounds like I'm stalking him, but you don't know my brother.  

Kyle bounces all over the place.  He's a musician by trade in a band that's particularly popular amongst the teen set in Malaysia.  Yes, he's a Malaysian tween's dreamboat, straight up Tigerbeat style.  

Now, they're a US band and Kyle just joined them a little over a year ago, when the original lead singer (who is 5'4") dropped himself from the group to become a "serious actor" (please note on his website that there has been no news since February of Last year.)  So, in an attempt to keep their hold on all of that Malaysian money, the record company decided to do a search for a new lead singer.  And that's how Kyle (who is 6'3") got to be a Pop Tarte.

It's been an interesting year for him.  Partially because in the US, they have no following.  They had one song that did well here, but only because it was the theme song to "Laguna Beach" (MTV's "reality" television show about a group of high school kids with too much money and not enough brains).   

Regardless, when people ask what my brother does, I have a hard time explaining.  I generally just say he's in a band or in the entertainment business.  They aren't fancy or popular here, so I try to avoid the, "Oh really?! What band is he in?!" because then I have to respond and the people I meet almost indubitably respond with a... "huh. Never heard of it."

Yeah, I know.  You're not Thai! 

Anyway, they're in the midst of finding a new manager, so Kyle's been particularly hard to keep track of. Last month, in one week he managed to be in China, Japan, Bali, Boston, Marietta, St. Louis, and Omaha.   Now, certainly, this seems doable.  Unless, of course, you've been on  plane to China.  Let's just log the amount of hours in a 7 day, 7 night span: 24hours by 7 days = 168 hours.

Now.  Flights involving Logan International Airport and Beijing require about 20 hours.  

That takes us to 40 hours logged in a plane, 128 hours left in the week.  

Flying from Beijing to Tokyo

5 hours, total comes up to 50, 118 hours.  

Beijing to Bali and back: 

5 hours each way: 60, 108 hours

Then of course there's flying from Boston to Atlanta against the jetstream 

3.5 hours:  Total's at 67, 101 hours remaining in the week.

Atlanta to Omaha: 

4 hours: 71, 91 hours left

Omaha to St. Louis: 

2 hours: 93, 88 hours left

St. Louis back to Boston...

4 hours: 97 hours logged in a plane, 84 hours left in the week.

84 hours.   That is an equivalent to 3.5 days spent on the ground.  That's approximately 8 hours, considering delays and traffic that you have to get into a city, get what you need to get done finished, and then get back on a plane.  No nonsense, none at all.  Not to MENTION that this also assumes that he only slept while he was on the plane and didn't ever land somewhere in the middle of the night. There's no time for sleeping if you're not airborne!  I think they must have done 90% of their meetings in Airport "conference rooms" (read: Bathrooms.  Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to)

Anyway, I've been talking to him a lot recently via the devil that is my friend, Facebook.  Mostly about things that don't matter at all.  It's nice.  It's good to get that report going again. We've always understood each other, though we're in no way the same.

For example: I went to a state school for 4 years, came out with 3 degrees, and now I'm not using ANY of them.  He went to a prestigious, private music school for three years, didn't quite finish, but is milking it for all it's worth.  I got married, he juggles girls (remind me to tell you about his encounter with "the spanish armada" some day).  He likes to wear "rock" jeans (denim leggings as far as I can tell) and a suit-vest with nothing else against his exposed chest while riding his bike through the streets of Boston, whereas I wear real people clothes.  I could go on for days.  

But in the end, we're blood.  I know this because we both have Alpaca winter coats with Llamas on them that our dad bought for us after a ski trip to Arizona.  You'll know this because despite the 2 year age difference, we appear to be twins.  Oh, and we're both dream boats, duh.

Wait, so they blew it up twice?!

I worry that after reading this post, some of you will write me off, and discontinue your interest in my blog.  But I'm going to do it anyway because it made my husband (keith from here on out) laugh so hard that we were both crying a little.

------

In highschool, my adorable and dorky husband had a big, big, big addiction to Star Wars.  He watched it all the time, quoted it, had life-size cardboard cut outs in his bedroom and wore pins with lea's cinnamon buns on his (awesome) denim jackets.   

I'm sure it was painfully obvious that he was a Star Wars fanatic.  We never would have gotten along back then.  He was somewhat original, while I watched MTV's TRL like it was the only thing I needed to sustain myself other than water, food, and oxygen. 

Yes, this was during the era of the boy band.  I'm not proud of it, but I do still get a little giddy whenever I hear certain nsync or backstreet boys songs.  I'm also pretty (Ok, FINE I'm 100%) sure it wasn't even cool back then.

Regardless, we never would have been friends.  It just wouldn't have worked.  I would have thought his home-made bellbottoms were weird and he would have thought my sweater sets were lame.  I guess it's good that we never knew each other.  (by the way, we went to the same school, at the same time, but when 3,000+ hormone-crazed kids cram into one building... it's not easy to know EVERYone.)

Now that we're older and have moved on past our weird afflictions of the high school variety, it's often hilarious to look back and ponder our differences.  So, earlier today he was inspired to have me describe what I thought the plot of Star Wars was after he watched this video in his studio.

The following is what I said.  Please take into account that I have never seen Star Wars.  This is what I've gleaned from conversations I've heard and random pop culture references.  We have now decided that maybe I shouldn't see the movies.  It would ruin my "vision."

"Well, ok.  The movies start off with the words that fly across the screen.  Something about the world being bad.  They blame it on Darth.  So, another group of guys is trying to keep Darth at bay using light swords.  Wait. Light Sabers.  Yeah, Sabers."

At this point, keith is staring at me with his mouth open, which I don't understand cause I haven't even gotten to the good part yet. 

"Ok, so there's this guy, Hans Solo and another guy whose name I can't remember, but I think he's Harrison Ford.  And Harrison Ford is crazy.  Always shooting things in his space pod."

This is where the hysterical laughing started.

"So they find another guy named Obiewan who teaches Hans Solo to use the force.  And somewhere in there they talk to Princess Lea. I'm not sure what was going on with her, but I do know that she had her hair in buns and was always wearing a tunic, except for this one time when she was in a bikini as a sex slave for a giant slug.  I'm not sure how you have sex with a giant slug, but it's a good thing they got her out of that gross mess."

At this point he couldn't even see because of laughter tears, and I was starting to laugh because apparently I was getting things wrong. 

"Ok, well I also know that they had some robot friends.  One was short and did a lot of booop boop doo doo do dee doo to talk and the other one, the big gold man-shaped one could tell what he was saying.  And then there's Chewy.  He's from another planet where everyone looks like teddy rumpskin.... you know, the talking bear?!"

I think somewhere around here he stopped laughing and started just staring at me again.

"Ok, so... Long story short they break onto Darth's ship with the princess and ... Oh wait, somewhere in there Lea and Hans fall in love... And there's Yoda.... Crap.  I forgot about Yoda. Yoda's like a 'the force' sensei. And he speaks sentences completely out of order.  Anyway, so they break onto the ship and try to kill Darth. But then Darth says 'Luke I am your Father.'

WAIT! THAT'S his Name! That's other guys Name is LUKE!"  

Hysterical Laughing recommence.

"Anyway, Then the ship blows up.  Maybe Darth's dead?  I'm not sure why it blows up.  I think Hans did it."

So, yes.  That's what I would describe as the story of the Star Wars.   And then Keith enlightened me through more laughter.  Although, not in too much detail...  Apparently it's Han Solo. Not Hans Solo.  and HE is played by Harrison Ford.  Then of course there's Luke Skywalker, who does most of the things that I thought Han Did. And the big slug is named Java the hut. Wait. Jaba the hut? I couldn't really tell. 

Which one's Lady Luck?

I got out of the shower today on the opposite side from where I would normally step out.

I've never done that before.  Never.  I always get out on the same side, grab my towel, dry off, dry hair, put on clothes, put on eyeliner, and get out of the bathroom.  A few small OCD issues generally keep me from breaking basic routines.  (I'm not counting out my cheerio's or anything, but I like some things in the order I like them.) 

I didn't realize what I'd done until I was drying my hair.  Looking over to the shower I realized the opposite side of the shower curtain was pushed in, while the normal "enter/exit" side was closed flat against the wall.

Huh.

What on earth does that mean?  Of course, I can't remember a single thing that I was thinking in the shower other than, "hmm... I wonder if water balloons would be as disturbing if you were in the shower? I mean, you're already having water thrown at you."  Which is in no way helpful for my rightside/leftside exit debate. 

At first I thought that this could mean today will be different from other days, that maybe I should check my horoscope, but I haven't yet.  I don't believe in any kind of superstitions or omens.  As far as I'm concerned, Ladders are just two really tall metal people playing London Bridge is Falling Down and a black cat has more to worry about if I cross it's path than if it crosses mine.  And really, where do these superstitions come from?!  What's with all the mystery?  Seems to me that some ol' coot was sick of her grandkids breaking the mirrors and windows in her house, so she told them one of those fibs that only parents and grandparents can tell their children, "don't break mirrors Moses, it's bad luck... for SEVEN YEARS! *cackle cackle*"  I'm amazed people don't put stock in the ol', "don't sit so close to the tv, you'll hurt your eyes" or, "DONT MAKE THAT FACE AT ME! It'll get stuck that way!" (hah, which reminds me of why I stopped making ridiculous faces at people and rolling my eyes.)

And now I'm realizing that my day is completely out of order.  

1) My business partner sent me a text message about something before I woke up.  Which never happens.  I generally initiate morning-time text questions.

2) I am just NOW getting to my coffee.  (you know how I feel about coffee.  First thing, no questions)

3) I took a shower before checking my email (and enjoying my coffee).

What else can this grand day have in order?  Looks like it could be a doozy.  I'm just going to assume it's in a good way. 

I'll let you know later.  I have a meeting in 15 minutes that I have a feeling I'm going to be late for.   Where's good ol' Lady Luck, dazzling head to toe in red sequins, when you need her? (I hope that's what everyone's Lady Luck looks like)

Ok, Let me have it, Thursday.

Choose Your Own Adventure!

Almost a year ago,  I got married.

I was unaware of this, but just before you get married, they cage you in a room with your bridesmaids, keep the food away, and don't let you go anywhere.  Well, except maybe for the bathroom.  But only because if they didn't, you might pee on your too-expensive, too-pretty dress.  I would say it's akin to being a lion in the zoo at night when no one is gawking at you or throwing delicious flanks of your favorite animals to you.

My galpals (the lionesses) and I had an inordinate amount of time to wait in a tiny room with one blocked-out window. Luckily, one of them had been married before (but isn't anymore) and was aware of this tricky little moment no one warns you about.  She, let's call her the genius, brought along a somewhat slutty, choose-your-own-adventure novel. 

You did, indeed, read that correctly.   In it, you decide if the main character will go to college or the beach; if she'll go to europe or start a novel;  if she'll fall in love with a computer tech or have 15 one night stands in 18 days;  steal money from the mob or realize she's a lesbian.  And a million other little decisions.

I think in the best version of this story we created, the main character went to college, but dropped out when she realized she loved to cook.  So she moved to europe, went to pastry school, started working for a small bakery where they smuggled gold doubloons in ciabatta bread for the mob, stole a BUNCH of doubloon infested ciabatta, fled Italy and traded it in for France.  Fell in love with an equally rich woman, and they lived happily ever after and died in their sleep as old ladies.  

Now don't get me wrong, her number of exploits was comical throughout the day.  I think we killed her with our choices 75% of the time.  She drowned (don't go to the beach!), was in a tragic accident, went home with the wrong guy, fell into a vat of icing... you get the picture.  The girl just made bad decisions (er, or we did for her), but somehow, when we chose STEAL FROM THE MOB! we manage to keep her alive.  

I saw this book resting on our bookshelf this morning and it got me started thinking about where exactly my life turned, and I got to the point I'm at now.   I can think of 2 possible turning points, I'll give you the less scary of the two.  

When you're 18, and just 3 months shy of being graduated from high school... you have to know that your life is about to change.  But mine changed before I was expecting it to.  I was getting ready to head to a college that I was 100% not excited about, and dragging my feet because kicking and screaming was not within my realm of capabilities.  So, I stepped out of my box.

After singing at a family friend's wedding, I was offered a job working at a small cigar bar in downtown Atlanta as a lounge singer.  Yeah.  That definitely sounds like code for high-class call girl, but it was exactly as described.  Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night until midnight, you could catch me wearing sequins and lace draped over a baby grand helmed by a beautiful, white-haired 73-year-old man,  and singing songs that are generally relegated to records. 

It's completely out of character.  Hell, singing at the wedding wasn't something I would generally do.  I was a little (coughVERYcough) shy.   Don't get me wrong, I had a lot of confidence once you got to know me.  Hell, I was woefully opinionated (hah. I used the past tense.  Like that stopped after highschool),  but for some reason, it didn't translate into groups.  It's an odd mixture of qualities when you're both confident in yourself and painfully unwilling to interject into a conversation.  I think I can blame it on only half-assedly learning the french-woman's confidence. 

But, I digress.  So, I took this job working at a club (which has sadly closed, but what hasn't) where I had a dressing room full of costumes and sang to about 60 25-70-year-old men (I guess sometimes women,  Scherbatsky-style) who were just out and about bro-style after work.   It was amazing.  Every weekend from 8 to midnight, I was someone else.  I was sultry, glamorous even.  I was outgoing, I WINKED at and FLIRTED with people.  (By the way, your winking muscles CAN atrophy.  See photo at beginning of entry.)

And the best part was, all of my friends were too young to be there (so they couldn't stand slack-jawed by the door), my boyfriend had no idea that I was doing this (and therefore didn't know what I was up to every weekend) and I learned to speak up for myself, even if it was from pretending I was strong and confident from 3 feet above everyone else in a room.

Before this turns into a story of how I learned to casually let men down and turn down drinks, I'll get to my point.  I think working there was the turning point.  I think it made me able to say, "hey... Mom, Dad... I know you thought I would start to like this College, that it would grow on me.  And I've tried, I really have, but it BLOWS.  I've already put in applications to switch to bigger schools where I can do more than tip cows with frat boys,"  instead of just dealing with it and sticking it out 'til graduation as I'm sure I would have had it not been for rings of cigar smoke.

And more importantly, if I hadn't switched schools:  1) my boyfriend wouldn't have dumped me --well, we would have broken up, 'cause he was an ass and I would have realized this eventually 2) I wouldn't have met three girls who taught me to be fun and live on my own  3) I wouldn't have met my husband  4) I never would have started running cafes. 

So, I'm glad I chose for my own main character to "become a lounge singer" over "waiting tables at insert name of terrible neighborhood chain here" cause god knows where I'd be if the menu from Appleby's came to me naturally.  

I shudder at the thought.

Between 1 and 5.

Yesterday I spent several hours waiting for the Internet/phone company to come hook my cafe up to the rest of the interworld.  And in the mean time, I had a handful of things to take care of, most of which were done and forgotten within 30 minutes.  So there I sat, twiddling my thumbs while my electrician drilled holes to run power to our beautiful espresso machine.  

I actually started this particular entry, and an embarrassing number of others to keep in mind for the future when I'm lacking on inspiration on the sticky notes application on my computer.  I guess I could feel that the day would end in a story.

At first my reaction was complacent.  Not too worried about it.  But as the day crept (amazing how time DOESN'T fly when you're NOT having fun!) by I definitely got a little agitated.  When the clock finally got to 5, and I hadn't heard from the communications company, I gave them a ring and they assured me that the tech would arrive shortly.  And to please continue waiting, the tech will call when he's on his way.

Continue waiting.  Seriously?! I thought I was starting to hallucinate from not having eaten since 11:45.  Yeah, I'll continue waiting.  If you install my things for free.  Yes, you're not hallucinating.  Free.  I've been kept waiting without a call for 4.5 hours.  He assured me it would be taken care of and that the tech would call before arriving. 

He didn't call.  

When he showed up, I was just a hair shy of livid. 

Maybe you could have called? I was so worried you wouldn't come over! What? You didn't want me to get the wrong idea? Didn't want things to start moving too fast?  Well.  It's too late for that, I've already wasted millions of moments waiting on you.  

We are SO over. 

Wait. I think something weird just happened. 

Anyway.  Once he got started, he realized it was a bigger job than he'd planned.  He took 2 hours from his 5:45 arrival to finish the task.  And then everything was fine.  Except for the fact that it was 7:45 and he wanted my sympathy because he would be driving back to Atlanta.

Yeah. It's a 2-hour drive.  Yeah. You chose to work 2 hours from your home.  Keep it on the inside.  I've been here waiting on you for 6 hours and 45 minutes and I haven't eaten.  (that last part is all on me.  Totally should have brought snacks.) 

I told myself I wasn't gonna write about this.  Cause let's be honest.  Everyone has a wretched story about utility installation.  Everyone has to deal with it.  I know I'm not special, and that after this moment, I probably wont ever think about my internet again except when the bill is due.  

On a happier note I'm making valentines day pompoms for my store out of tissue paper today while I'm filling in at my neighbor's clothing store.  Look out Valentines day, Ike & Jane is comin' at cha.

4 minutes to heaven.

I'm always amazed by how quickly my thoughts turn to coffee in the morning.  It's usually the first thing I do once the girls and the fats have calmed down enough for me to think straight (actually, it's always the first thing I do.  Come downstairs, scoff at how ridiculous dogs can be before 5 am, and then turn on the stove.)  It's an addiction, a need.  I'd like to say it's all in the ritual, but to be honest I'm positive that it's only 25% ritual and 75% addiction.

I'm not a nice person without coffee.  I used to be.  I swear that I used to be.  But somewhere in the past 5 or 6 years I got addicted.  I blame it partially on my work and 2 boyfriends,  but also on France.   I don't mean the country, but I kind of do.

When I was younger I spent a good bit of time "en france" ("in france", if it's too early for snobbery) at different times, although it's been far, far too long for me to claim any sort of fluency or accuracy with my foreign language skills. Don't get me wrong,  I can still string together a pretty good set of expletives.  You know, should some scary, tween street gang dressed in purple berets and armed with cigarettes come at me in the middle of the street with song and dance demanding my brooch, or a light.

But that's beside the point.  At the end of my stay in France I was living with a woman, aptly named, France, and 3 of her 4 children.  The closest to my age was Ange. A wonderfully vibrant 15-year-old french girl with so much tenacity I didn't know what to do with myself.  She would flit around the apartment at all hours of the day or night, listening to classical music mashed up with weezer songs and dragging me out of the apartment to go to farm parties (I'll explain later).  To this day, I haven't been able to find that music OR someone quite as vivacious as Ange was. 

As graceful as Ange was jubilant, France was what we americans would consider "typically french."  She was beautiful, confident, smart, well-dressed and didn't put up with anyone's shit.  Monday through friday she drilled me with verbs, conjugations, nouns from a seat across the kitchen table, her hair perfectly coiffed and draping over her striped sweaters.  As far as she was concerned, the french I'd been brought up with in the south of France was nowhere NEAR the level of sophistication required of her apartment dwellers (She's from Paris.  I wish that this didn't "explain it" but she grew up in one of those hoity toity french neighborhoods with maids, doormen, dogwalkers, grocery shoppers and butt-wipers.).  

Haughty or not, I loved her.  I would spend my days at school learning NOTHING because not only was I a year behind due to a minor language barrier, but I had studied everything they study in Highschool before arriving --I'm an overacheiver, but that's another story all together.  And when I would make it back to the apartment, I'd run to see what France was up to while Ange set to her homework after scoffing and thoroughly rolling her eyes at how strangely attached to her "uncool" mother I'd become. 

And this, several somewhat useless paragraphs later, is where my addiction to coffee began.  France would greet me, tell me to have a seat, then step into the kitchen to grab her ready-to-go french press and some perfectly warmed water from a teakettle.  She would pour the water while talking to me and so our afternoon began.  It sounds ridiculous, but she talked. I listened and watched.   She had perfected, and I do mean perfected, the art of french press coffee. 

I'm still working on it a decade later.  After pouring the water we chatted about things I hadn't understood at school, like chemistry and certain things the fellas would say to me, when suddenly, as if by some sorcery, she turned to the coffee after about 4 minutes to press the plunger as if she was a marionette.  I'm still not sure she even knew she was doing it.

I'd say I have two big regrets from my year in France at 16.  One of which we'll discuss later... (ok, fine.  A boy named Julien.  He was adorable, and enamored of me --even if it was my shiny, crass, crazy american-ness.  But I chose to ignore him.  Dance with him once, but ignore him in the end.  It's a longer story than that.  Maybe more later)  But my second greatest regret is that I never asked France just how the HELL she made coffee so perfectly without even pausing to think about it.  How on EARTH can someone make a drink that can so easily go awry without any expended effort?!  The only viable option I can think of is that she was magic. Or a vampire.

Anyway,  Long story short.  I've been working on my French Press skills for a while.  And just when I think I've got the timing engrained into my brain, I'll stop using a timer.  You know what happens?

It turns out GROSS. That's what happens.  Somehow my hopes that France is somewhere deep in my soul, just itching to let her grace slip out, are squashed by my completely american inability to focus on any one given task.   Suddenly four minutes turns into ten and my efforts are shot to hell.  Why?  Cause I've been multi-dabbling again. 

So, for the time being.  I'm sticking to timers. 

Speedy

I write the same way that I talk: Fast. confused. out of order.

This is probably a bad thing.

I'll work on slowing it down and editing myself.  You know, so I make sense.

Mesh People, Mesh

This morning, I'm wishing that all of the blogging websites would get together and allow you to follow the progress of your favorites from one spot.  Similar to the "blogs I follow" aspect of Blogspot. But not all spread out! One day, maybe. One day.

I guess this is what Bookmark folders are for.  

**Edit!  I have a follower! Nice.  And if there was an option for me to follow his blog, I would.  So go forth and conquer your terrible muse.  I'm afraid he's more of a real writer.  An aspirer.  Whereas I would just define myself as a blogger.  But hey, writing is writing. Bound or unbound.**

Symphonic? Definitely. Not.

Windinstruments and Percussionists: Two 55lb. dogs. 

The Strings:Two 15lb. cats. (yes, they're fat cats, I know.  They make up for how ultra-trim the dogs are) .

On an average morning, I get up around 4:30 or 5:00.  I have to be at work by 5:45 and if I'm not up and about by 5, I wont have time to get the dogs outside, or get myself presentable to see a litany of people that I serve or am in charge of.  And every single morning... without fail, the following set of sounds rushes through our house at levels the train just 40 yards from my front door rarely reaches within our walls.

I wake up, quite naturally at about 4:47. (I know this sounds ridiculous.  But it's true) And do a little stretch.  And when I say little, I mean that I look out the window and raise my arms above my head while still sitting in bed.  It takes 2 seconds.

And that's when the sound starts. The dogs ("thegirls" from here on out) get up.  I dont know how they hear me.  1) I have no alarm. 2) they don't sleep in our room, they sleep on the other side of the door on a landing.  It's maddening.  The MOMENT I open my eyes, their collars shake out the sleep like a castanet percussion entry.  Here it comes!

Once they've gotten the shake out of the way (damn collars and their jingling), there's the whining. Well,  maybe it's excitement for the new day, but high-pitched, desperate sounds seem to be whining no matter what when you're up before the sun and other reasonable people. 

Secondly, there's the clicking of their nails on the hardwood floor of our landing. They get all excited, and start prancing around like 5-year-old girls in god-awful leotards and mommy's red lipstick, waiting for their first chance to try out the pennies they have glued to their new shoes (Side note: I've been that little girl, and pennies are definitely not the same as tap shoes.  Perhaps I should apologize to my mother today).  

So you have the whining (first movement), tap dancing, and then add in the staircase (PERCUSSION takes over again).  We have a metal, spiral staircase.  It's akin to the sound of churchbells chiming, if church bells were made by, say... the worst metal sculpture student you've ever seen.   And once they plummet --and I do mean plummet-- to the bottom of the staircase the whining continues.  Now they're whining, tapdancing and slapping their tails up against the walls.   That's the second movement and now we're on to the third...  The scherzo.  More like schitzo. 

Enter: the cats (from here on out: The Fats).

 

The fats are cute. Their tails are far less destructive. They're cuddly, friendly, they can't knock me over, and they don't need much from me.  I've always been a dog person, but these two fats made me like two cats.  They're also the devil in a fluffy fur coat.  

I'd say the volume at this point of our --as of yet-- extremely short morning is probably at about a 7.  And once the Fats start chiming in with their "song" the level gets to about a 9.  They Meow. And croon, and gasp and hiss and... well they join the whining sounds the Girls are making at this point. 

I have very little experience with cats, but I don't think it's normal.  Most cats I've encountered couldn't care one way or the other what you do when you wake up.  Maybe it's my fault for creating such a serious schedule for them.  Up at 4:45, exercise vocal cords, fed at 4:47, sleep all day, go bat-shit crazy from 2-4, eat dinner after 5, sleep all night.  Repeat.  Or maybe it's the older cat's fault for teaching the kitten to meow.  Either way.  JEEZE.  SHUT UP! I feed them every morning and so help me, it's like they haven't been fed in WEEKS each time we move towards their food bin. 

And so the crooning is over once their food hits the bowl, and the girls are still tick tick ticking and thwap thwap thwapping around my feet when I turn on the teapot but slowly the sound starts to subside as the fourth movement slowly eases its way to a halt as they settle into their bed by the time the stove burners are red.  Apparently my dogs just LOVE new days with a fervor that mystifies my human mind.

It's probably because they're pretty. But not smart. 

Resolve to evolve?

I'm looking into the future. Are you?

I made myself a new year's set of resolutions.  And, as I plan to adhere to them with white knuckles and without wavering, if I post these resolutions in ALL of the places I can manage then perhaps they'll have more staying power.

And so you have... the most ridiuclous list I have ever (EVER) created for a new year.  Normally I don't put much stock in resolutions.  Seems to me it's just a way to fall on your face on the third day of the year.  But hey, it can't hurt to try.  Which brings me to Resolution numero UNO.

Set one:  LIFE!

1. TRY MORE THINGS!  Nobody likes  nay-sayer! Well, I'm sure someone does. HMO's for instance.

2. Always keep flowers in the house.

3. Walk the dogs for 2 hours a day.  (about 8 miles.  They're crazy dogs)

4. Be more honest with yourself, less brutally honest with others.  It comes off mean.  Quit it.

5. Spend money on what you need, not on your whims! (I'd elaborate, but I dont wanna embarrass myself... right now)

6. Be less quick to judge. Try not to hold grudges (I said try damn it.)

7. I will not over-extend myself.  There are only so many waking hours in a day.  Accept that!

8. I will ask for help when I need it.  Stop trying to do it all.  (doing it all is actually doing it all half-assed)

9.  For the love of all things holy... and your spine, sit up straight! Jeeze.

Set 2: WORK!

1.  I'd like to spend only 70 hours a week at work.  I'm an 80 hrs a week kind of girl.  BUT! I'm gonna cut back my workaholic-ism.  I'd say less than 70, but let's be serious.  I can't do that.

2. I want to pay off Ike & Jane this year.

Set 3:  HOMESTEAD!

1. Actually put up a fence this year.  Not like the last two years when we were always going to put up a fence "this month"

2. Take better care of the yard... aka... the dirt. Maybe step one is... make a yard.

3. Start saving $30,000 to put down on a studio for Keith and refinance our house after said studio is finished. Yes, this will spill into 2k10.  But hey, it's ok.  I wont be doing it myself.

Set 4: FRIENDS!

1. I wont let work keep me from being a good friend.  Cause that's stupid. 

2. Be less of a homebody!  Maybe let the internet breathe for a little while.  You're smothering it!

Set 5: FAMILY!

1.  Spend more quality time with Keith.  Try not to listen to audio books while he's at home. It's weird.

2. Call the grandparents

3. Call the parents

4. Keep tabs on your crazy little brother.

Phew.  That's a serious list.  In a couple of ways.

I'm exhausted just thinking about it.  

I also have a list of all the things I have to do this week.  I'll think about sparing you from that.

multidabbling

I like to start things, and not finish them.

It's kind of like multi tasking.  But multi taskers generally finish what they're up to.  I, on the other hand, start things and then dont finish them. Dabbling in multiple activities.  Multidabbler. 

Perhaps if I had two heads (hence my ridiculous photo...) I would finish some things...

exhibit a:  1/2 of my christmas presents to other people are about 2 out of 25 steps from being finished. (yes, christmas was 3 weeks ago.  thanks for rubbing it in.) Oh, and the other 1/2, you ask? Well, they're about 23 out of 25 steps from being finished.  Looks like I've got a lot of Christmas-themed birthday gifts to give out this year!

exhibit b:  My bakery is still missing gas.  BUT to my credit, I got as far as I could go before the gas company decided to take 3 days to get back to me... oh, woops, now it's the weekend. FIVE days.

exhibit c: Last thursday I started a new hobby.  I'm embroidering a BUNCH of tea towels.  You know, those towels you use to dry dishes?  Your grams probably has a bunch with lillies and cherries on them.  Mine have hilarious text messages, my pets' names, my business logo (CUFFIN'S!!!), and some even have somewhat bastardized versions of my husbands artwork.  

I guess we'll see where it goes from here.  But so far, it's my favorite hobby outside of "reading" books (yeah, mostly they're audio books).  And I can do them at the same time in the 3 hours a day I spend NOT working.

Back to txt embroidery:  11:29pm reading eclipse in bed, fully dressed in case of earthquake or sudden friendship.

did I mention we all love twilight and we're over 24? (hell, even if we were just barely over 15 this would still be embarrassing)

Catch up.

I know, I know.

3posts 2hours.  It's a little excessive.  

BUT.  I'm simply trying to catch "you" (this would imply outside involvement.  However, to my knowledge there is none. Sooo... do with that what you will, straggler.) up on what's going down with me.

About 2 months ago, I quit my job.  Yeah. That's right.  Economic downturn, everyone's getting laid off, and what do I do? I volunteer to leave my job. My full-time, enjoyable, benefits paid, 401-k having job.  Sounds crazy, Yes.   I do have a plan, a purpose for this seemingly RIDICULOUS action, I'm opening my own business.  WAIT! SHIT! It just got crazier. 

Way to go 2008, you made me look like a fool!  

Regardless, I'm starting my own small-town wholesale/retail bakery right between a soon-to-be medical college and a now-in-action hospital (I can tell it's in action because there are patients in wheelchairs smoking outside and ambulances zooming by every few hours).

I'm hoping that between the amazing support we're getting from the community and the unbelievable number of employees a 7-story hospital MUST (god I hope so) have that we'll be a hit.  

Well, that and we're awesome.

I'm going to go invent chicken salad.

Ok, GO!

Addiction

I've been reading a lot of blogs recently to take up some of the copious amounts of alone-time I have.  (alone-time is not a standard in my life.  Generally speaking, I don't have any. And in a week I will once again be alone-time free.  I can't wait)

Aside from this "multidabbler," I have a blog for my business that has gained a local following (hey, three people can be a following, right?!) although to be honest, sometimes I check the "Site stats" and wonder just how many of the 92 hits yesterday were from me checking to see what the status of my "poll" was.  oops. 

Anyway, I've found a few that I really like and enjoy.  Two funny, one hilarious, one saucy, one sauce-y and three crafty.   Ohhhh, if only they seemed to have as much free time to complete their stories as I seem to have!  Cause I could read about the saucy one's exploits for days and still be enthralled I think.  Quite comical. Unfortunately, believe it or not, all blogs have a beginning point! And I think I found all of them.

And now, to plant flowers in horse troughs. 

Ok, GO!

I think I can see myself.

Shiny New Blog. 

Shiny New Blog. 

I'm trying to decide what to do with this shiny new blog.  I've been spending a lot of time by myself lately, and I think I'm starting to go a little nutters.  SO maybe if I have an outlet (regardless of whether or not anyone really reads it) for my nutter-ness I wont go all the way crazy.

And so, in an attempt to do something NOT work related, I am starting a blog.

Ok, GO.