Whinging It

In my ongoing quest to become more of a mom without actually having children, I am just now exploring phenomena from about 2003-2007.  (Next: Think that these phenomena are current.)

First up: Neti pot. I never knew that I could find joy in pouring a saline solution from one nostril to another, but there it is.  Pure, unadulterated joy.  Yes, the actual process sucks much ass, but the results are astounding.  I can now do things like breathing and not snoring the entire night.

I also have a new fondness for the Pinkberry-like yogurt shops that are everywhere, especially those that allow me to put on my own toppings.  I need more chocolate chips than anyone seems to realize.  I need them.

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I recently had an iTunes fiasco (FIASCO!) in which I lost approximately 7,000 songs.  I had no one to blame but myself and Steve Jobs, and he seemed to take no responsibility for the situation.  Graciously, his minion did agree that I could re-download all of my iTunes purchases, but that also left me to dig my and Wife’s CDs out of the garage and patiently re-put them all into iTunes. (Note! Deep mis-trust of iTunes led me retain all these CDs against my better judgment, and ha! Paranoia confirmed! I love when that happens.)

I decided to be completely non-discerning about which music made it back into the library.  Entire CD devoted to re-makes of Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner”?  Into the collection!  Awful REM CD purchased without a pre-listening because their prior CD was great?  Now each of its songs are in the running for a tortuous shuffle.  In part, all the CDs went in because it had been so long since I listened to the old music that I couldn’t remember what was good or bad.  But also, it made me nostalgic for my 14- to 25-year-old self who would buy music on a whim.  Who would happily create a music collection that included the greatest hits of James Taylor and Journey with absolutely no idea how un-cool that was (although, in all fairness, others now know the awesomeness of Journey thanks to “Glee”).  I did it for the girl who thought that buying that Oingo Boingo CD really rounded out her collection.  That girl was adorable, and paved the way to the woman who can’t and will not stop listening non-stop to Lady Gaga.

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Sometimes?  If you are doing a lot of cooking and you run out of room on the counter so you put the squash on the floor?  Sometimes someone else thinks it’s her new toy.

Look at the ridiculous amount of bedding that Dog has.  Her incredibly thin coat requires lots of blankies.

Wife and I spent a lovely time in the Russian River area this past weekend.  In part, we were on a small getaway for Wife’s birthday, and in part we were tagging along with some friends who were scouting the area for their wedding in 6 months.  All told, there were three couples total including us, which is the perfect number of people.  There’s enough variety in personality that there’s always someone to talk to, but not enough people to qualify for Too Large Crew.

There was much fun, laughter, booze, and mis-guided attempts to play Taboo.  Early in the evening I put my hair in numerous Princess Leia buns all over my head as the prospective bride, who had undergone a trial wedding hairdo that morning, gave me half of her bobby pins. At the bar after dinner, some poor sap put “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” on the jukebox, and in deference to my Colorado gals, I put on a spirited theatrical performance for the whole bar.  (Best question after: “Were you in Riverdance?”)  And even though there were aspects of the evening I regretted (namely, the ill-advised gimlet at the end of the night), it was fantastic to wake up the next morning and know that despite my foibles and quirks, and maybe because of, I have fun in my life.  In between asking Wife, “Wait.  Did I DANCE last night at that bar that was only a counter and had no discernible dance floor?,” I had moments of clarity that THIS is what it feels like to not give a shit.  To be me and to do what feels fun to me without caring if I came off as goofy or dorky.  Because the truth is I AM goofy and dorky.

I do a Riverdance in celebration of myself.

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Because of the distant wedding preparations of our friends, we spent a lot of time in the lodge dining room tasting different dishes, critiquing the bar’s selection, and being very amused by the Celine Dion-heavy music rotation.  Ha ha! said we about Celine Dion.  Can you imagine anything worse than Celine being played on your wedding weekend all the whole time? We started cringing with each new song on the track list.  (Is that a cover of MEATLOAF?)  So it was with relief that “The Girl from Ipanema” cued up, as who doesn’t love it?  We swayed in time, sighed “Ah!” at the appropriate junctures in the song, and were content.

But then, two songs later, it was on again.  Sure, it was a cover by a different artist, but still definitely about a girl.  From Ipanema.  We giggled.  What are the odds? we thought.  What were the odds indeed.  There was another cover a few songs later, and then, on the hour, it all started over.  Three versions of Ipanema in an hour.  We stopped swaying.  There was tension.  Suddenly, the song seemed menacing: “The girl from Ipanema goes walking / And when she passes, each one she passes goes – AAAAHHHH!”

I asked the management to please change the CD.  They forgot.  The girl from Ipanema kept walking.

I still have it in my head.

I think I’ll just dive right in and hope no one notices I’ve been gone for awhile.  As blah, blah, blah work and blah, blah, blah avid following of the Prop. 8 trial with obligatory sputtering at the gall, the SHEER GALL that some people have in thinking it’s okay to define the rights of others.  Blah.

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Wife and I spent the holiday season in an orgy of unbridled eating, drinking, and general making of merry and sugary treats.  This included the fantastic new-to-me situation of having a *bucks on the ground floor of my new office, meaning that I could get an eggnog latte without even putting on a coat.  This may or may not have led to getting an eggnog latte every day.  Which may or may not have led to a current diet of mainly vegetables.

But hear how cute Wife is: Poor Wife was subjected to my whinging about how planning lower calorie lunches is HARD (Keep in mind that she plans, shops for and prepares all suppers.  I clean up, but she’s such a clean cook that mainly I just stick things in the dishwasher and wipe down a countertop or two.), and I can’t find anything near me for lunch that is both delicious and nutritious without being so expensive that I am, for all intents and purposes, working to support my lunch habit.  She listened to all of this tripe from her bratty, spoiled spouse and then she started MAKING MY LUNCH.  With like four courses including a main dish, two veggies, and dessert!  Like butterscotch pudding!  That doesn’t even come in a pudding pack cup! Pudding!  Both chocolate AND butterscotch!  And Wife isn’t even a martyr about the situation, but says that she just wants to make my lunch because it makes me so happy (which it so does).

Let us all learn from this: Whinging solves all problems.

Let us also note that she is mine, all mine, and you cannot have her or I will stomp my feet.

Beyonce cannot sing with the beat unless she is in a song by another artist in which she is “featured.”

I am alive, but work’s been crazy and my laptop died.

In compensation for impersonating the dead, here are two pictures:  One shows the architectural inclinations of one mutt, and the other encapsulates everything that’s awesome about Oakland.

She totally built this fort all by herself.

Ha!

Carry on.  I know I owe everyone an email, and apologize for my lameness.