I don't like the dark here, it keeps eating my pencils.

I had some blood drawn at the doctor’s office the other day. No big deal. So when I heard the message on my voicemail that asked me to call them, instead of them just leaving the “don’t worry, everything’s good” message, I freaked out a bit. Good God, what’s wrong with me? Cancer? Leprosy? Hemorrhoids?

Turns out I have a vitamin D deficiency--no big deal, just have to take a prescription supplement. I do wonder if this deficiency has contributed to my general depressive state as of late--it'd be nice to have an excuse, anyway.

Still, I'm baffled. Even in the dead of winter, wearing SPF 28, this chick's pale, pale skin can suck up the sun. In spin class the other day, the instructor was trying to help the class gauge when they're working too hard. "When you look in the mirror, and your face is bright red...then you're working too hard." Yes, pretty simple. And yet, she continued, "Unless, of course, you are Scottish or Irish in origin."

And, I am not exaggerating, the woman looked directly at me while saying this. Anyway, good news! I'm not out of shape--I'm merely Irish. That's a relief.

Bring on the potatoes and the Guinness.

Ah, hon, ya got Arby's all over me.

I think the diminished number of weirdos in Las Vegas says a lot about the current economic climate. There weren't many sightings beyond what Jeremy dubbed the "strange, old, rich people." Jeremy was lucky though--he spotted an Elvis impersonator in the CVS. What was he shopping for? Perhaps some "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Hemorrhoid Cream"? Apparently the drugstore chain is a favorite among the Elvis-wannabe set...quite the "Love Me Vendor." (OK, OK, I'll stop now.)

The pictures are few and far between, but I think this one speaks for itself (OK, not at all, really, but I enjoy its bizarreness too much to try to explain):



We did go out for a nice dinner one evening...



...aaaaannnd here I am the morning after, attacking the leftovers:



Lovely, I know. Sorry, guys, I'm taken!!

Naturally, because we spent 5 days in sunny, temperate Las Vegas, Mother Nature decided to make us pay with "Snowmageddon 2010." Yes, the storm has a name. It also has a little-known slogan: "When you run out of beer, not even the snow plows can hear you scream."

We'll just say that supplies are dangerously low. It's Beer v. Blizzard, 2010...who will win out? Stay tuned.

No, but a four-hundred-pound wino offered to wash my hair.

Some Drive-Bys:

* Last weekend I went to Rehoboth with my dear friends La and Signe. There was outlet shopping, hot tubbing, wine drinking, light-hearted mocking…I heart my giggly friends. What I did NOT heart was being the first to arrive at the beach house, which was cold, dark, and interminably creepy. I ventured throughout, turning on lights and thermostats. I was even brave enough to go down to the basement, where I flipped what I thought was a light switch—turns out it was for a fan in a room I couldn’t see. Thus, some lovely chug-chug-chug noise started up, scaring the bejeezus out of me.

That’s when I went upstairs and opened the bottle of wine.

I huddled on the couch and watched Friends until the real-life ones showed up to rescue me from whatever sinister force was clearly lying in wait for me in the Beach House of Death.

* Jeremy flew up to Boston for work yesterday. I had left my car at the VRE station the night before; he suggested I drop him off at work so he wouldn’t have to park at the airport, and I could drive his car for the day. All well and good—until I got in the driver’s seat and realized that the warning lights for gas, windshield wiper fluid, and engine were ALL ON. That’s three (3) warning lights, people. Thankfully we stopped by the gas station, and Jeremy took care of two of them. I begrudgingly pulled into a parking space in front of his office and let him out (I had suggested that, to save time, he could merely tuck and roll, and I would toss his suitcase out after him. I think four warning lights would have pushed me over the edge on that one…)

* We’re off to Vegas on Sunday, so expect some bizarre people-watching-related blog entries (last time we were there, a dude in a cow suit was parked at the slot machines at the MGM Grand). Also expect that, if I hit the jackpot, I will retire at the ripe old age of 31 and spend my days in secluded luxury, quietly mocking passersby from my custom-made hyperbaric chamber.

Sometimes I think you ain't got the sense God gave a lemon!

So lately I’ve been enjoying the Barnes and Noble eReader on my iPhone. I have a long commute, and a high tolerance for crap novels, so I’ve been working my way through the eBooks they offer for free. The other day, having grown tired of Harlequin romance novels (see note re: high tolerance for crap) (and also, their “military-themed” romances with the tagline “The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell,” always makes me giggle out loud.), I downloaded a book that didn’t have a synopsis, but that I was pretty sure wasn’t a cheesy romance novel.

I was right. It wasn’t. What it was, was gay erotica. Now, I have no problems with gay erotica per se, but it doesn’t do much for me. Also, I felt a little weird reading it on the train. Still, the worst thing about it was the GRAMMAR. I am shocked—SHOCKED—at the low grammatical standards for pulp gay erotica. Also, dialogue exchanges such as this made me want to pluck out my eyelashes:

“Thanks Mr. Austin You da man”.

“Nah, you da man Pauli” I said pointing at him as I walked in to the bar.

That’s exactly as it’s written – I take no credit for the grammar or content of the above. It made the Harlequins look like Tolstoy.

On an entirely different note, who decided that the years 2000-2009 would be dubbed the “Aughts”? As if I didn’t feel old enough already, I have to tell the story of my twenties sounding like a grumpy old fart??

**Gross throat-clearing noise**

“Back in Aught-Four,”

**adjusts ratty bathrobe**

“Janet Jackson sang a ditty with that Timberlake feller during the SuperBowl…”

**shuffles slippers**

See what I mean?

Would you please put some pants on? I feel weird having to ask you twice.

So what happened to the rest of November and December? Well, mix the holidays with two ailing grandmothers, horrible news from dear friends, and a wee bit ‘o seasonal depression, and you get…a lady who doesn’t feel much like writing. So, here are some niblets going a ways back:

1. Communion at an unnamed southern church: At our home church, communion is prefaced with “the table is open to all who proclaim Jesus as lord,” or some such statement. However, this church we visited had the longest list of what Jeremy dubbed “fine print” that I had ever heard: you had to be confirmed, repentant (really, truly repentant – if you’re not completely and totally 100% sorry, don’t even think of taking communion), able to walk on water, dressed by joyous songbirds in the morning…it went on and on. And my favorite part: if you weren’t worthy, “don’t worry about skipping communion, nobody’s watching.” Which pretty much guarantees that everyone is watching.

My stubbornness almost prevented me from taking the juice and bread when it was passed, but I did so to keep the peace. Of course, I inhaled a bit of flour when eating the bread and started coughing. My first thought? “Ack! It’s rejecting me—I’m not worthy!”

2. I started a spinning class last night. Let’s just say that “hovering” is not as fun and sci-fi as it sounds.

3. I got to spend a little time with my niece and nephew on Thanksgiving Day. There is nothing as great as hearing a 2.5 year old girl attempt to say “Spongebob Squarepants.” This exchange was a close second:

Me, upon being presented with a plastic bag full of little toys: Oh, look, what a neat car!
My niece: No, it’s a Transformer (pronounced ‘Twansfowma’)!
Yup, she’s definitely my brother’s kid.

And finally,

4. I have been known to rant about the occasional clothing trend (gladiator sandals—ick). Now, this is not so much a popular fashion trend as it is an unfortunate “DC worker bee” trend. I give you what I have dubbed the ‘sleeping bag coat’:



For the love of God, people. This is not Alaska. It’s not even Maine. If your coat doesn’t cover your ankles, you’re probably not going to die. However, if your coat does cover your ankles, it makes something inside of me die. So please, invest in a nice, wool peacoat. Do it for me.

Just Watch Your Mouth, or I'll Sit on You

So yesterday's Facebook status, in case you didn't see it, was:

Mary's work day began with someone asking her if she was pregnant, on account of her "pooch." No, just fat, thankyouverymuch. Now please go lick an electrical socket.

Now that I've had 24 hours to stew over this, I'd like to add on to my suggestion that she go lick an electrical socket...and I'm including my dear, beautiful pregnant friend Sara on the "Vindication List." Why do people think it's OK to touch/comment on your body when you're pregnant? If I'm ever pregnant and some stranger walks up to me and reaches out for my stomach with their hand, they're going to lose it. All I'm saying.

Anyway, this lady can also lick:

-the subway pole
-the inside of the office microwave
-the football-sized rats running around the alley behind our building
-Glenn Beck

Jeremy had suggested I punch her in the face. Tempting, but I like to think a little more creatively...say, emptying the contents of a Ped Egg in her tea, or replacing the contents of her iPod with this.

I am open to other suggestions, as long as they are nefarious.

And now, evil co-worker who will forevermore be known as "Evil Co-Worker," me and my "pooch" are going to get a cup of coffee, glaring at your office as we walk by. Suck it.

That'll Do, Pig.

So Jeremy and I have long suspected that our shelter dog, Tilly, is a Lab/Border Collie mix. She mostly looks and acts like a lab, except she has longer hair and hates the water. So when we took her with us to the junior high lock-in last weekend (we're adult supervisors for the youth group at church…man, I feel old writing that), we expected a lot of this:

The girls especially (and there were a lot of them—I think 14 girls and 3 boys, bless their hearts) loved Tilly. And while Tilly loves attention and kids, I think it was a pretty anxiety-ridden night for her. Why, you ask? Well, it turns out her "herding instincts" are MUCH more prominent than Jeremy or I knew.

Imagine trying to keep up with and herd 17 tweens. I think cats would have been easier.

Every time a kid left the big room we were all in and went to the bathroom, Tilly would hop up and follow. She would then wait outside the bathroom door until the kid emerged, and escort them back to the group. If there were two people in the bathroom, she would escort one back, then return to the bathroom to fetch the other one.

When the kids started playing Manhunt in the dark, empty church, I thought her little head was going to explode. As it was, any time a kid ran by, Tilly would run after—not in an aggressive, nip-at-their-heels way, but I don't think she was really playing, either. You could almost hear her saying, "Hey! HEY! You get back to the flock!"

The only time she stayed still was when Jeremy closed her into the office he was sleeping in for the night. Needless to say, my puppy was beyond pooped the next day. Still, I can't help but have a certain amount of pride in owning a dog that is almost as Type A as I am.