Archive for June, 2010

nsfw IM (hot stuff!) ;) ;)

[colleague]: I lost my screen saver and I’m hoping that you’ll know where to fond it! Whe u have time of course. Hope u r feeling better…

[colleague]: Oops, find it.

[me]: ha!

[me]: i could fond it for you too!

[me]: but you have to take me out to dinner first!

[colleague]: maybe not at work though…

[colleague]: LOL!!!

[me]: HA!

[me]: awesome

[colleague]: I think I need a cigarette!

Carpooling 102

So I didn’t mention it, Reader, but for a while there recently I thought I might be pregnant. I know, I just didn’t want to worry you, Reader, because you’re sweet like that. And it’s not a new story… there’s the usual culprits you hear about: a missing punctuation mark, obsessive thinking about the punctuation mark, and mood swings that were more likely to be due to the obsessive thinking than to a mini Hot Lunch in my belly.

I think it means I’ve successfully made the transition from feeling gooey about Hot Lunch to seeing him as my stupid special friend that the thought of him reproducing through me is like something out of V. I still don’t know how Joaquin and Diego happened. When I first met them years ago, I remember feeling surprised that they didn’t look more like their dad. The fact that they looked just like his angelic baby pictures didn’t matter. Hot Lunch is distinctive to the point of seeming immutable: anything that comes from Hot Lunch must be EXACTLY LIKE him, sporting scratchy goatees and scratchy voices and making inappropriate comments and blaming farts on other people.

This was the picture my imagination was torturing me with. THAT VERY PICTURE. Also the fact that it had been a while since – cough cough, you know – didn’t matter. I was haunted by an image of myself appearing on I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT (thanks for the medical terror, TLC) and the sheer awfulness of the idea made it seem more likely. I was increasingly crazy with it: acting grumpy toward Hot Lunch whenever I saw him… making hangup calls to my ob-gyn… pulling into Fred Meyer’s parking lot at night on my way home from work and chickening out and going home empty-handed.

But on Carpooling day, I have backup. Poor Pants is a helpless passenger on the crazy train as it swerves into the Fredbear and I say, “Hold on, I have to stop here and pick up a pregnancy test. And something for dinner.”

“Don’t you want to stop by the deli first?” Pants asks, as I charge right past the counter where we usually pick up quick meals.

“No. I want to get this over with.” We get to the aisle that mockingly stocks tampons, condoms, lube, pregnancy tests and baby food. It is the circle of life aisle.

And tonight it is full of shoppers. Not one, but two men, and a woman shopping for baby food with her baby bawling in the cart right in front of the shelves of First Response. (…think you’re pretty funny don’t you, Life?)

“Oh. It’s crowded. My favorite.”

Give it a minute. Deli comes first after all. On the way back, we pass a display of CAMPFIRE MARSHMALLOWS.

These are the biggest marshmallows I have ever seen. In an unnecessary reminder that maybe an obsession with size is what got me into this problem in the first place, I impulsively grab a bag off the display, rip it open and shove a fist-sized puffed-sugar confection into my face. Pants looks shocked until I hold the bag out to her and she does the same. Commence orgasmic eating noises.

“Unh. It’s so good.”

“And big. It’s so big I can’t fit it in my mouth.”

Ecstasy has slowed our gait and a man passes us by (possibly in a rush to reach the popular prophylactic aisle?) and gives us a good sidelong look, one brow arched. That’s right guys, the ladies know what you like to hear.

We reach the aisle again but it is still a party zone. WHAT THE HELL. “Come on, we’ll just browse the magazines while we wait,” Pants soothes.

While Pants thumbs through Brides, Modern Bride, and You’re-Not-Knocked-Up-and-You-Got-a-Guy-Congrats, I’m glancing through my favorites Fitness and Shape and angrily cramming gargantuan marshmallows in my mouth.

Check the aisle again. Empty except for the mother laboriously inspecting every baby food label with her baby still parked and screaming in front of my Maybe-Baby zone. “If she’s still there in five minutes,” Pants hisses to me, “I’m going to say, ‘Excuse me, we want to make sure we’re not having one of THOSE.” I grunt my appreciation. My mouth is full of marshmallow.

Well, to jump mercifully to the end, it turns out that I’m not positive for anything other than I am positive that peeing on a target is for men. I don’t care for the unexpected splashback. Also I’m positive that taking the test at home was much more soothing than the time I had to take it next to the noisy apocalyptic mystery shitter in the next stall of the public restroom at work (which had seemed more private than the staff restroom where the container might be spied in the garbage… if only I hadn’t recognized a coworker’s shoes later at the exact awkward moment that coworker – thenceforth known as Apocalyptic Shitter – also recognized mine.)

There are no secrets at the Library.

my anger has a color and it is grapefruit

Digerati and Pants have both told me they want a picture of me buried under 15 pounds of grapefruit. Why? Because despite my eating of MAJOR CITRUS daily, I have again caught a cold. I just had an epic cold last month. I was at death’s door for THREE WHOLE DAYS of sick time. That is long enough for my place of work to forget me. Maybe it’s not long enough at your job. Maybe I am just forgettable. All the more reason why I can NOT afford this cold.

What was it, fate? Was it the dirty means by which I acquired this grapefruit? What, the epic walking and olympic swimming and increasingly early bedtimes not enough for you, immune system? Well fuck you, white cells. I don’t see YOU doing such a great job! I can’t do this health thing all on my own! I’m sleeping at 10 and walking at 8 and hoovering sour citrus and choosing salads over fried breading and popping vitamins and drinking water and crossing my ever-fucking fingers in the hopes I won’t catch EVERY STRAY WIMP-ASS GERM that passes near my nose-holes. And there’s a lot of them, immune system. So I’m sorry. I am sorry I work with germy children. I’m sorry I get spat on and snotted on and sometimes I can actually SMELL the grubby hands that hand me things. And speaking of hands, my nephew stuck his hand in my mouth on Friday. What was I supposed to do about that, immune system? How do you see a crazy move like that coming before it’s too late? You don’t. That’s what immune systems are supposed to be for. Grabby babies with oral fixations.

So I will NOT draw a picture of grapefruit burying me. I will draw a picture of my rage, world. And it goes a little like this:

That’s my IRONTEAM shirt. It is soaked with sweat and tears. And grapefruit-tinged angry spittle.

Kevin Nash wants to kick your ass at the Cheesecake Factory

Me: It’s not chocolate bread just because it’s brown. By those rules it could be poop bread.

Hot Lunch: Look, it’s Kevin Nash over there. Walking out toward the parking lot.

Server: Here’s your bread.

Hot Lunch: Yes! Chocolate bread!

Server: Chocolate bread? Cool. I like it. I’ll be back to take your order.

Hot Lunch: See, he said it’s chocolate bread.

Me: He was astonished because he’s never heard anyone call it chocolate bread. Because it’s not chocolate bread.

Hot Lunch: What are those anyway, weeds? (About the ornamental grasses into which he disappeared when he fell off the patio in his chair as we first sat down.)

Me: They could be fescue.

Hot Lunch: They seem like weeds.

Me: One man’s weeds is another man’s fescue. I just wanted to say fescue some more.

Hot Lunch: Apparently. I see you like to rub that in. That you know what that means and I don’t. Kevin Nash is just standing out there. I think he wants to kick my ass.

Me: Except the fescue already did that.

Hot Lunch: It’s cool being by the mall. I love the smell of commerce.

i am ironteam

i suppose any normal person would go on a 5-mile-walk followed by a rampage of produce and perjury through Costco and then call it a day. average people do two big things in a day and then rest on their laurels watching Justin Bieber videos. well there’s average people… and then there’s TRIATHLETES.

it just so happens that Costco Day was the same day as the IRONMAN here in town. and also the same day the weather got nice enough to swim in my new apartment’s pool for the first time. so once Cupcake and i had divvied up the fruit, i jumped in my swimsuit and met Hot Lunch and Diego for a swim. or for a ginger tiptoeing around the shallow end whimpering about the cold while Diego jumped in and out of the water yelling, “AAAAUUUGH!! SHARK! IT’S A WHITE SHARK! NOOOOOO! I WANNA LIVE!!!!” (though technically he was shouting about a THAWK. a gweat white thawk. Hot Lunch is a speech therapist at work, not at home.)

then i changed clothes in time for Cupcake to pick me up and take me to the Ironman aid station where we were volunteering that evening. we signed in, got our violent blue IRONTEAM t-shirts and stood next to a table of cups filled with liquid.

if you ever overhear distant cheering punctuated by calls of “water? water?” “gatorade!” “ice!” do not be baffled. this is the sound of the triathlon.

before we knew it, sweaty, haggard, driven people in garish lycra were running past, pointing at us and shouting “WATER!” or “ICE!” or “COKE!” or “GEL!”

this was all an education for me. what was the gel? where did the ice go?

from my hand to your crotch. i’m glad i could help out.

my ice also went down people’s shirts, into their sports bras, their hats and even their drink bottles along with Cupcake’s gatorade. also, in the future i will know to stand in FRONT of the person handing out gatorade. from behind, the hand-off looks like this.

this was my view for two solid hours.

TWO HOURS! triathlons are hard! even for the triathletes. one lady stopped in front of us to strike a classic Thinker pose. SHIT GUYS THAT WOMAN IS ABOUT TO VOMIT. no, after a moment she seemed to resolve her issue and jogged a couple more steps.  Thinker pose again. Ironteam is in suspense. nope, all is good. off down the greenbelt toward victory.

one guy jogged past us, up onto the grass and straight into the park restroom. the door stayed shut for a long time. long enough for us to ponder everything from wow, he’s having a bad time in there right now to there’s a bathroom? we could have totally changed into our t-shirts in there instead of stripping behind a van in the parking lot.

but don’t let me forget the sponges. the sponges that start out soaked in freezing water and get shoved into hot, chafing, and highly personal places. and when they come out, let me tell you triathletes just throw that shit anywhere they please. only the strongest survive Ironteam, standing on sore feet and repeatedly receiving gatorade in the face because you’re too busy dodging used-up personal sponges aimed at your head while you blindly cry, “Ice? ICE??!?”  it’s a motherfuckin’ triathlon.

understandably, two hours was all Cupcake and i were made for. after that, we stripped in a DIFFERENT parking lot to change into our GOIN’ OUT clothes because we had a concert to catch with Hot Lunch. actually as it turned out we had a AAA truck to catch, because Cupcake locked her keys in her car for the second time that day. actually as it really turned out we had some juicy beef to catch because the concert sucked and we ended up across the street inhaling burgers and microbrews with tired-looking people in lycra pants.

i walked, i swam, i stood for a long ass time. and i did it all in the same day. I AM IRONTEAM.

Hunter is ready for celebratin’!

HUNTER

Brasil! Brasil! Brasil!

just to cheer you up, Cupcake.

veging out

Cupcake just sent me an official work email about a Boise Young Professionals shindig this evening and ended her email with this:

"…also, I just realized that I have had a chunk of carrot on my face. yay."