Two Microphones, One Dream

I'm 27 today.

Since I don't have Facebook, I have to remind people the regular way that my birthday is coming up: mention it casually, hoping they'll throw me a party.

It worked.  If you're in town on Saturday night and of a legal age for FUN HAVING, join us at the 1029 and we will sing together.  

The Airport Code is EZE

Returned from our Naples trip having worn 1/3 of the items I brought along.  Upside: less laundry.  Downside: hauled a bunch of shit I didn't need all hither and thither.  

iPhone photo of a portion of the shit hauled: 7 pairs of footwear.

The wedding was extravagant, as destination weddings are wont to be: 300 people. $300,000 on food and drink.  You math that out, now.  

The town was...  I could have stayed in Naples, if I had wanted to get old and cranky.  Like, really?

I am about 10 pounds heavier (full of exhaustion (weighs a lot) and ice cream (weighs more)) but since I've got the itchy feet,

WE'RE GOING TO BUENOS AIRES.

Spontaneity spring break at the end of March!  

We booked the tickets yesterday in a feat of SuperHuman ImpulseStrength.  Tips? Ideas? Stowaway bids?

Shortfalls!

It's budget reduction time here in the education world. Woke up at 6:15 doing the silent dance of don't-wake-the-sleeping-puppy and then sat in a 7 am meeting about dollar reallocation.  Now my body is clamoring for endorphins chocolate.  I've given it ginger ale and cheddar rice cakes instead.  Because 8:30 am is too early, see?  Too early for chocolate.  

Never too early for the aftertaste of Canada Dry.

Nicki and I had week two of Community Ed hip hop dance class last night, after which some non-hip hop peeps got together to watch The Dark Knight.  Pretty sure my fitful sleep involved Heath Ledger in full Joker makeup and Beyonce's song "Ring the Alarm."  This and going through the mirror to Gumdrop Mountain is the stuff of dreams.    

Speaking of dreams and sunshine and Gumdrop Mountain (weren't we?), Matt and I leave for Florida tomorrow to shoot a destination wedding in picturesque Naples.  I have packed nothing.  At this point, I'm planning to go nude, so I'll need a good self-tanner.  Or!  Or a wetsuit I can borrow and wear for four straight days with accessories.  Suggestions welcome.

Anne Asked Her to Do It, But Still

Oh my goodness, I totally just got a shout out on Emily Style.  That "PS?" That was for me.  Yessssssss.

Blog boner!

Better than Cotillion

Student: "Hi.  You look tired."

Me: "You always say that."

"You always look tired."

"It's impolite, did you know that?  It's impolite to tell somebody they look tired."

"It is?"

"Yes.  And I'm not offended by it, but I want you to know, in case it comes up again, just don't say anything."

"So what should I say?"

"How about start with, 'Hi' and work from there."

"I did!"

"I know, but here's the thing: you're not my peer.  If at some point in the future you say that to your boss or something, then the next thing you know, somebody's like 'Oh, she's rude, we should fire her.'"

Then her chin starts to wobble.

"Ok."

"Ok."

It Was an Electric Razor, But You Probably Can't Tell From There

I'm walking through the skyway with a security person, carrying two arms full of very heavy photog items.  When he asks me, I'm good.  I got it.  But I don't, and I have to stop to readjust. Twice.  Meanwhile, thanks to the smoothing undergarment* I'm wearing, with each step I take, my gray tights are rolling themselves down.  By the third floor, they have crested my over my butt and are making a break for my knee pits.  Like a great glacial avalanche of underoos.  I am so desperate to pull my garments back up that I interrupt the conversation huffing and puffing to say that I see my car right there and thanks so much. When he turns I run the rest of the way to the car--except for the last 30 yards in which I waddle past the parking attendant, my tights down around my ankles: "Hi!  I'm fine!  Good thing I shaved."  

*One of those "Assets" type items.  I know: HOTTTT. I thought it was Hanes, now I don't know for sure, but check out this awesome typo I found while sleuthing!

Hearts, Stars, Stripes

In December, Matt and I got Riccis to shoot our portraits on real film, as a very classy (very belated) dateiversary present to ourselves.  We just got them back.  The day was wet.  The hair was bad.  But they turned out pretty and real and that is all I wanted.  

[Paparazzi segue. Paparazzi segway.]

It's the perfect week for an Inauguration because, among other things, work is molasses slow (the students are all taking finals and avoiding me when I ask about their test preparations), so I've had a chance to pour over images of the beautiful First Family and the dancing.  Oh, the dancing.  

I know I haven't written about this much here, but since I decided to vote for Obama, I've been so often moved by this country's reaction to our President-Elect now President-Actual.  I am excited and invigorated about what he and we can do together.  There.  I said it.

Hand me that shovel.  Let's start digging up.

Suave, Indeed

It's cold outside, but it's hot in herrrrrrrrrre with Maria snoring on my lap. She's like a hot water bottle that leaves your lap to leak pee every 30 minutes. 

Took Dogums to her first puppy class last eve, and not to be outdone by 8 darling animals, suffered a minor panic attack when my swirly silver lovely ring got stuck on my undeserving middle finger.

I did everything: hand in cold running water, hand in snowbank, hand over head, hand and butter, hand and freaking-out run around the apartment.  You know what worked?  Hand in lotion.  Thanks, lotion!  You kept my ring supple and unbroken by the medical technician's axe.

To be fair, I would have kind of enjoyed the excuse to leave work this morning: "Hi Cindy, I need to take a sick day.  My ring is stuck and I think I should have it removed by a professional.  Back tomorrow! Thanks!" 

Exhibit A: (More Microsoft Paint Art.  I know.  You get the story and the shitty visual.  It's like a gift with purchase!) 

Probably A Leg

Some chick at work decided to capitalize on all this New Year resolve by initiating a Biggest Loser contest.  Bring it on.  Since I hunger for monetary reward and proving that I am better than my co-workers, I will be throwing myself into a total mania:

Step 1: Remove that bag of Hershey's kisses from the cupholder in my car.

Step 2: Put it in my gym bag to motivate myself.

Step 3: Get a gym bag and transfer the chocolate over from the Target bag I was using before.

30 reps of that should do.

This is the second of two very fitness-oriented posts.  Please don't misunderstand; I plan to win by cutting off a limb.

As Old as You Feel or As Old as the Gaming System Tells You You Are

Matt turned 27 yesterday.  We celebrated with a Wii Fitness Test and the announcement that we are both overweight.  Many happy returns.

When you step on the device, it says "Oh!"

As in, "Oh! Aren't you heavier than I thought you'd be!"

I set fitness goals I will likely not achieve, but my balance was good, and that was a pleasant surprise.  Must be from sitting on this ball.  (I was bouncing as I typed that last sentence, and my hip popped.  Did I mention that my Wii Fit age is 45?)

Favorite game on first iteration was also my lowest scoring: Slalom.  It is as close to the real ski hills as I get.  Unless the ski hills are made of chocolate and the activity is eating.