Adventure and Enjoyment

We ate Chinese food tonight. At the end of the meal, Hubs cracked open his fortune cookie and it said:

"Need some adventure and enjoyment? Take a vacation."

I'm not even kidding.

The adventure and enjoyment will begin tomorrow, my friends. Oh, yes.

In true MOAM fashion, everything has been planned haphazardly and last minute, and only half the trip is really set in stone, but perhaps that's where the adventure part comes in to play?

I floated out of work on a cloud today, smiling like a nut, with the knowledge that I won't have to go back to that looney bin for 17 days. Good temporary riddance, work.

I'll likely blog here and there while on the trip, just depends on how I'm feeling and whether there's wifi at whichever hotel we happen to be at.

'Til then...

Asshole Rehab

Hello, 15th straight hour of my splitting headache! Why does Excedrin not work on you?

I think that me stressing about my faux pas yesterday gave me a headache. That doesn't want to go away. I've got one eye practically squinted closed and I'm hunkering down, away from the noise of the office.

I ended up giving the offendee an apology card. I don't expect that she'll say or do anything about it, but I hope she feels at least a little better about all of the asshole-y things I said in the bathroom. *sigh*

My cohort decided she's going to ignore the situation altogether, although believe me, she said some messed up shit, too. But maybe she's more willing to accept the fact that the offendee will probably hate us forever, regardless of apology cards and the like.

Which, by the way, didn't there used to be apology cards in the card section of the store? I went to Target at lunch yesterday in search of the "Sorry I talked shit about you and you heard it" section, but the closest they've got is Sympathy and Thinking of You. I swear there used to be "I'm sorry" cards. I mean, haven't you ever wanted to send a "Sorry I was such a douche" apology card to someone? I envisioned finding a really funny card, with maybe a drawing of a cartoon animal putting its foot in its mouth or something. But I came up dry. What the fuck.

Me = Huge Asshole

So you've seen those Southwest Airlines commercials where some dumb jackass does something stupid -- like, there's one where a guy throws something at his friend's TV, breaking it, and then the TV falls off the wall and into a fish tank? And then a voice asks, "Want to get away?"

So I am totally having one of those moments today, and unfortunately, I am the dumb jackass.

I came into work and a co-worker tells me immediately, "We are so busted."

See, here's what happened. We were in the bathroom one day, which seemed empty and safe to talk smack about other people in. So we did. Specifically, a person with whom we work and whom I shall refer to as "the offendee." What I said doesn't really matter, only that it was offensive and demeaning to this particular person.

So, the bathroom has an adjoining locker room. Which the offendee was in while I was saying this.

Which means I AM A HUGE ASSHOLE.

I want to get away.

Losing it

Myself and Hubs have successfully wasted nearly 12 hours of our lives watching a portion of the first season of "Lost," and unfortunately, because we're cramming it in like crack addicts, all I can do all night is toss back and forth, thinking about these stupid people on this island, and what their stories are and what the chicks do when they get their periods. Like, eventually they're gonna run out of airplane bathroom tampons, if there even is such a thing. Right? And then would they bury their ... waste ... and would it drive the boars -- not to mention the polar bears -- mad? And seriously -- Evangeline Lilly just happens to be wearing sexy stringy black undies when she stumbles upon a waterfall spilling into a beautiful pond? And she obviously found her razor in the wreckage.


Egads, it's insane to be obsessed with such an implausible story. And yet... it is so intriguing. Kudos to whoever wrote that damn thing. And seriously, if the actors weren't so hot and/or interesting looking, it wouldn't be as fun to watch. There's one dimpled Texan who's just a delight to stare at, and he's been given some of the best lines, nicknaming the rest of the survivors and referring to their airplane crash one month prior as "the olden days." You had to be there.

Lord help me. Thankfully I don't think Netflix will be sending us any "Lost" refills until Wednesday-ish, which means I can cease obsessing about this stupid show for a couple days.

So, the weekend:

Friday night -- C-dog's birthday part at Cascal, where you must go, immediately, due to the fact that the food they serve is utterly fantastic. It's tapas. Try the ceviche, the paella, any empanada that strikes your fancy. Mojitos were good, the sangria was better. Enjoy!

Saturday -- Slept in til 11 a.m. believe it or not. Received two text messages notifying me Ross had been found. Thank goodness! I was beginning to become mildly obsessed with finding him. Received call from my mother stating that mass quantities of sausage from Corralitos Market & Sausage Co (Best. Sausage. Ever. Get any that have cheese in them) had been purchased. Immediately made way to parents' house to eat said sausage and drink margaritas. Returned home to watch "Lost."

Sunday -- Stayed in PJs. Watched "Lost." Cleaned house. Watched "Lost." Ate a burrito. Watched "Lost."

Which brings us to today. Good luck with the week. T minus 4 days til the road trip begins...

Frigid Air

Well. One can't go living one's life in fear of others' discovery of one's nasty little blog, can one?

My searcher never 'fessed up, perhaps because it was someone who was so mind-numbingly bored by what they saw when they clicked on the link to this site, that they vowed never to return! Well, good riddance to them! Unless it was my mother, in which case, Mom, for your own good, turn away now!

Naw, in all honesty, I think my searcher was probably a confused Facebook friend. See, it happens that I went to high school with a girl who has the exact same name as me. Except we didn't have the exact same name until I got married. In order to attempt to reduce confusion among old high school chums who might be searching for one or the other of us on Facebook, I named myself using my first name, maiden name and last name. It seems some people still didn't understand what was going on. I've received friend requests from several people who I know were her friends, and even former boyfriends of hers, who probably think they're adding her when they're really just adding little ol' me. Now they've got to endure my posts about how I have an urge to rub myself in butter and hug my fridge.

Long story short, they probably thought to themselves, "Hell, I don't remember this person, and anyway why does she have the same name as that short chick I used to date?" and then they probably googled my name. And stumbled upon this.

So let's skip over that speed bump and get down to the nitty gritty. My new refrigerator. It is the bomb.

First, let's take a gander at the old fridge.

I'm not proud of this. It's obvious I have a hoarding problem with salsa, mustard, tortillas, and pepperoncinis. It looks like something you might expect to find in a frat house. This old fridge was an apartment sized refrigerator, and the cheese drawer, which is having a rare moment of obedience in this photo, is typically hanging from one corner.

The freezer's no better. I found seven opened bags of frozen peas, innumerable bags of frozen bread, an empty bag of coffee, and, most importantly, giant jugs of tequila and vodka.

So here's the new fridge. It's got the fridge on top and the freezer on bottom, which is completely awesome, because how often do you use the freezer? Practically never!

And here's the new fridge, all organized. Unfortunately what I think this photo really demonstrates is that we have far too many condiments for a two-person household.

That is all, good people. Good night.

READ ME

Ok so yesterday I had a moment with the blog, one of those moments where my stomach dropped and my mouth got kind of dry and my heart started thumping and here's why. I use this thingy called Bravenet. It tells me how many people visited my blog that day and how they found the blog. Lots of times I can see what the search terms are, and I'm often amused when someone stumbles across my blog after googling "You talk too much," or "Bananas and oranges" or something random like that.

Yesterday someone found my blog by searching using the following terms: My first name, my maiden name, and my last name.

Now. The reason this is disturbing is that I have never, ever put my real name, much less my real first, maiden and last names, on the blog settings. Therefore, when someone searches using those terms, it should never, ever pop up in the google results. It was important to me to never, ever be associated with this blog because A) I blog about people who I never, ever want to see this site and B) yeah that's about all. I could be fired, etc.

So before I go any further let me just ask right now: If you happen to have searched using those specific terms yesterday, and you are a friend of mine, please let me know that it was you and not, say, my boss. I don't care what terms people use to find this blog, and frankly it's my own damn fault for not completely covering my ass when I created this thing a few years ago. I have an inkling of how this association is happening, and I'm figuring out how to do away with it.

Anyway, if I don't hear from the person who used these search terms within about 24 hours, I am considering shutting the blog down, at least temporarily. Which would bum me out. But I'm not currently willing to risk certain people knowing about this blog without some major editing taking place.

A send off

Let's think of some of the moments in the last 20 or so years that we, as a nation or world, have been drawn to our televisions during times of crisis and morbid fascination. In no particular order:

1) Princess Diana's death/funeral coverage

2) The OJ Simpson trial & verdict

3) The Columbine massacre

4) Obama's inauguration

5) 9/11

6) Loma Prieta (if you were a Bay Area resident on 10/17/89)

7) The Polly Klaas kidnapping (another Bay Area item)

8) Bill Clinton's "I did not have sex with that woman."

9) Hanging of Saddam.

Some of these things have enough heft to warrant the "What were you doing when" question. You know, like...

What were you doing when the earthquake struck? I was dishing up some salad at Fresh Choice.

What were you doing when they announced Polly's body had been found? We were at my friend's 16th birthday party, testing out her new car, and heard it on the radio.

What were you doing when you heard that 9/11 had occurred? I was sleeping and my mom called me.

What were you doing when the OJ verdict was handed down? I was in ceramics class in high school.

So ... What were you doing when you heard Michael Jackson had died? I was at work, reading the news online. I wasn't surprised in the least, and if I was sad, it was because of a memory of a man who hadn't existed for many years. My strongest and best memories of Michael Jackson are from around age 7. I'd be getting babysat by a troop of hairsprayed sisters, and their idea of a good time was watching Michael Jackson sing, and making runs to Taco Bell in their Cabriolet. They proclaimed they loved him and wanted to marry him, and that's when I decided I wanted to marry him, too.

Our romance soon soured, after I could no longer recognize him, and his bizarre behavior spiraled out of control. Many years passed, and upon his death I realized he'd been pushed out of my heart altogether, and if I felt any grief it was only for his children. God knows what will happen to them now.

That's not to say I don't feel sad about his strange life and the way he and other people messed it up. But I can't relate to the skeletal image on the screen, and I feel nothing toward that man.

I'll remember him at his finest -- toffee-skinned, 'fro-headed, white-suited, and sexy to beat the band. Farewell, Michael.

Hello, my name is MOAM, and I will be your social retard for the evening

If you must take me somewhere, perhaps to a party or some such similar gathering of people, just dress me in a shirt with the following writing on it: "Does not play well with others." Consider placing a dunce cap on my head, sit me in a corner, and ignore me while I daydream about how I could very quietly be lying on my couch, reading "Smooth Talking Stranger." (A guilty pleasure, all right? Someone at work loaned it to me and yes it's got quite the handful of steamy sex scenes, thank you very much!)

See, I'm the person (the ISFJ, per my most recent post) who answers the following personality test question in the following manner:

"Often you prefer to read a book than go to a party." YES or NO

YES

It's not because I don't enjoy myself at parties. It's got more to do with a combination of laziness and a strong desire to be alone, quiet, in comfortable pants, rebuilding my sanity after a rough week at work. You may think you understand this sentiment, but in all likelihood if you and I lived together you might consider me a cross between a bore and a recluse.

Which is why I venture out to parties all Kuato style (a la "Total Recall), tucked like a deformed baby under Hubs' shirt.

Doesn't Kuato look a little surly, and not more than a little unhappy to be exposed to the light of day?

Friday night I celebrated a friend's 30th birthday at a jam-packed surprise party, and it was fun. And then Saturday I celebrated Independence Day with several close friends, and it was quite relaxing, given the abundance of pool-side lounging, swimming, and eating. But at some point during the day, I reached my socializing breaking point. The breaker flipped and the lights went out and baby needed a bottle, a burping, and a nap. By the time I trudged my ass to the fireworks show, I was a surly Kuato, indeed.

It could be my Red Tent time preparing to rear its ugly red head. It could be that fireworks make me sad (it's a long story involving my rapidly declining grandparents). Or, being the social retard that I am, it's likely I needed a reboot involving being swiftly removed from the premises and placed in my soft bed with a pat on the butt.

Sunday I refrained from much social interaction. The most I spoke with anyone other than Hubs was to interact minimally with a Sears salesman while purchasing a refrigerator (this is a post for another time), and I also had a depressing conversation with my mom about my grandmother, who's apparently decided she doesn't mind being seen nude by her cleaning people. I finished "Smooth Talking Stranger," which I hereby highly recommend as quality beach/vacation reading. I washed sheets. I stared at the backyard. I drank half a bottle of wine.

Reboot successful.

ISFJ seeks vat of lasagna and strong glass of wine

I took a personality test that's supposed to be based on the Jung-Meyers-Briggs personality test. I think it was 72 questions long, and why shouldn't a 72-question test be able to tell you every detail about yourself and be 100% correct? Well, I'll tell you: Because the second time I took the test, I got a different score. Which is retarded, because the first time I took the test, the results were SPOT ON. I read the description of the ISFJ personality type and I was like...

- A need to be needed: CHECK!

- Unappreciated: CHECK!

-Loyal: CHECK!

- Bad delegator: CHECK!

- Good memory, patient, sympathetic, uncomfortable in supervisory role, can't hide emotions: CHECK to the power of 5!

Hubs agrees it described me to a T. He took the test, too, scoring the complete opposite personality type as me, which is, as you might guess, complementary for us. He's one of these outgoing types with charisma who should be managing a team of ISFJs.

Things aren't always coming up roses in our household, as he doesn't understand my silence at times and I don't understand his restlessness. He's got too many friends for my ISFJ-ness, and I probably drive him nuts when all I want to do is hunker down indoors on a weekend and curl up with a good book.

So, yeah. It's a damn good thing I married this guy because if I didn't, I'd have practically no friends. He's the outgoing one who's constantly keeping in touch with his friends, I'm the out-of-touch one who all but forgets she has a cell phone. I have these morbid fantasies in which Hubs dies and all of our friends eventually stop calling me because I never return their calls.

So thankfully, Hubs is still alive, albeit appendix-free, and our friends have invited us to enjoy fireworks with them this weekend. I'm thankful for him and them, just happy to be one of those sucker fish on the shark, snatching up the scraps of food quietly.

Enjoy the fireworks and I'll be back for more ramblings on Monday...

I might be losing my firm grip on things

I recently received a letter in the mail from my college stating that I need to take a certain math class in order to complete the requirements for graduation.


WHICH IS COMPLETE FUCKING BULLSHIT, in case you were wondering.


You might already know that I took a Statistics course last summer, after harassing my college counselor endlessly to ensure that A) This class would fulfill the requirements for graduation and B) I would not have to shoot anyone in a murderous rage after receiving a letter such as the one I have just received.


Seriously, dude. What must I do to receive a degree from this GODAWFUL UNIVERSITY?! Believe me, I am all up in the counselor's business right now in order to resolve this. For all I know it's a minor glitch and my degree will be mailed to me next week, but if history is any indication, that is not the case. The case is probably something a lot more complex, involving, at the worst, the taking of another class and the filling out of 42 more forms that prove I exist and dealing with a handful of sarcastic and bored student employees who want to know what my student ID number is and don't understand why I don't remember it even after I explain it's been fricking 75 years since I attended this mother fracking college.


Story of my life, dude. Murphy's fricking law. If it can go wrong, it most certainly will. Regardless of what sort of institution I am dealing with -- an escrow company, a health insurance company, my own place of employment, credit companies -- you name it, they've fucked up my information. And I, naively, continue to be surprised when this happens. Me changing my last name after getting married? Oh hell no. That messed up a number of things and may even be responsible for this most recent screw-up with the college. Come on people! Women change their names all the time when they get married (which I have decided is most definitely a retarded and useless tradition) and yet no one seems to be able to handle it smoothly.

Eff you, college. Eff. You.