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Birthday Princess is ticked off

Wow, I decided to go "birthday princess" this year, because in past years I've remained pretty quiet about birthday celebrations for myself, and they have tended to be tame affairs, not involving extravagent plans.

Some exceptions:

A few years ago, Mr. Hubby gathered up all of our bowling buddies (this was pre-wrist-crap-out) and I arrived at the alley to find lots of smiling faces and a cake to share. Super cool.

At work last year, they forgot my birthday on the actual day, and made up for it by having everyone hide in a large room that my boss called me to "we're havigng trouble in ***, please come right away" and I was surprised again with lots of smiling faces, a cake to share, and a bottle of wine to drink at home that evening. Super cool.

Maaaany years ago, Mr. Hubby (then Mr. Boyfriend) and I (along with Mr. Lee and my sister) threw a huuuuuge party at our house, celebrating all the Janurary and February birthdays we could think of. As guests arrived, if their birthday was nearby, we made star-shaped signs for them to post on the kitchen cabinets along with all the other birthday stars. Never did a bunch of college-age students act like such a troupe of hyper elementary school students, sans supervision. We had a freaking blast.

Back to tame (DIY) birthdays:
Last year, I invited my "kid friends" over, or more accurately, my grown-up friends who have children came over, and I had a "matching paper plate set, pointy hats and all" party for/with them. We drank pop from paper cups with fancy straws, umbrellas, and maricino cherries. We ate hotdogs, tater tots, mac&cheese, and cupcakes that we decorated ourselves. (_I_ have a "sprinkles" collection in my kitchen, do yooooou?) We (four kids and I) played Twister, X-box and other games, and generally acted like hyper-caffienated primates, much to the amusement and confusion of the "grown ups" who retreated to the garage to play darts and drink beer. Because my oldest homie was only 10 years old, by 10pm I had hugged or high-fived my guests goodbye, then I cleaned up the disasterous mess and went to bed.

Okay, that wasn't the "tame"est birthday ever, but I wrote, produced, and directed the script with little assistance.

This year?
I wanted to have PLAAANS.
And I made some PLANS, that hinged on having a dog-sitter.
And my dog-sitter just (as in this morning) backed out.
Oh, I could leave my dog kenneled up at her house for 4 to 5 hours, and Suki-pup would be physically safe(ish) but psychologically she would be an absolute wreck.

To summarize:
I'm not psychotic, or ruled by my dog.
My dog can remain in her kennel for up to 6 hours by herself at my house.
I want to be away from my house for more than 6 hours, making a dog-sitter necessary.
My dog freaksthehellout if when she's kenneled up alone anyone else's house - she will jump up and down inside her oversized kitty-carrier until the kennel scoots across the room and becomes jammed against a piece of furniture. Then after she's retrieved, she's a whining, skittery, fearful wreck for the next 30 minutes, and doesn't start acting completely normal for a few hours.

So, we make a point to not leave her alone at someone else's house for more than three hours and even then it's for a good reason, like "Christmas service" "dinner at family friend's house" "Wedding and recption".
-not-
"I've made birthday princess plans and my sitter can't take Suki to a football-watching-party after all 'cause the host adopted a dog that hates other dogs, and my sitter didn't bother to get all of this cleared up until today even though she could have called the host three days ago."

Making matters more complicated?
"The sitter" I made plans with is my mother.

. . . . .

Because I'm not willing to knowingly make my dog miserable, I'm cancelling most of my birthday plans. So my parents can go to their stupid football-watching party.

If I were mature, I'd think:
I'll just modify my expectations of the day and have a good time regardless, isn't Mr. Hubby fantastic for being so flexible about our plans changing, and trying to keep me cheerful and going along with everything gracefully?
Also, I'm sure I backed out of plans with my parents in persuit of spending time with friends, without realized the implications of my actions.

The headspace I'm in at the moment?
Is a bit more like:
Why the hell did I even bother to try to make cool plans for my birthday?

Good news:
A conversation with my sister later, I'm feeling less poo-ey, and will party regardless - with Mr. Hubby remaining at home to tend to Suki-pup.

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promotion, leaving blah hair behind

My promotion at work is finally going through! Same cubicle, same businesscard, new "ranking", and a modest payraise!

Not so much moolah that I'm going to give up on my 17 year old car and make payments on a "new" used car, but it is enough moolah to justify running back to my (fantastically snarky and brutally honest) hairdresser.

I'll consider parting with $30 every 6 weeks for a sassy haircut as "vanity tax".

What does your "vanity tax" go towards?

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Elvis Wednesday: Warm and Fuzzy

Do you know where your childhood teddybear is?

Mine, (unoriginally named "Teddy") sits with his possee on top of some boxes in my closet. They're not on display, but not trapped in a box in some wierd position either. Anytime I have to drag over a chair to pry my suitcases out, it seems that I'm interrupting a conversation.

"Damn, it's pretty boring in here, even Mikey-cat hasn't been by for a while."

All my other stuffed animals live in a trunk under a windowsill, serving as a cat perch. The cramped residents of that box are, for the most part stored head up and feet down. Nearly 29 and I'm still creeped out at the idea of storing my stuffed animals in "uncomfortable" positions.

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strike three!

Good thing I'm not fond of baseball.

For the third workday in a row, I've been tardy to work.

This time? I was wide awake at 5:30am with a blinding headache behind my right eye (ooooh, that's new, it's usually the left!), and Mr. Hubby working on making me deaf with his snoring. I had been having a nightmare about a fire drill that involved snore sounds instead of beep beep beep, and I wasn't sure if I should leave the cats indoors or let them run around outside for a while.

So I banished Mr. Hubby to the guestroom (yes, I know I'm kind) and lay awake until 6:15 and should have just dragged my arse out of bed, but that wierd early morning logic convinced me it was alright to re-set my alarm for 7am. It would take an act of congress for early-morning-zombie-me to take care of all the critters, eat breakfast, and get reasonably tidy for work in an hour, (my alarm clock is set early) and yet I continue to tempt fate.

Yeah, I already have my clothes waiting for me on a hook in the bathroom, my breakfast is as ready as it could possibly be, and my pets' foods are as organized as possible. The problem is me. I can't seem to get out of bed even though I know I should, and once I do get out of bed, I simply cannot zoom around first thing in the morning.

How the hell do you get anywhere on time in the morning?

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New Year's resolution stumble Part 2 and gooey happy schmack

This morning, yet again, I shut my alarm off instead of hitting snooze. I would argue that it doesn't count against my "Get to work on time" resolution because I had a lucid dream that I called in sick with the stomach flu.

In other resolution-ish news, although long ago I resolved not to make up any dysfunctional rules about food consumption (hellooooo, just lay off the lard, keep your butt movin', eat your fruit & veggies, and don't make eating complicated . . .) I'm proud of myself for watching Mr. Hubby (how does he stay thin and muscle-bound anyway?) consume a large bowl of ice cream, and I didn't sneak one tiny bite. Instead of "heeeey, meeeee toooo!" I thought "I'm really not in the mood for that, forget it".

* ~ * ~ *
In much more interesting news,
I got whooped playing basketball (well, a game of horse) against TheCatWhisperer on Saturday, and my what-would-be triceps are still sore from many attempts to make 3-point shots. I *did* make one, but as a quick summary, I saved more disoriented worms from being baked or squished on the court than I made baskets.

Also? On Sunday, my parent's brought me (early) birthday lunch; Mr. Lee and TheCatWhisperer joined us. Suki-pup and Lydia-kitty provided the floor show, engaging in battles of epic proportions, much zooming around with mock barking and hissing. If we had a camcorder, we could provide hours of material for "funniest animals" type shows. . .
I received two new gardening books (which are a fantastic antidote to either my limbs or the weather not being conducive to actual gardening) and an angel-food cake, candles and all. Not until everyone had left and I was watching my favorite basketball team kick ass I realized that I forgot to take any photos. I suppose that's 29 for you, when birthdays are more about celebrating the people in your life than how tall/long-haired/whatever you've become since the past birthday.
By that score, I'm doing freaking fantastic. Regardless of how I have or have not progressed/developed/whatever since last year, I've got people in my life who care about me, and that can't be purchased or earned, it's just a gift.

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I lasted 4 days, and you?

It's Friday, and I'm not wasted tired!
Why? My work week didn't start 'till Tuesday, and this morning, I completely blew my New Year's resolution of getting to work on time: I accidently hit "off" instead of "snooze" yadda yadda extra hour of blissful sleep.

Come Monday, I'll hop back on track.

How are your resolutions going?

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home movies / low budget film blips

The only time I've been in a non-family-camcorder movie/film was yeeeeeeeeeeears ago when my best gal friend was desperate to get a passing grade in a film class in college. Among other things, we trespassed, had a dude with a bucket off-camera ready to douse me if the fire-blowing scene went to hell, were completely scooby-doo-ham-handed, and nearly dropped expensive (borrowed) lights into a hottub. (I think the dude behind the counter at the rent-a-tub place thought were were making a p*rn, and I'm still amazed he let us in, perhaps he really needed the money?)

Since the film was soundless and in black and white, we could wearing clashing clothes so long as they were scene appropriate, we could listen to Jamiroquai, Janis Joplin, David Bowie etc. as loud as we wanted and we only really had to worry about light levels (which ended up sucking, I'm sure the light meter was busted or we were wasted) and acting? Peh. There was no acting, only an overwrought drunken good time caught on film, held together by a thin plot which disintegrated when 1/3 of the film was discovered unusable. So we were left with a bizarre stream-of-consciousness, heaven-and-hell, isn't that cat sweet, what's that other chick doing in a cheezy angel costume, hey - the gal was able to pick up that guy and walk up porch stairs while wearing heels?

As proof that I'm not a young whipper-snapper, this short movie blip is on VHS, and I have no clue how to turn it into a digital recording. Just before VCRs are absolutely obsolete (and a little more time has passed) I'll archive it for my future kids to laugh at - I married my co-star!! I'll appreciate the short bathing suit bit, I'll probably cry to see my dear deceased Ivan-Kitty, I'll wonder with awe that my friends and I lived so happily with so little money.

Have you ever participated in the making of an uber-low-budget film?

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A very Elvis New Year to you!

Janurary is a time of changes, of self-reflection, of analyzing the past, of pondering the future, of battling lack of sunlight and post-holiday pudgey-butt.
(Kinda related: my mother-in-law gave me a "I'm here to swim laps, not to look good" bathing suit for Christmas. It does my physique absolutely no favors, but I think it will be fantastic in water, no wierd watercurrent within the suit and lots of motivation to keep my bod underwater since I look both pre-pubescent and grandmotherly at the same time.)

But I digress

Your votes please:
Should I continue with ELVIS WEDNESDAY entries, or feature/pick on a different dead celebrity?

I was a bit anxious about New Year's eve this year, and for the longest time, could not figure out why - then I was reminded that I had an explosive fit last year and kicked everyone out of my house at 1am.

To my perception, I'm not an angry person - but I suppose that a grown adult having a "nobody cares what I think" kiddie meltdown comes across as mighty angry.

The backstory:
A few years ago, Mr. Hubby and I had a 4th of July party, that involved a wee bit too much fireworks and alcohol. I couldn't control my drunken guests, and they made a mighty wreck of the street in front of my house and my yard with firework carcasses. I didn't get out to clean up the carnage until noon the following day - it was pukingly bright and hot as hell out. With every paper wrapper, tube of cardboard, tiny bit of fuse, my anger grew as I plucked evidence of drunken, disrespectful guests from the asphalt. Adding further insult, as sweat dripped into my eyes, a Dick-Cheney-lookalike-mows-his-lawn-three-times-a-week-has-blue-glare-of-TV-in-windows-nonstop wierdo neighbor stomped over to me with a scowl on his face and started angrily yelling at me for firework bits he found in his yard and on his roof.

Although my guys were out of control (ever seen a cherry-bomb explode in a kitty-litter bucket? - pretty cooool) there was no freaking way our fireworks made it to his yard. Rather than fight my angry about-to-have-a-heartattack neighbor, I gently pointed out that there were highschoolers letting off fireworks closer to his house, and I was pretty sure we didn't even have those particular kind of fireworks. "Well, still!" He stammered. "My roof might have caught on fire!"

With every ounce of self control I could muster, I did prevent myself from saying "Then let the motherf*cker burn, burn baby burn".

Instead? I said "You don't have to worry about fireworks coming from my property, I won't be allowing people to set them off anymore."

Fast forward a year and a half to last year's New Year's party.
My buddy from college is in from California and purchased fireworks to set off while in not-so-flammable land. All evening long he whines about wanting to revisit our old "hey it's a party" tradition of setting off fireworks.

Enter heavy consumption of alcohol - I'm probably going to get some of the details wrong.

Around 12:30, I cave in and agree to let the guys set off a few bottle rockets since they aren't very noisy - but I ask them to get far away from the house that it isn't immediately apparent that they are coming from my house.

Mr. Hubby, my firework fanatic friend from CA, Mr. Lee, the Cat Whisperer (my saintly cat sitter), and my good friend (who doesn't have a blog-name yet) all heard me say "only bottle rockets, and away from the house" before they left the house.

* * K A B O O O O M * *

My windows shook as if lightning had struck my house.
CaliforniaCollegeBuddy had set off a festival ball in a parking lot less than 50 yards from my house.

Yeah, those HUGE fireworks that you see at professional firework displays.

I startled myself with the venom in my voice:
"Get your f*cking asses in here right now!"

True, only CaliforniaCollegeBuddy set off the firework, but Mr. Hubby and three of my favorite people didn't stop that from happening?! When they knew it was so very important to me? Did my hospitality and patience mean nothing to them?

Once indoors, I read all five of them the riot act and ended my angry speach with "party is over, everybody get out of my house right now". Then I locked myself in my room for 12 hours and spent the time crying, puking (thank goodness for attached bathrooms!) and napping - all the while ignoring anyone who attempted to speak to me.
I. WAS. PISSED. OFF.

So, yeah . . . that was last year's New Year's party.

After a couple days of talking it out, my guys realized why I kicked all of them out, and everything was back to normal, except for the occasional "what about fireworks?" joke.

This year?
CalforniaCollegeBuddy stayed in California, but we had Mr. Lee, The Cat Whisperer, and Blog-name-less-good-friend over for nachos and movies. Uncharacteristically, I sorted jewelry in my room for a good portion of the evening, and didn't have anything alcoholic to drink until after midnight.

Kinda lame, but other than giving Mr. Hubby flack for having a cigarette in the cigarette-free-zone-my-(neglected)-workshop-shouldn't-stink garage, it was a peaceful evening.

I was given a little schmack-talk as we stood on the front stoop drinking nasty cheap champange and watched other people's fireworks, but I decided to take it as a compliment.

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holy *%@& it's Wednesday already?

I have yet another blissful day of house-to-myself-ness, since my office is closed this week, and Mr. Hubby and I will not make the treck to InLawLand until carly tomorrow morning. I get a tiny taste of 1950s housewifeyness - fix breakfast in the morning, and send Mr. Hubby off to work, then clean up the kitchen while listening to my local (liberal) radio station, tend to the critters, do laundry, pack presents and clothes for the weekend and figure out what's for dinner (I ought to pimp my heavenly patient cat-sitter, who is joining us).

Since some corners of my house have gone neglected since June (?) I spent most of the day finding homes for random crap, filing away paperwork, and cleaning. I sometimes wish I could lobotomize the part of my brain that notices that the house isn't tidy - I didn't end up watching any Kung Fu movies yesterday. (Lucky you, no Kung Fu plot to share)

The awesome? Mr. Hubby washed dishes while I entertained Mr. Lee and Mr. Lee's non-fartknocker brother who stopped by for leftover turkey.

After they left, Mr. Hubby and I engaged in passions unexperienced by many: we watched Beavis and Butthead music video commentary. Huh huh . . . huh . . .

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

OH, you stopped by for ELVIS?
Velvet Elvis is still prominently hanging above the piano, safe and sound.
The plan was that Elvis would hang in the front of the house for the holidays, and now I'm having trouble with the idea of moving him.

Stop by again next Wednesday, when I'll have a real Elvis Wednesday blip for you.

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a very Kung Fu Christmas

I am in a state of bliss.

Mr. Hubby purchased a plethora of Kung Fu movies for me - to the point that I can watch a new flick every night for nearly two months!

Last night's movie: "Kung Fu Arts" really needs a different title - involving monkeys.

Setting: ancient China, the king's place.
Two of the king's guardsmen are battling withing the king's chambers, one of them is an assasin, the other is defending the king - but the assasin claims that the defender was the antagonist as soon as others arrive in response to the chaos. Defending himself, the non-assasin throws a poison dart which misses the assasin and hits the Princess! The non-assasin (who happens to be the princess' boyfriend) makes a quick escape, but becomes ancient China's most wanted.

The beautiful princess remains in a sickly coma for three days, and after conferring with doctors, the king sadly decrees that anyone who can heal his daughter can have her hand in marraige. A badly costumed healer man emerges from the hills with a monkey and approaches the kings guardsmen - but is discovered to be the non-assasin boyfriend who again runs away to avoid prosecution. The non-assasin's monkey (who has a gourd of liquid strapped to his back) steals the king's posted decree and runs around, drawing the attention of the townspeople and the king's guard, who finally realize that the monkey intends to heal the princess.

The monkey (yes, a live chimp) is brought to the princess, and the monkey's antidote saves the princess from death. And now the king must keep his word by marrying his daughter to the monkey. Because this is such an upsetting situation, the newly married princess and her monkey husband are placed on a junk (small houseboat) and set adrift to sea - where fate with either destroy or save them.

The Princess and her monkey husband land on a deserted island, their boat is later destroyed by a storm, making it impossible for them to leave. The princess gives birth to a baby boy, who is raised by his mother along with "Uncle Monkey" and the other monkeys on the island. Ten years pass quickly, and the royal infant is soon a tarzan-esque child who is charmed with Monkey Kung Fu.

- ~ < * > ~ -
I'll tell the rest of the story if requested, I just wanted to give you an idea of how freaking funny and fantastic Kung Fu movies are. For all their cheesiness, the fight scenes are a visual opera - made better by the gritty grainy-ness, the occasional visible wire, the obviously sped-up camera speed playback.

I've stumbled into a healthy antidote to the stresses of life? I watched (while munching chopped veggies, and Melba toast) and completely forgot about my usual pout topics - my mind was clear and happy, and I slept well afterwards.

For the beginner, I highly reccomend KUNG FU ZOMBIE - it's a little like Shawn of the Dead meets Three Stooges, with kick-ass fight scenes.
- ~ < * > ~ -

My Christmas present to me: I stayed in bed 'till noon, and still have the house to myself for 5 hours - I should cook and clean like a good little wifey, but I think I'll take in another "Fu" movie first.

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negotiations a success, now a new reason to pout

After a careful discussion with Mr. Hubby, we will now only be spending 3 days with his family. I'm feeling much better about the situation, and have a better attitude in general. A little vodka assistance and some Agatha Christie paperbacks will get me through just fine.

To celebrate, I took myself shopping (at a used clothing store) to find clothes that flatter rather than battle my ever-growing ass. The positive: I brought home two pairs of nice jeans, a new pair of work slacks, and three shirts. The negative: I hadn't really faced myself in a full-length mirror in quite a while, and now I've gotta work through a "low body image" funk 'till I return to my usual "daaaaaamn, I look good" frame of mind

Why oh why must the flourescent lights in dressing rooms be so cruel? I didn't really need to be better acquainted with those dimples.

And why oh why did I keep grabbing jeans that would have fit just fine last year only to have my thighs bearly squish in and the zippers mock me by not coming close to meeting over my new-ish poochy belly? And since when do I have to check for love handle protusion when trying on shirts?

Marraige - not so difficult if you're willing to talk and compromise.
Marching towards 30 - truly a bitch.

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*pout*

Regardless of all the b*tching and moaning I post here, I actually do attempt to make this a whine-free zone. That said/typed, I shouldn't continue - but I will anyway.

In theory, Mr. Hubby and I swap off holidays; one year we spend Thanksgiving with my family and Christmas with his family, the following year (like this year) we reverse holidays; Thanksgiving with his family and Christmas with my family.

Except that we always end up celebrating Christmas with his family, regardless of whose "turn" it is. Perhaps not on the 25th, but it's still a long drive, lots of stress, and playing 18th fiddle to an loud, chaotic orchestra of managers, some of which can make you feel pretty miserable if you're not willing/able to play their tune.

This year, we're spending 2.5 days with my folks, and 4.5 days with his. Did I mention it's my turn to spend the holidays with my family?

Marraige is not for weenies.

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Elvis Wednesday: antidote to holiday schlock. . . or eyeball abuse?

A gentle (okay, cruel) reminder from Elvis to not overdo the fried peanutbutter-nanner sandwiches over the holidays.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

In related news, anyone else already break out their winter fat pants? My skinny pants are waaaaaaay in the back of my closet, and probably won't see the light of day until
a) I renew my gym membership, get back to swimming
b) I suffer a bout of stomach flu
c) I suffer a bout of lockjaw
d) I take up smoking
e) I get pissed off and haul all tight clothing to Goodwill.

I'm aiming for "A" - how I'm going to fit "90 minutes at the gym" into "work full time, have to abide by the puppy bladder, Mr. Hubby works overtime, what's for dinner, didya get the errands run, blah blah blah", remains a mystery to me.
Best bet is ((shudder)) I swim before work, and prepare for a day of cubicle-bound papershuffling in a gymnasium bathroom - instead of my own cat-attended "Meow Meow heeeey Mama lookin' goooooood" bathroom?

Where, when and how do you exercise?

p.s. I'm not particularly into smelling like chlorine, developing dry skin, frazzled hair and gym-floor foot-funk - I swim because I have cranky joints that make my life miserable when I attempt jogging or workout tapes. Apparently I require either water-weightlessness or adult supervision to not injure myself in persuit of good health.

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