I've decided that the man's nickname is going to be Monsieur. C'est trés appropriate. Skooky isn't going to like it, but I assure you he's not French.
Just like I'm not French but we both have Frenchy names.
Et il est mon ami.
In a related story, Sunday night I was caught up in the middle of a rant about being a grammar nazi and ended up confessing about the existence of this blog to him. But I assured him that I don't really write about him.
Um...
Did you miss the opportunity to take Wednesday off just so you could make babies? I did, and god knows I could have used it. The sex, sure, but mainly the day off.
Except I'm not Russian, so it didn't apply. However, I do have vacation time banked up, so I can basically make Conception Day any day of the week I want.
I also already own a car and have no desire for babies. Plus my baby-making counterpart works worse hours than I do, so no babies for us.
My life is so very hard.
Just because I'm accident-prone doesn't mean I don't get cut a lucky break every once in a while. I've taken out enough insurance on Lucky Stars.com to guarantee that I manage to just skate by disaster instead of running head-on into it.
Ways I am luckier than you:
1. When I accidentally threw my keys in the dumpster, there was no real trash in it. Just bunches of leaves and a newly-discarded computer box. So it was very easy for me to simply jump, lean, and retrieve. Luck factor: 4.
2. Walking up the street to meet my man for football at the downtown sports bar, I tried avoiding some water that was running into the gutter. Step, step, slip! I'm not so good at the manuevering. And I was wearing flip-flops. And my foot somehow turned upside down, so my exposed toes were in for serious hurting. But I came away only filing off the nail polish on my big toe. This was super cool in two ways: that didn't hurt, and it wasn't a professional polish job so no big loss there! Then the guy who was standing at the entrance to the bar and witnessed the whole thing told me I was beautiful and that God loves me. Expert testimony from homeless people. Luck factor: 5. Because I could have broken something. And sued the city!
3. Blowing a tire is not a good thing, ever. But with high-performance low-profile tires being so fucking expensive, it's a worse thing. And when you do that, it's going to probably cost you another arm and a leg to replace that specialty rim too. But none of these things happened to me when I woke up at 6 am Friday morning. When the AAA guy pulled the tire off my car and saw that it was completely chewed up down to the metal threads, he said I was lucky it didn't come off during my nightly jaunt down the freeway at excessive speeds. More expert testimony right there. Luck factor: 10+. LA freeways are no joke.
4. Not knowing that I was allergic to egg whites, or that my frozen yogurt concoction thingy had egg-anything in it, you can imagine my surprise when my throat closed up and I spent the next hour trying not to die from lack of breathing. But eventually Death loosened its grip on me and I was able to go about my Friday with live comedy and slow pizza delivery. It turned out to just be a low-level allergy. Luck factor: 10+.
5. Last night, I dreamt that I found money. Lots of it. This morning I got up to do laundry. And as I was loading pants into the washer, out fell a huge wad of cash. It was mostly just ones and fives, but that don't matter. Unexpected denari is like a gift from the gods. And now that I can make it appear simply by sleeping? Clearly, I'm the luckiest girl on earth! Luck factor: off the charts.
How lucky are you?
I've got a confession to make: I'm not a huge football fan. If it's not UCLA playing, I'm not really engaged in the game.
But two of my favorite men love it, so I try. It's hard when one is a hard core Saints fan. I just cannot root for a team that has a former Trojan like Reggie Bush on it. That's like trading my Bruin card in for half a brain and a gigantic wad of stupid.
Lucky me, today my insurance company sent me a token of appreciation: the entire season's schedule. So now I can make sure that the Giants, Raiders, and Saints are all accounted for.
Don't start shit because of the Raiders. When you grow up in a house with a dedicated Raiders fan, there's nowhere else to go but Raider Nation.
Hello, pirate!
Confidential to the ultimate football junkie: Steve Young, dammit.
Today was a near carbon copy of yesterday. Too many projects vs. too little hours, and this time I didn't get a lunch. Again, not complaining yet. Because on September 15th, I'm going to have a huge fucking paycheck! Which I won't be able to enjoy because I'll be chained up in my new office, but at least it'll be earning interest for a future I also won't be able to enjoy because I'll be dead!
Did I mention that I wasn't complaining? I'm really not because both days were punctuated by a mid-morning break with a man who despite all this shit still makes me smile somehow.
But the true purpose of this post, other than for me not to complain, is to talk about how my driving improved today. I manned up and actually hit 75 mph (that's 120 km/h for you, Dr. Miss Blade) for most of the way home. Stayed in the fast lane and everything, like a good little road racer. And then, a white Lexus SUV blew right past me so fucking fast that my car shook.
Shithead.
I don't know why he did that, since he immediately cut over 3 lanes and slowed down to about 50 mph(80 km/h). Go figure.
People are so fucking stupid.
Next Friday is my boss' last day in the office. Her departure, coupled with the fact that our newly promoted director is about to disappear on maternity leave, is what opened the door to my promotion. I'm not unhappy about that, but I am going to miss her like crazy.
We call her the HBIC: head bitch in charge. She loves it, because she's fucking nuts in the same way I am. Her husband has the same name as my man. We're both bloody type-A personalities with a horrible propensity for using FUCK all too often, who work waaaaaaaay too hard and long and drink a lot to make up for it. So it was no surprise when she demanded a mai tai upon walking in the door of downtown's upscale Hawaiian eatery. Once we sat down, she talked about her wishes for us once she's gone:
HBIC: And GPG, you get the F-torch.
GPG: Is this an actual passing of the torch ceremony?
HBIC: Yes. *pretends to pass me a torch*
GPG: Woo hoo, she just gave me free license to cuss all day long!
HBIC: Might as well start now: fuck!
GPG: Hell yeah!
HBIC: Make sure to wave your arms around a lot. That way you get the full crazy person effect.
It was a great afternoon. I started with a bourbon martini at noon and didn't stop till 3:30. Then we went back to work. Totally sauced. And then I met my brother for a drink at 6:45 and didn't leave the bar till 11:30.
I love being a drunk.
While coming back from lunch the other day, a coworker and I were stuck in a little bit of traffic caused by something that required two fire trucks to block the road. As we patiently waited (and stole a few more precious moments out of the office), I told her a story about the new man. Finally traffic cleared and the fire trucks passed us by.
Unfortunately I was too engrossed in my story to pay attention:
GPG: Dammit, I didn't even get to get to catch a glimpse at the firefighters!
Coworker: And the one cute one in the back was staring at you hard.
GPG: Shit, don't tell me that! He was probably just looking at you.
Coworker: No, he was definitely looking at you.
GPG: See what having a boyfriend does to me? Firemen are my ultimate fantasy and now I can't even pay attention to them. This is bad! So very, very bad.
It's been a few days and I'm still pissed off that I missed checking out a fireman. I need to break up with this guy immediately so I can return my attention back to what's important: hot men in red trucks!
*swoon*
I thought I had finally reclaimed the center of my bed.
Most of my adult life was spent very selfishly sprawled across the entire bed. I have had a queen-sized mattress since I moved out on my own, and have relished every single inch of it.
Some time ago, I wrote a rather scathing diatribe about how I do not share my space very well. It can best be summed up in these few sentences: And I want you to leave soon after we're done. I don't cuddle. I sleep diagonally across my bed, so there's no room for you.
For the longest time, I didn’t sleep well if there was someone else in the bed. Probably because I felt encroached upon, like my sanctuary was invaded. No matter how much I liked the boy, he got kicked out as soon as he served his purpose. Cuddling? No thank you.
Then someone came along and actually broke me of that bad habit. The first night he spent with me was not one fractured by an inability to relax into dreamscapes. I actually slept—and well! There was something comfortably special about him, if not only because I allowed him to stay, but his presence there all night didn’t rob me of sleep.
He's been gone for quite some time, but for some reason I'd managed to leave his part of the bed untouched. Until just recently.
It took a long time, but I finally got that bad habit out of my system. For the first time in over a year, I parked myself smack in the middle of my bed and stayed there until morning.
And I slept very well. Didn’t fall out of bed or nothin’!
Except now someone new is vying for that space. I've managed to give up half the bed when he's there, but I still prefer sleeping diagonally. So the question is: how long before I give that up for good?
I know the summer is already half over. So don't look at me like I'm late to the party. If you've ever been to a party with me, you know that there is always a huge rush to greet me with hugs and a general disruption of goings-on while everyone screams "hey, the GPG is here!"
Shit don't really start till I get there. It's true.
I've been wasting away at work since January and I'm completely tired of it. A new distraction in late May made it nearly-bearable until it too became inconvenient (read: hard). While I figure out whether or not he's worth the aggravation, I have to come up with new ways to avoid being at work 18 hours a day.
To wit:
- Clean out the closet. I have many clothes that don't fit. They will probably never fit again. Like those 17 pairs of jeans that date back to high school. They aren't even in style anymore. Did anyone know what a boot-cut was in 1994? No? Then to the Salvation Army they go!
- Organize the photo collection. There are 3 places where my "artwork" lives, none of them in any sort of discernable catalog. Then there are the brazillions of 4x6s that were taken at parties before god invented digital cameras. Remember 1994? My jeans do. So do the pics. Time to trash or box up in a single spot.
- Clear out the clutter. I've somehow developed ratpack-iritis, which in its most deplorable forms makes you keep a 3-foot tinfoil Xmas tree bedecked with pink glass ornaments in your bedroom ALL YEAR LONG. There are also 82 issues of magazines I never read. And a bag full of presents I brought home on December 25th that never really found a home. All of this will see the inside of our apartment building's trash receptacle by Labor Day.
- Lose this horrible 10 pounds I've managed to gain being completely sedentary for 18 hours a day over the last 6 months. A coworker and I made a pact to lose 15 pounds by end of August. I don't know that there are any consequences for failing, other than the utter shame of breaking the pact. Which is enough to keep me going, that's for damn sure. I figure if I hit at least 10, that's a success.
Them's the biggies. And probably all the responsibility I can handle for a while.
On Saturday, I met the rest of the man's family.
GPG: Hi, you must be the favorite cousin.
His favorite cousin: And you must be Isabel! He talks about you all the time. It's so nice to finally meet you.
GPG: *evil grin* No, Isabel must be his OTHER girlfriend.
She felt horrible about fucking up my name. I know there's no "Isabel," so I merely took it as license to tease him about an imaginary other woman. Now, when I call him at work, I say it's Isabel calling.
I'm not letting this one go for a while. It's comedic gold.
I worked way too hard this week. Up at 5 am, zombie-faced through the days...at least most nights I was given free alcohol. My life is really not that difficult. Especially Tuesday night, when I got three of my favorite things (with added bonuses):
- scotch (with a guy)
- steak (with props from the powers that be)
- this view from 300 feet above Los Angeles (with wine):
Sunset over the Santa Monica & Harbor freeways interchange
This is looking west from the penthouse of the AT&T building in downtown LA. Also known as the restaurant Windows, which is about to close on July 1st. It's a damn shame too because while the food is just okay, the view is ridiculous. 360 degrees of the entire city from the 32nd floor. Right above the Convention Center, where I have languished for the last 2 days. Tradeshows suck.
But at least I got this picture.
And scotch. And a story about how a guy agonized over asking a girl out. Told by a bartender who had just figured out that I was the girl in the story.
Did I mention I also love 23 year old bartenders in naughty librarian outfits?
It was a good week.
The New Man met my brothers Friday night. He and my older brother, Big Fish, hit it off immediately. So much so that I was left out of the conversation completely, despite sitting right in between them all night.
They talked football and shit while I tried navigating between them to scoop spinach dip on my plate. It was a little annoying. But I was relieved that they were bonding. That's kind of important, if he's going to be around and all.
As we were getting ready to leave, they said their good-byes and all of a sudden, Big Fish said, "don't fuck with my sister!"
I fell out of my chair laughing. I was expecting that from my baby brother definitely, but the older one has never really taken an interest in my dates. This was a nice exception.
The Man, confident that he is (it's so hot), just laughed and assured him he had no intention of it. But that he'd been expecting some kind of warning eventually.
It was awesomeness squared. I really do love my brothers.
While watching one of our favorite movies Two Can Play that Game, the following light-hearted conversation took place:
Him: Oh this shit is funny!
Her: *laughs* I'd never do that to you. That's just too much damn effort.
Him: Good, because I don't like games.
Her: Don't worry, I'm not going to play any. *kiss*
*pause*
Her: But if you told me you were working late, and then I catch you drinking and dancing with a hot girl at the bar, how would you expect me to react?
Him: It's just dancing.
Her: But you told me you were working late.
Him: *thinks* You'd probably pitch a fit. Damn Puerto Ricans!
Her: So you're never going to do that, are you?
Him: *sighs* Nope.
It's good to train them early.
Piss-poor combinations:
Excellent combinations:
I was drinking scotch again last night. With a random New Zealander who didn't mind me yelling at the tv because the Cavs lost or the fact that I kept making jokes about how he lives in the upside down part of the world.
That's why there's nothing of substance here today.
I did introduce two of my favorite men to each other, though. Neither of which is a Kiwi. One was Spanky. The other is a man to be named later.
I have to stop getting home at 1 am...
