I am so irritated with my state and their official stance on gay marriage. Or rather, the fact that it will ban gay marriage. It surprises me, honestly. We’re usually a pretty liberal state. In fact, the first openly gay person was elected to the House here. As in, openly gay during the election, not a ‘whoops, fooled y’all, I’m really a poof!’ However, it seems as though we’ve accidentally hired a gaggle of cretins who are bound and determined to muck things up before the next election. Gah.
I hope other states start to step on board with legalizing gay marriage and make the rest of the country look stupid. I mean, what’s the big fricking deal? Quite honestly (warning: big liberal value statement coming up) I can’t understand the logic behind the decisions of most Republicans. They are so afraid of anything that would challenge a hetero-male dominated society. I wonder what kind of rights a gay fetus would get?
So, things I learned coming back from vacation:
Holy shit’ exchange rate? It is customary to use lube, babe. I’m just saying.
Cat’ cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat CAT.
Diane Keaton wears white better than any woman on the planet.
When you have one of those blue toilet wafer thingies and no one has flushed your toilet in 9 days, that first flush is going to be awe inspiring.
Plants. Water is important for plants. Who knew?
Traveling is bad for your fingernails. Seriously, nine out of ten are currently stubby and short. I don’t know if it was the dry air on the plane or just a poorly timed culmination of two years of constant nail polish, but snick snick snick they broke off just like that. I’m currently wearing only some Triple Strong nail repair and hovering over my one remaining thumbnail.
At work, people say that they’re covering your responsibilities, but really? They’re not. And also, they’ve volunteered you for four other things while you were gone. Welcome back.
There’s a Pret A Manger where the Watcher’s Council used to be.
The Unit’s remote control is a far more wily quarry than we give it credit. I was hoping that the silent house would lure it from its hiding spot, but no. No. We have been without remote for at least three months. I’m ready to be extorted for a new one by the cable company.
Apparently it IS possible for me to enter an airport without spontaneously gushing forth as a symbol of womanhood. I know I’m going to end up paying for that big time.
The scariest thing about traveling #1: be walking alone down a deserted tube station and be confronted with a posted of zombies and then just TRY to convince yourself that there isn’t a throng of zombies just inside the completely black tunnel.
The scariest thing about traveling #2: This poster, which I kept thinking was Michael Jackson.
I suspect that summer slacker girl is starting to wake up. When we got home from England, the proverbial cupboard was bare. We had naught but a bag of smushy grapes, some cheeses, and a selection of condiments in the refrigerator. I knew that I needed to go grocery shopping, but each evening, the jet lag wore me down and I decided to postpone it until the weekend. Which is when we did, in fact, do the shopping. Not before I made a rather smashing pesto/mushroom/ baby mozzerella pizza that tasted so wonderful it was almost like I had planned it all along. It’s amazing the creativity that laziness can inspire.
Also, in general, when I am home, I am a creature of comfort. Unless I’ve gone cas all day and am already wearing a t-shirt and soft baggy jeans, I’ll generally walk into the door, shed my coat, car keys and purse in the kitchen, then head straight into my bedroom to replace anything constricting or made from unnatural fibers with usually a white t-shirt and black yoga pants or pajama bottoms (or, if it’s summer, boxer shorts). And, more often than not, a pair of gigantic grey thermal man socks.
Last night, Esteban came home in a jovial mood. My intent was to eat the rather delectable leftover burritos from the night before (a few months ago, I made burritos to use up leftover shredded chuck roast, and they were the best things ever. While shopping on Saturday, Esteban asked if I’d be willing to make them again, so I grabbed a chuck roast and spent Sunday cooking it slowly in the oven for the sole purpose of having burrito fodder on Monday. And yes, I AM rather pleased with myself) but the ‘Ban was in the mood for ‘something bourgious and unhealthy!’. We bounced ideas around a bit and then he made a suggestion of a lovely little classic supper club halfway up the Door. They don’t have much for ambience, but they have a stellar view of the Bay and also the best steaks and lobster in the area.
‘Hmmm’. I would totally be willing to get dressed for the Chalet.’ I pondered.
‘What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?’ Esteban raised his eyebrow.
‘Um’ it’s pajamas?’
‘Looks like clothes to me. Just put on a sweater and shoes and let’s go.’
And so I did. Luckily I hadn’t yet exchanged the black socks of the day for the Lumberjack socks, so I slipped on my leopard print leather loafers (which, with addition of pajamas, looked very Hugh Hefner), pulled on a fleece pullover, and followed him out the door.
Soon, we were at the wood-paneled club, seated merrily in front of the big windows overlooking the inclement weather on the bruise colored Bay as the light slipped away across the trees, sipping my most favorite of Wisconsin Traditions, brandy old-fashioned sweets with three maraschino cherries. It’s an old person drink and you can’t get them anywhere else (and if you order it elsewhere, it won’t taste anything like the stuff in Wisconsin). They look nasty and I shouldn’t like them, but I grew up eating the drunken cherries out of my relatives drinks, so I absolutely love them. And also, they knock you off your ass. By the third drink, I was fairly tipsy, relegating to the waitress the removal of the lobster tail from the shell, lest I put out my own eye.
Anyway, Surf ‘n’ Turf while decked out in pajamas’ highly recommended.
Also learned while on vacation: my job is apparently ‘not in scope’ for the impending riffings. What this means: I, along with eight other folks, am safe. For now. Until they feel like riffing us. Anyway, there it is.
I think I’m a bit disappointed. I was kind of looking forward to having five months of paid time off and then maybe even leeching off unemployment for a bit. Ah well.
In other news, apparently I’m not above using this diary for personal gain. Are any of you members in the Dave Matthews Fan Club and would be willing to score me front row or otherwise sweet tickets to the recently announced Alpine Valley concert in August? I’ll reimburse you, of course, and also love you forever and ever! Email me!
The things I do for my sad addictions. Or the things I would do’. * hint * hint*.
I know. Shameless. Forgive me.
