Note To All Spammers:

I have given into the devil. I have word verification.

Woo!

The PHONE. And associated mysteries.

My previous boyfriend (ExTheBoy) did not want to talk on the phone. Hated it. Even when we lived miles apart and only saw each other on weekends, he hated it. He did it for me, but he hated it.

Which I hated, at first, his hating the phone. And then I got used to it. Plus I was told by several Men I Respect (including my dad) that Most Men Don't Like The Phone. So I resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to date a guy who liked to talk on the phone, and I might as well Get Used To It Now. And then I began to look at The Phone objectively. And then I realized, hey, you know what? Most people don't give good phone. I am one of those people. I CAN have good conversations, it's just that talking to someone on the phone night after night for hours at time...well, what the hell am I going to talk about all that time? I began to dislike the phone, and enjoy my dislike. And I thanked the male race for, once again, releasing me from the shackles of femininity.

And now I'm dating CAE, and we live farther apart than ExTheBoy and I did. (Fifty-seven miles.) And of course, what happens? It turns out that CAE LOVES the phone. Calls me every night. Tries to keep me on it.

When I all I want to do is get off the phone, read old archives of SheWalks, wash my face, and go to bed. But he's dying to keep me on, and so I ask intelligent questions, at a time when my attention level is very low, and I'm praying I can remember this conversation in which he poured his heart out to me in the morning.

Also, things I am thankful for.

1. My Teddy Bear, asleep on the couch. (Yes, we allow dogs on the couch in our house.)


2. Sascha, who is Titan's girlfriend, moral support, play buddy, little sister, and lover.


3. Doggie Relationships.


3. Roommate. And one of the best living situations I have EVER had.

4. Friends. Both old and new.

5. Jeep.

Self Portrait in Jeep.

6. Mountains. Especially mountains on which I can ski.

7. Whistler!

8. The person who invented skis.

9. My family. (In spite of everything.)

10. Victoria's Secret.

11. Retail therapy.

12. Shoes!

13. Tacoma!

And finally,

14. Blogger. And all of you!

Happy Thanksgiving!

UPDATE: no, I don't know why my camera pictures do that. Click for bigger. Thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving to EVERYONE!

I'm super cheerful this morning, so bear with me.

First, my boy is adorable. We're in the "make others puke because we're so cutesy" stage. It's a good thing.

Second, I have double date plans with T-Town and T-Town's Man for tonight! Because there is a Chopstix within walking distance of my house! And it's awesome!

Third, I'm going skiing on Friday!

Fourth, I'm going to Whistler for three days in the beginning of January! I'm taking vacation time! I'm going to Canada! I'm skiing for three days straight! With a bunch of B----- engineers! We're going clubbing every night! I might be able to get VIP passes! There's a hot tub! WOO!

Fifth, I get to see my...colorful family tomorrow. Including the uncle with the drug problem who last year found a bottle of really good champagne given to my mother as a gift, drank the whole thing, and stashed the bottle in the effin' laundry room. This year we're locking up the alcohol. Which is too bad, because after we're done I will REALLY need a drink.

And Sixth, CAE and I are going to a party given by a B----- mutual friend as a couple. I get to make salad and rolls. CAE has offered to help, of course, and I'll put him to work, but he's freely admitted he can't cook. (Apparently he barbeques well, though. I'll report on that when I experience it firsthand.) So I get to show off a little.

Funny exchange: He and I were discussing our cooking abilities, and I said,

"Have you ever used your oven?"

And he said: "Oven?...OH! You mean the pizza cooker!"

In the Tradition of Crazy Aunt Purl...

It's a more serious weekend post.

First of all, I know that Tacoma is a rough town (it's not called Tacompton for nothing) but we seem to be in a scary crime rise. My dad's car was broken into last week, my wallet was stolen this week, and today, there was a shooting at the Tacoma mall. One person is in critical condition, three are in serious condition, and the mall closed down for hours as the gunman held three shoppers hostage. The situation has since been resolved--the hostages were released unharmed, and the cops took the gunman into custody. The really scary part (like this isn't scary enough) is that when this happens, it usually means: gang war. Thefts go up because the gangs need more money, violence goes up because, hey, they're fighting a war. Which means: it could easily get worse. Until the war is over.

I broke things off with Hardware Engineer last night. Last night it was really hard; today it's not bad at all. CAE is, so far entirely worth it. Entirely.

Up and Down and Down and Up

Up: I learned yesterday that I'll be awarded an award (hehe) because of all the work I've done on this project I ended up running! I get a certificate, it goes in my employee file, and I get a little cash! Woo!

Down: My wallet, the one that was stolen? I was hoping it was accidental, or that I'd just lost it, or something. No such luck. Which I know, because I forgot to cancel my corporate credit card. And that's the one they used. Double damn. The charges can be dropped, but still...complications. And it makes the situation--my wallet being stolen from my best friend's house--that much more messy and unhappy. :(

Down: I'm cowering in fear because apparently my very old-school manager--as in, the one who can barely operate a computer--is frowning on this idea of me working from home. Apparently working from home twice a month is too much. WTF? I thought B----- Corporate was all about it? I guess not.

And Up: This just came in from CAE.

Me: "I know you're busy, but really quick: did I mention that my class is performing tonight for a much more advanced class? That's right. Rowr."

Him: "You're soooo cute! Let me know how it goes."

All together now: AWWWWWWWWWWWWW...

Nothing better than a brand-new relationship. :)

A Cavalcade of Poon, and then I dropped my money in the toilet.

Isn't that the best phrase ever? Thanks much to kiwi, for proving his wordsmith ability. Even better, the context doesn't make it any less stunning. Several nights ago, he sent me a drunken text message reading,

"Ill bet ur find ass is stil up." (sic)

Me, much later: "It IS a very fine ass, and it was still up. with company."
Him, right away: "Which of ur many suitors was with u?"
Me, right away: "U don't read my blog?
Him, right away again: "Uh, not in last 2 days? And even if u said, its not like i'm always able 2 connect the dots with ur cavalcade of poon.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

In more laugh out loud news, not an hour ago I dropped my passport and cash in the toilet. They were in my back pocket, I sat on the toilet to do my thing, stood up, FLUSHED, and then they dropped in. So it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but...ewwwwwwww. They're wrapped up in toilet paper now and will be sprayed with disinfectant once home. Can't think of anything else to do. Suggestions?

I'm Famous. And a Cheater.

First, Tacompton Tiffany and I went skiing, and although I can't find a link to the live interview on the lift (yet), here's the article! I'm famous! (By the way, Tacompton and I agreed that it was one of the best first-day-of-the-season-days we have EVER had. It helps to not be 16 and poor. Nothing to prove regarding stamina and skill, no need to wring the most possible runs out of that $29 investment. Lovely.) (Also, skiing is the best workout ever. I've been at 135 pounds consistently for days. In spite of hitting the gym once last week, as opposed to three.)

Woo!

I may soon be even more famous than I anticipate, if the identity in my stolen wallet ever morphs into a fake person. Yes, my wallet was stollen this weekend. Yes, it was a messy experience. On the plus side, I got given a really hot new shirt, for free. Yes, I'm cancelling everything. Yes, I'm upset. Thank you for asking.

And after several days of psuedo-dating, the lonely guy from the previous post (Chicago Aerospace Engineer, or CAE) and I are, officially, dating. After many games of beer pong, we lost ourselves in a romantic haze, he asked me, "Will you go with me?", and I said yes. Exclusively.

T-Town, when I was telling her this story, said, "He does know that that's just something fun you like to say, right?" I laughed hysterically, because she's entirely correct. I haven't, for example, told Hardware Engineer yet. Don't know if I will, don't know if I won't, don't know what I want. I do know that I'm terrified (again, one might use the term "pathological") of putting all my eggs in one basket, of pinning all my hopes on one person.

Below, an excerpt from an old post from my formal livejournal:

"The problem is, I have no middle gears when it comes to relationships. I'm either uncaring or too caring. Usually when I feel myself falling for someone, I'll fritter away some of those cares on other guys, helping to spread the load, which has the added benefit of making me care about the guy I'm with somewhat less.

Because really, there are very few guys who could handle me full time all the time. Now the prospect of being with just him both fills me with dread and makes me want to make every girly mistake under the sun. Now I, and this is ME we're talking about, wants to ask him if he wants us to have kids, and what he thinks our kids would look like, and if he wants to get married or sees himself as more of an outside the rules kind of person. I want to follow him around but since I can't do that, I want to call him and commit verbal suicide by giving him a running commentary on everything I'm doing ("Now I'm peeing. Now I'm retouching some spots on my countertops. Now I'm petting Titan--Oh, what a good boy!") just to keep him on the phone and feel like he's near me. I'm infatuated, big time."

And I am infatuated. I've spent all morning imagining our future life together, in a Seattle loft high-rise with exposed brick and a fantastic kitchen. Having pets. Hosting couples dinners. Having art on the walls. Knowing artists. Competing in our careers and then, when one of us retires rich and famous, starting new lives as philanthropists. And possibly artists. I could write and make t-shirts and promote bands. Traveling. I want to wrap him around me like a blanket. Never mind that he enjoys his apartment in Suburban Town outside Seattle and, since he doesn't like curry or sushi, probably doesn't like traveling, either.

On the other hand, I know I need to do some internal work: break it off with Hardware Engineer, for one, although that won't happen right away. Find a new area for myself in B-----. (I like where I am, but I need to run away and get more experience before I can make it what I want.) And I'll have plenty of time. Because Chicago Aerospace Engineer is awesome, but we both have a lot of growing to do, so although the fantasy life is fun, I'm not holding my breath.

And Right After I Bark Along to America the Beautiful, I'll Balance this Yellow Ball on my Nose.

Obvious Point of the Day Number #347: I like to please people. I like to please people, a lot. One might use the term "pathological". One might use the term "needs help". No wonder I identify with dogs so much. It's true that perhaps I could get a cat and learn from her, but chances are that I'd go crazy instead from her constant rejection and end up in a loony bin. Assuming that's not my current destination anyway.

There is a guy here in Seattle, a lonely guy from Chicago, went to Purdue, really smart guy, also really moody. And bitchy. Doesn't like Seattle. Been here for a year, doesn't know any locals except me, doesn't like his life, doesn't like anything. I like him, God knows why, and so what have I decided to do? Yes. I have decided to make it my MISSION to have him like Seattle. (Also, I have a side mission to trick him into dating me.) Which means I have now aligned myself with my city, giving him the opportunity to reject both my city and myself all at once. Why allow him to make two separate rejections when one will do? Now I find myself planning nice surprises for him. Nice surprises, for God's sake. For a man that is not my boyfriend. He looks at me, I instantly smile, trying to get him to smile. He has a hard day, I listen to him vent. To get him talking, I prattle on about cool stuff I'm doing at B-----, mixed with Fun Stories from Aarwenn's Past. (And yes, there are a lot of those.) Anything to keep him cheerful. And after I've chugged this entire Irish Car Bomb, I will now tell The Funniest Joke In The World, complete with gestures.

It's not like I haven't had practice: the guy who writes Clublife? Sounds exactly like the guy I dated for almost three years. It was my job to entertain him; I was court jester, magician, and courtesan. I pulled rabbits out of my hat, prattled on about polictics (although never disagreeing with his viewpoint) and, when all else failed, jumped him in bathrooms. I've noticed that Hardware Engineer, although slow to get an email conversation going, responds beautifully to funny, clever emails. If that means I take time out of my workday to compose them, so what?

And after I recite the Prologue to Romeo and Juliet while jumping rope, I'll demonstrate my ability to smoke a cigarette with my toes.

A Cure for Sundays. And Impotence.

(scroll all the way down for the second cure if you just can't wait.)

(I didn't think you could.)

So, first, the best cure for Sundays ever!

Sunday Night Dinner!


Girls and Wine.


More Girls. Yes, that's me on the far right. And that's Tacompton Tiffany in the middle!


Resident Jailbait.


Resident Mountain Man, and T-Town's Man. (Yes, T-Town is coming out of the closet.)


Resident Blonde.


Resident Hoodlum. Also, The Chef. (If he and Tacompton Tiffany hadn't already built this incredible life together, I would recommend that all girls in the area immediately find this man and throw themselves at him. A man who cooks the way he does cannot be underestimated.)


Cheesy and gorgeous Tacompton Tiffany. (I would kill for her skin.)


T-Town Girl! Out of the closet and onto the Internets!


T-Town and Myself.

Did you catch that? What it says on my shirt? Here it is again:




And FINALLY (and I knew you were waiting for it) it's the Cure For Impotence:

Last Week On The World of Aarwenn, or, why I hate Sundays

(sniffle, sniffle, hacking cough) (wine hangover)

I would like to thank all of my friends, relatives, and Roommates, who allowed me to grab them and chatter wildly at them about my love life this weekend. Let it be known here, on this blog, that I have solved the problem. I Know What I Am Doing Wrong.

(Just, um, 7328 more wrong things to go.)

But the one that I have recently discovered and may actually Do Something About is this:

I live in my life in one-week story arcs.

Yes, it's true. For my entire adult life I have hated Sunday afternoons and evenings, completely and fully. Hated them. With A Passion. I sink into a depression every week and refuse to be roused. And I had no idea why, until I was talking to T-Town (one of the many, many people I forced to listen to me this weekend) and I said something about how, oh well, this week coming up is a new week with no mistakes in it, and it HIT ME. While it is beneficial indeed to one's psyche to think of each day as a brand-new day, I have carried the notion too far. I view Sunday as the end of the hour of sitcom and am completely depressed at having to leave my viewing audience. And, like the Simpsons or The Family Guy, my main character (hi!), although she is taught important lessons each week, does not retain a THING from week to week and is doomed to repeat her story line, over and over again.

No longer. I'm trying to retain. Really and truly. In the same way that a relationship can be dual-personality drunk or sober, I think I also have weekday relationships and weekend relationships. Maybe it's due to me having a weekday personality and a weekend personality? Who knows?

In other news, apparently some of the other B----- New Hires (and some of their friends, mainly from places like Michigan or Wisconsin) think that I'm weird and sort of far-out. Not in a good or bad way, more like an animal at the zoo. Is this somehow connected to my weekday/weekend personality? Should I be worried that I am disassociating, encouraging both personalities at once, and possibly developing into a sociopath?

I don't think so. I think I am who I am--not to misquote Popeye--and that on the workdays I tone myself down a bit because, you know, B----- wouldn't be happy about me coming to work in black vinyl chaps (of which there WILL be pictures) and using the f-word all the time. Not that I enjoy it, this making myself bland--I long for the day when I own my own business and I can possibly wear Really Cute Jeans and a blazer to work--but it has to happen, and for now I'm okay with that.

I'm a Mutt!

Your Linguistic Profile:

80% General American English

10% Yankee

5% Dixie

5% Upper Midwestern

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Which should be no surprise to anyone. With a mother from Florida, who also lived in Vermont for a time, and a father from the PNW, who spent his formative years in Hawaii, and both of whom spent a great deal of time in the South, and Midwest, and then they had a daughter who was born in Chicago, moved to the PNW by the time she was two, and then spent four years straight of her early adult life in various East Coast cities...yeah. Mutt, anyone?

I am a little annoyed that there's no West Coast dialect listed, however, although it'd probably be offensive. To get a West Coast dialect, leave off your ing's, have terrible grammar, use the f-word gratuitously (not all swear words, just that one) and also pepper your speech with Random Long Words and Awesome, Dude, Rad, Gnarly, For Real, Word, and the all-time favorite, Sweet.

Dating at Work is Hard.

Yes, it is. And yet, it's a very real possibility, and even probability.

Because B----- is a Very Large Company. Full, at this instant especially, of Young People. Most of whom are from Somewhere Else, and therefore Need To Bond. And who better to bond with than each other? Now, most of us are men (yours truly excluded) so most bonding takes place over work grunts and going out for beers. But some of us are women. (hi!)

And an even smaller percentage of us are single women. (hi again!)

And an even SMALLER percentage of us are single women that Do Something With Our Hair. (hi, still me!)

And an even SMALLER THAN THAT percentage of us are single women that Do Something With Our Hair, wear heels (woo, heels!) and have discernible breasts.

Maybe the best way to say it is that we have discernible femininity.

So, for this very small percentage of Discernibly Feminine Women, there's a lot of guys. That put gel in their hair, wear nice jeans, and know how to pick out a collared shirt. They can have their pick, in other words, except that they're stuck at work for 10 hours a day with this Very Small Percentage. So it's only natural that I might, say, meet a guy at a composites class, (woo! romantic engineers! those sexy composites!) and that I might spark up a conversation with him, and he might latch onto that conversation like a drowning man on a rope, asking me out on Instant Messenger and throwing caution to the wind.

Because really, y'all, I am not that fascinating.

And so, although we have a coffee date on Thursday, he might ask me to meet him in the hallway between our buildings. And I might do so.

And then we might talk for a little bit, trying to flirt without being work inappropriate, trying to size the other person up without being able to touch them, trying to hide our faces as his co-workers keep walking by him and winking. Trying to keep our voices low. We talk about sports. About this and that. About why we became engineers. We even talk like engineers--just the facts, ma'am.

When we're done, he reaches for a hug. He's not overly suave. That's a good thing. I give him one, thinking, Oh my God, I'm at WORK!

I walk back to my desk, beaming. I didn't have to get dressed up again or drive anywhere. I just had to walk to the end of the hallway. Sometimes it's nice to be able to date at work.

Happy Halloween!

So, first a few blog-type things.

This is brilliant. Become Republican! kt, I thought especially of you. :)

And after five Halloween parties--four house parties and a bar party--I FINALLY got some pictures! They are coming! Woo!!! A very nice boy whose date I was at the first house party on Saturday dropped by a drugstore on the way and bought me a disposable camera, because I was running late. He likes me far more than is good for him. Not that anyone who likes me does so in FDA-approved amounts. Kind of like butter--ANY amount is too much.

Aarwenn Ingredients: Spitfire, sweat, tears, blood (mainly someone else's), breasts, cooter, two legs, long hair, blue eyes, trouble.

Nutrition Information
Heartbreak: 68% RDA
Despair: 87%
Sex: 400%
Attitude: 113%
Questioning of Self-Worth: 100%.

Back to the pictures: I took very few--I'm just not a picture-taker, y'all--and we were all trashed, so we can all pray they turn out. Because I owe pictures of me in vinyl chaps to many, many people.

Want to know your type? Ask an honest friend!

Like, for instance, T-town Girl.

Want to know how this question came up?

Because I met a nice boy while taking an 8-hour composites class yesterday, and we got to talking (okay, I chatted him up, but he didn't need much encouragement) and after an extremely inappropriate-for-work conversation today, he asked me out for coffee!

So yes, I have another First Date.

But moving on, he asked me what my type was (over Work-Controlled Instant Messenger) and I don't really have a type, or couldn't think of one, so I emailed T-town Girl really fast, and this is what she said:

"Geeky, low self esteem, assholes who cover up their insecurities by flaunting a particularly rank from of arrogance."

She's totally right. Although she forgot "alcoholic".

In my defense, not ALL guys I've dated have been like that! Just um, two out of four serious boyfriends. Flings are more likely to be more fun. But the two guys I'm into right now (excluding New First Date) certainly fit that mold. Sigh.

What's a girl to do? Change types? I'm working on that, with New First Date. He doesn't use complete sentences over IM--and also uses shortcuts like u, bc, and oic--and I'm trying not to let that bother me. I feel like I'm letting my elitist nerd side down. But maybe that's a good thing.

And, with thanks to T-town for this inspired typo that I took and ran with, allow me to introduce a new entry for Webster's!

sexpress (v.): 1. Expressing a sentiment having to do with sex, often used as shorthand. I sexpressed my preferences on the third date. He liked the mention of handcuffs. 2. Expressing a sentiment during sex, talking dirty. "Want to learn how to sexpress? Use our handy phrasebook!" 3. Expressing a sentiment USING sex. I didn't know what I should say, so I sexpressed. 4. Talking about something sexual, sometimes accidentally; a freudian slip. I totally sexpressed the other day--instead of saying "How are you?" I said, "Take off your shirt." I'm so embarrassed!

See also: sexpressing, sexpressed, sexpressment (n.)

I have nothing original to say.

So instead, I'm blatantly using my talented friends. As may be obvious to some of you more perceptive readers, T-town girl and Tacompton Tiffany and myself also carry on a constant email correspondence daily at work, in ADDITION to posting on our blogs, and occasionally working. Disclaimer: Tacompton Tiffany actually works. Which is why she doesn't post very often. Or write us back.

So instead, I present to you: T-town Girl's Rules for:

How to save your diet from your boyfriend.

1. Make dinner at home more often. That way you have control over what goes into it.
2. When you do eat out, go vegetarian. Meat is just concentrated calories.
3. So is alcohol, have water.
4. Avoid dairy. No Alfredo sauce and no 3 cheese anything.
5. Garlic, ginger, marinara, and sushi (of the non tempura variety) are your best friends.
6. Lay off the condiments and add-ons.
7. Eat only 1/2 of what you order and have the other 1/2 for dinner the next day or for lunch for 2 days.
8. Stop eating complementary appetizers (chips, bread, etc.) and don't order an appetizer.
9. You may not have desert.
10. MOST IMPORTANT: if you eat out alot, it is no longer a special occasion. You may not indulge.

I asked her for her wisdom in this matter because now that I'm dating again, a regular date involves food, and...right.

Also, I am going to scream. My manager is an idiot and I hate the entire aerospace industry. Also, I hate old people, and people who go on vacation HUNTING, of all things, while deadlines go flying by. I don't understand people who can't turn on a dime, I don't understand bureaucracy, and I don't understand old people who need things explained to them three times over, and most of all, I don't understand old white men acting like teenagers, in that the more I call them, the less they want to call me back. I wouldn't accept that behavior from the kids I tutor.

Also, I have already eaten 846 calories. By 10:30. It's not even lunch time. I have 153 calories left for my entire lunch. Yes, I know I have better things to do than count calories.

In addition, my manager, who sits behind me, enjoys using his speakerphone, even though we're in cubicles. And we can hear every word of his conversation. And his every mis-dial, too. It's lovely that I have a manager who cannot, consistently, remember how to dial a long distance number from his phone. (Hint: you have to press '8' instead of '9'.) He's only worked at B----- for 40 years.

Yeah, I finally took it.

You are a Social Liberal (75% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (25% permissive) You are best described as a: Strong Democrat Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

...And Bumpy

As is somewhat well known on this blog, two months ago I crashed my beautiful jeep. And now I'm driving a rented 1995 silver Toyota Tercel while they fix it. (Very. Slowly.) Or at least, I WAS driving the Tercel...

Yes, the Tercel has been broken for five days, almost six. Tonight I'm supposed to either get my Jeep back, if it's ready, (cue the Hallelujah Chorus!) or the Tercel, if it's not, which would still be better than driving nothing. Or my mother's car, which she has been nice enough to loan me, part time.

Because when I drive my mother's car, you see, I have two sets of keys. And since I can barely keep track of one set of keys, having two sets is a Very Bad Idea.

Because I might run home from work, walk Titan, and then be in a hurry to leave for the Y, so I might just grab the car keys and the water bottle and my Y card. I never take my phone to the gym unless I'm expecting an important call (only once in four months, so far) and I often bring no money or driver's license or anything else, because I don't have pockets in my gym clothes and I don't want to lose anything. (License? I don't need no stinkin' license!)

With me so far? I work my ass off at the Y, get back in my mother's car, and drive, tired and sweaty, to my house. When I realize: I have no house keys.

It's cold. It's misting. I'm cold and getting colder as my sweat dries on me, Titan is confused because I keep yanking at the door handle like it might open magically, and I have no phone to call my roommate. Or money. Or wallet. Now, I've broken into my house many a time, but it's the rainy season now and we're keeping our windows closed, worse luck. I walk around, climbing on fences, recycling bins, and porch chair, trying every single window, even the one I KNEW was loose, but it turns out (as I learn much later) that Roommate has fixed them. Damn him.

Titan is very confused by now and there's nothing I can do except go to my mom's house, where I shower, borrow her clothes (I can fit into them easily! YAY!!!) and call Roommate, whose number I certainly don't have memorized but which is fortunately still in my email correspondence from when he and I were emailing about possibly being roommates, two months ago. After he gets done laughing at me, he informs me that he's spending the next several nights in Gig Harbor because he's working long hours and his mom's house is much closer to work, so I have to SKIP Gilmore Girls with T-town Girl and drive OUT to Gig Harbor, where I meet him, get his key, and finally enter my house hours later. Sigh.

Smooth...

I may have mentioned in a previous post that Houseguest and I got really fantastic Sonics tickets, and then said I was going to talk about that in some future blog post, and then...I didn't.

Never fear, blogstalkers!

So, Friday night, I pick Houseguest up from the airport. I'm wearing the boots:


Are they not hawt?


Close up. (As CAP said, it's surprisingly hard to take a picture of your own feet.)

Anyway. So I'm wearing the boots, which turn out to be surprisingly practical, although that's not foreknown because it's a nice, warm, DRY, gray cloudy night in Seattle on Friday as I arrive at Sea-Tac Airport. Houseguest and I drive directly to Key Arena, as I have already bought nosebleed seats and we're planning to get beer and wander around the stadium, watching the game from wherever we can. We pull into the parking lot, get out of the car, and find the parking vendor. The minute we find him, he says, "So, you're having problems with the parking machine, too?"

What? I mean, yes, yes, we are. Damn thing won't take our money. He says, "Hundreds of people have had that problem. Here's a sign to hang in your window. I'll vouch for you guys."

Sweet, free parking!

Then he says, "You guys going to the game? Do you need tickets?"

Um...why?

"Because I have this ticket here, I think it's a pretty good seat, and I know it won't be full, so you can probably find an extra seat somewhere close."

Houseguest looks at him. "You are my new best friend," he says seriously, and the parking attendant laughs and waves us on. Into the squall.

While we've been talking, the skies have opened up, and torrential rain has begun to pour down from the sky. Houseguest lends me his coat, and we run, cursing, all the way across Seattle Center, me thanking my rubber-soled hawt boots the whole way.

We get to the arena. The security guard checks my purse. The ticket taker asks to see my tickets. I look at Houseguest. He comes up with the fancy ticket the parking attentdant gave us...and nothing else.

Houseguest is thinking: If this is anything like the Lakers' Stadium, different ticket classes have to enter through different gates. I can go in this one with the fancy ticket, but Aarwenn will have to go through a different gate and we won't be able to reconnect. I'll pretend I only have one and see if I can sweet talk the guard into letting us both in.

Meanwhile, Aarwenn is thinking: Shit, he forgot the real tickets in the car! Maybe he's just pretending? Does he know that all I need is a ticket to get in the door and then I can wander anywhere? Shit! And the harder I try to convince Houseguest that I really am serious and really do need the tickets, the more he thinks I'm play-acting frantic so that the ticket attendant will take pity on us!

Several moments of this improv go on before the ticket attendant waves us on with an exasperated smile. "I know it's not full," she says. "But you'll need your tickets if challenged." We escape inside, where Houseguest and I compare notes and laugh hysterically about the unneeded improvisational routine we just went through, and then we go off to find our seats, me hoping against hope there will be empty, unsold seats next to our scrounged ticket.

And we walk down, and down, and down, until we find our seats. On the FLOOR OF KEY ARENA. We have some of the best seats I've ever seen. Everytime the Phoneix Suns go up for a shot, there we are on TV. We are DIRECTLY BEHIND THE NET. There's only one seat, but the girl who owned the block of four seats--the one who brought her boyfriend and her son to the game, and gave away her fourth ticket to a nice parking attendant, who then gave it away to some drowned rats scamming free parking--PULLS HER SON INTO HER LAP SO WE CAN BOTH SIT DOWN.

Was she an angel, or what?

And yes, I totally forgot my camera phone. No pictures of Ray Allen's sweat or anything. And it wasn't broadcast on TV; it was pre-season. But I swear. It happened.

Best Caffeine Prayer ever

Everyone has seen this. But it's still so good, and so applicable. (Note: the following is my personal version. I think it's the best.)(Further note: I got no sleep. Not for anything exciting, either.)

The Caffeine Addict's Prayer.

Caffeine is my shepherd; I shall not doze.
It maketh me wake in green pastures,
It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses,
It restoreth my buzz.
It guides me in the paths of consciousness for its name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of addiction, I will fear no decaf, for thou black coffee art always with me;
Thou 7-11 and thou am/pm, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of tea drinkers:
Thou anointest my day with pep; my mug runneth over.
Surely richness and taste shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the House of Maxwell forever.

And a good comic strip: