it's the day we get ready for sunday

11:20 PM Saturday night:

Homegirl didn't even know what I needed. But in an unsurprising turn of events, she just knew.

Also? Alice in Wonderland is a strange movie. I saw it in 3D IMAX, so that part was cool -- but I just couldn't get past Alice looking like a really pretty boy the whole time. (I'm sorry. Someone had to say it. Better than calling her ugly, yes?)

And now.... 32 minutes left to get to the store. I guess I better put some pants on...

Now fess up

Someone left me a voicemail Tuesday night while I was en route to Portland. My phone was off, ergo I (sadly) can't tell who left the VM. Hands down one of the best voicemails of the year -- 45 seconds of my birthday/favorite Christmas song, and some kind of hard to hear best travel wishes message.

Honestly, I have no idea who it came from--and I wish I did. Reveal yourself!

And for the rest of you, check out what's become into quite the birthday tradition...

remarkable unremarkableness

I try hard to do what people tell/ask me to. I've been tagged to list six unremarkable things about myself. A case could be made for the fact that this blog has served a 2.5 year mission (perhaps even to China!) doing exactly that. Regardless, I will hunt through the dark and mysterious portions of my brain to bring you the unremarkable, the unexplainable, and the untold.

1. I have three freckles/small moles on my chest that start just under my collarbone and form a perfect diagonal line in a south-westerly direction. I can tell how low my shirt is by which of the three freckles are showing. Consider it a self-created Cleavage Check.

2. I'm a nick-namer. And a good one at that. In fact, I'd consider my girls Alicia, Krista and I to be the best nicknamers around. A good nickname can have multiple meanings--take for instance "Teaspoon." This nickname belongs to a guy in one of the wards who I actually spooned on the T, and who looks like a teaspoon (think tall and skinny with a big head.) Oh snap. To some degree Boston suppressed the creative act because I had no one with whom to first share my initial namings. (For you people who can actually remember names the first go-round novices, nicknames are given and most likely to stick if they're assigned early on in the non-relationship.

3. Lest, wont, apt. I have a fascination with out-of-the-ordinary-but-common-enough-not-to-appear-pretentious (hopefully) words that end in "t".

4. I'm a minimalist when it comes to certain technologies. I can't stand to have more people in my phone than I actually call (losing your phone is the best way to condense). Knowing people are online (on any of my instant message contact lists) that I never chat with drives me crazy (deleted but not blocked!), and my brain will literally explode if I have more than the absolute bare-minimum windows and applications open when I'm on a computer. Sometimes I refuse to turn on my iTunes lest it take the room in my taskbar. Also: my taskbar is set to double height so I can see everything open should it get that intensive. I -X out of things all the time (including chats), even if I know I'll need/use the window in the very near future.

5. I might be the only person you ever know/meet/lurk who delights in logistical planning.

6. For all the writing I do, I'm quite terrible at word games.

Adding to the lexicon

Sunday I wore a tie to church. I'm calling it the "Femi-knot."

My Relationship with the Navy

Relationships are all about balance of power. Most often, he or she who cares least holds the control and subsequently owns the power and calls the shots.

It's also inherent in relationships that a balance is struck between giving and taking. If the two people in a relationship are Givers, who's taking? Conversely, if both parties are Takers, there's nothing to take since nothing has been offered or given.

Where is this going? Down a path you probably wouldn't expect.

Old Navy is kind of obsessed with me. I typically hold the complete power in our relationship--I act like the Navy doesn't exist, and spread my allegiance elsewhere. Months, nay, entire quarters will pass without me giving Old Navy a single thought. The Navy just doesn't blip my radar.

The Navy isn't having it anymore.

You may remember that Old Navy has tried to win me back before--she struck again last night. Unable to stand in the shadow of H&M, Target, Urban, or Century 21 any longer, Old Navy decided to swing the monetary vote in her favor by offering a Giving so large, I, being the Taker that I am, couldn't resist.

Ironically, I stepped into the Navy to return a pair of high-waisted jeans I believed myself not quite fashion-forward enough to wear.

This is what I left with ----------------------------->

Before you judge me, and the 37 items I purchased, let's talk price. Could you reasonably turn down a pair of tweed dress pants for $4? How about a patterned cami for $3? Dress shirts for $4? Three-quartered T-s for 97 cents? I mean, come on. 97 cents?!

What if you had three sisters and a mom who are coming to visit in less than a month? And you're the personal shopper of the group? Would you really hold it against me? Really?

Are you going to judge me for being a Taker? Wouldn't you take?

Last night, Old Navy had the upper-hand in the game of power. But like any one willing to so easily Give everything they have, it is I, the Taker who will bear the fruits of the Giving. The Navy, though her efforts admirably courageous, will be cold, alone and emptier today. It was a noble effort Nave, but our relationship goes back to what it used to be today. Just like most other high-powered relationships.

And in fact, I may send my friends over to Take as well.

Predictability Strikes Again

Conversation this morning as I waited in line to purchase my cinnamon-spice muffin and Diet Coke from the cafeteria one floor down:

Cashier: $2.50 please.
Me: Here you go.
Cashier: Where are you from?
Me: Arizona.
...
Me: Why?
Cashier: You always say "cheers." I was just wondering where it came from.
Me: Oh yeah, I forget I do that.

I kind of like having quirks.

I Have Arrived

Frequent readers will know I'm obsessed with the restaurant "Not Your Average Joe's." Last night, I had the experience to trump them all.

After frequenting the establishment between one and three times a week for the last five months, my dream finally came true.

Kylee and I were seated, and before long, the waiter popped in with two diet-cherry cokes and asked if we were having the usual. I looked at him blankly, wondering if I'd heard him right, when he asked if I wanted my salad with half-grilled/half-fried chicken and dressing on the side. You know, like usual.

Believe it or not, this was actually the night I was going to try something new (GASP!). To top it off, Terrell (I had to learn his name after this star treatment) mentioned he wasn't sure it was me; as my hair was different from the last time I'd been in.

So; in short: Waiter of the Year remembered my crazy drink and crazy food order to the letter. He has only served me once for the record; more than a month ago. That's some kind of memory right there!

I felt important.

Fight or Flight

And now, I will tell you my most embarrassing story of all time. Because it's a Tuesday and you're probably bored. I am also a full six months past said embarrassing moment, and I think it's high time to admit to what was done.

To my friends at the D-Mark, this is for you. You (save Steph) haven't heard about it, because it was the nearly the MOST TALKED ABOUT STORY OF 2006 and I needed to be far from the state before yall found out.

Some of you (totally and completely unassociated with the D-Mark) have already heard this story, so I apologize in advance. Nonetheless, admitting you have an embarrassing story is the first step in releasing it, right?

So, the women's restroom at my old place of employment wasn't really what you imagine standard place of employment facilities to be. Instead of a room with several stalls and sinks, the women's room was actually a woman's room with a door that opened right onto our entire department. Awkward. Sometimes, women would get walked in on if they forgot to lock the door. (Paranoid to death, I would triple check the lock most times. No sound was more fearful than to be going about your business and hearing the door knob rattle.) Please, review the figure below.

The best/worst part was, that I sat on Bathroom Row. (Bad because the line would often queue up and the women would get chatty. "Working With Women," Page 1. Good because I drink a lot. Always. "Our Bodies: Go With the Flow", page 1.)

Back to the story. So the one toilet in our little cube of a restroom had been acting up as of late. Tired from overuse, it seemed to give up the ghost. It clogged, it ran constantly, it ran out of toilet paper. The women in our office, being a competent lot, were familiar with using a plunger, and were all well schooled in how to plunge. It was the unspoken rule. You clog it? You clean it. No big deal.

Until, dun dun dun. One day. The day that lives in infamy in the D-Mark's Interactive Department. I'm getting warm just thinking about it. (Ironically, I also get really really, "I'm having a hot flash" warm when I really, really have to go... but that's probably TMI and should live in the "Stories When I've Really Had to Go" series I'll be starting shortly. I really should drink less. Sigh. Why is diet soda so good? But again, I digress.)

I do my thing. I flush. The water slowly starts to spin. The suction from underneath (is there some kind of technical terminology about this? Are there any plumbers among my cyber-sleuths?) drains what was in the bowl, washes, rinses, and spins the TP and then stops. Sigh. The bowl looks clean. But I know the rule. "Thou Shalt Not Leave Any Mystery Objects in the Toilet for Thy Co-Workers."

I pick up the plunger. I flush, and plunge. The water rises slowly. I freeze. OhNoOhNoOhNo, I'm thinking in my head. Don't overflow.

It doesn't.

But again, I can't just leave it like that. So I flush, and plunge. AND THE WATER STARTS RISING. OhCrapOhCrapOhCrap, don't DO THIS TO ME, I'm mentally screaming. I rip the plunger out of the bowl, realizing that it's displacing water from the space the bowl so desperately needs. IT. DOES. NOT. MATTER.

I'm hoping that the water will slither its way to the drain in the middle of the floor. That's what the drain is designed for right? Right!? Wrong. Wrong bloody wrong.

The water, perfectly clean, I promise you, begins gushing out the top of the bowl and onto the ground.

In an act, absolutely defying the laws of water and motion (surely those exist, right?), the water does not travel down the slight gradient towards the drain, but rather is drawn by sheer force of all that is evil and unholy towards the door.

Towards the door. The door that opens up on to everyone in my department. That is passed on the way to the kitchen. In a high traffic area. Freak. Freak. Freak.

I gather my courage to vacate the bathroom. Over and over in my head I prayed that no one would be outside waiting to use the one toilet assigned to 35 women. What were my odds?

Heart beating, palms sweaty, and breathing jagged--I opened the door quickly. No one waiting. Relief. I squeeze my body out the 10 inch space I open the door, and make a beeline for my cubicle.

In the game of flight or fight, I took the road more/less traveled and fled like a bat out of hell.

However, not wanting to completely abdicate myself of any wrong doing, I decided to leave a Post-It note on the door. Nevermind that the water is seeping out from under the door and onto the carpet, I decide it's only fair. (Why?! Why did I do this? I'd already fled, I should not have returned to the scene of the crime.) This is literally what I wrote on the door:

I even tried to change my handwriting. And then I hid the pad of Post-Its I had used. I didn't want anyone to link me to the crime. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL.

The water continued its seepage onto the common space carpet. Clean. Clean. Clean water. I swear on all that is holy, the water was clean.

I sat at my cube, close enough to hear what everyone was saying. Because there was no one on which to pin the atrocious doing, the verbal assaults and judgments were flying freely. It was a big mystery no one could solve but everyone wanted to play and or had something to say. I, of course, had to join the "who done it" game else I look like the guilty party. AhhhhH! (Dante has a special place in the nth ring for hypocrites. Yie!)

Several blogs were written by D-Markers about the bathroom "problem" that escalated to a catastrophe that fateful, fateful day. (I tried in vain to find them, but I promise, they exist.) Pure mayhem lived in that department for a good 25 minutes--the department was up in arms and ready to loot and plunder. After some time (minutes, days, weeks, it all felt the same), I returned to my cube, sat down, stared at my computer screen and stroked a hidden stack of Post-It notes in my purse.

Speechless

Today I made penitence for my fructose-indulgent sins.

One hour and $580 later, here I am, making my video blog debut:

Baby Baby, how was I supposed to know?

I don’t have any idea how to start this blog. I want it to be clever and “hook” you into reading the rest. Storytelling isn’t my strongest skill—but this story needs to be told. I guarantee that all the events of the below story are true and factual. Bare with me as we get this story started…

It’s ingrained in us early that we shouldn’t tell lies. It’s unethical, we’re told. We should be honest in every thought, word, and deed, sings the Primary song. But I confess, (and digress), that last night I told a lie. A BIG one.

There I am, checking out at the Target service counter. I was purchasing a few essentials, a birthday gift, and a shirt of the most gorgeous blue color.

It’s at this point in the story that I should just fess up and explain that the shirt was a maternity shirt. I like maternity shirts—they’re built in love-handle disguises. (I also like maternity skirts and bathing suit tops, but that’s a story for another blog.) For the record, I never actively seek OUT maternity clothing, but it finds me on the sale racks and by the time I notice it’s a maternity cut, I’m already sold on the style, cut, or color. (Again, I won’t lie. I’m loving the “tight on the top, loose around the gut” look these shirts produce. Quit imagining me in shapeless t-shirt, I know you’re doing it. Maternity clothes are quite stylish.)

But again, I digress.

There I am, checking out at the Target service counter. I was purchasing a few essentials, a birthday gift, and a shirt of the most gorgeous blue color.

Cashier: “You’re so lucky you can find maternity clothes in your size.”
Me: “Yeah, I know!”
Me (thinking): Anyone can find maternity clothes in their size! THAT’S the beauty of it!

Cashier: “Do you know what you’re having?”
Me (thinking): OHMYGOSH. She thinks I’m actually pregnant. OHMYGOSH. Why am I standing like this? I know I’ve stopped running, but do I actually look PREGNANT? How embarrassing! Wow, this is crazy. OH. MY. GOSH. Really, again, WHY am I standing like this? PREGNANT? REALLY?

Me: “Yes. I’m having a girl.”

Me: “What are you having?”

Cashier: “I’m having a boy and a girl.”
Me: “Oh TWINS! That’s so great!”
Cashier: “Yep, one of each.”

Cashier: “How far along are you?”
Me (thinking): OHMYGOSH. How far along do I look?! I know “I know” the sex of “my baby,” so I have to be at least 20 weeks. I also have some (even if only a miniscule) pride left and I’m obviously not 40 weeks along… HOLY CRAP. I look PREGNANT!?

Me: “Twenty weeks.”

Me: “How far are you?”
Cashier: “Twenty weeks too. Just today.”

Me: “Oh, that’s great.”
Me (thinking): IF SHE ASKS ME WHEN I’M DUE, I AM FREAKING SCREWED. I don’t know how far along I should be! I don’t HAVE a due date! OHMYGOSH. I look PREGNANT? AGAIN, WHY am I standing like this? And better yet, WHEN is “my baby” due?

Me: “So… when are you due?”
Me (thinking): Ha. I’m a genius. … a fake-pregnant genius. … I’m an idiot.

Cashier: “October 18th. But they’ll probably be coming early September.”
Me: “Well good luck with everything!”
Cashier: “You too!”

Hungry, and needing to eat for two, I contemplated my recent pregnancy over a Target hot dog. I sat, rather dejectedly (surrounded by the usual Target café crew—really, there are regulars, and sadly I’m one of them) trying to make reason of my recent turn of events. I lied to that pregnant cashier to save her feelings. I mean, why WOULD a non-pregnant woman be buying maternity clothes? It wasn’t her fault I like it easy and breezy around my stomachal region. If I’m being honest (and why would I stop now? I just admitted to looking, acting, and lying about being pregnant in an open forum), I think I also lied to save face.

And with THAT off my chest, I hereby expel this false fetus from my womb, and will be getting back to the gym.

Her Hands

When Mikhail Gorbachev penned the quote, "The eyes are the window to the soul," I wonder if he sat at his desk, pen in hand, trying to decide exactly which physical charactaristic would be the soul-filled window.

It has come to my attention lately, through comments made by others leading ultimately to self reflection, that I have strange hands.

Each of my fingers is quadruple jointed, I swear it's so. They bend "against the grain" so much that every knuckle seems to bend the way it shouldn't. This isn't strange to me as these are the only hands I've ever had, and hopefully the ones I'll retain through the eternities.

If Miki had decided the hands were the window to the soul, I shall give you a visual gallery of my inner-most soul. Feel free to decide for yourself how cloudy my window glass is.

Can your hands grasp five full-sized liquor bottles?

**Disclaimer: Bottles were found pre-empty and used for target practice in the Nevada desert. (Hi Mom!) The reverse goose wrist. (Hi Alaina!)
What I imagine rigor mortis looks like: The random variations of the claw:

The nub effect:

One of each!

Too much bendy goin' on:

Too stiff!

Ta-da! Freaky hands deserve a freaky photo finish. Creepy eyes and all.