Foiled Again

I tried (AGAIN!) to be a responsible adult and watch the GOP debates last night. (FINE! Fiji made me.) I lasted all of three minutes. The main issue wasn't that the candidates frightened me, although there could certainly be an argument for that, and it wasn't that I spent two and a half of those three minutes trying to figure out who was sitting between McCain and Huckabee (it was Ron Paul--what a trooper). No. The guilty party (ha! the irony! or not) was my flipping television. Apparently CNNHD has some sort of time-delay (or our tv is fubar-ed) and I was so incredibly distracted by John McCain's lips (or lack thereof-SORRY) that I gave up after he and Mitt-face argued for(seemingly)ever about the 100 years war in Iraq. UGH. Patience hates me.

p.s. I kinda wish that the democratic party logo was a red-white-and-blue monkey instead of a donkey. Maybe I should write my congressman. Or something. I just LOVE monkeys so much!


Hahahahahahahaha! Ha.

Sweet nectar of the gods = Me

Coworker2: I've been meaning to ask you, what are you wearing?
Tilly: Uhhh...
Coworker2: I mean, no. That came out wrong. You just always smell SO GOOD.
Tilly: Uhhh...
Coworker2: No, I mean. Gosh.
Tilly: This is weird.
Coworker2: I'm sorry. I just...
Tilly: No, no. I'm kidding. But it is quite interesting because Coworker1 told me that my office smells like booze just this morning.
Coworker2: Ha! That must be it!
Tilly: I mean, I really could use a drink.

Uhh, No comment?

Coworker: Every time I walk by your office I get a huge whiff of Southern Comfort.
Tilly: Uhhhh...
Coworker: I just thought you should know.

I have no words. It's not even NOON yet.

And then I burnt the whole place down

No really, I almost did.

All I did was toast my pita bread for my hummus and veggie pita lunch (like I have done on an embarrassing number of times in the past [week]). Just per usual. I thought that I had really solidly grasped the whole "toaster oven" concept over the years with all my pizza bagel making and leftover re-heating. Apparently not. Today I popped the old pita in the toaster over and walked away. No biggie, right. WRONG. 5 minutes later I walk down the hall to retrieve said pita and as I'm approaching I smell smoke. No, no. I think to myself. That can't be MY pita. No way. Not a chance. But my pace starts to quicken until I am full-on sprinting to the kitchen only to be embraced by a tunnel of heavy SMOKE. Like, I could barely see my hands smoke. Like, I can't believe the fire alarm hasn't gone off smoke (which I later begin to obsessively worry about). Like, holy hell this is a LOT of SMOKE smoke! Like, SHIT there goes my lunch smoke.

So, of course, like any other normal individual, I begin flailing my arms about and running in circles and desperately pleading (with myself?) "NO, NO, NO." So when that didn't work, I RUN through the halls in a panic looking for what? I don't know. Help, I suppose. But of course most people are at lunch because they don't INSIST on bringing their lunches every single stinking day. I find one girl who seems nice enough and who I hope won't yell at me and bring her along to witness the mess I've made. She is not impressed and begins coughing. Asthma, she claims. At this point I have created enough raucous with all my running and waving and flailing, oh and also, the smoke is billowing out of the kitchen and into the halls by this point, creating a lovely burnt hair/popcorn stench, so that may have drawn some onlookers in and of itself. "What were you cooking?!" They accuse. "Pita bread. I swear." One yells at me (through the smokey haze) to open a window. "They WON'T OPEN! I already TRIED that!" I exclaim in a panic. We stand amidst the heavy grey cloud and decide to close the door. Yup, THAT'LL fix it.

And now I smell like campfire. But not in the good smores-y way.

Only me, I tell ya. Only me.

Proof Positive: My Genius Abounds

I never would have imagined how hilariously chaotic early voting would be. But, then again, everything I do seems to be insanely awkward and weird. I guess it's my life's gift. I bring the awk. Anyway, being the responsible, contributing citizens that we are, Fiji and I went to vote early at our local public library. I had no idea the mayhem that was about to greet us. First off, the polling was being run by a clown. And when I say clown I mean a woman dressed in a clown suit (well, at least it looked that way) with wildly misplaced makeup (similar to a clown) and a loud, booming (clown-like) voice. (Unless the clown is a mute. Which in this case, she was not.) In addition, she was having a severe panic attack. I am not joking. Apparently right as we arrived (literally that exact moment--shocker), two of the five (that's 40%) polling computer stations broke down. As in NOT WORKING. She was calling people left and right leaving panic-stricken voicemails about how the lines were OUT OF CONTROL (there were 2 other people besides us) and that all sorts of destruction and havoc was about to ensue (more like awk-ness). She apologized repeatedly for the inconvenience (it really wasn't that big of a deal) and I could feel the tension rising and began to sweat profusely. It didn't help that the creepy guy behind me was talking to himself in a very low-timbred voice. I couldn't quite make-out what he was saying because I was too busy pleading with him (in my head) not to talk to me.

I honestly don't know why it was taking people SO LONG to cast their votes. Seriously. WHAT IS THE HOLD UP??! Did you not prepare your answers prior to making the decision to VOTE EARLY? I mean, you still have some time if you are still not sure. No pressure. Then I had kinda forgotten that we were going to have to choose other elected officials, and not just vote in the presidential primary. Oops. After much deliberation (deciding that I didn't want to get in trouble for leaving questions blank) I chose those who shared my name (in any variation), names of people in my family, my friends, or those who had the coolest sounding names. Good plan, no? As we were leaving, Fiji asked what took me so long. I responded that there were a lot of decisions to (quickly) make. He looked confused. How did you know which ones to choose? Did you research them? I am silent, gradually realizing the folly of my ways. You just chose the best names, didn't you. Yes, yes I did. What of it?!

Anyway, then we decide to rent some Spanish CD's before our trip back to Costa Rica in two weeks. I need to know how to find the restroom and order a beer. (Luckily those are EASY PEASY!) Then the lady yells at me because apparently when I returned a VHS copy of "An Affair to Remember" TWO YEARS AGO, I returned the wrong video in it's case. Whoops. No clue what I returned instead. (Uh oh.) I'm banking on "Cindy Crawford's: Shape Your Body" video. Don't judge. It was awesome.

Kibbles & Bits

And bits and bits.

1. This morning my spin instructor, previously known as "spin guy" called my name. Which, let's be honest, he's done before but it's a big class and I never know for sure if he's talking to me or not. And hello! He calls out everyone's name. That's just the kind of spin instructor he is. But anyway, back to me. ME. So this morning as I'm signing up I see some bitch has stolen MY bike again. Slut. Anyway, next to her is another "Tilly"--he's been saying HER name. Right then and there my dreams are crushed. Because clearly that's how emotionally stable I am, and also, holy low life dreams. So as we're warming up, spinguy is walking around doing his usual meet and greet and as he is standing directly in front of MY bike, he's all, "Good morning, Tilly." And I'm all "WHAT?! WHO ME?!" Yeah. Can we say highlight of my week slash life?!! (Wow, this really is quite sad.)

2. Since you mentioned spinning, this morning the lady next to me was stretching afterwards and HOLY CRAP she kissed her knee cap. No lie. I couldn't help from staring, because, HELLO FLEXIBLE MUCH, and I'm not a starer. But seriously and for reals? I'm still in shock, as well as quite nauseous.

3. We are OFFICIALLY the SOLE OWNERS of our HOME. ALONE. IT'S OURS. I just want to rush home right now and run laps around every square inch that is OURS. ALL OURS.

4. All the work frustrations (slash crying, but let's not speak of that again shall we) have turned miraculously into work gems, work jewels and work rubies, if you will. And you will because I SAID SO. Anyway, all is well and right with the world once again. (Thank you for the condolences of my lost pride and dignity. She will be dearly missed.)

5. Yesterday I overheard "sir" referring to another coworker as "Miss Katie." WHAT THE FLIP?! I feel so used.

6. It's FRIDAY. Which, as we all know, is the coolest. ("It's cool to pee your pants.") Good year to you all!

Luckily, Each Day is a New One

You know when you have those days where you just hate everything, like HATE, and then you feel all nasty and yucky because you've got hate seething from all your pores and then you feel just plain awful because really? Seriously? You're really gonna be like that? So after a particularly frustrating phone call you are so frustrated that the frustration and the hate are pouring from your eyes (in the form of tears) so you rush to close your office door so that no coworkers (or worse-BOSS) witness the shame and embarrassment you would feel from CRYING at work. And just that morning you had run out of kleenex (which you clearly never need in the wintertime anyway) and had to blot your eyes with the roughest paper towel (the BROWN kind) in the history of the modern world. And then in your meeting later you are slightly slash distinctly aware that your eyes are probably red and puffy and your skin is blotchy and maybe you are forced to talk the whole time and therefore everyone is looking at you (which you hate) with the hate seaping out that you hope isn't contagious. So you go home and lie on your bed in the dark (after moving the clean and folded clothes over to the side that you were too lazy to put away that morning) and ignore your nice FijiBoy until you can collect your thoughts and not take it out on him (which you kinda do anyway) and then arise from the bedroom and demand sexy time. Do you know anything about that? Anything at all? Because I certainly have no experience with any such issues. Just curious. That's all.

p.s. Today was a good day. (Name that tune!)

You Are Now Two Cents Richer. Or Poorer. Depending...

I am in no way a political analyst. By any means. Any means at all. But I do have opinions. Strong ones at times. Intense, seething, pointed, direct ones even. Maybe. (That was my disclaimer. Moving on.)

I watched the Democratic Presidential debate last night. The whole thing. All the way through. (Just wanted to point that out.) I am such an adult. (What a shame that I am actually PROUD of myself for watching the PRESIDENTIAL DEBATES. Gee whiz.) I was even nervous as they introduced the candidates to the stage. Why? No clue. Anyway. It's no secret that I love Barack, and it's not because he's from Chicago (WHATUP!), but because I trust him. It's weird, but I do. I actually BELIEVE what he is saying. Which, in my humble (and at times pointless) opinion, is probably one of the most important qualities in a president. Being able to TRUST political leaders--something new and different! To me, Barack stands for unity, social responsibility, moral integrity, hope, and trust. When I hear him speak and see the passion in his eyes, I trust that he would make the RIGHT choice, whether it appeased some lobby in Washington or not. I think he's strong and smart and caring. Also, funny. Don't forget the funny part. VERY important. And more than any political promise that he makes along the campaign trail in this competition for the most important job in the country, I have faith in him. And faith that maybe, just maybe, there is a chance that I could once again be proud to be an American. And stuff.

In conclusion, what was UP with Hillary's lipstick?

Sloth-style Sunday

"Lazy" undoubtedly fails to describe my day yesterday. In fact, sloth would be much, much more appropriate. Not only did I not leave the house, I rarely left my spot on the couch, except to use the latrine, and switch from one side of the couch to the other, you know, to get a new perspective on the day. We're talking minimal movement here folks. Embarrassingly minimal. As in, when Fiji was walking around, working on various projects around the house like a normal contributor to society and life in general, I was using him as my very own errand boy. But instead of asking him directly to do this or that, I would exclaim, "Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! My toes are FROZEN, frost-bite style!" Prompting him to ask if I wanted my slippers, or the blanket resting a mere 2 feet away. Or if I wanted some Gatorade to help cure my brutal hangover, I would say, "I'm SO thirsty. I'm DYING of thirst." Or if he was, by chance, going into the bedroom I would pronounce, "I really should call my Mom" and stare at him whilst loudly clearing my throat. To which he would respond, "Do you need your phone or something? Perhaps a throat lozenge" I mean, can you BE more obnoxious than that?? I sincerely doubt it. It's a real feat.

Even when our friends came over to watch football, I didn't even rise to greet them (how RUDE), but waved for them to grab a blanket and lie down with me, thus slightly relieving the guilt that had been growing exponentially since 8am when I awoke (I can NOT sleep in for the life of me) and moved from my bed to my couchbed. Finally, after a few hours of this nonsense, I admitted that I was performing an experiment to see how long I could go without removing myself from the couch. I think the final time stamp would be 5 hours. However, after Fiji ventured outside for my hangover cure of goldfish, Gatorade, and ginger ale (the three G's, if you will), I couldn't bare to look at the mess on the coffee table and forced my legs to stand. I even ran the dishwasher and cleaned the kitchen, my biggest accomplishments of the day. And then I graciously rewarded myself by getting in bed at 7pm. True double true.

An update and stuff

Just so Y'ALL (hi tessie!) don't die of curiosity, here's a quick update:

1. Dude across the street is STILL there, so apparently no firing took place, although, this could be his last day. You know--Friday--less likely to pop a cop and shit like that before the weekend. As if I know.
2. Toothpaste in sink STILL. And AGAIN. When I find the culprit (after staking out the bathroom all day because that wouldn't be awkward or anything), I am going to punch him in the junk. Because you KNOW it's a dude.
3. Dont' know how old "sir" is. Don't care.
4. I'm thinking of sending GoatBoy a congratulations email. Too much? I should probably just go with the old mantra of "leave well enough alone," (or something) or, as I like to refer to it, "FUCK OFF."

In other news, it's like negative bazillion degrees around these parts--nice and toasty. Anyway, I crammed myself onto the train because there was NO WAY I was waiting outside any longer than I had to. So I get on and I'm assuming that since we were squeezed in like cattle, no need to try to position myself next to, IDK, something to hold onto. Great choice. Once we started moving (slash JOLTING this way and that), somehow the crowd parts and I'm stranded with no bodies to awkwardky press up against in order to stand erect (HEYO! And SICK!) and yet unable to find something, anything (inanimate) to steady myself. Therefore, I was forced to channel my snowboarding skills and "ride" to work. I know, I know. LAMO. But it worked (besides the time (or two) I grabbed the guys backpack in front of me). ANYWAY. Good story.

UPDATED UPDATE!!
RE: 1. Apparently I am an idiot and it's "pop a cap" not "pop a cop." How utterly embarrassing. Evidently I am more white girl than even I imagined.

And another nonsensical addition to my devoid of any real importance list: there is a rooster crowing outside my busy-streeted office in the middle of the city. Hypotheses? Because I'm pulling a blank.

Good Year!

You're in my world now, Crest-face

Despite my new working conditions being a galaxy above and beyond my previous place of employment (HELLO awkward scientists!), there is still some weird slash annoying shit that goes down around these parts. Take, for instance, the globs of blue (totally Crest) toothpaste left in the sink. Yes, the same sink where we wash our hands. Or at least I wash my hands. Dirty birds. Anyway. What I can understand is that some people are fanatical about the brushing of their teeth. Kudos and a golf clap. But is it really THAT hard to rinse out the sink after said brushing and spitting? I think not. Maybe I'm just that crazy lady that can't stand to have toothpaste stains in my OWN sink, at HOME. The one that is mine and mine alone (Feej has his own to muss up). And I still hate when there are stains and therefore I rinse out the sink (water waster!) after spitting. Each and every time. Maybe it's because my grandmother insisted that we WIPE OUT THE SINK after WASHING OUR HANDS. Yeah. True, DOUBLE TRUE! So there would be no water marks. IN THE SINK. Either way, it grosses me out. So, quit that shit. You're in my world now.

Whew! That was exhausting. I can't even expend any more energy complaining about the other inane (and insignificant) things my co-workers do (that no one cares about). But don't you worry your pretty little blerd heads. I could complain in my sleep! I'll just walk out my door and something else will annoy me and I won't be able to focus until I tell everyone I (don't) know about it. PEACE.

Lost Battle, DOMINATION STATION WAR

I just recently found out that my ex, GoatBoy, is engaged. Woo to the hoo. Really, honestly, and if we're being completely for real and for honest, which clearly we are, I don't care. In so many, many ways, like the important ones, I just don't care. It's not that I wish it was me or that I miss him like that or that I want him to die alone and miserable with his stupid face hair rotting or stuff like that. It's not that at all. It's just that, well, he BEAT me. And THAT my friends, is what bothers me. I'm a sad, pathetic soul, I know. I mean, I like to WIN. A lot. And I'm competitive to the point that the other day Fiji accused (part joking part for serious) me of taking more VITAMINS than him and NOT TELLING HIM because I wanted to be HEALTHIER or something. What!?! That doesn't even make sense. Clearly he is infintely healthier than me, I mean, hello, he doesn't eat meat or dairy. And then there's his penchant for everything organic and green, even SEAWEED. And my penchant for everything cheese and pizza related. So obviously I was not trying to dominate his vitamin-taking self. But, as you can see, even the fact that he thought (slash knew) I was capable of being THAT competitive shows you something about my competitiveness.

Anyway, GoatBoy is engaged to some nice chick and I'm sure they will live a long and happy life together and who the flip cares because HELLO I'm in love too. And just because I don't have a ring on my left ring finger doesn't detract from the commitment and wonderful life that I am currently sharing with the LOVE of my life who I am so incredibly blessed to come home to each and every night and wake up next to each and every morning and who GETS me more than anyone else in the entire world ever has or ever will. Also, when I heard the rumor that GoatBoy was getting engaged, I told Fiji and his first response was, "Do you want to BEAT him?" I think we can all guess what my answer may or may not have been to that. And the fact that he knew what I (selfishly and immaturely) wanted before even I did AND teased me about it, well, I think we all know that I am exactly where I belong and with the man who holds my heart.

Miss Tilly

So, one of the dudes that I work with calls me "Miss Tilly" all the time, like ALL. THE. TIME. I find it to be simultaneously charming and annoying. Not annoying like the scientists-annoying, mind you, but just-not-quite-right-annoying. If you know what I mean and I think you do (I'm bringing this BACK). At first I thought he was like 22 and just a little gentleman from the south or something. THEN I find out he's from Illinois and has 3 CHILDREN, the oldest of whom is 10. As in 10 years old. With my trusty mathmatician skills I deduced/deducted(?) that he HAS to be at least 26. Right? And he was married before--to his baby's mama--so he may even be 28. Or older! Now, I know what it's like to look young. And yeah yeah blah blah I'll appreciate it when I'm older. Awesome. Super. Fantastic. Now give me the booze. But he could seriously pass for 21 or 31. What gives?! Also, is it completely, totally and utterly rude for me to just come out and ask? Because I will be that girl. Hell, I AM that girl.

She smells like SOUP

Well, Hellooooooo. I finally joined the throngs (I just typed thongs and laughed outloud--to myself--because I DO NOT WEAR THONGS and I NEVER WILL. I know, I know. I'm barely a woman or something. Just floating on the outskirts here.) of indie movie-goers and saw Juno this weekend. Yes, I loved it. It was delightfully cute and charming and witty and met my expectations, although I was hoping for some more laugh outloud quips. It felt like my fellow movie-goers were as well, as the first few laughs sounded WAY forced and quite awkward like, we're SUPPOSED to be laughing it up, we better start NOW.

Anyway, that is not what I'm here to discuss. I am here to discuss the fact that the woman (the older woman--who looked like a man--who sat down where my coat, Fiji's coat, my scarf, my bag, and my water bottle were happily seated) next to me CRIED the ENTIRE TIME. CRIED. TEARS. And BLEW her NOSE. Not even kidding. It made me want to yak, which, incidentally I also wanted do on our walk to the theatre. Twice. Anyway. She was crying, like boo hoo, throughout the entire movie. While everyone else (all the emotionally stable and sense of humor having people) was LAUGHING. I'm sure Fiji loved the way I analyzed her life over and over and over again and postulated why the bloody hell she was driven to cry. I mean, maybe she was a pregnant teen who gave her child up for adoption 50 years ago and still regrets it. Or maybe she was a pregnant teen who wishes she would have given up her child for adoption 50 years ago. Or maybe she was lonely and went to the movies to cry amongst laughing strangers in the dark.

Either which way you draw it, I realized (by the time we got home) that I should shut up. And then we watched (the beginning of) Ghostbusters and went to sleep. Honest to blog.

Peeping Tilly, but not in the super creepy way.

I feel very uncomfortable right now. You see, it appears that the man who works in the office directly across the street from mine is getting REAMED. I mean, different people keep bursting into his office and flailing their arms about and then abruptly leaving. And the whole time he just sits staring at his computer, completely disregarding the intrusion. As if no one was even IN his office screaming at him and flinging their extremities around. It's weird. And I just feel all icky inside (which may be attributed to the bottle of wine I drank last night, but your guess is as good as mine). I mean, maybe I am completely misinterpreting the situation that I know nothing about, but that' s highly unlikely. I am very intuitive and I took sign language in third grade. Also, I know quite a bit about social cues and the like, which you may or may not recall. In addition, I am nosy and will not rest until I know the truth! Or go home. Whichever comes first.

Either way, I find it oddly intriguing and I'm strangely perplexed so I've decided to turn my desk around just so I don't miss anything. Ooooh, he just scratched his head. He's probably dying inside!

The One Where I'm No Longer Embarrassed By My Mother. Honest. And For Reals.

My parents have recently started working out, basically for the first time in both of their lives. This makes me unbelievably happy, as I know what a positive influence exercise can have on ones physical AND mental health. While I've always thought of my parents as healthy and certainly not overweight, I know a big motivation is building strength and improving mobility as they age. I encouraged them to get a personal trainer, at least in the beginning, who could show them how to properly use the equipment and design a workout routine for them to follow. Which they did. Yay me! So while I was home over Christmas, I went to the gym with them, which just so happens to be called, "The Gym." Super secret tricksters, those guys.

It was so fun to watch them meander through the equipment and the bar bells and ask each other "form" questions, as I ran on the treadmill upstairs. My mom even has a cute little matching workout outfit (that she apparently wears each time--"But I have different tops for underneath!")

As my Mom and I were doing bicep curls side-by-side, a "rap*" song came on and she chirps, "You know, I think I like listening to "hip-hop" the best while I'm "pumping iron" (she really said this). It just really PUMPS ME UP!" To which I laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. I'm so her daughter.

Then as we're leaving and she's walking in front of me and my Dad, she starts dancing as if she has no solid bones in her body (basically wiggling all of her limbs) throughout the weight room. With OTHER people in it. Watching. My Dad turns to me and says, "Well, she's your mother."

And I couldn't have been more proud.

*As long as I've known my Mother, hello, all my life, she has called hip-hop, "rap" and that is all there is to it. Which is why it was so cute.

Worst Message-Leaver Ever

I couldn't be a worse phone message-leaver. I really couldn't. And now that I am frequently leaving work-related messages on Principal's and police chief's voicemail, the shame and embarrassment from my poor message-leaving skills is exponentially multiplied. But I KEEP doing it! I can't STOP! It's like I continue to hope that the next one will be better, the next one will improve, the next one will be genius! And as soon as I leave another god-awful message, I hang up the phone and shake my hands and wiggle my arms in disgust. The people in the offices across the street must think I have Restless Arm Syndrome or somesuch. It's terrible. And yet, some people call me back. Some people even call me back immediately and pretend that they didn't just receive the worst message left in the history of answering machines/voicemail. Imagine!

I even went so far as to create a message-leaving script. Yes, nerd. I know. But it really helps. Why did I tell you that? IDK. Speaking of tourettes (which is not funny, I know), I saw "p.s. I love you" this weekend and hello tissues! Anyway, one of my favorite parts was Harry Connick Jr.'s so-called "lack of a filter disease." Um, hello! Right over here. Anyway again, Hilary (Skinny-Ass) Swank sang karaoke and then when she finished he came over to her and he was all, "Wow. You are a horrible singer. I would be embarrassed if I were you." HAHAHAHA! Yeah, that was awesome. If he were here to listen to my voicemail messages, I can only imagine he would be saying the same thing.

BURN. DOUBLE BURN.

Train Antics and Stuff

So, I'm not sure that you can properly experience the hilarity of the above photo, but you'll just have to take my word for it, k? K. Would I lie to you, my blerds? Probably not. Saturday morning the Feej and I decided to take a little voyage downtown and reminisce about where we first began exchanging lovelorn glances slash staring at each other (aka riding the train that we both take EVERY DAY. TWICE. So, yeah, super romantic). Anyway, after Fiji had completed his extensive examination of the progress being made by the train track fixer/builder guys (technical term), aka standing and peering out onto the broken tracks and explaining what re bar (?) is to his naive (who me?) GF, I whined (like I do best), Can we sit DOWN now?! Of course, being the gentleman that he is, he obliged. And then, of course, I went and chose probably the worst seat in the house slash train. For him. Completely unintentionally of course. I'm just that self-centered. And lazy, as it was the closest to our standing location. Wow, this is getting long and completely unnecessarily detailed. So, we are sitting there, and it's one of the sideways facing chairs so we are forced to stare directly across (and luckily no one was sitting there) and were able to get a first-hand, first-rate view of what was perhaps the most intriguing and confusing and hilarious warning sign that I have ever seen in all the years of living my life (slash riding trains). We sat, quite perplexed, for much MUCH longer than two educated, city-dwellers really should. Let me just point out a few things:

A. Listen for Instructions. There appears to be a man HANGING from the passenger's ear. Or something. [Inner dialogue: Hmm...that's weird. Why is that miniature worker man hanging there?] So I glance to the next "instruction."

B. Remain on the train. Do not open side doors. Ok. Makes sense. What does NOT make sense, however, is that man TEARING APART the other man?! Um, what?! WHA! [Inner dialogue: I'm kind of scared.] Fiji, just as perplexed as I am, adds, "I mean, if I didn't know English, I'm not so sure that I would follow these instructions." Uhh, you think?!! Let's move on.

C. Move to another car if your immediate safety is threatened. BECAUSE SOME MAN IS LIFTING UP THE TRAIN AND BREAKING IT INTO PIECES? You mean that?! Well, geez, thanks for the advice there! Really, honest. LIFE SAVING information there.

At this point Fiji geniusly (this is not a word but IDC) determines that these "train instructions" are in fact STICKERS. (We might have been clued in to the fact that the bottom two "pictures" were torn off. Hmmmm.) Someone playing a little practical joke on us. HA.HA.HA. Actually, I laughed quite loudly and obnoxiously and then proceeded to take like a bajillion pictures on my phone. Which I am now too lazy to send to my email and post. Maybe later. Then you can REALLY see. For some reason after all of this I get the strange sensation that NO ONE CARES BUT ME. I don't think Fiji even thought it was that strange/cool/awesome.

Whatever. Then later in the day Fiji sawed (is that a word?) our couch in half in order to get it out of the house and then we got trapped in the elevator and rescued by a 7' tall fireman (they even turned the sirens on for us).

The end.

How was your weekend?!

UPDATE: I forgot to mention that on my way to work this morning I rode on the very SAME train in the very SAME car and saw the stickers. AGAIN. Yep. So that happened. But this time I couldn't stare freely seeing that the train was super packed (SHOCKING) and there were people sitting in the seats and if I had stared any longer they would've probably gotten kinda creeped out. And if there's one thing I'm not, it is a CREEP.

Also, here are some close-ups. ENJOY! Please. I said PLEASE.

True story.

Loving thy Neighbor (is HARD)

With Day 4 of the new year upon me, I'm feeling contemplative and thankful. There are many resolutions that I could make to continue to "better" myself and improve my life and the way I live it, but I'm just not a resolution-making kinda girl. Sue me. (No, don't. I'm on a budget.) I think I set various goals for myself throughout the year, although I don't always verbalize them or even fully conceptualize them in my head. Or fulfill them, for that matter. However. I have just started reading "A Year of Living Biblically" and it's already (page 17 deep) made me think. Especially about the "Love thy neighbor" thing. I mean, I need to be doing more of that. STAT. I already think I'm pretty considerate about letting people on the train before me, but that's pretty much because I'm getting off first and want to stand by the door anyway (hello short-ass commute!). But that means that I like to get OFF the train first. What? I am a fast walker. Honest, I am. There's nothing worse than getting behind the oldest lady ever (like, why (and HOW) is she even still riding the train!?) who is carrying like a million and two bags who has to rush to get off first and then hold the railing on the stairwell and take up the whole thing. So, yeah. I'd say loving my neighbor should maybe move up higher on the list of things to do. But hey, I'm trying!

Then there's the downstairs neighbors that refuse to park INSIDE THE LINES of THEIR spot. Seriously. Like, they are physically (or mentally) unable to park correctly. And you know what this means? It means I can barely get OUT of the car. I mean, the garage is small and everything, but COME ON. And if there's bags or groceries or BEER in the back seat that maybe, just MAYBE, needs to be collected and brought upstairs (you know to DRINK ), I need to get OUT and be carrying stuff and those little bitches prevent me from doing so in a typical manner, say, opening the door and retrieving said things. ANYWAY. I mean, I'm not bitter or anything. What I'm trying to say is that while I cannot control their (horrible) parking, I can control my (rage) reaction to it and I can also control the wearing of my clippy (slash noisy) spin shoes around the house at 5:45am. So, my point is, one of my (many, many) non-resolutions/ goals of this year is to love my neighbors. (Not in the SICK way, geez).

Blissfully Blissness

That's pretty much what's been going on in my world. Blissness. Despite being excrutiatingly tired, not working out since Monday (where I had to create my OWN spin class since the class I tried to attend was completely FULL, bring on the New Years Resolutionites...NOT), seeing so many other blog-ladies experiencing such shithead boy stuff, not eating anything remotely home-cooked since Friday, and therefore my stomach being all crabby, and missing Gossip Girl last night, I can't stop smiling and giggling and daydreaming and lalalala-ing all over the place. It's kinda sick, I know. But it's just, I'm STILL in love. And each and every day it seems that I'm about to explode with all this love-ness. And as Fiji pointed out last night, "this is the third year we are sharing. How many more do you think we've got? 100??" And I was all, "I'm not that great at math, but wouldn't that make us like 130?" And he's all, "Yes." And I'm all, "well then, pass those life preserving vitamins!" And then you're all, "Uhhh, thanks for sharing pinhead weasels." And I'm all, "Sorry. I can't help it." And now I've officially crossed the crazy line that I've been teetering at for the majority of my life. Awesome.

ANYWAY. My Christmas was fantabulous and peaceful and reinvigorating. My NYE was spectacular and sparkly and snowy and amazing. But it's the simple things, the so-called uneventful things, the walking down the street holding hands with the love of my life things that make me practically die of joy. I mean, I could DIE. And if he was with me, I'd smile in delight.

Best Way to Start the New Year!

Happy 2008! This is going to be an amazing year. I can feel it.