Sunday, July 29, 2012

"Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants." -KL

You know what cures hangovers? A roomie that delivers Bloody Marys to you in your closet because you swear you've turned into a vampire and the sun is going to destroy you.

You know what causes you to drunkenly hallucinate that the fire sprinkler on the ceiling is a gecko? Not having any damn A/C in said closet.

This state is a rarity for me. A very rare, count it on one hand, unicorn-spotting occurrence. I had to discover for myself that Cachaça tastes like whiskey and tequila had a baby and you want to eat that baby. Now I know that whiskey is stronger than me. This is called learning. It's also called “Frowned Upon Friday”.

In whatever drunken state of wisdom I was in when I ventured to my closet, I thought it was a good idea to pull all of the covers off of my bed and cocoon myself in them on my closet floor. Now, this is not just any ordinary closet, but it's not quite the gateway to Narnia either; this is a massive hangover curing cave of wonder. You could fit another bed in here along with our washer and dryer. However, the layout of our bedrooms wasn't designed for hangover rehabilitation purposes, as I'm now realizing. The windows are directly across from the door to the bathroom that's directly across from the door to the closet. Based on the trajectory of the sun's rays... blah blah science blah blah we both get the blinding hallelujah glory of the sun at 7 am every morning.

I'm up way too early for someone who wasn't planning on "seizing the day". I planned on seizing my sunglasses and somehow navigating through my apartment to hunt down the number for pizza with as little interference from cabinet corners towards my hip bone as possible. Unsuccessful.

To some degree not short of brilliant, I must have been thinking ahead (or thinking with my stomach) and left myself the pizza flyer on the bar. Oh, the joy, they know my usual order by my phone number. I'm not ashamed of this, I'm relieved that I have very little talking to do and a pizza will arrive. If I crack each of the previous doors open just enough, I can remain in a dark state of hibernation with just enough light that I won't forget where the wall ends and the door begins. I've given myself enough accidental bruises by assuming that all doors are open in the dark.

Thirty minutes later and I have my pizza beside me, while I hum along to the sounds of the Internet modem, tactfully mounted on the wall so that when I sit up, I can smack my head on it. This is my own Hell. I'm too miserably hot to stay here but if I get back in my bed I will end up suffocating myself with pillows to escape the sunlight.

Either by extreme exhaustion or a mild heat stroke, I've managed to fall back asleep.

It is now 7pm and I'm ready to embrace the post hangover world we can aptly sum up as "sweatpants".

My most recent google searches: "Where to get dippin dots in Dallas" and "What are gelled nails?"

I'm okay, everyone.

Counting Sleep by Trent Dabbs You have to have a great soundtrack for spending a weekend in doors packing.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

The more things we put in our purse, the stronger we become.

One day, the fire alarm went off at work and the first thought I had was, "OHMYGODWHEREISMYPURSE?!"

I stood up, purse in hand, and saw that everyone else was looking around over the cubes to see if anyone was going to evacuate/on fire. No such luck. Our office secretary did, however, hold up her cup of water and yell, "I've got it! I'll save us!". I genuinely thought I might go into an epileptic shock from the amount of strobe warning lights beaming me in the eyes. The "alarm", which started to resemble someone cranking a cat's tail as it wailed, ceased and we were all left standing in our department with various objects in our arms.

Let's see what everyone would take with them if a fire was actually engulfing the office.

The second I heard the alarm I grabbed my purse... and nothing else. I had sense to leave my headphones plugged into my computer, because, I've already embarrassed myself once before by accidentally unplugging them with my foot and letting everyone know I was listening to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song (SHUT UP! YOU LOVE IT TOO!) and I still haven't lived that one down. Every woman had her purse in tow, but there were also random items grabbed out of sheer uncertainty and panic: a manila folder, desk plant, napkins, ruler, box of Oreos... good call.

The guys had very little in hand: car keys, a cup of coffee, one man had sense to grab his briefcase, but other than grabbing *Winchester (the office gnome) it was nothing compared to us.

*Winchester is a Texas cowboy gnome who came to us via last year's White Elephant Christmas Party. He has a habit of ending up in random places he ought not be in, but we kindly direct him back to his shelf in our shipping coordinator's office and go about our day.

The scary realization (other than the above statement of how we regard an inanimate object as a real person) was that we women put a lot in our purses. And this gives us a small glimmer of control. I have my purse, I'll survive this. Any given purse will most likely contain: Gum, make up, wallet, cellphone, car keys ... one time I mentioned needing a bike pump and the roomie chimed in, "I've got one right here!", pulls the pump out of her bag of wonder and saves the day. Mine doesn't (usually) go that far, but it's standard to find 78 cents in loose change, of which one coin is foreign and another is a Chucky Cheese game token (Delaney will then use these coins on a gumball machine and break it), band aids, band aids, band aids, a fork, Tylenol, Advil, two types of allergy medicine (I'm a one stop shop pharmacy to rival Walgreens), random jewelry, a sticky note pad (Yes, I make more lists than I care to... list), NO pens, and 3 Burt's Bees. THREE. Because I will loose one before I can get to the end. I honestly have no idea what's waiting for me at the end of a tube of chap stick. There should be an award for chap stick upkeep if it doesn't end up there at some point in it's lifespan.

Of all the purse chaos, flying turns me into the Mary Poppins of purse coordination. If I didn't come prepared, with snacks and magazines, I'd probably be that disgruntled passenger flipping out over the amount of boarding groups that come before B. Surprise! Platinum Members! Business Class! Priority Family! Small Children Travelling Alone That Like To Visit The Bathroom Seven Times On A 45 Minute Flight! Group A!

And while I'm on my airport soapbox: Don't get me all excited about arriving early if we don't have a gate, Plane Announcement Guy, it's not like I'm jonesing for more tarmac time. And to the man that decided to take the middle seat between me and another innocent passenger when there are plenty of other empty ROWS, stop trying to talk to me and peek at my ipod. Maybe I'm not really listening to music, maybe I don't want to hear about why you're flying to Nashville to see your aunt. Please put your shoes back on.

(Steps off box)

I'm as sweet as pie, I promise.

So, why does my purse consist of more sticky notes than Office Space and an assortment of granola bars and water bottles that could double as a bomb shelter survival meal for six? Just because.

Seriously though, sticky notes are taking over my life. The joke at work is that if someone took all of the sticky notes and legal pads off my desk, I'd probably write on my arms. Or crawl under my desk and hide.

Someday by Cary Brothers The majority of the songs I love from them are bittersweet, but this one is a bit more upbeat. A bit.