So THAT'S What It's Called

Bone Junior: So, I did something tonight that I've never really done before.

Yanaj: Mmm hmmm?

Bone Junior: I shamelessly and successfully flirted with the guy at the car wash so that he'd give me a free air freshener. And he gave me two air fresheners!!

Yanaj: So, you blatantly traded your sexuality for a free air freshener?

Bone Junior: Two free air fresheners!

Yanaj: Yeah...Bone Junior? That's what we call a whore.

Note to self: Maybe being a whore isn't so bad if you get free stuff out of it?

It Helps to Be a Middle Child

As if you all haven't heard enough drama about my car...

What would you do if you found the car of your dreams and negotiated racing stripes as part of your deal, and they had to order three different sets of stripes until they were the right ones, and the whole process took two months, and when they finally got the stripes put on, they looked like crap?

If you were me, you would've taken one look at your dream car and told the dealership that the crappy stripes looked like crap and it was not acceptable and you wanted the entire thing redone. As in I can't believe you brought my dream car back looking like this. As in I can't believe you think this looks good. As in I want these crappy stripes taken off and the whole thing done. Again. As in I don't care how much more money it costs you but my dream car will be fixed.

Then you would've taken a tape measure and checked every space between the stripes and you would've gotten the opinion of every construction worker in a twenty mile radius and they would all laugh at you and tell you it looks like crap. And you would find out that the stripes are off center by as much as an inch and that it looks like someone with palsy did the cut outs around the license plates and rear emblem. Then you'd really get mad.

Then you'd go Pompei on their butts and the result would be that you'd get a custom paint job with better looking stripes than you'd ever imagined. And then, you'd finally be happy. As soon as your plates come in.

I'm Too Old For This

Once upon a time, I rarely went to bed before 2 am, and if there was a midnight showing of a movie on opening day, I was there. I had no trouble staying awake through a movie that didn't let out until 3 am.

Now? Not so much.

We went to see the midnight show of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull last night. By 8pm I was already yawning and wondering how I was going to last another seven hours. To keep me going, I had plenty of Diet Pepsi Max on hand and the pure excitement about finally seeing the new Indiana Jones...which actually turned out to be the very old, slow, and wrinkly Indiana Jones.

Don't get me wrong - I'm all about old guys making their comebacks. Sylvester Stallone, I love you. I loved the newest Rambo film and I don't care how old he is - Rocky looks freaking amazing for his age. Bruce Willis is another hot example of an old guy who still has the moves. Not to say that Harrison Ford doesn't look good, but...he just looks old. He sounds old, he moves old, and part of me is fairly certain that he smells old.

On the other hand, I imagine that Sylvester Stallone smells like leather, sweat and maybe diesel fuel. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

I don't want to spoil the movie for anyone, but it was...okay. Shine-uh My Buff is adorably hot, and there is some light comic relief. It's worth seeing in the theater for the completely ridiculous stunts. I also recommend not going at midnight because you may find yourself doing the head jerking thing a lot. Although the best part about it was the full length trailer for The Dark Knight beforehand.

Another best part about the movie was how we were let into the theater an hour before show time and this girl literally walked around to every single row and explained to people that it was her friend's birthday, and at exactly midnight, she wanted everyone in the theater to sing happy birthday. I'd overheard her shpiel several rows back and as she approached us, I thought okay, I can have some fun with this.

Girl: It's my friend's birthday blah blah blah midnight everyone sing blah blah blah okay??

Bone Junior: Sure, but how does that song go?

Girl: Blink blink. Slight confusion. Happy Birthday?

Bone Junior: Yeah, how does it go?

Girl: Nervous laughter. Um...starts singing...happy birthday toooooooo yoooouuuu--- do you really not know?

Bone Junior: No, I know how it goes, I'm just a jerk.

Ah, socially inappropriate behavior is awesome, especially at the expense of someone else.

You know what else was awesome? How half of my Butterfinger broke off and fell onto the floor and I picked it up and ate it. Off the movie theater floor.

That's just how I roll.

So Long, Menarche!

It's officially the end of an era. I sold the beloved beemer. Or as Erin has lovingly dubbed it, The Green Menarche. (It was the first car I'd ever bought). Try to keep up, people.
I felt a bit nostalgic and I may have wiped a single tear as I watched him drive away, seeing the rear brake light that has never worked and hearing the familiar metallic rattle of the catalytic converter. And as I listened to him drive away, I thought about my new mustang and knew I'd made the right decision. It was time to grow up.
Thanks for the memories, beemer. But I'm happy to pass on your expensive repairs, hard-to-find parts, sunroof that sometimes gets stuck open, and zero-to-sixty in 1.2 minutes on to someone else.

Hangin Tough

Just over a year ago, I did post about my quirks. My very first quirk was this:

- Every time (and I mean every time) I go out to my car, before its actually in my sight, I mentally rehearse what I will do and say if I catch someone in the act of vandalizing my car. "What I will do and say" usually consists of me yelling, swearing, and bobbing my head a lot in an intimidating manner.
I'd always secretly dreamed of catching someone in the act of vandalizing my beloved beemer, just so I could have an excuse to blow like the Godfather.

Well, my dream finally came true...except that my beloved beemer was vandalized and I didn't catch them in the act.

And for what? A four year old single disc Pioneer stereo?? Oh, and they stole all the quarters that were in the console. Apparently whoever stole my stereo also needs to do laundry. Not only are they bastards, but they're dirty bastards.

I didn't think there was anything that could turn my day around. Until I found out that the New Kids on the Block are COMING TO SALT LAKE CITY IN NOVEMBER!!!

You guys.

I think I might die from the anticipation and excitement. Was no one else a New Kids fan in the early nineties? Did none of you also have the Jordan doll, dangly earrings that said "I Heart Jordan", a poster over their bed of Jordan with his shirt half off and his braided rat tail over his shoulder, a huge stack of New Kids trading cards, a New Kids pillow case, a New Kids nightie, and a sister who had a huge Joey button and the Joey doll??? Can I get a whoop whoop?

Not even a smashed window and stolen stereo can bring me down now. The New Kids are coming to town!!!

And I will get on the floor and do the New Kids dance.

It's the Little Things

After I was taken out at the finish line, I likened myself to this:

Which, in turn, has given me Day Four of this:

Thank goodness for the little things like this:

And the fact that I have a rear end that looks as good as this:

Otherwise more people might be in danger of having stiletto poky stab marks up and down their backs. Now if only I could get my damn plates...

Now We Do The Splits of Joy

Bone Junior, on the phone to Bone Senior, voice warbling and lower lip trembling: Sister? Something terrible happened...the most humiliating, embarrassing moment of my life...I just want to die...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So Saturday we did the Race for the Cure, and we actually ran some of the way. A major accomplishment for me, because I'm an avid non-believer in running. And after you hear about what happened at the race, I think you'll become an avid non-believer as well.

Our team started out strong near the front of the pack of thousands and thousands of participants. I made it clear from the start that I had no intention of running, mostly because everything bounces when I run, and not in a Baywatch kinda way. I avoid that kind of movement at all costs.

But once we started walking and were being passed by runners, I figured what the hell and we all ran for about three minutes. By then I was pretty winded, so we walked and decided that we'd sprint across the finish line in a final burst of hurrah, but would walk until then. Sounds good to me.

Two miles later, Nicole (who is 6'1" and all legs) and I were running side by side, sprinting full speed towards the finish line, which was surrounded by hundreds of people, news cameras, photographers, etc. I was running with my arms flailing and mouth wide open because I was so excited to be finishing the race. Nicole (who is 6'1" and all legs) was running with limbs flailing and mouth wide open because she was so excited to be finishing the race. We were quite the spectacle as we approached the finish line which - I cannot emphasize enough - was crowded with hundreds of people.

Unbeknownst to me, Nicole (who is 6'1" and all legs) had decided that when she crossed the finish line, she was going to jump up and kick her feet together out to the side, a la her celebratory jig. We were within mere feet of the brightly painted pink line on the ground. This was my moment. I finished! I did it!

I started to throw my hands up in the air when suddenly my left leg was kicked out from under me, mid stride, and I fell to the ground with my left leg bent underneath my body and my right leg straight out in front of me. But I didn't just fall to the ground - I had been moving forward with such force and momentum that I hit the ground and continued to slide forward for several more feet. I literally did the splits as I slid across the finish line.

I did the splits as I slid across the finish line.

In front of hundreds of people, who, by the way, I heard collectively gasp as they saw me go down. Suddenly I became a road block as the runners around me had to jump over and around me. Nicole quickly helped me up, and I heard people clapping as I limped away.

This was my big moment, my big accomplishment, and of course I had to be "that girl who fell and slid across the finish line."

It took a few minutes before I was able to laugh about it because I felt so embarrassed, but once I thought about it, I realized that if you have to go down, going down on your butt is the best way to go. It would've been WAY worse if I'd have flipped ass over teakettle and gone headfirst - I could've broken a tooth, or at the very least walked away with some serious road rash on my face. Instead, I limped away with serious road rash on my knee. My bruised pride was by far the worst injury.

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

I look forward to sharing more pictures as both my bruise and humiliation continue to develop. My only comfort is that maybe someday I'll see myself on America's Funniest Home Videos. Show me the money.

I'm Up For It

One week ago, I had to open my big mouth and brag to Jamie about how many pairs of shoes I have. She challenged me to wear a different pair of heels every day for a week, and being the one-upper that I am, I told her that I'd wear every single pair of my heels with no repeats until I ran out of shoes.

This probably sounds more like a fun, girly thing to do as opposed to the bain of my existence right now. However, it's not a fun, girly thing for me to do, mostly because I'm not a girly girl (despite the number of heels I own) and I never know when I'm going to be on a job site, which means that if I'm wearing heels on a job site, I'm automatically a whore. Not to mention that I've also started wearing hoop earrings, so I'm a bona fide hoochie mama. At least that's how I look when I teeter through the dirt and gravel on a job site. Hot, I know.

And for lack of better material to post about, I figured I'd make the best of the situation and at least try to have fun with it. That being said, please to enjoy a photo diary of days 3, 4, and 5. Days 1 and 2 are on Jamie's camera and will be posted as soon as I get them.

Crazy Lady Radio Rant Update: The license plates have been ordered, and I'm taking the car in on Thursday morning for the stripes. Knock on wood. I'm planning on wearing my highest, pokiest heels on Thursday just in case I need to leave puncture marks up and down someone's back.

My Sister Is Always Right Update: Last night, I went to a kick boxing class. Bone Senior is probably exclaiming, "Woo hoo!!! Yay for you!!!" with glee as she reads that. Yes, I actually dragged my bucket of yuck to the gym and participated in an hour-long kick boxing class. And by "participated in", I mean "moaned, groaned and made horrific heaving noises as I struggled to follow the turbo jam choreography."

But here's the thing - I didn't hate it. In fact, I liked it. I felt really good afterwards. And I know Bone Senior is going to say "I told you so!" when she reads this, but that's OK, because Bone Senior knows best. She's been trying to get me to go to the gym for years, but my defense has always been that I hate hate hate working out. When I use the elliptical machine at my house, I just get more and more angry. When I'm done, I'm pissed. Lit'rally. I'd rather go play tennis for an hour. But the class was actually fun, and I'm going to keep going.

So, after years of stubborn resistance, I admit defeat and surrender to the gym. Which is a good thing, because last weekend I bought this bathing suit



and cellulite just will not do. I'm holding on to the faint glimmer of hope that I can actually get away with wearing this bathing suit, because Yanaj's first response when she saw me in it was: "Now see, if you had boobs, you couldn't wear that."

Rock on, ta ta's. Rock. On.

The Day I Revived My Crazy Lady Bathrobe, Curlers and Rolling Pin

Hypothetically, if you happened to be listening to the radio this afternoon around 3:45 pm and happened to hear that a popular radio station was doing a live remote broadcast from a local car dealership; then you might have happened to hear an irate sounding lady who just "happened" to plant herself right next to the broadcast table, shouting and demanding to speak to the person in charge of licensing because her personalized plates still hadn't been ordered, who was then promptly escorted by the general manager into a private office to avoid any further embarrassment to the dealership via the radio waves.

Hypothetically.

Things I Love Thursday

1. Our company got a flier two weeks ago that advertised a "Customer Appreciation Breakfast" for a supplier that we use regularly. The breakfast was this morning, and I'd been looking forward to it for the entire two weeks that the flier had been up. At 8:30, Jamie and I loaded into the mustang and headed to the address that was listed. *Note* The flier had only the street address, no city. We spent approximately 40 minutes driving to the street address in every adjoining city, talking on the radio to other superintendents who were also trying to find the location of said breakfast; only to finally call the supplier and find out that the breakfast was at their Cedar City location. Translation: three and a half hours away. I love this.***

2. After six weeks of haggling, hassling, and general haberdashery, I finally snapped and channeled my inner ghetto hoochie mama on the phone with the car dealership. Everyone around me saw it coming, they're just surprised it took me so long to finally lose it; I was a ticking time bomb of fury, and the fact that six weeks after I ordered and paid for personalized plates, the dealership hadn't even ORDERED the plates through the DMV was the straw that broke this camel's back. And by camel, I mean bull-headed, stubborn, confrontational Aries that has had. It. Up. To. Here. And was about to blow like the Godfather.

This was the last thing on a list of crap that the dealership has yet to make good on. Namely, I still have no racing stripes, I still have no customized grill piece, I still have no personalized plates. Translation: I spent twenty minutes on the phone, bobbing my head, jabbing my fingers in the air, and yelling at the top of my lungs at the dealership. I cannot remember the last time I was this livid. Miraculously, I did it all without swearing once. I have no idea how this happened. All I know is that I have been seething and foaming at the mouth ever since.

If something doesn't happen pronto, I am not above marching in there in my 4-inch stiletto heels and hoop earrings, and leaving stab marks up and down someone's back. I will cause a scene and I will go all ghetto-confrontational on their ass. I love this about myself.

3. It's the first day of May, and it's snowing. I love this.***

4. Jamie challenged me to a bet that's worth lunch: I have to wear high heels to work every day for a week. Why? Because I was telling her how each pair of my heels has it's own clear plastic shoe box that is stacked on the top shelf of my closet and that there were at least twenty-five pairs. Her response was that I always wear the same shoes over and over. My response was that I have to wear sensible shoes because I never know when I'll be on a job site and if I teetered onto a job site wearing stilettos I'd look like a whore. Her response was to bet me that I couldn't wear heels every day for a week. I stubbornly accepted.

Today is day two of the bet and I really am wearing 4-inch stilettos, as referenced in the above stabbing threat. These are by far the trampiest heels I own, and I'm not above wearing them to work. My feet are killing me. I love this.***

***And by love, I mean that I'm PMSsy and everything pisses me off today, especially these things.