23-Aug-2006

At last I have the will to write.  All this gearing up to leave town has been stressful on poor little ole OCD, control-freak me.  There has been no time for chitchat, schmoozing, or "24."  Suffice it to say, you should have seen the jig I did when my drinks cancelled tonight.  There's no way I would have made it - it's only 8:30, and I'm already curled up in my bed, enjoying our wireless capabilities while "Roseanne" plays in the background.

Saturday night, as many of  you know, was my birthday party.  Now, I'm quite torn about these house parties of ours.  My problem is I see people I haven't seen in months, then I chat their respective ears off as everyone else sits around feeling ignored.  Okay, maybe everyone else sits around chatting, and their feeling ignored is mainly in my head, but there were several people I wanted to spend more time with on Saturday that I didn't get to, and I don't want said people to feel slighted, so I'm passive-aggressively apologizing on my blog.  That being said, to the people I did get to spend time with - I wouldn't trade it for the world.  So there.  I had my limit of two chocolate martinis and a Heineken, drank two bottles of Aqua Fina, and called it a night. 

Sunday morning, I was up bright and early (read:  8 AM) for our staff's trip to the L.A. Convention Center's bridal expo.  I don't know how many of you have ever been to a bridal expo, but that is some fucked up shit right there.  I understand the ring sizers, the photographers, the cake samples, but break out the random line dancers and the plastic surgery advocates, and you've lost me.  Luckily, I was paired up with our staff writer.  Even though we only met that morning, we pretended to be engaged to get people to talk to us.  As we walked, he wondered why all the vendors we'd spoken to had given him the evil eye.  Finally it hit me - "I'm not wearing a ring!"  I cried.  "They think I'm a cheap bastard!"  He cried.  So we hightailed it to the ring place to get sized for some cubic zirconia.  Ah, fun times...

Monday night, aka my actual birthday, G-Money figured out it was my birthday around 6:30, and, fuming that I hadn't told either her or H-Berts, immediately sent me home.  I found tons of lovely gifts awaiting me from Mom and Dad, as well as a bedding upgrade from the Designated Driver (she seems to think that my needing 12 hours of sleep a night stems from the fact that I don't have an adequate mattress, sheets, or pillows - I seem to think it stems from the fact that I'm a big fat lazy ass).  Then, the Hottie, the Honeybee, and the Designated Driver took me out for dinner.  Did you know that, in some parts of the world, sake can be made to taste like chocolate cake?  I didn't either.  Regardless, we made it through the night with only one sketchy guy coming up to the table to get the Hottie's phone number.  I mean, seriously, if you need to have an uninterrupted conversation with the Hottie, don't take her out in public.  It's not like we were ho'ing it up at a bar.  We were at a nice restaurant, trying to have a nice dinner, and here comes Serial Rapist Pedophile in his striped linen pants and Birkenstocks.  Um, hello?  Do you REALLY think impolitely inserting (haha!) yourself into our conversation is going to get you into the Hottie's (thankfully not striped linen) pants?  Oh, you do?  Never mind, then.

This morning, I went to the dentist.  Nothing raises my self esteem like hearing I once again have no cavities.  AND I got a new toothbrush.  Was your Wednesday morning full of such positive reinforcement?  I thought not.

And now, back to the "Roseanne" episode where Darlene's poem wins a prize and she doesn't want to read it at culture night but Roseanne makes her.  Written by Joss Whedon.  Word.