Assessing Our Options

Kelly, Taylor and I made a vow that if by the time we have to announce that our age is 38, none of us are married, we will move into a lovely house together and adopt animals and children.
Details are still being worked out, for instance whether or not we will follow Taylor's suggestion of an entirely pink house. Kelly countered with every room having its own theme. Taylor settled on her room having a pink theme. I told them that I don't care as long as there are no cats, I don't have to be responsible for fixing appliances, and we are within walking distance from caffeine.
Most importantly, we decided that in spirit of non-marriage, we will all change our last name and form the ultimate triumvirate: "O'Houlehotzke".

Choosing Joy

Few things give me greater joy than watching grown people walk around in footie pajamas.
And yes, art shaped like body parts and tormenting Small Terrier with Snausages are both part of that few.

Oh yes.
And pissing off the elderly by way of political T's. Again. Except this time with a more overt anti-war message. Possibly something like "No war in Iraq".
Take that Tapered Pants.

Labeled: "Explicit Lyrics. Or at least we think so, some of these words are pretty big."

The concert last night was so phenomenal, I chose not to shower the sweaty, nerdy essence off of my skin. Or the feeling of Colin Meloy walking directly by us when we were waiting to get inside.
Here is where we were supposed to say something trite like "I love you" or "Father my children" or "May I touch your pretty glasses or your nice sweater?" or really say anything at all.
What you are not supposed to do is let the very attractive lead singer of your all time favorite band walk by you within an arm's reach, and do nothing but let your jaw drop so far down that it scraps gum off of the Madison pavement.
Because the entire rest of the night you will struggle to kick yourself in stupidity.
But then Colin will come out for the encore, say, "Alright, fine, we've got one more for you guys" and right when you expect any of their amazing story songs, they break into their twenty minute ballad, "The Tain".
And all in the world is right again.

My Love For This Band Could Possibly Fill Up The Two Empty Seats

Armed with embroidery floss, The Time Traveler's Wife, tube socks, and Pirate Booty, the lovely Alexandra and I will be carting over to Madison to see The Decemberists, once again. And, for some unreasonable reason, all of our Decemberist-loving friends have prioritized athletics over songs about being so nonathletic that Chuck Taylor's are the only shoes they own with laces.

So we are left with two extra tickets and the image of us trying to scalp them should be entertainment enough. I'm wearing red, hoping that I can be shirt buddies with whoever is the opening act, and so that my best friend Lisa will see me and remember our lunch plans from the concert last November. Its cool, Lisa. I know you're busy, and I know in my heart of hearts that this is not a reflection of our friendship.

The American Dream Becomes Somewhat Subjective. Again.

No!
I swear it ain't so!
I swear that yesterday at work I did not participate in an employee joke!
I will not like my job!

Or at least I promise not to like my job as much as people who work at my previous wage-earning establishment (recounted here and here) hate theirs. My dear, dear cousin Dan worked there for about three years in my company, and, this past Saturday night lived the walking-out-on-the-job fantasy. Mind you that this is the cousin Dan who had such intense hyperactivity disorder when we were small, that on family vacations, we were only allowed watch 3 Ninjas one time.

The scene:
Busy Saturday night at the pizza place, appx. 6:30 pm.
Dan, alone on the sandwich bar, putting out an order about once every 20 minutes. Overwhelmed.

Takes tickets by fist-fulls, throws them about kitchen, throws apron to floor, runs into overflowing dining room.
Jumps on table, removes shirt.
Swings shirt about (see Tarzan if you're confused about this part)
People stare.
Shouts something along the lines of "I just want everybody here to know just how much I hate my job!"
Runs out.

What Would Freud Do?

The vivid dreams have continued all this week. They have included a heroin trip, Tess's benign brain tumor, and a reoccurring theme of white industrial rope.
The heroin one made me particularly terrified, especially when I got into work yesterday and one of my boss paged me in the shipping department from Tuscon on the PA system.
I plan on getting no dreams tonight because I am weak against the bribe of middle school girls when they asked me to help them with their 2nd annual all-night Pink Party.

And yes, you're right. The heroin dream has nothing to do with the PA system at my workplace.
I've found a particular lack of structure in my life this week, and you, my friend, have just been victim.

Blogger reccomends that I label this post "scooters". This post is not about scooters.

Things I've Thought Today:

1. How angry I am that I tried to remember so many things today that I forgot about all of them.
2. How uncomfortable it makes me feel to ask my boss for four consecutive weeks off of work without being fired.
3. How angry I am that the size of Flinstones vitamins have shrunk dramatically, I'd say at least by 30%.
4. How upsetting the dream I had last night was in which Sri dyed her hair a streaky red and I told her I liked it.
   
5. How jealous I am that Sri gets to go to Africa. Please don't dye your hair nasty, and follow all the other safety precautions as well.
   
6. How as long as the above are my most weighty issues, realistically, I should be fine.
7. How hard it is to be realistic.
   

Outline Format: For Non-Free Thinkers

After much consideration, I've decided that all of my Spring Break experiences can be classified under the following criteria:

1. Eating my body weight in:
1. Dunkin' Donuts
2. Pizza
3. Strawberry Lemonade
   
2. Minimal showering
3. Journey/Bon Jovi (Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to)
   
4. Hotel Beds
5. Gas
1. For cars
2. Otherwise
   
6. Uncontrollable cravings for bacon, which will be satisfied tomorrow morning.
   

Chapter Two

Today's Schedule:
7:45: Wake up, angry once again at psychological principals because you can't catch up on sleep, even when you spend 8 hours in a car the previous day, most of which at hours when you still apply for McDonald's breakfast.
8:30: Fine, I'll get out of bed.
8:31: Realize you're home alone and put on leggings, an oversized promotional Coca-Cola Classic shirt, a summer camp sweatshirt, and leprechaun slippers.
8:35: Separate laundry.
8:36: Read the label of the expensive jeans seven times, and agree to wash them because you've extended the courtesy NotWashingBecauseThey'reJeans period, possibly by several weeks.
8:37: Play with the laundry soap and spiny thing, then throw in clothes.
8:40-9:00: Think about pretending to be productive on the computer, settle on eating Frosted Flakes.
9:00-9:30: Make coffee, and then lose track of how many cups you've had and aimlessly wonder into the kitchen eight times only to find the pot empty. Shoot.
9:31: Play with calorie counter on Starbucks.com.
10:00: Dignity gone, perhaps go to library to scavenge for music.