To the Xtreme

Okay, so I know I've been a bad, neglectful blog-owner. If it were a Tamagotchi, it would be dead. And then I'd be stuck with this crap-ass dead fake Japanese animal keychain, and I'd probably feel way worse about it than I probably should. Which is why I was never allowed to have a Tamagotchi growing up. Which saddens me to this very day.

But at any rate, I know I haven't been blogging as much as I should, which is stupid, because a variety of interesting things have been happening to me. Sadly, though, many of them are work-related, and in general I don't like to talk about anything even remotely work-related on the off-chance that my boss might one day Google me, just for shits and giggles, and find out that I don't really enjoy staying an extra 15 minutes late every day.

But now, not unlike that old dying pharoah in "The Ten Commandments," I must break my own law and share this one tidbit with you.

We are expected, later this year, to attend a conference entitled "Auditing to the Xtreme."

Now technically, if I don't comment on that one way or another, and just let the name speak for itself, I cannot get in trouble for mocking my job.

But let's say it again, just in case:

Auditing to the Xtreme.

There, I said it. And I feel good about it. Good about sharing.

Xtreme sharing.

Return to Wilmywood

Hey, y'all! (See, I've been back two days already and I'm still saying it! Never did get the southern accent I wanted, though... blast!) My trip to Wilmington was fantastic, although the goings and comings of it were a little rough (more on that in a minute). Between the pig-pickin' (fabulously and expertly hosted by Justin and Dave-- again, sorry about the beer on the rug, Justin!), the baby-seeing (Kaleigh has awesome rapper-esque hand moves!), the Hadley-seeing ("We're kangaroos! I'm a big kangaroo and you're a giant kangaroo! And we live in the kitchen and eat kangaroo food!"), and the all-out shopping, story-swapping and general hanging out with Ashley (I so miss hanging out!), it was a giant blast. I was sad to leave, as usual... but I have to mention-- and this is just a tiny possibility!-- that when I brought up the idea of perhaps moving down there to Ben, he didn't seem disagreeable. I don't think it would be any time soon, so all y'all better just plan on living there for awhile, just in case.

It would have been an even longer trip, had I not ended up spending the night in Atlanta with my new bosom friends from flight 2248 after our plane was unceremoniously cancelled. There is a great deal more to tell of the story, but the telling of it seems to give me hives, so here instead is my quick guide to What To Do If Your Plane is Cancelled In Atlanta:

1. ALWAYS PACK CLEAN UNDERWEAR AND SOCKS AND DEODORANT IN YOUR CARRY-ON. I cannot stress this enough, as the stink from my 36-hour shirt managed to permeate the rest of my clothes in my suitcase on the return trip.

2. If someone wearing a Delta vest snatches your ticket out of your hand and runs it through a machine and hands you a ticket for a flight the next day, smack her. I didn't actually do this, but wish now that I had. In fact, I sort of looked for her during my return trip, just so I could glower menacingly at her. But alas, I didn't find her.

3. Remember: If you smoke, the best smoking rooms are on C-concourse. There is nothing at all of note on D-concourse, which generally just sort of sucks.

4. Don't make fun of anyone on your flight, because you might end up eating dinner with them later.

But it obviously all turned out okay, and I got a good story out of it, and am now a savvy air traveler who will not burst into tears in front of all the other passengers from her plane, prompting them to alternately mock me and give me Kleenex.

And Rocky, Amanda, Bruce, Debbie, Donna and Ashley, I hope you had as good a time in Wilmington as I did.

The Final Countdown

Well, all, this will be my last post PW (pre-Wilmington) (which doesn't really work well, because post-Wilmington will also be PW. But whatever)-- just wanted to drop a line and mention that I am at near-pants-peeing levels of excitement over my trip, although I have to admit, I'm a little sad to be leaving Ben-- this is the first time that I've gone out of town and he's stayed behind (it's usually the other way around).

But I'm planning on calling him and sharing pretty much every detail of my stay in the Post Day Wrap Up ("We saw the belligerent juggler downtown! I bought some shirts! Those cats I used to feed started breeding, and now there are millions of inbred retard cat babies roaming feral down North Sixth!"), so it'll almost be like he's there.

So, to my Wilmington readers, I'll see you in less than forty hours... to everyone else, I look forward to seeing you when I get back!

(PS: When I was little, the song "Final Countdown" by Journey or Europe or whoever scared the crap out of me. I still can't really listen to it without getting a really freaky weird feeling. I have the same problem with "Space Oddity" by David Bowie. Must be some sort of space fear issue.)

Life in Pootown

So, about five years after everyone else in the nation, Ben and I went out and purchased Animal Crossing, mainly because it won't stop being crappy out, and we have officially run out of things to do (unless you count watching the Cavs on TV, which is getting tiresome, as they appear to play seven to eight games a day).

When we first put the game in, we were pretty disappointed, actually-- run this errand, run that errand, shake that tree, visit that moose. Where was the action in that? But, while Ben watched, I named the town (Pootown) and my character (Mongo), and went through the motions of a normal day of Pootown life. But my heart just wasn't in it-- I had actual, real-live errands to run, and they seemed more exciting than delivering a tatami mat to Apollo, the shitty eagle (always with the snide comments!).

But then, when I finally stopped playing and got ready for bed, I found myself longing to return to Pootown. Perhaps I could get a shovel, and unearth a fossil or somesuch. The fact that today is Valentine's Day was exciting not only because Ben made me a wonderful dinner, but because I knew Puddles and Stu, my frog and moose next door neighbors, would probably send me yet another rally shirt as a present.

And right now, Ben is playing with his own character, a newcomer to Pootown named LeBen. LeBen just got cheated out of all his money by Puddles, who forced him to buy one of those perpetual motion executive toys with his entire life savings.

Ahh, the mean streets of Pootown...

You know what you remind me of?

Only a few more days until I'm off to Wilmington-- with all the baby-seeing, clothes-buying, pig-picking and Modge-Podging that it has to offer! I've reached that stage of excitement where I'm making up little songs about it and planning exactly which outfits I'm planning on wearing for each day-- after all, a baby-seeing outfit is way different from a pig-picking outfit.

And of course I've gotten out my old CDs that I made while I was there, to get me in the mood. While I was driving around listening to the radio the other day, I heard the song "You're Beautiful," by James Blunt, and for some reason it reminded me of Wilmington, even though it came out years after I left. It just seems to have a Wilmington-y vibe to it...

So that got me to thinking about other songs that remind me of things-- usually not even specific events, but just like a scene, or a moment. Every time I hear them, I get taken back to that moment:

"I Go Blind," Hootie and the Blowfish: Driving to Hudson with Megan, Karin and Wendy to play on a swingset we found there once

"Allison," Elvis Costello: Standing in front of my boombox in the corner of my dorm room, looking at my WCW wrestler Valentines.

"Baba O'Reilly," The Who: Driving to Tom's apartment with Ashley, and feeling like something very important was going to happen

"Little Dudes," Pee Shy: Talking smack about our enemies with Amy, Denise, Kelly and Jeni in the triple on our floor.

"Hey, Girl," OAR: My third date with Ben. We made spaghetti and watched "Amish in the City." Sexy.

"The Gambler," Kenny Rogers: New Year's Day at 12:30 A.M., Dave got everyone in the bar singing this at Cedar's.

Lies, Deceit in Grocery Store

Recently, my friend Deidre informed me that the so-called baby carrots I purchase so faithfully at the grocery store are actually nothing more than regular, grown-up carrots, cut into the exact size and shape of what the naked eye would perceive to be a baby carrot.

I had no idea that this was true, and now I feel duped. It's so obvious-- they don't have skin, or any sign at the top of ever having had greenery attached to them. I don't know if I thought they were just plucked from the ground before their time, held up to be admired-- "Aw, look at the cute widdle baby cawwots!"-- and then packaged and shipped to my local Giant Eagle.

And now I am obsessed with this, and, I admit, a little turned off by the whole baby carrot issue now. Oh, I still eat them. But why? Why not just buy a regular carrot, peel it, and cut it into baby-safe rounded shapes?

Come to think of it, there must be some sort of machine I could purchase to reach this end. Clearly, this is not done by hand; the workmanship is too perfect. But why? At what point did someone say, "You know? These carrots are too big, and pointy. Let's wee them up a little." And where are the pointy ends of the carrots? In the trash? Or maybe turned into matchstick carrots (sold separately, but conveniently, right next door to the baby carrots)?

My whole life is a sham.

Oh, baby!

Yay! It's official-- the Penelo-baby has arrived! Meet Kaleigh Grace, who arrived on Friday around 5 in the morning. I can't wait to see you and your mom in less than two weeks!

One Digit Wonder

Just wanted to share the joyous news-- I bought my first official pair of size 8 jeans on Sunday! They are, sadly, just slightly too small-- there may be some unsightly side-fat issues, which Ben claims are non-existent, but I doubt he can accurately pinpoint side-fat as well as a woman could-- but this is off-set by the fact that the jeans only cost $7.

I plan on officially unveiling them tomorrow (the unofficial unveiling, at Jeni and Joel's for the Super Bowl, consisted mostly of me commenting every five seconds, "I can't believe it! Size eight! And only $7!"). Which means, Diane, I need you to be honest about the side-fat issue. Which mainly means, unless it is grossly unacceptable, I want you to say, "Nice pants! A little side-fat is A-OK!"

Hooray!

I won't say much, since I haven't been informed officially yet, but the word is there's a new baby in town! Well, not my town, because none of my Cleveland friends are pregant-- yet-- that I know of, anyway. But in my honorary hometown of Wilmington, there's one more cute little girl for me to buy things for and possibly modge-podge with, depending on her dexterity. More on this when I'm given the go-ahead-- after all, new babies, such as the Federletus (which is the greatest baby nickname I have ever heard, and I am CERTAIN that Britney and Kevin didn't make it up themselves), are notoriously press-shy.