The Mister and I made plans to meet for lunch at Baja Grill for yum soft tacos and a beautiful view of the mountainy mcmountain green trees and hilly views of Austin.

Sos I must preface this entire debacle by stating that I was in a hurry and running in stilets.

As I was reaching for my phone to call The Mister to let him know I was on me ways, the strap o’ me purse swiveled, catapulted, and locked its cute lil’ leathery arm ’round the railing of the parking garage stairwell.

Where I totally fell to my doom.

And now? My hip is wonky.
And my hand is devoid of skeen.
Basically? If I may be so blunt… it hurt reallyeffingbad.
So now I’m sore. And a lil’ bitter?

[ This Is The View My Pumpkin Butte Took From Our Lunchtime Fiesta. ]

Marketing Director: It’s a little bit like Fight Club, isn’t it?
Office Dude: Yeah. You’re not supposed to talk about it.
Marketing Director: Kind of?
Office Dude: (hesitates into relinquishing) Actually… I’ve never seen Fight Club.
Entire Office in Unison: What?!
Marketing Director: Give me your Man Card. Now.

Fight Club: The quintessential flick that (between you and me) somewhat insists upon itself.

(Honestly, I feel like showering and going into the fetal post-viewing.)

But, bethatasitmay, Fight Club is a mov-ay that everyone in this generation probably should have seen by now or you run the risk of ridicule (see: convo above). It’s just one of those things.

So Office Dude’s pretty much been coasting along by inserting the “Yeah. You’re not supposed to talk about it.” line into conversations in hopes that no one would discover his movie-watching mishaps.

They’d chuckle, nod knowingly, and move on.

Not this time, Office Dude.
Oh noes.
Not this time.

So IKEA has this “policy” that you can “ask for assistance” of neon-vested employees once you’ve purchased items to help you gladly, excitedly, and willingly pack them safely into or onto your vehicle.

Me: ‘Scuse me, sir?
Neon Vest: ‘Sup?
Me: Can you help my fiance and I superimpose this violently large bed into our automobile?
Neon Vest: (shrugs, walks away)

I worked in food service for three years - I have street cred.
And yet?
I look at The Mister in disbelief.

Two hours worth of blue rope strapping later (read: we attached the ginormous bed to THE TOP OF MY BABY’S CAR)

[ This Will Paint You a Picture. ]

I-35 is the modern day Hiroshima.
It is to be avoided atallcosts.

Yet The Mister and I drove down this particular interstate, with my nimbly bo-bimbly skinny minnie sad non-muscularly arms hanging out the passenger window holding onto the headboard.

vs.

The Olde Headboard

(Bonus points if you recognized the Rasputina reference)

Aren’t you proud?!

Ya see those there shoes on ya left? At the time of purchase, I was of the unawares that they are The Most Painful Shoes in Existence. I made the hideous and awful mistake of going grocery shopping in them. I swore that day on my Bible, before God and man, that I would never torture my tootsies like that ever again.

So logically, that meant I was going to wear these to work today. All reason flew out the window when I rationalized that… hey (!),I am at my desk all day. It’s not like I have to actually walk anywhere.

But then there was an Official Board Room Meeting Like The Kind You See in The Movies with the long wooden table and the business suity peeps.

And I had to walk across the building to get there.

I wound up shuffle-ball-changing across the walkway and praying for sweet mercy on my feetsies.

So it’s lunchtime now, and I am ready to violently hurl them from my feet and into the fountain on the first floor  where they will drown and die and go away.

But they are cute, aren’t they?!

I keep waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear and guffaw, “Jus’ keeeeeddings! You’ze not hiredz! You’ze firedz!”

Though that’s not what Mr. Demi Moore sounds like really, is it? Forget I mentioned that slightly dated pop culture reference because I am no longer in the loop of Cool Things, and I have absolutely no shame in admitting that.

The tunes currently rotating in my automobile music box are spandex sporting Erasure. Oh stop judging, you know you love it.

[ This Is The Point. Sort Of. ]

As far as the job?
It seems I’ve found muh callings.

Thinking about how we’ve clicked reminds me of those Childhood Saturday Morning Quadrupled Stack o’ Golden Perfect Pancakes mom would make:
1. Slathered in the mapley yum syrup
2. Sliced into perfect little squares
3. Buried in copious amounts of drippy buttery butter

Oh pancakes, I miss ye so.

On the outside?
Calm.
Composed.
Demure.

I am Jackie O.
Totally Gwynnie P.

BUT (!)
On the inside?

If you can’t even turn ON the computer without the password within the training manual you fully intended to bring with you on The First Day but totally forgot to because you were so excited that you rushed out the door and due to sheepishness opted for black pants instead of the skirty illustrations of giddiness pictured in the post down under?

The above graphic pretty much describes the synapses firing.
What if they come in and I haven’t even turned on the computer yet?!

Thank the Lord The Mister answered the phone sleepily and relayed all mandatory info.

Post spontaneous combustion?  All was golden.

This is why the Steve Sanders posters at Wal-Mart were always in stock.

Yesterday, I took a lovely little periwinkle I Am On The Beach I’m So Cold I Must Cross My Arms Like This sweater into Olde Jobbe. (From here on out, aforementioned may now be referred to simply as Sweater.)

[ This Is Where Things Get Squirrely. ]

Upon realizing Sweater’s seemingly random disappearance from the back of my chair, Unreliable Coworker and I began to turn the office upside downcakes.

He was in top form: kicking in chairs and knocking down tables.  Wait.  That’s a Pet Shop Boys song. HOLD THE PHONE AND REWIND: digging through trash cans and emptying the contents of the mini-fridge (read: desperation had reached it’s pique).

“I think you left it at home,” Replacement Me Who I Was Training looked at me with googly eyes as though I were of The Crazy.

Okays, look Replacement Mes.
I is NOT crazy.
Bite lip.

After two hours of explaining my sanity, I reached my lowest point by embarrassingly confessing my extreme dorkiness (see: previous posting VisiBlog: Auf Weidersehens!) to take a picture of Olde Jobbe for memory-shaped things.

And in one of those candid shots? Sweater was alive and fully functioning on my person. (Picture deleted because I felt beastly. Damnation and hellfire, I wish I hadn’t now purely for photographic evidence.)

[ This is Where The Plot Thickens. ]

“Did you happen to see a sweater mingling on your premises?” I asked the Jester Market cashier from whom I purchased the coffees from at 8:30 that very mornings.

“I’ll check the video surveillance and get back to you.” He Sherlock Holmsed.

“Ahhhh thank you.” I sighed.

Ten minutes pass.
He entered the office to deliver his results.

“Light blue sweater.  With the v in the back.”  He folded his arms. “You were indeed wearing it at 8:30 this morning.”

Now… I’m not pointing fingers.
Or passing blame.
Or judging.

But an eency wee teeny part of me wonders (after checking everything short of climbing through the air duct vents like Judd Nelson) if the odd puffy bulge coming from Replacement Me’s bag was my loving, sad, and now forever gone Sweater.

THAT I ONLY GOT TO WEAR ONCE.

Dear Olde Jobbe,

Okay. Maybe two.

Dear Reader,
I’ve got to be completely honest with you.
Given that last day of Olde Jobbe is Friday?
I have utterly and undeniably checked out.

Like, if you went to the library, and asked for a copy of Me? Madame Librarian would tippity type onto her little wee mini keyboard, adjust her reading glasses, and mutter, “Checked out.”

Like, if you went to Blockbuster, and asked one of the employees if they could look in the Drop Box to see if there was any slight chance someone had turned Me in that day because all of the copies of Me on the shelf were gone? Said employee would pilfer apathetically through the DVD return box, shake their their head, and mumble, “Checked out.”

Like, if you went to a hotel and asked the concierge if The Room of Job Discontent was still occupied by Me because you needed to ask me a question? He’d look at you, die a little inside, and sniffle, “Checked out.”

Because it is literally taking every ounce of my soul, every teenincy fiber of my being… to care about this place anymore. (Sweet freedom fries, that is awesome.)

Seacrest LindeBlog OUT!

I think last night I may have gotten slightly overzealous with the newly purchased As Seen On TV PedEgg. Because today I feel like I just peeled my tootsies, dipped them in peroxide, and set them into a lake of fire to fry.

So I filed this little tidbit o’ info right in with the Plucking Your Eyebrows: The More You Know life lessons learned:

Stop before you think you’ve gone too far.
Because chances are?
You already have.

[ A Preface That Must Be Told. ]

Look at that DMD over there to the right.
Just bein’ itself.
Sweatin’.

I am simultaneously typing this post and applauding it’s existence.  That’s just how serious I am about the events that are about to unfold.

It must be said that my love affair with this sweet nectar of life is unbridled for the following reasons:
1. Diet Mountain Dew satisfies the quench in ways no other beverage before it could ever aspire to hold a candle to.
2. No calories.
3. Sweetness content = justright.
4. Gas-in-stomach ratio post drinkage?  Nunya. (Other diet carbo bevvies make my stomach blow up to Santa-like proportions)

Conclusion?  Fandom for life.

[ This Is The Point. ]

So bethatasitmay, I couldn’t help but notice the contents of the older gentleman’s cart behind me in line at HEB.  Normally, I wouldn’t be so bold as to comment as I am of the shy breed and apologize to you for my foot being in the wrong place if you, dear Reader, were to step on it.

But the kindredshippiness of the similarities were entirely too much to ignore.

He, too, a follower of The Diet Dew as his cart humbly and gloriously contained two lone twelve packs. The very same exact samey same thing as I was purchasing.  The rarity of this coincidence struck a chord as words began to fall out of my mouth.

“Good stuff, ” I pointed and nodded at my Diet Mountain Dew.

Who was this person speaking?
Where are these words coming from?
Have I unknowingly become the annoying jingly change pocket stranger that speaks to randoms in public?

“Incredible.”  His eyes seemed to stay in one place as his head slowly moved from side to side. The seriousness in his face let me know his love affair with The Diet Dew was just as intense as mine.

“You know, I could drink a twelve pack of this in one day,” my credit card slid seamlessly through the machine.

“Easily.”  We unisoned.  Both sets of hands slicing the air as if we were mirror images. And then we froze.

Ok.
That was weird.

‘Tis no secret that I am of The Ginger Race.  And in my gingerhoodedness, my lone detriment is the disavowing any knowledge of the ability to tan.

In my youth, my brilliant plan was for my freckles to eventually merge, and I’d possess The Uber Super Human Tan.  Plan faltered, failed, and buried.

[ Youth: When Looking Good Means Looking Like Everyone Else. ]

I tried the Crisco-to-skin route in the sun-basking days of junior high when the Cool Place to Hang was Bee Creek Pool and sunscreen was laughable.  Because all of my blonde and brunette friends were disgustly perfect and brown, soaking themselves in baby oil, and I, The Redhead, pun intended: paled in comparison.

From there, I coasted on into high school and straight into the tanning beds to toast my milky white skin for Important Life Altering Everything Depends On This Night Events like “Homecoming” and “Prom”.  Everyone else was tanning, so why not me?  (score one for play-on-words 90’s reference to Cranberries record)

And after a about five really good burny burn burns equatable to Wince When You See Me proportions? I actually managed to gain more freckles color.

Never underestimate the power of Denial.

[ This is Where Reality and Acceptance Set In. ]

But then I took a chemistry course at A&M. My professor scolded me that tanning beds were A Touch of Satan. That hour-long pep talk gingerly (yes, again!) sealed my fate as a Pale. I was banished to shade and SPF for eternity.

Tan goddesses like Jennifer Aniston are just FREAKS OF NATURE. (Actually, I hear she goes to those spray tan places and spends like $98 mil on the upkeep, but whatevs.)

[ This is Where Reason Flies Out The Window And Looking Good Wins. ]

I never considered tanning until quite recently when the sudden realization that if I don’t rip the veritable sunburn band-aid off a wee teensy bit by doing something… the first day we arrive in St. John, I will immediately baste and cook like a Thanksgiving turkey, rendering myself unrecognizable two days later when we get married.

[ Here Is The Point. ]

Should I take today, this beautiful Saturday, and take advantage of the tanning bed coupons bestowed upon me in the bridal gifty package thing I got when purchasing my wedding dress?

Because I certainly don’t want my wedding pictures to look like the menu cover at Red Lobster.

Upon returning home from The First Day training at the new job, I opened the door to a smiling and giddy husband-to-be.

Holding this:

Flowers = Excellence

Awwwww!!

The day went so ridiculously perfect that my tum-tum fills with dread having to finish my two weeks at old job.

Me: Three burritos, please.
HEB Deli Lady: Sure thing.
Me: And (pause) this is a bit of an odd request.
HEB Deli Lady: We don’t pass judgment here.
Me: It’s for my coworker with weird taste. He wants mayonnaise and hot sauce to put on those.
HEB Deli Lady: EW!

Thankfully, yesterday will be the last time I ever have that conversation with the HEB Deli Lady again.

[ This Is Where I Break It To Unreliable. ]

“I gave my two weeks on Friday,” I drive-byed as I poured a cup of coffee.

“Tell me you’re lying,” Unreliable Coworker’s jaw fell to the floor. Aforementioned jaw just sitting there, marinating on the fact that it will now have reinstate status as a worker bee. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

He’s referring to the fact that my presence over the last year has relieved him of all responsibility as a working, functioning human being.

Report:
I was Nervous Nervous Facepants coming in Monday morning after giving my two weeks on Friday. The Boss, His Wife, and Unreliable are warm and thankful for my time here, genuinely sad to see me go. Totally a good and recommended way to leave your place of employment.

[ This Is Where I Replace Myself. ]

Agenda:
Post an ad via Craigslist for a graphic designer to replace me.

An hour after posting said ad? 19 emails. 24 hours after posting said ad? An OVERWHELMING 102 emails begging to be hired. (Note: SCARY considering Craigslist is how I got my new job. So this is exactly what they had to go through.)

After dutifully printing each resume, I handed the stack of people’s lives on paper to The Boss. Dropping them carelessly to the floor and shooing his hand at them as though they were trash, he disgustedly shrugged, “I would trade all of these people for you. No one can replace you.”

“Oh! Look at this one! She has red hair!” I was hopeful, referencing the cartoony redhead at the top of one of the resumes.

“HIRE THAT GIRL!” The Boss commanded, finger to the ceiling. We laughed and then his face somewhat melted like a candle from happy to sad.

[ My Two Cents. ]

Funny thing is? I’ve had people tell me graphic design is common sense (hi, rude). That any ol’ body with a computer can do it. But sifting through the numerous portfolios and resumes of self-titled “Graphic Designers”, that statement couldn’t be farther from the truth.

One of my favorite hobbies on the weekends is to go bargain shopping slash rummaging through aisles of clothes at Goodwill. I will spend hours just walking and leafing - in search of those perfect, classic pieces that look brand new.

Agenda:
Find basic, classy Professional Career Business Womany type pieces (the glee in which I typed that phrase was incendiary).

Shopping List:
* Pencil skirts (basic colors)
* Solid blouses (I feel so matronly saying ‘blouse’, yet ‘tops’ just sounds silly, ‘camisoles’ makes me think of underoos… so will someone please educate me on the proper term for a ’shell’ type top?)
* Classic heels that cover the tattoo ON THE TOP OF MY FOOT idiotically obtained during Drunk Phase.

After all, I have an obligation to dress the part of Professional Career Business Woman. Because from now on it’s deadlines, coffee, briefcases, and business suits.

But as I was thumbing through the many hideous clothes you will inevitably stumble upon like the floral printy 90’s stretch pants when Goodwill Hunting, I froze dead in my tracks when I laid eyes on this little mod number.

Goodwill Hunting

“That is adorable,” The Cashier wrinkled her nose angrily at me.

“I kind of want to change into it when I get into my car,” I grinned like an idiot. “Even though the next place I’m going is home.”

If you think it’s ugly? TOTALLY don’t tell me because I have already drawn up the papers to adopt it as a new member of our family:

1. The Mister
2. Me
3. Ginobili, our wee bebeh hedgehog
4. 42″ HDTV
5. Mod Dress

Dear Reader,
Fancy new design job.
A building with fountains.
And black marble.
Glass elevators.
And sweet, sweet mon-ays.

I will expand on this when I can form complete thoughts.

Thank you for your time,
The LindeBlog.

The Mister: I decided I’m going to get a tattoo.
Me: Oh yeah?
The Mister: On my shoulder.
Me: Hmm. Okay. What is it going to be?
The Mister: A potato chip.
Me: (blank stare, eventual light bulb)
In Unison: Chip on your shoulder.

Ba dum ching!

[ Five Years Ago I Was Embarrassing. ]

When I first moved to Austin, I was a fresh-faced and eager young lassy, ready to embrace all that the city had to offer. A veritable beret-flinging Mary Tyler Moore. After living in corporate trafficy suity-suit Houston for four years, Austin enticed me as the artsy, younger, hipper sibling.

I will frequent random coffee shops and record stores!
I will burn incense and absorb culture!
I will Live Strong! and Keep Austin Weird!

But I could never quite pull the whole scarfy exotic Vegan Bohemian Existentialist thing off. I totally wore Gap jeans and ate Whataburger.

[ Five Years Down The Road I Got Bitter. ]

“I know it’s a big ol’ crazy shot in the dark, but… do you have anything in the klezmer genre?”

I’m wearing my best shade of Denial in hopes I won’t have to shlep all the way downtown with the traffic and the parking to Waterloo Records* where I know I’ll find exactly what I’m looking for.

“Huh?” The Best Buy girl in blue automatically looks at me disgusted.

I retreated to my car to mentally prepare to head downtown with the gamillions of people. Getting anywhere in this city takes 72 hours and a ravaging dose of Tylenol Extra Strength.

*Referential Explanationcakes:
Waterloo, a place I once practically lived in and loved, is a wildy popular record store in the epicenter of Austin known for safehousing people with hair I no longer understand and obscure music. It has a parking lot that consists of five spaces.

“My dad is worth it. My dad is worth it.” I chanted as I entered the parking lot. My panther-like eyes spy a coveted spot about to open. Sweet pickles that heavenly spot will be mine!

Two Dreadlockians standing on both sides of the car.
And yet they aren’t getting in?
They are casually discussing where to go next.

GETINTHECARANDGO!!

The good news? My trek was not made in vain. Waterloo, of course, delivered with an entire row of Israel-shaped music to choose from.

[ This Is My Last Straw. ]

Ready to purchase and getout, I took stance behind an iPod Backpack in Pigtails.
For 2 minutes.

One would assume she was standing in line to purchase the albums in her hand.
But that assumption would be wrong.

She was just standing there.
Existing.

“Scuse me,” I muttered. She didn’t budge.
“Scuse me,” I cleared my throat.

“SCUSE ME-e-E!” My voice cracked from the uncomfortable volume. “I’d like to get by now!”

I am Garth Algar.
And Waterloo is my discontent.