So I’m on the treacherous drive home, amidst the cavalcade o’ vehicles that oft litter the Austin highway known as 360. My guilty pleasure Erasure is blaring, and I’m feeling a bit jazzed that’s it’s Friday. Methinks to meself, “Aye ’tis a jolly wee day for me to go do a little shopping.” I resolve a quick mirror check to make sure face is presentable.

In slow motion, my graceful index finger ever so gently brushes the paper-thin skin ‘neath my eye socket region. And by “ever so gently brushed” I mean launched my fist into my brainsocket.  This rapid, most swift movement catapulted into a violent series of events wherein my own worst fear came to fruition: there was a contact. lodged. behindmyfbombeye.

I wince with excruciating pain. Razorblades, strychnine?  Nothin’. With each blink, a sharp sting pierced, plunged, and plundered its needley way deeper into my eye.

[ This is Where I Daydream (Day...mare?) ]

Coming to terms with loss of vision and eventual brain damage, I picture my family visiting my sad hospital bed. My entire head, bound and bandaged.  Aaaaand for whatever reason, my arms rendered immobile.

[ End Daymare. ]

I cover my wounded ocular vessel, and one-eye it home. My tear-stained face no longer presentable, must now go mano a mano with the ol’ magnifying mirror.

The contact? She eventually showed herself, but not without consequence.  You better believe I’m not penetrating my eyeball again. At least not until Sunday.

You might as well come right out and ask for the rights to my first born.

Scaries. Sos I was thumbing through my Health mag this evening when I came across this puzzling ad.

Not only was I slightly horrified at the Amazonian length of this woman’s arms, but was intrigued by the fact that she is even a real person and not a Photoshopped variation of Queen of Lifetime Television for Women, Meredith Baxter Birney (see below).

Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to battle it out with this lad-ay to the left in a strangling contest.

So when I was, like, 8 years old I had these daydreams that when I became a Lady Woman Lady I’d be sitting on my window seat on a rainy day in an oversized cozy t-shirt and giant cozy white socks*.

*[ Cue Random Tangent. ]

Tubesies.So speaking of tube socks? Apparently they are totes out of style now thanks to the Intern at work who’s way younger and blonde with eyelashes and reminds me I’m aging and recently let me in on the news that tube socks have been out o’ style for the entire last decade. Oops. (Okay, so I didn’t quite wear the violent sexy pair to the right, but mine were approaching the calf muscle. I know.)

So how could I have missed that memo?

And did I really seriously work out at Pure Austin in Katanka’s yoga pilates pretentiousy kayaking class with effing tube socks?  Sweet Mary and Joseph.  There I was red-faced, determined, and doing the plank completely unaware I was trapped in the 80′s. Oblivious!  I know for a fact that sweaty Kevin Bacon and Kyra “These are My Lips” Sedgewick have worked out there.

OMG.
What if Kevin Bacon had seen my tube socks?
Would he have taken that as a cue and begun to punch-dance out his rage?

[ End Tangent. ]

So back to my oh so interesting girlish dreams that my red curly tendrils are pinned in a messy bun with a pencil as I adjust my oh so dainty glasses pensively and cross my long, modelesque legs. I stare in the distance at the Eiffel Tower, and feverishly scribble brilliant, innovative thoughts.

But then it dawned on me that I will never become the next great American novelist sporting a faux French accent with long modely legs (sans tube socks) if I don’t at least write a teensy wee bit every once in awhile.  And grow about 2 feet more.

LindeBlog, I dust thee of thy cobwebs and vow to update you way, way more.

I was perusing for a bruising tonight on The eBays when I came upon this midnight clear:

Seriously?!
I don’t care who you are.
Or how too cool for school you and your handbag may be.
That price is ree-dih-kew-lee.

Even J. Cu shares my disgust.

Total spelling fail.

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.

[ This Is What Happens When The Mister Works All Day. ]

All groceries put in their respective homes.
All laundry folded and tidily snuggled away.
Aaaaaaaaand I get New Job Jitters for tomorrow so I decide I want to figure out what to wear and it turns into a little game of dress up and I have entirely too much fun and hey stop judging me I just lost 28 lbs that’s a marginal accomplishment of sorts. No?

Hard for me to look at my mug (hence X’s on 4 and 6).
Kind of like hearing your voice on someone else’s answering machine.

Seacrest LindeBlog out!

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.

DiscontentDear 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 are Awesome

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.

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

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