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. ]

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.

So I totally hate the fact that despite leaving the Virgin Islands that they didn’t completely shut down because they NEED our presence to survive.  As we speak, Dear Reader, peeps are swimming with the sea turtles in the effing ocean.  What is that all about?

I nearly broke down and went full mental when that gut wrenching realization hit that I actually was sitting in traffic and back were the 10 hour work days and cubicles and motivation and coffee.  Vom.

[ This is a Tangent. ]

Coffee sucks. There. I said it. I tried for years, and I really thought I had it at one point… but I just don’t get it.  It makes me have to pee, like, 97 times in one hour like I’m the Leaky Lady, and I get all Jitterbugs Murphy. Movingrightalong.

[ End Tangent. ]

My attempt to harness all sorts of chi was that this crazy traffic jam was some sort of twisted nightmare and that I’d wake back up to the gentle sound of the ocean and go out on the villa balcony tip toeing barefooted as the wind kisses my face whilst I feed sugar to the bananaquits in a ballet pose in slow motion.

24 hours prior to the traffic sitting, we were snorkeling the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea. Our flip flops leaving little flip prints in the white sands of Cinnamon Bay.  Seriously.  How does that happen?

[ This Will Give You Background into Haus Lindemann. ]

The Inner Child in four wall form.  That’s what The Hubs and I have endearingly monikered the laundry loo.  Why?

Because we will always be secretly 14 in our heads, Dear Reader.
I, combat boots and eyeliner.
He, nose ring and skateboard.

Upon entering our little nook of Neverland?  BAM.  Posters.  Concert stubs.  Liner notes.  Vinyl covers from broken records.  Even Husband’s nifty lil’ skull and crossbones floormat from his teen years that he *sucks in air through teeth* just. can’t. bring. himself tothrowaway.

There are no rules in the laundry room.

[ This is The Point. ]

So Hubbles and I are perusing the aisles of Academy. Because of our sheer athleticism and incessant need to purchase large sports equipment for our numerous camping trips. *flex*

“Would you be mad if I bought you this?” I hold a Texas Aggie t-shirt to my torso, looking up for approval of hilarious wifey hijinks (I, Aggie. He, Longhorn fan.).  “Hello?”  I scan my proximity.  Alas, he is located directly 20 feet to my left: The Fathead display.

For those of you not in the know, a Fathead is a life-size version, costing around $100, of a football/basketball player that men who like sports stick to their wall.

Husband: Ha! A Terrell Owens! (pause to search my eyes for recognition)
Me: Appropriately named. Fathead. Heh.
Husband: Of course you know… (invisible suspenders, sigh of pride) T.O. was released from the Cowboys this year.

Mental high five to me for knowing that pre-now.

Me: You should check to see if it’s on sale.
Husband: It’s 10 effing dollars!
Me: We totally have to buy that now.  There’s no way we are leaving without it.
Husband: I can’t.  I don’t want the cashier to be an a-hole, (mimic a-hole) ‘T.O.’s not a Cowboy anymore‘.

I, feminism at it’s best, hands on hips utter the following, “So we’ll go to a girl cashier.”

Because we are all ovaries and understanding sports is like learning Russian.

His eyes widen in boyish glee, his adorable nose scrunched. He whispers in excitement, “That’s… exactly…. what I was thinking!!”

[ Witness the Aftermath. ]

So we cleared an entire wall in our Inner Child Room for the fallen Cowboy.  The man who single-handedly destroyed the Cowboy’s franchise.

And he couldn’t.
Nay shan’t.
Be more AWESOME.

Behold, T.O…. in his all his ginormous 6′4″ glorified splendor.

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.

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.

[ 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.

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.