[ 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.

So I completely interrupted Male Bonding Hour as I entered the elevator today at work. I know this because there were signs of hushery when Ding! I, Lady Female Lady stepped aboard.

One man started to whistle through a grin.
Another began to rock to and fro’ in his ridiculously overpriced shoes.
Another shoved his hands in his pockets, stifled giggles.

Seriously, peeps. I would like to take a moment to request this moment in time to become slightly more awkward. Akwarder. Akwardest?  No?

My gut instinct chimed in and taunted that paranoid They’re All Gonna Laught at You with hurtling knives and Sissy Spacek. I got that hideous feeling where everyone else was in on the joke. Everyone but you. Sad little losery you with your shoes and your bag and your frizzy hair that you didn’t have time to straighten last night because you’d rather watch Jon & Kate Plus 8 with your husband than groom. Nooooo!  Not YOOOOU!  *breathe*

Anyhoozletandom… After the initial We Knew We Were Being Inappropriate So We’re Shutting Up For You, Stupid died down, the chap in the back gathered his bearings and sheepishly segued the entire lot to Floor One with what I can only describe as Line of the Day: Overheard Elevatorian Hijinks.

“So. Um. (pause) Yeah.  My biology teacher threw a shoe at me once.”

I’ll be here all week, folks.

See that there bottle o’ herbal nature-y type pillsy pills to your right?  Them’s what I like to refer to as God’s Lil’ Baby Skittles for My Brain Like Woh.

I am advocating for St. John Wort (yes, the herby flower itself) to sign me on as Lead Spokeslady Person because I am all sorts of grins and giddybeans today like an innocent pre-pubescent.  That was homeschooled.  In tap shoes.

‘Twas a Saturday morn when I decided to make a lifestyle a-changin. Such lifestyle changes include, but are not limited to:

1. Cease excessive intake (12 pack/day) hu-age lung bucket-fulls of Diet Mountain Dew.  Switch to the H2O.
2. Take vitamins (hi-o, Biotin!).
3. Exercise 40 minutes a day.
4. Eat plenty o’ fruits y veggehs.
5. Aaaaaaand lavender oil.  (’Cause I just wanted some. Shhhhh.)

And after only 5 days of New Lifestyle? I feel like a very special lady superhero.

With hands on hips.
Cape in the wind.
That whole thing.

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.

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.