Awkwardly Social

I’ve said it before and people don’t really understand it, but a wise man once told me, “Happiness writes white,” and I believe it. So for the most part, I don’t have much to write about. I’m that happy. Except maybe for one thing.

Mr. F has turned our house into a disaster of epic proportions by emptying his storage unit and bringing everything here. I was sitting stunned on our front step when Mr. F’s son’s wife told me she couldn’t believe all the crap their family kept. She was like, (in her adorable German accent) “Like every single piece of art they ever made. Like all of it. I told M that we weren’t doing that, and he was like, ‘that’s still under discussion,’” and then she rolled her eyes. And all I could do is laugh.

I mean, he’s putting up with my dog. I can put up with every single piece of art they’ve ever created, right?

Mr. F has a friend who sends him random porn and sexually explicit links. Generally they’re a little tacky or verging on the disturbing. Mr. F always shares them with me. Not to titillate, really, they’re usually just mildly entertaining in that voyeuristic way. We generally laugh. This one, however, has me wondering where my film school career went wrong.

The host is engaging and straight ahead in a way that I can’t imagine being given the subject matter he’s discussing, and the artist is quite possibly the most interesting person I’ve heard about all year.

He’s my new hero. I want to make ‘art’/porn just like him. Sort of. Never mind. It’s not like I want to shove eels up some model’s ass, you know? I just… admire the dude for thinking of it.

Definitely Not Safe For Work.

Mr. F had an engagement that had him leaving early and getting back late today.  We had a cup of coffee together then he left, leaving me in this big rambling house all by myself with the dog.

I’ve been feeling a little anxious here when I’m by myself.  Something about how big it is, how echo-ey how nearly empty it is makes me want to hole up in our bedroom under the covers with the TV blaring and the dog by my side.  Which is pretty much what I did all day.

I got Lula’s test results, and it turns out the little fucker is completely healthy except for a high PH level in her urine.  Leave it to my dog to have bladder problems.  If there’s one thing I wish modern medicine would take care of it’s my bladder.

So after the happy news I forced myself to get dressed and go pick up her (probably unnecessary) antibiotics, but the minute I got home I got back into bed and took another angst filled nap.

Finally I heard back from Mr. F that he would be home in a couple of hours and I decided I needed some fresh air, so the bird dog and I took a tour around the reservoir and got home just in time to fall even more in love with Mr. F.

It was not a great day, but it ended well.  Small blessings.

I’ve just returned from Mr. F’s parents’ house. Buzzed on champagne and a little weed.

After an initial bout of anxiety things went swimmingly.  I think I have the champagne and weed to thank for that.

xo

Traditionally on holidays, the eve of big trips to faraway places and pretty much any inconvenient time to be sick, I would get really, really sick. I think I snuffled and groused through 7 years of Christmases. The time I got sick at my cousin Bobby’s wedding remains part of our family lore.

This year the little bird dog decided to pick up where I left off and spent the day at the vet. She’s been drinking a lot of water, and had some enormous flood type ‘accidents’ over the past week and a half and after googling the causes I decided it was time to take her in. The socially awkward low talking vet told me there was nothing he could do until the results get back, and he sent me on my way with a $200.00 vet bill. Sorry, $235 vet bill. Accuracy is my middle name!

She’s laying beside me acting as if nothing is wrong, so on the one hand I’m suspicious it was some kind of ploy to garner sympathy for the long weekend, but on the other hand, man, I have never seen that much pee. I mean, I was looking around trying to figure out if a pipe burst.

I already wrote about how my quest for tradition last year was cut short when I got my ass dumped right before Christmas, and in the spirit of not repeating that tradition I’ve agreed to play nice and go to Mr. F’s parents house with his kids for Thanksgiving dinner. Which… Why is it that when someone includes you in their way of doing Thanksgiving it always feels absolutely wrong and stupid until somehow it just turns into your tradition? They have dinner at 7PM on Thanksgiving Day. When I heard that I was all, “Huh?” And Mr. F was all, “I don’t know…” And I was like, “Wait, really?”

Which brings me to two Thanksgivings ago, when I scoffed at someone else’s Thanksgiving tradition of having champagne all day long because, and this may come as a surprise, I didn’t like champagne. Last year I made sure to have champagne all day long, and this year, even though dinner isn’t until 7pm (WTF? really?) I have a bottle of Veuve chilling in the fridge. Because once repeated just means you’re trying something again, but twice repeated is just about a tradition in my book. Also, my boyfriend’s kids are going to be so much easier to hang out with if I’m half in the bottle.

Tradition!

And that, my friends, is the first sign of the apocalypse.

Also, it makes for fun snuggly nights with white wine buzzes and canceled plans.

If only there was a chimney.

My desk is a half cube in the middle of the hallway where everyone walks by to get to the kitchen.  I am located in the hub of activity, and it suits one half of my nature.  One half of me loves to have people ask me where so and so is, and what so and so is up to, and how was my weekend and do I have any idea if there are any more forks.  The other half would like nothing more to never, ever be asked again if I’ve seen so and so.  There are upsides and downsides.  Thankfully, it usually only takes me about 30 minutes to roll over and flip to the side that enjoys being in the epicenter.

Directly behind me sits my favorite department in the company.  They have the most fun and one of the women in the department is the main reason I have the job I have.  I spend a small amount of my time doing some stuff and junk for them when they’re slammed and over the past month D and I discovered our mutual love for Miss Britney Spears.

We’ve been loudly talking about how excited we are for Britney: For the Record, and a co-worker has been giving us a fair amount of shit for it.  Today we both sighed when we realized it was less than a week until we could sit down and watch Miss B set the record straight.  Sometimes D will just bust out, “It’s Britney, bitch,” in her dry, subtle Boston accent, and it never fails to elicit a chuckle from me.  We even convinced our ultra hipster co-worker who didn’t know who sang Womanizer to sit down and spend three and a half glorious minutes watching the video by saying, “She’s naked.  In a sauna.”

So on Friday, when things were a little quiet and our work consisted of performing simple but time consuming internet searches we turned on a little “Womanizer,” and the guy who thinks Britney is ’simple’ walked by and said, “I think I’ve just been ‘tune crimed.’”  And I asked for an explanation.  The definition of “tune crime” is to play a song that is sure to stick in someone’s head, especially if that song is not a particular favorite of the person you’re tune criming.  To which, I said, “I’m TOTALLY BLOGGING THIS! ‘Tune crimed’ is the best phrase I will ever hear ever,” and I hadn’t even been drinking.  He whooped and said, “‘Tune crime’ is my wordsmithing masterpiece, I can’t wait for you to share it with your world!”  Or something, I don’t know, Womanizer was on pretty loud at that point.

This was exactly when D asked which Britney was my favorite.  I think “office Britney” will always win, but “Limo Britney” has some kind of effect on me too.

Only 6 more days.

I learned a couple of chords on the guitar tonight.  And now my fingertips are killing me.

There is something so completely sexy about having Mr. F hold the guitar to show me chords, then get completely distracted and just start playing.  Normally it would irritate me, but I get just as caught up in the guitar noodling as he does.

Right now, I’m sitting in my almost done office.  Moment ago, Mr. F came in to tell me he was losing steam on the great record move of ‘08, when he said, “Look behind you!”  I turned and there was the family of raccoons that has been taunting Lula.  A mama and two babies.  They are ridiculously cute.  They saw us watching them and side stepped all the way along the walk way to the front yard.

I’m pretty sure we were supposed to do something today other than lay around in bed, venturing out only for food and a little fresh air, but I’m having trouble remembering what that was.

My entire office is infected with some kind of plague, and my excuse for being a total waste of a human is that I’m trying to avoid succumbing to the stuffed nose, hacking cough that haunts me up and down the halls.

We walked down the hill for dinner at 10:30PM and Silver Lake was covered in fog.  It was creepy and pretty all at the same time.  I feel like I should have more to say about that, but my brain is clearly not working.

Last night I had my first night terror in the new house. I thought I was done with them, but I guess eating 5 pepperoncinis right before bed is a bad idea. The dream took place in here in the house and involved me and Mr. F trying to find the person or thing we kept hearing moving from room to room in the house. At one point the invader played a tape recording of Mr. F and I talking, the speaker was the sink. We finally caught the guy, and I screamed myself awake when Mr. F wandered off to call the police and the intruder started jacking off against me.

We were just setting out for our run, when Dodger’s stadium began some kind of fireworks display that had Lula cowering and whimpering. I joked that Lula wouldn’t be good in a gun fight.

When we got home, we started to hear sirens and helicopters. A lot of them. I wondered if there was a fire somewhere. Mr. F assumed it was some kind of car accident. Mr. F got a phone call. Four people had been shot, three of them dead, in a home invasion/domestic violence altercation in Silver Lake.

I hate it when the universe stirs like this.