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February 2006

Here comes the rain again

I am one cranky girl today. I got some sleep last night (I even turned off the Project Runway reunion before it was over!) but I still feel like warmed over roadkill. Anyway, I am feeling slightly snarky about the following items:

  • The person with whom I must have a professional relationship so I cannot write about him on my personal website, but OH MY GOD the blog fodder he could provide. Let's just say his rankings on a particular well-known website have risen exponentially over the last several days and he has called me FIFTEEN TIMES wanting to know "how that translates." And, because the well-known website has no time for small potatoes people like myself, I am forced to say, "Uhhh nothing right now, but I'll let you know!" But I shouldn't say "forced" because I actually derive some evil sort of pleasure in not having any good news to share. Am horrible and black-hearted.
  • The fact that my sisters called me up last night saying they wanted to "hang out" and, you know, "get dinner" which meant that Phillip and I took them to Red Robin. (FYI: Red Robin sucks ass when you are not allowing yourself to partake of the glorious steak fry drenched in ranch sauce.) Anyway, I let them know that any time they want to be taken out to dinner, just to let us know.
  • My scale needs new batteries, I am therefore free to eat as many Oreos as I wish until it's fixed. BECAUSE WHO WILL BE THE WISER?
  • The second church dinner this Saturday that we've been invited to, even though we have not attended church since the FIRST church dinner. (Don't the Catholics ban you after three missed Sundays?) (Also, I realize I have not written about the first church dinner and that is on purpose. I still don't know what I want to write about that yet. And maybe I won't EVER write about it because I am Queen of this here website and whatever I say goes.) (In other news, I have to make a dessert for the church dinner and I already used up my cheesecake on the first one. Suggestions?)
  • That everyone I know is moving into a new house this weekend and picking paint colors and I? I AM NOT PAINTING ANYTHING. For that my husband is outside right now slaughtering the sacrificial lamb in thanks.

Anyway. That is all you get today. Bullet points, the crutch of dull and unimaginative bloggers everywhere. And it is late. You have probably already left your boring job and gone home. What did you read on the internet today? And really, I would like to know. My daily reads have been lacking in output lately and a girl's gotta keep herself entertained!

Totally disregarding my financial security

Phillip and I had big plans to go to bed early last night. Our last two weeks having been the equivalent of sticking our heads in blenders and hitting "Puree", we were solely interested in television, junk food and sleep. Ah, sleep.

But I had homework. And then there was ice skating. And I decided to apply for a new job, which I did upstairs in between running downstairs whenever Phillip yelled "IRINA'S SKATING NOW!" and "SASHA COHEN FINALLY GOT HER SCRAWNY BUTT ON THE ICE!" Dear hopeful potential new employer: If my cover letter is wearing too much makeup and my resume is smothered in sequins, let's blame NBC.

So today? My head hurts, I'm sort of snappish and my face feels like it's been covered with a tight layer of plastic wrap.

As for this new job thing, I'm trying not to think much about it. Mostly because I probably won't be contacted and my lack of sleep will have been in vain, but I think I'd be okay with that. It was the kind of job that popped up and said: You are a damn fool if you do not apply for me. So I did. We'll see.

But I have some thoughts (I always do) and of course I will use my personal website to Work Them Out. Brace yourselves.

Becaaaaaause, this is not The Most Perfect Job Ever. (It may be the most perfect job for me, right now, but we'll get to that.) For one thing, it is "contract", whatever that means. (I'm assuming it means "part time".)  It does not have a fancy title that will impress my friends, family, senior year English teacher or my former important-ish boss. It most likely pays less, is attached to no benefits, does not advance me in my current industry, makes no use of any connections I have and most certainly will not stamp my forehead with Hot Young Professional. This goes against the very fiber of my 9 out of 10 Highly Anxious Personality Traits disposition. What will people think?!

With the exception of the 8 months I spent taking care of old ladies in hospice, it is quite possibly the first job I've ever applied for that is more about being happy than getting ahead. And that feels very very wrong. I am 26 years old, childless for the near future, owner of a nasty mortgage and residing in a high-cost-of-living city. It should be required for me to get ahead. But the other day I was told by a very excited and encouraging person that I'm at the very beginning of my "career" and all I could think was Oh, God, I don't WANT a career. Obviously I am lazy, selfish, horribly unambitious and willfully taking advantage of my husband's admirable and fascinating wish to provide for his family. How rotten am I?

On the other hand, I have decided to stop assuming that the only thing I have ever wanted to be when I grew up is impossible and actually TRY. That means reserving time for this pursuit, possibly cutting my real job back to part time in order to make it happen. It means finding another job that doesn't make me want to zone out on the couch for hours as soon as I get home or jealously guard my free time on weekends. It means making this writing-a-novel-that-may-never-be-published-let-alone-earn-me-any-actual -dollars-thing a priority and I just don't feel like that's possible with the life I have right now.

This new job involves writing and editing for a local charitable organization. It's "contract". It totally excites me. I probably won't be contacted, for a multitude of reasons, but I need to try because things need to change. I'll be sad to leave where I am right now, but I'm tired of waiting for something to happen . If I were pregnant, I'd be waiting out my time here until I had my baby this summer and working part time afterwards. Having to ditch this plan has been super duper extra hard, but I am beginning to admit (a teeny tiny little reluctant smidgen of admit) that things may be working out well...

So how horrible is it? To work part time before I even have kids to stay home for? To make the financial burden on my husband even heavier? To pursue my totally pie-in-the-sky dream when other people have to work three jobs just to pay rent? What would Linda Hirshman say about me? (Okay, that last one is a joke. Even my highly anxious personality is not that eager for punishment.)

Notes from stir crazy

I don't have the pictures uploaded yet so I'll save the Winextravaganza Weekend post for a bit later on. For now I'll just say that it's a good thing it was too cold for Phillip to go do anything requiring money in Boston, because our savings account has now materialized on my kitchen counter in 14% alcohol form. (And also, who goes to Boston and sits around watching MOVIES? Phillip: "We TRIED to see things but it was TOO COLD." Maggie: "WHATEVER." Phillip: "Any time we went out we had to keep ducking into convenience stores to warm up!" Maggie: "WIMP.")

I used my free and husband-less Monday to do four loads of laundry, clean two out of three bathrooms and spend three hours at Ikea. You know how there is a lot of STUFF at Ikea? Not just furniture, but just random Swedish Modern crap? I never get to look at that crap. Ever. When we go to Ikea we have a Mission and that Mission must not be hampered by, say, browsing amongst the three dollar pancake turners or the lampshades or the multitude of nickel plated accessories for your bathroom. We must emerge triumphant with the Billy bookcase in under thirty minutes OR ELSE. So not fun.

But yesterday I went with J, who is a GIRL (and one of the Wine Weekenders) and we spent one of our three hours entirely in the Marketplace, convincing ourselves that we really did need those pitchers/cannisters/cookie sheets/wine glasses. It was marvelous. Except for when Ikea was out of the two things I specifically intended to purchase, so I bought half of one thing and dithered for another hour over the other thing. And when Phillip got home last night he was all, "I see we have some new... things." And I said, "Yes, and you get to install them. Tomorrow."

So yesterday was kind of weird. I never know what to do with myself when I have Free Time. Free Time used to give me anxiety attacks, but now I know better and plan things like three hours at Ikea and getting up at seven to clean the bathroom. Some people would call that crazy, but for me it's keeping the crazy away. You have no idea. Empty time shouldn't be difficult for someone who can sit and watch television from the moment she gets home from work until the minute she falls asleep, but it makes. me. insane. (And there hasn't been anything good on anyway, stupid Olympics.)

I ate chocolate pudding for dinner. I scanned wedding pictures and printed them out and finally put them in that frame I've been saving (and good Lord I have the worst wedding pictures ever). I made a grocery list for the desserts I have to make this weekend (chocolate fudge cake with sour cream anyone?) I arranged my wine bottles in an artistic and aesthetically pleasing manner. I stared at the giant pit they've dug next to my house and the gazillion pieces of pipe in the hole. When it got really late I turned off all the lights, went upstairs and tried to stay awake for the second episode of Firefly. I got to the opening credits and the next thing I knew a strange man was in my bedroom. Ha! He looked like my husband, but he was adorable and sweet and telling me how much he missed me. I think he needs to go away more often.

He also brought me cannoli from Mike's Pastry in Boston. I had one bite and brought the rest (he bought me ONE OF EVERY KIND) to my office and now they are definitely not going to ever fire me. But that's okay, I'm going to quit first. (I think. More later!)

Happy beginning-of-the-short-week everyone! (Unless you are a poor sucker who had to go to work yesterday. In which case: hey! It's not Monday anymore!)

***UPDATED*** Additional reasons to quit my job!

You scored as Journalism.





























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My weekend with Andrae at the Red Lobster

I believe my love of the fermented grape is well-documented on this website, so it is with Great! and Fervent! Excitement! that I share with you my weekend plans: touring the North Sound wineries for the Red Wine & Chocolate weekend. Red wine AND chocolate. It's like my own personal heaven.

No, it gets better. I will be red wining and chocolating not with my responsible and un-lush-like husband, but with my lovely pro-inebriation girlfriends, one of whom has very personal connections to a certain winery (where I hear we will receive VIP backstage treatment!) I am crazy excited. We are totally going to stay up late, drink too much and talk about boys.

I've been plotting this trip since last February, when the aforementioned Friend With Connections told me about it. It was too late for me to go last year, but I had no intention of letting it pass me by this year. So here I am, sending obnoxious reminder emails, downloading ferry schedules, purchasing tickets and telling everyone to show up at 8 at my house Saturday morning. Which is early, yes, but the first winery opens at TEN. We only have SO MUCH TIME.

(Phillip, not terribly pleased at the prospect of a Maggie-less weekend at home, decided to fly out to the East Coast to visit a friend. After working 42 hours last weekend (FORTY-TWO) (WEEKEND) I do believe he's entitled to some R&R.)

While I have quite a lot of experience with wine in general, I am less familiar with, shall we say, good wine. My list of reasons not to drink a particular wine include: it has been sitting uncorked on my counter since Christmas, it's pink, it has thingies floating in it. That's pretty much it. So I'm a little worried about my Wine Cred this weekend. I need to watch Sideways again and read up on my Robert Parker. All this, even though my new favorite wine comes in a box and can be purchased at Target.

But you know what I need to do before Saturday morning? Watch Project Runway. I couldn't stay up last night (because I am old and boring and this does not bode well for the wine weekend) and now I am censoring my internet reading because what if someone mentions who got auffed? Horrors! DO NOT TELL ME WHO GOT AUFFED. (And I can't even Google 'auffed' to show you that I so did not make that up, because WHAT IF I STUMBLE UPON THE ANSWER?!)

I hope it was Santino. Although I would miss his Timpressions.


(But I pretty much knew the answer anyway.)

(REALLY, people! Watch this show! Then we'll do lunch! At Red Lobster!)

So anyway. Wine! Chocolate! Friends! It is a much-needed girls-only weekend... and there WILL be photographic evidence, oh yes.

Born on a mountain top in Tennessee

I am back.

It is not the most fun thing to go from perfect lovely jeans-and-t-shirt weather to waking up to traces of SNOW in your front yard. Can winter please be over now? (Also, I noticed the snow when I opened the blinds and saw that the dilapidated apartment building next door had been torn down and a bull dozer was now digging a giant hole dangerously close to my dining room. Oh, the changes.)

Things I need to do:

  • Finish my homework.
  • Read the 95 new posts in my Bloglines account. NINETY-FIVE. I kid you not.
  • Figure out what we're having for dinner tonight, even though it's Valentine's Day and Hallmark says we're supposed to get each other treacly presents and drop $200 on dinner, but one of us has worked straight through the last 96 hours and one of us is still recuperating from the flying tin cans of death so NO, we will be eating at HOME and probably watching TELEVISION. We don't need no sentimental holiday.
  • Figure out where we will drop $100 on a post-Valentine's-Day-because-we-were-too-tired-on-the-actual-holiday dinner because sentiment is VERY important to me.
  • Send all the things I said I had to send in my last post. Because none of them got sent.
  • Plan this weekend. Because oh yes, I am leaving AGAIN.

Oh my gosh I'm tired.

There is a lot, actually, to write about, but I haven't quite figured out how.

For now, I'll just say that you San Antonians live in a pretty great place. Well, except for the mess of traffic near my hotel that could put Seattle's 520 bridge to shame. (Seriously. Whoever designed those highways was smoking crack on his coffee breaks.) I am not terribly fond of Texas, as I abhor the smell of air conditioning and do not harbor any great affinity for barbecue, but San Antonio has the whole Riverwalk thing going on (in addition to the Alamo, the Shrine to Texas Liberty!) and it was very very cool.  I MIGHT go back. I don't think everyone in the 5-mile Alamo radius heard my rendition of the Davy Crockett song. Travesty!

In another unfortunate turn of events, I forgot to bring in my Alamo Crackers. Bummer. (My dad bought a coonskin cap. For my mom. The costume box, it is in my genes, people.)

Stars fading, but I linger on dear

It's fairly late here at Chez Cheung, but I'm resisting the call of my comfy bed and Richard Jury novel because I haven't seen my husband all day and I'm holding out hope I'll see him before I fall asleep, my glasses askew, my mouth open and a novel balanced on my stomach. His office is taking part in the Evil Move this weekend and since Phillip is the employee tasked with Keeping The Internet Alive, he's somewhat, ah, indispensible. To which I say: harrumph. It's time I sat down with that boss of his and explained who really is the boss of Phillip. That would be me. The only in-person conversation I've had with my husband today is the oh-my-God-we're-being-burglarized-moment that occurred as I was gracefully attempting to get ready for my buttcrack of dawn meeting without waking him up.

Me: bodyslamming the dresser
Me: *&@#!
Phillip: Wha? WHA? WHO'S THERE?
Me: *(@$# quieter this time
Phillip: Maggie? Are you okay?
Me: *(@#$@# furniture.

It's not the kind of communication recommended for long-lasting relationships.

Also? I am tired. Tie. Erd. The last week or so has been a marathon. On the pro side, I am a social butterfly who is somehow miraculously managing the crazy because the anxiety monster has not bitten me in a while. (AMEN.) On the con side, I need a nap. Or fifteen. Get this: I am too tired to watch yesterday's Veronica Mars. That is a REALLY BAD SIGN.

I am not too tired to sit in front of my computer blogsurfing and obsessively checking my email.

How come no one emails me? Boooo.

I wanted to do a few things this week and weekend. I had big plans to make big heart-shaped cookies to bring to work on Valentine's Day. (Yes, I am that girl. If it weren't for the fact that I'm the only person in my office who knows how to use mail merge, I'd assume my job security was based solely on the quantity of baked goods I bring each week.) Earlier this week I made actual valentines which I was actually going to send, but now that means finding my address book (which has been mysteriously absent since the move) and buying stamps (damn the stamp increase!) and, you know, dropping them off in a mailbox. If you were expecting a Christmas card from me, you may also now be disappointed at your lack of valentine. The stoning will commence at sunrise. I was going to send my brother this game so he'd have something to do in the desert. I was going to send chocolates to my sister-in-law and a Christmas gift to Malia (I KNOW I KNOW) and get a head start on those other birthday gifts I have to mail out (ha! I said head start. FUNNY.) I also have a bathroom that looks like it is growing it's own head of hair and two tons of laundry heaped in the closet. But tonight I watched TV, drooled over a catalog and read the entire Internet. Which I can totally do TOMORROW. At WORK. GAH.

I am actually going to San Antonio this weekend. I have some family things to do and it's not exactly for leisure, but I hear they have warmth down there in Texas and I must say I'm looking forward to that. Saturday looks to be crap, but Sunday will be sixty-seven degrees. That's, like, JULY in Washington State. I am totally shaving my legs.

The flight leaves at 6 am Saturday morning and a shuttle will pick me up at 3:20. THREE. TWENTY. AY. EM. I didn't even bother harassing Phillip to drop me off, if I even see him before then. He's still not home, he won't be home tomorrow and it's a good thing I'm leaving this weekend because I probably won't see him till sometime on Tuesday when he's forced to come home and shower. Stupid move. I don't see what was wrong with the old office.

(Except for the fact that Phillip's broom closet was as wide as his femurs and he had two giant monitors propped up on a desk resembling the beat-up gouged-out barely-standing "desk" I had when I was eight. And a crappy chair. That company bought a 52-inch plasma TV; they better buy my husband a new chair.)

(Watch- I'll be the first person to get her husband fired because of her blog.)

I have half a post written about the church dinner. I have half a post written about what I'm doing NEXT weekend. (V. v. exciting.) And I have this craptastic post written while half awake and sort of tipsy.

'night everyone.

I know I carry misanthropic tendencies, but you've gotta give me this one

I have to go to the dentist today. I think the last time I saw the dentist was when I got married, part of a whirlwind of medical appointments I made to please the Man Whose Shot Record Is Kept Meticulously Up To Date. I think he has been to see the dentist three times since the last time we went together, and he finally made the appointment for me. SUPER.

(He did not, however, make the appointment with the female dentist, the one who, as she's got her entire hand stuffed inside your mouth and mercilessly stabbing your gums with that pointy stick thing, whoops in delight to find extraneous particles, declaring that she has "found some snacks!" SNACKS. I cannot stand that dentist. I want to turn the water pik on her in rage. JUST SHUT UP AND CLEAN MY TEETH.)

*******many many hours later*******

Well. If I thought the dentist was annoying as all crap, that's because I hadn't met the hygienist from hell. You think your hygienist is bad? (And all of them are, except for my friend Sean's mom, who is lovely and beautiful and cleaned my teeth FOR FREE.) No. You have not met MY hygienist. Here are a few soundbites from the conversation (if you can call it conversation when someone's got a miniature hook in your mouth and all you can say is "ahhh uhhh").

"Cheung? Now, that's not an American last name. You're American!"

"Yeah, we've been dating a few months now, but the relationship is still super hot. .... Gawwwwwd.... really hot."

"Those Viet Nayum ladies sure do a real good job on nails, don't they?"

"Gosh, you guys are so mature for your age- I'm ten years older than you and I'm still goin' out every night!"

"Oh, I met your husband! He came in here a while back! Real quiet guy, but that's his culture, isn't it? Asians are real quiet."

"The guy I'm dating now, his dad is Caucasian but his mom is Hispanic. Catholic family. And you know how those Catholics are."


I swear. Within the first two minutes I was praying for death. I understand that I am crankier than most and cannot hold a small talk conversation to save my life. I can barely handle talking to the girl who cuts my hair. But this woman was oceans and oceans beyond irritation. This was Inappropriate to the nth degree. This was "Do I send a letter to the dentist counting up how many demographics my hygienist managed to offend in half an hour?" Not to mention the fact that they made me wait for forty minutes. God, I hate the dentist. I am never going back there.

(Does my future dentist friend still read this website? Hello? Boston? In school, do you learn how to hire the chattiest most mind-numbingly annoying people on the planet?)

I don't think my hygienist was racist or anything like that, more like dumb as rocks. Her statements weren't so much offensive as pitiably dull and ignorant. You find idiots everywhere. I can't wait for Phillip to get home so I can tell him all the things she said and we can laugh at her expense. No, what bugged me was how freely she shared this information. Some people are even too dumb to keep their stupidity to themselves. What makes them think a perfect stranger, especially one who comes to you for a professional service that NO ONE enjoys, wants to hear about the divorce, the custody arrangement and intimate details about the new boyfriend? Next time? When I am trapped in a dentist, chair wearing a bib and terrified of what you are doing with your French-manicured nails, IF YOU START SHARING ABOUT YOUR PERSONAL LIFE, I WILL ATTEMPT TO CLAW MY EYES OUT WITH THAT HOOK THINGY. I think I might have mentioned it above: just SHUT UP and CLEAN MY TEETH.

(Also, they want me to pay a bajillion dollars to get a crown. While I am sort of enticed by the idea of looking like a rapper, do you know what I could do with a bajillion dollars? A LOT. I would much rather do those things. But Phillip, ever rational, said, "Oh, that's not that much." And I said, "WHAT? Do you KNOW what we could do with a bajillion dollars?" And he said, "Eat food. I would rather eat food. And you know what you need to eat food? TEETH.")

Another three-day weekend

First order of business: my team may have lost the Super Bowl, but at least I don't live in Pittsburgh. (BURN!)

Yes, I became a fan the minute my boss informed us that we didn't have to go to work on Monday, as he wasn't interested in hearing all the excuses as to why we wouldn't be there. Of course I had to ask if the new policy applied to employees who weren't necessarily planning to watch the game and he just looked at me like I was stupid. Gift horses and all that.

And then I actually ended up watching the game (until the Seattle quarterback made that fumble (which then turned out not to be a fumble) because I CANNOT TAKE THE SUSPENSE OH MY GOD) all afternoon. Phillip went to an actual Super Bowl party, but I watched it with Blondie who was specifically interested in laughing herself sick over commercials. I didn't even see the commercial with the cell phone with "crime deterrent", but it was my favorite just because Blondie's retelling was that hilarious.

It happened to be SUNNY on Sunday, which meant that Blondie was forced to walk around the lake with me (this was before the game, and every third person was wearing a Seahawks jersey.) She arrived late afternoon on Saturday and I pretty much had to stash her at my house with the television remote and head off to the Church Dinner. Then she left Sunday evening. It was a short time, but we packed in as much catching up as possible. I didn't know Blondie at all before I lived with her for 3 weeks in China and I've only seen her once since then, when we were wearing purple dresses at a summer wedding, but I've never had such an easy and comfortable insta-friend and we had such a great time. She'll be living stateside next year and I am SO EXCITED. Do you KNOW how much wine we're going to drink?

I have a couple other posts brewing in the Personal Website Cauldron, but they need to stew a while. I have a lot of thoughts on the Church Dinner, but they need to be drastically edited. (Overall conclusion: it was ten kinds of awesome.) I made 4 pans of eggplant parmesan this weekend- I could write about that. Sooo interesting. I have 400 things to do this week and I might be going to Texas for the weekend, so we'll see what gets posted. (I hear it is dry there? Pray tell, help me remember what it is like to be dry.) Oh, and I have a test- A TEST- on Thursday. Gak.

Several random pieces of inanity

Last night I went to my friend's art gallery opening. I don't know if you know this, but at art gallery openings? There is free wine. I may have had some of this wine, and then proceeded to call my sister 15 times to warn her that Veronica Mars was on that night and my TiVo was on the fritz (I KNOW) and she needed to tape it for me. (Remember tapes? Horrid little suckers, but quite useful when your TiVo's hard drive is all "I am on strike until someone brings me a mai tai, stat.") But anyway, the Art was awesome. I love my friend's stuff. I did not drink enough wine (nor did my husband, the annoying teetotaler) to be talked into buying one of the paintings, even with the [lovely and delightful] gallery owner's delayed payment, deferred interest spiel. "Everyone should have access to art!" she declared, and I agree. Can I please have one for free? I especially like the first one on the page, with the two pink circles. I love those colors. I would also like someone to come and hang it on the empty wall in my house, and then install track lighting so we can drink wine at home and gaze thoughtfully at our gorgeous piece of Art. "We know the Artist," we'll say smugly.

When I was in high school I remember going to a big crafts bazaar with my parents, and we came home with a big painting. I don't really remember my folks being big art aficionados or anything, though our house was decorated with lots of prints and paintings bought from the sidewalk artists in Europe. And I know absolutely nothing about art, so I couldn't even tell you what style this big painting was, except it seemed vaguely reminiscent of a Spanish painter to me. Let me consult Professor Google- ah yes. Possibly some Picasso with a bit of Miro thrown in? It was rather cartoon-like, a brightly colored village scene with lots of funky looking people and animals and buildings. (Actually, almost every print I've bought as a grown up resembles this cartoony drawing-with-primary-colors look. I really like it.) Anyway, they bought it from the Actual Painter, who then said he would "dedicate" it to my family. So on the back of the painting he wrote all of our names, except he did not just write the names, he drew the names. It is super cool. I can't quite describe what they look like either, but maybe loopy and angled and big and small and extra funky. It was really neat to watch him do it.

When I am a millionaire novelist I will buy lots of Art.

The night before that, the bridge got stuck. I've been bugging the technically-inclined around me to find the perfect digital camera. We have one, but it's big and clunky and makes me mad every time I see it because it cost as much as a personal island and Phillip bought it within days of marrying me. And when I asked how much it cost, he told me the price after the rebates. NOT COOL. I want a little one to keep in my bag for moments like the other night, when the bridge was stuck and a thick sheet of gray was hiding the details, except for bright yellow school bus halfway across the bridge. Oh, how I felt for that bus driver.

The last time you couldn't drive across the bridge, it was because of a terrible accident. It took me two and a half hours to make it home that night, partly because every north end commuter was trying to avoid the Ballard Bridge and make it across the Fremont Bridge, but also because I got lost on Queen Anne. (Sorry you non-Seattle people. I realize I talk about Seattle neighborhoods and places a lot, especially about driving. But you have to understand, the traffic here is INSANE and there are two giant lakes and a canal that splice up the whole city. It is, as Nick from Project Runway would say, "KerAYZy!") Anyway, having learned my lesson last time, I informed Phillip that I would be meeting him for happy hour downtown and we would attempt to drive home around 9. (Dude, we even closed the OFFICE early so people could get home at a reasonable hour.)

Even if you didn't have to sell a lung to afford a house in this city, there's no way I could convince my parents to live here, simply because of the traffic. They hate driving to Seattle. I used to hate it too, but I'm pretty used to it now. I almost never take the freeway during rush hour, that's just inviting insanity.

Speaking of insanity, it is still raining. Weep.

Also, I am wearing my tall boots today, mostly because the Artist was wearing hers last night and she was super cute. Of course, she is tiny and twee, and I am large and hulking. I somehow walked out of my house without noticing that my calves look like the giant cuts of tenderloin Alton Brown purchased from Costco and made into tasty pepper steaks. Yum.