Can the dogs come, too?

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For dinner tonight I’m eating a frozen meal. It is “Lemongrass Coconut Chicken” by Kashi and it smells exactly like I remember Malaysia smelling. (Yes, I’m back on that topic). Oh, the smell makes me want to go back, so badly. It must just be my mood right now but… it makes me want to stay there. (So yes, I did just Google “american living in malaysia”). I know it will never happen (proof #1: Malaysians aren’t big fans of immigrants), but it’s fun to smell my dinner and dream. I wonder if Malaysia is one of those countries where we could live like kings, like with servants and stuff? (I’m picturing something that is waayyy too pre-1950 English colonies). 

Whenever we discuss moving away from Cheesecake City, my first thought is, “Can the dogs come, too?” (actually, it’s “If the dogs can’t come, I’m staying here”) but when I dreamed this one up, I didn’t actually remember owning dogs until I walked back into the bedroom and…huh. Dogs. I wonder if year round 90 degree climate would be good for Scooby’s allergies?


Asian Tour ’09?

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So, Gene’s out of town. And he just told me that he may have to go back to Kuala Lumpur sometime. Why, oh, WHY can he not get sent to freaking London? I WANT to go to Europe, absolutely NO ONE wants to go to KL just for fun.

(Well, OK, I do… but I suspect that Gwen and D would shoot me before letting me rock a 2 week vacation again, less than a year after the last one).

(Mmm…just the thought of prancing around the Marriott Renaissance KL for two weeks, hanging out at the pool, going shopping, reading, writing and relaxing…OMG).

(This time I’d DEFINITELY go on the hop on/hop off bus, see the Bantu Caves and the Butterfly Whatchamacalits and eat some more authentic Malaysia food and I would make darn sure that we go to Singapore and I’d finally get to drink an authentic Singapore Sling at the Long Bar at the Raffles…)

(And OH, the pedicures and massages I would get!…)




Lainey of Cheesecake-ia

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So, in my multiple year long quest to make it through the AFI Top 100, Gene and I are sitting here watching Lawrence of Arabia. I think the fact that I am writing this post tells you just how much attention I am paying to the movie.

Seriously…I thought it was almost over and then Gene hits some button on the xBox controller and I realize that we are 90 minutes INTO the movie…and 140 minutes until the end of the movie. “But the good news is that 5 or 10 minutes of it is probably intermission!” Gene says helpfully.

“That is the best worst news I have ever heard, babe.”

(Note: I love old movies…but hate LONG movies)

Anyway, Gene also told me that this is basically an Omar Sharif-Peter O’Toole bromance. Perhaps it will be remade soon with two of the guys from The State, or perhaps Jack Black and the Indian guy from the Harold and Kumar movies.

(Hey, speaking of which…did you hear that there’s going to be a third Harold and Kumar movie in 2010?? yes!)


whooosh

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And there goes 5 more days.  WTF?

So, stories…

1) After dinner last night Gene and I went out for ice cream. To the ice cream parlor next to the Catholic school. Immediately after grade school graduation. If you’re a girl like me, I am sure you will understand how fucking annoying that is. All the little grads…with their younger siblings…and their moms, pregnant with #3 (or #4…whatever).

2) So, Dr. P’s office said last time that they wouldn’t just call in more Clomid without being seen by Dr P first. Which sounds great in theory but good luck convincing the nurse of her previous statement.

“You said to call if the Clomid didn’t work so I could make an appointment, so I’m calling”

“The Clomid worked?” Nurse says

“NO, you said to call if IT DIDN’T” I reply – and you know I was nicer than the all caps suggests.

“Oh, okay. Let me put you on hold a moment.”

Nurse comes back. “So you need to come in for your Day 21 bloodwork?”

“Even if I’m NOT taking Clomid” (the “since you won’t GIVE ME ANY, BITCH” is silent, of course)? (Because what is the point of coming in on Day 21 – because I like chatting with the L*bCorp employee so much? – it would purely be an excuse to get out of work)

“Oh.” This sinks in for a minute. “Well, his next available appointment is June. June 22 at 1 pm.” 

After my Diva Trick mental health afternoon last week, Gwen asked if I’d heard of adoption. Oh, YES SHE DID. Who the fuck hasn’t heard of adoption?? (It’s like, “Have you heard of spinach and artichoke dip?” or “Have you heard of American Idol?”) And then she blah-blah-blahed about her niece so-and-so who adopted and then slam bam ended up pregnant. Because there is nothing more comforting than the ol’ “My best friend’s hairdresser’s cousin was trying to get pregnant…they tried for YEARS…and once she gave up, it happened.”

(Seriously, the next person to trot that one out in front of me is going to get a sock in the jaw).

I’m becoming that person again…I should probably just stay in bed awhile. “That person” = the person who doesn’t see the joy in an ice cream parlor full of little kids in their school uniforms, the person who hears about a friend or coworker being pregnant and can’t muster honest joy for them*, the person who threatens violence on a person trying to give her advice. 

(* a coworker’s 24-ish year old son has knocked up his girlfriend of THREE EFFING MONTHS… argh)


Lost 7 days…

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So, Hi There!

It appears that I have lost 7 days. Time passes so quickly lately and there are so many things that I Really Can’t Talk About. (Well, not can’t, but won’t, I guess).

Anyway, there is a grocery store across the street from my office. It is called bl.oom (minus the extra punctuation) and the name is spelled in all lowercase, all in a basic sans serif font. (How lucky am I to have a tiny readership, all of whom know what sans serif font is?). There are banners next to the road proclaiming the store’s name in vertical lettering, but when I go past them on the way home from work, the other side of the banner is visible. And it spells “moold”. Because, that’s where I want to buy my $5 cupcakes and exotic organic kumquats: a store called “Moold.”

(That said, those are some damn fine cupcakes).


Less money, mo’ problems

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(hee hee)

So, today I have…

…seen the Star Trek movie and didn’t die of boredom. It was good, really. I don’t think it interested me enough to, for example, watch the original series, but I still liked the movie.

…taken a car load of stuff from The Boy’s room to Goodwill, including the air hockey table and a few assorted toys, the old TV and the old (original) XBox. The Boy, on the off chance you ever find this, you are missed and you are loved.

…eaten an enormous lunch where I was bugged by THREE coworkers, one of whom spilled the beans about the un-raise coming to my company. (I hadn’t told Gene yet for a number of reasons). Arrgh. 

…debated writing a vitriolic blog post to someone’s ex-something wherein I rip that person a new asshole for being a puta estupida. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow since that’s actually Mother’s Day. (ooh, but it’s after midnight…still, tomorrow, maybe).



Diva tricks…

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So, I took a mental health afternoon today. TMI alert, by the way. The cycle of Clomid didn’t have the desired effect and I don’t know why and frankly, it was just too depressing. So, when Gene said “Why don’t you take the afternoon off?” I decided that he had a good idea. We went out for lunch, played SkeeBall, bought caramel apples and then went home.

“What do you want to do?” Gene asks me.

“Let’s go to Barnes & Noble and then go home,” I reply.

“I meant metaphysically,” he said. (Metaphysically?)

Dunno. This was round 4 and some doctors won’t go past 4 rounds (and most won’t go past 6) so I’m feeling a little under the gun.

Speaking of, do you know what’s annoying? Getting a negative on a pregnancy test, going back to bed, waking up to find Sarah Palin’s teenage daughter on Good Morning America yammering about teen pregnancy. I defy any of you to have this happen and NOT give the TV the finger.

(Disclaimer: I know that it could be worse in a million different ways and I’m fortunate in a million different ways but…ugh).

(Diva trick = Doing something hideously self involved, such as taking the afternoon off of work for something so stupid).