Thursday, June 29, 2006

Knocking on wood as I type this

Not to jinx myself or anything, but my non-interview, which was (to my surprise) an actual interview with stupid questions about my weaknesses and my hobbies and what inspires me, went really well.

I may even go so far as to say that I kicked minor ass.

I answered the questions really well.

It helps that the interviewer left me in the room, with his list of questions just across the table and totally legible, for 10 minutes.

It also helps that I worked with the interviewer for 9 months and am quite certain that he is confident in me and the work that I do.

The only thing that concerns me is:
a. he mentioned that the job was posted on the company website and on the trade website I found before and told me that he was interviewing others
b. he's going to call my boss

Now, my boss said before that she would go to bat for me. But I don't trust her as far as I can throw her (and she's a big lady), so maybe this is dependant on her. Does she talk me up so that I become someone else's problem without her having to fire me, or does she tell him what she really thinks of me (that I am the psychotic one) in order to keep me?

We'll find out in the next week to 10 days.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

The unbearable weirdness of dreaming

Every so often, I have a dream that is so insanely random that I think about it for four days straight.

I'm on day two of my most recent fit of dream pondering.

Yesterday, I woke up and didn't quite remember the dream that, now, I can't stop thinking about. It was a good dream, I assumed, because I woke up rather chipper despite the time (5:20 am) on my clock. Over the course of a shower, staring blankly at my closet, aimlessly wandering through my apartment, the making/downing of one bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with Splenda brown sugar, swearing at my hair and dancing shamelessly to Dashboard Confessional in my bathroom, I started to remember.

It involved a ring. It definitely involved a ring. I kept starting at it. I recalled that much.

I wanted to like it. It meant a lot to me.

But it was ugly.

An ugly ring. Yes, that was it. An ugly ring of diamonds, set in...

...cardboard.

Okay. In my dream I was wearing a diamond ring with a cardboard setting. Pretty! What girl wouldn't want an...engagement (?!?!) ring set in cardboard?

Oh, God. It WAS an engagement ring.

What is wrong with me, dreaming of a cardboard engagement ring?!

A cardboard engagement ring that still had a K-Mart price tag on it ($499), to be more precise.

That I tried and tried and tried to like.

Because Colin had picked it out for me.

I was afraid to tell Colin about the dream. I was scared that the dream, based in our being married, would cause his skin would flush and his tongue to swell and a nasty rash to develop on his shins.

But I just couldn't help myself.

When I told him, he was just amused. He didn't even faint. He said "so I'll have to start saving now?"

And mentioned it again when I talked to him later that night.

I don't know what any of it means!

The dream. Colin's comment on the dream. And why I'm still even thinking about this.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Okay. Scary.

Just got a call from Former Boss at Internship re: job of Other Former Boss at Internship's job. I'm going in on Friday to "talk" with him about it. Not quite an interview, I think.

But.

I still want to puke.

Coach

I ran into my high school soccer coach at a graduation party this weekend.

It was...well...not as awkward as I thought it was going to be. This was because Meg did most of the talking. I kind of just stood there, listened, smiled and occasionally interjected innocuous commentary.

When I was playing for him, Coach and I got along as well as a player and a coach could. He made me cry more than once, I disappointed him on occasion, but, overall, I was the backbone of his team and he knew it. I didn't miss practice. I organized the team to play in indoor soccer leagues during the off-season. I played with heart. I kept my grades up. I didn't love anything like I loved soccer. He rewarded me by naming me team captain in my junior season.

I only yelled at him once. It was a Monday after a Friday-night game. Meg had come down to the sidelines after our game to see me. Heather, jokingly, asked Meg to throw away a box or something. Meg, also jokingly, told her no. Coach blew up and yelled at Meg to listen to Heather.

I didn't care that Coach and Meg knew each other (he had coached her at soccer camp and she would sometimes practice with my team) to the point that maybe he felt like they were familiar enough that he could yell at her for absolutely nothing. He pissed me off.

Don't fuck with my sister, dude.

Which was essentially what I told him that one glorious time we really came to blows.

I was basically okay with Coach the entire time I played with him. He was a shitty soccer coach, to be honest, but he was a really good man. He cared about us like we were his children. I never doubted that he loved all of us. And, when I graduated, I saw myself keeping in touch - me stopping by his classroom when I was home from college to catch up and exchanging occasional emails during the school year.

It didn't happen.

Meg was a freshman the year after I graduated. Far and beyond the skill of the current goalie of the varsity squad (like, far and beyond to the point where MEG was coming to our practices to help train this other goalie), there wasn't a person in our little soccer community who didn't think that Meg would have that starting goalie position on the varsity team.

And then, when the other goalie didn't show up for tryouts (she was telling everyone that she going to play), Coach pulled Meg aside and told her that she had the starting position.

Until, all of a sudden, at the end of tryouts, this goalie decided that she wanted to play. And Coach just gave her the starting position. No questions asked.

Meg was devastated.

I was pissed.

I would go to games and I couldn't talk to Coach. I couldn't look him in the eyes. I couldn't be civil. He, again, had fucked with my sister. And I didn't like that.

Our relationship remained awkward and strained for Meg's four years in high school.

At Meg's senior year soccer banquet, while he was giving her an award, Coach started crying. He talked about how much he would miss Meg. How much she meant to his team.

And he said, during his speech, something about how Meg comes from an extraordinary family. A family of strong women.

He looked at me when he said that.

And I've felt guilty since that day.

Because Coach is who Coach is. A great guy and a shitty coach.

He shouldn't have fucked with my sister.

But I shouldn't have held my grudge.

Friday, June 23, 2006

I'd be excited that it's Friday, but I'm working tomorrow

Things I am loving this fine Friday morning
1. Trader Joe’s Pomegranate White Tea
2. Painting my nails at my desk to take revenge for the fact that I have to be at work three hours before anyone else
3. That I can see a television, tuned to ESPN, from my desk
4. Anticipation for Saudi Arabia v. Spain, Ukraine v. Tunisia, Switzerland v. South Korea, Togo v. France
5. Filling out my World Cup bracket
6. David Beckham
7. My breakfast of Trader Joe’s Mandarin Orange Chicken
8. (Who can tell where I went grocery shopping this week?)
9. Reader emails that point out random, silly coincidences that make me realize how small the world can be
10. That I put in to take Monday, July 3rd off, thus giving me July 1-5 off of work. Five days off! Holla!
11. That I just used the word holla in my blog
12. Return emails from my aunt that say, in response to me asking if she’ll be attending my cousin’s dance recital, “I wouldn’t make you do that alone.”

Things I am not even close to loving this fine Friday morning
1. The fact that I’m at work, even though it’s Friday and Fridays have been my day off since September (SO WHY, BOSS, WOULD YOU CHANGE IT WITHOUT ASKING ME?!!)
2. Knowledge that I will spend my evening at little Cousin Paige’s dance recital, which will last no longer than 92 agonizing hours of sequins, taffeta and over-rouged children
3. 5:30 am wake-up call. Dear Alarm Clock, blow me.
4. That the president of my company still hasn’t gotten back to me regarding the job opening at the sister company that I interned with
5. That I found the job posting for the open position on a professional organization’s job board/website
6. The sun. It is out. I am not.
7. Every single person currently in this building

Things that I don’t even care enough about to have an opinion on this fine Friday morning
1. The work I should probably be doing right now

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

A pinch of this

Please forgive me, sweet readers, if this is scattered and nonsensical. My day off, which has been Friday for some time, has been switched to Wednesday for the summer. Consequently, I have no idea where I am or what I'm doing.

Will definitely be taking the easy way out tonight.

Performance review: Pointless. I rated myself average for 90% of the categories, thus forcing my boss to mark me up over and over and over. She, per usual, didn't pick up on my oh-so-subtle mind game. I, per usual, was still amused.

Mother Nature, Whore Extraordinaire: Currently, my skin is a charming shade of blinding white. I need a fricking hour in some quality sunshine (wearing sunscreen!) like I need oxygen. I had nothing to do and nobody to see today; laying on the deck at Mom and Dad's house with a book and my iPod was first priority. Good thing that today has brought nothing but thunderstorms.

World Cup: Excellent backup for sleeping in the sun. I'm going to have a huge void in my life when this tournament is through.

Betty Crocker: When I wasn't parked in front of the television today, I was in the kitchen. First on my agenda was baking the homemade Oreo cookies that were previously posted at Smitten. Later, I whipped out peanut-crusted chicken (featured in Martha Stewart's Everyday Food last issue) for the fam. Quite delicious. I kind of kick all sorts of ass in the kitchen.

The Hills: You know I have to go and watch it now. It's a damn good thing that I don't look like I'm 23, because I sure as hell don't act like I am.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Evil, party of one

So I'm sitting here contemplating my 10:30 am performance appraisal meeting with my boss.

I have to rank myself on a boatload of performance criteria on a 1-5 scale, with 1 being unacceptable and 5 being excellent.

4. Job Knowledge - The extent to which an employee possesses the practical/technical knowledge of the job.

8. Adherence to Policy - The extent to which an employee follows safety and conduct rules, other regulations and adheres to company policies and procedures.

10. Judgment - The extent to which an employee demonstrates proper judgment and decision making* skills when necessary.


(*this should be decision-making, but I am the only one in the company who can write in a language that could be mistaken for proper/grammatically-correct/intelligent/coherent English.)

15. Resourcefulness - The extend to which an employee seeks out and utilizes the requires resources to complete a task.

I am going to wait until approximately 10:26 to fill this sucker out. At 10:26 am, four minutes before my meeting with my boss, I am going to decide between one of two options that I am considering, both of which would primarily be to fuck with her.

Option A: Give myself all 5s. My reasoning would be "if I thought there was anything less than excellent about my performance, I would change it!" [insert sweet, innocent smile, fluttering of lashes and burst of sunshine here]

Option B: Give myself all 3s. I would do this because this stupid fucking performance appraisal worksheet doesn't give me any guidelines to base my appraisal on.

1 = Unacceptable. In comparison to what? The work Einstein did on his Theory of Relativity? I’d think so!
2 = Poor. Well, if my basis of comparison is my boss, I have yet to lie in order to gain access to anyone’s email account but I am slightly better at being a bitch, so this is an appropriate rating.
3 = Average. Maybe I’m supposed to compare myself against my coworkers. I am a nice, humble girl. I do not see myself as better than any of my coworkers. We all do our best! We all work super hard! I am not any better or any worse than anyone. We are a team!
4 = Good. I think that good is an awfully bland word. Who – with the exception of Glinda, if you know what I mean – aspires to be good at anything? Please! I strive for so much more.
5 = Excellent. Yes. My work is excellent in comparison to the work that I would have done when I was in the third grade.

I’m actually kind of looking forward to this meeting.

Take that, Powers that Be.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Psychotic Soccer

I should scare myself.

I don’t – more than anything, I amuse myself – but I really should. If things keep deteriorating at this rate, I am going to be one of those parents who runs an umpire over with her SUV for making a bad call at her son’s game.

In my soccer game last night, I was at the center of a significant amount of shenanigans and a great deal of hullabaloo.

I got my first yellow card, in fact. For smarting off to the referee.

I was playing defense again. The ball was right at the goal. It bounced off of my shins and my sister, the goalie, pounced on it.

Goalies, you see, are not allowed to pick up a ball passed back by one of their teammates. If the ball is unintentionally played to the goalie by a teammate, however, it’s allowed. And that, my friends, is what happened.

But the referee, who was totally out of position (he was in the middle of the field and, as my back was to him, definitely couldn’t see what exactly happened), whistled this as a foul. He said that I passed the ball to Meg.

I didn’t. I swear it.

So Meg is all up in arms about it. She starts screaming. “That is a bullshit call! You know that it a bullshit call! There is a difference between an intentional pass and it bouncing off of someone’s shin guard and you know that, referee!” He’s now close enough to the goal that Meg is right in his face, pointing her finger at him. “That is fucking bullshit and we both know it.”

The ref gave them the kick anyway. At the six yard box. Incredibly close to the goal.

Somehow, they didn’t score.

The ball was knocked out of bounds, and, while a player was retrieving it, the referee is talking to one of the opposing players. Loud and animate, he is making it obvious that he is discussing how ridiculous it is that Meg even thought that shouldn’t be a foul.

Meg, of course, sees this. And she is immediately all over him. “That is unprofessional, sir! You should not be discussing that play with anyone but me!”

And then I start going. “You’re a joke, ref! Why don’t you just put on your orange jersey, sweetheart? Which one of their players are you making out with after the game? You’re ridiculous.” And so on. And on. And on.

I very, very rarely talk back to referees. But he had been consistently bad all game, and now he was fucking with my little sister. Back off, buddy.

A few minutes later, I get drilled by some random girl. It was totally a foul and, amazingly, he called it in my favor. I take the kick. I pass the ball to my sister.

Meg is getting ready to kick the ball when I yell, way too loudly, “hey! Ref! That was an accident! She can pick it up.”

And the bastard gives me a yellow card.

My very first yellow card. I am so proud of myself.

So is my dad, King Hater of all Referees.

I think it was the best Father’s Day present he’s ever gotten.

Friday, June 16, 2006

I'm a bad daughter

Well, well. Haven't I been slacking on the blog this week?

Won't even deny it!

Can't even deny it.

Really, though, I'm doing you all a favor. There is a limit to the number of times can I blog about:
a. the World Cup
b. Going to the gym
c. Seeing my cousin Danielle's musical.

I think I've tapped out options a and b. How about another hit of c, kids? More tales of humor and intrigue about Danielle's musical?

Okay. Since you asked so nicely.

My family and I saw Danielle's show last night and I wanted to kill my mother the entire time. The end.

In general, I don't understand why some people say that they absolutely cannot stand their parents, that they are so crazy that they make them insane, etc. I get along with my parents (and my sister. And the rest of my family.) just fine. They don't get on my nerves much. I like them for who they are.

And then there was my mother yesterday.

For reasons unknown, she was on the verge of strangling my father. And that was annoying.

She was on his ass the entire night (kudos to my dad for ignoring her).

Mom on his driving: "we'd like to get there ALIVE!"

Mom on Dad considering taking a different route: "take the way we know we'll get there. We're going to miss the show and spend all night driving around Detroit."

Mom on Dad saying that we'd leave in five minutes: "why don't we just go now so that we're not getting there at the laaaaast second?" (insert annoyed snort here)

Mom on Dad's choice of parking space (which happened to be the last one in the lot): "you are not going to fit there. You are absolutely not going to fit in there. And that car is going to hit Alyson's when it pulls out."

And she was making the biggest fucking deal about the air conditioning in the car. Which was unnecessary. You're squished in the back seat of Stella with two other adults; roll down the window if you're so fucking hot, lady.

It was just too much. I was all tense and agitated by the time we got to the theater. Lucy met us there and, as would only be appropriate based on her stellar mood, the first thing my mom says when she sees her is "Lucy! You are too young to be getting married."

THIS COMING FROM THE LADY WHO GOT MARRIED WHEN SHE WAS 19.

At intermission, she decided that she would sing for all of us. Umm. Did you forget that you were in public? Or that you cannot sing? Or that we're all in the midst of seeing the musical and, therefore, do not need your interpretation of it?

After the show, when we went backstage to see Danielle, Mom was all "let's go. We need to go. It's time to go. We should leave. It's late. We need to leave. We should go. It's time for us to leave."

And, finally, when we can't take her nagging anymore, we're walking out the door and she is talking, talking, talking.

We waited for her.

I wanted to kick her.

It's good that I don't live at home anymore.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Warning! Danger ahead!

H&M opened a store two miles from my apartment.

And I thought I was poor now.

HA!

The worst is yet to come. But at least I'll look cute in bankruptcy court.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Audience

On Saturday, I took my Grandma the Troll and her friend, Helen, to see Cousin Danielle's show. There, we met a coworker, her husband and their kids, who I reserved tickets for months ago.

When I sent Danielle my ticket request for last Saturday, I asked for six tickets. Helen was a late addition to our group, so my tickets were 6 + 1. Meaning, basically, that someone (me) wasn't guaranteed a seat with the rest of the group. Big flipping deal.

It became a somewhat bigger flipping deal at will call when the man working the booth could only find the envelope with my first six ticket requests. He bumbled around looking for my seventh ticket for a good 10 minutes [people in line behind me, please accept my apology for the delay] before giving up.

"That's fine." I'm normally not so calm in such situations. "Just get me a ticket anywhere."

"Well, miss, all I have is..."

"That's fine. Really. I'm seeing it again on Thursday. I just want a seat."

And so I got one. Stage left. A decent location. Close enough to be able to clearly see Danielle when she was on stage, but to the side far enough that I lost some of the depth of the stage. Not a huge deal.

I got into the show more, I think, because I sat alone. I didn't have to whisper and point to my grandma and my coworker when Danielle was on stage. I absorbed the story and let my eyes puddle with tears at the climax of the show.

I didn't let the tears fall, though, until the finale.

Thinking about how proud my grandma would have been. How she would've cried too, seeing Danielle under the lights, taking her bow as though she was born to do it, smiling as she absorbed the applause.

My grandma died shortly after Danielle - who studied acting at NYU - got her first big break in a national tour of a Broadway musical. The show was to come to Detroit in the spring. Grandma died a few months before it did so.

The entire family went to see Danielle on the show's opening night. We waited in the lobby for her after, filled with proud and happy and lingering grief.

Danielle entered the lobby and collapsed into my mom's arms. So happy and incredibly sad. We all were. Smiling through tears and so much regret. Grandma should have been there.

And Grandma should have been there on Saturday, too.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Why I maybe shouldn't watch the World Cup

I spent my entire weekend, but for the evenings (when soccer wasn't on) and part of Saturday afternoon (when I was at Danielle's show) watching the World Cup.

I definitely woke up early especially to watch David Beckham (my husband) and England play on Saturday morning. Same for this morning and the Dutch squad. Love it. Fucking love the World Cup.

Anyhoo.

I had a soccer game this evening. And, let me be brutally honest: my team blows. We have the slowest defense EVER. I mean, one girl gave birth to twins four months ago (!) and another was playing on a sprained ankle but, still, so slow. The weakest part of our team.

Anyway. The other team's forwards kept smoking our defense. Over and over and over. And Meg, our goalie, kept stopping them. And stopping them and stopping them.

In the last 15 minutes of the game, I was put back at sweeper. Sweeper is the defender of all defenders - she's the last player back and she doesn't have a player to mark up so that she can boss everyone else around.

I'm an offensive player. I really have no business playing sweeper. But, I'm quite quick and we needed someone to stop their forwards so that we'd have a chance at tying up the game (we were losing, 2-1).

So there's maybe 3 minutes left in the game. The opponent's left forward gets the ball and is flying down the sideline. She, of course, beats our defender. And so it's just me and her. I'm running pretty much even with her, so I do what I need to do: slide tackle. I made contact with the ball first (making the play completely legal) and, after, she tripped over my outstretched leg. Whatever.

So she starts bitching to the referee - who knew that I just pulled the awesomest, sweetest play ever, making her look like a damn fool. He's like "no foul, lady." And I'm like, "damn right, that was clean."

And, as I say this, I realize that my right hand is full of grass (I must've grabbed onto the grass as I was pulling myself off of the ground).

I throw it in her face.

Hahahahaha.

The tackle might've been legal, but tossing a small handful of grass into my opponent's face probably wasn't.

Not that it matters: the ref didn't see.

I don't know what gets into me.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Copa do mundo

Oh, glorious day! Oh, wonderful first day of the 2006 World Cup!

Seriously.

I. Am. So. Excited.

Number of soccer games I watch outside of the World Cup: 0.
Percentage of the World Cup I attempt to watch: 100.

As far as I'm concerned, the World Cup is THE sporting event. After missing the majority of the 2002 tournament (I was working at a summer camp in Middle o' Nowhere, PA), I've been craving this for quite some time.

And it's finally here! Hurrah!

Despite being at work, I am incredibly sneaky and managed to watch the majority of both games today. Tomorrow, I will so be akwake in time to watch my boyfriend, David Beckham, and the rest of England take on Paraguay.

It's fun, being excited about an event that is capturing the interest of the rest of the world. There's so much energy!

It makes me want to turn cartwheels.

(And I'm really shitty at cartwheels.)

My goal is to attend the 2010 World Cup. It's in South Africa. I've always wanted to go to South Africa! I've always wanted to see a World Cup.

So that's, like, mostly perfect.

Now I just need to come up with a plan/traveling partner/time off of work/money.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Elderly at 23

I’m simply too old for this.

This week has battered me.

Soccer game. Cast party. Concert. A night of doing laundry and watching Amelie. Baking chocolate cum cakes. The excitement is too much. The coffee: blood ratio is too high. I am too old.

My cousin being in town with her show raises my exhaustion quotient. I see it on Saturday, next Thursday and possibly again the following weekend, when she’s on stage for the lead that she understudies.

Yikes.

I had forgotten how busy summers can be. This one, especially.

I’m trying to squeeze in time for three skates per week (Monday, Wednesday, Saturday), along with soccer (Sundays) and yoga (Friday) and some quality time with the treadmill (Tuesday, maybe?). I have a wedding shower to plan. I would occasionally like to see the sunshine.

Meg is at home without many friends to spend time with; I feel obligated to be at Mom and Dad’s house whenever my schedule allows it. Silly, maybe, but she’s my little sister and I don’t like her to be sad or lonely and if my company can keep her from being sad or lonely (and away from Jay), I’ll drive the hour home to hang with her.

Fretting about impending weddings takes time. I’m invited to three this summer. The + guest is causing too much stress. Two of the three weddings are out-of-town and my parents happen to be invited to both them. How is that going to work? “Ma and Pa, I know that I haven’t even bothered telling you that Colin is anything more than a friend because I’m afraid that once I do we’ll break things off immediately and I’ll have to give you an awkward explanation, but he’s my date for these weddings and I’ll obviously have to share a hotel room with him. I hope that’s not too weird for you.”

The aforementioned weddings will each eat an entire weekend. First up is Aviva’s brother’s, a local affair (thank goodness) the second weekend in July. The next weekend is Meg’s best friend Nicole’s (we got the invitations today and they are positively atrocious). And, then, of course, is Lucy’s affair – which I am fully expecting to suck the life from me.

And Lucy’s shower, which will be another full weekend.

And Meg’s birthday. Always cause for incessant partying.

It’s appropriate that we had Mom and Dad’s anniversary party on Memorial Day weekend and Lucy is getting married on Labor Day weekend. What fitting bookends for a summer that already exhausts me.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

The Plot Thickens

Sleepy, sleepy. Oh so sleepy. Last night, Lucy and I saw Dave Matthews Band in concert. The evening reinforced my belief that some things will never change. We’ll always be the giddy, naïve 16-year-olds that we were on December 10, 1998. We’ll never live down our fanatic idiocy.

First thing yesterday morning, I got an email from Carrie, my boss at my internship. “I’m giving my two weeks,” she basically said, “and I’m going into the President’s office in five minutes. I will break the news and I will recommend that you take my job. If you don’t want me to do it, you better tell me fast.”

I let her recommend me.

I should explain the incestuous mess that is my company. I interned for President’s Pet Company: three full-timers (just two when I was there) and a pair of poorly-compensated interns. I work now for The Real Thing. The Real Thing is President’s baby. It was established long before Pet Company came alone. President essentially owns The Real Thing, while he was appointed to Pet Company.

Pet Company and The Real Thing are housed in the same building. Pet Company is invited to The Real Thing’s Christmas party, company picnic, etc., but Pet Company is technically another entity. Pet Company employees aren’t forced to suffer through the rah! rah! continuing education courses. They’re on a different insurance. Human resources and my crazy boss have nothing to do with Pet Company.

And so I sent President a quick email before I left work today, telling him that I was interested in my Carrie's job.

I do think that I would be good at it. I am sure that it would fit me better than the job I reluctantly hold now.

I have yet to determine if this is or is not a colossal mistake. It's the same dysfunctional company and not the same dysfunctional company, after all.

All I know is that I feel a little sick to my stomach about it.

Nerves. Always the nerves.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Reflections on an afternoon with actors

The entire cast of the musical that my cousin Danielle is in was invited over to our house for a party today.

I only worked until noon so that I could help out. I am very good at being a hostess.

Mostly, though, I learned about touring actors.

1. They have small dogs to travel with.
2. Or children. (Really! They bring their kids on the road!)
3. Or spouses.
4. Or all three!
5. They're never completely off stage.
6. Or completely out of costume.
7. They appreciate a real, true house. That people actually live in.
8. They overuse the word "awesome" in describing a real, true house that people actually live in.
9. They're big huggers.
10. They're also surprisingly big eaters.
11. I'm talkin' dessert, too.
12. They're humble when Meg points out that they had a major part in one of her favorite childhood television series.
13. They are each other's only friends and family on the road, and they know it.
14. They appreciate a pretty view.
15. And they can devour an enormous ice cream pie in 10 minutes.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

The judges liked my spins

I passed my skating test yesterday. Passed it with colors that could be described as nearly flying, as a matter of fact.

I get nervous. I’m significantly better with my nerves now than I was when I started skating, but, honestly, is there any shame in having weak knees when you’re performing on thin steel blades? I think not.

I’ve improved my nervousness so that I feel it primarily on my warm-up session – the five minutes that the skaters in your group (generally, you’re broken into chunks of 5-8 skaters) have to get onto the ice and practice prior to your test or competition.

Warm-ups can be intense. Everyone has their agenda and wants to get through their practice. You have to rush things a little bit and that rush can lead to your screwing up on something that you’re normally quite good at. And screwing up on something you know you can usually do is rather unnerving.

Yesterday, I went out on my warm-up and killed it. I have never been so aggressive or so on in a warm-up session. It was fantastic.

And then I had to wait 20 minutes until I skated.

Less than fantastic.

Despite the delay, when it was my turn to test, I skate like I took the twenty-minute delay and listened to AC/DC to keep myself pumped up.

So I totally passed.

And that, my friends, is a totally awesome feeling. Sure, it's a silly little skating test. But it's also me, alone, on the ice. Little ol' shy, anxious me.

I love proving myself wrong.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Bake off

On the one-week anniversary of The Great Cake Adventure, I bring you The Great Cake Adventure Photo Blog.

Ta da!


Just as she did for Mom and Dad's wedding, Grandma bought the cake from a bakery (there is a limit to the Martha Stewartness when you're trying to stay sane for a wedding, you know?). This was our blank canvas. Our jumping-off point. Where we started.




Marzipan turds. For the record, I find marzipan to be extremely disgusting. Three bowls of marzipan for three different colors of grapes.




My Grandma the Troll, mapping out how she would decorate the sides of the cake with buttercream frosting.




Meg puts on the first purple grapes.




Green and purple grapes on the bottom layer.




Meg and Grandma stack the first and second layers.




The top layer!




The top of the top layer!




Grandma, me and my pointy witch nose stack the top layer.



I'll probably only keep this up until the end of the weekend, but I cannot resist posting a picture of us blonde babes.

My sis, me and my cousins! From left to right: Meg, me, Anna, Emma.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Slacker!

I should get my butt in gear and post pictures from Mom and Dad's anniversary.

And there are definitely blog-worthy stories from yesterday's bridesmaid dress shopping excursion with Lucy.

Since I'm already babbling, I would like to let you all know that I busted my ass at work today. Month end'll do that to you. Make you work all the day long without even checking your personal email or your checking account balance. Pity.

I'm busy, though.

Busy watching the National Spelling Bee.

Busy preparing for another skating test; I take it early Saturday afternoon.

Busy psyching myself up for the second bridesmaid dress shopping debacle.

The excite-o-meter is off the charts here, kids.

Snort.
 
Blog Template by Delicious Design Studio