Before

After

Oh yes. After watching videos like this:

and this:

There was really no room for dissension.

And, my patient darlings, let's just say that there's a little Youtube clip coming your way once that bad boy arrives. I've got the hair of Tom Keifer and I'm not afraid to show it off in all its glorious, gooey glory. After all, you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

Anyway, what has changed since we last checked in?! Well, I don't really fit in my pants anymore, which has been incredible! What else? I'm graduating this weekend (only one more paper on the, of course, the effects of obesity on the economy to GO! Yes! I re-fied my house! HOORAH! I got not one but TWO major duty jobs (both as marketing heads - one at a tech firm and one at the nonprofit I've been working for for a while, which means I now know enough about SEO to create external links wherever I may go but also know enough about SEO to limit, limit, limit any real organization's connection to ME. I'm off to Park City a week from today to skiiiiii skiiiiii and celebrate my 35th with the V-man, the Maman and my fair broheim. And then I shall work for the rest of my life without pause. I think I paid about $400 to have my house cleaned today (it'd been a while) and, oh right, I'm getting much better at skiing - to the point that I'm choosing to take moguls. Like J. Paul Getty! HAR! He's a hell of a good time aprés, not gonna lie.

I also got an iPhone. And a new coat. And an enormous cat.

Not a good movie, no.

But then my laughter is cut short by the sight of David Beckham's shirtless torso. And then I have to excuse myself.

Do. Not. Like. When my idea is stolen by a mainstream website. Granted, decorating my black jeep with Star Wars decals is an idea I only shared with Veetoire, and I never got around to ordering them because I couldn't decide on a color scheme, but cmoooonnn! At-Ats are the sole jurisdiction of meeeeeeee...and 800,000 pock-faced nerds with hair on their palms. Oh and my brother.

(And no, I don't know what that little squiggle is but it wasn't included in my vision. We're all At-Ats in this family! You too, dead mouse in the wall.)

The above is not ACTUALLY the summit, and taken on the way down when I was in a MUCH more "picture-y" mood, but a cute picture nonetheless so perdon...

↑ THAT is the view from the summit so yeah...

then we climbed down a bit...

smoked a dooob (as is our Colorado right)...

admired my grotesquely swollen hands...

mistakenly made a video about my grotesquely swollen hands...

and giggled all the way back to the Idaho Springs (and the beers and burgers that awaited us there). Yay us!

See more of the Flickr set here, if you're thus inclined, or just close your eyes and envision our majestic physical prowess (prowii) on your own terms.

Take your time.
I'll wait.

Fun! Bloody! Alba can act?!???

This is the hombre extraordinaire who helped Victor reattach the cabinet, who loves on my Deuce when we're out of town, and who gets us the VIP treatment at the Bluebird. This. Is. Dumptruck.

The neighbors are an inventive bunch, aren't they.

Funny you should say so as I should have asked for their help last night when my kitchen cabinet detached from the wall and flung itself lustily at my boyfriend's kneecap. See here for a visual. Horrible. Broke my window, chipped my floor, smashed nearly all of my mugs and glasses - cannily sparing only those without sentimental value - and nearly smushed my main man. Apparently the fucking jackwagon who installed it drilled four holes into masonite - without anchors or supports of any kind or, you know, knowledge of basic carpentry - and let it, you know, just hang there. Like you might a postcard. Or piece of grass. It could have easily killed any one of us. Well maybe not me because I'm lead, but normal people.

So, yeah. It's been a sweet day - two trips to the Depot and it's still not back on the wall. Definitely keeping a "my glass may be broken but it would be half-full if it could be" outlook. Or trying to. The fact that Victor made me the SICKEST table ever while I was gone is helping. I'll post pictures as soon as I'm done picking this ceramic shard out of my heel. Can I sue for this shit? No, I mean seriously.

And my love. And General Grievous.

The alphabet has a primary purpose, to communicate, and a secondary purpose, to sort. The primary purpose, the spelling and writing and sounding out and pronouncing, has never posed much of a problem. But it is the secondary purpose, the memorized order of things, that has twisted my intuition for years now. It’s just off. And no matter of repetition or practice can ever make me truly believe that g comes after f, that r comes after q or that the sly one-two punch of “uv” is, indeed, correctly positioned.

Alphabetizing, then, brings no end of challenges. Indeed, no matter how many times I have dutifully placed documents in the established plutocracy, all bets are off after “d.” Reason and memory are replaced with a high-speed singsong of the letters trilling through my mind. Thankfully, there are certain, mid-stream jumping off points to start from (“lmn” or “qrs”) but throw out an H to be categorized, and I’m back to A.

More disturbing than a poor memory, however, is the inability to retain information even through repetition. A poor memory can be chalked up to lots of fun things from my time in Nantucket: too many gin and tonics, too much marijuana smoked out of aluminum cans, syphilis and so on. But the inability to retain seems to indicate, with no subtlety whatsoever, a vast stupidity or inattention to detail that one doesn’t often find in geniuses, or even in National Merit Scholars. Of which I am neither, so the analogy is just. My favorite band for years and years was INXS. Which, as may be obvious to some, begins with “I.” And which, no matter how frequently I found myself scouring through record store bins, music encyclopedias, magazine indices and other sad sources of pre-Internet research, I could not seem to remember came after Jimi Hendrix but before Jazzy Jeff (DJ).

There is beauty in the modern alphabet, however. Beauty that helps us make sense of its mysterious arrangement. The “ij,” for instance. Like an open, friendly little face, with a kind – yet slightly withholding – smile curling around the nose. Or “mn,” which becomes infinitely more fun in cursive when you can actually put three humps in the m and two in the n, creating a mid-alphabet mountain range.

I woke up at 4 a.m. on Sunday covered in the red, bulbous hideosities known as "hives." After cursing the Oil of Olay (or "Ulay" as members of the EU are likely to call it) I had so callously gambled with in the shower Friday morn, I sped to a 24-hour pharmacy on Colfax where I knew I would either end my pain through the purchase of Benadryl or a 22 caliber to the dome from a madcap mugger. At that point, I was all "Eh!" about it.

(Not me - I'm not quite this back-fatty...or mannish.)

Several days, countless hours spent trying to stay alert after the Ben-coma, countless evenings spent in a huddle under the covers shivering with the chills, countless afternoons spent sweating through my clothes, countless utterances of the phrase, "I think I'm gonna puke" and READER, I'm still feeling like ass. It's awesome. Hives are gone but the lingering malingerings of 1,000 headaches continue to pound in my dome and no matter how many over-the-counter (OTC) painkillers I take, these lil bitches just keep on thrumming.

In other news, after picking up some exciting Budweiser short shorts at ARC on Broadway today (long story), V and I saw a total douche-dahhhoooche back his brand new, annoyingly pimped out red Dodge pickup into a beater car, totally dent its hood and take off with ZERO hesitation. While we were standing right there! The CHUTZPAH! So, of course, we got his license plate, left a note for the aggrieved party, called the cops to make sure we didn't have to stay and have - thus far - been treated to the warm-fuzzies by TWO phone calls from the owner of the car thanking us with PROFUSE and telling us that the cops have already got a match (out of C. Springs, imagine that!) and it's a company car and they've issued a warrant. A warrant! I feel like Dog the Bounty Hunter up in here and have decided my next job title will either be "The Virgin Vigilante" or "The Vagina Vigilante." Undecided. And no need to get all up in the details on that, just trust me - it's got SEO chops all over it.

Of course, it feels like focusing on the negative is like sitting next to the dog shit. And it is. And I shouldn't do it. Lots of things are good. It's just a bit hard to get up and move when the odor is *sooooo* enticing.