Category: laffs

I’ve got concerns.

First, read this brief article from the ABQjournal:

(edited for length)

“Someone stole a Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Department patrol car early Wednesday and apparently took it for a joy ride.

But the fun may not have stopped there for the bandit who took the patrol car from a county storage yard. Police are looking into the possibility the thief impersonated a sheriff’s deputy while using the stolen car to make traffic stops— while drunk.

The New Mexico State Police— which has taken over the investigation— is looking into a report the driver then used the car to make at least one traffic stop in Chimayó. A woman called State Police and told them that a man in a sheriff’s vehicle had stopped her and that he also seemed drunk.”

Ok so…questions and observations:

1) What size cajones does it take to steal a Sherffi’s car from the county lot? Or maybe not cajones, perhaps this is better measured in liters, or pints or….whatever measurement Mad Dog comes in.

2) Who hasn’t had, if even for a brief moment, the odd dream of making a stop in a patrol car. Blue and whites flashing. Sauntering up to the driver’s window, double knit beige polyester pants whiffing as you walk, mirrored aviator glasses in place. You utter something like, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

Someone was actually drunk enough to pull it off…and get away with it (so far).

3) How freaked out must the woman have been when she was stopped? WTF must THAT encounter have been like?

4) “(Santa Fe County sheriff’s Capt. Robert) Riggs said that in his 20 years as a cop, he hasn’t seen anything like this before.” You gotta work REAL hard to show a cop something he hasn’t seen before. Even in Santa Fe.

5) Is it wrong that I’m rooting, just a little, for the guy to not get caught? I know, I know, just because a crime is dadgum funny doesn’t make it any less a crime.

6) Once again, I’m ever so proud of where I come from. Go on Oh Fair New Mexico. Most other states take themselves WAY too seriously. We’ve still got the comedic edge. And that makes us special.

(Yes, yes, theft and drunken driving aren’t funny. But ya gotta admit, this guy had some flair.)

Just missing the ways of where I come from, for better and for worse.

Good news is I get to visit pretty soon.

Countin’ the days…

An ode

To the humble cupcake.

Not all cupcakes are humble. Just mine.

Recently, for whatever reason I can’t rightly explain, cupcakes have taken on a certain caché, especially with my fellow Gen X’ers.

And there is a big trend toward really pretty cupcakes.

Many folks are even having these pretty cupcakes for their wedding cake. (no, not mine…)

A really powerful, domestic and “womanly” woman at work makes cupcakes with some frequency. She proudly walks in the office with a trendy cool container full of lovely pink treats.

*sigh*

I detailed recently about making a birfday cake for my ownself, and since then, I’ve been pondering better icing recipes.

So yesterday I decided to make cupcakes, which gave me a chance to whip up some frosting.

The cupcakes? Well. They taste good, anyway.

The Good Man and I ate plenty.

But pretty? No. The frosting turned out an odd consistency. Yummy, but weird.

So when TGM and I had eaten our fill, I packed up the rest and brought them to work.

These wolves will eat anything.

Although, I have to say, there *is* something uniquely satisfying watching people eat my sad little creations. Something weirdly “female” to make good eats that people enjoy.

The reviews so far have been “tasty, not too sweet, but yeah, the frosting looks weird.”

Oh well.

Martha Stewart need not worry about giving up her crown to me…yet.

Here’s a blurry iPhone photo to give you the idea.

And I soldier on…

Group Therapy

A personal blog really is just a form of confessional, right? No priest or therapist but a forum to air your issues.

With that in mind, I need to talk about a *painful* recent incident. It’s taken me these many days to be able to discuss it without wincing.

You see, as you know, I’m soon to get hitched to The Good (nay WONDERFUL) Man.

And as such, I need to wear what they call a “gown.”

I’ve worked for nine years at a company in which our multi-billionaire CEO wears old jeans with large visible holes. And we’re a company full of engineers. You can never set the dress standard terribly high with engineers.

So the standard of dress in my world has dropped considerably.

Once upon a time, I wore dresses and panty hose to work almost every day.

Now, it’s real, real hard to get my heiny into a pair of hose. I mean, why?

(Which begs for a slight aside…on the night that my love and I were engaged, I knew we were going to a REALLY nice place for dinner. Wanting him to think I’m a class act, I got out a dress from the back of my closet and bought a new pair of hose. My love observed the shimmy/shake/jumping dance it takes to get into those things and through hysterical laughter said, and this is a direct quote: “Never do that in front of me again.”)

Obviously with all this in mind, the thought of actually purchasing a wedding dress scared me sh–less. It took my best friend flying in from Las Cruces for the weekend to get me to do it. God bless her.

Once the dress was procured, the dress-making people told me, emphatically, that I had to go to Nordstrom to get measured and fitted for a “foundation garment”. (For those not paying attention, that’s a bra in street speak).

Well. If I was traumatized by going to buy a dress, can you imagine what this bit of news did to me?

I was immediately taken back to my youth. Twelve maybe? My mom took me to the Mervyn’s at Coronado Center in Albuquerque where a severe, middle aged woman roughly measured my burgeoning assets, and picked out the ugliest sturdy white device she could sell. No flowers. No lace. A utilitarian boob holding device.

To be fair, my mom did nothing wrong. She was being a good mom. No one could have known how traumatizing that would be for me. But it was. Traumatic.

So, needless to say, I’ve been avoiding the “get measured for a bra” task on my list of “to do’s” for the wedding.

With the day of my first dress fitting well nigh, this last weekend I had to “do the deed”.

I reluctantly trudged into Nordies and waited in line for one of the nice women working there to help me.

As I waited, it seemed the sturdy middle-aged woman with the Eastern Bloc accent was going to be the first finished with her customers, and would be the one assisting me.

FLASHBACKS FROM ‘NAM! Or Mervyn’s. Anyhow.

Much to my pleasant surprise, a young lady hidden behind Helga or Gilda or Gerta hung up the phone she was on, stepped forward and said to me, kindly, “how can I help you?”

I quiveringly told her I was getting married soon and was, to my own utter disbelief, going to be wearing a strapless bra and needed a garment to wear under.

She smiled kindly and said, “do you need to be measured?”

I woefully nodded.

Together we went to the dressing room where she quickly measured my assets (less burgeoning now, more succumbing to gravity).

She left the room to pick out items to try on. I stood there, shivering like a Chihuahua, waiting.

She brought in a few choices. Said cheerily, “ok, let’s try these on!”

She took one off the hanger, opened it up and held it out to me.

I complied.

She said, “Bend over and shake into it.”

What?

“Go ahead,” she urged.

I complied.

She fastened it up behind me.

Oh dear god. I am now wearing this contraption. I. Can’t. Look.

“Oh, now that’s not bad,” my new intimate friend Lilly, chirped.

I looked. Really, it wasn’t that bad. But it made my generous assets, uh…how to say this…made them burble up over the top. Many women like this. I do not. I prefer the “keep ’em stable” approach.

So we moved on to the next one. Shake, shake, fasten.

Hmm. I looked. This one not so very bad at all. I raised my arms up (the litmus test of a strapless device). Everybody stayed where they should.

Lilly pointed out that I was “getting good separation” which sent me reeling back to those old Platex bra commercials, “lifts and separates!”

So ok. We shook, shook into a couple more and decided that device number two was a winner!

Ok, so bra is done. That wasn’t so bad.

Now we needed a garment for the rest of the stuff that has to look good in a nice dress.

Out came the Spanx. You’ll recall the “Spanx and a sash” advice previously discussed.

So I was cool with the Spanx idea.

Until my little friend Lilly suggested I should get a “heavy duty” pair in a size smaller “to really hold you in”.

Uh. Well. Ok.

So she brought in this wrestler’s suit. Which is appropriate, because that’s what we had to do to try it on.

Lilly actually chose to HELP ME with this task.

This was more than a shake, shake, folks.

As we grunted like overworked longshoremen to get the device installed, about halfway through the job, I started laughing.

I remembered, “never do that in front of me again” and wondered what The Good Man would have to say about all this. Two women wrestling a recalcitrant pair of Spanx. Hot? Yeah, probably not.

Not to be deterred, Lilly demanded that I focus.

Give it up for Lilly’s tenacity. She got that damn thing on me.

There I stood in all my pre-matrimonial glory. Highly steel belted Spanx lashed to a sturdy strapless bra, all my bits and pieces sucked in to within an inch of my life.

And I looked at me in the mirror and said, “yeah, ok, that will work”.

Blessedly, on the removal, the Spanx shot off of me like Evil Knievel out of a cannon, and I was free to breathe once more.

The rest of the day I walked around like a chastened dog, tail between my legs, terribly embarrassed but glad I got the “framework” for my new pretty dress.

It didn’t erase the “incident” at Mervyn’s in the early years, but it helped. Turns out “getting measured” isn’t all that terrible. I also bought a couple of pretty, nicely fitting bras for everyday wear.

With lace! Man, has bra technology improved.

Wonder if my best good friend and Matron of Honor will be as kind to me as Lilly was when it comes to getting those Spanx back on…

She has until August to think about it.

Observations from under the dryer

Every six weeks, I have to take the opportunity to have my grays covered by my stylist. And by grays, I don’t mean aliens. Or maybe I do. (Only my hairdresser knows my real hair color for sure!)

Once the color paste is on my head, I have to sit under the hairdryer to let it “cook”. This is about fifteen minutes of precious down time in my busy days. So while just sitting there, I take the opportunity to catch up on what they call these days, The Goss (as in, short for gossip).

My hairdresser works in a lovely, calming salon. Fun music plays and they have stacks of the most current gossip mags. Getting hairs done and riding a plane are my opportunities to catch up on People, OK! and US magazines. I also get a great chance to observe other women of the species in their element. Chemicals flying along with catty remarks.

And herewith, my observations:

1) In a section in US Magazine, stars gave their secrets to beauty. Penélope Cruz says her tip is to sleep more than nine hours a night. So when Penélope does it, it’s beauty enhancing. When I do it, I’m called “lazy”. Hmmph!

2) There is no woman, no matter how pretty she is, who doesn’t look ridiculously hag-ish when sitting there with color or bleach paste applied to her roots, plastic bag on her head and chemical fumes making her squint.

3) Angelina Jolie isn’t human. There was a picture in OK! Magazine of her walking out of some random building hand in hand with her Adonis-like boyfriend.

She is a few months away from delivering twins. Her face isn’t puffy. Her ankles are normal size. Her hair glistens. Her face is dewy fresh. No pregnancy mask, acne or wrinkles. Her tummy is sort of big, but no bigger than a woman with just one in there at late term. She isn’t pregnant from chin to ankles like many women loaded with twins look and feel.

I’m sure she’ll carry them both to term, deliver them naturally and easily and produce two more picture perfect children.

*sigh*

4) Having your head massaged when it’s being washed under warm water is a really nice thing. It makes you forget that your skin looks worse than that of a woman pregnant with twins.

5) Miley Cyrus is scandalous. Jennifer Anniston is “getting lucky”. American Idol is almost over. McDreamy thinks McSteamy has nice pecs. Ashley Simpson is probably pregnant. Tony Romo may or may not have broken up with Jessica Simpson. Ellen Degeneres is getting married. So is George Takei. The pregnant (and also not human) Jessica Alba just did. Katie Holms looks spooky. Jude Law snogged Kimberly Stewart at a club. And Kate Hudson may or may not be dating Lance Armstrong.

Phew.

All said and done, my nice little life looks pretty good. I have fresh hair, an amazing fiancée and the ability to go to the grocery in my crappy sweats without someone taking and publishing my photo.

Perspective. What a kick!

Milk truck, stat!

Ok, no one was hurt so I’m allowed to joke…

Crash strews Oreos over I-80.

First of all, who uses the word “strews” anymore?

That said, traffic in Chicago was stopped in a delicious way when a truck carrying 14 tons of double stuffed Oreos overturned, tossing deliciousness in “plastic sleeves…into the median and roadway.”

This is a tragedy.

First, gas prices go up. Due to transport costs, milk prices go up. And now this utter devastation means a shortage in the Oreo supply.

It ain’t right, folks. It just ain’t right.

Gotta have my Vitamin O.